It was meant to be -- it dovetails so nicely with this week's drabble theme!
Buffy ,'Showtime'
The Great Write Way
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
Happy glass:
She pauses just inside the emptied room, the faded noise still echoing in her ears. The janitor looks up and shakes his head at her, age judging the exuberance of youth.
Her laugh isn't quiet enough, and he pointedly returns to his cleaning, sweeping up the shards that had escaped the bag along with food, paper, ribbons and other detritus of the festivities.
"There you are, silly."
He's standing very close as she turns, face alight.
"Come on. The plane won't wait for us."
She gathers her train in one hand, and his arm in her other.
"Yeah. Let's go."
ita, Jewish wedding aftermath? With the stomped-on for happiness glass?
Yup.
That's what I thought. Incredibly vivid, there.
Thank you!
Boot's on the other foot, there, love. You made me happy as hell, with that piece.
Reaction ties into my current frustration in Literary. I ought to have a teeshirt made up, or a forehead tat: "Just Tell Me A Fucking STORY!"
More happy glass:
Ugh. Another one who just couldn't pause to savour the journey, just blasting full bore to get the almighty end.
Oh, he's not going to end up where he thinks. And he's not getting anywhere except on her schedule.
But he doesn't need to know that now. He'll sulk.
Bash. Smash. Crash. Even as time telescopes for her, every second made hours, she's not satisfied.
He rushes for her again. She grabs, twists and he's thrown through the plate glass.
In an instant she's standing, smiling on the jagged sill.
"We can take this to the ground, if you like."
MuHA! Loving that one, as well.
Constructive destruction!
(back to my Famous Flower pass-pages)
She strained a little to see his approach, twisting so that the silk was taut against her wrists, but not biting.
She envied him his shirt a moment - the room was cool, chilling her no matter how she tried to push herself deeper into the mattress.
"I told you not to struggle." His eyes were stern. "Look what you did."
His right hand held a shard of the vase, his left lay on her bare stomach.
She closed her eyes and felt narrow pressure tease along her arm.
"Sorry."
It was sharper now, on the cusp of pain.
"Sorry, master."