Poison

Thanks for the word, Michael!

***

Rebecca named the dog Poison. Not because he was deadly, or smelly, or even useful. Poison was her second favourite word. First place belonged to "exsanguination", but it wasn't dog-worthy.

She stood on the front porch, and yelled, "Poison! Here boy!" The neighbours had learned to tolerate her, though she suspected they were secretly trying to oust her from their midst. From her position, she could see that Mrs. Midarkin and Old Man Frudler held their front curtains open, scoping out the dangerous doggy, counting how many places he's sprayed or dumped a load. Rebecca planned a scout-and-clean mission after breakfast.

Poison hurried up to her, his stubby tail wagging. He wasn't one of those cropped dogs like a Doberman or a Rottweiler. His tail had been severed in the door of a car, long before Rebecca had claimed ownership and named him after a chemical compound causing discomfort and possible death. She leaned down and scratched him behind the ear. "Good doggie."

Slave

Prijafai was the worst kind of slave. Lower than a house slave, or a mining slave, or a body slave. Gedlin the Whipper was her master and he owned her soul.

She had barely reached her fourteenth year when her parents sold her to Gedlin. Her father, Ietro, had slipped behind on his fish tributes. When he lost the boat to a winter storm, he was forced to sell his only possessions to the highest bidders. Mama was deft at the finest of embroidery, and Lumarp the Costumer paid dearly for her skills. The law forbade that Prijafai sell her body for two more years, and her malformed spine prevented her from accomplishing laborious tasks. The last option, Ietro's only choice, was to sign her over to the Whipper.

Gedlin worked for the Duvutchya Lenders. When tribute dropped behind, he extracted suitable recompense. No beating was too brutal, no torture too painful for a laggard assigned to him. His soul was empty and he so he consumed Prijafai.

Hate was the first emotion he sucked from her. She did not think she harbored such a hurtful sentiment, yet daily he consumed a dose. Then came contempt and spite. He relished every element of negativity within her, until she forgot what it felt like to be happy or generous or kind.

Accidentally

I'm watching the Oscars right now. I just saw Counting Crows sing their song from Shrek 2 "Accidentally In Love", so in honour of them - accidentally is my word for today.

***

He wandered through the streets, accidentally humming the wrong tune. All of the other people--the smart ones, the hip ones, the connected ones--hummed the locked-on song. The one distributed by the net-clones. The piece designed to be loved the instant it was heard.

The web designed conformity, sculpting it into a masterpiece of sameness. Crowds were beautiful when they worshipped the same savior, but more importantly when they hummed the same notes. Noval didn't care. He had fallen in love with the ditty he'd composed in the shower that Wednesday morning, and it permeated every fibre of his existence.

The people on the subway glared. The bus driver turned away. The man in the urinal next to him peed on his shoes. Noval broke the rules accidentally, incapable of shaking the song out of his head. It was catchy and fresh and cool.

"Sing it low, my baby, we're low down.

Let it grow now, honey, we're downtown

But when I-- "

The web-police officer shoved him into a booth to jack in. "We'll get that song out of your head, punk. Get you back on track."

What a cool idea

I was just reading Jay Lake's web page. He writes a snippet of fiction each day from a word sent to him by others. You can check out these creations at Story Words.

What a cool idea! I'm going to give it a go. I can't guarantee I'll get to it every day, but I've never been one to back down from biting off more than I can chew.