Tommy had been rubbing his arm for the entire ride home. "Will you leave it alone? You're making it hurt," his mother said, as they pulled into the driveway. As soon as the car was in park, she craned back to see what was under the bandage. All she saw was a light pink swelling, which was to be expected. "Don't be so so dramatic. Your baby sister got the same shots, and she's just fine."
Fifi smiled at the mention of the favoritism, and she kicked in her car seat in celebration. Her brother's grumpyface took her delight to the next level.
Roscoe was barking like crazy inside the house. Tommy grabbed the stickers while his mom unbuckled Fifi. "Remember, put those where the movers will see them, so they know what to pack! And don't use them all!"
Tommy opened the door, and Roscoe pounced, knocking him down and covering him with slobbery kisses. "Ready to go outside?" Tommy said, between laughs. He put one of the red stickers on Roscoe's nose; the dog stopped, perplexed. Tommy sat up to catch his breath, watching Roscoe's battle with the sticker.
Irene took the stickers out of Tommy's hand. "We've got too much to do! Did you want to take anything or not?" Tommy tried to take them back, but his mother was firm. "And you're helping your sister, too..." When she felt she'd won, she gave him one sheet of stickers. "I'll give you more if you need them. They're not toys."
As Tommy went upstairs, the phone rang. "Irene... I'm hearing stories, Irene..."
"They're probably true, Ray. I'm taking the job. I gotta go where the money is."
"You can't do that!"
"I can, and I have to. It's too good a deal to turn down. They have schools there for the kids, the health benefits are great, Tommy's best friend is already down there with his family - they're going to be fine."
"I'm gonna lawyer up!"
"They're also providing legal assistance. They've already made arrangements with the judge; you can't do a thing."
Irene cocooned glasses in bubble wrap, as she waited for Ray to recover. "Well, I guess you've thought of everything."
"They've thought of everything, Ray. They've taken care of everything. They really want me there. And you know I never wanted to leave Tampa. I never thought I'd get the chance again."
"That ain't Tampa. It's a swamp."
"Well, it's where the kids are going to call home now. So I'm going to hang up now. I gotta get us in the water, Ray. We're leaving most of the stuff here. Take what you want, sell the rest."
"Am I ever going to see them again?"
"Maybe when you get yourself together, Ray. Maybe, when you get yourself a job, you can come down."
"We know that's not going to happen."
"And there's nothing for me up here, Ray. There's not enough room."
Tommy was yelling from upstairs. "Mom!"
Irene hung up the phone and ran. Tommy was in the bathroom, filling up the tub. Fifi was on the floor, convulsing and gasping. Irene picked her up and placed her in the water, submerging Fifi's neck. Irene reached down and felt the gentle flutterings along her clavicle. "It's happening too fast."
Tommy was crying. Irene held his chin and looked him in the eyes. "Tommy, we're done packing. I'll call Aunt Colleen when we get there, and we'll give her a list. She can send it. Or maybe you can ask your dad. But we have to go." She glanced at his neck; his gills were starting to come in, as well.
Eight minutes later, they were in the car, and on the way to the coast. Fifi's car seat had been replaced with a beer cooler, filled to three-quarters with ice for the girl to slosh in. Tommy, now silent and determined, had his eyes on the road his mother was driving them down. In the passenger seat, the sum of their belongings rested within two waterproof duffel bags, emblazoned with the BP logo.
Irene, driving above the speed limit, was more agitated about the time it took to get a live person on the phone. "BP Tampa, human resources, this is-"
"Employee 586714, Irene Santiago, requesting early arrival at Research Campus 1!"
"Identified, Irene. Reason?"
"Medical! Premature programming development - my daughter! She's only 3!"
"Understood. Will you need emergency support?"
Irene turned a hard left, at the sign that read MARINA, 2 MILES AHEAD. "Yes!"
The response team was waiting at Bay 1. They confirmed that Fifi had acclimated ahead of schedule, but not abnormally so. Tommy had started feeling dizzy at the marina; once he put on the water helmet, he was fine. "The breathing part's easy," the EMT explained. "The pressure adjustment, however, isn't something we can compensate for with our equipment. I'm sorry if this is a rush, but it's for the best if you submerge now."
Irene nodded, and passed her bags to the ferry operator. She'd send the car home, contact her sister, and take care of all the things they were leaving behind later. After all, they were only things. Life was happening right now.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Fruit Flies' Genomes can change in Just Days"
Thursday, April 10, 2014
DAY 99: Cerberus and Sticks
It was a shanty on McMansion avenue, a reminder of the neighborhood's previous incarnation. Gentrification had revitalized the neighborhood, but it had driven Mr Kosten inward. He was usually seen wearing a flannel bathrobe and a grimace, and that was when he checked the mail, or straightened his 'BEWARE OF DOG" signs.
Cerberus was a blue pit mix; the posture suggested bulldog, and the proportions suggested bear. Sticks was a scrawny hound breed, a silver-furred puppy that could tower over his adoptive brother - if he ever had the inclination. They patrolled the Kosten estate day and night, barking off any would-be trespassers.
It happened that Mr Kosten's house was on the dividing line between the Raven Ridge housing development, and the Weeping Pines subdivision. The two neighborhoods collided at Redford Avenue, and they chose to split the street down the middle. Neither, however, were interested in claiming Mr Kosten. Each had learned independently that he would not be convinced, cajoled, coerced, or bribed into ceding his property, and so they let him rot in his unclaimed spot.
Neither offered their trash services to him, which he did not miss; every couple of weeks, he would load his refuse onto a battered pickup truck and drive it to the dump himself. And perhaps it was on one of those occasions that his gate was not secure enough, or simply not tall enough, but in his abscence, Sticks left the yard.
Cerberus called him back, but Sticks was intoxicated with freedom. He dashed zig-zag from yard to yard, roaming further and further, until he disappeared in the mid-afternoon silence. Cerberus trotted with worry, torn between the instinct to guard his home and to guard his brother. Finally, he began to dig, calling and waiting for an answer...
He finished his hole first, and tunneled under the driveway gate. Following the scent, Cerberus zigged and zagged, searching for any trace of Sticks. He felt a rumbling under his feet, and turned to the source, seeing a schoolbus come to a stop at the corner. As Cerberus walked toward it, the door opened, where a child waited to exit. She saw Cerberus, and screamed, and the door closed.
Cerberus circled the bus, ran laps around it as he barked and growled. Inside, some of the children stared at the window, in excitement or fear; others, along with the bus driver, were on their phones. In a moment, parents began to exit their homes, to see the beast that had their children trapped.
And then Mr Kosten drove up. Honking to get anyone out of the street, he saw Cerberus in the middle of the road. He exited the truck, and called to him. Cerberus was too jostled, too petrified; he kept barking everyone at bay.
Mr Kosten dropped to one knee, and called Cerberus. The rest of the street froze as the pit walked to his human. With a nuzzle and a pat, the old man led his dog into the truck cab. Meeting no one's gaze, he called for Sticks, and walked over to the driver's side; from out of the yards, the hound leaped into the flatbed, just as he started the engine. They drove down the avenue and up the gravel drive, closing the gate behind them.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Pluto's Crowd-Sourced Moons"
Cerberus was a blue pit mix; the posture suggested bulldog, and the proportions suggested bear. Sticks was a scrawny hound breed, a silver-furred puppy that could tower over his adoptive brother - if he ever had the inclination. They patrolled the Kosten estate day and night, barking off any would-be trespassers.
It happened that Mr Kosten's house was on the dividing line between the Raven Ridge housing development, and the Weeping Pines subdivision. The two neighborhoods collided at Redford Avenue, and they chose to split the street down the middle. Neither, however, were interested in claiming Mr Kosten. Each had learned independently that he would not be convinced, cajoled, coerced, or bribed into ceding his property, and so they let him rot in his unclaimed spot.
Neither offered their trash services to him, which he did not miss; every couple of weeks, he would load his refuse onto a battered pickup truck and drive it to the dump himself. And perhaps it was on one of those occasions that his gate was not secure enough, or simply not tall enough, but in his abscence, Sticks left the yard.
Cerberus called him back, but Sticks was intoxicated with freedom. He dashed zig-zag from yard to yard, roaming further and further, until he disappeared in the mid-afternoon silence. Cerberus trotted with worry, torn between the instinct to guard his home and to guard his brother. Finally, he began to dig, calling and waiting for an answer...
He finished his hole first, and tunneled under the driveway gate. Following the scent, Cerberus zigged and zagged, searching for any trace of Sticks. He felt a rumbling under his feet, and turned to the source, seeing a schoolbus come to a stop at the corner. As Cerberus walked toward it, the door opened, where a child waited to exit. She saw Cerberus, and screamed, and the door closed.
Cerberus circled the bus, ran laps around it as he barked and growled. Inside, some of the children stared at the window, in excitement or fear; others, along with the bus driver, were on their phones. In a moment, parents began to exit their homes, to see the beast that had their children trapped.
And then Mr Kosten drove up. Honking to get anyone out of the street, he saw Cerberus in the middle of the road. He exited the truck, and called to him. Cerberus was too jostled, too petrified; he kept barking everyone at bay.
Mr Kosten dropped to one knee, and called Cerberus. The rest of the street froze as the pit walked to his human. With a nuzzle and a pat, the old man led his dog into the truck cab. Meeting no one's gaze, he called for Sticks, and walked over to the driver's side; from out of the yards, the hound leaped into the flatbed, just as he started the engine. They drove down the avenue and up the gravel drive, closing the gate behind them.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Pluto's Crowd-Sourced Moons"
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
DAY 98: The Family Tree
Grandma got everybody together for blondies and lemonade, the better to ask us to get grandpa's skull. He had died on the operating table the day before, and while his daughters - our mothers - wept and consoled each other, it was the grandchildren that were being entrusted with the solemn request. His skull was to be cleaned and set into the family tree.
As it turned out, getting our hands on Grandpa's skull was the easy part. Mr Wanabaker had known of Grandpa's wishes for years; he consulted with an immigrant butcher of indeterminate origin (who apparently possessed a sense of discretion, along with previous experience) to make the essential preparations. When we went to the funeral home, Mr Wanabaker already had an urn, bearing the cremated remainder; he said the skull would be ready after the wake.
As it turned out, getting our hands on Grandpa's skull was the easy part. Mr Wanabaker had known of Grandpa's wishes for years; he consulted with an immigrant butcher of indeterminate origin (who apparently possessed a sense of discretion, along with previous experience) to make the essential preparations. When we went to the funeral home, Mr Wanabaker already had an urn, bearing the cremated remainder; he said the skull would be ready after the wake.
The wake was well-attended by many strangers, but we could sense those among the crowd who knew. Whenever one of us would be mentioned as a grandson, the knowledgeable would respond with a narrowing of the eyes, as if they were studying our fortitude. In their voiced condolence, they might spinkle in some tale of one of Grandpa's accepted challenges. The conversation would usually end with a squeeze of the hand or shoulder, as if to say, "mind your grandpa, now..."
The next day, we received the skull, and returned to grandma's, for the next step. She seemed bleary-eyed and agitated when she saw us on her step, and she scolded us for not calling first. A minute after holding the skull, she was composed, and she led us to the southwest corner of the backyard.
The tree was massive, a testament to the resiliency of our lineage. We had not planted it, but the tree had thrived from its symbiotic relationship with our ancestors. Dwight looked up the trunk, and said to me, "You're the lightweight, dude. Get up there."
It was 15 feet to the first branch; I started to argue with my cousin. But the clatter of Grandma trying to drag over the ladder and hatchet defused our tiff. We took the items from her hands; while my cousin made off with the ladder, she passed me the hatchet and said, "He wanted to be up in the crown, and facing the sunrise."
Unlike me, Dwight had visited our grandparents when he was tree-climbing age, so he gave me directions. "Just look for Grandpa Malcolm - he'll be the lowest - and put Grandpa about twelve inches under him. Resting above a branch is better, and threading a branch through him is great, too. Just make sure it's gonna stay."
The ladder put me in reach of the low branch. Slowly, I pulled myself up until I reached my great-grandfather. His skull was half-embedded, the bark barely an inch behind his sockets. I craned my neck upward, and counted three others, swallowed in various stages. I even thought I saw the outline of a fifth, almost completely.obscured.
With a stick, Grandma tapped the side of the tree she chose; a twinge of vertigo made it feel like an earthquake. But I found the best spot I could for Grandpa, and carved his 'seat.' After a few minutes, I yelled down for the skull. Dwight tossed first, but didn't reach me, and it fell back to Earth. Grandma caught it with her apron, glaring at both of us before we made a second try. The second try was good, and I set Grandpa in his final resting place.
When I was done, I yelled them to stand clear, and dropped the axe. But back on the ladder, I had a second thought. I pulled out my set of keys, searching for the least useful one. I pulled it off the ring, with a Mt Rushmore souvenir keychain attached; I jammed the key into the tree, about two feet below Grandpa. Patting an apology to the tree, I began my descent.
DAY 97: In the Blood
At a cellular level, he was a violent man. He was a tyro before his teeth finished coming in. By the time his whiskers started, his aggresive tendencies were well-documented, and prophetic. He celebrated his 30th birthday in state prison, awaiting to be removed from this earth as quickly as he removed three men from it. "No kids of my own, and I prevented three stupid ones from procreating - I'd call that God's work," he sneered at the minister that attempted to tend to his spiritual needs.
There was an act of benevolence that could be attributed to his name. He had provided regular donations of his blood, twice weekly. (In fact, he was arrested, for the last time, while on the donation table. He was allowed to finish.) His motivations were the immediate compensations - the money and companionship - but the plasma center recognized how valuable and rate his contributions genuinely were. Shortly before the penalty phase of his trial, representatives of the plasma center reached out to his attorney, to speak of his continued civic importance. It was enough to forestall his execution, until his fateful escape attempt, which cost the lives of two guards, the attending phlebotomist, and his own.
His blood, scarce and sorely needed, was dispersed among several patients in the region. The most notable donation was received by an elderly man of some financial significance. Victimized by a stroke that rendered him comatose and rapidly deteriorating, his fate was fiercely debated among the executors of his estate. Before the argument was resolved, the old man began to receive plasma infusions. By the time doctors were instructed to remove his ventilator tube, the issue was moot.
His eldest son-in-law (perhaps 8 years younger) came to visit; he was aggressively curious about the lack of news, regarding the passing of the family patriarch. He was directed to the old man's recovery room. The son-in-law was found two minutes later and three floors down.
insipred by Discover Magazine article, "Cells Battle to the Death in the Developing Embryo"
There was an act of benevolence that could be attributed to his name. He had provided regular donations of his blood, twice weekly. (In fact, he was arrested, for the last time, while on the donation table. He was allowed to finish.) His motivations were the immediate compensations - the money and companionship - but the plasma center recognized how valuable and rate his contributions genuinely were. Shortly before the penalty phase of his trial, representatives of the plasma center reached out to his attorney, to speak of his continued civic importance. It was enough to forestall his execution, until his fateful escape attempt, which cost the lives of two guards, the attending phlebotomist, and his own.
His blood, scarce and sorely needed, was dispersed among several patients in the region. The most notable donation was received by an elderly man of some financial significance. Victimized by a stroke that rendered him comatose and rapidly deteriorating, his fate was fiercely debated among the executors of his estate. Before the argument was resolved, the old man began to receive plasma infusions. By the time doctors were instructed to remove his ventilator tube, the issue was moot.
His eldest son-in-law (perhaps 8 years younger) came to visit; he was aggressively curious about the lack of news, regarding the passing of the family patriarch. He was directed to the old man's recovery room. The son-in-law was found two minutes later and three floors down.
insipred by Discover Magazine article, "Cells Battle to the Death in the Developing Embryo"
DAY 96: A Meeting with Mark Zuckerberg
Tonio and Shan took turns stealth-punching each other in the shoulder. They found themselves in a Palo Alto suburb, ready for their 11 o'clock appointment with Mark Zuckerberg, ready to present their world-changing idea for his consideration. At least, they were sort of ready.
"I think I'm gonna puke, Tonio." Shan lurched over, his hands on his knees, trying to breathe.
"Dude, what are you doing? Your sister set this up!"
"She's always telling me to put up or shut up. At first, I didn't believe her when she said she was his favorite barista."
"-and now you think she's lying?"
"No, I think she told him about us, so he could shut me down for good, and I can go back to med school like my mom wanted!"
"That's insane! Besides, that would be on both of us, and your sister loves me!"
"Yeah, she- huh?"
"We've been turned down by everybody," Tonio said, grabbing Shan's shoulder. "If we got one swing left, we gotta swing for the fences! Now, how do they look?"
Shan looked at Tonio's earlobes. His right ear had a 12-gauge piercing, a blinking red dot. His left lobe had a 2-inch piercing, glowing an unmistakable blue, almost touching the lapel of his suit jacket. "You look lopsided."
Tonio offered two thumbs up, and buzzed the gate.
After passing through security and his assistants, Zuckerberg met with them. The boys had been prepared for a business presentation that their host seemed unaware of. "My wife's hosting a party on the lawn. Can you guys help us move a couple couches to the backyard?"
They agreed, and found themselves relocating 17 couches from outside his house. "They're not all from the house," he said. "I'm actually renting most of them for the occasion, although we want to cut down on the grass stains, if possible. Her family's coming up, and we wanted to whip up something comfortable for the movie."
"Movie?" Tonio raised an eyebrow.
Zuckerberg pointed to the 14-foot screen mounted below the trees. "Yeah, we're going to watch out here. Dirty Dancing came out this weekend, or something - ask her." He pointed to Tonio's earlobes. "Don't those get hot?"
"No, sir!" Tonio went into salesman mode. "And the little red has over 200 gigs of music, ready to find with a voice command. The blue one holds almost a Tet!"
"Neat. Or you could make those bluetooth-ready."
Tonio reeled for a half-second. "This style's been popular so far- but I think they'd like your idea even more!"
Shan was hyperventilating under his corner of the couch. "Yeah, or phone calls, gps..."
"It's great," Tonio said, "to talk with somebody that sees the potential in them!"
Zuckerberg let out a laugh. "I can't put any money in this. We don't do hardware."
They set the couch in place. Zuckerberg led them to the next one, while out of view, Tonio let out a heavy sigh, then caught up with the others.
As they carried the last couch onto the lawn, Mrs Zuckerberg made her appearance. She was delighted with the furniture arrangement, and began placing reservation cards on the couches. As her husband introduced his help for the day, Mrs Zuckerberg complemented Tonio's ear decorations. "That's wild!"
"They're music players," he replied, and twisted off the red piercing so she could hear the music.
Her face lit up when she recognized the music. " 'Be My Baby!'"
"He said what movie you were watching tonight, so I've been listening to it since we started."
Mrs Zuckerberg wiped off the piercing, and put it on. Excited, she danced over to her husband, humming the tune. He gamely swayed with her, tossing his phone to Shan. Understanding, Shan took a few pictures of the couple dancing. When the song was over, she pecked Zuckerberg on the cheek, and returned to the house to check on aperetifs.
Shan handed the phone over to Mr Zuckerberg; Tonio tilted his other ear slightly toward Mr Zuckerberg's sightline. But he looked at his phone, shaked their hands, and said, "I'm still not buying in. But somebody's going to. Keep swinging."
It was a big house. With no one to give directions, it took far too long for Tonio and Shan to find their way back to the front gate. Tonio was morose, shellshocked. Shan, pulling him along, drank the view in with every step, as if it was the last.
Shen took his phone off silent when they got to the gate; in the time it had taken them to leave the house, his sister had called six times, and left five text messages, each more urgent than the last "Don't sign anything yet! You're trending! I got Bose and a half dozen others that want to talk to you!"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Elon Musk's Hyperloop: A Pragmatic Vision of the Future"
"I think I'm gonna puke, Tonio." Shan lurched over, his hands on his knees, trying to breathe.
"Dude, what are you doing? Your sister set this up!"
"She's always telling me to put up or shut up. At first, I didn't believe her when she said she was his favorite barista."
"-and now you think she's lying?"
"No, I think she told him about us, so he could shut me down for good, and I can go back to med school like my mom wanted!"
"That's insane! Besides, that would be on both of us, and your sister loves me!"
"Yeah, she- huh?"
"We've been turned down by everybody," Tonio said, grabbing Shan's shoulder. "If we got one swing left, we gotta swing for the fences! Now, how do they look?"
Shan looked at Tonio's earlobes. His right ear had a 12-gauge piercing, a blinking red dot. His left lobe had a 2-inch piercing, glowing an unmistakable blue, almost touching the lapel of his suit jacket. "You look lopsided."
Tonio offered two thumbs up, and buzzed the gate.
After passing through security and his assistants, Zuckerberg met with them. The boys had been prepared for a business presentation that their host seemed unaware of. "My wife's hosting a party on the lawn. Can you guys help us move a couple couches to the backyard?"
They agreed, and found themselves relocating 17 couches from outside his house. "They're not all from the house," he said. "I'm actually renting most of them for the occasion, although we want to cut down on the grass stains, if possible. Her family's coming up, and we wanted to whip up something comfortable for the movie."
"Movie?" Tonio raised an eyebrow.
Zuckerberg pointed to the 14-foot screen mounted below the trees. "Yeah, we're going to watch out here. Dirty Dancing came out this weekend, or something - ask her." He pointed to Tonio's earlobes. "Don't those get hot?"
"No, sir!" Tonio went into salesman mode. "And the little red has over 200 gigs of music, ready to find with a voice command. The blue one holds almost a Tet!"
"Neat. Or you could make those bluetooth-ready."
Tonio reeled for a half-second. "This style's been popular so far- but I think they'd like your idea even more!"
Shan was hyperventilating under his corner of the couch. "Yeah, or phone calls, gps..."
"It's great," Tonio said, "to talk with somebody that sees the potential in them!"
Zuckerberg let out a laugh. "I can't put any money in this. We don't do hardware."
They set the couch in place. Zuckerberg led them to the next one, while out of view, Tonio let out a heavy sigh, then caught up with the others.
As they carried the last couch onto the lawn, Mrs Zuckerberg made her appearance. She was delighted with the furniture arrangement, and began placing reservation cards on the couches. As her husband introduced his help for the day, Mrs Zuckerberg complemented Tonio's ear decorations. "That's wild!"
"They're music players," he replied, and twisted off the red piercing so she could hear the music.
Her face lit up when she recognized the music. " 'Be My Baby!'"
"He said what movie you were watching tonight, so I've been listening to it since we started."
Mrs Zuckerberg wiped off the piercing, and put it on. Excited, she danced over to her husband, humming the tune. He gamely swayed with her, tossing his phone to Shan. Understanding, Shan took a few pictures of the couple dancing. When the song was over, she pecked Zuckerberg on the cheek, and returned to the house to check on aperetifs.
Shan handed the phone over to Mr Zuckerberg; Tonio tilted his other ear slightly toward Mr Zuckerberg's sightline. But he looked at his phone, shaked their hands, and said, "I'm still not buying in. But somebody's going to. Keep swinging."
It was a big house. With no one to give directions, it took far too long for Tonio and Shan to find their way back to the front gate. Tonio was morose, shellshocked. Shan, pulling him along, drank the view in with every step, as if it was the last.
Shen took his phone off silent when they got to the gate; in the time it had taken them to leave the house, his sister had called six times, and left five text messages, each more urgent than the last "Don't sign anything yet! You're trending! I got Bose and a half dozen others that want to talk to you!"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Elon Musk's Hyperloop: A Pragmatic Vision of the Future"
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
DAY 95: The Sniper Sniper
Nicolau took a swig of his drink, and studied his improvised coaster. "These are - or were - snipers. I tracked two of them down myself. We captured this one" -pointing at one crossed-out name - "last year. I was assigned to interrogate him. He provided intel for intel: he asked about the fates of the men he named on this list. I confirmed that we had captured and killed all but two. The day I told him of Lubov's death - this one- he laughed. He said 'Now there is only the Wolf.'
"He was happy to tell me which kills were done by who; he thought it honored his fallen. He was more matter-of-fact about his own kills. But his stories about the Wolf were the most elaborate, for they were the closest to impossible. He was almost giddy about spreading the fear.
Nicolau began arranging the condiments on the table. "I learned as much about the Wolf as I could. I almost flushed him out once, in Zagreb. I learned he doesn't do bell towers - there are so few left, they are too easy targets. Better for him a factory, and a hundred targets. I learned he uses our own munitions, or whatever he can find. I learned that he waited two days to complete an assignment, so his target could get shot on a beautiful day. He also shot one of our generals on the toilet, from 300 yards away.
"One day, this guy" -pointing again at the list, "-requests yard time. First sun in almost a week. So he goes out into the yard, does some stretches, faces the sun-" He pantomimes a firing gun. "Dead before he hit the ground. The Wolf."
Nicolau tipped the waitress and slipped on his jacket. "Finish your drink. It's a beautiful day."
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Death of a Storm Chaser"
"He was happy to tell me which kills were done by who; he thought it honored his fallen. He was more matter-of-fact about his own kills. But his stories about the Wolf were the most elaborate, for they were the closest to impossible. He was almost giddy about spreading the fear.
Nicolau began arranging the condiments on the table. "I learned as much about the Wolf as I could. I almost flushed him out once, in Zagreb. I learned he doesn't do bell towers - there are so few left, they are too easy targets. Better for him a factory, and a hundred targets. I learned he uses our own munitions, or whatever he can find. I learned that he waited two days to complete an assignment, so his target could get shot on a beautiful day. He also shot one of our generals on the toilet, from 300 yards away.
"One day, this guy" -pointing again at the list, "-requests yard time. First sun in almost a week. So he goes out into the yard, does some stretches, faces the sun-" He pantomimes a firing gun. "Dead before he hit the ground. The Wolf."
Nicolau tipped the waitress and slipped on his jacket. "Finish your drink. It's a beautiful day."
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Death of a Storm Chaser"
Monday, April 7, 2014
DAY 94: An Awkward Itching Problem
Dr Maloney picked up the folder for room 413. As she began to peruse through the file of Ms Melanie Rufrode, nurse Cyrus took the folder out of her hand. "This one's waiting for Dr Herzog."
Maloney took the folder back. "He's detained in surgery; he's taking my evening rounds for this."
Cyrus put his fingers on the folder, ready to remove. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but this patient should really wait for Dr Herzog."
Maloney gave a fire-starting glare at his fingers. "And he's not going to be here for twelve hours. I have no intention of alterting his recommendations."
"Sherrita, you can't help this patient."
"Why not, Cyrus?"
Cyrus's eyes dropped while he searched for the word. "She's got allergies. Hives, uncontrolled itching..."
"Yes, I see that. Do I smell like I'm wearing perfume?"
"...and you're black."
Maloney was stunned silent. After a moment, she blurted out, "This is not 1953!" and bolted into the room, Cyrus behind her with gloves in hand.
The doctor entered the room, wearing her most pleasant smile. "Hello, Ms Rufrode, I'm Dr Maloney."
Melanie yanked her blanket to her chin and shuddered. "Aaa! Where's Dr Herzog?"
"He's in the middle of performing a surgery, he'll be back overnight. But we want to see what we can do until then."
"I'm so sorry!" Melanie said, through tears and neck-scratching. "I don't have a problem with black people! I voted for Obama and Jordan Sparks! I'm visiting my daughter - I'm gonna be a new grandma any day now!"
"When did this start?"
"When she came to visit me in Pocatello, with her fiancee, Derek. He wanted to ask my permission to marry her. He was very nice. But before the visit was over, I started itching all over - and it didn't stop until he left! It didn't happen again until I made the trip here! I was standing in line at the Walgreens, and I couldn't even make it to the counter, I had to leave!"
"Why do you think it's african-americans that's causing the itching?"
"I'm from Idaho! We don't have any!" Melanie was rubbing her arms. "You've got to believe me! I want to be able to hold my grandson!"
From the other side of the room, Dr Maloney referred to the chart. "I believe you. Your NPPB levels shows there's a definite physiological change going on. It's your body that's reacting, not you."
"Am I a bad person? I didn't even know everything Ashley was going through until Monday, and I got on a plane-"
"Ms Rufrode... do you think your daughter's boyfriend is a decent person?"
"Seems so. He was real nice on the phone, and when we met. But then he saw me scratching uncontrollably-" Melanie sobbed
The doctor spoke low, drawing Melanie's attention. "Ms Rufrode, my husband is allergic to dogs, all kinds - even my dogs. But he married me anyway, and let me keep them. And we've practically bought stock in Claritin, but that's what he's willing to do to keep the family together. And we can figure out what you need to do, if you want to be around the family."
Melanie nodded. Dr Maloney wrote a prescription for some antihistamines, and asked her to check in a few days, to see how she acclimated to the climate.
The next time Dr Maloney and Cyrus saw Melanie, she was carrying her newborn grandson in her arms. "That's a beautiful baby you got there, new grandma!"
"We're bringing him home today, but I just had to find you, and thank you!" Melanie passed the child to Cyrus and gave Dr Maloney a big hug. "Thank you!"
The baby started fussing and crying. "Nurse Takamoto," the doctor quipped, "I think the baby has a problem with you."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Science Behind an Itch"
Maloney took the folder back. "He's detained in surgery; he's taking my evening rounds for this."
Cyrus put his fingers on the folder, ready to remove. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but this patient should really wait for Dr Herzog."
Maloney gave a fire-starting glare at his fingers. "And he's not going to be here for twelve hours. I have no intention of alterting his recommendations."
"Sherrita, you can't help this patient."
"Why not, Cyrus?"
Cyrus's eyes dropped while he searched for the word. "She's got allergies. Hives, uncontrolled itching..."
"Yes, I see that. Do I smell like I'm wearing perfume?"
"...and you're black."
Maloney was stunned silent. After a moment, she blurted out, "This is not 1953!" and bolted into the room, Cyrus behind her with gloves in hand.
The doctor entered the room, wearing her most pleasant smile. "Hello, Ms Rufrode, I'm Dr Maloney."
Melanie yanked her blanket to her chin and shuddered. "Aaa! Where's Dr Herzog?"
"He's in the middle of performing a surgery, he'll be back overnight. But we want to see what we can do until then."
"I'm so sorry!" Melanie said, through tears and neck-scratching. "I don't have a problem with black people! I voted for Obama and Jordan Sparks! I'm visiting my daughter - I'm gonna be a new grandma any day now!"
"When did this start?"
"When she came to visit me in Pocatello, with her fiancee, Derek. He wanted to ask my permission to marry her. He was very nice. But before the visit was over, I started itching all over - and it didn't stop until he left! It didn't happen again until I made the trip here! I was standing in line at the Walgreens, and I couldn't even make it to the counter, I had to leave!"
"Why do you think it's african-americans that's causing the itching?"
"I'm from Idaho! We don't have any!" Melanie was rubbing her arms. "You've got to believe me! I want to be able to hold my grandson!"
From the other side of the room, Dr Maloney referred to the chart. "I believe you. Your NPPB levels shows there's a definite physiological change going on. It's your body that's reacting, not you."
"Am I a bad person? I didn't even know everything Ashley was going through until Monday, and I got on a plane-"
"Ms Rufrode... do you think your daughter's boyfriend is a decent person?"
"Seems so. He was real nice on the phone, and when we met. But then he saw me scratching uncontrollably-" Melanie sobbed
The doctor spoke low, drawing Melanie's attention. "Ms Rufrode, my husband is allergic to dogs, all kinds - even my dogs. But he married me anyway, and let me keep them. And we've practically bought stock in Claritin, but that's what he's willing to do to keep the family together. And we can figure out what you need to do, if you want to be around the family."
Melanie nodded. Dr Maloney wrote a prescription for some antihistamines, and asked her to check in a few days, to see how she acclimated to the climate.
The next time Dr Maloney and Cyrus saw Melanie, she was carrying her newborn grandson in her arms. "That's a beautiful baby you got there, new grandma!"
"We're bringing him home today, but I just had to find you, and thank you!" Melanie passed the child to Cyrus and gave Dr Maloney a big hug. "Thank you!"
The baby started fussing and crying. "Nurse Takamoto," the doctor quipped, "I think the baby has a problem with you."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Science Behind an Itch"
Sunday, April 6, 2014
DAY 93: Early Afternoon in the Waiting Room of a Genetic Testing Lab
Michael John Boone and John Michael Cooper sat in the waiting room, passing the time. Boone was sending one more text message to his wife at home. He looked over at Cooper, reading a magazine that had his face on the back cover, endorsing a stylish sneaker brand. Cooper, realizing he'd been caught, mimicked his magazine face, eliciting a chuckle from Boone.
"Everything alright?" Cooper asked.
"Yeah," Boone replied. "Sheila said work called. They know I had a doctor's appointment, and they're already thinking the worst."
"You didn't tell them?"
"I don't know if there's anything to tell yet."
Cooper nodded. "My work's like that, too. Times ten."
Boone looked at the magazine, and then at his feet. "You ever wear those shoes?"
In response, Cooper lifted his feet, showing off a crisp white pair. "Got a closet of 'em. My contract says I gotta wear them in public until October, and they gotta look new. There are worse ways to make money... You ever consider it?" He mimed a baseball pitch.
"I played into high school, but I wanted a job more. First job I could get was changing oil at this garage; on the first day, I met the boss's daughter - Sheila. I flunked school and busted ass so he'd let me date her. Then that was good for a while, until some folks started grumbling. So I quit the job and kept the girl, started my own garage. Pissed off the old man, but she married me anyway. But you asked about ball. Nah, didn't cross my mind. Not with a girl like that." Boone pulled up a photo of Sheila back in the day, dressed for prom.
Cooper looked at the hand holding the phone, and then his own. "I knew a girl that looked like her .In college - she married an Army guy. I send them tickets once in a while, they're alright. Brunette, short, bright eyes, didn't let anybody tell her what to think or do... I was already on scholarship, so it was what it was. And then I got signed."
Boone saw the incoming text on his phone. "Sheila was wondering if we were doing anything after this."
"She got you on a short leash, man."
"Not too short. If we ain't going anywhere, you can join us for dinner."
"That's cool, if you got room. And if you don't want to stop anywhere."
"I got cold beers at home, too... but I think I might need to pick up something at work."
Cooper autographed his face on the back of the magazine. "I don't mind the detour. I always carry a Sharpie."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Higgs Boson Found... For Real!"
"Everything alright?" Cooper asked.
"Yeah," Boone replied. "Sheila said work called. They know I had a doctor's appointment, and they're already thinking the worst."
"You didn't tell them?"
"I don't know if there's anything to tell yet."
Cooper nodded. "My work's like that, too. Times ten."
Boone looked at the magazine, and then at his feet. "You ever wear those shoes?"
In response, Cooper lifted his feet, showing off a crisp white pair. "Got a closet of 'em. My contract says I gotta wear them in public until October, and they gotta look new. There are worse ways to make money... You ever consider it?" He mimed a baseball pitch.
"I played into high school, but I wanted a job more. First job I could get was changing oil at this garage; on the first day, I met the boss's daughter - Sheila. I flunked school and busted ass so he'd let me date her. Then that was good for a while, until some folks started grumbling. So I quit the job and kept the girl, started my own garage. Pissed off the old man, but she married me anyway. But you asked about ball. Nah, didn't cross my mind. Not with a girl like that." Boone pulled up a photo of Sheila back in the day, dressed for prom.
Cooper looked at the hand holding the phone, and then his own. "I knew a girl that looked like her .In college - she married an Army guy. I send them tickets once in a while, they're alright. Brunette, short, bright eyes, didn't let anybody tell her what to think or do... I was already on scholarship, so it was what it was. And then I got signed."
Boone saw the incoming text on his phone. "Sheila was wondering if we were doing anything after this."
"She got you on a short leash, man."
"Not too short. If we ain't going anywhere, you can join us for dinner."
"That's cool, if you got room. And if you don't want to stop anywhere."
"I got cold beers at home, too... but I think I might need to pick up something at work."
Cooper autographed his face on the back of the magazine. "I don't mind the detour. I always carry a Sharpie."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Higgs Boson Found... For Real!"
DAY 92: The Scream in the Stratosphere
When Ashley didn't answer the phone, the phone answered itself. "Hello? Are you there?"
Ashley dropped the phone, blurting out an epithet. The phone responded, "Good, you are there. I need help from the person who got this phone to work. Could you contact him for me?"
"Her," she said into the phone. "I'm the one who did it."
"Thank you. I need your help. Please come to this address."
Professor Sunderland buzzed her into the lab. He was a towering man with haunted eyes. "Do it again," he said, handing her a phone.
Ashley began accessing the settings. "Did they name my dorm after you?"
"My family. My grandfather's work helped to develop the atomic bomb; my father's work shaped smartphones such as the one in your hand. I am that third generation that suffers in comparison. How long did it take you to figure out how to fix your phone?"
"About two days. I didn't know everybody else was having problems, I just wanted to be able to reach home."
"And where is home?"
"Mexico." Ashley handed back the phone. "There. You'll be able to use it for about an hour, then wait five, then so on. That's the best I can do until that solar storm passes."
"It's not a solar storm," Dr Sunderland said. "It's a man-made mess that you're going to help me fix."
The professor showed Ashley his progress at the mapping workstation. "The work is much further along than I have been comfortable sharing. My collaborations have been very focused - myopic, I've been accused of. But I don't know everyone's motivations, what they're capable of. Do you know who Emerson Hu is?"
"I've heard of him, on the news. He's been missing..."
"No, you're not in danger," Sunderland interrupted.
"You say that, and now I think I'm in danger!"
"You're going to help me find him. Just figure out the sequence for this frequency oscillation so we can retrive it."
Ashley offered a confused look. "Retrieve?"
"Yes. The interference in all the satellites the past few weeks - everybody's phones and TV signals - came from this lab. I expect to go to prison, because of it - but I'd like to clean it up first. Help me, please."
The lab was humming. At his workstation, Sunderland began to coordinate the power extraction for his experiment: the attempt would extract an hour's worth of city power, even with the batteries in the lab to assist.
Ashley continued searching for the lab frequency. "Why me?"
"Your phone works; you're halfway to solving the problem." Sunderland walked to the generators. "Comcast, AT&T, the research departments of a dozen nations have not figured a way around the electric clutter - but you did. They're telling the public it's solar flaring, leaving excess particles in the Van Allen belts - because the truth would turn too great a microscope upon human activity in the ionosphere, facing unconsidered consequences. They're not ready for that. No one's going to fix this but us."
Ashley hit the enter key in triumph. "Got it!"
"Are you sure? It has to be in sequence, I can't leave anything behind!"
"Yes, I'm sure!... as sure as I can be."
Sunderland nodded, and pointed to an empty chamber, barely larger than a bathroom stall. "Watch that room-" He hit the switch. The room flashed, then went dark.
"Check the room!" the professor shouted. Ashley opened the door to the converted closet, but Sunderland is the one who burst in, and brought out the body of Emerson Hsu. "Is your phone working, Ashley?"
Ashley checked her phone; the signal was clear.
"You may call the police now, Ashley."
Almost two hours later, the police arrived. Ashley met them outside the lab. Sunderland was waiting in the teleportation chamber, staring at the body of his departed friend. He waited until the police entered, before he pushed a button and vanished.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Third Radiation Belt Discovered Around Earth"
Ashley dropped the phone, blurting out an epithet. The phone responded, "Good, you are there. I need help from the person who got this phone to work. Could you contact him for me?"
"Her," she said into the phone. "I'm the one who did it."
"Thank you. I need your help. Please come to this address."
Professor Sunderland buzzed her into the lab. He was a towering man with haunted eyes. "Do it again," he said, handing her a phone.
Ashley began accessing the settings. "Did they name my dorm after you?"
"My family. My grandfather's work helped to develop the atomic bomb; my father's work shaped smartphones such as the one in your hand. I am that third generation that suffers in comparison. How long did it take you to figure out how to fix your phone?"
"About two days. I didn't know everybody else was having problems, I just wanted to be able to reach home."
"And where is home?"
"Mexico." Ashley handed back the phone. "There. You'll be able to use it for about an hour, then wait five, then so on. That's the best I can do until that solar storm passes."
"It's not a solar storm," Dr Sunderland said. "It's a man-made mess that you're going to help me fix."
The professor showed Ashley his progress at the mapping workstation. "The work is much further along than I have been comfortable sharing. My collaborations have been very focused - myopic, I've been accused of. But I don't know everyone's motivations, what they're capable of. Do you know who Emerson Hu is?"
"I've heard of him, on the news. He's been missing..."
"No, you're not in danger," Sunderland interrupted.
"You say that, and now I think I'm in danger!"
"You're going to help me find him. Just figure out the sequence for this frequency oscillation so we can retrive it."
Ashley offered a confused look. "Retrieve?"
"Yes. The interference in all the satellites the past few weeks - everybody's phones and TV signals - came from this lab. I expect to go to prison, because of it - but I'd like to clean it up first. Help me, please."
The lab was humming. At his workstation, Sunderland began to coordinate the power extraction for his experiment: the attempt would extract an hour's worth of city power, even with the batteries in the lab to assist.
Ashley continued searching for the lab frequency. "Why me?"
"Your phone works; you're halfway to solving the problem." Sunderland walked to the generators. "Comcast, AT&T, the research departments of a dozen nations have not figured a way around the electric clutter - but you did. They're telling the public it's solar flaring, leaving excess particles in the Van Allen belts - because the truth would turn too great a microscope upon human activity in the ionosphere, facing unconsidered consequences. They're not ready for that. No one's going to fix this but us."
Ashley hit the enter key in triumph. "Got it!"
"Are you sure? It has to be in sequence, I can't leave anything behind!"
"Yes, I'm sure!... as sure as I can be."
Sunderland nodded, and pointed to an empty chamber, barely larger than a bathroom stall. "Watch that room-" He hit the switch. The room flashed, then went dark.
"Check the room!" the professor shouted. Ashley opened the door to the converted closet, but Sunderland is the one who burst in, and brought out the body of Emerson Hsu. "Is your phone working, Ashley?"
Ashley checked her phone; the signal was clear.
"You may call the police now, Ashley."
Almost two hours later, the police arrived. Ashley met them outside the lab. Sunderland was waiting in the teleportation chamber, staring at the body of his departed friend. He waited until the police entered, before he pushed a button and vanished.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Third Radiation Belt Discovered Around Earth"
Saturday, April 5, 2014
DAY 91: The Heat is On
At halftime, Jay-Z sent one of his guys to trade seats with me. Actually, he wanted to keep me in the coach's line of sight. Everybody on the team was wearing fitbands, giving me heart rates and body temps. My role on the statistics team was graphing performance trends based on physical condition - identifying "hot streaks". After I delivered my second analysis to the coach, they had an 8-game win streak - all on the road. The team bought me flowers the day they came home, and courtside seats.
Ashford saw me from the bench, and gave me the stinkeye. When Anthony went on the injured list, Ashford got the call-up from Erie. He wants to make the most of his moment out of the D-League, but he's been frustrated with some of the coach's calls. In my report, I calculated that Ashford had 90 seconds from peak heartrate before dropoff from fatigue. It appeared that Ashford found out. Coach Mike, however, was a believer; he had me on the tablet, flagging which players were ready or done. If someone was close, I'd text their jersey to his assistant, and he'd make the call.
Later, on a Miami time-out, Coach got the team around him - and Ashford's sub, Number 14, over his shoulder. I could see Ashford arguing for more time. Coach gave me the look: how many shots does he have? I glanced at my numbers, and flashed him two fingers. Coach nodded, and gave Ashford his two-shot warning.
30 seconds later, Ashford got his first shot. He tried his second from in the paint, but missed; Miami took the ball. Number 14 stood by the scorekeeper's table, waiting for the end of the play.
But Ashford was not going to wait. He managed a steal, and then the kind of cross-court shot usually reserved for beating the buzzer. He didn't even watch it go in; he was walking back to the bench.
He didn't approach me after the game, but he saw me. With his hand, he signaled, "You: two. Me: three."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Climate Change May Lead to More Wars"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Climate Change May Lead to More Wars"
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
DAY 90: Message in a Galactic Bottle
By the time you get this message, I will no longer exist. But rest assured, among my final thoughts will be the knowledge that you were right.
I made it to Cygnus, and was on my way back, when I detected a galaxy no one had seen before. From home, it's obscured by the turbulence of Kepler's Singularity. I almost missed it myself, or dismissed it as a faulty reading. But it was real - a galaxy that no one knew existed... a galaxy I could claim for my own. I could not see that she was already spoken for. I set an approach that I intended would counteract the singularity's pull; I underestimated that force.
I identified a planet to crash on, and write these words. I have tried to fix my ship, to no avail. There is no escape from this planet, orbiting this final star, as we circle around the singularity. But it is a beautiful prison: a constant pink sky, breathable air, resources for food and shelter, and no one to compete with. I will die peacefully here.
If I remember my studies, I will die of old age here, in the space between your heartbeats. The stars in my sky do not twinkle - they tear, jagged rips of light in the sky. And in my time, I an half-certain that they are growing longer. But I think I will pass before the darkness claims this place. The only hope I allow myself is that each time I send this message, it may be the one to reach you.
You were right about so many things; I hope you are right about the rest. As stardust or as I am, I will return to you...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Tiniest Galaxy in the Universe"
I made it to Cygnus, and was on my way back, when I detected a galaxy no one had seen before. From home, it's obscured by the turbulence of Kepler's Singularity. I almost missed it myself, or dismissed it as a faulty reading. But it was real - a galaxy that no one knew existed... a galaxy I could claim for my own. I could not see that she was already spoken for. I set an approach that I intended would counteract the singularity's pull; I underestimated that force.
I identified a planet to crash on, and write these words. I have tried to fix my ship, to no avail. There is no escape from this planet, orbiting this final star, as we circle around the singularity. But it is a beautiful prison: a constant pink sky, breathable air, resources for food and shelter, and no one to compete with. I will die peacefully here.
If I remember my studies, I will die of old age here, in the space between your heartbeats. The stars in my sky do not twinkle - they tear, jagged rips of light in the sky. And in my time, I an half-certain that they are growing longer. But I think I will pass before the darkness claims this place. The only hope I allow myself is that each time I send this message, it may be the one to reach you.
You were right about so many things; I hope you are right about the rest. As stardust or as I am, I will return to you...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Tiniest Galaxy in the Universe"
Monday, March 31, 2014
DAY 89: Function = 0
"Anybody seen C0dy?"
Orson peeked out from his cubicle. "Oh, yeah- nope! Still recovering from his drinking games with Redbone last night. I emailed him about the contact page. I also got my phone auto-dialing every 3 minutes; soon as he comes back from the dead, he oughta pick up. If he doesn't fix the page by lunch, can you take care of it?"
Elise nodded. "I'll take care of it now. But is he coming in today?"
Redbone shrugged his shoulders. "He was still in bed when I got up. Maybe he went to the lab, get some hours in with the English majors."
"No good, " Elise said. "He didn't show yesterday, either. They think he's on a campaign..."
"Not without me, he isn't!" Orson logged into his workstation as he made a call to a
guildmember on speed dial. "Terry, is C0dy logged in? He's AWOL..."
Elise sat down at C0dy's station, and got his password on the third try. By that point, Orson and Redbone had exhausted their search efforts. Elise brought up the source code for C0dy's pages-
the code was gone. C0dy had wiped out every line, except for one: "function=0"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "An Activist's Tragic End: Remembering Aaron Swartz"
Orson peeked out from his cubicle. "Oh, yeah- nope! Still recovering from his drinking games with Redbone last night. I emailed him about the contact page. I also got my phone auto-dialing every 3 minutes; soon as he comes back from the dead, he oughta pick up. If he doesn't fix the page by lunch, can you take care of it?"
Elise nodded. "I'll take care of it now. But is he coming in today?"
Redbone shrugged his shoulders. "He was still in bed when I got up. Maybe he went to the lab, get some hours in with the English majors."
"No good, " Elise said. "He didn't show yesterday, either. They think he's on a campaign..."
"Not without me, he isn't!" Orson logged into his workstation as he made a call to a
guildmember on speed dial. "Terry, is C0dy logged in? He's AWOL..."
Elise sat down at C0dy's station, and got his password on the third try. By that point, Orson and Redbone had exhausted their search efforts. Elise brought up the source code for C0dy's pages-
the code was gone. C0dy had wiped out every line, except for one: "function=0"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "An Activist's Tragic End: Remembering Aaron Swartz"
Sunday, March 30, 2014
DAY 88: The Grand Nomad
The shadow of the Grand Nomad had already covered the city. From high up, Oliver saw the lights of traffic and skyscrapers blossom under the mountain's eclipse.
Katt joined him at the window. "It's ridiculous staying all the way down there. This time of year, they're only getting 4-5 hours of daylight. If I was gonna get some real estate, I'd go up there-", pointing to an outcropping, straight across their view.
"So why don't they?"
"They think the Nomad's sacred. I mean, you ever want to find Earth, just look where he's looking; Sol's our north star. Something about our rotation keeps it fixed in his gaze.
"That's why the pilgrims down there came here. The first colonists - not those guys, the ones that made the first 50 mil LY trip - they came to this planet when they saw this face looking back at them; vanity of the species. This planet's a rogue, so there's no lifeforms anyway, but they were hoping there would be."
"Did there used to be?"
"No one found anything, besides the old man," and Katt pointed at the Nomad. "It was the second colonists who went really crazy about it."
Katt flipped on the cabin lights as they entered the shadow. "The second colonists left Earth just as the Pangeac Merge happened. World going crazy behind them, the face of the Nomad in front of them - they thought he saw it happening. They think he's alive, seeing things on the cosmic timeframe. 2 billion years to us could be 2 hours to him. Which would suck; we're lucky to live to 200. Thank God..."
"Yes" Oliver took a final glance at the summit of the Nomad. "Yes, indeed..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "When Continents Collide"
Katt joined him at the window. "It's ridiculous staying all the way down there. This time of year, they're only getting 4-5 hours of daylight. If I was gonna get some real estate, I'd go up there-", pointing to an outcropping, straight across their view.
"So why don't they?"
"They think the Nomad's sacred. I mean, you ever want to find Earth, just look where he's looking; Sol's our north star. Something about our rotation keeps it fixed in his gaze.
"That's why the pilgrims down there came here. The first colonists - not those guys, the ones that made the first 50 mil LY trip - they came to this planet when they saw this face looking back at them; vanity of the species. This planet's a rogue, so there's no lifeforms anyway, but they were hoping there would be."
"Did there used to be?"
"No one found anything, besides the old man," and Katt pointed at the Nomad. "It was the second colonists who went really crazy about it."
Katt flipped on the cabin lights as they entered the shadow. "The second colonists left Earth just as the Pangeac Merge happened. World going crazy behind them, the face of the Nomad in front of them - they thought he saw it happening. They think he's alive, seeing things on the cosmic timeframe. 2 billion years to us could be 2 hours to him. Which would suck; we're lucky to live to 200. Thank God..."
"Yes" Oliver took a final glance at the summit of the Nomad. "Yes, indeed..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "When Continents Collide"
DAY 87: 7 Years Into the Storm
Rebecca had to get up. No matter how much it hurt.
She stretched her hearing past the sleeping alarm clock, past the hum of the electric lights, the air compressors, the gravity correctors... listening for the rain. As soon as she heard it, she would know that she was still on base, still in the hexagon, and she could go back to sleep.
Once, she had dreamt that the rain had stopped; she went to the window, looking upon an orange fog as it began to dissipate, revealing the arch of Saturn's satellite horizon. But the dream had not gone that way for a long time...
She had dreamt that she heard the rain stop; by the time she went for visual confirmation, the rain had started again...
She had dreamt that the winds caught in a structural flaw, pressing until it tore the base open, pulling her into the hurricane...
She had dreamt, over and over, of getting out of bed, fulfilling her morning routine, right up to the moment of checking meteorological status, only to find herself back in bed, anticipating the alarm...
Once, she realized she was standing in the rain, in her suit, ten steps outside the north entrance. She couldn't definitively account for what happened between that moment and when she had gone to bed the night before.
She had consulted with her physician on Earth, who said she needed to divert herself with some entertainments, give her mind some sensory data to play with besides reorganizing her day's routine. She had followed his advice, reading classic literature and trashy novels, watching movies and shows... She had reorganized her sleeping quarters, and then started disguising or removing any vestiges of its extraterrestrial origins, making it look like a typically cramped apartment in Tokyo or New York. The dreams adapted, inserting themselves between the dreams she wanted, and the reality she possessed...
She dreamt, constantly, that she was still in bed, waiting for the alarm to wake her for the day, or the alert to tell her that rain cessation was imminent; she lay in bed, against her body's will, not wanting to let go of sleep, not wanting to be fooled again, unsure if she was dreaming about dreaming...
She had to get up.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Storm over Saturn"
She stretched her hearing past the sleeping alarm clock, past the hum of the electric lights, the air compressors, the gravity correctors... listening for the rain. As soon as she heard it, she would know that she was still on base, still in the hexagon, and she could go back to sleep.
Once, she had dreamt that the rain had stopped; she went to the window, looking upon an orange fog as it began to dissipate, revealing the arch of Saturn's satellite horizon. But the dream had not gone that way for a long time...
She had dreamt that she heard the rain stop; by the time she went for visual confirmation, the rain had started again...
She had dreamt that the winds caught in a structural flaw, pressing until it tore the base open, pulling her into the hurricane...
She had dreamt, over and over, of getting out of bed, fulfilling her morning routine, right up to the moment of checking meteorological status, only to find herself back in bed, anticipating the alarm...
Once, she realized she was standing in the rain, in her suit, ten steps outside the north entrance. She couldn't definitively account for what happened between that moment and when she had gone to bed the night before.
She had consulted with her physician on Earth, who said she needed to divert herself with some entertainments, give her mind some sensory data to play with besides reorganizing her day's routine. She had followed his advice, reading classic literature and trashy novels, watching movies and shows... She had reorganized her sleeping quarters, and then started disguising or removing any vestiges of its extraterrestrial origins, making it look like a typically cramped apartment in Tokyo or New York. The dreams adapted, inserting themselves between the dreams she wanted, and the reality she possessed...
She dreamt, constantly, that she was still in bed, waiting for the alarm to wake her for the day, or the alert to tell her that rain cessation was imminent; she lay in bed, against her body's will, not wanting to let go of sleep, not wanting to be fooled again, unsure if she was dreaming about dreaming...
She had to get up.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Storm over Saturn"
DAY 86: Squeak
He came up to my counter with a smile and a flip phone from 4 years too late, asking if I could provide twelve more. I tried to upsell him on the new ones, but he wouldn't budge unless they could 'sing the same song'.
He earned the phone back in Uganda, from a volunteer doctor. In his village, he was one of the men who learned to maintain, repair, and protect the village generator. He also made sure the doctor's technical equipment would remain freshly charged - including her phone.
One night, she did not remember to take the phone home. In the middle of the night, he woke up to a strange noise; it disappeared before he could find it. An hour later, it happened again, and it was gone before he could find the noise - but he found the phone. An hour later, the phone chirped in his hand, and he knew he had found it.
The next morning, he returned the phone to the very grateful doctor, who explained that the noise was to keep crickets out of her room. There happened to be a cricket nearby as she was talking to him; she set the phone to 'chirp', and the cricket couldn't hop away fast enough! And that gave the young man an idea.
His mother's garden was suitably fortified from larger animals, but it didn't keep out the crickets. He bargained with the doctor, and she gave him the phone, teaching him how it worked. He made a scarecrow for his mother, with a place in the scarecrow's head to hold the phone. He set the phone to 'chirp' a few times each hour, throughout the night. A month later, his mother served their first dinner harvested from her garden.
That was two years ago. Last month, he had been given a plane ticket to the US, to talk to churches and look at colleges. But he dreamed of making a dozen more scarecrows, for the entire village - which
brought him to my store.
The phone was retired - but the chirp wasn't. I helped him find the sound on some of our display phones, and sold him a dozen floor models for 20% retail. The kid knows how to bargain.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Low-Tech Solutions for High Stakes Problems"
One night, she did not remember to take the phone home. In the middle of the night, he woke up to a strange noise; it disappeared before he could find it. An hour later, it happened again, and it was gone before he could find the noise - but he found the phone. An hour later, the phone chirped in his hand, and he knew he had found it.
The next morning, he returned the phone to the very grateful doctor, who explained that the noise was to keep crickets out of her room. There happened to be a cricket nearby as she was talking to him; she set the phone to 'chirp', and the cricket couldn't hop away fast enough! And that gave the young man an idea.
His mother's garden was suitably fortified from larger animals, but it didn't keep out the crickets. He bargained with the doctor, and she gave him the phone, teaching him how it worked. He made a scarecrow for his mother, with a place in the scarecrow's head to hold the phone. He set the phone to 'chirp' a few times each hour, throughout the night. A month later, his mother served their first dinner harvested from her garden.
That was two years ago. Last month, he had been given a plane ticket to the US, to talk to churches and look at colleges. But he dreamed of making a dozen more scarecrows, for the entire village - which
brought him to my store.
The phone was retired - but the chirp wasn't. I helped him find the sound on some of our display phones, and sold him a dozen floor models for 20% retail. The kid knows how to bargain.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Low-Tech Solutions for High Stakes Problems"
Saturday, March 29, 2014
DAY 85: Seeding the Clouds
When I was born, my mom wanted me to follow a life path of my own choosing. But my father found a way around it. For many years, a typical bedtime included lesson time; dad would come in and ask me to teach him something I had learned that day. So I taught him about the letter R, the number 6, "twinkle twinkle", how to share... He was patient with all of it. Sometimes, we'd stare up at the bedroom walls, painted to look like heavenly clouds, and we'd tell stories of the things that lived there.
"What's that one?" he'd say.
"Mop-mop. It looks like the head of a mop!"
He squinted at it. "I suppose. What about that one next to it?"
"Go-gi!"
"I like that one. What are they doing?"
"Gogi makes food for everybody in his restaurant. And then somebody on the other side of the cloud calls in their order, and Gogi's delivers! That's the delivery bubble over there."
"Wow. There's a lot of delivery trucks on that cloud. That's a big one!"
"That's Lisa's garbage truck. She doesn't deliver food. And it's bubbles!. They're all bubbles!"
***
After placement testing in junior high, I was never in one grade again. The year that I took eighth grade english and gym, I was also enrolled in ninth grade spanish and history, tenth grade biology, AP calculus, and played 2nd chair cello. Mom also had me cook family dinner once a week.
It was in biology class that I learned one of my dad's tricks. Our teacher was introducing us to the components of the typical mammalian cell unit, via a video presentation and a monotone narration. "The cell membrane is the semi-porous outer boundary that keeps the organelles contained. At the center is the nucleus, the cell's 'brain' ; this is surrounded by the endoplasmic reticulum (both smooth and rough.) Enzymes are transported throughout the cell by vesicles, to or from the nucleus, the mitochondria, the golgi apparatus..."
That took me back to my room, and the painted ceiling; to Gogi and MopMop, to Lisa and Nuclearman and Mighty Condi... As we watched archival footage of a typical single cell organism's life cycle, I saw a neighborhood that had been floating over my head for years. I knew them, how they helped each other and why. That class didn't teach me anything new about cell structure. But it did teach me that my dad's a sneaky guy.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Immune Attack Up Close"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Immune Attack Up Close"
Friday, March 28, 2014
DAY 84: Loopy Loops
Loopy Bear paced at the end of the boardroom, as if he could dodge the bad news.
"They've got over 50 families in their class action already!" Marvin read off his tablet. "And that's before Winthrop goes on O'Reilley this afternoon. It's going to be exponential!"
"We've dropped 14 points in the last hour," Priscilla read off her tablet. "I've got emails from Zurich, London, and Milan. Everybody wants answers."
Rick placed a piece of paper on the table. "At this time, I'd like to tender my resignation."
Loopy Bear gave a pleading look to Marvin. "I only got three fingers here..."
Marvin nodded, and flipped Rick off.
"I just don't get it! How did this happen? And all at once?"
Dr Quinn coughed for the room's attention. "We've tracked down the child actors who you filmed the ad campaign with, brought them back to the lab, under the pretense of pre-production on the next round of commercials."
"They think it's for a web-series," Priscilla chimed in. "Camp Loopy Loops, we're calling it."
"So the children are isolated, while we research the symptoms they're experiencing. And yes, they are all testing positive."
Loopy Bear sat in his chair, looking adorable and crestfallen. "I just don't understand..."
Dr Quinn continued, "The good news is, there's no evidence that it's carcinogenic. We've been giving the children all kinds of tests - physical, intellectual, sensory... They're at least as healthy as they've ever been. They're just..."
"Cuter," Marvin said.
He presented pictures of the kids at mealtime. The children in the pictures did have noticeably larger eyes, approaching the proportions of a Japanese cartoon mascot. Their smiles were more pronounced, their cheeks more koala-shaped. In the pictures of a half-dozen morning meal routine, each child looked as if they were having the most wonderful breakfast ever.
"So maybe it's not dangerous? Really?" Rick did a half-jump in the air. "Whatever takes the worst-case scenario off the table! If they're not dying or sick, we'll get them to love the changes, let them think it's cool! Priscilla asked the doctor, "Is it permanent? Can we change them back?"
"I can't see how; they're changed at a genetic level. They've actually got an augmented helix structure! We're rather excited, back at the lab..."
In the chairman's seat, Loopy Bear sighed heavily, and grabbed a bourbon to wash down his handfuls of cereal. "I just wanted to share the family recipe with the world... add some deliciousness to a balanced breakfast..."
He looked to his vice presidents, and held out the bowl of cereal for sharing. "Anybody want some?" Loopy asked to everyone in the room. No one accepted.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Four-Stranded DNA Makes Human Debut"
"They've got over 50 families in their class action already!" Marvin read off his tablet. "And that's before Winthrop goes on O'Reilley this afternoon. It's going to be exponential!"
"We've dropped 14 points in the last hour," Priscilla read off her tablet. "I've got emails from Zurich, London, and Milan. Everybody wants answers."
Rick placed a piece of paper on the table. "At this time, I'd like to tender my resignation."
Loopy Bear gave a pleading look to Marvin. "I only got three fingers here..."
Marvin nodded, and flipped Rick off.
"I just don't get it! How did this happen? And all at once?"
Dr Quinn coughed for the room's attention. "We've tracked down the child actors who you filmed the ad campaign with, brought them back to the lab, under the pretense of pre-production on the next round of commercials."
"They think it's for a web-series," Priscilla chimed in. "Camp Loopy Loops, we're calling it."
"So the children are isolated, while we research the symptoms they're experiencing. And yes, they are all testing positive."
Loopy Bear sat in his chair, looking adorable and crestfallen. "I just don't understand..."
Dr Quinn continued, "The good news is, there's no evidence that it's carcinogenic. We've been giving the children all kinds of tests - physical, intellectual, sensory... They're at least as healthy as they've ever been. They're just..."
"Cuter," Marvin said.
He presented pictures of the kids at mealtime. The children in the pictures did have noticeably larger eyes, approaching the proportions of a Japanese cartoon mascot. Their smiles were more pronounced, their cheeks more koala-shaped. In the pictures of a half-dozen morning meal routine, each child looked as if they were having the most wonderful breakfast ever.
"So maybe it's not dangerous? Really?" Rick did a half-jump in the air. "Whatever takes the worst-case scenario off the table! If they're not dying or sick, we'll get them to love the changes, let them think it's cool! Priscilla asked the doctor, "Is it permanent? Can we change them back?"
"I can't see how; they're changed at a genetic level. They've actually got an augmented helix structure! We're rather excited, back at the lab..."
In the chairman's seat, Loopy Bear sighed heavily, and grabbed a bourbon to wash down his handfuls of cereal. "I just wanted to share the family recipe with the world... add some deliciousness to a balanced breakfast..."
He looked to his vice presidents, and held out the bowl of cereal for sharing. "Anybody want some?" Loopy asked to everyone in the room. No one accepted.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Four-Stranded DNA Makes Human Debut"
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
DAY 83: Sunrise on Ivanpah
Morning in the desert is never as warm as one thinks. Ron shivered as he saw the first rays of light escape the horizon.
He had come here on assignment with his team, searching for ways to shut down the power plant. From his vantage point, he could see the outline of the Primm Valley Golf Club, who had no public umbrage with the plant. Some members, in fact, saw the plant's development as an inroad, for development in the hitherto-overprotected desert acreage. Other members had no interest in a sandtrap with over 50,000 mirrors in it; anonymously, they had set inquiries in motion about Ivanpah's impact on the environment.
The desert tortoise was a big focus; the plant had built a $50 million dollar fence, just to keep it out. Payne had two assistants counting every turtle that was a week's crawl away. But Ron was the bird guy; his assignment was to tally all the birds that had burst into flame flying overhead. If he could find one on California's protected wildlife list, that would be game-set-match.
Two weeks in the desert, and he had little to show for it. The folks at the club had started out nice; the debriefing had taken place on the course, over beers. But after the first week, they weren't allowed back without satisfactory results. Likewise, the folks at the plant had started cooperative, providing documentation, videos, and even the remains for perusal. But their access lapsed after a week, and their calls weren't being returned. But why would they?
He didn't have anything; anything that would expedite the investigations already being conducted, or slow down the project. Nothing that would get him off the field, and running a department. Nothing that would give him a life that would convince Norma to move back in.
He had managed a final walk onto the premises in the afternoon, to receive the last nice rejection he could expect on this trip. But instead of leaving, he had stayed in the shadows overnight. Ron stared over the valley that spread beyond the tower below; the sunlight would reach the mirrors soon. He took out a waxwing carcass from his jacket pocket. It would have been nice if it had been a yellow warbler or one of those song sparrows. But it was too common to do anyone any good. He let it loose, into the morning.
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Giant Desert Solar Plant Powers On"
He had come here on assignment with his team, searching for ways to shut down the power plant. From his vantage point, he could see the outline of the Primm Valley Golf Club, who had no public umbrage with the plant. Some members, in fact, saw the plant's development as an inroad, for development in the hitherto-overprotected desert acreage. Other members had no interest in a sandtrap with over 50,000 mirrors in it; anonymously, they had set inquiries in motion about Ivanpah's impact on the environment.
The desert tortoise was a big focus; the plant had built a $50 million dollar fence, just to keep it out. Payne had two assistants counting every turtle that was a week's crawl away. But Ron was the bird guy; his assignment was to tally all the birds that had burst into flame flying overhead. If he could find one on California's protected wildlife list, that would be game-set-match.
Two weeks in the desert, and he had little to show for it. The folks at the club had started out nice; the debriefing had taken place on the course, over beers. But after the first week, they weren't allowed back without satisfactory results. Likewise, the folks at the plant had started cooperative, providing documentation, videos, and even the remains for perusal. But their access lapsed after a week, and their calls weren't being returned. But why would they?
He didn't have anything; anything that would expedite the investigations already being conducted, or slow down the project. Nothing that would get him off the field, and running a department. Nothing that would give him a life that would convince Norma to move back in.
He had managed a final walk onto the premises in the afternoon, to receive the last nice rejection he could expect on this trip. But instead of leaving, he had stayed in the shadows overnight. Ron stared over the valley that spread beyond the tower below; the sunlight would reach the mirrors soon. He took out a waxwing carcass from his jacket pocket. It would have been nice if it had been a yellow warbler or one of those song sparrows. But it was too common to do anyone any good. He let it loose, into the morning.
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Giant Desert Solar Plant Powers On"
DAY 82: Night Survey
Parnicius woke up strapped to the table. As he became increasingly aware of the degree of his restraints, he began to panic and struggle. The forehead strap gave enough, so Parnicius turned to his right. Nicodimus was strapped down and vivisected, his mouth held wide open for inspection. Parnicius's scream startled a masked man in a surgeon's apron; he dropped the metal pan in his hands.
Martin stomped in the tent. "Enough with ye!" he shouted, served with a Scottish burr and a backhand. He rested an elbow on the familiar's chest, pressing the air out of Parnicius, until he was barely a whisper. "We got questions, so save your breath for 'em!" The hunter stood up, allowing Parnicius to gasp for air.
Martin turned his attention to the man on the floor. "Geddup, Monty! An' pick up that heart!"
Monty dusted himself off. "Sorry. I got startled, dropped my guard. Won't happen again..."
"It rarely happens twice, yeah?" Martin pointed at the dead one. "What can ye tell me about him?"
Monty began the autopsy. "Advanced necrosis of the extremities; necrotic tissue in significant portions of the heart and lungs... The jaw separates in three areas... teeth comparable in count and structure of human teeth. The canines, however - do not retract."
"Really? That's interesting. An' the eyes?"
Monty peeked under an eyelid. "Yellow sclera, no iris... Carpathian?"
Martin grinned wide. "Carr-pathian! We got us a royal! Box up that heart, an' keep ye jesus tree under ye shirt, or the whole tent'll go up!"
Martin turned his attention back to Parnicius, studying his neck and wrists. "Did ye know that about ye friend? He's a classic, he was; real archetype. You ever see him turn into a bat?"
Monty interjected, "Are you sure that's safe, sir?"
"Oh, this runt's nothing! See for y'self!" Martin pulled his protege toward their prisoner. "Flush cheeks, harried breath, pissed pants: he's a familiar!"
Martin pulled the silver cross off Monty's neck and waved it over Parnicius, "Does this hurt? Does it?" Parnicius shook his head.
Martin placed the cross on Parnicius' forehead. "Does that hurt? Eh?"
Martin swatted his forehead, shaking the table and yielding a yowl from Parnicius. "How about that? Y'see? No reaction to the Holy Cross or to contact with silver, and he's got a thin skin! Ain't no vampire; just some boy in black lace who didn't get hugged enough, did ye? Just a snack on standby!"
"Who the hell are you?" Parnicius whimpered.
"Martin Van Helsing, scion of Professor Abraham, and inheritor of his life's work, converting pseudo-science to science. Monty there's me assistant, aide-de-campe, and Boswell. Your master there is one of 70 species we've cataloged in our field guide. And you... well, you're bait."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Disputes Over Psychiatry's Manual"
Martin stomped in the tent. "Enough with ye!" he shouted, served with a Scottish burr and a backhand. He rested an elbow on the familiar's chest, pressing the air out of Parnicius, until he was barely a whisper. "We got questions, so save your breath for 'em!" The hunter stood up, allowing Parnicius to gasp for air.
Martin turned his attention to the man on the floor. "Geddup, Monty! An' pick up that heart!"
Monty dusted himself off. "Sorry. I got startled, dropped my guard. Won't happen again..."
"It rarely happens twice, yeah?" Martin pointed at the dead one. "What can ye tell me about him?"
Monty began the autopsy. "Advanced necrosis of the extremities; necrotic tissue in significant portions of the heart and lungs... The jaw separates in three areas... teeth comparable in count and structure of human teeth. The canines, however - do not retract."
"Really? That's interesting. An' the eyes?"
Monty peeked under an eyelid. "Yellow sclera, no iris... Carpathian?"
Martin grinned wide. "Carr-pathian! We got us a royal! Box up that heart, an' keep ye jesus tree under ye shirt, or the whole tent'll go up!"
Martin turned his attention back to Parnicius, studying his neck and wrists. "Did ye know that about ye friend? He's a classic, he was; real archetype. You ever see him turn into a bat?"
Monty interjected, "Are you sure that's safe, sir?"
"Oh, this runt's nothing! See for y'self!" Martin pulled his protege toward their prisoner. "Flush cheeks, harried breath, pissed pants: he's a familiar!"
Martin pulled the silver cross off Monty's neck and waved it over Parnicius, "Does this hurt? Does it?" Parnicius shook his head.
Martin placed the cross on Parnicius' forehead. "Does that hurt? Eh?"
Martin swatted his forehead, shaking the table and yielding a yowl from Parnicius. "How about that? Y'see? No reaction to the Holy Cross or to contact with silver, and he's got a thin skin! Ain't no vampire; just some boy in black lace who didn't get hugged enough, did ye? Just a snack on standby!"
"Who the hell are you?" Parnicius whimpered.
"Martin Van Helsing, scion of Professor Abraham, and inheritor of his life's work, converting pseudo-science to science. Monty there's me assistant, aide-de-campe, and Boswell. Your master there is one of 70 species we've cataloged in our field guide. And you... well, you're bait."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Disputes Over Psychiatry's Manual"
Sunday, March 23, 2014
DAY 81: Carbon Copy
Gran checked the oven, setting the timer for six minutes. Down the hall, she heard Beatrice shout from the kitchen, "Granny! Granny!"
Beatrice had a chair against the burners, watching the water boil. Gran pulled her down in an instant. "Young lady, that is too dangerous! You leave the chairs with the table where they belong!"
"But Gran, I want to see what's happening!"
"Cooking takes time, and you don't make it any faster by watching. Where are your strings?"
Beatrice pointed to a foot-long ruler, with several strings tied along it. Gran spaced them
evenly, nodding her approval.
"Okay, Beatrice, I'll add some more sugar, you give us the countdown." Beatrice turned her attention to the microwave, yelling along with the final seconds. "5... 4... 3... 2... 1...Beep Beep!" She shouted her beeps even after the sound ended.
Gran poured the mixture into several Mason jars, lining them in one of her refrigerator shelves. Beatrice held tightly to the ruler, insisting to dunk the strings. Gran brought a chair up to the shelf , and Beatrice dropped each string with such pride.
"And now we wait," Gran said.
"How long?"
"Those strings will be ready in 5 to 7 days."
"Aww! I wanted candy now!"
Gran reached into a cookie jar. "Well, I guess you'll have to have one of these," and she presented Beatrice with a finished rock candy medallion.
Gran ushered her granddaughter outside, and returned to the workshop. She wiped the fog off of the oven window; the microchip was almost done. "Perfect."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Meet the World's First Carbon Nanotube Computer"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Meet the World's First Carbon Nanotube Computer"
DAY 80: Number 175
I became a vegetarian around my 175th chicken.
When college didn't work out, I was looking for some money and an adventure. I joined the crew of a cargo ship, helping transport some 400 chickens out of Portland. Halfway to port, my lead found a sick one, told me to kill it, and send it to the kitchen. I did it, and located my lead to let him know it was done; he happened to be with the captain, at the time. I was sent back to the pens immediately, while the captain and my lead had words.
It was the captain who came back for me in the pens. Live birds would be under Chinese jurisdiction, which meant an extended stay and uncertain repercussions ; the only certainty was not getting paid. Bird parts, however, would have a ready buyer in Shanghai. Effectively immediately, the chickens had to be slaughtered before we got to port. With my lead relieved of his duties, the task of dispatching the birds was left to me; they gave me the keys of the equipment, a couple of manuals, and four days.
I figured out a routine pretty quick: after slitting the chickens in groups of eight, I'll pile them in a wire basket for scalding, then chill them in the ice water trough. Plucking and prep would have to be on its own time, but the ones I couldn't would still have someone to buy them. Someone got word (or, more likely, heard the non-stop squawking) and sent down a taser; that cut down the flapping and scratching. I became scarily efficient.
Each crate held 120 chickens; I was nearly three crates done before I noticed the taser winding down. I should have expected its charge to wear down eventually, but I wanted to get done what I could. Five hens to the end of the crate, then time for a cigarette, toss out the blood buckets and freshen up the ice for the next batch...
This bird, I tased, then I laid it upside down to slit. It got away from me, even as it grazed up on the blade. For the next 30 seconds, it was flapping above me, clawing for higher ground; arterial spray out the neck, on me, on the other chickens, all over the hold... And then she was done. She collapsed on top of the crate.
It was a lot quieter after that. I looked over the remaining hens in the hold, counting back to number 175, draped on the cage. I got it in the scalding pot. I got the rest done, with 14 hours to port, before I returned to my bunk. I took a plane home.
I don't have a problem with people eating meat, or overeating it, or with the people who provide it. I'm just tired of it.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Chicken Could Go 'Round the World"
When college didn't work out, I was looking for some money and an adventure. I joined the crew of a cargo ship, helping transport some 400 chickens out of Portland. Halfway to port, my lead found a sick one, told me to kill it, and send it to the kitchen. I did it, and located my lead to let him know it was done; he happened to be with the captain, at the time. I was sent back to the pens immediately, while the captain and my lead had words.
It was the captain who came back for me in the pens. Live birds would be under Chinese jurisdiction, which meant an extended stay and uncertain repercussions ; the only certainty was not getting paid. Bird parts, however, would have a ready buyer in Shanghai. Effectively immediately, the chickens had to be slaughtered before we got to port. With my lead relieved of his duties, the task of dispatching the birds was left to me; they gave me the keys of the equipment, a couple of manuals, and four days.
I figured out a routine pretty quick: after slitting the chickens in groups of eight, I'll pile them in a wire basket for scalding, then chill them in the ice water trough. Plucking and prep would have to be on its own time, but the ones I couldn't would still have someone to buy them. Someone got word (or, more likely, heard the non-stop squawking) and sent down a taser; that cut down the flapping and scratching. I became scarily efficient.
Each crate held 120 chickens; I was nearly three crates done before I noticed the taser winding down. I should have expected its charge to wear down eventually, but I wanted to get done what I could. Five hens to the end of the crate, then time for a cigarette, toss out the blood buckets and freshen up the ice for the next batch...
This bird, I tased, then I laid it upside down to slit. It got away from me, even as it grazed up on the blade. For the next 30 seconds, it was flapping above me, clawing for higher ground; arterial spray out the neck, on me, on the other chickens, all over the hold... And then she was done. She collapsed on top of the crate.
It was a lot quieter after that. I looked over the remaining hens in the hold, counting back to number 175, draped on the cage. I got it in the scalding pot. I got the rest done, with 14 hours to port, before I returned to my bunk. I took a plane home.
I don't have a problem with people eating meat, or overeating it, or with the people who provide it. I'm just tired of it.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Chicken Could Go 'Round the World"
DAY 79: Woo Woo
As the first images came from the scanning electron microscope, Omar started laughing, loud enough to catch the lab's attention.
He was analyzing samples sent in from Arjun, a former colleague who had abandoned his masters program a semester early, to accept an engineering job. In press releases, he merited a benevolent mention, a testament to the kind of opportunities the Chemistry program could attract. In the hallways, it was seen as a mercenary decision: the college already possessed a significant percentage of the patents Arjun had acquired as a student, and were legally interested in whatever developments he would manage in the immediate months following his exit. In an attempt to throw shade upon Arjun's reputation, someone remarked that he 'wasn't interested in being a real scientist anymore, just being an engineer.' After that, in his absence, whenever his name was brought up in the lab, his former labmates would call out "Woo woo!", yanking an imaginary train whistle. The intention was entirely up to interpretation.
Arjun had been working on MOF's, molecule-size architectures that allowed crystalline analysis of things that don't usually have a crystal form (carbon dioxide, for example.) It was the work that got him the genius label; it was the research that got him the job. The lab had split the MOFs he left behind; half the team were finding new gases and compounds to use, and the other half were reverse-engineering the MOFs, to figure out how to make their own. Clandestinely, one of the guys had contacted Arjun, to reconnect and gain insight on his research. That was a month ago, and this package had been the response.
Eddie made it to Omar's station first, helping Omar off the floor. He saw the images, and let out "Woo Woo!" That brought the entire lab over, just as the printer let loose the last of the pictures.
To the naked eye, the frameworks are a fine powder, a disguise of their intricate construction. At the molecular level, MOFs are hollow blocks latticed together into intricate filters. For industrial purposes, it was sufficient to weave them into layers, stacked like a lasagna. For his colleagues' amusement, Arjun had managed a replica of the campus in crystalline form, with a railroad track along the perimeter. Spelled out below, the words read, "Woo woo..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New X-Ray Vision for Chemists"
He was analyzing samples sent in from Arjun, a former colleague who had abandoned his masters program a semester early, to accept an engineering job. In press releases, he merited a benevolent mention, a testament to the kind of opportunities the Chemistry program could attract. In the hallways, it was seen as a mercenary decision: the college already possessed a significant percentage of the patents Arjun had acquired as a student, and were legally interested in whatever developments he would manage in the immediate months following his exit. In an attempt to throw shade upon Arjun's reputation, someone remarked that he 'wasn't interested in being a real scientist anymore, just being an engineer.' After that, in his absence, whenever his name was brought up in the lab, his former labmates would call out "Woo woo!", yanking an imaginary train whistle. The intention was entirely up to interpretation.
Arjun had been working on MOF's, molecule-size architectures that allowed crystalline analysis of things that don't usually have a crystal form (carbon dioxide, for example.) It was the work that got him the genius label; it was the research that got him the job. The lab had split the MOFs he left behind; half the team were finding new gases and compounds to use, and the other half were reverse-engineering the MOFs, to figure out how to make their own. Clandestinely, one of the guys had contacted Arjun, to reconnect and gain insight on his research. That was a month ago, and this package had been the response.
Eddie made it to Omar's station first, helping Omar off the floor. He saw the images, and let out "Woo Woo!" That brought the entire lab over, just as the printer let loose the last of the pictures.
To the naked eye, the frameworks are a fine powder, a disguise of their intricate construction. At the molecular level, MOFs are hollow blocks latticed together into intricate filters. For industrial purposes, it was sufficient to weave them into layers, stacked like a lasagna. For his colleagues' amusement, Arjun had managed a replica of the campus in crystalline form, with a railroad track along the perimeter. Spelled out below, the words read, "Woo woo..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New X-Ray Vision for Chemists"
Saturday, March 22, 2014
DAY 78: The Waiting Room
Tyree was in the wrong wing of the hospital, I thought. I usually saw him on alternating Thursdays at the PT clinic, working on his walking. So I was surprised to find him flipping through TV channels in the waiting area outside the maternity ward. Not the flipping part; his family gave him a universal TV remote last christmas, and became fascinated with the "universal" part, figuring out how to take over whatever TV's in whatever clinic he's in.
"Tyree! What are you doing here? You got an appointment today?"
He turned to me, studying my face. "Hi, Carl. Got a baby coming." He returned to the TV.
An anxious man in his work clothes approached me. "Hey, are you a nurse here, or whatever? I need to check on how my girlfriend's doing."
"Well, I don't actually work at this wing, but I'll try to help. You want to see about getting you in?"
He shook his head. "No, that ain't happening. I just want to get an idea of what's going on."
"Okay. I know one of the girls here, I'll find out how far along she is-"
"-Look, be cool about it. I got a little heated earlier, trying to find out what's going on. I've calmed down now, but they're busy, they're not hearing me yet. They're worried about the baby, that's fine, that's their job, I'm sorry about getting in the way of that, I want them to know. Her mom's in there, she got problems with me, I don't want that in the way, but they're in the way, so I'm staying out, but I gotta know what's going on. You know Tyree's mom?"
"Not really; I haven't met her yet. Tyree usually comes by himself. I didn't even know he had a sister."
"Yeah, and it's not like there's a family resemblance, amiright?" He moved on. "Moms wouldn't want me here, if she could. But it's not for her to say She don't want me in that room, I'm fine with that, I can't do anything in there, I don't even know what she's doing in there. But I just need the car keys right now."
"The car-?"
"I know. They got too many things going on, it's not important with everything they got going, but listen- There's stuff to take care, I gotta get back to the house. I should probably be bringing Cece's brothers and sisters up here, although this could take a while, right? I mean, they could've waited until I got done with work to take them in the car. Or, if it was such an emergency, take an ambulance! That's what they're for!"
The TV flipped to the middle of one of the local ads by the "Legal Eagles" (whose names escape me, at the moment.) When the computer-generated eagle let out a screech, Tyree stopped to let out a screech, just as loud.
Babydaddy snapped, "Cool it!" He changed his tune when he returned his attention to me. "Look, man, you can tell I don't belong here. I need to get out of here! Just ask them for the keys, and I'll be on my way."
"I believe you, sir. But I don't know if I can do what you're asking, because this isn't my ward, and your girl's family doesn't know me. But I know who might be able to. Why don't you ask Tyree to get the keys?"
Babydaddy looked at Tyree, looked at me, and sat the f down.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Shutting Off the Down Syndrome Chromosome"
Friday, March 21, 2014
DAY 77: The Tiger's Tail
It had taken two months to reach the Point of No Return - but at least it had met them halfway. The trajectory had actually been a straight shot away from Earth, planned with minimal gravitational interference from any of her neighbors. Essentially, they had jumped off the Earth, and let the rest of the universe pass them. By the time they entered Neptune's path, there was enough fuel to return to Earth three times.
Skupic was reading back her levels, doing a final calibration check. Devereaux was waiting for the next draft, something the sails could catch onto and ride out into the uncharted. But it was quiet, and there was nowhere to go. So she checked her instruments with the last person she would ever speak to again.
"I'm good here, Skupic. Your turn: you got a lock on home?"
"Been locked the whole time. You sure you're ready for this?"
"I've been ready forever. Just tell me when you pick up the heliotrail, it should be active in a few minutes..."
Skupic waited in the silence, listening to Devereaux breathe.
With home behind him, he turned his infrared view outward, seeing the endless destinations drifting.
"Dev, you're about to be history. Did you prepare any words? Anything I can take home?"
He heard her chuckle. "I think I sent a copy of 'High Flight' to PR. I saw it on Murphy's desk, thought he'd get a kick out of it... I didn't think of any of my own. And I don't have enough air to stumble some out now. Saving it for the trip."
Skupic watched the monitors; still nowhere to go. Finally, he said, "You always wanted this, didn't you?" The alarm interrupted anything else; they were uncoupled. He watched her sails extend and catch the sun's tail, and pushed off into the dark.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Our Solar System Has a Tail"
Skupic was reading back her levels, doing a final calibration check. Devereaux was waiting for the next draft, something the sails could catch onto and ride out into the uncharted. But it was quiet, and there was nowhere to go. So she checked her instruments with the last person she would ever speak to again.
"I'm good here, Skupic. Your turn: you got a lock on home?"
"Been locked the whole time. You sure you're ready for this?"
"I've been ready forever. Just tell me when you pick up the heliotrail, it should be active in a few minutes..."
Skupic waited in the silence, listening to Devereaux breathe.
With home behind him, he turned his infrared view outward, seeing the endless destinations drifting.
"Dev, you're about to be history. Did you prepare any words? Anything I can take home?"
He heard her chuckle. "I think I sent a copy of 'High Flight' to PR. I saw it on Murphy's desk, thought he'd get a kick out of it... I didn't think of any of my own. And I don't have enough air to stumble some out now. Saving it for the trip."
Skupic watched the monitors; still nowhere to go. Finally, he said, "You always wanted this, didn't you?" The alarm interrupted anything else; they were uncoupled. He watched her sails extend and catch the sun's tail, and pushed off into the dark.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Our Solar System Has a Tail"
Thursday, March 20, 2014
DAY 76: Nobel Prizes for everyone!
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN - The Nobel Committee of 2035 presented the world with their first recipient born in the 21st century - or, perhaps, its first thousand recipients. Randall Hapitha was awarded the Nobel Prize in Chemistry, for identifying, in theory and practice, the upper limitations of dihydrogen monoxide crystallyne formations. As a graduate student at Cal Polytech, he first presented his calculations that posited that the forms of isolated ice crystals were, in fact, finite. He was surprised by the controversy that his theory generated, and set upon constructing a means to prove it - by harnessing the power of citizen science. He co-created a game and website that began comparing the presumably infinite quantity of snowflake shapes in the upper northwest Minnesota region to snowflake samplings found in Siberia. It took three weeks for the first matches to be positively identified.
Critics argued that his research only served to make the world a 'smaller, less wonderful place,' but Hapithha insisted that recognizing the variety of crystalline structures - and the most common among them - could lead to the development of new alloys and materials of unanticipated properties. Enough people agreed to award him the Nobel Prize, which he accepted on behalf of the nearly 1.2 million game players that provided the proof to his theorum. After leaving the ceremony, he was bludgeoned to death by snowballs by protesters.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Science For the People, By the People"
Critics argued that his research only served to make the world a 'smaller, less wonderful place,' but Hapithha insisted that recognizing the variety of crystalline structures - and the most common among them - could lead to the development of new alloys and materials of unanticipated properties. Enough people agreed to award him the Nobel Prize, which he accepted on behalf of the nearly 1.2 million game players that provided the proof to his theorum. After leaving the ceremony, he was bludgeoned to death by snowballs by protesters.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Science For the People, By the People"
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
DAY 75: The March of the Dinosaurs
Clay wasn't used to being in the passenger seat, but it was his daughter's truck. "You're working out at the Wilson farm, still?"
"Dad, it's a genetic research facility. The Wilsons sold it ten years ago."
"Well, the Wilsons had it since the depression. I'll call that jackalope factory whatever I like!"
Casey huffed. "I work at a genetics lab."
So much for that conversation, he thought to himself. Clay returned his focus on the Cibola skyline.
Clay was in the stables, trying to gauge how much of the old Wilson farm was left. They had kept the structure (it always was a jewel), but it smelled different. They still used it for livestock; maybe the cleaning and disinfecting were overpowering the few animals they kept. Or maybe they were feeding them something weird. He knew he raised Casey to have a conscience about this science, but he didn't know the rest of them...A knock at the wall; Casey was trying to get his attention. "You gotta see this."
"You said it was a longhorn.""We call her 'longhorn'. For obvious reasons."
Clay leaned forward against the railing, staring at the triceratops at the other end of the pen. She lay out in the sun, seemingly uninterested in anyone or anything. Clay tightened his grip on the railing, and he wondered if it would be strong enough for when she got mad.
Casey was enjoying the shock on her father's face. "She's still a calf, about a third of what we expect her to grow. So we need to reinforce her domesticated tendencies."
"Domesticated tendencies?"
"We boosted some of the genetic markers for empathic bonding - not enough to make it a new species this go-round, just a nudge in the right direction. She's as docile as your average brahma."
Clay let out a huff. "Brahma, huh?... Well, let's get a bale out." He dragged some hay out of the truck and shoved it over the fence. Still ignored by the longhorn, Clay tapped his knife on the metal railing. "Breakfast! Here, girl!"
He turned to see if Casey was amused. But Casey was having an argument with a man in a banker's suit. Clay turned his attention back to the longhorn, and her ground-trembling steps. Clay stood knee-high in the hay, kicking it around, staring sideways at the longhorn's approach. She grunted, snuffling at the hay, deciding it was worth eating. She was humid, radiating every drop of morning sun it had soaked in. Clay grabbed a handful of straw and took a few steps back, facing sideways. He murmured to drown out the distant shouting match, "Don't worry about them. Just the two of us..."
Watching Casey argue, Clay saw his wife's fists and shoulders. The expression on the suit's face was determined, but he was reasoning with a hornet. Clay smiled.
He felt a tug on the hay in his hand; he let it go. She was by his side now, chewing loudly. He said to her, "I don't know how much time we got here, girl. What say we get to know each other?"
A large piece of cud fell onto his boot. With her thick tongue, she licked the cud back noisily back into her mouth. He stepped onto the gate, out of the path of the longhorn's appetite.
Casey, still arguing with the suit, remained unaware of her father's progress. Clay looked back at the longhorn, placidly sopping up the remaining hay. "Now or never, I guess..." He pushed off, aiming behind the crown.
He didn't know if it was contact with the longhorn's back or her fringe that started it, but she bellowed from the shock. She ran the perimeter, bucking and roaring. Clay held tightly to her crown, splayed across her back, talking softly into every part of her body he thought could be her ears. As the longhorn slowed down, he began to pet at her neck, soothing her. After half a minute, she was calm enough for Clay to seat himself upright, and see the infuriated expression on his daughter's face. The suit had fainted into the dirt.
Before Casey could release an ounce of fury, Clay held up his hand, signaling her to keep calm. "We got an understanding. Get another bale."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Dino, Cousin of Triceratops, Discovered"
Clay was in the stables, trying to gauge how much of the old Wilson farm was left. They had kept the structure (it always was a jewel), but it smelled different. They still used it for livestock; maybe the cleaning and disinfecting were overpowering the few animals they kept. Or maybe they were feeding them something weird. He knew he raised Casey to have a conscience about this science, but he didn't know the rest of them...A knock at the wall; Casey was trying to get his attention. "You gotta see this."
"You said it was a longhorn.""We call her 'longhorn'. For obvious reasons."
Clay leaned forward against the railing, staring at the triceratops at the other end of the pen. She lay out in the sun, seemingly uninterested in anyone or anything. Clay tightened his grip on the railing, and he wondered if it would be strong enough for when she got mad.
Casey was enjoying the shock on her father's face. "She's still a calf, about a third of what we expect her to grow. So we need to reinforce her domesticated tendencies."
"Domesticated tendencies?"
"We boosted some of the genetic markers for empathic bonding - not enough to make it a new species this go-round, just a nudge in the right direction. She's as docile as your average brahma."
Clay let out a huff. "Brahma, huh?... Well, let's get a bale out." He dragged some hay out of the truck and shoved it over the fence. Still ignored by the longhorn, Clay tapped his knife on the metal railing. "Breakfast! Here, girl!"
He turned to see if Casey was amused. But Casey was having an argument with a man in a banker's suit. Clay turned his attention back to the longhorn, and her ground-trembling steps. Clay stood knee-high in the hay, kicking it around, staring sideways at the longhorn's approach. She grunted, snuffling at the hay, deciding it was worth eating. She was humid, radiating every drop of morning sun it had soaked in. Clay grabbed a handful of straw and took a few steps back, facing sideways. He murmured to drown out the distant shouting match, "Don't worry about them. Just the two of us..."
Watching Casey argue, Clay saw his wife's fists and shoulders. The expression on the suit's face was determined, but he was reasoning with a hornet. Clay smiled.
He felt a tug on the hay in his hand; he let it go. She was by his side now, chewing loudly. He said to her, "I don't know how much time we got here, girl. What say we get to know each other?"
A large piece of cud fell onto his boot. With her thick tongue, she licked the cud back noisily back into her mouth. He stepped onto the gate, out of the path of the longhorn's appetite.
Casey, still arguing with the suit, remained unaware of her father's progress. Clay looked back at the longhorn, placidly sopping up the remaining hay. "Now or never, I guess..." He pushed off, aiming behind the crown.
He didn't know if it was contact with the longhorn's back or her fringe that started it, but she bellowed from the shock. She ran the perimeter, bucking and roaring. Clay held tightly to her crown, splayed across her back, talking softly into every part of her body he thought could be her ears. As the longhorn slowed down, he began to pet at her neck, soothing her. After half a minute, she was calm enough for Clay to seat himself upright, and see the infuriated expression on his daughter's face. The suit had fainted into the dirt.
Before Casey could release an ounce of fury, Clay held up his hand, signaling her to keep calm. "We got an understanding. Get another bale."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Dino, Cousin of Triceratops, Discovered"
Saturday, March 15, 2014
DAY 74: Fantasticium
Adam was flustered to be in the swarm of superheroes and zombies, waiting forever in line. By the time he reached Mr Blanco's table, Adam had to wipe the sweat off before he could accept a handshake.
Blanco picked up his sketchpad. "Well, Dr Adam Hartnett, hat would you like me to draw?"
"um, Mr. Fantastic, please."
The artist chuckled. "I haven't drawn him in a while."
"Well, I'm a chemistry professor. He's a big deal to me."
Blanco nodded, tapping at his notepad as he pondered his first line. Adam brought out his briefcase, and produced an issue of Tales to Astonish #105. On the cover, the Hulk growled skyward, as the rubbery arms of Reed Richards coiled around him in an atomic shape. Blanco tilted his head, studying Reed's face, and started to draw.
Adam flipped through the pages, until he found a panel featuring the very human Dr Bruce Banner consulting Dr Richards in front of a chalkboard, cluttered by calculations. Adam pointed to the chalkboard. "Where did this equation come from?"
Dr Blanco looked up from his drawing. "I don't quite remember. I had a sister-in-law who studied chemistry; whenever I needed reference materials, I'd borrow one of her textbooks and pick something that looked important and interesting."
"Really?"
"Pretty much. I might add a couple of letters and characters, to balance out the appearance of it, make it look like it was something. It just ended up on the page."
An abrupt laugh escaped Adam's mouth. It stopped Blanco's pencil, and alarmed his companion.
"I'm sorry," Adam said. "I mean no offense. This really did look like something to me. I studied chemistry in college, so I could figure out what this equation was."
"Oh! I'm sorry! I can't even bring myself to charge you for this drawing now. When did you find out it was all mish-mash?"
Adam spoke between guffaws. "Actually, it's not. It's a formula for stabilizing isotopes of certain higher atomic elements. Well, that's what it became. It's the reason I got tenure."
He pulled out a plain metal ring. "This metal just got added on the periodic table. Two years ago, you couldn't find enough of it on the planet Earth to make this ring. Now, I can give this to you as a gift - a thank you. Oh, and I will pay the $30 for the sketch."
"Thank you, Adam," Blanco said, tearing the picture from his sketchpad. "Did you want to get a picture?"
Adam kept his eyes on the ground as he left, while Blanco greeted his next fan. After he found a quiet piece of hallway, Adam looked at the drawing of Mr Fantastic stretching out from the page. Behind the superhero, Blanco had drawn a chalkboard that held the first half of the same formula out of Tales to Astonish; a comic-book version of Adam had been drawn with chalk in hand, starting the second. Underneath, Blanco had written above his signature: "...just ended up on the page."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Meet the New Element: Ununpentium"
Blanco picked up his sketchpad. "Well, Dr Adam Hartnett, hat would you like me to draw?"
"um, Mr. Fantastic, please."
The artist chuckled. "I haven't drawn him in a while."
"Well, I'm a chemistry professor. He's a big deal to me."
Blanco nodded, tapping at his notepad as he pondered his first line. Adam brought out his briefcase, and produced an issue of Tales to Astonish #105. On the cover, the Hulk growled skyward, as the rubbery arms of Reed Richards coiled around him in an atomic shape. Blanco tilted his head, studying Reed's face, and started to draw.
Adam flipped through the pages, until he found a panel featuring the very human Dr Bruce Banner consulting Dr Richards in front of a chalkboard, cluttered by calculations. Adam pointed to the chalkboard. "Where did this equation come from?"
Dr Blanco looked up from his drawing. "I don't quite remember. I had a sister-in-law who studied chemistry; whenever I needed reference materials, I'd borrow one of her textbooks and pick something that looked important and interesting."
"Really?"
"Pretty much. I might add a couple of letters and characters, to balance out the appearance of it, make it look like it was something. It just ended up on the page."
An abrupt laugh escaped Adam's mouth. It stopped Blanco's pencil, and alarmed his companion.
"I'm sorry," Adam said. "I mean no offense. This really did look like something to me. I studied chemistry in college, so I could figure out what this equation was."
"Oh! I'm sorry! I can't even bring myself to charge you for this drawing now. When did you find out it was all mish-mash?"
Adam spoke between guffaws. "Actually, it's not. It's a formula for stabilizing isotopes of certain higher atomic elements. Well, that's what it became. It's the reason I got tenure."
He pulled out a plain metal ring. "This metal just got added on the periodic table. Two years ago, you couldn't find enough of it on the planet Earth to make this ring. Now, I can give this to you as a gift - a thank you. Oh, and I will pay the $30 for the sketch."
"Thank you, Adam," Blanco said, tearing the picture from his sketchpad. "Did you want to get a picture?"
Adam kept his eyes on the ground as he left, while Blanco greeted his next fan. After he found a quiet piece of hallway, Adam looked at the drawing of Mr Fantastic stretching out from the page. Behind the superhero, Blanco had drawn a chalkboard that held the first half of the same formula out of Tales to Astonish; a comic-book version of Adam had been drawn with chalk in hand, starting the second. Underneath, Blanco had written above his signature: "...just ended up on the page."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Meet the New Element: Ununpentium"
DAY 73: The Poker Table
Harvey riffled the deck and looked around the table. "Okay, it looks like we're all here for tonight. Lose the chips and let's see what we're playing with."
Timmy was first; he brought out a fistful of medications in clear vials, dropping two in the center of the table. "Herceptin."
Lyle chuckled as he pulled out his meds, seperating them in two distinct piles. "We're not throwing in the pot yet. Is that all you got?"
Timmy shook his head. "I like the other stuff. This stuff ain't doing nothing for me."
"Works great for me." Bernie had his loot ready, and was sorting the hand he'd been dealt. "So far, it does," he said, with two knocks on the table.
Harvey set down the deck, and looked at his cards. Three royals and a pair of 7's; his game to lose. "I started on Herceptin six months ago, but it burned me up until they started adding Xeloda. You sure it's just Herceptin you got a problem with?"
Timmy slid two Herceptin deeper into the center. "It's a start."
The pot had grown. Now it included Rituximab, Xeloda, Gleevax, Flotaxin, even some insulin.
"I can't believe you put insulin in there," Timmy said.
Lyle shrugged his shoulders. "Larry threw that in last month."
"Where's Larry?"
"Full remission," Bernie said. "He's in New Mexico; called to tell me the food was better out there."
"Seriously?" Harvey asked.
"He's sending all his stuff next week; asked me to put it in the pot when it gets here. when you care enough to send the very best..."
"What was his regimen?" Timmy asked.
Lyle already knew: three months of Avastin, Gleevax, and a no-meat diet. He'd tried the same mix for a while, but metastesized, regardless. Maybe it was in his brain already, but he wasn't going to give up cheeseburgers anymore. It wasn't one drug or another, bean sprouts or dry heat that did it. Larry found his answer in the pot, and now Lyle wanted his turn.
Lyle wondered what his doctor was doing right now. Maybe Dr Brooks was playing golf; maybe he was doing the same thing Lyle was doing. It made just as much sense.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Genome-Based Cancer Treatment"
Timmy was first; he brought out a fistful of medications in clear vials, dropping two in the center of the table. "Herceptin."
Lyle chuckled as he pulled out his meds, seperating them in two distinct piles. "We're not throwing in the pot yet. Is that all you got?"
Timmy shook his head. "I like the other stuff. This stuff ain't doing nothing for me."
"Works great for me." Bernie had his loot ready, and was sorting the hand he'd been dealt. "So far, it does," he said, with two knocks on the table.
Harvey set down the deck, and looked at his cards. Three royals and a pair of 7's; his game to lose. "I started on Herceptin six months ago, but it burned me up until they started adding Xeloda. You sure it's just Herceptin you got a problem with?"
Timmy slid two Herceptin deeper into the center. "It's a start."
The pot had grown. Now it included Rituximab, Xeloda, Gleevax, Flotaxin, even some insulin.
"I can't believe you put insulin in there," Timmy said.
Lyle shrugged his shoulders. "Larry threw that in last month."
"Where's Larry?"
"Full remission," Bernie said. "He's in New Mexico; called to tell me the food was better out there."
"Seriously?" Harvey asked.
"He's sending all his stuff next week; asked me to put it in the pot when it gets here. when you care enough to send the very best..."
"What was his regimen?" Timmy asked.
Lyle already knew: three months of Avastin, Gleevax, and a no-meat diet. He'd tried the same mix for a while, but metastesized, regardless. Maybe it was in his brain already, but he wasn't going to give up cheeseburgers anymore. It wasn't one drug or another, bean sprouts or dry heat that did it. Larry found his answer in the pot, and now Lyle wanted his turn.
Lyle wondered what his doctor was doing right now. Maybe Dr Brooks was playing golf; maybe he was doing the same thing Lyle was doing. It made just as much sense.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Genome-Based Cancer Treatment"
Thursday, March 13, 2014
DAY 72: Arsenic and Old Rice
Jiro was trying to talk himself out of eating sushi. He had two phones and a tablet by his plate, to help him.. The tablet identified the components of his dinner - a list of ingredients in the Crunchy Rainbow roll, under sesame sauce and presented with a side of wasabi. In the phone to his immediate right, he searched for documentation of identified toxins with each ingredient. In the other phone, he calculated the estimated toxin levels he could expect to be exposed to, down to the piece.
He had been proud of his dietary lifestyle: not as doomed as the bacon cheeseburger worshippers, not as pretentious as the vega-ova-terrestrials... just chicken, fish, and the kind of stuff that gets a B-to-B-plus on the nutritional report card. But then the local news reported that a sister location of his favorite grocery store had recalled a week's worth of chicken breasts sales, after several families contracted a previously unidentified strain of avian flu. He started reading headlines about the risks in foods that he had trusted, to the point that he recognized he was becoming phobic about the act of eating. He compromised with his fears, and began his dietary audit.
Jiro had been eating sushi since he was 13 years old. Now, he sat in front of his favorite order, trying to figure out how many more pieces he could eat in his life. He attempted to ascertain the levels of mercury in the fish, arsenic in the rice, lead in the seaweed... He looked up from his mathwork, and eyed the colorful plate. By his own determination, this plate of sushi would be his third-to-last ever, to be safe.
He was studying his food so intently, he did not see the waitress refresh his drink. He shifted his gaze to the glass of tap water... and he froze.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Arsenic-Tainted Rice is Harmful to Humans"
He had been proud of his dietary lifestyle: not as doomed as the bacon cheeseburger worshippers, not as pretentious as the vega-ova-terrestrials... just chicken, fish, and the kind of stuff that gets a B-to-B-plus on the nutritional report card. But then the local news reported that a sister location of his favorite grocery store had recalled a week's worth of chicken breasts sales, after several families contracted a previously unidentified strain of avian flu. He started reading headlines about the risks in foods that he had trusted, to the point that he recognized he was becoming phobic about the act of eating. He compromised with his fears, and began his dietary audit.
Jiro had been eating sushi since he was 13 years old. Now, he sat in front of his favorite order, trying to figure out how many more pieces he could eat in his life. He attempted to ascertain the levels of mercury in the fish, arsenic in the rice, lead in the seaweed... He looked up from his mathwork, and eyed the colorful plate. By his own determination, this plate of sushi would be his third-to-last ever, to be safe.
He was studying his food so intently, he did not see the waitress refresh his drink. He shifted his gaze to the glass of tap water... and he froze.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Arsenic-Tainted Rice is Harmful to Humans"
DAY 71: Morning at the Smart House
"Abe!" Edith called out. "Where are you?"
From the speakers, a cranky voice responded, "I'm here, picklehead! What you yelling for?"
"Abe, I need help out of the bathtub!" Edith started to push down on the bathtub rim with her arms; two aide-bars telescoped from the walls, scooping her under her pits, easing her to her feet. When she was almost upright, the automated fans began to blow warmly on her fragile body.
Another aide-bar presented a robe for her reach. "Abe, we're not getting enough hot water in the bathtub. We need to fix that."
"Alright, alright..." Abe's voice chimed in.
Edith walked toward the sound, and the room lights switched on to lead her way. "And I want to get more of those lavender salts. But not that Hershey Salts! I think it's making me break out."
"Alright, alright..."
Edith was in the bedroom now, by the vanity. She took a seat to brush her hair. "Did you get a call from Mandy yet? Nathan said he was gonna make sure she called today."
"It's her birthday, today. She's working today, too."
"That's true. But what are you taking her side for? You think it's alright for her to act like she doesn't have family?"
"Of course not. She should call her mother."
"She's a workaholic. There's taking care of your family, and there's paying for not having to do anything with them! She didn't learn that from me!"
"Of course not, hun. At least she got your brains. Your beauty, too."
Edith stopped, studying her reflection. "Well, it had to go somewhere. It's not here anymore."
"Picklehead! How can you say that?" The lights on her makeup mirror adjusted to a warmer glow, bathing her face in a glamorous light. "You're beautiful..." His words made her blush. "And now, you're being shy? Enough of the sappy stuff. You know what time it is..."
Edith nodded, and turned to the mechanized cart entering the room. It carried her morning medicines, water, jam and toast. Edith reached for the toast first, but a tutting sound came from the speakers. "Medicine first, hun..." She complied, swallowing every pill. When she returned the empty cup to it's saucer, the rim turned green. "Thank you, hun. Breakfast time..."
Edith munched on her toast, humming along with the sublimated music playing through the house. She cleared her throat and called, "Abe!"
"Yes?"
"I miss you."
"I know. I love you, picklehead."
"I love you, too."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "A Moon Shot for the Brain"
From the speakers, a cranky voice responded, "I'm here, picklehead! What you yelling for?"
"Abe, I need help out of the bathtub!" Edith started to push down on the bathtub rim with her arms; two aide-bars telescoped from the walls, scooping her under her pits, easing her to her feet. When she was almost upright, the automated fans began to blow warmly on her fragile body.
Another aide-bar presented a robe for her reach. "Abe, we're not getting enough hot water in the bathtub. We need to fix that."
"Alright, alright..." Abe's voice chimed in.
Edith walked toward the sound, and the room lights switched on to lead her way. "And I want to get more of those lavender salts. But not that Hershey Salts! I think it's making me break out."
"Alright, alright..."
Edith was in the bedroom now, by the vanity. She took a seat to brush her hair. "Did you get a call from Mandy yet? Nathan said he was gonna make sure she called today."
"It's her birthday, today. She's working today, too."
"That's true. But what are you taking her side for? You think it's alright for her to act like she doesn't have family?"
"Of course not. She should call her mother."
"She's a workaholic. There's taking care of your family, and there's paying for not having to do anything with them! She didn't learn that from me!"
"Of course not, hun. At least she got your brains. Your beauty, too."
Edith stopped, studying her reflection. "Well, it had to go somewhere. It's not here anymore."
"Picklehead! How can you say that?" The lights on her makeup mirror adjusted to a warmer glow, bathing her face in a glamorous light. "You're beautiful..." His words made her blush. "And now, you're being shy? Enough of the sappy stuff. You know what time it is..."
Edith nodded, and turned to the mechanized cart entering the room. It carried her morning medicines, water, jam and toast. Edith reached for the toast first, but a tutting sound came from the speakers. "Medicine first, hun..." She complied, swallowing every pill. When she returned the empty cup to it's saucer, the rim turned green. "Thank you, hun. Breakfast time..."
Edith munched on her toast, humming along with the sublimated music playing through the house. She cleared her throat and called, "Abe!"
"Yes?"
"I miss you."
"I know. I love you, picklehead."
"I love you, too."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "A Moon Shot for the Brain"
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
DAY 70: Dream #46
Wendy was surprised to see Poppin standing there. "You're still dead, aren't you?"
"Yes. And I'm here to help you accept it."
Wendy froze in her tracks. She was as the park pavillion again, waiting for the rain to stop. She was wearing the pink rainboots she outgrew, and the heather-green coat. She even had the barrettes in her hair that she wore that day, the ones she put in the coffin with Poppin. "But I'm sitting right here, yes."
"So I'm dreaming again?"
"Yes. The same dream. It's time to change it, isn't it?"
"I- I don't know how."
Poppin offered one of her transcendant smiles, wide as the horizon. "I know, dear. It's not easy."
"Everybody says I should."
"Certainly. You're so afraid of so many things. Loneliness and guilt, and traffic and crowds, and cars and rain. It's always going to rain again, you know... eventually. Have I made you afraid?"
"No... Hey, why are you talking to me?"
"Because no one else knows what happened. Do they?"
"No."
"But they ask."
"...yes."
"And you don't tell them?"
"No. I'm crazy enough already."
"Only because you're not talking, dear. Fear feeds on silence, like oxygen for fire."
"But if I talk-"
Poppin leaned in, waiting for the rest of the sentence. Wendy opened her mouth-
The rain had stopped. The park was smothered in that post-rain quiet.
"Go on, Wendy... If you talk..."
Wendy got up. "And now it's time."
Poppin stood with her. "It doesn't have to be."
"But this is how it happened."
They walked, assuming the posture of happier conversations. But Poppin continued. "Do you ever remember what we were talking about?"
Wendy spun, holding her hands out for any remaining drops of rain. "No! I don't remember the last things you said. I'm forgetting! I'm sorry!"
Poppin walked onto the road with more difficulty. "Don't be sorry. I still love you all. And I love you."
The cadillac fell out of the sky, onto Poppin's spot. Wendy screamed, and ran to her, trying to glimpse her under the wreck. From out of the shadow, Poppin's voice emerged. "Next time, dear. Next time..."
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Erasing Fears with Sleep"
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Erasing Fears with Sleep"
DAY 69: Interfacing
Marlon adjusted his glasses and turned to his wife. "How do I look?"
"Like a supervillain?" Peggy replied.
The jokes were not going to stop with her. But that was the price he would have to pay to wear the glasses to the reunion. His cover was that he had to keep them on for work. But the truth was, they were his crutch; if they worked correctly, he would know any family member's name before they got the last syllable of 'hello' out of their mouths. It had taken all week to convince his wife; saying that her family members all looked alike had not helped matters. But she relented, on the condition that his subterfuge would remain undetected.
Their timing was perfect: the first of the grilled masterpieces were being served. Peggy's mother, Lorraine, 58, greeted them by herself. "You made it! And Marlon's trying to look like he's money!"
"If you knew how much I paid for these, you'd know I was, Lorraine..." He leaned in to get his cheeks kissed. "Your daughter'll make me a cabana boy any day now. If not, you need one?"
Lorraine giggled. "The boys are over by the grill and the beer, of course." She shooed him away, taking her daughter with her.
The grill was unmanned when he walked up to it. His glasses were already sizing up the nutritional values and remaining cooking time for all the meat selections, when a large hand gripped his shoulder.
"Marlon! You made it!" Marlon turned to face... who was this? "Peggy wouldn't let you talk your way out of it, huh?"
The glasses started to work as soon as they detected his voice. In the right-hand corner, Marlon saw
Ed Solowitz, 48, Lubbock, Texas
"Ed!" Marlon shook his hand, as he rapidly watched his glass. "Geez, Ed, how long you been here?"
Current Wife: Emma, 26 ; Dogs:2 - Rusty, Lady Marmalade
"First thing! Emma wanted to help Mom out-
First wife: Doreen, 45 ; children: Mark, 17 ; Ellen, 15; Neil, 8
"-as in I get to make all the trips to the grocery store. You lucked out!"
Traffic citations: 1998, 1999, 2001, 2005, 2006, 2009
"Yeah, thanks for taking that bullet, Ed. How are you and Emma doing?"
Emma Solowitz, 23, dance instructor, Lubbock, Texas ; owner, Stripocize Fitness, Inc.
"We're doing great!-"
Employed: Southland Resources, VP Finance, Dallas Division, 2008-present
"We had a good quarter-
HEADLINE: Southland Resources VP harrassment suit dismissed
"-might get a vacation redo sooner than I thought."
HEADLINE: Norovirus strikes again in Corpus Christi cruise ship
"Well, you deserve it, Ed."
Ed raised his beer can. "Don't I know it!" In the corner of Marlon's eye, a pair of luscious lips blew him a kiss.
Coors Lite: Tap the Rockies
Marlon looked at the beer can in his hand, then back at Ed; he was wearing a virtual handlebar mustache.
OLD MILWAUKEE: The Beer that Made Milwaukee Famous!
"Hey, Marlon - why's your eye twitching?" Marlon blinked hard and focused his gaze on Ed's square face.
ALOPECIA: male pattern baldness, afflicts up to...
"I got a thing."
"Is that why you're wearing the glasses?"
Marlon tried to focus his eye square at Ed's head. "Yeah, it's supposed to help."
ROGAINE: Use it or Lose it!
Marlon took the glasses. "...but I think I need a break."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Google Glass: A Futuristic Fantasy that Already Feels Retro"
"Like a supervillain?" Peggy replied.
The jokes were not going to stop with her. But that was the price he would have to pay to wear the glasses to the reunion. His cover was that he had to keep them on for work. But the truth was, they were his crutch; if they worked correctly, he would know any family member's name before they got the last syllable of 'hello' out of their mouths. It had taken all week to convince his wife; saying that her family members all looked alike had not helped matters. But she relented, on the condition that his subterfuge would remain undetected.
Their timing was perfect: the first of the grilled masterpieces were being served. Peggy's mother, Lorraine, 58, greeted them by herself. "You made it! And Marlon's trying to look like he's money!"
"If you knew how much I paid for these, you'd know I was, Lorraine..." He leaned in to get his cheeks kissed. "Your daughter'll make me a cabana boy any day now. If not, you need one?"
Lorraine giggled. "The boys are over by the grill and the beer, of course." She shooed him away, taking her daughter with her.
The grill was unmanned when he walked up to it. His glasses were already sizing up the nutritional values and remaining cooking time for all the meat selections, when a large hand gripped his shoulder.
"Marlon! You made it!" Marlon turned to face... who was this? "Peggy wouldn't let you talk your way out of it, huh?"
The glasses started to work as soon as they detected his voice. In the right-hand corner, Marlon saw
Ed Solowitz, 48, Lubbock, Texas
"Ed!" Marlon shook his hand, as he rapidly watched his glass. "Geez, Ed, how long you been here?"
Current Wife: Emma, 26 ; Dogs:2 - Rusty, Lady Marmalade
"First thing! Emma wanted to help Mom out-
First wife: Doreen, 45 ; children: Mark, 17 ; Ellen, 15; Neil, 8
"-as in I get to make all the trips to the grocery store. You lucked out!"
Traffic citations: 1998, 1999, 2001, 2005, 2006, 2009
"Yeah, thanks for taking that bullet, Ed. How are you and Emma doing?"
Emma Solowitz, 23, dance instructor, Lubbock, Texas ; owner, Stripocize Fitness, Inc.
"We're doing great!-"
Employed: Southland Resources, VP Finance, Dallas Division, 2008-present
"We had a good quarter-
HEADLINE: Southland Resources VP harrassment suit dismissed
"-might get a vacation redo sooner than I thought."
HEADLINE: Norovirus strikes again in Corpus Christi cruise ship
"Well, you deserve it, Ed."
Ed raised his beer can. "Don't I know it!" In the corner of Marlon's eye, a pair of luscious lips blew him a kiss.
Coors Lite: Tap the Rockies
Marlon looked at the beer can in his hand, then back at Ed; he was wearing a virtual handlebar mustache.
OLD MILWAUKEE: The Beer that Made Milwaukee Famous!
"Hey, Marlon - why's your eye twitching?" Marlon blinked hard and focused his gaze on Ed's square face.
ALOPECIA: male pattern baldness, afflicts up to...
"I got a thing."
"Is that why you're wearing the glasses?"
Marlon tried to focus his eye square at Ed's head. "Yeah, it's supposed to help."
ROGAINE: Use it or Lose it!
Marlon took the glasses. "...but I think I need a break."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Google Glass: A Futuristic Fantasy that Already Feels Retro"
Monday, March 10, 2014
DAY 68: The Right Tool for the Job
There were four left when they reached the former general store. Mike was in a panic. "He asked me to shoot him. Bobby asked me, you all heard that, right?"
"Cool it now!" Ronnie said. "He said he didn't want to be one of those things. Don't fall apart now!"
Mickey added, "Yeah, don't worry, Mike. If you give me a reason, I won't hesitate to shoot you."
Ralph stayed silent as he stopped the car. Mickey held out a pistol to him. "You want?"
"I'm good," Ralph replied, reaching down for his toolbelt.
Ronnie checked his watch. "Okay, guys, this shopping spree's good for five minutes. When I call 'time', we roll."
"And when I call 'zombie', we open fire." Mickey added. "Ralph, open the door."
Ralph studied the lock before he pulled out the screwdriver. A quick smack, and they were in.
Mickey had Mike push the shopping cart. "Straight to canned goods, man! We need the stuff that lasts. Damn, do I miss ice cream, though... And cheese! Even squash! Butter-fried squash and zuccini, mmm!" While Mickey reminisced of flavors past, Mike watched the shadows.
Ralph was pushing Ronnie's cart. "This run's going to be food and ammo, Ralph, but I don't know when we'll be back again. If there's anything on your list that we can fit in the van, I'll consider it."
Ralph replied, "Two hammers... two needle-nose pliers... three sewing kits... rope, at least a hundred yards... a car battery."
They were between auto parts and the oil-change station. A car battery sat on the counter, still waiting for pickup. Ralph took out his screwdriver, scraping fresh sparks off one of the battery terminals. "I'm good," he said, lifting the battery.
They found a stash of cartridges when they heard the first gunshot. Mickey was screaming from across the store, "Cleanup, register 3!" He and Mike were bottlenecked in the aisle, with only their shopping cart between them and three zombies. Ronnie barreled through, sideswiping two with his overloaded cart. That gave Mickey a chance to load up and shoot one, while Ronnie shot another. The last one was reaching to bit on Ronnie's ankle, when Ralph's screwdriver came down through its skullcap, and out the bottom of its jaw. Ronnie jumped back, blasting the zombie skull like a ripe pumpkin. Without a word, Ralph retrieved his unscathed screwdriver and wiped it clean against his pants leg.
Back at base camp, Mickey and Mike shared the spoils - and the story - with the rest of the camp. Ronnie was talking with the others, in preparation for the memorial service. Ralph, meanwhile, was ready to plug his battery onto his latest device. The camp was ready for nightlights and food processors. He was ready to watch a movie again. He placed the battery on his improvised workbench, and began adding it to his contraption. But when he grasped the brackets, he frowned; he needed a Phillips head.
Ralph tossed the screwdriver without looking. "Useless..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "MicroRNA Halts Breast Cancer Protein"
"Cool it now!" Ronnie said. "He said he didn't want to be one of those things. Don't fall apart now!"
Mickey added, "Yeah, don't worry, Mike. If you give me a reason, I won't hesitate to shoot you."
Ralph stayed silent as he stopped the car. Mickey held out a pistol to him. "You want?"
"I'm good," Ralph replied, reaching down for his toolbelt.
Ronnie checked his watch. "Okay, guys, this shopping spree's good for five minutes. When I call 'time', we roll."
"And when I call 'zombie', we open fire." Mickey added. "Ralph, open the door."
Ralph studied the lock before he pulled out the screwdriver. A quick smack, and they were in.
Mickey had Mike push the shopping cart. "Straight to canned goods, man! We need the stuff that lasts. Damn, do I miss ice cream, though... And cheese! Even squash! Butter-fried squash and zuccini, mmm!" While Mickey reminisced of flavors past, Mike watched the shadows.
Ralph was pushing Ronnie's cart. "This run's going to be food and ammo, Ralph, but I don't know when we'll be back again. If there's anything on your list that we can fit in the van, I'll consider it."
Ralph replied, "Two hammers... two needle-nose pliers... three sewing kits... rope, at least a hundred yards... a car battery."
They were between auto parts and the oil-change station. A car battery sat on the counter, still waiting for pickup. Ralph took out his screwdriver, scraping fresh sparks off one of the battery terminals. "I'm good," he said, lifting the battery.
They found a stash of cartridges when they heard the first gunshot. Mickey was screaming from across the store, "Cleanup, register 3!" He and Mike were bottlenecked in the aisle, with only their shopping cart between them and three zombies. Ronnie barreled through, sideswiping two with his overloaded cart. That gave Mickey a chance to load up and shoot one, while Ronnie shot another. The last one was reaching to bit on Ronnie's ankle, when Ralph's screwdriver came down through its skullcap, and out the bottom of its jaw. Ronnie jumped back, blasting the zombie skull like a ripe pumpkin. Without a word, Ralph retrieved his unscathed screwdriver and wiped it clean against his pants leg.
Back at base camp, Mickey and Mike shared the spoils - and the story - with the rest of the camp. Ronnie was talking with the others, in preparation for the memorial service. Ralph, meanwhile, was ready to plug his battery onto his latest device. The camp was ready for nightlights and food processors. He was ready to watch a movie again. He placed the battery on his improvised workbench, and began adding it to his contraption. But when he grasped the brackets, he frowned; he needed a Phillips head.
Ralph tossed the screwdriver without looking. "Useless..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "MicroRNA Halts Breast Cancer Protein"
Sunday, March 9, 2014
DAY 67: The River of Dust
Paris walked the riverbed, waiting for the wind to return. He had lost the camp two days ago, coming down from his psychotropic adventure, and the remains of the river was the first change in the environment that had registered with him. There was no water to point downstream, but he had run into a breeze that felt directed, so he walked in that direction. The air was slight - non-existent, in some stretches- but he walked on.
He reached the center column that protruded from the riverbed. The shade was welcome, so he stood beneath and collected himself. He was so thirsty. He curled up as much of himself into the shadow and waited for anything. Doubt caught up with him: was he any closer to being found? To finding civilization? He needed a better vantage point.
Paris looked above him, at the outcropping, and a shape too precise to be natural, poking out. Any color had been lost to the elements. But Paris had regained enough strength to be curious. He pulled himself up to investigate.
It hurt to climb, but he was in the column's shadow, and he had something to think and do besides walk. He touched it: petrified wood, bathed in crumbled mud. As Paris put weight on it, the boat shifted, then held in place; it was wedged. The water that had pressed it there was long gone.
As he pulled himself over the edge, the wind began to spiral around him. He leaned on the boat, only for it to give way. "Help me!" he cried, as he fell back to earth, and saw the boat follow...
He awoke underneath the boat. The only light he could see with, faded rapidly, carried off by the increasing winds that whipped over his new coffin. Even if he had the power to stand, it would not be with his own legs; the boat had landed on an ankle, crushing it. But he barely had the strength to weep, and the boat prevented him from even turning his head heavenward. So he lay there, consigning himself to the dust, an ear to the ground, when he heard a distant rumbling, like thunder...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Colorado River in Drought's Grip"
Paris looked above him, at the outcropping, and a shape too precise to be natural, poking out. Any color had been lost to the elements. But Paris had regained enough strength to be curious. He pulled himself up to investigate.
It hurt to climb, but he was in the column's shadow, and he had something to think and do besides walk. He touched it: petrified wood, bathed in crumbled mud. As Paris put weight on it, the boat shifted, then held in place; it was wedged. The water that had pressed it there was long gone.
As he pulled himself over the edge, the wind began to spiral around him. He leaned on the boat, only for it to give way. "Help me!" he cried, as he fell back to earth, and saw the boat follow...
He awoke underneath the boat. The only light he could see with, faded rapidly, carried off by the increasing winds that whipped over his new coffin. Even if he had the power to stand, it would not be with his own legs; the boat had landed on an ankle, crushing it. But he barely had the strength to weep, and the boat prevented him from even turning his head heavenward. So he lay there, consigning himself to the dust, an ear to the ground, when he heard a distant rumbling, like thunder...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Colorado River in Drought's Grip"
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