Word: Fantasticate

fantasticate

[fan-tas-ti-keyt]

verb (used with object)

fantasticated, fantasticating 

1. to make or render fantastic.

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                James looked over the sketches. Dozens of them littered his desk. And none of them was enough. All he had drawn so far was a few dresses and skirts. Good, yes. But not what he needed. The people expected more of him than a few common outfits. His works needed to be more.

                He needed to really Wow the people. Give them something exciting. Something truly fantastic. What he was making needed to go beyond mere fashion. But at the same time, his designs needed to actually be wearable. Those ridiculous clown outfits his contemporaries made were beyond him.

                But he had hit a stumbling block. All the best ideas had already been done. It was the struggle all creatives went though. There truly was nothing new under the sun. So how did he make something amazing? Something that was not just sticking random bits of cloth or, heaven forbid, plastic to a model and calling it an outfit had no appeal to him.

                As James poured over his drawings, his eyes landed on one. Not one that he had drawn that day, or even that week. It was one of the first sketches he had ever made. One that he kept on hand as a reminder of where he started and where he was now. It was of a plain, simple affair. Just a blouse and skirt. The kind one could find anywhere. Boring, really.

                But something about it tugged at his mind. It was such a simple design, but could he not work with that? Build off the most basic of basics. Elevate the mundane to the fantastic. Turn the boring into the extraordinary. Yes. Yes, that was what he needed to do. That was the key to his next great work.

                It would not be easy, of course. Such a simple design had been used for all manner of designs. But James was not stranger to hard work. He drew a slightly elevated version of his first sketch. It was nothing, really. But it was a start. The first of many. He would iterate. He would alter and innovate. He would push the limits of what could be done with a simple blouse and skirt.

                He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He needed to clear his mind of all the ideas that had come before. Everything he had done so far would be tossed out of his mind. Only the newest would exist there. Once that was done, James picked up his pencil, opened his eyes, and drew.

                He quickly lost track of time. He stopped counting how many drawings he made. Each one having tiny alterations. Small changes that would add up over time. Some were rejected, others improved upon. Each one closing in on his glorious vision. After who knew how many sketches, James stopped.

                He looked at the latest iteration of his design. There was something about this one. It spoke to him. On the surface, nothing about it was special. But there was something about it. Something that told James he was on the right track. That he was getting closer than he had ever dreamed. But nothing he thought of could improve this one design. Was this it? Was this what he wanted? No. It was not there yet. He was just getting tired of the day’s work.

                Yes, that was it. James stood. When he did, he felt the exhaustion wash over him. He was tired. He would rest. He would dream. And tomorrow, he would create something truly remarkable.

Word: Ambsace

ambsace

Or ames·ace

[eymz-eys, amz-]

noun

Archaic.

1. the lowest throw at dice, the double ace.

2. bad luck; misfortune.

3. the smallest amount or distance.

 

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                A bead of sweat ran down Tim’s back. He rolled the cup, hearing the two dice clatter inside. His opponent grinned. The missing teeth made him look more like a wild beast than a man, and the scars he had worked into his many tattoos did not help correct that impression.

                Tim took a deep breath and tipped the cup. The dice fell still. He peaked under it, and his blood ran cold. Three. Between the two dice, he got nothing but a three. It was not the worst thing he could have rolled, but it was close. The only way he could win was if his opponent had even worse luck, and given the rest of the rolls so far, that was probably not going to happen. Tim suspected the man was cheating, but he could not prove it.

                The man smirked and took up his own cup. Technically, the two were supposed to flip cups together, but Tim was not going to correct the man on his play style. The large man languidly rolled his cup, rattling the dice in slow, lazy loops before tipping it over. The dice went still and the man peaked at them.

                There was nothing on his face. Just that same confident smirk. Then something. It was a tiny thing. The barest twitch of the eye. It was barely there, and Tim had no idea whether it was his eyes playing tricks on him, or maybe even a ploy. But it was the only thing he had to go off of.

                “Twenty.” The big man said, dumping the number of chips on the table between them.

                He had done so with no hesitation. No hint that he was bluffing. But Tim had to take a risk, or else he was going to lose. And that was not something he could have happen. The two armed men behind him ensured that.

                “Thirty.” He said, pushing the chips in. His opponent grinned.

                “Seventy.”

                Tim blanched. That was only a little less than what he had left. He would need to put everything he had left on the line. A single roll of the dice, where he had miserable numbers. If he went out now, he would still have enough for one more roll. Maybe a luckier one. But was it worth it? Even if he won the next roll, so what? He would still have so much more to go, and the odds were slim. No, he had to bet it all on this roll. On that one tiny twitch of the eye.

                “All in.” He said. He hesitantly pushed the rest of his chips in.

                The tattooed man snorted. “Bold. I like it. Sure you want to do that? Seems like you don’t got the numbers to back up the bet. It’d be smarter for you to save some for the next roll.”

                “I...I meant what I said.”

                The man shrugged. “Too bad.” He said, matching the final bet. “Sure you don’t want to back out now? I’ll be nice and give you another chance. I’d hate to end this too soon. It’s just getting fun.”

                “Let’s...let’s just get this over with.”

                The man’s eye twitched again. And once more, it was a subtle, tiny thing. So fast and small that Tim could not be sure it was there. But after the second time, he was more confident in his choice. Not by much, but any little bit helped.

                “Too bad. Okay, show ‘em.”

                Tim took a deep breath and raised his cup. He heard snickering at the pathetic roll.

                “Oh, that’s a shame. Looks like I win.” The man said, reaching for the pot.

                “W-wait! You...you didn’t show your dice.”

                “You rolled a three. Just accept it. You lost.”

                “No. Show...show them. Show us your dice.”

                “Don’t need to. I rolled a seven.” I win.

                Tim felt his blood run cold. A seven. That was disturbingly likely. The most likely, in fact. But the fact that he hadn’t shown them yet...Tim acted on his hunch. Before anyone knew what happened, his hand darted out and snatched the scared man’s cup. Under it were the two dice. But they did not show a seven. They showed a two.

                “S-snake eyes.” Tim said breathily. “You lose.”

                “What? No. I...that’s...”

                The other men in the room looked nervously at each other.

                “I win this roll.” Tim said. He reached out and scooped up the tokens. His heart beat in his chest. He still had a long way to go, but at least now he had a shot. Not much of one, but he had one. It was more than he’d had all night. “Next..next roll. The game is just getting started.”

                 

Word: Homologate

homologate

[huh-mol-uh-geyt, hoh-]

verb (used with object)

homologated, homologating 

1. to approve; confirm or ratify.

2. to register (a specific make of automobile in general production) so as to make it eligible for international racing competition.

 

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                “Next!” called the woman behind the counter. She spoke in a thick Boston accent and had the look of someone who had stopped caring about social niceties twenty years ago.

                A young man wearing a colorful costume strode proudly to the counter. He cut a heroic figure and clearly knew it. He opened his mouth to speak, but the woman spoke faster.

                “Name and powers?”

                “I am Captain—“

                “Your real name.” She said, cutting him off. Suddenly, the man looked much less assured of himself. He looked around nervously at the people behind him in the line. The woman let out a heavy sigh. “Nobody here gives a damn. Your real name.”

                The large man leaned in close and spoke quietly. “Edward Smith.” He leaned back and spoke proudly again. “And I possess tremendous might, the ability to soar the skies and—“

                “Rejected. Next!”

                “What? But I—“
                “I said rejected.”

                “But—“
                The woman’s glare was more potent than any weapon known to man. The large man withered and left without another word.

                “Next!” She called.

                The next man in line stepped forward. He wore a much more normal outfit of jeans and a T-shirt and seemed like a fairly normal person by most metrics. He eyed the rejected superhero hopeful curiously. He had been in line long enough to see many others just like him.

                “Name and powers?”

                “Uh, Troy Celmont. I can generate and control energy barriers. I can give them some different properties, but that’s hard to do.”

                The woman typed furiously on the small computer in front of her. She muttered to herself for a moment.

                “Maximum range of effect?”

                “Right now? 50 feet, but I can only generate them about 5 feet away from myself.”

                More typing. “Speed of travel?”

                “I don’t know the exact numbers, but I can get them moving about highway speeds. A little more if I’m really pushing it.”

                Another series of typing. “Approved pending further testing. Please proceed to the door marked Applicant Testing for further instructions.”

                Troy blinked a few times. “So does that mean I’m in?”

                “No. It means you get to the next round. You’ll get approved or rejected there.”

                “Oh. Okay then. Uh, can I ask why you rejected the last guy? He seemed to fit the hero bill.”

                “We don’t need anyone with his powers right now. Chump’s got the most common powers in the world and thinks he’s special. You got something a little more in need, so you get the approval. Now get outta here. You’re holding up the line.”

                “Oh, right. Sorry.” Troy said. He started heading to the door the woman had indicated.

                As he did, he glanced behind him. There were a lot of people in line still. And a lot of them looked remarkably similar to the man who had gotten rejected. He gave them a quick, silent wish for luck and headed off. He had barely taken five steps when he heard the call of the woman behind the counter.

“Next!”