~ Word of the Day ~

Started by Blythe, March 21, 2017, 01:41:05 PM

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Dys Astyr

#250
Today's word of the day is....

culminate
verb  KUL-muh-nayt

Definition
1 : (of a celestial body) to reach its highest altitude; also : to be directly overhead
2 : to rise to or form a summit
3 : to reach the highest or a climactic or decisive point
Alive! Trying to catch up but there is a lot, please be patient! Thank you. <3

Shores

The symphony of burping pandas culminated in a loud crash as the large male fell asleep against the metal partition.

Dys Astyr

Today's word of the day is....

fidelity
noun fuh-DELL-uh-tee

Definition
1 : the quality or state of being faithful
2 : accuracy in details : exactness
3 : the degree to which an electronic device (such as a record player, radio, or television) accurately reproduces its effect (such as sound or picture)
Alive! Trying to catch up but there is a lot, please be patient! Thank you. <3

ZephyrInk

She looked at her reflection as she stood there, the stool below wobbling a little from the weight. She let her fingers trace over the silken ivory dress with silver beads decorating the bodice and buttons lining from the lower back all the way up to the shoulder where it culminated into a small red rosette. She closed her eyes and breathed in a sigh when she felt the velvet rosette, the feel of it building excitement in her. It had been a special gift from him to her for their wedding and she couldn’t wait to surprise him when she’ll walk down that aisle.

She marveled at the fidelity with which the seamstress had worked on the dress, making a mental note of thanking her after the ceremony. A knock on the door made her turn and she almost stumbled, regaining her balance before she glanced up to see who it was.

Shores

The fidelity of the new vidscreen made her gasp. It almost felt like she was walking around in the haunted house again. The rattling of the window frames from the rain was right at her ear, and a shiver ran up her spine.

Dys Astyr

Today's word of the day is....

sericeous
adjective suh-RISH-us

Definition
1 : covered with fine silky hair
Alive! Trying to catch up but there is a lot, please be patient! Thank you. <3

Majere Dreavan

This Kiwi
This Delicious Fruit
This sericeous, sweet Kiwi
I can't stop eating
This Kiwi

Oreo

All their foolhardy actions had culminated in Nixie standing here, one footstep outside the cavern. A chill waft of air blew against her skin, sending a slight shiver along the nape of her neck. It wasn't that she was afraid to enter, but more that was she sure this was the right time? The vision of all her hard work lost sent another bout of rage burning through her veins. Her nape settled again into a heated warmth reaching from her heart all the way to the tips of her tiny ears.

One foot forward and the ground grew cool against her foot, the darkness engulfed her in the gloom. Holding steady to the wall for guidance, it was too dangerous to fly blindly in here. The place was riddled with obstacles like stalactites. Sometimes she envied Old Man Batz his use of radar, but then again she did admire the daylight on occasion and would rather not be limited to living out her days in darkness.

The wall was rough against her fingers, a lingering scent of old moss, stale water, and guano. Deeper and deeper she wandered, two left turns and a right led her to a grander cavern lit by a few glow worms.

There he was, in all his sericeous glory, hanging by his feet. His flat little nose twitched a bit as one eye opened in a tiny slit. "I suppose you are here to collect your favor?" his voice whined from above.

She led me to safety in a forest of green, and showed my stale eyes some sights never seen.
She spins magic and moonlight in her meadows and streams, and seeks deep inside me,
and touches my dreams. - Harry Chapin

Shores

The sericeous leaf tickled her nose and she sneezed, causing the pollen in the flower to fly into the air. He quickly ran for cover as whatever the pollen touched exploded in blue flames.

ZephyrInk

Adam ambled over to the stables, his fingers curled around the riding crop in one hand while he looked crisp in a white Polo shirt and tan breeches. The day had only just begun which meant most of the stable boys were to turn up soon but he wanted to slip out before their arrival, unnoticed and undisturbed. The events of last night were still fresh in his mind, prompting him to find the only way he could cope with it - to go for a ride. He looked back once at the castle, everyone must still be asleep, he thought. Perfect! Just what I need.

He reached the stall where his steed was, his black beauty as he had called it. A creaking sound was heard as he unlocked the door that separated him from the horse, greeting him with a mixture of hay and leather. He walked up to it and stroked that sericeous mane of his, reveling in the feel of it under his fingers. Patting it gently and whispering a morning greeting, he moved to hold onto its reins and led them out.

"ready?" he cooed and the horse neighed in response.

Dys Astyr

#260
Gareth burst into his lord's chambers, an action for which he could be severely punished.

"Sire, I don't know-" the impassioned words died in his throat.

The sight that greeted him was in stark contrast to what he had just seen in the throne room. Gone was the apoplectic rage that had left even the longest serving knights feeling nervous, Rothbart was not just calm but almost bemused. Gareth felt himself awash in a sea of confusion, never before had a day's events been so wildly unpredictable.

"How many finger bones in Kaena's braid?"

"My lord? I-uh, twenty-seven, lord."

"Yes, twenty-seven, and yet there were twenty-eight when she cast it at my feet and made such an unnecessary spectacle. Ending the contract has always been in her power, there was no need for theatrics. So why Gareth, did the mess this morning happen?"

Rothbart's gaze was like an executioner's blade hanging over his head. Gareth swallowed, measuring his words before speaking. "Because... Because someone needed to see it m'lord."

Rothbart nodded, holding up a hand to display a long, thin strip of parchment in a tangle of loose curls. Gareth recognized it, it was the type used to send messages by falcon on the battle field. Then he understood, the twenty-eighth bone had been the parchment. A minute detail that no one would catch, especially in the uproar. Tentatively he reached out, unsure if Rothbart would actually allow him to read the message, but his fingers closed on the parchment without incident. The entire length of the it was covered in tightly penned battle script detailing a planned coup, and once again Gareth found himself awed by the relentless fidelity of his superior. Kaena had put the entirety of the country at her throat, just to put herself between Rothbart and yet another blade.

Alive! Trying to catch up but there is a lot, please be patient! Thank you. <3

Nico

Info
This is a story inspired by one of my characters in my 1x1 writing - "Stories of Little Italy"



'Chose wisely. Make the right decision, Lorenzo. My grandson. My blood.'

Those were the very last words of Gianluigi Corleone, the esteemed and respected Don of the Corleone Family, before the old and sick man closed his eyes. Forever. Leaving his long lost grandson Lorenzo sitting by his bed, still holding the old mans hand, having revealed a truth that had been kept from him all his life.

Lorenzo closed his eyes, lifting the dead mans hand to his lips, kissing the golden ring as last sign of respect, crossing himself while murmuring a prayer, fighting the tears that threatened to well up. But were it tears of sorrow, drawn forth by a deep, innate fidelity - or tears of sheer rage and disgust?

Sorrow for having lost the beloved man too soon. The man that taught him so much the past year, who offered his wisdom, his insight. Fidelity because in a word of betrayal it was the only thing left of value. Rage because of a secret that was almost taken to the grave, lost forever. But now it was all on the table. No more secrets. No more lies.

This was almost a year ago.

But - could a mere year wash away the lust for vengeance, the desire to see blood? The shame and the degradation? Hardly. Passion was as much a part of Lorenzo as was his determination, this deeply rooted desire to bring honour and pride to the only thing that mattered: Family.

'Do not hate them, Lorenzo. Never hate your enemies. It will make you blind to your true goal. Do not hate, Lorenzo. Make them fear you, show them who you are. Show them what a true Corleone is capable of. Little is more dangerous than the wrath of a Sicilian. Never forget that.'

And he never forgot his grandfathers words. Quite the contrary. It was those words echoing in his mind which brought him to the point where everything culminated.

The time would come when they would see what their treachery will earn them. 'They sow the wind and reap the whirlwind.' - that was written in the Holy Bible already. Eye for an eye, and all this. He will make them pay. And if it would be the last thing he would do.

Time turned his anger into a burning desire for revenge. Revenge for what his own father -the man he had trusted with his life- kept from him all those years. The very same man who watched when Lorenzo gave his loyalty to the wrong people, when he offered to protect them with his life, his blood. And the very same man who watched when Lorenzo married the Don's only daughter.

He was a Corleone. A direct descendant of the honourable Gianlugi Corleone, no less. His family was right up with the other great names in Sicily. And his own father denied Lorenzo what was his. What should have been his from the moment he was born. His blood. His birthright. And, most of all, his father denied him his honour. And there was nothing more important than honor for Lorenzo. Right now, he was without it, devoting his skills, his life and his blood to a family that did not deserve it. He shared his bed with a woman that did not deserve it to give birth to his children. Bastards they would be, nothing else. Others would be tempted to fall into tristful notions - but Lorenzo was all but.

Over two decades Lorenzo had spent - no, wasted on those Milan bastards. He had killed for them for gods sake, and there was hardly any other Hitman that was more skilled than Lorenzo, even if he never quite liked that name. Hitman. Killing was art for him, because he made it art. Not just a damn job. Not once he had failed on a mission, not once a target got away with their lives.

'Never take another mans life for no cause, do not sin against your firm beliefs, my son. Take it because it has to be done, because you give it a cause. Eye for an eye, Lorenzo.'

Rain was pouring outside, distorting the skyline of Manhattan into an almost Dystopian beauty. Heavy drops hitting the window while Lorenzo looked out into the darkness, standing by the huge, almost Victorian styled window in the living room of this no doubt exquisite home. Too bad its owner wouldn't ever see it again, the damn rat. The gun in his hand, still, the body behind him still warm, hunched over the dinner table, lifeless eyes staring at him, almost as if to accuse him 'What have you done?'. The exquisite cutlery and porcelain plates sprinkled with dark crimson stains. It almost had something... poetic. Droplets of blood falling down -almost in slow motion- from the edge of the oaken table, down on the expensive, handmade carpet. Another life he had taken - for the wrong man. While the cause itself was honourable, the source wasn't. He had turned his head, looking over a shoulder to the dead man still sitting in his chair, and he smirked, ever so slowly. Oh yes, this was fucking art. The whole scenery looked like a painting.

"One day, Angelo. It will be you, with a bullet in your fucking skull. My bullet. I swear, by God, by the Madonna, by the name of my family."

And while the rush of adrenaline was still bumping through his veins, giving him a high that was almost better than fucking, he felt cheap. He shouldn't, and he knew it. Lorenzo was a lot, but he certainly was not cheap. His remarkable skill, his passion for the hunt and the kill was legendary in town, and it earned him quite the reputation. People feared him, but, lately, Lorenzo was afraid of himself. Of what became of him. Of what he allowed those bastards to turn him into. A fucking lapdog for Angelo, his father-in-law. That's what he was.

He should put the gun against his own head and pull the trigger, end the shame, once and for all. But, no - he was not the one who brought shame to his name. Instead, he should be the one correcting it. All it took was a plan.


'There are just two things that cannot be influenced: Fate and Heritage. But you have a bearing on the outcome. Do what has to be done.'

As of late, Lorenzo had to think about this one man, close like a brother. He loved him, with all his heart. They had been friends. No, they had been like brothers, long ago. They grew up together, laughed, fought and cried together. All the things that forge a strong bond between young, aspiring men, believing the world to be theirs for the taking. Time and fate were cruel, though. Things changed, and now nothing of that was left. Hostility where it shouldn't be, reproaches and resentments. Now, this very man was a worthy opponent. One of the few. But it was just this man Lorenzo had to reach, if he wanted his plan to work. It had to work, because he only would have this one chance. They will call him a traitor, a shame for the famigila. But there was nothing Lorenzo could do. He had to heed the call of his blood, he had to set things right, to bring honour to himself, to his only true family.

Just. One. More. Job.

One more. Then it had to end, before he couldn't look at himself in a mirror anymore. It had gotten harder, as of late, to look at himself without feeling ashamed. He knew that it wouldn't take long for his father-in-law having  a new assignment for him. Assignment. Nice, hm? Had something. Considered the current threats, the Sicilian family in town taking over one block after the other? No, it was merely a matter of days. Either way, Lorenzo knew that this time it had to be a message. Not one for Angelo, not one for those considered enemy. Oh no. This time it had to be personal. A message they would understand. Unmistakably so. It was the only way. His only chance.

All cards were on the table. There was no turning back. And the assignment came. Lorenzo knew that the time had come  to turn his back to what had been his life. To the woman he had married. To everything he thought was family. But it had to be done. And this time it will be bloody. Dirty. If he would go, then with a fucking firework.

God may have mercy on the soul of the man who's life was taken. Left behind for all to see, in this Pizzeria in Little Italy. One that belonged to the Sicilian mob, no less. The Sicilian Lord would reel, and, with some luck (and luck was something Lorenzo needed right now in abundance), his lost brother as well. If anyone, than he would understand that message. Loud and clear because it was not Lorenzo's style, to leave such a mess behind. What he had done - was overkill. On purpose. Killing was art, for gods sake, but this... this had not been art. A mess, that's what it was. But, killing also was a message, sometimes. This time, for sure.

'Be faithful, devout and strong in your beliefs, Lorenzo. A true Corleone, and God the Allmighty will guide you on your way, always.'

All he could do now was pray. For guidance, for fate to be on his side, for God's mercy, or his message to be heard. Or else, it would be his head with a gun to it sooner or later and he will not die from a Sicilian bullet. Not he. Not a Corleone. There would be war, soon.

And praying he did. The whole night, with all the fierce passion and devotion his heart held.

And when the night turned into day, Lorenzo waited in the only place he knew his old friend would find him. Still praying, begging God for guidance. And sometimes, just sometimes, prayers will be heard. And answered. There were only two ways this could go from here. He either would get a bullet in his head -either by his father-in-law for even thinking of turning his back to him, or by the Sicilians- or end up on the side he should be. Lorenzo was in this business for too long, to not know the consequences, and the only punishment for treachery.


A man has to do what he felt was right. Lorenzo did the only right thing, with the help of his oldest, best friend.

He pledged to the Sicilian Lord, offering him the only things that were of worth to a man like that: His loyalty, his blood and his life. Not selling himself, because a Corleone never would do such a thing. Just - giving himself to those considered family. And sometimes, family was a lot more than blood-relation. It was a question of heritage, of disposition. He knew that he would be at home. Finally.

Taking revenge on those having lied to him, those that turned his life into a farce. Making his father pay for the treachery, the lies.

Correcting mistakes. Taking new vows.

And the only thing left when he would be done - will be blood on the ground.

Beautiful Mystery

Today's word of the day is....

dithyramb
noun DITH-ih-ram

Definition
1 : a usually short poem in an inspired wild irregular strain
2 : a statement or writing in an exalted or enthusiastic vein
Check A/A
The devil doesn't come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns.
He comes dressed as everything you have wished for.
O2//A2//Request//Boudoir

Shores

Wine is my muse and the
Dithyramb is my boat
We will travel the stars and
Bath in their blood

Tinkling through the night sky
Dancing among the fronds
Ancient race of the moon

Where are you going?
In my dreams
I traveled with her once again
Over the hills and to a land far, far away where
Wine is my best friend and cheese is my muse

ZephyrInk

The ecstasy of your taste
Grapes and wines of haste
Let this dithyramb be mine…

The scraping of the chalk on the blackboard emanated groans from the hall, all save for one, the professor himself. Dusting his hands as he turned around to face them, a wide grin plastered over his face, he repeated the word he wrote behind him, this time enunciating it in a rather dramatic and almost excitable way, “dithyramb. Dithy-ramb” he chimed away.

“Our discussion today will revolve around this word and there is a mandatory assignment afterwards so please do pay attention. “Wine, hymns, Dionysus, Greece…” he rambled on.

Beautiful Mystery

Today's word of the day is....

construe
verb kun-STROO

Definition
1 : to analyze the arrangement and connection of words in (a sentence or sentence part)
2 : to understand or explain the sense or intention of usually in a particular way or with respect to a given set of circumstances
Check A/A
The devil doesn't come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns.
He comes dressed as everything you have wished for.
O2//A2//Request//Boudoir

corvusul86

"Look, I promise that this... this is all just a misunderstanding," she said, smiling her most practiced smile.

"Misunderstanding, human?" the elf asked.  Long most high elves, he was very tall -- well over six feet -- with gorgeous but haughty features.  The most unnerving thing about elves had to be their glowing eyes, which shifted colors to show their mood.  She didn't need to be able to interpret them to know that he was furious.

"Of course," she said.  "He was simply commenting on the history of the dwarven and elven peoples.  I hope that at no point anyone would construe his words to mean something slanderous about the esteemed people hosting our adventuring party."

"I don't know what that fancy rubbish all meant," Durvik said, his voice still thick with alcohol.  "I just know what I knows about elves, and I've gots plenty to say about the long eared, beardless, goblin fondling, tree fu-MPMPH!"

She cut him off by covering his mouth with one hand.  "I apologize, my companion's grasp of the common tongue is often shortened by the consumption of ale.  It may have sounded as though he referred to you as, um, one who has overly familiar relations with members of certain monstrous subspecies in unfortunate service to various dark causes, but in actuality he was speaking dwarvish."

"Dwarvish," the elf said flatly.

"Get off me woman, I can speak for myself," the dwarf slobbered, shoving her hand away.

She stared at it for a moment, face twisted with disgust, before glaring at her companion.  "Obviously you cannot.  Now, if you don't cease this drunken prattling and let me smooth things over with our kind, gracious, understanding host I will wait until you pass out and dye your beard pink!"

"Eep!" the dwarf gasped.  "Not my beard!"

She glared harder.  "Both of them."

"You don't seem like most adventurers I've met, miss?"

She smiled.  "Cerelia of Daltshire, Cleric of the god of Law, and Barrister, at your service.  I specialize in contract negotiations, publicity, and slaying beasts of chaos."

ZephyrInk

A heated argument between them could be heard in the hallways to which Carl huffed and turned around. It was time to call the master. He knew how things would get out of hand if the latter didn't intervene on time.

"Your words and actions cannot be construed as an apology, brother", Langdon lashed out at his brother, his grip firm on the other's arm as he stared into his eyes.

"I did what I had to, you're supposed to be on my side!" David retorted.

Langdon shook his head in disbelief, this wasn't his brother talking, this was the effect of the curse. It had to be. His eyes softened and he relaxed his hold of the arm. "apologize in writing, show it to me before you send it and" he raised his finger at that, knowing fully well that there would be a retaliating remark, "I don't want to hear any more of it. Please" he turned around to face the other way, hands clasped tightly behind his back.

David pursed his lips then, defeated and dejected, he simply moved his hand over to the shoulder where the crest pin was nestled and yanked it off, "you disappoint me brother". He set the pin down onto the desk and stormed out, his eyes briefly catching the two men approaching him from the other end, "no need this time. I am done".

 

Shores

We were able to construe what the mime wanted by his cupped hands to his lips. I quickly gave the mime my water bottle, but he shook his head. My brother then handed the mime an imaginary water bottle, and the mime proceeded to drink it.

Hawk

"You construe too much my friend." Ian said as he turned around to face the man who would kill him."I never once touched her."
"It doesn't matter. You were dead when you first laid eyes on her." The pistol went up and Ian's world disappeared with a bang and flame.
“The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak
And stared with his foot on the prey.”

O/O
Ideas

Beautiful Mystery

Today's word of the day is....

inalienable
adjective in-AY-lee-uh-nuh-bul

Definition
1 : incapable of being alienated, surrendered, or transferred
Check A/A
The devil doesn't come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns.
He comes dressed as everything you have wished for.
O2//A2//Request//Boudoir

corvusul86

Despite the best efforts of the dark elves, the hobgoblins, four religions movements, a literal host of angels, and one particularly sneaky demon lord, vice in Sureport had become an inalienable pillar of the human based Thieves' Guild.  Perhaps it was the iron fisted rule of the Masters, who never revealed their faces even to their most trusted confidants, but whose enforcer's caused even the paladin's of the Blind god to make protective gestures like superstitious fishwives.  Perhaps it was simple demographics, with more than half of the city consisting of humans even after centuries of settlement by members of every race to have ever walked the Lands.

In truth, it didn't matter the reason.  What mattered is that the only way I could move my product into Shureport was with the blessing of the Thieves' Guild.  Having overextended on credit from a few rather surely Oni securing a large supply of Succubus Breath, I knew that if I didn't convince whoever the Guild sent I was going to be as desperate as my victims... er... customers would be in six months.  Nothing gets you higher, or hooks you harder, than Succubus Breath, after all... except perhaps for the loan terms of devil bankers.

When there was finally a knock at the door I sighed and moved to open it.  The man was short, with a wiry build and quick, jittery movements that made me want to reach for one of the many blades I had concealed on my person.  If he was surprised to find himself face to face with a seven foot tall, hyena like gnoll he didn't give any sign of it.

"I hear you have some business here in Shureport?" he said without preamble with a higher voice than I was expecting.

"Yes," I growled, hating the crude, grunting human tongue like I always did when forced to speak it  Not only did it sound rough on the ear, it had no subtlety to it.  "Shall we discuss it within?"

"Sure," he said.  "Names Marion."

I let him inside, and as I did I took a moment to remember my language lessons.  Marion was a strange name for a man, and with a frown that revealed my pointy yellow teeth I looked at my guest a little closer.  While the clothes were the simple breeches and tunic I'd come to expect from the males of the species, and the hair was certainly cropped short enough, I suppose I had been wrong about my identification of her gender.  Humans were just so difficult to tell apart, I lamented.  It was probably the lack of a proper fur coat.

"I am Shaer'kath," I said.  "Would you like some wine?  I have a bottle of a very nice elven red, if you've the palate."

Marion was taken aback for a moment.  I smirked a gnollish smirk, my ears flicking to the side as I revealed my frontmost fangs.  Humans always underestimated the so called 'monstrous races', not expecting us to have any refinement.  I know some gnolls who liked to play up the stereotypes of the savage bloodthirsty beast to get an advantage, but I've found most humans are even more shocked by manners more befitting an elven noble than a creature that could bite their throat out before they could blink.

"Sure, I'd love some wine," she said, trying to cover for her loss of composure.

I offered her a glass, pouring the wine with more skill than the best sommelier in Shureport, although that wasn't exactly difficult.  "I believe you'll find it to your liking.  A strong taste of apricot, with a surprisingly peppery finish."

"Thank you," she said, taking a sip.  "It is quite good."

"I believe in the finer things in life," I agreed.  "Of course, we ladies have to work hard to get ahead in this world -- if men had their way, we wouldn't be able to afford grog."

She gave a shocked laugh as I smirked again.  I might've had trouble telling her gender on first inspection, but I doubt one in a hundred humans could've guessed mine.  Even less would've realized that among gnolls, the women lead, and the men tend to be kept in harems.  It was much more civilized that way.

My introduction seemed to be doing its job, though.  Between the wine, the manners, and the 'just us girls' confidences, I was well on my way to winning over the Thieves' Guild representative.  Another hour of this and I'd be able to move my Succubus Breath for the right price.  From the blunt toothed smile she was offering, I might even get to have some fun this evening, and gain a contact for future trades.

Yes, Shureport was going to be very profitable, I could tell already.

Dys Astyr

The night air stirred, lifting richly scented smoke as if offering it to the stars themselves. The flames in the braziers danced wildly, painting the landscape is grotesque shadows. Not for the first time Alrik wondered if he his reason had abandoned him, yet it was far too late to turn back now. Months of preparation aside, to abandon the ritual now would be tantamount to suicide. His final circuit of the painstaking marked circle brought him to stand before the altar once more. A hand painted with ash gingerly took hold of a crescent blade resting on the left side of the table. He was well past the point of no return. With a final sigh Alrik held the blade aloft and began to recite the evocation in a measured voice.

The words rolled off his tongue smoothly, indeed the entire ritual had proceeded with something like ease. Soon the repetitions of movements and words had banished any thought that dared to stray from the task at hand. Time and the space beyond the circle ceased to exist as Alrik slipped into a trance as the repeated words grew more and more frenetic. Until, reaching a sudden crescendo, he brought the copper blade down diagonally across his forearm.

Blood splattered across the elaborately engraved altar paten, as it hit the glittering metal all the braziers went out and the ground began to rumble. The god-form erupted into being, terrible and august. It's form twisted and defied all the laws of nature, it was chaos incarnate and now it had an inalienable contract with Alrik's dying world.

Alive! Trying to catch up but there is a lot, please be patient! Thank you. <3

ZephyrInk

#273
He adjusted his name tag as he made his way through what seemed like an endless corridor. Apparently there had been new developments in the ‘subject’s’ behavior that had resulted in everyone involved to partake in the study program. Luckily, he was one of the chosen few analysts invited to witness the breakthrough and he hadn’t stopped smirking ever since.

He passed through hordes of white coated men and women, hovering around with their clipboards and wondered whether she should have brought one with him as well. He had decided that it was better to focus on what was in front of him rather than burying one’s nose on a piece of paper once inside the laboratory. Besides, the reports were to be available to him afterwards anyways. Shaking his head and snaking his way through the growing crowd, he finally reached the door and pointed the tag at the guard.

With a curt nod as a response, the man stepped inside as the door hissed open and began protocol. All personnel are required to wear hazmat suits before entering the subject’s domain. That was the instruction that had been drilled into everyone’s minds at orientation. After doing the needful and as he inched towards the second door, he noticed a second cautionary label above the latch that read – Subject remains inalienable. Do not attempt contact. 

He gave a laugh at the play of words there, “wonder if the alien thinks so”. Grasping the latch, he quickly skimmed over its metal frame before pulling it and turning it clockwise. A second hissing sound and he was there.

Silence – hauntingly silent he thought as he looked up at the transparent box containing the dormant specimen.

Shores

"Health is good. No prior records. Some gems to start-up a business. I see nothing wrong here." She smiled at the orange nine-tentacled beast seated opposite her in the office chair.

The creature smiled back, her lipsticked lips quirking up and a gurgle emerging. The translator on the table had some static and then a robotic voice rang through. "I want to make sure I get in. After all, Earth is the only place in the entire galaxy to guarantee inalienable rights for us, where we can be happy building a family."

She looked through the documents again, then picked up her stamp. "Tell me, before I grant you access, your kind is supposed to have ten tentacles. What happened to your tenth one?"

"I threw it at the officer from Mars who asked me that question."

She ducked just as the tentacle went sailing through the air, bursting into smaller tentacles on the wall behind. She quickly slammed the red button under her desk and a glass jar descended around her cubicle. She contained most of the small tentacles, though it seemed like a few were propelled away by the force.

"This is cubicle 009 and we have an egg breach. Over." She spoke into her walkie-talkie as the tentacled beast screamed and frothed on the floor.