a.n. This is my first Voyager submission ever and my second Star Trek one. This drabble is a little bit different than most as it was an assignment for class where we had to try to emulate, as closely as possible, the writing style and structure of another author's given passage. In this case, it was a passage from Richard Rodriquez's book (I cannot remember the title of the book though). I thought I'd post it here to see what others thought of it. Anyways, this is very loosely based on the episode "Night" (I really only took the basic idea from it) and I have posted the original passage from Rodriquez below in case anyone is interested in comparing them. This is really just an experiment as I'd like to see what others think of this. That being said, I do not own Star Trek, Voyager, or any of the ideas and characters therein (or the words and ideas of Richard Rodriquez) and I am not making any profit off of anything I say.
Dark
But unsaid to the others and themselves were the fears of what really scared them all: the vast unsureness of the void. Early day: in the middle of reassuring everyone, the captain would walk up to someone while he was performing his duties. Her face just near his, her breath calmly reassured with experience. "What is your status?" Or, "Tell me all about any new progress." He could promptly report, "Just the normal problems, nothing new." (A sad smile, then nothing. Her breath sighing nearby in the darkness. Darkness! Rather than the beauty of glorious stars that had once been taken for granted, there was this darkness.) Later on, the crew would report to their stations with solemness and silence. Whenever possible, the morale officer presented upbeat comments to "cheer up" by talking to the crew at work. They struggled so much, so often, with themselves. Depressed. Cheery. Worried about the possibility of never leaving the dark. Eager. Excited by the promising idea of any newly-made progress. They relished in any new-found hope. Darkness for days. Angry. Worried. They rarely looked away from their stations – or back to the dark. Days when it wasn't and the whole ship was permeated by deafening silence, the ship traveled slowly out of the void.
Richard Rodriquez's original passage:
But withheld from my mother and father was any mention of what most mattered to me: the extraordinary experience of first-learning. Late afternoon: in the midst of preparing dinner, my mother would come up behind me while I was trying to read. Her head just over mine, her breath warmly scented with food. "What are you reading?" Or, "Tell me all about your new courses." I would barely respond, "Just the usual things, nothing special." (A half smile, then silence. Her head moving back in the silence. Silence! Instead of the flood of intimate sounds that had once flowed smoothly between us, there was this silence.) After dinner, I would rush to a bedroom with papers and books. As often as possible, I resisted parental pleas to "save lights" by coming to the kitchen to work. I kept so much, so often, to myself. Sad. Enthusiastic. Troubled by the excitement of coming upon new ideas. Eager. Fascinated by the promising texture of a brand-new book. I hoarded the pleasures of learning. Alone for hours. Enthralled. Nervous. I rarely looked away from my books – or back on my memories. Nights when relatives visited and the front rooms were warmed by Spanish sounds, I slipped quietly out of the house.