Oooh, Cash, I like that one. Very evocative of the mood.

Haven't done a drabble in a bit, so:

Turn left, twist your right hip into the wall. Tuck your right foot up behind; can you reach it? Yeah, okay.

Now you're in position. Your left hand aches, the way you've got it crimped around that sharp edge. No time like the present. Raise your right hand skyward, drive off the ball of your left foot, push hard as the muscles in your right foot begin to cramp.

You can't even see the hold, but you know it's there, you saw it three seconds ago, but now your head's tucked under the overhang and all you can do is slap the wall with your right hand, fumbling around for that vital, life-saving, tiny little pocket.

It's not there; and you push just a little harder off that poor, over-extended left foot. Your right hand flails, and the tip of one finger touches something--is that it? are you there?--and the right foot, forgotten and vindictive about it, slips.

Down you come, swinging wide from the wall--thank god for the route-setters who know where to place the bolts. "Fuck!" You dangle, pants rucked up under your harness, hair caught in your sunglasses.

"You had it," says your belayer; but she's dubious. And you're losing the daylight.

This is what climbers mean when they say a route is interesting.

Damn, 'suela. Is that about a particular route, autobiographical?

Nah, I made it up, although I've certainly been in that position more than once. I don't lead all that much, though. But that's how getting over an overhang can feel, sometimes.

Interesting, Consuela.

Hubby and I stopped by a rock climbing facility a few days ago, and I was in awe of the people who clambered up and down that wall and over the over hangs. Hubby rightly noted that part of my enjoyment came from very healthy young men showing off their muscles.

Yes indeed, Connie. The healthy young men (and women!) at my gym are very nice to watch. The last time I was there I was running on the treadmill and I watched a young man hanging from a pull-up bar. And then he would lift his straight legs and swing them in a circle, pulling them up until his feet were pointing towards the ceiling, and then over and around and down, and then back up. It was such an exhibition of abdominal strength that I've never seen. Wow.

I found this in kind of a random websearch yesterday and thought it might be of interest to other would-be(or actual) murder scribes here. [link]

Writer, Down the Years

Who are you
Long and slender, bent and broken
Who owns that smile, that face
Those words unspoken?

Is there a hand, a heart, a voice, a touch
To send my soul out dancing
Or are you held here, in my memory
Posed for memory's romancing?

I take you as you were, brown eyes and all
And put you near me
I write a history that should have been
But you can't hear me.

And if I pose you in another book
Our world of maybe
Could I retrieve you for another look?

My love
My life
My heart

My baby?