3-Word Resolution

Weed the manure.

For the new year,   wants a three-word resolution. I'm making an inside joke.

If you don't already get it, see this previous, three-word post:  The Writing Process

Happy New Year!!!

In Line at Vaughan’s Fortune Telling Booth

“Madame Claire read your palm twice already!”

“What are you, the prestidigitation police?”

“We don’t stand for nunna that pretzel litigation here!”

“This ain’t the Pretzel Nation stand. That’s back by the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

33 words for  Any at all, but they have to be funny.

What a World

I let my guard down and fell – whump! – in love with him. I landed like a ton of bricks -bricks made out of heartbreak, distrust, and misguided hope- that I carried around on my broad, squared shoulders. Nothing broke in the fall, nothing but a bit of cynicism and a few shards of jaded lens.

When I dusted myself off, I found there was love: a true love, sweet and all-consuming. Yet, while I let my guard down, I kept my defenses up. He gained privileged access, but the rest of you remained on the other side of my white picket fence, where I gazed on you with suspicion, sniffed at your pretensions, and muttered behind your backs.

I nurtured our allies, rallied against those of you who would scorn or cold-shoulder or taunt. I was happy, self-satisfied, content. I had a plan and the means to fulfill it. I didn’t need you. I needed no one.

He though! He needed nothing but what he could give away: to me, to you, to anyone. He closed his door to nothing, to no one, and then something deadly strode in. It didn’t kill love or trust or hope, but it did kill him. In the killing, it taught him nothing, but I learned, finally, how to melt. At first it was just a meltdown, a crying jag that went on in the subway and at the gym, in the shower and at the coffee shop. Then it began softening my hard edges, rendering my layers permeable until I could take you all in, let you under my skin, and, like him, see you, hear you, feel you.

Then he left, and I, like the Wicked Witch of the West, melted away. (What a world! What a world!) And instead of sneering at Glinda, at her goody-two-shoes, I tried them on. They didn’t fit very well, and made me walk with a limp, but I learned to tread lightly, and to lead with a wand.

333 words for , including MELT (transitive verb) 3: to make tender or gentle :  soften

Move Over, Superman

Forget about Clark Kent and his phone booths. Every Saturday night at the Bottomless Basin, a touch of razzle and a bit of dazzle turn Claire Kempf, myopic hygienist, into Sizzle: stripper extraordinaire.

33 words for , including myopic, dazzle and basin. Go figure.

And, because I know you thought of this: Razzle Dazzle, with Richard Gere speaking in Spanish!

Girls' Sports

Our high school track coach is a drill sergeant. I don’t think she’s been in the army, but I’m not about to ask. I don’t want to get close enough for her to chew me up and spit me out. In case she’s looking for an excuse. I really want her to put me on the relay team with Cheryl. Cheryl is a sprinting goddess. The thing is, like any goddess, she’s kinda self-involved. She tends to slow up at the finish line. For the photograph.

So Coach has been telling us how we have to learn to run past the finish line, stretch out and reach for it with our entire bodies. She’s after us again today.

“You ladies have heard the expression ‘win by a nose’, correct?”

We nod, but of course Cheryl has to pipe up: “That’s for horses, Coach.”

I hide behind Cheryl just in case, but Coach ignores her.

“Stick your necks out and some of you, Moriarty here, could win by a nose. And that’s good for the team.”

Comprehending, feeling like I need to share, I say: “I won by a tush once.”

“What?” Coach turns towards my voice. I step out from behind Cheryl.

“Speed skating.” I smile, thinking of my trophy. “I was ahead, about to win, when I tripped and fell on the ice, right on my keister.”

“Usually grounds for disqualification,” says Coach, about to turn away.

“Yeah,” I say, still sort of smiling. “But I slid right over the finish line, butt first.” I turn to Cheryl. “Got the trophy to prove it.”

Cheryl steps in front of me. She stands with her hand on one hip, chest out. She has the biggest boobs in school. “Can’t win a sprint ass first, can you?” she says.

“That’s it, Cheryl!” Coach hoots. “When you reach for the finish, lead with your chest. Get those tits over the finish line for the win.”

“I got the trophy to prove it,” I say again.

333 words for , including tush 3. buttocks (slang)

Triumph

Issue 2 of 101Fiction has included my story "Triumph", along with fourteen other stories having to do with the undead and/or winter.

Read it here: "Triumph" at 101 Fiction   Then read some more, including my friend Alex's "Family".

Translation to Spanish is now (1/1/14) found below:

Triumph

Silencio tan hondo que cada variación de sonido en la marcha reducida viene amortiguada por la nieve. El chico monta a horcajadas sobre el cielo blanco -ensueño de nubes y eternidad- suspendido en el aire glacial. El faro disuelve una pálida sombra amarilla sobre la carretera hecha camino impoluto. Solos en el universo, el chico, la chica y la moto bajan, como si esquiaran por una pista lenta de montaña; atraviesan un oscuro túnel de abetos. Cuando salen, el mundo está luminoso. Como quien tapa el invierno con un sudario, dejan atrás los ventisqueros. El chico acelera hacia tierra abierta.