Dorcas was a squirrel. Yes, my snickering, adolescent readers, Dorcas is indeed a legitimate name and means “gazelle” in Greek. Terribly unfortunate name for a squirrel, eh? The little rodents ares are short and stocky, with none of the long-legged gracefulness of a gazelle. Poor Dorcas. She was predestined for school-yard bullying simply by bearing this name.

Ever notice how so many Splarks stories feature downtrodden scapegoats who eventually transcend their handicaps? Inspiring with its can-do attitude, Splarks brings you tales of optimism and personal revelation…except for this story about Dorcas the Squirrel.

Rather than serving as the town pariah, Dorcas was the squirrel equivalent of the alpha bitch in your high school. You know that chick whose mom gave her hundreds of dollars to spend on haircut and highlights and delighted in making fun of girls with inexpensive clothes? In squirrel terms, this meant that Dorcas had the glossiest fur you’ve ever seen on a squirrel. Remember that girl who lived in the ritziest house in town because her dad was a celebrity attorney, and she mentioned this fact whenever possible? Dorcas’s dad lived in the tallest oak tree in the meadow, and it produced the largest acorns ever. However, Dorcas, concerned about weight gain, refused to eat them.

“Dorcas,” her mom scolded, “you need to eat! Winter is coming and if you haven’t fattened up, you’ll starve to death.”

Dorcas rolled her eyes. It was her mother’s seventh “You’re Gonna Die!” speech of the week. “Whatever, Mom. Nobody likes a fat squirrel.”

Dorcas was tragically misinformed. A perusal of National Geographic photos and various Animal Picture of the Day websites shows that fat squirrels are universally lauded as adorable. Pudgy squirrels are so popular that people buy squirrel feeder kits. Chubby little squirrel cheeks and fat white squirrel bellies adorn greeting cards everywhere. In fact, when I see a skinny squirrel in late October, I’m always sure to shout “Hey, squirrel! Why aren’t you chowing down?” to encourage it.*

But Dorcas was young and had not yet experienced a winter. Her mother spoke of Mother Nature throwing cold whiteness from the skies, shriveling the leaves on the trees and turning the creeks hard. Food would not grow, she said, and the world would grow cold.

Dorcas thought this was a load of hooey.

“That’s retarded,” snorted Dorcas.

“Dorcas! That’s not a politically correct word!” Her mother worked with mentally challenged rodent babies and disapproved of such language. “I’m warning you: don’t doubt Mother Nature’s wisdom. Eat!”

But Dorcas had already flounced off to her drey, which is squirrel-terminology for “nest.” Little did she know of the travails she would soon face.

And here, I have two choices. I can take a J.R.R. Tolkein approach to describe travails and write 80 pages of “And the small brown squirrel trudged the deep snow. For days she did not eat for there was no food to be found, and her belly grumbled and her step grew weak.” My other option is to summarize in an Earnest Hemmingway style, such as “Winter came. Snow fell. No nuts grew on the tree. She thought of the summers in France.” Because this is somewhat of a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure story, you get to pick and imagine that I wrote whatever you prefer.

When spring came again, just as her mother said it would, Dorcas shakily exited her squalid nest. She ate all that she could find, and reflected on her ordeal. Her mother had been correct about this “Mother Nature” and her cruelty. This must not happen again. Mother Nature must be stopped!

For the first time in her life, Dorcas had a purpose beyond ridiculing squirrels with less shiny fur, talking to boys, and being skinny. She had a new goal: to seek revenge on Mother Nature! She collected sticks and sharpened them with her teeth. She scoured the forest floors for poisonous plants. She learned judo and created a garrote from the spines of weeds. She would teach Mother Nature a lesson about killing off food unnecessarily!

And here, I would like to tell you that Dorcas eventually found Mother Nature, learned about the cycle of the seasons, and came to peace with the necessity of eating and the regenerative purpose of winter. But you must know Splarks better than that by now. Intent on destroying Mother Nature, Dorcas roamed the countryside for a few days in righteous anger. However, her rage quickly dissipated when she found a group of young squirrels who lived behind a moonshine farm. They partied incessantly, and Dorcas soon lost her purpose in a frenzy of binge drinking and casual sexual relations. Squirrel experts may frown and point out the solitary nature of squirrels, and suggest that they do not “party” together. But Dorcas and her friends were trend-setters, refusing to conform to outdated assumptions of squirrel behavior.

Five months later, she found herself with a noisy brood of baby squirrels, whose father had conveniently dumped her for some stupid black-furred squirrel two counties away. She was fat, miserable, and winter was approaching yet again. Mother Nature was still not dead. Dorcas had failed in her quest.

Clinging to the last sad scrap of her great mission in life, Dorcas felt there was no other option but to kill herself. She dropped off her children with the babysitter, then went to the nearest country road. When the next rumbling metal beast appeared, she leaped in front of it, dying instantly. A nearby crow rejoiced over her tasty corpse.

The problem with suicide is that death is a sacred transition between this world and the next. When one enters the afterlife in a despondent, angry, or otherwise rotten state, these unresolved emotions cause the unfortunate soul to wander hopelessly until luck intervenes, or Mother Nature takes pity and rescues him or her.

Do you think Mother Nature was going to rescue Dorcas? No, Mother Nature was not inclined to assist the murderous, particularly when the object of the murderous desire was Mother Nature herself. And so Dorcas wandered the forest for eternity. She haunted her living peers and frightened hikers with her ghostly interludes. Always, always she longed for just one acorn.

It is a tragic tale, isn’t it? If only Dorcas had eaten the acorns as her mother wished! If only she had not been such a bitch to Mother Nature! If only she had migrated to Arizona or Florida for the winter. If only she had chosen to live!

But you see, Dorcas was strangely happy in her new muddled state. Deep down, she was arrogant and disrespectful and loved making people feel bad. Therefore, what could be more fun than frightening people for all eternity, watching them cower in fear before her ghostly apparition? I’ll tell you what: nothing. Haunting was her most joyous activity, and oh, how she enjoyed it! Winter’s chill could not touch her. And best of all, she never had to eat another nut again. Oh sure, she longed for them, as I stated above, but that was because she wished she could throw them at unsuspecting hikers. She had truly made the most of her situation, and no other squirrel was so happy in a phantom existence.

THE END

*I really do. I have had many conversations with squirrels as I try to imitate their strange clicking and squeaking language. I suspect I’m saying something horrifically insulting, because they always freeze in shock, screech at me for a few moments, then stalk off.

Interesting squirrel fact: The Ratufa is a giant squirrel that can grow to 3 feet in length. Given that the squirrels around here sometimes throw nuts at me when I’m hiking, I shudder to think of this thing.

Interesting squirrel pop culture:  Check out Foamy the Squirrel for another bitchy squirrel with an inappropriate attitude.

Have any other squirrel humor favorites?  Comment below.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Random Amusement by splarks
2 Comments »

I don’t have a real backstory for this one.  I just happened to see a photo of a giant isopod, which was all the inspiration I needed.

It’s story time for children!  Today we’re going to learn about giant isopods, which live in the deep, cold Atlantic ocean and can grow to be over a foot long.  They are not fish, but crustaceans.  Huge, nasty crustaceans that might make you vomit when you see them.  Here, look at this picture:

(I’m sorry to make you vomit.  I, too, am feeling a bit queasy as I write this story.)

But you see, isopods are Mother Earth’s creatures, too, so we musn’t shun them.  Millicent was a special giant isopod.  Beyond her vomit-evoking powers, she had one impressive talent:  she could sing opera.  Opera is a type of music, and some people think that if brussels sprouts, boiled lima beans or liver made a sound, it would be opera.  Other people find opera to be fancy;  they probably enjoy brussels sprouts, boiled lima beans and liver.  The only problems with Millicent’s amazing skill is that giant isopods do not have the vocal cords that allow them to sing, nor do they have the brain capacity to learn Italian, German, or any other language in which opera might be sung.  She also would not have fit well into the costumes–dreadful poofy things that would have swallowed her figure.

You might ask how she knew she could sing opera, or how she knew what opera was at all, given that she lived in the deep sea and had no contact with human beings.

She just knew, perhaps from some psychic ability.  She could feel her unsung arias welling up within her.  She may have been remembering a past life in which she was Maria Callas, the famous opera singer.  It is rumored that in her efforts to lose weight, Maria Callas swallowed a tape worm*, something about as hideous as a giant isopod.  A psychic link may have been forged based on mutual disgustingness.  One never knows.

So what’s a giant isopod to do?

She pondered this while crawling the ocean floor, snacking on squid and sponges.  For many days and nights (it was all the same to Millicent, given that she lived at the bottom of the ocean), she passionately meditated and prayed for knowledge of the one thing that would let her fulfill her creative dreams.  One blessed day, the answer came to her like a divine revelation shooting into her exoskeleton:  get a new body, preferably one with vocal cords.  But how?  Science had repeatedly failed at providing people with new bodies, so it was no help.  Fortunately for Millicent, paranormal enthusiasts were not so easily discouraged.

Do you know what a paranormal enthusiast is, kids?  No?  Well I’m just going to say this:  put a bunch of  paranormal enthusiasts in a box with some scientists.  You don’t have to shake it or anything –the carnage ensues naturally.  ”What’s carnage?” is an excellent question for Mommy and Daddy.

Anyway, our friend Millicent swam daringly to the surface of the ocean as she saw a boat drift by.  Several people were huddled on the deck around a group of candles and incense.  She stared, fascinated.  Here were the weird tall things that lived in the horrible air.  She’d heard other sea animals speaking about them, but she was never convinced that such beings actually existed.  But there they were, a whole pack of them crowded around a large woman in a turban.  The boat rocked and the woman called out to the waters.

“Oh great spirits, we have traveled here today for your counsel!  Above these cold waters, we beseech you to arise from your oceanic grave and speak!  Enter into this purified body of this medium, Madame Slapinski, and impart your wisdom!”  At this point, the woman threw back her head and rolled her eyes deeply.  You see, a medium is a special type of paranormal enthusiast who is like a hotel for disembodied spirits.  The spirits hang out inside the medium’s body and talk to the people listening.  Usually the spirits are kind enough to answer questions, but occasionally they only want to shout nasty words and do funny dances.  They might also say a lot of things like “my child” and “why do you not hear the screams of your Mother Earth?”  The less tolerant ones will say things like, “Where’s my bottle of rum, $#!$@&?”

Millicent looked around her and saw no spirits clamoring to enter the medium.  In fact, there appeared to be a vacancy.  “Well,” thought Millicent, “Since no one else is waiting …”  She closed her eyes in imitation of the woman, and instantly found herself outside her body and face-to-face with the medium’s spirit.  Millicent, too, was a natural medium!

“Aaaaagh!” shrieked Madame Slapinski soundlessly when she saw the spirit of the giant isopod.

“What?” asked Millicent in irritation.  “Aaaaaagh” was a dreadful aria;  apparently mediums were not musically gifted.

“Hideous creature from the deep!” moaned Madame.

“How rude!” thought Millicent.  She thought the medium was rather unattractive as well–she had only two arms, for goodness’ sake!–but she didn’t go around pointing it out.  Millicent had good manners, like I hope you do, too, children.

“You may not pass!  Get thee behind me!” Slapinski ordered.

“Okay,” said Millicent, and crawled behind her as instructed, where her body lay vacant.  What a bizarre thing to demand, she thought as she settled into the medium’s body.  Millicent was nauseated just being in it!  It was all soft and squishy, with no protection at all.  Why, anyone could come along and gnaw on it.  The teeth were virtually non-existent, the claws pathetic, and it smelled dreadful.  But yes, yes!  There were the vocal cords.  She coughed and wheezed for a few moments while the humans around her waited, hardly daring to breathe.

Finally, she began.  At this point, I should share Wagner’s opera “Tristan und Isolde” with you, for this is what she sang.  However, I do not like brussels sprouts, and I positively loathe boiled lima beans.  Therefore, I will direct you to this lovely page on Wagner’s famous opera:  http://wagneroperas.com/indextristan.html.  Go on, explore the joy of opera.  Now look back at the picture above.  It may seem revolting to you, but I assure you that Millicent was in ecstasy.  Her newfound voice quivered with exquisite vibrato.  She thrust her arms wide as she filled her lungs with air, once such a horrible thought.  As her voice rose above the ocean waves, her small audience grasped each other in awe.

“What … what can this mean?”  whispered Everett, Madame Slapinski’s assistant.

“Hush, Everett!” said Mathilda, a devoted Slapinski disciple.  “I didn’t know she could sing so beautifully.”

“I didn’t either,” said Marcus, a would-be paramour of Madame’s.  (You will need to look up “paramour” in the dictionary.  I don’t want to get into it during story hour.)

“Come to think of it,” said Everett, “I heard her singing Madonna’s ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ in the shower last week, and it was dreadfully off-key.  Sounded a bit like Alvin and the Chipmunks, actually.  ”

Blissfully unaware of the reaction of her audience, Millicent sang on against the backdrop of the frigid Atlantic ocean, candles wafting smoke around her.  Then, a tapping on her shoulder stopped her.  It was Madame Slapinski’s spirit, and she was not amused.

“Foul Beast,” Slapinski said, her astral eyebrows twisting disdainfully, “While I must admit that your knowledge of opera and skill at singing are truly magnificent, I insist that you return my body to me.”

Milicent paused.  She was finally living her dream.  Was she really obligated to vacate the medium’s body?

“I refuse to be possessed by a giant sea-bug!” screeched Slapinski.  “If I’m going to be possessed, it better be some impressive arch-demon!  I call upon the Angelic Hosts, the Archangel Michael, the–”

And suddenly, Millicent found herself back in her own body.  While her exoskeleton was infinitely more comfortable, she mourned her loss of vocal cords.  The shadow of the boat passed over her, taking with it Madame Slapinski and her only chance of singing.  She cried miserably, except that giant isopods can’t really cry, so really it was just some shuddering and stomping.  A bright light appeared before her:  Madame Slapinski’s spirit had returned!

“Loathsome insect,” she said imperiously, “I heard your deep-sea wails and despite your hideous visage, I feel compassion for your plight.  I have one small hint for you:  it is called ‘the zoo.’  I shall say no more.”

Fortunately, that was all Millicent needed.  She had absorbed a lot of human knowledge during her brief journey to Madame Slapinsky’s body.  A zoo was a place where animals lived to entertain human beings.  Many, many humans visited the zoo each day and according to the vast archives of informatin in Madame Slapinsky’s mind, everyone is psychic.  Most people simply don’t know it.

Millicent practically salivated as she thought of the opportunity.

“Thank you, Madame Slapinski!” said Millicent.  The next day she strategically placed herself in the nets of an American scientific expedition and within two weeks, she was transported to a zoo in New England.  Zoo officials were puzzled at the sudden increase in spontaneous operatic singing by zoo patrons, who burst into magnificent song and then shivered outside the Deep Sea exhibit, curiously reluctant to go near the giant isopod enclosure.  The giant isopod, however, seemed inordinately interested in humans.  Some zoo patrons even insisted that the curious creature … smiled.

The End!  Try not to get possessed by hideous sea bugs, kids!

*Highly unlikely, of course.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Religious Peril by splarks
2 Comments »

I have always loved Komodo dragons … from afar. Parthenogensis in Komodo dragons is a real phenomenon.

Poor Mabel.  It was just unfair that she was so decidedly ugly and unpopular a Komodo dragon.  She had tried to make herself prettier by rubbing her cheeks against red clay, but the other girls snorted and advised, “It doesn’t matter how much makeup you wear–you’ll never be pretty.”  She had tried to diet, restricting herself only to grubs and mice, but she grew faint and collapsed on top of Elder Mahoney, breaking the old dragon’s hip.  For awhile, she had even spelled her name “Maybelle” in hopes of seeming more sophisticated, but the plan deteriorated when she realized that only she and Elder Mahoney could read.

Now, she poked her head out of the family burrow.  Her mom and dad were off hunting, so it was safe to stretch out on her favorite rock.  She was working on her new song, but having difficulty coming up with a good rhyme for “claws.”

“Life as a teenage Komodo dragon
Sucks, my parents are always raggin’
On me and the way I grow my claws
My siblings tease with loud guffaws –”

“Listen, girls!  Mabel’s actually singing out loud!”  The snide voice cut through her reverie and she raised her head off the rock, flinching under the fierce gaze of Crystal, the meanest Komodo dragon in the jungle. She and her pack of obedient minions surrounded the rock.

Mabel cleared her throat and glared at Crystal. “It was supposed to be private. I thought I was alone.”

“Ooh!” squealed Crystal, flipping her tongue languidly and retracting her claws. “It’s private, girls!”  The group chattered and giggled.

“You wouldn’t understand,” muttered Mabel, dropping her head back to the rock.

“We wouldn’t want to–”  Crystal paused, her narrowing to slits.  She raised her tongue into the air.  “What was that noise?”

“Just those stupid zoologists,” said one of the pack.  “They’re always hanging around, acting like we can’t see them.”

A zoologist’s voice wafted towards them.  “… fine specimen sunbathing on the rock.  Am I recording?  Watson?”

“Yes, Professor Montgomery, loud and clear.”  The Komodo dragons watched the two humans and their film equipment clang around the brush.

“Good,” replied Montgomery.  ”As I was saying, there’s a fine specimen sunbathing on the rock.  Sex is undetermined, though given its large size, I propose that it is a male.”

Crystal and her cronies howled.  “Large size!  Male!  Ha ha!”

“At least 150 pounds,” Montgomery continued.  “Are you writing that down?”

Mabel squeezed her eyes shut as the other dragons roared.

“Formidable size!  Isn’t he magnificent!  Where’s my tranquilizer gun?  Damn, I left it in the van.  I wanted to measure his thighs.  They’re enormous! Watson!”

“Yes sir?”

“Can you get a look at its hindquarters?  How old is it?  Can we tell if it’s mating yet?”

Mabel wondered if she could die of embarrassment.  At this point, death would be welcome.

Crystal snorted.  “Mating?  Not likely.  She’d have to get a boyfriend first, and we all know that will never happen.”  She flicked her tongue at Mabel.  “Come on, girls.  Let this loser get back to her stupid poetry or whatever.  We have boys to meet in the clearing.”   Turning their backs on Mabel, the dragons dropped gracefully into the water and swam off.

When the last scaly gray tail had disappeared from view, Mabel allowed herself to sob.  Those mean girls!  They thought they were so special, just because their scales were glossy, tongues long and perfectly forked, and their weight only 80 pounds.  She couldn’t help having her father’s genes.  And those scientists!  Why did they always have to hang around and poke their noses into everything?  Like she wanted the whole world to know the size of her thighs!

“I hate my life!”  she sobbed.

“Watson!”  bellowed Montgomery.  “Did you hear that hideous noise?  I think it’s giving a mating call!  I’ve waited so long to hear it with my own ears!”

Screaming in misery, Mabel flopped off the rock and swam to the opposite shore, far away from zoologists and mean, pretty Komodo dragons.  She curled up under a tree and cried herself to sleep.

She had the most curious dream.  In it, a beautiful tiger approached her.  The tiger was tall, strong, and distinctly feminine.  Mabel thought she seemed rather glamorous, really.   ”Mabel,” said the tiger, “why are you crying?”

Mabel sniffled.  “Do you have to ask?  I’m fat, I’m ugly, and I’ll never get a boyfriend!  My life is over!”

The beautiful tiger looked surprised.  “But my dear, you are a talented poet and songwriter.  You are strong, and intelligent.  You aren’t fat; you have a large frame.  What could be wrong with that?”

“Boys don’t care about poetry and they like dainty girls.  I want to be popular and beautiful!”  She paused.  “Hey, are you one of those genies or whatever?  Will you grant my wish?  I’ve heard lots of stories of genies or fairies or magic talking trees granting wishes.”

The tiger stretched luxuriously, and purred.  “No, dear, I’m afraid not.  I’m just a figment of your dream.  I cannot magically shrink your bone size, nor can I make vapid girls like Crystal see past your exterior.  And, sadly, most of the males of your species aren’t interested in poetry.  They care only for the stink of flesh, whether it is between their teeth or under their bellies.  However, I promise that you will discover something greater than obtaining popularity, beauty and boys.”

Mabel sniffled.  “You  … you do?  Really?”

The tiger licked her paw and gazed deeply into Mabel’s eyes.  “I do.”

Mabel awoke with a start, her mind racing.  What could the tiger have meant?  It was dark – she’d been asleep for hours!  She scurried back home, knowing she’d would be punished for her tardiness.   As she predicted, her parents shouted at her and sent her to her corner of the burrow, while her siblings snickered in the back.  However, she settled down to sleep with a smile on her face.  For the first time, she had hope.

The next day, she woke from more strange dreams about tigers and unpleasant diets.  Her butt hurt, and when she looked down at her hindquarters, she saw a pile of gleaming white eggs!  She was still staring in shock when her father glanced over.

“Mabel!”  he roared.  “I told you not to hang around boys!  What have you done?”

“My baby!  She’s ruined!” sobbed her mother.

“Mom, Dad,” Mabel cried, “I haven’t done anything with boys!  I … I don’t even know what it is that you don’t want me to do!  I just woke up and there they were.”  She felt strangely possessive about these eggs.  “Don’t take them away from me.  They’re mine.”

“They’re gonna be retards,” sang her youngest brother snidely.

Her father shouted “Call Elder Mahoney!” and stormed out of the burrow.

Despite the chaos, Mabel felt a deep peace and calm pervade her as she watched over her lovely eggs.  They were hers, and despite what her ignorant brother had said, they were perfect.   She was vaguely aware of Elder Mahoney racing into the burrow.  He and her parents whispered fiercely, and she heard the word “parthenogenesis,” but all she could think of was her joy at having these five perfect little bundles under her.

Finally, the adults approached her.  “Mabel, dear,” her father began haltingly.  “I’m sorry I shouted at you.  Ah … Elder Mahoney has something to tell you.”

Elder Mahoney smiled and patted her back.  “You see, Mabel, when a lady dragon gets very lonely, sometimes God grants her a miracle and gives her babies, without her having to do a thing.  You’re a bit young for this, of course, but we have learned from the zoologists that it is called ‘parthenogenesis.’  It’s a shame that I ate one of those pesky professors yesterday … I could have learned a lot about this phenomenon from him, I’m sure.  I just didn’t realize … I mean, he smelled quite tasty, and …”

“Of course you didn’t know, Elder,” Mabel’s mother soothed.

“Here, here, of course not, Mahoney, of course not,” her father said gruffly.

“So …” said Mabel, still luxuriating in her beautiful eggs.  “I can have babies whenever I want?”

“It would appear so, Mabel.”

She thought of the tiger’s promise.  “So I don’t need boys?”

“Well, biologically speaking, no,” said Elder Mahoney.  “Although I still recommend–”

“And I don’t need the other girls to be my friends, because I can make my own family?”

Father Mahoney hemmed and hawed, but Mabel understood immediately.  “I don’t need anyone!” she cried with exhilaration.  “Crystal can kiss my big-boned ass!  I don’t need her approval.  I don’t need to conform to her ridiculous view of what it means to be a successful dragon.  I am my own dragon!  I’m going to raise my children to read, to love fine arts, and to treat each other with kindness and respect!”

And this is how, seven years later, Mabel found herself Queen of the Island and surrounded by hundreds of her own progeny, all gifted with premature parthenogenesis.  She no longer had to hunt for her own food, which was now reverently brought to her by her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.  Her genes created huge Komodo dragons, and soon all the males found dainty females to be unattractive.  As the line of petite, delicate females died out, the hereditary meanness of small-boned dragons also ceased to pollute the gene pool.  Each Sunday her descendants performed a poetry recital and concert for her, featuring their original music and writing, occasionally singing one of her own songs.  And each Monday morning she visited the bones of Professor Montgomery and Elder Mahoney, which had been laid side by side.

“Thank you,” she would say quietly.  “Thank you for showing me that it’s okay to be myself.”

Then, she rested her large bones on her favorite rock, and began working on her next sonnet.  She was, indeed, her own dragon.

***

When I asked Dave what he thought of this story, he said, “Well, it’s a little more serious than most of your stories.”  Yes, he said that a Splarks story was “serious.”

Tags: Based on a True Story, Bizarre Animal Stories by splarks
1 Comment »

Another reader wanted a story about a hedgehog named Lorna who suffers from narcolepsy.  Remember, you asked me for it.

Once upon a time, there was a hedgehog named Lorna.  Lorna came from a hedgehog family of narcoleptics, a disease in which one keels over randomly, dead asleep.  Lorna’s narcolepsy was an unfortunate yet unavoidable fact of life. Hedgehogs are primarily nocturnal and her night time naps often prevented her attendance at the best Hog Parties.  Yet narcolepsy did provide her with one welcome ability:  like Freddy Krueger, she could enter into the dreams of others.  Lorna, who came from a family of Spiritualist hedgehogs, was  intimidated by her ability until Old Aunt Genevieve counseled her one day, speaking words of wisdom through a mouthful of insect legs.  “Lorna,” croaked the old hedgehog, nose deep in a bowl of toasted grasshoppers, ”God gave you a gift, and that gift is to enter the dreams of others and prepare them for a spiritual, healthy existence.  You can shape their dreams and show them the light.”

Lorna contemplated this, then smiled broadly.  “Thank you, Aunt Genny!” she cried, racing back to her burrow before the next narcoleptic sleep began.  Her once-inconvenient stealth naps became the path to the greater good.  So many forest animals were prone to mere subsistence living: eating bugs, drinking water, sleeping dreamlessly and obsessively procreating.  She aimed to show them a better way of life.  To learn more about her abilities, she read a book on shamanism*.  The book claimed that when in a “lucid dream,” one could find “a portal” into another dreamer’s dream.  Lorna found that this was indeed true:  when in a narcoleptic dream, she had only to look around for her portal, a small peat bog.  It wasn’t as glamorous as the examples in the book, such as a rose or waterfall, but she didn’t let it deter her.  She would find the dreamer and radiate love and light from each quill, rolling herself into a ball so that she could be a miniature sun of joy and peace.

Yet inevitably, the dreaming forest animals would scream in terror.  She would pursue them, calling “Don’t you want to join the light?  Come to the light!” but their only response was continued screaming and and eventual disappearance into a poof of dust as they awoke.   Frustrated, she would then awake and contemplate her failure.  What was with these guys?  What was their problem with the light?  Was she unwittingly living in a forest devoted to evil or something?

Had Lorna bothered to read Appendix C of the shamanism book, she would have realized that “come to the light” was tantamount to saying “Time to die now, come peacefully.”  The appendix was full of stories of people who nearly died and saw dead relatives waiting at the end of a tunnel of joyous, radiant light.  But Lorna was the kind of hedgehog who only skimmed the main passages of a book, and she missed the subtle points of the preface, epilogue, and appendices.  In fact, she preferred Cliffs Notes whenever possible, and was disappointed to see that “Master of Destiny: Rainbow Shaman Turkey Healer Guide” did not have a handy abbreviated version.

As the months passed, the other animals began to avoid her.  No one could say why they felt such fear while in Lorna’s presence, though some vaguely recalled her appearance in a recent nightmare.  Lorna’s social life dwindled until she was left with just the odd Family Hog Party.  Sitting alone each evening, she sighed and pondered her unwelcome fate. Was she destined to be alone and unappreciated forever, stricken with an annoying and completely ineffective gift?

As she sat moping one day, she was dazzled by the very thing from her dreams:  The Light!  There it glowed before her like a radiant walnut spinning in her burrow.  Curiously, she didn’t feel the intense love and joy that she usually strove to manifest, but she attributed this to being startled and blinded.

“Laura,” it began in a booming voice.

“My name is Lorna,” she corrected it, dismayed.

“Lorna, whatever.  Listen, I am your Higher Self.”

She gazed suspiciously at the Light.  The book had mentioned something about the divine guidance of the Higher Self, but – “My Higher Self?  Then why aren’t you pronouncing my name correctly?”

The Light hesitated. “I, um, know your True Name!  And is it Laura.  Laura means ‘Glorious One Who Shall Reign Supreme Over the Forest.”

She blinked in surprise.  “That … that doesn’t sound like a very noble ambition for a peaceful creature like me.  Are you sure it isn’t Latin for ‘laurel’?  I took a year of Latin, and–”

The Light interrupted, a touch impatiently, Lorna thought.  “Would you like to know why the other animals run from you in your dreams?”

“Yes, please!”  She twisted on her bed of moss so that she could see it more clearly.  Could she finally be getting the answer to her awful predicament?

“Very well.  Although you’ve tried to use your powers for good, you are missing the Point of Life.”

This was it!  Here was the answer she longed for!  “Oh Light, tell me the Point of Life!”

“Suffering.”

“Ah … what?”

“Did not the Holy Buddha say in the Bible that Life is Suffering?”

“I … I thought the Buddha didn’t write the Bible.”

“Whatever. But he did say that Life is Suffering, didn’t he?”

She paused, considering.  “I do recall that from my Comparative Religion class, yes.”

“The animals want to suffer, Laura.  Suffering is their highest purposes in life, and you are denying it with your enforced visions of love and peace.  Peace is evil, Laura, do you not see this?”

She wrung her hands.  “Oh no!  I’ve been feeding evil!  Oh Light, tell me how I can correct my error and instead contribute to the highest purpose of all forest animals!”

“You need to change your destructive ways immediately, my child!” boomed the Light.  “You must create healthy, nourishing fear!”

Lorna bowed her head in relief as the Light faded.  Finally, she had clarity on the proper use of her ability.  As she succumbed to the uncontrollable onset of narcoleptic sleep, she vowed to start instilling fear in forest animals everywhere.

*******
Bleekul the Small Gray Alien leaned back in his chair, gazing down at the forest through the spaceship’s forcefield.  “I think she has accepted our words as truth, Space Companion.”

Ookzor the Large Mauve Alien glanced up from the blinking control panel.  “Do you know this to be affirmative, Bleekul?”

“I do.  The small Earth Mammal has entered the dream of an arachnid and is creating scenes of squishing.”

Ookzor clapped.  “Excellent, Bleekul!  I knew your aptitude for deceit would provide us with this most rare dessert of mammalian fear!”

“Yes, it will create a lovely sauce over the corpses of the miserable.  Your cleverness is most valuable, comrade!”

Everyone on the Planet Schmoogquok knew that the flesh of the miserable made for the tastiest meals.  It provided a type of seasoning that could not be obtained elsewhere.  The two aliens smiled contentedly at each other.  Life surveilling Earth was not nearly so unpleasant as their superiors had led them to believe.

“Ookzor, I have heard that the flesh of enlightened human beings tastes equally pleasant.”

Ookzor frowned.  “Truly, Space Companion?  Because those enlightened squirrels were sorely lacking in flavor.  They were not at all zesty. Was this not the reason for our patented fear sauce?”

“Enlightened earth mammals are bland, yes.  Enlightened humans, however, are contrasting with this muchly.  Let us attempt to procure some by bringing enlightenment to the human masses.  Let me practice my best New Age Guru impersonation.”  The Large Mauve Alien cleared her throat.  “Ahem … let us meditate upon compassion for all creatures.  The Love of Mother Earth surrounds us.  Breathe in … focus on the breath …now breathe out …”

Bleekul clapped his hands.  “Excellent!  Your demeanor is impeccably convincing!  My mouth salivates in anticipation of our most delectable supper!”

*******

I would like to tell you that Lorna eventually caught on to this cosmic deception, but I cannot.  Good does not always triumph over evil, and Lorna unwittingly provided the aliens with scores of breakfasts, brunches, suppers and snacks.  However, the aliens did meet a disgraceful end when they moved on to human beings and discovered the flesh of humanity to be poison to their alien digestive system.  Eventually, Bleekul and Ookzor’s superiors towed the spaceship away, burned the corpses inside, and placed a hunting restriction on Earth. So I guess good did triumph in a small, incomplete way.  Better than nothing.

*Where did a hedgehog obtain a book on shamanism?  Well if you were a shaman, you wouldn’t have to ask!  I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you Freddy-Krueger-style.

Tags: Alien Oddities, Bizarre Animal Stories, Super Powers Suck by splarks
4 Comments »

Way back when, I asked readers for animal story suggestions.  In response to reader Lynn’s request, I present the following tale of struggle, determination, and death metal.
***

PENELOPE THE PLATYPUS AND HER DEATH ROCK BAND

There had never been a better time to be a platypus in a death metal band.

Of course, no platypus had ever been in a death metal band, so now was as good a time as any for Penelope’s venture into the screaming, howling and guitar-smashing.  Being a platypus created unwelcome challenges to guitar-playing. She had developed a creative solution that involved stomping and sliding her feet, along with banging her head on the strings and fiercely thumping her tail on the ground. Tail strength was key to death metal, she found. The old acoustic guitar salvaged from the alley behind Rusty’s Junk-O-Matic was not exactly what she had in mind. Maddeningly cheerful, it tinkled along to her angst-filled groans.  Yet she was determined to overcome all obstacles to her music–the dark depths of her desolate soul needed to be expressed.

The forest animals gathered in the clearing after her concert announcement. As she was setting up, she heard two old chipmunks chattering.

“Ooh, a concert, Edna! Why, I haven’t heard a concert since little June Aronson learned to play walnut shells!”

“Indeed, Betty, this is so exciting!”

Yes, thought Penelope grimly.  You, too, will feel the excitement of utter destruction raining down upon your soul. She checked her makeup in the mirror.  Three bottles of white makeup coated her fur in imitation of deathly pallor–expensive, but worth it.  Unable to find a studded leather bustier to complete her outfit, she made do with electrical tape and pop can tabs.

The night called.  It was time.  Penelope cleared her throat, stepped onto her guitar, and began.

“DARK MINIONS FLY THROUGH THE NIGHT!
DEEP SORROWS FALL FROM GREAT HEIGHTS!
SONS OF ODIN SCREAM IN BETRAYAL!
EXIST ONLY TO HEAR YOU WAIL!

The crowd gaped as she thrashed on the fretboard. The old chipmunks squinted at each other.

“Now what is she saying, Betty? Confound these bad ears of mine.”

The other chipmunk cocked her head.  “Well now, I’m not entirely certain. My, but she has a scratchy voice for a girl! Poor thing must have a cold. Such a pity, and on her big night, too!”

Ignoring the puzzled murmurs and quizzical stares, Penelope plunged on. She felt the Pain of the Damned deeply in her heart, and the only release was through howling her dark lyrics.

SNOW FALLS, COVERS THE DAMNED!
FEEL PAIN, ALL THAT I AM!
YOUR CITY, FALLS IN MY HATE!
YOUR DREAMS, THINGS THAT I ATE!

Betty rummaged through her acorn purse. “I have some candied ginger in here to soothe her throat,” she said loudly, her wavering voice clear over the tinkling of the guitar. ”Oh, darn!  I just can’t see in this dim light.”

Edna leaned over the acorn.  “Betty, dear, let me look with you. Here it is.”

The old chipmunk waved it away. “That’s a corn cake, Edna.”

Euphoric with the spinning of her banging head, Penelope continued to howl but curiously could not recall her lyrics. With each bang, it was more difficult to remember the stunningly deep phrase she had penned last week.  She stalled for a few moments by growling some particularly demonic cow moos, but the crowd seemed unimpressed. The muskrat scratched its posterior, and the blue jays’ chirps were clearly unappreciative.

No statues were ever built for critics, Grandpa had said when she was young.  Closing her eyes, she ad-libbed.

OLD RODENTS, I HAVE NO COLD!
MY LYRICS ARE STRANGE TO THE OLD!
SATAN COMES AT NIGHT TO YOUR HOME
IN YOUR OWN KITCHEN HE ROAMS!

Betty gasped and put her hand to her heart.  “Did she say Satan, Edna?”

Edna patted the old chipmunk on the shoulder.  “No dear, she said ’satin.’ You know kids these days.  Their poor spelling skills cause them to mix up words.”

“Oh, of course.”  Edna nodded sagely  “But satin in the kitchen? I’d rather have it in the bedroom. It makes lovely sheets. I think I’d just spill jam on kitchen satin.”

Penelope banged her tail in a glorious speedy roll.  She was misunderstood!  Her greatness was taken for granted!  With a roar, she spewed:

IF YOU DO NOT SHUT UP
YOUR ASSSES I SHALL WHUP!
DARKNESS RAINS DOOM ON YOU ALL!
YOUR BONES ENTOMBED IN A WALL!

“She’s going to do what to my ass? Humph! Well I sold that old donkey to Myrtle Jones four years ago.”  The old chipmunk’s nose was in the air.  ”I don’t know how that uppity young monotreme thinks she’s going to get her paws on it.”

“I know, Betty, I know. These kids have no respect for nature any more.”

“It’s a shame, really,”  said Betty, her tail twitching and whiskers shaking in indignation.  “We really should do more for our youth. They need advice from their elders.”

“YOUR DOOM–

Edna tottered to her feet and shouted over Penelope. “You up there! I suppose your mother never took you to the park or read you bedtime stories!”

I will not let them stop my art, thought Penelope.  “YOUR DOOM–”

Betty pointed her walking twig at Penelope.  “Probably ate nothing but po-taty chips and popsicles, did you? Your poor vocal cords are stunted through malnutrition, tsk.”

Willnotletthemstopmyart! “YOUR DOOM–”

“And you’re so pudgy, too,” complained Betty.  The audience was riveted.  “You need a bowl of stinging nettles – it will help your voice and you’ll lose all that fat.”

“AAAAAAAAAAGGGH!” Penelope howled. It technically wasn’t part of the song, but she could no longer contain herself.  With great effort, she heaved her guitar into the crowd. Unfortunately, guitar-smashing wasn’t nearly as spectacular as it looked on MTV. There were no sparks, explosions or screeching feedback noises, only the half-hearted thump of wood and jarred nylon strings.

There was silence in the clearing and Penelope’s chest heaved as she glared balefully at the audience.  Now they would understand her dark torment!

Edna cleared her throat loudly.  “You dropped your guitar, honey.”

“Everybody makes a mistake now and then,” added Betty.  ”There, there, no one will even remember in five years.”

***

After the show, Penelope lounged backstage inside a rotten tree stump. With a guitar splinter, she picked her teeth clean of chipmunk. They had been tough, but surprisingly tasty. She was glad she’d branched out from her normal diet of worms and shellfish.  Nutrition was important.  Her vocal cords, she decided, needed more protein to sustain the heavy, deep growls of agony.

A small group of groundhog youth nervously approached her.

“You were like totally awesome!”  the biggest one gushed. ”The blood and cracking bones were so, like, real!”

“Yeah!”  squeaked another.  ”That stuff about the Slaves of the Damned was great. I totally got it, you know?”

“Can … canwebeinyourband?” the youngest groundhog begged breathlessly.

Penelope smiled and burped.

“It depends. Can you get me an amplifier and a Les Paul electric guitar?”

The groundhogs scurried off in pursuit of equipment, and Penelope smiled.  She had turned adversity to her advantage and come out ahead with a full belly and a promising career.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories by splarks
2 Comments »

Larry the mountain lion was on the prowl again, heading into hippie heaven to score a little dope.  The valley of Boulder, Colorado lay before him like an unsecured mountain trash bin offering illicit refuse.  Perched on his favorite rock cliff, he waited till the city slept before descending.  Down, down, down the mountain path toward the shining city lights.  The action called him!  His man Sanchez was on the Division of Wildlife animal control squad, and would be ready to supply an evening of fun  … for a fee.  The arrangement was simple:  Sanchez provided the tranquilizer, and Larry made the man look good.

He chuckled as he thought of the last excursion.  He’d been prowling around the sorority, baring his fangs at drunken college girls and waiting for Sanchez to appear.  When the Division of Wildlife van rolled into campus, Sanchez leaped out with his unnecessarily large dart gun.  He let it fly, and Larry felt the sting of the tranquilizer.  Ah, sweet, sweet tranq!  He reveled in ecstasy, giggling as the girls flocked to Sanchez while squealing things like, “Ohmigod you’re so brave!” and “Thank you so much, Mister Animal Control Guy!”  Sanchez twirled his handlebar mustache and lectured the girls about leaving food in their beer coolers.

Now he played the game again.  He darted around parked cars, his shadow barely visible in the twilight.  He slunk past houses and swing-sets, making his way to a fancy neighborhood on Mapleton Hill.  “There’s a girl there I want to impress,” Sanchez had said.  “Do your thing and menace, and I’ll bring the latest formula you want.”

“Menace?” Larry had said skeptically.  He communicated telepathically with Sanchez, who was something of a Dr. Doolittle.  He had tried learning human language for awhile, but the lack of a human larynx was no paltry handicap.

“Yeah, menace,” Sanchez replied.  “Growl, show a little tooth, twitch the tail, eat the family dog, you know.  That kind of thing.”

“Dog?” complained Larry.  “Is that the best you can do?  The domesticated ones taste like cardboard.”

“Ok, don’t eat the dog,” said Sanchez thoughtfully, rubbing his belly.  “That freaks them out and then they shoot bullets.  We need you alive.”

So he carefully avoided the houses with dogs.  Most of them were too fat and slow to detect his presence, anyway.  He waltzed under windows and leaped over gardens.  He drooled in anticipation for the tranqs!  He embraced this dark, dangerous lifestyle – he didn’t care what the other forest animals thought. They were all so comfortable in their little burrows, content to eat and crap all day.  Well, he had more to explore and ecstasy to experience!  And there was Sanchez now, springing into action before a screaming girl.  It was time!

He unleashed a roar and felt the sweet sting of the tranq …

Eight hours later, he awoke with a splitting headache, fuzzy memories of shrieking human females, and poodle fur in his teeth.  The new formula’s come-down was harsh and he felt queasy.  He was caged and muzzled, bouncing around in the back of a Division of Wildlife truck.  Sanchez was a rotten chauffeur.

Maybe it was the agonizing headache that had grown worse with each tranquilizer.  Maybe it was Sanchez’s off-key yodeling of Abba songs.  Maybe it was the muzzle pinching his nose and his churning gut.  But suddenly Larry saw how far his sordid life had spun out of control.  Instead of proudly stalking elk, he was selling himself for drugs!  His lust for the fast life had grown into dependence, and now he was on parade for the humans and eating poodles, for gods’ sake!  He knew what poodle fur did to his eczema!  As he blearily looked around the truck, he winced at the bleak truth:  Sanchez was not aDivision of Wildlife employee as he claimed.  What DOW employee would encourage this dangerous behavior, risking an animal’s life to get attention from females?  There was no equipment in the truck, no radio, and Sanchez’s uniform was a thrift-store parody of a park ranger’s garb.  He was a fraud and had been using Larry, egging him on with drugs and thrills.

The muzzle had been hastily buckled and it sagged, so he carefully worked his jaw free.  Larry settled in, feigning sleep and waiting for his moment.

Should he eat this traitorous human?  He’d heard humans were tasty enough, but his stomach was still upset.  No, best to wait until he was free and munch on rabbits for a few days.  That would calm his belly.

Should he chase the man off a ledge and watch him plummet to his death?  While satisfying, it sounded like way too much work.  His pounding head would make the sudden movement unpleasant.

Should he slink off into the woods when Sanchez opened the door, just as he’d done dozens of times before?  He could migrate west to California and forget this had ever happened.  But no, he refused to retreat in shame.  It was time to put those telepathic powers to good use.  He was strong with the power of telepathic influence!  He had simply never allowed himself to fully experience his own abilities, hiding his powers because the coyotes thought it was “weird” and the bobcats had once called it a “power of the devil.”

Enough with hiding and pretending to be normal!  He had to stop Sanchez from exploiting other wildlife.  The man’s brain was weak, domesticated, and far too well-fed.  It would be easy to manipulate.  All he had to do was think really hard about squirrels …

And that is how, 8 days later, Division of Wildlife officials found a naked man in a tree, nibbling on nuts and chattering in a strange, rodent-like language.  They tried to coax him down, but he only threw pinecones at them.  Eventually, after much debate, they called the Fire Department, spread a net below the tree, and shot a tranquilizer into the man’s backside.  The man fell from the tree and was shuttled quickly to the psych ward of the mental hospital.

Larry, now clean and tranq-free, perched on his favorite rock ledge once more and viewed the distant scene with his keen eyesight.  Satisfied, he turned his back on the sordid lifestyle of his youth.  It was time to regain his territory, find a mate or five.  There was much to explore.  His poodle-eating days behind him, he lived the rest of his life in pursuit of fine food and female company, just as a mountain lion should.

Don’t be Lion Snacks!

Tags: Based on a True Story, Bizarre Animal Stories, Repentance & Wailing by splarks
No Comments »

Oh my. I found an old story that Dave Goff from Gestalt Digital (www.gestaltdigital.com) kindly formatted and found pictures for several years ago. I thought I had lost it forever, but no, it lives in infamy and I’ll post the scanned copy here to amuse/horrify/stupify you. Happy Holidays!

Tags: Alien Oddities, Bizarre Animal Stories, Extreme Optimism, Rampaging by splarks
1 Comment »

Abigail, Horseman of the Apocalypse

Once upon a time, there was an otter named Abigail. Abigail was a very special otter because she was the unwitting Seventh Horseman of the Apocalypse. Fortunately, she remained unaware of this until a fateful night in February. Prior to that, she’d been an ordinary otter, playing in rivers, tossing clamshells at herons, and sleeping more than necessary.

She was lounging in the river one evening, when she heard a deep voice call her name. Curious, Abigail swam towards the dark figure near the river bank. She gasped as he came into view; she had never seen anything like this hideous creature before. His face was missing the important parts, like eyes,ears, and skin. He was dressed in filthy, yet fashionably tattered black robes and carried a knobbly black stick with an ugly skull carving on top. She wondered if he was one of those “goths” she had heard about on Oprah. He stood beside two enormous horses and watched her intently with glowing red sockets.

“BEHOLD!” he bellowed. “I greet you in sorrow, fellow Horseman.”

“Um … hi,” said Abigail. Yes, this was definitely one of those gothic characters, probably coming to bum a cigarette or invite her to a poetry reading. She didn’t fancy a night of poems about deep despair and dead black roses, and she mentally prepared a litany of polite excuses.

“I have come to deliver your steed to you,” the creature said, and pointed to the brown horse on the left.

“Oh,” said Abigail in relief. It was merely a delivery mix-up. “I didn’t order one of those. The Schwann’s order came on Thursday.”

The Horseman opened his mouth in equal bafflement, and then cleared his throat. “You will ride it during the Apocalypse.”

“Did you try the Thompsons down the river?” she asked, hoping to resolve this misunderstanding quickly without unnecessary tragic conversation. “They sometimes have things delivered. Maybe they ordered an Apocalypse – “

“SILENCE!” roared the man. “You will take your steed and prepare for the Day of Doom!”

Abigail drew her lips back in distaste, but wasn’t about to contradict a dangerously unstable, death-obsessed man ten times her size. “Fine, fine. How am I supposed to feed it?”

“It is no earthly beast. The dark night and the fear of mortals will nourish it, as well as the tears of the dying and the bereaved.”

“Night … mortals …tears of the dying …” muttered Abigail under her breath. She wished she had a pencil and notebook, as she knew she’d forget this all by morning. “Look, I’m late for, um, whisker-cleaning night. Can you just hitch the horse to that tree? I’ll see if I can rustle up some tears of the bereaved for his breakfast.”

“No. You must hear your instructions for the day of terror.” Abigail was relieved to hear that his voice was calmer and less imperious. She looked pointedly down river towards her den. She was itching to get back to it; she’d recently nicked it from a beaver and the place was in sore need of re-decorating and washing, and it was also past-time for dinner. However, the ghastly man ignored her and continued. “Ok, you have the brown horse. I’ve got the black horse, the Unnamed Beast has the red horse, Larry has the pale horse, Our Lord has the white horse, and Megan has whatever the hell that mule-thing is. Here, I printed this table from Wikipedia; it’s a nice summary to help you get acquainted.”

She studied the table as best she could in the moonlight. “This doesn’t say anything about a mule or a brown horse.”

“Wikipedia doesn’t always have the most current information. We added the mule for diversity’s sake, and yours was an afterthought.” He caught sight of Abigail’s raised eyebrow and hastily added, “But that doesn’t mean it’s not important, of course.”

Abigail was getting tired of treading water for this maniac, but she was keenly aware of the big knobbly thing perched above her head. “Why do I get the brown horse? You might have noticed that I am also brown. I’ll blend right in, if I can even stay on it to begin with.”

“The brown horse is Annoyance.” The creature primly spread his robe and sat down on the river bank, leaning towards her in a conspiring fashion. “Oh, I know it doesn’t sound as glamorous as Death or Famine, but think about it. Annoyance is a creeping killer. It raises stress levels, taxes the heart, causes emotional disturbances,divorces, fights, and vengeful waitresses. Everything else is so in-your-face, so bleeding obvious. Annoyance is suave, insidious. And to bond with the horse, you have to experience some of its essence.”

Abigail gazed skeptically at him. “You sound like my mom when she gave all the clams to my brothers because she loves them more than me.”

The Horseman coughed, looked the other way, and spoke unnecessarily quickly. “I assure you that Our Lord loves you just as much as he loves us. It’s just … we think your level of experience is better suited for Annoyance. The rest of us are seasoned terrorists. We know what to do. We don’t want to scar your tender heart before it’s ready for the heavy stuff.”

Her belly rumbled. “So why choose me at all? I’m an otter.”

“It’s been decreed.”

“By whom?”

“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”

“I can’t stay on that thing, you know.” She felt cross even thinking about the prospect.

“Sure you can,” said the Horseman, with what he probably thought was a kindly voice, although it was more nasal than anything, despite his lack of a proper nose. “You just need a little help and practice. That’s why I brought Clarence a little early. Here, let me help you up.” Before she could protest or squirm out of his hands, the Horseman had seized her and tossed her on top of the horse, who was unimpressed with this gesture and reared up. Abigail had no choice but to bite into his back to steady herself, but this caused Clarence to run.

“Shit!” she heard the Horseman shout. Through the bouncing blur of trees and stars, she thought she heard him chasing after them, but the sound quickly faded. Is this the Tribulation? she wondered. She knew little of Biblical prophecy but recalled the term “Tribulation” as referring to hard times. She was fairly certain that hanging onto a horse’s backside with her teeth as he tore across the countryside counted as “hard times.” Perhaps this qualified as “bonding” with the horse. But as her brain jarred in her skull, she wondered why on earth she was expected to participate in this bizarre human drama.

She was about to take her chances and open her jaws, when a voice thundered from the heavens. “CLARENCE, STOP.”

Clarence stumbled to a stop, and Abigail flopped from his back in a most undignified manner, dropping the Wikipedia table.

“IT IS I, SATAN.”

This seemed suspicious to Abigail. “Why is your voice coming from the heavens?”

There was a resounding silence, and then Satan said in a quieter voice, “I am a ventriloquist, actually. Anyway, I will answer your question.”

“What question?” Talking to a disembodied voice made her head ache.

“The one you thought of during your perilous journey just now. You must participate in the human apocalypse because you are part human.”

“Oh fabulous, of course,” she said, annoyed. Dinner was waiting at home, yet here she was, entertaining evil idiots. “Silly me, to look at my fur, whiskers, webbed feet and tail and not have realized.”

Satan must have detected the sarcasm in her voice, because he snapped, “You were abducted by aliens and your DNA was tampered with, foolish otter. You have inactive human DNA sequences waiting silently to be activated by the upcoming apocalypse.”

“I was not abducted by aliens!”

“You were, too. Don’t you remember last summer when you lost your den to another otter because you were away for 2 months?”

“I … I was traveling. In Spain.”

“Abigail, you are a river otter. They won’t let you on a plane.”

“I swam across the ocean!”

“You are not a sea otter. Your habitat is restricted to fresh water.”

“I’m an endangered species in Wisconsin!” Her voice shook with desperation. “I have special flight privileges!”

Satan packed an amazing amount of skepticism into his single, polite cough.

She hung her head and sighed, banishing the memories of pale gray creatures with large eyes and poky instruments. “Ok. Whatever, Satan. Will it be easier to ride this thing with alien DNA?” Clarence neighed indignantly at being referred to as “this thing,” and Abigail shrugged at him apologetically.

“Not really.”

“Why should I believe you, Satan? Isn’t the sole purpose of your existence to obfuscate the thought process of humans?”

The clouds gathered in the direction of his voice. “Yes, but you’re an otter so you don’t have to worry.”

However, Abigail had grown cranky with the delay of her supper, and she interpreted the darkening sky as proof of Satan’s insincerity. The wild journey, the unexpected personal revelations, and the presence of a diabolical being were too much for her recently-altered mind and body, and her growling stomach was the last straw that caused her alien DNA to suddenly became activated. She shot a laser beam from her mouth and incinerated Satan, who, despite his demonic power, was an earthly being and susceptible to alien technology (aliens don’t believe in Satan, despite all those devil-worshiping reptilian underlord theories you may have read on the Internet). It was all a bit confusing, as she could not see Satan’s incorporeal form, but her special alien DNA confirmed that his supernatural life signals had abruptly terminated.

“I just killed Satan,” she marveled. “I wonder what else this DNA can do?” She set off to find out, and Clarence followed. She had grand adventures doing so, but they are for another tale. Suffice it to say that having thus upset the plans for the Apocalypse, for there can be no Apocalypse without the Prince of Darkness to orchestrate it, she was disowned by the other Horseman, who mourned their lost purpose in life. God was not especially perturbed at her actions, being benevolent and all-accepting of mortal free will, and He ignored the pleas of the other Horsemen to annihilate her soul in a fiery pit of sewage. Abigail and Clarence eventually settled in a small Italian villa, because endangered species in Wisconsin really do have special privileges that include unrestricted flight travel. She resumed her life of clam-cracking, heron-scaring, and oversleeping, but this time she had a charming horse friend to share in her joy. Clarence was relieved to be rid of his Apocalyptic duties, as he was not a war enthusiast and preferred to spend his time pondering the mysteries of the cosmos.

At times, Abigail thought of the aliens and wondered if they had foreseen these events, or if she was merely a discarded lab-rat who had fallen into this earth-shaking destiny. Regardless, she really liked Italian clams, so she couldn’t complain. Clarence eschewed the tears of the dying and bereaved and subsisted mainly on The Night, although he occasionally indulged in mortal fear without mentioning it to Abigail. There they lived out their days, happily.

THE END

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Religious Peril, Super Powers Suck by splarks
No Comments »

Once upon a time, there was a bear named Zombearo. He was a bit melodramatic, what with the serape and sombrero, but he was good-hearted for a zombie bear. He didn’t eat too many kids, and when he did, he tried not to slurp the brains.

His life had started out tranquilly enough. He was like any other young forest cub, frolicking joyfully among daisies and fruit trees, tormenting hikers and raiding garbage cans. Then one day a Mexican jackrabbit with a gray, rubbery coat shuffled into the hollow. Zombearo (who was just Geoffry back then) poked his head out of the den curiously. This jackrabbit didn’t look nutritious, but he’d consider a nibble if it got close enough. As if the bunny heard the bear’s thoughts, it turned and fixed Geoffry with a piercing, yet dull gaze.

“Braaaaaainssss …” it hissed.

Geoffry considered this. Rabbits had a reputation for stupidity, but this was the first he’d heard of one looking for mental augmentation. He had to admire the bunny’s fortitude; it wasn’t often that you saw them trying to better themselves. Usually they obsessed over procreation and alfalfa, heedless of who could observe their indulgent behavior. “I can’t really help you there,” he said, “but you can check with the old beaver at the fork in the creek. I hear he started a rodent school awhile back. He might let you in if you ask politely.”

The jackrabbit continued to stare, and a line of drool formed under his chin. Geoffry shifted uncomfortably. Clearly, the old beaver would have his work cut out for him. “Well, adios,” he said with what he hoped was a cheery toss of his head. “You .. uh … you have a good time now. I’m off to clean my claws.” He turned and headed back into the den, but as he stuck his head in, he heard the rabbit growl, “NYYAAARGH!” and there was a sharp pain in his backside. The bunny was hanging by his jaws from Geoffry’s butt! The bear used all his might and smacked the rabbit, breaking its neck. But even as he picked the rabbit’s teeth from his hide, long after the sun had set, he felt a chill seep into his bones despite the balmy evening.

For the next seven days, Geoffry shivered and the color drained from his fur. The old jack rabbit’s voice echoed in his head. Curiously, brains did sound kind of tasty. He’d always been indifferent to organ meat, but suddenly brains sounded delectable. Yes, brains! Nutritious brains in a sauce of berries and spearmint! He knew where to gather chokecherries and mint along the creek. He hurried off, salivating profusely. Small animals frequently congregated at the water. Berry-mint brains would soon be his. He paused to drape an ill-gotten serape over his now-gray bulk, and balanced the matching sombrero on his head; when the sun came up, he didn’t want to be tainted with its filthy light. He silently gave thanks to the foolish peasant who had left them behind.

The chortles of Zombearo echoed in the moonlit forest, lending a sinister cast to the night.

***

All seemed normal in the forest for the next few weeks. Bears occasionally indulge in animal flesh, after all, and his excesses went unnoticed. But gradually, a gray army began to appear. Deer with glowing red eyes stalked the woods. Chipmunks perched in trees, fat cheeks stuffed full of brains and drool. Raccoons scampered through the brush, bits of gray matter stuck to their little hands. Even the fish had succumbed to the awesome power of Zombearo – a few salmon had escaped his jaws and went on to be fine cannibals. A few of the raccoons had adopted his serape fashion by stealing bandanas and underwear from country clotheslines. He thought they’d missed the point, really. Why did nocturnal animals need to be protected from the sun? They looked charmingly quaint despite their faulty logic, so he politely said nothing.

But despite his newfound reign over the forest, Zombearo began to feel remorse. How many lives had he wantonly snuffed in his mad lust for honey-walnut cerebral cortices? Wasn’t he taking more than his share? How many brains did he really need each day? Seventeen seemed excessive, particularly when you considered how he munched on squirrel brains throughout the day as though they were grasshoppers. What if he was depleting the forest brain supply? Was he really so selfish?

He resolved to cut back on the amount of brains he ingested. Fortunately for the world, zombie-hood is a delicate balance, and precisely seventeen brains are needed each day to maintain one’s gray pallor and saliva production. When Zombearo began his brain diet, he unwittingly upset the chemical balance in his putrefying body. He experienced what is often called, “Occipital Deprivation Coma.” For three weeks, he slumbered in the oak grove. The forest animals generously heaped brains before him, and the crows tried to force him to chew, but their efforts were in vain. One day, the great hulk known as Zombearo simply exploded.

The funeral was a solemn affair. The cougar buried the remaining bits of the bear’s corpse in the oak grove. The coyotoes gave the eulogy, and a weasel broke down crying, “He was so noble! He never once bit a schoolgirl’s ankle! It was always me, taking more than my share an’ spreading terror! I’m so ashamed! I’ll eat less now!” Within three days, the weasel was in a coma. Thus, the forest was saved from zombies as guilt-stricken animals began dropping dead from brain deprivation. Occasionally, you may still find an old crow feasting on carrion, but if asked about his fiendish behavior, he will flap his wings and caw something obscene, defiantly preserving the memory of Zombearo and his tattered serape.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Rampaging, Repentance & Wailing, Zombie Attack by splarks
No Comments »

Once upon a time there was an absolutely gorgeous frog named Enrique. The idea of an attractive frog might seem ludicrous, but you aren’t a frog, are you? Thousands of swooning lady frogs can’t be wrong; Enrique was hot. His bulbous eyes were perfectly round and always shone with a dreamy, sensitive cast. His luscious green skin had the ideal amount of slime to its texture. His webbed feet were large yet delicately formed, and left aesthetically pleasing prints in the swamp mud. Yet Enrique’s most remarkable feature was the brownish spots on his left shoulder. While his admirers frequently commented on the artistic placement of the spots, Enrique thought that when viewed from the proper angle, they looked rather like the Virgin Mary. He mentioned it a few times to his friends, but they only laughed and said, “Oh Enrique, that sense of humor is simply dangerous!” Humiliated, he told himself that they were just spots, not some grand proclamation of divinity, and followed his friends into their exciting and fast-paced nocturnal activities.

One night Enrique was lounging on his favorite crusty log, hoping to score. He’d prepared himself for yet another wild night on the swamp, carefully stretching out the balloon under his chin so it would swell to full capacity and impress the females. He’d recently started a little modeling work (nothing special, he liked to tell people, just a couple of spreads for Toad Today magazine), and modeling was much more tedious than he’d expected. He was exhausted but his agent had promised him a bottle of Jack Daniels, which was about three times his body weight, and he wasn’t about to let that opportunity go. The bottle now lay securely behind the log, and he was just about to pry off the lid when a shriek interrupted him. An old wrinkly frog cowered before him. “The chosen one!” the old frog wheezed. “Look, it’s the sign of the blessed Virgin! She speaks through this one!” The old-timer pointed a trembling finger* at Enrique’s left shoulder. A couple of nearby frogs glanced over. “Hey,” one said, craning his neck, “that does kinda look like the Virgin Mary.”

“Where?” asked his companion.

“Well, if you—here, come sit where I am. Ok, now turn your head a little—no, the other way—yeah, ok see that spot there? Ok, that’s her nose, and that one there is her ear –“

“Oh yeah, yeah,” said the other frog excitedly, “Yeah I see it now. Holy crap, I’ve never seen anyone with a picture of the Virgin Mary on their shoulder! Do you suppose–?”

The two frogs stared at him in awe. The old frog leaned against the log and continued to wheeze, with occasional mutters of “chosen … holy amphibian … tadpoles of doom …” Enrique stared back at them, unsure of how to respond. More curious frogs had gathered around his log, jostling each other for a glimpse of him. They seemed to be waiting for him to speak something profound.

“Uhh …” he said. The circle of frogs drew a collective, anticipatory gasp. “Uhh…” he repeated, scratching his belly nervously. “I, um, well I’m going over to that puddle over there.”

“The puddle!” someone shouted. “It’s the Holy Puddle of the Lord! He goes to contemplate! Tell us our future, oh Sacred One!”

Enrique snapped his head around angrily. “What the hell?” he said. “Don’t be ridiculous! Two minutes ago, that old geezer noticed my spots, and now you’re all following me and asking me to predict the future? I’ve known about these spots for years, but you all gave me patronizing little laughs! Yeah, I know what you all said about me! ‘Oh, that Enrique, such a pretty face but he’s got pond-scum for brains.’ Do you think I didn’t hear you? Well? Do you?”

In the silence that followed, he clearly heard the crickets and the cicadas. Someone flicked a tongue and the chirping stopped. The subsequent crunching irritated Enrique even more. “So yeah, you easily-led sycophants,” he growled, noting smugly that the majority of the crowd seemed perplexed by the word choice, “I am going to contemplate. I’m going to do what I should have done long ago—believe in myself and ask the Virgin what she wants of me, her humble servant. But I don’t have to share it with you. Get out of here!”

The crowd didn’t move and instead everyone waited patiently for Enrique to move towards the “Holy Puddle of the Lord.” Enrique sighed. “There’s a full bottle of whiskey behind my log,” he muttered.

The crowd scattered immediately towards the bottle, and Enrique lowered himself onto the grass beside the puddle. He tried to ignore the disgust and fury in his heart, closed his eyes, and called out to the Virgin. He used no elaborate incantations or frivolous props, only his sincere desire to serve the Holy One. Soon he heard an angelic voice.

“Enrique.” A lovely calm fell over him like soft blades of grass. “My beautiful little frog … you have finally come to me.”

“Yes, O Mary,” he whispered.

“Well,” the voice said, now sounding slightly perturbed, “that’s wonderful, but I’m afraid you’re too late.”

“Uh … what?” his eyes opened and he saw the Virgin’s outline. Though hazy, he couldn’t mistake the look of consternation upon Her Divine Face.

“How long have you know about the spots on your shoulder?” she demanded.

“Well,” he mumbled, scuffing his toes in the mud, “Um … abut 10 months, I guess.”

“Right,” the Virgin said sharply. “And ten months ago I was ready to tell you that your swamp was going to be annihilated to make room for a landfill.”

What’s a landfill? Enrique wondered, but the Virgin continued speaking. “If you’d called to me then, you could have warned your people and evacuated them to a new, safe home. But what did you do, Enrique?”

“I … um …” he blushed. “I started modeling.”

“And drinking whiskey,” Mary accused.

“Yeah.” He looked miserably around him at the swamp.

“You ignored the Divine signals, even though you knew they were genuine, Enrique. And you must know that I am truly sorry, but as you chose a life of debauchery instead of using your holy gift … well, now you lie in the grave you dug.”

The calm presence withdrew, the figure faded, and the frog’s shrieks were heard for miles as the bulldozers descended into the swamp. Enrique’s drinking buddies were consumed in a tangle of steel jaws and mud, while the handsome frog himself drowned in his own reflection as the giant wheels flattened him into the puddle.

Millennia passed, and an advanced reptilian race from a distant solar system began studying Earth. A team of archaeologists was dispatched into the swamp-cum-landfill, which was now a snowy wasteland. The reptilians used a heat-producing device to melt all the snow and produce a comfortable working environment. For several months they excavated the site. During the fifth month, a research assistant unearthed something odd. It appeared to be a hideously underdeveloped member of their species, yet it was not fossilized like the rest of the primitive creatures they found. It appeared to have perished only yesterday. The archaeologists stood around this curiosity, poking it periodically, but nothing happened.

“We will take it back to the mother planet,” declared the head archaeologist. “Perhaps it can be revived using our recent technological developments. Say … look at the markings on its shoulder. Looks kinda like … what was that god the primitives worshiped? The Sturgeon Larry?”

“Virgin Mary, sir,” said one of the assistants.

“Right, Virgin Gary. Interesting. It may be some sort of a holy relic. Well, send it home and let’s keep digging.”

Perhaps … just perhaps … Enrique the Handsome Frog would get a second chance to fulfill the destiny he so foolishly squandered. Unfortunately, the reptilians’ technology wasn’t so great and they failed to revive him. Because no one had a better idea, he was turned into a paperweight labeled, “Deformed Man; Virgin Gary” and presented to the head archaeologist’s father-in-law as a birthday present.

THE END

*Do frogs have fingers?

Tags: Alien Oddities, Bizarre Animal Stories, Religious Peril, Repentance & Wailing by splarks
No Comments »