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Wed’s Word and a little poetry: The Barista

Every Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). Past essays, poems, or flash fiction pieces can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

Today’s word:

orison. noun. A prayer.

This week, the theme on Wordsmith.org is that there is no theme. Words rise from the pages of the dictionary at random. And, a word that means prayer could lead anywhere.

*****

The Barista

The alarm woke Lucy
From a sweet dream
Where she walked
On the beach,
Hand in hand,
With that handsome Barista
Who worked
At her favorite
Cafe.

His dark curls glistened in the sun.
She gazed into his eyes.
Her knees began to buckle.
He caught her
By the small of her back
And he smiled,
Not concerned
That she was older
By a decade, at least.

He leaned in for a kiss…

“Dear God,” Lucy sighed,
Then, she rolled out of bed.
“I’ve got to stop reading those books.”

In the mirror, she saw
Mostly hair.
A brown mass
All askew
And ready
To fight.
She brushed
And she teased
And she tried to tame.

“Jesus,” she said,
“I surrender, already”
And she raised her hands
To whatever!
Her hair
Had won.

She walked
To the corner
In quiet meditation.
Practicing
Her order
For the Barista.

Cafe latte, please.
Why yes, two percent.
You remembered,
How sweet.
My number?
Oh, Lord.
Of course.

In line for the counter,
Lucy studied the pastries.
Be subtle, she thought,
Don’t act desperate, she prayed.
But, she couldn’t
Forget
The dream.

The order began.
The latte,
The milk,
And then,
“Your card?”

He asked! she thought.
“My card,” she said.
So sly, this man.
Then, she paused
And fumbled,
And rifled
in her purse
For something
What was it?

“Your card,” he said.
“To punch,” he pointed
To the sign that promised
Free coffee to those
Who frequent
the shop.

“Dear God,” she sighed,
Her face bright red,
Her knees both weak.
“I have got to stop reading those books.”

*****

He’s missing the dark curls, but here’s the World’s Best Barista. Coffee, anyone?

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Wed’s Word Flash Fiction: Irene

Every Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). Past essays, poems, or flash fiction pieces can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

Today’s word:

irenic. adjective. Promoting peace or conciliation.

Sometimes, it’s the etymology of a word that sparks an idea for a story; other times, it’s the picture that accompanies the definition.

From Greek eirene (peace). Eirene/Irene was the Greek personification of peace.

*****

Irene

Irene wasn’t always a peacekeeper. It wasn’t until she had her horde of children that she realized she had to learn to mediate or fall to pieces.

“Horde” seemed a bit harsh of a word, she thought, especially on the good days, when the hours sailed by smooth and they all said “please” and “thank you” and “can I have a turn when you’re done?”

But, today – all week, really – had not been smooth. Irene walked circles around the house, clearing up misunderstandings, working negotiations, and ceasing altercations in progress.

At six years old, Rosie was the oldest. But, today she regressed to a three year old. After breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Rose folded fast into a lump onto the floor. Each time, she refused to speak.

“Your words, Rosie,” Irene said, exasperated. “You’ve got to learn to speak up for yourself. I can’t help you unless I know what you need.”

Turns out, it was something about the way Margaret looked at her.

Michael and Michelle had no problem using their words. All day, they fought over who got more of anything and everything: oatmeal, crayons, and space on the couch. Irene did her best to ensure absolute equality between the two of them. She packed a measuring tape in the pocket of her khakis, along with a pad of paper and a pen, and measured and marked down exact numbers and inches.

Little George turned ugly when Irene least expected him to, so she kept a close eye on him. He’d go about playing in peace until Margaret walked by. Then, he’d dive at her with both arms, grab whatever toy she held, and break out in a serious tug of war.

“Little George!” Irene shoved her arm in the middle of a fight over a red-headed doll. “You don’t even like Strawberry Shortcake!” He let go of the doll long enough for Margaret to scurry down the hall.

Little George cried.

“Honey.” Irene put her arm around him. “Why would you want something you don’t even like?”

“Because, she has one and I don’t.”

That night, when Irene sat down to watch TV, the news flashed a photo of a UN soldier – his face haggard, his eyes flat, his shoulders slumped. Irene knew that look.

“I quit,” she told her husband when he finally made it home from work.

“Quit what?”

She was washing her face. She turned to him, her face covered with foam.

“This whole mommy business. I quit.”

He laughed. She didn’t.

Continue reading “Wed’s Word Flash Fiction: Irene”

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Wed’s Word and Flash Fiction: The Creeping Vine

Every Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). Past essays, poems, or flash fiction pieces can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

Today’s word:

esker. noun. A long, narrow ridge of gravel and sand deposited by a stream flowing in or under a retreating glacier.

The visual I needed appeared in the quote that followed the definition:

‘My Grade 11 geography teacher likened an esker to the mess left by a drunk simultaneously walking backward and throwing up.’ — John Barber.

Now there’s a powerful image.

Following the image, I brainstormed this morning and these words came to mind: refuse, scars, and collateral damage.

~

The Creeping Vine

Franny pulled the hospital sheet back and looked down at her arm. The wound had soaked through the bandage and formed an elongated letter S. She would have to call the nurse.

Her mother slept in the chair next to the window with her feet propped up on the bed. Franny twisted her head around to see the clock that hung on the wall behind her, but she couldn’t decipher the difference between the big hand and the little hand. Maybe it was the medication they’d given her last night.

She could turn on the TV, she thought, but decided against it. She didn’t want to wake her mother.

She wasn’t ready for the questions.

Always, her mother bombarded her with questions as soon as she saw Franny was awake and alert. Each time, Franny did her best to respond, but her answers were never quite good enough.

“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know why I did it.”
“I only meant to take one or two of your pills. I guess I lost count.”

Her mother needed Franny to explain, she always said, but even Franny didn’t understand. Her depression came on slowly and then pulled her down hard, like the creeping vine that snuck in under the neighbor’s fence last summer and took hold of the rose bush she’d helped her mother plant. The vine look harmless at first and stayed close to the ground. Then, one day Franny found her mother panicked over the bush.

Continue reading “Wed’s Word and Flash Fiction: The Creeping Vine”