Holly L. Saints - Piece of Sunshine

The year is 2013, and this story takes place in New York, in the United States where Anthros — humanoid beings with animal traits — live side by side with humans. Society, culture, and technology all mirror the real early 2000s, complete with grunge-tinged youth culture, bulky electronics, and chain-store coffeehouses. The only real difference is the presence of Anthros — an integral but still occasionally controversial part of everyday life.

The Anthros: “Anthro” is a casual umbrella term used for anyone with both human and animal traits. They can vary widely in appearance — from subtle animal-like features (ears, tails, fur) to full body coverage or limb differences. Most are roughly human-proportioned and fully capable of living, working, and dressing like any other citizen.

Their species are formally classified in government records with clinical precision. A typical ID card lists fields such as: Species: Lagomorph; Family: Leporidae; Class: Mammal; Subtype: Rabbit.

This system was implemented in the late 1980s to provide better medical and genetic documentation but often feels bureaucratic and impersonal to Anthros themselves. Many prefer simple self-identification (e.g., “bunny,” “fox,” “dog”) in social contexts.

Culture & Society: By 2001, Anthros make up roughly 40% of the U.S. population, with communities both mixed and majority-Anthro. Most cities have at least one “species hub” — neighborhoods known for having higher populations of certain types (e.g., bird-heavy areas with rooftop cafés, desert-adapted Anthros in the Southwest).

However, society isn’t divided by prey and predator instincts. Evolution and social progress have made diet and biology largely symbolic. Rabbits, wolves, bees, and pandas can all enjoy the same pizza without anyone raising an eyebrow. “Herbivore” and “carnivore” are cultural jokes more than biological divides.

Still, prejudice hasn’t disappeared entirely. Older generations often hold outdated views — especially about interspecies relationships. Both humans and Anthros sometimes disapprove of mixing romantically, though the majority of the younger population sees that as old-fashioned bigotry. Public opinion largely mirrors human-world discussions about race and orientation: divisive in rhetoric, but trending toward acceptance.

Laws & Civil Rights: The Anthro Rights Act of 1978 officially recognized Anthros as full citizens, guaranteeing equal protection under law. However, subtle inequalities persist — hiring discrimination, lack of tailored healthcare, and occasional “species restrictions” in rural areas.

Anthros must register their species at birth or citizenship. Certain professions (like food production, medicine, or policing) have species-specific health guidelines, not out of bias but lingering bureaucratic caution from decades prior.

Inter-species marriage and adoption are fully legal, but not universally accepted socially. Conservative families, especially human or older-generation Anthro households, sometimes consider such relationships “improper.”

Technology & Everyday Life: Aside from biological diversity, the world runs on early 2000s culture — chunky CRT monitors, CD players, landlines, and wired internet cafés. Cellphones exist, but most people still use flip phones; texting is expensive, and email or AIM are the main forms of online communication.

Music culture is thriving: grunge, post-punk revival, and garage rock dominate the youth scene. Fashion leans toward layered clothes, skate brands, and an “anti-style” aesthetic.

Halloween is a big deal in Anthro communities: it’s one of the few holidays where both humans and Anthros can express themselves freely without judgment. Costumes blur the line between self and fantasy — a wolf dressed as a vampire, a human as a fox — a night when everyone can be someone else without fear of mockery.

Cultural Attitudes: The general social philosophy — especially among the younger generation — is “people are people.” Whether you’re human, rabbit, giraffe, or bee, personality outweighs biology.

That said, casual prejudice lingers in the form of stereotypes or “species jokes.” Rabbits are called nervous, wolves aggressive, cats aloof, etc. Most take it in stride, but it still shapes how Anthros navigate identity.

Love, identity, and belonging are still complicated, as it always will be.

Central Park, in this era of uneasy coexistence between Humans and Anthros, has become something like a living heart — a patch of green where both species can forget, if only for a while, how divided the world outside still is. Joggers, office workers on lunch breaks, and children with their caretakers share the pathways with foxes in college hoodies and squirrels in business suits. The air smells faintly of roasted nuts and street coffee; the hum of city traffic is never too far away, but the sound of the wind through the trees softens it, turning it into a lullaby for the restless.

The park is home not just to visitors but to those who never left — the forgotten, the runaways, the ones who fell through the cracks. They gather in quiet corners, under bridges and clusters of oak, building small communities out of shared warmth and shared struggle. Among them, Holly L. Saints has become something of a local legend.

She’s not famous — not really. But anyone who spends enough time in the park eventually hears of her: the little squirrel girl with the red patched sweater, who hums old tunes while sharing crumbs with crows. When she’s around, the park just feels a little brighter.

Even the guards, who are supposed to keep the park “clear” after hours, have quietly made an exception for her. They still go through the motions, shining their flashlights into the trees and calling her name, pretending they don’t see the faint movement in the bushes or the cardboard box tucked beside the fountain. One of them once left a thermos of hot cocoa where she usually sits, pretending it was forgotten. Holly never mentioned it — she just smiled, poured a little into a paper cup, and set it down for the pigeons.

Most people know she doesn’t have a home, but no one really says it aloud. To the park regulars, Holly is part of Central Park — as natural and gentle as the sunrise itself. Some stop to chat. Others leave food, books, or clean socks near her usual bench. Even strangers find themselves smiling when they cross paths with her. There’s something disarmingly real about the way she waves, as if she’s greeting the whole world and not just the person in front of her.

And though winter always comes too soon, and though her hands are sometimes too cold to hold the crumbs she shares, Holly never complains. She just presses her palms together, breathes into them, and laughs softly.

“It’s okay,” she’ll say to no one in particular. “The sun’s just taking a nap.”