Random Word Inspiration 6

Hana

wandering thoughts
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Different words can inspire different ideas in people. No two people have the exact same inspiration from one word, and this is the purpose of this exercise!

Use the words below as inspiration and write whatever you feel like - be it prose or poetry. What do they put in mind? What ideas come to you? You don't have to include the words, write as it suits you.​

jaundice

untimely

funeral

Craft something out of your own ideas sparked by these words!​
 
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Yellow, the colour of plague and pestilence, jaundice, old papers, and pretty much anything Amelia didn't wish to think about. Once upon a time it used to be a cheerful, sunny colour, but these days, all it reminded her was of old age and death. If someone was to invite her to a funeral, she would probably choose to wear yellow instead of black.

It is a little unfortunate she forgot to mention this to the young man who fancied her. Poor Jack was not sure if he was untimely in presenting her with the yellow rose, or if it was something else.
 
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Horatio Nicklebottom was so screwed. This should have been his moment. His golden opportunity. His time to shine.

But instead, the only thing golden about him was his jaundiced eyes.

The result of eating too many pumpkin pies, said the doctor. Just temporary.

Horatio had indulged copiously in such holiday delights before and had never changed color. Why him? Why now?! Untimely, that’s what it was! As well as the ruination of his current scheme to win Lady Charlotte’s affections. To be her sole support during the funeral. As it was, they had seated him in the back rather than next to cousin Charlotte. As though he were some kind of plague carrier!

He watched with a heart full of spite as the elegant Sir Moreover (oh yes, him with his smooth ivory skin and the long dark silky hair that all the ladies liked, the nasty bugger) put a comforting arm around the grieving heiress, as the tiny casket containing the corpse of her pet lizard "Spiceboy" was lowered into the cold embrace of the grave.

(Shortly after the services, a stout irate man was spotted out on the range shooting pumpkin after pumpkin, such gourds having [most bizarrely] long black wigs attached. Folk passing by, startled by such eccentric behavior, talked of calling the constable. But when it was discerned that the shootist was one Horatio Nicklebottom of noble birth, people simply nodded and moved on; though one or two [I am sorry to report] may have curled their lips and murmured “Nutter!”)
 
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Can you hear the thunder?
Can you see the pestilence?
Untimely funerals driven by negligence
Of crestfallen lords bringing sunder

Jaundice peasants one and alike
Come to the woods of Asmodeus
Dance and frolic to all the delights
Embrace fate or suffer King Laius

I can hear the thunder
I can feel the pestilence
How am I still alive I wonder?
Laying alive with a pence

Hope Hell has more sense
Archangelo, send me there
Life's song cannot be condensed
Brimstone and flame, I'll forever disappear.
 
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