My First Attempt at Drabbling
I have been informed by arandil13 and juno_magic that I apparently need to start drabbling. As a warm-up to insta-drabbling, then, I have done some non-insta-drabbles, although they took a pleasingly short amount of time to write, especially compared to hundred-some-page monstrosities.
These are in response to Marta's birthday request on HASA: "I'm interested in moments between cultures where one considers itself more civilised than the other. What did the ‘less civilised’ think of the ‘more civilised’." Sorry, Marta, it doesn't come with a receipt ;)
I appreciate thoughts on these. If I suck, you can tell me. I can't promise I'll stop drabbling, but at least I'll know.
~oOo~
Valinor
The light hurts our eyes at first. It is not as promised.
The dust in the streets is a fine powder that glistens like diamonds. The dust on our bare feet is coarse and black and makes painful blisters. We are led before the Valar in tattered furs that are warm if not beautiful, not that warmth is an issue here.
Their robes are of silk, their sandals of leather as supple as water; there are jewels on their brows. I watch for their faces to pinch at the sight of us, but they betray no emotion. “Kings of the Eldar,” they say, “we invite you to join us in Valinor.”
A thrill seizes my heart-but I hesitate. Thoughts of the Hither Lands trouble me. I will miss the meadows glazed in silver, the flicker of the stars in Cuivienen. I will miss the starlight on Miriel’s hair.
Ingwë steps forward.
~oOo~
The Architect
The Noldor are eager to build a city for us, equal in grandeur to Tirion. They are my friends, and so I accept. It would be ungrateful of me to renew my long friendship with Finwë by insulting the talents of his people. But I have no qualm with our frail huts by the sea-better to hear the songs of the waves playing upon the crystal shores. Stone muffles, subdues. Isolates.
Finwë brings his most skilled architect to Eldamar. He leads me eagerly to meet him. The boy is young and carries himself as though his spine was poured from steel. His eyes are the same deadly silver found at the base of blue flames. He might be a statue, such is his beauty.
They would become steel and stone if given the choice, I think, these Noldor.
“King Olwë,” says Finwë, with a quiver of pride in his voice, “I bring you my son Fëanor.”
~oOo~
Okay, before I get boo-hooed by any purists, I know that they are not *quite* drabbles. They are roughly--I estimate--about 150 words apiece. (Yes, I am too lazy to do an exact count.) But, considering that my current WIP is roughly about 300 pages long at the moment (and still unfinished), I think that progress is being made in curbing my tendency to ramble on and on and on....
As I think I am doing now....
(Medium) Dawn Felagund (of the Fountain)
These are in response to Marta's birthday request on HASA: "I'm interested in moments between cultures where one considers itself more civilised than the other. What did the ‘less civilised’ think of the ‘more civilised’." Sorry, Marta, it doesn't come with a receipt ;)
I appreciate thoughts on these. If I suck, you can tell me. I can't promise I'll stop drabbling, but at least I'll know.
~oOo~
Valinor
The light hurts our eyes at first. It is not as promised.
The dust in the streets is a fine powder that glistens like diamonds. The dust on our bare feet is coarse and black and makes painful blisters. We are led before the Valar in tattered furs that are warm if not beautiful, not that warmth is an issue here.
Their robes are of silk, their sandals of leather as supple as water; there are jewels on their brows. I watch for their faces to pinch at the sight of us, but they betray no emotion. “Kings of the Eldar,” they say, “we invite you to join us in Valinor.”
A thrill seizes my heart-but I hesitate. Thoughts of the Hither Lands trouble me. I will miss the meadows glazed in silver, the flicker of the stars in Cuivienen. I will miss the starlight on Miriel’s hair.
Ingwë steps forward.
~oOo~
The Architect
The Noldor are eager to build a city for us, equal in grandeur to Tirion. They are my friends, and so I accept. It would be ungrateful of me to renew my long friendship with Finwë by insulting the talents of his people. But I have no qualm with our frail huts by the sea-better to hear the songs of the waves playing upon the crystal shores. Stone muffles, subdues. Isolates.
Finwë brings his most skilled architect to Eldamar. He leads me eagerly to meet him. The boy is young and carries himself as though his spine was poured from steel. His eyes are the same deadly silver found at the base of blue flames. He might be a statue, such is his beauty.
They would become steel and stone if given the choice, I think, these Noldor.
“King Olwë,” says Finwë, with a quiver of pride in his voice, “I bring you my son Fëanor.”
~oOo~
Okay, before I get boo-hooed by any purists, I know that they are not *quite* drabbles. They are roughly--I estimate--about 150 words apiece. (Yes, I am too lazy to do an exact count.) But, considering that my current WIP is roughly about 300 pages long at the moment (and still unfinished), I think that progress is being made in curbing my tendency to ramble on and on and on....
As I think I am doing now....
(Medium) Dawn Felagund (of the Fountain)