The picture was all that was left of the fur coat, the fashionable hat and even of the square. He assumed the pigeons, or their great-grandchildren, survived. The picture lay at the bottom of a cigar box, with Cuban seals and flaking paper labels. The box also held a lead soldier, missing one leg, and a pile of letters with foreign stamps, letters asking about jobs, about visas, about connections. He dumped the pile in the barbecue grill and lit a match. The ashes swirled up to meet the ashes of the forgotten world, leaving a shining pool of lead.
The next time you decide to stab me in the back... have the guts to do it to my face.
Mal ,'Ariel'
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.
Ginger - Mar 14, 2005 10:43:31 am PST #556 of 10001
"It didn't taste good. It tasted soooo horrible. It tasted like....a vodka martini." - Matilda
deborah grabien - Mar 14, 2005 10:44:59 am PST #557 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
DAMN, Ginger.
Anne, I COMM'd you.
Connie Neil - Mar 14, 2005 10:51:41 am PST #558 of 10001
brillig
[link] Photo 3
"He's still worried we're not going to get away with it."
"Nonsense, Simone. I'm perfectly confident. Rudolph, how many times have I told you that I hate having my picture taken?"
"What are you going to do with your share, Simone?"
"Oh, Jacqueline, there's this wonderful villa in Nice, it's huge, you should see it."
"Ladies, it's never wise to spend the money before you steal it."
"Leon, you're too practical to be any fun."
"But practical is going to make us rich."
deborah grabien - Mar 14, 2005 10:52:19 am PST #559 of 10001
It really doesn't matter. It's just an opinion. Don't worry about it. Not worth the hassle.
(giggling)
Beverly - Mar 14, 2005 10:52:54 am PST #560 of 10001
Days shrink and grow cold, sunlight through leaves is my song. Winter is long.
Oh Ginger, how wonderful!
One more: Photo #8
It was a holiday weekend in the city, and the five of us were giddy at the freedom from uniforms, schedules and nuns. Judith's parents were hosting us, but we never saw them from Friday afternoon till Monday morn. It was the correct and polite-to-invisibility butler, Charles, who made our arrangements, sent the car, picked up the packages from our shopping trips, booked tickets for the show, arranged our meals, and saw us and our luggage off early Monday morning. That weekend is a blur of laughter and silliness. It's Charles who stands out, stationary in a whirlwind, black and white in a carousel of colors.
Connie Neil - Mar 14, 2005 10:53:16 am PST #561 of 10001
brillig
They're all such escapees from a 60's/70's caper movie. You expect to see George Segal wander by.
Beverly - Mar 14, 2005 11:12:04 am PST #562 of 10001
Days shrink and grow cold, sunlight through leaves is my song. Winter is long.
It was dark, as were all the others on the block, door agape and windows staring, glassless. Charles stayed close as they wandered through the first floor, knowing this was dreadfully difficult, but determined to make the visit possible for her. Her foot slipped, leaving a streak in the soot and a spark of color. She bent and picked it up: a photo as they had been then, before the plague. Human, her mother, her father, her brother, warm and living.
Even fire hadn't completely washed away the old scent of blood and fear, but she was finished here. These ghosts wouldn't haunt her any more.
Amy - Mar 14, 2005 11:25:31 am PST #563 of 10001
Because books.
Man, these are fan-fucking-tastic today. Awesome drabble, Tep. I'm still trying to decide which photo to do first, and madly trying to keep up with comments in LJ, and I can't.
Off to find a quiet place where the baby can't find me (oh, stop, just for a minute -- sheesh) and think.
Beverly - Mar 14, 2005 11:29:56 am PST #564 of 10001
Days shrink and grow cold, sunlight through leaves is my song. Winter is long.
He looked wonderfully well, and Roger wanted nothing more than to hold him close. But he contented himself with sitting next to him as they talked, and was overjoyed that Charles didn’t move away from his touch—in fact he seemed to draw a little strength and courage from it. There was none of the pallor there had been before, obviously they were seeing that he got outside occasionally. They talked of inconsequentialities, Charles making less of an obvious effort as the afternoon wore on. Roger's heart turned over in his chest. If only the attendant would look away, he might risk stealing a kiss.
I don't know who "Charles" is, but he seems to belong in my drabbles today.
Connie Neil - Mar 14, 2005 12:04:29 pm PST #565 of 10001
brillig
t the writing next to Photo 1 is a bit of verse. I ran it through an online Polish translator. I didn't get a full translation, but I got enough. Thank god no one asks why I cry at my computer
Beloved Stasi, in token of remembrance
In later years, when people asked where she was, it was sufficient to say, "She died during . . ." People nodded and asked no more. They had names of their own, who had been lost during.
They'd been happy, those days in Venice. War was ended, there would be no more war. The news from reparations-battered Germany would come to nothing. They knew it was lies, but happy days in Venice were only possible on a sea of lies.
Beloved Stasi, whose memory lived among tombs and photographs, never lost as long as someone knew her name.