by Wen Wen Yang The legend is only partially true. I had already hidden away my fox-skin, already decided on Jack when he saw me naked in my human-skin. I am not the huli jing from San Francisco, whose fox-skin was stolen by a human man. One newspaper called it devotion that she returned nightly to her husband. She was devoted to her fox-skin as one is devoted to one’s hands. Fox spirits capture the low hanging fruit. When these men come upon a naked woman in the wilderness, they would not hesitate to lie naked with her. I had hunted in Central Park but the police had started to…

by Ian Madison Keller Espen approached the librarian with trepidation. His hooves clicked softly on the wooden floor, despite his best efforts to walk quietly. The squirrel librarian sat bent over a book behind her desk, her fluffy brown tail curled behind her head, but she looked up and smiled at him as he approached. “How can I help you?” Espen ran a hand through his forelock nervously. “I have a question about elementals.” One of the librarian’s dark eyebrows rose, but she merely nodded her head for him to continue.

by Kristen Hornung The river sloshes about my legs, and the mud sucks at my paws, but I run as fast as I can through the In-Between, my tail swishing a happy rhythm behind me. Time to see him again! No more waiting! I know I’m getting closer when the wrong portals start to yawn and sigh. One promises baby mice to sniff out, another rabbits to chase through sun-warmed grasses. Tricky, tricky. I snort and toss my head. Some might forget their duty and change their path, but not me. I don’t even slow down.

by Carol Scheina The volcano knew from past experience that humans generally fled far away when gases seeped and tremors shook the earth, signaling a pending eruption, but this time around, a man stood on the summit with arms outstretched. In between its sulfurous gassy burps, the volcano heard the man muttering incantations. He’s a sorcerer, the volcano realized with a snort of water vapor. There had been plenty of sorcerers who had tried to stop an eruption. They always failed. The man finished his spell with a stern, “Your power shall be made harmless!”

by Amy Clare Fontaine 1. Everywhere. They say that passion flares like fire, but this flavor of pain tastes more like drowning: choking on a pressure so deep it might crush me. I feel like your teeth are gnawing my bones. Like my heart has been ripped out by the same claws that held me. I miss your long tongue on my neck, your fangs in my flesh. The way your tail wagged when I came home from work, as if you were happy to see me. As if. They say a werewolf’s bite hurts like hell, but they don’t know. The worst wounds werewolves give you are the ones…

by Katlina Sommerberg I am one of four genemodded clones jogging onto the court. All three opponents wear black jerseys, proof they all survived a previous season. I’m the novice — stepped out of the vat this morning — the designated Gimmick of the game, wearing white to enhance the crowd’s entertainment for my eventual injuries or, as many in the audience have betted on, my death. When a human dies, it’s a tragedy; when we die, it’s entertainment:  our dying game becomes a season’s highlight. Ostrich, the tallest opponent, fistbumps his chest and shrieks at the crowd as if he’s oblivious to the bulletproof barrier. The inhuman sound warbling…

by Priya Sridhar The dress shop had the best location in the forest colony web; it hung at a sharp east angle beside a mosquito-smoothie shop and a shoe store, where a thick branch had the best sunset view. During the afternoon foot traffic, many patrons with smoothies would loiter by the windows, to eye the freshly spun silk and styles on display. A few tried to rush in and get a sleeve mended or fabric altered for sudden weight gain or loss, but often they would leave after seeing the sign that read ‘ONE DAY MINIMAL WAIT.’ Miss Raglan, the proprietress, added beads to a sleek silken dress that…

by Jack Adam Our drakopegasus rarely bites. And almost never in anger. She tries to breathe fire, but struggles when she’s high. Thin air up there. It’s difficult to always know what she wants, while she seems to understand me just fine. I was always simple, resistant to change, predictable. She, however, is complex, a myriad of feelings, notions as wide as the sea. Her lineage includes destroyers of kingdoms, hoarders of treasures, and yes, a few swallowers of men. I don’t know where I came from, and Perseus won’t tell me. I’d like to think heroic steeds. Maybe even Unicorns.

by David Sklar It’s such a nuisance, dying every day. Being eaten every day by the same rough men. You may not know this, but my body is still me, even when it’s meat. So I feel the passage of my roasted flesh through their intestines. The battle sweat isn’t so sexy, once you’ve spent time in a person’s gut. But you get to know a man that way, in a way no one else does. I’ve been in the warriors of Valhalla, every one. I’m in them still, becoming part of them. It’s a hassle, being resurrected every day. Remembering, even after I have been eaten, what form to…