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Write a drabble (100 words) based on the prompt in the post above you, and then
Leave a prompt for the next person!
What is a drabble?
A drabble is a short piece of fiction. Typically/traditionally they are exactly 100 words in length (word counter).
What is a prompt?
A prompt can be anything! A word, a pokemon, a sentence, a line of dialogue, a cool image ...
Does it have to be about pokemon?
No.
Are there actually any real rules here?
Not really! Drabbles are more about practicing the craft, figuring out which words are necessary to tell a story, and honing in on your prose choices. Go nuts; have fun.
No more, the gardener vowed. No more crushed saplings and destroyed berry plants. A great battle was waged, man against whirling purple bug. Dirt flew, traps were dug, and curses shouted. By the end the gardener stood, triumphant above a pitfall trap, Whirlipede trapped within.
"You know, if you wanted some food you could have just asked."
Whirlipede glared at him.
"If you help me plant the next patch, the first harvest is yours. Deal?"
Never in his life had he witnessed a patch of earth tilled so swiftly and precisely. Who knew Whirlipede could create as easily as destroy?
Prompt: Marsh
Note: opted for swamp, with minimal research, typical "artistic license" on ecology
Edit history:
Edit1.x: by 20m+ after on 0208, footnote notes on title. No change to drabble.
Note: FAILED the 100w limit
wc: 483 (4.83x...)
death, light description of injury
Faux-Drabble Title: Before Unequal Wings
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It was the absence of dragonfly hum that pulled him back to earth.
"Julie, wait!" He didn't know when it had stopped. The woman trekking--well, wading--ankle-deep in the swamp half-turned, raised an eyebrow expectantly. He caught his breath, continued, "The assistant prof said: be careful of changes in soil, ambient sound."
They were searching the Greenwater Wetlands for an elusive variant, that mostly only the locals had reportedly seen. One opposite in clime yet related to its desert relative: a conundrum (yet, vulpix existed).
Bathed in verdant light through the canopy, Julie's eye somehow glinted. "Yes, but for croagunk, not yanma, if you remembered her words! The ribbits haven't changed significantly." The words managed to be bereft of berating yet full of urgency.
Jonathan blinked, thought for a moment, nodded to himself. Actually, the hum was back. Sighing in relief, he started wading faster to catch up to his fellow field researcher, who'd already doubled the gap.
The trees all looked the same. The water depth hadn't changed much for a while, either. He began to go over other things the professor had mentioned (inadvertently slowing his pace), something about mangrove roots...
A short piercing yell rang out, truncated and muffled out quickly as the earth a way up ahead seemed to shift. Jonathan was sweating in his longsleeves, synthetic pants, and boots, but crygonal still managed to snatch his spine. "Julie?! JULIE!!"
He broke into an awkward, nervous run. Focusing on his stride and his target location--snatching the great ball off his belt (bronzong couldn't move quickly, they couldn't come out yet)--it seemed like there were some mangroves a bit up ahead and toward the right--nearly lost his footing, but he was good--what had happened? could it be--he was really sweating now, he really needed to find Julie--
The ground flushed open when his right foot landed the umpteenth time in normal swampwater, and all Jonathan could register was a violet blur as the trapinch mandibles enveloped his lower body and came crashing together at his midsection, cracking his lower ribs and perforating pancreas, breakfast bag, and other organs in his abdominal region, yanking him swiftly underground.
He couldn't see. Mud in front of his eyes, getting in his ears, mud all around. The trapinch pulled him further. He was bleeding out, losing consciousness fast. "Julie..." more a whisper in his head, the mud preventing him from speaking. "So they really are purple... it's not fair, I didn't even get a good look..." The great ball he was gripping rocked from his grasp, left behind in the soil. "I'm... sorry... brozong... sorry... professor..." The trapinch had stopped moving, and in the lightless earth, the inner light left the researcher's eyes.
Above ground, the swamp looked the same, even though the sun was rising far above the canopy. The water took on a greener hue. Croagunk chirping ceased... ... ...continued.
"A dragonfly is an insect belonging to the order Odonata, infraorderAnisoptera (from Greek ἄνισος anisos, "unequal" and πτερόν pteron, "wing", because the hindwing is broader than the forewing). Adult dragonflies are characterized by large, multifaceted eyes, two pairs of strong, transparent wings, sometimes with coloured patches, and an elongated body."
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And for an awful stretch-Englishy pun.
Before wings... like, in the faux-bio trapinch line, trapinch is "before wings".
Also, "before" is "ante" -> the "ant" in antlion (which are ofc not ants).
Even more of a stretch...! :
"ante": "in front of". which sometimes has association with anterior and "ventral": "[underside]".
Dragonflies can fly. But plenty references here to being pulled to earth.
Is the title [dragonfly] referring to trapinch or yanma? I don't know. Who cares
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More interestingly, this is an idea of an elusive regional trapinch line that likes wetlands, not desert. Actual dragonflies seem to prefer wetlands.
"About 3,000 extant species are known. Most are tropical, with fewer species in temperate regions. Loss of wetland habitat threatens dragonfly populations around the world."
"Ecology
Dragonflies and damselflies are predatory both in the aquatic nymphal and adult stages. Nymphs feed on a range of freshwater invertebrates and larger ones can prey on tadpoles and small fish.[34] Adults capture insect prey in the air, making use of their acute vision and highly controlled flight. The mating system of dragonflies is complex, and they are among the few insect groups that have a system of indirect sperm transfer along with sperm storage, delayed fertilization, and sperm competition.[34]
Adult males vigorously defend territories near water; these areas provide suitable habitat for the larvae to develop, and for females to lay their eggs. Swarms of feeding adults aggregate to prey on swarming prey such as emerging flying ants or termites.[34]
Dragonflies as a group occupy a considerable variety of habitats, but many species, and some families, have their own specific environmental requirements.[35] Some species prefer flowing waters, while others prefer standing water."
The hoodoos of Victory Road are precipitous, but the tastiest rocks are at their peaks. You and your colony build writhing bridges with your bodies to traverse them, metal limbs locking into formation. You’ve never gotten to taste the delicious rock at the precipice; that’s reserved for the biggest, shiniest durants. You consider breaking form and clambering to the top for a change, but a kick to the head cuts your daydream short. Another durant had the same idea. The others squirm and buck in protest; the deviant is finally thrown to the ground below. It’s a long way down.
Snowbright had never seen a human before, not up close. Humans didn't linger on the slopes, instead straining towards the summit, usually alongside fire-bringers. But this one lay unmoving in the snowbank.
She knew what Elder Icefog would say: a cone too close to the sun (from one mouth) melts faster than the snowflakes settle (from the other). But Snowbright was curious.
Strange, brightly-colored furs covered the human, but its body was cool to the touch. Not so different after all.
Nearby, claws scrabbled over ice, and Snowbright shrank into the flurry's cover. Let the sneasels have the human, then.
I was way too slow to beat out Tetra last night, but I couldn't not rise to this shameless and obvious OSJ bait:
He ignores her. Bindweed is aptly named, and untangling the green threads from the tomatoes takes his full concentration: one snapped-off curlicue can regrow and start the cycle over.
"You don't have to keep coming out here."
Nadir still says nothing.
She sighs and bends to another snarl of vines.
"I do, you know," he says eventually. "You're not the only one who misses her."
They don't have to glance towards the grave, the source. They keep unwinding tendrils, doggedly and tenderly, and each coil brings them slowly closer to the leafeon's bones.
Well! Since I’m someone who struggles with wordcount, I decided to give this a shot because Wynaut? :3
Prompt: Reputation
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Delinquent. Hm, what a bizarre word this adjective has become. I’ve heard it so many times that it doesn’t affect me that much anymore.
Glares. Thefts. Precision. Others terms that I’ve heard all too often.
…But I don’t like that. I don’t like the kind of man I’ve become. But… is there some way for me to change? Is there some way to cleanse my record?
…Maybe not. Maybe I’ll be forever seen as a criminal. However, I can still do something positive — I’ll destroy this criminal lair and take away the Snag Machine. This is a start… right?
There are seven sisters in the sky. When I was a child, we called them pleiades; when they fall, we call them minior.
I met one when I was just starting out, and Torren was just a rowlet. We saw the streak over our camp, and we clambered over the crater. The ground was too hot to touch. At the center was a shattered shell and the brightest green I've ever seen in my entire life.
It rose, burbling, uncertainly, with one glance at the shell it'd left behind. It circled Torren, then me. Then it flew away.
Trainer had cheered when you'd evolved. "Awesome job, Rasora! Now that you're an aggron, Flannery won't stand a chance." She'd looked you over with hungry eyes, taken in your horned helm, steely armor, towering form.
Back on your mountain, a campfire had once sparked an inferno. The abra screamed; the zubat fled into the cavernous depths. But your mother, with her impenetrable hide, braved the flames. For months after, she hauled fresh soil to the surface, carefully furrowed for seeds with her claws.
Trainer takes your newfound arms and bulk for destruction, power. But you know strength has many forms.
omg I couldn’t resist. also couldn’t resist WME
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The first patrat chirrups something unintelligible before the others take up the chorus. Afterward they all fall silent, and then their work begins.
Bit by bit they bury their berries under damp earth, until a series of fresh mounds speckle the grassland. Another chirrup, another chorus, and they vanish into the sea of yellow and green. Her Offerings are always blessed, then buried, then bereft. As a younger god She once demanded blood and fealty in exchange for protection. Now She is content if they promise to grow.
Fifty-two years after, Landorus surveys the blooming fields with a creaky smile.
—- prompt: “It’s honest work, and it’s all I’ve ever known.”
Taking care of the various bills, a house and two younger siblings was much tougher than he had ever imagined. But with his parents missing, he had to step up. For them.
He needed money. How to get it, though?
In Orre, it was common to join a gang and get some cash by beating up other gangsters. He could beat up, aye, but there was no way he would have become a thug. Nay! He was better than that!
Then, an offer from a Pokémon Ranch, and he accepted. An honest work for an honest salary — Harvard’s essence.
Terra inspects your complete display case of badges, tracing all four of her hands over the glass. Her eyes share the same emptiness as what’s in your heart.
“What now?” you ask, more for your sake. She shrugs, then lets slip a slight, wide smile. She then extends her hand. You knew this day was coming, that she’d leave of her own volition once you completed the league. You knew this from the start.
You take the handshake, and before leaving, she throws a playful jab at your shoulder, signalling goodbye. Then you wonder: ‘was this my journey, or hers?’
It was a strange material, but a fascinating one. It could bend and twist without breaking, yet it was as hard as rock, and light as a Caterpie.
It even smelled delicious!
What could have caused this thing's creation, though? Nobody had ever seen it before, so it couldn't have been made by a mundane Pokemon, unless this was what made up the underside of a Diglett. Could it be from the humans of legend?
Either way, he should tell the others what he found.
The Garbodor turned around to face his colleagues. "Guys, I think I found something amazing!"
The hitmonchan stared down at the keyboard like it was an alien artifact. He'd written every week for the past eight years, but now, the words simply wouldn't come. Slowly, he extended his hand and pressed it down amidst the keys. An incomprehensible garble of letters appeared on the screen. It was hopeless. Sighing, the hitmonchan got up and walked away. His muse had fled. Then an itching nose led him to raise his hand, and-
Wait, that was it! He was trying to type without boxing gloves on! Rectifying the error, he sat back down and answered the email.
Prompt: "I would've gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for you meddling-"
“An’ I woulda gotten away with it, too,” Gavi drawled in a deadpan tone, “if it weren’t for you meddling—”
“No!” Saro stomped her foot, the forest leaves crunching under her paws. “You’re doing it all wrong!”
Gavi glared at the sentret. “Well, I didn’t wanna be the bad guy again!” He pulled irritably at his bad-guy cape and resisted the temptation to set it ablaze with his tail flame.
“But you breathe fire, so you make the coolest bad guy!”
"I have no goddamn idea what you're talking about," Odette replied with the same level of flatness.
They both stood in the doorway of the pantry, watching as all fourteen rehabilitated Grubbin wreaked havoc on the inventory. Piles of foodstuffs littered the floor, as scraps of fruits and vegetables flew back and forth between the shelves, tossed aside as each Grubbin filled their bellies.
"Honeysuckle, when I said 'feed the Grubbins,' I meant 'give them Poffins,'" Clovis breathed. "Not 'set them loose in the pantry.'"
"...I couldn't find the Poffins," Odette said sheepishly.
Note: another drabble fail. may attempt shorter version later
wordcount: 226
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It was raining.
Rich loved the rain. The forecast had predicted a terrible storm this weekend, and he and the hospital were ready for it. The voltorb were on strike, but he had signed off on--and installation had just completed for--a new UPS system for a steal of a price.
A booming peal and crashing sounds later, the hospital went dark. The human babies in the NICU were bawling. Rich grinned. Not five seconds later, emergency lights came on and machines started beeping again.
A different crashing sound. Everything dropped into darkness once more. The smile evacuated his face. The bawling was loud again and obnoxious. He turned and started walking away from the din, towards his approaching CEO.
A senior technician hurried toward him and the CEO, and addressed him first. "Director, the UPS system is completely fried out. It's not going to be fixable in time. The power is out."
Shit, he thought. He was probably going to lose his director job over this. Fucking bullshit.Fucking voltorb.
Beside him, the CEO narrowed his eyes and resolutely stated, "Okay. Alert all staff. Activate emergency evacuation Protocol One."
Rich could soon see the audino and other nurses scrambling to evacuate the NICU. But he couldn't hear them. The pounding of the rain and the occasional peal drowned out the crying of the newborn.
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Next prompt: repeated failure (or) difficult decision
As a bagon, you jump a lot. You jump from high places, from low places, from anywhere you can, praying for flight, and instead you hit the ground hard. Eventually you become so good at failing to fly that you evolve, and your new form is built to absorb the shock of landing.
Then you fall a lot. You roll off cliffs, off ledges, off anything you can, praying for flight, and instead you tumble onto the ground and to safety. Eventually you become so good at landing that you evolve, and stop falling at all.
The 'Tour De Falinks’ was almost at an end. The Falinks had all travelled from the south of Galar to the great ‘oop north’, forming a continuous conga line of a dozen at first, then hundreds, then thousands by the time they reached Wyndon.
Through hunger, rain, snow and sleet, the humans had cheered them on all this time. They were gonna do it! They were gonna make it to the end! The top brass’ horn almost touched the finishing line ribbon, and then--
A stray Wooloo rolled downhill and knocked each Falinks over like dominoes. A week’s effort, wasted!
