Weekly Drabble Challenge
May. 15th, 2013 10:24 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
lawnnun.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
indeedsir_backupRules:
1) A drabble is, by definition, a 100-word story therefore all responses should be 100 words exactly, no exceptions.
2) You may also choose to respond to this challenge with a five-minute sketch.
3)PLEASE put the word DRABBLE at the top of your post. That way people can easily spot the drabbles in amongst any reader comments they receive.
RATING:I don't think this should be limited so reader beware that they could be any rating (you could put it in the subject line if you feel it needs it)
1) A drabble is, by definition, a 100-word story therefore all responses should be 100 words exactly, no exceptions.
2) You may also choose to respond to this challenge with a five-minute sketch.
3)PLEASE put the word DRABBLE at the top of your post. That way people can easily spot the drabbles in amongst any reader comments they receive.
RATING:I don't think this should be limited so reader beware that they could be any rating (you could put it in the subject line if you feel it needs it)
PLEASE try to remember to make each drabble a comment in response to the original post. That way, if the comments start to collapse, the drabbles themselves should remain visible.
Your mission, should you choose to accept it:
A world in which everyone is centaurs. Just because.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-05-17 01:13 am (UTC)Or
Aunt Julia is a Nag.
[I would like to apologize in advance, as the sacred memory of P. J. Woodhouse - not to mention the average level of literary quality on planet Earth - was indeed severely injured in the creation of this fic. Really, my literary license ought to be revoked.]
“So sorry, Aunt Julia.” Bertie Wooster shifted nervously from hoof to hoof, nearly dropping the phone in his uneasy canter. “I mean, I’d truly love to spend three weeks in the no-doubt delightful bogs of Cors Fochno.”
The cascade of ha’s and sputter’s emerging at impressive volume from the phone speaker indicated – even to those at such distance to be deprived of the actual English verbiage, that the excuse was less than acceptable – and indeed was not being accepted.
“Never think that!” Bertie backed up instinctively, almost knocking over a Chinese oat-basin Jeeves had, for some artistic reason, set beside the chaise divan. “Miss Brumby sounds truly fascinating. I mean, who ever imagined young lady studying leaches.”
Actually, Bertie considered it likely that most young ladies of his multiple Aunt’s matrimonial productions had indeed studied leaches, or at least under leaches (ignoring the detail that leaches had no actual feet) given the way that they tended to cling to the Wooster corpus. Studied summa cum laude, given that Jeeves had generally required more than a fresh matchstick to… unmatch… the would-be brides.
“Yes, I’m sure she’s a filly of the first water.” Likely over her head, be it in debt or in domestic squabble, given the eagerness to hitch with Wooster in a paired harness.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure we’d have no end of things in common.” Four legs. A shared enjoyment of fresh oats. Breathing. In a word? All the things he likewise held in common with every centaur trotting the London streets – and not a straw more.
Unfortunately for sundry well curried fillies of his familial acquaintance, and consequentially for the Aunt’s matchmaking ambitions, Bertie had no desire to sign up for a double stall. A fine profile and a glossy tail might be decorative, and worthy of admiration in the general sense, but Bertie’s deeper affections were forever given to what one might call a horse of a different color. Indeed they were attached to one specific dream stallion, dark of mane and glossy of hoof and answering to the name of R. Jeeves – thoroughbred’s thoroughbred.
As the auntly demands cascaded from the speaker, Bertie caught himself chewing nervously on the phone cord. Shocking bad manners – not to mention the risk of just getting shocked. Best, he realized, to cut this short.
“Aunt Julia, while it breaks my heart to decline your company, it can not be. I’m already booked for the Continent, and you know that a Wooster never breaks his word.”
The realization was evidently one sided, as was the idea of obligation, and Bertie was forced to endure another ten minutes of telephonic condemnation before the line charges ramped up to a height even the plusher branch of the family would notice. Eventually, however, the forces of Auntly demand ran out of line time – if not out of lung.
Bertie hung up with a huff of prayer to whatever deity covered the ticketing of the Calais ferry, with a second petition that at least one first-class stall might still be available for the evening departure.
“Paris, sir?” Jeeves trotted in from the kitchen.
“Or a we could rent one of those antique barns on the Riviera, of you prefer.” A flick of tail accented Bertie’s indifference to destination. “Just make it Toot Sweet, as the French would say. You pack the tack while I call for tickets. Time to hoof it. I have a matchmaking Aunt hard on my tail.” Bertie looked back. “Best pack for the month. This latest mare sounded like a real dray.”
“A month?” Jeeves flicked one ear at Bertie’s humor. “Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”
“Nothing special.” Bertie flicked his hindquarters in Jeeves direction. “Just horse around.”
no subject
Date: 2013-05-17 06:21 am (UTC)ETA: I like all the oats and barns, too. Makes me think of Houyhnhnms.
no subject
Date: 2013-05-17 06:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-17 06:47 am (UTC)The first time I saw Jeeves, I took note of his glossy coat and well-shaped hooves, but they did not move me then as they do now. I could see that his flanks were sable and that his tail was perfectly groomed and carried proudly, but for whatever reason this Wooster didn't crash down onto all four of his knees and immediately propose. I can only put it down to the hangover that I merely gawped and let him in, standing there wobbling like a newborn foal as he tripped past me into the kitchen on the quietest of hooves.
no subject
Date: 2013-05-17 01:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-17 04:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-14 09:58 pm (UTC)XD
no subject
Date: 2013-05-17 04:13 pm (UTC)Harry Potter and mythology crossover and fun and McIntosh and, well, interestingness
no subject
Date: 2013-05-18 05:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-18 07:19 pm (UTC)...oh, and topping revitalization of the weekly whatsits, even if we are totally not drabbling.
no subject
Date: 2013-06-14 09:53 pm (UTC)Still, agree about the revitalization of the weekly prompties! \o/
no subject
Date: 2013-06-14 11:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-15 01:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-14 10:03 pm (UTC)Bertie pattered into the flat, grin shining full-force upon Jeeves as the valet whisked away coat, hat, and whangee. “I trust your outing—sir?”
“You noticed!” Bertie exclaimed with a dapper prance in a quick circle.
Restrained horror was subtly evident all over the Jeevesian map, and his slightly laid-back ears. “Someone’s done something atrocious to your waistcoat and… there’re strange things… upon your hooves.”
“Oh, pish!” Bertie oh-pished, waggling his fore-hoof. “Paisley weskit and spats. Quite the thing on the continent.”
Jeeves managed not to paw the carpet with the hoof he’d raised, but only just. “But… paisley, sir?”
no subject
Date: 2013-06-14 10:09 pm (UTC)