Absent-Minded

"Damn!"

The contents of Ringan's pockets sat on the table, mocking him, a jumble of frustration. Keys to Lumbe's. Keys to the Alfa. Spare keys to Penny's Jaguar. One broken guitar string, Martin .0042 gauge, neatly coiled. Enough guitar picks to stock the Cropredy Festival.

"Come on, where are you..."

Jacket, emptied out: Nothing but music store business cards. Bloody hell. They couldn't be lost. She'd have his guts for garters.

"Looking for these?"

He turned. Penny, watching from the doorway, jangled her own front door keys.

"Oh, good. Not lost. Where were they?"

"Where you left them. In the lock."

Show, Don't Tell drabble #3: (I love this topic, too.)

My mom's dresser.

Paperbacks, three or four, bookmarks sticking out like tongues. A bottle of Chanel #5, nearly empty. A basket of makeup—a pink and green tube of Maybelline mascara, nail polish in rich, earthy shades of wine and burgundy. Her jewelry box, cheap white board edged with fading gilt, and in its bottom drawer a small velvet bag of baby teeth and curling locks of pale hair. Pill bottles, fat and thin, an army of translucent amber plastic topped with childproof white caps. Sunglasses, hand cream, a stack of flesh-colored nylon panties. Photos of her children tucked into the mirror’s frame.

Hmmmmm. Did I screw up? I mean, does actually having a scene using said objects violate the spirit of the drabble? Tep? Could you clarify?

6 lipsticks, 2 glosses, all in the same family of pink. An inhaler lives in detente with two packs of clove cigarettes and an empty book of matches. Enough bits of paper to line a large rats' nest litters the bottoms of this structured black bag, along with two highlighters and a dead red pen. An anemic peanut-sized penis pencil topper hides under all the paper debris like a dirty secret, and fine purple powder from an exploded eye shadow coats the fingers of anyone brave enough to dare the bag.

A bottle of iburpofen large enough for most third-world health clinics clinks and rattles alongside a keychain heavy enough to use as a weapon, and a lone crusty Tictac is the last survivor fleeing from the train wreck that is my purse.

Deb, I think a scene is actually better than a list. It's just so difficult to do with the word limit.

But I loved your Ringan & Penny scene--so in character for them both.

This:

inhaler lives in detente with two packs of clove cigarettes and an empty book of matches

I love this. I love the whole thing, Erin. I'd love to see it expanded to give a reason for sifting through the purse. I think that's what's missing from the "lists."

Even though Amy's reads more like a description (very poignant, too) than a list. There just isn't enough room with a 100 word limit to *do* very much more than list items.

Oh, Ms. Moderator, Ma'am? Can we have a word-embiggening, just for this one week's topic, please? If we're very, very good? We promise to write well if you'll say yes.

Bev, I tend to think that the imposition of a 100-word limit on this kind of category is a perfect discipline tool.

Make the items in the list fewer, but make 'em count.

Okay. 's true, I'm a wordy girl by nature. I'll break out the machete.

Word limits are bourgeois.;) (says she who almost always takes too damn many, by 100 at least. Want. Take. Have)

What I Brought With Me From Erica Road

One pair of knickers, silk. Five more, stretchy cotton blend.

Bras, more than a few. He liked the lacy ones; I preferred elegant and sleek.

Fleecy pajamas. He called them my "passion-killers", laughing at me. They're neatly folded now.

That antique dress he bought me from Opening Thursday. Cocoa lace, a hundred covered buttons. I wore it to the Stones in Chicago.

No pictures, not one, that I'm aware of; I burned them all. No personal notes. No mementos. Anything not sterile would hurt too much to bear.

So how can a suitcase full of clothing cause this much pain?

Amy, I just went back and reread your two, and they suddenly went PINGPINGPING. Wow. Dark.