Approbation

Approval (n)

They called Tom the everything boy. He played every sport. He played the piano and sang in the Christmas show. He got high grades in math and science and won essay contests. He painted landscapes with mountains that they hung in the display cases at the entrance of the school. He was chosen for several state and regional debate competitions. His locker was pristine. He always got A's on Mr. Romley's essays, which were known school-wide as the hardest writing assignments in the entire universe. He had perfect attendance. He made Jenna Nabern, the prettiest girl in the 8th grade, laugh hysterically. He spoke affably with teachers, even Ms. Bartoli, the jaded, mean, and dark-eyed algebra teacher that was only happy, she grumbled to her students at least once a day, when she was running marathons. He played Dungeons and Dragons with the geeks and dweebs. Jocks and cool kids invited him to hang out with them on the weekends. He was an institution.
The first and only day he was absent from school, Principal Spiel caught himself asking "Where's Tom?" over the loudspeaker during morning announcements. The nurses were concerned that he had a virus. The geeks thought a goblin had gotten to him. The jocks thought he pulled a hammy or broke his leg sliding into second. The girls began to draft Get Well cards with hearts and "Come Back Soon!" written in pink ink. Everyone looked at each other nervously and shrugged, hoping that their everything boy would be in school the next day unscathed.
He did come back the next day. But he wouldn't tell anyone where he had been. He just said he hadn't been feeling well and that he was fine now. Jenna Nabern whispered cryptically to her clique that Tom wouldn't take his hands out of his pockets.
That day happened to be the day that Tom's short story was due in Mr. Romley's 5th period class. Mr. Romley, a very unusual 8th grade English teacher, spent an entire quarter doing a creative writing workshop with his students. Each student submitted an original short story, which was copied and distributed to the class and then read aloud by Mr. Romley who lead a short critical discussion about it.
Tom handed his story in to Mr. Romley first thing that morning. Mr. Romley asked Tom if everything was alright. Tom just shrugged and said that he hadn't been feeling well and that he was fine now.
5th period came and everyone shuffled into class. They took their seats with an unusual urgency. Tom sat down with his hands in his pockets and waited. Jenna Nabern whispered something a friend. Mr. Romley welcomed everyone, looked nervously at Tom, and passed out copies of the short story and sat down at his desk. He brought his reading glasses down to the tip of his nose and started reading.

"There once was a boy named Infinity. Everybody loved him. Everybody congratulated him about everything he did. If he painted something, people loved the painting. If he sang something, people smiled when he was singing it and clapped a lot afterwards. If he took a test, he got a good grade on it.
Everyone knew Infinity, especially because of his name. But it wasn't his real name. He had just told people that it was his name since he was little, and people just accepted it because it seemed like he had everything. Only one person knew Infinity's real name and that person was his dad, who was also the only person that never congratulated Infinity, the only person that didn't smile when he sang, the only person that didn't shake hands with him when he got a good grade. Infinity's dad had been sad since before Infinity could remember. Infinity thought it was because his mother died after he was born, but he couldn't be sure. That was the only explanation Infinity could come up with for why his dad didn't do anything except sit on the couch and look at the television or at the wall, and maybe go to the bathroom.
Infinity would sing him songs but they didn't cheer him up. Infinity would do long division problems in front of him with real big numbers. But it didn't impress him. Infinity would bring his friends home and his dad wouldn't even say hello. One week, Infinity brought home a different trophy every day and lined them up on the coffee table in between his dad and the television. Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday. When he brought the last one home, Infinity's dad just leaned forward and pushed it with his hand so it didn't block the television.
Then one morning Infinity woke up and decided to stop doing stuff. He decided to do exactly what his dad did. He didn't want to go to school anymore. He didn't want to sing anymore, or play spots or do science fairs or talk to his friends. He just wanted to sit like his dad on the couch and stare. So he did. He didn't even brush his teeth. He went downstairs in his pajamas and sat down on the couch.
An hour went by. Two hours went by. After five hours, Infinity started to cry. He felt really small and didn't feel strong enough to handle sitting there. Then something wonderful happened. Infinity's dad turned towards him and said,
"Why didn't you go to school today?"
"Cuz I wanted to sit here," Infinity said.
Then Infinity's dad shook his head.
"You shouldn't do that. You're too good at stuff to do that," Infinity's dad said.
Infinity was crying. He looked up at his dad.
"I am?" Infinity asked.
"Oh yeah. Tomorrow you gotta go to school. I'll write you a note or something."
Then Infinity's dad smiled at him. It was the first time he had seen his dad smile. Infinity kept crying, but not because he was sad.
When Infinity woke up the next morning he got ready for school and went downstairs and he passed by his dad, who was sleeping on the couch. He was holding a folded piece of paper with Infinity's real name on it. Infinity carefully took it out of his dad's hand and ran to the bus stop to read it. It said:
"To whom it may concern: Please excuse ----- from school yesterday. He wasn't feeling well, but he's feeling fine now. I'm sure he'll make up the work he missed. He's a very good boy. Sincerely, -----"
Infinity folded it up and put the note in his pocket and held it in his hand for the whole bus ride to school and wouldn't let it go. Then he got to school and people asked him where he was. He said that he wasn't feeling well, but that he was fine now, and that Infinity wasn't his real name.
He never gave the note to anyone, not even the people in the attendance office. He kept it in his pocket and held it in his hand for the rest of his life."

THE END

There was a short moment of silence. Then Mr. Romley looked up from the paper and smiled underneath his glasses.
"Where were you yesterday, Tom?"
Everybody in the class turned to see the everything boy, whose hand was in his pocket. He said,
"I wasn't feeling well, Mr. Romley, but I'm better now."

Contrite

Pentitent (adj.)

When Judge Booley was tried for contempt after having pornographical magazines hidden underneath his desk during the trial of a man accused of double homicide, his posture was not very good. He sat at the defendant's table hunched, shoulders forward, eyes contrite and staring at his folded hands resting on the table.
"How do you plead?" asked Judge Gordon, a man that Booley had played golf and poker with for the last 18 years.
Booley raised his head and looked up penitently at his colleague.
"Guilty," he said, "I'm pleasing guilty."

Diffidence

Shyness (n.)

I had a friend in high school who, one day, saw me reading a book on cognitive therapy. My mother had given me the book to deal with some of the stresses I was feeling, and my friend pointed to it and said, quietly,
"I've got a book like that."
"Oh," I said, "the same one?"
"No, mine's about shyness," he said.
Since he mumbled this, I didn't hear his words clearly.
"About what?" I asked him.
"Shyness," he said again, a bit louder.
The word still sounded like the word 'highness' with an S in front of it to me. So I asked again.
"What? I'm still not getting it."
"Shyness! It's about shyness!" my friend yelled, blinking hard and looking around him, surprised at the volume of his voice.

Attentuate

To make thin, weaken (v.)

Carter sat whittling on his porch, looking at the long dirt path leading to his house. He waited for the mailman to come, whittling the end of a branch to a sharp point. His house lay between two town lines. No one knew about him except the mailman, who only dropped the mail off in the mailbox and waived and drove away.
Carter's eyes were draped with ancient rings of skin, his neck was thin and bent like his thin arms and thin torso hunched into a whittling position. He sat repeating the whittle motion so the the end of the stick was sharp, needle-sharp, and he saw the tires of the mail truck rolling up the dirt path leading to his house, the tip of the stick getting thinner and thinner until, just when the mailman got out and brought the mail to the mailbox, the end snapped, unable to whittling anymore and maintain its strength.
The mail man waived and carter waived back. Then he threw the broken branch into a pile of similarly over-whittled branches and went inside his house.

Clemency

Disposition to be lenient; mildness, as of the weather (adj.)

Kamai the Apache weather god watched as his people were slaughtered by Europeans carrying the Catholic flag of Pope Clement. A usually peaceful and even-tempered god, he was trying to find a reason not to get rid of these froth-mouthed Christians as they gutted his tribal followers. But he couldn't find a reason to be peaceful in this situation, and his anger was beginning to bubble. He considered sending down a tornado on the Christians as punishment for their gory, animal-like war on his people. But before he could do anything he was approached by the Christian God, who, in Heaven, took the form of a young man, an old man, and a golden retriever walking between them.
"Kamai," the young man entreated, "might I ask you what you're doing?"
"Oh, hey Christian God," said Kamai, "I was just going to protect my people from some nefarious foes."
"I don't think you should do that," said the young man.
The golden retriever barked.
"Yes," said the old man, "I agree."
"What do you mean?" asked Kamai.
"Well," began the young man, whose hands were pressed together prayerfully in front of him, "if you destroy these Christian soldiers you will rob your people of great wealth."
"Great wealth?" asked Kamai.
The retriever barked.
"Yes," said the old man, "I agree."
"I see all things Kamai, and I know all truths..." said the young man.
Kamai rolled his eyes. The young man didn't notice as he continued talking.
"And I have seen your people build great villages in the future, villages with machines that spew money from them. And I have seen them conquer many Christians who give their money to these machines willingly and in great amounts."
The golden retriever barked.
"Yes," said the old man, "I agree."
"But if you smite these Christian soldiers," continued the young man, "this will not come to be."
"Hmm," said Kamai. He looked down to Earth and saw his people looking up to him for help as the guns of the Europeans shot through them and metal shields blocked their wooden arrows and spears.
"If it is for their future," he whispered sadly.
The trio stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. The young man smiled. The old man's face hung deadpan. The golden retriever between them licked itself.
And Kamai sent down a mist to the battlefield. A light and clement rain, acting in accord with what he thought was best for his people.

Gambol

Gambol
To leap playfully, romp, skip about by David backer

Ben and Wenzl sit on a curb in St. Louis passing a big can of light beer in a brown bag between them. It's five o'clock post-meridian and teenage girls walk with babies in their arms and homeless people move sick and slowly across crosswalks and men with patches of hair missing from their scalps and boils on their necks mutter to themselves as they lean on brick and grafiti'd walls and a man at an entrance to an alley squats, in plain sight, and wipes his ass with newspapers and stuffs clean newspapers, maybe a day old now, up into his crack. Children gambol around the street corners and the fences around the old buildings wearing clothes that are too big for them and sirens from a police car scream from a few blocks away.
"What would you do if you could get outta here?" Ben asks Wenzl.
"What would I do?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know man."
"You know what I would do? You know that girl works in Clark's Diner? The one behind the counter gives people muffins and says--"
"Hey there..."
"Yeah," Ben says, "her. I'd take her out to the country somewhere, like real far away. To a field of flowers, sunflowers or something, and we would be frolicking, I mean really frolicking, and there wouldn't be no buses stopping short, no addicts yelling at each other, just a big sky and trees and flowers and me and her holding hands, laughing. She'd be wearing a dress, you know, and we'd be laughing our heads off until we fell to the ground or something."
Wenzl makes a noise in response.
Then the children run by Wenzl and Ben and the children are laughing and the man in the alley with the newspapers in his ass pulls up his pants and lumbers deeper into the belly of his alley and the girls with babies are yelling at each other and laughing. More sirens shout from far off and the sound gets louder and louder and the door to a convenience store slams shut and Wenzl knows there's a sunflower somewhere and a girl in a yellow dress laughing on the ground with someone and he drinks his beer.

Doddering

Shaking, infirm from old age (adj.)

The homosexual weightlifter had been hated in Austria since he first burst out on the weightlifting scene when he was sixteen. No one else in the circuit, the judges, audience, novices, other competitors knew his sexual orientation when he first competed at Innsbrook, but shortly after he beat the reigning champion by several hundred kilos, there were interviewers demanding answers to questions for their articles for the sports sections of the papers. He had no agent. No manager. He had been training by himself on his father's backyard farm in a small mountain town all his life, he had no knowledge of the workings of the city--only muscles and naievete.
When the newspaper men crowded around him they asked about his past. Where was he from? How did he get so strong? Did he have a family?
He told all: proscribed from his father's house when caught with his lover, a man from a neighboring farm, he found an advertisement for the weightlifting competition. He had been sleeping on the street for the past several nights.
The reporters wrote busily as he told his succinct history. His knees began to shake for the first time when he saw the expressions on their faces as they wrotes and whispered to one another. Standing there, watching these men look at each other and pointing at him, his knees began to tremble as if there were some great weight upon them.

Over the years the weightlifting circuit became his life. He had no family and not many friends. The homosexual weightlifter lived hotel to hotel and competed in many tournaments, finding a modicum of solace in the activity he had trained for and mastered throughout his lonelylife. But despite his many victories, they were not counted as such. He could beat any lifter at any match, but the judges subtracted hundreds of kilos from his score because of what he told the newspapers. Because of who he was.
Weightlifting in Vienna became a popular spectator sport because of him. On the circuit, he became an absurd institution, part of a ritual that many paid to partake in, where the homosexual weightlifter lifted as much as he could in front of the whispering crowd, his old knees shaking horribly but withstanding the greatest of weights. He was given last place every time. No matter how much he lifted. It was part of the ritual. And the crowd, smiling, would boo him and throw things at him while he stood there, a doddering old man with knees trembling beneath the weights.