Connie, this is shaping up very nicely. Mise en scene is very visual indeed.

I am cross, though. This week's Open on Sunday drabble challenge theme? The 80's. WTF? I am uninspired - worse, I'm flat-out stumped.

But I found out that I got nominated for something - a Bedtime Story award. It was for that eight-line poem I wrote, Angel POV, for the David Bowie challenge.

So, that's kinda cool. Doubt I'll win, though.

This week's Open on Sunday theme is "vacations." Mine's a little grim.

Faith

The cell is seven by ten. It's got all the standard conveniences: a porcelein toilet, soap, a single-width cot, a thin blanket that's actually softer than some of the covers she's had in cheap motels.

It's also missing some standard conveniences: anything sharp, for instance. And no shoelaces.

They feed her, usually as part of a group. Sometimes, though, she can't take the other inmates, and for those nights, she starts a fight and gets fed in here.

No one screws with her. She has only to survive. And compared to life as a free slayer, prison is a vacation.

Deb, I like that a LOT.

Another one. Total shmoop; you can't say I didn't warn you.

Buffy

It's possible she's dreaming.

The sun's sinking over North Africa, maybe. Buffy's on the beach at Nice, the rough pebbles that take the place of sand here oddly tactile, rubbing the soles of her feet. She might be asleep, or not. She's waiting for nightfall.

Everyone else down here wants sunshine. People sunbathe nude, wanting to be seen, wanting to be warm.

She's waiting for nightfall.

And suddenly, here it is, and she's nearly alone but not completely, because he's there, just like all those years in Sunnydale, covering her back.

"Buffy?"

"Hello, Angel."

It's possible she's dreaming. Hopefully, not.

Oooh, that is nice.

Very nice, Deb.

I want a vacation myself. Jealous of all these fictional characters...

OK, so I got something for the Quote Challenge that wasn't ungodly long...More Munch angst.
(Sorry, but he is very good at it, somewhere down deep.)

“Do you always deflect personal questions with jokes?”

Yeah, unless I get lucky, and can make jokes about *somebody else*. That is as close to Fat City as John Munch will get. Mostly I do my own shtick. Did you hear the one about the pervert who wound up working Sex Crimes? Did you hear the one about the idiot who was so in love with a co-worker he couldn’t say anything for seven years, and still perks up when he sees a redhead on the street? There are many dyed redheads in Manhattan, and the biggest joke is, I’m learning to tell the difference. Ha fucking ha.

There are many dyed redheads in Manhattan, and the biggest joke is, I’m learning to tell the difference. Ha fucking ha.

Hoooeeeee. That's pure Munch, right there.

Cool. I heard him saying that, as I typed it.(Note to self: Don't open with that, with the social worker, unless you want to explore the wonderful world of Haldol.)