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Welcome to The Furry Game Awards 2024, presented by Gaming Furever! Every year, we'll come together as a staff and decide on our most beloved, most played, and most exceptional games from the past year of new gaming experiences. 2024 was filled to the brim with so many games featuring anthropomorphic characters and animals. It was hard to choose just one winner for all of these categories, and the separation between the nominees and ultimately the winner was miniscule. All of the games on these lists are highly recommended by our staff, and we can't wait to continue enjoying them! So, without further ado, here are our Furry Game Awards Winners for the year 2024!

So sorry, but we just had to steal that phrase from the publisher — couldn’t top it! “Meet the Bins family, a trio of raccoons in the risky business of dumpster diving for all their needs. With Dusty’s brains, ReRe’s muscle, and Scraps’s gadgets (please don’t tell him he’s almost definitely an opossum), the Binses are determined to leave no garbage bin unturned in their pursuit of the tastiest, most delicious trash they can find. When the family discovers a new upscale grocery store that’s throwing away their perfectly good food at the end of each day, the Binses hatch a heist so daring it’ll have them rolling in garbage all winter long. But a critter-despising CEO, Jeff Beans, and the high-tech defense system he’s installed means liberating that trash is going to take all the skills the Racc Pack have … and maybe some help from a cat burglar with a mysterious past.” Published by Simon & Schuster, The Racc Pack graphic novel is by Stephanie Cooke (My Little Pony: Camp Bighoof), with art by Whitney Gardner.

image c. 2024 Simon & Schuster

The Duck Detective is back! When spookiness strikes a luxury campsite, the one and only Duck Detective is summoned to quack the case. Inspect evidence, make de-duck-tions, and solve this no-murder mystery! Duck Detective: The Ghost of Glamping is a new stand-alone game in the acclaimed Duck Detective series from Happy Broccoli. Get ready to interview suspects, inspect evidence, and deduce the truth.

This campsite might have ghosts, but the real thing haunting Eugene McQuacklin is his failed marriage and bread addiction. Can he escape the shadows of his past?

Features:

• A 2-3 hour long cozy mystery game!

• A stand-alone sequel to the acclaimed ‘Duck Detective: The Secret Salami!‘

• Interview suspects, fill in the blanks and crack the case!

• Fully voice-acted cast of suspiciously secretive characters!

• Dive into a murky pond of delinquency and dredge up the truth!

• Throw bread to the fine beak of lady justice!

Welcome to Issue 22 of Zooscape!

We have to snatch up the moments of happiness we can find, even when our lives are burning down around us.  Even if you’re a haunted house, maybe you can still make room inside yourself to host something better — something warm and fuzzy with a beating heart — before you go up in flames.  So, here are a few bright points of light, a few warmly beating hearts to cheer you on these endlessly strange days.

* * *

A Colony of Vampires by Beth Dawkins

The Wolf, the Fox, and the Ring by Mocha Cookie Crumble

The Way the Light Tangles by Emmie Christie

Heron Went a’ Courting by Margot Spronk

The Pest in Golden Gate Park by Katlina Sommerberg

Where Life Resides by Patricia Miller

* * *

As always, if you want to support Zooscape, check out our Patreon.  Also, you can pick up e-book or paperback volumes of our first 13 issues bundled into four anthologies, complete with an illustration for every story.  The fifth volume will come out soon!

by Patricia Miller

“She was only a bat. She could not light a match. She could not douse me with gasoline.”

“This wasn’t my fault.” I say it and mean it. “It is as honest an answer as anyone can expect, and it is true.”

She listened with a seriousness I had come to expect from her. She was the matriarch of her clan, with a keen ear for details and an iron grip on the hundreds which made up the colony under my eaves. Countless generations of her kind had filled my dark cavities and were my only regular occupants, if just during the months they weren’t hibernating.

I had not planned to burden her with this, but the bright sunlight of the early spring day had given way to a night sky filled with flashing red lights and loud sirens. Most of the colony sought refuge in the dark midnight blueness of the neighboring fields, but she had returned after feeding and joined me to ask after my well-being. Her concern was welcome, her friendship treasured, and so I unburdened myself to my only friend.

I had done nothing to cause the calamity which overtook the house party. Indeed, I had done all I could to make it a success.

The rooms were airy, bright, and never smelled of anything but the gentlest hint of vanilla. The chimneys were well-cleaned with working flues to keep out unexpected pests and ill winds. The shutters didn’t rattle in the night; the floors and stairs didn’t creak and jolt anyone out of a peaceful slumber. The electricity hadn’t cycled off in the middle of a tense conversation. No odd drafts whistled around doors or through long hallways to cause a frisson of dread amongst my ten guests. The pipes didn’t bang and echo in shadowed bathrooms, and they provided only the freshest of water; never running rusty or bloody or rank. I had made certain the gardens were in full bloom, with no windblown branches to create any stumbles or provide any weaponry.

“And in spite of that, four people are dead, two more are missing, and the poodles have run away from the carnage so far and so quickly they are probably two counties over. I can find no trace of the missing couple. They have not left through the locked windows or doors, and neither is slender enough to use the old coal shaft. I must therefore assume they are simply bodies not yet discovered.”

The handful of guests who remained held at least one murderer in their midst. I knew who it was, and while it wasn’t the obvious suspect – it never is – it was her lover. At this point it no longer mattered, for I was no longer interested in that. I just wanted to know why.

Why did this happen and why this weekend? Why are four dead people stretched out in my icehouse? Why the elaborate setup, like something out of a Buster Keaton film, just to hit someone over the head? There are easier ways to crush a cranium than by rigging up a set of encyclopedias, a badminton net, three croquet mallets, and a life jacket.

“I don’t even own a croquet set! Don’t people just poison other people anymore?” I muttered.

So by my count, six deaths this weekend. Because let’s face it, those other two will turn up in some odd and utterly bizarre bit of cabinetry brought in by the rental agent who furnished the house for the week-long reunion. There was probably a magician’s chest with hidden compartments or a pool table with a false bottom or something which will only reveal their remains once hounds are brought in to trace the stench.

The three-hundred year old oak timbers which make up my frame shuddered, just a bit. I didn’t groan – I had too much pride to resort to that trope – but I’d had enough. I could trace my roots, quite literally, back to the ancient oaks; majestic, prideful, filled with life and sacred to those who knew them. I was felled and turned into this dwelling fifty years before the first shots were fired at Lexington and Concord. By the time those musket balls flew, five of my occupants had died before their time.

In the succeeding years the count grew: hangings, drownings, poisons, more guns, smoke inhalation, suffocation, a few strings stretched taut along a staircase, and numerous skulls bashed with candlesticks, a poker, and six years later, the shovel from the same set of fireplace tools.

“I’m not certain you can claim someone was defenestrated if they were thrown in a window or through the glass skylight over the ballroom, to be precise. Name a method of death, however bizarre, and I guarantee it has happened here. The death toll has reached 238 by my reckoning.”

Only twenty-three were actually considered murder by the authorities. The others they had classified as suicides, natural causes, and one highly unlikely accidental piercing of the liver by a broken pool cue which permanently stained my library floors and resulted in the installation of wall to wall carpet in a truly unfortunate shade of oatmeal. I suppose the color and commercial grade was the economical option since it had been selected twice more after other unfortunate events.

The matriarch listened patiently to my long recital, her black ears swiveling ever so slightly at my rumbles. She was nestled in a dark corner of my attic, behind a chimney which serviced a no longer used kitchen fireplace. The colony of Large Brown Bats had been driven from their other homes through fear and ignorance and had been seeking a winter shelter when they first entered my eaves. The colony and I reached an arrangement once the first matriarch overcame her surprise at holding a conversation with a former tree demanding to know what she and her children were doing in my attics.

The bats kept me free of beetles and termites, and I provided a safe harbor. They never fouled the air or floors. No trace of them was seen on the extremely rare occasions an occupant ventured into the oddly shadowed rooms. I protected her and the mothers who preceded her, and I would go on protecting the ones who followed. We had an understanding, she and I. We often spoke of the dark of night, the warmth of summer days, the encroachment of people and insecticides.

I didn’t want to bring death into our conversation, but I thought perhaps she might have seen something to explain what happened to me over and over again. She was wise and knew my bones well, not like the many charlatans the house’s human occupants had dragged over my timbers in the past; phonies and hacks who had attempted to connect with the spirits, cleanse auras, untangle ley lines, and banish the demons said to possess me. I wasn’t possessed. I wasn’t erected over a forgotten cemetery or battlefield or pagan altar. None of the 238 untimely deaths left spirits behind either.

“You have had a long, sorrowful time,” she said.

“A sorrowful time. I wanted to be a good house, a home. I wanted to be filled with joy and love, for what better hope can any tree have if they are not to live out their days under the Great Green Sky?”

“Green? The sky is blue, for I fly on its currents and eddies and know its every hue.”

“Air is blue, but the Great Green Sky, the Canopy of All, is lush and filled with life. Why would anyone wish to look overhead into empty air when they could exist under life itself? Had I been granted my full span, I would have taken my place amongst my brethren to shelter and nourish in turn. I would have gladly sheltered you and yours.”

“We would have relished that.” She hesitated then, and I understood she did indeed know something.

“I heard your current owner speaking with the others outside. He wants you dismantled. He plans to strip your fittings, moldings, copper pipes, windows, anything of value and sell them off to restoration and salvage companies. There’s a custom cabinet maker interested in your framing and timbers.”

“No! No! For I do not know how much or what part of me carries the curse!” And it must be a curse which burdens me so, although I do not know where or when it had been laid, or by who.

“Do you believe it could spread, then?” She was so kind and gentle with her questions.

“Can you promise me it will not?”

“I cannot.” I thought she cared. If she didn’t, she was a good enough actor to make me believe she did.

“Then I wish someone could consign me to the flames instead of the hammer. Let me burn.”

“Fire? Won’t that hurt – I mean, won’t that–” The shudder which coursed through her tiny frame made her opinion of fire obvious – most animals fear the flame.

“I have been violently sheared from my roots. I was split, planed, sawed, sanded, stained, painted, and polished. What could be more painful than that? All trees succumb to fire eventually. Fire or decay. In either case, it is a natural thing. Let me burn.”

She gave me no answer, but I could tell she was considering her options.

* * *

She was only a bat. She could not light a match. She could not douse me with gasoline. She could not short out my electrical panel or leave the gas valve open. She did, however, understand the smells and touch of a line of thunderstorms making their way down the eastern slope of the Taconic Mountains and their impending sweep toward western Massachusetts.

She summoned the colony and put them to work. They swarmed the roof, crowded along the pinnacle and swung, clawed, bit, pulled at an innocuous bit of wire trailing down the cupola, the valley flashing, and the exterior wall to a metal stake in the ground. They pounded at the weathervane and the copper spike on which it rotated. Their combined efforts bent it perpendicular to the roof, then knocked it well below the ridgeline.

She kept me company while her brood worked, and then called them to her side when the task was completed as best they could.

“I don’t know if we’ve done enough,” she said.

“You’ve done what you can. You always have.”

“You’ve given us shelter and for that we thank you.”

“At least I’ve been a home of sorts then.” We both knew that however much I’d enjoyed being of service, it hadn’t been enough. My primary function had never been fulfilled.

“Where will you go?” I asked.

“There is a new forest, a preserve to the south and east toward the rising sun. I suppose they have recognized their folly at last. They have returned those and other lands back to good green places.”

Oh, how I envied her. To see such lands restored to a time before their arrival. To see a newly born canopy. No wish of mine would see me there. “May a safe passage await you and yours. My thanks to you all.”

* * *

The wondrous storm reached me on a moonlit night. When one of its bolts struck my unprotected roof and decorative railings, Nature’s full fury was unleashed upon me and had nowhere else to go. Heat cascaded through my old bones, along the ridge cap and beams and studs. The flames started as small flickers in isolated corners, grew, merged into hot spots, finally joined into one single overwhelming conflagration. The rain which accompanied the thunder had no chance at all of containing it.

It was a searing, soaring heat, and I found such release in that. There were so few happy memories to recall of my days as a house (never a home), but I reached back through the rings of my seasons. I had memories of my leaves turning from bud to green to brown until they fell to blanket and nourish the forest beneath my roots. I remembered the chill of winter snow and the sun warming me until my sap ran free.

I gave thought to the many birds who had once nested within my branches, the other creatures who fed themselves and their young on my acorns. Some of those acorns became seedlings. Perhaps a few survived. I hoped so, for they would be my only lasting legacy. I will never take my place as part of the Canopy of All. Still, I will no longer be a vehicle for sadness and death. I gave myself up to the flame.

The fire consumed me. My roof timbers gave way first, and the weight of tiles and brick chimneys crashed through the attic floor, the servants’ quarters below, then all the way through to the cellars. Window panes shattered from the heat – the great expanse of the ballroom skylight refracted a million tongues of flame in a splintering rain. I heard sirens in the distance. They would not reach me in time to make a difference.

The rain stopped. The fire didn’t. It burned white hot. The air around me ionized and steamed. Old paper insulation could not stop superheated air driving smoke and embers inside my remaining interior walls. Timbers exploded, electric cabled arced, gas lines ruptured.

All that I ever was had been reduced to ash.

And then the wind changed direction. It blew hard to the south and east. A few sparks crackled though they did not travel far on the damp ground.

But I did.

I took flight in the wind amidst the smoke and the heat, following the colony’s path until I finally reached the reborn forest. I joined it the only way I could.

I fed my ashes to the Great Green Sky.

 

* * *

About the Author

Patricia Miller is a US Navy veteran, sixth of ten kids born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio and currently living in Wisconsin, Land of Cheese. She holds a BS in Education, an MS in Library Science. Patricia started reading at 3 1/2 after becoming obsessed with Batman and is hooked on QI, British murder villages, and professional cycling. She is a weaver, quilter, raiser of roses, and maker. Patricia is on the spectrum and considers that as an asset to her writing.

Patricia is a member of SFWA and CODEX and writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Her publications include short fiction in numerous anthologies, Metastellar, Wyngraf, and Cinnabar Moth Literary Collections with upcoming short stories for Dastardly Damsels, 99 Fleeting Fantasies, and Stupefying Stories. She is currently in the query trenches with a middle grade ghost story

A complete listing of stories, occasional blog entries, and more info about Patricia can be found on her website at: https://trishmillerwrites.com

by Katlina Sommerberg

“…this is no ordinary catch, yet the sticky lines hold.”

In the branches of a lonely redwood tree, hidden amongst the flowering cones, Bitsy’s web quakes from an impact.

Hanging by a thread, the orb-weaver calculates her prey’s location from its vibrations. Her web shakes violently; this is no ordinary catch, yet the sticky lines hold.

The prey’s exoskeleton glimmers like an iridescent dragonfly. Its body is one section — missing the thorax — with four circular wings composed of blades.

When the vibrations stop, Bitsy’s palps reach for the not-insect’s shell.

Its bladed wings buzz to life and sever structural threads.

Bitsy jumps, lands on fallen needles upon the forest floor. She abandons her web to the microdrone.

 

* * *

About the Author

Katlina Sommerberg is living xyr best queer life in a menagerie of stuffed animals. Previously a security researcher, xe burned out and quit. So far, xe hasn’t followed xyr grandfather’s footsteps by disappearing into the mountains, but xe is always tempted. Xyr work has previously appeared in Zooscape, DecodedPride, and other places. https://sommerbergssf.carrd.co/#

by Margot Spronk

“This was not the meet-cute she’d hoped for, but he had brought an awesome present.”

1. 1. The Courting

Gwyn sank into a Downward Dog, extending her claws to deepen the stretch, unfortunately slashing her purple yoga mat, and not for the first time. Her previously even breathing stuttered, as her feline brain popped up an errant thought: why wasn’t this pose named the Downward Cat? No dog could bow their spines until their elbows touched the ground like a cat could. Maybe a dachshund — but that would look ridiculous. Gwyn giggled, exposing her canines, then snapped her jaws shut.

Always…dogs. Never cats.

She shuffled her hind legs closer to her front paws and lifted her knees onto her elbows, precariously assuming the Crane Position. She balanced for a second, then dropped one foot back to the ground, hissing at the strain.

If it wasn’t dogs, it was cranes.

Wasn’t a heron the same as a crane?

Her whiskers twitched. Maybe yoga wasn’t for her after all. She flopped down into what she liked to call the Lambchop Pose — one leg pointing straight up — and licked her white furred belly with long, raspy strokes while intermittently staring out the living room’s French doors at the front yard.

Outside, rain had slicked a shine onto the green lawn, brightening the overcast early spring morning. Beyond the grass, a clump of alders stretched their bare grey limbs upward. Tiny spheres of water clinging to the furled buds that tipped the branches glinted like diamonds against a pearlescent sky. Below the interlocking alder boughs a great blue heron stood, still and silent, his long sharp beak pointed at the ground.

Gwyn’s pink paw pads broke out in sweat.

Was he coming here already? Stopping to hunt a vole on the way like a human suitor would stop to pick a bouquet of wildflowers for his sweetheart?

His beak struck the ground, neck stretched then springing back into its ‘S’ shaped resting state — a grey blob wedged between his upper and lower beaks as if it was a piece of sashimi clasped by two chopsticks. It wriggled and Gwyn involuntarily salivated. She imagined a shrill squeak and almost had to visit the litter box in her excitement.

Reiher strolled through the grass toward the glass doors, neck bobbing, head steady as if it were balanced on gimbals. His yellow eyes fixated on Gwyn, as if she too were prey.

Which… she supposed, she was.

Her Russian blue great aunt slunk into the room. Either she’d seen Reiher transiting the lawn, or she’d been expecting him. (If Gwyn had known the heron was coming, she would’ve gone to the 11 a.m. yoga class in town instead of setting up her mat in the living room and giving him an inadvertent show).

Auntie bounded to the door, a ghostly streak of gray, rushing to let the heron in before Gwyn did something foolhardy.

But Gwyn hadn’t even thought about locking Reiher out. Her attention was fixated on the furry bundle firmly clasped in his beak.

It smelled of iron and petrichor and looked plump and tasty.

Reiher strode across the threshold and dropped the vole in front of her. Gwyn thanked him while licking away some drool. He nodded — he wasn’t much of a conversationalist. She’d noticed that about herons before — their extreme and endless comfort with silence. And staring. Always the staring.

Auntie left to give the lovebirds a little privacy.

Love… birds?

Why not love-cats?

Gwyn recognized she had become a burden. At eight months she’d already put her thoroughly menopaused and fastidious great aunt through two estrus cycles. Twice Gwyn had rubbed, rolled and shed reefs of white fur while yowling affectionately at anyone who looked her way. She shuddered. So embarrassing. How did cats manage before vacuum cleaners were invented? Her elderly guardian was understandably anxious to ensure her next heat was someone else’s responsibility. Reiher was an upstanding member of the community. An expert hunter. And… Auntie was always talking up his plumy blue fronds and sexy white ruff.

Gwyn had to admit he was just as gorgeous as advertised.

Gwyn vowed to at least give him a chance. It wasn’t as if suitors grew on trees or were beating a path to her door. Reiher had been hatched “in” a tree, and he had just stalked to her door, so that had to count for something.

Reiher assumed his resting pose — totally motionless, one baleful eye turned toward Gwyn’s mouth.

Did he want the vole back?

Or was he fascinated by her sharp teeth?

This was not the meet-cute she’d hoped for, but he had brought an awesome present. She ripped out the rodent’s belly like the predator she was, wolfing down chunks of slimy organ and chewy muscle.

Wolfing?

Something clunked against her back molar. It wasn’t a vole bone as they were thin, flexible and perfectly edible. This felt pointed, impervious, like it might chafe her throat and abrade her intestines as it moved through her digestive tract. Spontaneously, she horked it up.

A gold ring, set with a moderately-sized solitaire diamond, dropped onto the carpet coated in a stinky bile soup speckled with bone shards.

Well.

That was done.

They were engaged.

2.  The Wedding

Gwyn tried to convince Auntie that she would’ve looked better in black, as the white silk of her wedding dress against her white fur was not a good look.

Also black would’ve suited her mood better, which surely Auntie knew but wouldn’t acknowledge. Gwyn sighed.

She slid a manicured claw under the dress’s delicate accordion neckline. Confining as a dog collar. Cats weren’t known for their patience, and Gwyn was no exception. She wished she could play the Chatte App on her tablet while waiting for the ceremony to start. Pounce on a few fish, squash some cockroaches and chase a laser pointer. But a few weeks ago, when she’d tried to include Reiher in the game, he’d cracked the glass screen with his beak. After the second time it happened, the person at the other end of her extended warranty’s 1-800 number denied her claim.

There was nothing to do but prowl back and forth. She peeked through the curtain into the nave of the church. Everyone who was anyone was there. Van Varken the heritage hog, accompanied by a passel of piglets — all rumored to be killing the computer science program at MIT. Paard the Carter — she’d parleyed her one-horse business into a major transportation conglomerate. Lapin Konijn, the porn star who apparently had a very large… hind foot, and Cuervo the crow, who’d made billions mining silver and gold and topped the Forbes 30 under 30 list five years in a row. Considering his entrepreneurial prowess, and that a crow’s lifespan maxes out at thirty, he was likely to be ineligible due to death well before he aged out. His sister Vorona, who was said (in whispers) to be a highly paid assassin and spy for hire, sat to his right. To his left, his trans-species mate, Raaf Raven, who was a social influencer famous for running Instagram scavenger hunts, took a selfie.

Gwyn’s abundant cousins were there, sprawled over the pews in a slinky riot of white, black, and marmalade. On Reiher’s side of the aisle, his Avian relatives loomed over everyone mammalian. Cranes, egrets, lesser herons, and a notorious Pelican bookie who kept betting slips in his beak.

It was a zoo out there. Fidgeting kittens and squirming chicks, startled colts and squealing leverets. And it smelled funky, like a barn on a hot day. No one had thought to bedeck the hall with fragrant flowers — half of the guests would have assumed they were part of the wedding buffet, anyway.

When the first plaintive notes of Saint Saëns “March of the Lions” rang out, Gwyn strolled down the aisle, her aunt preceding her (dressed in an aqua green satin gown that flattered her feline shape and blue-gray coloring). Reiher waited for her at the altar, following her progress with a piercing intensity.

Well.

That was done.

They were married.

3.  The Marriage

When you get right down to it, Gwyn and Reiher did have a lot in common. Both were somewhat nocturnal, with a fondness for voles, trout, and frogs. Both tracked their prey silently, then swiftly pounced — Reiher with his razor-sharp beak, and Gwyn with the whetted talons sheathed in her white paws.

Neither was very talkative — as much as Gwyn complained about the utter taciturnity of her husband, she was equally guilty. Neither of them liked peas. Reiher because they were so difficult to hold in his beak, and Gwyn because they tasted like fresh hay and hay was for ungulates.

But there were points of contention. Reiher complained that Gwyn was always sleeping. Gwyn countered with Reiher’s habit of ending an argument by becoming airborne. Reiher thought that Gwyn’s Cheshire smiles were insincere. Gwyn would’ve appreciated even the tiniest twinge of expression on her husband’s face.

Were they happy? The expression, “two cats in a sack” applied here, even if one of the cats was a bird. There was a lot of friction.

And due to the trans-species nature of their relationship, children were out of the question. They could adopt, Gwyn suggested. An abandoned puppy, perhaps? Maybe a dachshund so that she could laugh at his attempts at a Downward Dog?

But Reiher said no. He just couldn’t relate to an animal longer than they were tall, covered in fur and liveborn. Reiher really wanted to sit on a clutch of eggs.

Gwyn was not having feathers. How could she possibly groom her baby without tearing out the quills and shredding the downy barbs with her sandpaper tongue? Besides, baby birds were… tasty.

It was a stalemate.

Grooming was not negotiable.

Eggs were not negotiable.

They contemplated foreign adoption, but apparently, Australian platypus were decent parents, and very few of the monotremes ever came up.

Besides, platypuses loved swimming underwater. How could a cat mom supervise that? Dad-heron’s only method of corralling a diving platypus baby would be to stab them with his beak.

Why won’t you accept a baby bird asked Reiher?

Why won’t you accept a puppy said Gwyn?

As was typical, Reiher flew off with a great thumping of his huge wings, and Gwyn curled into a ball in front of the fireplace and closed her eyes.

Their divorce was granted on the grounds of irreconcilable differences. If you asked anyone who’d been in the church on the day of their wedding, they’d say they’d always known it wouldn’t last.

Gwyn and Reiher were too, too different.

Auntie didn’t seem too disturbed when Gwyn interrupted her Grecian holiday with the news — although that could be because she was too busy partying with her wild Santorini relatives.

Well.

That was done.

They were divorced.

 

* * *

About the Author

Margot Spronk (they, them) is a retired air traffic controller who finds writing to be just as stressful but less life-threatening. They graduated Simon Fraser University’s The Writer’s Studio in 2015 (Southbank 2014) and have previously been published in Pulp Literature. In real life, Margot is owned by Lucas the cat (AKA Agent Orange) and Remy the 80-pound doodle, who both rightly assume they are the center of the universe.

by Emmie Christie

“The tixi grew on the couch to the size of a human, and its fur fluffed even more, its softness enveloping him, gathering around him like wings, reaching for what jumbled up inside him, the tangled memories.”

When Jan reached four years into sixty, his daughter and her son flew off into the glorious first exploration past the Milky Way to somewhere called Z-1.

He waved them off like someone in Victorian England would’ve waved off a ship headed to the New World, smiling with cracked lips, his stomach riddled with resentment. He plodded home and stared down a bottle of scotch. The bottle won.

Drunk, he studied the way of things. The way the old wooden fence withered in the bracing space winds, those that had descended on Earth hungering for trees and mountains. He studied the way the light tangled like necklaces through the trees, much too jumbled to ever wear again.

His neighbors had long since edged closer to the urban center, the pillar dedicated to the rockets, hoping that proximity meant waiting list quality. Harjit dropped by every Monday at four to deliver groceries and a pitying smile, and Jan glared at him until the young caretaker left.

When the scotch wore off, he studied the way the rain grated against his window, like a visitor who didn’t understand the social cue of what slapping your knee meant in a conversation, accompanied by ‘well,’ and ‘it’s been fun.’ He closed the curtains. Why couldn’t they all just leave him alone?

The groceries Harjit had left — fresh fruit and asparagus from R-4, and some strange new pasta they’d grown on C-13 — waited and wasted in the fridge. He ate alcohol and beans. From Earth.

The ‘letter’ arrived a month after the expedition had left, scrolling large-sized text on his wall. “We’ve settled, Dad. It’s so great here. For us, only a few days! We wrote as soon as we could.”

“That’s great, Maddy,” he wrote back, tapping on his phone.

“Have you tried to get on any planet waiting lists?” Upbeat. Positive tones, but with underlying worry.

“Why should I? It’s not like the Earth’s going to die in my lifetime.”

“Dad—”

“I’m fine here. Really.” He studied the way the words from his daughter curled around the end table, arching into geometry.

“Well, we’ve sent you a gift.”

“I don’t want a—”

Something hurtled through the wall, something wrapped in fur and energy. It landed on his couch and opened wide eyes set in a furry face.

“Oh, hell no!”

“I think you mean hell-o!” The thing — it reminded him a fox with taloned feet — wrapped its obnoxious, fluffy tail around his leg.

A tixi. Great. These things proliferated on several planets. People obsessed over them just because they could talk.

“Maddy, baby, I don’t need a pet.” Jan extricated his leg from the thing and jabbed at his phone. “I’ve had enough of them over the years when you wouldn’t walk the dogs.”

“She’s not a pet. You’ve heard of them, right? There’s lots of them here on Z-1. They’re really helpful.” A pause. “Well, gotta go. Talk to you later!” The scroll flicked off on his wall.

“I didn’t ask for you.” Jan glared at the thing. Then at the wall, where the words had disappeared.

The tixi lifted its talon and poked at the air as if lecturing in a college classroom. It spoke with a trill behind every word. “I go where I am needed.”

Great. It would shed everywhere. He stomped off to the TV room. “Stay there! I’mma pass you off to Harjit when he comes on Monday, so don’t get too comfortable.”

The tixi lay at the foot of his bed the next morning. And then on his feet the next, creating a pocket of warmth after the chill night when the space winds had roared, and the rain grated on his windows. It had grown a bit in the night to the size of a big dog, but it shrank back down when it hopped off the bed and followed him into the bathroom. The creature didn’t shed at all, at least it had that going for it.

Harjit came and went, lecturing Jan to eat his vegetables. “Ah, you got a tixi! That’s a great idea.” The young man scanned the countertops, hands on his hips. “Good job keeping the place clean. Here, I got something for you. It’s from Y-12.”

The white plant curled in a sinister way, like a mustache on an evil Santa or something, and Jan shoved it to the back of the counter away from the light. The tixi watched him.

Dang it! He’d forgotten to give the creature to Harjit. Oh, well. He could do it next Monday.

That Sunday night, the tixi asked, “So, what do you do for fun around here on the old Earth?”

“Nothing, if you’re also old.” Jan popped the cork on another scotch. “Sit and wait around for groceries that we don’t eat.”

The creature nibbled at a talon, then brought in the paper and did the crossword. It puzzled for a while over a clue. “Alright, help me out here,” it said. “Red bird. Eight letters.”

“I didn’t ask to play.”

“What else are you gonna do? Red bird, come on. This one is supposed to be easy for humans.” The tixi sidled up to him on the couch, brushing its soft, glossy side against his hand. It grew a little bit, its fur fluffing out like it had dried itself on a heating vent.

He sighed but allowed it to stay next to him. “Cardinal?”

“Nice. That fits. Okay, what about this one. Six letters, the clue is ‘knot.’”

Jan almost said it, then his tongue tripped over the word, and his breath lodged in his throat. He reached for the tixie’s fur and buried his face in it.

The tixi grew on the couch to the size of a human, and its fur fluffed even more, its softness enveloping him, gathering around him like wings, reaching for what jumbled up inside him, the tangled memories.

Maddy, in her prom dress. His little girl, ready to leave for the big girl dance, bright-eyed and bright hoped. Grace would’ve known what to do, but he didn’t even know what to do with his hands. Had they always been so long and dangly?

She smiled at him and pressed a necklace in his palm. Giving him something to do, to fidget with while she got ready. “I’ll be alright, Daddy. Here, can you untangle this knot for me?”

He stayed for a moment in that moment, in that precious second that glimmered in his mind.

“Damn you!” He ripped away from the tixi, panting, fists clenched.

“Is something wrong?” Its growth paused. It still resembled a fox with those ears, but its fur had splayed out like an eagle’s giant wings. “Your eyes requested comforting, did they not?”

He staggered, dropping the scotch bottle on the carpet. It bled pale yellow on the carpet. First Grace had died, then Maddy had taken her son to space. They’d all gone so far away.

“Earth-man?” The tixi brushed a wing against his arm. “Are you well?”

“Does it look like I’m well? You damn well did this to me!”

“Should I alert a doctor?”

He sank into the couch cushion and covered his eyes. Tears slid between his fingers. “Just clean that up, would you? Can you do that at least?”

He fell asleep on the couch and woke up warm. Well, the tixi had slept on him. He grimaced, heaved the creature off — it had shrunk back again to normal fox-size — and lumbered to the kitchen to make coffee. The stain from the spilled scotch had vanished. “At least you’re good for something,” Jan said.

The strange plant from Y-12 that Harjit had brought seemed different somehow. It curled up like a swan’s neck, not sinister at all, but graceful and fluid. He pulled it out of the dark part of the counter, into the light.

He poured his coffee and huddled outside. The tixi preened next to him, tail curled around her talons.

The way the light tangled in the branches’ shadows…

He growled. Tears dripped down his cheeks, a few dripped into his coffee. He glared at the tixi. “Alright. What the hell did you do to me? Did you slip me some stupid pill?”

“We tixies specialize in comfort. You had a coating of pain over your eyes, and it seems that is now gone.”

He had heard the stories but had never believed them. “That’s a load of hippie space-trash.”

He trudged inside the house and reached for a vodka this time, something more potent that looked like water. He could drink more that way, pretending.

But the bottle had a wrongness to it; it bulged in a way that repulsed him. He slammed it back down and whirled on the tixi. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t ask for this — this difference in my eyes! I just hugged you!”

The tixi promenaded through the door and draped her tail around her talons. When had he started thinking of it as a she? “Cleaning and comforting are the same to us tixies and produce the same results. I cleaned the alcohol out of the carpet by comforting the floor, you know.”

“Bullshit! This is such bullshit! How dare she do this!” He grabbed the bottle of vodka, gripping it through the anger. Upended it in his mouth, forced himself to swallow.

It tasted like piss. Well, it always had, but for some reason, now it bothered him, and it bothered him that it bothered him.

What, he couldn’t even drink anymore? Maddie had stolen that from him, too?

Sober, he decided to cook some food. Harjit hadn’t come with a new batch yet this morning, and mold grew on some of the strawberries, but he could still use that C-13 pasta. He ate some of that with alfredo sauce, and it tasted good.

He hated that it tasted good.

He hated the way the fence outside made him want to fix it instead of letting it rot. He hated that he had dragged that stupid white plant into the sunlight on the counter. He hated the way that the leaves played in the space-winds, laughing and twirling like children. He hated the way Maddy had held her son’s hand and waved to him with the other, as if she could have both — even when she was the one who had left. He hated the way— hated—

He cried.

He loved her. He missed her. But he wanted her to be happy.

The tixi wrapped her tail around his feet. He allowed it.

“Guess you’re not really a pet,” he managed to say. “And you clean things pretty well.” He held out his hand. “You can stay, if you want.”

The tixi wrapped her talon around his hand and shook it. “I stay where I am needed.”

 

* * *

About the Author

Emmie Christie’s work includes practical subjects, like feminism and mental health, and speculative subjects, like unicorns and affordable healthcare. She has been published in various short story markets including Daily Science Fiction, Infinite Worlds Magazine, and Flash Fiction Online. She graduated from the Odyssey Writing Workshop in 2013. You can find her at www.emmiechristie.com or on Twitter @EmmieChristie33.

by Mocha Cookie Crumble

“Now that the moment was here, everything seemed so simple.”

The restaurant Koda had chosen was beautiful — seating along the water, with fairy lights sparkling overhead and a rose on each table. With the sun setting over the ocean, casting a warm light over the earth, it was as romantic as you could get. So why was he so nervous? He resisted the urge to slick his soft ears back, instead facing them forward as he spotted Lilian.

Oh, she was beautiful, never more so than tonight. Her fur was sleek and orange, her tail fluffy and swaying as she walked. A tight black dress hugged her hips. The sunset played up the pink-red tones of her eyes. As soon as she saw Koda, though, she lit up like a beam of light and dashed over, nearly colliding with a waiter.

“I can’t believe we’ve been together a year!” she cried. Her paws did little tippy-taps on the edge of the table.

“Hello to you, too,” Koda said, laughing.

“A whole year. Feels like it was only a couple weeks ago that I poured soup in your lap.” Koda started to speak, but she was too excited and went on: “I got you a present!”

Koda grinned. “I, uh, I got you something, too,” he said. “Something small.” Very small. He could feel the weight of it pressing against his chest pocket.

“Mine first,” Lilian said. She presented a clumsily-wrapped box, about the size of a loaf of bread, with a big grin. “Open it, open it!”

“I’m getting there, slow down,” Koda said, laughing again as he ripped the paper. Since the start, she’d made it so easy for him to laugh, and it had never worn off. He reached into the box and pulled out… a plush cat.

It was covered in patches. The ears were new, the paw pads fresh, one of the eyes replaced with a shiny button. Koda’s hands trembled, and his eyes filled up with tears. “Mister—M-Mister—” He couldn’t get the words out, so he gestured tearfully.

Lilian beamed. “Your mom found him in a box in the attic,” she said. “I’ve been fixing him up for months now — it’s been so hard not to tell you! Good as new, right?”

Koda wiped his eyes and hugged Mister Softie close to his chest. The weight in his pocket was practically burning him. “Thank you so much, baby,” he said, leaning over the table to kiss her. “Do you— do you want yours now?”

“Yes! Yes, please,” she said, doing little tip-taps again. God, he loved those tip-taps.

Oh, god, this was it — this was the moment. He put Mister Softie down on the table and stood up, his ears flicking against his will. His heart pounded. He pushed his chair out of the way.

Lilian cocked her head. “What are you doing? Why—”

He got down on one knee.

“Oh my god,” she said, her eyes widening. “Oh my god, oh my god!! Are you proposing? Are you— I love you! I say yes!”

Koda couldn’t help but laugh again, and she giggled with excitement. “Baby, I haven’t even gotten the ring out,” he said.

“I know, it doesn’t matter, I say yes,” she said with a grin. “Sorry. Sorry, we should do it properly. Okay, go, you can start now.”

His hands were so much steadier now as he pulled out the box and opened it. A sapphire set in a silver band glinted up at Lilian, who put a paw over her mouth. Koda had practiced this moment a thousand times. Would he say her full name? Go on about how the last year meant so much to him? Talk about the best parts of her? Now that the moment was here, everything seemed so simple.

“I love you,” he said. “Marry me?”

She dove out of her chair to kiss him, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

 

* * *

About the Author

Why does this author sound like a Starbucks order instead of a person? Because Mocha Cookie Crumble loves the sweetest, coziest things in life! Mocha writes to give everyone a warm place to rest. She enjoys bringing fursonas to life via commissions and often writes outdoors. (Yes, she likes Starbucks. No, she didn’t intend to name herself after a frappuccino… but she has no regrets!)

by Beth Dawkins

“The colony mentions my notes, singing it over and over again, but I do not hear my mother’s song claim me as her daughter. “

My talons pierce the back of a Tsintaosaurus. I roll forward, sinking my fangs into its hide. The blood tastes unlike the sweet, life-giving nectar of yesterday. It is foul and sour with a stench that coats the inside of my nose. I hear a song of discontent from one of my sisters. Another song splits the air. I pull out my fangs, and my mouth tingles. There is a sandy consistency that covers my tongue.

We need the blood. The hungry and the young will die without it. We scream out frustration until I am sure our song will attract the Qianzhousaruses who watch over the Tsintaosaurus herd. Not that they can catch us, they lack wings with only tiny arms.

That does not stop them from murdering members of the herd. We only take sips of blood, leaving the creatures alive for another night.

It is what makes us Jeholopteruses.

A male calls us away. His song is demanding, and I open my arms to the sky, flapping with the others. Sandy blood is gathered in my mouth, and I let it sit, stinging my tongue. My mother’s song joins mine. I hear her flapping beside me. She is unsteady, and her song is hungry. I hear the cry of a sister who is falling, her arms tingling and uncontrolled. Would my wings refuse to work if I had any more of the blood? My heart cries out in a song that joins the colony’s. It pierces the night like the hundreds of stars above us.

“Do not turn back,” my mother sings. “Home, we must go home.” We join her chanting.

We have no blood to share. The young ones will lick it from our chests and mouths, but it won’t be enough.

The cool dark of our home is a frenzy of activity. The others rush to greet their families. My sisters come to us but hesitate when they hear our song.  “Wrong, wrong,” it cries. “The blood is tainted.”

My mother crashes at my side, and there is a sharp stab of pain in her song. I rush over to her as she straightens. One of her wings is hurt. The delicate membrane bleeds, and the little ones gather around the wound, waiting for sips.

“Get away from me,” she snaps at all of us.

“You’re hurt. I can help you,” I say.

“Why are you still here?” she demands, her voice sharp. “I have had enough of you.”

My sisters refuse to look at me. They stare at the floor and the walls, gathering little ones to them. Our father and leader is listening to a wife tell him the story of our hunt.

“Mother—”

“Am I? You are past the age to find your own family. You should fly away while you are strong, or maybe you should die in the day.” Her eyelids hang low, and she allows a few little ones to lick at her wound.

She’s never hinted at disapproval. I’ve always helped to feed the young ones on bad hunting nights, risking my own death in the daylight.

I take a step back, hoping for help from my sisters, but they stand at a distance. Their songs are silent. It is plain that they’re resolute in my mother’s decision to cast me out. Our father ignores what is happening.

I have nowhere to go.

* * *

Sunlight streams through the cave entrance. It is too bright and warm. My song is drowned out by cries of grief for those too weak to live. Suffering surrounds me as I grieve my family. My self-indulgence turns into sorrow that is edged with anger, like a pain in my chest that is echoed by the empty pit of my stomach. I was run out as if I were a brother.

The air is too hot, and the light turns blinding. The taste of bad blood lingers. I could fly into the day, but my limbs are as heavy as stones and I am tired. I climb onto a shelf, sheltering against the sunlight, and there is another body, smaller than me. She is shaking and curled around herself.

This is what happens when we don’t get enough to eat; we die.

“Are you hurt?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer me, but opens her mouth for her song of hunger. I nuzzle her, getting her to cling to my body. Her mouth touches my shoulder. Her fangs sink into my skin, and the pain is nothing but a sharp release of tension.

I close my eyes and run my thumbs through the stranger’s fur. Her fangs let go. She is careful, delicate. None of us is that delicate with the herd, only one another. I huddle against her, and we sleep.

When we wake the light is dim and colony’s song is soft. The melody refuses to rise or fall as our voices melt into one sound. The words of the song say, “I am here,” and “I am alive.”

There is an undercurrent of hope. “We will survive.”

My voice rises to sing about survival. The notes fill the pain in my chest. I had not died in the day. I’d lived.

A female climbs down the shelf and bends her head low to the one still sheltered beside me. “You fed her?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“Thank you.” She crosses the distance between us and wraps her arms around me, and her wings press me tight. “Would you like to hunt with us?”

I take a step back when she releases me. She smells of pine and mud.

“Is she there?” a male asks, climbing down.

I take another step back, but then wonder why I am concerned.

He is small, smaller than me. His hair is lighter and with dark spots by his eyes.

“She shared her food,” explains the female.

The male inspects me. He is their leader, but different from my father. These, I believe, are his wives. He’s young, maybe even younger than me.

The colony is coming awake. The song turns towards grief and hunger. Many died in the day, and now I too need to feed. Fear of the wrong tasting blood is ripe because we all must fly into danger.

“Will you hunt with us?” the female asks.

“Yes, but we must do something different. We can’t keep drinking tainted blood.”

“There are other herds,” the male says.

We can’t look at one another, because the only other herd is too far for our hearts and wings without food. The silence between us stretches into a song of hunger.

“We should watch the herd and find out what has changed,” I offer. They are ours, and maybe we have allowed others to care for our food for too long. “The old song says that we are better than the Qianzhousaurus,” I remind them.

For the first time I will not fly out of our cave with my mother or sisters. Do they miss me? Does my mother regret what she has done? The urge to sing lifts from my chest.

“Let us go,” I say to the others, and then reach for the sky.

* * *

The first dead body I had encountered was a fallen brother. Brothers leave the nest, eager to start families and become leaders. This dead brother fell from our perch before his time and did not get back up.

A few from every nest yearn to fly too early.

His mother stayed by his side, and my mother fed her in the early morning. I remembered his mother’s song and how his eyes stayed open. He smelled of blood, food, and had no song to sing.

We are creatures of song and sky, blood and pain.

I cling to a branch overlooking the herd. They gather by their watering hole while three Qianzhousaurus approach. Their tiny hands run across the herd’s flesh. The herd has lost their fear of the predator’s talons. There is a kind of beauty to the systematic cycle of birth and death between them.

The male at my side sings of life. The song is about only taking what we can use and letting the herd live longer. We are benevolent predators.

Other Qianzhousauruses come; one has something around its neck. They pass it around, spreading it on their tiny hands. It smells sharp, acidic. The Tsintaosauruses cry out in protest but let them rub the powder into their feathers.

Our song changes because we know what it is. “The Qianxhousauruses are trying to poison us,” we sing for those who are coming.

But we don’t have to drink from the herd.

“We drink from the Qianzhousauruses,” I say, my hunger curling in my stomach.

“They will kill us,” says the wife.

I shrug. “Some, but if the colony drinks from the herd many more will die. If we drink from the Qianzhousauruses more will survive longer. They have struck the first blow against us. We have to strike back, and maybe they will realize that we must share the herd.”

Would my mother be proud of my idea? What would she think when she heard our song, would she hear my voice in it? My heart fluttered with hope. She might take me back.

The male at my side is the leader of a new family. Young families had limited time to prove themselves in the colony, and if we pulled this off, their status would rise.

He sent the wife back to sing our plan to the colony. “Will you join our family?” he asks.

“I have nowhere else to go.” The words escape me, and my grief rushes out in a ballad of every near sorrow.

“Your mother was a fool,” he whispers and nuzzles my side.

I do not want her to be a fool. I want her to care for me, to hold me close. Her disfavor leaves me hungry, like the powder that stings my mouth and haunts us. I imagine her arms open to me, and she asks my forgiveness in song.

I shake the male off. “We should get ready.”

* * *

Mauve settles between the trees as the sun fades, making it easier to see. The Quianzhousauruses have finished spreading the powder over the herd. Even from our vantage the stinging powder tickles my nose. The colony is a distant song. I can almost make out the words in their melody.

“Now,” I command and lift into the air. I want to be the first to strike. If I perish, the others will still follow. They might ignore the song of the wife we sent, but they will not ignore three songs.

The Qianzhousauruses are smaller than the herd. Their bodies are slick with back legs made to run and teeth that come to sharp points. They do not have a song but squeak and purr in a language we cannot understand.

They have feathers like the herd, but unlike them their feathers are thinner in places. I’m close to one of their backs. I spy where an old wound has left this one featherless. They must see us, but they keep walking, unconcerned as I land.

I plant my back talons into the hide for purchase. There is a high-pitched scream that echoes into the night. The colony hears it, and their song changes. They are close.

I dig my fangs into its flesh, working my bottom jaw as life-giving blood gushes into my mouth. It’s warm and savory. My mouth tingles with a pleasant spice that follows the blood down my throat. Energy fills my limbs, but then everything moves around me.

The colony has arrived and splits into two groups. One group screams over the herd in confusion, and the other splits off, diving for the Qianzhousauruses.

The Qianzhousauruses twist and turn. My head slams back. My fangs tear at flesh, aching as they are ripped out. I cry as my back talons slice the hide. Its feathers are slick with blood as I rake my talons against it, searching for purchase. The wet feathers slip away, and I start to fall. I open my wings, trying to catch the air, but I am tumbling and rolling.

My breath is knocked from my lungs as I hit the ground.

I tuck my arms in as pain slams each bone in my body. I choke and cough on half-swallowed blood. The Qianzhousaurus massive back feet slam into the ground.

I run in the tall grass, ignoring the pain that throbs in each limb. I don’t know which way I’m running, but I hope it’s closer to the herd. The colony descended; their song is everywhere, refusing to tell me the direction of home or the trees. I only have the tall grass and my own song.

The male lands before me. “This way,” he calls, and I follow.

“It is too dangerous on the ground,” I protest.

His song changes into one of amusement with a healthy dose of fear and excitement. “You have changed us.”

No, I think. “Maybe they will stop putting the powder on the herd and share.”

We grow silent, climbing the bark of a tree to watch the colony feast. I shiver once we are on a stable branch. I close my eyes, listening for my mother’s song. The colony mentions my notes, singing it over and over again, but I do not hear my mother’s song claim me as her daughter.

The male presses his side into mine, and I bury my face into his fur. The colony is saved, but my family has not taken me back.

* * *

The colony gives us a new perch. We’re the smallest and youngest family that has ever been granted a perch this high within the colony. There are two wives, counting me. The third, the one that went on the hunt with us, died on the back of a Qianzhousaurus. My note in the colony’s song turns into a hero’s melody, even among grieving families.

I climb down to the perch where I lived before, worried for my mother. I see the outline of her back and hear her song. She is leaning over one of the young ones, making sure it has a full belly.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, when she hears my song.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She would not have come to see me. My throat hurts and my heart breaks all over again.

“If I had not pushed you out, would you have saved us?”

Heat licks my belly and travels through my limbs. “Yes,” I spit. “We needed to eat; you had nothing to do with that.”

“I know you. I know you better than anyone. If I had not done what I had, then you would not be who you are now.” She stands taller, moving her shoulders back and making her wings twitch.

She is wrong. The realization is like being thrown out of the nest for a second time. She could not have known I would have thought to attack the Quianzhousauruses — I had not known.

“I made the right choice,” she insists. “I made you who you are.”

I take a step back. Forward is violence and breakdowns. There is a young one who gazes at me from behind her.

“She will never love you like you love her,” I warn the young one.

There is bitterness in my song as I turn away.

She calls to me, but I cannot go back.

My sister-wife, the one I gave blood to, licks my cheek as our mate huddles next to us. His song is tired and grief stricken, but it is also resolute, because we are together.

We chose one another, and we will make the same choice each day.

 

* * *

About the Author

Beth Dawkins grew up on front porches, fighting imaginary monsters with sticks, and building castles out of square hay bales. She currently lives in Northeast Georgia with her partner in crime and their offspring. A list of her stories and where to find them can be found at BethDawkins.com

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Bearly, Taebyn, Rayne, TickTock and Cheetaro gather for another raucous Episode of BFFT! Taebyn finishes the Hear Bear Roar book. We talk about media, mathy things, hear some furmations, and learn some new words. Teabyn gives us some Lateral Thinking problems and the team describes their favorite ‘math’ thing which brought us to finger math. As usual we go off the rails a few times, but still we manage to get through the episode.  So tune in because you won’t want to miss any exciting moments here on BFFT!  Moobarkfluff everyfur!

Furry Masterclass Series - Nuka | "Furscience: Psychology of Furries and the Furry Fandom"

Chisenbop - basics

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Bearly Furcasting S5E13 - When Everything is Said and Done

Apartment D Films is an independent stop-motion animation studio who made a name for themselves creating unique (and wonderfully weird) commercials for Mattel toys. Now, after a successful Kickstarter campaign, they’re ready to launch their first original full-length series, Ruff Ruff Danger Dogs. “In the series, Earth has been locked in an unending struggle against Galactic Evil for a century. When the planet’s mightiest heroes sacrifice themselves to buy the world one more fighting day, humanity must seek out the five ‘goodest’ beings on the planet – The Ruff Ruff Danger Dogs! Can these once-abandoned pets learn how to pilot mecha and unlock their true potential when they’re still getting housebroken?” Animation World Network has an extensive interview with the creators, and preview videos. The series premiers this month on YouTube.

image c. 2024 Apartment D Films

Developed by Gamkat and published by No More Robots, Piece by Piece is a new game where you relax and play as a little fox who runs a repair shop; fixing, building, painting and reselling all sorts of curious items from a model cat all the way to binoculars. Enthrall yourself in the townsfolks stories, battle them in a game of 'Bear, Fish, Bee' and grow plants to create pigments for paint to decorate your newly fixed items. I love the little ways you can customize the items and shop you have with paints, and the fluffy and cute cast of characters that inhabit this lovely little world so far! Check out the announcement trailer below and wishlist the game on Steam!

The trailer was revealed as part of the Wholesome Snack: The Game Awards 2024 Presentation

Did you know that some furs get a little kinky? There are many kinks that are common in the fandom but not so common elsewhere. What kinks are furry exclusive or maybe just haven’t been embraced by those outside the fandom?

Join Nuka, Roo, and Sammy as they talk about those kinks. What they are. What we like, or even, don’t like about them. And discuss why or why not they’re seen outside the fandom.

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A Cookie Factory – OwO

 

 

A Pallet of Cookies

 

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A Case of Cookies

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A Jar of Cookies

 

MephistophEli, Plug, Tenax

A Box of Cookies

• Chaphogriff
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A Delicious Cookie

• Ausi K
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• Icy Solid
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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: Zenith – Aaron Kruk, Argofox, Creative Commons 2024
•  Second Break: Mystery Skulls – Ghost. USA: Warner Bros Records, 2011. Used with permission
• Third Break: NSP – Orgy for One, Used with permission
• Patreon: Inflammatus – The Tudor Consort, Creative Commons 2019
• 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

S11E14 – Common Not So Common - Did you know that some furs get a little kinky? There are many kinks that are common in the fandom but not so common elsewhere. What kinks are furry exclusive or maybe just haven't been embraced by those outside the fandom?