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Wednesday’s Word

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.

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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.

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Postcard Fiction

I’ve heard of flash fiction and very short shorts. But today I learned that flash fiction can be broken down into a whole other slew of sub-genres and tiny word counts.

  • A drabble: 100 words
  • Nanofiction: 55 words (these are complete stories, people)
  • And, my favorite…Hint fiction: 25 words (if you think you’re up to this type of challenge, here’s a contest)

On SheWrites.com, several women writers have formed a group: Flash and Micro/Fiction & Nonfiction. Each week there is a theme, and contributors post their best very, very short stories. You have to be a SheWrites member to participate, but SheWrites is a great resource for and community of women writers.

This week’s theme: Postcard fiction, 250 words or less. What can you write in 250 words?

In 246 words, here’s my story (and I’m sticking to it):

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She didn’t look so old three days ago.

I stopped by her apartment after work for our usual Wednesday evening coffee date. She just got back from her mall walking and said she had gotten an eye-full at the Victoria’s Secret display.

“I don’t think their hardware could hold together much of my old body.” She laughed hard. “I’d be a nightmare in satin!”

She talked, while she buzzed around the kitchen. She washed out a juice glass and her favorite coffee cup. She grabbed a cup for me and turned on “the tea kettle.” She dropped a few teaspoons of Foldgers in our cups, then topped the grinds with sugar.

“I put a little extra sugar in yours, honey. I know you like it sweet. That water’ll be hot any minute now.”

She was vibrant as she danced in and out of the late afternoon sunlight that streamed through her patio doors.

But now, laying there in the hospital bed, she looked old. Her hair had gone white. It was gray before, but now it was definitely white. And the skin on her arms seemed looser. Maybe it was always that way, and I just never noticed.

I pulled back the sheet and found her hand. Ice cold. I lifted it to my cheek to try and warm her fingers. She breathed deep.

“Is that you, honey? Is it Wednesday already?”

She turned to me. I smiled and tried to hide the fear in my eyes.