Deb, erika, those were wonderful. And even more interesting back to back.

What would people think about annthology, a collection of these in book form?

I would play. What a fun idea.

Oh, thank you... funny, I was expecting something else entirely but I'm beyond pleased at what I got. You can call it anything but "Outsider Art" because I just saw the "King of The Hill" where poor Peggy ends up in an exhibition with Arlen's local half-wit called "I Ain't Got No Learning" and that's what the called that.(And the disability-rights part of me is upset that I typed "half-wit" but that is what Jimmy Whitcher is...his character is not full enough to encapsulate "man with a cognitive disability" or whatever that part of me might insist upon.) I'd be interested in being anthologized, Deb.

I think these would make a very interesting anthology. Mmmmmm. There's some dark delicious words looking to get out into the world.

And I've got a question, especially for Teppy. What would people think about annthology, a collection of these in book form? I could pitch it to my agent, if everyone wanted to play.

I think it's a GREAT idea! And, certainly, not everyone has to play; it could be strictly opt-in, on a drabble-by-drabble basis.

This one couldn't be in it...it's fanfic of one of the great televised dances ever, imo. My absolute last "Autofocus" H:LOTS fic.
The first day of being Sergeant sucked. No celebration, and jerked out of my own environment to work murders in a bank, which was more like sitting around with my thumb up my ass. Beau and I always had this joke that there was mojo in my desk that kept my clearance rate high,but if that was true, it didn’t make the trip. Be careful what you wish for, huh? I had made up this dumb lie about a date so that I could be free to celebrate my promotion my own way, but, hell, might as well celebrate my next burning bladder infection as that.So I was taking up stool space at the Waterfront, after deflecting Munch’s nosy question with a lesbian joke.

It made me smile when he remembered my drink. My smile is harder to make than my hard face. When did that happen? A couple hundred murders ago, huh? People tell me I was fun once. I barely remember now.

”Dance with me,” he said, and looked at me that way that always made me embarrassed.

“I...uh, no. I don’t think so.” I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea, and I’m a terrible dancer. Carrie used to call me Butch cause I walked so mannish, but nobody really walked the way Carrie faked as a teenager, with all the wiggle and jiggle and everything. Carrie wanted fries with her shake. But still, I felt self-conscious.”No.” I said, but my heart beat faster. Maybe I was embarrassed because John might have the right idea and I couldn’t handle that. Still, what’s to handle? A Munch crush had the shelf-life of my Strawberry Yoplait. Still, I couldn’t help but ask Jesus, Mary, and Joseph for a big crowd to walk right in.

It stayed pretty deserted. I should’ve asked Saint Christopher instead. Munchkin caught me scanning the room and, detective or not, misread my thoughts completely.

“Come on, Howard...there’s nobody conscious in here. I’ll let you lead.” The biggest surprise was how soft his hands were.

so incredibly stoked for you, deb!!

Yeah...wrod. Got distracted by my double-postitis.

deb, sounds like another winner!

I think an anthology would be cool. Especially for those of us who've never been published. It could be a heck of an opportunity.

I like the idea of an anthology. I'm assuming we could opt in or out for specific drabbles.

Today I did my regular afternoon pages for the first time since Dad died. (I did some writing on the plane on the way home, but that was "Inspiration strikes, might as well use it," rather than "It's writing time, now buckle down and do it whether the muse is there or not.") It was hard, not in a mourning sense (that comes and goes and is more of an ongoing background to everything than something that changes what I don't want to do), but in that my writing muscles are rusty and I'm trying to break back in through a tough scene. But I got my four pages, even though I doubt more than one and a half will make it to the final version. Rusty writing muscles mean rambling my way back into the story.