the last three stanzas of your life will purely suck.

• snerk!*

Yep. One of McDonald's, and damned funny. If I survive tomorrow - which is questionable, every year at this date - I'll savour it at length.

I believe he left off the bit about not believing what your siblings tell you when you ask if they've seen your "lower social status than you are" lover. (Bruton Town)

Getting a last-minute rain drabble in. This one's been percolating all week and it's time I let the fucker out.

Hip Deep

I'm kneedeep in water.

It's amazing. Grey sky, apocalyptic, indistinguishable from where it meets a stormy sea.

The sane denizens of San Francisco are indoors, storm-watching from office windows, from kitchens, from the local Starbucks, sucking down chai lattes, impatient for the sun.

I'm on the sand at Ocean Beach. Wind at my back wants to push me out to sea: I'm tempted to let it. Rain, wash the pain away.

A gust takes me forward, up to my thighs. I think, childlike: one more push, I'll know, live or die.

The tide recedes, dancing away from me. And the rain comes down.

Very late, but new drabble time!

Challenge #73 (rain) is now closed.

Challenge #74 is, since we haven't done it for a while, pictures from the Look At Me website. Drabble as many as you like, and please include the link to the photo, so we can see the image that goes with the drabble.

One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.

Man, those are so great. Number Nine looks like an Ezra Jack Keats book.

Nobody minds if I beat the shit out of the Salon book reviewer that called the detective story "devoid of artistic merit," do they? Or maybe Deb should...it's not a road trip for DebG. I should carve him up and write "Dennis Lehane sent me" on the wall in blood. What a malaka Ok...we all(Well, those of us that love hard-boiled) love Raymond Chandler and his sexy metaphors, right? But to say it's all downhill since...snobbish much? Raymond Chandler would drink himself to death all over again to not be part of such a stupid argument. Those guys were geniuses, but dag. And he trashed some of my favorites, too(Nobody in here.) And for once, I think "Sir, what have you written lately?"

Nobody minds if I beat the shit out of the Salon book reviewer that called the detective story "devoid of artistic merit," do they?

I'll hold him down for you.

The entire genre of detective stories? That's just completely nuts. You'd think I'd be used to it, being a romance writer, but the mind still boggles. That's painting with a brush as broad as the Great Plains.

Nobody minds if I beat the shit out of the Salon book reviewer that called the detective story "devoid of artistic merit," do they?

Including Conan Doyle? Including Poe? Including Chandler? Can I help you with the beating?

Wrong-headed people shouldn't be allowed to have a head. IJS.