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by David Aronlee

“Without my pay going to those silly log cabins, I am saving so much, it would make your snout drop.”

Posted Hogtown Post Office, January 2

Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you the way the daisy misses the sun. I have wonderful news. I got a job! I’m a truffle sorter at the truffle factory. Not bad for a hog from the country. I had my first day yesterday and my boss already says I have potential. I could be a shift leader within a year or maybe even a truffle hunter someday!  My friend Fred says that’s where you can make it big: with the commission from finding a big truffle cluster.

Fred’s a city pig. He grew up here in Hogtown and is showing me the ropes. I get the feeling he’s got money; he said something about doing this job just to get his parents off his piggyback. He’s got a beautiful brick house right in the middle of town. He’s a good oinker though, even if he’s got a bit of a wild side to him. Showing me the watering holes, making sure I don’t put a hoof wrong at work (or at least not when the boss can see).

I better get to sleep soon. Back to the factory early tomorrow. I miss you dearly.

All my love,

Patrick Pig

* * *

Posted Hogtown Post Office, January 20

Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you the way the river misses the sea. I cannot wait for the day I can build that little brick house we always dreamed of living in together. I received my first paycheck. It was a little disappointing. Apparently, most of our paycheck goes into our company lodging. Many of us live in bunks in these quaint wood cabins just by the factory. It’s an easy commute, but so much of the pay gets gobbled up, I’m thinking about moving. I talked to a few of the other young hogs around. Apparently, there is a place called the Straw Sheds you can move in for dirt cheap over on the edge of town. The straw keeps you warm and for pennies a day you can actually save. This is all I ever wanted in the world: to save up to build a beautiful little brick house and find that future we always dreamed of.

All my love,

Patrick Pig

* * *

Posted Hogtown Post Office, February 6

Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you the way the sky misses the dawn. I got my second paycheck today, and I think I can move the plans up! Without my pay going to those silly log cabins, I am saving so much, it would make your snout drop. To think: the son of a long line of muck-rollers and scrap-eaters might someday own a brick house. And the Straw Sheds aren’t half bad. After growing up in a drafty barn, they are positively cozy, and I can afford my own little private shed.

This old boar in our cabin, Barry, gave our whole group a warning before we all moved to the Straw Sheds. He’s the only old porker among us, looks he just sort of got stuck snuffling for pennies and plowing it all back so he can live there. A few of the other younger pigs decided to stay after he said his piece, but when we pressed him for specifics, he just told us about this family that moved out into the woods and built themselves a little log cabin. I guess in the middle of winter some wolves got to them. A whole bloody mess. But please don’t worry. They built their cabin way out in the forest, down by the river. Here in the Straw Sheds we are just on the edge of the town meadow, and I’m surrounded by sturdy hogs. Safe as a pig in a blanket! Sounds like he is just wallowing in his ways. And besides, after hearing so much about the Straw Sheds, well I was curious!

I went down to the Piggybank after work today to open an account. They treated me like pig royalty! (I joked that I came into the city from Animal Farm. They didn’t laugh. I don’t think they got the reference or read as much as we do, even if they like to pretend they are polished city pigs compared to those of us from the country.) They did say if I wanted to take a mortgage on a brick house like Fred’s, they need at least 6-months’ proof-of-income. But I ran the math, and if I’m careful I think I can save the down-payment they require in that time. To think that it may be less than a year until the brick house we always wanted makes me snort. And that should be plenty of time for me to fully explore the mysteries of Hogtown for you.

All my love,

Patrick Pig

P.S. Pardon my crossing out. Paper is too dear in this town to throw away and we have a house to save for!

* * *

Posted Hogtown Post Office, February 24

Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you the way the garden misses the rose. I think I need to see less of Fred. After a few pints the other night he suggested we take some of the truffle oil from the back room. He said all that was left in there was waste, and no one would miss it. Apparently, it gives you a heck of a buzz, so on Friday we snuck in and took a quart or two. Well, dearest, they caught us. And Fred hadn’t been quite right: they very much did care. They had us strung up in front of the Head Hog quicker than you can snort. I thought I was bacon, but then my Uncle Jimmy stopped in.

Have I ever told you about Uncle Jimmy? I may not have. Our family doesn’t talk about him much. He has a connection to the cartels. I’ve heard a rumor he makes the bodies disappear. I won’t tell you how. Anyway, as we were being run up to Head Hog, I saw him. He must have spotted us because no sooner had we been deposited in front of the snorting boar than he stepped in, apologized on my behalf, promised to see I was punished, and when the Head Hog agreed, which clearly Uncle Jimmy very much took as a foregone conclusion, he hustled me out of there. He gave me a talking to alright, told me to get the hell out, leave the factory and Hogtown and go home. But I can’t do that. We have sacrificed too much for me to leave now. And when I asked him what he was doing there he ignored the question, gave me a good tail bite, and left.

I saw Fred that Monday back on the factory floor, none the worse for wear. I’m not sure how he got out of it, but he was snorting along and smiling. He’s a bad influence. That may be an understatement. I must say I am curious just why they are so protective of the truffle oil. Another mystery. I dream of you every night.

All my love,

Patrick Pig

* * *

Posted Hogtown Post Office, April 20

Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you like the wave misses the beach. A strange thing happened yesterday: one of our Straw Shed sows, Pansy, is gone one of our cutters, Pansy, didn’t show up for work. It was most unlike her — she had never missed a day — but we checked the Straw Sheds and there was no sign of any foul play. I asked Fred if he had seen her downtown, and he said he hadn’t. We all heard some wolves howling off in the woods, but when we told the constabulary, or the Porky Patrol as they call it here, the squealer at the station said it was coyotes and huffed about country bumpkins. Didn’t sound like any coyote we have around our place.

We didn’t see anything amiss at her house, so everyone seems to think she just gave up and went home. I don’t believe that for a second. She seemed to me like she was working whole-hog. She mentioned something about her sister just having a farrow and the boar running off with the spoon, so I think she was sending money home…

The other strange thing was that Head Hog didn’t seem all that surprised. Oh, he said all the right things, but there was a strange air of expectation. There isn’t much we can do, not like we have that much free time between truffle sorting and bed, and the matter was referred to the Porky Patrol.  They just want to let sleeping hogs lie. But all the same, it is a mystery and you know how I hate mysteries. Only two more months until I can go back to the bank and our dream can begin. I wish I could ask you to write to me of home, I could use a loving reminder.

All my love,

Patrick Pig

* * *

Posted Hogtown Post Office, June 30

Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you like the winter branch misses the leaf. And that is how I feel right now: bare. Indeed quite low although I am not one to wallow usually. I have received terrible news.

I went back to the Piggy Bank, six months of pay stubs in hoof, full of excitement, and was told that the 6-month pay stub only applies if you have some collateral. Well, I do not have a house and needless to say my Straw Shed doesn’t count. Otherwise, I must wait a whole year. I am bereft to learn that it will be another six months before I begin to finally build our house, but alas it must be so. No more trips to the watering hole for me. If I must wait another six months, I shall be saving full-boar and use my time wisely. I will find out what happened to Pansy — I can feel it in my tail curl that it is important.

At least our bonus vests after a year. Apparently, they hold back about 10% of our pay at the factory and after we’ve been there for a year we get it as a lump sum plus a little extra. Encourages retention. I’m not sure about the legal specifics but HR (Hog Resources) says it’s a very sound system. So at least I’ll get a nice bonus to speed us on our way.

It may be my disquiet from the bank, but I received another piece of strange news. Barry is gone. No one has seen that old grunter for weeks, apparently since the day we all moved to the Straw Sheds. Now that I think of it, that was the day after he warned us about the move. I daren’t bring it up to the Head Hog. He heard me talking about it with Fred, who had nothing to add, by the way, and told me to get back to my truffles. Less grunting, more sorting. Something rotten seems to be going on. I heard the howling the last few nights too. It keeps me up sometimes.

I haven’t seen much of Fred since Pansy disappeared. He seems to be keeping his distance outside of work, which is just as well if I am to save all my pennies for our future. I wish I could write to you to come this second. Alas, it is impossible. Besides, with fall approaching the Straw Sheds would be no place for such a beautiful gem anyway. I am well.

All my love.

Patrick Pig

* * *

Posted Hogtown Post Office, August 3

My Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you the way the alpine lake misses the mountain stream. I have amazing news! I have been promoted to shift supervisor! I guess that is what you get when you keep your snout to the grindstone. It’s not much, a little bit more job responsibility, and a few more pennies an hour, but it could mean a whole extra room or two in our little home. Maybe even a second floor. I am all aflutter, drawing up new plans as I drift off to sleep, staring at the shadows on the hay roof. I think of such domestic things: where we will put the ice box and the garden in the yard. I can’t decide if the garden should go in the front or the back (we don’t want any squealers stealing our mushrooms!). But I am getting ahead of myself. There are five months yet, but I feel now like our dream might finally be within my grasp. The oinkers are taking me out for a drink to celebrate, so I must trot. I cannot wait, heart’s flower.

All my love,

Patrick Pig

P.S. Not to mention, as shift supervisor, I have better access to the factory records!

* * *

Posted Hogtown Post Office, September 5

My Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you like the night sky misses the moon. I am so worried. Another of our cutters, Sam, didn’t show up to work. Sam lives a couple sheds down from me in the Straw Sheds. The first day he skived off we figured he had just had a few too many pints at the bar with Fred. Since I’ve withdrawn from Fred’s company, I noticed Sam and Fred have become thick as thieves and it wouldn’t be totally unlike him to be sleeping off the piss recovering from overindulging the night before. But then he missed a second, and then a third day. He has certainly never done that before.

As shift supervisor, it was my duty to report his absence to Head Hog. Head Hog just politely thanked me for the information and trotted off. An employee absence and he just trots away like nothing has happened: this from a pig that squealed so loud when Sam knocked over a sack of truffles last week we thought someone had skinned the bacon from his back. This from a grunter that chomped so hard he almost broke a molar when I showed up to work three minutes late. (It was that first week after Fred talked me into going into the cidery and we ended up with rooster hats.) (Sorry my love, I don’t think I ever told you that story; I’ll have to fill you in the next time I see you.) THIS FROM A SQUEALER Head Hog didn’t seem at all surprised by Pansy’s disappearance either. I commented to Head Hog that the “coyotes” are getting louder and louder, but he just said they get like that this time of fall. Something is amiss, like a moldy truffle hiding at the bottom of the sack. Never fear my dear; I shall get to the bottom of this.

All my love,

Patrick Pig

* * *

Posted Hogtown Post Office, October 18

My Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you like the evening shadow misses the far horizon. The plot thickens. Head Hog invited me over for a poker night at his sty. A couple of the execs were there too, really heavy hitters, along with a few other shift supervisors (all boars; not a single sow among them), and to my surprise, Fred. Fred and I were the only first-year-factory-oinkers there. I promise dearest, I was not there to gamble away the savings. It was simply too good of an opportunity to chew the fat with upper management and see if I could sniff anything out. And believe it or not, I was doing quite well at the game too, or at least holding my own, until I had two shocks.

Fred had just gone bust and tried to buy back in for the third time (who goes all in on a pair of deuces?), when one of the execs told him, “That’s enough cob-roller, you get on home now.” Fred just rolled his eyes and ambled out. I leaned over and whispered to another supervisor who had been there a year longer than I and asked, “What was that all about?” And do you know what he told me?? That was the CEP (Chief Executive Pig) of the whole factory and none other than Fred’s old shoat! It all came together for me: how Fred “owns” a brick house in the middle of town; how he got out of trouble after that truffle oil incident. I lost the next hand. But what really set me back happened a couple hours later in the night.

Head Hog had been passing around brandy and the snorts and shouts were getting louder as it got later. One of the other shift supervisors burst out laughing at some joke and shouted back that he’d “call the wolves early this year.” I don’t yet know what that meant, but the room got real quiet for a moment: like a piglet learning about bacon for the first time. Well, that reference to wolves threw me off something terrible. You remember that’s how Auntie Edna went. I stayed quiet the next few rounds to try to listen to the snorts around me, but with my concentration split I was quickly drained of chips, which raised the volume considerably. Priscilla, I do not know what that comment meant, but it meant something. That evening was worth it. I will write to you as soon as I can.

All my love,

Patrick Pig

* * *

Posted Hogtown Post Office, November 7

Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you the way the desert cactus misses the rain cloud. I think I am finally making progress. I am doing my best snuffling up to Head Hog. I have become a veritable tyrant to my crew and I fear they are not taking it well.  I dare not tell them what I am up to, but I am in Head Hog’s good books. He has me coming in late to do the scheduling. I would normally not stand for it, since I do not even get paid overtime, but coming in late seems the perfect opportunity to do some rooting around. We will find our answers soon, I can smell it.

All my love,

Patrick Pig

* * *

Posted Hogtown Post Office, November 25

Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you the way the spider misses the web.  I found some things. I shall try to lay things out more clearly in my next letter. I don’t think anything terrible should happen, but if you do not hear from me, know that I have copied this letter to Uncle Jimmy so nothing should be lost with me. Straw Shed 4. Mud under the bed.

All my love,

Patrick Pig.

* * *

Posted Fairytale Post Office, December 4

Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you the way rabbit misses the burrow. I do not know if you can tell, but this letter was not posted from Hogtown. I gave it to a traveler, she said her name was Red Riding Hood. Strange name these humans come up with. Anyway, she was heading out of town and said there was a post office up by her grandmother’s house in Fairytale Village and she would post it there for me, so there is no chance of this falling into the wrong hooves.

I found the ear of corn in the mud. Head Hog sent me to the CEP’s office the other day to drop off the truffle-loss forms. While I was there, I poked around his desk since he was out for the evening. There was a latch under the bottom drawer, and a secret compartment; you remember how we used to play around with those with your Uncle Peter? Anyway. I found contracts. It’s all there.

The CEP has been paying off wolves. I cannot believe it, but it all fits. They make the new hires disappear so they can re-hire a new crop every year and pay them peanuts instead of paying each experienced crew the wage they deserve. It’s somehow cheaper for them to hire assassins than pay a reasonable wage? Should I be surprised?? I saw so angry my tail straightened right out and I nearly barked.

Do not fear for me my dearest. I snuck out the way I had come. And they seem to keep the shift leaders; at least, I am the only new one this year so I assume so. I think I am safe. It is Thursday. I’m going to take this information to the Hall of Justice and constabulary on Monday. Too many people are off on Fridays and I’m afraid of this falling into the wrong pettitoes. I shall talk to the other oinkers and we shall march in numbers.

I cannot imagine you in this cesspit, so perhaps I shall return to you soon, but we shall see on Monday. I will write to you as soon as I can.

All my love,

Patrick Pig

P.S. I just realized this is why they keep back 10% of our pay. It’s not for retention. It’s to pay for this dastardly scheme! We have been paying for our own demise!

* * *

Posted Hogtown Post Office, December 8

My Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you like the falling rain misses the soil below. I am despondent. I know you have been expecting a letter from me for days, but I could not bring myself to put pen to paper. I am in jail. It all went wrong. They will no doubt read this, but I do not care anymore. If they use this against me, so be it. I do not believe they will give me a fair trial, so I must tell my story to someone.

I did it. On Sunday I gathered the trotters from the Straw Sheds, and some few left in the wood cabins at the factory, and told them what I had learned. And on Monday we marched in force down to the Hall of Justice. I made my report to the Porky Patrol while my fellow brave oinkers marched outside with signs and chants. I gave Officer Parker the documents I had found, with the promise that they would get before a judge ASAP. I trusted him. I’d seen Officer Parker around town a few times, he seemed the professional, if a little lazy, type of hog, but he’d always been friendly. More fool me.

I thought things were going well, they held me in a room with one window, but Officer Parker porked his snout in to say they would be bringing the CEP down straight-away to get to the bottom of this. My heart rose for a few minutes. I saw the CEP come in with a couple other officers. Then I heard the laughter in the other room and my heart sank. Then I heard shouts and squeals from outdoors and the sound of breaking logs, and then it got quiet, and my disquiet grew. Then the CEP left, rubbing snouts with the officers, with a sheaf of documents — my documents — in his hooves.

Officer Parker came back in and explained that it was all a big misunderstanding: those were security documents for the factory that I must have misinterpreted. I was, after all, “just a pig from the country, haha.” I rose to go and it got worse.

Officer Parker then explained, almost in tones of regret, that unfortunately I was going to be held. There was the small matter of inciting a riot. Of slander of an important individual. And of course: thievery of corporate documents. I was caught, bound hoof and hoof, metaphorically and literally.

Here I sit, wondering when I shall see the light. I am awaiting trial but I have little doubt what the outcome of that will be. I trusted in the justice of this place, I do not know how I could have made such a mistake, and now we shall not get our closure. I miss you all the more my dearest. It pains me to think how I have ruined the whole point of my trip here.

Patrick Pig

* * *

Posted Hogtown Post Office, December 10

Dearest Priscilla,

I am out! Fred posted bail. I guess he felt bad about everything. Not bad enough to help me — he didn’t hear me when I tried to explain about the wolves — but bad about how everything went down. He urged me, near tears, to just leave town and be safe.

You know why I cannot just give up now. But I have a new plan. The wolves are due in two days and there won’t be a floor-level factory cutter left alive after that if I leave. Most of them are young and clueless and after marching with me are just wandering aimlessly around the Straw Sheds. Some have even gone back to work. They don’t know what to do. I will not leave them to those vulgar fascist pigs and their murderous wolves.

I know this would give you anxiety my dearest. I am so sorry. If all goes well this will put an end to things in this reeking sty of a town and I shall return to you post-haste.

All my love,

Patrick Pig

* * *

Posted Hogtown Post Office, December 20

Prissila,

That dirty squealer. He led the wolves right to them! And to think I bailed him out of jail. I’ll never forgive myself. Patrick asked me to write to you, and I wouldn’t have bothered getting my hooves dirty, but his family needs to know what kind of rotten squealer they raised. Holy hog. I hope his last moments were agony.

The wolves came, just like he kept grunting about. Patrick kept squealing that my old shoat was mixed up in it — that uptight old trotter — and now we’ll never know.

I was at home, wallowing with this pretty petite oinker named Patty, when I heard an insane high-pitched squealing that rattled the windows. I saw a couple trotters tear past and then some wolves, howling and drooling, pelted by in a flash heading towards the factory. One of them banged into my door, so we boarded things up tight — fortunately the brick walls are sturdy and they couldn’t get in. I followed them as soon as things quieted down and Patty trotted after me.

Well, it was mayhem up there. There were a few of the Porky Patrol and about half the town milling about outside. I saw Officer Parker rolling out some tape and cornered him. Patty was with me so I reminded Officer Parker who my father was and he spilled what he knew.

Apparently, there was some sort of hostage situation led by some radicals and Patrick. That crazy grunter. Then a pack of wolves came busting through, chewing up anyone who got in their way and smashed their way into the factory, which was on fire for some reason.

They got my old shoat! The Porky Patrol found him chewed up like bacon along with Head Hog. Those sick beasts. And it was Patrick’s fault.

Oh. And I guess some of the wolves then took off after Patrick and his crew. The Patrol found a few ripped up snouts and gobs of blood and guts by a back exit, so it looks like they didn’t get that far.

Good riddance.

Fred

* * *

Posted from Fairytale Village Post, January 2

Dearest Priscilla,

I miss you the way the willow seed misses the wind. And the wind is finally blowing me to you. I am coming home. I fear we shall never have our brick house in town, but we already knew that.

I hope Fred wrote to you to let you know I made it out. I assume he was not pleased. But we did it. Vengeance. For all of us.

I gathered all the young factory oinkers in the Straw Sheds the night before the wolves were supposed to arrive, I remembered the date from the contracts. And it was obvious where the wolves would go first: the Straw Sheds. We took our things into the woods and hid out, but left a few notes for those vicious beasts. We stayed there until the shadows were getting long the next day but before the rest of the factory cutters headed home.

Then, we quietly crept around town and broke into the factory! We overpowered the security guards and tied up all upper management. Any snout who had been there less than a year or was just a worker we let go, but every shift supervisor, Head Hog, all the executives, and of course the CEP, we kept. A couple shift supervisors escaped, but that didn’t bother me.

Then we barricaded the doors to the factory and started chanting, “no justice, no peace,” and “hog heads will roll,” just to stir them up.  Sure enough, the shift supervisors had gone straight to the Porky Patrol and those corrupt porkers showed up just as the sun was setting. We had hostages though, so they just set up a perimeter and ordered us to roll over, which we naturally ignored.

I and a few others made some final arrangements as the night deepened. And just as the Porky Patrol was getting ready to burst in blazing — we had the CEP and all the richest pigs in town of course; they were getting quite anxious — the wolves showed up. Right on time. Slavering jaws, hanging tongues, any Porky Patrol that got in their way was quickly shown the way to hog heaven.

And the rest of us just slipped out the back door and into the woods.

See, we had left notes for the wolves, that the hog management had decided that the deal was off, and so they were going to burn some of the truffle oil they usually paid the wolves in, and then smuggle the bulk of it out and pretend it had been lost in the fire. The wolves, when they found those notes but no tender pigs in the Sheds, came storming up to the factory. Where we happened to have all upper management neatly trussed up for them. And we had poured all the truffle oil into the big vat on the factory floor and set fire to it just as we slipped out.

The wolves broke down the door, saw the fire, just as we had said, and were enraged. Apparently, half the wolves took their displeasure out on the drove of upper management before them, and the other half ran in and tried to put out the fire as the place burned down around them. But a few came after us right quick and nearly caught us. It was touch and go my dear, but we had an insurance. We brought the CEP and a couple of his right-hoof snouts like Head Hog, and, this may seem cold blooded, but we cut them loose just as the wolves came up behind us. Well, such carnage you have never seen, but it gave us the time we needed to escape.

I cannot say I feel bad about the death of those porkers. When I think of the scheme they ran and the blood of so many innocent trotters on their hooves. Sam. Pansy. So many, many years of young dead pigs. They deserved what was coming. And of course…

I am bringing some of the trotters home with me. We are going to start our own truffle collective, away from the corruption and depravity of Hog Town. I know it’s not the brick house in town we imagined, but all these oinkers, sows and hogs, are brave, loyal, true, and kind. It is something. I shall see you soon my dearest.

All my love,

Patrick Pig

* * *

Posted From Truffle Commune, May 5

Dearest Priscilla,

We have started our truffle commune far to the east of Hogtown, past the Billy Goat’s bridge. I cannot tell you how I wish you were here with me, but I find solace in knowing that this letter will find you as all the others have.

I hope you know I visited you on my way here. The other cutters helped me plant a few peonies and daffodils, but the roses and hydrangeas around your headstone were already in full bloom. It looked so beautiful it broke my heart.

Please know that you are and have always been my inspiration for this. I don’t know if this is closure. I will probably never find that true joy again, not since the day you left me to try your pettitoes at the factory in Hogtown. I will never forget the day they sent me that note and a little box with your ashes. Not even a year after you had left.

Revenge doesn’t heal, but putting an end to that monstrosity does, just a little. Know that you inspired me; a hog who never wanted to leave the sty in the first place — inspired a change that will hopefully last for generations. The world is a bleaker place without you, but you were the spark in my heart and always will be.

We have our first few farrows here in our commune, and the birds are singing, and the grass is green, and I see you in all of it. That is about as close to peace as I can get.

I shall miss you forever.

All my love,

Patrick

 

* * *

About the Author

David Aronlee lives in California with his family. He loves his family (including his goofy golden Lucy), dragons and volleyball, and is a lawyer, but would dearly love to be a fantasy writer when he grows up. He has been previously published in Spaceports and Spidersilk.

by Larry Hodges

“Spreading such misinformation went against all her scientific training, and it killed her to do so, but what choice was there?”

Zuk stared out the open window above her cubicle desk at the poor, hatless rats chattering and scampering about outside, digging through heaps of garbage for scraps of rotting food. She wrinkled her nose; even from here the stench was like a tail smashing into her face. Pathetic. It should be illegal to have that much fun when you’re homeless.

That’s what happens when you don’t get an education! she wanted to scream, but instead just slapped her tail against the sawdust floor. Saying that would be rude. She herself had a doctorate in ratropology, but often wondered if she’d made a huge career mistake. Aerospace engineering, physics, astronomy, computer science — those were the cool, high-paying careers, and rats with those jobs weren’t stuck working in office buildings next to heaps of smelly garbage and the homeless. Soon they would land the first rat on the Moon, and they’d be heroes, while she’d be stuck at her desk writing stories for tabloids. With her academic skills, she could have breezed her way through astronaut school. She could have been the first rat to scamper on the Moon.

She could have been famous.

“Where’s that article?”

Zuk almost fell off her hard wooden stool. It was the boss, his head thrust through her cubicle’s circular opening behind her, his vantablack moleskin cap askew, as always. How did he always sneak up so silently? Was he part cat? His ragged fur was already graying, almost silver. Hers was light brown, almost blonde, and meticulously combed, every strand in place.

“Almost done,” she said through gritted teeth. She was not a good liar. “Give me a couple of hours.”

“One. Or you know what happens,” he said, feigning a tail yank with his paw before withdrawing, leaving behind the usual nauseous smell of rose perfume.

She sighed. Her tailbone still hurt from yesterday. Forget prancing about on the Moon — she was stuck in a tiny cubicle, typing away like a mindless mouse for a mindless, tail-yanking boss, surrounded by tokens of her trade.

A framed poster hung on the gray cubicle wall to the left of her desk of the Ludy fossil skeleton, two hundred thousand years old. It was considered the first modern rat, with fully opposable thumbs that could rotate freely. An inset showed an artist’s rendition, with the beginning of a brain bulge. Zuk often stared into his eyes. What was Ludy like? Did he have thoughts and feelings like modern rats? She envied the simple life they’d led.

On her desk sat a fifty-thousand-year-old spearhead from their ancient ancestors, now a paperweight. She’d dug it up herself. She often imagined some ancient ancestor spending countless hours rummaging through human ruins to find the perfectly shaped piece of glass for a spearpoint, lashing it to a bamboo stick, and taking down huge, ferocious beasts like rabbits, chihuahuas, and maybe, heroically, a pre-domesticated cat, before they were tamed by those brave catadores. They knew it happened — they’d dug up cat fossils with embedded spearheads. Wow.

Taped to the wall on the right was her top treasure, an actual eagleskin feathered cap once worn by Ambra the Aviator, the first rat to fly around the globe, one hundred years ago. Zuk would never have adventures like that. In her excavations they’d mostly dug up old pottery shards, not exactly something to get excited about. Stop the presses, I have a bit of pottery!

Smiling, she took a sip of sassafras juice from a clay cup, and imagined its shards being dug up someday by some futuristic ratropologist. Maybe it would end up in a museum. How boring.

At least she had her cute toadskin cap, warts and all. It had cost her a week’s pay. She carefully readjusted it over her head.

“Why aren’t you typing?”

This time Zuk did fall out of her stool. The boss snorted.

“Sorry, was planning the big climax.” She jumped back on her stool and attacked the keyboard with a frenzy.

“Hurry up. Words are money.” He withdrew.

As bosses go, he wasn’t totally terrible, as long as Zuk made her deadlines. When she missed one… well, tail-yanking wasn’t so bad once you got used to it. There simply weren’t that many jobs in ratropology, so she had to take what she could get. That’s why she’d joined Emca Writers, a writing mill that churned out sensationalist articles for the tabloids. She was chair of the Ratropology Department.

Or rather, she was the Ratropology Department. Sighing, she took another sip of sassafras.

Ratty Magazine had solicited another article on ancient rats and humans. Why the recent fascination with this long-dead species of huge bipeds? Recent research indicated that early rat began its million-year ascent during the age of humans. The two had lived in harmonic symbiosis for much of their joint history, with humans the alpha partner.

The details were sketchy, extrapolated from the few crumbling human and rat fossils and artifacts that had survived the periodic purges. Modern rats simply did not like the idea that their prehistoric ancestors were primitive creatures that lived off the scraps of humans, but that’s what the evidence showed, no matter what the populist leaders screamed from their pulpits. So, of course, they got rid of the evidence.

Zuk glanced out the window at the homeless, hatless creatures outside that lived off the scraps of society. Little had changed.

Humans had done what rats were only now attempting — they’d gone to the Moon. It was hard to believe that something like that could have been accomplished a million years ago by those huge, buffoonish apes, but that was the only explanation for photos taken of the Moon’s surface by robot explorers. Amidst the mysterious objects found at locations around the Moon were the unmistakable footprints of human shoes, preserved on the unchanging surface.

She needed to finish the article but was tired. Time to get energized. She hopped off her stool. There was no room to really turn in her cramped cubicle so she stood on her hind legs and spun about, and then squeezed out the cubicle door. Had the cubicle been designed for dwarf mice? She scampered to the end of the hallway outside to the office lounge and jumped on the squeaky exercise wheel against the wall. A few minutes of frantic running woke her up. Ideas for the article popped into her head as she ran, including the perfect title: “Humans on Trial: Guilty!” That would grab readers’ attention. With the public all abuzz about the idea of humans on the Moon, she would write about how humans tested their space machines by sending primitive rats into space as test subjects, doomed to die. Those monsters!

That would be the gist of the article, and there were no humans around to rebut her theory. No one really knew what happened to them, but their demise had been fortunate as rats then evolved, scurrying to the top of the intellectual food chain.

She stopped at the bathroom. There were so many droppings on the floor that she had to hold her nose and tiptoe about — how long had it been since they’d changed the newspapers on the floor? She checked and saw that it was dated from last week. Yuck.

Then she stopped by the office water bottle, where the writers liked to congregate until the boss kicked them back to their cubicles. To rationalize her visit she took a few drops from the water tube.

“The boss gave me two stories to write!” exclaimed the albino Jik with the usual big grin. The journalist wore a red rabbitskin hat with a hawk feather stuck in it. “The Bigtail sightings up in the mountains, and guard shrews that turn on their masters.”

“At least you get to use your degree,” said the black-furred Mab, the haggard-looking accountant with a green crabshell hat. “I’ve got a PhD in theoretical math. My dissertation on the equivalency of mass and energy won the Remy Prize for math, for cat’s sake. And the boss has me doing time allocations, product optimization, and calculating bathroom newspaper overhead — can you believe it? All with the wonderful powers of arithmetic.” He snorted. “I’m bookkeeping for a boss who thinks the Unified Field Theory means buying up the local sports fields for furryball.”

“He has me writing about how the stars and planets predict career success,” said Axax, the resident astrology writer. The brown with white splatches rat wore a chipmunkskin turban with an embedded black coal over the forehead. “The stars told me that since Jupiter and Saturn were in the same quadrant, I should take this job.” Axax spat on the ground. “The stars lied to me. Don’t tell my readers.”

Zuk was about to share her gripes as well, but just then the janitor scurried into the room, with a hat made from folded newspaper. It was a bit torn but had been repaired with tape. At least Zuk and the other writers weren’t at the bottom of the tail-yanking hierarchy!

“Hey, janitor,” Zuk said. “Could you put fresh newspaper in the bathroom? It’s really bad in there.”

The janitor stared at Zuk, which made her uncomfortable. She looked away.

“What’s my name?” the janitor finally asked in his strange Eastern accent.

“Um,” was all Zuk could squeak. The other writers averted their eyes. One of them coughed.

“Anyone?” the janitor roared. “I didn’t think so. I have a PhD in marine biology and you want me to change bathroom newspaper?”

“Sorry,” Zuk said. “If you’re a marine biologist, why are you working here?”

“If you are ratropologist, why are you working here?” The janitor kicked the wall, leaving a dent, then turned and left.

“I guess we’re all in the same bottom burrow of the world,” said Mab the accountant.

Zuk was about to respond when she realized Jik the Journalist was sobbing, the big smile long gone.

“I went to my college reunion yesterday,” Jik said, sobbing louder. “They’d all read my story last week on wererats… and they laughed at me!”

“I’m sure they—” began Axax.

“GET BACK TO WORK!” roared the Boss. He gave Jik a tail yank.

They scurried back to their cubicles, sawdust flying. The boss was definitely part cat.

Zuk hopped back on her stool and prepared to type. The stench from outside was as bad as that in the bathroom, but she was used to it, and once you got used to it, it was better than the stale office air. She took a deep breath and glanced outside.

One of the poor homeless, an aged one, stared at her while gnawing on a slice of moldy bread, balding head exposed for all. There should be some sort of community decency standard! The rat looked away and another’s bare head popped out of a hole in the piles of garbage, holding its prize in its mouth—a chunk of gristly meat, probably soaked in the spit of some higher-class rat who’d spat it out. The two chattered back and forth with the cheerfulness of the clueless, their disheveled, filthy fur blowing about in a breeze. Could the Ludy of two hundred thousand years ago have been that primitive? How could anyone live like that? Zuk quivered her whiskers. What type of life was that? At least put a hat on. Jeezers.

Shaking her head, she took another sip of sassafras and went back to typing.

Soon the first draft was done. She stared at the computer screen. Now it was time to embellish. Spreading such misinformation went against all her scientific training, and it killed her to do so, but what choice was there? It was the difference between a page-turner and an eye-glazer, between selling and rejection, between a successful lower middle-class life… and living outside in the garbage.

No way. She slapped her tail against the floor.

“Where is it?” the boss squeaked from the entrance, jarring Zuk from her thoughts. Even a cat couldn’t sneak up that quietly.

“I’ll have it in an hour,” Zuk said.

“Half an hour,” the boss said. With a hairy nose wiggle — did he even own a comb? — he turned and left, tail sweeping side to side.

But… half an hour? Time to buckle down.

She tapped away, about humans ejecting rats into space to see how long they could survive a vacuum, lowering oxygen levels to see when they’d black out and suffocate. Testing how many G-forces it took to kill them. She described the poor rats as their eyes bulged, their faces turned blue, their bodies squeezed thin and bleeding, their bones breaking. She had the poor rats stare lovingly into each other’s eyes as they died. And she gave them exotic striped racoonskin spacehats. Of course, pre-civilized rats went bareheaded, but what’s wrong with a little literary license?

Her tail drooped. But readers would eat it up. Maybe she’d get a raise.

If those stupid rats outside would just stop chattering, maybe she could focus and get the article done on time. She glanced out the window. How come they got to run around doing whatever they wanted, while she was stuck in a cubicle? She was the one with an education! She’d earned what they had.

Even the angry janitor was above the homeless. So why were they so happy?

As the sun sank outside, the homeless rats — there were three of them now — shared a pizza crust, that ancient treat that Zuk so loved. She preferred it in its most basic form, flattened bread covered by coagulated cat milk, mashed tomatoes, and spices. Were those the very crusts she’d discarded at lunch the day before, after eating the tasty cheesy parts? Stale, leftover pizza crusts. She wondered if they were chewy or crunchy.

“WELL?” the boss roared from the cubicle entrance, flexing his fingers. “You want a yanking?”

“Give me twenty minutes,” Zuk said, though she barely heard him as she gulped down the last of her sassafras juice. That stench from outside — if you really parsed it, you could make out the individual yucky flavors. The outside rats didn’t seem to mind it. Perhaps it was an acquired taste.

“Ten,” said the boss. He glanced at the Ludy poster for a moment. “Lovely picture.” His rose scent now drowned out the outside smell.

“And I have another job for you tomorrow,” he said, “about primitive humans living on the moon who’ll eat our astronauts. Some nut job’s been posting all sorts of claims about this online, says they’re fifty feet tall with big, razor teeth, and they’ve evolved so they can breathe vacuum. Lots of quotes you can use — make up the rest, as usual. Remember, you make your deadlines, and this job is yours… forever.”

She stared after him as he left, thinking about what he’d said.

* * *

You can’t go easy on these writers, the boss thought. Gotta keep on them to make product, even if that means yanking a few tails. Tough love was good for them.

He knew that his employees mocked his overuse of rose perfume. His wife had worn rose perfume right up to her death, and he liked the constant reminder of her. But now his employees were his family. But like his wife, why did they keep leaving him? He gave them everything! He sighed, knowing his sacrifices would never be appreciated. Perhaps he should work them harder.

After ten minutes he tiptoed back to Zuk’s cubicle. He didn’t like going there, as she had a habit of leaving the window open, letting in that unbearable stench from outside that no amount of rose perfume could suppress. It was worse than the office bathroom, but he, of course, had a private executive bathroom that was kept spotless. And that poster over her desk of old rat bones was downright creepy.

But he loved scaring her with his sudden, silent entrances.

“Well?” he exclaimed as he scampered in.

The cubicle was empty. Had she gone home early? He’d fire her! But no, he needed her more than she needed him — thank the great cats she didn’t know that. But she’d get a tail-yanking.

Was the article done? Why was her desk covered with the shattered shards of her cup? And was that her cheap toadskin cap sitting on top of her computer? He slapped his tail against the cubicle wall, tearing off a corner of the Ludy poster. Writers are so temperamental.

The boss looked at the computer screen, where there had been a draft of the article.

It said, “File deleted.”

“What!” He frantically pulled up the trash folder, but it had been emptied.

Then the boss heard a familiar voice through the open window. His jaw dropped, and his prized moleskin cap fell to the floor.

Outside, Zuk and three rats, all hatless, chattered back and forth gleefully as they shared a pizza crust.

 

* * *

About the Author

Larry Hodges, of Germantown, MD, has over 220 short story sales and four SF novels. “Rat Race” is his second sale to Zooscape. (The other was “Philosopher Rex.”) He’s a graduate of the Odyssey and Taos Toolbox Writers Workshops, a member of Codexwriters, and a ping-pong aficionado. As a professional writer, he has 22 books and over 2,300 published articles in over 200 different publications. He’s also a member of the US Table Tennis Hall of Fame, and claims to be the best table tennis player in Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association, and the best science fiction writer in USA Table Tennis!!! He’s also had quite a few pets, including (cumulatively) 3 dogs, 1 cat, 50+ gerbils, 30+ snakes, zillions of fish (including sea horses and sea anemones with accompanying clownfish), a few hamsters, box turtles, toads, and crayfish, and a parrot, chinchilla, snapping turtle, iguana, and a tegu . . . but never a rat (so far!). Visit him at www.larryhodges.com.

by H. Robert Barland

“Adventure drew her forth, a siren’s song that sang a melody of new places, new things, new experiences. She drew me with her.”

Her scent was that of the warm grass of summer. And sunflowers. I still smell her now, I think, but the scent dwindles as does the image of her in my mind. I try to hold onto it, pull her grey furred shape into focus, but the more I try, the more she slips away. The ghost of her memory wafts through my paws liked winter fog. I wince. Concentrating… it makes my head ache.

To keep her from disappearing altogether, I direct my focus elsewhere, to the machine, the Contraption. It sits a tail-length beyond the safety of my hide. The gleaming steel bar is poised to strike. Today it is baited with a fat pumpkin seed. It’s a trick. I see through its false promise. I turn back into my hide, to await the day when the Contraption works its magic again, when it transforms from a machine of pain to one of wonder.

Oh, I know they think me mad, my fur matted, my teeth grown so long. They think the blow to my head  — that split open my furred scalp to the bone and cracked the same — shook something loose. They are wrong. They don’t know the Contraption’s promise. The secret that took her from me.

For now.

I remember her. And that day. A frolicker, that’s how I’d describe her. She loved to frolic. The mediocrity of walking wasn’t for her. Whenever we went anywhere, it was always at a run. And she’d jump. She was fearless and lean. She soared when she leapt, laughing all the while. I couldn’t help but laugh, too.

It had been her idea to sneak into the human’s house that day. Adventure drew her forth, a siren’s song that sang a melody of new places, new things, new experiences. She drew me with her. I loved her and her frolics. How could I not?

We widened the gap in the wall of the human’s house. In front of us lay the device I would come to call the Contraption. I wasn’t fearless like her. I was wary and remained in the wall, always the shadow to her light, but she tumbled thought the hole and ran to investigate the machine. I could smell newly-sawn wood and oiled metal. Such smells worried me, but not her. Under those alien smells, was that of sunflower seeds. She loved sunflower seeds, her namesake. I remember the way she’d looked back at me hidden in the wall; the way her whiskers twitched with delight, as she poked her head under the raised arm of the Contraption and began to nibble at the seed on the plate.

That moment is lost in the fog of my head. I remember the snap, or at least, I think I do. I remember being startled and falling. When I awoke, dried blood matted the fur on my head, and she was gone.

The Contraption remained, its arm raised again. A crumb of fragrant cheese now replaced the sunflower seeds. Pain filled my heart. I could still smell her scent mixed with that of the Contraption. I’d sagged to the ground and fell into a shuddering, fevered sleep. It was then the Contraption spoke to me, offering a dark promise of reunion.

* * *

The snap wakes me. Some idiot pup, barely out of the nest, has tried to take the seed. I hear the Contraption being bashed against the wall. I poke my head out of my hide. The steel arm has caught the pup across the back and his hind legs are limp. Though diminutive, he had the strength of youth. His struggles have flipped the Contraption over. His chest rises and falls, his breathing laboured. His bulging eyes catch mine, pleading and I see that strength fading with each breath.

I do nothing. I will do nothing. He does not comprehend the importance of the Contraption. I turn away before the rise and fall of his chest ceases.

He has been judged, and he is unworthy.

* * *

The Contraption snaps again. This time I do not look. Crouching in the dark, I turn in circles. My claws have shredded the surface of the beam. The wood looks like fur. Her fur. My stomach issues a complaint, and I am forced to obey. I nose my way out of my hole. Pain lances through my skull as the weeping wound on my head brushes the edge. I suck in a hiss and wait for the pain to recede, a throbbing that undulates in time with the beating of my heart.

By the time I reach her, the doe is already dead. She was old, exhausted. She would have died soon anyway. Blood trickles from her snout, seeping into the coarsely sawn wood of the Contraption.

The metallic scent of the blood obscures that of my Sunflower. Anger flares within me. How dare this doe allow her filthy blood to contaminate Sunflower’s memory? I rip bread out of the dead doe’s mouth, plunging the soft morsel into my maw. It is wet. I grimace at the sensation and remove it. It is stained red. I hadn’t tasted the blood, or if I had, I hadn’t cared enough for it to register. The blood glistens, crimson in the dark light.

My stomach complains again. I retreat to my hide. I eat, thinking of my mate. Sunflower had been chosen, chosen to go wherever the Contraption sent the worthy. It had to be a special place. She deserved that and it couldn’t be anything less.

I must be patient, to wait for that wondrous day, when the sunflower seeds appear again and when the Contraption will sing its song to me. A siren song of sunflower seeds and spring steel. I will go to it and be judged worthy.

And I will see her again.

 

* * *

About the Author

H. Robert Barland is a teacher, Viking re-enactor and black-belt martial artist. A former climber, film extra, and resident of the UK, he has now returned to Newcastle, Australia where he lives with his wife and two boys. He considers himself well adapted for life on land and can be followed on BlueSky (@hrobertbarland.bsky.social), Instagram (@h.robertbarland) and X (@hrobertbarland).

by Lara Hussain

“Flowerwerks employees stopped to watch her work, awed by her skill and intensity.”

Jot knew exactly what had happened to Iota: Flowerwerks had eaten him alive. Or rather, he had worked himself to death. Mice were prone to it: working to grinding exhaustion, from those who squeaked commands all day to the lowliest directors of fertilizer distribution, and even the earthworm and bee wranglers. But it was unlike Iota to disappear. He had a quiet intensity, certainly, but he would never leave something unfinished, or depart without saying goodbye.

Jot’s best friend, Dottie, was wringing her paws. They were raw and pink from all the kneading, which started when she realized her partner was missing. Iota wasn’t the first mouse of Subporchia to go missing. Jot put her own paws on top of Dottie’s and looked up at her. Dottie was taller and had a lovely coat of fine winter grass-colored fur, with a single spot of white spread across her chest.

“When did ya last see him, Dottie?” Jot asked. Her voice had a thick New York accent, lyrical and caring, but with a no-nonsense tone.

Dottie found Jot’s self-assured voice comforting.

“Oh, oh. I saw him when he left for work yesterday,” Dottie panted in her high-pitched breathless waver. “He left early… said he’s working on some big project ,and they’re behind on deadline with a second planting. That they’re expecting rain. As if anyone could predict the weather. Well, you know, the big mice think they can. But you know what I think? I don’t think they have a clue! They’re just working everyone to death, all so they can get fatter! It’s not fair, Jot!” Dottie squeaked angrily. This wasn’t the first time they had discussed the unjustness of Flowerwerks.

Dottie pulled her paws back and began wringing them again. “To be honest,” Dottie continued, “He’s been working long hours for a while now. Flowerwerks just isn’t producing like it used to. There are fewer flowers than ever. But he’s working his tail off. I’ve never seen him so thin…” A sob snuck up on her. “Jot, do you think he’s okay?” she squeaked.

Tears were wet on Dottie’s sweet face. Jot offered open arms to embrace her.

“We’ll find him,” Jot said as she squeezed Dottie. “I start that new job today, you know, at the Flowerwerks entrance. I’ll nose around and see what I can find out.”

Jot was a carver, a talented artist who worked with roots and wood. After the success of her community roots projects — a tangle of wondrous flowers that she delicately carved in the thickest roots that ran through common areas in the burrow — she had been commissioned by Flowerwerks to carve the tall redwood columns at the entrance to the company. The thick square columns sprang from the ground and held up the canopy that covered all of Subporchia, from the burrow to Flowerwerks. No one had considered carving the columns before, not even Jot. But she thought it was a very good idea. The carved wood would bring beauty — and she hoped joy — to the start and end of the work day. And so she had agreed.

The early summer sun was already peeking through the narrow slits in the canopy by the time Dottie left. Tiddle, Jot’s partner, offered to accompany Jot on her first day to her new job, before he continued on to his work at the Scout Corps headquarters, the security outpost for Subporchia. It was also time for Flowerwerks’ town hall, something everyone listened in on, even if they didn’t work there. That’s because Flowerwerks ran the garden, of course, the whole east side of Subporchia, and beyond.

Jot and Tiddle nimbly crossed the long stretch of rocky flats outside the burrow and joined the commute of other mice, embarking on their work day. As the throngs neared the Flowerwerks entrance, the rocks gave way to soft soil. A large crowd had already gathered there, eager to hear from the leaders of Flowerwerks.

“This is the dawning of the earth’s fertility!” Mr. Cheeseman said, the bulge of his expansive furry belly bouncing with his enthusiasm.

Tiddle rolled his eyes. “I’m pretty sure the earth was growing plants just fine before Flowerwerks,” he whispered to Jot. “The real question is if anyone there has figured out that you can’t take from the Earth forever, that you have to give back and care for it, too?”

Jot, ever the optimist, squeaked back, “Well, maybe investing in public art is a good start. I mean, maybe it’ll help them see things differently.”

Tiddle sighed. “It’s the same thing every time. Big words and no real change. If they just gave the soil a break and put more earthworms to work, the flowers would come back…  it’s simple…”

“Shhhh! Jot hissed. “Listen!”

“More flowers means more cheese bonuses. We’re expecting great things from you. Now get back out there!”

There was a smattering of applause and small cheers that could be construed as quiet groaning, and the crowd quickly dispersed. Jot and Tiddle scurried to the first set of columns at Flowerwerks’ entrance.

“Who needs more cheese?” Tiddle huffed as he patted the side of a column. “Honestly, at some point, Mr. Cheeseman is going to explode from all the cheese.”

Jot elbowed him. “Well, this job is helping pay for our cheese for now. It’s worth a try, ya know, to put some good in the world. It just might change things,” she said. Jot looked thoughtful, and then added more as a pep talk for herself, “I haveta at least try!”

“Oh, Ms. Jot! You’re here!” It was Mr. Cheeseman’s assistant. He was all nervous energy and jiggly in his rotundness, though he wasn’t nearly as large as Mr. Cheeseman himself.

Tiddle gave Jot a kiss on her cheek. “Be the change you want to see, darling,” he whispered in her ear, and whisked away toward the Scout Corps.

After Jot’s first day, her fingers were covered in chalk and ached from sketching. She would sketch for a few days still, outlining her plan for the carving. Then, Mr. Cheeseman himself would review the plan before she cut away at the wood.

“So, how did it go?” Tiddle asked.

“Oh fine. Everyone was very nice. They even provided lunch. Can you believe it? I haven’t even done anything yet!”

“Oh, that’s not true!” Tiddle replied. “You’ve been preparing for this for weeks, before you even got started. I bet you already had ideas before you put chalk to wood.”

Tiddle was correct, of course, even if Jot didn’t admit it. She returned to Flowerwerks the next day and the day after that. After two weeks, she noticed a new plumpness in her belly and roundness in her cheeks from all the free food.

“Oh, it will be very fine to have this extra fat in the winter, don’t you think, Tiddle?” Jot asked, pinching her own cheeks.

Tiddle harrumphed. “We’ve always been fine without it. The burrow is plenty warm with all the grass we harvest in the fall.” Tiddle cocked his head, as if a thought had occurred to him.

“How is Dottie?” he asked. “Let’s have her over, love. I don’t think we’ve seen her but once since you started your project at Flowerwerks.”

Jot looked down at her toes and nodded. She had been so busy at Flowerwerks that she hadn’t made time to help her distraught friend. Iota still hadn’t turned up, and she knew Dottie was frantic. The possibility that Iota might return was less likely with each passing day. Jot had nosed around, stealthily, as she promised, but hadn’t turned up any clues on his whereabouts.

Tiddle, a leader in the Scout Corps, which alerted all of Subporchia to any approaching danger — of the cat or weather ilk — was baffled. His team had investigated Iota’s disappearance.

“I just don’t understand,” Tiddle said, for what must’ve been the hundred and first time. “There were no cats in the area the day he went missing, nor the day after. And there were no signs of struggle. We just don’t know where he went!”

Tears brimmed in Jot’s eyes. She realized with heavy sadness that no one knew what had happened to Iota, and it was possible they never would.

The next day, back at Flowerwerks, Mr. Cheeseman stopped by and surveyed Jot’s sketches.

“This is masterful,” he said, and Jot blushed beneath her calico fur. In the same breath, he continued, “But don’t you think there should be more flowers and less soil? I mean, that’s what we all want, isn’t it?” he chuckled, and his belly bobbed ominously with the exertion.

“Yes, but we need soil. And it’s so lovely, too,” she said, fingering the swirls she had outlined for the soil portions of the carving. “Flowers cannot grow without it!”

“Not true!” Mr. Cheeseman replied with a nasty grin. “We’ve come up with a new way. Soil’s not needed. Heck, neither are the pollinators. Just don’t tell the worms and bees I said so,” he said and laughed.

He stepped closer to Jot and scraped his fingernail across the soil pattern. “More flowers, less soil. Get it done,” he hissed quietly. Then he stepped back and announced loudly, “This is going to be beautiful. A real testament to the power of Flowerwerks. Everyone will want to work here!”

Back in the burrow, Jot cried when Tiddle asked her about her day.

“He’s a horrible mouse. How can anyone be so blind and greedy?” Jot wailed, still upset that he had asked her to change the design, the true message of her work.

Tiddle frowned. “I think his greediness makes him blind,” he said. “And I’m sorry he doesn’t see the beauty of what you shared.”

Tiddle wiped at the tears on her furry, tri-colored cheeks and sniffed.

“Do you plan to finish it?” Tiddle asked tentatively.

Jot sat up straight, and her eyes cleared. She inhaled deeply, considering the question. She nodded, slowly at first, and then confidently. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll finish, so long as I can!”

The next day, after early morning cups of warm honeysuckle with Dottie, Jot returned to Flowerwerks and began carving. She changed the design, embellishing it with bees and winding worms deeper in the wood, intent on showing all the essential elements that worked together to create a healthy garden. Flowerwerks employees stopped to watch her work, awed by her skill and intensity. They marveled over the emerging images and left paw imprints in the discarded dust and woodchips as they walked past.

That night, Jot’s teeth were sore from the many hours she had been carving, long after everyone else had gone home. She was still there when blinking fireflies and slivers of moon were the only light to work by. Tiddle retrieved her, and they talked on the slow scurry back to the burrow.

“Don’t let what happened to Iota happen to you,” he pleaded. “You need to take care of yourself, so you can continue this work. I don’t want to lose you, too, Jot! It’s not worth it. Nothing is.”

Jot started to disagree. The carvings could change minds, she was sure of it! But Tiddle was right. If she wasn’t well, it wouldn’t matter, because she wouldn’t be able to finish.

Jot took a refreshing spit bath, rubbing away dust and splinters of wood from her work. Then she sat down for dinner with Tiddle, berries and sunflower seeds drizzled in honeysuckle. Jot slept deeply that night and awoke, feeling more like herself.

When she showed up at Flowerwerks in the morning, Jot had to wade through a crowd to get to the column she had been working on the day before. Dottie was in the center, touching the curved backside of one of the carved bees.

“Oh my,” Dottie breathed. “This is beautiful. This is how I always imagined Flowerwerks would be. Should be,” she said. There were bobbing ears all around, and the crowd murmured in  agreement.

“Jot, may I help you?” Dottie asked. “Please. I just think it would be…healing. Just tell me what to do.”

Jot startled. She had never considered such a thing. But partnering with Dottie would make the work easier, especially for such a big project. The wood was so dense, and she hadn’t even started on the second column. Plus her teeth were still sore from all the carving the day before. Dottie, a burrow architect, would bring her own skills and flair to the work. Best of all, it would be time they could spend together.

“I’m sorry I didn’t even think to ask ya, Dottie! And yeah, I would love to have your help. Here, I’ll show you how to follow the outline. Carving is the easy part, once you get the hang of it.”

And so, Jot trained Dottie, and while Dottie carved, Jot began sketching out a new design on the second column.

The next day, the crowd was even bigger. There were more volunteers, some were even Flowerwerks employees, willing to use their meager vacation time to help with the endeavor. Jot welcomed them all, trained them, and set them loose.

Mr. Cheeseman was not happy. Jot had not precisely followed his instructions. Mr. Cheeseman expected nothing but unquestioning, faithful followers, just as he was a loyal, compliant follower of his leader. But seeing how enthusiastic employees were about the carvings, he knew he could not change what had been done, not now.

Instead, Mr. Cheeseman turned his attention to the business of business. Employees were expected to work longer hours. The pressure to grow more flowers intensified. Purple and white buds unfurled and covered the lands surrounding Subporchia like a thick carpet. Though they were in greater quantity, Jot noticed they were smaller, with withered leaves and weak roots. Quietly, more mice went missing. The cat alarm was sounded more frequently.

One evening, Tiddle returned home upset. “Mr. Cheeseman called the outpost and actually asked us to stop sounding the alarm so much. Can you believe it? He said it was causing unnecessary panic. As if getting eaten is not something to panic about,” Tiddle said. “The fact is, that cat is coming around more often. How can Mr. Cheeseman not be worried about that?”

“What did you tell him?” Jot asked, her heart beating with fear.

“I told him we’re going to do whatever it takes to protect the burrow. Every life is worth saving,” he said. “Mr. Cheeseman actually laughed and told me I was a ‘ridiculous idealist’.”

Something clicked in Jot, then. She realized that Mr. Cheeseman did not seem to think that every life was worth saving, except his own. He wasn’t looking out for his employees. He was only looking out for himself. He’d destroy every mouse and the whole garden in pursuit of more cheese, more cheese than he would ever need.

“Oh, Jot. I know that look,” Tiddle said, watching Jot’s changing expression. “What are you cooking up?”

She smiled, a small fire in her eyes. “Well, it’s time we did something about it. Something big.” She shared her plan with Tiddle who nervously squeaked his support. If anyone could pull it off, he knew Jot could.

The next day, Jot bravely confronted Mr. Cheeseman.

“Mr. Cheeseman. We’ll finish the second column today. You’ve seen how the mice have reacted. Everyone is so excited. It was truly your brilliant idea to beautify the columns that brought everyone together. I imagine productivity is up…”

“Indeed it is,” Mr. Cheeseman boasted, inflated by Jot’s compliment.

“What if… what if we had a day of service where everyone came together and carved the columns deep within Flowerwerks. Imagine what it would be like if everyone collaborated, across the organization, to carve designs into more columns. It could transform Flowerwerks, inside and out! I mean, this is your idea after all.”

Mr. Cheeseman nodded and sat up a little straighter. His fur puffed out a bit with pride. “Ah, yes. Happy employees means more flowers. I will call a day of service. But the design MUST be within my specifications.”

“Oh sure. More flowers, less soil, yeah?”

“Yes, and giant flowers, too, please.”

“No problem, Mr. Cheeseman. No problem at all.”

It was settled. The day of service was announced, with plenty of time to prepare. Jot worked with Dottie on plans, leaning heavily on Dottie’s architectural expertise. Then, Jot turned to sketching new designs on columns deep within Flowerwerks, the whole far east side of Subporchia.

On the day of service, Jot gathered all the volunteers. Her eyes went misty over their joy and eagerness. Nearly all of Subporchia was there, it seemed, even a couple of Flowerwerks’ leaders. Mr. Cheeseman, of course, was absent, as Jot presumed he would be.

“I’m verklempt!” Jot said, overcome, and she waved at the hot tears of relief and joy that wet her face. “Thank you all for coming for this special day!”

Jot never imagined mice would turn up in such numbers for anything but cheese. But here they were, eager to work together for something better. Jot took a deep breath and began with carefully explaining her vision and purpose for the project. Those who disagreed were given an opportunity to leave. There was respectful silence and stillness, as everyone considered her plan. Jot nervously tapped her foot. Some mice closed their eyes. Others folded their arms, resolute. In the end, not one mouse put a paw in another direction. All were ready to chew.

In a single, very long day, the mice carved more than any had imagined possible. All were covered in sawdust. Splinters and wood chips were piled at their feet. Every designated column was given new life. They marveled over the power of their collective work, sure that they had made change, for now and for the future. Just after the first slivers of moon shone down, they scurried home to their burrows, their teeth sore, their hearts big.

That night, after a cat alarm sounded, when all were safe in their underground homes, there was a large crack. Followed by another crack. And then there was a splitting, a splintering and the ground shook as weight heaved to the earth. The mice heard the cat screaming then. They waited in their burrow, fearful and excited. They waited for the sun.

By the time the mice emerged the next morning, the cat cries had stopped. When all had gathered at the entrance of what used to be Flowerwerks, it was easy to see that Jot’s and Dottie’s careful planning had worked. The canopy over Flowerwerks headquarters had collapsed. The entire east side of Subporchia was rubble on the ground. The mice stood at the new edge of Subporchia, admiring the sunlight and splintered wood, awed by what they had achieved.

The mice’s strategic carving, a whittling away of the support structures deep within the company, had weakened the columns just enough to cause the entire roof to collapse. It was the collective power of the mice and their vision for a better future, for all of the garden and its many creatures, that brought down all of Flowerwerks overnight.

Far under the rubble, the mice heard a faint, desperate squeak. They raced after the sound and cleared surrounding debris, frantic to save any souls who had somehow been in Flowerwerks when the canopy caved in. It was Mr. Cheeseman. He was trapped next to the cat. And the cat was dead.

“It was the cat’s idea,” Mr. Cheeseman confessed, after he was rescued. He shook dirt out of his filthy coat and continued. “He was the one who wanted to control the garden. We did whatever he wanted because he gave us the cheese. All the cheese we could eat and more.”

“Waita minute,” Jot said, her hand on her hip. “Are you tellin’ us that the CAT was in charge of Flowerwerks? ALL this time, we were working for the CAT? Tell me I’m wrong.”

Mr. Cheeseman hung his head and shook it. The mice collectively gasped and squeaked with disbelief.

“But WHY?” Jot screamed above the cacophony.

“The cat wanted control,” Mr. Cheeseman said, still looking down at his ample belly. “The cat wanted to run the garden so it could grow as much catnip as possible.”

All at once, the mice erupted into shouts and shook their tiny paws at Mr. Cheeseman. Instinctively, the Scouts gathered around the large mouse, to make sure he didn’t try to escape.

There was a long, pitiful wail then. Jot ran toward it. Deep in the splinters of what was once Flowerwerks and what appeared to be the cat’s lair, Dottie was holding a mouse tail.

“Oh no, no!” she said. “It was the cat all along. He ate Iota and the others. Jot, there are so many tails here.” Dottie hugged the tail to the white fur of her chest and rocked back and forth. “Iota, my poor, poor Iota. You deserved so much better.”

Mr. Cheeseman was marched out of Subporchia and banned from the garden after that. No one ever saw or spoke of him again. The tails of the cat’s victims were delicately buried and marked in a corner of the garden where the lavender grew the thickest.

In time, the mice returned to doing what they always did best: working together in harmony with the garden and all of its inhabitants. The next spring, the garden never looked so beautiful. The flowers grew larger, the honeysuckle tasted sweeter, and there was always enough to share.

 

* * *

About the Author

Lara Hussain is a former environmental journalist who spent many years in the corporate arena, making good trouble. Today, she teaches literacy and writes fiction in Denver, Colorado, where she lives with a menagerie of human, furry, and scaly family members. In her youth, she spent summers creating Lego villages for pet mice until the mice learned to chew through the windows to escape. Her stories of the underdog rising up have appeared in The Literary Hatchet, Scapegoat Review, and The Last Girls Club, among others.

by Melanie Mulrooney

“When he dropped the small sea pebble, she drowned it in salty tears, cawing about Ty’s eyes, blue like glass.”

Crow circled above as the sad one trudged through wet sand, scrambling to perch on the highest rock. She visited every day — huddling against the frigid wind, pleading with the ocean, leaking her salt into the vastness.

Crow sang to her sometimes, when he was bored. She didn’t answer, but she also didn’t yell for him to leave. So he stayed close; they often dropped food, if he waited long enough.

Receding waves carried her calls to the deep: Ty, come home.

* * *

One day she piled peanuts high on a rock before climbing to roost. Crow swooped in again and again to collect his bounty, then flew off to find the perfect gift in return.

When he dropped the small sea pebble, she drowned it in salty tears, cawing about Ty’s eyes, blue like glass.

* * *

She brought many peanuts and Crow grew fat and happy. In exchange, he tried to cheer her with presents from the sea: abandoned shells, strands of netting, shiny buttons found among the rocks. Each piece was rewarded with Ty-words: Ty collects seashells in pretty jars, Ty works too long on a boat, Ty’s favourite sweater has silver buttons like these.

All gifts led to Ty, and more stormy sadness.

* * *

The winds warmed and the light grew long, and Crow caught an extra-special gift delivered from the ocean. She pushed her finger through the shiny gold circle and wailed: no no no. Her cries crashed like the waves again and again, until she had no words left.

Crow was determined to make her happier with his next offering.

* * *

The sad one stopped living on the rock and feeding Crow treats by the sea. He searched for her along the shore for many moons, followed the wind for her familiar lament. His caws were met with silence.

Crow waited a cycle of seasons, but she remained lost. He missed her Ty-words — maybe even more than the peanuts.

 

* * *

About the Author

Melanie Mulrooney lives in Nova Scotia with her husband and a gaggle of kids. Her work has been published with Elegant Literature, Metastellar, TL;DR Press, and others, and she has won multiple writing competitions and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. When not writing or child-wrangling, she can be found reading, volunteering in her community, or strolling through the woods — usually with a cup of tea in hand, and always wearing clothing suitable for napping. Her favourite days are when the fog rolls in so thick you can barely see, and everything smells like the ocean. Find her at melmulrooney.com.

by Lynn Gazis

“Each day I woke, hoping again to have my wings and to take to the air. Each day I rose forlorn, bereft of feathers.”

The crows do not know me. Trapped in the wrong body now, I have no way to tell them, “I am one of you.”

Once, with them, I flew and roosted, foraged and played. Together we used sticks to pry insects from holes, sledded down roofs of houses on flat circles of metal that humans had left where we could grab them, and traded information about where food could be scavenged. When we needed to, we joined forces to chase off hawks.

Now the crows do not know me. When I tried to approach, to find some way to signal, hey, I’m still me, I was the threat and the one mobbed.

It’s all the fault of that old sorceress. She left a small, shiny circle on her windowsill. I always loved shiny things. I flew to the window and grabbed the shiny circle. But she saw me and cursed me.

I fell to the ground. When I tried to rise, I was bigger and less graceful. When I tried to cry out, I heard not my beautiful crow voice, but an ugly human voice. My naked body had no trace of feathers. Most of all, I had no wings!

I clutched the shiny circle and put it on one finger for safekeeping, because if I was going to be punished for taking it, I had damn well earned the right to keep the object for which she had cursed me. Then I rose on my overly long legs and staggered away. So slow and awkward were my steps that I was sure the sorceress would chase and grab me. Instead, she watched and laughed, that grating, scary laughter that humans have.

Once I had walked over a hill and past a grove of trees, safely out of sight of the sorceress, I dropped and crawled on all fours. I felt strange, as if I was dragging my wings in the dirt, but I also felt more stable crawling than standing on such long legs. A human family found me crawling along the road and helped me to their small hut. They gave me clothes — how odd it felt to wrap my body in cloth, rather than having it covered with my very own feathers! They let me sleep on a blanket on their floor. In front of their hut, I dared to walk again, balancing precariously on my new legs.

The witch’s curse contained a small mercy. With my human form, I gained a knowledge of the human language. Scratch that. I learned one of the human languages. It turned out that they had many. Unlike my fellow crows, who could speak to crows from anywhere, traveling humans struggled to make themselves understood. Perhaps this difficulty in human communication was a good thing. Think what a threat humans could be to crows if they all understood each other! Still, stuck in my human body, I knew I could not venture beyond the land where humans spoke the one language that I knew.

Each day I woke, hoping again to have my wings and to take to the air. Each day I rose forlorn, bereft of feathers. The humans gave me food, a strange mush each morning from which I picked the bits of fruit and nuts, and only occasionally meat. The first morning I slipped outside, once I had finished my fruits and nuts, and found an anthill, where I enjoyed some tasty insects. But the humans stared and exclaimed so that I had to learn to enjoy my insect treats when they weren’t looking.

I learned over time to eat and enjoy more and more of their food, my new favorites being a rice dish with bits of fish and a serving of mostly lettuce with bits of other vegetables. The family was patient with my slow efforts to learn to walk, and only when I was steady on my feet did they ask me to help them on their farm. I agreed. What else could I do, stranded without wings?

The farmers gave me a spade, dull gray to the eye and hard to the touch.

“Dig here,” he said, “and put these seeds in the ground.”

I wanted to scratch the ground with my nails, but human nails aren’t good for much, so I settled for the spade. Next they set me the task of milking the cow — such an odd sensation, to grasp the cow with these things called hands, so soft and tender! Then came the day when I helped the woman of the house, carrying baskets of vegetables with her to the market in town, to sell. There I saw the shop of the town silversmith. Shiny things!

I wandered into the shop. I watched the silversmith rub a stick against a shiny thing, until he looked up.

“Can I help you?” said the silversmith.

“Just looking,” I said.

He grunted as if he had hoped for something more from me, I wasn’t sure what. But he let me look.

Soon I spent every spare moment I had, when done with my work on the farm, at the silversmith shop. If I could not have my crow body, at least I could be close to shiny things all day. I started to fetch and carry, to please the silversmith and be closer to his shiny things. He had fascinating tools. Some had blades to cut the shiny things, others held shiny things still so that they could be cut, and odd sticks with rough edges could be run over those shiny surfaces to smooth them the way the silversmith wanted. I learned the names of each, and where to find them. My favorite, though, was the cloth that could be used to bring out the shine.

In time, the silversmith paid the farmers who had rescued me, to buy out my contract and take me on as an apprentice. I had not known I had a contract, but if I did, well, I was happy to have it purchased, so I could spend all my days with silver. I took up with enthusiasm the first job the silversmith gave me, shining tarnished silver.

One evening, after my work was done, I wandered to the blacksmith’s shop a few houses over. The metal at the blacksmith’s shop did not shine as the things at the silversmith’s shop did, but it glowed bright when the smith put it in the fire. As I watched the glow of the fire, the blacksmith’s daughter approached.

“Aren’t you the new silversmith apprentice?” she said. “Where are you from?”

“Down the road, past the trees, and over the hill,” I said, “as the crows fly.”

She laughed, though I couldn’t see why.

“Ah, but which trees?” she asked.

I am a crow. I can talk all day about trees.

“There’s the big old stump,” I said, “where termites live. And the young tree with silvery bark and leaves shaped like this.”

I sketched the shape of a leaf with my hand.

The blacksmith’s daughter listened to me more intently than anyone else had, since I left the crows behind. For a human, she was lovely, nearly as dark as a crow, her skin a lustrous dark brown and her hair tightly curled. When she smiled, the white of her teeth drew my eye. And she looked at my ugly human form at times as if I still had a crow’s beauty. Most of all, she listened.

After that day, I came back often, in the evening after work, to talk with the blacksmith’s daughter and find the comfort of a listening friend. Sometimes I was tempted to confide in her about the curse. Each time I was tempted, I thought better of it. Safer to keep the friend I had, and not risk the friendship by sharing things she might not understand.

As my visits became more frequent, the blacksmith muttered odd things about wanting to know my intentions. How could I tell him that my intention was to become a crow again, as soon as I could figure out how? Each time he muttered, I returned to the silversmith’s shop and busied myself with shiny things.

In time, the silversmith judged me ready to do other work with silver. As a silversmith in training, I learned that awkward as human legs could be, human hands had a certain grace and finesse. The day that I hammered my first dish, I stood amazed at the result. Never, as a crow, could I have done the work with silver that I could now do!

Yes, human hands had their uses. But they could never reconcile me to being trapped in a human body. One day, I stumbled on a trail and twisted my ankle, and it ached for weeks afterwards. Often, my back ached. Walking on legs could not compare with flying. Most of all, the body was not mine. I felt wrong in this body, as I felt right in my old crow’s body. And in this body, the crows do not know me.

It’s this essential wrongness of my new body that led me, finally, to leave behind my beloved shiny work as an apprentice silversmith. The shop where I worked did not just make new shiny things. It restored and repaired old ones, and, for those rich enough to pay for the service, even did routine cleaning and polishing of silver. The silversmith left most of the routine polishing to me, his least experienced assistant. In this way, I came to be the one to be sent to pick up some silver for polishing, from a local magician. Silver bowls are important for making magical mixes of all kinds, and they must be clean, for the potions to be pure and work true.

A magician! If I could find work with him, I might learn the trick that changed my form, and what could change my form back. I hurried to his shop as quickly as my awkward human legs would take me.

The magician’s shop stood at the edge of town, a small house of stone with a thatched roof. As I stepped inside, I saw the magician at work mixing something in one of his silver bowls. On the table lay mint leaves and parsley and basil.

“What are you making?” I asked.

The magician glared at me. “Who are you and why are you in my shop?”

The name the humans gave me always felt awkward on my lips, so I skipped it. “I’m the apprentice from the silversmith shop, here to collect your silver to shine.”

“Do that, then,” said the magician, and handed me a bundle of silver.

I took the pieces away and shined them to a fine gleam. When I brought them back, I asked the magician directly, “Do you need an apprentice.”

“Certainly not,” said the magician, “and if I did, I wouldn’t want one so eager to skip out on his contract.”

I wasn’t ready to be give up, though. I made it my business to win him over. I shined his silver with extra promptness and care. I gave him small presents — finding out from other villagers what herbs he liked to purchase and getting good quality rosemary and thyme. He started asking me to run errands on the side. Finally, I found my way where I wanted to be, working by his side in his shop, fetching and cleaning and passing and, most importantly, watching and listening.

It paid off when I learned why he never let his wand out of sight, waking, and slept with it under his pillow.

“Get hold of a magician’s wand,” he said once, “and you can unravel his spells. I’m not about to let that happen to mine.”

I didn’t dare ask how — I didn’t want him to think I had my eyes on his wand. I didn’t, after all — I wanted only the wand that had made me human. I listened and waited for other hints.

Hints like the time I took one of his silver bowls back from the silversmith to his house and stopped at the blacksmith’s shop on the way. The blacksmith’s daughter welcomed me back — it has been so long since we spoke! She thought I had forgotten her! Her father let me know that I would hear from him if I forgot her again. I dallied there all afternoon, talking with the blacksmith’s daughter. I thought, when the magician frowned on my return, that he was angry because I had taken too long, stopping to chat for as long as I had. No, he had other reasons.

“I smell iron,” said the magician.

In my shock, I forgot to conceal my crow nature.

“People can smell iron?” I asked.

As a crow I could smell food, blood, and even fear, but never metal. My human body didn’t quite perceive things the way my real crow body did. Colors were missing. But it never occurred to me that humans might smell things that crows didn’t. Had I missed this new sense all this time? Perhaps it was harder to process since I hadn’t grown up with it.

The magician laughed, but then set his mouth again in a firm line.

“I can smell far more than you know,” he said, “Don’t bring my silver to the blacksmith shop. It’s bad for magic.”

If I can bring iron to the witch’s wand, I thought, can I break her magic?

It seemed unwise to ask such a question of a magician. I would watch, and wait, and look for magic’s vulnerable points. Iron might not be the only one.

I watched, and I learned. Iron could weaken silver’s magic for days, but burning the right herbs hastened the recovery of magical properties. When the magician gave me a list of which herbs to bring, I made up a little poem to remember them, for these herbs were the very herbs I’d want to remove from the witch’s house, if I wanted to break her wand.

I watched, and I learned, as the magician gave me instructions on polishing his silver. Wands, like bowls, must be made of silver. Clean silver worked better magic than tarnished silver.

I listened, and remembered, as the magician spoke his spells. Words must be carefully spoken. And a wand, I learned, carried a record of all the magic it had ever worked.

I did not, however, learn to work any magic of my own. Perhaps magic could not even be worked by a crow trapped in the wrong body. In any case, I could see that there were secrets the magician would not share. Some of them he had recorded in marks on paper, but such marks were unintelligible to me.

Each day I woke and saw the wrong face in the mirror. Each day I moved awkwardly on the wrong legs. Some days my back ached. Each day, I looked to the sky and could not rise. Most of all, whenever I saw my old friends, I was reminded: The crows do not know me.

After one heartbreaking morning glimpse of crows in the magician’s yard, none of them seeing my crow nature, I could bear it no more. I told the magician that I needed to stretch my stiff back, and I set out for the blacksmith’s shop, to find my best human friend. I stood with her on the porch, her father’s sharp eye watching my every move, and the two of us spoke, in voices too low for him to hear. My voice trembled as my whole story tumbled out, how the sorceress had cursed me, exiled me, hidden me from my family. My whole story? Well, not quite my whole story. I left out the part about being a crow. I wanted her to believe in the curse. I wanted her to help. Perhaps the part about being a crow would be too much for her to believe.

The blacksmith’s daughter did not disappoint me.

“We’ll lift the curse together,” she said, “tell me all the herbs you know that a sorceress would use for potions. And meet me at my window tomorrow night.”

How slowly the hours passed till the night when I could meet her! But I looked in the magician’s mirror at my pink fleshy nose and imagined the fine beak I would soon have. Good things are worth the wait.

I threw a pebble at the window of the blacksmith’s daughter, as she had told me to do. It bounced from her closed shutters, and she flung them open, and tossed two bags down to me. Then she clambered out onto the branch of a tree and climbed down to meet me.

“My father will kill me,” she said, “if I don’t return with your ring.”

“No” was on the tip of my tongue. Give up my one shiny thing? But I reminded myself that she was my best human friend, and that soon I would have my true body back. Surely that was worth a ring.

“Yes,” I promised, “You shall have my ring.”

I doubted her father would kill her if I failed in my promise. Would he kill me? Of that I was less sure.

The two of us set out for my old roost site. On foot and with no cart, it took days to make the trip. At night, the blacksmith’s daughter pulled out an iron poker and laid it between us, as I laid down to sleep.

“Until I have my ring,” she said.

Smart of her to bring the iron, I thought. It could be useful, once the two of us got hold of the wand.

When we reached a grove of trees near the house of the sorceress, we buried the iron poker, and set up camp for a few days, so that the blacksmith’s daughter could lose the smell of iron before she scouted out the sorceress and her house. In place of the poker, she placed a large stick between the two of us, when we laid down to sleep. During the day she sang to me, and I told her stories of the places I had been, still leaving out the angle from which I had seen them.

One morning she set out to see the sorceress, a small basket of herbs in hand. I paced as I waited for her return. After some time, she burst through the grove, running toward me.

“Good news!” she said, “She needs more herbs tomorrow,” and she paused for emphasis, “because she’s leaving to see her sister the next day.”

“But she’ll take her wand with her,” I said, “that means we need to grab it by tomorrow night. And she’ll recognize me.”

“No,” said the blacksmith’s daughter, “It’s a day trip, and it’s a day trip to Mondavir. I know that town. They don’t allow wands within their walls.”

Hope clouded my thinking. Surely if anyone could charm secrets out of the sorceress, it was my friend, the blacksmith’s daughter. I believed that I had only to show up, the day after tomorrow, and the wand would be mine for the taking, and the curse undone.

The day came, and, while I dug up the iron poker, the blacksmith’s daughter kept watch from the side of the grove that looked on the sorceress’s house. She fetched me once the sorceress had ridden her horse out of sight.

The two of us approached the door of the house, and a three headed dog charged out, and jumped on the blacksmith’s daughter, biting her arm.

I had attacked before, but always in a mob with my fellow crows. Now I stood alone, frozen in fear, for long moments. Then I remembered the poker and charged, stabbing it at the dog.

The dog let go of the blacksmith’s daughter to dodge me. She landed a kick while I missed it with the poker. On the third try, I managed to stab the poker into its side. The dog collapsed and dwindled into a whimpering one-headed toy poodle. Iron combats magic.

The blacksmith’s daughter bandaged the dog, while I ransacked the house looking for the wand. I found it. The sorceress had not, after all, lied about traveling to Mondavir, the town where wands are forbidden.

I returned to the blacksmith’s daughter.

“It will live,” she said of the dog, “I think. But it will do better if we take it back with us.”

“Take it,” I said. I knew the blacksmith’s daughter to be kind to a crow, so why not a dog?

I lifted the poker to the wand. Would it dwindle, like the three-headed dog? It did not. Instead, it sprouted bright lines. A web of spells, kind, cruel, and petty, spread out before me. I saw the babies the witch healed, the extra bit of flavor she added to her zucchini, the pratfall she forced on a woman who had been mean to her when both were teens.

I did not see any lines leading to me. Where was my curse? Only my ring, my bright, shiny ring, stood linked to the wand by a slender line.

I dropped the iron poker and the wand.

“Are you alright?” asked the blacksmith’s daughter.

“I need you to take this ring,” I told her.

“Yes,” said the blacksmith’s daughter. “Yes. A hundred times yes.”

I took the silver ring off my pinky finger and placed it on her ring finger. She gazed at it and grinned.

Then she looked up at my face and screamed, as she saw me begin to sprout feathers.

As I took to the sky — free at last! — my joy at returning to my beloved murder of crows mingled with pity for the human best friend whom I left weeping on the ground.

 

* * *

About the Author

Lynn Gazis (she/they), being one of nine children, grew up in a small town in New York surrounded by cats, dogs, mice, gerbils, turtles, snakes, and an invisible goldfish. As a child, she played “For All the Saints” on the piano at a funeral for a mouse. She now lives in Southern California with her husband and cats. She works in IT and is active in her Quaker meeting. She has stories published by Cathedral Canyon Review, Air and Nothingness Press, JayHenge Publishing, Persimmon Tree Magazine, and Friends Journal. The cats, though, want you to know that her most important function is scratching them right where they want it and placing items on the table for them to knock down.

by Alyza Taguilaso

“At this point I was no longer sure of the things around me. I vaguely sensed the presence of other cats. Wisps of them, all faint…”

When this began, I was there in my cage lying cozy as cats are wont to do. Anticipating catnips and fish bits for the afternoon. I wasn’t the type to explore. Even if my humans let me out in the hopes of getting me to lose weight I’d only curl up in a corner and sleep some more. I like to stay where I ought to be: in safe, soft places. Sometimes there is a cage, sometimes a box. Better the comfort of thin metal and the warmth of newspaper than the cold streets where I once used to scavenge not so long ago.

This story is not about me. It’s about Mister Icarus.

Mister Icarus: a peculiar fellow. How did I get to meet him?

One minute I was purring off to sleep, rolling lazily, and then, the next he was there. Peering into my box with his ice blue eyes. He had this yellow fur I had never seen before. There was a slight shine to it, as though it were not fur but gold dust strewn on him. It was as if you could put all the yellows in the world together and this yellow, Mister Icarus Yellow, would win over all of them. He had white stripes at his sides, following the lines where his ribs would be.

Hello. What is your name? was the first thing he said to me, eyes all wide and engaging. His voice was deep. His tail moved back and forth like it was dancing.

Being a stray since birth, I knew nothing about manners and not talking to strangers. My mother, although almost always at my side in those days, never spoke much to me. She fed me and kept an eye out. But she never bothered telling me about the world. My humans, although kind to take me in, were more preoccupied with their own concerns than teaching a cat about manners. O, but they fed me well and would hug me every day because I grew to be so plump. A far cry from the scraggly-thin mimings jumping about the esteros.

Going back to Mister Icarus. I told him my name, after which he said, Ah, what a pleasant name. I am Mister Icarus, he added, tell me child, would you like to have a walk with me?

I was able to find an answer to his question easily. No, but thank you for asking, I replied, my body being fat and unused to motion. I wondered if Mister Icarus noticed that I was inside a cage and obviously would not be able to go out, but I didn’t say anything about it. That would be rude.

O, he said, forehead furrowing from what seemed to be disappointment.

But I would like it if you would stay here and talk with me, I added. I didn’t want him to leave. Like I said earlier, no one talked to me much in this house, and he did pique my interest. As for safety, nothing has ever harmed me when I was in the cage. I offered him some of the dried fish left in my dish.

And what would you like to talk about? he asked.

I… I don’t know. I replied, slightly embarrassed. I really didn’t know what I wanted to talk about. I just wanted someone to talk to. Pacing around my cage for a few moments, I found an answer.

Tell me of the world outside, I said, casually licking my paw to mask excitement.

The world outside? he asked, sly, his wide eyes flooding with sureness.

O, where to start, with the world outside? I could tell you of the great cities — no, not like this paltry place you are in — domed palaces and wide valleys. Cities furnished in glass and alabaster — the finest of the fine, opulent as opulence can be. I could tell you of the sea — for that was the first thing I saw in my waking. A blue blanket stretching on to the edges of the world. Water and monsters overflowing. Its inhabitants spoke in a tongue that tasted like seaweed and coral-juice. Or perhaps the things that fly higher than the sky — yes, there are those, with wings that made the spires of towers look tiny. Or, I suppose, child, the best thing to tell you is of that place you go to each time you lose a life — I was much too wide-eyed by all those things such that I barely noticed one of my humans, Maggie, approaching. She was a girl of eight, chubby and pig-tailed, always avid for something to hug. Maggie was calling out my name. Mister Icarus noticed this and he immediately bade me goodbye, crouched, and then jumped away, escaping my vision.

Annoyed at how Maggie’s arrival caused the abrupt cutting of Mister Icarus’ story, I scratched her a few times when she was trying to take me out of the cage. The child was obviously surprised, having never seen me like this, but she held me close nonetheless. “You evil, fat cat, you!” she said, hugging me even more and calling me baby names.

Maggie left me in her room after a while — her oldest sister had apparently brought home some sort of specimen from her anatomy class, so Maggie went off, pigtails bouncing about, charging at the newest thing in the house. I was partly expecting Mister Icarus to show up, but he didn’t; so I just spent that afternoon the same way I always do when left in Maggie’s room.

I jumped around a couple of things: her toy horse passed down by her two sisters, the pillows. (The hair I shed usually angers Maggie’s mother, but she only does so much as to pinch my fat bits and call me an evil, spoiled cat, as everyone else here calls me). Then I lounged in the bathroom, all cool marble and warm rugs. My favorite place in this house, next to my cage.

Soon, one of the house helpers picked me up and returned me to my cage. In my dish, my dinner for that day was waiting. I ate, only to be surprised and to almost choke on my fish when a familiar Hello meowed from behind.

Mister Icarus was in the same place where he had been before Maggie took me away. He looked the same, with only a slight strain in his smile. I was going to say something between asking if anything was wrong or offering him what remained of my food when he suddenly continued his story.

Of the world, he began in this deep singsong voice, there is this place only our kind can go to — it is a place lined with dreams and endless, motionless fish. In that place, everything is soft and hunger is absent.

I wasn’t interested in dreams but I was very much drawn in by his mention of fish, and soft places would mean good sleep. As for hunger, although I could barely remember my days jumping across gutters and avoiding cars, I knew well that hunger is never a kind thing.

Where is this place? I asked.

He sighed. Alas, child, though I have been there many times I am never certain of its exact location. I just manage to go there each time I think of it, he answered, licking his gold-yellow fur.

Does it have a name? I asked of the place.

No. He answered. What name would befit such a wondrous place? A name would only ruin it, shame it.

Before I could ask anything Mister Icarus drew closer and put a golden paw to my plain white ones.

Here, he said. See for yourself, child.

It was like experiencing all the dreams I’ve ever had — I was dragged downwards into a hole lined with the exact things Mister Icarus mentioned — seaweed, glass shards, shadows of towers,  and so much more. The walls had tiny, round picture frames. Within those frames I saw things from the past. To me they felt like things from the past.

These photographs moved within their frames.

In the small frames I saw my parents. Mother, her face haggard and tired as always. In another, I saw my father — the slightest bits of everything I could remember as a kitten seemed to be heightened in this strange tunnel. My mother was not just her usual black-and-white self, but I saw for the first time that her eyes were leaf green, like mine. For the strangest reason, I saw a glimmer of something that felt very sad encased in them. Father looked charming as he walked off in the framed world. He had his chin up, nose sniffing out the scent of food. His golden eyes looked towards the horizon of talipapa stalls. He didn’t seem to notice anything beyond his frame, purring as he headed towards a potential meal.

As I was getting pulled further into the hole, I heard someone call to me You shouldn’t be here! The voice was very soft but certain. It had called me by a name I swear I forgot — the name I had before my humans took me in. Child, go back! Go back! The voice was my mother’s. I saw her scratching wildly at the glass frame seconds before I lost sight of her face.

The frames grew larger as I was drawn in further. Soon I was dragged within the frames themselves — landscapes brimming with cold, white soil, others with endless sheets of sand, and on a few, just sky — bare and blue without an end in sight. I went through them with the same feeling of falling all throughout.

After a long bit of it I was sure I was going to throw up my insides.

At this point I was no longer sure of the things around me. I vaguely sensed the presence of other cats. Wisps of them, all faint but there nonetheless, looking at me as I fell. I couldn’t hear or see them, but I could tell they were there. It’s this odd feeling that they were hiding somewhere: looking, watching — waiting for something to happen.

Then, as if on cue, I heard Mister Icarus’ voice. Interesting, he said, and it all stopped.

I was back in my cage.

Dazed and more than annoyed I drew back and hissed at Mister Icarus. He snickered when I shouted, What did you just do?! My fur was standing at its ends and my body felt cold as ice. I was sure that was the angriest I’ve ever gotten.

I’m not surprised it was all a shock to you, child, he said. It usually is for everyone the first time it happens. Actually, I’m quite pleased you took it this way. Purring, he added, Usually, they take it badly. All screeches and maddened sounds, o, but you— He looked straight at me with pride. You took it with such perfection.

You crazy thing! Did you think that was funny? I’m going to howl so loud, you’d wish—Before I could finish, he suddenly apologized.

Aye, your anger is understandable, little one. I shouldn’t have let you see the place without telling you first. He had a worried look in his eye. As though my anger was something that actually posed a threat to him. I was just much too elated at your… skill, my little friend, and this joy leads to impatience—

I didn’t understand a thing he was saying, so his apology didn’t do much. What in the world did you just do to me?! I wasn’t as angry, but something in me demanded answers.

Well, child, I sent you to that nameless place where our kind goes each time we lose a life.

Despite this explanation, he still wasn’t making any sense to me. What? I almost regretted scratching Maggie now; this strange cat was saying even stranger things, and it didn’t help that my head was still whirring. I would rather be hugged and pinched a thousand times than make sense of what he was saying.

Well, you see, each time we lose a life, we go to that place — soft, fish-lined, where all our memories are — even the ones we never knew we had. Momentarily, we see ourselves as we used to be, or as how we spent our previous lives. Sometimes, he added blankly, we even see our future. By this point I realized I had relaxed my muscles and was just staring at Mister Icarus with my mouth open.

You do know that we have nine lives, don’t you, child?

I retorted, Of course I know that! It’s what every decent cat should know!  The truth was I didn’t know anything about cats having nine lives until that point. To prevent this lack of knowledge looking obvious, I quickly asked, What happens after the ninth life?    

I was expecting another long-winded answer but instead Mister Icarus stayed silent. For the first time, he looked down, his tail curled and held still behind him.

I don’t know, he said. Head bent, his right paw curled in and traced patterns on the floor. I don’t know he repeated to himself, and then looked up at me, a thin film of tears coating his blue eyes. Then he just turned back and walked off down the hallway to where I could no longer see him.

That whole night I kept mewling at my humans, expecting them to set me free. I normally wasn’t allowed to walk around the house, but they’d let me out in certain rooms. If I was lucky, I’d escape. Usually this was when someone absentmindedly forgot to shut the door or if the strings that tied my cage’s door shut were knotted loosely. For some reason, I felt that I had to talk to Mister Icarus again. More than him just going off without giving a proper explanation — which would have been the polite thing to do, mind you — I didn’t like the thought of him possibly being mad at me for asking that question.

Mister Icarus had become my first and possibly only friend. The other strays I used to scavenge with on the streets stopped talking to me after I was adopted. Only one of them, Nyaw, tried to visit me. She was a gray cat with half a tail who once tried climbing into the window of this house’s third floor. She barely got a greeting out when one of the house-helps caught her and chased her out the way she came.

I wasn’t let out of my cage and Mister Icarus didn’t come back.

I saw him again only about eight days later, when Maggie wasn’t paying any attention to me. The little girl stayed at her older sister’s study more and more these days, awed perhaps at the specimen her sister continually brought home from school.

Mister Icarus seemed different — his gold-yellow fur seemed like it was washed with some whitish material and his eyes were a lighter shade of blue. Dusty and faded. When he spoke to me though, it seemed he had forgotten what had caused him to leave during our previous encounter. How are you today, child? he asked in the same singsong but tired tone. He asked me to walk with him the same way he did just eight days earlier. This time around I was sure not to say anything that might displease him.

I would love to walk with you soon, but not now — I don’t feel that well. Maybe you could tell me more stories to make me feel better? For a while he seemed to think of what to say, wrinkling his light-pink nose, whiskers twitching.

Not knowing if he was feeling displeasure or not, I suddenly added, Maybe you could bring me back to that place I went to the other day. I didn’t really want to go back to that place — the thought of my insides swirling about and my body being hurled to and fro wasn’t at all something I liked. But I didn’t want Mister Icarus to leave either.

His eyes suddenly gleamed once I said this and immediately, he came closer. Just the thing I was thinking of! Such an intelligent child! 

This time I was the one who reached out for his paw through the bars of my cage.

The feeling was the same as before — an unseen force dragging me inside again, this time quicker, and more impatient, but after a while it surprisingly let go and I found that I could float on my own. The picture frames were still there, but they were empty. I searched but I didn’t see mother or father anywhere. The place reeked of fish. Perhaps a bit too much fish. Things still felt soft — but a thinner kind of soft, as though something about the softness was made weaker — less tangible. Flimsy. I didn’t feel hunger either, or that whirring in my head — I didn’t feel anything at all.

I felt as if I were a ghost.

I was beginning to wonder if this was really the same place until I saw eight different picture frames floating in front of me when I went deeper into the tunnel. The frames were connected to each other by a single red thread. Each frame contained a single cat inside it, each having a different landscape of its own. These cats looked alike in every way: green-eyed with fur a messy mix of black spots on white. Yet there was something different about each of them — one looked at me with its head tilted to one side, the other constantly groomed itself and was seemingly oblivious that I was looking at it, and yet another one kept twitching its whiskers, as if ready to sneeze.

Stranger still was how I felt I knew these eight cats at some point in some way. I wondered if these cats were those I’d see in my future until one of them spoke to me.

It was the cat in the seventh frame — the one who kept its seemingly unblinking eye at me all throughout. Is it time already? it asked, speaking in a voice that sounded exactly like mine. For a while I stayed floating there, looking at it. Speak, it said sternly, then, calling me by the name my mother gave me, it added, Why? What’s the matter?

Cat got your tongue?

The cat in the seventh frame sneered at me and started laughing; so did the others in the remaining picture frames. I felt surprised, confused, and angry. Mostly angry. I didn’t like being laughed at. I didn’t know what to say, so I just stayed there, seething mid-air. I wanted to get out of this place, away from these laughing, mocking cats. But I found that the beginning of the tunnel had somehow vanished during that whole time I was gawking at these eight cats.

Is it time already? repeated the cat who was earlier gnawing and scratching at the edges of its frame.

Time for what? I managed to stammer.

Louder laughter ensued from the eight. What a stupid, stupid cat!!! said the one with twitching whiskers in between sneezes. It makes me feel so ashamed! This— this— thing, this is what we’ve all amounted to! said another as it spat out a hairball while laughing. They continued mocking me, for reasons I had no idea of — all eight of them, until the seventh one spoke again.

You really do not know do you, child? it said with a raspy voice.

Still angry, I hesitated before answering. No. My confusion had forced me to tell the truth this time.

The cat sighed and so did the seven others.

Why are you here, then? asked the cat in the first frame, which had, as I only noticed now, been keeping quiet the whole time the others were laughing. This cat was the only one who had a scar, deep and red across its belly.

I— well— I… I couldn’t quite answer them — it sounded stupid to say that I was here just because I didn’t want Mister Icarus to go away. The cat repeated its question. I mumbled in reply, MisterIcarusbroughtmehere.

The cat who, until now, kept grooming itself, looked up. It spoke in the same raspy voice as the seventh cat, annoyed. Speak clearly, foolish child.

Finally I said it. Mister Icarus — he brought me here. When I would touch his pa—

The cats didn’t let me finish. They wailed within their frames — furs puffing up, pupils turning into slits so thin they looked like knives. They seemed to look like me when I was angry. Icarus! That fiend! one screeched. The other who was gnawing at his frame dug a sharp claw into it, hissing, its eyes focused into empty space. Even the calm cat from the first frame looked maddened, growling.

I was afraid. These cats were crazy! I drew back, looking in all directions for the exit. I thought the smartest thing to do would be to call Mister Icarus for help, but no matter how hard I tried, my lips refused to call his name. They felt sewn shut.

Icarus! another of them hissed sharply, its voice carving a hole in me.

I didn’t want to show any fear — not in front of these feral things, no. But I couldn’t contain it any longer — I started mewling and whimpering, curling in on myself until my fat bits covered my ears, my only shield from their voices.

When silence seemed to have settled in, I heard one of them say, quite calmly: Hush, now. The child knows nothing. I peeked at the frames again – the cats were still there, but they all looked at me with some kind of sorry look across their leaf green eyes.

Icarus, the first one said, something cold in its voice. He was the only one who made it out after the ninth life. I wasn’t sure if they were speaking of the same Mister Icarus I knew. He did something that shouldn’t be done. He chose to continue living, sighed another. Even after the ninth life, it added. You’re not supposed to stay after the ninth life. You’re supposed to go here, pick up all the lives you left behind, said the cat who never looked away. The ones you used up, the ones that lie in this godawful place waiting for you. You’re supposed to pick them up and move on. Go somewhere even we don’t know. Just not here; go on your way; you and your eight other lives.

I didn’t understand anything they were talking about, so I just said, But Mister Icarus is nice to me!

To which the cat in the fifth frame, whiskers twitchy like blades of grass chuckled. Icarus is kind to anyone he needs something from. Anyone who’s at their ninth life. The most I could tell from all of this was that these crazy cats didn’t like Mister Icarus. Child, how do you think that Icarus continues to survive all these years? I couldn’t even tell Mister Icarus’ age, so I didn’t answer. He needs lives. He needs the lives of those who are at their ninth life. Their last life. He needs them because that’s where he stopped — he left his eight other lives here, waiting; turning them into things worse than ghosts.

And you, the cat said staring me straight in the eyes, are at your ninth life, little one.

This was getting stranger than I imagined it would go. Here I was, in a nameless place, talking to eight other nameless cats in picture frames. Eight cats babbling about lives and things that I could not understand. I would have better luck picking out rotten fish from fresh ones. I never even knew beforehand that cats had nine lives, and now I heard a cat in a frame tell me that I’m at my ninth life?! I’ve barely lived at all — how could I be at my ninth life?

I told them that Mister Icarus had never done anything to hurt me.

Not yet, at least, the one in the gold-lined frame snickered. He needs you to trust him, to love him as one would do to one’s friends. In order to do that he sends his prey to the more agreeable parts of this place. He needs you to see that he can give you good things. O, but he has grown careless; Icarus can no longer tell when this place will be agreeable or topsy-turvy. In fact, I believe he has forgotten why he even keeps living. He needs you to give him what he wants out of your own free will. And when that happens, your other lives are trapped here, waiting forever

Another said, The fool has a limit though. He can only move once his current life’s almost run out. And he has nine days to do it. I daresay the gods are having a ball at this!

I didn’t care what the cats said. The closest ball I wanted to have now was my ball of yarn back at home. I missed my cage. I missed my food. I missed Maggie and her fat, sausage-like fingers. Somehow all the thoughts of missing my cage had an effect. The tunnel started to blur, and I felt like I was quickly being pulled out, its exit now visible once more. Beware of Icarus, child! It is not your time yet! But we will see you again someday! the eight cats seemed to say in unison. They meowed something else but I couldn’t quite catch what it was.

When I arrived back at my cage Mister Icarus was there in front of me, his crooked smile affixed on his face, but his features sharper and his hair thinner. Like he’d lost some weight.

There were eight crazy cats in there! I immediately said. They said you were a bad cat who wanted lives! They scared me so much! Them and their green eyes and black-and-white fur!

Mister Icarus didn’t seem bothered at all by this. Instead, he attempted to comfort me. O you poor thing. I guess I sent you to the wrong place this time. But worry not; we’ll show those crazy cats soon enough! We’ll teach them manners, won’t we? he told me cheerfully. Now, come, we’ll head back there to teach them a lesson for frightening you.     

I didn’t know what it was but something told me not to go with Mister Icarus just yet. Could we do that next time? I’m tired. I didn’t want to see the eight cats again, and I was really tired. Something in that tunnel seemed to drain my energy. But I couldn’t deny that what those cats told me stuck in my head. Mister Icarus didn’t look so nice anymore. He was thin. His fur was dull and frayed at the edges.

 

He wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Nonsense. You’re just dizzy, child. Don’t worry, once you go back there with me, things will be fine as fine can be.

I couldn’t understand why he was suddenly being so pushy. Why don’t you just fix those crazy cats yourself? I’m useless, and they really scare me! I said, to which Mister Icarus replied that those cats in frames wouldn’t show up unless I were there, and that they would continually show up each time I went there, ruining the place.

You felt it too, didn’t you? The place felt different, right? Rotten, perhaps? See. It’s the doing of those eight crazy cats. They’ve been there for as long as I know, and I need your help to get rid of them, he said hurriedly. His tail was impatiently swaying back and forth now. I am old. He sighed, drawing closer. I need your help, child. Won’t you help me?

Mister Icarus was sounding crazier than those cats. I drew back further into my cage.

There was something feral in his eyes this time, and before I knew it, he just passed through the bars of my cage, saying the same thing all over. Help me, child. We need to get rid of those crazy cats, don’t we? Come, all I need is you by my side and things will be fine. Come, I just need you to say ‘Yes.’ He was looking more and more like a ghost.

Come, child! I need your help. Just a little bit of your life and those cat-ghosts will be gone. Deader than dead. Come, little one. The Mister Icarus in front of me looked nothing like how he was when I first saw him. Don’t you trust me? We are friends, are we not? He had this twisted scowl on his face, his teeth sharp and so close to my face, the slits of his eyes thin and pitch black.

No! I said, my paws scratching at the air that was him. Air, I could feel: cold and dead. I wanted my mother. I wanted my father. I wanted Maggie. I even wanted those eight crazy cats. Anything but this.

I felt a force similar to the one that drew me into that strange cloudy place ram me to the railings of my cage. Mister Icarus scratched me with long, jagged claws. I felt my skin being ripped open; although I did not bleed. Come child, stop being stubborn! I kept fighting back but to no avail — he seemed to be so suddenly strong that I was thrown all over inside my cage. There is so much you have not seen yet! Just let me have a bit more! If you let me borrow your life I can send those dreadful cats away, little one; come — there is no use resisting, he hissed. All I could do was blindly scratch back and meow for help.

No! No! No! I continued meowing until Maggie came running to my cage. “O, what’s the matter, silly cat?” she said as she took me out, hugging me. Squishing me with her human warmth. For the first time, I clung on to her so hard, unwilling to be let back down. “Ah I know! Here, little kitty, I’ll show you something!” the child said, carrying me off to her oldest sister’s downstairs study. I looked back at the cage, but I couldn’t see Mister Icarus.

When we got to her sister’s study, I saw the worst thing I had seen in my entire life. There was Maggie’s sister, standing over her specimen on the table.

The specimen was a dead cat skinned. Its muscles were exposed and riddled with different-colored pins. Maggie’s sister seemed to be saying the words to a spell while pointing to a certain pin. “Palmaris digitorum longus,” she would say. A quick “Sartorius,” she said to another, and yet another one “Gastrocnemius”.

I just stayed there, stuck on Maggie’s shoulder, wide-eyed. My fur rising in fear at the sight of the dead cat as it seemed to look back at me — eyes blue and bright.

“O Maggie. Why in the world would you show our silly cat my anatomy specimen?” Maggie’s sister exclaimed, and then, to make things worse, she added, “Hey there, silly little kitty,” petting the back of my head.

“Meet Mister Icarus.”

 

* * *

For our cats: Waymond Babalowshi, SmolBerry, & the late Serafina

About the Author

Alyza Taguilaso is a General Surgeon from the Philippines and the author of the book Juggernaut (UST Publishing House, 2024). Sometimes she writes fiction, mostly she writes poetry. Her poems have been shortlisted for a Pushcart and Rhysling Award, and other contests like the Manchester Poetry Prize and Bridport Poetry Prize. Her poems have been published in several publications, including Electric Literature, Crazy Horse, The Deadlands, Canthius, Fantasy Magazine, Nightmare Magazine, Strange Horizons, Orbis Journal, and Voice and Verse, among others. You may find her online via wordpress (@alyzataguilastorm), instagram (@ventral), and twitter/X (@lalalalalalyza).

Let’s be real: When you hear the term ‘Match 3’, your immediate reaction is probably an eye roll, followed by a groan and utterance of “another one?” and I wouldn’t blame you. One look at mobile game stores and you’ll find enough games from that genre to make a ladder long enough to reach Tatooine and still have enough to reach back here. But, what if I were to tell you there are some good match-3 games out there and what if I told you there’s one that mixes that genre with the dungeon crawling RPG genre? You might think I’m crazy, but it’s true! It’s called Roguematch: The Extraplanar Invasion and it’s, quite easily, one of the better, if not best, Match-3 games I’ve played since Bejeweled 3.

Founder heikadog

In Greek mythology, Laelaps is a dog that never fails to catch what it is hunting.

On Bluesky, tens of thousands of users use the Laelaps anti-zoophile labeler. This volunteer-run project collects evidence of animal abusers and enablers, publishes a list, and shows a label on listed accounts so you’re informed before interacting. A labeler utilizes third-party moderation service, hooked up to Bluesky features that help you choose how to use the platform. It lets you actively curate rather than passively consume what you’re fed.

This is their second anniversary of launching a list, their first anniversary of integrating third-party labeler service, and now the public evidence is just reorganized with its sub-categories for refined use. You can support it with ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/laelapsfyi

Laelaps started with a small team of furries and now reaches people from all walks of life. It sets a standard for community moderation that any group can follow. Founder heikadog (aka Heika, they/them) was interviewed by Dogpatch Press about the mission, methods, history, and impact of the internet’s most successful project in its niche. They say furries run the internet, and here’s more proof.

Let’s unpack three points about community moderation, and how furries are challenged to do it.

Start with knowing that every community and subculture is part of society, not an island, while each has its own unique history and challenges. This is ours.

(1) Furries love pride in community. It’s part of building our own spaces like a worldwide convention scene.

(2) This pride is packaged with long-held grievances about being misunderstood and mistreated. The reasons can be debatable. There’s real bigotry from outside, but there’s also a dogmatic tendency to blame “the media” by constantly referencing ancient bad fiction while ignoring deeply-researched, sympathetic reporting. Media-literate or not, if we demand good PR, it needs mature understanding that being in society means being imperfect, so it’s not just up to outsiders to fix our image. It’s our job to take out the trash without brushing things under the rug.

(3) There is longstanding conflict over an unresolved, home-grown problem: Abusers, particularly zoophiles, have used our spaces to network with each other since the early days on 1990’s MUCKs and Usenet lists. Behind pride and wishes for ideal image, we have no consistent wide-scale solution. The deeper we look, the more nuance there is:

• No group is immune to abusers from the dark side of all human behavior: churches, schools, and Boy Scouts have it…
• Internet privacy helps furtive abusers to form their own communities, like villages made of village idiots.
• Organized abusers gain opportunity and access to victims they don’t have alone, and their network effect isn’t just “a few bad apples”.
• Abuser groups start with isolation and liability that makes them cross over for acceptability and influence with groups like ours.
• The fringe of zoophiles in furry have enjoyed far less scrutiny than pedophiles get from mainstream society and the justice system.
• Zoophile-furry groups of thousands are here for cover like nowhere else; can you name any other group they use so boldly?
• Networks can be broken, and we don’t need to harbor zoophiles any more than churches have to tolerate pedophiles.
• Personal, individual opposition doesn’t address the impact of organized zoophile influence, including with friends in high places.
• Reports to higher places commonly fall through the cracks, no matter what laws and policies are technically for.
• Disorganized, scattershot callouts fall into clout dynamics, making a parasocial paradigm of superficial solutions.
• Cops don’t run our groups, we do — we can organize from the roots to deplatform zoophiles, it’s long overdue, and it’s been done before.

WE SEE YOU: Laelaps works like a vaccine against organized abuse.

For Bluesky users, the Laelaps anti-zoophile labeler shows up front what abusers don’t want you to know. This overcomes the Bullshit Asymmetry Principle, where deceivers can get trust easier than they can be detected. Now you can consider the sources without manually screening every new interaction, and fact-check a list that’s responsive to appeals. As a list with transparency beyond others, the aggregated result speaks for itself.

A label doesn’t have authority of censorship; it leaves choices up to you, increasing your power of free association. Laelaps harnesses the power of participatory info sharing features that Bluesky intended for that, vaccinating the community with knowledge.

What’s it like to be unprotected? Organized abusers exploit your community, and you only get reactive, inconsistent awareness, while their network effect reaches beyond your personal choices. You are their doormat. Meanwhile, their networks generate victims, and that isn’t stopped by chasing isolated cases, but by tearing down their networks. Laelaps empowers you in kind, pro-actively countering network effect with strength in numbers that says “we see you, and you can’t hang with us.”

Why not leave it to outsiders (the cops)? We’re often on our own to address a wide range of abuse beneath their priority, and if we are proud to run our own spaces, deterring abusers is our job. You can try it one-by-one for thousands of accounts… or you can have it at scale with community moderation, the smart way.

The community on Bluesky that zoophiles want too.

For years, Twitter (now X) was a main platform for furries, encouraged by permissiveness for things less common elsewhere. Its reach was a blessing and a curse. Twitter empowered artists, influencers and adult services — but imposed dependence on clout dynamics, rampant harassment, and platforming anything from nazis to zoophiles. It’s a great example of The Medium Is The Message.

After Elon Musk took control of Twitter, and around the 2024 US elections, toxicity pushed users to Bluesky as an alternative social network. In August 2025, Bluesky has only around a tenth as many users as Twitter (whose base is in decline and brand has lost its shine,) but many of 38 million registered Bluesky users are consciously hungry for something better.

Bluesky feels designed to mitigate toxicity with improved features like:

• Robust blocking, to dispell harassment and dogpiling on quote-posts.
• For You vs Following feeds, to somewhat quell algorithmic clout dynamics.
• Options for third-party moderation, to improve the old ways of manual block lists.

As users left Twitter to greener fields, Bluesky became a desired destination for zoophiles to set up shop and grab influence. Early adoption can have outsized impact. It’s worked for them elsewhere, with zoophile forums, blogs, and podcasts making self-validating feedback-loops. Why not grab this opportunity?

The origin of Laelaps in the transition from Twitter.

For Heika, the furry community was a joyful path to friends and creativity, but as toxic influence seeped in, frustration came with it.

Go back a few years. Twitter was enabling zoophiles to openly spread animal abuse media and propaganda, and harass what they call “antis” while reaching for acceptance. They even gained clout with popufurs who used fursuits and sex to pull tens of thousands of followers. Lax moderation left few methods to respond, except appeals for community pushback — callouts.

As Heika experienced, callouts have wildly inconsistent results. A typo can get rabid dogpiling, while abusers in community space can get willful ignorance. There’s the superficial idea that the community doesn’t accept abusers, shown by occasional, dramatic clout-falls; but you can’t call out networks, and many people apathetically accept the status quo to stay comfortable. Apathy feeds punishment towards those who rock the boat. Callouts are accused of “clout-chasing”, but the flipside is how clout-powered backlash makes lying stronger than the truth.

Community feels joyful until suppressing problems becomes smothering. That’s how it feels when justice is frustrated and one is alone in pushing back. The solution is to organize. The transition from Twitter could utilize improved Bluesky functionality for better standards. Would history repeat, or could we take a different path?

Development of Laelaps on Bluesky.

With can-do attitude, in July 2023, Heika decided to start a zoophile account mutelist. One inspiration was a defunct Twitter, zblocklist. The mutelist was just a Google Doc at first, but it quickly gained teamwork to add criteria and eliminate possible bias. Twitter was suffering API changes and activity decline, while on Bluesky, the old way of manually importing CSV files was improved with public access to share lists directly. The list launched while Bluesky was still in Beta, with account creation only by invite codes.

From the first day of public use, there was backlash at the list from popular furry sources. This quickly led to adding more evidence about popular furries on the list, with FAQs to help users. As Heika explains, it was only around the first year of Bluesky’s growth, with thousands of furries among only hundreds of thousands of total users. Discourse spread quickly, and this may have started one of the first furry discourses.

Backlash also prompted another early move. In the brief time of being a Google Doc, there was vulnerability to mass reporting under guidelines that limited its use for public evidence. This led to using GitHub to host evidence still readable by anyone.

As the list scaled up by orders of magnitude of users on and using the list, it got inefficient; an organizing bottleneck. “We needed a better way to maintain but make it more transparent”, said Heika. Tapping into developer ecosystems got advice to make the list a labeler. That’s what full-fledged third-party moderation service does, which was adopted in July 2024. The decentralized concept of Bluesky lets elements be handled offsite, like hosting data on a different server that is displayed for subscribers as list-categorized labels on accounts they see while browsing. It required paying for a server and connecting to the back end of Bluesky moderator service (unofficial, public use.)

A year in, the mutelist was superseded by the Laelaps labeler. A year after that, Laelaps used a pro helper to reorganize listings. It has always had sub-categories where you can subscribe to any or all of them, but now the evidence is clearly categorized.

Methods and facts about Laelaps

To estimate Laelaps users, it’s hard to get statistics directly from Bluesky, but the Clearsky service has some third-party info. You can view users 100 at a time, and manual scrolling saw roughly 15,000 using the list for blocking in early 2025. (This doesn’t count using it as a mute list or subscribing to the labeller.)

Besides Heika, there’s a small team that started with pre-existing sources of proven work. They are consulted 1-on-1, with no group chat by design. Consultants are inherently trusted based on past results, and also, ability to mess up and take accountability. This is not for the kind of callout behavior prone to using attention to rile up zoophiles, or quote-dunk and unproductively increase their reach. The mission is to inform and raise organizing, not conflict. This narrows the scope, consolidates experience, and brings better work with more persistent results.

To reorganize the listings, applications were invited to find a suitable volunteer. Seven applied, and one software engineer was chosen. According to Heika, “we saw a spectrum between technical expertise and people who like Laelaps conceptually, and this person balanced that well, linked previous work and didn’t overestimate their time for work on the project.” The list was sorted and reordered by categories according to a styleguide, with an expanded table of contents.

As Heika explains, Laelaps differs from other lists in its team work, methods, and marketing. “A lot of it initially was posting about it a lot and telling people, it was annoying but you kinda have to be. I was providing something unique: a blocklist with archived, easily verifiable evidence, and now it’s a moderation service with 4 separate lists!”

Initial users were mostly furries, and it was made by people in/adjacent to furry, but it’s not specifically a furry list and has many other users. Heika says “I make that distinction because the association is sensitive, and that’s deliberate marketing”.

There’s also how specific it is. “It’s a difficult thing to replicate 1-1. We have internal resources that help us spot zoos as they update their profiles to include dogwhistles like the zeta symbol (ζ), and scripts that show people who follow enough open zoos above a certain threshold. We lock our stuff down so people can’t get an idea of how to go around our methods,” says Heika.

Criticisms and commentary

What about getting a label wrong? Let’s review discourse from the day Heika’s list went public, when two years of development were still to come, but some minds were already made up that it’s all wrong.

“Decide YOURSELF”

• Is it thinking for yourself to avoid organized information, and prioritize reflexes and feelings?
• Will you pro-actively investigate which bad actors use your community as cover, or just get mad about being told?
• What about including due diligence, known patterns, some people’s deliberate complicity, and more evidence at your fingertips to decide yourself?
• Do you care more about fear of labels ruining lives, than abuse ruining lives, while abusers casually rebrand and get new accounts?

Running a list just on Bluesky is limited to a specific niche that doesn’t stop anyone from using other platforms, or rebranding like anyone else. The upside is how rebranding often doesn’t work there, when people on the list have insular circles and habits that tell on them. Accounts have DID — a decentralized identifier tied to an account that stays the same if a handle changes, so they would have to remake an account.

Blocklists are most criticized for bias, and lack of method and transparency. That’s why the founding concept of Heika’s list included an appeal process. An appeal can be done directly in-app. (Heika mentions a limit of the system where you must subscribe, so there’s always been a Google form too). They’re handled with a team chosen for ability to take accountability. Of course appeals can be denied; it’s up to the criteria.

Past complaints of wrong labels pointed out to Dogpatch Press have checked out as disingenuous, with no appeals submitted. Many critics only attack the list concept, and don’t even try pointing out problems they could change and improve.

With furry discourse, among the top subjects Heika sees: “if a furry specifically hated blocklists, they meant this one.” Anti-blocklist sentiment often comes down to “I heard my friend say…” or outright defending sketchy friends. It’s loaded with the reflex to retort fake news about evidence. When blind loyalty causes denial, criticism that “the list might mess up” boils down to nitpicking to hide the bigger picture. It’s like being anti-vaxxer towards the epidemiology of abuse in community space.

The bigger picture can have an organized, actively improving, always-perfectible solution. While Laelaps develops with that goal, backlash makes it harder to move the needle, and it’s not all just protecting the status quo. Some backlash is even nastier.

Zoophile counter-organizing targets Laelaps with harassment

Predators smelled early opportunity while Bluesky was still in Beta, with account creation by invite codes. These codes were coveted by the notorious Furry Valley abuser cult, who took them by scamming users in art related Discord servers. Heika was one of first to post a public warning to beware of the scamming.

Soon, other targeting started coming on line…

As the list became known, zoophiles circulated stickers at Furry Weekend Atlanta that boasted “blocked by heika”. This behavior shows how generally, community for abusers has to stay insular, but has conflicted motives to reach for notice. They use marketing like podcasts to gain sympathizing, coach talking-points for justification, and even groom pliable victims into being zoophiles (or simply for more prey, who sometimes come out to tell their ordeals.) This grows a validation-cult, and these feedback loops push conflict with those who stand in the way.

There’s also attempts to exploit the system. Heika notes “there were several incidents of people going out of the way to make feeds using our assets to pollute the discourse, or our operation and network.” On Bluesky’s back end, blocklists aren’t separate from other kinds of user lists. It’s the same protocol: “That’s a bit of a problem with a hyperspecific niche community. They used feed generator services to copy our lists so zoos could connect to other zoos.” Zoophiles made their own labeler to reverse this one, and hundreds met overnight.

Heika made the next move: “We reached out to Bluesky moderation and got well ahead of it.”

The impact of Laelaps: support of Bluesky Trust and Safety gets zoophiles evicted

Heika’s report to Bluesky about the pro-zoophile labeler described appropriation of work as a form of harassment. Heika followed up with direct messages, explaining: “I’m mutuals with the head of Trust & Safety, but I don’t use it often.” The response: “they are reversing your labels?”

Watchers discovered the pro-zoophile labeler was banned, as well as the account owner, who did the favor of publishing ban emails on a zoophile blog.

The zoophile blog plays a refrain of unfairness, begging for sympathy, and denying promotion of animal abuse. It gives rosy-hued justification about good zoos vs. bad zoos. That’s a common hairsplitting tactic; see also attempts to switch the word pedophile with Boy Lover or MAP.

Laelaps issued a statement about taking extra steps to protect users and cull a potential network effect.

You can see zoophiles posing as the real victims of moderating their counter-harassment. Heika addresses the spin:

“In my view, being an open zoophile (i.e. making it your public identity online) makes you inherently part of the problem regardless of whether you ‘practice’ or don’t. There’s only so much ‘activism’ you can do when your entire community is predicated on violating the consent of a being that fundamentally cannot consent. I remember one occasion where we were asked to incorporate contact stances for pro or anti-contact, since zoophiles use our work to network, and my response to that was something like, ‘we didn’t make our labeller for zoophiles, and we’re not going to use the language of the enemy.'”

Bluesky Trust & Safety specifically took action to change the network effect, and it’s public, notes Heika: “I have not seen this with any other moderation service to date.” Many participating zoophile accounts have been banned, less obviously, but they are clearly being held accountable for promoting animal abuse.

The impact continues when another Bluesky staffer mentioned Laelaps in a blog post, not endorsed or paid as a community volunteer project.

It makes Heika proud: “This was a result of our dedication, and part of the journey. Backlash really influenced the evolution of Laelaps, but we notice a lot less now in the fandom because we stuck with it.”

They keep trying, but action is getting more and more decisive. There was an impersonation attack while the article was coming together:

Last night, we were made aware of a user impersonating Laelaps and alleging users to be zoophiles. It was quickly suspended.

This account and @heika.dog are the only accounts associated with Laelaps, and we won’t ask you to DM to resolve an appeal. To appeal a decision, visit zmlform.heika.dog.

— Laelaps (@laelaps.fyi) August 6, 2025 at 1:24 PM

A message about complicity, and undoing it with dedication and teamwork

It took 2 years to develop this organized response to organized abuse. What if all the work was reduced to abusers being unwilling to show themselves?

Heika takes stock: “Nobody else provides proof like we do. You can’t edit archives… and complicity in the network effect is why the interacts label exists. It’s our most controversial, but it most applies to the gateways… Laelaps works the way it does and has been so successful because the backend is so dedicated, with a team of assistants that have very specific expertise.”

“I’m hoping other curators would take this approach to working in hyper specific niches, but you realize what a gargantuan task it would be to ask of people.”

Not many other furries are making blocklists, but there are userlist feeds that serve communities about science, for example. Heika says: “Furrylist is THE big one. I’m close to an engineer; they have their own internal reporting. If Laelaps labels an account, it shows in the Furrylist backend.” Some of this influence also extends to furry communities on Discord.

Community organizing is one field for work. There’s also tech development and corporate policy outside. What if lists like this generate a lot of reports to handle? Think about how Bluesky’s best practice is to not mention Laelaps. It’s like the Catholic Church not talking about services that mitigate child abuse claims, and hopefully, not generating them. So, it’s important to have a service like Laelaps run by the community, with awareness of what it does and what happens without it.

How the mission of Laelaps is having success in the wider world

The network effect may start with superficial online behavior, but it comes out in real life.

Heika tells how zoophiles signal and verify each other, and get inducted. There’s zeta codes (ζ), flags, and lots of private contact. “A source claimed to be approached at a con to physically network in real life, because they had been labeled on Laelaps.” Stickers are clues about con meets and room parties. Some live with each other. There have been reports of hundreds gathered at a ranch.

Labeling doesn’t stop that, “but greatly raising awareness of what these are, helps by itself”, says Heika. Journalists and professionals are noticing. “Language around this has started to change, they are taking animal abuse more seriously as cybercrime.” People in the community who used to sympathize have had to catch up and get more sensitive about abuse. It’s not just social media effect, it’s social effect.

They always want acceptance, but Heika has seen their reach get stifled. It goes with Bluesky having much less quote-dunking culture than Twitter. Their influence can hit a wall while fringe “paraphile” spaces notice it too. There may be no complete end to it, but limiting reach can discourage trying up front. Heika says: “When their platforms are actively fucked with, we notice because they make podcasts and blogs about it.” It’s like treading water when they get set back, have to start over, and get tired. There’s even social engineering that leads them to get themselves suspended.

Laelaps has become known as a threat, with zoophiles feeling pushed out and posting that they can’t keep it up. Getting banned from Bluesky has led to abandoning entire identities and giving up on their publicity.

Listing also sometimes goes beyond labeling, to reporting abusers by email for official handling. Heika says “a lot of zoophiles openly ID as pedos, and this gets manual reports behind the scenes. We give established criteria like explaining coded language they use. This can get them entirely off any account they have.” What about reporting to police? That’s categorically different; this is about network behavior not actionable by police, and if there is criminal evidence, it won’t be made public to tip the wrong people.

Who watches the watchmen? People will still have their mind made up if this is good or bad, but if they’re on the fence and taking time to think about it, it can give time for abusers to make more victims. If nobody watches, is it restoring neutrality or letting communities be doormats? Heika has no doubt: “One of my favorite terms is community self defense”. That’s not just for furries, it’s for anyone.

Thoughts from Heika

Heika is young but gaining can-do experience, a creative hobbyist, and “I call myself a community moderator”. Heika actually hasn’t been to furry cons, but traveled to meet peers at San Francisco Pride and New York for the premiere show of The Furry Detectives docuseries, the AMC production about furries investigating zoosadists.

The Furry Detectives interviewed Heika as a source representing a new generation. (It didn’t make the cut, but may show up for season 2…) “I’m not a true crime person, but I love the show! It’s delicate to see a balance of community as positive vs. problems within. I also appreciated meeting a queer editor on the show, who talked about preserving subcultures as national treasures.”

Laelaps is a big project. Could it lead to a profession with Trust & Safety? Heika thinks “a downfall of T&S is working at the general level enforcing all community guidelines. There’s a high chance of messing up if you work sitewide and don’t know intricacies. The cool thing about Laelaps is knowing a specific niche inside and out.”

After backlash fades, support makes a lasting reason to do it. A witness of grooming by zoophiles sent this thanks for all the service.

Like the article? These take hard work. For more free furry news, follow on Twitter or support not-for-profit Dogpatch Press on Patreon. Want to get involved? Try these subreddits: r/furrydiscuss for news or r/waginheaven for the best of the community. Or send guest writing here. (Content Policy.)

Hello, Papabear,

It's been a long time since I wrote you, and last time I did I would have been referred to as my old fursona name of Kumori Urufu.

As someone that had changed the design of Kumori multiple times, and then finally back in 2021 changing my fursona to a different character entirely, my question is more of a personal opinion one.

What is your opinion on those that either have multiple fursonas or change sonas after some time with a previous one?

I await your reply.

From a curious jex

* * *

Dear Troy,

Hello again :) and thanks for your question.

What is my opinion of those who change their fursona or have multiple fursonas? Like most everything else in the fandom, there really are no rules, so first of all I would say, "Do whatever you like with your fursona."

That said, if you want my opinion as to why people have different fursonas, one has to approach it from two different angles. For those furries for whom the fursona is basically just an avatar for gaming and online socializing, it makes sense that they might have multiple fursonas or change their fursona character as the situation merits. For example, perhaps they use a warrior wolf when they feel like playing a medieval RPG in a wartime kingdom, but they switch to a sexy femme fox when they are flirting with someone in VRchat. In other words, they treat fursonas rather like clothing: you've got your work clothes, your play clothes, your going-out-to-a-fine-restaurant clothes, and so on. Or, if they stick with one fursona at a time, they might just switch from one fursona that they use a lot in a WoW account, but later they lose interest in that game and start focusing on creating a private world in SecondLife and adopt, say, a deer fursona who is a SL real estate developer and have fun with that for a couple of years. In other words, these are furries who aren't really emotionally attached to their alter egos.

Then you have the furries for whom fursonas are very personal. They, too, might have many fursonas, but these fursonas are more personal expressions of themselves than mere avatars. This makes sense in the same way that normies often adopt different public facades depending on their environment. When you are at work at, say, a board meeting, you would act very businesslike and formal; when you are on a date with a new potential love interest, you put on your best social persona; when you are visiting a judgmental family for Christmas dinner, you might act like Mommy and Daddy's good little boy or girl; and so on. Normie people do this, so it shouldn't be surprising that furries do it too. And it doesn't mean these personalities are "fake," they are just different aspects of the same person. 

The other situation is when fursonas evolve and change over time. This is quite often true of people who enter the fandom at a young age and participate for many years. Fursonas change as you change. I don't know about you, but I bet you are a far different person now then you were at, say, 14. I, for example, was very much into fantasy novels when I was a teen and twenty-something. I even wrote a fantasy novel that was published, for Pete's sake. I was very into dragons, and I had a collection of dragon miniatures that was quite something, if I may say so. Now, I didn't know about the fandom back then (this is the 1970s and 80s), but if I had, my fursona definitely would have been a dragon. Later, I mostly left the fantasy dragon hobby behind as I became more active in the gay community—specifically, the bear community, so naturally my fursona is a bear now.

I believe that many people—especially the young, but also older furries—struggle with figuring out who they are, and their fursonas can be a reflection of this. I also think that fursona experimenting and role play are useful psychological tools for people to safely and constructively explore who they really are as they break away from familial and social constraints through an imaginary world of furries. This is not escapism. Nay, it is a really healthy journey for many people IMHO, and it is one of the things that makes the furry fandom superior to other fandoms that are more limiting in what you can do (e.g., if you are a Star Wars fan, you're probably just going to choose between being a Jedi or Sith warrior—ho hum—and don't forget not to violate copyright! LOL!) The furry world is much more creative, and it is also much more conducive (again, my opinion) to exploring sexual and gender identity in particular, a truism that goes all the way back to Bob Hill and his Vawlkee and Clementine characters.

So, if you want to change your fursona, do so. It's not only "allowed," it's totally normal and expected.

Have fun and stay furry!

Papabear

I’m going to freely admit that this was a bit tricky review as the city builder genre was never something I really got deeply invested in. They’re fun games and a nice break from the FPS genre, but that’s the extent of my enjoyment of them. So, I’m going to be approaching this title as a casual player and one who enjoys playing these games to just relax. With that said, The Wandering Village does succeed in that area, but does slightly stumble in a few key areas.

Picture this: It’s a peaceful day in the city. You’re about to have lunch with friends when suddenly an enemy overwhelms you all with dark spiritual power. That’s the beginning of Atomic Owl. The latest from publisher eastasiasoft and developer Monster Theater, Atomic Owl sees players step into the wings of Hidalgo Bladewing, the prince of the Bladewings who just returned from a dangerous mission to chow down on ramen with his friends. Only for things to go horribly wrong as the malevolent Omega Wing appears and conquers Judanest, but not before imprisoning Hidalgo and corrupting the aforementioned friends. Two years later, Hidalgo is freed by Mezameta, his now sentient sword and two embark on a quest to stop Omega Wing. 

TigerTails Radio Season 16 Episode 28 Join the Discord Chat: https://discord.gg/SQ5QuRf Join the Telegram Chat: https://t.me/+yold2C77m0I1MmM0 Visit the website at http://www.tigertailsradio.co.uk. See website for full breakdown of any song credits, which is usually updated shortly after the show. Credits: Opening music: Magic by Hedge Haiden (Double Hedge Studios) Character art: Fitzroy Fox - https://www.furaffinity.net/user/lunara-toons / https://bsky.app/profile/fitzroyfox.bsky.social Background art: Charleston Rat - https://www.furaffinity.net/user/charlestonrat / https://bsky.app/profile/charlestonrat.bsky.social If you like what we do and wish to throw some pennies our way to support us, please consider sending a little tip our way. https://streamlabs.com/tigertailsradio/tip * Please note, tips are made to support TigerTails Radio and are assumed as made with good faith, so are therefore non-refundable. Thank you for your support and understanding.

Hey there, PapaBear,

First, I wanted to say thank you for answering my ambitious question earlier in the year. This will be a bit more serious. Just to warn you, I'll be venting and sharing my strange, probably incoherent, and impulsive feelings. I hope you don't mind. I'll talk to my therapist about this, too.

All right, here it goes....

I have the feeling that the Fandom will fully disown me for everything I've done, including those I trust the most, too. I've been thrown under the bus so many times of my own accord through my own selfish, impulsive behaviors. I don't even know why I try anymore to be someone special in the Fandom. Sure, I may be autistic and have impulsive thoughts, but I think that facade has rotted way past the threshold. I don't think I'll ever be welcomed in the Fandom because of what I've done and who I associate with. Frankly, I haven't seen the need to keep trying to fit in when I know I'll just blow it up again. The thing is, this isn't really a new issue, either.

I used to avoid the Fandom like it was something I shouldn't be doing or associating with, all because I didn't know any better about furries and what they actually do. Even after my admittance to the fandom, things were always rather rocky for one reason or another. I sometimes wish I had a better experience overall where I didn't have this backwards view of the fandom before and didn't have such a hard time trying to get myself around. Now I feel like I'll never get that experience because of all my sins catching up to me.

I used to have fun being in the Fandom and, well, being myself, but ever since those incidents happened. I feel like those days are long gone. I don't know what I'm gonna do, and I feel like doing this will be used against me, but you never know. I don't even know what I'm trying to say anymore. I just want that feeling again, that feeling of security, acceptance, and engagement that I don't think I've been able to find anywhere else. I want to find a way to reconcile these sins, but do you and I really think it'd be a good idea?

I guess a good way to explain my situation with the Fandom is through songs, the main one being Post Malone's "Circles." The lyrics resonate with me beyond the chill tune. Another one would probably be the one English translation of "Makenai ai ga Kitto Aru," as it talks about my sense of wanting to belong and be understood. (you might know it from Megaman, or somewhere else).

I think that's all I have to say. This message is probably gonna be an emotional roller coaster to read, but I at least hope it'll be organized enough to be understandable. I apologize for any kind of confusion, or complications I may have caused.

With (off the pill) regards,
Riley.

* * *

Hi, Riley,

What actually happened to you that caused this shift from feeling accepted to not feeling accepted? Was it something specific? Several things? Or just a general feeling?

Hugs,
Papabear

* * *

Hello there, PapaBear, thanks for the response! 

It's actually a combination of all three. I think this information might be used against me, so as to prevent drama I'll just say there have been several specific, but unrelated incidents that ultimately ruined my morale of being a part of the Fandom. They range from years ago to somewhat recently. Add that to the fact that my mind goes everywhere at certain times, it makes the general feeling of my guilt a very strong one.

Now, there are a few reasons why I haven't reconnected and tried to reconcile yet. One is that I don't feel like enough time has passed, even if it was 2-3 years ago. Another is my general self-doubt and deprecation looking back at what I did. I don't know if they'll ever forgive me because I probably won't be able to forgive myself unless I really try. I usually just call off whatever thing I want to fix because I feel like we need more time.

I also get that feeling--because of the fear--that everyone I know will find out and will ultimately disown me. "Seasons change and our love went cold, feed the flames cause we can't let go. Run away, but we're running in circles...." Is it irrational? I dunno, most likely, but that feeling remains.

I guess on that note, if anyone I know is reading this and is shocked over what I've said, I don't blame you. I just wanted to get it out for a while, and I have nothing against anyone who's seen me as a great person.


Overall, I think I just need to believe that I have the strength, because "in my heart I know there's love, unbeatable and strong like the heartbeat inside of me." I mean, what do you think? Are these feelings really irrational and won't get me anywhere? Or do you think there's little merit in them? I'll let you be the judge.

With (on the pill) Regards,

Riley.

* * *

Dear Riley,

I believe I may have mentioned before that the furry fandom is not a homogenous, single body. Therefore, it is literally impossible to be rejected by the entire fandom. There are likely tens of thousands of furries or more who have never heard of you or whether or not you have done anything wrong. I mean, I, for one, have not, so I'm certain many others have not. That's Point #1, which then implies that there are plenty of furries out there you can come into contact with and make new friends. 

As for those who have rejected you for whatever reason, many of them do so for some pretty bad reasons, including: 1) gatekeeping, 2) feeling better about themselves for tearing other people down, and 3) not having any forgiveness in their hearts. All three reasons are terrible. You don't want to be friends with such furries anyway. True friends will forgive you when you ask for forgiveness.

Next up: forgiving yourself. Literally nobody is perfect; literally everyone makes mistakes; literally anyone can do selfish, hurtful things without really meaning to. Usually, when people do things that are seen as bad, it is because people can be ignorant or stupid or simply socially awkward and lacking in confidence and self-respect. It's not because they are mean, necessarily. I've done some stupid things in my life, too. You're no different. Give yourself a break.

But how does one forgive themself?

• Stop obsessing about the past. The past is done. You can't change it, so there is no point in constantly thinking about it...
• EXCEPT for learning from your mistakes and promising yourself to do better....
• And to do better, one first apologizes for the mistake, including apologizing to oneself: "I never meant to hurt you, and I am sorry. I will learn from this error and do my best not to repeat it."
• Do what you can to make amends to any harmed parties. Some will accept your gestures, but others might not. You can't do anything about the latter, so simply say something like, "I'm sorry you feel that way. Goodbye."
• Accept that you may lose some relationships. Embrace those who show forgiveness. Those are the cool people.
• After acknowledging any wrongdoing, apologizing, and resolving to do better, substitute negativity with self-affirming encouragement. Example: "In my heart, I know I am a good person and there are things I can do in my life that will create positive effects in the world. I will start working on that today."
• Finally, embrace your shadow self. Everyone has Light and Darkness within them. No one is able to completely eliminate feelings like hate, envy, fear, and selfishness. You must therefore learn to integrate them into what is fully you. 

Most people are either unaware of their shadow self or they try to repress it. This is rather the basis of a lot of research in psychology (think especially Freudian psychology). But repressing or hiding the shadow self doesn't make it go away; instead, it will express itself in uncontrolled and often hurtful ways. To stop this from happening, the best way is to acknowledge the shadow by doing such things as journaling (write down your negative feelings and traits) and mindfulness. Here is a good article about the shadow self, the types of shadow self, and how to live with your shadow instead of avoiding it: Shadow Self: 13 Types & How to Embrace Your Dark Side ⋆ LonerWolf.

Everyone makes mistakes and does bad things on occasion, Riley. The fact that you are concerned about this and want to do better clearly demonstrates you have a strong good side. (If you were truly a bad person, you wouldn't care one bit about hurting people.) At this time in your life, I would suggest you stop worrying about what people in the fandom think about you and focus on yourself. Once you find peace in your heart and acceptance of yourself, you can put yourself out there again and, trust me, people will notice the difference. People who are self-confident and at peace with themselves send out good vibes that have no need to be vocalized. People sense it and will have good feelings about being around you. 

You will be okay.

Hugs,
Papabear

* * *

Hello, PapaBear,

I read and reread your response over, I think it's exactly what I needed to hear. I think it makes perfect sense for me to not worry too much about these old figures.

Also, I didn't know that doing something as simple as journaling, or, well, trying to comprehend my Dark Side could do a lot to improve my mental health. I usually find resolve in that stuff through action, but I guess writing stuff down would be a better idea than doing stuff I might regret. I completely understand everything being said here. I really need to stop overthinking all of this stuff. It's a bad habit of my psyche, and being autistic usually tends to bring out these feelings a lot more. I just need to find a way to accept and control these things in a positive way. 

Now that I think about it, there are plenty of people in my life--online and in real life--that still care for me. It's very important to take a hold of these Precious Time, Glory Days and, well, keep holding on. Even if I feel like I'm buried six feet deep today, I gotta make sure my tomorrow won't be that way because I know I'll be okay....

Thank you, Papabear. I really do gotta appreciate the time you take reading emails like this. I hope that I'll come back to this message whenever I feel down about this. I hope that the next time I write you a letter it won't be under circumstances like this.

With (Grateful) Regards,
Riley.

The folks at Dynamite Comics have been busy again, still injecting new life into classic TV cartoons. And it’s time we caught up! Here’s their description of Justice Ducks, which started up last year: “Flying saucers descend from the skies, to (maybe) wreak (possible) havoc upon the (mostly) innocent citizens of St. Canard! All that’s stopping these aggressive alien agitators is Stegmutt, Gizmoduck, Neptunia, Morgana, and (most important, in his opinion) Darkwing Duck! Written by the Eisner and Harvey Award-winning Roger Langridge and illustrated by celebrated Darkwing Duck artist Carlo Lauro, this latest chapter in the ongoing saga of St. Canard’s web-footed wonders is surely destined for greatness – just like DD himself!” Every good superhero needs a team, right? Issues are available on line and at your local comic book store.

image c. 2025 Dynamite Comics

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

Welcome to another off the rails episode of BFFT! Flecko the Fennec is back with us for an update on his off the grid living in beautiful British Columbia. We have furry news, furry events upcoming, a movie review, and so much more. So tune in for another confusing (and long) episode of BFFT. Moobarkfluff everyfur!

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

Support the show

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

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

Bearly Furcasting S6E3 - Sugary Cereal

August is here and that means Halloween is on its way (the best holiday, personally), along with October in general. October means Furry Book Month! We are planning to put together another furry book bundle this year, so if you have a book you’d like to submit, now is the time to do some last-minute revisions. We’ll post in a few weeks with details regarding submissions, so keep an eye out.

For me, August also means I’m moving to another city in another state. I’ll be very busy for the next few weeks, but if you have an issue or question that needs guild officer attention, feel free to email and someone will get back to you as soon as possible.

I don’t know about you, but I’m really looking forward to autumn in my part of the world. I always feel more productive when the school supplies go on sale. I have editing and writing projects to finish, maybe even a new project to start for Furry Novel Jam! I hope you too are able to settle in with your seasonal drink of choice and a crisp new notebook and pen, and get some words written.

We have some new channels on the Discord server that might help you prepare for your next project, or help you get past a block. Our vice president Flash Kitterson started a weekly prompt–sorry, pawmt!–that’s a lot of fun, and we have a new worldbuilding channel too.

Here are the current open markets for your short stories:
Indecent Exposure – Deadline December 22, 2025
This Is Halloween – Deadline When Full
Children Of The Night – Deadline When Full

Please also check out the latest book releases from our members:
Tales of Scales, by Michael Miele, Released April 2, 2025.
Wind Singer: An Imbrium Novella, by Frances Pauli, Released April 19, 2025
Meeting Dominique, by Royce Day, Released May 1, 2025.
Dragon’s Soul, by J.F.R. Coates, Released June 7, 2025.
Two Strikes and I’m Out, by Michael H. Payne (poetry), Released June 16, 2025.
Tales from the Guild: Blood and Water, Released June 30, 2025.
A Portrait for Tomorrow, by Raynarde, Released June 30, 2025.
Legend of Ahya: A Divinity Decayed [Book 5], by Matthew Colvath, Releasing Nov. 30, 2025.

Happy writing!
Kate Shaw

Relic developed one of my favorite strategy games, the Dawn of War series. So when they announced Earth vs. Mars, I was taken aback that they were making a turn-based game instead of an RTS. Announced earlier this year, it was a departure from their usual style of gritty real-time violence. Earth vs. Mars is a turn-based strategy that feels intimately familiar to those who played games like Advanced Wars, Wargroove, or Tiny Metal. Units consist of infantry, tanks, artillery, and helicopters, led by commanders with special abilities you charge up by winning fights and capturing points. There are two things I noticed that expand the formula.

We like how Scout Comics describes this: “It’s chunky Roger Rabbit with a bad temper meets Indiana Jones, set in a Sam Raimi’s looking cityscape.” What is it? Mitch, a new full-color series created by Maxim Simic. “Mitch mixes comedy, science fiction and urban fantasy, with character Mitch as the anthropomorphic lead, juxtaposed to the seemingly realistic world of the late 90s… It’s a story about one furry guy on a quest to find his true origins, unintentionally stumbling into adventure, mystery, and a secret ongoing extraterrestrial conflict over Earth and its unsuspecting occupants.” And, it’s out there on the shelves.

image c. 2025 Scout Comics

Widespread love of quality word games has permeated throughout the history of puzzle pastimes. Whether that’s games like Hangman, Crosswords, Scrabble, Boggle, or more recently Wordle, there are limitless variations on finding joy in parsing together pieces of our collective vocabulary and alphabet to accomplish various goals. Entering the scene is a mix of many of those games in “Birdigo”, created by screenwriter John August (Corpse Bride, Charlie’s Angels) and developer Corey Martin (Bonfire Peaks, Pipe Push Paradise). You’ll guide various birds along their migration paths by crafting words using a custom “deck” of letters that you draw from at the start of every turn. Utilizing a healthy dose of Balatro-like elements to boost your scoring power as you guide your bird along a roguelike migration path to reach their final destination, Birdigo excels at providing a simple game concept with satisfying scoring devices and a “one more round” addictiveness that makes it hard to put down.