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."
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.
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
- 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.
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"
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>
- 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!"
Trifextra: Week Seventy-Two
It's been a while since I've written anything. Thirty-three words sounded like a good way to climb back on the wagon. This week, I actually had a thought. I have been lurking around, checking out the prompts, reading some of the stories, and not commenting as I should.
Life has gotten in my way. Very annoying. Hopefully, I can get back to this more often.
I miss it.
This week's prompt: This weekend we're asking you to describe summer in your own words. Thirty-three of them exactly, of course.
still, damp air clings to my skin
like morning dew
as I float on the green tinted scent
of freshly cut grass
drifting to sleep on the rise and fall
of locust song
