Story Words

2005-04-05T06:24:00.000-07:00

Administrivia

Due to extreme performance problems with Blogger, I am moving the Story Words blog from Blogger to LiveJournal. This address will no longer host updates. Please see:

http://www.livejournal.com/community/storyword/

For all your Story Words needs.

Thank you!

Jay

2005-04-04T13:56:00.000-07:00

Finial

Tired of being called an unnecessary adornment, the Finials went on strike. Fluted, flamed, foliated, they marched away from their gables, spires and pinnacles, taking lovely baroque excesses with them.

"Everything is so functional now!" the Pragmatists exclaimed.

"Everything is so boring now!" the Sensualists cried.

But Whimsey stepped in and persuaded the Finials to return, and Ornament heaved a sigh of relief that decorative extravagance was not dead yet.

(Storyword "Finial" courtesy of RuthN)

2005-04-03T08:54:00.000-07:00

Rhododactyl

Rhododactyl aurora peeks from her mountain cradle to my east, though all I see is glowering gray streaked with silver, as if the servants of heaven have all fogged mirrors during their night's rest. Nonetheless I heed her distant bonfire and peek from my own flannel cradle, ready to face the day's march of words.

2005-04-02T21:23:00.000-08:00

Entabulate

To entabulate is to make into a table. So many things can be made into tables -- oak, plywood, cubed-up race cars, periods, periodic elements, data elements, elemental forces, forced puns, punitive damages. Everyone who loves entabulation raise their hand and be counted.

2005-03-31T23:56:00.000-08:00

Tardy

Tardy is as Tardy does. We watch for Tardy, but he always comes late. As we wait, we have learned to do other things to while away the empty hours and lend meaning to our lives. But like the king, when Tardy arrives he is by definition on time. Times Tardy is his favorite newspaper, while cherry Tardies are his favorite dessert. Tardy is as Tardy does.

2005-03-30T21:05:00.000-08:00

Plinth

Plinth was a narrow-faced man with a stony heart and a short right-hand reach. He never thought much about it, growing up among the rocky hills and sour fields of his homeland. But when the Duke of Sunrise came and roused the armies, and Plinth went off to war at the point of some half-drunk serjeant's sword, his ways and means became an issue. A short-armed man does not draw a mighty bow, nor is his reach with a blade worthy of much. As result, Plinth worked horselines, manned field kitchens, dug (shallow) latrines, and generally did those things which support an army. He never did find out who won the war, just went home one morning after awakening alone in a mist surrounded by corpses. There was no one left who remembered him, but the land had changed little, and eventually he melted back into stone himself.

2005-03-29T06:18:00.000-08:00

Ante

Up the ante. Ante Sally. Ante Dis establishment in Terranism. Antes in your panties. Antes abandoned by the Gods. Whither ante now? What price ante? Ante pro. Ante.

2005-03-27T23:14:00.000-08:00

Felting Needle

Jabbed jagged edged felting needle feeling its way to the point, needling through woolly-eyed thoughts woolly-headed imaginings animal rising from the depths of the felting needle and the tangle of wool into mind's eye.

2005-03-26T08:41:00.000-08:00

Jot

Neither jot nor tiddle will we cede to the grammar thugs, swore the Lower Case Legion. Sadly, they were inherently mistaken.

2005-03-25T12:42:00.000-08:00

Engendering

We engendered our little spenders until they became lenders of blenders to deadenders. Engendering carries such risks, especially through the male.

(Word "Engendering" suggested by RuthN)

2005-03-24T05:56:00.000-08:00

Parthenogenesis

If we turn to the book of Parthenogenesis, we find in chapter thirteen, verses six through nine, these admonitions: Do not ye make origami of thy neighbor's title deeds, for she may smite thee with rat poison. Do not ye double park in front of the municipal court building, unless ye be an idiote. Especially do not ye ever call a baby ugly in the hearing of the child's forebears, for a plague of hinds and withers shall be visited upon ye forthwith. An follow these simple rules and ye shall have prosperity and the best avocados in the produce section.

Scholars disagree on the meaning of this text, clearly written by the author known as SM. It does not seem to have been subject to the efforts of the Redactor, but rather represents a survival from the original manuscript. The most common exegesis is that this text remands the reader not to cut in theater lines. It may, however, also refer to the spontaneous birth of fatherless children.

(Word "Parthenogensis" suggested by RuthN)

2005-03-23T06:24:00.000-08:00

Hyperovulation

"Captain, it's a crazy plan, but it just might work."

"What do you propose to do to my ship, Gordie?"

"Well, if we supplement the Joffrey Tube with the ovipositor from yon giant alien spaceworm, we may be able to generate sufficient velocity to break the Innerprize out of this warpgasso zone."

"Why..that would be hyperovulation."

"Don't egg me on, sir."

2005-03-22T06:37:00.000-08:00

Bloviate

The bloviate blowhard blusters through the bivallate burg, bragging at his betters and blistering the bumpkins. Better to be a bastard than to bloviate.

(Today's story by guest author RuthN)

2005-03-21T23:07:00.000-08:00

Sprung

We sprung the clowns from their rubber prison, sprayed them with limewash, tossed strawberries til they were virgin's blood pink, then escorted them to the state line, where they sprung away on rubber-tipped heels, laughing like zombie hyenas.

2005-03-20T21:02:00.000-08:00

Ergotism

Ergotism is the scourge of modern culture and politics. If only the ravages of this condition could be reined in, our leadership might be able to focus on reality, get away from nibbling on rye bread and choking on pretzels, and stop seeing witches in the corner. Cogito ergot somewhat, I always say.

2005-03-19T07:43:00.000-08:00

Pelf

"Pelf! Pelf! Get your red-hot pelf here!"

"How much, sister?"

"Well, for you...two galoots and a gallatin."

"Sorry. Don't got that much valuta on me."

"Old mazooma-man like you? Come on. It's pelf."

"Don't matter to me if it's round-bottomed fins."

"Ah, here, have one on the house."

'Why thank you. So what's your name?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

2005-03-17T23:40:00.000-08:00

Lassitude

I came in lassitude in the big context. I trayed hard, but never did ketch out to the frontispiece runner. Lassitude, lassitude, it has taken over my attitude.

2005-03-16T22:09:00.000-08:00

Flail

When flail falls from the sky, run. It's much worse than hail, more frightening than thunder. A tornado would be safer and simpler. Flail is...flail. That thing which dogs our days and haunts our nights and rousts us from our armored basements with the threat of collapse and involuntary interment. Oh for the simple days before.

2005-03-15T15:01:00.000-08:00

Flit

Away I flit like the down of a thistle, flying along a breeze like a whistle from the puckered lips of an inattentive god.

2005-03-14T20:59:00.000-08:00

Sacrament

Every relationship has its sacraments, those small and sometimes meaningless gestures or words or actions that turn out to be pivotal in maintaining the integrity of two hearts struggling. Imagine your mother saying good-bye to you every morning when you turned out for school as a small child. Was there some special way she hugged you? Did she pinch your cheek and offer you a durian fruit? Did she let slip the wolverines so you would get your exercise fleeing the yard post-haste? Think now to your lover. What sacraments do you share with them? Are they solicitous of the blow-bys you bring home? Do they kiss your wrists before yanking down the cable ties? Are the photos polaroids that can be burned when someday one of you has slipped the other's bones into that acid barrel you went halvsies on last year? What are your sacraments? Write them on the back of a postcard and mail them in today.

2005-03-13T05:09:00.000-08:00

Default

We default to our basic behaviors when confronted by novelty or the bizarre. We default to animal reflexes when danger strikes. We default to howling laughter when the stick is slapped or a fat man falls down the stairs. We default to gibbering insanity when the moon is big and red. We default to tuna fish ice cream when ducks slither through the bricks. We default to words when ideas transmogrify. And default is our own, when the inevitable pun arrives.

(Word "Default" suggested by RuthN)

2005-03-12T03:22:00.000-08:00

Scent

My nose has a scent map of your body. I can chart the territories, from your shampoo-oily hair to your hard-walked feet. Your secret places carry complex stories of their own, of love and shrieking pleasure and old sorrow all mixed together. If I but had the words, I could build you anew, and carry you with me, incorporeal but real as autumn smoke. Scent...it draws me back to you with every turn of the sun.

2005-03-11T04:27:00.000-08:00

Echo Chamber

I lived in an echo chamber once. I had to everything twice -- wake up, go to sleep, put on my socks. When I talked on the phone, it was all I could do not to hear myself. The worst parts were when I ordered food in. Ever tried to eat pizza twice?

2005-03-10T04:18:00.000-08:00

Reunion

Reunion approaches like the sun below the far horizon, anticipation staining my inner sky the faintest salmon glow. Silver-scaled night without you will soon retreat to a memory when the sunlight of your presence erupts within my soul. Come soon, come soon, reunion is at hand, no need to repent at all.

2005-03-09T10:50:00.000-08:00

Palps

Senator Palps paces the hallowed halls of Araneida, unable to keep his mouth shut. The halls are gloomy and dank, smelling of dust and must. Other senators doze in the shadows, dark spots in the corners, dreaming and snoring, or watching through hooded eyes, still, only pretending to be asleep.

(Today's storyword by guest author RuthN)

2005-03-08T05:32:00.000-08:00

Estivate

We estivate when the sun goes red, sleeping away the billion-year summer until dwarfism overtakes our star and we can come out of our jars and dance by the light of the ice.

2005-03-07T04:08:00.000-08:00

Plutocracy

In a Plutocracy, we are ruled by cartoon dogs who do not wear pants. Unfortunately for us, they are also wealthy overlords of the dead, so there is a high risk of being zombified. The zombies do not wear pants either. This is even more unfortunate.

2005-03-06T20:17:00.000-08:00

Ontogeny

I took my ontogeny where I could find it -- floating in a jar of mother-of-vinegar, at the bottom of a barrel of petroleum jelly that had once held automatic weapons stored in a Greek cave for several decades, from the mouth of a dying hedge-witch in New South Wales -- but it was never enough. I observed the forms, I followed the structures, I unfolded myself across the generations of experience. In the end, I had to make my own.

2005-03-05T08:02:00.000-08:00

Extravasate

My dreams of you extravasate into the waking world. I see your face embedded in Che Guevara posters on an old building, a Rorschach test of the heart. I hear your voice in the barking of the homeless people's dogs. Your hair streams in the spring sky with the high icy lace of vauge clouds. Every corner I turn, I expect to see you there.

And somehow, you are.

(Story word "extravasate" suggested by RuthN)

2005-03-04T05:28:00.000-08:00

Firkin

"I'll have a firkin of your best, man."
"We've got Bud, Bud Light, Heinie and some imports."
"Well then, a dram of the house ale."
"Look, pal, we've got Bud and some other stuff."
"Alright, I shall take a gill of the finest white lightning."
"What the fuck? Are you some kind of hobbit or something?"

2005-03-03T21:58:00.000-08:00

Dint

I dint do it, but the car had a dint. By dint of great effort me and Dint dint get it back out smooth. Dint all, what am I gonna tell Dad. Dint dint dint.

2005-03-02T20:04:00.000-08:00

Passive Periphrastic

"Doctor, what...what's wrong..."
"I'm sorry ma'am. Very sorry."
"Why are you taking my hand like that?"
"It's serious news, ma'am. We've been taught to have a chairside manner."
"Well, don't squeeze me so tightly. Just tell me what the situation is."
"Your son, ma'am. He...he..."
"Doctor, are you crying?"
"It's terrible, in one so young."
"What's terrible?"
"Your son has been diagnosed as passive periphrastic."
"..."
"Nurse! Valium drip, stat, for the patient's mother!"

("Passive Periphrastic" inadvertently suggested by SonyaT)

2005-03-01T06:56:00.000-08:00

Syllabary

The syllabary sang from the rocks of language, ululating her long-toned call. I stuffed my ears with blue pencil shavings and lashed myself to the mast of my publisher's indifference, then bade the assistants to row through the pounding slush, but still her song echoed in my bones. I would have hurled myself into the sea of bad paper, save for those bonds, but her assonance has stayed with me nonetheless and I find letters to be crude, intemperate things in these later days.

("Syllabary" suggested by RuthN)

2005-02-28T06:21:00.000-08:00

Squall Line

She has crossed my life like a squall line on a summer lake, scattering my thoughts the way the canoes bolt for shore. Her moods, her beauty, her power lash against me, powerful as any dark storm, cleansing as any hard rain, beautiful as any rainbow after. She is my squall line, and she is ever on my horizon.

2005-02-27T19:57:00.000-08:00

Poop Deck

We built the poop deck eight feet high, on account of Big Louie's peculiarities. Man's got thighs the size of labradors, you listen to what he says. Man eats like a herd of incontinent pigs, you stay away from his mouth. Combine those two, and you have some awful tendencies at the other end.

"Like to see the world when I'm shittin'," Big Louie said.

"Don't be using words like that!" Nixie shouted at him.

He just smiled and ripped some eye-watering gas.

So we built it high, with the throne atop, and a view of forty miles of Cascade beauty. Damn good thing there's a mineshaft under there.

2005-02-26T17:59:00.000-08:00

Sonorous

Dragons did not shit where they ate, but that was only by virtue of their length. Gorge, servant to her majesty the red dragon Stynaserian during the eighth decade of her life, discovered early in his career that dragons ate much and shit man-sized mounds.

In fact, it seemed to Gorge, after only three weeks service to his smoldering queen, that his job of chamberlain entailed little more than removing waste from the rear of her cave and delivering food to the front. He spent half of every day just mucking feces, only to spend the second half hunting the great devil's dinner. And he had only taken the job because he thought all dragon's kept treasure and he might steal a bit over time. Only too late did he discover that such tales were wild. What use had dragons for gold or diamonds? Such things were the paltry inventions of man and carried no more worth to a dragon than the mounds at the back of Stynaserian's cave.

This unbearable and altogether unhealthy situation continued for some weeks before the man confronted his dragon master early on the summer solstice when he knew he might catch her drowsy.

"My queen, what boon have I earned for the services I've provided you these long weeks?" he asked, trying to make his voice boom, though the cave and Styn's own sonorous breathing seemed to swallow up most of his bluster.

The dragon, her red scales glistening in a slant of sultry sunlight falling through the cave mouth, opened her huge eyes and puffed a gout of flame at the floor. Her head -- it was the size of a small fishing vessel -- rose from the ground and she regarded her servant.

"Boon? What boon would you have, little insect? Have I not suffered to smell your man blood day and night without eating you? Is that not boon enough?"

Gorge steeled himself against the fear that now turned his knees to pudding and his bowels to cream.

"No, my queen. It is not enough. I have served well and hard these last days and for nothing save some small scraps of charred meat -- your half-chewed leftovers. A man needs wages in this world, even if a dragon does not. I have shoveled your shit and now I would have payment."

"You smell of shit," said the dragon. But was there a hint of amusement in her voice? Had he gotten through? Engaged her respect for him if only a bit?

Gorge thought so.

"I smell as I do, because I serve you, my queen. Your cave is clean as a rain-soaked leaf."

Styn was quiet a moment, then she said, "Go to the river and return when you are clean. Then I shall give you your boon."

Gorge washed in the cold mountain water until every bit of filth had been cleaned away. And when he returned to his mistress he stood before her nude to show that every part of him was washed white.

Stynaserian, the great red dragon of the north, gobbled Gorge down in one swift flick of her neck and snap of her jaws. She did not even bother to chew.

In his first week of serving the dragon queen, Stynaserian, Elbert learned that dragons ate much and shit man-sized mounds.

(Today's word and story both by guest author David Jones.)

2005-02-25T06:18:00.000-08:00

Insensate

Bruno the Insensate woke to darkness. But then, he always woke to darkness. Assuming he was awake. That was often arguable, even within the dusty halls of his own consciousness. After a while, he slept again. Or perhaps he did not.

2005-02-24T06:26:00.000-08:00

Plod

Constable Plod stumbled through the burned-out city. His nightstick was as heavy as his dreams. The sky had been nothing but red for days, and the most recent rain of stones had bruised his shoulders and dented his helmet. Plod he was and plod he did, for nothing can stay the policeman from his appointed rounds. Or was that the mailman? Constable Plod wasn't sure anymore, though he wore a blue uniform and carried a stick, he might have been a dairyman. Or possibly a fireman. Which would make sense, plodding onward through the memory of flames.

2005-02-23T17:54:00.000-08:00

Scarper

We scarpered away the hull, fearing for the rays of the black-light sun. Little Jo swung out in her glass boots and her iron helmet to make fast the ghost-sails, while the ropewolves climbed to their tasks in the vasty darkness between the holds. I myself had control of the Great Scarper, that holy tool which both heals and kills, much like a scalpel in the hands of a drooling fool. I stood firm, performed my task, slaughtered only a few, before the Captain proclaimed us underway and the shadowlight began to flood our brightest spaces and we tumbled into uneasy dream.

2005-02-21T23:10:00.000-08:00

Fiduciary Duty

Fiduciary duty underlies much of what any fiducer does when she is not polishing her pennons or sharpening her shako. She is expected to stand, march and present arms with aplomb and vigor, and never fail to fiduce at will. Duty is a glorious thing when one is a fiducer.

2005-02-20T23:10:00.000-08:00

Stoat

I always wanted to be a stoat. Living in a narrow hole, with 500-channel satellite cable, titanium teeth sprouting in my head (how do they floss?), and a brain the size of a peanut. Imagine the deep thoughts stoats think while carrying out the will of the Secret Masters. Consider their relationship with weasels. Plus they taste good with ketchup.

2005-02-19T12:00:00.000-08:00

RadCon

RadCon - radiation condition normal, fans wired up, people in black flooding the halls, badges, buttons, posters, stickers and t-shirts -- RadCon.

2005-02-18T05:46:00.000-08:00

Misanthrope

I misanthrope, but I know he'll be back. Brachiating is one thing, tool-using and developing revolving credit plans is another. And I don't care how much hair he loses, he'll still be an ape. Love him or hate him, the little beggar.

2005-02-17T12:39:00.000-08:00

Obverse

The obverse is the flip side of the universe, the place where rules are suspended and politicians are honest. Here, the rats live in sunlight rather than sewers, dragons eat carrots rather than maidens, and peace is possible. Once I've saved enough money to tank up my magic carpet, I'm going to visit. I won't be back before Wednesday at the earliest.

(Today's storyword by guest author RuthN)

2005-02-16T21:21:00.000-08:00

Phototropic

The phototropics are where all the best pictures are from. Cameras grow on trees there, and the oceans are filmed over with, well, film. The best part is that the sun comes in so many colors, while at night the moon is high-contrast black-and-white.

2005-02-15T23:39:00.000-08:00

Canuck

Canucks live in Canuckistan, a land of birchbark canoes and breweries far to the North where the howling arctic wastes are barely habitable. We must honor our Canuck neighbors, for without them hockey would be a form of synchronized swimming and Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza just wouldn't be the same. We love our Canucks here in Americastan. Just ask them.

2005-02-14T06:14:00.000-08:00

Inamorata

The power of love is a curious thing, causing hearts to burst forth from their chests, spreading and shattering ribs to go rush forth in pursuit of their inamorata. Every year we celebrate this curious phenomenon, feting the trails of blood and tears that are left behind in the tumbledown world of love.

2005-02-13T18:09:00.000-08:00

Pileated

We pileated the woodies until they pecked us bloody, but the little read heads still got away with the second degree of separation from murder. Word to the wise, don't tangle with a meter-tall bird with jackhammer reflexes and a brain the size of a peanut, even if it is packing three kinds of heat and a federal license.

2005-02-12T07:44:00.000-08:00

Bilious

The bilious sails yellowed my ship nicely as I tacked around the Isles of Langerhans, making for my home port of Fort Spleen. It's a rough run I make, but the money has always been good. I was careful to avoid the shoals of ravaging chunk, and the blech storms, and kept wax plugs in my nose at all times.

2005-02-11T06:13:00.000-08:00

Chook

The chooks fly at midnight, soaring over the open ocean in search of new lands and distant shores. Their majestic wings beat against the starry sky, the wind of their passage stirs sleepers in huts and boat cabins far below. They are the avatars of grace and beauty. They are feathered suns in the pre-dawn sky. They are--

Wait. They are chickens. Sheesh. Chooks. Get a grip.

2005-02-10T18:14:00.000-08:00

Potentate

The potentate sat on his walrus-ivy throne, clad in silks from beyond Uttermost Araby and dreaming of the days of lemonade and watermelons when his bicycle clicked and clattered to the sound of a Honus Wagner baseball card shredding in his spokes.

2005-02-09T22:07:00.000-08:00

Arcsine

The arcsine lofts above me like a tramline, blazing bright in the summer sky. I can follow its not-so-tortured curves, watching its progress through the obscure trignometries of physics and desire. I can be the arcsine, if only I transform myself enough.

2005-02-08T23:33:00.000-08:00

Elide

He likes to elide, our boy, travelling as if over ice on all terrains and in all circumstances. He glosses over the troubles of life, slides along the rumpled lands, spreading calm in his wake. Or so he thinks. Elision is always easier from the front, and life doesn't have rear-view mirrors.

2005-02-06T20:27:00.000-08:00

Brisket

We sliced the brisket from the bone, and cooked it up with sauce. We made the flavor into our own, and then the dinner was lost. The cows came home and demanded comp for their contribution to the cause, and the cats ran off with the meat in mouth which left us at a loss.

2005-02-04T06:53:00.000-08:00

Enterovirus

We enterovirus through a tiny little door made of protein and complex sugars. We exitovirus with our viral drills and dental picks, ravaging the DNA strands like cats with an obese mouse on the playground behind the church. Poor virus, can't stomach a damned thing without a stomach.

2005-02-03T23:45:00.000-08:00

Bilious

The bilious sails drove the ship forward and down, until the vile waves opened to welcome her into the arms of the sea.

2005-02-02T23:06:00.000-08:00

Ort

In the distant country of Ort where the bananas are purple and flowers grow beneath the ground, people live on as little as possible. They save their shekels, jots and tiddles for the Great Ort, who lives in a magnificent house beneath the top of the sky and smiles his blessings down upon the people. Rebellion is permitted, but success is not, and while war is peace and hatred is love, the people are far too indolent in their copper sunlight to act much upon the Great Ort's pronouncements, so all is generally well.

2005-02-01T23:29:00.000-08:00

Chatoyant

Chatoyant, she glides through the woods like summer wind winding through wheat. Her glow lights the pale trillium, while owl eyes gleam in the higher darkness with the shaded glory of beetle's wings. Small, furry things struggle in sleep at her passage. Leaves part before her and swirl in place behind her. Chatoyant, she moves on into the angel-pocked skies of night.

2005-01-31T19:11:00.000-08:00

Ratiocinate

We ratiocinate when we fail to disequilibrate, finding instead an insensate pirate to our first mate on our sailing date. Think that's clear yet, Bubba?

2005-01-30T13:13:00.000-08:00

Scull

The scull looks out across the crass bones and sees a new river of salt and blood opening up, flowing from the inner tissues of Mother Earth into the greedy outer darkness of night, abandoned by Sister Sun. Perhaps ores will pull hard enough, perhaps the red waters part, and all will be well, but only if Daughter Moon abandons her post to slink westward so that the scull can once more drag Sister Sun from her horizontal bed.

2005-01-29T13:55:00.000-08:00

Fewmets

Fewmets are well-met, but rarely so often as when falconing amid the high towers of the endless castle of the world.

2005-01-26T20:37:00.000-08:00

Torn

Gilberto seemed always to be suspended between two things, two poles, two choices, two shores. How gingerly he walked the double yellow line between duty and destiny, unwilling or unable to dirty his shoes on either shoulder of the four-lane metaphor. "I'm torn," he was fond of saying, as though that explained it. Eventually, time made all his dread decisions irrelevant.

Guest Editor BMcK

2005-01-25T14:31:00.000-08:00

Cabaret
If life were a cabaret we'd be up past our bedtime every night, dancing. On the other hand we'd have to entertain drunks and pretend we enjoyed their company. We'd live with the volume up, and the champagne would flow like... well... champagne, but when our fifty-seven closest friends went home, guess who'd get stuck washing the glasses?
Guest editor BMcKenna

2005-01-24T23:50:00.000-08:00

Osculation
Word had just come down from home office: Osculation would commence within the hour. Mecium got on the horn immediately. "Scramble the fighters!" he barked. He tried to hide the giddy feeling welling up inside. He had recently been promoted and chose to be transferred to the frontier. This was where the action was. This was where things got hot. Mecium liked it that way. "Sir!" Private Pep interrupted his thoughts. "Sir, home office says we gotta step down, sir! Sending endorphin diplomats! They're talking peace, sir!" Damn! Mecium's blood-lust was rising. "I will NOT settle for analgesic diplomacy this time. Those beta-bureaucrats have gone too far!" He grabbed the comm. "Get me the General." Within moments the sad news came through. "I'm sorry son, but ever since President Encephalin was elected, our policies on these matters are different. We have an open border. Our pseudopodia are tied."

"I'll be damned if foreign bodies will be allowed to roam our arteries with impunity!" Mecium grabbed his old helmet and descended to the hangar bay. "Sir! We're not authorized!" squealed Pep. Mecium pushed past him and ensconced himself in the nearest fighter, Immuno-HyHel-5. He prepped his lysis cannons, kick-started the flagellum, and burst out of the hangar. Within moments his craft was harried by a swarm of Lysozyme battle cruisers. "I knew it! That peacenik president of ours is walking into a trap!"

His first salvo caught a cruiser off guard. But there were too many. Far too many.
This could mean only one thing. The Osculation was happening ahead of schedule. And there were no defenses ready. There was no way he could defeat such an onslaught alone.

A sickening SPLAT, and Mecium knew it was over. A hull breach. His craft was hydrolyzing! "I'm going down!" A broken flagella and leaking hull made it difficult, but his seasoned skills and training proved true. He managed to coax enough power out of his craft to slide past the frontier boundary into enemy territory. He smiled grimly and flipped the switch that activated his Simplex bomb as he spun out of control. The impact of his ship detonated the explosive, and he left his spiteful mark on enemy soil.

The political fallout that occurred from this one brave act has gone down in history. The foreign president was dethroned after the frontier rebellion. No one wanted to work near ground zero, and food production diminished due to the Afferent community's ceaseless complaints. A new president, less bound by the Opiate Receptors lobby, was elected.

And peace ruled the land for generations.

Today's Story Word by guest author, JoshF

2005-01-23T23:21:00.000-08:00

Bittersweet
Like honey on a dead man's tongue, the truth trickles down a bit at a time, changing as it does from one thing to another until it is no more true or false than a weather forecast. Bittersweet, it speaks of an unknown future, of desires perhaps unreal, perhaps just unrealistic, of common ground broken, of chasms breached in spite of themselves. Like me, it doesn't always recognize itself in the mirror. Or perhaps I'm wrong.

Today's Story Word by guest author, Tiger Lily

2005-01-22T19:35:00.000-08:00

Rift
Some rifts are vast as canyons, the distances involved so great as to make voices unheard and unhearable, reduce the broadest gestures to invisibility, divide two people with territories and borders, oceans and continents. Others, and these are more to be feared, are no wider than the space between two bodies in a bed.
Guest Editor BMcK

2005-01-21T19:29:00.000-08:00

Booklover
Theo had always been a booklover, but he was unprepared for the saucy way this particular copy of Lady Barbara eyed him from the top shelf of "Literature A-C," dropping its delicate pink dustjacket innocently off one creamy white shoulder. Trembling slightly, he plucked it from between Emma and Mansfield Park and hurried to the cashier. Declining a bag, he tucked the slender volume inside his jacket and took it home to bed.
Guest Editor BMcK

2005-01-20T04:49:00.000-08:00

Ell

When the ell comes calling, the people flee, rats before a flooding sewer. The ell is mighty and morose, risible and rough, awesome and awful. The ell gobbles children and spits out bones. The ell turns seas into dark wine. The ell makes rain rise up from the earth to drain into the pregnant clouds. The ell knows all things and reveals none.

2005-01-19T04:43:00.000-08:00

Deleterious

My keyboard grew a new key last night. Or perhaps someone broke into my hotel room and performed arcane electronic surgery. There's now a "Deleterious" key. It goes well with the "Perjorative" key that appeared a while back. The QWERTY bits are getting a little crowded, but now when I write email, things are so much easier. If only I had a "Salubrious" key...

2005-01-18T04:47:00.000-08:00

Tittle

Little Tittle went to school to learn how to spell. When he was there he sat in his chair so very very well that the teacher did spy a friendy I and sent it to Tittle to play which is how we have the i we have with Tittle himself today.

2005-01-17T03:24:00.000-08:00

Aviation

Aviation, to fly like a bird. I spread my aluminum wings, open my flaps, spool up my jets, and emulate the high-flying goose, the soaring hawk, as I leap eastward across the rumpled lands towards corn, snow and employment.

2005-01-16T07:03:00.000-08:00

Dint

I dint do it. I dinted my car. Dinty Moore beef stew. When the presidint of the immortals has had his sport. Dintyne whitens the breath and brightens the teeth. Pepsodint, tridint, ardint love, accidintal anguish. Dint.

2005-01-15T17:52:00.000-08:00

Frozen

Frozen is the state of mind you enter into in your last moments before the liquid nitrogen bath encases your body in an arrested timeframe of suspended entropy, reduced expectations and an eternity of chill. Frozen is a city on the western shore of Africa, beneath cyclopean stones which once were lighthouses for the mystic trading fleets of Atlantis. Frozen is the middle name of the 2012 Heisman Trophy winner, even now being accelerated into his career by junior high school steroids. Frozen is as frozen does, but wipe your lips before you smile.

2005-01-14T18:02:00.000-08:00

Cassini

Cassini was a little girl in Saturn's house. The jolly old giant showed her some love, some affection, but mostly he left her alone. On her own, she developed a probing intellect and keen sense of curiosity, often mooning about the house looking into, under and behind things. One day she met Huygens, a pretty Dutch boy with a sense of humor and a fast horse, and the rest, as they say, is history. Which simply shows you what curiosity will merit...

2005-01-13T06:01:00.000-08:00

Dominant

One hand is dominant. One ape is dominant. One nation is dominant. Everything has a hierarchy, everything has a need. Everything finds its way, its place, in the dominant games the universe plays.

2005-01-12T18:50:00.000-08:00

Interregnum

"The king is dead, long live the king!" The cheer echoed through the streets where busy commuters jockeyed for the best seats on diesel-driven busses and smoking taxi cabs -- commuters who had better things to do than take note of either the war raging outside their capital or the death of their king. Torren was too great a city, and business was too good, besides, war made things sale, like bullets and armor plating, munitions for airships and medical supplies. Every stroke of Death's scythe made room for new growth.

Ten miles outside Torren, in the rolling hills and green glades of Foxburry and Moneta, young men hunkered in trenches muddied by new fallen rain. These were the worthless sons of Torren, the degreeless, graduated from primary schools and handed Tomguns and gasmasks with their diplomas.

Overhead the zeppelins floated like white sharks in a white sky, bearing death in fletched grenade clusters and mustard gas canisters. The enemy, black-hearted demons of inhuman countenances, with no glimmer of human empathy or love, loomed not forty feet away, yet hidden by the day-long mists that never parted once the war had started.

Fuzzy voices poured out AM radios throughout the trenches on both sides. The king of Torren was dead, passed away in his sleep during the night -- cold in a warm bed beside a warm lover that was not his wife. Confusion broke out, pushing war aside. The Torrens had fought for the king, but the king was dead.

A night and a day and another night passed, and then the first young Torren, a Private Subclass scrambled out the trench, his uniform so covered in mud it was more brown than black, and approached the hateful, dastardly enemy, waving a flag of crimson, the sign of peace and parley.

Others followed, and an accord was reached. The Ule was upon them, and everyone celebrated Ule. The enemy, that faceless mass of black, that fanged creature of hell born evil, coalesced in the mist, taking the shape of young men not unlike the Torrens. They shared noon tea and hardpan biscuits, and joined the Torren boys in singing songs of Ule, and praises to the Rashan who had, after all, created every man of them.

The interregnum of peace, even among the officers who had perpetuated the myth of monsters and troglodytes on either side, went on for three days, until a new king was found among the Torren elite; a man of will, greed, and bloodlust.

Back to the trenches and mud went the Torrens with well wishes from their friends, the enemy. Boys on both sides took up their weapons once again, whispering prayers to the Rashan, as Captains and Colonels swore epithets over their heads.

Bullets again tore at the mists and zeppelins reclaimed the skies. Commerce soared, young men died, and all was right in the world.

(Storyword "Interregnum" and story both courtesy of David Jones.)

2005-01-11T22:40:00.000-08:00

Caveat

Caveat is where it's at, bear. Man on dinosaur, Santorum-wise. Raging tigers burning bright on torchlit stone walls. We leap past the horns, caveat transit gloria.

2005-01-10T22:02:00.000-08:00

Elastomer

I took my elastomer for a walk today. I was really stretched for time, but the poor thing need to be out and about. A few neighbors waved, a few stared, one or two reached for cell phones. Or possibly tasers. It's tough, being the caretaker and boon companion of an elastomer.

2005-01-09T22:55:00.000-08:00

Elect

To be one of the Elect is to be elevated, idolated, attributated to a blinding post beneath the gelid glare of God. The Elect fly high, eat first, leave when they wish and have the shiniest shoes. Would you like to be Elect, little boy? Sign here, here...and...here. Great. Now step in front of the camera.

2005-01-08T22:07:00.000-08:00

Neepery

Neepery shall be punishable by a fortuitous lashing with a damp noodle. Neepery is to be avoided like a pink crow. Neepery is conduct unbecoming a barrator. Neepery is something we all secretly wish to practice in our long hours pounding mandrake roots for the government. Neepery is the best thing since sliced dread.

Neepery.

2005-01-07T23:44:00.000-08:00

Schlep

The schlep rises from the swamps of intention and muck-walks its way into the pallid light of responsibility. It will soon be harnessed, a beast of conscience's burden, to haul dreams and errors from the great emo-mines of the Massive Complex out to their dumping grounds along the Sunlit Sea. Pity the poor schlep, and know it for what it is -- a shadow of all our selves.

2005-01-06T13:23:00.000-08:00

Monotreme

Monotreme bireme trireme quadraphenia quintamid sextane heptocracy octupus nonnagram decimal.

2005-01-05T08:29:00.000-08:00

Mare Infinitus

Mare Infinitus is the horse of the world, the dam who birthed the world, whose waters filled the ocean, whose hooves struck the sparks that gleam in the night sky, whose streaming tail is the winds upon the sleeping land, whose neighs are the thunder in the gleaming mountains of sunrise. Mare Infinitus crops the grass upon your lawn at dawn, and haunts the traffic through which you commute, and walks slowly down the hall beside your cube, until your spirit cries to mount and ride the horse of the world.

(Word "Mare Infinitus" suggested by JamesP)

2005-01-04T06:35:00.000-08:00

Spatial

Everything is spatial, but some things are more spatial than others. Relationships, buildings, the correlation between children and regret. Without our sense of spatiality to coordinate our mental grids, we would be adrift, and no one would feel spatial.

2005-01-03T05:56:00.000-08:00

Redux

A new year, new energy, and focus returns, Story Word redux. This blog is back.

2004-12-07T06:22:00.000-08:00

Hiatus

This blog is going on hiatus. I'll be back when I can. Thank you for your interest.

Jay

2004-12-04T13:07:00.000-08:00

Rhododactyl

Rhododactyl aurora, showing us for what we are, bright rays invading the darkness with a pale pink luminance which will erupt to flash across the vaults of heaven and earth alike.

2004-12-03T21:30:00.000-08:00

Courage

Courage is not armor. It is not daring. It is not towering fearlessness. It is doing what one needs, or badly wants, to do, in the face of doubt. Nothing more.

2004-12-02T23:10:00.000-08:00

Abeyance

In Abeyance, the women live remotely and send letters to the men via trained apes wearing brass helmets. In Abeyance, all men go armed with glaives, and arguments are settled with a maximum of bloodshed. In Abeyance, laws are written in an unknown tongue so they cannot be read again, and only the imperfect memory of clerks prevents chaos. In Abeyance, all things are awaited and few things are attained, yet everyone's life goes on the same.

2004-12-01T22:15:00.000-08:00

Stroke

They call it a stroke when it's really a stop. No oars here, but a wall which can cripple a brain or end a life. To stroke is to advance, but to have a stroke...words never come again. The greatest tragedy of all.

2004-11-30T23:05:00.000-08:00

Metastable

The world is metastable, ever ready to change phase or state to something brighter or bleaker. Mountains quiver, oceans grind to a solid halt, and the very stars in the sky invert themselves to wells of shadow. All waits.

2004-11-29T08:17:00.000-08:00

Ashen

Ashen gray and ashen black, the plains are dark and quiet. Mountain's fallen silent. Fire no longer flows. Not even crickets chirp now, under the blanket of dark silence, but rains will return and ashes feed soil, soil feeds forests, and forests clothe mountains.

2004-11-28T08:02:00.000-08:00

Cherry

In a city there is a hill. On that hill there is a garden. In that garden there is a cherry tree. Beneath that cherry tree there is a woman. She waits for something, she's not sure what anymore. Only the wind carries words to her.

2004-11-27T09:23:00.000-08:00

Peristalsis

Reverese peristalsis is a wonderful thing, a miracle of nature, unless and until it happens to you.

2004-11-26T09:10:00.000-08:00

Lemmings

They move in a teeming, Dinseyfied mass toward some lost land off the Norwegian coast. Well, not really, that was Red Scare era propaganda, disguised as children's programming. Trick photography. Miscasting of the life cycle of the little rodents. Scandinavian prairie dogs with a migration complex. Still they move through our consciousness, a metaphor, like penguins leaping from the ice, for the inevitable yet stupid.

But not everything is inevitable, or stupid. Some things are difficult. Some things feel like a lemming-run toward a none-too-distant sea, making us ready to wrap ourselves in the tide's chill embrace. And some things in life, running toward Sister Ocean or not, are an opportunity to stretch leathery wings and take gem-bright flight in the glittering dawn air, high above all the suffering lemmings.

(Storyword "Lemmings" suggested by RuthN)

2004-11-25T22:17:00.000-08:00

Enough

Sometimes even to love beyond measure is not enough. Sometimes nothing is enough. Then, all you have left, is too little, too late, for whatever project your soul has dreamt of in the watches of the night. Only memory remains, and the presumption that something once great could have been, lost now like fog on a summer morning, slipping wisps through fingertips until only salt tracks and sore eyes remain, and a splintered heart pounding in a wooden chest. Then you cry, "enough", but it is far too late.

2004-11-24T06:40:00.000-08:00

Abnegation

The abnegation of the heart is a terrible sentence for a court to deliver. Bailiffs with rusty knives and soiled opera gloves are required by law and the virtue of custom to perform the operation once justice has been pronounced. There is a special table, an old bed, really, with a big sea of blankets, upon which the convicted is laid and restrained. Music is played -- Indigo Girls or 3 Doors Down are traditional -- and the witnesses shuffle and moan as the dull blades flash red and black in the uncertain, flickering light. Should the convicted weep or cry out, the abnegation is prolonged, until the music runs out and only the dripping rhythm of his fleeing heartsblood remains, a metronome counting out the hours of his life and the death of hope.

2004-11-23T06:24:00.000-08:00

Prothonotary

My prothonotary even now records my acts, ghosting me through the short halls and cluttered rooms of the basement which is my life. He knows my loves and my private desperations. He reads my manuscripts and laughs sometimes at my big plans. He slips John Mayer on the CD player and rattles the beer bottles in the fridge to remind me of the hard things in my life. He keeps me as honest as I know how to be, my prothonotary, making notes of what unfolds so that I might someday tell the full tale of my joy and sorrow, my sorrow and my joy.

2004-11-22T19:55:00.000-08:00

Melpomene

Who would want to be a muse, especially the muse of tragedy, Melpomene? Probably not even Melpomene herself, who reportedly was quite excellent with the lyre. But was she remembered as a songstress? No, all she got was the role of inspiration, grand passion or no grand passion.

I'll sing the songs myself, thank you.

(Story for "Melpomene" courtesy of guest author RuthN)

2004-11-21T09:18:00.000-08:00

Impossible

The impossible takes longer, but nothing takes forever. Save the heat death of the universe, or the slow blink of God's eye which is the measure of all of us. You and I might live a thousand thousand years and still not fit all of our lives into that span. And still, nothing is impossible.