Snails

A friend has posted a couple crazy pictures of snails on Facebook, asking her friends to concoct stories for these absurd creatures. Here are my contributions and the images that inspired them:

 The Magician's Motivator (May 7, 2012)

After what seemed like half a decade, the novice was overjoyed. Freshman year was finally over. Packing up a dorm room had never seemed so sweet.

In one of the last couple boxes, he finally had to find a spot for his snail. Sure, some of the other apprentices had ravens or phantasmal rats or other cool pets, but did any of them have the same sentimental value as the snail? Were any of them the constant motivation to do better that his snail was?

He still remembered the day he had made this pet, standing in front of his transmogrification class (still not sure it was an actual word), "They said it couldn't be done, nay, that it shouldn't be done. Yet, here I stand before you, having done it." With a flourish, he yanked the white sheet off the tiny fishbowl, "Coral and Snail, combined as easily as Jerry made himself a Centaur."

The stamping of hooves accompanied the brief applause before their teacher cut it off with a glare. "Mr. Robinson, you've just set a record. Do you have any idea how long it's been since a student needed to repeat Beginning Transmogrification thrice?"

Yet now, two first-years later, he was finally moving on. "We did it, buddy, you were right!" he said, running a finger along the sign on his snail's bowl proudly reminding him, "Don't let your mistakes own you."


The Pixies' Secret Weapon (May 27, 2012)

"Queen Buttercup, Grand Vizier Daffodil, admirals of the First Lillypad Fleet, General Hyacinth of the Second Squirrel Cavalry division, as you all know, reports have been coming in from all theaters, and they're worse than we'd feared.

"Not only do the Big People no longer fear Pixies, not only do they step on our homes and people with impunity, but my spies (highly decorated members of the Seventh Barn Owl Recon Division, every one of them) have given me truly frightening knowledge: The Big People no longer believe in Magic."

Dr. Misty Milkweed Mudpie of the Division of Advanced Sorcery, Glamours, and Tricks pauses to allow his audience to gasp in horror before continuing.

"I don't need to tell you that this is devastating news, but it's no reason to give up hope. A secret division of our agency has been working on this problem for years. Obviously, lips had to remain sealed, lest fear spread among the fae. And on the eve of such terrifying news, I am proud to reveal the first prototype of the new Magic that will keep us in the fight, keep us from having to retreat like the Elves did. Your Highness, generals and admirals, behold the first successful Pixie attempt at using the Magic that the Big People call 'Technology'!"

The doctor snaps his fingers, and a hummingbird swoops down to hover above the branch next to him, carrying a package wrapped in leaves. He pulls out a sharpened twig and slices the leaves apart, keeping one eye facing his patrons the whole time. He is pleased to see that they all lean close with great interest.

And then the Vizier speaks up, "It's just a normal snail. That's less magical than magic." He laughs at the poor invertebrate, lying on its shell.

With a heave, the doctor flips the snail back onto its pseudopod. "Just a snail?" He pulls on a pair of goggles and reaches behind the snail, flipping a switch on the rear of its shell, almost as long as the whole snail. "Prepare to eat those words, Vizier..."

Montage Moments

"Y'ever have one of those moments that feels like you're in a montage?" Danny asked, "Y'know, background music just lines up perfectly with your actions. You look in just the right direction right as the music hits a certain flourish, and you just know, 'This moment must've been directed.' You so rarely have a montage of bad stuff too. Like, the bad stuff's what the director wants to draw out. The bad stuff's conflict; it's story. The montage is good stuff, wrapping up your 'happily afters' or getting ready to beat the bad guys, so you just know, when you feel like a montage, those're the moments where things change for the better."

I have these moments all the time. I was never really sure how or in what manner to preserve the feeling, but monologue of a hypothetical fictional character seemed like a fairly decent storage device. Perhaps I can yank it out some time, or just leave it as a sketch...

Waterbug (First Draft)

Written for the Comic Character Story Design Challenge over at Gamasutra, inspired by a comment I made on this io9 post.

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INT: Waterbug Passenger's Cabin

The passenger's cabin of the Waterbug is pitch-black, except for the stars visible through the tiny window. From the rear of the ship, a loud crash is heard as the ship lurches violently. Councilman Robins unstraps himself and floated out of bed just before the alarms start.

The ship's automated alarm system begins blaring a warning.

Ship: Warning! Air recycler malfunction. Estimated oxygen remaining: One hour, twenty-four minutes.

The councilman quickly pulls on a simple jumpsuit -the microgravity equivalent of a bathrobe- and fumbles to a wall-mounted intercom.

Councilman: Uhh... captain...

The voice from the intercom is that of a young girl, Erika Stellane.

Erika: Everything's fine, counselor. Back to sleep.

Councilman: Flashing lights and blaring alarms keep me awake.

Erika: (muttered) Amazing you can sleep at all on Titan...

Councilman: What? Nevermind. Can I help? Engine room?

Using a series of rungs along the wall, Councilman Robins pulls himself out of his quarters.

Erika: Situation's really under control counselor...

Ship: Please locate the nearest alternative air supply. Warning...

INT: Waterbug Hallway

Councilman Robins pulls himself along the series of rungs, cables, and pipes that enable the passengers and one-child crew of the Waterbug to traverse the ship. A large transparent tube full of slimy green water also runs down the hallway.

Councilman: (muttered) Thank you. I regret that I have one, very minor first act to take care of. I humbly beg your forgiveness.

Ship: Warning! Air recycler malfunction. Estimated oxygen: One hour, eighteen minutes.

Councilman: It won't take long, and then I'll get right on all my campaign promises, but first: Impound the damn Waterbug. I'm sure we'll all agree that it should never fly again...

Ship: Please locate nearest alternative air supply.

Councilman Robins arrives at the door to the engine room. Signs around the door: “Ship's Playground: Swing at your own Peril. Management not responsible for grease stains, or plasma burns,” and, “You break it, I kick you for it in the afterlife... forever.”

INT: Waterbug Engine Room

Erika is floating off to the side of the engine room, near one of the smaller machines. Erika is a skinny, thirteen-year-old girl whose lankiness has only been exacerbated by spending the better part of the past four years in microgravity. She's dressed in a dirty, too-small jumpsuit and a pair of tinted goggles. Her hair is mostly short, brown, and tied up in a bun except for a few long bangs striped with pink dye. A pair of taut tethers attached to her belt hold her in place.

Clutching the wall not far away from her is Rangoon, her Europan first mate, a seven-limbed amphibious creature, like a giant crab.

Erika turns to face her first mate and holds both hands in front of her mouth, seven fingers hanging down like the seven tendrils that make up his mouth. She quickly gestures with her fingers, and the arthropod tosses her a tool.

Councilman: Are you sure I can't help?

Erika: Do you know anything about rerouting antimatter flux containment streams?

Robins stares at her for a moment. A smile cracks on Erika's face.

Councilman: That's meaningless technobabble, isn't it?

Erika: Guilty. Seriously, though, under control. Minor issue with the air scrubbers.

Councilman: So, no problem whatsoever?

Erika: No. No no no.. Eighteen percent chance.

Councilman: Eighteen percent chance... that the air scrubber'll blow?

Erika: That it won't. Don't look at me like that. Do you have any idea just how much traffic happens without functioning life support?

Councilman: Yeah. Unmanned vessels.

Erika: That's not all. There's also derelicts. Just last week, Rangoon and me...

Councilman: 'Rangoon'?

Erika: Crabby learned what 'crabby' meant... and ironically enough got very crabby about it. I should be able to call him Rangoon for a while though. He doesn't like Chinese take-out nearly as much as I do... Anyhoo, when this thing blows, I call dibs on the artificial gill. Those tubes have algae enough to keep Rangoon and me breathing comfortably for days.

Councilman: What about...

Erika: Last I checked, the EV-suits should have O2 enough for about 48 hours, if you ration. Hold your breath for one more day after that, and we'll be on Ganymede before you can make the interplanetary sign for choking!

Councilman: I can't believe this. I paid you to get me to Ganymede safely...

Erika: No. You said, “Quickly and discretely.” No mention of safety. You'd think safety would've been a priority, but I guess not. By Titanic law, I wouldn't be in breach of contract if you arrived belly-up, would I?

Councilman Robins has become visibly angry.

Erika: I know that look! Haven't seen you this angry since you lost my emancipation suit for my folks. Titanic law! Would any other court have emancipated a nine-year-old girl?

Councilman: That was a technicality you little...

A mischievous grin appears on Erika's face as Robins raises his hands, ready to strangle her.

Erika: Now now. Attacking me with Rangoon around will only hasten your asphyxiation...

Ship: Warning! Air recycler malfunction. Estimated breathable air remaining: Fifty-seven minutes. Please locate nearest alternative air supply.

Councilman: Oh God, it just hit me. I'm seriously about to suffocate, aren't I?

Erika nods, in mock reassurance.

Councilman: On a ship that's going to fall apart before I reach Ganymede.

Erika: Most likely...

Councilman: All because those damn mobsters wanted to meet in person to negotiate such a “high-level” hit.

Erika: (in mock surprise)Your opponent? No...

Councilman: I had to do something. Every damn poll...

Erika pulls herself into the machine she was working on. Something clicks, and the alarms die out.

Ship: Air recycler functioning normally.

Erika: Thought so. (She pushes herself back out of the machine, holding a small recording device) Now, if it's any consolation, all the hush money I'm sure you're going to be paying me will make your next trip on Waterbug a much more luxurious affair, complete with gravity, air, food that wasn't vaccuum-packed before I was born...