At least the scarecrow had straw

[trinityofone]

I suck. Like, a lot. I know I owe people comments and e-mails (blueandomlettes! God, I am so sorry); I also have three essays due increasingly soon, and all I have managed are crappy, not-even-outlines for two of them. But my brain is mush. Babyfood. Strained beets.

Some things that have managed to make me happy? Well, over at artword, the current challenge for artists is based on my fic Realm of Dryads, and slodwick and tardis80 have already made gorgeous posters/covers which you can see here and here. Guh. They're both amazingly-shivery-good. (Plus, the current artword challenge for writers is awesome, too. If I ever get my brain back, I must work on the little kernel of an idea I have for it.)

Also, cynicatlantis made this fabulous little comic that combines two of my favorite things and is adorable to boot. *happy sigh* I think I'll be clicking back to that a lot today.

Finally, because I seriously doubt that I will get anything useful done today, and because I've been boring-as-hell lately (I like to think that I'm boring when I don't post, and not the other way around. No need to shatter my illusions, mmkay?), I figure I'll offer to do comment drabbles again. Comment with a prompt, and I'll write you a drabble. Eventually. (Hey, I did ALL of them last time! I totally win!) And, er, I'm gonna limit it to SGA this time, 'cause I don't really feel like writing anything else.

Now back to pondering boysex...er, "The Rape of the Lock" and Joycean epiphanies.

Comments

[saturnalia.livejournal.com]

Y'know, I'm tempted to ask for another Human Vacillation-verse drabble, but I have a feeling I might jinx any future sequels by constantly bugging you about it. *grin* So, instead, have this poem (http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/Nick-Flynn/3663) from a prompt.

[saturnalia.livejournal.com]

Or for a prompt, even. Ye gods, the sleep deprivation is starting to affect my spelling. *facepalm*

strung between bon-voyages

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

Er, this is sorta both, although there's more I want to do with the poem, which is fantastic--thank you.

***

John’s car is parked right up the road from Ford’s cousin’s house; he walks straight past it, stopping in front of a payphone. He empties his pockets onto the metal shelf, the heavy clink of too much change. Mechanically, he feeds the quarters into the slot, dials the number: eleven digits, pressed too firm and fast.

His mother answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?” she says. “Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?” Then a click as she hangs up.

John puts the receiver down. This is not the first time he has done this. He doubts it will be the last.