hello! A while ago I challenged myself to write a short story. The rules were to use the full setting of a game, cartoon, movie or other form of creative work while using none of its plot or characters. I finally finished, some year and a half later. Commentary would be greatly appreciated.
Moku's eyes fluttered awake from a bad dream. Immediately struck with a feint aroma of musk, dust and cooking oil, he stretched himself awake. His skin craved relief from the torn wool blanket which concealed it. A quick, familiar glance around his room calmed him down; his rug sat patiently near his old television set where it always had, and close by lay an old antique radio, rusting atop his clothing drawer. His small desk was littered with photographs and junk from indefinable times. The room was poorly lit as usual, yet it provided a soothing comfort to him, as a baby bird to the familiarity of its bedraggled nest. The walls shivered, cold and dark, and the room itself seemed to hold an uninterrupted state of loneliness. The window to the right of his bed delivered the day's news; the skies were dark and cloudy, cloaking the golden sun in a murky, dull mist.
It was raining.
Moku opened the doors to his room and walked downstairs, excited for a morning walk. He had always loved the way his small town looked in the rain; it reminded him that there was life outside of his home, outside of his town. He had almost entirely forgotten that today was his birthday, though then again, what reason would he have to remember? Life seemed to press on in the same way regardless of the date. On his way outside, something unusual caught his attention, something he had only seen once before. There was no card, his mother had already left for work, yet this shining box on the table seemed to resemble her appearance; he almost thought he could hear her breathing. The small green box gleamed with lights not expressed from the air around it. It was the only thing holding any color in the room, but it seemed to bring the whole house to life. Moku carefully removed the stained, torn red ribbon from it, unveiling the shiny green box in its full form: it was crusted as if used several times and its swollen sides reeked of old age, yet he could not think of anything more beautiful. Cautiously, he tore the clear tape which held it closed and peered inside. The inside of the box was dirty, holding home to hundreds of fragments of dust and a thin, indistinguishable black fluid. It also cradled a small, colorful orb, rolling around with the gravity of the box. He knew what it was and had seen them before, a Pokeball. Moku's eyes lit up with excitement. He was taken back, almost surprised to see a small drop of water fall from his face.
She had quite the daily trek from her job in Goldenrod City to her small, quaint town, yet it was made easier by the company of her aging Pokemon. A Tauros had lived with her family since she was a girl, and was rapidly showing symptoms of old age and exhaustion. As Martha rode the sun had never shown its face, yet it left a slight distortion in the clouds where it had once been. A leaf fell, tossing carelessly in the wind in front of her path. Her mind was suddenly elsewhere; she was taken back to a warm Autumn afternoon when she and her son had collected the leaves and twigs as they fell, making a wish upon each one. "A dragon", he had wished.
They couldn't afford a dragon.
At the thought of her son, Martha recalled with much dismay that it was his birthday; she had forgotten to bring him a gift. When she arrived home, she was rather surprised to see a note taped to the front door. In a confused panic, she dropped the yellowing piece of paper and hurriedly scrambled inside. It did not take her long to realize that she was too late; she was alone.
The pale grey sky was slowly approaching darkness.
It was night. The last of the lighted windows seemed to dance together to the rhythm of the rain; a slow, ambient sway. Chilling winds whispered aimlessly to the skies, tugging softly at Moku's long, tangled hair. Alone he sat, cradling the colored ball in his palms, unable to peer inside. If it was a sentimental attachment to the mystery of it, he was not aware; he didn't quite know how he felt right now. The ball remained closed. An impending feeling of sleep taunted him until he too was carried off with the gentle breeze into the shadows of the clouded sky.
A man stood before him; recognized, but not by sight. He spoke in a thin, raspy voice, "happy birthday, Moku." His voice sunk to a barely distinguishable murmur. "It's been so long."
Moku awoke with a dry, mournful gasp. It was the same man he had seen the night before, and the night before that. Cold, lonely and wet, Moku lay awake in the darkness.
The rain continued to fall.
The first strands of sun toyed playfully with the sleeping pine as if to wake it from its rest on the shadowed hills of the distant Route 42. Wet, dirty, mildly bruised and well rested, Moku rose with enough spirit to guide the sun across the clear sky. It had hardly been two years since his father died, yet he didn't remember a minute of it; only that there was and then that was was no more. He may have had a better chance to recall his well-rehearsed dream, if the mournful cry of a nearby Miltank had not quickly vanquished his thoughts. There were the ports of Olivine, only a few hundred paces away. He could begin his journey in the tropical city of Cianwood, he thought. Before he was fully aware of his decision, Moku felt his legs vigorously scraping at the sandy ground beneath him. Almost as quickly as it rose, the sun watched Moku board the S.s. Naoko, and proceeded to chase him across the horizon. It would be night by the time they'd reach their destination.
Moku slept.
Subu gnawed passively at Moku's tangled hair until a large hand knocked him aside, tossing him into the water. Moku sat up. For a moment the world seemed infinitely at rest, wrapped comfortably behind a soothing blanket of blindness. As he lifted his cumbersome hands and burnished his face free of the night's exhaustion, his vision was restored. Moku looked around. The dying grass lay patiently by the once-dormant pond as it always had; the pond itself awoken by a puzzle-faced Subu. The sky held its same unsettling pinkish hue, yet it provided a soothing comfort to him, as a bleeding life to the promise of a quiet and permanent slumber. The ground beneath him shivered, cold and dark, and as Moku stood he realized that he too was soaking wet. Subu skittered back towards Moku, dripping water upon the grass as he went. All was quiet. A few scattered clouds above his head briefly greeted each other before becoming one in a devastating battle of unity.
Moku's feet started forward with resentful fury against the dirty earth. Subu curiously followed. Behind him, small blotches of dead grass separated themselves from the sleep of the ground and stood straight up as in their former state. Subu dripped water as he went.
The clouds rippled through the pink sky as if they had been splashed upon it by the ceaseless cry of a tired Noctowl. Perched comfortably on Moku's shoulder, Subu seemed to sway with the rhythm of the song. Tired, wet and hungry, he gnawed softly at Moku's ear. Moku set him down and turned towards the dampened trees, swollen with life. The song of the distant Noctowl crystalized before him until he could touch it, and when he could he plucked it from the tree and fed it to Subu, and all was quiet.
Moku had forgotten his name. He and his Sentret trumped through the twigs and leaves as they marched on. People are so much smarter and stronger than the seeds and strings of the earth, but only the twigs beneath him knew when to fall. And so they trumped on, dissolving carelessly into the pink horizon.
It was morning when they found him. Two days ago, a ship captain had reported seeing a young passenger wandering off the ferry as if he were asleep. Moku lay there among the shivering rocks as if he were still sleeping; his long wet hair matted off to one side and his arms resting quietly against his body. Martha wept as she peered down through a mesh of vapor and moisture; her essence fused with his by the slow, mournful requiem of the rain. Clutched in their hands was a small, colorful orb, waiting patiently to be opened. The rain continued its song after they lifted him inside, and carried on uninterrupted into the night.
(by SoIHeardYouLikeSentret on Smogon forums)