Word: Numismatic

 

numismatic

[ noo-miz-mat-ik, -mis-, nyoo- ]

adjective

1. of, relating to, or consisting of coins, medals, paper money, etc.
2. pertaining to numismatics.

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Peter was dead. He was quite sure of that. He remembered the one who killed him. He remembered the method of his death. He could at least take pride that he had gone down protecting his family. At least, he hoped he had. And that was the problem. He was dead, and yet he could still think. He was still aware of things. Everything he knew about the universe told him that should not be true. He should have simply stopped existing after he died.   

He looked around, which was something else he should not have been able to do. He was in what looked like an office waiting room. Rows of chairs along two of the walls. An immaculate tile floor. Inoffensive artwork. The works. Peter also saw he was not alone in the room. A woman in a crisp, neat business suit stood there, holding a clipboard. Her hair was tied back in a professional bun, and she wore a set of rimless glasses, although Peter questioned whether they were functional or ornamental, given how thin they were. 

“Mr. Peter Mayweather?” She asked. 

“Uh...yes?” 

She made a note on the clipboard. She looked up at him, gave him a smile that she had clearly spent many hours practicing, and then started speaking. 

“Welcome to Afterlife Services, where we provide the very best care getting you used to your life after life. We aim to sort you into your best afterlife, setting you up with a profession, lodging, and even some initial social connections. With our help, you really can Rest In Peace.” 

Peter had not been expecting to hear a business plug after he had died. The woman had clearly said that hundreds, if not thousands of times before. 

“Uh...okay?” Peter said. “So, I really am dead?” 

“Only physically. The rest of you, the part that really matters, continued on to here, the afterlife.” 

“Even though I didn’t believe in any of that stuff?” 

“What you believed in is largely irrelevant. It does play into who you’ll be meeting up with as your initial social contacts, but that’s about it. Now then, shall we get you sorted? Let’s start with profession, shall we?” 

“I’m dead and I still have to work?” 

“It’s not as bad as it sounds.” She said without missing a beat. Peter figured it was probably a common question. “We can set you up on a non-work pass, but it gets boring fast. Trust me, I tried it myself. It was great for the first few decades, but after that? Well, there’s a reason I’m here and not drinking by the pool anymore.” 

“Got it. So, what am I doing?” 

“Let’s see...” The woman flipped a page on her clipboard. “A banker, a coin collector. You really like money, huh?” 

“It was handy to have. And the coins were just because I thought the history could be neat.” 

“Of course, of course. Hm, speaking of history, a bit of a mythology buff as well, I see. And had a knack for keeping track of little details. I know just the position. You’ll be in our Coin Management Department.” 

“Coin Management? Like the Ferryman of Styx?” 

“Exactly like that. Of course, we’re not keeping track of literal coins here. Check your pocket.” 

Peter did so. He pulled out a coin, slightly bigger than a quarter. And it had his face on it. He flipped in over, and it showed a house. The house he grew up in. The house shifted to a scene of him as a child, playing with toys. 

“That is called an Obol.” The woman said. “Everyone has two. The one in your hand, and the one in our care. I can take you to see where yours is right now, if you’d like. You’re entitled to see it any time.” 

“So, what do they do?” 

“A lot of things. Most of the time, they act like identification. We compare the coin in your hand to the one we have in stock, and if they match, there’s no problem. That’s what happens most of the time, by the way. But they have some other wonderful traits. I’ll give you the full list of what your Obol does later. Anyway, the Coin Management Department is one of our most important positions. They keep track of every single Obol we have. They store, sort, collect, and retrieve Obols whenever needed. There’s a slew of other duties as well, but you’ll hear about those from the department managers. Sound good?” 

“Sounds daunting. But I guess it could be interesting.” 

“I thought you might think that. Now then, let’s move. Next up is finding your perfect residence for your stay here in the afterlife. Now, let’s take a look.” 

As she flipped another page, Peter’s mind churned. This was not at all what he thought the afterlife would be. Mostly because he did not even think there was one. He just hoped it would not be as bad as his actual life was.  

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I'm not sure if I want there to be an afterlife or not. And if there is, I just hope it's not as dull as my regular life has been so far. That'd suck.

Word: Samara

 

samara

¹

[ sam-er-uh, suh-mair-uh ]

noun

Botany.

1. an indehiscent, usually one-seeded, winged fruit, as of the elm or maple.

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It was the perfect day for a hike. The sun was out, but it wasn’t too hot. The perfect temperature, the end of summer and beginning of fall. The leaves had not yet started to change, but there was a cooling breeze in the air. 

Mary led her daughter, Cassie, through a well-used hiking trail. She took a deep breath, savoring the crisp air. It was not something she got much of. Cassie ran around, looking at every plant, rock and root she could. Given where they lived, all this nature was new to the child, and she took it all in with the fascination only a six-year-old could muster. 

“Mommy, what’s this?” Cassie asked, running up to Mary.  

In her hand was a small maple seed. She held it up to her mother with curious eyes. 

“That’s a seed, sweety. It’s from one of these big trees.” 

“It’s a tree? But it’s so little.” 

“Trees don’t start off as big as these.” Mary said, going to one of the tall plants. “They start out really teeny tiny and spend a long time growing. Even longer than you will.” 

“But how come it looks so funny?” 

“Throw it up and see how it comes down.” 

Cassie did just that. The seed spun through the air as it fell. The girl watched and a big smile came to her face. She raced along the ground, collecting more of the seeds. When she had a handful, she tossed them all up at once at watched as they spun. Cassie giggled as she ran to get more. 

“They’re like helicopters, right?” Mary asked. 

“Uh-huh.” Cassie said, tossing another batch into the air. 

“Seeds come in all shapes and sizes, and each one is a different way of traveling. Plants like trees have to spread out, right? So, they do a lot of things. Some get animals to help them move. Others are so tiny that the wind can carry them. These spin around, which helps them fall slower. That way, they can travel farther away from the tree.” 

“Really? So can I take some? I can plant them and that’ll make a bunch of new trees at home, right?” 

“Oh sweety, I wish we could. We don’t have enough room for a big tree like one of these.” Mary said. Her daughter looked crestfallen. “But you can take a few seeds and play with them while we’re here, okay?” 

“Okay.” Cassie said, looking at the ground.  

“Sorry, sweety.” Then she got an idea. “Maybe you can take one and put it in a small cup with dirt, and then the next time we visit grandma and grandpa, you can plant it in their yard. They have a lot of space for trees to grow.” Plus, it would help her mother work her green thumb with something that could survive if she forgot a few things. 

“Really?” Cassie immediately brightened up. 

“Yup. Now go get a few good ones to take.” 

Cassie ran around, gathering seeds and looking at them. Mary had no idea what the girl was looking for, but Cassie chose some and discarded others. As she watched her daughter, Mary couldn’t help but smile. This really was the perfect day. 

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Remember playing with these guys? I do. They were great fun as a kid. I had no idea they were seeds though. 

Word: Pelagic

 

pelagic

[ puh-laj-ik ]

adjective

1. of or relating to the open seas or oceans.
2. living or growing at or near the surface of the ocean, far from land, as certain organisms.

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The weather was nice. For now, anyway. But the man wouldn’t put much stock in “for now.” Ocean weather was notoriously fickle. He had learned that was true of any ocean, no matter what planet it happened to be on. He had once thought that being an all-ocean planet would help keep things somewhat stable. That hope had gone out the window in the first three days. 

But it did give him some time to do things. His boat needed maintenance after the last storm, and now was the time to do it. Or at least enough to see him through the next storm. He got to work, mending what he could and doing his best to salvage what he could not. He needed to make everything last as long as possible and even broken parts could have some use. 

It was not like he could just go to the nearest dock and get repairs, after all. He had lost count of how long it had been since he saw anyone. Since he had seen anything other than sky and water. Forget about other humans, even the native animals seemed to avoid him.  

The last living thing he had seen was that monstrous creature that looked like the unholy hybrid of a squid and a shark had been enlarged to the size of a whale. Luckily it had been quite distant and not interested in him or his small boat. Of course, now he would rather take his chances with that beast than just wait for his supplies to run out.  

It took him several hours to get anything in working order. Or as much as he could without any new materials or equipment to use. It would hold, at least. A brief glance at his improvised fishing line at the back of the boat told him he would have to eat rations again. He sighed and hid under one of the few remaining overhangs. 

Why had he agreed to come on this voyage? See an alien world, they said. It’ll be an adventure, they said. Now he was stranded in an endless ocean with dwindling supplies, no way to contact anyone, and no chance of rescue. 

A cool ocean breeze blew through his little shelter. He groaned and stood. The wind meant weather was on its way. He needed to make whatever preparations he could. He grabbed his tools. He paused. 

Why was he still doing this? As far as he knew, nobody even knew he was still alive. And even if someone did, the odds of rescue were essentially zero. This ocean, this planet, was going to kill him. If the storms didn’t get him, the local wildlife would. And if even those failed, well, he only had so much food and water left. Why should he prolong his suffering? Why not just let it happen? Go to sleep. Take one last nap before the upcoming storm caused his boat to break or him to fall overboard. That way, at least it would all be over. 

He sighed. No. No, he could not let himself just give up. Some bit of human stubbornness refused to let the planet win without a fight. He would lose eventually, sure. But he would at least go down swinging. He left his small shelter and got to work, preparing for whatever the vast, endless ocean could throw at him. 

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Ever played Subnautica? It's a good game, but not for the faint of heart. I've played and beaten it, but not its sequal. At least not yet. Maybe someday I'll revisit that one.

Word: Stilted

 

stilted

[ stil-tid ]

adjective

1. stiffly dignified or formal, as speech or literary style; pompous.
2. Architecture. (of an arch) resting on imposts treated in part as downward continuations of the arch.

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The two teens shuffled and twitched. Neither of them fit quite right in their stuffy, stiff clothing. They pinched in some places, pulled in others, and were oddly loose in yet more. All-in-all, a very poor wearing experience. And what made it worse was that all the adults seemed just fine in the idiotic getups. Or at least, they were better at pretending they were. 

“So, why are we here again?” Jack asked.  

“Seriously? We’re already here and you’re asking that?” Diane replied. “That’s the sort of thing you ask before we get here.” 

“I did ask. A bunch of times. My mom and dad just gave me these vague non-answers and shoved this...thing at me while telling me I had to wear it.” 

A worried look came to Diane’s face. “Really? Mine did the same thing. You...you don’t think this is some weird cult thing, do you?” 

“I hope not. At least not the death cult kind. Or the ‘give all your stuff to some guy’ kind of cult.” He paused for a moment before saying anything else. “I think I can handle the kind with huge org--” 

Diane elbowed him in the side, cutting him off. “Don’t even think about it. Anyways, what I want to know is why we have to wear this kind of outfit. I mean, it’s straight out of a ren faire or one of those period dramas.” 

“Not even. At least those looked kinda fun. These are just awful.” 

“At least you don’t have to wear a corset. I feel like I’m being squeezed through a tube.” 

At that moment, the lights were turned off. All the adults looked excited. A spotlight shown on a stage. A man, dressed in even more elaborate outfit, and even a small mask, walked out on stage. All talk stopped as the man came into the light.  

“Greetings, my friends. Lords and Ladies, young and old, new and returning. I am pleased to welcome you all to our fine event. Here, you shall experience wonder and finery like you have not experienced in your lives.” 

The man continued to speak in a formal, highbrow tone. His words were, in some places, almost as stiff as their clothes. Jack and Diane looked at each other. The man kept talking about things like “discovering yourself” and “finding a new life to live.” 

The two teens leaned in and whispered. “Cult?” Jack asked. 

“A really weird one.” Diane agreed. “We gotta get out of here.” 

“Oh yeah, for sure. Shouldn't be too hard. It’s dark and everyone’s focused on the stage.” 

As the speech went on, several more people, dressed as old, classical servants, came out from various doors. Each one carried a wooden bowl. As they went around, the adults reached in and pulled out a slip of paper. Some seemed happy with what was written on them, others were annoyed or even frustrated. But none argued.  

When the staff came over to the two teens, the thin man looked at them, then reached for two cloth pouches at his waste. 

“These are for young ones of your age.” He said, holding one out for each of them. “Please pick one and have a wonderful time. 

Jack, not knowing what else to do, picked one. He pulled out a slip of paper and read it. “Squire? What the hell?” 

Diane followed suit. “Lady in waiting? What’s a lady in waiting?” 

“A high-class servant to a member of royalty, such as the queen or princess” The staff member said. “Those will be your roles for the night. Enjoy.” 

As the staff member left, the two of them looked from their papers to each other. Jack’s eyes widened with realization. Diane was practically shaking. 

“We were wrong. It’s not a cult.” He said. 

“Yeah. It’s so much worse.” She agreed. “It’s...it’s an improv theater group.”  

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I wouldn't mind doing one of these once. I'd be really bad at it, but at least it'd be entertaining for a night or two. Probably not any longer than that though.