Both of these are snippets of stories that I started and then abandoned as my ADHD brain lost interest. The first is a response to someone on the CBB who asked about a human turning into a yinrih, so I wrote about a yinrih turning into a human. The second grew out of a game called Analysis Swap, where the goal was to learn about someone's conlang by interviewing a character in-universe. I was more interested in the role playing/storytelling angle, so wrote this as a continuation after interest in the original analysis swap game petered out.
Human for a Day
“I got some reeeeeaaal good stuff this time.” My dealer glances furtively to either side, then pulls a clear baggie with bright yellow powder from his wallet.
I reach for the goods, but he pulls the baggie away. “Nah-uh! You already got your first hit for free.”
I draw a polymer note from my wallet, but he slaps it out of my paw. “Get out of here with those mineral notes. It's AW tokens or nothing.”
I sigh and hand over a few coins. He sniffs them and brushes them against his whiskers. “The real deal. Fine, here you go.” he tosses the baggie at me and I catch it in my tail.
“This better be worth the price,” I growl.
“Oh trust me, you'll see some cool colors. Just get yourself a trip sitter before you snort it.”
“Yeah whatever.” I emerge from the alley into the perpetual twilight of… whatever this town is called. St. something-or-other, I'm sure. These Hearthsiders, Light-botherers, every one of 'em.
Still a bit drunk from the wind fruit I ate earlier, I stagger back to my luxurious accommodations, a run-down torpor hostel. It smells like pee, despair, and unswept fur. Home sweet home. It sure beats the back of the rail car I was in before. The receptionist is looking straight through me, her jaw lax and tongue flopped out to the side, saliva dribbling onto her forelegs. She's baked out of her mind on Light knows what. At least it doesn't smell like anything I've done before. Maybe it's whatever this stuff is.
I stumble into my little torpor alcove and shut the curtain. It smells slightly less like pee. Maybe they really do housekeeping here. I give my tail a flick, sending the baggie flying into my open paw.
“Trip sitter my cloaca. This stuff can't be that hard.” I mutter as I rip open the sealed baggie with a claw. There isn't even enough powder to cover the pad of my writing claw. I pour the contents onto the tip of my digit, lift my paw to my nostril, and inhale.
“And now we wait,” I whine to myself, flopping down onto the perch that takes up nearly the entire space. My digits start to tingle, then the tip of my tail. The sensation spreads to the rest of my body, and finally to my head. Starry scintillations obscure my vision, the wall in front of me is no longer visible. I feel the perch melt from under my belly and I start falling.
“This is it?” I think. “I'd get a better high licking live bloatfish, and I could have done that for free.”
The disappointment has barely set in when blinding pain shoots through my spine. The pain radiates from nose-tip to tail-tip. At the same time, the tingling vanishes from all four of my outer thumbs. I feel something pressing against my muzzle and pulling at my ears. I start contorting in pain. My tail feels like it's shrinking, and my outer thumbs feel like they're just gone. At the same time, I can feel my spine curving and my hind legs lengthening. The tingling turns into itching, and I start to feel cold air against my body, like someone has shaved my fur.
“Oh void, how long is this trip gonna be?” Something's wrong with my voice. My lips feel bloated and my rhinarium feels dry. My tongue feels much smaller. My words burst out in loud bellows. I slide my tongue over my teeth. Flat, not sharp. I bring my paw to my face. My muzzle is gone. My nostrils point downward from a boney lump jutting over my mouth.
“My eyes, oh Light blind me, what happened to my eyes?!” They're slimy goo-filled orbs. I can feel them sliding around in my skull.
I probe my face, then the rest of my body. My fur is gone, well most of it, anyway. There's still a patch on top of my head, and two ridges of fur above my… whatever these things are, I refuse to call them eyes. My ears can barely move. My tail… Oh Light my tail is gone! My hind legs feel like they've grown a good tailslength. I can't seem to grasp anything with my rear paws.
I fall from the perch with a thud. Has the room gotten smaller? Have I gotten bigger? My outer thumbs seem to have gone the way of my tail. My claws are flat broad plates, and I can feel thin skin across my palms and digits, no pads.
I try to rise to my paws, but something feels… wrong. No, my forepaws shouldn't be on the dirty ground. I rear up on my hind feet and bump my head against the ceiling. I have gotten taller, it seems.
My vision seems to have cleared, but everything looks off. I try to slide my bandpass membranes over my eyes. Nope, no bandpass membranes, either. I stagger out into the hall, still on my hind feet. The receptionist hears the noise and looks over at me and I suddenly feel deeply ashamed. I rip the curtain from the doorway and wrap it around my midsection. There, that's better. Don't ask me why.
I try to catch a whiff of her musk to see what she's feeling, but nothing registers. The whole world smells weaker. At least I can't smell the pee anymore. She gives her head a shake and looks back at me. I can tell she's saying something, but I can barely hear her. She snatches a keyer and slaps a pair of HUD specs on her muzzle, then starts furiously chording away, gawking at me all the while.
I turn around and try to run down the hall toward a side exit. I feel something cold and wet underfoot and look down to see a puddle of, let's hope it's water. I can see my reflection for the first time. Round face, pointy triangular nose, no fur, greasy pale skin, and… oh Light, are THOSE my eyes?! I feel my gut twist and I add the contents of my stomach to the… let's be honest, it's pee, not that I can smell the difference anymore.
I run out the side door into a dusty alley lit by harsh floodlights. I hear the heavy thud of paw gauntlets and see a town guard trotting toward the front entrance to the hostel.
Table Manners
For a few seconds I waver between turning right to head home or to cross the street to go to the restaurant. I look down at my guest. His snout is still angled skyward, glossy wet nose twitching frenetically as he drinks in the aroma of wood smoke. He starts licking his chops as saliva begins to drip from the corners of his black lips.
After a moment's hesitation, I march forward toward the curb cut. My intent now clear, the little asteroid miner begins excitedly prancing forward, thumping his sinewy tail on the pavement. This is definitely not normal yinrih body language. Is he mimicking canine behavior to compensate for his inability to communicate in English? He mentioned other great apes earlier, perhaps he took the initiative to do more research into Terran fauna before his trip here.
I give him a stern look. “I'd quit wagging your tail if I were you. If you don't want other humans to pet you like a dog you should stop acting like one.” He says something that gets drowned out by Tejano music blaring from a passing truck, but seems to heed my admonition, hastily curling his tail around the bag on his back.
I fix my gaze ahead, reaching over to press the button for the crosswalk. My guest blows the curb and enters the intersection at the worst possible time. The light for the cross street is a solid green, and an SUV has already passed the middle of the road on a collision course with the little sophont.
“Woah!” I lunge forward and grab his tail, pulling him out of harm's way. His bag falls off his back and into the gutter, mere inches from the passing vehicle, which speeds by close enough to rustle his whiskers.
It takes some time for him to register what just happened. For a split second his cynoid face flashes with another unreadable emotion, I figure he's less than thrilled I pulled him by the tail. Then he lookes to his right at the swiftly receding vehicle that nearly painted the asphalt with his innards. His expression melts and he presses the top of his head against my knee. This, it turns out, is a gesture of deep gratitude, though it's usually done against the side or chest of the receiver, which human bipedalism renders difficult.
I pluck his bag from the gutter and hand it to him. “Sorry, dude, I guess pedestrian safety isn't something they went over back home.” I point at the crosswalk sign. “See that signal over there?” He gives me an affirmative upward tilt of his muzzle. “When you see the red hand, that means 'don't walk.' When it changes to the picture of a human, that means it's safe to cross. Got it?” He nods in human fashion.
The light cycle has restarted, so we wait a minute or two for our turn to come up again. I spam the button a few more times. “Sometimes you gotta make extra sure it knows you want to cross,” I explain in response to his incredulous look. The signal turns and he looks up at me. “Follow me, and don't run.”
I successfully shepherd the alien across the intersection without making the evening news, and we arrive at the door of Good Ol' Boys' Smokehouse. Upon entering the vestibule, I'm met with an unfamiliar sight. I've been here before, but not since I was a freshman. They definatly didn't have this water feature here last time. It's a wide, shallow basin, no more than a few inches deep. A grate lines either side of the pool, and I can tell by the agitation of the water that it's being vigorously circulated.
My guest doesn't miss a beat. He rolls onto his back and casts off the socks and mittens with relish, then flexes his now freed digits in relief. He passes his now discalced paws under a dispenser sitting at perfect monkey fox height, which deposits a beige powder onto his upturned palms. I watch astonished as he wades into the water. The powder dissolves, blossoming into a soapy slick across the surface, which quickly flows into the intake drain at one side of the pool. He submerges each paw, then draws it out and gives it a dainty shake. He repeats this cleansing ritual a few times, then exits the pool onto a coarse floor mat. He wipes his paws, palms and wrists alike, spreading his digits to remove any remaining dirt from between his paw pads and under his claws.
Bewildered, I glance around and am somewhat taken aback to see another monkey fox. The tawny-furred female is wearing an appropriately sized baseball cap which I recognize as part of the normal employee uniform, with holes to accommodate her upright ears. She notices my confusion at the pool.
“Howdy!” She's made some modifications to her own synth, affecting a surprisingly convincing Texan accent. She's even managed to inject a bit of emotion. She notices that her conspecific is incommunicado and launches into her own well-trodden introduction. “A bit confused, are ya? That's a washing pool. We yinrih need those to keep the place clean. Our hands are also our feet, ya know.”
I'm obviously still perplexed at her presence in this very human establishment. “Oh, my name's Crystal, well, my human name, anyway. I've seen a lot of other yinrih coming in here lately. Some sort of exchange program at the college, right? Well, I'm here from Moonlitter. Know where that is?” My blank stare tells her that I do not. “Well, it's a big planet just outside the Inner Belt, that's where all these exchange volunteers are coming from. Anyway, we have this thing back home. It's like, you know how some places make pups join the military for a few years when they get old enough? I know they do that at some places here on Earth. Anyway, Moonlitter does a similar thing, but they make you work a customer service job, you know, waitress, cashier, that sort of thing. Force you to face the public so you'll treat 'em nice when your older because you were in their paws yourself. Gives you some humility. Anyway, This place here started taking conscripts from Moonlitter, and I jumped at the chance. If I've gotta be a wage slave, might as well serve my time somewhere new and exotic.”
I'd hardly call the middle of literal nowhere Texas “new and exotic” myself, but I suppose anywhere that's twenty five light years from home would be by default.
By now my guest has finished drying his paws and has returned to my side. The hostess notices her fellow monkey fox and greets him with a chuff. He responds in kind and they exchange a few yips and growls of Commonthroat, then she looks up at me again. “Anyhow, better do what I get paid for. Table for two? One human and one yinrih?”
I nod, but Crystal holds up a paw. “Oops, almost forgot,” she says, motioning down at my sneakers with her muzzle. “Those gotta go.” I follow her gaze to a shelf full of shoes just inside the entrance door. “You can keep the socks on,” she adds.
I hesitate momentarily. “Remember, hygiene.” My guest has re-equipped his keyer and is making grasping motions with a free paw. “I know, it's a hassle. Why do you think so many of us live in microgravity?” I remove my shoes and place them on the shelf, silently thanking my past self for putting on matching socks this morning. I look at the two quadrupeds and heave a sigh of resignation.
“Hay, I get it,” Crystal says. “A lot of humans are as uncomfortable not wearing shoes as we are wearing them.”
“It's OK,” I say, “This is why we're having this exchange program in the first place, right? It's all a learning experience.” Crystal summons a human waitress, who grabs a pair of menus and leads us inside.
I recognize our server. We had a few classes together our first few semesters. She's a student at the much larger and better-funded veterinary school. I know through the grape vine that she's the daughter of the owner. She recognizes me, too.
“Hey, don't I know you?” she says as we weave our way around tables, chairs, and other furnishings not designed for the human form. “You're a Linguistics major, right?”
“Yes,” I respond, gawking at the renovations made since First Contact. The tables are lower to the ground, and yinrih perches are scattered among the chairs. The cafeteria counter and large menu display are gone. “Didn't this place used to be a cafeteria?” I ask.
“We got rid of all the self service stuff,” she explains. “Quadrupeds who haven't set foot on a planet's surface their entire lives aren't exactly adept at balancing a tray full of food. Crystal's good enough at it, but she didn't grow up in zero-G. She sometimes covers my shift when I have to study. Puts the serving tray on her back and picks up the plates with her tail. It's really cute.”
“Don't take this the wrong way, but from what I know of your dad, he's the last person I'd expect to bend over backwards like this to attract alien customers,” I say, glancing up at the large Gadston flag hanging proudly on the wall.
“Are you kidding, the Spacers are his kind of people!” she exclaims. “He seriously wants to move to the Spacer Confederacy when he retires. Besides, do you know how much Spacers are willing to pay for real meat?”
She motions for us to sit. And it’s only now that I notice the flag’s “Don’t tread on me” motto is written in Commonthroat.
“What are y’all looking to drink?” she asks as I awkwardly slide my legs under the table and my guest hops up onto the perch, his front end floating over the tabletop.
He looks at the menu. “I didn’t think you’d serve steadtree fruit juice. I’ll have one of those.”
“Make that two,” I add.
“Fermented or fresh?” she asks.
“Make it fresh for me,” says my guest. I nod to concur.
“So,” I begin after the waitress leaves, “What’s this about ‘real’ meat?”
“Orbital colonies aren’t exactly agricultural bread baskets,” my guest explains. “We can subsist on produce grown via hydroponics, and what passes for meat is just fungus grown in a lab and gussied up to approximate the texture of the real thing. We call it ‘leasemeat’. What we can’t make we have to trade for, and real meat is the kind of thing you eat on special occasions. And this cow flesh,” he stops to lick his chops again, “it’s something else, especially smoked. Spacers will pay a day’s wage for just a plate of the stuff back home.”
“Wait, we’re exporting food to Focus now?”
“Yup,” he says, “Wayfarers’ Haven has a mass router dedicated to food imports from Earth.”
The waitress has returned. She sets a glass before me and two bowls in front of my guest. My glass and one of his bowls are filled with what I can only describe as pure liquid blue. It’s like someone found a way to liquify the screen you see when you turn on a TV with no HDMI cable plugged in. It’s so saturated that even in the dim ambiance it hurts my eyes to look at. Floating atop the surface of the liquid is a violet sheen, roiling like the iridescent interference pattern of a soap bubble.
“Don’t worry.” The waitress notices my misgivings. “The FDA just approved that stuff for human consumption… I think. You ready to order?” She asks.
“Give me a few minutes,” says my guest, licking his lips again. “It all looks delicious.”
“Take your time,” she says and walks off.
Looking for an excuse not to imbibe the blue drink, I look at the other bowl given to my guest. It’s filled with water, and a rough hand towel is folded next to it. He dips his paws in the bowl and dries them on the towel. “Hygiene again,” he says, repeating the grasping gesture.
“Is it like this everywhere you go? With those pools, I mean,” I ask.
“Nope, just restaurants and healer’s offices, anywhere health is an issue. Everywhere else you just have that rough floor mat to get the dirt off at the door, but washing pools are also in restrooms. They’re our version of the sink. But yeah, I agree that it’s a huge pain, constantly cleaning your paws. All the more reason why I’m a Spacer.”
He dips his head and noisily laps up some juice from the bowl lying on the tabletop. I suppose monkey fox table manners are all about minimizing contact between paw and food. “Go on,” he urges, “try it.”
I lift the glass to my lips and take a tentative sip. It’s thick and mildly sweet… at first. After about half a second I nearly drop the glass in shock as my face spasms like I’m having a stroke. The most sour flavor I’ve ever tasted assaults my tongue. It’s like an entire bag of Warheads concentrated into a single drop of liquid azure.
“So?” my guest prompts, his whiskers twitching with interest.
“It’s… delicious!” I take a swig and my face contorts in ways I didn’t think possible. Then I chug the rest of the glass and tap the bottom to get every last drop of this divine nectar to trickle onto my tongue. My face aches but I don’t care. Satisfied, I set the glass back down.
“Just wait until you try the fermented stuff,” says my guest, eyes wide and lips loose in an expression of vicarious pleasure.