I'm just trying to tell you that we have nothing in common besides both of us liking your penis.

Anya ,'Dirty Girls'


The Great Write Way, Chapter Two: Twice upon a time...  

A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.


Connie Neil - Apr 28, 2005 1:57:55 pm PDT #1528 of 10001
brillig

The Sunday I was home from college and he kissed my cheek in front of the entire congregation was an occasion for an audible gasp to go through the church. I think some of the girls contemplated taking out a contract on me. He got transferred to another district, though, so that ended that.


erikaj - Apr 28, 2005 2:14:47 pm PDT #1529 of 10001
Always Anti-fascist!

Wow, Reverend Hottie. Filled them with the spirit, did he?


Susan W. - Apr 28, 2005 2:16:02 pm PDT #1530 of 10001
Good Trouble and Righteous Fights

Ah yes, the young, single pastor/youth pastor/music director. Nothing like someone who can simultaneously fuel a young church girl's dreams of both holiness and hot sex.


Susan W. - Apr 28, 2005 3:25:48 pm PDT #1531 of 10001
Good Trouble and Righteous Fights

Two drabbles, in an effort to write something unlike the wip:

Sleep

It’s a pet cliché of romance writers to say someone looks younger and more vulnerable asleep. Take your rugged hero, have him sleep next to the heroine (usually after they first consummate their love), and she’ll notice how boyish and sweet he looks.

As is the way of clichés, there’s truth in it. But I never expected it to fit a one-year-old. Awake, Annabel is a child. She’s slender and strong-boned. Her eyes are alert with mischievous intelligence, and she’s just learned to run. But asleep she curls in on herself, all soft and round and fragile. She’s a baby.

It’s All Relative

A grocery store on a weekday afternoon. Annabel sits in the shopping cart, wishing I’d steer it close enough to let her strip the shelves of all those lovely bright red cans of processed tomatoes. Another mother passes us, with a baby still in a bucket car seat. “Jaden, look at that big girl.”

Safeco Field on a Sunday afternoon. Annabel and I stroll the upper level concourse. She accepts the enchanted smiles of fellow fans and ballpark employees as no more than her due. Along our path there’s a family with a screaming three-year-old in a stroller. I try to pass them, politely blind and deaf, but Annabel pulls me to a stop so she can investigate. “Look, Hannah, that little baby is smiling. I bet she took her nap.”


Beverly - Apr 28, 2005 9:00:13 pm PDT #1532 of 10001
Days shrink and grow cold, sunlight through leaves is my song. Winter is long.

Both of them are lovely, Susan.


deborah grabien - Apr 28, 2005 9:30:59 pm PDT #1533 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.

I've always thought it was grossly unfair that babies - who don't need to look like perfect roses while sleeping - are so gorgeous when they sleep. Adults? Not so much.


Connie Neil - Apr 29, 2005 7:00:57 am PDT #1534 of 10001
brillig

drabble

Sweet sixteen and never . . .

He's a senior from the play we're in. He sidles up in the high school cafeteria. "Why not come for a walk with me after lunch?"

"Um, what?"

"Come out to the parking lot with me."

"Why?"

He smiles, leans closer. "Get to know each other better."

"Uh . . ." Confused, I just slip off to my usual table and friends.

It's years before I realize what he might have wanted with a redhead with big, naive blue eyes and a startlingly precocious bustline.

Ignorance is bliss.


deborah grabien - Apr 29, 2005 7:39:19 am PDT #1535 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.

HA! connie, I was about to post one that's not only on the ignorance is bliss theme, but on the same experience.

Ignorance is Bliss: February 1970, the Capitol Theatre, Portchester, New York

Ah, innocence.

The Dead just finished. It's two in the morning, the last Manhattan train left an hour ago, I'm in a miniskirt, and it's snowing.

Garcia sees me peering out the backstage door. "Miss the train?"

"Yes." Snowflakes spatter my face. "FUCK!"

He grins. "Want a ride?"

"Yes! Manhattan, right?"

"Nope. North - New Palz. But you can catch a ride."

I blink. wondering why he thinks I'd want to go north. The band's manager leans over, looking amused. "Deb," he whispers, "the only thing you're going to catch in New Palz is the clap."


Connie Neil - Apr 29, 2005 7:50:15 am PDT #1536 of 10001
brillig

So how'd you get home?


deborah grabien - Apr 29, 2005 8:00:54 am PDT #1537 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.

So how'd you get home?

You would have laughed your head off at me. I stood out there on the damned train platform, huddled in the only doorway I could find - it was an outdoor station, with a little waiting room, and they locked the waiting room at midnight every night - until the first NY bound train showed up at not quite 7:00 am.

The real pisser? I got home, with mild frostbite, and there was my mother, furious and manic, shrieking at me that I'd spent the night with someone. Bad timing on her part - first, she normally paid less attention to what I chose to do than she did to, say, the outgassing of one of Jupiter's moons. Second, I hate being accused of things I haven't done.

So I snarled back at her, shut UP, I did NOT, I could have spent the night in a nice warm bed with a nice warm musician but I didn't want to, I spent the night shivering my inadequately clad ass off. And then stomped off muttering to myself to run a hot bath and get a couple of hours sleep.

I actually did have mild frostbite, no exaggeration. No fun. But weirdly enough, she dropped it. I guess that for once, the truth was so obvious even to her that she had to believe it.