As you may know, lately I have discovered and been mildly addicted to the writing challenges over at Trifecta. So, the other day, I sat down to write something for this week's challenge and came up empty: I had no clear story line, no where to go, no character living inside my head forcing me to give her a voice. I gave up, decided that perhaps I'll sit this week out.
This evening, I sat down to write a blog post regarding my cupcakes and an easy centerpiece idea for Easter.
And this came out:
My entry for this week's Trifecta challenge: use the 3rd definition of the word brain(noun): something that performs the functions of a brain; especially : an automatic device (as a computer) for control or computation, write a story/poem between 33-333 words.
My Entry: 298 Words*THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION*
She felt the familiar tickle in her abdomen, deep beneath the soft trails of skin, roadmaps left by the others. She gripped the steering wheel, then released it, let her fingertips run over the knobby hills, gripped again.
She drove past the parking lot entrance twice, on purpose. She wasn’t ready. She simply wasn’t. She knew this day would come, eventually. She knew when she had her second child that it meant one day, she would have to do what she did not yet understand.
Knowing something would come and something coming are intricately different.
And soon, she found herself staring at the angles of the geometric patterned stainless steel ceiling, blurring the lines. Her stomach somersaulted to the tip of her tongue,back down again, quickly.
Her feet sat perfectly in place, her entire being shivered on the inside.
The swoosh of the automatic door swam into her ears, filled her up, brought bile to the back of her throat.
Acrid and burning and fiery.
“Patient 234-76-9999” she heard her social security number, a monotone sequence of her identity from the Brain of Human Quota. The warm bile trickled out the right side of her mouth and briefly warmed her.
She should have opted for the tubal ligation two years ago. She thought surely she’d piss out this fucking micro chip and they’d never know about her third.
She should have known better.
The mechanical sounds of metal arms clanking metal tools or objects on metal trays or the floor drove her mad but she would not look away from the beautifully arranged polygons and hexagons meeting at exactly the right places on the ceiling above her, she could not look away from her blurred reflection, a marbled white stone in a sea of shiny tar. *****
I was so undecided about whether or not to post this; it is so, so far out of my "zone" and I don't feel very confident putting it out there, but I feel that there isn't much point to a challenge if one doesn't actually feel challenged sometimes.
It's all cupcakes and Easter bunnies.
The inconsistencies of my mind are a mystery to me.