Bunbury

[Bunbury]

Prompt #2: "Everything is fine!" Everything was not fine. You may add an "I said" or "he/she/they said" or variations of the same, but you can't change the line itself, and it has to be used in your drabble.

I've bent the rules slightly on this one. But at least I've written something and that's what matters. . .?

Some context: Phaedra is the protagonist of my WIP, and Hector is her flatmate. Not sure if this will end up in my story, but it was fun to write! 

 

Phaedra came home to find the door jammed. It appeared to have been magically sealed, or else obstructed by a well-placed piece of furniture. From inside Phaedra could hear the swells of Rigoletto – it depressed her slightly that she could now identify the opera -- punctuated by what sounded like a jack hammer.

“Hector!” she hollered, pounding her fist on the door. “Let me in, you prat!”

Moments later her flatmate's head emerged. It was wearing a gas mask. “Phae!” said Hector, his voice muffled slightly by the gas mask. “Good lord, what brings you here?”

“I live here too,” said Phaedra, trying unsuccessfully to shoulder her way past Hector.

“Ah. Yes. Well before you come inside, I must impress upon you the following very important thing: everything," he said, "is fine," and he opened the door to reveal a scene of post-apocalyptic devastation. Everything was not fine.

“Merlin's pants, Hector! I have to be at work in half an hour. Please tell me I at least have some clothes left.”

“Er,” said Hector, trying to extinguish the gramophone discretely as its melted remains sang mobile. . .mobile. . .mobile, over and over.

“Fine. I'll just take a bath and wear this again.”

“Er, it might be best if you avoided the bathroom for the time being. There are substances in the bathtub wherein no man or beast would be wise to bathe.”

“Right. Good. I'll just go hyperventilate on the fire escape then, shall I? And will you turn that off,” she said, giving the gramophone a good kick, “it's driving me mad!”

“Er,” said Hector, “About the fire escape--”

But before he could finish Phaedra had stormed out, slamming the door in her wake. For a moment Hector stood forlornly in the wreckage of the flat. Then suddenly he smiled and started to sing in a warbly tenor, “Muta d'accento. . .e di pensiero. . ."

 

 

 

 

[galadriel]

It absolutely is more important to write something, and the way you've brought the prompt into this is so seamless and well done! i'm really intrigued by your characters, especially Hector. And this dialogue was the best, omg.

Quote

“Good lord, what brings you here?”

“I live here too”

I totally want to check out your WIP if you've started posting it up.  
Glad you had fun with this! 

[Bunbury]

@galadriel Thanks for the feedback! Glad you liked Hector. I've been worrying that readers will find him insufferable (that is, he's meant to be a bit annoying, but not so much so that people can't bear to read about him). But I guess he's fine in small doses? 

I haven't started posting my WIP -- I want to make sure its plot works first, as it's slated to be fairly long -- but I'd of course love for you to check it out when I do! 

And thanks generally for these writing exercises! I'm new to the forums, and I think they're a really great idea

[Bunbury]

Prompt #3:  Write a piece with descriptions that use touch & smell but no other sense. 

 

In the shed, the musky stench of goats was overpowering. Phaedra switched to breathing through her mouth, steeling herself for what she was about to do. 

After a month of working at Slug and Jigger's Apothecary, she had finally been sent to collect her first bezoar. "The bezoar," she'd read in Moste Potente Potions, "the poisoner's scourge, is moste efficacious when harvested by the black light of the new moon." So it was that at half past midnight she'd stepped into the pitch blackness of the shed behind the apothecary with a bucket and sickle. 

Phaedra knelt beside one of the goats and gingerly pet its matted fur. "Promise this won't hurt," she murmured. "Much good may it do you." She retched, the goat's breath vile on her face. Smothering her nose with her sleeve she waved her wand, and the goat collapsed before her in a dead heap. 

Wiping her palms on her skirt, Phaedra wrapped her fingers around the smooth, wooden handle of her sickle. "Now for the best bit. . ." And she acted before she could think. 

 

[Bunbury]

Prompt #4: Write a drabble that focuses on the feeling of jealousy. 

Context: Stebbins is a (very) minor character from a Percy-centered one-shot I'm working on. 

 

"Morning, Mr Weatherby." Stebbins smiled blandly, fixing himself a mug of milky tea. "Looking forward to the benefit?" 

"What benefit?" Percy had limited patience for Stebbins at the best of times, and absolutely none first thing in the morning when he had a report to draft. 

"Oh. Did you not get one of these?" Stebbins reached a limp hand into his breast pocked and extracted a small piece of parchment, its crease pilling from repeated folding and unfolding. 

A battle raged within Percy. He felt himself repelled by the parchment, which was slightly clammy from its protracted proximity to Stebbins, but at the same time attracted to it, for it bore the inimitable handwriting of Mr Crouch.

"Invitation to the benefit dinner Mr Crouch is organizing." Stebbins gazed reverentially at the parchment. "Funny. Thought for sure you'd be getting one, Mr Weatherby, being a young whipper-snapper and all."

"Well," Percy collected himself, "I'm sure mine's on its way."

"Doubtful, Mr Weatherby. Got mine about a week ago."

"Owl might've got lost. My parents' bird has the brains of a feather duster."

"Oh, no, that can't be it, Mr Weatherby." Stebbins' watery eyes widened. "Mr Crouch gave me the invitation himself." 

This couldn't be happening. Percy had always pitied Stebbins: he pitied his wet, whiny voice; he pitied his lumpen, cable-knit vests; he pitied his almost supernatural lack of drive. But Crouch had not pitied these things. He had rewarded them. He had chosen them. And he had not chosen Percy. 

 

 

 

 

[Bunbury]

Prompt #5: Write a quick drabble of no more than 250 words using the following scenario

Your character meets someone who can see into the future. 

 

They were lighting the lamps as Phineas strolled back to Grimmauld Place to change. The rain had calmed to a drizzle, making the streets shine. On the corner there stood a Muggle girl of eleven or twelve, her yellow hair hanging in matted dreads, her grubby feet bear. 

"Spare any change, sir?" she mewled. "I can't go home till I've got at least half a crown." 

Phineas was feeling magnanimous. The prospect of the Flints' soiree lent the evening an air of festivity, of anticipation. He dropped a heavy, gold Galleon into her outstretched palm. 

The girl's eyes widened. "Tell you what," she said, "I'll tell your fortune. Let's see your hand!" 

Phineas sighed. No good deed unpunished. Nevertheless, he complied. 

For a long moment the girl studied his palm, and when finally she met his gaze she looked puzzled. "Says you're gonna kill him, the one that's hunting you. Only. . .he's already dead." 

Just as he'd expected. A charlatan, and most probably a lunatic. Phineas had just resumed his stroll when the girl called after him. 

"Tell your friend -- the foreign gentleman -- that he'd best wear his silver cufflinks to the Opera." 

Phineas shook his head without a backward glance. Poor ragamuffin. Clearly mad. 

 

Word Count: 200

[Bunbury]

Prompt #6: This week, we have a picture prompt! Take a look at this+ image and write a quick drabble related to it. 

 

A whisper of pages and tissue paper and a buttonhole, a pink rose carefully pressed, floats dustily to the floor. It's so fragile, he fears that it might shatter. Stooping, he brushes the withered petals with fingers also withered, and there flashes before his mind's eye. . .

. . .that day in the conservatory the older man not yet his lover pinned it to his lapel and pricked his soft finger pad so that a bead of blood welled up, and he was strangely moved to see such carelessness from such a careful man, his hands sheathed in kid gloves to mask the smell of blood, the swipe of garlic on his jugular a final precaution mixing with the smell of his Italian cologne. . .later he threw it in the wastepaper basket but thought better of it and in cloudy leaves of tissue paper pressed it as a boy might press the wings of a butterfly to fix it to a corkboard -- 

The memory shatters.

"What's that you've got there, Headmaster?" asks the Sorting Hat.

Scowling, Phineas rises to his feet. "Shut up," he snaps, and with his heel he grinds the petals into the carpet. 

 

Word count: 195

 

[Bunbury]

Prompt #7: Use the below colour palette as inspiration for a drabble! You have full freedom with the way you interpret it and use it. 

 

The door opened, and a shaft of light fell on his canvas, interrupting his nap. With a final, agitated snore, Phineas opened a beady eye to peer at the intruder. It was his great-great-grandson, the scruffy one, and he was whistling and carrying a jangling collection of tools. 

"What is the meaning of this? You know this is when I take my evening nap; I like to feel rested before bed."

"Hello, Phineas," said Sirius, "how generous of you to acknowledge my existence." Sirius looked about critically, nodded, and strode to the window with a pencil, masking tape, and scissors. 

"What are you doing? Why are you taping the walls? Have you taken leave of your --" 

"What this room needs," said Sirius loudly, "is a little paint." He grinned, gesturing at a metal bucket by the door. 

"I trust the paint itself bears no resemblance to that label?"

"I'm afraid it does."

"Really. I'd no idea you were in need of a Parisian boudoir. Well, you'll have to put it someplace else. You seem to have forgotten that I am fixed to this wall by magical means -- you'll never be able to paint it."

"I'll go around you," said Sirius, the pencil in his teeth.

"My dear grandchild," a note of hysteria had entered Phineas's voice, "don't you see that I might be spilled on? Splattered? Bespoiled?"

"It's an interesting question," Sirius mused. "If I spill paint on you over here. . .d'you think it'd come out in Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts?"

Phineas sputtered inarticulately. 

Sirius said: "Let's find out!"