Word: Lucubrate

lucubrate

[loo-kyoo-breyt]

verb (used without object), lucubrated, lucubrating.

1. to work, write, or study laboriously, especially at night.

2. to write learnedly.

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                Dr. Tellman hunched over the desk.  He scribbled furiously on a sheet of paper, and then looked up to one of the man books scattered haphazardly around his desk.  His eyes darted around the page, desperately looking for what he needed.  The words seemed to blur and run together as he read.  He forced his tired eyes away from the page.  He pushed up his glasses to rub the sleep from them before returning to his task.

                “Are you still working?” A voice asked. Dr. Tellman ignored the speaker.  He wasn’t in the mood to deal with his colleague.  “That isn’t healthy.  You should really go home and get some sleep.”

                “No.  I can keep going.”

                The speaker moved to Dr. Tellman’s side.  The man, Dr. Fisher, looked at what Dr. Tellman was working on and sighed.  “You aren’t going to find a solution when you’re in such a bad state, you know.  It’ll probably do more harm than good.”

                “I have to keep going.  I don’t have enough time to rest, you know that.”

                “Yes, yes, I know.  But you won’t do her any good like this.  Look, if you haven’t found a cure now, you never will.  But if you go home and sleep, you can come back, refreshed, and ready with fresh eyes.”

                “But what if something happens while I’m sleeping?”

                “Then something happens.  That won’t change just because you got some shut eye.  Besides, this disease is slow.  It won’t suddenly get worse in a few hours.”

                Dr. Tellman knew his colleague was right.  His wife’s illness wasn’t something he could cure in a night, and it would still be there, relatively unchanged, tomorrow.  Even knowing that, he couldn’t just leave her.  The cure had yet to be discovered, but he was on the right track.  He knew it.  If he kept working, he might discover something that could save her life.  But if he went to sleep, he would lose his train of thought.  He would forget and the cure would be lost forever.

                “No.  No, I have to stay here.  I’m onto something, I know it.” Dr. Tellman said.

                “Any cure you’re about to find will be there tomorrow. And it’ll probably be easier to see.  You’ve taken lots of notes, right?  So then you won’t really lose anything by getting some rest.  It can only lead to good things.”  Dr. Fisher looked over the books his sleep deprived colleague was studying.  “Besides, you probably won’t find anything in those books.  They’re long out of date, and most of the information in them has been disproven.  If you weren’t so tired, you’d have seen that.”

                Dr. Tellman paused his writing to look over the book he had been using.  Some of them were older than he was.  He knew the information was useless, yet he couldn’t help but hope for something.  None of the newer, more accurate books held any hope anyway.

                “All right, fine.  I’ll...I’ll go home.” Dr. Tellman said.

                “Good, good.  You’ll feel better after a good night’s rest, I promise.”

                “But what if it doesn’t help?  What if I can’t find the cure in the morning?”

                “Ten your notes will help the next person.  And if they fail, they’ll help the next one, and the next one.  Who knows?  Medical science might never find the cure.  But the point is that we’re trying.  Your wife would understand that, wouldn’t she?”

                “I suppose so.”  Dr. Tellman stood and gave one last look at his stacks of books and papers.  Something at the bottom caught his eye.  “I have to clean up here, then I’ll go home.”

                “Alright.  Just make sure you’re not here when I arrive in the morning, okay?”

                “Of course not.”

                Dr. Fished slowly left the room, keeping an eye out to make sure Dr. Tellman was indeed cleaning his research material.  Once he was out of sight, Dr. Tellman sat back down and pulled the loose sheet of faded, yellowing paper out from under the pile of books.  It was much different than the others for a variety of reasons.  Dr. Tellman smiled.  Dr. Fisher had been right.  Medical science might never find a cure for his wife.  But there were other things in the world that might.
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 At a glance, curing all diseases might seem like a great, noble thing, but when you really think about it, it's not so great.  If every single illness in the world was cured, then so many things would go wrong.  Every single industry reliant on illnesses would all but disappear, leaving millions unemployed.  The human population would skyrocket, leaving so many issues with resources.  And those are only the things I can think of off the top of my head.  I'm sure people much smarter than me would be able to come up with more.

Word: Honorific

honorific

[on-uh-rif-ik]

adjective

1. Also, honorifical. doing or conferring honor.

2. conveying honor, as a title or a grammatical form used in speaking to or about a superior, elder, etc.

noun

3. (in certain languages, as Chinese and Japanese) a class of forms used to show respect, especially in direct address.

4. a title or term of respect.

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                The well dressed boy knocked lightly on the heavy wooden door before entering.  George wished he wouldn’t do that.  The whole point of knocking was to ask for entry, and yet the boy used it more like an announcement of his presence than anything else.  It was probably partially George’s fault though.  He was the one who insisted on keeping the door open in the first place.

                “M’lord, I have news.” The boy said.  George cringed.

                “What did you just say?” He asked.

                “I-I have news, sir.”  The boy repeated nervously.

                “No, no.  Before that.  What did you call me?”

                “M’lord?”

                “Yes, that.  Don’t call me that.  Ever.”

                “But…but m—“

                George turned and shot the boy a piercing glair.  The boy stopped talking immediately.

                “You must know by now I hate being called a lord.  It irks me.”

                “But, sir, it is your title.”

                “No, my title is not lord.  My title is Duke, and that’s no fault of mine, I assure you.  And before you get any ideas in that little head of yours, don’t call me duke either.  That irks me as well.”

                “But then, what shall I address you as?”

                “Well, I always did find my name to be a decent one.  Start with that.”

                The boy looked horrified.  “But…but for one such as me to call you by your name.  It would—“

                “Yes, yes, I know.  It would be a scandal.  A terrible thing that would result in you being banished.  Or something like that.  Am I right?”  The boy nodded.  “Well, frankly, I don’t care about any of that.  Besides, right now, there’s only two people here.  And since I’m the one telling you to call me by my name, you can be reasonably assured that you will not be lynched for it.”

                “But…but…”  The boy clearly was not convinced.

                “Look, if it makes you feel better, it’s not just you.  I ask all my employees to call me by my name.  I know it’s improper, but all those titles and honorifics just get to me.  I don’t like them and I doubt I ever will.  So, just call me by my name.”  The boy looked at his shoes and shuffled his feet.  “If it makes you feel better, you can still call me by my title in public.”

                “Yes…”  The boy paused.  His mouth contorted and shifted around before continuing. “George.”  He cringed, like he was expecting to be struck by lightning at any moment.

                “There, you see?  That wasn’t so hard, was it?  Oh, yes, you can answer freely.”

                “In that case, it was very hard.”

                “It’ll get easier, I assure you.  Now then, what was it you wanted?”

                The boy thought for a moment.  Whatever news he had brought had gotten lost in his young mind.  His eyes lit up when he remembered.

                “Oh, yes.  I have news, George.”

                George smiled at the boy’s use of his name.  “What is it then?”

                “You have received an invitation to the royal hunt.  The king himself wishes you to join him in three days at the royal palace for ox and deer hunting.”

                “Is that so?  Huh, imagine that.  I thought he’d never ask.  Too many people to invite, you know.  Well, I guess I’d better get ready.  Don’t want to keep Julian waiting, now do I?”  The boy’s eyes opened wide.  To mention the name of a duke was one thing, but the king?  That was very nearly blasphemous.  “Something wrong?  Oh, yes, of course.  You wouldn’t know, would you?  Our illustrious King Julian hates being called by titles and honorifics  even more that I do.  He’s just better at hiding it.”

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Pretty sure being called by a title all the time would get on my nerves after awhile as well.  I know it's important in some cases, but I can imagine it'd get annoying after hearing it enough times.

Word: Simoleon

simoleon

[suh-moh-lee-uh n]

noun, Slang.

1.

a dollar.

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                “So, how much did you pay for this again?”

                “One dollar.”

                “You’re kidding, right?”

                “Nope.”

                “Seriously?”

                “Yeah, seriously.  The guy only wanted a dollar for it.”

                “Wow.  That’s, um...”

                “Great, isn’t it?”

                “I was going to say suspicious, but yeah, that too.”

                “Suspicious how?”

                “Well, come on, you can’t tell me you didn’t have a problem paying a single dollar for that.  I mean, come on, it’s worth hundreds, at least.”

                “I think he was just being nice.”

                “No way.  There’s got to be something wrong with it.  Maybe it’s broken.”

                “No, it works just fine.  I tried it out before I bought it.”

                “Huh.  Weird.  Does it smell bad like cat pee or something?”

                “Smell for yourself.  It doesn’t have any weird smells.  It’s not falling apart either.”

                “Maybe it’s stolen?”

                “Nah.  If it was stolen, they guy would probably have wanted more than a buck for it.  I mean, it takes a lot of work to steal something like this, you know?  He’d probably have asked for at least a hundred if it was stolen goods.”

                “I…guess that’s kind of true.  But that still doesn’t change the fact that it’s suspicious.”

                “You’re just jealous, aren’t you?”

                “Wh-what?  Why would I be jealous?”

                “Because I got this for pretty much nothing, and you wish you’d have had that chance.”

                “No way. I wouldn’t have taken it, for one.”

                “Yeah, right.  Like you wouldn’t have jumped on this the first chance you had.”

                “No, I wouldn’t.  It’s just not right.   I mean, why would anyone sell this for a dollar?  I reeks of a scam.”

                “There’s no scam.  It was just a nice guy selling something for way less than it’s worth.”

                “Yeah, see, it’s that whole nice guy thing.  I don’t buy it.  Nobody’s that nice.”

                “Well, this guy was.”

                “I bet it’s bugged.  Like, there’s cameras and listening devices all around it, and it’ll pick up on everything you do so he can steal your identity or something.”

                “You know, I hadn’t actually thought of that.  I guess that’s a possibility.”

                “Yeah, and he only charged you a dollar so that he had more to steal one he got into your bank account.”

                “But then how would he do that?  I mean, it’s not like I’ll be saying my pin number out loud when I use it or anything.  And there’s no way I’ll be saying any passwords or my social or anything like that.”

                “Ever fill out a check around it?”

                “Uh, once or twice.”

                “There you go.  The checks have your account number on them.  Once he knows that, he has you.  Once he gets into your bank account, it’s all over.”

                “Oh come on, it can’t be that easy.  I mean, I just have to cover up the bottom numbers, right?”

                “You can’t have them covered up all the time you know.  Eventually, it’ll see those numbers, and if a camera happens to be pointed at it, you’re done.”

                “Wow.  That’s kind of scary.”

                “Kind of scary?  It’s downright terrifying.  You should get rid of this thing ASAP.”

                “But it’s so nice.”

                “Yeah, but your financial security could be at risk.  And besides, it’s not like you paid a lot for it.”

  ****************************************

The thing that they're talking about and the people who are talking are pretty much any object and any people you want them to be.  That's the fun of writing this kind of story.  It's as many stories as there are readers. 

Word: Fletcherize

Fletcherize

[flech-uh-rahyz]

verb (used with or without object), Fletcherized, Fletcherizing.

1. to chew (food) slowly and thoroughly.

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              The youth groaned and opened his eyes.  He slowly sat up and clutched at his stomach.  He felt a stinging pain there, but it wasn’t because of any injury h had suffered.  He was painfully hungry.  And, from the way his throat and mouth felt, just as thirsty.

                “Easy there, lad, easy.”  A big but friendly voice said.  “You’ve been out for awhile now.  Best not to push yourself too much right after waking up.”  The man who spoke had the thick accent of a northerner, but it wasn’t so bad that the boy couldn’t understand his host.

                The boy tried to ask where he was, but no words came.  His throat and tongue were too dry to form anything that could be considered words. 

                “Don’t try and talk.  You’ve been out a good week.  I don’t doubt you’ve got a mighty thirst to deal with before you can say anything, am I right?”

The boy nodded.  The man stood and made his way through the room.  The boy’ eyes followed the large, sturdy man through the simple dwelling.  The man picked up a small bucket and brought it over to the boy.  The youth could tell right away what was in it.  He made a sound and reached for the life giving water, but his host refused to give it to him.

“Now let’s not be hasty then, yeah?  Best not to drink too fast.  Don’t worry, I’ll give you your fill, just not all at once.  Here, drink from this.” 

The big man dipped small ladle into the bucket and brought it to the youth’s lips.  The boy drank the offering quickly, and kept trying to drink even after the ladle was empty.  His host refilled the ladle as many times as the boy could drink it down, and soon enough he felt able to talk.

“Thank you.” He said.  His voice was thin and hoarse, and his throat still felt like it was filled with sand. 

“Of course, of course.  And don’t worry, my wife’s getting some good food ready for you, but that’ll be awhile yet.”

The youth’s stomach roared at the mention of food.  His thirst had yet to be fully slaked, and his stomach still demanded to be filled.  The boy felt his face turning red.  His host just laughed heartily at the sound.

“No need to be embarrassed, lad.  Like I said, you’ve been out for a week.  It’s only natural you’d be hungry as well.  Don’t worry though, the wait is worth it.  My wife’s the best cook you’re ever likely to meet, lest you be dining at some palace somewhere.” That wasn’t likely, given the youth’s situation.  “For now though, we should at least know what to call each other.  Name’s Gavin.”  He said with and outstretched hand.

The youth was hesitant to answer.  “Jack.”  He said, taking the offered hand.  His small hand was completely enveloped by that of his host. 

“Good to meet you, Jack.  Now then, might I be so bold as to ask what happened to you?  I’m not normally one to pry, but a man sees a boy lying unconscious outside his door, and well, he gets a bit curious.”

Jack looked away from his host’s eyes.  The big man looked rough, but he had warm, friendly eyes.  It would be hard to lie to eyes like that.  It was hard enough to give a false name.

“Ah, don’t worry about it.  Everyone’s entitled to their own secrets” Gavin said, picking up on John’s hesitance.

“Oh my, is he finally awake?” Said a woman from the door.  She had the same accent as Gavin did, and sounded just as friendly.  “Oh dear, now I’m wondering if I made enough.”

Jack turned to face Gavin’s wife.  She was much different than her husband.  While Gavin was tall and thick, his wife was small and slender.  She wasn’t a great beauty, but she had her charm.

“Ah, don’t worry about it, love.  I’m sure whatever you’ve got will be fine.” Gavin said.  “Ah, yes, this is my wife, Maddy.  Lovely, isn’t she?”

“Oh stop it you.” Maddy said though red cheeks and a light smile.  “Hold on then, the two of you.  I’ll be right back.” 

She disappeared into the room she had exited from and came out holding a small pot.  The smell of meat, potatoes and other vegetables wafted from it, and John’s mouth started using up what little water his body had been given.

A simple wooden bowl and spoon was given to John, and the former was filled with good, hearty beef stew.  John eagerly scooped up as much as he could and shoved it in his mouth.  It filled his throat too much, and he coughed much of it back up.  Both his hosts laughed at that.

“Take it easy now.” Gavin said.  “I know you’re hungry, but it’s best not to eat too fast.  You’ve got to let it sit in your mouth for a bit.  Take small bites and chew them up good.  That’s the best thing for you now.  Eat slow, let every bite get soft in your mouth before you swallow it.  That’s the way to fill your belly properly.”

John nodded and followed the advice of his host.  Sure enough, chewing each small mouthful as thoroughly as possible made it much easier to eat.  And he had been right about Maddy’s culinary skills as well.  The stew was simple, but full of rich flavor.  He wondered that it had been made with such simple ingredients.

“Feel better then?” Gavin asked.  John nodded.  “Good, good.  Maddy, you have another success under your belt.”

“I do what I can.” She said.

“And then some, I’m sure.  Now then, John, I’m wondering where you came from.  I won’t ask what happened to you, but from the way you were dressed, I’d say it was somewhere far from here.”

John didn’t see the harm in telling that much.  “Greevin.”

“Long way away.  Well, I won’t ask what made you come all the way out here, but what did you do for your work?  Well, I’d say you’re an apprentice, yeah?  So, what were you working towards?”  John said nothing.  He couldn’t say.  “Ah, that’s fine.  We just met, after all.  Take your time answering.  As for me, I’m a Fletcher.”  He said.  John looked behind the big man.  Long sticks and piles of feathers and twine covered a small table in the corner.  “If you’d like, you can stay, and if you have the need to do something with your hands, you can help me with that.  At least until you’re ready to move on, of course.”

“Y-yes, yes, that’d be fine.” John said.  He had rarely worked with his hands in such a way before, but it couldn’t hurt.  Manual dexterity was an important part of his real profession anyway.

Gavin seemed very happy with John’s answer.  John wasn’t so sure if he was doing the right thing though.  He knew he shouldn’t stay any longer than was needed to recover.  Every day he remained in Gavin and Maddy’s care was a big risk, not only to himself, but to them as well.  After all, for normal folk like them, no good could come of knowing a magic born.  

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You know, it's funny how a few letters can change a word's meaning so much.  A Fletcher is, as shown in this story, a person who makes arrows.  But just three letters change it into something completely different.  Heck, it even sounds like it should be the process by which an arrow is made, but it's not.  And these aren't the only words out there like this either.  Larrup and larruping are the same.  Larrup means to beat or thrash, while larruping means very or exceedingly, with an implication of something good or exciting.  

Ours is a funny language, isn't it?