Day 12: Calliopean

Word of the Day:

calliopean

adjective

piercingly loud; resembling a calliope in sound: a calliopean voice.

Now that I know what a calliope is (Google’s the best), let’s do this thing!

Her shriek was calliopean: “OHMYGOD.  THERE’S-A-SPIDER!  THERE’S-A-SPIDER-KILL-IT-OHMYGOD!”

A shoe went sailing towards the spider—and missed by a full three feet.  She scrambled backwards, pulling off her other shoe to launch.  “OHMYGOD-KILL-IT!  SOMEONE-KILL-IT!”

She failed even more miserably the second time.

At this point, her situation was thus: she was barefoot, defenseless, and unarmed against the spider.  She looked around, panicked, for anything to use against the arachnid…there!  The hornet spray.

Desperately, she scrambled for the can, threw the whole thing at the spider, and ran inside.  She would never know that she missed: the spider lived.

Confession:  This.  Sort of isn’t fictional.  Meaning that it happened to me almost exactly like that.  Except that I actually sprayed the thing with hornet spray and am quite sure that it died.  Also, my shoes were too hard to get off, so I didn’t throw them…

…Catharsis in writing, amIright?

Cara Kennaway

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9 thoughts on “Day 12: Calliopean

  1. Oh, Cara. Never visit Australia. Or Florida. Or, really, most other hot and humid locales.

    Catharsis in writing indeed. Say, since the spider lived, this story has the potential for a sequel…

  2. Ah, travel: the fascinating and nerve-wracking experience of being introduced to a locale with which one is entirely unfamiliar and being expected to find one’s way around; the glorious discomfort of being far from one’s home and one’s most trusted acquaintances; the soothing tones of calliopean train whistles and the great joy of attempting to sleep in a bed that is not one’s own, all the while trying not to think about what myriad events the mattress beneath one may have witnessed in the nights of its earlier occupations.

    God, how I hate it all.

    But what choice does one have when one’s spouse is a maniac infected with a horrifying yet incurable wanderlust, when one’s children are forever complaining that their lives are too commonplace (as if they would know, they’re, like, FIVE, for heaven’s sake…) and demanding that they been taken to look upon new sights? One finds oneself helpless and outnumbered. And sleeping (or, rather, not sleeping) on a suspiciously creaky mattress to boot.

    Ugh.

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