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.

I've had sex in a car, too. The experience (which should have been a corker, considering the way the gent in question was constructed) was not helped by a) the smallness of the car, an Alfa Romeo; b) my height (5-9.5 at that point, plus high heels; c) his height (6-fourish); d) the fact that we were caught by a local; and d) the fact that the local tapped on the window not to object to what were doing, but to point out that we were parked atop a damned near bottomless drop into a railway and river valley, at the edge of a hellacious cliff on the Franco/Swiss border.

And if that last bit is exactly 100 words? It still isn't a drabble.

Damp ground under your ass; you’ll stain your jeans. The sun just crept over the valley walls, although it’s nearly ten, and it warms your shoulders. You sprawl contentedly in October sunshine, eyes shaded, while the buses and bicyclists pass.

One thousand feet up is a tiny red dot, connected to a blue dot by a rope too thin to be seen at this distance. They are only specks on the grey granite face. El Cap is too big for a monolith: it’s a world, an entire ecosystem, and the climbers dangle, hesitant, stuttering upward, defying gravity.

You’d rather watch.

Woot! 'suela, knowing El Cap, that one knocks me on my ass.

It's the non-static version of the Adams photo.

Aw, thanks, Deb. I love just sitting on the valley floor, watching the nutcases big wall climbers, knowing they're only on day one of three, and they have to carry their poop all the way with them.

t /shadenfreude

Whenever anyone asks me if there's something I haven't done and won't do ever that I regret?

Only one answer, really. Biiiiiig mountain, my favourite, not the usual: K2.

I always wanted to get about halfway up K2. That's a very female mountain.

Shudder, Deb.

You know the proportion of deaths-to-success is much worse for K2 than it is for Everest?

Seriously nasty mountain.