From the Storm A Butterfly Flew

Long has it been since I’ve felt super. Be it super Mom, Friend, Wife,  or importantly Super Self. Trials and tests are hard and breaking. If we never shed our minds and souls the way lizards shed their skin, we would never grow into something more than what we are.

For the first time since November,  I feel great. No, not super. I have grown. Leaving super for a rainy, bad hair day. I have the house closest to spotless since we moved. The kids are loving each other and life. My husband and I are working through things in ways we hadn’t before. I am starting back on my writing. I am at peace. I am strong. I finally found my ADULT self. It took a lot to get me here. It was torture. Through the wild pain and confusion, I woke today great.

In November, a person blatantly lied to my face and she shunned my small family. She meant the world to me but it was time to stand up for my family. In January,

Of Fame and Fortune

The cacophony of music and applause rings throughout the theater. She stands with a smile and gracefully begins to glide to the stage.

I’m a star. I am famous. I’m everyone’s favorite actress from everyone’s favorite soap opera. Finally, being recognized as the best.

She took the shiny statue in her hands. . I am the best. The most beautiful. The most talented. She smiled devilishly at the thought.

“I would like to thank…” None of these ignorant people. They are just insects compared to me. I am Hollywood.

 

Chrystalyn

Ps: This is my third entry for Trifextra’s Week Eleven Writing Challenge. The challenge was to write between 33 and 333 words and in order using the words cacophony, soap, and insects.

So what did you think of this one? You can also check out my other two entries: Meth or Death and In Tune.

My Muse:

In Tune

In Tune

“Thaneks fer beain so erm loyeawl in awl Ma’em.” He said with the red rising in his cheeks while trying to hide his toothless grin. He opened the antique Grand, pressed on a pedal, and pushed down on a few notes replacing any awkward response with a cacophony of what used to be beautiful.

“Bobby Joe, why would I use anyone else? You have a savant talent to your trade.” replied Madam.

Meth or Death

Meth or Death

His legs, twigs compared to the athletic build he bore just a year before, lift him clumsily into the dark tub. Relentlessly they scream at him. Death reaches for him. He shoves the handle up releasing the cold, rusty water. The hiss and explosion add to the cacophony in his mind… in his soul. Trying to rinse the shakes away, he turns in frenzied circles. He can’t escape this darkness. His tiny arms beg his bony hands for relief. He is burning in hell. The water washes in waves as he rubs the shriveled soap with his hands over his frail, pain-filled body. His nails sink below, drawing blood, trying to stop his skin from crawling away from him. Everything betrays him eventually. Erratically turning, scratching, bellowing; he falls as his mind collapses to the demons of his own demise.

Meet This Trifectan

I am competitive by nature. Competition brings out the best and worst in people. Writing competitions help us put our best work out there and also helps us realize the worst about our own skill. Such a fun way to learn, improve, and get read!

I have competed in two Trifecta Writing Challenges. They post one during the week and then a Trifextra on the weekends! The first I entered was a prompt challenging people to write a horror story in 33 words. It included some words that you could not use. 33 words was tough but so much fun! My piece, Mass, got a second place nod. I am extremely honored because the Trifecta community as well as the one around these parts are full of incredibly talented warrior writers!

I decided to participate once again in this week’s challenge. I have submitted my piece, The Residents. It turned out super fantastical and the support and commentary I have received is beyond encouraging! Thanks readers! You are the best! Because of this I have also decided to make this a permanent part of my blogging experience.

Since I will be competing often, it is only fair I join and become a offical member of the Trifectans! So, here is my meme for Meet Your Fellow Trifectans.

Chrystalyn Hope, Never the same hair color. Never the same hair style. Always the future of hope!

The Residents

The Residents

My head ‘s spinning. The noise is loud and indistinguishable. I look around, confused. I see fiery brown flames, the sepia car smashed to bits, and tan people walking to help. I grab my head and close my eyes as my vision distorts like an old television.

Deep breath. Suddenly pain engulfs my left shoulder. I look in disbelief as I bend my arm backward to see the damage. Shattered silver metal sheeting and red blood line the open wound. Circuits short and shoot colorful  sparks. Brass gears try to turn though they are now impacted into the red strings of muscle beneath. Oddly, it’s the only place I feel pain. Dumbfounded, I wince and look around.

BIC

BIC

He dragged her flailing body by her hair. She saw his scars proving his determination. At the sound of the lighter she fought. She smelled the singed hair and sulfur. She was burning.

Chrystalyn

PS: This is my third entry for the Trifextra Week Ten Writing Challenge. (Click here to go to their site!) This week the challenge is:

“Write a horror story in 33 words, without the words blood, scream, died, death, knife, gun, or kill. Good luck.”

What did you think of this one? It’s Husby’s fav. Check out the other two Mass and The Gift!

The Gift

This weekend’s Trifextra Week Ten Writing Challenge:

“Write a horror story in 33 words, without the words blood, scream, died, death, knife, gun, or kill. Good luck.”

Here is my second entry:

 

The Gift

She sat enchanted at candle light dinner. He transformed the abandoned camp ground where they met with lanterns, lights, and flowers.

“Happy Anniversary.”  Emotionless, he picked up the skewers and began stabbing her.

Chrystalyn

Ps. What did you think of this one? Compare it to my first entry: Mass!

Mass

This weekend’s Trifextra Challenge/ Competition:

“Write a horror story in 33 words, without the words blood, scream, died, death, knife, gun, or kill. Good luck.”

Mass

The smell was overwhelming. The naked bodies frenzied, trying to climb their peers to the top away from the flames. There, they were surrounded: cold eyes, cold barrels, and a barrage of bullets.

 

Chrystalyn

Ps: I have a few more but you can only submit three and I only want to submit my best. Maybe I’ll do one or two more. What do you think?

A very special “THANKS YOU FREAKIN ROCK!” to John at Trask Avenue for introducing me to this! You should check out his submission: Hypnagogia!

“It All Depends on Luck, Fate, or Circumstances”

Only one hundred more miles to go. She pressed on the gas just to go fast enough before the governor shut her down. Her long straight black hair frenzied as she rushed the wind.

The blood was pooling in the floorboard at her tanned feet. Damn. There goes yesterdays pedicure. She hardly felt the pain anymore and she was starting to hallucinate. She turned the music up and gripped the steering wheel. The long key chain jangled in disruption.  It was her last life line. Her left hand was shaking frantically, lifting her frayed skirt trying to read the damage without looking down. She was fucked. The glass imbedded deep lacerations and holes. She could no longer feel the piece that implanted in her back above her hip. The grinding of the bone was even gone due to the numbness.

Scarborough Tales (Part 2)

A simple, loose white cotton dress made her glow like a fallen star. He found her dancing alone in and out of the trees, each becoming her lover for a turn or two before she moved on. Her long waves floated behind her gracefully while being kissed by the moonlight. She was such an ethereal being.  He stifled his chuckling for he wanted to watch a bit longer.

Beauty In The Beast

She surrounds herself with the oddly beautiful; the daunting works of Edgar Allen Poe and E.E. Cummings, the strangely erotic paintings of Salvador Dali, the dark side of classical music. Her reflection is that of the wonder she finds in the dark, disturbed, and misunderstood. She sits, straight with shoulders pinned back, at a vintage vanity. She lines her eyes in the deepest black and places pearls in her ears. She leans forward and opens her mouth slightly while painting her lips irresistible. Her delicate thin hands put the brush back in line among her other tools and places the pot of color with the others. Her vanity is much like her interests in the arts.

No, she refused the vintage 1930′s drop center vanity with a large round mirror. She insisted on a poundreuse, which looks like a small writing desk. She showed me the secret compartments and  flashed her vampish smile. She laughed at my ignorance. She always laughs at my lack of intellectual leveling in which her mind presides. It is a bit offensive till she places her small hand on one of my cheeks and pecks the side of my mouth whispering, “Mon Chéri.”  Anyway,  the mystery of how it is not as it seems is part of the charm. She went on to quietly gush about how during the 18th century men used vanities as much as the women, if not more. She finds effeminate men attractive both physically and emotionally. It is what brought her to me. She encourages me to embrace my feminine qualities and not be embarrassed. “Hold your head high and be confident. You are more a traditional gentleman than this society has seen in decades!”  She is definitely one of the only women I would call a Lady.

Scarborough Tales (Part 1)

The water was licking at his toes but he took no notice as the fog separated him from the world. His thick frame bore a simple pair of walking shorts and a loose cardigan. His hair long and disheveled hung in his haunted face. His eyes dark pierced the fallen cloud the way he only wished he could pierce how his heart has fallen to cloud his mind. He began to cut the thick white fluff with a finger. Drawing the future he dreamed of; the future he wanted from her. The future he now had without her. He drew puppies behind a white picket fence. He drew faces of laughter and love. He drew family holding hands. He drew till all left of the fog was a moonlit sky with images you’d lay to guess and day-dream of. He fell back on the hard, wet sand. Immediately the fog consumed him averting the divulge of trading the filmstrip of past for the hopes and possibilities of silver-lined, child-like images. He breathed the heavy air wondering if God would favor him and let this casket sweep him quietly to a watery grave.