A Grain of Sand in the Ocean

Peter lived a lonely life.  A young soul conceived not through love but through lust.  A one night stand caused by alcohol. High schoolers whose life would become all hard work with minimal reward.  A life of constant unhappiness and loneliness.  Add the stress of raising an unwanted child in a catholic dominated town that shuns out-of-wedlock conception.  Peter never had a chance.  

He understood his lot in life. He was a loner. A pimpled faced teen with very few friends in a small town that lauds macho high school players and prom queens and cast out those who are different. He grew into a man all alone.

Peter longed for the voice of Freddie or Stevie.  The ability to capture an audience and give them a feeling of escape if only for three minutes.  The talent to use his fingers on a guitar or piano and sooth the pain of those who look to music to escape the brutal reality of their own life.  He longed for the talent to write words that inspire readers searching for healing.  Words that he could express for those who understood yet never are able to write themselves.  

An unloved soul searching for acceptance in life.  He searched the end of the rainbow only to discover a deep, empty cauldron.  His only reward was the brief view of the optical phenomenon of droplets reflecting their light. An illusion which parallels his life.  

His smile hides the tracks on his skin.  His escape from the brutal truth.  One conceived without love can’t be loved.  His pedantic life is followed by a single set of footprints on a sandy beach.  Only to be swept away by the tide into the vastness of the ocean.  Never to be seen again. 

Yet Peter was a great actor.  He walked the streets of his southern town with a beautiful smile.  Content to those who knew him.  A superficial expression of happiness to those who didn’t.  His life a slow and painful death.

This fiction was written for Trifecta: Week Seventy-eight.

On to the weekly prompt.  This week’s word comes from Karen is Muttering.
 
: of, relating to, or being a pedant(see pedant)
: narrowly, stodgily, and often ostentatiously learned

Please 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.

A Game of Chess

Tough one this week!  Well, here is my attempt for the week.  Very different from what I normally write.

Silence was broken by the hoot of Mr. Owl

echoing throughout the swamp.

Sitting majestically above.

Watching movement below.

Mr. Snake slithers cautiously beneath the leaves.

Avoiding becoming the meal.

Nature’s chess match.

This fiction was written for Trifextra: Week Sixty-seven.

This weekend we want you to give us 33 words (exactly) that include among them at least one example of onomatopoeia.  When looking for a good page to link to in order to help describe the device, we stumbled upon our very own Apoplectic Apostrophes‘ post on literary devices.  Check it out if you need help remembering how onomatopoeia work.

Tattered

One could search a century and not find an answer.  His life is one of aimless searching and lost dreams.  He hopes the man in charge recognizes something inertly good in his tattered and beaten soul.

This fiction was written for Trifextra: Week Sixty-four.

This weekend we’re asking for exactly 33 of your own words plus the following three words:
  • charge
  • century
  • lost
So 33 of yours plus 3 of ours means that everyone will have a 36 word response this time around.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chose

“Time to pay the piper,” he said. “Your choice today. Paddle?  Belt?”

“But daddy, I did’t…”

“Shut up and chose!  Mama’s not here to protect you.”

“Wish I could chose a new daddy.”

This fiction was written for Trifextra: Week sixty-one.

This weekend we’re asking for exactly 33 words including an idiom somewhere within.

 

Reflections in Silence

Featured Image
Photo credit: Bérenger ZYLA / Foter.com / CC BY-NC-ND

Women and children silhouetted

in the smoky haze before me.

Reflecting magnificently

in the black marble ground.

Moving silently.

I stand before them

breathless and free of pain.

Ready to enter Heaven’s gateway.


This was written for Trifextra: Week Fifty-Nine.

This weekend we’re asking for exactly 33 words inspired by the following photo.

 

In the Corner

Trapped like a  scared mouse,

I cower in the corner.

My father above me.

His look stone like.

“Please don’t hit me again.”

With pleasure in his eyes

he unleashed his anger.

This fiction was written for Trifextra: Week Fifty-eight.

This weekend, we want you to give us a thirty-three response using the wordstone as one of your thirty-three words.  You can use any definition of the word that you’d like, but we are specifically looking for serious, well-conceived entries.  This isn’t the weekend for light-hearted posts about the difficulty of posting before the linkz close, and we are not looking for hilarious commentary about your cats (THIS time).  We want something serious and deep from you guys this weekend, because the sun is starting to shine a bit more, and we think we can handle it now.  Take your time with it and give us your very best work.

Timmy’s Best Friend

Life on the farm was tough for Timmy.  He was assigned daily chores from a very young age. During the school year he learned to juggle school work with daily chores. Farm life left him no time for extracurricular activities at school much less for friendships.  School was just a break from work. His nightly homework, which many classmates complained about, was less work than his duties before school.  Farm life, he determined, was not for him.

Timmy’s dogged desire to escape weighed heavily on his mind. He wanted to move far away to the big city.  In his ten-year old mind, he was on this earth to be an actor, not a farmer.

“Mom, I’m headed out to feed the hogs.”  Out the door he went with his only friend, his dog Ranger close behind. The two walked to the hog pen and dumped two buckets of this mornings delicacy into the trough. Then they headed to the nearby barn.  Timmy sat on a hay bale. Ranger hopped up beside him.  He reached out and stroked the dog’s head. His tail wagged with delight. “Ranger, one day I will leave this farm.” he explained.  “You’ll stay here.  I will miss you dearly. However, I must leave!  I don’t want to be a farmer. I want to be an actor. I know Dad will hate me.  Mom will constantly worry.  But I know you will love me.”  

Timmy stood up.  He looked out the open doors onto the endless stretch fields. “I want to be an actor,” he said to Ranger. “I’m going to be a Hollywood star. I’m gonna be in westerns with John Wayne.  Everyone will know and like me. It won’t be like school where they make fun of me.”  He walked to Ranger and gave him a hug. “Ya’ know, you are my only friend. My best friend. That will never change, I promise. I love you Ranger.”

This fiction was written for Trifecta: Week sixty-seven.

This week’s one-word prompt comes from Deana who linked up in our Meet Your Fellow Trifectans tab (if you haven’t done so yet, hop to it) and suggested this gem:

JUGGLE (transitive verb)
1a : to practice deceit or trickery on : beguile
b : to manipulate or rearrange especially in order to achieve a desired end
2a : to toss in the manner of a juggler
b : to hold or balance precariously
3: to handle or deal with usually several things (as obligations) at one time so as to satisfy often competing requirements <juggle the responsibilities of family life and full-time job — Jane S. Gould>

Please 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.
  • Trifecta is open to everyone. Please join us.

Good luck!

Yearning for Peace


I’m on an endless search for peace of mind.  I struggle daily to find self-worth.  I find solace in pain. I yearn to be heard through words and with paint on canvas.

This was written for Trifextra: Week fifty-seven

This weekends challenge is also community-judged.

  • For the 12 hours following the close of the challenge, voting will be enabled on links.
  • In order to vote, return to this post where stars will appear next to each link.  To vote, simply click the star that corresponds with your favorite post.
  • You can vote for your top three favorite posts.
  • Voting is open to everyone.
  • You have 12 hours to vote.  It’s not much time, so be diligent! We’ll send out reminders on Twitter and Facebook.

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!

The Wheels no Longer Turn

Photo courtesy of ghostbikes.org

I see these around town here.  This morning I noticed a new one. So sad.  On the way home it’s all I thought about.  Here is my humble tribute.

You sit on street corners and along roads

across our great nation.

A symbol of those who pedal on two wheels.

The breeze in their face and clear skies above.

Their muscles burning,

breathing mightily.

Until tragically their breathing ceases.

Ended by carelessness.

Quickly and tragically.

You are passed daily

by commuters on foot, car and bicycle.

In large cities and small towns.

A memorial to the anonymous

who lost their life.

Who were you?

A sibling.

A spouse.

A parent.

A friend.

Were you young or old?

Male or female?

You were all of these.

Now you are a beautiful symbol

placed by people who know you.

By a community who cares.

A symbol never to be removed.

Sitting through wind and rain.

Under sunny or cloudy skies.

Your wheels once turned.

Now they are still.

A bike now doctored.

Colored in all white.

The Ghost Bike.

 

This was written for Trifectra; Week Sixty-Six

The rules:
  • 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.
  • Trifecta is open to everyone.  Please join us.

DOCTOR (noun)
1

a : an eminent theologian declared a sound expounder of doctrine by the Roman Catholic Church —called also doctor of the church

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

2
a : a person skilled or specializing in healing arts; especially :one (as a physician, dentist, or veterinarian) who holds an advanced degree and is licensed to practice

b : medicine man

 

 

 

Beneath the Blanket

In the woods past the remnants of the house Kevin saw bones peering from beneath a blanket of pine needles and leaves. He discovered a bicycle near a tree. In panic he left…..

I really enjoyed this weeks prompt!  I could have written a whole story but only had 33 words.

This was written for Trifextra; Week Fifty-six

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.