Kristin, whoa, tell the friend MAJOR thanks.

This:

but it would be unusual for a Texan to refer to their municipal building as the "town hall" -- even if the community in question consists of seven people and a cross-eyed goat, they're going call it "city hall".

True, but two things: one, the song lyric is specific (town hall), and two, the town was founded, named after, and headed by a guy from Virginia...

Question. Anyone up for betaing the first pass of the prologue for "Cruel Sister"? As yet unedited?

Deb, I'd be happy to take a look.

Deb, I can take a look for general comments if you'd like.

(just got back)

Thankee, mesdames. Sending. Also to Bev, because she's an automatic.

I want to beta for everyone, but I can't until I finish the book I'm writing. It's six weeks late, and I'm convinced it's completely muddled. Taking time out to drabble was a relief, but I can't do much else until this stupid thing is done.

But yay! Kristin and deb and everyone else who is being so productive.

Also, below is just because I'm in a bad mood. Not a real life experience, thank goodness.

--------

Challenge #32: breath

This isn’t real. You’re dreaming.

I lie on my side, shoulder and hip against a surface unyielding as cement. The cold bites at my legs, sharp and vicious. My ankles are bound, and my wrists, behind me—my knuckles scrape a damp wall, and then something sticky.

I gasp, inhaling the sour odor of the cloth over my head, then gag. The thought of touching it with my tongue makes my gut clench.

Not real…

But it is. I focus on the ragged rasp of my breath, too loud inside the pillowcase.

Breathe. Breathe. It’s all I have left.

Whoa. Amy, scary stuff. There's nothing like a small sharp scene in which the reader is forced to care, with no motive given.

So, instead of working on NaNoWriMo last night, I wrote a short story. ¡Soy idiota! OTOH, it didn't come out too badly. If anybody's interested, it's over at [link] . Kinda Nobilis-esque, now that I look at it again. Feel free to shred it to your heart's content.

Amy, that was pointy. Ouch. Me like the pointy.

Now, to beat myself about the head and shoulders, and get back to the nanogrind.

How hard can it be to breathe? Well, after birth, anyway.Maybe one or two of the women in this group had trouble with that at first, my practiced glance tells me. It’s not a look, exactly, but there’s still something I can spot. The others were injured at a later stage on life’s journey. And there’s that know it all with the ACS. Nobody knows why her immune system has started attacking her so she can smell that you used perfume last week. I’d think it would need to get to know her first...ok, not a very meditative thought. My mother knew I was going to live when I confounded everyone by not needing a vent at birth. My lungs, at least, were ready to make the trip. “I knew you were a survivor,” she always tells me, and from my mom, graduate of the Function-Through-The-Pain Academy class of ’69, there is no greater compliment.But I’ve not mastered “quiet desperation” so I’m here, learning to breathe again.The woman next to me is a real newbie. I doubt she’s been injured more than a year or two. She still has that “Holy shit...how did I get here?” look on her face and it’s hard for her, seeing and hearing all the chairs.I want to tell her it gets better, but how would I know? Being here is hardly a sign of role-model. And I’m not supposed to be looking at people anyway, supposed to block out outside stimulus or something, which means that is all I want to do.(Does anyone else think there is something dirty about all of us panting away in here and talking about stimulus? No, I’m sure they don’t.) Five minutes of breath feels very long.

oh, damn, erika. Well. Yes.

Did you ever have anyone in these little groups who was new to the chair and basically so prickly that they ran over peoples' toes with it whenever they got a smug or pitying look or even a sideways glance?

That would have been me, circa 1972 or thereabouts...

Anyone up for a section one, chapter one "CS" beta?