fantasy · flash friday · Short Story · Writing

Friday Flash & Second Campaigner Challenge: synchronicity miasma lacuna oscitate imago

I am using the second campaigner challenge for my Friday flash. Please like me, I am number 38 on the list.

The idea is to write something 200 words long; use the word “imago” in the title; use these words in the text: synchronicity, miasma, lacuna and oscitate.

I had to look up some words:

Imago: The fully developed adult stage of an insect; an idealized mental image of someone, esp. a parent, that influences a person’s behavior.

Lacuna: An unfilled space or interval; a gap; a missing portion in a book or manuscript; a cavity or depression, esp. in bone

Oscitate: (Oscitation) A yawn (from the Middle English yanen, an alteration of yonen or yenen, which in turn comes from the Old English geonian ), is a reflex of simultaneous inhalation of air and stretching of the eardrums, followed by exhalation of breath.

Small baskets of eggs sat on the desk in front of him. The test was to hatch an egg and grow it into an insect.

He’d failed last year. This year was no different.

“Begin!” the instructor demanded.

Prace wiped sweaty palms on his uniform pants and said the words. “Imago miasma lacuna oscitate synchronicity.”

A tiny crack appeared in one basket. A small sickly-white larva crawled out.

Behind him, his classmates snickered.

The instructor sighed and pinched the larva off. “Again, Prace.”

Prace knew this wasn’t going to work. But he took a deep breath and centered himself. Magic was a deep pool inside his head or so the instructor said. The right language could release it. Only he never got the language right and he couldn’t leave school until he failed again.

“Synchronicity lacuna miasma oscitate imago.”

Another basket cracked up and a brown-wrapped bundle flopped out.

The instructor deposited it into a bag. “Better. Once more.”

As if all he needed was one more chance. But he said the words again.

“Synchronicity miasma lacuna oscitate imago.”

This time a beautiful black and blue butterfly came out and flew into his palm.

Prace stared in disbelief. “It tickles.”