Yule Log

We work many holidays. Traditions are difficult to maintain with shifting schedules, but one Yuletide custom is mandatory. We remove the branches from our tree to make our Yule log, and every December 21st, either morning or evening, we light a fire with last seasons tree and raise a glass to the longest night of the year.

Urban Serpent

Snaking his way through the forest of tourists gaping at towering concrete behemoths, he sighted his prey. Struck lightning fast. And slithered away with his prize, his victim momentarily unaware of his bite.

In response to this weekend's Trifextra writing challenge - write a 33-word response using the name of an animal as a verb.  

http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/

His True Heart

The books and movies amused him. He wasn’t quite sure which of his incarnations had managed to inspire this mass hysteria, but clearly he would need to take greater care in the future to make sure his personage was less noticeable. 

There were enough differences in the details to assure him that nobody knew the true story. For starters, this whole business about existing in daylight was utter nonsense. Clearly the wishful thinking of an overly romantic female mind. Then there was the setting. He hadn’t set foot in a school in over 200 years, and when he had, girls weren’t even allowed in the building, much less the same classroom. And, no, he absolutely DID...NOT...GLITTER.

But some of the other specifics were uncanny. His preference for the gloom of the Pacific Northwest. His deep connection to his adopted family. His passion for driving expensive sports cars at terrifying speeds. And, oh, yes, his penchant for young, shy brunettes. 

He did love them, perhaps not with the obsessive, everlasting romantic love currently being portrayed by his doppelganger, but it was love nonetheless. He loved watching them from the shadows of the nightclubs, the insecure loners who sat apart from everyone, never dreaming of the passion and adventure that was about to enter their lives. He loved their initial hesitance as he worked to win them over and woo them away from the safety of the crowd. He loved witnessing their shifting emotions as he revealed his true nature to them, from fear to horror to curiosity to fascination to passion. 

And he loved their lives. He loved the rush of energy through their bodies that pulsed with each beat of their tender hearts. He loved feeling that force flow into him, feeling their bodies grow weak and still as he took his nourishment from them. And most of all, he loved the fact that the whole process would be repeated over and over, night after night, starting at the next twilight.

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In response to Week Thirty Nine of the Trifecta Writing Challenge - Your prompt this week is the third definition of:

HEART (noun)

1: a hollow muscular organ of vertebrate animals that by its rhythmic contraction acts as a force pump maintaining the circulation of the blood
2: a playing card marked with a stylized figure of a red heart
3: personality, disposition <a cold heart>

Please remember:

• Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.
• You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.
• The word itself needs to be included in your response.
• You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above. 
• Only one entry per writer.

The Handkerchief

The lace edged handkerchief was the story of her life - the ‘something new’ tucked in her trousseau, the touch of comfort drying her daughter’s tears and now her banner waving one final goodbye.

Written for the Trifextra Week 28 Challenge -  

Give us 33 words (exactly) that tell us three different uses for one object. 

http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/

Far behind...

I am so far behind.

Look at all these blogs and posts and voices demanding my attention. Stories that are so compelling, so raw, so true that OF COURSE they had to be written, there was absolutely no other choice. Who am I to think that I have anything new to add, anything different to say, any story to tell that hasn't been told a thousand times over?

I am a writer.

Such a glamorous title, what images leap to mind? I know what portrait I would prefer to paint - the free spirited thinker off on adventures around the world, stopping periodically to check emails and dash off witty and charming blog posts about living life on my own terms, answering to nobody, kicking 9-to-5 to the curb and laughing on my merry way.

Here's the current picture - Thursday night on the couch in sweatpants and a stained sleeveless T-shirt, MacBook on the lap, merlot at my side. The Olympics are on TV, inspiring and depressing at the same time. These children are so talented, so magical, and they still have so much of their lives ahead of them. Why didn't I keep up with gymnastics as a kid? Why didn't I at least keep exercising? Why did I have that 3rd slice of pizza?

I am so far behind.

Far behind the life I really want to lead. Far behind in the blogosphere. Far behind in my posts and pictures and practices.

Only one thing to do.

Write, write, write.

Time for the incredible come from behind victory that leaves the spectators breathless and exhilarated, and elevates the winner to instant godhood.

Time for that perfect 10, that match point, that overtime goal.

Time for me to quit watching Olympic coverage 12 hours a day.

Time to write.

You'll be seeing a crazy quilt of commentaries as I find my way through the mass of information in my brain. Fiction, truth, a combination of both, perhaps even poetry and songs. I just have to keep...on...writing. Perhaps if I can pull some of these stories out of my head and commit them to electrons, I'll find the space to clear a path, find a direction, choose a subject and stick to it. Until then, I'll be writing, writing, writing.

There's a gold medal for writing, right?

Marina

As the car sank, he felt her powerful tail moving beside him as she held his head above the river's surface. “What are you?”, he gasped. She whispered, “Guardian of drivers who text.”

My Last Normal Day

I couldn't figure out how to put my bra on this morning.

I stared at white cotton and it was as if I was looking at an 8 sided Rubik's cube. The action that has been part of my routine every morning for 30 years was as foreign to me as Hyderabad. I sat down on the side of the bed and tried to make sense of what was happening.

I knew what the object was - BRA. OK, fine. Now, what is it for? SUPPORT. What, like "Well done, you are a good person,"? No, wait, it goes on my body. Somehow.

I knew it was supposed to be a normal action. A normal beginning to a normal day. Dress, then breakfast, commute, work, lunch, work, commute, dinner, internet, TV and sleep. Do it again tomorrow. Unless it's Saturday or Sunday, then it's altered, work is replaced by chores or errands or, occasionally, fun. But that bra still needed to be put on.

I couldn't do it.

Somehow this piece of fashion technology that kept everything secure in my chest area, had become something greater. It was now a symbol of my uneventful life, my daily drudgery and all the lost adventures that I had promised myself years ago. It became the representation of everything 'normal' in my life. 

Without conscious thought, I stepped into the bathroom and grasped the blue handled scissors I kept in my toothbrush mug. A few snips later, the offending garment had been transformed into a useless pile of fabric and elastic. I watched the pile intently, waiting to see what my first feeling would be. Guilt? Embarrassment? Absurdity?

The feeling that blossomed just below where that sacrificial lingerie normally resided was a surprise - joy.

In wonderment, I let the pile flutter to the floor. I met my own gaze in the mirror and let the feelings wash through me. Joy, freedom, energy and the absolute certainty of one inescapable fact.

I had lived my last normal day.

Trifextra Week 26 Weekend Challenge

Charles remembered being terrified of witches as a child, afraid of being stolen from his bed in the night, which made it particularly challenging to understand how he was now married to one.


Written for the Trifextra Week 26 Challenge - a 33 word opening line to your book.

The Leap

It wasn't intended to be an ultimatum. I just told him I was moving to Seattle. He learned to drive and left everything he'd known for 40 years. We made the leap together.

This post is in response to this weekend's Trifextra Challenge:

Forty-three years ago today, Neil Armstrong became the first person to ever walk on the moon.  In celebration of Moon Day we want you to write 33 words about someone who took a giant leap.  It can mean whatever you'd like, just make sure you write exactly 33 words.

Life would be perfect if....

When I was in grade school, I weighed 130 pounds. I thought if I could just weigh under 100 pounds, life would be perfect.

When I was in high school, I weighed 180 pounds. I thought if I could just get back under 150 pounds by graduation, life would be perfect.

When I got engaged, I weighed 220 pounds. I thought if I could just get back under 200 pounds before the wedding, life would be perfect.

When I turned 40, I weighed 240 pounds. I thought if I could just get back under 225 pounds in a year, life would be perfect.

When I woke up this morning, I did not step on the scale. I knew it would be over 250. And life is not perfect. But I would never trade it for anything else. I have a husband who loves me, and I am thankful every day that he has loved me for 23 years, no matter what the scale said. I have my health, and while there have been injuries and minor illnesses over the past few years, I have seen so many others struggle desperately with debilitating sickness and disability, and I am thankful every day to be as healthy as I am. I have a wonderful relationship with my mom, and while I miss my dad, I see others with only one parent, or with parents who are indifferent or abusive, and I am thankful every day to have had two parents who were always supportive and loving. I have a beautiful house that I love, and while we have struggled with repairs for the past few years, I see so many without a place to live, and I am thankful every day to have a home that is safe, secure and comfortable. I have a job that pays well, and while I would rather be working for myself, I see so many others with no jobs at all and I am thankful every day to be able to pay my bills.

Do I want to lose weight? Yes. But I will not allow my image of myself to be defined by numbers anymore. I will not dwell on the life I think I could have and miss the beautiful life I have right now.

I will move.

I will dance.

I will love.

Life is perfect. RIGHT NOW.

My Voice

Have you heard my voice? You may recognize it more easily than you think.

My voice is the shrill klaxon of alarm sirens signalling that you are an 8 hour workday away from drowning in mundane mediocrity.

It's the expectant hush that falls over the concert hall as the soprano inhales just before hitting a note of such astonishing height and clarity that listener perceptions are forever shifted.

It's the giggles of a corkscrew curled princess as she creates crayon dragons to guard her kingdom while clad in a floor length acetate gown and sparkly flip flops.

It's a profanity laden stream of consciousness spouted by an aspiring comedian as he stands before his very first audience on a beer soaked, dimly lit 'Open Mic' night.

It's the soft scraping of pastels on paper as the artist frantically sketches in scarlets and golds to capture his perfect sunset.

It's the propane hiss of a blowtorch waiting for the sculptors spark to bring it to task, reshaping realities in a fusion of hot metal and plexiglass.

It's the electronic plugged in pop of an electric guitar as a teenager prepares to strum his first notes of a garage-bound maelstrom of music.

It's the steady click-click-click of the keyboard as the writer rushes to get concepts committed to the hard drive before the imagery fades.

My voice is a red hot poker to the psyche saying "Get off your ass! Go MAKE something! WRITE something! SING something! SAY something!"

My voice can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.

Welcome to The Lush Project!

Drinking and writing. This is the place.

Here is where I shall cultivate my alter ego, who relaxes on her lanai each day, gazing out over the water with a glass of Merlot in one hand and MacBook at her side. Writing, writing, always writing. Keep that glamorous image

No subject is taboo. No language is forbidden. I shall strive to avoid unnecessary expletives, but sometimes you've just got to say 'what the fuck?' and no other word will do.

There may be ranting. There may be raving. There may be personal stories of love and laughter and my life in general. There may be lies. I make no guarantees as to what topics may or may not appear, but I will do my utmost to make it entertaining at the very least, if not insightful and uplifting.

Pull up a chair. Pour yourself a drink. Participate, or simply peruse. Let the lush life begin......