Story Idea - Charge of the Dead

Sometimes an author gets a story idea that makes them question their humanity. 
Like: Oh! Story idea! The murder of an entire military force in the worst, most morally repugnant way known to humanity, and then they blow up a city ship!

And then the author's brain proceeds to detail how exactly an entire space navy could take out a city ship after being dead...

​Fun extra fact. Actually inspired by real life events! 

Take a moment to stop and smell the mountain asters. 

Always best to have a dragon guarding your hoard!

.....

Unless you want to sell your books and the dragon objects. That can be a problem. I mean the lack of sales can be offset with online sales but the personal injury lawsuits can really impact your end of year profits. 

​Still dragons are cool. 

Humans are Weird – Pepper

​“Who the flying flip keeps hiding the pepper?” Mack Dodge snarled out as he slammed the salt shaker onto the counter by the heating surface.  
“Flying flip?” another human asked with a grin from where he sat eating a bowl of oatmeal at the table.
“Headquarters says I need to share less cultural knowledge with this base,” Mack said, rolling his eyes as he brought his plate of scrambled eggs to the table.
The dull grey wall of the makeshift kitchen crowded in over their heads. The Undulates had given the humans the largest storage bay on their base for this common space but the breadbox sized aliens had never built the structure with two-meter tall bipeds in mind. Mack sighed as he salted his eggs.
“Seriously Bob,” he said. “This is the third day running that the pepper has been missing.”
“Eat oatmeal instead,” Bob suggested with a grin.
Mack glared at him.
“Helping,” Bob said in a singsong tone.
“Yesterday I found it in storage bay six,” Mack continued as Bob returned to his oatmeal. “The day before that I found it with the lost and found box at the security desk.”
“Well I never touch the stuff,” Bob pointed out. “Can’t blame me.”
“Well there are only seven humans on this base,” Mack observed. “The pool of suspects is pretty small.”
“There are forty-odd Undulates on the base however,” Bob said.
“What would they want with our pepper?” Mack asked. “Capsaicin isn’t technically a poison for them but they don’t go in for painful food.”
The conversation was interrupted by a chime that announced the arrival of one of their hosts. Mack and Bob turned to glance at the small opening in the door that served the Undulates. The dusky red Undulate came in and waved his gripping appendages cheerfully at them.
“And what motile dust mop graces us with his presence today?” Bob asked cheerfully.
Mack winced at the sheer number of diplomatic regulations that question broke, and not for the first time thanked heaven that the Undulates were so enthusiastic and forgiving.
“I am Spins Madly,” the Undulate replied. His tones were flat with effort. He had clearly learned human grammar but was still struggling with emotional expression. However from the way his motile appendages jumped around under him  the Undulate was excited or agitated. “I am the Quartermaster for the station and…” The Undulate hesitated and the humans gave him time to work out his words. “I believe the proper translation is station safety officer.”
“Well hello then Spins Madly,” Bob said, giving a wave. “How can we help you?”
“There has been a safety violation in this space for three days running,” Spins Madly said arching his gripping appendages in a gesture that indicated either frustration or perplexity.
“Really now?” Bob asked his grin spreading. “What violation was that?”
“I found raw ingredients for the non-lethal defense canisters next to the heating surface for food preparation,” Spins Madly said.
“And you moved them to a safer location?” Mack asked with a groan.
Spins Madly stilled thoughtfully, and then quickly scrambled to align himself towards the object of his attention, clearly remembering that humans were an aiming species. Bob burst out laughing.
“Have fun explaining why some humans eat pepper when the smart ones use it for a weapon,” Bob said as he picked up his bowl and left the table.
“You eat raw capsaicin?” Spins Madly asked Mack.
Mack tried not to laugh at how the quartermaster remembered halfway through the sentence to add tones of astonishment.
“It is called pepper when we dry and eat it,” he said with a sigh.
This was going to be fun.  

​Belinda and Helen
It is a rare thing to be truly surprised by a book. Even the best novels are but patterns. Once you learn the main patterns no surprise can be found in ninety percent of the books on the library shelves. That remaining ten percent that can surprise the experienced reader also has an element of predictability.  One knows from the first chapter if this is one of those surprising gems.
Let me introduce you, dear read, to “Belinda”. Penned by Maria Edgeworth back in the days when authors still actually penned their works, “Belinda” opens on the classical Victorian debutant making her way in fashionable society. The titular character is a sensible maid who finds herself in the shadow of her aunt, known to the local bachelor set as ‘The Matchmaker General’, despite vaguely defined ‘ill health’ keeping her aunt at a comfortable distance.
“Well,” I said to myself with a sigh. “Looks like a standard piece of work. Ah, well I must listen to something while I work.”
Edgeworth, however is not just another eighteenth century author. With the skill of a slowly twisting corkscrew she pries the cork out of the fine bottle of English literature and then tosses a glass of grammar in your face. Edgeworth does for the world of Mr. Darcy and such what Miguel de Cervantes Saaverdra did for the Knights of the Round Table. Belinda rides forth as a loyal Sancho to her “debauched” patroness’s Don Quixote.
Many of the classical English story elements are played straight. There is a duel, between women, dressed as men, which may or may not require “that Amazonian operation” as a result. There is a fair maiden locked away in a mysterious house, a painting that haunts her dreams. There is also a rather telling discussion on the hearing of fish, which the authoress clearly didn’t research one bit, and so to avoid any scientific inaccuracy describes with the utmost care.  It is nearly impossible to tell what she is playing straight and what she is subverting and the result is delightful.  

Why are spots so cute on puppies? 

A single scene of inspiration because I think the soy fumes from work were getting to me....

Two stately lines of oaks demarked the course of what must have once been a wide and well used drive. Now however, moss covered whatever might have been the pavement and it was merely a leaf strewn lane. Miss Elisabeth Blithe paced lightly along  between the trees, breathing deeply of the damp English air. She wondered at the species of the conifers that crowded the towering oaks on either side. She had always tried to attend her botany lessons but she had been born and raised in far different climes in a colony and when one was raised among semi tropic blossoms it was hard to recall the names of species you only saw representations of. She made a mental note to ask her guardian. Sir Gregory Blithe always delighted in any chance to educate  his ward. His devotion to her dead sire extending to herself in every proper way. 
A break in the pattern caught her eye and she felt her ears perk in interest at the smaller, by comparison, oak. It was but half the size of the other in the double row and she approached it closely, wondering idly what caused the difference. As she came near the lichen covered bark she reached out to touch it, pulling back with a grimace as she recalled her delicate, white lace gloves. Lady Blithe had been so pleased to finally find something to her ward's taste (and that would fit her rather different proportions) that Elisabeth couldn't dream of dirtying the delicate fabric. And Lady Blithe aside she was rather fond of the gloves. She was in the process of carefully removing them when a strong odor accosted her, causing another grimace to crease her face. 
Elisabeth smoothed her countenance almost immediately feeling irritation at herself. No matter what Sir and Lady Blithe said about the locals getting used to her colonial ways she did not feel the need to force her guardian's tenets to adapt to her particular quirks. It would simply be impolite. By the time the source of the smell came close enough to pretend she had but heard him approaching she had successfully removed the glove.
"There will be no marking up of my trees now then your ladyship," a rough voice growled from behind her. 
Elisabeth stiffened instantly and spun on the gardener who had dared address her so, all thought of  politeness gone in a flash at his temerity. He was a bent old man in a tattered corduroy jacket and a felt cap that was hard to distinguish from his hair. He was, all things told, exactly as she imagined Sir Blithe's gardener would look. 
"I had no intention," she said, hissing out each word, "of marking up, this or any other of these magnificent trees." 
"Course you didn't," he grumbled as he bent over his wheelbarrow. 
"I was only wondering," she interjected before he could roll his way down the lane. "Why this one is so much smaller than the others."
"Planted later," the gardener grunted out. 
Elisabeth blinked and grimaced widely. Politeness aside this man was vexing! She was about to press him for details but her eyes caught a flicker of red and she watched a robing flicking through the brush in delight. By the time she turned her attention back to the gardener he was far down the path. 
"Planted later indeed," she muttered. 
She slipped her glove back on angrily and gave a small frustrated cry as the fine lace caught and tore. She stared glumly at the digit now poking out into the air and flexed her claws in irritation. There would be no getting the thread to repair the lace anywhere but from the spaceport and therefor no chance of hiding the incident from Lady Blithe. 
Elisabeth laid her ears back in irritation and slipped the glove into her pocket. She was far too mature for her tail to thrash at such a petty offense but quite young enough to wish that she wasn't. 

When writing well rounded characters it can be useful to remember to add the little pleasures of their lives. Do they like to sip (caffeine analogue beverage) by the window in the morning? Will the sight  of a lantern in the forest warm them inside of their various digestive organs? Can they appreciate the play of crystal-scattered rainbows across the walls of their dwelling place? These are fragments of existence that it is easiest to forget and can add some of the deepest layers to your world. 

Humans are Weird – Rope Swing
​
“The humans found the rope,” Quartermaster Ctx’qlt said without preamble as he entered the conference room.
Quilx’tch clicked absently in sympathy without lifting his focus from the information he was presenting to the new commander. The commander however lifted his primary eyes to focus on the quartermaster. The commander’s primary manipulators cocked at a curious angle and Quilx’tch tried not to feel irritation as Ctx’qlt spread all eight limbs to their maximum extent in an exaggerated gesture of bewilderment.
“We did our best to hide the rope,” Ctx’qlt raised a single manipulator to emphasize the singular nature of this rope in particular. “But I swear by the main swarm - the mother swarm - that they have some sort of instinct for finding exactly what you don’t want them to find.”
Quilx’tch wished for a moment that he could roll his eyes as the new commander, a young eager thing from the main university, tilted his head in curiosity.
“Which rope did the humans find?” the commander asked, folding his primary manipulators politely across his abdomen.
From the way the sensory hairs surrounding the commander’s primary eyes bristled in confusion Quilx’tch assumed that the question he really wanted to ask was if the quartermaster had seen the base psychologist recently.
“They – excuse me, Private Smith – found the six centimeter diameter, soft-weave nanobot fiber rope. We had hidden the coil in the secondary storage container under the storm tarps.”
Quilx’tch watched in amusement as the commander surreptitiously tapped out a note on his pad; a reminder to ask what storm tarps were. That particular horror could wait a bit longer according to the human meteorologists. At least there was an eighty percent chance it could.
“He said he was looking for a lighter,” Ctx’qlt preemptively raised a manipulator to stop the commander from asking the question that was on his mandibles. “No, I don’t know a lighter what. He did not seem interested in enlightening me between his screams.”
“Don’t ask about the screams,” Quilx’tch said softly.
The commander glanced at him uneasily but allowed the quartermaster to continue.
“He shifted the tarps,” the quartermaster wrung his primary manipulators. “Do you have any idea how much they weigh? We have to get the entire swarm out to move one of those things.”
The commander glanced at Quilx’tch and Quilx’tch shook his head. That question didn’t require an answer.
“So he moves the tarp,” the quartermaster went on, “and found the rope, and it is the ‘swimming hole’ incident all over again.”
The quartermaster dropped his primary manipulators and looked at the commander expectantly. The commander gave Quilx’tch a rather desperate look and the nutritional anthropologist took pity on the young officer. He raised one manipulator for attention.
“Pardon my intrusion,” Quilx’tch asked. “How can this be a ‘swimming hole’ incident? The land around us is near uniformly flat at the humans’ physical resolution and none of the herbage around us is strong enough to provide the support for the rope.”
The quartermaster expanded his mandibles as if to answer but after a moment of hesitant clicking he slumped.
“Could you please just come outside and see for yourselves?” the quartermaster asked.  “I just, we, we’re not getting the safety award this cycle.”
“Oh dear,” Quilx’tch murmured as he gathered up his things. “We were on such a good track to. Our humans were being so reasonable.”
He and the commander followed the quartermaster out of the conference room and then out of the main building. The ‘screaming’ became audible as soon as they passed the outer airlock, along with the rumbling sound of one of the transport engines. They rounded the corner of the main building complex and stared in shock at the scene on the parking lot. One end of the rope had been secured in the clamp of the boom-claw used for taking samples. Apparently the device meant to reach far into underground caverns was strong enough to support both the rope and the human who was clinging to the lagging end. They had tied a knot in the end of the rope and were using this as a point to grip with the legs. The boom-claw was extended about four meters in the air and was slowly rotating, sending the human currently on the lagging end of the rope, Smith, Quilx’tch thought, swinging around in a wide circle. Another human was manipulating the boom-claw while the rest watched the action with wide grins of pleasure.
As the commander stared in stunned silence the boom-claw stilled and the humans leapt forward to stop the circular motion of their friend. Quilx’tch winced at the sound of two human bodies impacting but neither seemed injured.
“Go, go, go!” the humans chanted.
Smith appeared to attempt a run for the main base building but staggered alarming to either side, as if he had forgotten how to balance his precarious bipedal frame.
“Are they punishing him for some transgression?” the commander asked with just a touch of horror in the set of his legs.
“Given the fact that the rest of the humans are now competing to be the next one on the lagging end of the rope, probably not,” the quartermaster pointed out.
Smith had collapsed on the ground and was laughing up at the sky as his friends abandoned him to claim a place on the rope.  Quilx’tch took this to mean that he was out of the danger zone and led the commander over to the prone human.
“Friend Smith,” Quilx’tch greeted the human. “May we climb on your chest?”
The human stopped laughing long enough to wave his hand in agreement before slipping his arms under his head and letting his gaze focus on the far distance that was so vague to Quilx’tch’s people. Was he cloud watching? The commander looked like he had a thousand questions. The quartermaster looked like he was rather exasperated with all of the answers.
“What is it?” Quilx’tch asked after he had gotten Smith’s attention by tapping his bristly chin. “What is it with humans and that rope?” 

Of all the cats on the farm, only one has ignored me since I returned this fall. She has refused all attention and affection and gone her own way. 
This afternoon I planted a bed of irises. A job involving getting my hands covered in copious amounts of thick mud. 
Guess which cat came up to me and suddenly demanded all the scrtiches and head pats while my hands were covered in dirt. Who bit me *gently* on various parts of my arms while I tried to plant the bulbs? 
Yes, it was that cat. 
*sighs*