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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.

Photo 4

She never believed me when I told her she was beautiful.

“Beauty is for girls. And those great paintings you love so much.” A pretty face didn’t put food on the table, or wash the clothes. Beauty was a luxury, and the only luxury she wanted was more time.

I couldn’t convince her that strength and patience and sacrifice had made her face more captivating as the years went by. That love had written itself into her features, until the only thing I saw when I stepped behind the camera was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Amy, that was wonderful.

With so many pictures to choose from and so many good drabbles already posted, it's going to be hard to come up with anything more on my part. I need to go sit and devise a new torture.

Torture has been achieved.

Photo #6.

The Archaeologist

I wasn’t in long pants, yet. Those were reserved for Bob. He’d started wearing them two summers earlier. A year later, he went off to Oxford.

“I’m going to become the world’s greatest archaeologist,” he boasted.

I believed him. We’d spent summers digging up abandoned compost heaps in the backyard, getting grass stains on our knickers. Mother would complain about the cost of keeping us in worsted.

Yesterday, we received a telegram from the War Office along with a fancy medal in a box. Three months in the army and his convoy was blown up in the evacuation of Gaza.

You people are killing me with these. Sail, here's a spooky bit of synchronicity for you - I'd looked at that one and thought, hmmmm, Indiana Jones...? Young Indy?

I just finished reading "The Egyptologist" by Arthur Philips. It inspired me.

t dances into the thread

They liked my love scene! They liked my love scene!

OK, it was just a kissing scene, but a hot one. At least, it was meant to be hot, but I wasn't sure it actually was, because I don't yet have confidence in my ability to get Teh Sexy from my brain onto the page. So I was afraid it was too clinical or too cliche or too much or not enough or something. But they liked it! One group member, J (female) suggested I tone down one part that she thought was too much too soon, and A (male) said, "The upper half of my body agrees with you, but the lower half likes the way it's written."

t bounce bounce bounce

Bwah!

That's some good commentary there. I like A.

Oh, A is great, and has a wonderful eye for that perfect descriptive detail that says it all. One thing we were discussing after we agreed that I had, for the most part, written a satisfactorily hot scene was how the characters should react post-kiss when they realize that, oops, they've been doing something hella inappropriate and are now going to have to live with the consequences. We decided we needed some kind of action for Jack to go with his dialogue ("Bloody hell."), but J and I couldn't think what. A thought for a moment and said, "He'll be running his hand through his hair--because that's where Anna was touching him.") Perfect, no?

Definitely not too shabby. Will he be aware of it? Jack, I mean?