one-hundred one shot challenge [posting welcome]

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hello, all!

i decided to go ahead and hop onto the one-hundred one shot challenge bandwagon. for those of you who are unaware, the one-hundred one shot challenge is a community challenged organized by I'm Not The Only One using the original idea of Prin Pardus on fanfiction.net. i will be using this challenge to develop characters and interactions between them, as well as experiment with how i use dialogue and certain writing elements. posting is welcome, and i will try to post as often as possible so that i can be well-practiced and in tip-top shape for july's nanowrimo summer camp. please feel free to let me know what you think! c:

below is a table of contents for each posted story--beside them, the name of the main character/pairing used in each one-shot will be listed, so that you may sort through and read the ones about the characters/pairings you like the most.



table of contents


injured, ft. tanglebelly
sinking, ft. suiren
father, ft. tito
exploit, ft. andreas
boredom
art of conversation
take your best shot
creativity
flash
puzzling words
ill
skeleton
nothing
servitude
possibilities
weightless
just say it
last words
immature
blazing
help
presence
because
forced
reversed
cast away
emotions
questions
wishing
crackling
curl up
together
look again
brief
space
special
jinx
stop fussing
cozy
breaking
either or
tell me a story
waiting
willpower
who am i?
idol
unseen
just try
for me?
your choice! (you got to 50!)
useful
treasure
ceremony
lightning
protection
stay with me
mint
rescue
dominant
thief
deserter
stolen
sarcasm
darling
how much is too much?
over
try again
hidden
forgotten
the first time
aging
soldiers
justice
tread carefully
one false step
connection
mess
it can't be
in due time
awake
delicious
fallen
trickery
around the bend
well traveled
choices
surplus
rough
if
friend
found not lost
spiral
deep
i could have
desirable
resentment
build up
inch by inch
dilemma
blue sky

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Injured
"Even the strongest and bravest cats need to cry."

The rain was cold, icy as it pelted the tom’s back. His head remained bowed, his gaze locked emptily on the ground as the frigid liquid soothing the burning wounds that ran across his shoulder and down his back. His thick, dark tabby fur was matted, sticky with blood and wet with the tears that the sky shed from dark, silent gatherings of grey storm clouds above. The clearing was a mess; all around the young apprentice were stains of blood that slowly began to blend with dampening dirt, tufts of fur in all different colors. There was shredded moss and torn bracken from the battered walls of the camp, scores across the clearing floor from where claws had missed their target, from where one enemy had struggled against another. It was a sobering sight, one that made sorrow pool in the young tom’s heavy heart.

Before him lay the product of that terrible and heart-wrenching scene. Once upon a time, his mother had told him that war was terrible, and battles never truly had any winners. Thunderclan had fought back the assault of Windclan warriors, so they had come out victorious, right?

Right?

It was now as the apprentice watched the silent, torn body of his calico mother that he truly understood her words. The white patches in her pelt were stained pink, her flanks and her chest marred by thick, deep wounds that had bled and bled and bled until there was nothing left to bleed. Red had pooled beneath her, a sea made from the life that flowed through her veins, warm and smelling of salt and iron. It amazed the young creature how much of it there was, how long it had taken for it to be over and the flow to stop. Her eyes were still open, still looking past him into some far-off paradise beyond him, glazed over with the shadow of death.

He didn’t want to see those milky green eyes anymore.

A soft sound escaped him, a tiny, rough sob, and he felt ashamed. His whiskers twitched and quivered, and all he could do was crouch lower next to the body of the she-cat who had given him life, who had raised and loved and nurtured him. The pain of his wounds was searing and sharp, but the agony of losing her was a far deeper and devastating injury. It throbbed and swelled and threatened to consume his body from the inside out, welling in his chest and filling his lungs, clutching at his heart and squeezing hard, as if to strangle it.

Around him, the only sound was the rain. No cat dared talk, dared to break the fragile and thin will that wavered in the apprentice’s chest. No one dared to comfort him, aware that if they spoke he might finally begin to cry. Desperately, he pressed his nose into the soft, long fur of the deceased she-cat, her warmth already being sapped by the cold earth below her.

Finally, someone moved. A tom with a rich, dark ginger coat came forward, his hazel eyes filled with sadness, his steps making no sound that could be heard over the freezing, heavy rain. His thick, striped coat was heavy with water, soaked by the rain, and drops of it clung to his drooping whiskers as he stood beside the quivering apprentice, the tip of his tail resting on the sturdy little tom’s shoulder.

“…It’s okay to cry, Tanglepaw,” Came the steady and low voice of the tom. “It doesn’t make you any less of a warrior to grieve. Even—“ Rather suddenly, the soothing words broke with grief, and the apprentice’s head snapped up as his gaze fell on the ginger tom’s face. He was looking up at the sky, anguish on his features, his eyes misting. “Even the strongest and the bravest cats need to cry.”

Tanglepaw stared for what seemed to be the longest moment of his life, his heart constricting painfully in his chest. This cat, this cat that had adored his mother and had been his source of inspiration for so long, this brave and wonderful deputy of their clan was mourning as much as he. Tanglepaw’s eyes watered, and he began to cry pitifully, his sobs coming out as strangled and pathetic mews as the sadness overtook him.

Without hesitation, the ginger tom yowled his sorrows to the sky, and the two cried with all their breaking hearts to the stormy sky. A father and a son left too early by their guiding and warming light, they mourned their open wounds, inside and out, so that every cat could see.

Barely, just barely, their injuries had already begun to heal.

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Sinking
"Some sicknesses are caused not by pathogens or viruses, but by the conflict in our own minds."

The fever was powerful, a consuming heat that spread throughout his body unhindered by the medicine offered to him by even their family’s best doctors. The son of the high general, there was no shortage in well trained physicians available, no lack of expensive and overwhelmingly effective tonics for any disease, no absence of the very best in care for him. It wasn’t because they were in want of resources that the boy’s sickness only grew, but the fact that there was no cure known for such an illness. When examining him, each trained medical practitioner would only shake his head in confusion, unable to name the cause of the child’s pitiful state. Some suggested the flu among many other common afflictions, but the high general himself knew that no known plague was capable of doing what this terrible sickness was to his son.

The fever only worsened.

Even during the cool and tranquil nights the child’s hair would become damp with sweat, clinging to his brows and cheeks, sticking to his neck and the bedclothes underneath him. He rejected his servants when they attempted to cover him up, refusing to wear his shirt or curl up under soft blankets. He did not want them. The heat was too much to bear. So, he would lie awake at night, tossing and turning, panting heavily as his small body was wracked by the flames of his fever, his sheets growing wet and clinging to his skin as he grew desperate to just be comfortable enough to sleep.

Some nights, his mother would come lie next to him, a cool, wet cloth in her hand that she would use to soothe his burning skin. The cold would only last for an instant, but even so it provided a small amount of solace amongst the siege of illness and exhaustion. It was only on nights like this that he finally found peace enough to fall into fitful slumber.

Finally, the fever became too much for the young child’s body to bear.

One morning, after having slept beside her son, the general’s wife woke to an unusual quiet that had settled over the room. The stillness was unnerving, and, when she looked over, her heart had been frozen by what she saw. Long, jagged wounds had been torn into the boy’s cheeks and neck, the work of his own hands. His fingers were covered in dried blood, splotches of red against his skin, and he was so silent, so unmoving that she almost believed for a moment that he was dead.

When the doctors arrived, they assured her that he was still living. However, the illness had finally consumed him, the exhaustion so terrible that he had slipped under the surface of consciousness, comatose. The mother sobbed, and held tightly to the high general as she wept, her child now facing an even greater enemy than the sickness.

To the boy, there was only darkness. He drifted about without feeling, faintly aware of his state of being, yet so, so very tired. It was the first time in a long time that he had truly been given a chance to rest, and the aching of his body had disappeared with the raging fire of his disease. The darkness was cool and quiet, comfortable and welcoming. It surrounded him and carried him like a current, soothing his soul and easing his mind. Deeper and deeper it carried him, until he realized that he was sinking into himself, drowning in the numbness he’d been blessed with. The child did not care, much, unable to bring himself to protest against the comforting flow that caressed him.

However, he was not the only one who dwelled within the darkness.

“So you’re giving up,” Came a voice, low and quiet and calm. “Just like that?” It sounded like him, yet very different, and the words compelled the boy to open his tired blue optics once more.

Before him, an unusual creature sat in the darkness. Its skin glowed, giving off a healing light, and its eyes gazed thoughtfully down at him, richly purple in color. It seemed somewhat bored, sitting cross-legged as it stared at him, its hair long and dark, cascading over its shoulders and the waterfall of it only disrupted by the creature’s long and pointed ears. The locks framed its young and ethereal face, and it seemed both disappointed and triumphant as it looked down at him.

“Giving up?” Croaked the boy, his thin black brows knitting together, his eyes lined with the shadows of exhaustion and his skin pale from the illness that had consumed him. His raven locks were a mess, sticking out in every direction, some strands covering his glazed and broken optics.

The beast before the boy crossed its arms, clawed fingertips resting against soft skin, and it nodded. “You see, boy, I’ve come to take your body from you. This wasn’t supposed to happen for a very long time, but I’m rather tired of being sentenced to death every time I have a chance to make an appearance. Thus, this vessel and I have no use for you.”

The boy stared in response, not seeming to understand the words being said, but the weight of the last sentence spoken fell heavy upon his chest.

“Oh.”

The creature blinked again in surprise, before leaning forward, clearly unable to understand how relaxed and compliant the child was. It looked him over, before shrugging, getting to its feet as a long tail, tipped by white flames, made itself visible. “Mm. This was easier than I thought. You’re very peculiar, boy.”

“It’s Suiren,” Came the hoarse and whispered reply. “My name is Suiren. If I’m going to die, then will you at least grant me one wish?”

Again, the boy’s words came as a shock to the creature. “Suiren, eh? Fine. What is it you desire, kiddo?” The beast knelt, eyes searching his face, almost in awe of the unusual personality of its vessel.

“Your name.”

“My name?” The beast returned as it blinked, before it smirked. “That’s a simple wish, and I would be glad to grant it. I am called Ravendaus.”

For a long moment, the child was quiet, before saying the name as a whisper, rolling it over his tongue. “Ravendaus, huh?” Then, he suddenly moved, standing up weakly and staring down at the shocked creature before him. His blue eyes were hard, staring deep into Ravendaus’s, and a chill ran up the creature’s spine. Dark, cold anger flared in those eyes, and the beast could feel their heat where he knelt.

“Get the hell out of my body.”

[montmorency]

These are really good so far! o: Your style of writing is awesome!

[eltonn]

oMGOSH ITS SUIREN AND RAVENDAUS

ALSO WAS 'INJURY' ABOUT TANGLESTEP'S HISTORY?? because now i feel really bad for him ;;

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oMGOSH ITS SUIREN AND RAVENDAUS

ALSO WAS 'INJURY' ABOUT TANGLESTEP'S HISTORY?? because now i feel really bad for him ;;

yes, it is indeed (hue, i told you guys you could read about them here lol)

also, i don't have a character named tanglestep. if you mean tanglebelly, then yes, this is about him. c:

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father
"a father sits alone in a cell, waiting for the day he will see his son again."

"what are you writing?"

tito glanced up, strands of gold falling into his face, and he grinned.

"oh, hey void. i'm writing a letter. to dad."

void cocked his head, glowing eyes widening just a fraction, and tito turned away from the desk, gesturing to the paper. the younger boy leaned in, glancing it over.

tito's hand writing was bad, scrawled across the pages, little doodles in the margins. they caught void's eyes, and when he looked closer, he pressed a hand to his lips, stifling a laugh. he'd drawn all of them in crayon, luke and nagasa and the rest of the watchmen. and void.

"i look good." he teased, and tito flushed, grinning as his tan cheeks warmed.

"shut up. dad likes them."

"i'm sure he does." void hadn't really gotten much of a chance to meet ghost, but from the way tito talked about him he was sure that ghost loved his son more than anything.

"do you think he really gets them?"

tito's smile faltered, just a bit, and he clutched the violet crayon in his hand.

"...i worry about that, i guess. but luke says he gives them to him himself. in person. i don't know if i trust this place yet but... i trust luke. if he says dad is getting them, i believe him."

void smiled, sitting on the edge of their bed. "that's true."

"besides, even if he can't write back, and even if he didn't always get them, i'd still do it. i guess he's really lonely locked up all by himself." he huffed. "i mean. i would be. so even if he gets one or two, it might help, right?"

void nodded, and reached out, gently resting his hand over tito's. the older boy huffed, looking down, before grasping it gently, skin warm against void's cool, pale fingers.

"of course it does. he loves you more than anything. just being able to hear from you is probably enough for him."

tito grinned, bright eyes glittering.

"yeah."

then, he turned, coloring in void's eyes with the violet crayon as he held his hand.

he knew.

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exploit
"andreas has a habit of causing trouble, but this sort of trouble is something lark doesn't mind one bit."

lark blinked open his eyes slowly, still a bit groggy with sleep. the sun was warm on his back and shoulders, the grass underneath him soft and cool and the silk draped over him equally as comfortable. across from him, andreas was looking over a map, red eyes scanning the parchment intently, thin brows smooth and pale hair draped over his shoulders like a curtain, only parted by his pointed ears.

lark watched him for a long moment, then made a face, wrinkling his nose, and turned to his other side. vagabond lay next to him in the grass, eyes half-lidded, chewing lazily on the blades as his white tail flicked. slowly, lark reached out, and stroked the massive horse's spotty silver skin. he whickered, faintly, turning his head just a fraction toward the boy.

good horse.

"good morning." andreas murmured, and lark scowled. "hungry?"

"shut up." lark muttered, patting vagabond's shoulder once and sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

andreas didn't respond, and lark couldn't help but feel more annoyed over the lack of a retort.

"what are you even doing?"

"i thought you wanted me to shut up?" the elf's lips twitched, and lark scowled more deeply. "i'm planning a heist, i suppose."

despite himself, lark's curiosity was piqued. "...a heist?"

"mhmmm. there's a man who lives in the next town known for his wealth. rumor is that he keeps his hoard in his home."

"so it's pretty available..." lark murmured.

"maybe. it sounds like he's having a party, so i thought i would find out. imagine, a whole trove of gold. you could get things much nicer than a new fur coat."

the thought... was enticing.

"no way. i know what you're going to say. i'm not gonna help you."

"is that so? too bad. i suppose you'll have to stay here and be babysat by vagabond."

lark spat at him, and vagabond raised his head, snorting. "yeah, i know. he sucks."

andreas shrugged, gathering his things. "i suppose i'll just have to bring this narcissistic noble to his knees on my own, then. i'll be back."

at that, however, lark perked up, just faintly. "...he's a noble?" he inquired cautiously, raising a brow.

"does that change anything?" andreas purred, matching his gaze. "he's an old friend of your former master."

"well why didn't you say that?!"

lark was immediately on his feet, adjusting the pelt around his shoulders. he scoffed, smoothing back his hair, and looked away, hands on his hips.

"well?"

andreas chuckled to himself, and began to walk. "you stay here, vagabond. watch the things."

the large horse snorted, as if brushing him off, and went back to chewing on the tender green blades beneath him.

the elf hummed, and continued on, lark trotting after him. "your ugly attitude is rubbing off on him."

"screw you. let's go get this snob."