In the hustle and bustle of the first week of school, I’ve struggled to find time to write. I’m tired, unfocused, disorganized.
So, here’s an exercise I’m giving myself (and you too, if you’re in need of a reason to write):
It’s called “Wednesday’s Word of the Day.” Click wordsmith.org on a Wednesday, see Today’s Word, and let that word be the inspiration for a story.
Yesterday’s word was “wildcatter.” I like that word, wildcatter. If I say it with a good Southern drawl and a little attitude, I feel a sense of power.
Wildcatter.
But yesterday was Tuesday, and this is Wednesday’s word. Plus, I couldn’t think of a story with wildcatter in the mix. So, on to Wednesday:
Frogmarch.
verb: To force a person to walk with arms pinned behind the back.
The word itself sounds silly, but the meaning brings a disconcerting visual to mind, for me anyway.
Here’s my story, flash fiction, with frogmarch taking the lead.
_________________________________________________________________________________
After six Miller Light’s–on top of the two or three drafts he drank at the bar before–he jumped the railing and ran, arms flailing, across to center field. Security swarmed in from all directions, cuffed, and frogmarched him back across the infield. He grinned in response to the cheers and camera flashes, even as security jerked and pulled him through an unseen door into the bowels of the stadium.
She stood there, in the crowd, laughed nervously, and perspired.
“Helluva boyfriend you got there!” Someone hollered two rows back.
“Idiot, more like it,” an angry fan protested, “they were just about to score a run!”
She waited five minutes, maybe less. It felt like ten. Then she gathered jackets and her purse and left his half empty bottle. After asking a few ushers “where” and “how much trouble,” she gave up on trying to bail him out and went home to wait for the call.
When he did call, she diligently picked him up. She was nervous. He was perspiring. And he was angry.
It’s just the drinks, she repeated to herself, as he yelled from the seat next to her. Then, she slammed on the brakes to avoid running a red light.
“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
He flew forward just enough to bump into the dash. Obsenties flew. Accusations. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. And her eyes darted left to right to left again, searching for security.
