Trifecta Week Seventeen

This week I decided to succumb to bug that has caught other writers before me (see LucidLotusLife's Who Shot Mr. Burns Part I and Part II). I've attempted to further a story I started in Week Sixteen, Along the Rails. Below is a bit of back story for the eldest of the children who last week were walking along the railroad tracks.

The Trifecta Writing Challenge is to write a story with no less than 33 words and no more than 333. Each story must use Webster dictionary's third definition for a word supplied by the fine editors (or gleaned from writers' Get to Know Me posts).

This week's word is vulgar, which lent itself nicely to my story:

3 a : of or relating to the common people : plebeian

   b : generally current : public

   c : of the usual, typical, or ordinary kind

And yes. It is precisely 333 words. I need more.

 Along the Rails -- Meet Terry

She was used to it, this sitting at the back of the classroom. She knew this teacher thought her vulgar, not deserving of her attention. But she was determined.

Terry was a good student despite her responsibilities at home. If she couldn’t retain the attention of this teacher she would still work. The previous year Mrs. McCracken had given her what others wouldn’t -- encouragement -- and she stored it internally like gold.

Those nuggets grew like crystals within her resolve, rock hard and glistening. One day the sharp edges would be useful but for now this teacher’s distaste stung.

The child had learned to read early, before her mom reluctantly registered her for school. Her influence came in the form of an older girl, Felicity, who summered in the cabin next door, arriving each season with a tote bin packed with books.

At first Felicity would read to her, the two of them nestled in the hammock between strong trees that stood majestically in the well-manicured yard. Eventually Terry could read to herself, the two whiling away hours swinging between strong trunks, buried in books.

Felicity was older than Terry, a shy, quiet “only” child grateful to finally play big sister. Her mother, quiet too, almost never emerged from their darkened cabin. On days she would, it was only to instruct gardeners or grab the local farm’s weekly vegetable box.

Felicity’s father arrived on weekends and she would be gone from sun up to sun down, chasing fish on the lake. On those days Terry was less happy, paging through a few rag-tattered books at her own house, retelling the stories as best she remembered to her own younger siblings. On those days it was much harder to make herself scarce.

But now, some three years later, Felicity was in the city and Terry was at the back of this miserable classroom. Her hair loose and unruly, her clothes tattered, her pen ready to write. This, she thought, was her only chance.

*************

I would love to list the other ongoing stories I've thus far enjoyed parts of and am dying to read in full. I know there are more than the one below (like isn't there one about faeries?) but real life calls so I can't search. Teachers are on strike, I have more than my own children running rampant and demanding lunch, the drywall is done around our windows and the paint is dried so today I must find time to return my sitting room to a place where one may sit. Feel free to post yours in my comments section or email it to me and I will add it here:

The Ballad of Helene Troy by Lance at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog*
The Land and Under the Land by Edward Hotspur

*yes probably.