Goodbye Trudy

Losing two dogs in two months is a lot. They were five years apart in age. Life has no guarantees.

Trudy’s last day was today… she was sixteen, and yes, she is the dog who inspired Trudith in the Otters In Space trilogy. I could never have written Trudith without her. She was a friend, part of my family, and also an inspiration — one of my muses. Continue reading “Goodbye Trudy”

Who Gets to Be Centered and Why

I’ve never seen The Goonies before & I guess the reveal of an abandoned pirate ship in a cave would be more impressive if I hadn’t played the Deadmines a ton in World of Warcraft… but I’m still mostly baffled by how this movie seems to be so fondly remembered.


We need more art centering women — LOTS MORE — for so many reasons, but one of them is men need more practice imagining the world through women’s eyes. Continue reading “Who Gets to Be Centered and Why”

Catacomb’s Orchestra

by Mary E. Lowd

Originally published in Daily Science Fiction, April 2020

“Mice minds were so small. So easy for Catacomb to read.”

Catacomb laid her paw across the tiny heaving belly of the almost drowned mouse.  The poor thing was frightened out of its mind; she could feel its fright through her paw, prickly and tingly.  Mouse emotions were so funny.

“I saved you from the koi pond, Little One,” Catacomb purred.  “Now your life is mine.”  Never mind that the mouse would never have fallen in the koi pond if Catacomb hadn’t been chasing it.  She could see herself through the mouse’s eyes:  massive, terrifying, death-personified.  The asymmetrical orange and black splotches that had inspired her human to name her Peaches (after a bowl of peach cobbler) looked like a devastating Halloween mask to the mouse.  No sweetness.  All murder. Continue reading “Catacomb’s Orchestra”

The Unicorn Keeper

by Mary E. Lowd

Originally published in Theme of Absence, January 2020

“If I try to lay down limits, she stops eating and her ethereal glow — silver like moonlight — fades to a sickly, flickering shade — gray like a staticky television screen.”

Amalioona prances into the stables, her tufted hooves gleaming. They are the same sparkling shade of white as a hillside of snow in the sun. They are dainty, perfect unicorn hooves. How is it, then, that she always seems to clumsily knock over the slop bucket — no matter where I put it — and kick up the fresh hay into a veritable dust storm? Continue reading “The Unicorn Keeper”