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“Lamb of God” by Stephen Coghlan

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.

Transcript
Speaker:

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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“Lamb of God” by Stephen Coghlan,

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

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known for the space-opera NOBILIS,

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the cross-Canada furry trilogy,

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

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all published by Thurston Howl Publications.

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You can find more of his work at

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//scoghlan.com or stalk him on Twitter

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as @WordsBySC. Please enjoy:

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“Lamb of God” by Stephen Coghlan “Power

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be to the Father, Son,

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and the Holy Ghost.”

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

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benedictions, and blessings.

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“Amen.” The crowd responds,

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in a mixture of fatigue and relief.

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

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Sitting where I am,

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in the back, closest to the exit,

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I am nervous. I pull my hat down,

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lower, over my head.

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So far, no one has given me much thought.

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I am just a lamb,

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lost in the flock.

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The analogy has never been more accurate.

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It happened, suddenly, less than two months ago.

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Over a hundred thousand individuals ‘morphed’ overnight.

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They went to sleep and, while they dreamed,

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their bodies changed into animal/human hybrids.

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Medical and scientific communities

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were baffled. The best minds in the world

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immediately tackled the issue,

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and all of them came up

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

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raised above their kind,

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considered god-like, but others were ostracized,

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accused, and murdered

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

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The rest of humanity lived in either

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

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The next changes weren’t instant.

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Almost half again of the original amount morphed over days

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and weeks, transforming at a far more gradual pace.

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Paranoia was widespread.

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Anti-morph attitude

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led to violence and abuse.

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

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and I couldn’t shake the dread that the ushers

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eyed me suspiciously whenever I came or went.

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The change started slowly for me.

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

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When my chest flattened,

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

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perfectly replicating what I had been faking for years,

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I was elated.

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

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

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

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It is a big risk coming to the chapel.

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Morphs aren’t welcomed in a lot of places,

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

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since I had fled from home ---

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they do not know much about me.

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

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who sings the praises

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and benedictions just above a whisper.

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They know nothing about my past,

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about my struggles to be the real me,

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about how I had changed my appearance,

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about how I had been mocked,

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threatened, abused,

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

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“Now for announcements.”

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A deacon declares.

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

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It is just another cry for money, which

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

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A familiar face enters through the open rear doors.

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He swaggers past the collection plates,

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laughing loudly at the pile of envelopes that rest inside.

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His long arms swing at his sides.

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The light catches on his bronzed skin,

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his blue eyes, deep and distant

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yet welcoming and gleeful, twinkle like sunrise

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bouncing off the ripples of a lake.

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

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and his hands, calloused,

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

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He is taller than everyone else in the room,

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yet none pay any attention to him,

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and I would be surprised if anyone ever did.

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He is everything I want to be,

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everything I am not,

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

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

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from the first moments of my memories,

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he is there. It is he

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

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

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It is he who reminds me

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that a scolding is a lesson.

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It is he I confide in

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when I do not feel alright.

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It is he who stands beside me,

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when I leave those who refuse to understand

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

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“Can you believe this mooch?”

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My friend laughs

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as he leans against the pew in front of me.

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His back is towards the altar,

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

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The bench does not groan in protest.

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“Listen to them, hawking pennies for salvation.”

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With a snort of disgust,

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Shepherd turns his head

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and blows a raspberry across the congregation.

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

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“They call this faith?”

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

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across his chiseled features.

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

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Catching the hint,

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my friend slides into the empty seat beside me.

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His movements are fluid,

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like thin oil gently poured.

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“You gonna stay here all day?”

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He asks. “If I can.”

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

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

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

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Excusing myself, I exit the nave.

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Shepherd follows behind,

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pausing at the font to relieve himself.

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He always does that,

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but no one has ever called him out on it.

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

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

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He asks, once he catches up to me.

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

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I sigh. “Your routine is flawless.”

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

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“C’mon, shake it up.”

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“And do what?” I stop to look at him.

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“Take a walk, enjoy the sunshine,

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

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He laughs and claps me on the shoulder.

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

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and his fingers curl about me.

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“C’mon, I know a beautiful path.”

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

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

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

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

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but I have learned to listen to Shepherd.

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He has never steered me wrong before,

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

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at least until next week.

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There is no need to catch the bus.

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

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and it is along a forested path.

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We walk side-by-side,

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enjoying the feeling of the sun and the shade.

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The air is cool, but comfortable,

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especially considering my growing pelt.

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While half-way to our destination,

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

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

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Vendors are lined along the waterfront

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

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cheaply made garments,

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and artificially expensive jewelry.

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I ignore most of them,

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

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he somehow appropriates a corndog to chew on.

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We watch the sun sparkle across the moving stream,

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

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“You see, this is worship.”

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

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Removing the stick from his mouth,

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Shepherd points at the gnawed wood.

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His teeth marks are plain,

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indenting the material throughout.

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“This,” He explains.

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“This scrumptious morsel,

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made of obvious care and affection,

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

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Look at the site before us,

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it’s a natural work of art,

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created by a benevolent hand.

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Don’t you agree?” I nod.

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He doesn’t continue speaking,

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but instead holds his chewed stick into the air,

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and a passing pigeon plucks it from his hands.

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City hall is just upriver.

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The thumping of bass and percussion

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has already filled the air.

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By the time we see the stage,

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a crowd has gathered for the free concert.

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We take our place at the back,

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and began shaking ourselves to the rhythm.

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I have never been a good dancer,

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having lacked certain graces,

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

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so I allow myself to enjoy it.

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

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who are out enjoying themselves, like us,

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form a circle and rock-out hard.

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We stay, and embrace the moment,

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live with the crowd,

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

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and despite it not being my favorite genre,

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I still dance lightly.

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Shepherd is always beside me,

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and he enjoys himself immensely,

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clapping his hands and whooping right along.

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

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Shepherd wraps an arm about my shoulder.

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“They sounded like angels!” He shouts.

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“I should know!” The music starts,

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

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something happens amidst the circle of youths.

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Their screams interrupt the show,

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and stop the music flat on the third bar.

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The cries of panic are loud and clear.

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“MORPH!” For a moment,

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I fear I have been found out,

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but it is one of the kids.

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The others make space around him as he transforms,

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painfully, before our eyes.

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His limbs stretch,

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and his muscles pull taught as he writhes in agony,

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

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His face changes shape,

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and his teeth elongate.

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His clothes tear

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until and his tail explodes from his back

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

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It takes less than a minute, and then

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the new wolf falls to the ground, unconscious.

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For a moment, no one reacts.

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The silence is ethereal,

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as if we have fallen away from reality.

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No birds sing in the distance,

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the hubbub of traffic is gone,

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the wind is non-existent,

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

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

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“Here we go.” Shepherd laughs,

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and then begins to drag me towards the fray.

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We pass through the crowd.

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

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drawn towards the impending violence like moths to a flame.

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My shirt is torn,

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and my hat is knocked from my head.

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Someone screeches sharply, and attention is brought onto me.

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Sniggering like a maniac,

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Shepherd transforms before my eyes.

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He is suddenly a great

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and giant dog, akin to his namesake.

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His clothes change into a rich pelt,

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golden as the sun,

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dark as the earth.

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His mouth become a snout,

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his teeth pearlescent.

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A stone flies my way,

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but my friend grabs it, diverts it,

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

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A neighbor of mine reaches forth,

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intent on grabbing me

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

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and finds himself hugging a local grocer instead.

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Someone pulls a gun and points it at my chest,

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but when they pull the trigger

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I see the bullets alter into water,

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and the little spray that lands on me is

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invigorating and refreshing.

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Then I am at the young wolf’s side.

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He is light in my arms,

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and I lift his unconscious body with no complaint.

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I wonder what to do next,

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but Shepherd is protecting me,

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

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A melee has developed,

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as neighbor turns on neighbor,

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each one blaming the other for our disappearance.

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I walk through the crowd,

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unmolested, unharmed.

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

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and he is giggling as he shakes his head.

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He holds a bag of popcorn,

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

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The pup carries no ID

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or it was lost in the shuffle.

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With nowhere to take him,

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I return to my apartment.

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I am tired from the walk,

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

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When I ask if he will be okay,

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Shepherd nods, and guides me to my couch.

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Although I protest,

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

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I awake to the sound of tearing paper.

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Groggily, I open my eyes.

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

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

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is thickly covered by a layer of wool.

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

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and I wrench my neck,

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pulling muscles so that they hurt,

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but the pain is bearable.

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Shepherd sits at my dining table.

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

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

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ribs them from the tome,

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and pastes them into a scrapbook.

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Among the mess lies a damaged Quran,

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and a destroyed Tanakh.

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“Don’t move too fast just yet.”

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

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I feel them. They are giant and glorious.

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I stumble my way into the washroom.

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They roll from my head,

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and are pearlescent beauties streaked with onyx lines.

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

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

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My ears flop from underneath my horns,

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and my feet are cloven and split,

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but my hands are left durable and dexterous,

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with all my fingers intact and accounted for.

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

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Shepherd answers. Rip.

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I return to his side.

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My friend holds up a sheet of paper.

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“They called this apocrypha.”

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He snorts, before he glues it into the scrapbook.

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“See, no respect for my work.”

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“What are you doing?”

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I wonder, as I pull up chair.

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“Correcting humanities mistakes.”

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Shepherd’s tone is indignant.

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

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Each faith has taken the words of the creator,

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and twisted it to fit their own glorious agendas.”

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

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Rip. “It’s all about to change.”

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Rip. I look long and hard at him.

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Shepherd just keeps working, tirelessly.

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“Who are you, really?”

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I speak softly. Rip.

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“What are you?” I ask again.

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Rip. “I’m your friend.”

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He never takes his eyes off of his work.

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“And your evaluator.”

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Rip. “All throughout your life,

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

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

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Rip. “When you were fifteen,

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you figured that you were a man,

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trapped in a woman’s body.”

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

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you were kicked out of your clan,

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scrubbed from your inheritance.”

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Rip. “You fled to a new place,

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

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You joined the local church, began to date,

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went to night school,

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and through it all,

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despite what society wanted,

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despite being told you were an abomination,

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a walking sin, you developed an understanding.”

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Rip. As he pastes the segments

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

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I have known all along.

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

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“Bingo! Give the boy the medal!”

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Shepherd shoots to his feet

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and rustles the wool atop my head.

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“You were always my star pupil.

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

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

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I shake my horns.

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

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

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“But not one of them survived the changes unscathed.

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Only one Morph continued their life relatively unchanged,

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never spoke out in anger,

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lived in the confusion

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of the alteration with acceptance.”

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

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You accepted your differences,

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welcomed them, and embraced who you really were.

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God did not make you to spite you,

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

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

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love a creator who gave you a path

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to journey, and you never wavered,

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

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even as you became who you were meant to be.

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“So many who are born ‘normal’

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

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look at all those

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churches that ban people for merely being different,

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

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they are like hospitals for the healthy,

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

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for their supposed sainthood

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as they barrel towards hell in a handbasket.

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

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who need to repent most of all,

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

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“Love one another,

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we are all God’s creation.

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

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“Do unto others.” I whispered.

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

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

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Morphs are just the tip of the iceberg.

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There will be more to come.

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Preachers of all faiths

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will stand atop the clambering mountains of the helpless,

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and they will speak what they want others to hear.

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They will all be false tongues,

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

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I pick up the scrapbook.

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It is heavy, and still wet with paste.

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“Then this?” I wonder

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“Is yours.” Shepherd answers,

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before he ruffles his hands through my hair.

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

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

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I can see myself, on the monitor,

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dressed in clothes

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that are stretched and worn from my final transformation,

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with a head that is as wide as my shoulders,

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thanks to my horns.

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My chest is strong,

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

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My shaking hands hold the great tome,

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and I look nervous.

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

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he is not visible on the screen.

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

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My friend’s voice is gentle in my ear,

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almost sonorous. “They are confused,

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

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They will be looking for guidance,

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a beacon of hope.”

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I am unsure of what to say,

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but when I look behind me,

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Shepherd is glowing.

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He is the color of molten bronze,

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and he burns from within.

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Great wings have spread from his back,

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a pair cover his feet,

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and a set surround his face.

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“Tell them the truth.”

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He smiles at me. I face the camera,

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uncertain what to say. Shepherd’s hands

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rest on my shoulders,

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and they feel real and solid.

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The book in my arms

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is weighty, but my new body holds it well,

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

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

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the highlighted fraises,

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the underscored terms.

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

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I wonder if I am truly prepared,

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or even capable of making a single sound,

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but my mouth moves,

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and my voice, deep,

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loud, carrying, comes forth from within.

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“Blessed be. . .” This was

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“Lamb of God” by Stephen Coghlan,

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read for you by Khaki,

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your faithful fireside companion.

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

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The Voice of Dog
Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read by Rob MacWolf and guests. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @VoiceOfDog@meow.social on Mastodon, @voiceofdog.bsky.social on Blue Sky, or @Theodwulf on Telegram.

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