Feed aggregator

Dear Furiends,

As Papabear orbits the sun for his 60th time, I'm reflecting on all that has changed since I arrived on this planet in 1965. Here is a summary of life in America and the world at the time I was born . . . 

When I was born, The Beatles were at their height; Bob Dylan released "Like a Rolling Stone," and The Who released "My Generation"; miniskirts were the rage; Star Trek TOS had not even aired yet, but the pilot, "Where No Man Has Gone Before," was reworked and filmed in the version we know today; Frank Herbert published Dune; The Sound of Music is released, as is A Charlie Brown Christmas; JFK had been dead 2 years; but his presence was still felt in America; NASA had launched Gemini 3, the first multiperson spacecraft, Gemini 4, the first American spacewalk (astronaut Ed White), and Gemini 5, the first manned weeklong mission, Gemini 6 and 7 perform first rendezvous in space,  Ranger 8 had scoped out the Moon for landing sites, Mariner 4 flies by Mars to give us our first close-up photos of the Red Planet, and the SNAP-10 became the first nuclear-powered spacecraft; meanwhile, Soviet cosmonaut Alexei Leonov performed the first spacewalk; women still didn't have the right to own a credit card without their husbands name on it, and we were 8 years away from Roe v. Wade still, but the SCOTUS ruled that the banning of contraceptives under Connecticut law was unconstitutional; also 4 years away was Stonewall, and anti-sodomy laws (really, anti-gay laws) were the rule in most states, although in 1961, Illinois had banned such laws, the first state to back off of homosexuality being illegal; in good news, the Voting Rights Act of 1965 had just been passed; Johnson signs the Social Security Act of 1965, which established Medicare and Medicaid for the first time; but Vietnam was an escalating nightmare, and the U.S. was criticized by the international community for using chemical weapons against the Vietcong; Muhammad Ali successfully argued against being drafted on the principle that he was a pacifist (kudos!); Johnson makes burning your draft card a crime punishable by 5 years in prison (the draft doesn't end until 1973); the Watts Riots cause civil unrest in the country for a week; President Johnson signed the Nationality and Immigration Act of 1965, which basically removed the restriction placed on allowing immigrants from entering the country from certain places, especially Asians and eastern and southern Europeans; Johnson also signs Executive Order 11246, banning employment discrimination based on race; he also signs the Motor Vehicle Air Pollution Control Act, the first federal law controlling car emissions; an 8.7 earthquake had devastated Alaska, and a 7.4 earthquake killed 500 people in Chile; Canada--get this!--had just adopted its maple leaf flag! The Cold War was getting nightmarish, with the USSR testing a nuclear weapon in Kazakhstan; in Alabama, Governor "Dickhead" Wallace, in his efforts to stop Dr. King's Selma to Montgomery march, approved what became Bloody Sunday, with cops beating the marchers with clubs and whips until they finally forced them to stop at the Edmund Pettus Bridge; in the tech and science world, the first magnetic video tape recorder to be commercially available to the public, the Ampex VRX-1000, was released; Arno Penzias and Robert Wilson at Bell Labs discovered cosmic microwave background radiation, solid evidence supporting the Big Bang Theory; the first portable defibrillator is used in Belfast; the first all-news channel, WINS 1010AM in New York, began broadcasting, and The Today Show became the first TV program broadcast via satellite; the first computer dating service is debuted by a joint MIT/Harvard University venture (so blame them); the first pushbutton telephone had come out only 2 years ago, and the first video game, Pong, would not come out by Atari until 1971.

As you can see, life was very different. We made a lot of progress since the 1960s, but now much of that progress is being threatened by those who resent the strides in civil rights we have made. I often get nostalgic for the 60s and 70s, but as you can see, there was a lot of stuff that was not so great during those years, years that those born in the 21st century would feel like a totally different reality. 

The Trump Administration and Republicans want to take us back to a time before women's rights, immigration rights, LGBTQ rights, and more. As much as there was some cool stuff back in the 60s, such as with the music scene, I do not want to see 60 years of progress erased. 

Profound changes seem on the nearby horizon. Powerful countries like Russia and China appear to be imploding under the weight of their own corruption, but if we are not careful, the USA might follow their lead.

​While all this is going down, the furry community needs to stick together more than ever. We will inevitably find ourselves targets of the hate as part of the culture wars that the Republicans are waging to distract Americans from the fact that the rich are robbing the middle class into extinction.

To help support the furry community, I have started a new group called Furries for Freedom. At the moment, it is only a Facebook group, but I will be starting a website soon and spreading to other social media. Our goal is to support the furry community, educate them on their rights, report on news related to our freedoms and rights, and to in general be there for those who need friends.

Together, we can make it through this.

Bear Hugs,
​Papabear

毛兽播主罗恩 2024 年尾演唱会：与观众一起《咬滚》 一起成为家人

知名Twitch實況主羅恩Roan於12/14在台北NUZONE展演空間進行「重返水晶洞演唱會」與「一起咬滾2」線下台聚活動，吸引約150位粉絲到場參與。活動由Roan以原唱曲《你是我的狗，我要你乖乖坐下》進行開場，並陸續演唱許多歌曲共計12首。

演唱會現場有大型的羅恩立牌。拍攝/藍風 演唱會一開始，由羅恩拿著紀念毛巾出場並演唱《你是我的狗，我要你乖乖坐下》。拍攝/藍風

演唱會中間不僅有安插數個小劇場進行互動，羅恩也在曲目《對你著迷》橋段，到台下與頂級皇家鮭魚贊助者進行互動。

演唱會中途有毛毛竹本嵐與LOBO同框進行訪問的小劇場。拍攝/藍風 羅恩在演唱中到台下進行互動橋段。拍攝/藍風；後製、貼圖授權/羅恩 本次演唱會的頂級皇家鮭魚贊助者們獲得羅恩的原味鮭魚抱枕。拍攝/藍風；後製、貼圖授權/羅恩

演唱會的最後，羅恩以原創歌曲《來自異鄉的旅人阿》跟當下才公開的曲目《宇宙中的你和我》，在台下觀眾揮舞的粉紅與藍配色的燈光棒下感性演出。羅恩在受訪時表示，《來自異鄉的旅人阿》這首是寫給自己的歌，也是一首想送給大家的歌，認為「想家」像一顆種子會越長越大，不論是在外地旅遊或是工作追求夢想時遇到挫折，都會讓這個情緒變得更加的深厚。而《宇宙中的你和我》這首則是經歷過思鄉這個低潮後所得出的答案，羅恩說:「我們彼此早就成為了彼此的家人，我們一起生活的地方，也早就成為了我們的家。」

羅恩與樂團二足步行一同演唱曲目《宇宙中的你和我》。拍攝/藍風 活動現場有販售紀念毛巾、貼紙與T-Shirt，羊咩在受訪時表示將規劃通販。拍攝/藍風；後製、貼圖授權/羅恩

演唱會結束後羅恩則進行「一起咬滾2」台聚活動，除了備有餐點讓參加者品嘗外，也邀請到二足步行樂團帶來數首歌曲演出，以及觀眾上台演唱與抽獎活動環節等，讓整場活動有個完美落幕。

本次二足步行樂團演出的曲目以獸無限2024的歌單之外，再加入一首《踊り子》為本次活動的演出。拍攝/藍風 參加者烏咪上台演唱歌曲《藍眼睛》。拍攝/藍風

活動主辦人羊咩在受訪時表示，這次重返水晶洞活動籌備了半年，感謝所有朋友的幫忙與大家支持，能完成活動讓他有非常深刻的感動與感受，也希望節目能讓參加者有一樣的感動，讓大家一起成為家人。至於是否會有下一場活動，也表示今年活動剛結束因此尚未開始規劃下一場，但承諾在體力與財力都允許的狀況下，會努力舉辦下一場活動。

Where did this come from? Well, Canada, actually. We just got lucky and came across it! Northern Tails is a new puppet series from the Yukon that’s coming soon to YouTube. The makers describe it as “… a wildlife ‘mocumentary’ web series that is serious (and seriously silly) about nature. With a cast of spirited puppets, engaging storylines and snackable science, each 12-minute episode explores how animals in the boreal forest interact with each other, their environment, humans and the wider world. It’s original ‘edutainment’ that makes us see how we can all be better neighbours.” Did you know that the boreal forest is larger in square miles than the Amazon? We didn’t either…! Find out more at their web site, or head on over to their YouTube Channel.

image c. 2024 Little Brown Bird Entertainment

MOOBARKFLUFF! Click here to send us a comment or message about the show!

Bearly, Taebyn, Rayne, TickTock and Cheetaro gather for another raucous Episode of BFFT! We chat about Furry news, play some Muppet MadLibs, do a couple of lateral thinking puzzles, and Taebyn tries to get through a very complicow story suggested by Ziggy. So tune in because you won’t want to miss any exciting moments here on BFFT!  Moobarkfluff everyfur!

This podcast contains adult language and adult topics. It is rated M for Mature. Listener discretion is advised.

Support the show

Thanks to all our listeners and to our staff: Bearly Normal, Rayne Raccoon, Taebyn, Cheetaro, TickTock, and Ziggy the Meme Weasel.

You can send us a message on Telegram at BFFT Chat, or via email at: bearlyfurcasting@gmail.com

Bearly Furcasting S5E14 - Six of One, Half Dozen of the Other

The staff here at Gaming Furever work all year long playing tons of games, and unsurprisingly, not all of them are filled with fluffy creatures and upright-walking animal people! Who'd have thought! We asked each of our staff members for their personal choices, without genre restriction, as it relates to the same categories as The Furry Game Awards 2024 we gave out this month, with an additional category for their "Extra" pick, without regards to what year the game was released, but they really found themselves playing a lot more of this year. We hope you enjoy taking a look through each of our own favorites for the year. We've got a wonderful group of writers here at GF, and can't wait to see what next year holds in the world of gaming and here at Gaming Furever! If you're interested in joining us on staff, we're still looking for more awesome people to join us in this journey.

Here are our Gaming Furever Staff Choice Award 2024 Winners:

圣兽祭：来自重庆的首届毛兽盛会 - 墨榆专访

​Dear Furiends,

To all of those who will be spending their holidays and New Year with friends and family, you are blessed, and I wish you a wonderful Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Yule or whatever occasion you enjoy.

But this message is for all of those who are lonely, sick, depressed, or broke this year. Papabear understands. This is a rough year for many, including me. I lost my sister and a good friend this year; I lost my dog, Ernie, last year. And it's hard to celebrate New Year's knowing that an insane, senile, narcissistic dictator will sit in the White House AGAIN in 2025. Anger and hostility and rabid nationalism are on the rise in America (encouraged and enflamed by the Orange Cancer), and it will affect the furry community in a bad way, guaranteed (which is why it pisses this bear off when furries attack their own fandom; we have enough trouble with the normies and don't need you to add to it).

These are troubling times.

Frankly, if you are succumbing to despair, I feel for you. To be honest, Christmas brings this bear little joy anymore. I sent out dozens of Christmas cards this year (as I do every year), and do you know how many I got? Five. And one of those was from my insurance guy. My sister has succumbed to alcoholism and has become a TERF, a hater, like so many in this country, and she has cut me out of her life and won't even talk to me. I also lost my dear friend, Dineegla Moose, just as he was getting ready to attend MFF, and earlier this year, we all lost Mark Merlino, a key founder of this fandom if not the man singly most responsible for its existence.

I have decorated, and cooked, and spent a buttload of money on gifts as I do every Christmas, but there is little joy in it for me, I confess, and certainly no return on my efforts except for one gift under the tree from my hubby (the last person in my life who is really in my life), and I already know what it is ... so ... no surprises (but that's okay, my love). I'm feeling a lot of empathy for Ebenezer Scrooge, honestly. I miss the joy of my childhood Christmases so much that my heart aches, a past filled with family and cheesy Christmas decorations and cat and dog companions; a holiday of claymation TV shows and saccharine holiday specials; a time when I wasn't worried about inflation and my withering income's inability to meet expenses and global warming.

If you're like me, you probably sometimes fantasize about giving Christmas the middle finger right up Santa's butthole.

But here's the thing, my dear troubled readers.

The world needs you not to give up.

Because if we all give in to the dark monster of despair, we will never recover from this downward spiral we are currently in.

This is why I still do what I do. It is why I continue this column; it is why I work on my Facebook groups for Greymuzzles and Silvermuzzles; it is why I run the Good Furry Awards; it is why I get up each morning and take care of my 76-year-old husbear and all his needs. That's what Santa does. He doesn't do his worldwide labors for plaudits and rewards. He does it because the world needs a little joy and wonder.

So, I am asking all of you: Be like Santa. I know it's hard, but we need to step up when no one else will and keep the light on and the flames glowing and the noms baking in the oven.

Because if we don't do it, who will?

I'm not asking you to spend money and wrap a bunch of gifts. I'm asking you to be a good friend to others, whether these are family members or coworkers or classmates or dear pets. Give people hugs. Be polite to others. Give a parking spot in a crowded lot to someone else. Give someone a compliment on their appearance or something they have done. Tell a joke to lighten the mood. Share your cookies. Every little thing counts.

Recently, I watched the movie Red One. If you haven't seen it, the center of the story is that Santa's chief ELF worker, Callum Drift (played by the endearing Dwayne Johnson) feels like retiring after about five centuries of service because all the humans around him seem petty and selfish and without Christmas spirit. Santa is then kidnapped by the Christmas Witch, Grýla (a figure from Icelandic folklore, in case you wondered), who believes, like Krampus, that the world would be a better place if all the nasty humans were punished instead of being given joy as Santa believes. Long story short, she is defeated (not a spoiler; it's a Christmas movie), and Callum regains his spirit of Christmas.

A key to the defeat of the witch is Santa commanding his reindeer with the single word: KAVALAME!

What the heck does kavalame mean? This is not really explained in the movie, but the word is a very clever device by the writers. Interestingly, it is not from Norse mythology (much of Christmas lore has northern European roots) but from Greek. Kavala was an important city in ancient Greece, and St. Nicholas was of Greek descent. More on point, though, is kavalame's connection to the Sanskrit word kavalam, meaning "only" and key to the phrase baba nam kavalam, meaning "only the name of the beloved," or more poignantly, "love is all there is." 

Or, as the Beatles sang, "All you need is love."

Love defeats the nasties out there like Grýla and Krampus.

For Christmas, dear readers, that is my gift to you: Love. I am entrusting it to you because it is a precious gift. It is also a magical gift because you can give it to others over and over and, like Willie Wonka's everlasting gobstopper, it never runs out.

Because in the end, despite the crass commercialism of modern Christmas, the hordes of Christmas shoppers clogging the roads and malls, the political turmoil, the social unrest spread by the Convicted Felon Doofus "President," the wars and pollution and hate that seems all around us, there is one thing they can never steal from you, and that is the love in your heart.

I love you furs. And I love this fandom. And as long as I have breath in my lungs and blood in my veins, I will be here for you if you need me.

Yours in Bear Spirit,

Papabear

Another one of those interesting mangas with a very interesting, very long name: A Cat From Our World and the Forgotten Witch, written and illustrated by Hiro Kashiwaba. “In her youth, Jeanne was a powerful witch who vanquished the evil Demon King and saved the world—but over time, the people she rescued have forgotten her. Now she is a lonely old woman living in a secluded forest…until she accidentally summons a cat from Earth to her home! The former city kitty is now gigantic and must acclimate to this new world. Can a cat from another world soothe the loneliness of the forgotten witch?” Several issues are available now (in English) from Seven Seas Entertainment.

image c. 2024 Seven Seas Entertainment

Special Bump celebrating our milestone of hitting 4,000 subscribers, featuring all 15 members of the group. Milestone reached on NOVEMBER 22ND, 2024 First featured in Episode 129, “Roads Ahead / Pt. 1” https://youtu.be/uqNJB-ELOv8 Editing: @BanditTheRaccoon Fursona Artwork: Weka http://www.Twitter.com/DrawsWeka See more at: http://www.TheRaccoonsDen.com FACEBOOK: http://www.Facebook.com/TheRaccoonsDen TWITTER: http://www.Twitter.com/TheRaccoonsDen FURAFFINITY: http://www.FurAffinity.net/user/TheRaccoonsDen INSTAGRAM: http://www.Instagram.com/TheRaccoonsDen #TheRaccoonsDen #4kSubscribers #FurryFandom

Welcome to The Furry Game Awards 2024, presented by Gaming Furever! Every year, we'll come together as a staff and decide on our most beloved, most played, and most exceptional games from the past year of new gaming experiences. 2024 was filled to the brim with so many games featuring anthropomorphic characters and animals. It was hard to choose just one winner for all of these categories, and the separation between the nominees and ultimately the winner was miniscule. All of the games on these lists are highly recommended by our staff, and we can't wait to continue enjoying them! So, without further ado, here are our Furry Game Awards Winners for the year 2024!

So sorry, but we just had to steal that phrase from the publisher — couldn’t top it! “Meet the Bins family, a trio of raccoons in the risky business of dumpster diving for all their needs. With Dusty’s brains, ReRe’s muscle, and Scraps’s gadgets (please don’t tell him he’s almost definitely an opossum), the Binses are determined to leave no garbage bin unturned in their pursuit of the tastiest, most delicious trash they can find. When the family discovers a new upscale grocery store that’s throwing away their perfectly good food at the end of each day, the Binses hatch a heist so daring it’ll have them rolling in garbage all winter long. But a critter-despising CEO, Jeff Beans, and the high-tech defense system he’s installed means liberating that trash is going to take all the skills the Racc Pack have … and maybe some help from a cat burglar with a mysterious past.” Published by Simon & Schuster, The Racc Pack graphic novel is by Stephanie Cooke (My Little Pony: Camp Bighoof), with art by Whitney Gardner.

image c. 2024 Simon & Schuster

MFF 2024盛况空前：人潮破纪录，后勤压力难挡热情

The Duck Detective is back! When spookiness strikes a luxury campsite, the one and only Duck Detective is summoned to quack the case. Inspect evidence, make de-duck-tions, and solve this no-murder mystery! Duck Detective: The Ghost of Glamping is a new stand-alone game in the acclaimed Duck Detective series from Happy Broccoli. Get ready to interview suspects, inspect evidence, and deduce the truth.

This campsite might have ghosts, but the real thing haunting Eugene McQuacklin is his failed marriage and bread addiction. Can he escape the shadows of his past?

Features:

• A 2-3 hour long cozy mystery game!

• A stand-alone sequel to the acclaimed ‘Duck Detective: The Secret Salami!‘

• Interview suspects, fill in the blanks and crack the case!

• Fully voice-acted cast of suspiciously secretive characters!

• Dive into a murky pond of delinquency and dredge up the truth!

• Throw bread to the fine beak of lady justice!

Welcome to Issue 22:  Haunted Happiness

We have to snatch up the moments of happiness we can find, even when our lives are burning down around us.  Even if you’re a haunted house, maybe you can still make room inside yourself to host something better — something warm and fuzzy with a beating heart — before you go up in flames.  So, here are a few bright points of light, a few warmly beating hearts to cheer you on these endlessly strange days.

* * *

A Colony of Vampires by Beth Dawkins

The Wolf, the Fox, and the Ring by Mocha Cookie Crumble

The Way the Light Tangles by Emmie Christie

Heron Went a’ Courting by Margot Spronk

The Pest in Golden Gate Park by Katlina Sommerberg

Where Life Resides by Patricia Miller

* * *

As always, if you want to support Zooscape, check out our Patreon.  Also, you can pick up e-book or paperback volumes of our first 13 issues bundled into four anthologies, complete with an illustration for every story.  The fifth volume will come out soon!

IMPORTANT UPDATE:  Due to a plethora of wonderful submissions, we have already closed this year’s reading period, and all submissions have been sent responses.  We plan to open next for the month of February, 2026.

by Patricia Miller

“She was only a bat. She could not light a match. She could not douse me with gasoline.”

“This wasn’t my fault.” I say it and mean it. “It is as honest an answer as anyone can expect, and it is true.”

She listened with a seriousness I had come to expect from her. She was the matriarch of her clan, with a keen ear for details and an iron grip on the hundreds which made up the colony under my eaves. Countless generations of her kind had filled my dark cavities and were my only regular occupants, if just during the months they weren’t hibernating.

I had not planned to burden her with this, but the bright sunlight of the early spring day had given way to a night sky filled with flashing red lights and loud sirens. Most of the colony sought refuge in the dark midnight blueness of the neighboring fields, but she had returned after feeding and joined me to ask after my well-being. Her concern was welcome, her friendship treasured, and so I unburdened myself to my only friend.

I had done nothing to cause the calamity which overtook the house party. Indeed, I had done all I could to make it a success.

The rooms were airy, bright, and never smelled of anything but the gentlest hint of vanilla. The chimneys were well-cleaned with working flues to keep out unexpected pests and ill winds. The shutters didn’t rattle in the night; the floors and stairs didn’t creak and jolt anyone out of a peaceful slumber. The electricity hadn’t cycled off in the middle of a tense conversation. No odd drafts whistled around doors or through long hallways to cause a frisson of dread amongst my ten guests. The pipes didn’t bang and echo in shadowed bathrooms, and they provided only the freshest of water; never running rusty or bloody or rank. I had made certain the gardens were in full bloom, with no windblown branches to create any stumbles or provide any weaponry.

“And in spite of that, four people are dead, two more are missing, and the poodles have run away from the carnage so far and so quickly they are probably two counties over. I can find no trace of the missing couple. They have not left through the locked windows or doors, and neither is slender enough to use the old coal shaft. I must therefore assume they are simply bodies not yet discovered.”

The handful of guests who remained held at least one murderer in their midst. I knew who it was, and while it wasn’t the obvious suspect – it never is – it was her lover. At this point it no longer mattered, for I was no longer interested in that. I just wanted to know why.

Why did this happen and why this weekend? Why are four dead people stretched out in my icehouse? Why the elaborate setup, like something out of a Buster Keaton film, just to hit someone over the head? There are easier ways to crush a cranium than by rigging up a set of encyclopedias, a badminton net, three croquet mallets, and a life jacket.

“I don’t even own a croquet set! Don’t people just poison other people anymore?” I muttered.

So by my count, six deaths this weekend. Because let’s face it, those other two will turn up in some odd and utterly bizarre bit of cabinetry brought in by the rental agent who furnished the house for the week-long reunion. There was probably a magician’s chest with hidden compartments or a pool table with a false bottom or something which will only reveal their remains once hounds are brought in to trace the stench.

The three-hundred year old oak timbers which make up my frame shuddered, just a bit. I didn’t groan – I had too much pride to resort to that trope – but I’d had enough. I could trace my roots, quite literally, back to the ancient oaks; majestic, prideful, filled with life and sacred to those who knew them. I was felled and turned into this dwelling fifty years before the first shots were fired at Lexington and Concord. By the time those musket balls flew, five of my occupants had died before their time.

In the succeeding years the count grew: hangings, drownings, poisons, more guns, smoke inhalation, suffocation, a few strings stretched taut along a staircase, and numerous skulls bashed with candlesticks, a poker, and six years later, the shovel from the same set of fireplace tools.

“I’m not certain you can claim someone was defenestrated if they were thrown in a window or through the glass skylight over the ballroom, to be precise. Name a method of death, however bizarre, and I guarantee it has happened here. The death toll has reached 238 by my reckoning.”

Only twenty-three were actually considered murder by the authorities. The others they had classified as suicides, natural causes, and one highly unlikely accidental piercing of the liver by a broken pool cue which permanently stained my library floors and resulted in the installation of wall to wall carpet in a truly unfortunate shade of oatmeal. I suppose the color and commercial grade was the economical option since it had been selected twice more after other unfortunate events.

The matriarch listened patiently to my long recital, her black ears swiveling ever so slightly at my rumbles. She was nestled in a dark corner of my attic, behind a chimney which serviced a no longer used kitchen fireplace. The colony of Large Brown Bats had been driven from their other homes through fear and ignorance and had been seeking a winter shelter when they first entered my eaves. The colony and I reached an arrangement once the first matriarch overcame her surprise at holding a conversation with a former tree demanding to know what she and her children were doing in my attics.

The bats kept me free of beetles and termites, and I provided a safe harbor. They never fouled the air or floors. No trace of them was seen on the extremely rare occasions an occupant ventured into the oddly shadowed rooms. I protected her and the mothers who preceded her, and I would go on protecting the ones who followed. We had an understanding, she and I. We often spoke of the dark of night, the warmth of summer days, the encroachment of people and insecticides.

I didn’t want to bring death into our conversation, but I thought perhaps she might have seen something to explain what happened to me over and over again. She was wise and knew my bones well, not like the many charlatans the house’s human occupants had dragged over my timbers in the past; phonies and hacks who had attempted to connect with the spirits, cleanse auras, untangle ley lines, and banish the demons said to possess me. I wasn’t possessed. I wasn’t erected over a forgotten cemetery or battlefield or pagan altar. None of the 238 untimely deaths left spirits behind either.

“You have had a long, sorrowful time,” she said.

“A sorrowful time. I wanted to be a good house, a home. I wanted to be filled with joy and love, for what better hope can any tree have if they are not to live out their days under the Great Green Sky?”

“Green? The sky is blue, for I fly on its currents and eddies and know its every hue.”

“Air is blue, but the Great Green Sky, the Canopy of All, is lush and filled with life. Why would anyone wish to look overhead into empty air when they could exist under life itself? Had I been granted my full span, I would have taken my place amongst my brethren to shelter and nourish in turn. I would have gladly sheltered you and yours.”

“We would have relished that.” She hesitated then, and I understood she did indeed know something.

“I heard your current owner speaking with the others outside. He wants you dismantled. He plans to strip your fittings, moldings, copper pipes, windows, anything of value and sell them off to restoration and salvage companies. There’s a custom cabinet maker interested in your framing and timbers.”

“No! No! For I do not know how much or what part of me carries the curse!” And it must be a curse which burdens me so, although I do not know where or when it had been laid, or by who.

“Do you believe it could spread, then?” She was so kind and gentle with her questions.

“Can you promise me it will not?”

“I cannot.” I thought she cared. If she didn’t, she was a good enough actor to make me believe she did.

“Then I wish someone could consign me to the flames instead of the hammer. Let me burn.”

“Fire? Won’t that hurt – I mean, won’t that–” The shudder which coursed through her tiny frame made her opinion of fire obvious – most animals fear the flame.

“I have been violently sheared from my roots. I was split, planed, sawed, sanded, stained, painted, and polished. What could be more painful than that? All trees succumb to fire eventually. Fire or decay. In either case, it is a natural thing. Let me burn.”

She gave me no answer, but I could tell she was considering her options.

* * *

She was only a bat. She could not light a match. She could not douse me with gasoline. She could not short out my electrical panel or leave the gas valve open. She did, however, understand the smells and touch of a line of thunderstorms making their way down the eastern slope of the Taconic Mountains and their impending sweep toward western Massachusetts.

She summoned the colony and put them to work. They swarmed the roof, crowded along the pinnacle and swung, clawed, bit, pulled at an innocuous bit of wire trailing down the cupola, the valley flashing, and the exterior wall to a metal stake in the ground. They pounded at the weathervane and the copper spike on which it rotated. Their combined efforts bent it perpendicular to the roof, then knocked it well below the ridgeline.

She kept me company while her brood worked, and then called them to her side when the task was completed as best they could.

“I don’t know if we’ve done enough,” she said.

“You’ve done what you can. You always have.”

“You’ve given us shelter and for that we thank you.”

“At least I’ve been a home of sorts then.” We both knew that however much I’d enjoyed being of service, it hadn’t been enough. My primary function had never been fulfilled.

“Where will you go?” I asked.

“There is a new forest, a preserve to the south and east toward the rising sun. I suppose they have recognized their folly at last. They have returned those and other lands back to good green places.”

Oh, how I envied her. To see such lands restored to a time before their arrival. To see a newly born canopy. No wish of mine would see me there. “May a safe passage await you and yours. My thanks to you all.”

* * *

The wondrous storm reached me on a moonlit night. When one of its bolts struck my unprotected roof and decorative railings, Nature’s full fury was unleashed upon me and had nowhere else to go. Heat cascaded through my old bones, along the ridge cap and beams and studs. The flames started as small flickers in isolated corners, grew, merged into hot spots, finally joined into one single overwhelming conflagration. The rain which accompanied the thunder had no chance at all of containing it.

It was a searing, soaring heat, and I found such release in that. There were so few happy memories to recall of my days as a house (never a home), but I reached back through the rings of my seasons. I had memories of my leaves turning from bud to green to brown until they fell to blanket and nourish the forest beneath my roots. I remembered the chill of winter snow and the sun warming me until my sap ran free.

I gave thought to the many birds who had once nested within my branches, the other creatures who fed themselves and their young on my acorns. Some of those acorns became seedlings. Perhaps a few survived. I hoped so, for they would be my only lasting legacy. I will never take my place as part of the Canopy of All. Still, I will no longer be a vehicle for sadness and death. I gave myself up to the flame.

The fire consumed me. My roof timbers gave way first, and the weight of tiles and brick chimneys crashed through the attic floor, the servants’ quarters below, then all the way through to the cellars. Window panes shattered from the heat – the great expanse of the ballroom skylight refracted a million tongues of flame in a splintering rain. I heard sirens in the distance. They would not reach me in time to make a difference.

The rain stopped. The fire didn’t. It burned white hot. The air around me ionized and steamed. Old paper insulation could not stop superheated air driving smoke and embers inside my remaining interior walls. Timbers exploded, electric cabled arced, gas lines ruptured.

All that I ever was had been reduced to ash.

And then the wind changed direction. It blew hard to the south and east. A few sparks crackled though they did not travel far on the damp ground.

But I did.

I took flight in the wind amidst the smoke and the heat, following the colony’s path until I finally reached the reborn forest. I joined it the only way I could.

I fed my ashes to the Great Green Sky.

 

* * *

About the Author

Patricia Miller is a US Navy veteran, sixth of ten kids born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio and currently living in Wisconsin, Land of Cheese. She holds a BS in Education, an MS in Library Science. Patricia started reading at 3 1/2 after becoming obsessed with Batman and is hooked on QI, British murder villages, and professional cycling. She is a weaver, quilter, raiser of roses, and maker. Patricia is on the spectrum and considers that as an asset to her writing.

Patricia is a member of SFWA and CODEX and writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Her publications include short fiction in numerous anthologies, Metastellar, Wyngraf, and Cinnabar Moth Literary Collections with upcoming short stories for Dastardly Damsels, 99 Fleeting Fantasies, and Stupefying Stories. She is currently in the query trenches with a middle grade ghost story

A complete listing of stories, occasional blog entries, and more info about Patricia can be found on her website at: https://trishmillerwrites.com

by Katlina Sommerberg

“…this is no ordinary catch, yet the sticky lines hold.”

In the branches of a lonely redwood tree, hidden amongst the flowering cones, Bitsy’s web quakes from an impact.

Hanging by a thread, the orb-weaver calculates her prey’s location from its vibrations. Her web shakes violently; this is no ordinary catch, yet the sticky lines hold.

The prey’s exoskeleton glimmers like an iridescent dragonfly. Its body is one section — missing the thorax — with four circular wings composed of blades.

When the vibrations stop, Bitsy’s palps reach for the not-insect’s shell.

Its bladed wings buzz to life and sever structural threads.

Bitsy jumps, lands on fallen needles upon the forest floor. She abandons her web to the microdrone.

 

* * *

About the Author

Katlina Sommerberg is living xyr best queer life in a menagerie of stuffed animals. Previously a security researcher, xe burned out and quit. So far, xe hasn’t followed xyr grandfather’s footsteps by disappearing into the mountains, but xe is always tempted. Xyr work has previously appeared in Zooscape, DecodedPride, and other places. https://sommerbergssf.carrd.co/#

by Margot Spronk

“This was not the meet-cute she’d hoped for, but he had brought an awesome present.”

1. 1. The Courting

Gwyn sank into a Downward Dog, extending her claws to deepen the stretch, unfortunately slashing her purple yoga mat, and not for the first time. Her previously even breathing stuttered, as her feline brain popped up an errant thought: why wasn’t this pose named the Downward Cat? No dog could bow their spines until their elbows touched the ground like a cat could. Maybe a dachshund — but that would look ridiculous. Gwyn giggled, exposing her canines, then snapped her jaws shut.

Always…dogs. Never cats.

She shuffled her hind legs closer to her front paws and lifted her knees onto her elbows, precariously assuming the Crane Position. She balanced for a second, then dropped one foot back to the ground, hissing at the strain.

If it wasn’t dogs, it was cranes.

Wasn’t a heron the same as a crane?

Her whiskers twitched. Maybe yoga wasn’t for her after all. She flopped down into what she liked to call the Lambchop Pose — one leg pointing straight up — and licked her white furred belly with long, raspy strokes while intermittently staring out the living room’s French doors at the front yard.

Outside, rain had slicked a shine onto the green lawn, brightening the overcast early spring morning. Beyond the grass, a clump of alders stretched their bare grey limbs upward. Tiny spheres of water clinging to the furled buds that tipped the branches glinted like diamonds against a pearlescent sky. Below the interlocking alder boughs a great blue heron stood, still and silent, his long sharp beak pointed at the ground.

Gwyn’s pink paw pads broke out in sweat.

Was he coming here already? Stopping to hunt a vole on the way like a human suitor would stop to pick a bouquet of wildflowers for his sweetheart?

His beak struck the ground, neck stretched then springing back into its ‘S’ shaped resting state — a grey blob wedged between his upper and lower beaks as if it was a piece of sashimi clasped by two chopsticks. It wriggled and Gwyn involuntarily salivated. She imagined a shrill squeak and almost had to visit the litter box in her excitement.

Reiher strolled through the grass toward the glass doors, neck bobbing, head steady as if it were balanced on gimbals. His yellow eyes fixated on Gwyn, as if she too were prey.

Which… she supposed, she was.

Her Russian blue great aunt slunk into the room. Either she’d seen Reiher transiting the lawn, or she’d been expecting him. (If Gwyn had known the heron was coming, she would’ve gone to the 11 a.m. yoga class in town instead of setting up her mat in the living room and giving him an inadvertent show).

Auntie bounded to the door, a ghostly streak of gray, rushing to let the heron in before Gwyn did something foolhardy.

But Gwyn hadn’t even thought about locking Reiher out. Her attention was fixated on the furry bundle firmly clasped in his beak.

It smelled of iron and petrichor and looked plump and tasty.

Reiher strode across the threshold and dropped the vole in front of her. Gwyn thanked him while licking away some drool. He nodded — he wasn’t much of a conversationalist. She’d noticed that about herons before — their extreme and endless comfort with silence. And staring. Always the staring.

Auntie left to give the lovebirds a little privacy.

Love… birds?

Why not love-cats?

Gwyn recognized she had become a burden. At eight months she’d already put her thoroughly menopaused and fastidious great aunt through two estrus cycles. Twice Gwyn had rubbed, rolled and shed reefs of white fur while yowling affectionately at anyone who looked her way. She shuddered. So embarrassing. How did cats manage before vacuum cleaners were invented? Her elderly guardian was understandably anxious to ensure her next heat was someone else’s responsibility. Reiher was an upstanding member of the community. An expert hunter. And… Auntie was always talking up his plumy blue fronds and sexy white ruff.

Gwyn had to admit he was just as gorgeous as advertised.

Gwyn vowed to at least give him a chance. It wasn’t as if suitors grew on trees or were beating a path to her door. Reiher had been hatched “in” a tree, and he had just stalked to her door, so that had to count for something.

Reiher assumed his resting pose — totally motionless, one baleful eye turned toward Gwyn’s mouth.

Did he want the vole back?

Or was he fascinated by her sharp teeth?

This was not the meet-cute she’d hoped for, but he had brought an awesome present. She ripped out the rodent’s belly like the predator she was, wolfing down chunks of slimy organ and chewy muscle.

Wolfing?

Something clunked against her back molar. It wasn’t a vole bone as they were thin, flexible and perfectly edible. This felt pointed, impervious, like it might chafe her throat and abrade her intestines as it moved through her digestive tract. Spontaneously, she horked it up.

A gold ring, set with a moderately-sized solitaire diamond, dropped onto the carpet coated in a stinky bile soup speckled with bone shards.

Well.

That was done.

They were engaged.

2.  The Wedding

Gwyn tried to convince Auntie that she would’ve looked better in black, as the white silk of her wedding dress against her white fur was not a good look.

Also black would’ve suited her mood better, which surely Auntie knew but wouldn’t acknowledge. Gwyn sighed.

She slid a manicured claw under the dress’s delicate accordion neckline. Confining as a dog collar. Cats weren’t known for their patience, and Gwyn was no exception. She wished she could play the Chatte App on her tablet while waiting for the ceremony to start. Pounce on a few fish, squash some cockroaches and chase a laser pointer. But a few weeks ago, when she’d tried to include Reiher in the game, he’d cracked the glass screen with his beak. After the second time it happened, the person at the other end of her extended warranty’s 1-800 number denied her claim.

There was nothing to do but prowl back and forth. She peeked through the curtain into the nave of the church. Everyone who was anyone was there. Van Varken the heritage hog, accompanied by a passel of piglets — all rumored to be killing the computer science program at MIT. Paard the Carter — she’d parleyed her one-horse business into a major transportation conglomerate. Lapin Konijn, the porn star who apparently had a very large… hind foot, and Cuervo the crow, who’d made billions mining silver and gold and topped the Forbes 30 under 30 list five years in a row. Considering his entrepreneurial prowess, and that a crow’s lifespan maxes out at thirty, he was likely to be ineligible due to death well before he aged out. His sister Vorona, who was said (in whispers) to be a highly paid assassin and spy for hire, sat to his right. To his left, his trans-species mate, Raaf Raven, who was a social influencer famous for running Instagram scavenger hunts, took a selfie.

Gwyn’s abundant cousins were there, sprawled over the pews in a slinky riot of white, black, and marmalade. On Reiher’s side of the aisle, his Avian relatives loomed over everyone mammalian. Cranes, egrets, lesser herons, and a notorious Pelican bookie who kept betting slips in his beak.

It was a zoo out there. Fidgeting kittens and squirming chicks, startled colts and squealing leverets. And it smelled funky, like a barn on a hot day. No one had thought to bedeck the hall with fragrant flowers — half of the guests would have assumed they were part of the wedding buffet, anyway.

When the first plaintive notes of Saint Saëns “March of the Lions” rang out, Gwyn strolled down the aisle, her aunt preceding her (dressed in an aqua green satin gown that flattered her feline shape and blue-gray coloring). Reiher waited for her at the altar, following her progress with a piercing intensity.

Well.

That was done.

They were married.

3.  The Marriage

When you get right down to it, Gwyn and Reiher did have a lot in common. Both were somewhat nocturnal, with a fondness for voles, trout, and frogs. Both tracked their prey silently, then swiftly pounced — Reiher with his razor-sharp beak, and Gwyn with the whetted talons sheathed in her white paws.

Neither was very talkative — as much as Gwyn complained about the utter taciturnity of her husband, she was equally guilty. Neither of them liked peas. Reiher because they were so difficult to hold in his beak, and Gwyn because they tasted like fresh hay and hay was for ungulates.

But there were points of contention. Reiher complained that Gwyn was always sleeping. Gwyn countered with Reiher’s habit of ending an argument by becoming airborne. Reiher thought that Gwyn’s Cheshire smiles were insincere. Gwyn would’ve appreciated even the tiniest twinge of expression on her husband’s face.

Were they happy? The expression, “two cats in a sack” applied here, even if one of the cats was a bird. There was a lot of friction.

And due to the trans-species nature of their relationship, children were out of the question. They could adopt, Gwyn suggested. An abandoned puppy, perhaps? Maybe a dachshund so that she could laugh at his attempts at a Downward Dog?

But Reiher said no. He just couldn’t relate to an animal longer than they were tall, covered in fur and liveborn. Reiher really wanted to sit on a clutch of eggs.

Gwyn was not having feathers. How could she possibly groom her baby without tearing out the quills and shredding the downy barbs with her sandpaper tongue? Besides, baby birds were… tasty.

It was a stalemate.

Grooming was not negotiable.

Eggs were not negotiable.

They contemplated foreign adoption, but apparently, Australian platypus were decent parents, and very few of the monotremes ever came up.

Besides, platypuses loved swimming underwater. How could a cat mom supervise that? Dad-heron’s only method of corralling a diving platypus baby would be to stab them with his beak.

Why won’t you accept a baby bird asked Reiher?

Why won’t you accept a puppy said Gwyn?

As was typical, Reiher flew off with a great thumping of his huge wings, and Gwyn curled into a ball in front of the fireplace and closed her eyes.

Their divorce was granted on the grounds of irreconcilable differences. If you asked anyone who’d been in the church on the day of their wedding, they’d say they’d always known it wouldn’t last.

Gwyn and Reiher were too, too different.

Auntie didn’t seem too disturbed when Gwyn interrupted her Grecian holiday with the news — although that could be because she was too busy partying with her wild Santorini relatives.

Well.

That was done.

They were divorced.

 

* * *

About the Author

Margot Spronk (they, them) is a retired air traffic controller who finds writing to be just as stressful but less life-threatening. They graduated Simon Fraser University’s The Writer’s Studio in 2015 (Southbank 2014) and have previously been published in Pulp Literature. In real life, Margot is owned by Lucas the cat (AKA Agent Orange) and Remy the 80-pound doodle, who both rightly assume they are the center of the universe.

by Emmie Christie

“The tixi grew on the couch to the size of a human, and its fur fluffed even more, its softness enveloping him, gathering around him like wings, reaching for what jumbled up inside him, the tangled memories.”

When Jan reached four years into sixty, his daughter and her son flew off into the glorious first exploration past the Milky Way to somewhere called Z-1.

He waved them off like someone in Victorian England would’ve waved off a ship headed to the New World, smiling with cracked lips, his stomach riddled with resentment. He plodded home and stared down a bottle of scotch. The bottle won.

Drunk, he studied the way of things. The way the old wooden fence withered in the bracing space winds, those that had descended on Earth hungering for trees and mountains. He studied the way the light tangled like necklaces through the trees, much too jumbled to ever wear again.

His neighbors had long since edged closer to the urban center, the pillar dedicated to the rockets, hoping that proximity meant waiting list quality. Harjit dropped by every Monday at four to deliver groceries and a pitying smile, and Jan glared at him until the young caretaker left.

When the scotch wore off, he studied the way the rain grated against his window, like a visitor who didn’t understand the social cue of what slapping your knee meant in a conversation, accompanied by ‘well,’ and ‘it’s been fun.’ He closed the curtains. Why couldn’t they all just leave him alone?

The groceries Harjit had left — fresh fruit and asparagus from R-4, and some strange new pasta they’d grown on C-13 — waited and wasted in the fridge. He ate alcohol and beans. From Earth.

The ‘letter’ arrived a month after the expedition had left, scrolling large-sized text on his wall. “We’ve settled, Dad. It’s so great here. For us, only a few days! We wrote as soon as we could.”

“That’s great, Maddy,” he wrote back, tapping on his phone.

“Have you tried to get on any planet waiting lists?” Upbeat. Positive tones, but with underlying worry.

“Why should I? It’s not like the Earth’s going to die in my lifetime.”

“Dad—”

“I’m fine here. Really.” He studied the way the words from his daughter curled around the end table, arching into geometry.

“Well, we’ve sent you a gift.”

“I don’t want a—”

Something hurtled through the wall, something wrapped in fur and energy. It landed on his couch and opened wide eyes set in a furry face.

“Oh, hell no!”

“I think you mean hell-o!” The thing — it reminded him a fox with taloned feet — wrapped its obnoxious, fluffy tail around his leg.

A tixi. Great. These things proliferated on several planets. People obsessed over them just because they could talk.

“Maddy, baby, I don’t need a pet.” Jan extricated his leg from the thing and jabbed at his phone. “I’ve had enough of them over the years when you wouldn’t walk the dogs.”

“She’s not a pet. You’ve heard of them, right? There’s lots of them here on Z-1. They’re really helpful.” A pause. “Well, gotta go. Talk to you later!” The scroll flicked off on his wall.

“I didn’t ask for you.” Jan glared at the thing. Then at the wall, where the words had disappeared.

The tixi lifted its talon and poked at the air as if lecturing in a college classroom. It spoke with a trill behind every word. “I go where I am needed.”

Great. It would shed everywhere. He stomped off to the TV room. “Stay there! I’mma pass you off to Harjit when he comes on Monday, so don’t get too comfortable.”

The tixi lay at the foot of his bed the next morning. And then on his feet the next, creating a pocket of warmth after the chill night when the space winds had roared, and the rain grated on his windows. It had grown a bit in the night to the size of a big dog, but it shrank back down when it hopped off the bed and followed him into the bathroom. The creature didn’t shed at all, at least it had that going for it.

Harjit came and went, lecturing Jan to eat his vegetables. “Ah, you got a tixi! That’s a great idea.” The young man scanned the countertops, hands on his hips. “Good job keeping the place clean. Here, I got something for you. It’s from Y-12.”

The white plant curled in a sinister way, like a mustache on an evil Santa or something, and Jan shoved it to the back of the counter away from the light. The tixi watched him.

Dang it! He’d forgotten to give the creature to Harjit. Oh, well. He could do it next Monday.

That Sunday night, the tixi asked, “So, what do you do for fun around here on the old Earth?”

“Nothing, if you’re also old.” Jan popped the cork on another scotch. “Sit and wait around for groceries that we don’t eat.”

The creature nibbled at a talon, then brought in the paper and did the crossword. It puzzled for a while over a clue. “Alright, help me out here,” it said. “Red bird. Eight letters.”

“I didn’t ask to play.”

“What else are you gonna do? Red bird, come on. This one is supposed to be easy for humans.” The tixi sidled up to him on the couch, brushing its soft, glossy side against his hand. It grew a little bit, its fur fluffing out like it had dried itself on a heating vent.

He sighed but allowed it to stay next to him. “Cardinal?”

“Nice. That fits. Okay, what about this one. Six letters, the clue is ‘knot.’”

Jan almost said it, then his tongue tripped over the word, and his breath lodged in his throat. He reached for the tixie’s fur and buried his face in it.

The tixi grew on the couch to the size of a human, and its fur fluffed even more, its softness enveloping him, gathering around him like wings, reaching for what jumbled up inside him, the tangled memories.

Maddy, in her prom dress. His little girl, ready to leave for the big girl dance, bright-eyed and bright hoped. Grace would’ve known what to do, but he didn’t even know what to do with his hands. Had they always been so long and dangly?

She smiled at him and pressed a necklace in his palm. Giving him something to do, to fidget with while she got ready. “I’ll be alright, Daddy. Here, can you untangle this knot for me?”

He stayed for a moment in that moment, in that precious second that glimmered in his mind.

“Damn you!” He ripped away from the tixi, panting, fists clenched.

“Is something wrong?” Its growth paused. It still resembled a fox with those ears, but its fur had splayed out like an eagle’s giant wings. “Your eyes requested comforting, did they not?”

He staggered, dropping the scotch bottle on the carpet. It bled pale yellow on the carpet. First Grace had died, then Maddy had taken her son to space. They’d all gone so far away.

“Earth-man?” The tixi brushed a wing against his arm. “Are you well?”

“Does it look like I’m well? You damn well did this to me!”

“Should I alert a doctor?”

He sank into the couch cushion and covered his eyes. Tears slid between his fingers. “Just clean that up, would you? Can you do that at least?”

He fell asleep on the couch and woke up warm. Well, the tixi had slept on him. He grimaced, heaved the creature off — it had shrunk back again to normal fox-size — and lumbered to the kitchen to make coffee. The stain from the spilled scotch had vanished. “At least you’re good for something,” Jan said.

The strange plant from Y-12 that Harjit had brought seemed different somehow. It curled up like a swan’s neck, not sinister at all, but graceful and fluid. He pulled it out of the dark part of the counter, into the light.

He poured his coffee and huddled outside. The tixi preened next to him, tail curled around her talons.

The way the light tangled in the branches’ shadows…

He growled. Tears dripped down his cheeks, a few dripped into his coffee. He glared at the tixi. “Alright. What the hell did you do to me? Did you slip me some stupid pill?”

“We tixies specialize in comfort. You had a coating of pain over your eyes, and it seems that is now gone.”

He had heard the stories but had never believed them. “That’s a load of hippie space-trash.”

He trudged inside the house and reached for a vodka this time, something more potent that looked like water. He could drink more that way, pretending.

But the bottle had a wrongness to it; it bulged in a way that repulsed him. He slammed it back down and whirled on the tixi. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t ask for this — this difference in my eyes! I just hugged you!”

The tixi promenaded through the door and draped her tail around her talons. When had he started thinking of it as a she? “Cleaning and comforting are the same to us tixies and produce the same results. I cleaned the alcohol out of the carpet by comforting the floor, you know.”

“Bullshit! This is such bullshit! How dare she do this!” He grabbed the bottle of vodka, gripping it through the anger. Upended it in his mouth, forced himself to swallow.

It tasted like piss. Well, it always had, but for some reason, now it bothered him, and it bothered him that it bothered him.

What, he couldn’t even drink anymore? Maddie had stolen that from him, too?

Sober, he decided to cook some food. Harjit hadn’t come with a new batch yet this morning, and mold grew on some of the strawberries, but he could still use that C-13 pasta. He ate some of that with alfredo sauce, and it tasted good.

He hated that it tasted good.

He hated the way the fence outside made him want to fix it instead of letting it rot. He hated that he had dragged that stupid white plant into the sunlight on the counter. He hated the way that the leaves played in the space-winds, laughing and twirling like children. He hated the way Maddy had held her son’s hand and waved to him with the other, as if she could have both — even when she was the one who had left. He hated the way— hated—

He cried.

He loved her. He missed her. But he wanted her to be happy.

The tixi wrapped her tail around his feet. He allowed it.

“Guess you’re not really a pet,” he managed to say. “And you clean things pretty well.” He held out his hand. “You can stay, if you want.”

The tixi wrapped her talon around his hand and shook it. “I stay where I am needed.”

 

* * *

About the Author

Emmie Christie’s work includes practical subjects, like feminism and mental health, and speculative subjects, like unicorns and affordable healthcare. She has been published in various short story markets including Daily Science Fiction, Infinite Worlds Magazine, and Flash Fiction Online. She graduated from the Odyssey Writing Workshop in 2013. You can find her at www.emmiechristie.com or on Twitter @EmmieChristie33.

by Mocha Cookie Crumble

“Now that the moment was here, everything seemed so simple.”

The restaurant Koda had chosen was beautiful — seating along the water, with fairy lights sparkling overhead and a rose on each table. With the sun setting over the ocean, casting a warm light over the earth, it was as romantic as you could get. So why was he so nervous? He resisted the urge to slick his soft ears back, instead facing them forward as he spotted Lilian.

Oh, she was beautiful, never more so than tonight. Her fur was sleek and orange, her tail fluffy and swaying as she walked. A tight black dress hugged her hips. The sunset played up the pink-red tones of her eyes. As soon as she saw Koda, though, she lit up like a beam of light and dashed over, nearly colliding with a waiter.

“I can’t believe we’ve been together a year!” she cried. Her paws did little tippy-taps on the edge of the table.

“Hello to you, too,” Koda said, laughing.

“A whole year. Feels like it was only a couple weeks ago that I poured soup in your lap.” Koda started to speak, but she was too excited and went on: “I got you a present!”

Koda grinned. “I, uh, I got you something, too,” he said. “Something small.” Very small. He could feel the weight of it pressing against his chest pocket.

“Mine first,” Lilian said. She presented a clumsily-wrapped box, about the size of a loaf of bread, with a big grin. “Open it, open it!”

“I’m getting there, slow down,” Koda said, laughing again as he ripped the paper. Since the start, she’d made it so easy for him to laugh, and it had never worn off. He reached into the box and pulled out… a plush cat.

It was covered in patches. The ears were new, the paw pads fresh, one of the eyes replaced with a shiny button. Koda’s hands trembled, and his eyes filled up with tears. “Mister—M-Mister—” He couldn’t get the words out, so he gestured tearfully.

Lilian beamed. “Your mom found him in a box in the attic,” she said. “I’ve been fixing him up for months now — it’s been so hard not to tell you! Good as new, right?”

Koda wiped his eyes and hugged Mister Softie close to his chest. The weight in his pocket was practically burning him. “Thank you so much, baby,” he said, leaning over the table to kiss her. “Do you— do you want yours now?”

“Yes! Yes, please,” she said, doing little tip-taps again. God, he loved those tip-taps.

Oh, god, this was it — this was the moment. He put Mister Softie down on the table and stood up, his ears flicking against his will. His heart pounded. He pushed his chair out of the way.

Lilian cocked her head. “What are you doing? Why—”

He got down on one knee.

“Oh my god,” she said, her eyes widening. “Oh my god, oh my god!! Are you proposing? Are you— I love you! I say yes!”

Koda couldn’t help but laugh again, and she giggled with excitement. “Baby, I haven’t even gotten the ring out,” he said.

“I know, it doesn’t matter, I say yes,” she said with a grin. “Sorry. Sorry, we should do it properly. Okay, go, you can start now.”

His hands were so much steadier now as he pulled out the box and opened it. A sapphire set in a silver band glinted up at Lilian, who put a paw over her mouth. Koda had practiced this moment a thousand times. Would he say her full name? Go on about how the last year meant so much to him? Talk about the best parts of her? Now that the moment was here, everything seemed so simple.

“I love you,” he said. “Marry me?”

She dove out of her chair to kiss him, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

 

* * *

About the Author

Why does this author sound like a Starbucks order instead of a person? Because Mocha Cookie Crumble loves the sweetest, coziest things in life! Mocha writes to give everyone a warm place to rest. She enjoys bringing fursonas to life via commissions and often writes outdoors. (Yes, she likes Starbucks. No, she didn’t intend to name herself after a frappuccino… but she has no regrets!)