Self-Portrait, with Bones

Sometimes, the monster is what we make of it. Read Alex Irvine’s latest story for The Sunday Morning Transport to find out exactly how.

~ Julian and Fran, March 15, 2026

March sweeps in with a wonderful quartet of stories as The Sunday Morning Transport brings tales by Ben Francisco, V.M. Ayala, Alex Irvine, and Leah Cypess. We are grateful for your support in helping us get here, and in continuing to bring more extraordinary writers and their work to the page.

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Self-Portrait with Bones

by Alex Irvine

Since I passed my most recent birthday, Professor, an unusual phenomenon has become apparent: my bones are growing again. Not the rest of me, other than the usual mortal sagging and flabbing. Just my bones.

I first noticed a difference in my right thumb, which developed a protrusion at its base. Over several weeks this grew to be quite noticeable, and I took to wearing gloves, or letting the sleeves of my coat hang long. My right big toe was next; it, too, developed a lump at its base, and then the toe itself began to lengthen. Soon my shoes became painful, and I was forced to purchase larger ones. My fiancée remarked on this, noting that my old shoes were still in good condition, not even needing repair to their soles. To this I responded, untruthfully, that they had never fit well, and I could tolerate it no longer.

One morning a few days after this, as I showered before going to the office—my apartment has all modern conveniences, befitting my status as a young professional—I ran a hand over my sternum, and detected the small beginnings of a lump, just where one of my ribs met the sternum on my left side. I rested my fingertips on it—over my heart, which seemed significant—and looked down at my feet. My right big toe was visibly longer than the left and seemed to be developing a sort of hook.

Feeling my heart beat, I thought to tell my beloved. Instead I sent word to the office that I was ill, and when my beloved knocked at my door that evening—the last molten sunshine spread over the river, just above the dam—I could not surmount my fears and answer.

What would be next, I wondered. Would my brow sprout horns, great curving prominences it would take me years to learn to love? Would knobs grow from the tiny bumps of my vertebrae, flourishing until I displayed a row of spines worthy of a dinosaur?

How much would it hurt?

I fell insensate from fear and dread, but awoke in the night riding a strange tide of giddy abandon. Rushing to my armoire, I rummaged through old papers and the like until I extracted my sketchbook, which had remained unopened since my last study with you, Professor. I riffled the pages, passing over years of earnest life drawings, landscapes, street scenes—until I arrived at a blank page. I found a pencil.

***

Since then, things have proceeded at an accelerating pace. Eating becomes a challenge as the bones of my face achieve their new form—or this transitional phase before a true final physiognomy I cannot imagine, or extrapolate from what I see in the mirror.