I bet this means you've finished, Allyson. If so, congrats!

And another tall glass of congratahol for the young lady slumped over at the end of the bar, courtesy of the house.

Whee!

That's fabulous Allyson! I hope you slept the sleep of the well-accomplished.

passing Allyson the fresh berries for the bubbly

ita! Writing question coming your way in a minute or three. Email.

I solemnly swear that I will never again post a drabble topic as awful as last week's topic. Just one of those things that only I think is funny, I guess.

That said, you can all do the Happy Happy Joy Joy dance, because challenge #92 (when homonyms run amok!) is now closed.

[And there was much rejoicing o'er all the land....]

Challenge #93 is thank-yous for *shitty* gifts.

No homonyms required.

The Wisemans? The Wisemans? You asked the Wisemans to the party? They always bring such crappy gifts!

"Oh. Thank you for the lovely....myrrh."

"My friend Jen is too nice," I said.

"Yeah?"

"Well, a couple of Christmases ago, her mom -- her family has a tradition of TERRIBLE gifts -- gave her a fleece blanket -"

"That doesn't seems so bad. A little boring, but..."

"Oh, no. See, the blanket had a large stain on it. Her mom had been using it before she gave it to Jen --"

"Ok, now that's tacky."

"Yes! And the stain was from -- get this -- where the dog had vomited on it. Her mom washed it, wrapped it, gave it."

"What did your friend say?"

"Oh, an enthusiastic and false thanks, I suppose. Like I said, she's too nice. And her family's too crazy. She's the only sane one. I think maybe the dog-vomit blanket would make anyone go a little postal, but no..."

poison

What was it, you and those gifts?

Years would go by without a card, and then, out of nowhere, I'd get a gift: birthday, or Christmas, or something in the middle of nothing.

I remember the almond bath milk - I nearly opened it before Nicky grabbed them out of my hand. At Christmas that year, walnut and avocado face cream. He read the ingredients to me, shock on his face. I listened, heart hurting.

Always lethal, those presents, targeting my allergies. Why, Mom? If anyone should have known the ingredients to kill me with, it should have been you.

Her

After your mother died, your step-father ran home to his mother. She sold her house, renting a bigger place for you. She chased away your nightmares--nursed your illnesses--bandaged your scrapes--kissed away your tears. She mothered you, even though she'd mothered six of her own--alone--and you were no kin to her. The only home you ever had was hers. Your people forgot you.

You're a big shot now. I begrudge you nothing. She opens that bar of drug store soap and thanks you for remembering her. I look at it, knowing you don't remember a thing.

(word count: 100)