erika, yours had me crying.

I'm sorry. Now I'll have to write nothing but wiseassed carnage for weeks to get my rep back!

erika and Cindy, those were both wonderful. Cindy, I know that urge so well. And erika...well, there aren't really words.

Damn allergies.

Dang, now mine seems all mean and bitter.

Drabblement: Talisman

The last thing she feels, after the hands pulling her into the alley, the teeth gnawing at her neck, and her limbs going cold, is the cross clutched in her hand. "Father, help me..." she prays, more to the one who'd given it to her than the one crucified on it.

The first thing it feels as it wakes, before the raging thirst or the drive to hunt, is the burning thing clutched in its hand. It hisses in pain as it flings the tiny object away.

Cindy, erika, I thought yours were lovely.

Joe - wish I'd written that!

Joe, whooooeeey. Good one.

Joe, me likey much!

Here's mine: Talisman.

It’s just a rock. A smooth, tan rock that fits comfortably in my palm. You’d think that it would leave marks from me clutching it so tightly, but it doesn’t. It feels cool. And solid. It grounds me to the earth. But more importantly, it connects me to the others. The men and women with wigs, hats and scarves covering their now-bald heads. I feel the good vibes they imbued into my rock. I need those good vibes while I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I thought about that, Joe. Not in the right mood, however.

Christmas appears to have put me into a rare mood of nostalgia:

Talisman II

He still has the same brown eyes, but his fur is worn off and his jeans have been patched and need more patching. There was a hat and a nametag, but they went by the wayside in 50 years of hard living.

A month before I was born, my parents bought their first television. The salesman, embarrassed to acknowledge my imminent arrival, looked at the floor and mumbled, "These come with the television, and if you don't need one now, you will," as he thrust the toy into my mother's hands. I couldn't say S's, so his name is Bokie.

Talisman drabble

I have always needed talismans. They mark events for me, as if to say, "Yes, this is real, this is yours." They are almost never something traditional, like a piece of jewelry, but instead something from that very moment that they represent.

The Cadillac hood ornament J. and I found on our first date, after his tire blew out on the highway and we walked 3 miles to a phone. The safety pin from running costumes for Brigadoon, which I kept pinned to my sweatshirt for years after the show was over.

If tangible proof exists, then I know that what it represents is real.

Until now. I've finally been able to turn my words into talismans; to say, unequivocally, "This is real, this is mine." The more I've been able to say it myself, to commit it to paper and ink, the less I've needed odds and ends to affirm my experiences.

I create talismans now.