The Her-A-Way Badge: A Wordle Inspired Short
We all surely know by now that Wordle has taken Twitter by storm and become a hugely familiar face among the writing community online. Over at OverWoods, we truly love the game and as a kind of pseudo tribute (and a not so subtle way to remember to keep up that Wordle streak!), we've decided to use each daily, 5 letter answer as the inspiration to a short story or poem this May!
*Of course, we wouldn't want to reveal the answer of the day's Wordle prematurely and ruin the experience for others. So, every Wordle inspired short is brought to you the day after its inspiration hit your screen. This is a no spoiler zone! We promise.
This short is brought to you by our blogger, Megan Oberholzer.
Author Note: Yesterday’s Wordle answer was “badge, and it inspired me to write this short story about a young girl who is just beginning to process her mother’s death and to define her own identity outside of their complicated mother-daughter relationship.
The Her-A-Way Badge (06/05/2022)
The limo pulls up on the opposite side of the street, coming to a stop on the cobblestone road where the crowd is thinner and begrudgingly parts around its bonnet.
Rachel looks out the tinted window at the bustling market, the pink banners and the technicoloured streamers. Someone releases a rainbow of confetti into the air and a few tissue paper squares come to rest on the windowpane as the rest pock the sky.
“Here alright, Rachel?”
She jumps, looking left to her father and stretching her lips into a smile. “Yes, thank you.”
“20 minutes, okay?”
She nods, and after a deep, stifled breath, she opens the door and steps into the crowd. Even among the throngs of people, she camouflages about as well as the sleek, black body of the rented limo sat in the town square. The dress her mother picked out for her, once upon a time stored at the back of her master wardrobe between the smoke clouds and faux furs, billowed around her, dark and lacy, nearly whimsical in its cut and elaborately embroidered corset.
It looks ridiculous.
Even at the funeral, it was a crass and insensitive fashion statement. And in its own way, all it did was remind them all of her mother and her extravagant ways, the way she turned every moment into a catwalk, every man into an unstable mess. As the yardmen lowered her casket into the ground, Rachel could have sworn she still heard her familiar, cackling laughter.
Even now, as she enters the market, chin tilted up at the crisscrossing bunting and quaint market stalls, she couldn’t chase her mother’s face from her mind; she still saw her pin-prick eyes and exaggerated smile, the narrow, slender face that tapered down into a sharp jaw and a pointed chin. She still feels those black leather gloves tightening on her shoulders while wine glasses clink and adults look down. Even as she passes ornate mirrors, Rachel can see her mother reflected in her own face: the unique, genetic white streak in their hair over each of their ears.
“Excuse me!” An elderly lady waved from a blue-green stall, which shimmered and waved in the light breeze. Rachel moves hesitantly towards her. “I can’t help but notice how finely you’re dressed, my lovely. Going any place special?”
“No, just here.”
“Can I interest you in this broach?” The old lady says. “No, no! Don’t misunderstand me, I want to give it to you for free! I’ve been having trouble selling it, and I think it would look just wonderful with your lovely hair. Come, come.” She beckons, and despite herself, Rachel follows and takes the broach.
The smiling face of a badger winks up at her, its three white streaks a sharp contrast to the bright, yellow sunflower in its mouth. She reaches up to touch her own face, much softer and chubbier than her mother’s, as she rubs her thumb over its puffy, round cheeks, towards its sleek, grey neck.
She looks up at the shopkeeper with a watery smile. “It’s lovely.”
The old lady wiggles a finger, rattling her bangles and the thick fleece hanging off her elbows. “Handmade!” she cheers.
Looking around the stall, which seemed mostly filled with second-hand items, like old kettles and jewellery, Rachel spied a large, grey coat and thought about how much her mother hated that “dreary, pointless colour”. Wiping her face and trying to bring some moisture back into her mouth, Rachel pointed at the coat. “Mind if I try that on?”
“Of course, honey! Give me just a moment, I’ll get it.” The lady twirled round and plucked the coat from the rack.
It had a nice cut, particularly business-like and streamlined. There didn’t seem to be a single inch of material wasted; it all served a purpose somehow, none of it draped or felt unnecessary. It fit Rachel well too, hugging her shoulders nicely and not wrapping too tight around her arms but also not wrapping half as loose as her father’s jacket had when the wind picked up by the graveside. Although, with the extravagant lace and delicate embroidery on her mother’s black dress beneath it, the jacket seemed wildly out of place.
“With a good plain shirt from Marks and Spencer’s, I think you’d look quite the sight in that. I believe it’s made of real cotton from that ethical environmental people place. There’s unlikely to be many more like it, I don’t think.”
Rachel smiles warily and claws around for her purse. “You know what, miss? I’ll take it. And the badger badge too.”
The lady nods, gives her the total and graciously accepts an offer to keep the change. “You know, I knew your Harriot,” she says, looking momentarily sombre. “She never liked my little shop on 5th Avenue. Nothing but low brow, poor people fashion and helpful, friendly staff. What a terrible crime! She especially didn’t like it when I handed her a skunk pin as a little joke, you know, with her lovely hair. I just made a silly connection! But everything always had to be her way, old Harriot. Her way or it’s not worth a dime.”
The lady rubs her jaw and inches as if to move away. But then she turns back, catching Rachel’s eye. “I thought you looked a like her a minute ago, it’s true, but I think I see you a little more clearly now. I think I understand.”
The old lady waggles her finger again and reaches over to touch the badge still in Rachel’s hand. “You see this badger? He’s a kindly fellow. Warm. Strong. He cares a lot about family, but he cares a lot more about his space. He’s an individual with a keen sense of people and a fine will to protect and build up his own home. And he absolutely loves sunflowers. They brighten up his day every time he finds one!” Then she let the badge go and gave Rachel a little wave. “Now, you have a good day now miss. Feel free to visit old Marigold any time!”
And with this, open mouthed and fighting a confused, somewhat charmed smile, Rachel found herself absorbed into the crowd and whisked away down the street past steaming curry stalls and laughing cupcake vendors and funny little shops with strange, incomprehensible things hanging from their short, stilted canopies.
Minor Critique: “The Her-A-Way Badge” is definitely, in my opinion, a solid entry to the Wordle Inspired series. Although grief isn’t necessarily as much of a theme as parent-child relationships, I think the affect of her mother’s life and death can be felt in this girl’s story, from her complicated relationship with herself and her appearance to her simultaneously nostalgic and reproachful reflection on her memories of her mother. I will admit though, sometimes the themes are handled a little heavy handily and some metaphors or lines can be a bit on the nose.
But maybe you enjoyed it. Maybe, if I’m lucky, something might have resonated with you?
Let me know what you think in the comments down below Vv.
Inspiration Breakdown: As is the typical form, I did draw on a few extra pieces of inspiration to help round out today’s idea.
First, I bunged the Wordle answer into google to see what might pop up. Apparently, according to the top result, a “badge” can be considered a “symbol of freedom,” and so here is my first thread. The idea of freedom. And a badge.
I instantly thought of the first time Katniss Everdeen found herself staring at a mockingjay in the Hunger Games books: she bought (or was given – details are a little foggy) a mockingjay badge by an elderly lady (as far as I know) in a bustling market, which follows her throughout the series and becomes a renowned symbol of rebellion.
Now, I don’t think I’ll ever be covering something as big as turning over an authoritarian, dystopian government in less than 100,000 words, let alone in around 1,000, but I really like the market idea, and the old lady, both of which have clearly been well absorbed into my story.
But that did leave me with the question, if the badge symbolises freedom, what is there to be free of?
Next, I located a Pinterest quote. Today’s is by honeytuesday from tumblr and their post reads:
“maybe i’m just a portrait of all the people i’ve loved and nothing else tastes so bittersweet. A little dash of my ex-best friend in the way i walk or laugh. my scarf tied in a double knot for that beautiful stranger at the bus stop. a whisper of my mother and the sigh of a lover in the way i braid my hair. pockets full of fire and infinite regret like my dad or his dad or his dad. The tilt of my jaw, the curve of my smile, everything, everything is someone else. when they’re all gone, my own reflection will be the biggest ghost i have.”
The final line really got me and just had to have this quote.
My particular takeaways, though, had less to do with being a collage of all the people you know but being a product of someone else’s mannerisms, influence and expectations, but not just people who are ordinary, overall neutral, or fondly remembered; I chose someone who is, to the main character, a source of pain. I thought this might be an interesting twist on the concept and give a good basis for conflict, complexity and interest, which hopefully shined through!
Lastly, I made one final connection. What should the badge be?
Well, a badger obviously.
You know, because … badge … r … badger?
You know what? I’ll see myself out.
The Humble Life: A Wordle Inspired Short
We all surely know by now that Wordle has taken Twitter by storm and become a hugely familiar face among the writing community online. Over at OverWoods, we truly love the game and as a kind of pseudo tribute (and a not so subtle way to remember to keep up that Wordle streak!), we've decided to use each daily, 5 letter answer as the inspiration to a short story or poem this May!
*Of course, we wouldn't want to reveal the answer of the day's Wordle prematurely and ruin the experience for others. So, every Wordle inspired short is brought to you the day after its inspiration hit your screen. This is a no spoiler zone! We promise.
This short is brought to you by our blogger, Megan Oberholzer.
Author comment: Yesterday's Wordle answer was "homer", and it inspired me to write todays short story "The Humble Life", a sweet window into the life of a humble homer pigeon with the titular question, is a quiet, "unexciting" life really so terrible?
The Humble Life (05/05/2022)
Ledecky’s quiet frown as she preens the leaves on her rose
bush is so familiar and calming, H.P. can’t help but smile as he approaches her
white-fenced garden. Her flowers wave up at him, bright and colourful. Although
clearly arranged meticulously and ordered, to him their dance still seemed wild
and messy. Sometimes they lean over the fence, hands extended out towards the passersby,
shaking hands and waving hello.
Stooping lower, he sounds out a cheery caw, a practiced greeting he hopes no longer grates half as much as they did when he first began.
Ledecky looks up at him and her face lightens. She smiles, lifting up her finger. “Oh, hello, Humble. Do you have a message for me?”
He does.
When he lands on the arch of her finger, careful not to dig too hard with his claws, she guides him to a fence post and begins to unwind a piece of parchment from where the birdkeeper had tied it to his leg.
“Oh, it’s from Bradley,” she says, unrolling the paper and peering at the unknowable markings inside.
H.P. tilts his head. Blankly, he scans the paper beside her, but as always, he can’t make the least bit of sense out of the scribbled letters. Even so, he smiles to himself, his eyes slipping shut and chest puffing out.
“If you wait here, dear, I’ll be right back with some crackers. I’ll be sure to write back to ol’ Bradley tomorrow, which should give you some time to rest! I can’t imagine the journey you’ve had. So, get a good night’s sleep, Humble!”
Crackers had and elderly women thoroughly entertained, H.P. flutters up to the roof. Overall, it is slanted and pointed, the deep, sloping sides covered in a bosting red slate, but at one end, a small, flat area juts out with a screen door going in towards the attic and a tall, dirty bird house into which H.P. could slip inside through a small, arching hollow.
In one of the straw nests, among the spider webs and white bird droppings, Franky watches him enter with a relieved sigh.
“I thought you were a cat!” he says, “Well, I’m glad you’re not. I’ve just had the worst trip. There was this great, big old hawk down by George’s farm and he almost got me! I’m talking about this big, H.P. –” He showed with his wings – “This big!”
H.P. settled into his favourite nest, the sunny one in the corner just by the great human’s door. His wings fussed a while, trying to fold nicely and straighten the green-purple feathers that made a faint bow tie on his neck.
“You know, that hawk got me thinking, H.P.,” Franky continued, feathers ruffled all over - well, except for the long, grey stretch of his neck, which was as smooth and un-patterned as ever. “I just … I feel like I’m meant for a different path – and no not a flight path but just a different life path entirely! Something more ambitious. Something that gets my heart racing like that hawk out there. God, you know how much I hate it here. I wish I could … you know! Do something! Make people happy! Make a difference somewhere, no matter how small! Do you get me, H.P.? … H.P.?”
But H.P.’s eyes were closed, and he could already feel sleep seeping in. Ledecky’s crackers really had been good today, and he was glad, too, that he’d made it back to Lethia Town with no hawk sightings, no strange hiccups, and absolutely, perfectly on time, exactly as he always did, day after day, after wonderful, happy day.
This ones definitely a little more cutsie than any of our Wordle Inspired entries yet! And you may have noticed too that the title of this one doesn't involve the Wordle answer that inspired it, but I thought "The Humble Life" is probably a lot more digestible than the "Homier Homer".
In typical fashion, I also drew on a Pinterest-found quote as well. Today's memorable line is from Fyodor Dostoyevsky: “You sensed that you should be following a different path, a more ambitious one, you felt that you were destined for other things but you had no idea how to achieve them and in your misery you began to hate everything around you.”
Now, this one's interesting, because I disagree with it! (Anyone who connects with this quote is, of course, perfectly valid and should be respected!) However, I tend to steer clear of people who "beg[in] to hate everything around [them]", or help them steer away from this attitude where possible for the simple reason that its destructive and unhelpful. You can end up hurting a lot of people, yourself included but not limited to, by spiralling into this thought process, and I'm not interested in perpetuating it.
Additionally, I think it's strange, this constant drive for ambition in our capitalist society. It seems to be the default to success. We have this idea that we need to "achieve" something. And I want to challenge that.
If there is one woman with a stable family and kids and another who is a self-employed business owner, single and financially independent, which one is truly the most successful? Neither. They're both doing what they want to do in life; they are where they want to be.
Now, I don't think the Fyodor Dostoyevsky is necessarily treating ambition like the default state of mind (its just the reverberations from his use of "you should be"), but I feel obligated to make a case for the simple life, the humble life if you will.
So, here is my premise.
H.P. is a homing pigeon who brightens other people's days, relishes the small delights in life and garners a great deal of job satisfaction. He's well looked after and appropriately appreciated. What more can he ask for? What more does he need? Is there really anything shameful in living a happy, fulfilling life, however that may look for you?
Although, as an aside, rereading that quote a few times and contrasting it to my own point of view, I do genuinely think there is merit in exploring that feeling, that idea that you're destined for more, that doing anything less would be wasting yourself. And I think that's just an indication that you need to keep pressing forward, seeking opportunities and jumping on them, and exploring who you are, what you want and where you want to be: may this be in the penthouse of a swanky flat or a humble, raggedy old cottage in the middle of your hometown country-scape.
What are your thoughts on Fyodor Dostoyevsky's writing? Do you think I handled my concept well and argued a good case through my own writing? Let me know down below! (VV)
Melting on the Train: A Wordle Inspired Short
We all surely know by now that Wordle has taken Twitter by storm and become a hugely familiar face among the writing community online. Over at OverWoods, we truly love the game and as a kind of pseudo tribute (and a not so subtle way to remember to keep up that Wordle streak!), we've decided to use each daily, 5 letter answer as the inspiration to a short story or poem this May!
*Of course, we wouldn't want to reveal the answer of the day's Wordle prematurely and ruin the experience for others. So, every Wordle inspired short is brought to you the day after its inspiration hit your screen. This is a no spoiler zone! We promise.
This short is brought to you by our blogger, Megan Oberholzer.
Author comment: The next thrilling Wordle answer (from yesterday) is "train", which has sparked my next inspired short, "Melting on the Train", a dreary and reflexive portal into life in the city and being one in a thousand. Take a look:
Melting on the Train (04/05/2022)
It occurs to me that the 9.22 outbound from Charlston is not the right train. But then again, it had been a while since I’d remembered the right way home.
The Mayfield Line’s J cart seems to me like its own world. One of wary travellers in dull work coats, of saturated blues and heavy, browning yellows. In many ways it reminds me of a jail cell tacked to a horse and carriage, with its regular square window frames barring over the glass and the pensive gazes into the outside or the sun-shy shrinking of its passengers, the clingle of their key chains like chaffing shackles. But often, perhaps mostly as the windows suck in the darkness and my reflection watches raggedly back at me, as a tunnel pounds overhead, an asynchronous rhythm among the enduring monotony of the city’s heartbeat, cart J reminds me primarily of a submarine scene filmed entirely in noir.
I wonder if it’s war. I wonder if it’s some alternate reality. I wonder if anyone else feels the same.
And I know it will be a while yet, a few more murky panes, the rain cascading over the glass, the wind whipping suspended streams into the blur far, far away from here – it would be a while yet, I know, before I’d think to leave. So often, it’s like it’s always, my thoughts start to melt, merging at the edges, bubbling up in the centre – I never want too – why can’t I just – here, it’s not so bad here –
I reach out my hand, up to the glass. My finger cuts through the mist – I saw it as it grew once, building off the exhales from all the hollowed souls passing through just today – my finger coming away cold and dripping, layered with the fizzing perspiration of all the people inside the train cart still barely living.
It occurs to me now how much I like the rain. The way it softens things. Blurs them together. Sometimes, I’m almost entirely convinced, as the world melts into itself around me, warped and contorted into some place I barely even recognise anymore, that someday I might just melt right into it too.
This one has me a little excited; there's a lot I enjoy, especially where some of the imagery came out well. Although, I will admit maybe the concept doesn't come through too clearly, its just about as murky as the aesthetic itself!
But maybe you got it?
The "extra" inspiration I sourced today came from a quote originally posted to tumblr by relatablepoetryandquotes:
“I love the rain. I love how it softens the outlines of things. The world becomes softly blurred, and I feel like I melt right into it.”
- Hanagmoto Hagumi, Honey and Clover
I think you'll agree it's a nice quote. I especially jumped on it because I mistook the first sentence for "I love the train", which is - I'm sure you'll agree - extremely logical and profound. But, I think rain as observed from the inside of a train has a compelling, complimentary atmosphere, and with the right writer, a lot can be done with it to a great effect.
You can particularly see where I've drawn on Hagumi's writing with concepts of "melting", "softening" and "blurring", as well as an obviously positive outlook on the rain, being from the UK.
Naturally, this quote wasn't my only inspiration - I really do like a detailed brief, but that's not because of a lack of ideas on my part, but because I have a tendency to try and cram far too much into these kinds of shorts, to the point they go from flashfics to short stories, so when I have covered most, if not all, of the subjects under my brief, I know it's time to wrap it up.
In my typical fashion, I googled "phrases using train" and found this on the google imbed:
“Many times the wrong train took me to the right place…”
And I liked that a lot.
I'm not sure if it quite counts as chiasmus but it got my brain buzzing with an interesting action for my scene: someone on the wrong train.
How do they feel about that? What are they going to do about it? Why?
Of course, having read my short, you'll know my answers to these, and they're not as runaway as you might anticipate. I preferred to stay to true to the quote, but not necessarily in a direct way: the main character of "Melting on the Train" is quite used to their situation, and possibly even apathetic about it to the point of inaction, to total acceptance. And I suppose it's up to you to figure out why.
Why wouldn't you care if you got on the wrong train? What must life be like for you?
And I tried to answer these questions through imagery. I tried to use an at times ghoulish and melancholic atmosphere, along with the repeated illusions to "mind fog" and dissociative behaviour, to tell you a little something about the character's state of mind and to leave you with at least a vague impression of their current life situation.
Feel free to let me know what you think in the comments down below (vVv)! Hopefully, you enjoyed today's post!
If You Missed A Day: A Wordle Inspired Short Story
We all surely know by now that Wordle has taken Twitter by storm and become a hugely familiar face among the writing community online. Over at OverWoods, we truly love the game and as a kind of pseudo tribute (and a not so subtle way to remember to keep up that Wordle streak!), we've decided to use each daily, 5 letter answer as the inspiration to a short story or poem this May!
*Of course, we wouldn't want to reveal the answer of the day's Wordle prematurely and ruin the experience for others. So, every Wordle inspired short is brought to you the day after its inspiration hit your screen. This is a no spoiler zone! We promise.
This short is brought to you by our blogger, Megan Oberholzer.
Author comment: Today's prompt is "story". Now, I don't have to tell you how difficult it would be to write story about a story and make it entertaining or remotely interesting to read, so I didn't do that. Instead, I took a few more nuggets of inspiration from all around the internet and came up with something I hope you'll find equally strange and reflexive as it is whimsical.
If you missed today, there was always tomorrow. If a year went passed, she’d still be there. As the thyme withered and the rosemary fell, she still waited, lavish and smiling, white dress billowing in the wind, the dry leaves cascading like cherry blossoms and crowding the chair legs by her feet.
If you left and never came back, the hills would still be watching, the ravine would keep on screening her hollowed cove and shield you from all those who were passing. The sun would rise once more and once again the wood would start greening.
The past comes to you in hews of yellow, orange, red – the sun in autumn, spring and summer: rushing low through white branches, bursting through the open canopy, flying to the rivers edge and dancing to the waterfall’s heart. And there she’d be, waiting still, pink parasol in hand and a sweet smile just for you.
You never denied it, yet you never said it, how enchanted you were when the petals caressed her soft hair and the spray glistened among those pale freckle constellations.
She’d have half a mind to resent you, but she never resented anyone before you. She knows, children, whims, the whimsical, so easily she fades into a dream. Was she ever even real? Between the clanging doors – shouting – hate you – never come back again – you bitch – there she was, warm and slow, willing to hold you to the skirts against her knee and weave stories out of the grass and hummingbirds.
Was it even real? Can anything be so perfect and so required?
Sometimes, you dream of going back to her, when the work gets hard and the people you love leave you the loneliest you’ve ever been before. When did a missed day turn into a year, into a life? If you went back, would she still be there, as beautiful and as loving? If you went back, would she still want you, as grown and horrible as you are?
If you went back, would it be like just another tomorrow, like just one day was ever missed?
I think this short definitely has a little bit of first draft syndrome, and if I was to critique it, I'd say it's really in need of more salt. If I could have more time to flesh it out and a greater word count, I probably would be able to tidy up some of the themes and ideas I put into here and shape them into something more coherent and interesting.
As it stands though, "If you missed a day . . ." is a solid entry to Wordle Inspired IMO and definitely worth spending some time sitting with it and unpacking it.
So, how does it relate to my prompt?
Firstly, I used the word "story" in it, and that alone counts enough. Inspiration doesn't have to be a strict commission. It can just be the spark that lights the inferno. But if you want some mumbo jumbo nonsense on how I justified my premise today well:
I deliberately put the narration into the past, as a memory or backstory - ha, ha, got you - definitely ticks the box of writing about a story. But I also did this because it relates to today's Pinterest quote (which I source randomly, please be advised).
The post in question was by a DIANA SCUTELNICU:
And if you missed a day, there was always the next,
and if you missed a year, it didn’t matter,
the hills weren’t going anywhere,
the thyme and rosemary kept coming back,
the sun kept rising, the bushes kept bearing fruit
- Sunrise, by Louise Glueck
You can see from this quote where I sourced the second person narration as well, a great deal of my imagery (including but not limited to the mention of thyme and hills), and of course that titular line "if you missed a day", although I hope you agree that I put enough of my own spin on that.
Maybe you prefer the original quote (not sure if it was already formatted as a poem) or if you prefer mine. Let me know! I'd love to learn from it.
That being said, it wasn't just DIANA SCUTELNICU's post that I drew my extra inspo nuggets from, but one of the comments left underneath it - I know, Pinterest has comments, that's so weird. One user wrote:
"This is how childhood felt"
Do I agree? Do you agree? I don't know, but I thought it was interesting., so I thought I'd write about an event - a story - from someone's childhood and refract from that.
I sampled ideas around the "bigness" of life as it seems to a child, the naïve concept of object permanence - of course, you're role model will never change, they will always be there for you - and the perhaps more bitter reality of adult life, the loss of both that wonderful "bigness", that eternity of living, and of the memory of the small delights and the people that consumed your thoughts, as if they were everything.
How did "If you missed a day . . ." make you feel? If it made you feel anything at all? Let me know below! (VvV ~more arrows~ vVv)
Forgo the Living, Forgo the Day: A Wordle Inspired Short
We all surely know by now that Wordle has taken Twitter by storm and become a hugely familiar face among the writing community online. Over at OverWoods, we truly love the game and as a kind of pseudo tribute (and a not so subtle way to remember to keep up that Wordle streak!), we've decided to use each daily, 5 letter answer as the inspiration to a short story or poem this May!
*Of course, we wouldn't want to reveal the answer of the day's Wordle prematurely and ruin the experience for others. So, every Wordle inspired short is brought to you the day after its inspiration hit your screen. This is a no spoiler zone! We promise.
This short is brought to you by our blogger, Megan Oberholzer.
Author comment: Yesterday's Wordle answer was "forgo", and it inspired me to write todays short story "Forgo the Living, Forgo the Day", an energy-filled window into the life a maladaptive daydreamer exchanging a dull life for a barrage of twisted fantasies from their own dysfunctional dreamwork. I hope you enjoy!
Forgo the Living, Forgo the Day (01/05/2022)
I cannot stop wasting time. And I cannot tell you when things turned for me this way.
On the thick, baking days of summer, where the streets shimmer in and out of focus and the concrete peels away from apartment walls, dripping molten and vapid onto passing cars, I stay in suspension. On my back, atop the sheets. Mouth thick with silence. Pillow jutting, uncomfortable, rotting, always caught in a dream.
It is lucid but steered, vile yet welcome and eagerly hosted. Every sweating fantasy – mothers holding cursed, bleeding children, fathers banishing their worthy, loving sons, daughters flying into the night on ill-fated adventures, for strength, for autonomy, for love of life, sex, torture, rebirth, revisiting – every broken fantasy begotten with some fine remnant of my own will to live. My own despairs. My own suppressed desires.
In honesty, I have always had a fondness for fairy tales, and yet not the sparkling, joyous power stories of youth and innocence, but the dark, glaring origins, branded Brother’s Grim, or better yet, unexplained and wickedly mysterious like the lyrics of every nursery rhyme, their heritages long forgotten.
As the cicadas die outside my window, dead on their backs against the granite ledge, and the sun rolls a long arch across the sky, I disappear into my own fairy web of bitter karma and bloodied irony, and watch life as it unfolds into itself, half-daydream, half-nightmare.
Every dawn, I palm off the day, the duties, the people who knock relentlessly on my doors, my windows, the blinds closed, the peephole painted with black. I watch two sinners, their eroticism, their love, the burning sweetness of flesh on flesh. I sympathise with their willingness, reflected in them that desire to spiral into destruction and rise with unspeakable grace into their own eternal hell.
Just like yesterday's post, I had some fun here too. It's a little dark and dingy, which I hope you don't mind, but with any luck, my faithful dedication towards that iconic piece of writing advice "don't just write words. Write music." pulled you through.
So, a little about the process; today's piece was a little easier to put together than yesterday's since I gleefully skipped straight to Pinterest and started browsing. Like before, I chose the first written quote I could find and merged that into my story idea (I just love me a strong, restrictive brief - but each to their own!)
I found this quote posted originally to tumbler by cryptomnesia:
“I could not stop wasting time. It was crazy. I wanted to do something with my life, but instead I went to sleep, or sung in the shower, or sat and stared at the wall. I couldn’t even tell you anything that I saw. I didn’t talk to anybody. The cicadas kept dying outside, and as I dreamed, my mouth grew thick and venomous with silence.”
- Yiwei Chai, The Jacardanda Years (via crowsummer)
You can clearly see in my piece where I lifted and tweaked some phrases to suit my story and better tie my inspiration into my piece. It's up to you to decide whether or not this works well.
Overall though, I think I did a pretty good job at picking up some of the "vibes" of the quote and weaving it into my story, even outside of lifted phrases. Although, I will humbly admit that this post is most likely getting at something different than maladaptive daydreaming (MD); I think it leans more towards procrastination, potentially the effects of depression, however, I don't know the first think about Yiwei Chai, so I couldn't begin to tell you the true, real-life connections this quote is making.
For me, when it comes to the depiction of MD, I just wanted to relate the experiences in the quote to something I was familiar with and could draw on, my own way of writing what I know. Maybe because of this, something in my piece might just resonate with you and ring fundamentally true.
Some aspects are a little outside of my comfort zone being born British where its murky and soggy all the time, especially with the mention of cicadas and the hot, shimmering streets. Would you have thought I wasn't a native Australian (?), Southern American (?), Mexican (?), person from a place where it gets really hot while cicadas make concerningly loud noises (?)? (I . . . my A* in GCSE Geography means nothing to me anymore.)
Either way, I hope this was a good read. Let me know what you thought below (VV ~follow the arrows~ VV) and don't forget to check out some of our other posts on the OverWoods blog!
Cynically Trash Panda: A Wordle Inspired Poem
We all surely know by now that Wordle has taken Twitter by storm and become a hugely familiar face among the writing community online. Over at OverWoods, we truly love the game and as a kind of pseudo tribute (and a not so subtle way to remember to keep up that Wordle streak!), we've decided to use each daily, 5 letter answer as the inspiration to a short story or poem this May!
*Of course, we wouldn't want to reveal the answer of the day's Wordle prematurely and ruin the experience for others. So, every Wordle inspired short is brought to you the day after its inspiration hit your screen. This is a no spoiler zone! We promise.
This short is brought to you by our blogger, Megan Oberholzer.
Author comment: Today's inspired short is from the 30th April where the answer was "trash". Of course, I did take a few more inspiration ideas from here and around, which you can read more about after the poem. With all that said, here it is:
Cynically Trash Panda (30/04/2022)
Black eyes and tiny hands,
Rummaging through trach bags and garbage cans,
Watch the cynic stealing
Those rotting, discarded pieces:
Piece back again someone else’s great tragedy
For which you hold nothing but self-serving apathy.
Watch him lay it all out –
Look, look at all this! – another triumphant shout,
Rub the plastic packaging together,
Bank notes put forth to a counter, he’s languishing –
Languish in the suffocation of his own desire,
Without which’s placation leaves you only a liar.
Paint the world grey, broken
Point to suffering, death, destruction: chosen
For a life he’d prefer as entirely forgot
Unbidden to this boycott, his terror of waking dreams –
Wake to the excuse of another’s pain
And watch your own life spiralling down the drain.
Ha, ha - it's a bit of a ride isn't it? I definitely had some fun and tried to put some kind of interesting, analysable (if that's a word . . . which it appears to be?) message into it. Hopefully you got it!
Some of the other inspiration I sourced included searching "phrases using 'trash'", just for fun, to see what happens. I stumbled across the lovable internet nickname for a racoon: a "trash panda". Love it! Instantly gave me ideas of a little skittish fella with big black eyes, a fluffy tail and teeny, tiny little hands.
Then I opened Pinterest - obviously, a writer's go-to inspiration hub - and chose the first random written quote I could find.
The post I chose was posted by WeHeartIt (OK, I admit, I got ad bombed and WeHeartIt maliciously and mercilessly bamboozled me into twisting their company promo post into my story but don't worry, I never told you that). Their post reads:
“The truth is, I pretend to be a cynic, but I am really a dreamer who is terrified of wanting something she may never get.”
- Joanna Hoffman
So, from this particularly emotive quote, which I stress I picked randomly, I swear I'm OK, I extrapolated a few key words I was going to use: trash, cynic, dreamer, terrified, wanting, never.
Although I didn't get round to using all of them, I let the "vibe" of the words guide my ideas. For example, I exchanged "wanting" for "dreams" and "desires", and "terrified" is "terror" now, etcetera. And I think this worked out really well. The poem probably wouldn't be as good if I had tried to cram unworkable words into it instead of just letting the rough ones go.
Originally though, this wasn't going to be a poem. I did begin with prose, attempting to write a flashfic, but something about it wasn't working. I thought it was tripping into preaching territory with not much else on offer. Then, it occurred to me how almost poetic the first line sounded (Black eyes and tiny hands, rummaging through trach cans and garbage bags) and it all spiralled from there, with me adding in a loose rhyme scheme (subject to half rhyme and availability), as well as a vague rhythm where the overarching pattern is short-line long-line short-line long-line (for an accelerated rising and falling effect, hopefully) and then I decided some good central structure might be tucking in internal rhymes and borrowing the last/second to last word of the 4th line of each paragraph to start the 5th line off, just for some added spice and potatoes. In the end, I think the poem reads well aloud and I managed to stay away from "telling" what was happening outright just fine.
I hope some parts of the poem, although somewhat carefully laid out, feel discordant and erratic like a crazed little racoon scurrying from trash bag to trash bag, and that you enjoyed reading (and maybe reading about) my work.
Don't forget to follow @OverWoods_PS on Twitter to find out when I post again!
And let me know what you thought down below (in case you can't find it, I have left arrows like so: vvv).