FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

===

The last 24 hours all went without any interactions with anyone other than service workers. It was a good feeling. I didn't have anything to say and I was happy I could stay silent, and similarly happy that nobody wanted anything from me. I had no idea where I was and I didn't feel like checking the map. This state of being lost, this limbo, felt both overwhelming and addictive, and I kept falling deeper into it, like a well, wondering if there's something on the other side, or I was going to crash into the hard ground.

I felt lost in the world around me. It seemed like it suddenly expanded to enormous proportions. I didn't know where my place or purpose in it was. With my direction being the furthest I could go, I rode onwards.

At the break of dawn, I ran out of music. I downloaded only a few albums that I knew I would feel like listening to and already listened to each a dozen times. Now I only had silence as my company, another void that slowly filled with thoughts. I thought about my life up to that point. I thought about who I was and about all the time I had wasted. I thought about the bull from two days before and the otter from the previous evening.

All I had ever done was running away. I ran away from both of them, I ran away from my problems, I ran away from home, I was trying to run away even from myself. So many lost chances. So many lost days. I had to pull off from the main road and stop at the closest town. It took me half an hour to get myself back together, just in time for the storm to come and batter the windshield with raindrops fatter than hail. Head resting on the steering wheel, I watched the puddles forming on the concrete sidewalk.

A figure emerged from the wall of rain, stepping into the headlights. A feline - a mountain lion, cream colored fur sticking to their head, two round ears pointing upwards. They looked in my direction, eyes shining in the dark like two emeralds, before darting forward, disappearing into the dark. What anyone could be doing out in this weather? My first instinct was to look the other way, pretend I didn't see them. It was a strategy that let me survive up to this point. Pretend you didn't hear, ignore, keep walking, turn away. Did I ever tackle anything head on?

I opened the door and shouted into the night after them. I waited a moment, listening; instead of a response I heard hurried steps, each punctuated with a loud splash. They walked up to the car, head tilted to the side, puzzled.

"Do you need a ride?"

Their head tilted even further, until their long earring rested on his shoulder, shielded from the rain with only a rugged denim jacket with a linen crop top underneath it. It wasn't cold yet, but it wasn't a good temperature to be out in the rain either. They were a stranger, though. Inviting them into my car felt like a bad idea, but I already did that. Too late to back out.

"Where are you heading?"

"Ahead. Anywhere, really."

They eyed me curiously and only then I realized that my response was suspicious at best. If I were them, I'd run away at that moment, happy I escaped with my life.

"Beaver Backwater?"

"I'm not sure where it is, but if you give me directions, sure."

They took a step towards the car but then hesitated. The comfort of a car won in the end. One more glance and they closed the distance, opened the passenger door and got in.

We rode for a while in complete silence. They had a smell of wet fur that wasn't unpleasant but completely dominated the palette in the car. I was on high alert and they remained suspicious of me too. To lighten up the atmosphere a bit, I put David Sylvian on again. A deep cut - Beautiful Country, a collaboration from a scrapped project. Only a demo of it was released, by the man himself on his Soundcloud. Out of all the music I had downloaded, this track was the most cheerful. Halfway through the song, they turned to me and asked:

"That's kind of nice. I like the lyrics."

"It's nice, yeah. Very hopeful. The guy singing it used to be popular in the nineties, now he's mostly in the avant-garde scene."

"Huh. Curious. Usually it's the other way around."

"Some people don't like fame and don't care about the money, I guess. Which is nice. Reassuring."

"What's your name?"

"Devon."

"Devon. It's nice to meet you."

"And you?"

"Bastian. I use they/them."

"Oh."

The car glided past grain elevators, menacing like petrified giants lurking on the dark. It was an empty, strange land. I glanced at them; their head was leaned on the window and they looked outside at the starry sky. They had a tank top and shorts on, clothes that no sane person would put on in this weather. Their left ear, densely furred and kind of big for the species, was adorned with earrings with long pieces of material in colours of a rainbow flag. That made me relax instantly. It was enough proof for me that they didn't have any bad intentions.

"This landscape feels almost hypnotic."

"Maybe? It's nostalgic for me. I can't get enough of it."

"Really? Fields and empty roads?"

"You have no idea. I missed it so much. And it's not that monotonous. There's plenty of forests between the farms, not to mention villages. And the fields... I love potatoes. I can't wait to have a bowl of fries when I got home."

"Huh. It's the first time I hear someone being enthusiastic about potatoes."

"Oh, potatoes are interesting. The amount of different varieties is in thousands. The history of potato is the history of the last few centuries, of colonialism, of class struggle, politics and daily life of the masses. Entire nations fed themselves with potatoes and groats."

"I guess? I never had a personal connection with them, maybe that's why don't find them really interesting.."

"My grandparents have a farm around here. Maybe that's why I do. Still, I love this landscape."

"I guess it feels like we're standing in one place. I've been riding for a few days now and not much is changing behind the window."

They eyed me curiously.

"Visiting someone?"

"Not exactly."

"Running away, then."

I kept looking ahead, gripping the steering wheel. How did he read me so easily?

"You could say that."

"Hey, easy. I feel you. I ran away from home when I was sixteen and I never regretted it."

"Sixteen! Man... Where did you go?"

"Where I live now. There's a commune in the desert in New Mexico, not far from the border."

"Wow. One hell of a choice. How's the life there?"

"Slow but intense. A lot of work to be done every day, but a lot of fun to be had too. We're all artists, writers, painters and musicians and contribute to the upkeep of the place. Everything is communal. It's a lovely place, you should visit us sometime."

"New Mexico's quite far. But thank you."

"Oh, it is. I was looking for a place as far away from home as possible. I could've looked for a place anywhere else, but there was something symbolic in that, you know."

"I get it. I chose a different direction, but I'm kind of doing the same. What you were doing out there in the rain, though? Your car broke?"

"No, I don't have a car. I hitch-hiked my way here mostly, took a few buses too."

"What? All the way from the east?"

"Took me a while. Sorry for the smell, I didn't find a shower today."

"Oh, it's not bad. Don't worry. So you're coming back home now?"

"Yes. Mother's funeral."

"Ah..."

"We weren't on the best terms, but it would feel wrong not to say goodbye to her."

Silence filled the space around us like a vacuum, underpressure pressing at my brain.

"You know... it's not easy, I know, but if you're running away, you should ask yourself what are you running from. Maybe it's home, maybe it's a situation that's too much for you, maybe it's the environment that feels stifling. Maybe it's you. Speaking from experience. Then every place feels the same and wherever you go, the same problems follow you. Then it's not the environment you need to change. Speaking from experience."

They was something in their words that rang true. I had to change something within me and come back from this trip a different person.

"What's in Beaver Backwater? If you don't mind me asking."

"A bus station. I'll wait there for the morning and then continue to my home town.

"I could drive you there myself. I'm not really going anywhere"

"I shouldn't be there before dawn. I'll find a shower, buy some flowers, nap at the station and then I'll be on my way. But thank you. Much appreciated. I didn't expect a lift this late."

"No problem, really. It's nice to talk with someone, you know. Didn't have an occasion in the last few days."

"Oh, believe me, I get it. Glad I'm here, then. Looks like we both needed each other."

They laughed with a laughter worthy of a mountain creature, with voice of gravel and rocky peaks, confident, with experience and perspective that comes with it.

"We're here. The station is that white building over there."

I pulled over and stopped the car. The ride together ended all too quickly.

"If you'd be around New Mexico, you can always come over. Maybe I'll still be there."

"Any way I could contact you?"

"I only have a number, Give me your phone, I'll write it down."

Somehow I wasn't afraid to hand it to them. They could've ran away with it, sure, but I really wanted to believe in their honesty.

"Thank you for the ride again. You saved my fur out there. Normally I'd invite you for a coffee, but I don't think any place here is open yet. If you want, I could give you a goodbye kiss, though."

I wasn't sure if they were joking or not, but I thought I'd play along and nodded nonchalantly. Then they leaned in and their lips pressed to mine.

They tasted of mint.

===

The break of the day came soon, red spilling across the sky, painting the clouds' underbellies - a nature's spectacle reserved for my eyes only. I opened the compartment and got the camera out with one paw, turned it on, pointing at the windshield, and snapped a photo. As I stared at the sunrise unfolding, something else appeared on the road ahead of me. A border crossing. I made it to Canada.

This seemed like the right direction. It was a promise of change, of something else. Something new. For the first time in my life, I was about to leave the US. I wondered if I could buy alcohol there; I remembered that in some of the provinces the legal drinking age was 18, but I wasn't sure. It was only a passing thought, though. I wanted to keep on driving.

Where was I even? I wasn't too familiar with the geography of the area. I could only guess. I knew I was in New Brunswick from the signs, it had to be somewhere above Maine, but what was ahead of me? The landscape didn't change much with the country, but when I thought of home, the difference between here and Ohio was clear. The change from there to here was so gradual that it was easy to overlook. Curious about the place I was driving through, I turned on the radio and tuned it to some local station, an acoustic song flowing from the speakers.

I had a quick coffee at a convenience store before venturing deeper into the country. Standing before the store, I took in the air that tasted different from back home. It was the taste of abundant freedom. The night ride with Sebastian invigorated me and filled my heart with hope. I felt like I was finally getting somewhere.

After a few hours of driving I reached the coast. The sound of the ocean grew from a distant murmur, quieter than rustling of leaves, to a wild roar. The water cut into the land with a wide wedge, water eating away at the shore. It was something spectacular. I pulled over and rolled down the window to take in the view. Only when I felt saturated with the sight, I continued traveling along the coast, the expanse of the ocean stretching to the horizon on my left.

Soon I crossed another border and drove into Nova Scotia. The air was chilly and biting, heavy with mist, but I kept the windows open, not wanting to lose the connection with the outside I felt. Here the land was dotted with lakes and cottages and something told me I was close to what I was looking for.

The ocean reappeared on the right and I understood that I had to be on a peninsula. I hoped that I would ride through some cozy seaside towns and maybe stop in one of them, but the road carried on forward, steering away from any settlements. And wherever I was, the road was still just a road - a transitory space, a symbol in itself, if you think about it.

Keeping close to the shore, I finally arrived at a three way junction with a road that cut through the trees straight towards the open sea. It led me to a thin causeway, and suddenly the water was on both sides, surrounding me. I arrived on an island, big enough to house a few settlements. I wasn't interested in these, though, and continued forward, to the furthest point of the island. The radio turned into static.

Finally, I found it. Camera in paw, I stepped out of the car and locked it, shielding my face with the other arm. Before me was a completely alien landscape, barren and brut, as unapproachable as the Moon's surface. The wind and water spray attacked me like an intruder disturbing this place. I pressed toward the shore, toward the angry water biting at the rocky land, breaking rocks into pebbles and then eating them with its manifold maws. I pointed the camera at the shore and clicked, hoping I captured something.

What an expanse. No, it wasn't the calmness I saw in the sea. It was an angry god. It was an unrelenting fury that demanded submission. It was destruction and it was creation. It beckoned me forward with a magnetic pull, and a yearning awakened in me, something primal, primordial even. I took off my shoes and pressed onwards, soaked with the sea spray, cold from the biting wind, closer and closer, my pawprints erased by the waves.