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?)

Susan, my sister could not - simply could not - understand why I couldn't bring myself to read Alice Hoffmann's At Risk. I was the mother of an eight year girl at the time, and several of our friends had died or were dying of AIDS.

It took a vitriolic, profanity-riddled explosion of rage to get her to stop assuming that I was not dissing her favourite author, and that there might just be a reason behind my complete inability to read that one.

BTW, I just posted an original meme for writers in my livejournal. I'll be interested to see what people post in their own.

I bring Annabel with me to my Monday writers group, though that may change now that she's getting squirmy and fussy about being held/left in her stroller for 1 1/2 hours. One member of the group does sf/magic realist stuff, and lately everything has a very strong political theme. His winter project was an environmental disaster story, your basic post-apocalyptic breakdown of society, with a long, lovingly drawn portrayal of a woman going through late pregnancy, labor, and her child's starvation because she herself was too close to starving to produce milk.

I hated that story, and having to read it week in and week out while holding my strong, healthy, well-fed baby that I deliberately and willingly brought into a scary and chancey world, because I still hold onto that hope from Pandora's Box.

(None of which is condemning the drabble and baby discussion above. It's an entirely different vibe than that story was, believe me.)