'Time Bomb'
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
Amy, that one came while I was driving home from work today. I had to stop at the library to pick up a hold request and as soon as I got there I pulled out my little notebook from my purse so I could jot it all down. I was so afraid I'd forget some of the phrases I wanted to use by the time I got home, if I didn't.
And Jilli's was very gothic. Taking a nice, sunny day of boating and turning into something dark. I loved it!
And Jilli's was very gothic. Taking a nice, sunny day of boating and turning into something dark. I loved it!
beams
Of course, it helps that I've been listening to music inspired by Edward Gorey's work.
I've been floored by everyone else's pieces.
Of course, it helps that I've been listening to music inspired by Edward Gorey's work
Whatever floats your boat, Jilli. Or, not.
(giggling like a deranged thing over here)
Jilli, one does wonder if the Lady Hibiscus came from that wellknown Olde English town of Washbasin-on-the-Drainboard...
Don't forget to wear some flowers in your hair...
In the Service of Mister Bill Graham
Suitcase, ticket, purse. Suitcase, ticket, purse. Suitcase -
"I wish I was coming with you."
She glances at Chad, and tries to smile. Act normally. "You'd be bored to death. I'm going to look at Berkeley and UCSF." Act normally. Pretend the lie is the truth.
"You be careful, Jean. I've heard some wild rumours about Frisco."
Her fingers tighten momentarily. The response to a fan letter she wrote is folded small in her pocket. I could use a smart assistant - if you're ever out here...
"So, you'll be back when, again?"
It's a one-way ticket. Her little secret.
Is it possible that Hibiscus is a Buffista? She bought the crown from Ebay and the seaweed is to disguise her seret underwater lair where she hovers over a keyboard and laughs manically while sending spam mail and reports innocently back to the Pheonix Board to speak about her hard day at an imaginary work place?
No?
Then I say her sister pushed her and she was nibbled to death by ducks.
It hurts to stand and move around, but she knows it would hurt her more to stay.
Pretty clothes, brave face, glasses firmly between her and the world, no looking back. She keeps her gaze in her hand instead, counting and recounting the change. Still eighty seven cents, she notes. But she doesn't trust herself to look anywhere else, especially towards the station exit. This busywork keeps her eyes occupied, and her hands from pressing to her empty abdomen.
San Francisco. Christmas in a strange city, alone.
Sometimes you have to pick the devil you know nothing about.
All aboard.
ita, that one stings. Wow.
Agreed. That one has teeth.
Photo #5: [link]
She’d always loved that nightgown. Gramma had made it from the fabric they’d picked out together, soft flannel covered in flowers. The lace at the cuffs and collar had been a surprise. She remembered how she had begged to be allowed to change and how Mom said young ladies didn’t wear pajamas at the dinner table. She remembered Dad saying they could make a birthday exception, and then how Butch had wanted to wear jammies too. It had felt so wicked to break the rules, to eat her meatloaf with bare feet kicking under the table.
Wicked was simpler then.