For shutsumon‘s prompt

This, ah, came out a bit odd. Sorry!

Ayam was lonely.

Lonely, that was a new word. Ayam had made it up, sounding out things until it found something that worked. Lonely, the feeling of being alone in the world.

There were the others, of course. The long-limbed creatures from who Ayam had been born certainly thought of it as one of theirs. But Ayam could not talk with them, could not share ideas with them. Ayam needed a companion.

The going was hard. Ayam first tried taking a baby from the creatures when newborn and raising it, talking to it, trying to teach it. Whatever had happened in Ayam’s case, however, didn’t hold true. The stolen babies could not learn to do more than parrot speech, and that awkwardly.

Lightning? Lightning was an early memory of Ayam’s, but when exposed to the bright flashing shockiness, the children – or the older creatures, Ayam tried everything – only ran away, or died, or sat there twitching for several days before dying. And Ayam was still alone, and still lonely.

Ayam made up writing, to scratch out everything h’ was feeling, to scratch out all of its experiments. And then Ayam had to create paper and ink, because the rocks h’ drew on were not easy to carry around. And then a way to put the paper together into books, long tubes wrapped in hide. And then came tanning, to make the hides last longer. Ayam was keeping busy, slowly busy, but Ayam was still, at its core, so very lonely.

And then, into the valley where Ayam had retreated when the creatures grew too loud, another creature walked. This one had fur that was pink-streaked, in a way Ayam had never seen before. It stood upright, the way Ayam had learned how to. And it was carrying in its paws a pile of tools, which Ayam had never seen any creature but itself use.

And foremost in that pile of tools was a spear. Ayam, muttering to itself, began to create a new word. Oh, Shit.

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For the Vulture’s Prompt

Mark came home to find the lights on in his apartment, the smell of fresh-baked food in the air and boxes from his closet strewn on the floor.

Either he had been burgled by the most domestic thieves ever, or his mother had actually remembered his birthday. Mark was betting on the thieves.

“I know judo,” he called out; it was even true. “Hello?”

“In here, Mark.” It wasn’t his mom. Indeed, the voice… well, it bore similarities to his mom faking a deep bearlike voice, as she once had when he was five or six. “It’s your birthday.”

“This is too weird.” He followed the voice into the kitchen, wondering if his mother had finally gone around the bend.

“It’s your birthday,” the voice repeated. Sitting in his favorite chair, paws liberally dusted with flour, in front of a monstrosity of a seven-tier cake… was his old teddy bear, from childhood. “And you forgot me.”

“I… you’re talking.”

“And I baked you a cake. Which are you going to be more surprised by?”

“Uh… considering my kitchen, the cake. Ted… you’re talking.”

“Always could. You just forgot. Forgot a lot, didn’t you, when you ‘grew up?'”

“I….” he sank into his chair. “You climbed out of your box and baked me a cake.”

“Well, someone had to, didn’t they?” He still sounded like Mark’s mom doing a Ted voice, but… well, Mom couldn’t cook, for one. “and besides…. you never really forgot, did you?”

Mark stole a fingerful of frosting, and thought about moving that box, with Ted in place of honour at the top, from apartment to apartment for the last decade. “I guess I never did. Happy Birthday, Ted.”

“Happy Birthday, Mark.”

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