The word of the week is:
Trilobite
Definition:
Noun
- any of numerous extinct Paleozoic marine arthropods (group Trilobita) having the segments of the body divided by furrows on the dorsal surface into three lobes
Mayan Idol by Leonardo Pallotta
Here is an example from Scott Westerfeld’s “Pretties”
“They didn’t get the buzzing sound right,” Fausto said, but Tally could tell he was impressed by the costumes. The sparklers in his hair were sputtering out, and people were looking at him, huh?
From inside the party tower, Peris called Zane, who said the Crims were upstairs. “Good guess, Shay.”
The four of them crammed into the elevator with a surgeon, a trilobite and two drunken hockey players struggling to stay upright on hoverskates.
“Get that nervous look off your face, Tally-wa,” said Shay, squeezing her shoulder. “You’ll be in, no problem. Zane likes you.”
Tally managed a smile, wondering if that was really true. Zane was always asking her about ugly days, but he did that with everyone, sucking up the Crims’ stories with his gold-flecked eyes. Did he really think Tally Youngblood was anything special.
PRACTICE
Write for five minutes, using the word “trilobite” as frequently as you can. When you’re finished, post your practice in the comments section.
This follows on from last week. Imagine finding the same word cropping up!
Also, extra credit if you use the word of the week in your daily practice!
My Practice
Immobile he sat, aged beyond time, the keeper of the secret stared at the altar ahead. How long he had remained glued to his seat after the service he didn’t know. Rays of gold streamed through the windows, a while ago they shone on him, but now progressing slowly to shine directly on the cross at the front of the church.
Time moved, he knew that, because the sun was moving, but for him time had stopped. A trilobite stuck in the ground for thousands of years, he felt the weight of the earth above him. His breathing shallow but steady, ever ready to begin the deep breaths necessary. They were coming for him.
It was not the first time he had endured torture, he marvelled at their ingenuity. No one dared kill him lest the secret die with him but they came close. Yohanan mi-Gush Halav came the closest after escaping a Roman gaol, having to then save his life. He laughed on the inside whilst remaining mute to the dust particles in the sun’s rays.
No creature lived in this desolate church, nor for a ten miles surrounding, a barren place for the dead and dying. All the world waiting, one more week to go and he, Hachakyum, knew the answer. He thought slowly, in time to his heart rate, ever decreasing, if people had spent more time looking after the planet instead of worrying about its end, peace might have reigned.
To anyone passing he looked like a statue, caught in a moment of peace, not that anyone passed. GPS co-ordinates were set to malfunction within a hundred miles, only the very wily ones got through. Each century brought a new adventurer, a president who needed to know, a businessman in shiny black shoes, a dictator in army fatigues. They had all been, they had left without the secret.
So he sat, trilobite from a distant time, watching the sun move, keeping the secret till the last breath, waiting for the next foolish attempt. No words had ever escaped his lips, and none could, not since it was sealed in the eighth or was it ninth century. Caught in time, keeping the most ancient of secrets.
