by Sarah Holland

The full moon hits me, and my skin breaks out in shingles. My ribs widen, spread, grow into stout oak rafters and joists. My face distorts, becomes a pair of flinty windows bracketing a red front door, while my teeth push forward and sprout from the lawn as a white picket fence. I don’t want to bite, rip, or gorge. All I want to do is provide shelter and comfort. But all night long, people stroll past saying “I never noticed that there before,” and “Strange how nobody’s ever home.”


Sarah Holland lives in Maine. People who read her fiction often go on to lead very normal lives.