Word: Homologate

homologate

[huh-mol-uh-geyt, hoh-]

verb (used with object)

homologated, homologating 

1. to approve; confirm or ratify.

2. to register (a specific make of automobile in general production) so as to make it eligible for international racing competition.

 

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                “Next!” called the woman behind the counter. She spoke in a thick Boston accent and had the look of someone who had stopped caring about social niceties twenty years ago.

                A young man wearing a colorful costume strode proudly to the counter. He cut a heroic figure and clearly knew it. He opened his mouth to speak, but the woman spoke faster.

                “Name and powers?”

                “I am Captain—“

                “Your real name.” She said, cutting him off. Suddenly, the man looked much less assured of himself. He looked around nervously at the people behind him in the line. The woman let out a heavy sigh. “Nobody here gives a damn. Your real name.”

                The large man leaned in close and spoke quietly. “Edward Smith.” He leaned back and spoke proudly again. “And I possess tremendous might, the ability to soar the skies and—“

                “Rejected. Next!”

                “What? But I—“
                “I said rejected.”

                “But—“
                The woman’s glare was more potent than any weapon known to man. The large man withered and left without another word.

                “Next!” She called.

                The next man in line stepped forward. He wore a much more normal outfit of jeans and a T-shirt and seemed like a fairly normal person by most metrics. He eyed the rejected superhero hopeful curiously. He had been in line long enough to see many others just like him.

                “Name and powers?”

                “Uh, Troy Celmont. I can generate and control energy barriers. I can give them some different properties, but that’s hard to do.”

                The woman typed furiously on the small computer in front of her. She muttered to herself for a moment.

                “Maximum range of effect?”

                “Right now? 50 feet, but I can only generate them about 5 feet away from myself.”

                More typing. “Speed of travel?”

                “I don’t know the exact numbers, but I can get them moving about highway speeds. A little more if I’m really pushing it.”

                Another series of typing. “Approved pending further testing. Please proceed to the door marked Applicant Testing for further instructions.”

                Troy blinked a few times. “So does that mean I’m in?”

                “No. It means you get to the next round. You’ll get approved or rejected there.”

                “Oh. Okay then. Uh, can I ask why you rejected the last guy? He seemed to fit the hero bill.”

                “We don’t need anyone with his powers right now. Chump’s got the most common powers in the world and thinks he’s special. You got something a little more in need, so you get the approval. Now get outta here. You’re holding up the line.”

                “Oh, right. Sorry.” Troy said. He started heading to the door the woman had indicated.

                As he did, he glanced behind him. There were a lot of people in line still. And a lot of them looked remarkably similar to the man who had gotten rejected. He gave them a quick, silent wish for luck and headed off. He had barely taken five steps when he heard the call of the woman behind the counter.

“Next!”

Word: Agrestic

agrestic

[uh-gres-tik]

adjective

1. rural; rustic.

2. unpolished; awkward.

   agrestic behavior.

 

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                The family entered the cabin and looked around. The parents, Julie and Will, looked around with dubious appreciation. The two teenagers, Christie and Jim, looked around with obvious disdain. The cabin was not that bad by most metrics. It was not very big, but it had enough bedding. Mostly anyway, since one of the beds was just a pull-out couch bed. It had running water and functioning electricity. Really, it had everything one could need. It was sparsely decorated, mostly with wood carvings and various animal parts on the walls. The floors were bare, with no rugs or carpets. The windows were slightly cloudy and had unobstructed views of the surrounding woods, no matter which window one looked out.

                “Well, this is...nice.” Julie said.

                “This place sucks.” Christie replied.

                “Hey now, it’s not that bad.” Will replied. “It’s...rustic.”

                “It’s a serial killer cabin.” Jim said. He was already looking at his phone, even before putting his suitcase down. His sister huffed her own unique form of agreement.

                “Oh, it’s not that bad.” Julie said.

                “I’m serious, Mom. This is the kind of place where a serial killer will hang out. No cell service. Nobody around for miles. I don’t think there’s even one of those old landline phones. It’s the perfect place for some guy with a knife or something to kill all of us.”

                “All the more reason why we should go and get a hotel.” Christie said. “It’ll be way nicer than whatever this is.”

                “Okay, first of all, there aren’t going to be any murderers of any kind out here.” Will said. “People know where we are, we have the means to contact someone, and there are other cabins like this one.” He pulled out a large, bulky satellite phone made for use in the cabins, setting it one the table. “And second, Jim, put the phone away. That’s one of the reasons why we came out here. Giving you two some time away from the screen will be good for you both.”

                “Oh, please, Dad.” Christie said, rolling her eyes. “Like you aren’t looking at your computer just as much as we do.”

                “Well it’ll be good for all of us. Now put them all away. Turning them off will be best, but just down will do for now. Let’s unpack and see what there is to do around here.”

                “Other than get killed by a psycho?” Jim said. Everyone else chose to ignore that.

                “Ah, here we go.” Julie said, looking at the small, and very old, fridge. There was a handwritten sheet of paper attached to it that she was reading from. “There’s a long list of hiking trails for all experience levels. Several swimming areas. And in town, there’s several museums, public gardens and nature trails. We’ll have plenty to do out here.”

                The two younger members of the family did not seem convinced. Both of them thought it would be easier, and safer, to stay in town instead of the woods. But there was no convincing the older two members. Now that their grievances had been voiced, it would be better to just put up with it. At least for now. Neither doubted that there would be a lot more to find fault with once it came time for dinner.

Word: Interlard

interlard

[in-ter-lahrd]

verb (used with object)

1. to diversify by adding or interjecting something unique, striking, or contrasting (usually followed by with ).

   to interlard one's speech with oaths.

2. (of things) to be intermixed in.

3. Obsolete.,  to mix, as fat with lean meat.

 

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                The experiment was so close to working. He could feel it deep inside. The two cultures were pressed up against each other, a clear demarcation between them. But that was not enough. He needed them to mix. If he could only get them to do that, then so many great things would be unlocked.

                The problem was how to get them to do what he needed them to. Simple mechanical mixing did nothing. All that caused was the two cultures to spin around each other. It made some nice patterns, but that was it. Temperature control likewise did nothing. No, he needed something else. Some third substance that would play well with both and coax them into intermingling.

                Finding that substance was easier said than done though. He poured over the data his work had provided. The computer ran thousands of simulations a minute, each with a different substance as a catalyst. None of them were promising though. He was not sure if that was due to a limit of the computer, or because nothing would do what he needed it to. There was only one thing he could do. Get in the lab and find out for himself.

                Getting to the lab was easy enough for him, and he was soon looking down at the lone Petri dish that housed his latest work. Behind him was a slew of chemicals, lined up in well labelled flasks. He spoke into a recording device and began. His first test proved fruitless. The two cultures ignored the added chemical completely. Undaunted, he kept going.

                He removed the chemical and added another. That proved just as effective as the first. As did every single other chemical and material he tried. The two cultures remained both inert and separate. He racked his brain, trying to figure out what to do. He tried adding several chemicals at once to no effect. He tried using a variety of methods. Mechanical, thermal and chemical methods were all attempted in different combinations. Nothing.

                His heart raced. His stomach clenched. Panic set in. Was this it? Had he come so far, only to fail? No, there was no way that was true. But nothing was working. Maybe they were just never meant to combine. Maybe they were fated to be forever separated. But he could not bring himself to believe that. Not fully.

                He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, not caring about the normal lab safety practices. A few seconds later, something caught his eye. Motion in the dish. It wasn’t much, but something was happening. At the lower edge of the dividing line between the two cultures, it seemed like there was something new. A third culture was forming. They were mixing. It was not a lot, only at the very edge. But it was something.

                But what was causing it? Nothing he had tried previously had worked. He rushed to find a magnifier and trained it on the area. There, at the boarder between the two was a hair. A single hair from his own head. It was a shorter hair, but it was there. And something about it was causing the reaction. Tentatively, he plucked another hair and dropped it in. It took a moment to start, but the reaction was there, and undeniable.

                He let out a whoop of triumph. He had no idea what substance in the hair had caused the desired reaction, but that did not matter. At least, not right now. That could be determined in later tests. Right now, all that mattered was that he had succeeded. And no, so much more could be done. His work was just getting started.