I decided to flesh out my original "behind the door" drabble this time, which is sort of playing it safe as a Guy Story, but with my own spin. And I have a beginning already so that saves me half a day's mindfucking, which, in these troubled times, is an important consideration.(I need to pace myself on that or I'll be bald by mid-term elections, and on my fifteenth draft of the book, too.)ETA: And there is plenty of time for me to show them my rack once we like each other, you know?

Actually, for this week's drabble topic, I'm going to go back to one we've already done, though it was a year and a half ago. That *should* be enough time elapsed that the resulting drabbles will be fresh and new.

If you don't like the idea of repeating a topic, please say so, and I'll come up with something new.

But for now --

Challenge #77 (behind the door[s]) is now closed.

Challenge #78 is a blast from the past, the very first drabble topic: two people are sitting at a table, opposite each other.

Hit it.

Have begun the final full chapter of Cruel Sister. Then the epilogue, and then done.

Please Jebus and all the gods of small things, don't let this damned thing suck.

Go, Deb! I am confident it will not suck.

If it does, I am so hosed there will never be dry land again. No time to change if it sucks - deadline is 15 November.

Gah!

The Proposal

I love this bar. It holds many memories. After show parties, after rehearsal parties, just hanging out for the hell of it, LARGE beers. Making out under the moose. But that was many years ago and I’m losing my patience. Five years and still no proposal. I’ve asked him twice – on bended knee no less – and I got, “Not yet.” Pfah. I watch him order another LARGE beer and smile sloppily in my direction. I’m still sober. He comes over and sits next to me and takes my hand.

“Will you marry me?”

“Fuck off.”

Turns out, he meant it.

Heh.

Isn't it romantic...

Would anyone take a look at the story I've got so far...I'm fearing it's an actionless wonder and given the rest of these guys seem to work in a shooting or a sweaty bangfest every page or so, I can't be having that. Because despite the fact that my throbbing lance is non-existent, I still want it to be bigger.

In Morning Sun

Back on Erica Road, we had a small glass-topped table. It sat in front of the glass deck doors. The kitchen, small and oddly shaped, was inadequate for anything other than cursing as I cooked.

We ate - when I could get him to eat - at the glass-topped table. We'd sit facing each other, me watching him pick at his food, worrying that I wasn't doing enough, doing anything right.

Sometimes, catching my fret, he'd look up and smile. For a moment, we'd face each other in peace, a stray beam of sunlight lying like a sword between us.