Torchwood Drabble: He Shall Grow Not Old
I have spent so much time reading temporal_witch's tw100 drabbles, that I decided to have a play with taking part myself. So, here's my first go!
Title: He Shall Grow Not Old
Author: JK Ashavah
Summary: Once a year, he remembers.
Pairings: None
Spoilers: None
Rating: General
Word count: 100
Acknowledgement: Thanks are due to temporal_witch for the pre-read and encouragement!
Notes: Written for tw100's challenge "The Fallen". This idea is explored more fully in the fic You Never Forget.
Disclaimer: I, of course, don't own any of the characters or situations of Torchwood, which belong to Russell T. Davies and the BBC. I'm making no money from this!
He Shall Grow Not Old
It's a solemn gathering, old men in suits, chests gleaming with medals. Young people frowning, not quite understanding their expressions. There's silence save the sound of traffic, the chirping of birds, the occasional cough or sneeze. It's a moment for those lost. For their friends who came home.
Bugles cry out. At the back of the crowd stands a man, too young for his vintage coat. His arms are crossed, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. Though the silence is over, he makes no sound, just stares. He's still there, long after the crowd has gone. Just this day, he remembers.
Title: He Shall Grow Not Old
Author: JK Ashavah
Summary: Once a year, he remembers.
Pairings: None
Spoilers: None
Rating: General
Word count: 100
Acknowledgement: Thanks are due to temporal_witch for the pre-read and encouragement!
Notes: Written for tw100's challenge "The Fallen". This idea is explored more fully in the fic You Never Forget.
Disclaimer: I, of course, don't own any of the characters or situations of Torchwood, which belong to Russell T. Davies and the BBC. I'm making no money from this!
He Shall Grow Not Old
It's a solemn gathering, old men in suits, chests gleaming with medals. Young people frowning, not quite understanding their expressions. There's silence save the sound of traffic, the chirping of birds, the occasional cough or sneeze. It's a moment for those lost. For their friends who came home.
Bugles cry out. At the back of the crowd stands a man, too young for his vintage coat. His arms are crossed, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. Though the silence is over, he makes no sound, just stares. He's still there, long after the crowd has gone. Just this day, he remembers.