How to be Cruel

Nick, not that anyone's asked. Eighteen years.

People spit on him. Kick him. Tell him to get a goddamn job. Hold their breath as they pass.

Occasionally a kid'll toss a quarter his way, his parents wearing torn expressions: pride colored with embarrassment that their child saw what they did not; anger that their son has given away his bubblegum money, their money, money they actually worked for.

Or those those holier-than-thou bits, white turtlenecks neat beneath Christmas sweaters dancing with reindeer and jolly elves, even the big guy himself.

Not God, of course. Nobody wears a sweater knitted with a picture of God.

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Eleven-One

She falls into rushing river, fingers seizing shapeless air, river dashing her beneath the wooden bridge bearing blue graffiti: forever young.

Indeed.

Someone must fulfill the prophesy.

Do you blame me my choice?

* * * 

Gruesome flash - or blink - fiction for the Trifecta Writing Challenge: Thirty-three words continuing the story based upon these lines from Maggie Stiefvater: "It is the first day of November and so, today, someone will die."  

November 1 gusted in with howling wind and heavy rain. The stream in the nearby woods is nearly impassable and the roots of the silver maples cling to the banks.

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Detritus

She stands at the window waiting for the trash men to remove the detritus of her life. She'd hidden the last tooth among broken eggshells, swollen coffee grinds, and the bones of chickens.

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

Illusions

Clouds of white bloom in Charlie's coffee, the colors blending: dark to light; light to dark. Outside, snow begins to fall. Fat flakes land upon the grass and dissolve immediately: white to clear.

There's a knock at the door of the cabin. He remains still, expecting no one. He hasn't seen a human being since he went to town three weeks ago.

The knock again, more insistent. He sips his coffee and waits for the person to go away.

The doorknob turns. The door swings open. A woman stands there, wearing a down jacket and a striped scarf. She unwinds the scarf from her face.

"Jennifer?"

"I've been looking for you for four months."

"Here I am."

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Tendril

"Prayers are threads." Ian lazily drew his oar towards him before pulling it from the water.

The sun slanted across Findley Lake, temporarily strewing it with gemstones. "Prayers are just words, Ian."

"Prayers bind us to each other, unite us in common purpose."

"Not if we ain't all praying for the same thing."

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Prospector

Three weeks after they struck oil in Titusville, PA, Louis Alts decided to become a prospector. He cut a branch from the willow that grew outside his bedroom and announced over eggs and bacon, "I'm going into prospecting."

His father looked at him. "You're a farmer, not a doodle-bugger."

But his mother, a forward-looking woman, nodded. "Look for where the earth weeps," she said, patting his hand. "Begin your search there."

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Freak

"It's a Pre." The nurse's voice was full of finality. "Ten toes."

"It can't be." The mother gasped. She looked from the nurse to the doctor. "I'm a Trans. Brian is a Trans. The chances are..."

"Occasionally two fully-Trans parents will produce a Pre," the doctor said. "I'm sorry." He took the child and handed it to me. "The social worker will take over now."

"But what will happen to it?" The father reached, but I was too quick.

"Next time," the doctor said, as I fled the room and headed to Disposal.

As soon as I passed the last set of cameras, I veered left. "Hurry," someone urged.

I didn't need reminding.

"The red door," I whispered to the child. "We just have to get through the red door."

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Fueled

The books had all but disappeared by the time Miguel was born. Words written were no longer useful for anything but fuel. You could boil water over Atlas Shrugged. War and Peace would fry an egg, provided you could find one. Infinite Jest could soften rice. Fish was done when each page of Les Miserables had blackened and curled and broken into bits that floated away upon the breeze.

The children were encouraged to explore the woods surrounding the village, rewarded whenever they brought something useful to the elders. On his sixth birthday, in the back of a dank cave, Miguel discovered a cache of books, wrapped in blankets and tucked inside several wooden cases.

"Elder Thomas." Miguel handed a book out shyly. "I found more fuel."

Thomas opened the book and ran a hand across the page. He coughed quietly into his palm and then broke into tears. "This is not fuel, Miguel. There are words here. Ideas. Listen." He pointed to the top of a page and began to read. After one page, he closed the book.

"Why did you stop?" Miguel asked.

"Reading is forbidden."

"Why?"

"Books are for fuel."

"The cave is full of them," Miguel said.

Thomas stood and glanced around at the other elders. "Show me," he said quietly.

When he saw the books, Thomas fell to his knees. "You must never tell anyone."

Miguel nodded and scratched at a scab.

Thomas taught Miguel to read in secret, Miguel sounding out exotic words that felt heavy on his tongue.

"You appear to have a talent for words," Thomas said a year later.

In the end, they were discovered hunched over the tiny print of A Wrinkle in Time.

The chief elder, Miguel's grandfather, ordered the hidden books to be burned to burn the bodies of the teacher and the boy.

The villagers watched as blackened bits rose to the sky and blew away.

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

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Band Concert

"Kid's got Van Gogh's ear for music," Schmidt whispers. "I can blow my nose more musically."

The band director pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, shakes it open, and hands it to Schmidt.

This was written for this weekend's Trifecta Writing Challenge in which we were to include in idiom in a 33 word piece.

Pierced

Arrows rain from the sky, piercing dreams of rebellion. I remember when freedom was more than whispered memories birthed silently as we worked under the watchful water-masters, gathering drops of dew to quench the king's thirst.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. We were to use the words remember, rain and rebellion to create a 36 word piece.

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Infection

"I dream in golds, shimmering rays of sunlight dappled with fairy dust." Lenora smiles and I almost feel sorry for her. "I dream in moonbeams."

Ray rolls up Lenora's left sleeve, ties a band around her upper arm, and places a red rubber ball in her hand. "Squeeze," he says, and she does.

The ball reminds me of that clown with the bright red nose and orange hair, two acute triangles protruding from either side of his head. "You remember Bozo, Ray?"

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Shadow Man

At the periphery, shadow and soul step together, every move reflected, a reminder of missteps I've taken in this long, empty life. I walk into mist; sever self from my shadow; step alone.

http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com This weekend we're asking for exactly 33 words inspired by the following photo.  Please remember that if you use the photo on your own blog, you must give proper credit (with clickable links).

Good luck!

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

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Three Thousand Feet From the Clouds

Darkness falls outside. My wife spins the face of her watch from the inside of her wrist and settles it on knobby bone. "It's time."

I stand and plant a kiss on her bald head.

"Don't forget your net."

I give it a shake and force a smile. "Got it."

"Snack?"

"Yep." I pat my pocket to show her. "Will you be OK?"

She nods and rubs her forehead. "Be careful."

"I will. See you later?" I hear the hope in my voice.

"Yes," she says.

Six years ago, the boss installed the elevator in my living room. My commute is a breeze: Three thousand feet up and into the clouds.

I am the prayer catcher.

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Meaningless Symbols

Carolyn Jamison pulls onto campus and finds a parking space in the bottom lot. She scans the front plates of the cars across from her, decorative, of course; Pennsylvania requires only back plates: Steelers. JESUS in the Keystone State. i > u.

She steps from her car, approaches this last plate, tries to juggle the various meanings in her head.

She assigns a number to the letter i (9) and another to the u (21). 9 > 21. No. The expression makes no sense mathematically.

I is greater than you. She frowns: Grammatical mistakes drive her mad. She slides the is over in her mind, like a Chicklets-gum square from one of those plastic picture puzzles, inserting the word am in its place. I am greater than you.

The expression is heavy and mean and ugly. She glares at it. As she watches, it falls at her feet, splinters apart and loses its meaning. Three harmless symbols splattered upon asphalt.

She steps on the >, crushing it beneath the heel of her boot, nodding, satisfied, as she hears it snap. She rearranges it into an uneven equal sign. She replaces the expression on the metal plate. I is equal to you.

She shrugs. Still incorrect grammatically, but at least the equation is balanced.

She smiles, hoists her messenger bag up on her shoulder and heads up the hill towards her algebra class.

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

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

The Pollinators

Six months after the bees disappeared, the homeless did too.

They planted us in the fields; Taught us to see the invisible...gather impossibilities...guarantee your survival.

We are the pollinators.

Without us, you starve.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. We were to write a first person narrative in 33 words. 

I heard this story on the radio this morning.

Doctored

Ellen picks up on the first ring. "Hello."

"Ellen." Sharon. BFF and all that.

"Yeah?"

"You ever take a look at those online dating sites?"

"Sharon, I've been officially divorced for.." Ellen consults her watch. "...all of two hours and twenty-seven minutes. Lemmie let it sink in."

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Two Months Shy of Nine

Frank gestures to the Post-it Notes decorating three walls of Phillip's cardboard box. "I know you ain't wrote these yourself, 'cause I know you can't read and write."

Phillip hangs his head. His mother had tried to teach him for four years, slapping him when the words he tried so hard to fit into his brain refused to cooperate. In the end, she'd turned him out, two months shy of nine. He's spent the better part of the past eight years living in cardboard boxes. "The words never stuck," Phillip says now, ashamed.

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Path

“Much of your life is handed to you upon a plate of destiny.” Steve gave Alicia a pen and watched her sign.

“Destiny. Bosh.” She scribbled her name at the bottom of the document and lit a cigarette. “You choose your destiny. You make your destiny.” She inhaled and curled her lips in a sneer. Her next words floated out upon a bed of smoke: “That is why I am rich and you are not.”

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Engaged

Lilly Jean hefted a box onto the truck. She rooted around in her bra until she found a handkerchief which she used to mop her forehead. “Hell's bells, it's hot.”

Spank grinned. “I thought ladies weren't supposed to perspire.”

“Ladies ain't supposed to be lifting all this shit, Spank. Whatever happened to chivalry?”

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Words Unsaid

Cheryl pulls open the heavy wooden door and steps into a cool darkness backlight by stained glass. Her neat heels echo on the marble floor. The backs of her hands are blue... red... yellow. The church smells of the stillness of flowers, of incense, of words unsaid.

Every year, her mother had helped to clean this church, lugging a red bucket of soapy water down each aisle, scrubbing at the pews as if she could personally wash away sin. No matter how much elbow grease her mother had applied, some things—swear words and names carved into wood—could not be rubbed away.

These words pained her mother. Every time she encountered one, she would set down her rag and head to the front of the church to light a candle and say a prayer for the poor sinner.

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