Thanks, all. The cover is supposedly following the theme set in Weaver, peeling back the page to reveal the history. I think it's going to be a theatre. I do trust them implicitly when it comes to covers -they've never let me down yet.

Aimee, that piece had a nice duality to it.

Ginger, oh Jesus, that's powerful and harsh. That one's a woodcut, all by itself. I know just what you mean, and also what you mean about it being outside your comfort zone; two of mine were, as well. But it's oddly cathartic, isn't it?

(deep breath)

You know what I find interesting? Looking at the really raw emotions in some of these, and seeing where we, as writers, distance ourselves for safety. Mine are all first person - this is less brave than it is almost habit, because I forced myself to learn how to do it as a kind of self-induced therapy for grief, years ago. Ginger is observing the woman in the hospital bed, third person - someone who didn't know Ginger wouldn't know whether it was personal experience (although personally I think it's powerful enough to be clear that it's the writer doing, rather than the writer watching) and yet, even with the safety buffer, the piece is wrenching and real.

There have been some intensely powerful things written. Once again, Teppy needs cookies and hot and cold dancing boys and whatever else she'd like to make her happy, by way of thanks for this community.

Off to edit. Still have 170 or so pages to do. I want to shame them by getting it turned around and back out in one day.

edit: D'OH! Deena, those links are bookmarked. Heading to read in about five minutes. You ROCK.

Aimee, that piece had a nice duality to it.

Thanks. Def outside my comfort zone since my dreams almost always deal with stuff I'd rather die than talk about.

Writing the drabbles has been so good for me these past 2 weeks. I've taken them to my therapist and we're working the writing into my homework. She's also giving me assignments on a weekly basis. This week, as inspired by the drabble on my OBC, we are going to be working on that for the next while as he seems to be the source of my rage.

Anyway, it feels so good to write again and I'm pissed I ever gave it up.

Third person from habit. I forced myself to give up first person years back because it was easy for me. Third is harder, I have to think about it more. Also, yeah, distance, a bit.

#1. Her eyes scan the screen, reading, reading, pages open to her favorite sites, the ones that are her company in the wee hours, her hand poised over the mouse as she clicks from one to the other. All caught up, or the words no longer make sense. She sways, her eyes close, seconds pass until her tipping posture jerks her back to consciousness. And at last she feels ready. Power down, lights off, she slides between the sheets. The smooth cotton of the pillow caresses her face, her eyes close. Years of staring into the dark have taught her well.

#2. Her body taps at her awareness, the ache of joints too long in one position, the urgency of bladder, the realization of light on her closed eyelids. She shifts position, tries to will herself back into the dream, but the cat has heard her turn over, and he pats with soft paws at her curled hand, the tender inside of her forearm. He purrs into her ear and his whiskers tickle. She can't help jumping, and there's no going back now, she's awake. She sits up, stretches, glances at the clock. Five hours isn't bad.

Beverly, I relate to that first one so much you have no idea.

I probably did write in the third person as a defensive mechanism in that one. I've tried to write in a journal, but I could never do it, because to write something is to relive it. Also, my training and experience is as a journalist, so it's hard to put myself in the story.

I also want to thank Teppy for the drabble idea. It's helped me a lot. Now I have to nerve myself to tackle longer pieces.

It's been interesting to see how different the drabbles are in their focus. Some are tiny stories in their own right, and others, such as Beverly's second one, feel like a piece of a novel, with just the right detail, but more story somewhere.

I'm such a bitch for first...cause I type therefore I am, huh?Like this: I didn’t sleep well again last night. I don’t know why. Sometimes the room isn’t right; too hot or too cold. Sometimes I feel my thoughts chasing each other in a most unrestful way. Sometimes I get a good look at the people in power on my TV and shiver too much. Sometimes it’s an inconvenient burst of energy, or the book I can’t put down. The cheap lure of television, or too much garlic, a noise outside I can’t place. Inspiration, or , all too rarely, happy anticipation. Sleep may be natural, but that doesn’t make it easy for me.

I don't think I can write in first anymore, erika.

Okay, that just sealed my fate, didn't it. I have to try, now.

Ginger, that very thing of not having to connect dots, of not having to be linear and continuity-girl, as in, "When last we saw our intrepid heroine, she was climbing Mt. Shasta in the nude. Now, two days later, she's dealing with abrasions and sunburn..." has freed me to write. I'd worked in verse or in long fiction forms for so long I'd forgotten how to do a non-connected scene. And because of my imposed necessities, the very act of writing had evaporated for me.

So this word restriction, prose form, is the very best thing that could have happened, for me. I can do a scene or an eyeblink, and it doesn't have to progress, or move anything forward, or connect or bridge anything, or refer to anything. It can simply be, complete as it is. Or, in time, possibly, a trigger to something bigger.

But I'm not willing to think about that yet.

I just adore the discipline it imposes. A hundred-word restriction is precisely to my taste; I like using words as freight for other meanings, so saying to me, hey, you must use this exact number? Honing tool.

Love love love it.

I didn't go over this time, I don't think.

I did go over. I couldn't keep it short, but, with some struggle, got it down to 500 words.

Flip of the Cards

She flips the cards, King to Queen to Jack to ten. She ignores her burning eyes as she ignores the voices, fiercely.

"Tomorrow is another day!"

The cards snap, red to black to red to black, while her own voice whispers, "Just a little more peace, please. Just a little more."

The next: portentous, pretentious, deep, "Morning comes too soon and you won't be ready, but they will."

She grits her teeth and shuffles the cards. "Just one more game."

The Juju queen adds her molasses dipped opinion, "Lay 'em down, honey. You got things needing to be done."

Red. Black. Red. Black. "No."

The mother bustles in. "Laundry. Shopping. You really do need to bathe those babies every single day. I don't think it's right, they said every other day is better. I can't imagine it. In my day…" She bustles out, nasal whine floating after like a cloud of bad perfume.

King, Queen, Jack. "More time."

"When I was a boy, down in the bayou, I used to take my hounds out and go off in the swamp, do my hidin' thataway."

She snaps the cards down. "Well, I don't have a bayou, or hounds, and the babies won't care for themselves."

"Just sayin'. Maybe you could be writin' instead, or drawin'. You do that pretty well. Sometimes." The old man's rocker squeaks, his presence fading with his pipe tobacco.

The cards slip between her fingers, scatter on the carpet at her feet. She retrieves them slowly. Her eyes are gritty now, her hands shaky. She sips cold coffee and lays the cards again.

"You are so irresponsible." Him. Faded blue eyes, sagging lids and faint purple under-circles, they always find her. His jowls are sagging. "You know that, right? You know that you should be planning, PLANNING to sleep at least 8 hours. I have the perfect pillow for my head. It's just the right thickness to keep my spine straight. You need to go to bed. You have work to do. You're not going to accomplish anything tomorrow if you keep this up." He waits. She lays the next card with a snap, and he disappears with a disgusted exhalation.