Unholy Trinity: Legend of the Moon Children by Martin P. Fuller

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.


The wounding

It was once part of our molten world, ejected and exiled when our solar system was young. Apart, but still linked to the chosen ones.

The planetoids revenge

The small gods challenge failed, consumed but not before ripping part of it conquerors body away, where it orbited, waiting, brooding, demanding a blood price.

The mystic light emerges

As the Moons rock cooled, a power grew. A weird force which oozed out of its heart, drifting towards the wounded Earth on reflected light.

Union of the light

The special light could not be filtered by dark storm cloud, or rock or roof. It found the special children, the wild, and changed them.


The curse of the moon gift

The Moon, torn from the body of the Earth, retained a link of mystic evil. Sunlight reflecting from its surface,  gave out more than just photons. The light sought out the Moon children with a gift of change. Tooth, claw, fur, jaws of razor teeth, and a maddened insatiable savagery.


The worship

The Moon loves the wolf and the wolf adores its Mistress.  The savage that is man fears the wolf, knows of the bite and the tearing sickle claw. That terror draws the Moon’s attention and dark influence. Certain mortals bear the dark honour of being disciples of the lunar queen.


The law of the werewolf

You cannot hide from the light or its malign influence. It seeks you out, invades your trembling mind, controls sinew and muscle. Bone bends to its command, reshaping, reforming. And the desire for the smell and taste of blood, the crush of teeth through flesh dominates your thoughts. Be wild, progeny of dark nature, seek out the living and survive. Never forget to give thanks to the  Goddess who watches over you in the darkness. Howl out your vicious hymn, scratch your mark in the landscape. You that were once human, wear the skin of a worshiper of the  moonlight. 


Martin P. Fuller

Martin P. Fuller lives in his shoebox house in West Yorkshire. He was in his previous exitances: –

 a beer salesman, a pall bearer, a car delivery driver, and oh yes… a police officer for over 34 years.  

He started to write in 2013 after attending a creative writing class and since then has become a writing course junkie. 

Discovering his dark side, Martin has had a number of stories published in Trembling with Fear and several other anthologies including Deadcades published by Infernal Clock.

You may also like...