I like drabbles. I like being able to evoke emotion in 100 words. I even like the ability to fiddle with the language to make the drabble exactly 100 words. This is a chart for various drabbles that I've written for faire-fic, games, BPAL and what-have-you that have graced the pages of *this* journal, as opposed to all of the other drabble charts I ( Read more... )

Dorotea kneels beside me in church, coming perhaps a touch closer than is strictly appropriate or necessary, but it is very cold on the stones and I press against her ( Read more... )

He’s never liked children, never quite known what to do with them. They are small and fragile, loud when they should be quiet and rambunctious when they should be still. And worst of all, they stink when they should smell good, and inevitably come with a screeching mother, who is worse than all the rest combined ( Read more... )

I dream about it sometimes - cool water poured into tall glasses filled with ice. Diving into deep pools and swimming until I hit the bottom, pushing with both feet, hurtling towards the surface and taking deep breaths of fresh air. Warm water poured over my hair, rinsing white suds down drains ( Read more... )

It is raining on our June wedding; we picked June so we could stand barefoot on the lawn and say our vows. We do it anyway, as planned, with mud squishing between our toes and the pastor balancing a bible in one hand and an umbrella in the other ( Read more... )

She bustles. It is the word I use to describe her. Even at rest, in her prayers, she seems as if she is always moving, wide skirts forever swirling. She speaks with the lilt of the Italians, giving our words beauty, and when she prays, I understand how Latin is supposed to sound. She keeps her back straight, her chin high, and she looks at the ( Read more... )

I gaze down at the trunk, at the pieces of my wife’s past, of mine. There are bits of my brother and patron. There are pieces of her first and really, only love. There are scraps of who I wanted to be, once ( Read more... )

Papa once told me, “Never grow old. It is full of pain and regret. Don’t grow old ( Read more... )

First part here.There are three messages on his machine when Mike finally gets home, drunk and smelling like stale cigarettes and spilled beer. One is from his mom, asking what his plans are for his birthday. One is from a computer that desperately wants to sell him a vacation rental and seems vaguely disconsolate that no one is home to take this ( Read more... )

Mike and BobbyIt begins with a phone call from his brother ( Read more... )