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So, that first line game was fun. And I learned that I *can*, actually, write really short things (as opposed to the moderately short things I usually write). Also, I might have learned that am something of a fandom whore, if I didn't know it already.
Here are first line drabble things I've written...
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penknife.
Erik looked out over the sea of tents. A cluster of tattered old things that had been borrowed from Charles, and one giant silver monstrosity, which appeared to be more suited for a scientific mission to Mars than one night at a commercial campsite. Erik suspected that Warren actually did believe he was ‘roughing it’ with the rest of them, and that was why he had only installed one generator and partial indoor plumbing.
All the children were inside the silver tent, of course. Behind their snickering Erik could hear soft, unfamiliar voices and the tell-tale electrostatic signals of a television. Someone was using a microwave.
Erik frowned, and the generator gave out. The tent went suddenly dark, and then the entire shape of the structure warped. Flashlights clicked on, casting shadows of the children against what he assumed was fabric. Erik could see Hank scrabbling to keep his grip on the smooth ceiling.
Hank fell, knocking one of the figures over. There was a girlish squeal, and then the large tent rose several shaky inches. It crashed back to the ground and the students scrambled out. Jean was grinning.
Erik sighed and looked to Charles. “This was never a good idea,” he said.
Forlovelyzelda
As he drove towards Soho, Crowley didn't bother to avoid the glassy eyed pedestrians who idiotically wandered into the street. He wasn’t willing to deal with the current situation for even an extra moment, and besides, that’s what the street cleaners were for.
Aziraphale was standing outside his bookshop when Crowley arrived, staring bewilderedly at the form of a young girl limping down the sidewalk. He looked suspiciously at Crowley.
Before Aziraphale could ask, Crowley said, “Adam Young. Again. His class went on a field-trip.”
“Ah,” said Aziraphale. And then, “No, but I don’t see-“
Crowley thrust a pamphlet in front his face, and Aziraphale looked at it. “Oh, dear,” he said, with feeling.
Come visit Britain’s premier wax museum! the advertisement read. Statues so real looking, you’ll believe they’re alive!
Forlouiselux.
The water, when it came, was cold. Harry didn’t care; he stepped into the shower and rubbed cheap soap over his skin, through his hair, against his scar. Scars. The pipes were old and neglected, and the red that circled down the drain was as easily rust as anything else.
When he emerged from the bathroom, Hermione glanced at him once and then quickly looked away. “How - how are you?” she said.
There were a million answers to that question, all of them lies. Harry chose the easiest one.
“Clean.”
Fordaegaer.
And there was war in Heaven. Angel against angel, silver blood, and broken things that one day would be feathers. Flaming swords and nothing permanent in falling, unless it’s in with the losing side.
And there was war in Eden. A private, brotherly affair; the story of a jealous man and a jealous God. Humans break just as easily as angels, and there’s nothing that cares enough to fix them, and they don’t yet understand.
They will. They will understand by way of long, hungry sieges and battle wounds that reach festering tendrils through their insides. Humans were given that last darkness as a gift, and they will understand enough to be afraid.
War slides a finger down her sword. It was bequeathed to her by humanity, but she recognizes it of old. She listens to a popular, powerful ruler who speaks now of peace across all the world of men, and War isn’t worried at all.
She was there first.
Formusesfool.
He has many names, none of them his.
It’s easier, to be a god and hear the truth in every word the people called for, to own every name made real by belief.
But Pharamond faded long ago, unworshiped and forgotten. Farrell feels false and ill-fitting on him, like an untailored suit he hasn’t yet broken in. And there are the thousand other titles he’s used over the years, carrying him through other parts of the world, and the same parts of other worlds.
Names have become mere words to him now, and he is old enough to remember when even mere words had power.
And, if that isn't enough, I playedlouiselux's game and put together some ficlets made *entirely* of first lines.
Fromlouiselux's lines.
They lay sprawled on Crowley's expensive cushions, a jar of wine between them. Crowley was staring at him open-mouthed. 'What in God's, excuse my French, name have you got there?'
Aziraphale knew that his underpants were morally irreproachable, even if Crowley was looking at them askance. '--and I just thought it'd be nice if you kissed me.'
Gasps filled the darkened room. Aziraphale loved to give. His hands touched skin every day.
Sleeping wasn't the only human habit Crowley had picked up over the years.
'Crowley? Are you in?'
Fromdaegaer's lines.
Private Fred Carr squinted, looking into the shimmering heat towards the hills. In this part of the world it’s very hot in summer.
The men crowded onto the train shifted back and forth with every uneven movement of the carriages, keeping their kit bags close at hand.
Clacketa-clacketa-clacketa.
The train stations were all closed, the last trains long gone. The royal court in the city of Susa was cultured and exquisitely civilised. The dour man who had collected them from the station helped Gedge unload the cases and stack them on the steps.
The early morning was crisp and clear, the snow lying unbroken as the sun rose into a pale blue sky. "That'll be all," Takatori said, turning his back and dismissing them from thought.
Here are first line drabble things I've written...
For
penknife.Erik looked out over the sea of tents. A cluster of tattered old things that had been borrowed from Charles, and one giant silver monstrosity, which appeared to be more suited for a scientific mission to Mars than one night at a commercial campsite. Erik suspected that Warren actually did believe he was ‘roughing it’ with the rest of them, and that was why he had only installed one generator and partial indoor plumbing.
All the children were inside the silver tent, of course. Behind their snickering Erik could hear soft, unfamiliar voices and the tell-tale electrostatic signals of a television. Someone was using a microwave.
Erik frowned, and the generator gave out. The tent went suddenly dark, and then the entire shape of the structure warped. Flashlights clicked on, casting shadows of the children against what he assumed was fabric. Erik could see Hank scrabbling to keep his grip on the smooth ceiling.
Hank fell, knocking one of the figures over. There was a girlish squeal, and then the large tent rose several shaky inches. It crashed back to the ground and the students scrambled out. Jean was grinning.
Erik sighed and looked to Charles. “This was never a good idea,” he said.
For
lovelyzeldaAs he drove towards Soho, Crowley didn't bother to avoid the glassy eyed pedestrians who idiotically wandered into the street. He wasn’t willing to deal with the current situation for even an extra moment, and besides, that’s what the street cleaners were for.
Aziraphale was standing outside his bookshop when Crowley arrived, staring bewilderedly at the form of a young girl limping down the sidewalk. He looked suspiciously at Crowley.
Before Aziraphale could ask, Crowley said, “Adam Young. Again. His class went on a field-trip.”
“Ah,” said Aziraphale. And then, “No, but I don’t see-“
Crowley thrust a pamphlet in front his face, and Aziraphale looked at it. “Oh, dear,” he said, with feeling.
Come visit Britain’s premier wax museum! the advertisement read. Statues so real looking, you’ll believe they’re alive!
For
louiselux.The water, when it came, was cold. Harry didn’t care; he stepped into the shower and rubbed cheap soap over his skin, through his hair, against his scar. Scars. The pipes were old and neglected, and the red that circled down the drain was as easily rust as anything else.
When he emerged from the bathroom, Hermione glanced at him once and then quickly looked away. “How - how are you?” she said.
There were a million answers to that question, all of them lies. Harry chose the easiest one.
“Clean.”
For
daegaer.And there was war in Heaven. Angel against angel, silver blood, and broken things that one day would be feathers. Flaming swords and nothing permanent in falling, unless it’s in with the losing side.
And there was war in Eden. A private, brotherly affair; the story of a jealous man and a jealous God. Humans break just as easily as angels, and there’s nothing that cares enough to fix them, and they don’t yet understand.
They will. They will understand by way of long, hungry sieges and battle wounds that reach festering tendrils through their insides. Humans were given that last darkness as a gift, and they will understand enough to be afraid.
War slides a finger down her sword. It was bequeathed to her by humanity, but she recognizes it of old. She listens to a popular, powerful ruler who speaks now of peace across all the world of men, and War isn’t worried at all.
She was there first.
For
musesfool.He has many names, none of them his.
It’s easier, to be a god and hear the truth in every word the people called for, to own every name made real by belief.
But Pharamond faded long ago, unworshiped and forgotten. Farrell feels false and ill-fitting on him, like an untailored suit he hasn’t yet broken in. And there are the thousand other titles he’s used over the years, carrying him through other parts of the world, and the same parts of other worlds.
Names have become mere words to him now, and he is old enough to remember when even mere words had power.
And, if that isn't enough, I played
louiselux's game and put together some ficlets made *entirely* of first lines.From
louiselux's lines.They lay sprawled on Crowley's expensive cushions, a jar of wine between them. Crowley was staring at him open-mouthed. 'What in God's, excuse my French, name have you got there?'
Aziraphale knew that his underpants were morally irreproachable, even if Crowley was looking at them askance. '--and I just thought it'd be nice if you kissed me.'
Gasps filled the darkened room. Aziraphale loved to give. His hands touched skin every day.
Sleeping wasn't the only human habit Crowley had picked up over the years.
'Crowley? Are you in?'
From
daegaer's lines.Private Fred Carr squinted, looking into the shimmering heat towards the hills. In this part of the world it’s very hot in summer.
The men crowded onto the train shifted back and forth with every uneven movement of the carriages, keeping their kit bags close at hand.
Clacketa-clacketa-clacketa.
The train stations were all closed, the last trains long gone. The royal court in the city of Susa was cultured and exquisitely civilised. The dour man who had collected them from the station helped Gedge unload the cases and stack them on the steps.
The early morning was crisp and clear, the snow lying unbroken as the sun rose into a pale blue sky. "That'll be all," Takatori said, turning his back and dismissing them from thought.
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From:
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Brain: *breaks*
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I know.
(You'd think he'd *notice*.)
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It's interesting if you think about it; for all that Death seemed the most permanent of the Horsepersons, War (or at least war) was around before him.