I recently signed up for the “Word of the Day” email list from dictionary.com. They send a new word every day and at the end of the week (in this case, it was 11 days), I write a very short story using all of the words.
Here’s my first one:
The busker‘s capacious top hat was skyward-turned and empty as his hollow chest, his soul trammelled to the shackles of poverty. Nearby café windows, lined with twinkling lights and synthetic ivy, framed lively tableaus of sybarites and socialites, quaffing fine wine and sucking on caviar. The night air is a farrago of tinkling glass and feigned laughter; an ambrosia of clattering dishes and hollow promises. A hirsute beggar, curling chest hairs craning from his stained shirt, glowers at these merrymakers. “Fools,” he derides, unheard, “don’t you know the end is near.”
Meanwhile, a band of picket-laden protesters march to the beat of an invisible drummer, cutting through the city din with their impassioned, hopeless cries. They march as a single unit but are divided by internal cavils and quibbles over demagogues and demigods, reviled and revered. From the mouth of my tenebrous alley, the scene unfolds before me like a spring flower caught unaware by the icy grip of an early frost.
Categories: creative writing