What a challenge! JunoMagic, araneltook, Earengil, Elvenesse, Narwen Almiriel, Gwynnyd, Arandil, and I got together on March 17th, 2005, and we drabbled together for about 3 hours. The reason was that March 17, adjust to M-e calander, is March 25: the day the One Ring was destroyed.
We took turns picking 4 words (either from the dictionary or an online random word generator), and used those words in drabbles. I would guess that each round was perhaps 25 minutes: we usually drabbled to finish in 20 or so.
It was a complete party, and I just loved it!
We took turns picking 4 words (either from the dictionary or an online random word generator), and used those words in drabbles. I would guess that each round was perhaps 25 minutes: we usually drabbled to finish in 20 or so.
It was a complete party, and I just loved it!
The caravan’s frayed remnants slunk into Umbar like a wounded dog, trailing dust and blood and shame. They had marched out of the city chanting war-songs in myriad tongues. Their swaggers and struts had been almost comical to watch.
The holy diviner proclaimed our victory, she thought, listening as young women bewailed husbands who would not return. But she would not wail: she had given two husbands to the harsh sands before coming to live in the city, aside from three children.
Ragged scarlet banners muddled before her old eyes, twisting and warping until all she could see was blood.
Biased Bedtime Stories - injury, respect, put, praise
"And the great King Elrond said, ‘You have done me great injury, spider-spawn, and now I must put you in your place.’"
"Where were we when this happened? You would never—"
"Hush up, Arwen! It’s my turn! So the great King sent his praised Captains, Elrohir the Orc-Slayer and Elladan the Goblin-Crusher, forth from his realm to give the ugly Prince of Mirkwood his doom. On reaching Moria, Captain Elrohir said, ‘How fitting: a spider fed to the dwarves.’ And—"
"Elrohir! Your sister is hearing this!"
"Sorry, Nana. How about Orcs?"
Celebrían groaned. Will they ever respect Mirkwood?
Everything’s Wrong - flare, shrug, figment, portion
Sam struck the flint and tinder again, producing a tiny flare which promptly died in the wind. Frowning, he tried four successive times, ultimately failing to light the tiny portion of wood.
Nothing had gone right that day. Boromir looked tense enough to shatter, Aragorn was withdrawn; Legolas and Gimli were arguing (again); Merry and Pippin were bickering; Frodo was brooding…
And he couldn’t light the FIRE!
SNAP!
Instantly suspicious, he peered into the gathering gloom. He fancied he saw a creeping figure, skulking through the shadows near the boats. Sam shrugged.
A figment of your imagination, Samwise. Nothing more.
The 25th of March - gathering, skirt, bitters, mother
(Extra-special challenge: work in "alcohol" for St. Patrick's Day and "new year" for March 25th. Features characters borrowed from Aeneid.)
During the gathering at their chosen tavern, Boromir observed his men.
The men joked that old Amlaith (who now sipped at a brew silently) wouldn’t smile for his mother. Red-haired Ragnor sat with a barmaid beside him, whispering in her ear and fingering her skirt.
But there were empty spaces. Heldar, who wouldn’t see his rosy-cheeked wife again. Baran, who had barely sprouted a beard.
The best comes with the bitters, or so they say. Taking a long look at the crowded, laughing, living tavern, Boromir drained his ale.
To a new year. Remember the dead, but still keep living.