Set 1 of 18 of the 890 mini drabble collection. I'll update the page as I finish more pokémon that fall into this number range. In general these drabbles will cover a wide range of genres/subjects/etc., hence the vague summary below; if anything warrants a special note, however, it will be mentioned here.
Genre: Varies, usually General
Rating: Varies, usually K
Approx. Wordcount: 100 words each (1800 total)
Newest Additions: 008 Wartortle, 016 Pidgey, 043 Oddish on 12/03/2019
Route 1 sure had a lot of wild pokémon territory for Junie to cross with nothing but a brand-new bulbasaur.
"Ready?" she asked. "You know what we've gotta do with tall grass, right?"
Bulbasaur edged toward the grass, then took a bite.
Junie laughed. "That's... an option. But we've also gotta get in there and look for more partners!"
Bulbasaur cheered around his mouthful of grass. Junie smiled nervously. She wasn't entirely sure what to do after finding a pokémon herself.
Still, Junie squared her shoulders and charged into the grass. Bulbasaur followed. Whatever came next, they'd figure out together.
Ivysaur was his favorite pokémon, his brain insisted. Ivysaur was his best friend and a good battler and had only been trying to lure out that rascally mankey and make it fall asleep. It was an accident, a side effect, and anyway it came with the territory so he'd just have to get used to it.
He sighed hoarsely and fished a rattling, near-empty bottle out of his bag. Ivysaur was his favorite pokémon, of course it was, but he had to wonder how many other "favorite pokémon" made their trainers spend most of their earnings on tissues and antihistamines.
He never did forgive her for what she'd done. Sure, it'd seemed okay when he was younger—what should he have thought when she said he was her special assistant, that he'd help her move human understanding of pokémon development forward by leaps and bounds? He liked being helpful, and at the time he'd thought the leaves looked cool.
Ultimately, though, she had ruined everything. When all the lady venusaur continued to give him a wide berth thanks to the rancid vileplume flower growing out of his back, "scientific progress" didn't cut it as an explanation or a pickup line.
Derek inspected each poké ball in turn and mentally reviewed his options, weighing bulbasaur's purported reliability in the first few gyms against squirtle's usefulness as a mode of transportation, considering where he wanted to go and how he'd get there and what he'd want to catch. Striking out on his own meant being prepared for anything, be it other trainers or ornery wilds or tough terrain or dark nights or—
His hand closed around one of the poké balls, his mind made up. There was, after all, nothing like a warm, living night light when striking out on your own.
Her siblings always spoke of "up", of leaping and falling skyward, of turning circles around the stars before coming back home. When they had "up" they wouldn't have to fear slipping from the cliffs and into the sea, that endless monster that waited below to swallow them and snuff them out.
But "endless", she knew, was just their excuse for complacency. The sea ended somewhere, and wherever it was it had to be wonderful. Her siblings spoke of "up" but she dreamed of "out", of falling north or east until she could see the wonders beyond where sea met sky.
Madeleine and her friends were still arguing about which starter was most useful when they reached the lab.
"Nothing beats swimming around with a squirtle," Madeleine insisted.
"Squirtle's got water whenever you're thirsty, too," said Bella.
Derek pulled a face. "You can't drink pokémon water!"
"That's sure not why I'm choosing squirtle," Madeleine agreed.
Now, Madeline, her family, and her new squirtle sat at the sushi restaurant, celebrating the start of her journey.
"What's this green stuff?" Madeleine asked, scooping some into her mouth. "Avocado?"
It was not avocado.
Madeleine grabbed for Squirtle and hoped desperately that Derek was wrong.
Wartortle ran her fingers absently through her tail. It wasn't often that a wartortle made it to the century mark—not impossible, but not often—and for her birthday she had some reflecting to do.
A lot changes in a century. Friends come and go, and even other wartortle eventually drift apart. Storms and waves rearrange the shoreline and surrounding forest. She couldn't even count everything that had been shifted and upset in the nearby human city.
Wartortle's fingers snagged near the end of her tail. She sighed.
Maybe another century would reveal how to keep the tangles under control.
She wasn't surprised when all the other caterpie took one look at her and fled, too disgusted by her glistening yellow skin to want anything to do with her. Of course. Gold, she'd heard somewhere, was supposed to be a beautiful color. "But no one," she wept, "ever thinks I'm beautiful."
She noticed too late that the other caterpie, all but invisible in the underbrush, had directed their fearful gazes not at her but toward the sound of rushing wings behind her.
"Fret not, my dear," the pidgeotto crooned as he swooped, talons outstretched, "I think you're very beautiful indeed."
"Really, you barely qualify as a queen anyway," the vespiquen scoffed, eying the beedrill with disdain. "You're just so plain, and you've hardly any abdomen at all! Gracious, how do you even keep the hive together? I'd be mortified if I was that scrawny." She gave one of the combee hovering by her side a smug pat on the head. "Absolutely mortified."
"Maybe I'm smaller than you," the beedrill said casually as the air filled with buzzing and several dozen worker beedrill dropped in, surrounding the vespiquen and menacing her combee at stinger-point, "but my workers are bigger than yours."
Captain Kecleon's Color-Changing Collectible Frisbee was stuck in a tree. The branches were too thin to climb, the tree too thick to shake, Cole's aim too poor to dislodge it with thrown rocks. Now Cole had to leave the park without it, crying for his parents to return with a ladder.
Next weekend, ladder in hand, Cole set out to retrieve his favorite toy. The frisbee was still there. It was also full of sticks, leaves and fuzzy baby pidgey.
Cole sighed, smiled, and put the ladder down. The pidgey needed Captain Kecleon's Color-Changing Collectible Frisbee more than he did.
"The dining area looks clean." The health inspector made a note on her clipboard. The malasada shop's owner smiled, confident her restaurant would pass muster.
"Watch how close those trash cans are to the tables, though." The inspector scribbled again as they moved into the kitchen. "They're pushing the minimum required distance of— what is that?"
Over by a bin, a raticate lifted its shaggy black head from a box of malasadas, jam dribbling from its mouth. It belched and licked its lips.
The inspector scribbled furiously. "Why is that trash can so close to where you sample those malasadas?"
Melanie's poké ball cracked open and spit the ekans right back out. There went her last one...
"Gee, Ekans," she said quickly. "I can't believe you busted out of ten poké balls! You've got a lot of fight in you!"
Ekans tilted its head, curious.
"You're just too big and strong," she continued. "And such gorgeous scales! I can't imagine how great you'd look if I helped you evolve into an arbok..." She crossed her fingers and walked back toward town.
The ekans slithered after her, hissing appreciatively.
Melanie grinned. Forget poké balls. All she'd needed was a little charm.
Corey was surprisingly relaxed as he strolled up to Professor Oak's laboratory three solid hours late for the starter distribution. So the usual starters were taken already—so what? The trainers who reached the lab late and got saddled with the backup always ended up champions. He was pretty sure he preferred pikachu to charmander anyway.
Professor Oak frowned when he opened the door. "You should've been here three hours ago."
Corey winked. "That's okay, Professor—I'll take the pikachu I know you've got in the back."
Oak winked back. "You should've been here two and a half hours ago."
Azumarill watched the nidoran's ears flap wildly up and down. He looked like he'd take off any second.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm listening." He glared at her like it was obvious and continued his manic ear waving. "To something far away."
"Surely that's not helping."
"Right. I'm just imagining that river running up north." He rolled his eyes and left, flapping with every step.
...He was right. There was a river further north, and even her sensitive ears hadn't picked it up for several hundred yards.
Azumarill glanced around furtively, then flapped her ears as hard as she could.
Always take care of your tails, child, for they are your greatest gift. Take care of your tails and they will take care of you. The first fuels the fire that burns inside you. Keep the second soft and clean and you'll know your mate's true love. Three brings luck and four reveals secrets. Five lets you speak to any creature; six lets you enchant them. Seven gives you long life, and eight, when curled just so, long happiness.
And should anyone ever hurt you, child, your ninth tail will take care of you—and take care of them, too.
Jigglypuff bounced back and forth. Her first gallery showing and a famous critic was already leaning in to analyze her artwork. Finally! Someone who could appreciate her creative talents without falling asleep in the process! She should've gotten out of the music game years ago.
The critic straightened up and cleared his throat. Jigglypuff beamed.
"...Dull," he said. "Meaningless and uninspired. I defy anyone to stay awake while trying to derive enjoyment from these simplistic scrawlings."
Jigglypuff uncapped her marker and rounded on him. Maybe he'd find her work more "inspired" if she went back to her old favorite canvas.
Frances's garden was moving. Not emotionally—it was pretty, but nothing special, not yet—but physically moving, shifting places when she wasn't looking. She'd check in the morning and this tulip and that petunia had tipped over or popped out of the soil. Bright green leaves appeared where none had been the day before. She definitely hadn't planted those, but whenever she came out ready to weed them they'd be clear on the other end of the flower bed—or gone entirely. Until the next night, anyway.
It was baffling. These magical moving weeds were more than a little oddish.
"I told you," Diglett huffed, twisting away as best he could, "feet. Feet with little digging claws. Now leave me alone."
Ivysaur did not leave him alone and instead caught him with a vine. "I don't believe you," she said again. "Let me see. If it's just feet then let me see!"
"Don't!" Diglett screeched as Ivysaur pulled harder. "Don't do it or— or— or you'll be cursed, yes, a horrible curse befalls those who gaze upon a diglett's—"
There was a pop as the costume came away in her vines, and the mortified drilbur scuttled off with a whimper.