an island called ficly
Pyropunk stood behind some rocks that littered the almost barren island and watched the spectacle on the beach. A few of his old friends (and fiends) were assembled and more seemed to be arriving by the minute. Some were still trying to rid themselves of the sand in their underpants, while others hugged another and started catching up on the news of the past few months. As soon as Kevin made the announcement over the megaphone, which he seemed to produce from thin air, the ficlyteers sprang to life and the landscape started changing. All manner of trees sprouted, shrubbery popped up and the wildlife (or was it wild life) noisily appeared. Pyro stepped out from hiding place and immediately planted two ficlies that had been lingering in limbo, threw some comments at his fellow writers and ran, yelling at the top of his lungs, into the undergrowth.