Now I see it too. The thought still disturbs me, but it would actually explain a lot. And the problem with Tim's quote always is that Nobody asked him. The perverts of the world(besides me and a few other Bitches) don't care if he accepts them or not.

My new official name for Anne Coulter? "New from Mattel(tm)! Succubus Barbie!"

Theme for the drabble is, new.

So.

Chrysallid (for the new Sunday 100)

She remembered nothing.

This was the thing about dying, about being reborn: she always seemed to forget, for those first few minutes after waking, everything that had brought her to this metamorphosis. It had happened the first time, hundreds of years back, when the Master had taken her down and brought her back. Now, it seemed, it had happened the second time.

Disoriented, frightened, Darla lay in the box of earth, open to the night sky, seeing Angel, seeing Dru, panicking, jumping, going to ground.

When she did remember what had led to this new undeath, she tried to forget.

Nice Darla POV, Deb.

Here are mine:

Blossoming (Willow/Tara, S4)
If it wasn’t spring, you would find a spell to make it so, the weather and your mood match so well. You kiss under a tree one day, and tiny white flowers cover it overnight. Your lover blossoms with the heat, shedding scarves, jackets, sweaters, until you’ve coaxed her into a camisole. Her nipples peek through shyly, like early crocuses.

You lie on the green-again grass, your head in her lap. She strokes your hair with one hand, flips through a mythology textbook with the other. You smile at her.

“Everyone should fall in love in the spring,” she says.

Superhero (Violet, post-Chosen)
You can’t get used to new superpowers in the middle of a battle. They’re just there, like arms or legs: you breathe them in, grateful, and keep fighting.

It was a bit more real on the bus. Some of the younger Slayers showed off to each other, giggly and astonished as they squished and restored jewelry. Violet, preoccupied with other worries, shot them a stern look.

But that night, listening to Rona’s raspy breathing from the other bed in a Motel 6 outside Las Vegas, Violet finally understood who she was. What she was. She smiled into the darkness.

Cool.

[A/N: The thing that worried me most was the voice in "Blossoming" -- you *can* tell it's Willow, right?]

LJ, truth to tell, it was poetic enough to where I thought it was Tara talking. But it worked that way, as well.

LJ, truth to tell, it was poetic enough to where I thought it was Tara talking. But it worked that way, as well

Thank you, I guess.

The problem is, I know that when I'm reading someone's drabble and I can't tell what character(s) they had in mind, it bothers me. I feel like if you're doing the drabble form well, there should be no doubt in the reader's mind what character you're using, unless you want there to be. So I feel like, while it's certainly a lovely little thing, it fails on that level.

(The first sentence about the spell is supposed to be absolutely Willow, and the layer-shedding absolutely Tara. Apparently it's only clear in my head, though.)

Your lover blossoms with the heat, shedding scarves, jackets, sweaters, until you’ve coaxed her into a camisole. Her nipples peek through shyly, like early crocuses.

This was the part that made me think it was Tara talking. I can't really wrap my head around Willow being that lyrical; even as Dark Wil, she was terrifying and vibrant, but she never really hit me as lyrical.

I keep hearing it as Tara, and loving it as Tara, because I can't match "Her nipples peek through shyly, like early crocuses" to the same voice that said "Oh, I think I can kill a coupla geeks by myself!"

Yeah, it's not very Willow-talking-out-loud, is it? Which is probably the problem.

Drabbles R hard.

Drabbles R EXTREMELY hard.

But you know, it's still a lurvely piece of writing.

And besides, it's close to picture-perfect Tara. I can see her, or rather hear her, realising she'd forgotten to stammer.

I love both of your drabbles, Lyra.

I got that it was Willow, too-- the "find a spell to make it so" was verrry Willow, and the lyricism I took as a narrative, er, I've been sitting here for fifteen minutes and I can't think of the right word, but, a narrative, um, thingie. The psychic distance between the character and the author-- readers allowing for-- argh. t beats head against desk