Five Pretender Drabbles

A drabble is a 100-word story. Not 99 words, and not 101 words, but 100 exactly. As you may imagine, it's not easy. A fun exercise, though. It forces you to condense what you want to say down into its essence, and it's a good way to take an intensive look at one tiny aspect of something.

After Nia (During “Ranger Jarod”)

He awakened to sadness; nothing new. But he had thought for once it might be different. After what he and Nia had shared two hours ago, he thought the euphoria might last into his dreams. Instead he dreamed old dreams of identitylessness and awakened haunted. Yes, there was joy when she touched him and warmth inside when she held him. But now he carried her sadness, too. This too wasn’t new—yet it was. He had made her part of himself in a way he had never done before. It was a different pain. But this one he could bear.

Sons (After “Bulletproof”)

When he had first seen Nick, his soul leapt out of him. He had recognized himself in him, the way he recognized himself in Jacob. He had never known it was possible to love your child so completely the first time you saw him, when you had never known he existed.

And he had lied, for his son’s sake. Disclaimed the clinging of his soul to the thought of his son. Lying about love was so easy. Too easy. He had practice. “No, I don’t love you. I’m not your father.” While his soul cried, Jarod, my son! My son…

The man she tried to kill (During “Donoterase”)

She didn’t know she loved him until she stood outside his office and heard the order for his death. She had followed her orders, when she married him, with a mischievous smile. Trying to kill him…that had been orders too. Realizing she loved him? That was unexpected.

Miss Parker didn’t have a monopoly on tragic childhoods. Brigitte had refused to admit even to herself the jealousy she had felt at Little Parker’s relationship with Daddy. Why hadn’t she ever had such a Daddy? Well, now she had him. And he was her husband, her baby’s Daddy. And she loved him.

Self-reproach

Her mother’s face was reproachful, her eyes hurt. “How can you do it? What have you become? I don’t recognize my little girl anymore.”

“Mommy, listen—”

“No. You listen. I gave up my life for him. I died because of him and the other children! You’re betraying me. You work for the people who killed me. You’re trying to imprison the child I died to release. You may look just like me, but how can you call yourself my daughter? What kind of monster have you become?”

“Mommy!”

Miss Parker jolted upright in bed, bathed in sweat and tears.

Ice cream and broken bones (Before the pilot)

This world, this strange, crazy, wonderful, terrible world—how can it hold such contradictions? It gives me ice cream—and Slinkies—and the Three Stooges. And it gives children broken bones and broken lives. It holds people who give everything they are to help others—doctors and nuns, firefighters and social workers. And it holds people who take everything from others, uncaring. It is a world of delights and horrors. What looks good can be bad. What looks ugly can be beautiful. How can I negotiate this confusing world? I must right the wrongs. That is my task, my penance.