Sunflowers By Velasa

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Summary- It can't be easy to hear that your dad would rather stay dead that come home. It's hard on a kid, even one like Son Gohan. Piccolo tries to sort out where everything went wrong.

3/31/2007 6:32 AM

NOTE- Hello all you crazy people. It's me again, beating slowly but steadily through all my material to make it suitable for human consumption. First up is Sunflowers- my favorite one shot. I wrote it the first time all the way back in 2001 and re-wrote it starting this February. The inspiration, both times, has been the wonderfully raw lyrics of Everclear. "Sunflowers" started all of this. "Portland Rain" threw me headlong back into the passion and chaos of these characters, even if its lyrics don't really apply to the fic here. Other music I used in the process of the rewrite composed vastly of Tonic and Train.

I wanted to write a story about Piccolo, in this whole process of the chaos surrounding the end of the Cell Games. When I wrote it the first time I hadn't even seen that whole fight yet but I knew enough to do it. I have seen it now... and you'll notice a stronger line of commentary dealing with Son's wonderful parenting skills. Other than that, better writing and everyone actually being in character it's still the same old fic. Just a lot better.

Now the technical notes. AU, PG-13 for less than pleasant themes and language- To quote the great Onyx, I'm continuing my trend toward depressing fanfiction. This fic is dedicated to the people like Jenny and Kosh out there who had written beautiful Cell-era Pic fics long before I ever thought of it. Insert disclaimer here. Toriyama-sama is looove.

But first, a little bit of unrelated writing so I can make this its own chapter. A little stream of consciousness I wrote a few days ago while listening to Live's cover of "I Walk the Line"

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His hands go to his side, to where he knows the blade is. Eyes narrow under all the scars, lips drawn to a faint thin line as they start running - down the sands as we pan out in a backward thrust with dust flying in or eyes. He ignores it and strikes- it hits true, and the beast falls.

He can trust the blade easily. It's what it does. He's singular, the man who stands there so still and looks back at you with just such... strangeness. And smiles. He always manages to smile, vaguely. Heh. It's just... what he's always done. How he deals with pressure. He'll deal on.

Let the world throw whatever it wants. He's ready for the deamons.

9:37 PM 3/22/2007