Can't help it. Laughing now.

I laugh because I love, Deb. Is this the standalone you were talking about last week? Tell me it isn't yet another book. Besides the standalone, the Child Ballad one you're finishing, and the one after that, I mean.

Well Deb, I can't help it. I'm with Bev with the laughing.

Teppy, just so you know, because of the drabble community and the couple or three I've done, I wrote two poems yesterday. I haven't written anything beyond an LJ or posting-board post or a letter for nearly two years.

That's *fantastic*!!!

At some point I may actually get around to this week's drabble. (I can't believe it's only Wednesday -- it feels like it's already been 10 days since Monday.)

Is this the standalone you were talking about last week?

Yes. Damn.

I don't have time for this. Besides, it needs some scientific research done.

Deb, I'd be glad to help with the research.

Kristin, Greg's mom and dad divorced after Greg's dad came out of the closet, after 35 years of marriage, 4 years ago. Now he has a live-in boyfriend from India and is livin' la vida loca. He's about 66 or 67, I think.

I've been having trouble with this theme. This is as close as I could get, three memories.

The smell of him in the morning is different than at any other time of day. I shiver as I face the window; cotton sheets shifting with my skin.

I recoil from my customer in surprise. I am too sharp and then too charming, and he tells me, half-joking, that he is afraid of me.

My stomach turns over and I look after a brash young man with too-short dark hair and a cocky swagger. Beer is seeping through the boy's skin with his sweat.

Like light, I realize, I am afraid of beer and nakedness in the wrong bed.

I wrote this totally impromptu listening to "Stealing Babies" by Our Lady Peace. It didn't really turn out like I expected, but they never do. Here's my memory drabble.

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All it takes are those opening chords, the way they bounce up and down and back and forth like a seesaw on a merry-go-round. The vocals kick in, and you can hear his voice telling you it will be all right. Not that he sounds anything like Raine Maida. He actually sounds like a puppy/kitten hybrid, a growl masked within a purr.

It feels as if the vocals and music are at cross-purposes, following their own trajectories with no respect for the other. But they come together so well.

The end of the song devolves into dissonance, as everything does.

Deena, I may take you up on the research. Believe me. This is a kind of research at which I can get extremely lost, medical/genetic.

Both yours and PC's drabbles have the superb last lines. Gut-kickers.

Everyone's work is so lovely. And so personal. Memory is like that, eh? But I wanted to thank you (the universal Buffista you) for two reasons. One, for your honesty and passion in your writing. It shakes me loose. And two, for making this available and so open and warm. I feel like writing, and I love getting responses that are both appreciative (or otherwise!) and intellectually and emotionally present. It's making for a terrific creative environment, and I am enjoying the heck out of it. If a little worn from the ceaseless gut-punches of good writing! Anyway, thanks. It's good to be here.

This is my first drabble. I just posted it in the GWW livejournal as well.

He slowly removes the braces from her legs., and she is suddenly an awkward teenager at the doctor’s office. "Can you name this deformity?", the doctor says, pointing at a part of her leg as he finishes removing the brace and turns toward the resident. The resident is young, handsome, and she is an awkward teenager. She opens her eyes and stares at the man lying in bed with her. He removes her braces and is as eager to explore the fishnet stockings that lie beneath. Her legs are not a visual aid, they are hers and they are sexy.

Oooo - sj, I like! "Her legs are not a visual aid"