Custard Apple

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basebean
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Custard Apple

Post by basebean »

This might be long, but it is where I ended up.

There are two stories, that have been placed on my heart. One is Wood Green, one is Flea Wars. I have been planning them for a while, and since I have been a member of this site since school, I will tell you about the gestalt, even though I am over this whole heart business. Maybe you would like to pull up a chair?

Wood Green is about two kittens, who can talk to their owners, one girl and boy. The boy is called Boy, and he is an aboriginal, but he can’t talk. They can’t talk until evil tree grows upon a dog’s grave, and all the cats flock to this tree, until it is burned down. The dogs *beep* about it, but once you have seen the tree, you can no longer talk to humans. Basically they chase this ghost around, all the while speculating about a pirate ship and a gold mine.

The next is Flea Wars, and it is about worms that can’t stand noise, and fleas that harvest dark matter from war, that handles the noise, and they ride about in robotic animals. Indeed, the flea and the worm are the only beings who are true beings, the rest are robots, ridden by the worms and fleas, and even the worm was conceived by the dark matter, the flea was the original being, and they wished to attain space travel. However one worm is white, and it hates the noise of the black worms. In this way, a princess wishes to marry, but her suitor was tasked to assassinate her, because he is a spy, and she is owned by this white worm.

Well, it wasn’t so long after all. If you have any thoughts, then I guess that is only natural, but bear in mind too, that this is no longer a goal.

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Re: Custard Apple

Post by Bmat »

So the fleas and worms have evolved so that they are sentient?

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Re: Custard Apple

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I think the worm and flea are symbiotic. There is also a red worm, and white flea, but the black flea and black worm have this idea of a white worm, and the red worm and white flea are more like a plot device. I know that most worms are white, but these worms are smaller worms, and they are black. The main worm is called Wermel, the white worm is called Termoul. It is very childish, but they are children’s books. (Yes, turmoil has engulfed the galactic republic.)

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Re: Custard Apple

Post by Bmat »

Thanks.
I am glad you explained. I was thinking of earth worms, which are brown. :)

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Re: Custard Apple

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This is an example of what I was doing, I have been working on it for a couple days. It needs more structure, and I don’t think I could keep up the pace.

Itchy was in the gunner pit. He hated to do it, but he was on the lookout. It was dangerous for Rat City. They always got the rubbish jobs. Really, Rat City was a common name. It had an identification number as long as his arm, but there were as many Rat Cities as grains of sand. They were running recon, and Wermel was aware of him. Forest base had spotted some fat, and that always spelt trouble.

Now all there was to do was spot it, and hope that whatever trouble it caused, was not crazed enough to be destroyed by cannon.

“I am half asleep, but it is interesting to see through your eyes, to see what a flea does.” Wermel was in his vat, healing. Itchy twitched his finger, and a window popped up, and he could see Wermel as clear as day, as if he had opened up a photo album, but it was a holographic screen.

The basic magic of all flea kind, was holographic. Rumour was it had to do with dark matter, or a look to the worms, but Itchy knew it was fat. The truth were that flea kind was the only true life as they knew it, the worms were synthetic, made of dark matter, but everything else was robot, because fleas wanted the ability of space and time travel.

Humans were aware only so far as the worm was aware, and every robot had a worm. Really, the only reason they had created the worms, was so they had something to talk about. Worms had created flora, and fleas had created fauna. The worms hated noise, so fighting was in order to create dark matter. That made the noise harmless for the worms. The fleas would harvest rust, to build and produce blood in robot cities, then they would commit war, and harvest the dark matter it emitted. Otherwise the worm would go crazy, so they lived complicated lives, discussing the worms, and their plans for warfare.

The gunner pit was shabby, full of dust. The seat was cushioned and ripped, fluff was hanging out, but at least it smelled used. The windows were foggy, and the blood tube was worn, but there was a lot of ammunition. Ammunition was important in warfare, and the city did not produce it itself. It had to be purchased, and traded for. Rat City had just resupplied at forest base, and this detail was specifically for the purpose of discovering about the fat.

There was a telescope fitting in the gunner pit, and that was the main concern of Itchy’s situation. It was a strange looking tube like protrusion, and it connected to Itchy’s holographic, for a zoomed in look at whatever caused a fuss. He noticed a blip on the radar, and at closer look, just before dark, he spotted a spectre.

“Yes, that is a City.” Itchy peered closely through the eye piece.

“Is that the fat, have you spotted it?” That was Wermel, he was always spying on Itchy.

Itchy was the commander of Rat City, a stealth recon unit, local to the base in the forest near the human settlement. There were as many Rat Cities as grains of sand, and forest bases as the dead, but he was in command of this one, and he was young, fresh out of the academy. Wermel had been created to be his master, and Itchy served him. They had fifty units, and one hundred harvesters, ten support staff, and five specialists. Then there was himself and the worm.

All cities harvested rust and committed warfare. That was the fact of life. They would amuse themselves by discussing humans and the limits of society, but they feared one thing. Fat. Itchy spotted something else, before darkness fell. There was some strange mathematics upon a Lilly that was exposed to a sharp ray of the setting sun. He spotted the fat, and himself.

At the academy, Itchy had excelled at sharp shooting. He imagined himself as good with mechs, but the general had taken time to show him otherwise. There was no good reason to be a commander, it was hard work. Itchy had no idea how the life of a sharp shooter would have been, but it was clear he excelled at most things, evident in his reports. In fact his grades had been so excellent, that he had been chosen as a future negotiator.

When he had been unharmed most out of his graduating class in skirmishes, he was a mech pilot, he knew it. They were powerful thinkers, able to lead armies, based on one rule. They were too important to be killed. The wars were just a game really, a discussion and a means to an end, but Itchy was so unscathed that he had been chosen as commander, fresh out of the academy, with his entire graduating class as subjects. No one else could command respect like he could, that was one thing he was certain of, and why the general had drawn his attention. Respect was one thing, but there was a lot a commander needed, to rule a city. Wermel was curious. Itchy had created his mainframe. He was in need of constant attention, and loved idle banter. Wermel was Itchy’s interest.

The general had taken him aside one day, and had set up some targets. He had Itchy shoot each one, and then he managed to speak. “That is the aim of the game. The main thing. If you are able to achieve that today, imagine what you will achieve tomorrow.” The general seemed upset, a little to himself. Itchy had spent all night wondering what was beyond the bullseye.

When Itchy woke in the morning, he was at Wermel’s side, and asked for a report.

“I have managed to figure out the fat was a hologram, not true fat, but I have spotted the location of the city. It is Dog City, and they have failed to return communication.” Wermel was armless and legless, a lot larger than Itchy, but navigated his brain case with ease and skill, and he was black, like most worms. There were screens and dials and metres and diagrams all about, and in all different colours and languages. “The daughter of the mayor had her birthday today.”

Itchy resented to smile. Worms had no eyes, just a mouth, but Itchy peered at Wermel as if he could return his gaze. And in some ways, he could. “Not that, Wermel, what is this about a city that declines to announce its fealty?”

“Just that, it is loyal to no one, for some unknown reason.” Itchy shivered a little, and a window drew close to him. Itchy, the commander of a vessel.

“This is a picture of it taking a drink.” Another picture flipped over. “This is it licking itself.” Wermel showed many more pictures, then began discussing the environment and its echoes, but the conversation did not end there.

“Are you sure that we are unable to speak to it, it seems a large problem.” Itchy was getting static, as he attempted to break through the data line.

“No, we can’t speak with them, and showing ourselves may as well be as good as declaring war,” Wermel was still, his schematics were still.

“Then we must use the trees as our cover, and discover what we can by stealth and infiltration.” Itchy nodded, and poked in a few details for Rat City’s path.

“Or even subterfuge?” Wermel was still, but seemed quite wry. Itchy scoffed, and nodded. A word over the data line announced to his subjects, that they would be scaling the canopy in ten minutes, to get to their posts. Then Itchy returned to the gunner pit, keen on discovering more about this phantom fat as they traveled.

Really, all that was left to do was wait. Itchy was not allowed to enter combat, as a commander. He was not usually seen observing the harvest. He was not allowed any strenuous activity that would cloud his judgement. He was there, to school the units, in his mind. Usually he communicated from the brain, and reclined in the gunner pit. He was antisocial as it came. He was ready to leave his post, and see what the ocean had for him. One remedy was the barber. He had his hair shaved, all of it.

In the academy, his vice had been romance. He was able to judge from all angles what irked him, and he went with that. He called it being professional. The way they moved, and danced, reminded him of the sniper rifle. That was his main focus in incubation. He drew long and languid bodies in the form of sniper rifles. The first time he had met the general, was when he was in the incubation stage. He had managed to sneak out in the laundry, and had found his way into the general’s bedroom, where they played stones after an hour of cat and mouse.

The language of the forest, was one long and spree. He learned it from the old professor worm who had lost his flea in a long and laborious process of countless reincarnations. He was medically dated to be one thousand years old, kept alive by long and laborious medical procedures. No flea had lived that long, but worms had been known to live much longer. The reason he learned the language of the forest, was he was from the forest. He had no idea how the humans worked, only their pests.

Ferals were common. That thought had always bemused Itchy. He had watched their ways, and studied them, through data line. So it was true he knew as much about them as he could, without the resonance of a dark matter or worm. They spoke languidly about the humans, and Itchy shortly noticed in his youth that the two differing societies had vastly different opinions about them. After the ocean, the only new frontier were the sky. And he had flown high, as well as sunk low.

Commanders were the most powerful unit in a city. They had the ability to boost a unit’s mind and power, they could infiltrate a mind with ease, they could make decisions for a unit. Really, they were there to command. That is why they were called commanders. Itchy played the game, but he didn’t like it. Really, he wanted to be out there, with a gun, or a vehicle, or a lightsaber. He wanted to read the force, and use his data line, to confuse. He wanted to control himself, not others. That was what made him reclusive. He had learned from the general of solitude, now he had it. He had what the general had called captain’s reverie, from some art that had remained from the beginning of flea kind. A pirate ship, captained by a lunatic, embrued with all the force that flea kind had to offer, driven insane and money hungry through fear.

“There was a tale, of a commander, who lost his power, and in losing it, gained it.” That was the beginning of the general’s tale. “He grew weak through solitude of mind, but really his subjects were as open as could be. He discovered that the only way to control a wild bunch, was to be smarter than them, to use the force.”

Itchy wondered at this facet, the force. “So he used holographic, to control and command his subjects?” He was playing stones, and the general made a winning move.

“No, he knew that the only power was love, and that it was the only thing one feared. So he used it, against them.” He general smiled and scooped up the stones into the pouch.

“So love is evil?” Itchy asked.
“Perhaps,” the general smiled.

The force was there, that was called love. It was manipulated by holographic, but before worm kind, there had been the force, and lightsabers. The force had the ability to connect with a flea, and the worms had been born of evil. Dark matter had been created, after all the fighting, and they had made the worms out of this evil they called dark matter. So the force had bore love, and fighting dark matter, and the worms had bore fat, the conception of holographic. So flea kind knew love, and knew fighting, but through the worms and dark matter and fat, knew how to control it. They knew how to command.

There were many forms of flea. Some tended to other fleas, some created more work for the fleas. There was the lazy recline of the flea, and they discussed society. Work was in the form of two things, solving problems, and creating them. The study of society made them happy, and they were all dedicated to it. There was the society of the flea, and the society of the robots. Art was where they communed, and it was very important to get it right, but art imitated life, and that was where the problem lay.

Without the worms, there would be no problems, no society. There would be no robots, there would only be the force. But there would be no fat. The society of the robots, was controlled by the society of the flea, and that was controlled by the society of the worm. So they made dark matter, but fat made them go crazy. There was the power of holographic in all forms of matter, and they would find fat within differing things. It always heralded a big problem for society. The force was weak against it, but it made the force strong, love strong. And there, the worms had no power, but expected great amounts of dark matter.

The worms were unaffected by fat. It made them humorous however, but fleas would get confused, and worry about strange things. It was true however that both had to investigate, and it always spelt out war. Without fat, there would be no war, and one could harvest dark matter, like rust. But without fat, there would be no holographic. Fat was however the source of religion, and that appeased the flea, but religion was difficult, and there were numerous arguments, discussed in parliament, by both worm and flea, because they had totally different ideas, so it was basically useless, at times too weak, and at others too powerful, but it was agreed, both worm and flea enjoyed the effect it had on society. Life became beautiful with religion.

Art was something more important. It was the fruits of their labour, and it connected all things, and the result was intelligence. The source of all power, was from something called the end. It was curious, that the end created the beginning, but it did. It was wondrous, to be involved in art, but everyone played their part. It was magic, and it was story. After a long debate, flea kind and worm would agree, about the beginning and the end. The rumour was universes existed, and god tried to stop it. However there was another force, called the creator, who tried to create evil. After a truce and discussion, it was decided they should swap. God should love life, and the creator should destroy it, because god was with love, and the creator evil. That was the beginning of the war between the infinite and the finite, where their powers had once been reversed, but their powers remained.

Rat City’s religion, was one of blood taken. It was an origin story, where three fleas killed and ate a fourth. It was not rare, but the need for blood was in every flea, and indeed killing was. There was the added nomenclature of the worm, that this was stupid. Wermel had the place of conception in blood, believing it good. It meant that the worm was humorous. It was true that the fleas weren’t, except about humans, and often hijacked a tale in the nearby human settlement.

The culture of Rat City, was one of wearing dark red makeup upon their skins, wearing grass hats, and fur coats. They liked the idea of camouflage, and were often seen being gay, as if they adored life. They harvested, in the dirt, and preferred this flavour of blood, and added the rust as if the Rat City was going in for strenuous exercise, and indeed it might be, at any moment.

Itchy remained informed, and would often be seen walking the veins, and visiting quarters. They were his friends, bosom since birth, and there were many comely women about. The liveliness of the place, was one of telling tales, and roasting blood sausage upon makeshift fires, in barrels of ammunition, and sitting on old corpses, that were piled up, mangled, and solidified in fire. It made Itchy happy for it to be this way.

Corpses were brought back from battle, and juiced of dark matter. Dark matter would lay about, but the noise of the worm often had most of it congealed in the fleas body, which would be extracted of the dark matter, leaving them waxen and melted. When fat was involved, there was more chance of the dark matter being found within a flea, in large quantities, but it is true, that dark matter could be found anywhere. Then the dark matter would be processed and refined, and the applied to the worms comfort, Wermel in this case.

Earlier that day, Itchy had his appointment with the barber. He was dressed, in a slim collection of reeds, green. Had on a line of makeup, in the form of blood dripping over hie eyes. His footwear and cape, was fur. It was all synthetic, but he barber did not wear military attachments, because he was purely domestic.

The way he sauntered across the room, after being admitted through the double security airlock, comforted Itchy, and he clicked on his schematics to bring up the chair. Then he undressed, and was completely naked, and barber pressed the icon on his holographic for the equipment, that smoothly slid out of the wall.

“I shall disconnect for a while,” had said Wermel, and as they were on automatic pilot, ever since leaving forest base, there was no foreseeable problem with him doing so.

Itchy lay down on the chair, and closed his eyes, as the barber began washing his scalp.

The barber was a fixation of Itchy’s. Fleas had hair, in all sorts of places, and were fundamentally humanoid. But the resonance of having one’s hair removed, by a barber, was very sensual. The first time he had shaved his hair, was with the general, who had recommended it.

“The art of warfare, is like having no hair, no way to earth oneself besides pure instinct. Hair is for the artist.” Itchy had wondered at that statement, whilst having his hair waxed and removed, but had continued to have the procedure done, ever since. It reminded him who he was, who he would become.

“How is the mayor, have you heard anything?” Itchy opened his eye, and twitched his finger for the latest in the plans for his daughter’s birthday party.

“I have heard that the puppy she is receiving, is coming along quite finely. Fresh out of the academy.” The base of operations, for this particular settlement, was found in the drainpipe below the library. Quite close to the mayor’s place of work, and very central to the settlement.

“It is good for her to have such an important role. How is the worm finding infancy?” The way Itchy asked this, was as if he were going to sleep.

“The news is he is a white worm.” The barber paused in his scrubbing, and used a towel.

Itchy blinked, and felt as if his eyes were chlorinated, after taking a long swim in the pool. He often took laps, in the prefect auditorium, when he was in cadet training at forest base.

“Quite rare,” muttered Itchy, but he knew the worms had something to do with it.

When a white worm was born, there was a lot of discussion about what it would mean, because most worms were black. A white worm would hear different noise, so often there was a lot more bloodshed, and religious ramifications, that totally made society of all forms go mad. There was no idea what caused it, but they had long ago stopped suspecting the worms, it were just a fact of life. White worms were like runts, no one ever got along with them, and they were more sensitive to what irks a flea about fat. That was why they weren’t abandoned at birth.

He had conferred with the commander of the city, and had no communication that there had been a white worm. It was long ago, and their conversation had not been long. The general had something to say about such a contingency, after his death. Itchy had contacted him, through a time loop, and began his relationship with the younger flea, as were tradition for such a relationship between young and old. It was true fleas could be reincarnated in this way, but sometimes they lost their timeline, or were erased from memory all together. “White worms are pain. It is true that if worms were only black, then one would feel no pain. It is curious that one would feel pain.”

Itchy had returned. “Maybe pain is a diversion, maybe there is something different, maybe there is something in the time loop?” The general’s reply had clearly shown his age, and the relationship had continued, but not without confusion and glee at the younger Itchy.

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Re: Custard Apple

Post by Bmat »

Glad to see you are still writing!

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Re: Custard Apple

Post by basebean »

Mmm, I want to grow up really. Something portentous, seems a little pretentious. I have still got a lot of time for doing it, on the inside. But I shall still grow up, after all.

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Re: Custard Apple

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If you enjoy writing it, nothing wrong with portentous.

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