Star Trek: Boldly Malcolm

[OverJoyJackson]

The time...now...2011

opening monologue:

His wheelchair was a prison, in some people's minds…but for him, it was his vehicle into the future; his Starship Enterprise…NCC-1701-W

And be that as it may, Malcolm Hawks didn't let the fact that he had been born with Cerebral Palsy dictate his life. He was now twelve years old, and in those short twelve years, Malcolm had survived. He had done so while enduring his share or ridicule from the kids, the so called normal kids, that he had gone to school with through the years Add into the mix he was African-American, and it meant that at times he was a double sized magnet for the minds of small people who knew nothing but the morals of their parents.

His mother, Kiesha, watched from up ahead as Malcolm powered his chair toward the door she stood at. Their home was a modest one, as modest as could be expected. His mother worked three jobs and eighteen hours a day to make enough money to pay for the rent and bills, and all three paid just above minimum wage. Malcolm's monthly social security and disability payments also pitched in as well. Life wasn't easy, in their little corner of the world in Pittsburg Pennsylvania, but, it was as bad as it was for others.

It was with that 20% employee discount that Kiesha was able to afford an occasional new item of clothing for either her or Malcolm, as well as some food items. Campbell's soups were always a dollar less there than the local supermarket.

Malcolm was now old enough to take care of himself while she worked until 1130pm. It wasn't easy for him, and yet, he managed. She had to force herself not to help him with small tasks, such as wheeling his chair, or opening doors. She wouldn't always be around for him, so he had to make her son strong. And, unknown to Malcolm, her days left with him were not as many as he thought they would be; Kiesha was dying. What she had thought was an ulcer in her stomach turned out to be cancer; and it was terminal. She hadn't yet showed the signs, and because of the cost of medical insurance, and it covering most of Malcolm's medical needs, and doctor visits, her ability to get help for her condition was minimal at best.

"Come on baby," Kiesha pleaded, "I have to get going. I was already late for my shift at Target last night. And you know I can't afford to lose my job there and the 20% employee discount I get."

"I know mama, I know," Malcolm replied, as he arrived at the door. "But I really wanted you to see the visor."

A smile came across Kiesha's face.

"Of course baby," Kiesha said, "You and this visor of yours. What is it supposed to do?"

She opened the door and they both went into his room/work shop. Malcolm had inherited his father's skills at building things, and, her father's incredible intelligence; an unlikely pairing, since both hated each other in life, and doubt in death, where ever they were.

Malcolm's father, Geoff Hawks, was killed while deployed in Afghanistan two years earlier, and he wasn't even a fighter, he was a technician who worked on complex computer systems.

"Mama," Malcolm said, as he maneuvered his chair over to his work bench, was cluttered with all kinds of electronic components he had scrounged up, some of them even once belonging to his father. And in the center of the clutter of junk was a visor.

"Doesn't it look like Geordi's visor?" Malcolm asked as he looked at a poster from his favorite TV show, Star Trek; The Next Generation.

Malcolm was born six or seven years after the show had gone off the air. His father had gotten him to watch Star Trek; TNG, via DVDs, and Malcolm gravitated toward the engineer of the Enterprise-D. Next to the picture of TNG was a poster of Captain James T Kirk. TNG may have been his favorite Trek show, but just like his father, Malcolm thought of Kirk as the biggest legend to come from the fictional world of Star Trek.

"I don't understand you," Kiesha said, "you have this thing for the brother on TNG, but just like your father, you think Kirk is a God of some kind."

"Not a God," Malcolm corrected her, "a legend; those are two entirely different things."

"Oh really," Kiesha said, "at least God exists."

"In theory," Malcolm corrected her. "And perhaps someday the world in which Captain Kirk and Geordi Leforge will exist too."

"Again; that's your father talking again," Kiesha told him. "So, come on, what did you want me to see?" She asked impatiently.

Malcolm struggled to reach for the visor. His mom did not help her son, even though it was clear that the use of his arms was starting to degrade as it had with his legs years earlier. He gasped for air as his fingers finally reached the visor.

"I made it wireless," he said as he held the visor.

"And so what's t he big deal?" Kiesha asked as he handed her the visor.

"I finally got it too work," Malcolm said with a smile.

"You mean that nonsense you were talking about?" Kiesha asked. "Don't forget I told you that my dad, your grandfather, may have held to doctorates in computer engineering and one in physics…"

"Theoretical quantum physics to be precise," Malcolm reminded his mother, "like Sheldon Cooper." Malcolm said, as he looked at another the third poster in his collection which displayed another one of his role models from a current popular television series.

"Oh whatever," Kiesha said. "I suppose you want me to put this on? It might mess my hair up."

"Just do it mama," Malcolm urged her. "It will only take a second."

Knowing that she was going to be late to work, she still did what her special son had requested and she put the visor on. "Now what do I do?" Kiesha asked, as her vision became obscured behind the visor.

"Just close your eyes mama," Malcolm. "And….well…open your mind…"

Kiesha gasped….

continued...

 

[OverJoyJackson]

Bedford Dwellings...
2011


Keisha opened her eyes, and she was on standing on the most beautiful one could ever have imagined. In all of her life, and her son’s life as well, she had never been to a beach. Her own parents were far to strapped for cash to ever have afforded it, just as Keisha was, in her role as a parent. She looked down upon her body and realized she was in a designer’s swimsuit; a two piece.

She hugged her self with her arms, breathing in the fresh sea air, filling up her lungs. Gone was the smell of cars, construction, and people; instead there was the smell of the ocean, the sand, and, if she willed her self to believe it enough, the sun! It was at that moment, when she looked toward the sun that she saw a very well built man coming out of the water. She blushed as the man came closer, and then she realized, the man had a head that looked like it belonged on the back of a turtle. She wasn’t on a distant beach, like Maui or La Jolla, no, she was in some sort of fantasy world. She then reached up and took the visor off of her head, instantly returning to the drab surrounding of her son’s cluttered room.

“What was that?” Keisha asked Malcolm, with a slight look of anger in her eyes.

Malcolm, his arms trembling with the pain of his disability reached for an old ragged notebook and handed it to his mother. Inside of it were the scribbled notes of his father, and some neatly written notes from her father’s old collection of papers.

“Mama,” Malcolm said, as he watched his mom flip through the note book, “I took some of dad’s engineering schematics that he was working on once. Back in the 90s he was working on a visor type instrument for one of the tanks he worked on, and then I found these notes from grandpa’s math labs.”

“You’ve told me this before,” she said, with anger in her voice, “and I told you to stop wasting your time on this crap honey. You ain’t gonna grow up to be a scientist, like my father; it ain’t happening. And you certainly ain’t gonna be in the Air Force like your father. You’re going to have to live your life in that wheelchair, so,” Keisha said as she began to rip up the notebook into shreds, “stop filling your minds with this craziness.”

She tossed the ripped notes into a trashcan by Malcolm’s desk, and then she stomped on it. Then she took the visor off of the desk, and then snapped it in half, breaking it, and then tossed into the trashcan. Tears began to flow down Malcolm’s cheek as his mom began to cry as well. She leaned down and put her hands on his cheeks.

“I know it isn’t fair that I did this,” Keisha said, as tears streamed down her eyes, “but can’t you see honey that you’re life is going to be lived on the kindness of others. You’re in a wheelchair, and you’re black!” She said, her words were coated with reality, but they were true, to her. “You got two strikes already,” Keisha said as she stood back up, “and that’s just the way it is.”

Malcolm gathered his strength inside and looked up at his mother.
“You’re wrong mama,” Malcolm said, as he looked at his poster of James T Kirk behind his mom. “I have dreams just like every other kid out there.”

“And they got legs,” Keisha said. “The sooner you stop dreaming of a life you’ll never have, honey, the sooner you will understand what is important to make this one, your real life, work. Now listen to me,” she said, as she headed to the bedroom door. “Tomorrow when you come home from school I will already be at work. But while you’re at school I am going to take down those silly posters of yours, and I’m taking all this Star Trek stuff of yours and shit canning it,” she pointed at his movies and DVDs and other stuff, “because I think they are distracting you from what you need to concentrate on; reality.”

She stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind her. She could hear her son crying, and then she leaned up against the door and slid down to the ground, crying as well. She knew how much idolizing Star Trek meant to him, but she also knew it had to be done for his own good; it was time for her son to grow up.

Continued…

 

[OverJoyJackson]

At times, when Malcolm Hawks needed a father the most, his father seemed even further away than death. Malcolm, confined to a wheelchair at a very young age, only had scattered memories of his father; Payton Hawks. Malcolm was now twelve years old, and even though he hardly remembered his father, he still celebrated his life.

After the events of 911, Payton was deployed to Afghanistan two months later and he died just four days into the campaign. Malcolm would have to learn to fend for himself, and being that he suffered from Cerebral Palsy, it was a never ending struggle.

Today would have been the 38th birthday of Payton Hawks. Malcolm always celebrated his father’s birthday alone, in the studio apartment he and his mother shared. His mom hardly ever talked about Payton. It wasn’t as if she hated her dead husband, she just hated the life she had been left with; a single black woman, raising a handicapped son, in the harsh reality of a Pittsburgh suburb. It wasn't an easy life for her, and Malcolm knew it.

So, with his mother off to work, it left Malcolm alone. Before leaving, his mom had removed a cupcake from the refrigerator, and placed it on a plate. She didn’t leave a candle, since that would have been dangerous. Over the past two years, Malcolm had slowly been losing the use of his arms, and lighting a candle, with matches no less, could have been a disaster.

No matter, Malcolm thought, as he reached out for the plate. The cupcake smelled very good. He brought it closer and placed it on the tray of his wheelchair. His mom had also left out the last picture his father had taken before deploying. As he looked at his father eyes, it was hard to believe, that two months or so after the photo had been taken, he was dead.

“To you dad,” Malcolm said as he struggled to grasp the fork, readying it to take a slice out of the cupcake.

But, suddenly, Malcolm’s arm had a spasm, and instead of slicing a piece of the cake, his arm spasm caused him to thrust forward, causing the picture of his dad to fall to the ground, shattering the frame. The picture ended up facing the ground, and now Malcolm could not see his father. Malcolm had a choice; just to let it go, and eat the cupcake, or, purposely rock his chair back and forth until it fell over, smashing the cupcake, but giving him a fifty/fifty chance at turning the picture of his dad over, so that he could see him again. Malcolm’s legs and arms were already fragile, and any traumatic injury could be very bad for him.

Malcolm sat alone, in the kitchen, for nearly ten minutes, and then he made the choice. This was his father’s birthday, and Malcolm was going to do all he could to turn that picture over and see his father’s face again. His mom, bitter at his father, told him that his father would never be there for him; but she was wrong. Malcolm began to rock side to side in his chair. Malcolm had always felt in his heart that his father had been there for him, if only in spirit. There for the ten birthdays Malcolm had had since his father’s death. There, when at the young age of three, Malcolm was called nigger by older kids who ridiculed him for not only his physical handicap, but also because of the color of his skin.

The chair fell over, and pain rifled through Malcolm’s body. He was still strapped into his chair, and there was no way for him to crawl out. The picture of his father was just a couple feet away, but for someone who couldn’t move, two feet seemed like an eternity. But then…the wind began to blow. How could there be wind? Malcolm was inside the studio apartment, in Pittsburg! And then, quite unexpectedly, he saw two boots just beyond where his father’s picture was. Malcolm looked up at the man who stood above him; it was Captain James T Kirk!

“You can do this,” Kirk said to Malcolm. “You just have to decide if you want it bad enough.”

“Who you trying to fool,” Malcolm said, as tears came down his face. “Can’t you see my body? Think of me as a black Captain Pike...bleep bleep.”

“Yes, I can see you,” Kirk said, with a warm smile, “but I can see your spirit, and I know you can do this. You're father is dead; deal with it.”

Malcolm looked back down at the upside down picture of his father, with glass fragments surrounding it.

“I could get hurt and cut myself,” Malcolm said through his tears.

“Or,” Kirk replied, “You can reach inside of yourself and find the strength to see your father’s picture again. It’s up to you,” Kirk said.

Malcolm closed his eyes, and then opened them to see that Kirk was gone. The captain had been right; it was up to Malcolm.

--
Four hours later, at 230am Malcolm’s mother, Keisha, came home after a long night at work at the local supermarket. She was instantly worried as she saw her son’s chair tipped over in the kitchen. She ran in and found the young boy asleep on the ground; clutching the picture of his father.

continued...

 

[Sandoval]

You know those times you read something and you're not sure if it's a joke or not?

 

[Kemaiku]

You know those times you read something and you're not sure if it's a joke or not?

The OP is an old..."friend" of ours here on the board, he posts this stuff in copious amounts, its all as bad or worse than this.

 

[OverJoyJackson]

The crew…

Room 13A was a special room that was set aside for the special children of Brentwood middle-school. The students were special in that these were the students that the public school districts across America stuffed inside of classrooms that had very little real forward thinking to them, especially the schools located near the inner-cities. But special children, those with disabilities, also brought in generous amounts of Federal dollars. The money was targeted to help these special students, but with meddling school district administrations, the money usually ended up going into the general funding pot that was then used for buying new uniforms for the more important students; the football team, cheerleaders, and the students that all schools featured in their yearbooks, full "living color!" The students in 13A got a write up in the Brentwood yearbooks, though, with tiny black and white pictures, and were always buried near the back of the book. It was as if they didn't exist.

Malcolm and his best friend sat at the back table that had a view of the large field where the normal students hung out. Malcolm's best friend was from India, and his name was Harsha Jadhev. Jadhev was a paraplegic, having loss the use of his arms and legs when at the age of three a drunk driver had swerved into the path of his mother's car, colliding with it, killing her, and leaving Harsha this way for the rest of his life. But, through all of that, Harsha had a very eclectic mind, much more outgoing than Malcolm. And, as usual, Harsha was wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers shirt; he had several of them.

"So," Harsha said, as he could see Malcolm looking at two girls on the field below, talking about whatever 11-12 year old girls talked about. "Do you like of them?"

Malcolm just shook his head.

"Look dude," Harsha continued to say, with a northern-India accent, "I have read about Cerebral Palsy. I've noticed that moving your arms is becoming harder to do, so if you're ever going to feel up a girl, and take off her bra, you better start thinking about a strategy real soon."

"Is that all you think about?" Malcolm asked. "Girls are like us; they have dreams too."

"Right...sure they do," Harsha's words were interrupted when Mr. Michael Donovan, their teacher, placed a piece of paper in front of Malcolm.

"I want you both to read along with the class, and when it's your turn, I want you to prepare to read; outloud." Mr. Donovan said, "And as for what girls dream about Mr. Jadhev," Donovan added, "you'd be quite surprised." He arched his eyebrows in a playful manner.

Two teacher's aids came over and reposition the boy's chairs to face the front of the class. Malcolm liked Mr. Donovan. He always had the class reading clips from famous science fiction books, and, more importantly, Mr. Donovan was a fan of Star Trek, which the teacher didn't really consider true science fiction.

Mr. Donovan was a white man, in his mid 40s, who even though was teaching at one of Pittsburgh's toughest schools, didn't mind. Malcolm was quite sure that he was an inspiration, and showed that white people were just like black people and some of them were actually very good people. The area where Malcolm lived was still, unfortunately, divided by neighborhoods that were very much segregated alcoves of racial bigotry; on all sides. But if Malcolm had his way, everyone would watch Star Trek and see a vision of the future where differences were applauded, not turned away from.

Mr. Donovan went to the front of the classroom, and held up his own copy of the reading material. He looked out at the rest of the class; fifteen students in all. And while a few of them had slowed mental development, the rest, with the physical challenges, were still able to read.

"Today we are reading a passage from Robert Heinlein's Time Enough for Love. It's about a man who lives a very long time, over two thousand years."

Mr. Donovan's voice betrayed the affection he had for the book, but it was clear that the majority of the kids in the class didn't care. Malcolm looked over at Harsha and saw the young Indian boy's blank expression. How could someone such as he, a paraplegic, see a future where he lived two thousand years in a body that only worked from the neck up.

"Two thousand years old? I bet he's seen millions of naked girls," Harsh said, looking over at Malcolm.

Malcolm smiled inside, and realized that dreaming of sex is what kept his young friend going. How that would ever happen, for either of them, was problematic at best. Yet they were teenagers and that's what teenagers thought of; normal or not.

One by one, the students that could read took turns. It was only a page long, but there were many words, thanks to the small font.

Mr. Donovan had a thing for Jazz, and would always put on some old Miles Davis record album during reading time. Mr. Donovan preferred records, made of vinyl, and were played on turntables. He claimed the sound was richer, and, the liner notes, whatever they were, were the main selling point for him. As the sound of Gerry Mulligan's sax began to swirl about, the reading began…

…An hour later it was lunch time, and the special kids sat at a special table, separate from the so called normal kids. The normal kids acted as if Malcolm and the others weren't even there, or if they did notice them, it was to hurl insults, which were followed by laughter from other normal kids; and then the voice of a yard attendant scolding the normal kids and their ignorant behavior. Malcolm ate his school provided lunch which included an apple, a cracker, and the vegetable of the day; ketchup.

After lunch, and with help from the teacher's aids, Malcolm and five of his closer friends, including Harsha, were wheeled over to a secluded area on the large field, near one of the larger trees.

Aside from Malcolm and Harsha, there were three others in their daily group;

Tabitha Jefferies was an African-American girl who was born prematurely to a mother who had been strung out on drugs, and had since died of AIDS. Luckily, for Tabitha, the HIV virus deep inside her DNA was being kept in check by a brew of medicines. She was twelve years old, nearly thirteen, and very shy and quiet, but thanks to the fact that her own mother was a teacher in college, Tabitha could speak four other languages. Not as fluently as she spoke English, but she was getting better every day. Her hair was always braided nicely, tight upon her scalp. If there was a girl who Malcolm had the smallest crush on; it was Tabitha.

Next to Tabitha was Tyler Glazov. There was actually a pocket of neighborhoods in Pittsburgh that had large concentration of people who had migrated to America in the recent decades. Tyler's parents had come to America, hoping to find better lives for themselves and Tyler. Tyler was nearly totally deaf, which had had an effect on his ability to speak clearly. But he was very smart, and had a very basic view that all of the best things on Earth came from Russia. (See a pattern forming here?)

Finally there was Yuan Liu. He was just quiet, and hardly spoke. He was borderline autistic, and, when riled up, he loved to meow like a cat. Other than that, he was the most able body person in the class, and when egged on by the normal kids, he would whip out Chinese martial arts moves; or he just acted crazy, no one really knew.

As all five sat near under the tree, without the teacher's aids there to observe them, Malcolm looked at the others. He smiled. He smiled because he knew that it was time; it was time for them to become a crew; a starship crew. It was time for them to go boldly where no one had gone before.

But…would his friends come? Or would Malcolm have to take them there by force…

Continued….

 

[Sandoval]

Bored now.

 

[OverJoyJackson]

Sorry about that. The story is going to follow along this track for a couple more sequences but they will eventually end up on a starship. I am actually writing this for a friend of mine who is no longer with us. But I know his brother (hi Stephen) is reading it and I hope he gets it. Its a bit different for a Star Trek story but hey, that's the best part about Star Trek. It can adapt to any setting, or at least I hope.

 

[Squiggy]

...but hey, that's the best part about Star Trek. It can adapt to any setting, or at least I hope.

Enterprise's early cancellation tends to disprove that theory.

 

[OverJoyJackson]

But DS9 was certainly an attempt to do something different, far more different than Enterprise, which was yet another ship based Star Trek. And DS9 did last seven years.

 

[OverJoyJackson]

The time…now

The city…Pittsburgh

The next day came, and it was Memorial Day, which meant there was no school that day. And even though it was a holiday, Malcolm already had his day planned out for him and it wasn't the one his mother had thought she planned out for him; not at all.

The day started just as early as school days usually started, with Keisha helping to dress her son. There had always been a point of humility when his mother got him ready for the day. It was humiliating because she had to change out the portable toilet device that was built into Malcolm's chair. Due to his disability, Malcolm had an operation which attached a pouch on the outside of his abdomen that, when he defecated, collected the bile in the pouch. The pouch had to be changed out daily, to limit the possibility of contamination in his blood stream which could kill him. Keisha had done this so many times that it was now second nature

"Alright baby," Keisha said, as she dumped the old pouch into the trash bag, which she then gathered up as she headed to the door. "I left the TV on the Cartoon Network. According to the TV-Guide they are having some kind of Green Lantern marathon on all day, so you should like that."

"Thanks mama," Malcolm said, with a smile.

"Isn't he the one with the hammer?" Keisha asked as she looked at the TV screen before departing for one of her three jobs.

"Oh come on mama," Malcolm said, with a slight tone of anger in his voice, "Thor is Marvel; Green Lantern is DC. He's the one with the ring."

"Oh crap, baby," Keisha said with a laugh, "I'm a girl, so you know that's all Greek to me. Alright, I'll be back around 2pm and have dinner with you before I go to work tonight."

"Have a good day mama," Malcolm said to her as she kissed him on the top of the head.

She waved at him and then left and closed the door behind her. Malcolm wheeled himself over the living room. His mother had left him a plate of blue-berry biscuits, fully buttered, and which had a very scrumptious aroma that was very pleasing to his nose. He breathed in the smell of the blue-berries and then looked over at the couch and was glad to find that he wasn't really alone; Geordi La Forge was sitting next to him, with visor and all. Malcolm looked over to the Enterprise-D's engineer.

"Didn't you like the new eyes they gave you in First Contact?" Malcolm asked, as he bit into a biscuit. "And why are you in your old uniform"

"Oh, I don't know," La forge said, "I guess I remember this time the best, the years I spent in this uniform, and I was promoted to engineer. Yes, those were the glory years for me at least. So what are you watching?"

On the screen, Green Lantern and Batman were beating up bad guys.

"Oh, this cartoon is called Batman; Brave and the Bold," Malcolm explained, "the one in green is called Green Lantern, and the other one is Batman. They are superheroes."

La forge watched quietly for about ten minutes as Batman and Green Lantern had a final showdown with a villain called Sinestro.

"Hey, Malcolm," Geordi finally said, as a commercial for Star Wars; The Clone Wars came on. "I don't have all day to just hang around with you watching," he looked at the image of Yoda on the screen, "these silly shows. I thought you were going to work on the visors on your day off from school.."

Malcolm swallowed the last bite of a biscuit, nodding his head as he did so.

"I'll get to it," Malcolm said, "I just wanted to make sure my mom didn't forget anything and came back. Oh yeah, I should tell you; my mom broke the wireless visor I made last week."

"She broke it?" La Forge asked. "Doesn't she realize how special those visors are?"

"Uh uh," Malcolm replied. "She thinks watching Star Trek, and other science fiction stuff, is a waste of time. I can't blame her. My father was a big fan of the old Star Trek show and some ditsy show British show called Dr. Who. And so because she blames him for dying in Afghanistan, she also is taking it out on me for liking the same kind of shows he liked."

Geordi nodded his head.

"Well, like you said once, she has had a tough time of it" Geordi said, as he got out of the chair he was sitting in and walked over to the television. He pressed the button and the TV turned off. "We better get started. I'd like to sit here all day and chit chat with you, but I got places I have to be."

Malcolm set the TV remote control down, and then wheeled his chair into the small kitchen and left the empty plate near the sink. Because the kitchen was so mall, Malcolm had to back the wheelchair out the way he came into it. He headed down the hallway toward his room.

"Come on," he said to La Forge.

Malcolm wheeled his chair into his room and over to a box of comic books, which he then ran into, knocking it over. Five visors fell out of the box, having been hidden beneath several comic books.

"How far are they from being done?" La Forge asked.

"Not long," Malcolm replied as he used the grabber stick (a long pole with a trigger on the end of it, that when pulled, clasped items on the other end) and picked up each visor, setting them on his work table.

"They're looking pretty good," La Forge said, as he looked at visors as Malcolm set them on the table. "I think even Scotty would have been impressed."

Malcolm, with pain in his arms rifling all through his body, fought through it and opened the secret drawer under his desk. It was where he kept his soldering-gun.

"Wow," La Forge said, as he watched Malcolm struggle to plug the took into a power-strip on the table, "your mom still doesn't know about that soldering-gun?"

Malcolm placed the soldering-gun on the table.

"If she knew I was using something like this, unsupervised, she would go crazy," Malcolm replied with a chuckle.

"Well, she may have a point," La Forge added, as Malcolm watched as the gun began to heat-up and the distinct smell of the soldering-gun became more pronounced.

The apartment that Malcolm and his mother lived in was on the second floor of the complex. Luckily the elevator that serviced the complex had never broken, and that was mainly due to the fact the state agency that regulated elevators, and knowing that Malcolm lived there, was one of the reasons it had been kept in running order.

At that moment the elevator opened and two teenagers stepped out onto the second floor. They were the local bullies; one of them was black, the other was white, and they had seen Keisha leave for work, so they knew Malcolm was all alone to torment!

Next time; Turnabout Intruder! And coming soon...voyage to a Starship!

 

[Squiggy]

La Forge

 

[Alpha Romeo]

Scorpio, is that you???

 

[Enterprise1981]

^ Shhhh!

 

[Trelane]

Front Cover:

 

[Trelane]

Back Cover:

 

[Trelane]

The ship used for the art in this instance was copy-pasted and altered slightly from Mr. John Eaves' blog. I idolize this guy. I'd love to shrink down, slip into an ear undetected, and spend an hour walking around inside this guy's creative processes.

http://johneaves.wordpress.com/2009/04/29/the-opening-credits-of-enterprise/

 

[Sandoval]

I think that the blurb on the back covers of books tend to be a little more concise and less long-winded than that.

 

[Trelane]

To each, their own.

 

[Sandoval]

To each, their own.

Exactly.

I'm delighted that your attitude has improved so much since your "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all. Just leave the threads alone" comment from a few days back.

I'll just chalk that earlier one up to you being in a bad mood.