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A Day Passed Without Notice
Nick and his buddy Logan hid the car ten meters off the main road and walked the last kilometer carrying only their backpacks. An early winter gripped the Canadian forests, northeast of Vancouver. In a hidden glade, the snow unmarked by man or animal stood a cabin.
"That's your cabin?" Logan asked.
"All mine. Uncle Ronan left it to me in his will. My idiot Dad told the Tribal Council I was dead. The Tribal Council didn't believe him. I love this place."
"Your Dad's a bigoted piece of crap. Where you close your Uncle?"
"I was fifteen when the Council's sheriff reported him missing, presumed dead; no investigations, no missing person report, just a memorial service, and an empty coffin."
"None. This cabin was ours, our secret place, our spirit lodge. He taught me about Coyote, the creation of the animal people, the boy who shot the eagle, the gold dust trail in the stars, and how to be a man. It will be our refuge."
Nick opened the door and set the LED lantern in the middle of the cabin. A large bed sat facing the fireplace. A rough-hewn table with chairs sat under drop cloths opposite a wood stove and sink. Logan grimaced at the years of dust.
"Glad I'm not asthmatic. So much more rustic than I expected." Nick opened a faucet. The pipes rumbled, and Logan coughed to annoy Nick.
"Hush your mouth. It's an artesian well. Better water than that chlorinated piss the city serves."
"Rustic? Is that what makes this place so valuable? Rusticity?" Logan asked. Nick gave him the pissed-face scowl. To Logan, rustic meant passing by a herd of cows in the interstate, not the scurrying of field mice in the walls or sleeping on "almost never washed" sheets.
"It's the land that's valuable. Greed knows no bounds. Dad wants to develop it into vacation homes and hunting lodges. I'll sign the tract over to the Tribal Council. It's going to be a legal nightmare for a year or so." He closed his eyes and grabbed Logan to keep from falling over. Nick had spells. He was very much an addict, emotionally unable to live alone. But, he would be accepted on tribal lands. He was fiercely proud of his heritage, certified half-blooded Native American.
On the other hand, Logan's life was simple.
Logan was a wild black boy with a massive endowment, caught drunk too many times, naked more than once, and the kicker was when he was arrested with his lips on a white classmate's privates on a parade float. For that, his father kicked him out of the house. "No son of mine would ever do those things to white boys." After that, Logan sold himself to live. When a sugar-daddy beat him unconscious, Logan cleaned up and moved to a richer clientele. A year later he met Nick while hanging at Houlihan's, a meat rack for male hustlers. Nick was spectacularly failing in his third attempt at being drug-free. Logan helped him get and stay sober. Together, they found a job, got some self-respect and enrolled at the community college. That lasted a few years until Nick's father found them and demanded the cabin and acreage.
"Mom hated being full-blood aboriginal. The Tribal Council shunned her. Dad wanted the land so they could sell it and be pampered, waited on, fawned over by chauffeurs, butlers, pool boys and other stiff dicks. Dad used to make me," a pause, "watch and those others, forced me to do things--" his voice faded for a moment. Eyes closed. The memories haunted him. "They were sick. They made the world sick, sick unto death, sick like me. I sometimes doubt life," he said. Logan held him tight, waiting until the desperation and despair left Nick's mind.
"We're OK now. We're together, and all we need is a warm cabin and each other," Logan said.
They arranged the food they carried -- breakfast cereal, chips, tequila, wine, a box of Twinkies and a lonely boxed pizza. They cooked and ate; neither speaking about the impracticality of their plan to hunt and fish and live off the land. Logan took to bed with a novel from the bookcase. The comforter was warm and the mattress lumpy.
Nick, however, scanned the bookcase searching for a book. It took several minutes before he removed a leather journal written in the Aboriginal language.
"Uncle Ronan wrote about the Tribal gods. I wonder if this could be his translations." He riffled the pages. Fables of the indigenous aboriginals filled the pages. Logan tickled Nick's side, their invitation to intimacy. He pulled away.
"What's up with you?" Logan asked.
"I don't believe he died. The tribal sheriff said Ronan wandered off and froze, but he knew this area too well to get that lost." Logan took the journal from him and set it on the headboard.
"No translations tonight. Tonight we sleep. Tomorrow we have to catch food or starve and chop firewood or freeze." He pulled the blanket over their shoulders, wrapped his arms around Nick, kissed the back of his neck and snuggled.
They had no alarm clock, merely a cell phone. It rang not long after sunrise. Bright light greeted Logan's eyes. Cold greeted his feet.
"Whaddaya want?" he demanded. The voice announced a sales pitch. "Idiot salesman. How do telemarketers find anyone out here?" He ended the call and blocked the number.
Nick nuzzled against Logan's muscled chest. "The Tribe has a big-ass cellphone tower and a robust WiFi for internet. Go back to sleep. I want your arms around me." The cabin was chill; only embers remained of the fire.
Logan pushed the comforter off. "Salt and Pepper better split wood or freeze."
They dressed, chopped and stacked wood fished and caught a half dozen trout, several whitefish, and two large salmon. Gutted them, cooked two, and strung the extra outside the cabin. By the time they finished, the sun was setting.
Nick returned to translating his Uncle's diary while Logan banked the fireplace. When Logan finished, he mixed a pitcher of Tequila Sunrises.
"You find any explanation for your Uncle's disappearance?" Logan asked, handing Nick a large glass. Nick tasted the drink, made a startled face, coughed, gasped.
"Skimpy on the orange juice."
Logan winked. "I call it the nuclear Trick or Treat, guaranteed to raise any spirit." He refilled their glasses. "Anything in the diary?"
"I thought I knew the language, but this is archaic, stilted. Uncle Ronan was fascinated by spirit animals. He called it the ultimate sacrifice of the warrior to the tribe."
"You're supposed to be the best, a full-fledged linguistics expert."
"Rub it in. You want to translate it? Ronan taught me the conversational aboriginal Indian but not the formally written stuff. I think he compiled a colloquial dictionary." He held the paper so Logan could read the writing. Logan skimmed it, but he wanted to sleep.
"Tomorrow, Tonight it's you, me, alone." They took to bed and fell asleep.
Late that night the room turned chill. Logan added a log to the fire, then took Nick's notes on the aboriginal spirit spells from the table and slid back into bed. He rolled against Nick and woke him. The language was stilted, highly sexualized. Nick had translated the pronouns wrong.
"These are like campfire stories, scary tales, ghostly noises, smores, marshmallows?" Logan teased.
"It invokes the spirit god of sled dogs. I think warriors summon the abilities of the sled dogs to save the village."
"Read it with me," Logan said. They drank Tequila for boozy courage and held the paper between them, sounding like drunks speaking guttural gibberish, but with a purpose. The aboriginal spell was cast. Nothing happened.
"No spirits. No immediate changes," Logan said.
"Of course not. What did you expect? Rainbows shooting from your ass?" Nick yanked the comforter over both of them "Go back to sleep." He wrapped his arms around Logan. They slept.
The next morning, Nick opened his eyes. The sunlight streaming through the window hurt. His head rang like a Teller Bell. He hugged Logan. They hadn't felt safe and been able to relax like this in months.
"Christ was I drunk last night. I can't remember a damn thing," Nick whispered in Logan's ear, joking. He pulled Logan's muscular back tight against his chest. He warmed his hands against Logan's furry stomach and fondled his furry manhood. FUR? He fumbled and threw the comforter off their bodies.
"Put that back. It's too early. Let me sleep," Logan whined, rubbing his face not with hands but paw-like fists. "Wha' the eff?" He sat upright and examined his body. Short, thick, coal-black hair covered his torso.
"We got fur!" Logan yelled. "Damn, is this sexy? And I got a tail. I always wanted a tail." He wanted to wag it, but when he stepped out of bed, he wobbled on retrograde ankles and funky feet.
Short dark brown fur covered Nick's thighs, and a lighter patch covered his arms and shoulders. His feet and ankles were misshapen. He had a strip of reddish brown fur down the middle of his back, and lighter hair covered his abs and chest. His arms felt shorter with stubby, paw-like hands.
"I thought the spell was a way to create berserkers to fight for the tribe, not becoming sled dogs."
Nick slouched against Logan and shuffled on new and unsteady feet. Logan playfully scratched behind Nick's ear.
"Don't do that!" Nick tried to push him away, but his body wanted petting, enjoyed petting, craved petting.
"I give great belly rubs," Logan said, rubbing Nick's now furry abs with short and stubby fingers, grinning, gleeful. "You like that boy. Don't you, boy? You're a good doggy."
Nick's eyes twinkled with laughter. "Not funny but say it again, it sounds so good."
"Who could see? We're hiding in the wilderness. Let's enjoy it, have some fun." Logan pulled his head back and howled long and playful. Nick turned his head sideways. His eyes brightened. He scratched Logan's ear and made his arm twitch uncontrollably.
"Does doggie like that?"
"It goes with the fur and the funky hands and feet." Logan sniffed. His sense of smell was different, acuter. He knew where the field mice hid. He pointed, and Nick grinned and shook his head.
"Little brown field mice. They are friendly sorts, don't eat much," Nick said. Logan pushed him forward, and Nick fell onto half-formed front paws. Retrograde ankles and elongated wrists let him scamper like a dog. He looked at his body to see his manhood protected inside a sheath and behind it, his testicles hanging in a furry sack.
"You want to play?" Nick said, "Down boy! Down!"
Logan dropped to his hands and feet, obeying without conscious thought. "Damn, canine reflexes." He chuckled, nervous, apprehensive of what he felt.
"Play dead," Nick barked. Logan rolled over on his back and played dead. His tail wagged uncontrollably. He squirmed, trying to stop the tail from wagging.
"Squirrel," Logan yelled, and Nick bounded over the bed and against the walls. A squirrel scampered around the cabin. The distraction let Logan slipped the book of aboriginal texts and the translations into a cubby-hole of the bookcase. The squirrel escaped into the rafters, leaving Nick panting, tongue out, dog happy.
"It got away, and I don't know why I did all that. It was too much fun. It scares me. What if we don't change back? We'll be freaks."
"I don't think so. The legends said the warriors lived long after saving the tribe," Logan said. He noticed Nick's ears had moved closer to the top of his head. He grinned. There was no guarantee that their bodies would revert. It didn't matter. He wanted to be with Nick.
"Let's go outside and play in the snow. Say the words. Transform me. Take me out to play, make me fetch, chase rabbits. Do what dogs do. When I'm tired, bring me back to the cabin and order me to be a human again."
Nick wasn't too thrilled. "What if you don't return to human form?"
"I'll always come back for you." Logan waited, tail wagging, head shaking. "It's only for a few hours of fun." His voice was soft, reassuring.
Nick took a deep breath and in the aboriginal language commanded: "Logan, you're a dog." Logan's hips transformed. His spine twisted. His arms grew longer. Legs shorter. He fell on all fours and trembled as his internal organs moved toward his chest and thinned his waist. His tail grew nearly a foot as his body adjusted to being a quadruped. Colors shifted to blacks and whites. His nose pulled forward into a dog's snout. In less than a minute, the transformation was complete.
At first, Nick shied away. Eventually, he decided to open the door of the cabin and yelled: "Squirrel." Logan, now entirely a dog, ran outside in a flash.
They played in the snow, not two half-men but a boy and his dog. Nick never had the freedom to play as a child and enjoy the day. He showed Logan, his new doggy pal, all his favorite places.
Sunset brought them back to the cabin.
"Logan, sit," Nick ordered, petting his transformed lover. He enjoyed having a dog of his own. Reluctantly, he ordered the reversal.
"Logan, you're a man."
The transformation reversed, slowly, stubbornly. Logan wasn't the same as he was before. His body remained closer to that of a sled dog. He was unmistakably a man but furry; his limbs and torso twisted, deformed. He couldn't straighten his legs to stand so he sat on the floor, panting, fidgeting. His new tail shook as he studied hands which remained paw-like, and his face misshapen. Not human but not altogether dog.
"Can you talk?" Nick asked.
Logan barked several times before his ability to speak returned.
"Let's do it again. I want to do it again. I never imagined being so free," Logan said, his voice different, his tongue too long for his mouth. Nick sat next to him on the floor in front of the fire.
"What if you forget me? We should call the Tribal Council right now and stop this."
Logan leaned over and licked him, wrapping his partially canine arms around Nick's shoulders. They kissed.
"I'll always be with you," he said between kisses and licks. "I enjoyed being a dog. Try it; you'll like it."
"You did take to the outdoors like a dog to a bone," Nick whispered into Logan's ear, "I think those warriors saved the tribe by becoming sled dogs, a one-way trip to salvation."
"This is our destiny. Your family will never stop trying to kill us to get the land. Think about it. We can be free and still be together."
Nick shivered with fear. "I'm scared." He nodded his approval.
"Nick, you're a female dog," Logan commanded. Nick gasped as his body changed. In less than a minute, the transformation was complete. He leaned his new body against Logan's half-human, half canine body.
The cellphone waited for Logan to use it. With stubby fingers, he located the correct voice recording and triggered the order.
"Logan, you're a dog," the cell phone said in Nick's voice.
Logan's body transformed a second time, faster and not as painful as the first. He felt good as a large, sled dog. He was Alpha, and he had his mate. He sniffed her, and she submitted to his mounting. Logan didn't want or need any regrets. The pair of dogs did it at least three times in the hours that followed. Each time, their human feelings slipped further away, memories of humanity replaced by dog-like thoughts. A day passed without Nick and Logan noticing.
When the Dog-Master of the Tribal Council came to be sure that the cabin was ready for the winter, he found the new pair of sled dogs playing in the snow. He took them to the tribe and added the names of Logan and Nick to the lineage of warriors from the past who sacrificed themselves for the good of the tribe.
2700 words more or less
FUTURES YET UNKNOWN
Ten Stories by Dave Fragments
*An Alien serial murderer and a furry detective with fleas.
*Murder on a world with altered humans.
*Disturbing apocalyptic visions *Monstrous dystopian societies.
*A man on trial for betraying the human race to robots.
*Devils, demons and ghosts.
*Survivors of a plague war.
*Cyborgs trying to be human.
*Six friends in a strange sinkhole.
*The truth about a world drowning in rain, without sun, without hope.
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