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Welcome to Issue 17 of Zooscape!

We are the stories we tell.  As we tell them, they change who we are and who we become.  The stories we choose to hold on to — or can’t seem to let go of — shape ourselves and our lives. We need to make room in our stories for other ways of being, for other kinds of beings. For hope. For the possibility of change.  For growth.

This is why Zooscape continues to exist and provide the world with stories, even in these weird and uncertain times.  We will continue keeping the lore.

* * *

Aged Plant Fibers and Ink by James L. Steele

A Seed of Metal by Marlon Ortiz

The Tale of the Rat King by J. M. Eno

Overly Familiar Familiars by S. A. Cole

A Season’s Lament by Patricia Miller

The Swallow Upon My Summers by Sylvia Heike

The Frog Who Swallowed the Moon by Renee Carter Hall

Dragons Anonymous by Jocelyne Gregory

* * *

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

by Renee Carter Hall

“It was the same song, but bigger, richer, sweeter. It was the moon and everything it looked upon.”

In the earliest days, Frog had a beautiful voice. All through the long summer twilights, he sang sweetly among the reeds while fireflies blinked lazily and the earth settled itself into evening. Around that first pond, the other creatures always gathered to listen.

“Such a lovely voice,” Salamander said.

“Just marvelous,” Turtle added.

“So sweet and clear,” Mallard said with a sigh. “How do you do it?”

Frog always looked embarrassed and gave the only answer he could think of, which was also the truth. “I don’t know. I just love singing.”

One night, having sung a particularly long tune about how beautiful the moon was and how sweet the summer breeze and how wonderful it was simply to be alive, Frog drew a bucket of water from the pond to soothe his dry throat. The full moon shone like a silver coin on the surface of the water, and Frog gulped the whole bucketful down.

The night went black around him, like a candle blown out.

Frog swallowed hard, hiccupped, burped, and swallowed again. It felt like a stone had settled in his belly. “Oh, dear,” he said — and every time he opened his mouth, moonlight burst out. “Oh, dear.”

Everyone had gone home after Frog’s last song, and being all alone made things even scarier. Keeping his mouth slightly open so he could see the way, Frog hopped to Salamander’s home among the damp stones and dead leaves at the edge of the pond.

Salamander listened to Frog’s story, shielding his eyes with one hand against the flashes of light that came with every word.

“What does it feel like?” Salamander asked.

“Sort of cold and fizzy,” Frog said miserably. “What should I do?”

“We’ll go see Turtle. He’s older than any of us. He’ll know what to do.”

When they reached Turtle’s mossy log, they had to knock on his shell several times before he emerged, blinking sleepily, to ask what was the matter.

“Frog’s swallowed the moon,” Salamander said.

“Dreams and nonsense. Go back to sleep.”

“But it’s true.” Salamander nudged Frog, and Frog opened his mouth. Blue-white light flooded the log.

Turtle squinted at them. “Hm. Thought it was a little darker than usual tonight. What’d you ever do such a silly thing for, anyway?”

“I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”

Turtle sighed a deep, slow, heavy sigh, as if this sort of thing had happened a dozen times before and he was heartily sick of dealing with it. “Well, there’s only one creature in this pond who can help you, and it isn’t me. You’ll have to go see the Sister of the Moon.”

“Who’s she?” Salamander asked.

“She lives in the center-of-the-center of the pond. You’ll have to take the moonpath to get there.”

“But there’s no—” Frog’s moonlight blinded them all again when he spoke, so he tried to move his mouth as little as possible. “There’s no path out there. I’ve been all over the pond since I was a tadpole. And the only thing in the center is some mud and marsh-reeds.”

“Didn’t take the moonpath, though, did you?”

“No, but—”

“Then it wasn’t the center-of-the-center, was it?”

Frog looked at Salamander. Salamander shrugged.

“I guess not,” Frog said.

“Of course it wasn’t. Only full moonlight shows the path, and then you have to be looking for it. So go on with you and look.” With that, Turtle pulled back into his shell, muttering about lost sleep and unexpected company and how you could certainly bring a bit of fish or at least a nice worm or two if you were going to wake someone up in the middle of the night for such a silly problem as swallowing the moon.

Salamander followed Frog back to the edge of the pond. The water lay dark and still, and stars shone on the surface like white speckles on a black egg. Frog opened his mouth, and the beam of moonlight speared the blackness, skipping over the surface of the water. Then a soft glow appeared, and another, and another, each following the last, until a path of pale stones shone in the moonlight, leading out into the water.

“The moonpath,” Frog whispered.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Salamander was whispering too, and he sounded like he hoped the answer was no.

Frog swallowed. The moon in his belly felt colder and heavier. “I guess I’d better go alone.”

From the edge of the pond, the stones looked hardly large enough to hop onto, but they were dry and just rough enough to keep Frog’s webbed feet from slipping. He glanced back at Salamander, who waved and tried to smile. Frog was about to smile back when he saw that the stones behind him had already disappeared. He swallowed again, faced forward, and went on.

It didn’t seem to be the pond he’d known as a tadpole. In the stark light of his moonbeam, the pale stones led him across an expanse of water larger than he’d ever seen before. Soon there were no more marsh-reeds or cattails at the edges of his sight. There was only darkness and the moonpath, and when Frog dared to look up, even the stars had disappeared. He didn’t look up again after that, keeping his light and his eyes focused on the stones just ahead.

In time, although Frog could not have said how long, there was a glimmer of silver light ahead. At first he wasn’t sure if his eyes were playing tricks on him, but as he got closer to it, the light became a shape, then a structure, and at last he saw a little temple of pale stone, barely more than a roof over thin columns. The stone was veined with silver, and this was the light he’d seen. It glowed brighter as he approached.

The temple lay on a small island, just big enough to give Frog something to scramble onto as the last stone sank from underneath his feet. He rested beneath the roof, watching the veins pulse and glow like ripples on water. He had no reason to, but he felt safe.

There was no sign of anyone else, though. Where was the Sister of the Moon? And more importantly, what was she? He had no idea what sort of creature to look for. Whatever she was, he hoped she didn’t eat frogs. He hummed a little to himself as he waited, bits of the song he’d last sung. The silver light pulsed in time with the rhythm, and he cocked his head and watched it. Light moved along the veins, drawing his gaze toward the center of the roof, where a silver bell hung. The light played over its surface until the bell seemed made of white light instead of metal.

Frog reached up and tapped it.

A clear, brilliant note sounded. It became part of the stone, part of the light, part of Frog himself. Its perfect tone ached within him, and he knew that anything beautiful he heard from now on would be compared to it.

Beyond the temple, the dark water stirred. A white shape moved beneath it, turning in slow arcs. It rose closer to the surface, and finally Frog saw a white fish, bigger than any he’d ever seen, far bigger than he was, with scales that glittered white and silver. Her fins trailed out behind, translucent and delicate as frost. Silent as fog on the water she came closer, until Frog could see every scale, every ridge of her fins, and the flat, sharp disc of her eye.

“Sister of the Moon,” Frog whispered.

(((So I have been. So I am. So I shall be.)))

Her voice sent ripples through his mind. It didn’t hurt, but it felt strange, almost ticklish. (((You carry my sister.)))

“It was an accident.”

(((It must have taken great power to pull her from the sky.)))

“Not really,” Frog mumbled. “I just sort of swallowed it. Her. By accident,” he repeated, wanting to make that part of it clear, at least.

(((Ah.))) Her fins rippled as she turned slowly in the water, eyeing him. (((Moon and water are tricksters. So they have been, so they shall be. Better than you, master Frog, have been snared.)))

He felt a little better after that. She was odd, but at least she didn’t seem angry with him. In fact, she almost seemed a little amused, though it was hard to read a fish’s expression. So he told her what had happened, and then she did laugh, in a mist of bubbles.

(((I could have chosen a far worse guardian for my sister’s light. Will you carry her always, so that I call you brother, or shall we return her?)))

“I’d much rather put her back, ma’am. Er— your majesty?”

She waved his concern away with a slow fan of her tail. (((There is a price, of course.)))

Frog nodded. He knew enough strange old tales to know that much.

(((Pondflesh can only bear so much of my sister’s power. I can call her from your body, but your voice, I am afraid, will not be as it was.)))

Frog stared at her. “Will I still be able to sing?”

(((After a fashion, yes. But your voice will be a rough echo of what it is now. You have had the sweet; this will be bitter. You have had the light; this will be shadow.)))

Frog thought of the warm summer nights, his friends gathered around to listen. He thought of the joy of hitting each note, of adding something beautiful to the stillness around him, until his voice seemed like an extension of the night itself. Then he looked up into the dark sky, and thought of it staying dark.

“It really isn’t much of a choice, is it,” he said quietly.

(((There are always choices. There are not always pleasant ones.)))

The sympathy in her voice gave him courage. “All right.” He stood up as straight as a frog could. “What do I do?”

(((Only sing, and that will be my gift to you.)))

He remembered the song he’d sung earlier that evening — if it was still the same night, which he was no longer sure of. A song about the beauty of the moon, and the wonder of being alive. The opening notes floated into his memory, and he sang.

It was the same song, but bigger, richer, sweeter. It was the moon and everything it looked upon. There was the same joy, the same beauty, but there was an edge of sorrow, a rim of shadow like the moon held just as it began to wane from full. It was his same voice, but the way he might have sounded after singing all his life, deeper, purer. There was no effort, no thought, only song pouring out in utter perfection. Somewhere he began to weep, and yet he sang on, in a song that became all his longings and strivings and dreams given voice. And then he felt it ebb, felt the light slipping away from him, drawn out of his body. Part of him wanted to clutch at it, pull it back. The rest of him merely watched it go.

The last note died away. Frog took a ragged breath and looked up. The sky was scattered with stars, and among them the moon hung full. He swallowed. The heaviness was gone, and his throat was sore. He felt cold, and empty, and tired.

The first word he tried to say came out so rough it was barely a sound.

(((Gently.)))

“I’ll… never sing again, will I. Not like before.”

(((No.)))

Sudden anger closed his throat. “Why did you call that a gift? Why give me that, to remember, when I can never—”

Her sadness washed over him. (((What is the memory of joy but a gift?)))

Frog gave a shuddering sigh and blinked away hot tears. “Well. At least it’s all right again.” He looked up at the moon again, trying to feel satisfied, trying to feel pleased. “I guess I’d better get home, before they start worrying.”

The Sister of the Moon stirred her fins. (((Farewell, then, brother Frog. May you find a voice again, and remember joy.))) Then she dropped deeper into the water, her faint light moving away, and in the ripples of her wake, the stones rose up one by one to lead him home.

* * *

 No one saw Frog around the pond the next day. Salamander took him licorice tea with honey for his throat. Frog said he was fine, though he knew he didn’t sound fine, but he didn’t tell Salamander what had happened, and Salamander didn’t ask. That was why they were friends, and Frog was grateful. Besides, everyone had seen the moon come back to the sky, and that was all that mattered — or so Frog told himself.

As evening came on, Frog huddled in the corner of his reed house. If this were any other night, he thought, he would have been out by the water, greeting his friends, thinking of what songs he might sing. Instead, he felt like going as far away as he could from the pond and never coming back.

He wondered if they were still out there, Turtle and Mallard and Salamander and all the others, waiting for him.

Reeds rustled. “It’s me,” Salamander said. “How’s your throat?”

“Better.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Are they out there?” Frog asked finally.

“They’d like to see you. They’ve been worried.”

“I don’t know.”

Salamander nodded. “I’ll tell them you’re all right.”

“Maybe tomorrow night,” Frog said.

Salamander nodded again. “Because — I mean — you’re more than just your voice, you know.” He hesitated, then slipped through the reeds.

Late that night, when everyone else was asleep, Frog sat by the black water, gazing at the moon.

After a fashion, he thought, remembering the Sister’s words.

No one would hear.

He had to try sometime.

He drew a breath and opened his mouth. It sounded more like a belch than a note.

He went home.

“Why bother?” he told Salamander several nights later. “It’s not even singing, really, anymore.”

“But you love it.”

Frog sipped his licorice tea. “I used to. Not now.”

It was a lie, of course, and they both knew it, but neither pointed it out. That was why they were friends.

Frog told the others it hurt too much to sing now. That wasn’t a lie, though it was a pain that no amount of licorice or honey could ever ease.

And yet, he did miss it. Not just the summer twilights and the expectant hush of the audience and the praise that came after. He missed the feeling of it, the way a song rose in him and demanded to be sung. But every time he tried, all he could remember was the brilliance of that moon-song, the Sister’s cursed gift, that perfection he could never even strive for anymore. And so night passed into night, and except for the crickets, the nights were silent.

“If I could forget how it was before,” Frog told Salamander, “maybe I could be happy.”

Salamander sipped his tea. “Maybe you could forget just for a little while. You know. Pretend to forget.”

“Mm,” Frog said.

In the end, it was the full moon, again, that was Frog’s undoing. One warm, clear, windless night, the beauty of it all tugged at him, and a new song welled up, and without thinking he gave it voice. The sound still disappointed him, but he was getting used to it, and this time he tried singing higher and lower, drawing the notes out, then clipping them short. It wasn’t anything like the voice he’d had before — and it still hurt that it never would be — but maybe… Maybe…

So he pretended to forget, for a little while. He set aside the perfect beauty of a silver bell and a white moon and listened instead to the mud and the reeds of Frog, to what it was and to what it might be.

The sound of his new voice didn’t surprise him anymore. But the happiness — the crazy, rough-edged, imperfect happiness — did.

He thought of new songs and practiced them far from the pond, where no one else could hear. At last, when he felt at least half ready, he told Salamander, and Salamander told the others, and once again the creatures of the pond gathered to listen. He sang quick and low, earthy and bold, a song about the strangeness of the moonpath and a sky dark of stars. It was rough, but there was life in it. There was joy in it.

When the last note died away, heart pounding, he waited.

The silence hung like cold fog. He watched one look to the other. No one seemed to know what to say.

“That’s very… innovative,” Turtle managed. “Quite clever of you.”

“I’ve never heard anything like it,” Mallard said brightly.

One by one they drifted away, their polite comments hitting him like raindrops. Some rolled off. Some soaked in. Salamander was the last to remain.

“Give them time,” he said softly. “They’ll learn to love it.”

Frog swallowed. “Maybe sometimes I am just a voice.”

“Maybe,” Salamander said. “But not to everyone.”

And that was why they were friends.

* * *

In these later days, Frog has a beautiful voice. No crowds gather at that first pond now, to praise his songs’ sweetness and clamor for more. But there are some who still count his voice as rare and precious as before — perhaps even more so — and so he sings for them. He sings for the beauty of the world and the joy of being alive. He sings for himself, for the memories of joy and for the joy that dwells in the singing of a single, present note. And over it all the moon hangs bright and full, its light gleaming on the mirrored pond like the sound of a silver bell, its echoes rippling on and on, into the summer night.

 

* * *

Originally published in Spark: A Creative Anthology, Vol. VI, 2015

About the Author

Renee Carter Hall writes fantasy and science fiction for kids, teens, and adults. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Strange Horizons, Podcastle, and Daily Science Fiction, and her novels include the Cóyotl Award-winning YA fantasy Huntress. She lives in West Virginia with her husband, their cat, and more books than she will ever have time to read. Readers can find her online at www.reneecarterhall.com and on Twitter as @RCarterHall.

by Sylvia Heike

“We may be together, but I still can’t put my arms around her, only momentarily brush against her blue feathers as I try to keep up.”

I’m sifting through my grandmother’s jewellery box when I discover the swallow-shaped brooch. Cast from pewter, with exquisite detail on the wings. Unlike her beloved Sunday pearls, I don’t recall Nana wearing it, though I remember the brooch. She never let me play with it, or even try it on. Once, I snuck it out of her jewellery box, just to hold it in my palm. As soon as Nana caught me, she yelled my name and snatched it from my hand. Then she hugged me close, saying it was no toy. “Don’t ever play with that again, Nora. You hear me?”

I never saw the brooch again.

Yet here it is now, among her earthly trinkets, while she’s the one gone.

I mist the air with Nana’s favourite perfume and inhale the scent — rose, lilac, gardenia, with a hint of vanilla.

It makes me think of summer. Swallows racing above the wheat fields, wild and free, while we sat on the creaky swing. I would think of my mother then, but whenever I asked about her, Nana told me she’s in Africa. As if that was telling much. When I asked if we could visit, Nana said it’s too far. Books say European barn swallows migrate to Africa for winter, and so I stood in the field at the end of summer, yelling at the sky, telling the swallows to say hello to my mother if they saw her.

Sometimes I miss my childish hopes and dreams, the magical ways I thought I could send my mother a message, and she would come, when I didn’t even have an address. For years, I used to save pennies in a big glass jar to buy a ticket, but before they ever reached the top, I grew up and stopped collecting them. I’m sixteen now. Old enough to understand Nana’s gone, and my mother isn’t coming back. I’m on my own.

I’m sure Nana wouldn’t mind if I wore the swallow brooch now. As I’m pinning it on, the needle pricks my finger.

A drop of blood beads on my fingertip like a pin on a map, then everything goes blurry. The room is growing — or am I shrinking? My fingers fan out into wings and feathers, my legs beneath me disappear. The next thing I know, I’m flapping out the bedroom window.

I’m flying, and what a joy it is to be a bird! I’ve never known such lightness. My human sorrows are but a pebble in my chest, small and quiet behind my rapidly pulsing heart. My wings are moving faster than my arms ever could.

Another swallow appears beside me. I can’t explain it, but beyond her shiny blue feathers and dark glassy eyes lies something familiar.

“Nana…?”

“I’m sorry,” a voice in my head answers, rippling blue, and I can sense the bird means it with all her feathers. “It’s me, your mother.”

“I thought you were in Africa.”

“Only in the winter. In the summer I’m here, watching over you.”

My tiny bird-heart wants to soar through the clouds. My mother didn’t leave me. The same thing must’ve happened to her as to me. Nana must have known, but not how to get her back. On my every birthday, the mother I thought was missing has been flying right above my home.

She chases after an air current. “Fly with me.”

I follow her eagerly, but it doesn’t take long before my new strange limbs are tiring. I flap my wings desperately, unwilling to lose her again. She speeds ahead. I’m falling behind.

I can’t see her anywhere.

I’m sure I’ve lost her when a silky wingtip tickles mine. She has looped back to me. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you.”

We fly together, my mother teaching me everything there’s to know about how to be a bird. How to dance with the wind, how to catch insects and raindrops with my beak, even how to sleep on the wing like a swift. It’s easy to see how one could live like this forever, never longing for anything.

* * *

The landscape below changes as we fly, fast and free, so fast that time barely applies to us. On the ground, people and cars and trains appear to move so slowly, it’s almost as if they aren’t moving at all. I think of Nana, and though I miss her terribly, I’m grateful for how very, very long she lived.

I glance at my mother’s flawless form. Her forked tail, wings designed for flight. We may be together, but I still can’t put my arms around her, only momentarily brush against her blue feathers as I try to keep up. This is her life. This has been her life for a long time. I come to a painful realisation. The forever I spent without my mother didn’t feel half as long to her.

* * *

The ending of summer is a message carried in the cooling wind. My mother sings of Africa, of tropical insects, and land, the greenest green she’s ever seen, somewhere in the Nile Valley. I may have her red hair — and blue feathers — but I am not my mother. I don’t want to run, or even fly, forever.

When I look at her, I can nearly see the wispy threads tying her to the air and the clouds, instead of the earth and me. At least we had this summer.

“I want to go home,” I tell her. “Take me back to the farm.”

* * *

We circle above the fresh-cut fields, the empty farmhouse. Somewhere below there’s still a window open. I send Mother my thoughts, asking how to land.

Silence.

I ask again, earth’s gravity pulling my heart in two. “Did you ever try?”

“I’m sorry.” The same words as when we met, the same blue ripple of sadness as before. I screech into the wind, as if the world might care about a single swallow’s suffering and sorrow. I’m sorry too, sorry for being too human to be the perfect daughter. I guess I’ll have to figure out how to land on my own.

I swoop towards the farmhouse.

“Wait—” My mother races after me. “I don’t expect you to understand, but even as I flew above, I always wanted what was best for you. All I wanted was for you to be safe and loved — and you were. I saw that you were. With or without me.” She pauses. “I hope one day you can forgive me.”

I wish I could, but letting go of years of pain and abandonment isn’t like shedding a few old feathers. It will take time, maybe a lifetime. In human years.

A strange, heavy feeling comes over me. My beak itches. My skin feels tight over my hollow bones. It’s as if my current shape can no longer contain my giant tangle of human emotions. It’s a struggle just to stay airborne. My mother, though right beside me, becomes a blur. I hear her muddled voice still speaking. “—no more Africa,” she says. “It’s time I come home with you. Let’s find a safe way down.”

Down.

I already know that’s where I’m going. I’m flapping my wings as fast as I can, but their beautiful rhythm feels lost to me. The autumn winds blow, moody and strong, pushing me around. I’m a mess of feathers, falling, falling.

My mother latches onto me, claws digging into my back. Her wings are beating so hard I can hear them whirring. She is trying to save me, but with my added weight, she too is rendered helpless against the wind’s will. I’m afraid if we fall like this — or turn human high above the ground — it could be the end for both of us.

“Let go of me,” I say.

“Never,” is her reply.

* * *

It feels like summer.

We’re still falling when a warm breeze cradles us. The scent of flowers envelops us. Rose, lilac, gardenia, with a hint of vanilla. My mother’s delicate wings are somehow strong enough to carry us. “Feel that?” she whispers. “She won’t let us crash to earth.”

A gentle breeze floats us to the ground, soft as Nana’s goodnight kiss.

We land in a patch of long yellow grass. Upon touching the ground, we change. Wings narrow into arms and fingers, legs grow, beaks soften into lips. My mother looks like her framed pictures again, except older. Her red hair has gained a tinsel of white, the only blue about her is her eyes.

“We should get inside,” I say with a shiver, wrapping my strange naked arms around myself. The sun shines from a clear blue sky, but the wind is cool and biting, Nana’s warmth gone. We must both be thinking of her, for my mother is quiet, her eyes misting up.

It takes me a few tries before I manage to scramble to my feet. My mother keeps trying, but her legs are much too wobbly to stand on, let alone walk. I stagger to the porch, grab two old blankets, and help her up. She sways like a tree whose roots are splintered and broken. I can only imagine what it must be like for her to be human again after so long, the flood of emotions rushing through her body and mind. I know I should worry about my own emotions, of almost dying and being saved, but as always, the loudest of them is the little girl missing her mother, still afraid of losing her. I suspect it will never go away.

My mother turns her face to the sky, and a small part of me fears she might regret coming back, that a tiny blue fork-tailed bird with crescent wings will always live inside her, even if she stays.

As if she can read my mind, my mother cups my face with one hand, and looks at me, not the way one gazes at the stars in the sky, but the way one looks at family and home. How Nana always looked at me. “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers.

I want to believe her. So, so much.

I don’t know if I can forgive her, but her being here is a start. Arm in arm, we hobble towards the farmhouse with small shaky steps, learning to walk together.

 

* * *

About the Author

Sylvia Heike is a fantasy & science fiction writer from Finland. Her stories have appeared in Flash Fiction Online, PodCastle, Nature Futures, and more. When not writing, she likes to go hiking and looking for birds. To the age-old debate about cats vs. dogs, her answer would be bunnies. Read more at www.sylviaheike.com or follow her on Twitter @sylviaheike

by Patricia Miller

“The sea crow heard the pain in the song, and she recognized the call of one who was dying.”

The sea crow watched from her perch for five days full. The fledglings were advanced enough to scavenge for meals while she stood vigil, while she accepted she would not see her mate again. She finished the season, content to see the last of her children leave the nest, decided then and there she would not seek out a new mate come spring.

She took flight with the morning sun and spent her days traveling the wetlands and headwaters, collecting the voices of the coast that had formed her life. There was the laughing cackle of the gull-billed tern, the haunted echoing coo of the loon, the clang of a trawler’s anchor chain, the evening ferry whistle, the call to prayer ringing from a church’s bell.

She usually kept in sight of land, but even that close to shore she caught the sounds of dolphins whistling and clicking to each other, the whales booming greetings and warnings to their brethren across thousands of miles.

Slowly, over the course of season upon season, she came to understand the sounds. She spoke with others not of her kind, learned the ways of seagulls and sandpipers. She shared her knowledge with her kin, and they in turn passed them along to others. She became known as a teacher, and creatures of the air and sea became her friends.

* * *

It was spring, and the sea crow was trying to entice a cormorant into an exchange of information — like most cormorants, it wasn’t much into casual conversation — when she was interrupted.

[teacher, may you come] That isn’t exactly what the plover said. It was more along the lines of ‘Strange one who is not of us but hears our calls, would you look upon my request with favor and follow me in friendship without causing harm to our young?’ She piped her acceptance.

She followed the plover along the beach toward its breeding grounds. Other plovers had gathered, guarding their precious eggs. She understood, for although she was known to be safe amongst the young, she was still a crow with a crow’s reputation. She nodded to all and watched her feet to prevent any accidental trampling of fragile shells.

The plover didn’t stop, leading her around the rocky cliff face just past the sandy beach. There was a hidden cove beyond, filled with rock formations carved by the sea over uncounted millennia. She’d eaten any number of dinners there in the past, so she knew it well, but as they drew closer, she heard an unfamiliar sound, a song, a mournful lament.

The plover stopped just short of the cove. His piping clearly indicated he thought she might be interested, but he wasn’t risking his life or the lives of his young by venturing further to investigate. He bobbed his head and scurried back the way he came.

The sea crow heard the pain in the song, and she recognized the call of one who was dying. She took to the air, ensuring her safety from an animal who might lash out in its suffering.

As she crested the rocks, the sea crow caught her first glimpse and knew the song to be a trick of the wind, for no such creature existed in the world of man or beast. She had convinced herself it was a carving, beached by the recent storm when suddenly it proved itself to be real by lifting its arms to the sky and crying its pain into the world.

No creature who had nurtured young, cared for the injured, grieved a mate could ignore that plaintive cry. She swooped downward and landed on a large rock a safe distance away.

The sea crow took a good look at the creature draped half in, half out of a large tidal pool. By any standard of beauty, it was too beautiful. A creature fit for neither land nor sea, or maybe worshipped by both. She decided it was a male — she’d seen enough humans to understand a female’s need to suckle its young, and this being wasn’t equipped for that. His tangled hair was green of a shade similar to many statues, although it was shiny like they weren’t. His skin matched the pennies she hoarded away — humans were so casual about their treasures. She didn’t know what to make of his tail, for though it was the most beautiful thing about him, she had not known humans could come with one. It reminded her, in color if not in shape, of a peacock she saw once, a noisy and useless bird, but until now, the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

She wanted to see his eyes, hard clenched against the sun. She called to him with one of the human phrases she knew. He didn’t react to it. She tried another phrase, then the song of a thrush, the church bell, the ferry whistle. She spent long minutes mimicking dogs, horses, a fox, pelicans, that annoying albatross who’d followed her around one summer until she shook him off during a thunderstorm.

A dolphin’s click jerked his head upright. It so startled her she almost fell from her perch.

His eyes were black, surrounded by a thin ring of green. He had no lashes.

She clicked once more. [Hello]

He clicked back. [Hello]

She didn’t know if he understood her or just echoed the sound. She clicked again, asking a question. [Are you injured]

[No]

[Are you hungry]

[No]

She cocked her head. He didn’t look like a fledgling, but humans were odd, and he was odder than most.

[Are you lost from your nest]

He shook his head but didn’t answer.

[May I be of assistance to you in some way — may I summon those of your kind to render aid]

He let out another mournful cry, the lingering notes bouncing off the sheer stone walls and rocky sculptures surrounding them. The tune was long, each verse more sad than the last. She thought it would break her heart.

[Please let me help you]

[I cannot be helped for there is no one, no one]

She had seen bird parents who kicked out a fledgling too sickly to survive or hurried along one clutch of chicks when another came earlier than expected. Perhaps he had been abandoned.

It was a hard concept to convey in whistles. The whales had a term for it, but her voice, for all its gifts, had never been able to replicate their calls.

She tried over and over, varying tone and structure. Finally—

[Are you one who must now swim alone]

Silence.

She was unwilling to leave him and hoped food might encourage him. She hopped off her perch, dug through the sand and rock for a quick bite, brought some choice bits back to him. He didn’t eat.

She pondered her last question. He had not given her an answer. She believed she had the right of it though.

[Are you one who must now swim alone] She repeated.

He shuddered. [I swim alone for I am alone — there are no others]

She didn’t understand. [Because they are lost]

[Because they are gone — because I am the last]

She thought back to her father and his father and stories passed along through the generations. There was a tale of another bird, the last of her kind, who ended her days alone in a cage, after humans had used their stones powered by fire to wipe out flocks that once filled the sky. The whales told of hunts which reduced their numbers, and cranes complained they no longer had the freedom of their old nesting grounds. Still, there were also stories of those once thought lost who had been found and so she told him.

[Have you looked everywhere, for the sky and sea are quite large and there are many hidden places]

He shook his head. [I have sung our song as far as the sea can carry and I am not answered]

[You have searched the old nests]

[For three full cycles of seasons I have searched and called and sung until I can go no farther] He lifted his arms to the sky and chanted another verse then dropped them to his side. [Always our numbers were few since humans conquered the sea. Each season brought forth fewer and fewer of us. There are no more, for no one answers the call. I am but one and can search no more. I am the last]

She gazed at him, this wondrous creature. His kind could not be over.

[Then teach me your song. Teach me your song and I will sing it far and wide. I will teach my children and their children and their children. I will teach the whales and the robins and all of us will search]

[It is too late. I am dying]

[But even if your kind passes from this sea, your song will not, for it will be carried by all of us in remembrance]

[Is it — I cannot but think it hopeless]

[I have learned many songs and taught many others. Teach me]

They sang together then, throughout the passing of the sun, well into the night and until the moon faded behind the dawn. Other birds came. Gulls, pelicans, the silent cormorant. They were joined by seals and dolphins. Every day brought more, an everchanging audience. Each learned what they could, even if it was only a single note. The sea crow and the strange, lonely one sang softly, one mournful measure after another. The growing multitude recognized the grief and pain behind it, became a chorus to accompany the song. Over the passage of the new moon, through its full arc in the sky, night and day spanned together into an unknowable measure of time.

But finally, his voice fell silent.

On a warm summer morning, just as the sun’s rays reached into the hidden cove, the last one of his kind was gone.

She did not know his rites of mourning, did not know what was to be done. It seemed wrong, somehow, to abandon what he was to the beach and its depredations. The dolphins, whose language brought them an understanding of the creature, took it upon themselves to carry the lonely one back to the sea, to commit him to the deepest part of his home. The sea crow followed as far as she could, singing his final lament.

 

* * *

About the Author

Patricia Miller is a US Navy veteran born and raised in Cincinnati, OH, USA, with a BS from Miami University, Oxford, OH and an MS in Library and Information Science from the University of Tennessee. She started reading at 3 1/2 after becoming obsessed with Batman. She is hooked on QI, British murder villages and professional cycling.

Publication credits include short fiction in A Quaint and Curious Volume of Gothic Tales, 206 Words, and the March 2022 Cinnabar Moth Literary Collection e-zine. A second story for Cinnabar Moth will be appearing in Winter 2023, and she will have a story included in an upcoming charity anthology inspired by vintage ads for Brigids Gate Press in Fall 2022.

She is an associate member of SFWA.

by James L. Steele

“He flipped the pages again and inhaled. The aged, yellowing fibers. The ink. The glue. The years. The ambient dust. All of it combined into a scent that was uniquely alien.”

Ker’r rose from all fours and walked on his hind legs as he rounded the corner. A bipedal stature was never required, but it made navigating this part of the city much easier.

The black-furred canine had white stripes around his midsection. He couldn’t afford clothing, though it wasn’t required here among the structures arranged in a grid along avenues.

The Planet of Paper District, complete with authentic asphalt, authentic stone, authentic brick, all transplanted from a real city block and reconstructed here. Numerous canines in sight also walked upright to help complete the sensation of living in another culture.

Loose-skinned and tight-skinned reptiles rubbed elbows with the upright canines and felines, fur and scale colors ranging from muted browns to garish greens and pinks. Some of the less experienced people stumbled trying to stay upright while peering through the windows at the various items of clothing some of them would buy and wear.

The district extended a few city blocks. Just a brisk stroll away from these streets lay normal civilization underneath the weather-dome that kept the snow and the rain off and allowed everyone to live in comfortable, dry burrows. The spaceport lay a mere day’s walk from the dome, making it far enough out of sight to believe this was an extraterrestrial place.

The Planet of Paper recreated. This was the closest most of them would ever come to visiting the world for themselves. It helped Ker’r comprehend a civilization that left so little behind and yet so much.

He scented the air to orient himself. Habit from the outside, as scent did not guide here. He had to rely on his eyes, and it took him a moment to remember how to do that.

He crossed the street, remembering that this would have been difficult on the Planet of Paper due to the petroleum-burning machines zipping up and down the asphalt. He passed over the yellow lines, as did a few others visiting this place of different customs, living by senses they were still trying to understand. Getting used to the idea of sight guiding one’s life was a critical step. It’s why Ker’r first came here. The Bindings brought him back nearly every week.

Rounding the next corner, he paused to let a group of red-scaled lizards pass, both carrying brown sacks. Ker’r could taste hints of the Bindings in those bags. That scent would be potent for weeks before it began to fade — one of the reprints, certainly, as Ker’r knew the originals began to fade mere hours after opening.

No datascent panel on the door gave information on this place. Businesses in the District had flat signs over the door, written in the glyphs the dead civilization once used. This one had an image of a Binding, transplanted directly from the Planet of Paper itself.

He turned and pulled the door open. This shop was one of dozens around Ker’r’s world, and one of hundreds in the community of planets. Inside was like entering another civilization, with chairs all around, and a central seating area with proprietors behind a counter-top made of polished tree fibers. The entire place was made of the cores of various types of trees, and the smell alone made him feel part of another civilization — just imagining how anyone could focus with this scent in their head at all hours of the day placed him in another civilization, as they might have lived.

Most of the canines and felines and lizards donned clothing to varying degrees, some wearing trousers only, or a shirt, or just an overcoat. Everyone had at least one page. A few had entire Bindings, purchased from the collection in the adjacent room that was off-limits to the public. Two felines were passing a Binding back and forth, flipping the pages, breathing the air coming off. Ker’r tried to scent it discreetly, but that was difficult for a canine.

He took a seat at the counter. The white-furred feline noticed him and turned.

“You weren’t here last week,” he said, leaning forward.

Ker’r smiled with his muzzle, imitating the photographs of the people on the Planet of Paper. “Good to be back, Erok. Patrols kept me out. Had to redirect six asteroids. This is my first day off in two weeks.”

Erok smiled back, showing canines, a threatening gesture anywhere else except the District. “This is the place to come when you want to feel as far removed from patrols as possible.”

Ker’r took a sniff, glancing at the walls. “It’s easy to forget there are other planets out there with the scents of this place closing in on you.”

“It does feel like it’s holding you down, doesn’t it? I enjoy that sensation.”

The feline slipped a raised disc in front of Ker’r. The canine leaned over and scented it. It had encoded olfactory information on it, and with a single sniff he knew the menu and the prices.

Paperback: 1C d6 PY+210, | ~8 / ~27
Paperback: 2C d1 PY+199, | ~12 / ~35
Hardback: 4C d14 PY+212 | ~9 / ~32
Hardback: 6C d3 PY+202 | ~19 / ~44
OB: The John Varley Reader John Varley Ace, 2C PY-201 d2 ~12 | ~133

Learning to understand the menu was itself a skill and often required a guide just to comprehend what one was ordering. C denoted the continent, d was the district, PY denoted the year it had been bound, calculated to the number of solar cycles on the Planet of Paper. Paperyears. Negative numbers indicated estimated solar cycles before the year the planet had first been discovered.

They always had one Original Binding on the offer for page-by-page consumption. These were the only listings that included an olfactory bitmap representation of the glyphs on the spine of the Binding. Comprehending images with datascent was difficult for anyone, but he had enough experience with Bindings that he could visualize them.

Many Originals were never for sale as a whole, as retailers often only received one copy of each, so they had to be sold per page. One had to be extremely wealthy to buy those Originals as entire Bindings.

Anyone could buy a Binding and take it back to their den, but it was never the same as experiencing it in a place like this, as close to how the hairless bipeds might have enjoyed them on the Planet of Paper.

He looked up at Erok. “Paperyear minus two oh one. Surprised you can still buy whole Bindings.”

The cat nodded. “We have enough copies to sell in whole. The older volumes are getting rare though.”

Ker’r laughed. “What will we do when we run out of originals?”

“We’ll have to stop saying plus and minus. Paperyear will be all positive numbers, and new Bindings will be considered originals. By then they’ll have printed enough to create Bindings good enough to be called Originals.”

“They won’t be the same,” Ker’r said. “They can’t reproduce the patterns. They use random arrangements. The ink patterns make a difference. I didn’t believe you when I first started coming here, but you turned me into a believer.”

Erok nodded, tail also lashing in amusement. “By then someone will have figured out how to reproduce the ink glyphs accurately.”

“I thought they already had.”

“It has to be done manually. Most of the machines are still silent without the computer systems that ran them.”

“I’ve heard the explorers believe the computers were based entirely around the sense of sight.”

Erok nodded, another gesture that meant something entirely different outside the District. “The people who once inhabited that planet used their eyes and ears exclusively. Scent may not have been a large part of their society. Their computers would have produced something visual as output.”

The canine took another sniff of the disc and received the menu directly into his mind again. “How would that be practical? Will we ever understand them?”

“We’ve managed to communicate with people who sense electromagnetic fields instead of their sense of smell. I like to think we’ll make progress with creatures who use their eyes.”

Ker’r chuckled. “Until then, I’ll start with the 4C hardback, please.”

“Page or Binding?”

Ker’r thought about it for a moment. “The whole Binding.”

“Good start. It’s a light, easy experience, just complex enough to be intriguing but not too overwhelming.”

The cat reached underneath the counter and opened a sealed cabinet. He pulled out a hardcover, and then waved a meter in front of Ker’r’s eye to deduct the purchase from his account.

The Binding before Ker’r was twelve years old, and it resembled an Original down to the very glue used to hold the individual pages together. The plant fiber sheets had just begun to turn yellow. Ker’r picked up the Binding and opened it to one of the middle pages.

First Opening was always the most impressive. The fibers inside the closed pages were now exposed to air for the first time since printing, and with just a little agitation, they released their bouquet.

Ker’r took a deep and long breath. Then several short sniffs. The ink had decayed enough to mingle with the fibers, and they now combined with the dust they had accumulated.

Another planet twirled up his olfactory nerve and danced in his mind. Language had millions of words to describe scents, and yet somehow all of them failed when describing the myriad of sensations contained within a Binding made from plant fibers from this particular world, aged for just the right amount of time in exactly the right conditions.

People all over the community of worlds tried to mimic this with local plant fibers ground and pressed into leaves and then aged in climate-controlled structures, but nothing matched the complexity of the Bindings produced on the Planet of Paper.

He flipped the pages again and inhaled. The aged, yellowing fibers. The ink. The glue. The years. The ambient dust. All of it combined into a scent that was uniquely alien. It took effort to process the nuances, which left him feeling drained yet satisfied.

Erok was showing canines again. “To your liking?”

Ker’r exhaled. “Very much. And you have a whole room full of these things.” He gestured to the sealed door that led to the side room which housed shelves and shelves of Bindings. “How can you go in there and not just curl up in a corner and breathe it in all day?”

He leaned forward and bumped noses with Ker’r. “I’m a professional. We take lessons in how to keep our minds sharp with so many scents around.”

“I wish I had your restraint.” Ker’r flipped the pages, billowing his fur. “That’s why I’m still doing asteroid patrols.”

Lowering his lips to cover his canines, the feline leaned back and moved to attend other clients, leaving Ker’r alone on another planet created by the old fibers in this Binding. The transplanted asphalt didn’t make this place real. The reconstructed buildings made of fired stone and planks of tree fibers didn’t make it real. This Binding did. He turned around in his seat and looked out over the shop.

The green-scaled reptile sitting upright in a plush chair from that other world hundreds of light-years away also had one of these hardbacks and was flicking her tongue over the pages as she turned them. She passed it to the feline in the chair beside her, who flipped the pages, letting the air blow her tan fur around.

A group of four rodents sat by the window, each with a paperback. Ker’r heard pieces of conversation about survey vessels that had discovered a new planetary system and were scouting for resources.

Ker’r flipped the pages again, puffing the fur on his face and chest. Part of him wanted to roll in this scent, and this was why he kept coming here. The smell of these Bindings brought out something peacefully primal in everyone.

He’d heard the stories about this District and the culture it represented. A planet whose local name they still didn’t know, inhabited by people who left very little behind. Machines had decayed. Magnetic tapes were blank. Computer systems empty. Evidence of a massive solar discharge in the then-recent past, and then stillness.

All that remained which seemed remotely comprehensible was aged plant fibers and ink bound and stored in various buildings on every continent of that empty world.

The scents contained in those Bindings dazzled the exploration team for so long they were an entire year late returning home, and they brought many Bindings with them. By then the scents had faded, but traces of them lingered and tantalized others. People came from all over the community to catch this incredible new scent from an extinct civilization.

Eventually someone figured out how to recreate the fiber sheets and make new Bindings. With enough time, the fibers aged in much the same way. Even new printings had a delicious bouquet to them, gradually changing and gaining nuance and depth and complexity with age.

Many sought their fortunes on that world, figuring out how to run those printing presses, or selecting the right plants for harvest, or analyzing the ink and attempting to reproduce the patterns on the pages. Early attempts at creating Bindings had no ink, just blank pages carefully aged. The addition of ink improved the complexity greatly. Now hundreds of printing presses were running all over the Planet of Paper. Each region had a local climate that presented unique challenges to aging the paper or producing the ink, and finding suitable plants to use was also a challenge, as they grew so slowly. Careful management was needed to balance out printing and aging with replenishment.

Understanding all the work that went into creating this Binding was as much a part of the experience as the scent itself.

The door opened, and a winged lizard carrying a sealed case walked inside. She was wearing a white blouse and black slacks, similar to the ones seen in the monochrome moving-images that had survived. The ensemble complimented her green and black scales, and this person was the best dressed out of anyone in the shop, including the proprietor, so all gradually turned to her, scenting her discretely from a distance. Her clothes smelled just as alien as the pages, hinting they had been made in a restarted facility on the Planet of Paper.

She approached the bar and took a seat next to Ker’r, placing the case on the counter-top.

“Ege,” the feline said, approaching from the other side of the bar. “You’re here late.”

The lizard kept her wings folded tight to her back, an uncommon posture for her species. She had practiced for this.

“Shuttle was late. This is my only stop.”

She opened the case. Ker’r lowered his Binding as he turned to see. The case was very much designed in the style of the extinct civilization, and it contained five sealed plates, each just thick enough for a single page. Ker’r recognized them as battery-operated, climate-controlled compartments. He wished he could lean over to taste the info panels.

“I brought samples,” Ege continued, trying to keep her wings from fluttering to maintain the posture and gestures from the Planet of Paper. “Some new Originals just became available.”

“Oh my.” Erok picked up the plates and scented the info panels one by one.

Ker’r turned all the way around in his seat, setting his Binding on the counter. “What are they?”

Erok was just scenting the final plate. “Oh… Have a sniff.”

He held out the plates to him. Ker’r had never seen or held these devices before. They were surprisingly heavy. He inhaled one of the info panels. The encoded datascent instantly streamed into his mind:

George Orwell Keep the Aspidistra Flying Mariner, 1C PY-319 d7 | ~1334

The spine glyphs were rendered as bitmap information, so he saw them in his mind as the datascent became complete. He looked up at Erok, ears turned back.

“One thousand three hundred thirty-four?”

Now the lizard’s wings fluttered a little as she smiled. “Never had something this pricey?”

“Never!”

“These are samples for shopkeepers to decide if they want to stock the Binding, but since I’m here so late, everyone may sample them.”

Erok nodded, ears flicking in a grin. “Would be rude to keep this from everyone.”

Ker’r had sniffed the panels on the other four plates:

Changeling The Autobiography of Mike Oldfield Virgin, 5C PY-98 d3 | ~1550
Oil! by Upton Sinclair Penguin, 3C PY-113 d1 | ~1400
Crichton Jurassic Park, 2C PY-322 d1 | ~988
Far-Seer Sawyer Tor, 1C PY-206 d2 | ~1200

For the first time in years, the bitmap data for the glyphs on the spine had an impact on Ker’r. These were pages from Originals older than he was. While he took that in, the feline had made an announcement to everyone in the shop they were in for a special treat. It wasn’t usual for vendors to share samples with the general public, but since she was here, these samples were free, but mind there was only a single page from each and these pages had to last long enough for other shopkeepers to sample the Binding, so please don’t take too long.

Ker’r handed the plates to the feline. By now, everyone had risen and joined them at the counter. Erok pressed the button and the plate’s front face hissed. It opened like a Binding, revealing the single page inside. Everyone leaned closer.

The page had gracefully yellowed with age, and the glyphs had faded just slightly near the edges, showing that it had been properly stored. Ker’r knew enough about bindings to recognize the same glyphs on the spine at the top of the page. Jurassic Park.

Everyone took deep breaths. The reptiles in the room extended their tongues and tasted the air coming from the plate, being careful not to touch the page itself.

The climate of the second continent had imbued the fibers with crisp winter air, along with traces of pollen from the local flora. The paper had absorbed all of it in dust, and it became part of the page. The combination of all these elements formed the most complex and unique scent Ker’r had ever experienced. He drooled a little as his mouth worked extra hard collect it.

The well-dressed vendor had let her wings extend and was fluttering them gently, spreading the scent around the room.

“That is a paperyear minus three twenty-two,” she said. “One of the oldest in our possession, and some of the last Originals of this particular Binding. Only sixty copies left.”

The patrons were glancing at one another, in awe that they had been privileged to sample something so well-aged.

Erok let Ker’r hold the opened plate. Ker’r allowed himself just a moment to be alone with this page. He took a few more breaths, eyes closing. He wanted more, but he passed it to the person on his right instead, a feline who brought it close and took a few short inhales.

Processing something this old and with this many elements and nuance took physical effort. He felt exhausted, even after the odor stopped dancing in his mind.

“That. Is. Amazing.” Ker’r panted, tail wagging as he turned from Erok to Ege, the vendor.

She nodded. “I wish they weren’t so expensive. Scents like that should be a shared experience, not reserved for people with money.”

Ker’r’s voice sounded dreamy even to his own ears. “Will reproductions ever be like that?”

“One can hope.” She raised a Binding and took a sniff. Ker’r noticed she had ordered the reproduction paperback from today’s menu, a casual experience. Processing it wouldn’t leave her too exhausted.

When everyone had sampled that plate, Erok returned, sealed it shut, and then opened another. The volume of conversation grew louder and brighter.

This next plate contained a smaller page, but it was so yellow it looked as if it would fall apart if touched, its odor so potent it filled the room instantly. By the time the plate came to Ker’r, he already knew it.

He recognized Sawyer at the top, and felt proud of himself for knowing the glyphs without having seen them previously. Translating datascent images into sight recognition was a learned skill that did not come easily to anyone in the community of planets.

This one didn’t merely smell aged. It smelled ancient, and it had hundreds of elements and layers derived from the climate and the fibers and the ink.

Keep the Aspidistra Flying had been aged so long the paper was cracking. It had so many elements they became lost without intense focus and concentration.

Changeling was surprisingly mild in its complexity for as faded and yellow as the fibers had become.

Ker’r had to get up and leave the room, nearly falling over his head was so full. He opened the door and latched it behind him. The side room held just a single occupant, and it was ventilated and filtered so much there were no scents in here apart from his own fur, simulating the tunnels and burrows under the weather-dome, places free of scents that allowed the mind to focus.

He needed to shut out everything else and have some time to process the enormity of what he had just taken in. Entire universes contained in a single page. The complete Binding would be even more potent. He leaned against the wall and breathed the clean air for a while, pondering that a Binding like that cost more than he had in his account, and right now he was giving serious thought to going into debt just to experience it again.

After about a hundred breaths, he was beginning to feel better. No longer overwhelmed with an entire universe to sort out and process, his head didn’t feel so heavy.

Composing himself and straightening his fur, he opened the door and stepped back into the parlor. It smelled beautiful in here, a light mix of the lingering bouquets from every page and open Binding.

His nose led him to the source of the new presence: Oil! by Upton Sinclair, a dense experience that weighed heavy on his mind and lingered for a long time — hundreds of aromas, each one requiring a volume of poetry to articulate.

By now the patrons had parted ways and wanted to talk to the vendor, asking her if she’d ever been to the Planet of Paper. She had not, but one day she promised to take a trip. It would be a commitment, as she would have to be there a minimum of one year before another vessel returned.

Ker’r took his seat again. After scents like those, his hardback from the menu seemed simple and relaxing. He stuck his nose in the pages and inhaled. Very simple. Still wonderful.

“That was a treat,” Ker’r said to the winged lizard. “Thanks. I wish I could afford one of those.”

She smiled at him with her mouth and her wings. “Maybe someday the printers on the Planet of Paper will make new Bindings that are just as good as the Originals.”

Ker’r lifted his Binding. “Here’s to the People of the Aged Paper. If I could thank them, I would.” He inhaled the pages.

“So would I,” Ege replied, raising her own Binding and taking a breath, sighing in relief and this time keeping her wings still.

Ker’r turned the page and breathed the gentle fragrance. He turned to another. The odor was different from page to page. It had to be the ink. The subtle differences in the arrangement of the glyphs affected the experience. Some researcher must have confirmed it by now — it couldn’t be mere rumor.

His eyes focused, and for the first time in years, he looked at the glyphs. He stared intently. They all looked the same, just blocks and lines. Now he began to notice how some lines repeated more frequently than others. How the spacing was never uniform. How the glyphs were more than a solid wall if he stared at them hard enough.

He wasn’t accustomed to using his eyes like this, and quickly he lost focus and the bouquet came through again, lightly-aged and full of nuance.

After taking in a few more pages, Ker’r closed the Binding and waved for Erok. He was interested in the Original on the menu. It wouldn’t be as complex as the rare Bindings he had just sampled, but it was attainable. He was sure he had enough room in his head for another olfactory puzzle.

As he waited for Erok to make his way around, he promised that someday he would save up enough to afford a copy of the 2C PY-322 d1 Jurassic Park. He idly wished he could have met the people who produced such dazzlingly complex scents. They must have been advanced beyond anyone’s comprehension.

 

* * *

About the Author

James L. Steele is a writer in Ohio. He is guilty of book-sniffing. He assumed everyone did this and was shocked when he learned otherwise. He is the author of Huvek, available through FurPlanet, and the Archeons series, through KTM Publishing.

Visit his blog at DaydreamingInText.blogspot.com, and his twitter @JLSteeleauthor

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*Co-Producers note: Taebyn's computer refused to use his new mic, so his sound on this episode is not the quality we were hoping for*

On this special episode, we have guest co-host DJ Recca! We talk to Recca about what he's been up to and where  you can find him online and in person. We chat about all the normal BFFT things...Past Today, Media, Furries in the News, etc. We have a movie review from Cheetaro. We play a little bit of trivia and overall just have a fantastic time. Join us for the penultimate episode of season 3!

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

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Bearly Furcasting S3E51-Get Recca'd

by Jocelyne Gregory

“Steve waved his hands and tried to get the other dragons under control. “We have talked about this; dropping gold and jewels in the cities’ slums is not paying taxes.””

Seven dragons sat on a circle of metal chairs in the basement of an old church. The faux wooden panels of the basement’s walls were a sharp contrast to the faded red shag carpet that had fallen victim to the arts and crafts of generations of children. The metal chairs groaned beneath the dragon’s various weights as they shifted and tried to find comfortable positions for their wings, tails, and long necks without bumping into one another or destroying the popcorn ceiling. They waited as a brilliant orange scaled dragon settled on his seat and tucked his tail around his clawed feet.

“Good afternoon!” The orange dragon smiled at the group. He clutched a clipboard in his hands.

“Good afternoon, Steve.” The other dragons mumbled in response.

“I’m pleased everyone was able to attend this week. Charlie, I would like to start with you. Last time we spoke, we were talking about your latest acquisition. Have things changed since then?” Steve picked up a pencil and set it to the clipboard.

Charlie shifted in his seat. He glanced at the other members before he let out a heavy sigh and powder blue smoke drifted from a nostril.

“Well, you see, I was— I mean, I— I was going to return the jelly to its rightful owner. But the way it jiggled and wiggled? I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” Charlie said.

“Just to clarify for the group, was this a jelly for jam? Or a real-life jelly?” Steve asked.

Charlie fidgeted. His lavender scales shimmered in the flickering ceiling lights.

“I thought it was just some jam an adventurer had brought along with them to have with their bread and butter, but when I opened the jar there was this little face peeking up at me. I couldn’t bring myself to return it to the adventurer’s family.” Charlie explained.

“And how many jellies do you have now?”

“Five hundred and thirty-three,” Charlie confessed.

The other dragons in the circle murmured to each other.

“I just don’t want to let them go!” Charlie blurted, “I feel so bad for them. Adventurers, thieves, barbarians, and wizards? They have no problem killing jellies for potion purposes or to find out what the jelly has eaten. It’s not their fault!”

“I think we have a bit of a conundrum here,” Steve addressed the group. “Does anybody have any suggestions for how Charlie could help his jellies, but at the same time keep them safe?”

The other dragons glanced at each other until a platinum dragon raised its tail.

“Yes, Melony?” Steve asked.

“Charlie could build a dungeon, or claim a forest, or some grass lands and put up warning signs that the land was protected by a dragon?” Melony offered.

“I could do that,” Charlie said. “They might be happier than being stuck in the back of the cave.”

“I know the jellies’ welfare is your greatest concern, and this would be better for them.” Steve kindly said.

Charlie mumbled under his breath and another puff of purple smoke drifted from his nostril.

“Does anybody want to speak up next?” Steve looked to the group.

The dragons glanced at each other.

A skeleton dragon raised its bony tail.

“Taylor?”

“I let some of my skeleton soldiers return to their graves,” Taylor scratched their neck bone.

The other dragons clapped in approval. Charlie gave Taylor a thumbs up.

“Wonderful! How did that make you feel?” Steve asked.

“At first I was lonely and I felt unsure and honestly I thought I was going to collapse into a pile of bones, but this little human girl came to my cave with a fresh loaf of bread and some flowers she picked from her mother’s garden, and…” Taylor trailed off and looked away from the group.

“And?” Steve pushed.

“She thanked me for letting her father and grandfather go to rest, but she thought I might be awfully lonely so she said she’s going to come visit me every week and read to me from her story book,” Taylor’s voice cracked.

“That is amazing progress, well done, Taylor!” Steve clapped his hands.

An obsidian and emerald scaled dragon patted Taylor on the back and both murmured words of approval and comfort to Taylor.

Taylor whispered a quiet word of thanks to the others and sipped from their coffee cup; The black liquid dripped down their bony neck and onto their ribs and the chair they sat on.

“Does anybody else have some more good news? Yes, Ginger?” Steve gestured to the obsidian dragon.

Ginger leaned back in her chair. Her lips peeled back into a sharp and toothy grin. “I killed a group of raiders that threatened to attack my village,” she said.

“Can I have the bodies?” Taylor asked her.

“Taylor.” Steve warned, “Ginger, I thought you were going to take a step back and allow the town’s people to protect themselves.”

Ginger huffed.

“It’s part of your treatment. Remind the group what you horde.”

Ginger glowered, then huffed a puff of smoke.

“I horde praise and worship,” Ginger admitted.

“And by continually protecting your village, you…” Steve trailed off.

“I’m worshipped and praised.” Ginger sniffed.

“And admittance is the first step to treatment. I know that in previous group sessions you’ve been reluctant to let the villagers defend against raiders and approaching armies. But you have to ask yourself the question: what if they chose to leave the village? Or a plague comes through and there are no more villagers? Who will worship you?”

Ginger grumbled; the sound echoed off the faux wooden panels.

“Buildings cannot worship. Empty towns cannot give praise. Praise and worship can come from within, but only if you give yourself a chance,” Steve said.

“I suppose the next time there is a group of bandits or raiders, I could just step back and watch how the villagers handle it.”

“That’s a good step, Ginger,” Steve said.

“But!” Ginger’s tail thumped hard against the church’s carpeted floor. “If they can’t handle it, I’m stepping in.”

“And that is very understandable.” Steve smiled and turned his attention to the green dragon who shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I know this hits a little close to home for you, Phial, how have you been since last week?”

“I started writing a dream journal,” Phial slowly admitted.

“Instead of stealing and hoarding mortal’s dreams?”

“Yes. I thought about last week’s exercise, and how we had to imagine ourselves as our hoard, and early last week a necromancer actually showed up at my cave because he thought I might have the dreams of a prophet that would give him a hint as to how resurrect the Dark King,” Phial explained.

“And do you?” Steve asked.

“Yes, but I wasn’t going to give it to him. The Dark King gives nothing but nightmares, and it really darkens the dream orbs I’ve got in my cave. So, I entombed him in vines and he died last night,” Phial said.

“Can I have the body?” Taylor asked.

“Taylor,” Steve warned again. “Phial, how does this help with your hoard?”

“I had a very pleasant visit from this wizard a few hours after the necromancer showed up, and in exchange for helping the wizard with the prophecy, he’s going to travel and write down people’s dreams for me. I received the first owl this morning in fact. This boy he met dreamed of a flying metal machine in the sky. It was fascinating.” Phial smiled.

“That is wonderful progress, Phial. And it looks like you might change perceptions of yourself, too,” Steve commented.

“It’s a beginning, and I know I have a long road ahead of me, but it feels kind of good.” Phial’s scales turned a shade of deeper green.

“Good job, Phial,” Steve said. The other dragons clapped approvingly. “Any other good news stories? Yes, Bill?”

“I started paying taxes.” Bill puffed with pride, his red scales the colour of blacksmith flames.

The group paused before they began to laugh.

“Bill,” Steve waved his hands and tried to get the other dragons under control. “We have talked about this; dropping gold and jewels in the cities’ slums is not paying taxes.”

“It should be,” Bill muttered.

“Are people worshipping you yet?” Ginger leaned close to Bill.

“They’ve started drawing images of me on the castle walls and saying I will be the next King.” Bill grinned at her.

“What a brilliant idea.” Ginger rubbed her black scaled chin.

“Ginger, no. Bill, what is it that you hoard?” Steve asked.

Bill rolled his eyes.

“Bill?”

“I hoard political dissidence and government instability. Look, it’s not my fault the court is corrupt! That stupid spymaster staged a coup two years ago and the people are still suffering. I’m just trying to help out,” Bill ranted.

“And what will happen if you keep dropping gold and jewels into the cities’ slums?”

“Then there will be more political dissidence and government instability,” Bill grumbled.

“And what will you do about it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll follow Ginger’s lead and just take a step back and see how the court handles things. Let the people have their own revolution.” Bill sighed.

“That’s a good step, Bill.” Steve gave him a reassuring smile. “Now, I think everyone’s had a chance to speak, so let us end this meeting and…” He trailed off as the rest of the group stared at him. “What?”

Charlie leaned close. “Come on, you have to speak up, too. How have you been since last week?”

“Me? I’ve been good. Yeah, I went out on a date last Tuesday,” Steve rambled.

“Come on, Steve. Speak up, we all have,” Bill said.

“Yeah, tell us how you’ve been treating your hoard,” Ginger dryly said.

“I— I have been perfectly fine since last week,” Steve stuttered.

“It’s okay, Steve. You’re among friends,” Melony soothed.

Taylor wordlessly nodded their head.

Steve looked to his scribbled clipboard and set it on his lap. He took a deep breath and let it out before he began to speak

“It’s been three days since… since…”

“Yes?” Melony asked.

“It’s been three days since I last heard someone’s confession.” Steve’s tail fell limp at his side. “It’s just so hard not to want to collect them and keep them safe! So many stories, so many ideas, so many lives. It’s so hard not to collect them all.”

“And that is why you’re the one who asks the questions in the group,” Melony said. “But you must remember that each confession has a real person behind it with a real identity, and you can’t collect them all.”

“And that’s why you’re the one who asks all the questions,” Taylor agreed. “Even though Melony is our sponsor.”

“Melony just likes to hoard warm and fuzzy feelings,” Bill grumbled.

Ginger snickered.

“I think we all made progress today in understanding our difficulties and challenges, but in recognizing our hoarding, we can begin to understand why we hoard. So, until we meet again next week, I want us to think about what life events took place that led to your beginning to hoard and we will discuss that next time in group,” Melony said.

 

* * *

About the Author

Jocelyne Gregory is an MFA graduate of the University of British Columbia’s School of Creative Writing and a graduate of Simon Fraser University’s The Writer’s Studio. She has worked as a graduate teaching assistant and a manuscript consultant with The Writer’s Studio and community libraries. She has written reviews for children’s books with UBC’s Young Adulting Review. Her previous works have appeared in 50-Word Stories, Emerge16, and New Zealand’s Flash Fiction. When not hoarding writing degrees like a dragon, she can be found on British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast rescuing plants, painting, and writing poetry and fantasy romance novels.

We got this announcement sent right to us from the source! Lisa Cheese and Ghost Guitar: Attack of the Snack is a new upcoming graphic novel from Top Shelf, written and illustrated by Kevin Alvir. “In Lisa Cheese and Ghost Guitar, a sweet unicorn girl from another dimension moves to Earth City hoping to make a name for herself as a folk singer…but her very first open mic is a disaster, leaving her with a bionic arm and an identity crisis. Now she’s starting a crummy office job, her parents back in their home dimension are laying on the guilt trip, and the cool girl at the record store leaves her tongue-tied. But once she’s drawn into a knock-down, drag-out encounter with a gang of hamburger-headed goons from the sinister megacorporation Beef is Burger, Lisa must rally a ragtag band of supernatural hipsters, conspiracy freaks, and burnt-out office coworkers to thwart their diabolical ambitions!” Might all make more sense if you check out the preview pages over at Major Spoilers. Lisa Cheese hits the shelves this September.

image c. 2023 Top Shelf

What keeps you from living your best life? What keeps others from exploring furry to the fullest? Roo and Nuka talk about barriers between yourself and the fandom.





NOW LISTEN!
SHOW NOTES
PATREON LOVE
The following people have decided this month’s Fur What It’s Worth is worth actual cash! THANK YOU!

 

Tails Bursting out of Pants Supporters

   

Ashton Sergal (Pic Pending), Nuka, Ichigo Okami

Fancy Supporter Tier



Rifka, the San Francisco Treat and Baldrik and Lufis (Pic Pending)

Deluxe Supporters Tier

  

Guardian Lion, Ashton Sergal, Harlan Fox, Plug (Pic Pending), Refractory Rictus (Pic Pending)

Plus Tier Supporters

Ausi Kat
Chaphogriff
Lygris
Bubblewhip

McRib Tier Supporters

TyR

 
MUSIC

Intro: RetroSpecter – Cloud Fields (RetroSpecter Mix). USA: Unpublished, 2018. ©2011-2018 Fur What It’s Worth. Based on Fredrik Miller – Cloud Fields (Century Mix). USA: Bandcamp, 2011. ©2011 Fur What It’s Worth.

First Break: Railroad Wrath - Ghost, Creative Commons 2022.


Second Break: Mystery Skulls – Ghost. USA: Warner Bros Records, 2011. Used with permission.


Third Break: Out of My Mind - Ray Collins Hot Club, Odd Chap Remix, Creative Commons 2022.

Closing: Cloud Fields (RetroSpecterChill Remix), USA: Unpublished, 2018. ©2011-2018 Fur What It’s Worth. Based on Fredrik Miller – Cloud Fields (Chill Out Mix). USA: Bandcamp, 2011. ©2011 Fur What It’s Worth S10 Episode 8 – Fandom Barriers - What keeps you from living your best life? What keeps others from exploring furry to the fullest? Roo and Nuka talk about barriers between yourself and the fandom. - NOW LISTEN! SHOW NOTES PATREON LOVE

这是沃利鳄鱼——它帮助主人处理抑郁症问题

Capstone Press recently gave us a new series of full-color graphic novels for young comic readers, featuring folktales from cultures all over the globe. And of course, many of them are furry. For example: The Sky Fox, A Peruvian Graphic Folktale, written by Alberto Rayo and illustrated by Fabiana Faiallo. “What happens to a fox that won’t stop teasing the others animals? Read this Peruvian tale to find out.” Other books in the series include The Magpie’s Tale (Sweden), The Turtle and The Geese (India), and The Tortoise and The Hare (West Africa). Each of the titles features writing and art by folk from the culture in question.

image c. 2023 Capstone Press

Rainbow capitalism isn't our friend, but it has some very funny reactions from the braindead right wing who got told to be mad about it. Also: Tesla's are spying on you, and 'transvestigators' make some really wild swings.

Thanks for supporting us, you rock~

LINKS
Tesla employees reportedly shared videos captured by cameras on customers' cars | Engadget

Telegram fan chat: https://t.me/+Ma4PTE0IsWVmMDQ5

Episode 534 - Queer Beer

Being yourself in the fandom with Paroto. Catch the full episode here: https://youtu.be/tXHPCJbdV1M ---- 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 Paroto: https://twitter.com/Paroto_Music ---- #foxandburger #shorts #snippet #furry

TigerTails Radio Season 14 Episode 33. 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.

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

Sorry for the late posting all you furs. Raccoon has been burning the candle at both ends this week. This episode has Rayne and Taebyn hosting while Bearly is on his vacation. We tell jokes, talk about the Past Today, share a new batch of Obscure Movie Quotes, listen to some Stupid News, and talk about our Media habits. Enjoy this slightly late episode with my apologies-Rayne

Support the show

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

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

Bearly Furcasting S3E50-Nifty fifty!

How inclusive is the furry fandom? Listen to what Kofu has to say. Watch the full episode here: https://youtu.be/5lUg3_tqykU ---- 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

TigerTails Radio Season 14 Episode 32. 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.

We’ve skipped over April Fools and jumped right into the month itself, where we are now deep into the annual Furry Awards Season.
The Ursa Major Awards have now closed for voting, with announcements of the winners expected at the end of the month or early next.
FWG members can still get their votes in for the Coyotl Awards for another couple of weeks – until April 15th.
The Leo Awards currently have the judging panel convening to determine the winners. There is no further public votes for these awards.

The FWG will be sure to share announcements of all the winners for these three awards, so keep your eyes on our socials as well as those for the individual awards to keep up to date with who will be chosen this year.

In case you missed it last month, we announced a revamp of FWG membership profiles, encouraging all members to utilise their profiles better, to give links to works and to make it easier for readers to find out more information about the incredible talent our members have. This is in conjunction with a massive update to the Suggested Reading List. Work on the updated profiles has been completed based on the responses through the form – members who have not yet submitted their profile update form can continue to use the one emailed out in February. If you have already had your profile updated, we prefer that you use the standard profile update form. There are still some updates to be made to the Suggested Reading List, including the Anthology Series.
If you are an FWG member but did not receive the email advising you of these changes, please get in contact with us through the guild email so that we can ensure you are not missed in this update.

We would also like to remind readers and writers alike about the launch of our Patreon page. Through this, we hope to ensure the guild is able to cover its own costs, as well as taking on the costs of the Coyotl Awards, which have previously been taken on by the award chair. This could allow us to expand the impact of the awards, giving us more options in the future to make them bigger and better in all aspects.
We hope that our members will consider the Patreon page as a way to provide voluntary dues in the absence of any regular membership fees, and that readers can use it as a way to benefit furry writing as a whole. We are grateful for any support that is given, and in the future we will look to ways to reward that generosity with more tangible benefits.

April is also the start of the new election campaigns for the major positions in the Furry Writers Guild. Members who wish to announce candidacy for any of the officer positions in the FWG are required to announce their intention to run before April 30th by posting in the relevant thread in the forums.
Should there only be one candidate per position, there will be no election held and the candidates will be elected unopposed.

Not interested in running for a guild officer position? Why not instead consider a story for one of the following open anthology calls:

Paw Anthology – Deadline May 1st
Dog Save The King – Deadline May 19th
Get Wild – Deadline September 1st
This Is Halloween – Deadline When Full
Furry Femdom Erotica – Deadline When Full
F/F No Erotic Anthology – Deadline When Full
Isekai Me! – Deadline When Full
Children Of The Night – Deadline When Full
Furry/Lovecraftian/Erotic/University Themed Anthology – Deadline When Full
Beyond Their Pale – Deadline When Full
#ohmurr! – Deadline: Ongoing
Zooscape – Reoccurring submission windows.

Please also consider picking up one of the following pre-orders or recent releases from our fantastic members:

Rafts, by Utunu. Released March 16th 2023.

Kelpie House, by Frances Pauli. Released March 27th.

A Zookeeper’s Guide To Dating, by Roan Rosser / Ian M. Keller. Released April 4th 2023.

Don’t Ask Me If I’m Okay, by Jessica Kara (Jess E. Owen). Available for pre-order. Released May 16th 2023.

As always, if you are a FWG member and have a new release you would like added, please get in contact!

Please keep an eye on our socials over the next month, as well as the forum to see who will be putting their hand up for the guild leadership positions.

Stay safe and happy writing.
J.F.R. Coates

Savrin got their copy of "Delvers Guide to Beast World", E3 is dead, christians aren't under attack, and an elderly Floridian faces legal trouble.

Thanks for supporting us, you rock~

LINKS
The Delver's Guide to Beast World: a 5e Supplement & Setting by Heartleaf Games — Kickstarter - You can preorder the regular releases of the book/pdf
Southpaws | creating and promoting The Queer Agenda | Patreon
Telegram - https://t.me/+Ma4PTE0IsWVmMDQ5

Episode 533 - I Wanna Go To Beast World

Article Content

• What Is A Fursuit?
• What Are Fursuit Accessories?
• Furry Badge
• Ring
• Collar
• Piercings
• Props
• Name Tag
• Cooling Vest
• Where Can I Buy Fursuit Accessories?
• How Expensive Are Fursuit Accessories?

1. Introduction
2. Why Are There Stereotypes Surrounding the Furry Community?
3. Common Furry Stereotypes
4. Misconceptions About Furries & Sexual Deviancy
5. Relationships
6. Social Interaction
7. Social Contribution
8. Furry Art
9. The Takeaway

Introduction

The furry fandom has a tendency to cross-over into the more mainstream hobbies of science-fiction fans, artists, writers, etc. and this can cause some friction. Often due to the furry association with these genres, certain stereotypes have become attached to its members.

While many of the furry fandom’s stereotypes can be attributed to malicious outsiders, some have been perpetuated by its members. One of the most pervasive and damaging stereotypes is that all furries are sexual deviants.

But these stereotypes have a spectrum of harmfulness. These can range from believing all furries are geeks or nerds while others try to draw a comparison between the fandom and zoophilia. 

However, a lot of these stereotypes derive from ignorance and misunderstandings, so it’s wrong to believe these stereotypes describe a diverse community comprising people of all colors, races, countries, genders, and backgrounds. Furries are simply people who like to express themselves in a certain way. And just like every other person, they also have individual personality traits, interests, sexual preferences, gender identities, and diverse opinions.

The furry fandom isn’t defined by any of those stereotypes, and it’s unfair to assume it does. So it’s essential to be mindful of these stereotypes and not judge the entire fandom based on them. To do that, you might need to learn a little more about these stereotypes and where they stem from.

Why Are There Stereotypes Surrounding the Furry Community?

Humans have an inherent tendency to speculate when they do not fully understand something. We have done this since the dawn of time, assuming the world to be flat and seeing the sun as an entity to be worshiped.

The same has happened in the case of furries, where many people do not fully understand the concept, falling prey to misinformation and misunderstanding. Like any other community, the furry subculture also has different groups, some of whom may confine to certain stereotypes.

These groups do not represent the whole community. But the rampant misunderstanding surrounding the community has led many to believe that these stereotypes are universal traits among furries.

Another reason people stereotype furries is due to their unusual behaviors. In mainstream society, furry behavior is often seen as odd or strange, leading to the assumption that all furries must be weird. It can lead to people forming negative opinions about the furry community as a whole.

The portrayal of furries in the media has further fueled these stereotypes. Many sensationalized TV series and new stories show furries in negative roles, perpetuating the stereotype that furries are weird, awkward, and creepy.

There is also a consensus that the furry fandom is a cult, and every member has similar values, beliefs, and practices. Since cultist mentality is already seen as a negative trait, many people group furries into the same category, often discriminating against them in educational, professional, and social settings.

Many stereotypes, such as those associated with sexual behavior, can harm the furry community. Therefore, there’s a dire need to debunk these myths and create a more understanding atmosphere for furries.

By doing so, we can help destigmatize the furry fandom, allowing it to be seen as the diverse and multifaceted community it is. We must also recognize the individual members of this group and view them in their unique perspectives rather than as a collective culmination of a singular stereotype.

Fox Fursuit

Image via Esquire

Common Furry Stereotypes

Furry stereotypes can be put under several categories, from medical disorders and sexual deviancy to appearance and sexual orientation. Let’s discuss each type in detail.

General

The general thought about the furry community is that it is a fetish-based fandom, where members have a fetish for anthropomorphic animals and dress up in elaborate costumes.

Many also believe that the furry community is a subculture at best and will never become a mainstream culture. Not many believe it to be as well-established as anime or science fiction.

Some also believe that furry fetish is just a fad. People who become a part of the community merely do it for attention and leave the fandom once the novelty wears off.

However, this is not entirely true since being furry does not describe a member’s lifestyle. Being a furry is just a part of their existence, just like being an American or a Christian or vegan would be.

It doesn’t define every aspect of a person’s life or dictate all their behaviors or beliefs. As for it being a fad, the furry fandom has been going strong since the 1980s and has only increased in size.

Appearance

Another common stereotype about the furries is that they are predominantly white men who are also a part of the LGBTQ community. Many furries are thought to be either overweight or underweight and conventionally unattractive.

The older furries, also called gray muzzles due to their graying hair, are thought to be grossly out of shape and averse to fitness. Meanwhile, the LGBTQ furries younger in age are often called furry twinks, which is an insult to the LGBTQ community.

It’s also a common belief that furries are unhygienic and do not wash due to their association with an animal-life lifestyle. While outdated and offensive, these stereotypes are still pervasive in society today.

It’s wrong and downright foolish to believe that all members of a community will look like or have the same sexual preferences. In reality, furries are a diverse group of people who look different from each other and have various sexual preferences. While most furries might be white males, whiteness is neither a prerequisite nor an identification mark for a furry.

Furries live their lives like any other person. They wash, dress well, have jobs, socialize, and look after their appearance just as any non-furry would.

Medical Disorders

Some people also believe furries suffer from mental health issues, such as Asperger’s Syndrome and body dysmorphic disorders. These assumptions are rooted in the belief that furries have an obsession with anthropomorphic animals, which is seen as a sign of autism.

It is also believed that furries may have personality disorders. Many people associate furries with otherkins, individuals who believe their physical form does not define their mental states, spiritual nature, psychology, or personality.

Otherkins believe they have a sympathetic affinity or connection with an entity or animal. Traditionally, otherkins have been mythological, beginning with fay folk and becoming dragons, demons, griffins, and unicorns.

However, there is no scientific evidence to prove that furries have mental disorders or that the attraction towards the furry fandom is due to a genetic or mental underlying cause. The misconception about the correlation of being furry with having a mental disorder comes from the lack of understanding about the community.

We should keep in mind that everyone has unique interests. The way someone expresses themselves is not an indicator of their mental health.

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"The artists had amazing response times and were constantly updating me on my piece" Clara Draw My Fursona Misconceptions About Furries & Sexual Deviancy

The belief that furries engage in unconventional sex acts is also a common stereotype. According to the stereotype, furries engage in the following types of sexual behaviors.

• Fursuit Sex

Also known as zoot sex or fursuited sex, fursuit sex describes sexual interaction in which one or both parties wear a fursuit. While some furries might engage in sexual activities wearing a fursuit, it is not always a norm.

Fursuits can be uncomfortable and large to maneuver, making it difficult to perform most sexual activities.

• Pedophilia

It’s a common misconception that furries are pedophiles, mainly because of the growing number of children entering the community who rely on adult furries for guidance.

But this is entirely false and unfounded. While some individuals might have inappropriate thoughts or desires, it’s unfair to make a blanket statement about all furries being pedophiles.

• Plushophilia

People who have a deep love and appreciation for stuffed animals are called plushophiles, and the concept is termed plushophilia. However, in most cases, this is only limited to playing with plushies or using them for support or comfort.

But sometimes, plushophiles may feed their sexual desires with plushies. The satisfaction may come from fantasy gratification or pure sensual enjoyment. Since plushies are animals, many associate plushophiles with furries, painting the latter in a negative light.

But with any other negative stereotypes, it’s important to remember that it’s only a few outliers that give the whole group a bad name.

• Zoophilia

Zoophilia refers to the attraction of humans to animals, which is paraphilia. It means that zoophilia is not an accepted form of sexual expression and can be considered illegal or immoral in many countries.

Many wrongly assume that furries are into zoophilia because of the mix of animals and humans in the furry community. However, this is not true. In fact, many zoophiles also distinguish themselves from beastialists, people who have sexual contact with animals.

To say that all furries engage in sexual activity with animals is untrue. Furries express themselves through art, costume-making, literature, and music related to anthropomorphic animals. But that does not equate to sexual affiliation or attraction.

Relationships

Since many people do not understand what goes inside the furry community, they think furries are not capable of loving others or having normal relationships. Some people even go as far as thinking that there are no married couples in the furry community, and if there are any, they do not have children due to genetics or personal problems.

Kids who join the furry community are thought to be brats with poor relationships with their families, especially parents. None of this is true since furries are just like any other regular person with their fair share of relationship conflicts, love interests, and children.

Furry Couple 

Image via BuzzFeed News

Social Interaction

Most of the stigma around furries comes from the stereotypes around their social interactions. For instance, many people think furries are overtly sexual, a stereotype that fits in with the misconception about sexual deviancy.

Similarly, furries are thought to be geeks, nerds, or fanboys with little to no social skills. Some people also believe furries to be egomaniacs, only interested in talking about themselves and their fursonas.

But all these are just misconceptions. You never know if your friendly local librarian who helps you find the sequels of all your favorite fantasy books may be a furry. Similarly, the kind-hearted doctor at the clinic may also be a furry.

Being a part of a specific group does not dictate how someone behaves socially. Likewise, acting a certain way doesn’t mean you belong to the furry community.

Furry Dating App – Ferzu

Image via Ferzu

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"My artist worked tirelessly on my reference sheet despite several complete revisions of the piece" Craig Draw My Fursona Social Contribution

Another stereotype closely related to poor social interaction is that furries do not contribute much to society. They are uneducated and mostly hold low-prestige jobs. Furthermore, most are on welfare assistance, such as disability.

Again, enforcing a stereotype like this is like saying that gamers or anime enthusiasts do not contribute anything to society because they are so focused on playing video games or watching anime.

The truth is that furries come from different income levels and demographics. Like non-furries, they may or may not have jobs, may or may not be educated, and may or may not be socially involved. Affiliating with a particular community does not translate to one’s uselessness in society.

Fursuiter in Pink Fursuit

Image via CNN

Furry Art

A somewhat illogical – and unkind – stereotype about furry artists is that their art amounts to nothing, and they do not have the same skill level as non-furry artists. Going back to assumed sexual deviancy, many believe that furry artists only create pornographic content and often use it as a gateway to children.

All of these are generalizations that do not hold any truth to them. While furry art often has sexual undertones, not all artists create pornographic content. Furry art tackles various genres and can often be seen in galleries, conventions, and publications—all attended by children and adults alike.

The Takeaway

It’s not uncommon for misunderstood communities to be ostracized and stereotyped. But we live in the era of technology and fast Internet where misinformation can spread like wildfire. 

It’s about time we learn about the furry community and understand that one or a few outliers do not define the entire population. Furries are just like any of us who have lives, relationships, and careers. They may have their own style and preference, but that doesn’t make them any less of a human being.

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