Drabbles

A drabble is a fic. that is exactly 100 words long.  I've only just started attempting these.  Compiled below are those that I've done thus far.

"Where is he, Bush?  Be kind.  Tell me quickly."

It is not a very cordial greeting, but it has not been so long since I was a widow.  I well remember the gentle tones and sympathetic expressions.  The infuriating unwillingness to bear bad tidings in the misguided belief that delay is kindness.  The maddening small talk that must be endured until there is no banal pleasantry left to say...

I won't delude myself.  Business at the Admiralty has not kept Horatio there.  It has been weeks since his last letter.  And Captain Bush is returned from the Baltic.  Alone.

He closed the ledger, looking up at the dust-flecked sunlight streaming through the window of the tiny room that could only generously be called a study. He supposed he should be grateful--playing clerk for his father was a far better fate than having to resort to some other, more physical, employment--but while a quiet existence had its benefits, it was insufferably dull...

"Son," his father's voice called from the doorway, "Do you recall the sea captain whom I treated for rheumatism...?"

"Yes, sir. His account is past due."

Dr. Hornblower held up a letter. "Mark his debt paid."

Hornblower stood glowering before the mirror. He hated the coat. He hated the trousers. And he hated the damned boots.

"Quite flattering, sir."

Of course Cofield would say that. What tailor would say otherwise to a client about to pay several guineas for a suit of clothes? To hell with welcoming ceremonies and to hell with fashion. He would be damned before he wore such absurd apparel. Civilian clothing looked preposterous and he had no qualms saying as much…

"You look very handsome, Horatio." Barbara smiled with unabashed admiration.

Hornblower sighed.

"Very well, Mr. Cofield. What do I owe you?"

The Duel, 1829

“A duel?  Is he mad?!” 

Admiral Lord Hornblower looked up from his morning coffee to lift an eyebrow at his wife. “My dear?”

She rarely exhibited a temper of any sort, preferring instead to make her mood known in far more subtle—and dangerous—ways.  She passed the note across the table.

Hornblower perused it with remarkable calm.  “I’m sure Arthur knows what he’s about, my dear,” he soothed.

“He’s a terrible shot,” she said, her lips twisting in frustration. 

“Well, yes, dear.”  Hornblower turned back to his coffee.  There was little to be done about it now.  “He’s army.”