Author's note: This was sort of experimental. I had the idea that serious fanfiction should follow in the style of the original, so this is an attempt at that. There may be more if an idea for a plot occurs to me, but otherwise, this is just a oneshot. Please review. Flamers make a tasty breakfast.
Disclaimer: I don't own Furi Kuri or any of its characters. I don't have enough money to make it worth your while to sue me.
She was the first one, bullet-time speeding through the streets of his imagination. Memory, a figment, the remains of society. Lost, a guess, humdrum in reality, but that kiss. A thunderbolt, she was fast, nevermind she left in a bang and a flash, robots, pop culture, the speed of a guess, who cares.
She cared, perhaps. She sought, knowing under an assumed name but it gives form. Haruko Haruhara, pink hair, yellow eyes, idle except when paired with a P, a guitar, swing, swing, swing that bat, point to the horizon, it captures your dreams.
Power: it caught her fancy. Run roughshod over others, a sense of unreality, shaking that cat for the answers to the universe. Pause, it's unlucky, hot curry cold rice a conundrum, nonsense.
She stopped learning, raced the sun, wind in her face all that mattered. A boy, he was useful, more she considered, but never told.
Older than she looked, liar, fake, housekeeper. The placement of a pause, a comma, meaning in that instant. Instant ramen, hot noodles, the discount stuff is no good. Thief, vagabond, free spirit, guitar-toting menace to society, rich, poor, it doesn't matter, a game, extermination, flatten the wrinkles of the earth.
You can't think, captivated by the ever present P! Or perhaps it's just that the wrinkles are gone, giant iron descended upon you, judgement, the will of another. The will of an alien.
You saw her descend. As she rode in from the sky you wondered, is it the rattling of bracelets, the power of the pirate? Is the boy useful, or is it something else? Fickle perhaps, but not forgetful, she enters the store, day-old bread and cheap tabloids. First the father, then the boy. He runs, she comforts. It would seem she has returned.
He was an ordinary boy, or so he thought, Naota Nandaba, bit it empty in the head but it didn't matter. His father was a nutcase, pervert, yellow journalist baker, mild curry philosopher, Eva on the brain.
The girl too, Mamimi Samejima, video game addict, empty, old cell phone new sandals. She watches the cat; she has named it Takkun. Takkun was like Tasu-kun, a baseball player who forgot her, his blonde girlfriend smirks in the photograph, shallow but she's no worse than Mamimi.
The boy, to her, is a placebo; the cat, a reminder. He's not hers but is caught in a photograph cat ears baseball bat homework. That was years ago, but he's still a boy.
Furi kuri is my style, random babble disguised as philosophy, or philosophy disguised as random babble. It's a conundrum, a drab continuance of fact and fiction, nobody knows which way to turn.
