Posted on

Wednesday’s Word: Once I clicked, I committed.

I’ve got a long list of excuses as to why today was not a good day for writing a new piece of flash fiction (in fact, if this post gets out by midnight tonight, I’ll be lucky). The problem is, I clicked over to Wordsmith.org this morning and read the word of the day and, therefore, committed myself to write something – an essay or a poem or a very short short – based on today’s word:

phycology: noun. The branch of botany dealing with algae. Also known as algology.

Algae. Green, slimy, stinky snood. Wordsmith never makes it easy, but then who said writing was easy?

(Past pieces from Wednesday’s Word exercises can be found by mousing over to the sidebar on the right and clicking on the Wednesday’s Word category.)

*****

Solitude

Joanne’s canoe glided towards the far side of the lake and carried her into a space void of campers, unreachable by motor boat, and reminiscent of times when the electricity went out at home; the air surrounded her with a heavy quiet.

Relief, she thought.

Sometimes she tired of the constant buzzing or humming caused by electric or other what not noises that smothered her at home and at work, sounds that were noticed more so when they ceased. She thought a weekend retreat to her cabin would offer solace, but the Wisnewskis were up this weekend, too. They were a raucous bunch, even at breakfast, which is why Joanne pushed off in her canoe shortly after her second cup of coffee.

from misserion via www.flickr.com/creativecommons

She relaxed her shoulders and relished her space and didn’t think twice about floating into a blanket of algae. The canoe cut through it like a wedge, splitting the muck and setting off spirals of green around her. She scooped up a handful of slime and rubbed her fingers together, searching for the substance. The algae held together only in mass.

Figures, she thought, just like the Wisnewskis. They thrive in clumps and encroach on the lake just the same.

Joanne breathed a sigh of disgust and, at the same time, lurched forward; the canoe had slowed, almost stopped. She brushed the tip of a sunken log, and as it scraped against the underside of the canoe, it pierced the quiet with a sound that frightened a kingfisher out of the trees just feet in front of her. She about had a heart attack because of that damn bird, and now, with her hands clenched to the sides of the canoe, she watched her paddle bounce and slip right off into the water. Into the muck. Away from her canoe.

Now, she certainly was alone, and the algae was closing in behind her.

Posted on

Oiling the Hinges: Writing on Wednesday’s Word

At almost 100 years old, our Grandfather clock stands with authority in our living room. Its inner workings are simple, but delicate, and when I don’t pay attention – when I let the weights wind their way to the bottom – the gears stick. Only a silent prayer and a gentle nudge of the minute hand will break an invisible seal and get the clock ticking again.

Caring for that clock requires the same diligence as nurturing all aspects of my writing. If I ignore one area of writing for too long, it grows stagnant, it stalls, and it takes muscle to get that part of my creativity flowing again.

Recently, I had a chance to crank out a flash fiction piece for Pam Parker for a Flash Friday post. She emailed me and two other writers a prompt and asked that we turn it into a 100 word flash in a few days (you can read the pieces here). Writing 100 words was not an easy task, and it was a reminder that I can’t ignore that side of myself that loves creating something new. Rewriting and editing are great (dare I say fun?….nah. Great, but not fun). But my muse gets bored helping me whittle down the same old short story. She wants shiny, new, get-the-blood-pumping kind of work. So, I’m dipping back into Wednesday’s Word today, basically so my muse won’t leave me high and dry when I return to those rewrites.

Today’s word from Wordsmith.org:

volte-face. noun. A reversal in policy or opinion; an about face

*****

Fickle

Lately, Nick predicted his wife’s moods with the same success rate as the new guy on Channel 9 when he predicted the weather: nine times out of ten he was wrong. When the forecast called for sun, Nick was pelted with insults like hail. If Nick braced himself for frigid temps, he came home to a barrage of affection. He began to wonder if there wasn’t something in the water. Or, maybe it was all that Sweet and Sour Chicken his wife had been eating for the last week. The sauce had an unnatural color, that was for sure, and maybe housed some other infecting quality.

He watched her scarf down another take-out order for the eighth day in a row. He shook his head.

“What?” she asked, as she licked each finger clean.

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just –”

“Hold that thought.” She pointed her index finger at him in a way that made him jump, then she ran to the bathroom. He considered retreating upstairs, to wait out whatever might be brewing. But, when she came out of the bathroom, she looked flushed and giddy.

She pulled him out of his seat and squeezed both his hands.

“I’m pregnant!” She beamed.

He rolled his eyes. “Thank God,” he said. “I thought you were going crazy.”

She squinted, then she slapped him, and then she drenched him in kisses.

Posted on

Word up. It’s Execrate, and I’m disgusted.

Wednesday’s Word means write something – an essay, poem, or flash fiction – based on Wordsmith.org’s word of the day and post it by midnight. Past pieces from this fun writing exercise can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

~

I’m feeling sassy today, maybe because this is the last Wednesday’s Word post for a while or because it’s the weather. Quite possibly, my attitude stems from reading the definition of Today’s word:

execrate. verb. to detest, denounce, or curse.

It’s hard to meditate on a word like that and not puff up my chest or haul out my soapbox. I curse the cold temps right now, for example, and the encroaching deep freeze that the meteorologist with the hair piece keeps gushing about (see? it is the weather). But, do you know the first thing that popped into my mind after I read execrate?

Food that cannot be chewed properly. If you’re a finicky eater like me, you know what I’m talking about.

*****

The Martyr

Cynthia closed her menu and set it on the table. Peter whispered to the waiter, who nodded and slipped away. Cynthia smiled that dreamy smile. Two weeks ago, Peter’s photo popped up on her online dating page with an “I’m interested” vote. She studied his profile. He had those deep, brown eyes that hinted at warm nights by a fire in December and boxes of rich chocolate on Valentine’s Day, so she bumped him up to “Let’s chat.” They talked online for an hour and a half. Then, they both sent the “You, Me, Now” instant message on the next day. It was so cute.

This dinner was their first real date, and she wanted to make a good impression. She paid him full attention and got chills down her spine when he said her name in the same sentence as “beautiful.” Was there a hint of an English accent in his voice? She hoped so.

“Beautiful!” He said again, when the waiter brought out their appetizer. Peter gave the waiter a thumbs up; Cynthia cringed. Oysters. On the half shell. Raw. Glistening globs drenched in their own puddle of, what was that she wondered, oyster juice? Peter’s hands flashed in front of her as he squeezed lemons and ground pepper and set out tiny forks.

“The best in the city!” He said. “Aphrodisiac,” he winked. All she had to do was eat just one. He lit up and spoke of Italy and the first time he ate them raw. She cooed on the outside but grimaced on the inside.

He picked up a shell and shimmied the oyster into his mouth and down his throat. He groaned. She shivered. But, what choice did she have? It was the oyster, or Peter. Or, the oyster and Peter. Either way, she told herself, she had to do it. She surveyed the platter for the smallest one. She picked up the shell and held up her hand. In a few seconds, it would all be over.

“To us,” she said, and she gripped the seat of her chair.

[tweetmeme]