"Anybody seen C0dy?"
Orson peeked out from his cubicle. "Oh, yeah- nope! Still recovering from his drinking games with Redbone last night. I emailed him about the contact page. I also got my phone auto-dialing every 3 minutes; soon as he comes back from the dead, he oughta pick up. If he doesn't fix the page by lunch, can you take care of it?"
Elise nodded. "I'll take care of it now. But is he coming in today?"
Redbone shrugged his shoulders. "He was still in bed when I got up. Maybe he went to the lab, get some hours in with the English majors."
"No good, " Elise said. "He didn't show yesterday, either. They think he's on a campaign..."
"Not without me, he isn't!" Orson logged into his workstation as he made a call to a
guildmember on speed dial. "Terry, is C0dy logged in? He's AWOL..."
Elise sat down at C0dy's station, and got his password on the third try. By that point, Orson and Redbone had exhausted their search efforts. Elise brought up the source code for C0dy's pages-
the code was gone. C0dy had wiped out every line, except for one: "function=0"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "An Activist's Tragic End: Remembering Aaron Swartz"
Monday, March 31, 2014
Sunday, March 30, 2014
DAY 88: The Grand Nomad
The shadow of the Grand Nomad had already covered the city. From high up, Oliver saw the lights of traffic and skyscrapers blossom under the mountain's eclipse.
Katt joined him at the window. "It's ridiculous staying all the way down there. This time of year, they're only getting 4-5 hours of daylight. If I was gonna get some real estate, I'd go up there-", pointing to an outcropping, straight across their view.
"So why don't they?"
"They think the Nomad's sacred. I mean, you ever want to find Earth, just look where he's looking; Sol's our north star. Something about our rotation keeps it fixed in his gaze.
"That's why the pilgrims down there came here. The first colonists - not those guys, the ones that made the first 50 mil LY trip - they came to this planet when they saw this face looking back at them; vanity of the species. This planet's a rogue, so there's no lifeforms anyway, but they were hoping there would be."
"Did there used to be?"
"No one found anything, besides the old man," and Katt pointed at the Nomad. "It was the second colonists who went really crazy about it."
Katt flipped on the cabin lights as they entered the shadow. "The second colonists left Earth just as the Pangeac Merge happened. World going crazy behind them, the face of the Nomad in front of them - they thought he saw it happening. They think he's alive, seeing things on the cosmic timeframe. 2 billion years to us could be 2 hours to him. Which would suck; we're lucky to live to 200. Thank God..."
"Yes" Oliver took a final glance at the summit of the Nomad. "Yes, indeed..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "When Continents Collide"
Katt joined him at the window. "It's ridiculous staying all the way down there. This time of year, they're only getting 4-5 hours of daylight. If I was gonna get some real estate, I'd go up there-", pointing to an outcropping, straight across their view.
"So why don't they?"
"They think the Nomad's sacred. I mean, you ever want to find Earth, just look where he's looking; Sol's our north star. Something about our rotation keeps it fixed in his gaze.
"That's why the pilgrims down there came here. The first colonists - not those guys, the ones that made the first 50 mil LY trip - they came to this planet when they saw this face looking back at them; vanity of the species. This planet's a rogue, so there's no lifeforms anyway, but they were hoping there would be."
"Did there used to be?"
"No one found anything, besides the old man," and Katt pointed at the Nomad. "It was the second colonists who went really crazy about it."
Katt flipped on the cabin lights as they entered the shadow. "The second colonists left Earth just as the Pangeac Merge happened. World going crazy behind them, the face of the Nomad in front of them - they thought he saw it happening. They think he's alive, seeing things on the cosmic timeframe. 2 billion years to us could be 2 hours to him. Which would suck; we're lucky to live to 200. Thank God..."
"Yes" Oliver took a final glance at the summit of the Nomad. "Yes, indeed..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "When Continents Collide"
DAY 87: 7 Years Into the Storm
Rebecca had to get up. No matter how much it hurt.
She stretched her hearing past the sleeping alarm clock, past the hum of the electric lights, the air compressors, the gravity correctors... listening for the rain. As soon as she heard it, she would know that she was still on base, still in the hexagon, and she could go back to sleep.
Once, she had dreamt that the rain had stopped; she went to the window, looking upon an orange fog as it began to dissipate, revealing the arch of Saturn's satellite horizon. But the dream had not gone that way for a long time...
She had dreamt that she heard the rain stop; by the time she went for visual confirmation, the rain had started again...
She had dreamt that the winds caught in a structural flaw, pressing until it tore the base open, pulling her into the hurricane...
She had dreamt, over and over, of getting out of bed, fulfilling her morning routine, right up to the moment of checking meteorological status, only to find herself back in bed, anticipating the alarm...
Once, she realized she was standing in the rain, in her suit, ten steps outside the north entrance. She couldn't definitively account for what happened between that moment and when she had gone to bed the night before.
She had consulted with her physician on Earth, who said she needed to divert herself with some entertainments, give her mind some sensory data to play with besides reorganizing her day's routine. She had followed his advice, reading classic literature and trashy novels, watching movies and shows... She had reorganized her sleeping quarters, and then started disguising or removing any vestiges of its extraterrestrial origins, making it look like a typically cramped apartment in Tokyo or New York. The dreams adapted, inserting themselves between the dreams she wanted, and the reality she possessed...
She dreamt, constantly, that she was still in bed, waiting for the alarm to wake her for the day, or the alert to tell her that rain cessation was imminent; she lay in bed, against her body's will, not wanting to let go of sleep, not wanting to be fooled again, unsure if she was dreaming about dreaming...
She had to get up.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Storm over Saturn"
She stretched her hearing past the sleeping alarm clock, past the hum of the electric lights, the air compressors, the gravity correctors... listening for the rain. As soon as she heard it, she would know that she was still on base, still in the hexagon, and she could go back to sleep.
Once, she had dreamt that the rain had stopped; she went to the window, looking upon an orange fog as it began to dissipate, revealing the arch of Saturn's satellite horizon. But the dream had not gone that way for a long time...
She had dreamt that she heard the rain stop; by the time she went for visual confirmation, the rain had started again...
She had dreamt that the winds caught in a structural flaw, pressing until it tore the base open, pulling her into the hurricane...
She had dreamt, over and over, of getting out of bed, fulfilling her morning routine, right up to the moment of checking meteorological status, only to find herself back in bed, anticipating the alarm...
Once, she realized she was standing in the rain, in her suit, ten steps outside the north entrance. She couldn't definitively account for what happened between that moment and when she had gone to bed the night before.
She had consulted with her physician on Earth, who said she needed to divert herself with some entertainments, give her mind some sensory data to play with besides reorganizing her day's routine. She had followed his advice, reading classic literature and trashy novels, watching movies and shows... She had reorganized her sleeping quarters, and then started disguising or removing any vestiges of its extraterrestrial origins, making it look like a typically cramped apartment in Tokyo or New York. The dreams adapted, inserting themselves between the dreams she wanted, and the reality she possessed...
She dreamt, constantly, that she was still in bed, waiting for the alarm to wake her for the day, or the alert to tell her that rain cessation was imminent; she lay in bed, against her body's will, not wanting to let go of sleep, not wanting to be fooled again, unsure if she was dreaming about dreaming...
She had to get up.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Storm over Saturn"
DAY 86: Squeak
He came up to my counter with a smile and a flip phone from 4 years too late, asking if I could provide twelve more. I tried to upsell him on the new ones, but he wouldn't budge unless they could 'sing the same song'.
He earned the phone back in Uganda, from a volunteer doctor. In his village, he was one of the men who learned to maintain, repair, and protect the village generator. He also made sure the doctor's technical equipment would remain freshly charged - including her phone.
One night, she did not remember to take the phone home. In the middle of the night, he woke up to a strange noise; it disappeared before he could find it. An hour later, it happened again, and it was gone before he could find the noise - but he found the phone. An hour later, the phone chirped in his hand, and he knew he had found it.
The next morning, he returned the phone to the very grateful doctor, who explained that the noise was to keep crickets out of her room. There happened to be a cricket nearby as she was talking to him; she set the phone to 'chirp', and the cricket couldn't hop away fast enough! And that gave the young man an idea.
His mother's garden was suitably fortified from larger animals, but it didn't keep out the crickets. He bargained with the doctor, and she gave him the phone, teaching him how it worked. He made a scarecrow for his mother, with a place in the scarecrow's head to hold the phone. He set the phone to 'chirp' a few times each hour, throughout the night. A month later, his mother served their first dinner harvested from her garden.
That was two years ago. Last month, he had been given a plane ticket to the US, to talk to churches and look at colleges. But he dreamed of making a dozen more scarecrows, for the entire village - which
brought him to my store.
The phone was retired - but the chirp wasn't. I helped him find the sound on some of our display phones, and sold him a dozen floor models for 20% retail. The kid knows how to bargain.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Low-Tech Solutions for High Stakes Problems"
One night, she did not remember to take the phone home. In the middle of the night, he woke up to a strange noise; it disappeared before he could find it. An hour later, it happened again, and it was gone before he could find the noise - but he found the phone. An hour later, the phone chirped in his hand, and he knew he had found it.
The next morning, he returned the phone to the very grateful doctor, who explained that the noise was to keep crickets out of her room. There happened to be a cricket nearby as she was talking to him; she set the phone to 'chirp', and the cricket couldn't hop away fast enough! And that gave the young man an idea.
His mother's garden was suitably fortified from larger animals, but it didn't keep out the crickets. He bargained with the doctor, and she gave him the phone, teaching him how it worked. He made a scarecrow for his mother, with a place in the scarecrow's head to hold the phone. He set the phone to 'chirp' a few times each hour, throughout the night. A month later, his mother served their first dinner harvested from her garden.
That was two years ago. Last month, he had been given a plane ticket to the US, to talk to churches and look at colleges. But he dreamed of making a dozen more scarecrows, for the entire village - which
brought him to my store.
The phone was retired - but the chirp wasn't. I helped him find the sound on some of our display phones, and sold him a dozen floor models for 20% retail. The kid knows how to bargain.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Low-Tech Solutions for High Stakes Problems"
Saturday, March 29, 2014
DAY 85: Seeding the Clouds
When I was born, my mom wanted me to follow a life path of my own choosing. But my father found a way around it. For many years, a typical bedtime included lesson time; dad would come in and ask me to teach him something I had learned that day. So I taught him about the letter R, the number 6, "twinkle twinkle", how to share... He was patient with all of it. Sometimes, we'd stare up at the bedroom walls, painted to look like heavenly clouds, and we'd tell stories of the things that lived there.
"What's that one?" he'd say.
"Mop-mop. It looks like the head of a mop!"
He squinted at it. "I suppose. What about that one next to it?"
"Go-gi!"
"I like that one. What are they doing?"
"Gogi makes food for everybody in his restaurant. And then somebody on the other side of the cloud calls in their order, and Gogi's delivers! That's the delivery bubble over there."
"Wow. There's a lot of delivery trucks on that cloud. That's a big one!"
"That's Lisa's garbage truck. She doesn't deliver food. And it's bubbles!. They're all bubbles!"
***
After placement testing in junior high, I was never in one grade again. The year that I took eighth grade english and gym, I was also enrolled in ninth grade spanish and history, tenth grade biology, AP calculus, and played 2nd chair cello. Mom also had me cook family dinner once a week.
It was in biology class that I learned one of my dad's tricks. Our teacher was introducing us to the components of the typical mammalian cell unit, via a video presentation and a monotone narration. "The cell membrane is the semi-porous outer boundary that keeps the organelles contained. At the center is the nucleus, the cell's 'brain' ; this is surrounded by the endoplasmic reticulum (both smooth and rough.) Enzymes are transported throughout the cell by vesicles, to or from the nucleus, the mitochondria, the golgi apparatus..."
That took me back to my room, and the painted ceiling; to Gogi and MopMop, to Lisa and Nuclearman and Mighty Condi... As we watched archival footage of a typical single cell organism's life cycle, I saw a neighborhood that had been floating over my head for years. I knew them, how they helped each other and why. That class didn't teach me anything new about cell structure. But it did teach me that my dad's a sneaky guy.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Immune Attack Up Close"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Immune Attack Up Close"
Friday, March 28, 2014
DAY 84: Loopy Loops
Loopy Bear paced at the end of the boardroom, as if he could dodge the bad news.
"They've got over 50 families in their class action already!" Marvin read off his tablet. "And that's before Winthrop goes on O'Reilley this afternoon. It's going to be exponential!"
"We've dropped 14 points in the last hour," Priscilla read off her tablet. "I've got emails from Zurich, London, and Milan. Everybody wants answers."
Rick placed a piece of paper on the table. "At this time, I'd like to tender my resignation."
Loopy Bear gave a pleading look to Marvin. "I only got three fingers here..."
Marvin nodded, and flipped Rick off.
"I just don't get it! How did this happen? And all at once?"
Dr Quinn coughed for the room's attention. "We've tracked down the child actors who you filmed the ad campaign with, brought them back to the lab, under the pretense of pre-production on the next round of commercials."
"They think it's for a web-series," Priscilla chimed in. "Camp Loopy Loops, we're calling it."
"So the children are isolated, while we research the symptoms they're experiencing. And yes, they are all testing positive."
Loopy Bear sat in his chair, looking adorable and crestfallen. "I just don't understand..."
Dr Quinn continued, "The good news is, there's no evidence that it's carcinogenic. We've been giving the children all kinds of tests - physical, intellectual, sensory... They're at least as healthy as they've ever been. They're just..."
"Cuter," Marvin said.
He presented pictures of the kids at mealtime. The children in the pictures did have noticeably larger eyes, approaching the proportions of a Japanese cartoon mascot. Their smiles were more pronounced, their cheeks more koala-shaped. In the pictures of a half-dozen morning meal routine, each child looked as if they were having the most wonderful breakfast ever.
"So maybe it's not dangerous? Really?" Rick did a half-jump in the air. "Whatever takes the worst-case scenario off the table! If they're not dying or sick, we'll get them to love the changes, let them think it's cool! Priscilla asked the doctor, "Is it permanent? Can we change them back?"
"I can't see how; they're changed at a genetic level. They've actually got an augmented helix structure! We're rather excited, back at the lab..."
In the chairman's seat, Loopy Bear sighed heavily, and grabbed a bourbon to wash down his handfuls of cereal. "I just wanted to share the family recipe with the world... add some deliciousness to a balanced breakfast..."
He looked to his vice presidents, and held out the bowl of cereal for sharing. "Anybody want some?" Loopy asked to everyone in the room. No one accepted.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Four-Stranded DNA Makes Human Debut"
"They've got over 50 families in their class action already!" Marvin read off his tablet. "And that's before Winthrop goes on O'Reilley this afternoon. It's going to be exponential!"
"We've dropped 14 points in the last hour," Priscilla read off her tablet. "I've got emails from Zurich, London, and Milan. Everybody wants answers."
Rick placed a piece of paper on the table. "At this time, I'd like to tender my resignation."
Loopy Bear gave a pleading look to Marvin. "I only got three fingers here..."
Marvin nodded, and flipped Rick off.
"I just don't get it! How did this happen? And all at once?"
Dr Quinn coughed for the room's attention. "We've tracked down the child actors who you filmed the ad campaign with, brought them back to the lab, under the pretense of pre-production on the next round of commercials."
"They think it's for a web-series," Priscilla chimed in. "Camp Loopy Loops, we're calling it."
"So the children are isolated, while we research the symptoms they're experiencing. And yes, they are all testing positive."
Loopy Bear sat in his chair, looking adorable and crestfallen. "I just don't understand..."
Dr Quinn continued, "The good news is, there's no evidence that it's carcinogenic. We've been giving the children all kinds of tests - physical, intellectual, sensory... They're at least as healthy as they've ever been. They're just..."
"Cuter," Marvin said.
He presented pictures of the kids at mealtime. The children in the pictures did have noticeably larger eyes, approaching the proportions of a Japanese cartoon mascot. Their smiles were more pronounced, their cheeks more koala-shaped. In the pictures of a half-dozen morning meal routine, each child looked as if they were having the most wonderful breakfast ever.
"So maybe it's not dangerous? Really?" Rick did a half-jump in the air. "Whatever takes the worst-case scenario off the table! If they're not dying or sick, we'll get them to love the changes, let them think it's cool! Priscilla asked the doctor, "Is it permanent? Can we change them back?"
"I can't see how; they're changed at a genetic level. They've actually got an augmented helix structure! We're rather excited, back at the lab..."
In the chairman's seat, Loopy Bear sighed heavily, and grabbed a bourbon to wash down his handfuls of cereal. "I just wanted to share the family recipe with the world... add some deliciousness to a balanced breakfast..."
He looked to his vice presidents, and held out the bowl of cereal for sharing. "Anybody want some?" Loopy asked to everyone in the room. No one accepted.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Four-Stranded DNA Makes Human Debut"
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
DAY 83: Sunrise on Ivanpah
Morning in the desert is never as warm as one thinks. Ron shivered as he saw the first rays of light escape the horizon.
He had come here on assignment with his team, searching for ways to shut down the power plant. From his vantage point, he could see the outline of the Primm Valley Golf Club, who had no public umbrage with the plant. Some members, in fact, saw the plant's development as an inroad, for development in the hitherto-overprotected desert acreage. Other members had no interest in a sandtrap with over 50,000 mirrors in it; anonymously, they had set inquiries in motion about Ivanpah's impact on the environment.
The desert tortoise was a big focus; the plant had built a $50 million dollar fence, just to keep it out. Payne had two assistants counting every turtle that was a week's crawl away. But Ron was the bird guy; his assignment was to tally all the birds that had burst into flame flying overhead. If he could find one on California's protected wildlife list, that would be game-set-match.
Two weeks in the desert, and he had little to show for it. The folks at the club had started out nice; the debriefing had taken place on the course, over beers. But after the first week, they weren't allowed back without satisfactory results. Likewise, the folks at the plant had started cooperative, providing documentation, videos, and even the remains for perusal. But their access lapsed after a week, and their calls weren't being returned. But why would they?
He didn't have anything; anything that would expedite the investigations already being conducted, or slow down the project. Nothing that would get him off the field, and running a department. Nothing that would give him a life that would convince Norma to move back in.
He had managed a final walk onto the premises in the afternoon, to receive the last nice rejection he could expect on this trip. But instead of leaving, he had stayed in the shadows overnight. Ron stared over the valley that spread beyond the tower below; the sunlight would reach the mirrors soon. He took out a waxwing carcass from his jacket pocket. It would have been nice if it had been a yellow warbler or one of those song sparrows. But it was too common to do anyone any good. He let it loose, into the morning.
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Giant Desert Solar Plant Powers On"
He had come here on assignment with his team, searching for ways to shut down the power plant. From his vantage point, he could see the outline of the Primm Valley Golf Club, who had no public umbrage with the plant. Some members, in fact, saw the plant's development as an inroad, for development in the hitherto-overprotected desert acreage. Other members had no interest in a sandtrap with over 50,000 mirrors in it; anonymously, they had set inquiries in motion about Ivanpah's impact on the environment.
The desert tortoise was a big focus; the plant had built a $50 million dollar fence, just to keep it out. Payne had two assistants counting every turtle that was a week's crawl away. But Ron was the bird guy; his assignment was to tally all the birds that had burst into flame flying overhead. If he could find one on California's protected wildlife list, that would be game-set-match.
Two weeks in the desert, and he had little to show for it. The folks at the club had started out nice; the debriefing had taken place on the course, over beers. But after the first week, they weren't allowed back without satisfactory results. Likewise, the folks at the plant had started cooperative, providing documentation, videos, and even the remains for perusal. But their access lapsed after a week, and their calls weren't being returned. But why would they?
He didn't have anything; anything that would expedite the investigations already being conducted, or slow down the project. Nothing that would get him off the field, and running a department. Nothing that would give him a life that would convince Norma to move back in.
He had managed a final walk onto the premises in the afternoon, to receive the last nice rejection he could expect on this trip. But instead of leaving, he had stayed in the shadows overnight. Ron stared over the valley that spread beyond the tower below; the sunlight would reach the mirrors soon. He took out a waxwing carcass from his jacket pocket. It would have been nice if it had been a yellow warbler or one of those song sparrows. But it was too common to do anyone any good. He let it loose, into the morning.
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Giant Desert Solar Plant Powers On"
DAY 82: Night Survey
Parnicius woke up strapped to the table. As he became increasingly aware of the degree of his restraints, he began to panic and struggle. The forehead strap gave enough, so Parnicius turned to his right. Nicodimus was strapped down and vivisected, his mouth held wide open for inspection. Parnicius's scream startled a masked man in a surgeon's apron; he dropped the metal pan in his hands.
Martin stomped in the tent. "Enough with ye!" he shouted, served with a Scottish burr and a backhand. He rested an elbow on the familiar's chest, pressing the air out of Parnicius, until he was barely a whisper. "We got questions, so save your breath for 'em!" The hunter stood up, allowing Parnicius to gasp for air.
Martin turned his attention to the man on the floor. "Geddup, Monty! An' pick up that heart!"
Monty dusted himself off. "Sorry. I got startled, dropped my guard. Won't happen again..."
"It rarely happens twice, yeah?" Martin pointed at the dead one. "What can ye tell me about him?"
Monty began the autopsy. "Advanced necrosis of the extremities; necrotic tissue in significant portions of the heart and lungs... The jaw separates in three areas... teeth comparable in count and structure of human teeth. The canines, however - do not retract."
"Really? That's interesting. An' the eyes?"
Monty peeked under an eyelid. "Yellow sclera, no iris... Carpathian?"
Martin grinned wide. "Carr-pathian! We got us a royal! Box up that heart, an' keep ye jesus tree under ye shirt, or the whole tent'll go up!"
Martin turned his attention back to Parnicius, studying his neck and wrists. "Did ye know that about ye friend? He's a classic, he was; real archetype. You ever see him turn into a bat?"
Monty interjected, "Are you sure that's safe, sir?"
"Oh, this runt's nothing! See for y'self!" Martin pulled his protege toward their prisoner. "Flush cheeks, harried breath, pissed pants: he's a familiar!"
Martin pulled the silver cross off Monty's neck and waved it over Parnicius, "Does this hurt? Does it?" Parnicius shook his head.
Martin placed the cross on Parnicius' forehead. "Does that hurt? Eh?"
Martin swatted his forehead, shaking the table and yielding a yowl from Parnicius. "How about that? Y'see? No reaction to the Holy Cross or to contact with silver, and he's got a thin skin! Ain't no vampire; just some boy in black lace who didn't get hugged enough, did ye? Just a snack on standby!"
"Who the hell are you?" Parnicius whimpered.
"Martin Van Helsing, scion of Professor Abraham, and inheritor of his life's work, converting pseudo-science to science. Monty there's me assistant, aide-de-campe, and Boswell. Your master there is one of 70 species we've cataloged in our field guide. And you... well, you're bait."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Disputes Over Psychiatry's Manual"
Martin stomped in the tent. "Enough with ye!" he shouted, served with a Scottish burr and a backhand. He rested an elbow on the familiar's chest, pressing the air out of Parnicius, until he was barely a whisper. "We got questions, so save your breath for 'em!" The hunter stood up, allowing Parnicius to gasp for air.
Martin turned his attention to the man on the floor. "Geddup, Monty! An' pick up that heart!"
Monty dusted himself off. "Sorry. I got startled, dropped my guard. Won't happen again..."
"It rarely happens twice, yeah?" Martin pointed at the dead one. "What can ye tell me about him?"
Monty began the autopsy. "Advanced necrosis of the extremities; necrotic tissue in significant portions of the heart and lungs... The jaw separates in three areas... teeth comparable in count and structure of human teeth. The canines, however - do not retract."
"Really? That's interesting. An' the eyes?"
Monty peeked under an eyelid. "Yellow sclera, no iris... Carpathian?"
Martin grinned wide. "Carr-pathian! We got us a royal! Box up that heart, an' keep ye jesus tree under ye shirt, or the whole tent'll go up!"
Martin turned his attention back to Parnicius, studying his neck and wrists. "Did ye know that about ye friend? He's a classic, he was; real archetype. You ever see him turn into a bat?"
Monty interjected, "Are you sure that's safe, sir?"
"Oh, this runt's nothing! See for y'self!" Martin pulled his protege toward their prisoner. "Flush cheeks, harried breath, pissed pants: he's a familiar!"
Martin pulled the silver cross off Monty's neck and waved it over Parnicius, "Does this hurt? Does it?" Parnicius shook his head.
Martin placed the cross on Parnicius' forehead. "Does that hurt? Eh?"
Martin swatted his forehead, shaking the table and yielding a yowl from Parnicius. "How about that? Y'see? No reaction to the Holy Cross or to contact with silver, and he's got a thin skin! Ain't no vampire; just some boy in black lace who didn't get hugged enough, did ye? Just a snack on standby!"
"Who the hell are you?" Parnicius whimpered.
"Martin Van Helsing, scion of Professor Abraham, and inheritor of his life's work, converting pseudo-science to science. Monty there's me assistant, aide-de-campe, and Boswell. Your master there is one of 70 species we've cataloged in our field guide. And you... well, you're bait."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Disputes Over Psychiatry's Manual"
Sunday, March 23, 2014
DAY 81: Carbon Copy
Gran checked the oven, setting the timer for six minutes. Down the hall, she heard Beatrice shout from the kitchen, "Granny! Granny!"
Beatrice had a chair against the burners, watching the water boil. Gran pulled her down in an instant. "Young lady, that is too dangerous! You leave the chairs with the table where they belong!"
"But Gran, I want to see what's happening!"
"Cooking takes time, and you don't make it any faster by watching. Where are your strings?"
Beatrice pointed to a foot-long ruler, with several strings tied along it. Gran spaced them
evenly, nodding her approval.
"Okay, Beatrice, I'll add some more sugar, you give us the countdown." Beatrice turned her attention to the microwave, yelling along with the final seconds. "5... 4... 3... 2... 1...Beep Beep!" She shouted her beeps even after the sound ended.
Gran poured the mixture into several Mason jars, lining them in one of her refrigerator shelves. Beatrice held tightly to the ruler, insisting to dunk the strings. Gran brought a chair up to the shelf , and Beatrice dropped each string with such pride.
"And now we wait," Gran said.
"How long?"
"Those strings will be ready in 5 to 7 days."
"Aww! I wanted candy now!"
Gran reached into a cookie jar. "Well, I guess you'll have to have one of these," and she presented Beatrice with a finished rock candy medallion.
Gran ushered her granddaughter outside, and returned to the workshop. She wiped the fog off of the oven window; the microchip was almost done. "Perfect."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Meet the World's First Carbon Nanotube Computer"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Meet the World's First Carbon Nanotube Computer"
DAY 80: Number 175
I became a vegetarian around my 175th chicken.
When college didn't work out, I was looking for some money and an adventure. I joined the crew of a cargo ship, helping transport some 400 chickens out of Portland. Halfway to port, my lead found a sick one, told me to kill it, and send it to the kitchen. I did it, and located my lead to let him know it was done; he happened to be with the captain, at the time. I was sent back to the pens immediately, while the captain and my lead had words.
It was the captain who came back for me in the pens. Live birds would be under Chinese jurisdiction, which meant an extended stay and uncertain repercussions ; the only certainty was not getting paid. Bird parts, however, would have a ready buyer in Shanghai. Effectively immediately, the chickens had to be slaughtered before we got to port. With my lead relieved of his duties, the task of dispatching the birds was left to me; they gave me the keys of the equipment, a couple of manuals, and four days.
I figured out a routine pretty quick: after slitting the chickens in groups of eight, I'll pile them in a wire basket for scalding, then chill them in the ice water trough. Plucking and prep would have to be on its own time, but the ones I couldn't would still have someone to buy them. Someone got word (or, more likely, heard the non-stop squawking) and sent down a taser; that cut down the flapping and scratching. I became scarily efficient.
Each crate held 120 chickens; I was nearly three crates done before I noticed the taser winding down. I should have expected its charge to wear down eventually, but I wanted to get done what I could. Five hens to the end of the crate, then time for a cigarette, toss out the blood buckets and freshen up the ice for the next batch...
This bird, I tased, then I laid it upside down to slit. It got away from me, even as it grazed up on the blade. For the next 30 seconds, it was flapping above me, clawing for higher ground; arterial spray out the neck, on me, on the other chickens, all over the hold... And then she was done. She collapsed on top of the crate.
It was a lot quieter after that. I looked over the remaining hens in the hold, counting back to number 175, draped on the cage. I got it in the scalding pot. I got the rest done, with 14 hours to port, before I returned to my bunk. I took a plane home.
I don't have a problem with people eating meat, or overeating it, or with the people who provide it. I'm just tired of it.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Chicken Could Go 'Round the World"
When college didn't work out, I was looking for some money and an adventure. I joined the crew of a cargo ship, helping transport some 400 chickens out of Portland. Halfway to port, my lead found a sick one, told me to kill it, and send it to the kitchen. I did it, and located my lead to let him know it was done; he happened to be with the captain, at the time. I was sent back to the pens immediately, while the captain and my lead had words.
It was the captain who came back for me in the pens. Live birds would be under Chinese jurisdiction, which meant an extended stay and uncertain repercussions ; the only certainty was not getting paid. Bird parts, however, would have a ready buyer in Shanghai. Effectively immediately, the chickens had to be slaughtered before we got to port. With my lead relieved of his duties, the task of dispatching the birds was left to me; they gave me the keys of the equipment, a couple of manuals, and four days.
I figured out a routine pretty quick: after slitting the chickens in groups of eight, I'll pile them in a wire basket for scalding, then chill them in the ice water trough. Plucking and prep would have to be on its own time, but the ones I couldn't would still have someone to buy them. Someone got word (or, more likely, heard the non-stop squawking) and sent down a taser; that cut down the flapping and scratching. I became scarily efficient.
Each crate held 120 chickens; I was nearly three crates done before I noticed the taser winding down. I should have expected its charge to wear down eventually, but I wanted to get done what I could. Five hens to the end of the crate, then time for a cigarette, toss out the blood buckets and freshen up the ice for the next batch...
This bird, I tased, then I laid it upside down to slit. It got away from me, even as it grazed up on the blade. For the next 30 seconds, it was flapping above me, clawing for higher ground; arterial spray out the neck, on me, on the other chickens, all over the hold... And then she was done. She collapsed on top of the crate.
It was a lot quieter after that. I looked over the remaining hens in the hold, counting back to number 175, draped on the cage. I got it in the scalding pot. I got the rest done, with 14 hours to port, before I returned to my bunk. I took a plane home.
I don't have a problem with people eating meat, or overeating it, or with the people who provide it. I'm just tired of it.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Chicken Could Go 'Round the World"
DAY 79: Woo Woo
As the first images came from the scanning electron microscope, Omar started laughing, loud enough to catch the lab's attention.
He was analyzing samples sent in from Arjun, a former colleague who had abandoned his masters program a semester early, to accept an engineering job. In press releases, he merited a benevolent mention, a testament to the kind of opportunities the Chemistry program could attract. In the hallways, it was seen as a mercenary decision: the college already possessed a significant percentage of the patents Arjun had acquired as a student, and were legally interested in whatever developments he would manage in the immediate months following his exit. In an attempt to throw shade upon Arjun's reputation, someone remarked that he 'wasn't interested in being a real scientist anymore, just being an engineer.' After that, in his absence, whenever his name was brought up in the lab, his former labmates would call out "Woo woo!", yanking an imaginary train whistle. The intention was entirely up to interpretation.
Arjun had been working on MOF's, molecule-size architectures that allowed crystalline analysis of things that don't usually have a crystal form (carbon dioxide, for example.) It was the work that got him the genius label; it was the research that got him the job. The lab had split the MOFs he left behind; half the team were finding new gases and compounds to use, and the other half were reverse-engineering the MOFs, to figure out how to make their own. Clandestinely, one of the guys had contacted Arjun, to reconnect and gain insight on his research. That was a month ago, and this package had been the response.
Eddie made it to Omar's station first, helping Omar off the floor. He saw the images, and let out "Woo Woo!" That brought the entire lab over, just as the printer let loose the last of the pictures.
To the naked eye, the frameworks are a fine powder, a disguise of their intricate construction. At the molecular level, MOFs are hollow blocks latticed together into intricate filters. For industrial purposes, it was sufficient to weave them into layers, stacked like a lasagna. For his colleagues' amusement, Arjun had managed a replica of the campus in crystalline form, with a railroad track along the perimeter. Spelled out below, the words read, "Woo woo..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New X-Ray Vision for Chemists"
He was analyzing samples sent in from Arjun, a former colleague who had abandoned his masters program a semester early, to accept an engineering job. In press releases, he merited a benevolent mention, a testament to the kind of opportunities the Chemistry program could attract. In the hallways, it was seen as a mercenary decision: the college already possessed a significant percentage of the patents Arjun had acquired as a student, and were legally interested in whatever developments he would manage in the immediate months following his exit. In an attempt to throw shade upon Arjun's reputation, someone remarked that he 'wasn't interested in being a real scientist anymore, just being an engineer.' After that, in his absence, whenever his name was brought up in the lab, his former labmates would call out "Woo woo!", yanking an imaginary train whistle. The intention was entirely up to interpretation.
Arjun had been working on MOF's, molecule-size architectures that allowed crystalline analysis of things that don't usually have a crystal form (carbon dioxide, for example.) It was the work that got him the genius label; it was the research that got him the job. The lab had split the MOFs he left behind; half the team were finding new gases and compounds to use, and the other half were reverse-engineering the MOFs, to figure out how to make their own. Clandestinely, one of the guys had contacted Arjun, to reconnect and gain insight on his research. That was a month ago, and this package had been the response.
Eddie made it to Omar's station first, helping Omar off the floor. He saw the images, and let out "Woo Woo!" That brought the entire lab over, just as the printer let loose the last of the pictures.
To the naked eye, the frameworks are a fine powder, a disguise of their intricate construction. At the molecular level, MOFs are hollow blocks latticed together into intricate filters. For industrial purposes, it was sufficient to weave them into layers, stacked like a lasagna. For his colleagues' amusement, Arjun had managed a replica of the campus in crystalline form, with a railroad track along the perimeter. Spelled out below, the words read, "Woo woo..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New X-Ray Vision for Chemists"
Saturday, March 22, 2014
DAY 78: The Waiting Room
Tyree was in the wrong wing of the hospital, I thought. I usually saw him on alternating Thursdays at the PT clinic, working on his walking. So I was surprised to find him flipping through TV channels in the waiting area outside the maternity ward. Not the flipping part; his family gave him a universal TV remote last christmas, and became fascinated with the "universal" part, figuring out how to take over whatever TV's in whatever clinic he's in.
"Tyree! What are you doing here? You got an appointment today?"
He turned to me, studying my face. "Hi, Carl. Got a baby coming." He returned to the TV.
An anxious man in his work clothes approached me. "Hey, are you a nurse here, or whatever? I need to check on how my girlfriend's doing."
"Well, I don't actually work at this wing, but I'll try to help. You want to see about getting you in?"
He shook his head. "No, that ain't happening. I just want to get an idea of what's going on."
"Okay. I know one of the girls here, I'll find out how far along she is-"
"-Look, be cool about it. I got a little heated earlier, trying to find out what's going on. I've calmed down now, but they're busy, they're not hearing me yet. They're worried about the baby, that's fine, that's their job, I'm sorry about getting in the way of that, I want them to know. Her mom's in there, she got problems with me, I don't want that in the way, but they're in the way, so I'm staying out, but I gotta know what's going on. You know Tyree's mom?"
"Not really; I haven't met her yet. Tyree usually comes by himself. I didn't even know he had a sister."
"Yeah, and it's not like there's a family resemblance, amiright?" He moved on. "Moms wouldn't want me here, if she could. But it's not for her to say She don't want me in that room, I'm fine with that, I can't do anything in there, I don't even know what she's doing in there. But I just need the car keys right now."
"The car-?"
"I know. They got too many things going on, it's not important with everything they got going, but listen- There's stuff to take care, I gotta get back to the house. I should probably be bringing Cece's brothers and sisters up here, although this could take a while, right? I mean, they could've waited until I got done with work to take them in the car. Or, if it was such an emergency, take an ambulance! That's what they're for!"
The TV flipped to the middle of one of the local ads by the "Legal Eagles" (whose names escape me, at the moment.) When the computer-generated eagle let out a screech, Tyree stopped to let out a screech, just as loud.
Babydaddy snapped, "Cool it!" He changed his tune when he returned his attention to me. "Look, man, you can tell I don't belong here. I need to get out of here! Just ask them for the keys, and I'll be on my way."
"I believe you, sir. But I don't know if I can do what you're asking, because this isn't my ward, and your girl's family doesn't know me. But I know who might be able to. Why don't you ask Tyree to get the keys?"
Babydaddy looked at Tyree, looked at me, and sat the f down.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Shutting Off the Down Syndrome Chromosome"
Friday, March 21, 2014
DAY 77: The Tiger's Tail
It had taken two months to reach the Point of No Return - but at least it had met them halfway. The trajectory had actually been a straight shot away from Earth, planned with minimal gravitational interference from any of her neighbors. Essentially, they had jumped off the Earth, and let the rest of the universe pass them. By the time they entered Neptune's path, there was enough fuel to return to Earth three times.
Skupic was reading back her levels, doing a final calibration check. Devereaux was waiting for the next draft, something the sails could catch onto and ride out into the uncharted. But it was quiet, and there was nowhere to go. So she checked her instruments with the last person she would ever speak to again.
"I'm good here, Skupic. Your turn: you got a lock on home?"
"Been locked the whole time. You sure you're ready for this?"
"I've been ready forever. Just tell me when you pick up the heliotrail, it should be active in a few minutes..."
Skupic waited in the silence, listening to Devereaux breathe.
With home behind him, he turned his infrared view outward, seeing the endless destinations drifting.
"Dev, you're about to be history. Did you prepare any words? Anything I can take home?"
He heard her chuckle. "I think I sent a copy of 'High Flight' to PR. I saw it on Murphy's desk, thought he'd get a kick out of it... I didn't think of any of my own. And I don't have enough air to stumble some out now. Saving it for the trip."
Skupic watched the monitors; still nowhere to go. Finally, he said, "You always wanted this, didn't you?" The alarm interrupted anything else; they were uncoupled. He watched her sails extend and catch the sun's tail, and pushed off into the dark.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Our Solar System Has a Tail"
Skupic was reading back her levels, doing a final calibration check. Devereaux was waiting for the next draft, something the sails could catch onto and ride out into the uncharted. But it was quiet, and there was nowhere to go. So she checked her instruments with the last person she would ever speak to again.
"I'm good here, Skupic. Your turn: you got a lock on home?"
"Been locked the whole time. You sure you're ready for this?"
"I've been ready forever. Just tell me when you pick up the heliotrail, it should be active in a few minutes..."
Skupic waited in the silence, listening to Devereaux breathe.
With home behind him, he turned his infrared view outward, seeing the endless destinations drifting.
"Dev, you're about to be history. Did you prepare any words? Anything I can take home?"
He heard her chuckle. "I think I sent a copy of 'High Flight' to PR. I saw it on Murphy's desk, thought he'd get a kick out of it... I didn't think of any of my own. And I don't have enough air to stumble some out now. Saving it for the trip."
Skupic watched the monitors; still nowhere to go. Finally, he said, "You always wanted this, didn't you?" The alarm interrupted anything else; they were uncoupled. He watched her sails extend and catch the sun's tail, and pushed off into the dark.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Our Solar System Has a Tail"
Thursday, March 20, 2014
DAY 76: Nobel Prizes for everyone!
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN - The Nobel Committee of 2035 presented the world with their first recipient born in the 21st century - or, perhaps, its first thousand recipients. Randall Hapitha was awarded the Nobel Prize in Chemistry, for identifying, in theory and practice, the upper limitations of dihydrogen monoxide crystallyne formations. As a graduate student at Cal Polytech, he first presented his calculations that posited that the forms of isolated ice crystals were, in fact, finite. He was surprised by the controversy that his theory generated, and set upon constructing a means to prove it - by harnessing the power of citizen science. He co-created a game and website that began comparing the presumably infinite quantity of snowflake shapes in the upper northwest Minnesota region to snowflake samplings found in Siberia. It took three weeks for the first matches to be positively identified.
Critics argued that his research only served to make the world a 'smaller, less wonderful place,' but Hapithha insisted that recognizing the variety of crystalline structures - and the most common among them - could lead to the development of new alloys and materials of unanticipated properties. Enough people agreed to award him the Nobel Prize, which he accepted on behalf of the nearly 1.2 million game players that provided the proof to his theorum. After leaving the ceremony, he was bludgeoned to death by snowballs by protesters.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Science For the People, By the People"
Critics argued that his research only served to make the world a 'smaller, less wonderful place,' but Hapithha insisted that recognizing the variety of crystalline structures - and the most common among them - could lead to the development of new alloys and materials of unanticipated properties. Enough people agreed to award him the Nobel Prize, which he accepted on behalf of the nearly 1.2 million game players that provided the proof to his theorum. After leaving the ceremony, he was bludgeoned to death by snowballs by protesters.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Science For the People, By the People"
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
DAY 75: The March of the Dinosaurs
Clay wasn't used to being in the passenger seat, but it was his daughter's truck. "You're working out at the Wilson farm, still?"
"Dad, it's a genetic research facility. The Wilsons sold it ten years ago."
"Well, the Wilsons had it since the depression. I'll call that jackalope factory whatever I like!"
Casey huffed. "I work at a genetics lab."
So much for that conversation, he thought to himself. Clay returned his focus on the Cibola skyline.
Clay was in the stables, trying to gauge how much of the old Wilson farm was left. They had kept the structure (it always was a jewel), but it smelled different. They still used it for livestock; maybe the cleaning and disinfecting were overpowering the few animals they kept. Or maybe they were feeding them something weird. He knew he raised Casey to have a conscience about this science, but he didn't know the rest of them...A knock at the wall; Casey was trying to get his attention. "You gotta see this."
"You said it was a longhorn.""We call her 'longhorn'. For obvious reasons."
Clay leaned forward against the railing, staring at the triceratops at the other end of the pen. She lay out in the sun, seemingly uninterested in anyone or anything. Clay tightened his grip on the railing, and he wondered if it would be strong enough for when she got mad.
Casey was enjoying the shock on her father's face. "She's still a calf, about a third of what we expect her to grow. So we need to reinforce her domesticated tendencies."
"Domesticated tendencies?"
"We boosted some of the genetic markers for empathic bonding - not enough to make it a new species this go-round, just a nudge in the right direction. She's as docile as your average brahma."
Clay let out a huff. "Brahma, huh?... Well, let's get a bale out." He dragged some hay out of the truck and shoved it over the fence. Still ignored by the longhorn, Clay tapped his knife on the metal railing. "Breakfast! Here, girl!"
He turned to see if Casey was amused. But Casey was having an argument with a man in a banker's suit. Clay turned his attention back to the longhorn, and her ground-trembling steps. Clay stood knee-high in the hay, kicking it around, staring sideways at the longhorn's approach. She grunted, snuffling at the hay, deciding it was worth eating. She was humid, radiating every drop of morning sun it had soaked in. Clay grabbed a handful of straw and took a few steps back, facing sideways. He murmured to drown out the distant shouting match, "Don't worry about them. Just the two of us..."
Watching Casey argue, Clay saw his wife's fists and shoulders. The expression on the suit's face was determined, but he was reasoning with a hornet. Clay smiled.
He felt a tug on the hay in his hand; he let it go. She was by his side now, chewing loudly. He said to her, "I don't know how much time we got here, girl. What say we get to know each other?"
A large piece of cud fell onto his boot. With her thick tongue, she licked the cud back noisily back into her mouth. He stepped onto the gate, out of the path of the longhorn's appetite.
Casey, still arguing with the suit, remained unaware of her father's progress. Clay looked back at the longhorn, placidly sopping up the remaining hay. "Now or never, I guess..." He pushed off, aiming behind the crown.
He didn't know if it was contact with the longhorn's back or her fringe that started it, but she bellowed from the shock. She ran the perimeter, bucking and roaring. Clay held tightly to her crown, splayed across her back, talking softly into every part of her body he thought could be her ears. As the longhorn slowed down, he began to pet at her neck, soothing her. After half a minute, she was calm enough for Clay to seat himself upright, and see the infuriated expression on his daughter's face. The suit had fainted into the dirt.
Before Casey could release an ounce of fury, Clay held up his hand, signaling her to keep calm. "We got an understanding. Get another bale."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Dino, Cousin of Triceratops, Discovered"
Clay was in the stables, trying to gauge how much of the old Wilson farm was left. They had kept the structure (it always was a jewel), but it smelled different. They still used it for livestock; maybe the cleaning and disinfecting were overpowering the few animals they kept. Or maybe they were feeding them something weird. He knew he raised Casey to have a conscience about this science, but he didn't know the rest of them...A knock at the wall; Casey was trying to get his attention. "You gotta see this."
"You said it was a longhorn.""We call her 'longhorn'. For obvious reasons."
Clay leaned forward against the railing, staring at the triceratops at the other end of the pen. She lay out in the sun, seemingly uninterested in anyone or anything. Clay tightened his grip on the railing, and he wondered if it would be strong enough for when she got mad.
Casey was enjoying the shock on her father's face. "She's still a calf, about a third of what we expect her to grow. So we need to reinforce her domesticated tendencies."
"Domesticated tendencies?"
"We boosted some of the genetic markers for empathic bonding - not enough to make it a new species this go-round, just a nudge in the right direction. She's as docile as your average brahma."
Clay let out a huff. "Brahma, huh?... Well, let's get a bale out." He dragged some hay out of the truck and shoved it over the fence. Still ignored by the longhorn, Clay tapped his knife on the metal railing. "Breakfast! Here, girl!"
He turned to see if Casey was amused. But Casey was having an argument with a man in a banker's suit. Clay turned his attention back to the longhorn, and her ground-trembling steps. Clay stood knee-high in the hay, kicking it around, staring sideways at the longhorn's approach. She grunted, snuffling at the hay, deciding it was worth eating. She was humid, radiating every drop of morning sun it had soaked in. Clay grabbed a handful of straw and took a few steps back, facing sideways. He murmured to drown out the distant shouting match, "Don't worry about them. Just the two of us..."
Watching Casey argue, Clay saw his wife's fists and shoulders. The expression on the suit's face was determined, but he was reasoning with a hornet. Clay smiled.
He felt a tug on the hay in his hand; he let it go. She was by his side now, chewing loudly. He said to her, "I don't know how much time we got here, girl. What say we get to know each other?"
A large piece of cud fell onto his boot. With her thick tongue, she licked the cud back noisily back into her mouth. He stepped onto the gate, out of the path of the longhorn's appetite.
Casey, still arguing with the suit, remained unaware of her father's progress. Clay looked back at the longhorn, placidly sopping up the remaining hay. "Now or never, I guess..." He pushed off, aiming behind the crown.
He didn't know if it was contact with the longhorn's back or her fringe that started it, but she bellowed from the shock. She ran the perimeter, bucking and roaring. Clay held tightly to her crown, splayed across her back, talking softly into every part of her body he thought could be her ears. As the longhorn slowed down, he began to pet at her neck, soothing her. After half a minute, she was calm enough for Clay to seat himself upright, and see the infuriated expression on his daughter's face. The suit had fainted into the dirt.
Before Casey could release an ounce of fury, Clay held up his hand, signaling her to keep calm. "We got an understanding. Get another bale."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Dino, Cousin of Triceratops, Discovered"
Saturday, March 15, 2014
DAY 74: Fantasticium
Adam was flustered to be in the swarm of superheroes and zombies, waiting forever in line. By the time he reached Mr Blanco's table, Adam had to wipe the sweat off before he could accept a handshake.
Blanco picked up his sketchpad. "Well, Dr Adam Hartnett, hat would you like me to draw?"
"um, Mr. Fantastic, please."
The artist chuckled. "I haven't drawn him in a while."
"Well, I'm a chemistry professor. He's a big deal to me."
Blanco nodded, tapping at his notepad as he pondered his first line. Adam brought out his briefcase, and produced an issue of Tales to Astonish #105. On the cover, the Hulk growled skyward, as the rubbery arms of Reed Richards coiled around him in an atomic shape. Blanco tilted his head, studying Reed's face, and started to draw.
Adam flipped through the pages, until he found a panel featuring the very human Dr Bruce Banner consulting Dr Richards in front of a chalkboard, cluttered by calculations. Adam pointed to the chalkboard. "Where did this equation come from?"
Dr Blanco looked up from his drawing. "I don't quite remember. I had a sister-in-law who studied chemistry; whenever I needed reference materials, I'd borrow one of her textbooks and pick something that looked important and interesting."
"Really?"
"Pretty much. I might add a couple of letters and characters, to balance out the appearance of it, make it look like it was something. It just ended up on the page."
An abrupt laugh escaped Adam's mouth. It stopped Blanco's pencil, and alarmed his companion.
"I'm sorry," Adam said. "I mean no offense. This really did look like something to me. I studied chemistry in college, so I could figure out what this equation was."
"Oh! I'm sorry! I can't even bring myself to charge you for this drawing now. When did you find out it was all mish-mash?"
Adam spoke between guffaws. "Actually, it's not. It's a formula for stabilizing isotopes of certain higher atomic elements. Well, that's what it became. It's the reason I got tenure."
He pulled out a plain metal ring. "This metal just got added on the periodic table. Two years ago, you couldn't find enough of it on the planet Earth to make this ring. Now, I can give this to you as a gift - a thank you. Oh, and I will pay the $30 for the sketch."
"Thank you, Adam," Blanco said, tearing the picture from his sketchpad. "Did you want to get a picture?"
Adam kept his eyes on the ground as he left, while Blanco greeted his next fan. After he found a quiet piece of hallway, Adam looked at the drawing of Mr Fantastic stretching out from the page. Behind the superhero, Blanco had drawn a chalkboard that held the first half of the same formula out of Tales to Astonish; a comic-book version of Adam had been drawn with chalk in hand, starting the second. Underneath, Blanco had written above his signature: "...just ended up on the page."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Meet the New Element: Ununpentium"
Blanco picked up his sketchpad. "Well, Dr Adam Hartnett, hat would you like me to draw?"
"um, Mr. Fantastic, please."
The artist chuckled. "I haven't drawn him in a while."
"Well, I'm a chemistry professor. He's a big deal to me."
Blanco nodded, tapping at his notepad as he pondered his first line. Adam brought out his briefcase, and produced an issue of Tales to Astonish #105. On the cover, the Hulk growled skyward, as the rubbery arms of Reed Richards coiled around him in an atomic shape. Blanco tilted his head, studying Reed's face, and started to draw.
Adam flipped through the pages, until he found a panel featuring the very human Dr Bruce Banner consulting Dr Richards in front of a chalkboard, cluttered by calculations. Adam pointed to the chalkboard. "Where did this equation come from?"
Dr Blanco looked up from his drawing. "I don't quite remember. I had a sister-in-law who studied chemistry; whenever I needed reference materials, I'd borrow one of her textbooks and pick something that looked important and interesting."
"Really?"
"Pretty much. I might add a couple of letters and characters, to balance out the appearance of it, make it look like it was something. It just ended up on the page."
An abrupt laugh escaped Adam's mouth. It stopped Blanco's pencil, and alarmed his companion.
"I'm sorry," Adam said. "I mean no offense. This really did look like something to me. I studied chemistry in college, so I could figure out what this equation was."
"Oh! I'm sorry! I can't even bring myself to charge you for this drawing now. When did you find out it was all mish-mash?"
Adam spoke between guffaws. "Actually, it's not. It's a formula for stabilizing isotopes of certain higher atomic elements. Well, that's what it became. It's the reason I got tenure."
He pulled out a plain metal ring. "This metal just got added on the periodic table. Two years ago, you couldn't find enough of it on the planet Earth to make this ring. Now, I can give this to you as a gift - a thank you. Oh, and I will pay the $30 for the sketch."
"Thank you, Adam," Blanco said, tearing the picture from his sketchpad. "Did you want to get a picture?"
Adam kept his eyes on the ground as he left, while Blanco greeted his next fan. After he found a quiet piece of hallway, Adam looked at the drawing of Mr Fantastic stretching out from the page. Behind the superhero, Blanco had drawn a chalkboard that held the first half of the same formula out of Tales to Astonish; a comic-book version of Adam had been drawn with chalk in hand, starting the second. Underneath, Blanco had written above his signature: "...just ended up on the page."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Meet the New Element: Ununpentium"
DAY 73: The Poker Table
Harvey riffled the deck and looked around the table. "Okay, it looks like we're all here for tonight. Lose the chips and let's see what we're playing with."
Timmy was first; he brought out a fistful of medications in clear vials, dropping two in the center of the table. "Herceptin."
Lyle chuckled as he pulled out his meds, seperating them in two distinct piles. "We're not throwing in the pot yet. Is that all you got?"
Timmy shook his head. "I like the other stuff. This stuff ain't doing nothing for me."
"Works great for me." Bernie had his loot ready, and was sorting the hand he'd been dealt. "So far, it does," he said, with two knocks on the table.
Harvey set down the deck, and looked at his cards. Three royals and a pair of 7's; his game to lose. "I started on Herceptin six months ago, but it burned me up until they started adding Xeloda. You sure it's just Herceptin you got a problem with?"
Timmy slid two Herceptin deeper into the center. "It's a start."
The pot had grown. Now it included Rituximab, Xeloda, Gleevax, Flotaxin, even some insulin.
"I can't believe you put insulin in there," Timmy said.
Lyle shrugged his shoulders. "Larry threw that in last month."
"Where's Larry?"
"Full remission," Bernie said. "He's in New Mexico; called to tell me the food was better out there."
"Seriously?" Harvey asked.
"He's sending all his stuff next week; asked me to put it in the pot when it gets here. when you care enough to send the very best..."
"What was his regimen?" Timmy asked.
Lyle already knew: three months of Avastin, Gleevax, and a no-meat diet. He'd tried the same mix for a while, but metastesized, regardless. Maybe it was in his brain already, but he wasn't going to give up cheeseburgers anymore. It wasn't one drug or another, bean sprouts or dry heat that did it. Larry found his answer in the pot, and now Lyle wanted his turn.
Lyle wondered what his doctor was doing right now. Maybe Dr Brooks was playing golf; maybe he was doing the same thing Lyle was doing. It made just as much sense.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Genome-Based Cancer Treatment"
Timmy was first; he brought out a fistful of medications in clear vials, dropping two in the center of the table. "Herceptin."
Lyle chuckled as he pulled out his meds, seperating them in two distinct piles. "We're not throwing in the pot yet. Is that all you got?"
Timmy shook his head. "I like the other stuff. This stuff ain't doing nothing for me."
"Works great for me." Bernie had his loot ready, and was sorting the hand he'd been dealt. "So far, it does," he said, with two knocks on the table.
Harvey set down the deck, and looked at his cards. Three royals and a pair of 7's; his game to lose. "I started on Herceptin six months ago, but it burned me up until they started adding Xeloda. You sure it's just Herceptin you got a problem with?"
Timmy slid two Herceptin deeper into the center. "It's a start."
The pot had grown. Now it included Rituximab, Xeloda, Gleevax, Flotaxin, even some insulin.
"I can't believe you put insulin in there," Timmy said.
Lyle shrugged his shoulders. "Larry threw that in last month."
"Where's Larry?"
"Full remission," Bernie said. "He's in New Mexico; called to tell me the food was better out there."
"Seriously?" Harvey asked.
"He's sending all his stuff next week; asked me to put it in the pot when it gets here. when you care enough to send the very best..."
"What was his regimen?" Timmy asked.
Lyle already knew: three months of Avastin, Gleevax, and a no-meat diet. He'd tried the same mix for a while, but metastesized, regardless. Maybe it was in his brain already, but he wasn't going to give up cheeseburgers anymore. It wasn't one drug or another, bean sprouts or dry heat that did it. Larry found his answer in the pot, and now Lyle wanted his turn.
Lyle wondered what his doctor was doing right now. Maybe Dr Brooks was playing golf; maybe he was doing the same thing Lyle was doing. It made just as much sense.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Genome-Based Cancer Treatment"
Thursday, March 13, 2014
DAY 72: Arsenic and Old Rice
Jiro was trying to talk himself out of eating sushi. He had two phones and a tablet by his plate, to help him.. The tablet identified the components of his dinner - a list of ingredients in the Crunchy Rainbow roll, under sesame sauce and presented with a side of wasabi. In the phone to his immediate right, he searched for documentation of identified toxins with each ingredient. In the other phone, he calculated the estimated toxin levels he could expect to be exposed to, down to the piece.
He had been proud of his dietary lifestyle: not as doomed as the bacon cheeseburger worshippers, not as pretentious as the vega-ova-terrestrials... just chicken, fish, and the kind of stuff that gets a B-to-B-plus on the nutritional report card. But then the local news reported that a sister location of his favorite grocery store had recalled a week's worth of chicken breasts sales, after several families contracted a previously unidentified strain of avian flu. He started reading headlines about the risks in foods that he had trusted, to the point that he recognized he was becoming phobic about the act of eating. He compromised with his fears, and began his dietary audit.
Jiro had been eating sushi since he was 13 years old. Now, he sat in front of his favorite order, trying to figure out how many more pieces he could eat in his life. He attempted to ascertain the levels of mercury in the fish, arsenic in the rice, lead in the seaweed... He looked up from his mathwork, and eyed the colorful plate. By his own determination, this plate of sushi would be his third-to-last ever, to be safe.
He was studying his food so intently, he did not see the waitress refresh his drink. He shifted his gaze to the glass of tap water... and he froze.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Arsenic-Tainted Rice is Harmful to Humans"
He had been proud of his dietary lifestyle: not as doomed as the bacon cheeseburger worshippers, not as pretentious as the vega-ova-terrestrials... just chicken, fish, and the kind of stuff that gets a B-to-B-plus on the nutritional report card. But then the local news reported that a sister location of his favorite grocery store had recalled a week's worth of chicken breasts sales, after several families contracted a previously unidentified strain of avian flu. He started reading headlines about the risks in foods that he had trusted, to the point that he recognized he was becoming phobic about the act of eating. He compromised with his fears, and began his dietary audit.
Jiro had been eating sushi since he was 13 years old. Now, he sat in front of his favorite order, trying to figure out how many more pieces he could eat in his life. He attempted to ascertain the levels of mercury in the fish, arsenic in the rice, lead in the seaweed... He looked up from his mathwork, and eyed the colorful plate. By his own determination, this plate of sushi would be his third-to-last ever, to be safe.
He was studying his food so intently, he did not see the waitress refresh his drink. He shifted his gaze to the glass of tap water... and he froze.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Arsenic-Tainted Rice is Harmful to Humans"
DAY 71: Morning at the Smart House
"Abe!" Edith called out. "Where are you?"
From the speakers, a cranky voice responded, "I'm here, picklehead! What you yelling for?"
"Abe, I need help out of the bathtub!" Edith started to push down on the bathtub rim with her arms; two aide-bars telescoped from the walls, scooping her under her pits, easing her to her feet. When she was almost upright, the automated fans began to blow warmly on her fragile body.
Another aide-bar presented a robe for her reach. "Abe, we're not getting enough hot water in the bathtub. We need to fix that."
"Alright, alright..." Abe's voice chimed in.
Edith walked toward the sound, and the room lights switched on to lead her way. "And I want to get more of those lavender salts. But not that Hershey Salts! I think it's making me break out."
"Alright, alright..."
Edith was in the bedroom now, by the vanity. She took a seat to brush her hair. "Did you get a call from Mandy yet? Nathan said he was gonna make sure she called today."
"It's her birthday, today. She's working today, too."
"That's true. But what are you taking her side for? You think it's alright for her to act like she doesn't have family?"
"Of course not. She should call her mother."
"She's a workaholic. There's taking care of your family, and there's paying for not having to do anything with them! She didn't learn that from me!"
"Of course not, hun. At least she got your brains. Your beauty, too."
Edith stopped, studying her reflection. "Well, it had to go somewhere. It's not here anymore."
"Picklehead! How can you say that?" The lights on her makeup mirror adjusted to a warmer glow, bathing her face in a glamorous light. "You're beautiful..." His words made her blush. "And now, you're being shy? Enough of the sappy stuff. You know what time it is..."
Edith nodded, and turned to the mechanized cart entering the room. It carried her morning medicines, water, jam and toast. Edith reached for the toast first, but a tutting sound came from the speakers. "Medicine first, hun..." She complied, swallowing every pill. When she returned the empty cup to it's saucer, the rim turned green. "Thank you, hun. Breakfast time..."
Edith munched on her toast, humming along with the sublimated music playing through the house. She cleared her throat and called, "Abe!"
"Yes?"
"I miss you."
"I know. I love you, picklehead."
"I love you, too."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "A Moon Shot for the Brain"
From the speakers, a cranky voice responded, "I'm here, picklehead! What you yelling for?"
"Abe, I need help out of the bathtub!" Edith started to push down on the bathtub rim with her arms; two aide-bars telescoped from the walls, scooping her under her pits, easing her to her feet. When she was almost upright, the automated fans began to blow warmly on her fragile body.
Another aide-bar presented a robe for her reach. "Abe, we're not getting enough hot water in the bathtub. We need to fix that."
"Alright, alright..." Abe's voice chimed in.
Edith walked toward the sound, and the room lights switched on to lead her way. "And I want to get more of those lavender salts. But not that Hershey Salts! I think it's making me break out."
"Alright, alright..."
Edith was in the bedroom now, by the vanity. She took a seat to brush her hair. "Did you get a call from Mandy yet? Nathan said he was gonna make sure she called today."
"It's her birthday, today. She's working today, too."
"That's true. But what are you taking her side for? You think it's alright for her to act like she doesn't have family?"
"Of course not. She should call her mother."
"She's a workaholic. There's taking care of your family, and there's paying for not having to do anything with them! She didn't learn that from me!"
"Of course not, hun. At least she got your brains. Your beauty, too."
Edith stopped, studying her reflection. "Well, it had to go somewhere. It's not here anymore."
"Picklehead! How can you say that?" The lights on her makeup mirror adjusted to a warmer glow, bathing her face in a glamorous light. "You're beautiful..." His words made her blush. "And now, you're being shy? Enough of the sappy stuff. You know what time it is..."
Edith nodded, and turned to the mechanized cart entering the room. It carried her morning medicines, water, jam and toast. Edith reached for the toast first, but a tutting sound came from the speakers. "Medicine first, hun..." She complied, swallowing every pill. When she returned the empty cup to it's saucer, the rim turned green. "Thank you, hun. Breakfast time..."
Edith munched on her toast, humming along with the sublimated music playing through the house. She cleared her throat and called, "Abe!"
"Yes?"
"I miss you."
"I know. I love you, picklehead."
"I love you, too."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "A Moon Shot for the Brain"
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
DAY 70: Dream #46
Wendy was surprised to see Poppin standing there. "You're still dead, aren't you?"
"Yes. And I'm here to help you accept it."
Wendy froze in her tracks. She was as the park pavillion again, waiting for the rain to stop. She was wearing the pink rainboots she outgrew, and the heather-green coat. She even had the barrettes in her hair that she wore that day, the ones she put in the coffin with Poppin. "But I'm sitting right here, yes."
"So I'm dreaming again?"
"Yes. The same dream. It's time to change it, isn't it?"
"I- I don't know how."
Poppin offered one of her transcendant smiles, wide as the horizon. "I know, dear. It's not easy."
"Everybody says I should."
"Certainly. You're so afraid of so many things. Loneliness and guilt, and traffic and crowds, and cars and rain. It's always going to rain again, you know... eventually. Have I made you afraid?"
"No... Hey, why are you talking to me?"
"Because no one else knows what happened. Do they?"
"No."
"But they ask."
"...yes."
"And you don't tell them?"
"No. I'm crazy enough already."
"Only because you're not talking, dear. Fear feeds on silence, like oxygen for fire."
"But if I talk-"
Poppin leaned in, waiting for the rest of the sentence. Wendy opened her mouth-
The rain had stopped. The park was smothered in that post-rain quiet.
"Go on, Wendy... If you talk..."
Wendy got up. "And now it's time."
Poppin stood with her. "It doesn't have to be."
"But this is how it happened."
They walked, assuming the posture of happier conversations. But Poppin continued. "Do you ever remember what we were talking about?"
Wendy spun, holding her hands out for any remaining drops of rain. "No! I don't remember the last things you said. I'm forgetting! I'm sorry!"
Poppin walked onto the road with more difficulty. "Don't be sorry. I still love you all. And I love you."
The cadillac fell out of the sky, onto Poppin's spot. Wendy screamed, and ran to her, trying to glimpse her under the wreck. From out of the shadow, Poppin's voice emerged. "Next time, dear. Next time..."
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Erasing Fears with Sleep"
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Erasing Fears with Sleep"
DAY 69: Interfacing
Marlon adjusted his glasses and turned to his wife. "How do I look?"
"Like a supervillain?" Peggy replied.
The jokes were not going to stop with her. But that was the price he would have to pay to wear the glasses to the reunion. His cover was that he had to keep them on for work. But the truth was, they were his crutch; if they worked correctly, he would know any family member's name before they got the last syllable of 'hello' out of their mouths. It had taken all week to convince his wife; saying that her family members all looked alike had not helped matters. But she relented, on the condition that his subterfuge would remain undetected.
Their timing was perfect: the first of the grilled masterpieces were being served. Peggy's mother, Lorraine, 58, greeted them by herself. "You made it! And Marlon's trying to look like he's money!"
"If you knew how much I paid for these, you'd know I was, Lorraine..." He leaned in to get his cheeks kissed. "Your daughter'll make me a cabana boy any day now. If not, you need one?"
Lorraine giggled. "The boys are over by the grill and the beer, of course." She shooed him away, taking her daughter with her.
The grill was unmanned when he walked up to it. His glasses were already sizing up the nutritional values and remaining cooking time for all the meat selections, when a large hand gripped his shoulder.
"Marlon! You made it!" Marlon turned to face... who was this? "Peggy wouldn't let you talk your way out of it, huh?"
The glasses started to work as soon as they detected his voice. In the right-hand corner, Marlon saw
Ed Solowitz, 48, Lubbock, Texas
"Ed!" Marlon shook his hand, as he rapidly watched his glass. "Geez, Ed, how long you been here?"
Current Wife: Emma, 26 ; Dogs:2 - Rusty, Lady Marmalade
"First thing! Emma wanted to help Mom out-
First wife: Doreen, 45 ; children: Mark, 17 ; Ellen, 15; Neil, 8
"-as in I get to make all the trips to the grocery store. You lucked out!"
Traffic citations: 1998, 1999, 2001, 2005, 2006, 2009
"Yeah, thanks for taking that bullet, Ed. How are you and Emma doing?"
Emma Solowitz, 23, dance instructor, Lubbock, Texas ; owner, Stripocize Fitness, Inc.
"We're doing great!-"
Employed: Southland Resources, VP Finance, Dallas Division, 2008-present
"We had a good quarter-
HEADLINE: Southland Resources VP harrassment suit dismissed
"-might get a vacation redo sooner than I thought."
HEADLINE: Norovirus strikes again in Corpus Christi cruise ship
"Well, you deserve it, Ed."
Ed raised his beer can. "Don't I know it!" In the corner of Marlon's eye, a pair of luscious lips blew him a kiss.
Coors Lite: Tap the Rockies
Marlon looked at the beer can in his hand, then back at Ed; he was wearing a virtual handlebar mustache.
OLD MILWAUKEE: The Beer that Made Milwaukee Famous!
"Hey, Marlon - why's your eye twitching?" Marlon blinked hard and focused his gaze on Ed's square face.
ALOPECIA: male pattern baldness, afflicts up to...
"I got a thing."
"Is that why you're wearing the glasses?"
Marlon tried to focus his eye square at Ed's head. "Yeah, it's supposed to help."
ROGAINE: Use it or Lose it!
Marlon took the glasses. "...but I think I need a break."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Google Glass: A Futuristic Fantasy that Already Feels Retro"
"Like a supervillain?" Peggy replied.
The jokes were not going to stop with her. But that was the price he would have to pay to wear the glasses to the reunion. His cover was that he had to keep them on for work. But the truth was, they were his crutch; if they worked correctly, he would know any family member's name before they got the last syllable of 'hello' out of their mouths. It had taken all week to convince his wife; saying that her family members all looked alike had not helped matters. But she relented, on the condition that his subterfuge would remain undetected.
Their timing was perfect: the first of the grilled masterpieces were being served. Peggy's mother, Lorraine, 58, greeted them by herself. "You made it! And Marlon's trying to look like he's money!"
"If you knew how much I paid for these, you'd know I was, Lorraine..." He leaned in to get his cheeks kissed. "Your daughter'll make me a cabana boy any day now. If not, you need one?"
Lorraine giggled. "The boys are over by the grill and the beer, of course." She shooed him away, taking her daughter with her.
The grill was unmanned when he walked up to it. His glasses were already sizing up the nutritional values and remaining cooking time for all the meat selections, when a large hand gripped his shoulder.
"Marlon! You made it!" Marlon turned to face... who was this? "Peggy wouldn't let you talk your way out of it, huh?"
The glasses started to work as soon as they detected his voice. In the right-hand corner, Marlon saw
Ed Solowitz, 48, Lubbock, Texas
"Ed!" Marlon shook his hand, as he rapidly watched his glass. "Geez, Ed, how long you been here?"
Current Wife: Emma, 26 ; Dogs:2 - Rusty, Lady Marmalade
"First thing! Emma wanted to help Mom out-
First wife: Doreen, 45 ; children: Mark, 17 ; Ellen, 15; Neil, 8
"-as in I get to make all the trips to the grocery store. You lucked out!"
Traffic citations: 1998, 1999, 2001, 2005, 2006, 2009
"Yeah, thanks for taking that bullet, Ed. How are you and Emma doing?"
Emma Solowitz, 23, dance instructor, Lubbock, Texas ; owner, Stripocize Fitness, Inc.
"We're doing great!-"
Employed: Southland Resources, VP Finance, Dallas Division, 2008-present
"We had a good quarter-
HEADLINE: Southland Resources VP harrassment suit dismissed
"-might get a vacation redo sooner than I thought."
HEADLINE: Norovirus strikes again in Corpus Christi cruise ship
"Well, you deserve it, Ed."
Ed raised his beer can. "Don't I know it!" In the corner of Marlon's eye, a pair of luscious lips blew him a kiss.
Coors Lite: Tap the Rockies
Marlon looked at the beer can in his hand, then back at Ed; he was wearing a virtual handlebar mustache.
OLD MILWAUKEE: The Beer that Made Milwaukee Famous!
"Hey, Marlon - why's your eye twitching?" Marlon blinked hard and focused his gaze on Ed's square face.
ALOPECIA: male pattern baldness, afflicts up to...
"I got a thing."
"Is that why you're wearing the glasses?"
Marlon tried to focus his eye square at Ed's head. "Yeah, it's supposed to help."
ROGAINE: Use it or Lose it!
Marlon took the glasses. "...but I think I need a break."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Google Glass: A Futuristic Fantasy that Already Feels Retro"
Monday, March 10, 2014
DAY 68: The Right Tool for the Job
There were four left when they reached the former general store. Mike was in a panic. "He asked me to shoot him. Bobby asked me, you all heard that, right?"
"Cool it now!" Ronnie said. "He said he didn't want to be one of those things. Don't fall apart now!"
Mickey added, "Yeah, don't worry, Mike. If you give me a reason, I won't hesitate to shoot you."
Ralph stayed silent as he stopped the car. Mickey held out a pistol to him. "You want?"
"I'm good," Ralph replied, reaching down for his toolbelt.
Ronnie checked his watch. "Okay, guys, this shopping spree's good for five minutes. When I call 'time', we roll."
"And when I call 'zombie', we open fire." Mickey added. "Ralph, open the door."
Ralph studied the lock before he pulled out the screwdriver. A quick smack, and they were in.
Mickey had Mike push the shopping cart. "Straight to canned goods, man! We need the stuff that lasts. Damn, do I miss ice cream, though... And cheese! Even squash! Butter-fried squash and zuccini, mmm!" While Mickey reminisced of flavors past, Mike watched the shadows.
Ralph was pushing Ronnie's cart. "This run's going to be food and ammo, Ralph, but I don't know when we'll be back again. If there's anything on your list that we can fit in the van, I'll consider it."
Ralph replied, "Two hammers... two needle-nose pliers... three sewing kits... rope, at least a hundred yards... a car battery."
They were between auto parts and the oil-change station. A car battery sat on the counter, still waiting for pickup. Ralph took out his screwdriver, scraping fresh sparks off one of the battery terminals. "I'm good," he said, lifting the battery.
They found a stash of cartridges when they heard the first gunshot. Mickey was screaming from across the store, "Cleanup, register 3!" He and Mike were bottlenecked in the aisle, with only their shopping cart between them and three zombies. Ronnie barreled through, sideswiping two with his overloaded cart. That gave Mickey a chance to load up and shoot one, while Ronnie shot another. The last one was reaching to bit on Ronnie's ankle, when Ralph's screwdriver came down through its skullcap, and out the bottom of its jaw. Ronnie jumped back, blasting the zombie skull like a ripe pumpkin. Without a word, Ralph retrieved his unscathed screwdriver and wiped it clean against his pants leg.
Back at base camp, Mickey and Mike shared the spoils - and the story - with the rest of the camp. Ronnie was talking with the others, in preparation for the memorial service. Ralph, meanwhile, was ready to plug his battery onto his latest device. The camp was ready for nightlights and food processors. He was ready to watch a movie again. He placed the battery on his improvised workbench, and began adding it to his contraption. But when he grasped the brackets, he frowned; he needed a Phillips head.
Ralph tossed the screwdriver without looking. "Useless..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "MicroRNA Halts Breast Cancer Protein"
"Cool it now!" Ronnie said. "He said he didn't want to be one of those things. Don't fall apart now!"
Mickey added, "Yeah, don't worry, Mike. If you give me a reason, I won't hesitate to shoot you."
Ralph stayed silent as he stopped the car. Mickey held out a pistol to him. "You want?"
"I'm good," Ralph replied, reaching down for his toolbelt.
Ronnie checked his watch. "Okay, guys, this shopping spree's good for five minutes. When I call 'time', we roll."
"And when I call 'zombie', we open fire." Mickey added. "Ralph, open the door."
Ralph studied the lock before he pulled out the screwdriver. A quick smack, and they were in.
Mickey had Mike push the shopping cart. "Straight to canned goods, man! We need the stuff that lasts. Damn, do I miss ice cream, though... And cheese! Even squash! Butter-fried squash and zuccini, mmm!" While Mickey reminisced of flavors past, Mike watched the shadows.
Ralph was pushing Ronnie's cart. "This run's going to be food and ammo, Ralph, but I don't know when we'll be back again. If there's anything on your list that we can fit in the van, I'll consider it."
Ralph replied, "Two hammers... two needle-nose pliers... three sewing kits... rope, at least a hundred yards... a car battery."
They were between auto parts and the oil-change station. A car battery sat on the counter, still waiting for pickup. Ralph took out his screwdriver, scraping fresh sparks off one of the battery terminals. "I'm good," he said, lifting the battery.
They found a stash of cartridges when they heard the first gunshot. Mickey was screaming from across the store, "Cleanup, register 3!" He and Mike were bottlenecked in the aisle, with only their shopping cart between them and three zombies. Ronnie barreled through, sideswiping two with his overloaded cart. That gave Mickey a chance to load up and shoot one, while Ronnie shot another. The last one was reaching to bit on Ronnie's ankle, when Ralph's screwdriver came down through its skullcap, and out the bottom of its jaw. Ronnie jumped back, blasting the zombie skull like a ripe pumpkin. Without a word, Ralph retrieved his unscathed screwdriver and wiped it clean against his pants leg.
Back at base camp, Mickey and Mike shared the spoils - and the story - with the rest of the camp. Ronnie was talking with the others, in preparation for the memorial service. Ralph, meanwhile, was ready to plug his battery onto his latest device. The camp was ready for nightlights and food processors. He was ready to watch a movie again. He placed the battery on his improvised workbench, and began adding it to his contraption. But when he grasped the brackets, he frowned; he needed a Phillips head.
Ralph tossed the screwdriver without looking. "Useless..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "MicroRNA Halts Breast Cancer Protein"
Sunday, March 9, 2014
DAY 67: The River of Dust
Paris walked the riverbed, waiting for the wind to return. He had lost the camp two days ago, coming down from his psychotropic adventure, and the remains of the river was the first change in the environment that had registered with him. There was no water to point downstream, but he had run into a breeze that felt directed, so he walked in that direction. The air was slight - non-existent, in some stretches- but he walked on.
He reached the center column that protruded from the riverbed. The shade was welcome, so he stood beneath and collected himself. He was so thirsty. He curled up as much of himself into the shadow and waited for anything. Doubt caught up with him: was he any closer to being found? To finding civilization? He needed a better vantage point.
Paris looked above him, at the outcropping, and a shape too precise to be natural, poking out. Any color had been lost to the elements. But Paris had regained enough strength to be curious. He pulled himself up to investigate.
It hurt to climb, but he was in the column's shadow, and he had something to think and do besides walk. He touched it: petrified wood, bathed in crumbled mud. As Paris put weight on it, the boat shifted, then held in place; it was wedged. The water that had pressed it there was long gone.
As he pulled himself over the edge, the wind began to spiral around him. He leaned on the boat, only for it to give way. "Help me!" he cried, as he fell back to earth, and saw the boat follow...
He awoke underneath the boat. The only light he could see with, faded rapidly, carried off by the increasing winds that whipped over his new coffin. Even if he had the power to stand, it would not be with his own legs; the boat had landed on an ankle, crushing it. But he barely had the strength to weep, and the boat prevented him from even turning his head heavenward. So he lay there, consigning himself to the dust, an ear to the ground, when he heard a distant rumbling, like thunder...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Colorado River in Drought's Grip"
Paris looked above him, at the outcropping, and a shape too precise to be natural, poking out. Any color had been lost to the elements. But Paris had regained enough strength to be curious. He pulled himself up to investigate.
It hurt to climb, but he was in the column's shadow, and he had something to think and do besides walk. He touched it: petrified wood, bathed in crumbled mud. As Paris put weight on it, the boat shifted, then held in place; it was wedged. The water that had pressed it there was long gone.
As he pulled himself over the edge, the wind began to spiral around him. He leaned on the boat, only for it to give way. "Help me!" he cried, as he fell back to earth, and saw the boat follow...
He awoke underneath the boat. The only light he could see with, faded rapidly, carried off by the increasing winds that whipped over his new coffin. Even if he had the power to stand, it would not be with his own legs; the boat had landed on an ankle, crushing it. But he barely had the strength to weep, and the boat prevented him from even turning his head heavenward. So he lay there, consigning himself to the dust, an ear to the ground, when he heard a distant rumbling, like thunder...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Colorado River in Drought's Grip"
Saturday, March 8, 2014
DAY 66: I Lost My Heart on the Super Coaster
I lost my girlfriend to the Sunshine Valley Super Coaster.
Up to that point, it had been a fun day at the park. We had enjoyed some other rides, played some games, even watched a sidewalk magician... half-way around the park, before she was willing to stand in line for as long as it would take to get on the coaster. She swore she hated coasters, even as she admitted she'd never been on one. But I beat her at a boat race, and I promised I would win her something at the skee-ball, so she relented and checked her phone as we waited in line, until it was our turn to board.
She was audibly nervous, especially when they sat us in the front cab. She double-checked her restraints (and mine), while I kept trying to reassure her, telling her stories about other coasters even bigger and faster than this, so this won't be a problem. But as soon as the coaster pulled out, and the clacking and hissing began, she started muttering in hyperspeed, "idon'twannadothis,idon'twannadothis..." I laughed off her anxiety, raising my arms up and whooping with others in anticipation. She told me how much I owed her for putting her in this predicament, and probably getting her killed, while everything left our field of vision but sky...
...and then we plunged. And the screaming began.
At first, it was hilarious, all of us screaming as we plummeted, and her the loudest. Not just screaming, but cussing, digging her fingers into my leg, holding on for dear life...
By the end of the first dip, she was hyperventilating, cussing in tongues, while we were twisted and titled at breakneck speed. By the second dip, her yells were deafening.
On the third incline, most of us were catching our breath, laughing - and so was she, but more so. Her hands were tight on the armbars now, and her eyes were barely open. That's when the thought entered my head, remembering the screams she made the night she heard something bang up against the front door, or when she startled a mouse in her kitchen. This moment was different.
When we returned, she couldn't get out of the cab by herself. I was her crutch, as she wobbled her way to the exit. She asked to go again, but I told her I had a prize I promised to win her. I ended up winning her a polar bear as big as she was; she asked me to hold it while she went on the coaster again. When I caught up with her later, she was waiting at the exit with a cigarette.
Things were not the same after that; two weeks later, it was over. I lost her to the Super Coaster. She left me the bear.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Evidence for Flavor-Switching Neutrinos"
Up to that point, it had been a fun day at the park. We had enjoyed some other rides, played some games, even watched a sidewalk magician... half-way around the park, before she was willing to stand in line for as long as it would take to get on the coaster. She swore she hated coasters, even as she admitted she'd never been on one. But I beat her at a boat race, and I promised I would win her something at the skee-ball, so she relented and checked her phone as we waited in line, until it was our turn to board.
She was audibly nervous, especially when they sat us in the front cab. She double-checked her restraints (and mine), while I kept trying to reassure her, telling her stories about other coasters even bigger and faster than this, so this won't be a problem. But as soon as the coaster pulled out, and the clacking and hissing began, she started muttering in hyperspeed, "idon'twannadothis,idon'twannadothis..." I laughed off her anxiety, raising my arms up and whooping with others in anticipation. She told me how much I owed her for putting her in this predicament, and probably getting her killed, while everything left our field of vision but sky...
...and then we plunged. And the screaming began.
At first, it was hilarious, all of us screaming as we plummeted, and her the loudest. Not just screaming, but cussing, digging her fingers into my leg, holding on for dear life...
By the end of the first dip, she was hyperventilating, cussing in tongues, while we were twisted and titled at breakneck speed. By the second dip, her yells were deafening.
On the third incline, most of us were catching our breath, laughing - and so was she, but more so. Her hands were tight on the armbars now, and her eyes were barely open. That's when the thought entered my head, remembering the screams she made the night she heard something bang up against the front door, or when she startled a mouse in her kitchen. This moment was different.
When we returned, she couldn't get out of the cab by herself. I was her crutch, as she wobbled her way to the exit. She asked to go again, but I told her I had a prize I promised to win her. I ended up winning her a polar bear as big as she was; she asked me to hold it while she went on the coaster again. When I caught up with her later, she was waiting at the exit with a cigarette.
Things were not the same after that; two weeks later, it was over. I lost her to the Super Coaster. She left me the bear.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Evidence for Flavor-Switching Neutrinos"
Friday, March 7, 2014
DAY 65: The Day of the Pitch
Lyndon waited on the crimson leather couch of Senator Hawthorne's trophy room, staring back at a mounted springbok. There were a half-dozen members of the antelope family on the Senator's wall, but it was the gaze of the springbok that unnerved him. There were more dangerous denizens of the den - the standing grizzly, for one - but the springbok had been so precisely recreated that it looked ready to burst from the wall; only the hollow of its eyes suggested lifelessness.
Senator Hawthorne could be heard in the next room, verbally eviscerating another visitor. The mid-term elections had been good for Senator Hawthorne's party. The best Senator Hawthorne was able to finagle was a swing vote within the Committee of Science. In a different year, that would have been a consolation prize; a 15% budget cut made this year particularly competitive. Like everything else, this gift turned sour in Hawthorne's view; with the major lobbies locked in, Hawthorne had a parade of tin cups knocking on his door, and the only joy he got was telling them 'no' in the most humiliating way possible.
Lyndon had not met Dr McKenzie, but he knew of her work: very exciting stuff that was geared toward leukemia research. Her sobs were already audible. Her meeting was not going well, and then he would attempt to follow with DNA research on endangered species, utilizing stem cells - the non-controversial kind, but only to those who paid attention to such things. Lyndon was doomed.
The door swung open; Dr McKenzie was left to compose herself while the senator stepped forward to face his next victim. Lyndon stood up, guarded; he towered over the senator. The two had a moment to study each other while the senator's assistant led Dr McKenzie away. Once the room had quieted down, a smile seeped onto the senator's face. "Please, be seated. How can I help you?"
Lyndon focused on the horns behind the senator's ears. "Did you catch that one?"
Hawthorne followed Lyndon's gaze to the 18-point buck. "That's a good eye you got there. I can't claim that one - I'm proud to say my son got that one. But his wife can't find a spot on her walls for it. Can you believe that?"
"Some people," Lyndon replied. "What about that elephant?"
"That photo was from a trip to Myanmar - confiscated from some poachers," he said, with a wink. "But that bear in the corner? Got her four winters ago, up in Alaska. That changed me. Discovered something in me that day... So, what do you want?"
"Did your assistants explain what my team does?" Before the senator could embarrass himself, Lyndon continued, "Because some folks just focus on the controversies that make it easy to say no. Ours is 'stem cell', although I swear to you now, it's not foetuses or even people! But we are geneticists, we are doing reconstructive DNA research-"
"So you're playing God!"
"No... Unless you call a dog breeder playing God. Or a horse breeder, or cattle breeder. We are using the tools of science to do what's been done for thousands of years. Perhaps even undo mistakes mankind has done. Tell me, senator, are you familiar with a creature known as a 'mastadon'?"
"Wooly mammoth? Yeah!"
"You know Russians are trying to bring them back? It sounds crazy, sounds like science fiction, but me and the guys on my team, we know that this kind of work is inevitable. Genetics is the new race to the moon, senator."
Hawthorne was sitting down now, listening intently. Lyndon had no intention of losing that momentum. "Now you don't have to tell me, senator- but ask yourself, how many of your constituents haven't been able to develop their land, their businesses, because they were encroaching on some endangered species habitat? Now what would you say to making the term 'endangered species' obsolete? What kind of resources would open up if protected species didn't need protecting anymore?"
"And the animal lovers still get their animals!"
"It's a win-win! We're not playing God, senator. We're trying to fix mankind's mistakes."
Hawthorne began rubbing his chin. "You have some interesting ideas. But is the government really supposed to be in this business?"
"Sir, the Russians are in the mastadon business. The Chinese are messing with lion/tiger mixes. The pace of this science is not slowing down, only our nation's ability to retain the lead."
"You make a good argument, son." Hawthorne poured him a drink. "But you can't spend government money on invisible things."
"Well, what do you want? We're restoring the bald eagle, and bringing back the passenger pigeon! What do you want, dinosaurs?" Lyndon downed his drink.
The senator paused in consideration. "Y'know, I wonder what it'd be like to bag a triceratops."
inspired by Discover magazine article, "Science: Sequestered and Shut Down"
Senator Hawthorne could be heard in the next room, verbally eviscerating another visitor. The mid-term elections had been good for Senator Hawthorne's party. The best Senator Hawthorne was able to finagle was a swing vote within the Committee of Science. In a different year, that would have been a consolation prize; a 15% budget cut made this year particularly competitive. Like everything else, this gift turned sour in Hawthorne's view; with the major lobbies locked in, Hawthorne had a parade of tin cups knocking on his door, and the only joy he got was telling them 'no' in the most humiliating way possible.
Lyndon had not met Dr McKenzie, but he knew of her work: very exciting stuff that was geared toward leukemia research. Her sobs were already audible. Her meeting was not going well, and then he would attempt to follow with DNA research on endangered species, utilizing stem cells - the non-controversial kind, but only to those who paid attention to such things. Lyndon was doomed.
The door swung open; Dr McKenzie was left to compose herself while the senator stepped forward to face his next victim. Lyndon stood up, guarded; he towered over the senator. The two had a moment to study each other while the senator's assistant led Dr McKenzie away. Once the room had quieted down, a smile seeped onto the senator's face. "Please, be seated. How can I help you?"
Lyndon focused on the horns behind the senator's ears. "Did you catch that one?"
Hawthorne followed Lyndon's gaze to the 18-point buck. "That's a good eye you got there. I can't claim that one - I'm proud to say my son got that one. But his wife can't find a spot on her walls for it. Can you believe that?"
"Some people," Lyndon replied. "What about that elephant?"
"That photo was from a trip to Myanmar - confiscated from some poachers," he said, with a wink. "But that bear in the corner? Got her four winters ago, up in Alaska. That changed me. Discovered something in me that day... So, what do you want?"
"Did your assistants explain what my team does?" Before the senator could embarrass himself, Lyndon continued, "Because some folks just focus on the controversies that make it easy to say no. Ours is 'stem cell', although I swear to you now, it's not foetuses or even people! But we are geneticists, we are doing reconstructive DNA research-"
"So you're playing God!"
"No... Unless you call a dog breeder playing God. Or a horse breeder, or cattle breeder. We are using the tools of science to do what's been done for thousands of years. Perhaps even undo mistakes mankind has done. Tell me, senator, are you familiar with a creature known as a 'mastadon'?"
"Wooly mammoth? Yeah!"
"You know Russians are trying to bring them back? It sounds crazy, sounds like science fiction, but me and the guys on my team, we know that this kind of work is inevitable. Genetics is the new race to the moon, senator."
Hawthorne was sitting down now, listening intently. Lyndon had no intention of losing that momentum. "Now you don't have to tell me, senator- but ask yourself, how many of your constituents haven't been able to develop their land, their businesses, because they were encroaching on some endangered species habitat? Now what would you say to making the term 'endangered species' obsolete? What kind of resources would open up if protected species didn't need protecting anymore?"
"And the animal lovers still get their animals!"
"It's a win-win! We're not playing God, senator. We're trying to fix mankind's mistakes."
Hawthorne began rubbing his chin. "You have some interesting ideas. But is the government really supposed to be in this business?"
"Sir, the Russians are in the mastadon business. The Chinese are messing with lion/tiger mixes. The pace of this science is not slowing down, only our nation's ability to retain the lead."
"You make a good argument, son." Hawthorne poured him a drink. "But you can't spend government money on invisible things."
"Well, what do you want? We're restoring the bald eagle, and bringing back the passenger pigeon! What do you want, dinosaurs?" Lyndon downed his drink.
The senator paused in consideration. "Y'know, I wonder what it'd be like to bag a triceratops."
inspired by Discover magazine article, "Science: Sequestered and Shut Down"
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
DAY 64: The Patsy
They call it one of the great unsolved mysteries of Detroit; Stefano wanted an answer by his birthday. He recruited me, Rico, Rocco, Shiny Pete and Grace to do something about it. "These guys will make it happen if you point them in the right direction, Gene."
"What direction is that?"
"That's your job, Gene."
Plenty of cops, reporters, and talk radio callers have tried to find Hoffa over the years, but they had tried without our advantages: our bonafides, and our knowledge of the particpants involved. Police had known about Eddie Berganza, had locked him up for life, had dug up all his favorite hiding places. Nothing was found, however, for a reason.
Shiny Pete found Berlinghetti's place; he'd been senile for years. Pete drove him around for a day and a half, but ended up digging up some other schnook. Rocco got in touch with some other accountants; they figured when Berlinghetti took care of Jimmy, he got creative about it. Grace had a chat with Louis Hoffa, a second cousin and conspiracy author living in Miami; even he was stumped. Two days to go, and we had nothing. So I went with plan B: a patsy.
Rico and Pete got one of those old schnooks out of the ground; Rocco made sure it was somebody the same size and age, the same wear and tear (not so hard; they had a busy year. ) Grace, meanwhile, had a second lunch with Louis; she came back with a couple of Louis' teeth. We replanted the schnook with the dental work in one of Berlinghetti's old hiding places, and took the geezer out for one more drive.
The discovery was credited to some 'urban archaeologists' who were checking out the neighborhood for 'historical significance.' The remains were handed over to genetic researchers who tested the most intact piece of the body they could find - a tooth. Comparing the DNA with two known blood relatives, they saw enough to call it Hoffa DNA. Berlinghetti even ranted about dumping the body on the evening news, which was enough to close the case.
I brought a birthday card to stefano's party; we all signed it. He said he was impressed; "We cremated him! Where'd you get a body?" And so, I told him how we did it, with the senile Berlinghetti and the Hoffa kook. He thought it was hilarious. He asked, "How did you get him to shut up about it?"
"We made a trade."
I presume, at that point, Louis was making his way through the kitchen entrance, and up the stairs to have words with Stefano. As I said , that's what I presume. I didn't stick around.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Skeleton of King Richard III Found in England"
"What direction is that?"
"That's your job, Gene."
Plenty of cops, reporters, and talk radio callers have tried to find Hoffa over the years, but they had tried without our advantages: our bonafides, and our knowledge of the particpants involved. Police had known about Eddie Berganza, had locked him up for life, had dug up all his favorite hiding places. Nothing was found, however, for a reason.
Shiny Pete found Berlinghetti's place; he'd been senile for years. Pete drove him around for a day and a half, but ended up digging up some other schnook. Rocco got in touch with some other accountants; they figured when Berlinghetti took care of Jimmy, he got creative about it. Grace had a chat with Louis Hoffa, a second cousin and conspiracy author living in Miami; even he was stumped. Two days to go, and we had nothing. So I went with plan B: a patsy.
Rico and Pete got one of those old schnooks out of the ground; Rocco made sure it was somebody the same size and age, the same wear and tear (not so hard; they had a busy year. ) Grace, meanwhile, had a second lunch with Louis; she came back with a couple of Louis' teeth. We replanted the schnook with the dental work in one of Berlinghetti's old hiding places, and took the geezer out for one more drive.
The discovery was credited to some 'urban archaeologists' who were checking out the neighborhood for 'historical significance.' The remains were handed over to genetic researchers who tested the most intact piece of the body they could find - a tooth. Comparing the DNA with two known blood relatives, they saw enough to call it Hoffa DNA. Berlinghetti even ranted about dumping the body on the evening news, which was enough to close the case.
I brought a birthday card to stefano's party; we all signed it. He said he was impressed; "We cremated him! Where'd you get a body?" And so, I told him how we did it, with the senile Berlinghetti and the Hoffa kook. He thought it was hilarious. He asked, "How did you get him to shut up about it?"
"We made a trade."
I presume, at that point, Louis was making his way through the kitchen entrance, and up the stairs to have words with Stefano. As I said , that's what I presume. I didn't stick around.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Skeleton of King Richard III Found in England"
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
DAY 63: Once Around the Block
His teeth disappeared first; only three. It was inevitable, they understood. But it was so unexpected and random (only three?) that they were merely amused.
"You look tough. Nobody's gonna steal your wallet, looking like that." Leroy said.
Edmund beamed, like a brand-new Jack-o-lantern, and put on his hat. It was time for a walk.
"Not too cold for a walk, is it?" Leroy asked.
"I've been in colder." Edmund adjusted his hat. "Where I lived, the snow would pile until it crushed our houses. And we would have to build igloos atop the wreckage, and live in those for the winter, else squatters would claim the place. And as soon as it thawed, we'd have to build our houses all over again."
"You did that every winter?"
"No!" Edmund adjusted his hat. "That only happened twice growing up."
They passed a dog. "That looks a lot like my dog growing up!"
"I thought yours was bigger," Leroy said.
"I thought so, too. But that was the one! You can ask my sister. Have you met her?"
Leroy nodded, and adjusted Edmund's hat.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "An Upside to Amyloids"
"You look tough. Nobody's gonna steal your wallet, looking like that." Leroy said.
Edmund beamed, like a brand-new Jack-o-lantern, and put on his hat. It was time for a walk.
"Not too cold for a walk, is it?" Leroy asked.
"I've been in colder." Edmund adjusted his hat. "Where I lived, the snow would pile until it crushed our houses. And we would have to build igloos atop the wreckage, and live in those for the winter, else squatters would claim the place. And as soon as it thawed, we'd have to build our houses all over again."
"You did that every winter?"
"No!" Edmund adjusted his hat. "That only happened twice growing up."
They passed a dog. "That looks a lot like my dog growing up!"
"I thought yours was bigger," Leroy said.
"I thought so, too. But that was the one! You can ask my sister. Have you met her?"
Leroy nodded, and adjusted Edmund's hat.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "An Upside to Amyloids"
DAY 62: Her impeccable sense of direction
She dumped him the night before he lost the game. He didn't lose the first time she saw me, picking off his toss from three yards away. She consoled him all the way to the victory bus. Meanwhile, she saw me.
She knew me when I walked in on her shift, and she made my sandwich anyway. I wanted to talk to her, and she said anything but football. So I shut up and let her talk, about school and after school, and life after school. That week, I had my first scoring interception. I couldn't see her in the stands, but I could still feel her with me. That was a good night.
The next week, I thought I wouldn't see her, until I did. She was waiting in the parking lot; his team had a road game. She celebrated with me, let me cheer her up. Another good night.
He found me the next week. I was ready for a fight; I wasn't ready for what he said He said she'd been his girlfriend since her last boyfriend moved to Auburn. He said she's dropped him before, then came back when his team got their hot streak. He said to tell her he wasn't gonna take her back when they were winning again. He said she dumped him the night before he lost the game.
I tried not to tell her. But she knew, and she said I was stupid for listening to him. "I'm just a girl! I'm not a good luck charm! I don't even like football!"
She dumped me. Tomorrow's the game.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Found: The Brain's Own GPS"
She knew me when I walked in on her shift, and she made my sandwich anyway. I wanted to talk to her, and she said anything but football. So I shut up and let her talk, about school and after school, and life after school. That week, I had my first scoring interception. I couldn't see her in the stands, but I could still feel her with me. That was a good night.
The next week, I thought I wouldn't see her, until I did. She was waiting in the parking lot; his team had a road game. She celebrated with me, let me cheer her up. Another good night.
He found me the next week. I was ready for a fight; I wasn't ready for what he said He said she'd been his girlfriend since her last boyfriend moved to Auburn. He said she's dropped him before, then came back when his team got their hot streak. He said to tell her he wasn't gonna take her back when they were winning again. He said she dumped him the night before he lost the game.
I tried not to tell her. But she knew, and she said I was stupid for listening to him. "I'm just a girl! I'm not a good luck charm! I don't even like football!"
She dumped me. Tomorrow's the game.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Found: The Brain's Own GPS"
Monday, March 3, 2014
DAY 61: The Lightsaber Contest
Dugan emptied his beer bottle and banged it on the table, calling the room to order. "Gentlemen, present arms!"
Nathan stepped forward first. He had a jerry-rigged hairdryer casing, plugged into his battery bandolier. On the open end, a long, narrow metal loop protruded; it got jostled as he stepped forward, and he had to push it back in. The giggling continued as he flipped the switch, but applause joined in as the metal began to glow.
"Forward!" Wayne was next. His 'blade' rested on his shoulder as he gave a taunting stare to the judges. He had a customized glove grip, dwarfed by the battery case below his hand. When he turned his sword on, several short electric arcs streamed within the loop, generating more excitement in the room.
It was Zoe's turn. Hers looked the most like a sword, albeit with two epee blades in place of a single flat blade. After doing a few flourishes, she activated her weapon; an LED center column shimmered a rainbow stream along its length. Oohs and ahs began.
Dugan's boss, Professor Kozak, was watching a live stream from back in his office. He typed to Dugan, "Is she one of our students?"
Dugan typed back, "I think she's a theater major, actually. But she hangs out with the engineers a lot. I'm assured she made that herself."
"I would think so. Rather distant from your intent, isnt it?"
"It's no harm. The crowd likes her."
"Well, imagine what they'll do when they see the real deal." A moment later, he sent back "Don't mind me. If I had a sense for show biz, I'd be engineering instead of teaching."
Dugan shook his head, but sent no response. He looked over at the judges table, where the last of the Erlymeier flasks were being spray painted. They had awards ready for economy, design, and power. But the final category - functionality - remained unclaimed, after all these years. Dugan wasn't even a TA when he started this contest; now, it seems more likely he'd get tenure before he saw the ideal realized.
A hooded kid emerged from the crowd, holding his creation. It looked like a cybernetic cellist's bow, without string. The stranger adjusted his grip, and a wispy green laser extended from tip to tip. From his pocket, he produced a tennis ball and began to bounce it. On the third bounce, both halves landed, with slightly singed edges.
The crowd cheered. Dugan turned to type the news to Kozak, but the professor had already typed, "CLAP CLAP CLAP."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Tractor Beam: Activated!"
Nathan stepped forward first. He had a jerry-rigged hairdryer casing, plugged into his battery bandolier. On the open end, a long, narrow metal loop protruded; it got jostled as he stepped forward, and he had to push it back in. The giggling continued as he flipped the switch, but applause joined in as the metal began to glow.
"Forward!" Wayne was next. His 'blade' rested on his shoulder as he gave a taunting stare to the judges. He had a customized glove grip, dwarfed by the battery case below his hand. When he turned his sword on, several short electric arcs streamed within the loop, generating more excitement in the room.
It was Zoe's turn. Hers looked the most like a sword, albeit with two epee blades in place of a single flat blade. After doing a few flourishes, she activated her weapon; an LED center column shimmered a rainbow stream along its length. Oohs and ahs began.
Dugan's boss, Professor Kozak, was watching a live stream from back in his office. He typed to Dugan, "Is she one of our students?"
Dugan typed back, "I think she's a theater major, actually. But she hangs out with the engineers a lot. I'm assured she made that herself."
"I would think so. Rather distant from your intent, isnt it?"
"It's no harm. The crowd likes her."
"Well, imagine what they'll do when they see the real deal." A moment later, he sent back "Don't mind me. If I had a sense for show biz, I'd be engineering instead of teaching."
Dugan shook his head, but sent no response. He looked over at the judges table, where the last of the Erlymeier flasks were being spray painted. They had awards ready for economy, design, and power. But the final category - functionality - remained unclaimed, after all these years. Dugan wasn't even a TA when he started this contest; now, it seems more likely he'd get tenure before he saw the ideal realized.
A hooded kid emerged from the crowd, holding his creation. It looked like a cybernetic cellist's bow, without string. The stranger adjusted his grip, and a wispy green laser extended from tip to tip. From his pocket, he produced a tennis ball and began to bounce it. On the third bounce, both halves landed, with slightly singed edges.
The crowd cheered. Dugan turned to type the news to Kozak, but the professor had already typed, "CLAP CLAP CLAP."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Tractor Beam: Activated!"
Sunday, March 2, 2014
DAY 60: The Muskie in the Tub
They were allowed to return to the cabin two days after the water receded. It took that long to clear the main road of the Roadside Giant, an 80-foot Englemann Spruce whose roots capsized out of the overhydrated soil. When road crews partioned the trunk, they discovered the Giant was nearly 200 years old.
Kov's jeep made the journey to the cabin. The river seemed to have brought everything it could carry to their doorstep. Lawrence helped his wife over the refuse. Ty and Viv began clearing branches, but it devolved into a mudfight. Kov was helping Lawrence move some doors when they heard the Mrs scream.
She had made it to the patio, where the hot tub held a surprise in the retained floodwater. It was a tiger muskie, and it bared its teeth at those who dared wake it. She had grabbed a plank to club the muskie, when Lawrence cried, "wait! Kov, find the lid!"
Lawrence embraced his wife, consoling her, while Kov secured the lid. He would later confide in Kov, "That river's taken enough from me. That muskie's mine..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Colorado Deluge"
Kov's jeep made the journey to the cabin. The river seemed to have brought everything it could carry to their doorstep. Lawrence helped his wife over the refuse. Ty and Viv began clearing branches, but it devolved into a mudfight. Kov was helping Lawrence move some doors when they heard the Mrs scream.
She had made it to the patio, where the hot tub held a surprise in the retained floodwater. It was a tiger muskie, and it bared its teeth at those who dared wake it. She had grabbed a plank to club the muskie, when Lawrence cried, "wait! Kov, find the lid!"
Lawrence embraced his wife, consoling her, while Kov secured the lid. He would later confide in Kov, "That river's taken enough from me. That muskie's mine..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Colorado Deluge"
DAY 59: Getting Stuff from the Neighbors
Jerry was knocking rapidly on the door of room 1513. "Levon! Are you in there?"
Mrs Kwan opened up the door. "He's not here, Jerry. He went upstairs to fix something."
"Yeah, with my socket wrench!"
"He went upstairs. He borrowed my shower curtain to fix something. "
"Do you know where he went?"
"Upstairs. He borrowed my shower curtain. I want it back." Mrs Kwan closed the door.
Jerry made it to the roof. Besides retrieving his socket wrench, he had been requested to retrieve three shower curtains, a set of dishwasher racks, two window screens, a jar of petroleum jelly, and a bicycle. "Levon! Where are you?"
He looked skyward to the sound of squeaking overhead, emanating from an expansive, rotating junkyard in the sky. At its center, Landlord Levon pedaled in place, serenely watching the sun hidden beneath the skyline. As the craft rose, a fragment fell at Jerry's feet... a 12-point Mikita socket wrench.
Jerry watched the unidentifiable flying object float off... and all he could say was, "What about the 3/8 hex socket?"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "A Leg Up on Human-Powered Flight"
Mrs Kwan opened up the door. "He's not here, Jerry. He went upstairs to fix something."
"Yeah, with my socket wrench!"
"He went upstairs. He borrowed my shower curtain to fix something. "
"Do you know where he went?"
"Upstairs. He borrowed my shower curtain. I want it back." Mrs Kwan closed the door.
Jerry made it to the roof. Besides retrieving his socket wrench, he had been requested to retrieve three shower curtains, a set of dishwasher racks, two window screens, a jar of petroleum jelly, and a bicycle. "Levon! Where are you?"
He looked skyward to the sound of squeaking overhead, emanating from an expansive, rotating junkyard in the sky. At its center, Landlord Levon pedaled in place, serenely watching the sun hidden beneath the skyline. As the craft rose, a fragment fell at Jerry's feet... a 12-point Mikita socket wrench.
Jerry watched the unidentifiable flying object float off... and all he could say was, "What about the 3/8 hex socket?"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "A Leg Up on Human-Powered Flight"
Saturday, March 1, 2014
DAY 58: Doesn't Taste like Chicken
"Martin Hamilton," the boy said.
The house opened its front door and said, "Welcome home."
Martin slung off his schoolbag and dropped on the couch. "Mom!" The speakers of the house echoed with the dialing ringtone, connecting to Mrs Hamilton's office phone.
She picked up after the second tone. "Hi, honey! How was school?"
Martin said nothing, grinding his face into a couch cushion.
"Martin honey, give yourself fifteen minutes and then get on with your schoolwork while it's fresh in your head. I've already set the house to block the network until you zip it to me, so the sooner you send it to me, the sooner you can get to killing zombies, which is a very incorrect phrase - so, whatever you do, you're doing homework first! Call me if you need anything!"
The phone disconnected with a chirp, and Martin slumped to the kitchen.
"Open," Martin said, searching for his afternoon snack. Half the shelves were full of his mother's pre-cooked entrees (fancy dinner for four, table ready in ten.) He peered through the shelves, looking for something to sate him. "Fruit," he said; the carousel spun around to offer the drawer of watermelon slices and grapes. He didn't want that. "Pudding." The fridge buzzed; an overhead monitor asked, "would you like to add to list?" Martin kept looking...
At the 25-second mark, the fridge started to beep, and the doors prepared to close. "Wait!" Martin caught the door. He was about to surrender when he saw-
"Yummy Putty." The fridge opened its doors, and the carousel spun to a tube of translucent white paste. "Pork Barbecue sauce... buttered potato sauce... Bacon Cheeseburger sauce... Cinammon Bun sauce..." Martin grabbed up the selections, and headed for the microwave.
Martin squeezed out the Putty onto a plate, and shaped it into a shallow bowl. He applied the barbecue sauce, and the aroma of 12-hour marinated pork overtook the kitchen. The putty began to flake into strands of meat, the color of deep cherrywood.
He squirted a few drops of Buttered Potato sauce in the center, and watched the spots change from reddish-brown to cottony white; the scent of creamy melted butter greeted him. He put his creation in the microwave, on the 'culturize' setting.
As he waited, his eyes rested on the tube of Cinnamon Bun sauce. He grinned a crooked grin, and took the tube in his mouth like a baby bottle.
When Mrs Hamilton arrived home, Mark was inconsolable. The floor was a mess from his incomplete trips to the trashcan and bathroom. His attempts to answer his mother's questions were incomprehensible; the only words the admittng nurse could understand was "I taste like cinnamon! I taste like cinnamon!"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Lab-Grown Meat Tastes... Boring"
The house opened its front door and said, "Welcome home."
Martin slung off his schoolbag and dropped on the couch. "Mom!" The speakers of the house echoed with the dialing ringtone, connecting to Mrs Hamilton's office phone.
She picked up after the second tone. "Hi, honey! How was school?"
Martin said nothing, grinding his face into a couch cushion.
"Martin honey, give yourself fifteen minutes and then get on with your schoolwork while it's fresh in your head. I've already set the house to block the network until you zip it to me, so the sooner you send it to me, the sooner you can get to killing zombies, which is a very incorrect phrase - so, whatever you do, you're doing homework first! Call me if you need anything!"
The phone disconnected with a chirp, and Martin slumped to the kitchen.
"Open," Martin said, searching for his afternoon snack. Half the shelves were full of his mother's pre-cooked entrees (fancy dinner for four, table ready in ten.) He peered through the shelves, looking for something to sate him. "Fruit," he said; the carousel spun around to offer the drawer of watermelon slices and grapes. He didn't want that. "Pudding." The fridge buzzed; an overhead monitor asked, "would you like to add to list?" Martin kept looking...
At the 25-second mark, the fridge started to beep, and the doors prepared to close. "Wait!" Martin caught the door. He was about to surrender when he saw-
"Yummy Putty." The fridge opened its doors, and the carousel spun to a tube of translucent white paste. "Pork Barbecue sauce... buttered potato sauce... Bacon Cheeseburger sauce... Cinammon Bun sauce..." Martin grabbed up the selections, and headed for the microwave.
Martin squeezed out the Putty onto a plate, and shaped it into a shallow bowl. He applied the barbecue sauce, and the aroma of 12-hour marinated pork overtook the kitchen. The putty began to flake into strands of meat, the color of deep cherrywood.
He squirted a few drops of Buttered Potato sauce in the center, and watched the spots change from reddish-brown to cottony white; the scent of creamy melted butter greeted him. He put his creation in the microwave, on the 'culturize' setting.
As he waited, his eyes rested on the tube of Cinnamon Bun sauce. He grinned a crooked grin, and took the tube in his mouth like a baby bottle.
When Mrs Hamilton arrived home, Mark was inconsolable. The floor was a mess from his incomplete trips to the trashcan and bathroom. His attempts to answer his mother's questions were incomprehensible; the only words the admittng nurse could understand was "I taste like cinnamon! I taste like cinnamon!"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Lab-Grown Meat Tastes... Boring"
DAY 56: Subsea Exploration
No light. No heat. Mark had no idea which way to swim. He closed his eyes and waited for the water to float him in one direction or another.
"Mark?" The radio crackled in his ear. "What's your situation?"
"I'm alright, Liam... just give me a minute." Mark returned to the silence, searching for the tells. He had over 70 dives logged; he knew how to read a sea, to recognize its currents and sense the trails left behind by aquatic migrations. But the subsurface oceans of Europa felt like no ocean on Earth. It went beyond lifelessness; it felt like he was swimming in a grave.
Mark opened his eyes and switched on his spectrographic goggles. "Are you seeing anything, base camp? I can't make any sense of this. I'd swear I was in a block of concrete."
"You're reading the extra mineral content." Alice, the team geologist, was speaking. "Try switching to sonar."
Another voice piped in. "Mark, you need to breathe slower. Your air adaptors won't be able to keep up."
Mark smiled. "You worry too much, Cam. I'm reading ten minutes; guess I'm done in 9." He resumed radio silence and stretched out his arms, waiting for something to push back. Nothing before his eyes made sense, and nothing in his ears was as loud as his fearful blood rushing through his body. He returned to his only reference point: the rock he had entered the ocean through. Swimming quickly, he reached the rock abruptly, and his entire body collapsed against it.
"Mark!"
"I'm alright, " he grunted. Disoriented, he picked himself up and stood on the surface. The change in perspective revealed the ocean's first secret. "Guys? I think I woke up something..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Life in Europa's Salty Ocean"
"Mark?" The radio crackled in his ear. "What's your situation?"
"I'm alright, Liam... just give me a minute." Mark returned to the silence, searching for the tells. He had over 70 dives logged; he knew how to read a sea, to recognize its currents and sense the trails left behind by aquatic migrations. But the subsurface oceans of Europa felt like no ocean on Earth. It went beyond lifelessness; it felt like he was swimming in a grave.
Mark opened his eyes and switched on his spectrographic goggles. "Are you seeing anything, base camp? I can't make any sense of this. I'd swear I was in a block of concrete."
"You're reading the extra mineral content." Alice, the team geologist, was speaking. "Try switching to sonar."
Another voice piped in. "Mark, you need to breathe slower. Your air adaptors won't be able to keep up."
Mark smiled. "You worry too much, Cam. I'm reading ten minutes; guess I'm done in 9." He resumed radio silence and stretched out his arms, waiting for something to push back. Nothing before his eyes made sense, and nothing in his ears was as loud as his fearful blood rushing through his body. He returned to his only reference point: the rock he had entered the ocean through. Swimming quickly, he reached the rock abruptly, and his entire body collapsed against it.
"Mark!"
"I'm alright, " he grunted. Disoriented, he picked himself up and stood on the surface. The change in perspective revealed the ocean's first secret. "Guys? I think I woke up something..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Life in Europa's Salty Ocean"
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