|
Drabbles,
in case you didn't know, are little fics precisely 100 words long, excluding the
title. The word is also used to mean any short fic, but there's no other word
for 100-word fics, so I use it exclusively in this meaning. Disclaimer: Pratchett's.
To Frighten Little Children They say that Sto Lat has a terrible Duchess, who hardly ever appears before the frightened people. They say she is hideous and terrible to look upon, and one look from her eye can wither a man. She is kin to Death himself, and if any child is known to misbehave or talk back at his mam and dad, the Duchess might show up and claim him, and take him to a place of torment especially for children, to teach them a lesson. They say, if the sorry child ever returns to his parents, he'll never be the same again.
Of Sheeps and Trashings
Marital Arts Goodie Whemper was not the strictest moralist among witches, but even so Magrat had to dig deep in the collection of her books to find the one she so desperately wanted in the weeks leading up to her marriage. She found it discreetly stored on the bottom of a chest. The cover was red leather, and the name written in modest letters, but leaving no doubt as to what it discussed. Magrat blushed just to hold it. Certainly she knew the mechanics of the ordeal ahead, knowing something about animal husbandry, but she suspected there was something more to it when it came to humans; even more than what Nanny Ogg had so far explained. Flowers, perhaps, or poetry. She opened the volume carefully, and sat there, cross-legged and absorbed, for the better part of an hour, sometimes exclaiming in surprise. When she closed it at last, her head was brimming with ideas, and she was worse prepared than ever. As it turned out, Magrat and Verence's wedding night ended up rather comical. It bears testament to their love that they ever got over the embarrassment, but that they did, and eventually even began to understood the things they'd read.
A City of Opportunity Blacktooth Hark spit in the Ankh, and watched with slight alarm as the gob settled on the mud, and began to sizzle as a green glowing sludge flowed past. It certainly was an interesting city – full of opportunity, as they said. He'd heard mixed reports – on one hand, they said peace was kept by some sort of super-guards – on the other, the city was supposed to be the den of thieves and murderers, such as himself. So far the guards hadn't impressed Blacktooth much. There was some kind of a two-cop comedy act stopping carts on Short Street, and another couple of guards – and a couple it indeed was – stood gazing into each other's eyes at the bridge right across from Blacktooth. He pointed his thumb at them and grunted derisively at his local companion. Young Mudworth's eyes widened at the indication. 'Come on,' he said and tugged on Blacktooth's sleeve. Confused, the pirate followed the pickpocket away down the street. 'What the fuck? Scared of cooties, Mud?' 'Don't be daft. She's a terror, and 'e's worse.' Mud shivered. 'e's got educational plans.' Blacktooth swore, spit, and decided he needed and educational plan just to figure this gods-damned city out.
The Pick of the Lot He'd always thought that no woman would go for the hard-drinking, uncouth failure of a guard captain he'd been only a few years ago. Sybil had. She liked him sober, though – and a good thing too, or he might never have had reason enough to sober up. She was formidable. He had been cowed, until he realized that she was on his side. She'd not coerce him, or surrender too easily, and was, in fact, perfect in every way. A Duke, even a married one, was someone plenty of women would go for. Now and then he'd be approached by bored wives or ladies of questionable reputation with hints or open suggestions. He'd treat them to a small speech or a curt denial, depending on time constraints. Lovely as they were, he found himself untempted. He'd go home to his formidable wife, instead – to be cherished irrespective of his status. He'd forget to listen to her, and she would blank out when he was talking shop. Their time would pass in a comfortable, meaningless murmur, and end in their bed, where her familiar contours would receive him, and he would sink into an affection he'd once never expected to find.
Conspiracy Theories The Bonk tower clacksmen knew that the messages between Lady Margolotta and the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork couldn't be simple Thud instructions. The vampires were spying on the dwarfs for Vetinari, was one theory. Since vampires and dwarfs rarely had anything to do with each other, this didn't seem likely, but new theories sprang forth to fill the vacancy. Eventually roughly half of the clacksmen believed Ankh-Morpork was spying on Uberwald, the rest, that Uberwald was spying on Ankh-Morpork. Both sides were upset when the new message from Margolotta came with the note: "What do you say, add a third board?"
In a Time of Ancient Gods Herrena eyed the object, turned it around in her hand, gave it an experimental toss, then slung it. She'd only thought of the possibility of it flying in a graceful curving line, slicing wounds on the surrounding trees, and returning to her hand. Ridiculous, of course - but she found her fingers closing around the lethal disc, catching it quite easily. She stared at it. Miranda the Warrior Flutist whistled. 'What on earth is that?' 'The merchant called it a catram,' said Herrena, and indeed, there were images of a cat and a ram etched along the sides. The wind seemed for a moment to blow from a different world. The adventuresses shivered and looked at each other for confirmation of what they both knew by an instinct every successful adventurer develops early - that magic was afoot. Herrena hung the catram on her hip and mounted her mare, helping Miranda up behind her. They galloped against the wind, and Herrena found herself thinking about Miranda, the warmth of her body through the leather and metal, and finding herself quite distracted from the magic. There was something right here; something was just as it should be. The story was pulling them in.
Flaunt It Cheapness was a style. It called for ruffles, for pink, red, purple, black, for lace, ribbons, silk. The right parts had to be tightened and loosened, and decency stop at a suggestion of skirt, easily flipped aside. When Rosie Palm sailed in the Patrician's Ball, a vision in seamstress couture, fans opened and fluttered around the room, ladies whispered and tittered, gentlemen turned around. 'An excellent design, my lady,' said the Guildmaster of Tailors as he lead her in the first dance. 'Thank you, sir.' Rosie smiled. 'Contrary to common belief, some of our girls DO know how to sew.'
Emblem One could dispense with clothes or wear any old sheet or sack-cloth one came upon; that was one of the upsides of being a vampire: whatever you wore (or if, indeed, you wore nothing), you would look stylish. So, if recorporating clothes was difficult, it was not necessary. However, some things were necessary. Sally set aside her black ribbon, slithered out of her clothes, and decorporated into a shrieking flock. As the cloud of bats flew out the window, darkening the sky and striking terror in the heart of the unlicenced element, one bat made sure to grab the ribbon.
Denial 'Denying your nature won't make them think of you as human,' remarked Angua, watching as Sally carefully attached the black ribbon on her breast-plate. The vampire gave her a quizzical look through the mirror. The Watch's female officers' dressing room only held the two of them, for now. 'But they might feel conflicted about staking me.' Angua snorted. 'In this city they don't even feel conflicted about staking humans!' Sally shrugged. 'Got me a job, anyway.' 'You hate this job!' 'Everybody does.' Sally smiled. 'But it suits me.' Angua bit into her a vegetarian sandwich, proving herself a great hypocrite.
Visiting Havelock Margolotta stole away to Ankh-Morpork much more often than she let anyone know; sometimes she thought she even managed it without Havelock finding out. When she did, and morning's first breath brought mists that choked the city, she would mingle in them, tasting the monster he loved so, and slither her way through the streets to the city's pinnacle. He hardly ever closed his window. She knew the hours he kept. She'd shift in the air above his bed and wonder if he was really asleep. Sometimes her mist laid a whisper caress on his cheek. Such was their love-making.
Not an Omen At All Lacrimosa laid out the turtle spread, remembering it was a holy symbol in many religions and that this meant nothing, as their ability to harm vampires lay in the vampire's own mind. Thinking all this made her angry with the effort. Her father thought this was a good way to train the eye, since Caroc cards were famously ripe with symbology. They were leaving for Lancre the next day. He thought they could use practice. She frowned at the deck, at its (clearly coincidental) message. The Ruler was crossed with The Witch, and followed by The Tower struck with lightning.
Preference for Fiction Maybe they have too much in common, Killer analyses, watching Slick shine with his crowd. Namely, that habit, that need, to build myths around oneself: hers, singular, his, plural. Hers works quite well. People are afraid of her, and if they're not, they'll learn to be. His work only for a while, but that's as long as he needs them, long enough to get away with the prize. It won't last long, she decides. They can't let their myths fail. And she wouldn't like the person she'd become, if she let him remake her – or, indeed, the other way around.
Breaking the Fiction Her body is white in the slanting moonlight, covered in the soft gleam of sweat, her lips dark and smudged. He, behind her, is a series of moving lights, most of him lost in darkness. Their breath is the same - hot and heavy, filling the world. It's a whisper at her ear, a sigh and two words, he left out the I, she later remembers, but that means nothing, she tells herself, and she moans aloud, the first time that night, and she does feel it then, the wall. Falling. Down. Love you. "Damn you!" Her myth is slipping away.
Tranquil Hours There were few troubles that stamps weren't the perfect answer to. Even discounting their many other uses, which Stanley could list up to 32, there was the pure pleasure of arranging them in rows, taking care not to bend a single edge, until, in the world of stamps at least, all was harmony. Stanley lost himself to the task for just a few more minutes, which somehow streched into half an hour. He still had some time before dawn. He'd clean up before then. Nobody needed to know about the unlicenced thief, or Stanley's little moment earlier on. Oh, stamps!
Fun and Thrills with Anatomy It was Soul Cake Tuesday, and whatever Susan's personal feelings on the holiday, all classes were expected to spend the first half of the day making jack of lanterns, bats and monsters out of papier mache and coloured paper. Susan resolved herself to it, but would not let the educational possibilities of the exercise go to waste. She bent over one student's work. "What is that, Helen?" "A bat!" "No, it isn't. The head suggests the Eptesicus fuscus, but the body is that of the Lasirus seminolus. Observe..." Werewolf physiology eventually carried them comfortably to the end of the lesson.
A Long Study Nobody knew all of the university; all one person could know were bits. If all the bits were put together, there was a possibility that, in the pool of knowledge, you'd find almost everything... at least the most frequented parts. A robe's hem now brushed dust that hadn't moved in fifty years. A thin line of light shone underneath a door. Inside the chamber, surrounded by piles of books, a little old wizard lay slumped over a parchment. A candle flickered on the table. Out of kindness, and because he was busy enough already, Death snuffed it before they left.
The Perils of Too Much Reading "Ook!" "As the Librarian says, the girl must have wandered in through L-Space
from some dimension where magic isn't as available as here..." "That
doesn't explain how she's managed to upset the entire thaumaturgic balance of
the university!" "Yes it does, Archchancellor, because clearly
this girl has some magical power in her own dimension, which means that in comparison
to the magically gifted in our magic-rich environment..." "She's
some kind of a thaumaturgic powerhouse?" "Exactly, sir." "Just one question. How do we unstick her from HEX's chicken wire
netting?" "Help!" Hermione squeaked. Ponder sighed. "That might take a while, sir."
Pieces of Agnes Agnes Nitt was the boss. Everybody agreed on that in the end, even the Perditas, although Princess Perdita didn't even pretend to like it. Evil Perdita, strangely enough, was the most compliant on this issue. She said she recognised the need for stability, which Agnes found unnerving. Maiden Agnes agreed with Princess Perdita, but, being wishy-washy, offered no resistance. Aunt Agnes and Granny Agnes were firm supporters, mainly because Agnes Nitt often agreed with them. In Agnes's head, every day was a congress, but very few others would know it. All of them were very good at playing Agnes Nitt.
Politics of Art All Shelley Wirth had wanted was to bring some joy to her fellow man. Well, that, and she felt she looked so good in black and white, and the make-up was soooo cool. There just was something about all-white faces. "You can't do this to a girl!" she cried. The guard flinched. It might have had some effect, had there not been a 'clerk' standing behind them. "You made your choice, girl, when you did 'the window' at Elm Street." As they hauled her up and turned her around, she saw the sign on the opposite wall: LEARN THE WORDS
A Very Long Engagement The boy had a runny nose, runny eyes, and what looked like runny hair drooping past his ears. He wasn't a bad sort, but that didn't make Tiffany hesitate to give her answer. "Oh." The boy looked disappointed. "Why not?" "Because I'm already engaged." "You're not! I mean, I'd have... Who?" "Oh, yes. To a tiny blue man. I'm set to marry him on the day a small bird has polished down a mountain with its beak." The boy stared. "His name is Rob Anybody Feegle," Tiffany added helpfully. "...You could've just said no," the boy mumbled, and stalked off.
No Coward's Words Havelock Vetinari dreams in puzzles, cases, challenges. Sometimes a dream will sneak up on him, turn him into a giant praying mantis in the middle of a meeting. The guild heads will look away, embarrassed for him, and often, a pair of mocking eyes will stare at him from the other end of the table, from under a watchman's helmet, while the walls begin to melt. In those cases, Vetinari will think, ah, a dream, and discover, in short time, how a mantis can perform the office of Patrician. And no eyes will look at him and see anything else.
|