I take off my backpack and sit down on one of the higher seats, those that are above one of the wheels. I put the backpack up on my lap and catch my breath. I really had to run to catch this bus. But I was lucky. This is the last one tonight. The connection in this rural area is pretty terrible.
I look at the window. It's pitch black outside. Instead I see the cute woman reflected that sits a couple rows down. She's in one of the rows facing back, facing me. Absentmindedly I admire her curly bob. Suddenly her gaze shifts and she stares directly at me. I'm stunned, unable to avert my gaze. Her expression changes into something between annoyance and disgust. The shame of having been caught staring frees me to turn away quickly, but I drop my backpack in the process.
Embarrassed I bend down to pick it up, but from this high seat I can barely reach it. I can feel the eyes on me and slide down from my seat. Just in that moment the bus drives through a pothole and the bump throws me out of my seat and I crash my face against the hand rail. I wince, but try not to make any noise. Just pass it off. People are staring. I grab my backpack and sit back up.
The pain now starts to register. My lower lip and chin ache. I fight back tears. Don't cry in public. I look around me. There's a guy in army uniform behind me giving me judgemental looks. One guy in a baseball cap is smoking a cigarette.
I taste blood in my mouth. I swallow it down and search with my tongue for a wound. Though the search proves unsuccessful I again taste blood. I look at my reflection in the window, checking for anything. The blackness of the night makes it difficult to make out details, so instead I fish out my phone from my backpack.
I notice that it's a bit wet. I grope around and notice that the bottom of my backpack is very soggy. Damn, the drop must've broken the bottle. At least it's just water. I dry my phone on my pullover. Then I open the selfie camera and check my chin again. Looks okay.
“Are you taking a picture of me?” the woman exclaims indignantly.
I quickly drop my phone back into my backpack. “No—”
“Whatever,” she scoffs.
I can feel the angry looks around me. How much longer will I have to endure this? I look up at the display for the stop sequence, but it's broken. I know the driver announced some stop, but I didn't really pay attention.
I look outside trying to identify any landmarks. Acres and the occasional tree. Not helpful. Maybe I can check on my phone. I decide it's best not to get it out of the backpack again and instead turn on the display in there. It only flashes on briefly, before going black again. I repeatedly hit the power button to no avail. Maybe the water made it short circuit?
But I guess the time was 2:40? I'm not sure since I saw it only so briefly. But 2:40 would mean that the next stop could be mine. I hesitate a moment, but then I press the “request stop” button.
Shortly after the bus stops and the doors open. I don't recognize the stop. It's probably the next one.
But the doors do not close. The bus does not continue on.
The driver gets out of his seat and turns to face us passengers.
“Someone pressed the stop button. Someone has to get off here.”
I shrink into my seat. He doesn't know it was me. I'm sure he's just making a joke.
But he continues to stand there, unmoving.
“I think it was that weird lanky guy over there,” the woman says, pointing at me. My heart shatters into a thousand pieces. Out of everything being misgendered hurts the most. I thought that the long hair, the earrings, the slim fitting pants, and the pink backpack would let me pass. I had walked around like this the whole weekend. Nobody had said a thing. But now she showed me that everyone was silently reading me wrong, judging me as something I was not. Or at least tried not to be.
“Didn't you hear the driver, bro?”
The military dude shoves me from behind.
My throat goes tight. Like in a trance I get up and leave the bus. As the doors close behind me I hear the guy in the baseball cap comment “Fucking faggot.” The army guy laughs. The bus speeds off.
I've been keeping a list with some bullet points of inspiration as that's often the hardest thing for me. Today I mashed up two of them, “letter” and “pirate.”
What I associate most with pirate stories is the element of (mis-)taken identity. Like in the films The Pirate (1948) and The Princess Bride (1987). The Pirates of the Caribbean films are (as I recall) a notable exception to this. The Man In The Iron Mask (1998) also has these vibes though there's no explicit pirate in that story.
The second thing that I associate with pirates is queerness. I'm unsure how correct that is but my mind is telling me that a pirate life provided some affordances in the form of freedoms that society under some kings rule did not provide.
I don't really care how accurate that is as writing this story has demonstrated to me that this really isn't a setting that I enjoy writing in.
Dear Jack,
I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to write sooner, but things have turned out so much differently than I had planned them. I'm so sorry that I left without telling me my exact plans or where to reach me.
When my father the King had ordered me wed to that slimy Prince Mornfield I had to think quick. If I had fled to you he would have suspected—he probably sent some men to you that were supposed to retrieve me?
One of the maids had helped me find a different means of escape. She had told me of a bar down by the docks where I could find experts in suspicious dealings—pirates! I had fashioned myself a fake beard out of pig's bristles and successfully got hired for a short mission that would have taken only a couple of months.
Jack, you have to understand that I had every intention of coming back to you. But once we were at sea things changed. I noticed how much I enjoyed life on deck. We each had to do tough work, but I quickly started to gain an appreciation. The physical exertion at the fresh air was fulfilling and made me sleep so well, even in the bowels of the shaky ship. I had some great rapport with the other shipmates and there was this reciprocity in the respect we held for each other.
I had feared that there would be a lot of violence when we would plunder other ships, but in most cases they willingly gave up their cargo. Partly because it is ensured and partly because of the reputation our ship had. But after one plundering where we had to use some force we were surprised to find that “John” had lost his moustache. It turns out that “he” was actually a young woman named Mary that had fled some marriage!
I was relieved that it was her and not me that was discovered, but at the same time I had a lot of pity with her as some of the guys started demanding she walk the plank. But then our Captain Harry stepped up and tore of his moustache and revealed she was also a woman named Harriet.
Encouraged by that I also revealed myself and many others followed, until we finally discovered that we were all women!
From that day on the mood around the deck lifted even more and we bonded around all our shared experiences that had driven us to seek out adventure at sea! We have extended our campaign and there's talk of many of us not wanting to ever return.
Please do not worry about me.
Goodbye
Martha
Yes, this is very cliché. My inspiration were all the YA dystopian stories most of which aren't any better. Maybe I'll try my hands again at a smarter dystopia on one of the remaining days…
Inspiration for the mechanics obviously comes from the many Dark patterns used on the internet, specifically social media. Randomized rewards, free samples, an opaque system of multiple different currencies, social reciprocity in combination with streaks, etc.
Then there's the classic trope of people not having names, with Sina just being an interpretation of her address (S1N4) and of course one company owning everything.
But what was most important to me here was to portray Sina as not only content, but maybe even happy in this system. People addicted to social media tell themselves (and sometimes others) that they actually enjoy it. A minority of gamers is in favour of loot boxes not because they think it's a fair business model, but because they like buying them. People working at “hip” tech firms with bean bags in the office claim they enjoy working with “friends” and like staying late at the office “for the atmosphere”.
I'm too cynical to believe such happiness to be “real” (whatever that means), but I'm also realist enough to know that all that could get me too.
Should we go work at Fenco and be as happy as Sina, or do we need to free Sina? Is doing neither a fair option?
Sina “unzipping” the meal just came to me, but I think that's really good. It's so weird.
Sina pulled the lever of the Fenco Payroller. The little wheel began spinning. This was the highlight of her day. Seeing the little icons with all the prospective prizes whiz by always got Sina dreaming. Today could be the day that she could win retirement on her very own island! Or a year vacation trip around all the biggest Fenco Cities! Or a fancy dinner at a five-star Fenco Diner. Or some Furniture Credits?
The little melody of beeps reached its apex as her prize flashed on screen. A second spin on a random day within the next month. Sina was giddy with delight. The Fenco psychologists really knew how to make the citizen employees happy. These elements of randomness interlocked so elegantly. And one day of work for one go at the Fenco Payroller was more than fair given the quality of some of the things you could get.
A Fenco pod pulled up and Sina got in. On the keyboard she selected her home address S1-N4. She still had enough Drink Credits to order a Fencola for the trip home. While the noiseless pod raced through the black tunnels Sina enjoyed some 2040s oldies while sipping on her fizzy refreshment. She knew what a luxury it was to be able to listen to so many songs. A couple years back the Fenco Payroller had landed on a fifty year unlimited song pass. If she listened with other people they of course still had to pay, but in cases like these where she was completely alone she could listen to as many songs from the catalogue as she wanted.
Rootin' Toot by The Fencehoppers faded to silence as the pod pulled up in front of her apartment. Sina got out and picked up the basic meal in front of her door as the pod sped off. She had spend her last Food Credits two weeks ago when she'd had celebrated her birthday with a couple of friends. But luckily Fenco didn't let anyone starve. Basic meals—just like transport to and from work, and even the basic apartments—were free for anyone, even those who didn't want to work. Sina shook her head as she thought of the people who didn't work for Fenco. How could one be so ungrateful?
She entered her apartment and turned on some music again. Her dashboard flared up and informed her that seven of her co-workers had thanked her for her work today. She tapped all the “thank back” button to keep the streaks going.
I'm so blessed, she thought as she unzipped her meal.
Another instance of that date being a lie. Yesterday was busy, so I actually wrote this story on the 19th.
The inspiration for this story came from the latest episode of The Flop House (#409) where they made some reference to an egg that played music when cracked. It was just one of the many off-hand jokes that don't go anywhere, but the idea tickled me. The second inspiration is that one Black Mirror Christmas episode where a guy has to listen to “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday” for an eternity.
I selected Adele's “Hello” for this story, because I've actually listened to that song on repeat for a couple of weeks, about 2.000 times total, which sums to more than 150 hours. It's a good song.
It's a shame that I already had an egg story simply called “Egg”. Made me have to come up with another (in my opinion worse) title.
John had broken the egg and now it was too late. They say there's no use in crying over spilled milk, but this was different. Spilled milk you could clean up and go on with your life, but this egg. . .
John had gotten the egg when he had left the bank on Thursday. An old, hunched over woman had come up to him grabbed his hand and had placed the egg inside. She had looked up at him with her glassy eyes and warned him to take care of the egg and not to brake it. Then she had disappeared into the crowd.
John had stood there, stunned. He had still been processing what had happened. Then he had looked at the egg in his hand. It had looked like any other brown chicken egg. Suddenly, somebody had bumped into John. The egg had slipped and had begun to fall. John's reflexes had kicked in and he had surprised himself when he caught the egg again, safe and secure.
He had chuckled to himself at the absurdity of it all, but he had taken the egg with him. He had placed it in the car's cup holder and had later sat it down on the kitchen counter in a nest of napkins.
The next morning though, when he saw the egg still sitting there he had thought how stupid it was to him to have an egg just sitting there. What was he gonna do with it? The old woman had told him to take care of it, but what did she know? He'd just fry this egg for breakfast.
But when he had cracked the egg into the pan he was startled to find it empty. The moment felt completely surreal. Something else was off, not just that the egg was empty, something else was missing too. Suddenly he heard a woman behind him “Hello.”
He turned, but nobody was there. “It's me.”
He turned again. He knew that voice from somewhere.
“I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet.”
Was that Adele playing? He turned off the radio, but the song continued playing. He opened up the cabinets trying to identify the source of the song, but there was nothing there. In his frustration John slammed the cabinets shut again, but he was terrified to find that they didn't make a sound. All he could hear was Adele's singing accompanied by the piano.
John tried to speak, and it must have worked, as he felt his vocal chords vibrate in his throat, but he couldn't hear. Finally, the song finished and there was a moment of silence. John clapped his hands, yet couldn't hear anything. Then there was the soft piano again and Adele's “Hello.”
John screamed, he ran around the apartment banging on the walls and doors. He couldn't hear. Or rather, all he could hear was Adele. He covered his ears with his hands to no avail.
He tore open his apartment door and ran out onto the corridor where some of his neighbours were already gathering in confusion and anger. They pointed at him and their lips were moving, but he couldn't hear them.
Sometimes that's just how life is. Madeline could be read as anorexic here, but that's not it. She's just apathetic and/or depressed.
While writing I was again very conscious of some dialogue not having the speaker made explicit. And also about having Madeline's thoughts not be distinct from narration. I think it works and it's giving me confidence in that style of writing.
The vibes of this story are similar to Hello Spring and The Talent Show, but I think this story still adds something new.
Madeline added another cube of sugar to her coffee and stirred. She looked into the spinning spiral pattern inside her cup. The sugar cube falling into nothingness. Entropy at work.
“Oh, did I tell you? John took me horseback riding the other week.”
Madeline didn't look up. Why couldn't Barbara quit yapping on for more than 2 minutes? With time Madeline had gotten good at tuning out Barbara's chatter. She picked up the small porcelain milk pot and began pouring it into the still swirling coffee. White lines were pulled into the centre of the vortex. Madeline watched as the black coffee slowly turned lighter and lighter. Now it started overflowing, light brown streaks running down the sides of the teal cup, slowly filling the saucer until finally that too starts to overrun. It seeps into the newspaper underneath.
The milk pot is empty. Madeline looks up. Barbara looks at her expectantly and brings forth a “Hm?”
“Oh yes, for sure.” Madeline replies in a near monotone.
“That's what I had told him, but he wouldn't believe me! So when we next saw them. . .”
Madeline picked the spoon out of the cup. She used it to push the little apple pieces around on the cake in front of her. Tiny pieces of apple on a tiny piece of cake. Why do people pay for this? She started sorting the crumbles of dough to one side and the pieces of apple to the other. Never mind other people, why was she going to pay for this? She never had had any intention of eating it. She was done sorting the pieces and now started to transfer the crumbles into her cup one by one. And yet she had ordered it.
The waitress came over. Madeline had guessed that she couldn't be older than 20.
“Everything to your liking?”
“Oh, very much so. This raspberry cream tart is delicious.”
Madeline glanced at the untouched piece on Barbara's plate.
“And you?”
“Good.”
The waitress left again.
“What a cute little thing,” Barbara started again, “I remember my first job as a waitress.”
I'm sure you do, thought Madeline, tearing pieces of napkin and placing them on her cake. Tell me all about it.
Obviously I'm just having a bit of fun here. Again with the meta levels like Tea Party and the dumb fanfiction like A Metamorphosis. It's a bit of a cliché that fanfiction is always about shipping characters, just like spending a little too much time on the internet will associate the terms “fan art” and “pregnant Sonic” in even the healthiest of brains.
I personally am not part of the fanfic community. Not as a writer, but neither as a reader. The majority of fanfic is accessible only online on platforms like AO3 (“Archive of our own”). I mostly like reading print books and I sometimes read on my Kindle. Maybe I should investigate some way to easily load some things on there, because everything else about the fanfic community is awesome.
Fanfiction gets written in a way that's very similar to the earliest novels. It's mostly published serially, meaning one chapter every week, month, or whenever the author finishes it. And then the readers will discuss the story and give suggestions where the story might go next. Popular stories will have beta-readers, which are people that will get the first version of a chapter and submit feedback before it is released to the public.
This means that many fanfics are not the work of just one author, but a group of people that give input on the story.
The second cool thing is that it's all done for the love of it. As fanfiction is often based on copyrighted characters and/or settings it's legally difficult to commercialize. That a group of online users is responsible for the end product just adds to this difficulty.
Lastly, the community consists of a very high percentage of marginalized people. Women and queer people, for example, are motivated to write queer or gender-swapped versions of popular stories to finally see themselves represented or to exert control, even if only over fictional worlds (The same desire also draws us to TTRPGs).
These queer stories then draw other marginalized people in as readers and you've got a community.
I hope I could provide some deeper context on the relationship of fanfic and “smutty” stories. I hope I also got across some of my enthusiasm about the community that is really doing something special.
I know that Christopher Columbus could be confused with Christopher Robin in the second part of my story when I just call him by his first name. I couldn't come up with a better character to switch him out with. Deal with it. Also, “bearhood” is objectively really funny.