Writing blog with facetious and surreal tendencies. Short essays on ideas and short posts on fear.
Tbh I’d read the cool-word dictionary by myself now that I remembered I have one. I’ll just make you guys read it with me. =P
sarahjeanholden answered to your post “How would people feel about my starting a series of posts with a daily…”
I WOULD READ IT!
Then I will do it! Keep me from reading the dictionary by myself, lol
How would people feel about my starting a series of posts with a daily unusual word?
639. There are miniscule, shadowy pockets in your bone scans. The doctors are horrified. They think you have terrible osteoporosis and don’t know how you’re still upright. You know. You can feel the scratching in your bones as the children grow stronger.
Today I have three posts for you all, to make up for my absence over the weekend.
309. There’s something in your shed. You often hear the desperate squeaking of the mice it eats. Lately you’ve been hearing noises from larger creatures as well. You dread the day when it outgrows its temporary shelter.
176. The view from up here is beautiful. You’re higher than everything around you. A gust blows by and you clutch your handholds tighter – you’re up too high to fall. Can’t let go! Can’t let go. Shouldn’t let go. Can’t. Let go.
866. Your neighbors are moving, they’re having a cookout. The garden is beautifully tended as always, although a startling number of plants are growing up against the house. The windows are almost completely obscured.
201. Another fawn bobs its way out of the brush as you pace the hostel yard, trying to find a spot with better reception. There are four of them now. They stand in a semicircle and stare at you.
438. Your neighbors are moving, they’re having an open house. Slight scuffling bumping sounds follow your group from room to room. The hostess doesn’t acknowledge it, but you notice she’s staying away from the walls.
996. Something in the kitchen gets knocked over with a small, deliberate thump. You get out of bed and pad over; shining eyes at cat-on-counter height send you back to bed with a sigh. As your cat mews hesitantly from the bedroom you realize that the thing in your kitchen is large enough to obscure the microwave clock.
653. When you turn on the news, the progression has worsened. The newscasters’ faces are indistinguishable now. The skin growing over their features turns their words into muffled nonsense.
298. The neighborhood is abnormally quiet tonight. Not a single person or moving car in sight, although there are plenty parked on the street. Every streetlight, store light, and headlight is lit and shining away into the dark.
381. You have a new weekly planner. It’s very professional-looking. Lately you’ve been dreaming that you found it in a cave.