writing · poetry · conlang
Welcome Back to the Second Volume of the Shirefordshire Zine! You can print, fold, and cut it into your own little booklet!
I wanted this one to be focused on Constantinople and our favorite Sapphic duo, Adora of Shirefordshire and Lady Domentzia.
This week, in lieu of any monetary gain, I would ask that anyone who downloads this lovely addition to Shirefordshire Lore make a donation to Save the Children, a charity that’s been supporting children worldwide including Gaza.
It’s here! The first Shirefordshire Zine. I don’t want to personally profit off of this zine series, so here’s the PDF. You can print, fold, and cut it into your own little Shirefordshire Zine!
However, in lieu of any monetary gain, I would ask that anyone who downloads this lovely addition to Shirefordshire Lore make a donation to PAL Humanity Initiative which funds medical care for women and children in Gaza.
In Andora’s opinion, mistakes were part of the learning process. One wool cape shrunk in the wash just meant that next time you’d remember to spot clean the material. However, Andora also knew that the nobility seldom cared for the pedagogical musings of the peasantry. As such, learning opportunities stemming from mistakes had to be handled with a certain level of creativity and tact.
This was one such situation. Andora, Head Laundress of Lord Shirefordshire’s Castle, knelt next to a junior laundress sobbing on the stone floor. She patted the poor girl’s shoulder as she considered the half-dissolved silk tunic pulled from the linen waters.
“I’ll be dead by morning,” the girl wailed. “Lord Sark will call for my head on the block for this transgression!”
“There, there, dry thy dears.” Andora grabbed part of her apron and offered it to the girl. Through her haze, the junior laundress blew her nose on the garment. Holding back a gag, Andora continued her comforting words and gestures.
She eyed the silk tunic once more. Despite her demeanor, this was quite the predicament. She once again eyed the damaged fabric. It had to be that ornery bastard Lord Sark’s silk shirt. The once elegant white garment was lined in delicate embroidered pink roses and green vines.
Wait, she thought, pink roses…
Across the room, she caught the eye of another junior laundress, Lisbeth if she recalled correctly. Andora thanked God that Lisbeth understood what her darting eyes were asking for as the girl joined them.
“Do you need anything, Madame?” She asked.
“Yes, do you need any help with sorting the clean laundry for tomorrow’s deliveries?”
“Help would be much appreciated, Madame.”
“Excellent, why don’t you and Caterina keep to this area while I go check on a few things,” she left no room for argument in her tone as she looked down at the girl. “Caterina, did you hear me?”
“Yes, Madame,” she managed through hiccups. “But what about—”
“I don’t believe it concerns you anymore, speak not a word of if.” Andora swept her gaze across the room to emphasize the importance of discretion. Without elaborating further, she grabbed the ruined silk tunic and left the room.
Andora had little reference for castles and other elaborate dwellings, but if she were to gauge Lord Shirfordshire’s estate, she would describe it as modestly grand. The tapestries may have been silk, but the grain stores were ample and well guarded. It was a place where you only had to tread lightly if you were up to no good, and in her experience, there were many reasons to be up to no good.
She was careful to stay out of sight of all who dwelt and worked within the castle as she snuck out a side entrance leading toward the kennels.
The Lord’s prized hunting hounds were said to be bred from sturdy wolfhounds gifted long ago from a far away land. Now, these dogs grew fat and spoiled by all the residents of Shirefordshire be they peasant or noble.
For her part, Andora was not immune to their charm and regularly stole them treats from the kitchen. Now, she had a different task for them. Going from kennel to kennel, she released the hounds into the main walkway. They jumped and barked in delight as they scratched on the door, eager to be let loose in chase.
She sent up a quick prayer before unlatching the main door and running for the back towards the area where the straw bedding was stored. She shuffled through the hay until she found the hole in the wall left there the previous year by Sir Kyle’s horse. It was barely big enough for her to fit through, but she managed to slip out of the kennels just as the front of the building was sent into chaos.
In the commotion, knights and guards were pulled from their post and the visiting nobles gathered at windows and balconies to watch the spectacle. Andora used the precious few minutes to enter Lord Alain of Rot’s guest quarters and snuck the shirt into his trunk with the embroidery on the sleeve barely showing over the side.
By the time Andora returned to the laundry room, the hounds had been wrangled back into their kennels and the laundresses had composed themselves. Life continued as usual until past the afternoon meal, and just before supper, they heard a ruckus outside.
“Thou wouldst accuse me of such petty theft!” Lord Alain shouted from just outside the banquet hall. Andora leaned against the threshold and allowed the other laundress to pause their work to watch and listen from the safety provided by the gathering crowd of nobles.
“I need not accuse thee, for the evidence is clutched within mine hands!” Lord Sark shouted.
“And wherefore would I carry out this dreadful act? What would compel me?”
Lord Sark tutted in offense and spat at Lord Alain’s feet. “Think me a fool? Think mine sight dull? Thy lady’s embroidered favor be stitched into the sleeves”
Lord Alain’s face turned an impressive shade of crimson when he saw the detail before he wound back his fist to strike Lord Sark. The other nobles screamed, the maids scurried away, and Lady Sark fainted on the spot.
Andora could only smile and nod at Caterina’s awed expression.
“Come on girls, you’ve had your fun,” she said as she ushered the laundresses back inside.
In Andora’s opinion, mistakes were part of the learning process. One wool cape shrunk in the wash just meant that next time you’d remember to spot clean the material. However, Andora also knew that the nobility seldom cared for the pedagogical musings of the peasantry. As such, learning opportunities stemming from mistakes had to be handled with a certain level of creativity and tact.
This was one such situation. Andora, Head Laundress of Lord Shirefordshire’s Castle, knelt next to a junior laundress sobbing on the stone floor. She patted the poor girl’s shoulder as she considered the half-dissolved silk tunic pulled from the linen waters.
“I’ll be dead by morning,” the girl wailed. “Lord Sark will call for my head on the block for this transgression!”
“There, there, dry thy dears.” Andora grabbed part of her apron and offered it to the girl. Through her haze, the junior laundress blew her nose on the garment. Holding back a gag, Andora continued her comforting words and gestures.
She eyed the silk tunic once more. Despite her demeanor, this was quite the predicament. She once again eyed the damaged fabric. It had to be that ornery bastard Lord Sark’s silk shirt. The once elegant white garment was lined in delicate embroidered pink roses and green vines.
Wait, she thought, pink roses…
Across the room, she caught the eye of another junior laundress, Lisbeth if she recalled correctly. Andora thanked God that Lisbeth understood what her darting eyes were asking for as the girl joined them.
“Do you need anything, Madame?” She asked.
“Yes, do you need any help with sorting the clean laundry for tomorrow’s deliveries?”
“Help would be much appreciated, Madame.”
“Excellent, why don’t you and Caterina keep to this area while I go check on a few things,” she left no room for argument in her tone as she looked down at the girl. “Caterina, did you hear me?”
“Yes, Madame,” she managed through hiccups. “But what about—”
“I don’t believe it concerns you anymore, speak not a word of if.” Andora swept her gaze across the room to emphasize the importance of discretion. Without elaborating further, she grabbed the ruined silk tunic and left the room.
Andora had little reference for castles and other elaborate dwellings, but if she were to gauge Lord Shirfordshire’s estate, she would describe it as modestly grand. The tapestries may have been silk, but the grain stores were ample and well guarded. It was a place where you only had to tread lightly if you were up to no good, and in her experience, there were many reasons to be up to no good.
She was careful to stay out of sight of all who dwelt and worked within the castle as she snuck out a side entrance leading toward the kennels.
The Lord’s prized hunting hounds were said to be bred from sturdy wolfhounds gifted long ago from a far away land. Now, these dogs grew fat and spoiled by all the residents of Shirefordshire be they peasant or noble.
For her part, Andora was not immune to their charm and regularly stole them treats from the kitchen. Now, she had a different task for them. Going from kennel to kennel, she released the hounds into the main walkway. They jumped and barked in delight as they scratched on the door, eager to be let loose in chase.
She sent up a quick prayer before unlatching the main door and running for the back towards the area where the straw bedding was stored. She shuffled through the hay until she found the hole in the wall left there the previous year by Sir Kyle’s horse. It was barely big enough for her to fit through, but she managed to slip out of the kennels just as the front of the building was sent into chaos.
In the commotion, knights and guards were pulled from their post and the visiting nobles gathered at windows and balconies to watch the spectacle. Andora used the precious few minutes to enter Lord Alain of Rot’s guest quarters and snuck the shirt into his trunk with the embroidery on the sleeve barely showing over the side.
By the time Andora returned to the laundry room, the hounds had been wrangled back into their kennels and the laundresses had composed themselves. Life continued as usual until past the afternoon meal, and just before supper, they heard a ruckus outside.
“Thou wouldst accuse me of such petty theft!” Lord Alain shouted from just outside the banquet hall. Andora leaned against the threshold and allowed the other laundress to pause their work to watch and listen from the safety provided by the gathering crowd of nobles.
“I need not accuse thee, for the evidence is clutched within mine hands!” Lord Sark shouted.
“And wherefore would I carry out this dreadful act? What would compel me?”
Lord Sark tutted in offense and spat at Lord Alain’s feet. “Think me a fool? Think mine sight dull? Thy lady’s embroidered favor be stitched into the sleeves”
Lord Alain’s face turned an impressive shade of crimson when he saw the detail before he wound back his fist to strike Lord Sark. The other nobles screamed, the maids scurried away, and Lady Sark fainted on the spot.
Andora could only smile and nod at Caterina’s awed expression.
“Come on girls, you’ve had your fun,” she said as she ushered the laundresses back inside.
Death was a lifeguard. In the most ironic sense, Death sat atop a raised wooden bench. Their tortoiseshell sunglasses perched on the bridge of their nose obscuring the scanning path of their eyes. Their box braids were swept back in a ponytail that rested on their shoulders.
Sauriel sat beside the lifeguard tower with her legs drifting in the pool currents. She watched Parish and Beckette, her niece and nephew, splash in the pool. To the humans sharing the space, they appeared as two normal, albeit rambunctious, children. From Death’s perspective, their chaotic energy manifested in their demonic horns as clear as Sauriel’s angelic halo.
“Who are you wearing?” Sauriel asked.
“Jadah Jamison,” Death said. “She had a seizure unexpectedly and no one caught her fall on this day three years ago. She was seventeen.”
“Tragic.”
“They all are,” Death didn’t flinch as a seagull swooped down to sit on the armrest of their chair. Sauriel recognized the bird as one of Death’s reapers; however, she frowned at the hamburger the reaper was choking down.
“The seagull died of a ruptured stomach. Old hubris dies hard,” Death said.
“Why are you here?” Sauriel asked.
“Someone here is about to die,” Death replied in the same, even tone.
“Would you tell me if it was Parish or Beckette?” Sauriel balled her fist on her thigh. It would be pointless to fight Death if something were to happen, but Sauriel couldn’t help herself.
“It wouldn’t change anything regardless of if I told you or not.” Death said, “but if it will ease your mind, no. I’m not here for the demon-children.”
Sauriel relaxed her shoulders and turned back to watch the children play. She chose this spot for its seclusion. The country club was located in the middle of the mountainous wilderness of upstate New York. The birds in the surrounding woods spoke to her. They promised their mother a warning if any other cosmic forces approached.
A shift in air pressure alerted her to the cloud formation off in the distance. In a panic, she reached out with her mind to the birds; however, her fears of demonic foes were assuaged as the birds assured her it was a simple storm approaching.
A sharp whistle sounded behind her, “storm alert! Please exit the water!” Death yelled behind her. The lifeguard working on the other side of the pool yelled a similar warning.
Most of the patrons heeded the warning, and Sauriel slipped into the water to herd Parish and Beckette out of the pool to maintain anonymity. Just as Sauriel was bundling the pair up in their own towels, she heard a commotion over her shoulder.
“I’m not leaving! It’s just a little storm!” One woman complained from her pool float as she waved her fruity cocktail in the air. “I will not be bossed around by some teenager!”
“Ma’am, I must insist,” Death tried to usher her towards the steps, but it was too late. Sauriel pulled the towels over the children’s eyes just as a bolt of lightning arced from the sky to the outstretched arm of the woman in the water. Sauriel watched as the shock vaporized her drink umbrella first, then made its way through her body.
Death hadn’t moved from their spot, and once the strike had dissipated, they pulled the woman from the water as the other lifeguards attempted CPR. Death offered their arm to the confused, ghostly figure that emerged from the woman’s body.
“Until next time,” Death tipped their head to Sauriel, and walked into the locker room. When Sauriel led the children into the same room, Death and the figure were gone.
There are a lot of things in this world that I can say I love, and having a website is one of them. If I’m being completely honest, I wouldn’t have set one up had it not been for a friend educating me on the merits of POSSE (Publish (on your) Own Site, Syndicate Elsewhere), owning your own content, and maintaining an internet presence independent of social media sites.
Funnily enough, this is the same friend that encouraged me to get a VPN, and I will forever be in his debt for both of these suggestions.
As an aspiring author, developing an online audience has always been one part marketing strategy, one part something to do, and one part a way to make friends that share the same interests as me (this part has become one of the most rewarding aspects of being online). This isn’t to say that being here is only part of a grand marketing plan, but it’s definitely more encouraging to produce content for an audience.
That being said, I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve severely underutilized the full capabilities of having a website. To be fair to myself, I’ve been a bit busy this past month. I just started my first full-time job, but once I get settled, I have a lot planned for the months of September and October.
First off, I’m planning on releasing a monthly newsletter starting tomorrow and thereafter on the first Friday of every month. I’m not the biggest fan of making grand announcements on TikTok, so in the spirit of POSSE, the newsletter will become the center for my announcements.
Now, I want to talk about two upcoming projects I have slated for the next two months. First, we have Plenty of Tomatoes in the Sea, a TikTok series that I announced in my last post but didn’t start on the date I wanted to start it.
This delayed start is mostly due to the start date of my new job, but I’m finishing up the scripts, and I will start releasing it within the next few weeks.
Next, the True Crime sequel to my TikTok series Obligate will be released to my YouTube page on October 1st, the one-year anniversary of the erroneously named video that started it all: POV: You’re the Only Human on the Spaceship.
I am so unbelievably grateful for all the support I’ve been given throughout this journey, and I assure everyone that this is only the beginning.
Next week I start a new chapter of my life, my first job. Though I just completed my master’s degree in adolescent education, I don’t think it’s in my plan to utilize this degree in its traditional sense; however, I decided to take this opportunity to return to the sciences. I’m going back to the laboratory to work as a lab tech (I’ll get to use a micropipette and everything.)
This new development has gotten me back into the speculative nature of science fiction writing. To avoid confusion, I do not consider myself to be a hard sci-fi writer. While I ground a lot of the more technical aspects of my work in my own scientific background, I have never found myself drawn to the kinds of sci-fi that prides itself on multi-page essays regarding the physics of light speed travel. More power to you if that’s what you want to write or read about, but it’s not really my cup of tea.
This brings me to a conversation I recently had with a relative. To preface, it’s a double-edged sword being a STEM major in a small town; on one hand, you get to teach your family cool science facts, and on the other hand, you have to have every single statistic with a source memorized with the proper wording to even have a hope of anyone listening to you. In a recent conversation, I had to teach a relative what a genetically modified organism (GMO) was while simultaneously explaining that it’s not necessarily the technology that’s bad, it’s the corporate greed that goes along with it.
Of course, using the phrase corporate greed would’ve stopped the conversation in its tracks, so I had to lead up to that idea using the numerous examples of Monsanto’s notoriously vicious defense of its patents. This isn’t to say that I’m team anti-GMO, far from it. With climate change and other global catastrophes looming on the horizon, we need all the help we can get in modifying our food supply to meet current conditions. Like the FDA says, “The most common GMO crops were developed to address the needs of farmers, but in turn they can help foods become more accessible and affordable for consumers.”
Outside of food, a more recent example of a GMO is Darling 58, an American chestnut variant that’s tolerant to the chestnut blight fungus that demolished most wild American chestnuts. Like most things scientists come up with, GMOs have the potential to benefit every living organism barring their commodification.
I haven’t even gotten to the Flavr Savr tomato, but I’m sure I will in the process of writing my next TikTok series: Plenty of Tomatoes in the Sea. The first episode transcript is below, and the first episode is slated to come out this Wednesday.
I’m going to start by saying I don’t even like tomatoes. Of all the foods you can print, I don’t understand why you’d choose tomatoes. If you want a red food, go for an apple. If you want a juicy fruit, go for a nectarine. In fact, I’d wager that the only thing tomatoes are good for are sauces, and even then, why would you ever choose a tomato-based sauce over something like Alfredo.
Despite this, I’m still quite disturbed by the news we got this weekend. If you haven’t heard—and really, shame on you for not listening to the nightly news—this past weekend, a virus was found in the computer systems at OpilioneCo, and before it was caught, it made its way into the latest, automatic, mandatory software update. Within the past few hours, we got confirmation from OpilioneCo’s PR team that this virus is working to delete the file for tomatoes off of every organic printer sold by the company.
And, now you may be thinking, “why is this a problem?” Well, it is a problem if you like tomatoes because OpilioneCo holds the patent for the only known tomato genome currently in existence. To be fair, none of this was done behind closed doors, I’ve been warning all of you about this for years. Well, myself and the botanical community at large, but now it’s time to face the consequences.
That means no more tomatoes for you or anyone else unless we can cobble together a passable tomato genome that’s compatible with the digital stuff while being unrecognizable to the virus and without getting sued by OpilioneCo. Yay. Lucky us.
As a culture, the speakers of Lacerti highly value family and community connections. When I was developing the language, family and relationship words were some of the first I created.
| Root Word | Variations (ipa) | Part of Speech | Meaning | Notes |
| Kesh | Kesh/Kesher (kɛʃ / kɛʃ.er) | Phrase | Hi/Hello (a way of greeting someone) | |
| Kesh (kɛʃ) | n. | Friend, acquaintance | ||
| Kēsh (kɛ:ʃ or ke:ʃ) | v. | To enjoy | ||
| Kesherti | Kesherti (kɛʃ.er.ti) | Proper Noun | The homeworld of Lacerti | Most Lacerti speakers would refer to their species as Kesherti |
| Kesherti (kɛʃ.er.ti) | n. | Home in the abstract sense, can be used to refer to someone who feels like home | ||
| Keshērti (kɛʃ.e:r.ti) | n. | Home in the literal sense, the place where you reside | ||
| Keshsonll | Keshsonll (kɛʃ.sonɬ) | n. | Stranger (archaic) | Made by adding the word for friend to the word meaning unfamiliar or zero |
| Keshvi | Keshvi (kɛʃ.vi) | n. | Stranger (modern) | The suffix “-vi” means “not” or “without” |
| Kēshvi (kɛ:ʃ.vi) | v. | To look at someone strangely/with suspicion | ||
| Lorkesh | Lorkesh (lor.kɛʃ) | n. | Romantic partner, spouse | Title used post marriage spar |
| Lōrkesh (lo:r.kɛʃ) | n. | Romantic partner, significant other | Title used pre marriage spar | |
| Mati | Mati (ma.ti) | n. | Caregiver, Mother | Lacerti as a species have one sex and three genders, this word is used for only one gender |
| Mātī (ma:.ti:) | n. | Caregiver of your caregiver, grandmother | ||
| Matī (ma.ti:) | n. | Strength, the concept of strength | ||
| Māti (ma:.ti) | v. | To create a physical thing | ||
| Nocerti | Nocerti (no.ser.ti) | Proper Noun | The Lacerti people/species | Very clinical sounding, a Lacerti speaker would probably call themselves Lacerti but their species Kesherti |
| Pato | Pato (pa.to) | n. | Caregiver, Parent | Lacerti as a species have one sex and three genders, this word is used for only one gender |
| Patō (pa.to:) | n. | Caregiver of your caregiver, grandparent | ||
| Pāto (pa:.to) | v. | To exist in more than one state of being | ||
| Telvma | Telvma (tɛlv.ma) | n. | Family, the glass family crest necklace given to a Lacerti child at age 24 to signify adulthood | |
| Vata | Vata (va.ta) | n. | Caregiver, father | Lacerti as a species have one sex and three genders, this word is used for only one gender |
| Vatā (va.ta:) | n. | Caregiver of your caregiver, grandfather | ||
| Vāta (va:.ta) | v. | To create an abstract thing |
Death was a nurse. Not in the official sense with a handful of patients waiting for their morning pills. Death walked through the halls of Elm Street Cancer Treatment Center dressed in navy scrubs and dark trainers. Death stopped before a patient’s room: 283, Mary Colling. Death could feel it in the air, that pressure between the veils of this universe and the plane of comfort and eternity.
Death slipped into room 283, opened the window, and approached Mary’s hospital bed. On the side table sat a plethora of cards and fresh flowers. Mary had just celebrated her eighth birthday the day prior, but all the cheer in the world could not hide the fact that her eyes were sunken and her skin was close to translucent. Mary was a strong girl, and Death could feel that her fight was close to over. On the bed, her mother slept next to her.
“Don’t you get tired of this,” a man crossed the room and joined Death in observation of the sleeping pair. Death looked beneath the man’s shell to confirm what they already knew. The cloudy charge of purple haze that writhed just under the layers of visible reality was unique to one being—Lucifer.
“Many things in the state you call reality change. You are not one of them,” Death returned their gaze to Mary. Her breath grew ragged.
“Where’s Marcin.” Lucifer demanded.
“How should I know?” Death said.
“You were the last to see him,” Lucifer snapped.
“I do not control Marcin. Regardless of if I’ve perceived him or not, I do not know where he is now.” Mary shifted on the bed. Death reached for the plush teddy bear that had fallen to the ground some time ago and tucked it under Mary’s arm.
“Are you being deliberately obtuse?”
“Are you deliberately wasting your time?” Death smiled as Mary curled into her teddy bear and settled once more.
“I have eons left still to waste. Who knows, maybe you’ll never remove me from my ambitions,” he said.
Death looked to the window just as two crows perched on the sill. The birds leaned forward and melted into the vinyl floor, slowly oozing forward and lightening into a golden shimmer. After a few feet of shapelessness, the crows built themselves up again into the form of an elderly golden retriever. The hound was clad in a harness that read Therapy Dog.
“Across all realities and all beings, even among those like you, that’s one thing that remains constant in some form,” Death beckoned the dog to Mary’s bedside and scratched behind his ears. “You always think you’re the exception.”
Death looked Lucifer in the eye and held up a hand to ward off the next useless thought that was to come out of his mouth. “All things living may do as they please with their time, but keep this in mind Morning Star, the only place where time has no meaning is the plane of comfort and eternity. You will meet me there one day. Then, maybe, we could talk freely.”
Death held out their hand over Mary’s body, and slowly, glowing fingers intertwined with Death’s own. Mary’s soul stepped off the bed and enveloped Death’s reaper, still in the form of a therapy dog. Death spared Lucifer one last pitying glance before leading both Mary and their reaper through the layers of the worlds just as the machines still hooked to Mary’s body started ringing.
A few months ago, I went on the Podcast VJ Talks. The host, V.J. Harris, is a TikTok mutual of mine, and I was excited that they invited me on to talk about worldbuilding, conlanging, and Obligate—the mini-series I was best known for at the time. I had a great time talking with V.J., but there was one admission that I made on that podcast that I’ve been hesitant to talk about on TikTok, that the universe I write in started as a derivative work.
Yes, the universe that my conlangs, my novel in progress, my short stories, Obligate, and most recently The Boston Androids exist in was originally a Star Trek original series that I called Star Trek: Apgar. The Apgar portion was taken from the name of the galaxy-class starship where the series would take place (I named the ship in honor of the scientist Virginia Apgar whose creation of the Apgar score has saved the lives of many newborns).
Star Trek: Apgar was a quarantine project. In the year 2020, I had just started my third year of college, my mom had just had major brain surgery, and we had just had one of the most contentious elections in US history. Emotionally, I wasn’t doing too hot. My answer to emotional instability was to start watching Star Trek: The Next Generation.
I fell in love with the series. The characters, the setting, and the story spoke to me. I took the world building, and I ran with it. I started wondering what the show could look like free from the constraints of 80s technology and TV budgets. I imagined complex life support equipment and languages that didn’t translate. I developed a new alien species, the Beskarans, who were amphibious, quadrupedal, and clear-blooded.
I soon remembered that Beskarans sounded a bit too much like Beskar (a fictional material from Star Wars). As a consequence, Beskarans became Lacerti, based on the Latin word for lizard. Beskaran also became the basis for Beshan, the family name of my new protagonist, Ehno Beshan.
I wrote Star Trek: Apgar as an episode concept. In it, Lt. Cmdr. Beshan’s homeplanet is considering joining the Federation, and the USS Apgar is ordered to oversee talks. It dealt with Beshan’s conflicting feelings on her family, her home, and her decision to leave it all behind to join Starfleet.
I wrote somewhere around 12,000 words before I realized that Star Trek was being used as window dressing. I wanted to write a character-driven story that felt like Star Trek, but that didn’t mean that I had to write within the confines of Star Trek. I think that’s the beauty of derivative works; they give you a familiar space to process what kind of story you want to tell.
There are a lot of stories that could be told in the sand box that is Star Trek, and I needed that sand box to assure me that I had the capability to write a compelling story. As soon as I felt confined by the preexisting worldbuilding of Star Trek, I realized that I could write compelling original content.
This was the push that got me to rewrite Star Trek: Apgar as my own original work, and I realized that once I took away the titles and transporters, there was very little Star Trek worldbuilding left behind. Now, my worldbuilding includes android societies, morally ambiguous parasites, and glassmaking physics that probably wouldn’t work out in the real world, but most importantly, it’s a universe of my own design.
Though I still worry that the echoes of Star Trek could one day cause some overzealous fanboy to call Major Ehnno Beshan an OP OC or Mary Sue, I have the self-confidence to know that this isn’t the case. I’m grateful to Star Trek for inspiring me to write complex characters that go on compelling adventures, but Star Trek doesn’t have a monopoly on this concept.
When we write derivative works, we write out of love for the franchises that give us creative insight. I’m not ashamed that The Astroauroran Chronicles is reminiscent of Star Trek. The nature of existence, the draw to the unknown, and the complexity of the human experience are universal themes, and there’s more than enough room for one more franchise that explores them.
Obligate may be over, but we never got to formally meet Pilot Marion.
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