Word a Day Writing

Last year I bought a “Word A Day” desk calendar in a charity shop, and although I’m not doing them daily, I’m using them as prompts to freewrite a short passage.  These are the ones I’ve done this month.

Day 69: Lachrymal (adj).  Tearful.

The shouting never stopped.  The crashing and the banging.  The sound of the never-ending fight pushed past the music I played ever louder and louder.  And though I tried to ignore it, the tears still fell.

Day 70: Machicolated (adj).  Gap-toothed; furnished with holes in a castle floor, through which to drop things on attackers.

They passed beneath me unaware.  I watched the straight line of silver helmets and pointed spears, waiting for the one I’d pour this bucket of tar on.

Day 71: Bricolage (noun).  A construction made of whatever materials happen to be available.

I snuggled deep into my little burrow, pulling the quilt as close to me as possible.  I shuffled closer to the walls of my den, to the freezer on one side and the dining table on the other.

Day 72: Farl (noun).  A chunk of bread.

In the bottom of the bag it sat, almost staring at me.  My stomach growled and tore at it’s own lining.  My joints ached with the hunger.  I was literally starving.  The chunk of bread begged me to eat it, but it was the last of my food and I didn’t know how long it had to last.

Day 73: Immure (vb).  To surround with walls; to shut away or exclude.

I’m safe here.  The world outside beckons; life and love and friendships.  But in my padded room with locked doors and windows I’m safe and nothing can hurt me.  And I can’t hurt the world.

Day 74: Ambage/Ambiage (noun).  Indirect speech.

She never spoke TO me, or even AT me.  That would mean acknowledging my existence and she could never do that.  If there was anything she wanted me to hear she would say it to the room, as if there were anyone there but me and her.

Day 75: Nesh (adj).  Soft, prissy.

No one remembered.  For years I had asked everyone I ever met.  They all remembered The Beano.  They all remembered Dennis the Fricking Menace.  But no one remembered the prissy kid he bullied.  Did I imagine him?  Why does no one remember?

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About Colette Horsburgh

A 30-something creator/baker/writer/doodler/crafter living with several (but not enough) scatty animals.
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