Word: Interlard

interlard

[in-ter-lahrd]

verb (used with object)

1. to diversify by adding or interjecting something unique, striking, or contrasting (usually followed by with ).

   to interlard one's speech with oaths.

2. (of things) to be intermixed in.

3. Obsolete.,  to mix, as fat with lean meat.

 

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                The experiment was so close to working. He could feel it deep inside. The two cultures were pressed up against each other, a clear demarcation between them. But that was not enough. He needed them to mix. If he could only get them to do that, then so many great things would be unlocked.

                The problem was how to get them to do what he needed them to. Simple mechanical mixing did nothing. All that caused was the two cultures to spin around each other. It made some nice patterns, but that was it. Temperature control likewise did nothing. No, he needed something else. Some third substance that would play well with both and coax them into intermingling.

                Finding that substance was easier said than done though. He poured over the data his work had provided. The computer ran thousands of simulations a minute, each with a different substance as a catalyst. None of them were promising though. He was not sure if that was due to a limit of the computer, or because nothing would do what he needed it to. There was only one thing he could do. Get in the lab and find out for himself.

                Getting to the lab was easy enough for him, and he was soon looking down at the lone Petri dish that housed his latest work. Behind him was a slew of chemicals, lined up in well labelled flasks. He spoke into a recording device and began. His first test proved fruitless. The two cultures ignored the added chemical completely. Undaunted, he kept going.

                He removed the chemical and added another. That proved just as effective as the first. As did every single other chemical and material he tried. The two cultures remained both inert and separate. He racked his brain, trying to figure out what to do. He tried adding several chemicals at once to no effect. He tried using a variety of methods. Mechanical, thermal and chemical methods were all attempted in different combinations. Nothing.

                His heart raced. His stomach clenched. Panic set in. Was this it? Had he come so far, only to fail? No, there was no way that was true. But nothing was working. Maybe they were just never meant to combine. Maybe they were fated to be forever separated. But he could not bring himself to believe that. Not fully.

                He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, not caring about the normal lab safety practices. A few seconds later, something caught his eye. Motion in the dish. It wasn’t much, but something was happening. At the lower edge of the dividing line between the two cultures, it seemed like there was something new. A third culture was forming. They were mixing. It was not a lot, only at the very edge. But it was something.

                But what was causing it? Nothing he had tried previously had worked. He rushed to find a magnifier and trained it on the area. There, at the boarder between the two was a hair. A single hair from his own head. It was a shorter hair, but it was there. And something about it was causing the reaction. Tentatively, he plucked another hair and dropped it in. It took a moment to start, but the reaction was there, and undeniable.

                He let out a whoop of triumph. He had no idea what substance in the hair had caused the desired reaction, but that did not matter. At least, not right now. That could be determined in later tests. Right now, all that mattered was that he had succeeded. And no, so much more could be done. His work was just getting started.

Word: Evenfall

evenfall

[ee-vuhn-fawl]

noun

1. the beginning of evening; even; evening; twilight; dusk.

 

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                It was twilight. That odd time when it was neither day nor night. The light from the sun cast its rays and reflected off the windows of the myriad skyscrapers. It seemed like the entire city was one big kaleidoscope. Really, it was one of Dan’s favorite times of day for that reason. Although today he was just wondering if it meant he would finally be able to go home.

                “There you are.”

                Dan did not turn to face the speaker. He just kept looking out over the city and slightly leaning on the railing of the building’s ornately decorated roof.

                “Yeah, I’m here.” He replied. “You gonna tell me to come back inside?”

                “That was the idea, yeah. I mean, it’s a party. We’re supposed to be enjoying it.”

                Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his girlfriend, Cleo, move next to him. The rays of the setting sun glinted off earrings that probably cost more than a year’s rent at his old apartment. That, when combined with the dress that was just bordering on inappropriate remined him why he had come out here in the first place.

                “Yeah, I know.” He said. “But I was thinking of getting a cab or something and heading home.”

                “Why? The party’s still going strong and will be for hours.”

                “That’s part of the problem. I shouldn’t have even come in the first place.”

                She looked at him sharply, and it took her a moment to reply. “What? Why not? I would’ve thought you’d love this kind of thing. Good food, good drink, good music. It’s right up your ally.”

                “Yeah, all that’s great. It’s the people that’s the problem.”

                “The people?”

                He took a long, slow breath. “Yeah. I don’t belong here, Cleo. They’re your people, not mine. And everyone here knows it. I hear what they’re saying about me. About us. I don’t know if they’ve had too many drinks to keep quiet, or if they’re saying these things so I can hear it, but that doesn’t matter. They all say things about how ‘I’m not good enough’ or I’m ‘some gutter trash gold digger.’ Just a lot of people spouting out a lot of insults. Most of them are aimed at me, but a few are going to you as well. And even those are related to me. They hide it better when talking face to face, but even then, you can tell what they think of me.”

                “Oh, I’m sure it’s not that bad. It can’t be everyone down there.”

                “Maybe not. But it’s everyone I talked or listened to.”

                The sun continued its decent, and the rays of light slid down the buildings, fading into darkness little by little. Cleo did not seem to notice this, or at least did not care about the coming darkness.

                “Well, I’m sure it’s all just because they don’t know you yet. After a few meet ups and parties, you’ll fit right in.”

                He turned to face her fully. It was getting harder to see her, with the light coming more and more from inside rather than out. But he could still see her expression. She really believed what she was saying. And maybe she was right. She had known the other party goers much longer than he had. But he doubted it.

                “Maybe. But that’s not going to happen here, and I’m not enjoying myself. But I know you are. I know you want to stay until the party is over. So, I’m going to head back. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

                He gave her a quick hug and a brief kiss, then turned away from the fading day and headed back into the artificial lights, before moving on and into the night. 

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I would've wanted to leave the party for an entirely different reason. Mostly because I'm not a big party guy and would've hated every moment of it, even if the people there were super friendly.  

Word: Cacography

cacography

[kuh-kog-ruh-fee]

noun

1. bad handwriting; poor penmanship.

2. incorrect spelling.

 

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                Ed wrung his hands nervously as Julie looked over his manuscript. He had put a lot of work into it, especially since he had handwritten everything. Sure, his wrist suffered from the extra effort, but it was worth it. At least, he thought it was.

                “So? How is it?” He asked.

                Julie’s forehead was scrunched up in a look of absolute focus. She nearly jumped when he asked his question. Ed hoped that was a good sign.

                “I’ll let you know as soon as I can read it.” She said.

                “But...you have been reading it. You’ve been reading it for the last half hour.”

                “Really? Only half an hour? It felt like longer.”

                Ed deflated. She hated it. That was the only explanation. She hated it and was having trouble getting through the pages.

                “Oh. That bad, huh?”

                “Oh yeah. The worst I’ve ever seen.”

                “Is...is there anything I can do to make it better?”

                “Yeah. Type it out. That’ll fix all the problems.”

                “What?”

                “Oh yeah, that’ll fix it for sure. I mean your handwriting is so bad I can barely tell where one word ends and another begins. Your g’s, p’s and q’s all look pretty much the same, your o’s, a’s and c’s may as well be the same letter. And those are just the letters that are similar in regular handwriting. How you made it so an m and a w are tough to tell apart I’ll never know, and yet you did.”

                “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. I can read it just fine.”

                “That’s because you’re the one who wrote it. It might as well be a bunch of scribbles to everyone else. It might not read prescription scratch level, but it’s pretty damn close.”

                Ed looked at his manuscript. Sure, he didn’t have perfect handwriting, but he at least thought it was good enough to use. Although, if that was her biggest complaint, then maybe the actual contents were good?

                “Okay, so—“

                “And then there’s your spelling. I don’t know if its because I’m getting things wrong because of your handwriting, but damn. I know you’re not using spellchecker, but dictionaries still exist. If you don’t know how to spell a word, look it up instead of guessing.”

                “That...that’s not important for a first draft, Julie. What about the contents? The actual story.”

                “Well, I’ve only gotten to the first, like, ten pages because I have to keep figuring out what each word says, but I think it’s okay.”

                “Really?”

                “Yeah, but it’s hard to know for sure. Type it out, then give it to me. That way I’ll be able to read it instead of guessing what you wrote for every other word.”

                She slid the bundle of papers back to him. He looked at the papers that he had put so much effort into. On a second look, he supposed he could see what she meant about being nearly illegible. But if that was her biggest issue with it, he could live with that. Hopefully she would like it when she could read it.

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Showing your finished draft to someone is nerve wracking. Is it good? Is it bad? Did you just waste weeks, or even months, on something that nobody will want to read? Of course, getting a test reader is just the next step in the process. After that comes the second draft.