Trifecta Challenge, Uncategorized

Tomboy

Camp Couderay, Wisconsin. It was where they went every summer. A huddle of log cabins around a muddy lake. Marvin said the Indians cut off the tops of their own ears and ate them before going into battle, to give them courage. “That’s why it’s called Couderay. It’s French for short ears.” He caught her around the waist and pantomimed snipping her ears. When she struggled, he held her tighter and laughed. He put his face up too close to hers and whispered, “Courage.” She called him Marvin the Martian and made fun of him around the other girls, but it didn’t catch on.

The next summer she wouldn’t try to get away. She wanted to go with the boys, to spy on the girls changing into their swimsuits in the stand of white pines by the lake. Until then, no one had questioned her presence in the intrepid gang that thumbed the blades of homemade bowie knives, daubed their faces with mud, bellied along ditches. She was an honorary boy, and she kept her hair cut short and her sleeves rolled up so as to continue to appear that way. But this summer, something was different. There was a shuffling in the ranks. “You can’t come with us,” Marvin said eventually.

The hut went quiet and she was alone. She sat down on a pallet. Barbs of straw poked the backs of her thighs. She pulled them out through the sacking and concentrated on constructing a minute teepee in front of her on the floor. There were squeals and splashes from the lake – the reconnaissance had turned into an ambush. When she looked up again, Marvin was standing in the doorway.

Fourteen minutes later, the Martian was gone. She picked herself up, pulled up her shorts and pulled down her T-shirt. The world looked very much the same, despite the fact she had just had sex with an alien. “Where’s the kaboom?” she wondered. (There was supposed to be an earth-shattering kaboom.)

[xnihilo]

333 words (or maybe a couple less) instead of 100.

Trifecta challenge

http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/

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Friday Fictioneers, Uncategorized

Prom!

Oh yeah, Prom. It’s not so much fun, you know, being the popular girl. I wanna stay in and grill cheese and watch Happy Days reruns but Jason says, no, everyone’s expecting you, you have to, you’re the life and soul. I tell him, I’ll hang my dress on the fire escape if I’m going, and he seems pleased with that. He always was the romantic prick. So the dress is out there, and I’m in here, throwing a lifetime supply of underwear and cigarettes into a duffel bag. Yeah, I said I was going, but I didn’t say where.

[xnihilo]

Friday Fictioneers

http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2013/05/29/31-may-2013-2/

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Uncategorized

Danton

It was well known in town that Danton could throw an evil fit, and right now beer was disappearing down him like floodwater down a storm drain. The last goon to cross him ended up dangling from the ten-pointer mounted above the jukebox at Lenny’s, and story went that the old man had wrestled that self-same buck to the ground and stabbed it through the eye, after it had the temerity to try and tree him and his jammed shotgun down in Black Bogs. But that was a while back, when he was younger, and he still had his scruples.

[xnihilo]

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Vendetta

The cats fight nightly. In the mornings they awake bleary eyed to a wasteland of broken glass and clawed furniture. Tufts of black fur in the living room and lumpy orange puke on the corner of the dining room rug. They step in it barefoot and curse. Yet here they are again, lying like two corpses, in the tension of a stretched out silence (the threshold of fresh chaos). There’s a crash. His voice slashes at her across the glacial expanse of white sheets. For chrissakes, why d’you let those damn animals in again? I didn’t, she spits. You did.

[xnihilo]

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Midwest

The trees came down and the land was freshly scarred and bare with flat promise. Telegraph poles stitched the wind then, and the settlers’ dreams and the crows which perched before scattering against the ribs of starved sky. Came the silos from the stubble and the billboards and the bulbous watertowers promising plenty. The pylons and antennae bristling legion voices of those who passed through and passed on. The giant windmills with fins of long dead plesiosaurs, reclaiming where they once swam and left their bones in underwater groves that would fall to surge again, in a newly dry plain.

[xnihilo]

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Consummation

They fitted together like the dovetail joints in the drawer that he repaired and slid smoothly back into her nightstand. She kept a mental list of their complementary features – a source of pleasure during the lonely nights of his long business trips. He was a chef, her forte was housework. He was a coffee addict, she was fond of tea. Cats/dogs; showers/baths; country/western – stuff like that. In previous lives he was always the jilter, she the jiltee. So when he texted her their breakup from the driveway, she sighed. Knowing the perfect circle of their love was complete.

[xnihilo]

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Seaglass

Alec had a rock tumbler and I really wanted one too. It looked like alchemy to me. Until I discovered he had to nurse it for days and the rocks had to be special to begin with. “You have to order them from a catalogue,” he preached. “You can’t just use gravel from the driveway.” So I looked for sea glass instead. Revolving darkly for a hundred years, nobody knew it, until one burnished day I kicked it into light on Tentsmuir beach. I picked it up, held it in my pocket, and dreamed – of mutiny, typhoons, shipwrecks and grog.

[xnihilo]

‘Treasures’ at the Scottish Book Trust

http://www.scottishbooktrust.com/reading/treasures/tell-us-about-your-treasure

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