This is pretty first draft-y, so I may make changes. But since I hadn't drabbled in a while, here goes....
Shattered
He was a very fast learner -- that's what all his teachers said. They never had to explain anything more than once to him.
But that was school. This was home. When they said it would never happen again, he believed them. Every time. Again and again and again.
He believed Mommy and Daddy when they said they wouldn't fight anymore. No more yelling and throwing things. So he stopped wearing shoes in the house again, loving the feel of the thick carpet under his bare feet; after all, there'd be no silverware or unexpected trinkets lying where they shouldn't anymore. They promised.
Which is how he ended up in the emergency room, after dashing into the kitchen on a hot day, eager for popsicles. The shards of glass on the floor -- remnants of wine glasses -- caught the light, sparkling brilliantly, just before he ran full speed over them, crushing the shards and slicing deeply into the soles of his feet.
That's pretty awesome in a not-done-it-forever drabble, there, Tep.
I'm thinking about trying one in which violence isn't the underlying theme. But broken glass is a metaphor for violence in so many ways....
Tep, that was damned cool. This category is making for some scary stuff.
In fact:
Weekend in Cap Ferrat
Warmth, salt coming in on the breeze off the Mediterranean. Ella Fitzgerald croons from the radio; they love her, here in France.
He circles your waist, the two of you swaying. Out toward Africa, the moon is gibbous, white, engorged. The villa he rented for this illicit weekend is mostly unfurnished. You don't mind, really; it means more room to dance.
He dips you to the music suddenly, his lips against your throat. The wineglass slips through your fingers, chattering to prismatic sharpness on the stone floor.
You ignore it, just keep dancing, grinding glass into powder under high heels.
Seconding that swoon. Just lovely, Deb.
Thankee, mesdames.
I need to get my ass back to Europe. My memories are beginning to take on a very odd sheen, which probably means I'm missing something. Waking up in Villefranche or Cap Ferrat would probably do it.
Nic, alas, doesn't dance. But he's perfectly willing to rent me the damned villa and watch me dance alone.
A cartoon that ought to ring a lot of bells....
::snerk:: It even has broken glass!
Writer's Block
Claudia's husband stopped at the steps to the front porch, one foot on the bottom step. The window to the study was shattered from inside the house, littering the porch with shards of glass. In the middle of the debris was Claudia's old manual typewriter (even in this age of high-speed computer processors, she was dedicated to her Underwood), ribbon trailing out of it like a streamer.
"Well, looks like Claudia's decided to stop writing again," he thought, as he carefully stepped around the carnage on his way into the house.
BWAHAHAHAHA!
(wiping streaming eyes)
Teppy! You've been inspired!
