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.

With apologies to Tim O'Brien:

The Things She Carries

Anna carries the clothes on her back, plus one change of dress and two of linen. She carries letters from her brother and her Great-Aunt Sophia, raked into her satchel at the last minute as she prepared to flee. In a little purse she carries coin, Spanish and English, for bribes and tips and better food and beds en route. She carries the horror of having killed a man, accident or no, and the memory of his ruined dead face. And though she won’t realize it for a few days yet, she carries a child, conceived under the stars four weeks ago.

Susan, that's gorgeous, especially those last two sentences.

One fix: "She carries a letters" Plural? Singular?

Good catch, Deb. It changed from a letter to letters mid-thought, so that slipped in.

Oh, so love the Tim O'Brien tribute. I teach that book, and it never fails to make me cry.

There's an excerpt of it in a writing book on my shelves. I've always loved it, and it's in the "show, don't tell" section, so it seemed appropriate.

I'll have to do one for Jack, too. It'll be both easier and harder, since a straight listing of all the gear he's schlepping around Spain would consume over 100 words by itself.

My little drabble is feeling unloved. t /whiny pouty needy writer

It's funny isn't it? The one I slave over, people are "Eh." But something I toss up out of boredom or delirum and people just don't get enough Your secret agent tries to be prepared for everything, Connie. I have no idea what to write.