MUSE - ONE HUNDRED DRABBLES (5/100)
 

I'm not a prolific writer, so this serves as a carrot on a stick.

Feedbacks are welcomed, and appreciated.

Prompts are taken from "Prompt me!", a Gaia-based thread: link



001. Potato
002. Potent
003. Pragmatic
004. Piano
005. Paper
006. Petulant
007. Poster
008. Pathetic
009. Pastel
010. Piety
011. Sabre
012. Spark
013. Squash
014. Speed
015. Sanitise
016. Satanic
017. Suffer
018. Soap
019. Simple
020. Saturate
021. Ample
022. Apply
023. Ant
024. Asphyxiate
025. Aspire
026. Asprin
027. Asinine
028. Apple
029. Automatic
030. Allude
031. Caress
032. Carpet
033. Call
034. Can
035. Capsule
036. Capitulate
037. Crack
038. Catapult
039. Cat
040. Valour
041. Vapid
042. Viscous
043. Vain
044. Vespa
045. Viva
046. Vagabond
047. Volume
048. Velocity
049. Violin
050. Desperate
051. Disparage
052. Deploy
053. Date
054. Demonise
055. Decry
056. Debase
057. Deprecate
058. Devoid
059. Desk
060. Knight
061. King
062. Knife
063. Knot
064. Knock
065. Key
066. Kestrel
067. Kite
068. Keel
069. Keep
070. Male
071. Make
072. Meditate
073. Master
074. Malicious
075. Maximum
076. Malnutrition
077. Mauve
078. Misdirection
079. Malaise
080. Temper
081. Tempest
082. Temptation
083. Taut
084. Tickle
085. Traverse
086. Tackle
087. Twilight
088. Test
089. Time
090. Bully
091. Bemuse
092. Bounce
093. Bourgeoisie
094. Beehive
095. Beg
096. Blasphemy
097. Begone
098. Breakaway
099. Ban
100. Bias

Prompt: Potato
Word count: 246
Author's note: The history of "Potato" is indeed rich. Besides being a staple for centuries, did you know that the potato-farming industry was filled with suffering, at one time? During the potato famine, rich British landowners continued to export the crops even as thousands of Irish were dying of starvation... ...

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“Planting potatoes require a lot of faith. You can’t see what’s happening underground until it’s too late to do anything about it.”

Young Edward nodded, only half-listening. His eyes were dazed and unfocused as the tutor led him into the fields. The sun glared down pompously, as if mocking the young heir of his piteous plight.

As the duo trudged down the footpath, Edward glanced down at the crops below him. ‘They look more like weed to me,’ he noted silently, kicking a small rock out of his path.

As if having telepathic abilities, the tutor spun on his feet and stopped.

Edward jerked to an abrupt halt behind the man, his nose almost touching the fabric of shirt in front of him. Edward quickly retracted, taking a large step backwards.

“Look around you, Edward,” the tutor spread his arms out and indicated to the field around them, “this is the fruit of your father’s labor.”

“I know. I haven’t been living in the basement or something,” he replied in annoyance.

The tutor brushed aside the teenager’s inappropriate tone and continued, “And Young Master Edward is to uphold the good reputation of the Lord’s enterprise, is he not?”

“That is up to me to decide, you needn’t bother yourself in this matter, Severo.”

The servant’s face fell – his jaws slacked and brows knitted in disappointment.

“Go along now,” Edward said with a hint of impatience, “we haven’t got all day.”

They continued down the weather-trodden path.

Prompt: Potent
Word count: 206

It was potent poison.

Like every other article in the fantasy-like room, it was made out of the finest materials, produced with the finest workmanship. There was not a possibility that it could fail in its function, and I even harbored the thought that, perhaps, to test the potency of this poison, the Queen had instructed that it should be tested first (perhaps on those prisoners taking to the gallows).

It was very potent poison.

Specifically designed to deliver death in the surest way, there was no doubt that I should be dead upon touching my lips on the porcelain cup. There was no antidote for this toxin – why should they need one if the poison’s only function is to kill? There will be pain, of course. The swift blade of the guillotine was too easy on me.

And it was the color of death, as black as a black hole could be.

I should be dead.

I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, and I denied that it was because of fear.

I should be dead.

I should be dead.

(Perhaps it takes time to work…)

I should be dead…

There should be pain – excruciating pain.

I should be dead…


But I wasn’t.

Prompt: Pragmatic
Word count: 83

“The government takes a pragmatic view towards…”

I covered my yawn with a hand, silently making snide remarks in my head as the prime minister rambled on with his speech. Trying to pass off putrefactions of self-gain as the government’s pragmatic takes on the matter was atrocious, if not laudable.

I donned on my sunglasses, and sat up rod-straight, pretending to listen. A casual observer might excuse this behavior as a common oddity.

I hope my snores won’t give me away this time.

Prompt: Piano
Word count: 115

He had really beautiful hands.

Slim fingers held the champagne glass in place. Hints of bluish veins laced beneath pale skin… Well-trimmed nails.

“You play the piano, don’t you?”

He laughed, and downed the wine. The glass made a soft ‘clink’ against the marble countertop.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Your hands… they give the game away,” I told him, secretly pleased that my deduction was accurate.

His lips curved up into a smile, doe eyes coy.

“But you don’t know, do you… that these hands don’t just touch the keys of the piano…” His index finger was drawing circles of the rim of the glass.

“They hold guns too.” He concluded with a murmur.

Prompt: Paper
Word count: 280

He was always buried in paperwork.

Petitions to approve, files to look over, documents to sign…

It was an unending stream of papers, and sometimes the in-box piled as high as the ceiling. His desk was always the messiest, with shreds of papers, haphazardly pasted post-its, paper balls, file mountains, books and pens. Not one inch of the huge 4 by 1 meters table surface could be seen.

Even the usually gung-ho Mrs. Funami shuddered at the prospect of tidying his office. He would place her head on a guillotine if she dared mess with his documents, but Mrs. Funami admitted that she would rather clean up a pigsty than his desk.

It was as if he was trying to break Mt. Everest’s record of being the highest peak.

His sole motivation in life was work. There was never a time that we would find him slacking off at the coffee machine; nobody ever saw him near the staff lounge, actually. He arrived early, knocked off late, never stepped out of his office except for urgent calls of nature (and from the Boss). He was the perfectly dull example of a model office man, Boss’s cherished secretary.

We were afraid for his life, and sent him boxes of instant ramen, panadols, sleeping pills, mineral water, oxygen cans (mint-flavored)…

But in the end, his body still couldn’t cope with the stress he was putting himself through.

He got a heart attack, was pronounced dead on the scene. White cloth over his head. Thirty-three years old. Single. Just another karoshi victim.

And that was it.

So, it was a fitting end – burying him with his (beloved) paperwork.

(I could have prevented it…)

Prompt: Petulant
Word count: 314

He always had these angry eyes. All rough and sharp edges, even his shoulders were bony. He could glare a furious pit bull down any day. Double-edged sword sticking out from his belt. Petulant pout.

I’ve never liked him.

Not since the days of the Academy.

Not even when we were comrades fighting on the same team.

And especially not now – the day of the final showdown.

“Attack him on the right side, and it’ll be over.”

I know the whispers in my head, but today I don’t heed them. I know the injury I’ve caused, when he took the bullet on behalf of me. I can see it from the way he’s slightly limping, a concentrated look on his face.

I could win without resorting to that.

He charged at me at full speed with his weapon raised, and I wondered, with the way he’s moving, won’t the stitches open?

Smoldering eyes.

I raised my arms in a block just in time, daggers clashing against sword – the sweet sound of battle. My knees bucked.

“Damn it, Buki,” he growled, “You’re not being serious.”

And the deadlock was released. He squatted down to swipe at my legs. I backed away from his range just in time.

“You’re not fighting!” he grounded out, teeth bared and face an ugly snare.

I avoided the melee of brutal attacks, pitting my agility against his anger. I’ve gotten a cut on my forearm, but it doesn’t seem to be a part of me. I could see the red on his blade.

Sand swirled around us like dancers around a bonfire.

I knew that I would lose – that I was letting myself lose. But it doesn’t matter, not when I could be left for dead and he saved me despite the deep-running hatred.

I’m too prideful to owe him a favor.

That’s all. That’s all there was to it.

Prompt: Poster
Word count: 120

Above my bed hung a poster, scruffy corners scotch-taped with yellowing tapes.

I was sinking into the mattress, facing the piece of A2 sized, laminated paper on my wall. I was staring intently into that piece of paper, not exactly sure of the thoughts running through my head.

In comparison to the rough-edged picture, I was twice as fat, and twice as ugly. She had the glamour of a rock-and-roll queen, and I, the appeal of a sow that had wallowed too long in dung. She had the body of a figure skater, and I, the size of a truck.

It was like two poles of the Earth.

Nobody would believe me when I said that I was once her.