vdansk | Totally Unmarketable Writing

I have tons of writing I need to do, and even more that I want to do, and what insists on being written? This. Can't be published for reasons that should become obvious. Limits of Philosophy “Have you read Lost Colony yet? “ The Prime Minister clacked his inner jaw in his enthusiasm. “What a magnificent work, what a triumphant expression of the inherent nobility of sentience.” “We’ve read it, yes,” the Dowager replied, stroking her black, jewel encrusted carapace. She forced a pleasant expression onto her outer jaws. “You must give the author Our congratulations.” “Has the young Queen read it yet? I’m sure it would interest her.” He bowed his head a little diffidently at that. “We will be sure to recommend it to her,” the Dowager promised gently. “Until tomorrow, then?” “Of course.” The Prime Minister gathered his files with delicate haste. “I should have more information about the Eastern Continent’s industrial progress by then.” She bowed regally as he left, then cradled her head in her front most arms. The novel had upset her more than she could ever confess to a male. The thought of a Queen and her followers hatching on a strange world with no Dowager to guide them was terrifying. She sighed as she rose. If her people believed in the concept of noble savages…well, then that was her gift to them. She walked back through the corridors, into the seclusion chamber that was hers alone, then deeper into the young Queen’s chamber. There were locks on the door that only she could open; she flicked her left arms quickly in the dance she had programmed. The inner chamber was bare stone, although music played in it. The hangings and decorations she’d brought had all been destroyed. She alone brought the young Queen food, or removed the precious eggs, and the Queen herself hardly cared. “Good morning Ysabet,” she said softly. A head, so like hers except for the mindless fury in its jaws, turned towards her, snarling and lunging. The chains held her fast, lest she break from her own egg sack in her rage. “Hate….” Whistled the young Queen, and the Dowager clacked her inner jaw ruefully. “Language begins. That’s a good sign. Soon you will bow enough to learn something besides your hunger.” “Never,” snarled the younger. “So I said to my mother.” Some of the eggs had hardened enough to take to the birthing chamber, where engineered tubs of living flesh awaited them, genetically designed to foster the intelligence and restraint that she, as Hive Mind, imposed on the rest. The workers, born in her presence, and shielded by rock and metal from their mother, assimilated it easily. “Kill!” “No, you won’t.” the Dowager said gently. “You will become civilized—spitting hatred the whole time—before you leave this place. And someday you will have daughters, and go through this with each of them. Saddest of all…you will love each of them as fully as they despise you.” The Queen halted a moment, her head twisting in puzzlement. “It is our heritage to me monstrous, but not our destiny. We choose that, each Queen building on the work of the one before her. Our Legacy will be to bring Peace to the stars, as we have to our world.” “Escape!” The young Queen roared. The Dowager shook her head as she turned to go. “Never, my darling. For then I’d have to kill you.”