Word: Sectile

 

sectile

\ SEK-til \  , adjective;

1. capable of being cut smoothly with a knife.

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His arm trembled as he looked at her.  The light from the single hanging bulb shined down on his best, and only, friend.  The girl looked up at him and trembled.  Her bright blue eyes were wide with panic.  He took a deep breath and placed his friend on the exposed skin of her arm.  It would be so easy.  Her skin was soft.  It would be so easy to cut.  Just like a fine cut of meat.  It wasn’t even all that different when he thought about it.  After all, humans were just another animal.  That could think.  And talk.  And scream. And it was purely coincidence that he counted himself among their numbers.  But that didn’t matter to his friend.

               His friend wanted to cut her, badly.  It had told him so.  Not in words though.  His friend didn’t talk.  Couldn’t really.  It didn’t have a mouth after all.  But it still told him.  It spoke with him on a deeper level.  Spiritual almost.  Somehow he always knew what it wanted.  It usually wanted to cut things. 

               At first his friend had been content with smaller animals.  Cats, dogs, birds and the like.  He had no hesitation giving his friend what it wanted then.  The animals didn’t show their fear as his friend bit into their flesh.  It simply glided through them, and he relished the feeling of the resistance of the meat against his friend, almost as much as it did. 

               That had soon proven to be insufficient though.  His friend demanded more.  Bigger animals.  More flesh to cut.  He had moved up to the large animals.  Pigs, sheep, goats and the like.  That was harder.  Those animals were tricky to find, and even more so to gain access to.  But he had managed.  When those no longer satisfied his friend, he attempted something even larger.  A horse this time. 

               The horse was big enough to fight back though.  His friend didn’t cut into its flesh nearly as easily as the other animals, and the large beast was strong enough to throw his around.  No, the larger animals that his friend craved couldn’t come from any barnyard beast.  He had to find another kind of flesh.  One that was both easier to find.  And to cut.

               Humans were to obvious choice.  Plentiful no matter where he went, and very easy to cut.  He knew that from the times his own skin had been damaged.  He chose his mark well.  A pretty twenty-something girl with bright blue eyes and golden hair.  If he had been ten years younger he might have chosen to ask her to dinner.  Instead he offered her nothing but a chloroform soaked cloth.

               Now that same girl looked up at him with silver tape stuck tightly over her mouth, and bound limbs.  She was scared of him.  Of his friend.  Another set of deep breaths to try and calm his nerves.  He tried to cut her.  His arm stopped just before he could.  His friend was almost screaming at him now.  It wanted desperately to sink into her.  He couldn’t bring himself to do it though.  Was this his first fight with his friend? 

               She seemed to sense his hesitation.  Her eyes changed from fear to pleading.  She was asking him to let her go.  Asking him with her eyes.  Asking him on a deep level.  Spiritual almost.  Like his friend did.  He wanted to do as she asked.  But he also wanted to make his friend happy.  It had always been there for him after all. 

               He paced around the small room.  His breathing was quick, almost as scared as the girls was.  He didn’t know who to listen to.  The girl, one of his own kind, or his friend, who had always been there for him.  A sudden pain in his arm brought him out of his thoughts.  His friend was there, biting his arm.  Dark red blood oozed out of him and around his friend.  His friend was angry at him.  He looked from his arm to the girls. 

               He walked quickly over to her and placed his arm against hers.  Her eyes showed fear again.  He was sure he would have screamed and pleaded with him if her mouth was free.  Taking another series of deep breaths, he pressed his friend deeper into his skin.  Then, he quickly sliced it out of him and into her.  Her body went rigid with the sudden pain, and he could swear he heard her scream.

               He looked at his friend.  No blood.  The cut had been too fast and too shallow.  He looked at his arm.  Blood leaked from the open cut.  He looked at her arm.  More blood.  He looked at his hand. He wasn’t trembling anymore.  Slowly, he dug the tip of his friend into the girl’s open wound.  It sank deeper into her flesh smoothly and easily.  Just as he knew it would.  He drew it out.  There was blood on his friend now.  It was happy with that.

               His arm wasn’t shaking anymore.  He looked at the girl, and then to his friend.  It was happy with the small cut, but still wanted more.  A small smile formed on his mouth.  His friend wanted to cut. The girl had lots of flesh to cut.

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Remember people, if you think an inanimate object is talking to you, even without 'words', seek psychiatric help.  Quickly.  

Word: Fleer

 

fleer

\ fleer \  , verb;

1. to grin or laugh coarsely or mockingly.

2. to mock or deride.

3. a fleering look; a jeer or gibe.

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               Jack panted as a few beads of sweat ran down his forehead.  Every muscle in his body was sore and tired, but he forced it out of his mind.  He had to if he wanted any chance of winning.  The score might have been leaning in his opponents favor, but he had heard of players come back from worse.  In fact, the five point difference was easily manageable, even with the scant ten minutes remaining. 

               His opponent looked just as tired as he did, so there was that.  Even so, he still looked at Jack with that same sneer plastered on.  That mocking, insulting sneer.  He had come into the ring with that look on his battered face and had somehow managed to keep it on for the entire match.  Jack wanted nothing more than to cave in the teeth that formed that look. Maybe give put some color around his eyes.  Eyes that seemed made to be mocking and degrading.  Jack thought they might look good with a large black circle around them.  It would so be worth the penalties such acts would bring.  It would probably guarantee his loss, but at least his opponent would think twice before looking at him like that the next time. 

               “What’s the matter Jack Sprat?  You look a bit tired.”  His opponent said through his own strained breaths.  Jack hated being called that.  He had suffered through that name all through school.  He had hoped he’d be rid of it upon reaching adulthood, but there it was, rearing its ugly head once more.

               “Not on your life.  I still got a lot left.  More than enough to wipe the floor with you.”   Jack said.  His opponent said nothing.  His sneer grew wider and more vicious, which was all the response that was needed.

               A buzzer sounded, indicating the start of the final round.  A bright ball of green light shot up from out of the ground, and both Jack and his opponent sprung into action.  Jack’s right arm shot out and a thread of red light shot out of a small tube mounted on his wrist.  His opponent did the same, casting out a thin strand of blue light.  Both threads struck the ball at nearly the same instant.  The light shifted from green to red.  Jack snickered at his opponent as he pulled the light away.

               The ball of light impacted his gloved hand with a dull thud.  Most people thought the ball was weightless, since it was mostly light. But only a player knew that was not the case.  The thing weighed just over five pounds, so a hard enough impact could do some damage.  Of course, the equipment dissipated most of that impact, but the dull pain in Jack’s wrist was a constant reminder that it wasn’t a perfect system. 

               As soon as the glowing ball was in his hands, he made a mad dash for the opposite wall.  He tensed his fingers for a second, feeling the magnetic coils in his fingers, elbows and knees uncoiling.  He hit the wall full force, but had braced himself enough that it only slowed him down for a fraction of a second.  It was all his opponent needed.  A small blue light turned on to indicate that a thread of blue light had been attached to one of the attachment points on his suit, most likely the big one between his shoulders, but he couldn’t be sure. 

Regardless of the location of the attachment, Jack couldn’t waste any more time.  He used the magnets on his suit to scramble up the wall, making sudden and erratic movements in the hopes of detaching the thread.  It wasn’t quite enough though, as he felt his opponent pulling him off the wall.  As the magnets gave out, he threw the ball up towards the ceiling with all his remaining power.  The ball hit its mark, and the ceiling turned red.  Just two more plays like that and he’d score.  Not enough to win, or even tie, but with the clock ticking, every point was valuable. 

He hit the ground with a heavy impact.  The air from his lungs was forced out.  Not enough to fully stop him though.  He was still attached to the ball, but his opponent was working to fix his own thread to it in order to take possession.  He grabbed his thread and twisted his entire body, forcing the ball to be dragged towards his opponent in an attempt to bludgeon him with it.  Or at least get him to back off long enough to recover.  His plan worked, and he was able to regain his footing and quickly pull the ball back to his hands.

As soon as he got a grip on it, he lobbed the ball to the wall he had just been scaling, striking it in the proper place to turn that wall red as well.  Before he could get it back though, it turned purple.  He glowered at his opponent, who looked triumphant.  It was the last thing Jack wanted.  With the timer running out, he might not have enough time to get out of a grapple with enough seconds left to score.  And even if he did, he couldn’t do it the five more times he needed to win.  He needed to detach the other thread as quickly as possible if he was to have any chance. 

The ball hovered in between them as both players pulled in an attempt to gain full control over it.  In a sudden flash of inspiration, Jack let his line go slack.  The move made his opponent lose his balance just long enough to yank the ball free.  He made a beeline for the adjacent wall, throwing the ball hard order to reach its target.  He had thrown too soon though, and it once again turned purple as his opponent’s blue thread attached.  The wall turned a deep purple shade as the ball ricocheted off it. 

Jack knew he couldn’t use the same maneuver again.  His opponent would be ready for it.  What he wasn’t ready for was the sudden movement of his opponent.  He suddenly reversed course and ran the opposite way.  The action nearly forced Jack’s arm out of its socket.  His opponent continued to run around, looping around in circles.  Jack had no choice but to withdrawn his thread, or else risk being tangled up in it and having to waste precious time getting himself sorted out. 

The now blue ball flew into his opponent’s hand, who made a rush towards one of the uncolored walls.  Jack followed closely behind, hoping to at least force another purple wall.  Unfortunately, his opponent did not throw the ball, even when he was in position.  With sudden horror, Jack realized that he was just trying to wait out the clock, safe in his five point lead.

Jack couldn’t claim the ball while his opponent was holding it, so he had to get it away from him first.  He cast out his line, aiming for one of the attachment points on the feet of his opponent’s suit.  A sudden direction change and the line hit nothing but the floor.  Jack continued trying to affix his thread to his opponent, but his panic was keeping him from aiming properly, and every attempt missed.  Jack risked a glance to the timer, seeing that he had a good five minutes left, he look a series of deep breaths to calm himself down and aim. 

Then he saw the look in his opponent’s eyes.  They were locked with his own, still somehow holding the same taunting sneer.  Anger colored his vision, and he cast out his line to one of the attachment points in the front of his opponents suit.  This time, the move was so unexpected that it hit.  Jack yanked on the line as soon as he could, pulling his opponent off balance, allowing him a window of opportunity.  He grabbed the ball and immediately took possession of it, managing to turn the two more walls he needed red, earning him a single point.

With just over four minutes left, he knew he couldn’t win, but not for lack of trying.  As soon as the walls reset, he started again.  His opponent though, prevented him from doing much of anything.  The blue thread attached to one of his attachment points, and his opponent began running in small, quick circles.  Jack stumbled over his own feet as he became tangled up in the blue light.  He scrambled to undo the trap, but it just kept rewinding itself.

All too soon, the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game.  Jack collapsed on the ground, exhausted, and more than a little disappointed.

“Nice try Jack.  Maybe next time you’ll actually have a shot.”  His opponent said in his irritatingly triumphant voice.  He left, leaving Jack on the ground to stew in his most recent defeat.    

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Ah the wonders of science fiction.  It allows us to envision what might come after.  To create aliens and the worlds they inhabit.  To soar amongst the stars.  And, it gives the ability to write a sports story without knowing ANYTHING about sports!  Making stuff up is a great thing, isn't it? (Plus, I happen to think the word itself sounds kind of sci fi-ish, don't you?)

Word: bauble

 

bauble

\ BAW-buhl \  , noun;

1. a showy, usually cheap, ornament; trinket; gewgaw.

2. a jester's scepter.

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               Steven sat down at the small table with cautious optimism on his face.  The crowd shuffled around him, filling the large room with a loud murmur.  The man across from him looked like he wasn’t paying any attention to him at first, as he was too busy with a phone.  Steven waited patiently for the balding man to look up.  He was tempted to clear his throat to get the man’s attention, but thought better of it.  This was a very busy man, and Steven didn’t want to seem impatient or ungrateful for his services.

               “Alright, what do you have for me today?”  The man said as he finally looked up and put his phone away.

               “Oh , right.” Steven scrambled to pull his item from the dull grey satchel slung around his shoulders before carefully placing it on the table.

               The item was a small glass sculpture of a woman fetching water from an old pump while a boy and girl watched.  It was a very nice sculpture, and Steven had always thought it was worth something.  Now that a large network antique appraisal show was in town, he could finally find out.

               The appraiser picked the sculpture up and looked at it critically.  His glasses covered eyes squinted as they took in every detail of the piece.  Finally, he set the sculpture down gently.  Steven waited with baited breath for the results.

               “What you have here is a glass work that I’d say is roughly twenty or so years old.  Although the sculpture itself is reasonably detailed, it was not made by any major sculptors or companies.  The glass itself s of poor quality, and was most likely over refined to give it the appearance of a much higher quality material.  This makes it much more brittle though, and if you look closely you can see that part of it has broken off.”  He used a pen to point out two lumps near the children.  Steven had never really looked at that, but now that he was he could tell they were supposed to be feet.  “All in all, while this is an aesthetically pleasing piece, it won’t bring in very much, regardless of who you sell it to.  I’d say thirty, maybe forty dollars at most.”

               Steven’s eyes widened.  None of that could be true.  There was no way it could be so worthless.  And the age was all wrong.  The piece had been in his family far longer than that.

               “But wait a moment,” He said, “My family has had this sculpture for much longer than twenty years.  It was in my family’s living room when I was a child.”

               “Really?  Is that so?”  The appraiser said.  He picked up the sculpture and took another look at it.  “Yes, I see.  I’m sorry, I was mistaken about something.  It’s value is probably closer to ten or twenty dollars.”

               “What?”  Steven said angrily.

               “You see, this is a forgery.  A fake.  Although I don’t recall the exact statue, I’m sure an image of the real one can be found online.  Just a moment please.”  He took out his phone and took a quick picture of the sculpture.  After a few minutes of searching, he showed Steven a picture.  It was of the sculpture, but there was an additional figure, one of an adult man, standing next to the children.  “This is a piece called ‘Family at the Pump’.  If you had the real one, it would be worth around one or two hundred dollars.  But what you have here is a forgery.  See here, in the photo the level of detail in the faces of the family?  Now look at yours.  You should be able to tell the difference.”

               Steven looked carefully at both the photo and the sculpture.  Although his eyes weren’t trained to see small details, he could tell that the sculpture he had was of lower quality.

               “I’m sorry, but this is nearly worthless.  But, at least it’s still a reasonably attractive piece.  Even if you can’t sell it, you can at least use it as decoration.”  The appraiser said. 

               “I see.”  Steven said sadly.  He put the sculpture back in the back, much less carefully than he had taken it out.  “Thank you for your time.”

               “Hold on a moment.”  The appraiser said before Steven could get up.  “Now, I admit my expertise is in sculpture, so I might be mistaken, but I believe you should get that satchel appraised while you’re here.”

               “This old thing?  It’s worthless.  I got it at a yard sale a few years ago.”

               “You’d be surprised.  Like I said, I might be wrong, but you might want to check, just in case.  If you go down three isles and take a left, you’ll find the apparel section.  They’ll be able to tell you what it is.”  The way the man spoke made Steven consider it more than he otherwise would have.  He set off to find out exactly what he had.

               A few hours later, Steven found himself cornered by a camera crew.  They were stopping random people as they left to tell the crowd what they had found.  He had been somewhat reluctant, but he had been convinced with the ‘five minutes of fame’ argument.

               “So what do you have, sir?”  The cameraman asked.

               “Well, I have a very elaborate paperweight worth ten dollars, and a genuine World War One army satchel that’s worth $500.”  

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I went on one of these when I was a kid.  I wasn't as lucky as this guy though.  I think I had some candle sticks or something like that.  I don't even remember how much they were worth, but it wasn't too much.  But they could have been.  You never know until you find out.

Word" Skedadle

 

skedaddle

\ ski-DAD-l \  , verb;

1. to run away hurriedly; flee.

noun:

1. a hasty flight.

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This was not where Mark wanted to be.  In fact, anywhere else would be fine.  Just, not there.  Mark had been walking aimlessly through the streets of the city he now called home, only to run into a group of somewhat unsavory individuals.  He looked at the group nervously as they regarded him with sneers and suspicious looks.

               “Uh, hey guys.”  Mark said, trying to sound less scared for his life than he actually was.  “I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.” 

               “No kiddn’.”  Said one of the group.  The speaker was a large man, in every sense of the word.  He towered over Mark by a good five or six inches, and had a stomach to match.  His black studded leather outfit did his body no justice, but he didn’t seem to care that much.

               “Yeah, you know how it is.”  Mark said with a nervous little laugh.  “I was just kind of, you know, wandering around and lost track of where I was going and just kind of ended up here.”  He said.

               Mark cast a nervous glance around, looking for any avenues of escape.  He was ready to beat a hasty retreat at the first possible opportunity.  Unfortunately for him, those windows were looking farther and farther away.  Members of the gang were moving in to surround him, cutting off any chance of fleeing.

               “No, I don’t know.” Said the large man.  His mouth curled up in a wicked sneer as he spoke.  “Why don’t you explain it ta me.”

               “W-well, ok then.  It’s actually kind of funny.  Well, funny to me anyway, you might not see it that way though.  So, I just kind of moved here.  You know, I’d heard good things about this city.  Low crime rates and good jobs and all that.  So yeah, I got one of those jobs and was celebrating at this place that everyone said is great.  Well, a little food and a few drinks later and I find myself just walking around.  Taking in the sights, you know?  And then I get to thinking about things and not paying attention where I’m going, and I end up here.  So, yeah, that’s about it.”  Mark hopped that it was enough to get him out of there with minimal injuries.

               “And you ‘spect to what?  Believe that?  How do I know you ain’t from Benny’s boys?  Huh?”  The big man said.

               “Oh god, there’s more of you?”  Mike said.  He had heard there were any gangs or other such violent groups in the city, and now he was hearing there were at least two.  He was more eager to get out of there than ever.

               “Heh, you don’t even know about the groups?  Man you must be knew here.”  Said the big man.  He looked a bit happier and backed up a bit. 

               “He might be lyin’ boss.”  Said one of the other gang members.  This one was much smaller and skinnier.  One might even call him wiry.  Alone, he didn’t look that tough, but the thick, heavy chains wrapped around his torso more than made up for that.

               “Hey yeah, how do I know you ain’t just makin’ all that stuff up?”  The big man said.  He leaned forward slightly, bringing his face uncomfortably close to Mark’s.

               “W-well, I guess technically you kind of don’t?”  He said.  He hoped there was another answer, but he couldn’t think of any at that moment.

               “So you are lyin’ then?”  The big man said.

               “No no, I didn’t say that.  I’m telling the truth I swear.  It’s just that you just met me and all so you don’t really know that I’m honest.  Which I am.”  He added that last sentence quickly so as to avoid digging his own grave too deeply. 

               “Aw jeeze, now I don’t know what ta think.  You lyin’ or not?”  The big man said, backing off again and scratching his head.

               “I say we just take ‘im out and be done with it.”  Said another gang member.  This one was a girl that was clearly not someone to be messed with.  The spiked gloves she wore attested to that well enough, even without the myriad of scars across her face. “If he’s one of Benny’s boys, then we get rid of a problem.  If he ain’t, oh well.  We dump him and move on.”

               “You know what?  I like that plan.  I like it a lot.”  Said the big man.

               “I don’t.”  Mark said pitifully. 

               “Too bad.”  The big man said.  He held his hand out behind him and one of the other gang members gave him a thick metal pipe.  Mark’s eyes widened with terror and he renewed his efforts to find some kind of opening that he could use to run.

               The big man reared the weapon back and Mark covered his head with his arms in a desperate action to defend himself.  The pipe flew down and struck home.  Nothing happened.  Mark uncovered his head and looked up.  He had definitely been hit with something, but it wasn’t metal.  The big man held the pipe to his head as if waiting for him to do something.  He took a closer look at the weapon, only to find that it was made of rubber.  He looked at his attacker confused.

               “Well?”  The big man said expectantly.

               “Well…what?”  Marks said.

               “That was a kill shot.  You have to fall now.”

               “Huh?”  Mark asked, more confused than ever.

               “Dude, you’re dead.  You gotta drop.”

               “What are you talking about?”

               “Hey Dale, I think he’s a bystander.”  Said the guy with the chains.  The big man looked at Mark critically and then backed off.

               “Er, are you playing?”  He asked.

               “Playing what?”  Mark asked.

               “Oh geeze man, I’m sorry.”  Dale said, suddenly looking a lot less dangerous.  “You came here and I just thought you must be playing on Ben’s team, so I just kind of went with it.”

               “Wait, team?  You mean this is some kind of game?”  Mark asked.

               “Oh yeah.  It’s a LARP system we’re trying out.  This is our first play test.”

               “I told you we shouldn’t have done this in public.”  Said the scarred girl.  “Hold on, I’ll call Ben and tell him to put things on pause.” She said as she took out a cell phone and made the call.

               “A game.  Really?” Mark said.

               “Oh sure.  You must not be a LARPer.  See, we dress up in costumes and stuff and act out parts.  It’s like being in a big improve play, except we get to hit people with stuff.”  Dale said.

               “Well, that’s a bit of a relief.”  Mark said, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down.

               “Wait, you thought this was real?”  The chain guy said.

               “Well, yeah.  I mean, wouldn’t you?”

               “Not in this city.  It’s like you said.  The worst crime you see out here is J-walking and littering.”

               “I don’t know.  I take it as a compliment.”  Said one of the other players, another girl this time.  “It means our costumes are good and we acted it out right.  That’s like, the best thing that could happen.”

               “So, do you guys do this a lot?”  Mark asked.  He only wanted to know so that he knew where not to go.

               “Oh sure.  Not this game though.  This is kind of something we’re making up ourselves.  Why?  You interested?”  Dale said, looking very hopeful when he asked.

               “Uh, no thanks.  I don’t think this is really my thing.”  Mark asked.

               “That’s cool.  It’s not for everyone.  But if you ever change your mind, you know where to find us.”

               “Oh yeah, sure.  I’ll uh…I’ll think about it.”  Mark said. 

               He started moving away from the group of gamers.  Although he now knew that they weren’t dangerous, he still didn’t exactly want to stick around.  The group moved aside and let him pass, and soon he was free.  He got as far away from them as quickly as he could, telling himself not to go around that area again, just in case.

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 What do you think?  Can a LARP game like this be doable?  All it takes is the right kind of person to find out.  Unfortunately, that's not me, so I just have to content myself with writing about it.