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.

Amongst the items on his desk are a glass jar filled with the wrappers from every cigar he has ever smoked and a barometer that no longer works; the latter once belonged to his grandfather. These items and various others on the desk look like they have been there forever; they are dusty and quite settled in their places. The most recent addition to the desk has been there for just over a month. It’s a greeting card in the shape of a black corset. Inside it says, "Take me. I’m yours.". It seems to have found a home there.

I seem to have jumpstarted a last minute run on the topic. This is a good thing; it's a very good thing.

I love all three of those. Mine, for the record and yes the bitter pun was intended, happened this afternoon and hurt like hell.

I have one more to do.

Inventory of a Universe, Ending

Sky, blue, wheeling clouds.

The raucous cry of gulls, off toward Stinson Beach.

The smoking hull of the Caddy, its rear windscreen shattered, its erstwhile occupants scattered.

Soft patches of flowers amongst the scrub that streaks the hillside.

A few smears of blood.

Ruts from the tires, now shredded rubber.

A million pieces of broken glass, pebbled, catching sunlight like diamonds misted with last breath.

All the fallen eucalyptus buttons that ever were.

A girl with a child in her arms.

The child's broken teeth, scattered, someday to become dust, like the child, or dragons in the girl's memory.

dragons in the girl's memory

I love that phrase.

I love that phrase.

Which mythical creature was it whose teeth, if sown in a fertile field, grew into monsters?

Kind of like that.