FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

It is a Friday night in late October close to midnight, perhaps the most appropriate time of year for magic. Friday the 14th, though, but that can’t be helped. A chill seeps through the twenty year old windows in my apartment which badly need replacing, but the landlord has been ignoring service calls for weeks. It’s not so bad, though, not as bad as the oncoming winter will be. Plus, it’s the time of year where my default of wearing a hoodie and sweatpants isn’t uncomfortably hot. For now, I sit in the living room on the couch my roommates found at a second-hand store and cuddle up in a thick, warm blanket, holding a mug of steaming apple cider. The overhead lights are off, multicolored Christmas lights from two years ago still up and providing a soft, nostalgic glow. Part ambience, part laziness from a trio of twenty-something guys trying to scrape together rent each month. I am alone tonight, my roommates out being sociable like usual, myself staying in where I feel most comfortable like usual. On the cheap IKEA coffee table in front of me sits a package I picked up from the communal mail room after finishing the workweek at my dead-end job. It is a standard cardboard box, nothing out of the ordinary save perhaps the elegant handwriting in purple ink listing my legal name and address. The edible I took a few hours ago has taken effect and I feel relaxed, as though I am sinking into the warm embrace of the couch. I have to be careful with my doses so I don’t build up too much of a tolerance, and edibles ain’t cheap. But they are, in fact, decent self-medication and self-care to deal with a job I hate. Working at a call center is a unique circle of hell when you hate the sound of your voice, the way the baritone sound rumbles in your chest, where you have to listen to recordings of your own calls for training, of when you get routed the angriest customers because they ‘insist on speaking to a man.’ All that just for the privilege of struggling to make ends meet, for insurance that will never cover what I need it to, and for the constant threat of AI replacing the only job that I could land out of the hundreds I applied for. So, edibles and alcohol and alone time on the weekends to try to stay sane. I was surprised when I got the text alert for the package, as I had completely forgotten ordering the thing in the first place. Memories resurfaced from a weekend night more than a month ago, of a slightly inebriated me mindlessly scrolling on my phone and coming across an article about witches selling spells on Etsy, an old craft meeting the modern age. For the hell of it, I checked the site and was surprised at just how many sellers there were, advertising a legion of mystical offerings: confidence boosters, arthritis relief, public speaking assistance, and so much more. A handful of sellers offering love potions and spells for guaranteed gambling wins had poor reviews from numerous unhappy customers, so I knew those spells were nonsense. However, one seller named Sister Leilla, buried deep in the search results, had rave reviews across the board. A plethora of verbose comments commended her work, detailing how their lives had been forever changed. Looking through the list of what she offered, I couldn’t believe it. While other witches promised more mundane, down-to-earth spells, this seller promised results that were downright supernatural. One spell promised the ability to fly for a limited time, others the power to breathe underwater or commune with the dead. There was no way those could be real, right? And yet, the reviews seemed to back her up claims. If they were all bots, they all had distinct writing styles, typos and all. Her store’s page included a photo of what I imagined a witch was supposed to look like: a voluminous black dress with folds aplenty to hide all manner of secrets, a pointed black hat, jet black lipstick, sitting in a dark room behind a cloth-covered table, cards and trinkets beneath her folded hands. She had a slight, knowing smile as though she could hazard exactly why someone would seek out her page, and purple contacts that seemed to stare from the web page into my soul. While other sellers sent videos of burning candles to buyers as proof of their work, she was one of the few to actually ship physical objects, presumably imbued with the arcane power needed to carry out the spell. For the hell of it and not bothered to be out fifty bucks for potentially nothing, I zeroed in on a particular spell. If my inhibitions hadn’t been lowered, I would have scoffed at the listing as pure fantasy. But with my mind hazy and my tongue loose, I ordered the spell and sent a lengthy message detailing exactly what I was hoping for. The words flowed so freely, from what I could see behind a veil of teary eyes. If it was all pure fantasy, why not make it the most fantastical, wonderful thing ever? I felt more comfortable pouring out my deepest secrets to a total stranger than to anyone in my life. I woke up the next morning hung over, head aching, slightly embarrassed by the memory of the night before, one I forced myself to forget. And yet, there it is, sitting in front of me. I take a sip of apple cider, sighing with approval as it warms my core on the way down. Setting the mug down on a chipped coaster, I pick up the box and set it on my lap, surprised at how light it is. For something so magical, I imagine it being heavier, more substantial, or that the basic act of holding it would somehow immediately confer some great power. The box is carefully taped up and I fish for my keys from my pocket, using the mail key to hack at the tape. I pry open the corners and a thick, heady scent wafts out, a swirl of earthy smells that mingle so closely that I can’t pick out any one in particular, only that it feels real, of something ancient and tangible. The box is packed tightly with packing paper and bubble tape, contents hidden within. I dig inside and pull away the packing material, revealing my order: a singular pink candle, tall and thin, along with a stick of incense. A folded piece of paper lies at the bottom of the box, ink bleeding through the other side. Setting the candle and incense aside, I pull out and unfold the piece of paper. It is a handwritten note from Sister Leilla. My legal name is written at the top, a moniker I’ve never felt much attachment to. I’ve had usernames automatically generated on websites that feel more accurate to my sense of self than what my parents decided to call their pink, wriggling spawn over twenty years ago. It feels even stranger seeing it written in such fine penmanship, as though it is addressed to someone else. A brief message follows, detailing her simple instructions: [i]Light the candle with the incense then say the words that follow. If your heart is true, your wish shall be yours. Enjoy what you deserve, darling.[/i] I set the candle on a plate in the center of the coffee table and pick up the stick of incense, breathing in the aroma of lilac, jasmine, and cardamon. A handy lighter sits in front of me, typically reserved for joints. Before I go any further, I think back to the message I sent Sister Leilla, of the details I included for the spell. I know that all of this is most likely bullshit, some bizarre form of wish fulfillment from a version of me who was a bit bolder and actually told someone how I feel inside, corralling a stranger into an impromptu therapy session. My cheeks burn red, and I am grateful that the seller isn’t someone I know in real life. I shrug. The money is already spent. At the very least, the apartment might smell a little nicer and overpower the trash bags sitting by the front door that haven’t been taken out in three days. I flick the lighter, which produces a soft, wavering glow, and light the stick of incense. Holding the incense close to the candle wick, I glance at the note and repeat the words, starting quiet and self-conscious, but gaining confidence throughout: “Oh spirits, gods, divinities at the fringes of awareness, deign to hear my plea. With this candle imbued with wax collected under the waxing moon, so too do I beseech you to shift this form into its true shape, that all may see and understand what the soul of this vessel knows to be true. With the light of this incense do I bridge the gap between the corporeal and incorporeal, that the unseen may do their work. Powers that be, hear my plea.” I light the candle, adding a soft glow to the living room. Setting the stick of incense on the plate, I watch the trails of smoke dance in the air, hoping it doesn’t set off the smoke detector. I maintain a reverent silence, sitting up straight like I did in church before I stopped going, waiting for whatever is supposed to happen next. The candlelight is so small, so insignificant compared to the overwhelming darkness of the room. The flame dances and waves, but looks weak enough that even a mere glance would be enough to snuff it out. I offer a weak smile to no one, feeling a kinship to the candle in that way. Moments tick by and nothing happens. I lean forward to blow out the candle and put this whole silly situation to bed, but a novel sensation stops me. I scratch at my arm through the sleeve of my hoodie. It’s already gotten cold enough that we’re through with bugs for the year, but it feels like lots of tiny legs are moving across my arm. As much as I scratch, the sensation doesn’t stop. I get up and turn on a nearby lamp, pulling up the sleeve of my hoodie to figure out what is causing this. I swear, getting bedbugs would be just the thing to bring this weird, fantastical night screeching back into reality. This spell might be bullshit, but can’t I have [i]something[/i] to take my mind off reality? There are no bugs on my arm. The minute, brown hairs on my arm are growing thicker, the skin beneath becoming more obscured by the moment. I pull up the sleeve of my other arm only to find the same thing happening. In hardly any time, a thick coating of hair has covered my arms, and the sensation isn’t stopping. I stare dumbstruck as the back of my hands follow, thick hair working its way up my fingers. My nails, typically chewed short and stubby, elongate into sharpened, curved points of ivory white. I swallow hard, turning over my hands to watch as the skin of my palms thickens into defined pink pads like one would find on animals. The candle light grows into a large, pulsating glow of rainbow color. Either I took the most potent, psychedelic edible of my life, or this is somehow actually happening. I allow myself to smile, a rare occurrence these days, and lock in for what must surely follow, the description I laid out weeks ago to a witch on Etsy. I slip my arms through my hoodie and force it off over my head onto the couch. The line of thickening hair has advanced to cover my shoulders, chest, and abdomen. I rub my fingers through the thick, layered fur, reveling in how soft it feels. Before now, the thought of any amount of hair covering my body was just the latest of life’s punches to the gut, but somehow being entirely covered in fur feels better, as though it is perfectly natural. The skin of my head is overwhelmed, and I can feel more changes happening there as though I am modeling clay beneath the hands of a skilled sculptor. I rush to the bathroom, turn on the lights, and stare at my reflection in the grimy mirror. My nose elongates into a snout, and my teeth grow sharp and long, pearly white canines poking out from my mouth even when closed. My ears migrate from the side of my head to the top, growing floppy and furry. My skull being reshaped should be horribly painful, nerves on fire, but I feel only the thrill of metamorphosis, of the exact changes I asked for. A bipedal wolf stares back at me, movements matching my own. A mouthful of gleaming sharp teeth should be a scary sight, but it is in a wide, disarming smile. My sweatpants move on their own, shaking at the back, and I turn to the side to spy a fluffy brown tail growing from the base of my spine. It extends outward, forcing my sweatpants down, revealing a lower body already covered in fur. My tail wags as I hop excitedly in place. Sharpened toenails click against the floor as I kick away my sweatpants and underwear. My feet are now digitigrade, looking every bit that of a wolf. I am fully nude, covered head to toe in fur, all traces of humanity gone. And my transformation is far from over. The ceiling grows closer, inch by inch, as my limbs lengthen, body growing in proportion. Eventually, I have to duck to meet my gaze in the mirror, reaching a height of at least eight feet. The hair at the top of my head grows outward in stylish, curling waves, lighter and darker browns intermixed in a texture that seems to glow. It falls lightly across my narrowing shoulders, perfectly framing my canine face. The fur along my chest bulges outward in twin protrusions, tapering off into two points and hanging lightly against my frame. My hips flare outward into two graceful curves, my waist slightly constricting in the middle. My rear and thighs accumulate a hearty layer of padded fat, soft and yielding beneath my fingers. And in the dense fur of my lower body, where my manhood reared its ugly head, my member sinks and shrinks away, replaced with a womanhood I can scarcely accept as my own. My transformation is over, and I feel complete for the first time in my life. A stranger stares back at me, wholly dissimilar to who I was before but every bit who I wanted to be. Years ago, when the bullying became too much and my body moved further and further from what it should have been, I would daydream about being not just a girl, but a werewolf. Through some far-fetched backstory involving a scientific experiment gone wrong or a super villain’s ray gun or the onset of mutant powers at puberty, I would be changed from a timid, boy-shaped thing into a tall, powerful, female werewolf. In my ongoing fantasy, friends and family and the scientific community would weep and wail over my ‘predicament’, swearing to find a cure, one that would make me [i]lesser[/i] again. But my imaginary self never cared. I went on all kinds of adventures as my new self, in a body powerful enough to lift profoundly heavy objects, claws and teeth sharp enough that my bullies never dared bother me again, and experiencing newfound camaraderie with my female classmates where I could be just one of the girls for the first time in my life. Those daydreams faded with time, a childish fantasy and a painful reminder of what I could never be. Until now. My imagined self stares back at me, brighter and more vibrant and happier than I have ever been before. My tail thumps against the back wall it is wagging so hard. “It’s you. It’s… [i]me[/i],” I say, resting a paw on the glass. Even my voice is different, soft and light, but with a wolf-like rumble that could turn into a roaring howl should I choose to make it so. Tears well up and I hug myself tightly. It takes me a moment to notice my lean, lithe muscles and toned midsection. I am tall and strong, such that no one may have power over me. Yet, at the same time, I feel soft and delicate, the hardened and angular and masculine edges worn away. I am happy. God, I am happy. *** Sister Leilla gets five stars, of course. I’m still getting used to using claws to type, but my review is just as glowing as the others she has received, the ones I previously thought were pure fantasy. Life… is certainly more complicated now, I can’t lie, but the hard days don’t feel as hard when you at least have the satisfaction of living as who you want to be.