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…

by Kathryn Reilly Two ancient eyes watched the girl from deep beneath the watery depths. Being an immortal creature came with some benefits including absolutely perfect eyesight, but that didn’t alleviate boredom. It watched as she came to the river, sometimes bringing scraps for the fish and turtles, sometimes bringing flowers and releasing them to gently float away from the shore, sometimes planting native plants helping the insects and birds and mammals thrive, sometimes just bringing a book and dipping her feet as she turned the page. Those were his favorite days because her toes were painted in the colors of his scales and they sparkled when the sun shone…

by M. McNamara I walk along the beach, on the hunt for a new shell. The one I have now is quite acceptable, sturdy and round and adorned with attractive whorls, but it’s getting a bit small. “Time for an upgrade,” Merv had said, so here I am, wandering about at low tide. Normally I like to stay submerged in the shallows, but I’ve braved the exposed sand this afternoon in the hope of a lucky find. This is one of the perils of being a hermit crab: you must wear armour that you don’t craft yourself. “Lucky snails,” I mutter as I trundle along. “They might be soft and…

by E.J. LeRoy “Siren Crab, state your purpose.” My claws click in response to White Coat Samuel’s order. He is the White Coat I see most often during the day, but my answer would be the same no matter who issued the command. That is my job here, to answer questions and obey the commands of any White Coat who addresses me. In return, I answer and do as I am told. My programming does not allow for asking questions of the White Coats in response. This does not bother me. What would be the point of adding these parameters to my designated functions? “I am a solar- and hydro-powered…

by Zary Fekete In Budapest, if you wake up in the middle of the night by a flash of lightning and a burst of thunder, when you go out in the morning to the rain-washed sidewalks of the city, you will find snails. After every rain the byways of this grand city must be shared with the soft creatures. The pavements inhale the scent of the rain and snails begin their journeys back and forth, as though reborn from the downpour. The Hungarian snail, or csiga, is renowned by the Magyar people as a harbinger of good things. The Hungarian language announces this quality of the invertebrate creatures by gently…

by R.J.K. Lee 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…

by Anne Larsen 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…

by Ginger Strivelli She wove a design that her ancestors wove into their webs when dinosaurs walked the face of the Earth. It was the same design her descendants would weave into their webs long after humans had been wiped off the face of the Earth. It was just a web to any human who might wander by, they would not stop to wonder about it, though they surely should if only they knew why. People only see a pretty but mundane web holding the spider’s lunch and her egg sack. It would not cross their mind again once they walked past. The Spider knew the magic and the science…