You're all amazingly talented. I'm not clever enough today to give proper feedback, but you're all wonderful writers. Thank you for sharing.

Okay, Plei? I just wanted to mention that imagining Andrew saying this line makes me laugh *almost* as much as I laugh when I imagine him prancing around in a toga singing "We are as gods!"

Hee! Thank you kindly.

Here's my movie drabble for Sunday 100:

"Luke Perry?"

"Yeah … don't you like him? He was Dylan on 9021…"

"I know who he is, Andrew. It's just the idea of him playing my boyfriend that's weird."

"Oh, but he's cool! I'm calling his character Pike."

She slides her gaze across the room where Spike is intently not listening to them.

"Pike?" she mutters.

Andrew follows her look, and giggles.

"No! Nothing to do with him. A live boyfriend."

Spike's cough may have been real, Buffy thinks. Maybe vampires can cough. She narrows her eyes.

"Sounds good," she says. "You know who would make a great vamp?"

BWAH!

Thanks, Deb. It's an odd picture to get stuck in your brain on the drive to work.

One more:

Dawn wasn't sure where the DVD player had come from, or who'd hooked it up. She suspected a conspiracy of silence between Spike and Willow, although the two rarely spoke when not patrolling.

Spike always watched horror movies, gaining a brief relaxation when the heroine survived to the end. Willow and Xander watched 80s teen movies in together, but isolated. Tara would hold Willow sometimes, as they sat, but Anya just stared at Xander burying himself in the fiction.

Dawn didn't use it. No one had yet made a movie for forgetting your sister had killed herself in your place.

Jeez. OK, I give. What's the drabble form this time? 100 words and a movie?

She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, running the film behind her eyes.

A week ago, a month ago, an endless fathomless moment ago, she had watched this with Tara. They'd both liked the film better than the book, oddly enough; the book, while wonderful, had been written by a man. The film - Sarandon's red curls and cello, Cher's screw-you do-me attacks of conscience, Feiffer's warmth and porcelain elegance - was all about the women. And watching them destroy Nicholson, that exquisite coven? She'd held Tara's hand, the two of them howling with laughter.

But their movie was over.

Jeez. OK, I give.

Whoo! You're such a pushover.

In the best of ways. I love how sad one can get with 100 words, and I love how sad you got.

I don't think you can post anonymously to this drabble, but I can post it for you, with appropriate disclaiming, if you like.

Yes please. Does it need any edits, though? I haven't looked at it at all except to count words.

It's Pfeiffer not Feiffer, but other than that, I'd not change a thing.

Um - how does one not be anonymous for this stuff? Do I need an account or something? It all looked very daunting, and I don't want to actually keep a live journal; I've got enough to write as it is.