Five more drabbles. [Talented Mr Ripley, drabbles100]
Five more drabbles done for drabbles100. All are centred around the character Peter Smith-Kingsley from the film "The Talented Mr Ripley" and are 101 words long.
o21. friends.
[Peter + Marge]
He is surprised to hear his phone ring. The sound of it echoes unpleasantly in the mostly-empty room, sharp and shrill and out of tune, he thinks, rushing to answer it.
“Hello?”
The response is something like a muffled sob, sniffling. Then she manages “Peter?”
“Marge! Marge, what’s happened?”
“It’s Dickie,” she says, “he’s left, gone off to Rome, oh, Peter. This isn’t like him, I don’t know what to do and you’re the only one…”
“It’s all right,” he says, calm soothing comforting tones. “We’ll just have to go to Rome and find him, that’s all. Don’t cry, Marge, please?”
o22. enemies.
[Peter + Freddie]
Peter somehow manages to hate Freddie Miles from the first time they meet. Dickie’s just introduced them and Peter murmurs a polite hello; they’re shaking hands and Freddie gives him this look, this horrid sort of knowing sneer that makes Peter profoundly unsettled.
Later after dinner, Marge has gone up to bed and Dickie’s off searching for one of his jazz records, which leaves Peter and Freddie alone. “I know what you are,” says Freddie airily, “and you know you’re wasting your time, he’s not a queer.”
“What’s that supposed to mean,” asks Peter, a bit too quickly.
Freddie just laughs.
o41. shapes.
[Peter/Dickie.]
Peter’s never been this drunk in his life. Everything’s blurry and blinking his eyes does nothing to clear his vision; the world’s been reduced to an indistinct series of shapes, he thinks, like standing too close to an impressionist painting and trying to make sense of it. At his side, Dickie stumbles and laughs and throws his arm over Peter’s shoulders. Dickie is suddenly warm and solid and real, Peter thinks, much more real than any of the rest of the indistinct surroundings. He wants to cling, but he doesn’t dare.
Dickie’s laughter is warm in Peter’s ear. “Welcome to Rome.”
o61. winter.
[Peter, Marge, OMC]
Peter doesn’t understand why everyone always wants to go skiing in winter; he can’t quite comprehend why one would voluntarily seek out cold weather. Perhaps he’s wearied from a lifetime of English winters, or perhaps he hasn’t been living in Italy long enough to have tired of the Mediterranean climate. He declines the invitations, imagines that he’ll spend Christmas alone with his memories and his music.
He’s trying to explain this to Marge, but she’s swept away into another conversation. And then a young man says “I couldn’t help overhearing, but do you like Provence, you could spend Christmas with us?”
o67. snow.
[Peter/OMC]
It’s probably snowing in the Alps right now, Peter thinks. His eyes are still closed, but he can feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, see starbursts of light against his eyelids. He is entirely contented, and very happy all of a sudden not to be off on the skiing holiday with everyone else.
“Hey,” a voice says into his ear, “sleepyhead. Wake up?” Reluctantly Peter opens his eyes, and he can’t help smiling at the young man.
“Good morning,” he whispers.
“Afternoon,” corrects Walter Logue. “Almost afternoon, anyway. Hey. What are you thinking about?”
Peter smiles slowly. “Snow.”
o21. friends.
[Peter + Marge]
He is surprised to hear his phone ring. The sound of it echoes unpleasantly in the mostly-empty room, sharp and shrill and out of tune, he thinks, rushing to answer it.
“Hello?”
The response is something like a muffled sob, sniffling. Then she manages “Peter?”
“Marge! Marge, what’s happened?”
“It’s Dickie,” she says, “he’s left, gone off to Rome, oh, Peter. This isn’t like him, I don’t know what to do and you’re the only one…”
“It’s all right,” he says, calm soothing comforting tones. “We’ll just have to go to Rome and find him, that’s all. Don’t cry, Marge, please?”
o22. enemies.
[Peter + Freddie]
Peter somehow manages to hate Freddie Miles from the first time they meet. Dickie’s just introduced them and Peter murmurs a polite hello; they’re shaking hands and Freddie gives him this look, this horrid sort of knowing sneer that makes Peter profoundly unsettled.
Later after dinner, Marge has gone up to bed and Dickie’s off searching for one of his jazz records, which leaves Peter and Freddie alone. “I know what you are,” says Freddie airily, “and you know you’re wasting your time, he’s not a queer.”
“What’s that supposed to mean,” asks Peter, a bit too quickly.
Freddie just laughs.
o41. shapes.
[Peter/Dickie.]
Peter’s never been this drunk in his life. Everything’s blurry and blinking his eyes does nothing to clear his vision; the world’s been reduced to an indistinct series of shapes, he thinks, like standing too close to an impressionist painting and trying to make sense of it. At his side, Dickie stumbles and laughs and throws his arm over Peter’s shoulders. Dickie is suddenly warm and solid and real, Peter thinks, much more real than any of the rest of the indistinct surroundings. He wants to cling, but he doesn’t dare.
Dickie’s laughter is warm in Peter’s ear. “Welcome to Rome.”
o61. winter.
[Peter, Marge, OMC]
Peter doesn’t understand why everyone always wants to go skiing in winter; he can’t quite comprehend why one would voluntarily seek out cold weather. Perhaps he’s wearied from a lifetime of English winters, or perhaps he hasn’t been living in Italy long enough to have tired of the Mediterranean climate. He declines the invitations, imagines that he’ll spend Christmas alone with his memories and his music.
He’s trying to explain this to Marge, but she’s swept away into another conversation. And then a young man says “I couldn’t help overhearing, but do you like Provence, you could spend Christmas with us?”
o67. snow.
[Peter/OMC]
It’s probably snowing in the Alps right now, Peter thinks. His eyes are still closed, but he can feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, see starbursts of light against his eyelids. He is entirely contented, and very happy all of a sudden not to be off on the skiing holiday with everyone else.
“Hey,” a voice says into his ear, “sleepyhead. Wake up?” Reluctantly Peter opens his eyes, and he can’t help smiling at the young man.
“Good morning,” he whispers.
“Afternoon,” corrects Walter Logue. “Almost afternoon, anyway. Hey. What are you thinking about?”
Peter smiles slowly. “Snow.”