It's Enough.
Over the past few years, I've noticed a pattern where I go into a spiral of writer's insecurity after posting certain types of fic. These are usually little ficlets, or fics made up of thematically connected scenes
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Edgar blinks his eyes open.
His first impression is that he's in a tent, and then he realises it can barely be called a tent: a haphazard construction of tarpaulins and scrap metal. The sun slants in through countless gaps like it's hunting him down.
He swallows, forcing it down past what suddenly feels like broken glass in his throat. Nny's decided to abduct him again.
But... no. The air doesn't feel right, the temperature, the light. He can hear voices; they're not pleading or screaming. He thinks he might be able to hear the ocean.
Where are we?
Silence. He raises his head a little. It looks like the tent is built on sand.
Scriabin?
No answer. He was already unsettled, but now he's starting to panic.
He's not strapped down; he's lying on an unfamiliar blanket. He climbs unsteadily to his bare feet, slipping a little on the sand.
His shoes are sitting at the edge of the tent. He pulls them on; they're not suited for the beach, but he feels more secure if he's wearing them.
Scriabin? he calls, again.
The tarpaulin is pulled aside, and Edgar freezes.
It's an unfamiliar man, short-cropped dark hair, cuts healing on his face and hands. "You're awake," he says. He looks Edgar briefly up and down. "How do you feel?"
"Um," Edgar says, "confused. Where are we?"
"You've been out for two days," the man says. "We're on an island in the Pacific." He's watching Edgar like he's waiting for this to make sense to him, but it's only making him more confused. How did he...? "Our plane crashed."
The words slam into Edgar like the plane hitting the ground, and suddenly he remembers, the tail breaking off, gripping the armrests white-knuckled, Scriabin shrieking hysterically in his mind-
"We found your brother," the man says. "He's fine, he's okay. He's been keeping everyone entertained with his, uh, stories."
Edgar stares at him. "I don't... have a brother."
"Uh," the man says, "yeah, I'm pretty sure you do."
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WHAT KIND OF STORIES IS SCRIABIN TELLING
NOW I'M HOOKED
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