I kind of like that demand, actually. Been thoroughly enjoying hp100.

Excellent disciplinary tool, that demand - I find it hones things, and not only in writing fic, but also in fiction.

Another transportation drabble.

Because It's There

One hand over the the other. No pitons, no ropes.

The monastery is halfway up Lhotse's north face. He's left the building quickly, neither knowing nor caring whether the Buddhist monks were puzzled. He suspects not - they're very wise.

Limned in ice crystals far below, the Khumbu Icefall is a cathedral of frozen trilithons. He stands shivering, halfway between Tibet and eternity. The ragged unmistakeable summit of Everest, fabulous against the evening sky, is suddenly obscured by blowing cloud.

Then the moon breaks the surface, gibbous, golden, and full.

And suddenly, Oz is travelling on four legs, not two.

Well, my first try is not nearly so poignant. I'm not so good at poignant.

Van

When most people saw the van, they didn't get it. It was dirty, and ugly, and it kinda smelled funny. About half the time it didn't start on the first try, the brakes pulled to the right, and it drank gas like a kalthar demon. (Though, luckily, the van didn't season it with human blood.)

When Willow saw it, she got it. Immediately. The van was like its owner. Simple, useful, and it always pulled through in the end. And, inside, it was soft and warm and comforting - even the smell.

His van had character, and that character was Oz.

they didn't it

A word missing?

It's a neat piece, it is.

Nice catch. Thanks, it was in my LJ post as well. Had to remove another word to keep it at 100, but that was not a problem, luckily.

Excellent drabbles. Must resist temptation to drabble about Cavaliers, now.ETA: I *hate* when they're so insistent about the 100 words. Cause Munch talks too much and goes over, like he resists on principle. Rules. I don't need no stinkin' rules.;)

Because I suck at resisting temptation.
Transportation, Homicide-style.

Pembleton knows he can find that car.Writing stuff down is the province of(much) lesser mortals. He doesn’t have the time or the need for it. An instrument of justice doesn’t do paperwork. Annoying Felton is so much gravy. He needs for his mind to be the finely honed instrument he knows it is. And if he couldn’t be slicker than Beau, it ‘s time to eat his gun right now. He can feel it, the low-level electricity that invades him in the Box. He’s close. “There’s blood in the water!”

“ Hey, Kay, could you give me a ride to liquor awareness class?” These guys and their car problems. Sometimes Kay feels tempted to say “Ask Beth. Ask Felicia.” Or any of the other real women that they bitch about and then catch her watching and say “Not *you*, Kay.” But, no, they ask good old Detective Howard. Kay knows you put money and time into a car. Keep up with the oil changes, watch the fluids, rotate the tires. Mechanics don’t bullshit Kay. More than once. She’s not sure if it’s cause she can talk her way around an engine or because she just happens to wear her gun when she comes in. Either way she notices they come to an understanding real fast. Munchkin, now, he’s a smart guy, great detective, but kind of a flake. And teaching him about liquor is...what do you call it, redundant.

This week's Open on Sunday challenge is "telling a secret".

In This World of Dream (Illyria POV)

I have come to accept the needs of this fragile shell; I must take in nutrition, I lust after the sexual essence of others, and I must replenish this body with sleep.

I knew nothing of dream. At first, there was confusion, fragments, bits of longing and destiny and history.

Tonight, Fred came to me. As I am myself, I swear it: she was real, breathing, in a shell identical to that which I now inhabit. And she spoke to me.

"Here's a secret," she whispered, as I stared. "Wesley loved me. Now he loves you."

And I woke, weeping.

Good. Sad. And of course, inspiring.(I wrote, again, about the bloodiest romantic gesture ever...just obsessed with that shooting.)

A million times he thinks he’ll tell her. But it’s not like you can just blurt out in the coffee room “Hey, Howard, you’re welcome.”

And she’d give him her puzzled face, which he kind of admires. “What? You bought lunch. Yay...my hero.”

And his imaginings always stop before he can say” No. Cause I blew Gordon Pratt’s brains out. You can be sure you’re safe now.”

Sometimes she cries. Sometimes she slaps his face. One horrible night, he dreamed she made him turn himself in to Gee and Timmy. And he went, because even in his dreams, she erodes his will. And then, there was that other beautiful night when...well, you can imagine.

Even the terror of Jessup pales next to that thought. But she’s got Chilton right now and every once in a while mutters “Men!” in a dark way that makes John fear for the permanence of certain much-beloved features of his anatomy. Maybe, Munchkin, you’ll keep your big mouth shut.