# Ann Cudworth Writes > Short stories and episodic fiction Public Ghost content for AI and LLM tooling. This file includes a bounded export of public pages first, then recent public posts. Append `.md` to any post or page URL to get the content in Markdown (for example, `/example-post.md`). ## Pages ### My story-letter site URL: https://www.ann-cudworth-writes.com/about/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T13:10:20.000Z Ann Cudworth Writes is an independent publication launched in July 2026 Ann Cudworth (also writing as A. C. Worth) is the author of short fiction in Metaphorosis Magazine, Exterus, and Sci-Fi Lampoon, and the anthologies Score—An SFF Anthology, Radicle, and Sages of Metaphorosis. She writes science fiction and urban fantasy, shaped by workshops at Odyssey Writing Workshop and the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute, as well as Futurescapes and the Juniper Writing Institute. If you subscribe today, you'll get full access to the new content when it's available. Your subscription makes this site possible and allows Ann Cudworth to share her work. Thank you! ### Short stories, delivered Sign up and stay up to date with new stories sent straight to your inbox! --- # Publications Pending *New episodes every Tuesday.* ## **Song of the City** --- Song of the City is a contemporary fantasy featuring possession, a haunted object, and an unlikely narrator. It follows the experiences of a woman who wakes inside the statue she modeled for in decades past with no memory of how she got there, and Rat, who's looking for somewhere safe to live and raise her pups. This is the first story in the "Of the City" series. ## Demon Seeks Witch --- Demon Seeks Witch is a paranormal fantasy featuring hidden heritage, a love triangle, and a redemption arc. Set in Ruxton Beach, N.H. it follows Huxley Bleakbeam Hollowstew, a demon-familiar, as he seeks to woo Karly into becoming his witch, while her guardian angel father and a golden voiced rival work to make sure he never gets the chance. ## The Day the Sandlot Sharks Played the Hardware Hammers --- The Day the Sandlot Sharks Played the Hardware Hammers is a science fiction story featuring a generational spaceship, an underdog sports story, and screwball comedy. Set on the UN Liberty generational spaceship, it follows the umpire calling a nail-biter of a little league baseball game gone sideways — with a failing scoreboard AI, dumb ball drones, and a very fed-up bull all working against him, and the captain's daughter watching every second of it. Previously published in Sci-Fi Lampoon Magazine, Autumn 2020\. ## Stone God --- The Stone God is a mythic fantasy featuring a creation myth, a trickster god, and a cyclical narrative. Set in a forgotten world, once colonized by an advanced culture, is is now home to a primitive tribal society. The story of the death and rebirth of their village is told by Nama, an elder, to the children. Previously published in The New Exterus, Volume 1, 2021. ## The Tapestry --- The Tapestry is a science fantasy featuring hidden truth, secret identity, and last-minute rescue. Set in a clockwork world, it follows Elyse as she as she uncovers a break in the tapestry that runs her world, and Stefen — who isn't quite who he seems — racing to stop her before it all comes apart. Previously published in Metaphorosis, 2018. ## *And more to come...* ### Meet people who like sci-fi-fantasy Join a community of other subscribers who love science fiction, urban fantasy and all stops in between. --- ### ## Posts ### Demon Seeks Witch (part 5 of 6) URL: https://www.ann-cudworth-writes.com/demon-seeks-witch-part-5-of-6/ Last updated: 2026-09-08T13:16:40.000Z Monday-Labor Day Early the next day, right after you opened the Play-a-Rama, I made my crows bring the warped Ouija board down from your roof. They dropped it on the counter beside you at the cash register. D-A-R-I—I-S—D-A-N-G-E-R-O-U-S, I spelled with the planchette. “Com’on Hux, don’t be jealous. We’re only having some fun.” D-A-R-I—T-R-I-T-O-N “He’s a merman?” Your scoff turned into a sneering laugh. “Good thing I’m not a sailor.” H-E—W-I-L-L—K-I-L-L—Y-O-U “Oh, please.” W-I-L-L “Hux, chillax.” P-L-E-A-S-E “Hux, I have to open the arcade. Dari will not hurt me.” I recoiled, crossing my wisps and hovering above the planchette. Then she broke my heart. “Our bonding didn’t work, Hux. Get over it.” Our relationship, such as it was, hung by a thread. “You’ll be fine. There’s a witch for you somewhere.” The condescension in your voice echoed Yofiel’s. I may only be a 5th\-level imp-demon, but I have my pride. With a mental snap, I made the planchette scrape like fingernails on a blackboard. You hunched your shoulders, watching as I wrote K-A-R-L-Y, and knocked the planchette upside down at the GOODBYE position. “Goodbye? Good riddance!” I rocketed out of the arcade, hexing the games as I left. Nobody patronizes me, especially half-baked semi-witches who date killer supernaturals. I called my crows, and we went to the lighthouse to brood. A couple of hours later, I returned to lurk in the rafters of the Play-a-Rama, ashamed of my inability to stay away from you. I pushed flies into the zapper, but it failed to amuse me. I was a half-hearted demon. # Late in the day, Leah Sandover rolled in. She leaned on the counter next to you. “I wish there were tickets for the Pony’s show at the Conch stage tonight,” said Leah. You reached into your pocket and handed her a ticket. “Take my seat. I can’t close the arcade that early.” Leah grabbed the ticket with a whoop. Enough was enough. I sent my crows to the top of the Conch to watch for Yofiel. I wanted to tell them that Karly was out of danger. # “Hello, Ruxton Beach!” said Dari as he stepped onstage, teeth gleaming in his tanned face. High-pitched screams of female ecstasy scared my crows into the air as Dari began *playing "What I Like About You" by the Romantics.* With reluctance, I admired his performance. He played aces guitar and got the audience dancing in the aisles by the third bar. As he sang, the thick tentacles of his Triton magic caressed the audience. They stretched across Atlantic Avenue and found you on the boardwalk, closing the Play-a-Rama. “Don’t fall for his spell, Karly,” I said, watching Dari’s magic wrap your body. I hexed the crosswalk signals, but I couldn’t keep you away. Your witch sign responded, unfurling from your heart, reaching to wrap around his magic. I dashed to the stage and tried to fill his Dari’s mouth with wisps. He bit a hole in my core and spat me out. Then Dari called to you. “Hey, Karly, come on stage and say hello.” Frantic to keep you safe, I countered his spell. Your steps slowed, but Dari stroked his guitar and reinforced his coercion. His magic was more potent than mine, and you took another step toward him. Abandoning my sense of self-preservation, I pushed past Yofi’s winged barriers—entangled in dark green magic—and slid deep into your mind to shield you from Dari’s compulsion. But Dari’s spell had taken hold and transformed your mind into a dimensionless kaleidoscope. Redoubling my will, I pushed for contact. “Karly, it's Hux. Please talk to me.” The colorful cacophony continued; I hadn’t even slowed it. You remained oblivious. “Karly, it’s me, Hux. Please!” There was no response, and the kaleidoscope churned faster. I locked my focus down and ignited a fiery hex, hoping to burn Dari’s spell into vapor. “Churn and burn, spawn of the sea. Return, cold fish…” I found the sticky gray surface of your subconscious mind. “…this witch will be free.” I kept going, powering up the hex. During my third repetition, the borders of your mind reappeared. The growl of Dari’s voice submerged under wild applause. He called to you again. “Hey Karly. Come over here and say hello.” Dari’s words choked off my resistance. Helpless to stop your progress, I watched through your eyes as you crossed Atlantic Avenue. Dari reinforced his magic with an a cappella seduction. “Be with me, alone at sea, babe…” he sang. I chanted in a high, loud voice, desperate to cut through Dari’s coercion. My chant wasn’t working, but neither was Dari’s magic. The closer you got to the stage, the more you were in charge. Dark laughter chuckled at the back of your mind, and it confused me. You were in the middle of the street, ten steps from the curb. A two-toned Chevy truck driven by a werewolf crawled toward you. He was trying to pick up one of the local girls on the sidewalk and was looking everywhere but the road. “Loser,” said a bikinied girl as she flipped him off. “Go back to the sticks,” jeered another. The werewolf cursed and punched the gas. My wisps flamed red as I screamed a warning. “Karly, run! There’s a truck.” You ignored me, walking smoothly, like a celebrity on the red carpet. I flew at the werewolf, trying to make him swerve, but he couldn’t see me. The thud of a body against the grill made the werewolf hit his brakes, but the truck had crushed a body under its back wheels before he stopped. He howled in despair. “Karly! I couldn’t stop you. I’m sorry,” I said, finding a new depth of despair. I flashed behind the truck to hover above your crumpled body, but it wasn’t you. Yofi clanged down beside the victim. “Wait, who is this?” I asked. “It’s Susie Dalrymple,” said Yofi. “Get out of my way.” A puddle of blood spread on the hot asphalt as Susie’s mortal life ebbed. And she smiled. She was looking at Yofi. I hovered beside Yofi, a miserable, blood-covered clump of despair. Susie said, “Angel, I see you.” “Be at peace, my blessed one,” said Yofi. For the briefest moment, their magics bonded. Then her spirit rose, trailing purple sparks upward toward the stars. Yofi’s wail of agony rang against the shopfronts, and though inaudible to the humans standing around her body, Yofi’s grief made them weep. “Such a shame,” said the medic, as he gently closed her eyes and lifted her onto the gurney. Susie would be forever young now. But where was Karly? Channeling my sorrow into rage, I turned toward the stage, planning to attack Dari, but he’d vanished. I spun up into the air and circled the beach. There. Fifty feet offshore, a plume of spray tossed by a dark fluke marked the water. Dari DiMare, in his triton form, was dragging a woman out to sea. --- Demon Seeks Witch (part 5) Previously in Demon Seeks Witch: Hux knows why Karly cannot bond to him, but he's still trying to save her from danger. Golden voiced Dari may take Karly to her death if Hux doesn't stop him. Demon Seeks Witch is a paranormal fantasy featuring hidden heritage, a love triangle, and a redemption arc. Set in Ruxton Beach, N.H. it follows Huxley Bleakbeam Hollowstew, a demon-familiar, as he seeks to woo Karly into becoming his witch, while her guardian angel father and a golden voiced rival work to make sure he never gets the chance. Ann Cudworth (also writing as A. C. Worth) is the author of short fiction in Metaphorosis Magazine, Exterus, and Sci-Fi Lampoon, and the anthologies Score—An SFF Anthology, Radicle, and Sages of Metaphorosis. She writes science fiction and urban fantasy, shaped by workshops at Odyssey Writing Workshop and the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute, as well as Futurescapes and the Juniper Writing Institute. Copyright 2026 Ann Cudworth. All rights reserved. Read more at [https://www.acworthwriter.com/](https://www.acworthwriter.com/?ref=ann-cudworth-writes.com) My stories are written by hand and edited with ProWritingAid. ### Demon Seeks Witch (part 4 of 6) URL: https://www.ann-cudworth-writes.com/demon-seeks-witch-part-4-of-6/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T13:44:34.000Z Sunday People were bored, the weather was unsettled, and the Play-a-Rama was busy. The arcade had made a tidy profit, but it didn’t make you smile. Your mood was bleak as you shuttered the arcade and got into your Ford Escort. Concerned for your well-being, I called my crows, and we followed. Ten miles north of Ruxton Beach, you stopped at Seacoast Community Rest Home to pick up a blank-faced man. I guessed that this was your father, Frank Black. You had his smile. Together, you drove inland to the Harmony Grove Cemetery. Inside the gates, your car crept along the narrow paths between the bone-colored slabs spotted with yellow fungus. Near the end of a row, you parked alongside a newish grave. As you placed a basket of artificial daisies on a small headstone inscribed with EVIE BLACK 1945-1987, the sky, flat and colorless as a silver mirror, spat rain on you. You stood silently, wiping your eyes with a Kleenex. Your dad seemed oblivious to the moment as he squinted at the trees, watching my crows. “Mom, I, we miss you. Dad’s doing fine at the nursing home,” you said, no louder than the wind whispering over the graves. Your father turned and took your hand as tears welled in his eyes. “Evie, I’m worried about Butterscotch. Have you seen her?” “Dad, it’s me. Karly. Our kitty died seven years ago.” I slid into his mind, hoping he remembered something about you that explained why we couldn’t bond. Dad’s brain train was off the track. It was an overgrown garden humming arrhythmically like a confused bee. After some gentle prodding, his oldest memories of you unfolded. I watched him find you, a newborn wrapped in a tattered plaid shirt, tucked into a wine crate. He’d gasped with delight. He’d been made infertile by a bullet in the war, and you were the answer to his prayers. He and Evie adopted you three months later. For a decade, you wore pink dresses and played with dolls. Your shoulder blades sprouted wings when you turned eleven. Evie begged Frank to do something. He used his army field kit to cut the growths from your shoulders and then vomited under the pine tree in your backyard. When your tentacles appeared, Frank hid them under baggy clothes until you learned to make them invisible. There was the answer to why we couldn’t bond. You were Nephilim—the offspring of a fallen angel. Hellspawn were forbidden to bond Angelborn. That was Demon Code 101; bonding with the other team destroyed both sides. “Why is this happening to me?” I bayed at the sky in frustration as I flew from the cemetery, heading to the salt marshes north of Ruxton. There I spun, tangling in the muddy cattails, calling for Goody Cabot’s spirit. “Huxley, I’m only a breath on the wind.” “I should have died with you,” I said, not for the first time. Goody didn’t reply. It was hours before I returned to the boardwalk and discovered what had washed ashore in Ruxton Beach. # Mystic Pony had a new singer. Dari DiMare cruised onto the stage with the graceful arrogance of a great white shark. His black eyes held no empathy. Humans were food to him, and he was hungry. He’d transformed his thick merman’s tail into muscular legs so he could walk among his prey. The black leather pants that encased his thighs clutched his hips under the hem of a blousy pirate shirt. Dari dressed like a cliché, but his female fans couldn’t stay away. His silken voice flowed over the crowd; his harmony gleamed like moonlight on the breakers. Yofi muttered vengefully about false rip-tide heroes. As Dari worked his way through the set, the barriers in front of the stage groaned, bending under the pressure from his banquet of female fans. Metal shutters clanged down as you locked up the Play-a-Rama across from the Conch. Dari swung into a Beatles medley, and thirty heartbeats later, you’d drifted across Atlantic Avenue to stand on the sidewalk in front of the stage. Dari met your eyes and sang to you. I writhed with envy as glittering magic flowed from your heart and danced over the crowd to him. “Do something!” demanded Yofi. I hated when he used his seraph’s voice inside my head, and for a moment, all I could do was hiss like a deflating bicycle tire. Then my wits caught up with his words. For once, the cranky Seraph and I were on the same side. I shorted out Dari’s amplifier with a hex and a minor explosion of sparks, seeking to break his sonic spell. Dari shrugged and continued the song on his acoustic guitar, and when I broke two of its strings, he shifted key and kept singing. Before I could bring my crows in for an attack, Dari finished his song. Yofiel appeared beside me with a puff of incense. He rolled his eye toward me. “Huxley, we must protect Karly from that Triton. He’s here to kill.” “What did you have in mind?” “I’m sure I don’t know. I’m overworked, guarding humans from the undertow, preventing sunburns, and keeping the lightning offshore. You’ll think of something.” “Yes, we all know about your righteous workload, but what do you want me to do? How am I going to stop a Triton?” Even when he tried to be civil, Yofi irritated me. Maybe it was a demon thing. We didn’t do civility. “Warn Karly away from him.” “Fine, but I want something in return.” “Such as?” “To bond with Karly.” Yofi’s halos clanged with the sound of a steel door slamming shut. There was a rumble of distant thunder. His wings blurred into high-speed motion as his ancillary mouths chanted “holy, holy, holy” as fast as chipmunks. “A storm is arriving. I have duties that cannot wait.” Yofiel spun up from the sidewalk. “What? Is that a 'no'?” I reached for him, trying to catch one of his wings, but that brassy incense burner was gone. # Dari kissed your hands, wrapping the tentacles of his dark green magic around you on the steps outside your apartment. “Howh, howh, howh,” said my crows, growling and hunching with displeasure at this fishy interloper. “He’ll be leaving,” I said and waved them off. I had hexes to cast. At your apartment windowsill, I hunkered down to lurk. No, I didn’t watch you have sex with Dari. I may be a demon, but I have standards. After Dari’s hours-long performance in your bed, I slipped past his consciousness and into his shiny mind. It was a house of mirrors, confusing and depthless. For a moment, the ignition of a bond flared, and then you looked through his eyes at me. “Don’t,” you said. Menace growled at me from the back of your throat. As I retreated, Dari murmured, “Don’t what?” You rolled off him. “Nothing, but you seem distracted.” “Things on my mind, babe.” “Like what? “Mystic Pony is leaving Ruxton after Labor Day. We’re fronting for The Vingors on a New England tour.” “How long will you be gone?” “Why don’t you come with me?” Dari’s question hung in the air as you went to the kitchen for a snack. The smell of rotting fish whiffed into the bedroom. Dari smiled with anticipation. Somehow, I had to warn you. I rejoined my crows on the roof. Your Ouija board lay on the tar paper beside a lawn chair, warping in the dew. --- Demon Seeks Witch (part 4) Previously in Demon Seeks Witch: Hux is trying very hard to win Karly over, but a sexy singer has arrived and now he's got competition. Some thing is off about Karly, and Hux learns why. Demon Seeks Witch is a paranormal fantasy featuring hidden heritage, a love triangle, and a redemption arc. Set in Ruxton Beach, N.H. it follows Huxley Bleakbeam Hollowstew, a demon-familiar, as he seeks to woo Karly into becoming his witch, while her guardian angel father and a golden voiced rival work to make sure he never gets the chance. Ann Cudworth (also writing as A. C. Worth) is the author of short fiction in Metaphorosis Magazine, Exterus, and Sci-Fi Lampoon, and the anthologies Score—An SFF Anthology, Radicle, and Sages of Metaphorosis. She writes science fiction and urban fantasy, shaped by workshops at Odyssey Writing Workshop and the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute, as well as Futurescapes and the Juniper Writing Institute. Copyright 2026 Ann Cudworth. All rights reserved. Read more at [https://www.acworthwriter.com/](https://www.acworthwriter.com/?ref=ann-cudworth-writes.com) My stories are written by hand and edited with ProWritingAid. ### Demon Seeks Witch (part 3 of 6) URL: https://www.ann-cudworth-writes.com/demon-seeks-witch-part-3-of-6/ Last updated: 2026-08-25T13:51:57.000Z But I’m not a quitter. All day Saturday, I watched you manage the arcade. Too anxious to perch, I feezed in circles through the rafters, watching the witch sign float around you. A herd of local teens rumbled in, bought a pile of quarters, and stampeded for the Skee-ball pit. The weekly Skee-ball tournament was a favorite summer contest for these kids, and you always kept score. You also magicked the results. Clever boots. I remembered Goody Cabot—my first witch—using dramatic hand gestures when she cast magic, but you stood beside a Skee-ball game and grew a set of tentacles from your shoulders. It was endearing. The kids didn’t notice. When you tapped your suckers on the control box, I settled on a rafter to watch. What were you up to, my soon-to-be witch? Clustered at the pitching line were two teams, a giggle of rainbow-haired girls and a fumble of lobster boat boys who smelled of bait. For an hour, the boys held the high score, but inspired by the steady determination of Ruxton High’s star softball pitcher, Leah Sandover, the girl’s score rose to match it. They played with passion; a much-coveted ride in someone’s convertible was at stake. Fascinated, I watched your delicate tentacles flick lavender sparks into the Skee-ball controls to keep the game score close. As you displayed your powers, my glow increased. Enthralled, I slid off the rafter and dropped for a closer look. I imitated one of your gestures and accidentally hexed the game. The scoreboard froze and blacked out. You checked the plug and shook the control box, your beautiful eyebrows drawing a V-line of concern. But Skee-ball was dead. The teens moaned in disappointment. As the one-in-charge, you adjudicated. “Skee-ball is down. We have to call the game. Leah, your team was leading, so you are the winners.” “Not fair,” said the tallest, smelliest boat boy. “It’s fair,” said the girls in a loud chorus. Tentacles waving, you let your magic flow over them, and they calmed. “I’ll refund the cost of this game, and we’ll have a rematch next week.” Pacified, they accepted the rolls of quarters and trash-talked about their next match on the way out. You locked the arcade door to start the daily closeout. I floated over the pinball machines and watched as you emptied quarters from the collection bins. Then, a miracle happened. Your body sagged, and after a long moment, you straightened, pushing back the black wings of hair that fell over the sides of your face. Your mind opened like a flower to my existence. You turned in my direction, and you looked at me. Me. I preened and fluffed up my wisps. “Are you a fairy?” You asked me, not without some delicious sarcasm. Tendrils of luminous enchantment followed the words from your mouth and twined as they rose toward me. I writhed with delight. Delicious darkness. My witch recognized me at last. I unraveled and nearly flew into the bug zapper, hyperexcited by my renewed hopes. Dodging it, I zoomed across the rafters, one of my wisps emitting a thin stream of black smoke. I streaked across the pinball machines, pulling plungers and twitching levers, unable to contain my joy. Wonder Woman’s high score fanfare trumpeted through the arcade. Your laugh jingled like a silver bell as your magic curled into a question mark. I semaphored my wisps, desperate to speak with you, but the only response I got was a confused stare. At least you could see me. I wisped a heart shape around my core, and you laughed, curling your sharp little mouth into a half-smile. I hugged myself with pleasure. “Can you tell me what you are, spirit?” You walked down the pinball aisle. I launched a steel ball into the Hellsgate game, and its backglass lit up with angels and demons. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Angel.” My wisps twitched with delight at your adorable assumption. Angel, demon, spirit—there wasn’t much difference. All could be equally bad or good. If only you could hear my voice and I could persuade you to bond and become my witch. On the beach, the concert crowd oohed at the bright fireworks bursting overhead. For a moment, the solitary figure of a man stood alone on the shoals, but he disappeared before the next flash of light. # After you’d closed the Play-a-Rama and stopped at the Ruxton Pantry to buy food, I possessed a bat and swooped through the crack under your kitchen window. The organization of your kitchen showed you were a girl with unusual tastes. Large glass cake stands on the counter held piles of half-eaten shellfish under their domes. The trash can overflowed with empty fish stick boxes, but there was no oven or microwave. I hadn’t seen a shell midden this ripe since Goody Cabot’s day. It smelled delicious. The bat I possessed had a different opinion. We darted out of the kitchen and into the living/dining room space. You had a small television and a wall full of stereo equipment. I considered the options for communicating with you as we toured your apartment. I could coerce the bat into scratching some letters on the bathroom mirror. There was a spider under the sink that could weave a message. But then, in your bedroom, I spied the Ouija board on the dresser. Perfect. I used our wing to push the Ouija’s planchette onto the floor. I dispossessed the bat, and we waited on the windowsill for your return. With breathless anticipation, I watched when you came in with your plastic sacs, filled with the boxes of seafood. You flopped into a chair at the kitchen table and consumed a plate of frozen fish sticks. Plain, not even ketchup. An hour and two rock albums later, you shuffled off to the bedroom, kicking the planchette under the dresser as you went. The bat shrugged his wings. I twanged my wisps with frustration. We tried again the next day. And the day after, you stepped on the planchette and howled. My wisps drooped as you stood in the bedroom by the dresser, looking at the cut on your foot. I prayed you’d sense my need to communicate. An hour later, my prayers were answered. You sat at the kitchen table with your Ouija board, a box of Band-Aids, and a soda. I flowed into the planchette and drifted it across the board. You started and then smiled. “Angel, is it you?” I pushed it across to the word YES. You tapped the Ouija board with the tip of a glowing tentacle and spoke in my general direction. “What is your name?” H-U-X. I spelled. I-M—A—F-A-M-L-I-A-R. Oh, black blessed flames. I had my voice again. I twisted my wisps around myself with delight. Letter by letter, I explained how I’d been waiting to meet you and how I wanted to help you. Our conversation deepened after that. I wooed you carefully, reluctant to overwhelm you with my eager impatience. I hid the dragging despair of waiting three hundred years to meet a witch. You seemed more pleased than surprised by my conversation, so I asked *the question*. W-A-N-T—T-O—B-O-N-D? To my delight, you said, “Why not?” H-O-L-D—Y-O-U-R—H-A-N-D-S—O-U-T C-A-L-L—M-Y—N-A-M-E T-H-R-I-C-E You looked at the board. I’d waited for this moment for 300 years. “Hux, Hux, Hux.” I hovered above the table, quivering with anticipation, but nothing happened. A white feather floated in from the window. Curse those gulls—those flying scavengers. I vaporized the feather. A-G-A-I-N? “Hux, Hux, Hux.” Had they changed the incantation? It had been centuries since I’d bonded. “Am I doing it correctly?” You asked, looking annoyed. Y-E-S I reached for your essence, desperate to make a bond, but as I did, bright bands of light covered your heart. Something blocked our bond. I took the blame, stalling for time. N-O-T—Y-O-U—I-T-S—M-E. “I see,” you said. Your disappointment made me flounder for words. T-O-M-O-R— You didn’t let me finish. Instead, you put the Ouija board in the closet and went to bed. I flopped onto the empty windowsill. Another white feather floated past. I followed it down the street. It was late in Ruxton Beach; an evening shower had cleared the boardwalk. I drifted onto the beach, half inclined to possess something and brood out at the lighthouse. Some animal had killed a gull, leaving its body splayed and bloody on the sand. Its large wings reminded me of Yofiel. Why did Yofi fall down to this town twenty-four years ago? If, for some arcane reason, that brassy ding-dong’s arrival spell-bound you, then I had *evil* to do. --- Demon Seeks Witch (part 3) Previously in Demon Seeks Witch: Still failing at winning Karly's heart, Hux tries harder, makes some headway by using a Ouija board, but something holds her back. Another competitor for her attention is about to arrive. Demon Seeks Witch is a paranormal fantasy featuring hidden heritage, a love triangle, and a redemption arc. Set in Ruxton Beach, N.H. it follows Huxley Bleakbeam Hollowstew, a demon-familiar, as he seeks to woo Karly into becoming his witch, while her guardian angel father and a golden voiced rival work to make sure he never gets the chance. Ann Cudworth (also writing as A. C. Worth) is the author of short fiction in Metaphorosis Magazine, Exterus, and Sci-Fi Lampoon, and the anthologies Score—An SFF Anthology, Radicle, and Sages of Metaphorosis. She writes science fiction and urban fantasy, shaped by workshops at Odyssey Writing Workshop and the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute, as well as Futurescapes and the Juniper Writing Institute. Copyright 2026 Ann Cudworth. All rights reserved. Read more at [https://www.acworthwriter.com/](https://www.acworthwriter.com/?ref=ann-cudworth-writes.com) My stories are written by hand and edited with ProWritingAid. ### Demon Seeks Witch (part 2 of 6) URL: https://www.ann-cudworth-writes.com/demon-seeks-witch-part-2/ Last updated: 2026-08-25T11:20:04.000Z Saturday Mid-morning, I possessed a cat who had caught, tortured, and eaten one of my mice. We sat on the sidewalk licking our paws, and I puzzled over my bonding conundrum when, to my eternal annoyance, the damned Seraphim Yofiel manifested before me. Yofiel, First Guardian of the Third Gate, arrived in Ruxton Beach twenty-four years ago with the subtlety of a circus train. Their spherical body contained one great unblinking eye orbited by fiery halos and three sets of wings. Most annoying of all, six ancillary mouths at the base of their wings chanted “holy, holy, holy” in an off-key chorus. Yofi surveyed the mortal plane with a skeptical glare and patrolled the beaches of Ruxton as if they were a lifeguard. They filled the breeze with the stench of burning frankincense. That morning, they clanged onto B Street, shoving me out of the cat, who threw up a half-digested mouse. Hungover tourists oozing along the sidewalks around us twitched like frogs on a skillet as Seraphim Clapper-brain Fluffy-pants blasted a thunderous fanfare and began my inquisition. “Huxley Bleakbeam Hollowstew, you plebeian transgressor of the diabolical, what are you doing?” Their blazing eye scoured the passing faces. They were always looking for a pearl among the flotsam. “I might ask the same of you,” I said. This noisy bag-in-cense needn’t know my plans for Karly, my dear soon-to-be witch. “Our heavenly duty remains a secret. There is more peril on this mortal plane than you are ware of,” they pronounced as their glare jerked downward, scrutinizing the shoreline. What was this winged noisemaker talking about? I lived for danger; mischief was my constant companion. Oh, I forgot. Someone might die of boredom here. How did a mighty seraph, one of those who stood closest to Biggie Holy, fall to Ruxton Beach? Yofi must have transgressed mightily to be sent this far down. They continued their questioning. “What’s your mischief today, demon?” Lucifer Morningstar. The dream of bonding emboldened me enough to challenge this gasbag. “I’ve found a witch, so leave me alone, you winged jukebox.” That did it. Yofi turned, and a blazing light blasted from their eye, toasting my wisps. Their halos spun with a high-pitched whine and heated the air. What had I said? “Stay away from Karly, malefactor.” His voice boomed the command, and the people passing us glanced at the sky. How did this bombast know your name? I dug in. Demons have rights too. “Not if she wants to be my witch, Basso Un-profundo. I know the rules about bonding with humans, and I’m not using spells.” “Filth, once she smells where you come from, she shall never desire you.” I smirked; Yofi was all thunder and no rain. “Beezel’s bub, you are so boring.” Their eye bulged with fury. I changed tactics and misdirected their anger with temptation. “How about a trip to the nude beach, Yofi? I know you want it.” It was a low blow, but it worked. Their mouths clamped shut as their wings beat in a humming blur. Their halos blazed with righteous light. My wisps streamed behind me, snapping in Yofi’s wing wash. “Take heed, fetid effluvium,” Yofiel said as they rocketed into the sky. “Eat my tufts,” I replied. But I was late with my taunt; Yofi didn’t hear my words. Evacuating the incense from my core, I recatted and padded down B Street to Atlantic Avenue. There was the Play-a-Rama, just opening for the day. Hell’s bells and tinkertoys, you were going to be my witch. Yofi be damned. # Back in elemental form, I hovered among the ceiling beams over the games. Pinball machines lined both walls from front to back. They were a devil-blessed entertainment designed to suck quarters out of adolescent pockets. More expensive diversions filled the middle spaces—games like The Claw and Duck Hunt, games you might win a stuffed animal playing. At the back, to the left of the change counter and t-shirt stand, five Skee-ball pits leaned against the ball-pocked walls. Abandoned in the corners were vintage games, displayed more for ambiance than actual entertainment. I landed on one to watch a creaky Zoltar judder his puppet hands over a crystal ball. And when his cabinet spit out a preprinted fortune, I understood how to communicate with you. All I needed was a scribe, willing or not. My scribe arrived with the unfortunate name of Dennis Muntz. With anxious glances toward the older boys, he sidled up to the Frogger game with jingling pockets. I slithered into his head. Possessing the pudgy fourteen-year-old wasn’t much of a challenge. I’ve gotten more resistance from Labrador retrievers. “Write these words on a piece of paper. Give it to Karly, and I’ll ensure you win all day,” I said from the cesspit of his mind. “Who are you, weird thing in my head?” asked Dennis, his mental voice even reedier than his actual one. I slapped Denni’s amygdala to let him know I was serious and explained. “I’m Hux, an actual demon and your worst nightmare.” His resistance was immediate. “Not doing nothing for you.” Eyes slit with calculation; he checked his reflection on the nearest chrome surface. I sighed, letting my wisps droop over my core. “I’m not giving you horns.” “Why not?” Unbonded for so many centuries, I barely had the wattage to possess this half-sized human, so I cheated. *Dah, dah, dah, dah, do bee do be do.* The super-smooth tones of elevator Musak filled his brainbox. “I’ve got all the hits from the fifties, Dennis. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.” He endured another minute, but his neck was sweating. “Ok, I’ll do your bidding, but I will win Frogger all week,” he demanded. “As agreed. Now, get on with it. Denny, my pup. You’ll be a fierce union negotiator someday. After ten minutes of painful cursive lettering, Dennis recited the words he’d written on a mustard-spotted napkin. *Magic, can you feel it?* *Karly, your familiar is near.* *Say “Hux” thrice to bind your spirit.* *And soon, I will appear.* Then he added, “Suckiest poem ever.” He wasn’t wrong; translating Demonic to English undercut the prose and doused its fire. But I stuck to my plan. “Shut it unless you want your lips sealed permanently. Give it to her, and I’ll release you.” “And I’ll be a champion at Frogger? All week?” “That’s the deal.” Negotiating with mortals was tiresome, but here was one more human who’d bargain with the dark side. I glowed brighter with that small win. Dennis shuffled to the counter and stood, waiting for your attention. You accepted the crumpled napkin from Dennis and dropped it on a tray beside the cash register, half listening to a family from Boston complain about the *pahking* in Ruxton Beach. I waited for you to read it. Yofiel’s laugh brayed across the boardwalk. Manifested as a buff lifeguard, he paddled a surfboard against the waves to rescue a mother and daughter from the sneaky rip tide current. But Yofi was too late to save the day. The exhausted swimmers were already past the breakers, leaving the arms of a dark-haired man who swam like a dolphin. They rose to their feet, staggering from exhaustion. Yofi finally arrived, helping them back to their towels, scanning the empty waves for their rescuer. They didn’t like being upstaged, especially during a rescue. A sharp sea breeze kicked up, rattling the shop doors along the street. And as I watched from the doorway of the Play-A-Rama, the poem you never read blew off the counter and into the ocean. My hopes sank with it. --- Demon Seeks Witch (part 2) Previously in Demon Seeks Witch: Having failed to win Karly's heart right away, Hux meets Yofiel and discovers there is more to Karly than he thinks. Hux vows to redouble his efforts. Demon Seeks Witch is a paranormal fantasy featuring hidden heritage, a love triangle, and a redemption arc. Set in Ruxton Beach, N.H. it follows Huxley Bleakbeam Hollowstew, a demon-familiar, as he seeks to woo Karly into becoming his witch, while her father and a golden voiced rival work to make sure he never gets the chance. Ann Cudworth (also writing as A. C. Worth) is the author of short fiction in Metaphorosis Magazine, Exterus, and Sci-Fi Lampoon, and the anthologies Score—An SFF Anthology, Radicle, and Sages of Metaphorosis. She writes science fiction and urban fantasy, shaped by workshops at Odyssey Writing Workshop and the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute, as well as Futurescapes and the Juniper Writing Institute. Copyright 2026 Ann Cudworth. All rights reserved. Read more at [https://www.acworthwriter.com/](https://www.acworthwriter.com/?ref=ann-cudworth-writes.com) My stories are written by hand and edited with ProWritingAid. ### Demon Seeks Witch (part 1 of 6) URL: https://www.ann-cudworth-writes.com/demon-seeks-witch-part-1/ Last updated: 2026-08-25T11:20:23.000Z Labor Day Weekend 1992 Friday I am a demon/familiar without a witch to bind. It’s a problem. I’ve been hunting for a new witch in Ruxton Beach, New Hampshire, for three hundred years. Humans were once my meat puppets; now my powers are fading. The best I can do is read the surface of their minds and possess lower animals. Tonight, I’m inside a seagull, perched above the greasy decks of the Crusty Clipper restaurant, watching an impressive display of human gluttony. Kludges of deep-fried whole belly clams dropped into gaping mouths below me. Gulping throats sucked down pitchers of a noxious cocktail called the Rip Tide. They brought out a six-foot lobster roll for one guy. He'll be at the all-you-cannot-eat buffet we serve in Hell when his arteries close. *Fries…fries…delicious fried fries…* Hungerburbled up from the gull’s mind, so I let it swoop down to an unprotected plate. We were up and away with our prize before the human even twitched. Fry in mouth, we skimmed the rooftops of the main drag, Atlantic Avenue, and landed on the Conch, an outdoor concert stage. The Mystic Ponies had finished their set for the evening, and it was mercifully quiet. A meager audience trickled to parked cars and boardwalk bars. One of the local vampires, a two hundred-year-old college boy named Brandon, closed in on his evening meal. She’d wake up on the beach tomorrow, slightly anemic. The gull vocalized my surge of jealousy. Vampires had it so easy. When would I find my witch and be complete again? My ride was still hungry, so we landed on the rim of a trash can. I sniffed for a witch, and the gull pecked at a pile of pizza bones. Then, the faintest whiff of magic. Could it be? I extended my senses, turning toward the sea, and there you were. My spirit resonated with longing, and we flapped our wings with excitement. You sat waist-deep in the water at the end of a jetty under the waxing moon, raven-haired with sea-glass-colored eyes. What did you watch in the water? There were nothing but briny shadows in the moaning tide. Lavender twists of magic shimmered on your fingertips, like the first flight of snow melting over the ocean. It was witch sign. I was sure—mostly. But I'd been fooled before. The Seventies were full of wiccans. I had to find out if you were real. I dispossessed the gull, dropping it on the sand with a feathery plop, and flew to you as my elemental self, a vaporous knot of twisting temptation. The bittersweet scent of your powers filled my senses as I approached. I prayed you could see me as I hovered in the air before your eyes, pulsing with a firefly’s rhythm. You slid your gaze, under black lashes, over the ocean to me and raised a dark eyebrow. Lilac tendrils reached from your heart, and I arched my vapor trail toward them, like a cat hoping for a caress. I drifted closer, gathered my feeble powers, and read your uppermost thoughts. You ran a local game arcade on the boardwalk. Mom was dead, and Dad had early-onset dementia. They’d named you Karly Jean, and they loved you, even though you were different. Our magics intertwined, and my powers strengthened. I hugged your scent, your magic, into my center and rolled into a happy ball of light. Great Luci’s tongue piercing; it was delicious. Dark fires, I had to bond with you and become your familiar. # An incoming ferry hooted at the dock. You sighed and looked at your watch. I was forgotten. My wisps sagged; our moment was over. But I couldn’t let you go. I followed you home, soaring on the wings of expectation. Your pink flip-flops slapped on the wooden treads as you climbed the stairs to your apartment over the arcade. I possessed a scuttle of field mice and commanded, “Gather daisies, lilies, and wild raspberries to me until you drop.” And when the mice lay exhausted in the alley behind the arcade, I summoned my murder of crows. “Take this bouquet to Karly’s window—that one up there.” I spun like a dust devil on top of the telephone pole across from that window, waiting for you to notice my gift and beckon me inside. Three hours passed, and you remained oblivious to my wooing despite a pile of dying flowers on the windowsill. You were cocooned, smoking weed, and watching Seinfeld reruns. I fell for you that extra bit more when you expertly cursed at the television. That was me; I put a hex on it. I’m a demon; that’s what we do. Ultimately, my efforts at floral enchantment failed. The midnight winds scattered my bouquet across the alley after you’d gone to bed. I tried to enter your dreams, desperate to absorb more of your power, but each time I neared your subconscious, a snapping wing slapped me from your mind. Strange. That had never happened before. I gave up at dawn, wondering why I couldn’t bond with you. The field mice sighed when your landlady swept up my dead flowers and threw them in the trash. --- Demon Seeks Witch (part 1) Demon Seeks Witch is a paranormal fantasy featuring hidden heritage, a love triangle, and a redemption arc. Set in Ruxton Beach, N.H. it follows Huxley Bleakbeam Hollowstew, a demon-familiar, as he seeks to woo Karly into becoming his witch, while her guardian angel father and a golden voiced rival work to make sure he never gets the chance. Ann Cudworth (also writing as A. C. Worth) is the author of short fiction in Metaphorosis Magazine, Exterus, and Sci-Fi Lampoon, and the anthologies Score—An SFF Anthology, Radicle, and Sages of Metaphorosis. She writes science fiction and urban fantasy, shaped by workshops at Odyssey Writing Workshop and the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute, as well as Futurescapes and the Juniper Writing Institute. Copyright 2026 Ann Cudworth. All rights reserved. Read more at [https://www.acworthwriter.com/](https://www.acworthwriter.com/?ref=ann-cudworth-writes.com) My stories are written by hand and edited with ProWritingAid. ### Song of the City (part 2 of 2) URL: https://www.ann-cudworth-writes.com/song-of-the-city-part-2-of-2/ Last updated: 2026-08-04T13:49:13.000Z For days, Rat built her nest, pressing each bit of masticated paper into a shallow bowl. Above the nest, humming metal walls twisted upward into darkness. Below her nest, a sliver of light poked in through a hole too small for anyone but Rat. She worked constantly, compelled to finish before she ate or slept again. Rat squeaked and the walls echoed. When her nest was finished, Rat burrowed under a pile of shreds, grunting with pain as her belly contracted. She pancaked her body, trying to get comfortable. A stray bread crust, abandoned days ago, didn't tempt her, nor did the smell of water puddling around the walls. She pressed her body flatter and pushed again. Something twisted through her back end. She growled with pain, pushing repeatedly until her first pup slid out. Instinct made her lick the blind pup clean. The process restarted, and six more times she delivered a live pup, cleaned it, and pushed another out. She squeaked softly to soothe her wriggling pups. Then, she lay exhausted, half asleep, with eight new pups sucking at her teats. She devoured the crust, but she couldn't leave her newborn pups to seek more food. Not yet. Rat fell asleep as they suckled, and the surrounding walls hummed softly. # The weather turned on the night the rat pups were born. Winds rose to a persistent gale as the pups lay nursing from their mother. Rain slashed my face as gusts of wind punched my body from all sides. More of my gilding flaked off, and where it did, water penetrated. The temperature dropped. Ice dams formed, warping the welds between the plates on my surface. I intensified my counter-humming and, through the night’s coldest hours, held my body together. Near dawn, the wind’s relentless pressure increased, howling like a full moon choir at the state hospital. My left arm twisted against its framework, straining to uphold an ornate crown. I counter-hummed the movement, and for an hour more, I kept my body together. But the storm attacked again. A vicious gust slammed into my back with the suddenness of a mousetrap, and my left arm snapped off my body. The wind screamed across the empty socket of my shoulder, and seconds later, the building recoiled as if it had been kicked. I wept gilded tears. Eventually, the sun pushed a dim warmth onto my back. The winds slowed, and the ice melted from the loosened welds. I rested, grateful to still be standing on the roof. Two days later, multiple sets of footsteps shook my balcony. Ropes were thrown, and men climbed onto my perch. “Mother Mary. What an effin’ mess.” Wads of damp trash fell from my skin as his boots kicked them away. “Her effin’ arm fell through the cafeteria skylight—good thing it was in the middle of the night,” said another, grunting as he secured straps around my neck and waist. They climbed me like a tree and buckled themselves into position around my broken arm. The rest of their words drowned under the clatter of chains as winches groaned with a new load. Soon my body shuddered from hammer blows as they pounded metal spikes into my shoulder to reattach my arm. At noon they climbed back to the roof for lunch. My grandson, the mayor, arrived with Lenny in mid-afternoon. My right hand thrummed as he spoke. “What’s the verdict, Lenny?” “Department of Buildings says she’s a hazard. They’ve issued a class 1 violation order, and Landmarks will be here later to assess. They’ll want to restore her.” “And how should we pay for it, Lenny? With my reelection funds?” Lenny said nothing. “Thought so,” said the mayor. # So quietly that none of her pups woke from their sleeping pile, Rat left her nest to find food. The light was golden; her shadow was long. She ransacked the workers’ trash and found a flattened cup coated with stew. Rat forced her head into the cup to lick the damp remains. She missed a shadow’s flicker as the beak and claws passed overhead. The shadow paused, getting larger as the beak and claws dived at her. The claws scrabbled, trying to rip the cup and snatch Rat away. The beak screamed with frustration as Rat escaped. The claws rose to attack again. Rat dashed for safety, but she was slow from deprivation. The beak returned, claws grazed her back, and would have grabbed her but for a vent pipe. Rat screamed in fear. Her pups roused and echoed back. Rat cowered in the tiny space, trapped by the beak and claws. Through her whiskers, a vibration like engines and wheels emanated from the metal around her nest. Her pups’ calls were overwhelmed as the sound swelled to a thundering roll. The beak and claws screamed, clung to the pipe for a moment more, and then launched into the sky, vanishing on the wind. # The pups grew, got out of the nest, and scampered across the roof. On the street below, traffic surged as regularly as the tides. More of my gold leaf coating flaked off, and my voice became hollow, filled with the background clatter from plates that had become too loose for me to control. I was disintegrating. Now and then, I heard the mayor’s voice booming from radios inside the building below, exhorting people to cast their votes for him. Times were hard; there was talk of a war to come. I waited and flaked and hummed to the rats as I measured the days. # Winter had arrived. I was standing silent when the door on my balcony cracked the coating of ice and opened. Squeaking urgently, the rats—I had a robust colony now—ran for their hiding places, some for their old nest inside my heel, some along the rooftop ribs, and some to the spotlight housings arrayed around me. My grandson had returned, and he moved slowly along the balcony. “Nana? Are you here?” His voice was hoarse. I managed a faint buzz in response. “I won. They want me for another term.” I hummed with the only plate remaining on my right hand. He continued speaking. “Nana, this is a wonderful city because of you.” I hummed again, varying my pitch for human ears. “Gr-r-r-n-d?” His feet shifted on the balcony, but he wasn’t listening. “—son?” “When they approve the funds, we will restore you.” “S-s-s?” My metal parts lying on the roof rattled as he paced. I waited a few moments until he returned. When he settled, I tried again. “Gr—and-s-o-n.” He stopped pacing with a suppressed sob. I hummed, trying to get another word out, but the plate on my right hand loosened and fell off onto the roof. “We’ll fix you, Nana,” he said, sniffing in the cold. I couldn’t reply. My grandson left. His grandfather would have said more, but he was dead. # Rat watched as her busiest offspring worked on a new project. He loved to chew on the old photographs moldering inside the wooden cabinets in the cupola. Every day, with his mouth full of photo scraps, he darted across the roof and pasted them into the spotlight housings. Periodically, another ungilded section fell off the metal framework and rolled down the roof, falling to the balcony. The claws and beaks lurked overhead but never attacked again. The sixth spotlight nest was half-finished when the men returned. Her offspring dropped the photo scraps he carried and dived for the closest hidey-hole before the balcony door slammed open and rattled a pile of metal parts nearby. “We should have done this sooner,” said the architect, gently pinging his fingertip against the metal hand. “Rebuild her or scrap her? Cost is about the same,” said the comptroller, shuffling up to the architect, staying well away from the railing. “The mayor has funds for rebuilding—so who can argue? Gonna be a bitch to move her, though.” The architect tapped the rusty framework. “Yeah, it's going to be a bitch,” he repeated. Rat and her children waited until the men’s footsteps blended into the hum of the building before they reemerged. She pulled her whiskers to get the men’s scent from her nose and watched her offspring paste another photo scrap onto the spotlight lens with his tiny pink paws. # I arrived at the Navy shipyard in 500 pieces. They laid me out around my armature, which they’d clamped to a welder’s platform. The air shimmered like a cymbal as the welders’ torches blazed. My armature stiffened as my right side skirt plate was clicked in place. Another jiggle and a click happened as they attached one more. Moving upward, they rehung my plates. I had a new-shoe tightness all over my body. My welds were thickened as they made certain no wind would rattle me apart. I should have been joyous at my reassembly—but no one waited for me on the roof but those mad, photo-eating rats. When I was complete, they painted me with sable brushes and gold leaf, and I shone like a flame. I was built to last, but there was no part of me loose enough to hum with—I’d lost my voice. Like Cleopatra on the Nile, I floated back on a barge, surrounded by my tugboat attendants. At the wharf, a helicopter lifted me to the roof of the municipal building. I twisted slowly above the spectators, feeling the sun warm my body. The crowd cheered as I landed on the roof. I pushed against my too-tight skin, wanting to vibrate with song, but nothing happened. The riggers bolted me down as the helicopter’s rotors washed wind over my surface. Finally, they finished, and I was alone again. # Rat hid in the vent when the humans returned. She squeaked with anxiety—afraid for her nests. “Put the lights on,” said the architect, climbing onto the roof and turning to look at the statue. The riggers watched silently; the cables and harnesses that held them on the roof clinked softly in the wind. Rat’s paws tingled as the current surged through the thinly insulated cables that ran inside the vent where she was hiding. The old bulbs inside the spotlights glowed amber and then flared with sheets of white light. An old picture appeared, projected onto the golden skin of Civic Fame. She was a woman whose face matched the statue. The image darkened and shriveled as Rat’s nests burned. The rat colony abandoned the roof, repelled by the smoke, and moved down the building in search of a new place to build their nests. # I knew the mayor had come to visit, like a tree knows there's a squirrel in its branches. He wanted to talk. “Nana? Are you there?” I couldn’t answer; the statue was my new canvas jacket. I needed vibrations and to hum. My awareness flowed onto the surface of the statue’s golden skin. An ocean’s breeze lifted me from my gilded container. My spirit moved toward the bay to harmonize with the oysters peeping as the tide came in. I hummed with the bridges spanning the rivers and zithered with the fountains as children played in their flow. The city was my instrument now. I was its music. I was the song of the city. --- Song of the City (part 2) Song of the City is a contemporary fantasy featuring possession, a haunted object, and an unlikely narrator. It follows the experiences of a woman who wakes inside the statue she modeled for in decades past with no memory of how she got there, and Rat, who's looking for somewhere safe to live and raise her pups. Previously in Song of the City: The statue explores the city through its sensations and learns how to speak to the mayor and other visitors. Rat prepares for the arrival of her pups and together they work to survive. Ann Cudworth (also writing as A. C. Worth) is the author of short fiction in Metaphorosis Magazine, Exterus, and Sci-Fi Lampoon, and the anthologies Score—An SFF Anthology, Radicle, and Sages of Metaphorosis. She writes science fiction and urban fantasy, shaped by workshops at Odyssey Writing Workshop and the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute, as well as Futurescapes and the Juniper Writing Institute. Copyright 2026 Ann Cudworth. All rights reserved. Read more at [https://www.acworthwriter.com/](https://www.acworthwriter.com/?ref=ann-cudworth-writes.com) My stories are written by hand and edited with ProWritingAid. ### Song of the City (part 1 of 2) URL: https://www.ann-cudworth-writes.com/song-of-the-city-part-1/ Last updated: 2026-08-25T11:20:39.000Z *Where am I?* This was not my state hospital room, with its barred windows and rough sheets over a lumpy mattress. My mother’s solution for my irrational life. I combed my memories. This was not my seedy first apartment on the East Side. *Was I in the sculptor’s drafty studio, blindfolded and strapped to a posing stand where I stood exposed to his measuring eyes for hours?* Impossible; I left that life decades ago. I wanted to take a deep breath, but I didn’t need one. Only vibrations—firm, soft, quick, and slow—described the world around me. My feet balanced on a dome that cupped sounds from a building below. Voices sounded in its stone-lined halls and wood-paneled offices, making the building hum like a beehive. I reached further. On the street level, an echoing portico crouched over a subway station that trembled with each train’s passage. *Was I back in the city?* My touch followed the pulse of a train to the harbor, where the thrumming current pushed against straining chains and churning propellers. *More!* I opened myself until my body shivered in the brassy cacophony. I knew this sound; it was my city. *Do they remember me? I was famous once.* I narrowed my focus to the slow heartbeat of a sturgeon napping in the shadows of a humming bridge. *I was famous, but not lucky.* A clock tower pulsed four o’clock against my skin, then five, and six as the city finished another day. The sun released me from its heated embrace, and I straightened upward, clicking and groaning as my metal skin cooled. Dripping down from my memory, the clues accumulated, and when I remembered an architect’s drawing tossed in the corner of my sculptor’s studio, I knew who I’d become. I’d awoken inside the golden statue they’d named Civic Fame. It had my face and body and was twenty-five feet tall. When they hoisted it to the top of the municipal building, I was twenty-two. That was so long ago. Last month, at the hospital, I had my 98th birthday. The sunrise warmed my back and my legs, and the city started another day. # Deep, down in the hollows of granite-faced walls, Rat climbed. Her whiskers twitched with anticipation as she followed the irresistible fragrance of old paper and animal glue to a circular room at the top of a building. Piles of yellowed newspaper, Rat’s favorite nesting material, filled cardboard boxes sagging against the sides of dusty oak cabinets. She’d found the perfect spot. Driven by hormones and instinct, Rat had to make a safe space for her unborn pups. She chewed enthusiastically, cutting the newsprint into pieces for her nest. Men arrived, stinking of sweat and tobacco. Rat hid under a cheese-stained paper plate. Through her whiskers, she felt their bodies setting down on the chairs. Rat wanted to scrabble back into the walls, but if they saw her movement, they’d chase and try to stomp on her. Their words, so low and slow in her ears, made her grind her back teeth for comfort, but if she slowed her mind to listen, she caught the meaning. “Welcome to the cupola, Mr. Mayor.” “Lenny, you're a hoarder. Know that?” The volume diminished as the man walked away from Rat. She allowed her ribs to expand for another breath. “Why do you keep all this old stuff?” The other stood, and Rat tensed, anticipating a stomping foot, but the shoes moved off. “Excuse me? These are documents about our city’s rare ornament. You know about her, don't you? ” said Lenny. “Who is that?” “Her.” Rat felt Lenny’s voice bounce off the ceiling as he lifted his chin. “City something? What's her name? City Pride?” asked the mayor. “Civic Fame.” “Ah, yes. That’s it. Lenny, did you know the model for that sculpture had an understanding with my grandfather when he was mayor?” Both sets of feet stopped moving, and Rat tensed. Had they spotted her? “So your grandpa had a side piece. Who cares? Different times,” said Lenny. “My great aunt always brings it up at Thanksgiving.” “Granted, it's a family thorn, but what are you going to do about her statue, Mr. Mayor? She's falling apart up there.” “We'll decide after the election—if I get another term.” The feet moved, and Rat compressed herself into invisibility. Crumbs of plaster hit the floor nearby, but she didn’t scurry for the nearest hole. They departed, and the door banged against its frame as the lock slid home. Later on, in a corner wastebasket, Rat found a wilted scrap of lettuce stuck to a sandwich wrapper. She ate and searched for the place to build her nest. # Several people arrived on my cupola with the slam of a windblown door and determined footsteps. Curious, I loosened my metal plates to feel the vibrations of their words. My torso and skirt plates were too large to resonate cleanly, but the small plates that made my hands worked fine. I tuned the tension across my knuckles to resonate with their words. Their voices sounded tinny, like they were speaking inside a water tank. There were two voices—a rich baritone and a nasal tenor. “She was the face of the Gilded Age, but even immortal icons need maintenance now and then,” said the tenor. “These days, the budget doesn’t have much love for this old gal, Lenny,” said the baritone. “She looks bad.” *Old gal?* My back plates stiffened at his comment. “She’s been here since your grandfather was mayor. He commissioned this statue.” I hummed with surprise and remembered elegant hands, ornamented with diamond cufflinks, opening the front of my evening cape. *That was so long ago.* “Mr. Mayor, did you hear something?” “No. What do you mean?” “She's humming, sir.” “Humming? Must be the wind,” said the mayor. “Let’s go.” “But, sir. What should…” The wind blew Lenny’s question away as they left. I was elated. I’d finally met my grandson. *Might I get him to hear my voice?* # Rat dragged a crust out of the wastebasket, ate it, and continued her search for a nesting place. Following a narrow vent, Rat emerged on a roof. Her whiskers brushed the ribbed stone block as she explored. The soft fur on her back bent under a puff of wind. She'd felt that before—in the tunnels—but there were no engines and wheels to avoid in this space. Sunlight warmed her ears, but she shivered because she was exposed to the sky. Rat darted for the nearest shadow. The beaks and claws that came down from above—sudden death on silent wings—lived here, in the sky. Against a stone plinth, Rat discovered a pile of windblown trash. She burrowed deep under the soggy papers and leaves and found an odd metal wall. Its rusty parts sagged open at one of the seams, providing access. She wiggled through the gap and into another space, climbed its internal framework, and found the perfect place for her nest. # A rat had nested inside my left foot. I remembered hiding from rats in a padded room at the state hospital. The canvas jacket protected my arms. *That was so long ago.* To scare my foot rat away, I used the wind to push my shin plates into a screeching racket, but she wouldn’t leave. Maybe she liked it. Maybe it sounded like the subway to her. I'd had no visitors for weeks. More of my gold leaf flaked off every day, and while that loss let my plates vibrate more freely, it also exposed the welds. Day by day, my appearance degraded. We were well into autumn when I noticed the growing weakness in my left arm. I had to act, or the unrelenting hum of the city and the winds would break me. I tried to stiffen my structure, but only counter-humming dampened the destructive vibrations. My arm stayed put. I found a measure of triumph in that discovery. But my small victory did not last. # Rat pushed a large wad of newspaper shreds into the vent. The door opened, the lights flared, and a man entered the cupola. Blocked from escape, Rat whipped behind a stack of boxes to hide. The man reeked of anger, and the stomping feet slipped and stumbled as he crossed and recrossed the room. “There's nothing for it. I'll lose half my voters if I scrap that damned statue.” Rat huddled inside a shadow, motionless as her heart hammered. The stomping paused for a moment, and with a sudden thunder, three boxes tumbled across the floor, spilling old clippings and yellowed photos. “I should fire Lenny for this mess.” The pacing resumed. Rat touched the wall with her whiskers—she knew another man was coming up the stairs. The lights in the cupola went off. Rat ground her teeth with anxiety when the door slammed open on the balcony—she couldn’t protect her nest. # The mayor had returned to visit me. I stopped my perpetual hum, and one of my knee plates sagged open. “Hello? It's me, Mayor Price.” His feet shuffled along the balcony as he muttered. “Why am I talking to a statue?” I rippled my skirt parts with a chiming glissando and tightened my knuckle plates to listen. “Are you humming, or is it the wind?” When he spoke again, I tried to make the sounds of words with my knuckles. “G-r-r-a-a-a…” The mayor sidled along the balcony and banged against the railing. “My grandfather knew you when he was mayor.” If there was a time to speak, it was now. I had to try again. *But what should I say? That I loved his grandfather? That he loved me? That he took our baby as his own and bought my silence?* I tried again, chopping the hum into word-sized bursts. “G-r-r-a-a,” I said. “Damn mosquitoes. How did they get up here?” The mayor slapped his neck. I dropped my pitch and tried again. My voice echoed off the buildings across the street. The balcony shook from the mayor’s feet as he paced. “Is anyone up here?” The mayor sounded annoyed. “Lenny, that’s not funny.” I tried again. “G-r-r-a-a-n-n—s-s-s-o-o-n-n.” His shoes squeaked as he stopped. I refocused and carefully enunciated. “Grandson.” The mayor was motionless. His voice pitched higher when he spoke again. The balcony door creaked. “Na-na? Is that you? How is this happening?” I was about to reply when Lenny’s voice called from the open door. “Mr. Mayor? They’re waiting for you.” His silence lengthened, and then the mayor said, “I’m coming, Lenny.” He turned with a squeak of shoe leather and walked away, just as his grandfather had seventy years ago. --- Song of the City (part 1) Song of the City is a contemporary fantasy featuring possession, a haunted object, and an unlikely narrator. It follows the experiences of a woman who wakes inside the statue she modeled for in decades past with no memory of how she got there, and Rat, who's looking for somewhere safe to live and raise her pups. Ann Cudworth (also writing as A. C. Worth) is the author of short fiction in Metaphorosis Magazine, Exterus, and Sci-Fi Lampoon, and the anthologies Score—An SFF Anthology, Radicle, and Sages of Metaphorosis. She writes science fiction and urban fantasy, shaped by workshops at Odyssey Writing Workshop and the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute, as well as Futurescapes and the Juniper Writing Institute. Copyright 2026 Ann Cudworth. All rights reserved. Read more at [https://www.acworthwriter.com/](https://www.acworthwriter.com/?ref=ann-cudworth-writes.com) My stories are written by hand and edited with ProWritingAid. ### Coming soon URL: https://www.ann-cudworth-writes.com/coming-soon/ Last updated: 2026-06-15T11:56:09.000Z This is Ann Cudworth Writes, a brand new story sharing site by Ann Cudworth that's just getting started. Things will be up and running here soon, but you can [subscribe](#/portal/) in the meantime if you'd like to stay up to date and receive emails when new content is published!