Page 3
Personal
Business
The
challenge: Write a drabble that continues a scene on the show. This
is a continuation of the “How'd you like a
blowjob” scene from “You Bet Your Life.”
“Think
you can take what I got?” Mondo looked him
over casually as he unzipped his fly. “Your
girlfriend had some trouble, you
know. Guess she’s used to something
smaller."
Something
inside Chris snapped under the weight of that
image— Toby, on his knees, gagging, sputtering semen.
His mouth formed a broad smile as he
imagined his shank slicing into Mondo’s throat. “I’ll
manage.”
Mondo
shifted restlessly on his feet, his cock hardening in
his hand. “Well? What
you waitin’ for?”
Chris
dropped to his knees. "Close your eyes, Mondo. It'll be
better for you if you close your eyes."
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Nightmare
on Oz Street
The
challenge: Write a drabble in which somone is having a dream.
(Warning: goofy.)
“C’mere,
Toby... take your pants off.”
“No
Chris, I have to finish!” Toby continued
the feverish task of sorting all the socks in Oz
by size and color. Whenever he
developed a workable set of categories, the giant talking weasel from
Unit B
used a high-powered leafblower to destroy his work.
It was infuriating, but he needed to control his temper. His parole hearing was coming up soon.
“Toby,
let’s go! Pants.
Off.”
“Goddammit,
I can’t!”
The
weasel was again cackling maniacally over the
leafblower’s roar when Toby awoke to the buzzer sounding count.
Cafeteria tacos, he thought. Never again.
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Necessary
but Not Sufficient
The
challenge: Write a drabble in which someone is confessing something.
The eyes
looking back at him were kind and intelligent, reflecting the
mind of probably the only living person who could truly understand what
he'd been through and what he was about to say.
I'm a murderer. I
killed a man with my bare hands, ordered the
killing of another. I've done terrible things... and I'm sorry.
His
confessor's expression showed everything he wanted to see. Sadness,
yes, but also real understanding— of mitigating circumstances, of his true
nature. Clinging to a tenuous feeling of absolution, he turned from the
mirror and climbed into bed, praying for a dreamless sleep.
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Wide
Open
The
challenge: Write a drabble that involves the Golden Rule.
"Ever
hear of the Golden Rule, Nate?"
"The wha...?"
Shemin arched his back, thrusting hard into Chris's fist.
"You know, 'Do
unto others as they've done unto you.'"
"I—" He gasped
against Chris's neck as the warm grip around his cock tightened. "I
don't think that's how it goes."
"Whaddya mean?"
"I don't... oh fuck... I don't think
that's the Golden Rule."
"No?
Funny, that's how I remember it." Chris pressed his thigh up against
Shemin's crotch, bringing the shank in his boot within reach. "So tell
me: how did it feel when you sliced my guts wide open?"
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Trick
of the Light
The
challenge: Write a drabble that involves darkness and/or light.
“Hey,
Beecher?” Andy’s voice had a puppy-dog-like
eagerness that filled Toby with warm satisfaction.
“Mmmhmm?”
“You guys really
gonna teach me to wrestle?”
“If you want.”
There
was a creaking of bedsprings, and Andy popped up beside him. “Yeah,
it’s just... I’ve never been good at that kind of shit.”
Toby glanced at
Andy’s half-lit face, all soft edges and baby fat and
childlike need. Just a trick of the
light, he
thought, but not
before that warm satisfaction had twisted into something cold.
“I felt the same
way at first. But trust me— Keller’s the best teacher
there is.”
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James
Robson's Very Bad Night
The
challenge: "Write
a drabble that
looks at something from canon via the POV of a character you dislike,
disagree with, or just plain love to hate. Preferably, make it a
character you've never written before." This one takes place
during the season 2 episode "The Tip."
Falling
asleep in Unit B was never easy,
but before the goddamn riot it was at least fucking possible.
It
took the hacks and their nightsticks three tries before they finally
got that nigger Wangler to stop whimpering about tits, and now it's
Vern's old prag keeping me awake, making noise in the bottom bunk.
Mumbling fucking gibberish, squeaking his goddamn bedsprings... Fuck,
the pussy even breathes too
loud. Guess he must be one sweet piece of
ass for Vern to put up with that
sleeping under him every fucking
night.
Only one way to
find out for sure, right?
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Red in Tooth and Claw
The
challenge: Describe
Chris's or Toby's hands doing something.
With the first swipe, his smoldering fear was shoved aside by something
that pumped power through his veins, made his arms feel ten times
stronger, turned his hands into organic weapons that hardly seemed like
they could be part of him.
As fingertips like razors sliced red ribbons through white skin, he
admired the efficiency of being born with knives he could grow and
dispose of at will, a natural survival strategy.
When the danger
had passed, he stared at the body on the floor. “Survival,” he
whispered as he turned and staggered away. “That’s what this is. That’s
all.”
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Within Reach
The
challenge: Write
a drabble that involves jealousy.
If he presses his own hand against the curve of his neck, he can
fall
asleep imagining it's Toby's hand, touching him when they kissed. He
wakes up believing he's been held and warmed by Toby's hands— opened
up, turned inside out, touched in places no one else can reach.
But it's just a dream. Those hands are far away— reading, praying,
doing other shit that's got nothing to do with him.
Chris knows who's to blame. He also knows what he needs to do about it.
The next thing he imagines is Said, finally silent, inside a body bag.
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Insignificant
The
challenge: Write
a drabble that involves scars. This ties in with another story of
mine, "What to Believe."
In the
flush of postorgasmic euphoria, I’d sometimes get a stupid, romantic
urge to learn everything about him.
"What’s
this from?" I asked once, touching the faint crescent-shaped scar
beneath his ear. I pressed my lips to it, wanting to erase all his past
pain.
His body
hardened, muscle by muscle, gradually but
completely. “Nosy fucker, aren’t you?” he said. After that, he wouldn’t
say another word.
His anger
evaporated my lingering endorphin giddiness. That’s the last time
I ask him anything, I thought, for maybe
the hundredth time.
But what
unspeakable thing could have left such a tiny mark?