I've given up on the 100-word limit. But, I'm trying to make the drabbles as short as possible.

Photo #5

The Donna Messinger-Tofferdept "Little Girl Lost" mystery lingers to this day. In 1973, a young girl in a flannel nightgown was found crying in a Woolworth's toy department in Anaconda, Montana. No one in the town recognized her. Stating her name was Donna Messinger and that she was from Chicago, every attempt was made to reunite her with her family. However, not only was the Messinger family unable to be located, but the home address Donna gave was a deserted lot between two apartment buildings. After a blaze of publicity, she was identified as Donna Tofferdept, who had gone missing two years earlier from her family home in Worland-Ten-Step, Wyoming. Donna did not recognize the Tofferdepts, and insisted that her real family were the ones pictured in the photo that was clutched in her hand when she was originally found. While the photo did indeed show Donna, no one knew who the other three people were. Unable to accept the Tofferdepts as her family, Donna ran away from home when she was 14. She left a note saying that she had seen her brother, Butch, in a car going down the highway, and that she was determined to re-join her real family. The Tofferdepts, having no other children and blaming each other for Donna's refusal to believe she was their daughter, divorced three years later.

Damn, Jilli. That last one was the creepiest for being the closest to "normal."

Photo #2.

Days of Wine and Roses

The summer that Nancy got married was the last time we went out on the river. Tucked under our skirts, we’d hidden two glasses and a bottle of father’s port. The bottle swung against my leg as we hauled the boat out to the breakwater. The pilfered wine would taste good as we let the boat drift along the riverbank, we thought.

It was a good trip. The pull of the oars and the breeze in our faces gave us a sense of movement that we knew would be over with Nancy’s marriage. Afterward: no mobility, no choices, no freedom.

edited for continuity, they weren't in a canoe.

[link] Photo 9

Production Assistant Nicole held it out. "From your nephew."

I'd been so proud of that coat, that matching bag; so eager to head off to my new life at U.C. Berkeley. Brother Chuck was attempting to be cool, trying not to be impressed that his mousy little sister was daring the Big City.

1969 saw me burning the coat as a sign of bourgeois sensibility, but I held on to enough of my senses to finish Journalism School and get a job with local TV news. Now I was retiring, and the office was looking for embarassing material to use in the retrospectives.

At least the coat was long gone.

Nicole looked over my shoulder. "I'd kill for a coat like that, it's so hip and retro."

Hehe. When my grandmother passed away I scarfed up her faux-leopard coat, hat and purse. The coat didn't fit me so I gave it to one of my daughter's friends. I do wear the hat and the purse upon occassion.

[link]

No woman had ever gone all the way around the lake, not without a man along to do the "heavy" work. Lem, their brother, laughed at both of them when they asked to borrow the boat. He told them both not to make spectacles of themselves. He warned them they could get hurt. Lalie snapped her fingers at him and started untying the bow.

Cora and Lalie didn't tell anyone else about their plans, but by duskof the perfect end-of-summer day, a crowd had gathered. Most of the folks from the cabins on the shore had gathered near Isaacson's store. There was some hooting and catcalling when their skirts rode up as they carried the boat over the pier, some cheering, but everyone was watching. Lem took the mooring rope from Lalie's hand. This time when she snapped her fingers, he smiled. Lem mentioned the boat trip at Cora's funeral. He was proud folks still remembered it 60 years later. "I was there to see them off" he said.

Photo 6

They’d made me redundant, my sons.

Theirs were the names on Ivy’s tongue, the hair smoothed beneath her hand, the dreams that quivered beneath her lashes as we lay in bed each night. They were the reason for the spicy perfume of apple brown betty in the kitchen, the carefully planned excursions to the seashore, the sleek piano in the parlor with its full-throated song, every penny she secreted away for rainy days to come.

Maurice was her lifeline when Bernard drowned. I grieved for the sons I never had a chance to know, the wife who had abandoned me for motherhood.

Has anyone pointed Sophia to photo 9? Because it's so her!

Edit: You know what, she's never around, but I'm going to email it to her.

Has anyone pointed Sophia to photo 9? Because it's so her!

lightbulb goes off

THAT'S why the girl in the photo looked so familiar! I was actually wondering, in livejournal, where I'd met her.

I admit, as soon as I saw that photo, I thought of Sophia.

I'm actually working on some edits to Cruel Sister right now. This is the first I've done on the book since the flooring insanity began, and it may work to my advantage, since the six or so week hiatus away from the book brings me to it with fresh eyes.