Oh, lovely drabbles!

I'm dry. I saw the category, went "oh, hellthefuckYES!" and then saw the genre tag.

Damn it. I don't write straight genre, even in the three soi disant genres - mystery, horror, litfic - that I'm paid for and published in.

This may be another dry week. Ah well. I'll finish R&RNF that much sooner.

Deb, mine wasn't straight genre. I kinda sorta cobbled together something sorta romantic and kinda futuristic. I sat and stared at it for quite a while before I even tried to label it. I could have called it erotic sci-fi. It started out as straight romance, but then kinda went...thataway.

Deb, screw the genre part of the challenge -- just drabble 2 people in a small space. These drabbles have never been about fulfilling the challenge down to the letter; they're about writing, about good writing. So if the 2 people part speaks to you, then write away, madam!

This week's challenge cracked me up, because the scene I took in to writers group this week features Anna and Jack having to take refuge in a cave barely big enough to hold them--maybe three feet high, four wide, and seven deep--wherein we discover that our heroine is claustrophobic. But it's not the kind of thing I could distill to 100 words.

Done. If anyone wants to try to label this one, I'd love it. I can't. It's just a memory, a real one, funny now.

Sheraton Hotel, Basement Garage, early September, 1975

"...the fuck?"

I'm on top, and I don't mean porn. I'm holding him down. I have my face against the back of his neck; he's in full rock and roll regalia, satin silver coat, all his rings. Right now, he's tasting the floor of the limo, and I'm tasting him.

"Firefight. Any moment. Stay there."

The band's driver is screaming at the limo driver for the President of the U.S. Any minute, bullets.

"I said, let me up!" He's going to throttle me.

"No."

I'm scared shitless. Outside, Gerald Ford tells the Secret Service not to shoot, because we're aliens.

Hmm, Deb. A little political drama, a little cop shop. And, laughingly, sci-fi, since I don't think the Prez was talking little green men from Mars.

No. The prez meant foreigners.

He said - I quote - "Don't shoot! You'll cause an international incident! They're aliens!" Right. Because hey, we wouldn't want to ambassador from Alpha Centauri to complain...

A couple days later, IIRC, Squeaky Fromme waved a gun at him. He probably thought it was sausage, or something.

And yet?

STILL brighter than George W. Bush. Ford may have signed his presidential edicts with a pink crayola, but he spelled things right.

a thriller

I can't swim, and the current around the island is too strong anyway. I don't know if he can swim or not.

I know the tales, about hunting. A three-square-mile island, only one of us leaves. He thinks the middle-aged, pudgy woman is hiding. He's a Wall Street banker, thinks that is the jungle, thinks his gym-toned body is a predator.

I've already visualized how to break his leg and where to shove my pointed stick to stop his screaming.

Woo, Anne. Excellent. There's a poem by Louise Glueck called "Gretel in Darkness" that yours reminds me of.

A thriller?

We worked steadily, in silence, while the sweat dripped into our eyes. It went quickly at first, but then we ran into tree roots tangled with beer bottles and broken concrete. The shovels, still sporting their $9.95 tags from Big Lots, weren't really up to the task. Mine kept bending, and I had to bang it back to the correct angle. The last time I did that, I hit Joe in the ribs, and then he pushed me against the dirt while prying out a rock. I told him to rest. Eventually, a grave for one must be dug alone.