Full Version: Edwin 100 Themes
LMAO! golden! absolutely golden! XD
LOL!!!!ah, i love it!!XD Theme 13 was beautiful, and Theme 14 was figgin' hillarious and had me laughing big time!!!! keep it up^^
*Still laughing over 14*
Loved it tobu..
Sorry I havnt posted for a while here!
Loved it tobu..
Sorry I havnt posted for a while here!
*
Theme 15 – Worry
Back when they were still searching for the Stone, he and Al used to talk late at night, when sleep hovered at the edges of their consciousness like a road they couldn’t quite cross. Sometimes they spoke of memories, things they’d lost but would never forget; and sometimes, heartbreakingly, Al would ask him little things, making it an innocent part of the conversation, trying to hide the fact that he’d forgotten them.
It was a normal thing, Ed told him then. As the mind gets older, new memories crowd out some of the old. It’s nothing dangerous, nothing abnormal. Nothing bad.
And Al would nod, and try to hide his fear and worry as the little details slipped away over the years of sight without touch and taste and smell. The slight biting cinnamon aftertaste of apple pie. The heady fragrance of summer flowers. The feel of another human being’s arms around him.
Ed tried his best to sympathize, knew how horrible it must be. But he never really understood until that morning, when he woke up in bed after a night of hazy, grey-water dreams and realized that, after two long years trapped on this side of the Gate, he was no longer quite sure of the exact blue of her eyes.
He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, straining to remember, to be sure. Something gnawed at his stomach, and he wondered how much more he had already forgotten without knowing it. An irrational worry, with a grain of truth in it that made him want to stay curled in his bed forever, for fear that every glimpse of the streets of Europe would cancel out another fragment of his home. That he would watch her vanish from his memory in pieces, each strand of her straw-pale hair fading one by one.
It was a bitter sort of fear.
*
Theme 15 – Worry
Back when they were still searching for the Stone, he and Al used to talk late at night, when sleep hovered at the edges of their consciousness like a road they couldn’t quite cross. Sometimes they spoke of memories, things they’d lost but would never forget; and sometimes, heartbreakingly, Al would ask him little things, making it an innocent part of the conversation, trying to hide the fact that he’d forgotten them.
It was a normal thing, Ed told him then. As the mind gets older, new memories crowd out some of the old. It’s nothing dangerous, nothing abnormal. Nothing bad.
And Al would nod, and try to hide his fear and worry as the little details slipped away over the years of sight without touch and taste and smell. The slight biting cinnamon aftertaste of apple pie. The heady fragrance of summer flowers. The feel of another human being’s arms around him.
Ed tried his best to sympathize, knew how horrible it must be. But he never really understood until that morning, when he woke up in bed after a night of hazy, grey-water dreams and realized that, after two long years trapped on this side of the Gate, he was no longer quite sure of the exact blue of her eyes.
He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, straining to remember, to be sure. Something gnawed at his stomach, and he wondered how much more he had already forgotten without knowing it. An irrational worry, with a grain of truth in it that made him want to stay curled in his bed forever, for fear that every glimpse of the streets of Europe would cancel out another fragment of his home. That he would watch her vanish from his memory in pieces, each strand of her straw-pale hair fading one by one.
It was a bitter sort of fear.
*
*
Theme 16 – From now on, too
He looks so little in the bed that it scares her. Ed’s always been kind of small, she knows that, Al outgrew him last year and he’s as skinny as a stick, but with two limbs missing he’s tiny, a fragile bundle of bandages with dull yellow hair spilling out the top.
She puts down the basin of water on a chair and goes to him, smoothing his bangs out of his eyes. He’s fast asleep, drugged up to his eyeballs after the first round of surgery. The skin and muscle has been prepped and peeled away and pinned, and now waits, swathed in bandages to keep it clean and sop up the fluid that seeps from freshly-cauterized flesh. Tomorrow they’ll install the cradles, bolting them down securely while he drifts under the anesthetic.
It will be the next day, after the painkillers and drowsiness wear off and every nerve is wide awake and trembling, that the hard part will begin.
Dipping a cloth into the cool water, she folds it and lays it across his eyes. Droplets run down the sides of his face like tears and soak into the pillow. It’s going to be so rough on him, she knows. He’s always been the brave one, climbing down the rocks to the river and catching snakes by the neck, the first one to the top of the tree that spreads its branches over the roof of his house. (She was the second by a narrow margin, which she’s rather proud of, though poor Al froze halfway up and they had to talk him down again.)
She’s watched this surgery break down grown men until they sob and thrash at their bonds and beg them to stop. She doesn’t think Ed will do that, but she knows it won’t help if she’s scared too. Granny is always very brisk when she works on patients. She says it gives them something solid and constant to hold on to.
Winry looks at her old friend’s sleeping face, bloodlessly pale and washed out by the brightness of his hair, and then closes her eyes and makes a promise to herself. Ed has always been the brave one. From now on, if they’re going to get through this, she has to be the brave one, too.
*
Theme 16 – From now on, too
He looks so little in the bed that it scares her. Ed’s always been kind of small, she knows that, Al outgrew him last year and he’s as skinny as a stick, but with two limbs missing he’s tiny, a fragile bundle of bandages with dull yellow hair spilling out the top.
She puts down the basin of water on a chair and goes to him, smoothing his bangs out of his eyes. He’s fast asleep, drugged up to his eyeballs after the first round of surgery. The skin and muscle has been prepped and peeled away and pinned, and now waits, swathed in bandages to keep it clean and sop up the fluid that seeps from freshly-cauterized flesh. Tomorrow they’ll install the cradles, bolting them down securely while he drifts under the anesthetic.
It will be the next day, after the painkillers and drowsiness wear off and every nerve is wide awake and trembling, that the hard part will begin.
Dipping a cloth into the cool water, she folds it and lays it across his eyes. Droplets run down the sides of his face like tears and soak into the pillow. It’s going to be so rough on him, she knows. He’s always been the brave one, climbing down the rocks to the river and catching snakes by the neck, the first one to the top of the tree that spreads its branches over the roof of his house. (She was the second by a narrow margin, which she’s rather proud of, though poor Al froze halfway up and they had to talk him down again.)
She’s watched this surgery break down grown men until they sob and thrash at their bonds and beg them to stop. She doesn’t think Ed will do that, but she knows it won’t help if she’s scared too. Granny is always very brisk when she works on patients. She says it gives them something solid and constant to hold on to.
Winry looks at her old friend’s sleeping face, bloodlessly pale and washed out by the brightness of his hair, and then closes her eyes and makes a promise to herself. Ed has always been the brave one. From now on, if they’re going to get through this, she has to be the brave one, too.
*
...#15 made me sniffle...
15 is lovely! as usual, your closing line is very potent. nice work. 
and 16 has a weighty poingancy to it that is so trademark of your style. spectacular as always.
and 16 has a weighty poingancy to it that is so trademark of your style. spectacular as always.
*
Theme 17 – Memo
The train is swaying like a cradle, and it’s been a long day, so it’s no surprise that Ed has pillowed his head on the broad curve of his brother’s leg and dozed off. Al’s used to this by now, and sits carefully still, gazing out the window with one large gauntlet resting lightly on his brother’s shoulder. The rise and fall of his sleepy breathing is unusually peaceful; Al wonders if it’s because they’re going home.
There is a jarring bump as their car rattles over a join in the tracks, and Ed’s head jostles slightly against the armor. He makes a grumbling noise and squirms in his sleep, curling his arm toward him to rest it on the seat instead of dangling over the edge. The cuff of his sleeve is drawn back a bit by the movement, and Al’s curiosity flares as he sees a scribble of ink on the inside of his brother’s wrist.
Huge leather gloves aren’t made for precision, but he’s done enough painstaking chalking of the tiny details of arrays to build up a surprising amount of fine motor control. Careful not to wake him, he pulls his brother’s sleeve back just a bit, wondering why on earth he would be writing on himself, and what on earth he would write.
Scrawled in large letters is TICKETS, presumably for the train; under that in smaller, faded letters is report, as if he couldn’t stand to write it firmly; and under that are a few alchemical symbols that Al recognizes as shorthand for some raw minerals and metals that he and his brother picked up at the market the day before.
At the bottom, written in neat round letters, is winry.
No explanation, no elaboration. Al looks at the name for a moment, wondering what longer sentence it represents. Buy Winry a souvenir? Call Winry and tell her we’re coming? Brace for Winry’s wrath when she finds out you’ve lost three bolts on your upper arm and most of a finger? Ask Winry about upgrades?
Something more personal?
The train whistle blasts, and Ed rolls over, muttering something about elemental compounds as his hand slips out of his brother’s grasp and ends up tucked against the back of the seat. Al decides not to ask; it’s Edward’s business anyway, and he feels a little guilty for peeking at the list of reminders, even written somewhere as public as his own arm.
Quietly, he settles back in his seat and lets the world fade for now. Whatever Ed meant by scribbling her name across his wrist, they’ll be seeing her soon. For the two of them, that’s the important part.
*
Theme 17 – Memo
The train is swaying like a cradle, and it’s been a long day, so it’s no surprise that Ed has pillowed his head on the broad curve of his brother’s leg and dozed off. Al’s used to this by now, and sits carefully still, gazing out the window with one large gauntlet resting lightly on his brother’s shoulder. The rise and fall of his sleepy breathing is unusually peaceful; Al wonders if it’s because they’re going home.
There is a jarring bump as their car rattles over a join in the tracks, and Ed’s head jostles slightly against the armor. He makes a grumbling noise and squirms in his sleep, curling his arm toward him to rest it on the seat instead of dangling over the edge. The cuff of his sleeve is drawn back a bit by the movement, and Al’s curiosity flares as he sees a scribble of ink on the inside of his brother’s wrist.
Huge leather gloves aren’t made for precision, but he’s done enough painstaking chalking of the tiny details of arrays to build up a surprising amount of fine motor control. Careful not to wake him, he pulls his brother’s sleeve back just a bit, wondering why on earth he would be writing on himself, and what on earth he would write.
Scrawled in large letters is TICKETS, presumably for the train; under that in smaller, faded letters is report, as if he couldn’t stand to write it firmly; and under that are a few alchemical symbols that Al recognizes as shorthand for some raw minerals and metals that he and his brother picked up at the market the day before.
At the bottom, written in neat round letters, is winry.
No explanation, no elaboration. Al looks at the name for a moment, wondering what longer sentence it represents. Buy Winry a souvenir? Call Winry and tell her we’re coming? Brace for Winry’s wrath when she finds out you’ve lost three bolts on your upper arm and most of a finger? Ask Winry about upgrades?
Something more personal?
The train whistle blasts, and Ed rolls over, muttering something about elemental compounds as his hand slips out of his brother’s grasp and ends up tucked against the back of the seat. Al decides not to ask; it’s Edward’s business anyway, and he feels a little guilty for peeking at the list of reminders, even written somewhere as public as his own arm.
Quietly, he settles back in his seat and lets the world fade for now. Whatever Ed meant by scribbling her name across his wrist, they’ll be seeing her soon. For the two of them, that’s the important part.
*
that. was. so. cute~! XD i liked the line about report being faint and not written firmly. <3
*
Theme 18 – Calendar
She’s only seventeen, and already she lives her life by the calendar, every square running over with carefully scribbled appointments and dates. Life in Rush Valley lives up to the frantic pace implied by the name, and her skilled repairs and inspired designs are in huge demand after a year of living and studying here, so that she can hardly keep up with the number of requests for consultation that pour in at the door of Dominic’s shop.
The old man doesn’t mind; he gruffly says that if they’d rather see a pretty young thing than an old grizzlebeard like him, there’s no helping their common sense, but the large hand he rests on her shoulder speaks of his growing respect. And Paninya laughs irrepressibly as usual, sits on the counter swinging her mechanical legs and flicks bolts at the backs of the heads of the young men who occasionally pry something loose in their arms or legs to have an excuse to visit the petite mechanic with the spirited blue eyes.
Life has been more interesting at Dominic’s shop since Winry arrived, there’s no denying it. It’s come to the point where she has to note everything onto that neat grid of days, just to make sure she doesn’t forget anything. Al’s visits and Granny’s demands to come home for a bit are sandwiched between tune-ups and replacements and fitting appointments and lunch with Paninya and her own regular visits to Central to sip tea with Gracia and Scieszka and play toy doctor to Elysia’s menagerie of broken playthings. But there are some things that don’t have a specific date, and you can’t write them neatly down in a square under a seven-o’clock rewiring appointment and expect them to come true.
No one in Rush Valley ever asks why the initials “E.E.” are always written in the bottom right corner of each new month. Mechanics have their eccentricities like anyone else. If they ever did ask, she would simply tell them it’s a reminder. No matter how full her calendar gets, she’s always waiting for that one phone call. Ready to drop everything, to make this one appointment.
*
Theme 18 – Calendar
She’s only seventeen, and already she lives her life by the calendar, every square running over with carefully scribbled appointments and dates. Life in Rush Valley lives up to the frantic pace implied by the name, and her skilled repairs and inspired designs are in huge demand after a year of living and studying here, so that she can hardly keep up with the number of requests for consultation that pour in at the door of Dominic’s shop.
The old man doesn’t mind; he gruffly says that if they’d rather see a pretty young thing than an old grizzlebeard like him, there’s no helping their common sense, but the large hand he rests on her shoulder speaks of his growing respect. And Paninya laughs irrepressibly as usual, sits on the counter swinging her mechanical legs and flicks bolts at the backs of the heads of the young men who occasionally pry something loose in their arms or legs to have an excuse to visit the petite mechanic with the spirited blue eyes.
Life has been more interesting at Dominic’s shop since Winry arrived, there’s no denying it. It’s come to the point where she has to note everything onto that neat grid of days, just to make sure she doesn’t forget anything. Al’s visits and Granny’s demands to come home for a bit are sandwiched between tune-ups and replacements and fitting appointments and lunch with Paninya and her own regular visits to Central to sip tea with Gracia and Scieszka and play toy doctor to Elysia’s menagerie of broken playthings. But there are some things that don’t have a specific date, and you can’t write them neatly down in a square under a seven-o’clock rewiring appointment and expect them to come true.
No one in Rush Valley ever asks why the initials “E.E.” are always written in the bottom right corner of each new month. Mechanics have their eccentricities like anyone else. If they ever did ask, she would simply tell them it’s a reminder. No matter how full her calendar gets, she’s always waiting for that one phone call. Ready to drop everything, to make this one appointment.
*
awww, that is so sweeeeet~! <4! aw, i really like this one, hun. the eccentricities of winry rockbell are indeed confounding, but this one in particular is most endearing, methinks. ^.^
Tobuchan, I would just like to say that I love you. XD; Your writing shall never cease to make my day kinda... brighten. Even if it's a bit of an angsty theme. You and neechan's themes are just like... the highlights of my day. ♥ Thank you for more wonderful writing.
Lovely. They are all so, so lovely. I'm SO excited for more.
aw, Tobu those were wonderful!!!! *^^* i really enjoy reading your work! these recent themes were just so sweet! nice work dude!! XD
Good work. I love 14 or was it 13 I forgot but it was hilarious. All of them are good keep going you must reach 100 or the price of failure will be your life.
I haven't commented for a while have I? Now let's see...
I loved 11, 12, 13, 14--
HECK I LOVE EM' ALL!!!
You have such great talent. I REALLY loved 18 and 14 made me laugh out loud
Begging 4 more!,
Phyco girl
P.S. (Why the heart? Because I love your work of course!)
I loved 11, 12, 13, 14--
HECK I LOVE EM' ALL!!!
You have such great talent. I REALLY loved 18 and 14 made me laugh out loud
Begging 4 more!,
Phyco girl
P.S. (Why the heart? Because I love your work of course!)
I know it's a little late to say this, but I really loved #9...*sniff*
I am obsessed to the maximum of FMA, ed is so hot. I hate winry, because she has a heck of a lot better chance of getting Ed than I do. I wish he was real. I 'm also wondering where to get some XXX Fma pictures, i need to see ed so bad!!!
QUOTE(blackfang666 @ Apr 1 2005, 05:21 PM)
I am obsessed to the maximum of FMA, ed is so hot. I hate winry, because she has a heck of a lot better chance of getting Ed than I do. I wish he was real. I 'm also wondering where to get some XXX Fma pictures, i need to see ed so bad!!!
[snapback]144691[/snapback]
This has nothing do with Tobu's stories.
Ailuro's correct. Maybe you should post this somewhere else because basically everyone here is an EdWin lover. Which means we LIKE the Edward Winry pairing. You may want to mention this in the chatrooms instead of here (although as a warning some (a lot) of people would probably bash you for not liking Winry) 
Just some friendly advice!
-Phyco girl
(I used to not like Winry also but grew to LOVE the pairing. Maybe you'll do the same, or not. You never know!)
Just some friendly advice!-Phyco girl
(I used to not like Winry also but grew to LOVE the pairing. Maybe you'll do the same, or not. You never know!)
QUOTE(blackfang666 @ Apr 1 2005, 07:21 PM)
I 'm also wondering where to get some XXX Fma pictures, i need to see ed so bad!!!
[snapback]144691[/snapback]
0__0 uh-huh. You know, when people see this, they'll just assume that you're a ten year old n00b or someone thats attempting to sound mature...I wouldn't do that if I were you.
Oh, and I loved #14! I laughed...like, really hard...or something...either way, my little brother was there, and he was staring at me and thinking I'd gone insane.
But, I HAVE in fact gone insane, so it's all good.
Keep it up!! :
*
Theme 19 – Relaxation
The phone rang five times before someone finally picked up, and Russell found himself vaguely irritated by the time the distant, tinny voice answered, “Hello?”
“Hey, Elric,” he said, careful not to gripe. Fletcher had been after him lately for ‘being too grouchy’, which was apparently his younger brother’s euphemism for the stress inherent in the final stages of far-reaching alchemical endeavors. “Thought I’d drop you a line and let you know about the latest findings.”
“F-findings?” Ed stammered, and Russell rolled his eyes.
“Yes, Elric, the findings. You know, the alchemical project we’ve been collaborating on for the last year or three?”
He tapped his fingers impatiently on his desk. Ed’s answer sounded strangely disjointed.
“Oh, right…sorry, Tringham, I—aah!—wasn’t expecting your call…”
It was an unusually sharp yelp, even for Ed. Had he stepped on a tack or something over there?
“You all right, Elric?”
“Fine, I’m…I’m fine, uh…” There was another odd little pause, and then, “Look, Tringham, could you call me back later? I’m a little busy right now…”
Russell quirked an eyebrow. Inconvenient, to say the least, but there wasn’t much Russell could say to that. “Fine by me,” he said, resisting the urge to toss his neatly written report across the room. “What time?”
“Maybe tomo-whoa!”
Russell tapped the earpiece on his phone, puzzled. “Ed? You still there?”
“Uh, yeah…tomorrow evening, okay?”
“That’s fine,” Russell said. “Talk to you then.”
About to hang up, he remembered something.
“Oh, by the way, congratulations on your wedding,” he added. “Sorry I couldn’t make it last week, but one of us had to keep an eye on the project. I don’t trust those novices they dredged up as assistants for us.”
“Thanks,” Ed said. “Talk to you la-”
The phone cut out. Russell joggled the switch a few times, then sighed and hung up. Inexcusable rudeness, really. He would give his research partner an earful when he next saw him.
After all, what on earth was more pressing business than one of the biggest alchemical experiments of their time?
“Winry…!” Ed hissed furiously. “That was Tringham!”
“Too bad for him, then,” Winry said, cheerfully unapologetic. Ed was still glaring at her, though, so she leaned over to playfully kiss the corner of his mouth, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders.
“It’s very rude to interrupt others,” she murmured against his cheek, ignoring the hypocrisy of her own wandering fingers mid-phone call. “And you’re really wound up too tight, Edward Elric. Taking business calls on your honeymoon? Honestly.”
“Tringham probably thinks honeymoons are something you spread on toast,” Ed muttered grimly. Draping her arms around his shoulders, Winry kissed her way lightly up his neck.
“All the same, work and play don’t mix, you numbskull. You took this time off for some rest and relaxation, remember?” Her breath of a laugh ruffled the hair beside his ear. “I think we can at least manage some relaxation.”
He really couldn’t disagree with an argument like that.
*
Theme 19 – Relaxation
The phone rang five times before someone finally picked up, and Russell found himself vaguely irritated by the time the distant, tinny voice answered, “Hello?”
“Hey, Elric,” he said, careful not to gripe. Fletcher had been after him lately for ‘being too grouchy’, which was apparently his younger brother’s euphemism for the stress inherent in the final stages of far-reaching alchemical endeavors. “Thought I’d drop you a line and let you know about the latest findings.”
“F-findings?” Ed stammered, and Russell rolled his eyes.
“Yes, Elric, the findings. You know, the alchemical project we’ve been collaborating on for the last year or three?”
He tapped his fingers impatiently on his desk. Ed’s answer sounded strangely disjointed.
“Oh, right…sorry, Tringham, I—aah!—wasn’t expecting your call…”
It was an unusually sharp yelp, even for Ed. Had he stepped on a tack or something over there?
“You all right, Elric?”
“Fine, I’m…I’m fine, uh…” There was another odd little pause, and then, “Look, Tringham, could you call me back later? I’m a little busy right now…”
Russell quirked an eyebrow. Inconvenient, to say the least, but there wasn’t much Russell could say to that. “Fine by me,” he said, resisting the urge to toss his neatly written report across the room. “What time?”
“Maybe tomo-whoa!”
Russell tapped the earpiece on his phone, puzzled. “Ed? You still there?”
“Uh, yeah…tomorrow evening, okay?”
“That’s fine,” Russell said. “Talk to you then.”
About to hang up, he remembered something.
“Oh, by the way, congratulations on your wedding,” he added. “Sorry I couldn’t make it last week, but one of us had to keep an eye on the project. I don’t trust those novices they dredged up as assistants for us.”
“Thanks,” Ed said. “Talk to you la-”
The phone cut out. Russell joggled the switch a few times, then sighed and hung up. Inexcusable rudeness, really. He would give his research partner an earful when he next saw him.
After all, what on earth was more pressing business than one of the biggest alchemical experiments of their time?
“Winry…!” Ed hissed furiously. “That was Tringham!”
“Too bad for him, then,” Winry said, cheerfully unapologetic. Ed was still glaring at her, though, so she leaned over to playfully kiss the corner of his mouth, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders.
“It’s very rude to interrupt others,” she murmured against his cheek, ignoring the hypocrisy of her own wandering fingers mid-phone call. “And you’re really wound up too tight, Edward Elric. Taking business calls on your honeymoon? Honestly.”
“Tringham probably thinks honeymoons are something you spread on toast,” Ed muttered grimly. Draping her arms around his shoulders, Winry kissed her way lightly up his neck.
“All the same, work and play don’t mix, you numbskull. You took this time off for some rest and relaxation, remember?” Her breath of a laugh ruffled the hair beside his ear. “I think we can at least manage some relaxation.”
He really couldn’t disagree with an argument like that.
*
Applaud applaud! Another masterpeice Tobu!
I liked that one, Winry just not taking any notice of his glare made me giggle.
*
Theme 20 – Unnecessary/Unimportant
Scieszka disliked many things. Being ignored was high on the list, along with asparagus and binding rot. But being Winry’s best maid was a serious duty, and so a very frustrated bookworm was now perched on her workbench, trying to discuss wedding plans.
Granted, Winry wasn’t clueless enough to get hitched in her greasy coveralls. However, she’d never been much for the finer points of femininity. Winry’s idea of jewelry was half-a-dozen stainless-steel piercings; her idea of dressing up was a plain white top and a skirt. And so it fell to Scieszka to make sure the wedding day didn’t roll around before anyone even ordered flowers.
“So, ah, what kind of dress were you thinking of?” Scieszka asked, leaning over for a look at her friend’s project. It looked to her like an unidentifiable mélange of weird little metal things.
Winry shrugged, not glancing up from her work. “Something pretty?” she said absently, carefully applying a pair of wire snips to the tangle.
Scieszka sighed. “I meant, what kind of design?” she asked. “Have you gone shopping yet? You went into town yesterday with your granny...”
“To pick up some connectors for this,” Winry said, tapping it proudly with her screwdriver. “It’s going to be fantastic, Scieszka! An electric lamp with a rechargeable power source, capable of-”
“That’s, uh, great,” Scieszka interrupted quickly. “Have you thought about wedding colors?”
“Wedding what?” Winry echoed, puzzled.
Scieszka made a face. Hadn’t Winry ever read a bridal magazine? Even a romance novel? Scieszka had read four hundred and seventy-three, and in none of them had the heroine been this difficult. “The color scheme for the wedding, Winry. Flowers and bridesmaid dresses and decorations.”
Winry blinked. “But we’ve just got you and Al.”
“You still need wedding colors, Winry!” Scieszka complained. “Weddings are about beauty, and true love, and the inner youth and renewal of the spirit! They’re supposed to be exquisite, and therefore you’ve got to have wedding colors!”
Putting down her screwdriver, Winry regarded her calmly, then went to the doorway. “Ed!” she yelled. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Red!” he shouted back from somewhere downstairs.
“Thanks, just checking!” Winry called, walking back to her workbench. “Red’ll work,” she said cheerfully, and went back to her invention.
Scieszka ground her teeth. “Winry, you’re being impossible,” she wailed. “You can’t just have one color, you need complementary shades and florist’s orders and dress fittings and...and everything!”
Winry hesitated, then set down her tools again and took her friend gently by the shoulder. “Scieszka,” she said, “it really doesn’t matter to me what my wedding colors are. And I’m wearing my mother’s wedding dress. It’s a little like having her here, you know?”
Scieszka gaped at her, unsure of what to say.
“We’re in love, with or without florist’s orders or whatever,” Winry said with a shrug. “Weddings are just the formalities. It’s the rest of your lives that matters…right?”
Scieszka and her four hundred and seventy-three romance novels had nothing to add.
*
Theme 20 – Unnecessary/Unimportant
Scieszka disliked many things. Being ignored was high on the list, along with asparagus and binding rot. But being Winry’s best maid was a serious duty, and so a very frustrated bookworm was now perched on her workbench, trying to discuss wedding plans.
Granted, Winry wasn’t clueless enough to get hitched in her greasy coveralls. However, she’d never been much for the finer points of femininity. Winry’s idea of jewelry was half-a-dozen stainless-steel piercings; her idea of dressing up was a plain white top and a skirt. And so it fell to Scieszka to make sure the wedding day didn’t roll around before anyone even ordered flowers.
“So, ah, what kind of dress were you thinking of?” Scieszka asked, leaning over for a look at her friend’s project. It looked to her like an unidentifiable mélange of weird little metal things.
Winry shrugged, not glancing up from her work. “Something pretty?” she said absently, carefully applying a pair of wire snips to the tangle.
Scieszka sighed. “I meant, what kind of design?” she asked. “Have you gone shopping yet? You went into town yesterday with your granny...”
“To pick up some connectors for this,” Winry said, tapping it proudly with her screwdriver. “It’s going to be fantastic, Scieszka! An electric lamp with a rechargeable power source, capable of-”
“That’s, uh, great,” Scieszka interrupted quickly. “Have you thought about wedding colors?”
“Wedding what?” Winry echoed, puzzled.
Scieszka made a face. Hadn’t Winry ever read a bridal magazine? Even a romance novel? Scieszka had read four hundred and seventy-three, and in none of them had the heroine been this difficult. “The color scheme for the wedding, Winry. Flowers and bridesmaid dresses and decorations.”
Winry blinked. “But we’ve just got you and Al.”
“You still need wedding colors, Winry!” Scieszka complained. “Weddings are about beauty, and true love, and the inner youth and renewal of the spirit! They’re supposed to be exquisite, and therefore you’ve got to have wedding colors!”
Putting down her screwdriver, Winry regarded her calmly, then went to the doorway. “Ed!” she yelled. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Red!” he shouted back from somewhere downstairs.
“Thanks, just checking!” Winry called, walking back to her workbench. “Red’ll work,” she said cheerfully, and went back to her invention.
Scieszka ground her teeth. “Winry, you’re being impossible,” she wailed. “You can’t just have one color, you need complementary shades and florist’s orders and dress fittings and...and everything!”
Winry hesitated, then set down her tools again and took her friend gently by the shoulder. “Scieszka,” she said, “it really doesn’t matter to me what my wedding colors are. And I’m wearing my mother’s wedding dress. It’s a little like having her here, you know?”
Scieszka gaped at her, unsure of what to say.
“We’re in love, with or without florist’s orders or whatever,” Winry said with a shrug. “Weddings are just the formalities. It’s the rest of your lives that matters…right?”
Scieszka and her four hundred and seventy-three romance novels had nothing to add.
*
Ah, the finer point of a wedding. But do they really matter? No...its love that counts.
Thats the moral right?
Thats the moral right?
Hehe... I had some catching up to do!!! Lesse.... The most memorable moments...
Health "supplies".
Connected solidly...
"Like having a bit of her there"
Ed sleeping on Al!!! Awwwe.
Health "supplies".
Connected solidly...
"Like having a bit of her there"
Ed sleeping on Al!!! Awwwe.
perfect, tobu... the closing line on 20 was my favorite part. just perfect.
and of course, "ed! what's your favorite color??" XDDD
and of course, "ed! what's your favorite color??" XDDD
wonderful, Tobu!!*^.^* I always look forward to reading your work, and i have never been disappointed with your work.i love it!!! great work!!!^^
Ahhhh! Update! I read these all in a row and they are beautiful! Please update this story, I will die if you don't 
@Tobu Ishi: Sorry I haven't posted here in awhile, but I'm all caught up now . All of them are wonderful. Some made cry, quite a few made me laugh. That one part in #20 where Winry yelled down to Edward made me think that they could probably have a huge conversation just by yelling to one another .
Winry: What would you like for supper!
Edward: Anything but spaghetti... Or milk!
Winry: Too bad, that's all we have left !
. All of them are wonderful. Some made cry, quite a few made me laugh. That one part in #20 where Winry yelled down to Edward made me think that they could probably have a huge conversation just by yelling to one another .Winry: What would you like for supper!
Edward: Anything but spaghetti... Or milk!
Winry: Too bad, that's all we have left
!
Hey... I just noticed that everyone's EdxWin 100 themes have all the same chapter names... You might all think I am dumb... but is there an official list or something? If so can someone direct me to it? Please?
Nice ones Tobu lol. I want to see what it is like ten years later Ed is reading a book and Winry is in the Garage.
Winry: Honey can you go to town and buy me a new wrench mine just broke.
Ed: Why not use mine?
Winry: *runs over and hits Ed over the head with her broken wrench* WIll you ever grow up?
Winry: Honey can you go to town and buy me a new wrench mine just broke.
Ed: Why not use mine?
Winry: *runs over and hits Ed over the head with her broken wrench* WIll you ever grow up?
Heh heh! Funny Sonic-Teal!
@Tobu: Your fans are waiting! Please add more!!!
XD,
Phyco girl
@Tobu: Your fans are waiting! Please add more!!!
XD,
Phyco girl
*
Theme 21 – Mystique
The streets of Rush Valley were so crowded that Winry almost didn’t notice when someone jostled past her with a whisper of covetous fingers across her collarbone. Clapping her hand reflexively to her neck, Winry felt the absence of a familiar thin chain and whirled, pulling a screwdriver from her tool belt and hurling it at the back of the pickpocket’s head as she slipped away into the crowd.
It hit dead center, and the woman yelped and stumbled to her knees. Diving forward, Winry twisted the woman’s arm behind her back and levered her to her feet again, marching her into a side alley away from the crowds.
“Give it back,” she hissed into her captive’s ear. The woman chuckled dizzily.
“Quite the vigilante law enforcement you’ve got here,” she murmured. “If I knew the little girls were this dangerous here, I would have tried Central instead.”
“I said give it back!” Winry insisted, giving her a shake. In answer, the thief’s hand dipped into her pocket, drawing out a plain silver locket.
“What a cheap bauble,” she scoffed. “I was hoping for something really valuable to pawn.” Winry growled, and she laughed. “Ah, sentimental value. Charming. Let’s see what’s in it, shall we?” she suggested, and flicked the catch with her thumbnail before Winry could protest. The locket opened to a photograph: a teenaged boy, blond hair in a loose ponytail, grinning broadly.
“Hey!” Winry yelped, trying to snatch the locket without letting go of her captive’s arm. The woman raised an eyebrow.
“Interesting,” she murmured, and suddenly her stance shifted and she slipped out of Winry’s grasp as easily as water. “I suppose I owe a favor to any friend of Edward Elric,” she purred, and tossed the piece of jewelry back to her. It flew through the air like a comet, trailing a glimmer of silver chain behind it, and Winry nearly dropped it in her surprise.
“You know him?” she sputtered.
The thief smiled. “Quite well, you could say. We had a bit of…business a few years ago, during his travels.”
Staring at her, Winry belatedly realized that she was young and exotically lovely, with sumptuous curves. Uneasy, she curled her fingers tightly around the locket, her own skinny figure and straw-yellow hair suddenly feeling painfully ordinary.
The woman seemed amused by her discomfort. “You know what he liked best about me?” she purred, and reached for the zipper to her shirt, tugging it down to expose several inches of luxurious cleavage…
“This,” she said, and pointed to the array tattooed across her chest as Winry’s eyes widened in surprise. “I offered him anything he desired, and I do mean anything…and he asked for alchemical information, the silly sot.”
Rolling her eyes, Psiren turned and sauntered away to melt into the crowd again, calling over her shoulder, “He’s a scholar to the bone, that one. If you can get his attention and keep it, little girl, you have more mystique than I ever did.”
*
Theme 21 – Mystique
The streets of Rush Valley were so crowded that Winry almost didn’t notice when someone jostled past her with a whisper of covetous fingers across her collarbone. Clapping her hand reflexively to her neck, Winry felt the absence of a familiar thin chain and whirled, pulling a screwdriver from her tool belt and hurling it at the back of the pickpocket’s head as she slipped away into the crowd.
It hit dead center, and the woman yelped and stumbled to her knees. Diving forward, Winry twisted the woman’s arm behind her back and levered her to her feet again, marching her into a side alley away from the crowds.
“Give it back,” she hissed into her captive’s ear. The woman chuckled dizzily.
“Quite the vigilante law enforcement you’ve got here,” she murmured. “If I knew the little girls were this dangerous here, I would have tried Central instead.”
“I said give it back!” Winry insisted, giving her a shake. In answer, the thief’s hand dipped into her pocket, drawing out a plain silver locket.
“What a cheap bauble,” she scoffed. “I was hoping for something really valuable to pawn.” Winry growled, and she laughed. “Ah, sentimental value. Charming. Let’s see what’s in it, shall we?” she suggested, and flicked the catch with her thumbnail before Winry could protest. The locket opened to a photograph: a teenaged boy, blond hair in a loose ponytail, grinning broadly.
“Hey!” Winry yelped, trying to snatch the locket without letting go of her captive’s arm. The woman raised an eyebrow.
“Interesting,” she murmured, and suddenly her stance shifted and she slipped out of Winry’s grasp as easily as water. “I suppose I owe a favor to any friend of Edward Elric,” she purred, and tossed the piece of jewelry back to her. It flew through the air like a comet, trailing a glimmer of silver chain behind it, and Winry nearly dropped it in her surprise.
“You know him?” she sputtered.
The thief smiled. “Quite well, you could say. We had a bit of…business a few years ago, during his travels.”
Staring at her, Winry belatedly realized that she was young and exotically lovely, with sumptuous curves. Uneasy, she curled her fingers tightly around the locket, her own skinny figure and straw-yellow hair suddenly feeling painfully ordinary.
The woman seemed amused by her discomfort. “You know what he liked best about me?” she purred, and reached for the zipper to her shirt, tugging it down to expose several inches of luxurious cleavage…
“This,” she said, and pointed to the array tattooed across her chest as Winry’s eyes widened in surprise. “I offered him anything he desired, and I do mean anything…and he asked for alchemical information, the silly sot.”
Rolling her eyes, Psiren turned and sauntered away to melt into the crowd again, calling over her shoulder, “He’s a scholar to the bone, that one. If you can get his attention and keep it, little girl, you have more mystique than I ever did.”
*
w00t, one of the better 100 themes
Another great one Keep it up!!!
Keep it up!!!
Tobu Ishi, is a plasure to read all this themes, they are so wonderfull
*bows to greatness*
Aaaahhh! I love it! It was beautiful! How did you come up with the idea for that? Furthermore where is the list for the 100 EdWin themes. Just gorgeous hunny, I look forward to more work from you
*
Theme 22 – Unaccustomed Things
He has reached the uncomfortable stage now, the part that drives new patients to distraction. Surgery has been survived, and healing endured, and now it is the delicate process of learning to use what he has been given that makes him grind his teeth and clench his human fist.
Metal and muscle have met and melded and grown used to one another, and the pain is now only an occasional twinge along the line of steel and flesh, a sharp jab when he twists too far, running briefly along the ropy pinkish scars that radiate thickly from where the bolts pull at his skin. Now the hard part begins, making a headache throb deep at the base of his skull each time he slowly curls his shining new fingers around the fragile curve of a cup, or carefully levers himself out of bed, arms spread wide like a tightrope walker as he gets his balance on a foot that can’t feel the soft nap of the carpet.
He underestimates the little things, like how long it will take him to put his socks on in the morning, and she comes up the stairs when breakfast is long since over to find him crouched over a torn stocking, blinking back furious tears as he tries for the hundredth time to draw it neatly over a metal foot that won’t point its toes right, with a hand whose fingers love to let the slippery knit pop free.
She’s seen this before, of course, but it’s difficult to watch him stewing in his own stubbornness. If he asked for her help, she could give him advice gleaned from the experience of a short lifetime of assisting her grandmother’s patients. But she knows he won’t ask outright, and so she slips her advice to him in small undetectable doses, as brief sensible comments during tuning sessions—does the wiring in your toes respond correctly when you move it like this? she asks the next day, bending the metal digits and carefully ignoring his look of enlightenment as he realizes, Oh, so that’s how you make it do that—and she is careful for now to say nothing, but instead to bring up bacon and eggs on a tray and set it silently in the doorway.
The plate will be picked clean of crumbs when she comes to fetch it later, and he will be sprawled facedown on the bed, one sock on and exhausted by his small triumph. She lets him sleep, knowing he’ll need his energy for the other sock before dinner. He refuses to come downstairs barefoot. It’s the principle of the thing.
*
Theme 22 – Unaccustomed Things
He has reached the uncomfortable stage now, the part that drives new patients to distraction. Surgery has been survived, and healing endured, and now it is the delicate process of learning to use what he has been given that makes him grind his teeth and clench his human fist.
Metal and muscle have met and melded and grown used to one another, and the pain is now only an occasional twinge along the line of steel and flesh, a sharp jab when he twists too far, running briefly along the ropy pinkish scars that radiate thickly from where the bolts pull at his skin. Now the hard part begins, making a headache throb deep at the base of his skull each time he slowly curls his shining new fingers around the fragile curve of a cup, or carefully levers himself out of bed, arms spread wide like a tightrope walker as he gets his balance on a foot that can’t feel the soft nap of the carpet.
He underestimates the little things, like how long it will take him to put his socks on in the morning, and she comes up the stairs when breakfast is long since over to find him crouched over a torn stocking, blinking back furious tears as he tries for the hundredth time to draw it neatly over a metal foot that won’t point its toes right, with a hand whose fingers love to let the slippery knit pop free.
She’s seen this before, of course, but it’s difficult to watch him stewing in his own stubbornness. If he asked for her help, she could give him advice gleaned from the experience of a short lifetime of assisting her grandmother’s patients. But she knows he won’t ask outright, and so she slips her advice to him in small undetectable doses, as brief sensible comments during tuning sessions—does the wiring in your toes respond correctly when you move it like this? she asks the next day, bending the metal digits and carefully ignoring his look of enlightenment as he realizes, Oh, so that’s how you make it do that—and she is careful for now to say nothing, but instead to bring up bacon and eggs on a tray and set it silently in the doorway.
The plate will be picked clean of crumbs when she comes to fetch it later, and he will be sprawled facedown on the bed, one sock on and exhausted by his small triumph. She lets him sleep, knowing he’ll need his energy for the other sock before dinner. He refuses to come downstairs barefoot. It’s the principle of the thing.
*
.... I can't say enough times how much your writing inspires me and how much I love it. So I'll spare you the same old, same old and tell you to update soon.
(Loved the one with PSiren the best!)
(Loved the one with PSiren the best!)
I agree with Yukina_Raven, we can't tell you enogh times your writing inspires all of us.
@Tobu Ishi: #21 was interesting. I think it's cool you added Psiren to the mix, plus most of us know about that little "slip-up" that Edward had with Psiren . I thought #22 was brilliant. Edward needs to relize sometimes that somethings can't be done alone, even when it comes down to putting on a sock . Can't wait to see more, keep up the good work 
.
. I thought #22 was brilliant. Edward needs to relize sometimes that somethings can't be done alone, even when it comes down to putting on a sock . Can't wait to see more, keep up the good work .
i've run out of compliments, hun, and that's saying a lot, considering my volumes of thesauri... O_o i loved your use of psiren, that was unexpected and intriguing. her closing line was on the ball. and theme 22 has been a fave of mine since you let me read it ages ago, so...props! XD
one of these days i WILL catch up to you!!! *shakes fist* PHWOAAR!!
one of these days i WILL catch up to you!!! *shakes fist* PHWOAAR!!
WHOA... Tobu you ROCK! We all love your work and are excited for the next update!!!
Keep 'em coming,
Phyco girl
Keep 'em coming
,Phyco girl
*
Theme 23 – Waiting
Dusk has settled on this unfamiliar station, and the curve of the sky is deepest blue, twinkling with the light of the few brave and early stars that have made themselves visible through the lights of the city. He sits waiting beside his silent brother on a long wooden bench in the cooling watery air, gazing up at the night and wondering how long it will be before he sees her again.
He leaned out the window and waved to her as the train pulled out this morning, with her running alongside it down the Resembool station platform, laughing and dodging startled pedestrians in a tradition left over from childhood. Her hair shone brightly visible in the sun, easy to follow even as the train whipped around the corner and out of sight, her hand windmilling the air as she stood at the farthest edge of the platform. He can still hear her teasing threats to come back and visit soon, even though both of them know it could be months before he and Al return again. Life is like that, these days.
If he had a choice, he would ignore the far-off whistle of their approaching train, but he has debts left to pay and favors to return, and a promise made that he can’t break for the world. As it is, he should be thinking over their latest theories on the Stone, but for some reason he can’t force his mind to follow the crosshatched lines of arrays tonight. Instead, he gazes into the shadows with eyes gone slightly dull.
A few papers tumble across the platform in the rising night wind, and he turns up the collar of his jacket with a shiver. Somewhere, a clock is striking the hour with clear, cool notes that hang in the air like pale green glass. Unconsciously folding and unfolding the ticket in his hands, he tilts his head back to face the emerging moon, and wonders what she’s doing now.
*
Theme 23 – Waiting
Dusk has settled on this unfamiliar station, and the curve of the sky is deepest blue, twinkling with the light of the few brave and early stars that have made themselves visible through the lights of the city. He sits waiting beside his silent brother on a long wooden bench in the cooling watery air, gazing up at the night and wondering how long it will be before he sees her again.
He leaned out the window and waved to her as the train pulled out this morning, with her running alongside it down the Resembool station platform, laughing and dodging startled pedestrians in a tradition left over from childhood. Her hair shone brightly visible in the sun, easy to follow even as the train whipped around the corner and out of sight, her hand windmilling the air as she stood at the farthest edge of the platform. He can still hear her teasing threats to come back and visit soon, even though both of them know it could be months before he and Al return again. Life is like that, these days.
If he had a choice, he would ignore the far-off whistle of their approaching train, but he has debts left to pay and favors to return, and a promise made that he can’t break for the world. As it is, he should be thinking over their latest theories on the Stone, but for some reason he can’t force his mind to follow the crosshatched lines of arrays tonight. Instead, he gazes into the shadows with eyes gone slightly dull.
A few papers tumble across the platform in the rising night wind, and he turns up the collar of his jacket with a shiver. Somewhere, a clock is striking the hour with clear, cool notes that hang in the air like pale green glass. Unconsciously folding and unfolding the ticket in his hands, he tilts his head back to face the emerging moon, and wonders what she’s doing now.
*
I tell you, Tobuchan, I cannot express my envy for you ability to write. You're too good at this!! ♥ Another masterpiece, typed from the fingers of a Goddess. ::shuts up now::
*
Theme 24 – Ten years ago
Ed pretends not to remember it, but it was a dark day for that bedraggled and muddy six-year-old who watched his younger brother marching off with a fistful of freshly pulled dandelions and daisies to propose to their best friend. He fought tooth and nail over that particular privilege, an unusually vicious disagreement compared to their usual frequent but playful squabbles, and ended up with a faceful of dirt and a split, puffy lip by the end of it, mostly because he refused to give up after Al dumped him on his butt the first time. And the second, and the third…
Normally he would never rejoice over any misfortune of Al’s, but he couldn’t help feeling smug when his brother shuffled back over the hill and dejectedly flung his wilted wildflowers into the river. It seemed only fair to give it a try himself...
Winry freely admits to the memory, and still laughs sheepishly as she recalls how heartless she was at six, turning down both brothers in the space of twenty minutes.
Al trotted up eagerly, waited patiently until she looked up from playing repairman in the sandbox with their old broken toaster, and made his proposal with shy eagerness. When she told him no, he just nodded and slumped off the way he’d come, shoulders low. She felt a twinge of regret, seeing that she’d hurt her friend, but honestly! Hadn’t he ever heard of cooties?
Ed came running up the road a minute later, with neither flowers nor pretty words, but with a broad genuine grin on his face that slipped cockeyed when she repeated her refusal. Still refusing to give up, he insisted on knowing why, and she told him with some glee that she didn’t like short guys. He sputtered like a teakettle and stormed off. It hurt to make Al sad, like kicking a kitten, but…there was something satisfying about teasing Ed. He turned such funny colors.
By the next day, the brothers had lived down their mutual disgrace and made up, and there were no further fights over Winry. Without knowing it, she’d probably made the wisest decision for the situation.
Ten years later, the incident is still on all three minds, whether they admit it or not. Al still treasures the memory of Ed flopping down next to him on the riverbank and slinging an arm around his shoulders in silent apology. Ed squashes the remembered embarrassment of being called childish and short, and of the rest of an afternoon spent moping and tossing rocks into the river long after Al perked up and went home.
And Winry still smiles, and still hates seeing Al hurt, and still regularly punctures Ed’s ego, keeping it from outgrowing him like everything else. Very little has changed, really. Even her opinion of short men hasn’t shifted much; her tastes still run to guys who are at least her height, thank you very much.
However, after ten years…Ed is still growing.
*
Theme 24 – Ten years ago
Ed pretends not to remember it, but it was a dark day for that bedraggled and muddy six-year-old who watched his younger brother marching off with a fistful of freshly pulled dandelions and daisies to propose to their best friend. He fought tooth and nail over that particular privilege, an unusually vicious disagreement compared to their usual frequent but playful squabbles, and ended up with a faceful of dirt and a split, puffy lip by the end of it, mostly because he refused to give up after Al dumped him on his butt the first time. And the second, and the third…
Normally he would never rejoice over any misfortune of Al’s, but he couldn’t help feeling smug when his brother shuffled back over the hill and dejectedly flung his wilted wildflowers into the river. It seemed only fair to give it a try himself...
Winry freely admits to the memory, and still laughs sheepishly as she recalls how heartless she was at six, turning down both brothers in the space of twenty minutes.
Al trotted up eagerly, waited patiently until she looked up from playing repairman in the sandbox with their old broken toaster, and made his proposal with shy eagerness. When she told him no, he just nodded and slumped off the way he’d come, shoulders low. She felt a twinge of regret, seeing that she’d hurt her friend, but honestly! Hadn’t he ever heard of cooties?
Ed came running up the road a minute later, with neither flowers nor pretty words, but with a broad genuine grin on his face that slipped cockeyed when she repeated her refusal. Still refusing to give up, he insisted on knowing why, and she told him with some glee that she didn’t like short guys. He sputtered like a teakettle and stormed off. It hurt to make Al sad, like kicking a kitten, but…there was something satisfying about teasing Ed. He turned such funny colors.
By the next day, the brothers had lived down their mutual disgrace and made up, and there were no further fights over Winry. Without knowing it, she’d probably made the wisest decision for the situation.
Ten years later, the incident is still on all three minds, whether they admit it or not. Al still treasures the memory of Ed flopping down next to him on the riverbank and slinging an arm around his shoulders in silent apology. Ed squashes the remembered embarrassment of being called childish and short, and of the rest of an afternoon spent moping and tossing rocks into the river long after Al perked up and went home.
And Winry still smiles, and still hates seeing Al hurt, and still regularly punctures Ed’s ego, keeping it from outgrowing him like everything else. Very little has changed, really. Even her opinion of short men hasn’t shifted much; her tastes still run to guys who are at least her height, thank you very much.
However, after ten years…Ed is still growing.
*
[FONT=Geneva][SIZE=7]I can die happy now that I read your first, although I had always pictured myself as Edo's one and only.....*sigh*
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