drabbles, again
May. 8th, 2005 10:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
magisteraMy drabbles from the late session of Queerditch this week. The theme was "Sins." I think I'm becoming addicted to the writing under pressure thing.
Remus/Sirius: Confess your sins and ask for forgiveness
And it's too late now, isn't it? Even if he would, even if you could. There was always time to talk it out – next week, next year, after the war is over – and then there wasn't any more time and it was sort of irrelevant, wasn't it? because you were right after all.
There isn't any reassurance in the thought that it wasn't someone else. You'd trade a thousand venial transgressions for this single, mortal betrayal. Because then there could have been confession, or discovery; there could have been shouting and dramatic gestures and forgiveness, or a ragged end filled with awkward meetings and polite nods instead of this sudden, brutal, speechless finish.
Regulus/Squid: Sins of the flesh
Maybe it was curiosity that brought him out here; he wonders what he's doing as he strips off his clothes and takes those first few steps into the cold water. He's heard the stories; he never quite believed them, but all the same, here he is.
The water is cold, cold as it laps past his ankles, up his calves; he shivers and steels himself against the chill as he wades in deeper. By the time it reaches his waist he's shaking, teeth chattering, but a tentacle is sliding up his left leg and the stories are true. It takes most of his courage to plunge deeper into the water, to accept the caresses that are exploring his limbs, sliding higher to make him gasp as rubbery arms curl around and over and into him, but he's damned if he'll stop now, before he gets what he wanted.
It isn't until a fleshy appendage curls around his throat that he begins to think that he may have made a mistake.
Luna/Moaning Myrtle: Envy
None of them understand. None of them know what it's like, to be dead and doomed to spend eternity in a bloody bathroom; to watch those living faces come and go, knowing that they'll only be here for a few minutes at most, to know that they are capable of leaving, of living, of seeing something besides pipes and water and leaky old faucets.
It's almost as though they're mocking her. Going on with their lives while she has to stay here, damply jealous of the ease with which they breeze in and out of the doors.
Except for her, with her wide eyes and her rosebud lips. Lips that always have a few words for the poor, lonely ghost (not my fault I'm dead, is it?) – lips that seem to say without moving, there might be a way, you might not have to be alone. After they've all left, she thinks about meeting that perpetually-surprised gaze, taking those hands in her own, sadly insubstantial ones, and telling all the stories she isn't supposed to know until she feels like she's a part of everything again.
Remus/Hermione: keep it quiet
It's hard, not telling anyone. Sometimes she feels like she might burst from it; to feel this joy and be unable to tell anyone what it was that made her smile at a knapsack, or an empty box of chocolates on the counter.
She understands his reasons, although sometimes she thinks he only loves secrets for themselves, and not for whatever protection they provide. She knows he worries about how people would react; but honestly, they were only peripheral figures on the tapestry of the war, and the public eye isn't trained as sharply on their lives as he imagines.
They talk about it sometimes, late at night, curled around each other in sweaty satiation; she is persuasive, but he is adamant – no one can know. So she sighs, and pulls on her robes, and leaves before the paperboy flies by to toss the Prophet on his doorstep (they won't be front-page news today either, because no one cares, no matter what he thinks), and Apparates home to sleep a few more hours in her own bed.
-----
So my dad sold the house like...two days after it went on the market. Seriously. For more than he was asking for, too. *Feels less guilty about moving out* The sale closes in a week or so, and he says we're going to meet up in Vegas and celebrate his real estate mojo.
I still haven't finished unpacking, three weeks after I moved in here.
Also: OMG FERRETS! I've been on a ferret shopping spree lately. I ordered a playpen with a detachable mat so they can come out and play whenever I'm home without me worrying about the carpets and/or what they're getting into. Then today, I bought a couple of these terrycloth sacks, with drawstrings and mesh windows, for sticking wet ferrets in for their brief period of insanity after a bath. Tomorrow we'll see if they like splashing around in the tub :)
Remus/Sirius: Confess your sins and ask for forgiveness
And it's too late now, isn't it? Even if he would, even if you could. There was always time to talk it out – next week, next year, after the war is over – and then there wasn't any more time and it was sort of irrelevant, wasn't it? because you were right after all.
There isn't any reassurance in the thought that it wasn't someone else. You'd trade a thousand venial transgressions for this single, mortal betrayal. Because then there could have been confession, or discovery; there could have been shouting and dramatic gestures and forgiveness, or a ragged end filled with awkward meetings and polite nods instead of this sudden, brutal, speechless finish.
Regulus/Squid: Sins of the flesh
Maybe it was curiosity that brought him out here; he wonders what he's doing as he strips off his clothes and takes those first few steps into the cold water. He's heard the stories; he never quite believed them, but all the same, here he is.
The water is cold, cold as it laps past his ankles, up his calves; he shivers and steels himself against the chill as he wades in deeper. By the time it reaches his waist he's shaking, teeth chattering, but a tentacle is sliding up his left leg and the stories are true. It takes most of his courage to plunge deeper into the water, to accept the caresses that are exploring his limbs, sliding higher to make him gasp as rubbery arms curl around and over and into him, but he's damned if he'll stop now, before he gets what he wanted.
It isn't until a fleshy appendage curls around his throat that he begins to think that he may have made a mistake.
Luna/Moaning Myrtle: Envy
None of them understand. None of them know what it's like, to be dead and doomed to spend eternity in a bloody bathroom; to watch those living faces come and go, knowing that they'll only be here for a few minutes at most, to know that they are capable of leaving, of living, of seeing something besides pipes and water and leaky old faucets.
It's almost as though they're mocking her. Going on with their lives while she has to stay here, damply jealous of the ease with which they breeze in and out of the doors.
Except for her, with her wide eyes and her rosebud lips. Lips that always have a few words for the poor, lonely ghost (not my fault I'm dead, is it?) – lips that seem to say without moving, there might be a way, you might not have to be alone. After they've all left, she thinks about meeting that perpetually-surprised gaze, taking those hands in her own, sadly insubstantial ones, and telling all the stories she isn't supposed to know until she feels like she's a part of everything again.
Remus/Hermione: keep it quiet
It's hard, not telling anyone. Sometimes she feels like she might burst from it; to feel this joy and be unable to tell anyone what it was that made her smile at a knapsack, or an empty box of chocolates on the counter.
She understands his reasons, although sometimes she thinks he only loves secrets for themselves, and not for whatever protection they provide. She knows he worries about how people would react; but honestly, they were only peripheral figures on the tapestry of the war, and the public eye isn't trained as sharply on their lives as he imagines.
They talk about it sometimes, late at night, curled around each other in sweaty satiation; she is persuasive, but he is adamant – no one can know. So she sighs, and pulls on her robes, and leaves before the paperboy flies by to toss the Prophet on his doorstep (they won't be front-page news today either, because no one cares, no matter what he thinks), and Apparates home to sleep a few more hours in her own bed.
-----
So my dad sold the house like...two days after it went on the market. Seriously. For more than he was asking for, too. *Feels less guilty about moving out* The sale closes in a week or so, and he says we're going to meet up in Vegas and celebrate his real estate mojo.
I still haven't finished unpacking, three weeks after I moved in here.
Also: OMG FERRETS! I've been on a ferret shopping spree lately. I ordered a playpen with a detachable mat so they can come out and play whenever I'm home without me worrying about the carpets and/or what they're getting into. Then today, I bought a couple of these terrycloth sacks, with drawstrings and mesh windows, for sticking wet ferrets in for their brief period of insanity after a bath. Tomorrow we'll see if they like splashing around in the tub :)
