First Impression

 
Trifecta: Week Eighty-Six
Write at the Merge Week 29
Master Class Summer Edition #3


Congratulations to the weekend winners!  There were some great writing processes, some I may implement.
I've lost my mind or just gone plain crazy.  I opted to combine three prompts this time.  I hope they work.  I listed the prompts at the end.
I'm revisiting Anne Marie and Liam.  Most of the the stories I write about them are character studies.  This is how I get to know more about them.  So on to the story...

             "Annie, sweetling!  Come meet me friend Rosie!"  Liam kicked the door open as he bellowed.  He dragged his new friend into Anne Marie's kitchen, then proceeded to rifle her pantry.  "D'ya not have anything ta eat, lass?"

Anne Marie leaned against the door frame leading to the parlor.  "There is food, Liam, root vegetables and herbs.  But, oh dear.... likely nothing to your tastes."  She eyed Rosie as Liam continued to search for meat, preferably raw, and perhaps a bit rancid.

"Rosie" stood at the kitchen table looking bored while absently running one long pink fingernail along a crack in the surface.  Unnaturally blond hair danced across broad shoulders clad in the soft black leather of a form fitting leotard.  A low slung belt sported assorted bulging pockets.  The outfit was completed by knee high, shiny, black boots with three inch heels.

Rosie caught Anne Marie's gaze. "Liam says you're a hunter, too.  I guess I expected someone...ya know, taller."

Liam threw an arm around his new partner, "Now, Rosie, doona judge a book, girlie." 

Disengaging Liam's arm, Rosie sauntered toward Anne Marie, "What gear do you prefer, Annie?"

"I prefer Anne Marie.  And I don't pack gear, I use what's at hand."

"Isn't that risky?"

"Not as risky as those boots.  They're barely made for walking, useless for running."

Rosie snorted, "I don't run.  Annie."

Liam stopped rummaging to watch the interchange, "Now lassies..."

One swift move and Rosie lay across the table, the point of a large butcher knife aimed between wide blue eyes.  Anne Marie sniffed, then raised her brows in surprise.  Releasing Rosie, she tossed the knife aside, "Get out, both of you."

Liam rushed Rosie toward the door, "C'mon, girlie...wha....Rossamund!  By the gods, lass, ye've wet yerself!"

Anne Marie sighed.  Nothing worse than an amateur hunter.  Except perhaps a foolish ghoul, trying to make her jealous with his new partner. 

Should she tell him his new playmate, Rossamund, was a boy with a girl's name?


Write at the Merge..."This week, we’re offering a photograph — feel free to use any or all of the items in the photo as part of the prompt."







The Master Class.....


From Trifecta 'Writing Challenge....

CRACK
1a : a loud roll or peal <a crack of thunder>
  b : a sudden sharp noise <the crack of rifle fire>
2: a sharp witty remark : quip
3a : a narrow break : fissure <a crack in the ice>  
  b : a narrow opening <leave the door open a crack><cracks between floorboards> —used figuratively in phrases like fall through the cracks to describe one that has been improperly or inadvertently ignored or left out <a player who fell through the cracks in the college draft> <children slipping through the cracks of available youth services>
4a : a weakness or flaw caused by decay, age, or deficiency :unsoundness
  b : a broken tone of the voice
  c : crackpot
5: moment, instant <the crack of dawn>
- See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.LETuMiLK.dpuf

Three Words

Trifextra: Week Seventy-Six



Congratulations to the winners!
This week's challenge made me think.  It's a hard choice, just three words.  The ones I chose probably only make sense to me.

Here's the challenge:
"One of our editors was recently lucky enough to slowly roast on a bouncy, mechanical floor thisclose to nearly 900 other Portlanders for a reading (of the third chapter of his new book, The Ocean at the End of the Lane) and subsequent Q&A by Neil Gaiman.  One of the questions asked of him was, "Can you tell us your writing process in three words?"  He replied, "Glare.  Drink tea." This weekend, we're asking for you to sum up your own process with just three little words.  Give us dry wit, pathos or otherwise.  And remember, we like your blood on the page.  Put it there. - See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.3DJLudle.dpuf"


Here's my three:

Let them speak



                             

Fast Food

Master Class Summer Edition #2

SAM asked Lexy to choose any book and give her a 10. Here is the new assignment from the 10th page:
the assignment is to use that line somewhere in the body of our piece. 

Murph looked up at the darkening sky.  Thunder rumbled in the distance, they needed to get a move on.  The incoming storm would be a disaster if they didn't wrap up soon.

The ME was going through the deceased's pockets, looking for ID.  She'd already done liver temp to establish approximate time of death, or TOD.  There hadn't been any visible injury, the autopsy would have to determine the cause.

As he scanned the area in front of him, Murph made a mental catalog of the elements of the scene.  Middle aged male, curled in fetal position on the grass in front of the park bench.  No briefcase, but an empty fast food bag.  The half eaten burger several feet from the body, as though he'd thrown it.  While the team was busy elsewhere, some pigeons had waddled over to inspect it.  "Hey!  Charlie!  Bag that burger before those vermin make off with it!"  He yelled over the latest roll of thunder.

"Got it boss, sorry!"  Charlie hustled to the sandwich with an evidence bag.

Murph moved on, muttering thoughts to himself about the scene, the imminent rainstorm, and the half-assed job his crew was doing.

"Boss?  I think you better come see this."  

He heaved a sigh, then joined Charlie at the body.  "What'm I seein', Charlie?"

Charlie pointed at a pigeon beside the burger, now not only partially eaten by the deceased, but bird pecked as well. 

"It's a pigeon, Charlie," said Murph, as the sky opened and rain began its cleansing.

"Yeah, Boss, I know that," Charlie answered.  "But, Boss, it's a dead pigeon, now."

Moon Drawn

Tightrope – 100 Word Song


I'm ba-ack...with my always slightly different(read twisted) view.  So here are 100 words inspired by Janelle Monae’s Tightrope chosen by Deana aka The Bobina.

It was on the clearest, coldest nights she felt the call.  Her back rigid as she watched the full moon set, only a few more hours before sunrise let her breathe normally again.

She pulled the cloak more tightly around her shoulders, tugged the hood farther over her flame red hair.  Emerald green eyes reflected the pale moonglow.  How easy it would be to just let go.  

Only an ancient binding spell kept her human.  And her will to resist the call.

But, oh how easy it would be.  To step off the thread thin tightrope between beauty and beast.

It's Not Over

Trifecta: Week Eighty-Three   
and
Write at the Merge, Week 26

After my Trifextra offering, I was inspired to create a new character in my ever changing world of Anne Marie McClarren.  So I'm throwing two prompts together this week,  this image from Write on Edge..

and, from Trifecta Writing...

This week's word is:

RUSTY
1: affected by or as if by rust; especially : stiff with or as if with rust
2: inept and slow through lack of practice or old age
3a : of the color rust  

  b : dulled in color or appearance by age and use <rusty old boots>
4: outmoded
5: hoarse, grating

- See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.31EjgJ5O.dpuf

Damp air touched his face, a soft caress awakening him.  Jean Philippe Michel L'Parre struggled to raise rusty eyelids.  As consciousness returned, so did memory.

She'd been there, in his lair under the lighthouse.  Lying in wait for his return at sunrise.  He remembered the surprise followed by the pain.  Excruciating, burning pain.  It immobilized him as she sealed the entry of his cavern.  His final memory had been of black, dry silence.

His eyes adjusted to the dark as he slowly moved his weakened extremities.  Arms lethargically drew his hands over his body.  When they reached his unmoving chest, he grasped the rotting wood of the stake driven there. 

He twisted the shaft free, the accompanying scream reverberating in the small space meant to be his tomb.  The elder memory of pain blotted out by fresh agony.

He lay still, willing strength to return.  Vengeance growing hotter as the burning wave of pain subsided.  He threw the offensive wood, its clatter echoing more softly than his cry.

Hours passed before he became aware of the sound dripping water.  Then the scuttling of tiny clawed feet.  Here was the creature that had breached the seal, inviting the wood moldering wetness.

Curiosity drove the rat closer.  L'Parre waited patiently as it sniffed and shuffled about his feet. When it moved within his reach, he snatched it with one emaciated hand.  Not bothering to bring it to his fangs, he simply twisted its head off.  He held the body over his open mouth, letting the crimson flow run down his throat.

When the blood no longer ran freely, he used both hands to wring the remaining rusty drops directly into the gaping hole in his chest.  

He tossed the empty body  the same direction as the stake.  Then closed his eyes once more, resting, to let "nature" take its course, while he dreamed of the demise of Mademoiselle McClarren.


   

One More Time

Trifextra: Week Seventy-Three

Congratulations to the winners this week!  I finally got around to a little reading.  Trying to find to time write and read around an eighty hour work week is a challenge all on its own.  I can't imagine how the guest judges manage it, as well as our esteemed editorial staff.  So...
  On to the new prompt.  This weekend we're asking for 33 of your own words inspired by the idiom, third time's the charm.  This familiar phrase may have an indeterminate origin, but its meaning is clear.  Whether or not you include the phrase itself is up to you.  Just make sure to use exactly 33 words.  And, as usual, have fun with it! - See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.gxgESHhl.dpuf




"Did ye not stake Michel L'Parre last year, Annie?"

"I did, Liam.  After your attempt didn't take."

"Well, sweetling, sharpen yer iron an' I'll bring the garlic. Third time's the charm, they say"

Clubbed

Trifecta: Week Eighty-Two

Feeling kind of like my character, it's scary to write again after being away from it, even though it really hasn't been that long.  I feel like I'm starting over.  
Silly me....on to the prompt.

CLUB
1a : a heavy usually tapering staff especially of wood wielded as a weapon
 b : a stick or bat used to hit a ball in any of various games
 c : something resembling a club
2a : a playing card marked with a stylized figure of a black clover
  b : plural but sing or plural in constr : the suit comprising cards marked with clubs
3a : an association of persons for some common object usually jointly supported and meeting periodically; also : a group identified by some common characteristic <nations in the nuclear club>  

  b : the meeting place of a club <lunch at the club>  

  c : an association of persons participating in a plan by which they agree to make regular payments or purchases in order to secure some advantage  

  d : nightclub  

  e : an athletic association or team
4: club sandwich

- See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.LeJb4aOb.dpuf

Jesse had been trying for months to wrangle an invitation to join the local writing club.  She had a folder full of half finished sci-fi novels and short stories featuring fearless women in dangerously alien situations.  

The heroines were always witty, impeccably attired, and braver than their male counterparts.  Except for the witty, well dressed, broad shouldered males that were instantly enamored of the gleaming tresses and seemingly magical shooting skills of Jesse's creations.

An hour into her first meeting, and she wanted to find a closet to hide in.  Preferably with a book of matches handy to burn the pages she'd been so proud of sixty minutes earlier.

The members oohed and aahed, describing their peers' work with words she'd need a dictionary to understand.  The largest word she could come up with to describe her own stories at that moment was abomination.

Jesse mentally rehashed the bit she'd chosen to "wow" her new acquaintances.  Her dream of accolades began to crumble into a nightmare of snide snickers.

She was startled out of her gloom by the sound of her name.

"Jesse!  What did you bring for us tonight?" The evening's hostess, Brenda, asked.

"I... I don't think I'm ready..."

"Oh phooey! Don't be shy, we don't bite."

The woman next to her grabbed her folder and pulled out a page. "She is shy, Brenda, like I was.  I'll start for you, Jesse, then you take over."

Jesse sat rigid with fear as her neighbor began to read.

"Tess Parker held her weapon as though it was an extension of her arm.  Her target, a six-foot worm with legs and teeth swayed aggressively only a few yards in front of her.  She could see the unconscious form of Captain Kirk Bronson lying behind it.  Blood oozing from an ugly gash in his forehead..."

"You write science fiction, Jesse?" 

"Uhh."

"Where do get ideas?"

"Umm."

"Lindsey, keep reading!  I hope Tess blasts that worm into oblivion!"

"I hope that captain is hot!"