Sunday, February 26, 2012



A life lived gloriously
A death grieved through ceremony
Tender hands laid on in ritual
Eons at peace.
A rude awakening
Jaw cracked, soul spilt
Rough hands degrade
An entire culture is violated.

By A Dot

Lost Girl by Robyn

Lost Girl

Heavy hotel room air, laced faintly with stale cigarettes.

Her fingers trace the contours of fading memories. A lost girl.

She's gone.

But the way he holds her, she cannot voice her grief.

The photo prompt for this week's challenge called to mind a woman who had long ago lost her innocence.  She had once believed she could return to the life she'd left behind and become that virtuous girl again, but in this moment she realizes that version of herself is gone, she can never go back.  Immersed in her new life, she must silently mourn the loss of her former self.
I have a blog at Hollow Tree Ventures, but since this is my first submission to Trifecta and the content of this response doesn't exactly jive with a humorous mommy blog, I thought I'd contribute through Trifecta Anonymous this time rather than post to my blog and confuse my readers!

Diane Turner

“It just fell off its pedestal. Quick! Help me fix it.” Panic choked him.

“You touched it and it fell. I saw you.”

She saw the security guard. “Now you’re screwed,” she laughed.

By: Diane Turner

Friday, February 24, 2012

Secrets by Jackie Simpson

“I’ll push this piece of gum right down here, Betty. Nobody will ever be able to tell that we dropped it.”
“The label covering the nasty dent on the forehead was inspired, Sam.”

Trifextra: Week 5 by Jester Queen

Ten years later, the mandible had the wrong shape and held one gold tooth. It didn’t match the skull, even though both criminals swore they only buried the one body in that hole.
At Trifecta, we've been asked to describe a picture of a man and a woman who look like they're straight off the set of CSI. They're sitting on a cot snuggling over a skull and jawbone. Since my own website is in flux, I'm submitting this week's post to Trifecta Anonymous. Most of the time, you can find me over at, but this weekend is something of an adventure while I migrate to self-hosting. 

Tuesday, February 21, 2012


Stumbling down the cobblestones.
Bourbon permeates the air.
Memories won’t be drowned.
The bottle remembers that night.

The car careening over the precipice.
The screams still echo in his head.
What a fool.

Adrienne F.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

The Seduction

He approached the backside of her sleeping form, feet moving soundlessly on the soft surface. Stirring, her chin lifted towards the intruder. Narrowed eyes made him hold his distance. Taking a deep breath, he could not stifle a shiver. Her golden locks and musky scent pulled him forward, as if engaged in a solitary waltz. Nearing her, he reached out. His peaceful look invited her to join him. Coyly looking down, she slowly stood up, as if ready to run. He bowed low, then resumed the prancing steps. She followed, as the tempo increased, blending brown and gold into a flowing stream towards the stars.

E. Clough

Saturday, February 11, 2012


untitled by "Just an Anonymous Writer"


You carefully set the rusted music box on top of the piano, there’s room for it there, next to the stack of yellowing books—so many books—if only you had time to re-read them all! You tell yourself you will. You are fond of books, which is why you can’t give them away in the first place.

The phone rings. It’s your son. He informs you that he’ll be stopping by later to bring you dinner. “No, Tommy, no,” you hear the words cascading out, “I’d rather you didn’t come by this evening.”

He pushes. You argue. He relents. You hang up—relieved.

You move some boxes aside, “goat trails,” your son calls them, when he’s being nice. “A damn death trap 911 extravaganza,” when he isn’t.

You try to walk into the kitchen to get a snack. You step on something mushy, unidentifiable. You smell it on your sock. Tommy would utter some choice phrases about that, wouldn’t he.

There’s nothing in the fridge. Well, there’s a lot actually, the fridge is full, but everything’s expired. And gray. Like you.

You find a pack of cigarettes. You need one to soothe your nerves. Why can’t Tommy leave you alone? You like to live this way. So what—so he’s a clean freak and has to sanitize everything? You didn’t raise him to be that way (obviously). He’s too judgmental, you think, it’s better if he stays away. He can live in his pristine condo with his Clorox and his Windex, his white towels and his blank rooms of nothingness.

You maneuver up the stairs and make your way to the bedroom. You have to step over more stacks of things. You trip. You take a pile of wrinkled clothes off the bed and crawl in.

His voice echoes in your brain: “I adore you, Dad, why are you doing this to yourself? Your things mean more to you than your own children.”

You are happier alone, you tell yourself, you are.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Worthy by Anonymous

Another knock on the door, just as we are sitting down to dinner this time. “Really, Jim? Again?”

He jumps up from the kitchen table, his eyes bloodshot and crazed. “Suze, it’s okay, it’s not what you think.”

I sit here, steaming. It’s exactly what I think.

“Jimbo, hey, uh, hey. Oh, Suze,” he mumbles, noticing me for the first time. “Whassup? You look great. Didn’t know you would be here.”

I say nothing. My scowl says it for me. Jim disappears into the bedroom and returns a moment later with a small Ziplock baggie crammed full of dark green leaves.

“Dude, yessssssss.” His face is a Cheshire cat grin, smile threatening to engulf his unnecessary features, like eyes. “All right.” He hands my boyfriend a crisp, one-hundred dollar bill.

“You got a printing press in your basement, Mike?” inquires Jim with faux-seriousness while pretending to inspect the bill. “Manufacturing your own counterfeit money?” He laughs at his own lame joke, as if the three of us are hearing it for the first time.

I would roll my eyes if it weren’t all so pathetic, so predictable. Why am I here? I wonder,What the hell am I doing with this loser?

Mike winks at me and leaves, inadvertently leaving the door ajar. Jim walks over and shuts it, clicks the lock.

“Now we’re alone, Suzy, you and me.” He stuffs the money is his the back pocket of his jeans, like it’s a stray gum wrapper and not my share of the rent. He leans over and kisses my neck. I hate him and I hate me for being here and I hate Mike and I hate everything. We kiss and my hate turns to passion as my body hungers for more than just his lips. We’re on the floor and we’re both fumbling for our zippers.

The minutes tumble by, a blur of equal parts lust and frenetic young energy. Our relationship is not deep; I am 22 and a fool.

Sunday, February 5, 2012

The Client

She cancelled.

For the second week.

Somehow, the face in the obituary did not surprise me.

by: E. Clough

Saturday, February 4, 2012

by: Amelia

I call my best friend crying; “I don’t want to want to get married and have babies with him!”

She laughs.

“Of course you do, and he wants it too.”


Curled, sweaty and weak, on the bathroom floor, I grinned wildly. Hugging the knowledge tightly to myself, I leaned back up to decorate the inside of the toilet a bit more. I can't wait to see his face when I tell him.

Untitled by Anonymous

the baby died.
he was secretly relieved.
it would've been their fifth.

Bitter by Anonymous

She didn’t stop to think who would have to clean up all the blood—God, so much blood everywhere—or maybe she did stop to think about it.

The note read: “Marc, I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.”

Friday, February 3, 2012

3 Sentences by Mindy

The TV shows schoolbusses floating past the Wal-Mart in our hometown, our filthy neighbors driving down the main drag in boats, infants on top of the local government buildings drinking from Dasani bottles, old people with one arm twisted around tree branches like bougainvillea and the other trying to find the courage to accept the embrace of firemen while broken furniture and aluminum carports drift by. My husband goes to his father and sits beside him on the rented floor, and his two brothers follow. Soon eight massive shoulders shake and the huddle heaves as the women keep busy, pretend not to notice, and I stand frozen.

Three Sentences by Just an Anonymous Writer

You couldn’t see the floor:  cardboard boxes haphazardly stacked to the ceiling, teetering piles of random newspapers, towers of canned goods threatening to fall, unfinished art projects rejected in the corner, shopping bags fighting for room, wrinkled clothes and worn-out shoes carelessly strewn everywhere—filling the space like it was an abandoned thrift shop and not a home—and underneath it all, lurked filthy pieces of antique furniture and a dead cat.    
“Mom, you’re a hoarder.” 
“No, I’m not.”

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Image by Amelia K

“She’s the image of you at that age!” 
I look just like my mother.  I want more for her.
“Really?  I see her father when I look at her.” 
Be stronger little one.

Image by b303tilly

My heart faltered in my chest a little, and breathing became difficult as soon as I overheard him telling her she looked beautiful, just like her sister. My baby girl looked so happy in that moment, and I had to duck out to cry in private. He didn’t know how right he was. She is the very image of her sister, right before she succumbed to the cancer chewing its way through her insides. He unknowingly recognized the look of death, and I can't pretend anymore. I'm going to lose this one, too.

Dead Ringer by GeekiestGirl

I learned you’d died on Facebook, of all places. While I was driving to a comedy open mic, of all things. But Erika’s goodbye post on your wall sure didn’t seem like a joke. And one call to Kris confirmed it.

He said you’d done it yourself.

That we hadn’t spoken in two months rang loudly in my mind like the gunshot you forced your neighbors to endure.

The call ended with inhuman wails. Sounds I’d never thought myself capable of. Sounds I thankfully haven’t made since. Sounds that you would’ve joked belonged in a shitty Lifetime movie.

Time blurred till your memorial. The smiling one. The good-time guy. The flirt. Gregarious. Charming. Loved. A fantastic hugger. Smelly feet. Depressed?

The service was chock full of your beautiful castoffs. Women you’d rejected for one Seinfeld neurosis after another. All dumbfounded. All sure they could’ve helped you.

Your mother, you enormous prick. She was so small. Silent tears so loud in the front pew with us all staring. Helpless.

Your brother; you thoughtless nimrod. His arm around her tiny form the only thing keeping her from breaking apart. His face was dry.

I watched him worriedly, your brother. The quiet one. The gamer. The recluse. Shy. Geeky. Ignored. A beautiful smile, though rare. Short. Strong?

Of the two of you, he was the one we all would’ve placed bets on. Were we that crass. Had we any clue your family was headed for such devastation.

But we were so wrong, weren’t we? You made sure we never knew your truth.

He was not just a younger, smaller version of you after all.

He was never your funhouse mirror image.

He is your insides on the outside, and he wears them so well.

He is you without the bombastic laugh. Without the affectionate blonde at your side. Without the drink in hand, quip at the ready. You stripped bare. With nothing to hide from us behind.

And that’s how I know he’ll be ok.