There's a decrepit punching bag on your ceiling. Your long hair, not ready to be the spikes of flame your father promised he would teach you how to make when you earned them, is in a dancing, flashing ponytail. It swishes as you punch and kick at the bag. It is dawn, and you are nine years old for a few more hours still. You adjust your gloves and punch, thinking of the pokemon you are promised.

You don't know what it is yet, but you know it will be strong. For a Floccesy child, White Forest gives nothing less.

A/N: So I marathon wrote this in a couple of days last week, only stopping to make sure the word count was right. It was a request fic (which I am about to close because life)

Challenges: F6. write a drabble collection consisting of drabbles of exactly 100 words.

Warnings will appear per chapter.