Gronk.

First drabble of the weekend: the theme is "take a quote from any of the episodes and have the same quote used by a different character."

So....

You damned me (Angel, S.2/E.7 from "Darla")

She sits in the doorway, sunlight painting her hands, and remembers being dead.

She still doesn't understand what happened, or how, or why. Death is not always final; that knowledge is bone-deep with being a Slayer. But that she could have been at peace, done with the threat, the pain, the sorrow - that she could have chosen that jump into eternity, and not have that choice respected by the friend she loved best - is a new definition of hell.

The words, bitter as wormwood, move in Buffy's mind. Willow, you think you did me a favor?

You damned me.

Oooh. I should do this one, later. When I'm not at work.

Are there pre-chosen quotes, or can we pick any one?

You pick the quote.

Deb, great drabble.

You are the Pembleton of drabbleness.I just sit here and wonder how you do it.

Gronk.

In again momentrily - I've discovered drabbles and flash fiction are damned near the perfect way for me to get down a mood, or a moment in time, with some constraints on the lines around it. Just - fun.

Out into the night I goooooooo...

OK, now I know the actual "how(which, cool, go you!) But I was just playing Tim's part and annoying you with my rhetorical questions.Because, you know, I have this need to *understand*...to stick my face in Creativity's water dish and take a big gulp, right, Deb?(I hope I don't really sound like that.)

Hey, I'm not going to post it here, don't worry.

You'd better.

erika, I never used to think of myself as a miniaturist, but a writer buddy turned me on to flash fiction (500 words or less) and I just feel in love with it.

I really do love the drabble form. I love the constraint it imposes.

Second drabble. The quote's from S2/Episode 15. Phases, Oz werewolfing.

--

Blame

In the living room of the comfortable house on Revello Drive, the girl stands rigid.

The cushions on the sofa are still imprinted with the shape of her mother's thigh, her skull, a ghostly memory of her fingers. Buffy wonders if she'll ever be able to sit there again.

The mortuary people have taken Joyce away.

Buffy stands in a patch of warmth, shivering and desolate. Suppose I'd been here, she wonders, suppose I hadn't been out, suppose....

Giles knows her better than anyone else. Shaken, grieving, he touches her and tells her, you can't blame yourself for every death.