1. Morii- The desire to capture a fleeting experience.
3. Florid- reddish, rosy, ruddy, excessively ornate, flowery, showy
This is your second holiday Wordle list!
Use at least 10 of the words to create a story or poem
The words can appear in an alternate form
Use the words in any order that you like.
Tag: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie and Wordle
“I raise a glass of wine. May the dawn drop florid ribbons of promise. As much as I thought preparation could prevent tussles, the song remains the same.” My voice catches everyone of I’mguard. “Merry Christmas, our solstice celebration. Complete with poinsettias, but a Morii that will pass to memory.”
A bunch of faces look back. Silence perforates the gathering. An old ideal of peace always needs translated. The true test of mankind is when the second nature comes first.
1. calyx [the sepals of a flower, typically forming a whorl that encloses the petals and forms a protective layer around a flower in bud|a cup-like cavity or structure, in particular|a portion of the pelvis of a mammalian kidney|the cavity in a calcareous coral skeleton that surrounds the polyp|the plated body of a crinoid, excluding the stalk and arms]
5. box-cutter [a thin, inexpensive razor-blade knife designed to open cardboard boxes]
6. suede gloves
7. dilettante [a person who cultivates an area of interest, such as the arts, without real commitment or knowledge]
10. drop box [(in weaving) a box situated on either side of the race plate of the loom that is designed to hold shuttles and to bring bobbins of colored thread in line as desired|a secured receptacle into which items such as returned books or videotapes, payments, keys, or donated clothing can be deposited]
Reason lays like a glistening bounty. She wraps herself in suede gloves and an obscure veil of espionage. She leaves the rest of us like empty calyx after the flowers receive box-cutter shave.
We were guilty of whispers of lurid and solicited truths. She, the dilettante that is she, hides her empty thoughts on a drop box painted in abstracts.
In that moment, when flames licked the horizon and the sky burned with an orange glow, Taylor knew everything was going to be alright. An orange light washes over him. It feeld like a receding tide of stress relieving so many fears. The exhaling wind across the desert brings a taste of night’s chill. Taylor watches the blue fade to purple and then black. The truck’s headlights watches over the dry creek bed. The vast blanket of desolation buries any signs of life. His eyes search the horizons for traces. Satisfied there is nothing, he drives the truck down into the sand. The truck groans and lurches downward. Tires find rocks only to kick them up. A cloud forms illuminated by pale moonlight. It dances within a fading breeze. Taylor halts the truck where the creek once formed braids. It seems fitting to use the dead creek. His cargo needs not be found. Nor identified. He loosens the back of the trap to reveal a shovel. The sand gives easy. The headlights produce long growing shadows. The Earth opens wide to accept its prize. In the distance, calls of the night begin. The return of noise is partially unnerving. Distance is enough to restore the peaceful feeling. The moonlight plays with the senses. He back fills the hole quickly. His eyes scrub the shadows for movement. In a place with little respect to time, he begins to question if he overextended his stay. Quick feet find the path to his truck. An easy feeling resumes once he is inside. A deep breath and quick check of the mirrors calms down the pulse. Taylor starts up the truck. He drives across the disturbed sand a few times back and forth to smooth out the scene. Its perfectly staged now. Time to leave the place for civilization. Down a loose sand road another truck comes as he goes. Everything will definitely be alright in a few more miles.
“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!”
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.
“Come in Rogers. Are you there?” The silver box speaks again
“Piece of junk! Like the damn tin can that got us stuck here!” Rogers kicks a stone and tries it again. “Yes, we are here on this damn empty rock!”
“We have a read on you finally. We show ship is down. What’s your status?” the silver box squeals out it’s song.
“We’re stuck. Phillips is taping the ship together and calling this forsaken place Terra Firma. I’m looking for that water line on the map. I don’t think it works. The valve is missing.” Rogers calms down as he stares at the valve.
“You have 2 weeks worth of water left. You should just make a pick up if you can’t activate the ship.” the silver box continues “Check for life signatures, as your mission goals.”
“Well forget that life signature you saw here. The place is dead. Dead! Just like the two of us. Get another ship here. He can’t fix nothing without parts.” Rogers snaps back.
He touches the rusting wheel. His grandpa worked the waterline on Mars. He knew he wouldn’t be the one to die of thirst here.
Gretchen wakes with a shudder. The eerie morning light paints unusual colors on the walls. Like fluid spilling from an opening can, her world changes back to real.
The room fills with echoes of her slowing breath. Her eyes search for a query to explain what happened again. She rubs then with open hands as if to wipe the scene permanently from her vision.
Her right hand rummages the table top of her nightstand. Fast fingers find the smooth surface of her phone. Its harsh blue light4hw telling of a number dialed.
“Hello? Hello! It happened again!” Gretchen yells in bursts. “I can’t take these dreams. Are you revenue?”
“Yeah . . .. I’m here. … It’s like 540AM.” Joel works feverishly to put who and what together.
“It happened again! I’m… I’m leaving my room through the window.” Gretchen draws lines in the air with her hand “I heard voices. Then footsteps…. My heart is exploding in beats. I can’t breath. My throat is choked up. Are you listening to me?!”
“Yeah.. Yeah. The footsteps draw closer and you go out.” Joel thinks of why his crazy sister calls him alone.
“But this time on a unicorn… Wait, I mean unicycle. There’s a cord running down to the beach. The ocean is turning muddy. And blackbirds… They call out to these people in the house where I am.” She loses her breath taking in a rush.
“Gretchen. Calm down. You decided to go to Clown school.” Joel looks back at the clock “You and that Therapist of yours decided it was the only way to get over your clown phobia. I’m going back to bed. Put your clown attire in the closet where you can’t see it!”
1. supplicant [A supplicant is a person who prays to God or respectfully asks an important person to help them or to give them something that they want very much.]
2. seraphic [characteristic of or resembling a seraph or seraphim|seraphim:an angelic being, regarded in traditional Christian angelology as belonging to the highest order of the ninefold celestial hierarchy, associated with light, ardor, and purity. ]
5. petticoats [a woman’s light, loose undergarment hanging from the shoulders or the waist, worn under a skirt or dress]
8. ecru [the light beige color of unbleached linen]
10. dramatic art
My role as supplicant squandered. My petition disastrous. The seraphic response hardly neutral. Leaving me with a tickle in the throat and a shot to the gut to polish me of. I appear bending like dramatic art.
All for the love for ecru petticoats.
“In the end, we all become stories.” Derisè whispers to her child. “Margaret Atwood told us.”
Her left hand rises.
“There was a hummingbird. He set forth on this world to let loose the seed of the rainbow papaya. His partner is transforming our place was the fox. The fox driven by his interest in funding something better than gooseberries no eat. Mr Hummingbird was much to fast to be eaten. The fox liked him for that.” Desirè looks down at her little grandson.
“Why didn’t he eat something else?” Peter looks up at his Granny. ” Foxes sneak and grab everything.”
“Peter, everyone has roles to play and rules they must follow.” Desirè laughs “Mother Earth is the water barrier. She spills life. This life picks and chooses how they will help out the world.”
“But how does she know the animals are following what they have to do?” Peter moves his hands waving at the stars emerging in the purple of twilight.
“If you ever see an eye looking at someone’s window, she is there.” her voice becomes a laugh “We are at peace when every animal follows the plan. It is we, that she watches.”
Written as part of a challenge called Collage details are available at https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/08/06/writing-prompt-205-special-collage/
“Did you notice a girl? She ran be this way… maybe an hour ago.” Barry looks at his diminutive counterpart.
His eyes notice the old house. Great spidling detail with cracked flakes of paint that should have been white at one time.
“Seen noone, slick. It’s not where you turn a little piece run…. loose.” Sly spits out a watermelon seed. It beautifully arches ten feet landing on the toe of brand new white shoes.
Barry kicks toe clear of seed. “Its important. She isn’t the kind to be, well here.”
“You don’t like MY neighborhood?!” Sly sits up his fill four feet. He slips a knife through the watermelon. The blade slides effortlessly. A single stream of juice bleeds across the red table. But dark tiny eyes burn against Barry’s skin.
“Dude, just looking for my girl. I never spent time here. You circus people don’t seem to like…. My people being around. I feel the looks.” Barry standing slightly slumped. His back curls and he tries not to look normal. “Seriously, if you seen her..”
“You are what, a model? Us circus people are so judgemental. What would a normal girl do here? I’d love to have, say dinner with one like her.” Sly takes a napkin and wipes his mouth. The white napkin shows of his rudy hands with yellow nails.
“Did you see her?” Barry stands tall and steps toward the porch.
“See her?! We had mystery dinner tonite. It served twelve of us. I even had room for dessert.” Sly spits out a fingernail. The silver ombre tip catches the light. “Watermelon? It’s National Watermelon Day!”
“Is that what i think it is?!” Barry shakes.
“Genius it’s a watermelon!” Sly smiles a crooked smile.