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"Secret" by Toledo
20th March 2020 • The Voice of Dog • Rob MacWolf and guests
00:00:00 00:06:39

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A young teen tries to hide his… changes from his family.

Today’s story is "Secret" by Toledo who is a horse who primarily sketches, does photomanipulations, and writes when inspiration strikes hard enough to brave the prospect of plunking out a story on a giant keyboard with a single hoof. 

If you're interested in basketball stories that aren't about basketball, you can find more of his writing in his FurAffinity or DeviantArt galleries. On DA he's Toledo-The-Horse, and on FA he's the oh-so-obvious  'out-of-the-boks'.

Read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

Transcripts

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You’re listening to The Voice of Dog.

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I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

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and today’s story is

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"Secret" by Toledo

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who is a horse who primarily sketches, does photomanipulations,

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and writes when inspiration strikes hard enough

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to brave the prospect of plunking out a story on a giant keyboard

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with a single hoof.

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If you're interested in basketball stories that aren't about basketball,

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you can find more of his writing in his FurAffinity or DeviantArt galleries.

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On DA he's Toledo-The

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-Horse, and on FA he's the oh-so-obvious 'out-of-the

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-boks' "Secret"

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by Toledo "Colin, your mother and I have noticed that you've been sneaking out of the house at night recently."

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He knew that this would come sometime.

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He always had to leave the window slitted slightly so as to facilitate reentry,

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and the consequent alteration in the temperature of his bedroom could be felt.

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He had been dozing off in several classes over the past few weeks

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after sleepless nights,

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his parents nearly giving up trying to rouse him earlier than the fifteen minutes he'd need

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to freshen up. Yawning,

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he'd wrap himself in his bathrobe,

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occluding the sight of any residual mud –

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but if they had taken any glance under his covers

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(he tried to avoid this by making his bed properly every day and thus allay suspicions),

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they would have seen streaks of humus brown

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where his feet would kick back and forth.

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He didn't know what he would say to them.

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Did they know what he was doing?

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Had they surreptitiously spied on him one night?

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"We're somewhat concerned,"

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said his mother, and their eyes met for a split second before Colin darted them back down to affix their gaze on a particular curlicue in the kitchen linoleum.

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His right hand dabbed the spoon into his cereal,

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getting additional flakes moist while others became more and more soggy and inedible.

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"We just want to make sure you're safe."

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"I know," said Colin,

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kicking the toe of one tennis shoe

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absent-mindedly against the floor.

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"We understand that things…

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happen at this age.

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It's natural. You shouldn't be ashamed about it; we've

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all had to go through it.

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I know it's hard,"

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his father paused, introspective for a moment,

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"but we're the ones you can trust.

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If there's anything you'd like to talk over, any questions,

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we're here to help.

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help." A firm grasp of a hand on his shoulder

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was more reassuring than

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Colin had expected it to be, and he looked up to meet his father's eyes.

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"But now you have to go to school.

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Stay awake in trigonometry!"

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A wink. "Even though it's insufferable."

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Colin gave a weak smile

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and followed his mother out to the car.

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The drive to school was short,

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and he was soon hopping out, slinging his bookbag over one shoulder

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and bounding toward the entrance after a quick goodbye peck from his ever-caring mother.

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All through the schoolday he fretted.

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On one hand, the constant worrying kept him definitively awake through all seven periods;

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on the other, however,

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he gleaned even less from the lessons than normal and his mind wandered through scenario after scenario.

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It didn't seem like they had been spying.

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But maybe he should stuff a towel under his door and hang a loose shirt over the doorknob to make sure of that – or

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even prop a chair against the doorknob in addition to locking it.

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He should be much more careful to wipe his feet when he came in –

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maybe he could pilfer an extra doormat and store it under his bed.

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The musings continued past the final ringing of the bell

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that signaled the end of last period, and Colin,

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feverish now, decided to skip his extracurriculars

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and call for his mother to pick him up.

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Even if he was able to conceal the evidence of his

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nightly excursions,

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he would probably be confronted one night,

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exposed and alone

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and unprepared for the response.

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He'd need a pair of fangs.

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joke or costume shop,

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maybe $5?

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Maybe some hair dye?

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Who would ever dye their hair grey, though?

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Maybe melanistic.

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Hair care section of Wal-Mart: $???. Maybe he could steal a little of his mother's mascara for the rest.

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He hoped this would work.

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Upon returning home,

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he convinced his parents that he had developed an awful headache (which he had,

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just not a physical one)

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and was incapacitated for schoolwork.

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He retreated to his bed on the second floor,

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where he curled up with good book

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while his mother delivered chamomile tea and chicken noodle soup on a tray.

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The book was not the anthology of werewolf literature that had always been his favorite.

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He had picked up Harry Potter instead.

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Someone finding out he's different than everyone else?

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Check. This is a good thing?

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Well… The hours dragged on,

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but the late autumn sunlight was shortened by the onset of daylight savings

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(or was it the removal?

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he shrugged) and darkness soon fell.

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Colin must have been drowsy lying in his bed:

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Harry Potter's pages were spread out, splayed under his face,

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and a miniature pool of drool had enveloped the trio of heroes as they cooked a botched potion

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in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

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Colin's stomach began to burn as it twisted.

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Oh no, here it came.

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He quickly threw off the covers and leapt –

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not without jerking a bit, clutching his belly –

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to the door, closing in as softly as he could while rushed

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and locking it. He shoved a blanket under it with one toe

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and pulled his desk chair against it with one hand.

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He ran through his other safety and secrecy precautions,

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including those he had formulated early that day.

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Another spasm gripped him.

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His hands and feet were stiffening.

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Quick, soon! He pulled off his tee

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and shorts as his fingernails began to thicken and harden,

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and threw open the window in another swish.

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He turned his hand over in the moonlight that was now streaming in from outside.

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It was full now. Tonight would be more complete,

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more intense. His fingers were merging into two clumps,

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ends pointing, wrist getting boxy.

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An itching erupted all over his body

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as follicles formed and spat up hair –

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thick it was, fur really.

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Not straight or gray, though.

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White. Coarse. Curly.

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Matted. He could feel his feet stretching.

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It was coming faster than he expected.

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His nose pulled away from his face,

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his teeth becoming broad and

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flat. Ears lengthened

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and flopped limply on either side of his face.

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Pupils became ovoid.

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He vaulted himself awkwardly onto the ledge outside his window,

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and from there jumped down

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(quite ungracefully)

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onto the lawn. Staggering off toward the woods behind the house,

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he wished fervently that no one would catch his scent out here tonight.

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He didn't want to know what his family,

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all of them normal, run-of-the-mill lycanthropes, might do.

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He was, after all,

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a weresheep in werewolf's clothing.

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This was "Secret" by Toledo,

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read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

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Thank you for listening

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to The Voice of Dog

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