I am a large, semi-muscular man. I can take it. Don't hide behind Mal 'cause you know he'll shoot it down for you. Tell me.

Wash ,'War Stories'


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.


Susan W. - Apr 10, 2008 2:22:10 pm PDT #8 of 6608
Good Trouble and Righteous Fights

Fun, Amy!


sj - Apr 10, 2008 2:22:45 pm PDT #9 of 6608
"There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea."

Nice drabble, Amy!


SailAweigh - Apr 10, 2008 2:28:22 pm PDT #10 of 6608
Nana korobi, ya oki. (Fall down seven times, stand up eight.) ~Yuzuru Hanyu/Japanese proverb

Ha! I can see that happening somewhere, Amy.


Laga - Apr 10, 2008 2:28:45 pm PDT #11 of 6608
You should know I'm a big deal in the Resistance.

sweet, Amy


juliana - Apr 10, 2008 2:35:35 pm PDT #12 of 6608
Tell me the ghost in the machine is real

Awww, Amy. that's sweet.


Amy - Apr 10, 2008 2:38:48 pm PDT #13 of 6608
Because books.

Thanks! I ... try not to make every drabble about violent death and stuff.

::sheepish::


Lee - Apr 10, 2008 2:42:42 pm PDT #14 of 6608
The feeling you get when your brain finally lets your heart get in its pants.

Very nice, Amy.


SailAweigh - Apr 10, 2008 2:42:54 pm PDT #15 of 6608
Nana korobi, ya oki. (Fall down seven times, stand up eight.) ~Yuzuru Hanyu/Japanese proverb

Deadlines

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.


Beverly - Apr 10, 2008 3:31:02 pm PDT #16 of 6608
Days shrink and grow cold, sunlight through leaves is my song. Winter is long.

(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!)


sarameg - Apr 10, 2008 5:40:55 pm PDT #17 of 6608

OK, so a teenage me wrote this in 1991 after the death of my 90 year old grandpa, father of 6, the last of that generation, watching his kids interact. I don't attempt poetry any more, but I've got a collection from that time. But the "center" thing got me. So I'll abase myself:

The ties are broken
Center of the wheel
Unbolted.
The spokes should
Fly out.
Yet they don't.
Love binds them
Pain's grasp seizes them.
All together they withstand
They cannot be apart.
They will not forget.