The treatments were grueling. Her body was showing the signs. My support was unending, but I don’t think she realized that. I shaved my head the next morning. Actions speak louder than words.
~
This weekend we’re asking for exactly 33 words including an idiom somewhere within. Examples of idioms include – add fuel to the fire or wear your heart on your sleeve. You can find more examples and a definition of idiom here. Good luck!
The slight shimmer of light caught her eye. She slowed her pace and bent down to get a closer look at the small item that was reflecting the sunlight. The square brown patch in the slush was embossed with gold initials on the corner. She swept the snow from around the edges and picked up the water-logged wallet. It was thick and seemed to be bulging with a collection of colorful bills. She opened the fold of the wallet to a rainbow of Canadian money starting from twenties and ending with thousand dollar bills. The discovery shocked her and she quickly put the wallet in her purse before anyone noticed what she had unearthed.
(image credit: centromotel.com)
With her head down she made her way through the crowd on the sidewalk and into her office. She sat quietly in her cubicle, turning the wallet over in her hands and battling with the angel and the demon on her opposite shoulders. They were both full of very strong opinions regarding her discovery and made no qualms about sharing their thoughts. She listened intently to both arguments before making her judgement.
Her boss understood her need to leave the office briefly and after struggling to get back into her winter coat, she made her way to the local police station to report her find. The officer logged her information and got her hopes up slightly by telling her if the wallet was not claimed within thirty days, the contents would belong to her. She left the station with her head held high, knowing she had done the right thing.
A week later she received a call from the police station asking her to come in as soon as possible. She arrived and was handed an envelope. The lucky circumstance of finding the wallet and turning it in resulted in a reward of five thousand dollars. The angel on her shoulder simply smiled and nodded.
~
This post was written for the weekly Trifecta Challenge:
On to the weekly prompt. Pay attention to the third definition, as always. Good lucky!
1: having good luck
2: happening by chance : fortuitous
3: producing or resulting in good by chance : favorable
Please remember:
The bar was at capacity and the air was electric. The band was loud and the crowd was euphoric, floating on the notes of the songs and dancing like nobody was watching.
He saw me first. I was at the bar doing everything I could to get the bartender’s attention when he casually slipped in beside me. With one flick of his hand he elicited a response from the bartender and my drink was ordered for me. It wasn’t what I was drinking, but I guess he assumed I would enjoy it because it was free.
He was attractive and seemed to ooze charm. We became engaged in conversation and I was drawn in by his deep blue eyes. There was a merriment in those eyes and his words fell on deaf ears until I regained my composure and began to participate in the rhetoric. My attempts to interject words into his monologue, however, were in vain and all I could do was sip the foreign liquid in my glass, nod my head and smile. I did manage to utter a few “mmm hmmm’s” to make it seem like I was mildly interested.
His inflated ego began to infect my mood. The conversation revolved solely around him and the walls felt like they were closing in. I was beginning to suffocate as he used all the available air to continue to talk about himself. I slowly began to back away from the bar and I don’t even think he noticed. I lost myself in the swaying crowd and found my way to the door. As I glanced back to look at him one more time, he was still talking but there was nobody there to listen.
The outward look of him held so much promise. Too bad the meat of his story contained only one word repeatedly typed on every page – me, me, me. I should know better than to judge a book by its cover.
~
This post was written for the Trifecta Challenge:
Please pay attention to the third definition this week. If your post has to do with bacteria or disease, you’ve likely misused the word.
INFECT
1: to contaminate with a disease-producing substance or agent (as bacteria)
2a : to communicate a pathogen or a disease to
b : of a pathogenic organism : to invade (an individual or organ) usually by penetration
c : of a computer virus : to become transmitted and copied to (as a computer)
3a : contaminate, corrupt <the inflated writing that infects such stories>
b : to work upon or seize upon so as to induce sympathy, belief, or support <trying to infect their salespeople with their enthusiasm>
Writing is a passion that requires discipline and focus. With encouragement from Sage Doyle, I have made the conscious effort to drag my body from the warm cover of my duvet two hours earlier than usual, saturate myself with coffee and develop my relationship with the characters in my book. Ensconced in the darkened tomb of my living room, I go on a two-hour journey with people I get to know more intimately the longer we spend together. They take me with them on their epic adventures and I am merely there to document their trials, tribulations and triumphs.
Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings are now dedicated to coaxing those characters from their lair in the cerebral hemisphere they call home and watching how they interact with each other. They help me understand their quirks and allow me a brief glimpse into what makes them tick. They seem to have complete faith in my ability to share their tales from the most genuine and descriptive perspective possible.
Monday night I decided to set the alarm and throw a Tuesday into the early morning writing mix. I woke up early, grabbed a steaming hot cup of coffee, a liquid that is quickly becoming my life’s blood, and sat waiting for the characters to emerge from their cranial apartment. I sipped coffee and waited. I filled the mug again and waited. I knocked several times on the door that shields them from other cerebral functions, and still, nothing. I pried open the door to their locked quarters and they were gone.
Those elusive characters, seeing the calendar and realizing it was Tuesday, thought they had the day off. Not one of them had stayed behind with the hopes of participating in a spontaneous writing session. They sent me holograms of photos from Disney with trite lines about wishing I were there and each one of them, even the villain, was wearing Mickey Mouse ears.
(image courtesy of yourwdwstore.com)
I will set my alarm tonight and wake tomorrow with the expectation that they will be here and ready to go to work. I will only knock on that door once and if they stand me up again, I will have their pink slips ready to go. They’ll never work in this genre again!!
The Daily Prompt today is this – The Tooth Fairy (or Easter Bunny, or Santa Claus . . .) : a fun and harmless fiction, or a pointless justification for lying to children?
Some of my fondest childhood memories involved these mystical creatures. There was an untainted enjoyment and a childlike sense of wonder that reality had not yet jaded.
I can certainly remember being horrified when my big brother dashed my illusory beliefs in these magical beings, but I didn’t hold any ill-will towards my parents for “lying” to me about their existence. My childhood was kept childlike because of that continued facade.
I think of how my impressionable years would have been corrupted with reality and my imagination would have been stifled had I known the truth. Believing in those fictitious characters allowed my creativity to plant a seed that continued to grow. Even after I was told these creatures did not exist in physical bodies, the spirit they embrace remains the same.
Would I have wanted to grow up knowing the truth? No way. Those make-believe characters are still as much a part of my heart today as they were when I was a kid. See you at Christmas, Santa!
(image courtesy of Google)
This is my entry for the Trifecta Challenge, which is this: For the weekend challenge we’re asking for exactly thirty-three words written in first person narrative. Have fun with it and we’ll meet you back here on 3/3!
(image courtesy of Google)
I am afraid. Not of being alone, or of being sick, but afraid my words will not adequately express my thoughts. I am afraid my brain will betray me. I am its captive.
Writing, for me, is like dining on a fine meal. I ease my way into the plate by starting with the vegetables and starches, but the true heart of my writing is in the protein. It isn’t until I sink my teeth into the real meat of the dish that I truly get the taste for the potential of the story. Lately I have been spending an inordinate amount of time being distracted by the side dishes and leaving no room for the most important part of the meal.
Blogging has become a very special part of my life and I look forward to writing every day and reading posts from others afflicted by the same passion. I’ve been so wrapped up in the world of WordPress that I have all but abandoned the book that I had begun writing a while ago. Until recently, I had great intentions of setting aside time to do nothing but continue the journey of the characters I created so long ago. But that has finally changed.
(image courtesy of Google)
With encouragement from fellow blogger Sage Doyle, we made a pact. We vowed to set aside time two mornings a week and make the other accountable for getting up early and devoting time to write. With coffee in hand, we check in with each other in the wee hours of dawn, bid each other adieu for a couple of hours and we write. There is no TV, no noise, just caffeine induced creativity. It’s been a fantastic way for me to shift focus back onto the book because I have that accountability, and it is truly inspiring me to dedicate that much-needed time to the WIP. My characters are animated once again and brushing the dust from their clothing. They have attitude and they now know there is a time and a place that they can bring it.
Fleeting ideas are now forming into meaningful sentences and paragraphs and 1,500 words magically transposed themselves onto the screen on Wednesday. My plate is full and it’s time to gnaw on the chops of my writing as well as enjoying the appetizers.
What is your writing ritual?
The Daily Prompt has me intrigued, once again. And knowing that this can be a fictitious post made me even happier.
Murphy had always thought his parents had named him poorly. He wasn’t Irish, he certainly didn’t have a cool accent nor did not own a Claddagh ring. He was sure his name had once been Jonathan, but he had too many accidents as a child to remember anything with any clarity. He laid in bed pondering this inane moniker and realized the morning sun shone much brighter than it normally did at 6:00 am. He glanced at his alarm clock the numbers burned into his eyes. It was 8:46 am and he was already late for work. He reached for his cell phone to call his boss, but the battery was dead.
He jumped out of bed, tripping over haphazardly strewn clothing and shoes and planted his face into the window sill. He heard the crack and immediately tasted the coppery tang of his own blood. His tooth lay on the ground surrounded by drops of his life’s essence. He picked it up, put the tooth on the nightstand and made his way to the bathroom.
While spending his usual time on the throne, he balled up some gauze and compacted the hole where his tooth used to be. He wondered if he should leave it there for the company photos they were having taken later that afternoon. After wasting countless minutes reading his ATV magazine on the john, Murphy finally got up and toggled the lever on the toilet. It wouldn’t flush. His mother was going to be disgusted, but he didn’t have time to fix it.
He cranked the shower on and while he waited for the water to warm up he rummaged through the closet for his suit and lay it on the bed. Returning to the bathroom, he opened the glass door of the shower and it slipped from its hinges shattering into millions of tiny shards of glass. He could feel the tiny pin pricks in his feet with each step he took to reach the shower.
Once he had crossed the threshold of the stall, he screamed in agony. He had forgotten to turn on the cold faucet as well as the hot and had given himself second degree burns. He adjusted the temperature and lathered his hair with shampoo. The bubbles trickled down his forehead and directly into his eyes. He was momentarily blinded and fell through the open door of the shower onto the glass covered floor.
Ten minutes later, when his vision had somewhat returned, Murphy picked the remaining pieces of glass from the soles of his feet and his extremities and covered his burns with Polysporin. His suit was still where he had left it on the bed and was now being used as a cushion by his two long-haired cats. He shooed them from his attire and stared at the hairball that was once his clothing. He dressed anyway, did his best to brush the hair from the cloth and headed down the hallway. He was still getting the last of the big clumps of hair when he missed the top stair and fell head first, tumbling down the stairs like a rag doll in a clothes dryer.
He didn’t hear the sirens or realize the searing pain of his dislocated elbow until he was in the ambulance and they were en route to the hospital. The ride was bumpy and each time the ambulance met with a pothole, daggers of pain shot through Murphy’s arm. The ambulance sped along the road approaching a train track. The track was clear and no lights signaled the approach of any oncoming trains. The ambulance driver never heard the sound of the train’s horn over their sirens.
Murphy’s funeral is on Friday.
The night sky had begun to turn from cobalt blue to the midnight blue she loved so much. The sun had given up fighting to keep the day alive and she sat on her darkened porch watching the stars dot the sky. Quickly she slipped inside and began to doctor her martini with a bit of juice from the jar of olives. She liked them dirty.
If the forecast was correct the bright dancing lights of the aurora would be lighting up the sky and the rippling curtains of greens and pinks would soon be undulating across the upper atmosphere.
She returned to the porch with her drink in hand and pulled a blanket around her legs. She could see the sea-foam green colors beginning to emerge and the spectral portrait was phenomenal. Colors intertwined like graceful ballet dancers in a black light theatre.
After only a few short minutes, the colors seemed to dissipate and the night sky lay bare, speckled with only a few stars and the memory of the illusory vision. She finished her martini and closed her eyes, letting the night creatures lull her to sleep with their soulful songs.
(image courtesy of Google)
This post was written for the Trifecta Challenge: On to the weekly challenge.
b : a learned or authoritative teacher
c : a person who has earned one of the highest academic degrees (as a PhD) conferred by a university
d : a person awarded an honorary doctorate (as an LLD or Litt D) by a college or university
b : medicine man
b : a blade (as of metal) for spreading a coating or scraping a surface
Here is my take on this Trifecta Challenge.
The clanking sailboat masts shouted with panic. He wouldn’t look for long. He could not abide the thought of any child discovering what he had discovered. The woods were now around the remnants.
~
This weekend we are playing another type of word game with you. Below are photos from the 33rd page of one of our very favorite books, Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge. What we want you to do is to scour the page (click to enlarge), choose 33 words, and reshape those words into a piece of your own. Your piece does not have to tell an entire story. We just want to see what you can do with this particular word bank. Punctuation is up to you. Use whatever you need, whether or not it appears in the photos.
polysyllabic profundities 