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vocab_drabblesTitle: Ethereal
Fandom: Good Omens
Length: 400
Rating: Gen
Notes: Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: Crowley invites Aziraphale to a Hallowe'en carnival.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Aziraphale, what are you so uncertain about? I am not asking you to commit the seven deadly sins.”
“You know that’s not possible. Ethereal, remember?”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’m just asking if you want to go to a Hallowe’en carnival with me.”
“Why do you want to go?”
“Oh, you know. Work. Plenty of souls to corrupt between the apple cider and the hayride.”
“Just as many chances to provoke good, too,” said Aziraphale with a thoughtful hum.
“There you go,’” said Crowley encouragingly. “But there’s one catch. Fancy dress is a must. At least a mask.”
“I don’t suppose I can go as an…” Aziraphale shrugged his shoulders in an almost-wing-extending gesture.
“Not very sporting of you, but I don’t see why not.”
“Are you going as a demon?”
“No. David Bowie.”
Aziraphale frowned. “But wasn’t he…?”
“Both sides,” said Crowley quickly. “Claimed by both sides. The 1970’s were a confusing time for everyone.”
“True.”
Crowley hesitated, then his eyes flashed and he said, “There’s a pumpkin patch at this carnival.”
“Really?!” Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose sharply, and his gaze instantly flitting around the bookshop at a sundry antique tables any one of which would, it must be admitted, serve nicely as a pedestal for a glowing Jack-O-Lantern. Images of seasonally themed décor sprung in Aziraphale’s imagination, and he got a bit carried away before regaining his wherewithal, shooting Crowley a wry glance.
“You are an apt tempter, Anthony J. Crowley.”
Crowley grinned. “Glad you finally noticed. So, what say you? Pig races? Deep fried everything on a stick?”
“But the costume, Crowley!” protested Aziraphale.
“I’m going as David Bowie. You could go as another iconic figure of popular music.”
Aziraphale scrunched up his nose. “Bebop?”
Crowley sighed. “No. How ‘bout a knight?”
Aziraphale looked tentatively hopeful. “A singing knight.”
“Dancing, too.” Crowley tapped the tips of his fingers to his lips. “Sunglasses, feather boa…”
---
“Oh my god! It’s Sir Elton John and Ziggy Stardust! God, I need to post this to my Instagram! Huh? What in the bloody hell just happened to my phone?!”
Crowley threw an arm across Aziraphale’s shoulders and passed by with a grin. “See? So many opportunities.”
Aziraphale swallowed the last bit of mini mince pie and snapped his fingers. “And good,” he retorted. “Shall we get lost in the corn maze?”
Crowley howled. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Title: Prerogative
Fandom: Agatha Christie
Length: 700
Rating: Gen
Notes: So this is based on Sad Cypress by Agatha Christie, which is an Hercule Poirot mystery, but I am only on Chapter 5 and Hercule Poirot hasn't shown up yet.
Summary: Nurse O'Brien and Nurse Hopkins discuss their patient and her will.
“It is the prerogative of a wealthy old ladies to do what they wish with their fortunes whilst they’re living and dispose of it as they wish after they’re gone,” announced Nurse Hopkins to her companion and the two cups of strong tea between them.
“It is,” said Nurse O’Brien with a show of diplomacy toward the other, who was her senior professionally as well as age-wise by almost two decades. “But I also say ‘flesh and blood’ is ‘flesh and blood,’ and giving it all to Mary Gerarrd, who has been very kind to Mrs. Welman, but isn’t, well, ‘flesh and blood’ at all, well, it just doesn’t sit right with me. Miss Elinor is her niece, and Master Roddy…”
“Mister Roddy is the nephew of the late Mister Welman, and not, as you call it ‘flesh and blood’ at all,” pointed out Nurse Hopkins, for whom correcting a younger nurse was as easy as breathing.
“True,” admitted Nurse Hopkins, who attempted to hide her blush in her cup. She really shouldn’t have mentioned Master Roddy in front of Nurse Hopkins who didn’t miss anything, even when it wasn’t mentioned to her.
“Mary’s a lovely creature,” continued Nurse Hopkins, “and that home life of hers, well, it isn’t what any of us would want, is it? That father.” She gave a harrumph which said all she wanted to say on the subject of Old Gerrard.
“No, no, of course not, but still…” Nurse O’Brien left the statement unfinished and took a sip of tea, then she changed the subject, steering clear of Master Roddy. “I suppose Mrs. Welman has made a will.”
“Of course, she has,” said Nurse Hopkins. “She has got a solicitor, doesn’t she? You can bet she’s got it all laid out, how it’s all going to go, down to the last penny. Of course, she’s probably changed her mind a lot about it over the years, I mean, in the years since Mister Welman died, God rest his soul.” Nurse Hopkins took a sip of tea and picked up her earlier thought. “Yes, she’s probably changed her mind, that’s her prerogative, of course.”
Nurse O’Brien gave a nod. There was that word again. She didn’t know what it meant but she forbore to ask for clarification. Part of her mind, it must be confessed, was still on Master Roddy as Nurse Hopkins, bless her, nattered on.
“…why I had a rich old lady patient once who had her solicitor over every week to make changes to her will. We used to call him, the solicitor, I mean, ‘Sunday Roast’ or ‘Milk Man’ because he was just as regular. If I had a shilling for every document I had to witness, every time I heard ‘sign right here, Nurse,’ well…”
Nurse O’Brien was brought out of her reverie by a stray thought. “Have you witnessed a will for Mrs. Welman?”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
“Neither have I.”
“Well, maybe she hasn’t changed her mind at all. That’s her prerogative.”
There was that word again. Nurse O’Brien skirted around it gingerly as if it were a patch of shattered glass on the pavement. “Yes, yes, but I think I read somewhere, it was a ghoulish story, in fact, that a person can only witness a will if they aren’t benefiting from it. That is, if they don’t get anything in the will.”
“Yes, yes, I believe that’s true.”
“So the fact that you and I have never witness Mrs. Welman’s will may mean…”
They exchanged glances. Then Nurse Hopkins spoke.
“Well, it would certainly be nice to be thought of…”
Nurse O’Brien nodded. “But of course, we mightn’t, I mean, we’re probably not…”
“Mrs. Welman is free to do as she sees fit, naturally. If she wants to reward those who’ve cared for her…”
“Like Doctor Lord,” added Nurse O’Brien.
“Like Doctor Lord,” agreed Nurse Hopkins. “Or you. Or me, well…”
“It’s her prerogative,” said Nurse O’Brien.
“Exactly.”
Nurse O’Brien smiled into her cup, proud of herself for using the new word properly, and a little, just a little, mind you, hopeful at what might, or might not, probably wasn’t, really, be coming her way.
Title: Bellicose
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Length: 400
Rating: Gen
Summary: Watson reflects on Holmes' composure as a client cycles through the five stages of grief.
One of the many things I admired about Sherlock Holmes was his ability to maintain calm in the most alarming of circumstances. Physical danger is one thing, but confrontations of the human variety can be much more daunting. As a medical man, I’ve had my share of the latter, and so I am in a position to say just how difficult that kind of composure is, especially in the throes of another’s volatile storm of emotions.
I have one afternoon in mind.
We were in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street and Holmes had presented his finding to the client, explaining the logical manner in which he’d drawn his conclusions.
The client was thoroughly shocked, stunned, in fact, into silence. I sympathised. After all, beloved nieces were beloved nieces, and no one was pleased at learning they’d accepted a serpent into the bosom of their home.
The client’s first reaction, when the faculty of speak returned to him, was to refuse to accept what Holmes was saying as truth. He denied everything. Holmes repeated, in a most careful manner, his original speech, adding some extra, rather telling details.
This did not have the effect of convincing the client. Unfortunately, it only had the effect of enraging him.
I got to my feet when the client jumped to his. I moved closer to the arm of Holmes’s chair just in case the client’s bellicose statements turned to belligerent fists.
But Holmes remained unflappable. He neither flushed nor trembled nor, as was my case, took a defensive stance.
“I understand your perturbation, Lord Clement. It’s very upsetting news, and not what you were expecting at all. Nevertheless, I kindly advise you to consider the difference between message and the messenger.”
The client silenced his tongue and kept his clenched fists by his side.
What happened next was a volley of questions and answers. Holmes countered each of the client’s inquiries with sound logic and the facts of the case. He continued to do so even when they veered into the hopelessly nonsensical.
Finally, the client collapsed on the sofa in great sobs, head in hands, shoulders shaking.
Eventually, we packed him into his brougham with two large snifters of our best brandy down his gullet and one of my handkerchiefs, irredeemably soiled, clasped in his hands.
“You are remarkable, Holmes.”
Holmes replied by taking up his violin and launching into some Mendelssohn.
Fandom: Good Omens
Length: 400
Rating: Gen
Notes: Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: Crowley invites Aziraphale to a Hallowe'en carnival.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Aziraphale, what are you so uncertain about? I am not asking you to commit the seven deadly sins.”
“You know that’s not possible. Ethereal, remember?”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’m just asking if you want to go to a Hallowe’en carnival with me.”
“Why do you want to go?”
“Oh, you know. Work. Plenty of souls to corrupt between the apple cider and the hayride.”
“Just as many chances to provoke good, too,” said Aziraphale with a thoughtful hum.
“There you go,’” said Crowley encouragingly. “But there’s one catch. Fancy dress is a must. At least a mask.”
“I don’t suppose I can go as an…” Aziraphale shrugged his shoulders in an almost-wing-extending gesture.
“Not very sporting of you, but I don’t see why not.”
“Are you going as a demon?”
“No. David Bowie.”
Aziraphale frowned. “But wasn’t he…?”
“Both sides,” said Crowley quickly. “Claimed by both sides. The 1970’s were a confusing time for everyone.”
“True.”
Crowley hesitated, then his eyes flashed and he said, “There’s a pumpkin patch at this carnival.”
“Really?!” Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose sharply, and his gaze instantly flitting around the bookshop at a sundry antique tables any one of which would, it must be admitted, serve nicely as a pedestal for a glowing Jack-O-Lantern. Images of seasonally themed décor sprung in Aziraphale’s imagination, and he got a bit carried away before regaining his wherewithal, shooting Crowley a wry glance.
“You are an apt tempter, Anthony J. Crowley.”
Crowley grinned. “Glad you finally noticed. So, what say you? Pig races? Deep fried everything on a stick?”
“But the costume, Crowley!” protested Aziraphale.
“I’m going as David Bowie. You could go as another iconic figure of popular music.”
Aziraphale scrunched up his nose. “Bebop?”
Crowley sighed. “No. How ‘bout a knight?”
Aziraphale looked tentatively hopeful. “A singing knight.”
“Dancing, too.” Crowley tapped the tips of his fingers to his lips. “Sunglasses, feather boa…”
---
“Oh my god! It’s Sir Elton John and Ziggy Stardust! God, I need to post this to my Instagram! Huh? What in the bloody hell just happened to my phone?!”
Crowley threw an arm across Aziraphale’s shoulders and passed by with a grin. “See? So many opportunities.”
Aziraphale swallowed the last bit of mini mince pie and snapped his fingers. “And good,” he retorted. “Shall we get lost in the corn maze?”
Crowley howled. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Title: Prerogative
Fandom: Agatha Christie
Length: 700
Rating: Gen
Notes: So this is based on Sad Cypress by Agatha Christie, which is an Hercule Poirot mystery, but I am only on Chapter 5 and Hercule Poirot hasn't shown up yet.
Summary: Nurse O'Brien and Nurse Hopkins discuss their patient and her will.
“It is the prerogative of a wealthy old ladies to do what they wish with their fortunes whilst they’re living and dispose of it as they wish after they’re gone,” announced Nurse Hopkins to her companion and the two cups of strong tea between them.
“It is,” said Nurse O’Brien with a show of diplomacy toward the other, who was her senior professionally as well as age-wise by almost two decades. “But I also say ‘flesh and blood’ is ‘flesh and blood,’ and giving it all to Mary Gerarrd, who has been very kind to Mrs. Welman, but isn’t, well, ‘flesh and blood’ at all, well, it just doesn’t sit right with me. Miss Elinor is her niece, and Master Roddy…”
“Mister Roddy is the nephew of the late Mister Welman, and not, as you call it ‘flesh and blood’ at all,” pointed out Nurse Hopkins, for whom correcting a younger nurse was as easy as breathing.
“True,” admitted Nurse Hopkins, who attempted to hide her blush in her cup. She really shouldn’t have mentioned Master Roddy in front of Nurse Hopkins who didn’t miss anything, even when it wasn’t mentioned to her.
“Mary’s a lovely creature,” continued Nurse Hopkins, “and that home life of hers, well, it isn’t what any of us would want, is it? That father.” She gave a harrumph which said all she wanted to say on the subject of Old Gerrard.
“No, no, of course not, but still…” Nurse O’Brien left the statement unfinished and took a sip of tea, then she changed the subject, steering clear of Master Roddy. “I suppose Mrs. Welman has made a will.”
“Of course, she has,” said Nurse Hopkins. “She has got a solicitor, doesn’t she? You can bet she’s got it all laid out, how it’s all going to go, down to the last penny. Of course, she’s probably changed her mind a lot about it over the years, I mean, in the years since Mister Welman died, God rest his soul.” Nurse Hopkins took a sip of tea and picked up her earlier thought. “Yes, she’s probably changed her mind, that’s her prerogative, of course.”
Nurse O’Brien gave a nod. There was that word again. She didn’t know what it meant but she forbore to ask for clarification. Part of her mind, it must be confessed, was still on Master Roddy as Nurse Hopkins, bless her, nattered on.
“…why I had a rich old lady patient once who had her solicitor over every week to make changes to her will. We used to call him, the solicitor, I mean, ‘Sunday Roast’ or ‘Milk Man’ because he was just as regular. If I had a shilling for every document I had to witness, every time I heard ‘sign right here, Nurse,’ well…”
Nurse O’Brien was brought out of her reverie by a stray thought. “Have you witnessed a will for Mrs. Welman?”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
“Neither have I.”
“Well, maybe she hasn’t changed her mind at all. That’s her prerogative.”
There was that word again. Nurse O’Brien skirted around it gingerly as if it were a patch of shattered glass on the pavement. “Yes, yes, but I think I read somewhere, it was a ghoulish story, in fact, that a person can only witness a will if they aren’t benefiting from it. That is, if they don’t get anything in the will.”
“Yes, yes, I believe that’s true.”
“So the fact that you and I have never witness Mrs. Welman’s will may mean…”
They exchanged glances. Then Nurse Hopkins spoke.
“Well, it would certainly be nice to be thought of…”
Nurse O’Brien nodded. “But of course, we mightn’t, I mean, we’re probably not…”
“Mrs. Welman is free to do as she sees fit, naturally. If she wants to reward those who’ve cared for her…”
“Like Doctor Lord,” added Nurse O’Brien.
“Like Doctor Lord,” agreed Nurse Hopkins. “Or you. Or me, well…”
“It’s her prerogative,” said Nurse O’Brien.
“Exactly.”
Nurse O’Brien smiled into her cup, proud of herself for using the new word properly, and a little, just a little, mind you, hopeful at what might, or might not, probably wasn’t, really, be coming her way.
Title: Bellicose
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Length: 400
Rating: Gen
Summary: Watson reflects on Holmes' composure as a client cycles through the five stages of grief.
One of the many things I admired about Sherlock Holmes was his ability to maintain calm in the most alarming of circumstances. Physical danger is one thing, but confrontations of the human variety can be much more daunting. As a medical man, I’ve had my share of the latter, and so I am in a position to say just how difficult that kind of composure is, especially in the throes of another’s volatile storm of emotions.
I have one afternoon in mind.
We were in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street and Holmes had presented his finding to the client, explaining the logical manner in which he’d drawn his conclusions.
The client was thoroughly shocked, stunned, in fact, into silence. I sympathised. After all, beloved nieces were beloved nieces, and no one was pleased at learning they’d accepted a serpent into the bosom of their home.
The client’s first reaction, when the faculty of speak returned to him, was to refuse to accept what Holmes was saying as truth. He denied everything. Holmes repeated, in a most careful manner, his original speech, adding some extra, rather telling details.
This did not have the effect of convincing the client. Unfortunately, it only had the effect of enraging him.
I got to my feet when the client jumped to his. I moved closer to the arm of Holmes’s chair just in case the client’s bellicose statements turned to belligerent fists.
But Holmes remained unflappable. He neither flushed nor trembled nor, as was my case, took a defensive stance.
“I understand your perturbation, Lord Clement. It’s very upsetting news, and not what you were expecting at all. Nevertheless, I kindly advise you to consider the difference between message and the messenger.”
The client silenced his tongue and kept his clenched fists by his side.
What happened next was a volley of questions and answers. Holmes countered each of the client’s inquiries with sound logic and the facts of the case. He continued to do so even when they veered into the hopelessly nonsensical.
Finally, the client collapsed on the sofa in great sobs, head in hands, shoulders shaking.
Eventually, we packed him into his brougham with two large snifters of our best brandy down his gullet and one of my handkerchiefs, irredeemably soiled, clasped in his hands.
“You are remarkable, Holmes.”
Holmes replied by taking up his violin and launching into some Mendelssohn.
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