1. turn signal
4. swain [a young lover or suitor|a country youth]
5. gibbous moon [any moon that appears more than half lighted but less than full is called a gibbous moon. The word gibbous comes from a root word that means hump-backed]
6. fen [a low and marshy or frequently flooded area of land|flat low-lying areas of eastern England, formerly marshland but largely drained for agriculture since the 17th century|wetland with alkaline, neutral, or only slightly acid peaty soil]
8. bombshell [an overwhelming surprise or disappointment|a very attractive woman|an artillery shell]
9. Lilliputian [trivial or very small|a trivial or very small person or thing|early 18th century: from the imaginary country of Lilliput in Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, inhabited by people 6 inches (15 cm) high]
10. mawkish [sentimental in a feeble or sickly way|having a faint sickly flavor]
I would pester her. The brunette bombshell whose melodious voice could corrupt my every thought. But like some mawkish lilliputian werewolf want-to-be, I waited upon a gibbous moon to become full and set me free.
I realize with no car in the garage, i was no more than a swain. The person driving down the road left turn signal stuck on like i had no idea when to turn. And when i did, there I was stuck in fen, knee deep in ooze.
You challenge me with a route teeming with pretense. I should jump at the dearth of shock you attempt. How is it possible one could care so lightly? Not as individual drug, nor bulk helps to deal with you.
“He was such a shallow man. Always try to show he had risen above hi snake like personality. Glad to see you succumb to illness.” Tina kicks dirt into the open grave. Her pale thin face sneaks a peek at the five other mourners. “It’s go to see you in the hole but it should be much further. I’d put you below Hell. Maybe that’s deep enough.”
Tina fakes a dab at her eyes. “They came just to be sure you’re dead also!”
“I love the sound of the river. God, those engines fighting the inevitable current! They surge!” Timothy taps his fingers on a wooden crate. “If they stop, the thing goes sideways.”
Timothy tugs down the brim of his ball cap. His eyes roll along the viaduct. Empty as always during the morning. The Sun has yet to bring out the second round of fishermen.
“Well, time to loosen the load. I hope you can swim….” Timothy’s voice raises slightly. “Oh yeah…Good luck with the crate, ropes and gag.”
Timothy pushes the long narrow crate to the edge of the tailgate. A sudden shift in weight drops it to the concrete surface inches from the water.
“Don’t worry those bags of sand won’t hurt soon. The water takes all that weight away. It sounds like it knocked the wind out of you.” Timothy pushes it end over end til a loud splash splits the surface.
“Are you sure someone can read it in a hundredth of a second?” Shiela looks upward.
“World’s Greatest Psychic seemed presumptuous, so…” Gabriel looks at her.
“But can they read it?!” Shiela questions
2. distils [*alternate spelling of distills]
4. musk [a strong-smelling reddish-brown substance that is secreted by the male musk deer for scent-marking and is an important ingredient in perfumery| a relative of the monkey flower that was formerly cultivated for its musky perfume, which has been lost in the development of modern varieties| *late Middle English: from late Latin muscus, from Persian mušk, perhaps from Sanskrit muṣka ‘scrotum’ (because of the similarity in shape of a musk deer’s musk bag)]
5. viol [a musical instrument of the Renaissance and baroque periods, typically six-stringed, held vertically and played with a bow]
10. tinctured [be tinged, flavored, or imbued with a slight amount of| denoting a dye or pigment|‘imparted quality,’ likened to a tint imparted by a dye]
11. cowslip [a European primula with clusters of drooping fragrant yellow flowers in spring, growing on dry grassy banks and in pasture]
The owls swagger within the boughs of the apple tree. Their song reminiscent of a viol. It strikes a nerve like a villain.
My nightly trek. Moonlight harvesting of cowslip for tinctured distils. Instead my sweat sodden clothes smell of cheap musk. This night stains my mind. There something unnatural about.
I struggle with my fringe power. It’s mysteries swirl then list like shooting star. My brain storms new roads to charge down. At last comes a sigh. I have gone nowhere.
Thank you Elaine Farrington Johnson for our photo prompt this week!
Sharon ran through the house
“Samuel! You’re on the front page!” she yells across the house “Look!”
Reggie gets up from his chair to see his little boy on the page.
Mommy! Let me see too!” Samuel pops up from underneath the paper. “Just like Daddy said we changed the world. Didn’t we?”
Reggie casts a big grin at his son “Yeah, we sure did.”
His eyes move bad to the rest of the page. His mind says “No we didn’t”
1 Favissa -a cache of sacred objects that are no longer in use
2 Arkwright – A skilled craftsman who produces wooden chests or coffers (Arks)
6 Cacophony – discordant and mixture of harsh sounds
7 Imp – a little devil or demon, an evil spirit, or mischievous child
Extra twisted bonus phrase “Someone is walking over my grave” – a sudden response to a sudden shudder or shivering
“Someone is walking over my grave!” she snaps to attention as if hit by an unseen object. “Oh, whom could it be?”
Her mind flutters. Upon her scattered table, she fetches a black looking glass.
“I see your reflection! By what subterfuge does your heart plot for me?” Her green eyes glow as they delve into clandestine shadows.
Her left hand reaches through the glass clutching a crimson thread.
“Ha! Upon my pyre will I roast this piece of you. Tighter than a corset… it will wrap inside you. Cacophony of imps will craft your tune!” She smiles like it hurts her soul.
“Father, your gifted arkwright hands have found another wretched soul to add to the favissa. I will pass a box of their ashes upon the faciene sacrabs and broken crosses of long ago.” She pauses in mid sentence.
“Esmeralda, you dumb bitch you left the window open. There’s no-one is over your grave!” she stomps her feet on the ground and gets up to close the source of the chill down her back.
“I wonder whom I cursed then?” she shrugs “Probably deserves it anyway.”
Her mind weaves circles. The symbols are always there. She wipes her brow and closes her eyes.
The street is far more crowded than she thought it should be. Her fingers lightly squeeze a faded rose in her right hand. A insignificant scent drifts away. Much like Dawn as she finds a bench to hide on.
The city is a curious mystery. Nothing in Coldwater could prepare for the rush and bustle of people and more people. The masses hold a face that is there for her. It was foretold. The circle will be unbroken. Destiny and a purpose awaits her.
Her eyes strip away the faces from the crowd. His dark eyes and hair need to be here. Her soul demands it. Morning melts into afternoon but the faces never change.
She lifts up her backpack and thinks of a place to go. Still the circles are everywhere. She knows he is close.