As humanity transforms, a lonely youth finds out his isolation may be for a greater good.

oday’s story is “Lamb of God” by Stephen Coghlan, who is a multi-genre, small-house published author known for the space-opera NOBILIS, the cross-Canada furry trilogy, GENMOS (pronounced Jen-Mos), and the human/Centaur, erotic Crop-Opera, 50 Shades of Neigh all published by Thurston Howl Publications. You can find more of his work at http://scoghlan.com or stalk him on Twitter as @WordsBySC.

Read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

You’re listening to The Voice of Dog.

I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

and Today’s story is

“Lamb of God” by Stephen Coghlan,

who is a multi-genre, small-house published author

known for the space-opera NOBILIS,

the cross-Canada furry trilogy,

GENMOS (pronounced Jen-Mos), and the human/Centaur, erotic Crop-Opera, 50 Shades of Neigh

all published by Thurston Howl Publications.

You can find more of his work at

//scoghlan.com or stalk him on Twitter

as @WordsBySC. Please enjoy:

“Lamb of God” by Stephen Coghlan “Power

be to the Father, Son,

and the Holy Ghost.”

The preacher’s voice is dry and tired from his hour of speeches,

benedictions, and blessings.

“Amen.” The crowd responds,

in a mixture of fatigue and relief.

I cross myself as I try to shrink further into my jacket.

Sitting where I am,

in the back, closest to the exit,

I am nervous. I pull my hat down,

lower, over my head.

So far, no one has given me much thought.

I am just a lamb,

lost in the flock.

The analogy has never been more accurate.

It happened, suddenly, less than two months ago.

Over a hundred thousand individuals ‘morphed’ overnight.

They went to sleep and, while they dreamed,

their bodies changed into animal/human hybrids.

Medical and scientific communities

were baffled. The best minds in the world

immediately tackled the issue,

and all of them came up

blank. Some of those who were changed were treated with reverence,

raised above their kind,

considered god-like, but others were ostracized,

accused, and murdered

in fear of the unknown and of what they had become.

The rest of humanity lived in either

dread or envy as they wondered if they would be next.

The next changes weren’t instant.

Almost half again of the original amount morphed over days

and weeks, transforming at a far more gradual pace.

Paranoia was widespread.

Anti-morph attitude

led to violence and abuse.

There were murmurs of fear and discontent among the other parishioners,

and I couldn’t shake the dread that the ushers

eyed me suspiciously whenever I came or went.

The change started slowly for me.

I’d already been trying to match my exterior to my real self.

When my chest flattened,

and new hairs sprouted across my skin, and my voice finally lowered to become rough,

perfectly replicating what I had been faking for years,

I was elated.

That turned to terror when I closed my eyes one night,

and my new beard had expanded to cover all of my face.

Although a razor easily handled those furs, it did nothing for the horns that began to sprout from the sides of my head.

It is a big risk coming to the chapel.

Morphs aren’t welcomed in a lot of places,

and although I have been with the local church for over a year ---

since I had fled from home ---

they do not know much about me.

To them, I am the quite young man who always sits in the back, who rarely talks,

who sings the praises

and benedictions just above a whisper.

They know nothing about my past,

about my struggles to be the real me,

about how I had changed my appearance,

about how I had been mocked,

threatened, abused,

abandoned, for not conforming to the body that I had been born with.

“Now for announcements.”

A deacon declares.

“Please remember that our local Knights are in need of more funds for their. . .”

It is just another cry for money, which

is something I didn’t have much of, working retail at the local mall.

A familiar face enters through the open rear doors.

He swaggers past the collection plates,

laughing loudly at the pile of envelopes that rest inside.

His long arms swing at his sides.

The light catches on his bronzed skin,

his blue eyes, deep and distant

yet welcoming and gleeful, twinkle like sunrise

bouncing off the ripples of a lake.

His thin frame is runner fit, but his shoulders are broad and strong,

and his hands, calloused,

but capable of plucking a rose from its stem without wrinkling the pedals.

He is taller than everyone else in the room,

yet none pay any attention to him,

and I would be surprised if anyone ever did.

He is everything I want to be,

everything I am not,

but I do not hold it against him, because Shepherd is my only friend,

and mine alone. He has been with me for as long as I can remember,

from the first moments of my memories,

he is there. It is he

who holds out his arms when I am learning to walk in shambling steps.

It is he who comforts me when I scrape my knees.

It is he who reminds me

that a scolding is a lesson.

It is he I confide in

when I do not feel alright.

It is he who stands beside me,

when I leave those who refuse to understand

that I do not belong in the flesh of my birth.

“Can you believe this mooch?”

My friend laughs

as he leans against the pew in front of me.

His back is towards the altar,

and he lifts his feet until they are off the floor.

The bench does not groan in protest.

“Listen to them, hawking pennies for salvation.”

With a snort of disgust,

Shepherd turns his head

and blows a raspberry across the congregation.

Despite my horror, I smile and have to suppress a laugh.

“They call this faith?”

He continues, and when he turns back to face me, a look of wonderment is etched

across his chiseled features.

“Hush.” I whisper, and one of the ushers looks our way.

Catching the hint,

my friend slides into the empty seat beside me.

His movements are fluid,

like thin oil gently poured.

“You gonna stay here all day?”

He asks. “If I can.”

I answer. “Why?” “Because I need all the salvation I can get.”

I hiss. Several other attendees turn to see who I am talking to.

Thinking fast, I slap my hand to my head, and pretended I am holding a phone to my ear.

Excusing myself, I exit the nave.

Shepherd follows behind,

pausing at the font to relieve himself.

He always does that,

but no one has ever called him out on it.

“So, now that I’ve got you out of there,

where are we going, and what are we gonna do?”

He asks, once he catches up to me.

“It’s Sunday. Laundry, dishes, and cooking food for the week.”

I sigh. “Your routine is flawless.”

Shepherd grins, not unlike a puppy ready to get into mischief.

“C’mon, shake it up.”

“And do what?” I stop to look at him.

“Take a walk, enjoy the sunshine,

mosey by the bay and enjoy a free concert down at city hall.”

He laughs and claps me on the shoulder.

His hand easily fills the space between my neck and arm,

and his fingers curl about me.

“C’mon, I know a beautiful path.”

“But-“ I begin to protest, before he cuts me off again.

“I know for a fact that you have more than a few clean underoos left.

It’s going to rain for the next four days.

Live it up!” The weather report this morning stated that there was only a slight chance of precipitation,

but I have learned to listen to Shepherd.

He has never steered me wrong before,

and he is right, I do have enough clothes to last me

at least until next week.

There is no need to catch the bus.

It’s only a half-hour’s walk to the river that divides our city,

and it is along a forested path.

We walk side-by-side,

enjoying the feeling of the sun and the shade.

The air is cool, but comfortable,

especially considering my growing pelt.

While half-way to our destination,

I open my shirt, and let the breeze blow through the spreading wool on my chest.

I am saddened when we exit the woods and I am forced to hide my changes once more.

Vendors are lined along the waterfront

where they hock various products, including snacks of both the sweet and the savory,

cheaply made garments,

and artificially expensive jewelry.

I ignore most of them,

but Shepherd does not, and while I am looking out across the water

he somehow appropriates a corndog to chew on.

We watch the sun sparkle across the moving stream,

and only when he has bitten down to the center of his snack does he break the silence.

“You see, this is worship.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, shocked at his choice of words.

Removing the stick from his mouth,

Shepherd points at the gnawed wood.

His teeth marks are plain,

indenting the material throughout.

“This,” He explains.

“This scrumptious morsel,

made of obvious care and affection,

demonstrates love and skill and everything your Lord is proud of.

Look at the site before us,

it’s a natural work of art,

created by a benevolent hand.

Don’t you agree?” I nod.

He doesn’t continue speaking,

but instead holds his chewed stick into the air,

and a passing pigeon plucks it from his hands.

City hall is just upriver.

The thumping of bass and percussion

has already filled the air.

By the time we see the stage,

a crowd has gathered for the free concert.

We take our place at the back,

and began shaking ourselves to the rhythm.

I have never been a good dancer,

having lacked certain graces,

but I listen to most tunes and styles, and it is free,

so I allow myself to enjoy it.

The first act is a local folk/rock combo, and a small collection of youths

who are out enjoying themselves, like us,

form a circle and rock-out hard.

We stay, and embrace the moment,

live with the crowd,

move as one. The second musical group is more country,

and despite it not being my favorite genre,

I still dance lightly.

Shepherd is always beside me,

and he enjoys himself immensely,

clapping his hands and whooping right along.

While we wait for the third and final act to begin,

Shepherd wraps an arm about my shoulder.

“They sounded like angels!” He shouts.

“I should know!” The music starts,

but before I can figure out the band’s angle,

something happens amidst the circle of youths.

Their screams interrupt the show,

and stop the music flat on the third bar.

The cries of panic are loud and clear.

“MORPH!” For a moment,

I fear I have been found out,

but it is one of the kids.

The others make space around him as he transforms,

painfully, before our eyes.

His limbs stretch,

and his muscles pull taught as he writhes in agony,

his body too wracked by pain for him to even scream.

His face changes shape,

and his teeth elongate.

His clothes tear

until and his tail explodes from his back

and his shoes explode, unable to contain the changing feet.

It takes less than a minute, and then

the new wolf falls to the ground, unconscious.

For a moment, no one reacts.

The silence is ethereal,

as if we have fallen away from reality.

No birds sing in the distance,

the hubbub of traffic is gone,

the wind is non-existent,

then the first cry of fear induced rage pierces the silence.

As one, the mob moves in, and their intentions are anything but benevolent.

“Here we go.” Shepherd laughs,

and then begins to drag me towards the fray.

We pass through the crowd.

I am bumped and jostled by those who are drawn close to the chaos,

drawn towards the impending violence like moths to a flame.

My shirt is torn,

and my hat is knocked from my head.

Someone screeches sharply, and attention is brought onto me.

Sniggering like a maniac,

Shepherd transforms before my eyes.

He is suddenly a great

and giant dog, akin to his namesake.

His clothes change into a rich pelt,

golden as the sun,

dark as the earth.

His mouth become a snout,

his teeth pearlescent.

A stone flies my way,

but my friend grabs it, diverts it,

and returns it with near lethal force at the person who first threw it at me.

A neighbor of mine reaches forth,

intent on grabbing me

and pulling me to the ground, but he is spun about,

and finds himself hugging a local grocer instead.

Someone pulls a gun and points it at my chest,

but when they pull the trigger

I see the bullets alter into water,

and the little spray that lands on me is

invigorating and refreshing.

Then I am at the young wolf’s side.

He is light in my arms,

and I lift his unconscious body with no complaint.

I wonder what to do next,

but Shepherd is protecting me,

and no one has laid a finger upon either of us.

A melee has developed,

as neighbor turns on neighbor,

each one blaming the other for our disappearance.

I walk through the crowd,

unmolested, unharmed.

When I make it to the edge of the brawl, Shepherd is back into his human form,

and he is giggling as he shakes his head.

He holds a bag of popcorn,

and munches on it for as long as we can see the chaos.

The pup carries no ID

or it was lost in the shuffle.

With nowhere to take him,

I return to my apartment.

I am tired from the walk,

and barely manage to get the young one safely onto my bed.

When I ask if he will be okay,

Shepherd nods, and guides me to my couch.

Although I protest,

I am tired, and sleep claims me easily. - # -

I awake to the sound of tearing paper.

Groggily, I open my eyes.

I am in agony, and my body feels both heavy,

yet strong. I attempt to wipe my hand across my eyes, but my face

is thickly covered by a layer of wool.

In shock, I sit up but my head is weighty,

and I wrench my neck,

pulling muscles so that they hurt,

but the pain is bearable.

Shepherd sits at my dining table.

Gone is the cutlery and dishes and instead the furniture is covered

in torn books. My friend opens a Bible, selects a few pages,

ribs them from the tome,

and pastes them into a scrapbook.

Among the mess lies a damaged Quran,

and a destroyed Tanakh.

“Don’t move too fast just yet.”

He cautions. “Your horns just grew to full.”

I feel them. They are giant and glorious.

I stumble my way into the washroom.

They roll from my head,

and are pearlescent beauties streaked with onyx lines.

“How’s the pup?” I ask, as I examine the rest of my transformed image.

I am fully altered now, and I am covered in platinum wool.

My ears flop from underneath my horns,

and my feet are cloven and split,

but my hands are left durable and dexterous,

with all my fingers intact and accounted for.

“The wolf is still sleeping in the sheep’s lair.”

Shepherd answers. Rip.

I return to his side.

My friend holds up a sheet of paper.

“They called this apocrypha.”

He snorts, before he glues it into the scrapbook.

“See, no respect for my work.”

“What are you doing?”

I wonder, as I pull up chair.

“Correcting humanities mistakes.”

Shepherd’s tone is indignant.

“Religion is not built of God for man, but built by man for man.

Each faith has taken the words of the creator,

and twisted it to fit their own glorious agendas.”

Rip. “No one has had it 100% correct since creation.”

Rip. “It’s all about to change.”

Rip. I look long and hard at him.

Shepherd just keeps working, tirelessly.

“Who are you, really?”

I speak softly. Rip.

“What are you?” I ask again.

Rip. “I’m your friend.”

He never takes his eyes off of his work.

“And your evaluator.”

Rip. “All throughout your life,

you’ve never fit the norm that society or ‘religion’ demands.

When you were twelve, you realized that you liked girls, not boys.”

Rip. “When you were fifteen,

you figured that you were a man,

trapped in a woman’s body.”

Rip. “When you came out to your parents, and asked to start hormone therapy,

you were kicked out of your clan,

scrubbed from your inheritance.”

Rip. “You fled to a new place,

your Zion, where you began life anew as the man you always knew you were.

You joined the local church, began to date,

went to night school,

and through it all,

despite what society wanted,

despite being told you were an abomination,

a walking sin, you developed an understanding.”

Rip. As he pastes the segments

and phrases into a semblance of order, I speak the words that

I have known all along.

“God could not create something just to hate it.”

“Bingo! Give the boy the medal!”

Shepherd shoots to his feet

and rustles the wool atop my head.

“You were always my star pupil.

“Did you ever notice that most of the transformed are world leaders and public figures?”

I nod my head. “Did you ever wonder why?”

I shake my horns.

“It was done so that the world would take notice.” He exclaims,

dumping the tattered remnants of the holy words into a wastebasket that mysteriously appears.

“But not one of them survived the changes unscathed.

Only one Morph continued their life relatively unchanged,

never spoke out in anger,

lived in the confusion

of the alteration with acceptance.”

“Me?” I guess. “Yes! You suffered from the moment you were born.

You accepted your differences,

welcomed them, and embraced who you really were.

God did not make you to spite you,

he did not make you lesbian or trans because he hated you,

he gave you a body that was not yours to test you, to see if you could

love a creator who gave you a path

to journey, and you never wavered,

despite all the obstacles that were in your way. You kept your faith,

even as you became who you were meant to be.

“So many who are born ‘normal’

are born wrong. Look at all those pompous fools who consider themselves pious,

look at all those

churches that ban people for merely being different,

look at all those congregations that remove the sinners from their midst,

they are like hospitals for the healthy,

look at all those who celebrate themselves as faithful, and pat themselves on the back

for their supposed sainthood

as they barrel towards hell in a handbasket.

It’s those who sit in the pews or crowd the houses of God

who need to repent most of all,

but they are so blinded by their own self-worth, that they’ve forgotten God’s original message.

“Love one another,

we are all God’s creation.

If I strike my neighbor, I am harming a temple of the Lord.”

“Do unto others.” I whispered.

“So that’s why you’ve always hated the church?”

“Any church. The world needs an overhaul, and it’s getting it.

Morphs are just the tip of the iceberg.

There will be more to come.

Preachers of all faiths

will stand atop the clambering mountains of the helpless,

and they will speak what they want others to hear.

They will all be false tongues,

anti-Christs, because they will not have the true message.”

I pick up the scrapbook.

It is heavy, and still wet with paste.

“Then this?” I wonder

“Is yours.” Shepherd answers,

before he ruffles his hands through my hair.

He walks to my computer, which turns on as he approaches.

I follow, and we stop in front of my webcam.

I can see myself, on the monitor,

dressed in clothes

that are stretched and worn from my final transformation,

with a head that is as wide as my shoulders,

thanks to my horns.

My chest is strong,

and I know, underneath my clothes and my wool, that I am lean and muscular.

My shaking hands hold the great tome,

and I look nervous.

Although I can feel Shepherd’s hands on my shoulder,

he is not visible on the screen.

“Right now, there are a lot of very scared people and new Morphs waking in this world.”

My friend’s voice is gentle in my ear,

almost sonorous. “They are confused,

frightened, their faiths are either altered, or non-existent.

They will be looking for guidance,

a beacon of hope.”

I am unsure of what to say,

but when I look behind me,

Shepherd is glowing.

He is the color of molten bronze,

and he burns from within.

Great wings have spread from his back,

a pair cover his feet,

and a set surround his face.

“Tell them the truth.”

He smiles at me. I face the camera,

uncertain what to say. Shepherd’s hands

rest on my shoulders,

and they feel real and solid.

The book in my arms

is weighty, but my new body holds it well,

as if it was little more than an extension of myself.

I open it, and see the collage of verses and words,

the highlighted fraises,

the underscored terms.

The red dot that signals my system is recording becomes visible on the monitor.

I wonder if I am truly prepared,

or even capable of making a single sound,

but my mouth moves,

and my voice, deep,

loud, carrying, comes forth from within.

“Blessed be. . .” This was

“Lamb of God” by Stephen Coghlan,

read for you by Khaki,

your faithful fireside companion.

You can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog, or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.