Feed aggregator

by R.J.K. Lee

“For a while, I focus on mere survival, squeezing my talons round the chain while the gale swings me haphazardly.”

There’s loss that never leaves you, that drains life of color, sound, and feeling. It’s like a sheen of cloying gray moss muffling everything in a blinding symbiosis. Loved ones who haunt you with their lingering hopes and dreams, snapping from branches in the humid jungle.

For me? My gibbon friend, Suso. Her furry limbs, playfully swatting my feathers as I flew. Her singing as if to taunt me. Golden gibbon hoots, beauty deeper than birdsong. Golden gibbon hoots, swinging vines for so long. Golden gibbon hoots, at rest on branches and roots.

Before that, my parents and siblings. Their vibrant plume. Familial comfort gone forever. Sometimes not just my species of parrot, but every avian ghost chirps a chorus in my tiny heart, leaves me shuddering in a corner, beak tucked against my breast.

Around the full moon, diverse animals gather on Hope Plateau for seasonal moots. Each moot is a three-day intended for negotiating the path our cross-creature community will follow in the next cycle. Even after disasters wiped out most tribes, the tradition sticks to us.

But no agreement has been reached yet. Maybe not at all this time. An increasing issue as glossed-over despair worsens like the spread of blight under bark, feather, fur.

Like aching pains in my fragile bones.

Among the shattered ruins clinging to Hope Plateau, trees and ferns tower over the graves of billions. Creatures of all types, many extinct, such as the humans much of my tech is derived from. Roots dig and tear apart evidence of civilizations, of mistakes, of blinded pride and selfishness, of failed symbiosis, of how fruitless were the moots of previous generations.

It’s been a year since I retreated inside the confines of a capsule among the ruins. In its network of chambers, I’ve become a parasite nesting on history’s hubris, lurking in the shadows of my family’s death, tracing their lives left behind as nothing more than scratches and graffiti. I habitually send out bots to fetch food and supplies while I watch the community fester and fight.

Outside of my capsule, a mist-filled dawn graces the foliage with a shimmer. The moon bobs above jungle fronds and rocky peaks. On the edge of the opposite horizon, the sun glowers, not yet pushing its oppressive heat on those eking out lives here.

Beyond my hermit home gather the haters, the hated, and the in-between. Nut-stealing, back-talking, guilt-tripping, red giant flying squirrels. Brutish golden gibbons with heavenly baritone voices, who bash invasive nests out of their expanding treetop colonies. Black-and-white Goliath beetles restlessly shake mandibles, skittering in the bark, rubbing wings and legs in stridulated mockery.

And me, only surviving parrot orphan. Ruffling my feathers at the thought of flight, of freedom from this broken community, of independence. Oh, how I want to leave here forever.

Everyone locked in a pointless debate that circles the windows of my hideout. So much destroyed in the disasters of our youth. We are the trash that lingers on, bickering over and mutating from the soured remains.

I try not to engage. Try to focus on practical repairs. But they’re so chirping loud.

The golden gibbons beat their silver-and-black streaked chests. Their long limbs swing foolishly as they stomp out territory, the largest branches and discs of plateau rock at one end of the moot arena. As a group, they chant, “Goom, goom, goom, all of you, move, move, move!”

Goom, reigning gibbon leader, is much smaller and angrier than his sister Suso (how I miss her), and he bellows for attention. “Thieves!” he shouts in his quavering baritone. “Get your greedy paws off our supply. We gave you your rightful share already.”

“Already,” the black-and-white speckled goliath beetles stridulate in chorus.

“What you gave us was disease-ridden fruit,” Rikrik chitters, as spokesperson for the red giant flying squirrels. His puffs of reddish-brown fur shiver in obvious irritation. “You only blame us for theft to displace your guilt for the hundreds dead and dying.”

“Dying,” the goliath beetles stridulate.

I want to tell them that none are to blame, that there’s no stopping the disease, that we should share and figure this out together. But I remember how the gibbons tried to murder me. The squirrels only laughed, and the beetles only burrowed and mocked, when I lost my family, my friend, and nearly my own life. Why bother? I’m safe inside, and I have a plan that I can manage on my own. I’ll leave behind their bickering nonsense.

“Just be quiet! All of you.” I beg through the external speakers installed in the trees and rocks, and my annoyance echoes within the tinny walls of home. “I’m trying to build here.”

I’m working on strengthening the walls of my capsule. Installing a proper engine. Two projects at once. Each of them leads to my goal of an exhaust pipe and thrust that will blast me into the sky. My goal of getting away from the three tribes I despise. Through the clouds to the moon, the stars. Or at least to another corner of the island where they’ll never find me. I’d be alone without the tension draining my intelligence, fraying the ease of my spirit, barring me from what blessed enjoyment I can scratch out of my minuscule life.

Gibbons hoot and raise their fists. One almost punches the camera I use to monitor them.

Goom, with leaves and twigs entwined as a crown upon his upside-down pineapple head, stomps forth to dominate the conversation. “We apologized about your family. Many times. It was an honest mistake. We believed the fruit was fresh. Nutritious. All of you must join us in preparing our trees for survival. For without them, we’ve nothing.”

“Nothing,” the beetles click.

“Liars,” I chirp. I should shut up and never engage, but sometimes it’s hard to hear the hypocrisy. Fluffing my feathers, I peck the controls of my robot mechanic. Focus on progress.

Rikrik points a paw at Goom, directing five other squirrels to heave chunks of bark and stone at the gibbons. “Your apologies are insults,” Rikrik chitters. “Excuses to pave the way for more clumsy murder. Excuses!”

“Murder,” half the beetles repeat.

“Excuses,” echo the other beetles.

Goom and his bodyguards swat at the thrown debris. A third of it slips past, hitting some of the gibbons in the face and chest. Goom bellows, commanding his kind to close their ranks. He leans over his family and friends, inspecting the damage.

A lull of silence. Nursing wounds. Mounting tensions.

I look away from the cameras. I take the opportunity to poke the mute button with my beak and set the viewing screen to sleep. Settling into work, I set the robot on wall strengthening duty to continue for another hour, and I direct another robot to inspect the cameras. Then, I crawl into the depths of the capsule to secure the initial connectors for a proper engine, chirping a poem to keep anxiety at bay.

* * *

One of the big, cruel storms took Mom. Better than being poisoned, I guess. I often recall her singing. Her talons curled round the metal ring of the crashed capsule where we had nested peacefully during the initial year of my youth. The rest of her body flapped wildly in the vicious gale. And yet, her song persevered. A song of comfort and endurance, of soaring great heights.

Wind feathers whisper

so we follow children’s dreams.

Hear them chirp and sing.

Clutch memories like warmed eggs.

Nest close and glide far.

So much more we need to feel.

Then came the pestilence and poison that killed Dad, my siblings, and many creatures. Every avian but me. Probably would’ve done me in, too, if it wasn’t for Suso.

Suso nursed me back to health. Her upside-down pineapple face. Pointy chin. Dark eyes. Bushy golden brows. Glistening curls of silver hair. She still looms over my restless sleep. When she later died of the poison, but I didn’t, her species blamed me. Her deceptively smaller elder brother, Goom, punched and screeched his rage.

The army of gibbons Goom amped up would have murdered me. If they weren’t distracted by the incidents afflicting the island, I might not have slipped away to cower in the capsule my family once thrived in.

Mom and Suso. Their singing sticks to me. I chirp about loss, inserting pieces of them.

Golden gibbon hoots, beauty deeper than birdsong.

Tugging my flight back, though I thought to nest

stung by sickened jungle death. Shed feathers.

Plucked smooth. Harsh seasons give. Take.

I twitch, alive. But she sighs, slumps.

Quiet rest in the brown roots and leaves.

Nest close. There was so much more

we need to feel. Don’t glide so far.

Harsh memory cloys to sour remains. What’s already decayed. The poetry helps me endure, though it’s a sad sign that I can never move on.

Can never depend on anyone but myself.

* * *

I’m circulating a wrench, tightening screws, when a cascade of rapid banging explodes against another corner of the capsule. Bang clunk. Buh-bang thunk. Thunk-thunk bang.

“Gibbons,” I mutter, and hop out of my work to check the monitors.

I flip visual and sound back on. A crowd of twenty squirrels gather below a camera, lifting stones in their paws. “We know you’re in there!” Their chittering erupts in a communal scream. “We know you!”

They swing their paws, tossing stones against the side of my home. Another series of bangs, clunks, and a shatter. I flinch at that last sound, wondering what damage I’d find. But for now, I have to convince them to stop. Several are scrambling about for more stones.

“Wait! I’m on your side. What do you need?”

They commence a whining chitter.

Then, the entire world explodes with a crack. A flash. A rolling rumble of thunder.

My screens go white. I lose all visual, though the audio stays strong. Chittering and squeaking. Paws running about, nails clicking on wood and rock.

Another scratch and knock against my home.

“Stop!” I chirp, before I think it through. I shouldn’t tell living creatures to get away from their nearest protection in sudden squall. But if I let them in, will I survive? Will they bring sickness? Violence? Will they take over the last home I have? Desecrate the memories of my family, my species?

More scratching and thumping, then another world-breaking crack.

The screeching of terrified animals.

I dive for the controls and peck the unlock for the entrance door. The squeaking of machinery as the door slides open. The entrance ramp lowers.

I flap down into the lower floor to greet them.

Another crack. A rumble. A frenzy of flashes.

No one’s at the door.

* * *

I freeze for a second, thinking it’s a prank, thinking I cannot go out there. One step and the wind will take me like it did Mom.

The ramp quivers in the howling wind. Leaves and twigs shoot past. Hard rain pelts the metal surface of the ramp, a punishing percussion. A chain attached to the capsule somewhere on the ramp whips and snaps at the air.

A squirrel screech rises in volume then abruptly ends with another crack of thunder. If Mom was here, she’d swoop out of the entrance and save the others. No hesitation. This freezing up nonsense was passed on to me from Dad. He knew how to fix junk, but confrontation and horror could pin him to his trembling talons.

In the end, I lost them both, so what does it matter if I take the risk? I duck my head and descend the ramp, keeping my talons and wings close to the surface, ready to hold on tight if the wind tries to tear me loose.

The wind punches me like Goom returning to exact revenge for the loss of Suso. I crumple onto the ramp, clinging to every dimple and crevice and screw. The wind relentlessly nudges me to the side, emphasizing how little my efforts matter.

Off the edge of the ramp, I spot the red giant flying squirrels clinging to the tails of their friends and families, clumped around one leg of the capsule. Best defense against the onslaught they could find, though the wind still slaps them as they screech in terror.

Rikrik is bravely at the front of the group, trying to shield the weaker ones from the onslaught. A darker brown squirrel, Rikrik’s partner, is trying to hold his tail, trying to keep him as safe as everyone else, but she loses her grip, and Rikrik shoots into the air.

Paws reaching out for help, the membranes between Rikrik’s limbs usually used for gliding only make it easier for the storm to inhale him.

To suck him into oblivion like happened to Mom.

Rikrik smacks the side of the ramp. He grabs the metal, one paw bouncing off. His other paw hooks on the rattling chain. He slips to the end of it but holds.

Membranes flapping in the wind, he’ll soon lose his grip. If I jump out to catch him, we’ll both be snatched into the storm. Pointless.

I snap my beak, though, resolutely inching forward, shuffling down to snag the chain, letting my talons slide forward along it. The chain stretches beyond the capsule, and there is a risk I won’t be able to climb back, but I’m on a beeline to snatch Rikrik. The thrilling promise of success sings in me and conquers my terror.

I open my beak. Spread my wings. Gingerly tighten my talons on the loops of chain.

Sliding, then…

Impact.

I hit Rikrik, knocking the air from my lungs. I close my beak gently around his puffy red arms and encircle my wings round his body. He hugs me, trembling uselessly. I try to snap a command but can’t with him shoved in my beak. I shake him, instead, and he seems to understand. He clambers down to my talons and grabs the chain.

No idea how I’ll get back. But at least Rikrik should have a solid grip with four paws, enough to make it to the ramp.

For a while, I focus on mere survival, squeezing my talons round the chain while the gale swings me haphazardly. The storm slaps me against the treetop and shakes me in the air.

I distance myself from the violence by floating through fuzzy memories. My brothers and I playing with the chains for fun. Swinging each other. Diving into the jungle depths. Our mother telling us to stop before we scare our father, only to join us for a round of dives. All of us singing an apology to Dad, only to have him dive down with us for a spur of the moment snack on the jungle floor. We nearly died that day when panthers chased us through the vines.

But after escaping, we chittered excitedly, foolishly, in the thrill of survival.

I’m singing like Mom. Like she’s here with me singing and dancing like a force.

Wind feathers whisper

so we follow children’s dreams.

Hear them chirp and sing.

The gale winds slam me against the capsule, knocking me from memory and song.

My talons lose their hold on the chain.

The force of the blow blasts me down to a capsule leg. I roll to the metal, and tuck in tightly against a surface that’s…soft? Warm? Rumbling?

A lone gibbon curls in on itself against the capsule leg. I’m pressed against him now as he grumbles to consciousness with large brows and a pointy pineapple face.

Like this one, most gibbons have golden fur traced with lightning bolts of silver and black, but Suso and Goom in particular have large brows and pointy chins that make their heads look like upside down pineapples.

While the dark pools of Suso’s eyes swam with love, though, the hatred in the eyes opening to glare at me now belongs to Goom.

“Get off,” Goom barks, uncurling. His fur bristles.

Thunder cracks. A flash turns the lanky Goom into wildfire that leaps out to scald me. His burning fist closes around my neck, lifts me, swings me against the capsule.

“I can help,” I squawk painfully.

Goom’s laughter pairs with staccato thunder, thrusting ripples through my body.

“I can get us inside,” I squawk. “We can all get inside. I—”

Sparks shower the ramp. A shock shoots through my back. Everything is pain and brightness and spinning bolts of electricity.

* * *

I can’t see. I’m crushed under a weight. The smell of burning moss. Wet rocks, charred trees, metallic grease. I hear a roar like the river, like the capsule engine will roar one day.

Itchy tendrils in my beak scratch my throat.

The weight of the thing on me sings softly, a voice as broken as I feel. As I am. Singing like the gibbons sing, like Suso sang before she died.

Golden gibbon hoots, beauty deeper than birdsong.

Golden gibbon hoots, swinging vines for so long.

Golden gibbon hoots, at rest on branches and roots.

It’s as if she’s calling me from the other side, from wherever our spirits go. The sound settles over me. I accept death, that I’ll be the last bird. I’ll take that honor then move on forever.

But first, my family on the jungle floor, steam thick and cloying, berries mashed in a purple mess that we tap our beaks into, flapping our wings in a flurry of joy before the preening, predatory jungle cat pounced, and we flew…

The singing booms and expands and reaches an ascending melody until it comes to a high note and holds it like a question. I try to respond like I used to sing back to Suso, but I can’t. I’m screeching through the tendrils in my beak.

The singing fades. The weight lifts. I’ll float into the storm. I’ll rise into the sky like my capsule’s fixed. I’ll escape the struggle and arguments on Hope Plateau.

“Mom, Dad, brothers, friends, Suso, I’m here. I’m done. Ready to go where you went.”

“Stop chirping.” The bark and boom of a gibbon. “We’re going to move you.”

I can almost see, but everything’s only dimly apparent beyond a shimmering gray film. A lanky shape laughing. A tiny chittering shadow beside me, touching my feathers, my flesh, my wounds. Pain zigzags through me, a shiver of excitement.

And I escape, I float. Memories buzz. My feathers shiver.

* * *

The sun’s shining in, warming me on my cot, which means the ramp must be down.

I must have dozed off here while watching the haters, the hated, and the in-between, while watching everyone gather before…wait, no. That’s not right.

I was in a storm. I was zapped dead. I was called on by ghosts. By Suso.

“I can hear you,” a gibbon says. The same gibbon who was singing. Goom, who’s laughing now. “You’re not dead.”

“I’m sorry,” I chirp.

“I know,” Goom sings. “I’m sorry, too. I wanted you dead. I did. But…”

Goom’s eyes, dark and soul-searching as Suso’s. His lips fat and sprawling like hers, nothing like the sharp beaks of my family, but I can tell he’s musing over something important, like we’re about to migrate but need to agree on where. Like we’re about to fly up to the moot arena for meaningful discussions to a time when everyone was still alive.

To a time when it mattered.

“We need to carry on,” I chirp, trying to convince myself.

“Yes, we do.” He nods, and it helps my confidence.

I kick my talons at the cot. “If the storm didn’t inhale us and churn us out as sour remains—”

“Then we’re meant to live,” Goom says. “I wish my sister had survived, but I’m glad her friend did. I’m glad you did. When I saw the storm hit you, I thought you were dying in my arms, and I thought of Suso, and I…I miss her. You were there for her. As much as you could be. And she was there for you. So, I’m telling you, I want to be there, too.”

I chirp agreement.

* * *

The next time the gibbons sing, I join them. Golden gibbon hoots, beauty deeper than birdsong. Golden gibbon hoots, swinging vines for so long. Golden gibbon hoots, at rest on branches and roots.

The squirrels don’t. Neither do the beetles. But we’ll get there. Bickering is a persistent part of who we were, but we’ll get past it, and sing together, come what may.

As a start, I work with the gibbons to distribute food and adapt my capsule as a clinic to help the hurt recover from the storm.

Everyone seems grateful. Relieved.

* * *

Forlorn thoughts of missing my family still make my knees wobble and my breast shiver. That sadness used to make me cower and freeze up, living in a worthless metal prison of my own creation, embracing relentless decay and wallowing in false hope.

Goom’s loss used to make him want to punish others, to take, to dominate.

But we’ve both endured. We’ve grown to realize the real hopes of our families in ways they could never have dreamed. A community of friends bearing possibility. A perch of comfort to settle on when we can’t manage it all. At least we have each other to struggle through the storms. To sing about those we lost, to remember them together.

Goom and I sit together, chirping and hooting about memories and survival, so I teach him my poem.

Golden gibbon hoots, beauty deeper than birdsong.

Tugging my flight back, though I thought to nest

stung by sickened jungle death. Shed feathers.

Plucked smooth. Harsh seasons give. Take.

I twitch, alive. But she sighs, slumps.

Quiet rest in the brown roots and leaves.

Nest close. There was so much more

we need to feel. Don’t glide so far.

Goom places a hand on his chest. “Memories in our hearts. They won’t glide so far,” he says, then extends his hand to me.

I set my talon on his palm. “And at least we’ll glide together.”

Goom grunts, and adds, “This will be a better symbiosis than you had on your own.”

On tattered clouds, the moon glimmers. Leaves bend under the weight of ghosts. The wind sighs, and the humidity eases. Trees and vines sway. Broken twigs fall.

With ample measures of respect for their friendship, the simmering jungle cools.

 

* * *

About the Author

R.J.K. Lee is a queer author based in Japan but originally from Oregon, USA. He writes on train rides while juggling jobs as teacher, proofreader, and voice narrator. His fiction has appeared in magazines such as Myriad: Kinship, Space & Time, Tales & Feathers, and DreamForge. More info at www.rjklee.com or https://linktr.ee/rjklee.

by Anne Larsen

“The man I ride uses the word ‘consuela’ for me. Is that a word you know?”

Consuela came to her vocation by riding on the shoulder of a pale human in black robes. The color suited her sorrow, the heavy cloth bunched beneath her clenched feet. Grief made her restless, but loneliness kept her clinging to this strange man who was the only one to walk away from the sun-dappled shade and silence of her village. The hammocks hung heavy with unbreathing fathers and stiff children. The women had died closer to the fire pit, trying to make broth for the little ones. When the last of her people had died, the pale man stumbled away from the village, and as she could not bear to be alone, she went with him.

The parrot had come to her village long ago, injured by an ocelot while learning to fly. A girl found her and carried her to the circle of open huts. The humans brought her water and fed her until she healed, but her left wing hung lower than it should and was not strong. She could fly, but not far. The jungle would not be safe for her. She chose these kind people as her flock, and they cared for one another. She learned Pumé, their language. She watched over the little ones, and scouted for the hunters. The people taught her their songs of creation and healing.

The girl who had found her grew up and bore children of her own. The bird felt a special bond with the oldest daughter. The bird found the ripest fruits and plucked the stems so they fell to the child’s waiting hands. That girl grew into a woman, and bore her first son. The bird adored him.

At the end of the rainy season, a stranger came to their village, a pale man wearing ridiculous black clothing, too hot and heavy for the jungle. The village welcomed him, invited him to shed his layers, but he would not. He started learning their language.

By the full moon, a new kind of illness tore through the village, taking the children first, then their parents, all of them coughing and gasping. The herbs the healers tried did not break the fever. Men did not return from hunting. The nets hung untended in the river. The bird sat with her beloved until she died, following her newborn son.

At first, the pale man tried to bury the people, but there were so many and the ground was so clasped by roots that he could not dig fast enough. Finally he fled, scrambling into a canoe he did not know how to handle, and pushed out into the river. The bird fluttered after him, perched on the bow and offered instructions, but he did not listen to any of the three languages she knew. The little craft caught on a submerged snag and he lost his oar pushing them free. The river spun the canoe out into the current and they drifted on for a day and a night.

The man trembled in his sweat, peeling back his robe before collapsing into sleep. Mosquitoes feasted on his wet chest, though the bird plucked as many of them away as she could reach. Now and then she would fly to the bank and grab a ripe fig, then return to the boat to eat it. She brought him figs, too. He woke when she dropped one in his lap. At last he studied her, perched on his knee.

“Consuela,” he said, touching her beak with a fingertip.

Is that his word for me? she wondered. Her people had called her with a distinct whistle-chirp she had taught them. It carried through the dense jungle when they were all hunting together and they needed her to tell them what she saw. The bird offered it to him but he did not understand.

“Consuela,” she said back to him. His eyebrows went up and he tilted his head.

“Sí, Consuela.” A weak smile perched on his mouth, then faded.

“What does that mean?” she asked in Pumé. He blinked at her. He had only come a wingspan of days ago, and did not know many words. She flared her yellow neck feathers and bobbed her head at him, then clambered back up to sit on his shoulder. He slept again.

The next day, a Waraoan man ferrying bunches of green bananas came near, and the pale man called out to him. With deft strokes the trader drew beside them and coaxed the pale man to crawl from the small canoe to sit in the bow of the greater one. There was a space on the far side of the mounded fruit where the pale man could huddle. After that, the two men did not speak. The pale man slept, slumped at one end of the long dugout. The parrot groomed herself, tidying every feather on her breast and back, pulling each blue-tipped primary through her gray beak to smooth the filaments. She could not settle.

The parrot fluttered to the stern and perched on a banana. She fixed the trader with one white-ringed golden eye. He nodded to her.

“My village died,” she said.

“Everywhere people are dying,” he told her. “You speak Warao well. Are you a magical bird?”

“I am an old bird. I listen. Is that magical?”

“Does that man know you understand human speech?”

“No. He thinks I am as silly as a quetzal.”

“Those black-robes don’t know anything. Not what to eat, what to avoid. They ask to be carried upriver to the villages for some reason, yet they cannot take care of themselves.”

“Why didn’t this one die when everyone else did?” she asked.

“I don’t know. They do die, usually of some sickness that we survive. It is odd, the way they are strong and weak at the same time.”

“Thank you for picking us up.”

“I am honored to be of service to a bird like you.”

The pale man cried out in his sleep then, and the parrot returned to his shoulder. She groomed his matted hair and nibbled the rim of his ear the way she had soothed the village children. She picked lice out of the hair on his face, which was thicker every day. None of her people grew curly hair like this. His bad dream passed, the jungle passed, and she watched scarlet macaws fly overhead, shouting gossip to one another, teasing a newly-mated pair.

The river widened and slowed, the banks receding on both sides. Other canoes joined the current, laden with papaya and cacao pods. When one came close carrying a heap of the huge, brown tururi fruit that contained her favorite nut, Consuela called out to that boatman, saying please, and naming the fruit in Pumé. He looked at her and shrugged. She asked again in Warao and the boatman laughed. He tossed one of the fruits to the banana trader, who broke it open and held it out to her. Consuela plucked out a long seed and peeled it. She ate three of them, delighted by the rich, soft meat. White crumbs stuck to the black robe. Satisfied for the first time since they had left her village, she fluffed herself, pulled up one foot, tucked her beak into her back feathers, and slept through the night.

The next morning the river was so wide she could see only one bank. The Warao, who lived their whole lives on this moving water, steered their boats across the current to the unseen shore, or paddled hard upstream.

Should I live with them now? the bird thought. The idea of being on the water in every season made her uneasy. Then a dugout drifted downriver past them, a man slumped over his oar and a woman huddled around a child at the bow, flies busy on their lifeless faces. The bird screamed her anger at this death.

If they are dying, too, then I will be left alone again. She screamed her sorrow. Startled, a mob of fleet, green parakeets rose screeching from the vines that draped the trees, carrying her distress deeper into the forest. The pale man woke and looked where the bird was looking. His tears left clean streaks on his cheeks. He did not move as the parrot plucked the salty, bright drops from his nose and chin.

That evening she sat with the Warao man. He plucked tururi nuts out of the big fruit for her, and she sang him his people’s origin song, which she had learned from an old trader who had sold fish and tapir hides to her beloved Pumé. She liked the chanted refrain of this song, and the boatman drummed the rim of the canoe to keep time.

“The first man lived on the sky river,” she sang, “with many birds for company but no other people, no four-legged ones or fish. One day he shot an arrow at a great bird and struck its breast. It fell from the open air, down and down, until it broke through the bed of the sky river. All the birds cried with joy at the light that rose from that place below.

“All the birds assembled, each with its people, and they flew through that hole into this world. They were so many it took a whole day for them to leave. The first man called to them. They laughed and invited him to follow. When he was all alone on the sky river with the unspeaking stars, he grieved. He was afraid.

“Then a blue-headed parrot called his name from far below, told him to be brave and look down through the hole. It took all the courage of his heart, but he did look, and he saw the green and glorious land, the forest, the many rivers, and the game. He saw bright flocks of birds playing in the trees, feasting on fruit he had never tasted. He saw silver fish leap from the waters and dainty-footed deer stepping from the shadows to drink.

“But it was a long way down. The man plucked the clouds and spun threads, then twisted those threads into rope. He tied that rope to his canoe, which would not fit through the hole. He lowered himself down to live in this world forever, and the parrots welcomed him, for we are all speaking peoples and we belong together.”

When the bird finished, the man drummed and sang for her, a funny song about a man who fell in love with a river otter and her family’s pranks on the couple. Afterwards, they sat in silence together, the bird preening and the trader weaving fabric from palm fibers. Then, from the far side of the bananas, the pale man’s voice rose in a song filled with longing so intense that both the bird and the boatman listened unmoving. They could not understand his words, but the posture of the man’s heart was clear. When he finished, the boatman whispered to the bird.

“I think he misses his homeland. He does not belong here.”

“I wonder if he can go back?” the bird said.

“If he could, would he sing like that?”

The bird nodded to him. Then she fluttered over the bananas and landed on the pale man’s shoulder and nibbled his ear.

“Consuela,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Consuela,” she said back. He reached up to touch her and she bumped his finger with her beak. Then she fluffed herself, pulled up one foot, and slept.

Late the next day, they arrived at a place where there were more huts and boats than the bird had ever seen together. The trader steered his canoe close to a wooden dock and tied it there. He called to two women who helped him unload his bananas.

“Thank you for carrying me to this place,” the bird said.

“Thank you for your company, and the song,” the boatman said. “What will you do now?”

“I will stay with the black-robe,” the bird said. “He is so lost and alone. He needs me.”

“You are always welcome on my canoe,” the boatman said. “Be careful out there. People are dying. Parrots might be in danger, too.”

“You are kind to offer me a place. But I belong on land among trees, not on the water. Please be careful yourself.”

The pale man crouched low and wobbled forward along the boat. He extended his hand to the boatman, who would not take it. Instead, they bowed to one another. The boatman passed a palm-fiber bag to the pale man, and pointed to the bird.

“This is for her, she likes tururi nuts,” he said in Warao.

The pale man nodded, understanding the gesture, and bowed again. Then he stepped up onto the dock. The women helping unload moved back, away from him. He bowed to them, too.

The yellow-headed bird rode his shoulder as he walked into the cluster of houses. The paths between them twisted among the huge trees. The bird noted many empty homes, and fewer humans than she expected in so large a village. They passed through a wide place where women sat with baskets of fruit, fish, and game. Smoke twined up from small fires, wrapping around the meat spread over it on poles. The parrot knew the pale man must be hungry, but he did not stop to trade.

At a hut larger than the others, with a strange shape jutting up from the roof beam, he stopped. He ducked inside. Streaks of sunlight came through the walls to ornament the dim interior. At one end the bird saw a platform with bowls on it and two white sticks that each hosted a tiny flame on top. The pale man knelt so fast that he almost fell, and the bird squawked in alarm, flapping and scrambling to stay on his shoulder.

Her companion started speaking, his voice breaking now and then. He spoke a different language, one with a different rhythm and little melodic rise and fall.

Maybe this is his ritual language, the bird thought. It sounds like he has said these words his whole life. She listened, caught a few phrases and stored these in her memory.

While the man recited his words, another pale man in black robes walked into the room. A red-bellied macaw rode his shoulder. She nodded a greeting to that bird, and he nodded back. They all waited until her human paused.

“Amen,” the new man said.

“Amen,” the macaw said.

“Amen,” the yellow-headed bird said in unison with her human. He did not rise from where he knelt. His shoulders drooped.

The macaw flew up to perch on a rafter. The yellow-headed bird joined him there and they touched beaks. The macaw said something in Huottüja, a language she did not know well.

“My village died,” she answered in Huottüja. “Do you speak Warao?”

“I am sorry to hear that,” the macaw said in Warao. “That is happening everywhere.”

“Is that why there are more houses here than people to live in them?”

“Some died here, but most of the men were taken away by the pale ones called encomenderos. They have sharp blades, strong rope, and a drink that stuns. They offer this to the men and then tie them up and carry them away when they are asleep.”

“What are they doing with the men?” The bird could not fathom why the pale ones would do such a thing.

“They load them onto enormous boats, bigger than any canoe, and pushed by the wind. They go away and we never see them again.”

The bird considered this alarming news. “Do you speak their languages?” she asked.

“I have been with Pedro for a year. I have learned España, but less of their other language.”

“The man I ride uses the word ‘consuela’ for me. Is that a word you know?”

“In España, that word means comfort. It means easing pain in the heart.”

“I did try to comfort him. So it will do for a name.” She groomed her feet and talons, thinking. “Do parrots ride all the black-robes, or is it just you and me?”

“I have only met parrots riding those black-robes who are angry at what the encomenderos are doing. Most black robes help the encomenderos and the parrots shun them. They are bad people.”

Consuela fluffed herself. She offered to groom the macaw’s head, tidying the feathers that one cannot reach for oneself. He welcomed her kindness, closing his dark eyes in bliss.

The men knelt together on the ground in front of the little flames. The macaw’s man spoke the ritual language, and Consuela’s man answered him. They often spoke in unison. At length, the macaw’s man stood and offered a red drink and flat bread to her man, who wept and accepted this gift. The two of them settled across from one another and switched to Spanish.

“I will tell you what they are saying,” the macaw said. “I think it is important.” The two birds huddled together. “Your man’s name is Antonio, my man is Pedro. He calls me Valaro. They are telling each other about going out to the villages and how the people sicken and die when they come. Antonio thinks there is something about the pale ones that makes our people ill. Your village was the second time this terrible thing has happened to him. He thinks the black-robes should stop going to the villages.

“Pedro is angry at the encomenderos, at how they capture and carry away our people. He has stopped offering them the gift he gave Antonio, and this made them furious. They yelled at him, and one struck him. I bit that one,” Valaro said. “I tore his ear so it would not heal and we would know him if we saw him again.”

“Good idea,” Consuela said.

“Pedro scolded me, but when the men left, he thanked me for doing it. Now they are discussing how they might stop the encomenderos from taking men.”

“Do they have sharp blades and the things the encomenderos have?”

“No. Pedro thought that denying them the gift would matter more, but the encomenderos did not stop. He told me that we are few and they are many, and they believe they are allowed to do what they want. Antonio says that they need a plan.”

Both men had fallen silent below the birds. Evening dimmed the room so the tiny flames on the white sticks shone brighter. Moths flitted in through the open door and swirled around the lights. A bat followed them in, caught and ate them on the wing.

“We should eat something,” Pedro said.

Antonio held up the fiber bag with the tururi nuts. He looked up at the parrots.

“Come share our meal,” Consuela said to the macaw. She glided down to Antonio’s shoulder. Valaro landed on Pedro and stroked his cheek against Pedro’s jaw. Pedro ruffled the feathers on the nape of the bird’s neck.

Antonio handed Consuela a nut. She cracked open the hard, thin shell and peeled it off the meat. She fluttered across to Pedro’s lap, offering him the nut.

“Gracias, loro bonito,” he said.

“Consuela,” Valaro said.

Antonio started. “I call her that,” he said. “How does your bird know her name? For that matter, how does she know her name? She has only been with me for a few days.”

The macaw grasped the nut in his left foot and repeated the men’s words in Warao for Consuela.

“I call this bird Valaro,” Pedro said. “He defended me from men who tried to beat me when I confronted them about the abductions.” Pedro bit half of the nut and passed the other half to Valaro. “I think these parrots are as intelligent as we are. They have a gift for languages and they live a long time.”

“Surely they just echo what we say?” Antonio said.

“Then how did Valaro know your companion’s name? You have not used it before now. She must have told him, which means she also knows that ‘consuela’ is the word you attached to her for your convenience.”

“She stayed with me. She brought me fruit when we floated down the river. She could speak with the boatman who brought us here. But I thought she was just prattling at him.”

“Did he speak with her?” Pedro asked.

“I was sick, and fading in and out. But now that you mention it, I think they were conversing. One night she sang a long song and he drummed.” Antonio invited Consuela to sit on his knee. He gave her another nut to shell. She ate half and gave him the other half, which he ate.

“We have all broken bread together now,” Pedro said. “But I can offer you more than tururi nuts.” He rose with Valaro balanced on his shoulder. Pedro helped Antonio up. Hunger made him unsteady, but Consuela clung to his robe. Antonio and Pedro each took a candle, and they walked to an adjacent hut.

Pedro had a low table. He put out smoked fish, papaya, figs, and pounded cassava porridge. He poured water into a cup for Antonio and into a coconut shell for the birds. The men spoke before they ate, but not during the meal. Afterwards, Pedro tied up a second hammock for Antonio and banked their small fire. Valaro and Consuela perched together under the eaves.

“They will wake in the night to pray,” Valaro said, “but we can stay here.” Comforted by the warm softness of another bird beside her, Consuela slept well.

The next morning Pedro assembled two small satchels, passing one to Antonio. The birds settled on their shoulders and they walked to the dock. On the way, Pedro greeted many of the women by name and they smiled at him. One gave him a huge papaya, which he slid into his pack.

“These people like him,” Valaro said. “They saw him fight with the encomenderos. They lost their men, but they appreciate his courage.”

Pedro traded the huge papaya to an elderly boatman for a ride down the river. The man had a bad leg, so the encomenderos did not take him, though they had taken his sons.

“Can you bring them back to me?” he asked in Warao.

“We will try,” Valaro answered. “If any more black robes come, do not take them upriver to the villages.”

The boatman studied the two parrots. He spoke directly to the macaw.

“All of the ones nearby are empty now. They would have to go very far up to find people. I cannot row against that current anymore. Are you two teaching these men manners?”

“We will try. Some of them are good people, but most of them are not,” Valaro said.

Pedro said, “We are going to their camp to learn where they are taking your men and boys.” He spoke Warao with a thick accent, but he used the right words, which impressed Consuela.

It took two days to reach the river delta, riding the current among the narrow islands. They saw few boats going upriver, and no one was fishing. Late in the second day, they rounded an island and Consuela saw huge ships in the middle of the river, tall trees stuck out of their backs like porcupine spines. Ahead, they saw where the encomenderos had burned part of an island to make their camp in the muddy ruins.

The boatman delivered them to the upstream side of the island and fled.

Valaro and Consuela guided their men through the jungle. Once, Valaro warned them away from the most dangerous kind of serpent. Consuela found ripe fruit for their midday meal. They found a place where they could crouch in the shadows and watch the encomenderos.

Valaro said, “We will go look for the men. Wait here.” He and Consuela flew across the open. The encomenderos lived in cloth huts, and had filthy habits. The camp stank from their open waste pits where clouds of flies swarmed. A few of the cloth huts were larger than the others, and men stood outside them dressed in dark shells like upright armadillos holding tall spears with leaf-shaped blades. No one looked up as the parrots passed.

On the far side of the camp the birds found the missing men. They were bound with rope on their wrists and ankles, and all were tethered to a long rope that pulled their arms above their heads. Several were sick, moaning with fever, skin swellings, or coughing. Many had dried blood on their backs and legs, and flies clustered there. All of the men were thin and filthy.

Consuela landed on the long rope and spoke to the man below her.

“Who are your people?” she asked in Warao. The man blinked at her, his eyes dull.

“We are Pumé and Huottüja,” he said. His voice was ragged with thirst.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since quarter moon. The sick ones have been here longer. Some Warao came yesterday.”

Consuela felt his fear like a wound. “We want to help you. If we broke your ropes could you run?”

He shook his head. The muscles between his shoulders twitched every time he slumped, and he whimpered in pain.

“We could crawl,” he said.

Shouts came from the camp and four encomenderos marched toward the captives with a bucket and a gourd dipper. Some captives stirred and lifted their heads. One called for water in Warao. Consuela retreated to a burned snag and whistled for Valaro. He joined her as the encomenderos started down the line, dipping water and holding it for the captives to drink. As they could not use their hands, most of the water spilled. The encomenderos laughed and smacked the thirsty men with the dipper. Valaro translated for Consuela.

“Others are coming in the morning to take these men away.”

The encomenderos ran out of water before they reached the end of the line. The few men left cried out as their captors sauntered off, laughing.

“We must free them,” Consuela said.

“We will need help.”

The parrots flew back to Pedro and Antonio. Valaro described the situation and translated as usual.

“If we are going to rescue them, we need to do it tonight,” Antonio said. “But how? I have my eating knife and you have yours, but it would take hours to cut their bonds.”

“We will get others,” Consuela said. “My people and their cousins will come and shred the ropes.”

“I will call in the macaws,” Valaro said. “They will scream and argue. No one in the camp will hear anything we are doing.”

“The captives are weak,” Consuela said. “We need to get them into the jungle, then into canoes.”

“We can hide in the brush and meet them,” Pedro said.

“The macaws know everything that happens on the river,” Valaro said. “They can find boatmen to meet us.” Valaro drew in the dirt with two toes to show Pedro and Antonio where the captives were. “We will go gather our people and return before moonrise,” the macaw said.

Consuela stretched her sore shoulder. Having a plan pleased her. She flew up to the canopy and called to her kin. She sent the first group out to recruit more. Far away above the river she heard Valaro summoning the macaws.

By sunset, a loud mob of the long-tailed macaws filled the trees closest to the camp with a storm of red, yellow, blue, and green. At dusk, Valaro sent them swooping over the cloth huts and cook-fires, shouting and spraying their sticky white guano on the encomenderos. By dark, all the bad men were inside their shelters. The howler monkeys joined the wild din.

Consuela led her kin to the captives, explaining that they must work in silence to free these people. Blue-headed birds, birds of green and gray, birds with white foreheads and others with yellow napes gathered in the snags above the men. Antonio and Pedro stayed back in the trees, ready for their part.

Three or four parrots tended to each captive, their strong beaks clipping through the sisal rope with ease, teasing apart the strands and knots until the bonds fell away. Consuela found three of her kin who spoke Warao, and two who spoke Huottüja so they could soothe the men and tell them what to do. She found four more Pumé men, but one was too sick to move when the ropes were gone. He thanked her for her kindness and lay still.

By midnight, every captive who was able had crawled or staggered into the forest. At first they feared the black robes, but Consuela reassured them that these were good men who worked against the encomenderos. Hour by hour, they crept through the undergrowth toward the far side of the island where the boatmen waited. In the faint light of the waning moon, the freed men collapsed into the canoes and were rowed away. Consuela and Valaro told them to stay far from the encomenderos, refuse their shiny gifts and drink, and warn everyone else.

Consuela, so exhausted she had to cling to Antonio’s robe, pressed herself against his chest. He fed both birds papaya.

“I don’t think we will be able to do this a second time,” Pedro said.

“We cannot stop what the encomenderos are doing,” Antonio said. “But we can slow them down.”

“We need to find other men like you,” Consuela said.

“We will find other parrots,” Valaro added.

“I believe we have a new vocation,” Pedro said.

“What does that word mean?” Valaro asked.

Antonio said, “It means good work that we must do.”

“Together,” Consuela said. Then she tucked her beak into her back feathers and fell asleep.

 

* * *

About the Author

Anne Larsen writes in a biodiverse household that includes mammals, birds, and plants, in particular a gang of Venus flytraps that rule a dangerous neighbourhood on one windowsill. In addition to direct guidance from her animal family, Larsen draws on biology, history, mythology, and religious studies in her magical realism.

When you first see the visuals and scenes from NEARstudios’ upcoming cooperative sandbox RPG sim Hawthorn, it’s immediately apparent how much care has been taken to instill the experience with the feeling of being nestled into the wondrous, cozy nature sanctuary the game takes place in. In it, you’ll take on the role of a woodland creature (an owl, mouse, or otter) who is an integral part of this little community of anthropomorphic animals and fairy creatures. You can play the game solo or cooperatively, with everyone able to work together on recipes, building plans, and more to provide for your hearths. 

Following the success of Cassette Beasts in 2023, fans have been eagerly waiting to see if Bytten Studio had planned to follow up and sure enough, Cassette Beasts 2002 has been announced! Taking place in London in 2002, Cassette Beasts 2002 sees the player get dragged down a rabbit hole into the mysterious world of Nodnol. Who is the cultist Westerly and what are they planning? The mystery beckons as players can make a new avatar or import the one from the first game and team up with 12 new companions including new character Nell. Record and transform into a variety of beasts and fuse with your allies into powerful creatures!

The trailer showcases impressive 3D backgrounds with the 2D pixel art we all love. A number of new and never before seen monsters could be found roaming Nodnol. Don’t miss this chance to continue your creature collecting adventures when Cassette Beasts 2002 releases on all major platforms in the future.

Be sure to check out the trailer and let us know your thoughts on our socials! You can also check out our review of the original Cassette Beasts. Happy collecting and keep Gaming Furever!

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

Welcome to BFFT! The Injured Nerves Network brings you another exciting and time wasting episode of BFFT!  This is our Season Six finale! We discuss our experiences at Furlandia 2026, TickTock has the news, Cheetaro has a movie review, and Taebyn brings us another pigeon story. Thanks for tuning in for 6 years!  We will be back next week with a Movie Watch video, then we will be right back for our exciting Season 7!  So join us, won’t you, for another T-Riffic (that is Taebyn-Riffic) episode of BFFT! Moobarkfluff everyfur!

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Bearly Furcasting S6E26 - Season 6 Finale

Keeping with the wolves, we have Muscles & Monsters, a new fantasy novel by Ashley Bennett. “After a wedding cake catastrophe on the street, local baker Tegan lands in the most unexpected place — a solid wall of fur and fangs named Atlas. She’s never met anyone like him and finds herself enamored by his wolfish charm. After their sweet encounter, Atlas invites her to his gym anytime she needs his cake-lifting services… However, Tegan is through with being a damsel in distress. She signs up for a membership with Leviathan Fitness, determined to build her strength…and if she sees the handsome wolven again, it’s a win-win scenario… Atlas can’t believe his eyes when Tegan walks through the doors of his gym, and nearly goes snout-over-paw to offer her personal training. Shared glances over the barbell and accidental touches at the water fountain set Atlas’s heart racing in a way he swore it couldn’t again… Primal desires emerge as Atlas and Tegan test just how much their new love can lift. Could Tegan be the unexpected mate of Atlas’s dreams?” Cozy romance with werewolves. What’s not to love? Take a look over at Penguin Random House.

image c. 2026 Berkley

Welcome to "Fresh Fur!" Our weekly installment going over the newest game releases, and which ones you can expect to find anthros/furries in!

Check the list below for all the games we could find with animal/anthro influences and characters.

Major New Releases for the Weeks of May 4-June 12, 2026:

• MotorSlice (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, PC) – May 5
• Mixtape (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, Switch 2, PC) – May 7
• Perchang World (Apple Arcade) – May 7
• Battlestar Galactica: Scattered Hopes (PC) – May 11
• Outbound (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, Switch, PC) – May 11
• Better Than Dead (PC) – May 12
• Call of the Elder Gods (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, Switch 2, PC) – May 12
• Nitro Gen Omega (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, Switch, PC) – May 12
• Feline Forensics and the Meowseum Mystery (PC) – May 13
• Hotel Architect (PC) – May 14
• Subnautica 2 early access (Xbox Series X|S, PC) – May 14
• The Caribou Trail (PS5, PC) – May 14
• Gold Gold Adventure Gold (PC) – May 15
• Myst (PS5, PS VR2) – May 16
• Riven (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, PS VR2) – May 16
• Corsairs – Battle of the Caribbean (PC) – May 18
• Forza Horizon 6 (Xbox Series X|S, PC) – May 19
• Deep Rock Galactic: Rogue Core (PC early access) – May 20
• Phonopolis (PC) – May 20
• Thick As Thieves (PC) – May 20
• Burden Street Station (PC) – May 21
• Luna Abyss (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, PC) – May 21
• Schrodinger’s Cat Burglar (PC) – May 21
• Starbites (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, Switch 2, Switch, PC) – May 21
• Yoshi and the Mysterious Book (Switch 2) – May 21
• Bubsy 4D (PS5, PS4, Xbox Series X|S, Xbox One, Switch 2, Switch, PC) – May 22
• Don’t Fall (PC) – May 22
  
• HoverGrease 2 (PC) – May 22
  
• Lego Batman: Legacy of the Dark Knight (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, Switch 2, PC) – May 22
• Enter The Chronosphere (PC) – May 25
  
• Slot or Not (PC) – May 25
  
• Birushana: Winds of Fate (Switch) – May 26
• LumenTale: Memories of Trey (Switch, PC) – May 26
  
• Stonemachia (PC) – May 26
• 007 First Light (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, Switch 2, PC) – May 27
• Crashout Crew (Xbox Series X|S, PC) – May 28
• Hamster Talk (PC) – May 28
  
• Kioku: Last Summer (PC) – May 28
• Moonsigil Atlas (PC) – May 28
• Nickelodeon Extreme Tennis: Next (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, Switch, PC) – May 28
  
• Pictonico (iOS, Android) – May 28
• Shift At Midnight (PC) – May 28
• Mina the Hollower (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, Switch 2, Switch, PC) – May 29
• Underchoice (PC) – June 1
• Snacktorio (PC) – June 4
• Swan Song (PC) – June 4
• The 7th Guest Remake (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, Switch, PC) – June 4
• Tour de France 2026 (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, PC) – June 4
• Gothic 1 Remake (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, PC) – June 5
• Masters of the Universe: Legends Unite (Luna) – June 5
• Terrinoth: Heroes of Descent (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, PC) – June 7
  
• Solarpunk (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, Switch 2, PC) – June 8
• NBA The Run (PS5, Xbox Series X|S, PC) – June 9
• Voidling Bound (PC) – June 9
• 33 Immortals (Xbox Series X|S, PC) – June 10
• Crushed in Time (PC) – June 10
• Stellar Interface (Xbox Series X|S, Xbox One, Switch, PC) – June 10
• Beastro (PC) – June 11
• Lost Castle 2 (PC) – June 11
• Tabletop Tavern (PC) – June 11
• Goblin Company (PC) – June 12

*Bolded games have furry/animal influences/characters

Furry & Animal Steam Game Finds:

These games were found in the New Releases section of Steam this week and will be updated as more come out throughout the week!

Hi Papabear,
​
I have written multiple times before, but this time I'm "all grown up" (not really but I'm 18) and have finally graduated, feelin' old yet?

Anyway, this isn't about that. To be truthful, I haven't actually done any furry stuff in forever. Like, I'm talking the actual last time I still was a cisgender girl lol. I'm trying to get back into it, but it's harder than hell. Within the last couple of years, my family--but especially my brother and father--have been weirdly judgmental and borderline hateful sometimes. Basically, half of the things I am are usually bashed: Furries, MLP fans, trans people, people who make headcanons about fictional characters (especially headcanoning that a character is gay or trans), people who are in relationships or are very attached to fictional characters, and some more, but those are the main ones that are literally me.

I know it shouldn't upset me, but the Furries one will always tip me off because my brother will always say stuff like, "Oh, don't go to that discord server" just because "furry" is in the name of the group or whatever (apparently, due to a real thing that happened at some point regarding a furry server and some disgusting stuff being posted in secret channels, but he's obviously doing it to be rude).

Another thing is that I am a trans man but still not out. I'm also gay, so I always do headcanons for characters if I see them. My current big interest is the Metal Gear franchise. There are 2 characters--Kazuhira Miller and Big Boss--and I am a big shipper of them as I love both of them as characters, so naturally, I talk about it. I did once and my dad said, "You see gayness where there isn't." He had his tone joking, but I could clearly tell he believed it. Also, weird stuff regarding fictosexual people: my fictional other is Old Snake from MGS4 and has been since I was 15.

Anyway, sorry for those long paragraphs. They were for catching up and what brought me here. Here's a big one, and the one that made me want to write this after it happened: So about 2 months after my last message back in May 2024 there was a big incident. My dad was listening to a video; it was those podcasts where they bring in a woman and like insult her just for having OnlyFans and other such ignorant things. Honestly, to me, it felt very much staged. So, I mentioned that I said it felt staged and almost like a strawman.

He flew off his handles.

He started raising his voice, telling me that saying something like that (that a podcast that just insults women seems like it brings in strawmen to insult them) is very rude and for me to say something like that to rape victims--yes, he thought that was a fantastic comparison. Then we got home and he looked at my mom and said, "You should show them the struggles men face," and, of course, my dad started his whole "straight white men are seen as worse than black people" spiel. Talking to a closeted trans man about it is a tough sell, even back in 2024, due to being in a red state.

Sorry about the long email, but I just needed to show everything that catalyzed this email: some old, some new but the question is: How do I be myself when it's bashed and made fun of all the time around me?

It seems like nearly every email I've ever sent actually just is this question but presented differently.

Thank you for reading my long ramble.

GLaDOS The Wolf

* * *

Hi, GLaDOS,

Yes, I recall you. You wrote me back in 2020 and again in 2024. And now you are 18 and morphing into that bizarre land we call adulting ;)  You thought kidhood was rough! Wait for Adulting! The Sequel!

And yes, I am old. I'm working on my 61st trip around the Sun. And I will have to admit that language is changing fast, and I had to look up headcanon (but I did know shipping and straw man, so I'm not hopeless). Please be understanding toward ol' Papabear, therefore, if I sometimes use old people's words in my reply to you ;)

You're just another example of the eternal struggle in societies to be different. So, you have a crush on Metal Gear characters and have some fantasizing about other fictional scenarios--so what? That is actually not unusual at all. It is also normal for people to project their own feelings, inclinations, philosophies, etc. onto characters and plots we see in fiction. Whereas you might project a trans view onto a TV character, your father does the same thing from a straight male perspective (at least, he asserts he is straight). 

Why do people like your father get so riled up about people who are LGBTQ or are fans of MLP or are Furries or whatev? There's a simple explanation, really. People who have been raised to believe in one view and see the entire world from one perspective find doing so to be very comforting. If everyone, for example, was one race, one sexual orientation (among 2 choices, of course), one nationality, and practiced one religion, things would be predictable, and predictable things are reassuring and not scary. This can be a very scary world, as you likely have already figured out, and when things are scary, unpredictable, and seem dangerous, people try to grasp onto things that seem solid and reliable, such as their religion or the idea that you can only be what you look like on the outside.

When people's beliefs are challenged, they get scared, and being scared can lead to anger and shouting. The problem is even worse when someone is not of a particularly high intelligence and is unable to comprehend or accept that things may be more complicated than they were raised to believe. People like that will "bash" you and make fun of you because you are different. You challenge their worldview, and this scares them. They aren't able to handle it. They don't have the brainpower, quite frankly, to imagine that not everything is the way they were told it was.

Another scenario is when people who are deeply closeted and cannot admit to themselves that they don't fit the mold society imposes on them react aggressively against anything that violates conservative laws. This is because they are afraid they themselves might not be able to fit what society wants. The possibility is very frightening, and so they become homophobes or bigots to create a protective facade. I'm not saying this is necessarily true of your father, but it is possible.

So, your question of "How do I be myself when it's bashed and made fun of all the time around me?" has to do not with you but with your environment, the people surrounding you. The strategies available to you are:

1. Continue to be yourself and just expect that this will upset them and cause them to react badly.
2. Don't be yourself in an effort to make them think you will no longer challenge their beliefs and, thus, calm them down.
3. Change your environment and be yourself elsewhere, surrounded by different people who accept you for being you.
4. Change your environment, don't be yourself, and try to blend in and live a lie.

Number 4 is, of course, a stupid option. Number 1 changes nothing. Number 2 is a lie. This leaves number 3 as really the best option. I'm not saying you should move out of the house right now, but since you are 18, I would venture to guess you will be moving out at some point soon to go to school or work or maybe join the military (not really a great option for you, I would suggest) or who knows: something to do with growing up, anyway.

If 3 is not an option, though, the next best is number 1, but you will need to learn to deal with it in a very Stoic way. The central premise of the philosophical school of Stoicism is that you need to acknowledge that you can't change who people are (nor can you change that sometimes bad things will happen to you), but what you can change is how you react to them. To do so, you have to recognize that your father and brother are, in their way, suffering from a disability. It is the disability of having a closed mind, for whatever reason. Now, you can try to educate them, sure, but that could take years, a lot of effort, a lot of tears, and it might not work at all. So, get ready for another numbered list (I'm German and have a love of numbered lists).

1. Recognize that there is nothing "wrong" with you. You might not be like your family members, but that doesn't mean you have a problem. If anyone has a problem, it's them. So, don't let their attitude damage your self-esteem.
2. Understand that their reactions are occurring not because they are angry so much as because they are fearful of things that are different. Don't be scared of their anger; if anything, pity them.
3. Realize there is likely nothing you can do about #2, so don't worry about it. It is what it is. 
4. Focus on yourself, what you need, and what you should do to become a content and well-rounded person who is open-minded, confident, and kind.

And don't worry so much, GLaDOS. You're fine! The best thing you can do as you enter the adult world is accept yourself for who you are without shame and, indeed, with pride. Speaking of Pride, what a great letter for Pride Month, yes? Go find your people, hon, and embrace your life and your spirit without apologies.

Blessed Be,

Papabear

The creature taming genre can never have enough entries, in my very humble opinion. Combining that experience of collecting new critters with fast-paced, varied combat is a new entry into the field; Voidling Bound by indie developer Hatchery Games. It’s the first game coming out of the Canada-based studio, which was awarded a grant by Epic Games back in 2022 to help bring their game to life, as it highlighted the best of the Unreal Engine. If Voidling Bound is anything to go off of, the future in their offices is bright, as the experience is one familiar yet new, and with some surprisingly unique customization options for your voidlings that bring the genre to unexplored peaks.

Spyro fans, rejoice! After years of rumors and speculation, a new Spyro has finally been announced and it looks amazing. Those who have been following Spyro know that the purple dragon has had quite a history. Spyro reached prominence in the late 90’s/early 2000s with his original game and then hit a few bumps in the intervening years with an edgy reboot and the toy based Skylanders games. Spyro then blazed his way back with the Reignited trilogy developed by Toys for Bob and released in 2018. 

Now Toys for Bob is ready to make new games, starting with a brand new Spyro game for the first time in a long while. The new teaser shows a slightly redesigned Spyro taking to the skies and preparing to confront an unknown evil. That’s right, the new Spyro is actually going to feature real flying instead of gliding although there will be plenty to do on the ground too. With Tom Kenny returning to voice Spyro, this new entry promises to continue the trend that the Reignited Trilogy started. We at GF are huge Spyro fans and we are all very excited! Spyro is soaring his way on to major platforms in Spring 2027! Check out the trailer and let us know your thoughts on our socials! Keep Gaming Furever!

It’s that time of year again where we all eagerly look forward to the coziest, most wholesome games on the horizon. Wholesome Direct 2026 did NOT disappoint, with a number of comfy games that furries and non-furries alike will appreciate. Once again, the entire Direct is up on YouTube, so give it a watch as I’m not going to cover everything and there was a lot this year. Huge shoutout to Wholesome Games and the wonderful people who curate and co-host the Direct as it is a joy to watch every year. Now without further ado, let’s get into the highlights for us here at GF.

TigerTails Radio Season 17 Episode 02 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: He Said She Said 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.

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

Welcome to BFFT! The Injured Nerves Network brings you another exciting and time wasting episode of BFFT!  The gang is all here! Taebyn, Rayne, TickTock, Cheetaro, and Ziggy all have things to say. We play a little This or That, get a story from Taebyn, Zen out a little, and even learn a thing or two.  Taebyn and Bearly have a sit down with Yippee and we have all the news that is furry related.  So join us, won’t you, for another T-Riffic (that is Taebyn-Riffic) episode of BFFT! Moobarkfluff everyfur!

This episode was recorded the week before Furlandia took place. Be sure to tune in next episode to find out all the fun that was had at Furlandia!

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Email: bearlyfurcasting@gmail.com  

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

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

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

Bearly Furcasting S6E25 - Working Episode Title

Word is out that Cartoon Saloon is readying Mebh and the Pups, a spin-off TV series based on their multiple-award-winning animated fantasy Wolfwalkers. (Winner of the Ursa Major Award for Best Anthropomorphic Motion Picture of 2021, among many others.) “Mebh is a wild, adventurous young girl, a Wolfwalker! Her pack is made up of four regular wolf pups, each with its own distinct personality. This gang of friends explore the forest, make new friends, and help the other animals they share a home with – friendly mice and squirrels, a grumpy badger and more. Full of mischief, Mebh and the Wolf Pups often cause mayhem with their boisterous fun but, when Mebh transforms into a wolf, she connects with nature and her environment allowing her and her pals to solve any problem!” Directed by Jeremy Purcell, the series is set for animation festivals starting in September.

image c. 2026 Cartoon Saloon

TigerTails Radio Season 17 Episode 01 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: He Said She Said 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.

[Papabear note: This letter is a follow up to one from April 17]

Dear Papabear,

Oh, hi, again, hehe. I think I was busy last month but I really appreciate your answer, well for your recommendations. Lebanon and Jordan are not safe, either, like, totally. I really would get out and live in Europe--well, not France or Germany (I have my reasons)--but I opt for the British Isles. I can find the community, the love, there, the care. The people are supportive, especially those in the LGBTQ+ community and in the furry fandom. This is applicable to Australia and Canada, as you mentioned, but I don't really find myself able to stay peacefully there.

Moving on to the organizations, I know that they are doing a great job, but the way they work/act seems to be insufficient to my desires. Plus, the effort they do seems to be weak compared to the Tunisian police system. And I'm not familiar with them because I feel scared of any possible inconvenince or getting caught.

With the acceptance percentange and any efforts to end the Section 230 that discriminates against homosexuality, I feel like this might be the magnum opus of our efforts, at least in this period of time. You see, life goes in waves: There is a wave of positivity and a wave of negativity. When we want a change for the good, it can't happen all at once. There are times when we're progressing and others when we're getting brought back. With homosexuality in Tunisia, an 18% percentage of acceptance is promising but with how I witness parents teaching their kids about hating gays and the behaviour/internet users jokes that propagate their hate towards the LGBTQ+ community, I feel like--if there isn't a miracle, of course--that percentage will become lower and lower until the next generations stops the circle of homophobia for real, and the percentage goes higher and higher. That's what I think, though, so idk. I think it's just that Tunisia and the Arab world in general is built differently.

Now, let's talk about the virtual world and how it is a good substitute to enjoy furry world. I'm poor (loudly crying emoji). A VR headset costs literally as much as my father's income in 6 months; we're barely living lol. I only rely on this old laptop and my potato Samsung phone. They barely work, but that's fine. I really want to experience the virtual world even though my father thinks it's only for kids (can't wait to see his reaction for furry porn there). Like, I can see that y'all are having fun there, good and nice people, dang I wished I could play it all day. I thought about working a part-time job, but I'm relying on a fund from the higher education ministry to help me with living as a college student. If they know that I work, they'll cut it off, and I'll no longer benefit from it.

I thought about probably selling drawing commissions to probably get out, but, sadly, PayPal doesn't exist in Tunisia, or, to be precise, PayPal doesn't function well here. You can send money abroad, but you cannot take money from outside. It's a long story. It is related to a law that was approved in 1976 (you're probably younger than that lol). Anyways, that law states that the possession of any foreign currency that is considered as a hard currency is illegal in Tunisia, and if you have it, then you should change it to the Tunisian currency in the "Banque Tunisienne," the official public bank of the Tunisian government, otherwise you go to jail and the money gets "equipped " by them. That law helps with maintaining the least growth of inflation as possible, which is good compared to other African currencies, even Libya, but, like, come on. There were efforts to fix the law to make PayPal work as normal, but meh, it's Tunisia. Of course there won't be any solutions to this.

Since you are more than welcome to hear other questions from me, I have other questions: You see, I engage with gay yiff media, and there is, like, some specific type that I really love. Like, I love men, all types: skinny ones, fat ones, buff ones etc.... But, I really love the old buff furry men with dad bods. It's not like it's a random thing, but I really really really love dad/son incest furry media, especially the porn, like, hot comics/mangas of old, huge, strong furry men with their adult sons. I imagine myself as their sons--dang, I really want my father to kiss me and f*ck me; not my real father, though, like, he's not my type lol, but it's just that I don't want him to be my lover because I feel like there are other men who would be more fine than my dad, or maybe I avoid real incest love, but still.

You hear about furry dads? Asgore Dreemurr from Undertale? Mufasa from The Lion King? Bowser? Bandit Heeler? And other fathers that are niche from famous furry artists? I wanna be their loving son who can benefit from their builds and bodies, like, that makes me happy. Even your fursona, lol, nothing beats a caring old furry bear who sounds like a nice person. NGL, I would take a chance on you, hehe. Is that weird? Does it feel awkward? Is it so kinky a lot of people wouldn't like me? Would I find other old furry men in the fandom who would be more than happy to be in that love dynamic? I really hope I find a sound, good answer from you very very soon. :)

* * *

Dear Adem,

Thank you for your interesting letter. I was frankly not surprised by what you related. I was hoping for better, but in my experience, countries with strong religious elements (Muslim, Catholic) are not openminded about sexuality and treat anyone who is different as someone to fear and/or hate. It is a problem with human societies that has been ongoing for thousands of years but got much worse with the rise of the Abrahamic faiths. Of course, Hindus and other faiths are uncomfortable with the LGBTQ community, too. Interestingly, it is the "pagan" and indigenous societies (considered "pagan" by many religious people) that tend to be much more accepting. For example, Native Americans are fine with it. I also believe aboriginal peoples in Australia and Southeast Asia are not afraid of us.

I was not surprised either that you are unable to afford VR equipment. That was a longshot on my part, but I thought I would mention it. Many people struggle to afford such things, and this makes it hard for them to participate in online communities. Of course, you do not need VR goggles and such to participate in VRchat. You just need a good internet connection, but even that can be hard, yeah? And, yes, PayPal access for artists in places like the African continent can be problematic. I have a Nigerian friend with this problem. He is an artist like you and does commissions. So, what do we do? I send him money through an app called Word Remit (https://www.worldremit.com/en/tunisia). I checked, and yes, customers can send money in Tunisian dinars to you. So, you might wish to check that out.

As for your attraction to daddy types, that is not an unusual thing in the gay community at all, including in the furry community (Oh, sidebar: I was born in 1965.) I am flattered by your flirtations. :)  And I am a bit of a flirt, too, and am not in any way embarrassed. Anyway, yes, you would definitely find furry daddies in the fandom.

I hope that answers your questions. I'm here, as always, if you have more.

Bear Hugs,
Papabear

Before we begin this review, let’s hop into the Wayback Machine I’m borrowing from Mr. Peabody for a bit and journey back to the year 2019. See, before I joined Gaming Furever, I used to work for a now-defunct online radio station called The Cove Radio. Alongside the show I hosted called ‘The Realm Of The Metal Wolf’ - in which I played, well, heavy metal music alongside the occasional classic 80’s rock - I did video game reviews for them and I aired them live (OK, they were pre-recorded) on my show before posting them on the site. I mention this as one of the games I reviewed was a little title called Void Bastards; a game that, outside of its eye-catching title, I said was fun but very mediocre with boring gameplay and just felt unfulling. Now, here we are in 2026 and we got the official follow-up with Wild Bastards: A game that I feel is much better than Void with more enjoyable gameplay and is a much better FPS Roguelike, but still has many of the faults that plagued Void Bastards.

A fairy tale, for pride. A personal myth, as if there were any other kind. A story of becoming who we are, because everyone should have one. Today’s story is “The Young Man Who Knew Where He Was Going” by Rob MacWolf, who means it when he calls himself werewolf hitchhiker and knows to whom he owes it. You can get his book "You Look Lost, Pup" winner of a Cóyotl award, from Bewere Books, and you can find more of his books on Itchio. Find more free furry audio short stories on The Voice of Dog website or a podcast service near you. https://thevoice.dog/ Merch, Sweet Tees and stuff: https://culturally-fd-merchandise.creator-spring.com/ Support Culturally F'd: https://www.patreon.com/culturallyfd Listen in on TEMPO TALKS with Tempe O'Kun https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLIPk-itLl1jPyIK2c7mK-LpbvfDNqfcSW Check out Tempe O'Kun's books "Sixes Wild" and "Windfall" here: http://furplanet.com/shop/?affillink=YOUTU2907 Here's a playlist of his other Culturally F'd videos: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLIPk-itLl1jPS7tnT4hdJwBI-CeLF8Kb_

The spring showers have bloomed flowers, and behind those clouds is the warming sun and beautiful rainbows! Welcome to June, everyfur! And happy Pride Month! Don’t forget that we have many places to submit LGBT+ stories, like Transcendent Fiction Publishing! Though there are many markets below that you can submit to, gathered up by our new Markets Manager, Chase Anderson! We want to thank Scribbles Cheetah for all the hard work they’ve done during their time as the Markets Manager. They have been a big help, and continue to be one as they help out Chase! I’ve left a link below to their blog so you can all check out their works!

Transcendent Fiction Publishing: https://www.tfpublishing.com.au/
Scribbles Cheetah: https://scribblesofachee.blog/

We’ve made it through another month, and now we’re in a new one with exciting news! The 2025 Cóyotl Awards video is up on the Furry Film Burrow Youtube channel! In the link that is below, you can watch as Rugger and I host the awards! I couldn’t be there in person, so, I have been transformed into a well-dressed cow for that video! Enjoy the video, and congratulations once again to the winners!

As for me, I’ve been working hard both with my day job and my books! Hammering away at editing and rewriting. It’s tough, but I’m getting through it! Next week, I’ll be heading to Tennessee and using that as my writing retreat! Hoping to keep my focus on my WIP and my WIP alone! Hoping! Unless the arcade machine distracts me… Mappy is a fun game! (And he’s a cute mouse!)

Thanks for reading! Don’t stop writing— you can do this! Yes, I’m talking to the beautiful writer behind that screen! Write and show the world your creativity! Make sure to celebrate the successes of others as well! 

-Flash Kitterson

Here are the open markets from your Guild Markets Manager:

June open markets

## Still open from May:

### Short fiction, nonfiction, and poetry:
* #OHMURR Fall 2026 – 2,000 – 6,000 word for fiction/essays, 1 – 2 pages of poetry, unknown length for book reviews, 100-300 word hookup stories, until Sept 20  https://ohmurrmag.carrd.co/#submissionguidelines

* Children of the Night – short stories of 5,000-20,0000  words, closes December 31st https://armouredfoxpress.wixsite.com/website/furry-call-for-submissions

* Dinner at Yiffany’s – short stories under 15,000 words, no close date announced  https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdYBcmFno00Cg0EbtnaesaSKO0pD1RZtotOpsOnBHqiF2amCw/viewform

* Eurofrence Conbook – short stories under approx. 3,142 words, closes June 19  https://www.eurofurence.org/EF30/conbook

* Furry Historical Fiction Society volume 5 – see Discord/Telegram channel for updates/info

* Mertails – short stories of 2,000 – 10,000 words, closes June 30  https://www.tfpublishing.com.au/anthology-calls

* Rho Iota Phi – short stories of 3,000 – 12,000 words, closes Oct 31  https://armouredfoxpress.wixsite.com/website/furry-call-for-submissions

* The Voice of Dog – short stories under 10,000 words, currently no close date announced  https://thevoice.dog/?page=rules

* This is Halloween – short stories of 3,000 – 12,000 words, closes  December 31st https://armouredfoxpress.wixsite.com/website/furry-call-for-submissions

* Transform Fiction issue 1 – short stories under 15,0000 words, “brief” poetry, closes June 30  https://www.furaffinity.net/journal/11363016

### Books and longer works:
* Bewere – 30,000 – 120,000 words for fiction and nonfiction, unknown length for games and others, no close date announced  https://bewere.net/submissions.php

* Fenris Publishing – 30,000 – 120,000 words for fiction and nonfiction, unknown length for games and others, no close date announced  https://www.fenrispublishing.com/submissions.php

* FurPlanet (comics/magazines only) – unknown lengths, currently no close date announced  https://furplanet.com/shop/custom.aspx?recid=8

* Transcendent Fiction Publishing – unknown lengths for comics, graphic novels, art books; 30,000 – 12,0000 words for novels, novellas, and single-author collections; currently no close date announced https://www.tfpublishing.com.au/submission-guidelines

## Opens later this month:
* Doppelfoxx Publishing – unknown lengths/types, opens June 15, no close date announced  https://doppelfoxxpublishing.com

Please check out the latest book releases from our members:
Tethers Torn [Book 2], by Utunu, Released March 2026.
Archon [Book 2], by Mark Smith, Released March 27th, 2026.
Disaster Queers: Night at the Museum, by Alison Cybe, Released April 1st, 2026.
Space Dragons: Cosmic Survivors, by Veo Corva, Released April 20, 2026
Travels, by Erin Lee, Released April 26th.
A Rodent of Unusual Size, by Rebecca Cascane, Released April 26th.
The Morning After, by J.F.R. Coates, Released April 26th.
UPCOMING!! Lesser Gods: Retribution, by Alex Frey Releases June 16th, 2026.

FWG Members- remember to use the Promotion Tip Line!
https://forms.gle/keTnEt1UG59qMqZ29

Misfit Island is a full-color comic we found at WonderCon this year — written by Nicholas Doan and Sara Silver, and illustrated by Bobby Timony. “There is an unknown island called Dissidentia. It is peacefully inhabited by Cryptids, monsters and creatures of Myth that have remained hidden for years. But what mysteries will Brody the jackalope and his friends learn about the island’s history? What will happen when Isla, the Harpy, flies to the mainland? And what about Henry, the son of a Frankenstein monster? All he wants to do is play guitar. How is he connected to this mysterious island?” Visit this link to find out more.

image c. 2026 Broken Oar Productions