The story was prompted by the following image:
“Boop, boopity-bloop,” my nails rattled, clutching the box while I jerked, gripping tightly to control this stone and my hopes in it.
“Don’t you mean ‘Beep, beepity-bleep?’ ” Harold asked, concerned.
“‘Boop’ works just as well as ‘beep.'”
“Are you sure?” Harold’s unibrow rose a smidgen. You could call us brothers–thanks to our rabid family dynamics–so I knew he was nervous.
“It will work,” I assured, my faith living. We couldn’t keep living these monthly nights of terror.
Harold whimpered, “What if the Uncles find out?”
“Shut your chops so I can concentrate!” Relenting, I added, “We’ll bring something home from the butcher’s.”
Harold wrapped his fur-streaked arms around himself, rocking, waiting. I beeped and booped the incantation on the lycanthropy amulet.
Finally we heard the roar, that hopeful promise brewing. A flash banished the dusk while the city heedlessly moved around us. Searching for the russet moon, I tensely reached for Harold’s paws, but instead our smooth, calm palms collided, curse-free.
This story was written for Flash! Friday flash fiction contest.