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.)

I have had car sex. Even were I the type to write home about something like that, it ain't nuttin' to write home about.

I love these drabbles. They're really gorgeous.

Victor, that piece is absolutely beautiful.

I'm still thinking... only now I'm thinking about a place instead of a table. Maybe this time I'll think faster.

Place Drabble

Green Lake, Wisconsin, 1962

When the motor stopped, the silence was as startling as noise. The small sounds returned: tiny slaps of water against aluminum, the plop of a fish. She dropped a line and watched the pale worm, then the sinker, slowly moving into the distance. A few feet away on the water was the curve of Sugarloaf, part shadow and part reflection, while the green hill itself loomed above. Just visible were the homes on the north side, where the land dropped sharply down to grand boathouses. On her side, the board-and-batten cabins could boast only of their tiny stretch of beach.

Well, you know it's a cultural trope. Although lately lj is the only thing going down on me, so Iwouldn't know.

I love all you drabble-y drabblers. This is wonderful -- all of it!

Deena, to kick-start yourself, why not try a timed drabble? Don't worry about length; just write about a place for, say, 10 minutes. Honor system. See what comes out of your pen.