Eight Drabbles.
Apr. 17th, 2006 07:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
whathoThe results of the ten drabbles meme: two drabbles short because I wrote two snooker fics to satisfy three snooker-related requests and the tenth went unclaimed. I hope these are quite satisfactory and all that.
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ironicdutchess: I would like, please, a Simon & Garfunkel drabble. Set in a hotel room.
On Paul's bed for the final rehearsal, Art closed his eyes through a soaring crescendo. Paul half-smiled at the random lyrics, waiting for his turn. Art often carried on lilting and trilling long after Paul fell silent.
Gone midnight, Artie paced his bathroom, scrubbing his gums. He paused with an ear to the mirror to listen for Paul's gargling note two tones below.
Paul still lay against the headboard. He threw an arm into the empty pillow and breathed in loud and slow.
A wall away Art turned to him, breathing out, and twined his own fingers into his hair.
janecarnall: M*A*S*H. Mulcahy gets a cut on his hand and is trying to bandage himself. Hawkeye takes over. Much UST.
'It used to be subtle,' said Hawkeye, coming from behind, slipping his arms beneath Mulcahy's shoulders. He loosened the ridiculous mess of bandages swathing the mangled hand from shirt cuff to fingertips.
'I beg your pardon?' said Mulcahy.
'Your ruses,' he muttered, gesturing round the theatre. 'They know you can wrap a hand. If you want to play doctors....'
'Hawkeye!' Mulcahy blinked indignantly. 'I assure you I had no such thing in mind.'
Hawkeye grunted, twisted the hand palm upwards and draped the first clean length across the tender underside of Mulcahy's wrist.
Mulcahy shuddered, whispering 'tighter' through his teeth.
slemslempike: Wooster is going to appear on hignfy, and Jeeves is trying to prepare him for it.
'Allegedly, sir, is the word for which you are groping.'
'Allegedly. That's the chap. Lend a hand with the tie, Jeeves. Bally fingers won't do as they're told.'
'The glass is at your elbow, sir.'
'Stout fellow. I must confess, Jeeves, to a touch of trepidation.'
'You are more than equal to the task, sir.'
'The jolly old sense of humour, you mean?'
'Not only that. The gentleman in the centre, sir, is - allegedly - more than amenable to favours to which your talents are...admirably suited.'
'Hurrah. Now, the jacket. Brown check, do you think?'
'No, sir. I fancy not.'
dennishaskins: You have Treguard in your interests... I'd like to see a drabble about what happens in the time between shows [ed. we're talking about Knightmare], when the players are frozen. It can be from any period of the show, but preferably one with Pickle the elf in.
Children made him feel old. Once he scowled at them openly. Now he aided their quests to conquer the dungeon that he, in his day, defeated.
The Elf sometimes played with the frozen forms. Treguard seldom stopped him.
He crouched before the smallest boy and narrowed his eyes at the freshness. In twenty-four hours the gate went up. He needed to stoke the anger he harboured for those who would reduce his home to rubble.
He could not spare an ounce for those who forced him to fight on the side that strove to match the triumph of his youth.
[Note. Teams were 'frozen' between episodes while time passed around them. Treguard, the dungeonmaster, began as an ambiguous character, on the side of neither good nor evil but sometimes taking a degree of pleasure in the teams' failures. A few seasons into Knightmare, his character became firmly allied with the teams against 'The Opposition': helping and supporting them in their endeavours to conquer the dungeon that he, in his backstory, was the first to beat.]
tiniago: M*A*S*H. Do you write Winchester? Winchester/Hawkeye slash!
'My dear Honoria. The interruption, as I have come to regard him, was he who can be but loosely described as "Doctor" Pierce. You overheard a sample of the inanity that passes in his feeble mind for wit. I can only offer my sincerest apologies.
He came with the intention of silencing my, to his ears, painfully elevated discourse. My thoughts were, at this point, all turned toward the happy prospect of silencing him.
The thirteen minutes silence in this recording represents the successful result of our combined endeavours.
My congratulations to Mother for her success in the bridge tournament....'
nerdcakes: Do you write Frank Burns?
While Pierce chased Trapper out of Korea, Frank stomped around The Swamp, huffing then giggling, stripping down bunks and throwing stale socks into the stove. He was thinking of the new captain.
I hope he's clean anyway.
He wanted a man to mould; to jump on his say-so, salute him on sight. He wanted to see folded linen. He wanted to sleep without the smell of sweat. The stirring, creaking cot-frame that made him wilt and ache and whisper names he hated beneath his breath.
He blinked three times in the weirdly sterile tent.
Well anyway. I hope he's clean.
jekesta and lakester: Jennifer would like me to ask you for A SNOOKER DRABBLE. Possibly involving Stephen Hendry.
'1.' His back is concave.
'8.' But I don't like what he's done to his hair.
'9.' Except it does make him look like a marine.
(I dream that I fall overboard. He sails down to rescue me on the end of an anchor chain. Then we're all wet.)
'14.'
What I like best is when he stops by a camera before asking me to polish the white so I can't reach the table without steering him aside, one gloved hand on his waist.
I pass the ball from palm to palm till it glows.
'14?'
Then I lose count.
rudelypinioned: *pictures a HIGNFY Snooker fic, in an all but deserted, dimly lit, slightly seedy bar after recording*
'Well, it's a working-class thing, isn't it. Billiards'd be more your line.'
'I'm not landed gentry. Anyway. You're only leading by...' – Ian glanced at the blackboard – '...seventy-three.'
'Me game's off. I'm trying not to make seedy puns about bottom spin. It's very distracting.'
'I can't win, can I?'
'In very few senses.' Paul vaulted onto the table and hauled Ian up beside him, scattering the colours. 'You need more practice. You want to start by getting that ball in the top pocket.'
'That's not a seedy pun?'
'Snooker's all seedy puns.' Paul shrugged. 'Still. It's dark. And there's nobody here.'
ironicdutchess: I would like, please, a Simon & Garfunkel drabble. Set in a hotel room.On Paul's bed for the final rehearsal, Art closed his eyes through a soaring crescendo. Paul half-smiled at the random lyrics, waiting for his turn. Art often carried on lilting and trilling long after Paul fell silent.
Gone midnight, Artie paced his bathroom, scrubbing his gums. He paused with an ear to the mirror to listen for Paul's gargling note two tones below.
Paul still lay against the headboard. He threw an arm into the empty pillow and breathed in loud and slow.
A wall away Art turned to him, breathing out, and twined his own fingers into his hair.
janecarnall: M*A*S*H. Mulcahy gets a cut on his hand and is trying to bandage himself. Hawkeye takes over. Much UST.'It used to be subtle,' said Hawkeye, coming from behind, slipping his arms beneath Mulcahy's shoulders. He loosened the ridiculous mess of bandages swathing the mangled hand from shirt cuff to fingertips.
'I beg your pardon?' said Mulcahy.
'Your ruses,' he muttered, gesturing round the theatre. 'They know you can wrap a hand. If you want to play doctors....'
'Hawkeye!' Mulcahy blinked indignantly. 'I assure you I had no such thing in mind.'
Hawkeye grunted, twisted the hand palm upwards and draped the first clean length across the tender underside of Mulcahy's wrist.
Mulcahy shuddered, whispering 'tighter' through his teeth.
slemslempike: Wooster is going to appear on hignfy, and Jeeves is trying to prepare him for it.'Allegedly, sir, is the word for which you are groping.'
'Allegedly. That's the chap. Lend a hand with the tie, Jeeves. Bally fingers won't do as they're told.'
'The glass is at your elbow, sir.'
'Stout fellow. I must confess, Jeeves, to a touch of trepidation.'
'You are more than equal to the task, sir.'
'The jolly old sense of humour, you mean?'
'Not only that. The gentleman in the centre, sir, is - allegedly - more than amenable to favours to which your talents are...admirably suited.'
'Hurrah. Now, the jacket. Brown check, do you think?'
'No, sir. I fancy not.'
dennishaskins: You have Treguard in your interests... I'd like to see a drabble about what happens in the time between shows [ed. we're talking about Knightmare], when the players are frozen. It can be from any period of the show, but preferably one with Pickle the elf in.Children made him feel old. Once he scowled at them openly. Now he aided their quests to conquer the dungeon that he, in his day, defeated.
The Elf sometimes played with the frozen forms. Treguard seldom stopped him.
He crouched before the smallest boy and narrowed his eyes at the freshness. In twenty-four hours the gate went up. He needed to stoke the anger he harboured for those who would reduce his home to rubble.
He could not spare an ounce for those who forced him to fight on the side that strove to match the triumph of his youth.
[Note. Teams were 'frozen' between episodes while time passed around them. Treguard, the dungeonmaster, began as an ambiguous character, on the side of neither good nor evil but sometimes taking a degree of pleasure in the teams' failures. A few seasons into Knightmare, his character became firmly allied with the teams against 'The Opposition': helping and supporting them in their endeavours to conquer the dungeon that he, in his backstory, was the first to beat.]
tiniago: M*A*S*H. Do you write Winchester? Winchester/Hawkeye slash!'My dear Honoria. The interruption, as I have come to regard him, was he who can be but loosely described as "Doctor" Pierce. You overheard a sample of the inanity that passes in his feeble mind for wit. I can only offer my sincerest apologies.
He came with the intention of silencing my, to his ears, painfully elevated discourse. My thoughts were, at this point, all turned toward the happy prospect of silencing him.
The thirteen minutes silence in this recording represents the successful result of our combined endeavours.
My congratulations to Mother for her success in the bridge tournament....'
nerdcakes: Do you write Frank Burns?While Pierce chased Trapper out of Korea, Frank stomped around The Swamp, huffing then giggling, stripping down bunks and throwing stale socks into the stove. He was thinking of the new captain.
I hope he's clean anyway.
He wanted a man to mould; to jump on his say-so, salute him on sight. He wanted to see folded linen. He wanted to sleep without the smell of sweat. The stirring, creaking cot-frame that made him wilt and ache and whisper names he hated beneath his breath.
He blinked three times in the weirdly sterile tent.
Well anyway. I hope he's clean.
jekesta and lakester: Jennifer would like me to ask you for A SNOOKER DRABBLE. Possibly involving Stephen Hendry.'1.' His back is concave.
'8.' But I don't like what he's done to his hair.
'9.' Except it does make him look like a marine.
(I dream that I fall overboard. He sails down to rescue me on the end of an anchor chain. Then we're all wet.)
'14.'
What I like best is when he stops by a camera before asking me to polish the white so I can't reach the table without steering him aside, one gloved hand on his waist.
I pass the ball from palm to palm till it glows.
'14?'
Then I lose count.
rudelypinioned: *pictures a HIGNFY Snooker fic, in an all but deserted, dimly lit, slightly seedy bar after recording*'Well, it's a working-class thing, isn't it. Billiards'd be more your line.'
'I'm not landed gentry. Anyway. You're only leading by...' – Ian glanced at the blackboard – '...seventy-three.'
'Me game's off. I'm trying not to make seedy puns about bottom spin. It's very distracting.'
'I can't win, can I?'
'In very few senses.' Paul vaulted onto the table and hauled Ian up beside him, scattering the colours. 'You need more practice. You want to start by getting that ball in the top pocket.'
'That's not a seedy pun?'
'Snooker's all seedy puns.' Paul shrugged. 'Still. It's dark. And there's nobody here.'
