Drabble tree?

[kahvi.livejournal.com]

I had so much fun writing that drabble yesterday, that I thought I'd suggest a drabble tree. For those who've never participated in one before, here's how it works:

Below the cut is a drabble (100 words exactly). Anyone who wants to participate replies to this post with another drabble containing one of the sentences or phrases from the original drabble. The subject line should be the words you took. The next person should continue the trend, stealing a sentence or phrase and beginning their own.

Any particular drabble can be drawn from as many times as you want. If you don't feel like posting 100 words exactly, that's OK. Near-drabbles of approximately 100 words are fine too. It's about having fun, not exact definitions. ;)

Still confused? Here's one we did earlier!



Why hadn't they thought of this before? Holly controlled all of Rimmer's senses; turning off his hearing was 'easy-peasy', as she put it.

Now they sat in their quarters; Lister working his way through The Best Of Rasta Billy Skank from memory. He thrilled at the feel of strings beneath his fingers; the twangy sound of each chord. Then he noticed Rimmer.

The hologram sat, ogling Lister's moving fingers, his face flushed, his eyes wider than his nostrils. For some reason, he was crossing his legs.

"Holly, turn it on again," Rimmer mumbled. She did, and relief flooded his face.

Comments

Then he noticed Rimmer

[oz-the-bobble.livejournal.com]

Rimmer’s always known his place in the world – firmly at the bottom. He’s had enough experience of trying to get higher, and being spat back to where he came from. No one noticed, or cared. At least not to do anything other than laugh.

Then he noticed Rimmer.

Rimmer doesn’t feel worthy under Lister’s gaze. Lister looks at him like he’s perfect, like he can see inside his lightbee and know that everything inside is wonderful. When they’re lying in a bunk, after a nice session where everyone’s been satisfied, Lister traces Rimmer’s face with a single finger and stares into his eyes, looking as though all he’s ever wanted is lying there in a facsimile of life.