Here, Deb.

And here's my next:

He's standing there, between the dresser and the bed, and she gives him that "Don't make me kill you," stare she throws around so carelessly these days. Like he'd wander into her bedroom in the middle of the night without a right good reason. Well not wake her without one anyway.

"Please. Like I give a bloody damn."

And he turns, making sure he seems just grudging enough. There's a mirror on the dresser, he knows (he knows her room very well, these days), and she doesn't realise that without a reflection, he has no problem watching her through himself.


Invisible

It's been raining in Los Angeles, a noisy winter rain: thin, streaming, depressing. It drums on the Hyperion's roof; more importantly, it streams down into the sewage outtake tunnels.

He kneels down, touching the water. There's no light, but it doesn't matter; he knows what he would see even if the heavens poured down gold and morning and he didn't die, and that's nothing. Of the many things he's lost, this, his own image, is one of the losses that bothers him in the deep places.

He swirls dirty water with one fingertip, and reflects on how lucky Connor is.

mine:

She held a blouse up to her chin. It didn't fit, and then, damn, pizza sauce, but, who cared, really? "Maybe she'll think it's blood."

She tried the black lace. She would *so* rock in this. She'd rule the Bronze. She wouldn't slay vampires, or demons, or fuck monsters; she'd dance and get all the attention.

She admired the black lace, but, though she looked at her own face floating above it, she didn't really see her reflection. After all, what was there to see? She'd never slay vampires or demons or fuck monsters. Maybe, she shrugged, she could dance.

Nice, guys.

Yeah, very good.

I'm not sure mine's actually good. It was easy. I have a sneaking sympathy for Dawn.

Elena, thanks, at least that's one mistake I caught myself.

final version is "published" up at BFA. Title is "The Wolf at Rest."

[link]

oh, connie, the sultana of silly is becoming a children's story. You've been given a title for exemplary service to the Sultanate. You are now Duchess of Discordia, Minister for Disposing of Those Annoying People in Poetically Just Ways.

This is weird. I posted mine, using ita's link, and it never showed up. Weird...

edit: and it took the repost. Weirder and weirder.

Deb, that's because you posted it as a comment to the post that told us what the theme was for this week.

You need to do the same steps for posting you used last week.

Use this link:

[link]

And in the Journal to Post in dropdown menu that lives below the post entry button, choose Sunday100.

Last drabble:

Quartoth and Holtz had taught him not to show his fear, but triggering the sanctuary spell had knocked that loose.

Why? Why him? Could he be an abomination? No … Holtz would never have let him live, never would have cared for him, never taught him to be strong and to fight evil … not if he were demon himself.

He snarled again at the mirror, relishing the contorted humanity looking back at him, begging it to chase away the sense memory of being hit by the spell.

Vampires don't leave reflections, he thought. Not in mirrors, not in me.