Drabbles eune aut' fais.
23 May 2009 08:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ieuneWritten for prompt #2: Yesterday at ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fiction_drabbles 100 words each.
The original fic came to me yesterday morning but I fought the ones for Marcus and Nape all week, and they won.
*warning* for single use of the 'f' word in a non-sexual context in Napier's drabble.
Back-at-work Blues.
This time yesterday, she thinks, tuning out the indignant rant at the other end of the phone, I was walking the cliff path, honey-scented by Gorse, wind pushing my back, sun tingling my right cheek, eagerly anticipating the sight of the bay and the sparkling sea. Momentary peace floods her from the sunny mental image. Ten whole days without this crap.
“Are you even listening?” the snarling voice butts in.
Her reverie shreds. Her insides wind tighter. Yet again, she buries her feelings so as to be able to cope.
Ten whole days.
It feels like she’s never been away.
~~~~~~~
Looking Forward.
Feb 1981: Napier sneaks out to be with his girlfriend.
The old man may have fucked his one certain chance to go and play pro Quidditch but right now, the loss doesn’t make him speechless with rage like it did yesterday. She stirs in his arms, her fingers flexing involuntarily against his naked chest. He smiles. His Detta. She’s got ink stains on her first and middle fingertips, same as in school. He strokes her dark hair lightly, wanting her to wake and yet not wanting to wake her. She’s going to marry him, there’s still the open tryouts, and nowt the old man can do about any of it.
~~~~~~~
Another Day.
April 1982: Marcus's day takes a downturn.
A/N: Not happy with this one at all and yet I can't see how to improve it within the word limit.
Yesterday my world came back into focus, made sense for the first time in… I didn’t know. Confused memories; red overlapping brown, falling, screams, blinding light, nails in every nerve, a hoarse voice shouting in the dark.
Yesterday, a dark-haired man sat with me in the ward, talking. He started when I said his name. After his shock wore off, I asked him things. Trying to fill in the blanks.
Today my world is in pieces. P’pèe is dead. M’mée missing, presumed dead. Seven months ago. I’m a suspect. Uncle Jean sold L’Amathage to the Muggles.
I wish it was yesterday.
~~~~~~~
fiction_drabbles 100 words each.The original fic came to me yesterday morning but I fought the ones for Marcus and Nape all week, and they won.
*warning* for single use of the 'f' word in a non-sexual context in Napier's drabble.
Back-at-work Blues.
This time yesterday, she thinks, tuning out the indignant rant at the other end of the phone, I was walking the cliff path, honey-scented by Gorse, wind pushing my back, sun tingling my right cheek, eagerly anticipating the sight of the bay and the sparkling sea. Momentary peace floods her from the sunny mental image. Ten whole days without this crap.
“Are you even listening?” the snarling voice butts in.
Her reverie shreds. Her insides wind tighter. Yet again, she buries her feelings so as to be able to cope.
Ten whole days.
It feels like she’s never been away.
Looking Forward.
Feb 1981: Napier sneaks out to be with his girlfriend.
The old man may have fucked his one certain chance to go and play pro Quidditch but right now, the loss doesn’t make him speechless with rage like it did yesterday. She stirs in his arms, her fingers flexing involuntarily against his naked chest. He smiles. His Detta. She’s got ink stains on her first and middle fingertips, same as in school. He strokes her dark hair lightly, wanting her to wake and yet not wanting to wake her. She’s going to marry him, there’s still the open tryouts, and nowt the old man can do about any of it.
Another Day.
April 1982: Marcus's day takes a downturn.
A/N: Not happy with this one at all and yet I can't see how to improve it within the word limit.
Yesterday my world came back into focus, made sense for the first time in… I didn’t know. Confused memories; red overlapping brown, falling, screams, blinding light, nails in every nerve, a hoarse voice shouting in the dark.
Yesterday, a dark-haired man sat with me in the ward, talking. He started when I said his name. After his shock wore off, I asked him things. Trying to fill in the blanks.
Today my world is in pieces. P’pèe is dead. M’mée missing, presumed dead. Seven months ago. I’m a suspect. Uncle Jean sold L’Amathage to the Muggles.
I wish it was yesterday.