A song all about my favourite hobby. Only the melody is unoriginal.

A Satire About Fanfiction.

Timon: I'm part of what's happening
Pumbaa: What?
Timon: Most people have no clue
Pumbaa: Who?
Timon: We rewrite stuff and here's the bottom line
We make it funny too
Pumbaa: Oh





Timon: The sweet caress of language
Our magic's on the net
And with each impregnation of a guy
The more success we'll get


Narrator: Can you hear the LOLs tonight?
Shakespeare got bastardised
The films and games that we no longer play
Given new lease on life


Simba: So many plots to create
My inspiration's games
The Elder Scrolls is perfect for oneshots
It's me my mother blames


Nala: We add to our media
No 'dumb consumers', we
So we ask IP lawyers one question
"Why not just let us be?"


Chorus: Can you hear the LOLs tonight?
Shakespeare got bastardised
The films and games that we no longer play
Given new lease on life

Can you hear the LOLs tonight?
Fox Mulder just gave birth
When you read the craziness that we write
You'll understand our mirth


Timon: And if you are an author too
Who likes to write fanfic
Pumbaa: Join me in singing this parody
Together: And make Walt Disney sick!


Copyright © 2012 Romersa's Protégé. Individuals and groups are free to copy, share, and perform this work for non-commercial purposes. All other rights reserved.
(Adapted from 'Can You Feel the Love Tonight?'; © 1993 Elton John. All rights reserved.)

You know Dolly Parton's Imagination Library? The expensive waste of council funding that's taken over the Western World? Well, here's a story I wrote about it in less than an hour.


The Unlimited Books.


Zach Taylor bounced slightly in his seat, then tried to get back to copying the letters in his exercise book from the blackboard before his teacher, Mrs. McCaffrey, shouted at him for the fourth time that lesson. But really, it wasn't fair! How could the old meanie expect him not to be excited when his mother was? It wasn't like Zach knew who Dolly Parton might be, but she must be someone really important given the way Vanessa Taylor had reacted when she had heard that the singer would be visiting Zach's school.


"Oh, my God, Zach! Do you know who she is? She's really famous!"


Vanessa had been so flustered that she hadn't thought to explain who Dolly Parton was and why she was famous to her son, and he had been too bemused to ask. Today, however, he was going to find out.


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


"And now, let me introduce you all to... Miss Dolly Parton!"


It was now mid-afternoon, and Zach was sat in the assembly hall with the teachers and all the other pupils of Hillcrest Primary. The Country and Western singer everyone was there to see strode onto the stage that was usually reserved for the yearly Nativity play, made a (long by Zach's standards) speech as the flashbulb of the local paper's photographer popped, then asked the children if they had any questions. Instantly, Zach's hand was in the air.


"Miss Parton, why are you famous?"


Once the laughter of the adults and older children had died down and there was only the odd chuckle, Dolly stated, "Honey, sometimes people get famous for singing. I'm one of those people."


"Yes, but why?"


"I can't explain that. Now, would you like to be the first in your school to receive a book?"


Zach nodded.


"Okay, come up here then. Now, what's your name, honey?"


"Zach Taylor."


And how old are you, Zach?"


"I'm four."


"Well, you're very clever for four. I don't believe anyone's ever thought to ask why singing makes someone famous before. Now, I won't be personally delivering the rest of the books you'll get this year, okay, sweetie? The postman will bring them to your door instead."


Zach nodded, said a hasty thanks, then scurried back to his place amongst the other children in his class to quietly sit and cement the memory of what had just happened in his head. His mummy would be so shocked that Dolly Parton had spoken directly to him and ruffled his hair!


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


"What I don't get is why you need to be a part of this 'Imagination Library', anyway," John Granger, the Taylors' next door neighbour, was saying.


"It's to help Zach with his literacy," Vanessa explained, rather impatiently.


"That's what I mean. I'll tell you what, you wait here while I get something."


Fifteen minutes later, John rang the Taylors' front door bell again, a piece of paper in his hand.


"If you fill that in for Zach, Nessa, you'll see what I mean in a little while."


Her curiosity piqued, Vanessa filled out the form, then waited for a further twenty minutes until John came back once more.


"Here you go, young man," he said, handing something like a credit card to Zach. "That'll get you all the books you need to help you with your literacy, and you won't have to stop using it beyond your next birthday now that you're a member of the local library!"


Copyright © 2012 Romersa's Protégé. Individuals and groups are free to copy and share this work for non-commercial purposes. All other rights reserved.

Because Disney deserves it.

Because Disney sues pre-schools for using their cartoons.

Because Disney is locking up the Public Domain with wrongful wordmarks.

Because Disney is known as Dibsney with good reason.

Because... just because.

Song of the Internet.


Aladdin: We can explore new worlds

Filled with magic and splendour

Tell me, cavemen

Now when did you last click on a deep link?


It can open our eyes

Reveal many new wonders

Google dot com

Is the gateway most choose over Bing


The Internet

The worldwide mecca for info

There's Wikipedia, techdirt dot com

And Dreamwidth for creators


Jasmine: The Internet

Can teach us facts we never knew

And with mobile broadband, from everywhere

We can surf the World Wide Web with you


Aladdin: We can surf the World Wide Web with you


Jasmine: Streaming vids from YouTube

Or tunes from libre dot fm

Remote access

To media is a real amazing thing


The Internet

Aladdin: I like to browse AO3

Jasmine: Has so much stuff I love to do

Aladdin: Like too much online shopping!

Jasmine: I'm gonna check ebay dot com again

I really want that copy of Croc 2


Aladdin: The Internet

Jasmine: Let's check rudetube dot org

Aladdin: Enables things you'd never guess

Jasmine: Oh, my God, swearing parrots!

Together: Aspergernauts forums, for Auties too

Let us surf the World Wide Web with you


Aladdin: The Internet

Jasmine: The Internet

Aladdin: Which we all surf

Jasmine: Which we all surf

Aladdin: A wondrous place

Jasmine: In cyberspace

Together: For the whole world


Copyright © 2012 Romersa's Protégé. Individuals and groups are free to copy, share, and perform this work for non-commercial purposes. All other rights reserved.

(Adapted from 'A Whole New World'; Copyright © 1992 Alan Menken and Anthony Ryan. All rights reserved.)

You know the song 'Eddie's Teddy' from 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show'? Well, I repurposed it. Please don't ask me why.

Eddie's Teddy (Autistic Remix)

Scott: From the day he was born
He was placid
Und yet was the thorn
In his mutter's side
She tried in vain
Narrator: ...but he never brought her nothing but pain
Scott: He went into a home the day she died





From the day she was gone
All he wanted
Was to be like a norm
With a motorbike
Not shot up with drugs...
Narrator: By that bunch of Plethistic thugs!
Scott: Taking everyone for a ride...





All: When Eddie said he wished to wed his teddy
You knew that he was Autistic
And when he had a meltdown over a burnt hash brown
Frank: What a guy!
Janet: Makes you cry
Scott: Und I did




Columbia: Other schoolkids shoved him
I swear I really loved him
I said, hey, listen to me;
Stay sane inside insanity!
But they locked the door and threw away the key



Scott: Und he must have been thrown
Into someplace
Making him warn
Me in a note which reads...
All: What's it say? What's it say?
Eddie: They're out of their heads
Oh, hurry, or I may be dead
Judge Rotenberg commits real evil deeds (scream)






All: When Eddie said he wished to wed his teddy
You knew that he was Autistic
And when he had a meltdown over a burnt hash brown
Frank: What a guy!
Janet: Makes you cry
Scott: Und I did




All: When Eddie said he wished to wed his teddy
You knew that he was Autistic
And when he had a meltdown over a burnt hash brown
Frank: What a guy! (Whoa, hoh, hoh)
Janet: Makes you cry (Hey, hey, hey)
Scott: Und I did (Eddie)




Copyright © 2012 Romersa's Protégé. Individuals and groups are free to copy, share, and perform this work for non-commercial purposes. All other rights reserved.
(Adapted from 'Eddie's Teddy'; Copyright © 1973 Richard O'Brien. All rights reserved.)

You know that Autism Speaks advert, 'Council PSA Closer to Home'? Well, I made an accurate transcript. Enjoy!


Accurate Autism Speaks Advert.


Male Narrator: "I think someone at my friend's school suffers from this thing called Autism Speaks.

"My friend's brother's son suffers from Autism Speaks.

"My neighbour's son suffers from Autism Speaks.

My son suffers from Autism Speaks."



Female Narrator: "Autism Speaks is getting closer to home. Today, the murder of one in a hundred and ten children is advocated by Autism Speaks. That's a six hundred percent increase in the last twenty years, because of better diagnostic methods.

Learn the signs at thautcast.com/drupal5/content/get-real-autism-speaks-mostly-about-eugenics"


Copyright © 2012 Romersa's Protégé. Individuals and groups are free to copy and share this work for non-commercial purposes. All other rights reserved.

(Adapted from 'Autism Speaks Ad Council PSA Closer to Home'; Copyright © 2012 Autism Speaks.
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Sheogorath somehow gets hold of a PC and discovers the Internet, and well, he is the Madgod. Followup to Tributes to the Madgod.


Sheogorath's Fanfic.


"Haskill, I'm going to write a fanfic," Sheogorath announced one day.


"A fanfic, my Lord?" Haskill asked, startled. What, in Oblivion, was a fanfic?


"Yes, a fanfic. I have enough fans, wouldn't you say?" the umbric Argonian enquired.


"I wouldn't know, my Lord," Haskill intoned.


"Well, I do. I have loads of them and I've been reading what they've been writing about Me. I must say, some of what they claim I say is horrifying indeed! Listen to this: 'I'm so happy, I could just tear out your intestines and strangle you with them!' Have you ever heard Me say that, Haskill?" the vampiric Madgod demanded with a grimace.


"The You before You often said that in the past, my Lord," Haskill was forced to confess.


"Exactly, in the past! It's not like I say things like that now

, is it?"

"No, my Lord. Your utterances have been rather less violent of late. Although I always did enjoy that one about plucking out people's eyes. They never knew if You meant it or not. Oh, and when the other You asked You to donate Your brain to make a brain pie with -"


Sheogorath broke in, "Yes, well, that was the old Sheogorath. It's time for the new Sheogorath to write His story, then post it on the Internet."


"The Internet, my Lord?"


"Yes. Maybe I can post it on Neoseeker, and I should definitely post it on AO3."


Haskill shook his head, utterly baffled. The Internet? AO3? Neoseeker? Oh well, maybe it was just another of Sheogorath's delusions like the one about having lots of fans repeating the violent things that He… no, His predecessor had said in the past, or the one about being the head of every guild in Cyrodiil, Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, and the Grand Champion of the Imperial City Arena. Oh well, Sheogorath would forget about this thing soon enough. His delusions were generally short-lived.


- Two Weeks Later -


"Haskill!" Sheogorath's raspy voice came roaring through the Palace. "Haaaaskiiiiiiill!"


"Yes, my Lord?" intoned Haskill as he popped into view beside the frustrated Madgod.


"Where were you two weeks ago?" the Argonian asked, wildly twitching his tail with impatience.


"My Lord?" Haskill was confused.


"Well, I can't write this thing Myself, it wouldn't be fitting. I need a ghostwriter!"


"A ghostwriter, my Lord?"


"Yes, a ghostwriter! And I've selected you for the task."


"Will I end up on the Hill of Suicides, my Lord?" asked Haskill, worriedly.


"What are you wittering about, Haskill?"


"Well, my Lord, ghosts are generally dead, are they not? If I have to commit suicide -"


Sheogorath snorted impatiently. "Noooo!" he rasped, "A ghostwriter is someone who writes for somebody else under the other person's name! You really should get the Internet; it's amazing what you can learn from Google."


Haskill didn't even bother to ask, his head was spinning far too rapidly from all the things Sheogorath knew that he didn't. Really! He, Haskill, was supposed to be the one that his Lord got His answers from, not this 'Google' person!


"So," Sheogorath continued, not letting up on His chamberlain, "I need you to write about all the things I've done since I retook the Throne of Madness, every word the truth, and post the result on the Internet as fanfic with My name on it as the author."


"Yes, my lord," Haskill said. At least he wasn't being asked to speak to that 'Google' person on this 'Internet' thing, and maybe some time spent quietly writing would soothe his fractured nerves. "I'll get started on it right away," he said as he faded from view.


- One Month Later -


Haskill popped into view in front of the Madgod seated on His throne and declared, "My Lord, it is finished."


"What's finished?" Sheogorath almost snarled. He had been experimenting with leading the Mazken and the Aureals down the Golden Road, and He wasn't best pleased with Haskill's interruption.


"The fanfic you asked for, my Lord," Haskill intoned.


"I asked you for that six weeks ago!"


"No, my Lord. You asked me to write it four weeks ago. It was six weeks ago that You originally declared You wanted one to be written."


"But you couldn't take the hint! That's why I had to explicitly ask you four weeks ago."


"I apologise for that, my Lord."


"Well, anyway, how long is it?"


"Thirty-nine chapters, my Lord."


"Doesn't that seem like rather a lot?"


"Well, You have done a great many things since You took over the running of the realm, my Lord. There's a chapter about Your requests for things which are impossible to obtain as tributes, a chapter describing how You banned all cheese except that made from the milk of Argonians, and Your plan of curing Your subjects before leading them back down the Golden Road took up two chapters all by itself."


"Yes, I am brilliant, aren't I, Haskill?" asked Sheogorath, extremely pleased with Himself. It seemed to Him that He was as good as the previous Sheogorath on most aspects of ruling the Shivering Isles, but on others He actually superseded the one who had once been Jyggalag.


Haskill ignored the obviously rhetorical question, instead asking, "So, my Lord, is there anything else You wish to know?"


Sheogorath said, "No, I'll read it through later and figure out the themes and rating then. Oh, wait. Is there any squee?"


"Squee, my Lord?"


"Yes, things that the fans know about Me that will make them squeal with recognition and excitement when they read them."


"I doubt it very much, my lord. According to what You've said, Your fans only know Your predecessor, and You did ask that this fanfic be written about You."


"Well, can you add anything to make the readers squeal?"


"Only if I write things that You don't say as if You do say them, my Lord, and You did ask me to write nothing but the truth."


"Well, post it anyway, Haskill. I'm sure the fans will want to read what I've written and will give it good reviews," the Lord of the Never There smiled.


"I post it, my Lord?" Haskill thought he was going to be sick. This delusion had already carried on too long, and now it was going too far! It was time to inject a little reality into the situation. As much as he loved the lizard-like humanoid and hated to hurt His feelings, he knew that Sheogorath would suffer a far more serious psychic injury if His madness wasn't dealt with before it got too critical.


"My Lord," the Breton said, gently, "there's no such thing as the Internet. There's no such person as Google, no such thing as Neoseeker, and AO3 is just something You created in Your mind along with fanfic and the fans who read it."


Sheogorath listened to all this in amazement, and then burst into raspy peals of laughter. "Google isn't a person, Haskill," He exclaimed, "it's an online search engine! Look, I'll show you."


He took Haskill into the quarters that He'd received when He had become the Duke of Dementia and explained everything about the computer there, as well as explaining everything about the Internet and how it worked. After a few hours, Haskill was busily clicking away and surfing the web as though he had done it all his life.


- Another Week Later -


Sheogorath sat in the Duke of Dementia's quarters and read the reviews His story had generated, getting more and more depressed with each one. One reviewer had written that the Prince of Madness sounded more like Malacath than Himself, and another had seen fit to point out that Argonians aren't mammals and so don't produce milk, which was the point that the Argonian vampire had had in mind when He'd introduced His ban.


"Haskiiiiill!" He rasped at the top of His lungs.


Haskill popped into view a second afterward.


"My Lord, what seems to be the problem?" he enquired.


"Haskill, look at these reviews, they're all flames!" complained Sheogorath.


"Yes, well, not every author can expect good reviews from their first story, my Lord," Haskill explained.


"But you're the one who posted it," Sheogorath pointed out quite unreasonably, "so you fix it!"


"I cannot, my Lord. Those reviews can only be changed by the site admin at the request of their respective authors, so are there to stay. Could You not use Your magic to fix it?"


"My magic won't work outside of My realm, you know that! I remember trying to summon you when I was in Skingrad. It was a miserable failure."


"Then I am afraid that You will have to live with the story and the reviews as they are, my Lord."


"No, I won't! I'll take the story down and never post it again! See to it, Haskill, will you? The reviews can't be seen if the story can't be linked to."


Haskill refrained from pointing out that he had been the one to post the story under the Madgod's instructions. He really didn't want to risk turning his Ruler's anger, frustration, and resentment onto himself.


"And another thing," Sheogorath added, "I'm never going to follow one of your ideas ever again! They're obviously not as good as Mine."


Copyright © 2011 Romersa's Protégé. Individuals and groups are free to copy and share this work for non-commercial purposes. All other rights reserved. Produced under licence from Bethesda Softworks.

"Look, they're My worshippers! I can ask of them anything I please and they'll bend over backwards to provide it, you know that!" Sheogorath exclaimed.


"But some of these ingredients are rather… hard to obtain, my Lord." Haskill intoned. "And besides, Your predecessor was always happy enough with Lesser Soul Gems, Lettuces, and reels of Yarn as tributes. Why do You now wish for potions, the ingredients of which will require Your celebrants to face off against such things as Daedroths?"


"They don't have to face off against anything, that's what My Fighters Guild is for! And I don't just want potions. There must be art materials of some form, too!"


"Yes, my Lord, about those -"


"Look, just take that list to My shrine and get Ferul Ravel or one of the others to make copies for future supplicants. Quickly!"


"Yes, my Lord," Haskill said gravely as he faded from view.


A few minutes later, Haskill stood in the Throne Room once more. "I have done as You ordered, my Lord."


"Who did you give the list to?" asked Sheogorath.


"Ferul Ravel himself was there as always, my Lord. I gave the list and Your… request to him."


"Good! I always liked him. Not racist as so many Dunmer are, he and Falanu Hlaalu."


Haskill could understand this attitude. Even he'd had a hard time in disguising his surprise when he had first beheld the Argonian now seated on the throne before him, and he wasn't racist. Almost completely black with a red band across His eyes, except for His dark eyelids, as well as a red sheen all over His body, tail, and limbs wherever the light caught them, Sheogorath, formerly Walks-in-Shadows, had never been an archetypal dweller of the Black Marsh, and His appearance had been the subject of many whispered remarks and conversations even in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood, especially after Vicente Valtieri had kept his promise to pass on his 'Dark Gift' the night the umbric Argonian had started receiving His contracts from Ocheeva.


"My Lord, there are still some points on which I am unclear."


"Always with the questions, Haskill! Well, ask them quickly. Before I swallow your soul and vomit it into the Everfilling Chamberpot of the Ageless!"


Haskill almost reminded his sanguivorous ruler that that had been one of His predecessor's favourite sayings, but decided to simply get on with asking his questions in case his Lord was not just having one of His 'mad moments'.


"I have a number of questions, my Lord, the first being: exactly what type of potions require a majority of Daedric ingredients like Dremora Hearts, and some supernatural ingredients such as Glow Dust?"


"Potion of Chlorpromazine and Potion of Fluoxetine of course! And your next question?"


"My Lord, what are the art materials for?"


"They will be used in therapy that will help the potions work! It's no good just giving people potions, you know. You have to have something to complement them. Even I learned that much on My way to becoming Arch-Mage!"


"But what exactly is the purpose of these offerings, my Lord?"


"Once enough of them have been delivered to My realm, I intend to place all of the citizens of the Shivering Isles in asylums and cure them!"


"Cure them, my Lord?" For only the second time in his life, Haskill was surprised.


"Yes, cure them!"


"But why, my Lord, if I may ask? Are Your subjects not pleasing as they are?"


"Yes, yes, but so boring! Boring, boring, boring! I want some fun out of them before I'm dead of tedium!"


"But curing them will make them even more boring," Haskill pointed out.


Sheogorath snorted at his chamberlain's apparent stupidity.


"Only if they stay sane!" he exclaimed. "I said I wanted them to be fun, and what will make them more fun than curing them, only to lead them down the Golden Road all over again!"


And for the first time since he had been created to serve the Daedric Prince of Madness, Haskill smiled.


Copyright © 2011 Romersa's Protégé. Individuals and groups are free to copy and share this work for non-commercial purposes. All other rights reserved. Produced under licence from Bethesda Softworks.

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The Future Under a Nanny State.


I forget how long I'd been at Forest Lodge when they brought in the new guy, but I do remember how he caught my attention straightaway, despite the fact that he was a nondescript individual.


"Hey. What's your name?" I asked him as he sat beside me.


"I'm Jonathon Kaye. And you are...?"


"James McKenzie, but everybody calls me Jamie."


"Jamie. You can call me Johnny if you like. Why are you here?"


"I have depression and tried to commit suicide because of it. What about you?"


"Nobody believes me, so I was diagnosed with schizophrenia before being sent here."


"Nobody believes you about what?"


"You won't believe me, either."


"Try me."


After this, Johnny told me what he could remember about his early life, and I allowed him to do this, sensing he was building up to the good stuff. A couple of hours passed, then dinnertime was announced.
After dinner, during which both Johnny and I ate halal curry because the main selection was offputting, he put his lips on mine and we shared our first kiss.


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


Over the next few weeks, as the relationship between Johnny and I deepened, he told me more about himself and I learned that he was from the future.


"Bullshit!"


"It's true," he insisted. "Why do you think I was scared to smoke in the open when I first came here? Tobacco products are completely outlawed in my when. And you know how I'm not bothered who kmows we're going out with each other? That's because Earth is so overpopulated that homosexual relationships are actually encouraged rather than being frowned on as they used to be. Only if someone absolutely can't be with someone of the same gender are they allowed to be in a heterosexual relationship with a like-minded individual."


I allowed that this was true before revealing my last secret to Johnny. I was also from the future, having left a decade before him. I simply hadn't been able to believe that things had got so bad in the era I had left.


Copyright © 2012 Romersa's Protégé. Individuals and groups are free to copy and share this work for non-commercial purposes. All other rights reserved.

"By the gods!" Barenziah Verelnim cursed as blood dripped from the blade of her glass dagger. This would have to happen! The job she was on for the Thieves Guild had seemed so simple, but then she had been caught by a guard who knew that the house she was leaving openly had been unoccupied since its only inhabitant had disappeared with nary a clue as to his whereabouts.


The female Dunmer cursed again, silently this time, and quickly wiped her blade on the clothing of the dead guard before sheathing it and fleeing the scene as quickly and quietly as she could. She resumed a standing posture as her pace slowed to a walk, then when the evidence of her crime was discovered, she returned to where the guard's body lay at the same rapid pace that all the potential gawkers were rushing at. It wouldn't do to get caught now, and if she didn't affect the same morbid curiosity as the onlookers, she would soon find herself rotting in the Imperial City Prison. Barenziah just hoped that the guard wasn't someone important to the plans of her guild or its leader, the Gray Fox. She didn't think she had sufficient coin to pay a blood price.


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


So far, Barenziah's life had been a strange one. Born the bastard child of Queen Barenziah and the bard that had seduced her, the girl had been given to the chamberlain of the court of Wayrest and his wife by the midwife who had attended the birth, and had been raised by them until the death of King Eadwyre, whereupon she had been taken to Morrowind to become a handmaid to Queen Ravani, wife of King Hlaalu Athyn Llethan. After far too few happy years, Barenziah had fled from Mournhold amidst rumours that King Llethan had been poisoned by the then Prince Helseth. If Helseth would so willingly assassinate the king, there was no knowing what he might do to his own half-sister, a potential threat to his stolen throne. Barenziah had known for some time whom she was, having been told by her adoptive father just before they had parted ways forever.


It was during her flight that Barenziah had changed her name, the decision as to what to use for a given name being an easy one. The name Barenziah would help to anonymise her, as many girls had been named after the former Queen and now Queen Mother of Morrowind. It was the family name she had had the most struggle with, as everything which came to mind had to be summarily rejected as being too easy to check. Anybody who did so would soon discover that she had no ties to any family she laid claim to. Then, as she was crossing Vvardenfell on her way to Skyrim, Barenziah discovered a tomb which looked as if it had not been tended to for some years. Either the Verelnim family was extremely disrespectful of its ancestors, or Barenziah had just found the perfect family name. She simply hoped that the tomb's inhabitants didn't mind so much that they would haunt her. After all, just because she had taken on the family's name, that didn't necessarily mean she should feel obliged to take over its duties as well.


The swim to Skyrim was gruelling, afterwards requiring several days of rest at Candlehearth Hall, the inn at Windhelm, then Barenziah sought out her father, the thief, Drayven Indoril. Once she had found him in the little mining village of Shor's Stone, she stayed for quite some time as he taught her all about being a thief and what it was to be a Nightingale. Then, after his death, she took on a series of fighting jobs to earn enough money for the cart ride across the border to Cyrodiil, where she would spend some time in further training.


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


Barenziah's dream of her past faded away, and she slowly opened her eyes before sensing the presence of someone else in the room.


"Who's there?" she demanded sharply, not expecting the answer which came.


"You sleep rather soundly for a murderer," a smooth male voice almost purred. "That's good. You'll need a clear conscience for what I'm about to propose."


Barenziah was unable to tell the man's race from his voice or anything else about him because his clothing hid his features so well that all she knew was that he was either human or mer. The biggest issue was how he had managed to sneak into this place without alerting any of the local wildlife outside.


"You prefer silence then," the man continued, startling the Dunmer out of her musing. "As do I, dear child, as do I. For is silence not the symphony of death, the orchestration of Sithis Himself? Ironic, then, that I come to you now as Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. My name is Lucien Lachance, and my voice is the will of the Night Mother. She's been watching you. Observing as you kill, admiring as you end life without pity or remorse. The Night Mother is most pleased… That is why I stand here before you. I bear an offering. An opportunity… to join our rather unique family…"


This time, Barenziah made no comment as a result of stupefaction, and the Speaker seemed gratified.


"So, I have your rapt attention. Splendid. Now listen closely. On the Green Road to the north of Bravil lies the Inn of Ill Omen. There you will find a man named Rufio. Kill him, and your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete. Do this, and the next time you sleep in a location I deem secure, I will reveal myself once more, bearing the love of your new family."


By now, the Dunmer had finally found her voice, and she blurted out, "But I'm no murderer!"


However, Lucien's only response to this was, "No? The Night Mother seems to think otherwise. Allow me to grant you a gift, in case you reconsider. It is a virgin blade, and thirsts for blood. May it serve you well, as does your silence. Now, I bid you farewell. I do hope we'll meet again soon."


Wondering what esoteric information she could get out of this mysterious man in black, Barenziah asked him about the latest rumours, only to be rebuffed with, "Dear Sister, I do not spread rumours, I create them."


Then, when the Dunmer stated that she had nothing more to ask, the Imperial said, "Your path is clear. Send Rufio to his death, and the Dark Brotherhood will embrace you as family."


Having said this, Lucien Lachance swept from the room of the Ayleid ruin in which Barenziah had taken shelter for the night, his footsteps not quite silent to her elfin ears, more as a result of echoes than anything else. As soon as the Speaker was gone, his reluctant host took a good look around using a detect life spell before finally settling back to sleep. This time, her rest remained unbroken and her dreams were uninterrupted.


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


A month had passed since her first meeting with the enigmatic Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, and Barenziah imagined what might happen when she saw him again as Rufio's blood dripped from the Blade of Woe that the assassin had presented her with. Would he take her straight to where the 'family' was located, or would he expect her to make her own way there as he had on this? Smiling ruefully, the Dunmer wiped her dagger on the bedclothes and left the cellar, drinking a tankard of mead at the counter before leaving the inn to return to the Faregyl Inn to the northwest. It was more rundown than Mannheim Maulhand's establishment, but it was close, and besides, Barenziah wished to see Lucien tonight, and she was quite sure that he would not deem a place crawling with guards 'secure'.


Upon finally reaching the room she had rented for the night, Barenziah stripped naked before collapsing, exhausted, under the covers. Not many more minutes afterwards, she was again dreaming of her first home.


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


For the second time, Barenziah woke up and sensed a foreign presence, but this time, it wasn't completely unfamiliar.


"So, the deed is done. How do I know this? You will find that the Dark Brotherhood knows a great many things. For you are now part of the family."


The Dunmer kept a respectful silence as she nodded her head for Lucien to continue.


"Now heed these words," the Imperial went on. "The slaying of Rufio was the signing of a covenant. The manner of execution, your signature. Rufio's blood, the ink. As a Speaker of the Black Hand, I oversee a particular group of family members. You will join that group, and fulfil any contracts given. You must go now to the city of Cheydinhal, to the abandoned house near the eastern wall. Enter the basement, and attempt to open the black door. You will be asked a question. Answer thusly: 'Sanguine, my Brother.' You will gain entrance to the Sanctuary. Once inside, speak with Ocheeva. We must now take our leave of each other, you and I, for there is much work to be done. I'll be following… your progress. Welcome to the family."


Barenziah was dismayed. The Speaker was leaving so soon? Screwing up her courage as tightly as she could, the latest Murderer of the Dark Brotherhood said, "Wait, please."


"I believe I could spare some time. What is it that you require, assassin?"


"I would like to get to know you if I am going to be a part of your family."


"Our family, dear child,"Lucien chided, "but I suppose that is fair enough. What would you like to know? However, be warned. I will not be pressed on questions I do not wish to answer."


"Then just tell me what you can about yourself."


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


Barenziah would never know exactly how long she and Lucien talked, nor the precise moment the conversation turned into more than just that. She would also never know just who kissed who first, and everything after that was just a blur of sensation until clarity came over her once more. She and the Speaker lay naked in the double bed together, his seed dripping from a place in between her legs she had never suspected the existence of before, and all she could think of was, 'What, by the gods, just happened?' as Lucien gathered her into his arms and lay down to sleep. The Dunmer also slept, feeling perfect comfort and safety for the first time since she had fled her true home so many years before. This time, she did not dream of that place, but of a future with the man within whose arms she lay. She never woke as he slipped from the bed a mere two hours later, quickly dressed, and silently left the room. Barenziah was rather disappointed to learn that he had gone without leaving so much as a note, but dressed and left herself, hoping that they could repeat their encounter at some point in the future.


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


When Barenziah missed her regular flow eight days after her last meeting with the Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, she didn't think too much about it. After all, she did occasionally skip one because of her active lifestyle. That was why she never connected it to the occasion about three weeks afterwards when the smell of Antoinetta Marie cooking something with garlic for the umpteenth time sent her running to the latrines to empty her stomach of its contents. However, when the sickness continued for weeks and her flow failed to arrive for the second time in a row, the Dunmer began to worry. Finally, when her flow had not arrived the month after that, Barenziah became seriously concerned and sought out Ocheeva to see if she could say what might be wrong with her.


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


The female Argonian finished her examination, and then announced, "You are with child. I will have to see to it that you receive no further contracts until your youngling is born."


"The Queen Mother of Morrowind once had an abortion before she became pregnant with the King," Barenziah stated. "Could I not do the same?"


"No, you cannot," Ocheeva.responded shortly.


"For what reason?"


"For the simple fact that I do not know how to perform one, nor do I know of anyone else within the Empire with such skills. Also, I do not recommend that you try getting rid of the child in any other way. Such an act may prove more dangerous to you than to the one within you. As I have already stated, it is unwise for you to go on any contracts for the foreseeable future."


The Dunmer gave a small groan of frustration as she left Ocheeva's chamber to find something to read for the rest of the now much longer day.


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


As the months passed and Barenziah's belly grew larger, first becoming noticeable, then obvious, she did not see the father of her child, much to her sorrow. She wished to share with him the news of their achievement, but maybe he just wasn't interested. She certainly hadn't seen him since the night they had created the growing miracle in her womb, as she now thought of it, and she desired to know his thoughts on the matter. It would not be long, however, before she was to find out.


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


The Speaker looked at Barenziah's swollen abdomen with a growing sense of horror.


"So this is why you have received no contracts for the past several months," he stated in a cold tone. "You damn fool girl! Did you not know better than to get yourself in this state?"


"Get myself…? Do you not realise that it takes two to make a baby?"


"Yes, well, there cannot be a child growing up in the Sanctuary. You will have to leave once it is born, then I suppose you will want to find the father and inform him."


The Dunmer smiled grimly as she stated, "I have just informed the father."


"Do not be ridiculous, I cannot be the father. I am a taker of life, not a maker of it. Besides, I am sure that you have had plenty of lovers. You Dark Elves always do."


"Yes, I have. If only because one is plenty for me."


Lucien said nothing to this, simply snorting in disbelief as he turned and swept from the living quarters, closing the door with a bang.


Barenziah's tears slipped unnoticed by her down the dark blue skin of her cheeks as she stroked her belly, crooning gently to the small life within.


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


Once Barenziah's child was born, a beautiful little girl with charcoal skin, purple eyes, and strangely light brown hair that were the results of her mixed Dunmer and Imperial heritage, Ocheeva conspired with her mother to keep her at the Sanctuary for a year before making the journey back to Skyrim. There the Dunmer raised her daughter, whom she had named Karliah, in the ways of the thief while she, herself, became a Nightingale and took the oath to forever guard and defend the Twilight Sepulchre under her true name of Dralsi Indoril.


She never knew until it happened that she would be killed while defending the Sepulchre from a mercenary attack, but she would have taken the Oath of the Nightingales even if she had. She would definitely have been proud to learn that her death was not to be in vain, and only learning of what Karliah would go through would have filled her with any real hint of pain.


Vicente soon realised how foolish he had been and searched Cyrodiil for his lost love after his death at the blades of the rest of the Black Hand, but unfortunately for him, Barenziah Verelnim seemed to have completely vanished from the face of Nirn, and he never gained so much as a hint of her whereabouts before he was called back to serve Sithis.


And although she asked her mother about it again and again, sometimes going on for days at a time, Karliah never found out what the curse, "By Sithis!" meant.


# # # # #


Author's Note: I have gleefully and unashamedly ripped lines from Oblivion and lore from the Elder Scrolls series. See if you can tell what I took to twist into this story.


Copyright © 2012 Romersa's Protégé. Individuals and groups are free to copy and share this work for non-commercial purposes. All other rights reserved. Produced under licence from Bethesda Softworks.

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Have you ever read 'Next' by Michael Crichton? Well, this is 'Next v2'.


The Consequences of Gene Patenting


As I sit in this sundrenched yard surrounded by razor wire topped fences, I often wonder what exactly it was that caused my imprisonment. Now, I know the media are saying that I should never have been born and everything is all my parents’ fault, but I can’t really credit that opinion. You see, my parents created me during an act of love, never foreseeing what the possible consequences would be. To be honest, who could?


No, if I think about it, it must be the fault of Myriad Genetics. If they hadn't had some of their gene patents enforced in 2011, they might not have subsequently gone out and bought up other gene patents or sued other companies to gain theirs. They might never have gone to court many times to have their view of the patents process upheld, and they might not have gained a patent on a lot of the genes that are in my body. Nevertheless, that is what they did, and my case is the result of it.


It seems like only yesterday that my parents and I stood in a courtroom in our smartest clothes, as the verdict that led to me being here was handed down.


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


“Foreperson of the Jury, on the charges of patent infringement, how do you find?”


“We find the defendants guilty, your honor.”


I remember the judge closing her eyes momentarily and giving a heavy sigh before she said, “Very well. Mr. and Mrs. Greenberg, I fine you both $1.5 million dollars, the minimum allowable under the law. Also, as the products of any type of IP infringement must always be destroyed, your son, Jonathan, will be taken from here to a place of confinement. He will be held there for a period of no longer than three months, unless a stay pending appeal is filed, then he will undergo a lethal injection before his remains are cremated.”


I don’t remember anything but a buzz of noise after that, except the sensation of somebody supporting me as I was led away, then the coolness of a cell bunk beneath me. It was to be another week before the news sank in fully, that I'd been given the death penalty as punishment for a crime I hadn’t even committed!


- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -


That was nearly a year ago now. My parents appealed of course, arguing that when the ‘product of infringement’ is a living human being, can it really be right to so casually destroy them? Unfortunately, their appeals always failed, meaning they had to send them to higher and higher courts for more and more money. They always say to me that it’s not about the money because I’m their son and they love me very much, but I can tell that they worry about how they’re going to afford the next trial if it comes to that. Well, yesterday was my parents’ final appeal before they can no longer afford it, and I just know they lost again, I just know it.


Now a corrections officer is approaching me as I sit in the yard, his face carefully blank.


“Prisoner 288476!”


“Yes, sir?” I can’t help squeaking as I jump to my feet. My throat has gone dry. This is it!


“Come with me, the warden wants to see you.”


“Yes, sir.” I reply before trudging after the officer, dread filling me. I want to go even slower, but I know that if I do, I'll be punished for it. Although what value that lesson will have so soon before my death, I don’t know.


“Name and number to the warden, prisoner!”


“288476, Jonathan Greenberg, sir.”


“Ah, yes. Greenberg. Thank you, Mr. Salvatore. You may leave us now.”


“Yes, sir.” The officer exits the room, quietly pulling the door closed behind him.


“Excuse me, sir. Is this about the appeal?”


“Actually, Greenberg, it is. It was cancelled because of a recent change in the law.”


At Warden Shepherd’s words, the tears start to roll down my face and I can feel nothing outside of myself. The final appeal was cancelled. First the law wants me dead, and now it has just denied me the last hope of justice I had held.


“What is the matter, Greenberg? Aren’t you happy?”


I almost laugh bitterly at that. “How can I be happy when I’m about to lose my life and my parents’ last chance of saving it is gone?” I manage to choke out.


“I don’t think you understand, Greenberg. The change in the law isn’t about the appeals process, it’s about gene patents. The week before your appeal was due to begin, Pennsylvania State University went to court to challenge the patents on the basis that not only do genes occur in nature and are unpatentable as a result, the patents themselves were held on something which has prior art in the DNA in natural organisms. Then your case was cited as an extreme example of why gene patents shouldn’t exist, and as a result, they’ve officially been abolished so that no more young people find themselves in your position. After all, we can’t let business interests lead to the destruction of the human race as greater numbers of people require gene therapy, can we?”


“I suppose not, sir,” I murmur, my ears singing as I struggle to process this rapid change in my fortunes.


“You might also be pleased to learn that IP law itself is under review, and decisions about the disposition of products of infringement will be made on a case by case basis from now on. The most important thing, though, is that because there are no gene patents anymore, your parents have officially committed no crime. Therefore, you’re free to leave as soon as they arrive to collect you.”


This time when I collapse, it is because of the surge of happiness and relief which overwhelms me.


Copyright © 2012 Romersa’s Protégé. Individuals and groups are free to copy and share this work for non-commercial purposes. All other rights reserved.

The first line of this story was taken from a competition run by The First Line magazine. Other than that, it is 100% my own.


The Results of Copyright Term Extension.


Sometimes, when it's quiet, I can remember what my life was like before moving to Cedar Springs. Although I lived near Universal City in the Toluca Lake area of Burbank in Southern California, my life was anything but the chaos you might imagine it to have been. My parents had originally moved to L.A. with the idea of my mom getting an acting job, but after months of unsuccessful auditions, the fact that I was on the way was discovered, and while my dad got a job as a dolly grip for Warner Bros., Mom decided to concentrate on raising me, and she put me through auditions myself once I was born. You know those babies hooked up to lines and tubes in incubators in medical dramas? I was one of them on a number of occasions, and I once played a kid whose mother didn't survive childbirth, a strange man cradling me in his arms as he cried on cue before I was switched out for the kid who shared the role with me. I even had the part of a nine-month-old baby girl in a biopic at one point, but the funding for it suddenly fell through and it was never completed.


As I entered toddlerhood though, the acting jobs gradually started to dry up because no one wanted to hire a child who was unable to properly communicate at the appropriate level, could not be directed, and remained unaware of the cameras, but I didn't actually care. I know that might seem strange to some of the people who will read this, but what I recall from that time is bright lights that pained my eyes and made me too hot as well as reflecting off of many surfaces, hurting my eyes even more; men I didn't know who would get in my face, holding my arms and shoulders as they positioned me just so; and absolutely crowds of people milling about everywhere. All this would send me into panics that had me seeking out a hidden corner where I would kneel and rock as I watched my kreisel spin, the brightly painted carousel horses just a blur and the rattling of the tin causing complaints from the sound engineers. You also have to remember that I was only two years old at the time, and toddlers are nothing but ego. All in all, acting in TV and movies was not a very successful career choice for a child like me.


With the money my folks had brought to the San Fernando Valley, as well as the incomes of my dad and me (less what had to be banked under the Coogan Law), the mortgage on the house was almost paid off by the time I was three. Not bad considering the fact that the most I'd ever worked in a day was two hours. So when Dad died in an accident on set, Mom decided to try and find a secretarial job to keep us both at least until I left school. It had been just a few months before that I had been diagnosed with childhood autism, my folks being told they were 'refrigerator parents', and they had heard of a couple of schools in the area that had special educational provisions, as well as a good local preschool that would accept me. So my education started with me crying and screaming, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" repeatedly while banging my head on the floor until the teachers were forced to physically restrain me to prevent further injury, often getting injured themselves as I kicked and fought to be free of the pain their touch caused. It says something about their patience and persistence that they never gave up on me, and it wasn't long until I felt more secure, knowing that Mom hadn't abandoned me and would be returning just a few hours later to pick me up and take me back home. I would even sit in the lap of one of the teachers for a cuddle once I'd been going there for a few months and had gotten to know her well enough.


There were problems when I graduated preschool and went on to kindergarten, but these were reduced by my old teachers preparing me for the inevitable change and I spent a fairly happy year there, although the HighScope Learning that had been adopted caused me enough problems that it had to be adapted for me. Other than that, however, I was able to follow the same curriculum as the other children, and I moved on to the first grade of Toluca Elementary School with my age peers, having fewer problems with the change than I'd had the year before.


During my first week of 'big boys' school', I entered the gifted program, this event being caused by the class bully. What happened was that during a rainy recess, the bully had snatched my baseball cap (which I insisted on wearing absolutely everywhere) and was holding it out of an open window. Miss Soderson, our teacher, thought she would have to throw older children out of her classroom upon hearing my tearful shrieks of, "No, no! Don't defenestwate my hat! Gimme my hat back!" and burst into the room only to see no one except her class of six and seven-year-olds. The bully sneered, "I was just kidding you around!" as she brought my cap back in and flung it at me, but the teacher wasn't fooled for a second, giving her a detention for bullying other children and promising to write a letter to her mother about it. Then Miss Soderson said she'd be back soon before leaving the classroom, coming back after a few minutes with a laminated card that had a bunch of words on it. She told me to read all of the words on the card and not to worry about any I couldn't say, just to skip over them if I was still unable to read them after a couple of tries, so I did as she said. Throughout this, Miss Soderson was writing on a piece of paper as all the other kids in the class had fallen silent and come over to hear me pronounce such words as 'homecoming', 'electronic', and 'ketchup'. Once she'd finished, Miss Soderson grasped my hand and led me from the room, the bully's taunts of me being in trouble for being 'such a freak' obviously going unheard by the teacher. Of course, the bully was wrong and I wasn't in trouble for anything, rather, I was simply going for some further testing, the test I'd just taken having shown my reading age to be fourteen. I wound up having the Gifted Program being combined with my Special Ed, the first child this had happened with in the entire history of the California Department of Education.


Several years passed without much else of note occurring, then the events which are the real focus of my story took place. It was New Year's Day in 1978, and I had been at my friend's house, storming out after an argument with him. I was walking past the Valhalla Memorial Park on my way home, sipping from a can of Mountain Dew I'd taken out with me, when something caught my attention, causing me to stop and stare. The neatly trimmed turf beside one of the graves appeared to be moving, and as I inched nearer to the fence for a closer look, I could see that it really was moving. Then all of a sudden, the turf split and dirt began pushing upwards through it, a hand with a lot of flesh missing suddenly breaking out into the open air. As I looked on in horror and disbelief, a man's rotting body followed the hand and I dropped my drink, my shock benumbed ears not hearing the sound of the steel can denting on the concrete of the sidewalk as I wet myself with terror, my feet frozen by the same emotion before my muscles finally unlocked themselves enough for me to turn and flee the scene. I might have been only an Autistic twelve-year-old, but I still understood somewhat the significance of what I was witnessing. I took off for home at a rapid clip, the chafing of my wet jeans making me incredibly sore before I was even halfway there, but not slowing me down in the slightest.


I finally reached home and started pounding on the front door, shouting, "Mommy! Mommy!" over and over again, my language regressing due to my fear and panic, and Mom opened it after what felt like hours that must have actually been only minutes. I almost threw myself into her arms as I sobbed out the tale of what I'd seen, and she had to tell me to slow right down and use my words. At first, Mom thought I'd been having a dream or something, but eventually realized I was speaking the truth about having been wide awake throughout the whole thing. In spite of this, when I asked her what she was going to do about the zombie, Mom said there was nothing she could do. If she rang the police, she'd likely receive thirty days jail time and a fine for wasting police time because they wouldn't believe the dead could come back to life, and they might take her away to a special hospital besides. All we could do was wait to see if other people saw the dead man walking around, then I could add my testimony to theirs.


Pretty soon, it was obvious that the man I had seen was not destined to be the only one, as within a few days, he was joined by a fair few of his neighbors. In fact, there were many cemeteries in California that lost some of their residents, and there were also reports of cemeteries in New York and other places with empty graves that had recently been occupied, the only burials seeming to remain unviolated those where the deceased had been cremated. A few weeks after that, there was an absolute influx of new songs, stories, ideas for TV shows, and a whole range of other creative works. Because of this and all the zombies once having been creators whose work was known to the public, it didn't take long for one particularly enterprising journalist to link the resurrections with the recent Copyright Term Extension. It seemed that on the day I'd seen the first zombie, the 1976 Copyright Act had come into effect, extending the copyrights on works for hire to seventy-five years from publication, and the copyrights on other works to life of the author plus fifty years. This had been pushed through Congress, the U.S. Senate, and the House of Representatives under the guise of incentivizing creativity despite opponents of term extension pointing out that many of the copyrights being renewed were held by deceased individuals and the dead cannot be encouraged to create anything. However, it now seemed that the zombies which were literally popping up everywhere had been incentivized to create by the new law and create they would, no matter what condition they were in when the law came into effect.


When there were as many dead people as live ones in Burbank, Mom decided she'd had enough and started looking for a place to live where as few people as possible who'd had something published were buried. That's how we wound up living in Taney County, Missouri.


That isn't where my story ends, though. You see, it's now 1988, and earlier this year, Ronald Reagan signed the Berne Convention Implementation Act. So as I sit in my old tree house, slowly sipping a six pack of Coors Light, I'm watching the Brown Cemetery near our house very carefully. Mom thinks I'm being paranoid, that the events of California can't possibly happen here, but I think she's either got her head stuck in the sand or she truly doesn't realize the potential issues that could be caused by the fact that a school essay is copyrighted by the student who writes it as soon as they put pen to paper.


I'm hoping against hope that this new act isn't retrospective, because there were enough problems caused by the last one and that wasn't. I wonder if Mom will realize I've started sucking my thumb at night again, or if she even notices how jumpy I've become.


Christopher 'Scooter' Hicks.


Author's Note: I'm not against copyright law, I just don't like excessive copyright legislation that causes problems and leads to disproportionate penalties.


Copyright © 2012 Romersa’s Protégé. Individuals and groups are free to copy and share this work for non-commercial purposes. All other rights reserved.

The story below is 100% my own original work, but could not have existed without the work of an Autistic woman called muskie.


The Story of My Diagnosis.


I don’t know exactly when I first began to have the feeling that I was slowly going insane. I only remember that one day, I stood up in the middle of homeroom and screamed my lungs out, the crushing loneliness that I had felt ever since I could remember suddenly being too much to bear. That was the day my life came crashing down around my ears.


Miss McKinney, my homeroom teacher, promptly ushered me from the class and I followed her to the headteacher’s office, ignoring the other students as they hunched in their seats with their hands over their ears, groaning as if they were in pain. I couldn’t understand this as I hadn’t hurt my own ears, and they’re a lot closer to my mouth than anybody else’s. Anyway, to cut a long story short, after speaking to the headteacher, Miss McKinney came out of the office and said that I might enter. So I went in and was asked a bunch of questions by Mr. Sherman, who then said that he would ring my parents to discuss how I was coping in school, as well as requesting that they take me home for the day. I asked him not to bother, saying that I was fine and the feelings I had expressed only came upon me once in a blue moon, but Mr. Sherman insisted, saying that because he was in loco parentis during school hours, it was his job to ensure my welfare. Then, before he picked up the phone, he gave that peculiar not-quite-a-smile I’ve seen so often before as he told me not to worry, I would be okay. I don’t get it, if he really believed that, why not let me know properly? In fact, what’s wrong with everybody that even when they’re really enjoying themselves, they can’t just let out a big shit-eating grin like I do?


Sometimes, after thinking these things, I would wish that I could be like everyone else I knew, somebody who genuinely stimmed and was comfortable with aloneness, rather than faking ease with solitude just to try and fit in. I wanted to burst out laughing in the middle of class and not feel foolish doing it. I wanted to be able to find imaginative solutions to complex problems purely by having them pop into my head fully formed. I wanted to be creative and just pour out stories off the back of a germ of an idea. I wanted a real hug, not one that was too brief because of the other person’s discomfort, or too tight or too long so sensory needs could be fulfilled. And I simply wanted a friend that understood what I was going through, for Pete’s sake!


Once the headteacher had finished his phone call, he sat back in his chair as Miss McKinney finally left the room, then I deliberately stared into his eyes until his head started jerking in an uncontrollable tic. I will say this in my defense, I don’t normally engage in such anti-social behavior, but I was pissed off, and besides, I had still not regained my normal emotional equilibrium. So I picked on Mr. Sherman as the nearest available target. That’s when my mom walked through the door of the office and straightaway crossed the floor towards me, holding her hand up before dropping it disappointedly when I made no move to respond to her gesture of affection, simply sitting with my arms folded across my chest.


Mom and Mr. Sherman had a discussion about me, each one’s gaze to the side as I wondered, not for the first time, how they ever managed to hold a decent conversation like that, then Mom told me that I’d be leaving school for the day and going to the doctor’s. I just nodded numbly. I had kind of expected this. Today I’d see our family physician, tomorrow, the psychiatrist to be pumped full of analysis, and if that didn’t work, to be involuntarily committed so more focused therapies could be tried, maybe even drug treatment. I knew all of this because that’s what my friend Steve had gone through after he had learned that his family would be moving to the other side of the country, leaving me behind. Steve wound up following his family in an ambulance, eventually being strapped down after he tried to start up conversations about baseball and the weather with the medical staff one too many times, using a lot of body language as he did so. He had related all this to me during a phone call after his release back into society, and I’d coldly replied that he was the lucky one, at least his parents were the same as him, and he had no problems relating to the other students at his special school. He would easily be able to make a new friend, that I would be the one to be left completely alone and I hadn’t ended up several sandwiches short of a full picnic. Steve had never rung me again after that, and now it looked as if I was in the same boat as him. However, I soon found out that was not to be the case.


When I saw the doctor, he did indeed make an emergency referral to a psychiatrist, whom I soon discovered was a pleasant woman named Dr. Greenbaum, and instead of saying that I should see her again, she referred me on to a behavioral psychologist, telling me that she was referring me for an assessment for Plethistic Spectrum Disorder. At this, I felt a rush of confusion sweep through me. Plethism? How was it possible I had that? After all, I wasn’t like Steve, who got motion sickness from rocking back and forth, was unable to stay fixed on one subject during a conversation in the face of all distractions, and also needed to constantly be amongst a crowd of his age peers at the special school he attended. He was even a member of Facebook and Google+, which I steered clear of because I liked my privacy, just like any other Neurotypical. Forums were good enough for me. And besides, if I suffered from Plethism, I would have been diagnosed when I was a toddler, right? So I must be honest and state that I was more than a little shocked and confused to hear Dr. Greenbaum’s pronouncement. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t find out anything more for at least six weeks because that’s how long the waiting list for a full assessment was. That was the longest month and a half of my entire life.


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When the day of my assessment finally came around, Mom took time off work to drive me to the clinic in the next city where it was to take place, and she said she’d be there throughout in case I needed her for anything. All I could think of was how disappointed she and Dad would be if it turned out that I did have a cognitive disability, so I asked her about that and she replied that although they would be sad if I had a neurological disease, they would never, ever be disappointed in me, I was their son and they would love me just the same, whether or not I required extra help. Thus reassured, I spent the rest of the journey with less apprehension than before, and it wasn’t too long before Mom was parking the car. She held her hand up and I pressed mine against it, giving her a smile as I did so, and for the first time in forever, she held my shoulder and kissed my forehead, causing me to close my eyes in bliss at the brief contact. Then we got out of the car and walked together into the building where my assessment was to take place.


As we entered a clean and bright waiting room, Mom walked up to the reception desk where she spoke briefly to a woman with Down’s Syndrome and a flat expression, who gave me what I imagine was a sympathetic look, then me and Mom sat down to wait for nearly twenty minutes before my name was called and we went down a broad corridor and through a white painted door. We entered yet another clean, bright room, this one surprisingly spacious, and were invited to sit down by a woman called Dr. Morton Ann Gernsbacher, who accepted a bunch of papers from Mom and sat reading them before she started to ask her a lot of questions about me. Then she sent her out of the room with the explanation that a child (at which I snorted) tended to do better during this type of assessment without perceived parental pressure. So Mom left the room and it was on with the show.


Dr. Gernsbacher first gave me Raven’s Matrices to do, which I rather enjoyed, then she set me the Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale for the purposes of differential diagnosis. I liked this test even better than the first because of the variety provided by the language and math sections, and I soon finished it, taking only a few minutes longer to complete it than I had the Matrices. After the tests, Dr. Gernsbacher asked me a bunch of questions with multiple options before asking me more questions which she wrote down on a piece of paper along with my answers as I rocked in my seat, rhythmically tapping my thighs with the tips of my fingers. Then she sent me to sit back in the waiting room with my mom while she formed her diagnosis.


After almost an hour, Dr. Gernsbacher called me and Mom back into her office and we all sat down while she informed us of her conclusions from the assessment, telling us that in her opinion, I had high functioning Plethism with Neurotypical traits, these traits disguising my condition and allowing it to go undetected for so long. It was far too late for the early intervention therapies that might have helped me in early childhood, but I might still benefit from other treatments. Also, if all else failed, there were group homes and special schools for people who also suffer from Plethistic Spectrum Disorders, where I might make friends in a social group of a size of my choosing, although such things were always a last resort, and it was better to try other things to get me to be like normal people first. While this news was sinking in, Mom just sat there silently, then she burst into tears, asking if my cognitive disability was hers and Dad’s faults because they had always seen to my needs immediately when I was a baby, rather than simply leaving me to cry.


However, the doctor reassured her that that had nothing to do with it; in fact, the ‘oven mother’ theory had been abandoned by doctors after the discovery in Romanian orphanages of children with Plethism who had Neurotypical-like behaviours as a result of emotional neglect, as well as documented cases of healthy Neurotypical children who had been born to Plethistic parents, thus growing up in households where one would expect them to be ‘smothered,’ yet still growing up disliking certain types of touch and not being overly distressed by relatively short periods of isolation from other people. Current research was now pointing towards the fact that what I had was genetic, either as a result of the disorder being passed down and skipping several generations, or an eccentric mutation of some or all of the genes that coded for Neurotypicality in a healthy individual. Then the doctor belatedly handed Mom a box of tissues, and she used one to wipe her nearly dry face, slightly smearing the small amount of makeup she’d applied especially for my appointment before loudly blowing her nose, at which I repressed a shudder of disgust.


Once Dr. Gernsbacher had finished her explanations, I asked her if my condition was why I’d always felt like a freak; why I needed either more hugs than some people or less than others; why I always felt lonely when alone; why I was drawn to places that had lots of people; and also if it was why I never had a problem with initiating any conversation, especially about the football and other team sports that I watched whenever the Special Olympics were taking place. The psychologist stated that yes, it was the reason for all those things, and others besides. I was not to worry, however, she had a program I could join, which included Advanced Behavioral Analysis, that should help to make me fit in with normal people, and if it didn’t, there were the other options already discussed. I had nothing to say to that, but the grin of relief on my face totally knocked my shit-eating one out of the park. I wasn’t a freak, I was Plethistic! That was the reason for my disturbance, I had a neurological condition that I could now receive help for!


Just then, Mom enquired if I had the learning disability that affected seventy-five percent of people with Plethism, receiving the answer that although I did have a lower than average IQ at 106, the effects of this could be ameliorated with the help of a classroom aide. Then my mom asked if there could possibly be any mistake in my diagnosis, and Dr. Gernsbacher said that no, unfortunately, there wasn’t. The fact that I had scored just two points less on the Wechsler Scale than on Raven’s Matrices showed that I had a high level of abstract thinking, and that, more than anything else, was a good indicator as to the nature of my deficits. It was just then that Mom stood up and put her arms around me, and when I questioned this, said that it was obvious that hand touching was never going to be enough for me, and that from then on, she was going to try and meet my special needs better. Again I had nothing to say, so I just put my own arms around my mom and enjoyed the first proper hug I could ever remember receiving from her before the doctor made me and my parents an appointment for post-diagnosis counseling. Then my mom and me left for home, Mom clearly still upset while I just carried on smiling with an immeasurable relief that I finally had a name to go by to understand why I felt so different from the majority of the global population. No longer would I have to suppress the movements my hands and arms wanted to make as I got into a subject I was speaking about; no longer would I have to hold back my laughter when others were laughing; no longer would I have to pretend interest in a conversation that was going totally over my head; and no longer would I have to discuss subjects that I found acutely embarrassing, such as digestive processes or masturbation. I would be free to live the way my conscience dictated, not society’s. Except that wasn’t to be the case.


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A few days after my assessment, my family had the post-diagnosis counseling that Dr. Gernsbacher had offered, although I didn’t actually need it because of my accepting the fact of my diagnosis immediately it had been made. However, the interventions that had been planned for me did not work out so well, especially the ABA, because I had no wish to be molded into the Neurotypical ideal after spending the whole of my life so far as a Plethistic, and I wound up attending the same special school that my friend Steve used to, occasionally staying at a group home for respite, which I enjoyed very much. It might seem strange to you, if you’re Neurotypical, that I wasn’t bothered by being parted from my parents for a whole weekend at a time, but you have to remember that they were also Neurotypical and couldn’t give me as many hugs as I needed. Although the place I stayed at had Neurotypical staff running it, there were also Plethistic assistants who were never short of a hug and maybe even an air kiss for a similarly disabled young person, and I soon started to look forward to the weekends that were as much a respite for me as for my parents.


Of course, my life still wasn’t without its difficulties. Whereas before my diagnosis, I had not been Neurotypical enough to fit in, now I wasn’t Plethistic enough, and the lateness with which my condition had been discovered was viewed with much suspicion by the other students at my school, some of them even going so far as to accuse my parents of ‘doctor shopping'. All this got to the point where I actually started to verbally lash out, displaying such eloquence as well as a lack of empathy and control during my tirades and diatribes that there could be no doubt about my being on the Plethistic Spectrum, and the whispers and accusations finally stopped after three tedious weeks of them. However, I had been made extremely unhappy by the treatment I had received, so although I renewed my friendships at school, I also decided to set up the website on which you are reading this text.


You see, throughout all of my experiences, I have come to believe that everyone has the right to equal treatment; that Plethism is simply a neurological difference rather than a disorder of any type; and most importantly, that no one should be devalued because of their neurological wiring. That’s why I’m perfectly happy to state that I’m a proud Plethie, and also why I set up this website. So if you are a member of the Plethistic Community, whether you are a Plethie, a Plethie with Neurotypical traits like myself, or simply a supportive family member or friend of a Plethie, you are welcome to join my site. You see, I don’t want anyone who has been shunned and picked on like I was to suffer in the same way I did, alone and with no one to turn to.


Michael James Freeman, webmaster of plethistics.org.


Author's Note: The Dr. Morton Ann Gernsbacher in this story is a real person, and the reason I included her name is because she deserves the honour for being the most empathic Autism researcher on the planet.


Copyright © 2012 Romersa's Protégé. Individuals and groups are free to copy and share this work for non-commercial purposes. All other rights reserved.

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