What AmyLiz said, Kalshane. No worries. (You should see some of the "blue" drabbles we did awhile back--there were some very silly ones, IIRC.)

Escape

This week, he’s grounded. His life is a no-fly zone, wings clipped, engine stalled – “Pick a metaphor, Mom, I got it.”

It’s not fair, because it’s summer. So he missed curfew. Big deal. It’s not like he wasn’t going to come home eventually.

But he dreams of that. He’s almost fifteen – he could do it. A room somewhere, his skateboard, his iPod, maybe a job at Mickey D’s for cash. No school. No way. That’s grounding all week long, nine months of the year.

He’s got nowhere to go. So he crawls back into bed. Sleep is an escape, too.

Okay, cool. Just wanted to make sure I wasn't stepping on any toes. I know that others have posted funny stuff before, but they have also developed "cred" with serious posts as well. I felt a bit like the guy at a coffee house I used to frequent in my younger days who would get up to the mic every week and yell "Bitch, I want my records back!" and then sit back down.

I felt a bit like the guy at a coffee house I used to frequent in my younger days who would get up to the mic every week and yell "Bitch, I want my records back!" and then sit back down.

Bwah!

Not only is it all about writing, I'd say the lighter stuff is a needed counterbalance to some of the heavier stuff.

"Pick a metaphor, Mom...." Oh, dear.

Well, some of mine have been fanfic in the past. Don't worry about it. I'm just thinking of escape a lot right now.

felt a bit like the guy at a coffee house I used to frequent in my younger days who would get up to the mic every week and yell "Bitch, I want my records back!" and then sit back down.

Stop writing about me!

looks around nervously

Never mind.

But it's not been the same since she took my Tina Turner "Private Dancer."

Kalshane, I read your drabble and thought, "God damn, I miss D&D." Hubby's roped me into his miniature battles gaming, but nothing beats the visceral rush of rolling that natural 20 that means your back-against-the-wall sorta-hero just single-handedly saved the world.

Where's my character sheets? Where's my dice? Hell, where's my DM shield, I miss the joy of half a dozen grown-ups staring at me in dread while I rattle a handful of dice that will decide their fates.

Maybe I should become a dominatrix, or something. I seem to enjoy playing with people.

Escape

By this time, the damp has spread past the growing hole in the roof, past the stains on the ceiling and the wrinkling walls, and into the air itself. It finally comes to rest in musty book spines, clammy pillowcases and chilly silence. The landlord blusters about his plans for fresh paint and new countertops, steering his prospects away from the visible rot, and yet we say nothing: it's no longer our home.

Tomorrow, a new house, dry and sound and solid, a safe haven for dreams. The old house will have to find its own way to get away.

Fuckin' A, these are some great drabbles!

Kalshane, I was thinking about writing about gaming also, fwiw.