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chickenscratch!
Going through a bunch of my 'out' docs and decided to post the random bits from this last batch of ficlets that wound up either not going anywhere or morphing into something else. I think maybe I mentioned somewhere before that when writing these I worked out of one big document - any notes or scenes that came into mind went into this one doc next to all the bits that actually turned into final ficlets. Some folks have told me they find this stuff interesting, so for those of you who do, here's to y'all! Cheers ♥
(discarded opening paragraphs of ‘to make it true’ - ultimately I felt this setup was working a little too hard and came off boring as a result)
Madame Argentina had had a bad feeling as soon as they walked in. Maybe that was to be expected—the nature of her work being what it was, she was a spiritual consultant of sorts, in tune with the unnatural world, here to peddle divinations and invocations to anyone foolish enough to desire them.
Although the bad feeling she’d had then—fear that the former Powerpuff Girl, now an adult, would recognize her despite a very convincing disguise
–
(notes for ‘field notes’ - discarded because altogether it felt a little over-the-top; I took my favorite bits and worked around those in the final product)
It’s a language only he knows, and one with no alphabet or symbols or pictographs to serve as a guide. A language of breaths, muscles tensing, shivers. It’s smaller, and yet so vast and tricky to learn.
Learning to speak it because he loves her
rapt attention to her sounds, her breath, her pulse. He has to pay attention; she was never one for words. Neither of them are.
He wants to be the only one to ever speak it.
–
(buncha random exploratory bits done for the reds & romance prompt before I settled on what became ‘pathetic fallacy’ plus a title I wound up not using but still really like, a wholeass ending scene, and a separate attempt at a completely different take on the prompt but decided to ditch b/c I didn’t want two ficlets involving canines)
an act of surrender
“You didn’t have to pick me up.”
A twinge shoots through him, and he grits his teeth. “Maybe I’m trying to be nice. Maybe I’m trying to be a good person.”
She’s quiet for a long time as the landscape of Townsville speeds past them.
“It’s a form of control.”
“Jesus, Blossom,” he says, and he can’t believe they’re fucking fighting about this.
“You’re fucking welcome,” he spits before speeding off.
The seasons they passed through before they reached each other (this was straight up stolen from Ocean Vuong; I kept it in my notes for inspo)
Because sometimes the definition of romance, of loving someone so fully, means surrendering. Letting them pull you under.
Luckily for him, Blossom is always willing to prove him wrong.
The way people talk, it would appear the real challenge of a relationship is staying together. And for a while, that’s true.
There’s one night he thinks he’s really going to do it. He thinks he’s had enough. He thinks everybody else was right, a lifetime of glances askance borne out of an innate wisdom rather than judgment. You two will never work out. He thinks everyone already knew.
It’s galling, to be wrong about something. He’s in the air already, halfway to the clouds before he can’t help himself and turns, his heart seizing to know if she’s followed him.
She hasn’t. Also galling.
He hovers, waiting. It strikes him how even at this height, he can still pick out the house. He stares. He thinks about the fighting, her anger, her tears. He thinks about her hands in his. How the sun burst from the clouds.
He wonders if anyone else will know the things he knows about her, how she takes her tea in the morning, how terrible she is at dusting, how she yelped at a moth that surprised her then berated him when he killed it, how she was the first to reach for him after they’d cut and bruised each other bloody for years. The sun afterwards, during, always.
He thinks of how people pity her, how they believe he trapped her. How wrong they are. She’s reached for him, over and over again.
***
He wakes up before her. The birds outside are making a racket. A coyote’s been coming into the neighborhood in the pre-dawn hours, stressing out the crows while it hunts for feral cats. There’s one cat in particular Brick hopes it’ll snag, the one that keeps spraying in their garden. Wild animals gotta eat, too, and he wants the coyote to live.
Seeing it in their yard comes as a surprise. The coyote is slinking in the bushes. Brick keeps one eye on it as he unloads the dishwasher. He checks the calendar. She’s got an early morning meeting.
–
(first attempt at ‘the big chair’ which I dropped because my original idea (boomer pulls off an elaborate bubbles-wooing setup at a nightclub) was much too involved for a ficlet; the starred note at the front is a note to myself when I was still thinking I could get this to work)
(honestly though I do miss the opportunity I had to write boomer and brick bouncing off one another; I don’t find myself writing those two together that often and think it could be a lot of fun)
**REDO FROM BOOMER’S POV**
“I can’t believe Dad’s making you come with me,” Boomer grumbled at Brick as they floated down the back alley. The perpetually soaked asphalt glowed orange in the night, .
“Join the fucking club,” Brick said.
“You could ditch. I don’t want you here anyway.”
“He’ll know. I got reamed the last time I pulled that shit.”
“You’re gonna cramp my style.”
“I’m gonna cramp your style? What are you fucking on?”
“How many followers have you got, Hot Shit?” Boomer fired back, tapping at his phone.
Brick rolled his eyes. “My preferred currency is brain cells. Which makes me a millionaire compared to you.”
They were approaching a sizable crowd at the end of the alley, all clamoring to get in to a cement box adorned by nothing save for a bouncer and a velvet rope that was obviously only there for show. No semblance of order or a line appeared to exist.
Brick sent his gaze skyward, to the top of the building. “They put this place in a power plant?”
“An abandoned power plant,” Boomer said, as if this was supposed to impress him. “Shit. Bouncer’s saying it’s full up already.”
“Oh, too bad! Guess we’re going home.”
Boomer pulled a premium-brand water bottle from the inner pocket of his jacket and snatched at Brick’s arm, inexplicably dragging him into the throng of people accosting the stone-faced bouncer.
–
(random bits for ‘ether drift theory,’ including an attempt at a more talky ending before I realized I preferred the silent ending more plus a random smoky eye bit I was really committed to getting in there for some reason early on and a couple of last line attempts that all wound up striking me as too cheesy to put in the final product)
“Your dad’s a prisoner!”
“Who?” Brick said, bored.
“You’re really going all in on the subtlety, huh?” Brick said, taking in the lab, redone in a severe red and black color scheme that assaulted one’s vision.
Wait, that’s my color scheme.
“You don’t like it?”
He started up the circular staircase, his steps deliberate, his gaze flicking across the hundreds of screens that flanked her perch.
“I didn’t say that.”
–
“Oh, Brick,” Blossom said in mock sadness, shaking her head. A few bots had come up behind her, bearing a stack of folded clothes. She turned away from him as she unzipped her dress and started to change. “I thought you’d pose more of a challenge than that.” She paused in the middle of buttoning her top. “Although you were flirtier than usual, which was fun. I don’t think you would’ve ever confessed to wanting to see me naked when I was good.” Another pause. “Shoot. I probably could’ve gotten you naked.” Brief disappointment passed across her face, then she tilted her head and shrugged. “Ah, well. Missed opportunity. Oh, you know what? Here’s a treat for you.”
One of the bots came up bearing a (and then I got bored so I stopped writing it lol)
“Oh my God, that is a killer smoky eye.”
“Bubbles.”
“Thanks for noticing,” Blossom said, throwing up vogue hands.
“You’re not really dressed the part,” he said, taking in her high-necked white gown, stretching from her chin to the floor. “’Cept for the accessories.”
She stretched out her arms, sheathed in long, black vinyl gloves that shimmered in the light like a snake unfurling.
“I see you’ve discovered eyeliner. As well as several smoky eye tutorials on Youtube.”
“It took awhile to find a good one.”
“It’s like I told my sisters, Brick.”
The gel closed in around him. He couldn’t even move his eyes.
“I’m a better solo act.”
“You know how to really make people squirm, Brick?”
“Cut to black, right before it gets good.”
(discarded opening paragraphs of ‘to make it true’ - ultimately I felt this setup was working a little too hard and came off boring as a result)
Madame Argentina had had a bad feeling as soon as they walked in. Maybe that was to be expected—the nature of her work being what it was, she was a spiritual consultant of sorts, in tune with the unnatural world, here to peddle divinations and invocations to anyone foolish enough to desire them.
Although the bad feeling she’d had then—fear that the former Powerpuff Girl, now an adult, would recognize her despite a very convincing disguise
–
(notes for ‘field notes’ - discarded because altogether it felt a little over-the-top; I took my favorite bits and worked around those in the final product)
It’s a language only he knows, and one with no alphabet or symbols or pictographs to serve as a guide. A language of breaths, muscles tensing, shivers. It’s smaller, and yet so vast and tricky to learn.
Learning to speak it because he loves her
rapt attention to her sounds, her breath, her pulse. He has to pay attention; she was never one for words. Neither of them are.
He wants to be the only one to ever speak it.
–
(buncha random exploratory bits done for the reds & romance prompt before I settled on what became ‘pathetic fallacy’ plus a title I wound up not using but still really like, a wholeass ending scene, and a separate attempt at a completely different take on the prompt but decided to ditch b/c I didn’t want two ficlets involving canines)
an act of surrender
“You didn’t have to pick me up.”
A twinge shoots through him, and he grits his teeth. “Maybe I’m trying to be nice. Maybe I’m trying to be a good person.”
She’s quiet for a long time as the landscape of Townsville speeds past them.
“It’s a form of control.”
“Jesus, Blossom,” he says, and he can’t believe they’re fucking fighting about this.
“You’re fucking welcome,” he spits before speeding off.
The seasons they passed through before they reached each other (this was straight up stolen from Ocean Vuong; I kept it in my notes for inspo)
Because sometimes the definition of romance, of loving someone so fully, means surrendering. Letting them pull you under.
Luckily for him, Blossom is always willing to prove him wrong.
The way people talk, it would appear the real challenge of a relationship is staying together. And for a while, that’s true.
There’s one night he thinks he’s really going to do it. He thinks he’s had enough. He thinks everybody else was right, a lifetime of glances askance borne out of an innate wisdom rather than judgment. You two will never work out. He thinks everyone already knew.
It’s galling, to be wrong about something. He’s in the air already, halfway to the clouds before he can’t help himself and turns, his heart seizing to know if she’s followed him.
She hasn’t. Also galling.
He hovers, waiting. It strikes him how even at this height, he can still pick out the house. He stares. He thinks about the fighting, her anger, her tears. He thinks about her hands in his. How the sun burst from the clouds.
He wonders if anyone else will know the things he knows about her, how she takes her tea in the morning, how terrible she is at dusting, how she yelped at a moth that surprised her then berated him when he killed it, how she was the first to reach for him after they’d cut and bruised each other bloody for years. The sun afterwards, during, always.
He thinks of how people pity her, how they believe he trapped her. How wrong they are. She’s reached for him, over and over again.
***
He wakes up before her. The birds outside are making a racket. A coyote’s been coming into the neighborhood in the pre-dawn hours, stressing out the crows while it hunts for feral cats. There’s one cat in particular Brick hopes it’ll snag, the one that keeps spraying in their garden. Wild animals gotta eat, too, and he wants the coyote to live.
Seeing it in their yard comes as a surprise. The coyote is slinking in the bushes. Brick keeps one eye on it as he unloads the dishwasher. He checks the calendar. She’s got an early morning meeting.
–
(first attempt at ‘the big chair’ which I dropped because my original idea (boomer pulls off an elaborate bubbles-wooing setup at a nightclub) was much too involved for a ficlet; the starred note at the front is a note to myself when I was still thinking I could get this to work)
(honestly though I do miss the opportunity I had to write boomer and brick bouncing off one another; I don’t find myself writing those two together that often and think it could be a lot of fun)
**REDO FROM BOOMER’S POV**
“I can’t believe Dad’s making you come with me,” Boomer grumbled at Brick as they floated down the back alley. The perpetually soaked asphalt glowed orange in the night, .
“Join the fucking club,” Brick said.
“You could ditch. I don’t want you here anyway.”
“He’ll know. I got reamed the last time I pulled that shit.”
“You’re gonna cramp my style.”
“I’m gonna cramp your style? What are you fucking on?”
“How many followers have you got, Hot Shit?” Boomer fired back, tapping at his phone.
Brick rolled his eyes. “My preferred currency is brain cells. Which makes me a millionaire compared to you.”
They were approaching a sizable crowd at the end of the alley, all clamoring to get in to a cement box adorned by nothing save for a bouncer and a velvet rope that was obviously only there for show. No semblance of order or a line appeared to exist.
Brick sent his gaze skyward, to the top of the building. “They put this place in a power plant?”
“An abandoned power plant,” Boomer said, as if this was supposed to impress him. “Shit. Bouncer’s saying it’s full up already.”
“Oh, too bad! Guess we’re going home.”
Boomer pulled a premium-brand water bottle from the inner pocket of his jacket and snatched at Brick’s arm, inexplicably dragging him into the throng of people accosting the stone-faced bouncer.
–
(random bits for ‘ether drift theory,’ including an attempt at a more talky ending before I realized I preferred the silent ending more plus a random smoky eye bit I was really committed to getting in there for some reason early on and a couple of last line attempts that all wound up striking me as too cheesy to put in the final product)
“Your dad’s a prisoner!”
“Who?” Brick said, bored.
“You’re really going all in on the subtlety, huh?” Brick said, taking in the lab, redone in a severe red and black color scheme that assaulted one’s vision.
Wait, that’s my color scheme.
“You don’t like it?”
He started up the circular staircase, his steps deliberate, his gaze flicking across the hundreds of screens that flanked her perch.
“I didn’t say that.”
–
“Oh, Brick,” Blossom said in mock sadness, shaking her head. A few bots had come up behind her, bearing a stack of folded clothes. She turned away from him as she unzipped her dress and started to change. “I thought you’d pose more of a challenge than that.” She paused in the middle of buttoning her top. “Although you were flirtier than usual, which was fun. I don’t think you would’ve ever confessed to wanting to see me naked when I was good.” Another pause. “Shoot. I probably could’ve gotten you naked.” Brief disappointment passed across her face, then she tilted her head and shrugged. “Ah, well. Missed opportunity. Oh, you know what? Here’s a treat for you.”
One of the bots came up bearing a (and then I got bored so I stopped writing it lol)
“Oh my God, that is a killer smoky eye.”
“Bubbles.”
“Thanks for noticing,” Blossom said, throwing up vogue hands.
“You’re not really dressed the part,” he said, taking in her high-necked white gown, stretching from her chin to the floor. “’Cept for the accessories.”
She stretched out her arms, sheathed in long, black vinyl gloves that shimmered in the light like a snake unfurling.
“I see you’ve discovered eyeliner. As well as several smoky eye tutorials on Youtube.”
“It took awhile to find a good one.”
“It’s like I told my sisters, Brick.”
The gel closed in around him. He couldn’t even move his eyes.
“I’m a better solo act.”
“You know how to really make people squirm, Brick?”
“Cut to black, right before it gets good.”
no subject
He thinks of how people pity her, how they believe he trapped her. How wrong they are. She’s reached for him, over and over again."
^^^^^^^^^^
GIRL THAT HAD ME CRYING
no subject