Drabbles 26-30

Journal’s End

Author’s notes: Prompt #1453, Write the last entry in a journal, from the lj community, all_unwritten. Thanks to ArtisticRainey for beta and feedback.


The pain is getting worse but I can’t stop now. The boys are still out there, still searching for their brother. I can’t leave the desk, not yet, not while there’s still hope. Tomorrow they’ll be back, safe and sound. I’ll go see the doctor then.

Popped some more aspirin. God, where are they? Why haven’t I heard? All I can do is wait. Pace. Drink coffee. Write in this damned journal. God knows I’ll have to delete this entry when …

The journal stopped there, the final entry burning in stark black on white, marking the day International Rescue died.


Backfire!

Author’s notes: Inspired by Xenitha’s review, a sequel to chapter 6, “Salt Or Not?”.


Joking and laughing, Gordon didn’t pay attention when Scott passed him the potatoes. He automatically dished some out, handing the bowl to Virgil – who promptly passed it to Kyrano without taking any.

On his first bite, he knew he’d succeeded. With a grin, he glanced around, crowing internally over his prank.

“How are the potatoes, Dad?”

“Perfect!” Jeff flashed him a thumbs up.

When the other family members also enthusiastically praised the spuds, Gordon realized the joke was on him but he could say nothing. He picked up his fork with a sigh.

Watching from the kitchen, Kyrano smiled, satisfied.


Compulsions

Author’s notes: A missing scenelet from “Martian Invasion”. Prompt #1457, “trembling hands”, from the lj community, all_unwritten. Thanks to Susanmartha for feedback.


His daughter finished her work and moved back across the catwalk. He lingered. Something … there was something he must do. But what?

He scanned the cockpit, his eyes focusing on a single switch. Buried commands pressed hard, demanding he reach for it. He stretched, old bones creaking, but he could not touch it.

Outside, his daughter called, “Father? Are you coming?”

“One moment, Tin-Tin.”

He climbed laboriously from his perch. A scrap of conscience flickered, silently shouting, This is wrong! Traitorous hands trembling, he turned off the camera detector.

The compulsion lifted. He blinked and relaxed, his betrayal instantly forgotten.


What’s In A Name?

Author’s notes: Prompt #802, “My name is …”, from the lj community, all_unwritten. Thanks to Lillehafrue for feedback.


“State your name and business.”

The security guard is curt and suspicious. I pull myself to my full height. “My name is …”

And I pause.

What is my name?

I don’t rightfully know.

I have many aliases, Hiram Hackenbacker and Homer Newton III among them. Each as nerdish a name as anyone could devise. My birth name is lost forever. My adopted name has never felt like my own.

The only name that truly fits is what the Tracys call me: Brains.

However, that won’t work now. I pull out my identification and show it.

“Hiram Hackenbacker, special projects director.”


My Two Worlds

Author’s notes: Prompt #1197, “waves licking the boat”, from the lj community, all_unwritten. This drabble counted up as 100 words, counting hyphenated words as two. Thanks to Susanmartha for feedback.


Today, I’m just kicking back, savoring a salt-laden breeze, warm sun on my face and chest, and the gentle sound of waves licking the boat. Gordon Tracy, lazy billionaire’s son.

I love that.

Yesterday it was a rain-lashed gale, stomach-roiling swells, a rudderless yacht, and seven needy, greedy people who constantly whined about their “accommodation” aboard Thunderbird Four. Except the little girl. She thanked me with a sweet kiss.

Rescuing people in the fiercest seas? I’m totally there. Gordon Tracy, International Rescue aquanaut and adrenaline junkie.

I love that, too.

Well … I could’ve done without the whiners.

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