Meme drabbles
Nov. 19th, 2009 12:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dolevalanA little something to get me writing this morning.
The challenge:
1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn your music player on and set it to random.
3. Write a drabble/ficlet to each song that plays. You have only the length of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts and stop when it’s over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do five and post them.
I did my original characters, Nicolas and Stella Willoughby. ...I also did 10, as I found these sort of addictive. Forgive the very eclectic music that popped up.
Nicolas looked up from the letter he was writing to see his son standing in the doorway, watching him. His expression eased slightly at the edges, as it almost always did. “Michalai… what is it?”
“Papa…” His son padded a little ways into the room, but stopped short of the desk. Nicolas’ study was usually out of bounds. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He turned a little, the chair swiveling. “Come here.” Michalai obeyed, quiet, and Nicolas lifted him into his lap. “What’s keeping you up?”
Michalai snuggled, though he was a little too old to do it entirely without self consciousness. “Papa… what do you do, for the Company?”
(- Leave Out All the Rest, Linkin Park)
Stella rode through the farmland, sparing a glance for the men working there. She sometimes wondered what it would like, to be a farmer instead of a hunter. To spend long days and months working the land, watching things grow where you planted them.
But then there were the storms, and the droughts, and all the pests that could take your work away from you. Your days soaked into the ground like the rain, and sometimes nothing grew.
She wasn’t riding anywhere in particular, that day, just out for the joy of speed and a change of scene. A few of the laborers glanced at her as she passed them, but not many. Most of their gazes remained steadily on the ground they worked. It was theirs; it was not for her.
(- Mr. Farmer, The Seeds)
The rain was to be ignored at your own peril, he reminded himself as the other man’s blade came up to meet his own. Neither of them would, he presumed, have chosen to fight a duel on a balcony as it rained, but evidently vengeance wouldn’t wait.
Turgetsev snarled as he came at Nicolas again, with both a will and considerable experience. “They all think you’re such a card,” he spat, as he jabbed at Nicolas side. “A novelty, for their gods damned salons, a conversation piece at their bloody parties.”
Nicolas met each blow, but with the growing conviction they were equally matched. He wasn’t entirely surprised it had come to this; still, he hadn’t seen it coming. He was going to do something, and soon.
“Tell them,” Turgetsev spat, meaning the crowd that had gathered at the balcony’s French doors. “Tell them what you did to my father. Tell them why.” He punctuated his demands with thrusts, all well chosen.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nicolas protested, but he had always had trouble lying properly when his attention was divided. He felt a shudder go through the crowd, collectively.
“My father,” Turgetsev said, voice cold as his blade, “what Rodia Illiych Turgetsev. You thought he was traveling alone. But there was a little boy, hidden in the wagon. Then again… you were too busy slaughtering him to notice, weren’t you? Too busy carving him up like a fattened hog.”
He drew blood on Nicolas’ arm. Grimly, Nicolas realized he didn’t have the luxury of holding back anymore. Vengeance made for powerful enemies. In more ways than one. And if Turgetsev made it a matter of winning the crowd as well as the fight, then he had no choice.
(- The Sons of Fate, The Protomen)
Stella couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in Invidia. Given her mother’s mixed heritage, it wasn’t a place the family had ever gone together. Hollis had taken the twins once, as children.
Still, the sound of the choir made her oddly nostalgic. She sat in the Mordentish lecture hall and listened to the quick, light notes cascading through the air, the Invidian phrasing alien and familiar at once. She wasn’t sure what it made her miss, but it was a bittersweet break from her studies, that afternoon.
(- Amor, Io Sento L’Alma, SLC Chamber Choir)
There was a jaunty, old fashioned melody playing on the radio. They had music seldom, she and Marcus, but she’d found herself in the mood for it today for some reason. Big, fat snowflakes were falling, and the Church was preparing for the Advent celebration; she could hear the bells tolling more frequently these days. Even in their less than stylish part of town, she watched people’s clothes smarten up as they headed to parties or social events of various stamps.
It was a time for family and friends, she supposed. A normal woman might miss them. She did, just slightly, but she never doubted her choice.
She’d have coffee waiting for Marcus, when he got in with the intelligence.
(- I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm, Les Brown)
They were out by the river. Nicolas had climbed a tree, and Stella was spread out at its base, with a book, as always. The day was mild, a light breeze slipping through the tree’s leaves now and then.
“Hey, Stella.” He poked his head down, to look at her better. “Do you think Mama liked climbing trees?”
“I imagine so.” Stella turned a page. “It seems like something she’d enjoy.”
“I bet I got higher than she ever did. Than anyone ever did. I got almost to the very top.”
He couldn’t quite see her smile. “Almost.”
(- Patient With Me, Wilco)
Nicolas sighed. “Ivana…”
The blond sniffed, attempting to still her tears. “No, no. It isn’t your fault, Ambrosovich. Please, just go away.”
“Ivana.” He pressed his handkerchief into her hand. “I didn’t mean to lead you on.”
“You didn’t.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I’m just a silly girl, falling in love at the drop of a hat. Everyone says so.”
“Not silly.” He smiled a little. “Perhaps just… hasty. Besides. I’m sure Petr would be heartbroken if he lost his chance.”
“…really?”
( - Don’t Cry Baby, Madeline Peyreux)
The city was a world of shadows, at night. Stella slipped in and out of them without thought; she’d become an urban creature years ago, and almost felt more at home doing this than managing the small estate she’d earned for herself and her son. Elizabeth Dunthorne was a brilliant doctor and a good mother, but Stella Willoughby had long ago learned to take care of herself.
She remembered the way clearly. She’d come a few times as a much younger woman, while her new life was still taking shape. She knew which alleys to ignore, and she knew what unmarked door was the one waiting for her brisk knock.
The man who answered was old, wisened, and suspicious. “I’m here,” she said, “for the antidote.”
(- Kanada, Akira soundtrack)
The carriage was rushing as fast as it could, but Nicolas couldn’t help the desire to get out and grab one of the horses himself. The impracticality of this plan did nothing to help his impatience.
Why he’d thought taking a flat a full two days’ journey away was a good idea, he now couldn’t be sure. But he knew that if he didn’t make it home in time to be of use, he would never cease to berate himself for it.
His anxiety was making the other passengers nervous. One woman resolutely looked out the window, and not at him; the other glanced at him from time to time before looking back at her hands. The other man in the carriage was reading, but hadn’t turned a page in quite some time, suggesting either the tension had gotten to him or, in defiance of everything, he’d fallen asleep.
Nicolas looked out the other window. The countryside sped by, vast plains, but nowhere near quickly enough. He imagined all sorts of horrible scenarios with every few meters. His father wasting away of a horrible illness, his mother neglecting to tell anyone before now. His father thrown from a horse, half crushed beneath the animal’s weight. His father half run through, a slow gut wound taking days to kill him.
The letter had simply read, in his mother’s curt style, Your father is poorly. Come home immediately. – Mother That was all she’d given him, and it was making him mad with worry.
As long as Nicolas could remember, his father had been a constant, solid presence in his life. They hadn’t always gotten on, precisely, but he loved him in his way. And Nicolas knew that anything that happened to his father would devastate his mother.
He wished Stella were home. They should have been going through this together. Instead he was stuck in this carriage with these insipid people who were all bloody afraid of him. It made him feel caged.
There was nothing for it. He was stuck waiting for whatever verdict fate would read him in a few miles when he arrived. And he wasn’t at all certain it would be in his favor, this time through.
(- Symphony No. 9 in D minor, WAB 109 (1894 version): II. Scherzo: Bewegt, Anton Bruckner)
Nicolas stretched, cracking his neck a little as he reached for clothes where he’d draped them on the chair. Lady Shangley turned in bed. “So soon?”
“Yes. We’ve both got to get back, hm?” He stayed turned away – he could keep his voice pleasant, light, but he was afraid his expression would give him away.
He couldn’t stop thinking about his wife, waking up alone again. Or… well, he presumed she was alone. Maybe he’d always presumed too much.
Still. The job was the job. Now it was time to go home.
(- This Love, Maroon 5)
The challenge:
1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn your music player on and set it to random.
3. Write a drabble/ficlet to each song that plays. You have only the length of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts and stop when it’s over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do five and post them.
I did my original characters, Nicolas and Stella Willoughby. ...I also did 10, as I found these sort of addictive. Forgive the very eclectic music that popped up.
Nicolas looked up from the letter he was writing to see his son standing in the doorway, watching him. His expression eased slightly at the edges, as it almost always did. “Michalai… what is it?”
“Papa…” His son padded a little ways into the room, but stopped short of the desk. Nicolas’ study was usually out of bounds. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He turned a little, the chair swiveling. “Come here.” Michalai obeyed, quiet, and Nicolas lifted him into his lap. “What’s keeping you up?”
Michalai snuggled, though he was a little too old to do it entirely without self consciousness. “Papa… what do you do, for the Company?”
(- Leave Out All the Rest, Linkin Park)
Stella rode through the farmland, sparing a glance for the men working there. She sometimes wondered what it would like, to be a farmer instead of a hunter. To spend long days and months working the land, watching things grow where you planted them.
But then there were the storms, and the droughts, and all the pests that could take your work away from you. Your days soaked into the ground like the rain, and sometimes nothing grew.
She wasn’t riding anywhere in particular, that day, just out for the joy of speed and a change of scene. A few of the laborers glanced at her as she passed them, but not many. Most of their gazes remained steadily on the ground they worked. It was theirs; it was not for her.
(- Mr. Farmer, The Seeds)
The rain was to be ignored at your own peril, he reminded himself as the other man’s blade came up to meet his own. Neither of them would, he presumed, have chosen to fight a duel on a balcony as it rained, but evidently vengeance wouldn’t wait.
Turgetsev snarled as he came at Nicolas again, with both a will and considerable experience. “They all think you’re such a card,” he spat, as he jabbed at Nicolas side. “A novelty, for their gods damned salons, a conversation piece at their bloody parties.”
Nicolas met each blow, but with the growing conviction they were equally matched. He wasn’t entirely surprised it had come to this; still, he hadn’t seen it coming. He was going to do something, and soon.
“Tell them,” Turgetsev spat, meaning the crowd that had gathered at the balcony’s French doors. “Tell them what you did to my father. Tell them why.” He punctuated his demands with thrusts, all well chosen.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nicolas protested, but he had always had trouble lying properly when his attention was divided. He felt a shudder go through the crowd, collectively.
“My father,” Turgetsev said, voice cold as his blade, “what Rodia Illiych Turgetsev. You thought he was traveling alone. But there was a little boy, hidden in the wagon. Then again… you were too busy slaughtering him to notice, weren’t you? Too busy carving him up like a fattened hog.”
He drew blood on Nicolas’ arm. Grimly, Nicolas realized he didn’t have the luxury of holding back anymore. Vengeance made for powerful enemies. In more ways than one. And if Turgetsev made it a matter of winning the crowd as well as the fight, then he had no choice.
(- The Sons of Fate, The Protomen)
Stella couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in Invidia. Given her mother’s mixed heritage, it wasn’t a place the family had ever gone together. Hollis had taken the twins once, as children.
Still, the sound of the choir made her oddly nostalgic. She sat in the Mordentish lecture hall and listened to the quick, light notes cascading through the air, the Invidian phrasing alien and familiar at once. She wasn’t sure what it made her miss, but it was a bittersweet break from her studies, that afternoon.
(- Amor, Io Sento L’Alma, SLC Chamber Choir)
There was a jaunty, old fashioned melody playing on the radio. They had music seldom, she and Marcus, but she’d found herself in the mood for it today for some reason. Big, fat snowflakes were falling, and the Church was preparing for the Advent celebration; she could hear the bells tolling more frequently these days. Even in their less than stylish part of town, she watched people’s clothes smarten up as they headed to parties or social events of various stamps.
It was a time for family and friends, she supposed. A normal woman might miss them. She did, just slightly, but she never doubted her choice.
She’d have coffee waiting for Marcus, when he got in with the intelligence.
(- I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm, Les Brown)
They were out by the river. Nicolas had climbed a tree, and Stella was spread out at its base, with a book, as always. The day was mild, a light breeze slipping through the tree’s leaves now and then.
“Hey, Stella.” He poked his head down, to look at her better. “Do you think Mama liked climbing trees?”
“I imagine so.” Stella turned a page. “It seems like something she’d enjoy.”
“I bet I got higher than she ever did. Than anyone ever did. I got almost to the very top.”
He couldn’t quite see her smile. “Almost.”
(- Patient With Me, Wilco)
Nicolas sighed. “Ivana…”
The blond sniffed, attempting to still her tears. “No, no. It isn’t your fault, Ambrosovich. Please, just go away.”
“Ivana.” He pressed his handkerchief into her hand. “I didn’t mean to lead you on.”
“You didn’t.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I’m just a silly girl, falling in love at the drop of a hat. Everyone says so.”
“Not silly.” He smiled a little. “Perhaps just… hasty. Besides. I’m sure Petr would be heartbroken if he lost his chance.”
“…really?”
( - Don’t Cry Baby, Madeline Peyreux)
The city was a world of shadows, at night. Stella slipped in and out of them without thought; she’d become an urban creature years ago, and almost felt more at home doing this than managing the small estate she’d earned for herself and her son. Elizabeth Dunthorne was a brilliant doctor and a good mother, but Stella Willoughby had long ago learned to take care of herself.
She remembered the way clearly. She’d come a few times as a much younger woman, while her new life was still taking shape. She knew which alleys to ignore, and she knew what unmarked door was the one waiting for her brisk knock.
The man who answered was old, wisened, and suspicious. “I’m here,” she said, “for the antidote.”
(- Kanada, Akira soundtrack)
The carriage was rushing as fast as it could, but Nicolas couldn’t help the desire to get out and grab one of the horses himself. The impracticality of this plan did nothing to help his impatience.
Why he’d thought taking a flat a full two days’ journey away was a good idea, he now couldn’t be sure. But he knew that if he didn’t make it home in time to be of use, he would never cease to berate himself for it.
His anxiety was making the other passengers nervous. One woman resolutely looked out the window, and not at him; the other glanced at him from time to time before looking back at her hands. The other man in the carriage was reading, but hadn’t turned a page in quite some time, suggesting either the tension had gotten to him or, in defiance of everything, he’d fallen asleep.
Nicolas looked out the other window. The countryside sped by, vast plains, but nowhere near quickly enough. He imagined all sorts of horrible scenarios with every few meters. His father wasting away of a horrible illness, his mother neglecting to tell anyone before now. His father thrown from a horse, half crushed beneath the animal’s weight. His father half run through, a slow gut wound taking days to kill him.
The letter had simply read, in his mother’s curt style, Your father is poorly. Come home immediately. – Mother That was all she’d given him, and it was making him mad with worry.
As long as Nicolas could remember, his father had been a constant, solid presence in his life. They hadn’t always gotten on, precisely, but he loved him in his way. And Nicolas knew that anything that happened to his father would devastate his mother.
He wished Stella were home. They should have been going through this together. Instead he was stuck in this carriage with these insipid people who were all bloody afraid of him. It made him feel caged.
There was nothing for it. He was stuck waiting for whatever verdict fate would read him in a few miles when he arrived. And he wasn’t at all certain it would be in his favor, this time through.
(- Symphony No. 9 in D minor, WAB 109 (1894 version): II. Scherzo: Bewegt, Anton Bruckner)
Nicolas stretched, cracking his neck a little as he reached for clothes where he’d draped them on the chair. Lady Shangley turned in bed. “So soon?”
“Yes. We’ve both got to get back, hm?” He stayed turned away – he could keep his voice pleasant, light, but he was afraid his expression would give him away.
He couldn’t stop thinking about his wife, waking up alone again. Or… well, he presumed she was alone. Maybe he’d always presumed too much.
Still. The job was the job. Now it was time to go home.
(- This Love, Maroon 5)
