New Words to Say

The first time I saw the tree, with slants of red that glanced through bare arms that scraped the sky, I feared no new words could draw it. I was wrong: There will e'er be words to say.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. 

On now to this week's Trifextra challenge.  This week we are asking you to count syllables.  And words.  It's a lot of math for those of us who might be more accustomed to dealing with words, but we're confident you can pull it off.

We are asking for a 33-word response to the following snippet:

The first time I saw. . .

Here's the catch: all of your 33 words must be one syllable each.  We're going low-brow on your this week.  Or not.  Can you class it up under these restrictions?  Give us your best.

To clarify, we are giving you 5 words.  We want another 33 from you, for a grand total of 38. 

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Change

Charlie and Ruth liked to get to the diner early on Sunday, the old Buick angled in to a parking spot right in front of the diner's windows so that Charlie could ensure nobody was stealing his old Buick, not that anyone would want to steal that old boat of a car, Ruth always thought.

"Three eggs over easy," Charlie told the waitress when she tried to hand him a menu. "Sausage. Toast, no butter. You new here?"

The waitress blushed, fingered the lace at her collar. "Can you tell?"

"You're doing fine, sweetie." Ruth hated the way her husband was so darn bossy all the time, acting as if the entire world ought to know what exactly what Charlie Browning wanted. She opened her menu and pretended to study it, even though she, like Charlie, always ordered the same thing every day. "Half a grapefruit, please." She smiled at the waitress, noticed her name tag read Carolyne. She liked that spelling, liked the way it was just a bit different. "With a maraschino cherry, please." She regretted the second please. Charlie would tell her she was groveling later, in the car while they were driving home. "And two Belgian waffles, no whipped cream." She folded the menu and gave it to Carolyne.

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Resolution

Just keep trying.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. We were to write a three-word resolution.

Resolutions are a yearly tradition in our house. As we eat our New Year's dinner, each of us shares our intentions for the new year, while I document them on my computer. The best part of the year is reading aloud the previous years' resolutions and examining our successes (and failures).

Last year, my son had thirty-eight resolutions, my daughters had thirty-four and twenty-four. My husband had three, one of which was move. I also had three, each of which involved exercise, writing and weight loss.

I find it funny that probably the most difficult resolution made last year--move--was the one we kept: After ten long years of being away, we are again at home. And so, this year, I'll just keep trying with my other resolutions, celebrating small successes and not mourning those failures brought on by writer's block and soothed with an extra cookie or three.


Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Brandy

Midnight: Calico paws at eggnog; discovers brandy.

Five AM: "Santa's a cat!" The children indicate paw prints scattered beneath the tree.

"Don't be ridiculous," Dad says. "Santa's human."

"He's an elf," Mom insists.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge.

Charles Dickens, in A Christmas Carol, wrote “There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour.” We are giving you exactly 33 words to make us laugh out loud and spread some festive cheer.

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Spring Thaw

Doreen poured a cup of coffee and sank her chair: the Victorian parlor chair with red velvet upholstery that she'd scored curbside fourteen years ago. "Didn't pay a dime for it," she told visitors staring at this throne parked in the center of the cabin. She ran her hand across the armrest where Frodo had been allowed, nay, encouraged to chew freely and with gusto.

"My boy's teething," Dink would say, every time Doreen protested. She shook her head. That damn dog had been teething for nigh eight years.

"This chair is the best thing that ever happened to me," she said. And Dink, loyal vagrant of a husband, that part-timing, two-timing, constant-whining lazy-ass of a husband had let Frodo destroy it.

For three days, Dink had been gallivanting, rustling the skirts of the pretty young things that dotted the mountain like wildflowers. Every spring it was the same: Snow dissolved into rivulets. Robins appeared in the oaks. The soil loosened itself. Dink, hoeing the garden plot, would all a' sudden get that look in his eye. The look that said, I ain't getting any younger.

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Myopic

Tree roots cup snowmelt, miniature basins gathering light and returning it to the

stars, a dazzle of sunshine guilding the frosty air. I pass, myopic, intent on the cell phone jangling my pocket.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge:

On to the weekend prompt. This weekend we're asking you to add thirty of your own words to the following three words for a total of thirty-three. Good luck!

myopic

dazzle  

basin

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Freely Given and Eternally Kept

A female cardinal sits in the branches of my magnolia tree niggling at something—next year's flowers or a bit of this year's fruit, suddenly exposed. She turns upside down in order to reach her treasure before fluttering her wings to right herself again.

Small buds adorn the branches, promises neatly bundled and held tight until spring. Like a kid awaiting Christmas, I'm anxious to see the tree in bloom: It will be my first spring in this house.

On Saturday, I went to the fabric store to get some thread and elastic to finish the pajamas I'd promised my children and husband. This promise of pajamas was made in a weak moment, brought on by the feel of soft flannel beneath my fingers and the vision of what it could become. But I am not a seamstress of any note, unless you note the errors that I make.

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Raindrops

If rain held color, taste and smell, each drop would be a memory of you. But shattered raindrops run like tears and your image slowly blurs, like chalk paintings washed away in spring.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. We were to do a 33 word free write.

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Waiting

The precipitation was more ice than rain. Snow threatened. Ted pressed a hand to the window.

"Waiting for Santy Claus?"

Ted wheeled around. Shelia. Antlers on her head. A bracelet of bells that jingled as she reached for his wrist, searching for a pulse.

"How much time have I got?"

"I ain't the doctor, honey. Ain't even a nurse."

"Will I last until Christmas?"

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Red Flash

I saw the sky was painted grey;

raining tears of white.

I saw the grass was painted brown;

tips, curled down, were blue.

I saw the flash of cardinal's wing;

red projecting hope.

This was written for this weekend's Trifecta Writing Challenge:

This weekend, writers, it's up to you. We want you to choose a word and use it three times in your 33 words. However, it must be either a verb, noun or adjective and the form of the word cannot change, it must appear exactly the same three times. 

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Reflection

Cara glances at the spoon her mother holds towards her, a spot of lime Jell-o at the tip. She sees herself upside down, a long drawn-out face, a wall of books behind her.

"Cara." Her mother shakes the spoon. The Jell-o moves in response, little reverberations spreading out like an accusation. Cara opens her mouth. A baby bird.

"I'm too thin," she says after swallowing.

"You're beautiful."

"I can still see, Mom." She sighs. "You know what I just realized?"

Her mother dabs at Cara's face with a napkin. "What's that?"

"I see the world through reflection."

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Timing

The cat knows Mrs. Wilson is dying: Cats know these things.

"Remember especially the sick."

The cat--we may as well get his name out of the way: Leonardo, Leo for short--blinks at the television, tuned to a cable broadcast of last Sunday's Mass. Leo curls up beside Mrs. Wilson and begins to purr.

Does it seem inappropriate to you, this purring? It felt inappropriate to Leo, but he soldiered on, not wanting Mrs. Wilson to feel abandoned as she parted this world. Truth be told, his heart wasn't in it.

The purring felt forced, the way Mrs. Wilson arranged her face into a smile every Christmas when she unwrapped the gift from her daughter-in-law: another bottle of that God-awful perfume Lilly got at the dollar store every year. Mrs. Wilson would make a fuss over the perfume, holding it to the light saying, "How did you know I was running out, Lilly?" before stretching her mouth into an even wider grin and adding, "Isn't timing a funny thing?"

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The God of Internet

Thirty-three gods.

So passé.

I have deposed the gods of honesty and compassion,

     creativity.

People no longer worship them.

     Now they turn to me.

I'm the god of internet.

I shall stand alone.

This was written for this weekend's Trifecta Writing Challenge.

"Buddhist cosmology tells of Trāyastriṃśa, or the Heaven of Thirty-Three gods, which rule over the human realm.  This weekend we're asking for exactly 33 of your own words about a god of your own devising that shares heaven with the other thirty-two gods.  Make it yours and have fun with it."

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Autumn's Craft

Lovely autumn.

Your craft and wile seduce me into celebrating the falling of the leaves:

the oranges and the yellows;

the reds and the purples

     heartbreakingly deep;

anticipating the cold-tinted mornings

and brisk afternoons,

dark evenings playing rummy around the kitchen table over

     steaming mugs of tea.

Lovely autumn.

You call me to the woods again and again,

my feet shuffling through leaves thickly carpeting the path

so that I can no longer see my way.

I am guided by a hole high in a tree where, perhaps,

an owl restlessly dreams while I walk, shifting in its sleep,

always on guard.

     On guard always.

I am guided, too, by the tree lying prone upon the ground.

Piece by piece, it is melting away to become one with the earth

to indeed change into earth, reminding me of who and what

     I will one day become

broken down atoms collaborating to form something new.

Lovely autumn.

The fishermen sit around the lake watching the wind tear

ripples across the water's surface

while the willow tree bends to admire her shimmery reflection,

for she is yet adorned in leaves.

The fishermen tell me they've had no luck today but still they sit,

watching and waiting.

And it is lovely.

     All of it is lovely.

* * *

But finally there are no more leaves to rip from the trees,

no more leaves to block the inevitable iciness of the wind.

All the leaves have lost their color;

dry and brown skeletons

     curling in upon themselves

tissue melting away

until only the veins of the leaves remain.

And the holidays pass and the busyness settles.

and my life is full of quiet and stillness.

My breath fogs the windows.

Lake Erie brings forth snow.

The world turns frigid and white and stark.

And suddenly the thought of becoming one with the earth,

-broken down atoms collaborating to make something new-

seems bitterly cold and

     frighteningly alone.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. The word was craft.

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Don't Boo...

"You don't boo the stripper." Jensen frowned into his drink, regretting his partner's choice of venue for fleshing the truth from Carl DeAngelo. DeAngelo's wife's version of the truth, that is; the version that would guarantee a favorable divorce settlement and seal a nice commission for Jensen and Jensen, Private Detectives. It'll be perfect, Louise had said. Get him to a strip club. Buy him a few rounds. He'll spill his guts. Louise was probably at home right now, tucked into her favorite armchair, cracking the spine of a new mystery. Why had he chosen to go into business with Louise? Why, indeed, had he asked her to marry him?

"You lecturing me on local etiquette, Jensen? I guess you don't want my business that bad."

His cover was that of a hardware salesmen. Jensen didn't know a doorknob from a doorbell, but Louise seemed to think he could pull it off. "Nothing local about it. You just don't do it."

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The Promise of Spring

"The soldiers stare at Annika when we go for rations."

"Let them look." Liam snatched a biscuit from the plate. "Her beauty will save us. As long as there is something to dangle in front of them, they will leave us alone."

"She is your daughter, not an enticement. When will they be no longer satisfied with...?"

"We all need to survive, Bekka." Liam looked out the window. "It will be a cold winter. We must find more wood."

"The hickory shells..."

"...mere phantom of warmth. You and Annika go to the forest tomorrow. Bring back what you can in the sled."

"I won't take her, not with the soldiers."

"The New Decree forbids your disobedience."

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Woods

Yellow locust leaves criss-cross the sky, hither-and-yoning like a girl I once knew who couldn't decide what to do with her life so she hurried into one thing after another until finally she had to stop and rest like the locust tree which will take its repose before emerging in white glory, announcing spring.

The lost girl will find her way into the clearing.

The view is better there.

But every so often, the girl will come back to the woods and immerse herself in nature's orderliness which we humans read as wild confusion because we do not understand.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge.

"This week we are giving you a page from the Oxford English Dictionary.  The ninety-ninth page, to be exact.  (Click to enlarge.)  From this page, you can choose any word, any definition, to use in your post.  (Please type your chosen word in bold, so we know.)  And instead of our typical 33-333 word limit, we are asking for 99 words exactly."

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Paris, 1972

I wipe a crumb from his mouth. One second is all he needs.

But undoing my past will undo my future: twins conceived two years hence.

I content myself with this final touch.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge.

This weekend's Trifextra comes to us courtesy of MOV, who often emails us with suggestions for site improvement or potential prompts.  Most recently, she told us about Travel and Leisure magazine's "Super Short Travel Stories" competition, thinking that we could recreate the same challenge on our site.  We love the idea, but borrowing it outright feels a bit shady, so we're going to add our own twist to it.  This weekend, we want you to give us a 33-word time travel story.  We don't usually tell you what to title your piece, but we'd love it if you could title it with the year/date that you choose. - See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.RxVhSxkB.dpuf

The Audition

Billy stared. "What happened?"

"Bowled my fingers off." Cecil lifted his left hand to show the missing two fingers; the stump of a thumb.

Billy's eyes widened. "Really?"

Cecil shrugged. "Show me and Antony what you got."

Billy stood and hiked up his jeans, patched roughly with them iron-on jobs that peel at the edges. He plugged his fingers neat into the ball, lifted it and did some kinda' two-step.

"You got ants in yer pants?"

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Visions

"A stranger approaches from the east!"

Before the war, strangers were welcome. Now...

"Haste, Marcus."

I hurry along the grassy path leading to the village's center.

The baker is here already, a dusting of flour on his skin. The ironworker clenches a hammer in his hand. The mute healer sits on the ground, herbs spread upon her lap, hair wild, eyes wilder, rocking to a rhythm she alone can hear. Wrapped up in her visions, the healer never sees the world as it truly is.

"The stranger wears the brand of wealth." The sentry approaches with a woman. "Clean and sturdy boots. Nary a patch upon her dress. Pale skin. Clear eyes."

I look up and into the eyes of my sister Sauren.

"Marcus," she whispers.

"Kill her."

The healer looks at me, her rocking ceased.

"Her city has been built upon the backs of our people," I say. "She has trod through her world in pretty lambskin boots, made, no doubt, by Wynne." I gesture to the bootmaker. "And what does Sauren do in thanks? Cuts off Wynne's hand."

Sauren's husband couldn't keep his hands off Wynne's round bottom as she'd knelt before him measuring his feet. 'Get your hands off that vile creature,' Sauren had said. And Wynne had dared to speak. 'I'm not dirty, Miss. Just poor.'

"Sauren's actions started this war," I say to the healer.

"Please, Marcus," Sauren says.

My sister had cut off Wynne's hand because it was in her power to do so. Was I doing the same? Even among the woodspeople, there is power and hierarchy and thirst for recognition. "No." I turn as the sentry raises his sword. "Stop." The people of the village gaze at me. "A change in sentence, perhaps. Wynne is in need of an apprentice. Sauren, meet your employer. And your niece."

Wynne smiles broadly and Sauren commences crying, although from relief or resignation or sadness, I do not know.

The healer returns to her herbs and recommences her rocking.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. The word was brand.

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+