As Seen On TV

[in_the_blue]

Or rather... as seen in villainny (and modified to fit my style), because the one she wrote for me was so much fun:

The first ten people who ask get a drabble*.

Leave me a prompt (color, location, words, canon -- just leave me something) -- and I'll do my best.



*drabble - noun (ˈdra-bəl) netspeak: a piece of fiction consisting of precisely 100 words.

Comments

[lostinapapercup.livejournal.com]

pickpocket

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

"Come on, Denzel, it's easy." Her voice was nothing but a whisper, a conspiracy in the making. "You can just reach right into the pouch and take out the Gil."

"No, Marlene! She's a ninja or something. She'll beat us up." Denzel worried his lower lip, unsure of this dangerous plan. "What if we wake her up?"

"We won't! You'll see." Marlene straightened the bow in her hair and stole quietly to the couch where her surrogate mother slept. Tiny fingers met the money bag, drawing out a small gold coin.

"See? It worked."

Feigning a deep sleep, Tifa smiled.

[lostinapapercup.livejournal.com]

That was so adorable it probably ought to be illegal.

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

I heard it is illegal in 32 states.

♥ Thanks.

[alienchrist.livejournal.com]

I completely agree with this.

[acusa-dora.livejournal.com]

Snow.

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

The white stuff felt funny beneath his feet, so cold. It was supposed to be grass and dirt; birds should be plentiful. Instead, every time he looked to the heavens, his eyes and nose and cheeks met flecks of white drifting down in slow lazy circlets from the haze passing for sky that day. With every step he pulled his legs up higher and higher, wishing he could simply skate nimbly across the frozen white surface. So this was snow. With feline grace, the cat bounded back to the door to wait patiently for his human.

Time to go inside.

[prplhez8.livejournal.com]

*comments*

and...

Yeats.

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

(Note: I borrowed the cadence from "To Be Carved on a Stone at Ballylee." (http://www.infoplease.com/t/lit/robartes/carved.html))

Though the poet Yeats lies dead,
This is how his story read.
While alive, he wrote great poems
And he called his Ireland home.
Master of the odd and arcane,
Growing older was his bane.
He didn't wed till fifty-one,
But couldn't marry his Maud Gonne.
He wrote verses all his life;
Georgie Hyde-Lee was his wife.
Most religion he disdained,
Spiritual interest wasn't feigned.
When he died at seventy-four
He left words cast at his core.
The final lines of one great verse
Accompanied him like a curse:

Cast a cold Eye
On Life, on Death.
Horseman, pass by.

[prplhez8.livejournal.com]

Um...you rocketh muchly.

That was awesome, G!!!!! Thanks. It made me smile THISBIG!!!!

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

I'm so glad! It was my pleasure.

[varadia]

effluvia

(You brought it on yourself)

(Or alternatively, waterfalls in november)

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Rule 32: Enjoy the little things.

It wasn't much of a place after all that walking and searching, and the stench of decay from the dead zombie wafted up into the November air as they walked by, but at least the four of them were still alive. No one had been bitten, no one had attracted the undead's attention. Best of all, Wichita still liked him.

Plenty.

Columbus watched Tallahassee explain the fine art of climbing behind waterfalls to Little Rock, and he wondered how his friend knew all that trivia.

A man learns a lot during a zombie apocalypse.

[agonistes]

Cathedrals.

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

(This song seemed custom-designed for Y: The Last Man.)


Warm beer. It tasted like piss but it was beer and anyone with any sense at all had hooked up or gone home hours ago. And while the hour hand neared three, the Albuquerque night was still too fucking hot. The song on the jukebox spoke of other times and places, even though the sound was familiar enough to fit into any goddamn cowboy bar anywhere, even today.

Like the hand of God falling from the sky
Some days she still couldn't believe all the fucking men were dead, even though it happened more than three years ago now.

Shit.

[agonistes]

...eeeeheehee. I love it. And I love the added layer of irony because it's not like Brett Sparks would be around any more either...

[wanderlustlover]

blue or love

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

Bluebirds. No, bluebells. No, that isn't it. It will come to her eventually. Bluebeard? Definitely not; now is no time for pirates. What does blue-blood really mean, anyway? It always sounds so elitist; one of these days she'll actually look it up. Blue jay? Thieving ill-mannered things. Bluegrass? That's a good one but not quite right either, although it comes closer than most. How about a well-worn pair of blue jeans? It's her top choice at the moment but still, she thinks there has to be one more thing, the perfect fit.

Blueberries, that's it. It's blueberries that are love.

[wanderlustlover]

Oh, that's lovely! :D

[skygiants]

spectacles

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

"You don't need 'em, ya mook." Shit, Mugen knew that before they found the man he called Fuu's smelly sunflower dude. "You just wear 'em for looks, like it makes you special or some frickin' thing like that."

"Hmmm." Where Jin was concerned, this journey hadn't taught him any particularly valuable lessons save for three: learning how to fish, finding a woman who was good and true, and never taking anybody at face value.

As they walked away, Mugen shoved Jin hard enough to force the glasses off his face.

"Those two," Fuu sighed. "Always making such spectacles of themselves."

[skygiants]

*cracks up* Did I tell you I was watching Samurai Champloo now?

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

No. My Becca-fu must be in place!

[kit-the-brave.livejournal.com]

Grits! (Like, the breakfast substance, much better with cheese.)

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

"So why do they call this soul food, Sawyer?" Pushing the grits around in the bowl, she brushed back her long curls and did that face, that look of disgust, that made her nose crinkle so damn cute and all.

"'Cause they're good for the soul, sweetheart. I can tell you ain't never been no southern pervert." He liked that nickname, actually, ever since the first time she used it on him. Kind of their own little in-joke, a private tribute to months on the island. "But they're real good with cheese."

"With cheese."

"Trust me."

(Freckles laughed and laughed.)

[kit-the-brave.livejournal.com]

Hooray! Maybe I'll go make some now!

[alienchrist.livejournal.com]

Fencing!

Also I had no idea drabbles had to be 100 words exactly. ;;

[in-the-blue.livejournal.com]

The dream was of the upcoming duel. He didn't expect to win but couldn't back down now. It was a question of honor. In the dream-tournament, stands were filled to the brim with people cheering and a banner (Albert versus the Count!) slung across the divide. Bulky battle armor proved no limitation to his learned skill: expertly, he thrust and parried and sidestepped his foe. Prise de fer, called the President of the Jury, to Albert.

Awake then without his alarm, he'd check: how much time remained before the duel? He would prepare and best the Count handily. Then...

"Franz?"