(unbelievably charmed) Unlike my ani-Munch, I feel a real impulse to protect the (dubious) sanctity of my 3 or 4-way ficcer marriage...but if we ever end up in a bar in Hong Kong, I, and my abiding interest in art and philosophy? Would be happy to let you ravish me.( how's that for an inside reference?) Sigh...if all of the people(including me) whom I have talked to about H:LOTS watched while it was on, it could have been like L&O instead of "The Best Show You're Not Watching"...serves them right, not coming to me, like Merrick came to Buffy to explain my television writer's birthright.

Thanks for the comments, everyone. It turns out sex scenes are kinda fun to write. Who knew?

Wrod...although I've been known to make myself sweat and giggle nervously at the exact same time.Approaching VampLove very cautiously...part of me still doesn't want to be that kind of girl.

Second drabble, same theme (creation).

Trauma

There is a dark place where there should be none.

It sits, a microscopic nodule of quiescence atop a healthy-looking bit of tissue. A picture taken of it would show a pinpoint of uncertainty, a shadowy patch that only an eye trained in the mysteries of such things might read. It doesn't seem enough to cause the sudden searing headaches; certainly it's too small to kill.

And yet, without movement and without growth, it can do both things.

Joyce, not knowing what else had come into being when her second daughter was made, winces and sways, and reaches for aspirin.

Wow, that's powerful, Deb. I thought the same thing when I saw my mother's breast films. That it was a really tiny spot.

Having recently had the experience of lying there and watching the sonogram or whatever it's called of the breast mass? And having been there with cervical?

I know the feeling. Sorry if I raised anything too bad in the memories department, though. It's just that I have certain deep sympathies with Joyce.

No, not at all...it's been a few years now. Well, two. next month.

erika, e me with your snailmail addy, OK? I have something to send you.

(joining erika and deb in the "It's so tiny. How the fuck --" corner)

It looked like a bruise on an apple. I remembered that because I was a picky kid and hated to eat fruit with bruises on it, drove mom crazy. And I've often wondered that about about my own brain...it's probably not that big, either...the spot getting me all the kickass parking spaces. And thank you for not thinking I'm fucked up for looking...people irl thought that was gross of me.ETA: Deb, insent.