One wish.

I wish I could just go home.

I wish I didn’t know how it felt to kill. I wish I never became the “Lunar Queen.” I wish for a lot of things and never wanted this to happen. It still feels crazy to think I Layla Fiann played such an enormous role in the current state of affairs. I would never have dreamed such a thing possible and to be honest with you, I suspect had I been able to take a peek at this future I would have considered it more of a nightmare scenario. 

It all started on the 17th January 2025, that was the day I received my lunar invitation. Every year one “lucky” person is selected to go up to the moon and experience life in the lunar colony. For most it’s winning the lottery. An “out of this world experience” is how the promotional and marketing material described it. For me, it was terrifying and not for the reasons most would assume.

To understand, I will tell you a bit about myself. I come from a family that has lived in Ireland since the time of the Tuatha dé Danann, the old gods that inhabited Ireland before the desert religions made their way to our shores. Yes, I am from an ancient lineage. Now, while I wish I could say I was descended from them and thus became ruler of the moon as some ancient prophecy. I cannot make this claim. I am at best a mongrel, a stupid mutt who should have known better than to venture to the moon. You see, my grandfather unlike myself was a pure breed. He was 100% Werewolf, descended from the wolves of Ossory themselves. As grand as that sounds, Werewolves have been and to those that know of our existence always been considered, “working class monsters.” By the time I was born, the noble or indeed working-class blood had thinned to the point of having no effect on me. I showed no signs of being Lycan. Which is partially why I played down my apprehension and the feeling of dread casting a shadow over my mind. I thought I would be OK; I mean I have never shifted, never “wolfed out” as my father used to put it when he became enraged and disappeared into the woods for a few nights. By my calculations I was at best 25% Lycan. All the evidence pointed towards any paranormal traits having skipped me completely. The full moon had never affected me or no more so than my menstrual cycle. I mean, sure I have a fiery temper and sometimes I will get angry or grumpy during the full moon but everyone gets grumpy sometimes. It doesn’t mean it is because your bloodline traces back to celtic wolves. I’ve never been grumpy or angry enough to tear my clothes off and go rampaging across the countryside. 

I took a moment to compose myself and articulated my fears. They sounded ludicrous when I said them out loud. This coupled with everyone around me acting like I would be insane not to board the rocket left me no choice but to pack my bag and go for it. “Shoot for the stars” they said. If only they knew. If only I ...

A week later, 24th January. I hid in the Space station toilet. They were immaculately and had all sorts of gadgets from hand sanitisers to on the spot blood-tests. State of the art, the lot. The toilet had a control panel offering a variety of cleaning methods and even had buttons in places I had never seen before. One appeared to offer the service of spraying glitter on your lady parts, I declined to make use of it, but the idea of having sparkling dust down there caused me to laugh through my tears. My younger brother would have asked something uncouth in his usual crude way like “Why would you want a sparkling turd cutter?” I remember that moment of laughter. Then I remember the joy being vanquished by terror. I remember crying, I recall the indignity. I sat there on the toilet, knickers around my thighs and scared shitless to get on a rocket going into outer space. I convinced myself my fears were childish. I repeated this to myself, over and over like a mantra, to keep my fears at bay. I had never worried about my heritage or the moon before. What were the chances being on the moon would have a greater effect than staring up at the night sky? I dried my eyes, gave myself a spruce with the high tech’ toilet because why not? and exited the stall.

The taps ran for a long time as I stared at myself in the mirror. To most people tales of werewolves were fiction. For me they were part of growing up and learning about who I was and where I came from. When I was younger, I considered it cool. I knew the stories of Balor and his evil eye. I knew the sorry story that earned Deirdre of the Sorrows her name. I had seen the doorways leading to Cnocs agus sibhe where the Fae folk dwell. I may have been from a line of lowly werewolves, nothing more than Lycanthropes but I knew much of what the everyday person had no knowledge, and now I would know what it was like to live in the stars. I would know what it feels like to have the sand of the moon between your toes. I would know what it feels like to be isolated from earth and truly feel alone. As a teenager, getting away from everyone had been a dream of mine. To just get five minutes alone. I guess it comes with the territory when you have five siblings hustling and bustling round you. I should have been excited, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of mounting dread.

I took a breath and washed my face; this caused the cacophony of thoughts ramming against the shores of my mind to quiet. I reassured myself I was strong, educated, more than able to take care of myself. I had knowledge of things most people would never know or dare to believe. This knowledge had always seemed a bit surreal. The tales my family told were considered myths, stories to scare children, something you only see in the movies. I often found myself secretly wishing that I had no knowledge of the largely unseen world. I wish for a lot of things. 

My eyes were sore; you could tell I had been crying. I was never good at hiding such things. My pale skin and bright red hair didn’t help disguise my anguish. My expression had terror written all over it like some dark twisted graffiti. I found myself wishing there was a spruce button on the mirror, I had even contemplated sticking my head in the toilet and trying the glitter button, what was the worst that could happen? I laughed at my own joke, I consider that a sign of insanity, but it was a welcome relief from the lump in my throat and feeling of emptiness where my stomach should have been. I knew I was stressed; I had been grinding my teeth the entire time I had been in the Space station. Every sound had caused my heart to race. There were knots of tension in my jaw and throat. I just wanted to cry. The negativity that racked my body only increased as I finally resolved to come out of my hiding place. I drew my mane of red curls back into a ponytail, took a deep breath and exited the bathroom into the waiting room.

A smile hid my pain as the fanfare began. Nodded in the correct places, shook hands with people wishing me well, my stride confident and self- assured as I moved into the dressing room where my space suit waited. I was happy to be alone again. I had never seen so much bullshit in all my life. By this point I just wanted it over with. It was like a bad date or being forced to attend a party with people you didn’t know and quickly discovered you despised. We’ve all been there. 

I put on the skin-tight suit they provided me with complete with flaps I assume were there for easy access should the call of nature arise. An engineer came in and fixed me in the larger space suit. It wasn’t flattering and my petite form must have looked tiny within the thick padded material. Various pipes and hoses snaked out of the suit. I had no clue what they were for. The leaflet they had provided mentioned that the suit was designed to protect humans in harsh environments. “Harsh environments” it wasn’t exactly the type of statement you want to see on a travel brochure. “Come to the moon, it may turn you into a ravenous beast and the environment. Well, guess what? It’s harsh” I smiled as my inner jester sought to comfort me with my particular brand of dark humour. Probably another sign of madness. 

There was a small entourage waiting as I exited the dressing room. Sycophants telling me how good I looked as I plodded along like an infant that had just deposited the biggest crap they could manage in their nappy and now struggled to walk straight. Fortunately, my discomfort went unnoticed or they simply didn’t care. I lean towards believing the later. I had spoken to my Mother and Father earlier via my See- Me-See-you screen. They looked concerned but did not express any reservations about my journey. Which help reassure me everything would be fine, although I suspect my mother hadn’t even contemplated the ramifications of a werewolf going to the moon and time zones being what they are meant that my father was already drunk or off his tits as he would put it by the time I called. I guessed there was no going back now, I plastered on my “good girl” smile and the face disguising the tornado of angst going on behind my eyes. I boarded the shuttle.

The rocket was as sterile as the Space Station. Neither looked real, had no sense of human personality, all flat surfaces and hepatic interfaces keyed in long before I arrived, maybe even before I was born. Like bad sex I closed my eyes and hoped it would soon be over. The launch was surprisingly smooth. I thought it would have been akin to a turbulent skizz ride, but it was more like going down a water-slide only you were going up instead of down. There was a digital display on the wall which read, “240,000 miles/ 386,400 kilometres” it had just begun to tick down when I felt the sting of a needle in my arm. They hadn’t told me about that, but I guess it stood to reason they would put me to sleep rather than play a movie and give me snack options for the flight or toys to pleasure myself with. I remember thinking it was just a little prick, then of my bad sex analogy and smiling as my inner voice chimed in with “Isn’t it always a little prick?” I was still smiling when the drug induced sleep embraced me.

“10 minutes until arrival” a strangely robotic voice awakened me from my slumber. I want to describe how I blossomed from sleep like a beautiful rose in Spring, but the reality is I had been drooling and my mouth felt dry like a bag full of sawdust. The drip that had been feeding me withdrew from my arm abruptly and the pod I was seated in turned upright or at least what I thought was upright. It was difficult to tell in space. It was then that I became aware of the device which had unceremoniously been attached to my nether regions. I hadn’t given how I would take a shit much thought when falling asleep, but I guess now I know in space it was a free for all, you just go when you have to go. I wondered if they had given me a spruce like the toilet at the Space station would have. After all I wanted to look my best on arrival.

The jolt of the shuttle as it landed knocked the crude smile off my face. I wondered what my first words should be when I first step on the moon. “One small step for a werewolf, one giant step for werewolf kind,” that thought had been a joke at the time. Now it is sort of fitting. The shuttle door opened. I was filled with apprehension. I didn’t know why but it just felt wrong. I imagine it to be like the feeling a choir boy experiences moments before going into see the head priest at Sunday school. He knows something is wrong but just can’t know exactly what it is or why they feel that way. Well, like that little boy at Sunday School I was about to find out.

A metallic pipe attached to the exit allowing me to both set foot on the moon and breath without the incredibly fashionable helmet they had provided me with. Honestly, I felt like I was a deep-sea diver from one of those old-fashioned movies wearing that thing. The florescent light from the Lunar dome banished the darkness of the moon. There wasn’t really anything to see up there, it was just dust and craters. I don’t know what I expected, it wasn’t like the moon had trees. 

I heard whispers. Whispering that no one else could hear. Then it happened. Mere minutes after arrival I felt sick. It was a nausea like no other I had ever experienced. I rushed to the bathroom and proceeded to vomit. It felt like I had vomited everything that my stomach contained, snot ran down my face, tears poured from my eyes and I was still spewing my guts out. At one point I thought I was literally going to vomit out internal organs, stomach acid flooded my throat and proceeded to hit the pan of the toilet leaving me trembling. I heaved and chocked and heaved. It was like my body contained some evil and was fighting to be rid of it. I could hear the medic pounding on the door asking to come in and see to me. I was torn between wanting help and being afraid of what he may discover should there be more than known science going on within me. Confusion. Confusion is the only way I can describe that moment.

Then the question I had asked myself a million times since receiving the invitation to the moon, was answered; what happens if someone part Werewolf visits the moon? My body began to shake violently, my clothes ripped, my skin stretched and tore, my muscles become engorged and morphed me into something far larger than the petite Irish girl from Dublin that I had been up until that moment. I remember the white-hot pain, the sound of bone marrow and cartilage squelching through and against lengthened bone. The medic must have shat himself as I burst through the steel wall of the bathroom. I tore the sheet-metal open like it was rice paper. He was my first taste of human flesh. I sank my fangs deep and the coppery flavour of his blood filled my mouth and matted my fur. The rest is all a bit of a blood-stained blur. My world became one of ripped skin and rent flesh. Many of the Lunar colonists fell to my claws, others were sufficiently infected to morph into Lycans a long side me. I cannot be sure, but I think it took only hours for my pack and I to work our way through the colony. Eventually the blood lusted rage of the first change subsided and we were able to form some coherent sentences. We gained some semblance of our old selves.

They say every wolf-pack has an alpha but, and I can only speak for the Lycans of the moon, in our case they have a matriarch. Later the whispering became coherent sentences Elatha the god of the moon spoke to me like I was his dark prophet. He told me to establish an age of the wolf on the moon and had aspirations for the Earth. That was how my reign started. Now I reside as a living embodiment of the Moon God’s will. I am the Werewolf queen in the stars. I am feared, cherished and worshipped. I should be happy. Most would believe I have everything I could ever wish for. Yet honestly, I have one wish.

I wish I could just go home.