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Stories Write a story to catch Pokemon. A Grader will then decide if it catches or not.

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Old 01-04-2008, 08:58 PM
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Default What Lies Beneath...

Alright, i originally wrote this for a Weedle, but decided that after i passed the 30k mark, i could probably squeeze a Gastly out of it...

It is not finished yet, but will be soon :3

What Lies Beneath...

The crackling static that occupied the television clung to the sides of the screen, seemingly an irksome border to the frivolous program that captivated the viewer’s attention. The blend of wiry sable splotches and bulky splashes of prosaic gray would have supplied the necessary push into insanity for the majority of couch potatoes, but to the child whose face was plastered against the monitor, it was commonplace.

“Please reveal the prize behind Door Number Three,” the figure within the confines of the television demanded, his cheery tone barely able to mask the utter annoyance he clearly felt. The slicked-back mane of glossy chestnut hair shook slightly as the man’s arm jabbed forward, indicating which hatch his gorgeous assistant was to open. She swooped inward, her lean frame accentuated impressively by the sparkling sapphire gown that flowed around her. Her arm stretched out before her; the lady’s fingers twiddled with the knob, before she plucked it outward, revealing….

“Sawyer, I thought I told you not to watch this nonsense,” an exasperated voice, belonging to a female, snapped. The sudden outburst from seemingly nowhere alarmed the boy, and as he glanced up to locate its source, he failed to witness the extravagant award that lay blatantly before him on the television.

Marcia Alford stalked into the chamber, her footsteps hushed against the newly applied carpeting. It tickled irritatingly at her soles as she strode from the obscurity of the corridor beyond, hands engrossed in a bulky package. It completely hid the entirety of her face, but she need not see to detect the sort of trashy game show that her son was submitting his time to.

Kicking her legs quickly before her, the woman maneuvered herself past the chaotic metropolis of cardboard crates, many of which were similar to the one she clung to, which served as the drop-off point. The numerous mounds rose up against the wall, their drab, crusted surfaces acting as an ill embellishment to the eggshell-white paint. The fact that many sported successions of over-lapping shirts or mediocre toys or any of the child’s other belongings didn’t add any sort of sophistication to the room’s looks either.

“May Mew strike me dead if you were to shut that darn contraption off for two seconds to help me bring in the rest of these boxes,” she huffed as the weight of the parcel was extracted from her arms. Looking it over, and sighing briefly at the remembrance of the many possessions she still had to unload from the truck, Mrs. Alford pressed her foot against its base and shoved it into the jumbled confusion of the others.

Swiping a stray lock of tawny hair from her eyes, its hue receding into a dull charcoal shade, the lady stamped over to the threadbare sofa, upon which a diminutive shape slouched. His vibrant saffron tresses and prominent orange top contrasted greatly with the silken lavender exterior of the furniture, therefore providing his mother an effortless beacon to him. Sawyer made no attempt to flee as his mother plodded in his direction, but instead centralized his gaze even more intensely upon the TV set, endeavoring to absorb the last few seconds of bliss before she would inevitably switch it off.

“One would think an seven-year-old boy would be ecstatic about moving into a new house,” Marcia Alford stated as she drew near to the electronic appliance. “I mean, don’t you want to go explore it, to get to know the other kids on the block?”

“Not really,” the boy groaned in a callow tone, shifting to the left in an attempt to rid the blockade of his mother from his line of vision.

“Well, you can’t sit in here all day, besides, I don’t want you watching this filth,” she told him, signaling to the screen, upon which an Aipom was making an obscene gesture with the aid of the massive hand atop its tail. And with that, the woman flicked the protruding dial positioned at the side of the monitor, forever ridding it of the contemptuous purple Pokémon’s presence.

Slanting his eyes into a perturbed glare, the boy shuffled slightly in his spot, unwilling to coincide with her demand. He pressed himself deeper into the fleece of the couch, allowing his rotund torso to be assimilated into the bulging cushions that composed its structure. These attempts at somehow eliminating the threat of his mother and acting as though he was not perceptible to her stern gaze were futile it seemed, for her sullen eyes bore into him, willing her son to correspond.

“But Mom!” he wailed the moment he realized his scheme held no chance of succeeding. Sawyer flung his body upward, thrust his knobby fists to his equally swelled cheeks, dyed a blunt shade of crimson as an after-effect to the rage that seized his innards, and crumpled his upper lip into a pitiful excuse for a pout.

“No buts, mister,” the lady responded in a monotonous tone, as though the phrase lingered at her lips from previous use. “I want you up off that couch in no less than five seconds, you hear?” Mrs. Alford said, her face turned in the direction of the door, a tedious maple slab, adorned by a swirl of peach circlets, which made the work-weathered mother cringe.

Taking but a moment to execute a conclusive nagging lash of her haggard digit, she swept herself in its direction, all the while stroking fiercely at her roseate blouse, as to rid her clothing of the remaining fragments that had spawned from the cardboard box she had formerly disposed of.

Sawyer observed his mother for a moment as she inanely slashed at herself, then turned his gaze back to the television. The light snapping intonations of the static still held fast to the screen, but with less audacity now, for they came in short, quick clusters, marking the dreaded realization that it was indeed off, and would not recover its flashing images any time soon. The brilliant, nauseating colors were lost for now, due to that uptight prude of a woman that he was forced to call “Mommy”.

He wriggled his bottom to the edge of the sofa, then shifted the entirety of his weight to the corpulent stumps that poked valiantly from beneath his chubby posture. They were unprepared for the sudden application of such heft, therefore causing Sawyer to stumble forward, clutching desperately at the furniture. The soft hazy light from overhead, streaming with years of undisturbed, now-settling dust, ran over the pallid skin of the boy, allowing itself to soak in.

Sawyer waddled away from the place he had previously occupied, meanwhile yanking vainly at the peach-tinted T-shirt that struggled with great ardor to fully expose the mass of his pale stomach, which frequently peeked out above the khaki shorts.

Another strained cry bounded toward him, slightly lessened by the muddle of containers, but teeming with the stress that inexorably dictated his mother’s voice. Choosing not to evoke any further affliction to his harried elder, Sawyer turned in the direction of her voice.

Maybe I can help her a bit. If it doesn’t kill me.


A prickling sensation, spawned by the uncanny occupancy of cold within the floorboards, jolted into his toes, bestowing an exhilarating acuteness to his senses. The fact that the length of his feet, from the heel to the each stout toe, was swathed in a thick, woolen sock seemed to have no effect, for the frigid intensity seeped through effortlessly. In a few fleeting footfalls, Sawyer spanned the space between the rectangular chasm set into the wall, which served as a doorway, and the comforter-strewn four-poster bed resting against the far wall, opposite the point of entry. The headboard, fashioned from an exquisite hunk of mahogany and embroidered with a succession of intricate carvings, shook slightly as he tossed himself atop the cushioned mattress.

The boy, on impact, sunk into the depths of the feathery quilts, which instantly took to insulating the radiant body heat that was currently being tugged aside by the brisk night air. He grasped a single golden blanket, whose edges were trimmed attractively with a lighter yellow fringe, and hauled it over his chest, cringing briefly at the large lump that his stomach created.

Sawyer’s head dropped back onto the pillow that was positioned beneath it, and his eyes darted about the room, scrutinizing the misshapen shadows that danced across the wall, taking care never to leave the protection of the orange glow emitting from the beside lamp. They swirled to and fro in quick, fluid movements, their shapes in constant variation. The child watched the graceful substances for a moment, relishing in the imaginary performance that was provided solely for his pleasure.

His mind raced with the possibilities of what the dark splotches would mutate into next, an elegant Gardevoir, her lustrous locks kept aloft by the gentle autumn air, a Mightyena, whose malignant eyes would cast sheer terror about the room, dispelling the light and plunging the chamber into utter obscurity.

Sawyer, absorbed in the anticipation of the cavorting shadows, placed his stocky arms beneath his head, and his eyelids fluttered a little.

The day has taken its toll, he thought. Watching Mom and those movers unloading all those boxes sure was tiring.

He felt a surge of giggles press at his lungs at this notion, for he could just imagine how exhausted his mother was. After all, with only the help of a couple inane Machoke, the lady had completely seized every last belonging from their previous home in Petalburg, and conveyed it here to this less-than-perfect dwelling on the outskirts of Fallarbor Town. Sawyer supposed that he should feel a bit of reverence toward his mother, but surprisingly (for someone so young) he could never overlook the fact that she was very controlling, therefore, ineligible for any extravagant amount of respect.

He burrowed deeper into the cocoon he had fashioned within the suffocating sheets, relishing in the warmth that greeted him in doing so. In the few seconds he had taken to recall his mother’s efforts in preparing their new home, Sawyer’s attention had been entirely whisked from that of the copious shadows, and instead had fallen upon his own extensive fatigue. The boy’s muscles relaxed into a state of repose, and he felt the overly stressed cells of his shoulders constrict in pleasure.

Sawyer felt a mantle of slumber ease over his body, erasing all worry in doing so. Consciousness pivoted for a moment, snapping this way and that, as though it were confused as to where it should rest. He found himself quickly losing control of his appendages, and his arms fell still at his sides, completely void of any such movement. A welcomed tranquility clutched his innards, and his lungs were soothed into peaceful state, until finally Sawyer found himself ignorant of the verity that he was indeed breathing at all.

Dimness huddled into his vision, as though each blotch of shade was eager to apprehend the child. It seemed as though the lamp lacked existence at all, for the ensuing gloom overpowered his sight, not exactly a malicious sort of murk, but one of a calming completion.

Although he wasn’t fighting the impending sleep, it seemed to be in competition with Sawyer’s wakefulness, and it buffeted him in a concluding yawn.

He was no longer mindful of his surroundings, just a deep, boundless void. Sawyer had fallen asleep.



Last edited by Bryce; 03-03-2008 at 08:34 PM.
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Old 01-04-2008, 08:59 PM
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Default Re: What You Least Expect.....


A rapid, scratching sound shattered the silence that had long-since fallen over the room. It was swift and barely audible against the floorboards, but one couldn’t argue that it hadn’t occurred. Despite the fact that it held no imminent threat and was practically harmless in itself, the faint pitch introduced an abnormal sense of menace. Just that it had transpired was enough of a risk, even to the slumbering figure that lay atop the twin bed, shrouded in shade and discharging steady puffs of steamy vapor into the frosty atmosphere.


It came again, louder this time, confirming all suspicions that something had arisen in the confines of the child’s chamber and was currently progressing across the planking.

The boy stirred in his sleep, squirming in an awkward manner, as to reach a more comfortable position. The covers rubbed against one another, endowing a noise that temporarily disguised the recurring scuffle. The springs creaked with every inch, and, with this newly utilized sound, the current state of things was an uproar compared to the composed silence before the initial shuffle had happened.

Sawyer’s eyelids pried themselves from one another, and a bleary scene swam before his vision. His mind was still partly immersed in grogginess, bathing in a pool, whose water was a fusion of figment and reality. Slowly his sight slithered back to his eyes, and his hearing reimbursed itself, yet not to such a point where he could detect that meager shuffling, which had played chief to the minor, but satisfactory clamor to have awoken him.

The seven-year-old pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing softly at the strain of his cramped muscles as they stretched to their full extent. Sawyer noticed at once that the lamp wasn’t gleaming with the familiar orange hue, but instead sat placidly atop the oak side-table, hidden in a veil of dusk.

It was obvious that his mother had switched it off sometime during the night, after he had succumbed to a snooze, probably swooping into a supply a goodnight kiss to her only son. Sawyer had mixed feelings at that thought.


It was the first time that the noise had sounded since the child had awoken, and he was quick to catch it. At first, he wasn’t sure that it had arisen at all, just a lingering component of the anonymous dream he had recently been ripped from. But as the moments trickled by, abundant with the continuous scratches and rhythmic tapping, that assumption vanished.

Something was, indeed, beneath this very bed.

Fear struck him almost instantaneously, and Sawyer cowered cautiously toward the center of the mattress, hoping that the creaks that sprang forth would go unnoticed by whatever creature lay beneath him. He pressed his face into the comforter, uttering a few imperceptible squeaks of terror.

Images flashed before his eyes, those of a massive Houndoom, chops dripping globs of repulsive saliva, eyes burning with vehemence and an insatiable hunger. The canine Pokemon’s curved skull, accentuated by a jagged pair of arched horns, contrasted with its mange-sodden coat, dyed a deep twilight tint, so that the beast was practically indiscernible in the musty dark.

Next came the visualization of a Haunter, the deep violet apparition floating just below the frame of the bed. Its ragged tips lightly grazed the floor, and its face, equally shabby, was stretched into a mask of hostility and horror, as any ghost’s would. The specter’s barbed claws, curled over and bobbing just beneath the open void of its mouth, reached up, ready to penetrate the mattress and pierce Sawyer’s heart.

His brain was overwhelmed with alarm, and the dismay bubbled up into his chest, gripping his heart and forcing it to cease its incessant beating. The boy’s eyes bulged from his head, and before he could restrain himself, his mouth had already curled into a large oval, and his lungs filled with a sudden intake of air.


The howl for rescue resounded throughout the room, clattered against the window, pounded into the flimsy door, and worst of all, alerted the thing beneath him, for it immediately thrashed about in an obscene manner, knocking brutally against the bottom of Sawyers bunk. He scrunched his legs up beneath him, taking care not to allow a single toe to dangle over the edge, for there was no telling what that creature was capable of.

Sawyer’s breathing sharpened, as did the thing’s movements, and it was currently beating at a far greater pace, as though struggling to ward off the boy from its home…. as though he was the intruder.

The boy’s lungs inflated yet again, and he was on the verge of emitting another outburst when a second sound matched that of the thing beneath the bed. It was a soft patter, quiet enough to be mistaken for a leaky faucet, yet with enough vigor to send coursing vibrations splintering out over the floor. In a couple seconds, it escalated dramatically, now loud enough to drown out the throbbing beats of the creature, and it seemed as though it was getting closer.

Just moments before the door was thrown open, allowing a flood of snaking yellow light to wash over the chamber, Sawyer realized that it must have been his mother working her way down the corridor, and this was strengthened only by the appearance of her plagued face in the doorway. The patter died the second she stepped into the room and flicked the light switch, as did the undulations beneath him.

“Mom!” Sawyer cried, blinking rapidly to erase the flashing spots that danced before his eyes due to the introduction of the dazzling light. It fell over him like a spotlight, and his mother, playing the role of the warden, eyed him in a peculiar manner.

Her pupils were drawn back in weariness, and they seemed like slits, which didn’t add any sort of comfort to the uneasy child. Marcia Alford’s hair swayed around her cheekbones in tight coils, obviously some type of beauty ritual, Sawyer observed. The unshapely maroon robe that held fast to her frame was bespeckled with minute yellow moons, tiny crescents that seemed to glare ferociously at the boy who had awoken their authority.

“What is it?” The woman asked in a caring tone, a note of surreptitious aggravation lying just beyond her words. It was clear that the sudden disturbance within her home was a bothersome factor, even Sawyer could detect that.

“There…there’s something under my bed! I swear!” The boy squawked, gesturing wildly with his hands. He was on his feet now, leaping madly near the center of the bed, beckoning for the lady to check for herself.

Sighing that oh-so-familiar tedious sigh, Mrs. Alford marched to his bedside, paying more attention to the peeling cobalt wallpaper than to the actual inhabitant of the room. The edges were curled back in an unsightly way, allowing the bare slab of drywall beyond to pry itself into her sight.

“Aren’t you a little old for these games?” Sawyer’s mother asked, as though he was doing this only for the sake of attention.

“Just look…” he demanded, his voice wavering a bit. He hesitated for a moment before pointing again.

Giving her son a reproachful look, she glanced at her feet, which were concealed in a blanket of crawling shadows. Grumbling, she gripped the edge of the mattress and lowered herself to her knees, faltering for a bit, due to the sharp pain that shot up her thigh…she wasn’t what she used to be, that was evident.

Mrs. Alford’s head bobbed for a moment, then ducked out of sight; the very breath in her son’s lungs turned to ice, paralyzing his entire body in the expectation of her discovery. His thin lips curled back into the little slit between his teeth, and Sawyer nibbled them impatiently. His muscles were once again tense, and he prepared to flee at any sign of trouble, at any irregular shuffle that would announce the advent of danger to his mother.

There came a sudden thump, not unlike that of an object striking the floor, hard. His spine tingled, and his body ached to know what had happened, yet all he could do was sit there, poised daintily atop the comforters, staring at the bleak wall opposite him.

The sound came once more, stronger, more powerful, and it took all the strength the boy had ever known to stop himself from crying out. The bed vibrated beneath him, imparting a rocking tempo that allowed a placid tear, abounding with anxiety, to creep down his adolescent cheek.

“M-Mom?” he breathed, tucking his feet beneath his rotund bottom and shuffling to the edge of the mattress. It was warm against his flesh, and he yearned for that same warmth to replenish the raw dread that had taken refuse in his chest.

The darkness that reached out, like a claw, from the underside of the furniture didn’t permit the boy to look beneath it, and therefore he had no way of knowing where she was. Sawyer closed his eyes, blinking away the collecting droplets that adhered to his eyelashes. His fingers gripped the bedpost as though a Mawile’s jaws, and just as he felt the world gyrate around him as he plunged his head downward, an irritated voice snaked about the room.

“There is nothing down there, now go to sleep.”

Sawyer lifted his eyes to the gargantuan figure that had arisen before him: the inverted shape of his mother, her hair frizzed and her lips pursed into an impassive frown. The boy felt a burning throb in the back of his skull, brought on partly by the measureless course of blood pounding into it, but also by an ignited humiliation toward the fact that he had been disproven.

“But, but Mom, I swear!” he pleaded, struggling to find himself upright once more. It was a fruitless attempt however, for although his hands pawed roughly at the air, it did nothing to better his situation, but only made him out to be even more foolish in his mother’s eyes.

“Sawyer, please…it’s been a long day-“ her disdain was cut short by a coarse grunt as she seized her son’s pudgy arm and hoisted him back into a sitting position. Once he had settled back among the covers however, she did not release her hold, but instead clenched him tighter, leaning closer as she did so.

“There is nothing under that bed, I checked. Look, I know this house is strange and all, but I am telling you…. There isn’t anything out of the ordinary,” Marcia Alford said, striving to soothe her son’s worries.

Sawyer’s eyes locked with his mother’s, and for a moment he felt the deep compassion that her voice utilized, and it made him reevaluate his decision to argue even further. His mom was tired, why push her any further?

“Okay, Mom,” he sighed, his tongue struggling not to lash out a contradictory statement. The seven-year-old recognized an ease in her features: the skin beneath her eyes didn’t seem so taut, and a brief satisfaction flashed in her eyes before disappearing as quickly as it had come.

She clapped him on the back, muttering something along the lines of, “alright, well let’s get some sleep now”. The lady, a shuddering yawn becoming present in her chest, ruffled his hair lightly, and Sawyer, for once, didn’t mind. Despite the fact that her action left his locks tossed wildly about his forehead, bestowing an uncomfortable tickle upon the child, he didn’t feel the need to scorn her.

“Hey, Mom?” Sawyer said, requesting her attention as the woman made for the door.


“Ummm,” he started, pondering whether the following query would eradicate the somewhat unspoken contract that had been established between them in their prior understanding of each other’s thoughts. He scratched absently at his shoulder, avoiding her gaze. “You don’t mind if Bonnie sleeps with me do you… just as a, ya know, precaution?”

The child forced his eyes back up to his mother’s, and all of the burden that had so previously been abated returned to her face in a simple slant of her brow. It seemed to the boy that she felt he was a hypocrite, taking comfort in her words and then instantly neglecting them the moment her lecture terminated.

“Sure… why not?” Mrs. Alford groaned, her question not requiring a particular response. Her pale fingers, concealed by the overhanging flaps of her irregular-sized robe, darted toward her torso. She tucked them mindlessly into one of the several pockets that dappled the matted coat, and a slight lump became discernable against her chest. With a flick of her wrist, which seemed so routine to the woman, she extricated a miniscule orb.

The Pokéball, upon having its center mashed aggressively by her bone-protruding fingers, extended to fill her palm, the effulgent ruby color conflicting with the unsightly hue of her darker cloak. She suddenly cast it away from her, as though repulsed by its presence, and it twisted savagely in the dim light, sending gaudy glints of reflected beams into the child’s pupils.

Without cause, it split, spilling a blazing explosion of blinding white light over the room. It looped and swirled upward in a marvelous cyclone, prompting Sawyer’s thoughts to those of one of the numerous televised contests he had seen over the years. The technique by which the coordinator’s Pokémon emerged from their spheres of containment matched his mother’s to a tee, though she lacked one of the essential attributes that the majority of them sported: a smile.

In a decisive eruption of bright, gossamer rays, the Pokéball snapped shut, and the chamber was once more doused in a blanket of duskiness. Everything looked as it had before the interruption of the darkness; the curtains framing the dingy windows still trembled in a hushed breeze, the sheets were still pressed firm against Sawyer’s bulbous torso, and Marcia Alford still stood in the doorway, foot tapping rhythmically in impatience.

The only entity that seemed out of place in the child’s room (besides the disarray of stacked boxes by the wall) was the petite white splotch squatting quietly near her trainer’s knees. It would have gone unnoticed by anyone that hadn’t seen the light materialize into its distinctive shape, but seeing as Sawyer did, he was quick to address it.


The Pokémon tilted her head in the direction of the call, chattering incoherently. Her ears perked, and her eyes turned innocently upon the boy who was drowned in an avalanche of blankets. With a gleeful squeal, his mother’s Pokémon bounded toward Sawyer, her extensive snow-white tail erected and swishing lazily in her wake.

The Pachirisu, cheeks emitting tendrils of jagged electricity, leapt from the floor, only to be enclosed by the child’s outstretched arms. Her feathery coat bristled against his skin, and Bonnie’s ears twitched against the chest of her long-time friend, the son of her mistress. Sawyer stoked her spine, running his fingers smoothly down the cerulean ribbon that slithered down the center of the squirrel Pokémon’s back.

“Well, now that you are all settled in, you don’t mind if I had off to bed, do you?” His mother’s troubled voice pricked into his thoughts, and he nodded sweetly, burrowing his chin into the bushy tail of her companion, whose succeeding giggle came out as more of a twitter.

Dragging her slippered feet loudly, (probably on purpose, the child observed) the lady shuffled from the room, taking care to flick the light switch.

The resulting blackness was sharp, bearing down on the boy like a heavy load. Sawyer endeavored to overcome the atrocious weight by cuddling more snugly into the Pokémon, who supplied just enough bliss and warmth to do so.

As though the former events hadn’t transpired whatsoever, the seven-year-old found himself drifting back into a slumber. He fought it at first, craving to remain alert for a few minutes at the least, just to confirm that the noises wouldn’t sound again, but he found this impractical. A snore simmered beneath his lungs, verifying that he had indeed yielded to the imminent loss of consciousness.

Little did the child know, as he lay dormant atop the lavish mattress, that something had indeed created the earlier sounds; it wasn’t his mind dabbling in a momentary haze of disillusion, as his parent had suggested. There was a creature resting just below him, and it was far from finished with its fun.


Last edited by Bryce; 03-03-2008 at 08:34 PM.
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Old 01-16-2008, 01:49 AM
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His taste buds screamed in satisfaction; the very molecules that composed his tongue shuddered with a deep craving for the sickly-sweet substance that trickled over it. Eyes drawn back so that the lashes fluttered delicately against their adjacent pair, his mind deviated from its surroundings, running astray from the imaginary setting. It didn’t matter where it ended up, just as long as the ambrosia never left his lips.

Sawyer, or at least what he expected to be himself, found his body amid an eccentric fountain the very minute he entered the supposed realm of dreams. It was hard to be sure of anything here, since his mind had utterly been split in two, half remaining to conduct his sleeping flesh, and the other admitted to roam, unhindered, wherever it should please.

The fountain to which it had found itself was aglow with a phosphorescent gleam, perhaps induced by the glittering spouts of yellow geysers that flowed so effortlessly through the microscopic cavities in the top. Sawyer’s dream-self didn’t hesitate for a minute before gallivanting into the collecting puddle near the base, splashing and laughing, eventually allowing his pudgy body to intake but a handful of the fragrant liquid.

Once the savory, honey-grazed nectar pierced his lips, nothing else existed to the child, nothing but the need to consume the entirety of the infinite stream of fluid. It didn’t matter that his face was laden with unintentional sloshes of the drink, nor the fact that his stomach began to ache with the acidic sugary substance; he needed more. He had to have more.

By the time that the pain in his belly became so intense as to direct his attention from his ceaseless bingeing, Sawyer’s shirt had sacrificed a few of its buttons, as well as the elastic waistline, but he didn’t regret any of it for a second. His insides brimming to their utmost capacity, he made his way over to the suddenly materializing meadow that was so conveniently placing itself around the rim of the ambrosia spring.

The boy threw himself upon it, his weight cushioned by the lush stalks, whose lengths donned a rich jade hue and seemed to merge into a sole blanket of comfort. He leaned his head back, sensing the mild sunbeams stretching out over his cheeks; their warmth was like a gentle hand upon his face, caressing placidly at his forehead, then his neck, all the while drawing the child closer and closer to yet another drowsed state.

The little mind he had in this place was baffled at the fact that here, in a dream itself, he was falling asleep once more…. It was as though fatigue was a part of his nature, an attribute that, try as he might, could never overturned. Sawyer’s intellect was both disgusted and intrigued that in a such a place as this, where he could partake in any activity his mind could possibly formulate, he would rather sleep than explore all of the aspects that a dream could provide.

Who knew what would happen once he dozed off this time… would he be plunged into a domain of pure nothingness, one that punished the youth for squandering the magnificent opportunities he had been supplied? Or would he simply dissipate into another’s reverie? His mother’s, perchance? No doubt she would, even in her sleep, be contemplating the following day’s activities: all the work that had to be done….it never stopped with that woman.

The splendor of the gushing fountain suspended his speculations, and Sawyer managed to gaze one last time at the scene: the divine liquid pitter-pattering down from the marble column upon which the nozzle roosted, only to fall gracefully upon the stainless granite below. Even though his torso, inside and out, was saturated with the elixir, he lusted to replenish it with another gallon or so of the intoxicating drink. No doubt it was bewitched by beings unknown, enchanted to the point where the user would gorge himself to death in a gallant effort to quench an insatiable thirst.

It also seemed to have an authority over his exhaustion as well, because the bubbling potion clinched his brain, tranquilizing it within seconds. A vague restlessness tried to resist its takeover, claiming that the child was in no state to nap, but as suspected, it was like a fly clashing with a Salamence, entirely hopeless.

Sawyer was once again asleep, but this time, he didn’t know if he would ever wake up.



Last edited by Bryce; 03-03-2008 at 08:35 PM.
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Old 03-14-2008, 05:32 AM
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If forced to evaluate his bodily conditions, the only word suitable to describe the overwhelming amount of saturation would be that word: drenched. Before his environment could even tug him back to his flesh, Sawyer could detect insurmountable moisture that seemed to clog his very lungs and prick at his skin in a manner only dampness was capable of. He felt the need to swipe at his body, to purge himself of its bothersome tickle.

The moment that the boy’s eyelids flicked open, a new apprehension eradicated the former one, that of the terrible sensation that he was not only immersed in an disturbing liquid, but also suffocating. Sawyer struggled to gasp, to flood his lungs with the intoxicating blandness of household air, but none came. Instead, a soaked fabric occupied his mouth, a fleecy sort of textile that would have supplied the least bit of comfort, had it not been sodden with the same fluid that glossed his cheeks and dribbled fervently from the corners of his puckered lips.

Tossing his head back in a strange resemblance to a lion cleansing its mane of undesired grime and soliciting debris, the boy knocked the pillow from his face, thus allowing his throat to ripple with the residence of fresh, clean oxygen. The fact that it tumbled to the floor, landing with a muffled plop went unnoticed to the youth, for he quickly resorted to scraping at the drool hanging ever so grotesquely from his chin, unmindful of anything other than his current task.

The child proceeded to do so for a few seconds further before he eventually found content in the lack of a thick layer of saliva that had previously coated his face. By this time, he had surely recognized that the burden of night had not lifted itself from the quaint little town that harbored his home, and the eerie chill that was familiar to such circumstances settled over him once more. Although his mind was still glazed with the wearied disorientation that was customary to one that was awaken so abruptly, the fear still caused a lump to form somewhere in his stomach and slither up his throat, using the tender flesh as though they were rungs on a ladder.

Deciding that submerging himself into a distant slumber would be the quickest way to get rid of the throbbing alarm of the dark, Sawyer sank back beneath the covers, pausing only when he realized that the pillow, upon which he would lay his head, was missing. Taking care to hunker low against the mattress, he scanned the habitat that was his room. Upon finding nothing other than the crumpled sheets and snoozing form of Bonnie nestled near the foot of the bed, the seven-year-old tilted his frame over the side of the bunk; his eyes instantly met the snowy rectangle of his pillow, perfectly discernable against the chestnut monotony of the floorboards.

It was at this very moment that he would make the grave mistake, the mortal error that would release a formidable series of malignant happenings upon the adolescent.

Sawyer reached down and grabbed it.

As he careened over the edge, his fingers stretched to their full extent to grasp the ivory cushion, his eyes met the creature beneath the bed. Its frame was obscured in the murk, and Sawyer could barely make out much more than its lime green tint, yet he knew that those glaring scarlet eyes, pulled back into thin, baneful slits, belonged to a beast who’s sole purpose was to deliver harm unto him.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe; the shock of this discovery overcame the boy’s common sense, which at this moment was a boisterous, whirring siren, screaming at him to run, duck, do anything that would deter the impending attack. Blood, in its mad haste to drain downward into his skull (for he was still hanging, dumbfounded, inverted) seemed to sap the child of feeling, so little pain became present in Sawyer’s head as a glob of muddled, intertwining white wires collided with his face.

The force of the blow was enough to send the youth soaring away from the mattress to land in a crumpled heap a couple feet away, but not enough abolish the stunned daze that claimed his mind. However, he still had enough vitality in his flesh to notice that the result of the String Shot attack, (the gnarled wad) was acting as though it possessed a mind of its own, for it scaled his chin, wrapping its adhesive tendrils around his lips.

That familiar sense of smothering arose in Sawyer, and he gagged, ripping and tearing at the threads with what little energy he could muster. It was virtually impossible, though, for their viscous nature caused them to hold fast, enduring even the most vigorous of his scratches. In his savage flailing to be absolved of the goo’s presence, Sawyer barely took notice of the Pokémon as it shuffled out into the open, choosing this moment, of any, to reveal itself.

The Weedle, horn glimmering in the pale moonlight overhead, crept out from the thieving gloom, a malicious flicker vaguely prominent in its radiating eyes. It paused, eyeing me strangely, as though it were either contemplating its next move or relishing in the agony and annoyance it had conveyed to me.

In a way, its appearance somewhat relieved the tension that had been continuously building throughout the night’s events, and for that reason, Sawyer felt like sniggering slightly, for he had been expecting something far worse to make itself apparent….a Mightyena, Banette, any sort of depraved creature that [I]deserved[/] to be revered as “harmful”. But on the other hand, he still had to treat this situation in the same fashion, for there was something about its luminous stare that conferred an uneasy shudder upon his heart.

He prepared to lunge forth and stamp at it with a slipper-engulfed foot, but ceased his action the moment he became conscious of the violet haze that began to stream from within the Pokémon’s pores. Without warning, a violent shaking overtook the bug, a quaking, shivering seizure that tossed it willy-nilly, to and fro, bashing against the bedpost, floor, wall, anything that lay within its path. Sawyer watched quizzically, wondering if this was some practiced scheme that all Pokémon of such a species initiated when faced with a perilous predicament.

The convulsion ended just as briskly as it had started, except now, instead of standing, poised before the child, the Weedle lay inert beside the bed; the dangerous flicker was no longer in its eyes. Thinking that the trouble had terminated with that dramatic scene of flapping and flying, Sawyer set to work on freeing his face of the snarled glob. It was in that single moment that he turned his back to search blindly among the boxes for a sharp object when it happened.

It was as though the second creature simply evaporated from the Weedle; its drifting, lilac vapors yanked themselves free of the useless being to float freely above it. The spherical mass, which appeared to be the only solid component of the Pokémon, was darker than any black the boy had ever witnessed…one that triggered the feeling of his hairs plucking themselves from his scalp and his skin melting away to reveal only opal bone beneath. He didn’t need to swivel about to recognize the beast, for its impressionable corruption had already seized the very atmosphere, which inevitably spread the feeling of dread everywhere throughout the chamber.

The need to wail for rescue thumped against his chest, but due to the smothering grasp of the String Shot attack, the squeal was suppressed, contained within his chest, which felt as though it would burst with the terror that turned his blood to ice, seemingly weighing down his veins.

A cackle, somewhat screened by the two barbed fangs poking from the Gastly’s mouth, screeched out into the air. Its resonance was so earsplitting that Sawyer felt as though the walls would surely buckle in, as would his eardrums. He dropped to his knees, cowering away from ghost Pokémon, which, he was just now realizing, had been possessing the Weedle (which still lay dormant beside him) the entire night…. probably longer. Those deep red eyes from before flashed into his memory…

Using his blubber-clad arms as a tool of sorts, Sawyer dug his fingers into the splintering floorboards and proceeded to haul himself away from the Gastly, in the direction of the door, whose rim was coated in a spidery orange light that seeped through the cracks. A strain became apparent in his biceps, but he pushed through the pain, occasionally hoisting himself to his knees in order to scurry a short distance before tottering back to lay stomach-down. It was only when he came within a few meters of the entrance that he detected the other noise.

Though it seemed meager and faint when compared to the swirling vortex of the Ghost Pokemon’s laughter, it commanded the boy’s full attention, and for that reason he swiveled around to locate its source. Managing to evade the menacing stare of the enemy, who simply hung low in the air, body quaking with each chortle, Sawyer gazed through the murky haze toward his bed. Among the tangle of sheets and skeletal form of the footboard sat a diminutive white splotch, which contrasted greatly with the piercing darkness of the surroundings.

It took but a moment for the youth to recognize what it was, for those perked ears and sleek azure and ivory fur could belong to none other than his savior, the one being who had any chance of reversing the threatening circumstances.


The Pachirisu, who clearly had been awoken by the uproar of the Gastly’s rude sounds, seemed disoriented and baffled; her milky, unfocused eyes supplied evidence toward this theory. Her neck twitched this way and that, and Sawyer struggled to call out to her, to alert her of the danger that floated just before her. However, and he knew this well enough, the String Shot prevented him from doing so.

The Gastly, which seemed to have sensed a change in the boy’s movement, eyed him in a quizzical manner before following his gaze past his buoyant mass of dipping, intertwining gases. His eyes fell upon Sawyer’s mother’s companion Pokemon, and the youth’s heart fell.

His adversary granted the Pachirisu no time whatsoever before swooping forward, cherry tongue wagging detestably from the slit in his face that served as a mouth. By this time, its eyes had reverted to dangerous slits, through which it appeared he was surveying Bonnie. He received an innocent and adorable bob of her tail in return; it was obvious that she was ignorant of how fierce this species could be when angered, and at the moment, the Gastly looked far from cheery. As though disgusted by the fashion in which she welcomed him, the gaseous creature dove forward and lashed his tongue across her back, which instantly bristled with trauma.

Bonnie’s entire body seemed to fold upon itself, her limbs shriveling inward as her shaky stance gave way to her weight. The Pachirisu toppled to the floor, clearly paralyzed. Her pupils proceeded to dilate, then shrink, continuing the cycle as her body succumbed to shock and her movements grew increasingly sluggish.

The Gastly, who had flowed back to his previous perch to examine the damage he had inflicted, emitted that familiar cackle; his eyes clearly showed amusement, and that sickened Sawyer. His stomach churned, and a certain dizziness claimed his mind as he scooted backward to avoid detection and, if given the chance, find some way to free himself of the goop. His back grazed the boxes behind him, and a sheath of duskiness masked his body from the beast overhead.

Instantly, upon coming to terms with the fact that he was granted a stroke of pure luck, Sawyer submerged his arm into the nearest crate; the pale flakes that were severed from the expanse of cardboard danced in the atmosphere around his head. Ignoring the various stacks of paper and the sleek surfaces of his mother’s mediocre snow globe collection that met his touch, the boy eventually reached the bottom. By this time his shoulder was the only appendage that remained visible, and he could barely wiggle his fingers any more, much less hunt for a sharp object.

Freeing himself of the ensnared possessions, Sawyer glanced back toward the two Pokemon, one of which continued to twitch rhythmically, while the other watched with that same sense of mirth. It was only when the Gastly plunged headlong in Bonnie’s direction for the second time that his air of delight vanished, and the horrible malice trickled back into its features. Its mouth curled into an oval, yet its front remained void of that obscene, flapping tongue, which caused Sawyer to infer that it would not repeat the Lick attack again. Instead, as it neared the spastic squirrel Pokemon, a jet of thick, gyrating light burst from the ghost’s mouth. It was barely detectable in the gloom, yet the shimmering moonlight streaming delicately through the window, though slightly disturbed by a fluttering tree branch outside, provided him with an adequate view of the Dark Pulse attack.

It curled around the Pachirisu, encompassing her in its solid, viselike tendrils before progressing to press her into the floor with incredible force. The boy could actually hear the breath seeping from her lungs in the inaudible sighs that issued from her mouth. He wanted to cry out, to do anything to stop this horrible incident from occurring any longer. Perhaps it was his lack of a matured mind that prompted Sawyer to do what he did next. Or maybe it was just sheer instinct….He might have actually believed his subsequent action to be one of moral righteousness, which was an incredibly foolish thought, even for one of his age.

Sawyer reached into the box, curled his fingers around the first object that his digits met, and hurled it at the Gastly.

The snow globe, despite its bulk and rotund build, sliced through the air like a penknife. It whirled, end over end, seemingly held aloft by the very atmosphere itself, for surely Sawyer couldn’t have thrown it with such vigor that was evinced in its extraordinary speed. But as the boy was no magnificent prodigy in the art of anything physical, especially throwing objects, the object came to a sputtering stop just short of its intended destination and dropped like a sack of potatoes.

The tumultuous crash that resulted made the child wince and shrink away, but not before he witnessed the explosion of glass. Fragments of the substance, their edges pointed and lively, were sent soaring in all directions, some clattering to the floor in a high-pitched clink, but others puncturing the walls and bed and any other unfortunate piece of furniture that happened to be within their paths. The Gastly, which had been the intended target, had been floating just above the point of impact, and as the snow globe had struck, was sent sailing across the chamber in the opposite direction, all the while being battered by scraps of the barbed glass.

Sawyer was deterred, however, from seeing what became of Bonnie after that incident, for his attention was directed toward tending to his hand, which had ill fatefully been pierced by a fragment gone astray. It would have been nothing major to a boy of older age, but to the seven-year-old, it felt as though his life was on the verge of ending. He struggled to keep the scalding tears from bubbling up at the corners of his eyes, and fingered the slit, which had resorted to bespeckling the boy’s front with an splatter of ruby liquid. Forcing himself to “take it as a man” (a favorite phrase of his mother’s), the youth scampered forward.

Taking care to sidestep the places that contained the larger chunks of glass, as they could easily slice through the soles of his slippers, Sawyer made his way through the crystalline glitter that was left suspended in the air after the destruction of the snow globe. His childish innocence compelled the boy to believe that the twinkling was actually the artificial snow that always lay crumpled at the bottom of the decorative encasements, but any scholarly soul could tell you that it was actually an aftereffect of all the airborne glass particles.

It took a few sweeps of his eyes across the room for the boy to locate the fallen Pachirisu. She rested against the far wall, just beneath the window, and her groggy, yet conscious appearance led Sawyer to deduce that her body was rid of the paralysis, but still harbored a certain extent of exhaustion.

Before crawling over to console her, the adolescent grasped a gaunt and rigid sliver of glass and, making sure that the laceration went no deeper than his lips, severed the adhesive vines of the String Shot. It fell to the ground with a muffled plop, and with the metallic tang of blood on his lips, Sawyer hastened over to his Pokemon’s side.


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