Oooh, that's a good one.

Even if my mind did go right to porn.

Hee! Nothing wrong with the porn.

Write it, write it!

t whimper

I hate writing a synopsis.

Among other things, it's so damn hard to avoid Repeated Word Syndrome. I'm running out of synonyms for "capture" and "flee" (such activities playing a prominent part in my plot). And I just caught myself using "refuse" three times in the same brief PARAGRAPH. The antagonist makes the protagonist an offer he believes the protagonist can't refuse, the protagonist scathingly refuses, and the antagonist gives him a night to think about it; if he still refuses in the morning, he'll be executed.

ARGH.

Anyone up for beta-ing a synopsis? I'm planning to enter the Pacific Northwest Writers Association literary contest, science fiction/fantasy category with this puppy (synopsis plus opening chapters, up to 28 pages total), so I'd like to get a few more eyes on it to see if it makes sense and sells the story as something you'd like to read more of.

I'm open. And for the kind of stuff you are writing, I'm part of your audience too. I love alternate history. And a period/location I don't know a lot about, so I'm a good test of whether you are expecting too much of your audience.

And yes I know it is a synopsis, not the book.

Thanks, Typo! Insent.

Two for the road.

Just Gretel (I'm white-fonting this one to preserve -t's sensibilities towards cookie jars)

The cookie jar shattered against the wall, black and white pieces pinging off the counters and appliances, crumbs of oatmeal and raisins pattering to the floor in a rain of false hopes and memories.

He'd surprised her. San Diego was a big city, a desert and a mountain range away from where she'd grown up. No trail for him to follow, she'd thought. Face and form changed, metamorphosized, she was nearly unrecognizable even to herself.

She could come back, he'd said, if she gave the baby up for adoption. His words: an ultimatum; but she'd gotten in the parting shot.

The Condemned Man's Last Words

He always had to have the last word. She wanted steak; he insisted on chicken. When she'd cooked the chicken, he'd complained it was dry, why didn't they have steak?

The next night she cooked filet mignon. It tasted funny, he said, as he scraped the peppercorn crust off (she'd recreated the meal he'd ordered last Valentine's Day.)

"What do you want, specifically?" she asked.

New York Strip, medium-rare with sautéed mushrooms, garlic-mashed potatoes, dinner rolls and roasted asparagus.

She had a baked potato. Gritty, he complained, as he ate his garlic-mashed, with its shot of arsenic.

Thanks for the warning, Sail. You are on fire, drabble-wise!

Heh. It's amazing what one can do when forced to sit in a meeting that has absolutely nothing to do with what you're working on.