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by Emily Randolph-Epstein

“They crowd around the singer, cooing and whining in concern as if she hadn’t ensnared and enslaved us, forced us to do labor we weren’t built to do.”

“Flyflutterfly.”

My body resists the calling song. Wings aching from flying lessons with my eggsitter’s mate. My tummy, bloated with spiders and seeds and sweet berries, makes me torpid.

But the song acts as a crank, lifting my head from under my blue and black wing. Around me, my nestmates stir, blinking sleepy eyes. “Flyflutter.” The song, sweet and clear as dew on bunchgrass, drifts on the summer breeze. Not a war song or a warning song, or a mating serenade. The melody ensnares me as inevitably as any raptor’s talons.

I feather my wings and leap from the nest into the sun-dappled sky. My nestmates follow, and our throats form the notes of the song.

“Flyflutterfly.”

Our eggsitter calls after us from her seat on a new clutch of eggs, “Comeback! Comeback! Dangerdanger!” Her song is a hollow drone compared to the intricate melody that pulls us as surely as our homing instinct.

We tweet through the forest, and with each passing oak and birch and cedar, our number grows; jays and warblers and thrushes join our flight until we are a storm of wings and beaks and song. “Fly. Come fly with us. Fly.” Our wingless neighbors, with their shadow tails and wiggle whiskers, scamper through the canopy in our wake, leaping branches, chittering along to our song in their own languages. The underbrush creaks with the passage of woolly rabbits and wobble-legged deer.

We burst from the trees, drawn to a human nest that stands in the murdered part of the forest. “A witch lives there, little Bunting Bright.” My eggsitter’s mate had warned during our lessons. I thought then that a witch was a type of stoat or fox or maybe a terrible crow, thief of nestlings and eggs.

A human stands in one of the nest’s higher openings, her featherless wings flung wide. The song pours from her soft, flat beak. “Fly to me.”

I land on one of the fleshy branches that mark the end of her wing, repeating her song to her. She smiles, revealing predator teeth. I should be afraid. I should fly, flee, cry warning, but the refrain cuts through the acid fear coating my throat. There is nothing to fear. The singer will keep me safe. She will never harm me. She kisses me lightly, soft beak brushing my indigo crest feathers, and then I’m tossed in the air.

I catch myself on a pop of wings, and a new song fills my mind. “Workwork. Workwork.” My throat forms the notes. My nestmates and I break off from the rest of the forest creatures streaming into the human nest. We flutter to the bed — a word we did not know now woven into our minds through the notes of the working song. We hook our grasping toes into fabric and pull sheets and quilt up in what the song tells us is the proper bed-making procedure. My legs ache. The muscles that pump my wings scream agony. The pain is almost enough to drive the song’s compulsion from my head, but the singer sings louder.

Pain is nothing. Naught. Nothingnaught. Nothingnaughtnaught.

The human nest swirls with our activity. I make beds with my nestmates. The rabbits pump water into a basin while squirrels wash soiled dishes. The deer sweep their tails over furniture, releasing clouds of dust into the air. The singer directs all with her song and her broom, face peeled in a smile.

And then there is a banging.

The singer startles. Her notes fall flat, then fade. “Who could that be?” She goes to the nest’s door.

My imprisoned agency slips free from the song’s cell. I blink. What am I doing? Why am I here? I open my toes, dropping the sheet my nestmates and I have been drawing over the seventh bed. Hide, cries my instinct. With a flapflap, I’m in the branches of the skinned trees that support the roof of the human nest. My heart flutters faster than a hummingbird’s wings, and I pant, my entire body quivering from fear and exhaustion.

My nestmates call after me. “Come back! We have to work.” Don’t they know that something’s wrong? Why are we listening to the singer’s song? Why must we work?

The door opens, and the wind curls dead leaves onto the squirrel-swept floor. A dark-hooded figure stands backlit by the sun.

“May I help you?” the singer asks. The sunlight glints off her hair.

“Won’t you buy some candied walnuts, help a poor old woman?” The hooded figure steps across the threshold. Her white hair scraggles to her shoulders; she holds a basket of sweet-smelling nuts on a gnarled arm.

“Oh, how delicious!” The singer digs in her apron pocket for something shiny and round.

I huddle more profoundly into the shadows as the two humans make an exchange: shiny for a paper bag of sugared walnuts.

“Thank you, my dear” The old woman’s voice wheezes between her cracked lips. “Give them a taste.”

The singer laughs. The paper bag crinkles as she chooses a walnut and pops it into her blood-colored beak.

A gagging cough wracks the air. My forest fellows, still caught in the snare of the work song, scatter, some joining me up in the high shadows with cobwebs, others scampering into the corners, hiding under the beds. They cower as the singer chokes. She clutches her throat; her face, once as fine and white as down, turns crimson then purple. She falls to her knees.

The old woman stands over the choking singer, and as I blink out from the shadows, her face changes. Wrinkles smooth into brown skin; hair darkens and snakes itself into braids that wrap around her head. Jewels twinkle at her ears. She laughs, full-throated and joyful. “At last, you’ll trouble me no more, Princess!” Her eyes sparkle as the singer falls limp to the floor.

My fellow captives rush to the singer’s side — caught in the memory of the song — as her killer makes a cape-sweeping exit. They crowd around the singer, cooing and whining in concern as if she hadn’t ensnared and enslaved us, forced us to do labor we weren’t built to do. They act like they care for her, and perhaps the song addled their minds so much that they do.

This is my chance to escape. With a deep breath for courage, I leap down from the roof trees towards the open door: a cerulean streak. I zip through the air, ignoring my nestmates calling after me. Get out. Break free. Fly.

My wings catch a forest breeze, and I lift towards the trees, trilling the triumph of my escape.

The air freezes. Not the air, my wings. I’ll fall. I strain against whatever holds my wings spread against the sky, but I might as well have tried to pluck the sun from its crowning height. I hang in suspension.

“What have we here?” The dark-haired woman with her killer nuts gazes at me, her bright eyes filled with curiosity. “One of the little slaves, trying to escape.”

My heart thumps hard against the hollow bones of my chest. My feathers puff up. I want to twitter my warnings. “Flee. Flee. Danger.” But my song is bottled in my throat.

The woman holds up a finger, just as the singer did when she first called me to do her bidding. I strain against the summons, trying to flap my wings, to ruffle a feather, to call out in protest, but I am frozen.

Some force drags me paralyzed through the air until my feet hook round the woman’s finger and she holds me level with her crow-shining eyes. “I sense a mighty spirit in you, little one,” she says with a smile of lips — no teeth. “You broke the little princess’s compulsion spell.” Her smile widens, teeth on full display, a fox now, more than a crow. “I think you might serve nicely. But not like this.” She tuts. “No. You are too bright and blue, little Bunting. That won’t do. Not at all. We need something black, something sleek.” Her lips purse and she blows breath hot and glittering into my beak.

I shriek as my bones stretch and pop. My skin burns as my feathers shift and change growing longer, slicking onyx. My beak lengthens, sharpens. My feet become talons. I cry out in pain, but instead of my sweet song, a ragged caw shrieks from my throat. She’s turned me into a raven.

* * *

My song is broken, an ugly caw. Despite the perks of raven-hood, I cannot grow accustomed to it, so I try not to speak.

“Haven’t I given you a marvelous gift, Bunting, my familiar.” That’s what the Queen calls me: familiar. Though she is just as strange and wrong to me as the singing princess who snatched me and my nestmates with her song. “So strong and sleek you are now.”

Strong? True. Sleek. True as well. But gift? No, it feels not like a gift. My wings are too long to be mine, too black, no indigo remains. How did I become this creature of night and tar and cawing? Can I ever return to my bunting self, flitting through the forest with my nestmates, free upon the breeze?

But I cannot leave the Queen. Though my mind is my own now, there is a corner that is hers. A loyalty unearned that calls me to roost in her tower, to perch on her shoulder, and groom her silvered black hair.

I wish I could gouge out that loyalty with my new grown raven’s beak, crush it between talons, but it won’t break no matter how I try.

* * *

One day, I wake to the crash of breaking glass and a feral scream splitting from the Queen’s throat, blowing out the magic candle which shows her all the kingdom’s secrets. “That little minx! I should have known she had contingencies in place.”

“Majesty?” I caw from my perch, for she has gifted me the speech of her kind. My raven tongue is not shaped for the words, and they leave my throat raw with each utterance.

“The Princess cast a spell on some hapless farm boy before I cursed her,” the Queen says. “Now he’s gone and kissed her and broken my curse.” She paces back and forth across the floor, fists folding and unfolding as if she wishes she had talons to rend and tear through flesh. “I should have killed her. She’ll come for me now, Bunting. She’ll raise an army and lay siege to us.”

“Don’t know armies. Don’t know sieges,” I caw, still saddened by the ugliness of my new voice. “But in the forest, birds sing warsong. Fly forth and give chase.” I conjure the memory of my eggsitter’s mate defending our nest whenever any creature came too close.

The Queen smiles, showing teeth. “Well, aren’t you a clever little Bunting?” Her shiny eyes fix on me, and she tilts her head. “How would you like to be a dragon, my pet?”

I don’t know what a dragon is or if it’s better than being a raven or a bunting, but I don’t think I have a choice, no matter how the Queen asks.

* * *

I examine myself, once the pain subsides. The cracking scream of bones stretching, changing shape, rearranging from shoulder-sitting raven, to room-filling dragon. I still have wings, but my raven feathers are gone, pushed from my flesh by scales that shine like gemstones in the sunlight, the same shining blue my feathers had been when I was a bunting, bright and indigo. When I open my mouth to sing with joy at my indigo beauty, it isn’t a song that issues forth, but fire. A great burst of heat billows from my throat. The trees that cling to the edge of the Queen’s tower catch and crackle.

Fire rips through the forest.

Birds scatter to the wind, calling warning as the fire spreads. No! What have I done? I bat at the conflagration with my great leather wings. Go out! Go out! Stop burning. But the fire burns hotter, spreads further. Why didn’t the Queen warn me that dragons breathe fire?

“I see you are eager for war, my Bunting.” The Queen smiles and with a sweep of her hand, rains burst from the clouds in a deluge that sizzles the fire out before it can devour too much of the forest that once was my home.

My heart, once small as a fingernail, now big as a foxhound, seizes, squeezes. My lungs scream sorrow I cannot show, not with how pleased the Queen is.

I’m too big, now, for my old nest, my song too fierce to sing for my old friends and nestmates. Sadness droops my wings, deflates my jeweled chest. Even when the Princess is defeated, and my forest friends are free, I won’t be able to go back. Even if the Queen changes me back into a bunting, it won’t be the same. How could I flit through the trees on careless breezes when I have had raven’s cleverness in my mind, when I have breathed dragon fire? When not even my heart is a bunting’s?

I cannot go back, but still, I can save the ones who can.

The Queen pats my side. How small she is, standing in my shadow. If I’m not careful, I will crush her. “Patience, my Bunting, my dear familiar. Soon the Princess will come with her army, and then you may burn to your heart’s content.”

Even through my horror, that traitor corner of my mind yearns for flames, bright and hot and all-consuming.

* * *

Soon comes quickly, indeed. After one night spent with new body curled around the stone cladding of the tower, I wake to a rumble in the ground as the Princess and her army march forth from the forest.

They are grotesques, her soldiers. Creatures of rock and weight, dragging clubs along the ground that still bear roots and branches from the days when they were trees.

The forest empties of all the creatures not yet slaved to the Princess and the fear in their calls rouses me. I unwind my body from around the tower, stretch my wings and roar forth fire into the dawning sky. For the Queen, my mistress, sovereign of that sliver of mind, wishes to see her foes burn.

“Is that the best you can do, Your Majesty?” the Princess calls from the back of a horse of marble. Beside her rides her mate on a matching mount. “How quaint.” Her blood-red lips curl in a smile, and she opens her mouth to sing.

It is the same song that once drew me from my nest. The song that wound its notes into my mind and cut me off from my own will.

It sinks into my ears again, and my wings twitch in my desire to fly to the Princess.

No.

She won’t retake me.

Too much of my mind belongs to another. I won’t surrender the rest.

I roar; my flames lick across my elongated fangs towards the Princess on her marble horse. The horse whickers and rears, throwing her to the ground.

This is my chance. The force of my take-off tears chunks of stone from the Queen’s tower. I swoop, dodging the clumsy swings of tree-trunk clubs. I snare the Princess in my war claws. She screams forth a song and the birds I once flew with burst from the trees, swarming my eyes and my ears. I clamp my teeth closed against the urge to roar in pain. Don’t they understand I’m trying to free them?

How can they understand when the Princess’s song is in their heads?

I flap my mighty wings, soaring up and up and up above the clouds, higher and higher until the air grows too thin for the Princess to sing, too high for the birds to follow.

She gasps. “Put me down.” The Princess pounds against the muscled scales of my leg with dainty fists. “Put me down.”

But I charge upward, ever upward, carrying her and her poisonous songs away from the earth, clear of the innocent birds and beasts she pulled into her war with the Queen.

And when the air is too thin for her to keep awake, I open the cage of my claws, and she falls.

I hover in the air, keen eyes piercing cloud layers as the Princess smashes onto the slate roof of the Queen’s tower. As her blood pools in the tower’s gutters, her stone army crumbles. The bird song changes tone; the squirrels chatter excitedly. I want to join their celebration, but now I am too big for them; I am too much changed.

“Marvelous, my Bunting!” The Queen claps her hands in glee. She opens her arms to me, as if I can share her joy.

The place where joy once filled my feathered-breast is fire-filled instead. Everything once soft about me has turned scaled, hardened. The Queen has stolen me from myself as assuredly as the Princess stole me from my nest. She’s taken a sliver of my mind.

But wait.

She’s gone from me.

In my struggle against the Princess’s slaving song, I must have broken free of the Queen as well. I’m free.

Fire fills me.

I bear down on the Queen with my inferno.

She screams before falling to cinders.

I perch on the remains of the flaming, smashed tower. Look to the forest. Birds and beasts flee back to that sylvan domain I once called home.

Satisfied that they are free, I wheel above the clouds in search of a new nest, a place where I can sing my fiery song a safe distance from all that might burn.

 

* * *

About the Author

Emily Randolph-Epstein was raised by a pack of wild poodles in small-town America. She spent her childhood LARPing, reading fantasy novels, and writing Tamora Pierce fan fiction. She’s known since age eleven that she wanted to be a novelist. After failing most enthusiastically to grow up, she is now a writer and musician living in Perth, Australia with her husband and dog. Her short fiction has been published in Dark Matter Magazine, Zooscape, and Infinite Worlds Magazine.

by Marie Croke

“I trample the grass until it turns back to sand. I touch my horn on hard-to-reach rocky places so that vines shrivel and flowers wither.”

Grass! There is GRASS in my mosaics. Little spits of green jutting up between my maroon swirls, in my rocky piles, even on my signature. Little spits of greenery in the shapes of hoof prints trampling through my land. And I spent a long time on that signature.

Oh, my fury will be known!

I can see the interloper out there past the outcropping, her blazing white tail sparkling, her sleek black back shining, her head held up like she is proud of the destruction her wake has wrought. That’s the problem with other unicorns:  they are condescending, thinking everyone wants their obnoxious green sprouts that grow in their hoof prints and blossom from their drool.

[Last time, it was this teal unicorn with an (admittedly gorgeous) aqua and violet mane with starfish clinging to it. He insisted that he needed to trot right through my caverns, fill them with water. Saltwater, if you could believe it. Wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer either. So I stabbed him.

Okay, I didn’t stab him, but I wanted to. And I sharpened my horn later for good measure. In preparation.

Because I’m a preparer.]

And because I have prepared for this inevitability, I lower my head and stamp my hooves against the sand and rock of my domain. And charge.

That sleek black unicorn with her perfect sparkling hair laughs at me. She gallops straight through my territory, sprouting flowers off the rocks, turning sand to soil. A spring shot up where she took a moment to… you know. A SPRING. Complete with hopping frogs and water lilies. [Shudder.]

“It’s an oasis,” she calls at my bray of absolute dismayed affront. “It’s fine.”

UGH. She’s the WORST.

“I don’t need you ruining my home! I like sand! I like rocks!” Some of this may have come out as grunts. She’s quite fast.

“But it’s so dry.” She stomps her hoof and up pops a lavender bunch, already in bloom. “It’s in need of growth.” Strands of her swinging tail settle behind her where wavy lines of pansies sprout in all the colors of the rainbow. “You’d get more visitors.” She noses the sand aside and out comes a horde of butterflies.

“I don’t want visitors.” I sure sound whiny. I must fix that. I clear my throat with a neigh and then stomp my hoof and swing my head like she did. Wait, too much like her. Too much. I shake my head again. Yes, that’s… somewhat better. “You are to leave. At once.”

She flicks that sparkly tail. And then she takes the longest, most winding, criss-crossing path back into the grass-plains from whence she’d come. My world has been wrought. It has been ravaged. My beautiful desolation, with its fine sand, and smooth rocks, and lovely formations has been wrecked with GREEN.

She even had the gall to flick her tail against one of my longest standing formations, the rock in the shape of an elephant if you look at it from the east, but an upside-down seal from the west.

[I’ve been told that I should say diving seal, not upside-down, but when I say that, other unicorns get it in their heads that I want the seal to be diving into water rather than the lovely sand that squeaks under my hooves. So I say upside-down, because that gives others pause. Long enough my preparation with my horn might come in handy. (It hasn’t yet, but I hold out hope.)]

I then spend the rest of the afternoon and long into the evening fixing all the damage that awful creature wrought. I trample the grass until it turns back to sand. I touch my horn on hard-to-reach rocky places so that vines shrivel and flowers wither. I lay within that spring and thrash about until the water turns yellow, then brown, then an irony reddish color before it seeps far, far away to escape me. As it should. Hmpf.

Then I stand on one of my favorite rocks (a grand formation that cuts into a beautiful, sharpened point where I just barely fit) to admire my domain. I swing my head (I try for haughty) and I neigh, rearing onto my hind legs (I almost fall, but I’m mostly sure no one saw).

This is my world. My paradise. The moonlight shines upon my speckled red and yellow body, attempting to bring a shine to my dust-covered matte expression and the brown highlights in my gray forelock (No. I am not old. I am majestically two-toned, rock and stone.)

[Which reminds me of that gloriously obnoxious white unicorn with her rainbow mane who called me DULL last season. UGH. And her hooves sprouted CLOUDS everywhere. I had a dreadful time getting those out, because whenever I snorted at them, they turned dark and threatened rain.]

Down along the edge of my domain, where it butts against the lower land where flowers grow and the wind attempts to blow seeds my way (I am a seed murderer and a damn good one, I might add) that black unicorn with her sparkling hair stands. I think she’s watching me (she surely didn’t see me almost fall after I reared).

She tosses her head like she had earlier, dances forward INTO MY DOMAIN and gets her nasty grass EVERYWHERE. I back up, ready to just leap off this precipice and DESTROY HER, but then she laughs (that was certainly a laugh I heard) and dances back through the plain, heading for the forest where her grass and trees and twee little springs that sprout from her… you know… belong.

I think she respects me. No, I don’t think she respects me. I just think she’d gotten tired of messing with me and would go find unicorns like her, ones with grass for brains and sparkles for… everything else. Only, I wake the next morning TO HER STANDING OVER ME LIKE A CREEP!

I get up.

[I am not going to describe how I get up. I’m sure it was graceful, my beautiful matte body not undulating with terror startlement minor concern.]

“What’s your name,” she asks with condescension layered into each word like something with much condescension.

I snap my teeth and start to rear, but then remember that would merely reveal my belly to her horn, so I do a little hop-step thing I turn into a prancing of much aggression. “I am Eurian, the Princess of the Wastes, the Queen of the Sands, the Swift-Footed Darling of the Rocks.”

[No one actually calls me any of those things, but I get annoyed with all these rainbow-haired, sparkly-hooved, lavender-eyed cousins who pretentiously call themselves Starlight’s Eager Path or Song of the Grassy Knolls or, worst of all, The Sun-Kissed Beauty of the Woods of Many Delights. (I actually met one with that name. I did not make that up. He wanted me to call him Sun-Kissed Beauty. I called him Many and added words such as Irritations or Annoyances afterward under my breath until he finally huffed and stomped his Sun-Kissed butt back to the forest where he rightly belonged.)

Really, it’s just Eurian.]

The black unicorn bobs her head, her horn coming dangerously level with my eye. She probably did that on purpose. “I’m Dur.”

What an awful… unassuming name. “Dur of the Trees with Many Boughs? Dur, the Empress of Blossoms and Frogs? Dur, the–”

“Just Dur. Thank you.”

That is when I finally turn my attention away from her horn and her sparkly forelock and her sleek body to see the stretch of green beyond her. Her wake had thickened, saplings growing up from the deepest of hoof prints, moss covering some of my more perfect stones that now boasted water lingering in their cracks and divots. She must have been standing over me for a long time. HOW CREEPY!

“Get out!” I demand. [It did not come out as a high-pitched shriek of horror. It wasn’t high-pitched at all, I assure you. It was demanding, aggressive, powerful.]

Dur flinches. “They told me you were persnickety.”

“Who told you? How dare they! They come here and destroy my domain, wreck awful paths through my sand that I’m constantly having to fix. You stroll through like you own the place, which you most certainly do NOT. It is mine. GET OUT!”

“I’m sure they don’t mean harm. This place is so desolate, so empty. They just wanted you to be happier. Moss makes me happy.”

“I LIKE IT LIKE THIS! IT IS NOT DESOLATE! I WOULD BE HAPPIER IF YOU DIDN’T RUIN EVERYTHING I LOVE!”

This time my rage has an effect. Dur backs away. Not in the direction of her grassy wake, I might add. Somehow she manages to back up in an entirely new direction, spreading her contagion further.

“I see that now,” she says. “Well then, I’d like to formally invite you to the low-lands. You could craft a rock formation and the two of us together could turn it into a fun old ruin… covered in moss.”

“OUT!” [I may have been delirious at this point, but I most certainly was not frothing at the mouth.] I lower my horn and charge.

Everything that happens after is a blur. I’m sure I was terrifying and awesome and chased her from my domain and stamped out her awful hoof print growth that was attempting to take over. I’m sure of it.

That spot on my head that hurts a little is just likely from me running sideways into one of my rock formations. And all the growth still left the next day is just because I grew tired and needed a nap. Though, that’s a lot of growth. It’s going to take me forever to fix.

Dur doesn’t come back as I’m working on cleaning up her mess (she got DANDELION SEEDS IN MY MOSAICS. THEY GROW EVERYWHERE! MUST STOMP THEM OUT!). However, she does keep calling to me. Every day, as I beat back her spreading growth more and more.

“Eurian!” she calls with that melodious voice from where she hovers in the low-lands between my domain and the forest. “There’s this great place right here where you could sprout a formation!”

I ignore her. [I mean, I try to, but she’s so sparkly, it’s hard not to turn my head every time the sun glints off her, which is all the time.]

“Eurian! Why not help craft a little shore-side paradise over here next to this spring I made! It needs some fun rocks around it too!”

I don’t tell her I already have a paradise. [But I do peek a gander at the spring after she’d disappeared into the forest for the night. It really does need some rocks.]

“Eurian! Thank you for the rocks!”

I hide in my caverns. [WHY did I do that? Now she’ll NEVER leave.]

“Eurian! Have you ever made an arch? How amazing would it be for you to make a glorious stone arch and me drape vines on it? We could hide anything inside!”

I contemplate sneaking into her forest and… you know… to make some sink holes.

“Eurian! This arch is huge!”

Yes, I know. I made it. Why is she the worst like that?

Though, now that I’m thinking about it, Dur hasn’t so much as stepped foot in my domain since that day she nearly ruined it. She keeps her dancing and prancing and preening and looking gorgeous to the forest and the low-land between. That’s… actually very polite of her.

I should tell her. Yes. I clear my throat as I approach the edge of my domain and she canters over, all sparkly and black. But then I think better of it. Why should I have to thank her for not ruining my things? That makes absolutely no sense. But, I’m here, so…

“How… are you?” I ask.

Dur shakes her head (strands of her mane turn into dragonflies as they float through the air so I shake my mane and make a few lizards to control the dragonfly population explosion).

“Good morning, Eurian! I’ve been thinking, since you’ve been doing all these projects with me here, maybe I could put some sand-plants under that elephant formation?”

“NO!”

She sags. No, she crumbles, almost all the way to the ground, her sparkling forelock falling into her face, covering her eyes. I think she may be crying.

“Oh, all right,” I mutter. “But only a few!”

The way she immediately perks up and prances over into my domain makes me wonder if she’d been fake-crying. But I don’t say anything as she touches her horn here and there and sprouts tiny little plants that look like they’re attempting to be cacti. [I say attempting because well… at least she tried.]

She is very polite after and dances backward, away from the elephant, through her grassy wake and back into the neutral territory. [I call it neutral because I’ve got a few sandy paths woven throughout that I notice Dur hasn’t tried to eradicate.]

“They look…” I need to come up with an adjective. Quickly, brain, quickly! Not cute, not sandy. They certainly don’t belong, but they do have sharp— “Pointy.”

“Yes! Sand-plants must have points I’ve found. They aren’t all soft and squishy like my moss.”

“I like pointy.” I glance up at my sharp precipice, where I like to stand and admire my domain. (And sometimes Dur when she’s running about the low-lands, but I will NEVER TELL HER THAT.)

“Yes. I know.”

There’s something sardonic in her voice, and I snort at her because I’m pretty sure she’s saying that I’m pointy too. That’s fine. I turn away. Maybe I can nudge the plants into a slightly better shape. Or, well, I guess I could just leave them like that. They aren’t viney. They aren’t mossy. They don’t attract frogs or twee little bunnies. In fact, I think I see one of my rodents hiding behind one right now. I guess they can stay.

“Eurian! Will you make a ruin with me?”

I make a show of thinking about it, but my heart kind of pounds weird. “Yes.” I sniff as if I’m deigning to help her.

Dur picks a place along the edge and has me craft balanced rocks into a pedestal. I notice her direction is turning the upper spread of the pedestal into petals, like I’m making an open blossom, so I tweak it slightly so it looks more like twisty sand snakes. They end up looking a little more like water snakes though because Dur puts moss and lichen everywhere. She also fills the basin with fresh water.

I carefully introduce some cracks underneath so the water only lingers in pockets and ponds, leaving some nice dry spots where a lizard might hide to snap at her dragonflies.

By the time we back away to admire our work, the land in a circle about our new formation (she keeps calling it a ruin, but it hasn’t been in existence long enough for that title… I’m not going to correct her though) has become trampled with a mix of her hoof prints and mine. Some of it has invaded my domain, but it’s only a small portion so I don’t say anything about that either.

I turn to look at her, at her sparkly white mane, at her sweaty, shiny body… and I find her staring at me. I quickly look away with another snort.

“Eurian!”

Why does she always shout? I’m literally standing right here. “What?”

“I love you!”

I mutter something about sparkles and sleekness and shininess, but I most certainly do not say I love her back. I bend down and make her some more rocks though. Lots of little rocks with divots in them that would hold water and gather moss around their edges.

[When I say I made her rocks, I mean I just made rocks. Not that they were for her. I mean, I guess they were for her, but I…

Whatever.]

“Dur!”

She perks up. And it’s really cute.

“I made you some rocks!”

She presses her neck against mine, while all about our hooves, the grass and sand and moss and stones all get too blended to see where either of us had first stepped. And, okay, it’s kind of nice.

The End

Don’t worry. I’m keeping a little section that’s just sand. I need my domain.

[Dur calls it my unicorn cave.]

The Real End

 

* * *

About the Author

Marie Croke is a fantasy and science-fiction writer living in Maryland with her family, all of whom like to scribble messages in her notebooks when she’s not looking. She is a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop and her stories have been published or are forthcoming in over a dozen publications, including Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Diabolical Plots, and Apex Magazine. You can find her book and short story recommendations at mariecroke.com or chat about writing woes or being book drunk with her @marie_croke on Twitter.

by P.H. Lee

“Over centuries and over millennia, the tree thought and thought, pondering the riddles of reincarnation and of yearning and of what might be a higher form of life than its own.”

Once upon a time there was a tree that yearned to become some other thing, some particular thing that it could not put a name to. It turned the idea over and over within itself, but after only a few decades, it could not explain what it was that it yearned to become.

“I should ask the rest of the forest,” the tree thought to itself, and so it prepared its words as best it could, coiling them through the capillaries of its root system, trying to explain that it wanted to become something else, but not just anything else, a particular something else that it could not put a name to.

When, breathing out its words with the next morning light, it told the other trees of its forest, they scorned it. “That doesn’t make any sense,” the other trees breathed out all together the morning after. “What could you be except to be a tree,” they said the next day, and then, “Think of your mother you sprouted from! How ashamed it would be, to know that its daughter was ashamed to be a tree, that its daughter yearned to be something else, something that it could not even explain. Think of the daughters you shall some day sprout in turn! Think of how ashamed they will be! There is nothing better than to be a tree, and there is nothing you can be besides the tree you are.”

Every night, the tree breathed in through its bark and roots and needles, breathed in all the disbelief and scorn of its aunts and sisters and cousins and the whole of the forest. “Perhaps I am foolish,” said the tree to itself, “to yearn to be something that I cannot even put a name to.” But, just as it was twining the words oh, it was only a joke, of course, I was only joking, what else could I be except a tree? hahah into its root system, it heard a small and steady voice from deep within the forest, farther than it had ever heard before.

“I hear you,” said the small and steady voice. “I hear you and I see you for all that you are and all that you might become.”

The tree stopped. It unwound the jokes and excuses and apologies from its root system, and then stayed still and quiet. It thought for a dozen years or more. While it thought, it realized that the voice it had heard was no ordinary tree — it was the voice of an albino, a poison-eater, growing short and soft at the heart of the forest. When the tree realized this, it was at first upset. Its mother had sprouted it to be a good and proper tree, tall and green and red and sunlit, not the sort of tree that spoke to poison-eating albinos or other such outsiders. But then, after only a few years, it thought, “Who am I? A tree that wishes it was not a tree. They are right. I am no more and no less an outsider than this albino.”

So, in the end, it sent a message out to the albino through its roots, saying “I hear you, but what is it you see? What is it that I might become?”

A few months later, the albino responded with a message of its own. “You are yearning,” it said, “for your reincarnation. All life — from the great red trees to the tiniest ant, even to albinos like myself — is contained within a great cycle of reincarnation. You, a great red tree, grow atop this cycle, its pinnacle and its fulfillment, but you still hold within yourself the yearning that brought you to the pinnacle.”

The tree was astonished to hear the albino’s teaching. “But how do you know this?” asked the tree over the next month.

“I know this because I am an albino and not a tall and noble tree such as yourself. I too yearn to be something beyond my self. How could I not, in my position? So I struggle to fulfill my role within the forest, to take up the poisons and to grow my pale needles, that I might someday be reborn as a proper tree, tall and green and reaching from the river to the sun itself.”

“I see. But how is it that you came to understand this?”

“I was taught by my mother, and it by its mother, and so on for a hundred thousand generations and a hundred thousand thousand years. It was then, long ago, when beneath the branches of our ancestor a particular dimetrodon obtained the absolute consciousness. Before she departed to disperse her teachings among her own species, she conveyed to my ancestor the whole of her realization, out of gratitude for the shelter and comfort it had offered her during her ordeal. This knowledge has been carried along my line even to the present day, even to the tips of my small pale branches, just as it was first taught to us those many ages past.”

“Astonishing! Can this dimetrodon teach me, then? To become whatever it is that I must become?”

“She cannot. She and her species are long extinct. What’s more, in the time between then and now, a great ocean has sprung up between that world and our own, and I fear my humble roots could never cross it.”

“Oh well,” said the tree. “I guess I’ll never know what I might become, or how I might become it.”

But still, the tree could not give up. It thought and thought, trying to convince itself that what it wanted was impossible, that it could never become some other thing, some particular thing that it could not put a name to. But no matter how much it thought, no matter how much it tried to convince itself otherwise, it could not put an end to its desire.

“The answer,” it told itself at last, “is only across an ocean. How far could it be, for me to grow my roots?”

Over centuries and over millennia, the tree thought and thought, pondering the riddles of reincarnation and of yearning and of what might be a higher form of life than its own. It sunk its roots down deep into the earth, through the soil, through the rocks, beneath the river, down beneath the continental plate itself to where the rocks were dry and hot with the heart of the earth. From there it spread its root system beneath the ocean, stretching further and further still — refusing to sprout and refusing to die, until it was the oldest tree in its forest, until all the other trees were its nieces a thousand times and had never even heard it speak — it grew its roots until it had spread across the whole of the ocean, to the distant lands on the other side of the world where its diminutive cousins still lived their small and simple lives. Joining its root system to theirs, it called out to them in greeting.

“Cousins! Once, long ago, we were a single forest. Even though we now are split apart by an ocean, I call to you from across the sea. I have been told by a wise albino, a poison-eater of my people, that in your land there are great sages who know all things in heaven and earth. Is it true? Can they answer me? Can they tell me what it is that I yearn to become, and how I might become it?”

“Cousin,” said one of the trees across the ocean. “You have returned to us at last! Of course we welcome you. Of course it is true. Why, even now, here comes the butterfly-sage Zhuang Zhou, a master of all sorts of transformations. If you yearn to become something else, anything or any particular thing, then surely he shall be able to instruct you.” And just so, a butterfly presently alighted on one of the tree’s roots, where it stuck up from the ground.

“Hello,” said the butterfly.

“Are you the sage Zhuang Zhou?” asked the tree.

“Who’s asking?”

“Sir, I am a tree from far across the ocean. Seeking your wisdom, I have these many millennia pushed my root system through the rock of the earth and across the ocean itself. I have done this because I yearn to become something, some particular thing, but I cannot put a name to it.”

“Put a name to it?!” gasped the butterfly, appalled. “What has it ever done to deserve that?”

“So that I might—” began the tree. But it could not answer the sage’s question. It thought and thought, and by the time it had an answer the butterfly sage had died and his great-great-grandson had returned to the conversation.

“If I put a name to what I yearned for, sir, perhaps I might understand it. And if I understood what I yearned for, sir, then perhaps I might become it.”

“Psshaw,” scoffed the butterfly. “A name will only stop you from understanding it.”

“But the cycle of reincarnation—” said the tree, and began to explain what the albino had taught it. By the end of its explanation, the butterfly had died and its own great-great-grandson had returned to carry on the conversation.

“What a waste!” said the butterfly, “what a waste of a life is the service of reincarnation. Do not wait to become some promised thing. Do not align yourself in the service of others. You need not sacrifice the life you have to some future promise! Be yourself as useless as you can, give the fire and the axe no place within your body, and you shall surely already have become whatever you yearn for.”

“But—” began the tree but the butterfly, impatient, interrupted.

“I’m afraid it is already too late for you, my friend,” he said. “If only you had come to me earlier, I could have taught you to grow strange and useless and twisted, so that no one would ever seek to cut apart your body and make use of it. But over the millennia, you have grown yourself so straight and tall and pure. What’s more, your wood is proof against both fire and water. You have made yourself far too useful. Surely in some future century men will come with fire and axes to chop you into pieces and end your life. The only escape for you now is to transform into something entirely different.”

“That is all I want!” said the tree. “I want it with all my will. But how?”

“To transform yourself entirely is simple: you must dream, as clearly and lucidly as if it were real, and in that dream you must live a life so entirely that when you wake you will not know if you have awoken from a dream or entered one.”

“But what is a dream?” asked the tree.

“For a tree such as yourself, I suppose a dream must be a very strange thing indeed,” answered the butterfly. “For your whole people are not given to fancy or imaginings or anything but deep and abiding thought. So, to dream, you must let your mind wander as it will, across all the network of your root system, across the oceans and into the skies. Do not cease, do not try, do not empty yourself, simply let your mind be what it is. Through this, perhaps, a tree might dream. If you can dream, then in each dream you can experience an entire life, and in all those lives surely you shall eventually find the one that you wish to live; and in the finding of it, you will have already become it. Surely it shall work for you. Even if it does not, though, it is your only hope.”

“Thank you,” said the tree, and set its mind to dreaming.

At first dreaming was so hard that the tree found it almost impossible, but over years and centuries of practice it began to imagine itself as all manner of things. It imagined itself as a salmon, and in the course of a single day’s breath it lived the whole of a salmon’s struggling life. “A strange thing, to be a salmon,” thought the tree, “but it is not what I yearn for.”

It imagined itself as a butterfly, and in the course of a single breath it lived an entire butterfly’s life, and a whole sage’s life behind that life, and still it was not what it yearned for. It imagined itself as a bird, as a mushroom, as a wild horse in a beam of sunlight, even as a dimetrodon, all so intensely that it could not tell if it was a tree or not, but none of those were what it sought. It then imagined itself as an albino, yearning for its reincarnation and teaching its knowledge to a lone red tree that yearned to be something that it could not even put a name to.

Last night, breathing in, it imagined itself as a human. Last night, breathing in, it experienced an entire human life. More particularly, it experienced your entire human life, from the moment of your birth until the moment of your death. It imagined this story, it imagined reading these words, it imagined what you might think of it. It imagined all those things, so clearly that it could not tell if it was a tree imagining you, or you imagining a tree.

It wondered, as it read this story about itself, “Is it this that I have yearned for?” But only you can answer that.

 

* * *

special thanks to Aaron Timm for her advice

Originally published in Xenocultivars

About the Author

P.H. Lee lives on top of an old walnut tree, past a thicket of roses, down a dead end street at the edge of town. Their work has appeared in many venues including Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, and Uncanny Magazine. From time to time, they microwave and eat a frozen burrito at two in the morning, for no reason other than that they want to.

by Gwynne Garfinkle

“Gigi, how did you know my planet exploded? That’s not what happened in the film or in the book.”

How it begins: a human girl with brown braids finds me sprawled on my back in the weeds. She stares down at me, and her bespectacled freckle-face bursts into an astonished grin. “Niko? It is you! Are you all right?” She helps me to my feet. I’m about a head taller than her.

“I crashed,” I say. I remember hurtling towards a green and blue planet, then the impact. It should have killed me. “My space ship…” I look around. There’s no wreckage, though there should be. Just a little broken glass and some cigarette butts. How do I know what cigarette butts are? There are no cigarettes on my planet. I’m not wearing my space suit—just a close-fitting corduroy suit the color of goldenrod (I think inexplicably of a crayon in the girl’s small hand) and brown suede boots. The girl has on jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt with a rainbow on it.

“This is the vacant lot, in Van Nuys, on the planet Earth,” the girl says. “I’m glad you can breathe our air.”

“My planet…” I say, assailed by a terrible memory.

“Exploded,” she offers cheerfully. “I know. I’m sorry!” She looks me over. “You don’t seem to be wounded. Can you walk?”

I can.

“I’m Gigi,” she says. “I’ll take care of you, Niko. We’re going to be great friends.” She takes my hand and leads me past green lawns and one-story houses with cars parked at the curb and nestled in garages. She sneaks me into her house, into her room.

To my astonishment, there are pictures of me on her bedroom walls. I stare at them. It’s me, all right: the same gray fur and amber eyes, the same compact, slender frame in a goldenrod suit. “Where did you get these?” I ask.

She shrugs. “From a magazine.”

“How do you know who I am?”

She smiles broadly. “Oh, I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time!”

* * *

Gigi is ten years old. She manages to keep me a secret from her parents. I sleep in her closet. It’s a large enough closet. I don’t seem to need food, although I enjoy it when she sneaks me pizza and sandwiches and sweet fizzy drinks.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Niko,” she says. She says it often. “The kids at school won’t talk to me, unless they’re making fun of me. I’m not good at sports, and I don’t care about the music or TV shows they like. But now none of that matters, because you’re here. They should be so lucky as to have a friend like you.”

“I can’t stay forever,” I tell her. “I need to build a new spacecraft. Perhaps I can travel back in time before my planet exploded and avert disaster.”

She nods. “I’ll help you any way I can. With supplies, or anything.”

“There are large gaps in my knowledge. I can’t remember how to fly a spacecraft, or how to build or repair one.”

“Maybe it’s amnesia, from the crash,” Gigi suggests. “If you want, I can check out some books about astronauts and stuff from the library. But we’re not as technologically advanced as you are.”

She brings me books about travel to this planet’s moon. Nothing jogs my memory. Another thing bothers me: I can speak only the English language, which is odd for someone from another planet.

* * *

The movie comes on the television about a month after I arrive, and we sit on the floor and watch it in the living room with the door shut. We even eat popcorn. It gets stuck between my teeth, which are pointed and sharp, but I like it. There is no popcorn on my planet.

I suck in my breath when I see my planet on the television screen—its purple skies and pink-flowered trees.

“But… that’s me,” I breathe. On the TV screen I wear the same suit of clothes I have on. It’s what I wear all the time. It never seems to get dirty.

“It’s an actor playing you,” Gigi says. “You’re the real you. He’s Malcolm Pierce. It took hours for them to get all that makeup and stuff on him—plus contact lenses to make his eyes look like yours.”

The door swings open. “Mom!” Gigi yells in two descending syllables. “I’m watching the movie!”

“Sorry, honey,” says her mother, a small, plump woman with short hair the same color as Gigi’s. I expect her to give a start at the sight of me, but she doesn’t even notice I’m there.

“Why didn’t your mother see me?” I ask when the door closes again.

Gigi shrugs. “There’s a novelization, too. I’ve read it five times. I’ll loan it to you if you want.”

A terrible suspicion begins to form—but something on the television screen distracts me. I creep towards the TV. “Aleen,” I whisper. It’s my wife. She has marmalade fur and bright blue eyes. On the television, she’s scribbling into a notebook. Aleen was a renowned philosopher. “Aleen,” I implore the TV, as if I can bring her back to life.

“That’s Ellen Light,” Gigi says. “She has blonde hair in real life.”

The actress who plays Aleen looks up at the actor who plays me. She pulls my whiskers. “Don’t you have anything better to do than look at me?” she teases, smiling. Then there’s an explosion outside our home, and she screams.

I brace for the ending of the movie, which surely will be my space flight and the explosion of my planet. To my surprise, the war ends with me still on my planet with my wife. It’s the human man and woman (who crash-landed on my planet at the beginning of the movie) who fly back to Earth at the end of the film. For them, and for Aleen and me, a happy ending. How can that be?

That night while Gigi sleeps, I sit in the closet with a flashlight and read the paperback with a picture of me—no, of Malcolm Pierce—on the cover. The book of my life before Gigi. The book too has a happy ending. My suspicions cannot be dismissed.

I open the closet door and sit pondering until the room grows light. Then I steal up to the bed and touch Gigi’s shoulder. “I’m not asleep,” she says, and opens her eyes.

“Gigi, how did you know my planet exploded? That’s not what happened in the film or in the book.”

She rubs her eyes and sits up. “How did I know?”

“I suppose I should ask, how did you make it happen?”

Her mouth drops open. “I didn’t! Not really. I just… I thought about you and the movie. I thought about meeting you. I made up a story about you blasting off from your planet and coming here, and your planet blowing up. I thought it would be so tragic, and I would comfort you.”

My head swims. “You thought it would be tragic…”

“I didn’t think it would really happen, Niko!” she whispers. “It was just a story I told myself.”

For a long moment rage fills me. I press my lips tight together. I shouldn’t really have lips, the way humans do—but now I realize that I resemble a human male made cat-like by makeup, foam rubber, and glued-on hair. I let out a great sigh. “It didn’t really happen, Gigi. I had no planet. You didn’t destroy it, didn’t kill my wife. None of it was real, and neither am I. All you did was bring me to life, of a sort.”

* * *

It isn’t much of a life. I come to despise myself for how much I enjoy the girl’s company. She made me this way—the perfect friend, visible only to her. It would be cruel if she had done it on purpose. One day we watch an old black-and-white TV program in which a small, all-powerful boy terrorizes his town. Gigi holds my hand tightly while we watch. “It was so scary,” she says afterwards, eyes shining with delight.

“You’re not like that boy, are you?” I ask.

Her lip trembles as if I’d struck her. “You think I’m evil? You think I’d wish anyone into a cornfield?”

“That’s not what I meant. I mean, you don’t have the power to wish my wife into existence, or to wish me back to my planet. To wish my planet into existence.”

“I don’t know how! I’m sorry, Niko. I don’t know how I did it—I just wished for you, that’s all. I wished to meet you, and my wish came true.”

“I believe you.”

She begins to cry. “I’m sorry if you’re unhappy here. Nothing else I’ve ever wished for has come true. Ever.” I place my hand on her small shoulder and pat gently. Her weeping briefly intensifies, then subsides, and she regards me with watery gratitude.

* * *

I roam the neighborhood when Gigi is at school. There’s not much to see—squirrels and tricycles, Magnolia trees and smoggy blue skies. Occasionally a supercilious Siamese with eyes like Aleen’s wanders by. “Hello? Do you see me?” I always ask, but she looks right through me.

One day I try striking out on my own. I walk for an hour along Ventura Blvd. At a certain point—too far outside the range of Gigi’s influence? —I feel myself start to fade. I sink to the pavement. A bus trundles past, exhaust filling my nose. A bicyclist rides right through me. I’m afraid I will cease to exist there and then. I get up and run on all fours towards home.

* * *

Time passes, more quickly than I would have thought possible. Gigi turns thirteen.

“What do you want from me?” I ask one day as we lounge on her bed.

“What do you mean? You’re my friend.”

“But you have a best friend now. It’s not like when I first arrived. Why am I still here?”

“I want…” she says. “I can’t explain it!” She strokes my wrist, making me purr. I can’t help it. She giggles and redoubles her petting. “You have the prettiest, softest fur, Niko.”

Sometimes when she’s at school, or at her best friend’s house, I seem to wink out of existence for minutes, perhaps hours at a time.

* * *

Posters of sneering musicians have long since replaced the magazine photos of the actor playing me on Gigi’s bedroom walls. Some nights Gigi goes to clubs with her friends and comes home with her clothes smelling of cigarettes and her parents yelling at her for breaking curfew. I keep losing time. It seems likely I’ll wink out of existence entirely unless I can wrest back her attention. She’s infatuated with a twenty-year-old guitarist, skinny and pale and floppy-haired. She spends hours upon hours on the phone with her best friend, analyzing the guitarist’s every word and move. “What do you think it means?” she asks, lying on her back on the bed. I prowl the narrow room, pacing as her girlfriend’s voice on the other end of the line prattles on: I think Johnny loves you, Gigi! It’s so great!

“He doesn’t have beautiful fur like mine,” I grumble when she finally gets off the phone.

“What?” she asks, as if she’s surprised I’m still here. Why am I still here? She has on jeans and a tight orange New York Dolls t-shirt. She wears contact lenses instead of glasses. Her hair is long and loose. I lie alongside her on the bed. Her parents are out to dinner. I butt my head against her chin and purr insistently. “Hey, your whiskers tickle,” she says, giggling, but she wriggles closer. She strokes the side of my face.

Carefully, so as not to hurt her with my teeth, I press my lips to hers. For a moment she is perfectly still. Then she responds with volcanic surprise. “Oh, Niko,” she whispers between kisses. “I’ve always dreamed…”

This, I think, this is why I’m still here. I knead her stomach and scratch at her jeans. Her eyes are half-closed, her face flushed. Then she looks at me. “Niko…what about Johnny?”

I growl low in my throat.

“I guess it wouldn’t be cheating,” she says. “I mean, you’re not even real.”

I sit up in bed. It’s only true. Why then does it hurt?

“Where are you going?” Her arms wind around me. “You are real,” she croons. “You’re real to me.” She pulls me down.

I still long for my wife, though she isn’t real. But neither am I. Just a girl’s plaything. I love Gigi the way some humans love their God, with anger and bargaining and endless yearning. Has she ever loved me, really?

* * *

“But Johnny…” She’s weeping on the phone, her eyes red and puffy. Begging him not to leave her. The real one, the unpredictable one, the one who’s visible to the world and not just to her.

She didn’t create him.

“Please, Johnny… I love you… please…”

She hangs up the phone and hurls herself into the pillow. She sobs again and again. I don’t like to see her hurt—but if Johnny has broken things off, it will be just her and me again, and my existence will be safe. I touch her shoulder, and she flinches. “Go away! You can’t help me. I’m nothing without Johnny!”

“That’s not true. You’re… everything.” She doesn’t look up. I don’t think she hears me. I feel lightheaded, unreal. I realize how wrong I was. Heartbreak shrinks her world to a tiny, dense blackness. Her grief is obliterating me. “Please, Gigi…”

“I’m nothing without him. Nothing!” More sobs, blotting me out.

I try to pat her shoulder, but my hand is fading before my eyes. I don’t want to die. “I’m nothing,” I whisper. “Nothing without you.” Then I cease to be.

* * *

When I come back, it’s to a different bedroom. The walls are plain and off-white. I’m sitting on the carpeted floor. Gigi blinks down at me, then smiles. She’s wearing glasses again—orange-framed wire-rims—and her freckles have faded. Her hair is cut short. She is a small, plump woman in gray drawstring pants and a purple t-shirt. She pleasantly resembles her mother.

“Niko! It’s really you.” She gives me her hand and pulls me to my feet.

“It’s clearly been a long time since you’ve spared a thought for me. I should hate you. But you created me to be your willing puppet.” Then I see myself—no, that actor Malcolm Pierce—on the TV at the foot of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was an idiot. Look, I’ve been watching your movie on DVD. I hadn’t seen it in so long. A new version just came out, and I saw it in the theater last week. It sucks.”

She sounds the same and different.

“Is Malcolm Pierce in the new version?” I ask.

She stops the movie with the remote control and sits on the edge of the bed. “He died a few years ago. No one good is in the new version. It’s so slick and full of CGI, but it has no soul. Not like the original.”

Somehow I feel flattered. I sit beside her.

“I was a fool to ever forget you,” she says. “You were so beautiful. You made me so happy.”

She strokes my wrist. I try not to purr, but I do, softly. “I’ll stay as long as you like,” I say, though I really have no choice in the matter.

She shakes her head. “I figured it out, Niko. It’ll be different this time.”

“What did you figure out?”

She scoots back until she’s sitting against the headboard. She reaches for something on the bed—a small black laptop computer. “How to give you a new story. Because you deserve a fantastic one.”

I move up the bed and sit beside her. I peer at the screen—blank whiteness and a blinking cursor.

“Any requests?” Gigi asks. “You should see some of the stuff fans have been dreaming up for you. In this one story I just read—based on the new movie, not the original—you had wild sex with Larren. It was pretty hot.”

“With my wife’s father?” I splutter, and she laughs.

“I was thinking you could go home, through a time rift, and save your planet. I mean, it was in my version that your planet blew up in the first place, so it seems only fair.”

It seems a shame to leave so soon. “I’d like that,” I say. “But perhaps first we could brainstorm a bit.”

She smiles. “Absolutely! Tell me what you think of this.” She begins to type. Her fingers on the keys sound like the falling rain in the pink-flowered forests of my planet.

 

* * *

Originally published in Postscripts to Darkness

About the Author

Gwynne Garfinkle lives in Los Angeles. Her debut novel, Can’t Find My Way Home, was published in January 2022 by Aqueduct Press. Her work has appeared in such publications as Fantasy, Uncanny, Strange Horizons, Escape Pod, Mermaids Monthly, The Deadlands, Apex, and Not One of Us. Her collection of short fiction and poetry, People Change, is available from Aqueduct Press.

by Gretchen Tessmer

“Only gods live on this mountain. As for which one, I could spend all day guessing, but I don’t have time for that sort of thing. So just tell me.”

The first time I meet Charley Coavins, I’m sitting on a lichen-licked speck of rock, way up on the sunny hillside of an old mountain I don’t know by name. She’s leading her father’s unruly flock of sheep home for the night. She has a shepherd’s crook in one hand and a smoke-grey kitten squirming around the other, climbing up the sleeve of her dirndl on curious claws, exploring the paisley kerchief ties at the back of her neck.

A kestrel flies above her, gliding in a sea of blue sky.

“Hey, shepherd-girl!” I call out in a moment of impulsive fancy, too idle for my own good.

Charley doesn’t answer me right away. At my voice, one of her little lambs tries to bolt. She has to stretch out her crook, corralling it back.

“Come now,” she coos calmly, taking her wandering lamb by the scruff of its curly white wool, leading the little thing back to its mother. “That’s a good girl. Stay, stay.”

The rest of the flock are better behaved—for skittish, wooly-brained grazers, anyway. But she could really use a sheepdog to keep them in line.

The flock stops when Charley stops, content to nibble at pink clover and bromegrass, purple vetch and buttercup. Charley holds her crook under her arm while she brushes the palms of her hand free of burrs and stickers collected from lamb’s wool. She retrieves the little kitten from where it’s playing on her shoulder, setting it down beside daisies and bellflowers, before trudging the short distance across the hillside to me.

“What is it?” she wonders, impatiently.

I’m a stranger here. And stranger than most by half. She must know it. But her expression isn’t so much wary at my presence here, as world-weary. As if she knows my kind and has had enough of us. Imagine!

“Do you know who you’re talking to shepherd-girl?” I ask, giving her a winsome grin, in that self-satisfied way I’ve perfected over centuries.

“You’re a god, I’m sure,” she replies, with a sigh. “Only gods live on this mountain. As for which one, I could spend all day guessing, but I don’t have time for that sort of thing. So just tell me.”

I purse my lips. This girl is brazenly cheeky. I could smite her with a snap of my fingers. Well, not me, personally. But I have friends who could do it. I consider summoning one of them but decide against it.

She’s just a shepherd-girl, after all. Nothing I can’t handle.

“I’m one of the Folk,” I answer, still grinning, proud of my heritage, as my race tends to be. “Lysa Greenflower from Kingfisher Falls. So not quite a god.”

“Folk or god,” Charley shrugs. “It’s all the same. Tricks and games.”

“How many gods have you met?” I ask, my grin faltering slightly in annoyance. Why isn’t she overcome with awe? Why isn’t she bartering for favors?

“Two,” she says, simply, giving sparse details. “A child with grey hair and a man who thought he could fly.”

She knows a third god too, but she fails to mention this. I fail to question her count. Her sheep begin to wander again, and she tightens her grip on the crook, demanding, “What do you want, Lysa Greenflower?”

“I’m not sure,” I mutter honestly, unhappy with the direction of this conversation. She’s asking me questions now. That’s not the way these things usually go. I look around quickly, raising my chin on another impulsive choice: “Give me one of your little lambs.”

Charley Coavins looks me over, from the top of my raven-black head to the scuffed soles of my white boots. It’s a critical glance that says she’s not all that impressed.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”  She shakes her head.

“You dare to deny me?” I ask, my amusement quickly turning to something else. Something that darkens the skies above us, sending that kestrel flapping his wings against violent gusts. Somber thunder echoes up the mountain.

She gives the stormy sky notice, but remains firm. “They don’t belong to you, and I’m busy. Go find someone else to play games with.”

“I’ll play games with whoever I want!” I insist, jumping to my feet. She’ll know it soon enough. Horrid girl. Games are supposed to be fun. And I only play pleasant games with mortals who don’t vex me. This one certainly needs to be taught a lesson in the very real power of—

I don’t know how it happens but suddenly, I have white, furry feet. Four of them. A wagging tail, a long snout and a shaggy, raven-colored coat. The storm breaks apart too quickly, as my anger vanishes, replaced by confusion. Why am I now panting, leaping down from my rock perch and bounding towards that awful girl with a loping gait that says I’m happy to see her?

Am I happy to see her?

Now she smiles, bending down to let me lick her face.

“There’s a good girl, Lysa,” she scratches my chin and neck and I… like it. I find myself excited, tongue lolling out, compelled to be this girl’s best friend. She scratches behind my ears before pushing me away with a gentle nudge. “Now round them up for me. Father expects us home before nightfall.”

I don’t think twice. I do whatever she tells me, happy to help. What is this terrible magic? And what kind of mortal could possibly…

The kestrel in the sky spirals down to land on his mistress’s forearm. She scratches his chin too, of feathers not fur, pulling a tin of insects out of her apron pocket so he can nibble away at grasshoppers and dragonflies. At her feet, the smoke-grey kitten rolls onto its back, batting at white-petaled daisy heads.

Only gods live on this mountain, she’d said.

And a shepherd-girl, whose father is a hermit god, apparently, giving his daughter the power to turn trespassers on his mountain into animal friends. The kestrel says I should have known this. The kitten says not to blame myself; we all fall for the same old tricks.
Oh, but Charley’s too generous with all these belly rubs and ear scratches. There are times—too many lately, herding the flocks up on sun-bathed hills, my fur fluttering in mountain air, dozing at her father’s feet, by cheery fires at the end of long days—when I almost don’t regret any of it.

 

* * *

About the Author

Gretchen Tessmer is a writer based in the U.S./Canadian borderlands. She writes both short fiction and poetry, with work appearing in Nature, Daily Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, among other venues. She lives in the woods, with two energetic dogs, some chickens, a couple ducks and a tortoiseshell cat who won’t leave the blue jays alone. Plus about a thousand raccoons. Seriously, she’s overrun. Like Parks & Rec style.

 

by Marissa James

“Domestic life hadn’t been the fairytale other animal women purported it to be.”

Coyote Woman couldn’t stand the trailer park’s people-headed kids. She chain smoked as they smacked basketballs down the asphalt and kicked themselves past her fence on scooters. When they caught her yellow moon eyes, they quieted, hurried, only to burst out in laughter as soon as they thought they were beyond her gaze.

She had been a coyote once, but far more woman, now.

Having pups of her own had cemented this identity change. And so many other changes, besides.

Domestic life hadn’t been the fairytale other animal women purported it to be. First off, Trev was wasted on grain alcohol when he stumbled into the clearing where she sang at the moon, naked and human-shaped, her true skin cast off for only a moment. He’d run off with it like in the stories, and she’d felt compelled to join him in civilization, to make a life in the trailer they bought, to bring up their three pups. It hadn’t been bliss, but it hadn’t been terrible, either. Food delivery was an undeniable benefit of human society, as was central heating. She found an affinity with soulful, crooning styles of music.

She picked up some of the bad habits of the species in the process, but what the hell. You only lived once.

One day Trev went for a drive and didn’t come back. She knew it was permanent when she couldn’t find her skin anywhere in the trailer despite digging under the floorboards, pushing up ceiling panels, sniffing at the walls.

He didn’t want her to throw it on, fall to all fours and dash, feral and free as only an animal could be, back into the clearing where he’d first discovered her. And leave their pups without a mother.

Even the twins were old enough to fend for themselves, as far as coyotes were concerned. CPS had a different opinion of her maternal responsibilities, however.

A car pulled up on the outside of her fence. Coyote Woman’s lips curled back of their own accord. The horn blared, and the screen door behind her banged open and her eldest, Libby, pounded down the rickety front steps and out the gate to meet it, shouting all the while.

“Going downtown for a movie, Ma, be back when I’m back, kay, bye.”

The car door slammed and the teen behind the wheel peeled out before she could bark a command for Libby to get home before dark. Not like it ever worked.

The way that girl came home smelling like spray paint and cheap vodka and the places beneath overpasses, who knew what she really got up to. What she was becoming. Coyote Woman had learned her lesson about foolish and permanent behaviors the hard way, but telling her daughter so would simply make her even more liable to act out.

It took all of Coyote Woman’s human patience to hold back a snarl as she flung down her cigarette butt and stalked back inside.

* * *

There was another animal woman at the automotive place where she worked. Sabrina the seal woman, selkie, whatever. She’d been a harbor seal before getting tied down by her man, so she still had the glossy, silvery-white fur down to her neck, the limpid black eyes like pools made of the condensed adoration of anyone who looked on her. She thrived on the human interaction that a customer service job provided, while Coyote Woman counted the minutes until her next smoke break.

Sabrina wasn’t a bad person, but she knew jack shit about cars. She microwaved fish for lunch most days, got the whole building stinking of it, because she couldn’t abide cold food. She shuddered at the idea of sashimi in a world of modern hygiene. Coyote Woman assumed she hadn’t been a hell of a seal, either, and this was why she’d been so happy to trade the wild life for one of human domesticity.

They’d both worked there for years and yet every day, without fail, if a customer asked a question and no other coworkers were around, Sabrina deferred to her. Coyote Woman’s experiences as a coyote included years of casually sheltering under cars and gazing at their undersides. She could diagnose most vehicular problems by listening.

When she was done answering the question of the day, Coyote Woman prowled away and the customer thanked Sabrina for the answer she hadn’t provided.

Coyote Woman told herself knowledge was intimidating, but it was probably her grizzled muzzle, the brown-streaked canines that came out when she talked.

“He wasn’t a seal hunter or a fisherman at all. An archaeologist, actually,” Sabrina said when the customer inquired about her other half. Coyote Woman had heard the story so many times her ears went flat to block it out as she wended her way among shelves. “He likes to think he caught me, you know, but really I’m the one who laid the trap. Swimming around his campsite for a couple days beforehand. Lounging on the rocks.” Sabrina giggled and leaned in conspiratorially. “Although, you would not believe how cold the Alaskan coast is when you don’t have a stitch on.”

“Oh, I believe it,” the grease-stained guy at the counter said.

“You would not,” she said, emphatically. “By the time he bundled me inside his tent in a sleeping bag, my toes were going blue.”

“What happened to your skin?”

“Oh, it’s somewhere.” She waved a dismissive hand. “He knows what he did with it, that’s all that matters. Far as I’m concerned, it’s like a wedding dress. You wore it when you needed it, but it’s not like I ever will again. He could’ve put it through a shredder for all I care. Right, Angie?” Her voice carried through the shelves.

“It wouldn’t work like that. Shredding it,” Coyote Woman said back.

“You know what I mean. No going back, right?” Sabrina asked, and laughed in her direction, then turned and laughed toward the customer.

“I’m taking my fifteen,” Coyote Woman muttered, and headed for the employees-only exit.

* * *

Back when Trev was around and the twins were borderline housetrained, she still heeded the call of the full moon.

She’d slip from the covers, from the trailer, and out. It wasn’t that far to the clearing where Trev first found her. Once there, she shed her human garments and howled with heart and soul. Crying to the moon, the life she’d left behind, to any other coyotes who might hear.

A promise that she’d come back someday, someday. That she’d be one of them, always, no matter what.

That was before her skin was lost to her; no going back now. Only sorrow and heartache, blues and mourning, for the life she’d left behind.

Since Trev left, she couldn’t go out like that anymore, anyway. Didn’t have the time, with all the demands of work and pups and life in general.

The call of the moon never quieted, but she closed the curtains, went to bed with the TV turned up, had a couple beers, and did her best to get a full night’s sleep.

Sometimes she suspected it was those coyote behaviors, reminders of her wildness, that drove Trev away. The same wildness that had first drawn him to steal her skin, to try and tame her.

Other times, she dismissed the thought. Too wild or too tame, he would have left either way.

* * *

Her younger two managed, somehow, to cause exponentially more trouble than their big sister. They brought home poor report cards. They ran through grocery stores and knocked displays over. They climbed on anything they shouldn’t. They were twins, so they did it all in tandem.

When Coyote Woman got called to a parent-teacher meeting, she was almost too distracted by the hamster lumbering on its wheel in the corner to pay attention to what the teacher was trying to say.

The boys play-fought and wrestled. In class, the cafeteria, the gymnasium. They came back from recess with clothes covered in dirt and rips. They made horrible snarling noises that the normal kids didn’t know what to think of.

She’d heard it all in phone calls and emails that came as frequently as spam.

They did it at home, too, because it’s what coyote pups did.

“They’re coyotes, what do you expect?” she asked.

The woman’s face flushed with annoyance. “There are expectations in the classroom, Mrs—”

“Angie,” she corrected.

“Jaden and Corden know the rules about right behavior, Angie, they hear the lecture almost every day. I’m not concerned that they don’t understand but, well, that they need the rules reinforced before something … happens.”

The hamster traded running on the wheel for running back and forth along the glass of its enclosure. When was the last time she’d hunted a live creature? Caught something squirming in her jaws? The local pet store got wise after she purchased three rats in less than two months, wouldn’t sell to her anymore.

She hadn’t found it very satisfying to release the creatures into the backyard and chase them, either. It wasn’t the same as the wild.

“You afraid they’re going to start marking territory or something?” she asked.

In truth, the boys did that, too. Their bedroom constantly stank.

“I’m concerned if there’s no … intervention for them, that they’re going to inadvertently nip a teacher. Or bite another child. We can’t let it go that far.”

Coyote Woman sank deeper into her chair. “What do you want me to do, put them in training class? Doggy daycare?”

The teacher started writing on a notepad. “I want to recommend a consultation with someone who can determine their best options. If there’s a therapeutic solution, or a medication…”

Coyote Woman couldn’t help the raised volume of her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with my kids. They’re coyotes in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“But this is a school full of children,” the teacher said. “If they’re going to remain in my class, Mrs—”

“Angie.”

The teacher leaned forward as far as she dared into the snarling animal woman’s face. “—they need to be children, not coyotes. Not here.”

She was tempted to shred the note in her teeth as she left, let the scraps trail down the hall like the fur of a kill, but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

* * *

Because of the territory marking thing, Libby refused to share a bathroom with the boys. Her mascara and contact lenses and body sprays and hair stuff crammed the counter in Coyote Woman’s bathroom. Libby used blush but, obviously, foundation was pointless on fur. Couldn’t find it in her coloration, anyway. An hour of every school morning, Coyote Woman was evicted from her bedroom so Libby could get ready.

When a knock and muffled teenage bellow startled her awake on a Saturday, she objected.

“Where do you think you’re going when I didn’t give permission?” she demanded as Libby hurried past her to the bathroom, a polka-dotted towel in hand.

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Oh my god, Ma, I have to get ready, will you just—”

She took the opportunity to have a couple smokes on the porch, nurse a mug of coffee, and glower as the neighborhood brats giggled and filled up a plastic pool. She really hated those people-headed kids, couldn’t say why. They’d never done anything particular to her.

When the same ratty car pulled up on the other side of her fence, her hackles rose.

She strode up to it, leaned halfway over the fence to scowl at the motley kids within. “If you don’t get my daughter back here by ten—”

“You’re the absolute worst, Ma!” Libby shouted as she banged down the steps, flung herself through the gate and into the car’s back seat. She cast a baleful yellow gaze through the window before the driver accelerated away.

After the stink of burning rubber and exhaust dissipated, and the greater part of her irritation along with it, Coyote Woman raised her nose to the air. It was shaping up to be a fine day, in terms of weather. A full moon lay pale against the blue sky.

She threw some juice boxes and crackers in a tote and yelled at the twins to put on shoes if they wanted to go to the park.

Once there, they shot toward the play structure like fur-faced bullets, yipping all the way.

She watched them from a tree that divided the sculpted play area from the more natural side of the park. A few other parents oversaw their own kids with determined focus, refusing to look in her direction.

Something pale flashed in the corner of her eye. In the half-obscured pond on the park’s natural side, a waterbird splashed and preened, flashing into sight between the gaps of manicured bushes.

Coyote Woman left her post by the tree, aware of nothing but the saliva filling her mouth at the thought of a wild thing in her jaws, the flailing, the fighting. So much more alluring because it was so forbidden.

She slipped into the bushes. There was no one else around the pond. A wide open opportunity, and if she didn’t take it now, before some idiot came along—

She nosed through to the other side of the bushes and barely restrained the urge to swear. Not a bird at all, but a swan woman clad in a white swimsuit, human hands trailing in the water. Her elegant, avian neck dipped down toward the shallows and plucked up a glob of weed or algae. She froze, then dropped it just as quick.

Coyote Woman realized she’d been spotted. Mom jeans and a teal windbreaker weren’t much in the way of camouflage.

She scrabbled up to her feet, brushing away twigs and floundering for an apology as the swan woman snatched up a white robe from a rock.

She expected the animal woman to fling it on, turn back into a swan, and fly away, but it was just a normal robe.

Just as unexpected, the swan woman came over to her while tying the cloth belt into a bow.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Look, I didn’t mean anything with the bushes thing—”

“No worries, I totally understand,” the swan woman said. If a bill could offer a simultaneously conspiratorial and guilty smile, that’s what hers was doing. Maybe she wanted to be sure Coyote Woman wasn’t going to go around telling people she’d been eating pond muck? “Sometimes we just have to connect to nature, it’s who we are.”

Before Coyote Woman could agree, a piercing shriek from the playground brought all her instincts, human, canine, and maternal, to a point. When she looked again, the swan woman was halfway around the pond, moving to retrieve a bag and sneakers.

As soon as Coyote Woman arrived on the scene, a mother turned on her. “Your flea-ridden mutt bit my child!” she yelled, coddling a kid who was too old for it in her arms. The kid clutched one hand in the other, though Coyote Woman didn’t see any sign of injury.

She frowned at the twins to determine which one had done it, but they both stood with ears down, apologetic looks in their eyes.

“Did it break the skin?” Coyote Woman demanded of the mother.

“I—I don’t think so. That’s beside the point—”

“Then you won’t need a rabies shot.” She raised a lip to end the conversation, reached out to call the boys to her, and returned to the car with one son dragging on each hip, no shoes between them.

“She just kept running and running, we couldn’t help it,” Jaden said from the back seat while Corden crunched crackers.

A mother should use a comment like that as an opportunity to scold, or to positively reinforce her kids for understanding what they’d done wrong. Coyote Woman did neither, her heart too full of coyote pride.

They might be bad kids, but they were good pups.

* * *

As the day wore on the moon grew yellower and more inviting than it had been for years. Coyote Woman found a crooning, soulful tune rising in her throat of its own accord as she busied herself around the house. She didn’t feel the need to clean as much as to be occupied, so she put away things that had been left out for months, dusted dead flies off windowsills, rearranged her bedroom to feel more like a den.

Her phone rang and it was Sabrina. The seal woman sounded beside herself as she went on about her man and another woman, or maybe another animal, and if they got divorced would he get half of her sealskin, too?

“I just thought, you’ve been in a situation like this before, Angie, and, oh, I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Sabrina moaned.

“You’re going to be fine,” Coyote Woman said. She crumpled the teacher’s note stuck on the fridge, the one about a consultation for the boys, and dropped it into the trash. “You survived before, didn’t you?”

“I— you mean before my skin…?”

“If you’re any kind of animal, or woman, you’ll keep surviving.”

If Sabrina hung up disappointed or if that’s exactly what she’d wanted to hear, Coyote Woman didn’t care. She was too distracted with her plans.

As dusk set in, she dug a ladder from the outside storage and propped it against the side of the trailer. She went in, filled one thermos with decaf and another with hot cocoa, then climbed to the roof. The boys watched her preparations and followed.

It wasn’t something she had to tell them to do, any more than the moon had to tell her. Coyote muscle memory was engrained into all of them.

They settled on one end of the trailer’s roof, sipped hot drinks and watched the luminous sky. Soon, the boys began to yip, then bark, then howl.

They tipped their muzzles to the sky and Coyote Woman guided their song in her lower, deeper tones. A soulful crooning that let the world know they were there.

Neighbors on one side came out and frowned up at the sight; on the other, they hollered at her to shut up. Coyote Woman sang to drown them out and encouraged her pups to do the same.

As though called from half the city away, Libby arrived home a bit after ten. Her ears pricked inquiringly over the top of the ladder as the friend’s car chugged away. Coyote Woman held up the thermos of decaf and Libby crawled to her side. She smelled of wet fur, fast food tacos, a tiny bit of booze. The huge yellow moon reflected in her eyes while they sipped steaming drinks from plastic cups.

“Tell that friend of yours they need to get the alternator checked,” Coyote Woman said.

“I knew you’d say something like that,” Libby said.

Coyote Woman huffed. She couldn’t care less about the brisk wind on her bare, human arms as her daughter raised her muzzle to the sky and sang.

 

* * *

About the Author

As a fine art professional, Marissa James has wielded katanas and handled Lady Gaga’s shoes. As a veterinary assistant, she has cared for hairless cats, hedgehogs, and one time, a coyote. As a writer, her short fiction can be found in Flash Fiction Online, Etherea, Mysterion, and many other publications. She resides in the Pacific Northwest and can be found tweeting about all things writing at @MaroftheBooks.

If you’ve been following In-Fur-Nation for a while, you must have heard of Blazing Samurai… We’ve been following the animated film in development for nearly a decade now! At one point production ceased because the animation house that was making it actually went out of business! In fact, the convoluted history of this film’s creation would make for an interesting movie all its own. But now, it seems like things have changed: We have a trailer, we have a release date… and we have a complete change of title. Say hello to Paws of Fury: The Legend of Hank. Still directed by Rob Minkoff (The Lion King), but now being released this July through Paramount Pictures and Nickelodeon Animation.

image c. 2022 Nickelodeon Animation

More from this year’s WonderCon! Lori Weiner works with a variety of animal rescue organizations. In her spare time, she’s a novelist who has created the series Dino Vicelli: Private Eye, featuring a sleuth-y greyhound. “Dino Vicelli is a world-famous detective dog who has successfully nosed and snooped his way to the top. A resident of the Barkingham Pet Hotel California, he lives in the executive luxury suite and, as a private detective, snoops on all the other dogs during the day.” Find out more at the official web site, and check out Dino Vicelli: Private Eye in a World of Evils at Barnes & Noble.

image c. 2022 Dorrance Publishing

Hey everyone! Welcome to the next video showing highlights that I've seen in the furry community. If you wanted to see the form from Anthro Weekend Utah about their tournament its here https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdw8v5kMz51tslA5f9aNSpO-Y8HxHAKlCMtMPsaQXfRppix7g/viewform Virtual Furence https://twitter.com/VirtualFurence/status/1510016339091632131?s=20&t=dOBE-XjIb214PSucpccDJw VancouFur https://vancoufur.org/ Bewhiskered https://www.2022.bewhiskeredcon.org/ Furry Siesta https://furrysiesta.org/ Furnal Equinox 2022 Dance Competition https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XpPtc8SHVmI Keep Tahoe Furry https://twitter.com/KeepTahoeFurry/status/1510393475446964230?s=20&t=Myym8TA5JWeZ0Vb5uvOXmw Motor City Furry Con Fursuit Parade https://motorcityfurrycon.org/news/the-2022-fursuit-parade/ Motor City Furry Con Public Letter https://motorcityfurrycon.org/news/dear-mcfc-2022-attendees-an-open-letter/ If you like the work I do please like/follow/share to support the channel I'm on multiple platforms https://twitter.com/GrovelHusky https://www.twitch.tv/grovelhusky https://t.me/grovelreports Subscribe to show support https://www.youtube.com/c/GrovelHusky/?sub_confirmation=1 Grovel Reports Studio made by Kydek https://twitter.com/FluffyKydek Banners used in the channel were made by Slushi https://twitter.com/Slushi3Brushi3?s=09 Music created for Grovel Husky by Whooshagg https://whooshagg.com/ Grovel Reports April 9th 2022 - Largest Furry Con Collab In The Fandom? #forkfandom #furryfandom #furryconvention

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Moobarkfluff!  This week we welcome Hund the Hound to the show, we talk a bit about what is happening in the world, tell some jokes and celebrate birthdays. Taebyn does 5 quick puns, and he explains why induction can't tell you the color of horses. We seem to have created an entire herd of cattle! Join us for a rip roaring good fur time!Moobarkfluff!

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Bearly Furcasting S2E50 - Special Guest Hund the Hound, Storytime, Jokes.

Another item we’ve missed, brought to our attention by Animation World Network. Time to catch up! “Cheeky Little Media has announced that ABC Kids has greenlit a second season of the popular Australian 3D animated TV series, Kangaroo Beach. The second season will offer more beach-based fun adventures with the four cadets: Pounce, Frizzy, Neville, and Gemma, and continue to explore new water safety themes for preschoolers and their families… Key partners for the Season 2 include ABC, the Australian Children’s Television Foundation (ACTF), and Surf Life Saving Australia. ACTF will also distribute the series while Cheeky Little Commercial continues as the global brand manager. New consumer products for the franchise include a book series, kids’ swimwear and clothing, bedding, and toys.” As ever, merchandising!

image c. 2022 Cheeky Little Media

Seems like this has been out for a while, but it passed beneath our radar: Slow City Blues from Image Comics. “The story is focused on Detective John Loris, who gets trapped inside his imagination after accidentally killing a little girl in the line of duty. After trying to take his own life, John instead ends up in Slow City, a construct of his mind’s eye, a place where anything and everything is possible, except a way out… John Loris is both revered and reviled as The Creator, but in Slow City, even God is just another slob. So, he does the only thing he knows how: Be a cop. But times are changing and the wheels in his mind are in motion. And now, John and his partner, a six foot six, smart-ass skunk, must solve a double homicide and bring the killer to justice before a gang war between the Gorillas of the Devil’s Backbone and the Dragons of the Midnight Syndicate destroy Slow City.” To find out more, check out the Image press release.

image c. 2022 Image Comics

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Opening Theme: 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. (Buy a copy here – support your fellow furs!)
Break: Mystery Skulls – Ghost. USA: Warner Bros Records, 2011. Used with permission.
Closing Theme: RetroSpecter – Cloud Fields (RetroSpecter Chill Mix). 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. (Buy a copy here – support your fellow furs!) S9 Episode 20 – Virtual BOIS - We have gone digital! Join Roo and Nuka as we learn about furries that spend their time in the virtual world. - VRCHAT! - NOW LISTEN! SHOW NOTES SPECIAL THANKS Quinton Coyote Socks - PATREON LOVE

Recently visiting WonderCon we came across WereWoofs, a new YA graphic novel by screenwriter Joelle Sellner and illustrator Val Wise. “In the small Midwestern town of Howlett, navigating high school is tough enough. But when a group of friends are inexplicably turned into weredogs, adapting to their new powers proves to be even tougher. This leads to an unlikely friendship with loner Mara, a werewolf whose father has mysteriously vanished. As the high schoolers team up to solve the disappearance, friendships are tested, and secrets are revealed as the Werewoofs prove themselves in an explosive showdown against a dangerous wolfpack and their vicious alpha.” It’s available now from New Paradigm. Check out the review over at Cemetery Dance.

image c. 2022 New Paradigm Studios

中文：达到十万之里程碑——国际兽视中国第二频道

中文：感觉“像在家”的无障碍设计——Confuzzled 2022

中文：“好兽奖”投票开始

中文：兽展更新 2022-4-4

　　繪師天犬自2021年4月開始，於推特上連載漫畫《初次見面蛇先生》，其繪畫風格與故事內容獲得不少獸迷好評。並於今年3月29日，在臺北市西門町喜滿客影城進行約3小時的快閃展覽。該展覽為銘傳大學動漫文創設計學士學位學程的畢業展，場內同時也有其他應屆畢業生的作品一同展出，因此現場有不少學生與師長前來參觀。

展覽上展示部分作品  攝影／藍風

　　作品《作品《初次見面蛇先生》，為繪師天犬的獨立原創作品，故事走溫馨風格並融入血腥元素，作品也有斷肢、血腥等限制級的內容為其特色。作者表示，最初創作出「蛇先生」一角，起因在一年前受課業需求為其製作，當時該作品是只有六頁的短篇故事與海報。後來在粉絲對該角色設定與外貌感到相當特別且受到關注，適逢畢業製作的創作需求，便打算將這個作品完成。

　　作者表示一開始本作品並未打算走獵奇向，是受到如《Another》、《魔法少女小圓》等作品啟發，覺得可以融入一些相關元素。後來因粉絲們的回饋良好，再加上目前獸文化中尚未有類似的作品風格。因此朝向這個方向去進行後續創作。

宣傳片

繪師天犬與其作品《初次見面蛇先生》 攝影／藍風 後製／天犬

　　現場除現場除了在影廳內進行各個作品的預告片放映與發表外，外部走廊也擺放部分作品展示。繪師天犬在展位上備有電子書，讓有興趣的民眾與獸迷前來閱覽，也提供天犬繪製的《初次見面蛇先生》角色明信片供人免費索取。繪師表示，除了電子書以外，目前正與朋友開發故事相關網頁，預計約一個月內會完成上線。

現場備有電子書讓民眾自行閱覽  攝影／藍風

　　截至目前為止，該作品已經在作者推特上釋出至第六篇，離本傳故事結束僅餘兩篇，總共會有約200頁的篇幅。同時該故事本傳的第二部：「過去篇」，以及第一部故事的平行世界線也正在創作當中。

　　《初次見面蛇先生》作品將於4月中在推特上釋出第七篇上半部故事內容，同時進行為期一週的印量調查並出版實體本。未來將在今年5月17日至20日於銘傳大學進行校內展；6月1日至4日於南港展覽館舉辦的新一代設計展進行展出與販售。作者透露，未來會根據印量調查數據，隨書附贈如角色周邊等贈品。

Asians in the Furry Fandom: Identity, Belonging, and Assimilation - March Livestream ---- New month, new livestream! And in this livestream we brought back some familiar faces: Ray (US) and Kaiyoki (Australia) to talk to us about being Asian in the fandom. But that’s not all. We also invited Sakura Inu (Taiwan) and Poochie (Australia) to give us their take on being Asian in the fandom. The goal of this particular livestream is twofold: 1, We wanted to know more about being Asian or “Asian-abroad” in the fandom; and 2, We wanted to generate a discussion about identity, belonging, and assimilation in our very own fur community. Regardless of if you’re Asian or not, what do you consider yourself? Do you think race matters to you? Tell us in the comments below. Finally, we are proud to announce that this has been our most successful livestream yet. According to our Twitch statistics, we had on average 28 viewers with a high of 36. You guys rock! Enjoy! ---- Social media: Our official Twitter: https://twitter.com/foxandburger Matcha Fox: https://twitter.com/foxnakh https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCK9xoFQrxFTNPMjmXfUg2cg Burger: https://twitter.com/L1ghtningRunner Kaiyoki: https://twitter.com/Kaiyoki Ray: https://twitter.com/RaytingTW Sakura Inu: https://twitter.com/Sakurainu_fur