A Hand-Me-Down Curse

My curse is a hand me down.

Some boys get hand me down jeans, or shoes that “still have a bit of life left in ’em”. Maybe an old bed one of their parents slept in as a kid. Or even something cool, like a pocket watch. That’d be nice.

Instead, I get to go fuzzy brained every full moon and wake up the next morning wondering who I’ve terrorized.

And no, you’re imagination went in the wrong direction. I only wish our curse was as cool as lycanthropy.

My dad had it before me. And Granddad before him. Don’t ask me about any of the greats in the family. I never knew them. It’s not like people are excited to talk about being cursed. Especially when it can be hidden with specific wardrobe choices. Well, most of the time.

Granddad always wore a hat. Rain or shine, inside or out. Some people found it discourteous, I guess. I don’t know, there were different rules for etiquette back then. But he never took it off. Not even around family.

Dad managed it with long sleeves and gloves. Even in summer. Which sounds miserable.

But I’d gladly pick either of those two over my own.

You just can’t hide wings.

And before you get all starry eyed, picturing epic angel wing or brightly scaled dragon wings, slow it down. It’s not that cool.

Ever heard the tall tales from West Virginia about the… Mothman?

Yeah. That.

Just what every teenage boy wants. Ten foot wide, downy soft wings covered in brown and white speckles that shed powder on anything they bump into. Hooray.

But, I have it better than my dad and granddad did.

Cuz they didn’t have a mom as resourceful as mine.

Someone who learned to sew and alter clothes, who ditched the fancy furniture for backless benches and stools, who bought all the homeschool books she could get her hands on. Someone who willingly moved off grid so we’d have space and privacy. Someone who dug through the depths of the internet to find other folks with cryptid curses so that I would still have something like a social life.

Someone who never flinches away. Who always has a listening ear. Who sits with you on the truly hard days, yet pushes you out of your pity party when you’re just in a funk.

My curse is a hand me down.

But, I suppose hand me downs aren’t so bad when you’ve got a mom as resourceful as mine.  

short story, flash fiction, southern cryptid twist, American folk tales, modern tall tale, folk tale twist, American fantasy story, by SM Jake