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BenRG:
A nice ending to an excellent fan-fiction.

I loved the idea of Miss "Only 45% Meat Faye". I actually find myself wondering if she'd be entirely interested in going full-bio again.

I also agree that PT410x would end up the marginalised leader of a tiny band of fanatics, screaming invective as the world moves on without him and his dreams of purity were lost to the dust of history. In the end, that's all he ever was, wasn't it?

questionablydiscontent:
Okay, so I wrote a small theatric fanfic (fanplay?) for an OT3 ship I have and hopefully it's better quality than Marigold's?

BCE: BEGINNINGS
(a "play" by someone who most certainly has no idea how to write plays)

[Clinton and Brunhilde are hanging out at Brunhilde's house, playing Mario Kart (or some other video game). Clinton decides to broach a subject that has been weighing on his mind.]

CLINTON: Hey, Brun? I was... Uhhh, how do I put this...

BRUNHILDE [tilting head curiously]: Hmm?

CLINTON: Well, er, you know Elliot, right?

BRUNHILDE: Elliot from the bakery?

CLINTON: Yeah, that's him. I was wondering what you thought about him.

BRUNHILDE: Hmm... He reminds me of the BFG. Because he's big and friendly... and maybe a giant?

CLINTON: He's not a giant!

BRUNHILDE: Well, he could be a small one.

CLINTON: What!

BRUNHILDE: But I guess then he wouldn't be a BIG friendly giant.

CLINTON: :psyduck:

BRUNHILDE: Or maybe he's the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man!

CLINTON: ...The villain who destroyed the city in Ghostbusters?

BRUNHILDE: Yeah! But not because of the destroying the city part. He just reminds me of a marshmallow. ...Crossed with a giant.

CLINTON: OK, this isn't exactly what I was getting at.

BRUNHILDE: What do you mean?

CLINTON: I was thinking... Elliot's a nice guy, right? Do you like him?

BRUNHILDE: Yeah. He seems fun. And he's really big, which is also nice.

CLINTON: I see.

BRUNHILDE: ...Oh, but I like you too, even though you're not big! You're both nice.

C [blushing a bit]: Um, th-thank you. I'm not really... Well, I try to be nice, but I'm not like Elliot.

BRUNHILDE: Huh? ...You can be nice without being like Elliot.

CLINTON: Yeah, but... He's a really sweet guy, you know?

BRUNHILDE: Yes! He is sweet. So are you.

CLINTON: Heh, well, if you say so... [leaning in] So is that the kind of guy you'd like, romantically? Someone who's sweet and kind? And maybe physically attractive?

BRUNHILDE: Hmm... I think so. Nice guys are cute.

CLINTON: So then, do you think... How do I put this...

BRUNHILDE: ...Ohh! Are you asking me out?

C [blushing hard]: Wait, what?!

BRUNHILDE: You're... not? But you are sweet and attractive. It makes sense that I would like you.

CLINTON: Thanks, but... I mean, it's not like I never thought about you that way... I definitely had a bit of a crush on you when we first met... but I was asking about Elliot.

BRUNHILDE: Ohh! Are you asking if he likes you?

CLINTON: H-huh?! No, Elliot doesn't like... I mean, I don't think...

BRUNHILDE: But he always acts so flustered around you. Just like you're acting now.

CLINTON: D-does he...? And hey, I'm not flustered!

BRUNHILDE: I just figured he probably had a crush on you.

CLINTON: Wait, then... Maybe he was talking about... Augh, but that's not who I was talking about! I meant you, Brun, not me! Elliot likes you!

BRUNHILDE: He does?

CLINTON: Crap, I didn't mean to tell you he said that!

BRUNHILDE: Oh. Sorry. Should I try to forget it?

CLINTON: No, wait! Just listen for a sec! I was thinking maybe you should see if Elliot and you both like each other... Maybe you could go out on a date?

BRUNHILDE: Ohh! So you're his wingman!

CLINTON: No, he didn't ask me to talk to you! I just thought I could... Well, to be honest, I don't know why I did this. I wanted to help Elliot, but my sister tried to set me up one time, and things went so badly...

BRUNHILDE: Wait, but if Elliot likes you, and you like Elliot, maybe YOU could go out with him! And then I can be [Batman voice] the wingman!

CLINTON: No! I mean... maybe? But I was asking you... AUGH! This is so complicated! :psyduck: (again)

BRUNHILDE: Well, maybe we can both go out with him?

CLINTON: Wait, how could BOTH of us go on a date with him?

BRUNHILDE: Well, it's not like you can expect someone to be exclusive on a first date!

CLINTON: But then, it'd be like we're in a competition.

BRUNHILDE: But we're not. I mean, I don't expect us to fall in love or anything, do you?

CLINTON: It's way too early to think about falling in love with him. I don't even really know if I'm into guys.

BRUNHILDE: So we're just seeing what happens. I don't think we should keep each other from seeing someone.

CLINTON: I guess you're right. I can't ask you to just ignore what you might have with him.

BRUNHILDE: And I don't want you to give up seeing him for me, either.

CLINTON: When you put it that way, it makes sense.

BRUNHILDE: So let's go ask him out together!

CLINTON: W-wait! Th-that'd be way too weird... But I can ask him out the next time I see him alone...

BRUNHILDE: Me too! Let's do it! [raises a hand for a high-five]

CLINTON: Okay! [starts to raise his robot hand, then pauses] Oh... but, what if whatever Elliot decides affects our friendship?

BRUNHILDE: We have to make a promise... No matter what happens, we'll still be friends. Do you promise?

CLINTON: I promise!

[CLINTON gives BRUNHILDE a high-five]

BRUNHILDE: ...Oh, wait. Should we have shaken hands instead?

CLINTON: Nah, I think a high-five can work as a handshake... [stares at the palm of his robot hand] Wow, I really can't believe we're doing this. But... nothing ventured, nothing gained! [fist-pumps]

BRUNHILDE: [nods, then puts a hand on Clinton's shoulder] Good luck, Clinton!

CLINTON: Yeah! You too, Brun!


<3

These guys are all adorable in their own way, and maybe it's silly to want a poly relationship out of this when it's doubtful that the characters (at least Clinton and Elliot) have ever had that kind of relationship before... but it's just so cute! Augh, I'm sure I messed up writing Brun's voice... she's such a fun and quirky character, it's hard to think of exactly how she'd approach things. I tried to channel that side of myself, but... well, I know I'm not great at letting the characters affect the direction of the story instead of the other way around, and I hope that things didn't seem totally out of the blue.

While I'm interested at writing I know there are a lot of areas I'm not great at. But I guess I'd better submit this now before I get too self-conscious. Hope you like!

Morituri:
Just by the way, there's a sticky topic for fanfiction in the main QC forum.  I think a lot of this stuff would be quite well-received there.

I could post chapters and bits, if people are interested in them, from a couple of things I've written and one I'm still working on.  They have nothing to do with Questionable Content though - (albeit a few of them are...)

Morituri:
Here's a chapter that stands alone pretty well.  It's titled 'Dandelions.' 


The main character in this manuscript is a sort-of-psychic guy who has accepted by now that most people don't have second sight the way he does, but doesn't consider it very remarkable.  He's also a sort of lower-class, flat-broke guy in a hand-to-mouth existence, not least because he has no idea what his art is worth and no business sense.

====================

DANDELIONS


I'm pretty sure everybody who's got second sight knows pixies are flower fairies.  I mean, it's not a secret or nothin'.  But you gotta stop sometimes and think about what it means, or it takes you by surprise and hits you right in the heart.

I saw them for the first time, I guess, one day in the middle of April.  It was a fine evening, you know how it is, as Spring gets into swing and everything smells new.  I'd got home tired - I was working construction that month - and I'd chucked my clothes in the wash, taken a shower, and because it was one of the first warm evenings of the year I put on tomorrow's clothes, came out back of the trailer, and parked my exhausted butt on a lawn chair to just soak up some fresh air. 

They popped up over the faded, blistered plastic of the ramp my neighbor's kids used to slide down, which had been sitting broken-down in their backyard while those kids got old enough for grade school, then junior high.  They swooped under the busted-out Chevy he's got up on blocks, did a joyful loop-de-loop over the chainlink between our yards, and buzzed low over the tractor tire full of sand where my sister and I had played when we were kids and where all the neighborhood cats pooped these days.  They were full of joy and they were beautiful and their hair was flowing gold and their wings were verdant green, dark on the outside and lighter on the inside, like a garment with a lighter-colored lining, so they flickered light-and-dark as the pair flew by.  Their skin was green too, the delicate lighter pale green of flower stems.

My muscles were tired, and my arms and legs felt like lead.  I'd been sitting there for a while, and you know how it is when you sit down when your muscles are tired, you start moving again and it feels like they've frozen in place and you have to force 'em?  I was like that.  But goddamn it my heart wasn't a rock.  I had to put the feeling of seeing them, the beauty of them, the way they were alive and free and the love between them, I had to put that into the clay.  So I dug into the rusty oil drum next to the trailer where I keep my river clay, and I got a ten-pound lump of it out, and I splatted it down on the plywood table next to the back steps and I set to work, whether my muscles hurt or not, until it got too dark.  They kept flitting around - now here, now there, now in some momentary confrontation by the old dog-house, now passionately necking and kissing, all silhouette against the sky as the sun sank in the west.

They were tiny.  She might have been four inches tall; he'd be four and a half or thereabouts. They were thin, the way most fairies were; the way most flower stems were, would probably be the better way to think of it.  And I hadn't heard them say a word, but it was clear that they loved each other.

When it got too dark to keep working, sleep was getting too important to keep ignoring.  So I sprayed a little water on that first rough shape, put some plastic wrap over it, and went to bed.  My butt kind of dragged a little at work the next day, but I was in a good mood.  We got six courses of concrete poured, anyway.  I got home, chucked the clothes in the laundry, showered, put on tomorrow's clothes, went out back, and worked that clay again till dark.  It was starting to look like something.

I got my next chance to work on it a couple of days later.  I went out to the table and peeled the plastic back and sat down, and just about five minutes later the two pixies I'd been inspired by showed up at my elbow to watch what I was doing.  They were interested.  They were fascinated.  They picked up tiny handsful of clay and messed with it experimentally, making tiny indistinct noises with their mouths.  When they finally recognized that this clay was supposed to be the same shape as themselves, they laughed and laughed and laughed, a sound like wind rippling through leaves, and wiped their tiny handsful of clay on my face.  Then they went on to do the important business of living - the little confrontations, the passionate embraces, the quiet interludes during which they sat hand in hand gazing as the stars began to emerge, the playful chasing of bugs, and the equally playful leading of neighborhood cats on a merry chase.

And it was like that, for much of the summer.  I didn't have much time to work on sculpture during the summer.  During the week I only had a few hours in the evening and I was usually tired from my construction job, and on the weekends I was going out to dig more clay from the riverbed, so I could do my sculpture the rest of the year - you can't do that once it starts to get cold.  I tried using clay from an art store once, but the stuff is useless.  It's all alike, it has no character.  River clay is - I guess, maybe, more honest.  It doesn't feel like cheating.  You have to understand river clay, and understanding is a good part of what it's about.

But anyway, two nights a week, or three, I'd go out back and spend a couple or three hours working on that one piece of clay.  Getting it right.  Sometimes I'd take a saucer of milk with me, because, well, it's always best to demonstrate goodwill.  And I'd see them, and sometimes they'd flit over to watch, and sometimes they'd ignore me, and sometimes they'd just come over and indicate that they were happy to see me and it didn't look like they were paying any attention at all to what I was doing.  But the work progressed.

It was around the beginning of September that I realized they were changing.  They now flew from place to place, rather than flying spirals and loop-de-loops for the sheer joy of flying.  There was less passionate necking and more quiet kissing.  There were fewer little moments of confrontation and more rolling of eyes and resigned smiles.  And where once they'd sat silhouetted on the fence against the darkening sky as the sun set, locked in an almost desperate embrace, now they reposed in a more comfortable place they'd found in the walnut tree, where her head rested comfortably upon his shoulder and his arm wound around her waist.  It had been a very gradual change.  They were still in love.  They were calmer than they'd been.

A week later I started stacking up the firebricks over a load of coal in the old tractor tire sandbox, swearing that next year I was finally going to get a proper kiln.  Especially considering the ridiculously high temperatures that pieces like this one demanded. I loaded the clay into it, adjusted everything so the airflow would be exactly right, checked the weather forecast again to make sure I knew the right wind, and then I was ready.  My two little friends were buzzing around, interested and concerned; they didn't quite know what to make of the clay but they knew it had something to do with them, and something was happening.

Something was happening, I thought, looking at them.  Their hair had gone white, the white of dandelion fluff in the fall, when the seeds are getting ready to blow away.   I didn't have much time left.  I sprayed ether - carburetor cleaner from a farm supply place - on the coal from the side, tossed a match in after it - the coal lit up with a WHOOMP! sound - and shoved a firebrick in place over the opening.

They fled in dismay as horrible smells and flame engulfed the clay that had some mysterious link to them.  I stood back as a year's accumulated cat shit oxidized, outgassed, and rejoined the great carbon cycle of the world.   I think I prayed a little bit.  River clay has character.  It  does not forgive any mistakes or any failure to understand.  I had worked that clay for most of a summer.  I believed that I understood it.  But if I was wrong, if this piece shattered....  it was too much to think about.  There was only going to be one chance.

It took days to cool the kiln, and the two pixies didn't know whether to be furious or fearful.  I'd done something destructive with their images, but had I cast a curse or broken one or was I making a prophecy or was I just angry with them or what?  They didn't know what to make of it. It came out without breaking. I have rarely been so thankful for anything. I pulled new porcelain from the kiln and laid it out on the table.  With a brush and a little moisture, gradually, I removed the soot.   I waited until they had seen it, until they knew that it wasn't destroyed, before I took it inside.

Then I got to work with enamels.  Golds and greens and delicate shades.   But the enamels went fast compared to the incredibly finicky river clay, and I was in kind of a panic and called in sick three days in a row to work on it straight through the days and most of the nights.  Within a week I brought it back out, set it on the table outside next to a saucer of milk, and waited.

They didn't come that night, and I was afraid I might be too late.

But the following night, I saw them.  They were old, and moved slowly.  They stood on the table in front of me, gazing at the porcelain.  She reached down to touch it, then beckoned and he did the same.  Wonderingly, they caressed the sculpture, transformed by the fearsome, destructive magic of fire into stone that would last forever.  The golden hair and pale green skin showed each the beauty that the other remembered in them.  In the last days of their ancient age, they beheld the memory of their youth.

They turned to me then, and came up to my shoulders, and they made their wordless sounds.  And this time I sort of understood.  When all the world gives you is one Spring and one Summer you only have time for the important things.  Time was for living, and loving, and moments of confrontation and joyous kissing and loop-de-loops for the sheer joy of flying and the comforts of growing old together.  But I had instead spent a whole lifetime's work on this monument to them.  They didn't understand, but they were awed and honored and humbled by the work.

"You're welcome," I told them. "And thanks to you too."  I don't know if they understood but they seemed happy to hear the sounds I was making when I said it.

I never saw them again.  Dandelions live one Summer, and then they go beneath the snow, forgotten until a new generation comes 'round the following Spring. 

Morituri:
And here's another, very short chapter from the same manuscript.  It's titled "Second Sight" but probably ought to be more specific.  About the first paragraph you should know:  our protagonist knows that everybody can talk to animals; he sees them doing it all the time.  He hasn't twigged, quite yet, to the fact that most folks can't understand them.

==================
SECOND SIGHT


Somebody had tied their dog out in front of Jones' place, which I didn't like.  But at least she had a water dish, and if the humans got too obnoxious there were at least some rosebushes she could get under, so it wasn't outright mean.  It was just ... I dunno, inconsiderate.  I stopped for a minute to say hello.  Her name was probably Dolly, if I understood right, and she didn't mind hanging out there while her lady was inside, so no harm done I guess.  I couldn't get any idea what Dolly's lady looked like; ask a dog to describe somebody and they'll start in on how they smell.  It was all pretty vague, anyway. Dogs ain't real bright.

But about that time, I noticed something off about the sound of the bugzapper Jones had put up.  You know how bugzappers are, right?  Bugs arrive at sort of random intervals, and there's this little pop, or this big crackle, or this long-drawn-out noise that sounds sort of like an arc welder, depending on the size of the bug and the voltage of the bugzapper?  Well, this particular bugzapper was making one of those arc-welder noises every few seconds, and it was happening on unnaturally regular intervals.

So I had a closer look, and sure enough, there was a nest of yellowjackets under the rafters of the pump shed next to the bar.  Yellowjackets were coming out of the nest, one by one, and flying straight over into the bugzapper.  And they'd fry, KZZZZKKK! and then a few seconds later, here would come the next one.  I focused my eyes a little different, and I could see that they were each following a tiny point of light - and there next to the chain-link fence was a little fairy girl in a plain cotton dress, sitting on a plastic soda bottle cap, casting the little will-o-wisps and cackling maniacally.   She'd found her evening's entertainment. 

I think the dress probably belonged to a Barbie doll before she'd got it; it was about the right size for her slender fairy waist, but gapped ridiculously around her chest.  She could carry around a couple of blueberries up front if she wanted the same deformed effect, but with her long legs all skinny and her nut-brown skin all dirty and her red hair tangled and wild, and with a grass-stained dress that didn't even fit her, she was about ten times prettier, no lie.  Tiny and hungry and bedraggled and fragile perhaps, but also fierce and funny and magical and alive.

She caught me looking and waved, obviously delighted to have an audience.  Then she jumped off the bottle cap and gave an elaborate theatrical bow.  I gave her a smile and a nod - about as much applause as I can spare when people who can't see the performer are watching - and headed on into Jones' place.

She was quick, I'll give her that.  She flitted ahead of me and parked herself on the floor next to the wall, at the end of the bar by one of the empty stools, and the look she gave me was filled with hope.  I was probably the only human with second sight she'd seen in a week. 

Well, I'm a soft touch, and her appetite couldn't be much bigger than she was.  I took the stool, got a packet of peanuts with my beer, and "accidentally" dropped some on the floor.  You don't watch fairies eating, ever - that's really, really rude - but I was listening.  The poor thing must have been starving, because those peanuts didn't even bounce.   After a bit of consideration, I got a pack of M&Ms, and fake-accidentally dropped a couple of those too.  A bit of dessert wouldn't go amiss.

They don't ask for help, they rarely barter, and they don't say thank you; it's not their way.  But if you're second-sighted you can see when they need help, they give fair value for what they're given, and they always find ways to express their gratitude.  If you tick them off, they'll find ways to express that, too.  It all works out, but everyone involved just has to pay attention. 

I might not have been paying attention well enough that night.

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