Brigits Flame Entry: The Reluctant Concoctopus
A young octopus dreads his upcoming family reunion. He is obligated to go, not just because he wants to maintain healthy familial relationships or stay in the wills of octogenarian relatives, but because his conscience would kick and punch him with his own limbs if he avoids it without a good excuse. He was that kind of octopus His own decency and sense of politeness are his ruin. The octopus mopes for the weeks leading up to the event.
One day, his friend the whale shark notices his glum expression and asks him what's wrong. The octopus tells her all about it.
"Why don't you want to go?" she asks. "I'm sure it'll be fun, if you just involve yourself. And it's only once a year, hardly an event. You'll be there and back again before the wave laps the shore."
"You don't know my family," says the octopus, sighing. "At reunions we have to link arms and kiss suckers, and everybody asks lots of questions." The octopus tries to mimic the sound of some of his more whiny relatives, even changing his skin color to match theirs. "How you're doing? Do you have any new recipes for yeti crab and blue lobster? Where did you learn that color pattern? What diet are you on to get into that marmite jar you're wearing? And stories about divers! Ugh," says the octopus. He returns to his regular color again.
"If you don't want to go, just tell them. I'm sure they'll understand. They're your family, after all," says the shark, whose relationships with her own family are pretty close, as far as the octopus can tell.
The octopus sighs. "It's hard to explain. Maybe if we were like a regular octopus family. But we're not, we're specialists."
"Oh, I see," says the shark. She swims away for a moment, eats some krill, then swims back. "No, now that I think about it, I don't see," she says. "How are you specialists?"
The octopus waves one of his arms in frustration. "It's a fringe cultural thing. We don't talk about it much, we just grew up in it, you know?" He pauses, considering. "Have you ever heard of a Frocktopus?"
It is difficult for a shark to look confused, but it is easy for the octopus, who has known her for a long time, to detect it in his friend's face.
"A Frocktopus. Wears frocks all the time? That's Mum. Dad's Socktopus. Sock on each leg, and none of them match."
Everything seems to gush out of him now that he has gotten started.
"My brother's Jocktopus. Each of his arms is good at a different sport. One uncle is Clocktopus. Aunt Mocktopus. Cousin Rocktopus, Cousin Blocktopus, Nephew Cassocktopus, Grandpap Locktopus, Niece Knocktopus..." He trails off. "You get the idea. Whole family's like that, and it goes back for generations. Family tradition, you know."
The whale shark opens and closes her mouth as if swallowing each thought as she thinks it, and after a moment she says, with slow realization, "And you're just--"
"--an octopus," says the octopus. "I'm the lone generalist among specialists."
"I didn't know that about octopodes. Specializing, I mean."
"Oh, it's a fringe culture," says the octopus hurriedly. "Most octopodes are generalists. We're just happy to be an octopus. But not my family. I know at the upcoming reunion, my baby sister will announce she's a Sherlocktopus. I think another cousin is a Doctopus now. She'll be the eleventh one."
"That sounds nice," says the shark politely, not wanting to malign octopus culture, however fringe it may be. Especially since it was her friend's family's background, even if he was the odd one out. "How did you grow up to be-- what was it? A generalist? In a family of specialists. How unusual!"
At this, the octopus shrugs with all eight limbs. "I don't know, to be honest. Mum and Dad wanted me to be Concoctopus and go into journalism, or write books. But I didn't want that. I just wanted to be an octopus! It just felt right for me, you know?"
"Your family doesn't try to change you?"
The octopus inks a bit, which is the octopode way of swearing. He sighs. "Some of them call me Concoctopus anyway. I think Mum's coming around, slowly. At reunions, they all ask me to tell them some tall tales or something, and every time, every year, I tell them all that it's just plain octopus. But they don't listen. Now you see why I don't want to go?"
"Oh, dear. I'm sorry it's like that, I had no idea," says his friend. "What can I do to help?"
"I need a good reason not to go."
The shark eyes him coldly, then opens her mouth as wide as possible near his head, measuring the fit. Then she closes it. "I could swallow you whole," she suggests sweetly. "You can't go to a reunion if you're eaten."
"I was thinking more along the lines of 'dentist appointment' or emergency dogfish sitting," says the octopus, patting the shark. "Something less extreme. But that can be Plan B."
NOTES:
Writing this made sense at 3:30AM.
Whale sharks don't eat octopus (as far as I know), so she was just kidding.
One day, his friend the whale shark notices his glum expression and asks him what's wrong. The octopus tells her all about it.
"Why don't you want to go?" she asks. "I'm sure it'll be fun, if you just involve yourself. And it's only once a year, hardly an event. You'll be there and back again before the wave laps the shore."
"You don't know my family," says the octopus, sighing. "At reunions we have to link arms and kiss suckers, and everybody asks lots of questions." The octopus tries to mimic the sound of some of his more whiny relatives, even changing his skin color to match theirs. "How you're doing? Do you have any new recipes for yeti crab and blue lobster? Where did you learn that color pattern? What diet are you on to get into that marmite jar you're wearing? And stories about divers! Ugh," says the octopus. He returns to his regular color again.
"If you don't want to go, just tell them. I'm sure they'll understand. They're your family, after all," says the shark, whose relationships with her own family are pretty close, as far as the octopus can tell.
The octopus sighs. "It's hard to explain. Maybe if we were like a regular octopus family. But we're not, we're specialists."
"Oh, I see," says the shark. She swims away for a moment, eats some krill, then swims back. "No, now that I think about it, I don't see," she says. "How are you specialists?"
The octopus waves one of his arms in frustration. "It's a fringe cultural thing. We don't talk about it much, we just grew up in it, you know?" He pauses, considering. "Have you ever heard of a Frocktopus?"
It is difficult for a shark to look confused, but it is easy for the octopus, who has known her for a long time, to detect it in his friend's face.
"A Frocktopus. Wears frocks all the time? That's Mum. Dad's Socktopus. Sock on each leg, and none of them match."
Everything seems to gush out of him now that he has gotten started.
"My brother's Jocktopus. Each of his arms is good at a different sport. One uncle is Clocktopus. Aunt Mocktopus. Cousin Rocktopus, Cousin Blocktopus, Nephew Cassocktopus, Grandpap Locktopus, Niece Knocktopus..." He trails off. "You get the idea. Whole family's like that, and it goes back for generations. Family tradition, you know."
The whale shark opens and closes her mouth as if swallowing each thought as she thinks it, and after a moment she says, with slow realization, "And you're just--"
"--an octopus," says the octopus. "I'm the lone generalist among specialists."
"I didn't know that about octopodes. Specializing, I mean."
"Oh, it's a fringe culture," says the octopus hurriedly. "Most octopodes are generalists. We're just happy to be an octopus. But not my family. I know at the upcoming reunion, my baby sister will announce she's a Sherlocktopus. I think another cousin is a Doctopus now. She'll be the eleventh one."
"That sounds nice," says the shark politely, not wanting to malign octopus culture, however fringe it may be. Especially since it was her friend's family's background, even if he was the odd one out. "How did you grow up to be-- what was it? A generalist? In a family of specialists. How unusual!"
At this, the octopus shrugs with all eight limbs. "I don't know, to be honest. Mum and Dad wanted me to be Concoctopus and go into journalism, or write books. But I didn't want that. I just wanted to be an octopus! It just felt right for me, you know?"
"Your family doesn't try to change you?"
The octopus inks a bit, which is the octopode way of swearing. He sighs. "Some of them call me Concoctopus anyway. I think Mum's coming around, slowly. At reunions, they all ask me to tell them some tall tales or something, and every time, every year, I tell them all that it's just plain octopus. But they don't listen. Now you see why I don't want to go?"
"Oh, dear. I'm sorry it's like that, I had no idea," says his friend. "What can I do to help?"
"I need a good reason not to go."
The shark eyes him coldly, then opens her mouth as wide as possible near his head, measuring the fit. Then she closes it. "I could swallow you whole," she suggests sweetly. "You can't go to a reunion if you're eaten."
"I was thinking more along the lines of 'dentist appointment' or emergency dogfish sitting," says the octopus, patting the shark. "Something less extreme. But that can be Plan B."
NOTES:
Writing this made sense at 3:30AM.
Whale sharks don't eat octopus (as far as I know), so she was just kidding.