Susan--what if you use Alex's POV? Since he's the one to bring her the news, since he knew Sebastian, and had his own impression of his commander (?) is married, or at least paired, and would have an impression of him as a husband, and would definitely have an impression of her, compared to his own Helen. It might give the reader a step away, to observe her through his eyes.

It doesn't have to be all Alex, of course, but he might be a useful POV for part of it.

A heart drabble.

What You Do To Me

It's beating: slow, even, regular.

You touch me, a light touch, more companionable than anything else. The beats stay regular, but something under my ribcage tells me the speed is up a bit.

Lips to the hollow of my throat, and away goes the regularity; the vagrant brush of the tip of your tongue behind one ear, and farewell, evenness.

Jangling like something wants out, something wants in, something demanding explanation, slamdancing all over the spectrum. I know, after so many years together, that it will be hours before that beat is slow again, or even again, or regular again.

Susan--what if you use Alex's POV? Since he's the one to bring her the news, since he knew Sebastian, and had his own impression of his commander (?) is married, or at least paired, and would have an impression of him as a husband, and would definitely have an impression of her, compared to his own Helen. It might give the reader a step away, to observe her through his eyes.

Well, I was planning to do the whole thing from Jack and Anna's POVs, unless I just had to do a little from my pseudo-villain George's to make his motivation clear. Partly because it's a convention of the genre, and partly because I'm a natural-born POV minimalist, I guess. Also, I tend to write a lot of secondary characters, and if I let Alex have a say, there's no reason to leave out Helen and Beatriz and Juana and Dan and Lt. O'Brian and Captain Murray and the nice French captain and James and Lucy and Lady Windham and Anna's cousin Jamie and Jack's sister Molly and the woman Jack would've most likely married if he'd never enlisted whom I'm thinking of calling Jill except I'm afraid it's too corny and....

It'd get kinda messy.

(FWIW, Alex is a major and Sebastian was a captain, and yes, Helen is Alex's wife. Total army brat. I'd love to do her story, except that'd presumably mean killing Alex, and I like him too.)

Heart

She'd expected to feel something - an instant lifting perhaps, or the sensation of surety settling down on her shoulders.

But nothing - no notification from afar that her problem was solved.

She watched him unwrap the precious package with roughened hands sun dark against the white linen. His touch was patient, respectful, and his brow furrowed.

There it was. Now she knew the truth - he showed her the death of innocence, grace and beauty. She could see it in the red turning to brown, in the silent stillness.

"So this is it, you say?"

"Yes, your majesty. The girl is dead."

ita, wow. Fairy tales now, the very darkest tales humans can tell. And you've taken that character who's usually just a cipher and made him the focus for once, real and reactive. I like it a lot.

And Deb, guh. Mmmm, ah. Yes. Suddenly steamy in here? Or is that just me?

Also with the "Hey, ita, that rocked."

And a drop of my own.

The Easiest Way (heart drabble)

It's not through the ribs. Common mistake, that. Without the proper tools (garden shears, hacksaw, that sort of thing) it can take ten, fifteen minutes to get through the bones.

No, it's through the stomach. A quick slice under the ribcage, and you can just slide your hand through, reach up and grab it. Pull, slice again, and bob's your uncle. Hot, juicy, and ripe from the vine.

Hold still, now.

ita, that was gorgeous, but I'm not placing the fairytale. It's a bit scary, how much I loved the damned things growing up and how hard it is for me separate them as individual stories at the half-century mark. Snow White?

edit: I meant to comment on this earlier:

Yeah, I think that only works when somebody is coming in from outside. Like in one of my fics, I have Jimmy McNulty, coming in to Gee's shift for the first time, refer to Kellerman as an "Opie-looking detective,"

erika, in one of Nicholas Blake's (the pseudonym Cecil Day-Lewis used to write the Nigel Strangeways mysteries), he uses that technique in a way that is so beyond perfect, it's mind-blowing. He's introducing a character, with a particular set of features, and he shows them through Nigel and his sculptress lover Claire's POV. But rather than describe what they both see, he has them thinking the same thing, and when the guy turns away for a minute, Claire whispers "fruit bat!" out of the corner of her mouth, and Nigel grins and nods.

And that's as masterly a piece of "show" as I've ever come across. In two sentences, we see Claire and Nigel and how easily they communicate, after long acquaintance. We see the character's face, very vividly, because those two words - fruit bat - show a particular set of features and quickness.

I love stuff like that. I strive for it.

That's the one, Deb. He brings back a boar's heart or something instead.

This one's just for fun.

Voice and Guitar

Christmas 1976, Kate and I are listening to KSAN.

"Bleah." Kate's disgusted; it's been ten straight songs by male groups. "There aren't enough women playing good hard rock and roll."

"There's Patti Smith." I'm trying to be fair-minded. "OK, she's not exactly head-bang. Debbie Harry? Have you heard Blondie?"

"That's punk. Not the same." Another male voice, screaming Stratocasters. "And don't give me Siouxsee, either."

Out of nowhere, the room fills with raunchy guitar, kidney-grinding bass, a killer voice: He's a magic man....

Our eyes widen. When the song's over, the DJ sounds smug. "That was a band called Heart..."

ita, that was chilling and lovely. And I love Deb's.

Heart Drabble

She’d wanted urgent, hot, even rough. Something to take the edge off her restlessness. He looked the part, with that five o’clock shadow, and eyes so dark she’d fallen into them without a second thought. He looked like rock ‘n’ roll, the kind of boy you didn’t bring home to mother.

But he’d given her a lush adagio, playing her everywhere, in places she never imagined would make a sound. He murmured into the hollow of her throat, words she felt rather than heard. He kissed her.

The one place she hadn’t planned to let him touch was her heart.