Another blue drabble, for a different man, a different memory, an earlier time.

It's All Over Now, Baby Blue

The day Joni's new album came out was the day you found out he was leaving.

"Blue…here is a song for you…"

His sister-in-law told you, casual, unthinking. Had there been malice behind the cruelty? Her English voice, clipped, light: didn't he tell you, they're off to Europe together, several months, we were awfully surprised…

"I wish I had a river…I could skate away on…"

Obsessive, based on sexuality and mutual need, a relationship not worth the vinyl of someone else's album. But it still hurt.

"You're a mean old daddy, but I like you…"

Blue, and it was over.

Hey! The blue challenge actually roused my slumbering urge to write!

At first, in the deep blue gloaming, there is only the white of skin; hands defined by rings, a dark sparkle of gems set against a pale throat, the glint of eyes, a rosebud mouth.

As the last of the light slouches away over the horizon, the indigo velvet of her dress becomes separate from the night; no longer cut from the fabric of twilight, but something crafted by human hands.

Go, Jilli! I still think this sounds as if there's more coming.

Here's a porny one, for Teppy.

Feather

It's dyed a bright, incongruous turquoise; that much you saw, before he slipped the blindfold in place. The result of one sense being disabled is, of course, that all the others become more intense. That's part of this game. You knew that when you agreed to play.

So here you are, bound, blindfolded for the duration. There are all sorts of toys to hand, but something inside says he's reaching for the one you saw before seeing stopped.

Slow, taunting, he moves it between your breasts, your belly, the inside of your thighs: a long tapered feather, dyed turquoise blue.

this one took a bit of doing

In the furnace of summer, the sky is sometimes pale yellow. No clouds, no breath of air, 110 degrees, and the shade is literally life-saving. As night comes on, the blue returns. Even at ten o'clock at night, you can still see the western horizon, the black of the mountains outlined against the deep, deep indigo of the sky.

In spring and fall, baby blue and clouds, with the hints of that empty color that comes with the heat.

In winter, it is grey. Weeks and weeks of grey. Except when the sun comes out and the wind turns killing and shoves the clouds out of the valley. When skin aches with the cold and every unshielded breath is an invitation to another round of painful spasms, the sky is perfection. The clearest, purest blue, the shade that people point to and say, "That. That is sky blue."

Damn, Connie. Nicely done. It has a very taut feel to it, a respect for the length. Nice.

Thanks! I can't really count words closely, as I'm sneaking this stuff out at work.

I'm dreading the oncoming heat and the alien color of the sky in summer.

I think it's over a hundred words - give me a second and I'll do a Word count - but it really has the feel of a drabble, a tautness to it. It works.

edit: 148 words. Thing is, it doesn't read particularly long.

Yep, I'm longwinded. I always tend to the long forms rather than the short forms.

Editing that down to 100 words probably wouldn't damage it, though - I think it's fine as it is, but there are places where short and sharp would probably make it even more effective.

Off to eat burritos and feed our feral cats. I'm personally amazed at how many blue-memories I have. Also amazed at my own tendency to write porn these days...