Hullabaloo

What this tells me is, you don't understand. You ask us to speak up, but then you don't listen. You don't pick out the voices from the tumult. You don't understand even when we speak as one. We are crying out, but you cannot hear above your own ego, your own insecurity. And this is why we will leave. And when we go, the silence will deafen you.

Acrid

Like nails across a chalkboard. While driving, my frustrations turn to road rage. Slow people affronting me like her ignorance, her selfishness. But how can you sever the first and most important tie? How can you lessen the hold, the power, the obligation, the love?

You can't, so you swallow the bitter sauce off your skin and pretend like it's the same comforting taste you miss so much.

Misnomer

She never thought her name really fit. She used to imagine herself a Jennifer, with long blonde hair, and the bluest of eyes. Sometimes she was Regina, with auburn waves down to her shoulders, and eyes of fiery green . Longer lashes, longer legs. Same sweet smile, whiter teeth. Polished nails, polish personality. This was the way she saw herself, or at least the way she wanted to.

A rose by any other name, they said, would still smell as sweet.

So then why did she feel so nervous now, with the application clutched tightly in her hands, next in line at the city court office?

Repine

Benny wondered when he would find his voice. Every day he walked in through the automatic doors, sat at his desk, turned on his computer, ate a banana, and answered emails. He listened to his coworkers talk about inane things in their lives -- dogs, kids, cars, parents. Sometimes he turned on a radio to tune them out, but most days his boss turned his radio on even louder, so there was no point. And at least once a week, his boss came out to pick on him. For drinking the last of the coffee, for throwing a can in the garbage instead of the recycle bin, for coming back ten minutes late from lunch. Sometimes different every time, but something stupid always.

Every night as Benny drove home, he wondered why he didn't speak up. Why he let the days pass this way, why he let himself get stepped on, why he let his spirit die. He used to have dreams, and ambitions, and passions. Now he had benefits, summer hours, and a 401(k). What had he lost for what he had gained? Was it worth it?

Where was his voice?

Plethora

The truth was, she had too many shoes.

It was a simple fact, but Ellie hated to admit it. One entire half of her closet was for heels, flats, sandals, and boots. The skirts and blouses and slacks were all nice too, but the shoes, oh the shoes.

She'd begun her obsession at age 4, watching The Wizard of Oz and those ruby red slippers. Then she discovered her mother's stilletos. After a few tumbles down the stairs, she'd mastered walking in them, and she'd never looked back.

Now she did her best not to look at her credit card bills. Just pay the minimum, she told herself. Then cut back. Eventually you'll pay it all off.

But inevitably she'd see a sale down on Sixth Street, or an exquisite pair of Jimmy Choos in a boutique window, and she'd put off her reformation for another month.

Anathema

She was honored by the ban, frankly. For the Pope, the leader of all the Catholics in all the world, to take the time to censor her book, that was a great distinction. Though other writers may have been offended, concerned for sales, or distraught by the condemnation of their religious chieftain, she was ecstatic.

Some had Putlitzers, some had Nobels. She had taboo.

She actually thought that might be better than anything else for sales.

Renumerate

Evelyn knew she would never forget, and never, ever forgive. There was nothing that could be done to erase the scars a parent left on a child. There was no way to take back the past, to relive those days the way they should have been lived the first time: with her father by her side, supporting her, loving her, encouraging her. There was no equivalent to eighteen birthdays missed, eighteen years spent wondering.

His being here now -- showing up on her doorstep eighteen years late -- didn't mean nothing. But it didn't mean enough. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Myriad

Under the myriad of stars, Willa fled to the river. She needed some space, some time, some room to breathe. She couldn't smile anymore, not genuinely, not until she had her own mind sorted out. Everything was weighing on her like an oppressive summer heat.

Will you marry me? he'd asked.

Her eyes had gone wide. They say sometimes that you just know it's coming, but she'd had no idea. She hadn't thought of them as being at that stage yet. She hadn't thought of them as being ready.

But he did. What did that mean? Was she just scared? Was his belief enough to spark hers? Or was she right, and he was rushing? Or did their being on such completely different pages mean something important, something larger than just a yes or no answer?

Willa didn't know, but out here, under the moon and the tree with the galaxy as her ceiling, she felt calm. Tonight it didn't matter. Tonight she was just look up and know that she wasn't alone.

Acerbic

"Oh, God, this is terrible!" Molly said. She turned away and made a face, covering the pot with its lid. "We can't eat this." She carried the offending pot to the sink.

Roger smiled and kissed her nose. "I'm sure it's not that bad."

She stopped short of pouring out the stew. "Here, you smell it."

Breezily, Roger obliged. His eyes went wide. "Um, I'm sure it would be fine with some... garlic bread, or..."

"Pizza," Molly said. "We're ordering pizza."

Transmute

This metamorphosis, it doesn't happen overnight, he warned. You cannot expect to be the caterpillar one day and the butterfly the next. Even nature is not so kind. The chrysalis stage can last weeks, or months. And that is for a small creature. For a man to change, more time is needed. More patience. More endurance. Do you have what it takes? I do not know, he admitted. I have taught you all that I can. But true learning does not come from listening or watching. True learning comes from trying. From failing, in fact. Success teaches you very little, especially if you come by it too quickly.

Nefarious

Sabrina is a wicked girl. Sabrina likes to tease the boys. See Sabrina make them cry. See Sabrina make them drool. Sabrina is a wicked girl, oh yes. But Sabrina does love being wicked.

Indolent

The love affair hadn't yet ended. Suzanne was too lazy to do it, and Herman was too busy. He had four kids, a wife, and a boss who demanded nearly all of him. Suz had lost her job, the support of her family, and pretty much any and all motivation in life. Opposite problems, same short-term solution.

Someday he would look back on this as the dark period in his life. With khaki shorts and a greenhouse, Herman would be able to forgive himself while he pruned the weeds from his garden. The boys would call on weekends, and his wife would be happier with the real estate agent anyway. All he would need was the blue skies and pink roses, the daffodils and the hummingbirds.

At the same time, Suzanne would thank god she'd hit the bottom, because it was the only way she would ever have learned how to pick herself up. She would think of him occasionally, the man who loved her even when she didn't love herself, and she would smile. Then she would donate large fractions of her fortune to various charities, asking to be thanked in the brochures and on the plaques as S. Herman.

Someday these things would happen. For now, there was just the dirty little love affair, which neither of them were proud of, and both wanted to end.

Chagrin

Mbokwe didn't want to go home. He could not face his brothers and sisters empty-handed. They had sent him to the city with all their hopes and dreams -- and modest fortunes -- and he had made nothing more of them. He had promised them riches, promised them he would not lose, he was a genius, a prophet, a magical spirit who knew how to play the games and trick the casino genies into giving him money. He had beat every villager at cards, sticks, and tricks. And yet in the city he had gambled everything, and now it was gone. He did not understand, and he was embarrassed. He did not want to go home.

Sojourn

He liked to think of their time together as a brief sojourn into a friendlier world. He could not be a part of it forever, he'd known that from the start. Perhaps he hadn't said anything to her out of fear that she would reject him, that she wouldn't want to share her world with someone like him. After he got to know her, he realized how silly that was. She wouldn't have denied him anything. That was the whole point of her personality, the whole reason her world was the way it was.

He only wished his leaving had been so hard on her.

But the beauty of her world was that it kept her safe. No matter what happened, she would be protected, and eventually happy again. That was what he would always love about her.

Bedizen

"That is the ugliest Christmas tree I have ever seen."
"HEY!"
"What? I'm being honest."
"Lie."
"Okay. That's almost the ugliest Christmas tree I have ever seen."
"I hate you."
"And I hate the tree."
"God. What even makes it so bad?"
"Um, do you have eyes? You've got too much crap on there. Angels and stars and baby Jesuses."
"So? That's Christmasy!"
"Or is it baby Jesi?"
"Go home."

Rodomontade

The old man stopped walking along the wide dusty road and sat on the bench. He looked to his left, toward the town he had left behind. Then he looked to his right, toward the great unknown.

He recalled himself as a young boy, the heralded champion, genius, hero. "This boy is going places," everyone said. "This boy will see the world, and then rule it."

The truth is, he'd never left home. Not one in all his seventy years. Not to another country, not to another state, not even to another town or city. The farthest he ever got was the specialty fishing store down on Holly Street. And they'd been closed.

Now he was finally making good on the words of his townspeople.

Now it was a little late.

Does it make a difference? Better late than never?

Well, he would find out. Just as soon as he was done resting on this bench.

Diffident

Before she did it, they told her why she was the way she was. "You're shy," said one. "You're ahead of your time," said another. "You just want the attention," said someone else.

They had her all figured out before there was even anything to figure out. They knew all there was to know, they saw all there was to see. She was not a mystery to anyone, and so she wondered, What's the point in me?

Assuage

No hay remedia. No hay solución. No hay otro método de vivir. Yo sólo puedo ser.

No hay ruido. No hay olor. No hay nada para gozar. Sólo las cenizas en mi pelo.

Hoy era mi momento. Hoy era el día final. Hoy es para siempre. Hoy es la muerte.

Inchoate

The day had only just begun, and already Samantha was near her limit. White swirls danced in her eye, a dull pain racked her ribcage, and her face was a shade of pale purple. She considered calling in sick to work, but she worried she might need those days later in the year. Her brother was having a baby, his first, and she wanted to be able to go home when it was born.

So she trudged on over to the little supermarket and clocked in. She smiled at customers in the aisles, then grimaced once she entered the employee lounge.

"You don't look so good, Sammy," Ricky said.

"Just what a girl loves to hear," she replied with a smile.

Gewgaw

I'm tired of dreaming about you. How can you haunt me so, when we agreed to walk separate ways? I thought we had come to terms -- I gave you my truth, and you reluctantly listened -- but this is not what I signed on for. Your ghost, your anger, your image always with me. This cannot last, because this cannot be tolerated.

Accept this, my last offering of peace. To you, it seems perhaps a trinket, but you must know, deep down, what it is really worth.

Kismet

(Author's note: This is one of my favorite words, both for meaning and look/sound.)


She looked out the window at the snow falling down. The cold soft flakes flashed like sequins in the wind, and they formed a layer of pure white on the ground. She thought about all the imperfections, all the bumps and dips covered by this snow. Everything made to seem equal, everything made to seem clean.

Was this what her life would be? Her smile like snow over the earth of her life? Would people look and see only the beauty, forgetting the cold, lifelessness it brought?

She turned away from the window. Sometimes it was better not to think about it. There was a plan for everything, and she had to trust that soon the snow would melt and reveal the truth beneath.

Cabal

The little robots conspire against me. They creepy-crawl around the wires and the drives, they infest the chips and the boards, and they undo all my good efforts. I want to focus, I want to concentrate, I want to produce! But these robots, they stall my machine and render it useless beneath my fingertips.

I blame the little robots.

Rara avis

Once I found a baby bird on the ground. She was chirping pitifully, and I wanted to help her, but I remember my father telling me that if you touch a wounded animal, they will be shunned by their own kind. I debated for a moment, his words ringing in my ear, and then I picked her up anyway.

I took the baby bird home and nursed her. She was tentative at first, but warmed to me. Within weeks she couldn't bear it when I left home for work, and she nearly chirped her head off every time I came back. I told my friends she was my one and only girl -- Gabby, I named her -- and it was true.

For a while. Then I met Melissa. She was an injured baby bird too, in a way. And I nurtured her, helped her heal. Like Gabby, she'd been abandoned by her family, and I took her under my wing.

Now she's my only girl. Gabby passed away, and when she did, a part of me went with her. Melissa tried to help me, tried to fill in that empty, chirpy space. But it's not the same, and it never will be.

Gabby wasn't my only girl, but she was the one.

Busker

What bothers me isn't that they pass. It's how they pass.

Some look away, as if my appearance might burn their eyes, as if I am the sun and they are standing too close. Others glare at me, as if I have done something wrong, but I have broken no law, of government or common decency. A few smile apologetically, as if they wish they could help but they can't, but I know they can.

Every day, I see men at their best and at their worst. The pennies and the dollars don't amount to much, but the insight, the life lessons that I get, those are invaluable.

Probity

In the world of office politics, Katie was a nobody. Nobody to include in whispered conversations, or private emails, or fun group lunches. Katie sat in a cube that everyone passed but no one visited. She was part of the company but not of the team. She was monitored but not included. She was used, but miserable.

At first she thought her integrity might have been intimidating. But the truth is, she was no better or worse than anyone else there. Everyone took an extra couple minutes at lunch, made personal phone calls now and then, and called in sick when they really just needed some me-time. She may have hid it better than they did, but that was to keep the peace with her bosses, not her coworkers.

So why was she treated as a foreigner, an alien?

She simply didn't know.

Garrulous

Cathy talks too much. That's all I can think when I'm with her. She just keeps going on and on about the most inane subject -- the weather, her work, her car, her cat. I'm never interested in what she has to say, and I never know how to make her shut up. It's terrible.

But when we're apart, I miss her like there's a flame burning a hole through my heart. I think of her eyes, her hair, her breasts in those snug sweater tops. I think of the day we met in the book store, both going for the last copy of The Grapes of Wrath. I think of how much fun she used to be.

And that's why I keep seeing her again.

Amanuensis

In my dreams, I'm someone else. Not someone special, exactly. Just someone different. And it's nice.

I live in a nobleman's house. He is a scholar, and I transcribe his work. He works late into the night, and thus so must I, but he treats me well and pays even better. We eat together as though we were friends, while his butler and maid must dine in the kitchen. Perhaps this is because I am learned, while they can hardly read the recipes in a cookbook, or the notes he leaves of tasks for them to complete. I don't know how I feel about this caste system of intellect, but I have little right to question it.

Not to mention, none of this is real.