Drabble #11.
Prompt was "mark".
Ensign McFarlane stared in horror at the sight of Cargo Bay's Two floor several meters below him.
It'd started as a routine shift, just checking the cargo manifest, when gravity had shifted. He and the storage containers had been flung with such force to the ceiling that he was sure he'd left a mark on the bulkhead. McFarlane closed his eyes. It didn't help that he was a little leery of heights. If the gravity shifted again now …
Shit! He managed to wrap his arms around his head and curl into a fetal position just before the floor came rushing up to greet him.
oOo
Drabble #12.
No prompt
"Hey!" Trip dropped a flight bag onto the sand beside T'Pol and trotted after the catamaran, already several yards offshore and dragging his kayak behind. "That's my boat!"
The man at the wheel of the fleeing ship just grinned back at Trip, teeth flashing in the sun against dark skin. "Beautiful woman, beautiful private island. Plenty of supplies. You don't need no stinkin' boat, mon!"
The islander waved a sun-bleached cap at the engineer. "I come rescue you in the morning." He put the cap back on and steered the boat farther off shore. "Or in the evening." He shrugged. "The next day, maybe." He grinned again. "Eventually!" he yelled back.
oOo
Drabble #13.
Prompt was "owl".
Ensign Sato tried to keep her eyes focused on the translation device in her hands, resisting the temptation to stare at their guests. It wasn't just their stature that was intimidating, each one easily clearing seven feet, or the patterned down that looked almost like feathers. It was the intense eyes that startled her so. Peering over carapace-covered noses, the looked like terrifyingly larger-than-life owls.
"This is our linguist, Hoshi Sato," said Captain Archer.
One of the aliens, distracted by the sight of passing crewmen, swiveled his around almost 270 degrees to stare wide-eyed at the ensign. "Who?" he asked.
oOo
(double) Drabble #14.
no prompt
Malcolm Reed closed his eyes wearily against a brief onslaught of curses coming from an indentation in the snow a few meters to the left.
"Commander."
Silence.
"Are you alright?" Silence. Malcolm sighed. "Trip!"
"Yes, dammit! I'm fine!" Another long pause of silence, and then a more conciliatory tone. "I'm sorry. I'm fine. I just…" There was a cough and then silence fell again.
Malcolm squinted into the biting wind of this frozen moon and regarded the source of the engineer's voice. The snowmobile was on its side, sunk at least a meter into the snow, one track askew. To the left, a deep impression in the snow in which, presumably, a - rather irate as of late - Starfleet engineer lay, like some kind of disgruntled snow angel.
Taking a step backwards off his loaded sled, Malcolm sunk to his knees in the soft snow. It was coming down faster and thicker now, and even just these few feet away it was getting harder to see a few meteres ahead of him.
