FIRST OFF, there is a Spored fancomic! An adaptation of this very fic! The planned premiere is April 20! You can find and follow it here! If you're also an artist and want to help contribute, you can message the Insta account
Sometimes serendipity just hits you in the face.
Pikmin 3 Deluxe came out this year (the only reason I bought a WiiU) and playing through it again was a blast of nostalgia. There's such charm in the Pikmin universe, such a coy sense of humour and I loved every moment of my replay.
It also caused me to log back into this account, for the first time in, like, eight years (!). I didn't expect much, it had been so long. And yet there was one private message in my Inbox, from a mere six (!) days ago. A wonderful artist and writer here, named Bikeborb, had messaged me, saying she and a few other artists were attempting to create a fancomic of this very work.
Um…
I was stunned.
I was flattered.
I was shown artwork of my fic, I was shown memes. I kinda teared up. I didn't expect this fic, one that I've looked back with a sense of sort of bashful pride, would still have any ripple on this community a decade later. I'm honoured, truly, and it gave me a chance to reflect.
Truth is, I still write today, a lot. Poetry and novels and short stories. It remains one of my favourite hobbies. I love it dearly and I've had the fortune of being published.
Truth is, Spored does start a bit rough. I look back at the writing and I chuckle. It's definitely "unpolished" at times.
Truth is, I wouldn't be half the writer I am now without this story. It taught me so much. It allowed me to hone my craft. It showed me what NOT to do (another cliffhanger, V!?) and what to embrace.
Truth is, Spored would never have gotten finished without a wonderful and receptive community such as this.
You grow up, but the roots that got you there remain. Reflecting on this work has given me the opportunity to return to it. Below are some poems, tiny slices of moments captured in the Spored universe, slightly altered perspectives, moments of contemplation, melancholy yet hope. I hope you enjoy.
With love –
V
Every night
Those argent gems in the sky
How each pikmin yearned to reach
To pluck
A glimmer of something else
Something beyond, vast and unknowable
And still, right there
A promise of something more
a single
spore
blossom bruised in that head
pungent, relentless, eager
corruption, ever carnal
consumption manifest
and yet
in that latticework of mind
of such simple plant life
resistance
not of the sharp edge of willpower
or of fortitude
rather, this vulnerable mind shimmers with
a single spark
iridescent, radiant emotion
...hope
...vulnerability
Love
a feeling ever vibrant
as simple as a beautiful day
and yet incomprehensible
against Love
the spore is nothing
a mute voice haplessly clawing
upon a crystalline expanse
A cerulean flower, as brilliant and blue as that chaliced sky above. How it glistens, a sapphire swell amidst this endless white tapestry. Hearing nothing, witnessing everything. How it waits–impartial, unjudging
Why there? Why now?
He doesn't know, stumbling, mushroom drooped, hope desperate. How he could have went any other path. And yet
Here
Now
Petals embracing, self shedding
Past unpeeling, will reclaiming
The puffstool
Empire manifest, from spore kindling to haze drenched–a cauldron of miasmic fungal snarl. A forest claimed. Its inhabitants enthralled. Yet in this gossamer hivemind, an infinite echo chamber, a chorus of worship, there is but one voice.
It's
Only it
Life reduced to a singularity, a mirror eternal
In that purple
void
amidst itself,
loneliness
gnaws
And still it consumes
.
.
.
And still it wonders
.
.
.
.
Never sated
How the cyans watched from afar, the leaders at work. The endless parade of pikmin behind them, backs strained from the cavalcade of treasure. Eyes shimmering with mockery, pity, hunger. Empathy foreign, unknowable. How they see life akin to the endless gnaw of winter–bitter, relentless, indifferent. Self-serving and cruel.
Nothing more
Never more
How they'll never understand
The uncertainty of another day in the frost
The inevitably of demise, ever looming like these spectral trunks
And yet
Those fleeting moments
A yellow smile, as bright as the sun
An ivory laugh, soothing as a lavender flower
Pinpricks of charity, glinting in this blank expanse
As ephemeral as snow in a cupped hand
Still, they linger
Still, they haunt
That endless drone ensnares the forest
The snarl of puffstool rhythm
A beat, corrosive upon self
A thousand minds, spore churned
A thousand bodies, motionless in this rust drenched arena
A thousand eyes, unwatching that lone sapphire speck enter
A single body, defiant
Just one
One is enough
A single drop to disturb this umbral pond
To make each body blink
To breathe,
To gasp
To wonder–
To declare
I'm still here
.
.
.
.
I'm still here
.
.
.
.
.
.
"I'm still here"
Imagine spring
So long, in this desert, this tundra. Polar opposites yet mutual hostility, twin edges of the same blade. Endless scorchblaze to the silent scream of cold. No longer. Imagine the pikmin. Unburdened from the shackles of survival. Unsheathed from the simple repetition of another day. Another day. Another day. Another day. For what?
For this
From a fertile exhale, comes so very much. Spring–an aperture, a blush of colour. A rush of experience. The world in contentment, an emerald sigh, life at full bloom
Existence comes slowly
And yet how fast it goes
Experience, a rush of lucidity–self refracted
How we yearn for a breath
A moment
A chance to look back
A purple stem. A white stem
(entwined)
Those brief pauses, that imagined spill of words
(why do we hesitate?)
Thoughts unsaid, yet palpable
Friends, yet–
Mute promises, reflected upon eyes
...
...
If only, they had one more day
...
...
...
If only