Unholy Trinity: Moon Tales 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.


How I used to scorn the theory of lycanthropy. Why should the Moon, reflecting the Sun’s light, transform a human into a ravaging beast? The moon is just rock orbiting the earth. No magic powers or secret fields of radiation. And yet I am the Moon’s child despite my superior learning, and when that white disc edges above the horizon, my bones melt, reforming like plastic; my fanged jaws extend, and coarse black hair erupts from my skin. I yearn for the blood and flesh of my victims. What good is logic and science to a beast of the forest.

Where the Goddess will Fall

We blessed the Moon at first. Our silver and white goddess who took the celestial bullet meant for the Earth. It was her body which trembled as the mass of icy rock penetrated into her dust and stone girdle. ‘We are saved,’ we rejoiced. ‘We will not share the fate of the dinosaurs. Humanity will continue because of the Moon’s sacrifice’. But we forgot to ask where her broken remains might rest as she fell from the heavens, her sparkling white blood spilling on the black velvet of space. She fell to Earth, her once radiant gown, now Earth’s shroud.

Moon Hunt

We dwell in Moon shadow, darker than my beloved’s eyes, worshipping our killing moon. We forget former shapes and live for the hunt. My mate trails our prey, the fear scent strong. She prowls ahead, I behind at a steady lope. She will take the honour of first bite and claw. She leaps, a growl in her throat. There is a crack of thunder; she falls dead, changing into what she was before. I leap, kill, feast. Past memory speaks of guns, shiny bullets. Silver like Queen Moon.  I still hunt in the Moon shadow, but now I am alone.

Martin P. Fuller

Martin 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.

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