Five Words Into Fiction (#2)

Her hair, beautiful and harsh, is the color of a crow. This is by careful choice, and she has it dyed once a month, every third Tuesday. She loves the mystique of the hue, the way it refracts the light as a wile, almost like there's some blue to it.
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Noah would have adored it, and so of course this is why. It is for him.
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It was a month after he disappeared that she first had it colored. His foray into nothingness, hers into vanity. Because it is the single binge she's found that stills the hurt, quiets the shame. Eating didn't do it; she felt empty. Not drinking; she felt a waste of herself. And sleeping with Noah's best friend, Mart, only buried guilt in her stomach and in her dreams.
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So it is also for her, the hair and the rest, with the primping and pampering and perfection. It all says she is significant and strong and courageous, that she is and will be okay.
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When she looks in the mirror to see what Noah left behind, she is satisfied by what she sees and she tells herself, You will be okay.
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My apologies for posting this piece so late in the day. My words were difficult to fuse together. They were: binge, crow, foray, refract and wile. You'll find them all above. Whew!
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I hope you enjoyed it. I also hope that it leaves you thinking, perhaps making up more of the story.
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If you've played along and written your own fiction with your own words, link up in this post's comments. Or, if you haven't done a piece yet but would like to, I'd be happy to give you some word suggestions. Just let me know (also in this post's comments).
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Also, since you're here, be sure to check out my post about rules for successful writing. Leave your thoughts (by Sunday night--earlier if you're busy for Easter) for a chance to win the book of your choice in my giveaway! Winner will be announced Monday.
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Have a wonderful, blessed holiday weekend.

Of An Afternoon

A part of me wanted to approach him, the man with his dog. I wanted to say, "He's beautiful, and I've always liked dachshunds."
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photo from dogdow.com

I'd have said, "I noticed you talking to the little guy. What was it you whispered so sweetly?" I saw them as companions, compadres, cohorts. They were dude and pooch, both squat and chesty with abbreviated legs, and a powerful bond.
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But instead I watched from my spot, cozy in that place between warm sunlight, cool wind.
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I decided that a verbal exchange I could dream up, the picture sketched before me, the what if, was good enough. Maybe better than the truth of the moment.
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So I looked on and I imagined, and that was all.

Five Words into Fiction

The idea of taking five words and creating a post with them is floating the internet. It was so fun to take part, and if you'd like your own five words to play with, let me know. I'd be happy to offer you some.

My words, from Wendy Miller of All In a Day's Thought, were contentment, water, childhood, grasp, and art. I wanted to create fiction with them, and I hope you'll enjoy this vignette I've written.

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People ask about my inspiration. Much like the attention of artist-hungry women, I’ve come to expect the question. What inspires you? And I have to steel myself before every show, bite the inside of my lip before I answer.

Of course, they pick up on the water theme woven throughout; it’s plain in every painting. But they assume it’s all borne of contentment, a man’s life spent on the lake. And they want to hear tell of creation spurred by deep, happy memory.

They’re right. That’s part of it, because I grew up at the water’s edge, and in its depths. It defined my childhood, my activity, the cool, smooth personality friends have long insisted is mine. It explains the fluid peace of my outer world. Fuels my art, too.

But what they don’t see, what I ensure is impossible for my audience to grasp, is the loss each piece represents. They’d never guess my work isn’t just from memory; it’s also in memoriam.

My brother’s initials are forever tucked away, whether carved into the fluff of a cloud, hidden beneath a boat stern, along the bushy tail of a treed squirrel. And in the twists and twirls of current, in the blue wisps of slight wave, I again and again feel the emotion of the day he died on the water we both loved.

Sometimes it’s too much. Other times, not enough. And I can’t stop, either way, because I’m driven. It is what inspires me.

It's what I can’t tell them, those people who ask.