Bev, speaking just for myself? It's a question of one word equalling many pictures: three words can provide the underpinning for an entire situation, if they happen to be the right three words for the job.

So they become visual portmanteaus, or possibly freight cars: very few words carrying a lot of freight.

Anyone have any idea how to cope when all your brain comes out with when sitting to write is white noise?

White noise, it turns out, makes it very hard to hear the story. It's like my "muse" is under local; she's there, but not feeling very much, and it's starting to piss me off.

I've never gone this long (about two months now) in this state, so I'm not sure what to do about it.

As you may have guessed, I brought a certain fluency to this week's drabble topic. He’s just sitting there...fucking talking, blah, blah, blah. Could you get to the point, please? Or not. I didn’t rent this video to hear *you*. It’d be so easy. Sharp object to the head...no, I’m too short. Or the chip he eats that gives me a moment’s pause could lodge in his windpipe. I could be a hero, or I could stop and smell the cyanosis...tough call, yeah. It’s such a pity how he talks about nothing and there’s non-verbal people in the world. Regretfully, I pause my video. “I’ve got to get going.” He’ll never know how close he came.

stop and smell the cyanosis

This line pleases me greatly.

Aw, shucks... It's what I have to show for 47,000 hours of watching L&O, really.

erika, heh.

Plei, the bottom line is, you're going to need to figure out what the root cause of the muffling effect is; otherwise, anything you come up with is going to be a temporary patch and not satisfying in the long run. But finding the cause and going all eyefuck with it, that can be hurty.

Here if needed, beloved, or if I can be in any way useful.

Plei, the bottom line is, you're going to need to figure out what the root cause of the muffling effect is; otherwise, anything you come up with is going to be a temporary patch and not satisfying in the long run. But finding the cause and going all eyefuck with it, that can be hurty.

Turning 30? I don't know. I've been poking my brain, trying to figure out if there's some root cause and utterly failing to find one. Well, other than the unseasonable heat.

I'll have a better idea if road tripping with my parents doesn't flip the on switch, because that will mean something is seriously tweaked.

Huh. Turning 30 ought to be flipping it precisely the other way: "Whoa! Dude! Whole new section of life to write about!"

But knowing how you react to road trips, as a writer? This should definitely clarify it.

Plei, mine lasted better than two years. I'm wishing you all the flipped-switch-ma in the world. Wouldn't wish it on anybody.

I needed to get "Parade" of the way. It was clogging up the works. It's in my LJ if anybody's interested.

Three for "Near Death Experience"

One

Cellophane crinkled enticingly, and my 10-month-old laughed and reached. Surely there was a reason why he shouldn't have it? I tried to rip it but it didn't tear, so let him have it. A moment later, he gagged, and before my eyes started to choke. I scrambled to my feet and grabbed him up, and slung him over my shoulder, hard. I heard as well as felt the whump of air leave his body. He started to cry, and I swept my finger over his tongue. Nothing. But on the floor lay a wet patch of cellophane, two inches in diameter.

Two

"Can the baby have a lifesaver?" the little girl asked.

I knew there was a reason not to, but I couldn't think of it. "How nice. Thank you."

Minutes later the 13-month-old gagged, and I remembered why not. His daddy went pale and shook him a little, but I grabbed him and slammed him belly-down across my knee.

"Whuhp!" A sticky red lifesaver sailed across the cement floor like a stone skipped on a lake surface. The baby coughed. I sat him up on my lap and he looked at me, eyes round, his expression clearly asking, "What?" and burped.

Three

There was green brush and a lot of paper from the old office that needed to be burnt. The day was damp, and Hank decided to use gasoline to help the fire along. He splashed it over the pile. I picked up the cat and started toward the house.

"Where're you going, chicken?"

I turned to answer him as he struck the match. There was little wind to spread the fumes. The fireball was twenty feet in diameter. The whump was felt a block away.

He ran, dove, rolled, got up, and ran to me, "I'm all right." He really wasn't.

But eventually, he was, again.