150 pages on the book today.Which I think is about halfway, unless some subplot really jumps off.(Which it might...I mean, I know who the killer is and such, but am not entirely sure how to get there.)

I never remember my dreams, although I doubt they've ever been as awesome as Typo's.

Easy to achieve. JUst get a chronic medical condition which means you never sleep more than 2 hours in a row without having to get up. With all that time spent falling asleep and waking up, you too can have vivid dreams and no problem remembering them.

Streetwalker

Every day she walks the sidewalks, her steps heavy, leaden, slapping the cement with dull thuds that assault her ears as they assault her joints. She counts the steps, getting lost in the numbers when they remind her that the mortgage is due in two days; she's short. There's power in numbers, but only if they add up in her favor. Her steps keep adding up until she arrives at work where commitment and ability earn only more duties and responsibility without the just rewards that a good worker expects. There is no light at the end of the tunnel.

So many drabbles! We're awesome. And now for a new prompt:

crack

oh procrastination... you feckless muse.

Fine. fine finefinefine. This wanted to be a poem. With apologies to... um. Everyone.

What Came Forth

It opened, the crack
in the grave ground
where the stone marked your lack,

and my lost heart, lost luck.
Then came forth a sound
that heaved wider this crack

and hands stained black
pushed the ground aside.
I ran, but speed I lacked

and your form rose to attack
grabbed my shoulder, pulled
I sped up, your knees cracked

but you followed, mouth slack
moaning your love,
your hungry lack.

Now the grave ground trips and coils.
Like old times, I run, you follow
I'd tired of waiting for the ground to crack,
now I'm flying through a world you no longer lack.

eta - line breaks.

bad poemdrabble killed the thread?

Could just be a Monday. Or everyone, uh, shot their wad last week.

I've been distracted with work and dogsitting all day, so mostly I would just like some crack, and then to pass into oblivion for a little while.

I like "hands stained black/pushed the ground aside" a lot.

[Rather longer than a proper drabble, I fear...]

"Step on a--"

That was the chant they'd sung, out there in the world, dappled by the sunlight through the oak leaves. Chalk lines and drawings marked the boundaries of their universe, so much bigger in their imaginations than in the flesh.

"Step on a--"

Now, her world is but darkness, one pace in each direction. Her mouth is dry with thirst, legs shaky with weakness. Her eyes, desperate for stimulation, invent stars and galaxies that swim across her vision.

But after the last feeding, she felt the earth shake, and heard something move in the wall. So she feels her way around the tiny space, touching every inch of the surfaces she can reach. Just in case something was knocked loose.

"Step on a--"

Her right hand catches on an irregularity, a ragged slot where before had been chill hard smoothness.

She slides a hand in, all the way to her knuckles. Now the other. She braces her feet, locks her elbows, and heaves.

Light streams through.

"Step on a crack, break your mother's back--"

And she is out.

Wow, Consuela, that pucks a punch.

what Amy said.