No sudden moves.This weekend, for Trifextra: Week Seventy Six, the folks at Trifecta have asked us to sum up our writing process using only three words, a prompt inspired by the reply given by Neil Gaiman when asked the same: “Glare. Drink tea.”
Photo provided by Lisa McCourt Hollar
Numbly I lay the obituary page next to the only family photo to survive the inferno that consumed Mom and Dad’s retirement villa three nights ago.
Why do we look like we’re about to invade this house? Who caught us on film? Tell me the story…
Voiceless ashes cruelly mock the gaps in my biography.
This story is exactly 55 words in response to a photo prompt by Lisa McCourt Hollar, who sponsors the weekly 55 Word Challenge on Jezri’s Nightmares. Unfortunately, it’s a 24-hour contest, opening Wednesday at noon Eastern time. I’m a day (plus an hour) late to actually participate in the challenge this week because I didn’t read the fine print till just now.
Photo from VintageDelirium’s Etsy shop via Google Images
(my doll is in storage and unavailable to appear in this post)
Question 22 (The Book of Questions by Gregory Stock)
If you could use a voodoo doll to hurt anyone you chose, would you?
I have, in fact, used a voodoo doll to try to hurt someone, but apparently I really suck at it.
The first Gulf War erupted when I was a freshman in college, and it was really the first time in my life I was aware that our troops–men and women about the same age I was–were fighting in a war and might not come home. It made me mad, it made me sad, and it scared me.
I’m not sure now how I came by the “Beast of Baghdad” voodoo doll, but I had no qualms about using it if there was even the remotest possibility that it would mean our soldiers could come home soon and safely. I hung him on my wardrobe door, where anyone who visited my dorm room could see exactly what I thought of the Iraqi leader.
I pinned the hell out of Saddam. By all rights he should have fallen over in complete agony somewhere in the desert sands, grasping at his eyes, his head, his heart, his genitals. I added new pins daily. I twisted the old pins. I invited friends to take a stab. If my doll had been effective, Saddam would have thrown himself in one of those hideous Kuwaiti oil well fires, just to end the torture.
Since I obviously don’t have the skills necessary to effectively use a voodoo doll to hurt someone, I don’t think I’d bother even going through the motions now. Besides, I’m usually pretty peaceable by nature, and don’t generally wish anyone physical harm. The “Beast of Baghdad” was just a tool to vent my frustration with a situation that was otherwise out of my control. That being said, if someone were to market an Edward Snowden voodoo doll…
So, the moving company has come to do our pack out survey–a man in a suit wandered through every room, taking copious notes about the household items we plan to ship back to the States, asking questions, and occasionally raising an eyebrow. (Wait, don’t all your clients pack out 150 antique glass bottles, 8 vintage Singers, and a dozen copper bedwarmers?)
When he was done with his tour, he consulted his notes and informed me it would take four days to pack everything because we “have a lot of smalls.” (Hey, are you trying to be funny? I’ve lived here long enough to know that smalls are underwear. Does it also mean “breakable junk”?)
I stopped myself (just barely) from blurting out, “The packers in Japan did it all in one day! Even the dodgy crew we had in the States managed in a day and a half.” Instead, I fetched my calendar to see which week we could devote to this job. Settling on 22-25 July, the surveyor politely informed me that the chaps would take care of it all, I didn’t need to do a thing, and that they’d see me on Monday at about half-nine. (Half-nine?! That’s 9:30. Oh, okay, now I see how this is going to play out…we’re packing out British-style.)
I’m not sure why I thought moving house would occur at a less leisurely pace than any other activity here in the UK. The daily schedule of the two courses I took last month caught me off guard (I’d heard rumors of a typical day’s timeline, but had yet to personally experience one in all its glory), but since they were nearly identical, I suspect I got a preview of exactly how our four moving days will unfold. Here’s how I predict the chaps will operate each day:
Note: I am a little unsure about the length of the tea break…will it be a full 30 minutes, or since they are working (as opposed to sitting in a class like I did), will it be closer to 15? Time will tell.
I’m honestly not sure how I’m going to deal with the British pace of moving day(s). I’m used to running fast and furious to keep an eye on the crew for a long 10-12 hours, then being done, finished, complete. Four days in the chaos of a half-packed house is going to drive me to distraction. Won’t they (and hubby) be surprised when I stay up late and just finish the job myself after the truck drives away the first night!
The sunset flight had been her birthday gift to him last week, and his face had lit up at the thought of crossing one more thing off his bucket list; he really needed to start adding to the list so as not to be bored senseless in his old age.
She had perused customer reviews on the balloon company’s website and studied ten years of meteorological data, trying to find a window of opportunity when cancellation due to weather was least likely, then finally just closed her eyes and pointed to a random square on the calendar.
She’d regretted her impulsive selection process when the sound of rain pattering against the windows awakened her before the alarm this morning, but the showers had passed before she’d even reached the bottom of her ritual mug of Earl Grey and the balloon pilot had rung at lunchtime to confirm their flight would depart as scheduled.
As they drifted silently above a breathtaking patchwork of carefully tended fields, bisected by an undulating ribbon of sparkling gold, the pilot gave a slight nod and she raised her glass of complementary champagne to toast the dwindling bucket list.
Then, with only a moment’s hesitation, she turned her face into the sun and tipped her husband over the side of the wicker basket, a new widow’s tear-choked prayers following his ashes as they billowed out in the balloon’s wake.
“Five Sentence Fiction is about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist,” says Lillie as she offers up her weekly challenge on Lillie McFerrin Writes. The word she chose for this week’s inspiration was ‘flight’.
I know how to paint–I did our kitchen–but would rather
barter to find someone who can do the rest of the house.
If the world worked on a barter system, how would you fare? Would you have services to barter? Would you be successful, or would you struggle? (Monday’s prompt from The Daily Post.)
I think it would be AWESOME if the world worked on a barter system. Then I could finally create a resumé that really represents what I can do. I feel like I have a wide range of skills in a whole host of areas (and am adding to the list every day), so I think I’d be able to manage quite well in a bartering society. Here’s what I can offer:
In return, I am seeking someone who can trade:
What do you think? Would you be willing/able to live in a barter-only society? Know anyone who has studied Thai foot massage?
Ailsa Prideaux-Mooney at Where’s My Backpack? provided the photo challenge for this week’s Sunday Best. Thanks to being frequently on the go myself, I’ve been able to capture lots of motion with my camera…
Things I See and Know 