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 76: Rasceta (noun). Creases on the inside of the wrist.

He kissed me everywhere. The neck, the mouth, the breasts. All the obvious places. But everywhere else. My toes, my shoulder blades, the inside of my wrists, my elbows, my heels.

Day 77: Cachinnation (noun). Loud laughter.

There was no sound sweeter. No angel song, no children’s choir. After years of visiting her and getting no response – she never moved and barely blinked. After years of catatonia my sister was finally laughing.

Day 78: Jigget (noun). Juggling, fidgeting.

I never knew how to sit still. Not in my sleep, not in lectures. Even watching films I had to be moving. I had to be doing something. My fingers had to be doing their magic.

Day 79: Yahoo (noun). Member of brutish, quasi-human species in Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels; depraved person.

I’d been in the police for as long as I can remember. Straight to the academy from college, being a cop had been my entire life. In all of the 30 years in the service I’d never seen anything as depraved as this shit.

Day 80: Ventricumbent (adj.) Lying on the front or belly.

The sun was beating down on my back. The gentle itch of sand on my cheek. The almost non-existent breeze across the sea. The smell of salt and sweat and suntan lotion. The sounds of summer surrounded me.

Day 81: Febrile (adj).  Feverish.

It started with a fever.  The temperature and sweatiness would last a week or so before the other symptoms began.  By the time the itchiness started, you were beyond saving.

Day 82: Diglot (noun). A bilingual person.

I was lost. In a country I’d never been to before, with a billion people I couldn’t talk to. She had been my only link, my only way to communicate. Now that she was gone I had no idea what to do next.

Day 83: Inesculent (adj). Tasteless, inedible.

After her surgery her taste buds had stopped working. She couldn’t taste flavours, no matter how spicy or sour. But rather than let it hold her back, she turned her disability into a career. A circus career to be precise.

Day 84: Confricate (vb). To rub.

My hands gripped the headboard, rattling the cuffs around them. I pulled hard, aching to break free. He was so close. He straddled my hips and gazed at me with that devilish gleam in his eyes that made me tremble.


About Colette Horsburgh

A 30-something creator/baker/writer/doodler/crafter living with several (but not enough) scatty animals.
This entry was posted in Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Word a Day Writing

  1. Tania says:

    I like 77, 80 and 84 the best. 🙂

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