Word: Viridity

viridity

[ vuh-rid-i-tee ]

noun

greenness; verdancy; verdure.

youth; innocence; inexperience.

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               Col. Brander looked at the group of dozens of young men arrayed before him.  He let out a heavy sigh and looked at Reynolds, his Staff Sergeant.

               “They’re young.” He said.

               “Yes, sire, they are.”

               “They’re really young.”

               “I think the oldest is 19, sir.”

               “Have they seen any training?”

               “No, sir, they have not.”

               Col. Brander grumbled at that.  Of course the higher ups would send him fresh recruits.  Of course they would force him into a bad position.  It was like they wanted to see him fall. 

               “I asked for soldiers, not recruits.” He said.

               “Yes, sir, you did.  But this is what you got.  I’m fairly sure all the veterans and trained soldiers are already fighting on the front, sir.  So, this is what we get.”

                 The Colonel sighed again and rubbed his forehead. 

               “We don’t have enough time to train them.  Not properly, anyway.” He said.

               “I know, sir.  I know.  But, it’s what has to happen.”

               “Damn it.  Why would Command even think this was a good idea?  To send these boys here is suicide.  Hell, I bet most of them don’t even know what war is.”

               “Oh, I’m sure they know, sir.  At least, in a general sense.  It’s just that they’re full of stories about heroes and glory, and they think that’s what it’ll actually be like.”

               “That just makes it worse.  Most of them won’t survive.”

               “Isn’t that true for all soldiers, sir?”

               “You know what I mean.”

               “Sir, I think the best chance they have will be to get them ready.  At least, as much as possible.”

               Brander looked at the lesser officer.  The man had served him well for years, and was usually right about a lot of things.  This was no different.

               “Guess I’d better get started, then.”

               “Yes, sir.”

               Col. Brander dismissed the Staff Sergeant, ordering the man to see to housing and supplies.  Then he went to get the recruits started.  He would make sure they were as trained as they could be, and that meant doing it himself.

               He gave the order for them to form lines.  They were slow to react, their lines were unorganized, and none of them knew how to stand at attention.

               “I asked High Command for soldiers.  Reinforcements to help hold this fort from the enemy.  I look out at all of you and don’t see a single soldier.  All I see are boys that only just stopped clinging to their mother’s skirts.  Now, it’s not my job to see you properly trained.  That should be a drill sergeant.  But, I’m what you get.  And you will wish it wasn’t.

               “Let me tell you what’s going to happen over the next few months.  I’m going to push you.  I’m going to run you harder and longer than you ever have before.  By the end of the first week, you’ll beg me to go home.  By the end of the second, you’ll want to kill yourself, just for the chance to rest for more than a few hours.  By the end of the third week, you’ll pray for the enemy to come and kill you.  But, by the end of the fourth week, I might be willing to call you proper recruits.

               “Oh yes, recruits.  Not soldiers.  Not after one month.  And it’s then that the really tough training begins.  After two months, maybe some of you will be good enough to be called proper soldiers.  And after three, all of you will be.  These will be the most difficult months of your life to date.  If you don’t think you can handle it, get out of here and don’t let the door hit you on the way out.  I don’t want men who’ll quit halfway through.”

               He waited to see if any of them would leave.  To their credit, none did.  But, then again, he was out of practice.  He probably was not as intimidating as he used to be when he regularly trained new recruits. 

               “Good.  Now then, let’s get started.”

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I think I've mentioned this before, but I am not, nor ever have been, a soldier.  And I am very glad for that.  I'd be a terrible soldier.  I really would.  Bad eyesight, bad back.  Yeah, the army wouldn't want me even if I signed up.

Word: à gogo

à gogo

or à Go·go, à go-go

adverb

1. As much as you like; to your heart's content; galore: food and drink à gogo.

 

2. With go-go music and dancing or a go-go atmosphere (used especially in the names of cabarets, discotheques, and the like): They danced all night at the Mistral à gogo.

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               Disgusting.  All of them were disgusting.  Little better than pigs.  Oh, they were well groomed and to most, they looked grand.  But to Sen, they were disgusting.  They wrapped themselves in finery and luxury, but Sen could see them for what they were.

               Horrible people that indulged in excess.  They ate and drank all they liked, whenever they liked.  It was not just food, of course, but that was the worst offender.  They threw lavish parties that had more food in one room than most people could get in an entire year.  And they ate like they were starving, despite never knowing true hunger in their lives.

               And Sen could do nothing about it.  He was a mere servant.  A waiter who brought them more food and drink.  He wished he could do something.  Wished he could take their overabundance of luxuries from them.  He wanted to believe he would distribute them to those who could really appreciate such things, but he was not sure if he was that selfless.  All he knew was how much he would hurt these pigs in human skins.

               “You, servant!”  One of them called at Sen.  He was a particularly portly lord with food sticking to an otherwise neatly trimmed mustache.  He fine silks and stains were stained from his feast, but nobody cared.  Half of them wore their food just as much as ate it.  “More wine!” The lord called.

               Sen smiled and bowed.  He said nothing.  He was not supposed to say something.  He merely went into the kitchen and came back with yet another glass of wine that cost more than he made in a year.

               The lord did not care.  He simply grabbed it, laughing at some young lady who clung to him in the hopes of getting into his wallet.  The lord gulped down the drink without a care as to its cost.  Sen clenched his fist for just a moment.  The lord finished and set the empty cup on the tray Sen carried.

               The servant left the lord to try and woo the girl, and the girl to take the man for all he was worth.  He could respect that, even if he found the method a bit distasteful.  As he got out of the way for the increasingly inebriated nobles, a man approached him. 

               “I saw that.” The man said.

               “Saw what, m’lord?” Sen asked.

               “Your anger.  You hate these people, don’t you?”

               Sen startled.  He had no idea anyone was paying that much attention to him.  What should he do?  Best to just deny it.  As much as he did hate these sad excuses for people, they could still have him killed on a whim.  And he did need the pay that came from his position.

               “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sen said.

               “Don’t try to hide it.  I saw.  You hate what you see.  You wish to be rid of these people.  I can make this happen.  I can give you the means to rid the world of these…people.  If you’re interested, stay by the servant’s entrance tonight.  I’ll come and show you how you can cleanse the world of filth.”

               And with that, the man left.  Sen was shaking.  A slight, subtle tremble through his entire body.  He was suddenly very interested in taking a late night walk.

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 Oh dear.  Things might not end well for someone.  I wonder who...

Word: Epistolary

epistolary

[ ih-pis-tl-er-ee ]

adjective

contained in or carried on by letters: an epistolary friendship.

of, relating to, or consisting of letters.

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               Julie entered the living room and saw her son, Tommy, laying face down on the floor.  The boy’s legs kicked in the air and he gripped a pencil that was currently busy making the large, crude letters of a boy who was just learning how to write.

               “What’re you doing?  Writing something?” Julie asked.

               “Yup.” Tommy answered.

               “What’re you writing?”

               “A letter.”

               “A letter?  Really?  Who is it to?”

               Maybe his grandparents?  The options were limited for a seven-year-old.  Maybe it was a school assignment of some kind.

               “I got a pen pal, and I’m writing to him.”

               “A pen pal?  Really?  That’s great.” She had not been aware that pen pals were back in style.  As far as she knew, they went away when email entered the scene.  But, it was good for Tommy to make friends, so she could not complain.  “Do you want some help mailing it when you’re done?”

               “No, I can do it myself.  I just gotta put it in the mailbox.”

               Julie smiled and chuckled quietly. 

               “I think there’s a bit more than that.  Tell you what, when you’re finished, I’ll show you everything you need to do to mail a letter, okay?”

               “It’s okay.  I’ve sent them before.”

               Julie had not seen any envelopes going out, let alone envelopes that lacked postage or had her son’s distinctive handwriting on it.  Nor had she seen any letters coming back.

               “You sure?”

               “Yup.”

               “Can you show me when you’re done?”

               “Kay.  I’m done now anyway.”

               Tommy added a few more lines and then stood.  He folded the letter and ran to his room, leaving Julie to scramble after him.  When she reached his dinosaur covered room, he was using a large sticker to seal the letter.  He then went to one of the few non-dinosaur themed items in Tommy’s room.  An old mailbox.

               It was something Julie had bought on a whim from a yard sale a few months ago.  It was not quite old enough to be considered an antique, but it was still older than she was.  From the forties or fifties, at least.  She had gotten it as a conversation starter, but Tommy had latched onto it, and so in his room it went.

               Tommy slipped the letter in the box and turned the flag up.  Then he backed up and looked at the box expectantly.

               “Hey, Tommy, baby, you know that nobody comes to pick up the mail from that, right?”

               Jus then, the flag dropped.  Julie thought that it had simply fallen due to being worn out, but Tommy went and opened the box.  Inside was a letter.  And it was different than the one her son had put in.  The paper was much different, it was folded differently, and it lacked the sticker her son had used. 

               Tommy opened it and started reading with a big smile on his face.

               “Tommy, where did you say your pen pal is from?”

               Tommy shrugged.  “Don’t know.  We don’t say that stuff.  But he says some funny stuff.  Like, he says he doesn’t know what a computer is, and that TVs don’t have colors.  His name is Sam and he’s a little older than me.”

               Julie’s mind was racing.  Could it be?  It should be impossible, right?  That sort of thing simply did not happen in real life.  But she had seen it with her own eyes.  She needed to test it.  She told Tommy to wait for her to come back, then she ran to write a quick note.  It was just asking for his name and the date, but it would do.  She did exactly what Tommy had done, putting the letter in the mailbox and raising her flag.

               A moment later, the flag fell and Julie retrieved a much different sheet of paper.  On it was a letter written by a person who was just getting a handle on his handwriting.

               Good evening, ma’am.  It is a great pleasure to be pen pals with your son.  He is very funny, and says a lot of odd things.  But to answer your questions, my name is Samuel Lee Thompson, and it is the 9^th of June, 1948.  I am not sure why you wish to know this, but I hope it is helpful.  I look forward to your son’s next letter.

                                                                                        Sincerely,

Sam

               “Mommy?  Is there something wrong?  Did I do something bad?” Tommy asked.

               “Huh?  Oh, no, no.  Of course not, sweetie.  No, Mommy just needs to think about some things.”

               “Can I still send letters to Sam?”

               “Uh, yes.  Sure, that’s fine.”

               Julie left her son’s room and went to the living room, where she sat on the couch and stared at the wall.  She looked back at the letter in wonder.  A time traveling mailbox.  There was so much she could do with that.  She needed to figure out how to use it, and what it was capable of.  This was going to make one hell of a conversation starter.  

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Time travel is complicated.  Best to avoid it entirely, if at all possible.  Even something simple like a letter could do some serious damage if the wrong thing is said.