Feathertale wishes you a very groovy new year, wherever (or whoever) you may be.

We had a lot to celebrate in 2025. We reinvented our little magazine into a sketch comedy troupe, released our first Double LP and took over Toronto’s airwaves for a four night broadcast of our latest issue. If you haven’t yet given the Feathertale album a listen, you can stream it now on Apple Music or Spotify. And you can still grab a limited edition vinyl copy direct from our website or from select book stores and record shops across the country.

Stay tuned for more big things from us in 2026 as we gear up for our 20th anniversary.

Until then…

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Welcome to our latest creation — a fully audible issue of our award-winning magazine, featuring 90 minutes of imaginatively unimaginable storytelling.

Click here to view the issue as a PDF.

You can also listen to the record in its entirety on several streaming platforms.

Click here to listen to the album on APPLE MUSIC.

Click here to listen to the album on SPOTIFY.

No need to thank us for any of this. You’re already welcome.

— The Editors

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Lackey: What do you mean?

Patron: I mean, I paid you good money to bring me the most important authors of our time, and you brought me . . . nineteen monkeys?

Lackey: I bought twenty, but there was a fight and . . .

Patron: Hence the empty work station.

Lackey: I’ve got feelers out to a couple of preserves. I’ll find a replacement.

Patron: That’s still only twenty. The proverb says “an infinite number of monkeys.”

Lackey: Okay, but the number of monkeys in the world is finite and shrinking due to habitat loss.

Patron: How many monkeys are there in the world?

Lackey: That depends on whether or not you count the humans.

Patron: Humans count?

Lackey: Scientifically.

Patron: Are you a scientist?

Lackey: No.

Patron: So how many monkeys?

Lackey: Well, there are seven billion humans, give or take. They represent the lion’s share.

Patron: And if we exclude the humans?

Lackey: A couple of million.

Patron: Jesus. Okay. Buy the two million and start a breeding program.

Lackey: With respect, the universe is finite. It is physically impossible to accommodate an infinite number of monkeys.

Patron: I thought you weren’t a scientist.

Lackey: I’m not.

Patron: Good, then you can find me an infinite workspace somewhere outside the universe where we can put the monkeys with the typewriters? Typewriters! What are those things the monkeys are using?

Lackey: Computers?

Patron: Does the proverb mention computers?

Lackey: I don’t think there were computers . . . Anyway, the computers are equipped with ChatGPT, which I think is important. Keep in mind the monkeys can’t read.

Patron: Any idiot can write with ChatGPT.

Lackey: Exactly.

Patron: No, it has to be low-tech. Technology saps the life from everything and leaves us with pointless drivel. If I wanted pointless drivel, I’d hire a writer. The monkeys represent our hope for an authentic story that will touch as all, but only if you give them typewriters.

Lackey: But look at that one . . .

Patron: Is he playing Minecraft?

Lackey: That one there has figured out how to apply for government documents. Oh, and that one there is siphoning funds from you and transferring them to the one with the passport.

Patron: Typewriters. I said typewriters. Was that so fucking hard?

Lackey: Well, they’re not exactly making a lot of typewriters these days.

Patron: Fix it. Fire these nineteen monkeys that you’ve polluted with your technology, replace them, and put them in front of typewriters.

Lackey: I would, but I’m afraid you’re ruined. I work for the monkeys now. They’ve engaged me to find humans to type the next blockbuster. Here’s your computer.

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Anonymous Bat: A nocturnal animal, the Anonymous Bat misses out on the action during the daytime. While other anonymous animals work hard during daylight hours, the Anonymous Bat is nowhere to be found. When the sun finally sets and other anonymous animals ready themselves for sleep, the Anonymous Bat goes to work, feeding on the ripe fruits of its labour. With the sun now rising, the other anonymous animals wake to see much of what they had accomplished during the previous day has been chewed up and spoiled.

Anonymous Elephant: Known for having a great memory, the Anonymous Elephant remembers all. While this is sometimes a welcome addition to the anonymous animal kingdom, its flawless memory is a testament to the evolutionary need of the ability to forget as a precursor for sanity. The Anonymous Elephant remembers every bit of minutiae from every meeting of the anonymous animal kingdom, and stomps around the deck trumpeting it back, driving other animals mad.

Anonymous Hyena: A natural pack animal, a lone Anonymous Hyena is a shy animal, rarely being so bold as to make any changes or leave comments, instead sticking to scavenging small tweaks and other leftover bits of work. But when joined by other Anonymous Hyenas, it grows emboldened to attack other animals higher up on the food chain, setting off a feeding frenzy of edits and comments.

Anonymous Cormorant: A small, fussy little bird, the Anonymous Cormorant is a mostly harmless presence in the Google Slides ecosystem, lacking the size needed to make any real impact. Known for its tendency to nest year-round, it makes the slide deck its home, constantly making small additions and endlessly moving little bits around, none of which have any real impact other than to make itself more comfortable.

Anonymous Crow: Despite being one of the more intelligent birds, the Anonymous Crow cannot help but be obsessed with shiny objects and other flashy things. Often appearing with the intent of providing a high-level bird’s-eye view, the Anonymous Crow instead rarely makes it past the first view pages, fixating exclusively on the animated GIFs and bright colours of the title slide, squawking its opinions for all to hear.

Anonymous Python: A silent predator feared by many, the Anonymous Python lurks silently, searching for an animal grazing where it shouldn’t be. Known for biting off more than it can chew, the Anonymous Python often expends all of its energy devouring a single large animal, leaving it dormant on a random page while it slowly digests.

Anonymous Grizzly: The top of the food chain and an apex predator, the Anonymous Grizzly is at the same time fat, slow, tired and looking for food more than a fight. For the most part, it is content to take a slow walk through the deck, eating snacks and taking a few rest breaks along the way, until eventually finding a quiet corner to hibernate for the next few months.

Anonymous Skunk: While relatively low on the food chain, the Anonymous Skunk is a vain rodent with a high opinion of itself, requiring other animals to afford it a wide berth to strut through the deck at its own pace. When unbothered, its impact is minimal, but in the event it is backed into a corner or thrown under a bus, it will cause a stink that will linger for weeks.

Anonymous Beaver: One of Mother Nature’s most industrious creatures, the Anonymous Beaver is nothing if not hard-working. Unfortunately, its effort is oft-misplaced. The Anonymous Beaver sees every breezy, easy-flowing stream of words as a threat, and as a result works diligently through the night to clog things up with walls of nearly incomprehensible wooden text. When every sentence ceases to flow, the beaver rests.

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I always wanted to be a twin.

Why is another story. Loneliness? A deep, desperate and aching insecurity? I liked the idea of being propped up. The encouragement of a trusted second voice. Two of me. Double the power, the confidence. Together we can do it. We can do anything.

But I never gave it serious thought; it was an idle want. I never planned it and it never seemed plausible — until I had Sophie cloned. It cost me a buttload, but father left me more. And when I cloned my third Sophie — the second having accidentally hurtled down a flight of stairs after tripping on the edge of a rug since removed — I wondered, Seriously, why not? If the yapping, shitting, bug-eyed Shih Tzu of my heart can be thrice cloned, why not me? Why not now?

While it’s too late now to grow myself alongside myself — to go through life with me, my double, my twin, my friend and confidante, playing tricks and wearing matching clothing — I could still raise myself, give me all the things I never had. I could have been a ballerina. I could have been a pianist. I could have spoken six languages. I could have been a weaver, a potter, a painter, a podiatrist. If only I had me to raise me.

It’s no minor process, no minor expense, but I’ve come to know the folks at PetGen Restoration Labs by name. Jonathan, for example, has been the chief technician involved in the regeneration of my Sophies for the past fifteen years. I know him, I’ve been out to dinner with his family. I’ve seen the simmering boredom that grins malevolently from behind a glass of white wine when I start asking about applying his skills to a new project. And I know if it can be done, it will be done.

And it has been done. Three hundred thousand dollars later, with Jonathan fired over drinking on the job, I have a baby growing in a surrogate who is me growing in myself. I am like a jellyfish or Greek goddess who propagates by sprouting polyps from her head. And she is me, a polyp sprung from will. But the reality of it, the physicality of it, I’m sorry to say, has upset everything.

To be me alone, to birth me alone, to be alongside myself, has been unsettling. Though I was prepared financially, and had the baby room papered with yellow damask, acquired the car seats, the Jolly Jumpers and the teething rings, every day after the initial insertion and beyond the pregnancy, I’ve had gnawing, nauseating shivers running up and down my body. While pregnant, I’d look at my belly in the mirror, or peer down at the protrusion, and a doubt that I’d never known before would drip down my spine: I no longer felt in control.

But I went forth. And with my fourth Sophie, who was bald all over and glassy-eyed from chemotherapy and radiation to fight a never-ending spate of brain and lung tumors. But Sophie V was in utero and my new me was here. I did all the things I thought should be done. The girl wanted for nothing. She had a normal upbringing. Video games, ponies, swim lessons, bouncy castles, birthday parties. Of course, friends were supplied.

I explained our life in a matter-of-fact way. Like telling kids of yore about the birds and the bees — though I’ve personally never been told the story and can’t imagine how it might go. Is it about pollination? Or a bestial meeting that nursery rhymes wash over with rhythmic joy? Anyhow, I sat the girl down, I showed her all the good times I’d had with Sophie. I showed her pictures of each and every consecutive Sophie, along with lab shots: nurses in scrubs giving the camera the thumbs-up, Sophie’s surrogate mother in her pen at PetGen ingesting nourishment from her tubes, Jonathan over his microscope tweaking Sophie IV, etc. And to clarify the matter, I took her to see Jonathan. He is her father, so to speak, or rather, her inventor — whatever distinction you wish to draw between the two.

He wasn’t looking his best, though his new place on the outskirts of town was almost cozy. A window might have been a good addition. In fact, I offered to have one put in, and he shot me what might have been considered by some — not me, not then — a murderous glance. He didn’t speak much, but it was really just to introduce the clone to creator as an effort at transparency of process. We weren’t there long when his gentle pacing turned into a menacing hover. He stood over both of us while we were seated on the edge of the only surface available for sitting in the abode, a rumpled cot, and there he stood, not speaking, as I rambled on, attempting to explain the process about which I knew little, and he looked down at her, and occasionally shot me a mean and possibly murderous eye, but mostly looked at her, almost lovingly, like she were a new idea, like she were a solution, a light bulb, like he wanted to strap a bomb to her chest. We left shortly thereafter. I’d found him impolite. Though he’d been a good friend to me once, this new drunken, jobless Jonathan was unpleasant, sick-faced. We left, drove home, neither me nor she, she who is me, saying much.

So, we got on with it. She never did see Jonathan again, as far as I know. I’d heard he set something on fire not long after and assumed that the drink had got the better of him. Malachi at PetGen took over Sophie production. Sophie V had issues; she was cross-eyed, three-legged and short-lived. So we’re on Sophie VI now, and she’s as close to the first as I’ve ever had. Maybe if I’d had Malachi from the start, I wouldn’t be where I am.

So a point came, she/me must have been ten or eleven, when the gnawing, dripping, creeping that I’d been pushing down, putting away, repressing — if you will — took hold. It was something me-ish in her. Something ineradicable. When I’d take her to French lessons, Cantonese, Japanese, Russian, and when she became more bored and disconsolate and restless and when I saw her as me as a sullen child, resisting all that she’d been given, fighting goodness at every step in order to sulk, to moon about, to make nothing and want for everything. It was then that I knew that there was no remaking me. I knew that I was a mistake.

The urge to kill it, to defeat it, was rising in me. Like it’s an unnatural thing looking at me through innocent eyes. Like it wants to defeat me and will eventually. Like I have brought my usurper into the world. To usurp what? I’ve made nothing of my wealth and privilege. I’ve spent my father’s money and read my father’s books and walked long walks upon my father’s land. And the only thing I’ve made is me, and at great expense, to no consequence. But still.

I decided to end it, this sick game, this Droste effect of a life. I brought me in, I’ll take me out, so to speak. I’d end it for both us, become the news story that reads Mother drowns child in bowl of breakfast cereal then suffocates herself with the plastic bag (that came inside the box of breakfast cereal). Jonathan doesn’t care anymore. He’s given up on science and fire and lives in a cell and drinks from the toilet, and his family has found a new man from PetGen Restoration Services, someone more professional, someone less idealistic and thus less prone to rapid changes in mood and temperament and belief. Their new man is a company man. A man of science, of industry, of systems. But it was Jonathan who was the closest thing to a father that she’d had, and the closest thing to a partner that I’d had. So I went to him and asked if he had any thoughts, any advice, if he could hear out my feelings of doubt, of filth, of evil, of murder. I met him during visiting hours and spoke on an old-fashioned phone receiver and watched him through the dense Plexiglas.

“My dear, dear Jonathan, what have we done?”

He laughed hideously and told me, “Who gives a fuck, you silly-headed rich bitch? Have you looked around?” He hung up on me.

More so on my own than even before when it was me and myself, I’d been thinking of ending it. And after thinking it, I saw myself differently. I would wonder about my own reflection. Does it watch me longer? I would jump at my own shadow — was it reaching for me? And once, in the woods behind our house, I was sure I saw myself waiting, eyeballs drained of colour, mouth slack, urine dripping from my dress. But two baby deer, spotted with white youth, running with identical gait, moved past, and the fetch disappeared. And after all, perhaps it was only a trick of light and wind and mist and the hour of the day and the sound of the creek that made an omen of me.

But I saw something real, I’m sure, in my eyes on her. Our wild eyes. Either my behaviour has changed enough for her to know something, or she has thought the same thing about our unnatural communion and vowed to end me herself.

I thought it would come to blows, and I started walking around the grounds armed. Bear spray in one hand, a letter opener in the other. Waiting for my moment, sure that I could defeat a child of thirteen. Obviously my adult strength, my adult cunning would be an advantage.

But as I lie at the bottom of the stairs, where Sophie II once fell, my back shattered from the fall, and as I listen to myself in her hum and whistle as she picks up her broken necklace of Akoya pearls from the top of the stairs and moves closer to gather those that have bounced down and rolled and settled into the blood oozing from my mouth and skull, I know she has replaced me.

The humming closes in on me, the whistling stops. I can feel her breath on my cheek.

“You asked for this,” she says, and Sophie VI bites me hard on the cheek.

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