No Love, No Tears, No Pain, Etc.

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge is to come up with 33 words about love gone wrong; however, the piece cannot include the following words:

love, sad, tears, wept, heart, pain

Here are my 33:

Whispers yell
Rumors swell

My past sin
Your chagrin

Passion wanes
Our knot strains

Your mistrust
Breeds my lust

"Lock the door,
Paramour"

You suspect
I deflect

And you stay
While I stray

Study Break

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge is to come up with 33 words inspired by this photo:



http://foter.com/photo/or/

 

I pose near the glass, thin arms flexed.
Will she ever look up from that text?
I’m all substance—no style.
But if I make her smile,
Who knows what could transpire next?

#

 

 

I initially wrote a different limerick for this prompt. It was dark. Really dark. What does it say about me that I looked at this innocent photo and immediately went to such a macabre place? If I'm ever wrongfully accused of murdering someone (which I'm 97% certain I would never do), could such posts be used against me during my trial? I wouldn't survive prison. I talk a good game, but I'm basically soft and girly.

You know what? I'm posting it anyway. Here is "Finals Week":

She studied in vain for a test.
Watching her stirred the urge I’d repressed.
As my teeth tore her skin,
Her blood dripped from my chin.

There once was a girl named Celeste.


Whenever, Wherever, However

Sunlight streams into our bedroom via discount curtains I've been meaning to replace. It’s Saturday morning. He’s already awake, reading emails about budget constraints, delivery deadlines, or whatever. The workaholic ditches his iPhone once he notices my newly conscious state.

“Come snuggle.”

He pats the void between us—the one very recently occupied by a wild-haired toddler. I slide over, taking my place inside his warm arm.

“How come she never wakes up when you carry her back to bed?” I ask.

“Well, I’m a ninja, so ...”

I smile at his silliness. I smile at the sensation of his words reverberating from his chest to my cheek. I smile because I know what his snuggle invitations mean. After nine years, I’m onto his schemes. And I’m a willing accomplice. We are thieves, stealing little moments between potty accidents, toy battles and nightmares featuring vague monsters.

As usual, my feet are ice. But he doesn’t flinch when my frigid toes breach his soft leg hairs. His hand is on my ass. It’ll end up there several more times today. (A quick slap if we pass each other in the kitchen preparing tonight’s kid-friendly cuisine. A little squeeze while we retreat down the hall, having tucked each child under a Disney-themed bedspread.)

I’m covered neck to ankle in flannel pajamas older than our oldest offspring, yet I shiver when his lips sweep my forehead. As I stretch to nuzzle his neck, I feel him growing against my hip. 

“The door?”

“Already locked,” he declares.

I love that he assumed we’d have sex this morning. I love that he’s in the mood although he spent the greater part of last night with tiny feet in his back.

Once upon a time, we had sex like freshly paroled ex-cons. Nowadays we take it whenever, wherever and however we can get it—which occasionally amounts to quickies in obscure parking lots before relieving the sitter. Sometimes we’re too damn exhausted for anything beyond snuggling.

But not this morning.

#

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

WHATEVER

(adverb) Used to show that something is not important

Word count: 333



Twelve Days of Crappy Christmas Gifts

This Christmas, if your man surprises you with a shiny new vacuum, don't strangle him with the hose attachment. Things could be worse, girl. Take "The Twelve Days of Christmas." Are we supposed to believe someone was so jazzed to receive 23 birds that they wrote a song about it?

Yeah, sure. I think this would be a little closer to reality.


Day One: partridge in a pear tree
When I opened the door to see the tree sapling with a little birdy on my porch, I gushed like a schoolgirl. I begged my neighbor to plant the tree in my backyard because I detest gardening. But, you couldn’t have known that. I gotta be honest, though; the partridge is kinda ugly. But, it reminds me of The Partridge Family, which reminds me of David Cassidy, who was a total cutie. So, that works.

I already had an inkling you were my true love, but this ultra-unique romantic gesture clinches it.


Day Two: turtle doves
My friends are so envious. All they ever get are roses. I don’t know where the hell I’m gonna put three birds, but I love your wacky sense of humor. Question: Was the pet store out of regular ol’ white doves? Now those are really pretty. But these are nice, too. And better looking than the partridge.

Love you!


Day Three: French hens
You're certainly keeping this bird theme going. You nut. Do you volunteer at an aviary or something? Please don’t think me ungrateful, but would it be OK if I fry these bad boys up? I mean, a girl’s gotta eat, right?


Day Four: colly birds
Is this your idea of a joke? The neighbor lady is threatening to call animal control on me. I’m a laughing stock among my friends. And I’m up to my eyeballs in feathers and bird shit. If you care about me at all, stop this insanity. In fact, just lose my number. Freak!


Day Five: gold rings
Oh, Baby. I love you soooooo much! I had my doubts after all that silly bird business, but you’ve redeemed yourself. Say, would you mind if I sell two or three of these rings to pay for my lawyer? I’m planning to sue my landlord for unlawful eviction. My lease never said anything about a limit on how many pet birds I could have.

Love you, Sweetie!


Day Six: geese a-laying
What the hell is wrong with you? What am I supposed to do with a bunch of horny geese? Huh?! Geez! Ever heard of roses? Chocolates? You need to do something about this sick addiction to ugly birds. Don’t call me until you've gotten some help.


Day Seven: swans a-swimming
OK, I can see how you might have misunderstood me. The swans are beautiful, but I don’t want any more birds—not even cute ones. Where are you getting all these goddamned birds, anyway? And how did you have time to set up that huge above ground pool in my backyard? Well, it does get pretty hot around here in the summer months, so the pool will be nice to cool off in … once I get the swans out of there.

Look, help me get rid of all these damn birds and maybe we can work things out.


Day Eight: maids a-milking
Hey, uh, eight chicks (I mean women; not more birds, thank goodness) just showed up at my door with mops. I mean, I could use some help cleaning up all the bird crap, but I live in a duplex. Don’t you think one maid would suffice? There’s something else: They brought a cow. Did you know about the cow? I don’t think my neighborhood is zoned for livestock.

Don’t get me wrong. It was a nice gesture. I think, with a few ground rules, we might be able to make this work.


Day Nine: ladies dancing
Um … so I came home for lunch to find a bunch of women doing the polka on my front lawn. I know we discussed taking our relationship to the next level, but this is a helluva way for me to meet your mom, aunt and sisters, don’t you think? I hope they weren’t offended that I didn’t join in. I’m really more of a hip-hop girl.


Day Ten: lords a-leaping
Uh, Babe ... The UPS guy just showed up with a large box of little Jesus figurines that hop when you wind them up. I didn’t even know you were religious. I guess we still have a lot to learn about each other. I wonder how much something like this would go for on eBay. They're freaking out the birds.


Day Eleven: pipers piping
Hon, I finally got my landlord calmed down over the birds, the cow and the noise complaints about the polka music. Now you send over your bagpipe-playing friends at 1 a.m.?! Some of these dudes seem pretty trashed, too. One guy bent over and … well, let’s just say he must get a nice breeze under that kilt. The neighbor lady came charging out in her robe, screaming at me. Then she took one look at your buddy's ... um ... jingling balls and high-tailed it back inside. Ha!

Ya know, if this is your way of getting me kicked out so I’ll move in with you, you could just ask.


Day Twelve: drummers drumming
Um … I don’t know any other way to say this, so I’ll just come right out with it. This isn't working. It’s not you; it’s me … OK, I guess you’ll find out sooner or later. You know those drummers you hired? Well, I recognized the guy from Sick Thicket. Didn't I tell you I used to go to their concerts all the time? Anyway, we got to talking, and turns out we have a lot in common. We just connected. No one ever means for these things to happen.

But, hey, a generous guy like you should have no problem finding someone else.

A Melt With Three Sides

William’s already working when I arrive. I take my place across the table and start stuffing fliers. He flashes that smile—the one that always manages to melt my insides. Geez, I sound like a lovesick schoolgirl.

I love the way William clears his throat to fill awkward silences. I love that he goes by his full name, not Will or—Lord help me—Billy. I love that he cares enough about animals to volunteer at the Animal Rescue League. And, on a purely shallow level, he’s freakin’ hot.

We have a connection. I think. On the way over here, I talked myself into making a move. Ugh! Can't do it.

 *

I worked with Jordan today. It could be wishful thinking, but I feel such a connection. Sometimes the feeling is so strong I want to scream, “Hey, let’s do this thing!” I can barely stand when there’s silence, because the urge is overwhelming.

Besides being drop-dead gorgeous, Jordan has the biggest heart. And I'm a total sucker for the brown hair/blue eyes combo. We have so much in common.

Every time we work together, I leave pissed off at myself for letting another opportunity pass. Why can't I just grow some balls? I’m scared to put myself out there again, that’s why. But I can’t go on like this much longer.

 *

“Oh, those kids,” I groan under my breath as the last volunteer walks out the door. “Gah!”

“Who?”

“William and Jordan.”

“Still no progress, huh?” Jan, my co-volunteer coordinator shakes her head, chuckling. “Maybe we outta lock them in the storeroom. Remember that game Seven Minutes in Heaven?”

“I really thought William would make a move today. He seemed like he was working himself up to it.”

“Just keep scheduling them together, Cupid,” she says. “If something’s there, it’ll happen.”

I scoop up the stuffed envelopes, turn off the coffee pot, and grab my jacket and purse.

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “One of those boys seriously needs to man up.”

#

I woke up with this story in my head. Usually my first thought is about some crappy crap I have to do, so this was a much nicer start to my day. And the prompt word seemed to fit well. Oh, and may I please have extra credit for making each perspective 111 words? Thank you kindly.

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

MELT

to make tender or gentle. SOFTEN

Word count: 333

All That Matters

“Seriously. How much do you love this little tush?” Kay is covering the baby’s freshly bathed bottom in kisses.

“Uh-huh.” I nod distractedly, digging in a box. Since we moved a week ago, I can’t find shit. “I’m about to go buy a new toaster so I can have a fucking piece of toast.”

Kay lets out an exaggerated sigh. She hates when I swear. Sometimes I do it to get under her skin when I can’t voice my frustration with her, with our situation.

“Can you not?” She points at the baby with her head.

“She’s three fucking weeks old,” I counter. I’ll pay for that later.

*

Kay is lying as close to the edge as possible. The baby is in the bassinet beside her. I rub Kay’s shoulder, hoping my simple act of surrender will close the gap between us. She turns toward me, searching my eyes for remorse.

“I’m sorry, Babe. You know how I get when I'm sleep deprived.”

Kay softens. She leans over to kiss me. I take this rare opportunity, reaching under her pajama top. Our bodies move closer. Just as things are heating up, she stops my hand from going inside her waistband.

“We don’t wanna wake her.”

I didn't realize how much a baby would change our lives. But after three miscarriages, Kay needed this. She’s happier than she's been in four years.

Besides, that girl clearly wasn’t ready to have a baby. She’s only in tenth grade, for fuck's sake. She has three siblings—all younger. The girl's mom can barely handle them, let alone help her with a newborn. So, really, I did them a favor. Right?

On the news, their house looked cleaner than I’d ever seen it. I saw the squalor whenever I delivered their packages. During the interview, the girl barely cried over Bella. Bella. She probably named her after that "Twilight" chick. I mean, come on.

Marissa—that's what we named her—deserves better. In the end, that's all that matters. Right?

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


TUSH
buttocks (slang)

Word count: 333

The Story of Us

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: a 33-word free write.

Hubs and my upcoming vow renewal (in honor of our 15th anniversary) has me feeling all gooey and lovey-dovey lately. Groaning and eye rolling are perfectly understandable.

First blind date

Hello, fate

Married fast

"Will it last?"

Honeymoon

Baby soon

And another

Joined big brother

Fifteen years

Sometimes tears

Mostly smiles

Despite trials

Love abounds

And surrounds

You

Me

Us



Before stretch marks, worry lines, gray hair and all
the fun bonuses that come with children.

In the interest of full disclosure, that kid on the right is
really about 4 inches taller than me. (Thank you, heels!)

The Girl Behind the Wall

Pluck her from her comfort zone.
Convince her not to stay alone.

The charming girl behind that wall
Is terrified to let it fall.

She’s going to take a lot of work.
For that, just thank a certain jerk.

The one who baited, promised, flattered
And—once he won her—left her shattered.

Now every man’s a ruthless snake,
A calling card for more heartache.

She’s had her guard up much too long.
Are you the one to prove her wrong?

Restore her faith in fairy tales?
Put the wind back in her sails?

It won’t be easy; she’ll resist.
She tends to soften when she’s kissed.

But please make sure your lips are true.
I’m ... she's pinning her last hopes on you.

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

PLUCK

to move, remove, or separate forcibly or abruptly <plucked the child from the middle of the street>

Word count: 124

Rut

Last week I had a piece of caramel popcorn in my hair for three hours before I realized it—and only then because the pest control guy pointed it out.

“Lucky for me your keen eye isn’t limited to spiders.” The joke fell flat. Maybe I should’ve smiled.

I’m a stay-at-home mom. That’s not a misnomer. I don’t get out much. With three kids under age 4 in tow, I need a sedative just to pick up the refill of my prescription sedative.

Lately I’m like a live-in companion to a man who pays me in boob gropes and beer farts. Our Sunday night sex appointments are currently on hold until The Walking Dead goes on hiatus. Good. I practically get knocked up just folding his boxers.

The most thrilling part of my day—besides taking my bra off after dinner—is ogling my new neighbor. Every morning at precisely 10:25, I let Disney Junior babysit the twins and confine Manning to the ExerSaucer. (Hubby took advantage of my post-delivery euphoria when it came to naming the last kid.)

Then I position myself by the window. Like clockwork, Hot Dad strolls past a few minutes later enroute to the park with his pristine little princess. She never has grass stains on her clothes or bruises from a Mega Bloks brawl.

Monday it took longer than usual to free Maisy from Mason’s headlock, so I missed the sexiest ass ever covered in khaki.

Yesterday I woke up early to decipher the triple stroller. For an extra Pop-Tart, Maisy let me brush her hair. I pulled on my nicest yoga pants and a fitted top rather than one of Hubby’s huge, holey concert tees.

Hot Dad was pushing his daughter on the swing when my brood arrived.

“Hello,” I chirped.

“Hey there.” His smile heated my insides. That, or my shirt was cutting off my circulation.

“My mommy watches you in the window,” Mason announced.

Sigh.

I’m expecting a restraining order notice any day now.

# 

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

COMPANION
a :  one that is closely connected with something similar

b :  one employed to live with and serve another

Word count: 333



The Art of Craft

Paul stopped hiding his affairs eventually. Who has time for craft and subterfuge with so many sluts to be had? Catching him last time barely registered a blip on my emotional radar. I despised myself for staying. What could I do? We had kids, a mortgage, a fucking Beagle. 

Clearly, I was dead inside. How else could I continue to let Paul touch me? So when my high school boyfriend found me on Facebook, I was surprised to feel excitement ... lust.

It would be weeks before I wound up underneath Brian. At first we flirted innocently online. When I vented about Paul, he admitted his wife had cheated, too. We commiserated about our shitty marriages via text and phone calls. One day Brian put it all out there.

“They’ve done it. Why shouldn’t we?”

Deciding to cheat on your cheating spouse isn't easy. You’re still violating your vows—however broken they may be.

We deliberated over a covert dinner in a neighboring town. Despite thinning hair and a widening middle, Brian looked fan-fucking-tastic.

“Revenge sex won’t realign the planets,” I cautioned.

“I’m willing to try,” he grinned.

We met during lunch breaks and whenever we could steal away. Brian became a wiz at detaching his baby’s car seat base for backseat quickies.

I’ve forgotten how we ended up there that day, but in Brian's bed we relished the opportunity to be completely naked. His soft chest hairs tickled my breasts, surging heat throughout my body. When the front door opened, Brian froze mid thrust. Discarded clothes marked our path. We hadn’t bothered closing the bedroom door.

With their daughter on her hip, Brian’s wife flung the diaper bag at his head. Then she trained her sights on me.

“Get out of my house,” she screamed. “Whore!”

Her hypocrisy incensed me. I tore into her, spewing highlights of her infidelities.

The room fell silent.

“What the hell is she talking about?” She glared at Brian. He looked down, shrugged.

Shit.

Whore: party of one.

#

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

CRAFT
skill in deceiving to gain an end <used craft and guile to close the deal>

Word count: 333





For You, I Will

You wake me with a hand squeeze. It's late. Or really early.

Dutifully, I press PLAY. "Brandenburg Concerto No. 5” by Bach comes to life—softly to not disturb our babies down the hall. I snuggle against you, my behind hanging off the tiny, rented bed.

The opening chords remind us how to smile. You played this borrowed CD on our first date. The hair band devotee wooing the cellist. Your ploy worked. “Maybe better than you expected,” I later teased.

“I’m ready.” Your voice is weak but resolute.

Am I strong enough to end your pain?

I am.

Photo borrowed from telegraph.com.uk

 

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In celebration of their 99th week, Trifecta is mixing it up today. This week's challenge is to choose ANY word from page 99 of the Oxford English Dictionary.  We can use any definition of our chosen word, but the piece must be 99 words exactly.


Intimacy

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."

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

 

ASS

(adverb/adjective) often vulgar—often used as a postpositive intensive especially with words of derogatory implication <fancy-ass>

 

Word count: 333

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.

Señor 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:

YES, THEY’RE FAKE.
MY REAL ONES TRIED TO KILL ME.

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

  

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

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

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.”

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

MASK

a: a protective covering for the face
b: 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

Damaged Goods

“No.” I pushed him off me and searched for my bra and panties.

Scott slipped on his boxers before following me out of the bedroom. I made eggs while he made his case.

“You love me, right?”

“You know I do.”

“Then let’s do it.”

“No,” I said again.

“Why not?”

“First off, who proposes during sex?”

“I’ve proposed a million times. I’ve done roses, fancy dinners, made sure everything was perfect,” Scott grumbled. “The ring’s been sitting in your nightstand for months. Just say yes and put the damn thing on already.”

“I’m only 32 and I’ve been divorced three times. Three!” I argued. “I’m worse than Jennifer freakin' Lopez. And she has talent and a hot ass going for her.”

“Yours is hotter.” He pulled me to his chest, grabbing two handfuls of my butt.

I married Chad, my high school sweetheart, when we were 19. Everyone tried talking us out of it, even my dentist. They don’t understand how deep our love is, we told ourselves. Our 'deep love' dried up within a year. At 23, I wed my boss. Jim was 34; a bonafide adult. That marriage ended when I cheated with my brother’s friend. Matt, the friend, had chased me for years. We married the day after my divorce was final. Once Matt had me, his interest waned. My attorney handled my third divorce pro bono since I’d already given her so much business. She and I still text.

“Three strikes are a good thing in bowling,” Scott grinned. “They call it a turkey.”

I rolled my eyes and turned away so he wouldn’t see me smile.

“Come on, Babe,” he pleaded. “Make an honest man out of me.”

I looked into Scott’s eyes. For the past three years, he’d shared his apartment, his heart and his life with me. I wasn’t damaged goods to him. Standing in our kitchen—in our underwear, it suddenly seemed like the perfect moment.

“Go get the ring and ask me again.”

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

TURKEY
three successive strikes in bowling

Word count: 333  

Lipstick and Irony

This weekend's Trifextra writing challenge: write a 33-word piece including a color.

I wear pale pink. It's called "Demure."

Her shade is whorish bright red. I've seen it on her vanity.

When she's away, he lets me stay over.

I pretend he chose me instead.

Photo borrowed from weheartit.com

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Playing Dirty

They met at the mud run. Even coated in sludge, Josh was gorgeous. He offered to scrub her down. To his surprise, Lauren accepted his crude advances. She told him she “never does this.” He swore the same. They showered together, slept together, and Lauren woke up alone. No goodbye, no note. Eighteen hours earlier, she had been covered head to toe in mud, but--at that moment--Lauren felt dirtier than ever.

Finding Josh was easy. Race results were posted on the mud run website within a week. In a matter of hours, Lauren had located his Facebook profile, Twitter account and a mention of him in an article about the magic camp he’d attended 17 years ago.

Josh was annoyed the mud run chick showed up at his job. The flowers she’d sent were weird enough. That night was fun, and the girl was smokin' hot. But psycho trumps hot any day. He grudgingly agreed to lunch. Probably just needs closure. She suggested her favorite Mexican restaurant and offered to drive. Let Crazytown burn her gas.

Josh excused himself from the table for a phone call. When he returned, Lori … no, Lauren … was sipping a margarita. He was glad she’d ordered him one, too. Something told him he'd need it.

When Josh awoke, he was bound to Lauren’s bed. He thrashed about, but Lauren had learned to tie impenetrable knots during her brief stint as a Girl Scout. (Apparently, an extended stay in the juvenile psychiatric unit is not a valid excuse for missing meetings.)

Lauren lay beside Josh, vacantly watching him. Her face was covered in mud. Josh guessed his was too; his cheeks and forehead felt rigid. Lauren caressed his bare chest. Her hand was sticky. As she reached up to smooth his hair, Josh saw the gash across her wrist. Between them, the sheet was soaked in blood.

Hers? Mine? “Please, Lori …” Josh implored.

“Lauren,” she chuckled. She closed her eyes and snuggled against him.

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trifecta weekly writing challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "crude," as defined below:

CRUDE
marked by the primitive, gross, or elemental or by uncultivated simplicity or vulgarity <a crude stereotype>

Word count: 333