Number 9;; Metalman (thousandsticks) wrote in prompt_100, @ 2009-10-05 10:07:00 |
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Current mood: | hungry |
Current music: | Bad Boy -- Cascada |
Entry tags: | #: prompt 007, #: prompt 051, fandom: dragonball z, fandom: ncis |
A Planet Not There (Dragonball Z, Prompt 7), Late Night Writing (NCIS, prompt 51)
Title: A Planet Not There
Fandom: Dragonball Z
Characters/Pairing: Vegeta, Tarble
Rating: G
Word count: 183
Challenge/Prompt: #7 -- Stars
Summary: When they have no home left, sometimes it's just easier to reflect.
"Look up at the sky. Tell me what you see there, little brother." Vegeta orders, pointing to a starry patch of sky.
Tarble looks up, tilting his head lightly. "Well, I see a lot of stars there for sure, big brother. But I know there's something more. There's something in the way you're talking."
"Exactly. Think about it."
"That's where Planet Vegeta used to be, right?"
The elder Saiyan prince nods. For a moment, the brothers sit in silence, reflecting. Vegeta himself had many fond memories; Tarble, on the other hand, did not have very many memories of their once-great home.
"One day, we were going to inherit that. Me first, of course, since I'm older." Vegeta smirks.
Tarble gives a soft laugh. "If I didn't usurp the throne from you and become King Tarble the First, right?"
"Oh, you'd never usurp the throne from me." Vegeta scoffs. "Not until you trained your hide off. And face it. I'm not going to let up."
"There's always assassination. Or manipulation."
"But you'd never do that."
"Aw, you know me all too well, big brother."
Title: Late Night Writing
Fandom: NCIS
Characters/Pairing: Timothy McGee
Rating: G
Word count: 181
Challenge/Prompt: #51 -- Insomnia
Summary: When you can't sleep, sometimes writing is the only thing you can do.
Perhaps he shouldn't have shared that Caff-Pow with Abby earlier. Maybe he shouldn't have been thinking about cases. All Timothy McGee knew was that he really should get some sleep. But he just couldn't.
Frustration set in easily for the NCIS special agent; all he wanted was sleep, but that wasn't coming no matter how many sheep he counted. No matter how much he tossed and turned. Nothing was working.
Eyes darted to his old manual Remington typewriter. Ah, if he couldn't sleep, then maybe it would be best to work on another chapter of Deep Six, right? The agent pulled himself out of bed, over to his desk, putting on a jazz record, then seated himself and cracked his knuckles.
The words flowed easily on this late night. How? How had it been so hard lately, and suddenly, in a fit of insomnia, he got inspiration? He mused on this; suddenly, he found himself putting his musings into McGregor's mind--he couldn't do this! He'd have to shred this and rewrite everything!
Ah, late nights were best spent typing for sure.