With their obsession of all things three, the Trifecta overlords pulled out all the stops for their 33rd writing challenge, creating a triathlon of sorts for nerds like me. There are three parts to the challenge and the top three winners of each go on to compete in some kind of Super Bowl … or Olympics … or … oh, whatever. You guys know I don’t know about this stuff.
Plus I only managed to participate in one of the three legs:
Write a 33-333 word response using the 3rd definition of the following word:
Sorry, Trifecta. I wish your three-a-palooza didn’t fall during the summer when time is in such short supply. I always love playing and am glad that, with this entry, I at least have a chance of securing one of the nine spots that advance to
the swimsuit … the interview … Round Two.
If I win, there’ll be three-bean salad and Three Musketeer bars for everyone!
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He waited, crouched behind a dumpster in the alley. The only light came from a street lamp that illuminated the backdoor to the building. Even the moon seemed to be cooperating as it hid behind a mass of clouds directly above him. He dared not make a move for fear of revealing himself. One inch here or there could cast a shadow. His stomach growled and he cursed himself for skipping dinner. He considered the granola bar in his pocket but dismissed it, realizing the crinkling plastic would be too great a risk. And he needed to stay focused.
The alley was only 33 feet long. He’d have to act quickly to execute his plan completely within its boundaries. He’d planned everything to the second and had even run a few drills in the dark over the last month. His only concern was noise. So he needed to be sure the first thing he took out was the windpipe. He couldn’t afford even a fraction of a distress call. The offices on the 2nd floor always kept their windows open and the after hours cleaning crew would surely hear any screaming.
“How can they stand to keep them open?” he wondered. The rancid smell of the alley was nauseating. He shuddered when what he hoped was a cat ran across his feet. He chose not to look down but to keep his gaze fixed on the door. The firm had been closed for three hours. He should have come out by now.
Why must he always make things so difficult?
He felt a breeze blow past him. Fall was coming. The holidays. He couldn’t let her endure another Christmas, another new year with him. “She wants this,” he reasoned to himself. “She practically came out and asked me to do it.”
Tonight, he would even the score for her. Tonight, he would set her free.
With tears in his eyes, he gripped the rope tightly as he watched the backdoor slowly swing open.
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The Inspiration for this Entry
I read an old favorite with my son not too long ago. Edgar Allen Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart. Of course, for my boy, it was the first reading. And he marveled at how crazed the narrator sounded, how meticulously he planned every detail and how he perceived his own actions to be fully justified and rational. Three hundred thirty-three words isn’t much with which to work when attempting to model anything after the great EAP, but I hope I captured at least a fraction of the character’s frenetic thought process.