This post explains all about why I'm posting these and why half of them will forever remain ficbits instead of becoming finished stories, so rather than repeat myself you can just go look at the beginning of that. (And read the juicy ficbits it contains if you haven't already!)


(229) Feed the Dog

This one will probably never be finished, either, but not because I don't like it enough. On the contrary, I'll probably never finish it because I like it too much. The original idea (something about an angel of death and his houndoom hellmouth teaching some guy a lesson) would've given me a cohesive story, but it was painfully cliché and not all that interesting. So I changed it, and while the new version was more fun and interesting (a day in the life of an angel of death and his so adorabibble pet houndoom hellmouth) it wasn't coming together in a way that worked as a short story; I also realized I was so attached to the characters that I wanted to do a lot more with them and the whole "angel of death" thing. I may find a way to get a 649 story out of Heath and Luca someday, but for now they're waiting for me to sort out a much larger story/collection of stories about their world, and I'm searching for something else to take 649's houndour/houndoom spot.

I only ever wrote two disparate paragraphs, one the opening lines and the other a pleasant chat with a dying man in a bathroom from around the end, but you can go ahead and have 'em both. ilu Heath. So snarky, so ronery.


It would be nice, thought Heath Malcamav, if the warm, slender body in bed next to him belonged to a beautiful woman. It would be nice if that hot tongue was working its way around his mouth because that beautiful woman was feeling frisky again and wanted to wake him up for another romp through the sheets before breakfast. It would be really nice if the breath hitting his face didn't smell like the rear end of a stunky.

"You're not supposed to be up here, Luca," Heath sighed, giving the furry figure a good shove and knocking it onto the floor in a heap.


"In exactly four minutes and twenty-seven seconds a small boy's bladder will fail catastrophically all over the restaurant's new tatami mats. His father will belatedly drag him in here, and they'll find you sprawled on the floor... is that a glimmer of hope I see in your eyes, Mr. Dalton, relief in the knowledge that rescue will arrive just in time? I hope not, for your sake, because that's a minute and fourteen seconds longer than you've got left."


(262) Long Live the Queen

I... I don't know whether I want to finish this one. I probably won't in its current state, anyway, so the fact that this sort of gives away the ending for crazy old Kaftar doesn't mean all that much. I did kind of like the way I switched from Kaftar's point of view to the rest of the clan's (what you see in this excerpt), though, so I may find a way to keep that.

This one also contains a few placeholder names, argleblarg.


"What... what the hell..." Tsebua skidded to a halt at the edge of the ravine and looked downward, eyes wide and staring. "Did she..."

Dibe blurted out what Tsebua could not bring himself to say. "She jumped! The lunatic jumped! Straight down there, see, Zevoa, she jumped!" Her eyes, too, were quite wide, although not so much with disbelief as with fascination, almost amusement. Funny; for a second, that made her look just like Kaftar.

Zevoa did not gasp or mumble along with the others behind her, nor did she gawk or even flinch as she gazed down into the blackness. The ravine reached down for many thousands of strides, its painted red sides growing darker and darker until they stretched into complete darkness. Some of the clan elders said there was a river running along its bottom; others said that it ended in a hard, unforgiving stony floor. Mothers would tell their cubs that the ravine had no bottom at all; naughty little poochyena that wandered too far from the den and fell in would drop down, down, down until the day after forever.

Whatever was down there, though, Kaftar was going to find out for herself. She had jumped. She had jumped straight into the ravine and it had welcomed her with its hungry, open maw. There was no coming back from that.

"...Well?" [beta] nudged Zevoa's foreleg and watched her face expectantly.

"Well what?"

"Kaftar... she... well... what are we going to do?"

Zevoa continued to stare after Kaftar even though she couldn't see her. "What do you suggest we do, [beta]? She jumped. She's dead. That's the end of it.”


(308) Return to Sender

One of the older snippets. I'm not sure whether I want to finish this, mostly because, even though there's something resembling a partial summary at the top of the document, I don't remember where I was ultimately going with it. Maybe someday, if I can puzzle that out, I'll give it another shot.

Beyond this place there be more placeholder names, etc..


[...] got a letter from Michael that day, but he put it back in he mailbox right away. Sarah brought it in and set it on the table for him saying, "Oh, look, [...]. Someone's sent you a letter!", but the moment [...] saw the name in the upper-left corner he took the envelope outside and jammed it back into the box, telling himself that he wouldn't give it another thought. Michael wasn't worth his time.

To Sarah Edgelin's Medicham
2627 Endhill Rd
Rustboro City, Hoenn

was how the letter was addressed, sent all the way from a return address in Sandgem Town, Sinnoh. "To Sarah Edgelin's Medicham." He hadn't even bothered to address the letter with a name. Maybe he had done it to avoid confusion, as when [...] had come to live with Sarah she might have changed his name to something Michael obviously wouldn't know about. That wasn't entirely true; Michael knew the name itself, all right. The number of times [...] had told him... Then again, if he had instead decided to use a name, the name he'd have picked would have been "Brahmin". And "Brahmin" was not his name.

"Dear Brahmin" was in fact how the letter started. "Dear Brahmin, my old friend, I'm sorry and I miss you. I really, really miss you." And maybe Michael did miss him, but [...] would never know because he never read the letter.


Next week on "Ficbits": Funny hats! Snarky snakes! All I do is win! Still open to discussing whatever there is to discuss about these, as always.