The Woman in Red--Part II

At the well, Eunice clutched Ada’s forearm. Leaned in. “You shouldn’t give that woman provisions.”

            Ada turned slowly. Lifted the old woman’s hand. Let it fall.

           “What woman do you speak of?”

            The older woman huffed. “The woman with the issue, of course. She fancied your Dan at one time. And he her.”

            Ada reached for the rope. “It’s been years. I don’t worry for my husband’s affections.”

            “But she still has a fine form and a lovely face. Creamy skin as opposed to our brown.”

            Ada wrapped the rope around her palm twice. Laughed. “And you know a man who would dare touch her?”

            The old woman’s face clamped in on itself. “Passion can turn a man a fool.”

            Ada grunted as she brought up the bucket. “I will continue to assist the woman with the issue as I believe she would me if I were in need. She is my neighbor. Yours too.” She filled the woman’s water vessel. “You would do well to abide by the scriptures, Mother.”

            Eunice snorted. “And you would be wise to protect what is yours, daughter. What Yahweh has given you.”

            Ada perched the bucket on her hip. “I prefer to hold my gifts in an open hand not a fist, Mother. How can God give me more if my hand is closed?”

            The old woman shook her head. Filled and emptied her cheeks of air.

            “You’re just like your father.”

            Ada smiled at the clouds. “Thank you, Mother,” she said as the woman turned to go. “Don’t be late for supper.”

The Woman in Red--Part I

“You are dying,” the young girl shouted. She split the bushes and bolted through. Gestured wildly at the wet, red rush. “It’s like when God turned the rivers of Egypt to blood!”

            The woman in the stream startled. Spun around, searching. When she spotted the girl alone, she relaxed. Splashed water between her legs. Rinsed red to pink to clear. She bunched her tunic between her knees with one hand. Held out her other for balance. Picked her way carefully among the slick stones at the stream’s edge.  In the grass she stood with her back to the girl. Let her garment fall.

            “You must go,” she said. “Have you not heard? I am unclean.”

            Behind her, she heard the girl take a step closer. “But you are not so very old,” she said. “And you are beautiful. Surely someone—”

            The woman spoke over her shoulder. “There is no one.” She swept her hair up. “I have tried every . . . ” Twisted it, secured it with a wooden pick. “For years.” She stooped for her headcovering. “There is no one able.” Patted it in place. “Now go.”

            The girl darted forward. Laid a bundle swaddled in cloth on a nearby stone.

            “This is for you,” she said. “From my mother.”

            The woman gripped her ribcage with her forearms. “Who is?”

            “Ada.”

            She nodded. “A good woman.” Married to the man I loved, but good nonetheless. “Give her my thanks. And . . . tell her Shalom.”

            The woman felt the girl’s gaze on her back. Its intensity faded along with her footsteps. When the wood was silent, she turned. Knelt for the package. Held it up and inhaled. Meat. Always meat. For some reason everyone seemed to believe flesh would, could, cure her.

            She felt the trickle, the omnipresent flow, warm her inner thighs yet again so she pressed her thighs together. Squeezed her eyes shut but not before tears ran hot.

            As she approached her house she noticed the stack of cloths, browns and blacks neatly folded, on the ground by the door. She sighed.

            “And rags. To staunch the infinite ebb. Surely, meat and rags will improve my lot in life.”

            She lifted her face to the sky. So the sun would dry it. Extended her arms so its shine might warm her through. Spoke to the only one who listened to her, besides curious girls.

            “Forgive me, Jehovah-Jireh. They mean well. Surely they do. Thank you for your provision.”

(This will be a five part story. Please tune in tomorrow.)

Wretched . . . Pitiful



I sat opposite my father. Clamped my lips to stifle the sob working its way up and out. I gripped my ribs and rocked. My smart daddy.

            I glanced at my husband. “He’ll never smile again. Ever.”

            I jumped up. Scraped the tears from my cheeks. Pierced my hair with my fingers. Paced beside Dad’s Geri-Chair.

            “For crying out loud, he’ll never even walk again,” I said. “Look at him, He’s wretched. Pitiful.”

             A skim of tears shone in my husband’s eyes as he studied my father’s blank expression.

            I rattled Dad’s tray. Locked tight to his wheel chair. “Look at this! It’s a prison. On wheels.”

            I laid my hands on my father’s head. Like I was blessing him.

            “His hair is filthy,” I said. “When was the last time he was bathed?”
            Behind me, Tony rested his hands on my shoulders. “He can still hear, you know.”
            I whirled. Glared. “Hear what?” I said. “Blah, blah, blah! That’s all he hears. What good are three degrees now? When he doesn’t even know his own daughter?”
            I knelt before my dad. Gripped the surface where he outlined circles. Over and over.

            “Who am I?” I said. “Who am I, Daddy? Say it! Say my name!”

            My father didn’t move. Didn’t blink. I crumpled beside him. A moment later I scrambled to my knees in front of him. Stilled his pointer fingers with my palms.

            “It’s me, Daddy,” I said. “Remember me? How you used to call me Diane Sue with a Tin Lizzy too?”

            I smeared snot with my sleeve. Snatched the rumpled tissue Tony offered. Honked into it. I reached out and grabbed the sides of my father's stained bib. Yanked hard.

            “No bib!” I spat. “No daddy of mine, and certainly not one with a degree from Harvard, is going to wear a stupid, stinking bib.”

            Tony tapped my shoulder. I turned. Looked up.

            “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll come back next Sunday. Maybe he’ll be better then.”

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For the Trifecta Writing Challenge, you should write a creative response using the given word. You must use the word in your response, and you must use it correctly.  Your response can be no fewer than 33 and no more than 333 words. Your response can be anything—from fiction to poetry and everything in between. We're looking for creativity, thoughtfulness, and attention to detail. That being said, we do not disallow posts for any particular reason. We're not easily offended--you do what you've got to do to get your story told. Be artsy; be creative; stretch yourself. Write until your fingers bleed. We want to see your guts spilled out on the page. Once you have written a response, you must then post it to your blog and enter your blog's url in the linky form on Trifecta's home page. Today's word is WRETCHED.