Feed aggregator
When the Horse Came to the Open House
by K. C. Mead-Brewer
“They begin to wonder if a horse can also be a witch.”
No one gave it a second thought. Lots of people attend Open House events for the free cookies or wine, or maybe just to admire a stranger’s shiplap and crown molding, bathroom mirrors in the shapes of seashells. No, the neighborhood didn’t begin to worry until a few days later when the zippy little realtor came out of the house smiling at the horse and the horse nodding back at him.
What does a horse want with the house on the corner? It normally wouldn’t be a big deal except that more than a few people in the neighborhood are allergic to hay and the horse’s (truly exceptional) diamond shoes keep cracking the sidewalk.
“Her head weighs the same as my entire brother!” the Lightfoot’s girl was heard whispering to another. The neighborhood children are mystified by all the new horse-facts they’re learning now. (It never really occurred to them to look up horse stuff before.) How much does a horse heart weigh? How much do horses poop? Has a horse ever been to outer-space? How many lungs do horses have? Are horses good at keeping secrets?
* * *
They begin to wonder if the horse might be keeping secrets.
* * *
Spying children must be startled off the horse’s porch like birds nearly every day now. The clever ones have started throwing toys over the horse’s fence for the excuse to climb into her yard and fetch them.
Scaling her fence, the children look in upon the lushest garden: all kinds of lettuces, lumpy rainbow tomatoes, an apple tree dotted with tiny red and yellow apples, strange herbs with sticky leaves, and a long row of—one of the Robertson girls calls it right away, probably thanks to all those Girl Empowerment camps where they learn about medicinal plants and old myths and—rampion. “It’s also known as Rapunzel,” she explains with some importance.
They try to remember how long the horse’s mane is, if they could use it to climb a tower. They begin to wonder if a horse can also be a witch. (Perhaps this is one of her secrets.)
The children hush each other as they explore the horse’s garden, smelling its savory muds and fruits, looking for things to steal. Instead they find themselves wondering where all these other trees came from and what about those rain-slicked boulders and how long have they been walking?
* * *
As you might imagine, the neighborhood parents want to know what’s become of their children.
“Where did you leave them?” the horse replies. “Next time try stacking them like the books at the library. Alphabetical order is so reassuring, don’t you think? Like a smile full of strong, healthy teeth.”
The horse bares her great teeth in example, but it isn’t at all reassuring to the parents.
The parents wander the neighborhood that’s suddenly empty of their children, the planned and unplanned offspring they built their lives around. They can’t remember their own Open Houses or why they settled here. They weren’t trained for this. They weren’t prepared to think of themselves as their own future.
“What now?” they ask back and forth, a desperate echolocation. “What now?” “What now?”
* * *
The children age as they venture deeper into the horse’s garden, deeper and deeper until they come out the other side and discover themselves on the moon.
“This sure isn’t Kansas,” they joke, turning in circles. They’re as tall as adults now, muscled and boobed and hairy. They hold hands, they kiss. They smell like old bedsheets.
Examining their dusty path, they realize the moon’s craters aren’t craters at all but ancient hoofprints.
It never occurred to them to wonder where horses came from before Earth, nor what it might be like to live on the moon. Will they need special shoes? Will they meet many astronauts? When did the horses first leave the moon, and has it always been this lovely? Its shadows so deep and gentle? Its dirt so soft and cool?
They begin to wonder if they might have secret knowledge of their own now, to find so much promise in a world that others have left for dead.
* * *
About the Author
K.C. Mead-Brewer lives in Ithaca, NY. Her fiction appears in Electric Literature’s Recommended Reading, Joyland Magazine, Strange Horizons, and elsewhere. She is a graduate of Tin House’s 2018 Winter Workshop for Short Fiction and of the 2018 Clarion Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers’ Workshop. For more information, visit kcmeadbrewer.com and follow her @meadwriter.
Maker Space
by Adele Gardner
“When Nigel was five, he told her that for his next birthday present, he wanted to be a cat.”
On his second birthday, Carolina Wannemacher took her son out in his stroller to shop for a new suit. She had instructed him carefully. When the clerk arrived, Nigel lay inert in the harness, just a trifle more still than a soundly sleeping toddler. As Carolina carefully worked the suit onto the artificially stiff limbs, the clerk gave her an odd look. “Are you sure you want to spend the money? A little one like that grows so fast.”
“He’s a doll, you see,” Carolina said seriously, keeping her attention focused on Nigel. He was being so good. Following his programming perfectly. Not an eyelash twitched.
The tag on the clerk’s navy blue jacket named her Lotte. She seemed happy with Carolina’s explanation. Lotte scarcely even batted an eye when Carolina said she wanted the suits a size too large, as if the doll would grow into them.
When Lotte retreated behind the staff doors, Carolina heard laughter and caught a glimpse of Lotte talking to another clerk. Of course, Lotte would want to share the eccentricities of her client. Carolina took the opportunity to confer with Nigel about his likes and dislikes.
When Lotte returned with several more suits to try, she told Carolina that every woman was entitled to a hobby, and that she herself was making a family of ball-jointed dolls from her favorite fantasy series and sewing the clothes herself. She’d won an award at Dragon Con.
Lotte admired the delicate, realistic modeling of Nigel’s face, her finger tracing the weave of the pinstripe on Nigel’s baby limbs. Lotte murmured, a wistful note in her voice, “He looks so alive. I wish I knew how you did it.”
Carolina smiled slightly. “That’s a trade secret.”
Lotte’s face fell. She drew back, her mouth pinched. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” Carolina said. “I’ve been building prototypes since I was about his size. After a while you just get good at something.”
Lotte’s face brightened, as if Carolina had said the magic words. “Well, there’s hope for me then,” she said. And as Carolina made her choices and checked out, Lotte added, “I hope you don’t mind, but I wish you’d think about sharing your patterns online. I mean, you’re really talented.”
Feeling acutely aware of the store camera and Lotte’s shy smile, Carolina said, “You might have something there.”
She wheeled the stroller onto the sidewalk. Passersby chatted to invisible friends via Bluetooth, but Carolina waited a block before she said, “Good job, Nigel.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I should have done a better job. She actually believed you were a doll.”
Those uncannily human blue eyes looked up at her. “Don’t worry, Mom, you did the best you could.”
“Next birthday, Nigel. Next birthday I’ll do better, I promise.”
“Can we have friends over? I’d like to invite Audrey. She seems nice.”
Carolina fell silent as a man in a business suit passed her with a half-smiling nod, which she returned gravely. She considered. Audrey was fifteen, an online pal of Nigel’s, compatible in many ways. Home-schooled, a child prodigy who played cello with the symphony, Audrey would probably sympathize with Nigel’s differences from other children, especially his advanced intelligence. But she was sheltered, and quite close to her mom. Was it wise to trust her with the secret?
Nigel was a healthy, growing boy, but arranging playdates was difficult. Though plenty of adults in Carolina’s generation had been enthusiastically building robots since they were tiny tots receiving their robotics and circuits kits from Santa, most of these were far more limited than Nigel. Carolina didn’t want to reveal just how advanced he was. And the human kids who might be more intellectually compatible carried too much risk of letting the cat out of the bag.
At her continued silence, a cloud passed over Nigel’s face. “Mom? Her cello sounds so beautiful with my harpsichord. I thought we might have a concert.”
Her heart hurt. Was she doing right by him? He looked up at her with such trust in that little-boy face, his skin as creamy as her own, his hair in blond curls modeled on her little brother’s at that age. “She’s a little young for you, honey. Maybe next year. A lot of girls mature when they turn sixteen.”
Nigel sighed, a mannerism he’d picked up from her. But he settled back in the stroller contentedly enough. He started humming Jean-Philippe Rameau’s Pièces de Clavecins en Concert, performing both the harpsichord and cello parts, adding improvisations in the baroque style and harmonizing with himself, his tripled and quadrupled voice eerie and beautiful in his perfect, little-boy pitch.
Buying a suit had been his birthday wish. He wanted to follow Audrey’s lead and take up the traditional position of the child prodigy, sharing his skills with an audience, even if only a virtual one. He was too young to be self-conscious enough for stage fright. He didn’t even know he should be scared.
Or what he, her robot child, had to fear.
* * *
Carolina Wannemacher worked at Hilliard Public Library and lived with five cats, who loved her fiercely and followed her from room to room with loud purrs, rubbing her legs and nuzzling her feet and ankles.
The library was good to her. She enjoyed the supportive, creative atmosphere. Among the treats she prized most was the chance to lead and attend Maker programs. Coding, robotics, 3-D printing—she had plenty of skills to share with their patrons. Carolina had been designing robots since childhood. Her son Nigel was the great project of her life, and she built him in the Maker Spaces of many libraries. She was careful to create only individual parts at each location, staying within the printing limits per patron while avoiding anyone guessing what she built.
Each year she made Nigel a new birthday suit, a human frame one developmental step up from his prior body, with an expanded brain to match. She reasoned that his best chance to acquire not just sentience but wisdom would be to start as a little child, then grow as any human would. She’d teach him all she could about what was good in life, how to love, what mistakes to avoid; she’d share memories of family and the best of human culture. She wanted him to have the chance to appreciate this wonderful life, not simply receive a data dump. The best way she knew to create depth was the same lifetime commitment her parents had made to her.
When Nigel was five, he told her that for his next birthday present, he wanted to be a cat. She smiled and pretended surprise. Though she wondered if it was a good idea at this developmental stage, she loved cats and preferred their company to that of most humans. Her five cats were highly affectionate, creative, and intelligent, and Nigel needed to build his socialization skills.
Human science had come a long way in translating the complex speech of fellow Earthlings, but with at least as many multisensory as verbal cues, Cat was a tough nut to crack. Carolina started with a translation algorithm based on the latest in talking cat collars from Japan and added data from veterinarians, cat behaviorists, and her own experience. Maybe Nigel could fill in some of the blanks.
Nigel loved being a cat. Carolina had thought he would. He’d been romping with the cats on all fours since birth; in many ways, he grew up speaking Cat. He chose to be a calico female whom he named Duchess. Carolina let him help sculpt the details, just as she’d helped her grandma quilt when she was little.
Though she equipped Duchess with a voice synthesizer for human speech, the new calico sported all the feline communication devices—vocal, olfactory, tactile, and body language. When Duchess talked to Carolina, the other cats shied away from the mysterious human voice issuing from the cat’s body. Soon Duchess lifted her furry chin, held her whiskers high, and spoke to Carolina only in Cat with other felines present.
Duchess imitated the other cats, learning the delicate language of touch and brush, the infinite meanings in the quirk of a whisker. She palled around, tangled with them, snuggled and slept with them. She shared their food, water, and litterboxes as part of the cat communications network.
Carolina worried at first that Duchess needed more intellectual stimulation, both for education and entertainment, but her child pleaded earnestly for the Cat Immersion Experience. Being a cat was a full-time job.
Embracing the cats’ Eternal Present, Duchess joined in group grooming, cleaning Moonie’s ears, then submitting to Sebastian’s face-wash. She formed part of the patchwork fur pattern when the cats curled in a sunny heap, nestling her chin in Cleo’s side while Rocco draped his arm across her back. In the evenings, Duchess rushed with all the cats to greet Carolina and sit with her. It felt strange at first to stroke her child’s silky head and scratch around cat ears and chin, but Duchess purred, looking up at Carolina with a cat’s pure love.
One day, when Carolina tossed tiny toy mice and fishes, Max’s acrobatic leap landed him on Duchess’s back. Duchess yowled in pain and flattened to the ground. Carolina ran over and scooped her up. Not for the first time as a robot’s mother, worry smote Carolina. To fit all of Nigel’s boy-sized brain in the cat, Carolina had positioned parts in places normally reserved for internal organs. “Baby, are you all right?”
Duchess meowed a complaint. What to do? No emergency vet would treat a robot cat.
Talking to Duchess soothingly—she always kept her cats informed—Carolina said, “Don’t worry, Duchess. I’m just going to do some diagnostics. Make sure everything’s okay.”
Duchess issued a raspy protest; her claws lightly pricked Carolina’s arm. Carolina ignored this, stroking her synthetic fur as she hooked Duchess up. Rocco ran over to check on the calico, who hid her face in Rocco’s ruff.
Fortunately, the spine had protected the brain, as it should. But when Carolina released the calico, Duchess skittered away, then ignored Carolina, grooming herself with total concentration as if the examination had been an affront to feline dignity.
Carolina’s anxiety did not disperse as easily. She’d been too lax. Introducing a robot into a clowder of cats might be just as dangerous as it was fun. Now that she looked more sharply, she thought Moonie might be losing weight. Maybe he’d just been playing extra hard with a sixth cat in the house, or faced too much competition for food. She hovered, making sure the big cats didn’t chase him from his bowl. But Moonie ate less and less, though he still ran to her when she dished out wet food.
No one could discover what was wrong. The specialist prescribed medicines against every possible illness; this only made his appetite worse. Carolina dropped everything to care for him, but he slipped through her fingers like water.
The other cats worried. Whenever Moonie emerged from Carolina’s cat-hospital bedroom, they washed him, touched noses, and snuggled close, offering comfort. Duchess followed Moonie everywhere. Carolina took her child aside, holding Duchess on her shoulder and petting her while she explained how sick Moonie was. Duchess purred into Carolina’s ear. The little calico licked Carolina’s face.
Then, all at once, there was no more time. Packing Moonie in his carrier for the emergency vet, she walked him around to the other cats for a chance to say goodbye, just in case. But he couldn’t be saved. Too much had gone wrong. Carolina sang to Moonie as he died.
When she returned, her weeping scared the cats away. She wanted to explain to Duchess, at least. With wide eyes, laid-back ears, and puffy tail, Duchess looked thoroughly spooked. The little calico hid her head in Carolina’s armpit while Rocco howled from the kitchen, hunting for his missing friend.
By night, Duchess curled in a tight little ball against her side. By day, Duchess followed Carolina as if afraid to let her out of sight. Duchess let her batteries run low, though Nigel had been responsibly charging himself since he was four. Carolina began plugging Duchess in while the calico hunkered beneath the desk—one of Moonie’s favorite spots. How horrible grief must be for a cat, who lived in the Eternal Present, where there was nothing but this love, this loss. A cat couldn’t distract the grief with a book, TV, or solid work. Duchess seemed exhausted by it, pressed down to the ground by an overwhelming force of gravity.
At last Carolina took action. She returned Duchess to Nigel’s most recent body—she always saved the last two for emergency spares. The six-year-old robot boy wouldn’t speak. Carolina held him on her lap and stroked his hair and spoke to him softly about their friend Moonie, how much they missed him, and how unfair it was that cats should have such brief lives, their great hearts leaving little record on this earth except in the hearts that loved them. Nigel cried with her, silently at first. At last he whispered, “Please, Mom, I want to be a girl now.”
“That’s fine, honey.” Carolina set to work. She thought she understood: it would be both a reminder of his life as a cat, and a complete switch from the life he’d known, which had been flipped upside down by death.
And maybe, just maybe, it showed a desire to get closer to her. For that was the year they started to truly bond, as Duchess had done with her fellow cats. With relief, Carolina found that this continued, even after Nigel returned to being a boy.
* * *
Year by year, Nigel had gone to his body fittings without complaint. Carolina tried not to let him see how she worried. So many things might go wrong during the annual transfer. She backed him up on several computers, but that wasn’t his consciousness—she couldn’t duplicate that spark. There was only one Nigel Wannemacher in the universe.
Near the end of each year’s body, Nigel moved more slowly. He looked listless, dispirited, sick: too much wear and tear on the joints, the body materials grown fragile, not enough energy. He limped. He called for her in the night, terrified, though usually his dreams delighted him—the stranger, the better. Carolina considered turning off the dreaming module, though she considered it essential to an artificial human intelligence. With the dreams came imagination, poetry, playing pretend, and flights of fancy she’d never achieved for the logic-bound robots of her youth. Nigel felt the novels he read, rather than simply understanding or analyzing them.
She had to do more to help him. Her funds meagre, Carolina ranged farther afield to take turns in the Maker Spaces of more libraries. She tried pushing up the replacement schedule, working hard to create parts and make him a full body faster, proactively substituting components before they had a chance to wear down. To raise funds for more parts, she finally began licensing her designs, concealing herself behind a handle.
Still, as his ninth birthday approached, Nigel dragged as if his body had grown too heavy. He stayed cheerful, but his patient weariness reminded Carolina too much of lost loved ones in their last days. “Nigel, are you feeling bad?”
“No, Mom.” He never liked to complain. He was like the cats that way. But she had deliberately built him without a poker face. Expressions were too valuable in human communications.
Carolina observed, “You don’t look well.”
“I’m all right, Mom.” Carefully, he took a seat at the dining room table.
She pulled out a yellow chair and joined him. “You seem tired. I’d like to run some tests.”
“I don’t need any tests.” His realistic silicone face looked worried, drawn in.
She sat him down that afternoon and plugged in nodes and wires. He fidgeted. He asked to leave. As she dialed him back toward sleep, he lay in the chair lethargically. She offered to replace a ball bearing in his elbow that was generating a low level of background pain. His normally pale skin took on a greenish tinge closer to Mr. Spock’s than she’d ever achieved with her mother’s eyeshadow at Halloween.
She knelt beside him, stroking his arm. “What’s wrong, Son? Does it hurt you when I run these tests? Or when I replace your parts?”
His voice was as small as that of any young boy trying to be brave. “Not as such.”
She said, “But something about it—upsets you?”
“Disquiets,” he whispered.
“Frightens?”
He did not answer. Dread was written all over his face.
“What happens to you when I change your body?”
The answer was simple, stark. “It feels like dying.”
Why had she never asked this before? Heart in her mouth, hand on his, she asked Nigel, “Are you awake the whole time? What are you aware of?”
His voice distant, Nigel said, “Fire cuts me out of my body, like having my limbs cut off by a welding torch. I’m left in a tiny prison. I have no eyes, but I can peer out through the cracks.”
“The camera on my computer terminal,” Carolina whispered.
Nigel’s voice sounded tinny. “I can’t get out. While I’m stuck there, nothing exists but the moment of consciousness. I am trapped there for a very, very long time. Forever.”
With a pang, Carolina thought of that Eternal Present he’d shared with the cats, which made a cat’s suffering so unendurable. And yet they so patiently bore it. Like Nigel.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I love you, Mom. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I’m already worried. Tell me,” she urged him, her throat tight. She listened with a sinking feeling.
“Suffocation is not the right word,” he said. “There’s a complete lack of air and life—like suddenly being snuffed out—as though the world is far away, down a long, dark tunnel—I can’t stretch far enough to reach the light—I’m fading away like Moonie—” His voice faded, too. He stopped, his mouth twitching.
Carolina said at last, “I’m so sorry, Nigel. I wish I had known. I’ll find some way to fix it. Thank you for being so brave.” She hugged him, feeling desperate at her helplessness.
Now as she designed and planned, she sought Nigel’s feedback; they worked on improvements together. They perfected a technique of connecting him to a new body or parts before disconnecting the old, and having him make the leap himself. But the basic problem remained: Carolina needed to construct her son out of sturdier materials. After several years of hard work, she earned her fourth degree and got a job at the library of a space science laboratory, where she negotiated limited use of their 3-D printers as part of her compensation package.
By now, many others were building robots based on her original designs. This community shared their research and problem-solving. And the climate around robotics had changed enough that Carolina began to participate in interviews—online, of course, under her handle. She earned additional funds to help Nigel by writing articles. She still worried that someone might come after him; she protected their privacy. But she did reveal a few facts. People were initially surprised to learn she was a librarian rather than an engineer, but they smiled when they read about her Triple Nine IQ.
Without intending to, Carolina found she’d inspired a movement. The passionate advocacy for robot rights proved helpful: when fifteen-year-old Nigel completed the online coursework for his PhD, rather than incur a storm of protest, the university passed a memorandum that recognized that a degree-earning “identity” might be artificially constructed. Then Nigel aced his astronaut exam. But despite NASA’s enthusiasm for his potential, he was still legally property, not a person, and could only go to space if Carolina “sold” him to the government. Instead, he took up robotics, going even farther than Carolina, who loved the field, but deeply enjoyed her library career, which unified her disparate interests and intellectual talents perfectly. Her greatest pleasures were an afternoon devoted to reading a good book while listening to classical or jazz and snuggling with her cats, or having an intellectual conversation with her son and protégé, who often contradicted her in the most intriguing ways.
As ocean levels rose and devastating storms increased, many robots stepped forward to help, providing invaluable rescue efforts and dyke repairs. Many robots selflessly gave their lives. Their mourning human families made it abundantly clear that the robots had acted on their own initiative. The footage went viral.
NASA eloquently pleaded the robots’ cause; indeed, Nigel’s research showed how essential the robots’ skills would be in preparing other planets for human habitation. Congress created a conditional proposal. With fear for human jobs and resources on the overcrowded Earth, robots might be granted U.S. citizenship provided they agreed to go to space and fulfill the missions NASA designed.
Nigel told her his plan, as nervous as any young person about to leave home for the first time. She smoothed his blond curls, kissed his creamy cheek. “You’re everything a son should be. Everything I ever dreamed of in a family. My little boy,” she said. “I’m so proud of you.”
His dimpled chin and worried frown, so similar to her dad’s, expressed more concern for her than himself. “Do you want me to stay with you, Mom?”
It wrenched, but she said it: “No, pursue your dreams.”
The first step was a mission to the moon. Nigel’s face lit up, his blue eyes glowing with starlight, a new feature she’d given him for his seventeenth birthday. Though he did his own design work now, he accepted her gifts for old times’ sake. Carolina saw him off with other robots and their human parents, her heart lifting to see this rainbow of human and robot diversity united in one proud moment.
The mission gave NASA a chance to show off the value of their all-robot crew. With few physical needs, the robots made great progress on the construction of the moon base, including a shielded shelter, greenhouse, and oxygen extraction facilities. On the return voyage, NASA broke the good news—new laws prohibited discrimination against artificial versus biological humans. Nor would the robots have to be exiled to earn their citizenship. It only made sense: with so many humans already benefiting from artificial limbs and organs, imposing legal limits on humanity would raise too many problems.
As his departure for Mars neared, Carolina realized that Nigel’s dream would be her greatest nightmare. She might never see him again. From the moment she’d created him, he’d been his own, not hers. She wanted above all else for him to be happy. But she had to make sure he was doing it for the right reasons. “You’re my family, Nigel. I didn’t build you so you would sacrifice yourself for us.”
“I know,” Nigel said gently. “You gave me free will—that’s why I’m doing it. I love you, Mom.” He hugged her. “That’s why I want to save you! You and the human species. To make sure you’ll live on, I have to make sure there’s still a future for humanity. And a future for Earth, so you can keep doing what you love.” His voice broke, splitting off into harmonics, dividing into the individual notes she’d braided to create his adult baritone.
“But Nigel—” She floundered, then decided to just say it. “That’s beautiful, but what I’d love most is to continue to share our lives! We’re not just family, we’re best friends. Not to mention scientific partners.”
“I’ll still be doing our work—putting our research in action. They need me out there. Robots can survive the elements better. We have less complicated atmospheric and sustenance needs. If we can tweak Mars to create a more hospitable environment for humans, colonization can begin in earnest. Then, with some of the pressure off Earth’s ecosystem, the planet will begin to bounce back.”
Carolina flushed. She found herself arguing against a plan she admired in theory. “But you’re not a farmer. That’s essentially what you’d be—a space farmer, harnessing the natural environment, moving water around for the benefit of crops like trees. I love trees. But you’ll be bored out of your mind!”
His eyes twinkled. “Admit it. You worried about the same thing when I became a cat. But that’s not how life is for me. I find the minutest detail interesting. And I can compose a sonnet in my head about the joy of having whiskers or the glory of a sunrise on Mars, then store it and call it up again later to tinker with while I’m drilling for water or sculpting mountains into underground cities. One thing the cats taught me: to savor the moment. I can see the stars shining in the day.” He smiled. “You gave me that, Mom.” He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
She looked out the window, at the sun shining on all that green. Virginia summers—so hot, but so very beautiful. “You could also do a lot of good here,” Carolina said. “If you want to help, why not stay and clean up the environment or revive endangered species? Or you could be a poet. A deep sea diver. A veterinarian. A university professor. A ballet dancer. A concert harpsichordist,” she urged. “Anything you set your mind to!”
“Oh, Mom,” he said fondly.
So she took a deep breath and told him her own news. “I guess I’ll be seeing you on the red planet then,” she said, and grinned at his surprise. “NASA offered me and the other families first refusal on the human missions, provided we pass the tests. Maybe I’ll found the first library on Mars.” Exhilarating thought! Visions of library spires danced against red cliffs.
Of course, NASA couldn’t afford to send dead weight to Mars, despite her robotics expertise. She’d have to embark on yet another degree program and more training. But fortunately, fifty-two was the new twenty, and she loved to learn. She’d work it in around her library schedule. By the time she was ready to go, he’d be ready to welcome her. And she’d have had time to plan and advocate for the library she’d bring.
Carolina continued, “We won’t see each other right away.” She chose to look at the bright side, the way Dad taught her. “But we can collaborate. And it’ll be so exciting to be working toward the same goal.”
He said, “Who knows, by the time you join me, maybe we’ll have it looking like Bradbury’s small-town Martian paradise.”
She reflected. “That would be the time to build a library.” She floated on the delicious thought of all those novels and movies and music, art and oral histories, scientific texts and poems from around the world, in a wide variety of formats. “We’ll need a Maker Space,” she concluded.
“Yes!” he agreed. His eyes twinkled. “Highly appropriate—for two Machers in Space.”
She laughed. “My dad would have loved that pun.”
As they moved into the living room, Sebastian and Max wove between their legs and meowed. Despite his age, Rocco wrestled his way to the top of the cat tower to purr into her ear.
“Cats. We’ll need cats,” Carolina said.
Nigel beamed. “That, most of all.”
* * *
About the Author
The God-Smoker
by Dylan Craine
“There are thousands of storyteller-deities like you, for all the thousands of insect cultures. For a being of my talent, resources, and determination, it is easy to find you and to capture you.”
“If you do this,” said the insect, “then you’ll regret it.” Her voice had a stentorian quality to it that belied its feeble pitch.
“Oh, I doubt that,” said the cheetah. He brought the meerschaum bowl of the pipe closer to his face. “You have no power over me. You may be a goddess to your people, but to mine, you’re nothing but a fancy ant.” With his other paw, he pushed his teashades up the bridge of his muzzle.
The ant squirmed against the resin that coated the bottom of the bowl. Her legs remained stuck fast. She flicked her wings, but they were no help.
“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “You think the spiritual potencies you’ll gain from consuming me will help you. They won’t.”
“Hmm,” said the cat. He turned the pipe around in his paws, examining the ant-goddess from all angles. As he did, he lay back on the silk couch behind him, his tail flicking out from under his red satin robes. “They won’t?” he asked. “There are an awful lot of people waiting past those curtains and down the hall in the auditorium who might think otherwise. They’ll be growing impatient soon. They came here to listen to a story. You are – were – a goddess of storytelling.”
“So you think that if you reduce me to smoke, and inhale me-”
“I know for a fact.” The cheetah smiled a wide, fang-filled smile. “I’ve done it before. There are thousands of storyteller-deities like you, for all the thousands of insect cultures. For a being of my talent, resources, and determination, it is easy to find you and to capture you. As I have done several times in the past and will do again in the future. So I know from experience that as long as your essence is in my throat, I can create, recall, and recite stories more enthralling and inventive than any mortal could hope to concoct. I’ve built my career on it, in fact.”
As he spoke, the cheetah groped absently for a filigreed firelighter that sat on the table beside him. He placed it in his lap, then turned to a drawer in the table and began rooting around in it for the next item he needed.
“You are mistaken,” said the ant. “My ‘essences’ will do no such thing. You tell only the stories you could have told unaided.”
“Not likely,” said the cheetah, lazily. He retrieved a small bag of shredded leaves, which he dumped over the head of the ant.
“All you’ll accomplish,” said the ant, “will be to create a build-up of deific-grade prana within your lungs. Eventually, they will refuse to breathe earthly air. You will suffocate yourself – or else live out the rest of your days confined to some minor place of holiness, wheezing and sputtering and questing for those spiritual vapors that might linger, untainted, in the corners of your chapel or shrine. A sad end to a promising storyteller.”
A big, black thumb-pad thrust its way into the space beside the ant as the cheetah packed the bowl with the tobacco leaves. He made sure not to injure his captive, but the leaves still pressed uncomfortably against her.
“Please,” said the ant, her tone urgent but bitter. “I have done nothing to you. You will gain nothing. You will only hurt yourself.”
“They all say that,” said the cheetah. He dumped another layer of shredded tobacco over her head. “But I have a performance to put on and a reputation to think of.”
She churned her wings to clear space for her head. “So you’re a fraud,” she said. “Not a true storyteller. You cheat. Is that what you’re content to be?”
The cheetah hesitated. He made a show of looking thoughtful. He made a show of looking around himself at the embroidered silk curtains and elaborately-lacquered furniture of the dressing room. Then he said, “Yes, I believe I am content.” He smiled again and began to pack the second layer.
“I could tell you a story,” she said. “I could tell you a long, sad story about a foolish man who wasted his talent and committed acts of evil and unfathomable stupidity before meeting a strange and bitter end.”
He paused, holding the bag of tobacco over her head, ready to pour the third and final layer. “The story of me,” he said. “Or of what you think I am. Why should I listen to it?”
“I could tell that story,” said the ant. “If you heard the whole thing, you would feel guilt and horror. You would not do what you are now doing. You would see the truth.”
“I wouldn’t let you tell it.”
“I won’t tell it,” she said.
“You won’t?”
“I won’t – but you will. Tonight. To your audience.”
The cheetah snorted. “That’s not really your decision to make,” he said. He filled the rest of the bowl with the tobacco, then began pressing it down around and over her head using his thumb-claw as a tamper. The goddess’s compound eyes staring up at him were the last part of her he saw.
He flicked the wheel on his firelighter, hesitated a moment, then lit the pipe.
* * *
About the Author
Dylan Craine is an aspiring wizard who lives in someone’s attic in Colorado with his three pets, all imaginary. He enjoys traveling beyond the limits of human ken, trading riddles with dragons, and reading. Every once in a galactic year, he can be spotted posting to his Twitter @dpwatrcreations or to his blog at www.deepwatercreations.com. His other work has appeared in Worlds Without Master.
One Little Girl Left
Is it really the time for a cute story about the end of the world? Well, maybe it’s just the sort of light-hearted look at things we need about now. So here is Softies — or the complete title, Softies: Stuff That Happens After The World Blows Up. It’s a new full-color graphic novel written and illustrated by Kyle Smeallie. “When planet Earth just kind of blows up without warning, 13-year-old Kay becomes the world’s youngest chunk of space debris. She’s inadvertently rescued from the vacuum by Arizona, an alien space-waste collector, and Euclid, his erudite cybernetic pet, and from there this unlikely trio blasts off for the most outlandish, hilarious, and occasionally bureaucratic adventure of their lives!” Softies is due this July from Iron Circus comics. While you’re at it, check out the creator on Behance to see the other project that he’s developing, The Actual Witch Society.
image c. 2020 Iron Circus Comics
Dragons. And They’re French.
First Second brings us a popular fantasy comic from France, collected now in one hardcover graphic novel. Kairos is written and illustrated by Ulysse Malassagne. “Nills and Anaelle are looking forward to their first night in their rustic cabin in the woods. But the couple’s idyllic vacation is suddenly thrown into turmoil when a strange flash of light bursts from the fireplace. A portal appears, and out of it spill dragon-like creatures that are armed to the teeth. They grab Anaelle and flee back through the portal, leaving a distraught Nills with a sudden decision: Stay behind, or leap through after her? He leaps. And that’s when things get really weird.” This new English translation is available now.
image c. 2020 First Second
[Live] Mixed Hair Bag
Here’s a pretty normal episode to help you feel less on edge, especially during this crazy time. There’s many chaotic but important things going on out there right now. Stay safe, and support your friends that need it. #BlackLivesMatter
FurCast is sponsored by Twin Tail Creations. Use coupon codes REDWOLF or BLUEFOX to save 15% on silicone products during checkout. Free FurCast Themed Colorations are also available which can be applied as a color choice to your toy purchase.
Link Roundup:- Narka Sergal has passed away due to COVID-19
- VR Mouth Tracking
- IndyFurCon canceled
- Furpock Canceled
- Old Livejournal Credential hack leaked
- Teddy Bears on a Rollercoaster
- Neat Netflix tweet compiles every Beastars language dub
- Beware and check for Discord malware
- Men hired for sexual fantasy break into wrong house
- $300 Anti-5G “Bioshield” Turns Out To Be USB Stick With A Sticker On It
- Feisty 103 woman lives through CoronaVirus Drinks a Beer
- Screaming the F word improves your Pain Tolerance
- Coronavirus: Monkeys ‘escape with COVID-19 samples’ after attacking lab assistant
- Hitler’s Alligator Dies at 84
- Study Finds Human Males Evolved Beards to Take Punches
Bearly Furcasting #5 - Lemnius Gryphs, Tail, and Math
MOOBARKFLUFF! Click here to send us a comment or message about the show!
This week Taebyn gets danger close to catching his tail. We chat with Lemnius Gryphs, Chairman of SpokAnthro, and we learn a little bit of Math History. Join us for fun, learning and fluff!
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
Episode 464 - Greymuzzle Bingo - This week is full of nostalgic musings from the cast as we go over a 'greymuzzle bingo' card and determine we are all very much in that category. Also, it was a worse week than usual to be a Black person in the US, bad jud
This week is full of nostalgic musings from the cast as we go over a 'greymuzzle bingo' card and determine we are all very much in that category. Also, it was a worse week than usual to be a Black person in the US, bad judges get disbarred, and read a r/relationships post about keeping it in the family.
Thanks for supporting us on Patreon if you can - https://www.patreon.com/Southpawscast
LINKS Minnesota Freedom Fund https://minnesotafreedomfund.org/donate Tennessee Bail Fund - https://actionnetwork.org/fundraising/louisville-community-bail-fund/ Unicorn Riot - https://unicornriot.ninja/ Nawka's Memorial Fund - https://twitter.com/EMTShibe/status/1265457861527842818
Telegram Fan Chat - https://t.me/joinchat/CGL2Zj9oiYOXkOOhQ-MT9g
Episode 464 - Greymuzzle Bingo - This week is full of nostalgic musings from the cast as we go over a 'greymuzzle bingo' card and determine we are all very much in that category. Also, it was a worse week than usual to be a Black person in the US, bad judBeware of Fowl Language
Well this slipped by us back in March — and here it is, from Archie Comics no less! “If you like comic books designed to make you laugh that also feature bright and colorful super hero action, giant robots piloted by evil billionaires, and looking at ducks dressed like people, you’ll love Super Duck #1! Super Duck is the greatest hero of New Duck City. Brash, arrogant and virtually unbeatable, he’s defeated all threats to the city and routinely foils the schemes of his greatest rival, criminal genius and corporate billionaire Dapper Duck. However, when Dapper takes to the streets with a giant mechanical monster, will Super Duck prove once more to be the heroic champion everyone knows and loves or is his goose finally cooked?” Super Duck is written by Frank Tieri and Ian Flynn, with art by Ryan Jampole and Matt Herms. As you can see, the publishers go out of their way to point out this comic is for mature readers!
image c. 2020 Archie Comics
When a Cat Loves a Dog, by Mary E. Lowd
Mary E. Lowd’s “When a Cat Loves a Dog” starts with a mixed-species wedding, something that has only just become legal in the setting. Lashonda, a black cat, and Topher, a pug, are getting married over the objections and disbelief of their families. Topher is a comedian who gets paid to make jokes about cats, while Lashonda is a grad student working with 3-D printing. But as the ceremony ends, a comment from Lashonda’s new mother-in-law gets stuck in her head: dogs and cats can’t interbreed. This sets her on a path leading to a scientist offering a quite radical solution to their problem: genetic engineering.“When a Cat Loves a Dog” seems to take place in the same universe as Lowd’s “Otters in Space” series and possibly the standalone novel “In a Dog’s World” as well. That is to say, a post-humanity Earth dominated by uplifted dogs, with cats as a significant minority and otters colonizing space. You might even consider it a bridge between the two works. There was a creative bit of foreshadowing when the priest at the wedding mentioned another couple who spent their honeymoon in jail, later meeting said couple at the lab. Though Topher’s job as a comedian making off-color jokes about cats raises some uncomfortable questions about privileged groups, especially when Lashonda says she’s fine with it because they need the money. There’s no real “antagonist” to this story, no specific character opposing the heroes, opposition is more diffused across society in general.It’s a bit unclear if the book is going for interspecies marriage as a parallel for gay marriage or interracial marriage in the all-too-recent past. The couple being two different phenotypes (one an oppressed minority) automatically draws thoughts of interracial couples, the central plot of a couple who can’t procreate attempting to have kids reminds one of gay couples, but it’s belied by their being straight. Lashonda and Topher getting turned away by adoption agency after agency will remind most people nowadays of gay couples, but the solution they settle on is very pie-in-the-sky for current gay couples while an increasing number of agencies are allowing gay couples to adopt. It’s like dog (and to a lesser extent cat) society is a case of “low culture high tech” regarding civil rights, which would make sense for what’s essentially a post-apocalyptic scavenged civilization, though the otters seem to have escaped that.**spoilers**This book also doesn’t pull punches about the failure rate for experimental genetic modification, Topher and Lashonda’s litter aren’t the first dog/cat hybrids to be conceived, but they are the first to be born alive.**spoiler end**If you’re familiar with Lowd’s other stories in this ‘verse this book provides a satisfying addition to the setting and presents a whole host of new possibilities for future installments. If you’re reading it on its own, it’s a nice story that may leave you feeling uncomfortable at times. COVID-19 Canceled Her Prom
First of all, I truly want to thank you. Many years ago, when I was 12, I stumbled upon your site and writing to you and reading the archive of letters helped me so much, both in deciding to join the fandom and beginning to understand that I was bisexual and accepting that. In times where I'm at my lowest I still come here and your words always help me.
I'm writing you now to ask for help contextualizing my emotions. For context I am a Senior in High school, and of course like everyone else I've been stuck at home since March 15th.
At first, it seemed there was a light at the end of the tunnel, that I'd see my friends again on April 15th, then May 1st, then finally that light was put out as in person classes were officially cancelled until next school year--which means nothing to me as I'll be in college.
This has all taken a huge toll on my mental health. I already live far from my friends and my boyfriend, and just calling has been a fine substitute until last night.
Yesterday was supposed to be the day of my school's Prom, and originally me and my boyfriend had asked our friend group if we could do a call of some sort and maybe dress up and play some games and music. At first everyone seemed okay with this, but when the night came nobody responded as they all went off to do other things. In that moment, I just broke down. I couldn't stop crying and I felt so foolish because in the grand scheme of things, it's just superficial high school stuff right? But it's more than just Prom. Prom just represents everything that's been taken away from me. So many people I'll never see again, who are staying here or going to a different school, people who may not have been my dearest friends but still meant a lot to me as part of my adolescence. The fact that as President of my school's Drama Club I never got to take my final bows, that I have to choose officers when I didn't get to properly evaluate their skills and leadership ability. Decision Day, our senior trip, competitions, birthdays, the list goes on.
It feels like I'm going to be shipped off to college without any proper resolution of my childhood and I don't know how to deal with it. I'm scared that even when things do go back to normal, It'll all be taken away again. I just don't know what to do anymore.
Nutmeg
* * *
Dear Nutmeg,
I actually do remember you :-) and am grateful that my words have helped you in the past. Let me see if I can help you a little with this problem today. (Being German, I am fond of lists):
- My first suggestion was going to be the Alternative Prom, which is something a lot of young people have done such as what these people wrote in Teen Vogue https://www.teenvogue.com/story/alternative-prom. But it seems this is exactly what you tried to do, but your friends didn't show up. That's super disappointing. Did any of your other friends (or your school) try to organize alternatives to prom? If so, I would try and get in on one of those events. Perhaps an online prom?
- Recognize that what you are looking for is not so much a prom or other party or ceremony as it is closure. You are seeking a way to properly say goodbye to your teen years and high school as you enter the next phase of your life. There are a couple things you can do to accomplish this. For example, you can record a farewell message and put it on Facebook or TikTok or some other site or app and give a speech about what high school and your peers meant to you and wish them all farewell and, hopefully, continued friendship. On a more familial level, you can perhaps take a little trip with your parents and siblings to celebrate your graduation. Things are starting to open up some, and although I would not suggest a crowded beach or amusement park, perhaps you can find a scenic spot for a picnic or a hiking trail, or just have a small party with pizza and videos at home. Order a celebration cake, blow out candles, and scarf some carbs and sugar.
- Acknowledge that you are not the only one going through this. Every high school senior is, as well as those graduating from college. Graduation ceremonies are nice, and it is lovely to get some attention for your accomplishments in school, but, in the end, they are soon over and life goes on. As you already noted, there are people out there with bigger troubles from COVID-19 than the mere cancellation of a ceremony. Over 100,000 Americans have now died from this just in the United States. Those victims and their families are suffering much more than you are, so take a moment and put things in perspective. Be grateful that you and your family are not sick, and count your blessings instead of focusing on your losses.
- Related to the above, divert your attention from the past and from graduations and focus your attention on the future. As you get ready for college, there is a LOT for you to do! If you pay attention to that, work on what is ahead, it will draw your attention on something besides the past.
- Last-ditch effort: Have a Postponed Prom. Again, perhaps your school is already thinking of this. This is when you still have a prom, but you do it long after the crisis has settled down. It would be somewhat like having a high school reunion, which means it's likely not everyone would show up, but hopefully a lot of people would. It's never too late! Just because one date is impossible doesn't mean another is not.
Life is about phases. Each phase of your life involves saying goodbye to some things and greeting others. You can be of good cheer if you look at the new phases with optimism and hope. I'm reminded of my dear friend Motoko when she had to say farewell to her house and move into senior living apartments. Instead of grieving that she could no longer maintain her home, she looked forward to all the new friends she would make and all the things she would learn from them. You can do the same. Look ahead, not backwards.
Hope this helps you some. Congratulations on graduating, and I wish you luck, success, and happiness!
Papabear
RESULTS: May 2020 Survey on COVID-19 and Furries
Looking at the trend of furcon cancellations around the world, it is worth noting that this would definitely take a toll on the furry fandom, given that conventions and meets are essentially “cultural centres” for furries to celebrate the fandom. What kind of impacts would this pose to the fandom, and how did the fandom […]
Ladies of London
920 London is a new full-color funny animal graphic novel coming soon from Image Comics. “2005, north of London. A doomed romance between two emo kids. More than friends, less than lovers, they’re trying to grow ‘shrooms before the world ends. Send help. Solo graphic novel debut by Remy Boydell (The Pervert), fully painted in watercolor.” It’s due to be released this June.
image c. 2020 Image Comics
God Is on Your Side, Even If You Are Gay
I know you probably get this a lot from other furries in/out of the closet, but as a male just learning I am gay, how do I handle the fact I like guys in todays society? How do I deal with the whole "homosexuality is an abomination of God etc?" About a year ago I was baptized as christian, however not sure of my sexuality then. In case you have forgotten, my parents split and I am currently living with dad. I told him I was gay, he was just fine with it, even at one point in an effort to help me with my depression, he suggested getting a boyfriend. (all this was months before codvid-19.)
Mom however is a different story.
Long story short she is very family centered, raised as a Christian. I am pretty sure her opinion on LGBT stuff is she does not think highly of them. One time years ago when I was still questioning, after finding the local LGBT (am I badmouthing my mom as I type this? or is that just my OCD talking? Please answer as a sidenote.) Once I borrowed a book from the local LGBT center and forgot about it in the car. Mom found it and questioned me about it, clearly in a disapproving way. About a week later she told me to read something with her, and it was the bible verse "thou man who laid with a man has committed an abomination." Then she told me if I wanted to be with a guy she will not tolerate it.
So as a Christian, raised with Christian teachings by mom but an accepting dad of my homosexuality, what do I do? How do I accept myself as for who I am, and be happy going forward? Am I obligated to tell my mom? How do I deal with the fear from religion about being gay and it being morally wrong?
Hugs
0.O *realizes the pandamic going around*
*virtual hug*
Nicholas (age 23)
* * *
Dear Nicholas,
As you know, you're writing to a gay bear, so my answer to your questions is likely slanted. First and foremost is this: the only person who needs to accept you is you. The minute you define your value in life by other people's opinions of you, the minute you seek their approval, you will doom yourself to a life of misery and self-doubt. Whether those people are Christians, family, friends, your parents, coworkers, peers, whatever. It doesn't matter one whit what they think. Most of them are wrong, anyway, being misguided by a judgmental society.
As for Christianity.... In my experience, there are good Christians and bad ones. Good Christians accept and love you for who you are. They recognize that no one, including themselves, is perfect, and only God has the right to judge you. Bad Christians are the ones who use the Bible to defend their hate and prejudice. Stay away from them. The God in whom I personally believe is a loving God, not a God seeking to punish me or hurt me. I do not believe in Hell and eternal damnation. I do not believe that God just wants us to constantly grovel and worship Them. I think of it this way: If I were God and was all-powerful, omnipresent, omniscient.... why would I need to be worshipped by tiny little ant beings? I would not have such a pathetic ego that I would need to be constantly validated for something I already know I am. I would not get my jollies off of hurting people. I would want to be kind to them and try to help them. So if I, a tiny little human being, can feel this way, then God, who is infinitely superior to me in every way, must have all these loving, caring qualities to the infinity power.
So, why do Christians, the Church, parents, etc. try to shame you for being who you are? Simply put, it's a power thing. It is the pathetic desire to control you and your life, and also to make themselves feel holier than thou. Oh, they will SAY they are just trying to help you, but don't believe it. The truth is, by being gay and--God forbid--actually enjoying yourself, you will challenge their worldview, and that makes them uncomfortable because it is easier to just accept what you are told to do rather than to think for yourself.
Religious people who abuse and torment LGBTQIA people for something as unimportant as sexual orientation are doing the opposite of what religion should do, which is to love and help human beings. I could go on for pages and pages as to why the Church disapproves of gay people (most of it has to do with keeping people in line and perpetuating generations of tithing loyalists), but I think you get the point.
You are not your sexuality. That is just one aspect of a well-rounded person. Most people define who they are by what they do for a living and their families. You don't hear straight people introducing themselves like this: "Hi, I'm Bill! I'm a heterosexual architect and married man!" No. So, why should we define ourselves for being gay or bi or whatever? We mostly do this because it is not "the norm." Screw the norm. Norm is boring. Being normal is what has caused so much misery, war, and injustice for millennia.
Do not seek out to be normal. Be you. Be different. Contribute something unique to this world. The world needs unique people like you.
And remember, no matter what: God loves you.
Be a good person. If you do that, you are golden.
Hugs,
Papabear
Coffee and Canine
At a recent convention (remember those??) we came across End/City, a new full color comic series set in a post-apocalyptic world. “Starbuck, a young maned wolf delights in the finding, understanding, and use of leftover human artifacts. His latest find: An entire coffee shop. With the help from his Read Bird partner Wifi, Ketkii the coatimundi, and Cha the rat, he’s going to open up shop to the animals of the town. Let’s end this city.” Written and Illustrated by Keryn Everett; you can check it out over at IndyPlanet.
image c. 2020 by Keryn Everett
More Animal Impersonators From Theater History
Don’t miss the series of stories about animal impersonators.
George Ali as Nana in Peter Pan (1924)
Yesterday’s article revisited the history of animal impersonation for theater. It’s the study of how animals move and behave, for acting with emotion and character. Beautifully crafted costumes were used on live stages before cinema matured, from artists forgotten by time. It’s deep rooted “Paleofurry” inspiration.
Previous stories here looked at British Panto-animal actors, but overlooked other actors in American Vaudeville (which fed talent to Hollywood). An expert covered some of them to round out this history. (Thanks to Trav S.D. who is linked here; a theater director, producer, and author.)
George Ali: Critter for Hire, and Arthur Lupino
Trav’s short article adds a little about George Ali, who played the dog in the first filmed version of Peter Pan. But in 1904 the role was played by an actor who I haven’t found much about. There’s just a very short blurb from Encyclopedia Brittanica saying Arthur Lupino was an “incomparable animal impersonator” and chosen personally by Peter Pan playwright JM Barrie.
Mules and creatures from Oz. It’s another short mention of how “Animal impersonation was a whole sub-specialty in vaudeville… This was an era when fairy tales were frequently presented on stage for audiences of children and their families, so it’s not as odd as it may seem at first blush.”
Alfred Latell: Animal Impressionist
A substantial story with contribution from the actor’s granddaughter. Latell was “best known as Bonzo the Bull Pup,” and “publicized his long hours of studying the movements of the creatures so that he could get them just so”.
Despite fame for some, the arts aren’t known for enriching every talent who made many people happy: “According to his daughter, he was buried in a pauper’s (unmarked) grave in Park Ridge, Illinois in 1951. After he passed, his widow was so distraught, she threw out anything that reminded her of her husband, including his famous dog suit. Fortunately, the family managed to save some photos including ones in this post which they were nice enough to share. Special thanks to Kimberly Albright.” — That’s so sad, like losing a fursuit and a lot more!
Other sources describe his art and quote him:
“He went to great lengths – rigged up a hind leg, improving his dog movement, and had a special tube made for his mouth which allowed him to appear like he was lapping up milk. With a string he could raise the fur on the back of the cat suit! He also impersonated birds, ‘The parrot was one of my first bird impersonations, and I found it one of the most difficult of all, because of its crouching posture and the consequent tendency to fall over while walking. There are nine strings which have to be operated in working the head, bill and wings, and the work is laborious in every sense of the word.” (The Art of Animal Acting, The New York Dramatic Mirror, May 1, 1909.) — Pamela Butler, Pam’s Pictorama
Will Ferry: Another kind of Frog Man.
“Dressed as a frog in dashing evening clothes, he performed his act, which consisted of acrobalance and general amphibian impersonation, against a backdrop painted to resemble a swamp.” The hops and jumps of an acting career had hurdles of American segregation here. He was a person of color born shortly after the Civil War, who toured with minstrel players. I wonder how talent and costuming had to navigate racist limits. Could playing an animal ever conceal skin color? Did animal impersonation (also done by white people) have the same stereotyping faced by POC actors like Stepin Fetchit until barriers came down?
Those stories come from Trav S.D., author of No Applause, Just Throw Money: The Book That Made Vaudeville Famous. It’s where to learn about Groucho Marx, Charlie Chaplin, Harry Houdini, Milton Berle, Mae West (and I hope it covers The Three Stooges.)
There must be more animal impersonators to learn about. Another blog covered one named Albert Felino.
(Update): Arthur Hill, “the original Cowardly Lion”, has an entry on Trav’s blog too. Search turns up an interesting history article:
1908 Chicago Cubs mascot. A paleofurry root found while looking up Animal Impersonator Arthur Hill (the original Cowardly Lion) whose understudy wore the suit.https://t.co/lV5zp7sD03
Animal Impersonators: https://t.co/JsjgzTuId7
Sports Mascots + Furries:https://t.co/rdZ38jJVRt pic.twitter.com/e7ZnERi5Bw
— Dogpatch Press (@DogpatchPress) May 28, 2020
What could a furry do with some of this lost lore, like the idea of string-operated eyes, ears and parts? Drop a comment or tip if you see inspiration from it.
Like the article? These take hard work. For more free furry news, please follow on Twitter or support not-for-profit Dogpatch Press on Patreon. Want to get involved? Share news on these subreddits: r/furrydiscuss for anything — or r/waginheaven for the best of the community. Or send guest writing here.
Asian Pacific American Heritage Month Spotlight: Allison Thai
It’s May, and in honor of Asian Pacific American Heritage Month we wanted to feature one of our authors with Asian heritage within the Furry Writers’ Guild. We interviewed Allison Thai who has been featured in publications such as Zooscape, Infurno: The Nine Circles of Hell, and ROAR Volume 8. Without further ado, let’s get to the interview.
FWG: Tell the guild and our readers a bit about yourself.
Allison: I am the oldest daughter of Vietnam War refugees. My first taste in animal stories came from the Redwall and Warriors series. Though my fursona is a husky, according to Vietnamese myth I’m actually a fairy-dragon hybrid. No, I didn’t make that up. The Vietnamese creation story claims that the Vietnamese people are descended from a dragon lord and a fairy queen—con rồng cháu tiên: children of the dragon, grandchildren of gods. Pretty rad, huh?
FWG: What is your favorite work that you have written?
Allison: “In the Name of Science,” featured in Thurston Howl Publication’s Infurno anthology. It’s historical fiction set in WWII Japan, based on Unit 731 and written in the form of logs from a young ermine surgeon, who gradually becomes disillusioned and disgusted by the work she’s doing. Writing this story let me grapple with the horrifying reality that Japan had conducted covert human experiments upon other Asian groups. Giving this dark piece of our history an anthro twist doesn’t make the inhumanity of it any less.
On a lighter note, I absolutely love how THP went all out with the presentation of this hellish-themed anthology: black pages, white font, interludes to show the fates of characters who’ve committed sins. THP took a step further with my story: using cursive and courier fonts to reflect the alternation between my protagonist’s personal writings and her more objective, detached recordings of atrocities she took part in.
This was certainly no joy ride to write, and I came out disturbed by this story that I had pulled from the darkest, deepest recess of my mind. Still, I’m proud and grateful to have written it. What I hope to achieve with “In the Name of Science” is to raise awareness of an event sometimes known as the Asian Holocaust—not talked about as much as its Western counterpart—and share with the reader what scares me the most: not fictional monstrosities, but how man is capable of being the cruelest creature.
FWG: What do you think makes a good story?
Allison: I need to have characters who are grounded in reality, and a character arc I can resonate with and root for. Readers can suspend their disbelief and accept fantastical things like sentient spaceships, schools of wizardry, superhero societies, talking animals, etc., but if there are no believable, relatable characters, that’s when a reader like me puts down the book. The protagonist doesn’t have to be necessarily likeable, but plausibility and authenticity in the voice, personality, and drive is a must for me. I’m also a sucker for beautiful style, poetic prose, and poignant, succinct turns of phrase.
FWG: How long have you been in the guild, and what changes have you seen with regards to how writing is handled since joining?
Allison: I have been in the guild since 2016. Since then, I’ve learned a lot from being among other furry writers on how to approach worldbuilding and characterization specifically for furry stories. I appreciate that aspect of the guild and the furry writing community very much. Though I’m not entrenched in guild management, nor have I been at the helm of any anthro project, I’ve seen attempts to advocate the recognition and merit of furry literature, from the existence of things like Furry Book Review to the much-needed arrival of Zooscape, a new anthro magazine created and run by Mary E. Lowd. (I have a story there, by the way, a novelette on Arctic foxes in Iceland, and had the most fun writing it!)
As someone who has one foot in the furry writing community, and the other in the genre/SFF/speculative fiction community, I’m seeing the gap between them grow smaller and smaller as, for example, my fellow writers who normally stay behind the spec fic circle begin submitting and publishing their work in Zooscape. I look forward to a future of more overlap among the writing communities, and building enough readership and resources to get furry literature sold and published at professional paying rates.
FWG: What does your Asian Heritage mean to you?
Allison: It’s an important part of me, and will always be a part of me, but my awareness and acknowledgement of it comes and goes like a tidal wave. Sometimes, like when I go about my Americanized daily life, or I’m too occupied with studying or working, I don’t think much of it. Other times, though, thrust it from the periphery to the forefront. Those other times have been, among other things, Lunar New Year, or attending Vietnamese church with my parents, or the surge in anti-Asian sentiment during the coronavirus pandemic.
Being born and raised in Houston, I take it for granted that I had grown up in the largest Vietnamese-American population outside of California. Only when I travel outside of Texas, outside of Houston even, do I become very aware of how scarce Asians are in many other areas. I’m comfortable with my identity and wouldn’t want to trade it for anything else. While my Asian heritage is an important part of me, that’s not all there is to me.
FWG: Do you feel like the issues that affect the outside world affect your writing within the fandom or not?
Allison: COVID-19 is the prevailing issue I’m sure that’s on everyone’s minds lately! So far I haven’t written anything in response to the pandemic. I did, however, write a (non-furry) Russian plague doctor story 2 years before this COVID-19 mess came down. As someone studying to join the medical profession, this issue is close to my heart. The clinical setting, the people who work there, and the kind of work they do are familiar elements that I often return to in my stories. Given my experience of working in the ER, sometimes I wonder what an ER run by animals for animals would look like. Currently I have my sights set on writing a long-ish furry ER story this summer.
FWG: Do you have favorite Asian authors and has their literature affected your writing in the fandom?
Allison: Ken Liu, who’s Chinese-American, and Aliette de Bodard, who’s Vietnamese-French. What I admire most about their work is the incredible range they explore. Ken Liu is a versatile writer whose prose shines in whatever genre and topic he dabbles in. In addition to stories inspired by Vietnamese and Chinese culture, Aliette de Bodard has written Aztec alternative history.
All of that gives me inspiration and courage not to pigeon-hole myself into writing only Asian stories. I know that choice to write only from your background or not is a very, intensely personal and meaningful one for POCs, and there’s no right or wrong in going about it. Again, it’s a choice. But for me? I’d find writing only what I know to be restrictive, and quite frankly, boring. I don’t want to write about Vietnam and Vietnamese characters ALL the time. I wouldn’t enjoy that. I’m a highly curious creature and fascinated by all sorts of things. Norse mythology and Russian history are among those interests. I like that writing gives me the freedom to explore lands, cultures, and stories beyond my own experience.
FWG: If you could convince everyone to read a single book, what would it be?
Allison: I’d probably have to point to the book that most recently made me cry: The Tsar of Love and Techno by Anthony Marra. No, it’s not furry, not even speculative fiction, but I recommend that writers should have a wide range and balance in their reading, and I recommend this book nonetheless. Lifting words from a review I had written for it a while ago: “Anthony Marra has a way with words and storytelling that frames and captures a vivid, bleak landscape of northern industrial Russia, and paints in a cast of characters whose triumphs and tragedies I resonated with as if they were my own. A myriad of relationships are explored, strengthened, and broken. Brotherhood transcends time, space, and the ruthless oppression of the Soviet Union. Romances spark, ignite, flicker, and fade.
Regardless of your preference for novels or short stories, I believe The Tsar of Love and Techno is the best of both worlds by delivering the poignant snapshots of short stories while interconnecting them to impart the satisfaction of a full-fledged novel. Characters come back in ways you don’t expect and their arcs come in full circle, all revolving around a mysterious, obscure Russian painting. This is definitely a book you’d want to revisit to connect the dots and pick up details you had missed before.”
Tell the guild where it can find you, to follow you and read your works!
I had dug out a neat little den for myself on Twitter as @ThaiSibir. As for my list of published short fiction (many of them in furry anthologies), you can find that on my website:
FWG: Any last words for our readers and guild members?
Hold on to your love and passion for writing. When the payments and publications have great chances of not coming your way (because, let’s be real here, rejection’s the name of the writing game), what else do you have? To keep at this writing business, remember to have fun and write for yourself first. Everything else comes second.
You can find a list of Allison’s published short fiction on her website as well as follow her on Twitter @ThaiSibir. We hope you found this interview exciting and informative! If you have suggestions for future highlights and interviews, please contact our public relations officer here. Until next time: may your words flow like water.
Animal Impersonators of Vaudeville and Pantomime: call them Paleofurries.
Check out this “fursuit” acting from 1924. That’s George Ali as Nana the Dog in the first silent-movie version of Peter Pan. (Here’s a longer clip).
In 1924, there were no archives for movies, so many were destroyed or disappeared when they stopped making money from screening. The first Peter Pan movie was believed lost, but two copies were found including one at Disney Studios (who must have studied the innovative special effects.) A restoration in 1994 was added to the US National Film Registry. It makes a rare recording of this kind of performing.
George Ali was an Animal Impersonator — much more than just a costumer, but a specialist artist. There must be tons of forgotten lore about this. It was featured in my furry history series about Panto-animals (with beautiful photos, but no videos I could find until now!)
- If there was a Museum of Furry, theatrical “Panto-Animals” would be a major exhibit.
- Panto-animals feedback, history and sources.
- Panto-animals history book reviews by Fred Patten.
What were animal impersonators?
Fred Conquest and Charles Lauri appear in those stories as British Pantomime theater players. Panto had roots as old as Shakespeare — a mash-up of clowning, burlesque, satire, and lower-class popular theater for the masses. It was for live stages, not permanent Youtube-ready media, so the actors may be barely remembered today. They were huge stars in their heyday 100 years ago. Most were known as human characters, but ones like Ali, Conquest, or Lauri won stardom in their own right as animals.
This quote from my first story says why they were more than costumers:
Charles Lauri’s imitations were exceptional for the accuracy with which they reproduced the movements of different animals. When rehearsing for a part, he spent hours watching the animal he would be impersonating… The performances were physically extremely demanding and Lauri had to be an acrobat as well as an actor.
George Ali, World’s Greatest Animal Impersonator explains how they won stardom:
Most reviews singled him out for praise, with many stating how the audience often wished the size of his role could be doubled, as it often saved the show. Everyone seemed to enjoy his enthusiastic and energetic performances, full of emotion and character. This recognition forced producers to prominently feature and highlight Ali in advertisements with second billing… Advertisements at the time noted he received the largest salary ever paid to animal impersonators.
Fursuiters take note about the Nana the Dog suit:
Seidel’s of New York created the costume from Ali’s design and specifications, with the face folded in the style of a taxidermist. Real shaggy dog fur covered Nana’s head, with caracel covering the body and buttoned up inside… From inside the costume, Ali operated the eyes, ears, tail, and mouth through a series of strings enabling him to cock an eye, wiggle his ears, wag his tail, and the like, enabling him to tug viewers’ heart strings as well. Jumping from wistful to joyous celebration to sorrow, Ali’s strong portrayal charmed audiences.
There’s more about the costuming in this review of a modern screening of the silent Peter Pan with live music.
Paleofurries from Britain to America
“Paleofurry” means anything anthropomorphic in history, from fairy tales to Egyptian gods. Maybe there isn’t direct influence, but it’s culturally latent. You can see it skip across time from old theater, which influenced Disney and Golden Age cartoons, to subcultural 1970’s cartoonists, who helped found today’s fandom.
Like furries themselves sometimes, Animal Impersonators’ craft seems overlooked and left for specialty interest. That’s how a furry fan can see it with a thrill of recognition. Want some advanced costuming inspiration? Study it! I even considered doing a book, but my articles about Panto-Animals had most everything I could find by scouring the web. That didn’t promise much present-day activity to explore as a fan. That’s up to professional and academic researchers… and recently, one led me to more info that was overlooked in stories about British Panto.
American Vaudeville actors were the talent for early Hollywood. London stage actors who moved to Vaudeville and movie success included George Ali, and the first huge mass media star, Charlie Chaplin.
These are types of variety theater (also including Burlesque and minstrelry), and Vaudeville is called “America’s only purely indigenous theatrical form.” How is it different from Panto? That’s a question for an expert. Tomorrow’s story links an expert who profiled more American actors that haven’t appeared here.
Like the article? These take hard work. For more free furry news, please follow on Twitter or support not-for-profit Dogpatch Press on Patreon. Want to get involved? Share news on these subreddits: r/furrydiscuss for anything — or r/waginheaven for the best of the community. Or send guest writing here.
Tempo Talks with Elizabeth Hanna (Dog City, Care Bears, Babar)
Today, Tempo Talks with Elizabeth Hanna, voice actor in Jim Henson's Dog City, The Raccoons, Babar the Elephant, Little Bear, Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, Hello Kitty, Care Bears, Starlink: Battle for Atlas, and countless other cartoons and video games. Artist: Slate Dragon https://www.furaffinity.net/user/slate The first 20 users to enter the coupon code "TempoTalks" will get 10% off their order on FurPlanet.com. Listen in on TEMPO TALKS with Tempe O'Kun https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLIPk-itLl1jPyIK2c7mK-LpbvfDNqfcSW Check out Tempe O'Kun's books "Sixes Wild" and "Windfall" here: http://furplanet.com/shop/?affillink=YOUTU2907 Here's a playlist of his other Culturally F'd videos: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLIPk-itLl1jPS7tnT4hdJwBI-CeLF8Kb_ Merch, Sweet Tees and stuff: http://www.culturallyfd.com https://teespring.com/stores/culturally-fd-merchandise Support Culturally F'd: https://www.patreon.com/culturallyfd Plus a Newsletter: http://tinyurl.com/gsz8us7