Category Archives: fiction

Make your own rules – Trifecta Challenge

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The painted cedar shingle hung precariously above the door.  An old wooden ladder had been haphazardly tied at the top rung to the branch of the tree but the placement of its feet were firm enough in the ground to be safe for access to the tree house.  The boys had vacated its four walls a few hours earlier and the fortress that they called their club sat empty.

After nimbly climbing the rungs of the ladder she surveyed the forbidden clubhouse.  Comic books were stacked in the corners of the room, posters of super heroes adorned the walls and the wooden structure was permeated with the smell of dirt. Sun shone through the cracks in the one-by-six construction boards and reflected off the jar in the corner half-filled with coins.

Although it was only a quarter, she felt the weight of the coin in her pocket.  Too many times she had heard the laughter and camaraderie escaping from those walls and she longed to be part of it.  She slowly retraced her steps down the ladder and headed for the garage.

Bracing the air rifle and taking the proper stance, she aimed at the sign that hung over the entrance to the club.  Lining up target in her sight, she squeezed the trigger and the pellet tore through the shingle, splintering off the top piece of the wood.  The sign now read “Girls allowed”.

no girls allowed

(image credit: bestofcalvinadhobbes.com)

Waiting patiently for what seemed like hours, she finally heard the boys return.  She marched across the lawn and climbed the ladder, rung by rung, until she reached the threshold of the one place she truly wanted to be.  Knowing she would be met with the many arguments that no girls were allowed she entered clubhouse, the threw her quarter into the jar and defiantly sat cross-legged on the wooden floor.

With a slight smirk she remarked, “That’s not what the sign says.”

The transformation of a dream

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This is an admittedly strange story – but this is written more or less on a dare by The Cutter.  I was challenged to use Transformers, Guns ‘N Roses, the plight of a Philadelphia sports fan and Mr. Eko from Lost in a post, and I DO love a challenge.  Please don’t judge me on this roller coaster of imagination!

~

Guns ‘N Roses blasted in the background as Mr. Eko sat, head in his hands, wondering where it all went horribly wrong.  The acrid stench of  smoke still permeated his sense of smell even though the  fuselage, that was once meant for a much bigger purpose, had ceased burning long ago.  In retrospect, he realized he was much safer on the island.  The billions of dollars he had illegally transferred to fund his project had gone up in smoke when Oceanic Airlines Flight 815 met with its unanticipated fate and crashed into the deserted island on which he now found himself trapped.

The project had seemed light years beyond the technology that was available at the time.  He  had painstakingly sought funding, pilfered money from unsuspecting institutions and watched his idea grow from infancy to maturity.  It was brilliant.  Science fiction and action movies had created this phenomenon on the big screen but he was helping to make it a reality.

The design, on paper and in computer software, was flawless.  Moving parts were masked to create the facade of a passenger airliner but, underneath, the pretense of modern aviation was enhanced by robotics.  This plane would make history and alter the way humanity viewed modern travel.  Access to remote areas would become simple, mundane, and no piece of the Earth would remain untouched.  There would be no more need for extended runways and no exotic destination would be impervious to human persuasion.  Planes would become Transformers.  Spheres of rubber would never again touch the Earth’s surface.  Instead, wings would become arms, and legs would propel from metal making the plane land in an upright position on a small square of land.  Pure genius.

But, like any Philadelphia sports fan, his dream was marred with disappointment.  His Hail Mary had been thrown.  Hundreds of people had watched as the glistening ball of metal was thrown from the opponent’s thirty-yard line and failed to meet its destiny.  The plane soared through the sky, showing the promise of scoring the winning touchdown and dropped a yard short of its intended receiver.  The game was over, the robotics had failed, the plane was destroyed and he was trapped on a secluded piece of earth surrounded by an immeasurable ocean.

mr eko

(image credit: tumblr.com)

As the lyrics of Sweet Child of Mine played incessantly in the background, he finally realized the irony of the only soundtrack that remained intact after the crash.  That idea was his baby, his lineage.  And as he blatantly ignored the encroachment of his impending  death, he welcomed the final release that would come when the Smoke Monster finally found him.

My monochromatic life – Trifecta challenge

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Their words used to burn my ears.  Their taunts were like barbed wired that punctured my skin.  I was called ridiculous, a loser, a freak.  But not one of those people took the time to think about how my looks on the outside reflected the pain and suffering I felt on the inside.  Not a single one of them took the time to get to know me as a person – they only chose to judge me.  My teenage angst was buried under layers of black make-up and dark clothing.  My rebellion against my parents and my hatred for the abuse was punctuated with silver jewelry piercing much of my skin.  Perhaps I thought my demons would escape through the holes in my skin.  Perhaps I wanted any attention I could get or perhaps I never truly cared about their opinions in the first place.  After 1499 piercings the demons still lurk in the shadows and the memories still remain.  Maybe the next one will be the magic one.

~

A piece of fiction written for the Trifecta Challenge:

On to the weekly prompt.  This week’s word was suggested by Marie Nicole.  Have fun with it and we’ll see you on Friday.
 

Stairway to Heaven – Trifextra challenge

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“They said if I got closer to God, I would feel her with me.  I don’t feel her.”

She leaned in closer, “You don’t have to climb this high, she’s always with you.”

~

Inspired by this week’s Trifextra challenge:

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

Needle and the damage done

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The Daily Prompt intrigued me today. Here is what they asked for: Draft a post with three parts, each unrelated to the other, but create a common thread between them by including the same item — an object, a symbol, a place — in each part.

I do love a challenge!!  (and after some technical difficulties and some lost data, we’re back!)

~

She squirmed before the needle even penetrated the roof of her mouth. The numbing sensation followed soon afterwards and so did the nitrous oxide making the lights of the dental office seem engaging and hypnotic. The doctors glove-rendered hands floated above her head like giant balloons in a parade. She was sure she should be more coherent during a routine check-up, but his words danced on her eardrums never fully penetrating her brain. Or at least that is what she thought. She awoke later with an acrid taste of metal in her mouth and was about to ask if she could rinse. The words wouldn’t come. Her instinct told her not to speak unless she was spoken to. It was that gut feeling that she would eventually comprehend and would ultimately save her life. He carelessly tossed the needle out the office window.

~

The dream was always the same. She was in her car and could see the police lined up ahead for a random spot check. She was usually more careful with her paraphernalia, but she was high and hadn’t really cared until the moment she saw the flashing lights – the beacon of her eventual doom. She reached for the scattered mess of bags and the cherished needle that was all too prevalent on the front seat. That was where she had first found it that afternoon after leaving her car windows open and that is where it lay now. Frantically she shoved the bags into any hiding spot she could find. As the cars moved forward beads of sweat trickled from her brow.  In her haste to hide the bags, she had taken her attention from the road and hit the car in front of her.  The needle was catapulted from the safety of the passenger seat and now lay in plain view on the floor.  The beam of the officer’s flashlight scanned the car and reflected off the metal that glinted in its light.  The dream became blurry after that.  She awoke feeling unrested and scanned her surroundings.  The iron bars on the door remained still and sturdy, holding her captive for what felt like an eternity.  Perhaps dreams, good or bad, really do come true.

~

This particular needle had plunged through tapestries for so long, it could probably work itself in and out of the canvas without the help of her gnarled and arthritic fingers.  She surveyed the room and the many framed works she had been creating for so long.  Each collection of carefully woven stitches served to paint a picture of a happy family.  Each of her four children’s birth dates and full given names lined the wall she looked at so lovingly and nine pillows adorned her furniture with the same information about her grandchildren.  She feverishly worked on number ten waiting for the phone call.  The shrill ring of the phone startled her, but the smile crept ceremoniously into the corners of her mouth as she reached for the phone.

“Mom, it’s twins.  A boy and a girl!”

She reached for a new canvas for the unexpected arrival and gently placed it beside the only canvas she had never finished – the one that belonged to the child she lost so long ago to a drug overdose.  Someday she would find the strength to forgive, but she had two new additions to focus on now.  The needle began to work its magic once more.

Things are not always what they seem – Trifecta post

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From the outside, it would appear like she had it all together.  She radiated confidence.  Her smile was engaging and warm, but inside she was empty, void of feelings.  She was consumed by thoughts of him.  His voice echoed in her ears, his smile was ingrained in her mind and his touch still burned on her skin.

The icy hand of fate had reached down and snatched him far too early.  She stumbled through her days lost in a fog of memories.  She smelled his cologne in the air and heard his laughter rise and fall on the wind.

He wasn’t meant to be there.  He did it for her and when the stray bullet hit him, death was instantaneous.  The guilt she felt consumed her.  She put the last pill on her tongue and washed it down with the bitterness of his whisky.  To everyone else it would appear that she had taken her own life.  But she knew the truth.  He took it with him when he left first.

~

This was written for the Trifectra Challenge.  I don’t know why this story turned out to be so morbid – I will blame exhaustion.  I was even able to use appear twice!

On to the weekly, one-word prompt.  This week’s word is:

APPEAR
1a : to be or come in sight
b : to show up <appears promptly at eight each day>
2: to come formally before an authoritative body <must appear in court today>
3: to have an outward aspect : seem <appears happy enough>

Decease and desist – Trifecta Post

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His halted steps were deliberate.   He had no physical ailment restraining him but the heaviness in his heart seemed to impede his movement.  The church steps spanned his peripheral vision and the large wooden doors loomed ahead making him feel small, almost minuscule.   He had to cross the threshold.  He knew that as sure as he knew he needed to breathe the air that now seemed viscous and ready to choke him with his next inhalation.

One foot found its place in front of the other and his hand reached for the over-sized handle.  The door groaned its argument about being forced open but he moved forward, knowing what waited for him on the other side.  He knew the faces he would see would seem vaguely familiar but he could not focus on them.  Today was about something much deeper.  Today was about death.

He had recited the eulogy aloud over and over until the words had etched themselves into his brain.  The crowd fell silent as he made his way to the front of the room.  He furtively glanced at the collection of people gathered within the confines of the church walls and collected every ounce of strength that remained in his sorrow-filled body.

The many trial runs in the mirror made it easier and the words seem to spill from his lips.  “My name is Ray, and I am an alcoholic.  Somewhere along the way, the person I was died and this is his funeral.”

“Hi, Ray.”

~

This post was written for the Trifecta Post:
DELIBERATE
1: characterized by or resulting from careful and thorough consideration <a deliberate decision>
2: characterized by awareness of the consequences<deliberate falsehood>
3: slow, unhurried, and steady as though allowing time for decision on each individual action involved

Remember:
  • Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.
  • You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.
  • The word itself needs to be included in your response.
  • You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.
  • Only one entry per writer.
  • If your post doesn’t meet our requirements, please leave your link in the comments section, not in the linkz.
  • Trifecta is open to everyone. Please join us.

Words for the wordies

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I have been working on a novel for a few years. Time that should have been spent writing to get it finished during those years seems to have been interrupted by reality, but I will never give up the dream of seeing it through to its completion, hopefully by the end of this year.

As writers tend to do, I always second guess the salability of the story…..and this, dear friends and readers, is where you come in. The following is the beginning of the book and I would love to get some feedback….positive and negative. From perspective comes growth.

The Waking Hours

Jack Brandon looked at himself in the mirror for the third time. The deep circles under his eyes and the numerous laugh lines did much to convince him that he had earned each of his 38 years. Laugh lines he thought, was the definition of irony. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled. Pulling his gaze from the mirror, Jack glanced around his modest condominium. The collection of antique and clay figurines certainly looked familiar, but somehow seemed vaguely out-of-place. He could not put a finger on it but his trepidation increased.

Shaking off his uneasiness and the frustration of the day, he moved over to the dry sink and poured himself an aromatic glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. He padded barefoot through the plush carpet and sank into his favorite recliner. Although the condo was tastefully decorated, the recliner stuck out like a sore thumb. The remainder of the chocolate-brown corduroy on the arms hung in tatters and foam spouted from the gaping holes, but Jack refused to part with it. The chair had become as comforting as a warm handshake from an old friend – unfortunately, a subject he could not relate to with great authority. Jack had always been a loner. His parents had been extreme over achievers but had never pushed Jack to open up. Before he could rub any more salt in that open wound, he changed his thought pattern to complete nothingness.

The sun gradually lowered itself and began pulling up the blanket of the horizon. As dusk inched its way to darkness, Jack remained listless in his chair. Blackness swept through the apartment and he found himself awash in a cascade of shadows and jagged streaks of moonlight. Although the solitude did have a serene quality, he could not shake the sense that the darkness held some sort of malice for him. After a few more glasses of wine, Jack was feeling the effects and sleep crept methodically into the corners of his eyes and gently pulled down his eyelids. As his breathing became heavy and rhythmic, the black canvas of his dreamscape was brushed clean and anxiously awaited a new splash of color.

~

He emerged from his sleep to a tirade of rasping coughs and shallow breaths. In the seconds it took for him to discern the sounds, he realized they were coming from him and he felt beads of sweat rolling from his brow. His large hands were flailing through the air, reaching out for an invisible assailant. Immediately he tried to relax and gulped large quantities of air. Jack’s dreams had become far more vivid recently and mornings were a constant source of recollection, collaboration and interpretation. The lingering image of a woman was in his mind but he could not keep hold of the dream and she vanished. Pausing only for a moment, he rose unsteadily from the chair and tried to shake the fragments of sleep from his head. Shadows danced in the corners of the apartment and teased his eyes. Still dusting the cobwebs from his mind, he stumbled to the bathroom and seemed to have lost his inner compass. He tripped over furniture and momentarily lost his equilibrium. He cranked on the hot water, stripped out of his clothes and tried to rid himself of his feeling of wariness as he stepped into the shower.

The heated beads of water stung his skin but he welcomed the pressure of the jet streams. Perhaps the pounding shower could help cleanse his sense of growing failure. Real estate sales were down and reflectively brought Jack’s mood down with them. For every day that passed with no prospects, his depression and loss of enthusiasm increased. Something had to change, and it had to change soon.

Feeling somewhat more awake and refreshed, Jack reached down to shut off the flow of water. He halted briefly and stared, completely puzzled. The shower head and faucet were different from what he remembered. He tried to recall if the landlord had mentioned any changes but he had no memory of that conversation. He turned off the new faucets and threw open the shower curtain. The steam from the shower shrouded his vision as he toweled himself dry. As the mist began to clear Jack stepped from the shower and felt a plush bathmat under his feet. He didn’t own a bathmat. He reached to his left to wipe the mirror and his hand rubbed against nothing but tile and wallpaper. As the last of the shower steam finally dissipated Jack’s mouth fell open. He gaped in horror at the bathroom. It wasn’t his bathroom at all.

Reflections – a short story

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This was a piece of writing I started a while ago and I’m unsure where I was going with this.   I thought it would be interesting to get some feedback.  Any comments are appreciated.

~

The rain was heavier than usual that night and the wind streaked through the trees leaving a trail of leaves and twigs scattering in its wake.  The mottled gray sky seemed to undulate with the motion of the wind.  Torrents of water cascaded along the sidewalk and involved the trash it picked up in its macabre dance.  This was November.  Michael grabbed for the collar of his coat and did his best to shield himself from the icy bursts of cold air.  The gusts of wind tore through his jacket and felt like white-hot needles piercing his skin.  He could vaguely make out the lights of his house in the distance.  Tucking his head down, he battled the elements as well as he could until he reached the all too familiar driveway.  Never before had his living room looked so inviting.  He climbed the feeble steps to his door and inserted the key.  Although he fumbled with it for a few seconds, he still did not hear the sound of the lock disengage from its housing.  Baffled, Michael withdrew the key and examined it to make sure he had the right one.    The wind had suddenly shifted and the rain was now blowing fiercely from behind.  The pockets of cold air swirled around him and seemed to push him from the door.  He fought against the force and once again attempted to get into his sanctuary, but to no avail.  He stepped back from the threshold and peered into the picture window.  The blinds were opened enough so as to afford him a slice of vision into his home.

The rain had not dissipated and, as Michael exerted himself to be able to look inside, the wind knocked him off-balance and toppled him into the yard.  The sucking noise seemed to reverberate in his ears as he pulled himself from the mud.  The wind had increased its intensity and played at Michael like a feline with small prey.  Fighting against the currents of wind and rain, Michael made his way back to the window.  Stepping up onto an empty flower box, he peered into the well-lit room.  The figure of a man was clearly outlined in shadow against the wall of his kitchen.  Michael shifted his position to get a better view and keep himself inconspicuous.  The figure stealthily maneuvered around the room and the shadow began to shrink.  The man was coming out of the kitchen.  Michael crouched until his legs ached in objection.  The kitchen light was extinguished and the man entered the living room.  He had a casual way about him and somehow seemed familiar.  As Michael was able to focus on his face he thought he was merely seeing his reflection in the window.  With trepidation he wiped the beads of rain from the glass.  The image of the man cleared enough for Michael’s vision to accumulate the details and process the information.  He was looking up at himself.  Michael’s balance wavered and he tightened his grip on the ledge.  He could not avert his eyes from the man in his home.  He shared the same mannerisms, the same habits and seemed quite content to be ensconced in Michael’s life.  A jagged streak of lightning sliced through the night sky and the thunder answered back with a rumbling scream.  The intensity of the noise shook Michael on his perch and he teetered on the lip of the flower box.  He struggled to regain his composure and in doing so, reached for the ledge.  Instead he connected soundly with the glass.  The intruder startled immediately and rose from his chair.  Michael corrected his angle and stood to watch the man cross the room to the window.  The two stood face to face on either side of the pane of glass.  The beads of rain continued to follow their winding paths to the ledge in which Michael still found himself attached.  The  look-alike pulled his gaze from the figure outside and turned his attention to the storm.  The teeming rain continued to dance in the light from the distant street lamp as the wind tossed it in all directions.  The man inside took a step back from the window and in one fluid motion, reached out to the blinds and pulled them shut.

Michael’s grip on the ledge faltered and he plunged into the puddle on the lawn.  The water seemed to envelope him as he lay floating in the puddle.  The man inside opened the blinds as if something was out there that he had missed.  Movement in front of the house as lightning crested the horizon averted his attention from the spectrum of light.  His gaze settled on the image of the man in the puddle.  Features similar to his own shimmered in the reflection as raindrops disturbed the peace of the small pool.  Light from a break in the storm hit the puddle and accentuated the eyes of the reflection.  Wonderment turned to fear, and as the rain gathered, the puddle began to flow into the stream that quickly traveled along the sidewalk.

The reflection in the puddle slowly disappeared into streaks of color that followed the current.  The puddle was now gone and so too, the image of the man.  The man inside the house once again glanced into the evening sky and drew the blinds.

Play it again, Sam

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The Daily Prompt is this: Tell us about a book you can read again and again without getting bored — what is it that speaks to you?

I am slightly obsessed when it comes to Dean Koontz.  I have read all of his books at least once, most likely twice.  He wrote a book in 2003 called Watchers that detailed the escape of two laboratory animals that had an indescribable connection to each other.  One of the experimental animals was a horrendously disfigured failure of a creation and the other was a beautiful Golden Retriever.  Both of these genetically altered animals were blessed with the intelligence and reasoning ability of a human.  Only one was loved and doted on for his success and the other hated him for it and wanted nothing but to kill the dog.

Watchers is a strange premise for a story, but the relationship Travis has with his dog is remarkably touching.  I can honestly say that I have read it at least 10 times and it still instills the same emotion when I read it.  It was the first book I chose to read when my mom went into the hospital.

The emotion and companionship described in the book between a human and his dog pulls at my heart-strings every time I read it and it makes me hug my dog a little tighter.  I only wish she could answer my questions with scrabble tiles as well!!