by Spencer Orey Moonlight swept closer across the high desert, and this time, Ty wasn’t alone. Around the campfire, everyone in his pack was coughing or worse. Ty too had hardly been able to eat for a week, stomach throbbing with all-too-familiar cancerous rot. He’d still insisted on carrying more than his share of firewood. He wanted the others to see by his chores that he really did belong. All their sicknesses would vanish in a moment. The desert was harsh, made even harsher by radiation, but when they transformed under the full moon, they healed. And then they ran. The sharp scent of burning piñon wood grew stronger in…

by William Markly O’Neal The veterwerenarian looked at Ricki Roskowski with suspicion. “Didn’t you used to be a cat lover?” He quickly added, “I mean, before the Turning Point, of course. No offense.” Ricki scowled. “I’ve got it, don’t I?” The vet nodded gravely. “I’m afraid so.” “Feliocanthropy.” Ricki rubbed her forehead. “Wouldn’t you just know it?  Damn.” “You haven’t been…?” The vet jiggled his fuzzy eyebrows, giving Ricki a look that was supposed to convey some meaning. “What?”  She feigned ignorance, even though she knew what this fat man was going to ask. The vet’s face was soft, but his eyes were sharp. He fixed Ricki with a stare…

by Katlina Sommerberg The pregnant cockroach loved the old fridge. It had been a leaky, overstuffed relic that clanked through the night and sweated in the summer. Condensation had dribbled down its side. Crumbs—bigger than her body!–had gathered beneath it. And its mouth-door never quite shut right, allowing in drafts of warm air that spoiled the milk… but let the roach slip in and out as she pleased. That fridge was gone now. The maintenance man had wheeled it out on a squeaky dolly, had almost tripped on its dangling cords. From inside a cupboard and hiding within a stack of plates, the cockroach rested. She licked the traces of…

by Ross Whitlock Rattler waits in the dark with the One Actual Story on his forked tongue. So everyone says. These days, stories float about in the lightning-struck sky above. There’s nae counting them all. They hiss and hum and sting the ear like ashes from the broken world. One day, you’ll hear about the bears and the cracked boulder. Next day, it’ll be the young doe who sank in the swamp and came back up with pine-tar wings and a sheen like a hummingbird’s breast. The mice say that the foxes did everything wrong, and the foxes say that the mice gnawed one too many roots and made it…

by Christian Emecheta I spent my cubhood in Bramblewood, a bustling burrow-town nestled between the Pine Barrens and the Susurrant River. To outsiders, it was known for its notorious blackberry smugglers and a rogue owl militia called the Talon Order. But to me, Bramblewood was simply home: a maze of tunneled trees where we played “Fox and Hounds,” a meadow where fireflies lit our midnight games of “Bat vs. Moth,” and an abandoned badger sett we claimed as our fortress. Adults? They were background noise—busy badgers fretting over taxes of acorns, or hedgehog matrons hissing about propriety. All except one: the White Raccoon. No one knew his real name. He…

by Justin Ocelot Bardiff, overcome by the intoxicating scent of so many flowers, hugged tight his bag, jumped into the air, and let himself tumble down the slope, happily paying the price of a few bruises for the experience. He came to rest at the edge of a forest of sunflowers in bloom and lay there, gazing upward, as the shadows of those broad shifting leaves caressed him. Yes, he had a very important mission to complete. But that wasn’t going to stop him from having a little fun. He was a mole and had spent his entire (not very long) life underground in dark, wet, echoing, endless, and not…

by Joy Kennedy-O’Neill The last of the Greybacks was gone. It was hard to believe. William’s uncle on his mother’s side had finally slept his last great sleep. William rubbed his raccoon’s paws together and tried to get a grip on his emotions. He and his friends had finished a simple farewell ceremony, and they now walked the river’s west path back toward home, at Belle’s Landing. He looked up at the sky. The Sky-Bearers would soon come – black vultures with red, bald heads. Their dark wings would open like vestment robes, and their soft hisses would sound like extinguishing candles. William scanned the winter’s grey and drizzly sky…

by Cailín Frankland Sir Solomon Swallow wore his finest suit to the Convention—a two-tailed slate grey number that accentuated the darker tones of his feathers, with a matching top hat to mark the occasion. Slipping a delicate pair of black dress shoes over his clawed feet, he checked his reflection in the mirror of the creek. Perfect, he thought to himself smugly. Now that puffed-up Cuckoo will know I mean business. It was not Curtis Cuckoo whom Solomon saw first when he reached the clearing, however, but the Duchess Gertrude of Nest Goose. She roosted heavily on a wooden bench seemingly constructed for the purpose, her greying feathers tucked neatly under…