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100×13: Rain

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Picture.

photo

Words.

Something from Sparks (THAT old chestnut). I kind of want to go back to regular blogging, but this is so much easier when I’m warm and lazy and post-work sleepy, sitting here with my cat and a glass of wine and season 3 of Buffy (to which, it turns out, I still know all the words).


 

“Stop freaking out.”

“I can’t!” Adam turned, wringing his hands like wet washing. He’d been pacing since I clambered in his window ten minutes earlier, and he didn’t seem to be able to stop. “You’re going to get yourself killed. We’re all going to get ourselves killed.”

“Relax,” I said. Buster dug his claws into my knee and let out an especially rattly purr. I clutched him around the middle and squeezed until he squeaked. “You’re probably not going to get killed. And if you’re lucky, I’ll be totally wrong about the Dad thing and Mitchell doesn’t kill people.”

“Yet,” Adam said darkly, then added, “and that says nothing about maiming. He may have known maiming practices.”

“Who on this island ever gets maimed?”

“No,” he said, with a frantic giggle, “you’re right. They get dead.”

“Isn’t that my problem?”

“No. You’ll be dead. You’ll be playing a harp and picking the fleas out of your wings or whatever. I’m the one who’s going to be stuck here dealing with it. Who’s going to tell your mother? Who’s going to say nice stuff about you at your funeral?” He stabbed himself in the chest with his knitted fists. “Muggins here, that’s who.”

I dug my chin into Buster’s back to hide my smile. “Like what kind of nice stuff would you say about me, Muggins?”

“I don’t know! You’re not that nice. I’m just the only person on the planet who doesn’t want to punch you in the face at this very second.”

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Writer of things. Annoyer of cats.

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