Jilli! That is so excellent.
Reavers ain't men. Or they forgot how to be. Now they're just nothing. They got out to the edge of the galaxy, to that place of nothing, and that's what they became.
Mal ,'Bushwhacked'
The Great Write Way, Chapter Two: Twice upon a time...
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
sumi - Jan 25, 2006 5:23:25 am PST #5267 of 10001
Art Crawl!!!
Allyson - Jan 25, 2006 6:37:33 am PST #5268 of 10001
Wait, is this real-world child support, where the money goes to buy food for the kids, or MRA fantasyland child support where the women just buy Ferraris and cocaine? -Jessica
Insent Miss Jilli!
Ginger - Jan 25, 2006 6:40:54 am PST #5269 of 10001
"It didn't taste good. It tasted soooo horrible. It tasted like....a vodka martini." - Matilda
That's certainly squeeable, Jilli. Your stuff is both funny and insightful, so I'd think there'd be a market.
erikaj - Jan 25, 2006 6:48:47 am PST #5270 of 10001
Always Anti-fascist!
Yay, Jilli. (still holding out hope for the Bravo makeover show, though.)
deborah grabien - Jan 25, 2006 7:48:05 am PST #5271 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
Jilli, from Marlene, short and sweet:
They're legit. I don't know any of them personally, though.
Betsy HP - Jan 25, 2006 8:49:19 am PST #5272 of 10001
If I only had a brain...
Jillidance! Jillidance!
ChiKat - Jan 25, 2006 9:00:15 am PST #5273 of 10001
That man was going to shank me. Over an omelette. Two eggs and a slice of government cheese. Is that what my life is worth?
WooHoo!!! Go, Jilli!
Atropa - Jan 25, 2006 9:15:22 am PST #5274 of 10001
The artist formerly associated with cupcakes.
Thank you! Now I need to drink more coffee, then compose a coherent, calm, and charming reply to the nice lady.
flail flail flail
deborah grabien - Jan 25, 2006 9:36:11 am PST #5275 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
No flailing. It's a win-win, bebe. And if you need help, we're here.
Someone please kill me. Blind submission to anthology and the upper limit of 7K words isn't a guideline, it's a hard requirement. I am trimming "Restless" like a mad thing.
Damn it. Want this miserable thing the hell off my desk now.
deborah grabien - Jan 25, 2006 4:07:24 pm PST #5276 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
For the Dead Travel Quickly (Longer than drabble length. But I needed to write it.)
So many places, so many windows, so many freeze-frames. All of them seem to be missing something.
London, 1978: an apple tree, rhubarb growing, a bed of bearded iris. The neighbour's cat, Motheringay, stalking caterpillars in the grass. By summer of 1979, there will be a pram under the tree, a baby sleeping in the July heat.
Nice, 1990: Talkative sky, the sea moving to the south, cars and tourists, Africa in the distance where the storms come from. From the second bedroom, the Cathedral of Ste. Reparata, whose acts, it seems, are now considered "spurious".
Paris, 1997: a 12th century church wall, saints bleeding forever in glass. My bedroom, off the Boulevard Fauberge St. Honorè, has a tiny terrace. I drink my morning coffee there, coming indoors when it rains.
Montevarchi, 2000: olive groves, climbing the hillside the way Hannibal once did. My window frames the olives to the north; to the south, our hosts' horses drink and doze, among lemon trees heavy with sourness and grapevines creaking when the wind moves.
So many places, so many roads, all supposed to heal me. All missing something.
Forgotten, unforgiven, I pack up my suitcases and my ghosts, and move on.