third time's the (not so) charm(ing)

Emptiness hinders hope.

Suffocates it.

Whiskey alone won’t release her.

So

with thick scars mutating her wrist,

she reaches for the bottle of pills,

slams them into her mouth.

Soon

 

she’d be free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

sibling rivalry

My favorite hiding place was under the front porch of the bungalow on 60^th Court where I was brought to live after being born. It’s been nearly 30 years, 15 moves since living there and I still remember the address, phone number, yellow rotary dial phone stuck to the yellow and black tiled wall in the hallway between the kitchen and dining room, opposite the one and only bathroom in the 3-bedroom home.

And, of course, I remember my secret hiding place under the front porch.

It was my own private little space, my own little club—a club for sad little girls whose parents were divorcing, whose brother and sister (especially) hated her, whose life was crumbling down—that I didn’t really discover until only a couple years before moving. Until it started calling out to me as I walked aimlessly around outside just to get away from the people inside.

It was dark and musty under there. And empty and lonely.  

It was the perfect place for me to hide out and stash my secret box, which included pen and paper, pictures, a lighter.

One of the pictures was that of my whole family with my sister’s face scratched out.

She hated me—my sister. So I scratched her face off in the photo. At least I didn’t burn it with the lighter, right?

No, my mom did that.

She burned the photo and doused it out with water from the kitchen sink when my sister found the damn picture in MY space, MY box, MY club.

We never really did get along. Not before then, certainly not after. It was like she was in this elusive club that she wouldn’t allow me part of or something.

And people wonder why I’m “one and done.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summer: it's just not for me

 

Sweaty boobs smooshed together. 

Air condition on full blast.

Mama’s cranky. 

Lovie’s energy’s infinite.

 

“LESS GO TO DA PARK!”

 

"It’s closed."

 

“I WANNA PLAY WIF DA BIG KIDS!”

 

“I have to pee first.”

It's been a while (again), but I couldn't resist participating in this one from Trifecta.

Food Addiction

Trying not to topple over

while crouching underneath the table to hide

(despite being all alone in the house),

the paranoid, oversized woman

licks honey married with melted butter from her warm biscuits.

 

 

 

 

~ linking these 33 words up with Trifecta ~

and i'm not even PMSing

Unwrapping the foil makes me happy.

Giddy.

Pulling down the paper sides makes me salivate.

Foolish.

Resting the silkiness between my thumb and middle fingers makes me impatient.

Gluttonous.

Popping it into my mouth makes me calm.

Peaceful.

Being deliberate about allowing the sweet and salty to melt into all my senses… Well, that’s just down right electrifying.

come to momma!

Orgasmic.





linking this bad boy up with the fine folks at Trifecta.

gift

It’s hard not to smile when she does.

Never forced—those are everywhere—her smile brightens the dim,

lifts the despondent.

Her goodness, her kindness, her warmth…

it’s like she tries to infect us all with it through that smile.

She’s the epitome of stunning beauty—it radiates from her core.

 

What a gift she’s been.

What a gift she’ll be.

Even when the smile finally fades and her last breath is taken.

 

My Oma.

Linking up with Trifecta.

desperation

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

 

 

She’s got to be here somewhere.

“Mama? Mama?!!”

Who are all these people? Where’s my mommy?! What happened? Where am I? Oooh there she is… I thought. Oh where is my mommy?

 

"Mommy?!!"

 

 

 

 

hooking up with Trifecta again.

 

 

 

33 words: Stone

The gravestone—

purchased 30+ years ago after her parents’ burials

—has been waiting for her.

Her husband’s final date was added in 2005.

Her own expiration date will appear there soon.

In stone.

hooking up with the talented peeps of Trifecta again. constructive criticism always welcome.

it throbs

sorry for the downer... sadly it's not fiction. inking up with trifecta.


My head.

It throbs.

If I press against the wrinkles embedding my forehead whilst my eyes are closed, the pain lessens a bit.

In my head.

I feel like I’ve been fighting a sinus infection for months now. A sinus infection that won’t quite smack me down just yet. An infection that lurks around the corner waiting to jump out at me at the most inopportune time.

 

My cell phone vibrates for two seconds and stops. Then it buzzes again. Someone is calling and my heart leaps into my throat.

My head no longer hurts.

I look down and see a number I don’t know, an area code I don’t know. I hit decline and breathe a little easier.

For a moment.

My head throbs again.

 

The tears bled my eyes yesterday when I picked up Lovie from school. I had just learned Oma has “days” left, they believe (hospice).

So now I really wait. And think of ways to doctor my appearance the next time I’m with Lovie.

“Oma’s very sick,” I’ve been telling her.  “I need you to give her a big hug and kiss when we see her,” I told her last time I brought her for a visit a week ago. “And I really need you to look at her face, look into her eyes. Do you understand?”

She nods. “Oma’s sick?”

“Yes.”

How will I tell her she’s gone when she finally leaves us?

 
 

My head.

It throbs.

33 words: Hyperbole

 

If not for the intense, infuriating mood swings

or the indubitable desire to drown in crap food,

the killer cramps and horror show scene in the

toilet will reveal: I have my period.

 

_____________________________________

 

 

Heh sorry for being so graphic but man does this feel good to get out. Thanks Trifecta!

33 words: Reading challenge

The sound of the saw is steady, competent, unhurried, stirring the dying

light so that at each stroke her face seems to wake a little into an expression

of listening and of waiting

As soon as I saw this weekends Trifecta Challenge, I knew what book to go to: William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. One of my favoritest books ever.

Closing time: Dialogue via text messages.

I can’t stop crying. It’s so bad. She’s sooo tired.

"I’m sorry, I know it’s no fun."

This’s so much worse than when Ota died. It’s downright cruel.

"Is she talking or anything?"

33 words of dialogue. Prompt via Trifecta.

thirsty { - FICTION - }

Who could that be at this hour?

Kyle’s head jerked and his eyes opened widely. His tingly legs were bent yet sprawled out on the floor. Cotton was jammed into his mouth. 

He heard it again and looked toward the knocking coming from the monstrous wooden door.  

Who could that be—

Kyle tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

Wait—

There wasn’t cotton in his mouth, he was just incredibly thirsty.

Where the fuck am I?

Kyle’s eyes darted around the dark room till they found a dim white streak of light crossing over the mouth of a bottle. With his hands pawing the moist wood floor, Kyle dragged himself toward the empty bottle which once held whiskey. He lifted the black labeled bottle and not a drop came from its mouth to satiate his own.

When the knocking occurred again, he dropped the bottle in his lap and looked at his surroundings more closely: cheap metal chairs in a semi-circle, a large desk heading the chairs with push pins crucifying paper onto a bulletin board hanging behind it, a deep wastebasket by the closed door which had someone standing on the other side trying to get in.

Kyle immediately knew where he was, but not why he was there—in the room in which he taught Ethical Theories. Yes, some might say he had a relationship with the bottle, but he wasn’t one to jeopardize his job like that. 

He slammed his eyes shut for a moment. 

When he opened them, a student stood before him. Jessica. Her sheer blouse draped open, the button and zipper on her jeans undone, her long dark hair clearly disrupted from its pristine norm. She wore the most devilish smirk he’d ever seen.

He slammed his eyes shut again. When he opened them, she was gone, but the knocking persevered. 

 “Open up Mr. Kemp,” Jessica whispered through the door.

****************************************************************

 

Today's piece is a result of a couple different prompts: two from the folks at the Yeah Write Speakeasy who've asked us to use the first sentence- "Who could that be at this hour?" -along with referencing an image of a bulletin board with push pins... and two from the folks at Trifecta who've asked us to use the third definition of the word Mouth and keep the piece between 33 and 333 words.

 

sure of it { - FICTION - }

The magic was all in the finishing touches. Ashley was sure of it, just as she was sure her 4-year-old daughter, Londyn, would go home with the Ultimate Grand Supreme Beauty Queen title. After all, they’d been working on enchanting judges at dinky county fair pageants for the past two years.

Not anymore though. Now they were on to far more bigger competitions which would lead to big time fortunes. Ashley was sure of it.

 “Uh, that’s not at all what I want,” Ashley spat at the pageants’ hair designer.

 “Ashley don’t you wowry, I can rock this,” Londyn said with a flip of her tiny manicured hand before sipping Mountain Dew through a straw.

“Oh Londyn, I have no doubt you can rock this, you can rock anything. But it’s not at all what I wanted!” Ashley snatched a piece of the blond hair extension the stylist weaved into Londyn’s hair. “This is too floppy. It’s gotta be fixed.”

“Yes ma’am, I’m doing what I can.”

“Well you need to do better than that. We gotta be perfect!” Ashley took the Mountain Dew from Londyn’s hand and finished what was left.

“MOM!”

“Oh hush, you’ve had enough.” Ashley fished around a large pink tote bag laying atop the bed in the hotel room they were in. “Now less get your flipper in.” 

With a small set of fake teeth in her right hand, Ashley pushed down on Londyn’s chin with her left.

“No Momma!”

“This is always such a bitch to get in,” Ashley mumbled, jamming the flipper into Londyn’s mouth. “Now lemme see that million dollar smile.”

Londyn grimaced, “It hurts.”

“Tough,” Ashley answered and turned her attention back to the top of her head and hair. “You need to get this higher and it better not move when she’s up there. We gotta be perfect!”

The magic was all in the finishing touches. Ashley was sure of it.

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

This piece brought to you by too much Toddlers and Tiaras and the fine folks at the Yeah Write Speakeasy who've requested we use use of the following photo prompt and the first line, "The magic was all in the finishing touches." 

Also brought to you by the groovy peeps at Trifecta who've requested we use the third definition of a favorite word of mine:

BITCH (noun)

1: the female of the dog or some other carnivorous mammals
2 a : a lewd or immoral woman
b : a malicious, spiteful, or overbearing woman —sometimes used as a generalized term of abuse
3: something that is extremely difficult, objectionable, or unpleasant

 

opposite

With her pristine face grimacing because the Lululemon bag is out of stock, she raises her glass of Chardonnay to her nose and inhales deeply.

 

“First world problems indeed,” she smiles, pearls shining.

 

 

new beginning

On being three:

The defiance and attitude kicked up a notch. Or ten.

Blossoming curiosity, too. 

And, of course, the time-outs.

It’s like she enjoys trying my patience. 

But why not the toilet?!