tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79757268742390236472024-03-13T21:46:12.339-07:00197 Days of DrabblesAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.comBlogger98125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-7812724876853716972013-07-21T05:01:00.000-07:002013-07-21T05:01:03.100-07:0098. juxtaposeCold hands; warm face.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 4</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-29784228967568206242013-07-20T05:37:00.002-07:002013-07-20T05:37:33.481-07:0097. 3 against 1"We made up our minds."<br />
<br />
"It was a unanimous decision."<br />
<br />
"Yup. Unanimous."<br />
<br />
"But-"<br />
<br />
"Oh no, you don't get to argue anymore."<br />
<br />
"We considered your arguments already."<br />
<br />
"And unfortunately, we didn't agree."<br />
<br />
"Don't I get a chance to-?"<br />
<br />
"Nope."<br />
<br />
"Nope."<br />
<br />
"<i>Sorry</i>."<br />
<br />
"What's the use of having three parents if <i>none</i> of them ever agree with you?"<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 55</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-87653122847902813122013-07-19T02:09:00.002-07:002013-07-19T02:09:24.448-07:0096. Schoolyard bullyingThe worst thing was when she scoffed. The folded arms she could deal with, and she could most definitely handle the cold looks. But a scoff by this woman's lips meant more than anything she could say. That <i>she</i> was deemed a failure. And beyond that, she was deemed a joke; "I mean, what kind of mother barters and bargains with their own child?"<br />
<br />
"The smart kind." She said strongly; boldly. Because somehow it felt good to call the other woman stupid.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 82</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-32908750136209302722013-07-18T04:45:00.000-07:002013-07-18T04:45:07.437-07:0095. Something of your own<span style="font-size: small;">I have a sister. She is significantly younger than I. And she is also adopted.<br /><br />Even
so, I've never felt the innate desire to return home. The act is
often forced upon me. So I do visit from time to time, mainly at their
request.<br /><br />She...<br /><br />I would describe her as an open book; her
emotions and expressions are easily readable. She loves to smile. She
loves the nearby city. Every time she writes, she says she has a
new story to tell me. And every time I visit, I hear them. When she asks
how I am, I am never sure what to tell her.<br /><br />So I give her a smile and find a new way to say that all is well. And that nothing has changed.<br /><br />Admittedly,
I still struggle to see her as my sister. And yet she accepts the
relationship as if we were blood-born relatives. But nothing ties us
aside from the fact that our adoptive parents are the same parents. To
me, that fact establishes nothing. My adoptive parents <i>know</i> this. But they seem to think they know why; that they have all the answers.<br /><br />They
often argue that the military has taken me from them. I haven't the
heart to tell them that I was never theirs to begin with.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 217</span> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-26495583304091743762013-07-17T02:52:00.000-07:002013-07-17T02:52:03.875-07:0094. He did what?"Yeah, but listen." She rebuffed quickly, threatening to walk out by just the tone of her voice. "It's not as bad as it sounds, okay? He made a mistake. He didn't mean it. I can't say anymore than that. And y'know what? I shouldn't have to. Because I don't have to explain myself to you, and neither does he." She paused briefly, waving her hands in front of her face; she wasn't done yet, "And I know. I <i>know</i>. You think you're helping. But you're <i>not</i>. You're just... Making it worse."<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 91</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-31322889018585107032013-07-16T06:49:00.004-07:002013-07-16T06:49:47.066-07:0093. Do you?<span style="font-size: small;">He leaned in, breathing quietly; "You know how much you mean to me, right?"
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">"I know you like me a lot." She replied, stopping long enough to yawn, "And I know I care for you a very great deal."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 39</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-22004691052591066422013-07-15T00:41:00.001-07:002013-07-15T00:41:15.282-07:0092. In my roomShe's... Dancing.<br />
<br />
Slow circles around the small amount of floor space. Spinning from one side to the other with a controlled motion.<br />
<br />
I laugh. Not at her, really. At the situation.<br />
<br />
And then she laughs, as if to brush off some kind of embarrassment. But the colour's in her cheeks, and I've already seen it. So she asks if she should leave.<br />
<br />
But I'm not complaining, am I. <br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 68</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-33744255221668249952013-07-14T02:55:00.001-07:002013-07-14T02:55:22.195-07:0091. SilenceHolding the tongue.<br />
Lacing fingers behind the back.<br />
Digging teeth into the bottom lip.Glancing to the side.<br />
Pressing the mouth into a line.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 24</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-10938506800265393552013-07-13T06:13:00.000-07:002013-07-13T06:14:59.667-07:0090. What's his name?<span style="font-size: small;">"Rómone." She breathed. Simple. It fell through off her lips and rolled through her tongue with relative ease. "But I didn't know him, I swear. Talk about a coincidence..."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 29</span> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-32319776124896751482013-07-13T06:02:00.003-07:002013-07-13T06:02:38.586-07:0089. please stop calling"Goodnight, okay?" She said, trying to drop the words as gently as she could. She was just lucky it was all working through a phone line. She didn't have to see the disappointment on his face.<br />
<br />
She could settle for hearing it; "Whaaaat?"<br />
<br />
"You sound like you need sleep." And she yawned; maybe it was she who needed it. <br />
<br />
"Noooooo," He whined, "I just need youuuu." <br />
<br />
"Goodnight," She repeated.<br />
<br />
"But baby-"<br />
<br />
She chuckled through her words. Not annoyed. Amused; "We'll talk in the morning."<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 84</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-15362705091834615842013-07-11T04:20:00.001-07:002013-07-11T04:20:39.192-07:0088. My responsibility"I’m gonna do my best to make sure that nothing bad happens to you again." She said with confidence. In honesty, she was terrified that
another complication would strike and he would wind up dead in his next surgery. But she had to keep all that in check. She’d had a couple of
cases where she got too attached and that ended up happening, and
somehow she had to pick herself back up and pull herself back together. She felt the sting in her eyes and while she'd normally fight it, she wasn't sure she could this time.<br />
<br />
She rarely dismantled her brave face in front of patients. Not
like this. The more he talked the more her eyes started to discolour,
falling into light shades of red with the threat of tears. He told her how difficult things in his very young life had been. He told her not to cry. Not to worry. Not to stress over him. That he would be fine.<br />
<br />
How did it
happen that it became his job to comfort her? What was she doing? She
looked at him when he nudged her, feeling a little uncomfortably exposed
but pretending it wasn’t happening. But she was on the verge of crying.<br />
<br />
And he asked her to stay with him. He didn't want to be alone.<br />
<br />
She smiled and exhaled on a laugh, causing a
tear to fall from either eye. “Move over." She said, tilting her head
and indicating that he shift to one side. She climbed into the
other side above the blanket, looping an arm around him and closing her
eyes.<br />
<br />
"You’re my responsibility." She said quietly. “I don’t want anything to happen to you."<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 288</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-90002953786587897392013-07-10T07:51:00.000-07:002013-07-10T07:51:01.839-07:0087. mirror image"There's something odd about that mirror. I've always though it. Every time I stare at it - or perhaps at myself - I see something different. Last time my focus was on the line of my hair. As I turned away and back, I found myself caught on whether or not my feet move enough for it to be considered a change in a stagnant image. Every time, it's something new to look at. No, not new. Different. It's either astounding... Or I'm incredibly bored."<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 85</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-59459703124684812792013-07-09T05:32:00.003-07:002013-07-09T05:32:57.220-07:0086. distance"I feel like I know you, but I know I've never met you."<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 13</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-89042682505619117182013-07-08T03:25:00.001-07:002013-07-08T03:25:57.635-07:0085. what's mine is mine"I can't help it."<br />
<br />
"..<i>Really</i>?"<br />
<br />
"Really."<br />
<br />
"You can't <i>help it</i>."<br />
<br />
"I really can't."<br />
<br />
"You're a little out of control, though."<br />
<br />
"I. Can't. Help. It."<br />
<br />
"It's just a bit... Much."<br />
<br />
"I-"<br />
<br />
"I know. You can't help it. But our co-workers are starting to seriously avoid me."<br />
<br />
"That's not my fault!"<br />
<br />
"Yes, it is."<br />
<br />
"You're just-"<br />
<br />
"No, you're jealousy. Protectiveness. It's crazy."<br />
<br />
"But-"<br />
<br />
"You said you'll kill people who come near me."<br />
<br />
"I didn't say that!"<br />
<br />
"I heard you said that."<br />
<br />
"...I can't help it."<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 83</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-52475439066353568702013-07-07T06:14:00.000-07:002013-07-07T06:14:04.110-07:0084. you said you'd be here"And... Well, you're not."<br />
<br />
"Sorry, I-"<br />
<br />
"-And you never were. And... You never will be."<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 15</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-69942139153321870042013-07-06T04:25:00.001-07:002013-07-06T04:26:10.631-07:0083. Find the one you really love<span style="font-size: small;">In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have agreed to
drive out of town. Not because he didn't want to, but because he was
nervous. And nervous people didn't often drive well. Lucky he made it to
their usual spot with ease, but in the time it took he couldn't help
but let his mind run wild.<br /><br />She sounded nervous on the phone. And
so did he. He probably sounded doubtful too. Well, he was. But not about
what she might have thought. He didn't know. He didn't know what she
was thinking. He hardly ever <i>knew</i> what she was thinking. That
wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It was refreshing, given all the other
girl's he'd been hanging out with lately. They were obvious. He liked
the mystery.<br /><br />He did not like how wayward his train of thought was being.<br /><br />He must have gotten there first, so when he parked he sat in his car for a
moment or two longer, taking a deep breath in and exhaling slowly. He
could do this, right? He could tell her. Yeah, he totally could. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 180</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-23577905989583148952013-07-05T03:51:00.001-07:002013-07-05T03:51:40.236-07:0082. can you really handle it?His sickness made her nervous. His bedside was her favourite place. She wished it was under different circumstances. A different bed in another place.<br />
<br />
Somewhere that held comfort, not fear.<br />
<br />
A place to grow, not a place to die. <br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 39</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-51996529377620746272013-07-04T06:28:00.001-07:002013-07-04T06:28:11.064-07:0081. your future plans"I. Don't. Know! If I knew, I'd tell you. But I don't. So I can't. So stop <i>asking</i>. Stop asking what I want to do, if I could do anything, if there were no boundaries in the world. Because there <i>are</i> boundaries! And I didn't ask for this - they're <i>making</i> me talk to you about what'll happen after I graduate. But I don't have to make this easy for you, and even if I wanted to I can't. Listen. I don't know. I really, really don't. Okay... Okay, fine. You wanna know something? I'd rather be a student for the rest of my life. I wouldn't have to worry about any of this. But you can't make that happen, so what's the point in saying it?"<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 127</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-36094631259158218032013-07-03T04:54:00.002-07:002013-07-03T04:54:11.122-07:0080. QuarantineShe was stuck in quarantine. Ever since then,
it'd felt like forever since they'd been <i>together</i>. They'd seen each
other, but that was about it. She couldn't even
risk putting a mask on and stepping inside. Not with something this
potentially serious.<br /><br />With a sigh, she rounded the corner to the
quarantined patient rooms where - for now - her wife was on her own. She
made her way up to the glass window, resting her forehead against it and
watching her move around, either annoyed by the pain of what
she had or annoyed by the fact that she had to stay in a room like that.
She frowned at the thought that she was physically unable to set foot
inside there. She honestly wouldn't have minded being sick. She wished
she was. It would have meant that they could at least be together.<br />
<br />
"Hey, you."
She said lightly, tapping the glass on the window with a hand. She
didn't know what she was supposed to say, or what she could do to help,
so she simply pressed her hand against the glass.<br />
<br />
Bedridden as her wife may be, she still shifted on the bed and moved to stand, leaning against her IV pole and dragging it along with her to meet the glass. She pressed her hand against the other, and despite the glass between them, there was some comfort in that; "Hey." <br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 235</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-82941654826179319112013-07-02T03:02:00.000-07:002013-07-02T03:02:08.783-07:0079. Delusional So... Let's say the doctor dies. Or just gets like… Really, really sick
and is like… In a wheelchair or on bed rest forever. Who takes over? The other doctors suck major balls.
<br />
<br />
PS: If she is on bed rest forever, I’ll totally just smother her with a <em>nice</em> pillow. Cause she’d probably flip out if you made her live like that.<br />
<br />
I would know. We’re really close.<br />
<br />
Okay... We're not <i>close</i>. She's my boss. One of many, actually. But she doesn't treat me like dirt under her shoe so to me, that means we're totally friends. <br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 100</span><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-45655520873346903612013-07-01T05:21:00.002-07:002013-07-01T05:21:37.296-07:0078. soooo..?"If I told you... You wouldn't understand."<br />
<br />
"Why not?"<br />
<br />
"It's complicated."<br />
<br />
"Isn't everything?"<br />
<br />
"Well... Yeah."<br />
<br />
"So?"<br />
<br />
"So what?"<br />
<br />
"Sooo... If everyone didn't talk because things were complicated, no one would ever share anything!"<br />
<br />
"Yeah. True."<br />
<br />
"Sooo?"<br />
<br />
"Sooo... I'm not telling anyone. Anything."<br />
Word Count: 42Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-23093104648197471012013-06-30T03:15:00.001-07:002013-06-30T03:15:05.111-07:0077. so long as..."You mind <i>your</i> business," She seethed, curling her fingers into the fabric of his shirt and yanking him forward, "And everything'll be <i>fine</i>."<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 23</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-86147392333112418772013-06-29T03:07:00.002-07:002013-06-29T03:07:43.611-07:0076. failingShe stayed down, stopping flat on her back and staring up at the ceiling. Her hand ached, and she steadily brought it into her eye line, twisting her wrist from side to side. It wasn't broken, just tender. She could feel her tears sliding down her cheeks, but chose to ignore them. It wasn't fair. Her teeth sunk into her lower lip to stop a cry or scream.<br />
<br />
"Ow." She breathed, closing her eyes and exhaling a slow sigh through her lips.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 82</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-47660073389511751822013-06-28T02:19:00.001-07:002013-06-28T02:19:06.620-07:0075. Paint the town<span style="font-size: small;">Another year at school. Two years abroad was bad enough. Three?
Nah, not keen. When she was stuck in a bloody office with the dude who
reads minds, Lucy was doing her best to keep her cool. Of course, that
didn't work for her. Rage was an Australian's best friend, y'know? And
what better way to take out such crappy news than to pay a visit to the
one friend she'd managed to handle and keep during the year that they'd
known each other.<br /><br />With a quick knock, Lucy realised the common
room door was unlocked. And so she walked in, scoping the place out.
There wasn't a shit-tonne of loud music blaring, so chances were Sawyer
wasn't even around. Each room was knocked on, and no one answered.<br /><br />She
ducked out, reappearing moments later with two large paint cants. She
stared at them for a moment or two, shook her head and disappeared
again, only to reenter the room with two more. Red, orange, purple and a
bright, bright pink for Sawyer. Yeah, she'd like that. A little
redecorating maybe? Lucy tried not to laugh to herself as she swung by
the common room door and locked it behind her. Then she got to work.
Lucy lifted the orange paint can's lid off, staring into it and watching
it swirl around. She dropped two fingers into the paint, drawing them
across her cheeks. Oh yeah, it was on.<br /><br />In a swift motion - and
without a second thought - she tossed a large amount across the floor
and up the wall, allowing it to
spiral out and around the <s>big ass canvas</s> room. Tearing her boots
off, she slid across the line, accentuating the splash from her feet
across the room. She continued on, messing around with the two more colours until
the room was sufficiently, well, wrecked.<br /><br />She wiped her hands on
her tank top and skinny jeans, staining them further in a myriad of
colours as she whipped out her phone and sent a quick text to Sawyer; <i>Hey, you like pink, right?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 346</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7975726874239023647.post-82256993145770536892013-06-27T01:36:00.001-07:002013-06-27T01:36:37.635-07:0074. Hit itShe grinned to herself, curling her fingers around the wood of the bat. Her breathing was controlled - focused. In and out in equal seconds. Eyes fixated their gaze on the machine ahead, waiting patiently. Each second that passed her had fingers twitching, but her focus was clearly-<br /><br />
"Can you even swing that thing?" He called out.<br />
<br />
"Shut up!"<br />
<br />
He scoffed, stepping back on a heel and crossing his arms; "It's not like you have game either way."<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Word Count: 78</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17911288499698043869noreply@blogger.com0