I was bitten by a feral dad. Now once a month a daughter appears, shimmering in the full moon. Each time she’s older, less pleased to see me. Excuses turn to howls in my throat. By sunrise she fades, and I’m left alone shivering, feeling like I’m missing a limb.

Joe Pearson is a British fiction writer living in Paris. (Except for one night a month, when he hunts childless men.) You can find more of his writing at joepearsonwriter.com.