My forest fantasy story has a billionaire mouse who sees daylight saving time as a business opportunity…
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It’s one fifty-nine in the morning.
One minute later…
It’s one o’clock again.
Across Chenoa City, rabbits return to their dreams. Squirrels curl beneath heavy quilts. Moles settle into the dark for one more precious hour.
But inside Newmouse Tree Tower…
Victor Newmouse sees an opportunity.
His leaf-leather loafers sweep across the floor of The Sky Chamber as the tower clockmouse adjusts the final brass gear.
“One hour back,” the old mouse says.
Victor studies The Grandfather Clock. Its pendulum swings through the dark.
“Now move it three minutes forward.”
The clockmouse’s ears rise. “Three minutes?”
“Then do the same on every floor.”
The clockmouse stares.
“But that would make every clock three minutes fast.”
“Yes.” Victor slips his paws into his pockets. “And?”
“Well, sir… employees arriving on time will think they’re late.”
Victor gives his mouse ’stache a tug.
“They won’t make the same mistake twice.”
The clockmouse lowers his voice.
“Wouldn’t it be simpler to require everyone to arrive three minutes earlier?”
Victor chuckles.
“That would be terribly unimaginative.”
The clockmouse looks toward The Grandfather Clock.
Victor raises an eyebrow.
“Is there a problem?”
The gear turns.
Crrrk.
Now the entire tree runs on Victor Newmouse time.
Time Change
A Tiny Tale from the Restless Forest
From the world of The Fauna and the Flora:
a dramatic animal forest fantasy novel for adult readers
by Ali Cattail
He lit his one cigarette of the day with the intensity of ritual. Touching it to the coal he'd carried up here, to the roof of the Balmoral hotel, and drew in the bitter smoke with delicate sips.
The rush was instant and dizzying. He braced himself against the faux crenellations and let a lung full of vapour pour out over the dark city. Somewhere below a creature barked in the otherwise silent streets. He took another drag and pretended to himself that it was only a fox.
A quarter moon lit the turbulent skies and sketched the silhouette of the great trees that thronged the streets in the place of people. Ashes and oaks that should have taken centuries to grow but had sprung up with such speed that, in some cases, they carried the still carcasses of cars aloft.
Deliberately, he turned his back on the red glow that lit the horizon to the west. He tried not to acknowledge the teeming necropolis that had once been Glasgow and concentrated instead on the jagged skyscape of the Old Town.
Another drag. Already the cigarette was halfway burnt. He regarded the red glow balefully. He'd found this crushed packet while scavenging over in Leith. He wasn't sure that he'd find another once this one was gone.
Though the taste of tobacco was foul on his tongue, he enjoyed the buzz it gave him, the artificial sensitivity to the touch of the wind and the gentle sounds of the dead city. He shut his eyes tight and tried to enjoy it while it lasted.
Food was running low and tomorrow he would have to travel further out in search of supplies. That meant taking his old bike and charm lashed rifle and spending a night outside of the fortress he has constructed here, in this relic of the old world. A dangerous journey, but an essential one.
Tomorrow's problems. He took one last drag and carefully crushed the stub out against the stone. In the early days he might have flicked the ember out into the darkness and watched the flicker of light fall away. Now he knew better than to leave anything marked with his scent out in the open.
He stood awhile, as the rush faded, and pretended that he was somewhere else. Anywhere else.
When the aliens arrived in their enormous interstellar worldship, sending their delegates down to each and every sovereign nation on Earth, all governments decided in their own fashion who would be among those who would meet with them. Here in the United States, the President made the decision (despite the opinion of both houses of congress that there should be a vote); and, in my opinion, she chose wisely. Besides herself and the Vice President, she selected the Speaker of the House, the President Pro Tempore of the Senate, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense and the Administrator of NASA. She allowed each of these officials two assistants.
Hundreds of elected officials, including the governors of all fifty-one states, voiced strenuous objections. Tens of thousands of others voiced objections of varying degrees of credibility.
In the end, of course, we learned that the aliens had pre chosen the representatives of each nation with whom they wished to meet.
(And, yes, I’m well aware of the controversy over calling them “aliens,” and the preference for terms like “visitors,” “E.T.s” or “starlings.” Among the common people– those who are generally unaware that dinosaurs did not coexist with early man or that Mars shares our sun– the word “alien” conjures up connotations of either illegal immigrants from Mexico or bug-eyed monsters from old drive-in movies. The hell with them. In my blog, I call them “space aliens,” just to rub it in.)
At the time, of course, I had no official connection to the government or the current administration, although my status as former Speaker helped drive the popularity of my blog and my influence of popular opinion, deserved or not. I agreed with the president’s appointments, even if I hadn’t voted for her– but I did not object in the slightest when the aliens invited me to the First Contact Retreat.
Despite press releases to the contrary, the Retreat was not held at Camp David– I don’t know if that has ever been officially confirmed, but I’m confirming it now. The unmarked Navy jet took me to an undisclosed location somewhere in the Midwest. I’m pretty sure it was Southwestern Nebraska. And the aliens never told me beforehand why I was chosen. I was certainly not the only (or most prominent) pundit expressing reservations or suspicions about the motivations of the space aliens; the networks and cable news channels all had high-profile naysayers on their payroll. I thought at the time that it was my lack of corporate ties that attracted them, but the truth is that I had no idea.
The aliens call their planet Minwhanimoh and the alien who met with us was named Draadimuhhmwuh. Their vocal abilities are more limited than ours, so their words have a tendency toward a lot of syllables; you can distinguish their personal names by the long, drawn-out vowels. Meeting one of them in person was the most surreal experience of my life. They are tall and bipedal. Two arms, two legs, one head and a face with two eyes, a nose and a mouth; yet the spacing and proportion of the features, the length of the bones and articulation of the joints added up to a being that was subtly and startlingly unearthly.
While the aliens aren’t much for standing on protocol, Draadimuhhmwuh condescended to allow the president to speak first. She made a benign and inoffensive statement, no doubt generated by standard speech composition software, and then answered his questions with carefully crafted replies rehearsed during her pre-meeting coaching sessions. When he was done with her, Draad (for short) spoke to a librarian from Wichita and a Jesuit priest from Boston. Then he came to me.
“Good morning, Ms. Washington,” he said, in that kind of tight-lipped way that they speak. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person. I’ve read all of your essays and books.”
“Good morning, Mr. Draadimuhhmwuh,” I replied. “I’m flattered.”
“I’d like to speak to you about your concerns regarding our visit to your planet and our desire for cultural exchange.”
Human and alien body language are in no way similar, but for the sake of my terrestrial colleagues I maintained a confident pose. “If you’ve read my essays, you should be well aware of my views,” I replied. “You are obviously more scientifically and technologically advanced than we are. You claim to be more intelligent on a biological level, and therefore more artistically and culturally sophisticated. You come to this world telling us you want to help us. When a more advanced culture encounters a more primitive culture, claiming to offer aid, it always leads to slavery and oppression. The upper classes always view the lower classes with contempt.”
“You believe that we look upon you with contempt?” he asked a bit sadly.
“Yes, I do.”
“Tell me about your sister, Ms. Robinson.”
A chill ran down my spine. “What do you know about my sister? What do you want with her?”
“I want nothing. I merely ask after her health.”
“She’s fine. Very healthy.”
“But she has a medical condition, does she not?”
“Yes,” I replied carefully, wondering how he was planning to use Jazmin against me. “She has Down’s Syndrome. But she’s in good health.”
“This syndrome leaves her intellectually limited. She has the mind of a child in an adult body. Is this correct?”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel about her, Ms. Robinson? Do you view her with contempt?”
“Of course not!”
“No, indeed, of course not. I have read your essays, Ms. Robinson, not only those about my people, but also those you have written about your sister. You love her very much. In fact, your love for her is only deepened by her limitations, as are your feelings of obligation and protectiveness. This is something I have learned that your people have in common with mine. Humans are, for the most part, given to affection for the smallest among you.”
Our conversation continued, but that was the moment of epiphany for me. The moment that everything changed. I knew then that the Starlings had our best interests at heart– they didn’t hate us for our smallness, they loved us for what we are and what we want to be. I took that message back to my followers in the blogosphere. From there, I took it on the road to local guest appearances around the country, to television interviews and debates, to guest editorials and podcasts.
And the people got the message. And that, ultimately, is why the aliens returned to their homes amongst the stars, taking all their knowledge and artistry and wonderment with them. As in so many works of fiction, the invaders came and were oh-so-righteously defeated. But they weren’t killed off by the common cold or vanquished by a computer virus or driven away through wit and ingenuity. They simply left because they weren’t wanted.
Because the one thing that the common people can never tolerate is intellectual elitism.
"Ok, I get you have reservations about it. You want a contingency plan in case it loses its shit and starts killing people.
So, say you kill it in such a way that it'll take eons to resurrect. Or...or put it in a coma. Maybe somehow get a magic user to put it under a sleep curse.
Great, good plan. You've saved yourself and maybe a generation of people. Maybe millions of generations...
What's your plan for when it does resurrect, or when the drugs wear off, or the cryo-chamber cuts out, or the spell is broken?
Sure, you'll be long dead and anyone you care about is gone.
But what's your plan to stop it from coming back to now and fucking your shit up?
Ah...ok, you didn't, uhh you didn't realize it could do that. Time travel, time skip? Not sure the best term.
Right, ok, so, it can. Ask me how I know.
You're looking a little pale. Uhhh, do you...are you okay? Do you need a minute?
Hey, hey, we could...
I mean, you were feeling way more confident when you didn't know it could time jump.
Do you...wanna ask it to make it so this conversation never happened?
Huh, I wonder if this conversation already never happened."
Autumn in my fantasy world smells like sweet hay, dark maple sap... and one carefully hidden secret.
🍁Follow me for more Tiny Tales from the Restless Forest.
Every chemist knows even the smallest reaction can change an entire room...
Click.
Deep beneath the Shabó Willow Tree, the laboratory door seals tight behind her....
Ashlyn Abbitt crosses the tile in her copper evening dress, long rabbit ears held high.
Tonight, every creature at the Shabó Cosmetics launch party wanted to congratulate her. The entire autumn line had been her formulation. Pumpkin seed oil. Red apple peel. Sweet hay. Dark maple sap.
Her finest Furfume yet.
All evening, creatures stopped to admire it… from a respectful distance.
No one leaned closer. No one stayed long. Even Brack Squirrelton had approached with his usual golden stare and swaggering tail. Then he moved on.
Exactly as she had wanted.
Now alone under the fluorescent lights, Ashlyn opens her metallic clutch and removes a narrow glass vial.
Inside... another fragrance.
She lifts the stopper.
Whuff.
Pungent cedar. Bitter acorn shell. Sour green apple.
Perfect.
Creature after creature had complimented the fragrance she created.
None of them knew she wore a different scent... one designed to make sure nobody came too close.
Furfume No. 107
A Tiny Tale from the Restless Forest
From the world of The Fauna and the Flora:
an animal forest fantasy novel for adult readers
by Ali Cattail
Tiny Tales from the Restless Forest is a series of complete little stories from my animal fantasy world. Follow me for more forest fantasy flash fiction... and follow Ashlyn’s story in my full fantasy novel, The Fauna and the Flora by Ali Cattail.
ive made a deal with a Night Mare. She comes last thing at night and sups from my busy mind. She gets a meal and I get some rest from my whirling thoughts.
except. maybe I'm letting her drink too often. It's hard to tell what's missing, once it's gone, and I find the unthinking numbness so very appealing. What could it hurt, if I let her take a little more this evening? It's not like i will remember
Every autumn, one elderly mouse waits beneath the same apple tree.
Harvest begins with a thump.
Squirrels shake the highest branches, mice clear the path below, and rabbits roll the fallen fruit toward wooden harvest sleds.
But at the far end of the orchard, Mr. Wicker sits beneath a tree. His harvest sled... empty.
Grace approaches slowly, her cane pressing into the soft ground as her tail sweeps the path ahead.
“You haven’t started picking,” she says.
“Not yet.”
She lifts her snout, finding the tree by its heavy sweetness.
The apples smell ripe. Past ready.
“We may get wind tonight,” Grace warns. “You’ll lose half of them.”
Mr. Wicker runs his paws along the wooden pull bar of his sled.
“My wife always chose the first apple.”
Grace remembers Mrs. Wicker. She remembers her raspy laugh... and the way the old mouse couple used to bicker over whether the red apples or the green ones made a better pie.
“She’s been gone nine years,” he says. “But I promised her we’d always pick this tree together.”
Grace’s ears lower.
Across the orchard, a worker calls out that every remaining tree must be cleared before the weather turns. Grace angles an ear toward his voice.
She taps her cane once against the ground.
“Skip this row,” she orders. “Move everymouse to the east field.”
“But Miss Grace...”
“Skip it.”
The workers obey.
By sunset, the orchard stands bare except for Mr. Wicker’s tree.
The evening breeze shakes the branch, and an apple drops into the grass beside him.
He rests one paw against its red skin for a moment... leaving space for another paw that will never join his.
Some promises don’t end when a life does.
They just need to be remembered.
A Tiny Tale from the Restless Forest
From the world of The Fauna and the Flora:
an animal forest fantasy novel for adult readers
by Ali Cattail
