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.

Spring is in the air around here, isn't it? (:

Good stuff on the drabbles. Enjoying them muchly.

Took everyone's advice on "Talking About the Weather,"and sent it on to the anthology editor with a few minor corrections. We'll see.

Victor, you're a wise man.

Astarte, whoa....

Ouch, ita.

Not sure about this next one. I kept editing, and it kind of didn't end up like I thought it would.

He’s sitting in his usual corner, wearing his usual suspenders, his white hair held in its perpetual Bryl-Creamed wave. You give your order to the kid behind the counter – one cheese pie, one pepperoni. You grab a soda from the case and wait at a table, drumming your fingers on the checked tablecloth.

The door opens. Another umbrella in the rack, and a trail of wet footprints to the back corner. The rhythm of their voices carries, but not the words. They leave, the old man shuffling through the wet tracks. The kid comes to the front. Your order’s ready.