Buffy ,'Potential'
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
A French financier, a dom named Cecile (good heavens), a Chagall...
I'm swooning. Damn, I wish I wrote that kind of mystery. Said it before, and I'll say it again, I couldn't come up with a plot like this one if I practiced for three weeks in a dark room first.
For some reason, it makes me very, very happy that these sort of things do happen in real life.
For some reason, it makes me very, very happy that these sort of things do happen in real life.
giggling like a twelve-year-old, over here
Wow, I'd love to write a caper like that.. One story at a time, though. Everytime that cell door dings, another Leonard gets his wings.(although mixed with Le Carre or somebody) EL does say he gets inspired by stuff in the paper all the time.
For some reason, it makes me very, very happy that these sort of things do happen in real life.
it's reassuring in a chaotic, "the world has not gone under to oppression" sort of way.
Gritty, deb, and hard to do.
1. On the cheekbone, where the ring cut through. He had tried to patch it with clumsy hands and apologies.
2. Fingertips of the left hand - she swore she'd been holding the gun just like on TV.
3. Assorted, minor and deftly repaired. The group had both a training budget, and expert first aid.
4. Flesh wound, right arm. Not bad, considering it was her first time out, and the odds.
5. Lower abdomen, bikini cut. She'd never thought it possible to be scarred in the interests of life, not death. She'd never thought it could be so worth it.
I like that one, ita. Sort of like when they ask you at a doctor's office if you have any identifying marks, scars, tattoos, etc. A lot of history found there.
Honey Bunches of Oats:
The Attic
“Dad said it was up in the attic,” she muttered to herself. Stepping over a stack of old Auto Trader magazines, she slid between a dresser and some boxes of jumbled vacuum tubes and antique electronics parts stacked up in her brother’s old bedroom. Reaching the attic door, she turned the knob. The door was stuck. With a good, hard tug it opened unexpectedly, slamming with a loud bang into the side of the dresser. She shrugged at one more paint chip among hundreds. It’s not as if he even used it anymore since he had taken over Mike’s bedroom.