100 words exactly.

Just so I'm clear on the drabbling...the only rule is no more than 100 words?

The definition of a drabble is 100 words exactly, BUT, frankly, nobody is going to shoot you if you're under or over. I mean, going WAY over makes it no longer a drabble, but for the purposes of this specific drabble community, I'm not going to be a Word Count Policewoman.

Ginger, I loved that.

Rock and Roll Memory

In the little room behind the stage, three girls in bright lipstick are playing with the nitrous tank.

Out in the house, the place is filling up. Familiar faces: there's the earth mama, barefoot and vegan, feathers twined in her hair, ready to dance. There's the skinny dude, selling you tabs. There's the little girl with her ass-crack showing; she'll be up on her boyfriend's shoulders five minutes into the show. The air's full of pot smoke.

The roadies are busy, concentrating. Onstage, guitars sit on stands, amps are ready, and the houselights go down.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome..."

You know, I had no idea I was going to start doing this.

***

For the tourists who visit your city, the French Quarter is a hive of activity after dark. They trip wide-eyed along Bourbon Street, gawking at the strip clubs, letting their ears be assaulted by the music blaring out of bars and t-shirt shops.

But you live here. You know better. You see more. You've walked along Royal at nine in the morning, when the previous night's rain still soaks the pavement, when the only sound is the soft clop-clop of a horse's hooves, when there's nothing more beautiful than the sunlight bouncing off the cobblestones of the empty, quiet street.

Mmmm. I really like that, Dana. Especially the last paragraph, with three short sentences followed by one really long one. That long sentence is a perfect example of using sentence structure to evoke the appropriate feeling. Mmm.

Dana wrote about home too!

*******

For a moment, she can’t remember where she is, or how she got there. The family dramas fall away as she sees every star; close enough to touch, far away enough to flee to, seeing them all for the first time since ...

Why did growing up mean losing the night sky? Here in the boat (someone’s steering it, aren’t they?) going up the river (which river, again?) to the mysterious party, there is nothing but lapping water, scared silence of her companions, and stars that smell of jasmine.

For a moment she shares their terror, but she loves it.

Ooh, nice, you guys.

Heh. I love both of those - I really love ita's line about growing up to lose the night sky. That whole city thing, where you think you can see the stars, and can't.

In wrote about home, as well. Ages 14 to twentysomething, theatres are where I lived.

Drabble #2

The white china knob turns, the door opens into a white box, square, containing bed, chair, desk, lamp. A faded rag rug skids on the dark glossy floorboards, a blue cotton throw lies folded over the bed's footrail.

The windows draw her. One opens out over the slate roof, and looks to the cottage, the long gardens, the line of century cherry trees, the pond where the bronze heron stands amid fountain spray. The larger casement window's wavy panes frame the formal garden, the witch's garden, the sundial and the dolphin fountain, algae-grown and streaked since the pump quit working.

Campsite

She steps out of the tent. Goosebumps rise on bare arms, but the promise of the heat of the day is there, in the humdity, in the wet summer smell of the grass. The birds pipe a frantic tune to help the sun rise. It seems to be working – light shines clear and strong on the field, all the greens of the grasses and the leaves translucent and glowing, like a fire seen through thin jade. The river is diamonds at the bottom of the limestone bluff, the sun flashing boldly back from the clear water flying over smooth rocks.