Be Somebody

I’ve known there’s a book in me since the fourth grade. That’s when my teacher, Miss Smith, removed her cat-eyed glasses and used them to point at me.

            “Dana, this is excellent writing.”

            She came toward me, my homework bunched in her hand. Knelt beside my desk and smoothed the pages. As she underlined various words and phrases with her pointer finger, I inhaled her fragrance—flowers and fruit. Strawberries maybe. I want to be just like you when I grow up, Miss Smith. For real.

            She drew a red circle around an adjective. “Mark my words, sweetheart,” she said. “Any fourth grader who uses the word bloodcurdling is destined to be a writer some day.”

            She wrapped my shoulders with her firm, young arm. Leaned her weight into me. It felt awkward and warm, all at once. I shut my eyes tight. Do it again. Please, do it again. Instead she rose, smoothed her jumper, and returned to the front of the room. Resumed grading papers. I sat a little taller in my seat.

            An hour later Corrine Hunt lost her lunch—cheesy beefy mac and chocolate milk—on the desk behind me. Got some in my hair. Even that didn’t burst my bubble. Mrs. Smith thought I’d be something someday.

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.

Getting to Know You . . . I Mean, Me

This post is in response to a getting-to-know-you activity on a writing website I just discovered: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/ Participants were asked to copy and paste the questions and then answer them. These are my responses.

What is your name (real or otherwise)?

Diane Tarantini (Preferably sung to the tune of the song, “Gary, Indiana” in

The Music Man.)

Describe your writing style in three words.

Spare, honest, confessional

How long have you been writing online?

Since 2009

Which, if any, other writing challenges do you participate in?

http://writeonedge.com

Describe one way in which you could improve your writing.

Be not as spare. Maybe.

What is the best writing advice you’ve ever been given?

Write every day.

Who is your favorite author?

Harper Lee

How do you make time to write?

I endeavor to post a piece on my blog every Friday. That “deadline” coerces me to carve out the time to write my piece and edit it (multiple times). Setting submission goals is helpful also. Oh, and like someone else said, I don't do housework. Much.

Give us one word we should consider using as a prompt.

Grok

Direct us to one blog post of yours that we shouldn’t miss reading.

http://caughtbutterflies.blogspot.com/2012/01/love-hate-friendship.html