These drabbles were written in
response to the 2006 Tracy Island Writers Forum's Drabble
challenge was as follows:
Choose three of the following
six topics and write one drabble for each of the topics you
chose. You will wind up with three 100-word drabbles on
whichever three topics you chose. Here are your choices:
Scott during a rescue (could be his thoughts, someone
observing him, something he's actually doing, etc.).
Virgil while playing the piano (again, could be his thoughts,
someone observing/listening, etc.).
Gordon's and Alan's relationship as brothers (one or both of
them thinking about it, one of them thinking about the other,
someone else ruminating on their relationship, etc.).
Lady Penelope (either her thoughts or someone else's about
her/what she does, etc.).
The Thunderbirds (perhaps the ship's actual POV or someone's
thoughts about one or all of them, etc.).
Parody drabble (anything goes, parody style).
stretched out his hand, then hesitated. The air smelled of
smoke, vibrated with painful screams, but here it was silent.
Or maybe he just couldn't hear anymore. He touched the body,
checked for a pulse. Blood matted long, blonde hair, bruises
covering a childish face. No movement. Sightless orbs were
staring up at him. His hand clenched in a fist, then released
as he slowly closed those eyes. A last sweep through the dirty
hair, then he stood up, the weight of the world on his
survivors," Scott rasped into the headset, voice rough. "I'm
- Virgil -
nervous that my hands are trembling. God, what if I screw up?
What if I forget my notes?
prods me in the back. "Your turn!" a voice whispers sharply.
forward, on the stage, into the bright light. Hundreds of eyes
focus on me. My hands start sweating. I want to turn and run
away. But I can't.
hit the keys. The first chord fills the room - and the fear
vanishes. Suddenly, the others have lost their importance. My
fingers fly over the keys and I close my eyes. Just me and the
sprints towards me, his eyes wide. I want to laugh, because
there's no way I can be bleeding, after all, I don't hurt -
but then he points to my torn sleeve and I see that it's
coloured in an angry red.
the pain hits, and I stagger, gasping. Right before I crash to
the ground, Gordon catches me. He's not smiling. That's really
strange, because Gordon is always smiling, or laughing, or
smirking, orůmy thoughts wander. I wait for the joke, for the
light-hearted quip that's always on my brother's lips, but it