Word: Barmecidal

Barmecidal

[ bahr-muh-sahyd-l ]

adjective

giving only the illusion of plenty; illusory: a Barmecidal banquet.

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               Brad groaned and nursed his aching head.  He probed his body and found that, other than a massive headache, his left ankle was also in bad shape.  He had not thought the fall would be so bad when he jumped into it.  It had seemed like only a few feet.  Not enough to cause any harm.  But, his aching head and foot were a constant reminder of how wrong he had been.

               “Greetings, human.” The voice filled the area and was raspy and thin. 

               Brad looked around, trying to find the source of the voice, but it was far too dark to see anything.

               “Who’s there?” Brad called.

               “I am the one who lives in this cavern.  Oh, don’t worry, I don’t mind the sudden intrusion.  I wasn’t doing anything important anyway.  Lucky for you, I had finished my dinner already.”

               Lights slowly filled the room, and it was indeed a room.  Small wooden pieces of furniture were set up, and doors lined the stone walls.  And in the center of the room was a creature that Brad could only think of as a goblin.

               It was short, with lumpy, dirty green skin, sharp ears and big eyes.  It also had some nasty looking teeth in its overly large mouth.  While Brad was easily twice its size, he still did not want to mess with something with teeth like that, especially with a bad ankle.  At least it was not being overtly hostile.  It was, thankfully, clothed in a heavy cloth, stitched together in a way that made it one step nicer than rags.  Brad did not want to know what the many stains were from.

               “Uh, okay, good.” Brad said.  “So, do you think you can show me the way out?  I mean, if you don’t mind or anything.”

               “Oh, no, not at all.”  The creature said with a disturbing grin.  “Oh, but it would be a shame for you to visit just to leave, wouldn’t it?  Why not play a game first?”

               “What, uh, what kind of game?”

               “A game where you stand to gain quite a bit.” The creature pulled a single gold coin from somewhere under its outfit and tossed it towards Brad.  It rang on the stone with a satisfying clink.  Brad was immediately interested.

               “So, what do I do?”

               The creature snapped its fingers and four of the doors grew to fit Brad. 

               “I will ask you three questions.”  The goblin said.  “Answer them however you like, I won’t tell you if you’re right or wrong.  Once I’m over, I’ll let you in one of these doors, depending on how many you got right.  Each one has a different amount of gold in it, and you can take all of what you see behind them.”

               Brad smiled wide.  Even a single gold coin could be worth a decent amount.  He could make a real fortune if he answered well.

               “Your first question:  How does one control the wind?”

               Brad smirked.  “That’s easy.  Fans.  Get a bunch of fans and you can move the air any direction you want.”

               The goblin let out a low, throaty chuckle.  “Very well.  Your second question:  What words do trees speak?”

               “Trees don’t talk.  They’re plants.”

               “I see, I see.  Your final question: What is the lion’s favorite pray to hunt?”

               “Hm…Gazelle, I think.”

               The goblin nodded.  “Very well.  Come with me, I will show you to your reward.”

               The goblin went to one of the doors and opened it.  Even before a very confident Brad could enter the room, he could see the piles of glittering coins on the other side.  He dashed into the room and saw piles of gold bigger than he was.  More of the yellow metal than any man could ever hope to carry.

               “This is all for me?” He asked.

               “Oh yes, it is your prize for your answers.”

               Brad obviously had gotten all the questions right to get such wealth.  Now he just had to figure out how he was going to carry it all.  He reached for a handful of gold.  His fingers touched nothing but air.  No matter what he did, the gold remained in the pile, untouchable.  The goblin’s laughter filled the room.

               “You fool!  You answered none of my questions right.  Fans, really?  You are truly an idiot.  And for that, you get nothing but illusions.  Fake money for fake wit.  Appropriate, don’t you think.  Oh, and one more thing.  There is no way out of my home.  Enjoy your shiny pile of nothing while you rot away in my larder.”

               As the door shut, the goblin’s laughter echoed in the room lit by wealth that none could ever have.    

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Good rule of thumb: Never trust a fairy with anything.  And yes, goblins are a type of fairy, at least in older folklore.  These days they're something else entirely. 

Word: Peccable

peccable

[ pek-uh-buh l ]

adjective

liable to sin or error.

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               The man that sat down in the small booth was black.  Not the deep brown of a person of African descent, but the color of obsidian.  Of a raven’s feathers.  Pure, jet black.  Father Michael tried not to react to this.  His years of hearing confessions had trained him to not react to anything surprising.  A seven-foot-tall, pitch black man put these skills to the test.

               “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The man said.  His voice was deep and rumbling.  It reminded Father Michael of a rock slide.  “I…I don’t think I’ve ever been to a confession.”

               “That’s fine.  Not everyone is ready to clear their soul of sins.”  Father Michael said.  “Tell me what you have done, and I shall help absolve you.”

               The large man let out a sharp breath.  “It may not be as easy as you think.  It’s…bad.  I’ve been around for a while and done a lot of bad things.”

               “I’ve also been around for a while, and I’ve heard quite a bit.”

               “Not like me.”  The man paused and leaned his head against the back of the booth.  “How old are you, Father?”

               “Me?  I’m 57.”

               “I’m…older than that.  A lot older.”

               Father Michael raised an eyebrow.  Other than his height and odd skin color, he looked no older than 30. 

               “Oh?”

               “Let me put it this way.  I was here for this country’s birthday.  And no, I don’t mean Independence Day.  I mean the birthday.  As in, the day of its birth.  I was there for that.  Didn’t see it personally, but I was around when it happened.”

               “It’s not good to lie, you know.”

               “I’m not lying.  Not this time.  Not about this.  I’m old, Father.  Very old.  You can tell I’m not normal just by looking at me.  You think my skin is natural?  No, no it is not.  I’ve done a lot of bad things in the centuries I’ve been around.”

               “I…see.” Father Michael said.  He did not, in fact, see.  He had no idea what the man was talking about.  He could tell the man was unusual, but centuries of life?  That was a new one by him.

               “It’s not good to lie, Father.”

               The priest sighed.  “I suppose I deserve that one.  Well, if you are telling the truth, and I’m not convinced you are, why now?  Why come to confession now?”

               “Don’t know.  Well, no, that’s not true.  I do know.  It was something I did.  Like I said, I’ve done a lot of bad things.  But yesterday, I…I did something even I’m not proud of.  I hurt someone.  Now, I’ve hurt people before.  Hurt more people than I can count and killed just as many.  Never thought much of it.  But this?  This time was different.  I don’t know why, but it was.”

               “Who was it?”

               “A girl.  She couldn’t have been more than fourteen.  That wasn’t what got to me though.  I’ve hurt kids before.  Like I said, I’ve done a lot of bad.  But this one.  There was something about this one.  It was her eyes.  The way she looked at me.  Not hurt, not anger.  I’ve gotten used to those.  It was…acceptance, I think.  Like she was okay with what I did to her.  She just sat there and took everything I could dish out.  I…I didn’t know what to think about that.  I still don’t.  It got to me.  Got under my skin.  And suddenly, everything I’ve ever done comes back up, and I can see.  I can see every bad thing I’ve done.  All the things I’ve stolen.  All the people I’ve hurt.  All the damage I’ve done.  Everything.  I…coming here was the only thing I could think of.”

               “I see.  Well then, it looks like you’ve got a lot of unburdening to do.  Tell me.  Tell me all of it.    

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I'm not sure if I would want immortality.  Well, not true immortality.  Rather, what I would want is the ability to control my age and how long I live.  That way, I can live as long as I want and see the future as far as I want, and then die when I'm ready to.  The best parts of eternal youth with...well, not none of the downsides, but less of them.  

Word: John Hancock

John Hancock

---

noun

Hancock, John.

 

Informal. a person's signature:  

       Put your John Hancock on this check.

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               Terry looked at the image.  The Declaration of Independence in all its digitally presented glory.  More specifically, he looked at one single signature; the most famous one, that of John Hancock.  It was much bigger and more ornate than the others, and was usually what most people saw when they looked at the old document.

               Historians told a few stories about why the signature was so large.  Some gave a story about how he said his signature would be legible for the British, and that he would gain notoriety because of it.  Most said it was simply how he signed his names. 

               Terry knew that there was more to it though.  The very fact that it was how he signed everything in such an ornate manner was evidence of that.  Who signed their name like that?  Someone who was hiding something, that’s who.  He had no idea what was being hidden, but there was something.

               Those lines hid a secret that was crying out to be discovered, and Terry was the only person who realized it.  But what?  Terry was still trying to figure that out.  There was no map hidden in the ink.  Or at least, none that could be seen on the screen.  Maybe he would find something if he saw the document in person.  But that could wait until later.

               Maybe it was a calling card for some hidden organization?  Like the Illuminati or the Free Masons.  It was the flourish that made him think that.  The circle with two vertical lines was too distinctive to be anything else.  It was just so unnecessary for the purpose of signing your name that it had to mean something.  A signal to other members of whatever shadow organization Hancock may have belonged to.

               Or maybe the secret was in the ink itself, and the form was just a way of calling attention to itself?  Like, if it was viewed under a certain kind of light or with a specific lens, it would change.  But if that was the case, then there was nothing Terry could do.  He would need to original document to find anything out.  He might need the document anyway.  But that was, obviously, impossible, so he would have to hope the signature’s secret was something he could discover from behind a computer screen.

               He zoomed in as much as he could, studying the blurry, pixilated image as well as he could.  Was that oddly colored line a part of another word, or was it just the result of poor image quality?  Was that light splotch filled with meaning, or was it a stay pixel?  There was no way he could tell.  He sighed and zoomed back out.  It was clearer, but much harder to see the hidden details. 

               Terry leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.  He was getting nowhere.  The secrets of John Hancock’s signature were eluding him.  But he knew it was there.  He knew it down to his very bones.  Knew it like he needed air to live.  The problem was not a lack of secrets, no.  His problem was the lack of equipment.  He needed better equipment to study the documents with.  He needed the actual document in front of him.  Things to analyze them.  Ways of studying the old papers that went far beyond what he could do with a home PC and Google. 

               Terry firmed his resolve and started planning how he could acquire such things.  He still had a lot of work to do if he was going to find the truth. 

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Ah, conspiracy nuts.  Is there any form of entertainment better?  Okay, yeah, there is, but still.  Some of these guys can be pretty fun to watch.  Such ridiculous ideas, and they stand by them with absolute certainty.  It's great fun to watch, as long as you have enough common sense to not be taken in by them.