Thanks. Funny, though, probably the third one in which I've mentioned my late-arriving breasts. Hope y'all don't think I've got an obsession(much).
We didn't have sex, if that's what you mean. That's all I do now, not have sex.
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.
erikaj - Mar 03, 2005 9:06:34 am PST #363 of 10001
Always Anti-fascist!
Pix - Mar 03, 2005 9:09:10 am PST #364 of 10001
We're all getting played with, babe. -Weird Barbie
Babe, I don't think I really hit puberty until I was about 16. I went from stick-skinny and flat to, "Huh...curves" in about two months. It was very disconcerting.
Beverly - Mar 03, 2005 9:11:38 am PST #365 of 10001
Days shrink and grow cold, sunlight through leaves is my song. Winter is long.
"Oh. Look at those."
Pix - Mar 03, 2005 9:12:57 am PST #366 of 10001
We're all getting played with, babe. -Weird Barbie
Pretty much. Training bras to a C cup. Poof.
ETA: Reminds me of that essay in that Susan Gilman book, though I think she went from flat to a DD.
Topic!Cindy - Mar 03, 2005 9:16:53 am PST #367 of 10001
What is even happening?
Me too, Kristin, although I was 12. I went through puberty so quickly I had stretch marks on my hips and breasts. It wasn't from fat, either.
OTOH, I didn't get a single stretch mark in any of my pregnancies, which just amazed my OB, for some reason.
erikaj - Mar 03, 2005 9:34:26 am PST #368 of 10001
Always Anti-fascist!
Yeah, sort of like "Slums of Beverly Hills."
Pix - Mar 03, 2005 9:39:35 am PST #369 of 10001
We're all getting played with, babe. -Weird Barbie
Yellow drabble #2:
I hate the way my palms sweat and my stomach jumps. I hate the way my heart pounds as the clickclickclickclick gets louder, the way the air feels colder. I hate the whiteness of my knuckles as I clench the bar and the way the fear builds in the long climb to the track’s zenith. I hate that I won't love every second, that my passion for speed is overthrown by my fear of falling. But, as I have done so many times before, I scrunch my eyes shut and try to remember to breathe.
I hate being yellow more.
deborah grabien - Mar 03, 2005 11:26:39 am PST #370 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
"Oh. Look at those."
Or, as Murphy Brown put it: "Why did I stop playing softball at puberty? Because suddenly, sliding into second HURT."
erika, Kristin, those are kickass.
deborah grabien - Mar 03, 2005 11:34:15 am PST #371 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
Invisible
They were put up as cheap row houses, a century ago. Typical to San Francisco, they've been lovingly restored with yuppie money and pride of ownership: stone front stairs, corbels and wainscoting, front doors painted in ice cream colours.
Each stairway ends in one of those pretty doors. Above each door is a window, the fanlight showing golden, offering a yellow welcome to, presumably, all comers.
The rain comes down, washing the stairs, the painted doorways, making the fanlights glitter like gold leaf.
The man with the mismatched shoes and the shopping cart passes them, unwelcome, invisible as a ghost.
§ ita § - Mar 03, 2005 12:12:35 pm PST #372 of 10001
Well not canonically, no, but this is transformative fiction.
He pushes it into her hand awkwardly, and she receives it with surprise and as little grace. She's never received a flower before, from anyone. Never even dared buy them for herself, making do with purloining from gardens or liberating them from place settings.
This one is her own, its delicate golden velvet gentle in her palm, the other hand grasping the thorns too tightly.
She looks up at him slowly, thick with confusion, fear hiding her happiness.
"D..." Her mouth opens and closes, her hands relax.
"I shouldn't have," he mutters and grabs it away, charging for the door.