Moar Drabblez?
Because miss catssyclaws wanted me to post more.
Fingers
She crossed the Rubicon when she was just fourteen.
Ever since then, doubt plagued her. She wondered if she could have continued school if she didn’t decide to do what she did. She wondered if he would have returned to her, what her future could have been, if everyone would have still loved her, because they no longer did. She wondered if she should have followed what everyone else told her to do.
She wondered if she should have killed her son before he came to be.
But the truth of the matter, the absolute fact, was that she decided to keep the baby with her, and through all nine months she suffered the regret gnawing at her bones, churning her stomach, squeezing her breath out of her.
And as much as she dreaded the consequences, she pushed like a good mother always did when the day came.
Out of breath, in pain, and extremely exhausted, she was barely conscious when she heard him cry out for the very first time. The nurse put the still bloodied infant in her arms, and as she extended her hand to stroke his cheek, her hand was stopped. It was stopped by five perfect tiny fingers, curling around her index finger, gripping tightly.
She never regretted her decision anymore ever since.
Complete Makeover
They were sitting on the floor of his room, an Othello board between them, when he looked around conspiratorially-not that anyone was around-and said, in a somewhat hushed whisper, “So, did she teach you anything new?”
She put her black piece and reversed two of his, then pulled back with a tired expression. “She’d kill me if I show you.”
He shrugged. “She’s your mom, she won’t kill you.”
“Maybe not, but I’d sooner die than having to recite The Oath again.”
He frowned. “What oath?”
“The Oath,” she announced with her nose up in the air, “of snobby mages, apparently. “I promise my power is not for triviality” and shit like that. It’s long.”
He didn’t give up. “She won’t have to know. Come on, you know how cool it was when you made everything fly around.”
“Levitate, not fly.” She sighed. “And it was messy.” Nevertheless, she closed her eyes for a moment and her hair lengthened, the short dark strands brightening into long strawberry-blonde tendrils.
“Whoa. Can you like, makeover yourself then?”
She did not answer, and instead lightened her tanned skin, turned her blue irises into green, and changed her nose to a smaller, daintier shape. Then she pulled her cheekbones up and made her eyebrows sharper and thinner, her lips fuller. She smiled at him.
He laughed. “You look like a total stranger.”
She scrunched her nose in displeasure. “I know. That’s the point.” She reverted back to normal.
“I asked you to do a makeover, not a disguise.”
“Point,” she conceded. “Turn around and don’t peek.”
“Why?”
“So I can concentrate.”
He obeyed, but not without rolling his eyes at her first. She took out a small mirror from her bag and concentrated on her own reflection. She didn’t alter much; should anyone watch her, they might not notice the changes at first. It was more like adjustments than changes, perhaps. She nudged her features a bit and made her face more symmetrical, her eyes more even and brighter, erased the tiny scars she got from old pimples, made her hair sleeker and lusher.
She snapped the pocket mirror shut in satisfaction. “Now you can see.”
He turned to her and took a sharp breath. “That’s…”
She could feel red warmth creeping up her face, but managed to say rather calmly, “Good?”
He nodded mutely. She was rather pleased to see that hers was not the only face reddening. After a long moment of awkward silence, she let the enchantment fall off and turned back to normal.
“Oh, thank goodness,” he mumbled. “That was beautiful and all, but it’s just…”
She waited while he searched for an appropriate word to complete his sentence.
“…it’s just too much like Photoshop. Like you took all your good features and used heal tool on the rest.”
“That’s pretty much what I did.”
“I like normal you better. More…whole, you know what I mean? More complete. In a way, more perfect.”
She beamed. “I was scared you’d prefer the altered one better.”
He paused. “For a second back then, me too.”
Whistling
If he ever had any admirers, they never bothered telling him about it. Exceptions to this rule was his parents-but that was before he ditched school and opened his own secondhand bookstore-and his younger sister, and she didn’t even count because he always regarded her as somewhat a freak. Not the bad kind of freak, a good and lovable kind even, but a freak nonetheless.
But he didn’t mind much. There were times when he wished he could be one of those football jocks or impeccably handsome theater club members or even the really smart computer nerds who even had their own little ring of fan girls. Those times were long past. He didn’t care much, because now he was in his element: books. Towering piles of novels and cookbooks, heavy hardcovers lined up on the bottom shelves, hundreds of paperbacks, thin and thick, fresh and already yellowing. The musty smell of old books greeting his olfactory sense every morning when he stepped down from his flat at the second floor of the building.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, something told him that a person was not supposed to only live cooped up in his fantasies, but he had learned to ignore the back of his head a long time ago.
So without much care about whether his family still hated him or if there would be anyone who would buy anything that day, he opened the shop every eight AM and closed it every eight PM. It was like clockwork, predictable, steady, stable.
The people coming in and out were of much variety too; most only browsed, but some bought something and it was enough for him.
That particular day was just like any other day, but just around five minutes before eight, a young woman walked in. She looked like she just stumbled into the place instead of purposefully entering. He didn’t mind. He never minded people who were interested in books. Subtly reminding her that he was closing up, he turned the “open” sign to “closed” and started sweeping the floor, all the while whistling a tune he couldn’t get out of his head.
“I’m sorry, you’re closing up?” came a voice interrupting his work.
He turned. She was holding an old copy of Roald Dahl’s Charlie and The Chocolate Factory in her white-gloved hand.
“Yes. Are you buying that?”
She smiled. “Yes, please.”
He nodded and took the book from her. Gesturing her to follow him, he lazily dragged his steps to the cash register. He named the price, she paid the book. As he handed the thin paperback to her-she declined the plastic bag he offered-he asked, out of curiosity, “For your little brother?”
She blinked a few times before smiling a bit, pink creeping up her chins. “No, um, for myself. I remember reading it a long time ago and loving it to bits.”
“Oh.”
“Mhmm.”
“Well, good night. Thanks for the purchase.” He took a flyer of the shop and handed it to her. “If you’re interested, we also buy your books. And we open from eight to eight everyday.”
“I’ll remember that. Thanks. Sorry I had to come at the last minute.” She smiled apologetically, dimples forming on her cheeks. She made her way to the door. Just before she opened the door, she turned to him and say, “I’ve always wanted to be able to whistle.”
Then she left.
He couldn’t help to wonder if it could count as a declaration of admiration.
Love Me
“Ask her,” she said.
The older woman pulled herself out of the cabinet under the sink, strands of hair sticking on her face. She looked at her daughter, who was nudging her little brother towards her. Brandishing a wrench, she asked her youngest child, “Ask me what?”
His eyes went to the wrench and his mother’s face, then back on the wrench again.
Sensing his fear towards it-not that she meant to use the tool to harm him in any way-she put the wrench aside and asked him again, “Ask me what?”
He rocked back and forth on his heels. After a condescending sigh of impatience, his older sister provided the answer. “He wants to ask you if you love him.”
The mother frowned. Busy as she was being the only adult in the house, juggling job and parenting, she thought she always made sure her children knew that she loved them. “Of course I do, popkins, I tell you that every day don’t I?”
He shuffled his feet. “But mama, don’t you love Aimee better?”
The single mother tilted her head in confusion. He continued, “I mean Aimee got a hundred on her test, I don’t.”
She laughed in relief. “Popkins, you’re not in school yet. And I’ll love the both of you whatever you get on your tests.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
His sister piped in, at last, in her most precocious tone, “See? I told you!”
He grinned widely.
You might notice that they get worse each day. OTL
Fingers
She crossed the Rubicon when she was just fourteen.
Ever since then, doubt plagued her. She wondered if she could have continued school if she didn’t decide to do what she did. She wondered if he would have returned to her, what her future could have been, if everyone would have still loved her, because they no longer did. She wondered if she should have followed what everyone else told her to do.
She wondered if she should have killed her son before he came to be.
But the truth of the matter, the absolute fact, was that she decided to keep the baby with her, and through all nine months she suffered the regret gnawing at her bones, churning her stomach, squeezing her breath out of her.
And as much as she dreaded the consequences, she pushed like a good mother always did when the day came.
Out of breath, in pain, and extremely exhausted, she was barely conscious when she heard him cry out for the very first time. The nurse put the still bloodied infant in her arms, and as she extended her hand to stroke his cheek, her hand was stopped. It was stopped by five perfect tiny fingers, curling around her index finger, gripping tightly.
She never regretted her decision anymore ever since.
Complete Makeover
They were sitting on the floor of his room, an Othello board between them, when he looked around conspiratorially-not that anyone was around-and said, in a somewhat hushed whisper, “So, did she teach you anything new?”
She put her black piece and reversed two of his, then pulled back with a tired expression. “She’d kill me if I show you.”
He shrugged. “She’s your mom, she won’t kill you.”
“Maybe not, but I’d sooner die than having to recite The Oath again.”
He frowned. “What oath?”
“The Oath,” she announced with her nose up in the air, “of snobby mages, apparently. “I promise my power is not for triviality” and shit like that. It’s long.”
He didn’t give up. “She won’t have to know. Come on, you know how cool it was when you made everything fly around.”
“Levitate, not fly.” She sighed. “And it was messy.” Nevertheless, she closed her eyes for a moment and her hair lengthened, the short dark strands brightening into long strawberry-blonde tendrils.
“Whoa. Can you like, makeover yourself then?”
She did not answer, and instead lightened her tanned skin, turned her blue irises into green, and changed her nose to a smaller, daintier shape. Then she pulled her cheekbones up and made her eyebrows sharper and thinner, her lips fuller. She smiled at him.
He laughed. “You look like a total stranger.”
She scrunched her nose in displeasure. “I know. That’s the point.” She reverted back to normal.
“I asked you to do a makeover, not a disguise.”
“Point,” she conceded. “Turn around and don’t peek.”
“Why?”
“So I can concentrate.”
He obeyed, but not without rolling his eyes at her first. She took out a small mirror from her bag and concentrated on her own reflection. She didn’t alter much; should anyone watch her, they might not notice the changes at first. It was more like adjustments than changes, perhaps. She nudged her features a bit and made her face more symmetrical, her eyes more even and brighter, erased the tiny scars she got from old pimples, made her hair sleeker and lusher.
She snapped the pocket mirror shut in satisfaction. “Now you can see.”
He turned to her and took a sharp breath. “That’s…”
She could feel red warmth creeping up her face, but managed to say rather calmly, “Good?”
He nodded mutely. She was rather pleased to see that hers was not the only face reddening. After a long moment of awkward silence, she let the enchantment fall off and turned back to normal.
“Oh, thank goodness,” he mumbled. “That was beautiful and all, but it’s just…”
She waited while he searched for an appropriate word to complete his sentence.
“…it’s just too much like Photoshop. Like you took all your good features and used heal tool on the rest.”
“That’s pretty much what I did.”
“I like normal you better. More…whole, you know what I mean? More complete. In a way, more perfect.”
She beamed. “I was scared you’d prefer the altered one better.”
He paused. “For a second back then, me too.”
Whistling
If he ever had any admirers, they never bothered telling him about it. Exceptions to this rule was his parents-but that was before he ditched school and opened his own secondhand bookstore-and his younger sister, and she didn’t even count because he always regarded her as somewhat a freak. Not the bad kind of freak, a good and lovable kind even, but a freak nonetheless.
But he didn’t mind much. There were times when he wished he could be one of those football jocks or impeccably handsome theater club members or even the really smart computer nerds who even had their own little ring of fan girls. Those times were long past. He didn’t care much, because now he was in his element: books. Towering piles of novels and cookbooks, heavy hardcovers lined up on the bottom shelves, hundreds of paperbacks, thin and thick, fresh and already yellowing. The musty smell of old books greeting his olfactory sense every morning when he stepped down from his flat at the second floor of the building.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, something told him that a person was not supposed to only live cooped up in his fantasies, but he had learned to ignore the back of his head a long time ago.
So without much care about whether his family still hated him or if there would be anyone who would buy anything that day, he opened the shop every eight AM and closed it every eight PM. It was like clockwork, predictable, steady, stable.
The people coming in and out were of much variety too; most only browsed, but some bought something and it was enough for him.
That particular day was just like any other day, but just around five minutes before eight, a young woman walked in. She looked like she just stumbled into the place instead of purposefully entering. He didn’t mind. He never minded people who were interested in books. Subtly reminding her that he was closing up, he turned the “open” sign to “closed” and started sweeping the floor, all the while whistling a tune he couldn’t get out of his head.
“I’m sorry, you’re closing up?” came a voice interrupting his work.
He turned. She was holding an old copy of Roald Dahl’s Charlie and The Chocolate Factory in her white-gloved hand.
“Yes. Are you buying that?”
She smiled. “Yes, please.”
He nodded and took the book from her. Gesturing her to follow him, he lazily dragged his steps to the cash register. He named the price, she paid the book. As he handed the thin paperback to her-she declined the plastic bag he offered-he asked, out of curiosity, “For your little brother?”
She blinked a few times before smiling a bit, pink creeping up her chins. “No, um, for myself. I remember reading it a long time ago and loving it to bits.”
“Oh.”
“Mhmm.”
“Well, good night. Thanks for the purchase.” He took a flyer of the shop and handed it to her. “If you’re interested, we also buy your books. And we open from eight to eight everyday.”
“I’ll remember that. Thanks. Sorry I had to come at the last minute.” She smiled apologetically, dimples forming on her cheeks. She made her way to the door. Just before she opened the door, she turned to him and say, “I’ve always wanted to be able to whistle.”
Then she left.
He couldn’t help to wonder if it could count as a declaration of admiration.
Love Me
“Ask her,” she said.
The older woman pulled herself out of the cabinet under the sink, strands of hair sticking on her face. She looked at her daughter, who was nudging her little brother towards her. Brandishing a wrench, she asked her youngest child, “Ask me what?”
His eyes went to the wrench and his mother’s face, then back on the wrench again.
Sensing his fear towards it-not that she meant to use the tool to harm him in any way-she put the wrench aside and asked him again, “Ask me what?”
He rocked back and forth on his heels. After a condescending sigh of impatience, his older sister provided the answer. “He wants to ask you if you love him.”
The mother frowned. Busy as she was being the only adult in the house, juggling job and parenting, she thought she always made sure her children knew that she loved them. “Of course I do, popkins, I tell you that every day don’t I?”
He shuffled his feet. “But mama, don’t you love Aimee better?”
The single mother tilted her head in confusion. He continued, “I mean Aimee got a hundred on her test, I don’t.”
She laughed in relief. “Popkins, you’re not in school yet. And I’ll love the both of you whatever you get on your tests.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
His sister piped in, at last, in her most precocious tone, “See? I told you!”
He grinned widely.
You might notice that they get worse each day. OTL