but nano, what about the finnish rookie?

drabble: piccadilly circus

Fri, 28 Oct 2005 22:27:00 GMT

Spencer had left the beach half an hour ago in a sulk when Genevieve didn't listen to his monologue on drugs. She'd only noticed because he stamped away, kicking the sand up behind him and into her back.

The sand was being disrupted again. The small, bright-eyed girl called Fflur was drawing in it, making complex pictures depicting skyscrapers and busy roads.

Sand wasn't built for anything more complicated than a squiggly heart.

Her brother sat behind her, his arms around her waist, observing her as she pulled her fingers through the sand. "That's nice," he murmured.

"S'London," said Fflur, adding a bus to one of her roads. She moved on to drawing something round with a pointed top, carrying horses with poles through their backs.

"What's that?" said Genevieve, in an effort to make Fflur talk to her.

She had to wait a while but eventually Fflur finished her sand drawing and answered. "Piccadilly Circus."

Genevieve snorted in spite of herself. "Piccadilly Circus isn't actually a circus! It's a junction, it-"

Before she could finish, Rhys clapped his hands over Fflur's ears and glared at her. "Don't do that!" he barked sharply, before winding his hands through Fflur's hair. "It's a circus if you want it to be," he said to her, still scowling at Genevieve. "It's a circus."

drabble: home

Mon, 24 Oct 2005 21:10:55 GMT

Spencer’s home hadn’t been an unhappy one, even though that’s what his teacher and his councillor had concluded. Not at all – Spencer had a loving mother and father (who doted on their only child perhaps to excess sometimes) and a fairly average middle-class home in the suburbs.

He’d stared at the lit windows of his home wistfully on some cold nights, his teeth chattering and his moth-eaten overcoat wrapped around his skinny frame. If he peered close he could see the living room – floral wallpaper that had been there as long as he could remember and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire on the telly.

Probably time for another hit.

drabble: sparks

Mon, 24 Oct 2005 20:36:06 GMT

Fflur’s lips were pursed together, her brows furrowed in concentration as she rubbed two sticks together.

“Should make a sacrifice to Hestia,” she said, jolting Rhys out of his daydream. He had been staring solemnly into the distance, watching the sun disappear beneath the water, but he turned his gaze to Fflur, glancing at the sticks in her hands.

“Make a fire,” Fflur said by way of explanation.

“Let me try,” Rhys said, taking the sticks from her. And it happened as he rubbed them together – a tiny spark leaping up between the sticks, just for a second, before it fizzled out of existence.

Fflur made a noise of delight, clutching Rhys’s wrists. “And now again!” she said.

He stayed up half the night making sparks for Fflur.

drabble: invisible

Mon, 24 Oct 2005 20:35:01 GMT

The first time Spencer wanted to be invisible he was six, watching Mary-Jane Hooper from behind the fence, ducking out of sight whenever she looked in his direction. Mary-Jane Hooper of the curly red hair and pleated skirts that fell around her legs. Mary-Jane Hooper, his pretty, smiling eight year old neighbour. The older woman.

The second time Spencer wanted to be invisible he was sixteen, his father yelling at him over his report. Yes. Yes, his report… he can remember that vividly, the way his father’s face went bright red and his forehead creased. Had he even taken that Geography exam?

The third time Spencer wanted to be invisible he was twenty two, sitting in his cheap haze of happy, interrupted by the heartbreak on his mother’s face.

drabble: stormy

Mon, 24 Oct 2005 20:33:11 GMT

It didn’t rain much on their tropical prison but when it did, it poured.

Aidan and Mathias draped extra covers – leaves, mostly, the biggest they could find – over the shelters – but the rain still soaked through, creating a dark sandy marsh on the shore.

“Nice,” Genevieve said sarcastically, pulling a thick coat over herself.

“You can have mine too if you want,” said Mathias, handing his own coat over. “I’m soaked anyway.”

Genevieve looked at him. He was right – he was soaked, his usually pale hair damp against his forehead. “You’re going to catch your death of cold,” she said, ignoring the ‘and two in as many days would be a bad track record’ jokes coming to mind. “Here.” She passed him his coat back, drawing up close to him for warmth.

He didn’t complain.