Drabble #2: place

Almost-but-not-quite too dark to see, red walls and glossy black tables that only show up in the flickering of the candle flames and the rhythmic punctuation of the strobes. The flare of a lighter gives a snap shot glimpse of dark eyes and a pout, both outlined in black.

It smells faintly of the sweat from the dance floor, but is almost hidden by the sharpness of a spilled drink, a haze of cigarette smoke, and eddies of incense. If it were quiet, you’d be able to hear the creak of leather, the faint squeak of vinyl, the rustling of lace and petticoats. But even the most private of conversations can be held in shouting anonymity, hidden under the thundering music screaming about lust, darkened dreams, and decay.

Aaaaand one other, which I'm not sure I'm happy with, but oh well.

By day, there’s just a ragged expanse of green, punctuated with bright dandelions. Bordered on two sides by battered wood in need of more white paint, on another by chain link almost hidden under bindweed, thistles, and blackberry vines, it could be any carelessly-maintained back yard.

By night, the bindweed, thistles, and blackberry vines are iced silver by the moon. By night, you know the apple tree is growing toward something instead of merely being bent by time. The breezes don’t bring bees and butterflies, but the scent of unknown flowers, and whispers just at the edge of hearing.

I know that apple tree, and love that drabble.

Here's another one from me.

Florence

Sunlight, the smell of sweet grappa moving in the still summer air, with the distant rustle of pigeons' wings in the piazza.

The roofs are red, famously so. At the end of a shadowy stretch, the African men roll out their blankets, stocked with fake Gucci and Prada, oddly interspersed with bullwhips and incense cones. The stretch is a tunnel. Those who walk from the lungarno to the Piazza Della Signori pass beneath the stone eyes of ageless greats: Dante, Machiavelli, Michelangelo.

In the piazza, David stands young and valiant. Bats wheel in the Tuscan sky, and dinner is cooking.

99 words exactly:

The sun burns your feet and you wipe your sweaty face on your shoulder, hands busy pulling up rope as Tash climbs.

You lean out against the anchor and look down, past Tash, past the shaded jungle at the bottom, to the beach three hundred feet below. With the sun so high, you can see the turtles turning circles in the lagoon. Tourists – pale, burned, brown -- scatter across the sand in indecipherable patterns.

A longtail runs onto the beach and three people jump out, packs heavy. From here you can't hear the boatman cry, "Ao Nang! Ao Nang!"

Here's my try. Somewhat less fond a remembrance than the rest.

My school had no Sunnydale High library, musty, welcoming, full of old books. We had fluorescent lights and two long banks of computers, a few tables, half-empty metal bookshelves. The library was for occasional research, not the anemic fiction section. All the books had cellophane-wrapped covers-- they were too shiny, too crinkly and new for comfort. Too bright, too loud, too sterile; it was only better than the old library because the old library had been two converted classrooms with no ceiling tiles and cement floors. About all you could say for the new library was: it had carpet.

I think I cheated. Within this place, I can be anyone. I can love, hate, and even kill.I’ve committed two murders just this year, and nobody can lay a finger on me. I change sexes, religions and personal histories...I live other lives, and stay put at my desk. Such power from a tiny continent of molded plastic, the letters like twenty-six islands I climb on, the spaces between covered with fine white dust.Maybe it snows in this tiny country I could hold in my lap, or have fall to the floor.Every time I go, it’s a different experience, but no travel agent would book anyone here.

Hmm. LJ isn't letting me post right now, so I'll put Place Drabble #1 here:

***

The rain beats on the roof in a steady metallic rhythm, and you shift in the narrow vinyl seat. Though it's night on the other side of the windows, you can't see anything through the condensation on them. You shift again, and try to decipher the song on the radio -- kept low, after last time -- but all you can make out is an angry-sounding guitar.

It's hot in here, and cramped, and smells like stale beer and cigarette smoke. You wonder, not for the first time, if people really do have actual sex, real all-the-way sex, in their cars, or if that's just something the other girls made up, sharing stories as they smoked behind the science building, keeping a lookout for Sr. Mary Ignatius.

You jump when the cop taps on the window, and hastily pull down your skirt. This is not romantic, and no one can convince you otherwise.

(Loving these like a heartbeat, damnit)

Funny you should say that, Tep, because almost all my fic sex is car sex, except for that time in the trash dumpster...I guess some things make better fantasies.

Heh. I'm a Catholic-school girl, and I've got a bit of first-hand research behind my drabble. (And, while some girls apparently did have sex in cars, I surely never did. And now that I'm all growed up, I have an apartment and a queen-size bed, and I don't need to cram into a backseat, Say Anything notwithstanding.)