Tag Archives: Trifecta

Houseguests Part II

Posted on by February 25, 2020

The houseguests emerged. Butterflies don’t typically breed in captivity, but last night we are pretty sure ours did. We think, in fact, that this weekend we will be releasing an egg-heavy butterfly mother.

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This weekend at Trifextra, we can write whatever we want, but it can only be 33 words long, and it has to include the word mother.

We didn’t take any pictures, but here’s youtube video that looks like it was made by people whose butterflies came from the same place. That habitat looks a lot like ours.

May I just say…it took their butterflies ages to move past ‘mating ritual’ into ‘actual mating’.… Read the rest

Communication Gap

Posted on by February 25, 2020

“You are quite the enigma.” Jerilee’s new foster mother studied the smiling girl. This was the child’s third full day in the home. Mama Fernandez moved clean socks from a red to a yellow basket as she tucked pairs together. “It’s certainly pleasant to be in your company,” she continued. “Does the racket bother you here?”

Jerilee went on smiling and began kicking her feet against the bed. Mama Fernandez finished another pair of socks.“I talked to your teacher again today.  She said you got a 100 on the spelling test all three times you turned it in. But she wants you to remember you aren’t responsible for your classmates’ work.”… Read the rest

Take care you lie well

Posted on by February 25, 2020

 

Engine thunder preceded the motorcycles. One, two, three, the machines curved into the lot.  The first rider, a big man in a leather coat, unholstered a pistol as he jammed down his kickstand. He took a small glass vial out of his breast pocket.

 

“I warned him.”

 

“True.” The second rider took the vial, sniffed it, then sniffed the air.  “Go up the back. Watch out for Flori.”

 

Upstairs, a young woman not much larger than a child stepped out of a door.  Flori said, “Cal’s down here.” When none of the riders moved, she said to the group’s lone woman, “Leave the men to mind the hall.… Read the rest

A letter to my dog, who is dying

Posted on by February 25, 2020

 

Dear Fudge,

Thank you for eating today’s hot dog. You’ve bought us all twelve more hours until the inevitable. And maybe twelve more after that, if you’ll let me feed you another. This morning, when it took two of us to guide you to the door, and still your legs splayed out four times, I thought we had run out of time. But you revived. Found your footing. Ate the hot dog. The walking, at least, would be simpler if you stayed on the carpet or your bed.

You are old. Eleven. You have dysplasia in front and back. And yet, you will sleep on the hardwood.… Read the rest

The Summoning

Posted on by February 25, 2020

This weekend, those madcap editors at Trifecta want us to write the same exact scene from three different viewpoints, each only 33 words long.  So. This scene follows several hours after this one, from another extremely short Trifextra prompt.

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“Remove the cats!” I shrieked. “By the third thunder, the demon box should be empty until I finish the casting!” I raced to finish chalking the sigil that would keep the monster trapped.

When the demon arose choking and spluttering, the child and I dashed around the wizard’s studio madly gathering kittens. But the mama cat arched her back and hissed, ready to battle her foe.… Read the rest

Clara Jean’s origins

Posted on by September 19, 2013

Hey everybody, first and foremost, I want to say that I got a visit from the Fairy Hobmother. I GOT A VISIT FROM THE FAIRY HOBMOTHER. (Yes, I know the link goes to an appliance store in the UK. It should. It’s cool.) The Fairy Hobmother (@Fairyhobmother ) is an Internet Awesome who randomly visits and bestows love. In this case, I have been gifted with £25 Amazon voucher. And if you comment on this post, the Hobmother might visit you, too. I’m prettttty sure that’s how I got found, but I really have no idea how this works. It’s not a giveaway, precisely, more like… well a visit from your fairy hobmother.… Read the rest

Sisterhood of the travelling 45

Posted on by February 25, 2020

For this week’s Trifecta challenge (this week’s word is confidence), I’m back in the nursing home with DoDo and Wilma. Take a second to read their previous (short) escapade. They have now returned from their shopping spree unscathed, as they have every week so far. It helps that Wilma’s great grandson helped them hack the garden gate code, but sooner or later, they’re going to get caught.

Here is the first of two nonfiction companion pieces to go with this little story.

And here is the other companion.

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“I know what you did.” Clara Jean Phillips peered at Wilma and DoDo from the hall, then waddled in and perched on  Wilma’s ladder back rocker.… Read the rest

Flori and the Tourist

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Flori flitted down the alley, a crisp twenty folded in her hand. She tossed the wallet in the dumpster. She wasn’t big time; she didn’t fool with the credit cards. Urre and Kulta, who needed drugs, took bolder risks. Flori emptied out enough to eat and kept a low profile.

A sound at the alley’s mouth alerted her. She looked back long enough to see the tourist’s head, the same distinctive ponytail she had noticed when peeling the wallet free of his pocket. “Shit,” she muttered. Then she yelled, “check the trash mister,” and made a show of running straight into the dead end wall, only to whip around and charge when he was nearly on top of her.… Read the rest

Observe

Posted on by February 25, 2020

The murdered girl stared at her own reflection. As dead as she was, she still retained her most basic functions. She could see herself, smell the rank odor of her decay, hear memories that wept down from the fluorescent lights.

She heard the squeak of sneakers. “Can you change her?” her mother asked. Was that the smell, then? Just shit? Had she been upgraded from decomposing to merely falling out in clumps?

“Oh,” said the nurse. “Yes, I’ll get that right away.” The murdered girl heard the soft-soled retreat as the nurse went for supplies so she could pretend to observe yet another formality reserved for the living.… Read the rest

Not What I Meant To Do At All

Posted on by February 25, 2020

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Mrs. McIntyre,

I’m sorry I ran over your mailbox with Dad’s car. I thout I hit the braks. I guess not. I’ll pay you the $65 slowly cos I only ern five dollrs a week.

Snrly,

Lexi

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This is my entry for this week’s Trifextra. We are to write an apology in 33 words (salutation and closing don’t count against). I owe credit to my co-author, Caroline, who helped me with the spelling and posed as Lexi. However, she wants everyone to know she would never steal Dad’s car, and that our car is just ‘our car’, not ‘Dad’s car’.  … Read the rest