Deena, that was absolutely stunning. The voices were so beautifully differentiated.

And Deb, you make me long for foreign travel. Paris, Tuscany... insert wistful sigh here.

Foot tapping impatiently. Can't wait to see what next week's challenge is. I'm also going back to my writer's group this month, and I think I'm going to suggest the fast-write exercise there.

Edited because grammar apparently eludes me...

t grin

I believe I shall write a novel. A silly, short, aimed-at-teen-girls fun exploration-of-the-silliness-of-high-school with, of course, a romantic storyline somewhere involved cliched novel.

Why? Two reasons.

1) I really like those novels. They cheer me up through their silliness. I collect them. Seriously.

2) Gold Mine. Especially now, as every single one of them is being made into at least a semi-popular movie featuring Lindsay Lohan or Mandy Moore. See: Gossip Girl, Princess Diaries, Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, How to Deal, Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

Also, writing a novel sounds like fun. I won't finish, of course. Nor do I have a plot or character in mind yet, though the plot will probably involve some very unrealistic thing (girl becomes princess) or at least be standard high school fare (girl meets boy, girl can't get boy, girl gets sad, boy changes mind, girl is happy.) Really, what I need is a voice. A good voice, a good character, and a series of novels is laid out before me.

And then maybe, someday, I'll venture into more literary waters, attempting to make the same audience cry rather than giggle. (see: Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.)

Of course, I'll need a pseudonym of mystery. Nobody wants to read a teen girl novel written by a 21-year-old male college student at a technical school, now do they? Suggestions?

t still grinning

Suggestions?

Heather Novachild.

I'm a tad skeptical about this, but it's a start. I have a better insomnia drabble in the wings I think. More tomorrow. This will do as a first effort maybe, let me get past this mental roadblock.

Sleep

The clock is humming. It's quiet and persistent, a whine. Sleeeeeeeeep it says. Or sometimes, nooowwwwww.

I imagine I can hear the seconds and minutes slip away, tick tock, tock tock, but there is no ticking. Only the electric hum sighing, waiting. Counting an endless moment.

I cannot get comfortable, cannot imagine ever being comfortable again. I have flipped the pillow a dozen times and tried six different sleeping positions. I have breathed deep, cleansing breaths. I have thought about the breathing, counted the breaths. Told myself to relax. Try harder.

All I can hear is the endless reprimand: Sleep. Now.

t another shot at the sleep drabble.

3 AM. Awake for no good reason. Catch my breath and listen with everything I've got.

Snort, grunt, exhale.

Hubby didn't put on the oxygen mask before he went to sleep. I should wake him and have him put it on. Still, he can go seven seconds without breathing in his sleep. I've timed it. Often.

I've watched him sleep in our own bed, on stretchers, in hospital beds. He's promised I won't wake up one morning next to abandoned bones, but I'm not sure it's up to him.

I time his breaths. So far never more than seven seconds without breath, and I pull back my hand. One day it'll be eight seconds, nine, and all the shaking in the world won't help.

Finally! I drabble!

****

"Go nap in my room," he says, the evening you complain about how loud your end of the dorm is. "I just put fresh sheets on. Or you can nap on top of the covers if you're afraid of cooties. I'll be working until 9:00, so you'll have the room all to yourself."

Up in his corner room, away from the loud rock music your neighbors play all day and night, away from exams and a roommate who goes on more dates than she goes to class, away from a life that's suddenly become your responsibility alone, you climb into his bed. A narrow single bed, the same as yours. The sheets smell of Cheer detergent, like they do at home.

You didn't even know him 3 months ago.

You're asleep within 2 minutes.

Teppy, I like it. It captures college quite well. Quick, good friends can be made so easily here, the type that will gladly let you sleep in their bed. One of my favorite parts about this type of environment.

Here's my attempt at the sleep drabble:

Sunshine invades the room. Her limbs are entangled in the blankets. The comforter is halfway to the floor. She attempts to pull the last bit of blanket over her head. The radio comes on. She does not get up. She lies between dream and wakefulness – sleeping, listening to the radio. What are those half-heard conversations and stories? Are they real? Or did she hear them in a dream? She looks at the light-filled curtains. The cat pokes at her. She burrows under the pillows, but it is too late. Sleep has left the building.

Here is my drabble for this week's challenge:

The alarm clock makes her jump, tearing her from a nightmare. She stares at the clock through half-open eyes, reality slowly returning. 8:00 am is a reasonable time to get up. The majority of people in her life are not only awake, but they are already at work. The thought makes her feel guilty. She doesn't have to get up now and she won't. In a few minutes sleep will have won the battle against the alarm. She pulls the covers tightly around her and tries to recall the dream. As scary as it was, it was better than reality.

Finally, something:

It's the silence you fear, the halting of the sound. Sensibly, you should just stop listening, but you can't. She clutches at you, inching for position, nestling at your neck and blowing slower and slower susurruses against your chest. Putting her down now would break your heart, break it like it breaks every night. Even knowing you'll dance these same steps tomorrow, you look down at her fingers in wonder as the tiny fists unclench with unconsciousness, and shift so you can feel the pattering of her heart through your skins.

It's not like any other night. It never is.