#writing memoirs

[carolinemillerbooks]

New Post has been published on Books by Caroline Miller

New Post has been published on https://www.booksbycarolinemiller.com/musings/everyone-has-a-story-to-tell-2/

Everyone Has A Story To Tell

My essay below first appeared in the ebook magazine Women Writers, Women’s Books on July 27, 2020.  This is a reprint of that article.   EVERYONE HAS A STORY TO TELL “Everyone has a story to tell,” said the woman seated opposite me at my retirement center. Somewhere in her 80s, she had the beauty of a Gibson Girl.  A cloud of silver hair framed her pale complexion, and her eyes were the size of blue pebbles, though the color had faded.  As she told me her story, her eyes strayed into the distance, as if images of her past were being thrown upon a far wall.   I drained my coffee cup, not daring to make a sound, while she recounted stories of her youth–a period during World War II when, as a dancer, she entertained American troops on the Western front. Though well into my 70s, I sat like a child before her, open-mouthed, dazzled by her adventures. She was proving her truth. Everyone has a story to tell. The question for most of us is how to begin and whom to address.  Are the memoirs we write meant for friends and family?  Or should the public be included? That decision is crucial from the start. Friends and family are a willing audience. Relatives are curious about their predecessors. Why did Uncle Herman stop speaking to his brother? When did Cousin Ella become fearful of ponds?  Grandchildren will turn the pages of a memoir salaciously, wondering if their grandparents ever kissed. A family memoir is often linear in structure.  The course of events unfold as they were lived–first this, then this, and then this.  The vignettes march across the pages like a troop of well-rehearsed drummers. Introspection isn’t deep, though we may learn that Grandpa Rutherford favored eggs for breakfast because his mother served him porridge as a child. Family members who hunger for tidbits about their heritage will tolerate a linear construction. The general public is likely to yawn. For them, a memoir must venture into a wider sea. No longer a teller of family secrets, the author sets a course for human understanding. What makes us laugh or cry? What dreams do we hold in common? Organizing insights like these invite a structure more varied than a linear one.  Book lovers who attempt a public memoir will have an easier time organizing their thoughts than the occasional reader. Bookworms make good writers. Call it transmigration or the process of osmosis, but those of us with well-worn library cards have been inhaling the writer’s skill simply by observing it—the way an infant learns to stand by mimicking its parents For those of us less well-read, organizing material according to themes is a good plan: humorous stories, stories of disappointment, or those about overcoming difficulties.  James Harriot’s format in All Creatures Great and Small also works.  He salts sad stories between several happy ones. Celebrities can ignore my advice and suffer no consequences. People will buy a famous person’s book out of curiosity or because they admire the individual.  If the piece is boring, they will pass it along as a form of revenge to a neighbor–the guy whose dog likes to pee on your zinnias. Most importantly, a memoir writer must be honest. Too many self-congratulatory remarks smack of narcissism. Expose your mistakes so your audience learns from you.  If they do, they will love you for it.  “We’re all mad here,” said the Cheshire Cat. Everyone has a story to tell.  If yours helps someone to reflect, laugh or shed a tear, you will have mastered the art of memoir. My upcoming memoir, to be published on November 1, 2023, makes a stab at all of the above.  The narrative begins with an incident at my retirement center which provokes memories of a time in my earlier twenties when I spent four years abroad. In 1959, the ink was barely dry on my college diploma when I followed my fiancé to England. After two years spent struggling to adapt to life in a new country, the man I adored broke our engagement. Rudderless and far from home, I joined an English acquaintance to teach in East Africa. I knew nothing about the political turbulence in that part of the world, an era when white colonial empires struggled to maintain their grip on indigenous populations.  By the time I stepped off the boat in Cape Town, UHURU’s freedom cry had ignited the land. Even so, I little realized my coming-of-age story would mirror the joy, suffering, and danger of the birth of new nations.  By the time I returned to the United States, I was a  stranger in my country. I’d been transformed by my experiences yet well knew the value of making human connections. Now, with my hair turned silver, I’ve chosen to retrace the journey that became a pilgrimage.  Will readers connect with my story? Like every artist, I stand with my heart in my mouth awaiting their decision.

[fascinationstreetmp3]

ALICE

[myjetpack]

My cartoon for today’s Guardian Books

[feral-ballad]

Camonghne Felix, from Dyscalculia: A Love Story of Epic Miscalculation

[Text ID: “I loved him, and it gave me a fever.”]

[playypause]

[vaperarmand]

i’m literally soo addicted to the idea that armand continues to visit daniel and make him forget for decades after they first get together. armand needs to read everything daniel’s ever written and needs to own signed copies of all of his books and needs to be there in the background from all his major life events. he’s there as a shoulder to cry on at the end of his first marriage, and again at the second. he’s the stranger at the bar who daniel tells about his daughters even though his relationship with them is crumbling. i need armand to be obsessed with daniel in every way he can manage and daniel to reciprocate every time. i need daniel to start aging and armand to be more excited every time he sees signs of it, and daniel — before he remembers — is confused and flattered and fond of the beautiful young man who curiously combs through his gray hairs and prods at his new wrinkles. and every time daniel remembers he's more angry, more hurt, more willing to beg (or demand) for armand not to do it again. and it gets more difficult for armand to do it every time, but that doesn't stop him. why should daniel remember how much he loves him?

[inbabylontheywept]

The Condom Bomber

The crux of the story is Brother Dean. Brother Dean was…is…a hate preacher. Red or blue, everyone agreed on that. His origins and his motivations, those were a little more mysterious. Different groups had their own legends. I had a class with a guy that was part of the campus pro-life movement, and the tale he gave me is the one that I give the most credence to. According to him, Brother Dean had started out as a “normal” pro-life preacher. He’d gone around campus, led parades, given speeches… And then he’d gotten punched in the face.

This led to a lawsuit against the school. Something about failing to provide adequate protection? The main result was that he got something like half a mil. Half a mil is an incredible amount if you’re still working, but he’d tried to use the money to fund a sort of pro-life career, and it had just… trickled down. Ten years later he was running dead low on funds, and had taken to the particularly dumb strategy of trying to get punched in the face again. You know. For economic reasons. It had become kind of a vicious cycle: He’d started off saying some objectionable shit to try and goad someone into taking the punch. The worse the shit he said was, the harder it became for him to find work doing anything else, and the harder it became for him to find work doing anything else, the less he had to lose by saying really objectionable shit. Throw in two years of living on ramen, and he was so desperate to get punched that he was quoting the Westboro Baptists. If you know, you know. The pro-life group, to their credit, hated him the most out of anyone. They viewed him as the ultimate sellout, someone who was actively making their positions and beliefs look worse by the day, solely for his own enrichment. The other conservative groups held him in the same regard. The rest of the campus hated him for simpler reasons. It would be difficult to find anyone more detested anywhere else on site. Brother Dean’s antithesis was the Trojan Warrior. TW was a normal student by day, but maybe once a month or so he’d don his hoplite armor and roam around, handing out free condoms. Trojan condoms. It was kind of his shtick. Between the costume, and the whole character that he had going on, most people didn’t really recognize his alter ego. I myself am pretty good with faces, so one day I noticed he was behind me in the foodcourt and decided to thank him by paying for his smoothie. Small tangent, but if you’re looking to get good stories, buying lunches for interesting people works like magic. TW decided that he was going to thank me for thanking him by giving me something like 10 feet of condom roll. I was mortified, aggressively single, and on SSRI’s. He was not sure how many of those were permanent. I wasn’t either. He wound up giving me just a handful, and said that if nothing else, they could probably be used as water balloons. I accepted. Who doesn’t like water balloons?

I finished my lunch with the warrior and left, considering targets for the "balloons". I passed by Brother Dean near the main commons and had my lightbulb moment. I spent a few minutes watching him from a distance, trying to find the optimal angle to get him without getting caught on camera (he always had someone filing in the background, it was a necessary thing for his hopeful future lawsuit). The time delay was useful for helping me realize that it really wasn't worth it. The sun had been bearing down so hard that the glue in my shoes had melted, and getting him wet would be a favor that day. 

So, mildly disappointed, I shelved my dream and left. 

A week later the monsoons hit. I left one class and ran to a campus computer commons to try and get some shelter and study between classes. Just before I got through the door, I saw Brother Dean, umbrella in hand, setting up his speaker and mic. He wasn't technically allowed this far into campus (the commons were owned by the city) but he'd gone to where his audience was and security was probably holed up somewhere cozy. I could hardly blame them. 

I made it up to the second floor and started studying when the mic picked up. All glass buildings are not very soundproof. He was loud, and he was annoying, and he was outside a library, under a balcony, and-

And I had condoms. Water balloon condoms. 

And he was under a balcony. 

I put my laptop away, pulled out my condom roll, and went to the bathroom. I wasn’t sure how big a condom could actually stretch, so I just kept filling it until it was about the size of basketball. Maybe a smaller watermelon? And thus armed, I waddled my way out into the halls. I cannot emphasize enough just how unsubtle this was. I was cradling this big, overfilled condom like some sort of phallic ghost baby, and it was so heavy that I sort of had to squat as I went. People saw me. Lots of people saw me. I passed by one room full of computer science students, all learning C++, and three of them waved at me. And I waved back in that my-arms-are-full-but-I’m-excited-to-see-you-too way, where you jut your wrist up a little bit and flap your hand around excitedly. I did, eventually, make it to the balcony. The building’s high ceilings made the second-floor thing kind of a misnomer: I was easily forty feet up. I scooched my way to the edge, and the view I had… it was perfect. Brother Dean was directly underneath, thank God. If he’d been even seven or eight feet out, I’m not sure if I could’ve shotput the condom-bomb far enough to hit him directly. Better yet his cameraman was only a few feet away from him, far too close to catch any action going up 40 feet above. I managed to wrestle the payload onto the balcony, and with a gentle push, I sent it and Dean to destiny. I realized that I’d made a mistake almost as soon as the condom began to fall. You know that sound that bombs make in cartoons, that long drawn out whistle? The condom made that sound. I had a second education in the seriousness of my mistake when the condom hit Dean’s umbrella. It did not pop. Of course it didn’t pop. I had no experience with condoms, I swear to you, I promise, I did not know how much they could stretch. You can fit your whole leg into them. You can fit them over whole park benches. A gallon and a half of water was nothing compared to that. It broke Dean’s umbrella. It hit the top, and it snapped the stem like a twig, and then-

Violence. Unspeakable violence. It clipped Dean’s shoulder and stretched down to his knees before recoiling back to its original shoulder height. It did not bounce. It floated in space, no wasted energy in the collision. One hundred percent of the kinetic energy, all 3300 Joules of it, were discharged into this sad wretch of a man. He did not collapse. There was no time for that. He rotated on his axis. It was as if the hand of God had reached down and grabbed him about his waist, only to twist. In a fraction of a second, his head filled the space where his ass had been and his ass filled the space where his head had been, and then his cheek, carried by the shuriken motion of his body, slammed into the pavement with a noise like Shaq slam dunking a porkchop. Maybe wetter.

He did not move.

I panicked.

I want to make it clear: I did not mean to assault this man. I meant to get him wet and embarrassed. But I also have to confess that this was a beating. Mike Tyson himself can only put about 1600 Joules into one of his punches, and if he hit me I would bounce off five walls before I fell. I would not wish 3300 Joules upon anyone.

I walked into the building and sat myself in the back of the C++ class. The people next to, to my immense and eternal gratitude, did not question why I was wet.

A minute later, Brother Dean stormed into the building with his microphone.

He yelled. He screamed. He hollered. He informed the entire world that he had been assaulted, with a condom, by someone on the second floor. I was ecstatic that he was alive. 

Every person in that class knew who had brought this hell upon them. Every single one of them knew it was me. And if I’d done this to someone else, some Steven Crowder, some Ben Shapiro, someone would’ve thrown me to the wolves. It would have only taken one person in that room of sixty. But Brother Dean was hated by everyone, literally everyone, and so the entire class sat in silence.

Some of that silence was gleeful, and some of it was bored, and some of it, a very small amount, was directly disapproving, but even the disapproving silence carried an understanding. A note of, “Yes, yes, that was very irresponsible, and you should not do that again, but who could blame you? Something needed to happen. Not that something, but…something.”

Security could be given grace to ignore the man when it was raining, and he was just outside the building, but they were not given such grace when he was inside with a microphone. Just a few short minutes later, a golfcart pulled up, and he was summarily marched out. There was maybe a minute of silence after that before the professor announced that his class was not open to visitors.

I left. He’d made his point.

It was a few weeks before I saw Brother Dean again, and his black eye still hadn’t healed all the way when I did. He was, however, still preaching the same old things as always. Percussive maintenance works better on vacuum tubes than human brains. I will say that he definitely made a point to stay away from balconies after that. And the next time it rained, I actually went out to watch him put his speaker and his mic into the back of a wagon and wheel it off the campus.

It appeared that he’d developed some opinions about the kind of weather he was willing to preach hate in.

[itsmedrawpower]

When do we start?

[dailydccomics]

the adventures of Robin and Superman Batman/Superman: World's Finest #30 by Mark Waid and Gleb Melnikov

[krabbu]

[williamverse]

There was a storm during my first journey to Dunwall. Thick dark clouds covering the skies, waves crushing into ship's sides. Standing on the ship's deck, I've witnessed something I'll never forget: a Leviathan, rising from the water's surface. It felt like for that spare moment the time had stopped. A giant whale-like creature cut through the water with his fins, glistening against the cloudy sky with his dark skin. Seagulls looked like nothing but countless specks floating around him. His powerful body was covered in countless scars with the sight of which I wondered: how many of them were left by other animals and how many - by humans? Beneath his skin - fat, powering his huge body. Hundreds of other whales were killed for that precious fat, later to be turned into whale oil, that would soon power one of the ships like the one I was boarding. But he was still alive, with his power still flowing through his body, only for him to use. How many nets has he torn? How many hooks had grappled his flesh and than torn out of it with a mighty tail's swing? How will he die: in whalers' hands, getting his flesh turned into food and his fat turned into fuel, or will he die of age, turning his body into a home for a new ecosystem? I saw his eyes, full of pain and hatred, but also of intelligence.

He had enough power to turn over the ship and drown everyone boarding it. But he didn't do that, diving back into the water and swimming away instead. Maybe, if he was trying to avenge himself and other whales, driven by hatred, he wouldn't be any better than humans? I didn't think about that back then, not how I think about it now, after all those years of trial my fate has set for me. In this realm I inherited Leviathan's philosophy.

[Excerpt from Lord-Protector's memoirs - by Corvo Attano]

[watchoutforintellect]

easily becoming, through an open eye, monstrous and beautiful.

Patti Smith, from Woolgathering

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Memoir

You don’t have to be famous or infamous to write a memoir that engages an audience and shares a powerful truth about life.

You simply need to be willing. The rest is all technique.

Memoir 

Usually revolves around one or maybe even a series of memories.

It is rarely ever all-encompassing.

It focuses on one seminal event that changes the course of that person’s life.

It’s heavily thematic, meaning that there’s usually one subject.

Often this is the moral, i.e. the lesson learned.

Can be about an ordinary existence told with profound insight.

Examples: Lesson you learned from living this part of your life’s story

Never compare yourself to others.

Be kind whenever possible.

Never take no for an answer.

Intuition can save your life.

You create your own destiny.

There’s humor in the small things.

It’s never too late to live the life you’ve always wanted.

Using Real Names

Write your first draft exactly as it happened, using all real names and places.

Wait until you're ready to sit down to your second draft (or third, fourth...) to decide what you're going to do about the name issue.

Before publishing your memoir, get feedback from others and, if necessary, consult an attorney. It's advisable to get signed permissions if you use real names.

Advice from Noel Diem at Law Street:

Disguise as much personal information as you can.

Try not to describe physical appearances; or change physical appearances.

Do not use biographical information to describe why a person did something.

Use a pseudonym if at all possible.

Talk to a lawyer before you publish the book.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References Crime ⚜ Horror ⚜ Fantasy ⚜ Mystery ⚜ Speculative Biology

[reverie-quotes]

Pacifism has perhaps never existed as a real thing. What exists is the ability, or not, to distinguish between forms of violence.

— Andreas Malm, How to Blow Up a Pipeline

[feral-ballad]

Camonghne Felix, from Dyscalculia: A Love Story of Epic Miscalculation

[Text ID: “I’m nearly inside out with the blue light of grief. I feel like I’ve been blown through, some invisible glow casting my shadow on the wall. I can’t wait think, I can’t see, I can’t breathe.”]

[scrubbinn]

Mimic Memoirs: Trip to the zoo

HRT month 17

Two weeks after meeting Aria the Lamia

Attempting to deliver a plush toy as promised

The late noon sun rolled high above the sky. Mid spring days of hyper city carry a lot of rain. It wasn't a big deal for a mimic. But Mayday wasn't fully a mimic yet, and slimes hated rain. Too much water leaves slimes diluted and in danger of melting completely. Thankfully umbrellas do the job just fine. Still it set the tone of today as dangerous.

A drop of water finds its way onto the slime mimic's ankle with her whole body going into a shiver. It's normal for slimes to start vibrating in response to danger. It's a way to alert others that one is at great risk.

“It's just the rain, it's just the rain, it's just the rain.” She chanted.

she pulled a bag of plush toys closer to her chest as she repeated herself a dozen more times.

Repetition soothes the soul. Mayday knew no less than 18 different mantras and methods to remain calm. Ever since she became a mimic, she always felt violent instincts crawlings and brushing against the back of her mind. Currently, they were telling her to leave.

It's not actually that unusual for a therian or otherkin to visit the Zoo. Be it morbid curiosity or genuine consideration for a home, it has become a foundational monument in Hyper city’s culture. An organization dedicated to containing and taking care of potentially dangerous therians that had already passed their crossroads and could no longer be trusted in society.

Arguments about its necessity in society have been ongoing since construction began. But the messy truth was that anyone passing their crossroads had to sign away their human rights to begin with. Humanitarian ethics had no say in the discussion, and no one can stop the animal cruelty that comes with any enclosure.

The near empty parking lot outside was covered in deep puddles, disguising every pothole that waited to shatter some poor sap’s suspension. Mayday couldn’t help but think anyone who had an accident here deserved it. She felt bad about that idea, but she couldn't help but believe it. When she first found out about this place, she began diving far deeper than she ever thought was possible for such an awful place. Each new article about it revealed horror after horror. Poor living conditions, mistreatment of staff, even worse treatment of therians… those blinding shock collars. Anyone who decided to visit here ignorantly deserved a bit of car damage.

The inside of the building was no better, wide doors meant to accommodate a dragon led to an antechamber with a human sized entrance. There wasn't even a sign that informed guests of another way in. The message was clear regardless. If you were something the staff wasn't sure they could handle. Then leave.

Mayday gripped her umbrella tightly, focusing on the sensation of the plastic handle, the smell of the trampled carpet, everything in the room that was now. Better here than whatever dangerous place her anxiety could think of. The mimic found her courage and walked towards the small ticket booth on the far end of the lobby. The smell of cheap gift shop toys and overly sugary candy overpowered everything else here, anyone with a nose would feel nauseated, stars above, what if a dog or really any mammal therian walked in here. Then she saw the stains in the carpet. Of course, they don't care. She began gripping her umbrella even tighter.

Shockingly, on the other side of the ticket booth, was another therian, a dolphin. Despite the small muzzle and completely different facial structure, you could not get a more bored disaffected teenage look out of anyone else. He spoke in a single monotone voice so bored that the sound effects coming from his gaming device were more interesting.

“Welcome to Hyper city Municipal Zoo. A place of magic and wonder as we explore the mysteries that lurk just behind the therian craze sweeping over our city.” The man looks up from his game. “Oh. You here for a protest or something?”

Of course, why else would someone like her be in this place? She took a deep breath and slowly showed the bag to the dolphin.

She stated calmly and clearly, “I'm here to bring some toys to the lamia exhibit for their enrichment. I spoke with one of the staff over the phone and was told to bring them to the lobby.”

She did her best to hide her wincing as her voice automatically went into a customer service tone she hadn't used in years. She tried not to ever remember those times.

The young adult stood very still for a while, looking back down to his game for most of it, only glancing back on occasion to see if Mayday took the hint to leave. After a minute of silence, Mayday began to speak only to be cut off.

“I'll need to contact my supervisor. Stay there and wait I guess.” He said.

Mayday could only sigh as she thought to herself, “just remember that this one is going through problems just like you. Just stay calm. There is no need to lash out.”

Her thoughts carried with her feet towards the massive glass window overlooking the tiger exhibit. The only exhibit set up for free viewing. Its drainage system had backed up a while ago, turning what was supposed to be a savannah into a dank swamp. From the other side sat two tigers looking at Mayday from a shallow cave made of plaster. They barely had enough protection from the rain, but they simply stared at her. She stared at the shock collars locked around their necks.

“I'm sorry,” she mouthed

For what, not even she knew. Being powerless to help, not having anything to give to them, or maybe it was simply the guilt she felt for lowering her dosage, for not walking the same crossroad they did. For being a coward.

“Excuse me?”

Mayday jumped, multiple eyes flinging themselves open, desperate to find the voice that pulled her out of her own head. They all landed upon a human in a zoo keeping attire. A large built man with a beard so curly that it grew more wide than long. He looked like he could be grandfather with the amount of wrinkles under his eyes. There were probably more under the graying hairs. His vest held a name tag reading, Kaylen Deemer.

The man spoke again. “You're the one who called about the donations? Mayday was it?”

He spoke in a strange manner. Emphasizing you're like it was a stone that smashed through his window. Mayday wanted to smash the window next to her.

“Oh, yes that's me. So if it's no trouble then, you can take these and-” She was cut off.

“I think whoever you spoke to wasn’t clear enough.” He said. “There will need to be some paperwork you will have to complete before we can accept these items. Why don't you step into my office.”

Mayday was certain the phone call she had before coming here had the phrase “You can just hand the items over when you arrive” in it. The smart play would have been to ask for any paperwork to be brought out to her. Unfortunately this was something that would only come to her in hindsight.

Kylan's office was cramped, not from the lack of space, but from how stuffed it was. Eugh, stuffed was a poor choice of words. Mounted trophy animals covered the walls, with their killer's weapon of choice hanging directly above him. She did her best not to look up at the nightmares. To an outsider, she would have looked as if she were bowing her head to a superior. All she could do is read the plaque on his desk, “Security chief Deemer,” over and over. Silence covered the rest of the room. Mayday hoped anyone but her would break the silence. Eventually, she had to.

“So, that paperwork?” She said; proud in keeping her voice from shaking.

He looked surprised for a second before talking. “Yes, here it is. Just needed Miller to fax it over. Now then, why don't you show me what you brought here today.”

Mayday reached into her bag and set out multiple plush animals of various sea creatures. Several fish, a spider crab, a rainbow collection of some other dimensional sea creature, and a sea snake that she placed gently on top of all the others.

“These are for the snake exhibit. I met- no, I saw the Lamias at the aquarium and they seemed to want a few of these things from the gift shop. I had to buy a few for them. They all seemed like a nice group.” She said.

“Quite charming of you. But I doubt they were looking at anything in particular. They're just animals after all. They were probably just drooling over a mouse running along the gift shop floor. They'd be pleased as punch if we gave them a stick or a toy full of cotton.” He retorted.

“I don't think-” Mayday made the mistake of raising her head. Every taxidermied head was looking down directly on her. Blank unmoving expressions with the glint of a gun painted across their eyes as the last thing they ever saw. Mayday closed all her eyes and gripped her umbrella even tighter. The handle began to crack.

His tone held that of unmoving authority. “Tell me… Mayday was it? What do you think is the difference between us, and the things out in the exhibits?”

She knew the answer he wanted. She didn't want to say it. Yet she started to open her mouth anyways. Like he had reached down to her core to pull out the words stuck in her throat.

“That we're smarter.”

She didn't believe it. Not for a second did she ever think that was true. But she had to say those words. Anything to make this go by quicker. She scribbled in every signature, every date, everything she could on the paperwork. Only afterwards double checking to make sure she hadn't signed her life away.

“That's right,” he said. “If I pointed a gun at you, you'd try to stop me. It's our minds that make us different from them. We’re not feral animals. Now, I understand you got sympathy for them, but you really have to know these aren't the kind of toys they'll like. They might think we're handing them food and choke. But I'll be sure to check with our lead therian keeper, and you can come back tomorrow when we have an answer.”

The paperwork falls to the floor. Mayday just stared at the desk in front of her. She did her best to swallow the anger, no matter how much she wanted to show this man how feral she could be.

“What do you mean tomorrow? I was told I could drop them off today.” She spoke in a raspy tone.

Kaylen sighed, as if he had finished giving the most simple explanation to a child, only to have them just as confused as before.

He spoke his words like laws chiseled into stone. “Well you can’t expect us to just hand them over. They could be filled with dangerous substances or any number of hidden objects. We don’t have the equipment to check. So you have to be the one to get them checked at an appropriate station. Then they’ll send us the donation. Really now, what did you expect? For us to rip them open and sew them back up. It might be a slow day for guests, but that doesn’t mean we can fulfill every little whim you have, simply because you thought you were special enough to bypass the rules.”

“I'm just trying to send gifts to a friend.” She started to choke on her words. “Please, just take them.”

He spoke with the joy of a hunter catching prey in a trap and said, “A friend? I thought this was all for our lamia exhibit? That's so strange. It reminds me of something. You know, we had an escape attempt at that aquarium, a lamia who said she made a friend. Miller really wasn't happy about it. I mean an accomplice running off with a dangerous animal. Can you believe it? Tell you what, though. Maybe we can come to an agreement here. You should go to your doctor and get your dosage upped. Come be a part of the family here. You'll get to actually befriend the others that live here, and best of all, you won't be fined for kidnapping zoo property.”

The room was silent for the next five minutes. Mayday could only desperately grasp at words that sped across her mind. Blackmail. Property. Friend. Zoo. Help… Attack.

Kaylen could have sworn the room grew darker. He blinked just for a moment, and Mayday was gone. No, not gone, changed. The mimic now dwarfed Kaylen. He stood up but still found himself a few feet short of the thing now in his office. 28 of its eyes all zeroed in on him as threads of sinew carrying rows of fangs rolled across its body. The security chief glanced over to his rifle on the wall. It had already been snapped in half without so much as a decibel alerting him. As if grabbing a shield to defend a dragon's fury. Kaylen took the bag of plushies and placed them to his chest.

Knock knock knock!

The sound of the door behind Mayday made her jump. To Kaylen, it was another blink and his nightmares had turned back into the soap bubble slime he thought he was dealing with. Mayday looked over at the door. Then to Kaylen, the bag he was holding, and the gun on the wall. She wondered why the last ten seconds of her life felt so fuzzy in her mind. And then the door opened.

What stood before Mayday was another man. A maroon military haircut and mustache would make anyone stand out, but then there was the deep scar on his cheek. Something about him immediately made Mayday uncomfortable, even Kaylen seemed surprised. His nametag just read: Miller.

“You must be Mayday. We talked over the phone.” His voice felt plastic. Nothing about his smile or tone was real. “I see Deemer here was just taking the donation off you now.”

Mayday felt off about this man more than with Kaylen. She pushed herself out of the office and back into the lobby. The smell of it invaded her senses once again. She was just about ready to leave but something stopped her. She turned to walk back into the room but the new figure was already directly behind her. She made a mental note to leave her eyes open around him.

She spoke before he could have the chance. “You better make sure these go to Aria and the others.”

The man's plastic smile faded for a brief moment. He spoke in confusion. “Aria? I don't think I… oh, the poor thing is getting confused again. Her name is Saphir. It was changed to help her move onto her better life here. We'd appreciate it if you used the correct name.”

Changing your name after fully transitioning was pretty normal for most, but something about the way he said it. Like he was proud of the name. In that horrid office with that horrid man. Mayday had kept her composure for the most part, but in this moment, her body could not stop shivering. Nothing about this man felt right.

“You're pretty unusual for a slime.” He spoke.

Mayday couldn't help but retort, “I'm a mimic.” She regretted saying it.

She gripped her umbrella with a mouth that had wandered onto her hand. Teeth dug their way into the handle. The pole started to bend.

“A mimic. Well isn't that… unique.” He spoke with a hunger that nearly broke through his fake tone, unable to stop himself from eyeing Mayday up and down

“Erian’s never mentioned he had a client turning into something like you. I assume Erian is your doctor. He usually ends up making the weirder ones. I've never seen a mimic so good at disguising itself. Not even a plank of wood for a chest to hide in. I hope you have a good plan when you decide to become feral.”

She felt like she had a grip on the conversation. She nearly shouted, “I’m not planning to-”

“They always do. Even if they try to pretend they're still human.” He removed her hold.

Mayday didn't know anything about this man, except that every part of her was telling her to attack. It wouldn't work. Somehow she knew that even with all her tricks. He had something to stop her. She looked down at the shock collar clasped around his belt. She looked up at the ticket seller for help. Solidarity with another. He was hiding in the booth trying not to be seen.

“I bet mimics have a pretty tough time suppressing their urges to eat. We're always happy to take care of you if it gets too hard. We'd need to change your name then. Oh you'd look perfect for a Malachite. We'll shorten it to Mala, we haven't used that name in a while.”

For the first time she met this man, the tone in his voice was completely genuine. Something about that made her so much more afraid. She thought of her friends and family, she wondered if they'd ever be able to find her. She held her umbrella as tightly as possible. The pressure made it worse. Slimes aren't able to throw up. It's biologically impossible and a waste of body mass. But mimics are very good at making the body do things that it thinks will help survive. A black puddle of poison rested at her feet. Mayday felt dizzy.

Miller, in that same plastic tone, spoke again “Oh no, you seem sick. We have an infirmary you can rest in.”

Mayday broke her umbrella. Bits of the handle flew off and metal bent under her fanged grip. She threw it like a weapon at Miller and fled for the entrance. She never turned to look back, if he said anything, she didn't want to hear it.

The scared mimic ran through the rain as fast as she possibly could until arriving at a bus stop, one she was certain that no one from that awful place would check. She knew Aria, or Saphir, or whatever her name is… she knew her friend wouldn’t receive those gifts. She didn’t care anymore, she couldn’t go back. Better to live as a coward than die a hero. She told herself those words over and over, but it didn’t make them feel any more true. Most of her face and hair had been diluted from the rain. She didn't care. She couldn't stop shivering.

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Hey thanks for reading, So a quick explanation since this isn't Mimic HRT. This is something new we've been thinking about for a while now. Mimic HRT generally has a lot of chapters that get scrapped due to running off into tangents about world building or stories that couldn't fit in the normal recording format. So while we spend our time agonizing about the final chapter of Mimic HRT, we thought it might be fun to write a few stories expanding on chapters that could use more. Hope you enjoy.

Thank you to @ariathelamia for letting me use the character, Miller

Thank you to @ariathelamia, @tigergirltail, @ashen-vulture, and @josphitia for the setting of The Zoo

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