Fiction Drabbles
I'm going back to school next semester. I'm 15 credits away from a B.A. in English, and it seemed a little silly to be this far in debt (so very, very, very in debt) without even a piece of paper to show for it. I'll be taking two sit-down classes, one online class, and two directed study courses. All but one are retakes--which gives you an idea of how my last year in school went.
Possibly in celebration, I kicked out a few drabbles (100 words each) before work last night, cleaned them up this morning, and I've been looking at them with a skeptical sort of wonder. I can still write! squeals the little girl voice in the back of my head. She has pigtails, and she used to dream there were goblins and other such in her grandmother's attic. I'm not sure that I ever realized she was there.
Granted, it's the serious, studious Daria-looking writer I'll be needing in the months ahead... but still.
Probably inspired by a literary diet of too much Neil Gaiman and a visual diet of too much Brian Froud, with no disrespect meant to either.
Wasting Time
Do people own time? They hardly pay it any mind. Some of them argue its very existence.
He doesn’t steal time.
Instead, he delicately nibbles around the edges. All creatures grow hungry.
He snacks on moments between waking and dreaming. Daydreams are savory.
He enjoys long, zen-like drives--a filling meal. You’re grateful to see the back of those lost hours, aren’t you?
Yet sometimes you realize, shocked, that time is days ahead of where it ought to be.
He should be sheepish.
But by then he is glutted and sleeping, nose to tail, while you bustle to catch up.
----------
Always One Missing
He was very small indeed.
He squeezed flush to the floor, like the world’s smallest limbo dancer, to fit beneath the dryer when Big Folk stomped by.
His diminutive stature meant he could squirm beneath the lint catcher, shut it firmly overhead, and scramble through pipes.
He made his nest in the exhaust vent. It was often quite warm there, and he enjoyed the heat shimmers that sometimes textured the world beyond. Deft multi-jointed fingers painted hazy patterns in the air.
In the colder season, he borrowed socks and layered them against the chill, knowing Big Folk would never notice.
----------
Sibling Rivalries
Finders-Keepers’ distended jaw can scoop up all manner of objects, but he is most fond of metals.
He finds jagged pieces of nickel-coated brass to his liking. Impure circlets, sometimes set with rock, fit neatly around one outthrust fang.
Losers-Seekers watches him discreetly, as wisp-thin as her brother is stout, then curls long, limber fingers around the objects he has hidden away.
Patient and well-meaning, she returns those baubles and trinkets in due course.
The key he finds in a kitchen bowl, baffling its owner. She discovers her ring in a place she swore that she had already looked.
Naturally.
Possibly in celebration, I kicked out a few drabbles (100 words each) before work last night, cleaned them up this morning, and I've been looking at them with a skeptical sort of wonder. I can still write! squeals the little girl voice in the back of my head. She has pigtails, and she used to dream there were goblins and other such in her grandmother's attic. I'm not sure that I ever realized she was there.
Granted, it's the serious, studious Daria-looking writer I'll be needing in the months ahead... but still.
Probably inspired by a literary diet of too much Neil Gaiman and a visual diet of too much Brian Froud, with no disrespect meant to either.
Wasting Time
Do people own time? They hardly pay it any mind. Some of them argue its very existence.
He doesn’t steal time.
Instead, he delicately nibbles around the edges. All creatures grow hungry.
He snacks on moments between waking and dreaming. Daydreams are savory.
He enjoys long, zen-like drives--a filling meal. You’re grateful to see the back of those lost hours, aren’t you?
Yet sometimes you realize, shocked, that time is days ahead of where it ought to be.
He should be sheepish.
But by then he is glutted and sleeping, nose to tail, while you bustle to catch up.
----------
Always One Missing
He was very small indeed.
He squeezed flush to the floor, like the world’s smallest limbo dancer, to fit beneath the dryer when Big Folk stomped by.
His diminutive stature meant he could squirm beneath the lint catcher, shut it firmly overhead, and scramble through pipes.
He made his nest in the exhaust vent. It was often quite warm there, and he enjoyed the heat shimmers that sometimes textured the world beyond. Deft multi-jointed fingers painted hazy patterns in the air.
In the colder season, he borrowed socks and layered them against the chill, knowing Big Folk would never notice.
----------
Sibling Rivalries
Finders-Keepers’ distended jaw can scoop up all manner of objects, but he is most fond of metals.
He finds jagged pieces of nickel-coated brass to his liking. Impure circlets, sometimes set with rock, fit neatly around one outthrust fang.
Losers-Seekers watches him discreetly, as wisp-thin as her brother is stout, then curls long, limber fingers around the objects he has hidden away.
Patient and well-meaning, she returns those baubles and trinkets in due course.
The key he finds in a kitchen bowl, baffling its owner. She discovers her ring in a place she swore that she had already looked.
Naturally.