However, I am on a mission to write Sprace for TSB, and to prove that I have started writing, here is a little 100-word drabble. Not sure if this is the concept I'm going to continue with, but I am quite fond of it's irrationality.
If Spot Conlon doesn’t stand up, if he doesn’t make some witty comment about the blossoming bruise on Racetrack’s cheek, if he doesn’t tap his cane along the wilting, warping, wooden planks in time with his swagger, Racetrack Higgins is going to throw him into the East River.
Not in a Boys Wrestling In Advantageous Places* sort of way, either. Race is going to scoop Spot’s svelte frame into his sun-dried olive arms, hug his thrashing Brooklyn limbs to his chest, and dump him with ceremony and resolution over the edge.
Because that seems like the logical thing to do.
* Yes. Pun is intended. MOO HA HA HA HA.
Ummm, does it sound very Proceed With Caution rip-offy? I always get very nervous, because in some way or another, everything I write is inspired by something I see, read, hear, or otherwise retain... *shifty*