Thank you!
The Great Write Way
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
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."
ita's on my turf! Whooo!
It's a fun, fun patch to write, isn't it?
(taking two minutes away from pass pages. Must take breaks...)
And I can see that ita has taken the make-Steph-go-"meep!" baton from Deb....
Don't worry, girlfriend, this is track relay. I'll get it back shortly.
Detritus
He opens the door to the apartment for the first time since the fight three days ago. The shards of the shattered mirror still lie scattered on the floor of the living room, crunching under his shoes as he enters. She hasn't been back either.
The walls still seem to hold the echoes of their shouts. He replays the argument in his head as he crosses the room, coming to understand that even love isn't always enough. In the bedroom, half the drawers are open and empty. The closet has been rifled through for choice items, but the rest has been left for some other time.
He collects his own clothes, his toothbrush, the framed picture of the view from their hotel room in Maui, and walks out of the apartment for the last time, over the cracked detritus of their lives.
Sean, whoa. That's scary and spot-on.