Transform
By R.S. Mot
(CW: brief confinement, mentions of gore)
I lean onto my tiptoes, peeking through a crack in the stones.
Everyone else huddles in the corner, protecting their eyes, ears, and noses from the assault of the ritual in the other room. I will admit, the screams and smoke are frightening. But I can’t tear my gaze away.
Eight of the creatures holding us captive stand around the edge of a circle, chanting something I can’t make out. They have a terrified woman on the floor at the center.
As the ritual reaches a crescendo, she writhes. Her skeleton takes on a life of its own, attempting to flee the bubbling mass of muscle and flesh it’s trapped in.
It could be the crack of the burning braziers or my imagination, but there seems to be audible pops of joint leaving socket as her bones adjust to their new shape. She stops screaming; her mouth, now with inches-long teeth, impossibly wide in a soundless exclamation.
It looks painful. I don’t envy that.
What I do envy is the metamorphized creature. It lays still, other than its chest heaving from the taxing transformation. It’s taller and slighter; no swell of hips or breasts remain. Almost my ideal body. I don’t love the large, fathomless eyes those changes come bundled with; but if they’re the cost…
I’ve bound my chest flat with cloth, but it only does so much. The wrappings constrict my ribs, and I’m not supposed to wear them while adventuring. I do it anyway. I can’t bear being trapped in this body otherwise.
The creatures that performed the ritual are already rushing in, helping the freshly made one to its feet. Its skin is smooth, unmarred by scars or blood. I was warned my desired transformation couldn’t be done all at once and there would be months of painful recovery between each expensive session. I’ve been saving every gold piece I can spare anyway, hoping I could accomplish half so clean a result.
Despite the earlier pain, the new creature is able to stand. It wobbles on its new, longer legs but takes steps without any kind of anguish.
If I knew this was an option, I might have volunteered for it. I’ve never felt at home among the humans anyway.
When a creature comes for the next one to be transformed, I step forward.
“Could I be next?” I ask.
R. S. Mot is a queer author of speculative fiction. Their first published piece is in the Silver IBPA award-winning Neurodiversiverse anthology (Thinking Ink Press, 2024). Outside of writing they spend their time obsessing over D&D and hanging out with their cats.
Love it!
Awesome story, I want to read more!