Charles Martin's Blog, page 38

This Week in Word of the Day – 8/4/2013

coaptation \koh-ap-TEY-shuhn\, noun:

a joining or adjustment of parts to one another: the coaptation of a broken bone.

Blood-soaked talons pierced the hull and ripped steel back like soft flesh. A giant gash opened up along the base of the aircraft, exposing the Earth below.

Anderson clung to the seat back of his bombardier station as the frigid winds roared around him.

Anderson looked behind him toward the gunners. Only Wallace remained, strapped to the hull, his lifeless body hanging in the sky, being beaten against the plane’s steel frame by the wind.

Anderson glanced toward Berlin, 8,000 feet below his dangling feet, and found the monastery tucked between a library and an abandoned apartment block.

That was the source, the mouth of Hell. Where the Earth spat out its most vile offspring.

Anderson struggled against the winds, pulling himself up along the seat and gripping the bombing controls.

“Bomb is away,” he called into the radio as he flicked a switch.

A loud clank and metallic squeal followed. Behind Anderson, in the exposed bowels of the craft, the bomb bay doors groaned as they attempted to open.

“The doors are damaged,” Anderson called, not knowing if anyone was alive to hear him. “They won’t open.”

“I can see them,” a weak voice called back.

“Wallace?” Anderson asked, looking to the body whipping in the wind. Wallace was alive, barely bracing himself against his mangled .50 caliber machine gun perch.

“That bastard got to them,” Wallace grunted. “Someone needs to go down there and fix the doors.”

“We don’t exactly have time for an impromptu coaptation!” Anderson replied. “The target is under our feet, right now! For all we know, the pilots are dead and we are just going to continue flying straight until we run out of fuel.”

“So, what do we do? Bang the hell out of it and hope for the best?”

“Exactly,” Anderson replied, feeling the winds blowing past him and into the belly of the aircraft.

“How are we going to even get to it?”

Anderson closed his eyes and took a moment to think of his wife and kid.

“Wallace?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell everyone I said something clever before I died,” Anderson called, then pushed off the seat, allowing the cyclonic winds push him along the plane. He crashed into the guts of the bomb bay.

The doors clanked and swung wide open. The bomb looked like a fat baby tumbling out of a womb and down into the heart of Berlin.

esse \ES-se; Eng. ES-ee\, noun:

being; existence.

It was easy for Glenn’s neighbors too dismiss the old man as the worst kind of eccentric — the boring kind. Hours spent trimming his grass with scissors, cleaning his siding with a cloth towel and a special surface cleaner he developed himself.

He repainted the house number on the the curb every other week, cleaned out his garden before his first cup of coffee, wiped down his outside windows with a squeegee after every rain, and had his lawn sprinklers on remote control to defend against stray dogs in need of a patch of grass and a moment of privacy.

Glenn’s esse derived from the 1/2 acre of his homestead, and how does one not scorn and ridicule such an empty life?

His family visited a few times a year, two daughters and a son with a herd of grandchildren in tow. They all knew to be on “museum behavior” when visiting Glenn’s home and they never slept over.

An aged police officer arrived late in the night from time to time, letting himself in with a key and visiting the man for a few hours. No one understood why. Some joked of an illicit love affair, others of a criminal empire – perhaps an illegal smuggling ring of banned lawn fertilizers.

The truth came out in Glenn’s obituary, too late to do anyone any good, but answering questions and injecting small doses of shame throughout the neighborhood. Three years in a tiger cage in North Vietnam changes the way a man values his house. “Home” meant something different to Glenn, something bigger.

“A hero,” the aged police officer muttered while gazing at the “For Sale” sign on Glenn’s front lawn. The neighborhood kids had never seen a grown man cry, let alone a cop. It was a startling moment that haunted them for the rest of their lives.

residuum \ri-ZIJ-oo-uhm\, noun:

1. the residue, remainder, or rest of something.

2. Also, residue. Chemistry. a quantity or body of matter remaining after evaporation, combustion, distillation, etc.

3. any residual product.

4. Law. the residue of an estate.

To say Jesse’s memory haunted the town would be an overstatement, rather he remained, after three decades since the killing spree, a vague residiuum, like graffiti faded beyond recognition. Few remembered much of his manifesto, something about state rights and the scourge of immigration.

Jesse believed his shooting spree would make him immortal, and it did, in a way. He was not ageless like a towering oak tree, as he imagined before taking his own life. Instead, he endured in the dark, hidden areas of the town easily forgotten, like a black mold colony. That was how it always was with men like Jesse. Hate destroyed if left unchecked, it crawled through the shadows, it sickened us as it infected our homes, but all it took to kill the infection was to open up the windows and allow in the sunlight.

bemused \bih-MYOOZD\, adjective:

1. bewildered or confused.

2. lost in thought; preoccupied.

The aging general wandered the well-tred field, a distant, bemused smile spread across his face, his medals shimmering in the sunlight, the ache in his knee easing as he stretched it with each step.

He thought of his lone granddaughter as he looked across the flat grasslands, not a single wildflower in sight. The ambitious little girl would have the entire field blooming with whites, yellows, and pinks by the end of the season if she simply had the time and the seeds.

“I want to fill the world with color!” she’d told the general as she led him through her small greenhouse. It was a present from her dad, en lieu of a dollhouse like any other normal little girl.

How long had it been? Four years, the general decided. She must be fourteen by now.

The general’s spell broke briefly as he heard his name called in the wind. He decided not to respond. Whatever it was they needed, it could wait.

The general glanced up at the sun and briefly considered removing his frock coat.

“One must always look the part,” his wife told him when she dressed him during his early days as a young officer.

He used an embroidered handkerchief to wipe his brow. It was from his bachelor son whom the family did not often discuss, but the general hoped his son knew that he was no less loved.

The voice called again, now closer and more urgent.

“Christ, can’t I have one moment!” the general growled as he spun toward a junior officer racing toward him.

“What are you doing!” the brash young man barked. “We have to get out of here!”

“Mind your training, lieutenant,” the general spat back. “I am not to be talked to like a common slave. Who is your superior?”

“He is dead, they are all dead and the enemy is on my heals!”

The young man grabbed the general by the sleeve and pulled, but the general yanked his arm free.

“If they are all dead, then running will do us no good,” the general replied, then turned back to the field.

“Sit with me, lieutenant,” the general said, pushing his sword to the side and easing to the ground, his medals jingling playfully.

“Are you insane?” the lieutenant asked.

“No, my boy,” the general replied. “Those monsters will find and slaughter us. Even if my feet were as nimble as yours, they would still catch us. We are dead men, so let us find a little peace before we are sent up to account for our sins.”

The young lieutenant looked back across the plains and saw the dust cloud of a hundred foul and angry beasts approaching.

The lieutenant turned from the nightmare. He removed the sword from his scabbard and sat near the general and imagined the smell of his mother’s stew wafting across the family farm, his twin sisters singing a lullaby to their baby dolls, his father cursing at the plow and its broken handle.

lam \lam\, verb:

1. to beat; thrash.

2. to beat; strike; thrash (usually followed by out or into).

Selvin climbed from the gulley, a battered mess, patches of his hair ripped clean from his scalp, purple bruises massed about his face and arms, lip busted, but no longer bleeding.

It was the Johnson boys this time. They jumped the young Guatemalan boy before he could make it home to the single wide on the edge of town. If you asked the Johnson boys, they couldn’t tell you why they beat Selvin so badly or why the eldest lammed into him like a linebacker blindsiding a receiver, sending the boy tumbling down the hill. They didn’t laugh or call Selvin names, they weren’t upset at something the boy had done. They mistreated the boy for the same reason every other person in the town mistreated Selvin — guilt.

Selvin’s grim fate had been foreseen one night by every person within twenty miles of his single wide. A vivid dream that showed how the young boy’s death would save theirs.

Rather than embracing the savior, the town hated him and the confusing and tragic role he played in their future.

Selvin simply absorbed the abuse and moved on with his short life. He limped home, collapsed on his small bed and waited for his father to return from the worksite.

The single father always stank of whiskey when he arrived, but he was a kindly drunk and loved the boy deeply. They played video games and talked about Selvin’s mother deep into the night.

The town had the opposite reaction to the father as they did to his son. They treated the father with pity and, when the father visited a bar on the way home, he never paid for a drink. The father just needed a little help to bolster himself, to deaden the dread in his heart when he thought of what his son would soon endure.

He wanted to forget and be as present with the boy as he possibly could while he still had the chance.

In the weeks to come, four more visions would visit the townspeople, adding context to the dark times ahead. There was nothing to prepare for, no actions they could take to prevent the events from unfolding. They could only brace themselves.

The principal asked Selvin’s father to keep the boy home from school because he was becoming a distraction. Selvin rarely talked and never acted out against his bullies, but his presence disturbed everyone. His home room teacher left class at least once a day to cry in the break room.

Selvin’s father refused to take the boy out of school and immediately quit his job. For the last ten days of Selvin’s life, his father never left his side. The large, stout man even squeezed himself into the tiny desks next to his son’s. Selvin always laughed at the sight, even as the dark day arrived.

spigot \SPIG-uht\, noun:

1. a small peg or plug for stopping the vent of a cask.

2. a peg or plug for stopping the passage of liquid in a faucet or cock.

3. a faucet or cock for controlling the flow of liquid from a pipe or the like.

4. the end of a pipe that enters the enlarged end of another pipe to form a joint.

We were listening to Earth, Wind, and Fire and my oldest son had just described itas “lounge funk”, which I thought that was terribly clever.

That is when we heard a scream from the soccer fields behind our house. We ran outside to find blood bubbling out of the house’s outside spigot. It would have leaked out, unnoticed, all day had the young girl not panicked.

My boys and I were confounded as we watched the puddle of blood spread slowly across our yard, under the trampoline and up to the base of the oak tree.

My youngest son snapped into action, calling a plumber from the phone book who arrived quickly enough while we used all the towels in the house to attempt to keep the flood from our back door step.

He was completely dumbfounded on several accounts.

Shutting off the water mane had no affect, no other pipes in the house contained blood, only the backyard spigot — and it seemed endless.

The City of Edmond joined the fray, providing sandbags for my house to shore up the growing pond. A hose was hooked up to funnel the blood into a water tanker.

Scientists, journalists, and looky-loos herded into the soccer fields so they could ogle the spectacle in my backyard until the crowd became disruptive to soccer games and were asked to leave.

Still, at night, I could hear them at my back fence, shuffling around and whispering like polite zombies.

The first water tanker was topped off with blood on the third day. The tests were released to the media and it turned out the blood was mine, or at least shared my exact DNA profile. The hose on the spigot was adjusted so a secondary spigot was added to allow a brief sample of the blood.

Doctors shot me up with some vaccine or something and immediately tested the blood at one hour intervals along with taking samples of my blood. It was discovered that my house was completely in sync with my biological processes.

“It is as if your house is, on some level, connected to your mind, body, and soul,” a doctor explained. “You know, like ‘Avatar.’”

I informed the doctor that I thought ‘Avatar’ was a pretty, but ultimately stupid and lame movie and the doctor was horrified.

I then asked if I should be worried about my house’s severe blood loss. He insisted no and that my blood was currently being used to replenish blood bank supplies worldwide, but he regretted that my blood type was not more useful. I told him that he sounded like my ex-wife and we laughed because divorce humor is just the best.

rarefied \RAIR-uh-fahyd\, adjective:

1. extremely high or elevated; lofty; exalted: the rarefied atmosphere of a scholarly symposium.

2. of, belonging to, or appealing to an exclusive group; select; esoteric: rarefied tastes.

It was about more than huffing paint, sneaking rides in Jeb’s pick up truck, and bribing adults to buy them beer. It was about the community of four kids against the world, each equipped with the specific and rarefied pallets able to withstand ten straight hours of Japanese horror interlaced with role playing games, Gwar, and bootlegged porn.

They talked of drug empires, video game corporations and military dictatorships in some banana republic as an escape from the brutal lives they lived everyday.

They would likely just grow old, get trapped in family units, drift to different parts of the same county and lose contact as every other kid was doomed to do. But during those long nights in the basement with a stack of over-worked VHS imports, towers of Milwaukee’s Best, and a fresh set of repainted dice, they spoke of their destinies with the same certainty as the next day’s sunrise.

This Week in Word of the Day 7/28/2013

quillet \KWIL-it\, noun:

a subtlety or quibble.

Murder really was the only sensible solution, the small group decided as they looked over Larry’s corpse – the official rules and regulations book tightly curled and stuffed down Larry’s windpipe.

“It’s how he would have wanted to go,” Reginald whispered, followed by a chorus of grunting approvals.

Larry’s deep love of the game of disc golf and exhaustive knowledge of the rule book currently lodged in his throat was behind every argument amongst the group for the past fifteen years, and almost every fight began with a quillet so obscure that, in the end, the opposing party simply yielded out of annoyance.

“I am really surprised that it took us this long,” Walter sighed.

“So, should we call someone?” Reginald asked. “Maybe anonymously?”

“Um, I don’t want to sound callous, but we do only have seven more holes left, and it’d be a shame to just … quit,” Ben offered, and not a single soul protested.

“It’s what he would have wanted,” Reginald decided, solemnly and without a hint of shame.

sidle \SAHYD-l\, verb:

1. to move sideways or obliquely.

2. to edge along furtively.

noun:

1. a sidling movement.

The beast stunk of sulphur and wet dog hair as it sat at the counter like a weary trucker and sipped at a cup of coffee.

Roughly six feet nine inches and all of three hundred and fifty pounds, every time the beast adjusted on the tiny swiveling bar stool, the steel squeaked and groaned.

The beast looked vaguely like how the sheriff had imagined demons as a child in Sunday school: horns, fangs, long broken talons, leathery face hidden inside the matted fur.

Yet the eyes were small, round and soft, a hint of something more.

The diner owner was trapped behind the counter, terrified, making pot after pot of coffee for the beast as the monster whittled away time, thoughtlessly scratching some unrecognizable language into the countertop.

A small army of deputies and volunteers gathered outside the diner with as much weaponry as they could muster. And in this county, that was a lot of weaponry.

“Jed’s set up with his fifty cal. and said he has a clear line of sight,” a deputy whispered into the sheriff’s ear.

“Christ, last thing we need is that moron turning Willie’s diner into a shooting range,” the sheriff said, then taking off her gun belt and handing it to the deputy. “Give me a second. If this thing rips my head off, make sure to let my dog outside in the morning or he will crap in the laundry basket.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the deputy smirked and glanced back to the herd of armed men.

“Sorry boys,” the deputy called. “We’re gonna try some diplomacy first.”

The diner door dinged as the sheriff sidled in slowly. The beast didn’t even move its eyes to acknowledge her presence.

“How you holding up, Willie?” the sheriff called.

“I could really use a bathroom break, sheriff,” Willie called back.

“That okay with you, sir?” the sheriff asked the beast. “I’ll take over for Willie? I actually worked here when I was in high school and can make you a mean plate of silver dollar pancakes.”

The beast waved away Willie, who sat the coffee pot back onto the warmer and scooted his way out behind the counter and zipped through the front door.

“Bathroom was the other direction,” the beast grumbled, his deep voice reverberating like it was passing through a bass drum.

“I imagine he aims to use the one at his house,” the sheriff answered, slowly approaching the counter. “You and I need a little time to talk anyway. You see, people are a little nervous with – out of towners.”

The beast glanced over at the sheriff passively, then huffed and sipped his coffee.

“I just wanted to chat with you a spell and ensure you aren’t here to stir up trouble.”

“Trouble?” the beast grumbled, then huffed again. “Yes, I will be stirring up a lot of trouble.”

The beast patted the stool next to him.

“Come, have some coffee with me,” the beast grunted. “We have a lot to talk about.”

grammatology \gram-uh-TOL-uh-jee\, noun:

the scientific study of systems of writing.

He was convinced that within the words would be the path back into her heart. He never truly understood why she left, why she stopped returning his phone calls, why she started locking her doors, why she called the cops.

He was sure there was a way to finally express his intense and earnest regret, his submission to the life she demanded of him, to the love that burned through time and space and would never diminish.

He came to grammatology in a confusing set of mental leaps in an effort to bridge the gap between him and her. It started with a sliver of a memory when she said she loved poems blending French with English. Perhaps she was just being pretentious since he didn’t remember her being much of a poetry reader, but it was a starting point which sent him into an obsessive crash course in French. He focused on the subtle differences in flow, cadence, description, and lyricism and how to craft the perfect ballad combining the strengths of both languages. Like a warrior carrying a blunt, bone crushing war hammer as well as an elegant and refined rapier, he worked to pair clumsy with grace, sparse with lush.

But that wasn’t enough. Spanish, Portuguese, Italian and the other romance languages soon followed. His manic note-taking and endless drafts soon blanketed his walls, ceilings and floors, pinned in place with no obvious logical reasoning. Cantonese, Latin, and Arabic found their places amidst the madness and he found his dreams filled with a cacophony of foreign tongues, fighting for his cluttered mind.

One bright and warm summer morning, as the sun peered through the cracks in his window covered in Farsi mannerisms and expressions of love, he awoke in a puddle of spilled Old Crow whiskey and a paper pressed to his face like a lingering kiss. He groaned as pain pulsed a pounding drumbeat in his skull. He pealed the paper off and, with cloudy eyes, read the twenty five lines that formed the pinnacle of his three years of effort. Perfect, save a misplaced comma or two. Seven languages represented in 120 words, perfectly balanced, rich and emotionally pure.

He delivered the poem in a plain white envelope, the paper folded three times by his trembling fingers. Her name was scrawled on the front, his name on the back. He waited for her new boyfriend to leave for work, then slipped the envelope under her door. He left without ever knowing if she found and read the poem. He packed clothes and a few books into his car and left the city, their city. Within days, he’d forgotten the poem in it’s entirety. It no longer mattered. She no longer mattered.

dispositive \dih-SPOZ-i-tiv\, adjective:

involving or affecting disposition or settlement: a dispositive clue in a case of embezzlement.

Few truly believed that the dispositive process of breaking up the empire following the death of the Hun would lead to anything but civil war. His children squabbled brutally while their father was still alive, and as he wasted away in his death bed, they awaited the death shroud like a pack of famished wolves.

Not a single offspring was satisfied with its section of the vast nation and the alliances formed before the Hun’s body was consumed on the grand funeral pyre towering over the Victory Wall.

But this was before the monks began descending the mountaintops, returning to a society that had nearly forgotten them. The worried inheritors watched as the holy men spread across the cities, silently moving into every neighborhood, village, and town square.

“Are we being invaded, brother?” one inheritor asked another as they avoided the cold eyes of a monk standing rigidly out in the snow. “If they possess half the power they did in the legends, we are powerless to stop them.”

“I don’t know, but we must brace and coordinate with the others.”

And so the peace held as the nation collectively held its breath, awaiting a moment that would never come.

cyclopean \sahy-kluh-PEE-uhn, sahy-KLOP-ee-uhn\, adjective:

1. (sometimes lowercase) gigantic; vast.

2. of or characteristic of the Cyclops.

3. (usually lowercase) Architecture, Building Trades. formed with or containing large, undressed stones fitted closely together without the use of mortar: a cyclopean wall.

As the man approached his 500th year, the cyclopean process of building the Great Gallows began. Governments rose and fell, gods were born and gods died, but the man arose every morning from his bedroom chambers and smiled at the ever-changing and youthful world.

No hair was left on his body, not a single centimeter of his skin was left unblemished or unwrinkled. His teeth fell out long ago, even his fingernails stopped growing, yet his bones never broke, his muscles never atrophied, and his spirit was as sturdy as the sidewalk he hobbled along every morning.

Young children were frightened of him, so he made sure to keep his distance on his long walks through downtown and the city park where the Great Gallows were being constructed. There were a handful of protestors every morning and the man made a point to chat kindly with them, even when they were rude.

He was not particularly wise or special, but he was pleasant and universally liked. It was as if the kindness that burned eternally within him was the fuel that kept his body alive and healthy, though most believed he had some secret concoction or magical spell. He didn’t, of course. He had no idea why he survived so many years, through vast hardships and heartbreaks, to watch his entire bloodline die out and his home village be wiped cleanly off the Earth by war and famine.

He simply lived while others died. He didn’t see it as a blessing or a curse, just an aspect of his life. He was too old to question life anymore. What was the point?

His birthday arrived to great fanfare and roaming bands of reporters and photographers stalking him like hungry alley cats following the butcher.

He conversed with presidents and holy men, recounted stories of the “old days” with whoever asked. He could never tell who was humoring him and who was genuinely interested in the thousands and thousands of sunsets he’d seen. He was a poor old man, but he was rich in history, so it was the only gift he could give humanity. That said, he kept his stories short so as not to bore anyone too much.

A great feast lasted 12 hours with the entire city filing through during the course of the day to shake hands with the unkillable man. Frazzled mothers asked for blessings of their newborn babies, old men and women begged for his secret.

“Be good and hope the world decides to keep you around,” he would answer, satisfying no one.

That never bothered him anymore, it was as close to the truth as he understood it.

As dusk glowed against the Great Gallows, the man sturdied his heart. Few things scared him anymore, but this walk was never easy. He still shook as they slid the noose around his neck, still sweat nervously as he waited for the Cardinal to put the old man’s life into Biblical context, and still clenched in terror as he fell and the rope cracked his frail neck.

A doctor watched him spasm for a few minutes, then motioned for the executioner to lower the body to the ground. The noose was loosened and pulled off the old man. The doctor listened to the old man’s chest for a few moments, opened his eyelids and shone a light in.

The doctor stood, swiped dirt off his nice slacks and addressed the crowd.

“Not today!” he called and the crowd burst out in joy.

And the old man opened his eyes and smiled up at the ever–changing and youthful world.

additament \uh-DIT-uh-muhnt\, noun:

something added; an addition.

Ed arrived with a box of vinyl in his arms, sweat glistening in his trimmed, grey beard from his early morning session at the skatepark. He was always like that, a man who never surrendered pieces of himself to time.

Each album in the box possessed a back story, this wasn’t just an additament to my growing record collection, rather I was being passed a portion of his musical backstory.

Around fifty albums, some I was already looking for, many I hadn’t thought of acquiring or didn’t even know existed.

He then rattled off his plan to build a half pipe and bowl in his living room now that his daughter was moving out. He is going to paint it to look like a swimming pool and add tile and coping to the top so it “sounds right.”

“Some lady at work asked me if this was a mid-life crisis and I said, I’ don’t know, maybe, but it’s a lot cheaper than a Corvette.’”

But it wasn’t a mid-life crisis, Ed was always like this – obsessively ageless. He didn’t fight time, he reveled in it. He existed in all his years like some crazy time traveler. No period of his life truly ended, he was a house with no doors.

dreck \drek\, noun:

1. worthless trash; junk.

2. excrement; dung.

When he was 15, he first heard Nirvana and it was like finding home. He’d meandered through music throughout his short life, never really connecting, rather passively enjoying. So much in his life was like that, plodding steadily through the dreck, eyes on a distant horizon that never seemed to come. Always out of place, always dissatisfied. Contentment was for another life. Another time. Another place he wasn’t sure really existed.

But every once in a while, he found home. Playing that tape in his car, and later A Tribe Called Quest, Smashing Pumpkins, and other soon-to-be-exhausted albums, he began to find his place within the musical universe. He began to find a home.

It was like that when he found her. He could finally step off that dreary, miserable road and duck into the warmest shelter he’d ever known.

This Week in Word of the Day – 07/21/13

fribble \FRIB-uhl\, verb:

1. to act in a foolish or frivolous manner; trifle.

2. to waste foolishly (often followed by away): He fribbled away one opportunity after another.

noun:

1. a foolish or frivolous person; trifler.

2. anything trifling or frivolous.

Through the thick, translucent slab that passed as a window in the bunker, the young man gazed at the massive orange sun. The ancestral videos showed a soft, warming yellow orb that nourished and protected. They worshiped it, welcoming it every morning and celebrating the arrival of summer when it lingered in the sky the longest.

It was difficult to understand since the man grew up with this ugly, angry, monstrous star that would eventually be his executioner.

The young man’s girlfriend was pregnant. The heat shields were failing and the crops grown in the caverns were dying after the underground stream dried up.

They had weeks left and the community of 243 were hopelessly fribbling away the final days.

He’d considered walking out to face the sun and die quickly rather than starving out, but she came to him in the night, waking him with tears in her eyes.

“There is a way!” she exclaimed with a manic smile. “There is a way off the planet!”

There wasn’t, the young man knew. The last of the ships blasted up into the safety of space decades ago, taking the rich and powerful to find a new world deep within the stars.

Regardless, he agreed to leave with her in the morning.

She still slept in his bed as the sun rose, perhaps the last good sleep she will ever have.

Taking a pregnant woman spelunking in the depths of the Earth was surely a death sentence, but a better way to die than withering near the surface.

Plus, she had a plan. A foolish plan, perhaps, but it had been so long since anyone had dared to hope for more than prolonging the inevitable. It was worth dying for.

scabrous \SKAB-ruhs\, adjective:

1. full of difficulties.

2. having a rough surface because of minute points or projections.

3. indecent or scandalous; risqué; obscene: scabrous books.

“They call them tooth fairies,” Jack’s guide told him as the lumbering, fat-bellied beast pressed it’s long trunk against Jack and inhaled, nearly pulling the buttons off Jack’s shirt.

“Why is that?” Jack asked timidly as the giant animal, standing nearly nine feet tall while still on all fours, continued sniffing at every crevice of Jack’s person.

“Feel its hide,” the guide said, face widening in a bright, amused smile as he waved away flies.

“It’s not going to bite off my hand, will it?”

“This one is named Lady, and she is gentle,” the guide answered, still smiling in the way all boys smile when they are playing a trick. “She is the pack’s matriarch and she fears no man. Certainly not an Earthling.”

Jack gently pressed his palm behind Lady’s tall, sharply pointed ears to feel her mud red and deceptively scabrous hide, like a low grit sandpaper.

“Those are teeth, my friend,” the guide said. “Millions of them, constantly growing on its hide. Whatever it wants to eat, it rubs against and softens up so it doesn’t have to chew much.”

Jack pulled away his hand and looked up into the black eyes of the Tooth Fairy.

“What do they eat?” Jack asked.

“Trees, shrubs, and war profiteers,” the guide answered, the smile vanishing. “But you are none of these things, so you have nothing to worry about.”

“Right,” Jack answered weakly. “How can Lady tell someone is a war profiteer?”

“I tell her.”

gobbet \GOB-it\, noun:

1. a lump or mass.

2. a fragment or piece, especially of raw flesh.

“It’s not easy feeling wasted by this world,” the lanky cowboy grumbled as he circled the pool table to spit a gobbet of tobacco juice into a styrofoam cup sitting dangerously close to his beer.

The grizzled, sun-dried man looked the young woman dead in the eyes, his grey beard showing years of tobacco stains dripping down his chin. He smirked as he chalked his cue. She looked away to focus on her own table.

“Genius doesn’t sit well with most people, darling,” he continued, undeterred. “You’re marked for scorn because they are afraid of things they don’t understand. You are better than they are, and they know it. Half of them will want to capitalize on your genius, the other half will want to destroy it. Chances are they will both get their’s in time, they usually do. You might be the exception.”

The cowboy leaned over his table like a tarantula preparing for a kill.

“Maybe,” he tacked on.

He steadied, struck the cue ball and banked the nine twice before sinking it in the corner pocket.

The young woman quickly looked away before the cowboy leaned up from the table.

“There are worlds for people like you,” the cowboy muttered, returning to his spit cup. It was as unseemly to watch as it would be to follow the man to a urinal. And the way he spit, the sound of it.

The young woman cringed and considered tabbing out, but refused to surrender to the creep. She forced herself to focus on the cue ball, to close out his presence. Her mind shot a line through the white mass, across the green expanse, and into the five ball, a quarter off center. The line emerged on the opposite side of the five and plunged into the black void of the side pocket.

The cowboy glanced over her table, waiting. The balls struck, the five glancing the right pad of the side pocket and settling a few centimeters from dropping.

“Rats,” she whispered, refusing to look at the cowboy,

“You will find your place,” the cowboy said. “Keep the fire burning and you will reach home. It’s lonely now, but it’s always lonely when you are young.”

poetaster \POH-it-as-ter\, noun:

an inferior poet; a writer of indifferent verse.

It seemed everyone wanted to be a dragonslayer in those days. What else were you going to do? Professional sports and movies were a thing of the past. The global economy was in the crapper, so unless you were a doctor, a priest, or in construction, your chances of securing one of those fire retardant mansions on thehill were zilch unless you were able to down a dragon or two.

It all changed in my city, though, and all because of Wendy. She was this brainy pacifist, which was real funny because her pops was one of those obnoxious poetasters that followed dragonslayers around, writing awful ballads about their everyday exploits that they would then sell to fans and/or newspapers at ten cents a word.

Wendy was horrified by the dragon-slaying industry and a really intolerable know-it-all mixed with a stubborn contrarianist, so she could be a handful. Nice girl though. Real pretty in a stubborn-as-a-mule kind of way.

She pulled me out of class one day – she was a teacher’s pet who never needed a hall pass – and said “Friend, it’s due time we saved this stupid world.”

Yeah, I know, that’s just how she talks.

I was game since saving the world couldn’t be any worse than eighth grade English, so we set out into the Wastelands.

You see, she had this theory about dragons, this idea that, if she was right, it could potentially change everything.

And she was right.

And it did.

rendezvous \RAHN-duh-voo, -dey-; Fr. rahn-de-VOO\, verb:

1. to assemble at an agreed time and place.

noun:

1. an agreement between two or more persons to meet at a certain time and place.

2. the meeting itself.

3. a place designated for a meeting or assembling, especially of troops or ships.

4. a meeting of two or more spacecraft in outer space.

5. a favorite or popular gathering place.

You make it sound as if we are common criminals! – Mother

Common? No. I would say there is nothing “common” about us. – Father

Have you considered the possibility that you are over-reacting? – Mother

If that boy finds out who we are, we will have to kill him. So, no, I do not believe I am over-reacting. – Father

It is just a summer romance. A harmless moonlight rendezvous, perhaps a stolen kiss, but nothing more. Let her have a little fun for once in her life! Our daughter understands her place in this world. She will not jeopardize that boy’s life for a silly fling. – Mother

Did you not jeopardize mine? – Father

… You are alive. – Mother

True, I am alive, but what kind of life is this? – Father

The same as any. We raise children, we pay bills, we complain about taxes. A life is a life is a life. – Mother

Yes, but my life will last quite a bit longer, adrift on this ocean of blood. – Father

bushwa \BOOSH-wah, -waw\, noun:

rubbishy nonsense; baloney; bull: You’ll hear a lot of boring bushwa about his mechanical skill.

Four men set out from Lisbon in four directions to carry the news of the impending arrival of the Almighty. With these messengers went the full might of the Catholic treasury.

Though news of the Rapture was rolled out in the normal news sources in a multi-pronged media blitz, it fell on these four men to approach the church leaders, cultural luminaries, and intellectual heavy-hitters and convince them that, after 2,000 years, the blessed moment had finally arrived.

A half-clever crime novelist and part-time theologian coined the nickname “Bushwa Brigade” after meeting with the northwardly messenger. In an op-ed in a London tabloid, he summarized his thoughts simply with: “Portugal? Really?”

Israelis would not even receive the Easterly messenger, deeply offended that the rapture would begin anywhere outside their borders. The Egyptians and Indians both welcomed the southerly messenger with the detached and jaded curiosity only possible from cultures that have hosted menageries of gods and god-kings so vast, even the divine couldn’t tell themselves apart.

The westerly messenger did quite well in America, but that land was always game for a good End of the World tale. The fever burned out quickly, as it did with all celebrities and the poor messenger found little interest after the third news cycle.

It became clear that the job of spreading the Almighty’s Good News was not going as well as could be expected and even the churches were annoyed since they had no idea how to budget for a year involving the departure of at least half of their flock to heaven, Tahiti, or wherever it was the Christ planned on taking them.

By the time He finally arrived on a white chariot drawn by a hundred white horses with fire burning in their eyes, all sweeping across the sky like a low hanging comet, He was less “thief in the night” and more “rock star in his third act”. The spectacle had been a joint decision by the Vatican and the archangels to really drive home how big a deal this was.

The world gazed up in mild appreciation of a good arial display, but quickly returned to their regularly scheduled programming.

clangor \KLANG-er, KLANG-ger\, noun:

1. a loud, resonant sound; clang.

2. clamorous noise.

verb:

1. to make a clangor; clang.

Heads turned to the distant clangor from the bell tower. Elijah straightened his back, his aching spine popping and assembling back into alignment. He stabbed the pitchfork back into the hay bale and motioned to his boys.

They were trying to be brave as they climbed onto the tractor to drive it back to the barn. Don’t show the bastards any fear, no matter what. That’s how he taught them.

Elijah’s wife and daughter were already uncovering the hidden cellar entrance as Elijah and his boys returned to the farmhouse. Can’t let them find the women. Ever.

Elijah kissed his wife before sealing the door and dragging a water barrel over it.

The youngest boy still held a reaping blade. He aimed to fight. Just eight years old. He didn’t know any better. The oldest boy snatched the blade away and slapped the boy on the back of the head, just to clarify.

Elijah and his boys walked to the road, heavy sacks of grain in their arms and waited. A heavy, metallic racket emerged from down the road. The growling gas motors. The bawdy laughs. A woman screaming.

“Anderson’s wife,” the oldest boy whispered.

“Is mama and sis gonna be okay?” the youngest asked.

“What did I tell you, boy?” Elijah grunted. “You ain’t got a mama no more.”

“Sorry, daddy,” the boy whispered. “I wanna kill those bastards.”

“I know,” Elijah said, looking to the oldest and letting a sly smile escape.

The oldest winked back, then tightened his grip around the sack of grain that wasn’t grain at all. What was actually inside, if Elijah figured right, was their salvation.

Pets – The Illustrated Adaptation!

Mother Nature Thins the Herd in new Comedy/Horror comic series, Pets

 

Monsterverse

1235 Cavender Dr

Hurst, TX 76053

 

For More Information:

Halo Seraphim

(817) 285-8286

info@monsterverse.com

monsterverse.com

 

Sam will survive the Apocalypse. Sam will not want to survive the Apocalypse, but because he was chosen by an ugly farm dog, named Tobey, Sam will join the other one percent of the human population spared by Mother Nature in the comedy/horror illustrated series entitled Pets.

Pets was adapted from a novel by Charles Martin & Will Weinke, known for the critically acclaimed works the dominant hand, Edward and the Island, and The Wonderboy Serials. Art was produced by Shonuff Studios, comprised of Halo seraphim and Terry Parr.

“With Pets, the goals were simple,” Martin said. “To write a pure comedy with substance and great pacing, but also to include as many exotic animal attacks as we could realistically muster. I wanted a story that reveled in what it was, but also rewarded with enough of a humanistic backbone to hook the reader for the long haul.”

Pets will release in the spring of 2014 with a six issue first season and a trade paperback slated later in the fall. It will be the first full comic series for Martin & Weinke, who have edited and co-written comics as part of the subculture publishing collective, Literati Press.

Monsterverse is dedicated to bringing you the very best in Horror Comics! For a review copy or to schedule an interview, please contact Halo at info@monsterverse.com.

This Week in Word of the Day – 7/14/2003

edacity \ih-DAS-i-tee\, noun:

the state of being edacious; voraciousness; appetite.

They collided into one another with ravenous edacity, two desperate bodies falling into each other’s lonely orbits. Within the vast, dark void, the crash erupted with light, heat, chaos.

Both bodies finally pealed off one another, returning to their orbits, hobbled, altered. They awaited the moment that their paths would intersect again and, God-willing, they would fuse, ignite, and burn as an eternal sun.

layette \ley-ET\, noun:

an outfit of clothing, bedding, etc., for a newborn baby.

He knew they couldn’t keep the baby. The two of them, so selfish, so scared. Adoption was the right thing. The baby deserved happiness.

Hoping to dissuade them, his in-laws arrived with a crib, something called a “diaper genie”, a matching layette – pale blue because the doctor let slip the baby was a boy. The doctor knew they were giving the baby up too. She was devastated and spent the rest of the day holding her round belly and crying.

He should have punched the doctor in his fat face, had wanted to, but instead helped his wife to the car and stewed while she wept.

Fortunately, he didn’t have a lot of time to think about these things, with as much as he worked. Three jobs and still poor. She kept working as long as she could at the fast food place, slaving over the grill. She liked being the only female in the kitchen, joking about sex and trading racist jokes with the Mexicans. They knew not to ask about the baby, but didn’t understand why. They just knew the subject hurt, a wide open and infected wound.

They were, perhaps, days away now. The adopting couple were flying in from New York on Wednesday. Nice people, they made a scrap book that she spent hours flipping through over and over again, reassuring herself that these strangers would be better parents.

She also started cutting for the first time in her life. Mostly along the wrist, little white and pink scrapes with a butter knife so it wouldn’t do real damage. He didn’t know what to do about it, but it was just one more reason to do what they were doing.

He thought about his old box of toys kicking around from childhood, how he wanted a reason to play with them again and it would so much fun to have a little boy. They would make jet sounds and organize missions to destroy enemy bases. He would pick up his boy, legs dangling over his forearms, small hands gripping his big thumbs and they would play Tie Fighter, swooping the boy around the living room.

But it wasn’t enough. In the end, with their cramped apartment, suffocating poverty, wrecked and incompatible lives, it just wasn’t enough.

boniface \BON-uh-feys, -fis\, noun:

1. any landlord or innkeeper.

2. Saint (Wynfrith), a.d. 680?–755?, English monk who became a missionary in Germany.

3. a jovial innkeeper in George Farquhar’s The Beaux’ Stratagem.

4. a male given name: from a Latin word meaning “doer of good.”

The well-intentioned boniface lacked the deeply engrained cynicism that seemed inherent and necessary for his job. In his mind, every man that shuffled through the front door with a woman laced around his arm was equipped with a respectable enough context to allow the innkeeper to not think twice about handing over a key. College students could be trusted not to bring alcohol or drugs to their rooms, vagrants could be trusted not to steal. Every guest was treated with equal dignity, regardless of how much it cost the poor man in damages, theft, or professional carpet cleaning.

The staff worried for their kind-hearted boss, convinced the harsh world would break him. Yet, as ill-fitted as he was to the hotel industry, it became clear he was destined for it once the Great Storm swept across the East Coast, forcing the off-season coastal town of 386 out of their homes and fleeing to the highest point in the area. The boniface welcomed them all with open arms – and a discounted room fee.

accrete \uh-KREET\, verb:

1. to grow together; adhere (usually followed by to).

2. to add, as by growth.

adjective:

1. Botany. grown together.

Laurence was a curious child with perfect measures of cynicism and humanism, allowing him to branch away from the conservative, Protestant Christian teachings his family had faithfully followed for seven generations.

He loved church, mind you. He loved any gathering where people discussed ideas and, even at ten years old, he thrust himself into the midst of adult conversations, understanding when it was time for him to silently listen and when it was time for him to join in. He also understood that his fading belief should be kept quiet so as not to upset his mother.

He never turned his back on Jesus Christ entirely, keeping the philosophical pillars in place, even as the mysticism was tossed away. Laurence simply couldn’t buy into the idea that entire cultures were excluded from what he imagined to be heaven. It just seemed cruel and unnecessary.

In time, Laurence’s developing ideology accreted ideas from a number of religions, philosophies and even thematic elements from popular culture, specifically Star Trek, Abbey Road by The Beatles, Dune, Love, Actually, Guernica by Pablo Picasso, The Great Dictator, and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

ploce \PLOH-see\, noun:

the repetition of a word or phrase to gain special emphasis or to indicate an extension of meaning, as in Ex. 3:14: “I am that I am.”

It began simply enough, a clever, pretty, little poem about his lover’s ankles, likening them to the branches of willow trees or some such nonsense. It was no secret that the young professor was terribly obsessive, but then the simple ploce “as the finches chirp, as the finches chirp” turned into a spiraling tick that the professor couldn’t escape. Five days after he sat down to write the ballad, he was found still scratching the phrase into every surface of his apartment with a butter knife. He used up thirty-four ink pens and two hundred and forty-eight pieces of copy paper, twelve rolls of two-ply toilet paper, four cereal boxes and utilized fabric paint to write it on three of his suit jackets.

His lover arrived as the other residents at the university apartment gathered outside, rubbernecking, but also concerned for the nice, young man. So bright and so capable. A shame, really.

The professor emerged, head ducked as he leaned into his lover, lips still silently forming the phrase.

“Liberal arts people,” a science professor huffed with a roll of the eyes.

The lover eased the professor into the back of the ambulance as police officers stood nearby.

“I am going to follow behind in my car,” his lover whispered to the professor laying on the gurney. “Are you going to be okay?”

The professor only mouthed the phrase as he gazed upward.

The lover hesitated, but finally moved toward the rear doors. The professor shot up off the gurney and clasped his lover’s hand.

“Our love is too big to fit in my mind!” the professor gasped.

A smile formed on the professor’s face. His finger’s released his lover’s hand and the professor eased back on the gurney with a relieved smile.

The doors to the ambulance shut and the lover turned to face the curious crowd. The lover smirked and shrugged.

“Liberal arts people.”

Sisyphean \sis-uh-FEE-uhn\, adjective:

1. endless and unavailing, as labor or a task.

2. of or pertaining to Sisyphus.

He struggled against the depression, trudging ever forward through its spoiled waters, hoping to finally find the shore. This dim, Sisyphean existence soured him to his friends, his family, his children. They all stank of her.

During these long, foul days, he grew to appreciate the taste of scotch. It’s warmth and personality, each one so distinct that straying inspired the sweet guilt of adultery. He know understood why old men were so drawn to the spirit. He could form a relationship with a scotch, knowing it would always be home, inviting him into its arms, always ready to massage away his burdensome life, yet it would never completely yield, never lie, never pretend to be something it was not.

He decided that he would never love a woman that failed to inspire the same level of devotion as his chosen scotch.

rifacimento \ri-fah-chi-MEN-toh; It. ree-fah-chee-MEN-taw\, noun:

a recast or adaptation, as of a literary or musical work.

“A rifacimento of Modern Times as a Martian space odyssey makes more sense than people assume,” Ben explained with an urgency that unnerved his wife.

“Okay,” she said with a brave smile.

“First, there’s no sound in space, so it makes total sense that you would do a silent film in space.”

“But there is sound inside spaceships because there is air,” his wife answered patiently.

“Well, I mean, yeah, I guess, but the second reason is there has to be this big industry behind any mission that size, right?” Ben continued.

“Okay.”

“So, it’s the same metaphor, the same exact thing Charlie Chaplin was talking about however many years ago, but now it’s in the future. With rockets. And Martians.”

“But there are no Martians. We sent rovers there and all they found were rocks.”

“Well, yeah, I mean, in reality, but this will be a movie and there will be Martians in this movie.”

“Were there Martians in the original Modern Times?” his wife asked, though she knew very well there weren’t.

“We are getting off track,” Ben said, lifting the coffee cup to his lips, barely able to stifle his shaking hands enough to take a drink.

He’d been up for 72 hours, by his wife’s estimation.

“Third,” Ben finally continued after setting the cup down. “Imagine the physical comedy! Charlie Chaplin in space! Can you imagine?”

“But Charlie Chaplin has been dead for thirty-six years.”

“Yes, well, I will grant you that, but there are ways around it.”

“Around death?” his wife asked, desperately trying not to panic.

“Yes!”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to know how?” Ben asked, leaning over the table like he was about to whisper a secret.

“Okay.”

“Computers!”

“Oh, thank god,” his wife gasped.

“What did you think I was going to say?” Ben asked, taking another timid sip of coffee.

“I don’t know, digging up his body, maybe?”

“Huh, I don’t think that would do any good. Computers are a much better idea.”

“Okay.”

“So that is why I quit my job, cashed in the 401K, and sold our house – to make a movie about Charlie Chaplin in space.”

“Okay.”

This Week in Word of the Day/07-07-2013

muster \MUHS-ter\, verb:

1. to gather, summon, rouse (often followed by up): He mustered all his courage.

2. to assemble (troops, a ship’s crew, etc.), as for battle, display, inspection, orders, or discharge.

3. to assemble for inspection, service, etc., as troops or forces.

4. to come together; collect; assemble; gather.

The first wave of “recruiting” for the Border Wars rounded up every able-bodied man between the ages of 15 to 45. With this last sweep, General Asada took everyone else – the boys, the old codgers, even the cripples. If they could pass for male, they were tossed into the back of transport trucks and whisked away to the front.

A lone officer stayed behind. A young, baby-faced Community Liaison with a groomed mustache and hungry, blue eyes. He was there to console the grieving mothers, daughters, and wives, but no one was fooled.

When the first bandit tested the town’s security by raiding a barn on the outskirts, the town matriarch, named Akila, mustered every household for a planning meeting. The officer stood just outside the church doors, smoking nervously. He would be of no use, he was a royal and was stationed within the town to keep him far from harm. He would be as useful in a firefight as a newborn.

As Akila stood before the crowd, a map pinned up to the announcement board behind her, she looked into the faces of the women, young and old, some with babies clutched to their chests. She didn’t see a fearful face amongst them. She saw only fury.

The men might be the ones with the tanks and grenades and the pretty medals to document their courage. But they were playing at the whims of kings.

Over the next two years, that small little town would be the sight of the real war where fate would make heroes of all of them. No history book would ever know their names, but the children would live and the crops would grow and the houses would stand until what was left of their husbands and sons were finally returned.

sprechgesang \SHPREKH-guh-zahng\, noun:

a vocal style intermediate between speech and singing but without exact pitch intonation.

Just as it was for the past forty-three days, the frail old woman in a frayed sundress and torn head scarf stood at the entrance of the city park and sang, or rather sprechgesang, Tobey Keith songs. Her graying hair blew wildly along the edges of her scarf, her watery blue eyes ticked to and fro along with her irregular vocal cadence, and her wrinkled hands wrung one another manically when not engaged in grand, exaggerated gestures to punctuate, sometimes even act out, the lyrics.

Some believed the woman was homeless, but I knew there was a family caring for her, somewhere. I once stayed throughout her performance, sitting on a bench and pretending to read. As she climaxed with a chaotic rendition of “Beer for My Horses” she wilted to her knees and wept loudly. As strangers approached to console her, she pushed herself up to her feet, straightened her dress, and walked toward the street. A parked Lexus with blackened windows revved to life and pulled up to the corner. The old woman slipped inside the backseat and the Lexus raced away with the fevered purpose of a getaway car.

I tried to arrive early the next morning to get a closer look at the driver, but the old woman was already at the park entrance, sipping on coffee, doing bizarre bird calls as a vocal exercise and politely shaking away an offered $5 bill from a passerby.

lyceum \lahy-SEE-uhm\, noun:

1. an institution for popular education providing discussions, lectures, concerts, etc.

2. a building for such activities.

3. (initial capital letter) the gymnasium where Aristotle taught, in ancient Athens.

4. a lycée.

Lacey had grand ambitions for her modern-day lyceum located in the treehouse in her backyard. She envisioned lengthy and ground-breaking discussions on the meaning of art, the usefulness of the god concept, the viability of a world without war, and how to finally level the power imbalance between the sexes.

Sadly, after two weeks she disbanded the group after it became abundantly clear that everyone was just coming for the muffins.

dandy \DAN-dee\, noun:

1. Informal. something or someone of exceptional or first-rate quality: Your reply was a dandy.

2. a man who is excessively concerned about his clothes and appearance; a fop.

adjective:

1. characteristic of a dandy; foppish.

2. Informal. fine; excellent; first-rate: a dandy vacation spot.

My father-in-law, or rather my ex-father-in-law, is a cowboy shooter. That’s a club where everyone dresses like cowboys and fires period weaponry at this elaborate shooting range built to look like an Old West town.

It’s exactly as silly and charming as it sounds.

For about a year and a half, I went shooting with him on Sundays when I wasn’t traveling and, though I was out of place, I enjoyed myself immensely. I just made a point to never discuss politics and we all got along famously.

I was a terrible shot, but its like poker, there is always room at the table for a reliable loser.

My father-in-law was trying to ease me into the group, buying me a holster first, then gifting me a shotgun. He asked what kind of cowboy I would be if I ever started dressing up. I told him one with a bowler cap and fancy duds, like a banker or an intellectual who wasn’t afraid of a good scrape.

“A dandy?” he asked with thinly veiled disgust.

He bought me a black cowboy hat for my birthday, which was fine. I did look pretty good in it.

I once shot a hole in the roof of the saloon with a rifle, but they were nice about it and just ribbed me for the rest of the day, which was a fair trade for causing at least a hundred dollars in damage.

They also joked about swapping wives a lot, but I assumed it was in that same manner that everyone in boot camp joked about being gay. A few people were closeted homosexuals, and those were the ones that never joked about it, but the rest were just trying to see how much they could unnerve the rest of the platoon.

In fact, I sometimes wonder if that was really behind the fierce resistance to allow gays in the military. A significant portion of military humor would be lost. Perhaps they have since upgraded to cross-dressing since I can’t imagine dresses and high heels ever being regulation.

At any rate, I never went to the fancy cowboy shooting gala at the end of the year, just to be safe.

blighter \BLAHY-ter\, noun British Slang.:

1. a chap; bloke.

noun:

1. a contemptible, worthless person, especially a man; scoundrel or rascal.

That miserable blighter stood over the poor slender girl like a volcano glaring down on a defenseless village. The way that man bullied her, it was a shame on all of us that we didn’t end it sooner.

So, yes, I was in the square when the brute got pricked in the heart and bled out like a stuffed pig. I was just a few feet away from him and heard the way his flesh slit open. He didn’t yelp, just sucked in sharp and quick, like someone surprised him from out of a dark corner.

But, no, I didn’t see who done it. Nor did any of the other forty-some-odd souls standing nearby I’m guessing, since you come around to ask me a third time.

We didn’t see any murderer, we only saw justice, and don’t you bother telling me any different.

integrant \IN-ti-gruhnt\, adjective:

1. making up or being a part of a whole; constituent.

noun:

1. an integrant part.

2. a solid, rigid sheet of building material composed of several layers of the same or of different materials.

“My Lord, you said you wanted the walls built from the bones of men,” – Chief Contractor of the Wasteland Empire of Earth 53 in the Betelgeuse quadrant.

“Yes! That is exactly what I said, so what the hell is this?” – Lord Bloodtooth, ruler of the Wasteland Empire.

“This is a wall constructed of human bones, my Lord,” – Chief Contractor.

“I don’t see a single bone!” – Lord Bloodtooth.

“Ah, that is the point! I discovered a way to use bone, sinew and muscle fiber to construct sheeting that is four times more durable than wood! True, bone is just an integrant of the material, but it is still there and no one has to actually see the bones. For all they know, this could be drywall!” – Chief Contractor.

“But I want them to see the bones! That is the entire point! I want them to quiver before our might, to mourn their dead every time they step to our gates, to remember that submission is the only option when treading into the Wastelands!” – Lord Bloodtooth.

“Yes, I had considered that, but then I spoke to your mother and she agreed that a wall of bones might be – a bit much,” – Chief Contractor.

“My mother is not the ruler of this empire!” – Lord Bloodtooth.

“Oh, then should I let her know the wall of bones is back on?” – Chief Contractor.

“No,” – Lord Bloodtooth.

“Because I don’t mind talking with her about it,” – Chief Contractor.

“No, don’t! It’s okay. This wall is fine. I just – I just wanted a wall of bones,” – Lord Bloodtooth.

“Well, I have some bones left, I could maybe make a mailbox made of bones. Put it out by the road where your mother can’t see it. Would you like that?” – Chief Contractor.

“Yes,” – Lord Bloodtooth.

yawp \yawp, yahp\, verb:

1. to utter a loud, harsh cry; to yelp, squawk, or bawl.

2. Slang. to talk noisily and foolishly or complainingly.

noun:

1. a harsh cry.

2. Slang. a. raucous or querulous speech. b. a noisy, foolish utterance.

As the family was ushered through the gate by heavily armed sentries, the dog paced nervously along the fenceline, yawping and whining. The white and tan mutt escorted the family through thirty miles of war-scorched France, chasing away bandits, sounding the alarm when roaming death squads were moving in, and keeping the small group moving steadily to a new home.

The dog turned its eyes from the two young children up to the massive and gleaming white rocket, fueling up as hundreds of survivors were being led inside. The Ark. Or at least an Ark. There were two hundred and thirty-four of them spread out across the world to shoot the last of humanity into the stars to find a new home. Room was limited, pets were not allowed. Only animals carefully selected as to be the most beneficial to the long pilgrimage ahead.

The mutt glanced back down to his family, the wife and children crying as they met his eyes. The father pulling them along bravely as they disappeared into the Ark.

The mutt didn’t understand why they were leaving him behind, but he knew that all of heaven and hell could not keep the mutt from finding a way back into their fold.

And he would be right. Against unfathomable odds, they would be reunited again.

This Week in Word of the Day – 6/30/2013

 

asyndeton \uh-SIN-di-ton\, noun:

1. Rhetoric. the omission of conjunctions, as in “He has provided the poor with jobs, with opportunity, with self-respect.”

2. Library Science. the omission of cross references, especially from a catalog.

In year 23 of the Great Bug War, General Pershing’s verve for combat against the giant race of cockroaches was clearly waning. Where he once delivered sweeping and beautifully composed speeches to raise the spirits of his weary troops, his use of asyndetons eventually devolved into something more akin to bullet points.

On that final day, before the commander of the Western Front finally decided to retire the diminished hero, General Pershing’s speech to over 4000 fighting men and women was simply:

“Bugs.

Kill.

Double tap.

Courage.

Wash your hands.”

 

dilly \DIL-ee\, noun:

Informal. something or someone regarded as remarkable, unusual, etc.: a dilly of a movie.

“That boy had himself a dilly of a game, I tell you what. Ruined everything. I put nine large on us to cover the spread, but our kids couldn’t lay a mitt on that bastard, just dancing around like a headless chicken. Swear to Jesus I saw him run right through a pile of two D-backs, two linebackers, a corner, and Larry – that tubby sonova bitch that ain’t missed a tackle since he squirted out of his mama. It was like our boys were playing London Bridges or some bullshit.”

“You got the money?”

“Hell no! Do I look like I got the money? I was sure we were gonna take that game, I was sure of it. Why didn’t someone tell me they had a monkey ringer in the backfield.”

“You know I don’t like it when you talk like that.”

“Like what? ‘Monkey’? I didn’t mean it like that, brother. You know I ain’t got nothing against you people. I just meant, shit, I don’t know. I’m just upset. They gonna come empty out my chest cavity with a double barrel, just like they did to my daddy.”

“Pack your shit and get out of the county, then. My sister lives in Mississippi, she could let you hole up with her.”

“Nah, I’ve had a good enough run. This was my last play. I’m busted, so I’m pushing away from the table for good, you feel me?”

“You sure as hell know I don’t like to hear you talk like that. I ain’t gonna stand for you rolling over like a Junebug. Let me make some calls, we’ll get it sorted out.”

“Man, I didn’t come over here for your help, I just came to say goodbye. I don’t want you…”

“Shut your damn mouth, sit your ass on my recliner and have yourself a beer. I’m tired of your cracker ass moping around every since Linda left. We gettin’ you up on your feet and back in the fight today, you hear me?”

“You know I don’t like it when you call me ‘cracker’.”

“Yeah, then why you smiling?”

“Shit, its just gas, brother.”

 

snood \snood\, noun:

1. a netlike hat or part of a hat or fabric that holds or covers the back of a woman’s hair.

2. a headband for the hair.

3. the distinctive headband formerly worn by young unmarried women in Scotland and northern England.

4. the pendulous skin over the beak of a turkey.

 

The Angry Woman settled the lace snood over her singed hair, using a shattered mirror to neatly tuck a few rogue strands back into place.

She straightened her dress and checked her makeup. She must look her best for the mob screaming outside the church doors, held at bay by her sporadic rifle fire out the stained glass windows. She estimated that she’d thinned their numbers by three with bullets, but by at least forty through fear.

That wasn’t the extent of The Angry Woman’s rampage that night. Her death count was nearing 60, spread across all corners of the metropolis. This accursed city deserved her fury, needed her fury. She was the wildfire that swept away the overgrowth where the rodents hid and waited to feed off of the weak and infirm.

Her mistake was targeting the pastor. She saw that now. He was as deserving as any of the other scoundrels, but the city turned on her because they just didn’t understand. She couldn’t make them understand.

Smoke was tumbling out from the pastor’s office and filling the sanctuary. The Angry Woman lifted her silk handkerchief to her mouth and pinched her nostrils to keep out the smell of their roasting flesh.

Towering above the sanctuary, the stained glass Jesus with his flock of disciples gazed down on her. She avoided His judging eyes, just as short sighted as the others. Forgiveness was for the weak.

Jesus’s face shattered as a canister plunged into the sanctuary. Once it clattered down onto a pew, it burst into white smoke. Tear gas. Her time was running out.

Yet, she was not done. There was one last act left for her. The Angry Woman had a final, grand surprise for this wretched city and they would fear her, forever. In fact, by sunrise, they would believe her to be a god. A fierce, vengeful god.

 

lese majesty \LEZ MAJ-uh-stee, LEEZ-\, noun:

1. Law. a. a crime, especially high treason, committed against the sovereign power. b. an offense that violates the dignity of a ruler.

2. an attack on any custom, institution, belief, etc., held sacred or revered by numbers of people: Her speech against Mother’s Day was criticized as lese majesty.

 

Josephine understood that death stood before her. She waited patiently for it as the King’s Intelligence Officers combed the airport in search of her.

She waited because there was nowhere left to run.

Josephine was lured to Central Africa by the money. A waning fashion model did quite well in royal circles as an accessory to lush palaces. She attended parties, acquitted herself with grace, spoke intelligently on politics, but carefully when concerning the King.

Of course, she saw corruption and injustice. She was prepared for that, but when she was whisked away by freedom fighters while strolling the markets, she was shown the true extent of the King’s terror.

She’d heard the joke about his obsessive updates on the country’s maps and attributed it to a personality quirk.

In reality, the maps were constantly reworked to camouflage entire villages that were being wiped out by government forces. Once suspected of harboring traitors to the crown, a village was liquidated and whoever was left alive was sold to human traffickers.

She was not born in this country, but now felt “of this country”, as she said in a satellite interview arranged with the BBC. The tense, but poised ten minute exchange was a beautiful and bold lese majesty, the spark for a global outrage redirecting interest to the long suffering region.

But it was also Josephine’s death sentence.

The freedom fighters tried to move her from village to village, keeping her below the eye line of government troops, but too many suffered for showing her charity. Trying to escape through the international airport using doctored identification papers was essentially surrendering herself. Josephine knew this, but also knew the power of martyrdom.

So, she waited, handbag clutched nervously in her fingers, head dipped so the brim of her hat hid her perfect bone structure.

Then she felt his presence, towering over her. She could not look up in fear that she would faint or, worse, weep.

“Passport,” he grunted.

She unlatched her bag and, as calmly as she could manage, lifted the passport out and handed it to the official.

And with it, went all hope of survival.

 

mickle \MIK-uhl\, adjective:

Archaic. great; large; much.

“Woe to the heathens that shelter the damned, the sinful dens of the corrupt and immoral. Onto to their tainted flesh, The Lord will curse them with mickle plagues, some will torture them to their graves, other will require uncomfortable visits to the apothecary where they will describe, in hushed tones, blemishes that are probably nothing, but it would be awesome if an ointment could be rendered that might clear them away before their spouses witness their naked forms and questions arise.

There will be much weeping and gnashing of teeth as the agents of lust wear awkward undergarments complying with fussy blue laws that never really look good on anyone, no matter how bedazzled. And what is up with latex on the nipples? What difference could that possibly make?

A distance of Lot’s beard must be maintained between these agents and all who enter the accursed den, even though $20 is a lot of money to watch some girl just wiggle around a few feet away for three minutes and twenty-two seconds. And they will mourn and stamp their feet to no avail once the wench delivers their tab, which is, like, four times more than they expected even though they were just drinking lame domestic beers all night. There was that round of Rumplemintz, but that couldn’t have been that much, right?

‘Just pay it and let’s get out of here,’ the friends will plead, and the damned will because it is now just embarrassing and whose idea was this anyway? Steve? Of course it was. What an asshole.

Amen.”

 

vilify \VIL-uh-fahy\, verb:

1. to speak ill of; defame; slander.

2. Obsolete. to make vile.

It was always easier to be vilified by her peers, to remain the dark, distant outsider rather than play the games that bought the favor of friends. Courtney’s caustic personality was carefully honed since her first days in elementary school. Jimmy Adams pushed her down and broke her crayons while the teacher ignored her pleas for help. Ever since, Courtney’s bubble of isolation spread out around her, using ruthless insults and malevolent glares to back the world away.

School was lonely. Layered in black clothes, oceans of eyeliner artfully smeared, combat boots laced tight, scars proudly displayed on her wrists, gliding from class to class like a shadow.

Middle school passed. High school passed. She finished top of her class and the school was forced to let her speak at graduation. She walked to the microphone and silently glared at her classmates for five minutes, then walked out of the building without receiving her diploma.

Her resistance to life continued into adulthood. Though she hated humanity, she refused to be a shut away. She attended concerts, art shows, public readings, but never spoke to a soul, just existed like the community’s dark secret that refused to stay hidden.

The loneliness caught up with her and she found a soul close enough to her own to share a bed with him for six months before he lost his patience and left.

She discovered she was pregnant just a week before he abandoned her. He would never know.

She was terrified, but strong. She delivered the baby without fanfare. No one visited her in the hospital, no one arranged a baby shower. Exhausted as she limped into her apartment, she clung to the child as if the happiness she’d denied for so long finally escaped the heavy shroud and now stared up at her with pale green eyes and plump cheeks.

She smiled like a fool while hidden away in the little apartment, but never outside its door.

At two years old, the child proved to be an extrovert, befriending other children effortlessly, assuming their acceptance and receiving it without fail.

Another young mother sat next to Courtney to strike up a conversation, perhaps arrange a play date. Courtney’s instinct was to ignore the woman, perhaps scare her away with a cruel snark about the woman’s bottom-heavy figure, but Courtney took a moment to watch their children laugh. They were playing tag, racing around the playground, competing at human contact, winning, losing, but engaging without fear.

She did not want this life, but she wanted it for her child, so she forced a smile and attempted small talk for the first time in two decades of a sheltered and angry life.

 

scrum \skruhm\, noun:

1. a Rugby play in which, typically, three members of each team line up opposite one another with a group of two and a group of three players behind them, making an eight-person, three-two-three formation on each side; the ball is then rolled between the opposing front lines, the players of which stand with arms around a teammate’s waist, meeting the opponent shoulder to shoulder, and attempt to kick the ball backward to a teammate.

2. British. a place or situation of confusion and racket; hubbub.

verb:

1. to engage in a scrum.

 

Following the first gunshot, a violent scrum ensued as the theater patrons either scrambled for the door or joined the brawl. Henry’s father pulled the boy away from the heart of the mob and toward the exit.

More gunfire blasting, intensified by the enclosed theater, ringing in Henry’s ears. Henry became aware of the bodies around him, moving and jostling like waves crashing into a rocky cliff.

“There’s too many, the door’s blocked!” a panicked voice called.

“Move back, I cannot breathe!” another voice answered.

Henry’s father lifted the boy above the crowd.

“I have a child!” he yelled. Behind him, the screen was glowing, reflecting the flames consuming the theater seating.

“Please, push him through!”

Hands clutched onto Henry as he was held above the pile. He was awkwardly passed from one to another. Henry saw the bodies wedged into the door. A woman gazed upwards, blood pooled in her eyes, dripping from the edges.

Henry dropped through a small opening, rolling over the bodies and onto the carpeted hallway. He stood and screamed into the theater, pleading for his father. He could only see terrified strangers pressed against the wall of death, desperate to push through.

Henry was pulled away just as the flames took over the pile and began to crawl across the ceiling into the hall.

He escaped, true, but a part of him was still trapped in that theater and every time he slid on the firefighter helmet and raced out into London to answer a call, he intended to save that little boy, at long last.

This Week in Word of the Day – 6/23/2013

phosphoresce \fos-fuh-RES\, verb:

to be luminous without sensible heat, as phosphorus.

An abandoned, dilapidated garage off Highway 9 was engulfed by a phosphoresce burst as 200 strands of Christmas lights ignited in one glorious beacon to guide the world toward the site of the victorious return of Edgar Winterfield and the Handmedowns.

Once a force of nature in the small, but gritty Tecumseh punk scene, EWH became legendary for their guerrilla gigs where kids from miles around squatted in abandoned buildings for 60 angry and primitive minutes of electrified chaos.

Now, two decades removed, the band members collided again for one last row, a final chance to scratch their mark into the collective psyche of central Oklahoma.

“Come celebrate with me, you insatiable bastards!” Edgar howled into the quiet rural night. “By morning, we will all be dead!”

 

falcate \FAL-keyt\, adjective:

curved like a scythe or sickle; hooked; falciform.

 

Rose was fed up with eHarmony and deleted her profile from her phone as her latest date sat across from her, uncomfortably smiling whenever she looked up from the screen. His name was Duke Agares and he was a tall, pale old man with a long, falcate nose that hooked over his wine glass awkwardly as he took a sip. Long, stingy grey hair was tied back with a black ribbon and his suit, although nice, looked to have been stolen from the grave of an 18th century noble.

He also smelled distinctly like sulphur covered up by a fog of Old Spice cologne.

“I understand that I may be a bit older than you anticipated,” the Duke said.

“Yeah, how old is that exactly?” Rose shot back.

“Um,” the Duke began, but stopped to nervously take another drink from his wine glass. “What year is it again?”

Rose huffed and shook her head.

“I am in upper management,” the Duke tried with an optimistic smile. “I am also a land owner.”

“Where? Is there a beach?”

“Yes! The western edge of my land touches a sea of blood, overlooked by a towering castle built from the leg bones of runaways who have abandoned their people in times of great need! There are thirty-four rooms, all wired for sound, with sixteen servants that will bend to your every whim! You will be my duchess and we shall be the toast of Hell!”

“Hmm. Can I swim in this sea of blood?”

“Yes, I mean, you could. I wouldn’t recommend it, though.”

“Hmm.”

“I have thought of putting in a pool!” the Duke offered.

“Wouldn’t the water just evaporate, it being Hell and all?”

The Duke bellowed a loud laugh as black smoke tumbled out of his mouth.

“Oh, no, no, no, my beautiful fool! My land is in the Eastern province, it is quite temperate. You are thinking of the fire scorched pits in the South. No, in the East, it is 75 and clear every day of the year.”

“So, I could sunbathe?”

“Well, no. It is Hell, after all. It’s – underground. We do have a stable of tame crocodiles you can ride!”

“Crocodiles?”

“Yes!”

“Not horses?”

“No. Crocodiles. And health insurance! The Demon Associated Alliance has a wonderful health plan and our 401K consistently outperforms the market. Lavish dances with the most distinguished of damned souls, a standing invitation to the GOP party convention, box seats at Oakland Raiders games, there are so many benefits in Hell! I know you will love it!”

“But no horses?”

“I could get some.”

Rose lifted up her purse, opened the latch and dug out a business card. She slid it across the table and his bony index finger grazed hers as he accepted the card. Through his skin crept a rush of sorrow, suffering, horror, and the dread of a billion tortured souls.

Her skin rose, a shiver coiled down her spine. She smiled, devilishly.

“I could get used to that,” she breathed into his ear, then stood and strode out of the restaurant.

 

balk \balk\, verb:

1. to stop, as at an obstacle, and refuse to proceed or to do something specified (usually followed by at): He balked at making the speech.

2. (of a horse, mule, etc.) to stop short and stubbornly refuse to go on.

3. to place an obstacle in the way of; hinder; thwart: a sudden reversal that balked her hopes.

 

Shame bound me, clinging to my wrists and ankles like tentacles pulling me deeper into the misery. I was hurting, confused, bitter, and sinking, inch by inch.

I balked at change, that was the heart of it. It’s time arrived, but I could not let let loose my past life. I dug my heels, tightened my grip and resisted the current sweeping it from me. In so doing, I did terrible, terrible things.

I know I hurt many of you during this madness, I think of this daily. I cringe at how weak and paranoid I became and I am truly sorry.

In time, light will break even the darkest storms, and light has broken for me. It is an odd thing to feel the sun on my face again after so long. I still am not sure how to accept it.

So much space in my heart has been cluttered with pain, it is due time for a house cleaning. Forgiveness is where it will start.

I will mourn the friendships my weakness cost me, but I will also celebrate the possibilities of this grand new beginning. I believe that, this time, I am actually ready for it.

 

hamlet \HAM-lit\, noun:

1. a small village.

2. British. a village without a church of its own, belonging to the parish of another village or town.

 

A lone girl walked out of the decimated hamlet, now just an open grave where the mysterious illness swept through the small community, leaving every soul dead within the day.

The area was quickly cleared out as rumors raged through the parish. Weeks passed before a priest stumbled upon the girl. She was famished and chilled to the bone, perhaps only hours from death.

Days later, she would finally begin answering questions and it became clear that the small child possessed an incredible fury.

“A witch,” the normally somber-minded doctor whispered in an adjoining room.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the priest replied. “The sorrow has tainted her mind. Give her time.”

But the doctor was right. She possessed power not seen in her lineage for twelve generations, but a diseased mind would warp that power and threaten the lives of every man, woman, and child in all of England.

 

poniard \PON-yerd\, noun:

1. a small, slender dagger.

verb:

1. to stab with a poniard.

 

The crooked old geezer fingered the closed latch on his cane that unleashed a poison-tipped poniard from the handle. Made entirely of plastic, Ned could hobble through metal detectors and even get onto a plane and no one would be the wiser. He had no interest in planes, though. He wasn’t a terrorist, just a dedicated patriot.

Ned waited on the steps of the US Capitol building, fumbling with a tourist guide, trying not to attract attention.

“This Internet is a cancer, honey,” she told him months ago. “All these theories, the UN, 9-11, the IRS, they are crazy. These people you are reading, they are leading you into a dark world that I can’t follow. None of this is real, but I am, your kids are, this house is. Come back to us, please.”

But Ned was protecting them, that is what she couldn’t understand. There were powers at work that the public didn’t see, couldn’t recognize, but he saw the face of evil and he would strike at it. He would dispatch one of its agents and ignite a revolution that would reclaim this nation for its people.

The young senator finally emerged at the top of the steps, distracted as he talked on his cell phone. Ned did his homework, he knew the senator was a family man, attended church weekly, maybe didn’t even know that he was just a tool for a nationless agency trying to dissolve American sovereignty.

Soon, they would both be symbols for the greater struggle, this moment a flashpoint for the American Reclamation Project.

The latch clicked and the poniard emerged. Ned hobbled toward the senator, toward his destiny.

 

fen \fen\, noun:

1. low land covered wholly or partially with water; boggy land; a marsh.

2. the Fens, a marshy region W and S of The Wash, in E England.

 

Sickly green haze tumbled through the fens as the sun dipped into the horizon. The chorus of insects hushed, birds took to the sky in search of safer nesting and the bogs prepared for the nightly arrival of the Screaming Norseman.

Lindy and Edward took a moment to feed each other encouraging nods before plunging deeper into the desolate landscape, determined to catch the phantom and free the terrified community.

“And you said there was no future in ghost extermination,” Lindy said with a smirk. She nudged Edward in the shoulder before lowering the Sixth Sense Spectral Goggles over her sharp and clever green eyes.

Edward sighed, thinking of the mountain of debt they incurred to start the agency, just to wait two years for their first job.

He gripped his TI-128 Ectoplasm Anchor tightly and led his sister on into the darkening marsh.

A distant, desperate scream sounded and the last of the sunlight and all of the stars were snuffed out like ink spilling onto a page.

In the dreadful darkness, the brother and sister pressed their backs together. Edward attempted to flick on his All-Worlds Multi-Lantern, but even its light couldn’t penetrate into the gloom.

 

drawl \drawl\, verb:

1. to say or speak in a slow manner, usually prolonging the vowels.

noun:

1. an act or utterance of a person who drawls.

He rode into town armed with two six shooters, a war-worn Confederate cap and a lazy drawl as long as the Mississippi.

He wasn’t a bad man, he had a decent enough heart, but also a knack for finding himself on the losing side of things. Perpetually rebuilding his life, backtracking, walking away and starting again.

He once dreamed of a family, land rolling into the horizon, respect and position. These days, he just hoped to find a sympathetic ear and an honest wage.

Dismissive glances and hushed jokes tipped the town’s hand. It wouldn’t be any different for the stranger here. New people, same stories, same troubles. He would find a bed and scratch for work, then disappear again a few weeks later.

But trouble was on its way. An evil was migrating across the plains and would soon descend on the town. The stranger’s time had finally come.

This Week in Word of the Day – 06/16/2013

codger \KOJ-er\, noun:

an eccentric man, especially one who is old.

Of course the old codger was right, but who wanted to believe that the charming, little dragons shipped in from New Zealand were actually demons from the fourth ring of Hell emerging from the sulfuric pit of despair to usher in the 1000 year reign of the Dark Lord? Even after the truth came to light and the quirky Vietnam Vet became a media celebrity known for his crazed rants that fanned the resistance spirit organizing to beat back the forces of Hell spewing out from the bowels of the Earth, the tiny dragons continued to be the hottest gifts of the Christmas season.

spelunk \spi-LUHNGK\, verb:

to explore caves, especially as a hobby.

Christian’s father towered over the family as an icon of American manhood, celebrity among celebrities, a charisma so vast and overwhelming that it defined the age. The only reason Christian recognized his father when he surfaced from his glamorous life and stumbled through the front door was the man vaguely resembled the one standing next to Christian and his mother in dozens of family portraits presented prominently throughout the living room, dining hall, entrance, but not his mother’s bedroom.

When his father asked, through a haze of cognac, if Christian wanted to go spelunking in Turkey, Christian volleyed back a rash “yes!” It was the first time his father asked if he wanted to do anything together.

Nevermind the chilling trepidation Christian faced in dark and refined spaces, it was a chance to form a bond with his father.

Three weeks later, Christian was found crawling out of the the jagged maw of a flooded cave, starved, frozen to the bone and climbing out of death’s embrace.

The adventure tourists swiped the blood from Christian’s scalp and his arms, lifting his shirt, looking for the injury.

“It’s not mine,” Christian managed weakly. “It is my father’s.”

Christian awoke the next day, his right wrist handcuffed to a gurney. The trial was a sham, the judge playing the part of the ringmaster, the jury assumed the roles of clowns and his lawyer a lion tamer trying to whip back the public’s outrage that a child dared to steal away a god of the silver screen.

Christian knew the truth, he knew what he saw in his father’s eyes those last, manic hours, but legend is what the people wanted. So, when Christian was called to testify, legend is what he gave them.

sward \swawrd\, noun:

1. the grassy surface of land; turf.

2. a stretch of turf; a growth of grass.

verb:

1. to cover with sward or turf.

2. to become covered with sward.

As pirates swept through the ship, gunning down the crew and combing the cabins for anything worth stealing, Sergio fled to the deck. Under a swarm of bullets, Sergio tumbled overboard and plunged into the sea.

Blackness overtook him.

He awoke to a woman’s lips pressed to his. He startled and pushed the weight off him, rolling away as he heard a splash nearby.

He found himself on a 13 foot sward flanked on all sides by the vast, restless sea. Storm clouds rolled along the sky into every horizon. The small island was overgrown with a thick, leafy grass. A rocky reef encircled the grass on all sides, buffeting it from the waves with a 20 foot moat in-between.

Sergio noticed a tuft of red hair gently breaking the surface of the moat. Tentatively, it rose, revealing a pale green forehead, emerald eyes, purple lips and a thin neck with gills discretely gasping behind her jawline.

The woman allowed a nervous smile, then tossed a dead fish onto the grass.

“For you, husband,” she said, dipping her head.

“Oh,” Sergio responded, dumbly.

The woman dipped underneath the water, disappearing for several seconds before surfacing 20 feet on the other side of the rocks. She waved and he waved back. The woman beamed a smile and submerged, leaving Sergio alone and suddenly in love.

“Oh.”

xanthic \ZAN-thik\, adjective:

1. of or pertaining to a yellow or yellowish color.

2. Chemistry. of or derived from xanthine or xanthic acid.

Xanthic mist crept across No Man’s Land, ushered in by sirens and panicked shouts. Men scrambled for masks and climbed out of the trenches to lay low in the mud while the sickly fog overtook them. The invalid welcomed death from their beds like they were receiving a long lost friend.

Ensign Callow stood up and peered into the haze, catching brief glimpses of the dreary fields shorn of all life save the thousands of young men, bitter and tarnished from months of an ugly and unproductive war. They expected the rattle of machine gun nests, but were instead greeted with a seductive peace.

A laugh reverberated through Callow’s gas mask. His compatriots glanced up at him, always expecting a joke from the son of a tavern owner always quick with a limerick or bawdy tale from his time as a bed-turner at a brothel.

Callow stepped toward the German lines, swiveled to face his friends. He ripped off his gas mask and flashed a smile.

“Gentlemen, I am retiring from the battlefield!”

Callow turned away and sprinted toward the enemy trenches, the mist twirling about him. A smattering of shots rang out, but Callow was untouched until he leapt, belly-first into a trench, mustard gas splashing up like water.

diglossia \dahy-GLOS-ee-uh, -GLAW-see-uh\, noun:

1. the widespread existence within a society of sharply divergent formal and informal varieties of a language each used in different social contexts or for performing different functions, as the existence of Katharevusa and Demotic in modern Greece.

2. Pathology. the presence of two tongues or of a single tongue divided into two parts by a cleft.

After 20 years in the field as an Alabama insurance agent, Ashely learned that embracing the diglossia of the community allowed her to slip seamlessly into any home or business, taking on the local dialect to whatever degree necessary.

Though she was a small wisp of a woman, barely tipping the scales at 90 pounds, she was immovable with a will of cast iron, but a heart vast enough to welcome in all who walked into her office. Insurance is an emotional business and Ashley specialized in the difficult balance between empathy and business discipline.

“These folks just need someone to yell at, from time to time. Nature’s been bullying them, they feel helpless, lost. They need someone to understand they’re hurting real bad, but they are too proud to admit it. They come to me, heated and boiling over, we talk it out. These are all good people, from top to bottom. All they want is a willing ear when life knocks them off their feet and a hand to pull them back up off the ground. That’s what I do.”

palinode \PAL-un-nohd\, noun:

1. a poem in which the poet retracts something said in an earlier poem.

2. a recantation.

Sydney’s sullen nature was never a closely guarded secret in the small bedroom community where the boy pasted hundreds of copies of his poems regularly on windows, bathroom walls, light posts, and whatever other surface was left unguarded for over thirty seconds.

At first, the novelty of a tortured and talented young scribe caused the town elders to withhold punishment for defacing public and private property.

“I do believe he gives us a smidgen of credibility, don’t you think?” the fussy mayor known for her love of powder blue power suits asked in a meeting.

Enough people agreed to convince the sheriff to look the other way until the boy’s creative burst ran its course.

This process would take years, as it turned out, with long screeds about the unnatural bond of monogamy, the myth of “true love”, and the evils of corporate agendas of beauty being his most favored subjects.

But, one mild spring morning, the town awoke to Sydney’s most ambitious overnight pasting to date. 437 copies of a twenty-three line palinode, shedding the brooding and disenfranchised tone of the past for a worshiping ballad to the act of love.

Even the crusty old minister was thrilled Sydney finally got laid and whoever this mystery lover was, he/she did the town a great service.

mishpocha \mish-PAW-khuh, -POOKH-uh\, noun:

an entire family network comprising relatives by blood and marriage and sometimes including close friends; clan.

The hastily betrothed couple stood before their mishpocha like war criminals. The matriarch chewed bitterly on a tobacco leaf as the household held their tongues.

“But we are in love,” the bride announced defiantly.

“You are a fool,” the matriarch spat back. “Remember, we have been here before. The trouble you have brought to this family.”

“We are in love,” the young man echoed, but with less conviction.

The matriarch smiled, spit into a spittoon and dabbed juice off her chin.

“Life will come for you soon. As it always does. You are children before a vengeful world, so when it strikes, we shall see what this ‘love’ is truly made of.”

This Week in Word of the Day – 06/09/2013

automaton \aw-TOM-uh-ton, -tn\, noun:

1. a mechanical figure or contrivance constructed to act as if by its own motive power; robot.

2. a person or animal that acts in a monotonous, routine manner, without active intelligence.

3. something capable of acting automatically or without an external motive force.

She designed the child not to leave. Not to grow, not to age, not to love, not to explore, not to wander, and not to need another companion aside from her. She even resisted giving the automaton a pet fish because she so feared the loss of his love.

And the boy knew it could not leave her. If he strayed thirty feet from her house, his mechanical mind would blink out and he would collapse, lifeless, until she came to retrieve him.

The boy seemed happy to her, or something close enough to happy. She caught him gazing out the window often, and it unnerved her.

“What is so darn interesting out there?” she would grumble with no attempt to hide her brittle emotions.

“Nothing, mother,” the boy would respond, still searching. Always searching.

zither \ZITH-er, ZITH-\, noun:

a musical instrument, consisting of a flat sounding box with numerous strings stretched over it, that is placed on a horizontal surface and played with a plectrum and the fingertips.

When the 23 members of Satan’s Orchestra walked onstage carrying 12 electric guitars, a full brass section, marching band drums, two xylophones and a zither, Charles knew he choose the right stage at the Norman Music Festival.

hadal \HEYD-l\, adjective:

1. of or pertaining to the greatest ocean depths, below approximately 20,000 feet (6500 meters).

2. of or pertaining to the biogeographic region of the ocean bottom below the abyssal zone.

The whispers started calling Hugh in his deepest sleep, barely registering, yet leaving him with a lingering unease when he woke in the morning.

It would take months before he became acutely aware that something was reaching out to him.

It followed him onto the deep sea fishing vessel and haunted him with increasing urgency as he left the land behind.

On a lonely night, Hugh sang well-tread, whiskey-soaked ballads as the whisper seemed so present, he almost felt its breath on his ear.

He looked down into the waves, peering into the bottomless, black water and knew that the whisper was calling from the hadalic depths, buried under a mountain of ocean where humans could not reach.

But he must.

The whisper called with more urgency. He felt fingertips gliding across his cheeks, guiding him forward, over the rail and down into the abyss.

He doesn’t remember the splash, he doesn’t remember the terrible chill, he just remembers the sinking, the sinking, the sinking.

trachle \TRAH-khuh\, noun:

1. an exhausting effort, especially walking or working.

2. an exhausted or bedraggled person.

verb:

1. to fatigue; tire; wear out.

2. to bedraggle.

Ailsa’s three day trachle nearly killed the girl, but she refused to rest until she untangled the beast from the fishing net. With the last cord severed and the net pulled free of Nessie’s massive flippers, the legendary creature crawled, spent and starved, back into the waters of Loch Ness.

Nessie left so unceremoniously, without even a glance goodbye, that Ailsa could not help but suffer a wounded heart. Yet, she was now the protector of a grand secret. She’d known the mysterious beast, she’d bathed Nessie’s soft hide to keep it from drying in the summer sun, she looked into her eyes as she fed the monster over 100 fish in the time she was trapped on the beach.

Those eyes, those wonderful pools of blue speckled with flakes of silver and gold! Ailsa would dream of those eyes all the days of her life, yet she would never see Nessie again.

As death neared, Ailsa insisted on her ashes being spread in the waters of Loch Ness and, in her final sleep, she felt her body tossed into the cold, peaceful waves. She felt herself settle beneath and, out of the shadowy depths, those beautiful blue eyes emerged like lanterns lighting the way home.

abdicate \AB-di-keyt\, verb:

1. to give up or renounce (authority, duties, an office, etc.), especially in a voluntary, public, or formal manner: King Edward VIII of England abdicated the throne in 1936.

2. to renounce or relinquish a throne, right, power, claim, responsibility, or the like, especially in a formal manner: The aging founder of the firm decided to abdicate.

Do not fool yourself, my Lord, your willing abdication of the throne will be your greatest feat. If you stay, if you deny the will of the people, they will forget your resolution as the barbarians beat at our gates, they will ignore the wealth you brought, the schools and the hospitals you built.

They will only remember your tyranny.

If you do not walk out that door, remove the crown and bow to the next generation of power, then you will be pulled out like a common leper. All the sacrifices you have made, all the advances in science and philosophy will melt away and they will hate you for your weakness, the most despicable weakness for a great leader – the foolish belief that they need you more than they need freedom.

trousseau \TROO-soh, troo-SOH\, noun:

an outfit of clothing, household linen, etc., for a bride.

Back before the fire rained from the sky, Ashley cared deeply about the complex ceremonies of weddings, obsessing over its symbology, traditions, and the cultural deviations. At one time or another, she married everything in her life, the salt to the pepper, the dog to the fish, the couch to the love seat, her baby brother to the vacuum cleaner.

But, at twelve, the first storm approached from the horizon just minutes before the dawn. The eery, blood orange glow flashed with a violent electrical storm. As it swept across the plans, coating the land with flaming ash, the cities were left as scorched ruins and the survivors fled underground while scientists scrambled to understand and counteract God’s fury.

Ashley thought little of weddings and nothing of luxury for years as she combed through the ruins above ground, looking for supplies or toiled away in cavernous fields of vegetables genetically modified to grow in the artificial light.

When a clever and bold young man finally asked for her hand in marriage, she was stunned and hesitated, believing it selfish to think of happiness in the face of so much loss. A week passed and the lovers avoided one another as she agonized.

Her father finally interceded, encouraging Ashley to consider the union, not just for herself, but for her people desperate for a connection to their lost civilization.

They married at the foothills of the Rockies, where wind patterns buffeted the sparse forest from the fire storms. It was one of the few green places left on the surface.

Ashely planned on wearing a simple, white, dust-stained cocktail dress, but her father unveiled a trousseau stashed in a steamer trunk complete with a lush, flowing wedding dress and delicate veil so intricate with fine lace that Ashley adeptly appraised the ensemble at $20,000. Where her father found the dress and the stacks of pristine linens, she would never know.

As she said “I do”, with her small town of survivors ignoring the glowing storms on the horizon, she could not remember a wedding in all the magazines more perfect and beautiful.

Well, maybe Princess Diana’s, but that was only because Ashely didn’t have access to a carriage.

wonk \wongk\, noun:

1. a stupid, boring, or unattractive person.

2. a student who spends much time studying and has little or no social life; grind.

3. a person who studies a subject or issue in an excessively assiduous and thorough manner: a policy wonk.

I understand that you may see me as a wonk, a drag to your too-goddamn-cool-party life, but I love music, okay? I love how mysterious it is, as deep and alive as the sea. I see the way you look at my house and I can explain the way I sort my albums – filed under feeling rather than name, and yes, that makes more sense than it sounds – and I can recount every single song that refined my soul, including when and where it was recorded and what the songwriter was doing when he wrote it. Rehab, mostly.

But I can’t make you care about music like I do. I get that and it’s okay. I guess what I am saying is – Christ, I can’t believe I am about to say this – you make me want to listen to Hall and Oates. I won’t listen to Hall and Oates because I hate Hall and Oates. Well, no one really hates Hall and Oates, not in the way you hate Hitler or … sporks, I guess. But I would rather be caught hanging from my neck in a hotel room with my pants around my ankles like Michael Hutchence than buy/steal/borrow/or find on the side of the road a Hall and Oates album, yet that is all I can think about now that you’ve crashed my life.

So, thank you for that. Honestly. I know I don’t talk well as a romantic or whatever, but thank you.