Writespiration #56 The Zen of 3

There’s a phrase, ‘everything happens in threes.’ I don’t know about you but, it describes my life story.

I can’t go through a day and just leave my phone at home, I have to lose my wallet and get a nail in my tyre all within the space of a few hours. There’s something almost karmic about it. It’s like the world has to balance all it’s Yins and Yangs, and the only way to do that is by f***ing my life up three times over. I guess the good thing about that is when Karma is on my side, I get three lots of luck. 🙂

The number 3 is also mystical: It comprises the sides of a pyramid, periods of time – past, present and future. It represent our wholeness – Mind, body & spirit and it’s even found in religion in the trinity – The father, son and holy ghost/spirit. This week I want you to think about the number 3. Use it in any way you like but it has to feature in your response.

Last week I wrote a story for my writespiration. Tomorrow, If you are interested, will bring the follow up.

Here’s mine:

Everything except for the rapid gasps of my own breath had quieted to a mute. My vision sharpened with the ferocity of panic that was rising in my chest. I wanted to scream. But I couldn’t. It meant opening my mouth. 

All I could see were three thick-black hairy legs. They were perched like towering skyscrapers on top of my nose. I knew the three legs weren’t alone.  I wondered whether I would be as afraid if there were only three. But I knew there would be five more touching other parts of my face.

I had three choices.

One, flick it off myself and watch it disappear into the depths of our room, whilst trying not to scream and let it fall into my mouth. But, what if  it disappeared under a chest of drawers never to be seen again until it crawls across my face again in six months time? No way was I letting that shit happen.

Two, close my eyes and lie here sweating and terrified until it decides to tiptoe off of its own accord. That could take hours, when do you ever actually see them move? I’d rather die than wait.

Three, try and wake Mike, without moving so much it crawls into my ear, or worse under the covers.

A trickle of sweat ran from my temple. I couldn’t last much longer, I needed it off. Waves of nausea crashed into the sides of my stomach like an angry ocean. I was going to be sick.

I inched my hand across the bed. Usually Mikes bulbous body squeezed against me whilst I tried to sleep was irritating. Tonight I was eternally thankful, I made a vow never to make him move over again. My shoulder dropped as I squeezed his hand so tight I made a knuckled crunch.

It’s legs twitched.

I let out a high pitched whimper through gritted teeth. If I swallowed it I was going to have to have my stomach pumped.

Mike sat bolt upright.

“Jesus Christ, Marie.”

“What? What? Get it off.”

“Hold still… there’s three of them.”

***

Now to last weeks writespiration which was all about the people watching you.

Rachel wrote this cracker of a story that left you wanting more. Follow Rachel for writing inspiration, tips, discussion and plenty of reviews.

It was all I could see in the pitch black of night. Three eyes glowed on the other side of my bedroom. This was not a stranger who broke into the house and was trying to rob us. This was someone—or something—much bigger than that.
It was a monster.
The eyes stared at me unblinking. I pulled the covers over my head and tried to count sheep in order to sleep. Everything would be better in the morning. The eyes wouldn’t be there when daylight shone through the window.
And yet… I couldn’t look away.
I pulled the blankets slowly off my face only uncovering my own two eyes. Sure enough, the set of three eyes were staring back at me.
They were bright. They were yellow. The eyes were open wide, unblinking. They stared directly at me their gaze not shifting one bit.
Could it blink? Could it even move? Every night the eyes stare, but they never do anything. It never spoke, never made any noise.
Sweat formed on my forehead. My arms became numb and stiff with fear. I finally couldn’t take it anymore.
“Dad! Come quick!” I shouted as loud as I could and then immediately covered my head in my blankets again.
Through the sheets I could see the room turn brighter.
“What? Is something wrong?” I heard the soothing sound of my father’s voice and let out a sigh of relief.
I peeked over the blankets and sat up in my bed. I pointed to the other side of the room directly across from my bed.
“There’s a monster in here.” I whispered.
My dad smiled at me. Why was he smiling?
“Honey, I promise there are no such things as monsters.” He walked over to where the monster had stood and looked up at the lavender painted wall.
There was nothing across my bed. The wall was bare and my dresser and closet were near my bed. There was absolutely nothing that could look like three yellow eyes watching me. There was only one explanation: it was a monster.
“See?” Dad stretched out his arms still facing the wall. He turned around and shrugged. “There is nothing here.”
Only because the light is on… I wanted to explain to him, but I couldn’t find my voice.
“Now go back to sleep. It’s late and you have school in the morning.” Dad kissed me on the forehead. He turned the light back off and closed the door.
The room was pitch black again. I stared at the closed door breathing slowly my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.
I told myself to put my head down on my pillow and close my eyes. I told myself not to look at the monster.
But I couldn’t help myself. I had to see if it was still there.
I turned my head to look in front of me and sure enough, the monster was still there.
And he brought a friend.

***

Geoffle wrote this creepy pararomance piece with an awesome ending. Geoff has just released a new book, click on his name to find out more.

Reflections

Herbert was the first male child in his family since anyone knew. The shock had been enormous, or so people said. Sadly he lacked for a role model as both his grandfathers and father had left before he reached school age. Surrounded by women who constantly fretted about him, he did as he was told. It was just… easier. He knew they knew best.
When his Grandma went into the nursing home, his mother was frantic. The fees would be crippling. She asked him to clear the family house for sale. As usual she reminded him to leave grandma’s dressing room to her. He’d been told early it was ‘Women only, Herbert’ and he never questioned it.
Herbert liked the woman from the auctioneers, Hazel. She was funny, kind and to Herbert’s limited world view, beautiful. She seemed to like Herbert. ‘What about in here?’ she’d asked early on. ‘Mother will deal with that.’ Hazel seemed to understand.
When both mother and grandmother died within a week of each other, Hazel and Herbert grew closer still. ‘You must sell.’ Herbert knew she was right but someone would have to clear out the dressing room. ‘I’ll do it, Herbert.’ She squeezed his hand, the only physical contact between them, but one full of charge.
The day they chose, a Tuesday, Hazel brought boxes and bags. ‘What about family things? Memories?’ Herbert shook his head. It should all go. He went out, bought something for their tea. Cream slices for afters. She deserved a thank you. Herbert dreamt of kissing Hazel’s creamy lips. Maybe.
He could tell something was different as he unlatched the door. Singing floated down the stairs, an old song, one his grandma sung. Outside the room, Hazel waited. She smiled as she saw him, melting his heart. ‘Oh it’s beautiful Herbert.’
‘Where’s it all gone?’ Nowhere could Herbert see the boxes and bags of things; had she already taken them to the auction house or the dump?
She took his hand; this time the charge seemed to hold him, like a magnetic force. The door was open and he could see the room was empty. ‘Come.’
The walls were papered in ancient yellow flowers, the floor bare. It was only once inside he saw the mirror on the far wall.
It was stunning. The carving was ornate, lines impossible to follow with the eye, the encrusted jewels fracturing the light into unfeasible rainbows. But it was the reflection that held him; the clarity was, to Herbert, extraordinary. It was like he was enhanced.
Behind he heard Hazel. ‘They just makes you understand.’
He sought out her reflection, and there she was, a faint blur to his right, standing a little in front of his mother who was in a slightly shaper focus. She shook her head, as did his grandmother. Grandma had those pursed lips that spelt trouble in his childhood.
To the left and right going back as far as he could see, each figure slightly clearer than the last, stood ranks and ranks of women, the nearest vaguely familiar from old photographs. Each woman bore those pursed lips: nearest the front it was disappointment while further away it turned to anger and then downright fury.
Hazel still spoke, ‘It’s like they’re waiting for me to ask any question. All that wisdom from all the women who have sat in front of it and told it their secrets.’
Herbert watched as many eyes bore into him. And through those eyes he heard voices, each saying the same thing. They were insistent. It was like his mind was being wrapped in knitting, each thread being pulled tighter.
He turned to Hazel. Her eyes blazed like the women’s in the picture. He shook as if chilled to the very marrow.
‘Will you marry me?’
Hazel smiled and kissed him. She nodded. Behind him, Herbert knew many others nodded too. ‘I will,’ she said, as did all the others.

***

Ali wrote this stunningly evocative piece, with such beautiful imagery. Follow Ali for all things Irish – her speciality is mythology, I promise you will learn all kinds of fascinating things. 🙂

I don’t need to see their faces to know they are looking; their stares burn. I can feel them watching my every move, their eyes lifting this part of me, prodding at that, while their fingers itch and twitch but remain pinned to their sides on arms stiff as rods of iron.

Their curiosity and revulsion crawls across my skin like flies, slowly sinking into the void where my soul once resided, that last lonely vestige of humanity crushed from being in a futile attempt at self-defence.

I don’t want to catch their eyes. I don’t want to acknowledge the spark of pity, disgust or embarrassment which lodges there. I don’t want to see them turn away, saving themselves from the assault of my presence by denying my existence.

I may not look like them, but I AM like them. I only want what they want, and that is to be loved.

***

Hugh wrote this cracking piece with a wicked twist at the end. Hugh blogs about all things writing, blogging, Toby and life. Pop over and check him out :D.

They watched me. It didn’t matter which way I looked or where part of the room I moved to, they were watching me.

Their eyes were dark and some of then frightened me. I just wanted to get out of there but the doors were locked. I’d tried banging on the doors so somebody would hear me but nobody came. They’d obviously arranged it so that nobody would come. I was now theirs, I was a part of them and they were never going to let me go.

I started to cry but they did not care. It made no difference to them. All they seemed to want was for me to be there so they could have something to watch.

Suddenly my heart leaped! A key turned in the lock and the door opened.

“Sorry Fred, I had no idea you were still here.”

I ran for the door almost knocking Neil’s security cap off his head, and left all those staring eyes on the paintings behind. I hated working in this art gallery!

***