Ichthammol

[derien]

Isn't that a great word?

I have a little splinter or something in my toe; eor tried to get it out with tweezers but couldn't even see it, I soaked it last night and this morning in epsom salts and that didn't do the trick, so I limped around all day today, and my leg is SO tired of that. One of my co-workers, an older lady, said, "You need drawring ointment!" [ETA: yes, she did pronounce it "drawring," because she's from Maine.;)]

"What's that?" I asked, and then felt dumb because the term is obvious - ointment that draws - even if it sounds archaic. "I mean, what is it called, what do I look for?" She couldn't tell me that, she couldn't remember the name of it, she just knew she had some at home, and she'd be glad to bring it to me. I didn't know that an ointment existed specifically for that purpose. My grandmother used comfrey poultices to draw things, but I don't know where to buy comfrey - she grew it.

Thankfully, another co-worker (Harlequinne) noticed I was limping. She told me that when she worked at a factory that made lenses they were each issued a little tube of black, greasy, really stinky stuff that would draw out the glass splinters - ichthammol.

Such a blessing she remembered what it was called. When I went to the drugstore the pharamacist was impressed that I could pronounce it correctly. I didn't tell him that when I had written it down my guess at the spelling was 'ichthymal,' and then I looked at what I'd written and said to Harlequinne, "This makes me think of fish."

"Maybe it has something to do with fish," she said. "Maybe it's made of rotted fish! That would certainly fit the smell."

My leg is so sore, though, from the hobbling (even up into my back, though that might be from lifting all the bags), that it was hard to drive home. I hope it feels better tomorrow. Or, I almost hope it feels worse, so I can take a day off and not hobble around tomorrow as well. Or maybe I should just take a day off. I haven't contracted eor's illness - he's over it and went back to work today, and I'm not having the slightest symptom. What a dissappointment. I want a day off.

And you know what? I just wrote a whole rant about work, and then I decided to snip it. Because I really don't want to think about it anymore and I think it's best for me not to.

I went and read some of yonmei's flash fiction where she asked people to challenge her with a word. Cool stuff. I especially like the ones she wrote for "tummy," "otherworldly" and (my) "plethora."

I don't know if I can do flash fiction, but then again I've never tried. She seems to think it's a good way to get her mind off things. So...

If anyone would like to challenge me with a word - any single word you like - I'll try to write something for you.

Comments

[cygny.livejournal.com]

Sorry for barging in like this (I tend to do a lot of that lately), but I just came here through Daegaer's LJ and saw the asking for challenge :P So here goes, the word : splinter (to stay in topic with your post ^_^).

[derien.livejournal.com]

The metaphysical scholars of the Fala (the inhabitants of the deserts of Shiri-Za who are also breeders of riding lizards of renowned speed) have set forth many models for the understanding of the soul and it's relationship to deity. One of the favorites is that each soul melds back into the whole, after death, and divides off again as a new being is conceived. Thus the saying that we are "all splinters of the one tree, to be grafted on again one day."

[daegaer.livejournal.com]

Ouch! I hope the toe is better soon.

A word!

Opal

Opal

[derien.livejournal.com]

You can find all sorts of things on a beach, mainly rocks. Gilligan loved to pick up rocks - shiny rocks, round rocks, rocks that, when you squinted at them, looked like things (his favorite in that respect was one that bore a resemblance to a hen laying the state of California). He'd bring them back to the hut he shared with the Professor (although he often thought of him as Roy, now), who would tell him what sort of rock it was, and it would end up on a windowsill or behind a door. Months later the Professor would be surprised that Gilligan still remembered exactly what he'd been told about any particular rock. There was no one perfect rock - many rocks were perfect, in his estimation.

The one he'd found this morning was perfect in every way; shaped like a small egg, milky white with a shimmer of color hidden inside, it's smooth surface seemed made to rub one's fingers over. When he first showed it to the Professor he said, "Quartz."

"Really? It feels different that the other quartz I have."

"What's different about it?"

"I'm not sure." He put it in his pocket and rubbed his fingers thoughtfully over it for the rest of the day.

Much later, in the evening, he took it out again. "It's gotten prettier," he commented, and handed it to Roy for him to see. The colors had gained strength, and blazed in the warm glow of the oil lamp.

"It's lovely! Will," (Gilligan loved it when the Professor called him Will - he was the only person who did, and then only in private.) "I was wrong. I think what you've got here is an opal. You could get a pretty penny for that ... if we were ever rescued."

Gilligan smiled and set it on the windowsill.

Re: Opal

[daegaer.livejournal.com]

Nice!

I like the idea of a hen laying a California-shaped egg!

Re: Opal

[derien.livejournal.com]

That was the line that, when I came up with it, made me feel I was on the right track. :)

Gilligan, in this short, is actually patterned a good deal after a guy who I work with, a fidgiter who always has something in his pocket to play with (rocks, elastic bands, small toys) and remembers bits of information with an accuracy that I find eerie (like, how many passengers a given flight usually has on it).