Precipice

The problem:
So miniscule.

One push.
Over the edge.
I pushed.
You fell.

Done.

I lay
On my back,
Savoring
What was such
A brief relief.

Who the hell knew you could fly?





For this weekend's prompt we're asking for exactly 33 words inspired by the following picture.  Good luck!

mohammadali / Love Photos / CC BY-NC-SA

Let's Play

"Wow, it's raining cats and dogs out there!  Sort of ruins the weekend mood, don't you think?"

"Mmmm?"  I was lost, deep within a dark mountain of paperwork.  We were short on staff and long on bookings at the office.  I was trying to juggle several accounts at once, pushing myself hard, in hopes of landing a promotion at the next performance review.  I had been up all night, with no end in sight.

"I said that I was going to slather my naked body in ranch dressing," David said from somewhere behind me.

"Sounds good." I really had no idea what he said. I hugged myself, rubbing my arms to get my cold blood circulating.

"Emily." 

I looked up at the sound of my name, to find David's face kissably close.  He touched my icy cheek, his breath warming my skin.

"You're always working,"  he said, his voice seductive. "Let's play."

"Oh, babe," I groaned, despondent. "I really need to get this done."

David just smiled as he left the room.  I tried to reimmerse myself in balance sheets once more. My eyes strayed several times to the window, the gray of the rain echoing my mood.   I sighed heavily in the silence. 

The sudden blare of the music startled me, and I turned around in my chair.  David was striking a pose in the doorway as the song "You Can Leave Your Hat On" played.  I stared.  My sweetheart was wearing my hot pink boa, a pair of electric blue platform shoes, and his old cowboy hat.

Nothing else.

The laughter burst forth from somewhere in my center, the warmth blooming and spreading throughout my body.  Tears fell from my eyes as the laughter expanded through my pores and brightened the dull of the day.  Jazz hands raised, my beloved danced wobbily toward me, encircling me with that hot pink boa and shimmying in for a kiss. 

"You win," I giggled, as he pulled me close.  "Let's play."




 


The prompt is 'juggle'--3: to handle or deal with usually several things (as obligations) at one time so as to satisfy often competing requirements




This week we’re honoring the genius of Dr. Suess, who was born on March 2, 1904.  Our two Seussical offerings are an image and a line from one of his books. Happy writing!

“I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. I speak for the trees for the trees have no tongues.”
Dr. Seuss, from The Lorax

And because a birthday celebration should include everyone, if you don’t find either of these offerings inspiring, use your favorite Dr. Seuss quote or story as inspiration — just leave us a note letting us know what you chose!   I was torn, but ultimately I went with The Cat in the Hat, and their rainy day shenanigans. 

Dumped

Mamakat's Totally Awesome Prompt:  3.) A Valentine’s Day you remember.


Way back before I got lucky and found my husband, I wasn't really all that good at dating, so most of my Valentine's Days were spent parked on my couch, eating chocolate and watching previously recorded Buffy the Vampire Slayer episodes.  I was okay with that, because at least I had chocolate.  Besides, I lived in San Antonio, and worked in New Braunfels; I was on the road more than I was at home, at least during the week. When I was in high school, Valentines were a big deal. You were practically a social pariah if you didn't get at least one goofy red heart. Such things as this dictated your step on the ladder of popularity. Then, in college, there was the Grand Romantic Gesture, where your date went into debt so he could show up with a mariachi band and a limo to spirit you off to some romantic weekend. Even if you didn't like such things, you were expected to act as if you were. That's a lot of pressure.

One year, however, I happened to be dating a guy named Gregg, who was apparently so awesome that he had to have not two, but THREE Gs in his name.  The day before this particular Valentine's Day, he came over to visit me after work.  He was waiting for me when I got home, and while I was generally happy to see him, I had hoped for decompression time to myself before I saw him. I was kind of tired. But I invited Gregg-with-the-three-Gs in, dropping my purse and briefcase and rummaging in the kitchen for a bud vase.    

One of the special education teachers had given me a carnation; the student council had sold carnations for some valentine fundraiser.  Allison didn't want to throw the leftover flowers away.  It was a raggedy looking flower, with a bent stem and blackening petals. I felt sorry for the poor wilted thing.  I filled the vase with water and put the carnation in there, and hoped that it would perk up a bit. 

"Where did you get that flower?"  Gregg asked me as I set the flower on the counter, where it drooped miserably.

"A teacher gave it to me," I said, distracted by the realization that I had driven for forty-five minutes after drinking a huge glass of iced tea. "I'll be right back."

When I came out of the bathroom, I planned to ask Gregg-with-the-three-Gs if he wanted to pop some microwave popcorn and watch a movie.  Except Gregg-with-the-three-Gs was not there to ask.  He was gone. 

No note, no argument, no yelling...nothing.  I hadn't even heard him leave, so quietly had he exited.

I stood there, feeling a little confused. Not angry. Not hurt. Confused. What the heck had just happened?  Had I said something wrong?  Did I do something that I wasn't supposed to do?  Did I not do something that I was supposed to do?

Had I just been dumped the day before Valentine's day? 

Mentally, I retraced everything that had happened, and the only thing that I could come up with was the wilted carnation staring at me.  Three-G-Gregg had jumped to the conclusion that I had received a flower from an admirer, and instead of actually asking me about it, he left in what I suppose he thought was a dramatic huff.  Mystery solved.  I looked at the flower again, trying to see things from Gregg's eyes, and it seemed to droop even more.  Someone who hated me might consider giving me that flower.  Then again, it might be considered stooping too low.

Was I supposed to run after him, to apologize?  I didn't think that I had anything to apologize for, and my first impulse when dealing with any sort of tantrum is to ignore it.  I really didn't feel like dealing with drama, but I did step out onto my balcony to see if the guy was pouting in his car. No car, and I was happy about that. 

The phone rang.   It was my friend Bill.  Bill and his group of friends would meet up on most Fridays with my group of friends at a country western bar, and we would all hang out together until the drink specials ran out. Occasionally we would dance a two-step.

"Is there something wrong? You sound weird."

"I'm not sure, but I think that I just got dumped." I explained what I thought had happened, and Bill concurred that my hypothesis was probably correct.  I had indeed been dumped.  Then he ribbed me a little about being dumped before Valentine's Day. 

"He was obviously trying to get out of buying you a valentine,"  Bill snickered, and I had to agree. I wasn't in high school, and this was not the end of my world. I wasn't the least bit upset about being dumped.  I didn't really feel one way or the other about it. I think that I felt relieved that I wouldn't have to deal with Gregg-with-the-three-Gs.  After all, anyone who jumped that fast to the wrong conclusion likely had more trust issues than me. I wasn't a big fan of relationship dramas, so I was just fine with how events played out.

"I was calling to see if you wanted to go to a Spurs game tomorrow."  Bill's voice pulled me out of my thoughts.

A Spurs game with a friend on a no pressure Valentine's Day?  I would love to go, I told Bill.  After all, my social calendar had suddenly opened up. 

Any of you have exciting Valentine's Day stories? 

Resolved

In keeping with “changing it up,” when I asked Carrie for a line from a novel, I asked her to give me the last line. That’s right class, this week, you have to END on the prompt, not begin with it. Carrie chose Judy Blume’s Tiger Eyes, which ends with:

Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be, Elena thought, maybe I was meant to be alone.  She lay on her back, staring in the direction of the ceiling.  The dawn was slowly creeping into the room, inserting its light into the smallest of crevices.  Soon she could see muzzy details of the room.   She sat up with a sigh, looking around for her clothes.  The man next to her stirred with the movement of the bed, and she hung suspended with a silent prayer on her lips.  As he drifted off once more, Elena slowly slid her body off the edge of the bed and onto the floor, where her movements would now pass unnoticed.  She gathered her clothes into a ball, along with her shoes and purse, and made her way out of the room, down the hall, and into the bathroom, closing the door as quietly as she could manage.  

Elena had always believed that love would be a bolt of lightning, striking her down suddenly, elevating her heart and filling it with the passion of an electrical charge.  And yet, in all this time, all these men, she had only felt a cold numbness, as if she were frozen.  Elena stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, her eye makeup smeary, her hair flattened on one side.  She dimly noted the rawness of a bite mark on her shoulder, but she felt nothing.  Except a blossoming anger at herself.

What are you doing, Elena-girl?  Her father used to call her that, and the admonitions seemed more appropriate coming in his voice.  She needed him more than ever and sudden grief pierced her numbness like a stiletto.   Every night, you're waking up in a different bed, and the next day you just toss them aside.  What are you looking for?   

Love, Daddy.  I'm looking for love.  A single tear pulled the last of her mascara off of her lashes, leaving a black trail down her cheek. I've been looking for so long.

And have you found it yet?  No.  Whoever told you that love was to be found between the sheets with strange men?  And how can you find love when you run off so quickly every time?

How, indeed?  Elena turned on the faucet and began to scrub at her face as if she could erase all of her sins along with her ravaged makeup.  Her lip quivered then, her eyes shining back at her.

Maybe I'm just supposed to be alone, Daddy, she admitted. Maybe I'm never meant to find love.  Her tears fell freely now, and Elena shakily sat down on the edge of the tub and let them come.  All the tears she had never cried were allowed to come.  When she calmed down enough, she blew her nose, finished dressing, then faced herself in the mirror with new resolve.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself and acting the fool.  Your Daddy raised you better than that. Love doesn't come on command, Elena-girl.  It has its own timetable.  It will be here when it is time, and not a moment before. And if you're meant to be alone, well, you're a smart girl.  Surely you'll be able to find something else to do. 

Elena nodded and smiled at her reflection before throwing her purse over one shoulder and hurrying out the door.  She ran smack into a man's hard chest, knocking them both over in her hurry to get to her new life.  She heard his voice just before she slammed into him. "Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be."

Everything to Gain

This week’s A+ student is Roxanne from Unintentionally Brilliant. Roxanne’s story, “In Therapy,” was intentionally brilliant as she expertly tells the tale of a troubled young woman. Roxanne’s choice of opening sentence for this week’s class promises to generate some more creative and off-the-wall writing. She chose Kelle Groom’s book I Wore the Ocean in the Shape of a Girl whose opening line is:

Morphine makes me weightless, airborne.

Morphine makes me weightless, airborne.  There's no pain, just the air surrounding me, lifting me like a balloon floating into nothing but the morning sky.  

I hate that.

Pain is my drug of choice. I want to feel pain.  Pain gives me a rush.  It makes me feel alive, energized, successful.  I crave pain like heroin.  I will do anything to feel pain.   I will pinch my toes, until they turn blue. I will stick a pin into my thigh.  I will hold myself up while my arms burn with exertion.  When I can suddenly feel those pins and needles, I scream.  But it's a scream of triumph, not despair.  The alternative is the numbness of dead tissue. The pain, overwhelming as it is, means that there's still a chance, and I am determined.

I will walk again.

Right now, however, I am waking up in the recovery room of a hospital, and they've given me morphine.  I am barely conscious, face down and looking at the floor, but I know the familiar, numbing feel of the drug.  My doctor is well-meaning, but he doesn't know that morphine and I are old enemies.  I can face any obstacle except eternal numbness.

I am weak now from the removal of more tumors, but when I can, I will fight this numbness, just like I've fought for every single thing I've ever had in my life.  I will rip out this cursed IV if I have to, so I can have my pain. 

Old Make Way

Prompt:  And now, on to our Trifextra.  We want you to choose one of the pictures below and give us a 33-word response to it.  Your responses will be judged by the community this weekend.

I have had such a horrible week that I completely forgot about the word limit for Trifecta this past week.  It was in the back of my mind, but since I usually write when I'm half asleep, and since the story was going so perfectly, I called it a night when I was able to get it under 500.  In the light of day, I am glad, for the story's sake.  However, I will endeavor to remember the rules in the future. I will even write them down on a post-it and place it on my monitor, where it will stay until the cat eats it.  

This one's for you, Grandpa. 


My grandfather's pride,

Which once turned the rich, raw earth

Now sits on fallow ground,

Sadly covered in dust.

Time passes.

Old must make way for the New

Yesterday's strongest steel becomes rust.

VinothChandar / Nature Photos / CC BY

Source: trifectawritingchallenge.com via http://www.flickr.com/photos/vinothchandar/6853341070/

This weekend's challenge is community-judged.

• For the 12 hours following the close of the challenge, voting will be enabled on links.  
• In order to vote, return to this post where stars will appear next to each link.  To vote, simply click the star that corresponds with your favorite post.
• You can vote for your top three favorite posts.
• Voting is open to everyone.  
• You have 12 hours to vote.  It's not much time, so be diligent! We'll send out reminders on Twitter and Facebook.

Master Class

Prompt: Marian thought long and hard before coming up with an opening sentence. She chose Emma Donoghue’s “Room“ for this week’s class. The first sentence is:

Today I’m five.

Today I'm five.  I am number five in the line to see the visiting doctor.  I know this because Nurse tells me when she comes into my room to wake me. The sun is bright on this day, and I close my eyes and instinctively roll away from the sudden light, but you do not refuse Nurse.  Ever.  I pretend to stretch instead of hide, and then I sit up, hoping that Nurse did not notice my bit of rebellion.   My hope is in vain; I find her glaring at me, her lips pursed in irritation.  She will punish me.

As she helps me out of bed, she pinches the thin skin on my arm, hard, digging a carefully manicured nail into the muscle.  I stumble, biting my lip to keep from crying out, and I am roughly pulled back into a standing position.  Nurse shakes me by my arm, a rag doll.  I hear one of my bones crack, and the sudden pain is almost as blinding as the sun. I feel warmth running down my leg, forming a puddle on the floor. 

"You are so very stupid!" Nurse hisses, but the puddle means that there will be witnesses, and I watch as she plasters a smile on her fat face and calls the orderlies to come help her clean me up.  Two women in white uniforms appear, one with a mop and bucket, and they help me into the bathroom to clean up and change my gown.  After that, they silently wheel a chair into my room and Nurse thanks them.  She whirls on me the second they are gone, shoving me into the chair. I hear the crack of another bone, and I can't help but whimper.

Nurse puts her face close to mine, so we are eye to eye. 

"When they ask you what happened, what do you say?"  her voice is mild, conversational, her eyes terrifying.  "Are you going to tell them?" 

I shake my head as vigorously as I can, my eyes wide with fear. Nurse stands up, her disgust plain.

"Good."  She moves behind the wheelchair, then leans over to whisper in my ear. I cringed.  "Nobody would believe you anyway.  You may have been a CEO, but you're just a crazy old woman now, Mother."

With that comment, my daughter pushes my chair out into the hall of the facility, whistling a happy tune. 

With Purpose

I was able to combine two prompts.  Yay me! This is fiction.

Josiah had always had an affinity for spiders.  His earliest memory was of watching a spider busily creating an intricate web in the corner of his crib.  That spider had been his only companion that day.  His mother, hardened by alcoholism and the family's extreme poverty, would loudly berate Josiah's always unemployed father for his idle ways as the two sat on the porch and got drunk.  In their need to escape, they often neglected Josiah, who would sit quietly in the corner and watch the spiders until they remembered him.  But Josiah wasn't lonely; he had the spiders for company.  Spiders were never idle. They were purposeful, and that resonated within him, and gave him comfort when nothing else about his meager life could.  He whispered his thoughts to the spiders in the darkness and was content. 

And now, at 97 years of age, Josiah still liked to watch the eight legged denizens of the world spin their creations, building in any available open space, like the corners of his basement.  He had been there watching a beautiful gray house spider last night,  when his heart seemed to seize up in his chest, and he fell, hitting his head against the cinderblock wall.  Since Josiah lived alone, nobody had come to find him fallen and unconscious on the cold basement floor, and nobody was coming to help him now. His heart was racing erratically, his brittle bones vibrating with each pulse, his breathing labored. He was too weak to pull himself into a sitting position, or to get himself up the stairs to the phone to call for help. 

He embraced the idea of dying as if it were a close friend returning from a long trip, and he held it close.  Josiah lay on the floor of his basement and stared up at the unmade ceiling, hoping to see a spider or two for company.The early sunlight peered into the small windows and hit the strands of a web, and he could see the large gray house spider from last night, staring at him as he lay helpless.  She wasn't alone, he realized. Everywhere he looked, he could make out the gleam of tiny eyes.  It seemed to Josiah that there were millions of spiders staring down at him from the rafters, waiting. He coughed, and his heart seized again. It wouldn't be long now, before it would stop beating altogether, and he was not sorry. He just kept watching the spiders.

The spiders began to crawl down from the rafters, and Josiah watched them flow gracefully down the walls toward him.  He wasn't afraid, he was mesmerized at their approach, and when they began to crawl up his legs and arms and over his torso and head, he wasn't afraid.  He felt somehow blessed, and comforted by their presence.  Josiah breathed his last while in their moving embrace, and the spiders, with a new purpose, covered their brother with a gossamer burial shroud and mourned.



The word for today is the third definition is idle.



For this week, your inspiration comes from two words (you are not required to use these words, though you may):
Gossamer: noun; a fine, filmy substance consisting of cobwebs spun by small spiders, which is seen esp. in autumn.
Affinity: noun; ( pl. affinities ) (often affinity between/for/with) a spontaneous or natural liking or sympathy for someone or something: he has an affinity for the music of Berlioz.

Thug Life

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. It's a little uncomfortable up here, but it's the cleanest spot in the house. Roaches are everywhere. There's about a foot of garbage on the floor, old candy bar wrappers, rotting fruit, moldy bread, and assorted animals.  I see a skunk carcass over by the fridge; I am convinced that it died from the stench. I can see from my vantage point that the rest of the house isn't much better.  Having made it into this episode of Hoarders, I am not all that eager to leave my perch and wade through the layers of trash to get to the door. 

Merle never was any good at housekeeping.  I've named him Merle, but that's not his real name, of course. I never ask for their names.  It's too personal.  I don't need a name to kill a man, anyway. 

This guy, Merle?  He needed killing, and not just because somebody wanted his land.  This guy was certifiable, living way out here alone.  Nobody who lives in this much crap can be sane, either. The guy hadn't showered or shaved in months.  He probably couldn't even get into the bathroom even if he wanted to, with all this trash.  It was a mercy to put a bullet in his head, put him out of his misery, and I was happy to do it, even if I was just getting paid. 

Except for the cat.  After I walked into the trailer and shot Merle, I realized that he was opening a can.  I thought that was the guy's last meal, but then I saw there was a cat curled up on a blanket right on top of the kitchen table.  She was staring at me, a beautiful calico, eyes enormous in a thin face, ears twitching.  Most cats would have run away at the sight of a stranger, but I noticed that this cat's back legs seemed to have something wrong with them. She may not have been able to run away even if she wanted. There was a tiny pink dish, immaculately clean, on the table.

That got me thinking.

The one clean item in this entire s***hole was the dish for the cat.  Come to think of it, the cat looked groomed and the blankets under her seemed clean.  We stared at each other for a couple of seconds, and then that cat silently meowed.  I was hooked.

I picked up the half-opened can from the detritus on the floor.  The can opener was harder to find, but I was finally able to open the can and put some food in the bowl.   I pushed it close enough to her and she was able to lean over and delicately take a few bites.  I reached over and stroked her soft fur, and was hooked.

Merle let everything in his life go to hell, so much so that I got paid to kill him. And yet he was caring for this cat, and was doing for this cat what he would not do for himself.  What was up with that?

I'm going to take the cat with me. She's helpless, and she'll die out here before someone thinks to look for a body.  I might be able to kill a man, but I won't leave a helpless animal to die.

Besides, it's the least I can do for Merle.

In The Pines

My girl, my girl, don't lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night

The melody drifted along the forest floor like the fog, searching.  Vinnie didn't even notice the music consciously at first, he was so intent on finishing his work.  Finally the 'snick' of the shovel as it tore into the earth was the only other sound in the clearing, and he became aware of the song swirling around him.

In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don't ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through

Vinnie paused, shovel in hand, sweat cascading between his shoulder blades in the early morning  summer heat.  He stood up in the grave, alert, his shoulders level with the ground. The song was ethereal, raising goosebumps along his skin as it flowed around him.  There was something about the music that Vinnie wanted to remember, just out of reach, but all that mattered now is whether or not there was a witness. Vinnie climbed out of the grave as quietly as he could. He slowly pulled his gun as he stared into pine trees so thick that the sun didn't seem strong enough to reach the ground.  The morning mist seemed to coalesce as he peered into the gloom, into the curvy form of a woman. Vinnie raised, then lowered his gun. 

My girl, my girl, where will you go
I'm going where the cold wind blows

"Hello, Betty," Vinnie's voice trembled.  He had buried her over ten years ago, he wasn't sure why he was seeing her now. "What are you doing these days?"

Betty's ghost seemed to point into the grave that Vinnie had spent all night digging. In the morning light he could see the gleam of bone. He remembered then, that the song floating in the air around him had been playing when he strangled his first wife. He had forgotten where he buried her, and had been about to throw another body on top of her.  She never did like to share, Vinnie thought.

In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don't ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through

"Okay, Betty."  Vinnie reached for the shovel, laughing, and began filling the grave back in.  "You win.  I'll find another place to bury this one."

The figure dispersed, the mist ascending into the sky, and the song faded with it.



Prompt:  Much to his delight, last weekend Ryan unearthed a practically ancient Nirvana Unplugged CD from amidst my other, less desirable selections. I hope one of the tracks, plus the image below, inspires something for you this week.  The song from the Nirvana Unplugged CD that I chose is a cover of an old traditional song, recorded by Leadbelly. 

image courtesy of comicpie (via Flickr Creative Commons)

A Wish to Survive

"It's not enough to want to live," the voice wheezed. 

Karnes was in what was left of the cargo hold, but his soft voice carried in the darkness.  I knew then that my shot had landed; the wet sound of his breathing told me that I had hit a lung, at least. 

"What are you going on about, Karnes?" I needed to keep the man speaking.  The cargo hold was a vast, black cavern, and my ears were ringing from previous gunfire. It was impossible to see in the blackness of the hold, so my aim would be based on sound--the sound of a dying man's voice. 

"You heard me, Jones," Karnes' voice lingered, a bit of an echo in the almost empty chamber.   "It's not enough just to want to live in these times.  You got to survive."

"What the hell does that even mean?"  I felt exasperated.  Karnes, about to die, waxed poetic.  Just like every other dead man.

"What I mean, Jones, is that a body has to want to survive,"  Karnes' wheezing let me know that his lung was collapsing, compromising his breathing.  "You've got to want to go on, to make something of yourself, to prosper, in spite of the world ending."

"So you're saying that if I want to survive I need to prosper?"  I raised my gun; I almost had the man who killed my father. 

"Not money, you dumb fool,"  Karnes' whispered irritation was weak in the darkness. "Didn't your father teach you a danged thing? Prospering ain't got a dang thing to do with money, and you dang well know it!"

"Yeah, I know it," I was perhaps a bit flippant. "You're dying, Karnes. You know it. Any last wishes?"

"I wish that you remember this conversation, you fool." Karnes' voice was almost a memory.  "Your daddy would have wanted you to survive, no matter what.  I want you to---"

I lowered my gun, grateful that I didn't have to aim in the dark. 




Okay, so I'm trying to do two things at once.  We will see how it goes. 




That gives us a nice segue into our one-word prompt of the week.  This week we want you to write on the third definition of survive

 


Write at the Merge
For this week, we’re giving you the song below and the word: Wish (and the song Past and Pending by the Shins)

Exorcism

 

On to the weekend prompt:

"I feel I'm able to get rid of any demons lurking in my psyche through my writing, which leaves me free to create all of this and to enjoy our family life, stepping away from all the fictional traumas and the dramas. If I write about family in crisis, then I won't have to live through it, I guess."

                    - Jodi Picoult

This weekend we're asking for 33 of your own words that exorcise a demon.  Since I was raised a Catholic, I grew up steeped in a tradition of demons, with the surety that I was protected from them by my faith. At least until the sexual abuse scandals.  



"Holy places do not suffer demons,"  the priest pleaded.

The bell tolled, announcing the start of Vespers.

"You don't say," I replied, ever the skeptic.

The blessed water burned his blasphemous face away.

Christmas Card

 Mamakat's Wonderful Prompt:
2.) Christmas card share! Show us the card you sent out to family and friends this year.

This is the card I sent out to the family this year, courtesy of shutterfly.com.  I am sure that some people got upset with me for  not saying "Merry Christmas", but I decided that that was their issue, not mine.  Since I am fortunate enough to know people of other faiths, I chose to show respect to all this year, since the general sentiments are the same, and I only had the cash for 25 cards.  

Why did I choose this particular photo?  Why did I not choose some sort of winter-ish theme?  It's simple. We were wearing short sleeves and going barefoot up until last Sunday. It's pretty warm here most of the winter, so why pretend otherwise?  Also, look at that angelic face, that beautiful smile!   That's some awesome Christmas spirit right there!  That is a little boy who knows that he is loved, and is secure in that knowledge.  I wish that every child could grow up that way.  It would solve a lot of problems.

Surviving Trauma

HEAL:  3: to restore to original purity or integrity
 

Our innocence 
often slips silently 
into the murkiness 
of the world, 
shattering on some 
intrusion of reality, 
before we even realize 
it has fallen.  
Those lost shards cut deep, 
and once gone, 
can never be fully retrieved, 
and thus can never truly heal.
Still we must gather up 
what pieces we can find, 
bind them up, and 
create a new innocence 
from the old
so we can go on living.

Anticipation

The word is anticipation. This was a bit out of my comfort zone. 



 As Cyana hiked back to the village with her catch in tow, her chest swelled with pride.  A prize of this size would feed many.  Cyana had been lucky that it had been her blooding; instead of having to roam far into the forest, the scent of blood had drawn the animal to her.  It had been easy to trap, and now it stumbled along behind her, led by the rope she held.

Cyana could visualize the meat being turned on the spit over a roaring fire.  Her mouth watered in anticipation.  Other hunters preferred to skin their kills prior to cooking, but Cyan felt that it was best to let the skin char and roast, while the meat inside the skin was cooked. She could taste the sweet, juicy meat on her tongue now, even though it would be hours before it was cooked enough to be eaten.

When Cyana reached the edge of the village, Lelana, the Eldest, raised a hand in greeting.  Cyana handed her the rope, symbolically gifting the catch to the village.  Lelana's lyrical voice carried over the clearing, as the other elders circled the ensnared animal, their knives catching the sunlight.

"Here is food, Eldest,"  Cyana tried to keep the impatience out of her voice.  She was eager to get her catch ready for roasting.  This was part of the ritual, however, and disrespect was not allowed.

"Were you mated before the kill?"

"Yes, Eldest."

"Then the good of the tribe has been served."  Lelana spoke quietly, as she pulled ceremonial knife from her robe, and with a practiced flick of her wrist, slit the throat of the man, catching the blood in a bowl as the other elders stabbed the body until it stopped moving.  The stab wounds would be stuffed with spices prior to roasting; the thought made Cyana's mouth water once more. She stepped forward, grabbing an arm and dragging the dinner slowly to the cooking fires.

Mental Vacations

Trifextra prompt:  This weekend we are giving you three variations on a prompt.  We need you to give us 33 words back, and 2 of those words must be either "cheap flights," "sandwiched in" or "spectacularly clean."  This weekend, your piece must also be non-fiction (poetry or prose).  And yes, we reserve the right to call your mothers and former lovers to ask for verification on your tales.  You should call my husband--he often complains that I'm not listening when I mentally check out.




Sandwiched in between
Work, school, soccer games, and
The umpteenth trip  to
Whatever store, are
My 'cheap flights',
Moments or two
That might find me
Padding silently
Through vegetation
In search of prey.

Following the Sea

Write on Edge prompt:  I’m giving you a photograph and a song. From there, be inspired. You have 500 words. There are no other restrictions save this.

Happy writing!

Image courtesy of Nikozz via Flickr CC 2.0

Ephraim Jackson left the placid wheat fields of the family farm in Iowa when he was eighteen because he had a dream. The events of the dream might have been dismissed as the result of eating an entire frozen pizza; except for the talking bear.  

The dream bear told Ephraim to go to sea.  Ephraim's only experience with anything remotely resembling the ocean was the rippling waves right before the harvest.  The concept of an endless expanse of water was beyond his ken. Yet the words of the dream centered themselves in his consciousness, like a fly worries at the ears of a horse. They would not cease their relentless buzzing. He must go.  Ephraim finally gathered his things, said goodbye to his family, and took the Greyhound bus to the closest seaport, where he joined the Navy and set sail.

Ephraim was happy to follow the sea.  As the ship left the port, however, Ephraim had stood on the deck, watching the land recede into the distance.  In his left fist he clutched a letter, delivered right before they pulled up anchor. He heard the voice of the girl who had written that letter, her whisky alto juxtaposed with the strident tone of her words.

"Damn you, Ephraim Jackson. Damn you to hell for running.  Did you even notice me mooning after you all those years in high school?  How could you not have realized that I love you?  It was in my eyes, in my voice, in my heart every single damn day.  How could you not see it?  Everyone else saw how I felt.  Why didn't you?  You come home to me, Ephraim Jackson, so we can be together. You can have the ocean, but you come home to me.  Because I won't wait forever."

Ephraim shivered, shook himself out of his reverie and stared at the window of Jenny's house.  The golden light of candles near the frosted windows beckoned him as the sea could not. Ephraim had left the embrace of the sea to return to the swells of wheat on the family farm. He wasn't there for them.  He could almost taste the honey of her lips, and he prayed that he wasn't too late.

When Illusions Fail

This week's word is Crush.  I am sorry to say that I had to use the past tense.  I have been in a poetry mood lately.  If I could play guitar I'd probably be sitting in a coffeehouse wearing a jaunty black beret.  I am sure that this is all very temporary, but we have to let these things work their course.   





What I Once was, 

mashed between the

Who I am Nows,but

Crushed underneath

What I Might become.

Particles of my being

Good,wicked, silly

Ugly, sad and beautiful

Pulverized into dust,

Strewn about,

Carried off by the wind.

The Female Revolt of 1812

The Decemberist Revolt took place during the month of December in 19th century Russia when 3,000 soldiers protested Nicholas I's assumption of the throne on the first day of his reign.  He quickly squashed the revolt, but it impacted his regime as he went on to rule with an iron fist.

For the weekend challenge, we're asking you to write exactly 33 words about rebellion and/or revolt.  Interpret it as you will, just keep it to 33 words.
 


He had intended to march proudly for the rebellion.

Unfortunately, Oliver was killed by the violent shrapnel that flew as thousands of well-fed women simultaneously snipped the suffocating metal stays on their corsets.

One Red Paperclip

Write on Edge prompt:  “I spy with my little eye” is a popular game with children, and their acute observation picks up items adults may not look at twice. This week, choose one of the 14 items in this “I Spy” game and use it in a fiction or creative non-fiction piece. This is fiction.



"We got a live one here, Sarge," Officer Jones joked as he stuck his head into Malcolm's office.  "The victim was one George Marsh, the alleged's husband of 37 years.  Preliminary cause of death appears to be beaning with a cast iron skillet."

Malcolm nodded as he stood, straightening his tie. He was anxious to begin his first interrogation as detective, and he took pains to put on a stern visage as he entered the room and sat down.

At first glance, Harriet Marsh looked unremarkable.  She was on the plump side, with a ruddy,round face, and gray hair pulled tightly back into a severe bun.   He read aloud the charges against Harriet.

Harriet nodded, and Malcolm made a notation.

"Were you read your rights?  Do you want a lawyer?"  

Harriet said, rather cheerfully. "No need for a lawyer. I committed the crime."

Malcolm scribbled her words on the paper, then put quotations around them.

"Mrs. Marsh, why did you kill your husband?"

"Well, dear, it started on Monday." Harriet's voice was a bit shrill, on the verge of mania.  "I spent all week cleaning the house, while George was away on business. It wasn't easy; I'm not as young as I used to be, but it needed to be done."

Harriet rushed on, her haste to explain herself overwhelming any caution. 

"I cleaned out all of the closets and the attic. I scrubbed the floors. I dusted the ceilings.  I polished the furniture. I swept the patio. I cleaned the cornices. I fluffed the pillows and turned the mattresses.  I vacuumed.  I scrubbed the toilets. bathtubs, sinks. The house had never been so clean, not since we first moved in. George never even noticed."  Harriet paused, her eyebrows raised, waiting.

"That must have been difficult." Malcolm encouraged, as he continued taking notes. 

Harriet beamed at Malcolm, then her eyes grew angry.  "George walked in the house and dropped his suitcase. I could not believe it.  No kiss.  No 'I've missed you' or 'It's good to be home'.  He went straight to the fridge for a beer, then to his chair to watch some TV."

"Was that when you killed your husband?" Malcolm paused to glance at Harriet. Wisps of hair had escaped from the severe bun and formed a wavering corona around her face as she shook her head.

"Oh no, George used to watch TV like that every night after work.  I was used to that."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, I was about to go back into the kitchen, when George put his hand in his pants pocket, and pulled out a red paper clip."

"And?"

"And then he threw that paper clip over his shoulder," Harriet seemed to expand, a sudden storm in the interrogation room.  She stood, indignant, her hair flying about her head, electric. "THAT MAN THREW THAT RED PAPER CLIP RIGHT ON MY CLEAN CARPET!!!!" 

Harriet threw herself across the table at Malcolm, her hands claws.