Drabbles:
Jacen
Rating: PG
Iella

I discovered Drabbles recently, and rather like the strange contradiction in the freedom they allow to play with ideas and the constraint they impose in keeping to 100 words exactly.

Here are some Star Wars ponderings expressed in Drabble form.

From TFN: A Drabble is an extremely short work of fiction with exactly one hundred words. The purpose of the drabble is to teach brevity and test author's ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in an extremely confined space. They must be 100 words each. No more, no less.



J A C E N                                    

The armoured man can smile. His lips twitch, spasm at the corners, and the muscles in his cheeks pull the corners up to create an arc revealing the hint of white teeth aligned in orderly rows. His nose balances above the centre point of the arc, marking the horizontal line where mobility ceases.

Such symmetry requires careful calculation, utter dedication to the art of self-control.

He understands that others like to see this, see him twist the lower half of his face into this revelation of benign approval. He recognises their need ... and he pities their frailty.

                                   

His childhood friends remember his penchant for jokes. They remember cringing at the absurdity of the punch-lines, chuckling together resignedly as an act of camaraderie, everyone complicit in the rolling of eyes ... maybe sometimes wondering if there might be some very clever message they were missing. But no-one ever mentioned recognizing one.

Nobody remembers him actually laughing at the jokes either, but they do recall the way he smiled at them, waiting for their response ... watching their eyes.

You could say the joke is on them, for even now, they still donít get it.

                                   

Itís become a challenge for him to see how far he can prolong the gap between desire and gratification, how deep into the depths of ecstasy he can descend without losing his sense of where he ends and she begins. His body trembling, overwrought, excitation searing upwards like steam screaming for release, he practises the pleasure, enforces the pain, of self-denial. To be one, and yet also to be infinite — that is the quest. The size of the container is irrelevant, as long as it "contains."

But he knows also that she misunderstands his intention — and reads it as love.


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