I was planning on trying NaNoWriMo this year, but it is already nearly a week in, and I have yet to start. I haven't come up with any idea about what I want to write about either, so I am starting to think, "why bother?".

This one's a memory. It happened. A very vivid moment.

Intrusion

We're in the warehouse, me and Laura. I'm up the ladder, she's down below. I'm looking for a crate marked "Tales of Fantasy".

"Can I ask you something?" She isn't usually shy, and I know, right away, who she wants to ask about. She's starstruck, and I have a star.

She takes my silence for assent. "Is it - is he - you know - good?"

I stare down at her, stiff, disbelieving. Five years goes through me: pain, dialysis, alchoholism, body image demons, the leftovers of rheumatic fever, and the exquisite perfect passion when we do come together.

I focus my eyes. Her head is bent. She won't get an answer, and she knows it.

drabble

He's up on the ladder because he's got a longer reach. Me, knowing how the furies pursue him, am guarding the bottom.

Guarding ladders is dull. I study the ladder's footing. Rough ground: if he shifted too far at the wrong moment, he'd go over. It'd be the kind of accident where everyone would say, "Just like him, to climb a ladder in his condition." Perfect alibi material. If I waited till his balance was just a little bit off, all I'd need to do is kick the ladder, and then I'm the sympathetic widow. I'd smile tearily at Lt. Columbo, and he could say "Oh, just one more thing ..." to his heart's content, and he'd never break me--unless he found out about the life insurance and Ramon the Pool Guy--

"I'm hungry," Hubby says.

"McDonald's after this?"

"Sure."

It's best that writers' spouses don't have telepathy.

Both terrific pieces, although very different.

What, you don't contemplate the perfect murder in dull moments?

Oh, dear, just me, huh? Oops.

How literal a ladder does it have to be? I'm thinking of a series of hand- and foot-holds that lead to a cliff dwelling.

Connie, one thing is off in there, purely grammar:

Me...am guarding the bottom.

Either the Me is an I, or the "am" has to go.

Ah, well.

Hey, the rest of it is damned near perfect. Cracked me up completely. But me-am = no. Gotta fix one or the other, yo.

craft

"I thought you were done."

"Not even close."

"You're going to do the whole thing?"

"Planning on it."

"You know you're crazy, right?"

"I've seen crazier."

"Aren't your arms going to get tired, working straight up like that?"

"They already are tired."

"So..."

He sits up from the scaffolding, forehead speckled with paint, eyes blazing. "Some things are worth tiring yourself out over. Some things matter. Can't you already start to see it?"

"I can see...what, looks like a hand or something?"

He smiles the quiet smile of the lost and inspired, and returns to his perch atop the ladder.