Posts Tagged ‘trifecta writing challenge’

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At the Game

In Fiction on September 17, 2013 at 8:55 pm

SummerSky

At the Game

There is a dream I have in summer, when the sun is hot and flashing white in my gossamer curtains. It is a dream known well by men of my age, but wholly unfamiliar to those still enjoying life. I don’t know that I should tell you…

A boat sits in open water, the oars resting, the waves lapping at the sides. I sit in the stern, but I do not row. Instead I stand and stretch and peer toward land, finding only the dark blue rim of the watery horizon, a stripe of color, and an endless ocean.

When I fall, as I always fall, I sink slowly through blue-green warmth, then down into crushing, icy murk. As all goes black, I awake. Read the rest of this entry »

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The Tether

In Fiction on September 6, 2013 at 10:59 am

rope

The Tether

I wore a crown

yet bore a tether

made of blood and flesh,

and though I’m grown,

by flesh and blood

we’re tethered nonetheless.

The choir loft

resounds, triumphant.

Untethered, now you rest. Read the rest of this entry »

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She Spends Her Life In Dying

In Fiction on September 2, 2013 at 8:25 pm

arena

She Spends Her Life In Dying

The room was ringed in shadow, the faces of the other spectators little more than grey shapes beyond the brightness of the sand-strewn arena. Argen pulled on his cigarette and opened his mouth, letting the smoke escape in a languid drift. He leaned over and whispered in Damian’s ear.

“You’ve never seen anything like this, I promise you. I come most every night, myself.”

Damian said nothing. At the far right of the arena, a curtain stirred, and the next instant a tall woman in a shimmering white gown strode through, followed by three men clad in black. Argen dropped his cigarette on the floor and stomped it.

“Ah! Jesha is very good,” he whispered eagerly. “You’re in for a treat.” Read the rest of this entry »

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The First Strike

In Fiction on August 27, 2013 at 9:16 am

BowlingBall

The First Strike

Fourteen years old and full of swagger, his whitewashed jeans evincing a unique brand of skinny virility, Toby Fischer thumbed at the scoreboard and smiled.

“That’s a turkey, gentlemen. Bear witness to my glory.”

The Eider twins, Gary and Evan, were beside themselves. They hollered as Toby did a spin in his two-toned shoes—a god among boys among men. It was closing time at Button’s Bowling, and the best Saturday night of Toby’s young life.

But a sudden scream pierced the jubilation—thin and high and desperate—and Toby held up his hand for silence.

“I think it came from the private lanes,” Evan offered.

“Let’s go look,” Toby said. Read the rest of this entry »

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A Marked Man

In Fiction on August 19, 2013 at 10:59 pm

fire embers

A Marked Man

Jess scratched his mouth. The thing itched sometimes, especially where his beard grew, where the flesh had turned liquid and healed smooth like a gentle river. The boy watched him over the fire.

“Ask your question, kid,” Jess growled. The boy trembled.

“Well, I’s just wondering what ya did,” he said, “to earn a mark like that.”

Jess sighed. People were always asking about the damn brand—if they were dumb enough to ask, at least. Elsewise they just stared. The scars made an X from Jess’ cheeks to his chin, crossing his mouth in the middle.

“I killed some kids,” he said. “The oldest, about your age. The youngest barely crawling.” Read the rest of this entry »

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Slice of Life

In Fiction on August 16, 2013 at 6:05 pm

photoslice

Slice of Life

I am in

a rut

a rage

recovery

Over-

whelmed

analyzing

joyed

And my

teeth chatter

bones ache

Read the rest of this entry »

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Philosophy

In Fiction on August 5, 2013 at 11:20 pm

pink flowers on a white marble floor

Philosophy

The philosophers stood in their burgundy robes and burgundy slippers, hands clasped and eyes downcast. At the center of the white, marble floor, a pool of crimson blood was creeping from the youth like a halo in some medieval triptych.

“What was his error?” the Master asked. Fingers of red found the stony cracks and raced outward. The philosophers stepped back.

“His conclusion didn’t follow from the premise,” one proposed. “The logic was weak.”

The Master sniffed. Read the rest of this entry »

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Erosion

In Fiction on July 29, 2013 at 3:23 pm

Waves crashing on a beach

Erosion

The rain made a sound like the drumming of fingers, as if a host of demons had climbed the cabin to probe for weaknesses, shrouded in water and darkness. The storm spit down the chimney and the fire hissed and flickered.

“It’s getting worse,” Kendrick decreed, a sour look on his face. There were fifteen of them gathered around the hearth—a family of five from the house next door, three college students from the opposite cabin, a single mother with two kids from further down the beach, and Kendrick’s own wife and children. This was the most any of them had spoken in hours.

They had thought it wise to band together for company and warmth, but that was three days ago. Now the firewood had nearly run out, and the rain showed no signs of stopping. Read the rest of this entry »

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The Bells

In Fiction on July 19, 2013 at 1:29 pm

Photo by Suguri F. We call that "hand bel...

The Bells

The old man stands on the lighted stage, stooped and shaking. Others, mere knobby shadows, wait their turn in the darkness behind him.

The bells ring, and the man’s eyes begin to water.

For this weekend’s Trifextra challenge, the folks over at Trifecta gave us three words: ring, water and stage. The challenge was to add 30 words to these to write a story.

Check out the other stories and, of course, have a great weekend!

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Operation Charnwood

In Fiction on July 8, 2013 at 5:19 pm

British soldier at Caen

Operation Charnwood

The young man led me by the arm through the rubble, helping me over fallen walls and crushed motorcars. I could have made the way myself, but the bombs had rendered the place unrecognizable.

“The historic district is mostly gone, I’m afraid,” the soldier explained as we walked. The corners of his mouth went up a bit, with pride for the might of the Allies, I suppose.

“The rest of the city held more for me,” I said. “But that’s gone now, too.”

The soldier nodded, and the shadow of his smile faded.

I had lived my entire life in Caen. I had scraped my knees on the schoolhouse cobbles as a child; stolen kisses (and more) behind my mother’s patisserie; there was a wall—or there had been—where my first husband and I had been photographed by the elder Lumière himself. But even the photo was gone now, under the pile of stone and glass that had been my home. The city was a graveyard, and my whole world lay beneath its stones. Read the rest of this entry »