by Mike Robinson Southern Africa 3 Million Years Ago   1. They never believed her until she described the screams. She knew why. Recalling the brain-goring terror of those sounds, from the high squeals to the deep, resigned rumblings, broke open all the realness of that night through her, and her telling of it. Sweetfoot liked surprising others, especially youngkind. Bigcats threatened the young, some might say, but that threat was finite, and the calves were safe within the thick forest of the herd’s legs and trunks and the canopy of their tusks. In general, the bigcats knew not to even try. But that was why she told them of…

by Dana Wall “Your Projected Migration Efficiency Rating has dropped to 62%,” the sparrow from HR chirped, adjusting her tiny glasses with one wing. “That’s well below the industry standard of 85%, Ms. Honksworth.” Gloria Honksworth, Senior Migration Consultant at Wingways Solutions LLC, fought the urge to roll her eyes. Twenty years of guiding geese across continents, and now she was being lectured by a bird who’d never flown further than the office park. “With all due respect,” Gloria said, straightening her neck feathers, “traditional metrics don’t account for the current situation. The warm fronts are arriving three weeks early, the cool fronts are stalling out over the Great Lakes,…

by Anne Larsen My dam remembered when Lore was a sorrel mare with a bad hock. By the time I was foaled, Lore was a dun mare faded by sun and salt water, her muzzle going grey and her eyes — well, Lore’s eyes are what they are: green and gold, like no other horse in our herd’s heritage. “Can she really see the wind, mama?” my third foal asked. “My dam said she could, but how can we know?” “Did you ever talk to her?” “Only the lead mares speak to her. Sometimes the old aunties graze by her and listen. She tells them the stories they must tell…

by David Aronlee Posted Hogtown Post Office, January 2 Dearest Priscilla, I miss you the way the daisy misses the sun. I have wonderful news. I got a job! I’m a truffle sorter at the truffle factory. Not bad for a hog from the country. I had my first day yesterday and my boss already says I have potential. I could be a shift leader within a year or maybe even a truffle hunter someday!  My friend Fred says that’s where you can make it big: with the commission from finding a big truffle cluster. Fred’s a city pig. He grew up here in Hogtown and is showing me the…

by Larry Hodges Zuk stared out the open window above her cubicle desk at the poor, hatless rats chattering and scampering about outside, digging through heaps of garbage for scraps of rotting food. She wrinkled her nose; even from here the stench was like a tail smashing into her face. Pathetic. It should be illegal to have that much fun when you’re homeless. That’s what happens when you don’t get an education! she wanted to scream, but instead just slapped her tail against the sawdust floor. Saying that would be rude. She herself had a doctorate in ratropology, but often wondered if she’d made a huge career mistake. Aerospace engineering,…

by H. Robert Barland Her scent was that of the warm grass of summer. And sunflowers. I still smell her now, I think, but the scent dwindles as does the image of her in my mind. I try to hold onto it, pull her grey furred shape into focus, but the more I try, the more she slips away. The ghost of her memory wafts through my paws liked winter fog. I wince. Concentrating… it makes my head ache. To keep her from disappearing altogether, I direct my focus elsewhere, to the machine, the Contraption. It sits a tail-length beyond the safety of my hide. The gleaming steel bar is…

by Lara Hussain Jot knew exactly what had happened to Iota: Flowerwerks had eaten him alive. Or rather, he had worked himself to death. Mice were prone to it: working to grinding exhaustion, from those who squeaked commands all day to the lowliest directors of fertilizer distribution, and even the earthworm and bee wranglers. But it was unlike Iota to disappear. He had a quiet intensity, certainly, but he would never leave something unfinished, or depart without saying goodbye. Jot’s best friend, Dottie, was wringing her paws. They were raw and pink from all the kneading, which started when she realized her partner was missing. Iota wasn’t the first mouse…

by Melanie Mulrooney Crow circled above as the sad one trudged through wet sand, scrambling to perch on the highest rock. She visited every day — huddling against the frigid wind, pleading with the ocean, leaking her salt into the vastness. Crow sang to her sometimes, when he was bored. She didn’t answer, but she also didn’t yell for him to leave. So he stayed close; they often dropped food, if he waited long enough. Receding waves carried her calls to the deep: Ty, come home. * * * One day she piled peanuts high on a rock before climbing to roost. Crow swooped in again and again to collect…