The drabbles have all been fantastic. I haven't had time to write any yet, but you better believe I'm going to ...

In non-drabble news, the trials and tribulations of publishing, example 3,147, courtesy of Toni, my editor's assistant:

Hi, Deborah-

I have here the copyedited ms. of Matty Groves. I'd like to send it to you by FedEx. May I mail it to your home address and will you be available to sign off on it, or should I?

We're asking to have it back by 4/15.

Is there any damned reason on this green green planet why they allow so little time? I told Toni that if she can get it to me before Thursday morning, I'll work on it on the NY flight and hand it to Ruth come Monday. But what is it with publishers?

I haven't had time to write any yet, but you better believe I'm going to ...

My day just improved by leaps and bounds!

Anxiously awaits Jilli's drabbles on pics...

Photo #5

Beat It

Cigarette. Enrolled in the textile school for nostalgia. Now, she thinks, it’s all false. Her past unraveled because she has no future. She wishes her cigarette was made of marijuana, that would be true.

Pipe. Stamps due dates in books at the school of Library Science. All those words around him; he can’t write a single thing. His future can’t be written because all the words of the past have burned away. His pipe won’t light.

Hipster. Drunk, as usual. It’s the only way to keep all the numbers from lining up. Then, maybe, E=mc2 won’t burn them all away.

reluctantly hits the post button

I've lurked here for a long time, and I am constantly amazed by the quality of writing (that I get to read for free! such a thief...)

Anyway, I've finally got one, as inspiration is slow to come for me. It's probably terrible, but I know you all will forgive. :) This is for Picture Four, for the little girl in the back. (Also, 100 words is hard!!)

I try to look forward, but I see only Papa. I was to visit them next summer… catch fish at the river, play rough games with my cousins, drive Nana insane with my “tomboy antics.”

But now he’s dead, and all I see is his face. My dear Papa, once so vibrant, now only a shell. Pale skin, almost waxen. His best suit, the last time I’ll see it. Busy hands, now folded and still. Cheeks sunken, unnatural, collapsing without his beautiful soul.

Father snaps the picture, and I look at the wall and try not to break in two.

Ailleann, you are CRAZY about thinking it's terrible! I like it -- it's very powerful, particularly the last line.

Half a drabble. I tried padding it out, but it didn't seem to work. Suggestions?

Picture six: [link]

FOR SALE

"Hortense," a donkey, five years old, teeth good, hooves excellent. No history of colic, heaves, or laminitis.

Patient, gentle, steadfast, occasionally stubborn. Tolerates goats. Dislikes children and dogs.

Bridle, standard saddle, side saddle, and sundry other tack available separately, prices negotiable.

Only one previous owner, the late widow Renault, who only rode her on Sundays, to and from church.

dcp, I wouldn't change anything! I love that "only rode her on Sundays, to and from church," Bwah! Talk about turning a cliche on its head.

You could consider prefacing/interspersing it with the thoughts of the person writing the add. How did they really feel about the donkey? How did the donkey interact with original owner, did it take any of its personality from her?

Drabble for picture three:

Afterward, I thought of that summer as the Lost Summer, a blur of blues and beiges, sea and sky and sand. Larry, with his omnipresent cocktail, was the putative host, though invitations were never really issued, and lack of same wasn't a problem; guests just showed up, dogs and coolers of beer in tow, and Larry seemed to know them all.

It was a constant trickle of fruity alcoholic drinks, naps at midday, and raucous shenanigans until the wee hours, every night. The goal was supreme decadence, pursued with zeal. This was nirvana, we declared, and vowed to repeat it every summer for the rest of our lives.

I can't remember more than a handful of names now, if I ever knew them then, and I lost touch with Larry years ago. Every summer, though, I think of them, and wonder if they're still on that beach, drinks in hand, pursuing their idyll with fervent dedication.