bedizen

The house was redecorated, even the chairs reupholstered. However silly Mike found it, this was important to Sylvia. The parade of homes was always such a pretentious event. Their neighbors showing off their exotic skins, antique silver and marble flooring. But their walls lacked any sentiments. They were filled with Picasso, Rembrandt, or a copy at least. The flowers were always real though.

Sylvia was busy arranging their own flowers in the dining room. She had pulled the white lace curtains to draw in the daylight. He watched her move the roses with such deftness. When people toured the homes, they saw this carefully crafted beauty and fawned over it. But they never saw what was real, what really made the home. He was glad that she left the pictures of the family as well as Derek's toys in the foyer.

kismet

He pulled her out into the hallway and swung her around as the door thudded closed. She cringed at the coldness of the tiles as he pressed her against the wall. The most ridiculously impish grin consumed his face. He brushed a stray hair from her face that moved from the false breeze of the abruptly shut door. Still, she refused to ruin her composure.

"Tell me," he smiled. "You can tell me. I know you couldn't before, and I acted so stupid. Tell me now."

She caught her mouth dropping but didn't speak. He continued, eyes hard on her.

"I just couldn't bear it. I couldn't take the jealousy. How you could throw your affections away on an imbecile. So I couldn't face you, and I couldn't tell you."

She could feel burning in her cheeks. She wanted to wipe them away against the wall so he couldn't see the red.

He blinked and suddenly everything was soft and gentle. "I wanted to tell you so much. Every time I saw you, but every time I ran. We're supposed to be together, I know it." He stepped back slightly to give her a moment's breath before he completely pushed his body against hers.

"Tell me. Tell me," he whispered in her ear. "You have to tell me. I'm not going to let you go until you tell me."

"Tell me and I'm yours. Just tell me," he coaxed.

She could not help but agree.

fallible

Claire felt light. It was a different feeling, almost spirited. Her gown billowed but she felt no wind against her skin, only warmth. She could make out his silhouette through the transparency. He approached and took her hand. She asked him where they were going.

"Nowhere Claire. We're still here."

"Where are we now?"

"Some place you'll know much later." He smiled with such gentleness and she tried to remember where they might have met before. But she couldn't see him as well as she hoped. She couldn't tell what color his eyes were.

"I'm afraid," Claire paused, "I'm afraid I've done something wrong."

He pulled Claire closer, "I know, but these things happen, sometimes unavoidable. It's not your fault." He touched Claire's cheek and she could not cry.

"It's not time. You will all make mistakes, but you must understand for yourself." And with that he let go of her. She felt the wind again and her chest drop.

Claire could hear faint beeping behind her as she opened her eyes. The doctor's eyes greeted her warmly, "Welcome back Claire."

perdurable

my cardiac arrest: when you lose hope in forevers

it's in the trash
with everything in my heart
except the attack

magniloquent

Magnanimous. You're joking, he thought.
Breathtaking. Enchanting. Incredibly captivating.
Too much. Not quite right. It was becoming impossible to find the right word, which he found surprising when his whole career was words. Editing books on a continuous basis, something so simple could not be beyond his Oxford years.
Enthralling. Stunning. All encompassing.
Seriously? Thumbing through a reference book would provide no help.

What was it when she danced? When her left hip shifted as she greeted him. There was always a softness in her.

True. Just true. True.
If words could leave paper and exit his lips.

neophyte

Words complicate things, she said. Don't say much, just something to get their attention, then price. Wear something loud, like shiny and really tight. I'll let you borrow a few things if you want. But treat him nice, but not too nice, you know. You want to leave a little to the imagination you know what I mean?

Try not to kiss him on the lips. Be, you know, sexy seductive kind of thing. Like Pretty Woman, you seen that movie? That Julia Roberts lady, she's like all classy but like sexy. Clean too. That's up to you.

Listen to me though, you're new at this and I gotta tell you this. Never, never get emotional. You can't love him, so don't let him love you. It just complicates things. I like Julia Roberts and all you know, but that stuff never happens. It just never happens. You're always beneath.

sempiternal

Sarah crept slowly up the old staircase, hands gripping the peeling banister as she reached the alcove. It was the only place that hadn't changed. The same books lined the dingy yellow wallpapered shelves that ran into a bright pink table and chair.

A moment passed before she took in a breath. She could still smell the familiar hint of pine cleaner through the musty air.

Stumbling over the chair, Sarah grabbed the banister to balance her weight as she shifted to sit. "Crap," she thought looking at the splinters in her fingers. Pressing her thumbnail to the soft flesh, Sarah pushed until she couldn't feel her fingertip. The ground floor was peaking from the corner of her eyes. How far away it looked from here.

decry

We met when I was fifteen, Frank was ten and unknowingly involved. Frank had dropped his ice cream and was complaining, and I was fumbling through my backpack for some change when Johnny came up and offered to pay for another cone. I agreed and then he picked me up the next day to take me to the movies.

The first time we kissed was three weeks later. We just finished dinner at Ruby's and my breath smelled like garlic. He laughed before he leaned in to my hair. I could see the strands quiver under his breath. It was soft, gentle and I don't remember anything but it tasting sweet.

The day he lowered himself on one knee I said, "Absolutely Johnny dear," in a heart beat. The ring was small but he had worked all summer for this falling-leaf proposal. I remember the crisp crackle underneath our shoes and our backs. The leaves were so soft and sweet.

We got married on the beach because it felt more open-minded. Our parents objected the whole time, up to the actual ceremony when the pastor pronounced us man and wife. For that moment, they paused, split-second respect, until the reception where they again shared their grievances.

It's typical when you marry young to expect failure. It's typical to be reminded you'll meet failure. Repeatedly, so we don't believe. When Johnny and I used to go to the beach, we run our fingers through the muddy sand. Sometimes I wonder, when the marks we'd drawn washed away, if they thought this is how we'd end. But Johnny always knew, it's always forever. Even if we aren't physically here anymore. Soul mates are forever.

untoward

The climb had been more than well-planned, and we were thankful for the good weather and the lack of untoward circumstances. Probably due to the fact we barely spoke under our harried breath. As we summited, we saw further into rows and rows of white-green ripples. Such contrast to the dirty, muddy snow beneath our wet boots that eradicated our faults. Jim turned to me and nodded politely, "Well, I suppose you're right."

annus mirabilis

She leaned forward, slightly drunk, waving her glass towards me, offering a sip of the sparkling concoction. She rose partially out of her chair, refusing to be bound by her cloth napkin as it plummeted to the floor.

She raised her glass in toast, "Annus mirabilis," she said, with a soft curl in her lips. She nodded towards me so I could see only the light hitting her forehead and glazed eyes. A few strands of dark hair fell across to conceal resentment.

The dipping of her head was followed with a polite curtsy, then a return to a poised body, she stood fully. A column of chiffon, layers upon layers of age, and the same pristine face. She understood the composure of cosmetics and grace.

When the ceremony ended, I stole away to silently follow her lavendar scent.

newspeak

simple, so we cannot say otherwise

exacerbate

It's so easy to provoke her. One little comment, one off-beaten touch. Keep her off my path. We decided it'd be better. I don't know how to tell her, how humor shields my hurt. When she laughs, with those eyes. When she frowns, with those eyes. And I spend every waking moment with that smile because I must spend sleeping nights alone.

parietal

Speak when you're spoken to, and when you're not. You have to decide where the balance is and how much you flaunt your intellect. We pick and choose our partners like we pick and choose are classes where we picked and chose our professors. To impress. I twiddle my thumbs and run fingers through my hair, idly watching the older generation (only by a year or so) draw their circles pass me. To separate. This is wrong, I feel thin-sliced incorrectly. I am not a fool, just uncertain with my head in New York City clouds. Sorry, haven't returned yet. Ring tomorrow.

Why do I find this all so revolting?

I thought I would understand by now what so inherently interested me in this field, but why is something that grabs me in a field I decided to bypass. Irony is never easy. Irony is not for the weak. I almost forgot, I have a job to do.

I want to learn, I tell myself, so ignore pretensions and embarrassment. Ignore.

feign

I watched her pull the shiny, layered silk dress over the lumps of her body. Despite her slightly full frame, it was too loose, but I waited for her to prompt me before I gave my opinion. The wrinkles were already creasing the silk as she pushed out her right hip, and the fabric sashayed with her sudden movement.

"See how the fabric drapes over my curves? It's gorgeous," she said. I looked at her and smiled, nodding my head in agreement. Kept nodding as she twirled, sat, got up and twirled again.

"I just love the detailing," she exclaimed, pointing to the royal-colored gemstones across her neck. Purple, green and blue, vivid, very vivid. I saw myself looking at myself through their vividness. I wondered what I should say.

"It's a nice dress. It's very well-made, but I think it's too big for you," I said hesitantly. She wrinkled her nose at my comment about it's size, but nodded.

"Yes, yes, I know. But it's incredible. It's such a wonderful piece, and I could take it in," she replied, pulling the silk back around her hips, desperate to keep her treasured discovery.

I understood her appreciation. She lifted the dress over her head and replaced it on its hanger. I noticed her contemplating, about what characteristics exactly I'm not sure, the likelihood of wearing the dress.

I bought the dress for her, knowing to me she looked beautiful with or without it. But if it made her feel beautiful, how could I deny her such a small satisfaction.

ersatz

Too tall. Too small. Too big. Too punctual. Too haughty. Too serious. Too immature. Too crazy. Too close-minded. Too open-minded. Too athletic. Too sexy. Too expensive. Too frugal. Too someone else. Not you.

circumspect

She is cautious with herself, her manner and the way she places her hand next to his arm. Softly, carefully, until the weight transfers to the shallow blue next to him. She waits, and he doesn't flinch. Her body shifts as she slides out of bed, a choice she makes as she creeps out the door.

volant

Summer here was always sticky sweet. Like morning dew on flowers, we sat on the rotting wood porch sipping tea. Us sitting here reminded me of a sickly, small town cinema shot. I had just come back yesterday, flying in through Dayton before I rented a car and drove down to Madison. It was different being here, away from the glimmer of streetlights and advertisements, but I needed to be here. I heard the wicker chair creak as Tara turned to ask me, “You think he’d like the stars tonight?”

The first time I remember him flying, we were both twelve. His dad, or what we call a pathetic excuse for a man, left his mother earlier that year for a younger woman in a county over. He knew Tim’s mom was pregnant, but what did he care. A couple months later, Tim’s mom lost the baby. Course this was after months of complete disregard for Tim. He could have not existed for all she cared. So when Tim jumped off the roof of the schoolhouse, we knew he was angry. Not so much that he wanted to kill himself, but so he could feel something other than his hate. I couldn’t blame him, it was under the most unfortunate circumstances.

Tara propped her feet up on the porch fence. I watched the splintering paint crumpled under the weight of her heel as she reclined. “I think he would. He’d be right here telling us how he’d rope us the moon.”

“Yeah, he always dreamt in stars didn’t he?” I admired how Tara could keep her composure. She had after all taken care of Tim after his mom went crazy. She was just too good of a person to let him waste away.

Tara was a wonderful family friend of my parents. She never married, but then again, she never wanted to. I remember when I had just entered high school and she took me out shopping to buy some new dresses. It took some convincing, but my parents agreed. She used to baby-sit me in middle school, so she had a way with them. My parents are actually very supportive. They decided to leave Madison after I left for college. They wanted to be closer to me and knew that I would eventually find some big city, so we had no reason to come here anymore. But here I was, sitting on Tara’s porch, reminiscing because we had nothing better to do.

When Tim was 17, he decided, since he was going to be his own man pretty soon now, he’d be an astronaut. Actually, he had decided that a long time ago, but now he was going to learn to fly a plane. He already registered and was driving to Dayton taking lessons. It had cost him six months worth of wages, but it was worth it. He told me when you were in space, it felt like being in the lake, floating. I laughed at him saying, I’d rather be in the lake because at least I knew I could come back home quickly.

I never thought Tim was crazy, just strangely ambitious. We all have dreams. I still thought that the second time he tried to fly off a roof. He had these ridiculous wings made of wire hangers and plastic tarp. We all thought he was messing around, but when he looked at the sky and the sun haloed his head, I just knew. That boy is going to fly.

Sometimes, when I'm alone in the city, I look at the rooftops of old cathedrals and giant skyscrapers, and imagine what it would be like to be that high. What would the wind feel like up there? Stronger, breezier? What would the world look like at my feet? Insignificant? What would Tim think of these faded gray, brick church with Gothic angels on pedestals.

I remember that last night in Madison, I was leaving for college. The summer air was sticky sweet like tonight. Tim had finished his pilot lessons by now. I remember him promising me that he’d take me out on a flight when I came back from school. By then his arm would be healed. Tim wasn’t going anywhere because his grades were pitiful, and what little I could help him with, he managed only to get a C. I told him that he could take classes at the community college, but he told me not in living hell. Apparently, astronauts don’t learn to fly in college.

We spent that last night sitting on Tara’s porch. He told me that one day, when he made something of himself, he’d come find me, in his own private jet, and propose with the biggest diamond he can find. I told him, we’ll see.

Tomorrow will be the last day I see Tim. I'm told that they made him up well enough that you can't tell he has any broken bones. This last time he jumped, I'd like to think he knew what he was doing, even if gravity decided otherwise. But as he is lowered into his earthy grave, I know six feet can’t keep him from the sky.

I wish I had come back to Madison, to Tim. Then I would tell him there's so much more out there than hiding behind clouds. That it's okay to cry, to fear, to be angry. I just let it pass because I it was easier being distant.

Tara smiles and whispers, "Aww, honey, he knows. You were good for him. He knows." I muster up half a smile and lean into her shoulder. At least I know now in heaven, he will truly be flying.

...

I know I haven't been too good here, even though I have been reading my daily dictionary words. It's just been a tough adjusting to a crappy roommate (to be fair, it's applicable to me too), finding time after work and getting my creative soul (or lack there of) to come out behind this confusion.

But I have decided, I'm going to do thoughts for a word on a weekly basis instead. This way I'll be able to keep up, have more words to choose from and stimulate my brain, and then I can really develop the "stories".

Cassandra

Those who love the smell of flowers


When we were younger you thought I was perfect. You thought it the first time when you decided your afternoon was worth wasting just to wait for me. Outside of an old building, you sat in hopes to see me again. This was when we'd innocently approach each smile because we were just learning about love. You, how love feels when someone loved only you. Me, how love feels even with a second-rate heart. We walked to your car and all I could see was rich purple irises and emotion, nevermind the supermarket bar code. You didn't tell me then, but I knew. I could tell it in your eyes.

That was when we fell in love. When nothing else mattered because we couldn't understand otherwise.

You told me I was perfect while laying in bed contemplating my questions, secretly contemplating your future. I could feel the sheets smooth my skin as I rubbed them between my toes. Layer upon layer soothing me into sleep. You laughed at my childhood habit because you loved my quirks. You said I was perfect, gangly tall, puffy belly, button nose and all. You said that you didn't think you were good enough. I would smile and tell you you're perfect. And we agreed.

You surprised me with irises on my favorite holiday--the one that singles despise. I took photographs to remember the smell of the flowers.

Later, when you took me out, because I have fancy dreams of dresses, you showed me I was perfect, even though it was all my idea. You let me know how beautiful I always was, and how wonderful things were over dinner, even in dress shoes and ironed shirts. We pretended to be Four Seasons rich. This was when you would drive 180 miles to see me. I was worth the hours alone. My excitement was enough for the both of us.

When I traveled two lifetimes to see you in the city of youth, you reminded me that I was still perfect. You didn't tell me as I ran to you from the plane, as we waited out the taxi ride, as we opened the door. Despite my objections and disposition, you took work time and surprised me with more flowers.

There were numerous moments when you told me again how perfect I was, how lucky you were. I must have believed you because I started thinking ahead. You started taking care of things for me. The last time you bought me flowers, they arrived all ruined (perhaps an omen), and you helped me have them replaced. I knew you wanted them perfect but only because I expected it.

We will never know the moment where my imperfections broke your rose-colored glasses. Maybe it was when you stopped kissing me goodbye, or maybe it was when I ran away downstairs with the cooking spices, or maybe it was even when you said you'd buy me a necklace on your trip but you didn't. I could only hide for so long in your pink shade. I could only hide for so long how uncertain I was, without your affirmation. I wanted to be everything you thought I was, but I couldn't. I was unhappy with myself, but you could never help me. I covered myself in smiles. You still can't understand.

This time I bought my own flowers, like the first time when you and I became us, supermarket irises, beautiful in their own right. I didn't expect you to do these kind of things anymore. I didn't want to ask either. I had forgotten what flowers from you, from your heart, smelled like. I bought them to liven up the apartment for our impending graduation. These were the only flowers I received.

You were never supposed to disappear, but we started fading into the walls. And I became alone again, unwilling to share that hurt. Maybe I should have not yelled from a friend's house. Maybe I should not have cried in the bowling alley. Maybe I should have waited to really know. Maybe I should have decided before. But I wanted to pretend just for a little longer, that I could still be perfect.

bevy

oily marks appear on walls where pleasure moments hung before the takeover, the sweeping insensitivity of this still life


"Look at you, you're beaming," she said when I saw her since the semester ended. This was when I still dreamed in movies and pleasure moments. I'd imagine my arrival greeted with a bevy of flowers and 2 1/2 week-old touch. Meticulous plans to blend our transition into fluid. I kept pretending.

Her smile was so comforting, when ignorance was easy. She congratulated me asking, "When are you leaving?"

If she saw me now, just a few days later, she'd wonder what happened to that girl. Where did I lose my smile? Through the empty mob I pushed through to the walkway and hailed a cab. She would never know the four bags worth of weight. She would never see the power of being crushed.