My contribution.

How the shoebox has survived nearly 25 years I don't know. The letters inside should probably have gone the way of the world long ago. Letters from Joe to my college-aged, naive self. I read them, and I'm her again, and the pain is too real. I'd go back, if I could, and tell her we'd become the kind of woman Joe dreaded, strong and confident. Reading them, though, reminds me that I loved him.

They've been here too long. I reach for the shredder, pause, then grab the matches.

Souls are freed on flaming pyres, and hers is long past due.

Holy crap. Just went back and read the drabbles on this to date.

Erika, that was amazing. The way you repeated the word hold and cycled the passage of time...wow.

Deb, beautifully hopeful. I love how you used Pandora's box here.

Sail, wow. Painful. Wrenching.

Jilli, I love the description of Clovis! I especially love this line: "One fuzzy ear sticking up, the second flopped over one shiny black eye, fangs just peeping over his dapper bow tie." So very evocative.

Connie, that one nearly broke me. Because I burned every single memento I had of the affair that defined the first half of my life, every photograph, every single anything.

It didn't free anything, alas.

What Kristin said. All very inspired pieces, today, including hers. I'm so glad I finally started reading and posting in this thread. I can't believe I was missing out on such good stuff.

Fortunately, the only thing about Joe that I regret is the sex. He listened to Rush Limbaugh before Rush was fashionable and before my opinions finished coalescing. Still, he had his uses, and he convinced me I could be sexy.

Her lungs tremble with the effort and her nostrils burn as they flare uselessly. It's okay if she gets dizzy, a little. She just has to keep quiet.

Slowly, she squirms further and further away from the edge of the bed until her back is braced against the wall's surface. She can see the light under the crack of the door from this far underneath, but she squeezes her eyes shut against the knowledge and tries not to exhale.

Quiet as mice. Quiet as whispers, feathers, dark. Quiet.

The pull on her wrist is harsh and twisting when it comes.

Holding/Containor Drabble #2

The metal cylinder held fifteen coiled sheets, blueprints curled tightly into themselves like a promise. The purple lines traced bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, stairs, closet, another hallway leading to another bedroom leading to another dream of the future. They were the sound of the backhoe digging out the foundation and the swift movement of the hammer hitting the nail. They were the map to a new home, a new debt, a new set of obligations and recriminations and consequences.

The metal cylinder rests against the wall in the living room still, a reminder of how hard concrete becomes once it’s set.

Oh damn, ita.

All these holding drabbles have been amazing. Sail's broke me.

A co-worker and good friend's sister had twins, anticipated and planned-for twins. The labor was long and non-progressive, and finally they did the C-section. Hunter, still tucked up in the womb, was perfect and fine. Jackson, jammed hard into the non-yeilding bone of the pelvis for hours, had a devastating stroke. He survived for 10 heartbreaking months, during which the differences between him and his healthy twin became inescapable, during which he learnt to smile, to recognize family members and to prefer some to others. It was the first occasion I'd heard of a baby having a stroke, as well.

Jesus, Bev.

Jesus indeed. I'm glad I didn't know about that when I was in labor or immediately thereafter, given how long Annabel was stuck in one spot.

(I find that I just can't write baby-in-jeopardy or sick baby stories post-Annabel, unless it's deep backstory. However, I'm almost wallowing in traumatic labor plots these days. Catharsis much?)