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.)

What great drabbles everyone is writing this week.

Sail, your drabble broke me in a good way. Go you!

I love yours, erika. The various meanings of holding are great.

Oooh, Clovis drabble! Great job, Jilli.

Your first drabble is so very sensual, Kristin.

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

Great line, Connie.

Here is my drabble:

"I washed my hands and used antibacterial gel." Finally I’m holding my newborn nephew. He has one hand over his pacifier, determined not to let it fall out again; his other hand grabs at anything within reach. Soon he’ll scream for his bottle, but for now I enjoy quiet of the moment and the chance to study him. I watch as he moves his head trying to find the direction of his brother’s voice; the baby is grunting because he cannot yet control his head the way he wants to. I still can’t believe this perfect baby needs heart surgery.

to hold you

I was nineteen, and unafraid of the world. After all, it had you in it. You, much older, drove me where I wanted to go. I loved you, no doubt. Passionately, irrefutably, to spite the universe.

You squirmed, restless, as I held you too tight.

Twenty-nine, I am unafraid of myself. These days I drive, because I prefer it. I loosened my grip when I learned to live on my own. I love you, no less passionately. Now I stretch it out, languorous, like a summer twilight.

You lie content in my arms; I have learned to hold you right.