I have recently read a short story in Talebones magazine by Tim McDaniel called "Discards." It's about a Japanese man who goes to his dead mother's house to sell all of her old things and finds a box in the attic full of toys he had when he was a kid. One of these toys is a silver box that holds all of the monsters he had ever caught, trained, and battled with during his youth. Unless you have been living on the moon for the last ten or so years, this is Pokemon we're talking about. So he wonders if these monsters were still alive after all these years, but when he opens it he finds most of the monsters to be dead. The only two left alive are a yellow mouse and a blue-skinned turtle (Pikachu and Squirtle, for those who don't know), but they are old and decrepit. He feels guilty for using these creatures to bring him fame and glory, and thinks about killing them to put them out of their misery. Instead, he drives them to the woods and leaves them there to die.
This was a well written story, but damn. So sad. I think a little part of me died while reading this.
Who's that Pokemon...(sniff)...it's P-Pikachu! (cries)
Makes me want to dust off the old Gameboy and play some Pokemon, though.
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