I haven't written anything in weeks and weeks so I dashed off a drabble for the open_on_sunday challenge. And the theme was...open, nothing, pick whatsoever-you-will.
“Our rats are low...”
Doyle’s image flickers off the darkened walls of Angel’s suite.
“That the Irishman, then?”
“Get out, Spike.”
“Angel, can’t we just talk for once?”
“Which part of ‘get out’ did you not understand?”
“Fine, suit yourself.” The door slams.
Angel rewinds, ejects the tape marked DOYLE. Puts it away next to one he received before coming over to W&H. On a post-it, ‘If we must perish, tell the world our story.’ For eighteen days, he watched one section: a basement, a flung cigarette.
A new label covers the old. One word, written in black marker: SPIKE.
Now I'm off to clean my messy house. My family survived without me for four days. It's nice to know that they need me for something. *g*
I've missed you all. I'll try to
::big Marilyn Monroe kiss and wave::