It was a full moon. Quite frankly, Charlie was sick to death of turning into a werewolf every full moon. Why can’t he live a normal live like everyone else? This month the full moon clashed with the date of the annual school dance. He rather fancied Betsy-Anne and had already invited her before he realized the clash of dates.
I mean, he couldn’t help it. The sun would go down; the moon would rise; Charlie would turn into a werewolf and pad off into the night.
“Blow it,” he thought. “I’m going to the dance with Betsy-Anne. I’ll tell her beforehand what will happen and she can dump me if she likes.”
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Betsy-Anne said she didn’t mind. And when the moon rose (to be rather ruthless about it) Betsy-Anne thought he looked rather sexy. They danced! Did they dance? They danced the night away. Midnight came sooner than they thought possible.
On the stroke of twelve Betsy-Anne leapt out of Charlie’s arms and dashed outside into her waiting coach. A glass slipper was all she left behind.
There was to be a full moon this coming Saturday. Monica knew that Crispin would propose. He was such a dyed-in-the-wool romantic. He loved the full moon, the stars, the night sky. In fact, Monica was so convinced he would propose that she changed her mind three times as to what she would wear.
The day arrived! The evening arrived!
“Let’s not go to a film or a concert tonight,” suggested Crispin. “There’s to be a full moon so let’s go to the park and wander around the duck pond as the moon rises.”
Monica was so glad she had opted to wear sensible shoes instead of the high heels she had initially planned.
Together they sat on a park bench at the duck pond. The moon rose. The evening was as clear as a bell. Monica sighed. It was a heavenly sigh of happiness and expectation. The moon had fully risen.
(Thanks to Matthew for suggesting the opening sentence).
He lived on hills resembling ‘The Shire’ and his feet were covered with curly hair. His name was Bartholomew Baggins and his solo mother always said that his father was a hobbit. He thought it was a big fib, but now that he’d reached puberty he began to suspect, with his hairy feet, that what his mother claimed was true.
Bartholomew always wore shoes to school, even though sandals (and even bare feet) were permitted in summer. That was to cover up his emerging hobbitness. He was ashamed to think that his father was a hobbit. No one had seen a hobbit, and even though everyone liked hobbits in books and films there wasn’t a person at his school who believed they actually existed. They would make fun of his hairy feet.
And then, one evening, Bartholomew left his mother’s house. There was a full moon although ragged clouds scuttled across the night sky. He knelt down and drank rainwater that had gathered in a strange footprint in the garden. Bartholomew stood and howled to the moon. He was covered in hair. He was on his first hunt.