Inspired by a post of meara's in LJ. I hope it's not too opaque:

It's simpler sleeping inside, now that she's closed. He'd always enjoyed the irony, with all the energy he could spare from being cold, poor and miserable. Irony was all he had left, and it wasn't enough to keep him going anymore.

He'd tried to make a go of it, lose his telltale paperwork, disappear into a new and better world. Better world. Everyone said so.

Ahh, sweet irony. The laugh became a cough, and then fell into shivers.

He rolled over, clutching threadbare wool against a New York winter. Huddled, wretched refuse indeed. So much for yearning to breathe free.

Wow. ita, that one stings.

I like that, ita.

Astarte, I just sat on the NYC subway system, holding it in my own hands and beaming like a loon.

Weird.

Buffista Hivemind at work.

I'm not feeling dark. I'm feeling the cheerful. Hence, new drabble:

Carla bounced as high as she could, her little body stretching towards the unreachable pinnacle of her mother's ceiling. "Wake up, Mommy, wake up! It's my birthday!"

"What?" teased her mother from below, her head miles away but her voice strong, "It can't be your birthday! I didn't get you any presents!"

"Moooommmmmmmmmmyyyyyyyy, you did so! I saw it in the back of the car and it was wrapped and it had my name on it!"

With a loving laugh, Mommy swept Carla's legs from under her, mid-bounce, capturing her daughter in a strong, affectionate embrace. "Yes, Carla. I did."

I swim into consciousness slowly. The world shivers into focus: white light. A pale yellow curtain. Brown eyes. I begin to hear voices in the background and the impersonal beeping of the machine telling me I still have a heartbeat.

I can feel the tape pulling at the fine hairs where the plastic tubing enters my arm and the stiffness of the starched, white sheets folded across my chest. They are perfectly sqaure and unrumpled, as if no one is beneath them.

Brown eyes. His hand on my cheek, tentative and gentle, is the only thing that seems real.

I had nothing until I read this last one, and coupled with Steph's surgery one, (thank you Steph and Kristin!) made me realize I do have something to write about that has to do with someone lying down and someone standing up. I hope it works.

Resurrection

Let me close my eyes against this.

Murmuring sounds the call and response. A tugging--catch, release--parts my body from itself strapped to a crucifix beneath fluorescent sky. The instruments sound a faint tympanum and the congregants make bright chatter while I flinch.

There is someone holding my hand, vaguely felt through the buzzing of the puncture in my spine. Someone exhorts, "Look up! Look up! Let me see your eyes."

A baby body swings past my tilting vision and is gone, soundless. The punching begins. And ends, and I am made different, undone.

Let me close my eyes.

Oh Deena, that's beautiful.

Thanks, Kristin.

What I like best about these drabbles is that all of you are making me feel brave enough to write what I think without the filters I normally employ, trying to be safe and socially acceptable. It's something I've wanted to do for a long time and haven't been able to cut through the crap and do.