HA! erika is also my Official Internet Wife. We're both Homicide: Life on the Streets junkies.

Hmmm. Today's Open On Sunday Drabble theme is "patterns". Must consider that one for a bit...

She married me for my crossovers, but usually I wait a post or five before pimping my fandoms. But in "A Year On The Killing Streets" the new guy had to give the established detective quarters every day for, six months, I think. Because the new guy was new and his partner had twenty-five years. But it's no fun to ask for three cents.(I've been a Buffista for three years.) ETA; In my other fandoms, patterns= easy. blood, brains, spatter.Ligature markings...ooh, Frandina. Although that gives the wiggins cause Angela Frandina is one of my pseuds and sometimes I forget if Angela's me...and I may be ill, actually.

Never caught an ep of Homicide, but have been a Denis Leary fan 4-ever, and am falling in love with Rescue Me. I just found this place a few months ago, when I heard Minear talking about it on the radio.

I like Denis Leary too...I have a big weakness for comedians that get to say all the stuff I can't. And to get paid big money to sing about being an asshole while people clap? Makes me proud to be an American to see that.(I'm being a wiseass, but it kind of *does* actually. But that's why I have to hang out here...nobody average would have me.) And the show is so good(I love that whole squad thing, which is where the comparison to H:LOTS comes in. That, and the smartmouthed reprobate comics doing drama thing. Reaching for that buried softer side and that sort of thing.)..and I'm talking too much.

OK, patterns.

Bloodless

The man lies crumpled on the soft grass.

All around, night-blooming plants scent the air with a heady, luscious mix of smells. Bats wheel overhead, darting after insects, their radar sensing and dooming tiny chitinous things. A dogfox calls sharply, and something screams as it is brought down.

These are the hours of darkness. Death is in the air.

Beside the stream, Drusilla sits and throws coins into the water. Silver, copper, zinc, they break the surface, rippling into concentric circles, patterns of life and death. Sated with blood, she croons to herself, as her dinner cools into rigor on the grass.

Unexpected, Deb, but in a good way.

I can just see her singing to the water, and the dead body.

I got into a Mood, bigtime, and reposted all three of my Darla in Tuscany series in my livejournal. I'd actually forgotten how damned erotic they are.

A second pattern challenge drabble.

Willow, Dreaming

Vignette:

Tara, sitting by the window in the UC Sunnydale dorm, with an embroidery hoop in her hands. Blue thread, red thread, tiny flexible splinters of colour...

"What's that? I didn't know you could sew."

"Making us something. Let's see if it works." Tara holds the hoop up to the window. Sunlight streams in and suddenly, there is oddity in the dancing dust motes, fractured light, a pattern of magic that shifts the substance of air and space as it hits the ancient symbol...

Willow opens wet eyes, listening to Kenndy breathing evenly beside her, trying to recapture her dream.

One more patterns challenge piece, more Drusilla:

Reverie

"See a pin and pick it up, all the day you'll have good luck..."

She sings, high and offkey, her voice catching, breaking at odd bits. It's very tricky, singing is, when you have no breath to use. Yet, she sings, hearing her voice crack. She looks down at a stranger's blank face, as if awaiting comment.

Nothing. Annoyed, she dips a finger in the cooling blood that spatters his chest, tracing as she sings, patterns of unholy beauty, agony, the terror of his last moments.

"See a pin and let it lie, lest it prick you, and you die."

DAMN, Deb. Lovely. I liked the Willow/Tara best of all - gorgeous, and such a catch in the throat at the end.

You've inspired me to join the Open on Sunday thing, so:

Drusilla, still breathing

He is the cruel epitome of patience, and she is such a good girl, such a peach in this dirty city. Untouched. Unsullied. Irresistible.

He satisfies transient hunger elsewhere, biting into anonymous scraps of humanity like discarded apples, draining them.

He learns her time for prayer and study, her time for embroidery and mending. The extent of her wardrobe, the range of her hats. Savours the slow growth of panic in his pristine prey as he insinuates himself into the pattern of her life, letting her glimpse him in shadows repeatedly.

Breaks mind, spirit and body before stealing her soul.