A collection of non-fandom drabbles
Author: 
lindskaba
Written For: A drabble-your-interests meme I posted in my personal journal, where my friends replied to the post and I wrote them a drabble, drawing inspiration from the interests they listed in their LJ profiles.
Type: A series of drabbles... six, to be exact, in alphabetical order by title.
Notes: I'm not entirely proud of all of them, but I am proud of most. Does that make sense? I think I may open my journal up to another challenge like this soon. I enjoyed writing these immensely.
Title: Her Beautiful Disaster
Word Count: 308
Written for:crimsoncookie
Interests drawn from: breath, feathers, fireflies, hands, pain, passion, piano, scribbling, singing, wings, wonderland. Also Namine a bit, though this is not in any way intended to be about her.
She catches fireflies in her hands, holds them between her fingers and away from the moon where their tiny lights can illuminate the night all on their own. And she thinks about life and how fragile it is. Sometimes her chest surges with pain, and she thinks her heart will burst.
Her passions are, they say, far too strong for a child so young. They watch her alone in her beautiful torment and think she should be like others her age, like the boys and girls who carelessly play on the beach and build castles in the sand. She feels the thoughtless lives of these others, her so-called peers, in full: their beginnings and their ends, their destinies. She cries with the fullness of it and pulls into herself.
She keeps fireflies in bottles around her room, where she transforms her passions into art. Her heart surges with the notes of the piano, with the words of a song, with the hues of the sky that she sketches on fine parchment; it’s always indigo, like sunset. Without these outlets, she’d surely burst. Her parents find her giftedness alarming, but don’t dare question it. She exudes an incalculable anguish that others shrink from. She releases the fireflies into the night when their lights begin to fade.
One night, she’s suddenly struck with the end of existence. It’s a brilliant suffering that rushes over her like the breaker of a wave and then passes as a breath of silent wind, leaving her with the most profound feeling of loss she’s ever experienced.
It’s only then that she decides to pass through the mirror, away from the unbearable passion of life and into a realm that never feels. A heart can only bear so much beauty. As she leaves, the world feels her fall away like feathers from an angel’s wing.
Title: Journeyer
Word Count: 159
Written for:lotuslion
Interests drawn from: astrology, sagittarius, tattoos, travel, as well as the girl herself.
She moves with the urging of the wind like a bird, just spreads out her wings and lets the air take her. The land is her perpetual nesting ground; wherever she alights, plants her talons in the soil, the earth opens up and welcomes her, and she partakes with reverent pleasure. Her body is marked with the permanent etchings of her continuous journey. She has a line of ink, a symbol, for every place she’s been, and they span her back and shoulders like feathers that can carry her back to the moments, to the never-ending moments that fill up her life.
Within these moments, she sometimes breathes and looks to the sky. It’s a calming stability in the sweet chaos of her existence, the constant Archer marking his steady pace through the heavens. And she wonders if he’s planning now, right this moment, her destiny.
She follows his arrow with her eyes, spreads her wings, and takes off.
Title: Like Chocolate
Word Count: 162
Written for:dory009
Interests drawn from: boys kissing, buttons, chocolate, deep love, snow, stars, slash, winter
His greatest kiss occurred in winter.
It was like chocolate lace seeping from his mouth—or perhaps something sweeter—as the boy cupped his lips over his own and drew him in. Like candy-coated urgency and sugar-dropped need; a sugar rush exhilaration. And two boys stood in the twilight until it was just dark chocolate and the snow that fell like stars around their forms intertwined.
It was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
One evening in June, when the weather is sweat-stained and balmy, the boy leaves him standing on a concrete stoop, alone in the twilight with a faint bitterness on his tongue. Later, he cries salty tears, and though he tries, he can’t quite remember the taste of chocolate. He wonders if he ever truly knew.
He keeps a button of his, lost one day in a rush to dress, tucked away in a locked drawer and wrapped up with a melted bar of chocolate inside a paper snowflake.
Title: Simplicity
Word Count: 236
Written for:mollywobblez
Interests drawn from: addiction, book stores, obsessive compulsive disorder
1 2 3…
Sometimes she walks down the aisles for hours, running leather-scarred fingers over leather-bound spines 1 2 3, 1 2 3 and she no longer feels them in flesh; her skin knows the sensation too well. In her head, the numbers wrack up 12 13 and up and up to an unfathomable infinity 29 30 31 and the numbers calm her because they’re constant and measurable and real. Like these books and these pages and 73 74 75 76 even when the count is different, as it always is, because then she knows that transactions have occurred, and she trusts in economics 156 157 because it can be measured. She comes here 3, maybe 4 times a week 576 577 578 to count the books, but she never reads them because words are random and false 824 and spill like poison from humans’ lips, across her skin inflamed with lies and oppression and false false false.
Not like numbers. Numbers are simple. Numbers are real. They make up the universe. They make up her body. They make up this bookstore, and all of its 2,781 2,782 2,783 books. It’s an addiction to simplicity, perhaps, that keeps her coming back, where she hides in the leather in the aisles in the numbers in 4,882 4,883 until the managers gently coax her to the door and out into the world where words can bombard her again.
Title: Study Session
Word Count: 342
Written for:radiovolume
Interests drawn from: dinosaurs, history, jennifer garner, mocking people, the muppets
“I think I want to grow up to be Jennifer Garner.”
He looks over at her across the mountain range of text books and she’s lying on her back across the couch, head hanging over the side, eyes glued to the ceiling fan as it revolves noisily above their heads. “Dare I ask why?” he ventures hesitantly.
She sighs, and it sounds like a million years of wanting. “She always looks amazing, even with green hair.”
“So does Kermit the Frog,” he says without skipping a beat. His eyes fall back to The People’s History of the United States and begin to move at breakneck speeds across the page. “What’s wrong with Kermit the Frog?”
She scowls up at the ceiling fan. “He hangs out with pigs too much. I don’t like pigs.”
“And pigs don’t like you.”
“I’m sure of it.”
The smile on his face is barely noticeable beneath his studious frown.
“Hey, do you remember when history class was just learning about dinosaurs?” she pipes up after a few moments of silence. “I always thought it was so fascinating then, learning about creatures that we’ve never even seen. I mean, how do they really know what a Pterodactyl ate?”
It’s getting hard to hide it now, that chink in his armor, as she slides down the couch and sits upright, her chocolate hair all askew in her eyes. She’s looking at him with the curiosity of a child. “If you were a Pterodactyl, what would you eat?”
“Probably you.” Her grin is indescribable.
“Then you’d have no one to help you study for the AP exam, would you?”
“That’s true,” she says, and before he’s on the next sentence she’s down on the floor beside him, her tangled curls like smoke in his eyes. “Will you read to me?”
“What are you, twelve?” His eyes are watering against them.
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not mocking you.”
And for the next hour or so, his voice fills the room with American history, and she leans on his shoulder and listens.
Title: The Nightwalker’s Ballet
Word Count: 216
Written for:invisibledancer
Interests drawn from: astrology (lightly), books, dance, dragons, faeries, fantasy, myths, stags, the dark, vampires, witches
She is a child of the night, to the dark an untamed and boundless worshipper, dancing dancing dancing under its starry reign until morning. She believes in books and fairytales, in fantasy and myth, and when the night is new and dark she raises her feet and stretches her arms out in homage to them, dancing, dancing. She moves through tree trunks like a shadow, through open fields like moonlight, her feet like the hooves of a doe or the toes of a fairy, interchangeably.
And all the while she dances, for the witches sacrificed, for the vampires shunned, for the dwarves and the elves and the dragons no one believes in anymore. But they’re here; she knows. She’s seen them. She’s conjured them in her toes, in her shoes, in the dirt and the earth over which she moves. They’re in the fire in her eyes, in the air in her mind, in the water pulsing like an ocean, like a tidal wave through her veins.
But only at night, you see. Only when the skies open up black and the stars call her name, and she dances in her kingdom, alone-yet-not-alone in the inviting dark, a priestess of the evening and a keeper of the past. And all the while she’s dancing, dancing, dancing.
---
Hope you enjoyed these. If anybody reading this wants to request a drabble like this, you may do so here; I'll be happy to oblidge :)
~The Pen
lindskabaWritten For: A drabble-your-interests meme I posted in my personal journal, where my friends replied to the post and I wrote them a drabble, drawing inspiration from the interests they listed in their LJ profiles.
Type: A series of drabbles... six, to be exact, in alphabetical order by title.
Notes: I'm not entirely proud of all of them, but I am proud of most. Does that make sense? I think I may open my journal up to another challenge like this soon. I enjoyed writing these immensely.
Title: Her Beautiful Disaster
Word Count: 308
Written for:
crimsoncookieInterests drawn from: breath, feathers, fireflies, hands, pain, passion, piano, scribbling, singing, wings, wonderland. Also Namine a bit, though this is not in any way intended to be about her.
She catches fireflies in her hands, holds them between her fingers and away from the moon where their tiny lights can illuminate the night all on their own. And she thinks about life and how fragile it is. Sometimes her chest surges with pain, and she thinks her heart will burst.
Her passions are, they say, far too strong for a child so young. They watch her alone in her beautiful torment and think she should be like others her age, like the boys and girls who carelessly play on the beach and build castles in the sand. She feels the thoughtless lives of these others, her so-called peers, in full: their beginnings and their ends, their destinies. She cries with the fullness of it and pulls into herself.
She keeps fireflies in bottles around her room, where she transforms her passions into art. Her heart surges with the notes of the piano, with the words of a song, with the hues of the sky that she sketches on fine parchment; it’s always indigo, like sunset. Without these outlets, she’d surely burst. Her parents find her giftedness alarming, but don’t dare question it. She exudes an incalculable anguish that others shrink from. She releases the fireflies into the night when their lights begin to fade.
One night, she’s suddenly struck with the end of existence. It’s a brilliant suffering that rushes over her like the breaker of a wave and then passes as a breath of silent wind, leaving her with the most profound feeling of loss she’s ever experienced.
It’s only then that she decides to pass through the mirror, away from the unbearable passion of life and into a realm that never feels. A heart can only bear so much beauty. As she leaves, the world feels her fall away like feathers from an angel’s wing.
Title: Journeyer
Word Count: 159
Written for:
lotuslionInterests drawn from: astrology, sagittarius, tattoos, travel, as well as the girl herself.
She moves with the urging of the wind like a bird, just spreads out her wings and lets the air take her. The land is her perpetual nesting ground; wherever she alights, plants her talons in the soil, the earth opens up and welcomes her, and she partakes with reverent pleasure. Her body is marked with the permanent etchings of her continuous journey. She has a line of ink, a symbol, for every place she’s been, and they span her back and shoulders like feathers that can carry her back to the moments, to the never-ending moments that fill up her life.
Within these moments, she sometimes breathes and looks to the sky. It’s a calming stability in the sweet chaos of her existence, the constant Archer marking his steady pace through the heavens. And she wonders if he’s planning now, right this moment, her destiny.
She follows his arrow with her eyes, spreads her wings, and takes off.
Title: Like Chocolate
Word Count: 162
Written for:
dory009Interests drawn from: boys kissing, buttons, chocolate, deep love, snow, stars, slash, winter
His greatest kiss occurred in winter.
It was like chocolate lace seeping from his mouth—or perhaps something sweeter—as the boy cupped his lips over his own and drew him in. Like candy-coated urgency and sugar-dropped need; a sugar rush exhilaration. And two boys stood in the twilight until it was just dark chocolate and the snow that fell like stars around their forms intertwined.
It was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
One evening in June, when the weather is sweat-stained and balmy, the boy leaves him standing on a concrete stoop, alone in the twilight with a faint bitterness on his tongue. Later, he cries salty tears, and though he tries, he can’t quite remember the taste of chocolate. He wonders if he ever truly knew.
He keeps a button of his, lost one day in a rush to dress, tucked away in a locked drawer and wrapped up with a melted bar of chocolate inside a paper snowflake.
Title: Simplicity
Word Count: 236
Written for:
mollywobblezInterests drawn from: addiction, book stores, obsessive compulsive disorder
1 2 3…
Sometimes she walks down the aisles for hours, running leather-scarred fingers over leather-bound spines 1 2 3, 1 2 3 and she no longer feels them in flesh; her skin knows the sensation too well. In her head, the numbers wrack up 12 13 and up and up to an unfathomable infinity 29 30 31 and the numbers calm her because they’re constant and measurable and real. Like these books and these pages and 73 74 75 76 even when the count is different, as it always is, because then she knows that transactions have occurred, and she trusts in economics 156 157 because it can be measured. She comes here 3, maybe 4 times a week 576 577 578 to count the books, but she never reads them because words are random and false 824 and spill like poison from humans’ lips, across her skin inflamed with lies and oppression and false false false.
Not like numbers. Numbers are simple. Numbers are real. They make up the universe. They make up her body. They make up this bookstore, and all of its 2,781 2,782 2,783 books. It’s an addiction to simplicity, perhaps, that keeps her coming back, where she hides in the leather in the aisles in the numbers in 4,882 4,883 until the managers gently coax her to the door and out into the world where words can bombard her again.
Title: Study Session
Word Count: 342
Written for:
radiovolumeInterests drawn from: dinosaurs, history, jennifer garner, mocking people, the muppets
“I think I want to grow up to be Jennifer Garner.”
He looks over at her across the mountain range of text books and she’s lying on her back across the couch, head hanging over the side, eyes glued to the ceiling fan as it revolves noisily above their heads. “Dare I ask why?” he ventures hesitantly.
She sighs, and it sounds like a million years of wanting. “She always looks amazing, even with green hair.”
“So does Kermit the Frog,” he says without skipping a beat. His eyes fall back to The People’s History of the United States and begin to move at breakneck speeds across the page. “What’s wrong with Kermit the Frog?”
She scowls up at the ceiling fan. “He hangs out with pigs too much. I don’t like pigs.”
“And pigs don’t like you.”
“I’m sure of it.”
The smile on his face is barely noticeable beneath his studious frown.
“Hey, do you remember when history class was just learning about dinosaurs?” she pipes up after a few moments of silence. “I always thought it was so fascinating then, learning about creatures that we’ve never even seen. I mean, how do they really know what a Pterodactyl ate?”
It’s getting hard to hide it now, that chink in his armor, as she slides down the couch and sits upright, her chocolate hair all askew in her eyes. She’s looking at him with the curiosity of a child. “If you were a Pterodactyl, what would you eat?”
“Probably you.” Her grin is indescribable.
“Then you’d have no one to help you study for the AP exam, would you?”
“That’s true,” she says, and before he’s on the next sentence she’s down on the floor beside him, her tangled curls like smoke in his eyes. “Will you read to me?”
“What are you, twelve?” His eyes are watering against them.
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not mocking you.”
And for the next hour or so, his voice fills the room with American history, and she leans on his shoulder and listens.
Title: The Nightwalker’s Ballet
Word Count: 216
Written for:
invisibledancerInterests drawn from: astrology (lightly), books, dance, dragons, faeries, fantasy, myths, stags, the dark, vampires, witches
She is a child of the night, to the dark an untamed and boundless worshipper, dancing dancing dancing under its starry reign until morning. She believes in books and fairytales, in fantasy and myth, and when the night is new and dark she raises her feet and stretches her arms out in homage to them, dancing, dancing. She moves through tree trunks like a shadow, through open fields like moonlight, her feet like the hooves of a doe or the toes of a fairy, interchangeably.
And all the while she dances, for the witches sacrificed, for the vampires shunned, for the dwarves and the elves and the dragons no one believes in anymore. But they’re here; she knows. She’s seen them. She’s conjured them in her toes, in her shoes, in the dirt and the earth over which she moves. They’re in the fire in her eyes, in the air in her mind, in the water pulsing like an ocean, like a tidal wave through her veins.
But only at night, you see. Only when the skies open up black and the stars call her name, and she dances in her kingdom, alone-yet-not-alone in the inviting dark, a priestess of the evening and a keeper of the past. And all the while she’s dancing, dancing, dancing.
---
Hope you enjoyed these. If anybody reading this wants to request a drabble like this, you may do so here; I'll be happy to oblidge :)
~The Pen
