by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Typerwriter Emergencies, December 2017

Olea started screaming first, whiskers quivering with rage. She was an otter and should have enjoyed tumbling and playing all day. But she was also an adult, and Shaun was a toddler. No force on Earth or in space could keep pace with a toddler otter — except for another toddler otter, but Shaun was a rare litter of one. No sibling playmates.
All Olea wanted was to flop down, drape her long spine over the couch, and watch some TV show with fast-talking cats and dogs in suits throwing quips at each other. But as soon as she grabbed the remote, Shaun pointed at the TV and chirped in his high-pitched squeak, “Cho-bolos!” over and over — whatever that meant. Why couldn’t the doggarned kid learn to speak? Humans hadn’t uplifted otters a hundred years ago so they could chirp nonsense words. Language. It was the whole point of being uplifted. Continue reading “Chestnut Wish”
