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Poetry drabble challenge

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Poetry drabble challenge - shamelessly stolen from another fic. Possible spoilers ahead. I did this half-asleep on my phone, with no concept of word count.

The rules

1: Pick five fandoms characters? books? Whatever seems good. List them in alphabetical order.

2: Visit this site to find your first RANDOM POEM OF POWER. Write down the 5th line (yes, even if it's an E.E. Cummings poem and you wind up with an apostrophe). Repeat five times and - you guessed it - list 'em in alphabetical order! (No cheating, mind! This is a challenge and it's always been about creativity.)

3: I think you can see where this is going. Write a very quick 50-word half-drabble for each fandom (try to do it all in one sitting - make your brain explode!), using the line from the poem as a prompt. You don't have to include it in the half-drabble - it's just inspiration.

4: Bravo! Have a cookie.


(And are softer than the leaves) - Thomas Carew, I Do Not Love Thee For That Fair

Every time he touches a book, it is like the first time. Letters neatly pressed into soft clay, dried into smooth stone. The whisper of scrolls, tightly rolled in neat rows. Crisp papyrus, crinkling at the scratch of reed. Thin parchment stretched smooth, pared of its former shape but—look closely, you can still count the follicles. And finally, the gentle rasp of cotton rag, textured deckle edge, freshly parted with a book knife like a ripe fruit. He sighs, and returns it to the shelf.


(and you wore eggs in your tunnel,) - Anne Sexton, Love Letter Written in a Burning Building

Slipping into a second skin, as easily as slipping from the first. She plays with clothing as with flesh, wearing a human shape as she pleases. Sometimes an outie, sometimes an innie. She doesn't have a navel, at first. It makes the belly softer, they think. Sees it on others, tries it on for size. Not everything shows on the outside, but she keeps them, like a secret.

Henry Goodsir

(of candy wrappers -- airborne. Everything.) - G. E. Patterson, Autobiographia

The trek between ships isn't far—they haven't moved. But the times when he looks at the sky (he always does, at least once), the bitterness screaming in his face, the snow whips up and up, everything moving in a blur. An infinity of motion, and he's completely lost, a seamless part of the frenzy of nature. He looks back at his feet as if only just realizing they're still part of him. He doesn't know where he stands. But he's starting to figure it out.

Jack Aubrey

(Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoed) - W. B. Yeats, The Ragged Wood

He takes a breath, and walks back into the parlor where people are gathering in loose groups, speaking cheerfully and laughing amongst each other. He beams his delight at finding Stephen in the crowd, gratefully accepting a glass of sillery from a passing silver tray. Stephen nods, a nearly imperceptible gesture, but Jack smokes it immediately and narrowly avoids asking him about the woman to whom he was just speaking. They stand in companionable silence, poised in just the right place to overhear their neighbors' conversation. Jack watches the bubbles rise in his glass and tries not to hear.

Stephen Maturin

(There's never the pang that was worth the tear,) - Dorothy Parker, Ultimatum

Jack had the unfortunate English tendency to make gratuitous emotional outbursts. Stephen did not. He drank his laudanum by the glass, he buried his heart and a silver band on a mountainside, he brought the wood for the girl's pyre himself. He carried a prodigious great diamond in the pocket of his breeches, he bought a ship with cash just in case, he wouldn't sail with any other captain. He would play a duet but would not, he insisted, play deus ex machina.