Writing

Apr 22, 2022 11:12

I thought that I was done writing for the Bolt fandom, other than a silly one-shot ghost story that's been simmering in the back of my mind for some time.

Then out of nowhere, the idea for Madame Bolt came slamming into my brain. So not only did I write another story for the fandom, but it's a ships a dog and a cat (which, if I remember from Ghost Busters, is a sign of the end times).

"Wags," said Mittens smoothly, "I want you to know that I am saying this in the most loving and unironic way that I can. I genuinely wish you had a day job so that I could tell you not to quit it."

I have two Transformers stories plotted out and waiting in the wings, but as quickly as I finished this one, I was slapped upside the head with another idea for a story in the Bolt fandom. I went as far as to hammer out a rough outline the other day for what looks (if I decide to write it) like it would be three chapters long and deal with some touchy subjects involving trauma and conflict. Filled with the usual silliness to keep it from getting too dark, mind you.

Bolt rounded the corner and scrabbled to a stop on the hardwood floor with a whimper of surprise as soon as he laid eyes on the cat. Mittens was lying on the edge of her cushion with one paw hanging languidly over the edge. She was slowly swirling its tip as if stirring a pot of ennui. The cat heaved a deep sigh and cast a brief sidelong glance at the dog as he rounded the corner into the room, but otherwise didn't acknowledge his presence.

"Why are you wearing Penny's spiked collar? And..." the shepherd frowned. "Is that black eye-liner and lipstick? Did Penny do this to you?"

Mittens gave another long, slow sigh as if the weight of the entire world was weighing down on her feline breast. "It is so that when I look into the mirror, it reflects the true Stygian pit of my hopelessness." she said in a tone usually reserved for announcing the death of a beloved friend. "The black, gelid ichor of my soul oozes from my lips and eyes, leaving me hollow and bereft of life's ephemeral joys."

"I... I don't know how to feel about this -- everything about it is wrong" said Bolt, rubbing his forehead with his forepaws and suppressing a whine of confusion. "On the one hand, I'm way more into it than I have any right to be."

bolt, fiction, writing, story

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