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Monday, September 30, 2013


Elle lay awake listening to the summer storm beat the shuttered windows. Half of their four-day vacation had been rained out. But they weren't exactly there for sand and sun. The studio condo held all they required: booze, leftover takeout Chinese, and a bed.

Chris sat up and cracked his neck. As he leaned down and kissed Elle's head, he farted.

“Can't blame that one on Woofy," Elle snickered.

“Guess not," he yawned. "Happy anniversary, Babe." They'd officially been dating two years.

She responded with a tender, closed-mouth kiss. Her morning breath could kill weeds.

Elle headed to the bathroom. She was just going number one, so she didn't bother shutting the door. Chris had nursed her through that stomach bug when stuff was pouring out of both ends. A little pee was nothing.

She returned wearing only her tank top.

“Well, hello," Chris drawled, his brows bouncing.

“Wanna try it again?" She bent over the foot of the bed, presenting her bare behind.

“Um … I thought we decided no gifts.”

Elle answered his smart-ass remark with a mock glare. “Shut up and come here.”

“You sure?” Chris, amused but wary, positioned himself behind her.

She had never reached this level of intimacy with previous boyfriends. Sure, she'd slept with some, but she hadn’t gone there with them. Chris was different. Corny as it sounds, he was her forever.

“Go for it.” Elle teasingly gyrated against Chris's crotch.

“I don’t know. You screamed bloody murder last night.”

“Well,” she huffed. “It hurt.”

Chris's fingers traced the small of her back. “I’m surprised nobody called the cops.”

Come on,” she urged, fisting the nautical quilt and burying her face in the coordinating pillow.

Chris grabbed Elle's ass. With both thumbs, he firmly squeezed the ripe, bulbous zit on her left cheek. The pillow swallowed her squeals as the pus finally burst her skin. Elle stood up, rubbing the sore spot.

“My hero,” she gushed.

Chris pulled her close. "That's love right there, Babe."

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "ass" as defined below:
(adverb/adjective) often vulgaroften used as a postpositive intensive especially with words of derogatory implication <fancy-ass>
Word count: 333

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Skywalker Family Therapy Notes

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: write 33 words about a famous trio. 

These ARE the words you're looking for. (I believe my "cool mom" points just went through the roof.)

Treatment impetus:  twins' rebellion against father

Initial assessment:
  • male/female twins with history of incest
  • father presents with possible borderline personality disorder
  • son displays abandonment issues
  • daughter exhibits bad-boy fetish
Recommendation: aggressive therapy

Monday, September 23, 2013

We All Have Our Demons

You’ve been here before. This is where you first spotted the girl with the pierced lip. See that gnarled tree? You snagged your T-shirt as you watched her from behind its massive trunk.

You don’t remember her name; you think it started with a B. Keeping them straight is getting harder. Was she the newlywed? The nurse? Neither. She was the student whose hair smelled like apples. Before police called off the search, you caught her distraught—but still hopeful—parents on the evening news. Her mom called her a fighter. You could certainly attest to that. You wore long sleeves for three weeks that summer to hide the nicks she’d clawed into your arms. You retaliated by tearing her soft belly with your teeth. The metallic taste of her blood surprised you.

Remember the waitress? When you read she had an identical twin, you considered taking her too. You couldn’t stop fantasizing about essentially having the same girl twice. Wouldn’t it have been a kick to see that perfect face again—all full of color, without the bulging eyes and purple bite mark marring her cheek? You knew it was too risky, though.

But now you’re getting sloppy. Returning to a previous post is dangerous. Maybe someone saw you hanging around that day but didn’t think anything of it. Surely a second time would raise alarm.

You didn’t choose to be this way, just like you didn’t choose how tall you’d be. You only wish to satiate yourself. But they never simply let you do what you need to do.

Sheila had been fine with a little kink … until that night you pulled the scarf too tightly around her neck. Her striking you in desperation turned you on even more. She called you an animal, a sadist. Wouldn’t let you touch her for weeks afterward. Giving her the ring placated her.

As you’re leaving, you notice a leggy blonde pushing a stroller. You can already imagine fresh bruises on her fair skin.
This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "animal" as defined below:

a human being considered chiefly as physical or nonrational; also : this nature

Word count: 333

Friday, September 20, 2013

May 8, 2009

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: Write a 33-word time travel story.

The time-pod closed amid the yelling. Suggestions. Pleas. Demands. Hubs mouthed, “Go make a difference.”
I snatch the unsigned release papers from the doctor.
“Check Daddy’s lungs for blood clots. You’ll find several.”


I'm sure there will be many lovely, unselfish stories this weekend about saving world leaders, or a hero with an unfulfilled destiny. Who wouldn't prevent a mass tragedy like September 11, 2001, if they could go back in time? But--if I'm to be completely honest--I would prevent my own personal tragedy: my father's unexpected death.

Daddy had prostate cancer. The surgery had been a success; they removed all traces of the cancer. We breathed a collective sigh of relief. Our family's center, our rock, would be OK.

Three days after he was released from the hospital, my dad was struggling to breath. There were multiple blood clots in his lungs. Daddy was rushed back to the hospital, but they couldn't save him. He was only 69.

I'm the one who talked him into having the surgery vs. a drug treatment plan. Some day I might forgive myself.

Monday, September 16, 2013

Girls' Weekend

Liz had been editor of the school paper. She’d reamed me over my admittedly mediocre story on the bulldog mascot contest winner.

The article’s about a bitch. Doesn’t mean you have to be one,” I’d retorted. We’ve been inseparable ever since.

This is our last hurrah before her big day. As we drive up the coast to Myrtle Beach, I phone Home Depot using the car’s Bluetooth.

“Yes. Hi. I’m looking for some caulk,” I say. “It’s for my friend. She already has white caulk at home. What she really needs is some black caulk. Do you have any black caulk?"

Liz covers her mouth.

“We have several colors,” Home Depot Guy says.

“OK, so she can just come in, point to it and say, ‘Gimme that caulk right now?’”

Silence. “Uh … sure.”

Liz erupts in laughter.

We check in and get dressed.

“Look how fast we can be ready when we don’t have to do our hair,” Liz remarks.

SeƱor Frog's is crawling with overgrown, tight-shirted college guys. About four vodka cranberries in, I look Liz in the face.

“Dump Kyle," I blurt.

“Kyle is …”

“An ASSHOLE," I yell just as the music pauses.

She shrugs. “But I need him right now.”

I return from the bar with three shots and a 6’2” ginger.

“Liz.” I smirk. “Brendan.”

“Hey.” She self-consciously touches her purple wig.

As Liz dirty dances with the underage hottie, she looks so healthy. Since she stopped the chemo, the color has returned to her cheeks.

I’m done chasing this fucking rainbow,” she’d said.

Brendan escorts us across the street to our hotel. Liz kisses him hard but sends him on his way.

I remove my green wig—shaving my shoulder-length hair was actually kind of liberating—and hand her a gift bag. The T-shirt reads:


“When I get out of the hospital,” Liz smiles, flinging herself on the bed. “I might just get rid of my asshole too.” 

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "rainbow" as defined below:

[from the impossibility of reaching the rainbow, at whose foot a pot of gold is said to be buried] : an illusory goal or hope

Friday, September 13, 2013

My Sweet Apostrophe

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: Write a 33-word apostrophe. defines apostrophe as, "A figure of speech in which some absent or nonexistent person or thing is addressed as if present and capable of understanding." 

So, of course, my first impulse was to write an apostrophe about the punctuation mark of the same name. Yep, that's how my mind works. I've learned to just go with it.

O, my sweet apostrophe!
Show me thy versatility.
How I love when you’re possessive. 
Join two words as one. Impressive!
Do pluralize that single letter,
But not whole words. (“S” does that better.)

Monday, September 9, 2013

Simon Says

“Sara wants to be Madonna circa 1985 for Halloween.”

“Cute,” Gary said over the razor hum. “Wait. Not that cone bra thingy?”

“That was the ‘90s.” I laughed. “No cone bra. Promise.”

I rinsed off my apricot mask and steeled myself for a debate.

“Simon says he wants to be a witch.”

Gary eyed my reflection. “Witches aren’t boys. He can be a wizard.”

“But he wants the pointy hat, the broomstick,” I countered. "The green face."

“If Simon wants to be green, let him be the Hulk.”

“Simon says boys on the bus have been teasing him.”

Principal Bennett furrowed her brow at us. “What sorts of things are they saying?”

Simon shrunk in his chair, his eyes imploring me.

“They’ve been saying he's gay,” I said.

“You know how middle schoolers are.” She waved her plump hand dismissively. “Everything’s ‘gay.’ It means ‘stupid’ to them.”

“Well, they call him ‘faggot.’” I thought my throat would close up. “One kid stuck his crotch in Simon’s face and asked if he wanted to suck his …”

I couldn’t look at my son. He’d begged me not to come.

Ms. Bennett stood up. “Simon, please wait outside.”

Once the door closed, the principal sat beside me.

“May I be frank, Mrs. Flask?”

I nodded.

“I think Simon’s wardrobe choices make him a target,” she said. “Perhaps more suitable attire would put an end to the teasing.”

I stood on the porch trembling. I’d just returned from shopping with Sara, who was home from college. We had walked in on Simon with another boy.

“Simon says he loves him, Mom,” Sara explained quietly, touching my arm.

You knew about this?!” I pushed her away.

Gary came home from work and found me in tears.

“Simon says Misty wants a divorce.”

Why?!” He asked. “What happened?”

We’d been so thrilled when they started dating. And when Simon proposed to Misty, we knew his previous troubles were behind him.

“I don’t know,” I sobbed. “Simon wouldn’t say.”

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "mask" as defined below:

a: a protective covering for the face
gas mask
c: a device covering the mouth and nose to facilitate inhalation
d: a comparable device to prevent exhalation of infective material
e: a cosmetic preparation for the skin of the face that produces a tightening effect as it dries

Friday, September 6, 2013


Ravenous moans permeate the emptiness of my loft.
Fingers uncoil my carefully executed crown of curls.
I love.
He pities.
Guilt and scarred wrists tether us for now.
I will settle for that.


This weekend's Trifextra challenge Write a 33-word piece including these three words:


Monday, September 2, 2013

Hunger Pains

Justin was sleeping off eight beers and a couple shots of Crown. With the grace of a gymnast, I inched to the foot of the bed, bypassing the creaky spring on my side.

The kitchen reeked of barbecue sauce. We’d been too tired--and drunk--to put away everything once the guests left. Justin’s signature queso dip had congealed after sitting overnight in the crockpot. As I shoved spoonful after spoonful into my mouth, I felt the familiar heaviness in my stomach.

The fridge was a gold mine. I found four pieces of the blueberry cheesecake our neighbors had brought and half a pitcher of homemade sweet tea. I gulped the tea, knowing the liquid would make the release easier when the time came. I ate the cheesecake with my hands, slurping fruit syrup off my scarred knuckles.

There wasn’t time to savor. There never is. Justin could walk in at any minute and find me polishing off six servings of lasagna. (You would think he’d notice we rarely have leftovers.)

I go to the restroom so often my coworkers probably suspect I have a cocaine habit. I might prefer that to them knowing I binge on Little Debbie’s. I’ve found that if I puke into my hand over the toilet bowl, the vomit doesn’t make that sloshing noise when it hits the water.


The dishes were soaking when Justin came down.

“Why didn’t you wait for me to help clean up?” He asked, with an alcohol-induced rasp.

“It wasn’t too bad.”

“Did you get any of those ribs Tim brought?” Justin languidly surveyed the fridge. “Damn, they were good.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did eat something though, right?” He squinted at me before swigging from the milk carton.

Justin has always blamed himself for not realizing sooner I was anorexic. I’ve been out of treatment for three years now, and I’m almost at my recommended weight. But he still worries about me starving myself.

“Yes, Honey,” I reassured him. “I ate.”


This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "grace" as defined below:

a: a charming or attractive trait or characteristic
b: a pleasing appearance or effect : charm <all the grace of youth — John Buchan>
c: ease and suppleness of movement or bearing

Word count: 333