Shudder, Deb.

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

Seriously nasty mountain.

I don't think I love anything enough to carry my poop for days.

That having been said ...

*********

The asphalt itches. I didn't know gravel tasted like metal. Or maybe that's blood.

It could be blood.

It's mostly silent--all the noise is borrowed, leftover music, discarded conversations, and exhaust-laced rattles tumble over each other into the alley. There's more sound than light, though, and a weak moon getting weaker.

I try and flex my fingers against the stiffening cold and consider propping myself up to a sitting position. There's chain link fence at my back, and my skin is torn raw and freshly exposed.

So I lie and wish I had strength enough left to shiver.

Seriously nasty mountain

I know. I always wonder why people thump themselves on the back when they summit Everest; K2 is so much nastier to deal with. But there's something about that damned rock - I just have the feeling she'd have let me partway up, if I'd had the stuff to try.

ita, damn, woman.

Loving this. Steph, if I baked I'd send you cookies.

Second drabble, take two:

We banked the campfire and used the flashlights down to the lake's edge. The boys took the bow of the boat, and H sat at the tiller. I leaned back against him under cover of darkness, the only intimacy we'd managed all day.

Not that dark. The elder son turned and looked back at us, and I could see his features clearly in the starlight.

Starlight. I looked up. No moon, but the sky was crowded with stars, their light bright enough to limn the leaf-edges of trees and the water where it lapped up silver against the rocks.

Place drabble:

An astronaut once came here, your tour guide said, and claimed that this was as similar to the moon’s surface as he’d seen on earth. You need to step carefully over the cracked rock. The familiar salty ocean wind mixes with the startlingly green scent of the grass to create a earthy smell that will stick to your jacket for months.

A harpist has set up shop, collecting coins from tourists. The sound is blown away from her, through the air, reflecting off the water and the cliffs, and the wind swirls it all around you. The waves crash, keeping time.

Place and people, too. I may need to send Teppy the dessert of her choice, or bring it along to DC.

Oh, ita... that one sends shivers.

Ya'll are amazing.

Tep, I think I'll try that tomorrow when I'm a little more alert. Gonna go to bed now. Thanks for the suggestion.

Oh ita, ouch.

This here's some good writing being drabbled out.

Y'all are knocking my sox off.

Steph, inspired idea. You're a goddess.

GWW Challenge 2

It's quiet here. Not unexpected, the silence of the grave being axiomatic.

The tang of the sea breezed in to her from a scant five blocks away. Then again, the ocean was never far away here. The scent of the wet grass and newly turned earth made death quite the fatale. Appropriate for an island built on the bones of the meteorologically unlucky.

The car doors bitchslapped the peace. Mama Z headed straight for her. Her purposeful stride might have been convincing if the rain softened ground forgave her heels an inch higher than her weight would bear.

Face off.