Trifextra 101 Logic of a Struggling Good Tipper

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On to this week's Trifextra challenge.  This week we're asking for 33 of your own words inspired by the following picture.  If you use the picture on your blog, you MUST give proper attribution to the photographer by providing a link to the photo, not just to Trifecta.  Failure to comply will eliminate you from the challenge.

Thomas Leuthard/foster.com/

I am dedicating this to every server who has ever had a "studier" in their section, but most importantly to K.Galloway. She supported a family of 4 working as a waitress in a college town and voiced some disdain concerning poor tipping on a recent FB post. If I had more words to work with, an explanation would have accompanied, such being, it was two o'clock and the place was dead. The person in this picture passed her exam and is now a professional who tips very, very well. 
I've titled the short: "Logic of a Struggling Good Tipper"

Two deuces: Three hours.

Possible rounds: Twelve.

Average check:  Twenty dollars.

My check: Six dollars.

Average tip: Four Dollars.

Tip calculations: Forty-Eight Dollars.

Money in my pocketbook: Thirteen dollars.

Passing this exam: Crucial.

                                                            Thomas Leuthard / Foter.com / CC BY


                                

Trifexta Week 110 - Lovers Illuminate

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This weeks Challenge is:

QUAINT (adjective)

1:  obsolete:  EXPERT, SKILLED
2a:  marked by skillful design <quaint with many a device in India ink — Herman Melville>
  b:  marked by beauty or elegance
3a : unusual or different in character or appearance :  ODD
  b : pleasingly or strikingly old-fashioned or unfamiliar <a quaint phrase>

Remember:
• Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.
• You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.
• The word itself needs to be included in your response.
• You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.
• Only one entry per writer.
• If your post doesn't meet our requirements, please leave your link in the comments section, not in the linkz.

After realizing my first published submission (way up in the line) used the word improperly, I erased it and pretty much forgot about it. And then the lovely jowls of insomnia left me pitter pattering away at my insomniac machine and a new entry arose. I hope you like it. Better late than never, right?


Lovers Illuminate

It isn’t much different than I last remembered it to be. The sounds of the gulls, the deep, powerful breaths of the ocean, even the scents of sweet kettle corn, still, after all of these years, remain. My smile grows with the rise of wind-took kites, as they sail beyond the sparse cloud cover and I blink, so every flash of color and every detail of their flight is fresh to my eye, just like we used to see them. Such glorious serenity!

The boardwalk was always a place for congregation, even all of those years ago. It’s where I met him, you know? Right near where that same lone light post separates those two, once wooden, now metal benches. Wood deteriorates, you know? Metal, well I guess it can last, might get a smidge rusty, but it’ll be there years and years from now. Undoubtedly though, the two lonely benches will forever need a light post for romantic night’s snuggled warm with your lover. Lover. It has such a wondrous ring to it, the word, doesn’t it? Sixty-eight years, I had one of them.

The lives we lived, will live on in our extended family. We had only one child, but she proved to be quite productive; happy. Her family was large and gave us the blessings of nine grandchildren. They’ve all grown now, and at last count, which still flutters my heart to this very day, is twenty-three great-grandchildren. Every moment of life has been grand.

Well, I bess try making it over to the lamp post before my back tells me to stop, it’s just right over there, you see? It’s what we both agreed upon, he’ll have to wait for me for a time. I’ve carried this jar from Rochester, can’t stop now. We’ll both be scattered under that lamp, don’t you know? The different, but soon-to-be more quaint benches, will forever need a light post for romantic night’s snuggled warm with lovers. Forever lovers, Eduardo and Leona, illuminated.

Trifecta Week 110 - I Got Hired!

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Yeah, you would have been excited to have grown up in the carnival too. Who wouldn’t? I got my edumacation from the best in the business. Rosy, The Bearded Lady, taught me how to read and write, even though Rosy was no more of a lady than Stephen Tyler was, he sure could pull it off. He was smart, fatter than an over-fed hamster, funny, and grew up, just like me, in the carny. Out of ‘em all, I miss Rosy the most.

Socco the Clown, taught me, if you want to call it that, about the birds and bees. He was a dirty fuck, though. A fun-painted face, most parents would want to hire to play with the kids at a birthday party, was, underneath all of the paint, a rotten, dirty fuck. He could twist the balloons into just about anything you can think of, and I mean anything.  I’m not one of those guys who think clowns are scary, I’m more like a guy that wants to kick the shit out of every clown I see. Luckily, I’ve long been away from that scene.

The “ride-ops” were all on speed. And I don’t mean just a few. I speak literally. These guys would stay up days on end, setting up and breaking down their machines. After hours, they’d all gather into one of their trailers and party hearty. It still amazes me that the people boarding these rides would trust those guys. One look at their tweeked out face, and toothless smiles, would make me reconsider letting their grungy asses lock me into one of the potentially life-ending rides they built, and for which they are responsible. Uh, uh, no way! But people do.

You’d think I’d’ve gone the way of the carny, growing up in it, and all, but I didn’t. I’m surprisingly, more quaint that those weirdo’s. If I had more time to tell you stories, I would, but I’m running late for an interview. A Youth Councilor.

Trifeta Week 100 Challenge

Love to write? Good practice here!

This weeks writing challenge is to use the beginning five words, "The first time I saw..." and continue writing 33 more words, for a total word count of 38. The catch is that each of your 33 words must be only one syllable.




The first time I saw

You, you were good.

The next time, frail in bed;

Hot head hell.

The first time I cooled 

With a wet rag; you smiled.

 

The last time I saw you; I cried.

Dead.

 

 

I dedicate this poem to the numerous men, women and children who continue to lose their lives from the ravages of AIDS. This quick-spreading disease is far from over. It continues to destroy families and bodies in third world countries, where medicines are not readily available. You CAN help. Visit Topsy.org.za to learn how just a few dollars a month can make a tremendous difference in the lives of people who are still dying of this terrible disease.

 

Trifecta: Week 109 - Walking Pretty

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The challenge this week is to use the third definition of the word "Whatever", meaning something not important. Here is my entry:

An unusually pretty dog, had an extraordinarily ugly accident. The pretty dog lost the ability to use her hind legs, this was serious. Uncontrollable grief accompanied the owner to their local veterinarian.

“Your dog has had a spinal cord injury, and will need to use a walking cart for the rest of her life. I’m so sorry.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“There is a surgery, but with the extent of her injury, positive results are not expected.”

“How much is the surgery?”

“The surgery is three thousand dollars.”

“I just don’t have that kind of money, I barely scrape by every month.”

“Your dog will adjust to a walking cart, I suggest finding one as soon as you can, so you can get her used to walking with it.”

Such grim news emptied a nearly barren wallet.

*

A kind person donated a custom-made cart; the pretty dog slowly became used to walking in it. A bag specially made for paralyzed dogs was ordered. It was to be used while not in the cart to prevent further injury from dragged legs.

Then something amazing happened:

While secured in the bag, the owner noticed that the pretty doggie could stand and even take a step, or two on her own. An excited email was sent to the nurse who gave the initial bad news, in hopes that a response would shine with positivity. No such email arrived. Ignored. Whatever, ignoramous!

Not one to throw in the towel, the owner persisted in pursuit of an alternative solution and found a perfect one. Holistic acupuncture and laser treatments was such an alternative. Researched results were stunningly optimistic.

The first round of treatments were performed on their first visit. The pretty doggie took them like a champ. The positive outlook from their new vet was not grim. Weekly treatments, at-home exercises, and a special back-end leach, will show incredible improvements with loving patience.

Positive thoughts create positive outcomes. Negative, create negative. The owner is positive.

 

 

Shared Wise Words

It Is Possible.

My submission for the Trifectawritingchallenge.com, comes from a comment to a recent post "New Years Reso-Healing"   http://shawnbrucepruett.wordpress.com/. Thank you Chamblee, for sharing these inspiring three words. I believe each of them.

http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2013/12/trifextra-week-ninety-nine.html#comment-form

Trifextra: Week Ninety-Four--TrifeXXXtra "Bookstore Whore" (Graphic)

Ha-ha! I have been focusing my attention elsewhere, lately and haven't posted here, since way back, during week 86. There's always something, but I missed you guys. Boy was I surprised to see the challenge this weekend. Surprised is far less a word than I mean, but for lack of a better, it will work.

This morning I thought, 'well, maybe I'll go check out Trifecrtawritingchallenge.com and see what's been going on over there...maybe write a mini-science-related ramble, or something'. Nope, this weekend challenge was not going to go there at all. This challenge has proved to be different. Although I did visualize robotic love-making and telescopic penis', it didn't materialize.

I've already been working on another project and had a piece suited for this weekends XXX just about completed. I changed it around a hair and it hasn't found it's way into my project yet, but here it is, none-the-less.

I feel obliged to remind the reader this IS XXX. It is graphic, descriptive and yes, this sort of grossness happens, every day of every week in a major city somewhere.


Bookstore Whore

Darkness flooded my eyes, which were, only moments ago, bright with the sun’s light. A five-dollar bill assured my satisfaction. The clear plastic-stripped curtains beckoned my entrance. It is what I desired and where I would come to find love, many, many times afterwards. For now, it was shiny and new.

A maze of small rooms, each with a door, offered a possible encounter. Several guys walked the maze in the shadows. Some of them stood in front of unoccupied rooms, waiting for a taker. Like a carnie calls out a customer in the crowd, they waited; silently calling.

It was I who was taken, I wanted to win the prize. I heard and went. 

Darkness was lighted by the gay porno’s glow, playing on the small television screen on the back wall of the cubicle. It was enough light to barely see. Each of the side walls had large grapefruit-sized holes, cut into the perfect place as to receive a willing participant’s horniness. Black smears of who-know-what’s coated the circumference of the hole. The floor was sticky with bodily fluids, as I knelt to look into the hole.

Uncomfortable swelling filled my jeans with anticipation. It wasn't a clean place and my shoe stuck to the floor. Second thoughts lost out; the original prevailed. Into the hole I peered. A guy. He saw me looking! I quickly moved out of his view. 

Hormones reigned King and again I peeked through the hole. He was rubbing himself, he knew I could see. My hardness pulsated.  He slowly, methodically and sexily unzipped his jeans, teasing me. He pulled it out, halfway hard and wiggled it; up and down, he jiggled it in front of my face. My hands became wet with sweat and my heart raced. How badly I wanted him to put it through the hole. Terribly, I wanted to gorge.

Finally, and without warning, it appeared. Veiny and meaty, it was there, in front of me, garnishing my attention. I took it, gently into my hand, licked it with my tongue and wrapped my lips around it. After only moments, the guy pulled himself from me and put his grimy and unkempt fingers through the hole. He moved his finger to and fro in motion for me to come into his room. Personal maintenance forgiven, I came.

I walked into his room and he immediately grabbed my face and pulled it to his own. He kissed me rough and grabbed a handful of my hair.

“I wanna fuck you, so bad, man,” he told me.

I fell to the floor, again taking him into my mouth. He jimmied his pants from his waist and they fell to the floor. He pulled me from my armpits up to his face and kissed me deep, fishing his tongue to catch his catch. His scruffy face left my smooth one red and angry. I didn’t care. I wanted it and so did he.

With my pants now a pile of cloth on the nasty floor, he bent me over. He spat into his hand and as a spatula to frosting, he smeared the saliva onto my quivering and begging boy hole. Not at all your average cake walk. 

I felt gross afterwards; ashamed. There’s a first time for everything, this was mine.

 

I've moved on since, now I live with the consequence. And the memory.