#...Oh I've gotta draw the poster for this chapter too~!

[astro-b-o-y-d]

Oh man, this puzzle-piecing of chapter two is going so well. If it keeps going this well, I might have a pretty good chapter finished by the end of the week~!

[chiimeramanticore]

Part of The Band - Chapter 21: Copy

ive been a terrible slacker with uploading potb chapters here lol. instead of going back and uploading every chapter that i've missed here (a LOT of them) im just gonna keep going from where we're at. i suggest reading on AO3 to get the full experience!

The gang takes a promotional day for the band. Mitzi draws a flyer design. The gang meets a new face.

Read it on AO3!

---

Dook sits on the couch of the band room next to Mitzi, who's been drawing a flyer idea for a while now. They're taking a "promotional" day today at practice. Everyone older than Mitzi has been tasked with piles of newspapers, scouring the wanted ads for anyone in need of a band. Billy Bob had suggested they start with lower stakes– even the best bands have to start playing in someone's garage.

"Man, maybe we've got this all wrong," Beach Bear says. "I've seen more ads for clowns for kids' birthday parties than I have for anyone who actually needs a band." He scoffs, adjusting his position in the chair to be even more lopsided than before.

"What, you wanna get into kid's entertainment?" Fatz raises an eyebrow at him.

"No," Beach Bear smirks, "I think we should all become clowns."

Looney Bird laughs. "You'd be a terrible clown, Beach Bear," he chimes in.

"Yeah, you would know, wouldn't ya?" Beach Bear tells him. "You already look like a clown."

"Dook has the nose already," Mitzi adds.

Dook gasps, a hand moving to cover his nose. "It's not that big," he insists. "And it ain't red!"

"Keep blushing like that and it will be soon," Beach Bear teases. Dook doesn't respond, but does in fact grow redder upon hearing it.

"Look," Mitzi says, putting down the colored pencil she was using. She proudly lifts up the paper to show everyone her design. It's a flyer advertising the Rock-afire Explosion– the background is a bright explosion pattern, with the text in vibrant purple and red letters.

"Woah," Dook murmurs.

"Nice job, Mitzi!" Beach Bear exclaims, taking the flyer from her to look at it closer. "We can totally put these up around town."

"We've gotta make copies, then," Billy Bob says.

"Sounds like a trip to the store," Fatz replies.

"Oh! I wanna ride in the front!" Mitzi stands excitedly, already making her way to the door.

·–—–·

The office supply store is not that large, and never very crowded. The store is lined with racks of paper, stationary, scissors, and so on. Near the back wall, a single employee sits bored by the register. Sitting in the center of the store, the coveted copier machine– by their luck, the one thing in the store already occupied.

The group mostly files in behind the cat at the machine, doing their best not to crowd him. Looney Bird and Mitzi wander off to check out the other fixtures of the store. The employee at the register has a radio set up, the sound of the Bee Gees quietly pouring out into the rest of the store. Besides that and the sound of the copy machine, it's dead quiet in the store.

Dook stares at the promotional posters on the wall. This store has a mascot, a tiger holding a cardboard box, promoting that you can send mail from the store. Dook looks back over to the cashier, a small orange cat. Kind of a difference. He looks back at the cat using the copier machine. He's lanky, taller than Dook by a bit but definitely shorter than Beach Bear. He's mostly black, with white fur accenting his ears and hands. He's wearing a T-shirt and jeans, a baseball cap sat backward on his head. The cap has a word embroidered on it: "Swingers."

Dook cocks his head, trying to get a better look at what he's making so many copies of. It's brightly colored, but he can't make out the text. Without thinking, he takes a step forward, trying to get a better look. The cat's ear twitches, and he glances over his shoulder to address the group.

"Oh–! Sorry, I didn't realize how long this'd take." He glances back at the machine. "I shouldn't be too much longer."

"What're you making?" Dook asks.

"Oh, just some flyers for work," the cat replies. He pulls one from the machine and hands it to Dook.

"Showbiz Pizza Place?" Beach Bear reads from over his shoulder. "Never heard of it."

"That's because it's new," the cat says. "Not opened yet. My boss is in the restaurant business, and he's trying to start a franchise sort of situation."

"Interesting boss," Dook murmurs, still staring at the flyer.

"What are you guys making?" The cat continues. "If you don't mind."

"Flyers, too," Beach Bear says, nudging Fatz. Fatz hands the cat Mitzi's flyer.

He looks it over. "You're a band?"

"It's not clear from the flyer?" Billy Bob asks.

"It's just hard to tell past..." He taps the drawing of an explosion on the page. "Are you any good?"

"It's not clear from the flyer?" Beach Bear says, gesturing toward the same explosion.

The cat laughs. "We're looking for a band to perform at Showbiz," he explains. "You should sign up. Keep the flyer."

The copier finally finishes, and the cat picks up the stack of papers it's produced. "I've gotta run," he says, already moving for the door, "but keep us in mind! You could be just what the boss is looking for!"

The front door swings shut, and he's gone.

Dook looks down at the flyer once more, an address listed at the bottom. "Maybe we will."

[sapphirecrook]

[STORY] Call Me Fang - Chapter 1: Perish the thought

TUMBLR TEXT:

Might as well put some stuff on my blog, ammirite gamers?

Besides, my tumblr is my shame zone, and this stuff still has my head reeling.

Download (it looks nicer)

ORIGINAL:

I've been working on a retooling and restructuring of this. There's now two parallel things.

I should just draw some more. It beats the heck out of this planning.

I feel like I'm learning a lot, and it sucks and is tiring and more. Anyway, the core ideas have solidified. As in, I found the plot, the idea is set, what this IS is set in stone, and it's a story I think has at least some merit being told. However big or small that may be. At this point, however, finishing it is more of a 'prove it to myself' than something I want to do. If I seriously consider myself a writer, this is a thing that's gotta happen. What I want to do is something else. And will forever change. It is the way. To finish what you don't want, and learn, and refine, that's the ouch zone.

The parallel thing will be uploaded too. Because I like working on it.

-----

Regrets are a poor cleaning agent. But mistakes were made. 

The last thing I remember is jumping in front of two bright headlights, on a miserable, cold, rainy evening. Further details elude me. Just me standing on the sidewalk, before I dart forwards, turn my head, and overbearing yellow beams blind me. 

Then this lightness, a brightness, a tightness. 

Such a stark difference from the obsidian towers with topaz pockmarks and endless clouds. 

I have never been so acutely aware of my fleshy form before. 

A searing wave crashing over, and I feel nothing.

I didn’t think myself capable of such reckless behavior. For all my flaws, throwing my life into the hands of fate has never been my style. My motivation must’ve been something fierce. If only I could remember. 

No doubts over what must’ve happened. 

Yet, despite the odds. I am alive.

I am sore all over, the sun is blasting me with heat, and the outfit I am wearing is both tighter than I’d like, and definitely a dark color. It’s soaking in those rays. Hell is a strange place, apparently, and opening my eyes only deepens the mysteries of hell. 

I have a giant schnozz. My first question would be how one eats with this thing. 

The second, if it is a standard feature.

The third, is if this belongs to someone else. 

This is not my body.

Naturally, neither is the room. The place is well appointed. My leg, the only part still on the bed I seem to have fallen out of, confirms it is a comfortable bed. The blanket, half-wrapped around me, is light and nice. A giant TV is set into a closet, there’s paraphernalia and more. Mostly music posters, a string or two of polaroids, two guitars and more. I see make-up articles and the sense of repulsion, of not belonging, dawns on me.

I have invaded. 

Did I, though?

With a grunt and a raise I position my head in an elevated position as to better survey the disaster zone the original inhabitant calls a room. There are clothes everywhere. I’m pretty sure that’s a half eaten sandwich, sans plate, on a wooden table. And at least two empty bowls.

It’s still better than my place.

The mirror is a good place to get a look at the meat puppet I am renting. It’s white? Maybe a very pale grayish blue? Feathers. Funky horn thing. Wings? Historically accurate pterodactyl? 

Historically accurate PUNK pterodactyl, judging by the choice in clothing. 

I match one of the ladies in the pictures.

Assuming they are ladies. I am unfamiliar with these species and their gender markers, or whatever similar designs exist here. 

Some of my artisanal touch finally fades. 

Exhausting my usual wordiness is a blessing. It is a time for thinking fast. 

“Judging by the trees outside, wearing black is asking the sun for a scorching. Who am I to talk? I wore all black all summer! And what of you, oh, mirror maiden? Shan’t thou speaketh the name of thyself freely?” I poke the mirror, seeing the manicured claws. I examine them closer, which is when I hear sounds. An alarm is going off? 

The alarm goes off at exactly 8 AM. The alarm being the soothing morning jingle of the 8 AM Pangea News. The humble tones of professional presenters make it clear nothing much has happened. The black and orange creature under the bedsheets lets off a short groan, and peeks out from under the sheets. The curtains kept out most of the sunlight, giving the place a spectral ambiance.

With a second groan, he’d get himself out of bed, adding a few solid stretches. Curtains were pulled aside, the sun let in. Since the room was on the south side, the sun never shone in directly, thus only allowing in the indirect light. It kept the place nice and cool, even in these hot summer months. 

Actually, it’s winter, despite everyone calling it ‘Summer Break’. 

And it’s hot all year round. Perks of the tropics. 

The dark colored dinosaur hoisted himself into the laid out attire. Before being worn, it was folded onto top of his desk, jacket hung over the backrest of the desk chair. His hands would slide across the crest on his head and chin, to make the tiny adjustments to help his look come together. Without the ostentatious jacket, he’d definitely have a solid ‘business chic’ look. With the jacket, he looked far more casual, as a barrage of watermelon print tends to do to most articles of clothing. 

Just how he liked it. Formal. But approachable. And icebreaker in the flesh.

“Looking good, triple president. It might be Fang’s senior year, but it’s my year to set new heights!” He winks at his reflection and does one final touch up on his crest. His hair was trimmed to the roots, only the faint discoloration remained. As such, his crest had to do all the heavy lifting to make his face pop. Together with his orange irises, there was this flow to it.

Even if he’s been told he looks like some cheap glow-in-the-dark toy in dark rooms. 

Humming a quiet tune to himself, he hoisted up a large bag of various booklets, pens and other stationery. Each in vivid colors and flags, a melting pot of choice. The cotton bag had been meticulously packed to insure its contents remained wrinkle free during transport. 

The tip of his shoe was briefly lifted to double check its polished sheen, before he considered himself truly ready. One final breath…

BZZZZ

His orange claws scooped up the phone on his desk, snug in its shimmering gold casing.

Nobody could dissuade him from the bold choice of color. 

# Naomi

> Nm: “Ready to inspect your new office, Mr. President?”

> Ns: “Considering my other engagements, I’m more of a triple president.”

> Nm: “So you’re sticking to it?” > Nm: “I mean, I get why, but you are at a serious risk of spreading yourself thin.”

> Nm: “Class president”

> Nm: “Head of the debate team”

> Ns: “With Fang at most doing the band thing, I might as well do extracurriculars for two.”

> Nm: “President of the Student Life Association”

> Nm: “Member of the Young Leaders League.” > Nm: “And a writer for the school newspaper.” > Ns: “AND volunteer at Pangea Tomorrow.” > Nm: “My point is, maybe scale it back. You’re going to drown in senior year if you have that AND finals.”

> Ns: “Look at that, I’m not a senior this year. Works out perfectly.” 

> Nm: “Say ‘hi’ to Fang for me!” > Nm: “So, are we meeting at school or will you pick me up?” > Ns: “I’ll pick you up.”

> Ns: “First, I gotta make sure Fang is alive and breathing. Wouldn’t want them blaming me for the hangover.” 

> Ns: “And deliver your greetings to them.”

> Nm: “So responsible, Mr. Triple President.”

> Ns: “Tripresident.”

Fang had spent his morning in a straightforward way. On a whim, he decided to clean up the place, a whim guided by the thought that cleaning up can only be educational and emotionally encouraging. Take a mind off, recenter, focus. Do something useful. And cleaning is inoffensive, nobody can complain you cleaned up but a stickler. 

Before that, he gazed off the balcony, and spent a few minutes pinching and poking himself to be certain this world was real. The view was nice: the morning sun, distant beaches, lovely buildings with a distinct ‘overgrown plantlife’ aesthetic. Just soak in a bit, suppress the rising nerves, and form a mental wellness plan. 

Then, he’d begin cleaning up the room, if only so those knee high boots wouldn’t flatten something valuable.

Fang put his hands firmly on his sides. A few articles of clothes had been rounded up from the floor and folded up, the bed itself was tidied as well. Pillows in place, sheets pulled taut. The strings of polaroids were examined closely for clues. The room breathed an unnatural tidiness, and a second inspection left the deducing detective to conclusions. 

“And this is the phone.” He mused, gazing upon the slab in their hands. Found it in the obvious place: on the bed itself, teetering near the edge. “About as modern as mine. Definitely nicer though. That pretty much goes for everything. Ironic I’d be the one feeling like a fossil.”

With a swift spin, he danced it around his fingers and turned it on. A bright stark moon on a pitch black background greeted him. Judgment: ‘A touch tacky.’

“Huh, of course, pattern lock. Uh…”

His thumb idled, and traced the 3x3 pattern with a circle. He thought about how he might approach this lock, and pick it too. With his face grimacing many directions, he decided a bit of an unusual solution. Made sense in his head.

He put his thumb in various starting positions and swept it around, trying to find a path of least resistance. He’d quickly draw the phone and let his thumb do the thinking.

Against the odds, the borrowed thumb complied, drawing the arcane sigil of unlocking with just a little bit of prompting. Once learned, it would be possible to master the specifics, as with any spell.

“Muscle memory? Hm.”

A brief smirk as he realized that saved him the awkwardness of learning to tie the laces of these big boots. That muscle memory should be easy to find, surely. As the homescreen welcomed him, he simply stared. A sudden, harsh realization paralyzed the thumb until the impatient device locked itself back up again. The sigil was redrawn, yet once more a paralysis kept him from actually doing anything meaningful. As if struck by a defensive ward. 

Icons for various apps, nature and purpose unknown. But that uncertainty wasn’t the issue. Instead that deep, underlying worry of digging a bit too deep. Poking in heads not his own. A violation that cannot be taken back, and he had condemned in the past. On top of the fact he often referred to people as ‘cyborgs with how much a phone does for you nowadays.’

‘Okay, maybe do more… inventory? Hair might be dyed? Pictures imply red, but that’s just as much a dyeable color. Pale colors next to phantasmagoric dinos implies whatever their equivalent of ginger is. Choice of attire is fine by me. A little too fine. Very overlapping. In fact, I cannot help but wonder if I am myself, in another world. In terms of taste. If anything that makes the situation MORE awkward, doesn’t it? I’d hate to have to explain myself to myself.’ 

The silver haired witch gazed in the mirror, seeing only himself. “God, I am going to choke on these new vocal cords. What AM I supposed to sound like? Sharp? Gruff? And why does this body look more ass-kicking than me? The irony is getting me.”

Suddenly, the silver one perked up, and noted a sound coming down the hallway. Footsteps. Standing at the foot of the bed, thoughts began to race. Time slowed to a crawl. The phone slipped out from his fingers.

It fell like a snowflake, gentle as a leaf. There was a lot to consider.

‘Oh that can’t be good.’

‘Husband? Parents? Wait… wife?’

‘What day is it? Phone said sunny weather, didn’t check the…’

‘What voice to…’

His hand swooped down, catching the phone, which had only descended an inch. Eyes unable to remove their laser focus from the door. His heart pounded. Stiff as a board, unable to properly breathe without the tension on his ribs pushing against it. 

The top did not help.

‘This is how I die, right? Shotgun blasted for home invasion? Body invasion? Does body invasion, like manslaughter, have a lessened penalty for lack of intent or willing participation? I doubt they’ll care about the nuances. Could they even tell? Will they even care? How shotgun resistant am I like this?’

Then he heard someone bop lightly against the door, followed by the metal ‘tink’ of a zipper. It sent paralyzing chills down his spine. 

The irony that Fang - of all people - had the east facing room, catching the first rays of dawn, had never escaped anyone. It made sense, from a historical point of view. The master bedroom had used the extra space of the west protrusion to be lavish, giving the parents all the room they needed. And you’d want your firstborn near, so you use the closest bedroom, leaving Naser with the room at the end of the hall. Nobody could know Fang was a big fan of sleeping in for hours on end at that point. This also meant that the morning person walked right past the not-morning person every day. And that was a fact he fully exploited, for the tiny amusements it tended to bring. 

Naser pushed up against the white door and thought for a moment to himself. He listened in, making sure Fang was alive and well, and not groaning over whatever got them in a slump last night. Only once he knew for sure what he was dealing with, did he push his way in. 

From the dark hallway to the bright room, where the sun does shine. Instantly confronted by the absence of the usual mess. It almost broke his stride as he took his half-step inwards.

“Good morning on the last day before the first day of the last year.” To his surprise, Fang was frozen, looking him dead in the eyes. Like a bull beetle in the headlights. “Naomi says ‘hi,’ by the way. Uhm. Are you alright? Your room is clean and you look frozen… would the TV remote unpause the mind control chip?” 

Naser’s statements lost cohesion as he tried to fill dead space. He wasn’t used to not getting immediately slammed for intruding like this, let alone stared down like a slab of meat. Seconds to minutes.

“Just doing… last day before the first day of the last year cleaning. Tidy room, tidy mind.” Fang finally unfroze, hands coming together. Folded arms, casual pose, facing him directly. Quite stand-offish. Creating an aura of impatience. Naser took it as good news, and put on a big smile. He let go of the door and leaned himself against the doorframe, not unlike an adult trying to connect with the kids. “Well isn’t that a lovely forward thinking mentality. See, my Triple Presidency is already affecting people with its leaderly aura.” 

“I will surely be inspired to triple my efforts, oh lord commander president.” 

“Technically I’m only really president tomorrow, once the summer vacation ends. Still have the keys, though!” He winked.

The response was terse and unamused: “Gotcha.”

“As I said, Naomi says ‘hi’ and all. More importantly, I’ll be out of the house. In case you didn’t hear me yesterday when you zombied your way to bed. School needs tending to.” “You’re… spending your last day of summer break at school? That’s some high level nerd stuff you’re up to, buddy.”

“Come on, Fang, a triple president sets a triple high!”

“Triple high sounds like huffing an overstuffed blunt.” 

“Ahum.” He cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. “Seriously. It’s important work! Making sure everything is set to go for tomorrow’s big announcements, and the rush of juniors and forgetful seniors.” 

“Is that why you’re carrying a giant duffle bag of money?” “Not money. Stationery! You’d be surprised how many people forget pens, papers and more. And before you even say it, no, Fang, we’re not replacing them with computers this year either.” 

“At this rate you should just run the entire school.” They replied, eyes rolling. “Nerdzilla has the chops for it.” Fang regretted his posturing, as he was going what he considered ‘off script.’ However, being snarky, sassy and quipy was so deeply ingrained into his manners, all he could do was curse every time it happened.

“Har-har. You’re free to spend your last day thinking up cute nicknames. Just don’t burn the house down, and don’t eat the entire meal without me. And clear your throat, you sound so deep and groggy today.”

Fang rolled their eyes once more, just to get the rust off. Naser took his leave, snickering along the way. Then, his gentle voice called out from the hall.

“Oh, mom and dad called last night. Something about a big ‘hoopla,’ as dad calls it, requiring them to stay on Isla Nublar a bit longer than they expected.” “Really now?” Fang grinned, as that was a lucky break, if anything.

“You know how it goes. Expect it to take another month. So if you see Amal bringing groceries, say ‘hi’, but don’t give him the one I just gave from Naomi. Regifting is Tacky!” 

Naser finally left Fang alone, closing the door on his way out. Fang took a deep breath, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and let off a low, frustrated grumble. With a sigh befitting the situation, he turned around, and thought.

“What a handful. Nice guy, though. I might have to glue my mouth shut if I don’t stop commenting on things. This was way easier when work and private life were separate.” 

After some time of milling over the politeness of this brother figure, he turned himself over to the whims of his body. Hunger. Grabbing the guitars with him, as well as the phone. Along the way, learning the correct pronouns, and the name of this figure through one of the polaroids. And those of a few apparent friends. Things were coming together, sort of. He tried to be optimistic, though his mind refused to veer too far from wanting a quick and dirty solution. 

His very presence felt like he was contaminating a timeline. Relaxing and calming as the atmosphere was. 

Items in hand, he went down the stairs, and heard the car outside pull away. ‘Good,’ he thought as he explored the halls and saw a kitchen area ahead, ‘means I get to eat in peace.’

As he entered the kitchen, he thought about what to get. Simplest idea was to just throw bread together with some cheese and call it a meal. Provided such ingredients existed. Thus, time to crack the fridge. They did, but that very brief flash of uncertainty was the kind of low-risk anxiety he needed to establish perspective. 

‘Giving it some thought.’

‘I might be allergic to lactose?’

‘Would they buy cheese if someone was allergic?’

‘I guess I’ll die then.’

Though there was a chance, and he had grumbled about it, he refused to change clothes. Even if he wasn’t completely sure he liked it. He had more pressing things to worry about, and the thought of looking through someone’s wardrobe to workshop a look was too much. No. Instruments, bags, phones and digging for personal dirt, that’s the way. 

A cheesy bite was prepared, a stool at the counter was pulled away, and he looked over the place. Fancy. Large fridge, induction cooking, high end oven and microwave. Glass sliding doors to the finely cut grass yard with tastefully overgrown picket fence. The tiles on the floor were clean, the table tidy. It felt familiar, yet alien. Unlike his sandwich. The square, brown bread felt like it had come on this journey with him.

‘Shitty spy dies forgetting his cover story is allergic to cheese. More like, didn’t research his cover story until after insertion.’ He amused himself with a string of thoughts, each interrupting the last. His twitching fingers equally refused to stop, as if sitting still would make him visible to the looming monster of existential dread, and let it get a bead on him. 

To silence the growing realizations, he shoved the cheese sandwich into his beak. Eating is a thing with a maw that long. He was already mulling over the wings and tail, and how they might cause trouble. Once more, he echoed the importance of baby steps. And enjoying good cheese.

Having survived the lactose lacerations, his attention turned to the phone. It was a veritable treasure trove of personal information. Most people are cyborgs nowadays, with phones like these, so it's pretty close to mind reading. And for the more respectful of privacy, it can be a treasure trove of worldly insights.

‘Come on. Just. TURN IT ON AND LOOK.’

His mind was willing, yet his body refused. His thumb just hovered over the screen, which turned off. Then he turned it on again, and hovered anew. The moon wallpaper taunted him, as did the line of notification icons begging someone to finally heed their calls. 

Only by chowing down on another bite of cheese could his body be overpowered and overruled. With a swift swipe, the notifications were deployed. A lot of instant messages required attention, as did a few emails and… media playing apps of some description. An auto-playing playlist had halted due to ‘inactivity’. Also, the battery was running dry, he made a note to sort that out later. 

“Okay. Just don’t… snoop too far. Just the recent stuff that matters. Names, faces, places. Let’s see. ‘Dinogang’ has very minimal stuff. Just appears to be “Stella” and “Sage” bemoaning the weather and home situations. Uh… “Ya ever hear about WORM DRAMA?” has nothing since… wow. A month. That’s probably most of whatever summer vacation that dork was about.”

‘Government sponsored fursona avatars. Only way to explain how everyone has cute pfps.’

He squinted.

‘What is this Reed guy on about? “I’m vanishing off the planet, my homeworld needs me”? Uh. This planet has connections to aliens? Dude, is anyone around to yell at Fang? Naser’s only talking about dinner and basic school stuff. That said, being boring is probably preferable. Easier to cheese.”

Then he noticed LJ. The most contact there, quite an extensive conversation even. A few musical files had been uploaded, some so recent the (still open) MIDI-mixing app had them loaded in upon activation. 

Naturally, he is not above the obvious curiosity. 

Tap.

The slab produced a rather interesting sound. With distinct vocals that sounded… familiar. He decided to assume this was him/them/it judging by the date and all. 

‘This… sounds like me? Or her. Them? Whoever. There’s overlap. I guess I can sing now? I mean, I sing a lot anyway, I just sucked like a vacuum cleaner.’ 

# LJ

> L: “If you want this gig, you all will have to play something new.” > L: “Nothing from the other hundred auditions, OK?”

> L: “Just trying to help.” 

> F: :ok::pray::music:

> L: “K”

> L: “Send me the song Monday morning.”

‘So. LJ. Who the hell are they? Some kind of friend? Insider? Sending all kinds of tracks. Last thing appears to be that demo. It’s not bad…’

Fang stared ahead. A half-finished sandwich remained. And somehow, his stomach just locked up. It was too late. The endless information barrage had begun to settle like snow, solidifying into a smothering blanket. A suffocating truth that turned his very existence into an objectively bad thing. 

‘...And it will never be finished. Not as intended.’

The invading inhabitant tapped his fingers across the counter. Harsh, stark light replaced with ambient blues as the daylight shifted. Bread drying in the rays that remained. His mind bounced every which way, desperate to close the box now opened.

“Existential dread and young cheese. Quite a breakfast for a budding dimensional traveler. Quaaaantum… LEAP!” He tried to create levity, swinging the limp bread around, cheese flapping like a mute tongue. “Let’s just pretend, and set this out: this will fix itself in a few days. A gross transgression of reality shall not stand for long, and I am quite the mistake to begin with. Hear me, oh universe, I will mock thee until my support ticket be resolved.” When the universe was as silent as his sandwich, he grumbled. The bread felt drier than before, and the beak was uncomfortable to eat around. Couldn’t imagine himself dealing with this long term. 

‘Or not.’ That sinking, heavy, glob-like feeling of anxiety and dread grew in his chest. Knowing how close he might be to some kind of brink, he swerved again. 

“I have no fucking clue what to do today. Apparently, it’s just me and… Naser in this house.”

His brow went down as he looked around the place. ‘Nice house at least.’

Quiet settled in.

His mind stopped producing any thoughts. Instead, sensory information became crisp and clear. Looking at his hands, he saw them vividly, and sighed. What DID he hoped for? The phone seemed to twinkle in the corner of his eyes.

“So, look through weeks of untold teen drama?”

The white witch tapped his claws against the table. 

“I dunno, dude, the house is empty. The fuck else is there to do.”

His eye glanced through the opening in the wall. The hallway that connected the living room and kitchen and most of the house was, well, connected through a large, almost hemicircular entrance. It gave the rooms a very open, lively feel, and the sun’s light would bathe both areas through most of the day. 

And it let him see the absurdly large flatscreen in the living room.

‘TV.’

‘And a piano. Instruments aplenty.’

“Can I play the piani? Or the geetar? Can I sing? Can I dance?” 

As he chuckled, his eye noticed a remote control in the corner of his eye. “So rich they have the remote in the kitchen? Does it reach?” A single press reveals that it does. And with the size of the giant slab, it’s quite legible too. It appeared to be the news. The news means nothing to him, as there is no context to build upon. “Rich. Or maybe the standard of living here is just that high. Welp. I got 24 hours in a day like everyone else, time to read old texts, strum some strings and learn how to cope with newfound existentialism anxiety. First time someone’s gotta deal with not being valid.”

All words. Endless words. Break the silence, kill the thoughts.

His wrist flicked the TV back off. The final bite of sandwich devoured, the phone stuffed in a pocket and instruments in hand, he lowered himself down onto the couch. The U-shaped couch occupied much of the living room, left besides the doorless main entrance archway. Pleather. Soft. Windows on the other side let in the evening sun, but not right now, as it was still morning. The piano likely bathed in the evening light, making it easy to read sheet music. A lovely thing; it’s no grand piano, but the polished wooden surface said it all. It was loved.

Above the sofa was an arrangement of family pictures on shelves. A few larger framed images depicted births, marriages, the big events that warrant high fidelity imagery. The smaller pictures had proud brothers collecting awards, dads and doctorates (or so he assumed) and smaller events like visiting a theme park, or a young Naser adamantly resisting entering a dangerous looking rollercoaster at Fang’s insistence. A family was captured, even if they died tomorrow, their love and life echoed from behind the glass. 

All of it bombarded Fang with a sense of unease. Everything was watching. Everything was judging. Fang, the body, may only appear in a few pictures, it was enough to unsettle. A background noise that could only worsen from exposure.

Strangely enough, the idea of being truly invalid. The novelty of it seemed to stave off the realization he might have to die again to right the wrongs. A certain mischievous playfulness began to bubble up.

On the couch, guitar in hand, he plucked idly at the strings. Something familiar boiled under the surface, eager to reveal itself. Almost as if the spirit was, where the soul was not. Or just a lingering desire to finish up that demo. Best he could tell, it just needed a cleaner version, the rest were rougher with dropped notes. 

Or something.

‘Surely even I, with limited talents, can fake it with this much supportive effort? Maybe even have time for my own machinations.’ Was how he felt about it. The odds are: the neurons are still there.’

He just had to focus on whatever that muscle memory was that opened the phone earlier. Channel that inner haze and flow it to his fingertips. Take a deep breath. Close his eyes. Feel that energy deep within. That natural tendency. Sending a waving river of energy, until his fingers were light as feathers, drifting on a breeze, and claws and tips plucked the strings.

[spacejammie-eimmajecaps]

You gotta share your writing process, you get things out so quick, I have a hard time just with the first draft

I never leave my apartment and I write all day without eating or drinking or doing anything else, so that's how it goes so quick.

Haha jk (kind of). The only upside of chronic illness is lots of free time. That's probably why writing goes so fast for me. There's nothing else for me to do all day.

Uhhhhhhmmmm but on a serious note, do you want a long and detailed explanation? Let's go with that (idk how to he concise)

So, for a fic like the one I'm working on right now, my first step is to make an outline. Generally speaking, this can be as vague or detailed as you prefer. And there's a few different ways to do it.

Outline option 1: use a poster board (or just a sheet of paper) and make a bunch of bubbles, write the main goal of each chapter in the bubbles

(Visual aid :D)

Outline option 2: make a numerical list with what you want to happen in each chapter (just the "main thing" is fine, or you can add more detail. But leaving it vague makes it easier to adjust as needed when writing the first draft. Trying to follow the outline too closely can feel restrictive for me at times. Its good to have a plan, but it's also good to let the story flow naturally while drafting it. Don't be afraid to veer off course)

(Visual aid :D)

After the outline is done, it's time to move on to characterization! I will show two examples (one that is the template I now use, and one example from my 20k word outline I wrote last summer for a jurassic park au that I may never get around to writing, because its going to take a very long time to do it, maybe an entire year. And ugh to that.). Ideally, characterization should be done for each character, even the minor ones. Just helps visualize the world and all that.

(Here is the general template, I usually put name and age above appearance)

(Here is an example from my jurassic park au outline, though it's not quite consistent with how I do it now, and it needs to be revised anyway)

Once the characterization is done for each character, I like to break the outline down into bite-sized pieces. What I mean by that is I copy whatever I've written for each chapter and paste it into a word document. One chapter per document. I really candle handle having an entire work in one document—that overwhelms me (the only exception is when the work is just one chapter. One doc per chapter is how I like to write). If I break it into chapters, and just focus on one chapter at a time, it feels much more manageable. I keep all of the word docs open in one window, going in order. Make sure to put the chapter number and whatever you're referring to the fic as in the title.

(Visual aid :D)

Now, if you appreciate having visual aids and have an idea of what settings you'll be using, that will be the next step. You can draw the layout of buildings, you can make maps of a town, etc.

(Here are some examples from my current project. Please ignore my messy handwriting. I was planning in making it easier to read if I was going to share it, but oh well)

(Examples from past project)

(The draft world map for my jurassic park au. Some of my siblings were staying at my apartment when I was working on this last summer, and they gave me so much shit for it haha) (and yes this is a huge presentation board lmfao the folding cardboard kind)

Now, you may find that you don't know the setting that well yet before you start writing. And that's totally fine. If you are drafting and find you need a visual aid to keep track of the scene, you can always stop to make one at that time.

I'm losing track of stuff here, and I've got an appointment with my new cardiologist in 30 minutes, so I need to wrap this up.

Let's see.... make the outline, characterization, visual aids... ah, right!

Okay, so next you should make a playlist (that is, if you like to listen to music for inspiration in between or during your drafting process). For me, I like to find at least 10 songs to start with for a fic that's as long as the one I'm currently doing (35 chapters). But right now, my playlist is at 64 songs for this fic. Not all of them actually fit the vibe, so I'd say I am only listening to about 30 of them. (Generally speaking, I listen to songs while driving, or while cleaning etc. That's when I find it easiest to imagine scenes while listening to music).

Outline, characterization, visual aids, music.

At this point, the drafting process can begin! I find it's best to write as much as possible in one sitting and really go with the flow. And if possible, don't go back over the chapters you've already drafted unless you get completely stuck. (I do find that it's best to go back over them every 8-10 chapters, but that's only cause I have a bad memory. I need to remind myself of what I've already written).

If you get stuck while drafting, another thing you can do is leave your missing parts in brackets. For example:

[More dialogue here]

[Change X to Y]

[Somehow, they get from that place to this place]

Doing that let's you keep going with the flow of writing without stopping to worry about details. Something that's important to remember: the first draft should be vague and messy. It's just for getting the idea out.

If you're too caught up on the first draft being "readable" or "good", then it'll really slow you down. There may be awkward dialogue, almost no setting or body language, plot holes, etc. That's fine. You can fix all of that during later drafts.

If you want to know more about drafting, I can explain it in another ask. Just let me know.

After the first draft is done, there's a couple different options.

Option 1: finish each chapter one by one, posting each as you finish. This can be a bit easier (especially with adhd) because you get dopamine from any comments and you have that weight of the expectations of others to make you keep writing. For me, these are motivational factors. For others, it might be stressful.

Option 2: do an entire second draft (and third and even fourth), where you're adding more setting and details etc. Then start posting it when you're done. I'd prefer to do it this way, but it can be hard to do so much of a project without posting any of it. I do think that doing this helps catch plot holes though.

For each chapter, whether posting one at a time or finishing the whole fic first, I generally do first draft (very vague), second draft (add setting, details), third draft (more setting, body language, inner dialogue for the character etc), fourth draft (mainly focusing on dialogue to make it more natural).

Then, before posting each one, I try to read the dialogue out loud, and I also like to listen to the whole thing with text-to-speech while doing a final read through. This helps me catch minor mistakes (my brain fixes many typos automatically, so hearing everything out loud helps me catch what I would have otherwise missed. Also I tend to skim when reading, even when I'm trying to focus really hard. So listening to it while I read helps with that)

Shiiiiiiit I've only got 15 minutes until my appointment. Uh, sorry about any typos or things that don't make sense in this reply, there's no time to go back through it. Please feel free to ask for more details about any of the things I mentioned, or about anything I didn't mention that you're curious about.

[chiimeramanticore]

Part of the Band - Chapter 21 - Copy

Chapter summary: The gang takes a promotional day for the band. Mitzi draws a flyer design. The gang meets a new face.

Chapter word count: 873 <- Chapter 20 - Chapter 22 -> Read it on AO3!

Dook sits on the couch of the band room next to Mitzi, who's been drawing a flyer idea for a while now. They're taking a "promotional" day today at practice. Everyone older than Mitzi has been tasked with piles of newspapers, scouring the wanted ads for anyone in need of a band. Billy Bob had suggested they start with lower stakes– even the best bands have to start playing in someone's garage.

"Man, maybe we've got this all wrong," Beach Bear says. "I've seen more ads for clowns for kids' birthday parties than I have for anyone who actually needs a band." He scoffs, adjusting his position in the chair to be even more lopsided than before.

"What, you wanna get into kid's entertainment?" Fatz raises an eyebrow at him.

"No," Beach Bear smirks, "I think we should all become clowns."

Looney Bird laughs. "You'd be a terrible clown, Beach Bear," he chimes in.

"Yeah, you would know, wouldn't ya?" Beach Bear tells him. "You already look like a clown."

"Dook has the nose already," Mitzi adds.

Dook gasps, a hand moving to cover his nose. "It's not that big," he insists. "And it ain't red!"

"Keep blushing like that and it will be soon," Beach Bear teases. Dook doesn't respond, but does in fact grow redder upon hearing it.

"Look," Mitzi says, putting down the colored pencil she was using. She proudly lifts up the paper to show everyone her design. It's a flyer advertising the Rock-afire Explosion– the background is a bright explosion pattern, with the text in vibrant purple and red letters.

"Woah," Dook murmurs.

"Nice job, Mitzi!" Beach Bear exclaims, taking the flyer from her to look at it closer. "We can totally put these up around town."

"We've gotta make copies, then," Billy Bob says.

"Sounds like a trip to the store," Fatz replies.

"Oh! I wanna ride in the front!" Mitzi stands excitedly, already making her way to the door.

·–—–·

The office supply store is not that large, and never very crowded. The store is lined with racks of paper, stationary, scissors, and so on. Near the back wall, a single employee sits bored by the register. Sitting in the center of the store, the coveted copier machine– by their luck, the one thing in the store already occupied.

The group mostly files in behind the cat at the machine, doing their best not to crowd him. Looney Bird and Mitzi wander off to check out the other fixtures of the store. The employee at the register has a radio set up, the sound of the Bee Gees quietly pouring out into the rest of the store. Besides that and the sound of the copy machine, it's dead quiet in the store.

Dook stares at the promotional posters on the wall. This store has a mascot, a tiger holding a cardboard box, promoting that you can send mail from the store. Dook looks back over to the cashier, a small orange cat. Kind of a difference. He looks back at the cat using the copier machine. He's lanky, taller than Dook by a bit but definitely shorter than Beach Bear. He's mostly black, with white fur accenting his ears and hands. He's wearing a T-shirt and jeans, a baseball cap sat backward on his head. The cap has a word embroidered on it: "Swingers."

Dook cocks his head, trying to get a better look at what he's making so many copies of. It's brightly colored, but he can't make out the text. Without thinking, he takes a step forward, trying to get a better look. The cat's ear twitches, and he glances over his shoulder to address the group.

"Oh–! Sorry, I didn't realize how long this'd take." He glances back at the machine. "I shouldn't be too much longer."

"What're you making?" Dook asks.

"Oh, just some flyers for work," the cat replies. He pulls one from the machine and hands it to Dook.

"Showbiz Pizza Place?" Beach Bear reads from over his shoulder. "Never heard of it."

"That's because it's new," the cat says. "Not opened yet. My boss is in the restaurant business, and he's trying to start a franchise sort of situation."

"Interesting boss," Dook murmurs, still staring at the flyer.

"What are you guys making?" The cat continues. "If you don't mind."

"Flyers, too," Beach Bear says, nudging Fatz. Fatz hands the cat Mitzi's flyer.

He looks it over. "You're a band?"

"It's not clear from the flyer?" Billy Bob asks.

"It's just hard to tell past..." He taps the drawing of an explosion on the page. "Are you any good?"

"It's not clear from the flyer?" Beach Bear says, gesturing toward the same explosion.

The cat laughs. "We're looking for a band to perform at Showbiz," he explains. "You should sign up. Keep the flyer."

The copier finally finishes, and the cat picks up the stack of papers it's produced. "I've gotta run," he says, already moving for the door, "but keep us in mind! You could be just what the boss is looking for!"

The front door swings shut, and he's gone.

Dook looks down at the flyer once more, an address listed at the bottom. "Maybe we will."