Daily OpusEverything I write is freely rebloggable. Just keep the source and tell people about my books :D [Until I decide otherwise, my pronouns are Ze/Hir/Hirself. As in "Ze went to the shops to get hir medication hirself". Thank you for the respect.]
In any bar, tavern, or lowly dive, pirates are wont to tell stories. They spin tall tales and heavy yarns concerning this or that peril on the high seas. from the mundane to the fantastic, to the ridiculous.
And of all the luckiest of lucky escapes.
And then they murmur of the only man to pilot a ship out of Siren-infested waters.
Aaron the Unturnable.
Who singlehandedly concussed and trussed his fellow crewmen and, without any wadding in his ears, nor anyone to measure the depths, turned his ship away from the wrecking rocks. Aaron the Unturnable, who never once set foot in a bawdy-house, nor rented either street molly or jolly-boy.
Aaron the Unturnable who, in so far as any man could measure, had no bedroom-related appetites at all.
Molly listened to them all in mounting disbelief. There never was a man born who couldn’t resist staring down her cleavage or groping her bottom and she used that only for monetary gain. Overcharging and under-changing the ‘gentlemen’ who never noticed.
And there never was a single one of them she wanted to take upstairs, for all that her landlord demanded it. He couldn’t fire her. She worked twice as hard standing up as any of the girls who chose to lay down.
“You still owe me half a crown, miss,” said a seafarer who had been rather quiet during the regular uproar. He was well-dressed and well-spoken and very neat in a piratical kind of way.
“Sorry,” she said, and gave him the rest of his change. “Is there anything else I can fetch you, sir?” She leaned over to polish the table, hoping to gather a few coppers while he leered.
He put his hand over his coins and looked her in the eye. “If you’re after this, perhaps you’d like to sit with me and chat a while.”
“I ain’t that kind of girl!”
“I’ve noticed. You may also have noticed that I did not ask you upstairs. I will not grope you, nor leer, nor trap you in my lap and I certainly shan’t be using your body in any way for my entertainment.”
Confusion. “Then what th’ devil do you want with me?”
An honest smile. He had all his teeth. “Camouflage. Any gentleman frequenting a tavern must soon gain a lady by his side or be deemed… strange.”
She looked close at him. “You ain’t one of them lady pirates, dressing like a man, is you?”
Gentle laughter. “No, madam. I am one hundred percent male.” He offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you, m'lady. I am Captain Aaron Zibowalski. Otherwise known as Aaron the Unturnable. And I happen to be looking for other Unturnables similar to myself.”
She’d never been happier to sit down. All this time, she thought she’d had something wrong with her. That she’d never been drunk enough or found someone pretty enough or… or a thousand other things. The idea that she might be Unturnable had never once crossed her mind.
The plan was ludicrously simple. With an entire crew of Unturnables, it was plausible to go to the Wrecking Coast, slaughter the sirens, and then gather up spilled gold and booty by the boatload.
The only problem was gathering a crew of Unturnables.
“I don’t has to pretend I’m a man, does I?” she quavered.
“Not if you don’t want to. Though I have it on good authority that trousers are preferred clothing when one is running about in the rigging. Snags and all. Besides, the question of intercourse on board will be naturally rendered moot.”
Of course. Naturally. A crew of Unturnables. It would be the safest ship in all the seas. Next to the Malevolent Maven and Hen’s Hags on board.
“Ain’t got a lot to get,” she said. “Ain’t got a lot at all.” Just her clothes and a small, disappointing pyg jar of copper coins to her name. Scrimped and saved and occasionally moved to stop Roundheels Jennifer from helping herself to the contents.
“Then I shall help you buy at least one pair of trousers. Consider yourself signed up. My ship is–”
“The Wandering Unicorn. I heard. I’ll be there first thing.” Even if it didn’t turn out as planned… it got her away from this tavern and the expectations of becoming a proper Wench.
“No, that’s exactly the sort of mistake I’d expect from someone like you. I’m a /real/ fan, I’ve been an expert on this since before you were born.”
“Actually, it is Y, the kid was right, and you’ve no call to go around acting like that to people.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m the author.”
“It’s pronounced, ‘Rail’,” said the alleged gentleman in the trilby and Brony shirt.
“He hates 'Rail’,” said the smaller girl in a roomy JOAT coat. “It’s closer to 'Ra-el’? but you sort of run the vowel sounds together?”
“Yeah, that’s the sort of mistake I’d expect from a fake geek girl like you. You’re only here in cosplay because you get attention for showing off your tits.”
“Um. I’m clothed neck-to-toe?”
“Yeah and I noticed how much of it is form fitting. You’re welcome, you whore. Don’t interrupt, sweetie, a man is talking.”
One of the many robots wandering the halls of Genracon stopped what ze was doing to pay audience to the scene. Even though ze was wearing a skirt, you never could tell with robots.
“See, the whole 'Ra-el’ thing was canned because of a lawsuit from DC because it sounded too much like Ka-el, which you would know is the secret real name of Superman from the DC comics. If you were a real geek. I have the entire set. So of course, to avoid litigation, they swapped over to 'Rail’ which is how anybody sane pronounces a word spelled R-A-E-L… If you know how to listen, you can hear all the actors saying it in the TV series.”
“That’s because they’re all dipshits,” said the robot. “It actually is pronounced 'Ra-el’ and I went through weeks trying to teach them. It’s still in the scripts. I have a macro to go through all the non-caps mentions of his name and add the pronunciation.”
The dudebro sneered down his pimpled nose at the robot. “Who the fuck are you and why should I even care?”
“I wrote all the books, which the lady is clearly referencing. Including the short story R.T.F.M., named for the geek acronym for Read The Flakking Manual.” The robot offered hir hand to the girl. “Hi. I’m C. M. Weller.”
“Omigod, you cosplay?”
“I’ve been cosplaying since the '80’s. But back then we called it 'costuming’. Want to ditch this fake geek guy and nerd out over a hot beverage?”
Prompt: That trick where you come up behind someone and pop a paper bag to make them jump, most often portrayed when someone is working on something that could (but probably won’t) explode.
[AN: I must have hit a nerve on the Interwebs, yesterday. Twenty-three notes on one silly story because of an equally silly side-fling. Must resist the temptation to do that from now on]
To the Galactic Alliance, need-to-know information is information that every citizen, denizen and in denizen needed to know.
Things like this entry in the Traveller’s Handbook:
Humans should be well advised to avoid practical jokes in the company of non-humans. You are a robust species and therefore tolerant of surprises, shocks, and merely apparent threats to your continued existence.
Other cogniscents are not so prepared.
Further, there are some intelligent species for whom sudden surprises can result in an instinctive response.
Do not indulge in practical jokes, because slicing talons to the neck often offends.
Law-keepers and emergency response teams are always surprised to learn how often humans ignore this advice.
“I don’t curse people, I bless everyone around them.”
The court murmured.
“It’s stated that you cursed Goodie Carswater and her garden wilted.”
“I did no such thing. And it’s a well-known fact that her little tearaways widdle on her wisterias.”
More murmuring. Apparently the only person who didn’t know this was Goodie Carswater. Who also believed that her sons could do no wrong.
“It’s also stated that you cursed Thou-shalt-not-covet Jones so that no woman would want him.”
“Covetousness Jones is of the very vocal opinion that women should be grateful for his mere presence,” said Aunty Risik, witch on trial. “He also thinks that any woman he takes to the altar should permanently wear a scold’s bridle and a chain that stretches from the bedroom to the kitchen and no further. Covetousness Jones is his own curse, thank you.”
All of the unwed ladies of the village harumphed and nodded in unison.
“‘Tis the witches’ curse,” roared Covetousness Jones. “None of these worthless cows will even look at me!”
Judge Farnsbury glared down his nose at Covetousness Jones. “Perhaps you should wait until you find a woman worth more than a cow before you lay such accusations?”
The man wisely closed his mouth and sat on his hands for the rest of the trial. Though he did turn increasingly red as he scowled at his shoes.
“And the pox visited upon Purity Vesseca?”
“Is cow pox. I was hired by her father to insure her against smallpox, so I did. I purposely gave the child cow pox. An endeavour for which Master Vesseca still owes me two pigs and a cockerel for.”
Murmur murmur murmur murmur…
“You… blessed… a child with cow pox?”
Aunty Risik nodded sharply. “Thems as catch cow pox never catches smallpox. Well-known fact. ‘S why poets is always mooning over milkmaids.”
“And… what other… blessings… have you performed?”
“I blessed your wife with an easier birth,” she began. “It’s why you still have a daughter and a wife. Old Master Gripley? I bless his pains away on a daily basis. Goodie Crowsie’d be getting a pig long about now if Master Vesseca paid his bills… I see to it she gets a pig every year. Her children sure don’t look after her, so I does it.”
Bit by bit, person by person, Aunty Risik revealed that she did a hundred little things to make life easier, all over the village and into its outskirts. Even Hermit Georg, who lived in a cave and was a lot peculiar in his eating habits, got a little blessing care of Aunty Risik.
“But,” complained Judge Farnsbury, “none of this is magic…”
“I remember you tellin’ me your little Chastity were a miracle,” said Aunty Risik. “And Goodie Crowsie’s downright religious about getting that pig. It’s them’s that don’t get blessings who wither in comparison.”
It was the first and last witch trial where the witch was pardoned by mass gratitude.
After that, they were certain to go after people who weren’t witches.
It was a companionable quiet, with the rhythmic “whud, whud, whud” of the engine accompanied by various tapping and clanking of everyone doing their jobs. Eventually everyone’s noises gradually synced with the main beat and suddenly the Lion King happened.
“I swear sir, I left for four seconds and they started a musical number"
Goryx stared out at the rows of humans - still working, of course - as they continued to sing.
"TILL WE FIND OUR PLACE,” they collectively roared, “IN THE PATH UNWINDING… IN THE CIR-CLE…. THE CIRCLE OF LIIIIIIIIIIFE…”
“Please tell me this is an isolated incident?”
“Er,” said Chamb. “Actually…”
Goryx learned much, that day. For starters, that humans could start collectively singing at the drop of a beat. And there were many, many -too many- human songs in their collective consciousness that apparently everyone knew.
Also, that it was a good idea to separate the ones who sang Under Pressure from those who sang Ice Ice Baby. Just to avoid internal tensions.
“Is this a bonding exercise?” Goryx enquired.
“It can be,” explained Chumb. “In so far as I’ve been able to understand… they do it to make their days more interesting.”
“Interesting? Interesting can be fatal.”
“Yes, sir. This is a safe variety of interesting. They get… bored.”
Bored. A human word suggesting that life as they knew it was not sufficient. That safety and satisfaction were not enough.
Goryx eventually rolled hir eyes at them all and muttered, “Death worlders,” under hir breath.
“Ok, it’s a person, a guy, dark haired, kinda short, amnesiac, fast healing/possibly immortal, older than 200 years, uses bladed weapons, knows lots of martial arts, and fights against people trying to take over and/or destroy the world.”
"Yep.”
“Is it Wolverine?”
“What? No, it was Van Helsing.”
“…”
“…”
*dawning realisation*
“No way…”
“Mr Logan?”
“Yeh, Tallwater?”
“Remember how you had me researching… you?”
“Yeh…” He put the cap back on his beer. This sounded like it was going to be an interesting one.
“Well… I ran your turnaround through facial recognition and… um…” Sara fidgeted nervously with a manilla folder. “I think you’re even older than you think you are…”
“Yeh?”
She edged closer and bought out a print-out. “This is a contemporary portrait of a vampire-hunter known as Van Helsing.”
The resemblance was downright uncanny.
“And this is the only known portrait of a man going by the name of Jean Valjean.”
Okay. That was officially scary.
“There’s more of you, all through history. You age, sometimes? But -um- there’s… some evidence of a cyclical nature to your mutation? You… sort of… regenerate… In retrospect, I’m guessing you might be glad that they didn’t put you in mausoleums or whatnot. They’re rather harder to escape. And the trauma of escaping graves no doubt did disturbing things to your memory.”
Exasperation. And it took her two whole minutes. She was getting better. “What are you trying to tell me, Tallwater?”
She grinned. “Yer a Time Lord, Logan. Well. Sort of. You don’t have two hearts or a TARDIS, but I’m sure with a little time and engineering…”
“Tallwater,” he warned.
“Hm?”
“Stop.”
She sighed and deflated a little. “Sometimes, you are no fun.”
Send them in a submission, please. That one lets you do links.
And every day, a new story based on a prompt will come forth from my possibly deranged mind and bless your dash with fiction. [I’m assuming you follow me]
There’s no such thing as a bad prompt. There may be such a thing as a bad story. You’ll find out when I get to your prompt.
I work on a queue, so first in is first served.
What are you waiting for? Click that link and send me something juicy.
There are a certain number of possible reactions to finding out that one is temporarily invisible and inaudible to the rest of the crew aboard the vessel you all share.
“FUCK!” is in the top ten.
So is, “This is a plot from a bad science fiction series!”
As well as a solid string of curses old and new.
Jabrelle went through the entire top ten before she settled down and attempted to get a grip. She wouldn’t have even gone through number one on the list if she was also intangible. The effects of the gravity generator would have flung her through the floors and into instant and lonely death if she had been also intangible.
Therefore, she had to let the Captain know that something was going on. And, since the accident had also obliterated the non-essential comms systems… she had to do that in person.
Writing on the walls was not a viable solution. Firstly, an on-duty and crisis-stricken UFTP survey vessel tended to cut off access to art supplies. Secondly, all the walls were one hundred percent graffiti-proof. And the cleaners would get to anything on the floors before anyone intelligent could see it.
Therefore, after weighing all her options and finding very few available, Jabrelle calmly and logically chose to mess with the Captain’s Cup.
The Captain’s Cup, which was an old Terran tradition and an early warning system. The Captain’s Cup, ritually filled with piping-hot beverage and watched like a weak and wobbling lamb by an anticipatory vulture in times of tension. The Captain’s Cup which, despite being an inanimate piece of porcelain, knew something was up well before any sophisticated sensor could alert anyone.
Of course she started subtle, using the silver spoon like a transmission key on a telegraph.
K-E-E-P C-A-L-M. O-F-F-I-C-E-R J-A-B-R-E-L-L-E R-E-P-O-R-T-I-N-G, she began.
The captain had turned white - quite a feat considering her everyday hue - and fastened her seatbelt. “Stand ready,” ordered Captain Kimutai.
Jabrelle belatedly remembered that only colossal nerds like herself even bothered learning morse code at all, any more. And, out of distilled frustration, flipped the Captain’s Cup clear across the bridge.
There was only one sane reaction from the captain to the sight of the Captain’s Cup sailing, unprompted, across the bridge. “RED A-FUCKING-LERT!”
Which would have been fine, if the current bridge crew weren’t aliens.
“Sir?”
“SHIELDS ON FULL, PREPARE FOR IMPACT, RUN ALL SCANS, BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES AND PREPARE TO KISS YOUR ASSES GOODBYE!” Kimutai roared. “SET COURSE FOR THE NEAREST BASE, WARP FACTOR- FUCK OFF!”
“Sir, this is irrational behaviour…”
“Did you not see the Captain’s Cup FLY across the room?” Kimutai demanded.
Jabrelle recovered the cup, saucer and spoon and started making all three dance. Out of pure spite, she set the bridge audio playback to run Hello My Baby! before she did so.
"It’s dancing! Nowhere in history has The Cup flakkin’ danced—”
Jabrelle could see the metaphorical penny drop. At last. She’d found an area of common experience.
"Internal scans. Do we have any apparently missing crew?”
The lizard discretely typing out a message to send help at the comms station made a face that clearly said, What the flying hell? “Sir?”
“Do we have any crew members who have not apparently reported to their duty stations?” Kimutai enunciated.
Tap tap tap… “Officer Jabrelle Martinez, sir. She’s currently missing under suspicious circumstances.”
“Gimmie that milk,” The Captain unbuckled herself and slit open the entire bag that today’s luckless ensign had urgently ferried in for a refresh.
The assembled bridge crew gaped at the human outline as Jabrelle dripped and managed a dairy-soaked wave.
“Cancel red alert. Someone get this officer some spray paint and get her down to the medtechs.” Kimutai sank back down into her chair. “Gods damn it, Martinez…”
And that’s how clever minds can resolve bad science fiction plots in less than ten minutes.
One of your old stories - “(Nightcrawler) can get away with not using the image inducer if he just puts on a hoodie and keeps his hands in his pockets. I mean, he doesn’t even hide the tail! And his shoes have to be made special.”
Plus a paraphrased quote:
Most people don’t notice things they don’t expect to see. Children though, they’ll recognise you instantly.
It’s a good thing kids are also the least likely to screech “OMG it’s ____” and pull out a camera.
“I can’t believe it. I can not believe it,” Kitty ranted. “You just like, walked all the way through Bayville Mall and nobody… HOW?”
Safe in the darkness of the back seat, Kurt pulled his hood down. “It’s a very stupid trick, ja?”
“Well whatever it is, I totally want in.”
“You, Katzchen? You look–” Kurt fumbled with the right English. “–better zan fine.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
He grinned, sharp teeth shining almost a rival with his eyes. “I’ve had a lifetime of experience with being a mutant. I learned ways… and other ways… of hiding in plain sight.”
“Elf… Spill it.”
Kurt sighed. “People don’t look. Not all the time. They watch feet, to avoid stepping on others. They watch faces, but not always. They watch hands, which is where I have trouble… But they don’t watch -er- the lower body. From waist to knee.” His three-fingered hand gestured over the relevant area. “If I pull my tail up around my waist, under the coat? Nobody sees. Nobody looks. Ja, I have a bit of difficulty walking, but… that works in my favour, too.”
“Like, how?”
“When’s the last time you looked at a disabled person, Katzchen? Really looked?”
“Uuuhhhh…” Oh. OH.
Kurt grinned wider, now. “There’s only one thing that can break the spell.”
“Yeah?”
“Little kids. They have no fear and no filters. How long do you think social blindness lasts with a little kid hollering about the man with the blue fur?”
“So that’s why you used me as like, a stalking horse?”
“Ja. Sorry.”
“I’m pretty much not mad any more,” Kitty allowed. “Yikes.”
There was a small flock of scientists with her now. Including a very sweet, very junior male whom T'reka kept accidentally deferring to out of social instinct.
Koku had taken to very prominently wearing his ID with the ‘Junior’ part of his 'Junior Assistant’ title highlighted with the help of the humans photo-reactive ink.
Her fellow hens, three of them, were easier. She had seniority, rank, and a certain amount of hygiene standards to mark herself above the others. She didn’t abuse her power. Though sometimes, the thought was more than tempting.
The one thing she was strict with them about was in regards to personal grooming. Dust-baths during exterior exploration days, water baths during in-camp days and regular treatments for parasites. Here, the humans were helpful. They had inventions to help prevent their own kind from injuring themselves through scratching or picking. And though Numidid had no use for spinner rings, they found that chewing gum would give a person prone to picking something else to do with their beaks.
But what surprised her the most was how readily her younger contemporaries and the humans adapted to each other.
The humans had a short, seven-day week. And on the Sun’s day, they would take their ease and perform various ceremonies strictly for relaxation and entertainment. The variety of this entranced Koku where it simply perplexed T'reka, and both would find themselves staring at whatever was going on on the humans’ stage.
And then Syriki shyly asked if she could sing up there, too.
Diminutive Syriki, she of the deep black feathers and the hushed voice, and the permanently cowed posture, surprised everyone that night by not only having a wondrously loud, but also tuneful singing voice. The humans were so impressed that they unanimously stood up to make their celebratory noise. Applause.
The following act - a cadre of human puppeteers with homemade chickens - seemed embarrassed to follow her on stage.
“It is your turn,” she murmured in English. “The showing must to go on.”
The humans all adored Syriki. They lavished her with any kind of kind attention and -T'reka noted in her journals- tended to baby her owing to her small stature. They could not turn down her gentle insistence.
It was a comedy act. Puppet chickens brawked and buckawed their way through a well-known human tune with the occasional appearance of a humorous ping-pong ball.
“Oh dear,” whispered Syriki, almost hiding under T'rekas wing. “I see why they were embarrassed, now. They didn’t want to insult me.”
And, to show there was no hard feelings, she glided from her perch to the stage and joined in. She had an immensely good time and, after a heart-stopping moment of shock and awe, so did the humans.
