Work Text:
“So, is everybody ready?” I ask.
I look around the empty space, and see the candidates for the writing prompt, breathless, eyeing each other circumspectly. None of them are thrilled to be here, knowing that a prompt like breathless can go in one of two basic directions -- love or torture. I can’t really blame them, but what can I do? A writer needs to write, and as a writer of fan fiction, well, I need some volunteers willing to get their love on or get a beat down.
“Uh, I’m not sure if I’m in the right place,” a young redhead looks around the white space that is quickly filling up with ideas and characters and swallows. He appears to be sweating, and he gazes around frantically until his eyes light upon a familiar face.
“Ronald Bilius Weasley,” an older, wizened man dressed in an elaborate set of purple robes decorated with yellow stars, stands and gestures toward a metal chair that materializes out of thin air. He waves some kind of stick, and says some words, and the metal chair is transformed into a very comfortable looking armchair that I am immediately wishing I could materialize into my living room.
“Dumbledore?” Ron asks. “What am I doing here? I was on my way to meet Harry and Hermione in the library and now...”
“The young Muggle lady has something to ask us, take a seat,” Dumbledore says. I give him a smile, because I am not exactly young, but I suppose anyone under the age of a hundred would be young to the elderly wizard.
“Can we get on with this?” Matt Hooper glances at Martin Brody, giving him a look that communicates his impatience. “Some of us have important work to do.”
Martin offers me an apologetic smile and adjusts his glasses on his face. “I’ve got to admit that the break is kind of nice.”
“Unless you’ve got a Sasquatch hidden around here somewhere, Dadsona and I have got a date, and you’re cutting into it,” Robert Small says. He’s sitting low in his metal chair, arms crossed over his chest, and there’s a scowl etched on his face.
Dadsona waves at me, and scratches his beard. He glances over at Dumbledore’s beard, and I wonder if there is a little beard envy going on there, but dismiss it because that has nothing to do with the story that I need to find the right characters for.
Tigger and Anubis, my cats, sit on the vacuum and the microwave I’ve not had time to set up yet, and stare at me. It’s time for bed. They judge me with the twitch of their ears and their frequent glances in my direction.
“So, why are we here?” Ron asks. He is hunched over in the chair, and has a sullen look on his face.
Typical teenager, I think.
“Well, I have gathered you here,” I start, only to be interrupted by a snort from Matt, and a curse from Robert. Both men do nothing to hide their derision.
I clear my throat, or rather, I stretch my fingers, and crack my back, and get back to the business of interviewing these characters for breathless.
“Which of you pairs would like to be in a story based on the prompt, breathless?” I ask.
Ron frowns and scratches his stomach. “Like, where I can’t breathe?” He shudders and gives Dumbledore a look that reminds me of how young he is, and makes me wonder how on earth the Ron/Dumbledore grouping made it in my wheel of decision. Was I sleep deprived on the day that I made it, or going through some kind of odd phase.
Dumbledore pats Ron on the head, and takes a deep breath. His eyes are twinkling when he looks at me, and he gives me an enigmatic smile that doesn’t really answer my question at all.
Brody pales, and Matt gives me a look so filled with anger and hatred that I feel a bit breathless myself. I have to look away, because if looks could kill, I would be dead.
Tigger is creeping around the television set, chasing after something, which is rather distracting and irritating. He seems hellbent on destroying the cable box and the internet tower, which would cause this whole operation to shut down immediately.
“What the hell are you playing at?” Matt asks, he stands from his chair and jabs a finger in my face, making me go cross eyed for a little bit. “Are you seriously asking us to become pawns in your, your deprived fictional fantasies?” his hands fly around as he speaks, and spittle lands on my face.
I lean back in my seat and type at arm’s length. Good thing I have the keys memorized so I don’t even need to look at the keyboard as I type. I learned a lot in eighth grade.
“We’re outta here,” Robert says. He stands, and pulls Dadsona up out of his seat. “This is some pretty deep bullshit.”
“So, what you’re telling me is that none of you are willing to volunteer for a story based on the prompt, breathless?” I ask.
I’m a bit nonplussed as I pick up the water bottle to keep Tigger from making another attempt at shutting this down by destroying my internet connection, and he and Anubis start on their evening zoomies rampaging through the apartment, bouncing, quite literally off furniture and walls, and taking zero caution. Nothing is safe when they’ve got the zoomies. Not even me. Not even the computer.
I’ve worked with these characters before. Most of the time they’re willing to volunteer, even for the not so savory fictional pieces that I’ve written.
What did I do wrong? I wonder. I spun the wheel. I spent some time thinking about plots and potential interpretations of the prompt that were unique and fun. I even spent some time chatting with a writer friend. You know, the typical process.
Yet, the characters are leaving now. Dumbledore and Ron stand, and Matt and Brody stand, and then they each fade away, giving me parting looks that are filled with contempt or pity, neither of which does me any good when I have a prompt to fill for a Tumblr Dragon Age fan fiction prompt list that I am filling with stories about other fandoms because I’ve never played Dragon Age and I have no idea what it’s about, and it’s far too late in the month for me to start getting into it. There are nuances to characters that take more than a few days to learn, and story lines that need to be taken into account, not to mention learning how to play the game.
“Anyone else out there interested in volunteering for this story?” I ask the depths of my imagination. There is an emptiness there. Not one of the characters from the fifty or so fandoms that I have written for feel like being breathless in any way fashion or form.
I sigh, and watch Tigger attack the books that he seems to want to kill for reasons unknown. He’s been at it for days. It’s distracting.
There’s a shimmering glimmer in the corner of my imagination, and I take a moment to see if I can coax it out to see who might be stepping forth from the recesses of my mind to volunteer for breathless. A unicorn steps out. She’s pink and blue. She’s the me that I am when I’m not the me I am now.
“You need to give this one a rest,” she says in a voice that is magical and peaceful. “No one wants to participate in this one. Maybe move onto the next one. It’s okay. You don’t have to finish all of the prompts. Come and play with the rainbow.”
Kiss the rainbow, be the rainbow, I think as I embrace my inner childlike (yet wise) unicorn.