7: blaundtistic

philomath
a lover of learning; a scholar.

We found her one morning with a tin of gummi bears and a box of cheerios. She was putting the gummi bears into the cheerio-holes, and floating them in the milk. We asked her what she was doing, and she replied that "I'm giving them life-preservers, so they don't drown."

Then she ate them.

6: get the hell out

cyclone fencing
Cyclone fences were developed by Charles Barnard in 1844 based on cloth weaving machines. The name hurricane fence was applied when it was observed this type of fence was often the only type of fence left standing in a hurricane. Properly installed, these fences will withstand Category 5 hurricane force winds, as well as significant storm surge. The resistance to powerful water currents and debris is determined by the manner and strength of installation. For example, concrete anchors under fence posts significantly increase resistance to damage from debris.

Arturo leaned forward against the steering wheel, vainly trying to see around the corner of the lowrise to his left. That was where the bullets would come from. He felt the breeze drift in through the half-open window, peeling the thick sweat off his brow.

He leaned back and pried his fingers off the wheel. Coins scattered away from his shaking hands as he reached into the armrest and fished out a cigarette and lighter. The call should have come fifteen minutes ago. He hadn't come this far with trunk full of powder to be left here.

He's dead, Arturo knew. They're all dead. He blew smoke out the window, then cursed as he realized he'd broken the cigarette in half. Turning back was not an option. No one would take him - his family had children to think of, had hard-won ties to the Federation. But he'd never make it out of Sinaloa on his own. Not now. Who knew? Maybe they'd even killed the people waiting at the border for him.

"Fuck it," he swore, practicing his American. He punctuated each word with a slap on the steering wheel leather. "Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it."

He cursed whoever had come up with the half-brained scheme to steal from Chapo, and wished for one stupid instant that he could just put the damned cocaine back.

5:

lentor
1. tenacity; viscidity, as of fluids.
2. slowness; delay; sluggishness.

"You know in Wall-E, when the captain finally stands up, and everyone cheers? I think that's what we've all become."

"So fat we're beginning to lose bone structure?"

"Funny. No, I mean we're excited by the smallest, most meaningless things. My parents were ecstatic about my high school graduation - but I put less than five percent of the effort I could have into getting there. It was a breeze. Anyone who cared enough could have done it. Why were they so excited?"

"People need to get excited about something. If we didn't celebrate the small things, what would we do with ourselves for the rest of our lives?"

"I don't know about you, but I'd like to think there are a few big things left to look forward to."

4: justification by print

an·chy·lo·sis
1. (anatomy) the consolidation of bones or their parts to form a single unit.
2. (pathology) the stiffening and immobility of a joint as the result of disease, trauma, surgery, or abnormal bone fusion.

This cabbie fucked me on the way to work this morning. I get in the car, put on my seatbelt, tell him where to go, normal as you'd like. Then the guy pulls out a book and starts reading. I don't mean like, glancing through the headlines at intersections. I mean he had a novel propped up on the fucking steering wheel and he wasn't even looking at the road.

After about three minutes of this, I asked him what the fuck he thought he was doing.

He didn't look up. "4% of Americans read while driving," he said.

"That's a bullshit statistic," I said, my heart thumping in my chest. "You found it on the internet."

"No," he replied. "I read it."

What the fuck was I supposed to say to that?

3: regretted innocence

im·mo·late
1. to sacrifice.
2. to kill as a sacrificial victim, as by fire; offer in sacrifice.
3. to destroy by fire.

I've always been fascinated by the idea of firing a rocket. When I was a child, I would daydream about them twisting through the air beside our car on the highway, dipping and twirling around each other like dolphins. There's something majestic about the way a Sidewinder peels off of an F-16 and curls away into the night that seduced my imagination. They were benevolent creatures, to me. More graceful, more delightful, more admirable than any bird.

The first time I launched a shoulder-mounted RPG was as exhilarating as I had hoped. But something else happened that I hadn't envisioned: the missile hit the amtrac I had fired it at. It gouged out the life of the metal beast and all five inside in a plume of warm brilliance. The gently rising cloud above the wreckage was as the lingering of amaretto on the tongue. That first act of destruction initiated me, brought me into a whole new world of intoxication. The awe I'd felt of rockets was nothing to the awe I discovered of what they could do.

Then I knew that what my brothers had told me was true. The adrenaline that forced itself through my body had left its mark - my arteries were wider now. Neither sex nor rollercoaster would ever excite me again. There was no going back.

2: by fyrelight

al·lot·ro·py
a property of certain elements, as carbon, sulfur, and phosphorus, of existing in two or more distinct forms; allomorphism.

The old man turned the last figurine over in his hand. It was soapstone, soft to the touch, that would chip but not shatter. Its creases were stained brown around the eyes and mane, marking the passage of years. He considered.

"It's beautiful," he said. The man with the box of trinkets nodded. It was a quiet hour between noon and sunset on some preoccupied weekday; the market was empty.

It wasn't perfect, he realized. And in a way it made him long for that matchless piece he had once seen in a shop window, of manicured crystal, which he knew now had been the one. But he was young then and hadn't thought it worth the effort.

He resolved to make do. Returning home with the white knight, he placed it carefully between a granite rook and sandalwood bishop. The motley colours of the set, each piece of different cut and constituent, made him think idly of a flower garden of greys, browns, whites and blacks. With the the last figurine, all the squares were filled. The set was finally complete. Not perfect. But beautiful.

1:

ex·or·di·um
1. the beginning of anything.
2. the introductory part of an oration, treatise, etc.

To begin; I do not write enough. So much goes unrecorded, so many conversations and events that I shouldn't have forgotten but I have. The first time I got drunk. The date I watched Star Wars. The vestige of dream that clung to me yesterday morning, using me in a desperate attempt at escape; I was cruel to it and forced it back. What she said to me that night, out on the ice as we watched a fox run by. Her words were beautiful as she was, and slipped away just the same. These are things I should have written down. So now I make a resolution.

Kevin Spenst wrote a short story a day for a thousand days. I thank him for inspiration. As an aspiring writer, I intend to describe some piece of fiction or fact every day for as long as I am capable. For practice, yes, but to keep my quarry close at hand. To pull my arms to my sides and ensure that writing does not fall faster than I. Though to reach for it would increase resistance, relax my motion, and I could watch it fall only farther away from me; as long as my eye is on it and I feel it close to me, I will wax content.

If I go here a day without posting, leave it to imagination what I have written somewhere else.