The savvy Grace Draven, lover of all things dark and fantastic, had the idea for this title and invited the other four of us to write her a story with only that as the prompt. I've started reading the other stories and they're all spine-chillingly awesome.
My story is the shortest in the group - because that's how it worked out. I had so many ideas that would fit Grace's title, but none "felt" right. Finally, in rooting through my spreadsheet of Story Ideas (you knew, I had one, yes?), I found this title I'd noted down a year or two ago: THE NOISE OF FUR.
It came from riffing on Twitter, but I couldn't remember more than that. It was funny at the time.
The way it struck me at that moment, combined with Grace's title, TEETH, LONG AND SHARP, took me in a so not-at-all-funny direction.
I started writing the story, with only those two phrases in mind ... and discovered it as I went. That's the purest, most fun (and agonizing) writing there is for me. What came out is super cool, though.
Look for the anthology coming out October 6!
And now... a little glimpse of THE NOISE OF FUR.
****************
She entered the
old forest, moving from tree to tree, making little sound herself. There was an
art to it. A skill that went beyond knowing where the leaves would crackle or
how the bark of that branch had dried enough to crack. Her mother had taught
her that being stealthy was about becoming,
being so much a part of the woods—or the meadow, or the creek, or the great
tumble of rocks that led to the hills—that she made no more sound than the quiet
groans of creaking branches or the soughing of thunder wind in the canopy.
She belonged and
the Thing did not. One reason it always made noise. And why she made sure not
to.
She froze again at
the grating crawl of movement, letting herself become one of the tree shadows. Silent and still always trumped
silent and moving. Though it took both training and crushing will to make
herself stay instead of fleeing as her baser instincts begged her to. She could
escape easily, slipping through the trees like a dapple of sunlight, disappearing
into the dark and warm spaces between. Her blood sang with the demand, heart
hammering away with readiness, lungs straining to billow.
But she held them
still.
Still.
Silent.
If she fled, she’d
never see it, and her curiosity burned.
The noise scraped
as nothing should, like down, but nothing to do with feathers. Just beyond that
grove before the big boulder. Sifting out in mutters of menace, like crystal
rocks screeching on flint, the sound rounded from both sides, not nearer on one
more than the other, extending in butterfly wings of equal expansion. Tense
with expectation, she poised for a glimpse.
The Thing sounded
louder, soft and hot.
A growl of noise.
A flurry of movement, punctuated by a rising garbled shriek... then gone.
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