The Trouble with Tybalt
Challenge #9: Write a science fiction story featuring at least one non-human character. It must also include the phrase “It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it.”
“What light through yonder window breaks?
It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it.”
“Beautiful,” whispered Sprilda from the front row, dabbing a tissue to her eye with one of her many facial gnathopods. “He may be young, but I doubt there’s been such a moving performance since Lemon Nimrod originally took to the stage a thousand years ago.”
Splurg leaned forward, peering through his thick omnifocals. “I don’t get it,” he grumped. “Who’s that guy? What’s going on? Why is that battleturret made of plywood?”
Sprilda sighed, exasperated. “That’s Romulo. He’s in deeply in love with Juliet, but they can’t be together because he’s a Montagen and she’s a Capulet: Montag II is stuck in a bitter war with planet Capule, much to the consternation of the United Federation of Planets. The plywood battleturret is part of a sacred Thespian tradition. They don’t use any hologimmickry in these performances.”
“O Romulo, Romulo, Wherefore art thou Romulo?
Deny thy D’era and refuse thy fame;
Or, if thou wilt not...”
“Why is the female Earth-creature flailing about like that?”
“It’s an all-human acting troupe. They’ve only got the two arms so they’ve got to move about a lot in order to convey the proper sense of drama.” She leaned in close. “If you’d gone to last week’s performance of Othello 2: Moore’s the Pity you’d know all about it. They held a very informative Q and A session afterwards.”
Splurg blew contemptuously through his five lips. “If you have to know all this stuff for it to make sense, it can’t be very good.”
Sprilda harrumphed and turned her attention to the play.
Things went on much as they had done before, and Splurg almost dozed off. But then something changed. There was a scuffle of activity on stage as the one known as Mercutron drew a raygun from his belt.
“Tribbalt, you rat-blaster, will you walk?”
“I am for you.” Tribbalt drew his too.
Romulo approached, his gently flailing arms perfectly illustrating his wish for peace. “Come Mercutron, put thy phaser up.”
But alas, it was in vain. Mercutron and Tribbalt lunged for one another, both weapons scattering really far away across the stage. As they began to grapple, blaring music rose from the orchestra.
Suddenly, Splurg realised that he was really quite enjoying this, and Sprilda knew it. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “It’s not all bad, I guess.”
“I told you!” Sprilda beamed. “William Shatner’s the best playwright who ever lived!”
20
That’s the Third One This Week!
“Mirror, mirror on the wall...”
There was a loud crash and a shower of fairy dust. The face in the mirror flickered briefly, a look of horror upon it, before being replaced by solid blue. The message, “Unhandled exception. Contact your Fairy Godmother or technical support group for further assistance,” appeared in the extreme top left corner.
“Oh, bloody hell!” snapped Medusa, stamping her foot. “Now how am I supposed to find out who’s the fairest of them all?”
21
My Spidey Sense is Troubling
The shatterproof ruler caught the mugger across the face with a sound like a pigeon smacking into a recently cleaned windowpane.
“Ow, man!” the criminal did a little hopping dance, hand pressed firmly to his cheek. “Aah. That’s going to puff up like crazy.”
“That’s right!” The Astounding Welt pointed a chubby pink finger. “Crazy like you’d have to be to snatch purses when I’m on the job.” The point was a little laboured, but it got the job done.
“When are you not on the job? It seems like you’ve been slapping me with that ruler every day this week.”
“Which would suggest you’ve been out mugging people every day this week.” The Astounding Welt hefted his ruler menacingly.
“My criminal activities are the result of a system of government that forces the individual to shoulder unreasonable burdens on the grounds of personal accountability while simultaneously using public money to prop up large financial institutions when they inevitably collapse due to reckless business practices. Also a penal system that frequently leaves prisoners less able to support themselves through legitimate means than when they went in.”
“Wow.” The masked hero tucked the ruler back into his famous utility welt. “Now I just feel like a jerk.”
“Eh.” The mugger shrugged. “Everybody’s got problems.” He sat down on the curb. “You sound pretty tense. Everything okay?”
“Ahhhh.” The Astounding Welt sat down too. “Honestly? No. I used to patrol these streets with the Amazing Spiderguy, but it turns out he’s privately been struggling with chloephobia for a while now...”
“Huh?”
“Chloephobia: fear of newspapers. I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but a lot of us superheroes have jobs in the media. Partly it gives us a reason to suddenly shoot off from our jobs when there’s supervillainy afoot, partly...I don’t know...I guess we’ve just got a thing for it. I know loads of guys—and girls—that have dated reporters. But Spiderguy...”
The mugger nodded. “I guess the news really wasn’t his thing.”
“It’s just so weird.” The Astounding Welt made his hands into fists, grappling with this new insight into his friend’s psyche. “He’d been working at the Daily Bungle for years! Now all of a sudden he just asks me to take over all his superhero duties. Won’t tell me when he’ll be back on his feet. All those years at the paper...you’d think he’d have got used to it!”
“Or maybe it was just steadily getting too much for him.” The mugger put a hand on the hero’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard to imagine how something as harmless as a newspaper could bring a superhero down, but that’s all the more reason to be a little understanding. You just don’t know what he’s dealing with.”
The Astounding Welt sighed. “You’re right. As soon as I’m finished this patrol, I’ll go and talk to him.”
“Maybe wait for him to talk to you. You don’t want him to think you’re just trying to drag him back out on patrol.”
“Yeah, I guess. And besides—there’s always online journalism. I’m sure he’ll find something.” He stood.
“I really shouldn’t be saying this,” said the mugger, “but I hope your friend’s back on his feet and fighting crime soon.”
“Thanks.” The Astounding Welt turned to leave, paused, then rummaged for something in his utility welt. “By the way, if you ever want to be more than just ‘the mugger,’ maybe this could get you started.” He held out a simple black superhero eye-mask.
The mugger took the mask and stared at it in disbelief. “But...I don’t have any superpowers.”
“You have compassion,” the hero smiled, “and that’s a kind of superpower.”
Meanwhile, in Spiderguy’s apartment...
“Hello? Helloooooooo? If anyone can hear me, I’m in the bathtub. I drained the water out because I was getting wrinkly, but now I’m cold. Hellooooooo...”
22
Here, There and Everywhere
Challenge #10: Collaborate with one or two other writers, featuring a journey between places you live or have lived. The journey must involve an unusual method of transport and the story must not include any adverbs.
This story was written in collaboration with G. Deyke, who wrote everything up to “The tour was neither...” and SCFrankles, who wrote everything from “They started to eat” onwards. My contribution was the section in the middle.
“I've had it.” Paul grabbed his guitar and strode out the door.
“You can't—” Ringo ran after him. “Hey, you can't leave!”
Paul spun to face him. “You know what? We aren't—weren't—even tha
t good. Losing a member can't make it worse.”
The audience glared.
Ringo glared back. A handful of people from a handful of villages—there were fewer people in the tent than there were cigarette stubs. As they continued to play, he saw several groups come in, look at the three-Beatle stage, listen to a few bars of a three-Beatle song, and leave. He suspected that their potential fans living in Kottspiel—who could hear the music from outside the tent—weren't bothering to come in at all. It was obvious what was wrong.
“There are meant to be four Beatles,” said John. “We'll need another Paul.”
“Paul. Ha!” Ringo jutted his chin at the audience. “They're the problem. No appreciation. It's like they don't know what they're listening to.”
“Beatles covers short one member?”
“We don't need a Paul. Paul is dead.”
“Er... right.” John wasn't sure how many people would get it.
“You know what? We should go to Reading. Play at the Festival. Maybe we'd get to play for people with some culture.”
John and George stared at him. They both appeared to have been struck speechless.
“Come on, guys. It'll be a Magical Mystery Tour!”
They surrendered in the face of the glint in his eye. “Fine.”
***
The tour was neither as magical nor as mystical as Ringo had suggested. In fact, it was less a tour and more a mundane plane journey with a budget airline. John's complimentary pillow smelled like sick and George's seat wouldn't stay in any position except tilted all the way back. The train into Reading itself wasn't much better, and when they got off they spotted someone getting mugged just outside the station, which John hoped wasn't typical for Reading but suspected was. The...atmosphere sure was different from the more low-key, rural gigs they were used to playing.
At the festival itself, however, things started to look up.
“Hey,” said George, “there's a lot of musicians here. Maybe we'll even be able to find ourselves another Paul before we go on stage!”
They didn't. Ringo had been right about one thing: the Reading Festival did draw people with culture. Enough culture that a three-man Beatles tribute act didn't cut it. They weren't so much booed off the stage as beered off. Squeezing Carling out of his '70s fringe, John joined the others backstage.
“Hey, maaan.” A man with a long grey ponytail and a faded tie-dye T-shirt approached Ringo. “I dug your three-man groove. Because, like, Paul is dead, right?”
“Yeah!” Ringo grinned. “See, I told you!” He looked around at the others. “This guy gets it!”
John and George looked at one another. The hippy seemed to be a few eggmen short of a walrus. Still, it was nice to have a fan.
“Here.” The ageing hippy handed Ringo a large square cake. “Those guys may not appreciate what you guys are doing, but I do. I want you to have this.”
“Wow!” said Ringo. “Thanks!”
“Are you, uhh...” George leaned over. “Are you sure that's okay to eat?”
“Oh, come on, guys! It's homemade for sure—that guy must have put a lot of effort into it. Dig in!”
They started to eat.
“Unusual flavour,” said George.
“Nothing wrong with mine,” Ringo said.
The turquoise words floated out of his mouth and hung over his head.
“Er...” said George.
“What?” The four letters floated up, rearranged themselves to “thaw” and dripped on Ringo's hair.
John was staring into the sky. “The birds are singing,” he whispered.
“So?” Ringo turned to the giant pig at his side. “I'll be with you in a moment, madam.”
“They're singing selections from Elton John's greatest hits...”
But Ringo was deep in conversation.
“So, you're Lucy,” he said.
“Yes—Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds! I know you're looking for a Paul and I can help you.”
She turned round and showed him a rocket strapped to her back.
Ringo gasped.
Lucy faced him again. “I will transport you all to the magical city of Liverpool—there to find your new fourth member!”
“Will it take long, O Rocket Pig?” said Ringo.
“Nah,” said Lucy. “About four hours if you follow the M6.”
She ascended and indicated the basket that was now hanging from her chest.
“Climb aboard!”
“Come on,” yelled Ringo. “This rocket pig is taking us to Liverpool to find a Paul.”
George and John looked over and both squinted at where Ringo was pointing.
Then John grinned. “You're right. It is a rocket pig. Thought for a moment you were seeing things.”
“What is this rocket-piggery..?” muttered George but he clambered in with his fellow band members.
Lucy rose into the sky and before they knew it they had touched down in Liverpool, next to the Beatles Museum.
“Go inside,” said Lucy. “You will find whom you seek.”
So they did and they saw...
“It's Paul,” said Ringo. “The Paul—Paul McCartney!”
They approached in adoration.
Looking up, Paul smiled.
“Please,” said Ringo. “Would you consider joining our band? We have need of a fourth member.”
Paul shrugged. “Why not? Sounds like fun.”
“Our quest is at an end,” said Ringo. “And now I'm going to have a little sleep.”
Ringo, George and John lapsed into unconsciousness.
When Ringo came round, a normal-sized pig was chewing on his hair. Raising his head, Ringo blinked. “So it was all a dream...”
“Er,” said George, who had got to his feet. “Paul McCartney isn't Paul McCartney.”
John gulped. “It's Ringo Starr.”
“Hello.” Mr. Starr gave a little wave. “I still want to be in the group.”
Ringo eased himself up and stood with mouth gaping, staring at the former Beatle.
Then he frowned.
“Well, that's no good. What are we going to do with two Ringos?”
23
As ‘Tis the Custom
Long, long ago in a land far, far away, a knight rode bravely through a dark, dark wood. His armour was strong, and his sword was true, and so when he met a terrible ogre upon the road, he did not hesitate to step down from his horse and prepare to do battle with the evil creature.
“Hark, yon beast!” he said, levelling his sword at the creature. “I prithee, face my blade in honoured battle. Though thou be but a base monster, you must know this would be better than to turn away, and be run down in ignoble flight.”
“Sorry,” said the ogre, “I didn’t catch any of that.”
“Dost thine low intellect wrestle with my noble tongue? Then plain let me be. I challenge you to single combat, as ‘tis the custom ‘twixt knight and villain.” He made a flourish with his sword for good measure.
“Honestly,” said the ogre, “it’s like talking to Ozzy Osbourne!”
The knight stumbled back in horror, clutching his horse’s reins to stay upright. “Dost thou sully our tale with...” he lifted his visor momentarily to spit, then snapped it down again “...pop culture references?”
The ogre put his hands on his hips. “I dost indeed.”
The knight straightened up. “Then thou art twice the blaggard I didst think. Have at thee!” and he lunged forward.
But “Aha!” cried the ogre, whipping a large, horseshoe-shaped magnet from behind his back, even though he obviously hadn’t been holding one a second ago. The knight’s sword flew out of his hand and stuck to it with a comical boinging sound.
“Verily this is beyond the bounds of natural philosophy! Why dost thou mock our conflict with this implausible levity?”
“I don’t know.” The ogre pressed a finger to the point of the sword, testing its sharpness. “I just thought it was funny. Also, it keeps the swordfight
suitable for a very young audience: you don’t want anybody actually getting stabbed.”
The knight glared. “Truly thou art a bast...”
“Uh-uh-uh!” The ogre wagged a finger. “Let’s keep it PG, alright? I don’t want the censors on my ass.”
“But...didst you not just...”
“I was talking about my wisecracking donkey friend. He’s not here now, but if things start to look unsuitable for children, the censors hop on him and start following me around. It’s a real pain in the ass—by which I mean carrying the censors makes the donkey’s back ache.”
“Mine rage boils over!” shouted the knight, grabbing a crossbow from his horse’s pack. “Not only dost thou reference pop culture, thine flagrant disregard for the natural order and free discourse upon the nature of our medium stretches suspension of disbelief to breaking point!” With some difficulty, he drew the crossbow. “I’ll fire mine bolt into thine brain!”
“Woah, woah, woah!” The ogre put his hands up in a “stop a minute” gesture. “You think I’m stretching suspension of disbelief? First of all, nobody in the history of the world has ever talked like you do. Ever. I mean, you keep switching between ‘thou’ and ‘you.’ Pick one! Beyond that, why on Earth are you riding around in full plate armour? It’s hardly casual wear, you know. And finally, sorry to be such a pedant, but you can’t fire a crossbow at all. That term won’t even be invented for a couple of hundred years.”
“Well...” the knight lowered the crossbow. “Those things art trivial and inconsequential.”
“Right. Because small clumsy anachronisms are fine, but obvious deliberate ones are right out.” The ogre walked past the knight and away down the road.
The knight glanced around the dark, dark wood, then clambered back onto his horse. “I liked this place better when the ogres just said ‘grr.’”
24
The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny
Challenge #11: Write a story featuring two fields of action and using the name of your favourite song as a title. The story may be no more than 256 words long and must break the fourth wall.
“At last!” Skalthrag1 cackled. “The Orb of Ithrael2 is mine!”
Londrea3 struggled to her feet, using her enchanted longsword4 for support. “The Orb will never be yours, tyrant! Not as long as any citizen of Nurnheim5 stands against your villainy!”