Sempiternal

Will we forever be held to this, made always to bear the burden and the shame and the regret? Why carry a torch that you cannot extinguish? You are certain only to burn.

I walked away long ago. I asked you to come with me, but you said no. You smiled as you doomed yourself to this. You, who does not believe in fate.

Gelid

She ventured out into the storm, despite her brother's warnings. She had to see Aidan, had to let him know the truth. He couldn't leave if he knew, and she didn't want him to go.

Snow pelted her face but she pulled the scarf tighter around her head. Nothing would stop her, not Joseph and not hail and not even God himself.

Tartar and bibulous

The drink made him strong. It wasn't the usual whiskey or tequila, but a special blend he liked to call Monster's Brew. The name was apt, and the resulting fists were hard.

Meliorism

Meliorism. n. The belief that the world tends to improve and that humans can aid its betterment.

I've saved this word for over 2 weeks. I wanted to write something very deep and meaningful, because the moment I read the definition, I felt something within me struck, plucked like the string of a harp.

But now I'm not sure it's the best idea.

Regardless, this word is representative of my optimism and my hope. I will leave it at that.

Compunction

Do your dreams whisper through your ear? The sound comes out the opposite side, as if you are speaking into the night. But your eyes are closed and you cannot see the truth for what it ought to be. Instead you are disturbed by the images behind your eyelids, the guilty people inside your behavior, the way he looks at you.

Multifarious and mimesis

Like a child, she sings back the words I speak. I am not so much older sometimes. We are a great diversity, so we cannot always get along. Maybe it was my fault this time. I am willing to forget if you are willing to forgive.

Niveous and gnomic

Blanket of white burying my thoughts, obscuring my disturbed recollections. These are the lights that twinkle in our eyes when we think we have nowhere else to turn. Old sayings and bits of wisdom are powerless in the battle for reason. Only experience can lead us into the clearing.

Amenable

He'd agreed to it, sure, but that didn't mean he liked it. Not one bit. It was always a bitter disappointment, never what he needed it to be. She specified her preferences, asked if he minded, and of course he said no. What choice did he have? She wouldn't have agreed to meet up if she didn't think she'd get her way. Sometimes he wondered why he didn't think of all this beforehand and then scrap the whole terrible idea. He supposed it was a matter of seeing. You had to see to believe. Well, he was seeing, all right, but he still could barely believe that he'd gotten himself into this. Again.

He was silent while she went at it. She kept looking at him, as if to see whether or not he was satisfied, but he knew she didn't really care. She would take her fill regardless of his displeasure. She would use him, as she always did.

"God, Michael," she finally said. "It's just a piece of pie."

He stared at her, realizing she didn't understand. And she probably never would.

Crèche and hermitage

Every year after Thanksgiving, Richard packed up all his things -- the clothes fit in the one plastic bag, the utensils and the photographs in the other -- and walked four blocks from the underpass to the Baptist church. He did it early in the morning while the sun was still hiding under its blanket of clouds, that way no one but the stars and the moon would see him. And those guys had always been his friends, his secret-keepers, his most trusted comrades.

The Baptist church had a young minister whose enthusiasm had led him to build by hand a manger for the nativity scene. This set was collapsible, and annually the congregation helped him pull it out from the adjacent garage, set it up on the front corner of the lot, and fill it with straw, giant figures of Mary and Joseph and the wisemen, and various farm animals. They left the baby Jesus out, because they thought it was sacrilege to imitate his form.

Richard was just fine with that. It left him someplace high and dry to store his things.

So with all his worldly possessions hidden under baby Jesus's blanket, he wrapped him self in straw and the shawl from Mary's shoulders, and he slept in the back of the manger. He could usually sneak in around midnight and stay until just before daybreak. The few cars that went by at night never saw him in the dark, not behind all those fake idols.

This was his home, more than anywhere else in the world. He only got it for a month or so each year, but that was better than nothing, he reckoned. Better than all the people who didn't have homes no time of year.

Reverberate and benefaction

The children's chatter echoed throughout the great halls. Little boys with felt caps and girls with long capes weaved between each other, on their way to lunch or class or recess. The Academy was full of students, but only one was there on scholarship: Geraldine Clemmons.

Provenience and amity

From the start, we had an understanding.

Pero durante el viaje, nos perdimos, y ahora estamos muy lejos de la mar buena. Estos aguas nos rotan, nos mienten, nos ahogan. No puedo olvidarme. No puedo perdonar.

I think my obsession is telling.

Persiflage

I could tell you that none of this matters, that it's all just frivolous talk, but the truth is, I might want it to be more. The truth is, I don't know. The truth is, I hope you do. The truth is, we just keep going from here.

Calumny

You can blacken my name, but I will not raise a hand against you. We work in different ways. I know forgiveness, I know happiness. You know jealousy and bitter righteousness. You know no peace.

Finical

He hated the damn machine almost as much as he hated not having it. She fell in and out of commission the same way human women fell in and out of love. He wondered if there was something wrong in his techniques towards both.

"Come on, baby, just do this for me one more time," he coaxed. He hit the right buttons, but nothing happened. Again, he couldn't help but think of the similiarities between this stupid processor and those in the opposite gender.

Discursive

Rambling discourse, avoidance of truth. Never lies but always shadows. These are the ways men creep around themselves. We are but specks of light in the black, moonless night. Our silence creeps into their skin. There may be a way to save everyone, but I think we've buried it in the earth.

Doch-an-dorris

"Just a quick parting drink," he said. It was more of an order than a request. I'd had a few myself, and as we'd done this many times, I didn't think much of it. He was a big guy, and he could handle his drink.

The one who couldn't handle it was the young woman he hit on his way home. She shrieked and shattered and rolled into a ditch. She was like glass: broken and unfixable.

Now he doesn't drink -- not a sip, not ever -- and I am the only one who knows why. They never found her body, so we did a good job. But a good job at a bad thing isn't really a good job at all...

Quorum and tocsin

The council met in secret, hoping not to betray their betrayal. All but one had arrived, and they waited nearly half an hour before they decided they must continue without him. Who knew how long they had before they were discovered?

They conducted their entire meeting, made the decision to overrule their leader. They voted, they recorded it, and they swore themselves to secrecy. That's when the missing man stepped out of the shadows.

"I never intended to take part in this," he said. "I merely wondered whom of you would go through with it. Now I know."

Then he sounded the alarm.

Pari passu

The distance you slip away from me every day is the same as the height I move my heart up, away on shelves, to keep you from reaching, from touching, from breaking. It hurts less that way, the magnetic pull weaker and less appealing. I can resist your gravity. It's a good thing I never believed in it.

Unfledged

She was not ready to fly. Some said it was a matter of time, some of maturity. The fact is, she was afraid.

Touchstone and elucidate

"He was a quintessential part of our lives. Of mine, at least. A touchstone. A real gem."

Here she broke down. The crowd watched as she struggled with her tears, as they fought her face and won. She gripped the podium, her knuckles turning white.

"I... I can't... I can't say it."

The people were strangely fascinated, but they were not heartless. They pitied her too.

Finally someone stood and led her away. The minister returned, cleared his throat, and opened his Bible. He read a prayer.

Somehow his borrowed eloquence did not speak the same volumes as her emotional collapse.

Circuitous

He'd gone in the most roundabout way possible. From A to X to C to F to Z to L. Then back to Z. Because he was supposed to be at Z. Waiting for her.

But maybe he'd missed her. In taking a longer, stranger route, had he wasted too much time? Had she already come, and waited, and gone?

Yes, this was possible. Probable, in fact.

His head slumped against the dash and the car hummed beneath him. He wondered if she would come back, and how long he would stay here with that hope. It wouldn't feed him or keep him warm, hope. But maybe it would be enough.

Grinch

I never read that book, or saw the movie. The one about the mean green goblin that ruins Christmas? Yeah, I wasn't allowed. My mother thought it would taint me, as if any mention of an alternate religion would forever poison my mind, and my soul.

You could call it a deprived childhood.

What my mother failed to anticipate was the effect her own zealousness would have. I haven't been to worship in thirty years, and hadn't spoken to her in thirty-three. She died yesterday, so I guess I won't ever get the chance.

Maybe it's time I finally found out about that grouchy green fellow. He may remind me of her, and that may make me feel better.

Complement and draconian

I always wondered what he saw in her. She wore her hair in a slick ponytail, spoke in quick, sharp sentences, and had ten different heels, all stilettos that clicked violently against the floor. She rarely said a kind word about anyone, including him. She refused any gift that cost less than fifty dollars.

I wondered, until I got to know him better. From afar, he was a senior with good teddy bear looks, like a friendly jock or a hot bio major. But then we were assigned as partners in Jacobs's Art in Life class (a blowoff for both of us, since we just needed the credits to fulfill our requirements and walk in May). After several hours in a library and unfortunately a few at his dorm, I came to understand that he was led and controlled almost solely by his dick. And that she could satisfy. Certainly nothing else.

Eclectic

The boy was considered eclectic, although Mr. Torrence had yet to understand why. On this his first day at Collington Academy as a substitute for Mrs. Brody's third-grade class, he had already been warned about the flirtatious lunch lady, the tricky toilet in the teacher's lounge, and Elroy Scott.

"He's eight years old. How strange can he be?"

The principal did not reply. Instead he drew his thin lips into a thin smile and smoothed his combover. "Have a good day, Raymond."

Mr. Torrence nodded. The principal's shoes clicked against the marble as he walked away, leaving Torrence alone in the hallway. Torrence straightened his tie and turned to the door. His hand paused on the knob.

"Come on, Ray," he said. "The boy is eight years old. How strange can he be?"

Later that day, he knew.

Cacophony, frangible, and hotdog

All these voices, raised as one, but saying different things. That is the way we are built: fragile glass made of grains of sand. We carry our sweeping curves with pride, but we shatter at the lightest impact.

Recidivism

She wakes up every morning thinking today will be different. Today she will smile, and keep smiling. Today she will laugh, and mean it. Today she will take the words of her friends to heart, and she will believe them.

But it's so easy to slide back into that dark blue-grey mist, into those waters, under those sheets. It's warm and cold there at the same time. It's comfortable and alien. It's everything she knows and nothing she needs or wants. How should she escape?

That's what she keeps coming back to.

The questions.

Warp speed and dishabille

Me recuerdo los días que jugábamos. Éramos niñas, inocente y pura. Anduvimos como ciervas. Nunca tuvimos prisa, ni preocupación. Nuestros juegos constituyeron el mundo.

Qué hemos perdido? Quizás todo. Quizás la inevitable.

Artifice and rubric

The rabbit and the hare. Different as two creatures can be. One is slow and steady, the other fast and crafty. Only one can win the race. Only one will cross the finish line.

I know who I'm putting my money on.

--

I don't know what you think this is. A game, a test, an act? But you're so determined to label it--to label everything--that you'll never take the time to truly understand.

Palimpsest and perspicacity

"You have to look beneath the surface," she said. "To penetrate the layers."

Now I understand what she meant.

It's a very simple thing, this power, once you can comprehend its form. Like a flower that blossoms from a seed, then peels back its petals to reveal to you its nectar, it lives and grows. I have finally seen its true face, and I know how to care for it. She taught me the way.

And she paid the price.

I will use this power to save her, and then I will destroy it. That is how I must live with myself. That is the price I will pay.

Mendicant, rapprochement, and fireworks

J.D. warms his hands over the fire in the trash can. All around him, fireworks are going off. Their beauty irritates him. He thinks of all the money that is exploding in the air.

"Sum' else, eh?"

J.D. glances at the newcomer. He snorts in response.

"Can I get sum'at?" The new guy eyes the fire and scratches his neck. J.D. can see the chapped skin of the man's knuckles and hear the chattering of his teeth.

J.D. nods and takes a step to the side.

The new guy smiles and scurries forward. Hands over the flames, he smacks his lips as if he has just been granted a seat at a table set for a feast.

The fireworks continue overhead.

Turpitude

You think it is one thing. I think it is another. These differences are what keep us apart, not the miles or the hours or the memories. Depravity, or a mere mistake? Friendship, or convenience? Perspective is key, and I don't think we have ever unlocked each other's doors.

Histrionic and surly

He leapt onto the counter and pulled at his hair. Eyes wild, he began to squawk and thrash about. Passersby stared through the window, hurrying after they had gotten their visual fill.

"Well, at least he's not surly and silent anymore, right?"

Wendy sighed and didn't answer. She didn't know if it was better or worse, she only knew it still wasn't good. She closed her eyes, pressed her fingers against her temples, and wondered when, if ever, she would have a normal son.

Dreidel, tarradiddle, and deracinate

She picked up the old department store bag and moved it to the other side of the attic. Now there would be room for the summer clothes she was storing. With the snow just coming in late December, she figured it would be a long winter and quite a while before she'd need shorts or t-shirts again.

As she climbed back down the ladder to the main floor, she noticed a small object on the floor. She picked it up and dusted it off. A dreidel. From her father.

She remembered getting it -- her first -- from him when she was a girl. A girl who still believed in her father. Who thought he was like Superman: strong, smart, kind, and indestructible.

Now she knew better.

Those things, those were all lies. Genetic and cultural fibs meant to keep you in line. Only, she didn't like this line, didn't want what he was selling. So she'd stepped out. And he'd never forgiven her.

She took the dreidel back downstairs with her. She put it in the change jar in the kitchen. She thought the location was fitting.

At one time, it had been worth a lot. Now, it was pennies.

Impolitic

Would it be impolitic of me to speak my mind? All the world seems to think so. Since when was honesty so frowned upon? Since when did we all become bound by the chains of society? Really that means we are bound by ourselves, because what is society but a collective of individuals? Why do we limit ourselves so?

Noisome

"I have to admit, the smell is getting to me."

"What, his poop?"

"No, his breath."

"Oh. Yes, well, he is a dog."

"So? He can still eat mints or something."

"What, like Altoids?

"Sure."

"... Um, no."

"Darn."

Profuse

I wish I could be happy for you. I wish I could think it was for the best. I wish I weren't saddened or a little jealous. I wish she wouldn't think of it as a victory. I wish I wouldn't think of it as a loss. I wish it weren't a fight. I wish you'd open your eyes. I wish you'd do what you say instead of saying anything. I wish you'd never gotten so close.

I wish a lot of things. I have a lot of wishes. None of these have come true.

Vernissage and soporific

Bill tried not to yawn as he followed Sophie around the gallery. She pointed at sculptures and waxed on about paintings, and he smiled and nodded and just prayed he was going to get laid tonight. Otherwise this was so not worth missing the game for. Hopefully Jackson would be texting the score soon...

Bimillenary and vicissitude

"In 2,000 years, nothing changed."

The woman's voice was both informative and sad.

"Weapons, war, violence, hate. Plagues, fires, droughts, earthquakes. Together, men and nature brought us down. Now this Dome is all we have to remember Earth by."

The children stared wide-eyed at the video screen. The amphitheater filled with the blue and white of a planet's surface.

"Someday we may be able to return. But not until Earth has a chance to heal itself."

A little girl raised her hand. "How long will that take?"

The woman sighed. "We don't know, Charlotte. We don't know exactly how long that will take, but we know it will be a long, long time. Long after you, or your children, or your children's children are gone."

With this thought, the children grew even quieter than before. Fittingly, the silence felt like death.

Porcine, cavalcade, and malapropros

She sat down at the lunch table with a tray of roast beef, corn, and pinkish-orange jello. She couldn't tell what flavor it was supposed to be, and she figured it was better not to ask.

On her left, a procession of boys in baggy jeans and white sneakers approached. "Look at Porky," they jeered. "Look at that big old house of meat on her plate. I bet I know where all that junk goes." They laughed as one boy pointed below his waist. Then they walked by her, another boy tugging her hair as they passed.

For the third day in a row, Polly skippd lunch. She pushed her tray aside and pulled out the homework assignment due tomorrow. As she added decimals and divided fractions, she held back her tears.

Why oh why did she have to come to this new school?

Discomfit and moil

Questions that don't need to be asked. Don't I work hard for you? Don't I do all that you need me to? This is not my life, my heart, my soul. This is the bread, the roof, the meat. Why isn't that enough? If the results are the same, what do the motivations matter? I am concerned by your concern. I am annoyed by your annoyance. I am fearful of your fear.

Hirsute

Shag carpet.

She tried not to stare at it, tried not to think about the double entendre.

Shag carpet.

She quickly held a napkin up to her mouth to cover her giggle.

Shag carpet.

They had no idea that she and he... Oh no, she was going to start laughing again.

Shag carpet.

Maybe she'd get them a new one for Christmas. Or at least get this one cleaned. It seemed only fair.

Shag carpet.

"Lauren?"

She looked up. "Hmm? I'm sorry. I missed that."

His parents smiled at her. She smiled back. His mother said, "We asked how you liked our new shag carpet? It's very soft."

For a second, Lauren thought they knew. Was there a stain? Had they been too loud? What would they think of her?

Then the panic subsided. "It's lovely," she answered. "Josh and I were just remarking on it when we got in last night. We thought maybe we should look into getting some for our place."

Josh's father nodded while his mother beamed with pride. "Oh, what a good idea! We'll give you a business card so you know where to pick it up. They were so friendly and professional."

"That would be lovely. Thank you." Lauren took another sip of her tea, using the cup to hide her smirk. If only Josh could have been here...

Kaput

"I'm telling you, it's not gonna work."

"Just let me try!"

"You're gonna get your head blown off."

"You wish."

"Sometimes."

[pause]

"Okay seriously, it's not doing anything."

"Just let me..."

[fussing. then smoke.]

"Okay fine, it's broken."

"I told you."

Nugatory

The little gold nugget, the worthless trifle. The girl who haunts my dreams. The poison that she injects into each person with whom she speaks. Her words, like venom. Her laugh, the bite. Her touch, the sting. She will do you in.

She changes the nugget into the trifle. She is the poison.

Hibernaculum and foundling

Past the snow-covered field, deep in the woods of Granite Falls, there is a hollowed out tree stump where a sleeping beast lies. His skin is fiery red. His eyes are narrow and mean. His tail is as large as his body. His claws are sharp and fast.

Yes, in the midst of the winter, this baby fox rests alone, and waits for warmer times.

Somniferous and recumbent

The pup eyed the toy lazily. It was tempting, but right now he was more content to sit in the boy's lap than chase the stuffed cow around the room. He yawned, and it ended on a squeak. The boy sighed and petted the pup's head. "Looks like it's naptime," he said resignedly.

But he smiled and nuzzled into the warm furry neck. Curled against each other, boy and pup settled down for a nap together.

Postprandial

After dinner, I always try to avoid looking at Leonard's waist. He wears this big ole buckle, see, and after all that eating, it digs into his gut. So he rolls himself onto the couch and leans back as far as he can go, trying to alleviate the dig. But of course that doesn't work.

So he heaves up his gut and unfastens the buckle. Then his oversized gut can hang freely over his pants. It's a ritual, of sorts, but it makes me want to vomit most of the time. That's why I retreat to my room after dinner most every night. And I don't come back out until he's changed into his pajamas. They have an elastic waistband.

Vulnerary

Bravery heals, I think. Trust heals. Faith heals. Effort heals.

Everyone in our lives affects us in some way. Some leave transient marks, some leave scars. Some impress their fingers onto our skin, some smash their fists into our guts. Some are kind and lift us some, some are harsh and drag us down.

No matter what, we must always rise. We must believe that we are being led down a better path, being taught a valuable lesson. Every interaction can make us better, if we are strong enough to rise.

Stringent

Maybe I expect too much. Maybe I'm too hard on my friends, my loved ones. Goodness knows I'm too hard on myself.

Water, that which gives life, streams out most quickly when you squeeze it tight in your fist. But if you cup it gently and let it be, you can drink as much as you want.

Deipnosophist and causerie

Just a casual chat, he told himself. Nothing to be afraid of. A smile, a shake of the hands, the agreement, and we're off. He was pretty good at that sort of thing.

But Raymond Miller was sweating.

He'd gotten himself into a world of trouble with these guys, and he knew how they usually dealt with things. A few broken bones and a black eye -- he'd be lucky if that's all they had in mind.

He took another giant gulp of water. According to his watch he had six minutes before they showed up. Maybe he should call his wife, tell her that he loved her. Then at least she'd have a last happy memory to remember him by.

When she was ID-ing his body and sorting through his debts...

Treacle

The little boy's eyes shined in the dim light. He'd snuck into the kitchen and found where his parents had hidden his stash. Now Halloween would really begin.

He unwrapped piece after piece of candy and chocolate, and one by one devoured them. Soon there was nothing left but the trash and some crumbs. His tummy was round and full.

He went back to bed smiling. He knew he'd be sick in the morning. He always was. But it was worth it, for this moment now, this pure and perfect joy.

Plus it got him out of trouble with his parents. How could they punish a vomiting boy?

Wiseacre

I wish I knew what to do. I always have the questions, but rarely the answers. Maybe there isn't anything to be done, as some have suggested. Maybe it's a matter of time, of patience, of maturing.

On both sides.

Ex cathedra

Jacob was a cop. There were a lot of things he could do as a cop. He could arrest criminals. He could ticket speeders. He could remove abused children, spouses and parents to saftey. He could do a lot of things to help keep people safe. But he couldn't heal them if they were already hurt.

As his wife lay bleeding from the gunshot wound in her chest, Jacob pressed a hand to the great red spot and sobbed, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, Amanda.

I'm sorry I'm just a cop.

Extirpate

This parasite has burrowed deep in your flesh, and the only way to get it out is to... if only I knew. Answers escape me in this field, of emotion and friendship, this realm in which I've long succeeded. I feel like I've lost you, like if I don't stay away I'll lose myself too. Can you understand? Or have you already forgotten all the pain, all the lies, all the manipulation?

Quail

A wave spends a long time sailing the open seas. Sometimes in search of other waves, sometimes in search of stillness and peace. Day and night, the wave moves around the world, riding the highs and the lows, sure that someday it will know where it belongs.

Once I knew a wave that found its shore. She was so happy, and she fought the tides and the winds to stay there, with her shore, its white silky sands, its protective half-moon shape. I used to visit her there, and just watch with a smile on my face as she lapped at the shore time and time again.

Then others came. They were jealous of me, and of the wave, of the tranquil joy we had found. They brought their junk, they set up camp, they left their trash. They poisoned the shore, turning white sands dark, changing the shape of its curve with their interference. And the wave was no longer happy.

With great sadness, she decided she could not return here. She would find another place where she could belong, someplace that wouldn't be found and disrupted and ruined. Someplace more stable, more lasting.

So we said our goodbyes, this wave and I. I'm sad to see her go, but I would have been more sad to see her stay. We all deserve someplace to feel happy and safe.

That's why I'm leaving this shore too. Maybe one day it will be beautiful again. But maybe it won't. I can't take that chance.

Flout and persiflage

We used to sit in the mall, Jenna and I, and watch the stupid teenyboppers go by. In their matching Lindsey-meets-Avril-meets-GAP-meets-Laguna Beach attire, they looked like mass-produced clones out to take over the world. Weapons of choice? Plaid minis, Ugg boots, cell phones, and too much makeup. It was like a bad school uniform. School of How to Blow Your Youth and Your Life. Or something.

But Jenna made it bearable.

Before she came along, I was like the only one who could think for myself. All my classmates looked up to these robo-girls, even if they weren't one of them. I never felt jealous or sad -- maybe just a little perplexed -- but I won't lie: I was really happy when Jenna came.

Then one day she showed up at the mall, and she looked just like them. I mean, not the plaid mini or Uggs exactly, but the same idea. The same uniform, the same hair, the same blank expression.

She never told me why, but I suspect it had to do with the new girl Christine. The cool girl Christine.

Jenna became everything we said we never would -- and she'd been more adamant than me! -- and I was left alone, on the bench by the ice rink, watching her and Christine and their gang of stupid teenyboppers, and wondering who would mock them with me now.

Snickersnee

Close your eyes. Pretend this isn't happening. Pretend it isn't your arm, your hand, your knife. Pretend this is a movie. Pretend it is just a chicken. Pretend it will not hurt and it is truly for the best. Pretend you will not remember when it's over.

Comport

Underneath her veil, the widow held her head high. In all black, she was the perfect picture of mourning and respect. She gripped her dignity as tight as her pristine white handkerchief, which had yet to wipe away a tear.

She ignored the whispers. The way the men glanced at her with pity. The other women, some of whom were crying. They would miss him, and the jewelry, the trips to Europe, the penthouse apartments in Manhattan.

Well, the widow did not feel sorry for them. She had been in mourning so long now -- nearly fifty years -- for the man she'd fallen in love with. The young man with ambition, who'd proposed with an IOU for a ring and sincerity in his eyes. She'd lost him to the skyscrapers and the board meetings, the profit margins and the on-site evaluations, the shareholders and the secretaries.

This funeral was for another man, a man she didn't know. But she'd heard lots about him, so she almost felt like she did. That would have to be enough. Enough for her to put on this show.

Maybe later tonight she would cry -- or smile -- as she put away his things and took out the ones she loved most, the ones that belonged to the man she'd married.

Besmirch

Two great hawks soar in the sky. They reign through terror. They shriek with delight. They prey upon the weak, the timid. They scorn any creature who does not ally with them.

Down in a modest nest in the woods, a little sparrow watches their flight, quieted by secrets and regret.


(Birds of a feather stick together. Why am I surprised?)

Restive

Simply put, the horse refused. Carolyn tried everything she knew: hay, carrots, sugar cubes. She even left the stable completely open all night and camped out behind a bush, hoping to catch sight of the stallion sneaking a midnight stroll. Nothing. This horse was the stubbornest she had ever met. Since setting foot in his stall he had not come out. He barely ate. He drank his water with disdain, as if continuing to live and breathe was itself an imprisonment. Carolyn had never known anything like it.

And she was concerned. Not just because the Crabtrees had purchased him as their new breeding stock. Not just because he was supposed to produce a litter of colts and fillies to rival the fastest and sleekest of racing horses. Not just because she might lose her job if she couldn't figure him out.

The first time she had seen him run, she'd fallen in love. She'd been nearly sixteen hundred miles away, in a dusty trailer with a small black-and-white television with bunny ears that barely worked, but even from that distance, through that static, she could see his spirit as he streaked across the race course. There had never been -- and might never be again -- a horse with so much potential. Whether or not he lived up to it, it was in him, and it would never die.

But now, he was letting himself die. At this rate he would perish in a matter of days, quickly atrophy until he couldn't lift his tail much less his head. He still had pride -- oh, she could see that. But his spirit, that was what was missing. His will and drive to run.

What had happened to break his spirit? That was what Carolyn had to find out. And she had to find out fast.

Disseise and aggrandize

The feud began as a simple land dispute. One family pitted against the other. One wants to expand, the other simply to survive. Simple farmer against simple nobleman. Whose blood will be spilled?

Doesn't it really matter. It's a tragedy either way.

Postulate

He was a scientist. He didn't have time for speculation, for guesses. He worked with facts, to produce results, to change history. Nothing smaller would do. Nothing less.

When he was out to lunch with Helen, seated al fresco in the warm April sun, he explained this to her, the artist, the lover of the unknown. She'd listened patiently, smiling, fascinated by his determination to believe, to convince. Whom, it didn't matter. He was passionate, he was earnest, he was emphatic. She could see it on his exquisite face. She wanted to paint him, but she knew he would object. He didn't indulge her in frivolous fancies like that.

When he finished, she asked, "But what is science without hope? Hope is uncertain, but hope is possibility. What is science without possibility?"

He stared at her for a moment, then turned away to contemplate the sidewalk. He didn't have an answer. He was a scientist. Scientists always have answers.

Eristic

In the heat of the moments, I can't let things go. It's a tug of war, but I don't think you see that I'm trying to pull you towards me, not push away. Never push away.

Can you forgive the differences, the disputes, the destruction? It can all be repaired, just a small dose of understanding, and a measure of future prevention. We don't have to be this way. We aren't this way. This isn't us, not usually, not really.


You're really very much like her. Maybe that's why this will work.

Vanilla

This singular way of looking at things, and I can't seem to shake you off that tree. You swear it's the only way, the only thing for you. You're right, I cannot understand. But does he really? Or does he just tell you want you want to hear? Don't get me wrong, I don't love vanilla either. I want to taste every flavor this world has to offer. But I'm not so stubborn about my favorite. And I accept that the time is not always now.

Haggard

His sign says he's not a bad guy -- well, actually it says that he's not a bad girl, but the people know what he means. The question is, do they believe him? With his scraggly beard, his bloodshot, half-closed eyes, his stench and his shake, what evidence do they have? He holds out his cup, empty of coins but full of hope, and waits for someone to take a chance. Where are the risk-takers? Where are the fools?

Maybe I know why he begs on the street. Maybe I'm not a bad girl either. Maybe I just make bad decisions too.

Extradite

If I could, I would give it up. I would send my heart away and let someone else deal with it. I would surrender, and embrace the relief of no more responsibility for my own happiness.

But I can't. I can't take less than I deserve. I can't fill in all the dents and scuffs on this poor organ. I can't be so strong all the time.

Not anymore. Not without help.

Seasonal affective disorder

This has nothing to do with winter. These lids, pregnant with tears, are not related to the weather. You ask then, What? Why? And I don't know what to say. Because it seems to clear to me. I cannot be okay, not yet, because nothing has changed. Not overnight, and not, truth be told, in over a year.

Toady

She covers you in the prettiest deceptions, so you let her. It's not wool over your eyes; it's the richest silk in all the lands. She can afford that. She is rich. She buys you, your affection, your devotion. But when the sweet words and the shiny things stop pouring in, where will you be? What will you think without her charms to cloud your mind? And what will she look like to you, naked but for her lies?

Incidence

It happens all the time, but now I know better. See this smile? It's a fake. Every morning I comb my hair, wash my face, brush my teeth, and then stick it on. Then I'm ready for you. I'm ready to take on whatever you've got. Judgment, hypocrisy, denial, anything. Try me. You can't fool me anymore.

Pollyanna

I will ignore your tripe and keep this smile on my face. Nothing you say can get me down. Because you are just a fool on a hill, and someday you will fall, and I will be standing here on solid ground, where I have always been, even when my heart is in the clouds.

Calumny

My hand struck her cheek, and for an instant both our skins were on fire. Her eyes winced in pain. Mine went wide with surprise.

She covered her face and kept staring at the ground. "I deserved that."

It was harder to be mad when they admitted their guilt.

"Damn right you did."

Harder, but not impossible.

"I'm sorry," she said.

I believed her, but that didn't fix anything. "Yeah well, next time you get the idea to spread rumors about me, be sorry first. Then maybe you won't do it."

Shaking with righteous anger, I strode away, leaving her sobbing into her palm. A part of me hurt, for doing this to my best friend. But then the rest of me remembered what she'd done to me, and then it wasn't so bad.

Vouchsafe

The king looked down from his throne, high atop a pillar of gold, at the little girl with tattered clothes and hungry eyes. He smiled kindly, if not perfunctorily. "And what can I help you with today, young lady?"

"I have come to ask you a favor," she replied. She looked down while she spoke, and the king thought her appropriately shy for her age and in his presence.

"Perhaps I could grant it," he said, holding back a yawn.

"Beg," she whispered.

He frowned in confusion. "I'm sorry, m'dear. I did not hear you. Repeat your request."

She lifted her head up to face him now, and he saw that the hunger in her eyes had been replaced with fire. "Beg," she said again.

He rose in a rush of anger. "Why you--"

He never finished his sentence. Instead he began to fall, tumbling down from his throne, plummeting to the foot of the tower. Before any of his guards could react, his body had crushed into the marble floor. When they rolled its remains over, there was a small clean hold right in the middle of the forehead.

They whirled to look for the girl -- at the girl -- who had done this. But she was gone.

Rathskeller

Underneath the main floor of the Drunken Skull, three men sat around a wooden table with mugs of cider and ale. One was the Skull's owner, a portly man with a walrus moustache and small beady eyes that made him look rather like a chubby rodent. He was drinking the cider. The two with ales were bounty-hunters, although ironically criminals themselves.

--

And I like cookie bunnies :). <--- from Andy

Aphelion

When Mercury reaches its aphelion in the seventh year after the Great Drought, the Savior will be begin the Journey. Those who act against the Savior cannot be promised Passage. Only the Savior can offer deliverance from the Drought. But the Savior cannot succeed alone. The Savior must not forget that all men have their limits. To exceed them, one must be willing to open mind and heart. Only by letting go can the Savior hold on to everything that is dear.

Sequacious

She bit the cap of the pen as she studied the squares. She furrowed her brow in concentration. After a moment or two, she gasped quietly and made as if to write something on the paper with her pen. Then she frowned and put the pen back in her mouth, her face once again the perfect picture of problem-solving. The other people in the Metro car watched her, silently rooting for her to figure it out, or else solving the last few squares themselves.

"Estupida americana," the woman had muttered as she passed.

Since that day, Nancy had always carried a Sudoku puzzle labeled "DIFICIL" with all but six numbers filled in.

Eldritch

Bleeding is believing, and last night I had a hole in my throat. We walked through that diner like we owned the place, and I didn't say a thing. How could I?

Maybe for Halloween I should pretend to be the girl I've always wanted to become.

Spiel

He used to give me this spiel.

He used to list off all the lessons he'd learned from the various hardships in his life. Like, boo hoo, you've suffered so much and the rest of us have silver spoons sticking out of our freaking mouths.

He used to say I should use my gifts to help people, like power automatically meant responsibility.

And I used to say, Maybe they oughta help themselves.

Then he'd give me this sad look, like I was a puppy who'd peed on the carpet again.

The truth is, he got on my nerves pretty bad, with his superior generosity of heart. But another truth is, I miss him. A lot. He was the best thing that ever happened to me.

That's the lesson I learned. That's my hardship. Boo hoo, right?

Draconian

Their rules are strict, and their back-and-forth is a game I don't want to play. Throw the meat into the ring and leave them to fight it out like dogs. I'll sit back and wait to hear what the final verdict is.

Too bad I get caught in the crossfire sometimes. Makes me wish I could retaliate. But that isn't the way this dynamic works. I'm here to serve. For now, anyway.

Hallowed

One foot on soil that didn't belong. One white toe across that red borderline. The chieftan smiled. That was all he needed.

His men gathered in the forests, their bows and arrows at the ready. They waited for the young man to venture farther into their territory, farther away from the safety of his comrades and their fire-sticks. They followed him like prey, stalked through the trees, making no noise, although even if they had he would have covered it with his own clumsy traipsing. His heavy boots destroyed the earth beneath it with his every step.

When they felled him, he shouted but made no noise. One of the arrows must have punctured his lungs. The chieftan did not laugh, but he did not feel sorry either. The horrors that those white men had committed against his kind could never be atoned. But this chieftan had vowed to do his part to even up the tally.

Putsch

The nation was united against this new enemy, but they did not know how to fight it. They tried tanks, but they couldn't find any targets. They tried guns, but they only shot themselves. They tried spies, but all they learned were lies.

With each failure their fear grew, until it formed a dark cloud over their proud nation, raining new drops of paranoia every day. The people hid behind their umbrellas like shields. They walked quickly, spoke to no one, shared nothing. They became a stagnant society of drones, building walls to keep their backs to because they trusted no one, building walls around themselves without even knowing.

Then one day the nation realized it was not united, but rather fragmented into individuals who had become so afraid of themselves that they had fallen apart rather than face their fears. They had overthrown themselves. The enemy had won.

Idée fixe

He couldn't get it out of his head. This was going to work.

There were risks involved, sure. There were consequences if he were caught, no doubt. But the payoff, the potential reward, that outstripped everything else in Robbie's mind. If he could pull this off, he would never have to worry about anything for the rest of his life.

--

As he lay bleeding in the alleyway, Robbie wondered where it had all gone wrong. Maybe it was when he let Alice in on the deal. Or maybe when that pesky security guard opened the door for him. He never should have let the guy see his face. Dammit.

He pressed his hand to the wound in his chest. Alice would be here soon. She would never leave him. She would make sure he was okay. God, even if she had to drive him to the hospital and dump him there, that would be better than bleeding to death in this alley. Jail was better than dying.

Shock shook his whole body, and he choked on what he hoped wasn't more blood. Taking deep breaths, he tried to calm himself down. It wouldn't be much longer now, he reassured himself. Alice would be here soon...

Vacuous

Her mind goes blank. She wills it so. She doesn't want to remember last night, doesn't want to know why she woke up here, looking this way, feeling this way.

She sits up, pulls her knees to her chest. He doesn't seem to notice her, and she's not sure whether that's better or worse. She stares at the carpet as he brushes his teeth, dresses. Will he say goodbye? Does she want him to?

They move in silence through their morning. No sunlight penetrates the blinds. It's too early anyway. Only the cold makes it in through the glass panes. Only the cold touches her.

She longs for touch.

Purport

What you say and what you do are not consistent. I thought I knew you, but now I know I never knew anything at all. What you portray as truth, is fiction. What you say is fact, I can find nothing to support. Don't you realize that all the things you hate, you are? I watch you become more like her every day, and I wonder how that poison found its way into your system.

Inveigh

Her fingers railed against the pressure she tried to apply, repelling the keys instead of seducing them. She grimaced in pain as she forced herself to play through the arthritis. Mozart's music didn't sound quite so lovely, but her desire was stronger than her agony. Piano was in her soul, and she wouldn't give it up simply because her fingers were brittle and wrinkled. "Mind over matter," she repeated to herself firmly. "Mind over matter."

Celerity

She flies by at a hundred miles an hour, and I just hope I can catch a glimpse. Enough to know her face, to recognize her form. To reproduce it, after a fashion. To mold her eyes, her mouth, her arms, her breasts, her legs. I want her to walk on her own, with me watching proudly and silently from behind.

She inspires me, but I give her life. That is the nature of a Muse.

Xenophobia

I'm sorry that I'm not afraid of the things you are. I'm sorry that I don't need to hide behind layers and lies designed to protect me from vulnerability. I'm sorry that I take risks. And I'm sorry that you might never know the kind of love we're capable of.

Internecine

Such a little thing, you think. Hardly more than cells, dirty genetic blobs, without brains, without feeling, without soul. What can they do to me? What difference will it make? I am strong, I am man. I am superior, and I am not afraid.

But they can devour you, strip you of that confidence, that arrogance, that life. That's the thing. Being small doesn't make you weak. That's one of man's many, many misperceptions.

Enjoin

He believes that this is love, and that she returns his affection. He does not understand that the strange force keeping him in place is the invisible fence she installed around him, reigning him in whenever he strays too close to her. His own swollen heart chokes him, keeps him from speaking up, inhibits him from asking the question:

Is this enough?

Excerpt from The Good Daughters

After she and Charles had made love for the first time, they'd gone for a walk in Schenley Park, and she'd spent the whole time smiling up at the sky. "What are you looking at?" Charles whispered in her ear. His breath tickled, and she couldn't help shivering a bit as she laughed.

"Big balls of burning gas."

"Oh, well, when you put it that way, it sounds so romantic."
He takes her hand. Even in the dim lighting of the park, her skin carries a pale luster, like pearl, peeking out between the cracks of his long obsidian fingers.

With his other hand, he points up through the tall trees. "That's Ursa Major."

Madeline strains her eyes and cranes her neck. "I can't see."

Charles pulls her through the shadows to a clearing called Flagstaff Hill and scans the skyscape now spread gloriously above them. "Can you see it now?"

"Yes."

"Okay, good. Then over there, that's Orion. And next to him, Taurus, the bull he's trying to kill."

Madeline smiles as he continues his stories. She is no longer interested in the stars, but in their keeper. She cocks her head at him. "What, the kid from the ghetto had a telescope?"

He nods. "I saved up for nearly a year. Wanted to be an astronaut."

Earlier in their relationship, she might have blushed, nervous about the differences between them, their upbringings, their opportunities. But his ease was contagious, and soon they were as comfortable with one another as they were with themselves. Now she can't help grinning at the thought of him as a young boy, one eye pressed eagerly against the end of a scope.

"So what happened, Charles Skywalker?"

He shrugs. "It was just a childhood dream. I grew up, and I wanted other things."

Madeline looks up to the skies once more. She has only ever wanted to be an artist, to create unexpected beauty and meaning that will affect others, maybe even change their lives. Feeling Charles' presence next to her, above her, she wonders if she knows what growing up means. Has she somehow stagnated, remained a child full of naïveté and dreams?

[...]

"How do you know the difference between growing up and giving up?" she'd asked.

He'd looked down at her, amusement twinkling in his eyes like the stars in the skies above them. "Maddy, that's the one thing I know you will never have to worry about."

Darby and Joan

Maybe no one else wants this. But if I hold on, if I grip with every bit of strength in my soul, can I be stronger than the whole world? Can I be strong enough for the whole world?

I think I can.

And I hope you'll stand by my side while I do.

Repudiate

Out of hand, you slip me my pill, and I'm crumbling into the starlight of my dreams, waking up too warm and without you. This is a fancy way of forgetting the past, flying away into the dark chocolate drudgery of the everyday. The game sends us tumbling like pins into the chute, only to be picked up, rearranged, and placed back in our formation, awaiting the next strike.

Backstairs

Those gremlins hide in the shadows of my lungs, stealing breaths like gems from a vault. They conduct their shady business without permission, but I lack the law to enforce the prohibition. Could you forgive me for letting them slip through the cracks? For you are the victim, and she is the collateral damage.

Simulacrum

I wrote once that your slow and quiet ways drift around me like smoke. I saved it in my journal, in my mind, for months. I let that smoke billow around me, let it fog up the windows until I couldn't see out.

Now I know the view that was blocked, and I'm pushing back against the smog. I will not be denied the sun. I will not accept that pale, ghosted version of what used to be.

I hope you know it's for both our sakes.

Métier

This is where I have to shine. This is my heart, my passion. This is my chance. This is what I want when I sleep and when I think, when I dream and when I hope. This is who I am. This is who I want the world to see, and know, and love. This is what's important.

Dunnage

The barge sludged slowly through the harbor. He tracked its progress by comparing the position of its bow to the gargoyle on the end of the bridge. It emerged through the beast's open mouth, being eaten in reverse.

His hands hid in his pockets, avoiding the cold air that became visible each time he let out a breath. He jingled the coins he found unexpectedly, rubbed them with his fingertips. He wondered if he could guess which coin it was based on the impression of the face. Lincoln, Jefferson, Roosevelt, or Washington. Did it matter?

A bird flew overhead, distracting him from the barge. He followed it with his eyes, then with his feet. Over the bridge, to the cabin on the other side. She was inside, waiting for him. Thin smoke snaked up from the chimney, and he pictured her wrapped in a blanket by the fire.

He set the coins on the front porch, pulled a receipt from his wallet, and a pen from his front shirt pocket. He scribbled a note, re-crossed the bridge, and turned left, away.

Hours later, when he was undeniably late, not answering her calls, she put out the fire and put on her clothes. As she stood on the porch tying the laces of her boots, she noticed what he'd left. She picked up the coins, the hasty note.

"It's time for a change."

Advocate

We stand on opposite sides of this chasm. You look down into the abyss, and I stare obstinately at the sky. Were we ever friends? Sometimes it is hard to believe. But maybe that is how this works. By reaching out, across the divide, we grasp hands, and hold tight, and we bridge the two worlds. Your way, and mine. They do not have to be in opposition simply because they are opposites.

Restive

Like a horse pawing the ground, I will not budge. I found the place where I feel most at home, and I believe that a true heart knows no bounds. Time and space conspired against me, and I am restless to return. The change occurred from without, but I'm looking for the solution within. If I cannot find it here, I will have to begin my search again.

But I have faith.

Kafkaesque

Goin' back in time ain't what it seems. Like, most people think, Dang, that's cool! But shit, it's disorientin', is what it is. And bizarre. And not convenient, at all. I mean, shit, I got things to do! Groceries to buy. Homework to finish. (Or try to finish, anyway.) I cain't be runnin' around in history like there's no tomorrow. What do a whole buncha yesterdays get me anyway? Nothin'. Damn straight.

Thwart

She says it's a battle, and I can't help wondering how many scars she's got.

Bosky

You don't even know. You call them stupid, ignorant, but you don't realize you're more those things than any of them. They know what you are. They recognize you when you don't recognize yourself. They are the root of you, the core, the pure essence that you were corrupted from. You are their derivative, the lesser, the forgery.

I wish you wouldn't forget it. The problem is, you don't even know.

Mountebank

"A love potion for the sad girl?" the young man asked.

He was tall and handsome and not at all what she expected when she looked up from the dirty steps, her face streaked with tears. Self-consciously she wiped her cheeks and brushed back her hair. She was normally quite pretty.

"I-I-I don't need a love potion," she whispered. He smiled and took a step closer, peering at her intently. She stood and backed away.

"I suppose you wouldn't," he said suggestively. She wished he weren't so handsome. "Why are you crying then? No troubles with a boy?"

She shook her head.

"You can tell me. I can help."

She eyed him warily. "How could you possibly help?"

He winked. "Love potions aren't the only kind I have."

She considered for a moment, then shook her head again. "They're all hoaxes anyway. You're just a con."

He shrugged, playing the game, playing as if he hadn't noticed her hesitation. She would be willing, he knew. Only the fiercest could resist a chance.

He held out his hand. "Come with me and we'll talk." She pulled back a little more. "You don't have to try anything you don't want," he assured her. "I'll just tell you what I have to offer. What does it hurt to listen?"

She took the bait. Together they strolled off, and he talked quickly -- quickly enough to distract her, but not so quickly that she felt threatened.

What did it hurt to listen? Maybe nothing, he thought with a smirk. Or maybe a lot.

Desiccate

This is what I fear:

We will dry up. Like that little potted plant I always forget to water, then when I do, its pot overflows, and the soil is too damaged to perform, so when you finally notice that it's filled to the brim, I take it outside to dump out onto the grass, and I say that I will go to buy new soil, but it is still sitting out there, forgotten, neglected, drying up.

Tontine

An intrigue, they called it. He laughed while he stroked his chin. Well, he'd certainly never considered himself dull.

A waitress bent low over the side of the pool, smiling and showing her cleavage. "Anything to drink, sir?"

He allowed himself a nice long look, then lifted his gaze to her face. "No thanks, doll. I'm all set." He lifted his hand to show her the martini he had yet to finish.

She walked away pouting, but he didn't care. In fact, he rather enjoyed the view of her legs. And he knew she'd forgive him, anyway, tomorrow when he did buy a drink, and maybe a little something more. Money always made a woman forget those kinds of minor irritations.

And money was something he now had plenty of. After "taking care" of the rest of his business partners, he had easily escaped here, to Nevis, to enjoy the sun, the surf, and the single ladies.

He chuckled. Actually, why limit himself to the single ones?

Ambidexterous

I used to want to be ambidexterous. I used to practice almost every day. Right hand, natural; left hand, diligence. I improved, of course, because practice makes perfect. Only, I never got perfect. And like all things I don't become perfect at, I quit.

Philomath

Kelsey stared at the problem on the board and itched to raise her hand. She didn't always know the answer, but this happened several times a day, and always she stayed quiet. She read in secret at home. She stashed her graded homework in her folder quickly so none of her friends would see. She knew what they would say -- or worse, what they wouldn't say -- if they knew. If they knew she liked school, and was good at it. Being smart wasn't cool. And in Kelsey's world, being cool is what keeps you safe.

Herald

The boy walked slowly down the cobblestone street, staring down at his feet so as not to trip. Rome was quiet this early in the day, and he didn't want to interrupt. Not yet. The city needed her peace, what after such long days with such loud, busy people. The boy wanted to let her rest her eyes, and her ears, and her heart.

These last few minutes, before he pulled out his bugle, before he woke Rome and her children, were he favorite. He climbed the ladder to his little tower and looked out over the buildings. He had to squint to make out some of the roofs farther out, but the first rays of the sun broke against the cathedral domes and monuments. He loved that, loved to imagine himself standing in the shadows of those great buildings for the whole day, the shadows never diminishing, never getting washed away by the light or the people.

But then the clock tower sang, and with a sigh and heavy heart, he took out his bugle and blew. When he was done, he climbed back down and reminded himself that at least his next favorite moment was only a day away.

Macédoine

A confused mixture, a medley, a cocktail of thoughts and emotions and frustration and hope and love. Can you drink it up? Can you hold it down?

The essence of me pours out. I am leaking. I am wet. I am waiting for you to notice. I am waiting for you to mop up the mess. We both made it, after all.

I know you're getting tired of this. Don't you think I am too? What happened to the easier days? Maybe we traded them away for the longer ones, the extra time we spend together. Maybe those closeness isn't giving us room to breathe, to be. Or maybe we just haven't learned how to breathe and be in unison.

But I think there's promise. I think there is something here worth nurturing, worth compromising for, worth sacrificing for. I can't promise it will be easy, but I'm okay with going through the rough if I'm going through it with you. For you.

Can you say the same about me?



(You used to.)

Derring-do

It is bold to stand up for what you want, what you need. This is what she tells herself. This is what she says as she climbs the mountain, stands on the ledge.

Stand here. Make your stand.

And if you fall, keep your head up. It'll hurt less if you don't see it coming.

Craven

She wonders if silence is the better way. She has already kept her mouth shut so many times, along with her eyes and her legs. How long will the world keep up this torrent? How long can she resist?

Life isn't for the faint of heart, but she's never been accused of being a coward.

Incumbent

He is reluctant to give up his thrown. I see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, feel it when he pushes me aside. It's okay for me to do his work, but not to take the credit. Well, little prince, little golden child, that's fine. I don't need your crown. I can satisfy myself in other ways. This kingdom is big enough for both of us, and I don't even really want it.

Fecund

These days are fertile, full of possibility, ripe with hope. You can pick your fruit, or you can sit in the shade and watch others. Either way is a choice, but only one decision will work for me. So I ask you, what kind of life do you want to lead?

You don't have to know the right path, but you have to be moving in the right direction.

Borborygmus

April covered her ears with her hands and huddled in the corner of the bathroom. Her mother sat across from her against the tub, cradling her baby brother at her chest. The whole world rumbled around them, soap dispensers and toothbrushes falling to the floor. But they made no sound, no clatter against the tile, because the borborygmus of the Earth was too loud.

Doyen

When you get old, they have to make sure you work. They poke you and prod you and start you and stop you. They forget respect, because they see rust. They expect you to understand and trust, but they do not return the favor. They consider your slowness weak rather than thoughtful. When you hesitate they believe you are confused rather than considering.

Is it any wonder you hate getting older? The gray hairs, the wrinkles, the aches and pain, those are nothing in comparison to the rest. The problem doesn't lie in age, but in youth.

Telegenic

I don't like whispers. They are rude. They are disrespectful. They are exclusionary. And I am always excluded.

***

It's a lie. When they say it's not easy being beautiful, it's a big fat lie. Being naturally beautiful, like I am, is actually very easy. Anything you put on looks great. You never need makeup. You don't have to blowdry your hair. Sometimes you don't even have to wash it.

Natural beauty is convenient.

And it gets you places. It got me on television. That's what's not easy. TV.

***

I am a star. A little one, but still bigger than them. That's why they talk about me. That's why they whisper.

I don't like whispers.

Shofar

Tradition. He found himself trapped once again by tradition. First as a boy, forced inside to study the Book while his friends played touch football at the park. Then in college, standing to one side at parties, if he went at all, an observer not a participant. Now, in love, but unable to fulfill it, the object of his affection not allowed, not accepted.

When would it stop? Where would he draw the line?

Ad hominem

You are ad intellect; I am ad hominem. Brains, they can take you pretty far. But my honest belief? Passion is stronger. Love is the ultimate force, the guiding light, the only right. You may find another path to the same place, but I will never walk alone or afraid.

Cursory

He remembered that street in Barcelona -- or was it Paris? -- with the promenade and the cafés. The smell of fresh bread, the heat of the sun. That girl with the tall sunflower still on its stalk, and the way no one gave him more than a cursory glance.

He'd felt at ease there, and not just because he was on vacation. There had been a stronger sense of home there than anywhere this side of the Atlantic. Could he have been born in the wrong place, separate from his soul? Because he'd finally found it, there, in Barcelona.

Or was it Paris?

Resile

Amy winced as she rose from the bed. Every muscle in her back and legs seemed to scream in pain, but she resisted the urge to lie down again. She refused to admit defeat, even such a small one.

After a brutally quick and cold shower, Amy pulled on her leotard and tights and grabbed some nonfat yogurt from the fridge.

"Day two," her roommate stated grimly.

Amy nodded.

"I hear it's worse than the first."

Amy tried to laugh.

Ballet was tough, there was no doubt. But it was her dream. She'd given up almost everything to get here, and she wasn't going back. Not after a day, not ever.

Hortative

She wondered why he didn't listen anymore. She spoke just as clearly as ever, just as sincerely. She still looked him in the eye. She even paused at the appropriate moments, giving him time to respond. He remained silent.

My advice to her was, Don't push it. Things aren't the same anymore. And until you learn what they are now, you should probably let up. You'll only make it worse for the both of you.

Whilom

Beautiful. Cool. Talented. Articulate. Tomboyish. Genius. Strong. Funny. Tall. Fabulous. Stylish. Impressive. Formidable. Grey-eyed. Strong-willed. Strong-jawed. Sexy. Desired.

Maybe I was once. In a former life.

Fidelity

It would have been easier if she'd lied. He tells himself "honesty is the best policy" and "what doesn't kill us only makes us stronger," but honestly he felt like he was dying.

At night when they lay down in bed together, he no longer reached for her, no longer held her in one arm or pulled her close. Because every time their skins touched, an image of some other man's hand gripping her, igniting her, flashed through his mind. He stopped looking at her, because whenever their eyes met, he thought of some other man's face, some other man's body, reflecting in her pupils. And he barely spoke to her, because when he did, he couldn't listen to her words. All he heard was her soft, deep voice moaning some other man's name.

Recrudescence

Every couple of weeks, I think it's okay again. The scars fade, the warning signs don't show, and the mirror smiles back.

Then out of nowhere it returns, marring me, mocking me. Ruining my mood. My life.

Will I ever escape? Will I ever get to be myself? Sometimes it seems like I won't know 'til it's too late.

Ennead

We were missing three. A dozen of us got out, but only nine of us found each other after. We were missing three.

I couldn't let it go. Family, friends, love. The only things we ever had to keep us going in that place. I couldn't let them take that from me, fracture it.

So I'm looking. And I won't stop. Not until we're all back together. All twelve. Family.

Bonhomie

She closes her eyes and smiles at the song. "What are we waiting for?" She thinks about the good news she heard that morning, about the seasons changing, about growing up, and she realizes she isn't waiting at all. Life isn't waiting.

Every day isn't this easy happy feeling. But every now and then is enough. Enough to keep moving. Enough not to wait.

Knee-jerk

He knew she would go. All he had to do was ask. All he ever did was ask. It had become habit, just like her answering yes.

Perennial

He lost her at the music festival. Of course, that's where he'd found her too, so his friends tried to tell him it wasn't such a great loss. But what did they know? They hadn't felt it.

She had long hair, the color of a dirty beach, but in a good way. He'd touched it, imagining wiggling his toes in the Galveston sand, and that's when she noticed him. But she didn't get mad. She just laughed and said, "Dinah."

They spent the rest of the day together, trekking from band to band, crowd to crowd. She shared her funnel cake. He bought them hot dogs, then got mustard on her skirt and didn't tell her.

They made out next to an older couple who cheered and a group of middle school girls who alternately snickered and stared with jealousy. She put her hand in the small of his back and pulled him closer. He'd never experienced that before. He was always the one who wanted more.

It was almost dark when she said she needed to go to the bathroom. "Too many beers," she said with a weak laugh. She smiled politely and slipped away.

He stood by a tree and waited for her to come back. He was riding on Cloud Nine. She was perfect.

An hour later, she hadn't returned. He didn't want to leave the tree, but surely the line couldn't have been that long...

His friends laughed when they found him in front of the girls' restroom, peering anxiously every time someone came out. They called him a fool. "It was just a fling, man." "Don't you know you're not supposed to get attached?" "Obviously she did!" Ha ha ha.

But they didn't understand. Dinah was perfect. And he was going to find her.

Chimera

"An imaginary monster made up of incongruous parts."

Emmy had the feeling that these words meant something very different to her than to anyone else.

He had pretty dark eyes and soft warm skin. His breath stank, and his teeth made her think of a wild dog. She usually liked deep voices, but the words he spoke were foul, threatening, evil. He tasted like salt and blood.

Imaginary? Not quite. She would never forget that night in the park, no matter how hard she tried. But sometimes she could convince herself it was only a bad dream.

Decry

The time for crying and decrying was over.

When she made up her mind to do something, it would be done. He'd never known anyone like that -- other than himself, perhaps. True, she had her own methods, her own timetable, her own style, and all were very different from his own, but hey, what was the use in splitting hairs? He could trust her, he realized that now. In the end, that was what mattered most.

Untoward

This has been untoward -- moving in the wrong directions -- but I have been making excuses. Now I will devote all that wasted energy to the real problem, and I will find solutions. We are not lost, and we will not be, because now I am paying attention.

Annus mirabilis

She called it her favorite time of year. The birds flew in low overhead, headed south for the winter. She used to sit out in the McMahon cornfield and watch them go by, occasionally with her sketchpad or a camera on hand. I don't know what she did with all those drawings and photos, but I never saw them around.

When she left, I looked for them. I searched her room, her whole house, with her parents' permission, of course. They thought I was trying to figure out where she'd gone. I was just trying to keep a part of her with me.

Newspeak

They call it truth, but in those convoluted tongues I don't know how it could be. The songs of triumph die on our lips because we no longer know how to breathe. There's a restless tiger prowling the street corners, waiting for something to kill. Silently he stalks the liars, but he hasn't received his orders yet, hasn't gotten permission.

Exacerbate

Her eyes were open too wide, full of shock and pain. She shuffled along the brick wall, gripping her arm, trying to ignore the warm, thick flow of blood. She didn't know how much farther she had to go, but she knew that every step, every second was making it worse.

Parietal

It was a new world. Less boundaries, more fun. Overflowing cups, dirty laundry, no alarm clocks. Isn't that the way life's supposed to be?

But there's a reality lurking somewhere in that closeted mess. Growing up isn't as easy as 1-2-3. You can't pass off passing out, and you shouldn't pass up on these chances. These opportunities to make yourself, and break yourself, and maybe even change yourself a little. That's what life really is.

Feign

She turns her head, yawns. She exhales loudly as if to ensure that he will hear. And he does. And he knows. He knows what she is doing, that she is trying to make him notice. Notice the absence. She pretends she does not really care.

But she does, and they both are aware. The way her eyes gleam even as they avoid looking. It is undeniable.

How long will she wait before she confesses?
How long will he give her before he can't forgive?

Circumspect

You are circumspect. You are my better mind. You temper me, even when you raise my temper. I am not lost without you, but when we're together I can move faster and more assuredly. I am the eyes and you are the hands. We enable one another.

Can you believe that? Do you? Will you?

Ersatz

Shrinking is not the answer. Sometimes I forget that, when I am looking a certain way. Sometimes the light plays tricks with my eyes, makes me see spots. I can't stand spots. So I want to go away. I want to become less, because I think it will make me more. But that, of course, makes no sense.

Instead I will be full and proud, and I will not stare into the vapid nothingness around me. I will not be tricked into loving a different version of myself, especially one that does not exist.

Riparian

The house sat low on the riverbank, as if for years it had been trying to sneak up on the rushing waters but as of yet had found its chance. Brick red paint peeled off from every board, and the white trim had faded like an old woman's handkerchief. Still, Samantha thought it had retained a bit of its original charm, part of the quaint magic that had enchanted her as a child. And now, thirty years later, it finally belonged to her in deed and title, though it always had been hers in spirit.

Anomaly

The first time, it was an anomaly. Eddie was a good boy, he liked to play with Lincoln logs and Lite Brite, he didn't hurt other children. Mrs. Jenner thought the other boy was lying, taking advantage of her son's shyness, his inability to speak up for himself. The teacher made her take Eddie home, but she couldn't make her punish him.

The second time, there were more witnesses, and Mrs. Jenner was forced to concede that perhaps Eddie had--accidentally, of course--pushed Kerry Woods off the swing. But she'd asked him to propel her, hadn't she? Silently Mrs. Jenner wondered if maybe the Woods girl had even demanded it, as if Eddie were a stupid mindless drone, or a slave. She probably deserved those skinned knees.

The third time, Mrs. Jenner was there. She watched in horror as Eddie ran red-faced right into old Mrs. Gallagher's visiting grandson, knocking the small boy headfirst into a mailbox. Panicked, Mrs. Jenner glanced right and left down the street to make sure no one else had seen. Then she crossed the yard and yanked Eddie away.

"What did you do that for?" she demanded. Her fingers worked in a furious blur, but she knew Eddie could still understand.

He just shrugged in response, as if he had no idea why he was in trouble. She shook him--not hard, but perhaps a bit more roughly than she had intended.

"Don't give me that. Explain yourself. What happened?"

Again, he shrugged. She shook him once more.

"Edward Michael Jenner," she spelled out, her hands shaking almost too badly to be legible. "Say something. Say something right now!"

For a moment, he stared at her. Then he opened his mouth and said, "Mnuuuh."

She exhaled frustration. "That's not what I meant and you know it," she signed sharply. But now the little Gallagher boy was stirring, and she rushed over to pretend she had been attending him all along.

"Eh... Eddie?" the boy asked groggily.

"Shh, sweetie, don't talk," Mrs. Jenner said. "Eddie can't hear you anyway. He's deaf."

Maelstrom

A maelstrom blustered through Carraway County one Wednesday morning, relocating cows, trees, cars, and the small ramshackle shanty of a post office. Everyone including Postmaster Muddle, whose mustache was the only bit of hair on his head still brown, hoped that the rickety wooden structure would collapse, and they watched through their basement windows as the storm pushed it around like a playground bully: hard enough to make a point, but just shy of getting in trouble with the teacher. Little did this bully know that the teacher--the whole town, in fact--was on its side.

Fulminate

My mind, I'm told, issues forth the same safe ideas day after day. How am I supposed to react? (I like that we could move away from a rupture with such ease.) She constantly tells me what to do, and it's my least favorite thing about her. (I said you two were similar.) I know you're both trying to help, but perhaps it is you, then, who need to think in a new way.

Canard

She spins lies about me in her head, and I don't know why. There is no mutual enmity. There was no warning sign. All I ever saw coming were the tears in my eyes.

Sotto voce

He felt as if his entire brain were underwater; all his thoughts were muted, spoken in an undertone that he could barely hear much less comprehend. He blinked once, twice, and shook his head, but nothing cleared out, everything between his ears still felt like cotton candy. He growled in frustration.

"I hate being sick."

His mother emerged from the kitchen with a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup. "I know, baby, I know."

Gadzookery

"I have to confess; I'm in awe. The way you plan these stories, the action, the puzzle pieces that fit together so perfectly. Is it something you worked at? Were born with? Can teach?

"I don't want to be you, or just like you, but I think there's a lot I could learn from you. I think my writing would improve a lot. It's very important to me, you know?"

But the woman did not answer, for she was not actually there.

Ziggurat

She climbed to the top of the ancient stone steps, her rapid breaths keeping pace with her feet. she doesn't know what awaits her at the top: her father, missing for the past 6 years; the secret to the curse that has besieged her village of late; or the most valuable jewel in the world. But the seer said it was one of those three, and no matter what it cost, she must be the first to retrieve it. If not... The seer had set his mouth in a grim line.

If not, all is lost.

Pillory

His mind was his pillory. He was shackled, guilt-bound, unable to escape the humiliation. Memories cuffed him, ran around freely as if mocking him. He didn't know how long his sentence was, but he feared it would last his whole life, and he was quite sure that he could not bear. "Leave me be," he begged in a whisper each night before he surrendered himself to sleep, to his subconscious. "Plesae, let me be this time."

Vindicate

He planned to get his. They thought it was so funny to play him this way, but what would they think when they learned he'd been playing them first? He grinned at the thought as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. Yes, he thought, this would be worth it in the end. So, so worth it.

Ashram

I left on this retreat a young man full of curiosity and hope. I wanted to find peace, with the world and with myself. I thought, where better than the mountains where Nature reigns? I sought to snatch my enlightenment, to grasp it if not by force, then by determination. But it doesn't work that way. Now I am old and I have lived and I have learned. Now I am at peace. And it has nothing to do with mountains.

Imbricate

The layers of silence create an intricate web over her heart, and it beats so softly, so sedately sometimes, that she barely knows it still works. When she lashes out, she is not surprised to find resistance, but how can she explain how desperately she needs to sever these binds? She is like the injured bird who has been touched by human hands. She is like the bird who fell from the next and survived. She is trying to fly back home.

Fiduciary

We hold one another in trust, and so I overlook my fitful dreams. They speak to me of repressed desires, friendships neglected, and horrors no one should witness or remember. What does it all mean? My guess is nothing at all. Not in this context, not in our picture. We hold each other in trust, and at the beginning and end of the day, that is all I need.

Mettlesome

I wish I could turn it off, that part of me I can't control. She cries and she feels irrationally, and she's been hurt so sometimes she hurts back. She interferes. She desperately wants, but she doesn't know how to be. She isn't me. I try to prove every day, she isn't me.

Subpoena

I wish I could see the look on his face, she thought viciously. Her mouth watered as she imagined how satisfying his apprehension would be. They'd spent days tracking and locating him, long days feeding only on hope, weak leads, and the desire for revenge. Now they would have him -- served -- on a platter, so to speak.

But what if it all amounts to nothing? a small voice asked inside her head.

Cerebral

Maybe I'm thinking this too much.

Hobbit

Maybe we all have someone small hidden inside us.

Maybe I let her out.

Promulgate

What have I done? What have I said? What does it mean to have traded roles with her? And how do I let go? How do I pretend it doesn't make me worry, doesn't make me sick? (What if it's an open declaration of war?) This is why I kept quiet. I don't want to be the bad guy.

Bedizen

Sarah and I were never little girls together. We never played dress-up, we never made believe. We never did each other's hair or whispered or giggled in each other's ears. We never slept over, and we never lent each other clothes.

I didn't meet Sarah until we were both old, but it was like a lifetime of recognition in the span of a few minutes. We wouldn't have looked much like each other when we were young, but with white hair, curved spines, and wrinkled smiles, we can be sisters. Sometimes it seems pointless, living this long. But then I look over at Sarah, and I realize it doesn't matter. At least I'm not alone.

Slantindicular

We used to lie in the slanted light that fell in through the blinds. We used to look at each other through slanted eyes, always watching, always wary. We used to tell each other slanted stories, favoring ourselves, forgetting we were both on the same side. We used to be such a slanted thing, but now we've found our balance.

Ambrosia

I wonder now if it's a metaphor, if in truth the most delectable treat is this, mortality, the lives we take for granted. We love and we fight and we explore and we unite. Our bodies slide off one another's, and we feel the sweat and taste the heat. There can be nothing else, I think. Nothing better, nothing more. This life is the food of the gods, it's what they long for.

Malinger

Her story doesn't fit with the others', but she has never lied before. The principal gives the whole line-up a once-over with his beady eyes, and their earrings, tattoos, and mohawks tell him that the girl must be in the right. Why would she ever join ranks with the likes of them? Even looks don't deceive that much.

Gallimaufry

"Not many left," he said with a frown.

"Well whadja expec'?" the man with the eye patch asked gruffly. "Come this late, yer boun' to get slim pickin's."

"Slim?" the other man echoed. "Downright emaciated, more like."

The man with the eye patch snorted. "Yer problem, lad. Not mine."

The first man sighed because he couldn't argue, and he continued to examine the stock. "There's almost nothing here I can even use."

"Will ya be wantin' some cheese with that wine, sir?"

The first man glared but -- wisely -- held his tongue.

Divers

The attic was full of divers treasures that Caitlin had seen only once before. As she moved around the dusty space, ducking to avoid crossbeams and cobwebs, she wished her grandfather were here again to take her by the hand and show her each item he had collected. She recognized the porcelain gourd from China, the elephant tusk from Africa, the large hunk of Stone from Berlin. As a girl she'd been transfixed by her grandfather's wild tales of adventure and secret missions. And then she'd been heartbroken when he sighed at the end and said in a dull monotone, "Now, Catie, this is all make-believe, of course." She'd felt slightly betrayed, as if the stories were lies rather than harmless entertainment.

Only now, twenty years later, when two men in dark suits and darker shades showed up at her door with a carefully folded American flag, did she realize the truth. Her grandfather had lied, but not about what she had once thought.

Tsunami

Her body aches, but she hardly dares to move. Even now, even with the anger and the hurt, even now she doesn't want to disturb him.

Her eyes focus on the alarm clock. still almost half an hour of sleep she could get, if only her mind would quiet. But he doesn't seem to notice her silence, and she doesn't know any other way to make herself heard. So she loses yet another memory in the tsunami of frustrated desires.

Conciliate

The monster couldn't understand her words. "Please don't hurt me. I'm only looking for my friend." She may as well have been hurling the nastiest insults and meanest threats, from the way its enormous red eyes glared at her from across the cavern. She sidled along the cool wall of stone, keeping one eye on the best at all times, and the other on the small opening by his right hoof. If she could just make it to that hole...

Suddenly the monster charged. She abandoned the cave wall and screamed in terror. As she ran for her life, the contents of her pouch flew out, falling to the hard dirt floor. She thought about recovering the pendant... then she thought about Michael, lost, hurt and afraid. She ran for the hole and never looked back.

If she had, she would have seen the terrible beast rooting around on the floor with its great snout. He had discovered the chocolates among the stash she had lost. He was content to let her go.

Excursion

"Her new children's book is an excursion into a fantastical world where nothing is what it seems to be and everything appears to be what it is not."

And that's what the masses have fallen in love with. That's the kind of magic I want to create -- but not necessarily for children. Don't we all deserve an escape? All it takes is a little suspension of disbelief on your part, and a lot of planning, practice, and passion on mine.

Haywire

The first signs are a dull ache radiating from my temples and sudden dryness of the mouth. I lie back and try to wait it out. I think of you, of what you'd say to me if you were here. I wonder if you'd be concerned.

When the worst passes, I stand up and walk around, as if to assure myself that I still can. Maybe someday I won't be able to. Somehow I'm not sure you'd stick around for that, for me.

Aerodyne

He stood on the ledge of the roof staring down at his fate. There was no way around it: he had to jump. When he did, one of two things would happen, and either one would be the end of everything as he knew it.

Gravamen

There weren't specific signs she could point to -- no lipstick stains on the collar or strange panties on the bedroom floor -- but there were things that weren't. Silences. Distance. Darkness. He didn't shout or hit, but he never said nice things. He'd stopped laughing at her jokes. He'd started sleeping with his back to her. She missed his smile, his arms, his warmth.

She'd waited patiently, for a time. She had hoped for the best, though perhaps while preparing for the worst. She had grinned and beared and stared blankly through the nights at the ceiling fan as it turned overhead. But nothing had changed.

So now she was packing, and crying, and saying goodbye. She sighed as she drove away. The sun was in her eyes, but it felt so good to finally be back in the light. Lonely and painful, but good.

Per contra

You were always my opposition, the dark knight to my shining dais. Didn't you ever tire of our routine, of the tears and the fists and the frustrations? Didn't you ever wonder how I slept at night?

But I guess that's never really been your concern.

Quaff

In my dreams, Madrid was not as I remember. It was small and dirty and dangerous, and not the home I feel in my heart, though I desperately wanted it to be. I tried to drink in the language and the places, tried to dish them out carefully. But before I really got a chance, it was all over, and it left a thick sour taste in my mouth.

Demotic

It's a popular thing, for me, to feel bad about the things you say and feel. We're so different sometimes, even though I can see the benefits in that. I'm better now than I used to be, in regards to what our problem usually was. But there are new ones everyday, if I go looking for them. So I have to remember not to, because they're not real.

(That's why love is blind.)

Altruism

This is how you get the best of me, she said. It's really not so hard, you see. Because I'll do anything for you, and I won't ask for a thing in return.

Verboten

The children crept down the dark hall together, close enough but too proud to hold hands. Their heads took on a strange glow from the lamp lights along the walls. Like three angels processing straight to the mouth of hell, they moved toward the giant wooden doors.

Suddenly an older boy leapt into their path from a passage unseen. The children screamed but didn't run, a tribute to their bravery.

"Where are you three troublemakers going?" the older boy asked.

"Nowhere you'd want to be," his little brother answered hotly.

The older boy glared. "You know this hallway is forbidden."

"Then what are you doing here?" the girl inquired.

The older boy turned red. "If you don't leave this instant, I will report you."

The three children looked at each other, then up at the boy. "Okay," they said in unison.

Paralyzed by anger and fear, the older boy could do no more than watch them walk away. Finally he slinked back into whatever hidden passage he had come from, living that they had called his bluff. He couldn't report their trespass without revealing his own, so for now their secret was safe. But not forever.

Ineffable

You're not allowed to say that. To undermine my memories, to rend my heart in two. My love for them... and also for you... Ineffable. Indispensible. Inevitable.

Bombast

I put those words in his mouth. The ones that make your mouth water, that make you change your mind -- and your vote. That man is a brainless, heartless puppet, but because of me, you love him.

That's why I quit.

Everything.

Sententious

Lessons to learn. I find them all around me, hanging in the air like hydrogen and carbon dioxide. Some I take in, some I breathe out. This is how I live.

Do you really know it all already?


Well, well, what do I say
I've never seen a bad day look quite this way
And well, well, what do I do
When all of my thoughts run right back to you

Kibosh

Nights like these are a train wreck, and we just don't know how to stop. You can say it's me, and that you're sorry I don't understand, but that's not being sorry at all. You don't have to ask me to think about it, to reevaluate my words and actions and position, because you already know that's all I do. But I have no idea what's going through your head, and that's why I can't let it go.

Expeditious

She hurries along the brook, past where the Earth turns to fire, and around the tallest mountain giant. She follows every instruction to the letter, hoping the great spirits will follow.

At the place of a thousand snakes, she sees it. The magic knotted root, the medicine her father needs to live. She has flown here, her feet winged by love and fear, but now she needs a real set of wings to finish the job. How will she cross these treacherous beasts?

Your strength will shield you, the shaman had assured her. She glanced at the fangs and glowing red eyes and found herself unable to agree. As one snake crept closer, she rushed backward, bumping into a tree, and knocking her flute to the ground.

She stared at it. Her strength? She was the best musician in her village. Could that...

She snatched the flute just before the snake could wrap his body around it. Without thinking, she began to play the first song her father had ever taught her, a war ballad about one of their ancestors. The snakes all turned to face her, and for a moment she thought she had erred, but soon their heads began to drift lazily toward the forest floor.

When they were all lulled to sleep, she stepped carefully between them toward the root. With one hand still holding her instrument, she pulled the knotted plant off its tree trunk pedestal and slipped it into the pouch slung around her waist. Then she tiptoed once more through the snakes, forcing herself to focus not on their scaly bodies but on the empty patches between them.

She kept playing well after she had escaped their den. Finally, when she felt safe enough to put away the flute, she paused to catch her breath. After a few minutes braced against a boulder, she put away her instrument and adjusted her pouch. Then she ran faster than the wind to save her father.

Cocooning

One day, man got tired of puberty. Why not get it all over with at once, we thought? Why suffer through that painful and awkward stage, all those agonizing years?

Scientists studied the growth patterns of all of Nature's other creatures, and ultimately they settled upon the butterfly. Men, they said, would now cocoon.


Hmm, I think I might try to develop this into a longer story idea...

Iconoclast

She whispers to the night sky that she doesn't believe. He can't really be gone. For ten long years she waited, and now the saga has come to an end.

She returns to the shrine, where candlelight flickers over the face of her heroes. Her heroes who left her here alone, abandoned her to reality, to a world often low on love and imagination.

With one vicious sweep she knocks the whole shrine to the floor. And with tears in her eyes she whispers to the shards and shattered pieces, "I don't believe. He can't be really gone."

Waterloo

Did you forget? Somewhere along the way, did you lose sight of how amazing I am? Did all of my good deeds and good words and good love somehow fall to the side, unnoticed, unappreciated? What made you think that was okay, to treat me that way? To discard me once you were done? What excuse did you make up for yourself to justify all the pain you caused, all the tears and all the insecurities?

I almost let you ruin me. Thank god my mother taught me to be stronger than that.

Binary

Sometimes we seem to be caught in this binary state: fine, or not. People only see what they expect, so how can I change my mind? You could do it for me, but you won't. You insist on a strength that I try to save for other things. You don't understand when I falter.

Perseverate

These days pass one into another, and I wonder when I'll notice. I wonder when it will cease to be the dream come true and start to be reality. I hope for never, but never never is. I hope to cheat the predictions and the statistics. I've never been one for numbers; instead I opt for dreams and words and scenes that play out just the way I want them to. But this isn't my story. It's my life.

Froward

Backward, froward, it's all the same. He's trouble. He doesn't know how to make good choices. If you offer him gold today or water forever, he'll forget he's ever been thirsty. He'll forget what he needs to survive.

What do you do with a man--no, a child--like that? Tell me, please, what to do.

Ailurophile

You're a dog person, she says hopelessly. And I'm a cat person. You like spicy foods, and I don't eat meat. You hate flying, and I get carsick. You watch horror movies, and I read romance novels. We're as different as two people can be.

He watched her pace the room. And he resisted the urge -- barely -- to stop her, hold her.

Instead all he did was ask, So?

She stared at him. And she found that she didn't have an answer.

Flexuous

There is a hidden footpath at the base of the mountain. If you follow its winding, serpentine trail, you will arrive half of the way up. You can look out over the land and feel accomplished, for you have climbed very high, and there are many people below.

You can also look up. You will see the mountain's peak, where a precious few have managed to find perch. You will want to join them, and you will wonder how they got there. You will scan the area around you, but you will find that yes, this is the end of that footpath.

You might call up to the men at the top. Some will not be able to hear you, or will pretend not to. You can shout until your voice goes hoarse. Finally, one person, out of irritation or pity or sympathy, will reply.

"How did you get up there?" you will ask. "The footpath ends down here."

He will laugh. "So make your own."

Crackerjack

Aspirations. Dreams. There's a difference, he says. One group is achievable. The other is like heaven: you'll never really know, no matter how hard you try in this life.

She wonders if he knew already, even then, what he would become.

She watches him from afar now, and she smiles. She knew him when. Maybe he doesn't remember, but she does.

As the people clamor around him, she laughs and thinks about how shy he used to be. She recalls trying to force him out of his shell that first time, and she puts her fingers to her lips. At that moment, he does too. And she freezes.

Maybe he does remember after all. Maybe they're still connected.

Vaticination

She knocks three times because she knows that she doesn't have any control, but just maybe she can make a difference.

Congruous

Two flowers float down a river. They are journeying together, but they are separate. One posey, one tulip; they are not related. But they are drawn to each other by the little currents of the stream. Sometimes they touch, stick. Sometimes they are thrown apart. Where will they end up? Naturally, wherever the river flows. Together? Who knows.

Southpaw

He was dirty from the game, but he liked it that way. Nothing felt better than being out there, in the center of all that energy and light and talent, and knowing that you could make or break the game.

It hadn't always been this way. The power, the fame, the name. He'd been somebody else once, still dirty, but in a different way. From a different game.

He didn't talk about it. Not because he was ashamed, but because it was over. That was how his mother had taught him: put away your things when you're done with them. And he was done with those things. He was here now, and this was the only thing that mattered.

"Strike three! Yer out!"

Another victory.

Disparage

If we go there, we can never come back.

Pristine

There was a time when we were pristine. You hadn't touched me -- only wanted to -- and I had never said an unkind word.

I stir the leaves in my tea, staring fiercely at the pale brown liquid, imagining your eyes. The steam wafts slowly with the breeze, floating lazily over to the other side of the table, where you are competently ignoring me. I pretend it doesn't hurt, but I've put on my yellow dress, the one you used to like so much. It pinches under my arms now, so yes, it does hurt. I wore it for you, because you used to like it so much. Today you don't even notice.

Campanologist

He was a monster to most, but she loved him fiercely. He didn't know it, and maybe she didn't either. But love was the tie, the bond that kept bringing her back.

She walked from school to the tower every day, at precisely the same time, the right time, waiting to hear the bells. After the sweet peal that signaled evening, he would meet her in the gardens with a book and a piece of caramel. She knew he stole the candy, but she never mentioned it.

Once he'd been late, and when she asked why, he punched the tower's stone wall. It was the only time he'd shown her personally what his true nature looked like. She ignored it and tore a strip of cloth from her skirt to bandage his bloodied fist.

Years later she would wonder what had happened to him. When her husband found the cloth, with its faded brown stain, she merely shrugged. "Woman troubles," was her excuse. And in a way, it was the truth.