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I feel like I’m a book that’s been dropped in a puddle, and then left there.   Open, my story bared to the world, soaking up the dirty water from the side gutter.  I can feel the rain patter on my open pages, hear the people scurrying past on the sidewalk above.  The cars drive past, spewing more filthy water above me.  Every now and then someone will step off the curb to cross the street, and their foot will hit me.  I will get excited, and think:

 “Here!  Here is the person who will save me!  Who will pick me up, and wonder at how someone could just leave me here to rot.  They will shake the water from my pages, and gingerly carry me under their arm to someplace warm, where I can dry out, and my story will be legible again.  I will have purpose and closure.”  

I am giddy with anticipation as the person, their umbrella temporarily cast to the side, peers down at what they have stumbled on.  Then, a look of disgust crosses their face, and they kick me aside, irritated at being disrupted.  Away they run, across the street,  to continue with their busy life.  Meanwhile, the rushing street water tears at my now sodden and mushy pages, ripping them bit by bit from my cover, stealing the pieces of my story away, down the drains to the sewers below.  Some of those pages I haven’t even had a chance to read yet.  Perhaps they are better suited down there.

In time, the hope that someone will find me and believe I am worth salvaging is faded and distant.  My cover softens as the pages have, and I resign myself to the life I have here.  I have gotten use to the water, and it’s not so cold anymore.  Eventually, it will take me bit by bit, down to the sewers, and out to the sea.  Until then, I will lie here, and watch the raindrops fall from the heavens above, and listen to the pedestrians laugh and scurry down the sidewalks, and hear the drone of  car engines as they zoom by.  It’s taken on something of a musical quality, and now that I know the words, I can sing along.

Due to the ascinine amount of spam registration I’m getting, I am  having to change registration.  You must now send me an email, and I will get you set up.

It’s Raining Cats and Dogs

We were living in a house up along a mountain side, or large hillside.     We were up at the house, going through quickly and removing anything of sentimental or monetary value out of the house.  There had been a last minute, emergency warning of an approaching storm, with a high likelihood of severe flooding (on a mountain- weird I know, but it was a dream).   Surprisingly, we were not grabbing any computers, games or video equipment.  No cameras or anything.   Instead, I grabbed some wands- one that was current, and one from my childhood.  

We grabbed the animals, and put them in the back of a van we decided to take instead of the car, due to the fact that it would hold more, and move better.  After I got the dog and cat in the back, I started noticing other cats and dogs that were showing up, as if begging for us to help them escape.  I looked up at the sky as it began to darken and the wind picked up.   An amazingly fast black cloud was encompassing the sky.  I noticed that it kind of resembled the shape of Death… and that freaked us out even more.   We began bundling up all of the animals and putting them in the car.  None of them fought or hissed or anything.   Just huddled together.  That was the most frightening of all.   We jumped in the van, leaving everything else behind in order to get the hell out of there before that cloud covered our area.

Something about the cloud was deathly dangerous, as if swallowing up everything it covered.  For some reason- it’s destination was the hillside we lived on.  I remember saying to the driver that we were bound to look like a zoo in the back of the van if the animals kept coming out to us, begging for escape.

I found this in my drafts on my gmail.   A while back I was utilizing a writing prompt website to help me with topics to write about.  Not sure what the prompt was with this, but this is what was there.  It is from October 27th, 2008.

We are learning to make a fire.

So… this whole “wordy writing” thing isn’t working out all that well for me.  I just seem to feel too cramped in my creativity.  Well, more cramped than I wanted to be.   I think the idea is good, and I will probably continue to work on them a bit.  But it’s not what I’m going for. 

My proposal to you, those of you who read this, is this:  I enjoyed recieving a picture-  no caption, no background on it- and creating a story to go along with it.  I would like you guys to send me a photo you think would make an interesting story.  I prefer not to know anything about the photo.    You can email them to me at thaydra@hotmail.com .   Put “Photo Writing” in the subject line so I know what it is. 

Thanks!

Eighth in my wordy-writing.  Please note that the theme for some of the words were “slang”, so you might want to look for the slang definition if it doesn’t quite make sense (for example, the word “rhubarb”).

Jacob was an orotund child, the victim of vagary. His father’s company had gone bankrupt, and due to his father’s gambling and grift, they were plunged into penury.

Where Jacob’s father was prone to jive and rhubarb activities, Jacob maintained his badinage and doughty resolve. His father’s clandestine ways were unable to break through the rampart Jacob had defended himself with. Even though his father claimed dibs on Jacob’s success, Jacob knew inside that his own sense of right and wrong, and his own adherence to his convictions had led him out of his father’s barren lifestyle, and Jacob was just jake with that.

 The seventh of my “wordy writing”.   Enjoy.

  A breeze soughed through the copse, sighing a soft pule, as if cringing at it’s advancement through the boughs. I’d always felt tutelary over this thicket. It has provided me safe haven against my father’s anger, that could excoriate before he bellowed his first word. My quidnunc of a stepmother could never stay out of it, and always had to put in her own spiteful inaccuracies. Their constant obloquy had led me fleeing, right into the arms of my beloved grove.

My grove, whose lush green branches were daedal with life and welcome. The way the wind whispered through their leaves gave a feeling of love and encomium. While their embrace was only palliate to my eleemosynary woes at home. I have never forgotten my refuge during those hard times. The copse was my symbol of strength and survival when I was certain of failure. It could countervail the desperation at home.

Amy was a gravid woman, shining with an effulgence only pregnant women seem to possess.   Carrying her child was salutary to her.  I aver, she was the most ebullient person I’ve ever encountered, almost to the point of nimiety.   It didn’t take much prescience to know things would turn ugly when she hooked up with Greg.

Greg was a bilious man,  with a sanguine face, making him look much like a tomato.  While he could put on a phlegmatic appearance to the outside world, behind closed doors he became quite cholericand often beat Amy so badly she feared she’d lose the baby.  As dreadful as it was, when the call came that Amy had been a victim of a murder-suicide, it really came as no surprise. 

The only brightness that shown through that melancholic event was the miracle the paramedics performed, by saving Baby Erin- Amy’s beautiful living legacy.

This one is wholey generic.  Very Generic.  But hey, I wrote it, and that has to count for something, right? I am tight for time this morning, so I’m just posting the story, and will link the definitions later this evening (if I remember). 

Fishing Four-

His father, the one with the keen eye, espied them first.  The pother of fish neared the boat, swimming through the turbulent waters.  Father held a grig with his purlicue, and quickly attached it to the gaff.  When the bite came, Boy quickly grabbed the trammel and landed the large fish onto the boat’s floor.  Cajoling their success, they filleted and skinned the meat.  The Boy drug the growler to them, removed the remaining beer, and carefully packed the meat inside. 

Leaning back to relax, Boy rejoiced in the compadrism these trips gardnished, and relished the veneration it strengthened between Father and him. While Mother was often abstemious in her attentions to him, prefering instead to cosset Daughter, Father always had time for him.  Even though he was prone to horatory speeches about the state of politics, economics, or whatever was on CNN that week, the Boy cherished these trips.