AWKWARD ZOMBIE

That was actually extremely encouraging.

New personal goal: post something by the end of tomorrow.

Perhaps we should come up with prompts for one another. Sort of a challenge.

Someone give me something to try.

Oh dear. On another, small forum I frequent I asked if anyone would be interested in a Digimon RP I had running through my head. No one was really interested, however, as most of the people there wrote fanfics they gave me the idea to make that RP into a fanfic...What have I done?

No, yeah, in fact that forum was based around a good MLP Fanfic. (Through the Eyes of Another Pony). It's just I have never imagined myself writing anything fanfic-y and this is my first writing experience. Maybe I'll post a link and let you guys make comments when I'm done...(This is so weird for me, you have no idea.)

Doesn't your fanfic contain horrifying slash?

Fanfics are like cancer. They never die.

Tell that to the writers for Katawa Shoju fanfics. Me included.

Blind Loop

"What kind of damage did they do?"

"Financial. Made a few hundred million with stock market predictions."

"Paltry."

"Indeed. They were almost certainly testing the waters, seeing what they could do with the technique."

"Unfortunate. Caution indicates intelligence."

"You would rather have idiots playing with the time machine?"

"I figure whatever strange laws govern the universe are less perverse than humanity. If more destructive."

"How do you warp spacetime?"

"Accidentally. The creator was trying to design a super alloy capable of containing a nuclear explosion."

"I heard it was an attempt to manage superluminal travel."

"Stories vary in part because of what he tells others. He's lied more than once."

"Where is the esteemed doctor?"

"Buried, metaphorically. NATO disappeared him like sugar in water. I have no idea if he's even alive. The man redefined what we are capable of in this universe with idle experimentation."

"Is that his fault? Do you blame Einstein for the nuke?"

"You never met Professor Conard. I did, back in college. He was nearly sociopathic even back then. He would have been locked up if he had been any less useful or the slightest bit physically violent. The good professor created a black box no one understands, is capable of warping reality, and failed to document the mathematics while offering no explanation for why he created it. Hell, he didn't even publish a damned article on the thing. Just let it loose."

So, I think someone said they wanted to check out my digimon fic or something?

Already had one guy read the rough draft, his biggest complaint was a severe lack of detail. Hopefully this version is detailed enough, but that's obviously going to be a recurring problem if I continue. Two OC digimon and one canon one. So yeah, first fic of any kind. Go at it.

yay, another manageable chunk
Chapter Two Part Two

She isn’t saying anything. Would she really be that mad at me about this? I try to catch back up to her, since she didn’t stop for me. Oh hell. “Red, come on. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just…surprised.”

Finally, she stops. “Not all of my family is like her. Look at what neighborhood we’re in.”

I don’t know anything about Central. So I have no idea what looking around is supposed to do. I mean, I see some kind of statue made of scrap metal, looks kind of like someone trying to escape something pulling them down. There’s a bronzed boot in the middle of the ro—wait. I’ve heard of that before. This is that one area where all the artists live. I didn’t make the connection when the tram announcer called the sector. I forgot that the formal name of the Artist’s Domain is Freemont.

“Your aunt lives in the Artist’s Domain?” No way. I would kill to have a reason to come here regularly. As in, really. I might kill someone to take their house. Well, no I wouldn’t, but I would briefly consider it.

“We’re almost there. Rhiora lives just down this street over here next to the steel tree.”

daisies. How did I not notice where we were earlier? The walls are covered in paint, some as murals, some as just splashes of color to make things lively. We cross a bridge over a stream that has what looks like a troll underneath it. When we get to the steel tree, I’m overwhelmed by the sudden presence of red and orange as we round the corner.

“My aunt likes fire.” Red explains. “She pretty much runs this street.”

Red seems to notice my ankle finally, and hesitates a bit, before putting my arm over her shoulder and then hoisting me up the steps to the door. …four, five…nine, ten, eleven. Several knocks on the door from Red, and it quickly opens.

That has got to be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I’m guessing this is Rhiora. She is all smiles as she welcomes us in, talking with the same accent as Red. Hey, maybe this will be a chance to learn her actual name.

“So, Mien’drh, how is Third District?” the woman asks. It’s a little hard to see from all the red reflecting off of various surfaces, and most of it is covered with one of those scarf things, but I think her hair is black. She’s just as pale as everyone else down here, although I can’t really place what kind of people her features remind me of. She and Red look a lot alike when they’re laughing. Her features are kind of angular, but not exactly sharp, and her eyes are slightly slanted and large without being creepy. There’s just something…I dunno.

Whoops, I think someone just said something to me. Time to check back into the conversation. “What?”

“I asked your name.” Oh, the lady who is probably Rhiora is talking.

“Uh, Iwaasa Daisuke. Err, sorry. Guess I would say Daisuke Iwaasa in Common, yeah?”

Rhiora laughs. “It’s alright, we put the surname first in Rhenshialan, too.”

Renshalen?

“The language that we speak. The holy language.” Red speaks up for the first time since we got to this street. “You were wondering, right?”

“Oh, for the love of the Great, Mien’drh. Speak up. You’re in my house now, not your mother’s.” Rhiora snaps. She smacks her on the arm. “You walked in here carrying a boy, didn’t you? You can daisies well say what you’re going to say.”

I can’t help but crack a grin. “Yeah, Red. Come on. Lighten up, would you?” She just looks down at her feet, tightening her mouth in that weird way people do when they’re upset. “Whoa hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Red announces, smiling really wide.

Rhiora’s eyebrows go up as she just looks between the two of us before falling into the same smile as Red and saying “Well, we’ve been here a good five minutes now, and you look like you want to sit down. Let’s get out of the entry hall. Anyone want anything to drink? I’ve got water, juice, wine. Whatever you want!”

“Just some water, please,” Red says, a bit more loudly than she was talking a while ago. I call that I’ll have the same.

“Spiced wine it is, then!” Rhiora calls from ahead of us.

Yeah, thanks for that. Well, the first draft had almost no detail in it. So I'll try to work on finding a balance then.
As for the PoV that...Well, if I ever make it that far it was going to actually be the retelling of what happened to later members of the team. So once that point hits, the PoV would change...though that will probably be a weird transition that, with hope, maybe I could pull off.

Anyways, thanks for the advice!

Also, as for putting it on some fanfic site...maybe if I make it in several chapters. After I've proven to myself that I won't abandon it.

Perspective

Wes Beuse pulled into the parking lot of a “Hoover” Elementary school. Beause mused that it was impossible to tell whether it

was there to honor the president, the spook, or the vacuum cleaner, as whatever letters specified it were missing from the brick

facade. Not even discoloration was left to mark the missing account. The school seemed shoddy, sturdy, but old and rundown all at

the same time. Everything was grimy or discolored save for a new set of blue rubberized metal benches sitting under the pavilion

where students waited on the buses.

Beuse adjusted the driver seat of his ’97 Beretta, took off his sunglasses, checked his cell phone for messages, and tried his

damnedest not to look like a pedophile on the prowl. It occurred to Wes that the thought should not even have crossed his mind,

but he felt like a criminal. Wes was supposed to be a victim. This victim was looking for a child in particular, if that particular child

actually existed. The insubstantial maybe existence of the child made it doubly difficult to find her without seeming like a freak or

disgruntled family member.

This miserable state of affairs might have never come to be known except for people being such horrible keepers of secrets. A

single whisper, two denials, and a handful of rumors had him driving to every elementary school in the county, waiting and watching,

hoping and praying. He was not always praying or hoping for the same things each time. Wes hoped she had not lied to him all

these years, but it seemed kind of rude to hope a child did not exist. It seemed almost mean spirited.

While Beuse pondered about the ramifications of wishes coming true and periphery damages caused by these desires, he almost

missed his target of the last five days. She walked beside two other girls and one boy around her age, nine or ten years old. She

was unmistakably Yumi’s. Her hair was black and allowed to grow long, past her shoulders. She was as tall as the other children but

seemed like she could blow away in the wind her frame was so slight. Beuse wondered if all children started so gangly.

Yumi’s daughter wore a red t-shirt with a white stick figure printed on it. It said something rebellious in a speech bubble above

it; Wes could not read it from his perch. The little girl wore faded blue jeans and kept her hands in her pockets even after sitting

down at the bench with her friends. Fear rose up in Wes Beuse then. He knew why she kept her hands hidden. Beuse’s gaze moved

to his hands on the steering wheel against his will. Large bony hands with fingers disproportionate to the rest of the limbs, indeed,

mismatched with the rest of the body. They were a mild embarrassment that he stopped thinking about for months at a time. The

first time he met anybody though that was the first place they looked. Or at least that is what he imagined. Yumi always said they

looked fine and that he was imagining things.

The memory of Yumi at his back, embracing him as he worked at his computer momentarily lifted him. Then it angered him.

Finally, it left him depressed. Thoughts of Yumi were always a disorganized mess. Hearing a loud hiss dragged Wes out of his funk

long enough to see the buses pull in and Yumi’s little girl get on #636. As she stepped onto the bus she pulled out one hand long

enough to steady herself on the rail.

The sight of the pale white hand still less than half the size of his own, set his heart to sink and his stomach to flip flop. Not a

hint of him lay in her save for that familiarly sized appendage, but there was no doubt now. Wes put his head down on the steering

wheel, raised it up a few times and dropped it again. Anger, confusion, and something like animal excitement nearly choked him. He

was a man known for ideas and not a single one occurred to him at the moment, only questions. What was his daughter’s name?

Well, fuckin, I finished a novel recently. Sixty six thousand odd words about me wasting time in London. Wee bit much to throw into one post I suppose, but if you've any interest, feel free to chuck me a message and I'll throw it over your way.

>he thinks we want to read that shit

Yeah well I won't watch your shitty movie there pudgy