Or, polish up what little scrap they feel like writing. Personally, I think plot is overrated: solid narration is more important to drawing me into a story.
Yours, for example, is delicious, very like Poe, but could use some tightening up. Let me switch to a real keyboard.
Aahh. Shapwriter is fun, but it can't compare to the feel of a genuine Model M (older than I am!).
I hope you don't mind if I go through and style-edit. I certainly don't mean to imply that I can do a better job editing than you can (it's your own story after all!)--I just want to show a different perspective.
==
Complete, permanent darkness swallowed everything within and around it, devouring the world and its cares, its hopes, its sufferings and dreams. Here, there was silence eternal. And then a noise so loud, it rang everywhere in monotone solitude, threatening to break a place so as desolate as this.
But the dark and the quiet were friends. They could last an eternity and never grow tired of the other's company, whether existent or no. Besides, there was no one other with whom to consort.
((I'm reading this out loud to myself as I go along. I'm hearing echoes of Poe's "Silence" in this part--a delicious little short without much plot, but a whole ton of tone.))
As perfect as the darkness was, it did not completely obscure a solitary shape, floating above a plane of glass. The shape was sitting, indian-style, with head bent in contemplative quiet. Not even its breathing disturbed Silence, as that would cause definite dislike between the two. Nor did it's existence bother Darkness, for it emitted no light of it's own.. In fact, it seemed to enhance the dark around it, for it was shrouded in a glow of its very own, a glow without light.
(("did not" makes the darkness a little less animate for a bit, bringing the focus more its imperfection than on its ability (or lack thereof)))
Silence and Darkness were by now used to its presence. It had been here a very, very long time. It never stirred, never caused any trouble of any sort. There were a few odd things about it, but the perfectly still realm had learned to overlook those peculiar traits.
((Personally, I'm not a huge fan of non-standard punctuation. If the effect can be created without breaking the rules, so much the better. Standardization demands less of the reader, inviting them to look through the text into the scene.))
For one, the shape was not always perfectly still. On occasion, the lids of its eyes would move, and rarer still, its fingers. Of course, because they were never disturbed in any way, Darkness and Silence remained unaffected, uncaring, accepting. They allowed it to exist here, and in return it gave them peace.
Nothing more.
((You consistently use "it's" for "its."))
Then, one moment in time--only memorable for the fact that it was, impossibly, different--the glass broke. What had been a perfectly, dangerously beautiful, flat plane of absoloute reflection was now moving of its own accord, all around towards a definite origin. This pained Darkness as a glint--an impossible, minuscule glint--rode the interruption like a wave. It perturbed Silence too, as the disturbance ran smoothly around in all directions, racing towards itself on all sides, finally meeting under the figure, pushing a single droplet of itself completely out of its plane. The mirrored drop rose into the blackness that made up the sky, glinting, sparkling for just a moment, one, impossible moment. Then it fell back to its kin, striking a soft, musical sound as it rejoined the mirror, becoming perfect once more.
((I shifted more to participial and absolute phrases for a dreamlike quality.))
The figure's eyes flew open, staring now at the plane of glass that had always been below. It had forgotten Light and Sound. It almost hadn't recognized them, it had been so long. Darkness and Silence were in uproar. For such a thing to happen in this place, of all places was, of course, impossible. This space was perfection. It always had been. So always should it be. Yet, a disturbance!
The solitary form stretched, slowly, turning its head. Now not towards the mirror, but upwards, towards the eternal sky. It grinned. The ripple had returned. Far, far longer than hoped. Nevertheless, it had come. It had reached something, somewhere, and rebounded, and so--however improbable the idea might seem--there WAS an edge to this reality.
With a curved smile, the figure raised its arms, stood on nothing, then flew forward at a blinding speed. Silence and Darkness mattered no more, forgotten for the new imperative of continuing, a new knowledge giving strength to that who needed it most. There was no direction here-it simply didn't exist. But there was an edge. An edge that led to reality.
To his freedom.
==
By the way, that counts as a plotted story as far as I'm concerned. You have
beginning, breaking, quickening (which I think is a lot better description that "beginning, middle, and end" because it actually talks about what happens in each part) and a nice little twist at the end.
I suppose I should contribute something to the thread now, myself. There's that nasty grimdark fic-of-fic thing I occasionally pick at, but I'm pretty sure I shouldn't impose it on anyone (it's as bad as Cupcakes and based on something that's even worse)...ooh, well there's that stupid reference that's good clean fun...
==
This left Squirtle with, sadly, only one unopened present. "From Charizard," the label read.
When he reached to open it, Charizard laid a claw across the box. "I have a confession," he said. "I know they can't be as good as the original, and I wasn't sure if I should go through with making them. If you don't like them, I understand, and I won't be insulted."
Squirtle opened the box. Once again, they were not his sunglasses. The angle was wrong and the points way, way too long. He put them on anyway.
Pikachu had found a mirror somewhere and when Squirtle caught his reflection in it time stopped. His previous glasses had made him rakishly handsome. But, these...damn. Just...damn.
He turned to Charizard, tears in his eyes.
"Old buddy, these glasses aren't as good as the last ones," he started, beginning to glow, words cut short by evolution.
"They're not as good as the last ones--they're better," Wartortle finished. "Without my glasses, I was an incomplete turtle, a eunuch, but, you, my dear, dear friend. You have remanned me!" He looked like he was about to completely break down.
"Dibs, notexplainingthat," Sadic called. ((Pikachu's OC ship. Other fic-author's fault. He dealt the hand, it's only my fault for playing it.))
"Dad, what'sa yoo-nick?" Denji asked, as if on cue.
"Uh," said Pikachu. "Not going there now. Maybe later."
"Charizard," Wartortle declaimed, "you are a master glassworker! Yours is the flame that will PIERCE THE HEAVENS!" and finally did break down sobbing.
An awkward moment passed.
"How 'bout now?" Denji asked. "It's later."
