This week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge is simple. For the site’s 99th Trifextra Challenge, we were asked to provide our New Year’s Resolution in three words. Tempting though it was to take the Chuck Wendig route and say that mine would be “Art harder, motherfucker,” I decided to be a little more original. Here it is. Three simple things I plan to do more of in 2014.
Read. Write. Love.
Happy New Year, everyone. See you in 2014.
This week’s Trifecta Challenge gave us the “companion” as our word. The definition we had to use can refer to one who is employed to live with and serve another. So, here’s “Companion.”
Confession time. I hated Royce. Loathed, even. Everything about him drove me insane, from the pretentiousness of his name to the stupid coat he wore year round. It wouldn’t have been so bad had there been any other kids our age for us to interact with, but we didn’t have that luxury. Growing up in the labs, we were lucky just to have another civilian family around. Of course, the worst part wasn’t anything that I had any real control over. My parents had been hired years ago that Royce might have another child to serve as a companion.
I guess there were a lot of reasons for me to have resented him. I was eight when I first met Royce and his parents, and Armstrong Base was full of scientists conducting research. Royce was the only child of the sole civilian team there, and he was spoiled rotten from day one. I mean, he grew up with the goddamn moon for his back yard. I grew up in Cleveland. Not exactly comparable.
Then my parents were contacted. “Our son is lonely. Can you help?” I know that the money Royce’s parents offered up wasn’t the only reason they shipped me off. I was going to get an education, the best learning environment in the solar system. Only one catch. I was stuck with Royce for life.
“It’ll be okay, Hans,” they said on my arrival. “Your parents are only a call away.” For the first few years, things went well enough. Then Royce started to realize that he could order me around, and thanks to the surveillance around Armstrong, I had to comply. Fifteen more years of that, day and night. “Hans, fetch a water. Hans, I dropped my fork. Hans, I have more money than your pitiful family could ever make in a lifetime.”
I mean, you can’t say it wasn’t pre-meditated. Just cliché as hell. I mean, honestly. It boils down to “the butler did it,” only on the moon.
This weekend’s Trifextra Writing Challenge features something a little different from the standard. Typically, and Trifecta Challenge centers around a inclusion of a specific word, for which we are given a word limit of between 33 and 333 words. However, a little-known holiday happened to roll around this past week, and so our weekend writing was given an appropriate celebratory theme. November 15th is apparently National Erotica Day, and so we were tasked with crafting just such a piece for the “TrifeXXXtra.” Now some of my readers know that this isn’t a typical theme for my writing here, but it’s still one I’ve tackled in the past. As such, I thought this would be a fun chance to expand my writing portfolio yet again. Without further ado, I present “Necessity.”
“Necessity”
I needed to feel him again. There was incredible warmth to his skin, an almost radiant heat in his touch that caught me by surprise every time we made contact. It was like this no matter how long it had been since our last night together.
The simple brush of his hand on mine was enough to send my mind racing, dreaming of what grand adventure he might have been planning. I don’t know that what I felt for him was love, but there was no denying that I felt something beyond physical, whether it was his hands, or his lips, or his tongue… His first kiss brought me to life. The spark of the brushing of our lips carried with it all of the forbidden knowledge I’d yearned for, changing everything I thought I knew.
It was intoxicating to be around him. His favorite cologne smelled like pine trees, and after we’d been together I could still smell it, mingling with our sweat. I would ache for hours afterwards, but I reveled in it. He would shower and leave for work. I would stay curled up in bed, basking in the afterglow. Eventually I’d make my weak-kneed way over to the bathroom for a shower of my own.
We would see each other as often as we could arrange, but it was never enough. He seemed inexhaustible, and always wanted to take me as many times as he could in a single visit. No matter what we would do to mix things up, he would still leave me shivering in ecstasy after each climax.
I wanted him, and I hated myself for it. I was supposed to be strong, independent, not whimpering in orgasmic bliss beneath him, but I couldn’t help the way he made me feel. It ran counter to everything I’d thought about myself before we met. Still, when we found each other, there was something indescribable. I needed to feel him again, and I knew he needed me too.
For this week’s Trifecta challenge, our word was “craft.” I present to you a brief pirate story, simply called “Craft.” Enjoy. (Note: I’d missed Trifecta’s notice about Daylight Savings Time affecting the deadline for entries, and so I was an hour too late to submit this for judging. You get to read it anyway, because I’m generous.)
“Craft”
“Very well, I admit that I was wrong. I didn’t think you had it in you, boy.”
I danced the coin across my fingers, watching the old woman’s eyes follow it back and forth. “Clearly, you were wrong. And I had to have done it the way you said, or else news of Raven’s death would’ve already made its way to your ears.”
“Kidd Raven. He’s insistent that his full name be used. And unless you’re far better than I’ve been lead to believe, Kidd Raven would’ve killed you where you stood, had you attempted to gain it by any means other than craft.”
“You fear him that much, then?”
“I’m his captain, at least as of the latest vote.” The woman straightened, and she snatched the coin from me. “And I don’t fear him. I use him. He does what I need him to do, and on an occasion such as this, it means that I needed him to test you.”
I suppose my irritation showed in my face, because the next thing I knew, I saw a knife in front of it.
“If you insult any member of my crew, you’ll not find yourself among the living. Is that clear?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
She pulled the knife away, sheathing it and sitting back down in one fluid motion. “Now then, boy. You want to be part of the crew, and you’ve proven your skill at craft. You showed courage by not flinching before my knife. I’m willing to take you on board, on one further condition.”
“What’s that, ma’am?”
“You stop calling me ma’am and start calling me Captain. You’re making me feel older than I already am.”
“Aye, Captain.”
She smiled again. “Very well, boy. Meet the ship at the dock. You obviously know where. Introduce yourself to the bosun and give him this.” I caught the coin she’d taken from me. “He’ll know what it means. Welcome aboard, Brynden. I think you’ll do well.”
I set off into the night.
For this weekend’s Trifextra Challenge, we were instructed to write 33 words about a beast in an unusual place. As it’s nearly Hallowe’en, I decided to write this one for you. Why? Because flash-fiction horror is fun! Here’s “Seeing is Believing.”
“Mom! Can you come look at my eye?”
“What for?”
“It feels weird.”
“Did your brother poke you again?”
“No, Mom. Just come look.”
“Coming. Now, what THE HELL IS IN YOUR EYE?!”
This week, Trifecta celebrated their 99th writing challenge (not including “Trifextra” bonus challenges) with something special. Typically, challenge entries involve using the third definition of a given word in a story that ranges between 33 and 333 words. The 99th challenge, however, was something special. We were given a photograph of page 99 of the Oxford English Dictionary and told to write exactly 99 words using one of the words on the selected page. The page ranged from “babushka” to “back” and included several wonderful, potential-filled words. I opted to go with the first that caught my eye, and so I present you with “Babushka.”
“Babushka”
I’ll never forget the stories that my babushka used to tell me when I was a boy. She would take me on her lap next to the fire and speak in a hushed voice about the things that lived in the woods, and how she was one of them once, before she fell in love with a human. She once said that certain things linger in the blood, and can remain dormant for years, and that I must never tell my mother. After all, they may still be out there, watching and waiting to see if I’m like them.
Here’s my entry for Trifecta Week 97. We were asked to use the word “ass” in a postpositive sense. Having fun with that one yet? It means that I got to write a story with “dumb-ass” as a key word. It’s short (333 words, so long-ish for Trifecta) and a little silly, but here, nonetheless, is “Stranded.”
“You know, sir,” Nolan said, finally finding his voice. “Dumb-ass over there has a point. If we don’t get back in the next three hours, the ship will leave without us.”
“Yeah,” Beckett chimed in. “Because he’s the one who set the auto-pilot before leading us out on some wild-pteranodon chase.”
“I want a pteranodon,” Shyle murmured, continuing his doodle in the sand.
“Not the point, Shy. Also, Beckett? Weird expression. Don’t use it around Shyle again. You know how he gets. And Nolan?”
“Yessir?”
“You’re right. I hate to say it, but Harker’s right too. We’ve got to get in high gear if we’re going to make it back to the ship. Harker. How far off course are we? Never mind. Don’t talk. Beckett, ping the ship. Get us a route plotted, double time.”
“On it, sir.”
“Nolan?”
“Commander?”
“I don’t care if it’s true or not. Don’t call Harker a dumb-ass. He’s still a part of the team.”
“But he was wrong! There was nothing out here. Not a scrap of salvage. Nothing worth even making the trip, not to mention the risk of getting stranded.”
“Hey guys?” Beckett called. “I’ve got a course to the ship, but you’re not going to like it.”
“Why not?”
“Well, sir, take a look. According to Harker, we’ve now got under three hours to make it back to override the autopilot, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because according to the beacon, the ship is currently ten klicks farther than our original touchdown point. Which means either we’ve gone way past what our suit gauges say we’ve traveled, or…”
“Or someone’s moved the ship. Damn. Where’s a pteranodon when we need speed?”
“Said I couldn’t have one,” Shyle mumbled.
“Keep drawing, Shy. Where’s that leave us, Beckett?”
“In a word, sir? Screwed.”
“How screwed, scale of 1-10.”
“Shut up, Nolan. Go sit with Harker.”
“Uh, Commander?”
“What, Nolan?”
“Harker’s gone, sir.”
“Beckett?”
“Ship’s gone too.”
“Crafty son of a bitch…”
“Yes sir.”
“What now, Commander?”
“Hope for pteranodons.”
This week’s Trifecta Challenge gave us the word “animal,” with the definition being “a human being considered chiefly as physical or nonrational; also : this nature.” It’s been a few weeks since I last wrote one of these, so with 333 words, here’s my entry for the challenge.
“Animal”
Animal.
That’s what they call me. They spit the word at me through the ventilation holes in my polymer prison. They don’t think I can understand them, that I’m mindless, that the virus that began developing inside of me three months ago has transformed me into a thing from their nightmares. Animal’s better than the other word.
But I can hear them. I hear the scientists talking. That’s how I know what’s happened, how long it’s been. And it’s not being held in a plastic cell that scares me. I’m just a passenger in my head now, a prisoner locked in my own body, and so far undetected by any of their tests. But I can still hear them. I know what they say, but all of my will isn’t enough to move my jaw and tongue and make myself say anything beyond the roars and screams.
I’m more scared of me than I am of them. I may be slamming my fists and feet and knees and head against the walls and getting them to threaten to shoot me, but that’s not scary. What scares me is that it’s not me doing that. I’m not any more in control of my limbs than I am of mouth.
It’s the virus. It has to be. I remember getting sick at work. The tremors, the headaches. I thought it was just the flu, but I went to the doctor anyway. Better to get back on my feet quickly, right? Turns out whatever it was was like nothing they’d ever seen before, or at least that’s what the scientists say when they come by to look at my body. It’s not me that they’re seeing. That’s why they call me an animal. Pure instinct. Unhuman.
Trapped in a cage that’s trapped in a cage. Still, I know they’ll come back to me, when they find a cure. After all, they’re using me to develop and test it.
I’m not an animal.
I am patient zero.
And weighing in at exactly 333 words, here’s my entry for Trifecta Week 91. This is what I was working on when I was interrupted, and found my writing time better served elsewhere.
“The Brand”
The brand still stung. The prisoner couldn’t remember how much time had passed, because he hadn’t been allowed to see the sun or a clock since he’d been brought inside. He couldn’t remember his name. Where he was from. What he had done for a living. What he could remember was the stink as the metal burned through hair and flesh, the shock of the realization that it was his own that seared. Countless hours or days or weeks later, it still stung, though the stench had faded.
In the cell’s dim light, he could make out a faint white and pink outline on the inside of his left wrist, the shape somehow familiar. Where had he seen it before? His memory of the time before his capture was gone, and details of the event still eluded him. It didn’t seem to matter how much of his immeasurable time he spent attempting to recall things. The brand stung, and…
Wait? Was that it? The brand… Could they have done something to his memory with it somehow? Burning out his past as they burned his arm? He jumped to his feet, calling for the guards. It was all coming back to him, his wife, his sons, his life, as his mind slowly beat down the barrier between past and present.
“I remember!”
The guards stood at the door.
“Think he means it?”
“Better to be certain.”
“Right. Out then, you.”
Matthew stepped out of his cell, the sting gone from his wrist. He saw brighter light down the hall and felt a surge of hope as a guard’s gauntlet connected with the back of his head, sending him cascading into darkness again.
The brand still stung. The prisoner couldn’t remember how much time had passed, because he hadn’t been allowed to see the sun or a clock since he’d been brought inside. In the cell’s dim light, he could make out a faint white and pink outline on the inside of his left wrist…
Here’s another quick Trifextra entry for the bonus challenge this week. We were given a photo and told to write 33 words about it. Our photo is here:
![Photo credit: [ changó ] / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND](https://swordsoftheancients.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/another-head-hangs-lowly-2_l.jpg)
Photo credit: [ changó ] / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND
“How much longer do we have to wait, Umbra?”
“Only a little bit, Skugga. Soon, the sun will set, and when it does, we’ll be free.”
“All of us?”
“Yes, all of us.”
The Swords of the Ancients 