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Denton Brislow is a pretty average cop - with an above average libido - in an anthropomorphic future Denver. He and his partner are called to investigate the horrific slaying of one of the city’s most influential families and one of their servants.This may sound like the start to your run-of-the-mill cop action novella, but I assure you, it is not. You see, it comes to be that Denton’s bloodline has ties to Society - an underground religion whose divination consists primarily of… homoerotic sex.Before reading this book (having been briefed on its content) I feared this plot device would amount to little more than a convenient excuse to introduce an orgy every few pages. The orgies were there, I assure you. But I am happy to report that St-Pierre managed to take the high road and craft a cohesive, believable religion with clearly defined rules, checks and balances. A lot of thought went into the way it manifests itself and how it folds into larger society.Fair warning. This book is not for the squeamish. It describes bodily fluids a plenty. Sex. Lots of Sex. And then some more sex. There is mention of incest. Denton is reminded of his initiation, which happened whilst he was still a minor. And twice in the novel, he has visions of him having intercourse with the ghost of his own father.As a counterpoint, he does not agree with all the traditions and rituals of his newfound brotherhood. At times, he is truly disgusted. (You will be too.)The great irony of this novel - where sex is such an important theme - it is not very sexy. It does not feel pornographic. St-Pierre does not spend a lot of time gushing over the characters’ sexual encounters. Sometimes it is as crude as “...and then we fucked for three hours.” I believe this was done to emphasize the doctrine of Society, that sex is about the transfer of life energy from one vessel to another. Enjoyment thereof being a convenient side-effect. So this is not a big loss to me.My main criticism of this book, aside from the dubious legality of some of its sexual encounters, is that the “furry” aspect of the book feels more like spice added, rather than a key ingredient to the recipe. This story could easily have worked with human characters. Apart from the occasional mauling, the only benefit of adding tail, paw and claw to the mix would be to soften the unpleasantries - to remind the reader that this is a different society and universe than the one we live in.Your mileage will vary with “Finding the Line”. You are likely to either love it or hate it. Though it falls flat as a pornographic piece, I will recommend this book based on strong characterization, solid narrative, good flow and the uniqueness of the concept. Recommended. * * * *

I want a cheese party now.
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Here we go again! We got this from Complex.com: “Scooby-Doo will make its return to the big screen with an animated movie set to star Gina Rodriguez, Tracy Morgan, and Will Forte, according to the Hollywood Reporter. The film — directed by Tony Cervone, the producer behind the television series, Scooby-Doo! Mystery Incorporated — is currently untitled. Forte is set to play the titular dane’s best friend Shaggy, Rodriguez will voice Velma, and Morgan will be non-Mystery Gang member Captain Caveman [!]. Frank Welker, who’s worked with the franchise since 1972-73’s The New Scooby-Doo Movies, will play the role of Scooby-Doo. For this case, the gang will reportedly team up with other Hanna-Barbera universe heroes to save the world from the corrupt plans of Dick Dastardly, the main villain of fellow Hanna-Barbera classic, Wacky Races [!!]. The project, which is set to hit theaters May 2020, will be the first time Scooby Doo takes the silver screen since the 2004 live-action film, Scooby-Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed.” Sounds like they’re getting much more ambitious with their universe now! We found other talk on-line about this this movie project that gave it the title of S.C.O.O.B. Guess we’ll find out next year!

image c. 2019 Hanna Barbera

We complain a lot.

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Link Roundup:

• Telegram Autoplay Updates
• Sally – Episode One
• #BYU mascot has come out publicly as gay
• Tenkitsune on VTV national tv in vietnam
  • VTV Link
• Lake Erie Sends A Massive 40-Foot ‘Ice Tsunami’ Crashing Ashore

News:

• Parrots Addicted to Drugs
• Man Allegedly Faked Own Kidnapping To Get Out Of Super Bowl Pool Payout
• Snake On A Plane: Unsuspecting Woman Traveling From Australia Brings A Passenger
• Woman Breaks Into Houston Home To Smoke Pot And Is Greeted By A Tiger

[Live] Knot For Profit

Congratulations are of course in order for the creators of Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse, following their Oscar win for Best Animated Feature of 2018. Now comes the word that one of the directors of that film is moving on to a project that’s got even more furry content — and he’s been there before. “Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse co-director Bob Persichetti has been signed to direct the sequel for DreamWorks Animation’s Puss in Boots, according to a report by Deadline… Animation veteran Persichetti, who has worked in various roles in the industry in a career spanning more than two decades, served as the Head of Story and voiced a role in the original Puss in Boots. The follow-up to the 2011 hit film that garnered an Oscar nomination and grossed more than $550 million globally, Puss In Boots 2 is currently in development, with a release date yet to be announced… A spinoff of the studio’s blockbuster Shrek franchise, Puss in Boots received an Oscar nomination for Best Animated Feature in 2012. Voiced by Antonio Banderas, the character, which first appeared in Shrek 2, was included in subsequent Shrek sequels and shorts.” We’ll keep our ears pointed.

image c. 2019 Dreamworks Animation

It’s March. Things certainly happen in March, we are sure of it!

 

Guild Newsroom

If you missed it, check out our recent spotlights on members Mary E. Lowd and Gre7g Luterman! Our next spotlights will appear at the middle and end of March, and feature Frances Pauli and Leilani Wilson respectively.

Attention, all members on Twitter! When making posts about your writing, be sure to use the hashtag #furrywriting so that we can keep up with your work and share it with the world!

 

Member Highlights

Some highlights from last month, as featured from our FWG Member News section on the forums:

• Amy Clare Fontaine has started writing short, text-based Twine games on itch.io. The most recent one is called “Cassandra the Wolf Princess“.
• From Mary E. Lowd comes “When He Stopped Crying“, a short story published by Electric Spec. In addition, she’s written an essay about her creative method in this story, as well as other things useful to writers.

A little light on news this month!

Our usual reminder to all our member that have had something exciting happen in the past month not featured here: be sure to keep up with you Member News thread on the forums! Not only is this how we get our information, but these threads are able to be viewed by any person logged into the forums. Share your achievements with the rest of the writing community!

 

The Marketplace

For those of you looking to submit, keep an eye on the open markets on our website. For those of you who just forget, The Marketplace is your reminder for all things open for submissions!

 

Short Story Markets:

Publisher Title Theme Deadline Pay Zooscape Zooscape Zine General furry Fiction Ongoing $0.06/word (maximum $60) Thurston Howl Publications Sensory De-tails Furry stories relating to strong animal senses April 1st One copy of the anthology (non-paying) Thurston Howl Publications Trick or Treat: A Furry BDSM Anthology Furry erotica featuring BDSM May 1st One copy of the anthology (non-paying) Thurston Howl Publications The Haunted Den: Furry Ghost Stories Furry ghost stories June 1st One copy of the anthology (non-paying) Thurston Howl Publications Give Yourself a Hand Furry erotica featuring masturbation June 15th $0.0050/word plus one copy of the anthology Thurston Howl Publications Pawradiso: The Ten Spheres of Furry Heaven furry stories based around the spheres of Heaven (in reference to Paradiso) July 15th One copy of the anthology (non-paying) Furplanet The Reclamation Project Furry stories in a shared, post-cataclysmic future August 31st $0.0050/word plus one copy of the anthology

 

Novel Markets:

• Thurston Howl Publications is open to novel/novella submissions, with no planned date for submissions to close.

 

Special Events and Announcements

Goal Publications/Fanged Fiction has announced that they will be opening for novel/novella/Pocket Shot submissions on July 1st, 2019. Look forward to that!

Australian publisher Jaffa Books has announced that they will be closing their doors at the end of 2019. Thank you to Jay for all you’ve done with it, and we hope this gives you a chance to work more on your writing!

ROAR editor Mary E. Lowd has announced that, after finishing up the current volume, she will be handing the reigns off to Madison Keller. Thank you Mary for doing such a great job with the anthology, and we look forward to seeing what Madison brings to the table.

 

Wrap-up

Our forums are open to all writers, not just full members of the FWG. Check them out here and join in on the conversation. While you’re there, check out how to join our Slack and Telegram channels. Before joining any of these, though, we ask that you please read up on our Code of Conduct! With all the negative going around in the world these days, both furry and non-furry, we want to make sure the guild feels like a safe place to all its participants, free of threats and hate speech.

We have two weekly chats, called our Coffeehouse Chats! Our first one is Tuesday at 7:00pm EST in our Slack channel, and our other is Thursdays at Noon EST on our forums in the shoutbox on the main page. Both of these chats feature writers talking about writing, usually with a central topic. As with the above, these chats are open to both members and non-members, though you must be registered for the forums.

Welcome to Issue 2 of Zooscape!

Book-ended between cats, you will find in this issue a variety of artifacts.  Ancient artifacts that belong in a museum, and artifacts that don’t think of themselves as inanimate.  Powerful artifacts that can do great good when wielded in the right paws, or great damage when the right paws can’t stop them.  So, wander through this library of an issue, examining the artifacts along the way.  Someday, instead, perhaps they will examine you…

* * *

Cat of Thunder by John Taloni

Bibelots and Baubles by Shauna Roberts

New Hire at the Final Library by Laurence Raphael Brothers

The Move by Kristi Brooks

¡Viva Piñata! by L.D. Nguyen

Clyde and the Pickle Jar by Steve Carr

* * *

Though artifacts may break, our empathy will not be broken.  Long live furry fiction!  And as always, if you have artifacts (in the form of furry stories) for us to consider for our ongoing, carefully curated collection, please read our guidelines and send them in.

by Steve Carr

“He sat back on his haunches and gazed at the long green objects tightly bunched together inside the jar.”

Lying on the kitchen window sill above the sink, Clyde licked his paws as the noonday sun warmed his bright orange fur. The gentle breeze that tickled the tips of his pointed ears carried with it the aromas of the animals in the farm yard along with honeysuckle and roses.

He had his eyes on Mistress who was standing by the table and trying to get a lid off of a jar. Her face was red from exertion as she strained to twist the lid. She banged it on the table, and then stuck a knife under the rim of the lid, but was still unable to open the jar. She turned on the faucet in the sink and put the jar under the flowing water, and then again tried to turn the lid and was still unable to remove it. After digging around in the utensils drawer she pulled out a can opener and tried to pry off the lid, but still had no success.

“Darn, why is it so hard to get a pickle out?” she said aloud as she slammed the jar on the table and left the kitchen.

Clyde stood and ran his paw across his whiskers. He then jumped onto the sink draining board and then leapt onto the table. Cautiously he approached the jar and patted the glass with his paw before putting his nose to it and sniffing it. Mistress’s scent was on it, but otherwise it had no discernible odor. He sat back on his haunches and gazed at the long green objects tightly bunched together inside the jar.

Those must be pickles, he thought. They’re in there so tight they can’t move.

It distressed him that Mistress had been unable to get them out. He wanted to return the kindness she always showed him. He patted the jar a few times and then pushed the jar to the edge of the table and knocked it off. It fell onto a bunched up throw rug. He jumped down and laid on his side next to it, wrapped his paws around the jar and wrestled with it, and tried to bite it and scratch it. Unable to get to the pickles, he stood, batted it with his paws, rolling it to the screen door. He then pushed the door open and rolled the jar out of the house and into a patch of dirt.

“What you got there?” Bart said, rising from a shallow hole he had dug to lie in. He shook his head, flapping his large ears and spraying drool onto Clyde.

“Pickles,” Clyde said as he wiped the dog’s spittle from his face.

“What are pickles?” Bart said.

“They might be living things, but it’s hard to tell,” Clyde said. “Mistress wanted to get them out very badly but was unable to and neither could I.”

The dog put his nose to the jar, sniffed and then licked it.

“Move aside,” Bart said. “Let me give it a try.”

Clyde stepped aside and watched as Bart plopped his large rear end down on the jar.

The dog then raised up and looked at the glass and barked at it several times. “Maybe those pickle things are supposed to stay in there,” he said.

“No, I’m certain Mistress wants them out,” Clyde said.

Seeing Clarissa and her brood of chicks crossing the farmyard, Clyde hurriedly rolled the jar towards her as Bart followed behind. He brought the jar to a stop a few feet from her.

Startled, Clarissa quickly gathered her fluffy, bright yellow chicks around her and covered them with her wings.

“What do you want?” she said to Clyde, clucking with a mixture of bravado and fear as she puffed out her chest and raised her beak.

Clyde wound his long tail around his hind legs. “Mistress has a problem and I thought you might want to help her out.”

Clarissa looked at him with one eye, and then turned her head and gazed at him with the other one. “Mistress feeds us every morning which is most kind of her,” she said. “What is the problem?”

“Mistress wants these pickles inside this jar but can’t get them out and neither could Bart or I,” he said.

She tilted her head several times, staring at the jar, and then clucked several times. “What do they do?” she said.

“Do?”

“Do they sleep in her lap and keep her warm like you do, or take walks with her like Bart does, or give her eggs like I do?” she said.

“I don’t know what they do,” Clyde said. “Whatever it is that they do, Mistress must find great pleasure in it. You should have seen how hard she tried to get them out.”

“I think they’re ugly,” Clarissa said, “but if Mistress wants them out I’ll be glad to help.”

She gently urged her chicks to stand behind her and then began pecking on the glass. When the glass didn’t break she pecked harder and faster, until finally exhausted, she squawked and then sat down.

“Those pickle things must be of great importance if they’re so hard to get out,” she said.

Pete the box turtle sauntered to where the group was standing around the jar.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Clyde has these pickle things that belong to Mistress but we can’t get them out of the jar,” Bart said as he scratched at a flea.

Pete looked at the jar. “Are those the pickle things inside the jar?”

“Yes,” Clarissa clucked.

“Are they alive?” he said.

“They must be,” Clyde said. “They seem to be very fond of each other being packed in there like that. I’m sure Mistress was trying to rescue them.”

“I know all about things that are hard to get into,” Pete said. “But possibly if we wait long enough one of them will poke their heads out.”

“We can’t just sit here and wait for that,” Clyde said. “Mistress was frantic about getting them out of there. Without hands like Mistress has we wouldn’t be able to open it, and we haven’t figured out how to break the glass.”

“Mistress always makes puddles for me to sit in so I’d like to help,” Pete said. “Not long ago I rolled down the hill behind the barn and landed against a large rock. It nearly broke my shell. Perhaps if we roll the jar down that hill it will hit the rock and break open.”

“That’s a great idea,” Clyde said excitedly.

With everyone else following behind, Clyde rolled the jar to the top of the hill behind the barn. He aligned the jar in the direction of the rock, and then pushed it. It rolled down the hill, bouncing over clumps of grass and mounds of dirt. It smashed against the rock, breaking into pieces. The pickles were scattered around the rock.

“Hooray,” everyone yelled.

They rushed down the hill.

Clyde was the first one to come upon a pickle lying in the grass. He patted at it with his paw and then sniffed it. He let out a mournful meow.

“I think we killed the pickles,” he said. “They can’t be of any value to Mistress now.”

Bart licked another pickle and then barked at it several times. “This one’s dead too.”

Shielding her chicks from the sight of the dead pickles, Clarissa clucked, “What do we do now?”

“The only thing to do is bury them,” Pete said. He then pulled his head into his shell.

“Good idea,” Clyde said.

As Bart dug holes, Clyde carried in his teeth the pickles one at a time and dropped them into the holes. Bart covered them with dirt. When all the pickles were buried everyone gathered around the pickles’ graves.

“I hope Mistress doesn’t miss the pickle things too much,” Bart said.

“I’m glad my shell didn’t break like that,” Pete said as he stuck his head out.

“I wish I had gotten to know them,” Clarissa said. “The pickles must be wonderful beings for Mistress to want to let them out of the jar so badly.”

“Long live the pickles,” Clyde said.

 

* * *

About the Author

Steve Carr, who lives in Richmond, Va., began his writing career as a military journalist and has had over 260 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals and anthologies since June, 2016. He has two collections of short stories, Sand and Rain, that have been published by Clarendon House Publications. His third collection of short stories, Heat, was published by Czykmate Productions. His YA collection of stories, The Tales of Talker Knock was published by Clarendon House Publications. His plays have been produced in several states in the U.S. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize twice. His website is https://www.stevecarr960.com/. He is on Twitter @carrsteven960.

by L.D. Nguyen

“All because she’d blabbed about his work for the cartel, smuggling chocolates and hard candies in his gut across the border.”

Anita sank into the driver’s seat and slit the envelope with the sharp edge of her hoof. Inside was the mug of a unicorn, his eyes like red rubies. His profile said that he’d strung his wife from a tree branch and smashed her head in with a broomstick. Then he’d blindfolded the neighborhood kids and told them to do the same to his two baby ponies.  All because she’d blabbed about his work for the cartel, smuggling chocolates and hard candies in his gut across the border. Now he was worth $650,000, dead or alive.

Anita lit up the end of her churro and breathed deep. Her boss was always nagging her to quit, said she was gonna go up in flames. Too bad that she itched for the feel of warm smoke flushing from her nostrils, sugar crusting her lips, the smell of burnt cinnamon.

She tapped the churro on the windowsill and stroked the side of her skull. A brown scar jumped out amongst the pinks and blues of her coat.  The wound had been so deep that hair refused to grow back over it.  She rubbed harder, picked at its roughness, but felt nothing.

She took another drag, then drew the fiery tip closer and closer to her scar. The tissue paper of her mane curled from the heat. Did she dare?

“Not until I off that bastard.” She stamped the churro’s fiery tip between the unicorn’s eyes. It charred a hole in his horn.

She chucked the churro into the street and revved the engine.  As she jerked into the road, her broom teetered from the passenger seat and smacked her on the shoulder.  Its straw tickled her nose; she smelled sour pops and licorice, fruit chews and fudge caramels. She crushed the file, his picture, under her hoof.

“Chocolates and hard candies. I’ll spill it all.”

 

* * *

About the Author

L.D. Nguyen lives inside of comic books but frequently emerges from this 2-D universe to write short fiction and creative nonfiction. Her work has appeared in Broken Pencil, Curve, Vine Leaves, and others. She lives in the Bay Area, California with her cat.

by Kristi Brooks

“Hear, hear!” came several cries from the delicately painted, porcelain figurines that stood just to the side of the herd.

At night the elephants would congregate in the living room. The largest, Brack, was easily five pounds and his massive two foot frame had been bound in brown leather. He towered over the ceramic elephants that lined the bookshelves; and to the half-inch glass figurines that guarded the pictures on the dresser he was a god.

“Fellow Brethren,” Brack snorted through his trunk, “some of us have been in this mess before, so we know how unorganized humans can be when it comes to packing.”

“No shit!” retorted Trimba, a white Avon perfume bottle shaped like an elephant. He had a large, ornate gold seat in the middle of his back for a stopper, and the glass elephants thought it was fun to run alongside him and listen to the perfume in his belly slosh when he moved. He was a grumpy Old Gus who’d presided over the bathroom more years than were reflected on their manufacturing dates. “Need we forget the last time we moved some of us were forced to spend months suffocating in bubble wrap at the bottom of a box?”

“Hear, hear!” came several cries from the delicately painted, porcelain figurines that stood just to the side of the herd. The scenes painted on their girths were carefully positioned so no one could look in their direction without seeing what they commonly referred to as their ‘beauty marks.’

“We never did find Lacienda after the last move.” One of the glass figures spoke from the middle of the herd, his voice as soft as the tinkling of crystal. One of the stone elephants raised his now lopsided trunk in agreement, displaying the jagged crack that ran along his nose from where an over-ambitious three-year-old had dropped him last winter.

The chorus of voices continued to climb to a dull roar as each of the statues recalled their own moving story. Brack let them speak for a bit before eventually silencing them by raising his snout in the air, his polished granite tusks gleaming in the moonlight.

The group quieted down as one by one they looked to their leader for guidance. Even though he had grown accustomed to his leadership role, he hadn’t always headed the group. When he’d first arrived here the meetings were led by Titan, a three foot cement elephant who remained frozen in an upright position every day with a glass tabletop balanced on his trunk and ears.

He had been an excellent leader and role model; especially for the younger, more playful figurines. However, his gentle rule had come to an end when the humans had brought home an excited puppy.

Brack had watched and mourned his fellow comrade from his door side perch. He’d witnessed the fall and had seen the understanding of what was about to happen spread across the great pachyderm’s face just before his head landed on the floor and snapped off with a loud crack, ending his reign with a wound no amount of glue would’ve fixed.

There was no doubt among the elephants that they were not immortal creatures, but Titan proved how susceptible they were to the environment they lived in. After that, the humans decided the dog was too clumsy of an oaf to stay in the house unsupervised.

If you’d asked him outright Brack would’ve said where they lived now was far better than most. Many of those in his charge had their own horror stories about life outside; him included. A small slit on his back was the scar he bore when the children from his previous home had tried to turn him into a piggy bank.

“I think we can all agree our main objective in this move will be to keep the herd safe. Establishing our positions in the new home, when we arrive, is an important secondary goal,” Brack reminded them.

Many of those assembled swung their trunks back and forth like pendulums in agreement. A few who could not swing their appendages grunted to show they understood.

“The brass and granite elephants have the advantage during this time as they’re unlikely to be harmed or kept wrapped in that horrid plastic shroud during the move. Therefore, we’ll rely on them once we get in the new home to help locate everyone.”

“Won’t the humans realize what we’re doing?” someone asked.

“If you do everything at the proper pace we should be able to reestablish our place in a short amount of time. The key is to move an elephant or two a night instead of releasing the whole herd at once, got it?”

“I’ve been through this many times. I’ll help the younger ones,” Babara, a five inch brass elephant said, stepping to the front of her group’s congregation.

Brack swayed his trunk in approval before speaking, “Our greatest concern lies with the glass and porcelain elephants. No matter how well we work together, our harmonious efforts still result in a loss during every move. Whether it be the complete loss of an elephant like Lacienda or the chips some of you accumulate each time you’re packed away, it’s a loss that’s heavy to our entire clan.”

To this, the elephants raised their trunks to the ceiling as a sign of respect and love for those who’d been lost or injured.

Each statue lumbered back to their positions at the end of the meeting. Brack returned to the door, his largest worry yet unvoiced. He’d heard stories of humans doing something called “redecorating,” in which elephants would be rounded up, placed in boxes for safekeeping and stored somewhere dark and lifeless.

He hadn’t been able to vocalize this concern, afraid the mere mention of it might turn it into truth. But his denial didn’t change the fact there hadn’t been enough boxes for a full-scale move. Those he’d seen had been labeled with the word “elephant” and a brief description.

Right now he could only sit by the door, waiting.

 

* * *

About the Author

Kristi Brooks was born and raised in southwestern Oklahoma. She started writing at an early age, and was first intrigued by works of horror and fantasy. She found herself really drawn to mythology and fairy tales and their incorporation into modern books. One thing she found is that genre fiction is never as straightforward as it appears. Because of this, she strives to blend together the worlds of science-fiction, fantasy, horror, and experimental fiction. Kristi currently still lives in Oklahoma with her husband, their young daughter Andromeda, and a menagerie of animals. She has been previously published in several small magazines, anthologies, and is the author of the novels Vision2 and Midnight Sun. You can follow her on Facebook at facebook.com/obawok.

by Laurence Raphael Brothers

“What book-lover could reject a trillion years’ worth of comfortable reading time, after all?”

Welcome to the Library of Beasts. Well. Technically, it’s the Final Library and Transtemporal Museum of Human Culture, but after the orientation tour I’m sure you’ll agree the informal name is superior. What? You don’t know what you’re doing here? Ah, confusion is normal in a newborn librarian. Let’s just take the tour.

The gazelle resting on the throw rug in the central reading room is certainly not showing off. The elegant creature has her nose in a volume of Flaubert, but you’d have to look over her shoulder to see the title, Sentimental Education, so it’s not as if she’s flaunting it. She’s too engrossed in her reading even to look up when we approach. And yet… She’s in so prominent a spot, and she’s so lovely a creature, she must be aware she’s a cynosure. Should you politely inquire what she’s reading, no doubt you would make her day, if days can be said to pass here, anyway.

In the manga stacks we find three mongoose brothers, all reading the same volume of Soul Eater, illustrated by Atsushi Ōkubo. They are nestled together for shared access to the page, a three-headed furry bundle of youthful energy. The left-hand brother is a faster reader than the others, and he’s always reaching out to turn the page before the others are finished, evoking chirping, chittering outrage from his sibs.

We shift our presence to the fine art wing, where two Indian elephants, a dignified couple, walk slowly past a series of post-impressionist landscapes. Bow to them, as I do. Sir. Madame. We are your most humble and obedient servants. The elephants tell us they especially like the Van Goghs time-scanned from the Museumplein. When they pause to admire one of his pieces, their trunks entwine in a gentle embrace. Gratifying, is it not? In this refuge, lovers never need suffer the sorrow of separation. The stately music that plays as they walk? Mussorgsky, of course. Pictures at an Exhibition.

Next, we come to the audio-video halls. Virtual media can be viewed anywhere in the library, but most viewers prefer the auditorium experience for cinema. Hot buttered popcorn is available for those who enjoy it. Here, for example– Oh. A bonobo tribe is in there right now. They’re watching a 20th century porn marathon. I’m sure we’d be welcome to attend, but perhaps we should leave them be for now? Yes, let’s move on. You can always return later, after all.

Here’s a Henry Moore exhibit, full of rotund stone Madonnas. Octopuses navigate the hall in tank-tricycles, clambering out to caress the artworks, running their arms over the voluptuously smooth surfaces. The brilliant cephalopods hardly needed any uplift at all. These octopuses ordinarily live a single tragically brief year, but here they can indulge their love of sculpture down through eternity.

At last we come to the great time recycling engine at the heart of the library, floating in a spherical chamber precisely 1,000 meters in diameter. Beautiful, is it not? Observe the mysteriously glowing form, changing constantly, and still somehow always the same. Oh. My apologies! The manifold of a hypersphere can be distressing at first. It’s natural you should flinch away, though I find it endlessly fascinating. Enough of this for now; let’s return to my office.

So then: any questions? What’s the point, you ask? The grandiose AIs who conceived the library did so on behalf of their human creators; but humanity rejected the offer of refuge, preferring to seek their own fortunes among the dying stars. But nevertheless, we are happy to serve our uplifted animal clients. For a librarian, service is an end in itself.

You say we created the clients ourselves? To be sure. But imagine a library without readers or a museum empty of all visitors… well, really. Yes, it’s true the beasts’ uplift schemata are specifically intended to encourage their appreciation of human culture. But the clients are all more than pleased with their situations. What book-lover could reject a trillion years’ worth of comfortable reading time, after all?

Why you? Why a new librarian in an eternal library? I– It’s a difficult thing to explain. The beasts never despair, you see. They live untouched by sorrow. But we librarians, gratified as we are to serve our clients… after enough millennia…. Well. Eventually it all wears thin.

So. There you have it. Goodbye! Good luck! Best wishes for your career! I’ll be leaving you now.

What? Ah. I see you don’t understand.

When we librarians have had enough of existence, we cast ourselves into the naked singularity at the heart of the temporal manifold. It means total dissolution. Oh, no! Please, don’t cry. Remember, information can never truly be lost. When at long last the universal vacuum energy state finally decays, a new creation will emerge from the desolation of the Big Rip. The library will be consumed in the cosmic fires of rebirth and all its information will manifest in another universe entirely. And who knows; perhaps we two shall meet again someday… in the fullness of another time.

 

* * *

About the Author

Laurence Raphael Brothers is a writer and technologist with numerous short story publications in such magazines as Nature, PodCastle, and Galaxy’s Edge. For more of his stories online, visit https://laurencebrothers.com. Follow him on Twitter: @lbrothers.

by Shauna Roberts

In a slow, cramped, scholarly hand, he printed the item acquisition number at the top of the form, along with a brief descriptor: “mechanical hummingbird with gems.”

Buddy Jumphigh, curator of bibelots and baubles at the Third Smithsonian Institute, sighed and jammed his pince-nez onto his snout. There was no point in continuing to sniff the breezes wafting past his open window; no point in melancholic reminisces of times past when the Mall thronged with people; no point in whining, as he longed to do:  he could not avoid cataloging the horrifying object before him any longer.

In a slow, cramped, scholarly hand, he printed the item acquisition number at the top of the form, along with a brief descriptor: “mechanical hummingbird with gems.”

Buddy measured the bird and then consulted several reference books, trying not to tear the fragile, ancient pages. Still, one yellow corner crumbled into pieces that scented the air with the nostalgic smell of mildew, decay, and rags.

He brushed the scraps away. He entered a description into the box on the form and then leaned over to sniff and lick the hummingbird. He continued his exam, entering each detail on the form until it was completely filled out:

* * *

Description

Life-size replica (to the eye but not to the other senses) of a male Calliope hummingbird (Stellula calliope) covered in amethysts, peridots, opals, and crystals, with obsidian eyes and cast-brass beak and legs

Impressions on acquisition

Smell: graphite; a faint scent of alien skin oil

Taste: aluminum; brass; graphite (used as lubricant); dust (primarily Wisconsinan Outwash and Wisconsinan Lacustrine soils); beeswax (perhaps polished by a previous collector?)

Sound: whirred as it tried to activate

Touch: hard; rough; sharp edges; temperature range over surface was cold to ambient

Sight: sparkly

Details

Condition: good: a few gems are missing, and beak is bent

Status: deactivated

Provenance: well documented

Value: priceless

Components: The mechanical parts and three lasers within this item make it surprisingly heavy for its small size, about nine ounces. Of the estimated one hundred thousand produced, only nine are known to be extant, of which this one is in the best condition. Collected by an exoarchaeologist in the rubble of Chicago.

The remaining gems are 92 small baguette-cut amethysts on the chest, 998 tiny uncut peridots on the head, back, and wings, and 901 opal cabochons on the underparts, all lab-made and of low (excelsior-5) quality; 2 fine (excelsior-15) quality natural obsidian cabochons serve as eyes; and 27 superior (excelsior-25) quality natural rock crystals of perfect clarity highlight the eyes and are interspersed among the opals.

* * *

Sighing, Buddy dropped the marker from his cramped paw and shook the uncomfortable pince-nez from his muzzle. Now the terrible thing would go on display with the other great prizes of the Smithsonian’s collections. He gave it one last look and barked at it. “Bad bird! Bad bird! Bad bird!”

He himself would never look at the bird after it went on display. He hated it with a fervor:  fewer than one hundred thousand of the alien weapons had drive the humans to extinction.

As curator of bibelots and baubles, he had access to records forbidden to the general public. His ancestors had played along with the aliens for generations after they’d eliminated humanity, receiving genetic enhancements with sloppy grins and happy tail wags, biding their time and allying with their ancient feline archenemies, who slunk in the shadows and ate rats and cockroaches.

Then, in the largest, bloodiest revolution in Earth’s history, the two species rose up and enacted retribution.

Once the aliens were dead and eaten, his people reconstructed human society, with themselves in human roles. Their cat allies reclaimed their traditional places before fires and in sunny windows. All was well again.

Except that his people were dying out.

The public knew nothing about the slow, but relentless, decline in population. Several generations of Smithsonian scientists had worked out the cause. No cure would ever be possible:  his people were a symbiotic species lacking its symbiote.

They were dying of grief.

A howl overtook him, and then another, and another.

Throughout the crumbling building, other curators and staff joined in, their calls of anguish for their lost companions and guardians echoing against stone walls and leaking out cracked windows into the humid night air of the Mall.

 

* * *

About the Author

Shauna Roberts is an award-winning author of both fiction and nonfiction. She writes in several genres. Her novels are Like Mayflies in a Stream (historical fiction), Claimed by the Enemy (historical fiction), Ice Magic, Fire Magic (fantasy), and Log Cabin: Erikka (romance, to come in 2019). In addition, she has published more than a thousand nonfiction articles, three nonfiction books, and several short stories and novellas. Roberts is a graduate of the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers’ Workshop. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, quilting, embroidery, growing herbs and roses, and playing in early music ensembles. She has lived all over the United States, along with two stints in Bordeaux, France, and now resides with her husband and two cats in the Blue Ridge Mountains. To sign up for her newsletter, click here.

by John Taloni

“Mirru had seen enough to conclude that the battle would stay contained on the field when the fire giants made a rush forward.”

Mirru padded around her nest, ears twitching. Her tail flicked back and forth as she heard distant thuds. Her kittens curled against each other, sleeping fitfully. Their paws pressed against one another as they cuddled together in the underbrush, hidden in a clump of gorse bushes.

A column of smoke rose in the distance. The faint whiff of its far-off smell caused Mirru’s nose to wrinkle. Then a louder noise cracked the night – an explosion. She could hear shouting and observed a whirl of activity. The figures had two legs and two arms. People, of one variety or another. One of her kittens woke and mewled, then settled back to sleep.

Mirru sat and licked a paw, then washed her face with it, contemplating. Her kittens were old enough to walk, but just a short distance. They could not easily relocate away from whatever created the noise and smoke. She would investigate. It was time to hunt anyway.

Mirru climbed up the small incline of the nest and turned to look back. Her kittens remained asleep. They should be safe for the time being. The yellow of the gorse blended well with their dull orange fur, giving them some camouflage from predators.

Mirru sniffed the air. There were some prey scents, but they were all old and distant. She padded towards the encampment. As she went she searched for newer scents, but they were scarce. Birds had flown away, or hid in their nests high up in trees. Mice, voles and similar animals had gone to ground, difficult to track in their burrows. Her stomach growled. Milk for her kittens would be thin and low tonight, unless she could find food. Nor was prey easy to find. A dry summer had parched the forest, leaving prey with less to eat.

The forest came to an end within a short walk of the encampment. Mirru walked up to the last tree between herself and the group of people, and watched. One group of people walked around putting up tents with wooden poles and canvas in a rough semicircle. A much larger group worked on a shield barrier towards the front. Another tended a fire in the center. Large hunks of meat hung on spits, turning through the efforts of a single person.

Mirru crept closer and hid behind a tent. The meat smelled delicious. If she could get some scraps…

Her focus broke as a loud noise assaulted her ears. It came from the front. Several people dropped a load of logs in a heap, the wood clattering to the ground. One of the people from the tent-making group separated out and approached the log pile. He drew a small horn from within his tunic and blew.

A figure arose from a stump and came forward. “As if I would need a horn to hear your call, Heimdallr,” he said, joining the other figure.

“I thought perhaps you were sleeping there, Thunderer,” replied the other.

“Mayhap I need my rest for the battle on the morrow,” he replied.

“For some measly fire giants?” responded Heimdallr. “Surtur is nowhere near. We shall easily beat back this incursion. Even if this land is drier than our usual.”

“If it be so easy, perhaps you should be back at your post,” replied the Thunderer.

“I can see the Bifrost from here,” replied Heimdallr. “And you can use my strong arm to dispatch the group quickly.”

“A bit dull holding watch every day on the Bifrost, eh?” said Thor

Heimdallr rolled his eyes. “You have no idea. As for the battle, Odinson, your father does not even see the need to attend himself, but only sends you, Thor.”

“Perhaps he seeks to avoid manual labor,” replied Thor with a grimace.

“Yes, well, as to that?” Heimdallr glanced over at the log pile.

“Hmm. As you say,” replied Thor. He pulled a small mallet from his belt. As Mirru watched he rubbed it and it grew larger. Soon it attained the size of a fully formed war hammer.

“It is a shame to use Mjölnir for so base a use, yet the shield walls must be made,” Thor said. He approached the pile and selected a log. “That one. Over there.” He indicated a spot and a group of men placed the log in position. Thor leapt into the air and dealt a mighty blow to the top of the log. It sank into the ground, standing firm.

Then Thor sank another, and another. Within the span of minutes the frame of a wall took form. Thor returned to his seat as the others filled in the rest of the shield wall.

The sun dipped towards the horizon as the people bustled around, putting the final touches on their encampment. As twilight hit they assembled to eat.

Mirru’s caution struggled with her need for food. She slunk into the camp, hiding behind tents and piles of equipment. She stayed in the shadows as she crept closer to the men. Finally one tore off a morsel of meat and dropped some on the ground. Mirru darted forward and picked it up in her mouth, then ran back to the shadows to eat.

Her immediate hunger sated, Mirru stepped closer to the group. Her fear went down as she got closer with no negative effects. Another person dropped a piece of meat and she leapt forward again, dragging it behind a tent to eat.

Thor nudged Heimdallr in the shoulder. “We have a visitor.”

“Yes, I saw her approach some time ago,” Heimdallr replied.

“Think you that Freya watches us? Though I see not her cat-drawn carriage near.”

“Not tonight,” said Heimdallr. “This is a common forest cat. She is harmless.”

“Why here?” Thor asked. “She should be hunting where people are not. Especially warriors. We are not especially gentle.”

“We have scared away all the game,” said Heimdallr. “Well, her kind of game anyway. And she has kittens to nurse, not far away.”

“Ah, a family protector!” said Thor. “Why did you not say so.” He ripped off a hunk of meat and tossed it towards Mirru.” She emerged from the shadows and took a few tentative steps toward it. One of the men in the camp threw a bone into the fire, and Mirru stepped back, frightened at the noise and sparks as the bone struck a log.

“Don’t be scared, little one,” called out Heimdallr. He threw another, smaller piece of meat towards her. She trotted forward and quickly ate it, then went to the larger piece that Thor had thrown.

Mirru walked up before them and let out one loud meow. She looked up at Heimdallr with plaintive eyes, then tentatively reached out a paw towards his hand, which held a bone full of meat. Heimdallr pulled off a larger chunk and dropped it on the ground. She ate swiftly, tearing the meat into smaller chunks and swallowing quickly.

When she finished with that piece, Thor pulled some more from his portion and threw it to her. She ate more slowly. That was sufficient food to sate her hunger. She stood and walked a swift, friendly brush against each man’s legs, then bounded back into the forest.

Moments later Mirru arrived back at her lair. Her kittens were awake and restless. As she approached the nest they mewed plaintively.

Mirru licked them all in greeting and lay down in the back of the nest. Her milk had not  yet come in, but with the meal she had recently completed, it would not be long. She let her kittens snuggle in and nurse what they could. By the middle of the night they would be as well sated as she was now.

*

Mirru slept soundly, barely waking for the midnight feeding her kittens demanded, as they instinctively knew when her milk was ready for them. She dozed, partly awake, as dawn broke across the heavens.

A burst of light, far brighter than the break of day, pushed her to full consciousness. A split second later noise and vibration roiled the landscape. Her kittens woke, mewling piteously. She gave each several fast licks, then lay down for a quick feed.

Moments later Mirru was on her way to investigate the situation. If it was bad enough she would have to move her kittens. That would be a difficult proposition. Possibly they would become so scared that one or more would run off. With four to manage she wasn’t sure she could move them all in safety. Better to keep them in the nest, if that were possible.

She reached the edge of the encampment several minutes later. The people stood behind the shields and made occasional forays out into the open field. There they fought gigantic beings of fire. It seemed to be a stalemate. One side would be forced back, then another, neither gaining an advantage.

Mirru had seen enough to conclude that the battle would stay contained on the field when the fire giants made a rush forward. The dry brush seemed to add to their substance, making them flare more brightly. Were they to break through, their burning essence could reach her nest in moments and destroy it with their flames.

She then saw the man with the hammer stride forward. He knelt and struck the handle on the ground. The skies darkened, clouds forming with great rapidity. A single lightning bolt seared between earth and sky, passing through the hammer. Torrents of rain began to fall shortly thereafter.

“Piece of cake,” he said, rising. The fire giants shrank back, the rain affecting their bodies. They formed a solid wall of flame as they moved back.

Mirru remained behind a tree, watching carefully. The person with a horn gazed towards the other side. “Their bodies block me,” he reported. “I cannot see–”

His voice cut off as an object streaked toward their camp at high velocity. It struck behind the shield wall the people had so carefully prepared the day before. As it hit the ground it exploded in a vast ball of searing light and crushing noise. Mirru pulled back behind the tree, covering her head with her paws.

After the explosion passed she looked up. The tree had been mostly destroyed, with only the trunk left. Even that was partially gone, with the front now smoking.

Mirru looked towards the camp. None of the people stirred, not even the strong one with the hammer. Were they dead? She could not tell.

The fire giants marched towards the camp. Their flaming bodies, now fully extended, burned everything in their path. She would run, but it seemed there was nowhere to run to.

Light from the flames glinted on something in the camp. Mirru looked over. The hammer. The fire made a ruddy dance over the metal’s semi-polished surface. A thought lay hidden just below the surface of her mind. Something about the hammer.

The fire glinted again off the metal, giving the illusion that the hammer changed form. Then she remembered. The hammer had been small when the man pulled it from his belt. It could change size. It seemed to control the elements, or at least some of them. But what could she do with it?

Mirru wasn’t sure, but she had to try something. The fire giants would destroy everything in their path. Herself, her kittens, dead. Even the prey that she ate, she respected and wanted to live, if only so she could hunt again.

She sprang forward with all the speed she could muster. In a flash she stood at the hammer’s side. She reached out to rub it with her paw and–

A flash of light blinded her. Yet she was not knocked out. Mirru came back to her senses almost immediately. Yet those senses seemed expanded.

Nor was that all that had changed. Her front paws had extended somewhat and she found she could grasp the hammer’s handle. She picked it up in both paws and leaned back on her haunches. The hammer seemed curiously light.

Mirru went to walk forward and found her torso elongated. Instead of walking on all fours, she balanced on her back two legs. The hammer seemed to be whispering suggestions into her expanded mind.

I can strike like the person did, she thought. With a meow that sounded more like a roar, she bounded forward. The first group of fire giants was almost upon the camp. She bashed one in the leg, causing it to fall on the ground. She ran to its face and raked its face, moving quickly around the flames to the substance beneath. On to the next, where she leapt up and hit it in the knee. At the next one she singed her fur a bit while hitting it in the shin.

A vision of a whirl of air appeared unbidden in her mind. She stopped running and twirled the hammer in the air. A small cyclone formed above the whirling motion. With a thrust from her forepaw the mass of air headed towards the fire giants, disrupting their advance.

Mirru found herself panting from the effort. Fatigue threatened to overwhelm her. Meanwhile the main force of fire giants had advanced down the plain, towards the camp. They were too many to fight individually.

The hammer whispered suggestions in her head. She remembered what the man had done with the handle. Mirru ran to a clear space, giving herself time to kneel without being attacked. She howled at the sky, emitting an inchoate “Mrrraaaaawwwwwwrrrrrr!” With a decisive thrust she hit the handle on the ground, twice.

Clouds formed immediately. Rain fell in torrents. It slicked the ground around the fire giants, dampening their flame and making them lose their footing. In the back the bigger fire giants lost some of their size as the flame fought against the rain.

And yet… the rain stayed only so long as she could concentrate. Though she held the hammer, her kitty body contained much less strength than its usual wielder. The fatigue made her lose focus. Black spots formed in front of her eyes. She headed back towards the encampment and its shields to gather herself. After only a few steps she passed out and collapsed on the ground. The transformation undid itself and she was a regular cat again.

At the camp, the rain and wind had started to revive the men. Heimdallr was first on his feet. He pulled the horn from his belt and blew. Others got up, groggily. The bomb blast still affected them, but they were able to stand – and to see the advancing army of Fire Giants.

Thor stood up and noticed the lack of a very important weapon. “Mjölnir! To me!” he cried out.

Out in the field, the hammer rose, then twisted so that the strap wrapped around Mirru’s paw. It flew through the air, placing the handle into Thor’s outstretched hand – and the unconscious cat directly onto his chest.

Thor looked at Mirru, puzzled. Then he lay the cat down gently behind him, out of the way of the crush of warriors.

The Aesir charged forward. Thor led the group partway up the field. Then, on his command the group pivoted and held their ground. He called down the lightning onto the fire giants. Torrential rain followed. Their flame lessened and the giants shrunk. Moments later they retreated in defeat. The day belonged to the defenders of Asgard.

*

Mirru came back to consciousness in her nest, her kittens cuddled around her. When she woke one of them began licking her singed fur. Her mind, now returned to feline normal, could barely process the previous events. She mainly knew that she was exhausted and hungry. Her kittens would have little milk until she hunted, but where she would find prey after the loud, noisy battle had scared them off she did not know.

Looking up from her bed of leaves, she realized she would not have to hunt. A plump rat and some juicy voles awaited her at the top of the nest. Who had provided them she did not know. She was grateful, though, and devoured a vole and half of the rat. The remainder she would eat after some rest.

Several hours later the sun set. Mirru watched it idly through the trees, following as the sun slid down the firmament. Full darkness took over. She ate again, then settled in with her kittens to sleep.

She was safe for now… but would it last? The fire giants might return at any time. Without the people to oppose them, what would happen to the land?

The next morning, the forest had mostly recovered. Birds flew from branch to branch, seeking food. Small ground prey came out of their holes. Mirru hunted, and the events of the previous day slid from her mind.

So it went for several days, until one morning Mirru saw two chariots flying across the sky. One flew through the efforts of two goats, loudly bleating and snorting as they went. The other was pulled by cats that looked much like herself. Mirru went down to the field to see more.

The goat-pulled chariot curved around in a long, powerful turn and landed on the field near where the encampment had stood. The goats chuffed as its driver stepped out.  “Toothgnasher, Toothgrinder, some good eating here,” he said as he released them from their harnesses.

The cat-drawn vessel slowed mid-air and took a much more sedate curve, landing lightly some yards away from the goats. A woman stepped out. She wore a dress of light material, beige in color, with light brown trimming. A circlet of gold sat atop her head, keeping her hair from blowing in the soft wind. She made a gesture and the cats walked free, leaving the chariot and their straps behind.

“Hello, little one,” Mirru heard in her head. The words seemed strange, and Mirru realized that the woman had not spoken. Mirru hung back at the edge of the forest, apprehensive.

One of the cats left the woman’s side and came over to Mirru. He stood and let her sniff him, then as a courtesy she did the same.

“Join us,” said the woman by the same strange mechanism. Mirru felt safe and so padded over. The woman chanted a few words and made a gesture. A blanket appeared and landed open on the grass. Three low stools materialized as well.

The woman sat and smiled, waiting. The man thumped down with a grunt. Mirru’s head felt strange, and she realized that the man was the one called “Thor.” His hammer lay attached to his belt in its small form, as it had before the battle.

The woman gestured at the third stool. Mirru understood the invitation and jumped onto it. “Welcome,” said the woman.

“Hello,” replied Mirru. “My head feels strange. Why are you here? How is it that I understand you?”

“I’ll take the first part of that,” said Thor. “A few days ago you gave us a boon. And you showed bravery. Bravery we wish to reward. This is Freya. She has somewhat better understanding of cats than I.” Thor waved towards the two cats who had drawn her chariot. They mostly ignored Thor but twitched ears at Mirru in acknowledgment.

The woman nodded at Thor. “He has asked me to assist with some magic that he finds exceeds his own skills. The hammer can translate battle speak, but we need to go beyond that.”

“I remember the battle,” Mirru communicated. “Even then, though, I did not think as I do now.”

“It is temporary,” said Freya. “We want you to understand the nature of the gift we bring.”

“Yes,” said Thor. “We can only offer. You can choose, or even refuse.”

“I have my own realm,” said Freya. “It is called Folkvang. There are many pleasant fields to play in. Cats are abundant. You are welcome to join us there.”

Mirru thought for a moment. “That sounds like a nice place to visit. I would like to come for a while, but only after my kittens are grown. And this is my home. I would want to return here.”

Freya nodded, and Thor took up the thread of conversation. “If protecting your home is what you want, you have certainly earned a boon.” At these words the hammer glinted. Mirru sat up straight, remembering the battle and the feel of the hammer in her… hands?

Thor reached into a pouch and drew out a small version of the hammer. “This is yours for the asking.”

“And how would I wield it?” asked Mirru, though she could scarcely keep from licking her lips in excitement as she stared.

“The hammer can be imbued with a small amount of Mjölnir’s enchantment,” said Thor. “You would not transform as much as before, but you would grow to twice your current size. It would not last long, or else the magic might burn out your mortal frame. But you would have the power again, for a short time.”

“How will I carry it?” she asked.

“I take it you are decided?” asked Thor.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Stretch out a claw,” said Freya. Mirru poked out the middle claw of her right front paw. Freya passed a hand over Mjölnir and a faint impression of a cloud formed. It picked up the small hammer, then went to Mirru’s outstretched claw and coalesced around it, turning the claw silver. The small hammer disappeared.

“Tap twice,” said Thor. Mirru did so and a small thunderclap pealed. Mirru sat on the stool in her large form. “Mrrraaawwr!” she said in pleasure, twirling the hammer in her paw-hands.

“You will be the protector of this area,” said Thor. “Simply think, and Mjölnir will relay your thoughts to me. And I believe this area might have a bit more rain to feed the plants that sustain your prey,” he said with a grin.

“Call me Silverclaw,” replied Mirru. Now she could truly protect her kittens. Even the prey would benefit from her watchful eye. No fire giants would threaten them again.

 

* * *

About the Author

John Taloni lives in Southern California where he may or may not have portals to various Nordic locations hidden around the home. His two house cats, Logan and Shadow, seem to head off to adventures daily. Logan returns regularly for cuddles, kitty treats, and to occasionally sheath his claws in his human servant.

In addition to “Cat of Thunder,” Taloni has written “Cat Gardian” about a Nordic feline who defends Asgard and opens the Rainbow Bridge for all pets. He also has a two-book “Cats of Space” series with Uplifted cats on a space station.

Taloni has been reading SFF since the age of eight when he stumbled across a copy of Alexei Panshin’s “Rite of Passage.” His major influences include Anne McCaffrey and Larry Niven. Taloni is a long-time attendee at SF conventions, and he met his wife while dressed as a Pernese dragon rider. Their daughter asked at the age of four if they could watch more of the show with “the robots that say ‘exterminate,’ and the entire family has happily watched Doctor Who together ever since. Taloni is a member of the Science Fiction Writers of America (SFWA.)

New video game where you play an escaped ape trying to get away from his captors but what's amazing is it's all in the style of a Saul Bass 1960s movie title sequence down to the jazz soundtrack. If you are not up on Saul Bass: https://youtu.be/aPBWvfMKV10    
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Look, we’re just going to quote this direct from the folks over at Cartoonbrew — no way we could explain it any better. “Four new animated series based on Marvel characters are in the works at Hulu. The shows will collectively lead up to a special event bringing them all together titled The Offenders. All of these projects will target mature audiences. Jordan Blum (American Dad!) and comedian/actor Patton Oswalt are writing M.O.D.O.K., about an evil mastermind with limited body mass and big plans. Hit Monkey, with Josh Gordon and Will Speck as writers, follows a Japanese snow monkey transformed into a vengeful assassin in Tokyo’s criminal underworld. Set in Los Angeles, Tigra & Dazzler Show follows a pair of ‘woke’ female heroes pushing to stand out in a city full talented people. Comedian Chelsea Handler and Erica Rivinoja (Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2) have been tasked with writing the project. Lastly, there is Howard the Duck, centered on the publisher’s notorious anthropomorphic bird trapped in the human world. Director Kevin Smith (Clerks) and Dave Willis (creator, Aqua Teen Hunger Force) are writing this dark comedy and will also executive produce. Comic writer Jeph Loeb (also a producer on Smallville and Lost) will act as executive producer on all four projects, as well as the crossover finale. No writers have been announced yet for the crossover finale, in which all of these characters will ‘form a team no one asked for’ to save the world.” Got all that? No word yet on a release date for these shows, but we’ll be watching!

image c. 2019 Hulu

Today we have here a student film from the ESMA [1] animation school.  I kinda wanted to get a few more avians up here. [1] https://www.esma-artistique.com/en/
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Gre7g Luterman is an author with Thurston Howl Publications that’s been writing since the late 70s. We get a chance to speak with him a bit about his writing.

 

Tell us about your most recent project (written or published). What inspired it?

I just had two books come out this past month: Fair Trade which is the conclusion to the Kanti Cycle trilogy, and Reaper’s Lottery which is my first SciFi murder mystery. The mystery has been an incredibly challenging project and I spent two years bringing it from conception to conclusion, finally publishing the seventh version of the story, if you can believe that!

Science fiction is a wonderful thing to write. You take our known universe and tweak one little thing or set up a scenario we aren’t familiar with and then follow the changes through, seeing how it affects each aspect of the characters’ lives. If the krakun tricked the geroo into working as their slaves, how would that impact the geroo’s religious beliefs? If the geroo live on a spaceship where the number of crew isn’t allowed to increase, would that lead to euthanasia and a lottery for selecting who gets to be parents next? If there was never an unwanted pregnancy, how would that change the culture?

And then taking this to the next step of making it a murder mystery, you get to ask questions like, With so much inequity, who would be pushed to murder? Why would they kill? Who would they kill? And what would they hope to accomplish by killing? This is great fun for the writer and, without a doubt, it translates into a really fun ride for the reader as well.

 

What’s your writing process like? Are you a “pantser,” an outliner, or something in between? How do you find that this helps and/or hurts your writing style?

I am the epitome of the pantser! I never have any idea where a story is headed until it gets there. Oh, I’ve tried to outline where the story must be going but, as soon as I do, the story will immediately turn in a different direction. If I try to force it to where I’ve outlined then the final story will not be a fun read.

My writing process is to make a new character and write a few scenes for him/er, try to find out what is interesting about them, why the reader should like them, should care about what happens to them. I toss a complication into their life and rely on my intuition as to whether there is a whole story there. Since I don’t know where it’s headed, I have to rely on gut feel.

Then I let them wander. I let them build a support network of people who care, who try to help them cope and overcome. I don’t worry about whether they’re going the right direction or not. Then, eventually, I’ll round that final bend and see the destination. Aha! So, that’s where this was going all along.

I finish up the draft, then move it to the right half of the screen and open a blank document on the left. And then I rewrite the entire story. I straighten out the wandering. I add bits here and there so that insignificant events become important if they contribute to the destination. I don’t show people my first draft. Until I do a rewrite—a version written with the destination in mind—then the draft isn’t worth reading.

 

What’s your favorite kind of story to write?

Romance with a splash of danger, definitely! Prepare for a meandering explanation of why…

My goal is always to keep the reader from putting the book down. The best way to accomplish that goal is for the reader to worry about what will happen to the main character. Readers worry about characters when two things happen: first, they have to love and care about the MC and second, the MC has to be in peril.

Love is the most powerful and pure of all emotions. When we show how the main character is lovable and worthy of another character’s love (not just the main character loving a secondary character), then the reader will love and care about out MC. Then when we put this lovesick character into peril we not only make the reader worry about what will happen to them but we propel them into action, driving them to … wherever the heck this story happens to be headed, since I couldn’t see it from the beginning.

This is the recipe for a great story that will be loved by those who read it.

 

All of your recent novels are set in the Hayven Celestia universe created by Rick Griffin (of Housepets! fame). Why write in his universe, and how well has that collaboration worked?

The why is an easy one. When I read Rick’s short story Ten Thousand Miles Up, I was immediately fascinated by the world he had created—furry heroes that were tiny compared to their masters but yet kept enslaved with a light touch. He got me thinking about a generation ship with an endless mission and how society would have to change to adapt to it. Plus, his story focused on all the important players like the captain and the commissioner, but my curiosity is always for what life is like for the common guy in any society. And like any good fanfiction writer, when the canon doesn’t give me what I want, I feel compelled to make it up!

Rick is not only great fun to work with, he’s incredibly frustrating. He’s so very creative, so very imaginative, and just as stubborn as I am about how I think things should go. So it was only natural that we’d bump heads constantly. I thought collaborating would be like us finishing each other’s sentences or maybe alternating chapters or something. We tried that and it was readily apparent that our styles and recalcitrant natures would never allow it.

Fortunately, we worked out an informal agreement where he’d write his stories one way, I’d do mine my way, we seriously consider each other’s opinions, but don’t feel compelled that every aspect of the universe remain identical across our stories.

 

What has most influenced your work? Is an author, a title, or something else?

I’d have to say books by Nancy A. Collins. Collins mostly writes about my favorite subject to read, monsters in the modern day—vampires, werewolves, and demons hiding in a familiar setting—but she has an amazing ability to make the reader care about the characters. I want a book that can ruin my life, make me stay up until 2am, completely wrecked because I have to go to work in the morning but I still need to know what happens in the story.

Plus, Collins is willing to give a main character the perfect love, then wad the lover up and throw him away! Oh man, I just can’t do that. I can throw away a secondary character’s lover, but the main character’s? Yikes. If I killed off Tish (Kanti’s true love) I’d cry for days.

So yes, if any writer out there has influenced me and represents a direction that I’d like my work to grow, it would be her.

 

What’s the last book you read that you really loved?

I’m going to give you two instead of one, because I read them around the same time and loved completely different things about these two completely different books. The first was A Fire Upon the Deep by Vernor Vinge. Despite not loving the characters—sadly—I loved the SciFi of this novel. Not only were the tines a fascinating species whose biological differences led to lots of differences in how they do things, the zones of thought was a brilliant creation that I know I could never equal in my own writing. Plus, the scale of the story was so big that I would never even dare to tackle it myself.

The second was a kids’ book called Too Many Curses by A. Lee Martinez. This was a charming romp filled with charming characters. I don’t think I was ever truly worried about whether the characters would succeed or fail—it is a kids’ book, after all—but I couldn’t help smiling at every single thing they said. Imagine if Harry Potter had been written by Ursula Vernon and you’d have this world.

 

The hero from your Kanti Cycle trilogy, Kanti, does a bunch of un-heroic things. Does that make him a bad hero?

Perhaps? Kanti’s never been a particularly heroic geroo. He’s not the smartest, the bravest, or the most talented around. He’s never dreamed of being a hero. He just wanted to keep his head down and remained unnoticed.

As a writer, I’ve always bristled at perfect heroes—you know the type, the Richard Rahl who at every junction always makes the correct decision, no matter the cost. That’s not Kanti. Despite the furry pelt, he’s very human. He gets scared and his first impulse is to run or to keep his loved ones from heading into danger, even if that’s morally the wrong thing to do.

But on the bright side, that gives Kanti an awful lot of room to grow. And though he’s still no John McClane, the Kanti at the end of the series is certainly a lot more heroic than the one at the beginning.

 

Advice for other writers?

Yes! First, don’t write about your fursona or an O.C. that you’ve been RPing for ages. Make up a new character when you start writing the book. Then fall in love with the character while you write. The reader needs to fall in love with this character for them to love your book, and if you fall in love with them while writing, then the reader will probably do the same while reading it. If you write about a character you already love, then chances are you will skimp on that romance, leaving the reader out in the cold.

Next, hurt the character, hurt them badly, and threaten to hurt them more if they don’t accomplish something in a given amount of time. This makes the reader worry about your MC, propels them into action, and gives them a ticking clock so they can’t drag their ass about it.

Finally, at the end of the story, give the MC something back. And crucially, if you hurt the character by taking something away, make sure the reward for accomplishing your quest is something different, something unexpected, or something they didn’t even know they wanted. Giving them what you took away—like returning Dorothy to Kansas after living in a magical land—is not a very satisfying conclusion.

 

Where can readers find your work?

You can look for Skeleton Crew, Small World, Fair Trade, and Reaper’s Lottery on my Amazon Author’s Page, my old and dusty fanfiction at fanfiction.net, and keep an eye out for my new books by watching my @Gre7gL Twitter account. And again, don’t hesitate to contact me by email. I really do enjoy discussing the craft.

 

What’s your favorite thing about the furry fandom? Why write furry?

Oh, that’s an easy one. When you’re a furry, you’re passionate about furry characters. Maybe you’re misanthropic and think furry characters would be superior to humans, perhaps you romanticize them, are aroused by them, or maybe you think the best monsters are ones that are covered in fur. It doesn’t matter why but you have a passion for them.

And when you’re a furry and a writer, you want to share those characters and the dramas in your head with other furries. You want other furries to feel that same agony when your lovable characters fail, the same elation when they succeed.

When your passion is furry, that’s when you should write for furries. Writing outside your passions may create something so-so but when you write what you love, you can make something amazing!

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For several years France 3 [1] has had original idents with CG animated animals.  Here is a collection of their marmots indents where they re-create various movies.     [1] https://www.france.tv/france-3/
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