Rockstar Betty was a weasel–a hardcore weasel– and she was not about to take any shit from any punk-ass bitches who got between her and stardom.  It was tough out there in a man’s world; a weasel had to work damned hard to make it to the top.  Voice lessons.  English lessons.  The endless hours of starving herself and getting her makeup done.  One particular evening when she found herself yet again spending another lonely night practicing her various poses (such as “Sexy Weasel” and “Tough Weasel” and “Thank-you-for-the-Grammy-dahling-Weasel”), her annoying younger brother poked his nose into her burrow.

“What the hell do you even do, Betty?” he asked.  ”Why would anyone make you famous?  All you do is pose and try to speak English.  That’s like … a groupie or something.”

He’d said it: the G-word.  A word that implied loose morals, talentless clinging, and limited lifespan. As he wandered off, she collapsed in the corner to cry.  He was right.  None of the weasel stars in Hollywood associated with poor, backwoods types like her; she’d never be famous unless she was a groupie.

Rockstar Betty straightened with resolve.  She refused to be a groupie!  She knew she had true talent to bestow on the world–she needed only to discover it. For the next several weeks, Betty experimented with avenues to fame.  She first tried acting, thinking her voice lessons could be put to good use.  However, weasel roles in Hollywood were few, and nonexistent in Wisconsin where she lived.  Perhaps she could become a star writer, she thought.  Failure:  her paws could not grip a pen.  This unfortunate fact also excluded careers in art, fashion design, and even “Star Sushi Chef.”

Lack of opposable thumbs, she lamented.  Everything artistic and worthy of fame required hands with thumbs, not paws with claws. Betty, never the type to let a dream go unrealized, immediately pawed through her treasured copy of “The Yellow Pages” (marvelous book!  A catalogue of anyone and everyone in the whole area, and who knew what sordid tales each name contained?) She paused at the “Cosmetic Surgery” section.  Appointments were made.  Consultations were had.  Ridicule was heaped, and requests flatly denied.

“Betty, is it?” said one kindly old surgeon.  “I can appreciate your ambition, but I’m afraid I wasn’t trained in veterinary cosmetic surgery.”  He frowned and scratched his head. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of anyone who is.  There’s just not a great need for it.”

“But surely I’m not the only weasel in town who wants a hand transplant?” she exclaimed.

The old doctor shook his head.  “No, no, I’m pretty sure you are, actually.”

Betty stomped out the door.  “Ok,” she muttered under her breath, “Plastic surgery and hand transplants are out.”

This would have been a great time for a wise fairy to appear and give Betty advice on how to achieve her dreams.  But this did not happen due to Betty’s perception of reality and her belief that wise fairies didn’t exist.  Unbeknownst to her was a long line of wise fairies pounding at the door between realities, desperate to rush into her awareness and give her the wisdom she needed, but Betty’s belief system simply wouldn’t let her see them, no matter how many cartwheels they turned nor how loudly they shouted, “HELLO, YOU ARE A TALKING WEASEL, DON’T YOU THINK THAT FACT MIGHT HELP YOU?”  This opportunity passed hardcore Betty by due to her rejection of all things girly and whimsical.

Despairing, Betty did what all despondent weasels do: she went to the Weasel Bar and ordered an acorn-cap of distilled fermented prairie grass, a loathsome beverage that suited her sour mood.

“What’s wrong, Betty?” asked the bartender as he poured her drink

“I will never be creative and famous,” she sniffled.  “I have no hands, so I can’t hold a paintbrush, a microphone, chopsticks, a guitar, chopping knives, oil crayons, sewing needles, pens, chisels, or purse dogs.”

“Ah,” said the bartender.

“And the plastic surgeons all laughed at me when I asked for a hand transplant.”

“I don’t blame them,” he said.  Then, pitying the poor young weasel whose dreams had been sacrificed to a thankless demon on the alter of reality, he turned to her.

“Betty,” he said, “I’ve seen a lot of forest animals come and go through this crazy weasel bar of mine.  And you—“

She turned her eyes up to him expectantly, a gleam of hope catching the dim light.

“—ain’t nothing special, I gotta say.”

She dropped her head on to the bar with a dismal bang.

“But I think you could make something of yourself if you consider finding fame with what God gave you.”

“Paws?” she mumbled, slurping her drink.

“Well … what do weasels do best?”

“Hunt and kill.”

“That’s right.  You’re trying to be something you’re not, using skills and appendages that God didn’t give to your kind.  But hunting and killing, well, that’s something you can show the world.”

She snorted and gestured for another glass of the fiendish brew.  “No one wants to see me hunting and killing.  I’m a vegetarian, remember?”

“Yes, you are.  Now ain’t that unusual?”

(“AND YOU ARE A TALKING WEASEL!” Screeched the helpful fairies behind their dimensional veil, now wilting under the strain of their frustrated effort at career counseling.)

He bartender motioned toward the door.   “I gotta close up, kiddo, but I’m gonna give you two words: National Geographic. Look ‘em up in that big yellow book of yours.”

Betty took his advice. National Geographic, she discovered, was very interested in hunting and killing.  The managing editor had been toying with the idea of a “vegetarian slaughter” documentary, and Betty was his ideal model, he said.

“Here, dahling, let’s try this—there you are, lounging on the prairie, when you spy the slowest, fattest, most tasty mouse.”

“Oh my god, gag me,” Betty said.

“Oh yes, say that again, say it with even more disgust and vigor, like you can barely contain your vomit at the thought of its little mousy skeleton.”

“EWWW!”

“Perfect, Betty, perfect!”

Thus started Betty’s rapid rise into stardom. She could, it seemed, be famous even without hands.  Models were not required to do anything but convey “a look.”  And if she got to stalk wild onions while looking pretty, then who could ask for more?

“Finally!” grumbled the helpful fairies as they flew away from the dimensional door, headed toward the Fairy Bar for an acorn-cap of distilled rosewater.  They’d had a hard day.  “Weasels!” griped one.  “They never have the decency to realize when they’re starring in a fairy tale.”

Photo by phoneymanflickr (this is the Weasel Groupie that Rockstar Betty did not wish to be–probably a ferret, actually.  Damn ferrets)

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Self-Improvement by splarks
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Eunice the pigeon did not live a glamorous life, but unlike most of her peers, she was determined to rise above her dreary roost in the parking garage’s concrete rafters. She didn’t mind the exhaust-filled space, or even the laughable “pigeon barriers” around her nest. “What I crave,” she lamented to anyone who’d listen, which in this case was her sister Barbara, “is to create a legacy, a memoir of avian city life and one pigeon’s brave quest to rise above the grit and grime and bring beauty and song to the world.”

Unimpressed, Barbara continued pecking at the cement traffic barrier. “So you want to be a storyteller,” she yawned. “Big deal. Pigeons have a billion of ‘em. I mean, Mom and Dad never shut up about the huge cicada they caught in ’06. Everyone’s a storyteller.”

“I want to be something different! I want to be … a writer!”

Barbara squinted at her. “What’s a writer?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” admitted Eunice, fluffing her feathers. “But according to the vendors on the corner, these writers tell stories and then the stories are distributed all over the world. I think,” she frowned, “they tell a story through a particular kind of art called ‘typing.’” She gazed fiercely at her sister. “I will learn this art of typing, and I will be a writer and then all will know the hidden avian story of this city!”

Barbara, engrossed in the tiny pebble she’d dislodged from the cement, ignored her.

It was fortunate that Eunice was born in the Technological Age in which writers are not required to put pen to paper, because pigeon talons weren’t designed to grip a pen. That she could not spell nor read had not yet occurred to her. (Be kind. Pigeon brains are small, and Eunice’s was bigger than most). Stealthily observing human writers in coffee shops and libraries, she learned that “typing” involved illogically smacking the tops of “keys” on a “keyboard.” She watched the humans stare intently into space, apparently forming a complex and moving thought. Then they’d smack away at the keys, finally printing what appeared to be abstract art. Each key, she learned, created a small symbol designed to evoke some emotional response from the reader.

“It’s fascinating!” she told Barbara over a meal of rainwater and worms. “The writer creates an idea in his or her head, and through the creation of these abstract symbols, the meaning is conveyed to the reader!  It’s like alchemy, a mysterious process that perhaps not even God understands! Perhaps this is an energetic transmission? A merging of the minds? A melding of auras?”

Barbara stuffed a decapitated worm into her gullet. “What’s an aura?” she said thickly.
Eunice didn’t know, but rather than admit it, she continued. “When has art ever been logical?” she cooed aloud. “Is story telling not an art?”

And so that wintery evening, she squeezed through a half-open office window and waddled nervously to the computer, that godlike engine of creativity. Hopping from key to key, she coaxed magical symbols to emerge in whatever way pleased her. An “I” there, a Q followed by a YYF. An H here, three nines, and a P, no, a J! Then, moodily, she stared at the creation, only to erase it. It had not properly conveyed the concept she wished to express, which was:
My pigeon life is full of gray
The concrete, my feathers, the hats of heads I poop on
The clouds and smog of this cold city
I long for color and warmth
If I flew for 40 days and 40 nights, would I end up in Hawaii?
Would I wake up as a Bird of Paradise?

Finally, she arranged the letters in a way that seemed most appropriate. She gazed at her creation:

UHHeLVJ           QPG DKFKKKKKKK1198^

Was there too much white space? Did the repetition of that spiky letter fully express her sentiments? Was concluding with a ^ overkill? She would find a time to revise. In the meantime, she called the poem “Lament of a City Pigeon.”

In the harsh light of January, the truth about the world of writing emerged. Not a single publisher deigned to take her writing seriously. When a publishing house bothered to respond to her, the letters were harsh.* “We don’t have time for jokes in this office,” and “This is a serious literary magazine –please take your tasteless humor elsewhere,” or even “If you truly are a pigeon as you say, you need to get back to soiling car hoods.” Alone in her concrete rafters, she cried bitterly when the seventeenth rejection letter appeared, as it was now undeniable that her second-class status as a pigeon would keep her from ever getting respect as a writer.

Fed up with the stress of city living and the constant rejection of the literary world, she flew to visit her friend Pablo in Los Angeles. A vacation, she figured, might distract her from the pain.

“Hey Pab,” she said glumly, settling into his swanky roost above the law firm. “How goes the carrier pigeon business?”

“Oh hey Eunice,” he said, looking up from his citrus-laced martini, removing a mint sprig from his beak. “It’s going well. How’s the writing stint? Barbara said you were going to learn typing or something.” He paused as he looked at her droopy wings and dragging feet. “You look like you could use a drink.” He motioned toward the rooftop bar.

“I’m a failure,” she sighed. “I send in my deepest heartfelt writing and I know it’s good, but no one will publish the writings of a pigeon.  ”

Pablo stopped, his martini halfway to his beak. “Really?” he asked, suddenly very interested. “Is that what they said? Because you’re a pigeon?”

“Well, yes,” she said, and gave him the litany of angry anti-pigeon rejections, concluding with the dreadful “soiling car hoods” insult.

“And you saved the letters?”

“Of course,” she said. “Don’t all great writers save their rejection letters to laugh at once they’re famous?” She smiled wryly. “I should use them to line my nest. I’ll never be famous or even noteworthy.”

If Pablo had been born with lips, he would have been grinning.  “I think you’ll soon be both, dear. You see, publishers aren’t supposed to discriminate against writers due to race, age, sexual orientation, nationality, etc.”

“They’re not?”

“No, they aren’t. Oh, of course they do. But they are seldom foolish enough to say it so boldly, and in writing, as they did to you. And while discrimination against species isn’t expressly mentioned in most corporate bylaws, I think there’s a precedent. We have a very strong case, Eunice. Don’t you worry.  “Lament of a City Pigeon” will be published in the finest literary magazines imaginable.”

Pablo was right. It was. After the court case, Eunice became the first Avian Poet to grace the cover of The New Yorker, along with rave reviews of her touching, tragic poem.

And that is how pigeons learned to be litigious and crap wherever they please, how poetry magazines became incomprehensible, and why I have to write extremely carefully or risk the wrath of an interspecies advocacy group. Libel suits are real, and pigeons have eons worth of resentment over those spiky things in parking garages and high-rise windows, not to mention the fake owls in dormer windows everywhere. No matter how tempting, never ridicule Avian art.

Photo “lolduck” by Krysten_N

***

Do you suppose Eunice went on to join the crew at Splarks Hypothetical Press, pooping on the pages of  emo poetry submissions?

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Self-Improvement by splarks
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I couldn’t resist.

Adria Richards at But You’re a Girl, a great technology blog, recently wrote about how animals don’t react to stress the way humans do.  When zebras are faced with a stressful situation, such as lions at their watering hole, they leave.  They don’t hang around to, as she said, “complain to other Zebras about the lion showing up, call up more Zebras on the phone as backup or whip out their Zebra pocket knives to shank the lion.”

I, of course, thought, “But what if they did?”  And so, intrepid visitors, read on to find out what happens when zebras and iPhones mix.

It was a peaceful morning on the savanna of Dodge, and the zebras meandered down to their favorite watering hole, the one with minimal pond scum and sweet green grass. The water sparkled in the sun and the fish splashed happily … until the delightful scene darkened under the shadow of a vicious lion pride!

Cleve the Zebra was a leader and seldom left things to chance. He had resources and he knew how and when to use them. At the first sight of the lions (“flea-ridden monstrosities,” as he thought of them) immediately reached for his iPhone and spoke, allowing the auto-dial to complete the number. He relaxed slightly at the sound of his adviser’s polite, professional voice. “Chrissy!” he shouted. “There are lions at this watering hole! They could totally snap our tender bones between their powerful jaws, sucking out our marrow and leaving our skeletons to bleach in the sun! What should we do?” He nodded. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Ok, thanks.” He looked up to the herd of cowering zebras, who fixated fearfully on the felines. A lioness glanced over and flipped her tail disinterestedly, sending the group into paroxysms.

Cleve knew he had to take charge lest hysteria rule the watering hole. He stood straight and snapped, “Ok, listen! I contacted Chrissy, who is a masters-level specialist in zebra-lion relations. She suggested that we call for backup. We prepared for this, remember? Who has the contact tree?”

But while their emergency plan had seemed adequate when the Preparedness Committee had created it, zebra hooves are not especially conducive to dialing numbers on fancy phones. Without the ease of voice-dialing pre-programmed numbers, the plan fizzled. Expensive phone screens shattered and incorrect numbers were dialed. Cleve groaned as he listened to the ensuing mayhem.

“Hello, Atticus? What? No … no I don’t want to order a pizza. I’m sorry. I dialed a wrong number. But wait, did you say that anchovy pesto gorgonzola pizzas were half price today? Ok, so what’s your delivery range? Your vehicles are insured against lions, right?”

“Marion? Oh, I do apologize, I was trying to reach … I’m sorry, what? A dating service, you say, for wild and frisky savanna mammals? Hmm … not that I’d be interested in such a thing, but if I were …”

“Hello?  Hello?  Hold on, I got a text–”

“Belinda, help! We have … oh, my apologies, I certainly didn’t mean to dial up the Mormon temple. Well, yes, of course I’ve heard of Jesus Christ, but— made lions lay down with lambs, you say? Really? How much does he charge for this service? If the lambs were to be replaced with zebras, would there be a substitution fee?”

Cleve tossed his phone into the pond. “Useless piece of unnecessarily expensive technology!” he grumbled. He glanced surreptitiously towards the flea-ridden monstrosities otherwise known as “lions.” They were momentarily satiated, if the piles of gazelle corpses nearby were any indicators. He sighed. Those corpses wouldn’t just walk off–they’d be littering the watering hole for ages, ruining the stylish Zen ambiance with an ill-advised gothic look. He supposed the jackals would start showing up at night soon, decorating the skeletons with black lights and bat wings. The thought made him determined to avert this crisis.

“New tactic!” he shouted.

Merv, who was Vice President of the Preparedness Committee, looked up excitedly. “Say, there’s this Jesus fellow who might be able to help. Sort of a hypnotist, I think, specializes in lions.” Excited discussion followed, but it was determined that this “Jesus” had been dead for years and that lions would probably not feel threatened by an insubstantial ghost.

“New tactic!” shouted Cleve again. But the zebras were huddled around the lone surviving iPhone, looking at personal ads on the “Savanna Hookup Love Meet” website and munching on pizza. Pizza? He noticed a young pizza delivery driver speeding away and looking nervously over his shoulder. The useless bastards! He thought. Give them some junk food and empty promises of getting laid, and look what happens.

The lions– their gluttonous food-coma wearing off– were growing increasingly interested in the noisy zebra herd. Cleve fretted. What to do? Was he the only zebra who gave a damn any more about the safety of the herd?

Suddenly, a scream rang throughout the grassland! Elwin, the reclusive zebra obsessed with survivalism and planetary doom (and the lone zebra who refused an iPhone), was charging the pride of lions. In his mouth was a sharpened stick. It was hard to make out what he was screaming, but it sounded a bit like “Gonna shank you, fascist punks!”

For a moment, the herd was distracted from their vices. They cheered— finally, a defender who would do something! But then the lions turned as one to face the charging zebra, and the scene turned horribly wrong. All members of the herd closed their eyes in horror, except for Merv, who held up the iPhone to capture the gory demise on video. “Oh of course I won’t post it online,” he muttered in response to the outraged protests of his companions. “This is for … um … science. The, uh … science of shanks.”

Defeated, the zebras simultaneously flopped down in the grass. “That’s it,” someone sighed. “They’ll pick us off one by one over the next few months and in the meantime, our watering hole will be infested by goth jackals and thrill-seekers.”

“We could come here only in the afternoons,” another zebra suggested. “You know, hang out part time and reduce our risk.” But no one thought that hanging around part time to get eaten was significantly different than their current situation.

“We could kill ourselves now,” suggested someone. Silence spread as the zebras considered this possibility. It would certainly cut short on the waiting time and pain. Rather proactive, really, Cleve mused. They could hold their heads underwater until they drowned–

Something tickled in his mind as he saw one of the lions lithely get up. What was it? Something about … being … pro … pro-something …actually doing something to effect change in the desired manner …

“I GOT IT!” he hollered. “We can run away! RUN!”

He ran a few steps before realizing that there was no thunder of hooves behind him. He turned and saw the herd sitting quietly and looking at him, puzzled, as the lions grew closer.

“Look,” he said, “we have control over this situation. We don’t have to just react helplessly to a fate we didn’t choose. We can deal with this threat right now! There are other watering holes out there, ones that don’t have lions! They might even be better than this hole!”

“Not possible,”Merv said staunchly. “Best grass here, no pond scum. And now we know it’s got pizza delivery service, too.” The rest of the zebras nodded in agreement.

“But you haven’t even seen what’s out there! NO LIONS, people! Isn’t that worth the chance? What’s the worse that can happen? We spend a few weeks at a watering hole with grass that isn’t as great?”

The zebras gazed skeptically at him, holding their pizza crusts protectively. “But we have pizza now! It would be stupid to leave.”

Cleve groaned. “No lions, people! No lions! Come on, now, run! Forget your fancy technology and your pizza and RUN!”

And as the lions finally reached the pride and descended with teeth and tawny fur upon the herd, a precious few understood what Cleve was trying to say and they got the hell out of Dodge.

The moral of the story, dear readers, as Adria informs us, is “Don’t hang around waiting to be eaten.” Think of your soul. Your nice, sweet soul. Who’s trying to eat it? And why aren’t you walking away?

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Self-Improvement by splarks
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Sometimes I just have to amuse myself by writing a dreadful story. The urge arises spontaneously, clawing to be released to torment others.  This is why an early story of mine called “Lars the Pig with No Skin” is infamous among certain circles.  The Chitin Kitten emerged from the depths of my mind because Dave, who likes to rhyme words unnecessarily, put the words together.  Except “chitin” doesn’t actually rhyme with “kitten.”  But what do I care?

***

I wish Allie from Hyperbole and a Half would illustrate this.  Read her blog about the Alot and the Emo Kid.  Maybe you’ll laugh as hard as I did.  Well ok, the Emo Kid only makes a cameo, but I love his scene with the Alot.

Also, vote in the comments whether you love the Chitin Kitten, or if you want will forever pine for your lost two minutes.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Rampaging by splarks
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Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Religious Peril, Zombie Attack by splarks
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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
3 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, 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 information 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
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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
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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
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