Word: Vulpine

vulpine

/ˈvʌl paɪn, -pɪn/

adjective

1. of or resembling a fox.

2. cunning or crafty.

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               “Daddy, look what I made!” The boy said as he ran up to his father.

                In the boy’s hands was a crude sculpture made out of Play-do.  It was a mash-up of different colors and had the rough appearance of some kind of animal.  Its body was a mangled mess of yellow, blue and red, and had a lumpy, oddly shaped tube like body.  Each of its four legs was a different color, length and thickness, and each had a misshapen paw like piece on the bottom.  The head was long and angular red clay, ending with what had to be a snout of some kind, and two angular ears made of pink clay, each a different size.  The tail was a bulbous mix of blue and green, and stuck straight up from the base of the body.

                “That’s really great, buddy.” The boy’s father said.  Of course he did not mean it, but he could hardly tell a six year old that the work of art was bad.  In fact, if his mother had any say, it would probably be displayed in a place of honor on a table or bookshelf. 

                “Can you guess what it is?” The young artist asked.  He bounced on his heels as he asked.

                “Well, sure.  It’s…” The father hesitated for a moment.  “It’s a fox, right?” It did have a kind of fox-like body if he looked at it the right way.  He just hoped if his guess was wrong, his son would not be upset.

                The boy giggled.  “No.” He said, still smiling brightly.

                “It’s not?  Then what is it?”

                “You hafta guess.”

                “Is it…a dog?”

                “Uh-uh.”

                Those were the only two animals he could think of that even remotely resembled the boy’s sculpture.  Unless it was not an animal that existed in real life.  Knowing his son, it could easily be an imaginary made up animal.

                “Is it a real animal?” The father asked.

                “Uh-huh.”

                That took away his excuse for not knowing.  If it had been imaginary, he could at least give the excuse of not knowing what it was, since it only existed in the boy’s mind.  But if it was a real animal, there was no excuse.

                He thought about it as long as his son’s expectant gaze would allow him.  He could not think of single animal other than a fox or some kind of dog.  It partially resembled those, at the very least.  He decided to at least say something.

                “Could it be…a wolf?”

                The boy laughed.  “No.” He was smiling widely.  At the very least the boy was enjoying himself.  That was something.  “Do you give up Daddy?”

                “I think so, kiddo.  What is it?”

                “It’s a cat!”

                “Really?  A cat?”

                “Yup.  See?  It has the ears and the tail and the feet and everything.”

                “Oh?  Oh.  Now I see.  It’s a very nice cat, buddy.”  It looked nothing like any cat he had ever seen, even when allowing for a child’s less than stellar sculpting skills.  “Hey, why don’t you go show Mommy, and see if she can guess.”

                The boy agreed and ran off to find his mother, leaving the man to wonder what cat the boy had been thinking of when he made the figure. 

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I've said it before, and I'll probably be saying it again:  Always encourage children's artistic abilities, even if it's not exactly good artwork.  You never know where it might lead in the future.

               

 

Word: Ort

ort

/ɔrt/

noun

1. Usually, orts. a scrap or morsel of food left at a meal.

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                The bell rang.  The two servants stood and prepared to enter the dining room.  They got their buckets and rags ready, waiting long enough for the master to leave the dining room.  The two of them went in and looked around.  Most of it was clean, and the master had dined alone.  Not much to clean today.

                Then they saw it.  The master’s plate, not yet cleared.  Upon it was some of his leftovers.  Not much.  Just a few scraps of gristly meat and a crust of bread.  But to the servants, it was a feast.  A true luxury compared to the dried bread and plain porridge they usually got.  There was only one problem:  There was only enough for one of them. 

                The two servants looked at each other, sizing up the opponent.  Their stomachs growled like dogs after a bone.  They would have made a mad dash for the plate, but that could lead to beatings.  No, they had to clean the entire table starting from the far end before they could even think of getting to the plate and the morsel of food it promised.

                The two men stood on opposite sides of the table.  An unseen, unheard signal was given, and the race was on.  Each servant cleaning as quickly as he dared, while still leaving the table and everything on it spotless. 

                Each of them knew the other.  They were both equally skilled at the art of cleaning.  They moved at the same pace, neither gaining the upper hand.  Then, one of them made the first move.  He tilted his head up, ever so slightly, as if there was something behind the other man.  The trick worked.  It was but a momentary pause as the man could not help but look behind him, but it was enough for the trickster to pull ahead.

                The other servant, now losing, thought furiously even as he cleaned his way towards the prize.  He smiled.  He stopped cleaning, held his hands in front of him and bowed his head.  The leading servant panicked.  Was it a trick?  Or was the master really behind him.  He did not take his chances.  He mimicked the pose for several seconds.  It was enough for the tables to have turned, and places switched.

                The two men used every trick they could think of to slow the other man.  Each one knew they had to be the first to get to the plate.  Tricks were used wordlessly.  Eyes and stomachs roared.  Then, they made it.  They had cleaned the entire table, save for one spot.  The master’s spot.  And there was the plate.

                Both made a grab at the now cold food.  Before either could lay a finger on the scrapes, another body rose up between them.  The master’s dog had entered the dining room and sniffed out the food.  It quickly grabbed up the bread and meat, chewing them contentedly while lying on the floor.  The servants could only watch the animal eat, and then leave the room without a care in the world. 

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You had to know they weren't getting those leftovers.  It just couldn't end any other way, could it?  Well, I guess it could have, but what fun would that be?

Word: Code-switching

        

code-switching

/ˈkoʊdˌswɪtʃ ɪŋ/

noun

1. Linguistics. the alternating or mixed use of two or more languages, especially within the same discourse: My grandma’s code-switching when we cook together reminds me of my family's origins.

Bilingual students are discouraged from code-switching during class.

2. Sociolinguistics. the use of one dialect, register, accent, or language variety over another, depending on social or cultural context, to project a specific identity:

Politicians use code-switching on the campaign trail to connect with their audience.

3. the modifying of one's behavior, appearance, etc., to adapt to different sociocultural norms:

For many female Muslim students, code-switching from their home environment to that of school requires forgoing the hijab.

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               “ I really hate it here.” The man said. 

                “I know, dear, I know.” The woman replied. 

                “Seriously, I don’t know how these people can tolerate this place.”

                “Well they can’t really help it, can they?  It’s not like they can leave.  They just make do with what they have.”

                “Can’t…right, of course.  I almost forgot how backwards these…people are. God this place is terrible.  Why did we even come here?”

                “You know why.  And don’t be such a downer.  It’s not that bad.  Sure the people are a little simple, and they don’t have much in the way of technology, but it has its charm.”

                “Charm?  These people are terrible.  So brutal and animalistic.  I doubt they even count as people.”

                “Now that just is not true.  They have feelings just like we do.  And I know you don’t like this place very much, but you’re just going to have to adapt.  We’ll be here for awhile, so we have to blend in as much as possible if we want everything to go smoothly.”

                “I know, I know.  But I don’t have to like it.”

                The man looked around.  Everything he saw disgusted him.  His mind reeled with how the locals lived. 

                “But do we really?”  He asked.

                “Really what?”

                “Do we really need to stay here?  With these people?  We can leave at any time, and you know it.  It wouldn’t even be that hard.  Sure the trip is a little long, but so what?  It’ll be worth it to get out of this backwater dump.”

                “You know why we can’t leave.  We have to stay here.  We need these people.  So get over yourself.  We have to act like they do, or else they’ll be too scared of us to do anything.  We can’t have that, so buck up and at least try and act like they do.”

                “What if I don’t want to act like them, huh?  Would that be so bad?  I will say this for them, they don’t immediately lock up people who act different.  Unless I do around yelling at clouds or something, they’ll probably just look at me funny and then move on.”

                “You have a point.  But no.  It’s best not to attract too much attention.”

                “Can we at least wear real clothes?  These things are uncomfortable.”

                “You think you have it rough?  Look at what I’m wearing.  Just…just tolerate it, okay?  I’ll admit I’m not thrilled to be here either, but it’s a necessary evil.”

                “Fine, fine.” The man’s shoulders slumped in resignation.  He could not go against her anyway.  Not if he wanted this trip to be even remotely tolerable anyway.  He huffed and looked around.  “Still, I can’t believe we have to be here with these…primitives.”

                “Now, now dear.  You don’t have to go that far.  You can at least call them by their name.”

                “Do I have to?”

                “Not all the time.  Probably not to their face anyway.  But yes, they do call themselves something.  You can at least try to use it as something other than an insult.”

                “Ugh, fine.  Humans.  Even the name is terrible.  The sooner we get off this damn planet and somewhere with actual civilized people the better.”

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What did you think it was?  I mean really, given some of the other stuff I've written, could it have really been anything other than aliens?  Well, i suppose it COULD have been something else, but where would the fun in that be?

Word: Fusillade

fusillade

/ˈfyu səˌleɪd, -ˌlɑd, -zə-/

noun

1. a simultaneous or continuous discharge of firearms.

2. a general discharge or outpouring of anything:

a fusillade of questions.

verb (used with object), fusilladed, fusillading.

3. to attack or shoot by a fusillade.

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              “Sir, are you sure you want this many troops for this?  I mean, there’s only two of them.” The Captain asked.

                He gazed out through the powerful military binoculars at the target.  They were small, and did not seem at all threatening.

                “Absolutely positive.” The General replied, looking at the same thing through his binoculars.  “Trust me, we need to be extremely careful with those two.”

                “But, sir, they look so…harmless.  I mean, look at them.”

                “Captain, do you know what those two did?”

                “No, sir.”

                “Those two broke out of a secure facility.  A facility specifically designed to contain the worst our army has to offer.  And when I say broke out, I mean it in the most literal sense.  That facility has doors that can stand up to missiles without buckling, and those two plowed through them without slowing down.  So yes, Captain, I am sure we need this many troops.  In fact, if anything, we don’t have enough.”

                “Y-you have to be kidding me, sir.  There’s no way those two can do something like that.”

                “Does like look like the face of someone joking, boy?” The General asked his subordinate.  The older man’s face was covered with hard lines developed by years in the service.  And there was not a bit of humor in his cold eyes.

                “N-no, sir.” The Captain said quickly.  “It’s just that…well…”

                The General held up his hand, stopping the thought from being spoken.  “I know.  I know what they look like.  But make no mistake, they might look innocent and playful enough, but they’re monsters.  They have no remorse, no limits, no restraint.  Right now, those two are the most dangerous things in the world, and there’s nothing controlling them.  We are the only thing keeping them from destroying the world.”

                The Captain shivered.  He looked at the targets again.  They were running around the otherwise empty field.  Then they spotted the gathered army.  One of them pointed in out and said something to the other.  They laughed and started running towards the gathered war machines and troops.  They ran haphazardly, and stopped often to look at something that caught their eye.

                The General raised his hand, signaling the troops to ready themselves.  The infantry trained heavy assault rifles as the approaching figures.  Many of them shouldered rocket launchers and RPGS instead of guns, all trained on the two approaching targets.  Tanks crews loaded the heavy shells and the turrets swiveled into position.  None of them knew they were aiming at the two small forms approaching them, but orders were orders.

                The General shouted and dropped his fist.  The air rang out with the sound of gun and cannon fire.  The continuous stream of bullets and shells sped through the air, looking to hit the targets almost immediately after being fired.  The air around them filled with smoke and dust.  That was soon replaced by bouts of fire as rockets struck home. 

                From the flames emerged two small bodies, unharmed by the assault.  The General ordered the troops to keep firing.  To shoot as long and as often as they could.  Despite the sheer number of guns unloading a countless number of high-caliber bullets into the targets, they kept approaching.  Tank shells struck the small bodies without any signs of damage.  Rockets exploded almost continuously to no effect.  The endless assault did nothing to deter the approaching forms. 

                After several minutes of continuous attack, the two figures reached the first line of the army.  What ensued was not a battle.  It was a massacre.  Men were flung around like toys.  Tanks were ripped apart with the ease of paper.  Heavy equipment was destroyed and bodies flew into the air.  Soldiers ran for their lives, only to be mowed down be a piece of a tank that had been thrown at them, or else the body of another soldier. 

                The Captain looked on in horror at the devastation that was happening.  He was sorry he had ever doubted the General’s words.  It was far too late to regret it though.  Far too late for anything.  The two destroyers ran through the army, sewing carnage as they passed.  It was not long before they got to the Captain.  He pulled out his sidearm and fired, knowing it was useless.  He had to do something though.  Something to slow down his own demise even for a second.

                As his feet left the ground, the Captain looked at the face of his killer.  The face which he had thought was so innocent and harmless that it could not have done any damage.  The smiling, laughing face of a six-year old child.  

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The day little kids get super powers is the day the world as we know it ends.  Think about it.  A normal six-year old has no concept of restraint, so they go all out in everything they do.  No imagine that, plus the ability to lift cars.  Yeah, it's not pretty.  It will be a grim day in the lives of candy and toy shop owners everywhere should that ever come to pass.  A grim day indeed.