PC, yup, and it's bloody brilliant (Davies may be the only writer out there who could pull it off properly), but we're in the wrong thread for that discussion: Great Write is strictly for original fiction. We need to take it over to Literary.

(I hate when the wife puts me on the spot in front of people. :))

Snerk. "But honey, you make the best meat loaf..."

Sigh. But this is the Last. Time. And you clean up.

Now, honey, you know I always do the dishes....

These are fantastic. Really ripping.

Noodling around with my own ideas. Sense memory isn't one of my strong points in writing. It needs the exercise.

Doods, we killed the thread.

OK. Another one:

Hair

It's only a lotion: Curel? Keri? The scent of my sister's flesh

Alice, nine years my senior, curled up on the bed behind me, wielding a hairbrush. She hated her tight ginger curls, never reaching her shoulders; like her hands, so dry that they would crack and bleed if allowed, her hair was brittle, and broke easily. She coveted my waist-length flyaway mess, red until illness stripped its pigment and gave me temporary ebony.

She would brush, stroking, her touch light. Sometimes, a long stray strand would escape, and she would gently bring it back.

Keri, Curel, my sister's hands.

Two for the week ...

*****

She squinted in the too bright room and found herself pressing back, sullen. It was every touch that wasn't that one which made her remember. If the hand rested diffidently on the small of her back, or when she was being steered, like now, instead of reveled in. If her nerves didn't ripple with anticipation, she could think of nothing other than when they had. Of someone else, somewhere other than here, dark and loud with noise swirling tight around them.

She snapped back to the moment.

"Kiss! Kiss!" they chanted at her over the din of silver on crystal.

The sole of his foot itched in that way you fear to scratch, in case you end up tickling yourself. It wasn't just that keeping him from stopping her discomfort, though. There were a million reasons.

He was tired. Exhausted. Every bone ached, and his ears were still ringing. Motion was going to give him a headache, so he lay tense instead. Maybe it would go away if he concentrated on other feelings - warm socks, maybe, or cool grass.

Anyway, he didn't want to lean over to tend to it. Then he'd be able to see it wasn't there anymore.

Dayum. ita, the first one is very good, the second one's a corker. Sense upon sense upon sense in there.

BTW - on an entirely different subject - I've just had a happy. An OCLC search revealed the fact that there are copies of And Then Put Out The Light at Oxford and at the library at Trinity College, in Dublin.

And why that should give me the interior warms, I don't know. But it doesn.

Do we talk essays, here, too?