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 85: Mundungus (noun). Smell of tobacco.
It made me think of Grandad, the smell of tobacco. Not cigarettes – not that smokey, chemical reek, but the rich, rusty smell of proper tobacco. It made me think of Grandad. And of what he did.
Day 86: Popliteal (adj). Relating to the back of the knee.
It always worked. You could kiss their lips, their face, their shoulders. You could cover their body with attention and affection, but it’s tracing your fingers along the back of their knee that would really turn them to putty.
Day 87: Hogget (noun). The fleece of a year-old sheep.
The poor little thing. She was terrified. Shivering and shaking in my grip. She must have thought I was trying to kill her. I have to admit, if I’d never seen it before, all this shearing equipment would terrify me too. But she’d be okay. In just a few seconds she’d be free, and a lot cooler.
Day 88: Prelapsarian (adj). Primitive, innocent.
The Prime Directive was there for a reason. A civilisation like this one had no concept of a world beyond their village, let alone their planet. Introducing them to space travel and other races would devastate an innocent culture.
Day 89: Sitzkreig (noun). (Virtual) stalemate in warfare.
We were all sat there, muscles tense, ready to fire the instant we were ordered to. None of u trusted this ceasefire – not our side or theirs. They were probably sat at their computers, just as ready to fire as we were.
Day 90: Crapula (noun). A hangover.
I opened my eyes, or tried to. They felt like lead and didn’t want to move. I tried to engage my other senses. There was a roaring in my ears, blocking out everything else. The taste of sick in my mouth pervaded my sense of smell too.