Leave me a drabble of backstory. It can be about anyone -- one of your characters, one of mine, someone else's, no-one's. Anyone. Then I'll write one for you. (from villainny)
Once, there was a girl named Sarah, who thought she was weak, but she was strong. She was warm & caring, and championed the animals who couldn't defend themselves & looked after their injuries. One day, she was adopted by a pug dog and lived happily ever after. :D
"What?" Luke exclaimed incredulously. "You mean all those times Uncle Owen wouldn't let me go to Toshi's station, my dad was the most powerful man in the galaxy? Oh maaaan!"
I can hear – oh God, how I can hear. There are screams, and sirens, and people are shouting my name. I can smell the concrete I'm leaning against, and I can taste copper from where blood is bubbling up in my mouth. I can feel a dull ache in my chest, but it's not as bad as I thought getting shot would be.
But I still can't see people. Just shadows, and shapes.
I think I'm dying. I don't want to die. It terrifies me.
Suddenly, I feel hands grasp me, shift me to the ground. The blood settles and breathing becomes harder as it seeps into my lungs.
The hands move around, explore the centre of the pain. "What happened?" I hear. The speaker is close, male, concerned. I am reassured.
A female voice answers. "He shot that woman. We took him down."
That's not true, I want to howl. I'm not like that, I'm a good person. But I can't speak. I can only make a sound of pain low in my throat. It sounds like an animal moaning.
The hands on me are suddenly rougher. I can feel waves of anger, originating from everywhere his hands touch as he examines me.
Please, I want to say, please just help me and I'll change. I'll help people, be a better person, I just don't want to die!
Mikhail Petrovitch was technically a lackey, but it was more through intense admiration than anything akin to a need to serve. He had learned early in life that hitching yourself to someone destined for greatness was a lot easier if you did it on the way up - loyalty and forward momentum were able to carry you through the rough patches that way. So Mik fetched the slurpees and drove Schuyler home after one too many scotches made him surrender the keys to his precious little Fiat and watched in admiration as Schuyler cut reel after reel of utterly brilliant film. He put orange juice in the slurpees to ward off malnutrition (which Schuyler then turned around and spiked with vodka) and dealt with the mundanities of ordering pizza and paying rent and tried to swallow the worry in the back of his throat that said that maybe his beloved boss-man shouldn't be drinking so many scotches - telling himself that boss-man was a genius. That was what geniuses did, after all - look at Hemingway or Fitzgerald or Kubrick. And it worked, for a little while, anyway.
It started out innocently enough. It looked like things might take a turn for the better, like Schuyler might be able to stop his descent. He decided to take a break at a retreat. No Betty Ford for him, all the press watched the Betty Ford. That was where you went to get attention. He went to the place you went when you didn't want attention. Mik was left to watch over all the little details, and to worry about Schuyler. He soon discovered that Schuyler was in the capable hands of the nurse, Cindy. She called regularly, asking about this detail or that, saying that Schuyler was worried, but knew that Mik had everything under control.
At first, Mik appreciated her calls. They kept his connection to his boss, the star to which he'd hitched his wagon irretrievably. Then Schuyler came back. And so did Cindy. Schuyler thanked him profusely for convincing him to give up the scotch, his life was so much better now. He spoke to Mik, but looked at Cindy.
Then it happened. Schuyler (which is bloody hard to type, by the way!), called Mik in, saying that he didn't think he could do anything more for him, that Mik had grown beyond his ability to mentor him. He'd made arrangements for Mik to work with a new director, to learn from him. He expected to see Mik directing on his own within the next 5 years. But it wasn't true, and Mik knew it. He'd seen it before. The promising young assistant, passed from director to director, each step slightly lower than the one before, gradually, so slight that it could be missed, if you half-closed your eyes and didn't focus on the detail.
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branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2004-09-15 06:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-15 06:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-16 05:16 pm (UTC)Taking it literally, except not.
Date: 2004-09-15 08:00 am (UTC)Re: Taking it literally, except not.
Date: 2004-09-15 08:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-15 09:44 am (UTC)I can hear – oh God, how I can hear. There are screams, and sirens, and people are shouting my name. I can smell the concrete I'm leaning against, and I can taste copper from where blood is bubbling up in my mouth. I can feel a dull ache in my chest, but it's not as bad as I thought getting shot would be.
But I still can't see people. Just shadows, and shapes.
I think I'm dying. I don't want to die. It terrifies me.
Someone stop this. I'll make a deal. I just--
no subject
Date: 2004-09-15 09:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-15 10:52 am (UTC)The hands move around, explore the centre of the pain. "What happened?" I hear. The speaker is close, male, concerned. I am reassured.
A female voice answers. "He shot that woman. We took him down."
That's not true, I want to howl. I'm not like that, I'm a good person. But I can't speak. I can only make a sound of pain low in my throat. It sounds like an animal moaning.
The hands on me are suddenly rougher. I can feel waves of anger, originating from everywhere his hands touch as he examines me.
Please, I want to say, please just help me and I'll change. I'll help people, be a better person, I just don't want to die!
But I can't make a sound and he can't hear me.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-15 11:17 am (UTC)So Mik fetched the slurpees and drove Schuyler home after one too many scotches made him surrender the keys to his precious little Fiat and watched in admiration as Schuyler cut reel after reel of utterly brilliant film. He put orange juice in the slurpees to ward off malnutrition (which Schuyler then turned around and spiked with vodka) and dealt with the mundanities of ordering pizza and paying rent and tried to swallow the worry in the back of his throat that said that maybe his beloved boss-man shouldn't be drinking so many scotches - telling himself that boss-man was a genius. That was what geniuses did, after all - look at Hemingway or Fitzgerald or Kubrick.
And it worked, for a little while, anyway.
Delayed, but likely better for it
Date: 2004-09-16 03:02 am (UTC)At first, Mik appreciated her calls. They kept his connection to his boss, the star to which he'd hitched his wagon irretrievably. Then Schuyler came back. And so did Cindy. Schuyler thanked him profusely for convincing him to give up the scotch, his life was so much better now. He spoke to Mik, but looked at Cindy.
Then it happened. Schuyler (which is bloody hard to type, by the way!), called Mik in, saying that he didn't think he could do anything more for him, that Mik had grown beyond his ability to mentor him. He'd made arrangements for Mik to work with a new director, to learn from him. He expected to see Mik directing on his own within the next 5 years. But it wasn't true, and Mik knew it. He'd seen it before. The promising young assistant, passed from director to director, each step slightly lower than the one before, gradually, so slight that it could be missed, if you half-closed your eyes and didn't focus on the detail.