Word: Hoary

hoary

[ hawr-ee, hohr-ee ]

 

adjective, hoar·i·er, hoar·i·est.

1. gray or white with age: an old dog with a hoary muzzle.

2. ancient or venerable: hoary myths.

3. tedious from familiarity; stale: Please don't tell that hoary joke at dinner again tonight.

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               Jeff glanced at the clock hanging over the door. Had it really been an hour he got on line? It felt like more. It was moving, but at a glacial speed. Still, he was getting closer. He had to be. He peaked out around the people in front of him, seeing the end of the line.

               The woman at the desk was old, in several ways. She sported a loose bun of grey hair. Her skin was wrinkled and weathered. But it was her eyes that really gave away her age. They were tired eyes. Eyes that had been going on for far too long. Eyes that seemed just as dead as alive.

               The person talking to the worn old woman finally finished his business. The well dressed man stepped away, and the line inched forward. The woman’s mouth moved. Speaking words she had no doubt spoken countless times. Words as stale and dry as year old crackers. He could not hear what they were yet, but he knew he would soon. Probably once another five or six people had taken their turns at the front of the line.

               As he got closer, he could see more of the woman. It was not just her hair that had lose its color with age. Her skin was pale. Her lips were cracked and colorless. Even her clothes seemed faded from the passage of time. She was a living testament to time itself. A reminder that it is unceasing and uncaring. That all stories, interesting and dull, grow weary and tired when told enough times.

               He got closer. The woman’s voice was audible now. The words were nothing special. Giving a set of instructions for whatever the person across from her wanted done. It seemed like this mostly involved filling out a small stack of forms and bringing them to a different counter. The voice delivering these tedious words was thin and hoarse. The voice of someone who had spoke often and loudly, until she could not do so anymore. The voice of someone who no longer cared what she spoke of, for all the words that mattered have already been said.

               He wondered what those eyes had seen. What stories she had to tell. What kind of life did that woman lead to lead her to this desk, in his office, in this part of the country? Has she always been a dull person who was content to sit there and answer questions? Or did she used to be an adventurous woman who would go out and challenge the world until age forced her to sit back? Her appearance gave no clues to either of those, or to any other possibility.

               Eventually, Jeff stood in front of the woman. She gave a tired, slow blink as she looked at him. Her eyes were indeed hollow. Without emotion or the spark of life. But they still worked. The woman started speaking, giving her memorized lines to him. He paused before answering. Should he ask about her past? What she had lived through? What she had seen or done? Should he get her story?

               A cough behind him was a quiet reminder of where he was. He gave the old woman his request. She replied with her long list of forms to fill out. Then he stepped out of line. As the next person stood where he just was, he made up his mind. He would get her story another time. 

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Not much to say today. So I'll just say this: Don't mistreat public servants. They have a draining job and really don't want to deal with uncooperative and unpleasant people any more than you do.

Word: Approximate

 

approximate

[ adjective uh-prok-suh-mit; verb uh-prok-suh-meyt ]

adjective

1. near or approaching a certain state, condition, goal, or standard.

2. nearly exact; not perfectly accurate or correct: The approximate time was 10 o'clock.

3. near; close together.

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               The two men looked out over the cliff. Below them was a sea of bodies. Monsters of all shapes and sizes. They trampled the ground as they moved, roaring and screeching and crying. None of those monsters had seen the two observers. At least, not yet.

               “So, we have to get through them.” One of the men, Larr, said.

               “Yup.” The other man, Terai, replied.

               “Why do we have to do that again?”

               “To deliver critical intelligence that, if not delivered, could easily result in the death of anything that isn’t a monster.”

               “Oh yeah. That.”

               They were quiet, listening to the cacophony below them.

               “We’re going to die if we go down there, aren’t we?” Larr said.

               “Yep.”

               “Do you think there’s any chance we survive?”

               The smaller man thought for a moment. “I’d say the odds of survival are approximately…zero.”

               “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

               The monster horde was moving at a slow pace. Where it was moving was anyone’s guess. Well, anyone except Larr and Terai. And that was exactly the problem.

               “We could try and go around them.” Larr suggested.

               “Do you have any idea how big this army is?”

               “Nope. Do you?”

               “No, but I’m pretty good at guessing.”

               “And?”

               “And by the time we make it, it’ll be way to late to get anywhere important in time.”

               “We can’t just sit here.”

               “I know.”

               Each man took a few minutes to think of a plan. Neither got very far.

               “Messenger bird?”

               “We don’t have one.”

               “Disguises?”

               “Nobody to be disguised as.”

               This went on for several minutes. Each man came up with several ideas. The other shot those ideas down. There were simply too many monsters, and too much variety among them. They ended up just sitting, legs dangling over the cliff. None of the monsters were looking up, and stealth was neither of their strong suits, so they did not bother to hide.

               “It’s hopeless, isn’t it?” Terai said.

               “Yup.”

               “The entire world of man, gone because we couldn’t deliver a message.”

               “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

               Larr leaned back, changing his view to the sky. It was a mostly cloudless sky, and the sun was shining brightly. The only clouds there were long thin and meandering. The sight of them stirred something in him.

               “Hey, Terai?”

               “Yeah, Larr?”

               “There’s a river not too far away from us, right?”

               “Hm, I’d say about two miles west.”

               “And it’s flowing mostly south, right?”

               “Yeah?”

               “That’s the direction we need to go, isn’t it?”

               “Yeah, but we don’t have a boat, and the hoard made bridges, so that wouldn’t get us through.”

               “Not us, no.”

               He let the words hang. Terai picked up on his meaning immediately.

               “I guess it doesn’t need to be us specifically who get the message out, does it?” He said.

               “No. It doesn’t.”

               The two men nodded and stood. Larr took his water skin out and emptied it, working to dry out the insides as much as he could. They placed the message in the skin. Then they wrote out their final words. With that done, they started walking. There was nothing else they needed to do, or say. They just needed to deliver the message, no matter the cost.

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Messengers have a tough job, especially in a world without modern technology.

Word: Monsoon

 

monsoon

[ mon-soon ]

 

noun

1. the seasonal wind of the Indian Ocean and southern Asia, blowing from the southwest in summer and from the northeast in winter.

2. (in India and nearby lands) the season during which the southwest monsoon blows, commonly marked by heavy rains; rainy season.

3. any wind that changes directions with the seasons.

4. any persistent wind established between water and adjoining land.

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               “You can’t do this, Matt. You shouldn’t do this.” Nathan said.

               “Why not?” Matt replied simply. He went over the stores of supplies housed in his kayak.

               “Because it’s suicide, that’s why. I know you’re an adrenaline junkie, but this isn’t the kind of thing you walk away from.”

               “It’s just a little wind and rain. No different than white water rafting.”

               “A little? It’s a monsoon, Matt, not some little summer drizzle. These things kill people. People that are on land and in shelter. You’ll be out in the middle of it, completely exposed.”

               “Not totally exposed.”

               Matt zipped up his weather gear. The thick rubber suit covered his entire body. It even had a full head mas that would leave only his eyes exposed. And even then, he would wear protective goggles. He would get a little wet, but that was fine. That was part of the thrill.

               “You’re joking, right? Are you asking to die? Because if you are, I’ll take your paddle and brain you with it. It’ll be faster and easier. If you go out there, you’ll be hit by everything nature has to offer. The rain will be like needles. The wind will be moving as fast as most cars. And since you’ll be out in the open, the chances of getting hit by lightning are damn near certain. I wouldn’t be surprised if you capsize thirty minutes in. And that’s only because it might be a bit weaker at the boarders.”

               “And if I do, I’ll right myself and keep going.”

               “You say that like it’s easy.”

               “It is. I’ve done it before.”

               “Not in a gods damned storm, you haven’t. Look, I know you’re nuts. I know you get off on dangerous things. But this isn’t just dangerous. It’s deadly. There’s not safety net. Nobody will be out there to help when you get into trouble.”

               “If. If I get into trouble.”

               “No, Matt. When. When you get into trouble.”

               Matt finished stowing and checking his supplies and equipment. Everything was secure. Even a full flip wouldn’t dislodge it. He then went to check his kayak. His trusty boat that he had taken on every water based adventure he had ever had for years. He knew it would not let him down.

               “Look, Nathan, I appreciate you worrying about me. I really do. But you won’t talk me out of this. I’m doing it, no matter what you say. I know it’s dangerous. That’s the point. I know there’ll be nobody to help. That’s part of the fun. I’ll go out, ride the storm and all its fury, and then come back with one hell of a story. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. And I’ll always count on you to be there, telling me what a terrible idea it is.”

               Nathan rubbed his forehead. He did not have a headache, even though he felt like he should.

               “I’m really not going to convince you not to do this, am I?”

               “Do you ever?”

               “No. But I can hope that you’ll figure out how dumb these things are before one of them kills you. Probably this one, actually.”

               “You’ve said that before.” Matt said. He cast his gaze to the horizon. The storm was forming. Even miles away, the wind was starting to pick up and the air was getting more humid. It would not be long. “And I always come back. Now get inside. Stay warm. Stay dry. I’ll see you when the storm ends.” 

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I'll never understand adrenaline junkies. People who go out of their way to do stupid, dangerous stuff for the thrill of it. It's not my idea of fun, that's for sure.