because I'm better at brainstorming than writing anyway

[timepiececlock]

nabbed from jaina

If you make up titles for stories I didn't write, I will respond with details of those non-written stories.


fandoms covered so far:

Fullmetal Alchemist - Freedom Kittens
Princess Tutu - Reconstruction (spoilers!)
Harry Potter - Lazy Days (spoilers!)
Avatar: The Last Airbender - Nightblindness (spoilers!), Girl With The Weight Of The World On Her Shoulders, Five Buildings Zuko Didn't Burn Down (spoilers!)
Naruto - In a Forest Without Trees

Comments

[rasielle.livejournal.com]

ahhh, late, but Harry Potter?

[rashaka.livejournal.com]

Ooh, hard! Hm... actually, I can't. Because in my head, its the title of a Princess Tutu fic.

Title: The Reconstruction

When the last feathers fall and final note fades, the townspeople of Gold Crowne Town look around at their world with eyes anew. Animals are animals, people are people, and there's a big wide world beyond their tiny dramas. They take up the reconstruction effort with verve: there are gates to re-open, walls to tear down, and homes to rebuild now that the earthquake is over. That's what all the scientists say it was: an earthquake beneath a storm, leaving campus buildings torn up, houses shaken till the windows have shattered, and massive cracks in the township wall. They assume the feathers (in heaps and piles, sneaking under window panes and mail boxes to prick inattentive fingers) are from a bird migration caught in the thunder storm, though they find no bodies, only black down.

Fakir sets aside his pen to join in the reconstruction efforts; school is suspended for two months and the youth of Gold Crowne occupy their minds with new lessons on mortar, nails, carpentry, or plumbing. Though only a few know it--Fakir and Autor, Drosselmeyer's dolls in bell the tower-- the something has been taken from the town and the destruction they see is the aftermath of its separation. The fabric of this place, this world, was ripped apart, torn into two, and resewn onto a new piece of weave, a cloak longer and brighter than their minitature swatch. The new cloth is stronger and brighter, and the citizens of Gold Crowne itch to dance along their new threads of destiny. But before they can dance they must labor. They must bend and lift and cut and swing and patch the holes the Prince and the Raven left in their wake.

Fakir sees the reconstruction, revels in new life and vitality of his neighbors, so distant from the suffocating stagnancy of Drosselmeyer's reign. But even as he smiles at Charon and carries tools to the worksites, a part of his heart breaks, because he does not know if the cracks in this weave will be enough for her feathers to slip through, when all the patching is done.

CURSE YOU, you should've done this --

[rasielle.livejournal.com]

(spoiler warning, heavy spoiler within:)
(written because your plot bunny is playing innocent, swinging its feet, whistling maddeningly)

*

With a hammer heavy in his grasp, Fakir peers at the mauled set of benches and moves his hand awkwardly, raises it, but cannot send it down. He has checked his measurements once and again until they are almost words, but a stiffness in his limbs reminds him that he has never done hammered anything before; he is warned that he probably will not do this right. But to his relief, it isn't like writing, especially not in the sense with which he is familiar; mistakes here risk crooked doors rather than crooked lives. Still unsure, he glances around first and sees men young and old hammering away with all the energy of their age, and women and children rushing back and forth with drinks and tools and cool, soft hands.

When a light-eyed young woman swans up to Fakir and offers him a slice of fruit, he is suddenly moved. He can swear on Mytho's last heart shard that he has never seen her before, despite the modest size of Gold Crown Town. It suddenly occurs to him that with the destruction of the quaint walls and gilded gates, everything once kept within is pouring out. His fingers itch for his quill, traded momentarily for the hammer.

"Thank you," Fakir says, his voice warm. Even to his own ears, the words sound strange. Once, they would've echoed across Gold Crown alleys, swallowed by brightly colored, perfectly painted walls. "And a piece for the duck as well. She's been out for as long as I have."

The woman blinks and then glances down at his side, spotting the curious, feathered shape fidgeting beside him. "She must be working hard," she laughs before hurrying away to disappear among the workers next door. Fakir sets down his hammer and watches her leave, remembering her face. It had been different and yet the same from the ones that surrounded him: the faces of strangers, with perplexed smiles and wide eyes that reflected the ruins with excitement.

There is a soft shuffling sound at Fakir's side, and his hammer is shoved gently against his thigh. "I know, I know, I'm working," he huffs, raising an eyebrow but not straining a finger. Instead he lifts his hand and brushes it gently across the top of his duck's head, whose quacks of protest ebb as his eyes meet hers.

Together they have been out in the sun, amidst the sounds of pieces fitting together. They've watched countless couples pass by with a forest of wood between them, and girls painting the doors with white flowers, and boys tackling their fathers' metal tools like they would giant, untamed animals. They catch the beginning and ending threads of conversations, so ordinary and hopeful that Fakir could've written them. Upon all of this Ahiru gazes with longing, feeling as if she is watching Mytho and Rue dance all over again, as they had done once upon a time - but rather than the deft, liquid movement of their feet, she watches their hands, reads the callouses on their palms, and admires in them an earnest clumsiness that is so familiar.

Fakir is watching her. He has long grown adept at reading his duck's noisy silences, and he can now tell which of them to laugh into and which to pore over and study. Without a word, he resolves to build a house, an honestly constructed cottage that leans into the lake. He will never begin it until Ahiru can join him. In the meantime, he will continue his own work for her in the only way he knows how, until the grace is gone from his fingers and hands.



*****

I can totally see the influence from your work in Louisiana in your plot bunny. Apart from that, all I have to say is IT'S TOO BEAUTIFUL, WHY DON'T YOU WRITE IT, DARN YOU. *agonizes over your plot bunny and fic-that-isn't*

Re: CURSE YOU, you should've done this --

[rashaka.livejournal.com]

Yeah, it creeped in. I won't think of the term "reconstruction" ever again without thinking of Hurricane Katrina and the Southern states. You could have meant reconstructing a soul, reconstructing a toy model, or reconstructing a relationship, but for me, it only means housing now.

I'm tickled by the idea that there must have been a transition phase before they went back to their oblivious lives without Ahiru or the story characters.

----

But to his relief, it isn't like writing, especially not in the sense with which he is familiar; mistakes here risk crooked doors rather than crooked lives.

I like that. Also: the first thing I learned was how to hammer properly! And then I had to show other people. You'd be surprised how easy it is to hold a hammer completely wrong, considering it's the simplest tool in the box.

"Thank you," Fakir says, his voice warm. Even to his own ears, the words sound strange. Once, they would've echoed across Gold Crown alleys, swallowed by brightly colored, perfectly painted walls. "And a piece for the duck as well. She's been out for as long as I have."

I love this! This exactly what I was thinking of: that with the loss of the story, the townspeople would come together in a new way, a sort of unexplained wave of goodwill and euphoric freedom that they don't even understand themselves, given that they just had a huge "natural disaster".

I like that Ahiru reminds him not to slack off.

Upon all of this Ahiru gazes with longing, feeling as if she is watching Mytho and Rue dance all over again, as they had done once upon a time - but rather than the deft, liquid movement of their feet, she watches their hands, reads the callouses on their palms, and admires in them an earnest clumsiness that is so familiar.

Poor Ahiru. I really think the loss of her community as a girl is the saddest thing about going back to being a duckat the end of the show-- sadder and bigger even than losing a potential lover. She didn't just get separated from her dearest friend/crush/special person, she got separated from that whole LIFE.

Without a word, he resolves to build a house, an honestly constructed cottage that leans into the lake. He will never begin it until Ahiru can join him. In the meantime, he will continue his own work for her in the only way he knows how, until the grace is gone from his fingers and hands.

I like that. Tying this reconstruction and the building of something new to the building of their future, and the inkling hint that maybe this is the right story tack to take. That it shouldn't just be about bringing her back, but bringing her back FOR SOMETHING. And a house is a strong symbol with a grand literary tradition.