Word: Transmundane

transmundane

[trans-muhn-deyn, tranz-; trans-muhn-deyn, tranz-]

adjective

1. reaching beyond or existing outside the physical or visible world.

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Issar sat in an uncomfortable cross-legged manner.  His legs were threatening to cramp up, and his back was too stiff.  The hard stone floor did not help much either.  But, he had to be there.  It was for one of his finals, after all.  It was just a shame it was for his least favorite class: Astral Projection.

               He had never been able to get the skill right and had yet to actually release his astral form in any class so far.  But, this was the final, and his grade depended on it.  If he could successfully astral project here, then he could at least walk out with a non-failing grade for the class.  If he did not perform, well, he would have another year to get it right. 

               And so far, it was not looking good.  His astral senses were as attuned as any other students, so he could feel the others taking the final all succeeding.  He could feel their astral forms shifting around him, and he was absolutely sure they were all making fun of him.  And why shouldn’t they?  Astral projection was a basic skill that any student of the Arts should be able to do with only minimal training.

               But, Issar was in the vast minority that was seemingly unable to do so.  He still tried though.  He forced his mind to quiet itself, with little success.  Then he called on his inner self and tried to once again force it out of his body.  He used every trick he could think of.  Using more power, opening the Gates wider, and even trying to “bribe” himself with the promise of a sweet snack later.  Nothing worked.  No matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he forced it to work, he simply could not release his astral self from the confines of his body. 

               He was about to give up when a stray thought entered his mind.  Maybe he was not trying hard enough.  Maybe he was trying too hard.  He thought back to what the teachers had said about the skill.  Astral projection was a Soft Art and needed to be treated differently than the Hard Arts that Issar favored.  Hard Arts needed to be beaten into submission before they would work.  They had to be used with strength and force to make them do anything.  Issar was good at that.  He knew exactly what he needed to do to get his Hard Arts to work.  It made him one of the best combat students in the school. 

               But Soft Arts needed to be coaxed out in different ways.  They needed to be let free to do as they wished.  They needed to be left alone to get started, and then gently guided into the shape the user wished.  That was much harder to Issar than it was to others.  It seemed almost counterintuitive.  How could you get something to do anything without telling it what to do?

               Nevertheless, with a quick breath, he gave it a try.  He simply stopped trying to get his astral self to come out.  His breathing slowed, and his mind went blank as he stopped forcing the thoughts away.  Then he felt it.  A cool chill running along his spine, like someone running a cold finger up his back.  Instead of following his gut to resist the sensation though, he simply let it happen.  Then he felt nothing at all.

               When Issar opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was himself, sitting cross-legged on the hard stone floor with his eyes closed.  He looked around and smiled.  He could see the previously unseen astral forms of his classmates.  He could see the Astral Flow, gently moving through the air.  He could see Spirits dancing among the students, most of whom danced along with them.  All the things that existed just outside the material realm were now visible to him.  He smiled.  He had done it.  He had finally learned how to astral project. 

               And more importantly, he would not have to take the class again. 

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 Honestly, I'm not sure if I would do very well in a class like this, even if it existed.  I could never sit in that position for very long, and I definitely wouldn't be able to stop thinking about it.  I have no idea how people can sit that way for long periods of time.  It just seems unpleasant to me.

Word: Turophile

turophile

[too r-uh-fahyl, tyoo r-, tur-]

noun

1. a connoisseur or lover of cheese.

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“What is that?” Victoria asked.

               One hand was pointed at the pan filled with pasta and bright yellow sauce.  She pointed at the wrist, while keeping the rest of the arm close to her body, supported by her other arm, which was wrapped around her body.  Her look spoke of scorn at everything the dish was.

               “Mac and cheese.” Tony answered.  He chose not to respond to the manner in which the question was asked.

               “Mac and cheese, you say?  As in that…base dish macaroni and cheese, am I correct?”  Tony nodded.  “And where, pray tell, is the cheese, exactly?”

               “It’s in the sauce on the pasta.” Tony was more curious why his house guest would ask such an obvious question.

               “You mean to tell me that that yellow…sludge is cheese?” Victoria asked, moving her pointing finger in small circles in the general direction of the still steaming pan.

               “Yup.”

               Victoria scoffed.  “That is not cheese.” She said simply.

               “Yes it is.  Let’s see, sharp cheddar—”

               “Cheddar!” The lanky woman looked like she was about to faint at the very mention of the word.  “Do you mean to poison my child and I?”

               “What?”

               “My apparently not-so-good man, cheddar can hardly be called cheese.  Why, it is as much cheese as a hot dog is a steak.  Oh yes, they contain the same rough base ingredients, and perhaps even some production methods, but one can hardly call a hot dog a steak, now can one?”

               “Uh, no?”

               “Precisely.  And yet you mean to tell me that cheddar is a real cheese?”

               “Well, yeah.”

               “Oh, you poor, misguided soul.” She said, clasping her hand to her heart.  “You have no idea.  The world has claimed another innocent victim.  Next you’ll tell me that you consider, ugh, Velveeta to be cheese.”

               “Eh, more like cheese adjacent, really.  If it helps, there’s none of that stuff in here.”

               “Oh?  Well, I suppose that’s…something then.  Is there any real cheese in that…monstrosity?”

               “Uh, well, there’s cheddar—”

               “I don’t count…that.”

               “Okay.  Well, I’ve also got Monetary and Coby Jack in there.”

               “Ugh, American made cheeses.  It makes me weep that such things are even allowed for public consumption.”

               “Hey now!  You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

               Victoria let out a long, exaggerated sigh as she looked as Tony with a mixture of scorn and pity.  Tony had not been aware that those two could be mixed at all.  And yet, there it was.

               “Oh, you poor, deluded man, you.  You have no idea what real cheese even is, do you?  Let me educate you.  Nothing made in the US can be considered a real cheese—”

               “Cheddar comes from England.”  Tony said with a slight curl of his lips.  Victoria froze with her mouth hanging open.

               “What?”

               “Yeah.  Cheddar originated in England.  Sure, a lot of what we get here comes from Vermont and Wisconsin and stuff, but it definitely started in England.”

               Victoria looked unsure of herself.  “Well now, that just cannot be correct.”

               Tony was already pulling out his phone to show her.  Her eyes scanned the information and widened the more she read.

               “But…but cheddar is a base cheese.  Hardly worth being called cheese at all.” She said, much less certain. 

               “Really?  Because there’ve been cheddar cheeses that win all kinds of awards for fine cheese.  Here, look.”

               Once again, Victoria read with defeat in her eyes.

               “No, no.  This…this can’t be true.  It just…it just can’t.” She said.  It looked like a core part of her being had been forcibly removed.  “I mean, the US made American cheese.  How could they do anything right?”

               “American cheese isn’t the end all be all of what our fine nation produces.”

               Tony collected a plate, a fork, and a large serving spoon.  He plated a fairly small portion of his mac and cheese and placed it at the nearby table.  She stared at the pile of yellow pasta with a mixture of emotions coloring her face.

               “Now, why don’t you have a seat and try some.  If you honestly hate it, then we’ll talk more.  If you like it though, well, maybe the world of cheese is a bit bigger than you think it is.”

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Who doesn't love a good mac and cheese?  I know I do.  

Also, this.  Enjoy!

Word: Antigodlin

antigodlin

[an-ti-god-lin]

adjective Southern and Western U.S.

1. lopsided or at an angle; out of alignment.
2. diagonal or cater-cornered.

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The noise outside was getting far too distracting.  It was enough that Penny finally got up and closed the window.  It did not completely silence the noise, but it made it quite a bit more bearable.  Her task done, she started back towards the comfort of the couch.  She saw something out of the corner of her eye that gave he pause though. 

               It was a piece of abstract art that she and her roommate, Beth, had bought on a whim.  It was a horrid thing, really, filled with clashing colors and random patterns.  Beth said they needed some color though, and this seemed as unobtrusive as anything.

               Penny looked at the picture and tilted her head, first to one side, then the other.  She considered it for a moment before speaking.

               “Hey, Beth, does this look crooked to you?”

               “Hm?” Beth replied, looking up from her small laptop.

               “This painting.  It looks crooked to me.”

               Beth slid out of her chair and started towards the picture.  “That can’t be.  I just hung it yesterday, and it was straight then.”

               When Beth joined her roommate, she to tilted her head from side to side.

               “Huh.  You know what, I think it is a bit tilted.”

               The room fell relatively silent as the two young women regarded the off-kilter painting, tilting their heads from side to side.  Penny scratched the side of her nose idly.  Beth did the same to the top of her head. 

               “Should we fix it?” Penny asked.

               “Probably.”

               More silence.  This one lasted for nearly a minute.

               “You know, I think it looks better like this.” Beth said.

               “Huh?”

               “Yeah.  You know, brings it more, I don’t know, meaning?  Impact?  Something like that.”

               “So, should we turn it more, do you think?”

               Beth tried it.  She tilted the small painting as much as the cheap hanging wire would allow.  The two of them looked at the new orientation of the piece of artwork.

               “Nah.  Not like that.” Penny concluded.  “Try the other way.”

               Beth did just that, and once again, the painting was looked at in silence. 

               “I kind of like it like this.” Beth said.

               “Really?”

               “Yeah.  Gives it another dimension.”

               “Eh.  Looks the same to me, but tilted.” Penny replied.  “I mean, I don’t really care, but I’m just saying.”

               “You have to look at it right, I guess.  Here, look at it like this.”

               Beth shifted Penny’s head, so that it was tilted against the painting.  Penny held her head like that for a moment.  It just made her confused.  She shrugged her shoulders.

               “We can leave it like this, I guess.” Penny said.

               The wall fell away.  It simply separated from the rest of the building, leaving the two women standing there, blinking against the sudden influx of light and sound.  A man dressed in red, gold and blue spandex flew by, his form a blur.  He charged at a large robot that was positioned a block away, standing in the remains of the wall.  People screamed as the robot launched some kind of beam weapon at the flying man.

               Beth and Penny groaned in unison. 

Beth trudged back into the remainder of the apartment, sat down and took up her laptop.

               “I’ll start looking for a new place.”

               Penny looked at the rubble that used to be their wall.  She shrugged.

               “Meh.  I never liked that painting anyway.”

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Bet you didn't that that one coming, did you?  Did you?  Please tell me you didn't see it coming.  I need this.  (Okay, maybe not, but I'd still like to know)