Yeah, yeah. I decided to try out this drabble thing, since, you know, it's what all the cool kids are doing. I'm not going to bother coming up with a list of themes though. I might pick and borrow other people's themes (as there aren't that many choices anyway), but, really, I just want to practice writing some short naratives and descriptions, and I'm to lazy to make a list before hand. If you want to read them (which I don't discourage), please try to appreciate them for what they are. These aren't finished products, just practice and experimentation. I don't expect them to be fabulous.

Edit:

Oh, and you're welcome to post some your own drabbles here if you want. I really don't mind. I'd welcome the company.

Edit 2:

When I have something in quotes, it's usually a suggestion from one of my writing books, probably The Pocket Muse by Monica Wood or The Writer's Portable Therapist by Rachel Ballon.

Hope

My first feeling was disappointment. It was the last apartment on our list, and paint peeled in the hallway as we ascended the stairs. I suppose I couldn’t expect more than that, considering our price range, but one can hope. The front door had a long crack down the middle, and, crouching in front of it, I could see light from the inside shining through. The woman who let us in seemed nice and professional as she illustrated the good points of the tiny living space. She pointed out the lovely view, but failed to mention that the windows wouldn’t open. And the two skylights would be fabulous when they weren’t covered in tarp because of the broken glass. An arched doorway that once connected the kitchen to another room was now boarded up, but she assured us it would look just like a normal wall once painted. Nothing was guaranteed to be fixed, but wouldn’t the place be wonderful if it was. Between a dangerous neighborhood, a closet spaced hovel, and this, we chose this. After all, a spot of paint, a little help from the local repairman, it might be okay. One can hope.

Jessica's always been pretty in the way that lots of people are pretty. Her body is shapely, but not the type you'd see on a model. Her hair is brown, eyes hazel. She doesn't have any flaws, but she doesn't stand out either.

Then, for some reason, she started standing out. It wasn't about her looks, but about the way she looked at you. It was an indifference mixed with depth. A glance that said, you haven't a clue what I've seen, and trust me, fellow, you don't want to.

But did want to know. You couldn't help it. So people drew around her, wanting just a bit of what she was hiding.

Write about someone who is pretending to be someone or something that he is not.

Damien leaned against one of the many poles along the club’s bar. While men all around him wore little to no clothing, he was fully, though sexually, dressed in skin-tight leather. It was easier to pretend he was better than his fellow strippers when he was the only one not displaying his bare skin to the audience.

Occasionally, customers called out to him, asking for one of the many services the club’s employees usually offered, but Damien ignored them. He didn’t feel like working, and he believed that his looks alone guaranteed him continued employment.

The club’s front door opened, and Anthony walked in, accompanied by a couple of his friends. Damien immediately left the bar and sauntered up to him, leaning forward to whisper sensually in his ear. Customers watched the exchange, jealously marked with resentment. Minutes later, Anthony had paid for a private room, and he and Damien were leaving public view.

Once inside, Damien closed the door as much as was allowed, then flopped down on the sofa. “Thanks,” he said.

“No problem,” his roommate replied, sitting on a chair. “Do you want to talk, or should I have brought a book?”

Write about a noise, or a silence, that won’t go away.

The empty house was a reminder of my failures. The grandfather clock that used to drive me nuts with its insistent ticking had been taken by my ex during the divorce. It wasn’t that I missed the noise – I’d hated that thing in all truth – but the lacking was a constant shock, more than turning the corner to find my husband standing right there would have been.

No longer was there the clichéd sound of little feet running through the house. The kids had never much ran, told to be silent, their mother had a headache. Their mother always had a headache. Now they’re grown, and they don’t bother visiting. I suppose they wouldn’t want to worsen their mother’s perpetual pain by talking to her.

So, all that’s left is me. I could talk to myself, but I have a strict rule against striking up conversations with people I don’t like.

My first thought was to wonder whether or not I found her attractive. Her features were so exotic that it was hard to tell, and everything else about her was just... odd. She had wide and narrow eyes, similar to an Asians, and her Irisis were gray. As far as I could tell, she didn't have pupils, but I knew she must in order to see. Her face was long and thin with high cheekbones and no eyebrows, though it's possible she'd just shaved them off. With how she styled the rest of her hair, I certainly didn't doubt it. Her bangs were extremely long, almost to her waist, but the rest of her hair fell short of her shoulders. And her bottom lip was several shades darker than her top lip.

Her clothes were another issue. She wore layers over layers. Working up her leg, I could see sandals, socks, green tights, capris, and Nike shorts. Her upper body sported a long sleeved black shirt and a pink bikini top. It all clashed horribly, and yet, somehow, it worked. I couldn't stop looking at her, though I had yet to figure out whether it was because she was the wierdest person I'd ever seen, or because, inexplicably, I found her attractive.

An ancient graveyard stood next to the park. The little boy who wandered in after escaping both the playground and his mother’s gaze didn’t understand the purpose of these stones. Dates and names had chipped or faded away, and he touched the jagged edges tentatively. The little ones looked about the right height for him to sit on, but when he tried, he immediately slipped down the rounded top. He hit the ground hard and immediately started wailing.

A yelp sounded behind him, and when he turned his teary gaze, he saw a teenage girl stumbling towards him.

“I thought you were a ghost,” she said, though the timidity of her voice suggested that she hadn’t yet completely discarded this idea. She watched the child sit up, then scanned the area. “Where did you come from?”

He pointed towards the tall colors of a nearby swing set.

“Oh. I suppose that’s obvious.” She held out her hand, and despite all previous reassurances, seemed relieved to find that the hand he put in hers was solid. “Come one, little ghost. Let’s find your mother.”

At the average subway stop, fifty percent of those waiting for a train have isolated themselves in a technical paradise of their own making. Cords extend from ears to pockets. Thumbs dance over the numbers of handheld cell0hones. Considering that many of these people are only riding one or two stops, their thumbs are probably getting more exercise than their legs.

The technically deficient carry books or sudoku puzzles. They chew on pens, scour flashcards, and concentrate on their coffee. Eye contact is nearly non-existent, and upon accidentally catching another’s gaze, we quickly look away.

No longer are those who speak considered friendly. Instead, they make us uncomfortable. We worry about their mental state and glance over our shoulders as we step off the train, making sure that they aren’t following.

For herd animals, we’re doing an awfully lot to be alone.

Write about a roll of film that has been obtained surreptitiously.

My favorite thing about working in a photo lab is other people’s pictures. The elderly couple who arrive weekly with an entire roll of film dedicated to three young children. The teenager who’s photos show evidence to a wild party that his parents probably don’t know about. The twenty-something-year-old’s roll of beautiful women only slightly obstructed by a flash of light on the glass pane. Each collection tells a story, sometimes accurate, sometimes not. I never bother asking to find out.

Sometimes, I think that people don’t realize that someone develops their pictures. Instead, they must imagine the pictures magically transform from film to paper, shut in an envelope the whole time. Otherwise, how do you explain the guy who often arrives with a roll of normal pictures interspersed with naked pictures of himself taken in the mirror?

And then we had the roll where picture after picture was bloody remains, blank eyes, and white, waxed eyes. While we hoped that he was just an extremely good artist creating corpse like sculptures, we told him that his pictures would be a little late and turned them over to the police. After all, unlike the psychologist he obviously needed to be seeing, the photo lab has no confidentiality clause.

The grey paint flaked off the steel door as it shuddered to a close. The room is small, oppressive. The silence overwhelms. The woman, dressed form-fittingly in a black suit and skirt flicked her eyes up, her hands pausing over her countless documents.
"Dowson, take care that that man never comes back."
Dowson grunts.

Coming home, she sets down her Italian leather black purse. Her lips purse as she surveys her apartment. Black dominates it, with neat piles of papers held up by elegant sculptured glass tables. Leaning back into her slim chair, she remembers how once, she would have cared how he acted. Once, the man who just walked out of her life, once... once she would have sacrificed everything for him. With him, she was safe. With him, she had light, and life and color. He would take her out to jazz parties, where there were no rules, to grassy knolls, even though she had no idea what a knoll was. (She soon found out.) He knew when to push her, when to yield. How to kiss her, how to make fun of her.. how to be happy with her. He was always her light, her wind on the edge of the pinwheel (dear god) and the one who took her everywhere.
Then, everything slowly, meltingly, disgustingly sappily frayed. He had things to do, then he had to leave for a new township, and then she found him talking to women who wore brightly colored dresses and lipstick screaming out with vibrance. She lost him. She didn't understand... why he left her, when he was her only friend in the world. She turned her life grey, and bled her life of him. She avoided looking at handsome men who reminded her of him. Whenever she looked at an object that brought back memories, she quickly turned her head.
Ironic, then, wasn't it, that she would be the one in charge of his future? She had risen, see, while he had only fallen, his so called experimental paintings were sold for pennies.

It was satisfying saying no. Her lips curled, the first time she had felt a sense of happiness. Quietly, she looked at her fireplace, and sipped her wine.

(oh dear dear. It's really really really long, and technically, not a drabble at all. I'm really sorry, I got carried away.. *_* If you would like, I'll remove it. ^_^)

(It looks fine to me, and no one else seems to mind. ^-^)


When I was seven, I accidentally summoned a Nightmare. I don’t recall what I was trying to summon, but I guarantee that I was going for a happy and well-wishing creature. Two things, of course, that Nightmares are not.

I was an interesting child, both very intelligent and horribly naïve. I’d studied summonings, along with other sorcery, out of a book I found in the library, and believed that basic knowledge made me capable of completing any feat. For those unfamiliar with the idea of sorcery, this would be like reading a book on gymnastics and thinking I could do a back flip.
Unfortunately, I was too intelligent for my own good. This meant that while, of course, I was not going to successfully summon exactly what I wanted on my first attempt, I did manage to successfully summon.

The creature that arrived looked perfectly normal. A child like myself. And yet, it was as if terror seeped from him and into me, gripping my organs, causing my stomach to contract and my heart to stop. His shadow grew to encompass the room, extinguishing all light. And then, I collapsed.

I had the worst dreams imaginable that night, and when I awoke, they still felt real. Now, years later, I still recall those dreams far more vividly than anything in my waking life.

It wasn’t until later that I found a name for that creature. According to my source, Nitemares are not dangerous, and that boy could do nothing to harm me. I disagree. Constant fear is an ultimate form of pain, one that can’t easily be healed.

I decided after that failed use of magic that I was never going to attempt sorcery again. As I’ve said, I was a very intelligent, and horribly naïve, child.