Thanks, Trifecta, for the 3rd place nod in your regular contest this past week. I had so much fun writing Waterproofthat I just might actually expand on it a bit. (See! That’s the good thing you do for people like me, Trifecta.)
But now it’s time for the Trifextra Weekend Challenge. Here are this weekend’s rules: Entrants must write a horror story in 33 words exactly, without the words blood, scream, died, death, knife, gun or kill. Currently, I’m playing with a few ideas.
Oh, look! Here comes one now …
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Trifextra Entry – Clueless
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“Wait! Miss Scarlett … with a rope … in the conservator—“
She lunged and tightened the rope around his neck until he slumped to the floor.
Dear Reader, I’m reposting this short piece in the hopes of reminding myself that it needs finishing. I’ve actually already begun working on continuing the story and have high hopes of seeing it to fruition in the “not-so-distant” future. I would love your feedback. Thanks.
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Following is my entry for this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge. As is usually the case, I went with the first idea that popped into my threadbare brain. RULES: All entries must be between 33 and 333 words and need to include the following word using its third definition:
I live in a town called Waterproof. Yes, I know it’s a strange name. It’s supposed to mean we’re protected from floodwaters and, around these parts, that’s a good thing. So nobody ever dared to change it.
Waterproof is right on the Louisiana-Mississippi border so it’s no surprise that we’re one of the poorest cities in the state. The last time anybody checked, the average income for a family around here was about $15,000, and that’s usually supposed to take care of three or four people. More than half of us live below the poverty line. And I say “us” because Daddy and I are probably scraping the bottom of that bowl.
We’re also one of the smallest cities in the state. The sign on the highway says we have 693 people living here, but it’s wrong. At least, I know it’s wrong by three. My best friend, Josie, her mother and her little brother, Dewey, moved away last year when Miss Eileen got that job offer in Tuscaloosa. She said she just couldn’t pass up a chance to move her family to a big city with good schools and restaurants and more than one supermarket.
All I know is that it’s 300 miles away, according to Daddy. And that means no visits, just letters. But I have to sneak the stamps. Daddy says stamp prices are so high that you can only mail two letters for a dollar these days. He says when he was my age he could mail six letters for that same dollar and still have a dime in his pocket for bubble gum.
That’s Daddy.
He’s always looking for ways to stretch his pay. I remember eating potatoes for dinner a whole week once because it’s how he got paid that time. He says the only things you shouldn’t scrimp on are shoes and tires. Daddy says you don’t want anything too cheap coming between you and the road. He says every man deserves at least that.
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Fun Fact:
My first real job after college was in Louisiana Tourism. I got to see a lot of small towns in the state with which I would not otherwise even be familiar. And my salary for that job was below the one quoted in this story.
My girl has a genuine and unconditional love of all things cat, kitten and feline. Her room is full of stuffed cats, cat calendars, cat statues, cat posters, books about cats, cat games … you get the idea. And she’s shared many a cute picture of these animals, especially in baby form, with me over the years. She especially loves the pictures of newborns nursing with their mama.
And so it happened that, over the weekend, I came across this little scene in my home.
Not only are these creatures (a sock monkey, a dragon and a spotted pink rabbit) not feline in species but, I will remind you, Milo is a male. I have never seen a cat look more undignified.
At exactly 2:23am this morning, the following message was sent to me:
Not everyone will survive. An ancient alien race, known only as “Reapers,” has launched an all-out invasion leaving nothing but a trail of destruction in their wake. Earth has been taken, the galaxy is on the verge of total annihilation, and you are the only one who can stop them. The price of failure is extinction. You are Commander Shepard, a character that you can forge in your own image. You determine how events will play out, which planets to explore, and whom to form alliances with as you rally a force to eliminate the Reaper threat once and for all. How you wage this war is completely up to you: go into combat with guns blazing or use cover to plan a more tactical assault. Utilize your squad to full effect or take a lone wolf approach. Rain death from a distance or go toe-to-toe with enemies using devastating melee attacks. Mass Effect 3 will react to each decision you make as you play through a truly unique experience of your own creation.
I thought about it a lot, but followed up with this firm but kind refusal:
Dear Selection Committee for this Ominous Position,
Okay, first of all … What the hell, man?
Can I just say that I feel GREAT PRESSURE to save the Earth for a Monday morning?!!?
Why am I the “only one” who can prevent this “extinction?” (Yes, you DO hear whining in my voice!) Geez, even on a fat day, I’m still only about 120 pounds. And if you ever heard me say I was 5’4,” then I was lying. I’m 5’3.75″ at best. Plus, um, I get winded pretty easily. Ooh, and don’t even get me started on bruising. I am like a banana when I so much as brush against the footboard of my bed.
So, to whomever is in charge of tapping a ‘Commander Shepard,’ PLEASE KEEP LOOKING. I am whole heartedly disinterested. I’ve already got my hands full with two kids, a husband (a term many women would liken to a third child. Ladies, am I right?), a cat who can’t decide if he really likes me or not and, you know, lots of other stuff. I wouldn’t have the first idea who to call to form these so-called “alliances.” Neptune? Jupiter? I don’t know anybody on those planets. I’m still working off basic cable and a couple of VCRs in this house. Seriously, I really think you’ve got the wrong guy here.
It’s true. I can spin a good tale from time to time. But what good is that going to do all of us really when our bodies are somehow suspended in time while the ‘Reapers’ attempt to replicate and/or alter our DNA? (See! I know nothing about science fiction. I can’t even come up with a good illustration of what they’ll be able to do to us with me in charge.)
My point? I can’t emphasize enough how inappropriate I am for this global responsibility. Perhaps you should consider someone better qualified like, I don’t know, Barack Obama …. Leon Panetta … or, ooh, even Clint Eastwood maybe. Or … if it has to be a woman … how about Queen Elizabeth … or Ellen DeGeneres? The common denominator of all of these people is that they are well-connected. They have resources. And people listen to them.
In summary, I’d really re-think the decision to put me in charge. Just my two cents. But if you need help finding someone else, this job sounds important enough that I’m happy to offer my assistance in recruiting someone. Else.
Thanks for asking though. You can’t imagine how flattered I am.
I did something I NEVER do today. I saw a movie (a BIG one, I might add) on its opening day. I’d give you three guesses as to the movie but, the way I’ve been carrying on lately, I’m sure you know it was Hunger Games. No, I did not stand in line with a bunch of teenagers at midnight. I went with a group of friends, the same ones I mentioned in my second prequel post.
We are adults. So, we did it in a very civilized way. We purchased our tickets in advance for a very upscale, modern theater in New Orleans, where you have to be 18 to enter. Their tagline is Gourmet Food. Full Bar. Luxury Seating. I took advantage of all three.
We settled into our oversized comfy chairs (akin to the quality of first class air travel) and pressed a button for the waitress. Jen and I split the cheese plate, described as a selection of four cheeses served with breads and fig mostarda, assorted flatbread and crackers. I also ordered the Angelo Brocato’s Italian Cookie Plate because I’m a sucker for fig cookies. And, for my beverage, I wanted The Dawn Patrol (house-made fig brandy, Patron Citronage Orange Liqueur, sour mix, splash of house-made vanilla cinnamon brown sugar simple syrup and satsuma twist) to complete my Trifecta of fig cuisine. But, alas, they were out of the necessary brandy so I opted for a Trivento Malbec and sat back to wait for the movie.
The food arrived for most of us almost immediately so we began eating (a difficult task, considering it was knife and fork fare and we were in near darkness) over the movie trailers. I saw one for Dark Shadows, a Tim Burton movie featuring none other than Johnny Depp, that I filed away for my summer wish list. Then, I saw another, the most unusual today, for something called Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. Let me just say … I SO wish I had thought of this movie title. It would also be a great name for a band, wouldn’t it?
Anyway … jumping ahead majorly … I really enjoyed the movie, for which I sat on the edge of my seat the majority of the time. Even though, unlike (almost) ever before in my lifetime, I had actually read the book first and thus knew what was going to happen. Except, of course, when the screenplay strayed from the original story.
The question … Was it as good as the book? The answer … Is it ever?
There’s always far too much that needs to be omitted when something is culled down from the page to the screen. Much must be sacrificed. But, then again, the movie affords you the delight of seeing some of the fictional characters come to life through real people like Stanley Tucci, Woody Harrelson and Lenny Kravitz. I so loved all of them in this movie.
Am I going to tell you anything else about the movie?
Absolutely not. This story is one that no one wants spoiled for them. I’ve literally shushed and been shushed by total strangers when discussing the book in public. It’s a cult. And I’m a kool-aid drinking, tambourine-beating, bald girl selling flowers at the airport. I’m all in.
One last thing though … to the women in the ladies room after the show, the main character’s name is KATNISS EVERDEEN, not Candace Aberdeen. If you read the book, you’d know that. (Look at me … getting all uppity about book learnin’.)
Haven’t seen it yet? Let me tempt you …
Thanks, Ashley, Vanessa, Jen, Melissa and Mignon, for bringing me today.
It’s Trifextra Weekend Challenge time and this one’s up for a public vote. The polls open for 12 hours starting on Sunday, March 25 at 8pm EST. Click here to view all the entries and pick your top three. The submissions are short so it doesn’t take long to get through them. I’d love your vote … but it’s just not in my nature to tell you want to do. I am not the boss of you!
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Rules this Week: Trifecta provides the first 33 words and entrants need to complete the story in only 33 additional words. The words provided by Trifecta are in bold and my entry follows.
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Trifextra Entry –
The Fight on the Way Home in the Limo
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“There’s nothing cute about it,” he said. The register of his voice indicated decision more so than discussion.
She disagreed heartily and privately, staring past Brad’s head and out the window behind him.
“Damn it, Angie. The blood vials, making out with James and now this freaky leg thing. You know it’s got its own Twitter page? We’ve got six kids now. Chill the hell out.”
Here’s my goofy, little entry for this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge. I often go with the first idea that pops into my head. This was one of those times.
RULES: All entries must be between 33 and 333 words and need to include the following word using its third definition:
Remember how in the 70s women could solve all of their problems with a stupid bubble bath? Well, I don’t know about you guys but a warm soak in an oversized, Greek-inspired bathtub just isn’t cutting it for me anymore.
Enter my mom.
She’s been trying to ‘take me away’ from everything since the Great Tumor Scare of 2011. I guess it’s sort of a “Thanks for Not Dying’ mother/daughter trip. But lots of things … and life in general … just kept getting in the way. And all of the bigger plans we contemplated (NYC, Chicago and the like) kept getting swept under the rug until we could “find the time.”
So, tired of waiting on me and my sad excuses, she booked a room at a hotel on the Gulf Coast only about an hour and a half away from where we live and gave me two days notice for the kidnapping. Which was good. I had only two days to worry about whether I’d get everything done before I left. It’s so hard for the mom to step out of the family equation. Part of that is real and part of it we do to ourselves. I knew dirty laundry and frozen pizza wouldn’t hurt anyone while I was gone. So I left. On Sunday afternoon. With my mom. For only one day. One great, relaxing, unplanned, nobody-pulling-on-me kind of day.
Talking the whole way up, we arrived in no time and checked in to our hotel, Beau Rivage, which is also a casino. For anyone unfamiliar with these parts, the Mississippi Gulf Coast is a big casino destination. Some of them are a little dumpy, but others are actually very nice and attract the kind of entertainment that (sadly) is becoming more and more representative of my generation. (Case in point, I’ve seen Rick Springfield there several times with friends. Don’t judge, please.)
We went up to our room on the 25th floor to drop off our luggage and get settled in. I’m not a huge germaphobe so I kicked off my shoes immediately and walked across the carpet to put my stuff in the bathroom. I was about halfway there, curious as to why the floor felt so cold, when I realized my feet were almost completely underwater. The carpet was soaked which, you can imagine, was a pretty gross discovery to make considering I had no idea just what I was stewing in. After a few phone calls, a return trip to the front desk, and an elderly lady passing out cold in our path to the elevator, we were settled in our second room, now on the 11th floor. I glass-is-half-fulled it and decided that it was at least nice to know that they cleaned the carpets from time to time.
Because I was starving, we had dinner early at the Brazilian Steakhouse (a South American Churrascaria) nearby. My kids love that place so I felt a little guilty being there without them. But we only got the soup and salad bar so they didn’t miss much. The cream of poblano soup is a meal in itself. And I got my requisite Caipirinha cocktail. If you’ve never had one, click here for the recipe. And go get the rum out of your liquor cabinet.
Stuffed like ticks, we returned to our hotel and walked over to its neighboring property, the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino, to work off some of our dinner until we could breathe again. And until it was time for Desperate Housewives. (Again, don’t judge. DH is significant to me, and I’ll explain why in May when the show airs its final episode. Check back with me then.)
When the show was over, my mother said she wanted to go to the casino. She’s not a big gambler and I’m even less of one, largely attributed to the fact that I never win. But this night was about relaxing so, being the kick-ass mom that she is, she suggested that I hang back in the room to read, write and veg in front of the TV (I chose D, ALL of the above) while she went to lose her money on her own. (I’m kidding. Unlike me, she sometimes actually wins. But not this time. Except that she did score a couple of drinks, including the one she brought up to me in the room. That’s service.) We talked and watched TV a little before finally surrendering to sleep shortly after midnight.
The next morning, she slept in a little. I tried, but my stupid brain wouldn’t shut off so I got up and took a long bath and read more of my book, the last of the Hunger Games trilogy, until she woke up. We dressed pretty quickly and went downstairs for a late brunch, light gambling (I lost $20), even lighter shopping (I spent $10) and a brief stint in the arcade. (About which I knew my kids would be pissed, but I brought them my ticket credit for the next time they visit and they want to bring home another stuffed six-foot, green-spotted snake. So I think I’m good.)
Realizing it wouldn’t be long until my kids got home from school, we checked out, packed up the car and headed out … but not before seeing this sign we somehow missed on the way in to the hotel.
We laughed at it … then she took off her “do-rag,” I unrolled my left pant leg and we got the hell out of there.
I wasn’t gone long, not even 24 hours, but it was nice taking a break to do nothing in a relaxing setting with my mother. And did I mention it was all on her? Next time, Mom, we’re going to the spa. Love you … and thanks.
Just writing about the daily dumbassery of life. The good, the bad and the so-utterly-mundane-that-you'd-think-I-wouldn't-even-bother-to-write-about-it.
OldDogNewTits 