Doesn't look like that Big Bang fic is going to happen after all, guys. I haven't even started it, and although I thought I'd come up with some pretty cool ideas they are just not in the mood to cooperate and line up into one story that would actually meet the challenge's requirements. Ah, well. Back to the backburner with that idea; hopefully something will come of it some other time.
In the meantime, then, I come bearing moar ficbits! These puppies all happen to be from my "649" folder, a.k.a. the stories I'm trying to write for my 649 short fiction project. Most of them are old—some date back to 2007 or 2008, when I'd first started this project under the name "493" and I hadn't told anyone about it yet—and all, predictably, still unfinished and probably nowhere near close. y u write so slow, self. I have quite a few, actually, and will be breaking them up into several posts (especially because a few of the "bits" I want to share are several paragraphs long by themselves). I'm even making the posts ahead of time and queuing them so they'll show up at regular intervals, ensuring updates for a few weeks to come! Activity? On this blog? Madness!
As a disclaimer, I'm not even sure I want to finish some of these. A few I can look at and say "yes, I still love this idea, I will get my rear in gear and do something with it for srs", but others... eh. I guess I've seen some of these for the gargantuan plot/logic holes that they are (the articuno writes warnings to trespassers in Latin! why doesn't it just write them in English when that's what everyone around it speaks? except the traveling hero, who conveniently does understand Latin for no discernible reason? uh...), and others I've just lost interest in. It is still kind of fun to see what I was able to get out, though, and these are some of the few examples of my unfinished, on-hiatus pieces that are written well enough to not make me want to stab my eyes out, so I don't mind sharing them. Maybe if one gets a particularly good response I might even be inspired to pick it up again in earnest, though I make no promises there.
(144) Tu Fui Ego Eris
Pretty lengthy excerpt here. Go go go weird Latin-speaking articuno! Also go go go second-person POV, which I picked because... I don't remember. Probably just for the hell of it, which is of course the best reason to use second person. Ah, well.
The ice sculpture that sits in front of the cave is a true work of art, masterfully carved by someone who obviously had an eye for lifelike detail. Matthew Peary stands before the cavern's dark and gaping maw decked out in complete hiker's outfit, a full pack slung across his back and bulging realistically; you fancy you can almost see the camping stove bursting through and threatening to fall out of it. His eyes, wide, disbelieving, perhaps a little alarming, stare down at you from his thin face. His hands stretch out towards you—you marvel at the intricate fabric folds on his gloves and sleeves, so perfectly represented!—and his mouth is open, just a tentative sliver, as though he wants to whisper something urgent to you.
He can't, though. He's just a statue, just a mannequin made of shaved and sculpted frozen water, no matter how convincingly alive and desperate he might look. The real Matt Peary disappeared a long time ago, and you aren't likely to run into him or his urgent message any time soon. Nor do you have the time, to be frank; you have more important fish to fry. Still... the face... that poised mouth, those imploring eyes... you've always liked fine art and so you make yourself a little excuse to remain entranced by the gorgeous sculpture for just a few moments longer.
Your machamp, however, does not appear to appreciate the arts as much as you do, and he makes his impatience clear by prodding you none too gently in the back. You snap out of your reverie, mumble an apology and turn to look at him. The pokémon is shuffling his feet in the snow behind you, hopping and shifting his weight from one leg to the other in an attempt to stave off the cold. Such a shame that the nearby shops, which should have carried cold-weather equipment for all sorts and any situation, didn't have anything that fit over his extra pair of arms; the absolute largest parka you could find is draped over his chiseled shoulders with the upper pair of arms crammed roughly into it, but you know it isn't doing the poor thing much good at all. Not to mention the fact that the bright magenta color and loads of luxuriant faux ninetales-fur trim make him look like a sissy.
Your eyes linger on the base of the sculpture as Machamp nudges you toward the mouth of the cave; you are still close enough to it to read the inscription the sculptor carved down there.
tu fui ego eris
is what it says. It's obviously not in English and so it takes you a moment to work out its meaning, but when you translate it at last you shake your head and roll your eyes. Just as you thought: nothing but a silly, superstitious warning left there by the locals, giving would-be explorers one last chance to turn around before meeting Matthew Peary's fate at the hands of whatever fictitious horror lurks within the cave. It's just legends and mumbo-jumbo, nothing more, and you don't let it scare you. After all, considering that the man had simply up and vanished while off on his expedition, it's not as though anyone actually knows what Peary's "fate" was in the first place. You relax for a moment and take one more deep breath of the frigid air outside, and then you straighten up and march into the darkness with a muttering Machamp in your wake.
(145) The Almighty and Most Glorious God of Thunder
This is one of the rare gems in the folder that I am still quite sure I'd like to finish, so I'll only share the opening paragraph. Said paragraph contains what is probably my favorite first sentence ever, which from me is saying something because opening sentences/paragraphs are about the only thing I think I'm consistently good at. (And before you ask, no, I don't currently have any plans, abandoned or otherwise, for a moltres fic. There will be one, eventually, in keeping with the goals of 649, but it's my least favorite legendary bird and I haven't exactly had a ton of inspiration in that area.)
The Almighty and Most Glorious God of Thunder was getting fat. Szarrak figured it wouldn’t be long at all before he could no longer see his own talons, any downward glances revealing only a bloated yellow belly that jiggled every time he so much as blinked. He might even grow too large to fly or move or even open his beak, and then Szarrak and the others wouldn’t have to listen to his constant screeching and raving. He would just sit there by the back door and burble uselessly every once in a while until he was smothered by his own weight, and then they’d be rid of him for good.
(352) Color Change
Haha, this one is weird. I still like the idea, too, although coming up with funky synesthaesia-esque description things for all of the types is hard and is one of the reasons why this has stalled.
She took a step back and watched it come with a smile stretching her yellow lips. She couldn’t have run from it even if she’d wanted to—the aura sphere was unavoidable, the twisting, throbbing ball of blue drawn to her own aura like a magnet—but why run when it was so much more useful, so much more entertaining, to welcome it with open arms?
Pure energy ate away at the scales on her chest as the attack collided with her. She had to grit her teeth and dig her footclaws into the soft soil to keep from crying out as it burned her like fire. But she knew fire, and this wasn’t it. Fire was red. Fire was hungry and angry and wild, savage and uncontrollable. The heat from fire didn't go away.
It was not red but a deep brown that spread over her body now, the earthy tone radiating out from the site of impact and erasing all traces of green. She knew fighting, too, and she liked it.
Next week on "Ficbits": Magic caves! Lazy absol! God in a box! In the meantime, if you want to know more about one of these, feel free to ask (though I may not be willing to say much about those I intend to keep working with).