100 Words - Firestorm of Pain

My daughter had her first driving lesson today.

And while that has nothing to do with 100 words, OH-MY-GOD-MY-DAUGHTER-HAD-HER-FIRST-DRIVING-LESSON-TODAY! All the logical parts of me are all, "hoorah! My days as an on-demand taxi driver are over!", and let's face it, that job paid crap.

The Mom parts of my brain are singing a different tune altogether. As she told me about how the instructor was so impressed with her driving he decided to drive her through one of the most densely populated campuses in the U.S. I nearly crapped myself with anxiety AND I WASN'T EVEN THERE! And the little imp nearly fell over laughing at my wide eyes and the way my hands flew to my mouth as she regaled me with the tale of pedestrians and cars pulling out willy nilly and gaping potholes filled with starving gators.

Maybe there weren't any alligators, but there MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN. It's like she's trying to give me gray hairs.

But, I'm mostly proud, and busy planning new hobbies for all the newly freed time I'm about to have on my hands.  Things like designing t-shirts that don't suck, and world domination.

Painting is not on the list, even though Aurora Lee made it seem deliciously angsty and romantic.

Swiping at a tear running down your cheek, following the trail forged by so many before it, you leave a smudge of red and blue from your paint-stained hand.  Bold splashes, a symphony of colour, explode across the canvas.  You’d hoped it would be therapeutic, that turning to your art would help calm you, help erase the images from your mind as you attacked the canvas with paint and scrapers and fists in blind, wild abandon.  Bending to pick up a paint can that tipped over on the floor, you try again to crush the firestorm of pain you feel.

This week's prompt comes from one of my very old books. This one belonged to my grandmother when she was a girl, and if it wasn't nearly midnight and if everyone wasn't so rudely sleeping so that my turning on all kinds of lights and opening and closing doors to find just the right setting, I'd post a photo. It is copyrighted 1909, this battered little copy of Life in the Greenwood by Marion Florence Lansing. The word is: