These drabbles were written in
response to the 2006 Tracy Island Writers Forum's Drabble
Challenge. Only three were to be entered, but Quiller wrote an
additional two for purposes of posting here on The Tracy
Island Chronicles. The
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).
come in please."
I look at
the clock on Mobile Control. It's been ten minutes since he
went into that burning building and I'm starting to feel
concerned. He should have reported in by now.
I rub my
sweaty palms against my thighs. This is the part of my job
that I hate. The others may think I have it easy, sitting
here, giving orders. They don't realise how hard it is for me
to sit still and send them into danger, when all my instincts
cry out to protect them.
do you read me?" Answer, damn you!
Tracy! Get away from that piano at once!"
boy gave a guilty start as a stern voice cut through the air.
Reluctantly he climbed down from the piano stool and turned to
face his grandmother.
playing, Grandma. Honest, I was only looking!"
wasn't fair that he was being punished. OK, he had hit Alan,
but his younger brother had deserved it for knocking the water
across Virgil's newly-finished painting. He walked from the
room, a picture of dejection, turning to give his piano a
last, forlorn look. Tomorrow was a long way away.
the book and look up but you haven't moved. John said you
didn't like 'Moby Dick' but I thought, fine, you can always
wake up and tell me that yourself. I look at you lying there,
tubes and wires connecting you to all the machines that
surround you. Your chest moves slowly, but there is no other
sign of life. What is going on under that copper thatch of
yours? Are you dreaming? Why did you have to be in that damn
hydrofoil anyway? I'm the speed freak of the family, not you.
you wake up?
train enters the tunnel I watch the lights from the windows
flickering on the tunnel wall. As ever, my mind goes back to
another train, another tunnel. Lying tied to the rail, looking
up at the train roaring only inches above me, while you lay
with your body shielding mine and your hand resting on my
cheek. It was a terrifying experience, but at the same time,
one I will always treasure. Our eyes met in that flickering
light, and something special passed between us. Or is this
just a silly woman's imagination?
feel it too?
so beautiful. And she's mine.
I stand at
the bottom of the silo, craning my neck as I look up towards
the nose of the mighty rocket. I can still hardly believe that
Dad has put me in charge of this, the biggest of the
Thunderbird fleet. OK, I know Scott will be co-pilot, but I
feel Dad is showing his trust in me. I'm no longer the
irresponsible kid who nearly got thrown out of college when my
model rocket exploded, blowing out half the windows on the
let you down, Dad, I promise.
This newer drabble (below) was added to this file in December 2016. It was written in response to one of the monthly prompts on Tracy Island Writers Forum in which the prompt was to write a drabble based on the theme of 'fire.'
a drabble based on 'Day of disaster'
What sort of idiot would fire a missile at a rocket thatís sitting at the bottom of a river, primed and ready to launch at any moment?
A desperate one, thatís what.
Iíve spent hours cutting away the debris and now time is running out and so are my options. If I fire the missiles, I might save the men in that capsule, or I might blow them to smithereens, and myself along with them. Iíve talked to Brains and he agrees itís my only course of action.
I take a deep breath, cross my fingers and press the button.