Trifecta Week Ninety-Seven: The Blue Dress

“What do you think about this one? Does it make me look fat?” she asked holding up a blue sleeveless dress she’d worn a million times.

“No. Just pick. We have to go,” he replied with impatience, tapping his wristwatch.

She stared at him, clearly hurt by his dismissal of her feelings. She chucked the dress at him and stomped off to the closet. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and whispered, “No that doesn’t make you look like a fat-ass, dear.”

“I heard that!” she yelled from the closet. “Are you saying my ass is fat?”

“I said it didn’t make you look fat. You. Are. Not. Fat,” he yelled back.

She emerged from the closet wearing nothing but a scowl and leaned against the doorframe. He waited for her to either cry or lash him with a sarcastic retort. He found it difficult to predict her mood. Their eyes locked until he couldn’t take it anymore. He visually wandered around the curves of her naked body, lingered over her scenic parts until he stopped on her most stunning, picturesque view.

“What are you staring at?” she asked with a smirk.

He looked away shyly and stood. “You know what I’m looking at. Now, put this on so we can go,” he said holding out the blue dress.

Giving in, she snatched it from him. “You’re right. This one’s my favorite.”

She slipped on her underwear and squeezed into the dress. Admiring her reflection in the mirror, she said, “It wasn’t this tight last time I wore it.”

He hugged her tenderly and said, “You ready now? Our appointment’s in less than two hours.”

She pulled away and stroked her pregnant belly. “Yep. I think we’re both ready now.”

So, the challenge for Trifecta Week 97 was to use the third definition of the word:

ASS 3. (adverb/adjective) often vulgar—often used as a postpositive intensive especially with words of derogatory implication <fancy-ass>.

This could have gone horribly vulgar and dark, but I decided to lighten it up for this challenge. I’ll return to my regularly scheduled intense creepiness next time.

Light Bulbs, The Sun and Some Flowers

The weekly photo challenge for The Daily Post is to show saturated. Here are my photos saturated with color. Please enjoy in moderation or with tinted lenses.

Lightbulbs

Sun on a Fish

Arizona Sunset

Spring Flower

Flowery iPhone Cover

Star Cluster

Blue Flower

Friday Fictioneers: A New Purpose

Photo Source

“Why are we here?” asked Scarlet.

“To witness her firsthand,” replied Sapphire.

Goldie scoffed, “Witness whom?”

“You see that big tree?” Sapphire asked. “She’s the next generation. We’re just old oak, ladies. Pine is the new black.”

“You mean nobody wants us anymore?” Scarlet exclaimed.

“Well, I don’t want to look at her flawless, tight grain,” Goldie said resentfully. “Just ‘cause were old doesn’t mean were ugly and useless.”

“What’ll we do now?” Scarlet asked. “Get tossed in the trash?”

With satisfaction, Sapphire replied, “Never fear. We’re being repurposed. We’re going to the antique shop. They’re calling us shabby chic.”

This weird little 100-word story was written for Friday Fictioneers photo prompt. I thought I would try something different, and by different I mean not dark or depressing. Be sure to stop by and check out the other tales.

The Payment: A Short Story

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Crouching behind a scrawny shrub, you hold your breath and wish it away. Maybe if you avert your eyes, it will be fooled by your pathetic attempt to hide. Sweat trickles down your sides and the small of your back, feigning a ghostly touch. You shiver.

Seventy years ago, you were warned of the eventual sacrifice, but your ego decided for you. Time sailed by at an unfathomable pace, and now you’re running from an evil that is demanding repayment in the form of flesh. It has found you.

In a whoosh, it descends; a black-winged beast. You feel the flutter, a gentle graze on your cheek, and your transformation begins. Your flawless, once adored, youth drifts away as effortlessly as sand in a whirlwind. Your skin wilts. Wrinkles, as deep as fissures, ravage your body. You disintegrate into the earth. The ultimate payment received for prideful services rendered.

This has been another Visual Dare story, Visdare 39: Adore. Originally, this photo inspired me to write something sweet and happy based on the woman’s lovely face and the light in her eyes. But my dark side emerged once again. I just can’t help myself. If you want to read the other takes on the prompt, click on the Anonymous Legacy badge below.

Flashy Tales of Deceit and Innuendo

I wrote a few flashy little tales for those of you with a super-short attention span. Or for those who just like a quick punch in as few words as possible. All flashes are 25 words or less.

Erasure

The needle punctured her flesh, plunged the poison with ease. The scalpel sliced her skin with precision. Her new face erased 20 years.

Heady

You savor his handsome face from across the bar. His smile is delicious. You decide this one will lose his head over you.

Keeps on Giving

He gave her the gift of a lifetime. The doctor assured her it was treatable.

The Ride

He had a crush on her. She was flattered. They took a leisurely ride in his car. She didn’t complain about the uncomfortable trunk.

The Day of Rest

She sinned on Saturday. Prayed on Sunday. God answered, “It’s my day off. Call back tomorrow.”

Spin

Clothes discarded. Heat radiated. Wet. Vibration. Gyration. The spin cycle is climatic.

The Final Surge

I am dying. My final moments tick away. The life leaks from me as the remaining 1% of my battery powers me down.

Trifecta Week Ninety-Six: The Final Victim

I said it many times, to many insistent faces, “I didn’t know.” My words were met with skepticism and judgment based solely on rumor. They cannot know what I felt, what I experienced, what I knew.

When they came with their grandiose weaponry raised, their cagey interrogation tactics and groundless accusations and plucked him from our once normal home, I refused to believe their lies. I stood at his side through the feeding frenzy of hate. I held his hand and whispered in his ear, “I believe in you.”

He insisted it was a matter of mistaken identity. He wasn’t capable of such violence and debauchery. His face was a portrait of virtue. His eyes a porthole of anguish. His tears saturated my heart with misery.

Six months of wait, of worry, and warding off the vigilant eye of the community, and the trial began. I dutifully watched from the back row, craving anonymity. I became an afterthought for a brief and glorious moment. All eyes on him. All ears on the facts.

Judgment day came and through a haze of testimony and evidence, the creeping tendrils of doubt latched around my mind and suffocated my faith in his innocence. The proof was undeniable. He was a monster, animal by nature. His deeds corporeal.

His punishment was death. Far too inadequate, I realized, as I stared into the plagued eyes of the victims’ families and listened to their grief-stricken pleas for answers. Justice had failed to resurrect or bring closure. It only reflected a callous light on the how and when, unable to illuminate the why.

In the end, I was his final victim, the only one to have survived. It made me, not admired or pitied, but hated, ashamed, accountable. A jury of my peers rendered my verdict, “Guilty by association.” I was sentenced to death, not in body, but in spirit.

This story was prompted by Trifecta Week Ninety-Six. The word (third definition) to use for this week:

ANIMAL (noun) 3  :  a human being considered chiefly as physical or nonrational; also :  this nature

Don’t forget to read the other creative writings based on this prompt. Click on the Trifecta link above to visit their website.

Five Dollars, a Dead Cactus and a Leaf

The weekly photo challenge for The Daily Post is to show lines, patterns and texture. Here is my interpretation of the challenge.

Lincoln’s Eyes

Five Dollar Pattern

Lincoln Memorial

I took close-up photos of a U.S. five dollar bill to show the lines, textures and patterns that are generally missed by the naked eye.

Inside a Cholla Cactus Skeleton

Dead Cholla Cactus

These are images of a cholla cactus skeleton. After all the succulent flesh and spines dry up and fall off, this is what’s left. I love the texture and pattern.

A New Hawaiian Ti Leaf

An Aging Hawaiian Ti Leaf

I took close-ups of a Hawaiian Ti leaf, one newly emerged and the other aging. The colors and lines are amazing.

Festival of Flowers: Colorful Weeds

A wild flower, a weed blossom, a menacing bloom…

No matter how you feel about a weed, there is no denying that some of them are as pretty as their cultivated and coveted counterparts, especially these little hidden gems. You just have to get down to their level and look close. There is beauty in everything.

Pink Weed

Yellow Weed

White Weed

These poor little weeds. They’re basically thought of as the plant black plague. The trash flower of the neighborhood. Scattered around the yard like discarded appliances, furniture and rusty cars left for dead. What’s that? You say you don’t live in the neighborhood of misfit yard junk? Well, you get my drift. We cringe when we see them, ostracize them from the community and hope they might magically disappear without intervention.

Well, I like to think we are all weeds trying to push through the impenetrable lawn of life. Trying to avoid getting uprooted or smashed under the heavy hand of the bureaucratic gardener. Hoping someday to become an accepted member of society and be loved. I know, a little corny, but I said it anyway.

Now, with that, I am off to eradicate weeds. They’re taking over my yard like zombies in a post-apocalyptic world. You know, the fast zombies, not those lethargic ones. Call me hypocritical, but I gave them a temporary home, and they’ve overstayed their welcome. They are memorialized in photographs for all the world to enjoy. So I hope you enjoyed them.

This is Festival of Flowers: Week 15.

I would like to thank Jackie for sponsoring the Festival of Flowers this summer. This is the last week to participate until next March, so visit her website to join or just admire all the other lovely flowers.

The Hand of Liberation: A Short Story

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Brutal waves conspired to drive them back to the even more violent shores of their war-torn island. Escape from the abusive regime that exploited them was a potent motivator to conquer the surf. Death at the white-capped hands of the sea was a more appealing and honorable fate than turning back.

János gave chase to his younger brother, Laszlo. A weak swimmer, he struggled against the current, but he had to stay strong. A better life awaited them.

As they neared the end of the wharf, their liberator bobbed only a few feet out in open water; a small watercraft that would deliver them to freedom. Just a couple more exhausting strokes and their fingers touched sovereignty.

A helping hand reached out and pulled them to safety. As they rested on the deck, breathless but exultant, their eyes locked on the fiendish face of the dictator’s minion and his gun.

This woebegone tale was written for the VisDare 38: Chase photo prompt. The rules of the challenge are to write a 150-word or less story based on the photo and include the word CHASE. Be sure to check out the other entries.

Secondhand Wife: A Friday Fictioneers Tale

Copyright John Nixon

He would joke to his society friends, “She’s my secondhand wife. I picked her up in a consignment shop. Gave her a real life.”

They would laugh, uncomfortable, and look at me with a mix of pity and arrogance. Sorry that I was not their kind. Confident I never would be.

I would smile like a mannequin selling a pretty, used dress. The good wife. The beautiful prize. Always kept in my rightful place by a stand-out narcissist amongst the elite.

That was before. Before I sold him to the highest bidder. A first-class assassin for a high-end husband.

If you would like to join this writing prompt based on the photograph, go to Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a 100-word story with a beginning, middle and end. I did it in 99 words. I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback is always appreciated.

Matchbook Fiction: Time Slipped Away

Number three of the Matchbook Fiction series is a throwback to the era of the fast, powerful, gas-guzzling American made car, the Oldsmobile. Back in the day of the Wonder Bar radio, hand-crank windows, lap belts, giant ashtrays and no cup holders, you were likely to find a pack of matches tossed in one of these rocket-powered autos.

Matchbook Front

Matchbook Back

Matchbook Inside

Since I was unable to locate information for the Olds dealer listed on this matchbook, I’ll share a little history of the great founder and car itself.

Ransom Eli Olds founded Olds Motor Works in 1897 and soon after it became Oldsmobile. Olds invented the first gasoline-powered American car and began large-scale production in 1901. Yes, that’s right. Oldsmobile came first, contrary to what many people believe.

In 1904, Olds left his fledgling car manufacturer to build the REO Motor Car Company. General Motors snatched up Oldsmobile in 1908, and it lived a long and fruitful life until GM discontinued production in 2004. That was a sad year indeed.

But, enough of my Oldsmobile reverie. I’ll cut the history engine and roll up to story number three of Strike a Prose!, this time in exactly 489 words.

Please don’t read and drive.

Time Slipped Away

The earsplitting static gushed from the lone speaker in the center of the dashboard of the 1967 Oldsmobile. The sunlight gone, the only source of light came from the dimly lit AM radio.

Lila’s eyes fluttered open and she yawned, “Where are we?”

Steven opened his eyes, clicked off the radio and said, “I guess we fell asleep. The last thing I remember is making out.”

Bolting upright, fiddling with the buttons on her shirt, Lila exclaimed, “Oh, no! We’re late. My mom’s gonna kill me. We have to get back to town.”

Steven cranked the ignition and peeled out of the secluded clearing. Out on the highway, he drove fast and wild, and they reached the outskirts of town in less than 15 minutes, record time.

As they blew by a 24-hour restaurant, Lila said, “I don’t remember Dan’s Diner changing their name,” She turned around and looked as it faded into the distance. “It’s called IHOP now? Do things seem different somehow?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Steven responded with a shoulder shrug. “Check out that car,” he pointed. “It’s like a futuristic concept car or something.”

Lila looked at him in exasperation. “Who cares about your stupid cars? We’re so late, my mom will disown me. And we have school tomorrow.”

He steered the Oldsmobile onto her street and slowed to a crawl. The engine rumbled loud even when he coasted. She worried they would wake up the neighborhood.

“Everything looks weird, rundown,” she said, doubt in her voice. Steven noticed the strangeness too but kept quiet.

They rolled to a stop in front of her house and looked at each other with anxious eyes. Even in the dark, they could see the house was dilapidated, the yard untamed. Apprehensively, they walked, with clasped hands, to the front door.

Lila’s key didn’t work. She knocked lightly and said, “Steven, I don’t like this.”

The porch light came on and the door opened a crack. A woman’s eye peered out.

Lila said, “Mom? What’s wrong? Let me in.”

The woman pulled open the door and scrutinized them with a scowl.

“Mom, I’m sorry were late, but we had car trouble…,” Lila stopped, suddenly noticed that her mother was an old woman.

“What the hell is wrong with you kids? Playing such a cruel joke on me,” the woman shouted and tried to slam the door.

“Wait,” Lila pushed the door. “What’s happening, Mom? Are you sick?”

“Quit calling me mom and get off my porch,” the woman exclaimed.

Lila stood her ground, “Stop it and let me in. This isn’t funny.”

The woman looked Lila up and down. “You look like her when she was a teenager, but you can’t be my Lila. She disappeared 46 years ago with that boy. Never found them or the car. No, you can’t be her. My Lila’s surely dead.”

With haunting finality, the woman slammed the door and turned off the porch light.

Matchbook Fiction is a 500-word or less story written about a chosen matchbook from my collection. It may be about the matches or about something on the matches. You never know what I’ll create.

If you would like to read the first two stories, here they are in order:

The Cigarillo Man

Shadows in the Corner

Trifecta Week Ninety-Five: Chasing Monsters

Shrouded in grime and hunkered behind a fallen tree trunk, he waited for his elusive foe to emerge from the depths of the dense forest. It was going on three hours of surveillance in the darkness, and the creepy pests and critter eye shine was beginning to spook him.

Each time he heard rustling, his pulse quickened. Still, nothing promising emerged.

He swatted another mosquito sucking on his bare neck, hoping it only sounded deafening to his ears. He didn’t want to give himself away, but maintaining his position was getting difficult. His legs were cramping. His fingers felt numb.

At least he had a full moon to provide filtered light through the trees. His night vision binoculars did the rest. He scanned the area and caught movement in the brush. It moved closer. He held his breath as it poked its way into his line of sight. A porcupine.

“Damn!,” he exclaimed aloud.

He was so sure it was the one. He had been searching for the Hodag for 10 years. In silhouette, through the binoculars, the porcupine had the same low-slung body with spikes on its arched back. He should have known tonight wasn’t his night. The Hodag wasn’t ready to reveal itself. Maybe he was just chasing an end-of-the-rainbow hoax.

He was too frustrated. Too exhausted. He packed up his gear and headed out of the forest.

The hike took fifteen minutes. Inside his truck, he flipped the heat on high and sighed in relief of the dry warmth.

As he drove away, disappointed again, a furry creature stepped into the center of the dirt road. Its bloody fangs glistened in the moonlight, a porcupine dangled from its jaws. Its horned head and back gave it the look of a prehistoric beast. It watched until the truck’s taillights faded into the dusty tree line, then skulked off to finish its dinner.

This has been another Trifecta writing challenge. This week we were tasked with using the third definition of the word:

RAINBOW (noun)

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

I hope you enjoyed my fictional tale of the Hodag beast from the deep woods and the man who hunts it. The Hodag is said to be a terrifying, horned, four-legged varmint that stalks the woods, caves and hillsides near Rhinelander, Wisconsin. A stegosaurian-like creature, its only weakness, its kryptonite, is citrus fruits. You can read about the Hodag and other hair-raising monsters in a book called Fearsome Critters written by Henry H. Tyron in 1939. The stories are quite entertaining.

Festival of Flowers: Canna Lily

An untamed canna lily infiltrates the garden…

Canna Lily Full View

Canna Fruit

Canna Fruit Inside

Canna Lily Close-up

This fiery canna lily (though it’s not a true lily) popped up along the fence, an escapee from the neighbor’s yard. Although the placement is very haphazard, I don’t have the heart to remove it. The flowers are far too beautiful.

I find the fruit charming. The outside is covered in a spiky pulp that turns a purplish brown as it ripens. I took a photo of the green fruit split open with the seeds exposed. They will eventually turn black. The seeds are sometimes used as beads in jewelry and, in Zimbabwe, they’re used in gourd rattles, called Hosho.

Canna plants are quite the robust over-achiever. The smoke from burning Canna leaves is said to have insecticidal qualities. Maybe I should try burning them to ward off those pesky bugs that love me so much. The plants also have a high tolerance to contaminants, so they’re used to extract pollutants in wetland environments. [source]

Click here, Festival of Flowers: Week 14, if you would like to share a flower photo or even if you just want to see some of the other spectacular blossoms for this week. Time is running out for this year. The Festival goes on a seasonal hiatus in only 12 more days, September 27th.

Of Unknown Origin: A Short Story

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When the sinkhole opened in the courtyard of La Grande Arche in Paris, experts believed it was a natural occurrence. They were wrong.

The mechanical sounds began within 48 hours, followed by the ear-splitting squeaks that drove away the onlookers. Authorities cordoned off the area. They waited and watched in wonderment, tinged in dread.

Inside the hole, the earth swirled like a whirlpool. World scientists clad in biohazard gear milled around the opening, expectantly. On the fifth day, a grinding racket preceded the emergence of a wide, metallic object. A colossal staircase extended into the clouds.

Some believed it was a gift. Others believed it was a hoax. Some wanted to possess it. Others wanted to destroy it. The planet squabbled.

“It’s evil. It emerged from hell.”

“It’s good. It reaches to the heavens.”

The world chose sides, divided. On the seventh day, as the staircase loomed, world war commenced.

This has been another VisDare photo prompt from Anonymous Legacy. It was a challenge for me to keep this at or under 150 words. I barely made it; 150 words exactly. I was supposed to try to use the word Trajectory, but I couldn’t fit it in. However, the main challenge was to use the photo. I chose La Grande Arche in Paris as the setting because the photo was taken there.

If you want to join the fun, click on the badge below:

Liberty Lost: A Friday Fictioneers Tale

Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields

The boat surged violently, tossing the man from the berth to the cabin floor. Startled awake, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and attempted to get his bearings.

He scrambled up the ladder to the deck and met with the blinding reflection of the sun. As his eyes adjusted, a statue materialized on the horizon. He stared in awe of the fabled, ancient symbol of freedom.

His mind reeled. Was she real? Over 1000 years of scientific exploration, and he was the one who finally discovered the legendary lost city of New York and Statue of Liberty.

This is my first time participating in Friday Fictioneers writing prompt. The rules are to write a 100-word or less story based on the photo. I did it in 98 words. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for sponsoring this challenge. I hope you enjoyed my tall tale.