"Well, we just crossed the state line to Montana," Norm said, staring into the sunset. "I don't even need to touch the steering wheel for an hour."
In the navigator's seat, Miles kept his eyes on his laptop. "Should I set the cameras to sleep?"
"Dude, we're not coming up on anything before dark. We're done for the day."
Miles continued to monitor as the Street View cameras shut down. "You know, it's a beautiful thing we're doing here."
"Yeah, it's a nice sunset, I guess."
"No, not that. I mean, this: cruising around, cataloging this country, one road at a time. And what we're doing here is gonna be seen by millions of others-"
"Hundreds, dude. We're in Montana, remember?"
"-but you get what I'm saying, right? These highways and byways and roadways, bearing the traffic of goods and services and people and ideas, Norm! Ideas! I mean, we're on this road that connects to all the other roads and highways in the US Interstate system. But we're also on the road that connects to all these counties and cities in this concept called the State of Montana. And this path we're on aligns with cellular coverage that connects our phones with everybody else's, our computers with everybody else's. And there's all the other threads we have to connect us with all kinds of things on this planet! Our families, our contacts lists, our peers in demographics, in idealogy... We are visualizing the connective tissue of our society! We're quantifying the neural nets of the Mind of our nation! Once we're all connected, what happens when we share the same vision? Not just the video images and pop songs, but real ideas and concepts! What could we make real just because we believe in it?"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Human Brain in 3-D Detail"
Friday, February 28, 2014
Thursday, February 27, 2014
DAY 53: On the Table
Eddie woke up on the table; his surgeon, Anton, was quizzing him, testing his alertness. "Eddie, count down from ten for me. Come on..."
By six, Eddie was awake. "Did you drop something in there?"
"Eddie, we're not done yet..."
"Well, why did you wake me up for?"
"Because you're a control freak who insisted that I run every major procedure by you before it's done!"
"Well, what is it?!?" Eddie's head waggled back and forth; given the amount of anesthetic, an impressive display of rage.
"My team just did a scan while we were prepping the stent; you're lousy for plaque. I count 12 so far, with 3 imminent risks. I gotta scrub you."
"Well, why don't you do it?"
"Okay! We will! Rumi, get the release form!" An assistant activated her tablet, and began scanning for the electronic document.
Eddie began to calculate. "...hold on. How much is this gonna cost?"
"Eddie, if we don't clean these up, this stent is just money down the drain!"
"Right, but it's my money!"
"Geez, Eddie! You got the inheritence, because I got a job! I don't want the money!"
"Yeah, but your hospital's gonna get it!"
"Eddie! Will you shut up and sign the thing, so we can save your life, you penny-pinching bastard?"
They stared at each other for a moment. Eddie muttered, "You are lucky I'm pinned down here."
"Yeah. Can we do this now, please?"
Anton motioned, and Rumi came forward with the e-form. Eddie winked into the camera. "If you kill me, Annie, I'm going straight to Mom."
"If you die, you're probably gonna see Dad instead." Anton motioned to the anesthesiologist. "Count to ten..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Tracking Bad Plaque to Prevent Heart Attacks"
By six, Eddie was awake. "Did you drop something in there?"
"Eddie, we're not done yet..."
"Well, why did you wake me up for?"
"Because you're a control freak who insisted that I run every major procedure by you before it's done!"
"Well, what is it?!?" Eddie's head waggled back and forth; given the amount of anesthetic, an impressive display of rage.
"My team just did a scan while we were prepping the stent; you're lousy for plaque. I count 12 so far, with 3 imminent risks. I gotta scrub you."
"Well, why don't you do it?"
"Okay! We will! Rumi, get the release form!" An assistant activated her tablet, and began scanning for the electronic document.
Eddie began to calculate. "...hold on. How much is this gonna cost?"
"Eddie, if we don't clean these up, this stent is just money down the drain!"
"Right, but it's my money!"
"Geez, Eddie! You got the inheritence, because I got a job! I don't want the money!"
"Yeah, but your hospital's gonna get it!"
"Eddie! Will you shut up and sign the thing, so we can save your life, you penny-pinching bastard?"
They stared at each other for a moment. Eddie muttered, "You are lucky I'm pinned down here."
"Yeah. Can we do this now, please?"
Anton motioned, and Rumi came forward with the e-form. Eddie winked into the camera. "If you kill me, Annie, I'm going straight to Mom."
"If you die, you're probably gonna see Dad instead." Anton motioned to the anesthesiologist. "Count to ten..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Tracking Bad Plaque to Prevent Heart Attacks"
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
DAY 52: What Makes the World Go Round?
Harriet did her best to keep her eyes focused into Lyle's. She explained, "The earth's core is made of iron, but it's two kinds, you see. There's the solid iron inner core, heated thousands of degrees, and the molten liquid outer core of iron magma, even hotter in temperature. The magma wraps around the iron core, but not holding it tight. It's tumbling and spinning, and the heat generated from the friction maintains their extreme temperatures"
"Friction?" Lyle asked, writing into his notebook.
She nodded. "Yes. And as the outer core is spinning around the inner core, the world spins with them. Some even say it augments the gravity that holds everything to the Earth."
"...augments... gravity..." He murmured as he wrote in his notebook.
Harriet leaned her shoulder into his, pointing at his notations. "Yes, 'augments' - not 'creates'; that's a misnomer. The earth has its gravity, but so does everything else Everything, all of us, possess some innate magnetic attraction..."
Lyle shot upright. "So if the outer core's liquid, and the inner core's solid, what keeps the outer core in?"
She huffed. "That's the mantle! It's a bunch of rocks!"
"I'm sorry. I'm trying to keep ups, but you're throwing a lot of stuff at me here! You gotta keep it simple."
Letting out a sigh, Harriet replied, "Evidently..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Taking the Temperature of Earth's Core"
"Friction?" Lyle asked, writing into his notebook.
She nodded. "Yes. And as the outer core is spinning around the inner core, the world spins with them. Some even say it augments the gravity that holds everything to the Earth."
"...augments... gravity..." He murmured as he wrote in his notebook.
Harriet leaned her shoulder into his, pointing at his notations. "Yes, 'augments' - not 'creates'; that's a misnomer. The earth has its gravity, but so does everything else Everything, all of us, possess some innate magnetic attraction..."
Lyle shot upright. "So if the outer core's liquid, and the inner core's solid, what keeps the outer core in?"
She huffed. "That's the mantle! It's a bunch of rocks!"
"I'm sorry. I'm trying to keep ups, but you're throwing a lot of stuff at me here! You gotta keep it simple."
Letting out a sigh, Harriet replied, "Evidently..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Taking the Temperature of Earth's Core"
DAY 57: The Power of Positive Speaking
The banquet room was overflowing with chatter, as the assembled crowd took their seats for the top of the hour. Ollie squirmed in his seat, trying to not get smacked by any promotional giftbags as people passed through his row. Hal, looking up from his phone, said, "If you want to move in, we could-"
"I am not losing this seat. I hate crowds, I hate lectures, and I hate these assignments. As soon as we can verify what a waste of time this is, I'm walking."
An usher with a clipboard came up to them. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm going to have to ask for you to move towards the center, so we get any many people in as possible."
Ollie threw on a fake smile. "We're waiting for a friend. We're expecting him any minute. Isn't that right, Hal?"
Hal looked back at his phone. "Just texted. He's almost here."
"Well, perhaps your friend has entered from another-"
Ollie held up a fist, waving his red plastic wristband at the usher. "You see this? You know how much you guys are charging for us to be sitting on these plastic chairs?"
"I'm sorry, of course. You are guests. You should wait where your friend will find you."
"His name's Gene," Hal added.
The usher nodded. "Yes. If Gene passes my way, I will know where to direct him, sirs. Enjoy the message." He scurried away.
Behind the curtain, Edward McAbee watched footage from a previous seminar, muttering along with his favorite phrases. "...personal actuation... the power of self-"
He paused the footage, and looked over his shoulder, where his assistant stood with notebook in hand. "Power of ONEself? YOURself? Which one, Nuri?"
"Perhaps 'true self'?" Edward nodded, chewing on the phrase in his mouth. He motioned his finger like a wand, and Nuri added the phrase to his notebook.
Edward looked at the frozen frame, a sea of outstretched hands and green wristbands. He wound the scene back, to his stage entrance: his walk to the podium was greeted with applause, of varying levels. Edward pointed at two enthusiastic attendees with green wristbands. "See there, Nuri? They were already into it."
"Perhaps 'true self'?" Edward nodded, chewing on the phrase in his mouth. He motioned his finger like a wand, and Nuri added the phrase to his notebook.
Edward looked at the frozen frame, a sea of outstretched hands and green wristbands. He wound the scene back, to his stage entrance: his walk to the podium was greeted with applause, of varying levels. Edward pointed at two enthusiastic attendees with green wristbands. "See there, Nuri? They were already into it."
He moved his focus two rows over, on two more polite audience members in blue armbands. "Those girls... they needed convincing."
Nuri sighed as Edward fast-forwarded again to the moment of audience rapture, and the self onscreen began yelling about "the power of SELF..." Edward pointed again at the skeptical girls; their armbands glowed emerald. "You see that? I turned them around. Everybody in that room..."
Edward started rewinding again. "Did we see what part of the speech got them?"
"You're nervous, sir. There's no need to be nervous."
"I need to be nervous. I'm great when I'm nervous!" Edward stood up and straightened himself up, tall as a redwood. "Reminds me why I do this."
A knock on his door; the usher. "There are two redbands in the center aisle, section H. Linda thought you should know."
Edward nodded. "Thank you. Keep contact with her team, they can handle it. Let's spread the message."
He looked back at Nuri. "Like I said, I'm great when I'm nervous."
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "A Mood Ring for your Mind"
Nuri sighed as Edward fast-forwarded again to the moment of audience rapture, and the self onscreen began yelling about "the power of SELF..." Edward pointed again at the skeptical girls; their armbands glowed emerald. "You see that? I turned them around. Everybody in that room..."
Edward started rewinding again. "Did we see what part of the speech got them?"
"You're nervous, sir. There's no need to be nervous."
"I need to be nervous. I'm great when I'm nervous!" Edward stood up and straightened himself up, tall as a redwood. "Reminds me why I do this."
A knock on his door; the usher. "There are two redbands in the center aisle, section H. Linda thought you should know."
Edward nodded. "Thank you. Keep contact with her team, they can handle it. Let's spread the message."
He looked back at Nuri. "Like I said, I'm great when I'm nervous."
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "A Mood Ring for your Mind"
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
DAY 55: The Birthday Party
Everybody was in the mess hall for Dahlia's 12th birthday party. Flora was placing the finishing touches on the cake, and she had deputized Ivy to gather enough silverware and plates for everyone. Lily and Violet were putting up the decorations that Rose could find, recycled from previous celebrations. And Mari was preparing the tattoo gun.
Dahlia called from the hallway, "Can I come in yet?" She rocked on her heels, waiting for the go-ahead. She remembered when she was Flora's helper, and the family was preparing Violet's birthday party. Everybody on the ship got one party. and after years of dreaming, it was her turn. She even had her music list ready.
Ivy ran out and grabbed Dahlia by the hand. "It's time! It's time!"
The mess hall looked pretty, with streamers running the length of the dining room. The banner with the HAPPY BIRTHDAY letters was spread out again; Dahlia saw the corner fold she had put in the letter D six years ago. All other details were obscured from her view as the family converged to present the cake. While they sang, Dahlia's eyes feasted on the chocolate iced cake with neon green trim, and "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" in letters crowning a fondant pink-and-red sculpting of her namesake.
There were almost enough pieces of cake for everyone before they had to cut into the fondant blossom. Mari had not cut herself a slice yet. Instead, she slid the piece square in Dahlia's view, and asked, "Is this one alright?" Dahlia nodded and exposed her right shoulder. Mari got out the tattoo gun, and began to trace out the blossom's pattern, as the rest of the mess hall watched.
Each wince made the younger ladies giggle, which made Dahlia swallow her tears back. Rose patted her hand. "It's looking real good. I love it! And if I love it, I know you're gonna love it!"
"Once the swelling stops," Violet said, from across the room.
Rose shot her a look, then returned to soothing Dahlia. "Now, have you thought about what you wanna do now?"
Dahlia pondered for a moment. "Well, I liked doing the navigation a lot. Piloting's okay, but I like looking for the stars, listening for the different planets..."
"She's a very good student, too," Mari said. "Although she's fixated on finding echoes."
"The other day, I found Jackson's 5!"
The mention excited the room; Lily turned up the music for a moment, which started the dancing. Rose patted her patient's hand and drew her attention. "What else would you like to do?"
"I don't know, there's so much!"
"I know, I know. And you'll have time to learn it all. But it's time to choose what you will do to take care of this family."
"And some jobs will choose you," Mari added. "You're still going to help me with waste reclamation maintenance later."
"Marigold!" Rose scolded. "Not everyone's finished their cake yet!"
After the celebration, it was time for one more ritual. Dahlia ran ahead of everyone else to the garden, carrying Azaelea's piece of cake. Ivy caught up in the time to open the door for her.
In the center of the garden, Azalea was misting the strawberries when the girls found her. "We've been waiting for all of you to get here!"
"Here's half the flower for you," Dahlia said, offering the cake.
Azalea gave the pair hugs, and then said, "You know what goes good with chocolate?" She snuck three berries off the stems, passing them out. "A little something before the slowpokes get here."
"Is she awake yet?" Ivy said.
"Nope. She's still in the soup."
Dahlia and Ivy ran over to the lab section of the garden, where the growing chamber was running. They could see her curled up in there, floating in the 'soup'. The girls were mesmerized.
Azalea tapped the top of Dahlia's head. "Have you thought of a name yet?" But she remained silent.
The rest of the family arrived, chatting excitedly. Above the din, Mari asked Azalea, "Is everything alright?"
Azalea nodded. "All we have to do is push the button."
Lily and Ivy nudged the birthday girl toward the control panel. The others waited, remembering the tradition. Dahlia looked over her family, her sisters all watching with electric anticipation. She looked at her littlest sister, floating, waiting. Dahlia took a deep breath, and pushed the button...
The chamber began to drain. Mari looked over Azalea's shoulder, monitoring the baby's status. Dahlia was still silent, prompting a curious look from Lily. "...well? What's her name?"
"Clover." Dahlia watched the 'soup' recede, easing the baby downward. "Her name's Clover." Dahlia took the baby in her arms, as she opened her very familiar eyes.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Privacy Pact for the World's Most Famous Cells"
Dahlia called from the hallway, "Can I come in yet?" She rocked on her heels, waiting for the go-ahead. She remembered when she was Flora's helper, and the family was preparing Violet's birthday party. Everybody on the ship got one party. and after years of dreaming, it was her turn. She even had her music list ready.
Ivy ran out and grabbed Dahlia by the hand. "It's time! It's time!"
The mess hall looked pretty, with streamers running the length of the dining room. The banner with the HAPPY BIRTHDAY letters was spread out again; Dahlia saw the corner fold she had put in the letter D six years ago. All other details were obscured from her view as the family converged to present the cake. While they sang, Dahlia's eyes feasted on the chocolate iced cake with neon green trim, and "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" in letters crowning a fondant pink-and-red sculpting of her namesake.
There were almost enough pieces of cake for everyone before they had to cut into the fondant blossom. Mari had not cut herself a slice yet. Instead, she slid the piece square in Dahlia's view, and asked, "Is this one alright?" Dahlia nodded and exposed her right shoulder. Mari got out the tattoo gun, and began to trace out the blossom's pattern, as the rest of the mess hall watched.
Each wince made the younger ladies giggle, which made Dahlia swallow her tears back. Rose patted her hand. "It's looking real good. I love it! And if I love it, I know you're gonna love it!"
"Once the swelling stops," Violet said, from across the room.
Rose shot her a look, then returned to soothing Dahlia. "Now, have you thought about what you wanna do now?"
Dahlia pondered for a moment. "Well, I liked doing the navigation a lot. Piloting's okay, but I like looking for the stars, listening for the different planets..."
"She's a very good student, too," Mari said. "Although she's fixated on finding echoes."
"The other day, I found Jackson's 5!"
The mention excited the room; Lily turned up the music for a moment, which started the dancing. Rose patted her patient's hand and drew her attention. "What else would you like to do?"
"I don't know, there's so much!"
"I know, I know. And you'll have time to learn it all. But it's time to choose what you will do to take care of this family."
"And some jobs will choose you," Mari added. "You're still going to help me with waste reclamation maintenance later."
"Marigold!" Rose scolded. "Not everyone's finished their cake yet!"
After the celebration, it was time for one more ritual. Dahlia ran ahead of everyone else to the garden, carrying Azaelea's piece of cake. Ivy caught up in the time to open the door for her.
In the center of the garden, Azalea was misting the strawberries when the girls found her. "We've been waiting for all of you to get here!"
"Here's half the flower for you," Dahlia said, offering the cake.
Azalea gave the pair hugs, and then said, "You know what goes good with chocolate?" She snuck three berries off the stems, passing them out. "A little something before the slowpokes get here."
"Is she awake yet?" Ivy said.
"Nope. She's still in the soup."
Dahlia and Ivy ran over to the lab section of the garden, where the growing chamber was running. They could see her curled up in there, floating in the 'soup'. The girls were mesmerized.
Azalea tapped the top of Dahlia's head. "Have you thought of a name yet?" But she remained silent.
The rest of the family arrived, chatting excitedly. Above the din, Mari asked Azalea, "Is everything alright?"
Azalea nodded. "All we have to do is push the button."
Lily and Ivy nudged the birthday girl toward the control panel. The others waited, remembering the tradition. Dahlia looked over her family, her sisters all watching with electric anticipation. She looked at her littlest sister, floating, waiting. Dahlia took a deep breath, and pushed the button...
The chamber began to drain. Mari looked over Azalea's shoulder, monitoring the baby's status. Dahlia was still silent, prompting a curious look from Lily. "...well? What's her name?"
"Clover." Dahlia watched the 'soup' recede, easing the baby downward. "Her name's Clover." Dahlia took the baby in her arms, as she opened her very familiar eyes.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Privacy Pact for the World's Most Famous Cells"
Thursday, February 20, 2014
DAY 51: Red Evening
"The body will be bathed three times." Stu placed three bowls next to the training mannequin. "The first bowl is water and Sidr leaves; Dr Mara should be one of the handlers, but follow whoever has that bowl. You should probably take the second bowl - there's camphor with this water. Only pilgrims are exempt; their souls are ready, water is all their body needs."
Marsha reached for the clean water bowl. "I need to see everybody-"
"They still need to be prepared for burial." Stu blocked her reach for the water. "The final bather is also helping secure and dress the bodies, and I don't have time to teach you everything they do. Take the camphor bowl and repeat every motion the first bather does. If the body is sick enough for someone to see, they will need more than water anyway."
Marsha nodded. "That works for me. How many do they have so far?"
"When I called her, she said there were 43 so far, and 8 familes intend on retrieving their loved ones in the morning. You won't have much time to look, certainly no official examination."
Marsha pulled the CPR mannequin towards her, pointing out areas for Stu to examine. "We're looking for signs of respiratory infection: flu-like symptoms under the eyes, nostrils, even ear canals. The cuticles have a unique symptom - keep an eye for purple and white under the nails."
"And what do I do if I find someone?"
Marsha took his hand in hers, startling her. He turned his hand over to see the oversize thumbtack Marsha had placed in his hand. "I've got tons of these, and labels in my other pocket to keep them straight. You know how to use that?"
"Yes. Are you sure this will work?"
"Well, it's a needle in a haystack. But somewhere in that mass of the infected are people who chose to die that way. And this is our best chance of finding them."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Fast Proof of Nerve Gas in Syria"
Marsha reached for the clean water bowl. "I need to see everybody-"
"They still need to be prepared for burial." Stu blocked her reach for the water. "The final bather is also helping secure and dress the bodies, and I don't have time to teach you everything they do. Take the camphor bowl and repeat every motion the first bather does. If the body is sick enough for someone to see, they will need more than water anyway."
Marsha nodded. "That works for me. How many do they have so far?"
"When I called her, she said there were 43 so far, and 8 familes intend on retrieving their loved ones in the morning. You won't have much time to look, certainly no official examination."
Marsha pulled the CPR mannequin towards her, pointing out areas for Stu to examine. "We're looking for signs of respiratory infection: flu-like symptoms under the eyes, nostrils, even ear canals. The cuticles have a unique symptom - keep an eye for purple and white under the nails."
"And what do I do if I find someone?"
Marsha took his hand in hers, startling her. He turned his hand over to see the oversize thumbtack Marsha had placed in his hand. "I've got tons of these, and labels in my other pocket to keep them straight. You know how to use that?"
"Yes. Are you sure this will work?"
"Well, it's a needle in a haystack. But somewhere in that mass of the infected are people who chose to die that way. And this is our best chance of finding them."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Fast Proof of Nerve Gas in Syria"
DAY 50: Red Morning...
Andre's coughing woke him up, and nearly cracked his ribs. He looked to the bed on his right, and saw the sheet over Emil's head. A hand was exposed and cut at the wrist, the blood draining into a bowl on the floor. Andre was happy for him.
Andre's nurse, wearing a face mask, arrived to attend him. She gave him a snow-white cloth to cough in, while she took his temperature. The sputum was black, shiny as a carapace. "Can you sit up?" she asked.
Andre nodded, and began the slow ascent.
The nurse returned with the captains, bearing street clothes; they also wore face masks and gloves. "Put these on," the short captain ordered. Andre stood up and accepted the clothes; he was stoic and slow as they watched him dress. At one point, bending to put on the paints, he audibly groaned. The nurse motioned to assist, but the tall captain held out his palm, keeping the nurse in her place.
Finally, Andre finished dressing. He straightened himself up and offered a salute. The tall captain put some papers and a bus pass in his hand. "Go, and bring the judgement of God to his people."
Andre shuffled out of the room. He left the building and began shuffling down the sidewalk, to join the others at the bus stop...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Hunting a Killer Virus"
Andre's nurse, wearing a face mask, arrived to attend him. She gave him a snow-white cloth to cough in, while she took his temperature. The sputum was black, shiny as a carapace. "Can you sit up?" she asked.
Andre nodded, and began the slow ascent.
The nurse returned with the captains, bearing street clothes; they also wore face masks and gloves. "Put these on," the short captain ordered. Andre stood up and accepted the clothes; he was stoic and slow as they watched him dress. At one point, bending to put on the paints, he audibly groaned. The nurse motioned to assist, but the tall captain held out his palm, keeping the nurse in her place.
Finally, Andre finished dressing. He straightened himself up and offered a salute. The tall captain put some papers and a bus pass in his hand. "Go, and bring the judgement of God to his people."
Andre shuffled out of the room. He left the building and began shuffling down the sidewalk, to join the others at the bus stop...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Hunting a Killer Virus"
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
DAY 49: A Moment in Skull Valley
They were stalled on the side of the road, 50-odd miles shy of Surprise, Arizona. In the time it would take for a tow truck to bring some fuel, the sun would be overhead to juice them up. So they waited for the end of the darkest part of the night.
Jesse flexed his grip on the steering wheel as he watched the horizon, intermittently re-forgetting that the morning light was not going to let him charge out of the gate. But they'd get navigation back before they were on the road again; he'd find a selection of breakfast eateries to offer her, then wake her with some music from the playlist she set up for the trip, get her far enough down the road that he could apologize... But all he could do now is wait for sunrise, and let her sleep.
Gloria let him think she was asleep, while her phone, still tethered to the car charger, shifted silently in her hand. The phone had lasted twenty minutes longer than the car - enough time to call a tow truck and decide to wait it out. That phone was heavy with sweat, long past ready to drop, but she wouldn't make a move; she was waiting for a snore. And so they waited for the dawn, as the silence roared.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "On a Wing and a Photon: Solar Impulse Flies Across America"
Gloria let him think she was asleep, while her phone, still tethered to the car charger, shifted silently in her hand. The phone had lasted twenty minutes longer than the car - enough time to call a tow truck and decide to wait it out. That phone was heavy with sweat, long past ready to drop, but she wouldn't make a move; she was waiting for a snore. And so they waited for the dawn, as the silence roared.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "On a Wing and a Photon: Solar Impulse Flies Across America"
Monday, February 17, 2014
DAY 48: The Chin under the beard
Nothing scared me like meeting my father-in-law. Clay was a large man, comfortable in camo overalls and an oversized beard. He had a reputation as a stone cold man. I heard the story of when he caught a neighbor's dog on his farm, snacking on a couple of hens; he shot the dog and fed it to his pigs. This story is not verified, but no one disputes it as entirely probable.
But we could not delay the inevitable, so my fiancee and I finally made the trip. He was reticent all the way through dinner, until he finally pulled me aside for a porch side beer. After a few sips, he finally said, "I should show you my Chin." I was about to tell him I wasn't that kind of doctor, when he let out a sharp, yodel-high yip.
From out of the brush, a tiny creature peeked out. Clay offered his hand as a perch. "Just got this here pocket monkey last week. Archie-cebus Achilles, in Latin. And I don't know what they call them in China. They say they been extinct forever, until some scientists brought them back, to see if they could. Once they did, they started selling them."
Chin swung by its tail off of Clay's pointer finger, staring intently at me. Clay explained how his pet was bred by injecting prehistoric DNA into a customized embryo that used sugar glider and guinea pig DNA to fill in the blanks. "I missed the sugar glider bandwagon, so as soon as I read about this, I snatched one up. I named him Chin because he's Chinese!... and I don't know if he's a she."
Clay asked me to examine his pet (a girl, I determined), and we talked about feeding habits and such. Chin had taken up permanent residence in Clay's beard (presumably comforted by Clay's basso profundo tones) Crickets and mealworms were fine for Chin, although she had a taste for whatever nibbles didn't make it in Clay's mouth. "And I haven't slept on my beard in a decade, so she's fine there." I gave what veterinary advice I could, and he promised to keep me updated on her progress.
As the summer progressed, Chin enamored himself to the entire family. By the day of the wedding, Clay had trained Chin to bear our rings. They were inseperable for years, up to the day he lost her. The only accounts I have heard are second hand: apparently, as Clay was feeding the pigs one particularly early morning, a half-awake Chin tumbled out of the beard without his awareness. He discovered Chin's absence too late. I haven't verified this, but I can tell you what I saw for Chin's backyard funeral: Mrs Clay wiping a tear off of Clay's clean-shaven face.
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Oldest Primate Finds its Place on the Tree of Life"
But we could not delay the inevitable, so my fiancee and I finally made the trip. He was reticent all the way through dinner, until he finally pulled me aside for a porch side beer. After a few sips, he finally said, "I should show you my Chin." I was about to tell him I wasn't that kind of doctor, when he let out a sharp, yodel-high yip.
From out of the brush, a tiny creature peeked out. Clay offered his hand as a perch. "Just got this here pocket monkey last week. Archie-cebus Achilles, in Latin. And I don't know what they call them in China. They say they been extinct forever, until some scientists brought them back, to see if they could. Once they did, they started selling them."
Chin swung by its tail off of Clay's pointer finger, staring intently at me. Clay explained how his pet was bred by injecting prehistoric DNA into a customized embryo that used sugar glider and guinea pig DNA to fill in the blanks. "I missed the sugar glider bandwagon, so as soon as I read about this, I snatched one up. I named him Chin because he's Chinese!... and I don't know if he's a she."
Clay asked me to examine his pet (a girl, I determined), and we talked about feeding habits and such. Chin had taken up permanent residence in Clay's beard (presumably comforted by Clay's basso profundo tones) Crickets and mealworms were fine for Chin, although she had a taste for whatever nibbles didn't make it in Clay's mouth. "And I haven't slept on my beard in a decade, so she's fine there." I gave what veterinary advice I could, and he promised to keep me updated on her progress.
As the summer progressed, Chin enamored himself to the entire family. By the day of the wedding, Clay had trained Chin to bear our rings. They were inseperable for years, up to the day he lost her. The only accounts I have heard are second hand: apparently, as Clay was feeding the pigs one particularly early morning, a half-awake Chin tumbled out of the beard without his awareness. He discovered Chin's absence too late. I haven't verified this, but I can tell you what I saw for Chin's backyard funeral: Mrs Clay wiping a tear off of Clay's clean-shaven face.
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Oldest Primate Finds its Place on the Tree of Life"
DAY 47: Jerry's Morning After with the Wilsons
Hungover, Jerry stared at his cereal bowl and asked the snowman on his right to pass the milk. The third time he asked, he looked up and saw the milk was actually next to the snowman seated to Jerry's left. Jerry apologized and poured the crystallized milk on his cereal. It'd been out all night, but Jerry wasn't worried about it.
He produced a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket. Enjoying the smoke, he looked over his silent breakfast companions. The snowman on the left was wearing his sunglasses atop a beer bottle nose, plus a grin of black olives. The snowman on the right wore olives in his eyes, but didn't have a mouth; he had a pair of bottles affixed like t-rex arms. "Sorry about the arms," Jerry offered, poking a hole for the snowman to smoke from. "Guess I was feeling whimsical last night." He bestowed the cigarette and moved on.
The bathroom door wouldn't open. Reflexively, he knocked on it. He immediately thought, why would you do that? You've been stuck out here by yourself for four days! He pushed his shoulder against the door and shoved it open.
He was greeted by a snowman atop the porcelain throne, its plunger and toilet brush arms raised in shock. For some brief period of time, the closed bathroom must have been warm; the snowman was frozen to the seat. Jerry resigned himself to the outdoors to take care of business.
Opening a second story window, he shot the breeze. The snow was only two feet below the window ledge; six days of record snowfall had turned his cabin into a hole in the ground. No power, no heat, and the beer was finished. He didn't have long, and he was losing his sense of humor. Could he wait it out?
Jerry looked over at the bed, piled with every blanket and towel in the cabin he could find. Next to his sleeping spot, a snowwoman (he hoped) lay stretched out beside, a sleeved shirt draped around its head like pigtails.
"I gotta get out of here."
Downstairs again, Jerry rummaged for the rest of his outdoor gear; just a glove and a boot to go. Three more snowmen were in the living room, posed in mid-bacchanal. What had started as an attempt to clear the snow had become his drunken art project. God, how many did he make?
He found the other boot by the non-working fireplace, clutched by a snowman with a poker for one arm. The other arm was a mailbox flag; at the sight of it, hope took root in Jerry's mind. If he made it that far in his drunken stupor, then he might have a path to the road, and civilization.
He opened the front door: there was the path he had made, by shoveling, pawing, and rolling the snow into his house in medium-large boulders, stacking them into temporary tenants. He grabbed his goggles, and walked out the door, shouting as he went, "You guys better be gone when I get back!"
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Moon's Water Came From Earth"
He produced a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket. Enjoying the smoke, he looked over his silent breakfast companions. The snowman on the left was wearing his sunglasses atop a beer bottle nose, plus a grin of black olives. The snowman on the right wore olives in his eyes, but didn't have a mouth; he had a pair of bottles affixed like t-rex arms. "Sorry about the arms," Jerry offered, poking a hole for the snowman to smoke from. "Guess I was feeling whimsical last night." He bestowed the cigarette and moved on.
The bathroom door wouldn't open. Reflexively, he knocked on it. He immediately thought, why would you do that? You've been stuck out here by yourself for four days! He pushed his shoulder against the door and shoved it open.
He was greeted by a snowman atop the porcelain throne, its plunger and toilet brush arms raised in shock. For some brief period of time, the closed bathroom must have been warm; the snowman was frozen to the seat. Jerry resigned himself to the outdoors to take care of business.
Opening a second story window, he shot the breeze. The snow was only two feet below the window ledge; six days of record snowfall had turned his cabin into a hole in the ground. No power, no heat, and the beer was finished. He didn't have long, and he was losing his sense of humor. Could he wait it out?
Jerry looked over at the bed, piled with every blanket and towel in the cabin he could find. Next to his sleeping spot, a snowwoman (he hoped) lay stretched out beside, a sleeved shirt draped around its head like pigtails.
"I gotta get out of here."
Downstairs again, Jerry rummaged for the rest of his outdoor gear; just a glove and a boot to go. Three more snowmen were in the living room, posed in mid-bacchanal. What had started as an attempt to clear the snow had become his drunken art project. God, how many did he make?
He found the other boot by the non-working fireplace, clutched by a snowman with a poker for one arm. The other arm was a mailbox flag; at the sight of it, hope took root in Jerry's mind. If he made it that far in his drunken stupor, then he might have a path to the road, and civilization.
He opened the front door: there was the path he had made, by shoveling, pawing, and rolling the snow into his house in medium-large boulders, stacking them into temporary tenants. He grabbed his goggles, and walked out the door, shouting as he went, "You guys better be gone when I get back!"
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Moon's Water Came From Earth"
DAY 46: Get to the Point
Novick and Bend lifted the yellow tape and entered the crime scene. An officer tipped his hat in greeting; Bend began to say, "Hey. So-"
Novick interrupted him with a tap on the arm. Returning the officer's nod, the senior officer pulled Bend onward.
Having the corridor to themselves, Novick slowed down. "What were you going to say? You were about to ask him what's going on, weren't you? Chances are, he'd oblige, tell you what he heard or saw, what other people told him or said they saw, maybe even offer a theory or two... We're not forensic theorists, we're forensic scientists. I need to see what you see in there, not anybody else."
The body was still in the middle of the room. Bend could see a massive head trauma, a clean ventilation through the right eye socket. "I think I have a reasonable theory, sir..."
But Novick's attention was on the trenchcoat with over-produced hair. Det Kuyper's grooming upgrade was for the tag-a-longs he had this week. He was lecturing his entourage on how to process a crime scene, amending and selectively undoing 150 years of academy instruction. Novick handed Bend the camera and a pair of earplugs. "Do not listen to anything he says here. Do your job."
Dutifuly, Bend began photographing the body. Kuyper turned his attention to the novice. "Hey, make sure to get some good head shots, okay?"
"He'll get the photos he needs to get," Novick clipped at the detective.
"Oh, yeah? I got a confession sitting out in the car, plus a material witness. I don't need you slowing me down. This case is clean, so you guys keep it that way."
"What is your suspect saying? Self-defense?"
"Yeah! That's corroborated, too."
"By the cat?"
"By the- what?"
Novick picked up a laser pointer, moving the light across the floor toward a closet door. Opening the door, he found himself face to face with a mottled grey Turkish Angora, wide-eyed and in a haze of its own tufts. Kneeling to the cat's level, Novick murmured comforting tones as he gingerly lifted her, reading her collar between pettings. "Kuyper, would you like to process Agatha here? She's a material witness, too."
The technicians moving the body chuckled audibly. Sullen, Kuyper began directing his followers out of the room.
Novick whispered sweet nothings into Agatha's ear and searched for a toy or creature comfort within the closet. But he paused when he saw a coat sleeve with a curiously frayed cuff. He pointed the laser at it, stepping away from the closet. He swept a foot gently against the door, closing it until it was in the laser's path. Peering closer, Novick found what he was looking for in the joints of the door.
"Bend, take a picture here; I believe this is the bullet's trajectory."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Psychology's Credibility Crisis"
Novick interrupted him with a tap on the arm. Returning the officer's nod, the senior officer pulled Bend onward.
Having the corridor to themselves, Novick slowed down. "What were you going to say? You were about to ask him what's going on, weren't you? Chances are, he'd oblige, tell you what he heard or saw, what other people told him or said they saw, maybe even offer a theory or two... We're not forensic theorists, we're forensic scientists. I need to see what you see in there, not anybody else."
The body was still in the middle of the room. Bend could see a massive head trauma, a clean ventilation through the right eye socket. "I think I have a reasonable theory, sir..."
But Novick's attention was on the trenchcoat with over-produced hair. Det Kuyper's grooming upgrade was for the tag-a-longs he had this week. He was lecturing his entourage on how to process a crime scene, amending and selectively undoing 150 years of academy instruction. Novick handed Bend the camera and a pair of earplugs. "Do not listen to anything he says here. Do your job."
Dutifuly, Bend began photographing the body. Kuyper turned his attention to the novice. "Hey, make sure to get some good head shots, okay?"
"He'll get the photos he needs to get," Novick clipped at the detective.
"Oh, yeah? I got a confession sitting out in the car, plus a material witness. I don't need you slowing me down. This case is clean, so you guys keep it that way."
"What is your suspect saying? Self-defense?"
"Yeah! That's corroborated, too."
"By the cat?"
"By the- what?"
Novick picked up a laser pointer, moving the light across the floor toward a closet door. Opening the door, he found himself face to face with a mottled grey Turkish Angora, wide-eyed and in a haze of its own tufts. Kneeling to the cat's level, Novick murmured comforting tones as he gingerly lifted her, reading her collar between pettings. "Kuyper, would you like to process Agatha here? She's a material witness, too."
The technicians moving the body chuckled audibly. Sullen, Kuyper began directing his followers out of the room.
Novick whispered sweet nothings into Agatha's ear and searched for a toy or creature comfort within the closet. But he paused when he saw a coat sleeve with a curiously frayed cuff. He pointed the laser at it, stepping away from the closet. He swept a foot gently against the door, closing it until it was in the laser's path. Peering closer, Novick found what he was looking for in the joints of the door.
"Bend, take a picture here; I believe this is the bullet's trajectory."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Psychology's Credibility Crisis"
Sunday, February 16, 2014
DAY 45: What We Share
Marilyn was sleeping through her sponge bath. She always found it soothing when her daughter Grace, or any of Grace's children, assumed nursing duties for the day. Marilyn did not yet feel comfortable with the home nurses - different and unpredictable faces in the same uniform. But at least she was home. And when family was there, it was perfection.
Loni, meanwhile, was freaking out. She measured the seconds between each snore, assuring herself that grandma had not died on her watch. She even held her grandma's head beside her ear, as if it were a conch shell holding the ocean's roar.
And it was while her grandmother's face was in her hands that Loni saw her mother's brow. Loni moved the cheekflesh around, studying that face; she saw her mom in ten years, and maybe her sister in 40. She flattened some wrinkles, and saw one corner of her grandmother's face at 20 years old, a glimpse of the woman she was. Beneath the face that had made a pretty convincing Mrs Claus last Christmas, Loni saw the cigarette girl that charmed a soldier's heart, and the lady that would have marched with her last year in Augusta.
Her grandmother was still sleeping.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, " 'Genetic Adam' Lived Much Earlier than Previously Thought"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, " 'Genetic Adam' Lived Much Earlier than Previously Thought"
DAY 44: Ray's Story (more than a little Emo...)
I met Ray at the waiting room of an urgent care clinic. I asked him what he was there for, which started this tale:
"I was an only kid growing up, just me, my mom and dad. Saturdays, you got my mom in the kitchen, my dad in the garage, and me in a beach towel for a cape, trying to get somebody to play with me. I say, 'Daddy! Daddy! Play with me!' He says, 'I will, I will, here's some candy, go find your mother.' I run to the kitchen- 'Mommy! Mommy! Play with me!' She says 'I will, I will, have a cookie, go find your father.' Run back to the garage- 'Daddy! Daddy! Play with me!' He says, 'We are, we are, grab a licorice, bug your mother.' Back in the kitchen 'Mommy! Mommy!', another cookie, 'go to father.' To the garage, out the door, I trip on my cape- boop! on my nose... Dad comes out of the garage, helps me to my feet, checks me out, and yells to the house, '15-love! Coming at ya!'
"...and that is why I have diabetes."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Secret Origins of Cosmic Rays". and Emo Phillips.
"I was an only kid growing up, just me, my mom and dad. Saturdays, you got my mom in the kitchen, my dad in the garage, and me in a beach towel for a cape, trying to get somebody to play with me. I say, 'Daddy! Daddy! Play with me!' He says, 'I will, I will, here's some candy, go find your mother.' I run to the kitchen- 'Mommy! Mommy! Play with me!' She says 'I will, I will, have a cookie, go find your father.' Run back to the garage- 'Daddy! Daddy! Play with me!' He says, 'We are, we are, grab a licorice, bug your mother.' Back in the kitchen 'Mommy! Mommy!', another cookie, 'go to father.' To the garage, out the door, I trip on my cape- boop! on my nose... Dad comes out of the garage, helps me to my feet, checks me out, and yells to the house, '15-love! Coming at ya!'
"...and that is why I have diabetes."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Secret Origins of Cosmic Rays". and Emo Phillips.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
DAY 43: The Ticking Bomb
Ivan got a text from Max on his phone: "Who is this?" Ivan looked at Max, sitting next to him on the tailgate. He typed back, "Three Six Mafia. You never heard of?" Max typed back, "Even with these earplugs, I hear."
Ivan checked his watch: it had been two minutes since they put Leo in the crawlspace under the house. The crawlspace had all the earmarks for an ideal intimidation procedure: it worked quickly, psychologically, and left no marks. The recipient was taken to a remote housing development, dragged into a half-finished house, and thrown into a dark hole for two to three minutes next to a corpse, then dragged out and repeated until the recipient did or said whatever the guys wanted. Effective, but the routine was becoming annoying. They were given earplugs for the whining, but Ivan preferred to crank up some music. Leo was a particularly loud victim, despite all efforts to ignore.
Ivan turned the music off, and directed Max to remove his plugs. Cupping his ears, he texted, "Do you hear anything?"
Max concentrated. Past the dull roar, he began to hear the crickets and the hum of the streetlights... He nodded as the sounds came into focus. And he smiled at what he didn't hear: Leo. "So, we can go home?"
"Let me out! Let me out!" Leo screamed. Ivan and Max dragged Leo out of the crawlspace. He was still tied up, muddier now, and convulsing. "Something bit me!"
"You mean, Corbin?" Max smirked.
"I'm serious! There's things crawling in my shirt!"
Ivan swatted something on his arm. "That's the bugs, cause you've been in the dirt and filth. You want to go back in? Shut up!" Leo bit his lip, holding back his winces of pain, as he was examined in the light; the bug bites on his face were obvious. Ivan shook his head. "That doesn't look good. Max, I got some spray in the car. Get it."
"P-please untie me- I'm s-so itch-ch-chy." Leo's teeth were chattering. "I- I think I saw- ccrawl out his n-nose..."
"Listen," said Ivan. "You got drunk, and fell asleep outside. These bug bites woke you up. Big laugh about it, and you go back to work, pay your debt, and never be late again."
Max, scratching his neck, brought a spray bottle of room deodorizer from the car. Ivan frowned and turned Leo on his stomach. He pulled up the shirt, exposing the back; a few pests flew off. Before Ivan could let off a first burst, Leo began to convulse and spit up.
Max started to freak out; "Do I shoot? Do I shoot?" and started to point his gun toward Leo and Ivan. Ivan picked up Leo by the scalp and slammed his face into the rocky ground; the twitching stopped. Then while Max was still in shock, Ivan stood up and slapped the gun out of his hand. "Get in the car!"
Ivan and Max exited the cul-de-sac without Leo. Max was flailing, slapping the dashboard, and wringing his hands. "What do we do? We got no Leo, no money- what are we gonna tell him?"
"Shut up and let me think!" Ivan barked. Max shrunk in his seat, scratching at his neck again. Ivan saw something black between Max's scratching fingers; he asked Max, "How long was he in the hole?"
Ivan scratched his arm again.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Lyme Disease Ten Times More Prevalent than Thought"
Ivan checked his watch: it had been two minutes since they put Leo in the crawlspace under the house. The crawlspace had all the earmarks for an ideal intimidation procedure: it worked quickly, psychologically, and left no marks. The recipient was taken to a remote housing development, dragged into a half-finished house, and thrown into a dark hole for two to three minutes next to a corpse, then dragged out and repeated until the recipient did or said whatever the guys wanted. Effective, but the routine was becoming annoying. They were given earplugs for the whining, but Ivan preferred to crank up some music. Leo was a particularly loud victim, despite all efforts to ignore.
Ivan turned the music off, and directed Max to remove his plugs. Cupping his ears, he texted, "Do you hear anything?"
Max concentrated. Past the dull roar, he began to hear the crickets and the hum of the streetlights... He nodded as the sounds came into focus. And he smiled at what he didn't hear: Leo. "So, we can go home?"
"Let me out! Let me out!" Leo screamed. Ivan and Max dragged Leo out of the crawlspace. He was still tied up, muddier now, and convulsing. "Something bit me!"
"You mean, Corbin?" Max smirked.
"I'm serious! There's things crawling in my shirt!"
Ivan swatted something on his arm. "That's the bugs, cause you've been in the dirt and filth. You want to go back in? Shut up!" Leo bit his lip, holding back his winces of pain, as he was examined in the light; the bug bites on his face were obvious. Ivan shook his head. "That doesn't look good. Max, I got some spray in the car. Get it."
"P-please untie me- I'm s-so itch-ch-chy." Leo's teeth were chattering. "I- I think I saw- ccrawl out his n-nose..."
"Listen," said Ivan. "You got drunk, and fell asleep outside. These bug bites woke you up. Big laugh about it, and you go back to work, pay your debt, and never be late again."
Max, scratching his neck, brought a spray bottle of room deodorizer from the car. Ivan frowned and turned Leo on his stomach. He pulled up the shirt, exposing the back; a few pests flew off. Before Ivan could let off a first burst, Leo began to convulse and spit up.
Max started to freak out; "Do I shoot? Do I shoot?" and started to point his gun toward Leo and Ivan. Ivan picked up Leo by the scalp and slammed his face into the rocky ground; the twitching stopped. Then while Max was still in shock, Ivan stood up and slapped the gun out of his hand. "Get in the car!"
Ivan and Max exited the cul-de-sac without Leo. Max was flailing, slapping the dashboard, and wringing his hands. "What do we do? We got no Leo, no money- what are we gonna tell him?"
"Shut up and let me think!" Ivan barked. Max shrunk in his seat, scratching at his neck again. Ivan saw something black between Max's scratching fingers; he asked Max, "How long was he in the hole?"
Ivan scratched his arm again.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Lyme Disease Ten Times More Prevalent than Thought"
DAY 42: Bobbi
There was a bad smell coming from box #18808. Anticipating the inevitable, Irina pulled out the box and placed it on the work bench. She retrieved labels for the box's next tenant, and began filling out the paperwork for subject #20131.
The box shuddered, startling Irina. After the rattle subsided, she could hear the labored breathing inside. She grit her teeth, and held her hand atop the box, steadying it for the next tremor. She tried to distract herself with the science of it, the cause that they all served. She tried to read the label, but it was upside down. She closed her eyes, and waited.
Tor walked in on her. In fact, he had asked her a few questions before he lifted her hand off the box. "I'll process this one, okay?" Irina nodded, and pulled her hand back. Tor tucked the box under his arm and walked out of the room.
Irina walked to a safety station to wash her hands; under the running water, she murmured "Goodbye..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article "Toward a Cure for Ebola and Rabies"
The box shuddered, startling Irina. After the rattle subsided, she could hear the labored breathing inside. She grit her teeth, and held her hand atop the box, steadying it for the next tremor. She tried to distract herself with the science of it, the cause that they all served. She tried to read the label, but it was upside down. She closed her eyes, and waited.
Tor walked in on her. In fact, he had asked her a few questions before he lifted her hand off the box. "I'll process this one, okay?" Irina nodded, and pulled her hand back. Tor tucked the box under his arm and walked out of the room.
Irina walked to a safety station to wash her hands; under the running water, she murmured "Goodbye..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article "Toward a Cure for Ebola and Rabies"
DAY 41: The Fire Bug
Lanaius hugged his Cousin Evelyn last. He was sitting on a couch arm, eating seconds, when she finally arrived, and the whole family shrieked and hugged her. He still had to enter high school, but to hear the aunties talk about the other kids, he was pretty certain he'd be the next one to go to a real college, the kind that wasn't advertised during court shows, or only talked about on ESPN. Evelyn was the most likely to understand the dreams that he had, so when he finally had her undivided attention, he hugged her the tightest. "I gotta show you something!"
"Well, can I eat first?" Lanaius complied; he even brought up a bowl of Nana's banana wafer pudding before his cousin was done with her turkey and greens. When his momma scolded him for it, he retreated to his room and journals, drawing animals and biding time.
He was napping when Evelyn found him. She picked up one of his journals, examining his notes. "You said you wanted to show me something. Are these it?"
Lanaius shot up, grabbing the notebook. "No! But it's my work!" He picked up speed, practically riffling the pages as he talked. "I had a project in class, where we got assigned 'biodiversity'. He said even here, there were animals to study, and he was right! Dogs and cats and birds, but we also got possums and raccoons, and snakes and bugs, and coyotes and mice and - I gotta show you something!" He led her out the door and two houses over.
Lanaius' latest aspiring stepfather had some real estate investments in the neighborhood; managing and maintaining those properties had become a family business. Lanaius' job was monitoring the pest traps; it was one of the few things he could do to help, and a task that only he enjoyed, to the bewilderment of the family. But no one gave it a second thought that he would go into one of the neighborhood rat-holes for a couple of hours, not even Evelyn.
Lanaius handed her a flashlight and led her to the basement. "If I turn on the light, they get real noisy." Improvised tables and shelves held small tubs of bugs - moths, roaches, beetles and worms. "I don't have enough food to keep anything bigger. I tried keeping a rat, but it chewed its way out of the cage, so I don't do those anymore."
He passed her a margarine tub. "Have you ever seen these before?"
The inside of the tub was lined with dirt, and a winged beetle rested on top. Evelyn thought the abdomen looked familiar. "You're growing fireflies?"
"I found 'em near the bridge. They kinda look like these fireflies-" He held out a few fireflies in his hand, then smushed them against a paint stirrer. "Those were dead already." Their luminescence was smeared onto the stick, offering a greenish glow. "Watch this," he said, and started waving the glow toward and away from the tub's contents. The lightning bugs glowed in return - a bright red glow.
"I couldn't find it on the internet. Do you know what it is?"
Evelyn shook her head. She examined one under her flashlight. "What did you do to them?"
"Nothing. That's how I found them."
"How many is 'them'?"
"I got 5 or 6 in there. But one time, I counted 16 flying around at the dog park."
She examined the bug's form: the patterns of its carapace, the barb-tipped antennae, the shape of its wings. "Lanaius, how are your grades?"
"A's and B's."
"You know where you want to go to college?"
"Not yet."
"Well, this bug is going to get you there."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Five of the Coolest Species Discovered in 2013"
"Well, can I eat first?" Lanaius complied; he even brought up a bowl of Nana's banana wafer pudding before his cousin was done with her turkey and greens. When his momma scolded him for it, he retreated to his room and journals, drawing animals and biding time.
He was napping when Evelyn found him. She picked up one of his journals, examining his notes. "You said you wanted to show me something. Are these it?"
Lanaius shot up, grabbing the notebook. "No! But it's my work!" He picked up speed, practically riffling the pages as he talked. "I had a project in class, where we got assigned 'biodiversity'. He said even here, there were animals to study, and he was right! Dogs and cats and birds, but we also got possums and raccoons, and snakes and bugs, and coyotes and mice and - I gotta show you something!" He led her out the door and two houses over.
Lanaius' latest aspiring stepfather had some real estate investments in the neighborhood; managing and maintaining those properties had become a family business. Lanaius' job was monitoring the pest traps; it was one of the few things he could do to help, and a task that only he enjoyed, to the bewilderment of the family. But no one gave it a second thought that he would go into one of the neighborhood rat-holes for a couple of hours, not even Evelyn.
Lanaius handed her a flashlight and led her to the basement. "If I turn on the light, they get real noisy." Improvised tables and shelves held small tubs of bugs - moths, roaches, beetles and worms. "I don't have enough food to keep anything bigger. I tried keeping a rat, but it chewed its way out of the cage, so I don't do those anymore."
He passed her a margarine tub. "Have you ever seen these before?"
The inside of the tub was lined with dirt, and a winged beetle rested on top. Evelyn thought the abdomen looked familiar. "You're growing fireflies?"
"I found 'em near the bridge. They kinda look like these fireflies-" He held out a few fireflies in his hand, then smushed them against a paint stirrer. "Those were dead already." Their luminescence was smeared onto the stick, offering a greenish glow. "Watch this," he said, and started waving the glow toward and away from the tub's contents. The lightning bugs glowed in return - a bright red glow.
"I couldn't find it on the internet. Do you know what it is?"
Evelyn shook her head. She examined one under her flashlight. "What did you do to them?"
"Nothing. That's how I found them."
"How many is 'them'?"
"I got 5 or 6 in there. But one time, I counted 16 flying around at the dog park."
She examined the bug's form: the patterns of its carapace, the barb-tipped antennae, the shape of its wings. "Lanaius, how are your grades?"
"A's and B's."
"You know where you want to go to college?"
"Not yet."
"Well, this bug is going to get you there."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Five of the Coolest Species Discovered in 2013"
DAY 40: Raising the Concorde
I got the call to tow a '96 Chrysler Concorde near Okolona and Pierce. I don't usually do sunrise runs, but Pat said he'd throw in a case of MGD if I picked this one up. The car was easy enough to find; it was 25 feet overhead, halfway up the willow tree.
The car had been a pet project of his for about four months. He bought the original vehicle from some retired couple, then started hunting and trading for parts. His intentions were to replace the factory speakers and add some vanity lighting, as well as add some engine modifications of questionable legality.
He'd taken the V6 out of the frame by the time that Mr. Retiree re-entered the picture. I'm not sure which version of the tale is true: either Mrs Retiree (before she passed) sold the vehicle without Mr Retiree's knowledge, or the details of the vehicle transaction had been lost in Mr Retiree's dementia.
What's undisputed is that Mr Retiree came to visit the garage of the Aspiring Mechanic, to demand the return of his vehicle. He was distraught at the sight of the partially-assembled Concorde; he attempted to assault the Mechanic, but became detatched from his oxygen tank, and left, demanding that the car be ready to leave when he came back for it. The Mechanic tarped it.
The next morning, the Concorde was in the tree. It was resting on a particularly strong fork of branches, with one branch protruding across the backseat, through the rolled-down windows. It was actually first called in by a patrolman shortly after sunrise. The Mechanic was awoken an hour later, and escorted to his vehicle.
They were still looking for Mr Retiree when I got there. No one had a clue how the vehicle had been raised into the tree; any tools or machinery used had left with the old man. I climbed up the tree to examine the car. It was in pretty condition, under the circumstances, but still didn't offer any clues.
The tree's reach extended past the sidewalk. I took a rare glimpse of the town horizon, then down at the street below. Rubberneckers - both with and without badges - were converging on the scene. People were parking on both sides of the street, snapping pictures and waiting for a resolution. I started feeling vertigenous, so I turned my eyes to the top of the tree.
And that's where I saw the piece of rope.
The barter value of a case of decent beer cannot be overestimated. Mr Retiree had two underage nephews with an F150 and nothing better to do on a Saturday night. The cops caught up with them before nightfall; the kids gave up the truck, the winch, and the entire scheme. Their uncle had enticed them into it, with little provocation. Their three-man operation had bent the willow tree downward long enough to push the Concorde chassis out of the garage, and into the tree's embrace. Once the prank was complete, the boys dropped their uncle off and went home with a case of Coors each.
When the police entered Mr Retiree's home, they found him on the couch, passed away, key fob in his hand.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Salvaging the Costa Concordia"
The car had been a pet project of his for about four months. He bought the original vehicle from some retired couple, then started hunting and trading for parts. His intentions were to replace the factory speakers and add some vanity lighting, as well as add some engine modifications of questionable legality.
He'd taken the V6 out of the frame by the time that Mr. Retiree re-entered the picture. I'm not sure which version of the tale is true: either Mrs Retiree (before she passed) sold the vehicle without Mr Retiree's knowledge, or the details of the vehicle transaction had been lost in Mr Retiree's dementia.
What's undisputed is that Mr Retiree came to visit the garage of the Aspiring Mechanic, to demand the return of his vehicle. He was distraught at the sight of the partially-assembled Concorde; he attempted to assault the Mechanic, but became detatched from his oxygen tank, and left, demanding that the car be ready to leave when he came back for it. The Mechanic tarped it.
The next morning, the Concorde was in the tree. It was resting on a particularly strong fork of branches, with one branch protruding across the backseat, through the rolled-down windows. It was actually first called in by a patrolman shortly after sunrise. The Mechanic was awoken an hour later, and escorted to his vehicle.
They were still looking for Mr Retiree when I got there. No one had a clue how the vehicle had been raised into the tree; any tools or machinery used had left with the old man. I climbed up the tree to examine the car. It was in pretty condition, under the circumstances, but still didn't offer any clues.
The tree's reach extended past the sidewalk. I took a rare glimpse of the town horizon, then down at the street below. Rubberneckers - both with and without badges - were converging on the scene. People were parking on both sides of the street, snapping pictures and waiting for a resolution. I started feeling vertigenous, so I turned my eyes to the top of the tree.
And that's where I saw the piece of rope.
The barter value of a case of decent beer cannot be overestimated. Mr Retiree had two underage nephews with an F150 and nothing better to do on a Saturday night. The cops caught up with them before nightfall; the kids gave up the truck, the winch, and the entire scheme. Their uncle had enticed them into it, with little provocation. Their three-man operation had bent the willow tree downward long enough to push the Concorde chassis out of the garage, and into the tree's embrace. Once the prank was complete, the boys dropped their uncle off and went home with a case of Coors each.
When the police entered Mr Retiree's home, they found him on the couch, passed away, key fob in his hand.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Salvaging the Costa Concordia"
Monday, February 10, 2014
DAY 39: The Appalaticians
The interstate was twenty minutes ago, and Sarina was getting nervous. She trusted that Nate knew his way home, but she did not know what to expect for herself. As she watched the bars on her cell phone shrink away, all the warnings that her friends and family had given her about America began echoing in her ears. "My phone's lost signal. Where are you taking us?"
"We'll pick up a signal again when we get up the hill. We're almost there." When Nate had invited her to come, she thought that he was attempting to save her from Cartesian coordinates and the solitude of Thanksgiving on campus. She even entertained the thought that he had more than an intellectual interest in her company. But on the long ride to Nate's home, he talked about his large family, a veritable tribe that had lived in the hills for generations; he also talked about how different he felt from them all, despite his love and familial devotion. Almost no one ever left Fawkes County; most residents acted as if it was their choice. Sarina understood, and she was ready to grant his unspoken request.
The house was in its twentieth year of development; from its humble beginnings as a single-wide pre-aluminum trailer, Nate's family had constructed a patchwork of hardware to accomodate the twenty-five souls that had occupied it, at one point or another. Presently, Nate's mother, grandma, three sisters (one with child), an uncle, his girlfriend, four cousins, and two kids whose families had abandoned them... resided. Nate had been assured, however, that he and his lady friend would have a room to themselves.
He managed to take three steps away from the car before he was swarmed by excited (and chores-averse) kids. They were unkempt and unruly, and Sarina reflexively held tighter to her purse. She didn't notice she was being watched until little Sunny said, "Are you Nathaniel's girlfriend?"
Sunny, 6 years old and overwhelmed by her bangs and a grown-up's t-shirt, was adorable enough for Sarina to let down her guard and introduce herself. "I am Sarina. I study with Nate at the university."
"What are you?"
That made Sarina laugh. "I'm Indian."
Sunny's slightly older sister, with a buzz cut, chimed in. "No. You have to say 'Native American'."
"No, I really am from India. I have only been in America for three years."
The girls absorbed this fact, and then ran off.
Nate, at the porch, called out, "Come on in! I have to help my mom with something, but I'll get the stuff out of the car in a minute! This is my grandma!" He pointed to the lady in the rocking chair and ran inside.
Sarina walked up to the porch. At a loss for words, she half-bowed to Grandma, her silver hair in a high bun, her pupils almost hidden in the recesses of her wrinkles. Grandma returned a silent nod to her.
A rust-eaten pickup truck pulled up to the porch, holding several bushels of apples and three teenagers. Sarina estimated the driver to be no older than 14. The young driver, aware of the visitor, adjusted his hat and mustered up some swagger for his audience.
"Mom-mom, we need the tables," a girl in the flatbed said.
Grandma's mouth went sideways. "Nuh-uh. You took too long,"
"But Mom-mom! We don't want to go to Watkins Market. We wanna make some real money."
"You want- you wanna make- kids! get over here!- you wanna make real money, Lulu? Okay, how much is Watkins paying for apples?"
"45 cents! And they're selling for 99!"
"Okay, then! Tommy, you sold on the road last week. What was they paying?"
The young driver muttered. "85 cents."
"Okay, Sunny, how many in that basket there? Hurry up!"
The little girl studied the bushel next to her; Sarina studied it, too. She counted six apples across, and it looked as deep as-
"72!" Sunny chimed in. Sarina, still calculating, was slightly shocked.
Grandma asked, just as quickly, "How many baskets we got?"
"14!"
"Right! How many-"
Miss Buzzcut interrupted. "1008!"
"I wanted Sunny to answer that, Amy. But you tell me how many pounds we got about."
"336."
"Okay, we got 336 pounds of apples here, kids. Lulu, you sell every single apple, how much you bringing home?"
"285 dollars and 60 cents!" Lulu said triumphantly.
"Right; but you ain't gonna sell them all. Tommy, you and Jason were on the road last week; how many bushels did you bring home?"
"Ten."
"Ten bushels of?"
"Seventeen."
"Give me the per-cent, Tommy."
"...58 percent."
"What?"
"58.8 percent."
"Thank you! New girl, how much money did they bring home?"
Sarina realized everyone was waiting for her to chime in. She didn't have an answer; 58 percent of, uh...
Grandma turned to Jason. "How much did you bring home?"
"...$135 dollars...."
Grandma continued lecturing the kids, explaining it was more profitable to get rid of all the apples, with the bonus of ending the family apple recipe fatigue. Sarina, meanwhile, was still attempting to regain her cognitive footing. By the time she had reframed Grandma's word problem, the truck had restarted on its way to Watkins Market. Grandma looked at Sarina and said, "So, I take it you're one of those liberal arts students?"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Why Some of Us are Better at Math Than Others"
Sunday, February 9, 2014
DAY 38: Torn Apart
Jaeger was two minutes ahead of the police when he ran up to the lab, against the tide of panicking students. He reached the door as the security guard was about to chain it.. "Let me in, Carl! Let me through!"
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Our Black Hole Lights Up"
"Dr Jaeger, it's not safe! The police'll be here-"
"I know about Morgan! I need to try before he gets shot!" Jaeger stared Carl down. "Lock up behind me!"
Jaeger kept up with the Twitter feeds of some of his cuter students, including Janelle Foster, who subsidized her education with provocative selfies sponsored by a domain website and a field-hockey league team. But six minutes prior, she had posted the first words about Dr Whittier's rampage., across the quad from Jaeger's office.
In the time it had taken him to run from his desk to the lab, Jaeger had rationalized how unsurprising Morgan's behavior was. Morgan had grown more silent and possessive with the data coming in from the Swift satellite. There were 47 scientists around the globe monitoring the results; he was performing due diligence, testing redundencies, seeing what others had seen. But the man who lived and breathed his work had stopped talking, had stopped going home, had stopped visiting his friends and colleagues. He had taken a deep dive.
Jaeger made it to Morgan's desk. Morgan was sitting there, head in his hands, gun off to one side. The phone was shot to pieces; his monitor had received similar damage. Jaeger said Morgan's name, too softly at first, until he recognized Jaeger's voice and looked up.
"Are there any casualties, Morgan?"
"Jaeger, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about all of this."
"What's this about?"
"I'm not sure I can do this anymore. There's too much to see..."
Jaeger sat down. "I remember a lecture in my second year. Someone told me that we are not conquerors. We are stewards of a infinite inheritence, and our greatest achievement is to contribute to that inheritence. We struggle not for our persistence, but the persistence of truth."
"Well, that sounds pompous," Morgan chuckled. "Jaeger, I am arriving at the conclusion that some things are beyond examination."
"Well, we can't know everything. Not enough time, right?"
"That's not what I mean." The faint echo of stomping boots came from down the hall; Morgan placed his hands over his head. "I leave my work to you; you're too obstinant to accept otherwise. And if you see what I've seen, please forgive me. The abyss has looked back."
The police swarmed in, forcing Jaeger and Morgan to the ground, restraining them. Morgan ignored their warnings, telling Jaeger, "The abyss is looking back! The abyss is looking back..."
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Our Black Hole Lights Up"
DAY 37: I Saw Three Ships...
Yusef hummed to the Christmas muzak as he performed final checks on the shipping pontoons, added whatever half-lyric he did remember. "...on Christmas Day, in the morning." 1,611 hours non-stop, and he still hadn't learned all the words. The end of the season couldn't come fast enough.
"If you want to be an astronaut, you need to know your balloon." Yusef said to himself, hearing his father's voice. He studied the envelope as the sensors searched for gaps, cracks and warps. It was inflating smoothly, without incident.
He checked the bins for Aechel and Bique. Yusef had to make sure the weight readings matched with yesterday's submitted readings. A couple of grams could make the difference between flight and failure.
Sisi's Weights and Measures Department did their part to maintain system equilibrium, with the power of paperwork.
A package on top was wrapped in a Currier and Ives motif: two horses pulling a sleigh past skaters and sledders, as their riders wave to their neighbors. Yusef looked at this conglomeration of fictions, wondering how it could elicit nostalgia for anyone. There was no horses or sleighs here, no snow or ice rink, not even December.
It had been generations since the Mydeco system had been launched, and the center discarded. The three satellites - Aechel, Bique, and Sisi - now careened through the cosmos.in a symbiotic tri-orbit, propelled and connected by their mutual gravity. They spun like a hurricane, farther and farther from the spiral arm that had birthed their ancestors.
As their society evolved, they picked and chose which traditions to maintain and to discard; they had eliminated nights and weeks, but kept minutes and seconds. Without the sun's tyranny, men had adjusted their circadian rhythms for 40-hour days, in the service of maintaining their way of life. There were no more Mondays or Hump Days, although there was a TGIFriday's in one of Bique's cities. And on the walls, you could still find artifacts from distant eras, offering memories their patrons never possessed.
Christmas had also evolved; now it aligned to the window in time when the three satellites were closest together. Their orbit was peculiar, but constant; coming together every 8,760 hours.
For those with only a secular interest, it was the optimal time for trade between the satellites - for the obscenely rich or important, a rare opportunity to jump satellites. For everyone else, the powers that be held celebrations that bonded their communities as one, while keeping everyone happy at home. Gift-giving, of course, remained central.
For the faithful, Christmas still commemorated the birth of the child born under a heavenly star... a star that some believed they were destined to return to. At their launch, the satellites had been placed on a trajectory for some distant system that had the highest probability of class M planets - but no guarantee. They found a star in the sky, and spun toward it; in the generations since, it was the only fixed position in the sky that Yusef shared with his ancestors. They sailed on, guided by faith, reaching for salvation.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Thirteen New Answers to an Age-Old Physics Puzzle"
"If you want to be an astronaut, you need to know your balloon." Yusef said to himself, hearing his father's voice. He studied the envelope as the sensors searched for gaps, cracks and warps. It was inflating smoothly, without incident.
He checked the bins for Aechel and Bique. Yusef had to make sure the weight readings matched with yesterday's submitted readings. A couple of grams could make the difference between flight and failure.
Sisi's Weights and Measures Department did their part to maintain system equilibrium, with the power of paperwork.
A package on top was wrapped in a Currier and Ives motif: two horses pulling a sleigh past skaters and sledders, as their riders wave to their neighbors. Yusef looked at this conglomeration of fictions, wondering how it could elicit nostalgia for anyone. There was no horses or sleighs here, no snow or ice rink, not even December.
It had been generations since the Mydeco system had been launched, and the center discarded. The three satellites - Aechel, Bique, and Sisi - now careened through the cosmos.in a symbiotic tri-orbit, propelled and connected by their mutual gravity. They spun like a hurricane, farther and farther from the spiral arm that had birthed their ancestors.
As their society evolved, they picked and chose which traditions to maintain and to discard; they had eliminated nights and weeks, but kept minutes and seconds. Without the sun's tyranny, men had adjusted their circadian rhythms for 40-hour days, in the service of maintaining their way of life. There were no more Mondays or Hump Days, although there was a TGIFriday's in one of Bique's cities. And on the walls, you could still find artifacts from distant eras, offering memories their patrons never possessed.
Christmas had also evolved; now it aligned to the window in time when the three satellites were closest together. Their orbit was peculiar, but constant; coming together every 8,760 hours.
For those with only a secular interest, it was the optimal time for trade between the satellites - for the obscenely rich or important, a rare opportunity to jump satellites. For everyone else, the powers that be held celebrations that bonded their communities as one, while keeping everyone happy at home. Gift-giving, of course, remained central.
For the faithful, Christmas still commemorated the birth of the child born under a heavenly star... a star that some believed they were destined to return to. At their launch, the satellites had been placed on a trajectory for some distant system that had the highest probability of class M planets - but no guarantee. They found a star in the sky, and spun toward it; in the generations since, it was the only fixed position in the sky that Yusef shared with his ancestors. They sailed on, guided by faith, reaching for salvation.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Thirteen New Answers to an Age-Old Physics Puzzle"
Saturday, February 8, 2014
DAY 36: My Problem with 3D Glasses
Roger Ebert was right; there's something about the light in a movie theater that wakes up your brain in a certain way. I can fall asleep in front of a TV because those rays - cathode, plasma, whatever science you got - hit the brain like a narcotic. Watching TV is sleepwalking through life. But movies.are the kind of drug that makes me feel alive.
So one Saturday I checked out a movie in 3D that had no business being in 3D. (If I mention its name, I'll just tangent, so let's move on...) On my way to the trash receptacles, I was disparaging the $15 I was never going to get back. As I approached the doors, I saw the bin with the sign "PLEASE RETURN YOUR VIEWING GLASSES HERE" in big letters. I decided it had picked the wrong day to ask for my cooperation, especially in such big letters. I stepped out the building with the glasses on, giving up on the ticket price, but determined to milk $5 of adventure out of those $2 glasses.
I looked up at the sky; a bit more purple, but nothing particularly new. I waved my hands in front of my face, hoping the motion of my fingers would look different somehow, hoping that some secret from naked eyes would be revealed. I scanned the pedestrians streaming in and out of the theater, looking for incognito aliens or monsters among us.
A granny honked at me; I was standing between her and a right turn into a parking space. Surprised and dazed, I backed from her bumper and wandered into the path of another oncoming vehicle. Their horn knocked me to the ground, and the glasses off my face. I opened my eyes to the sight of truck treads six inches from my face; the shards of my $5 glasses, under the tire.
I got my $5 worth.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Ultralight Headgear for Mouse Remote Control"
So one Saturday I checked out a movie in 3D that had no business being in 3D. (If I mention its name, I'll just tangent, so let's move on...) On my way to the trash receptacles, I was disparaging the $15 I was never going to get back. As I approached the doors, I saw the bin with the sign "PLEASE RETURN YOUR VIEWING GLASSES HERE" in big letters. I decided it had picked the wrong day to ask for my cooperation, especially in such big letters. I stepped out the building with the glasses on, giving up on the ticket price, but determined to milk $5 of adventure out of those $2 glasses.
I looked up at the sky; a bit more purple, but nothing particularly new. I waved my hands in front of my face, hoping the motion of my fingers would look different somehow, hoping that some secret from naked eyes would be revealed. I scanned the pedestrians streaming in and out of the theater, looking for incognito aliens or monsters among us.
A granny honked at me; I was standing between her and a right turn into a parking space. Surprised and dazed, I backed from her bumper and wandered into the path of another oncoming vehicle. Their horn knocked me to the ground, and the glasses off my face. I opened my eyes to the sight of truck treads six inches from my face; the shards of my $5 glasses, under the tire.
I got my $5 worth.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Ultralight Headgear for Mouse Remote Control"
DAY 35: The Chicken Pox Party
My mom snuck me into my first slumber party. Mrs Avis' daughters Celeste and Estelle were hosting a slumber party for all their scoutmates - including my sister Sandy. Getting one kid out of the house wasn't enough for Mom, so she had a talk with Mrs Avis, assuring her that a six-year-old boy would be a harmless addition to the festivities. In fact, I wouldn't be the only boy; Mrs Avis had an eight-year-old boy, Max. Not knowing any better, the moms thought we would get along.
We were among the last to arrive, but we got there just before the pizza, so I thought we were just in time. Sandy made me get two slices for her, while she tried to find her spot in the basement with the other 24 girls. My spot was already picked out; the floor of Max's room. Max was there with his pizza, a TV relocated from the basement for the night, and Yars Revenge on the Atari.
When I got upstairs, Max was playing the Atari, which only had one controller. On the floor, half the room was taken up by the coolest Autobot ever, Omega Prime - when he wasn't a robot, he was an army base, with a moving tank on its own track, plus a rocket ship. I couldn't play with it, I couldn't touch it, and I certainly couldn't move it to make room for my sleeping bag. When I asked my turn, he said he was going to be a while, so I should just go downstairs and get some chicken pox. I asked him what chicken pox was.
Max got shot, so he put down the joystick and told me. "It's a disease grown-ups want kids to have. You get itchy spots that make you scratch like a chicken." Max went on to explain that the girls were invited over so they could get the chicken pox together - and that's why Max was staying in his room.
The safest route was to stay in the room - and my contribution would be enough pizza to make it through the night. I went downstairs, where four half-empty boxes of various flavors remained. Celeste caught me mixing slices into my own box, and told her mom; when I told her why Max sent me, Mrs Avis said it was okay. But I noticed Celeste scratching her head while she was talking.
Max had locked the room by the time I returned with the pizza. He said I couldn't come in until I made sure I didn't have any germs from the girls. I put down the box and went to the bathroom to check myself. In the mirror, I examined myself thoroughly: I checked my head, in the same spot Celeste was scratching; I checked my face and chest, my feet and hands... When I went back to tell Max I was clean, the pizza was gone. I started crying; after a minute, Mr Avis saw me and sent me downstairs, so he could talk to Max.
When I got downstairs, there was no pizza left on the kitchen table. It seemed a logical place to hide, so I ducked beneath with a blanket over my head. Somehow, a few of the girls found me and tried to take the blanket off me; fear overtook me, and I screamed, "No germs! No germs!" I started kicking and flailing under the kitchen table, until Mrs Avis found me.
My mother was called, and I got a ride home. Mr Avis returned my sleeping bag and sent me home with the box of mixed pizza slices (on the condition that my parents would also have some) and the Omega Supreme tank (on the condition that I would return the rocket in a few days.) I didn't catch chicken pox that night; I would get my case five days later, after Sandy had brought it home. Mindful of the six-year-old's concept of karmic retribution, I gave the rocket to Sandy, who took it to school and gave it to Estelle, who took it home and gave it back to Max, still in bed, still spotted, and still blotched in calomine.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "HPV Vaccine Shows Dramatic Success"
We were among the last to arrive, but we got there just before the pizza, so I thought we were just in time. Sandy made me get two slices for her, while she tried to find her spot in the basement with the other 24 girls. My spot was already picked out; the floor of Max's room. Max was there with his pizza, a TV relocated from the basement for the night, and Yars Revenge on the Atari.
When I got upstairs, Max was playing the Atari, which only had one controller. On the floor, half the room was taken up by the coolest Autobot ever, Omega Prime - when he wasn't a robot, he was an army base, with a moving tank on its own track, plus a rocket ship. I couldn't play with it, I couldn't touch it, and I certainly couldn't move it to make room for my sleeping bag. When I asked my turn, he said he was going to be a while, so I should just go downstairs and get some chicken pox. I asked him what chicken pox was.
Max got shot, so he put down the joystick and told me. "It's a disease grown-ups want kids to have. You get itchy spots that make you scratch like a chicken." Max went on to explain that the girls were invited over so they could get the chicken pox together - and that's why Max was staying in his room.
The safest route was to stay in the room - and my contribution would be enough pizza to make it through the night. I went downstairs, where four half-empty boxes of various flavors remained. Celeste caught me mixing slices into my own box, and told her mom; when I told her why Max sent me, Mrs Avis said it was okay. But I noticed Celeste scratching her head while she was talking.
Max had locked the room by the time I returned with the pizza. He said I couldn't come in until I made sure I didn't have any germs from the girls. I put down the box and went to the bathroom to check myself. In the mirror, I examined myself thoroughly: I checked my head, in the same spot Celeste was scratching; I checked my face and chest, my feet and hands... When I went back to tell Max I was clean, the pizza was gone. I started crying; after a minute, Mr Avis saw me and sent me downstairs, so he could talk to Max.
When I got downstairs, there was no pizza left on the kitchen table. It seemed a logical place to hide, so I ducked beneath with a blanket over my head. Somehow, a few of the girls found me and tried to take the blanket off me; fear overtook me, and I screamed, "No germs! No germs!" I started kicking and flailing under the kitchen table, until Mrs Avis found me.
My mother was called, and I got a ride home. Mr Avis returned my sleeping bag and sent me home with the box of mixed pizza slices (on the condition that my parents would also have some) and the Omega Supreme tank (on the condition that I would return the rocket in a few days.) I didn't catch chicken pox that night; I would get my case five days later, after Sandy had brought it home. Mindful of the six-year-old's concept of karmic retribution, I gave the rocket to Sandy, who took it to school and gave it to Estelle, who took it home and gave it back to Max, still in bed, still spotted, and still blotched in calomine.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "HPV Vaccine Shows Dramatic Success"
Thursday, February 6, 2014
DAY 34: Tech Support in Turkmenistan
Elder Martin entered the yurt. "Dr Rose, where's my cellphone?"
Dr Rose administered the vaccine into Yavi's arm, and sent her out. "I couldn't do anything with it. I gave it to one of the kids."
"You did what?" His glasses almost fell off his face. "Why would you give one of them my phone?"
"Those aren't phones anymore, they're toys made for rich kids to figure out. I haven't seen a television in years; why would you expect me to know how the thing works?"
"I take it you couldn't fix the alarm?"
"Oh, I figured out how to set the alarm. I just couldn't figure out how to adjust the volume. So I gave it to... Nuni, I think."
Not far from the yurt, Martin found Nuni in a huddle of children. As Martin approached, the children scattered. Nuni ran the fastest, tossing the phone back like a rock. Martin managed not to fumble it, but by the time he gathered himself from off the ground, all the children had disappeared.
Martin looked at his smartphone; no new scratches, just smudges from all the fingerprints. He wiped it off - and accidentally found himself at the settings screen. He saw the clock was set on Vancouver time, exactly 12 hours off - mystery solved!
He checked the call list next (not that anyone in his phonebook could speak Turkmen.) The last call was three days ago, on the truck to Tsibili. He remembered the dropped call, remembered where he was, remembered how useless this gadget had been for communications or GPS. The phone was a very expensive bon voyage gift from his sister, so he was determined to have a testimonial of utility to report to her.
As he returned to the main screen, he noticed something had changed. Onscreen, one of the tribal children was smiling broadly at him. Martin went to the pictures program, and saw a battery of photos taken by the children, who had quickly mastered the art of selfies. Picture after picture of the kids, clustering their faces together, or posing in their tribal clothes and their recently received DENVER BRONCOS 2014 SUPER BOWL CHAMPIONS t-shirts. Someone had taken a panoramic view of the hills and the kids. In the distance, the peaks of the Himilayas could be seen. Someone else had commandeered a sleeping yak's tail, and took a picture of himself with a yak mustache.
There was a new video clip. Martin pressed "play", and heard the kids singing one of their game songs. The singing was loud, cheerful, and prone to interruptions of laughter. They waved and messed up each other's hair and carthwheeled. And they smiled, like he had never seen.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Neanderthals Prove Crafty"
Dr Rose administered the vaccine into Yavi's arm, and sent her out. "I couldn't do anything with it. I gave it to one of the kids."
"You did what?" His glasses almost fell off his face. "Why would you give one of them my phone?"
"Those aren't phones anymore, they're toys made for rich kids to figure out. I haven't seen a television in years; why would you expect me to know how the thing works?"
"I take it you couldn't fix the alarm?"
"Oh, I figured out how to set the alarm. I just couldn't figure out how to adjust the volume. So I gave it to... Nuni, I think."
Not far from the yurt, Martin found Nuni in a huddle of children. As Martin approached, the children scattered. Nuni ran the fastest, tossing the phone back like a rock. Martin managed not to fumble it, but by the time he gathered himself from off the ground, all the children had disappeared.
Martin looked at his smartphone; no new scratches, just smudges from all the fingerprints. He wiped it off - and accidentally found himself at the settings screen. He saw the clock was set on Vancouver time, exactly 12 hours off - mystery solved!
He checked the call list next (not that anyone in his phonebook could speak Turkmen.) The last call was three days ago, on the truck to Tsibili. He remembered the dropped call, remembered where he was, remembered how useless this gadget had been for communications or GPS. The phone was a very expensive bon voyage gift from his sister, so he was determined to have a testimonial of utility to report to her.
As he returned to the main screen, he noticed something had changed. Onscreen, one of the tribal children was smiling broadly at him. Martin went to the pictures program, and saw a battery of photos taken by the children, who had quickly mastered the art of selfies. Picture after picture of the kids, clustering their faces together, or posing in their tribal clothes and their recently received DENVER BRONCOS 2014 SUPER BOWL CHAMPIONS t-shirts. Someone had taken a panoramic view of the hills and the kids. In the distance, the peaks of the Himilayas could be seen. Someone else had commandeered a sleeping yak's tail, and took a picture of himself with a yak mustache.
There was a new video clip. Martin pressed "play", and heard the kids singing one of their game songs. The singing was loud, cheerful, and prone to interruptions of laughter. They waved and messed up each other's hair and carthwheeled. And they smiled, like he had never seen.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Neanderthals Prove Crafty"
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
DAY 33: Baby's First Report Card
The news arrived four weeks early. Typically, most couples conduct their first genomic audit on the same visit as their first sonogram. But as soon as Nick and Gina knew they had a child on the way, they had to know everything about him. Or her.
Nick called in a favor with some lab buddies, and they put the results in his hand just in time for the weekend. As Gina requested, he brought the results home before opening. He'd been anxious to take a look right away, but the delight on his face was an acceptable reward for his patience. Her wandering hands and smothering kisses were bonus.
Gina tore open the envelope, and set her sights on the results graphs, leaving the data sets for Nick's perusal. The topmost result triggered a squeal of delight from Gina. "It's a boy, Nick, it's a boy!"
"It's a Glen!" Nick whooped.
"Honey, he's gonna have your eyes!"
"Shape or color?"
Gina showed him the bell curves. "Both, I think. Is that right?"
"Yeah. That means predominantly brown; that curve there is deep set-" Nick began tracing the features of his eyes as he described. "-and that curve goes for upturned corners, and this curve... that's for protruding eyelids. Not like muppets."
"-and he's going to have my nose." Gina giggled and covered her nose. "Oh no!"
Nick kissed the tip of her nose. "It's a magic nose. Glen should be so lucky. What else?"
Gina looked at the next page. "... I think he's going to be a mesomorph frame."
"Let me see." Nick consulted his notes. "Yeah, 18 markers for mesomorph, with 6 for endomorph. Woo-ha!" They executed a no-look high-five, and kept reading.
"Nick, he's leaning towards left-handed. What do you got?"
"He's got 33 markers for higher analytical and mathematical skills."
"Wow! That's all you, too!"
"You gave him 6 of them, honey. Besides, some of those markers are musical, too; that did not come from me. What about his spatial relationing chart? Where's his trend there?"
"What about his pre-dispositions? I mean, what cancers should we be watching out for?"
"Honey, you're teasing me. I already know Glen's a softpaw that'll be built like a wide receiver. I just want to know if he's gonna catch, throw, or block."
"Nick..."
"Fine! Cancers: colo-rectal, 6; melanoma, 6-"
"-Oops! that's mine!"
"Okay, my turn. Socialization slope; what do you got?"
"Uh... he's not on the slope?"
"-there he is. On the individualist side."
"Like, self-motivated?"
"Like, not a team player."
"Maybe more solo sports?"
"Eh, that could work. He's competitive, I see." Nick returned to the papers in his hand. "Here's something; MS, 9."
"Oh! We'll get that vaccine first."
"Okay- Alzheimer's, 8, like me. Autism, 3-"
Gina laughed. "Your 3 or my 3?... Nick?"
Nick was no longer reading the paper, only staring at it. When Gina tried to pull it away to peek, Nick recoiled from her grasp. From the other side of the room, he apologized with a glance, and said. "...he has 19 markers for psychopathy. 11 markers for APD."
"So?" Gina blurted. After a moment, she sat down, too.
"Are you sure? Is this a prank? Did your boss catch you and your fr-"
"I did the data sets, Gina. I just didn't do the correlating. But it's there. There and there; over there..."
"But what does that even mean?"
Nick looked her in the eye. "It means I already messed him up."
"You didn't mess anything up. He's not even born yet. We just... don't get any pets."
"No, you get pets! You make him take care of them, name them, get invested in them, and watch out for the first time they kill one!"
"Nick, calm down! Are you saying you want to change your mind? Because we have tried too many times-"I know..."
"-but we still got time, if you really want-"
"I know! I don't want to get rid of it-"
"Him, Nick!"
"Him! Him! Okay? I want what you want, okay?"
Gina embraced him, trembling with heaving sobs. She could only force whispers through those tears. She pleaded, "Don't do this to me. I don't want to be alone in this..."
"You're not alone. It's you and me, you and me..."
"I need you..."
"You got me, Gina. Body and soul."
Gina kept crying into Nick's shoulder. "What's he going to be?"
"He's gonna be work."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Autism Genome Sequenced"
Nick called in a favor with some lab buddies, and they put the results in his hand just in time for the weekend. As Gina requested, he brought the results home before opening. He'd been anxious to take a look right away, but the delight on his face was an acceptable reward for his patience. Her wandering hands and smothering kisses were bonus.
Gina tore open the envelope, and set her sights on the results graphs, leaving the data sets for Nick's perusal. The topmost result triggered a squeal of delight from Gina. "It's a boy, Nick, it's a boy!"
"It's a Glen!" Nick whooped.
"Honey, he's gonna have your eyes!"
"Shape or color?"
Gina showed him the bell curves. "Both, I think. Is that right?"
"Yeah. That means predominantly brown; that curve there is deep set-" Nick began tracing the features of his eyes as he described. "-and that curve goes for upturned corners, and this curve... that's for protruding eyelids. Not like muppets."
"-and he's going to have my nose." Gina giggled and covered her nose. "Oh no!"
Nick kissed the tip of her nose. "It's a magic nose. Glen should be so lucky. What else?"
Gina looked at the next page. "... I think he's going to be a mesomorph frame."
"Let me see." Nick consulted his notes. "Yeah, 18 markers for mesomorph, with 6 for endomorph. Woo-ha!" They executed a no-look high-five, and kept reading.
"Nick, he's leaning towards left-handed. What do you got?"
"He's got 33 markers for higher analytical and mathematical skills."
"Wow! That's all you, too!"
"You gave him 6 of them, honey. Besides, some of those markers are musical, too; that did not come from me. What about his spatial relationing chart? Where's his trend there?"
"What about his pre-dispositions? I mean, what cancers should we be watching out for?"
"Honey, you're teasing me. I already know Glen's a softpaw that'll be built like a wide receiver. I just want to know if he's gonna catch, throw, or block."
"Nick..."
"Fine! Cancers: colo-rectal, 6; melanoma, 6-"
"-Oops! that's mine!"
"Okay, my turn. Socialization slope; what do you got?"
"Uh... he's not on the slope?"
"-there he is. On the individualist side."
"Like, self-motivated?"
"Like, not a team player."
"Maybe more solo sports?"
"Eh, that could work. He's competitive, I see." Nick returned to the papers in his hand. "Here's something; MS, 9."
"Oh! We'll get that vaccine first."
"Okay- Alzheimer's, 8, like me. Autism, 3-"
Gina laughed. "Your 3 or my 3?... Nick?"
Nick was no longer reading the paper, only staring at it. When Gina tried to pull it away to peek, Nick recoiled from her grasp. From the other side of the room, he apologized with a glance, and said. "...he has 19 markers for psychopathy. 11 markers for APD."
"So?" Gina blurted. After a moment, she sat down, too.
"Are you sure? Is this a prank? Did your boss catch you and your fr-"
"I did the data sets, Gina. I just didn't do the correlating. But it's there. There and there; over there..."
"But what does that even mean?"
Nick looked her in the eye. "It means I already messed him up."
"You didn't mess anything up. He's not even born yet. We just... don't get any pets."
"No, you get pets! You make him take care of them, name them, get invested in them, and watch out for the first time they kill one!"
"Nick, calm down! Are you saying you want to change your mind? Because we have tried too many times-"I know..."
"-but we still got time, if you really want-"
"I know! I don't want to get rid of it-"
"Him, Nick!"
"Him! Him! Okay? I want what you want, okay?"
Gina embraced him, trembling with heaving sobs. She could only force whispers through those tears. She pleaded, "Don't do this to me. I don't want to be alone in this..."
"You're not alone. It's you and me, you and me..."
"I need you..."
"You got me, Gina. Body and soul."
Gina kept crying into Nick's shoulder. "What's he going to be?"
"He's gonna be work."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Autism Genome Sequenced"
Sunday, February 2, 2014
DAY 32: The Pussy Cat Lounge
Mike led Howie through the door of the Pussy Cat Cafe. They were greeted by red lights, dry ice, and Bob Seger's "Strut"... not much else. "Geez, Mike, I thought the parking lot was empty."
"It's 2 pm! Everybody's at work. The girls working this shift'll be desperate for tips; might get a 2-for-1 deal - but it's all about you!"
"Then can we get out of here?"
"Not so fast, man! Once we step out that door, we're back on the bridezilla bus. I know my sister, and she has every minute of your life planned out, from here, until death do you part! Not after the 'i do' - now! Don't do that to yourself! Head over to the bar, and I'll find the... 'maiter-dee'."
Howie brushed some hair off a bar stool, and perused the drink selections. A feline on the fluffy side sauntered over, planting herself to Howie's left, and stared him down. "Well, hello there, kitty. Are you gonna take my order?"
Imogene emerged from behind the bar. She adjusted her scarf and smiled a matronly smile. "What would you like, sugar?"
"Um... what's good?"
"Beer's a good start while you make up your mind. Destiny likes you."
"Destiny?" Howie looked again at the cat beside him. Destiny purred back.
"She's mixed Persian." Imogene opened a bottle for Howie. "You can pet her if you like. She wants you to."
Howie felt something rub against his leg; a dark-coated shorthair was befriending him. He attempted to ignore it. "When does the next show start?"
"Oh, Candy'll be on stage as soon as she hears her song."
"Is there anybody else here?"
Imogene stroked Destiny's coat. "Just me and the girls."
"My brother-in-law-to-be made a bigger deal about this place - I'm sorry, you're very nice, ma'am, I think he was talking about twenty years ago."
"Oh! Well, maybe he saw me dance. I was Laura Lynn then; those were fun days. And then I retired, with nothing to show for it. But- surprise, surprise! - I came upon some money, and I got to turn the lights on again."
Imogene's ears perked up as the opening riff to "Round and Round" began to blare through the speakers. "There's Candy! Right on time..." A striped tabby was onstage, slinking into the spotlight. She circled the perimeter, planted herself down, and raised a leg to lick herself clean, for the entire room to see.
Mike ran up to the bar. "I'm sorry, dude, I couldn't find anybody. I went up to the lounge area, and all I found was granola all over the floor... Laura Lynn?"
****
At the rehearsal, Emma and Howie took their position at the altar, while the minister directed traffic. "Howie, you're not mad that the bridesmaids want me to do some party thing tonight? I don't want you worrying or getting jealous tonight."
"Honey, I don't want a party. I want to be up here for real already. You have fun, okay?"
"Oh... I love you!" Emma hugged him -and then stopped, to pull a long silver strand off of his shoulder. "Howie, where did you get this hair?"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Conquering Cat Allergy"
"It's 2 pm! Everybody's at work. The girls working this shift'll be desperate for tips; might get a 2-for-1 deal - but it's all about you!"
"Then can we get out of here?"
"Not so fast, man! Once we step out that door, we're back on the bridezilla bus. I know my sister, and she has every minute of your life planned out, from here, until death do you part! Not after the 'i do' - now! Don't do that to yourself! Head over to the bar, and I'll find the... 'maiter-dee'."
Howie brushed some hair off a bar stool, and perused the drink selections. A feline on the fluffy side sauntered over, planting herself to Howie's left, and stared him down. "Well, hello there, kitty. Are you gonna take my order?"
Imogene emerged from behind the bar. She adjusted her scarf and smiled a matronly smile. "What would you like, sugar?"
"Um... what's good?"
"Beer's a good start while you make up your mind. Destiny likes you."
"Destiny?" Howie looked again at the cat beside him. Destiny purred back.
"She's mixed Persian." Imogene opened a bottle for Howie. "You can pet her if you like. She wants you to."
Howie felt something rub against his leg; a dark-coated shorthair was befriending him. He attempted to ignore it. "When does the next show start?"
"Oh, Candy'll be on stage as soon as she hears her song."
"Is there anybody else here?"
Imogene stroked Destiny's coat. "Just me and the girls."
"My brother-in-law-to-be made a bigger deal about this place - I'm sorry, you're very nice, ma'am, I think he was talking about twenty years ago."
"Oh! Well, maybe he saw me dance. I was Laura Lynn then; those were fun days. And then I retired, with nothing to show for it. But- surprise, surprise! - I came upon some money, and I got to turn the lights on again."
Imogene's ears perked up as the opening riff to "Round and Round" began to blare through the speakers. "There's Candy! Right on time..." A striped tabby was onstage, slinking into the spotlight. She circled the perimeter, planted herself down, and raised a leg to lick herself clean, for the entire room to see.
Mike ran up to the bar. "I'm sorry, dude, I couldn't find anybody. I went up to the lounge area, and all I found was granola all over the floor... Laura Lynn?"
****
At the rehearsal, Emma and Howie took their position at the altar, while the minister directed traffic. "Howie, you're not mad that the bridesmaids want me to do some party thing tonight? I don't want you worrying or getting jealous tonight."
"Honey, I don't want a party. I want to be up here for real already. You have fun, okay?"
"Oh... I love you!" Emma hugged him -and then stopped, to pull a long silver strand off of his shoulder. "Howie, where did you get this hair?"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Conquering Cat Allergy"
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