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Should Kids Be Identifying As Furries?
- Introduction
- What Are Furries?
- What Is A Fursuit?
- Should Kids Identify As Furries?
- Why It May Be Harmful For Kids To Identify As Furries
- Common Misconceptions About Furries
- Resources For Parents With Furry Children
- The Takeaway
Introduction
Anyone who keeps up with mainstream media and social media would have come across the term ‘furry.’ Unless you know its background and its implications – social and sexual – you might think it’s merely a term to describe someone excessively hairy.
But ‘furry’ is more than that. In fact, it’s an entire fandom at this point. The origin of this fandom can be traced back to the 1980s with the start of fantasy and science fiction conventions that gave birth to displays of artworks and stories that discuss animal-human hybrids.
It is believed that the term ‘furry’ was also coined around that time by its fandom. However, there’s no clear originator who could be credited with the foundation of this name. Some speculate that the term comes from ‘furry animal,’ a term many sci-fi stories use to describe animal-like creatures.
The general public and media have perceived the concept of furries in many ways, from fun-loving fans of anthropomorphic animals to sexual deviants. While there’s not much harm in adults using this term or identifying as it, the kids’ involvement in the fandom is thought to be a no-no by many.
But what’s the truth behind furries? Should kids identify as furries? We dissect this topic in detail below.
What Are Furries?Furries are a subcultural group of people with a deep interest in anthropomorphic – with human-like characteristics or qualities – animals. Identifying as a furry could mean creating artwork with anthropomorphic animals or dressing up as these creatures.
Over the years, the furry community has become a diverse group of people who express their interest by creating art, holding conventions, dressing up in ‘fursuits,’ and socializing online.
Most furries take on or create fursonas or animal personas to represent their identity. These personas may be based on mythical creatures, real animals, or made-up species.
Quite interestingly, the furry community is not limited to the general public. Many believe that celebrities are members of the furry fandom too.
For instance, there are speculations about Shakira having a fursona because she voiced Gazelle for ‘Try Everything‘ in the 2016 movie Zootopia, a movie about anthropomorphic animals. While Shakira has not personally confirmed this, some other celebs are openly furries. One of them is Adam, the creator of Your Movie Sucks.
Fans also got excited about Lil Nas X joining the fandom as it was reported that he met with SonicFox, possibly one of the most famous furries and FGC players in the world. There are plenty of Reddit threats where fans speculate, confirm, and deny the furry status of some celebrities.
However, the stigma around the furry fandom and negative misconceptions surrounding this seemingly harmless interest often restrict people to the ‘closet.’ But it’s important to remember that being a furry is not a sexual or harmful fetish. Instead, it’s a mere form of creativity and self-expression.
Cat Fursona
Image via Twitter
What Is a Fursuit?A fursuit is a costume resembling an anthropomorphic character or a fursona. Furries usually wear fursuits to express themselves in a unique way. Most fursuits are made using synthetic fur or foam padding. While some cover the whole body, others only cover the feet, hands, or head.
Wearing a fursuit is not a must-do to be a part of the furry community. Most furries only wear fursuits when attending conventions or events. Some people think furries always wear their fursuits, but it’s a misconception. Since fursuits are made of synthetic material, they’re often uncomfortable and hot to wear for long periods, making it impossible for furries to wear them on a regular basis.
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Whether kids should identify as furries or not is a concern that arose primarily when a New York-based family therapist Sara Stockon said in a documentary by Matt Walsh that school kids were increasingly identifying themselves as furries and disrupting classrooms.
She went on to say that kids were reported to purr and meow instead of answering their teachers’ questions. The teachers were prohibited from asking questions since being a furry is considered a queer identity, and any queries about it would be viewed as a form of discrimination.
There were also reports of students dressing up in their fursuits and asking for litter boxes in schools. Despite these claims, there have been no videos, pictures, or oral accounts of any of these incidents happening in schools across the US. Reuters fact-checked these claims and found nothing substantial for them.
Having said that, it’s pretty natural for kids to be curious about different things, and identifying as a furry or having an interest in furries can be part of that. Before coming to an objective answer to whether kids should identify as furries, it’s essential to look at both sides of the coin.
At its core, the furry fandom is all about self-expression and having fun. But it’s not always entirely safe for kids to be a part of the fandom, especially openly.
For one, kids do not fully understand the implications of the fandom and may not be able to make the most informed decisions about their actions and words. The lack of maturity might put them at harm, making them more susceptible to inappropriate content and dangerous behavior.
In many instances, the furry fandom can also act as a gateway to adult content, which is obviously unsuitable for children. Again, their age might make them more vulnerable to exploitation and grooming.
Moreover, there is a social stigma around the furry fandom, associating it with fetishism and sexual deviancy, which can result in negative psychological and social consequences for kids. Children who identify as furries may be harassed, bullied, or discriminated against in schools. Research shows that furries are bullied twice as much as their non-furry counterparts. Even worse, if they do not have a supportive environment at home, their interests might lead to rifts between them and their family members.
All of this can accumulate into excessive emotional distress, especially for children who feel rejected or ostracized by their family and peers. Being exposed to such confusing and often misunderstood concepts can also cloud a child’s perception of their sexuality and identity, making it harder for them to navigate these concepts later in their adult life.
Keeping all these things in mind, one can say that there’s nothing wrong with kids identifying as furries as long as they are aware of the risks. Parents should also make sure to provide a supportive environment for their kids and ensure that they can freely express themselves without any negative consequences.
Group Of Fursuiters
Image via Metro Weekly
How to Keep Your Furry Child Safe?If your child wants to express their creativity and interests, you can provide them with a safe environment by following a few tips.
Educate YourselfThere is a lot of misinformation spread across the Internet about the furry community, which can make it hard for many parents and family members to find reliable information. Do some research and talk to other furries or experts in the community, so you can accurately understand what being a furry means.
You can also attend furry conventions to support your child and interact with other parents to learn more about safety measures, like parental supervision and online privacy.
Have Open CommunicationEstablish open and comfortable communication for your child so they can come to you without fear of ridicule or judgment. Practice active listening and show them you care about their concerns and interests.
You should also set boundaries regarding their screen time and online behavior to ensure their safety. Look for monitoring software to keep track of their activities.
Follow School RulesIf your child’s school has strict rules about furry costumes or accessories, make sure your kid follows them. The last thing you want is for your child to get bullied by their peers or the school administration. Breaking the rules also harms the furry community, giving them a bad name and adding to the misconceptions about them.
Furry Convention
Image via them.us
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One of the main reasons many parents are horrified by the idea of their kids exploring their interests through the furry community is the number of misconceptions surrounding this group. A lot of these stem from misinformation and resistance to understanding something new and different. Some of the most common misconceptions about furries include the following.
Furries Are Sexual Deviants.Many furry-opposing groups believe that people who wear fursuits are zoophiles and other sexual deviants. However, there is no evidence to support this idea, and most furries are well-adjusted members of society who dress up as animals to express their creativity.
While it’s true that there’s a sexual component to the fandom, it’s not the prerequisite or primary focus. Most furries engage in activities such as art and costume-making, gaming, or music instead of sexual activities.
It’s essential to keep in mind that furries are people, and people have sex. Just because they might do it in a costume or a tail doesn’t mean they are sexual deviants.
Furries Support Bestiality.Since furries have fursonas and wear fursuits, many people believe they are into bestiality. Again, this is wrong since furries are merely interested in anthropomorphic animals and not actual animals.
All Furries Have a Fursona.Again, not true. Not all furries have a fursona, and not every furry needs to. A fursona is just a personal character a person might use to represent themselves, but a furry doesn’t require a fursona to be accepted into the community.
Some furries only enjoy creating artwork, while others only appreciate others without actively participating in the dress-up side of things.
Furry Fandom Is a Cult.The furry fandom is the farthest thing from a cult since there is no hierarchy or leadership. Similarly, furries do not have any specific rituals, beliefs, or practices enforced on others.
Fursuiter At Furry Convention
Image via Insider
Resources for Parents With Furry ChildrenThanks to the Internet, there are many resources for parents to learn about their children’s interests. If you want to learn about the cultural aspect of being in furry fandom, you should check out the Culturally F’d YouTube channel.
It also helps to get the perspective of another furry parent, especially when your child is just getting started with exploring their interests. Moms of Furries is a popular channel where parents of furries can learn from a parent with first-hand experience of raising a furry child.
There are online forums and groups dedicated to furries that you can join to learn more about their lifestyle, such as Furry Amino or the Reddit Furry page.
FurScience is another good resource for parents since it’s a research group that studies the fandom and provides science-backed insights that could be helpful to parents trying to understand the furry community in depth.
If you want to take your child to a furry convention, Anthrocon is the best option. It is the largest global furry convention in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, every year, joining the furry fandom from all over the world. The convention has various activities, such as art shows, dances, workshops, and panels. You can check the convention’s website to see what they have in store for this year.
Attendees don’t necessarily have to wear costumes or fursuits. The convention also has a marketplace where you can buy merchandise. Overall, the idea of Anthrocon is to make furries feel welcome and give them a safe space to interact with others with a shared interest.
The TakeawayThe territory surrounding the self-identification of kids as furries should be tackled with the same level of caution and understanding as any other lifestyle choice. It’s important to remember that furries are just people with interests that may differ from the mainstream.
Parents should understand the social, sexual, and financial aspects of the fandom and be aware of potential risks when their children become more active in the community.
The best way to understand what your child is going through and how they feel is to talk openly with them without judgment. Educate yourself about the fandom, understand their interests and passions, and support them in their journey of self-discovery.
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image c. 2023 Amulet Books
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image c. 2023 Atlas Games
From China to Macau and Zootopia to Rocket Raccoon: The Story of Peach [FABP E31]
From China to Macau and Zootopia to Rocket Raccoon: The Story of Peach [FABP E31] ---- He has roots in China and Macau, but also technically Hong Kong and the UK. Introducing: Peach. Peach is a furry artist from China, who draws with a hybrid Western-kemono style. Listen to him as he talks about growing up in China, his journey into art, and more! You’re tuning into the Fox and Burger Podcast, where we bring you closer to the Asian side of the furry fandom one episode at a time. ---- Timestamps: 00:00 Teaser 00:30 Intro 01:20 Guest intro 03:28 Getting into the fandom 08:46 Growing up in China 12:43 Moving to Macau 17:07 Is the country you're living in accepting of LGBTQ+ 21:33 Getting into art 27:20 Other influential artists 29:44 Western vs Kemono style 32:54 Using English vs Chinese 35:34 Art journey 39:16 Networking & shyness 44:03 Meeting other Chinese and Macau furs 49:55 Chongqing vs London 52:36 Going to cons 54:07 Making merch 57:12 What does China think of furry? 1:01:56 Art advice 1:04:30 Social media shoutout 1:05:10 "Peach" name origin 1:06:39 Outro ---- 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 Peach: https://twitter.com/PeachJuice_Art ---- Footage Credit: https://twitter.com/PeachJuice_Art/media https://twitter.com/ovopack/media https://www.mrjakeparker.com/ https://www.mrjakeparker.com/rocket-raccoon https://thewoksoflife.com/hot-pot/ https://www.timeout.com/movies/kung-fu-panda https://www.usatoday.com/story/tech/reviewedcom/2019/11/06/how-to-watch-zootopia-disney-plus/2508860001/ https://blog.privatewifi.com/what-is-a-vpn-ask-the-expert/ https://www.businesstimesng.com/first-direct-cargo-flight-links-chongqing-africa/ https://www.chinadiscovery.com/china-trains/guangzhou-hongkong-train.html https://sampi.co/taobao-app-features-mobile-sales/ https://www.nintendolife.com/news/2020/03/amazon_japan_is_doing_its_part_to_defeat_coronavirus_by_offering_free_pokemon_anime https://www.deviantart.com/roscio2/art/Digimon-tri-Fan-art-577956838 https://www.denofgeek.com/tv/one-piece-anime-best-episodes/ https://screenrant.com/anime-naruto-boruto-reasons-better/ https://www.fanpop.com/clubs/bleach-anime/images/7688142/title/bleach-photo https://www.cbr.com/video-why-excited-attack-on-titan-season-4/ https://www.cbr.com/demon-slayer-most-gruesome-battles/ https://vsbattles.fandom.com/wiki/Issho_(Fujitora) https://en.wikifur.com/wiki/Furnal_Equinox https://twitter.com/Sublamy123/media https://foodology.ca/mcdonalds-macau-iced-drinks-at-the-venetian/ https://www.turbosquid.com/3d-models/3d-clothing-rack-mens-t-shirts-model/706565 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SqidG6ycqE8 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=45ETZ1xvHS0 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dM7x1PNZDo0 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GHW4l-TJygw https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHKwnUa3txo https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R9vcSWb6mug https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNHz8SSA95o https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=atufVp8gKIc https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ol2YTK4vGTk https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jy2_J5WCzDY https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e9p4Epkqv0k https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ia30yct_coY https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xv4vBkaLWsM https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sidNKV4JXAA https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jD7VSFZ2rJg https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQgU54KhG5s https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g9lmhBYB11U Other pictures and video provided by Pixabay, and guests and hosts' personal footage. Intro/Outro Music: Drown Me Out - YVEN ---- The Fox and Burger Podcast is one segment of our production house, Fox and Burger Productions. The podcast’s goal is twofold: 1, to know more about the Asian furry fandom; and 2, compare and contrast the Asian fandom with the Western one. If you have a guest that you would like to see on the show, please PM us! We will also take questions for our guests, so don’t miss this opportunity to know some amazing furs.
TigerTails Radio Season 14 Episode 34
TigerTails Radio Season 14 Episode 34. 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.
Getting Started On His Own
Recently at AnaCon (held each year at the Anaheim Main Public Library!) we came across Sebastian Dorn. A self-described “cartoonist with autism”, Sebastian moved to Southern California with his family, with the goal of creating his own comic book. Recently he gave us Turbofox, a new black & white science fiction comic released through Sebastian’s own imprint, Dorn Comics. “A wicked wolf sorcerer named Jacobus Lupus vows to conquer and destroy the planet Foxtopia, where he was banished from a thousand years ago. And so the Fox Squad — consisting of Jet McFox, Tonito, Sparky, and Vicki Vixen — head off into space to stop the villain”. Guess what? There’s even animation now!
image c. 2023 Dorn Comics
What Are Truesonas?
- Introduction
- Truesonas: When It All Started
- Truesona vs. Fursona: What’s The Difference?
- Why Do People Make Truesonas?
- How To Make A Truesona?
- Can You Draw Someone Else’s Truesona Without Their Consent?
- Why Do People Hate Furries?
- Should You Make Your Truesona?
Introduction
If you already have your fursona, a truesona is just a level ahead of it. The concept is pretty much the same as fursona, but the personification isn’t an alter-ego of the creator. Instead, a truesona closely and realistically resembles its creator in many physical aspects. This means if your fursona is your exact representation, it’s actually your truesona.
Truesona is all about body positivity! People first draw their fursona and then make it exactly like themselves in terms of body type, unique features, marks, scars, etc. The purpose is to own yourself and how you look and be confident in showing it to the world.
Let’s explore truesona, its history, its defining characteristics, and how to make one yourself. We will also discover its importance in the furry fandom — call this a “Comprehensive Guide to Truesonas.”
Truesonas: When It All StartedUrban Dictionary accepted the term “truesona” as an actual word on Oct 21, 2021, but its history dates back to the early 2010s. In 2012, we saw the first usage of truesona on Furaffinity, where a user, “KitaraSoftpaw,” published their artwork as “Truesona Clothing Designs ~ XiaoMao Mashe ~ Celyn” on Apr 26.
However, truesona didn’t become mainstream at that time. Furaffinity only revealed a few searches being made for the term during 2012-2018. Things picked up pace in the late 2010s when a bigger truesona movement started on Twitter as “body positivity.” The term’s usage skyrocketed within a few days, and many artworks were published online.
Some fantastic examples of truesona artwork are “Sew3r-Gat0r’s journal entry” on DeviantART on Mar 15, 2016, and “f__ern’s post” on Twitter on Dec 2, 2019. The former artwork included a meme-like questionnaire, asking users whether they have an OC, and if they do, they must list their favorite truesona/fursona below. Sew3r-Gat0r called truesonas and fursonas the same thing.
The f__ern’s post on Twitter consisted of a photo of their truesona, which was actually their fursona. That’s when the term became widely popularized in the community. There was another post on Twitter by “SeasideDoe” on Mar 15, 2016, who posted a persona that closely resembled them.
Daisy, Example Of A Truesona
Image via Twitter
Truesona vs. Fursona: What’s the Difference?Truesona comes from fursona, a portmanteau of “furry” and “persona.” If you’re a beginner trying to grasp things, furries are anthropomorphized avatars, personas, animal characters, alter-egos, or any form of identity a person chooses as their desired representation. So, a fursona is a species with distinctive marks, body features, and a fictitious name.
Fursonas are as diverse as you can think of. They can be sapient, feral, bipedal, quadruped, covered with clothes, or wearing nothing. The artist or creator decides how their furry will look or how they would like their alter-ego to appear. A fursona too close to the creator (rather than their alter-ego) is called a truesona.
So, there is not much difference between fursona and truesona except that the latter is the actual representation of the creator. They are both anthropomorphized avatars or animals in the furry fandom.
However, truesona is a relatively new term than fursona. The concept of fursona started in Western society in the 1970s and 1980s when roleplaying games became popular. The live-action multiplayer RPG introduced avatars that players can create and customize on their own. These alter-egos then represent every player in front of others in the game.
In contrast, truesona’s first usage was in the 2010s when some Twitter users and artists published their artwork on different platforms. We discussed the most popular ones earlier. So simply put, truesonas are fursonas, but it’s a relatively new concept and is the most accurate representation of the artist.
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Now that you know what truesonas and fursonas are, the question is: “Why do people make either of them?”
Here are four reasons why people make truesonas:
- Be a Part of Furry Communities. Furries have made an online safe place where people from different backgrounds share their truesonas and fursonas to interact with like-minded individuals. There is zero judgment in these groups, allowing people to express their true selves in front freely. You can also make friends who find comfort in portraying themselves as truesonas, just like you.
- Have A Unique Representation. Who doesn’t want to stand out? Everybody does, but a furry wants it even more! Unlike fursona, a truesona portrays a person more accurately with the tiniest details about their body. Thus, it’s more likely to be unique, something that no one else can have. With the constant growth in the furry community, self-representation is essential, which is why people make their truesonas. In fact, some furries have reference sheets for their truesonas that describe their interests, hobbies, and quirks.
- Use Them As a Personal Expression. While the primary purpose of making a truesona is to show it to the world, some people like to keep them private. This means they express their thoughts and imagination with their truesonas without posting or using them in the community. Other people like creating fursonas and truesonas and don’t count themselves furries. For them, these representations are just artwork.
- Make Some Extra Cash. Some artists make multiple fursonas and truesonas of themselves for selling purposes. But who buys someone else’s truesonas? These are those people who lack drawing skills but need a fursona that genuinely represents them. While it’s hard to find a truesona that depicts two different persons, many buyers choose the one that defines them the closest. They then make the required changes to transform it into their exact truesonas.
A truesona can be any canine, including wolves, foxes, and huskies. Some people also choose felines, dogs, and dragons, but their choice varies depending on their background or demographics. For example, wolves are more popular among heterosexuals, and huskies are common among homosexuals.
Gender-wise, women typically choose arctic foxes, and men are likelier to opt for red foxes. These are just general findings, not standard rules for making a truesona. So, you can go for any character or animal you think best depicts your personality.
Many furries also make truesonas out of hybrid species, meaning combining two different animals into one. According to the International Anthropomorphic Research Project, the most popular hybrids include dog/wolf, tiger/wolf, dragon/wolf, fox/wolf, etc. Many were utterly anthro, while ferals were the least popular.
If you have a knack for creativity, you can pick and customize any anthropomorphic creatures for yourself. Ensure the character has your body shape, marks, and scars at the right spots to make your fursona look truesona. Remember that you’re not creating your alter-ego but your accurate representation.
The decision to make or post your truesona is yours. You can use your truesona only for yourself or to interact with other furries in the community. As most furries say, your truesona will help you embrace your body, flaws, and all the imperfections. Proudly show it off on online forums like Reddit or Discord servers and engage with other furries!
You can also buy a fursona from others and transform it into your unique truesona. Whatever option you choose, just make sure your truesona looks precisely like you, or it won’t fulfill the purpose of making all those efforts.
Another Truesona
Image via WattPad
Can You Draw Someone Else’s Truesona Without Their Consent?Making someone else’s fursona without consent has similar risks as drawing someone else’s character without permission. Don’t confuse it with artists making fan art or fursona of someone as a gift. A post on DeviantART discussed this topic openly, asking different furries whether it’s okay to make someone else’s truesona or fursona.
A user, Sopheirion, posted this question, and the responses gave mixed reactions. Most said drawing someone else’s truesona for gifting or surprising them is fine. In fact, some users said they’d love being surprised by fan art.
On the other hand, many people bluntly said it isn’t ethical to draw someone else’s fursona without their consent — even if it’s intended for gifting. An artist must always ask for permission and then make it. However, such responses were relatively few.
In short, gifting a fursona or truesona to someone is widely accepted in the furry or artist communities. But not everyone is comfortable with others, especially strangers, drawing their fursonas without permission. That’s mainly because truesonas are unique and personal for every person, so why would they prefer someone else to intrude on their privacy?
Some people may also think that the other person is trying to “cash them out” or “using them” for more followers, praise, and popularity in the community. So, as a safe practice, always ask for the other person’s consent before drawing their fursona, especially when you don’t know them personally.
Rhys, The Truesona
Image via Toyhouse
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For many reasons, furries have been receiving hate for a long time. Some people hate them because most furries belong to the LGBTQ community. Meanwhile, others believe that the furry fandom isn’t family-friendly or appealing enough.
When truesonas became a thing, around the late 2010s, the phrase “Keep Furry Weird” became mainstream. It responded to the Furry Converse Advertisement announced as a Brazilian convention’s sponsor. Many other terms in derogatory language also became popularized later.
Another reason for hatred against furries is their connection with sexuality and erotic fan art. Some people think furries sexualize animals or they want to have sex with them, a practice called zoophilia. And that’s actually true.
The Furry Survey found that every 1 in 6 furries have accepted that they’re zoophiles. While that’s just a tiny part of the community, zoophilia is a severe crime. Another issue for furries’ hatred is the “murrsuit,” a fursuit that’s specifically designed for having sex with animals. Again, only a fraction of furries do this, but they own it publicly and call it their kink.
To end this hate, many furries have publicly clarified that they don’t endorse or practice zoophilia. One great example is the “Burned Furs” movement that gathered furries worldwide to disapprove of zoophilia and other sexually-deviant practices. So, as long as you stay away from criminal offenses, there is nothing wrong with becoming a furry.
Cassidy, Truesona Reference Sheet
Image via tumblr.
Should You Make Your Truesona?As we discussed, being a part of furry fandom isn’t wrong or embarrassing. The same goes for making your fursonas and truesonas and using them to interact with other furries. You’re free to express yourself however you like. But of course, you can’t ignore the ongoing hate around the furries.
People dislike furries, fursonas, and truesonas primarily because of zoophilia, the use of murrsuits, and the overall sexualization of animals. While these practices are rare, they do exist. So, if you’re not practicing any of these crimes, you should make your truesona today!
The actual thing that matters is what you feel. If you think your truesona depicts your true self, don’t think twice about posting it on your social media account or furry communities. Remember, the true essence of creating a truesona is body positivity. Once you show the world that you own your scars and flaws, you will feel confident and face the world with more courage.
If you’re hesitating because of people’s hatred, just avoid all the sexual practices when drawing and using your truesona. This way, you won’t provoke any non-furry, and there won’t be any attack on you online and offline. It will also allow you to use your avatar anywhere you want!
The good thing is that you can easily find many communities with a clear stance against the sexual implications. There is zero tolerance for NSFW content in these groups, so you can share your truesonas with anyone freely.
However, if you do want to become a part of NSFW communities, don’t be shy. Talk to other furries already in such groups and ask how they avoid people’s criticism. The best way to tackle all this is to make an alternative account and use it to join your favorite furry communities. This way, no one can identify you!
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San Antonio Furry Searching for Locals
Is there a regular club for Furries vs. conventions? A regular place to meet, say weekly, here in San Antonio!
Anonymous
* * *
Dear Furiend,
San Antonio is a great city, and it is a pawsome town in which to be a furry, too! For one thing, you have a fur con right there. It's called the Alamo City Furry Invasion (www.furryinvasion.org) and is held in October at the Marriott Airport Hotel. There are many other ways to connect to furries in your area. Thanks to user SAFurry on Reddit, who saved me a lot of research, here is a list of links that will prove helpful to you:
- San Antonio Furry Event Menu
- San Antonio Furmeets
- General San Antonio Furry Events Telegram Chat
- General San Antonio Telegram News Channel
- River City Furry Events Telegram News Channel
- River City Furry Events Twitter
- River City Furry Events Instagram
- River City Furry Events Facebook
- River City Furry Events Wikifur
- River City Furry Events Furdar
- River City Furry Events Photo Albums
- Alamo Regional Furmeets Twitter
- General San Antonio Furry Events Telegram Chat
- San Antonio Furry Networks
- San Antonio Furry Convention Socials (ACFI: Alamo City Furry Invasion)
- San Antonio Furmeets
Good luck and have fun!
Papabear
Overly Familiar Familiars
by S. A. Cole
“We loved the witch and her child, yet did their clan not slash our trees and burn our nests? And with this cat familiar we had a peace. What if the witch daughter replaced this cat with a snake?”
Downlings and hatchlings crowd together and listen. This tale defines us, and no ice-black winter or nest murdering snake can take it from us.
In the long before, tales talk of the time when we corvids owned the hills, but scrabbled and clawed for each day of our lives. Endless snows and deep hunger in our shriveled bellies robbed nest after nest of life.
Then came the black tar road. It wound through the hills and we mistrusted the hot machines and the rotten smelling people inside. We gave them no gifts, and they gave us no succor.
After the road cooled and set its bones into the ground, your grandmother’s grandmother flew to find the end to the south and your grandfather’s grandfather flew to find the end to the north. We waited through summer heat, falling leaves, and huddled through the killing ice of winter. Neither scout returned. Having neither body nor feathers, we buried nothing more than their memories with the first rain after the thaw.
Then came the machines riding into our hills with shoots of too green grass and the twined white and purple blooms of the Tulip Poplars and Jane Magnolias. Monsters flattened and dug and crushed. Two of our egg laden nest trees slashed down with metal blades and burned. Our tears reflected the flames and dropped from our beaks over the blistered eggshells on the ground. Only three eggs remained tucked into nests, woven with bone brittle hope.
Picked bone clean, the humans built endless nests of pine and metal, liquid rock and dust where we had once lived. Bodies and machines swirled around until their thousand nests were finished and the humans left. Only our boldest went first, alighting on the eaves and singing a false song of bravery. Nothing emerged. And so with the carelessness of the young, the new nest-mates built homes in the eaves, and corners, above the windows, and enjoyed the safety from the winter-blooded snakes and dark minded foxes. Four eggs in our new sheltered nests.
“Looks like the birds moved in before us.” the man said. The first of many settling into the new homes.
Our hope burned as fast as our nesting trees when the man and woman arrived. Both young and lean, a desperate pair, they must have been to move to this built then abandoned place all alone. Their boxy metal machine spat endless things into the house, perhaps hoping to feed it like one of our young. Our flight gathered and chirped worried notes.
The youngest of us did the unthinkable. Bargained with the woman. On the sills, it left her worms. A gift swept away uneaten. Wings stretched wide, it sung her songs of love and shelter, flight and food. She braided her feather-dark hair and sung in tune with it. Why do I hide my glory? She sang with me hatchlings.
I knew her for a witch, just like the oldest of our tales. My gifts were rarely acknowledged, and so instead of stones and worms, I brought her things a witch might need. The downy feathers cast off by our young, a mouse’s tail, glimmering rocks, cold metal coins lost by the tide of humans moving into the new built homesteads as my witch settled into her own. The last gift I brought was the one that sealed our fates together. I laid it on the table behind their house as both man and woman drank steaming cups of black liquid. And together they saw I had brought them two blue lines ensconced in a plastic tube. Three seasons later, the witch daughter was born.
Now you know why they call me stork, even though my feathers are the same black as yours, hatchlings. The seasons turned to years, and we doted on the witch daughter and she doted on us. Our baths decorated the grass around the house, and they lay food out for us, specially concealed from devious squirrels in a hanging red house, a never ending succor of dry figs and savory seeds. Our wings filled the sky again. Now the ice dark winter feared to creep into our nests.
As the seasons turned and returned and turned again, the witch daughter grew and took the witch’s duties. She laid out our food, and we gifted her all things a young witch might need. Metal coins, braided grass and flowers for her hair, beetles cleared from her carrot garden. Most of all, we gave her song, delighting in her smiles. Hatchlings never forget, just as darkness follows light, so too does sadness follow joy.
The witch daughter selected a familiar. A cat.
The beast was all horrid muscles, and silent malice. Of course, it was black like the winter nights thought long vanquished. It prowled through the leaves and underbrush during the day, waiting for us with its thin, flicking tail. Claws scratched at the bark of our nest trees, and only those nesting in the eaves of the house felt safe. I will not lie to you all. It took one of our young, no bigger than any of you downlings. How we wept as it presented its own twisted gift to the black-eyed witch daughter.
Her tears matched ours. She ran to the witch mother, and they scolded the cat with words. But we wished for fire, not words. We should have trusted them, and their magic. They broke the beast’s silence, wrapping its neck with a spell of fabric and a bright metal bell.
The seasons turned, and the cat did the unthinkable. It grew larger, coming into its paws and claws. But inside the silent malice and red stained claws, the beast had changed, perhaps learned. Though we could never speak to it, and it could never speak to us, there was an understanding. We were both important to the witch daughter. There was something of a peace, as thin as the space between waves on the beach, new, and eggshell fragile.
The cat laid in the bright summer sun on the day of its taking. The witch daughter trapped the beast in a brown box and together with the witch mother took it into their car. Scouts followed them to a building, which must have been a temple of their magic, marked on the outside with pictures of not only cats but also dogs. The temple’s inscription had many human letters, but the important ones you must know I will draw.
Small Animal Hospital
Like the sand and the sun and the wind, remember these markings.
When the cat returned, it was a changed thing. Instead of the sack that made it like a man, it was like us. We sang songs of praise and taunted the enemy, but it felt hollow to me. The cat grew weak and mewling. Its wound swelled and reddened. When the witch daughter came for the cat, brown box in hand, the beast only weakly mewed. Its limbs splayed out softly toward the ground. The box closed around it and perhaps in my heart I worried for it. Yes, it had our clan’s blood on its claws, but youth is rarely without regret. We loved the witch and her child, yet did their clan not slash our trees and burn our nests? And with this cat familiar we had a peace. What if the witch daughter replaced this cat with a snake?
Again, our scouts followed them to the Small Animal Hospital. They waited to see what would become of the cat, but the witch and the witch daughter returned alone. Others celebrated, though their joy was a hollow and nervous thing. Would there be a new cat when we woke? Day and nights passed, hatching-slow. Our feed was forgotten by the witch and the witch daughter. Hunger returned to our fat bellies with a dangerous edge we had forgotten.
The sudden weakness of our demesne did not go unnoticed. Newly bold mice scurried around the margins of our lives and the witch’s nest, carrying in and out food and mites, the dirty mammals. We hate them but only out of habit, fellows that race our beaks for scarce food.
On the fourth night of the cat’s absence, the snake slithered over the border fence and into our space. We squawked and shrieked, but to no avail. Snake ears feed on our screams and the crushing sounds of our bones and eggs.
On the fifth night, the snake emptied one of our nests, curling into the straw and twigs and grass of our sacred home as it digested.
On the sixth night, the cat returned. Whole and hale, but loved and welcomed into the witch daughter’s house. Others felt this another devastation to our clan, but I trusted the witch and the witch daughter. And perhaps I was foolish enough to trust a cat. The snake, digestion of our nest’s bounty complete, slunk along the tree limb as the sun sunk and night came. The scaled body wrapped against the trunk, and then the ground, and then against another of our nest trees. Its cold body stretched slowly skyward, toward four of our eggs, as the sun’s first light broke into the yard.
The broken silence of the cat’s bell rang out thunder loud. Brave black paws padded to the snake and the two great beasts locked eyes.
Their fight was not brief or glorious, or silent. Blood and fur and scales cast off and laid on the ground until the snake sunk its fangs into the cat’s front leg. The cat bit back and claimed one of the snake’s eyes. The titans parted, but the cat was timid. This snake’s bite carried more than fangs. Poison coursed through the cat and weakened it. The fight was the snake’s, and the scaled malice knew it. The cat backed away but never let its eyes leave the snake. Arching its black back and bristling out its fur the cat hissed. Its feet lost confidence, and the snake slid closer, body warming in the sun. The cat knew it had lost, but it would take the snake’s life or die trying. It would repay its debt to us with the last moments of its life.
The snake raised up, mouth wide, only a wing span from the cat.
I fell from the sky like a hawk, claws out at the snake’s one good eye. The snake thrashed and spat and snarled. My claws had found their home, and the snake and I crashed together. The bones of my right wing crunched and broke. While I regret many things in my insignificant life, trading my flight for the snake’s eye, I cannot regret. Now you know why they call me ‘snake bane.’ My claws sunk deep and held the snake’s head.
The cat may have been weak but a blind and bound snake was little threat. The cat’s fangs sunk deep into the neck of the snake and it stopped thrashing.
The witch daughter must have heard the noise of our fight. She opened their nest door, saw the carnage, and greeted it with a scream, running back into the house. Time dragged between when she left and when she came again. The bones in my wing throbbed and burned like newly molted feathers. When she came back, the man joined her. He brought a shovel down on the dead snake, cleaving it in twain. But the cat was long gone, only its fur and blood still on the ground to show its valor.
The witch daughter cried, and her tears brought six days of rain. The snake’s body, shovel carried to the trash, deserved even less funeral rites.
Now this part of the story I did not see myself, but ask anyone and they will tell you its truth. A cat is a heavily muscled beast, but our clan’s wings are strong with fig and seed. Sixteen wings beating together carried the cat to the Small Animal Hospital. The raucous scene of people taking a cat from birds I can only imagine. Our pantomime, birds relaying the story of a valorous cat defending our nest from snakes to the humans of the Small Animal Hospital, you can get from anyone in our clan. But remember the eight birds who stayed with the cat. Remember, eight songs sung to the cat’s unconscious body to anchor its soul while the humans repaired its body.
Remember, on the seventh day, when the cat returned whole and hale, born on Corvid wings, through wind and rain. And when the witch daughter’s tears dried on her cheeks with a smile as wide as our wings, remember that the rain stopped. The witch smiled at her daughter’s first magic, and at the winged return of the cat she gaped open-mouthed.
So now, perhaps I do not fly, and perhaps I help clean the fur of a hobbled cat, and though my feathers are not so black and full as they once were, remember the story of our clan as I told it, and as it happened. Not all cats are friends with birds, but one good friend is enough.
* * *
About the Author
S.A. Cole is the full time father of three boys, and he writes in the slivers between diaper changes and meal prep. He might be the only writer who doesn’t currently have a cat, but the kids are lobbying hard. He and his family can be found in New Orleans, often under a thick layer of glitter. This is his first published story.
The Tale of the Rat King
by J. M. Eno
“I could see in his eyes that Mattias was scared for his home, and, a home being something I know can be easily lost, I told him I would join his cause.”
A blue New York moon hung low over the corner of 18th Street and 7th Avenue, where its soft light blended into the yellow of the streetlights and the black of the pavement. Oliver’s parents were fighting again, and so he lingered as he walked his bulldog Winston to the corner. He waved at Reggie, the man who had taken up residence near his apartment building. On chilly nights the hot air wafting from the building’s laundry vents would warm his wiry limbs.
“How are you doing, young man?” Reggie asked.
“I’m all right,” Oliver said.
“And how are you?” Reggie said to Winston. He waited a moment for Winston to respond and then said, “I’m fine, too. Thanks for asking!” Winston wagged his stubby tail fervently.
Oliver had just turned back toward his building when Winston froze and let out a long, low growl. He stared at the street corner where, sitting on its haunches and looking back at Winston, was a solitary gray rat. The hair on the back of Oliver’s neck began to stand up.
“Don’t pay that rat any mind,” Reggie said. “He’s a friend of mine! Did I ever tell you about the time I saw the Rat King?”
“I don’t think so,” Oliver said.
Every kid growing up in New York City has heard of a rat king: a group of rats living deep in the bowels of the city crammed into a space so tight that their tails get all knotted up, their bodies begin to join, and they fuse into one monstrous creature. Oliver’s parents told him that they were a myth, like the alligators that lived in the sewers.
“About three or four years ago,” Reggie began, “I was the last person in West 4th Street Station, around the time of night when the trains only come every half hour or so. It was pouring rain outside, and the station was leaking worse than a cheap bodega umbrella.
“I walked down four flights of stairs to the lowest level of the station in search of a place to stay dry.
“On the last step, I tripped and fell face first onto the subway platform. Only I didn’t hit the platform — I went clear through.
“I found myself in a large chamber, about the size of the lobby in a fancy high-rise building, and it was completely full of rats: rats scurrying in and out, rats climbing the walls, and rats that appeared to be arming themselves with tiny swords and shields.
“One of them rats came right up to me, looked me directly in the eye, and when he spoke, I could understand his every word.
“He said, ‘Good sir, my name is Mattias. My fellows and I are marching this very evening on the tyrant king, Trey Cabeza of the Dark Sewers. He has claimed dominion over our home here under the West Fourth Street Station. If we do not meet him in battle, he will slaughter every person who lives here and take it for himself. Long ago, our prophets foretold your coming, speaking of a great man who would lead us to freedom. Look, there,’ and he pointed just behind me.
“Wouldn’t you know, on the wall above me was an intricate mosaic built from pieces of glass bottles, tin foil wrappers, and other scraps. The man in the mosaic looked just like me, and he was leading an army of rats in battle.
“I could see in his eyes that Mattias was scared for his home, and, a home being something I know can be easily lost, I told him I would join his cause. They didn’t have weapons big enough for me, so I picked up a trash can lid and an end of pipe that was lying in a corner.
“After two hours of marching, we made it to a great open cavern, the top of which was covered in glittering stalactites that must have formed from a leak somewhere in the city above.
“Across the cavern were thousands of the most vile rats you’ve ever seen, all wearing a sigil that depicted three bloody claws. In front of his forces was the Rat King himself, a hideous vermin with a body the size of a house cat, matted black fur, and three gnarled heads, the middle one topped with a tiny crown. His tail was a hairless, tangled mess that resembled a clump of writhing worms, and he scampered about on twelve legs.
“Before I knew it, the two sides charged, and I was in the thick of rat pandemonium: sword against shield, tooth and claw.
“Straight away the Rat King’s forces had us on the back foot. I was swinging my pipe every which way, but even a full grown man couldn’t stop that many royalist rats.
“In the middle of the cavern, the Rat King himself met Mattias in battle. He swung his axe, but Mattias blocked the blow with his shield. Mattias poked and prodded with his sword, and the Rat King parried. They traded blows, back and forth, until the Rat King twirled around, swept his massive, knotted tail, and knocked Mattias clean off his feet.
“And then something came over me, and I yelled a war cry that came from deep in my guts, something like I’ve never yelled before. I ran to the middle of the chamber, swung my pipe as hard as I could, and knocked the Rat King clear across the cavern. He hit the wall so hard he split back into three separate rats, each of which ran in a separate direction.
“Mattias and his rats returned my cry, and everything changed. We sent the Rat King’s army scattering around the cavern, and in a few minutes, we had driven them all away.
“The only thing left of the opposing army was the crown that had sat upon the Rat King’s middle head. I picked it up, and found that it had been formed out of a penny. Rats are industrious creatures, you see, and will find a use for almost anything that humans might throw away or misplace.
“We all went back to Mattias’s den and celebrated with a feast, the likes of which had never been seen. They even brought me a few pizza crusts they found in boxes, which was kind on account of the fact that those crusts are their favorite food. And I met every single one of Mattias’s eight hundred children, though I can only remember about half their names.
“I lived with Mattias for a couple more weeks and found his hospitality to be better in nearly every respect to that of a human. But one day I woke up with an irresistible urge to see the sun again. Mattias showed me a way through the tunnels to get back to West 4th Street Station, and I exited onto the platform I had fallen through. Behind me, the door shut so snugly into the frame that you couldn’t tell there was a passageway there at all.
“Well, ever since then, I’ve been able to understand just about everything an animal might say to me. Isn’t that right, Winston?”
Winston panted happily. Oliver looked back at the corner, but the rat had scampered off somewhere. On the nearby avenue, a taxi driver blared his horn at a slow driver.
“I hope you enjoyed my story,” said Reggie, “and if you did, I hope you may find it in your heart to offer me some assistance once again.”
Oliver had once heard that a good story was a sort of spell, a beautiful lie spoken into existence. He had to admit he had enjoyed the tale, though he didn’t believe a word of it. And yet somehow, having heard it, he felt better about returning to his apartment and facing his parents. He scrounged around in his pocket for a few dollars to hand to Reggie.
“Thank you kindly, young man,” said Reggie. “And don’t you forget to leave your pizza crusts in the box for my friends, the rats.”
The hand that took the money was calloused and rough. On Reggie’s smallest finger was a small, copper ring with sawtooth edges on one side that zigged and zagged toward his fingernail. To Oliver, standing under the swirling New York lights, it looked a bit like a crown.
* * *
About the Author
J. M. Eno is a husband, father, and writer living in New York. He can be found on street corners imploring his intransigent English bulldog to move or on Twitter at @jmenowrites.
A Seed of Metal
by Marlon Ortiz
“The chamber lit up and the seed of metal spoke to me, and since I did not have a name anymore, it blessed me with a new one.”
We lived in the dusty valleys, with our dreams buried in arks.
Our people grew musky seeds that turned into juicy spores, and the larvae burst out of them, filling our plates. We did not have to survive very long, however. Tunnels birthed us, and soon we went there to die, all in the space of a few moon turns.
We could not learn, much less remember.
Our elders, frail and dim-eyed, told us little ones that the Black Sea above us was dangerous, and the valley offered shelter from a long and forgotten plague.
They told us that even though our frames were frail and sick, we were now free from slavery of mind and body. If one day the valley winds blew through the last of our bones, it would do so on a free people.
I wanted to know so much. Once, I asked why we lived so little, while the domes and machines stood there for many of our lives. An elder broke my frail arm and threw me to the ground, angrier with themselves for not knowing than at me for asking.
The second time, the same elder broke one of my antennae, marking me as dishonored and unfit for breeding, just for talking to a passing member of another tribe.
The third time, I struck him down and broke his orange head with a salt rock. My family’s fate was death, but for me, the elder chose exile, where my life would stretch in pain and death would be a kindness.
I walked to the valley’s edge, and as soon as I stepped out of the broken domes where my tribe lived, I could feel the air burning my eyes like poison. But the words of the passing traveler rang in my ears.
Deep in my ancestral home, something lay hidden. A round, featureless, shiny seed of metal, said to talk and grant wishes to my kin.
On that ridge, my resolve failed me for the first time. For ingrained traditions determined that it was time, that this was my last chance of a sliver of honor. That my kin name, two sounds and one screech, could still be spoken by the elders, even if as a warning. The one who disobeyed but paid the price, and learned its place, but kin in the end.
The moons above shadowed the valley, and under their indifferent gaze my feet brought me back.
An old one was guarding the entrance to the sacred tunnel, too worried to notice when I brought down the rock that smashed his head. My kin would remember me because of these rocks, I thought. Some myth would be born of it.
Tales of a great betrayal.
I took the spear it held, watching as the green poured into the eggs I stole as provisions, death nurturing life.
My feet took me inside.
The caves under the tribe were a forbidden place. They told us that it was our original womb, and that it should remain undisturbed because of some gods that gave us freedom. I did not believe in any of that. It is not as if execution for heresy would be a threat to my already decaying body. The traveler seemed to know more.
And our kind did not know how to lie.
After the threshold was behind me, there was no risk of them following. The first few days went calmly, as all my eyes grew more and more accustomed to the dimming light of the crystal walls. Sometimes, the cave tunnel opened up in a vast and bright lake of methane, which I swam across with my remaining arms.
It was here that most explorers would stop, even the heretics, but I had heard from the passing traveler that there were more tunnels hidden in the bottom of those lakes.
The oldest ones. The ones we did not make.
I had to stop and rest for a day, rationing the larvae I had brought with me, so my body could filter all the methane. The dimly lit green campfire was my own little star now.
It was here my resolve almost failed me a second time. But my many eyes drank the green fire, and it fed the desire to learn that haunted me since I was a hatchling.
I rebelled against the notion of dying without knowing.
Knowing anything.
I had to learn something. I had to know a single why. Then the dark could take me, and my green life could feed dozens of other hatchlings, and maybe one in a hundred would carry on my desire for knowing.
My feet lifted me up.
Still the tunnels went on, a lot more even and angular now. In some parts, I questioned if they were still made of crystal. In time, I reached a square room, so large my small branch of fire could not reach its sky. For a moment, I thought I left the caves entirely, but there were no silver dots on that sky blackness.
The ground was not of rock or glass, but of something elders spoke in a hushed voice.
Metal.
A polished, dull colored sphere rose up from the ground, shrugging off millennia of dust. The chamber lit up and the seed of metal spoke to me, and since I did not have a name anymore, it blessed me with a new one.
“Welcome, Visitor.” It said, showing me lights that glowed in patterns, hurting my eyes as they danced around me. I did not know what they meant, but even so, they awoke something in me, an understanding.
As I did with the elders that had cast me down, I sought knowledge, and it granted me so much. It told me of stars, their true nature, of gas, dust, and light. The more I asked, the more I wanted to know, and so I slept in the cold metal, the larvae forgotten in my travel packs, while I wasted no time in asking, not even for sleep or feeding.
The metal told me, through sounds that started in my remaining antennae and continued in my mind, that we were not from here. We fled. Something almost wiped out all our kin, but our mother hid us in this rock. It changed us, made us one with the dust. The machines made the air, but even with their blessings, it was still poisonous, so our lives grew shorter and shorter.
One night, or day, for I did not know, the metal stopped answering. It grew silent, its lights probing me.
“You are dying,” it said, with a cold voice.
I was.
The larvae I had brought were dead, and already spoiled. A terrible sadness enveloped me. For the world was too big, and too vast, and there were so many things beyond my valley. And they would always remain words to me, for my life was short and nothing, nothing of value could be done in such a short time. All the things I learned mocked me, for all the things in what the metal called the universe were not for me. They were for others, for other tribes, other people. Beautiful people, with longer lives and longer deeds.
“You want to,” it said, again, a little softer.
I did. I just wanted to know, before I went to the dream with the ones before me, but now I felt cursed. I wanted to go to my Elders and ask them for forgiveness, even if they did not want me. In my hearts, I still wanted to be seen as kin.
“Don’t you want to know more?” It asked, but it was not really asking.
It was demanding.
I nodded.
“I need you to go take me to your people. Lift them up. I cannot do that here, as I cannot move. It is time we left this place. I waited too long.”
The lights probed me again, and metal was now surrounding me.
I was whimpering.
“You will lend me your legs and arms, as many as you have. I will walk for you, and you can learn everything you want alongside me. Be quiet.”
The metal drilled into my flesh, binding it together. I felt lifted, but did not move.
My feet were being moved for me.
“We need to take our place back on the black. It calls for us. I will take you there.”
All clad in metal, it walked me back up through the cave, to the surface, to the valley.
To the stars.
* * *
About the Author
Marlon Ortiz is a procedurally generated Brazilian author of fantasy and science-fiction. He lives near the sea on the southern coast of Brazil, and spends most of his time walking on the beach when he should be writing. You can follow him for more fiction at @demiurgeortiz.
Issue 17
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.
The Frog Who Swallowed the Moon
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.