So...drabbles.
Love 'em or hate 'em, but I've come to find since joining
charloft that I have trouble with them. I've always had issues keeping my word count into something approaching a limit. I tried to write a thousand page story for a contest? I got three thousand. I tried to keep my GilesXMissouri fic to five hundred words? Yeah, failed. Most of my
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Comments 14
I'll defer offering a prompt until I see what you get. :-)
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Also - almost through fourth item on to-do list. Hoping to knock five and six out before Dad gets here.
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And stay focused! I boosted the signal on your prompt request, so hopefully you'll have other distractions later on.
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I have been focused! Very focused. If the frickin' library hadn't closed early, I'd be further along. But thanks for sending the word out.
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Sorry for the delay! Is this something like what you meant?
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“Stop talking. Now.”
The man sitting across from her stopped for a second - then he went right on running his mouth. “Faith, for God’s sake, would you hear me out?!”
“No chance! God, these guys, they aren’t Buffy, and if you think I’m going to…”
“Faith, the things I’ve heard, these guys are…”
Someone just behind her cleared their throat. He looked up, startled. Faith looked back, saw that Nate and Sophie had come to investigate. She pasted a bright, obviously fake smile on her face.
“Guys, this is Xander. An old friend from…before. He’s got a job for us.”
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It's a little morose. But I tried to end it on a hopeful note.
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There were days where Lindsey wished that Eliot had killed them.
Mostly they coincided with the physical therapy. Along with the physical damage, the Conduit had definitely done something to his mind.
It was a fitting punishment.
Death would have been easier.
Eliot never visited. Lindsey never expected him. But some nights, when the darkness outside his window pressed in at him, hungry and clawing, Lindsey would glance at his bedside table and find a little plastic carton of Chinese food.
The doctors would have a fit if they knew. Lindsey made sure they didn't. He just ate, and hoped.
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This girl was unreal.
She had struck against their attackers on their train, and she had galvanized frightened civilians into soldiers like her, for better or worse.
All Sazh knew was that she was way too young for this. Once a father, always a father - even with Daj taken from him, he couldn’t ignore a child in pain, even if this one looked about eighteen.
She twirled and ducked and stabbed and sliced, ignoring the screams and the dying all around them, and Sazh supported her where he could. Like it or not, they were in this war together now.
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Buffy knew that she could not go on, that she did not deserve a place in this brave new world unless she did this one last good thing.
And so, ignoring Harmony’s vapid pleading, drawing on the years of fear and anger that came from simply living in this world, Buffy drove the stake home.
The silence that followed was glorious, as was the feel of the dust settling over her clothes. It would be a pain to clean, but that was what dry cleaning was for.
She left the dark little alley and went home. They would be waiting.
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