The Great Write Way, Act Three: Where's the gun?
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
Nice drabble, Amy!
Ha! I can see that happening somewhere, Amy.
Awww, Amy. that's sweet.
Thanks! I ... try not to make every drabble about violent death and stuff.
Very nice, Amy.
She sits very still as the words and pictures swirl around her. Both are elusive. Oh, yes, third picture from the left. No, wait. The fourth one, too. Together in the same block, or separately in descending blocks? She'll let those spin for a while. Goes back to the words, plucks a few more out of the vortex. Line those up just here. Box a couple up there. Oh, right there. That's where that picture goes. Does there need to be more? Let it spin. Crack the whip with words and pictures: she's the center that holds it all together.
(I'm about 20 words over--my machete needs sharpening, the weedwhacker needs new string.)
Twenty levels down and it was stronger--thrumming on her skin, shimmering in her blood. Her nape and arm hair stirred. Three past twenty and it began to wane, so back up again, one level, two. Ceiling light corruscated, seen from her eye corners; the effect intensified as she went. The way ended in a door--unlocked. She swung it open and her breath caught--there was no floor beyond, only a narrow catwalk that circled a vast open well, door after door opening onto it above and below, to her left and her right.
Ahead, suspended of its own energy, a sphere, soft yet brilliant, invisible threads reaching from it out, out, up, down, around, over, under, all.
(See Beverly use up all the prepositions!)