City Fishing | Drought Waltz | Cryogenic
Jan. 5th, 2011 09:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sidewaysA drabble bundle. Two old (prompt: rain) and one new (prompt: ice). Apparently I attract water-related prompts.
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Title: City Fishing
Rating: G
Genre: Modern
Wordcount: 107
Remarks: Written for a flash-fiction university assignment.
The rain has swelled the gutters, and makes it harder to lift the heavy metal grate. He has to wrap his fingers so far around the rough bars that they curl back in on themselves.
He heaves it aside at last, and absently wipes rusty trails down his pants, gaze flicking over the constant trembles of water on the move. Last time it rained this hard, he earned himself a tennis ball; chewed and nearly hairless, but with bounce.
Something stands out, and he leans forward eagerly, reaching out. He comes close, manages to brush against the thrashing sliver of death, but then the snake is gone.
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Title: Drought Waltz
Rating: G
Genre: Modern
Wordcount: 102
Remarks: Written for a flash-fiction university assignment, but I ended up submitting City Fishing instead.
It had not rained for weeks, and father was irritable at his best. We all did our best to stay quick and quiet when he was in a mood, cursing the rain and its absence in our heads. But perhaps this only offended it further, for next day and next day brought hot skies and black birds and no more.
When the creek was a dribble and the cows were patchy skin-sticks, I woke one morning to see him out front, shouting and slapping the dry ground with his feet, dancing a different kind of rain dance while the crows sang chorus.
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Title: Cryogenic
Rating: G
Genre: Modern
Wordcount: 100
Remarks:![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fiction_drabbles prompt fic.
While global warming makes men mutter, her own cooling begins. There is ice in her joints, a grinding, cracking mass that crunches in the same way and with the same sound as the snow that coats her three steps each year between December and February. It is a growing stiffness, a steady slowing and freezing—these are the knees that sank the Titanic.
She laughs when people talk of medicines and reparations and longevity, as if this is something she might want to change. People thrust millions into rubber-gloved hands to seek frozen eternity; she is doing it for herself.
◘◘◘
Title: City Fishing
Rating: G
Genre: Modern
Wordcount: 107
Remarks: Written for a flash-fiction university assignment.
The rain has swelled the gutters, and makes it harder to lift the heavy metal grate. He has to wrap his fingers so far around the rough bars that they curl back in on themselves.
He heaves it aside at last, and absently wipes rusty trails down his pants, gaze flicking over the constant trembles of water on the move. Last time it rained this hard, he earned himself a tennis ball; chewed and nearly hairless, but with bounce.
Something stands out, and he leans forward eagerly, reaching out. He comes close, manages to brush against the thrashing sliver of death, but then the snake is gone.
◘◘◘
Title: Drought Waltz
Rating: G
Genre: Modern
Wordcount: 102
Remarks: Written for a flash-fiction university assignment, but I ended up submitting City Fishing instead.
It had not rained for weeks, and father was irritable at his best. We all did our best to stay quick and quiet when he was in a mood, cursing the rain and its absence in our heads. But perhaps this only offended it further, for next day and next day brought hot skies and black birds and no more.
When the creek was a dribble and the cows were patchy skin-sticks, I woke one morning to see him out front, shouting and slapping the dry ground with his feet, dancing a different kind of rain dance while the crows sang chorus.
◘◘◘
Title: Cryogenic
Rating: G
Genre: Modern
Wordcount: 100
Remarks:
fiction_drabbles prompt fic. While global warming makes men mutter, her own cooling begins. There is ice in her joints, a grinding, cracking mass that crunches in the same way and with the same sound as the snow that coats her three steps each year between December and February. It is a growing stiffness, a steady slowing and freezing—these are the knees that sank the Titanic.
She laughs when people talk of medicines and reparations and longevity, as if this is something she might want to change. People thrust millions into rubber-gloved hands to seek frozen eternity; she is doing it for herself.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-05 07:47 pm (UTC)(For some reason I like "and the cows were patchy skin-sticks" ... I don't know.)
no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 12:56 am (UTC)Dead cows look pretty funny, man :|