I did my first drabble.

Go me! I got my words out!!!

You sure did, and they're damned good words, too.

Still thinking. And under the influence of Demon Fanfic too.

Teppy, it just occurs to me - should we post them here?

I mean, fic gets posted in the fic thread; should your original fiction drabbles be posted here?

You could post them here if you want to; I tell you, it's not "my" drabble community. All I did was set it up, and I'll post a challenge once a week.

I'm just thrilled to see that people like it, and that it's getting people to write. (Which reminds me that I need to write my own drabble.)

I think posting them here would be a good thing; people without livejournal could read them.

I've done two. One's a non-specific, one (dayum!) my first Ringan and Penny that isn't between hard covers. And I've only just realised - thematically, they're opposites, sad'nglad.

Over

This is almost over.

She moves her coffee cup, imprecise little twists. It's nerves, nothing more. She knows it irritates him; once, a day or an hour or a century ago, she would have stopped, apologised. That time is long past.

He pushes his plate away. This is a travesty, a joke. He looks at the papers in the centre of the table. Just paper, and a pen. They might as well be a flaming sword.

She lifts her eyes. There's nothing in them to make him stay.

He takes up the pen, and signs the divorce papers.

Over, now.

---

Breakfast in Glastonbury

Penny sits across the breakfast table, her cloudy hair tousled, her feet bare.

“Tea?”

“Mmm.”

Ringan pours her a cup, adds sugar and cream. Her storm-coloured eyes are still misted with sleep. Her life in the theatre has made her a night owl; she’s never been quick to wake in the morning.

She sips the tea, and smiles at him. He regards her across plates and cups and sheet music, remembering other mornings like this one. Realising that, no matter how many there may be, there will never be enough of them, he leans across the table to kiss her.

Well, here's mine as well, then.

SNAFU

Sandra slammed her mobile onto the table, and glowered at it.

"Let me guess," Joanna said. "He doesn't want you back."

"The good for nothing layabout," Sandra agreed, her head nodding angrily with every word. "Son of a bitch."

Accustomed to seeing her friend in the dumps, Joanna stood and began to move around Sandra's kitchen. "Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee," Sandra said. When she looked up, Joanna could see the tears glinted at the edges of her eyes, reflecting the yellows and chromes of the kitchen. The colours, cheerful in direct morning sunlight, seemed suitably harsh in Sandra's weeping eyes.

Even though it would seem thematically appropriate, I'm not sure if I'll post mine...not sure if I like it. next time, maybe.Nice description, Am.(My weakest link, btw)

Here's mine. I went for a basic working title.

GWW Challenge#1 4/14/04

"You gonna eat that pickle?"

She started at the sound of his voice. For a minute, she had forgotten where she was. Who she was with.

Why had she ordered that rueben to begin with? Greasy and sloppy-lunch as a metaphor for life-she felt her stomach turn at the prospect of either.

"No, you go ahead."

He didn't need more of an invitation but grabbed her pickle ate it as noisily as he'd disposed of the rest of his own lunch.

She'd always pictured professional killers as neat, tidy men.

Guess it took all kinds.

Love that. But then hit men are always a good time for me.