can't breathe
Yes, but is from laughing, or trying not to vomit?
'War Stories'
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
can't breathe
Yes, but is from laughing, or trying not to vomit?
Bad writing! BAD!
Night
As I walked through the fields, strewn with a thousand dots of starlight that sparked like diamonds dancing on a sea of darkness that could have been the ocean under a mantle of divine wetness thrown by an Unseen Hand, I pondered and mused on the meaning of night.
Night is beautiful, I thought to myself, stopping in the middle of a path that was covered with myriad tiny hard rocks that tried to pierce the soles of my shoes like tiny flaming arrows against which my feet could know no defense, and night is dark.
Truly, night is unknowable.
Hee! It's (as you know) from laughter deb, because seeing that writing under your name is akin to watching Big Dawg campaign for W. I would know it is a gag, going in, and nobody could convince me otherwise.
Driving Fast
This one time, I was, like, in a car. And it was, like, driving fast. And then like, it was so fast, it was, like a thing that goes really fast and I was soooo scared. And then we stopped and like, Billy touched my like….well, YOU KNOW. And then, we like, did it –OHMIGAWD! And then we like, we drove back home so fast and then like, I was scared I was going to be pregnant, and like, I wasn’t so I was like relieved and that’s why you shouldn’t drive, like, fast. And stuff.
BWAH!
Aimee, I just flashed on Clueless, in the car: "Like, I TOTALLY paused!"
I'm not sure I can compete with the crumpet of sex. I'll ponder.
I'm not sure I can compete with the crumpet of sex.
The untoasted crumpet of sex, please.
I'm actually really happy with my "bad night philosophy" once. It's an exercise in long, droney, run-on sentences.
The One He Didn't See Coming
It was quiet tonight. Too quiet.
He’d been at the front too long.. His piercing blue eyes penetrated the new mooned night. Little movement from his vantage point even when his weathered face scrunched his crow’s feet into deep, ravaged furrows.
Too damn quiet. Hadn’t been a night without gunfire and mangled screams since the truce was broken. Not that it mattered much. He had nothing to go back to.
He pulled her last letter out of his shirt pocket, streaked and torn.
He had just unfolded it one last time when the bullet-the one you never hear-entered his brainpan.
His piercing blue eyes penetrated the new mooned night.
whimper
Hee. Take that Untoasted Crumpet Girl.