Style Challenge - Fiction
I think the style challenge is awesome so thought I'd give it a go - woot! I'm in full on Britline mode at the moment so these are all inspired by/set in that era. Comments and criticism always welcome. And if anyone could point me in the direction of some good Britline fic to help with my cravings that'd be very nice too. ^_^
Haiku - Clipboard
I carry in my
hands, always a clipboard. Still
I feel like a fraud.
Drabble - Keyboard
For a time one corner of Greg's London flat was occupied by a keyboard. Bought on a whim, it had cost twenty pounds second hand and should really have been on a scrap heap somewhere. Late at night he sat and slowly taught himself how to play the Whose Line March. Music didn't come easily to Greg, but he persevered until he could play the basic melody and annoying tum-tum-tum rhythm by heart.
In the middle of a taping where Richard looked particularly down, Greg decided to bring his cunning plan to fruition. A quick word during a break got Clive on side.
“Now we come to a game called 'March'. Done with the assistance of Greg Proops at the piano. God help us. I'm going to ask Richard Vranch to come up and join the other contestants in making up a musical number in the style of a march.”
Greg barely got through the song, his struggles causing much amusement among the other players and the audience. He knew that the game would never make it to air, but the brilliant smile on Richard's face as he finally took centre stage made it more than worth the effort.
Ficlet - Floorboard
Tony leaned against the bathroom wall, eyes dark as he watched his friends flush his life down the toilet. Every substance in his flat that could be abused, disappeared before his eyes. He had asked them to do it and already he regretted.
“Is that all of it?” Someone asked. He nodded his head and murmured a lie. Supportive hands patted him on the shoulder as his friends took their leave.
“You okay?” When Paul spoke it made Tony jump.
“Yeah.” Another lie. “What are you still doing here?”
“I'm sleeping on your sofa,” Paul said with a cheeky grin. “You don't mind, do you?”
“Uh, no, of course not,” Tony said. “I'll just get you some pillows and things.” He knew he should offer Paul his room, but decided that as Paul had invited himself to stay the usual niceties need not apply. Besides, there was something in his bedroom that his friends hadn't found. Something he might need later, if (when) will power abandoned him.
*
Tony saw Paul settled, then retired to his room. He lay back on his bed and stared up at the familiar ceiling. Minutes dragged by, painfully slow, and only one thing consumed his mind. He sat up as temptation beat down his good intentions.
“Fuck it,” he whispered, sliding from his bed to the floor. He threw back the rug and fingered the edges of a floorboard, savouring the moment. Such treasures lay beneath. He tried to lift it with his fingernails but he'd bitten them too short. A miniature screwdriver sat on his bedside table, he grabbed it to use as a lever. He applied too much pressure and it snapped. A yell of frustration escaped him and he thumped the floorboard with his fist.
“You're not going to get very far with that,” Paul said from the now open doorway, making Tony jump for the second time in one night.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Well, I nailed it down this afternoon,” Paul said casually. Fury ran through Tony's veins. It took several deep breaths before he was calm enough to speak.
“Why,” he ground out. “In the name of all that is holy, did you do that?”
“You asked me to.”
“Oh.” Tony had no memory of that. There were a lot of holes in his memory. That was why he wanted to attempt sobriety in the first place. His gaze dropped to the floorboard and he noticed the new nails for the first time.
“Right, that's it,” Paul announced suddenly. “We're not staying here.”
“Where are we going?”
“The Store and then my place,” Paul looked back at Tony over his shoulder. “Come on.”
Tony's eyes lingered on the nailed down floorboard for a moment more before he got up and followed Paul out of the flat. Paul smiled while Tony wondered where he could buy an axe.
Haiku - Clipboard
I carry in my
hands, always a clipboard. Still
I feel like a fraud.
Drabble - Keyboard
For a time one corner of Greg's London flat was occupied by a keyboard. Bought on a whim, it had cost twenty pounds second hand and should really have been on a scrap heap somewhere. Late at night he sat and slowly taught himself how to play the Whose Line March. Music didn't come easily to Greg, but he persevered until he could play the basic melody and annoying tum-tum-tum rhythm by heart.
In the middle of a taping where Richard looked particularly down, Greg decided to bring his cunning plan to fruition. A quick word during a break got Clive on side.
“Now we come to a game called 'March'. Done with the assistance of Greg Proops at the piano. God help us. I'm going to ask Richard Vranch to come up and join the other contestants in making up a musical number in the style of a march.”
Greg barely got through the song, his struggles causing much amusement among the other players and the audience. He knew that the game would never make it to air, but the brilliant smile on Richard's face as he finally took centre stage made it more than worth the effort.
Ficlet - Floorboard
Tony leaned against the bathroom wall, eyes dark as he watched his friends flush his life down the toilet. Every substance in his flat that could be abused, disappeared before his eyes. He had asked them to do it and already he regretted.
“Is that all of it?” Someone asked. He nodded his head and murmured a lie. Supportive hands patted him on the shoulder as his friends took their leave.
“You okay?” When Paul spoke it made Tony jump.
“Yeah.” Another lie. “What are you still doing here?”
“I'm sleeping on your sofa,” Paul said with a cheeky grin. “You don't mind, do you?”
“Uh, no, of course not,” Tony said. “I'll just get you some pillows and things.” He knew he should offer Paul his room, but decided that as Paul had invited himself to stay the usual niceties need not apply. Besides, there was something in his bedroom that his friends hadn't found. Something he might need later, if (when) will power abandoned him.
*
Tony saw Paul settled, then retired to his room. He lay back on his bed and stared up at the familiar ceiling. Minutes dragged by, painfully slow, and only one thing consumed his mind. He sat up as temptation beat down his good intentions.
“Fuck it,” he whispered, sliding from his bed to the floor. He threw back the rug and fingered the edges of a floorboard, savouring the moment. Such treasures lay beneath. He tried to lift it with his fingernails but he'd bitten them too short. A miniature screwdriver sat on his bedside table, he grabbed it to use as a lever. He applied too much pressure and it snapped. A yell of frustration escaped him and he thumped the floorboard with his fist.
“You're not going to get very far with that,” Paul said from the now open doorway, making Tony jump for the second time in one night.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Well, I nailed it down this afternoon,” Paul said casually. Fury ran through Tony's veins. It took several deep breaths before he was calm enough to speak.
“Why,” he ground out. “In the name of all that is holy, did you do that?”
“You asked me to.”
“Oh.” Tony had no memory of that. There were a lot of holes in his memory. That was why he wanted to attempt sobriety in the first place. His gaze dropped to the floorboard and he noticed the new nails for the first time.
“Right, that's it,” Paul announced suddenly. “We're not staying here.”
“Where are we going?”
“The Store and then my place,” Paul looked back at Tony over his shoulder. “Come on.”
Tony's eyes lingered on the nailed down floorboard for a moment more before he got up and followed Paul out of the flat. Paul smiled while Tony wondered where he could buy an axe.