Many years ago, I was a student at art college. My best friend there was Dave. He didn’t look like your typical art school kid, though. His head was shaved and he wore a white shirt with stone wash jeans. His hook nose and acne rounded off a rather menacing appearance, but he was a genuinely funny and likable person. I had long hair and wore baggy jeans and t-shirts.

One day we were sitting and smoking in one of the fire exits that overlooked the car park. I’d taken my dad’s car that day and had misjudged my turning circle while I was parking, hitting a grass verge and taking a huge lump of it with me. We could see the car.

“What’s that on your bumper?” Is it a bird?” Dave asked, squinting.

“Yeah Dave, it’s a parrot.” I said, laughing.

“Nah, seriously. I can’t tell what it is. Looks like a bird, though.” Dave said, still squinting.

“It’s grass and mud. I ballsed up the parking this morning” I said, owning up.

“Ah! It’s grass! I thought it was a bird!” he said, and seemed glad to know it.

“How many green birds do you know that make their home round here?” I asked, smiling.

“I couldn’t tell. I’m colour blind.” He kept his gaze on the car and all of a sudden I felt bad for jibing him about the parrot.

“Ah shit, Dave! I’m sorry. I never realised.” I said, pardoning myself.

“It’s alright, mate. How were you to know?” Now he gave me a smile.

“What’s it like, though? What do you see?” I had to ask.

“I don’t know myself really. I have trouble distinguishing green from other colours, apparently. Red too. That grass and mud both look pretty much the same colour to me. I suppose I’m used to it.” he said, shrugging.

I looked back at the clump of mud and grass on the bumper of the car and tried to imagine the bird that Dave had seen. I couldn’t picture it. Instead, the circumstances that led to him telling me and whether he had told anyone else on our course came to mind.

Then, I looked back at Dave who was putting his cigarette out on one of the steps.

“Time to go” he announced.

Then we went back to our studies.

I knew not the sound of laughter

Knew not from the pain

Wondered when the sun would shine

But prayed that it would rain

I saw the clouds move that day

Marching along the lines

Breathing in the flowers

Forgotten across the times

But they said there were no flowers

It was only in my mind

No patch of green in my garden

Nothing there to find

Some said that I was dreaming

Some only called me dumb

Said that being stuck all day

Made my thinking numb

I told them it was green before

And I say that it’s still green

There’s still a garden out there

I’m not living in a dream

Close your eyes gently they say

And pray for the rains

To come water your garden

While you slip away from the pain

She hadn’t been home since the fight. Her mother’s words still resonating in her head, she put the last overnight bag into her old white Honda and started the long drive from home.

“You’ll never be anything but a burden to anybody!” her mother had shouted that day. “You’re just poison!”

She’d looked at the small woman in front of her, tears of sadness in her eyes. Years of hard work and worry had sunken in the mother’s cheeks and colored permanent black circles around the mother’s eyes. Prematurely gray hair was matted and damp from the excitement. The thin face was red, and small, over-worked hands were trembling from anger.

She had silently turned and left the small angry woman standing in the center of the tiny kitchen. The mother seemed so large as she was screaming, but as the daughter left, the mother seemed to shrink, being swallowed by all her worries, making the old kitchen look oddly large.

She’d last made that eight-hour drive more than three months ago. She had no choice but to make it again when the mother had called, heavily sobbing, and said, “Please come home.” She sighed as she hung up the phone. It had always been that way with them. Ups and downs marked the fragments of their relationship. The mother never made enough money and always blamed her for it. She learned early never to ask for anything.

The mother had her moments, though. When she was up, everything was up. She would do anything she could for her daughter, but usually the only time she did something nice for her daughter was to make up for something horrible she’d done. The daughter noticed that about her, too. She barely even liked to share her accomplishments with the mother because the mother never celebrated with her. The mother judged. Was scornful. Jealous. Never supportive. Never motherly. It got to the point where she would only tell the mother the essentials. “I got a job in Memphis. I’m moving there in a week.” Victories were not invited.

She switched lanes on the interstate, still thinking about that last fight. She had been for a visit before she moved again for her new job. She had gotten up early that morning as her mother left for work, cold and poorly rested. She just wanted to warm herself with a big cup of coffee, but as she’d reached into the cabinet for the sugar, a giant black roach scuttled across the cabinet in front of her face, and she jumped back, bumping the mug of coffee she had just poured for herself, sending it flying and breaking the cup.

The mother walked in as she was cleaning the mess and muttering something about the house being a nasty dump.

“What did you do?” the mother panicked, staring at the broken glass. “I barely get any hours any more. The plant has too few jobs for its employees. I can’t afford to replace that!”

The daughter exited the interstate, a blur of roaring cars flashed by her as she came to a stop at the end of the ramp. She planned to get some gas and a snack before she crossed the line into her home state. Kicking at the gravel, she refilled her gas tank. The afternoon was too chilly for her t-shirt and flip-flops, but she did not mind the cold. She glanced over at the next pump and saw a young father and his son making funny faces at each other through the glass while the dad pumped gas into his van. She grinned at the scene as she walked inside for a bag of peanut butter M&Ms and a Sprite.

“It’s just a mug, mom,” she argued as she wiped up the dark liquid with paper towels. “I’ll give you money for another one.”

“It’s not about the money, you ungrateful bitch! Nothing’s ever good enough for you! The mug probably didn’t live up to your standards, so you threw it! I heard you saying how nasty this house is. Well, it’s the best I can do.”

“A roach the size of my arm crawled through your sugar cabinet. You cannot blame me for thinking that is nasty. It’s disgusting. I bumped the mug when I jumped back. It fell, it broke, it was an accident.”

“I can’t help that the roaches get in! I can’t pay an exterminator. You should just deal with it. You’re the reason I’m stuck in this shit hole, anyway!”

The daughter could see the afternoon sun start to sink into the west through her rearview mirror. The golden light enveloped the tips of the evergreens, appearing to swallow all the world it touched. She took a deep breath and turned the radio up a little more, every mile bringing her closer to the woman who’d said she hated her own daughter.

“I did not do this to you,” the daughter said, indignation making her tone low.

“Yes, you did! I could have been somebody, but I got stuck here taking care of a bratty daughter that I hate! No one could love you. You are so unappreciative! You don’t recognize anything I’ve done for you or care about how much I’ve sacrificed for you!”

“What have you ever done for me? I worked two jobs to put myself through college. I sent you money every month, not the other way around. You’ve never done anything for me. You never even replaced that ratty-ass blanket that’s been on my bed since I’ve been alive. If you were going to be somebody, you would have done it. It is not my fault that you chased my dad instead of chasing your dreams. It’s not that I’m unappreciative; it’s that you don’t give a damn about me.” She grabbed her oversized purse off one of the folding chairs and began shuffling through it.

The thought brought fresh tears to her eyes as she pulled onto the road where the mother’s house was. Just a few more minutes and she would be doing what it took to put the woman back together again. The routine was predictable. They had been going around in the same circles for years. She was tired. Tired of the fights, the tears, the makeups. The mother never called at decent hour or at a time when it would be convenient for her to go home. But she had to drop everything. She always had before.

“I don’t give a damn! You’ve never been anything but a burden to me. That’s all you’ll ever be! You’re nothing but poison,” the mother cried.

The daughter finally found her yellow wallet at the bottom of her purse and threw the last of her cash, a ten-dollar bill, at the mother. “Here’s for another mug,” she said, taking one last look at the woman trembling with indignation. She grabbed her purse and slammed the door on her way out.

She finally drove past the last of the subdivisions of nice, big homes where nice, young, pretty mothers tucked their children in and read to them at night. She pulled into the driveway of their old rented trailer, parked, and took a deep breath. Her pale hands shook a little as she grabbed her purse and an overnight bag from the back seat.

She walked up the rickety steps to the dented back door and got out her keys. She tried to remember who had kicked that dent in the door. She had to jiggle the handle for a long while before the lock would release. “Something else to fix while I’m here,” she thought. As she stepped into the kitchen, the smell of freshly-baked bread wrapped around her like a hug. Her mother was slicing the bread and ladling bowls of hot broccoli and cheese soup—her favorite. Bowls of broccoli trees floating in golden broth were being set next to steaming mugs of tea. The bowls and mugs were chipped, and the paint had faded years before, but they were the best the mother had.

She should have expected the apology meal. It was what the mother did best. But even after years and years of fights healed with broccoli soup, it still somehow surprised her every time. She knew there would be cheesecake in the refrigerator before she even opened the door. She wondered how many times the mother had swept the floor, vacuumed the carpet since the fight. She had always put her worries into household chores—cooking, cleaning. One time she even hung all the rugs on the clothesline and beat the dirt out of them with an old softball bat. It was these moments, the ups, that made the downs worth it. As bad as they fought sometimes, they were still close. Always would be. It had just been those two for years and years. One knew just what to say to irk the other. Pushing buttons. It would almost be a game for them if each weren’t so volatile toward the other.

“Mom?” she started, nervous yet touched.

Her mother smiled, unable to say the words, tears already brimming.

She sighed. She was home.

Focus on me.

Her eyes big as the moon and full as the sun.

Focus. On. Me.

She shook. Fingers pulling through her hair.

Grey, you need to focus on me. You are chaos. Now focus, or I will make you focus.

I had not quite pulled her through to our side of the parallel. All this violent, directionless energy was tying her to her thoughts, and I could not help her to find her physical location. My mind had found her’s easily. We were sitting, knees touching, on opposite sides of a train car. The cabin was closet-like in size and lit only by candle. A stark contrast to where our bodies sat. Though we still sat knee to knee, the bright light and the white of my lab coat were the antithesis of the frenzied train ride. Bullet proof glass surrounded us, small speakers methodically stationed to allow for sound to completely envelop anyone inside the glass room. Two techs in the same white coat as myself stood at the door, ready to enter should I feel endangered.

On the train, I focused on Grey. I lit a cigarette, making sure to blow the smoke away from her wan face.

Glazed expression, hands trembling.

I need you to focus. We are going to get off the train soon.

Her head shook in reflexive disagreement. Fingers, fidgeting against her right leg.

It’s not optional. Look at my eyes.

A shadow cast across the window, and her eyes darted to catch the movement.

Grey, focus on me.

Her gaze made the slow crawl back to my face. And I held her eyes, irises gleaming with soon to fall tears. I sat calm and still. I flicked my cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath my right boot. Smoke curled softly off the ground, bringing the smell of burnt polyester. And her breathing slowed.

Focus on me.

And her hand began to reach for my own.

And the weight of the room shifted. The change in atmosphere derailed us. Men in white entered from the door to the cabin.

Her eyes, wide open, deep and full as the ocean.

Her hands pressed against her ears.

Fear pouring off her skin.

And screaming. Shrill, never-ending screams. Her mouth flung wide. A noise somehow deep and high pitched all at once. The windows burst. Shards of glass flying in all directions. I watched, impassive as the men in white tried desperately to save themselves. But the caterwaul burst them as thoroughly as the glass. Eyes and ears bled. Hemorrhaging stomachs and bursting veins. The skin around the eyes all broken blood vessels with bruised throats and limbs.

In the lab, I lit another cigarette. A cool voice played through the overhead speakers.

Did it work? Are you ok?

I bent down making a show of it. The question ludicrous. I checked pulses, though one could clearly see from the amount of blood that I was the only survivor in the room.

Aside from the fact that you sent these two in to fetch me for no explicable reason that I can see, the small detail of this young lady still being lost in her own mind, and the massacre of blood lying on the ground in front of me...we’re ok.

This week we thought we'd go multi-Throwback Thursday to a past Throwback Thursday where we looked at the magnificent word 'sesquipedalian'. Never one to shy away from a chunky word, so we went full tilt, and went with one of the biggest:

Etymology

From hippopotomonstrosesquipedalian, an extension of sesquipedalian with monstrum ‎(“monster”) and a truncated, misspelled form of hippopotamus, intended to exaggerate the length of the word itself and the idea of the size of the words being feared; combined with phobia.

Noun

hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia

1. The fear of long words.

Alternative forms: hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia is arguably a common misspelling, perhaps on purpose, to make the word even longer, as most dictionaries consider one ‘P’ to be standard.

Used in a sentence: “Paul has a propensity for perpetuating his hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia and thusly, he rarely uses a lexicon consisting of more than three component syllables.” ‎

Vernacular: Rarely used in the day to day, and it is unlikely that this 15-syllable contrivance is ever used purely for its meaning. The term sesquipedalophobia is recognized in formal writing, while the four-syllable phrase fear of long words is certainly worth considering as a more widely accepted yet far more boring option.

As always, do please head on over to the beautiful blog site to see this in its full, stunning, Karen embellished glory. Same place as always. You know you want to:

http://blog.theprose.com/2015/12/tbt-the-etymology-of-hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia/