Posted in Blogfest Entries, Challenges and Contests, Enterprise fan fiction, Just for Fun!, Life Writing, Novel Excerpts, Story a Day May Challenge, Stream of Consciousness Saturday

Sticking to the Plan: The IDIC Romance for SoCS and #STaD

Rowing down the Stream of Consciousness. Badge by Doobster@Mindful Digressions.

This post is part of Linda G.Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday  meme – an unedited stream of consciousness piece that ties into the weekly prompt:stick”.

Since it’s also International Short Story Month, and I’m actively participating in Story a Day May, I combined this prompt with the second person POV limit prompt, and used both to create the story. What appears here is the beginning of a 1900+ word short story, Sticking Point”: Torn by unanswerable questions, a drunk Trip Tucker is offered acceptance and healing from an unexpected source. Clicking the title will take you to the full story. 


  • Trip, T’Pol, Hoshi, and Star Trek: Enterprise belong to Paramount, even if Paramount has forgotten all about them…I’ve picked them out of the dustbin, brushed them off, and let them go…
  • This is an extrapolated “missing scene” story, detailing some of what might have happened during the months’ long and scarcely shown return to Earth in S2E26 “The Expanse”.  Spoilers for that episode; mild spoilers for S2E1: Shockwave: Part II

Sticking Point 

“You’re not drunk.” You stare into the mirror, and ignore the multiple images. “Man’s gotta stick to his guns.” You shake your head, hoping the images will resolve into one.

Is that logical?

“Uh uh. Logic – and people who spout it like they’re geysers – got no place here in my head, not tonight. Nope. Not even if they’re beautiful and brilliant and complicated enough that you could spend a lifetime getting to know them.”

A lifetime – aww, hell…

Shaking your head damned sure didn’t work – now though were four of everything, or maybe five. Didn’t matter. Nother drink would fix things, get those multiple images to stick together, resolve back into one.



“Damned curse words.” No room for them in your head. Curses on the curses. “Hell with ’em,” you mutter. “Hell with you, too,” you tell the multiple images of yourself. “Nother drink, that’s all I need. That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.”

But another drink only brings things like logic and lifetimes closer; you can feel them breathing hot breath, and cold, down the back of your neck, shivering through your spine, freezing and burning at the same time. Damned dirty words. Why do they always stick around, when – when –

No. Not thinkin’ that. Nothing can make you, not so long as there’s a bottle. And there’s lotsa bottles; you’ve been collecting alcohol since the mission started, askin’ pretty much everyone to give you a little of whatever they brought, anything they found on the planets they visited.

You never really expected to drink it out here, stuck in space. You were gonna bring it home –

“Stop it.” You stare at the bottle you hold – sake, from Hoshi. Just a little bottle, this one. She said her father had given it to her, to toast herself when she wasn’t frightened. You didn’t tell her that you thought her father was kind of an arrogant ass, to send his brave but sensitive daughter out here with a bottle that about screamed he expected her to put her tail between her legs at every lightyear, the way Pothos had when he saw Phlox’s bat for the first time. You don’t tell her that, because you like Hoshi, and you’re damned proud of how far she’s come, even if her horse’s ass of a small sake bottle giving father isn’t.

She’s like a little sister to you –

Stick to the plan, Tucker. Words you don’t say. Little, anywhere near sister. Logic. Lifetime.” There were other words, but you’ve forgotten them – better that way. If only these didn’t seem to be on an endless loop in your head.

If only you hadn’t been relieved of duty, forcefully, because of logic.

“No. Dirty word.” You drain the sake, because you can’t drown yourself in your work if the Cap’n won’t ket you anywhere near Engineering. Said you were a menace to the ship – what the hell does he know, anyway? You could’ve gotten those shiny, barely broke in engines up to Warp Six, maybe Six Point Five. You’d’ve worked on the damned structural integrity after; ship wouldn’t have come apart – logic be damned; that woman’s not an engineer, or an architect….

Architect. You strangle a cry; won’t let it out of your throat to breathe. It wants to stick a knife in your heart, that word.

Architect. It’s knifing and twisting, and you’re dangling on its point. Its points – her points, and her damned logic…You throw the bottle at the mirror; it’s leaving your hand before you know what you’ve done. You twist that cry into a laugh that sounds maniacal even in your own ears.

Good. Anti-logic. Just what you need. “Stick that in your damned logic pipe, and smoke it,” you say, and laugh at the shattered glass and the dripping sake.

Will Trip drink himself into oblivion? Will he get answers?

Will Trip drink himself into oblivion? Will he get answers?

What is he trying not to think about? Will the Cap’n let him go back to work?

Will I manage a story a day all month?

We’ll have to see about that. But, as for the story questions, you can learn the answers by clicking the story title, Sticking Point”, here or above.

Have you tried stream-of consciousness writing? Come join in there’s just a few simple rules.

Get more SoCS!

Click the icon to enter the meme!


I am myself. I own my life, and live with three other people who own theirs. My intention is to do only those things that bring me joy, and to give myself wholly to those things I do. Writing has been my passion throughout my life, and this will become the home for my writing life...because it brings me great joy!

7 thoughts on “Sticking to the Plan: The IDIC Romance for SoCS and #STaD

    1. He is sweet. And because I know how much you’ll enjoy this, I offer you a bit more, from a bit further on…

      “No, no, no!” You slam your free hand on the panel, swig from the bottle. The door opens, and you lurch through, too fast. Your stomach, sick of it all and maybe pushed by your liver, tries to climb out, find a new place to live- but it throws its belongings out first, as you hit the floor and the bottle flies away. You scrabble after it – or try to. But your stomach’s giving you a piece of its mind, and you’re helpless to stop it….

      Boots. Not Starfleet boots, oh no.

      Her boots. Aww, hell. Of all the people you don’t want to see – she’s all of them, right here. Miss Points’N’Logic.

      “Commander Tucker?” Why was her voice so soft, so kind, when you were just sick all over her pretty little shiny boots? “Trip?”

      “First name, eh? Maybe I’m dyin’ . Would be a blessing…” You hadn’t said that to anyone. Hadn’t talked to anyone but yourself.

      “You appear to be – significantly inebriated. Perhaps to the point of toxicity.”

      “Puked on yer pretty boots, T’Pol.”

        1. The whole story turned out to be one of my favorites, so I’ll be sharing more of it this week…and, even cooler- there’s room for another pretty terrific story, because of the way this one ends…and I have ideas (or, more accurately, TnT have ideas, and have shared them with me!).

          1. Umm, there’s this Vulcan lady attempting to find a logical means through the laptop to get to you. She’s kind o the jealous type, not that she’s willing to admit it. She advises that you be cautious with this Trip-wanting thing, because she has the prior claim, and she will defend it – logically and relentlessly! =)

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