Drabble Week!
Mar. 4th, 2010 11:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oroburos69Okay, I had this idea. In order to clear my mind, and finally finish the three unfinished monstrosities on my desktop, I'm going to write drabbles this week, one (at least one) for every fandom I've ever been a part of... In the last five years anyway. Here's my list: Death Note, Mentalist, Supernatural, Criminal Minds, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Naruto, Forgotten Realms, Harry Potter, X-Men, Zombieland, Batman.
And I grabbed prompts from a random word generator. List:murder, paradise, storm, qualification, connotation, racket, juice, ability, acid, bad, capitalist, taker, knife
Anyway, I did three today (nearly four, but the Death Note one isn't quite done yet).
Mentalist- Murder- 250 words
A note--this is six different characters from the Mentalist. Not going to tell you who, though.
Most natural thing in the world, death. Everything dies. People forget that, in their wailing, in their grief. Only thing they’re mourning is their loss. Not the loss of the dead. Bodies are empty, they can’t care anymore. Funny how people forget that.
Death isn’t the issue. Killing is the issue. Murder is wrong, an affront to the dignity of humanity. Dying is sad, but murder is outrage. Murder needs justice.
***
Murder, of course, is wrong. You can kill in the name of your country, kill in the line of duty, kill in self-defense. It’s all forgiven, alright, justified. They say that killing in vengeance, to protect, or in mercy is wrong, that you can’t do that. But everyone knows you should.
It’s wrong, and it shouldn’t ever happen. Sometimes it does, and then justice needs to be served. That’s what I do. I’m like a waiter for justice.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer- Juice- 1000 words
Buffy finds Spike curled up in a shadowed corner of his crypt, withered, and exhausted. He shies away from her touch, dry skin rasping over stone floors. His bones rise out of parchment thin skin, and his brittle blonde hair has dark roots. He’s been here a long time.
Buffy does what she’s always done. She takes him home for her mother to fix. He isn’t a wet kitten, but he’s helpless just the same.
The basement has windows, but there are thick blinds on them to block out the sun. Buffy drags the guest bed down the stairs, grunting when it catches on the door. The mattress goes into the darkest corner, half hidden by the washer and dryer. Spike watches dully, propped up against cement wall, not breathing, not moving.
Joyce hurries down, holding bunches of pillows under her arms, pillowcases and sheets clutched in her hands. She shoos Buffy upstairs, telling her to get the comforter—the nice one—and makes the bed with the efficiency of mothers everywhere. She glances at Spike from time to time, as she shakes pillows into pillowcases.
Buffy trots down the stairs, hugely puffy comforter held in front of her. She jumps the last four stairs because she’s nineteen.
The sun is rising behind the blinds, and Spike winces at the dim light, his skin smoking in reaction. Buffy pulls him into a corner, further away from the sunlight. Joyce shakes out the comforter and spreads it over the bed, then graces Spike with a critical eye.
It’s too bright in the house to take him up to the bathroom, but Spike is filthy. The black rags he’s wearing are hanging off his bones, and he smells (reeks) of stale, old blood and dry dust. Joyce opens the dryer and pulls out a pair of Buffy’s sweatpants and a tee-shirt she uses for sleeping. The basket of clean towels gives her a washcloth, and she offers all three to Spike, nodding toward the laundry sink that she never uses.
Buffy opens her mouth to protest, but stops when her mother looks at her. Spike stumbles when he tries to walk, so Buffy wraps her arm around his waist and supports him. He sets the clothes on the ground and fumbles with his shirt. Buffy helps him pull it off, barely noticing her mother leaving.
Spike is skeletal, too thin to be alive (it’s lucky that he’s dead). He can’t turn the faucets; they’re stiff from lack of use. Buffy twists them open for him, and a clean stream of water pours out into the basin. She grabs him a towel to dry off with, and then escapes up the stairs to the kitchen.
They don’t have blood, but there’s orange juice. Buffy worries for a moment—more than a moment—giving Spike time to wash. Eventually, she grabs the carton and a cheerful yellow mug and stomps down the stairs, letting him know she’s coming.
Spike is dressed in her clothes, the sweats barely covering his knees, but loose enough despite that (he’s less than a size zero, and Buffy feels a tiny stir of jealousy that she dismisses immediately). The tee-shirt is large on him (it’s large on her, too), and Buffy has to smile at seeing him in pink. He hasn’t moved from the sink, holding onto the rim with white fingers.
Spike looks up at her entrance and smiles awkwardly, thin lips stretched across a gaunt face. His cheek bones jut aggressively through skin, the lines of his skull obvious.
Buffy shrugs and lifts the juice and mug, showing them to him. “We don’t have blood,” she tells him, struck by the irony, because of course she has blood. It’s in her veins. “Do you like orange juice?”
He nods, and stumbles away from the sink. Buffy catches him, and leans him against the wall as she pulls back the sheets. Spike collapses onto the mattress, and Buffy puts the juice down to tuck him in. His eyes are half-open (and even they look dry) and he watches her like she’s giving him something precious.
Buffy pulls back and pours a mug of orange juice, not quite meeting that adoring gaze. She leaves it half full, and stares into the dim orange depths, then sets it on the concrete for a moment, going to the chest of broken weapons hidden behind the water heater. She grabs a shard of a silver knife, broken in practice, and returns to Spike’s side.
He sighs softly, hand half stretched out to the mug. Buffy meets his eyes and cuts open her palm, slicing through the centre and the base of her thumb. It hurts more than her wrist would, but she doesn’t need people thinking she’s suicidal.
“With the orange juice?” she asks, cupping the welling blood in the palm of her hand as his eyes flash yellow.
Spike reaches for her hand, trembling. Not a threat. Buffy settles on the side of the bed, her hip settling into the sharp hollow of his waist. Cold fingers grip her wrist, dragging it towards his mouth. She helps him, lifting him onto her legs, his cold body (corpse) curling into her warmth.
Spike laps the stray trickles of blood from her hand before they can drip onto the green sheets, soft eager noises coming from his mouth. It’s the first noise he’s made since she found him, and Buffy is pleased. The sheets have slid down to his waist and Buffy tugs them back into place.
She presses her palm against his mouth, letting him drink. His tongue slides along the edges of the cut, forcing blood from tissue. It hurts but Buffy doesn’t mind. She pets his hair with her free hand, damp curls clinging to her fingers, and brushes her lips across his temple in a soft kiss.
Spike’s hand grabs hold of Buffy’s ankle, an affectionate grasp. She smiles and picks up the orange juice, drinking from the carton.
Naruto- Paradise- 200 words
The South Islands are beautiful wonderful. The sand is white like bones and lightning, the sky is blue chakra. The sea is wild free turquoise, filled with passionately colored creatures. The jungles are a living breathing entity.
The ship they had stowed away on had crumpled into a thousand pieces in the face of a giant wave. The crew sunk, and the stowaways swam, Naruto dragging the other two onto a silver moonlit beach, a day ago, a year ago, a month, a decade. It doesn’t matter here, where the sun shines like white fire.
Naruto is bronzed by the sun, his hair a stark white against his skin. His eyes are the same as the sky, as the sea, and Hinata thinks (knows) the islands are where he was always meant to be.
Her and Sasuke, born to blue veined aristocracy, are lighter gold, hair streaked by pale shades of brown and blond. Perhaps this strange paradise is where they were meant to be, too. She doesn’t know, but this is the freedom she’s always wanted.
One day, a million years, a dozen months, a couple of weeks, after they washed ashore, Naruto sees a ship in the distance.
And I grabbed prompts from a random word generator. List:
Anyway, I did three today (nearly four, but the Death Note one isn't quite done yet).
Mentalist- Murder- 250 words
A note--this is six different characters from the Mentalist. Not going to tell you who, though.
Most natural thing in the world, death. Everything dies. People forget that, in their wailing, in their grief. Only thing they’re mourning is their loss. Not the loss of the dead. Bodies are empty, they can’t care anymore. Funny how people forget that.
***
Death isn’t the issue. Killing is the issue. Murder is wrong, an affront to the dignity of humanity. Dying is sad, but murder is outrage. Murder needs justice.
***
God takes the souls of those who die in innocence, spurning sinners. And it is a sin to take a life, no matter whose life you take (not even your own). In this world, murderers must be hunted down and stopped from killing, but it’s in the next world that they’ll get their punishment. There’s no forgiving murder and no sympathy for a murderer.***
Murder, of course, is wrong. You can kill in the name of your country, kill in the line of duty, kill in self-defense. It’s all forgiven, alright, justified. They say that killing in vengeance, to protect, or in mercy is wrong, that you can’t do that. But everyone knows you should.
***
It’s wrong, and it shouldn’t ever happen. Sometimes it does, and then justice needs to be served. That’s what I do. I’m like a waiter for justice.
***
Murder? If it’s so wrong, why does everyone do it? If it’s so wrong, why do murderers walk free because they were abused, because they’re rich, because the victim was asking for it? No. Murder isn’t wrong.Buffy the Vampire Slayer- Juice- 1000 words
Buffy finds Spike curled up in a shadowed corner of his crypt, withered, and exhausted. He shies away from her touch, dry skin rasping over stone floors. His bones rise out of parchment thin skin, and his brittle blonde hair has dark roots. He’s been here a long time.
Buffy does what she’s always done. She takes him home for her mother to fix. He isn’t a wet kitten, but he’s helpless just the same.
The basement has windows, but there are thick blinds on them to block out the sun. Buffy drags the guest bed down the stairs, grunting when it catches on the door. The mattress goes into the darkest corner, half hidden by the washer and dryer. Spike watches dully, propped up against cement wall, not breathing, not moving.
Joyce hurries down, holding bunches of pillows under her arms, pillowcases and sheets clutched in her hands. She shoos Buffy upstairs, telling her to get the comforter—the nice one—and makes the bed with the efficiency of mothers everywhere. She glances at Spike from time to time, as she shakes pillows into pillowcases.
Buffy trots down the stairs, hugely puffy comforter held in front of her. She jumps the last four stairs because she’s nineteen.
The sun is rising behind the blinds, and Spike winces at the dim light, his skin smoking in reaction. Buffy pulls him into a corner, further away from the sunlight. Joyce shakes out the comforter and spreads it over the bed, then graces Spike with a critical eye.
It’s too bright in the house to take him up to the bathroom, but Spike is filthy. The black rags he’s wearing are hanging off his bones, and he smells (reeks) of stale, old blood and dry dust. Joyce opens the dryer and pulls out a pair of Buffy’s sweatpants and a tee-shirt she uses for sleeping. The basket of clean towels gives her a washcloth, and she offers all three to Spike, nodding toward the laundry sink that she never uses.
Buffy opens her mouth to protest, but stops when her mother looks at her. Spike stumbles when he tries to walk, so Buffy wraps her arm around his waist and supports him. He sets the clothes on the ground and fumbles with his shirt. Buffy helps him pull it off, barely noticing her mother leaving.
Spike is skeletal, too thin to be alive (it’s lucky that he’s dead). He can’t turn the faucets; they’re stiff from lack of use. Buffy twists them open for him, and a clean stream of water pours out into the basin. She grabs him a towel to dry off with, and then escapes up the stairs to the kitchen.
They don’t have blood, but there’s orange juice. Buffy worries for a moment—more than a moment—giving Spike time to wash. Eventually, she grabs the carton and a cheerful yellow mug and stomps down the stairs, letting him know she’s coming.
Spike is dressed in her clothes, the sweats barely covering his knees, but loose enough despite that (he’s less than a size zero, and Buffy feels a tiny stir of jealousy that she dismisses immediately). The tee-shirt is large on him (it’s large on her, too), and Buffy has to smile at seeing him in pink. He hasn’t moved from the sink, holding onto the rim with white fingers.
Spike looks up at her entrance and smiles awkwardly, thin lips stretched across a gaunt face. His cheek bones jut aggressively through skin, the lines of his skull obvious.
Buffy shrugs and lifts the juice and mug, showing them to him. “We don’t have blood,” she tells him, struck by the irony, because of course she has blood. It’s in her veins. “Do you like orange juice?”
He nods, and stumbles away from the sink. Buffy catches him, and leans him against the wall as she pulls back the sheets. Spike collapses onto the mattress, and Buffy puts the juice down to tuck him in. His eyes are half-open (and even they look dry) and he watches her like she’s giving him something precious.
Buffy pulls back and pours a mug of orange juice, not quite meeting that adoring gaze. She leaves it half full, and stares into the dim orange depths, then sets it on the concrete for a moment, going to the chest of broken weapons hidden behind the water heater. She grabs a shard of a silver knife, broken in practice, and returns to Spike’s side.
He sighs softly, hand half stretched out to the mug. Buffy meets his eyes and cuts open her palm, slicing through the centre and the base of her thumb. It hurts more than her wrist would, but she doesn’t need people thinking she’s suicidal.
“With the orange juice?” she asks, cupping the welling blood in the palm of her hand as his eyes flash yellow.
Spike reaches for her hand, trembling. Not a threat. Buffy settles on the side of the bed, her hip settling into the sharp hollow of his waist. Cold fingers grip her wrist, dragging it towards his mouth. She helps him, lifting him onto her legs, his cold body (corpse) curling into her warmth.
Spike laps the stray trickles of blood from her hand before they can drip onto the green sheets, soft eager noises coming from his mouth. It’s the first noise he’s made since she found him, and Buffy is pleased. The sheets have slid down to his waist and Buffy tugs them back into place.
She presses her palm against his mouth, letting him drink. His tongue slides along the edges of the cut, forcing blood from tissue. It hurts but Buffy doesn’t mind. She pets his hair with her free hand, damp curls clinging to her fingers, and brushes her lips across his temple in a soft kiss.
Spike’s hand grabs hold of Buffy’s ankle, an affectionate grasp. She smiles and picks up the orange juice, drinking from the carton.
Naruto- Paradise- 200 words
The South Islands are beautiful wonderful. The sand is white like bones and lightning, the sky is blue chakra. The sea is wild free turquoise, filled with passionately colored creatures. The jungles are a living breathing entity.
The ship they had stowed away on had crumpled into a thousand pieces in the face of a giant wave. The crew sunk, and the stowaways swam, Naruto dragging the other two onto a silver moonlit beach, a day ago, a year ago, a month, a decade. It doesn’t matter here, where the sun shines like white fire.
Naruto is bronzed by the sun, his hair a stark white against his skin. His eyes are the same as the sky, as the sea, and Hinata thinks (knows) the islands are where he was always meant to be.
Her and Sasuke, born to blue veined aristocracy, are lighter gold, hair streaked by pale shades of brown and blond. Perhaps this strange paradise is where they were meant to be, too. She doesn’t know, but this is the freedom she’s always wanted.
One day, a million years, a dozen months, a couple of weeks, after they washed ashore, Naruto sees a ship in the distance.
