Destined Fur More

Vanishing Acts

I let an entire minute pass by where the only movement I made was the twitch in my left eye. I could feel my claws beginning to fatigue from such a long-held position, but it’s not like I had to opportunity to remedy that.

            I shook my entire body once more, just to be sure I was really stuck—I was, by the way—then huffed and began groaning loudly. The sound, just like always, came out like a ragged saw. Whoever thought large cats had fierce roars were wrong; this shit was annoying for me, and I was the one making them. “You guys” was what I’d intended to say. “Rar-gars” was what I actually said. “You guys, I’m stuck!” turned into “Rar-gars rapst…” and the very moronic audio led me to hang silently, glaring. It was like my lipless face was so pissed at me for being stuck in a tree, that it was translating English like a two year old just to spite me.

Then, it clicked.

I am a shape-shifter.

Shape. Shifter.

Overzealous in my excitement at this discovery, I quickly let my body slid back into opposable thumbs and fingernails. Even as I felt my claws sliding back into my skin and detaching from the tree, I realized the mistake I’d made:

Cats are balanced creatures.

Cats are agile.

Cats land on all fours.

Fishers aren’t.

Fishers don’t.

“Motherfucker—!”

My stomach slammed into a tree branch, which if you think about it, was better than the ground from fifty feet up. But that didn’t affect the solid punch to my gut from hurting any less, or make it any easier to breath. It felt like all my intestines were shoved into my throat, ready to be regurgitated through my ears.

Once I remembered how to breathe, I sluggishly swung my left leg over the branch, so I was now saddled, instead of the charming hanging position that had probably saved me some internal damage. Still, I coughed hoarsely and the feeling of a brick wall shoved into my stomach lingered.

I looked at the ground from my perch, and realized I was still a good twenty feet in the air. Staring up, I could still see where my claws had been embedded in the bark of the Godforsaken tree.

I frowned and returned my gaze to the distant ground.

Well,  I thought. This is a wonderful place to sit, anyway. So, I scooted closer to the trunk and crossed my arms, admiring my low levels of ambition. And to think, only two months ago I would’ve been in school getting harassed for lacking aesthetical pleasure.

Hah, I snorted internally. Look at me now, Steven. Fugitive from all. Sitting in a tree. Being a leopard half the time. Hah. What are you? A football player. How many of those exist? And how many shape-shifting leopards exist? ONE. Hah. And she’s sitting on a tree in the middle of a forest like a fucking pimp.  Fisher the pimp—no! Fisher the Archpimp. Yes. Much better ring. Archpimp. That’s what I am. I don’t even need fur jackets because I am a fucking fur jacket. Hah.

“Fisher?”

My eyes snapped open, recognizing Teague’s voice. He was standing below me, looking up with appraisal.

“Why are you in a tree?” he asked, sounding less confused and more interested in the idea.

I shrugged, closing my eyes again. “Because I can be.”

He didn’t reply, but my more acute hearing heard him moving around below me. There were all sorts of funny pops, and a soft, flapping sound. I looked back over the edge, but Teague was gone. My brows united in confusion.