mrsronweasley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mrsronweasley) wrote2004-03-18 11:19 am
mrsronweasley) wrote2004-03-18 11:19 am
Drabble me this, drabble me that.
Here are the first few drabbles. I wrote them yesterday/last night, and I have to say, I had waaaay too much fun.
Some warnings:
Some people forced me to write Pervy!Baby drabble, in which the first half is true, and the other is so very obviously made up.
And some other people have forced me to commit blasphemy, and, you know what? I knew you were going to pick that. I just knew it! Thus, I've written an... At Swim, Two Boys drabble. Dear me. Oh my gracious me, indeed.
On with the drabbles...
For Victoria:
Remus rested against a rough wall. Dawn was just breaking, the pale pink light washing through the wet London streets, making them glisten in that dull, London way. His eyes strained from the light, and he rubbed his palm against his face. Two-day stubble. That’s how long he had been inside. Two days, two nights, empty hours and minutes, empty life, really. It was Monday now, the beginning of a new week. It pulled at him, pulled at him like a cord around his neck. A noose around his neck, more like, and one he could not shed. He wanted to give up, but could not. He wanted to let go, but would not. All he could do was start the new week, go through it, end it in another drunken stupor. Every Monday morning he would meet the dawn here, at the side of his building, smoking the last cigarette in the packet, the last morsel of his cul de sac weekend.
He couldn’t hide, he couldn’t forget, he couldn’t cheat or die. He had to go on, and so he went with the cord, with the noose that dragged him each Monday morning out of his flat and into the street. In a few hours, he would go to the nearest café and buy coffee. He would then go to work, and at night, he would lock up and walk home. And it would go on, each day, each week, each year. Eventually, it would end, but on its own. He had no energy to help it along, just like he had no energy to keep moving; it was all done for him. And so he followed the dawn, his twenty sixth year of existence, his twenty sixth year of being alone. Just another year in another life; just another day for another man.
The sun slowly warmed his back as he walked away.
~*~*~*~
For Kellie:
The girl watched a woman go by.
“Mommy!”
“No, sweetie, that’s me.” The lady next to her – short curly hair, glasses, plump, very similar to the one that had just passed – smiled at her daughter. “I’m mommy.”
“Mommy!” The girl smiled and turned back to watch the passers-by. “Dog!”
“Yes, that’s a dog. That’s a cat over there.”
The girl ignored the cat. It was the dog that held her attention. “Puppy!”
“He’s a bit too big for a puppy.”
“Dog!”
“Yes, sweetie, what about the dog?”
The girl thought. The dog was big, black and shaggy. He was fluffy and probably a bit scary. The man that was walking with the dog looked very tired. He had bags under his eyes, but he was smiling and even smiled at her as he walked past. She smiled back. Something had just happened that she could not explain. Something was decided for her, but not in that usual way that her breakfast was decided for her, or her underwear. No, this was much better than that – it was decided what she would do when she grew up. She was lucky that way, because few babies knew things like that. But she did! She turned to her mommy and opened her mouth. The very first sentence of her life approached, bubbling over with over-excited babble.
“I’m going to write gay smut when I grow up!”
Her eyebrows drew together. What was wrong?
“Mommy?” She leaned over the bench to where her mommy had landed. “You OK?”
~*~*~*~
For Katie:
(I wanted to write one for a picture of us, too, but it wasn't working, and it was all coming down to the fact that I love you madly, anyway, so...yeah.)
~*~*~
He hugged the form in front of him more tightly, and breathed in his lover’s smell. It was a smell long familiar, the smell of Irish Spring soap and slight sweat, mixed in with the spices they had used to make dinner. Rosemary, he recalled, and yes, that was a bit of oregano. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the pillow. Just earlier that day they had had an unfortunate sort of run-in with his sister-in-law. It was a general rule that they avoided any family members, but even in a relatively large town it was sometimes difficult to do, and while picking out just the right jar of pasta sauce in the supermarket, he had spotted her, three paces away, looking at olives. Before he could turn around and make like he hadn’t noticed, she turned his way and their eyes locked. He had never been a violent person, and made it a general rule not to hate anybody, not even Republicans. But this woman – this small, light-haired teacher – inspired so much anger in him that it bordered on real hatred, the sort that made you want to stick sporks in eyeballs. She pursed her lips and looked at him with very similar feeling, then turned away. Her last words to him were echoing in his mind, the day that he had cut his family off completely for fear of ending up in a strait-jacket in a white padded room.
“Evil incarnate, that’s what you are! You’ll be punished for your sins, you perverted freak! And stay away from my little boys!”
He shook his head to clear it and turned back to his lover, who was still undecided as to whether to go with the "Newman’s Own" or "America’s Choice".
“Let’s get "Newman’s Own." We can afford it today. Let’s celebrate.”
Clear gray eyes looked up at him and warmth spread through his entire body.
“What are we celebrating?” He could never get enough of that young, husky voice.
“Us.”
He inhaled the spicy scent once more. If he was “evil incarnate,” he sure had it good on this Earth. And Hell could always wait, anyway.
~*~*~*~
For B:
It was the mid-summer heat, he was sure. It couldn’t have been anything else. It was the heat that had been driving him mad and making him dream of things he had never dreamt of before, or even dreamt of dreaming. Dreams were in general his most troubling way of understanding his subconscious, and last night’s dream had been the most troubling yet. As he lay next to his girlfriend, her soft breath filling his ears, he dreamt of a body, a slick, hard, angular body – a body whose musculature and frame could only belong to a man, and whose shape and feel were driving him mad. He dreamt he was touching that body, running his hands over the defined hipbone, over the soft skin overlaying the hard muscle, licking it, breathing on it, inhaling its scent. It was an unusual scent – spicy, musky, a smell wholly different from what he was used to, and it too was driving him mad. He dreamt, and tossed, and turned, and moaned, and when he woke up and knew that he had climaxed, he cleaned himself off, turned to his side, looked blankly ahead of him, and thought of nothing, aware only of his beating heart and a profound sadness that now filled his entire being.
~*~*~*~
For Hildi:
“My dearest one,
Today, I went for a walk in the woods, and thought of you. I take walks often, as you know, and think of you even more than that, which you have probably guessed. It was sunny, and the woods glowed with the light – it was exquisite. And I thought of how your long hair looks in the sunlight, as if it were made of gold weave, only lighter, much less gaudy, like wispy golden clouds. I imagined making love to you just then, on the grass of the nearest field, so that I could see how you looked against its soft rustling. Or I would have laid you out on red velvet, in the sun, and watched your body glowing – your smooth skin, your soft hands, your full hips. While I was walking, I remembered a line from a recent novel by a man named Oscar Wilde, and it’s been playing in my mind ever since then. “The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.” I cannot be sure, but it might just have been written for you. I miss you. I love you. I shall see you soon.
Yours ever,
Madeline”
~*~*~*~
For Rochefort:
“I say, MacMurrough, are you listening to me?”
MacMurrough turned back to his companion. The tedious fellow was all he had for company at the moment, and his own thoughts kept talking over the monotone voice. He pulled on his Abdulla and looked out the window of the moving train through the ensuing smoke. They were passing through England, on their way to Holyhead. From there, a boat would take them to Dublin. Back to Dublin, back from a long journey. He tried thinking of his time in America, he tried remembering the young man he had met at one reading – sensitive eyes, sensuous mouth, sensational tongue – but only one face he could picture in his mind, a face not seen for ten years, a face that will not leave him until Purgatory take him, a face that awaits him in his eternity in Hell. He heard the young voice, its intensity not lessened through the years; it grew more and more insistent as he grew more and more frustrated.
“MacEmm, you wouldn’t leave that way without saying anything, sure you wouldn’t?”
He had meant to, of course. Meant to leave, meant to forget, to never think again, but of course, the boy was craftier than himself. He could not resist those eyes, the hair that flopped so in the front and tickled on the skull. He could almost feel the soft, brick-like texture of the shaven neck, the silky, rain-washed locks that found their way back with every shake. The night, the cool sea breeze, the wine, the breath, the boy. Two boys, in love. And himself in love, and torn that way. What had been that poem that he spoke to Jim? Something about the sea, he knew, and later, as he sat the endless nights and days in prison, Jim’s small figure hunched against his, it kept coming back to him, again and again, like a lullaby that Nanny Tremble used to sing to make him sleep.
My grief on the sea, how the waves of it roll,
For they heave between me, and the love of my soul.
“MacMurrough, you sure are a tedious fellow, you know that? Poet or no poet, you simply refuse to carry on a conversation with me. Am I just a piece of arse for you, then?”
And my love came behind me, he came from the South,
His breast to my bosom, his mouth to my mouth.
It had been red wine that he had sipped that night. He’d sipped his wine and held his boy, his boy that he could not protect, his boy that wasn’t his at all, his boy, his…
He got up and walked out into the hallway, leaving the man to stare incredulously after him.
Jim Mack and Doyler Doyle. Somewhere, in the Irish sea, the blue, gray, silent sea, their ghosts still swept the waves, their love still haunted the wind, their spirits still swam against the tide.
And his shadow still lurked among the rocks, crouching and hiding, in shame, in prison, in love.
~*~*~*~
There will be more either later today or tomorrow. Now I'm addicted to drabbles. Dammit!
I still can't believe I wrote ASTB. Roche, you should be ashamed of yourself! *g* Are you surprised at all whose point of view I took?..
Some warnings:
Some people forced me to write Pervy!Baby drabble, in which the first half is true, and the other is so very obviously made up.
And some other people have forced me to commit blasphemy, and, you know what? I knew you were going to pick that. I just knew it! Thus, I've written an... At Swim, Two Boys drabble. Dear me. Oh my gracious me, indeed.
On with the drabbles...
For Victoria:
Remus rested against a rough wall. Dawn was just breaking, the pale pink light washing through the wet London streets, making them glisten in that dull, London way. His eyes strained from the light, and he rubbed his palm against his face. Two-day stubble. That’s how long he had been inside. Two days, two nights, empty hours and minutes, empty life, really. It was Monday now, the beginning of a new week. It pulled at him, pulled at him like a cord around his neck. A noose around his neck, more like, and one he could not shed. He wanted to give up, but could not. He wanted to let go, but would not. All he could do was start the new week, go through it, end it in another drunken stupor. Every Monday morning he would meet the dawn here, at the side of his building, smoking the last cigarette in the packet, the last morsel of his cul de sac weekend.
He couldn’t hide, he couldn’t forget, he couldn’t cheat or die. He had to go on, and so he went with the cord, with the noose that dragged him each Monday morning out of his flat and into the street. In a few hours, he would go to the nearest café and buy coffee. He would then go to work, and at night, he would lock up and walk home. And it would go on, each day, each week, each year. Eventually, it would end, but on its own. He had no energy to help it along, just like he had no energy to keep moving; it was all done for him. And so he followed the dawn, his twenty sixth year of existence, his twenty sixth year of being alone. Just another year in another life; just another day for another man.
The sun slowly warmed his back as he walked away.
~*~*~*~
For Kellie:
The girl watched a woman go by.
“Mommy!”
“No, sweetie, that’s me.” The lady next to her – short curly hair, glasses, plump, very similar to the one that had just passed – smiled at her daughter. “I’m mommy.”
“Mommy!” The girl smiled and turned back to watch the passers-by. “Dog!”
“Yes, that’s a dog. That’s a cat over there.”
The girl ignored the cat. It was the dog that held her attention. “Puppy!”
“He’s a bit too big for a puppy.”
“Dog!”
“Yes, sweetie, what about the dog?”
The girl thought. The dog was big, black and shaggy. He was fluffy and probably a bit scary. The man that was walking with the dog looked very tired. He had bags under his eyes, but he was smiling and even smiled at her as he walked past. She smiled back. Something had just happened that she could not explain. Something was decided for her, but not in that usual way that her breakfast was decided for her, or her underwear. No, this was much better than that – it was decided what she would do when she grew up. She was lucky that way, because few babies knew things like that. But she did! She turned to her mommy and opened her mouth. The very first sentence of her life approached, bubbling over with over-excited babble.
“I’m going to write gay smut when I grow up!”
Her eyebrows drew together. What was wrong?
“Mommy?” She leaned over the bench to where her mommy had landed. “You OK?”
~*~*~*~
For Katie:
(I wanted to write one for a picture of us, too, but it wasn't working, and it was all coming down to the fact that I love you madly, anyway, so...yeah.)
~*~*~
He hugged the form in front of him more tightly, and breathed in his lover’s smell. It was a smell long familiar, the smell of Irish Spring soap and slight sweat, mixed in with the spices they had used to make dinner. Rosemary, he recalled, and yes, that was a bit of oregano. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the pillow. Just earlier that day they had had an unfortunate sort of run-in with his sister-in-law. It was a general rule that they avoided any family members, but even in a relatively large town it was sometimes difficult to do, and while picking out just the right jar of pasta sauce in the supermarket, he had spotted her, three paces away, looking at olives. Before he could turn around and make like he hadn’t noticed, she turned his way and their eyes locked. He had never been a violent person, and made it a general rule not to hate anybody, not even Republicans. But this woman – this small, light-haired teacher – inspired so much anger in him that it bordered on real hatred, the sort that made you want to stick sporks in eyeballs. She pursed her lips and looked at him with very similar feeling, then turned away. Her last words to him were echoing in his mind, the day that he had cut his family off completely for fear of ending up in a strait-jacket in a white padded room.
“Evil incarnate, that’s what you are! You’ll be punished for your sins, you perverted freak! And stay away from my little boys!”
He shook his head to clear it and turned back to his lover, who was still undecided as to whether to go with the "Newman’s Own" or "America’s Choice".
“Let’s get "Newman’s Own." We can afford it today. Let’s celebrate.”
Clear gray eyes looked up at him and warmth spread through his entire body.
“What are we celebrating?” He could never get enough of that young, husky voice.
“Us.”
He inhaled the spicy scent once more. If he was “evil incarnate,” he sure had it good on this Earth. And Hell could always wait, anyway.
~*~*~*~
For B:
It was the mid-summer heat, he was sure. It couldn’t have been anything else. It was the heat that had been driving him mad and making him dream of things he had never dreamt of before, or even dreamt of dreaming. Dreams were in general his most troubling way of understanding his subconscious, and last night’s dream had been the most troubling yet. As he lay next to his girlfriend, her soft breath filling his ears, he dreamt of a body, a slick, hard, angular body – a body whose musculature and frame could only belong to a man, and whose shape and feel were driving him mad. He dreamt he was touching that body, running his hands over the defined hipbone, over the soft skin overlaying the hard muscle, licking it, breathing on it, inhaling its scent. It was an unusual scent – spicy, musky, a smell wholly different from what he was used to, and it too was driving him mad. He dreamt, and tossed, and turned, and moaned, and when he woke up and knew that he had climaxed, he cleaned himself off, turned to his side, looked blankly ahead of him, and thought of nothing, aware only of his beating heart and a profound sadness that now filled his entire being.
~*~*~*~
For Hildi:
“My dearest one,
Today, I went for a walk in the woods, and thought of you. I take walks often, as you know, and think of you even more than that, which you have probably guessed. It was sunny, and the woods glowed with the light – it was exquisite. And I thought of how your long hair looks in the sunlight, as if it were made of gold weave, only lighter, much less gaudy, like wispy golden clouds. I imagined making love to you just then, on the grass of the nearest field, so that I could see how you looked against its soft rustling. Or I would have laid you out on red velvet, in the sun, and watched your body glowing – your smooth skin, your soft hands, your full hips. While I was walking, I remembered a line from a recent novel by a man named Oscar Wilde, and it’s been playing in my mind ever since then. “The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.” I cannot be sure, but it might just have been written for you. I miss you. I love you. I shall see you soon.
Yours ever,
Madeline”
~*~*~*~
For Rochefort:
“I say, MacMurrough, are you listening to me?”
MacMurrough turned back to his companion. The tedious fellow was all he had for company at the moment, and his own thoughts kept talking over the monotone voice. He pulled on his Abdulla and looked out the window of the moving train through the ensuing smoke. They were passing through England, on their way to Holyhead. From there, a boat would take them to Dublin. Back to Dublin, back from a long journey. He tried thinking of his time in America, he tried remembering the young man he had met at one reading – sensitive eyes, sensuous mouth, sensational tongue – but only one face he could picture in his mind, a face not seen for ten years, a face that will not leave him until Purgatory take him, a face that awaits him in his eternity in Hell. He heard the young voice, its intensity not lessened through the years; it grew more and more insistent as he grew more and more frustrated.
“MacEmm, you wouldn’t leave that way without saying anything, sure you wouldn’t?”
He had meant to, of course. Meant to leave, meant to forget, to never think again, but of course, the boy was craftier than himself. He could not resist those eyes, the hair that flopped so in the front and tickled on the skull. He could almost feel the soft, brick-like texture of the shaven neck, the silky, rain-washed locks that found their way back with every shake. The night, the cool sea breeze, the wine, the breath, the boy. Two boys, in love. And himself in love, and torn that way. What had been that poem that he spoke to Jim? Something about the sea, he knew, and later, as he sat the endless nights and days in prison, Jim’s small figure hunched against his, it kept coming back to him, again and again, like a lullaby that Nanny Tremble used to sing to make him sleep.
My grief on the sea, how the waves of it roll,
For they heave between me, and the love of my soul.
“MacMurrough, you sure are a tedious fellow, you know that? Poet or no poet, you simply refuse to carry on a conversation with me. Am I just a piece of arse for you, then?”
And my love came behind me, he came from the South,
His breast to my bosom, his mouth to my mouth.
It had been red wine that he had sipped that night. He’d sipped his wine and held his boy, his boy that he could not protect, his boy that wasn’t his at all, his boy, his…
He got up and walked out into the hallway, leaving the man to stare incredulously after him.
Jim Mack and Doyler Doyle. Somewhere, in the Irish sea, the blue, gray, silent sea, their ghosts still swept the waves, their love still haunted the wind, their spirits still swam against the tide.
And his shadow still lurked among the rocks, crouching and hiding, in shame, in prison, in love.
~*~*~*~
There will be more either later today or tomorrow. Now I'm addicted to drabbles. Dammit!
I still can't believe I wrote ASTB. Roche, you should be ashamed of yourself! *g* Are you surprised at all whose point of view I took?..
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