Said the well-bred buddy: "Try scrubbing pots with it."
Ohhh, wow, yeah.
Spike ,'Sleeper'
Where the Buffistas let their fanfic creative juices flow. May contain erotica.
Said the well-bred buddy: "Try scrubbing pots with it."
Ohhh, wow, yeah.
Lusterless, dull, slatternly, desiccated, rough.
Those are all great. Thanks, PMM.
I fear I spend too much time on hair websites, you see.
Attempting to keep my hair from turning into any one of those things.
Ooooooh.
"You don't have to breathe, pet," he reminded her, and she murmured unhappily.
Lurve that, Liz. One suggestion?
Rain was still drizzling half-heartedly down from the sky.
"down" is redundant. Only direction the rain could go, after all.
Otherwise, I totally adore this. I love her seeing the knife-edge of the sun and Spike thinking she wants a real one. And that bit about her toes? So very very Dru.
Wow, Rebecca. You write a great Dru.
The X-Files Drabble Excitement Continues!
Shadows
Waiting until the girls were out of the house to break down didn't make it any easier.
It was so hard, trying to be cheerful, trying to reassure Dawn and Buffy that everything would be okay after the surgery. Trying not to panic whenever she looked at her youngest child and saw nothing but a shadow.
A shadow could be nothing. That's what they'd said. Her shadow was something. Joyce stared at her reflection, the brush frozen in the carefully-frosted hair that wouldn't be there when she woke up, and tried to tell herself it would all be all right.
She *will* drabble them all!
Have you ever accidently come upon something you wrote a year or more ago and just be stunned at what you were thinking and feeling at the time? Because, wow. I was in a totally different place over a year ago. It's really a mind warp.
She *will* drabble them all!
t waits impatiently.
Go, Plei! Go, Liz! Gogogogogogo!
SA, it's a bizarre sensation, isn't it? The disconnect-reconnect thing gets really strange when it happens after longer passages of time. You look back at 30 at something you wrote at twenty and thing, yipes, was I really that eager/tough/tender/brave/naive or whatever?
edit: even weirder is that at fiftyish, the stuff you wrote at twenty five becomes much more sensible and familiar. I've heard this from other writers, as well. Makes me wonder about ageing and how much more our essential selves/original wrapping selves we are than we think....