lycanthropy

by Maria Pianelli Blair

The jelly felt cold against my belly, just as I’d been warned, a wet goo, rubbed eagerly across the squirming bulge that sat tenderly between my hips.

With the pizazz of a magician, the technician brandished the ultrasound wand, spinning slow circles against my sticky skin.

A rapid thumping burst from the monitor, a rhythmic applause.

“A strong heartbeat!” she pronounced. “Everything looks good, Mrs. Chaney. Are you ready to see your daughter?”

Henry gripped my shoulder, his excitement palpable as the technician turned the screen. And then, there she was: thrashing legs, fluttering arms, a bulbous head. 20 weeks, 2 days.

Henry’s lip quivered, his eyes brimming with tears. “She’s beautiful,” he whispered. “Just like her mother.”

My eyes remained glued to the screen, startled by a sudden flash as my daughter flapped her hands.

“Are those… claws?”

“Hm?” Unaroused, the technician squinted at the monitor. With a flick of her wrist, the wand descended deeper into my womb. Irritated, my daughter let out a swift kick. The technician laughed as I yelped, focusing the splotchy image on her tiny fingers.

“Oh yes!” she exclaimed. “And healthy ones. You know, we often don’t see them curve like that for another few weeks. Have you been eating a lot of kale and eggs, Mrs. Chaney? That’s the keratin, at its best.”

“And her snout?” Henry prompted.

With a jolt, the wand danced across my abdomen. Sure enough, a generous mound could be seen, rotating back and forth as my daughter rocked.

“Well into the 60th percentile. And if you look just over here —” she gestured to a white streak “— you can see her nose. Look at that tip! Pointed up!”

Henry beamed, but I found myself fixated on the screen, in search of any potential abnormality.

“Her ears,” I pressed. “How are her ears?”

“Looking sharp. Erect at a 45-degree angle. We’ll do a hearing test postpartum, of course. But no doubt she could hear even a branch cracking, up to six miles away.”

“And her legs?”

“All the better to chase you with. No doubt she’ll be able to take on any non-lycanthrope that crosses her path.”

I considered the wolfish figure before me, kicking her paws in amniotic bliss.

“And… she will — she will revert back? She’ll change?”

The technician nodded solemnly, expecting this question. “Yes, every full moon,” she said. “You know, Mrs. Chaney, this is a good thing. She’s built tough. Girls ought to be tough in a world like ours. They ought to defend themselves. This transformation, it’s a gift, evolution at its finest, right before our very eyes.”

Her expression grew dreamy. “Sometimes I wonder, if it wasn’t for the new regime, if our daughters would still be born the old-fashioned way. The way our sons, poor dears, are still born. They say the first case was almost 20 years ago, the day the first edict was signed. A little girl, born in Maine. Her condition didn’t come up on the ultrasound, you know. She transformed at birth, in the delivery room. Imagine the shock!”

Henry laughed, but I was silent, thinking of terror that must have overpowered her mother, the sense of guilt, helplessness.

“They studied the mother,” the technician continued. “Sure enough, the lycanthropy had been dormant in utero. And then when she was born, it kicked into gear. A reflex to the world. It activates much sooner these days, at conception.”

This wasn’t news to me. Henry and I had read the latest studies when we discussed family planning. But the whole thing seemed implausible at the time, like a fairy tale. New realities often do.

“They’re still researching the cause. There’s a lot of medical debate,” the technician mused. “Was it something in the food chain? A reaction to pesticides, growth hormones, climate change? But between you and I, Mrs. Chaney, I think it’s modern Darwinism — how would we expect our girls to survive, otherwise? A girl needs a little firepower every now and again.”

I cried when I learned we were having a girl. I thought of my own childhood, long before women ran with wolves. I yearned for my daughter to have the same whimsy, those milestones that seem frivolous in hindsight. For summer days making wishes on dandelions, and evenings spent catching fireflies. For Sundays curled on the sofa, nose in a book, dreaming of fantastical worlds. For school plays and science fairs, for graduations and college tours. I’d even settle for a fraternity party or two.

“But she will,” I whispered, “be human?”

“As human as you and I.”

My voice grew even quieter. “And she’ll be… pretty?”

“Every full moon,” the technician assured me. “For about three days, until it wanes. I’ve heard it’s quite empowering when they embrace their mortal body. It can be overwhelming, that sense of freedom.”

I frowned, pondering this.

“And you know,” the technician added. “It’s not forever. The lycanthropy ceases around proper childbearing age”

That, perhaps, scared me most, but I kept my thoughts to myself.

Henry placed a hand on the back of my shoulder. “She’s beautiful, Astrid,” he breathed. “Our strong, beautiful girl.”

“Our beautiful girl," I repeated, unable to quell the sob that escaped my lips.

*Originally published in Querencia Press' Autumn 2025 Anthology

Photo of Maria Pianelli Blair

BIO: Maria Pianelli Blair is a writer and multidisciplinary artist based in New Jersey. Her fiction has been published in Gypsophila Magazine; swim press; two-headed press; Pile Press; Prosetrics Literary Magazine; and StepAway Magazine. Her artwork has been published in Contemporary Collage Magazine; FEELS Zine; Photo Trouvee Magazine; and 45th Parallel, among other publications. She has been featured in galleries and virtual exhibitions, and has been nominated for a Best of the Net award. You can follow her on Instagram @strange_sunsets.