#void turtle

Hyphal Arms

A growing mushroom can break through three inches of asphalt. Mycelium can contain the pressure of a car tire, or up to 10 atmospheres. A cubic inch of soil can contain 8 miles of mycelium. A single hypha breaks, but the bundle is strong.

"My friends actually call me Prim. My enemies... call me Doctor Bulbasaur."

Maybe He's Just Pieces Of Me You've Never Seen

At the same time I was down with a wet, feverish cold last week, my turtle boy caught a space bug, and sometimes absentmindedly dropped the weirdness filter.

I'll have only ten (minus reserve for close friends) of these little 6"-square books printed for Malaysia’s furry convention, FURUM 2017 in two weeks.

Your Wish Is My Amusement

Cyberchelonian

The (Blue) Moon Presence

Original commission by Alpha0.

There was an adorable whimsy about the Moon, that it was made of cheese, pale and riddled with holes. In another, there lived a shadow rabbit pounding rice cakes (or an elixir of immortal life), when it wasn't sacrificing its body one way or another in tales from places further South.

In a way, all those were true, Primaeros thought while wading through an unnamed, yet-undiscovered sea of milk (or something that appeared like milk) on the surface of blue-marble-Earth's grey sister. Spread around him, in the vacuum stillness, by a means of suspension oblique and occult, were large cards patterned after the tarocchi. There were five surrounding and above him, and two at his sides as celestial bodies, axis or crux. Five older lives, threaded together by the design of a distant mind. He glanced at the cards and their relative positions, closed his eyes and felt out the threads of Space and Time, in frays and knots, before he selected a fitting routine.

The large, turtle-like man, as the organelles inside his chest started to glow bright enough through his translucent flesh, began to dance in the milk. His turns and gestures evoke the story of a great serpent wrapped around a mountain-sized churning stone, back when gods and demons feared death and worked together to live forever. This time, however, the turtle is on top.

A number of things emerged from the dance-churned sea of cream. Many were powerful gifts and blessed turns of fate, which Primaeros sent away to those who needed them. Some were dangerous, fatal poisons and curses of the spirit, which he either kept in small bottles or returned to the sea of milk. One was a handsome and large crocodile, who had hoped to repair everything, and had not yet learned his lesson.

What did not emerge, through his hour of frenzied and ecstatic dancing, was an answer to a question lodged deep in the glowing flower petals of his cellular heart. He lowered himself into the milk, laid back, and dissolved into the end of the living dream. Another time, perhaps. Another place. We shall do, until we do not anymore.