Rebecca Barlow (or Becca or Becky?). Fits well together. Is she a person who would let her named be shortened. Cause if so, then alliteration.

Her first husband calls her Becky (though he's the only person she's ever allowed to do so); her second calls her Rebecca.

Next

Her sudden spasms proved her timing was way off. Not a painful combustion, though not pleasant. Nor quiet. In the shattered mirror, she saw him stir. They had a room for this - not this bathroom. Dammit. A chunk of her hand was lodged behind the faucet, painted nail pointing. Accusing.

"I'll take care of it, go lie down." His voice was soothing, patronizingly so.

It annoyed her that he, the human, never raised his voice. She had practiced emotions for centuries, and he seemed without.

She shuffled her remains to the bed. He’d bring her a new body tomorrow.

A chunk of her hand was lodged behind the faucet, painted nail pointing. Accusing.

Okay, this? Is really awesome.

I'm going to start calling you Clive Barker.

Now you got me blushing.

Well this is him at his best. The grotesque (and grossness) mixed with beauty and still bringing on the scary.

She shuffled her remains to the bed.

Yargh. That sent a chill straight through me. I'ma go hide under bed now. Seriously. (Then again, I'm a big wimp.)

Excellent!

One of these days I'll have to write something longer than 100 words. If I can. You all are inspiring me to try.

Because we were discussing "Roxanne" over in the music thread and I'm sitting here feeling all wistful and big with the self-pity that the book's been pushed off next summer's schedule. One of my favorite scenes I've ever written. If only so I can see it in print, as it were, somewhere

"Soledad, you ready?"

While Raj backed away with a whispered, "Break a leg," I ventured further out onto the floor, assuming my opening pose.

Okay, yeah, it had been tempting to choose something from Carmen, in a d'uh, sort of way. Or, if I wanted to stay within the realm of classical ballet but still show off my strengths, Firebird, especially since it was polished to a diamond shine for the showcase.

But the last couple of days, weighing the pros and cons of everything I had in my repertoire, I'd kept coming back to this—"El Tango de Roxanne" from Moulin Rouge—as being perfect. Dangerous, raw, sexy, angry, and above all, passionate—building from a deceptively quiet and mysterious introduction. Only way to make it better would be chocolate.

I began by prowling the expanse of the floor in a rough figure eight, my footwork echoing the sharp staccato precision of the strings, my upper body taut as a wire. However, my arms remained fluid and sinuous, accompanying the vocals in telling the story of a professional seductress, paid for her favors, forced by circumstance to hold herself aloof until she meets the one man who's so different, who wants her solely for who she is and who desperately tries to convince her she no longer has to sell herself. Then, as the song continued to grow in intensity, matching the narrator's growing passion and fury, that fluidity worked its way down my fingers, through my arms, into my body and legs, the precise, deliberate movements evolving into something more; something untamed and wild, as I became that woman, veering between the security of a wealthy customer and the temptation of unconditional love.

During one quiet passage, I skirted the edges of the floor, meeting all those eyes, weighing… deciding… finally extending a hand and pulling a smiling Raj—my chosen customer—up. Taking the cue, he fell into step with me, the two of us swaying together, perfectly matched for a few brief moments until the music crescendoed once again and I pushed him away, bursting free, covering the floor in a huge sweeping series of turning leaps. Soaring, feeling the familiar, glorious stretch and burn of my legs in full extension, lost in the beauty of the music, in the story, building toward that one moment—where the strings, the brass, the vocals all joined together in a brilliant cacophony, prompting one last series of rapid-fire steps and jumps before I began spinning on one leg, turning in a fouetté en tournant, my free leg whipping around and around, faster and faster, never touching the ground until the last, final crashing note where I dropped to both knees, head thrown back, both arms thrust up and out, imploring my lover to return.

My eyes closed, the only thing I heard was the sound of my own harsh breathing, whistling through my throat and nose.