The Dictionomicon: September 2013

What did Coruscate inspire?

adjective; meaning "To be brilliant or showy in technique or style,
To give off or reflect light in bright beams or flashes”

Joelle Saveliev and Noël Coleman

[The Dictionomicon recommends listening with headphones]

once upon a path so clear
on a road I once held dear
I reached across to grasp your hand
and wondered could we meet again
but storms they broke
and skies they cried
for we could see it in your eyes
an ever coruscating green
embittered by the lies they'd seen
the world might turn for other loves
your years may pass in other's arms
but my time has all run out
a train pulls up, a warning sounds
called out to carry me about
away from you, and bound for doubt

What did Hamartia inspire?

noun; meaning "The tragic flaw of the protagonist in literary tragedy;

Noël Coleman

Hospitals are not my favorite place to be.

The reasons should be obvious. They’re too bright and they smell and they have all these questions about why are you in here for another fractured bone when it’s only been two week or the only way that could happen would be to fall off a building or, my personal favorite, Son, I don’t know what you kids are into these days but we’re calling the cops.

Suffice to say, I try not to be in them often. But I think I’ve been in enough to know all this polka music is unusual.

I’ve been awake for 14 songs now. Or was it 15? I’m not 100% on that. I haven’t actually bothered to open my eyes at this point. I am in a hospital after all, and I’m hoping broken people don’t need to be on high alert in these sorts of places. That would be awful for the healing process. So I think it’s been 14 or 15 songs. There was this weird pause about 3 (4?) songs back and I’m pretty sure I heard people arguing in Polish and - -

Oh. God. No.

She didn’t.

She couldn’t.

I’d say she wouldn’t but she totally would.

My eyes open, and apparently she did.

“I think I’ve discovered your hamartia.”

“hmphffgarg-MMMMMM” I was saying What are you talki- WHY CAN’T I TALK?

Which wasn’t close enough for my sister to interpret. I don’t know why. I thought the message came across very clearly.

“Yes, alright, dear brother. Please don’t interrupt. Thank You.”

Chelsea, sans the PajamaMan attire, rose from the hospital chair and perched onto the edge of my bed. She was being graceful. It was unnatural, she’s never graceful.

It was only when she moved to hold my hand that I realized the reason for her careful movements.

I was strapped to this stupid uncomfortable bed.

“gyfathevuu”

“Love you too.” Well, at least the I hate you went across loud and clear. “But I think we both agreed it was better if you don’t speak.”

“vidiffknotts”

“Ah. Ah. Nope. I can bring the Polka band back in here.” I honestly hadn’t even noticed they’d left. I’m pretty sure the music was still running through my head. Would I ever have a second of my life without the background noise of Polka? Was that really my worst problem here? I mean, I’m strapped to a bed.

Strapped. To a hospital bed.

I looked down at my feet, also strapped.

It was a bed.

It was not a hospital bed.

“So, I may have had you moved during your little sleep vacation.”

This was worse than the Polka music.

“Don’t look so upset. You can’t get caught up on the whole kidnapping thing right now, I’m trying to have a serious discussion.”

Discussions usually involve both parties being able to speak.

Wait.

Why couldn’t I speak?

I tried to give Chelsea my best what did you do to me face. I’ve had lots of practice with that particular face. I think it’s what you might call my normal expression. She seemed to catch onto the meaning right away. She should, she’s had just as much experience receiving as I’ve had relaying.

“Fine. I’ll explain it. It sort of ties into the tragic flaw epiphany I had.

You went to the hospital after digging through my room. Which I told you not to do by the way.

I specifically recall telling you the piles were organized just like I wanted and should not, under any circumstances, be moved, didn’t I?”

She did. I may have failed to nod my head. There was no way I was admitting fault in this. Moving a pile of clothes does not constitute being blown up and kidnapped by your little sister. Even if you had been there to plant a bomb yourself. My reasons were totally better than her reasons. I was the hero in this story. She was the one prancing about leaving bombs on the floor in a residential area. That’s just… bad manners. Better Homes and Gardens wouldn’t exactly include it as a spruce up your environment tip.

She wasn’t bothered by my continued staring. How could she be? This was grade A monologue opportunity. Any self-respecting sibling or arch-nemesis would pounce on it. Being both, she almost didn’t have a choice in the matter.

“Are you listening?”

I nodded without thinking. Although I should probably be listening.

“Whatever. I hired the Polka band to cover up the noise of all these stupid machines. Necessary to keep you alive or something. The doctor really wouldn’t shut up. She didn’t even want to release you into my care. Your own sister! How rude. Healthcare. Don’t even get me started.

So I decided this just can’t happen anymore. You need to step up on your whole superhero-ness if we’re going to keep this up. I can’t have you crawling to the hospital every time we meet out there.

I might be your nemesis, but I’m also your sister.

In other words, I’m calling a truce. Until you get better. And then, I’m thinking, I’ll give you some pointers on the whole not dying part of being a masked supersomething. It can’t be so much different from being a supervillain, can it?”

She stopped and moved towards the door.

I would probably say something witty here.

Pretend this is really witty and dashing. Throw in some laughing out of your seat if you’re really feeling adventurous. I’ll just. Sit here, I guess. And try to figure out how my little sister jumped to the conclusion of me needing lessons on how to be a hero. I’m an AWESOME hero. She just – She – I mean, there were bombs. BOMBS. That would throw anyone off their game.

If I’d planted my fluffballmachine first, she’d be- Well, she wouldn’t be in the exact same position. But she would be at the laundromat crying into the washer over her ruined stuffed animals.

“Oh, by the way, one of the Polka people used to be some sort of black market surgeon,” She sounded way too chipper for this to be good news. “I had him sort out that talking problem of yours. Good Night!”

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Prompt 17: Cacoethes

Gallimaufry

Saturday, September 21, 2013

Prompt 16: Gallimaufry

Dysphonia

Friday, September 13, 2013

Prompt 15: Dysphonia

Coruscate

Saturday, September 7, 2013

Prompt 14: Coruscate

Adoxography

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Prompt 13: Adoxography

Hamartia