I'm exercising my sloooooooow moderator's privilege to post my shoe drabble today. (This is a true story, AND it's 100 words exactly.)

Daddy's work shoes always sit on the carpet by the door, because he leaves for work before the sun even wakes up, and he doesn't want to make too much noise getting ready. I never get to have breakfast with Daddy, because I get up for school a long time after he leaves. I don't want him to forget about me while he's at work, so I send a little present to work with him every day: each night I sneak into the front hall and put one of my Weebles in the toe of his shoes, as a surprise.

Is that one of the "Weebles wobble but they don't fall down?"

That's adorable. Did you get your Weebles back?

Is that one of the "Weebles wobble but they don't fall down?"

Yes, indeed! They were more or less egg-shaped.

That's adorable. Did you get your Weebles back?

Dad would take them out of his shoes and then put them on the kitchen table. He was very tolerant of my shoe defilement.

Teppy, that's a charmer.

This week's drabble challenge is upon us! This is challenge #16, which makes 4 months of drabbles, which I think is just the bee's knees, as the youth say.

I had to check to see if we'd done this one yet, because my memory is for shit. But we haven't. So....

Challenge #16 is: doors. (The judges will also accept doorways, door frames, and, for Deb only, The Doors.)

You MUST include the word "red" somewhere in the drabble. Bonus points for people who don't feature an actual red door (or the Red Door Salon).

Go drabble, and don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out....

Maybe this time I'll finally finish the drabble that started off with someone opening the door, keys in hand. Then she saw broken glass on the floor.

Wonderful drabble, Teppy.

wrod...I was just glooming up natter, or I'dve said so earlier.

For Teppy. 100 words precisely.

1970 San Francisco: Backstage

He's got the gyrate thing going on, red leather pants, the tops of his hipbones showing. His hair's moving all over the place. His voice is whiskey and gravel.

"Before you slip into unconsciousness..."

I'm backstage, watching, bemused. I'm there with the other act on the Fillmore poster, local San Francisco. These LA guys, the Doors? Too much. And Morrison? He's hotter than fuck, but reptillian, too. They ought to call him Lizard King.

"...I'd like to have another kiss..."

Suddenly, I get it. Passing thought, of yanking down those leathers, seeing what he's made of.

Light my fire? Uh-huh.

drabble

The viewing for my father at the funeral home. Two days of socially required masochism. I wander, unable to cope with my family's grief, unwilling to have my own on display.

At the end of the hallway is a sliding door. It's been closed, but now it's slightly open. The curiosity I inherited from my father sends me to look through.

Not an office. Metal table. Linoleum floor. Counters with bottles and jars. Cabinets with medical instruments.

"Can I help you?"

The voice is kind, but I blush scarlet anyway. One of the funeral directors, recognizing me as Family.

"I--was just--"

He puts his hand on the door. "If you'd like to see--"

"No!"

He hesitates,nods, and closes the door.