Another flash fiction piece for the Small Bites anthology. The guidelines were to write a were-creature tale in 500 words or less.

“Careful. He bites.”

Malcolm snorted, offering Selma a glimpse of gray teeth. His pants hung around his ankles, the condom dangling like an elephant booger.

“Bites? Damn thing don’t even got no feet or wings.”

Malcolm banged his palm against the canary cage, knocking the bird across the newspaper-lined bottom.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Selma said.

Malcolm squinted at her, ugly. “What you gonna do about it, whore?”

Selma shrugged. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached for the pack of smokes. Malcolm leaned over and gave her a harsh shove.

“I said, what are you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing. The bird can take care of himself.”

Malcolm snorted again, the condom jiggling.

“It can, huh? Let’s see what Mr. Birdy can do.”

Selma stared blankly as Malcolm opened the cage and stuck in a sweaty fist. The bird tried to wiggle away, but Malcolm managed to get a hold of it quickly.

“Looks like Mr. Birdy is…DAMN!”

Malcolm dropped the bird and withdrew his hand, staring dumbly at the small spot of blood on his palm.

“Damn thing bit me!”

Selma lit a smoke.

“Told you.”

Malcolm slapped her across the mouth, smearing bright red lipstick. Then he turned his attention back to the bird.

“I’m gonna…”

“You’re not gonna do nothing.” Selma’s lower lip began to swell, but she seemed calm. “It’s a full moon.”

“Full moon? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Were-canary,” Selma said.

Malcolm frowned, raising his hand to strike her again.

The little feathers growing out of his fingers caused him quite a shock.

Malcolm screamed, bones and tendons snapping and shrinking as the ancient curse of the were-canary mutated his adult human form into that of a tiny, yellow songbird. He perched on the nest of his tangled pants, the condom wrapped around his pointy feet.

“Tweet,” Malcolm said.

Selma snatched him up and promptly broke one of his wings. Malcolm sang in agony, flopping around on the bedroom floor in tight circles.

Disoriented and wracked by pain, he didn’t notice the cat under the bed until the feline had already pounced.

“He bites too,” Selma said.

The next morning, Selma awoke to whimpering.

“…please…kill me…”

She stared at the man, naked and cramped in the birdcage. Roscoe, her former pimp. His legs and arms were missing; it was the only way he’d fit into the cage.

“Morning, Roscoe.”

“…please…”

She gave him some fresh water and birdseed, then padded off to the bathroom.

The cat’s litter box contained several bowling ball-sized deposits. They didn’t come out that big, but once the moon went down, things went back to normal.

That was the price she paid for having pets.

“Hey, Roscoe! How about a little song while I shower?”

“…please…Selma…”

“Do you want me to get the cheese grater?”

Roscoe began “Blue Moon.”

Selma smiled. After all, who else had a bird that sang baritone?