'Unleashed'
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
[link] Picture Three
(Teppy suggested sequels)
"Rudolph, how many times do I have to tell you about that camera?"
"I don't like the idea of evidence linking us, Pierre."
"Robert, you worry too much. Jeanne, get him a Bloody Mary."
"I don't drink. We're supposed to making plans."
"Plans. Such as when you'd be talking to your friends at Interpol?
. . .
"How foolish of him. Thank you, Rudolph. Jeanne, a fresh Bloody Mary. Less bloody."
(This might be the same dude from the picture w/the two women, on the couch.)Yeah, I think so, too.
For the Look at Me Anniversary challenge: Picture #9
All the Pretty Little Horses
She began dancing before she could properly walk: she danced to television commercials, to the radio, to the music in her head. Her family joked that she danced as she slept, choreographing lullabies: Hushabye, don't you cry, go to sleepy little baby...
She began lessons at age four. She learned to stretch her hamstrings, to stand at the barre, the forms of the pliet. She learned, too, to watch with disproportionate, heartbreaking anxiety the appearance of any extra weight. She danced, and she starved.
At fifteen, bulimic and anorexic, she died of kidney failure. All the lullabies died with her.
Wheee! Another photo drabble. Man, I loved this the first time around.
That's definitely the same Playboy's Guide to Swingers reader from the first set of pictures.
Here's my first.
They say every mother feels it, but I knew how very, very special Danielle was from the moment she was born. Destined for greatness, my little girl, and no denying it. That rich dark hair, the set of her chin—she took no nonsense from anyone, me and her father included.
I knew she would love ballet lessons. What little girl doesn’t? And the tutu—oh, the pictures we took! She posed for this one—just like a prima ballerina, I told her.
Her father didn’t like her standing on the coffee table, but I told him to hush up.
Amy, we jumped on the same picture. And two more different takes? Hard to imagine.
I know, Deb! But wait...
Here'e the follow-up to my previous drabble.
Danielle didn’t want to attend Herbie’s wedding, but I insisted. He knew someone who was married to a girl who’d once modeled. Any connection might help, after all. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t have the right body type for ballet, or ice skating. Modeling, now—she’ll knock them dead. And acting will follow, of course. Any fool knows that.
She hasn’t written. Her note promised she would, but I’m sure she’s just busy, starting her career. When everything’s settled she’ll let me know.
This is my last picture of us together. One day she’ll be on a magazine cover.
Amy, that pairing? It rocks like a major rockin' thing. Controlling mama. Perfect!
[link] Picture six
Our mothers made us avoid Madame le Comtesse du Chez. Scandalous, they called her. They said she used to be an artist's model, that she caught young du Chez' eye in a Montmarte cafe. We laughed at her as she rode around on her little donkey.
When the Kaiser's troops arrived and demanded our food and young men--and girls--though, Madame rode out and glared at the officer on his tall horse and told him quite fluently where he and his men could get their supplies.
They shot her. We killed them all. Madame may have been scandalous, but she was our scandal, and we didn't know we loved her until too late.
Oh, connie, that's superb.
They didn't stay long. Long enough to marry, and have one child, but during the second pregnancy his patience, stretched by local hostility and shrinking prospects, shattered. He took them back home, where he wouldn't have to shield her from thrown trash. He
Years later, over every objection, his son moved back to London, armed with borrowed
He has a computer job that his father doesn't understand, and sends money back to his