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Goal: Pick a playlist. Stick it on shuffle. Write a drabble for a character in the time it takes for the song to play. (I let it play twice.) When the song stops, so do you.

Song : November- Max Richter
Character : Uriel

He didn’t expect something cataclysmic when he fell. He didn’t expect there to be a physical plummet, or a collision. The Angel knew all too well that in the grand scheme--one that is, indeed, grand--of the Judeo-Christian House of Seraphim, his fall would be a ripple in its serenity. He knew it would hurt. He had anticipated the pang, deep within his heart, that ached for his brothers, that there would be a cold sting when his Father’s holy fires were stripped away from him. He figured that it would be a dark fall, as he would no longer stand a bearer of light or be able to wield it.

He hadn’t expected the rain. It poured hideously that day, his first steps into the streets of London met with torrential storm. He was soaked in less than a minute, and for that he was glad he hadn’t worn his uniform. His station had always been a matter of pride, as had his title as Prince of the Presence. He’d likely be stripped of both now. The rain saturated everything with wet, matting his clothes to his skin, hair to his face, and streaking rivulets down his corporeal form. His wings weighed with all of that wet, feathers bristled and shrugged down. Hadn’t this once been cleansing?

He hadn’t expected the true fall, the plummet of his soul suddenly taking a dive out of the heavens. His whole body, whilst walking along the road, felt as though it had been hoisted a kilometer high and dropped. He tripped over his own shoe when the feeling took hold and his limbs threw him at the concrete. He scraped his nose and his right cheek. His feet had never left the ground, yet he knew in that moment, it had happened.

A form that typically ran hot in temperature felt remarkably like the day when mythology started disappearing from the shelves. For the second time in his entire existence, he shuddered.

No, there hadn’t been any miraculous event… but this… he could never expect.


Song : Ponds - Biggi Hilmar
Character : Elizabeth Swann

Elizabeth had many things she missed, that her heart ached for. No story she had ever read narrated the way a heart could so easily divide, how the sea provided no refuge from personal pains. Trifles. All of them. Yet she could not bring her mind to part with any such thoughts.

There were the souls she could no longer see. The larger, grander things to miss. The people she was expected to. Her father, his face, his wigs, and his pastel and overladen dress. James Norrington, and the heart she had not understood until it was far too late. The mother she hardly remembered. The brother who had never reached the living world.

Then, there were the little things. Pastimes. The pianoforte. Sounds of the violin. The theatre. Lace. A house. A locket she used to own, and can still see if she takes the time to recall its curvatures. Snow. Strawberries. Parties, where she had never gone without filling her dance card completely.

The quiet. She recalled that there had often been so much quiet in her childhood, and she, a fiery and excitable soul, had struggled to fill every moment of it. Now, it was what she missed the most. Her world filled it for her with the creaks of the ship, the wind in the sails, the quiet rush of the ocean. She loved every sound… but sometimes, she ached for quiet.


Song : No Cars Go (Arcade Fire Cover) - Maxence Cyrin
Character : William Lawedre

William’s first crush had been a girl who had piano lessons just before he did. His father, a military man who insisted on punctuality, oftentimes saw that young William arrived anywhere at least ten minutes early. The young Lawedre had been given lessons by the most talented pianist in London, a man who charged a pretty penny for his tutelage and William was granted lessons with by favours given and his father’s name. Yet his favourite part of going to that house was the fact that, in the ten minutes prior to his lesson, he could stare and the young girl who could make that piano sing for her. She didn’t press those pearly white keys, she conducted them, and by God, they danced. She was quiet, a meekly thing who was wildly talented. Far more so than he. He’d chew on the inside of his cheek and watch, wide-eyed until his father berated him because it was ungentlemanly to stare at young ladies. The first day he smiled at her was also the first day she went red as a tomato.

Twelve years later, he remembers her. The two had never spoken in the six months worth of lessons they’d overlapped. One lesson per week. Ten minutes. A grand total of four hours out of their lives. He’s had his share of women--conquests and loves alike--since then. She, however, will always remain the only girl out of all of them in one regard: he has never waited to say something, nor would he ever.


Song : The Tin Can Parade - Your Hand In Mine
Character : Guy Burgess

Every man that Guy had ever loved had a single piece of him, in truth. He lied to all of them, as he did so often in every aspect of his life. Occupational hazard, the hardest habit of his to kick of them. After all, it was the demon that ate him alive in the end. He lied himself into oblivion in Russia. There hadn’t been enough men to lie to, to lie with. Still, there was a sliver of truth granted to each and every one.

There were a few hearts in the world that had more than one piece. Guy was a collector of information, and with every lover, he bestowed them a flower of it. One was a soldier, a man unusual for Guy’s typical collection of lithe limbs but one that shined through the most unkempt uniform the Armed Forces would allow. He held Guy’s dirty secrets about the former Prime Minister, knew the only pair of socks Guy never wore because of what he kept hidden away in them, and the one phrase he would never say.

One was a French poet who unknowingly held precious things. Guy never had to make him promise, but knew he’d guard those secrets as tenderly as he did everything else. He was such a secretive man, and behind the doubly-locked doors of a hotel in Lyon they’d taken too many precautions to find, Guy revealed his atheism and talked about the first files he ever lifted from the Foreign Office. All that security made Guy long for recklessness, and with itchy palms he talked about how the paper cut his fingers and he’d never been so excited in his life.

One was a journalist he’d watched become consumed by secrets. Guy had been entrusted with the man’s own flesh and blood, given a title of godfather. In return, Guy gave away the secret that could have killed him. He gave light to his double life, and even when they didn’t fall into the sheets anymore, Guy peeled away the caricature he’d made of himself, little by little and gave it away to that writer.

In the end, he’d been burned. Everyone remembered Guy Burgess for the character he’d developed in fits of madness. They’d always known him to be a liar. Perhaps that was why they found him so darkly charming and let him take them to bed for a night or three of too much gin, cigarettes, and a good fucking.

Had they all gotten together, they could have formed a portrait of truth… but in the end, his truths were more fantastical than his lies. Long before the writer ever believed him, Guy slipped away, left scattered bits of himself in England and led himself to waste in Russia. The writer had always been told that Guy Burgess was a spy.

But who had it burned? Guy? No. Guy’s secrets burned who he told them to. The journalist, in those years later, burst into flames.


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