drabbles 2.
beginning//middle//end
gilmore girls, lorelai/christopher, 167 words
notes: first in this pairing. be kind, but constructive.
A Friday night and two glasses of red wine, that’s where it will start.
Actually, she’s drinking vodka and he has a gin, but in the big empty house with only the sound of her heart pounding incessantly, red wine seems more poetic.
For once, it will be Chris who kisses her, Chris who takes the first step, and she’ll come to view that as victory, albeit one that fades with time.
Chris will kiss her, and she’ll lean into him, her slender body pressed into his, and that hiss will be all the reward she needs.
He’ll hiss, and that is how it will start, in a quiet empty house with two glasses of red wine, or is it vodka?
It will end in a sterile hospital with ten fingers and ten toes, a perfect little girl.
It will end, and trips to Paris and nights spent on park benches and sweaters thrown on the floor will wash away, like red wine down the kitchen drain.
dark nights and doubts that don't sleep
gossip girl/house, chase/blair, 200 words
notes: disjointed and odd. for prompt mirror, mirror
His nails dig into her back and she’s surprised; after all, he has those big honest eyes, Nate’s eyes.
But then again, he’s a doctor (he told her so over cheap whiskey in a bar that she won’t admit to frequenting, and she believes him, if only for the way he said the word.
Doctor. Like a curse word. Doctor. Like something he could carve from his skin with a scalpel.) and that does take brains, maybe even cruelty.
She bites his neck with all the ferocity she can manage, and runs her hand through his blonde hair. (Blonde. She thought she was over that phase, but brunettes have become dated, so why not return to old favorites?)
It’s January, and her shoes are unseasonable, but her heart’s colder than her feet, so why not do this? She’s just barely eighteen, and all alone, so why not do this?
He tastes like whiskey and regret, and smells just barely of disinfectant, and his eyes shine when she looks into them (she doesn’t wonder if she’s projecting her own sorrows onto him. Not even for a moment.)
She wakes up in the morning and he’s gone. She misses the body heat.
bad catholics have all the fun
original, 144 words
notes: completely not my usual style.
Half a cup of coffee, and he’s out the door.
It’s Sunday, and he should probably be at church, but he’s always liked Für Elise better than Ave Maria, so it’s a lost cause.
He’s wearing red high tops, and maybe they look a bit like clown shoes but the girls all glance his way, and isn’t that what really matters?
Six blocks from the apartment he catches up to Jane; she’s muttering, and it takes him a second to work out the sorrowful musings of Poe.
He falls in step with her and she lights him a cigarette. It’s another one of those days.
The glossy interior casts a shine across the teller’s forehead; he pulls the Glock out from under his leather jacket as Jane starts making demands.
The police roll up twenty minutes later, clown shoes are all the witnesses remember.
we few, we happy few
the west wing, important men, 335 words
notes: I'm fairly certain this well out of the drabble realm, and into just fic, but do I care? [hint: it starts with a 'n' and rhymes with 'for show']
Nationalism is our form of incest, is our idolatry, is our insanity. 'Patriotism' is its cult.
~Erich Fromm
The youngest’s eyes shine bright, even in shadowy corners, alight with promise and possibility, alight with all the things he imagines of this House. His heart hangs open on his sleeve, and words that are too wise to truly be naïve fall from his pen and ignite the passions of a world.
His faith shall slip from him in the darkest nights, and he will turn away quietly and not return.
The eldest’s head is bowed. Always bowed. His knowledge weighs him down more heavily than age, and his hope is a fragile thing, one that finds its wings in the darkest corners of the world. He cares, too deeply and not enough, all at once, and what he lacks in faith he makes up for in passion, in unwavering passion.
He shall lose too much in too short a time, and a storm shall rend his precious loyalty from him.
The one who stands between them, in age and devotion both, is full of woe. Is full of secret pains and dark fears. Is the one who suffers most, but wavers least. He fights, earnestly and without reservation, but is lost from time to time, in his quest for victory. He has less than the others, and yet he gives it up more readily, and suffers for it.
He shall not lose faith nor loyalty; but his strength shall wax and wane, and in time he will leave, in search of other challenges, in search of things he cannot name.
They are the sons’ of two fathers. They are the servants of a people and a country. They are the caretakers of ideals too great and too impossible to survive, and yet they will fight for them.
They are brothers, in all but blood.
They shall fight, and bleed, and weep, and win together. Time and tragedy and necessity will tear them from one-another. They will travel where the others cannot follow, and they will triumph, and they will disappoint, alone.
They are brothers.
More to come...
gilmore girls, lorelai/christopher, 167 words
notes: first in this pairing. be kind, but constructive.
A Friday night and two glasses of red wine, that’s where it will start.
Actually, she’s drinking vodka and he has a gin, but in the big empty house with only the sound of her heart pounding incessantly, red wine seems more poetic.
For once, it will be Chris who kisses her, Chris who takes the first step, and she’ll come to view that as victory, albeit one that fades with time.
Chris will kiss her, and she’ll lean into him, her slender body pressed into his, and that hiss will be all the reward she needs.
He’ll hiss, and that is how it will start, in a quiet empty house with two glasses of red wine, or is it vodka?
It will end in a sterile hospital with ten fingers and ten toes, a perfect little girl.
It will end, and trips to Paris and nights spent on park benches and sweaters thrown on the floor will wash away, like red wine down the kitchen drain.
dark nights and doubts that don't sleep
gossip girl/house, chase/blair, 200 words
notes: disjointed and odd. for prompt mirror, mirror
His nails dig into her back and she’s surprised; after all, he has those big honest eyes, Nate’s eyes.
But then again, he’s a doctor (he told her so over cheap whiskey in a bar that she won’t admit to frequenting, and she believes him, if only for the way he said the word.
Doctor. Like a curse word. Doctor. Like something he could carve from his skin with a scalpel.) and that does take brains, maybe even cruelty.
She bites his neck with all the ferocity she can manage, and runs her hand through his blonde hair. (Blonde. She thought she was over that phase, but brunettes have become dated, so why not return to old favorites?)
It’s January, and her shoes are unseasonable, but her heart’s colder than her feet, so why not do this? She’s just barely eighteen, and all alone, so why not do this?
He tastes like whiskey and regret, and smells just barely of disinfectant, and his eyes shine when she looks into them (she doesn’t wonder if she’s projecting her own sorrows onto him. Not even for a moment.)
She wakes up in the morning and he’s gone. She misses the body heat.
bad catholics have all the fun
original, 144 words
notes: completely not my usual style.
Half a cup of coffee, and he’s out the door.
It’s Sunday, and he should probably be at church, but he’s always liked Für Elise better than Ave Maria, so it’s a lost cause.
He’s wearing red high tops, and maybe they look a bit like clown shoes but the girls all glance his way, and isn’t that what really matters?
Six blocks from the apartment he catches up to Jane; she’s muttering, and it takes him a second to work out the sorrowful musings of Poe.
He falls in step with her and she lights him a cigarette. It’s another one of those days.
The glossy interior casts a shine across the teller’s forehead; he pulls the Glock out from under his leather jacket as Jane starts making demands.
The police roll up twenty minutes later, clown shoes are all the witnesses remember.
we few, we happy few
the west wing, important men, 335 words
notes: I'm fairly certain this well out of the drabble realm, and into just fic, but do I care? [hint: it starts with a 'n' and rhymes with 'for show']
Nationalism is our form of incest, is our idolatry, is our insanity. 'Patriotism' is its cult.
~Erich Fromm
The youngest’s eyes shine bright, even in shadowy corners, alight with promise and possibility, alight with all the things he imagines of this House. His heart hangs open on his sleeve, and words that are too wise to truly be naïve fall from his pen and ignite the passions of a world.
His faith shall slip from him in the darkest nights, and he will turn away quietly and not return.
The eldest’s head is bowed. Always bowed. His knowledge weighs him down more heavily than age, and his hope is a fragile thing, one that finds its wings in the darkest corners of the world. He cares, too deeply and not enough, all at once, and what he lacks in faith he makes up for in passion, in unwavering passion.
He shall lose too much in too short a time, and a storm shall rend his precious loyalty from him.
The one who stands between them, in age and devotion both, is full of woe. Is full of secret pains and dark fears. Is the one who suffers most, but wavers least. He fights, earnestly and without reservation, but is lost from time to time, in his quest for victory. He has less than the others, and yet he gives it up more readily, and suffers for it.
He shall not lose faith nor loyalty; but his strength shall wax and wane, and in time he will leave, in search of other challenges, in search of things he cannot name.
They are the sons’ of two fathers. They are the servants of a people and a country. They are the caretakers of ideals too great and too impossible to survive, and yet they will fight for them.
They are brothers, in all but blood.
They shall fight, and bleed, and weep, and win together. Time and tragedy and necessity will tear them from one-another. They will travel where the others cannot follow, and they will triumph, and they will disappoint, alone.
They are brothers.
More to come...