I finally got caught up in this thread. Some lovely, lovely pieces. I really enjoy the quality of work in this thread. Fabulous.

Now that I'm caught up I can post this week's drabble here. I wasn't really pleased with it, overall, but I'm not sure why. It was a strong pivotal experience for me, but I don't think I captured that at all. And I think I didn't illustrate the representative nature of the shoes really either. Anyway. 'Nough deconstructing for a hundred words.

--- Ballydowse. July 6th, 2002. Midnight.

Heat. Motion. Musk of a thousand bodies. Brace for it, they’re coming 'round the corner. Arms up to hold them in.

Under the yellow striped tent, amps blare. Boots pound the sand. Crowd shouts. A banner. Unity.

Someone falls. A dozen hands reach to pick him up.

The flautist hops off the stage. “Humidity’s jacked up my flutes anyway.” Bone in his nose flashes white as he whirls by.

The vocalist calls. "I miss your voice." But cedes to inevitability and jumps down himself.

I glance down. Am I ready? Docs secure, no dangling strings. I step into the fray.

Liese, that's gorgeous.

Humour:

The Proper Tool

"Do I have what?"

"A hammer." He's staring at the door handle. Sports cars are delicate beasts, country roads require hardiness. She'd told him to slow down, bumps ahead, but no, the Alfa could handle anything the Haute Savoy could throw at them.

"Of course I don't." She considers the dangling handle for a moment. It's threatening to fall off entirely. It needs serious hammering with a small, solid, flat surface...

The lightbulb goes off in her mind. "Here," she says, and pulls off one grey calfskin four-inch heel. "How about this?"

They continue their drive, courtesy of Charles Jourdan.

Ah, the true use of the platform sole after the fashion fades--the first time around, that is: alternate hammer. For the last two years of college, I didn't even worry about having a hammer, I just kept my platform sandals.

Heh. I never wore platforms - plastic in both ankles, not a good idea. But the very tip of a medium-thin heel makes a great small hammer.

OK, lovely writers, help me brainstorm again. I've drafted a lovely little dance scene off in the shadows for Jack and Anna, in her POV, culminating in what I happen to think is a wonderfully romantic and poignant near-kiss that he pulls away from at the last minute. I've got them awkwardly avoiding any mention of what just happened, him escorting her back to the tent she's sharing with another lady, and them having the bad luck to get there just in time to run into the dreaded villain-to-be lieutenant walking the other lady back.

But I'm having trouble figuring out what to do with them now. I feel like I should stay in Anna's POV just a little longer, but I can't for the life of me manage to write the combo of horniness and guilt over being attracted to another man with her husband just dead that she ought to be feeling without it falling flat. So I'm tempted to go straight to Jack's head, because I think I know exactly what he's thinking and feeling right now. But I'll have to get Anna's reaction eventually, and I am stuck stuck stuck. A major comedown from my giddy writer-high of the last week, this is.

To elaborate a little, I need them to be aware of the mutual attraction, but in just enough denial about what it means that they think the mere fact of the social gulf between them is enough to keep them from acting on their feelings no matter what the circumstances. And I feel like he's probably just a little angry at her at the moment--that he (at least somewhat justifiably) senses that she was using him for her own comfort without thinking about the consequences because he's so far beneath her socially. However, he can't be TOO angry, because the whole plot hinges on him being able to say wholeheartedly two days from now that anyone who means harm toward Anna will have to come through him first.

Perhaps Anna could be worrying about what the villan and the other lady might be thinking about her, afraid she might be considered one of those Merry Widow types who's lining up the next conquest before the starch has worn out of the mourning clothes. Then she can consider that Jack is, despite his class, a perfect gentleman and would never take advantage of a new widow. While she's considering his sterling qualities, she can realize that a new widow properly shouldn't have been noticing all those sterling qualities, and she can feel guilty for thinking those sorts of things.

Mmm, that's good. Thanks, connie!

t glares at own WIPs and contemplates the pleasures of playing in other people's sand boxes

You're always welcome, Susan.

That's an excellent take. I think there's also some nice mileage possible in the dichotomy between their two takes: she's bound to be guiltier than guilty (since the marriage to the husband she's supposed to be mounring was wretched in the extreme, yes?), and not even considering that he's beneath her socially. And because it's important to him, it would never occur to him that the class difference might be the last thing on her mind.

But it's also a superb opening for two days later, because his own feelings would likely come very clear to him with that upsurge of protectiveness.