Word: Peccable

peccable

[ pek-uh-buh l ]

adjective

liable to sin or error.

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

               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.    

 ************************************

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.

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

               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. 

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

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.

Word: Venal

venal

[ veen-l ]

adjective

willing to sell one's influence, especially in return for a bribe; open to bribery; mercenary: a venal judge.

able to be purchased, as by a bribe: venal acquittals.

associated with or characterized by bribery: a venal administration; venal agreements.

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

               Jack forced himself to not wring his hands nervously.  He should not be there.  He did not belong in jail.  He was a good, law abiding man.  And yet, he was behind bars talking to his very large cell mate.

               “First time here?” The big, bald man asked.

               “Uh, yeah, yeah it is.  Hopefully the last too.”

               The man laughed.  “Yeah, that’s what everyone says.  What’re you in for?”

               “Grand theft auto.”

               “Nice.  Assault and battery here.  Beat a man who looked at my woman the wrong way half to death.  Would’ve gotten the other half too, but the cops showed up before I could.”

               “Oh, I, uh, I see.”

               “Oh, don’t get nervous.  I only did that cause of my girl.  I’m not in the habit of just hitting guys for no reason.”

               Jack was not reassured.  But at least he was not imprisoned with some mass murderer who would gut him for snoring too loud.  He hoped.  This guy might even be useful.

               “So, um…”

               “Dan.”

               “So, Dan, any advice for a newbie?”

               “Oh, yeah, tons.  First of all, you know that whole don’t drop the soap stuff?”

               “Yeah?”

               “Not true.  Nobody’s gonna be doing that stuff in the shower.”
               That was a relief.  Jack let out a breath he had not been aware he had been holding. 

               “Next, butter up to the guys in charge.”

               “You mean the warden?”

               “The warden?  Hell no.  He’s a figurehead at best.  No, you gotta get in close to the real leaders of this prison.  That’d be Marcus over in block D, Juan in A and Georgie in C.  Pick one of ‘em and buddy up real close.  I mean, yeah, you could stay solo and just keep your head down, but that’s a lot harder than you think it is.  Me?  I’m with Georgie.  Not a big guy, but damn smart, which goes a lot farther than most people think it will, even in here.”

               Jack nodded.  “Got it.  Uh, if I do that, will I have to, you know, shank someone?”

               “Nah.  You’re small.  Unassuming.  You’ll probably be lookout or spy or something.”

               “I can do that.  I think.”

               “Right.  Well, doing that will see you through to the end, but the most important thing you can know is which guards are open to a bribe, and which to steer clear of.”

               “B-bribe?”

               “Yup.  Enough grease, and lots of wheels can turn that would otherwise be stuck.  Bribing the right guard can get you a lot of contraband.  That’s the real key to surviving here.  Find a way to get money and use that money to bribe a few guards.  They’ll either look away from some things you’d rather not be seen, or get you stuff you shouldn’t have.  Keep your money stored away, and at best it’ll just sit there gathering dust.  At worst, having cash will get you killed.  But if you use it to get the guards on your side, well, not only will you be living large, but you’ll be less likely to get harassed, both by guards and inmates.  It’s not foolproof, but it’s always good to have a little leeway.”

               “So do all the guards take bribes?”

               “Nope.  Some of them actually give a damn about doing their jobs right.  Keep your nose clean and they can be your best friends.  But if you want to live like a human being, you gotta cozy up to the guys who work for nothing but money.”

               Jack nodded.  He had no idea how he was going to get enough money to matter.  And even if he did, would he really use it on the guards?  He did need to survive prison, but he still had standards.  Still, knowing which guards were corrupt could be very useful to an undercover cop.

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

I have never been to prison.  I never want to go to prison.  All I know about being behind bars comes from movies and TV.  I probably made some mistakes because of that.  

Word: Caterpillar

caterpillar

[ kat-uh-pil-er, kat-er- ]

noun

1. the wormlike larva of a butterfly or a moth.

2. a person who preys on others; extortioner.

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

The sound of tiny feet running through the house alerted Michelle that her son, Tim, had just returned from school.  She let out a happy sigh and got ready to meet the young boy.  He ran into the room with his backpack bouncing behind him and a small plastic container in his hands.

“Mommy, guess what we did.” He blurted out instead of a greeting.

“What did you do?”

“You hafta guess.” Tim was bouncing on his heels with excitement. 

Michelle could see the container held an assortment of twigs, grass and leaves.  That and the holes in the container’s lid gave her enough information to figure it out.  But, it was still nice to humor her seven year old.

“Hm, did you…draw a picture?”

“Nooo.” He said between giggles.

“Did you watch a movie?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Well, then I just don’t know.  What did you do in school?”

“We caught caterpillars!  See, I got one here!”

He held out the container for Michelle to see.  Sure enough there, sitting on a twig and nibbling on a leaf, was a small green speckled caterpillar.  Tim held the insect up proudly, like it was the greatest pet in the world.

“And, and, and guess what?  Mrs. Fallow says that if we take care of our caterpillars for long enough, then we’ll get a really big surprise.”

“Oh did she now?  What do you think you’ll get?”

Tim thought as long and hard as a boy his age could.  “I dunno, but I bet it’s ice cream.”

“Ice cream?  Why ice cream?”

The boy shrugged.  “I like ice cream.”

Michelle held back her laughter at her son’s antics.  Of course seeing a caterpillar changing into a butterfly would be practically magic for such a young child.  She just had to keep him from finding out through other means.  That would be easy enough.  She just had to be careful about his internet usage.  It felt almost wrong to keep him off sites for animals for the months the metamorphosis would take, but she could do it.

“Okay, well, just remember to get the surprise you have to take good care of him, okay?  Make sure he has lots of sticks to crawl on and leaves to eat, okay?”

“Okay!  Um, should I get other bugs to?  To make sure he doesn’t get lonely?”

“You know, I think he’ll be just fine by himself.  Besides, he has you to keep him company.  Just don’t try and play with him, okay?  He might not like that.  You can talk to him though.  He looks like a really good listener.”

Tim looked closely at the still eating caterpillar.  He turned to container around a bit.  Then he looked back up at his mother.

“How can you tell?  He doesn’t have ears.”

This time Michelle did not hide her laughter.  She did manage to limit it though. 

“Moms can just tell these things.  Now go and put him in your room and get cleaned up.  Then you can tell me all about what happened today, and how you got your new friend, okay?”

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

Anyone remember doing this as a kid?  I vaguely remember having a book about bugs.  It came with a  little plastic bug catching terrarium thing.  I don't remember if I actually used it, but I remember having it.    

Word: Hangdog

hangdog

[ hang-dawg, -dog ]

adjective

browbeaten; defeated; intimidated; abject: He always went about with a hangdog look.

shamefaced; guilty: He sneaked out of the room with a hangdog expression.

suitable to a degraded or contemptible person; sneaky; furtive.

noun

Archaic. a degraded, contemptible person.

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

               Bob sat at a table at the cheapest bar in town.  He was hunched over his mug, containing the cheapest beer in the place, contained in a glass of dubious cleanliness.  Nobody else seemed to noticed.  Or at least, they did not care.  This particular bar had an unspoken rule: “You ignore me, I’ll ignore you.”  This meant that nobody spoke, and the only sound came from an aging jukebox whose speakers were perpetually one song away from total failure.

               This was fine with Bob.  Life had thoroughly beaten him down.  He was allowed to wallow in misery.  He did wish he could afford beer than had a taste other than bitter water, but no such luck.

               A scraping sound reach his ears, forcing him to look up.  Someone had violated the unspoken rule of the bar and chosen to sit near him.  The man looked out of place.  He was clean, well dressed.  This was a person who life allowed to coast by.  This was a person who was living the good life.

               “Hey.” The man said.  Bob looked at the man and returned his focus to his drink.  “You look like you’ve seen better days.” 

               Bob considered saying something.  But then he remembered he did not care enough to break the silence like the man so flagrantly did.  He chose to let out a heavy sigh and take a long drink from the mug.

               “I can help you, if you want.  Give you a chance to change things.  Live a better life.”

               This caught Bob’s attention.  Living a better life would be great, but there was a problem with the idea.

               “A better life, huh?” Bob said heavily.  “Buddy, I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.  I’m 47 years old, divorced twice, no kids, and people half my age make twice as much as me.  No way I’m living a better life now.”

               “Not right now, no.  But what about twenty years ago?”

               Bob snorted.  “Twenty?  Nah.  You’d have to go back thirty to make any difference in my life.  By the time I was 27, everything had already started going downhill.  I was just too dumb to notice it back then.”

               The man nodded.  “Thirty is tricky, but doable.  Sure.  What if you could go back thirty years?  Not as you are, but as you were.  Take everything you are now and put you back into the body of your youth?  Would you like that?”

               Bob looked at the man blankly.  “You a drug dealer or something?  Or are you just nuts?”

               “No to both.  I represent a certain company.”  The man pulled a business card out from his breast pocket and slid it towards Bob.  He did not look at the small sheet of paper.  “We’ve made great advances in technology that most would consider science fiction.  Now, time travel in the way most people think of it is beyond our current abilities.  But what we can do is send your mind back. Your consciousness would be placed into your younger self, free to make any number of different choices.  Using your knowledge of your life to lead a better one.  Sounds good, right?”

               “Sounds crazy.”

               The man shrugged.  “I suppose it does.  But that doesn’t mean it’s fake.  You have my number.  Take a few days to think about it.  I promise it’s worth it.  And hey, even if I’m lying, then does it really matter?  After all, once you’ve hit rock bottom, the only way you can go is up.”

               The man stood and walked out of the bar, leaving his card behind.  Bob finished his beer and his eyes lingered on the card.  The paper seemed to lure his eyes in.  He sighed and put it in his pocket.  The man was right, he had nothing left to lose.  And maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth, and Bob could finally, finally live a real life.  And to a man who life had thoroughly beaten down like Bob, that was worth more than anything.

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

 If you could go back in time and kill Hitler, would you?  The only correct answer (in my humble opinion) is yes, with the caveat that it be done right before he commits suicide.  That way, you can say you killed Hitler, but don't go screwing with the timeline and possibly inviting an even worse dictator to rise.