Been there, read that.
Yep. And the New York Times probably reviewed it.
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
Been there, read that.
Yep. And the New York Times probably reviewed it.
Teppy! Topic, ma'am? It's Monday.
I could suggest "wang"...
Hunger and thirst?
Persistence?
The human voice?
Bad Teppy! Bad!
Challenge #84 (lost in translation) is now closed.
Challenge #85 is pose (and, of course, any variation thereof -- poses, posing, poseurs, strike a pose, etc.)
On The Cover of Rolling Stone
"Turn your head - perfect."
Click, light, another shot done. He's wearing a jacket: silver, lightning bolts up the sleeves. Damned thing weighs a ton, and he had dialysis two days ago. It's bright in here, too warm. He looks desperately tired.
"Almost done?" I want to cry. I don't usually come to shoots, but he's been ill. The photographer clicks away.
He catches my eye, and I smile. They'll airbrush the illness from his eyes, the exhaustion from his face. All a pose; whether or not the camera loves him, I'll take him home, and show him I do.
Good one, Deb.
It's short. But, well, there you go.
Pose
Hands clasped. No smile. Mouth closed.
The body seems to automatically go into this position.
Hands clasped. No smile. Mouth closed.
Give him the remote. He’s only sleeping and will be pissed if he can’t find it when he wakes.
Hands clasped. No smile. Mouth closed.
I want to scream. I want to strike. I want to wake up from this awful dream.
Hands clasped. No smile. Mouth closed. Tears streaming down my face.
The pose of death.
For the living.
Oh, Aimee. Ouch, and more ouch.
OK, two drabbles on this one, two ouchies. I suspect anything I write on this one is going to be either grief or erotica, or possible both.
Meh.
Gah, those are amazing, Aimee and Deb.