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Big Mouth Bass

Today’s Wednesday’s Word entry comes to you as a result of Jamie Grove’s suggestion in a recent post on what to do when you don’t feel like writing: put A to B. Get thy butt to thy chair, and write anyway.

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The theme this week on Wordsmith.org is eponyms: words based on a person’s name. You have to be famous and/or do something really ingenious for your name to become part of the English language. For some odd reason, Wordsmith.org doesn’t acknowledge any eponym related to me. Clearly they don’t know the story of how I became a Lion’s Club member, even though I’m a woman. I only stayed in for a year, and it might be a figment of my imagination (or a nightmare), but still….

However, the name André Maginot comes into focus with today’s word of the day:

Maginot line. noun. An ineffective line of defense that is relied upon with undue confidence.

You can read about André Maginot here, and learn how his great line of defense fell short in actual protection.

Now, on to some flash fiction.

You may not know Millie. She is the main character in the novel I mention when I talk about how much I love rewrites. Millie lives alone, and she likes it that way, for the most part. She requires a large cushion of personal space, for sanitary reasons and because of her suspicion of most people. She prefers to observe life from a distance, behind a window or behind a desk or in the shadows. Over the phone, she is amicable; in person, quiet or curt.  Today, I imagine Millie and the Maginot line.

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Millie’s best line of defense lay in tight formation along the top edge of her place mat. As she tore off bite-size pieces off her bran muffin and chewed, with purpose, she studied each pill: fish oil,vitamin E, vitamin D, and (the catch-all) Mega-Mix Iron Supplement – iron complemented with vitamins C and B12, a dash of Folic Acid and a pinch of Copper. The Mega-Mix, her mother insisted, would boost her energy and give a little color to her cheeks.

The Mega-Mix pill was the same color and length as her mother’s manicured nails, the one on her index finger to be exact. The image of her mother’s nail, in bright corral polish, pointing to and tapping the vitamin brochure, was fresh in Millie’s mind.

“You need all of these, Millie,” her mother said as she ran her finger down a list of vitamins for women over forty.

“I’m thirty-nine, mother.”

“You can never start too early. Besides, you’re pale as a ghost and you sleep too much. Get this one for sure,” she tapped over the picture of the Mega-Mix.

The vitamins came in the mail yesterday. Millie hadn’t opened them until this morning. Now, studying the Mega-Mix pill on the table, she saw it had the thickness of a marble. She was worried. She had a high gag reflex. The other three vitamins would be hard enough. She decided to take the Mega-Mix last.

She took a deep breath. Her right hand scooped up the fish oil and, like a catapult, shot it into her open mouth. Her left hand swung from the side and grasped her water glass. She flooded her mouth, so that the pill floated for a brief second. Then, she tossed her head back as if she were in a fit of laughter and swallowed, forcing the pill down her esophagus in one strong gulp. She repeated the process two more times then paused at the Mega-Mix.

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Incidental Fame

Well, it’s Wednesday. And, Wordsmith.org threw out a doozy today:

artiodactyl. adj. having an even number of toes on each foot.

At first, I read the definition wrong and thought, everyone has the same number of toes on each foot. Big deal.* Then, I remembered a girl back in middle school who lost one of her big toes in an accident with a lawn mower. She wore sandals anyway.

That’s intriguing, and brave. I could write about that.

But, the definition says an even number – like two, four, six, eight. Therein lies the challenge to write a story about feet that sidestep the standard five-toe precedence.

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It was only because Allison royally pissed off her sister, Maggie, in 2007 that she agreed to the pre-wedding hair, nails, and make-up gig. She was still making amends for the Prom Queen shake up that happened their senior year at Rosemont High.

In high school, Maggie wore a cheerleader outfit and Allison dressed in Goth. When it came time to choose the Prom Queen, half the school voted for “that Carson girl.” It wasn’t until Maggie tried to take the stage, and the crown, at the Prom Dance that they both realized the school voted for Goth, not Glamour. The principal waved Maggie off the stage and motioned for Allison to take the spotlight.

That night, Maggie screamed across the dinner table that she was appalled and angry and “HUMILIATED!”

Allison shrugged her shoulders. “I had no idea,” she told her parents. “You know me, I only went to the Prom, because Maggie insisted!”

Maggie didn’t talk to Allison for the next two years.

Last Christmas, when Maggie got engaged, Allison agreed to stand up in her wedding. Wanting to keep the peace, she promised to do whatever Maggie asked to prepare. An up-do was hard enough to swallow, but when Maggie mentioned pedicure, Allison almost choked. In silent defiance, Maggie dared her to say no, to give good reason for another Maggie boycott. But, Allison just smiled.

“Sure, just say when and where!”

It was on a Saturday at a nail salon in a strip mall on the northwest side of town. After an hour and a half bus ride on a 100 degree day, Allison welcomed a foot soak and a rub. She eased her anxiety by reminding herself Maggie was the star of the show. All I have to do is sit, smile, and let them paint.

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Wednesday’s Word Welcomes a Guest

I love to share, unless you ask me for a bite of my Twix bar on a day when I horde a candy bar and a Coke as the solution to my problems.

Wednesday’s Word, though, is a treasure worth sharing. As an exercise, Wednesday’s Word dismisses writer’s block and makes it possible to turn any word into inspiration for a story. Today, I welcome E. Victoria Flynn to the word of the day challenge.

I usually let Wordsmith.org call the shots on a given Wednesday. However, I wanted to flex the rules for a guest author. Victoria bravely accepted my invitation to write a flash fiction piece on a word of my choosing, and I gave her more than 24 hours to write on her word.

Today, Victoria shares a bit of her writing process and the resulting story.

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Victoria says: I am so thrilled to be writing this week’s Wednesday’s Word.  I was actually given three words to choose from: Wrong, Bees, and Living room.  The assignment was very open, write a short story, either fiction or non, using one or all of the words.  I don’t write fiction often, so I thought this would be a great excuse to give it another go.  The first thing that came to mind was the bee problem we had in our own home this past summer, then I remembered the story my husband brought home from the hardware store.  This is an adaptation of that story.

Nothing’s Wrong

Maddy heard the bees inside the farmhouse walls.  She knew they were there, couldn’t shake it.  Even when Jack said,  “They’re outside, Maddy.  You know those bees are always hovering out by the clover.  You only hear ‘em when you’re standing by the window.”  Even then, she could feel it.

It didn’t matter though.  Maddy had quit arguing with Jack.  As a matter of fact, she had quit mentioning the bees at all, but he always knew when she was listening.  The years had taught them the language of married.

Maddy and Jack had been living on a little parcel of land in southwestern Wisconsin for a good 14 years—a hobby farm, something to do after the kids moved on into their own lives, after the theater closed down.  It was comfortable living.  Maddy looked after the gardens and house and fed the chickens.  Jack kept to the tool shed and repairs and worked for the county clearing snow in winter or clipping grass along the highway.

“I don’t know why you get so worked up about those bees,” Jack said slugging down the last cup of after-dinner decaf.   “They’re just doin’ their job makin’ honey for the bears.”

Maddy watched him.  She had his face memorized, knew how every crease had formed, yet his way of thinking still bewildered her.  “We don’t have bears around here,” she scolded picking up his plate and returning to the sink.

Jack let out a gruff sigh, and leaned back in his chair.  The floor squeaked.  “What ya mean is, you ain’t seen no bears,” he said, closing the discussion.  “Gotta remind me to pick up some oil in the morning.  Dad-blamed tractor’s been burnin’ heavy all week.”  With that he took to the living room, Jack’s pride and joy.

He’d spent months in that room plastering, painting and laying down a tender oak wainscoting to match the original floors.  Maddy thought when Jack entered that room he knew he was King.  Not her though, she loved the kitchen as if it were one of her children.  Finally, she thought when they first walked into the house,  Finally, a kitchen I can cook in.  It was just the way of things that it had to happen after the kids were grown.

Maddy emptied the sink, washed down the counter tops and placed her hand on the wall, listening.  She felt it hum.

It reminded her of the hum of their old apartment back in the early years.  Those years were hard on her, the winters worse.  Through her adoration of her children she had felt herself drifting.  Sometimes she knelt in the tiny rented kitchen and sobbed while the kids called out an incessant, “Mama.  Mama!”.  But, there were the good days too bathed in laughter and creativity, hours spent holding and reading story after story.   Those were the times she felt right.

Maddy put away the last of the kitchen towels and picked up her knitting.  She joined Jack in the living room.

As usual, he was folded in his chair, flicking through the channels on the TV.   “What is this crap they’re putting on these days?  I don’t get this reality television.  It’s just a bunch of stupid people trying to get attention.”

“Why don’t you put a movie in, Jack?”  Maddy said over her knitting, “Didn’t Kate send you something in the mail the other day?  She always finds interesting things.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, “She sent one of them independent movies this time.  Something about Russia.”

“Well, put it in,” she said.

Jack roused himself and plodded over to the TV.  “Where is it?” he said then, “Damn!” as he kicked the corner of the entertainment center.  He bent down to search a drawer, but knocked a red cardinal figurine off the curio shelf.

Groaning as he contorted his body further to retrieve the knick-knack, Jack noticed something oozing between the cracks of the wood paneling.  He looked closer and saw more drips stuck to the wall.  “What in the world?” he said and reached out.  It was sticky.  He touched his finger to his tongue.  “Honey,” he said.

“What is it, Jack?” Maddy asked.

“Nothing,” he said and hoisted himself up and went out to the shed.

***

E. Victoria Flynn is a nontraditional student of Creative Writing with a strong interest in memoir and personal essay.  She maintains a memoir blog, Penny Jar, as well as a parenting blog, Mama’s Experience Initiative.  Victoria lives in Southern Wisconsin with her husband and two young daughters.  Most days she can be found jumping on her bed or twirling in circles.