Post by jh1980 on Feb 11, 2008 20:03:06 GMT -1
Jules' Monday Night "Added Value Post" #2 
Didn't put a lot of effort in but here's a brief drabble for anyone who cares to read it!
Title: Untitled Drabble
Theme: Snow
Genre: I’m not good at assessing that. It’s a story!
Rating: PG, if that.
Feedback: Welcome, public.
Warnings: None
Notes: It was late, and I was tired. See how description adds interest to an essentially barren plot…!
“Say, hadn’t you noticed how the theme music for ‘Birds of a Feather’ was really pretty sad? Like you were anticipating someone dying who you loved, and you’d go ~sings~ What’ll I do, when you are far away, and I am blue… what’ll I do? When I’m alone, with only dreams of you, that won’t come true… what’ll I do? ”
With that, Malloy tipped over the empty bottle of whisky, and wept piteously into his sleeve, the soft thick fabric becoming heavy with his tears. A last tendril of cigar smoke rose in spirals from the ashtray. The bar was about to close.
Petkov sighed, and drew his scarf tightly around his throat. All people are the same, he mused. All fear the darkness, all are driven mad by petty, temporal concerns. All people dislike extremes of cold, and of heat, all long for peace, but all cling to life. Wandering out into the snow, he trudged with unsteady feet, placing each step as carefully as he could, for he dared not risk a fall in this dim, impenetrable night, where no other human presence could be discerned along the road, or through the dense, un-shepherded forest on either side.
Nature closed in upon Petkov, the trees overhead blocking out the sky, the snow slipping between his feet, the oppressive silence only broken by strange, fearful noises made by he knew not what creatures. Faced by the panoply of nature, a man was small, defenceless, not lacking in craft, yet lacking in resources with which to fend off any attack. Thinking too much brought fear. Fear brought scent trails for other animals. These thoughts brought more fear. These fears then brought paralysis. Must keep moving. A distant light. Alone through the night a 16-wheeled truck lurched from the darkness, its headlights briefly blinding all the life that teemed and bustled in the undergrowth, and blinding Petkov, who cowered from the sudden rush of cold, biting air, and the din of the huge engine, and the proximity of the vehicle which rushed past. Did the driver even see him? Petkov shuddered, and kept moving.
As if surfacing from a long dive, or emerging from a tight, claustrophobic tunnel, at length Petkov saw the embers of the fire on the pot-bellied stove which provided comfort and sustenance to the timber hut in which he would spend the night. Wrapped in five blankets, he would slumber peacefully, safe from the ravages of the severe weather outside, and he would dream of his Helen, far away from him beyond the hills. He would see her soon, if not soon enough – but until then – to dream, sweet dreams of her cinnamon lips, her warm, powdered cheeks and soft, silken arms.
Bursting through the door, Petkov placed a length of timber against the handle to deter others from entering, and stamped the spare snow and ice from his boots. Drawing the thin curtains, he sat on the camp bed, and removed his boots, placing the long laces in coils within their sweaty interior. With another sigh, he reclined into the bed, and arranged his blankets around him. Before he could even close his eyes, he had slipped into a deep, dream-filled sleep.
[537]
Didn't put a lot of effort in but here's a brief drabble for anyone who cares to read it!
Title: Untitled Drabble
Theme: Snow
Genre: I’m not good at assessing that. It’s a story!
Rating: PG, if that.
Feedback: Welcome, public.
Warnings: None
Notes: It was late, and I was tired. See how description adds interest to an essentially barren plot…!
“Say, hadn’t you noticed how the theme music for ‘Birds of a Feather’ was really pretty sad? Like you were anticipating someone dying who you loved, and you’d go ~sings~ What’ll I do, when you are far away, and I am blue… what’ll I do? When I’m alone, with only dreams of you, that won’t come true… what’ll I do? ”
With that, Malloy tipped over the empty bottle of whisky, and wept piteously into his sleeve, the soft thick fabric becoming heavy with his tears. A last tendril of cigar smoke rose in spirals from the ashtray. The bar was about to close.
Petkov sighed, and drew his scarf tightly around his throat. All people are the same, he mused. All fear the darkness, all are driven mad by petty, temporal concerns. All people dislike extremes of cold, and of heat, all long for peace, but all cling to life. Wandering out into the snow, he trudged with unsteady feet, placing each step as carefully as he could, for he dared not risk a fall in this dim, impenetrable night, where no other human presence could be discerned along the road, or through the dense, un-shepherded forest on either side.
Nature closed in upon Petkov, the trees overhead blocking out the sky, the snow slipping between his feet, the oppressive silence only broken by strange, fearful noises made by he knew not what creatures. Faced by the panoply of nature, a man was small, defenceless, not lacking in craft, yet lacking in resources with which to fend off any attack. Thinking too much brought fear. Fear brought scent trails for other animals. These thoughts brought more fear. These fears then brought paralysis. Must keep moving. A distant light. Alone through the night a 16-wheeled truck lurched from the darkness, its headlights briefly blinding all the life that teemed and bustled in the undergrowth, and blinding Petkov, who cowered from the sudden rush of cold, biting air, and the din of the huge engine, and the proximity of the vehicle which rushed past. Did the driver even see him? Petkov shuddered, and kept moving.
As if surfacing from a long dive, or emerging from a tight, claustrophobic tunnel, at length Petkov saw the embers of the fire on the pot-bellied stove which provided comfort and sustenance to the timber hut in which he would spend the night. Wrapped in five blankets, he would slumber peacefully, safe from the ravages of the severe weather outside, and he would dream of his Helen, far away from him beyond the hills. He would see her soon, if not soon enough – but until then – to dream, sweet dreams of her cinnamon lips, her warm, powdered cheeks and soft, silken arms.
Bursting through the door, Petkov placed a length of timber against the handle to deter others from entering, and stamped the spare snow and ice from his boots. Drawing the thin curtains, he sat on the camp bed, and removed his boots, placing the long laces in coils within their sweaty interior. With another sigh, he reclined into the bed, and arranged his blankets around him. Before he could even close his eyes, he had slipped into a deep, dream-filled sleep.
[537]