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by A Humphrey Lanham

We rolled out of our cave, grouping at its red rim. One by one, we rushed down, over the peak of the hill, leaping across the soft-edged crevasse to land on the pointy cliff at the edge of the world. There we hesitated, waiting.

“This is it,” said our leader. The first out of the cave. The first off the edge of the world.

And one by one we leapt, falling down, down, down in a slow, steady beat onto the soft world below, bleeding into the fibers. Our salt comingling. Our five-second lives sacrificed in the name of sorrow.

 

* * *

About the Author

A Humphrey Lanham is a fantasy, science fantasy, and YA writer. They read and write a wide range of fiction but prefer strong female characters who refuse to cater to patriarchal social structures, expectations of romance, or cultural gender norms and stereotypes. They are chair of Wordos, an internationally renowned writers’ group based in Eugene, Oregon.

Ru, their cat, is an anthropologist studying humans and their strange proclivities. They speculate that Ru is actually an alien xenobiologist, but everyone keeps telling them that he is just a common Earth cat.

You can follow their adventures on Twitter @ahumphreylanham and @thecupcakebeast.

by Lena Ng

“Meyxtle held the bag with three tentacles and closely studied it. The corners were crisp, no scuffing on the sides, no bite-marks or bruises.”

“Let me refill your cup, dear,” said Meyxtle, as she poured from the refined bone china teapot. The smell of seaweed from the warm, salt tea wafted into the room. “Take a snack as well.” She moved the bucket closer to the edge of the table.

Crystix studied the pile of moving crabs as they clumsily climbed over each other. “Looks delicious.” She delicately wrapped a tentacle over the top crab—since manners dictated she didn’t dig into the middle of the pile and pick the fattest, reddest one hiding beneath its brothers—slipped it under her mantle, and into her beak. “Sorry about the mess,” she said as she crunched down, leaving bits of shell on the oyster couch.

“Never mind,” said Meyxtle, as she crunched on her own crabs.

The doorbell rang. Meyxtle slithered off the couch and slimed her way to the door. She signed the clipboard using a jet from her ink pouch and brought the package into the lovely sitting room. Her suckers gripped the box and she easily tore through the packaging. “Finally, it came.” She showed off her purchase.

“Nice,” exclaimed Crystix. Reverentially, she touched the handbag. “Baby soft skin.”

Meyxtle held up the handbag to one of her large eyes of her mantle. She examined the handbag from every angle. The skin was thin and a pale pinkish-white in colour. “I got a good one. No moles, no scars…wait…” She noticed a subtle discoloration. “Looks like a birthmark.” She opened the handbag and read the accompanying card. “Since each bag is made from a unique skin, individual variations in skin tone and texture may occur.”

“How did you ever afford it? Designer leather bags are expensive enough, let alone an exotic.” Crystix grabbed a crab that was scuttling on the seaweed-carpeted floor. “Aren’t they endangered?”

Meyxtle held the bag with three tentacles and closely studied it. The corners were crisp, no scuffing on the sides, no bite-marks or bruises. “Oh this one wasn’t wild. It was farmed.”

“They can farm humans now?”

With the tips of her tentacles, Meyxtle twisted the bag’s turn lock and looked inside. “Actually, I heard it’s pretty easy. You throw a bunch of them in an enclosure and nine months later, you have more of them. If you feed them, they continue to multiply. Whereas, in the wild, there’s more of a chance of damaging the skin at harvest time.”

Crystix’s eyes glowed with envy. “Their skins are so soft. Like a pig’s. But more delicate.”

Meyxtle rested the bag on the coral coffee table. She crunched on another crab. “I heard they taste pretty good, too, when they were abundant enough that we could eat them. I hope they don’t just take their skins. It would be waste of the meat to dispose of it.”

Crystix nodded with her bulbous mantle. “A big waste.”

The two females cooed as they sipped their tea and admired the human-skin handbag.

 

* * *

About the Author

Lena Ng is from Toronto, Ontario. Her 2018 publications include: Polar Borealis, Spectacle, Enchanted Conversation, ARTPOST, NonBinary Review, Amazing Stories, and the anthology We Shall Be Monsters. “Under an Autumn Moon” is her short story collection. She is currently seeking a publisher for her novel, Darkness Beckons, a Gothic romance.

by Ellen Denton

“The deer, in unison, stopped what they were doing and lined up in a row across the front of the house. They stood there looking directly into my eyes.”

Last week, herds of deer started coming to my yard. They’re not afraid of me; when I tap on the window to get their attention, they don’t act startled or nervous even though I’m only a few feet away. When I speak to them through the glass, their ears twitch and they look at me with intelligent, almost friendly eyes.

When they’re not there, I can still see their tracks, like words of a secret code written by hoof prints in the snow. I like to think they’re telling me, in a winter language spoken with their feet, “We’re still here.  We’re watching over you.” They make me feel less alone and remind me of all the ethereal beauty in the world.

One morning, I was looking at them through the big picture window that faces out onto the yard. They were scattered around, some of them reclining in the snow, others nibbling leaves from the lower branches of evergreen trees, a few nuzzling the ground in search of buried vegetation.

I left for a while to finish reading a book. I was saddened by it because it was a love story and both the hero and heroine were killed at the end. After I closed the book, I walked back to the window in tears. The deer, in unison, stopped what they were doing and lined up in a row across the front of the house. They stood there looking directly into my eyes.

* * *

This type of thing started about a month ago. Living creatures of all kinds would come and interact with me.

The first time was when a spider descended from the ceiling on a thread-thin filament of silvery web. I was sitting in a recliner reading, raised my eyes, and it was inches from my face. I lurched backwards with momentary disgust and fear. It was light brown in color and large enough for me to clearly see the spindly segments of its body.

I was going to duck below it so that I could get out of the chair without touching it and go get a vacuum cleaner to suck it and the web strand off the ceiling, but its dot-sized black eyes turned green – a reflective green like a mirror – and this snagged my attention.

It then started spinning around at the end of the thread. Then it faced me again and began waving its legs up and down as though they were fingers on a keyboard, then it spun around again and continued going through that alternating sequence for about two minutes. I know it sounds silly, but at the time, I felt like the spider was doing a happy dance at the sight of me.

It finally rose back up to the ceiling by absorbing the strand of web back into its body. I didn’t know spiders could do that.

“My initial thought was to get a broom and gouge it out of the corner, but it was pretty, like a shimmering circle of snow crystals or jewels, and it wasn’t really doing any harm, so I decided to leave it for the time being.”

The ceiling was well lit by a carousel of bulbs, so when I looked up, I could clearly see a bridge of silken strands stretching across it. The spider traveled along one of them towards the corner, which contained a beautiful, circular web. There were other spiders on the web too, gliding back and forth along the strands and making more.

My initial thought was to get a broom and gouge it out of the corner, but it was pretty, like a shimmering circle of snow crystals or jewels, and it wasn’t really doing any harm, so I decided to leave it for the time being.

I was curious though about the odd motions of the spider when it hung before my face and the way its eyes turned green, so I grabbed a book on insects I remembered seeing in the other room. I didn’t find anything that talked about those things, but did come across an interesting chapter called “Strange and Amazing Facts About Spiders.”

I read through it. It had things like:

“Spiders have blue blood.”

and

“The silk in a spider’s web is so strong, that a web just a few inches thick could stop a cannon ball in flight.”

and

“Spider webs are not passive traps. Instead, because of electrically conducive glue spread across their surface, webs spring towards their prey.”

As I read further and further down the list, with each new fact getting creepier rather than more interesting, I would glance nervously up at the ceiling, trying to decide if the web had gotten larger or was moving towards me since the moment before when I last looked at it. It really hadn’t, but I did feel compelled at that point to get that broom.

The next day, there was an occurrence with a big cockroach-like thing. It was crouched over a crumb, but when it saw me, skittered across the kitchen counter toward the very edge of it, stopped dead in its tracks, and just stood there facing me. The antennae on top of its head started vibrating so fast, they became a solid blur of gray. I felt sick to my stomach at the sight of it, but it finally skittered off somewhere.

Later that same day, a butterfly landed outside on the window glass.  When I came up real close to it so that I could get a better look, it started dreamily wafting its wings back and forth as it clung to the glass.

There were other things with insects over the next few days, some of it creepy, some of it just strange – like a thick ant trail that poured into my house through a crack in the wall. Normally, when I’d come across one of those, they’d be traveling in a line from the outside to some bit of food on the floor or in my trash, but these ants came in and formed strange, swirling designs and shapes out of the thousands of their combined tiny bodies.

I stood over them with a can of insecticide in my hand, my finger ready to push down the button and release the death spray on them, but I hesitated when I saw what they were doing. A few minutes later, they formed a trail again and went swarming out of the house through the same crack from which they’d entered. They had funny little blue dots on their backs that I’d never seen before on ants.

The following week, it started to happen with larger life forms.

There was, for instance, an occurrence with a woodpecker. It tapped on the ledge right outside my window, then fell silent as I tapped back at him. We kept taking turns tapping back and forth to each other before he flew off.

Once, a whole flock of blackbirds in flight descended and circled my house over and over, before taking to the sky again. They flew low enough to the ground for me to see them through the window, and their muffled wing beats sounded like a magician shuffling a deck of cards.

Following this were instances with chipmunks, squirrels, a few rabbits, a raccoon, and some animals I’m not familiar with.

* * *

My house is in the woods, with no one who lives close by, at least that I’ve ever seen, so I was genuinely surprised when dogs and cats started showing up. Domestic animals normally don’t wander about in the woods.

The first one sort of looked like a French Poodle and she had three puppies with her. They sniffed around in the snow and at the door, and then ran to the big picture window. The puppies all started barking at me.

Last week the deer showed up for the first time, lingering long through the day or sometimes just stopping briefly before moving on. Often a doe would come right up to the window with a fawn and look into the house at me, their faces just a few inches from mine with only the window glass between us.

* * *

Two days ago, I regained my memory. Previously, I had very little recollection of my life prior to about five or six weeks ago, but the other night, I glanced upwards, and the shock of more glittering webs scattered across the ceiling and making their way down the walls snapped me out of the amnesia.

The only thing I can’t recall is how I got here. I’m hoping that comes back to me too,  but even if it does, I won’t write about it, since I don’t think there’s much of a chance anyone will ever get to see it, or see any of this that I’ve already written. I’m pretty sure I know now though why the only window in the entire house is the one that faces front, and why it will not break. I tried smashing a chair through it, and the chair broke instead of the window.

The deer are gone now too. Late yesterday, a large, strange-looking creature with a horn at the center of its head came lumbering by and scared them off.

The thing that concerns me more than anything else though is that the spider webs are getting larger and so are the spiders.

Yesterday, the webs started stretching down towards the bottom of the walls and each spider is now about the size of my hand, covering the ceiling in a sickening blanket of spider torsos and legs. If I get too close to one of the webs, it bulges out at me. Whenever that happens, the spiders in the room stop skittering around all at once and turn to me, as though watching to see what’s going to happen next, so I have to quickly get away from the wall. They then resume swinging from web to web, like little eight-legged monkeys.

If I try to gouge one of the webs away with a broom, all the spiders converge on that one spot and quickly spin another. One even came down the wall and scrambled across the floor toward my foot. I smashed it over and over with a cast iron frying pan until it was nothing but mush. None of them tried to approach me again after that; they just hang there from their webs on the ceiling and up and down the walls.

I’ve searched every inch of this house looking for a way out of it, but there is none.

* * *

Today, a horror beyond my wildest dreams occurred, and I have lost all hope.

There was a terrible blizzard overnight, which blew down a sign that must have been attached to the front of the house. There were three words on it, but I could only make out the word “The” at the top and “House” at the bottom. The middle word was covered over with snow.

I was terrified that when the wind blew off that bit of snow, the whole sign would read “The Human House”, and my worst and craziest fears would be realized – that I had somehow been abducted and placed in an intergalactic zoo of some sort where animals were the observers and humanoid-type entities were the displays – that I’d been placed in only a replica of a real house, the same way that animal habitats in zoos are often made to look like they do in nature – that the creatures that came to my window, or crawled in and out through cracks in my walls, considered me no more than a dumb, strange looking beast, the way children on field trips gape at things – that I would have to adapt to living the rest of my life in this cage, the way prisoners serving life sentences do.

I wondered why, if I was supposed to be a display, those horrible spiders were let in here, getting bigger by the minute, and now dripping this awful white mucus from their mouths as they hover above me from their webs.

* * *

Things turned out to be far worse though than I could have ever conceived in my wildest imaginings, and I have never felt as paralyzed with fear, as small, or as utterly unimportant and insignificant as I do right now.

The sun warmed the woods up enough for that little patch of snow to melt off the sign.

This isn’t “The Human House” exhibit. It’s “The Spider House” one!

 

* * *

 

About the Author

Ellen Denton is a freelance writer living in the Rocky Mountains with her husband and three demonic cats who wreak havoc and hell (the cats, not the husband). Her writing has been published in over a hundred magazines and anthologies. She as well has had an exciting life working as a rodeo clown, a Navy seal, and an exotic dancer in the crew lounge of the starship Enterprise. She was also the first person to scale Mount Everest to its summit. (Writer’s note: The one-hundred-plus publication credits are true, but some or all of the other stuff may be fictional.)

by David Sklar

“Are you a good mouser? I have an infestation—mice or something—at the top of that mountain in the east. If you’d like to hunt them for me I’d be mighty grateful.”

Once upon a time there were three cats who lived in a boot that belonged to a giant. Now, this giant had a small farm, stretching over about half a continent, where he grew mountains. You might not think of mountains as a crop that grows on a farm, but if you are large enough and patient enough, you can grow them, and I’ll tell you how:

You start with a mountain seed, which is a special kind of stone, slightly bigger than you are, and shaped like a kernel of unpopped corn. Hold this stone between thumb and forefinger, and push the pointy end down into the rock. Keep on pressing down, down, down into the Earth’s crust, until the tip of it just punctures the mantle. The magma spills up from under the mantle, swells into gaps in the crust, and pushes the mountain up from the rock over the course of thousands of years. And that’s how you grow mountains.

* * *

Now, this giant had been working barefoot in the fields when he came home and found a small family of cats inside his boot. Curious, he shook the boot to see what would happen.

The calico cat climbed up the leather inside the boot, trying to escape—but the shaking made her lose her grip and fall. She landed on her feet in the heel, and scampered into the toe, where the tabby cat had been hiding since the giant picked them up. But the black cat saw the enormous bootlace dangling inside the boot, and she had to play. She latched her claws into this string and bit the tip of the bootlace, and when the giant pulled it up the cat came with it.

“Well, you’re a brave one,” the giant said as he pulled the cat out. “Are you a good mouser? I have an infestation—mice or something—at the top of that mountain in the east. If you’d like to hunt them for me I’d be mighty grateful.”

The cat did not want to leave her brother and her sister behind, but the infestation of mice sounded delicious. “Yum,” she said. And the giant carried her to the distant mountain and placed her gently on top to hunt the mice.

Now, giants’ eyes are wonderful for seeing large things far away—but not so good for details on mouse-sized things—or even goat-sized things, for that matter. Indeed, if the black cat had not mewed and played with his bootlace, the giant might not have realized she was a cat, but mistaken her for some other creature instead. So when the black cat arrived on the mountaintop, she searched and searched for mice, but the only creatures she found were a herd of goats.

She tried to catch a mountain goat once or twice, but she had no luck, and in the end she set off down the mountain alone. She saw a plume of chimney-smoke rising up from a house at the base of another mountain. She wandered for days until, thin and starving, she reached that house, where a farmer and his family took her in and nursed her back to health.

Meanwhile, the giant went back to his boot and shook out the calico cat and said, “Your sister has not caught the mice I sent her to hunt on the mountaintop. I see that you know how to climb. Do you think you can help?”

“Of course,” said the calico cat, who was afraid for her sister, and missed her dearly.

So the giant took the calico cat to the mountaintop and deposited her there. And the calico cat searched high and low for mice, and for her sister the black cat, but she found neither—only goats. So she walked down the mountainside and followed the chimney-smoke to the cottage, where she showed up worn and haggard, and they nursed her back to health, and the two cats nestled together on the windowbox in the sunlight.

Meanwhile, the giant returned to his boot, having no idea that a third cat remained in the toe—for the tabby cat had always hidden himself so well. So the giant put his boot back on with the cat inside.

Luckily, the boot fit him well, with extra room in the toe, and the tabby cat found a warm place to sleep between the giant’s big toe and his next one (which was also quite large but not a big toe by name), and the cat was comfortable there.

But one night the giant could not sleep because the goats on the mountaintop were bleating too loud. As patient as he could be about growing mountains, he got grumpy when someone disturbed his sleep. So he flung his boot at the mountaintop, and mumbled something about that infernal squeaking, completely unaware that there was a cat inside his boot.

Of course, being half asleep, he missed by a mile, or possibly even a mile and a half, and the boot bounced off of the crest of a neighboring mountain, and it settled even higher up, on the icy peak of a third.

When the boot was no longer moving, the poor tabby cat stumbled dizzily out of the toe, and walked up toward the opening to make sense of his surroundings. But before he could get outside, his movement shifted the weight of the boot, and the whole thing began to slip on the mountaintop ice. The cat held on for dear life as the old boot rode an avalanche down the mountainside, coming to rest at last against the backside of the cottage where his sisters now dwelt.

The cushion of snow was a fortunate thing, for it kept the massive boot from cracking the cottage in half with its weight. But it nearly buried the cottage. The farmer and his two daughters had to climb out the windows and shovel a path to the door, while his wife stayed inside and made something hot to drink, and their young son stayed in and played with the two cats.

While they were shoveling out their door, the farmer and his daughters noticed the face of a tabby cat poking out through a hole in the snow. And so it was that the tabby cat was reunited with his sisters, and the farmer and his family gained an enormous boot in their yard, which they used to store root vegetables in the winter.

And they all lived happily ever after. Or they would have, except that the giant was still out there looking for his boot.

Because the boot was covered in snow, he had walked past it two or three times already, giving the farmer and his family time to stock it completely with beets and rutabagas, turnips and parsnips, and the boot remained hidden in the snow until one day the farmer stamped snow off his boots before going in to get a parsnip for his soup, and that stamping shook a bit of snow off the ankle. So it was that, on the fourth or fifth pass, the giant noticed his boot sticking out of the snow, and he picked it up.

And what a thrill awaited him on that day! For instead of a family of cats who never did deal with his infestation, he looked inside and saw a cache of root vegetables that seemed just the right size for an afternoon snack. So he upturned the boot above his mouth and ate them all in one gulp, leaving the farmer and his family with nothing to eat for the winter.

The farmer was distraught, and he had no idea what to do. The winter stretched out long before them, and they had just enough food for a week. And his daughters and his wife felt hopeless as well.

But the youngest child said, “I will go and find the giant, and make him pay us back for the food he took.” And his father told him no, and his mother told him no, and his sisters told him please don’t, and the black cat told him, “If you go then I’m going with you.”

And when everyone else was asleep, the farmer’s son went out in the snow to track the giant, with a sandwich, a bit of kibble, and the black cat riding in the pack on his back. This did not take much skill, because the footprints were almost as big around as his house. But it still was not easy, because the giant took such large steps that the boy had to run all night just to catch up. And he still would not have made it, except that the giant stopped in the morning to plant a new crop of mountains.

“Hey, Mister Giant!” the boy shouted, and he tapped on the giant’s boot.

The giant pushed another large round rock into the ground.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” the boy shouted.

The giant did not notice, but walked a bit further, and the boy had to sprint to keep up.

“Hey!” the boy shouted, breathless, when the large foot stopped again, but the giant continued not to notice him. The cat leaped out of the backpack and grabbed the lace of the giant’s boot, where it dangled above the ground. With the greatest leap he could muster, the young lad followed, and grabbed the bootlace as well. And they swung from it until the bootlace came untied, and the boy’s feet touched the ground.

Still the giant did not notice, but went his way, dragging the boy across the stone terrain with every step. “There are trees over there,” the cat said. To get the giant’s attention, the boy ran off to the side and wrapped the bootlace several times around a pine.  And this the giant noticed by the way the pine tree snagged his step before it toppled out of the ground.

“Hey!” the boy shouted again.

The giant turned and squinted down at him. “You’re not a cat,” the giant said. “And you’re not a rat. What are you?”

“I’m a boy.”

The giant scratched his stubbly chin. “Are you a good mouser?”

“I don’t know.” The boy shrugged. “I’ve never tried.”

“Then probably not,” the giant told him. “What do you want?”

The boy felt a quivering in his chest that nearly stole his voice away, but he answered anyway, “You took something of mine.”

The giant looked around, puzzled. “Was that your tree?”

“No,” the boy answered. “My family’s root vegetables. The beets, parsnips, rutabagas, and turnips you ate from this boot.”

“Those were yours?” the giant asked.

The boy nodded. “Uh-huh.”

The giant shrugged. “Why were your roots in my boots?”

“We didn’t know it was yours,” the boy said. “It came to us with a cat. We were using it as a root cellar.”

“Did anyone buy?” the giant asked.

“Buy what?” the boy asked back.

“The roots, from your root seller.”

The boy shook his head. “They were all we had. They were supposed to feed us all winter.”

At this point the cat tugged on the boy’s pants. “Tell him you’re a good mouser,” the cat told the boy.

“He already said I wasn’t,” the boy said back.

“Tell him you’ll try,” said the cat.

“What are you talking about?” asked the giant.

“I can try being a mouser, if you need me to,” said the boy.

“But you’ll need a tool,” said the cat.

“But I’ll need a tool,” said the boy.

“What kind of tool?” said the giant.

“His bootlace,” the cat whispered.

“Your bootlace,” said the boy.

So the giant thought a minute, then pulled out his bootlace. He then took the boy, not even noticing the cat who rode along, and deposited the boy and the cat on the mountaintop with the goats.

* * *

Meanwhile, back at the farm, the boy’s family wondered if he would ever return.

“He probably got eaten by the giant,” said his mother. And she shed a tear, because as tough as she tried to be, she loved her children and she did not want to lose them.

The boy’s sisters watched the two cats play lethargically in the sunlight. The girls missed their brother, and the cats missed the other cat.

And then it was that the boy and the cat rode in on the back of a goat, with a dozen more goats harnessed behind them with a giant bootlace. “We’ll have milk for the winter. And cheese,” said the boy. “And meat, if we get really hungry.”

But his sisters and his parents only ran to him and hugged him, so glad they were to see the boy alive. And the cats ran up and rubbed against his shoes, and then they leaped up onto the back of the goat to welcome their sister home.

 

* * *

Originally published in Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores.

About the Author

David Sklar never learned to drink coffee until he had kids. A Rhysling nominee and past winner of the Julia Moore Award for Bad Verse, he has more than 100 published works, including fiction in Nightmare and Strange Horizons, poetry in Ladybug and Stone Telling, and humor in Knights of The Dinner Table and McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. David lives with his wife, their two barbarians, and a secondhand familiar in a cliffside cottage in Northern New Jersey, where he almost supports his family as a freelance writer and editor. He’s also the creator of the Poetry Crisis Line, which features new material every Monday and Thursday at poetrycrisis.org.

by Gerri Leen

“You cannot in all fairness deny him. If you choose, you must choose him. If you refuse him, he will challenge whomever you do choose, and you don’t think any can stand against him.”

Snow trickles into the barn, blown by winds grown suddenly gentle after gusting all night. You can hear the sound of festivities from the castle: the humans are preparing to welcome in another year with dances, great spreads of food and drink, and embraces when the clock strikes twelve. There’s no clock in the barn, but you’ll know exactly when the year slips over: the sense of potential will build as the minutes tick down and then be gone again until next year.

You turn away from the cold, feeling it despite the lushness of your fur. Your joints ache as you move and you want nothing more than to go up to the castle and lie in front of the kitchen stove, but you’re expected down here. Kittens and half-grown cats circle around you, their tails up in the universal cat-sign of friendliness, their hopeful faces beaming silent messages of: “Choose me. Choose me.”

It’s New Year’s Eve, the night you can choose to change, and there are more candidates than last year even with the storm.

They look so appealing—they feel even more so with their spirits strong and their energy high. You can barely remember your first incarnation, when you jumped at the least sound, your back arched, your tail like the sword you’re known for carrying.

You don’t carry it anymore—and you think that disappoints the clowder. They know your body is worn and scarred and that it’s time.

Truth to tell, it’s long past.

Lilac meets your eyes and her look is knowing as she glances at one young cat in particular—a lithe buff tabby with stunning turquoise eyes. Tulip is her son. She has prepared him despite the cost to her and her bloodline.

To be the vessel of “the Puss” is an honor, after all.

Your boots hang with your sword, just above the shelf you like to sleep on, the one that gets sun no matter the season. It’s been so long since you last wore them, when you fooled an ogre and a king and made your person rich and loved. A favor he never forgot nor did his heirs—the care of the estate cats is written into every will. You’ll always have a home here even if the latest marquis doesn’t know it’s really the famous “Puss” in this old gray body.

You were a brown tabby when you wore the boots. You’ve been so many other colors before and since: a longhair white, a black and white shorthair, solid black, silver striped, even once the seal brown and tan of a cat from the exotic east. In the early days you preferred to be striped, to mimic the wildcat and take advantage of its natural camouflage when you went into battle. It’s been some time since you battled anything more dangerous than a rat. But you could fight again, if you choose the change. Your body wears out, but your soul—your gift of language and cunning—does not. All your experiences come with you when you jump to a new vessel.

You have no idea how it works. It just does. Probably a fairy somewhere was behind it. Everything seems to happen because of them.

The kittens dance and mock-fight with each other, and they raise dust that makes you sneeze.

“Bless you, great one.” Tulip walks over, his stance assured. He knows he’s the most likely choice to be your new vessel. He will consider it an honor to die and make way for you.

“Walk with me,” you say, and he stays close, his head bumping against yours in a way few who know you ever dare.

You love this cat. Have loved him since he threw himself between you and a garden snake, his kitten body puffed, his half-saber tail up in perfect battle-cat form. Neither you nor Lilac had the heart to tell him the snake wasn’t venomous. Let him think he saved you.

This is his last year to be eligible. You only take the youngest, those under two. Before life has begun to mean too much, before they get attached to other cats and people and even dogs and horses and other mean creatures. It’s a rule you’ve made for yourself: if you must steal bodies to fulfill whatever strange destiny demands you remain on this Earth, you will do so with as little damage as possible.

The cats whose bodies you take move on and get another chance, or so you assume. You cannot bear the thought that you’ve robbed them completely of life. None have ever come back to tell you it is or is not so, but perhaps they incarnate somewhere else, far from their old bodies.

“I stand ready,” Tulip says, and his voice doesn’t shake as some of the other candidates’ have over the years.

You cannot in all fairness deny him. If you choose, you must choose him. If you refuse him, he will challenge whomever you do choose, and you don’t think any can stand against him.

But you don’t have to choose. You should have changed last New Years, mere months after he “saved” you from the snake. But you couldn’t bear to. Even if everything in you said it was time, that your current body was nearly useless to you. Even then Tulip was the best candidate, young and green though he was.

You walk without talking, and he keeps up easily, not hanging back the customary head length. You always seek him out when you visit the barn, and all the other cats know he’s your friend, and with that title comes great honor.

You know he considers you a friend, too. You have not, over the lifetime, had many of those. Loss is a hard thing if you can never escape the cycle of the seasons, so you’ve learned to keep to yourself. Lilac managed to creep past your defenses; it’s little wonder her son has too.

“I can last another year,” you murmur. Normally there is no discussion. You choose or you do not.

“You can’t last.” Tulip’s voice is strong, his faith resolute. He thinks he wants this.

You imagine the kittens he will father. Fine, strong, and brave. Beautiful like he is. Cunning like his mother. You, in his body, could never replicate that.

You’re a terrible father. You’ve learned this over the lifetimes. But is it heartless to not want to get too close to a kitten you may eventually kill? Even if it’s for destiny’s sake? You’ve stopped fathering litters on the estate and go far afield for that sort of pleasure. Or did—your wandering days are over for now.

“I’m not dead yet,” you mutter and Tulip sniffs, derision clear.

He’s never been afraid to speak plainly.

“What is there to fight anymore—to be strong for?” you ask. “There’s peace in the land and our human is respected and treats us well. I can afford to wait another year.”

“So that you don’t have to take me?” He slaps at you, and you would push him under your paw and hold his head to the straw as the Puss should any cat who dares offer such disrespect, but you lack the strength.

You do stop walking. You turn and glare, fixing him with the stony expression that’s made more than one tom roll and show his belly.

Tulip only looks angrier. “What happens to you if your body wears out? You can only make the change on this night.”

You’ve considered this. “Then I will die. As maybe I’m meant to.”

“You’re not meant to. You’re the Puss.” Tulip sits and stares at the ground. “I am the right choice.”

“I know. That doesn’t mean I will choose you.” You turn and leave him, walking to the door and staring out at the snow that’s drifted up against the side of the barn. In a young body, you would bound through the white fluff up to the banquet hall to steal food from the great table. In this body, you will feel the cold like fire on your paws if you try to make the walk tonight.

You feel a presence at your side and can smell Lilac, her sweet scent filling your nose. “Are you going to lecture me, too?” you ask her, sounding as surly as any ancient tom.

“No. It’s possible I knew you would do this.” She digs daintily at the snow. “The time draws close.”

You can hear the candidates muttering. You should have announced your choice—even if it was no choice—by now.

You nuzzle her gently, then turn to them.  In your best voice you say, “I will keep this body another year.”

You see relief on the faces of some of the cats who will cycle out of eligibility. You see confusion and disappointment and maybe gratitude for more time on the faces of the others.

On Tulip’s face, you see only anger. He stalks to you, hissing at the others until they scatter to the far reaches of the barn and only Lilac remains. “You will die. And everything you are, everything you mean, will be lost.”

You dip your head down and rest it under his chin. It’s a sign of appeasement, the only one you can give him.

Because he’s right. Everything you are might be lost. But it occurs to you that undergoing change after change may have robbed you of what all these others live with daily.

The beautiful uncertainty of life.

Tulip presses his chin down and you can feel his purr—but it isn’t a sound of happiness; it’s one of self soothing. He’s upset. With you, with a future he did not expect to have, possibly with himself for not being more convincing.

“Stay with me,” you whisper. “Learn from me. If I die before the next change, you will be my replacement and will pass on what I know to others. If I last till next year, then after the change you’ll still be my friend, and we can chase each other through the snow.” It’s the one thing you wish you could do tonight.

Play. Be young. Be strong.

You’re giving that up and you feel the sense of destiny hammering at you, but you ignore it.

Not this time. Not this one.

The kittens hover at the edges of the barn, as if you might change your mind. Tulip stays close, too, but you see resignation in his eyes.

Lilac, however, lies down in the deep straw and folds her paws underneath her. She gives you a long, deep eye-blink of love—and gratitude, you think—as the New Year dawns around you.

 

* * *

Originally published in Enchanted Conversation.

About the Author

Gerri Leen lives in Northern Virginia and originally hails from Seattle. In addition to being an avid reader, she’s passionate about horse racing, tea, and whisky, and her latest obsession is ASMR vids. She has work appearing in Nature, Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show, Daily Science Fiction, Grimdark, and others. She’s edited several anthologies for independent presses, is finishing some longer projects, and is a member of SFWA and HWA. See more at www.gerrileen.com.

by Frances Pauli

“He races, turns, loops back and realizes he is circling them. He is dog and they are pack. He is alone.”

The streets of men fall silent long before Charlie slinks from his master’s side. There is no movement in the house for days, not even when he cries or pees the carpet. No more breath lifts the man’s body, no life remains, and Charlie’s loyalty falters as his belly empties.

As the body begins to smell like meat.

He tears the screen from the bedroom window, squeezes out, and runs with silver strings trailing from his claws. The pattering echoes as he goes. No other sound competes with Charlie’s flight. No one shouts or whistles. Not a single car horn blares anger when he crosses the wide street and lopes past silent storefronts.

He scents as he runs, nose skipping along the pavement like a stone on water.  His ears swivel to either side, twisting and alert for any sound, for anything at all. He finds the first bodies after only another block. He smells them long before buzzing flies sound the alarm.

The people lay where they have fallen, twisted and with their hands open as if clutching something that isn’t there. Their eyes are wide and staring so that Charlie cannot help but growl. His throat rumbles at each dead stranger. The fur along his spine lifts and his heart beats, danger, danger.

He smells the flesh, sweet and overpowering, but there is a sharpness behind it. He cringes even while his tongue lolls. The man has not fed him for many days, will never feed him again. The people in the street all stare at the sky, and Charlie knows he is alone. He whines, lowers his tail to the earth and scoots far around the next, reaching corpse.

Now he clings to the buildings as he goes. The streets are choked with the dead, and Charlie rubs at his nose with one paw and shakes as if to dislodge the odor. He sits beside still glass and pants at his own reflection.

In the distance, a howl rises. His ears stand at attention. His tail thumps once before remembering to be afraid. His body cringes, belly tight to the ground, but he cannot stay away and slinks between the buildings with his ears tuned. Each time the sound comes, Charlie eases closer. He crosses streets, weaving between the dead. He follows alleys where the scent of garbage is a relief from the stench of decay. And more. The sharp odor troubles him. His nose flinches from it, insisting there is danger there.

Charlie finds the other dogs and wishes he hadn’t. He lingers at the alley’s mouth and watches them drift between the corpses. Their bodies are lean, showing angular bones beneath dull pelts. They had no master, have been alone much longer. Their hunger is enough to dare the smell. He sees it, in the curling of their lips and the dark stains growing over their teeth.

Danger.

He runs from them. Charlie darts from alley to alley, sticking to the familiar reek of cast-off human things and only entering the streets when the way ends and he must cross to the next slim sanctuary.  He hears the dogs’ snarling long after he’s left them behind. He sees their dripping jaws even with his eyes closed.

He races, turns, loops back and realizes he is circling them. He is dog and they are pack. He is alone. He has nowhere else to go. His pads brush against asphalt. His nose twitches. The garbage is fresher here, but there is something else behind it. A scent that is neither death nor rot.

Charlie stops and lifts his nose high. His tail swishes, wagging joy at the new aroma. He follows it, a better chase than circling the starving pack, a more noble quarry, and one that doesn’t push his belly lower.  The thread of something fresh and edible draws his feet between the buildings, up another alley to an open door in the rear of one storefront.

The smell lives here. Charlie slips inside without hesitation. His tail thumps against the door, wagging in anticipation. He creeps farther, following his nose while the smell sings to his belly. There are shelves inside, a maze of cans and boxes. There are glass doors along the walls, and in one corner, a bucket full of water.

Charlie drinks. His tongue uncurls and hangs soft again and happy. He finds bread on a low shelf, and whimpers before remembering there is no master. A pang of guilt still lowers his head as he steals the loaf. He still cringes as his teeth tear into the plastic, as he rips the bag with his claws and then eats both bread and garbage in his haste to be full again.

It is glorious. Soft and tasting of man’s things. Charlie eats two loaves before heaving.  He devours his own sick, drinks again, and curls up between the shelves to sleep.

When he wakes, the cat is there. She sits atop the shelf, glaring. When Charlie barks, she turns away, shows him her butt, and flicks her tail dangerously over the edge. It is a dare he doesn’t take. Charlie remembers cats. He whines and puts his paws over his nose, but his tail thumps. He is not alone. Even if she is a cat.

She ignores him. He pretends not to watch her. She catches him and hides behind the counter to punish him. She has food there. Charlie can smell it, but he knows better than to expect a cat to share. He eats the bread, tears open a few bags of dry crunchy things, and waits for the cat to come back and glare at him some more.

They live together in the store for two days before he wakes up to purring. His belly vibrates with it. The cat sleeps curled up beside him, hind end to his face and long tail tickling his muzzle. When his tail thumps, she slaps it. Pin claws prickle the sensitive skin but Charlie loves it. No one has touched him since his master stopped moving. He holds still as a stone and lets her sleep in peace.

Charlie lays his head on his paws and dreams of the master. The cat is back on her counter when he wakes, but he can feel the difference. Even when she glares.

They eat together, the cat behind her counter and Charlie picking from the packages he can chew his way into. They haunt the shop by day, the cat sitting in the front window and Charlie guarding the back door. He fears the other dogs now. Now that he has something to protect. At night the cat sleeps by his side, alternately clawing his tail and grooming him with her rough tongue.

The water in the bucket is gone, but there has been rain. He only has to wander to the alley to drink. Eventually, the shelves will empty. Charlie imagines leaving with the cat, finding another store, a full bucket and more bread. He wanders to the end of the alley when the puddles dry up. He finds the first dead dog there, eyes staring at the sky, paws stiff and reaching.

Charlie growls at it. His tail drags. The sharp smell is in his nose again, and he whines and paws at his face. He shakes, steps around the corpse, and ventures into the streets for the first time since finding the cat.

All the strays are dead. They lay beside the remains of man, a gaunt, furry echo of the other death. There are birds as well, corpses of crows and rats. The sharp smell overpowers even the scent of rot, and Charlie backs from it, turns tail, and races back to the shop’s shelter.

He barks for the cat, calls the warning over and over. Danger. Danger, danger.

Charlie races between the aisles. He knocks over the boxes. He barks, whines, and doesn’t believe the cat is gone until he peeks behind the counter. A stalwart white hopper stands above the cat’s dish. The kibble is all gone. The dish is empty. He sniffs to be certain, sits, and howls to the ceiling.

He remembers cats do not need a pack.

Though he is certain she will not return, Charlie waits in the store for three more days. His tongue dries up. His belly tightens, complaining so loudly that he wakes with a start. The hunger aches again and, eventually, Charlie slips through the back door and returns to the streets.

This time he runs without dodging. He leaps the corpses and he lets their stink drive him onward, down the long avenues between the buildings, down and away from the things of man. He races until his pads bleed, until the buildings finally spread their numbers. Charlie limps past little houses then, stalled cars, and fenced yards where the bodies have been left inside, where the stink is only a whisper behind grass and metal and, in the distance, the clear bright smell of water.

He makes for that, leaving the road when it veers sharply in the wrong direction. The grass feels like heaven and memories. He longs to roll in it, but his tongue is dry and the tears in his feet feel like fire. Instead, he crosses at an angle to the wind, keeping the water in his nose until he tops a rise and can see the glinting of the pool ahead.

A house squats behind it. A high chain fence surrounds it.

Charlie digs, churning his own blood into the soil, until he can squeeze underneath. He drags to the pool and laps at green water. His belly shudders. His paws leave pink tracks around the patio. He sniffs and catches wild odors, trees and dirt and animals that never lived inside a house with man.

Animals that have never eaten the sharpness that means dying.

In the shade of the house, Charlie rests. He drinks and sleeps until he is strong enough to think of food again. He imagines the shelves of bread, sniffing at the door that won’t open. He reaches and finds the windows closed.

When night falls, he hears the howling. This time it sings away from streets and houses. It calls from the space between man’s cities, and there are many voices. Charlie’s tail wags. He squeezes under the fence, leaves the water, and trots toward the trees. The howling drifts into the fringes of man, singing to his heart and making his pain and hunger fade like smoke on a steady breeze.

He is dog and that is pack. He bounds and barks and hears a new voice from much closer.

“Here, boy!”

Charlie skids to a halt. His tail dances, frantic, in all directions. The howling comes, but now it sounds far away. Almost as soon as he hears it, the whistle follows.

“Here, boy. Come!”

His tail dances, but he lowers his head and whines. Across the grass, a man steps between the houses. Beyond the trees, the pack sings another chorus. Charlie writhes against the grass, barks and presses his belly to the cold earth.

The man eases nearer. He stops and lowers himself until their eyes can meet. Charlie’s nose catches a forgotten scent, meat that hasn’t begun to rot. His tongue loosens, lolling between his teeth. His tail thumps and the man reaches out, makes the meat an offering.

“Good boy.”

He sniffs it, brings his nose right up to the man’s fingers and finds the sharpness there. When he flinches away, the man lowers the offering, tilts his head and whistles faintly. He drops the meat and waddles backwards, taking the odor with him.

Charlie eats. The meat is dry and too salty, but he salivates at the first bite and wolfs the rest down as if it were fresh liver.  Before he’s finished, the man is reaching again. His fingers curl more than they should. They smell of the sharpness, but Charlie leans into them just the same. When the man pats, the dog melts into him.

This is master. He is dog.

The man leads, and Charlie follows. They walk in the grassy space between the roads and the trees. The sun dips behind the city. A house waits at the edge of the wild. The door is open, and it smells of home inside, of life before the sharp scent ruined the world. When the man enters, Charlie’s paws move.

One step in that direction, one sniff, before he remembers doors are traps.

Charlie stalls outside that threshold. He barks, but when the man whistles, he presses his stomach to the ground and refuses to enter. The man squats inside the doorway. He sings the song of dogs and masters. He whistles, claps his hands, and brings more meat to the threshold.

They stare at one another until the man sits, dropping his head in his hands. Charlie rests his muzzle on his paws. He whines, thumps his tail. When the man throws him the meat, Charlie eats it. He longs for water, but the pool is in the past now, too. The moment, the threshold, and the man are everything.

In their stalemate, he hears the howling, far off.

Eventually, the man rises. He wanders deeper into the house and Charlie stands, tempted despite the closed windows and the door. He trembles. His ears flatten and lift and flatten again. Before he relents, the man returns. He pushes a chair through the doorway, drags the thing out of the house.

They sit together at the end. The master in his chair and Charlie at his side. When the man reaches, the dog leans in, savoring the contact but also noting the stiffness, the curling and tightening of fingers. He sees the way the man pauses every few breaths to stare at the sky, just as he hears the pack singing from the forest.

It won’t be long.

When the man is gone, Charlie will answer the howl. He’ll run, away from the streets of men, and live. Maybe he will see the cat again. She’ll glare from some high branch while his pack runs below. For now, Charlie remains. He sits beside the man. He waits while the sun sets. When the man stares at the sky, Charlie looks, too.

He hears the wind and the earth and the future while the man fades.

He is dog.

 

* * *

About the Author

Frances Pauli writes numerous novels and stories across the Speculative Fiction genres. She greatly prefers anthropomorphic characters, and you’ll likely find some kind of animal in just about all her fiction. She lives in Washington State with her family, a wide variety of pets, and far too many distracting hobbies.

Her fiction has won a Leo Award and been nominated for a Cóyotl Award.

For news and title updates, you can find her at www.francespauli.com.

Another artist we met at CTN Expo: Stacey Sleight from Provo, Utah, who creates under the name of Stillustrated. Besides her original illustrations, animation character designs, and fan art, she has also created an original on-line comic based on the Ursa Major Award-winning game Undertale. According to her web site, “She is also a lover of hot chocolate, comics, and animals in sweaters.”

image c. 2018 by Stacey Sleight

Ninja Sex Party has a new music video and this one has a Kraken!
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We've all had days like this. "Spyro is having a Very Bad Day™. Can he charge, glide and flame his way back home?"
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By now (hopefully!) you’ve heard of Brush: A Fox Tale, the award-winning CGI short film. It tells the story of an artistic fox who is too shy to tell the pretty vixen next door he has a crush on her — but, his paintings have ideas of their own. Well now, meet the creators: Willi Anton and Faustina Arriola, both graduates from the California College of the Arts. Brush was their joint graduation thesis. Over at Willi’s web page you’ll find his demo reel, showing bits from his work on Brush and other projects. Meanwhile at Faustina’s page you’ll find not only her demo reel of 3D and 2D work, but also examples of her illustrations, and even samples of her work as a voice-over artist.

image c. 2018 by Anton / Arriola

I really wish I could have gone to this but it fell right on to of our party and that thing is tricky to move.
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Chances are you’ve seen (or at least heard about) Dog and Squirrel, part of Nickelodeon’s Animated Shorts Program. But have you met the creator, Andrea Gerstmann? Over at her web site you can see examples of her other works in character design, background painting, layout, and fine-art painting. Lots of animal stuff to see, plus a few humans thrown in for good measure.

image c. 2018 by Andrea Gerstmann

Looks like Hulu has a Christmas toy mascot supernatural horror flick? Why the heck not?
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David Wentworth is an artist, illustrator, and storyteller (his words) that we me at CTN Animation Expo. According to his web site, “David has worked for clients like Dreamworks, Sony, and Amazon animation, and is advancing his career as a concept/character artist and comic artist. He creates in a wide range of mediums, both traditional and digital. In addition to animals he enjoys science fiction, writing, history, theatre, biology and languages in his art.” In addition to his illustration, he’s created an on-line comic called Blue & Jay which should be of considerable interest to Furry Fans. He even creates puppets!

image c. 2018 by David Wentworth

Roo and Tugs are taking Thanksgiving weekend off and will be back next episode. Instead, we've got new content (including a special edition of Fifty Sheds of Grey) alongside our re-broadcast of our Fursona Creation episode! ORIGINAL DESCRIPTION: Chris joins Roo and Tugs in studio to create his fursona, and go through the traditional (wink, wink) furry initiation ceremony. What sorts of insanity will he be forced to commit as he designs his fursona and joins the fandom? Tune in and see!



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The following people have decided this month’s Fur What It’s Worth is worth actual cash! THANK YOU!
 
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Special Thanks

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Episode sponsor: This episode’s sponsor is Baumarius, artist behind the album The Truth.

Music

Opening theme: Fredrik Miller– Cloud Fields (Radio Mix). USA: Bandcamp, 2011. ©2011 Fur What It’s Worth. (Buy a copy here – support your fellow furs!)
Space News Music: Fredrik Miller – Orbit. USA: Bandcamp, 2013. Used with permission. (Buy a copy here – support your fellow furs)
T’s Paws Button Music: Fredrik Miller – Lost Signal. Sweden: Bandcamp, 2014. Used with permission. (Buy a copy here – support your fellow furs)
Closing: Fredrik Miller – Cloud Fields (Chill Out Mix). USA: Bandcamp, 2011. ©2011 Fur What It’s Worth. (Buy a copy here – support your fellow furs!) S8 Episode 5 – The Best of FWIW: Fursona Creation w/New Content! - Roo and Tugs are taking Thanksgiving weekend off and will be back next episode. Instead, we've got new content (including a special edition of Fifty Sheds of Grey) alongside our re-broadca

I do like to work out with cheese in my beak as well.
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Here’s something interesting and unusual we came across at the the CTN Animation Expo this year. Fox and Chicken is an original animated film created by Space Rabbit Studios — in El Salvador. “Created by a talented team of local artist, with national and international awards, Fox & Chicken is aiming to be the first silent animated short movie done in El Salvador. The project has already seen some success through many events at a national level.” According to the web site, here’s who it’s about: “Fox & Chicken is the story of two inseparable friends and their many adventures in their quest for magic. Fox is a young wizard apprentice who has a dream of learning all the magic in the world and to discover the secrets of nature to become a master wizard. Chicken is an unconventional character for their species. She’s brave, curious and adventurous, she never doubts on accompanying Fox in his quest. Now we can see their adventures while we learn about nature and discover the hidden magic in all things.” The web site has a lot more about this and their other projects.

image c. 2018 Space Rabbit Studios

Paptercutz brings us a new full-color mini-comic series for young readers: Gillbert the Little Merman, Volume 1 by Art Baltazar (writer and illustrator of Tiny Titans and Captain Action Cat). Here’s the preview over at their web site: “In the deepest part of the ocean, unexplored by man and too deep for humans to swim, lives a little sea creature named Gillbert. Gillbert the Sea Creature is the son of King Nauticus, king of all the oceans. One day, Gillbert will be king. But in the meantime, his playful curiosity takes him away from the kingdom on a journey of discovery.Gillbert meets an amphibious mermaid and follows her into unknown parts of the ocean. Where he meets many unknown and undiscovered species of underwater creatures. He didn’t know these things existed so close to home. Gillbert’s world just got a whole lot bigger!” It’s available at comic book stores in paperback and hardcover editions.

image c. 2018 Papercutz