… and the word is “Imperious”
I love the English language. Every once in awhile, a word will spill out of my mouth that I haven’t used or even thought of in a very long time. I then feel compelled to play with it. I know in writing groups, for example, there are ‘prompts’ – words or phrases a facilitator utilizes to stimulate creative flow in the participants. Since I only belong to one group here on the island, and since we only meet once every few months and write strictly Renshi poetry, I ‘prompt’ myself on my own as certain words pop into my head. Today the word is “imperious,” and the maximum length is 300 words. If you love to write but have difficulty getting ideas going, maybe you’ll find this little exercise helpful. And perhaps you’ll write your own bit of prose or poetry with this word, as a result!
She stood aloof – imperious if not dignified in a floor-length gown of seafoam hue, bellowing from her boy-hips and down around her delicate bare feet like the tide. If one looked closely, it could be determined that the hem of her garment was soiled and damp, dragged along the floor like a caveman’s conquest. Piled clumsily against the white plastered wall, undignified Louboutin heels, straps tangled and askew, dreamed of dancing.
All she envisioned was revenge – sad backlash to the sequined night’s new beginnings, now curled back and tucked into obscurity like the wicked witch’s shoes rolled up under Dorothy’s house. He had left her, cold and sulking – and who could blame him, really? She was mewling like a lost kitten, though her painted eyes, glaring steel blue through thick jet-black lashes, belied an annoying childish petulance. What he interpreted as intellect was instead a strong will, intent on capturing a golden goose.
Confident she equaled his worldliness if not his valor, he preferred women hard as ice on the outside, melting to a white light at their core under his caresses. Expecting any kind of depth from a drunken party encounter might have been a bit naïve, maybe even stupid, but this one seemed to possess it all. And he wanted that complete package as much as she herself sought to entice him into a web of intrigue. Truth is, he might have capitulated, innocent as a lamb destined for slaughter, without the fatal interference of alcohol. She simply did not know when to stop, and it was this yearning for more that he mistook as a lusty joie de vivre. It was her bottomless craving for oblivion he mistook for blind ambition, likened to his own. With her features etched upon on his memory, he sauntered home, alone and unfulfilled.