drabble

On pay days, I think of cheap plane fares to Vegas. Of the help wanted sign on every casino. I could do janitorial, I'm smart enough to be a table dealer or something.

But escape by myself is not freedom, it's cowardice and dishonor. My soul is not yet so dead that I can consider abandoning him.

But on pay days, I think.

You may want to upgrade to firefox at some point. In spite of all its problems Firefox works a lot better than basic netscape.

I don't want to have to get familiar with a new browser. Or a new OS. Or whatever it's called.

I am NOT technologically inclined, and if that puts me out of the Smart Gurls All Love Math And Science club, so be it, c'est la vie. I've written six novels in Word and I still don't know how to change settings without fumbling.

Wow, good drabbles, all!

Drabble: (Hopefully one of these days I'll actually be able to come up with something poignant. In the meantime...)

“I understand your concern, my lord.” Devin replied. “But the Kildion cannot go unanswered.” Lord Rendall stood, stroking his iron-colored beard. “What you’re proposing could lead to war.” Devin shook his head. “War is coming either way, my lord. It is better…” “Dude, how much longer is this going to take?” The two teenagers blinked at their friend. “What?” “Nevermind. I’m gonna go play Halo. Let me know when we get back to killing orcs.” He pushed away from the table to stand up, rattling dice and die-cast elves and goblins.

Not everyone wants to escape quite the same way.

More of my usual, cheering, uplifting drabbleness.
If you like pina coladas... Ok, so maybe nobody gets obsessed with *that* “Escape” but I suppose that has been one of the thoughts I come back to.”I gotta get out of here.” Even though I know the thing that holds me back the most is even more dependable in my life than the punishing orb I’d swap for fog in a New York minute. There is no escaping that, only through ecstacies of religious fervor or the sexy pessimism of teenaged death worship. I carry my own inner city around with me and there is no gentrification project; I suppose I’m better off not having yuppie families want to make my legs into condos, but at least they’d be used for something that way. What do you do when you’re born to run, and you can’t?

What do you do when you’re born to run, and you can’t?

Crikey, woman. Immediate response to that is so visceral, it hurts.

Damn, erika. That hurts.

Oh Erika. That's one powerful piece of writing.

Thanks, all. Not bad for somebody who thought she lost her mojo, I suppose.

(I know, I know...it's been ages. I'm rusty.)

Escape

The craftiest prisons disguise themselves. Alcatraz is an island in the San Francisco Bay. Guantanamo Bay is a tropical paradise. These are the jails we never suspect.

My house sat on ten acres of land in the middle of the state forest. It had a lovely curved porch with ceiling fans and a landscaped garden. The office had vaulted ceilings and four skylights; a television with Tivo and overflowing bookcases. The rooms hid their bars well.

Every night I worked at the walls of my cell in secret: one inch at a time through the glowing screen of my laptop.