100 words: Myth

As serendipity would have it, this week's prompt, myth, comes from Adrienne Rich's poem "Diving Into the Wreck," a poem that haunted me last week. In fact, my final project for my Shipwreck workshop integrated the poem. And, so, here is a 100 word imagining of a wreck becoming myth. 

When the Gales of November Come Early

A cloudy morning, a forceful gale, an icy drizzle. She wraps her scarf tight around her neck and head, only her eyes exposed, and steps up the ladder to the main deck. Gripping the railing, she feels the wooden schooner heave and sway. Waves splash over the sides, coating the deck with water that will soon freeze. She’s been here before—not on this ship, but on the steamer New Orleans when she collided with the William Linn on Lake Huron. They were rescued before the ship wrecked. This time, she envisions a dark, watery grave. She descends into myth.

100 Words is a weekly writing challenge hosted by Velvet Verbosity. Check out the prompt and read the other entries here. 

100 words: you can do anything!

I'm participating in a weekly writing challenge: 100 words. Each week, Velvet Verbosity posts a prompt, and participants write 100 words, in any form, that evoke the word. This week's word: credentials.

You Can Do Anything!

“Welcome to freshmen writing,” she said, standing behind the oak lectern. “I’m going to take attendance, and then we’re going over the syllabus,” she glanced down at her notes. Make a joke. “I won’t make you write just yet.” Her eyes peered over the tops of her faux tortoiseshell glasses. A few smiles, no laughs. Try harder. “So, please tell me what you want to be called. You can even make up a name! I did!” And credentials, too. Laughter, finally. A Master’s in positive psychology easily became one in English. “Now, take out your pencils and write,” she smiled.

100 words: sensuous

I'm participating in a weekly writing challenge: 100 words. Each week, Velvet Verbosity posts a prompt, and participants write 100 words, in any form, that evoke the word. This week's word: pleasure. 

Sensuous

stillness of early morning, the sun rising pink and orange over steely Lake Michigan

laughter, tinkling or guffawing, rising and falling

swirling, sipping a glass of seductive pinot noir

colored leaves, or gentle snowflakes, floating to the ground

swimming in words, lapping through the pages of a thick novel

swaddled in a fleece blanket, pink

four layer cake, white with berry filling and whipped cream, or chocolate, with 
         sticky caramel pecan frosting, savored

samuel barber’s “adagio for strings,” soaring and hollowing

a warm hand pressed in the small of the back

the free-flowing scrawl of a fast-moving pen

100 words: electric youth

I'm participating in a weekly writing challenge: 100 words. Each week, Velvet Verbosity posts a prompt, and participants write 100 words, in any form, that evoke the word. This week's word:ditch.

Electric Youth

Sarah shot anxious glances at the stormy sky, then at Brad, white-knuckling the steering wheel. 

“Do you think we should just go home?” She wanted to be back in her bedroom, listening to Vampire Weekend and eating cookies.

“We can beat it. We’re almost to Pizza Hut.” He was driving his dad’s car and wearing cologne. 

“Brad!” 

“Shit!” He swerved to the side of the road, wrenched open the car doors, pulled her out, and flung them into the deep ditch, covering his body with hers as the twister skipped across the neighboring cornfield. Electricity zinged. 

“Wicked first date.”

100 words: (bitter)sweet water sea

I'm participating in a weekly writing challenge: 100 words. Each week, Velvet Verbosity posts a prompt, and participants write 100 words, in any form, that evoke the word. This week's word: greater.

(Bitter)Sweet Water Sea

Sand swirls and beach grasses sway along undulating dunes.

The early evening sun streaks between grey clouds, illuminating

pink salmon orange striations. Whitecapped waves build, crest,

break, roil silt, creep up the shore. Plastic chairs teeter along disappearing banks. Looking east, she sees only water, churning across the distance, far greater than the 60 miles between Michigan and Wisconin. The pier, reaching out from the harbor, calms the waves. She runs toward it, scaring up flocks of seagulls taking wing on gusts of wind. Her feet dance along the strand edges, avoiding frigid water, leading her somewhere closer to home. 

100 words: lost beats

I'm participating in a weekly writing challenge: 100 words. Each week, Velvet Verbosity posts a prompt, and participants write 100 words, in any form, that evoke the word. This week's word: jars.

Lost Beats

He emptied the closets, packing boxes and hauling them to Goodwill, saving the flannel plaid shirt that smelled of sandalwood and sweat. Sifting through books and CDs took longer; he flipped cover pages and scanned liner notes, tracing the handwritten initials. He turned pages, read marginalia, and lingered over the autographed, vintage copy of On the Road. He loaded the five disc player with music he always hated: classical, blues, jazz. He kept Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue, soundtrack to their third date. He opened the pantry door, gazed at the gleaming jars of jam, his final gift, and wept.

100 words: compost

I'm participating in a weekly writing challenge: 100 words. Each week, Velvet Verbosity posts a prompt, and participants write 100 words, in any form, that evoke the word. This week's word: rotten

Compost

rotten: bruised peaches dried coffee grounds blackened banana peels green grass clippings cracked egg shells twisted tree branches yellowed corn husks moldy bread spent tea bags squeezed lemons giant summer squashes horse dung carved pumpkins golden straw wrinkled apples multicolored leaves cow manure melon rinds flowering weeds sad tomatoes chicken shit blighted berries greening potatoes shredded carrots

flourishing microorganisms: fast fungi beneficial bacteria miracle microbes

turning turning turning: sifting lifting pitchforking

small scraps large pile hot core

worms: detritus digesting skin casting

feeding: rich soil prolific garden velvet lawn

transformation: making abundant life out of so much death and decay.

100 words: letting go

Letting Go

Sarah holds her son in her hands, lifting up his peach fuzz head to meet the softness of her cheek. He smells altogether familiar, yet strange. She traces the soft spots on his skull, the indentations left by an arduous labor. His eyes flutter open and closed, unaccustomed to the harsh hospital lighting. She unwraps the swaddling blanket to marvel once again at arms and legs, spindly and perfect, hunched instinctively inward, then stretching long. Her fingers circle the umbilical stub, and he begins to cry. She hugs him tightly, feeling the separation already. “I cannot get you close enough.”


I'm participating in a weekly writing challenge: 100 words. Each week, Velvet Verbosity posts a prompt, and participants write 100 words, in any form, that evoke the word. This week's word: fingers.

100 words: all dressed up

All Dressed Up...

Quiet.

Finally. 

She smoothes the satin and lace that hide her from herself. She glances around the room at the piles of shoes and jeans and hoodies amassed on velvet-covered chairs. Cosmetic cases spill forth their creamy contents. White Rain and Love’s Baby Soft mingle in the air. She recites her vows under her breath, stares at the diamond on her hand. 

Steady. 

Ready.

A knock breaks her moment. She lowers the filmy veil, picks up the bouquet of pink roses and trailing ivy. Smiles widely.

Opens and steps through the door, walks down the corridor. 

To him.

Forever.

I'm participating in a weekly writing challenge: 100 words. Each week, Velvet Verbosity posts a prompt, and participants write 100 words, in any form, that evoke the word. This week's word: corridor.

100 words: such great heights

I'm participating in a weekly writing challenge: 100 words. Each week, Velvet Verbosity posts a prompt, and participants write 100 words, in any form, that evoke the word. This is my first week. The word is failed.

Such Great Heights 

She beats eggs until they billow above the lip of her bowl. They form shiny, stiff peaks. 

A chocolate custard, smooth, thick, voluptuous, bubbles on the stove.

She gently folds them together, until the white disappears.

Lovingly spoons the mixture into a ridged, round dish, capped with a parchment crown. 

Slides it into the oven. 

Waits. Glides quietly through the house. Hums to Chopin on the radio.

Opens the oven door and spies a lift so high, it rises above the parchment.

Giddy, she removes the souffle: Airy. Light.

Within moments, it falls. And sinks. And slumps: Dense. Heavy.

Failed.