Well, it was either that or, you know, sinus green. For once propriety carried the day.

Firstly, I am so glad for the drabbles. They are doing me a world of good. It feels so BIG to write again.

Secondly, here's my new one.

INXS

White background, men in black, big red letters.

INXS

The letters of hope and rejection.

Mom sees him first, walking with a box of shoes. He smiles a timorous smile. Mom smiles a resentful smile. I grin. Ear to ear, to show off the smile I am so proud of. It’s the one feature of me my thirteen year old self likes.

Keep smiling. Be smart. Be pretty. Does he like me? Maybe he’ll take me home. Maybe he’ll buy me something. A leather jacket. Because he’s guilty.

I leave with mom. She grips my hand tighter than usual.

He doesn’t want me.

Oof. Oh honey. That's--that's so painful.

Aw, Empress, but good for you, putting it into words.

It's such a liberating feeling writing those last 4 words.

Not because it’s a bad memory but because it takes years off my life. Both the good ones and the bad ones.

erika, that's so simple and perfect.

I've been reading in here and trying to get the nerve up to write again. I feel like all of whatever talent I ever had has been drained away over the last few years. But mostly I know I'm just lazy.

Man, those were both tum-punches.

erika, that brought back the memory of a guitar player, way back when. I was a smoker in those days (so was he); I smoked menthol, he smoked straight. One day, after a kiss, he said, "How can you smoke those things? It's like smoking cough drops."

Teppy, just so you know, because of the drabble community and the couple or three I've done, I wrote two poems yesterday. I haven't written anything beyond an LJ or posting-board post or a letter for nearly two years.

They're not great poems, they need work, which I will happily do. But I wrote them. So thank you.

Thanks, Deb and lisah. But that was hard, despite the fact that I construct a character from those details first...what perfume they like, what they drink. I could tell you what's in the Homicide squad's medicine cabinets...I won't, not to worry.

Well...I'm intimidated by the wonderful drabbles already in here, but I think I'll break my fear by just writing one. And since we're being brave...a bit more than 100 words to dredge up a painfully brittle memory of my own. (Boy, this is almost as scary to post as the actual memory was.)

I have always had a drawer full of cards. I learned it from my mother: birthday, anniversary, sympathy, frienship. Coping. A choice of sentiment.

The one in my hands now feels like every other I have ever held. Stiff cardstock paper, the edge of the envelope pressing against my thumb. But this time, my fingers are sweating, leaving wet imprints on the clean surface.

I don't want to give it to him.

I am holding the unspoken secret. I am acknowledging a truth we are all too scared to talk about. Keep it quiet, keep him safe. Ignore it. Pretend it doesn't exist. Deny.

Ten years after I found out, eight years after he knew I knew, I finally can't stand the silence anymore.

Hallmark doesn't have a card for this. This one was blank inside before I wrote the most terrifying two sentences of my life:

Dad, it's okay that you're gay. I love you.