The Drabble Life's Journal|
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
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|Tuesday, May 13th, 2008|
“What now?” She says, staring into his dark eyes, longing to catch the same swelling of incredible lust in them, as she was sure her own had given everything away.
He stares at her intently, slowly moving closer to her. He raises his hand and gently strokes her cheek, letting his fingers slide down to her neck, and slowly behind it. The sounds of quickened breath fill the small pickup cab as they lean closer, locking gazes as their pulses race and their arousal waxes. A slow grin lights up his face as he searches for the words: “We kiss.” Current Mood: giddy
|Saturday, September 29th, 2007|
Written in A&P class this morning
The man lies alone in the darkness, staring in the direction of the ceiling. There isn’t enough light for him to make anything out, but his eyes are fixed none the less. There’s a light breeze outside the bedroom window that’s carried in by the small fan perched precariously on the sill. The thrum of the fan only motivates his scattered thoughts. He misses his best friend, the one who would always know when he needed to be pulled back to reality and responsibility. He misses his friend who needs his empathy and guidance. He misses his beautiful, tropical home.
|Thursday, September 27th, 2007|
"Getting raped by a bunch of guys would suck!" - Justin
Our protagonist lay sleeping on the daybed, having thought he clearly outfoxed his fellows by stealing their weapon bucks. He slept there as his thoughts were far from the physical world. And that is when the other pounced.
Our protagonist tried to turn and flail his arms at his assailant, trying to fight him off, while the other reached around to his ass to grab for the goods, the weapon bucks. The assailant’s arm pumped hard beneath our protagonist’s form. Many stopped and gawked at the sight as the assailant sped away with loot in hand.
Our protagonist lay weeping.
Just doin' my job
He felt a sudden pulse of energy through the ancient seal he wore at his belt, entrusted to him by the queen of his adopted homeland. A gentle flow of magic washed over him as he mouthed, “I’m sorry, duty calls!” to his beloved wife as the world faded away to be replaced with a throne room. The queen withdrew from her foe as he appeared in front of her, the mighty spear Aiglos materializing in his hand. He dodged his surprised new foe, driving the spear home. His foe’s form slumped in death.
Reapers were so clumsy these days.
|Friday, September 21st, 2007|
Double Drabble... Go!
Her eyes traced their way along the broad river, steadily snaking their gaze westward where the otherwise drab-colored freshwater basked luxuriously in the fiery glow of the setting sun. The sky was clear and the breeze was cool against the bare skin of her legs, which were dangling casually over the edge of the pier. The sounds of the city echoed distantly behind her, but the small port was eerily silent. She turned slightly to her left to look up at her quiet companion, digging down to the very depths of her soul to muster a single, reassuring smile.
He watched her carefully, her presence lost, consumed by the brilliance of the unobstructed sunset upon the steadily moving river. The gently rolling plains offered the perfect backdrop for the darker stone city sprawling behind them. She looked to him unexpectedly then, and in that brief moment, he saw eternity through her swirling cerulean eyes. Almost instantly the light was extinguished; replaced with cool resolve, tempered with concern. Then she smiled, a sincere, steady smile that warmed him to the bone. However, it was little comfort, for the smile did nothing to return the spark he had seen in her eyes. Current Mood: exhausted
The good old days.
Let's just call this a double drabble and some change:
He searched the grey, blasted landscape of the volcano's slopes for a sign, any sign, of her.
"She would have died with them if should could help it," he thought quietly to himself.
He waded through the strewn bodies of the fallen knights, their dull white armour marred by the cooling stain of their own blood. Hers was whiter than the rest -- somehow more pure. She wasn't here. She wasn't dead.
"But where IS she?!", he screamed frantically, the pain in his voice echoing off of the apathetic rocks around him.
The dark skies above opened and pierced the shadow of the area with a streak of lightning. The silhouette of a brazen tower jutting from the edge of the volcano flashed for a moment, burning into his eyes. He knew. The thunder echoed in his ears, minute against the screaming in his mind.
He hefted his spear in tired, aging hands. He was older than he used to be, not the same agile young half-elf he once was. "Accursed human blood.", he thought. He steadied his mind and readied himself for what lay ahead. One more fight.
He shouldered his spear, focused his mind, and willed into being a shimmering aura of force that surrounded his form in a thin, translucent blue light.
"Hold on Keoni. I'm coming!", he yells to anyone who may hear.
|Tuesday, September 11th, 2007|
More than 100, but I couldn't trim it anymore and still like it.
“Somewhere Over The Rainbow” echoes in my head as I sit in the warm, comfortable coffee shop, sizing up my personal rainbow in the form of my text books. The classic metaphor of Dorothy’s rainbow takes hold of my literary senses and forces me to scribe my reflections. Some of us lazily gaze up at their rainbow’s majesty, dreaming one day to cross its expansive arch. Others make plans and draw up diagrams as to the best way to make the endeavor, but never actually start the journey. Others climb the slippery hues, determined to see what lies on the other side of this rainbow, and the countless others that lie beyond it.
The problem lies in knowing when. When to climb, when to plan, and even when to just dream. What time is it for you? Current Mood: calm
|Friday, September 7th, 2007|
This has been the first and only time I've considered forwarding a chain text because it promises that someone important to me will come back into my life if I don't break the chain. I don't believe that annoying a selection of my friends with a generic forwarded message will affect my love life, but it doesn't hurt to wish otherwise.
The doorbell rang, and I jumped. Most of my visitors don't ring the doorbell, the only one who did is the one person who's absence has affected me the most. The part of my mind that thinks reasonably tried to convince and calm the part of my mind that's wildly hopeful, because the latter is convinced that he's on the other side of the door. Without worrying about the fact that I should put on a thicker t-shirt before answering the door and without looking through the peephole, I opened the door.
"Hey, we're from the city. We need to look at the manhole in your backyard."
Instead of what I was trying to write... hostility is quicker.
He sat his weight down in the plastic and metal chair in front of the computer terminal, the only one with speakers, to begin his usual slacking. He opened Firefox and Microsoft Word and set to writing. The door buzzer goes off. He gets up and tends to the customer’s need. He sits back down. The second the contented sigh leaves his lips as comfort sets in, the door buzzer goes off again. He rises with discontentment clearly etched on his face and handles this matter. This happens again and again; he barely has enough time to write fucking drabbles.
-X Current Mood: annoyed
|Thursday, September 6th, 2007|
Kneeling by the river, she drove her hands deep into the clay that had been baking in the late summer sun. She called upon a soft breeze to gift him with a voice like silk; the salty water to lend him the biting cunning he would seek to hide for his entire life. With a mother's caress she molded a kind brow and plump lips women would find irresistible; with a lover's familiarity she shaped the genitalia that would come to define him. With each stroke she knew him, as if making him completed her. They would call him Adonis.
|Wednesday, September 5th, 2007|
My dreams are -weird-!
It was an organization that had been running under the radar for years. He and his team, with the aid of his vast wealth, had reconstructed the dilapidated old campgrounds into a suitable, and aesthetic, base of operations. Only the most intelligent, beautiful young women came to work for him; undergoing extensive training in both etiquette and combat. Seasonally, these girls put on a ravishing show... entertaining his upper crust guests with flawless service. But the resort was a cleverly crafted cover. Politicians, international government representatives, and well-connected families with agendas were his customers- all eagerly bidding for his aid. Current Mood: contemplative
|Sunday, September 2nd, 2007|
It's possible to hit the ground softly but only if certain conditions are met. A bike frame that feels too large, lack of balance, pedals that lock around the feet, a 90 degree turn onto a narrow bridge and brake levers in an unusual place. You'll get bonus points if you have an audience of thugs setting fire to a gazebo.
The proper preparation involves bouncing off of a parked car when faced with an unexpected dead end, gaining another hole in your favorite pair of pants due to the gears of the bicycle, and focusing on the fact that the bicycle is a present from the last serious relationship.
When gravity gets involved, don't fight it, just struggle to remove yourself from the bike while discovering the rear brakes don't want to work.
Mostly it involves dumb luck and a little skill.
|Saturday, September 1st, 2007|
About Last Night
They filled shot glasses full of the dark, licorice-flavored alcohol while filling glasses half-full of the bitter but heavily sugared energy drink as everyone gathered into the kitchen. The small gathering chatted animatedly about times past in which they had fun with each other or with other friends who were with them on other nights. When the shots and glasses were full of their liquids, the drinks were distributed evenly, though with some complications (drunk people are known to be difficult), and everyone waited for the right moment.
Shots dropped with brittle clinks as glasses tipped; Jager-Bombs for the win.
-X Current Mood: amused
|Thursday, August 30th, 2007|
And something Light...
My heart is racing. I blunder down the hall. I put my hand to my face as if to wipe the red from my eyes or the tears from the cheeks they stained. I turn the corner, confronted with robotic doors that sense my urgency. Three sets of doors. Three whooshing portals between the object of my anticipation and myself. My steps become more deliberate, I need to savor this moment. One. The temperature jumps. Two. The humidity fills me with joy, pure elation. The third door opens bringing with it the sweet air of my most precious place. Home.
A litte dark...
Alone. It’s a simple concept really. Flying solo, finding solitude, call it what you want, you’re still alone. It’s even got a hollow, empty sound to it. Say it aloud. Alone. It carries that fear, doesn’t it? It makes something inside you writhe, twisting slightly, making you uncomfortable at even the thought. Why do you have such an aversion to it? Why hesitate? Are you scared?
I know why. You fear solitude because there’s only one person to blame there. After everything you’ve done, there’s only one accountable. It’s time to face those demons.
I hope they eat you alive.
|Wednesday, August 29th, 2007|
Love / Hate / Genius / Insanity
The line between love and hate is dangerously thin... almost as thin as the line between genius and insanity. Both statements imply the same, ominous message: it is nearly impossible for one to exist without the other. Any level of genius comes, naturally, with the simultaneous burden and freedom of insanity. When you apply this concept to love and inter-personal relationships, it becomes a terrifying concept. To be capable of feeling the all-too-human emotion of hatred, one must possess a certain degree of deep caring for the person/object of their hatred. The opposite of love isn’t hate, then, it is indifference.
|Tuesday, August 28th, 2007|
Is it insane to not know who you are? I mean that very literally; not in some cute yet abstract sense of "finding oneself", but in the very real way of bordering on two distinctly opposing personalities. To be capable of fierce, deep, resounding love one moment, and then to crave wanton destruction that can only be satiated by violence. It serves to disturb and excite me all at once. My views on sex are changing beneath the seductive hand of this new, alluring persona as well. I less want to love and more want to own and destroy you.
|Tuesday, August 21st, 2007|
Fast Times at the Hampshire Mall (drabble)
We walked around the mall, just like every other weekend, and found ways of making ourselves a menace to the beleaguered mall cops. We left note cards with snappy phrases (“Vin Diesel can read” comes to mind) and stole cameras to take pictures of our day. We’d leave these disposable memory recorders somewhere with a note that said, “Develop these, I dare ya.”
We gave advice as we robbed our way to adrenaline bliss, handing out pamphlets instructing people to ‘Eat (Their) Family’. This was youth, this was naivety, this was how things were supposed to be for us. Always.
-X Current Mood: chipper
|Monday, August 20th, 2007|
She screams. "I hate him," she thinks "so fucking much." She bites down on nothing, bare teeth clenched. Bone against bone. The pain she feels echoes through the long form of her bare body that is framed for a moment by silver moonlight; echoing her succulent curves across the stark, dark room. He strikes again. She shudders. Self-doubt, pain, depression, apathy, laziness and every sinful pride she once claimed pools and congeals in a bitter mix of blood and sweat that caresses her body as it slowly drips its way to the floor. "I love him," she thinks. She screams. Current Mood: listless
|Friday, August 17th, 2007|
I wish I was an artist. I could have been once, when I was young. My father was decent, as was my uncle. The influence was there, but I failed to follow the inkling past idle sketches and failed paintings. The image in my mind of idle fingers tracing the symbols of my affection along the curve of your hips will always leave me with a bittersweet mixture of love and regret. I often wish I had the ability to move that single still frame to paper before I grow old and that memory dies with me. But I can’t. Current Mood: apathetic