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Moobarkfluff! Today Taebyn Ascends to Radishhood! Who would’ve thought it? We hear three new Catfumations. Rayne gives us the answers to last weeks OMQ’s. We get a good furry amount of bad jokes, talk about news of the odd, Rayne tells us what is like while diving when a cruise ship goes over you. We get into yet another discussion about time travel paradox’s. Join us for these topics and so much more on this weeks episode of Bearly Furcasting! Moobarkfluff all you furs! 

 

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

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Bearly Furcasting S4E33 - Aquatic Chaos

by Deborah L. Davitt

“So it was that she found herself ten thousand feet above the sea, racing through clouds heavy with rain, chasing a trio of galleons laden with treasure that were running before the wind — but the seabound vessels couldn’t match her airborne craft for speed.”

The gibbet creaked under her weight as she shifted in place, coiling her tail up, out of reach of the crowd here in Port Royale — most of whom wanted bits of her fur as keep-sakes, it appeared. They’d probably fight over her earrings and jewelry when it came time for her corpse to be removed from her tiny prison.

Not that they’d have a hope of making her earring’s luck work for them, of course.

But that’s what she got for being famous — the Dread Pirate Grace Morraine, scourge of the skies. Her great flying ship, the Elektra, couldn’t save her now.

She licked a paw and straightened her whiskers. There was no point in going to her death untidy.

Guardsmen pushed their way through the crowd, leveling their halberds to do it. The raucous noise of the Parrot and Monkey voices in this tropical port of call faded as those good citizens sidled away from the guards and their sharp-edged weapons. “Oh, good. There’s to be a trial after all,” Grace said, rising to her feet. The gibbet swayed around her. “I thought you were just going to let me raisin away in the sun for the fun of it.”

The guardsmen — Dogs to a man — winced. “Come along,” their leader said, producing a key and unlocking the door of the swaying gibbet. “The Magistrate wants to see you.”

“Do I want to see him?” Grace wondered out loud.

The Dog closest to her grinned crookedly. “Oh, yes. He’s about to make you an offer you shouldn’t refuse.”

The Magistrate was, of course, a Poodle. Long of nose, disdainful of expression, with curls of hair piled atop his head. (Grace was sure it was a wig, well-powdered.) “Grace Morraine?” he said, regarding her through his pince-nez glasses. “There are two ways this meeting can go.”

She stared at the pitcher of water at his elbow. She hadn’t had so much as a sip in two days. “I’m listening.”

“One, you can say no, and you can go back to your gibbet.”

“Let’s say that I say yes.” She flicked her tail insouciantly, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Do I get to live?”

“Aye. You’d take this letter of marque,” he held up a piece of paper, “and you’d agree to continue your depredations on the shipping lines, leaving, of course, the ships of your countrymen strictly alone.”

She felt her eyes widen. “And the catch is?”

“You sell the cargos you capture to us. For a price we set. You pay your taxes. You become–” The magistrate barked out a laugh. “–an honest citizen.”

Grace considered this. With the only other alternative being the gibbet — a gibbet she didn’t see herself getting out of anytime soon, and the Elektra someplace distant, waiting for signs that her captain lived or died — she didn’t see that she had much choice. And yet, could she trust the magistrate?

All signs pointed to no. He’d find some way to swindle her out of her freedom, soon enough. There might be political pressure on him to show results against the podencos soon, and he might not have the manpower to do it without pirates on his side.

Still, trust him or not, she didn’t have much of a choice. “Where do I sign?”

“You can make your X right here — oh, aren’t you clever, you can sign your name.” The condescension made her twitch, but Grace soothed herself to expressionlessness. Her hackles didn’t even rise.

Well, hardly rose, anyway.

“Congratulations. You’re no longer a pirate, Grace Morraine. You’re a privateer.”

Within a week, Grace found herself back aboard the Elektra, her second-in-command yielding the tiller back to her hand with surprising grace — she’d always had Eason marked out as an ambitious sod who’d take control of the ship and not cede it back without putting it to a vote among the crew. “Privateering’s not a bad move, for the moment,” she told her crew, half Cats, the rest Parrots, Monkeys, and the occasional Badger. “Anyone who signs the marque lifts the death sentence against them. So we chase the podencos and take their cargo. Same as we would have done anyway.”

The crew accepted her word, to her great relief. She hadn’t wanted to have to recruit new sailors if the crew as a whole had been too disgruntled at the change of their fortune’s winds.

So it was that she found herself ten thousand feet above the sea, racing through clouds heavy with rain, chasing a trio of galleons laden with treasure that were running before the wind — but the seabound vessels couldn’t match her airborne craft for speed. “Bring the lightning cannons to bear!” Grace shouted, touching the pearl hanging from her ear for good luck.

The Elektra began her dive-bombing routine, letting hot air out of the balloon, reefing her sails, and plummeting towards the galleons. Grace plunged the tiller forward, adjusting pitch and yaw, as her sailors clung to the rigging and belted themselves to the cannons. Lightning sparked in her cannons, and then shot out, blue-white, across the dark indigo of the sea below…

And then the thunder of the cannons hit her, and Grace whooped in joy, ears ringing. This was life. This is what made life worth living, the glory of the hunt, the thrill of the chase. She didn’t play with her kills — oh no. But she circled the galleons, strafing their decks, sending crewmen — all Dogs, all podencos, leaping overboard to avoid the blue-white lightning that sizzled fractals into the wooden decks, and set the sails on fire.

A ragged volley of answering fire came from the galleons — their lightning was red, and shorter-ranged, so Grace danced the Elektra just outside the reach of their cannons. “Just surrender, you daft buggers!” she shouted in a gap between thunderclaps. “Heave to, and prepare to be boarded!” Her fur bristled from the electricity ambient in the air, making her look twice her normal size.

The three galleons slowly surrendered, lowering their flags. She could see sailors throwing buckets of sand on the flames, buckets of seawater. Trying, desperately, to save their own lives by putting out the fires.

Eason, a pure white Cat with a black eyepatch that concealed a missing eye, came to stand at her side at the tiller. “You want to go down yourself?”

“No, I trust you to handle it. The terms are that they turn over all their gold and gems, their wine and liquor.” The first would make the Magistrate happy; the latter would keep her crew happy. “They can keep their tobacco and cotton. We don’t have the hold space for that, anyway.”

“We should get a second ship, so that we do have the hold space.”

She shot him a sidelong look. “And you’d captain her?”

“I’ve proven my loyalty, haven’t I?” Eason countered.

“With the spoils from these three lovelies, we might be able to afford a second ship,” she agreed after a moment. “And yes, you have.” For the moment, Grace thought, but she kept her misgivings tucked behind her eyeballs. Give him command of his own ship, and he might depart on the next fresh breeze, and all her hard-won spoils with him.

Of course, the reason she was letting her executive officer lead the boarding party was because she had a niggling feeling that once the goods were hauled aboard, he’d just up and leave her on the galleon below.

On the other other hand, he could have just left her in port, without a ship to turn towards privateering.

To trust, or not to trust. The eternal conundrum.

Grace hovered the Elektra over the lead galleon, and the descend ropes dropped, sailors from her ship swarming down with Eason, while still more sailors with muskets stood at the railing of the Elektra, giving them cover in case the podencos decided to get frisky.

Then box after box of gold bullion began winching their way to the Elektra’s cargo hold. Barrel after barrel of Madeira wine — to the cheers of her crew. Each galleon was scavenged completely of its wealth, and then the Elektra, groaning a little under the weight, headed for the clouds once more.

“It’s a good life,” Grace told Eason as he came back aboard. Her tone was nearly a purr.

“If you can survive it,” he agreed, and for a moment, that knife’s edge was back. To trust, or not to trust.

But she put out her paw, and he took it in his, and she hauled him over the rail and back aboard. “Set course for Port Royale!” she called to her crew, and their cheers drifted down from the sky, touching even the waves below.

Tomorrow, she’d have to deal with the Magistrate. The sure-to-be-rigged ‘legitimate’ markets of Port Royale, which would surely try to shortchange her on the price of gold, the value of the gems, and the cost to repair the Elektra where the galleons’ crews had pockmarked her underbelly with musket balls. Tomorrow, she’d have to deal with taxes and credits and debits, the lack of honor in her fellow creatures, and more.

But today? Today she was sailing into a sunset, and a glass of rum waited for her in her quarters. Tomorrow could take care of itself for a few hours, while she basked in the glow of the present.

 

* * *

About the Author

Deborah L. Davitt was raised in Nevada, but currently lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. Her award-winning poetry and prose has appeared in over seventy journals, including F&SF, Asimov’s, Analog, and Lightspeed. For more about her work, including her Elgin-nominated poetry collections, The Gates of Never and Bounded by Eternity, and her chapbook, From Voyages Unending, see www.edda-earth.com.

by CB Droege

“These were the monsters I had been sent to kill? It was clear that these two were anything but monsters.”

The plan was that we would drop onto the airstrip, clear the LZ of lizards, then the plane could land, and we’d off-load the heavy artillery. It didn’t quite go down like that, though. During the drop my chute got tangled, and I was steered off course, dropping me just off the beach outside the fence. I was sandy and dripping, much of my equipment waterlogged and useless, including my radio and gun, but I was the lucky one. After coming ashore, I watched the plane circle for another ten minutes, then it flew off north, back toward the mainland. It was clear that the rest of the team was not able to clear the LZ as planned, and they were likely dead.

“Some kind of big dumb lizards with big dumb teeth,” Harris had told us during the mission briefing on the plane twenty minutes earlier. “Apparently, some rogue scientist opened a portal to an alternate earth populated by giant carnivores, and some of them got through.” It was always some idiotic scientist. Those people are dangerous: opening portals, doing genetic experiments, or signaling alien spacecraft. Science should be outlawed if you ask me. “The scientist and his crew are dead,” Harris continued, “but a construction worker and his family are trapped in the event zone. We’re being sent in to take the beasts down and rescue any survivors we can find. Luckily, the whole place is closed up with fences, and it’s an island anyway, so containment shouldn’t be complicated.”

I was the only survivor, other than the pilot, and he would be home and safe soon. I was wet and cold, and night was coming. I needed shelter, and in the distance, I saw a small cabin up against the fence, so I set out. I was half a kilometer away when I spotted movement. I was happy at first to see another person, but the movement was strange, alien, so I ducked behind a nearby tree, and took out my spyglass, which was luckily waterproof. From my cover, I spied the cabin, and saw Talon for the first time, though I wasn’t calling him that yet.

He was in front of the cabin, standing where the grass turned to sand. He looked like a raptor with a nearly horizontal spine, supported on two thick legs. His trunk was balanced by a thick tail that nearly brushed the ground. His body was covered in heavy wrappings, including what looked a bit like a turban on his head. His forelimbs ended in three-fingered hands, and he was bending over a firepit, with a flint and steel, attempting to start a fire.

The door of the cabin opened, and another came out, the one that I would eventually call Lizzy, once we were amicable.  She was dressed in similar wrappings as Talon, making it clear that these were intentional; not just dressings, but clothing. She took a few steps down toward the beach and made some growling sounds. After a few weeks, I would come to understand some rudimentary phrases in their language, and they in mine, but at this point, I only really noticed her teeth, which were mostly flat. I remembered enough from biology class to know those were the teeth of an herbivore, though I later discovered that, while they never ate the flesh of the rodents I caught around the cabin, they would sometimes catch and grill fish.

Lizzy spoke with Talon for a moment, and he spoke back, and then she returned to the cabin, and he to his fire-building attempt.

These were the monsters I had been sent to kill? It was clear that these two were anything but monsters. They were people. Cold people trapped in a strange land. Of course, I would learn about the real monsters later, the terror lizards who had also come through the portal, and the three of us would have to work together to survive once they eventually broke through the fence, but this first day the only challenge was diplomacy. I wasn’t really thinking about things like ‘first contact protocol’. I was mostly just wet and cold.

I set my waterlogged gun aside, in case they would know what it was, and I approached their camp slowly and with hands raised, not understanding then that this was a sign of aggression in their culture. Lizzy came out, and we three faced off for a few minutes, not understanding each other at all. The misunderstanding didn’t last though.

My first bit of real diplomacy was showing Talon how to use my lighter.

 

* * *

About the Author

CB Droege is an author and voice actor from the Queen City living in the Millionendorf. He loves wizards and time-travel, but has an irrational distaste for time-traveling wizards. His latest books are Ichabod Crane and the Magic Lamp and Other Stories and Quantum Age Adventures. Short fiction publications include work in Nature Futures, Science Fiction Daily and dozens of other magazines and anthologies.  He also produces a weekly podcast, in which he reads other people’s stories: Manawaker Studio’s Flash Fiction Podcast.  Learn more at cbdroege.com

by Val E Ford

“He had taken it as his job over their several lifetimes, the killing of them both, so they could be together again. But Katy never remembered it being like this. Never such a choice.”

“Come with me…” Liam’s voice was scratchy from the tubes that had been sustaining him during the last bout of pneumonia and worsening health. He fumbled to unzip his fleece jacket with the hand that wasn’t holding hers.

An image burned itself into Katy’s being. She knew truth when she saw it; it was one of her gifts, to see the in-between spaces, and this was one, this was for her a liminal moment. She had to walk off this bridge alive today.

“Not this time, Love.” Katy stared wide-eyed down at the roiling floodwaters, hooked her knees through the space between the metal railings and moved her grip on him from a hand hold to a wrist hold. “You come back home and do it the hard way.”

“Katy… I can’t… I’m burning. It’s time. We have to go.” His voice extended into the realms beyond her ear’s ability to hear, and the essence of his elemental fire gift burned through their connection as he sent the command she’d been dreading ever since they’d realized he’d be living disabled for the rest of his life after the car accident. “I can’t live this way.” He sat on the balustrade, and his free hand pulled up on the orthopedic brace to lift his leg over the rail as she tugged at him to prevent the move. Even ill he was a great beast of a man and beyond her physical control.

He had taken it as his job over their several lifetimes, the killing of them both, so they could be together again. But Katy never remembered it being like this. Never such a choice. But maybe it had been; memories of other lives came on slowly, mostly after they found each other again. This time was different, maybe it was just that her attitude was different.

“I love you, Katy. We have to go.” His elemental fire was licking along his outline, breaking through into the air around him.

She fought his blazing command, bringing up the blessed coolness of the earth and binding the heat, sending it through her body and out her pores to meld with the wind and let it be carried away. “I’m not going. I’m not ready. You get back down here before you pull my arm off.” She started fighting his fire for him too.

“Katy! We. Are. Doing. This.” He swung his other long leg over the railing. “It’s just a step, Love.” He smiled and took it.

Katy tried to pull him back over the edge, but his mass only took a second to lift her off her heels; her knees around the rails were the only thing keeping her out of the air.  And by the moment she stopped trying to save him and instead save herself, his grip on her arm was winning. So, she breathed in the power of her connection with the spaces between and sent it flowing down the shining fluid pathway that anchored their souls together, down into the spaces between the cells of his heart muscle, and by the time she was done, so was he.

“Goodbye, Love,” she told her soulmate as his dying fingers slipped from their grip on her arm. He finished his long falling step into the flooded river alone. “We’ll find each other again,” she whispered as her tears followed him into the encompassing water below. She braced herself against the moment when their connection blazed and disappeared, and then she sat on the cold concrete for a long time taking in what it meant to be alone.

Over the next few weeks, Katy took to wandering the streets at odd hours on foot and in her car. She was unsettled, lonely, not sleeping, going long stretches between eating until a smell awoke her hunger and then she couldn’t stop. At first, she cried at silly things, sometimes everything, but after a while numbness crawled out of the crater inside her soul, and she started a new routine. She’d walk at first light to the bridge and cross, following the path along the shore until her feet didn’t want to go any further, and then she’d stop for a while, breathing in the sea air before walking back.

And then one day, like sun through a break in the clouds, she felt the moment he returned. And she cried because they were off kilter. A soulmate in diapers wasn’t an easy thought. But the crater inside her eased, and she slept well again.

And so, she started living again too. She started seeing clients once more, telling them the truths she saw in the spaces between their current selves and the ones they would become. She sketched for them their liminal scene, the one that might change them, the image that burned in her mind as she sat with them. And before they left, she gave them the picture along with whatever words seemed right. Often no words were needed; sometimes it was just a hug.

She was finishing a session with a client who had come because she was feeling upset with her marriage, and yes, she needed a hug. The picture had been of the client’s next-door neighbor opening the door to a motel room, and familiar shoes were sitting beside the bed. That hug went on a while, and when the woman steadied enough to step into her new life, Katy opened the door.

A squeal sounded under the woman’s foot as she walked out. A fluffy black and white Mountain Dog puppy cried on Katy’s doorstep, and when she picked it up, she knew.

“Hello, Liam.” A vision of herself and the slightly older puppy at obedience school with a chain collar and a leash filled her head. And she smiled, perhaps a little too long.

And so, Katy had a dozen years of friends and gardening and working and good doggie companionship, until the day Liam the dog started flaming and his wide muzzle and sharp teeth gripped deep into her lower leg, piercing the skin as he tried to pull her over the edge of the riverbank.

As she fought him, a vision filled her mind, she saw a huge set of balancing scales in a spotlight on a table. On one side a mess of her long hair and longer skirts showed the pile of bodies to be herself as she had been the five times Liam had drowned her. On the other side of the scales, she saw Liam lying pale and sprawled in his unzipped fleece jacket, seaweed in his dark hair as a spotted dog was lowered beside him. The scale barely righted.

“Fuck you, Liam! I am not dying today!” Her leg was on fire, and anger churned through her as she fell over the bank. They both rolled through the dried grass and blackberry vines and into the water. She hugged the big beloved dog, and with a practiced breath, she stopped his heart and watched him flop into the shallows.

When she got back home alone that night with stiches and burns on her calf, her tears were back, and she swore off pets.

When she woke up on Saturday morning, Katy took her graying head to the hairdresser and her sore knees to the gym, and she opened all the windows and burned sage in their house and pounded on her drum and let her towels and sheets dry in the sunshine.  Then she vacuumed dog hair off the couch and out of the corners and smiled as she made lasagna and savored their favorite meal alone.

Three months later a fuzzy black and white kitten crawled out of a stroller that a couple little girls were pushing toward her down the sidewalk. His littermates cried, their faces popping over the edge to see where he had gone. Katy picked him up, kissed him and ran to catch back up with the girls. “Enjoy this one, Love,” she whispered to the kitten. Katy scratched his ears and gave him to the youngest child. Liam the kitten yowled and bit the child. The little girl dropped him looking heartbroken.

Katy grabbed the kitten as he dashed around her legs, thumped his nose with her fingernail, and swaddled him tightly in a dolly blanket before handing him back to the child. “He’ll be better now I bet,” she told her. “He told me his name is Liam, and he loves tuna.”

Liam the cat was her constant companion as she worked in the garden and sat on the porch. But she never let him inside their house, and she never fed him. He attacked everyone who came to the house, even the UPS deliverywoman. At midnight every night for a month, he scratched and yowled until the screens were shredded.

When summer was heating up and Katy couldn’t take the hot air anymore, she took down all the screens to have them remade with scratch proof materials and reinforced with grating. She was opening the back of her car, parked on the busy street in front of the screen shop, when she was struck in the shoulder by a flying twenty-pound black and white and burning fuzzball.

She stumbled and flung the cat away and nearly fell in front of a bus that slammed on its brakes. “That is IT, Liam! You want war?” she said, looking around and patting out the places where her shirt was scorched.

Then she felt the connection snap, and she was alone again in this world as the bus rolled away from a squished black, white, and red form.

The next morning, Katy woke up with mosquito bites layered over yesterday’s burns and scratches, so she made a special trip to the store for bug spray and let off a great blast before going to work.

Her first client of the day was Doris, who really just wanted to know somebody loved her. Katy’s talents failed her. The only image in her head was of Liam choking and burning, so she put Doris’s plate of cookies into a sandwich bag and reassured her that children leaving home for college was a good thing as she walked her to her car. Then Katy quickly drove back home and opened all the doors and windows.

She found Liam hiding under the couch and let him spend the next day on her arm, drinking and dying as mosquitos do. And when he was gone, slow salty paths traced her cheeks as the drops of her tears fell beside him and upon him. She buried his tiny insect body beneath their favorite rose bush and sat on her knees remembering when they had planted it.

She longed for solace, for a full life with him, the children they had never had and the feel of his arms around her. She reached her essence deep into the soil and let the energy that lives between flow upward into her being. She brought the power up into her heart and let the imbalance of betweenness affect her, let the spaces between cells and molecules disrupt, and felt her death nearing as the gentle rhythm broke.

And then the earth beneath her feet became hot and heavy, and a drop of fire fell from the thorn of a rose and broke her concentration.

“Thank you, Liam,” she whispered and cried a while, but didn’t attempt it again. She sat out in the cold night air feeling the beauty of being alive fill and restore her.

At midwinter, their connection renewed as he entered the world again. And when the image came, she could barely believe the beauty of it. Liam had chosen a new way. He was a preemie whose head was misshapen, and his heart was barely clinging to life. So, she moved 100 miles and went to the hospital and volunteered to do some cuddling.

272 long days after Liam came into the world as a teenage addict’s infant son, Katy held him as he took his last painfilled natural breath. And then she held the now sober mother, their once great, great, grandchild and helped wield the shovels and sing the prayers as the baby, Liam, met with the earth.  And a few days later, she brought the girl home with her.

When she felt Liam enter the world again at midwinter, she felt expectation as the days grew longer and spring once more filled her garden. And then one afternoon at the end of a nap as she rocked on her porch, a vision of the scales appeared again, nearly evenly balanced.

She started walking again, saying her goodbyes to everything she loved, wandering pets, laughing children, the woman girl who was growing in her own ways.  She walked often over the bridge and down nearly to the ocean, and eventually she started seeing a great sight, a black and white seal swimming along with her as she walked. And one day when Katy was ready, she took off her shoes, her knobby tender old feet exposed to the rocks as she waded into the cold water, and they went diving. And with her last breath she also took his.

 

* * *

Originally published in ROAR 9

 

 

About the Author

Val E Ford loves life and all the messy complications of being temporarily embodied.

by Kai Delmas

““Naughty, naughty wolf.” She wags her red-stained finger at me.”

I skulk among the roots and fallen branches of ancient trees. My hackles rise at the scent of fungal growth and decay. This is my dark forest and I am its wicked wolf.

The mice and rabbits scurry from my presence. They know their fate if they dare linger when I’m hunting. But such tiny rodents would only satisfy the hunger I feel for a short time. I seek larger prey, for the pit of my stomach is deep and hollow.

My ears prick up and I raise my snout. The birds’ chirping falls silent and a different song fills the forest. And with it a current flows through the air. Sweet. Red. I can taste it.

Strawberries.

My prey is near. My tongue lolls from between my teeth, my paws quicken, drawing me closer to that luring scent. Saliva drip, drip, drips as I make my way.

I find her path, follow the footsteps she’s left in the muddy track. I listen to her soft song and take in the rich smell of strawberries that linger where she treads. Her red cloak billows up ahead.

I rush down the path and prepare to pounce, to swallow her whole, to fill that hollow belly of mine and end the gnawing hunger within.

But something isn’t right.

She turns, freezing me in my tracks. Clear blue eyes and rosy cheeks greet me. She pops a strawberry into her mouth, chews and smiles, red dripping from her chin.

“Naughty, naughty wolf.” She wags her red-stained finger at me.

My jaw is ready to snap. Bite those little fingers right off. But all that I can muster is a guttural growl.

“This isn’t how our story goes.” She pulls another strawberry from her basket and bites down on its soft, red flesh.

My hunger grows and I want to lash out but I cannot. The clear blue sky above the treetops ripples and shimmers. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I…

I shake off the wrongness that comes over me and watch the girl place a large rock into her basket.

I try to open my mouth, to question the girl, but my throat tightens. My teeth clench as I stare at the girl.

Her lips stretch into a wide grin, more wicked than mine ever could.

“It’s simple, really. Off to grandmother’s house I go.” She lifts another rock into her basket. “We meet and you go on ahead. Then we meet again. That’s what happens every time. Forever and ever.”

A shiver runs down my spine; my fur bristles and I’m overcome with cold. A rushing sensation is all around me; everything I see is blue and I cannot move beneath the rushing stream.

I drag in deep lungfuls of air and look back at the girl, her fingers red and sticky. The endless pit that is my stomach growls in protest and dread. But there’s nothing I can do.

This isn’t how our story goes.

I turn to leave and bound into the woods.

Her voice trails behind me, “See you soon.”

* * *

I find grandmother’s house. My very own footprints lead me there. They always do.

The hollowness of my stomach has grown, yet I feel heavy and sluggish. I creep up to the open door, my belly dragging on the forest ground.

Before I can announce my presence to trick the old woman, the scent of strawberries rushes over me.

“There you are.” The girl sits at the kitchen table, her smile wide and full of teeth.

“We’ve been waiting for you.” Her grandmother’s mouth stretches dark and terrible, mirroring her granddaughter’s.

My legs quiver and I drop to the wooden floor. They grab my heavy body and lift me onto the bed, belly up.

Too overcome with wrongness to speak, I whimper.

They cackle as the girl heaves her basket onto the nightstand and her grandmother pulls large shears from beneath the bed.

The girl opens her basket to reveal dozens of stones. “This isn’t how our story went the first time.”

She takes the shears from her grandmother and jams them in my gut. She cuts — snip, snip, snip — as if my skin were nothing but cloth. I can only watch in shock as pain washes over me.

She digs around and removes her hands, red and sticky. The scent of strawberries becomes too much to bear. I retch to no avail.

“You see, this story of ours has long been over.” The girl begins lifting the stones from her basket to place them inside my stomach. “But it will never be over for you. You’re wicked and you must pay for your wicked ways.”

I squirm but cannot get off the bed.

Cold envelopes me and the stones in my belly drag me down, keeping me at the bottom of the stream. I cannot move. I can never leave my sins behind.

“You’ve done this to yourself.” Grandmother dons her glasses and sews my belly up with tight stitches made of red thread.

“You deserve every second of it.” The girl pulls me out of the bed. My limbs stiff, my belly heavy with stones.

She leads me outside to the stream behind the house. Brings me to the edge.

I don’t resist.

I know she’s right. It’s too late for me to change.

She shoves me into the rushing water.

I sink down, unable to swim or move at all.

I’m cold. The sky ripples above me through the rushing stream.

All I can do is dream.

Of my dark forest. Of my paws thudding along the damp earth. Of the sun setting through endless trees.

Of the girl’s footprints in the mud and how I follow her scent of strawberries.

 

* * *

 

About the Author

Kai Delmas loves creating worlds and magic systems and is a slush reader for Apex Magazine. He is a winner of the monthly Apex Microfiction Contest and his fiction can be found in Martian, Etherea, Tree And Stone, Wyldblood, and several Shacklebound anthologies. Find him on Twitter @KaiDelmas.

by David Penny

“She accepted Death’s courtship. Afterwards, darkness was clear to her as water to a fish, and she knew no fear from unseen things.”

“Listen well, my precious ones, and I will tell you of our Mother, the Goddess of Secrets.”

The alley cat nosed more newspaper around her kittens. Cruel wind chilled all their bones. She licked stray whiskers, soothed hungry cries. They clamoured for her story.

* * *

In the beginning, the world was light. Many Gods, bright and cruel, roamed the land. People were of all shapes and cowered from the God’s self-important wrath. The God of Death was born from necessity and laboured eternally. You see, Death was smaller, less important in those times. He was just, and fair, and implacable in his kindness. Death did not know all then, and some survived when they should not, but that is another story.

One bright moment among many, a woman fled from the unkind Gods. She was beautiful, with graceful limbs and curving tail, proud as an arched whisker, and sharp of wit as a well-groomed claw. The Gods chased and laughed and fought amongst themselves for the right to claim the spark of joy in her heart. She was afraid.  The world was light with no dark places to hide. Death knew her and waited by her side. She begged Death, not for life, but for spite, to keep her joy away from the cruel Gods.

Death obliged, and hid her inside himself, the single unlit place in all creation. He gave her a choice — stay with him in darkness forever and be safe or leave into the light and meet her end with the other Gods. If she left, her spark would die with her, because Death had no power over other Gods at that time.

She stayed, and wept, alone. Death was also lonely, for no one whispered love to him in those times. He came to her softly in her first night, and she was blind, afraid.

Yes, my darlings, Gods can visit inside themselves. They drink paradoxes like we drink cream.

Death whispered kind words and gave her a gift, not of light, for that was beyond him, but of shades and shadows. He stole the black behind the moon, wrapped it with tender words and presented it on bent knee. She accepted Death’s courtship. Afterwards, darkness was clear to her as water to a fish, and she knew no fear from unseen things.

A joy shared is a joy doubled, so she shared herself with him, and Death claimed part of her spark, freely given. This was her plan. Death was a kind prison, but prisons chafed. She resented the freedom Gods gave themselves. She whispered her anger in Death’s ear and made up a secret that Gods could die. In love, Death believed her.  No more were Gods immortal in the world.

Death summoned himself for the first time. He slew a cruel, brilliant God in her name. The divine corpse-void brought the first proper darkness into the world. Death hid the dark in him to conceal his deed. Death grew, and the woman could stretch out once more. She murmured soft praise to her lover. The Gods did not see, for they could not conceive of their own destruction.

Again, she drew Death into her to share her spark of joy. Again Death slew in her name. Death grew once more. Three, and three, and three again were slain for her. She danced through the halls of Death and sang her joy through the echoing chambers of Death’s love for her.

The Gods knew treachery now, and came to kill Death, but Death would not come for himself. With the strength of her song inside him, Death threw back all who tried. The Gods discovered fear and withdrew from the darkness of his touch. Light flickered in the world, dangerous to all the people, for the void claimed any place where the divine light did not fall.

Death came to her once more for wisdom. She whispered into his ear. The Gods, so fearful of his touch, were herded outside the world, locked behind the void corpses of the nine, plucked from the body of Death, left where their Godly light touched the people but could not harm them. The woman filled to bursting with the nine-fold doubling of joy now returned to them. She bore Death’s shadowy children, every night, for many nights, each with a sliver of their shared joy. These shadows became night and filled the corners of the world where the light did not touch. People became safe in the darkness for the first time.

At last, she lay exhausted, curled inside a Death too small to contain her. Their last child and only daughter, with eyes that saw all, and ears that heard all, nestled in her arms. Death whispered all his secrets for there was no other way to express the fullness of his love. He shared his divinity as she shared joy. Unconfined at last, the Goddess of Secrets padded away from the safety of Death for the dark patches and secret ways of night. Her daughter followed, soft and sharp, kind and vicious.

All shadows whispered to her, and she knew all, from love found in the shade of a tree to the shadow of evil inside a twisted heart. She whispered all these secrets to Death, and none could ever hide from him again.

Her daughter’s children, and children’s children bore the co-mingled spark of joy from nine divine deaths. Death honoured each one, in memory of his undying love.

* * *

“And that, my kittens, is why you must watch everything, and peer into all spaces, so your Mother of Secrets can whisper to her love. Do this, and you can greet father Death as a friend until the ninth, when you will go with him forever.”

The alley cat licked her kitten’s foreheads once more and whispered her love into their ears. The wind blew colder. The kittens slept, for now. She looked up to see her friend, Death, waiting at her side, the fourth time for her. He stroked her kindly, once, and stroked the cheek of her youngest, and weakest, who blinked awake, eyes wide but unafraid. Death took only his due and the kitten tumbled back to sleep. They all slept soundly. Tomorrow was another day, and there were kittens to feed.

 

* * *

About the Author

David Penny lives with his wife and daughter in Ontario, where he also plays host to their perpetual house guest and cat Louis.  When not writing, David likes to fiddle around with a violin and spend far too many hours prepping and running various TTRPGs.  He works in the civil engineering field, but would rather read stories of all kinds than more technical documentation.

by Penndry Dragonsworth

“Only Contrary could run away from home with nothing but the fur on her back, and end up in the lair of the single magical creature able to thrive in this horrible, magic-twisted place.”

The lioness had misplaced her sister. Not her pack-sister, pride-sister, or blood-sister; not her hunt-sister, heart-sister, or sister-in-the-mysteries: her sister, full stop. The fact that the lioness had been away at University studying sorcery for the last three years made no difference at all to the matron-mothers when they contacted her through crystal — at great expense and inconvenience they were sure to mention. They told the lioness: “The only tie Contrary claims is yours, therefore you must bring her home.” The divinatory-aunts had named her sister Contrary and either through fate or parental expectations, she lived up to that name with verve and enthusiasm — at least until she vanished.  The lioness wondered why they would want such an adept provocateur returned to the pride-castle, but the matron-mothers were adamant: “She is ours, and we did not give her leave to go.”

The lioness wished (not for the first time) that her beloved Contrary had claimed allegiance to anyone else. There was no way she was going to convince any of her hunt-sisters or travel-sisters to leave the familiarity of home territory and the safety of the pride-castle for one who took no place in the family. The lioness sighed, begged forbearance from her advisors, and hied herself home to look for clues.

If there was anyone who could provide a counteragent to the whims of her mothers, it was her divinitory-aunts, but they shut the chapel on her arrival so quickly she very nearly lost a whisker to the doors.

Her father just said, “Then don’t. It’s one less mouth to feed, innit,” when she asked as a last resort.

Easy for him to say, but it was her hide the matron-mothers would shred to ribbons if Contrary wasn’t found.

* * *

Contrary had gone to the Stormlands but left the lioness a clue in the form of a small carved figurine. The bird with thunder in its wings smelled like dolphins, lightning, flooded dreams, and wet bird. It rattled when the lioness shook it. It could only have come from one place. How she hated the Stormlands! Any sane person avoided the wet, violent, chaotic, wet, dripping, wet place. But. Always but.  “She is ours, and she had no leave to go.”

The lioness sighed again. Even plain-sisters-full-stop were family, and family belonged to the matron-mothers. She informed the matron-mothers of her destination and thought longingly of her sorcery research as she pulled her heavy-weather gear out of storage.

* * *

Finding Contrary in the Stormlands was a slog. The rocs and thunderbirds who ruled the Stormlands disrupted the aether with their very existence and the lioness’ waterproofing spell failed within the first week. By the time she finally tracked down her sister, her shoes squelched, she’d been through two hurricanes, fifteen major thunderstorms (apparently they only counted as major if you were struck by lightning and oh! How she hated this place!), had muddy hail thrown in her face by a waterspout-surfing dolphin man, and was pretty sure her fur was growing algae.

Only Contrary could run away from home with nothing but the fur on her back, and end up in the lair of the single magical creature able to thrive in this horrible, magic-twisted place. That this so-called “lair” was a mansion and the magical creature was a famous ice-dragon and an artist just added to the unfairness of it all.

The lioness sighed as she looked up at the mansion’s decorative pillars, green with algae; she sighed again as she looked higher at the extensive gutters with corner statues, fanciful grotesqueries spewing water like fountains; she looked at the long winding pathway to the door, overhung with picturesque mossy trees dripping yet more water. But. Always but. “She is ours, and she had no leave to go.”

The lioness sighed a third time and started walking. A piece of wet moss fell on her head.

* * *

“You,” she said to Contrary, and that small word spoke pages on how she felt about this situation, “are coming home.”

“No,” said Contrary, twirling her ice wine by its stem and dangling a paw off the opulent chaise lounge. She looked at her sister’s sodden, drooping whiskers, took in her squelching shoes. The lioness really had tried to do right by her, but was too enmeshed in the family to understand why she couldn’t stay. “Sister, tell the matron-mothers I am muse to an ice dragon. Surely that will be enough status to satisfy them.”

The lioness shook her head. “That’s not how it works.”

“You left for Uni,” the ice dragon pointed out. She was smudged with paint and magical reagents. The lioness sniffed. Artists.

“The castle had need for a wizard.”

What actually happened was this: first the lioness had confessed her sorcery to her heart-sister; then they both petitioned their hunt-sisters with charts and maths; then they and the hunt-sisters begged blessings from a divinatory-aunt who eyed them skeptically but cast the auguries anyhow; and by the time the lioness, her heart-sister, her hunt-sisters, and the divinatory-aunt took her cause to the matron-mothers, the sisters-of-the-mysteries had already whispered in the matron-mothers’ ears and it was a good thing the lioness was here because the matron-mothers had just decided the north tower needed a wizard.

The lioness looked at the ice dragon. The lioness looked at Contrary. Was it fate or expectations that brought them to this. She thought of her time at University. She thought of the matron-mothers and their proud, noble lineage (she thought of the matron-mothers and their sharp, strong claws). She thought she was dry enough for at least one containment spell.

“Sister, you had no leave to go.”

 

* * *

About the Author

Penndry Dragonsworth lives in the Midwest with two cats and collects small vintage cameras. In the summers, Penndry does low-key urban foraging to make jam.

by Amitha Jagannath Knight

“I returned to the village and ate every single person who had ever wronged me, starting with my family, and then the boy I was supposed to impress and the woman who hoped to be my mother-in-law…”

Once, I was a human girl.

You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but long ago, when devas and demons roamed the earth, I was a human girl who dreamed of being a dancer.

The rains had finished, and the Kaveri River swelled threateningly close to the outskirts of the village. In no rush to return home, I sat idling by the riverbank in the marshy reeds, my toes in the water, dreaming of dancing. I wanted to feel the rhythm of the drums in my body, of the high flute winding around my skin. More than that, I wanted to be free of my family.

But instead, that was the day I would meet my future husband. My family was eager to marry me off. I had heard them say as much that morning. My father had been out working the fields, but Amma and Paati had sat just outside our dung hut preparing for the meal while I was inside sweeping.

“If this boy doesn’t marry her, there is no one left to take her. Useless girl.” Amma’s stone pestle ground forcefully into the idli rice and even from inside I could hear it sloshing.

“Don’t give them a choice this time,” Paati advised. “Just pay them off and be done with it.”

My face burned with fury and embarrassment. No matter how clean this room was, they would never be satisfied. I was done with this place. I was done with my family. Tossing my hand broom aside, I rushed outside.

“If no one wants me, then offer me to the temple dancers!” Temple dancers were married to the temple. They only took a spouse if they chose. Their role was to tell the stories of the gods and pass them down to the common folk so that we could understand our history. I wasn’t keen on the idea of performing for anyone, not even the gods, but if that was my only choice, so be it.

“Chee!” Amma said. “Don’t be ridiculous. I will not sell my daughter to that life.” With a thud, the pestle dropped as she rose to face me. “Those women performing for some dance master under the same roof as those priests. What do you think happens? How do you think that looks for us?”

“Shameful,” Paati said. She took up the pestle and continued the grinding.

I crossed my arms. “How could that be any different from being sent with a dowry to live under another family’s roof, betrothed to some village boy who has rights to my body?”

The slap came so fast I didn’t even have time to blink.

“Go collect water and don’t spill half of it like you always do.” She sat back down, muttering, “Girl wants to be a dancer. She can’t even walk without tripping over her own feet!”

“Shameful,” Paati repeated.

And so I sat, with a hand on my still-stinging cheek, with only the Kaveri River to comfort me. If I wasn’t wanted at home, I would go somewhere else. I would leave this place. Sighing, I slipped my feet into the cold water and wiggled my toes beneath the rippling surface. A beam of reflected sunlight struck my eyes, and I suddenly felt a sharp bite of understanding, that my toes were wrong somehow. There shouldn’t be ten toes. No. Ten was the right number, but not for toes. My legs were wrong too, my whole entire body was wrong. I could feel it deep into the marrow of my bones. I wasn’t meant to look like this. I wasn’t meant to be this. I slipped my whole body into the water until I stood shoulder high in the pulsing waves of the Kaveri River, the rushing water closing in around me like a mother-in-law winding a sari too tightly around a bride. My limbs pressed in close.

“No!” I cried as my limbs fused together to my body. “This was a mistake!” I thought I would be squeezed to death, but then my muscles pushed back, thick and strong. I was expanding, growing. My warm brown skin itched as it changed to green gray scales. Painfully, my whole body stretched and stretched until I was longer than the tallest trees in our village. My dark hair fell out, but then — my head split ten ways. I could hear, smell, and taste things I had never even dreamed of before. The human inside me was confused and frightened, but I soon realized that I had ten times the intelligence, ten times the keen eyesight, and ten tongues to talk back to anyone who would insult me.

I was a glorious serpent such as the world had never seen.

A voice came from the river, deep and low, but sweet. “A new body needs a new name. What shall yours be?”

Kaliya, I thought, the name pushing its way to the forefront of my mind. My name is Kaliya.

As though in rebuke, I heard my father calling my old name. He had come to fetch me. With a smile, I ducked beneath the water.

“Where are you? Stupid girl. The boy will be here soon, and you haven’t started the lunch!”

Spotting my clothes along the river bank, he gasped. “Aiyo!” He assumed the worst. “Swimming naked so close to the village?” he cried. “Anyone could see! Your reputation will be ruined! Come out of there now and cover yourself!”

At the sound of his voice, my insides quaked. I could feel my frightened human form threatening to reemerge and split my tail in two. I am no longer human. I reminded myself. I am a snake. I am sleek and strong, and I dance for no one.

Especially not my father.

I reared up my body to its full and glorious height. At fifty feet tall, my luscious serpentine scales glittered with water that rained down into my father’s eyes.

“Yessss, Appa,” I hissed. “I am naked. Naked and FREE!”

He screamed in horror. And then… well. Let’s just say a girl gets hungry after a good shape shifting.

I returned to the village and ate every single person who had ever wronged me, starting with my family, and then the boy I was supposed to impress and the woman who hoped to be my mother-in-law, until finally I had devoured my entire village. As I swallowed them all down, ten at a time, my esophagi squeezing their bodies, I felt their poisons leeching out into my veins.

Understand now?

I wasn’t originally a venomous snake — it was them. It was their bitter poisons that ran through my body.

From there I traveled downstream, from village to village, seeking out fresh victims: people who poisoned girls and tried to keep them in their place. People who wanted girls like I had once been to be nothing but snakes in a basket — kept and called out on command, dancing and swaying to someone else’s music. I devoured an old man whose three daughters he kept chained to the house, and I snapped their bonds as they whimpered with fright. An auntie who taunted young women and goaded them into marriage twisted her way down my throat. I even ate a priest or two. Or ten. And anyone who dared ask who was I to swallow entire villages, I told them:

I am Defender of Women. Nightmare of the Patriarchy.

I am Kaliya. Queen of Snakes.

My old name, the weak human one chosen by my parents, was long forgotten, shed like a dried-up old skin. I swam up and down the Kaveri and people fled from the sight of me. I understood that perhaps it could be frightening for a giant snake to appear and swallow down your tormentors, but I expected a little more delight. Gratitude even. Stories of my exploits spread far and wide. I was feared and reviled though I saw myself as a liberator of the weak and defenseless.

Discouraged and frustrated, I soon tired of revenge. The waters I swam were no longer clear and fresh, but putrid and roiling with the poisons of my kills. Not only that, but… well… I grew bored. Lonely, even. I almost missed my family. Almost.

I invited those I rescued to join and follow me, but each and every one of them refused. I was too frightening, too powerful. They ran away with horror. What I wanted were people who understood me, a life with joy and music and freedom.

It is lonely being one-of-a-kind.

I had once heard stories about a land for snakes — a place where they lived free of humankind. I slithered my way there, eager to meet those who would understand me. Understand my need for freedom and community. Was it possible to have both?

For months, I swam, traveling from river to sea to river again until finally I found my way to the end of the world, to the churning ocean of milk. And there was Ramanaka-dvipa. The haven for snakes, created by the gods.

The island was filled with groves of fruit trees, branches heavy with ripe mangoes, guavas, and colorful birds with sweet voices. Large mansions dotted the landscape, each with a tank of lotus flowers at the front. Truly I had found a serpentine paradise.

Eager to meet a like mind, I slithered to the first door I found, and pushed. But the door was locked.

What kind of paradise had locked doors?

“What is this?” I called out. I slammed my heavy tail against the door. “Who is inside? Where are the snakes?”

A harried voice whispered from the other side of the door. “Take cover! Garuda will be here soon!”

“Garuda?”

“Yessss!” he hissed. “Put out an offering so you may be spared.”

“Offering? What offering?”

An emerald snake peered out of a window. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“I haven’t been here before,” I said.

“Then you won’t remember Garuda’s voracious appetite. Every month we give him offerings in exchange for him promising not to terrorize us again. If you have children, offer them now, or else you may be eaten yourself!”

With that, the snake disappeared inside, banging the window shutters behind him.

Seeking more clarity, I went to the next mansion, and the next and the next. And then, I saw it: A large golden statue of an eagle in the center of the village. An idol of the one who had subjugated them. And on the stone steps before it, a basket, filled with baby snakes. Most of them girls.

Even here, the kingdom of snakes, girls were nothing but bodies to be given up, given away. Discarded. Just as my parents had wanted to do with me. Before fury could wrap its hot fingers around my cold-blooded veins, I heard it — a great rush of wind that shook all the fruit from the trees.

Screech!

Peering up at the sky with all ten of my heads, I saw a large bird with a wingspan as long as my body circling the cloudless azure skies. Instinctively, I hid behind a wall before Garuda could see me. His golden feathers shone majestically, his beak as sharp as my fangs. Like all birds, his eyes were beady, but keen, and he swooped down, alighting on the idol.

Before me was Garuda, King of Birds.

As a human, I knew Garuda only as Lord Vishnu’s courageous vahana. He was someone to be revered and worshipped. To the snakes of Ramanaka-dvipa, he was someone to be feared and obeyed. But I was Kaliya. I was sleek and strong, and I danced for no one.

Not my father.

And certainly not Garuda.

Flicking out my tongue, I could taste his scent — molting feathers and bird droppings. Not scents of courage, but of flawed mortality. He said nothing, he simply lunged for the offerings, ready to devour the baby snakes.

But I got there first.

With my ten gaping maws, I swallowed every last one of them, sending their little bodies wriggling down my throat. Then, I swam hard for the ocean while Garuda was left frozen with shock.

I coughed up the babies, releasing them to the waters. “Swim!” I hissed. “I’ve rescued you.” But they only gaped at my gigantic ten-headed form with confusion and terror on their faces, mirrors of all the human girls I had saved.

By now, Garuda had recovered, and his strong wingbeats blew powerful waves through the water. “Who dares steal the offerings intended for the great and mighty Garuda?” He flew down, setting his powerful claws before me on the sand.

“It is I, Kaliya, Queen of Snakes! Begone from here! You will no longer terrorize this place.” With that I struck, sinking my venomous teeth into his breast.

“Fool!” he screeched. “You are no match for Garuda!” Quicker and fiercer than my mother’s stinging palm, he had wrapped his talons around my throat. He sailed into the heavens, carrying me in his tight grip until he suddenly let go, and I plunged towards tall mountains.

I was certain I would die as soon as I hit the rocks.

But when it happened, and my body struck stone, only my breath was knocked out of me. That was all. I still lived. My glorious scales were even tougher than I had imagined.

“Let this be a lesson to you!” he announced, as he saw me move, his voice resounding on the hills. “Tell the serpents—”

Before he could finish whatever insipid pronouncement he had prepared, I reared up and with all my might, I leaped for him, wrapping my body around his. We hurtled to the ground, but this time when we fell, I was prepared. As he let out a cry of shock, I squeezed tight, so the breath could not return to his lungs. I sprayed venom into his eyes. He screeched weakly in protest. I squeezed harder, eking his very last breath from his lungs. Writhing in agony, he snapped his beak this way and that, and in doing so he managed to grab hold of one of my tongues and bite it clean off.

Blood spurting from my mouth, I released him and hissed with pain. With a great inhale, the air rushed into his lungs, and he shot back up into the sky. There he screeched, circled around once, and then suddenly dove back down. I will not lie; I trembled seeing that great beak like a deadly arrow from the heavens aimed straight for me. As fast as I could, I slithered away, heading back to the beach, using all my strength to try to escape and reaching — just barely reaching — the waters when I felt his beak close down on the tip of my tail.

Like a fisherman, I reeled him in towards me, into the ocean where I now had the advantage. I lunged, ready to wrap myself around him again, but he let go and flapped his great golden wings, sailing away overhead again.

“There is one who will find you yet!” he cried. “Vishnu has been reborn!”

Vishnu?

His words echoed in my ears like a prophecy, but I failed to grasp the significance.

What did Lord Vishnu have to do with me?

I returned to Ramanaka-dvipa, ready to be welcomed as a heroine, a savior of serpents. But instead, I faced an angry mob prepared for revenge, behind them the children I had rescued.

“YOU!” They screamed and charged at me, but I was bigger than all of them, the height of ten of them combined and even battle-weary I knew I could take them. As they slithered towards me, I separated my heads to increase my size, looming even higher above them. Frightened, they stopped in their tracks.

“Garuda will be angry!” one spluttered.

“He will exact his revenge!” someone else said.

I hissed. “I have defeated him, and he has flown away in disgrace. He’ll not dare return so long as Kaliya, Queen of Snakes, is around.”

But the serpents continued to argue. “You are no queen of ours!” they said.

I spat venom at their feet, and then with one mighty swipe of my tail, I toppled the Garuda statue they worshipped. Then I slithered away, heads held high.

If they did not appreciate my help, then I would leave them to their fates.

I returned to my itinerant life of devouring cruel people who deserved it, while being reviled by every woman and child I helped. It was a satisfying, yet incredibly lonely, life. I reassured myself that at least I was with the one person who knew and recognized my worth.

Myself.

That was better than marrying some village boy my parents chose for me, wasn’t it? Was it?

* * *

One day in the Yamuna River, as I was dozing beneath the waves after a large kill, I heard fishermen gossiping above me in their raft.

“Krishna sucked the life right out of her as she fed him milk. Apparently, she had meant to poison him, just as she’d poisoned all the other babies. But this time, she was the one who died.”

“No!” the other fisherman gasped. “Is it true?”

“And he charms everyone he meets. The gopis in his town forget their cows and dance with him all day as he plays his flute. They go home filled with stories of Krishna.”

I listened as the tales of this Krishna continued. Who was this young man who both killed and dazzled women? Was he the next man who deserved a lesson from Kaliya?

“They say he is Vishnu incarnate.”

Thrusting out of the water, I asked, “Where is he?”

The fishermen nearly fell out of their boats from fear and the force of my wake. They cowered, whimpering.

“Answer me!” I demanded, leaning in closer. “Where is he? Where is this… this… Krishna?” His name came out a hiss, and I flicked my tongues in their faces. They cowered and whimpered until one of them finally spoke.

“Go- Gokul,” he stuttered.

I dove back into the water, not even looking to see if the fishermen had been flung out of their boats. There was no time to waste. Gokul was less than half a day’s swim upstream. If I was going to be killed by Vishnu, so be it.

Once in Gokul, I decided to take things slowly. I bided my time in the water, letting him come to me. I grew hungry waiting, feeding only on fish, not wanting to alarm anyone and thus alert them to my presence. The next day, though, I heard it: his flute, high and fluttering. The notes winding around my heads, finding the way to that human heart that still beat inside of me, nearly forgotten. The music resounded through my body, and I could feel the warm blood of the young woman beneath my scales responding.

I dove back into the water. This was dangerous. His flute was hypnotic, and I refused to succumb to its wily powers. When the music stopped, I cautiously sent only one of my heads to peer above the surface of the water. There sat a group of young people, all about my age, talking and laughing. Flirting. What was this? I had never seen people like this before with such ease around each other and such freedom. Didn’t they have chores to do? Duties to perform? Families to answer to? My village had been nothing like this. Nor had the many villages I had visited since. To live with such ease and laughter and music was almost incomprehensible. What kind of magic did this Krishna have?

At first, I didn’t see him, because he was at the center of the group, but when he took up his instrument again, everyone sat down to listen. And suddenly there he was.

Gracefully he held the flute to his lips. His skin was an unusual color, so dark it was almost black, though with a dark blue hue when the sunlight hit — like the dark beauty of the ocean spreading beneath a night sky. When his eyes met mine, I saw that he knew me, just as he knew everything, and then, I knew everything. This was no mere boy. This was a divine being who could see that my life was as divine as his. And I also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I could not kill him. An odd sense of peace and finality overcame me then, knowing, deep in my soul that this was a powerful being worthy of my presence. Limitless in his powers, unencumbered by the fragility of his human frame.

Seeing that something in the water had caught Krishna’s attention, the others soon began to look as well. There was no point hiding now. As I expected, everyone screamed at the sight of me as I reared up my body. They all shouted their warnings.

“It’s Kaliya!”

“A demon!”

“She has poisoned the waters!”

“She fought Garuda and won!”

Krishna didn’t speak. Without a moment’s hesitation, he dove into the water. He floated there before me, and wordlessly we looked into each other’s eyes.

One of my brains told me that I should run away. Now. For this was Vishnu incarnate, and as Vishnu incarnate, he could not be killed. Not by me, not by a woman with poison smeared on her breasts, not by anyone.

He held out a hand, indicating that he meant no harm. Slowly, he made his way towards me, and I stayed still, unsure what to do or what he wanted. He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me gently beneath the surface. Music filled me then, the rhythm of the river, the rhythm of all the rivers, the oceans, the universe, all surged through my body.

Skin to scales we danced. We glided in the water. Without words we reached an epic union of souls that I still cannot explain.

Underwater, where none but us and the voiceless waves could hear, he whispered to me. I too am a shapeshifter, he said. And he told me of his life as Matsya the fish, of his life as Kurma the half-tortoise. He said he understood what it was to be both human and animal and yet also divinity itself.

The people are scared of powerful women, but I will teach them, he said. He released me from his hold. Before we part, I need you to do something for me.

“Assssk and I shall follow,” I said, the words rushing from me so fast they came as a shock when I heard them.

Dance for me above the waters. Show the humans they have nothing more to fear from Kaliya, the Queen of Snakes.

This made me stop. Had his honeyed words been nothing but music meant to hypnotize a serpent? To convince me to come out of my basket?

I was Kaliya, Queen of Snakes. I was sleek and strong. I danced for no one. Not my father, not Garuda, and not even Krishna, avatar of Vishnu.

“No,” I said forcefully, not caring that I was talking back to a god.

Krishna took my refusal in stride. I am currently human, and thus I have been reborn, but—

I twisted away from him. While I could not hurt him, that didn’t mean that I was forced to listen to him either.

He was a fast swimmer and easily caught up to me.

But, he continued, as Lord Vishnu, I can grant you that which you desire most.

“And what is that?” I spat back.

Freedom—

“I HAVE freedom,” I retorted.

Let me finish, glorious girl. I will find you freedom AND companionship.

I glared at him. He came towards me, putting his arms around me again. Skin to scales. I listened to the sweet words coming from his lips. Even I couldn’t stay angry with this divine being. I could feel all the venom, all the hatred I had swallowed begin to dispel. The waters around me began to clear as his music played in my soul. Part of me was skeptical, part of me wanted to run, and hide, and ignore his slippery words, and his slippery promises.

“Where will I go?” I asked, voice hushed.

Return to Ramanaka-dvipa, the promised home of the serpents. You will be their Queen.

“They threw me out!” I said.

I have heard what happened, but I promise they will have you now. Garuda follows my command and thanks to you, the serpents will live in peace so long as you reside there.

“No,” I said. “I cannot be their queen if they do not accept me as such. I will not force my rule on anyone, or I’ll be no better than those I have swallowed.”

Then I will grant you a new home, a place worthy of you, my queen. You will be Krishna’s first wife.

“Wife?” Did I want that?

I will not live with you. I will not rule over you. I will visit when you call me. I will stay when you like. No one need know but us. Kaliya will be the queen of Krishna’s heart. I am yours.

His promises were tempting, but I wanted more.

A voice came from the river, deep and low, but sweet. Kaliya, you deserve the community you seek.

I looked around, but I saw no one.

“Who was that? Who are you?”

I have been with you since the beginning, said the voice. In a way, you could say I am your real amma.

“Show yourself,” I demanded.

You know me, the voice said. I made you what you are.

I thought back to that day on the riverbank… who had made me? Then it came to me — “Goddess Kaveri!”

As I spoke her name, the waters around me began to coalesce into a womanly form who bowed before me, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight. Her blue green hair flowed all around her, enveloping Krishna and me into her bubble.

“Kaveri Amma! Thank you,” I said, putting my hands together reverently and bowing. For she was my true mother, she had created me, and allowed me to thrive in her waters.

I have followed you these past months, and I have seen how you thanklessly defend women. While I do not always approve of your methods, your purpose is true, but you must remember what you are.

“And what is that?”

You are Kaliya, a snake with a human soul. A human soul who deserves the community she seeks.

“Yes, but what community?” I asked. “How can I find them?” The Goddess’s form dispersed into the waters of her sister river. “Wait!” I shouted. “Kaveri Amma! How can I find them?” I groaned with frustration. Had she told me anything I didn’t already know? I felt like I was right back at the beginning of this journey — a serpent with no friends, no family, only vengeance to fuel her, but I was tired now. Too tired to continue on that lonely life. I needed love and had found it, but I also needed friends, I needed a family. I needed a community.

But how could I convince anyone to join me if they were too scared to even look me in the faces? And then a pair of eyes met mine. Krishna, avatar of Vishnu faced me. And suddenly, I understood.

Krishna had offered himself to me.

“Help me,” I said. “Your flute draws people towards you. Use your music to tell my story. We’ll find others like myself, women and people seeking a community. Let us lead them to this new land you promised where I will watch over and protect them as my parents never did for me.”

Krishna smiled and bowed. Taking that as his acceptance, I gripped his tiny body with my tail and like a toy, I placed him atop my head. Then, I lifted him up into the sky, where all could see him. His human friends, the cowherds and gopis gaped as I rose up out of the water with his small form.

Before everyone, he performed for me, playing his flute and dancing. The music and the rhythm of his life thrummed though my entire being. My soul danced with him, feeling the song that is the deepest sound of the universe play through both of us, connecting us. My body bent and bobbed in time to the music.

Through our dance we told the story of me. Of how I had been mistreated, of how I had become a snake, of how I had fought for others, of how I had battled Garuda.

All along the banks of the Yamuna River, people flocked to watch, and soon they followed. At first, it was only a trickle of people, girls I had saved who now understood what I had done for them. Then came more — people who needed a savior, who like me, had longed for a different life. Eventually they came in streams and rivers and oceans. Even the snakes found us, intermingling with humanity. Krishna granted us a new land, even bigger and more abundant that Ramanaka-dvipa.

There we lived in harmony, and I finally became who I was meant to be:

Kaliya, Queen of Peace.

I am sleek and strong, and when I dance…

…I dance for me.

* * *

About the Author

Dr. Amitha Jagannath Knight is an award-winning children’s author and a writer of poems and stories for people of all ages. She is a graduate of MIT and Tufts University School of Medicine and was also a former social media manager for We Need Diverse Books. Her previous publications include: Usha and the Big Digger, a picture book which won the 2023 Mathical Honor Award and “Locked In,” a flash fiction piece published in Luna Station Quarterly. While her parents were originally from South India, Dr. Knight grew up in Texas and Arkansas, and now lives in Massachusetts with her husband, kids, and cats. Find out more about her writing on her website at www.amithaknight.com.

Welcome to Issue 19 of Zooscape!

There is a profound connection between furry fiction and rebirth.  We read stories about characters with scales or fur, and we’re reborn into new, imaginary bodies.  Through fiction, we can be born and reborn, again and again.

But what about the self that follows us?

What if we carry our crimes — or imagined crimes — from one imaginary life to the next, always remaining ourselves on the inside?  Can we ever really escape the cycle and become someone new?

Can the act of reading fiction rewrite who we are on the inside?

Read these stories, and find out…

* * *

Kaliya, Queen of Snakes by Amitha Jagannath Knight

Stormlands by Penndry Dragonsworth

The Goddess of Secrets by David Penny

Stones, Sins, and the Scent of Strawberries by Kai Delmas

The Hard Way by Val E Ford

Terror Lizards by CB Droege

The Cat with the Pearl Earring by Deborah L. Davitt

* * *

Now for a couple of announcements…

First, unfortunately, we’ve had to postpone our next reading period until sometime next year.  We’ll share more information as we can.

Secondly and much more happily, the first two volumes of our anthology series are out (Volume 1 and Volume 2)  and you can pre-order Volume Three! The Next two volumes are underway.  And they’re all fully illustrated and really beautiful.

As always, if you want to support Zooscape, check out our Patreon.

猫介X奔仔咖啡厅联合台聚 百位参加者感受治愈的「猫饭时光」

We missed out on The Evil Secret Society of Cats — but maybe we found out just in time! It’s a full-color manga series written and illustrated by Pandania. “They may seem cute and cuddly, but these kitties are up to no good! Under the direction of the purple-caped Feline Commander, the Evil Secret Society of Cats schemes against humanity in a series of humorous stories as adorable as they are diabolical. After all, the complex nature of cats is part of their charm.” Several volumes are available now from Seven Seas.

image c. 2023 Seven Seas

A rare poetry video, this one from 1878 and about frogs! Title: "Do Frogs Exist There Too? " Written by: Jan Neruda (from the collection Cosmic Dreams) Read by: Mbala Merch, Sweet Tees and stuff: https://culturally-fd-merchandise.creator-spring.com/ Support Culturally F'd: https://www.patreon.com/culturallyfd Listen in on TEMPO TALKS with Tempe O'Kun https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLIPk-itLl1jPyIK2c7mK-LpbvfDNqfcSW Check out Tempe O'Kun's books "Sixes Wild" and "Windfall" here: http://furplanet.com/shop/?affillink=YOUTU2907 Here's a playlist of his other Culturally F'd videos: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLIPk-itLl1jPS7tnT4hdJwBI-CeLF8Kb_

Missed this before, but we came across it now… Team-Up: El Toro & Friends, a graphic novel for kids by the award-winning artist known as Raul the Third. “El Toro and friends make a great team! But that wasn’t always the case. A long time ago, they went to Ricky Ratón’s School of Lucha, learning everything from strength training to patience. When it comes time for one final test, El Toro and friends have to decide whether working alone is the best way to go or if teaming up might make things easier… and more fun!” It’s available now from Versify.

image c. 2023 Versify

Reminiscence about the tumblr days with Rita and Drago! Catch the full episode here: https://youtu.be/IoRZNu3b2-Y ---- Social Media: Official FABP Twitter: https://twitter.com/foxandburger Michael: https://twitter.com/foxnakh https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCK9xoFQrxFTNPMjmXfUg2cg Burger: https://twitter.com/L1ghtningRunner ---- #foxandburger #shorts #snippet #furry

For a while now we’ve been following the news that Lawrence Yep’s popular fantasy novel The Tiger’s Apprentice was being made into a feature film. Not certain what happened to that project over the course of a pandemic and several Hollywood strikes, but now we’re getting word that a different animated movie based on the novel is making its way to Paramount+ next February. And this time we even get a teaser trailer! “Based on the popular children’s book series of the same name by Laurence Yep, the film follows Chinese American teenager Tom Lee, whose life changes forever when he discovers he is part of a long lineage of magical protectors known as the Guardians… In the film, with guidance from a mythical tiger named Hu, Tom trains to take on Loo, a force that is as powerful as a Guardian but has evil intentions of using magic to destroy humanity. To fight against Loo, Tom must reunite all twelve Zodiac animal warriors and master his own newly discovered powers.” There’s more details and an interesting cast list over at Animation World Network.

image c. 2023 Paramount+

马来西亚兽展 FurUM 2023 活动人数、慈善捐款均创历史新高

TigerTails Radio Season 15 Episode 06. Join the Discord Chat: https://discord.gg/SQ5QuRf For a full preview of events and for previous episodes, please visit http://www.tigertailsradio.co.uk. See website for full breakdown of song credits, which is usually updated shortly after the show. If you like what we do and wish to throw some pennies our way to support us, please consider sending a little tip our way. https://streamlabs.com/tigertailsradio/tip * Please note, tips are made to support TigerTails Radio and are assumed as made with good faith, so are therefore non-refundable. Thank you for your support and understanding.

Recently we came across Sand Dragon Press, home to several furry comics that are available both on-line and on dead trees. Most of them were created by writer and illustrator Cindy Ramey. The titles include Starfire Agency, Night Shift, and Hellkats, covering the genres from fantasy to horror to high adventure. Sand Dragon also features the creative works of C.A. Wolff and others. Have a look at their web site to see what they currently have to offer.

image c. 2023 Sand Dragon Press

Dear Papa Bear,

There's this great show that I LOVE called Iesodo, which depicts the life of Jesus through cartoon birds who play the roles of the figures. Iesodo is a cool-looking dove who represents Jesus, and the others play his disciples (and others his friends and enemies).

I love this show, but here's the problem: Saberspark and other YouTubers are trashing it and calling it a "Christian Nightmare." I tried to watch his video on his Saberspark Highlights channel, but when he and his wife started shipping Iesodo and the Raven (representing Jesus and Satan), I HAD to shut it off. Iesodo was talking to the Raven (who was trying to tempt him) about why popularity isn't everything, and the scene was just like Jesus's temptation in the desert. But . . . I hate how they just dismissed it as fluff. It wasn't even a review; they were just watching random bits and pieces. All the comments I glanced at were trashy.

I know how great Iesodo is. It's won awards; it was made by former employees at Pixar, Marvel, Fox Kids, and even other creators who made great Christian cartoons like Kids 10 Commandments and The Christmas Lamb. See, I own every DVD, and I love every episode. I don't think the animation's bad at all. Sure, Believe and Love's 2-episode discs have animation that looks pretty good (I like how they look), and it gets even better starting with Faith's DVD, but I don't think Iesodo's bad at all.

Iesodo has always pleased me in every episode, and each joke-filled scene and every value-inserted moment have never made me cringe. I know it's not perfect, but the writing is fantastic and the characters appeal to me a whole lot. The Believe and Love DVD animation isn't like Gaither's Pond, so I don't feel uncomfortable watching it.

My question: Why on Earth would anyone trash such a great show? In addition, how can I get over this feeling (other than what I do already by praying to God and getting encouragement from my friends and family)? How can I try to show people that Iesodo means a lot to me? I think it's a brilliant show, but no matter how hard I try by posting memes on Twitter about it, the fury keeps on coming when it comes to other people posting terrible reviews about it . . . even though it IS a great show. Can you help me? Give me some advice?
​
Signed,
Your long-time friend,
PenguinDareangel12

* * *

Dear PenguinDareangel12,

Iesodo is an award-winning animated show aimed at children and teaches a strong Christian message, as you know. You likely also know that many in the furry fandom are not Christian. Indeed, many dislike Christians. It is therefore unsurprising that many furries would not like this show whether or not it is well written, directed, and animated (I'm not going to judge it since I have never watched the show; I just looked it up online and familiarized myself with the premise, characters, and animation).

Let's put aside the fact that it is fundamentally a religious show for the moment. If Iesodo were just an animated series about birds, you would still find people who loved it and others who either were indifferent to it or who hated it. That's simply because everyone has their own tastes. There are TV shows that I love that I know others hate (for example, The Big Bang Theory, which I thoroughly enjoyed, but others thought it was stupid). You might note the same about restaurants. For example, I think McDonald's is disgusting, but obviously millions of Americans think it's great. Going back to cartoons, there are a lot of people who think popular animated shows like Peppa Pig, Paw Patrol, and Bluey are garbage or even damaging to children.

PenguinDareangel, it doesn't matter what others think about Iesodo. What matters is that YOU love it and it brings you joy. Don't worry about convincing other people that it's a great show. In the meantime, make sure you write to the creators of the program and tell them how much you enjoy it. You could join the Iesodo Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/iesodo/ and share your love of the show with the 20,000 followers there, or you can go to the Iesodo website and write to them here: https://iesodo.com/contact/ and maybe they can tell you how you can have more fun with the show (perhaps there is merchandise or a fan club, I dunno).

Hope that helps!

Bear Hugs,
Papabear​ Iesodo is an animated program featuring a white dove (representing Jesus) and his friends. Created for Zaya Toonz and produced by Rollman Entertainment, it only ran for 10 episodes.