Wash ,'Jaynestown'
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
Fabulous idea for a drabble.
Oh, thank god. I was afraid that people were going to hate it.
Anne, that's exactly the way I felt about that picture. That was the living room of my youth
Mine, too. And I want to drabble it, not to mock it, but because it evokes so strongly a specific feeling that I associate with Saturday mornings -- well, not mornings, more like 1 p.m., when cartoons are over, and I felt completely futless.
Familily Snapshot
When had it started? When had he clicked over into darkness?
She could wonder forever, and never find a straight answer. She knew that.
Trailing through her parents' house like a ghost, touching the dark wood paneling Chris had put up, the lacy throws Judy had loved, the accreted filth of neglect griming her fingers, her heart, her memories.
The house was hers now. She could hardly breathe the stale air, with its taint of blood and dust.
Donna paused, hearing the local church chimes. Eight o'clock. Butch, beloved baby brother gone wrong, was keeping his appointment with a lethal injection.
My take on #10 [link]
During the War, the men were all gone. And it seemed stupid to worry about things like hair appointments and fashion when there were bombs falling.
"There's a war on," we told each other, consoling ourselves over things we missed. Like husbands and brothers and sons.
Still, when the cannery machinery broke down and we slipped out back for some fresh air, it didn't take much for us to turn giddy for the camera. There was a war on, and it was important to remember how to live.
Connie, that's lovely.
For some reason writing that has made me terribly weepy.
For some reason writing that has made me terribly weepy.
Maybe it's because large parts of it are starting to apply to us again? In different ways, and differing degrees of magnitude, but still...
Maybe it's because large parts of it are starting to apply to us again? In different ways, and differing degrees of magnitude, but still...
That's some of it, but for me, I think there are various Mother issues starting to rear their ugly little heads. She was a teenager during WWII, and she told lots of stories about her and her own mother working in kitchens and laundries etc.
With apologies to Mister Sondheim
Follies of 1933
The photo had been taken in October, stiff, awkward, acting it out: Essie in her braids, Minnie with her broad cheeks, Gert with her cornhusker's calluses, Jean with her sensitive stomach, Glad with her homesickness.
They'd met at a casting call, five little girls from West Nowhere, Broadway baby wannabes, quavering voices, high kicks, laughter and hope and dreams. They took the apartment on West 48th Street together.
A decade later, they'd scattered and lost touch. Two had found jobs, one was dead at the hands of a back-alley abortionist, two had gone home, fleeing, seeking the solace of familiarity.
You're feeling cheerful today, deb.
Oddly enough, I am.
But these sepia-toned photos bring out my Big Bad.
Heh.