Word: Consent

consent

[ kuh n-sent ]

verb (used without object)

to permit, approve, or agree; comply or yield (often followed by to or an infinitive): He consented to the proposal. We asked her permission, and she consented.

Archaic . to agree in sentiment, opinion, etc.; be in harmony.

noun

permission, approval, or agreement; compliance; acquiescence: He gave his consent to the marriage.

agreement in sentiment, opinion, a course of action, etc.: By common consent he was appointed official delegate.

Archaic . accord; concord; harmony.

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              Chris rapped the pen against the table quickly as he looked at the paper.  He would have preferred to be actually reading it, but the words were tiny.  So small that he would need a magnifying glass to have any chance of seeing what was written, and even then it would be difficult.  The only part that was easy to read was the last line, with the words “sign here” printed in neat letters next to a large blank space.

               “Look, it’s not hard.” The woman sitting across from him said.  “Just sign your name and you’ll get everything you’ve ever wanted.”

               Chris looked at the woman.  She made a tempting offer.  After all, when faced with a woman more beautiful than any super model, there were a lot of things he wanted.  But his rational mind was suspicious.

               “So, I sign here, and you’ll do anything I want?”

               “That’s right.  That little sheet of paper is my letter of consent to give you anything and everything.  I will happily do whatever you ask, and give you whatever your heart desires.”  She leaned forward and looked him in the eye.  It allowed him to see quite a bit of a certain area of her body, helped by the low cut of her blouse.  It made it very hard to concentrate.  “And I do mean anything.”

               He looked again at the paper, and then at the woman.  It was too good to be true.  And that was a dangerous thing.

               “Anything, huh?  What about something that doesn’t exist?”

               “It will once you ask for it.”

               Chris could do a lot without the limits of reality.  There were a lot of fun toys that existed only in his mind.  And if she could bring them to reality, then there really were no limits on what he could do.  He could change the world.  He could solve so many problems.  Go down in history as the man who ushered forth a new golden age. 

               “Look, it’s easy.” She said.  “Just sign and anything is possible, no matter how trivial or how grand.  You want a good slice of pizza?  Done.  You want to be the king of the world?  I can make that happen.  And I’ll do it all with a smile on my face and not a bit of argument.”

               There had to be something else.  Something more.  Something she was not telling him.  Such an offer made no sense.  She was basically agreeing to be his magical slave woman with no benefit for herself.  Nobody did that.

               “What’s the catch?” Chris asked.

               “Catch?”

               “You make a good offer, you really do.  But there’s no way this is free.  There’s a price to this, I know it.”

               The woman leaned back.  Her face never shifted.  Never betrayed what she might have been thinking.  “Well, there is a small price involved.  Oh, but it’s so small that you really won’t care.  I could go into detail, but really there’s no need to.  It’s all written down in black and white.”

               And in such small lettering that it was effectively impossible to read. 

               “You’re not going to take my soul or anything, are you?”

               The woman laughed lightly.  “Your soul?  Good lord, no.  What ever would I want with that?  I’m not a demon, you know.  A human soul is completely useless for me.  Like I said, the cost to you is tiny.  Insignificant.  Really, I’m damn near losing out with this deal.  My willing servitude for the rest of your life in exchange for something so small you probably won’t even know it’s missing.  I mean, what do you have to lose?”

               Chris looked into her eyes.  Eyes that seemed to cast a spell on him with their brilliance.  He sighed and lifted his pen to the paper.

               “Okay, sure.  Might as well give it a shot and see what happens.”

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Remember kids, if something seems to be too good to be true, it usually is.  Especially when it involves contracts with people with supernatural powers.  Those never go well for anyone but the person offering the deal.

Word: Camp

camp

[ kamp ]

noun

a place where an army or other group of persons or an individual is lodged in a tent or tents or other temporary means of shelter.

such tents or shelters collectively: The regiment transported its camp in trucks.

the persons so sheltered: The camp slept through the storm.

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               The camp was silent.  The only sounds were of the flickering fire in the center and the myriad insects that buzzed and chirped around the people occupying the area.  There were five of them, all of whom were too busy thinking to say anything.  The silence was broken when one of them finally said something.

               He was a large man, powerfully built.  He leaned against his large tower shield that he had stuck into the ground for just such a purpose.  When he spoke, his voice was thin and weak.  Much weaker than one would think for his size.  And yet, it seemed to echo like a gong through the otherwise silent camp.

               “What now?”

               The two words broke the silence for but a moment.  It returned quickly as the others considered his question. 

               “We have to do something.  We can’t stay here.” The shield user said, once again breaking the silence.

               “What can we do?” Another asked.  This one was on the shorter, plumper side.  He bore no weapon, but the scent of herbs, ash, and a small hint of viscera wafted from his robes, and the bottles he had tied to his belt. 

               “It’s obvious.  We have to press on.”  The man was tall and wiry.  He had a bow resting next to him, although the quiver near it was empty of arrows.  The archer had a thin stick resting on his lap, half whittled into a roughly arrow shape.  “We can’t stay here, and we can’t go back.  It’d ruin our reputation.”

               “So does dying.” The lone woman of the group said quietly.  Her once white robes had been colored red.  She held a thick oak staff with a large crack running along the side of it.  “We’re down five of our number, we’re tired, low on combat supplies, and some of us have broken weapons.  We have to return.”

               “I can replenish my arrows.” The archer said.  “And you don’t really need a weapon to do your job.  All you have to do is stay back and heal us.  No weapon needed.”

               “It helps.” The healer said.  “Trust me, without a staff, my spells won’t be nearly as effective.  Now, if you really want to fight an army of goblins in our current state, then let’s go.  I’m sure it won’t be an absolute disaster.  Some of us might even survive.”

               “Not an army.” Said a deeply tanned man.  He sat on the ground, clutching a pair of daggers and a worn whetstone.  “A dozen at most.  Only reason for defeat was ambush.  Still drove them off.”

               “There, you see?  We thinned their numbers a lot.” The archer said triumphantly.”

               It was the alchemist who spoke next.  “That was a scouting party.  A small band made to find and weaken any potential enemies.  You can tell a lot about the size of a group of goblins by their scouting parties.  A dozen means they have numbers to spare.  A few hundred easily.” He said the words automatically.  His voice was devoid of emotion, like he was reciting words from a textbook.  Once he had finished, the healer looked oddly smug.  The archer looked much less sure of himself.

               “Well, if you really want to fight a few hundred goblins, don’t let me stop you.” She said.

               “So, what do we do?” The shield barer asked again.

               “Go back.  Get more.  Get revenge.” The rouge said curtly. 

He began to sharpen his daggers.  The sound filled the air in a way words could not.  The others said nothing.  It was a plan.  The only plan any of them could think of.  And so the conversation ended, replaced by a silence broken only by the quiet sound of stone sliding against steel.

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Why did I make a fantasy story with such a mundane word?  Because I could, that's why.  Don't like it, tough.

I...I would rather it be liked though.  I really would.  Is that such a bad thing?              

              

Word: Guddle

guddle

[ guhd-l ]

Scot.

verb (used with object), gud·dled, gud·dling.

to catch (fish) by groping with the hands, as under rocks or along a riverbank.

verb (used without object), gud·dled, gud·dling.

to grope for fish under stones, along a riverbank, etc.

noun

Informal . a muddled affair; mix-up; confusion. 

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               Tommy felt around the cold water.  His fingers probed under rocks and through the loose dirt and silt.  He would occasionally feel the wriggling body of the small fish hiding in the water, but they darted away before he could grab any of them.  He let out a frustrated cry at his latest failure.  His siblings looked up from their own attempts at catching fish.  None of them said anything though, neither of them had yet to catch anything either.

               “I can’t do it.” Tommy cried. 

               “Yeah, can’t do it.” The youngest sibling, Christy, whined in the same tone as her big brother.

               “They all swim away too fast.” The oldest of the three, Lewis, said with a pout and crossed arms.

               “Well now, we’ll have to fix that, won’t we?” The voice was deep and powerful, and belonged to their Uncle Paul. 

               The man waded into the river near his niece and nephews.  He rolled up his pant legs and squatted into the water, lowering his hands into the cold, shallow stream.  The three children gathered near their uncle and watched his every movement.  None of them could see what he was doing, only that he came up a few minutes later with a small fish in his hands.

               “There, see?  It’s easy once you know how.” Uncle Paul said.

               “How’d you do that?” Lewis asked.  His eyes were wide and his voice colored by amazement.

               “There’s a bit of a trick to it, certainly.” Uncle Paul said as he released the fish.  “Now then, do you three know why you can’t catch any?”

               “Because they’re too fast.” Tommy said.  “They swim away before we can grab ‘em.”

               “And they’re all slippery.” Christy added.

               “Right.” Uncle Paul said with a nod.  “So, do you know how to catch something like that?”

               “We have to be faster than them, right?” Lewis asked.

               Uncle Paul shook his head.  “Nope.  That’ll get you nowhere here.  Now, for most things, yeah, being faster will usually be enough to catch something.  But not fish.  No, not fish.  You’ll probably never be faster than a fish in a river.  If you get it into something small that’s one thing, but out here?  So, you know what you have to do?”

               “What?” Christy asked.

               “You have to be slow.” Uncle Paul said.  “You have to be really slow and patient and still.  Here, watch again, really carefully.”

               The three siblings gathered around and watched their uncle’s hands as he lowered them into the water.  And then he did not move.  The scattered fish began swimming around, ignoring the man completely.  One swam between Uncle Paul’s hands.  His hands slowly closed around the fish until it was caught.  The children looked on in amazement.

               “How’d you do that?” Tommy asked.

               “Well, it’s because of how fish work.  See, fish are quick things, but they’re not too smart.  They only know that a thing that moves is dangerous.  But something that doesn’t move?  To a fish, especially small ones like this, that’s just another rock or tree branch.  While you’re moving around, they’ll do anything to steer clear.  But once you stop moving, they forget, and won’t care about you at all, which means that a few will swim right up to you without a care in the world.  That’s when you grab it.  But slowly, so it doesn’t notice right away.  Now, try again.”

               The children slowly and carefully chose spots in the shallow water and reached down.  Uncle Paul left the water to dry off and watched them try.  They would eventually succeed, he was sure of that.  All they needed was a little patience.  

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This word sounds like it should be the name of a fish, doesn't it?  It just feels fish-like to me, you know?