Tommy had been rubbing his arm for the entire ride home. "Will you leave it alone? You're making it hurt," his mother said, as they pulled into the driveway. As soon as the car was in park, she craned back to see what was under the bandage. All she saw was a light pink swelling, which was to be expected. "Don't be so so dramatic. Your baby sister got the same shots, and she's just fine."
Fifi smiled at the mention of the favoritism, and she kicked in her car seat in celebration. Her brother's grumpyface took her delight to the next level.
Roscoe was barking like crazy inside the house. Tommy grabbed the stickers while his mom unbuckled Fifi. "Remember, put those where the movers will see them, so they know what to pack! And don't use them all!"
Tommy opened the door, and Roscoe pounced, knocking him down and covering him with slobbery kisses. "Ready to go outside?" Tommy said, between laughs. He put one of the red stickers on Roscoe's nose; the dog stopped, perplexed. Tommy sat up to catch his breath, watching Roscoe's battle with the sticker.
Irene took the stickers out of Tommy's hand. "We've got too much to do! Did you want to take anything or not?" Tommy tried to take them back, but his mother was firm. "And you're helping your sister, too..." When she felt she'd won, she gave him one sheet of stickers. "I'll give you more if you need them. They're not toys."
As Tommy went upstairs, the phone rang. "Irene... I'm hearing stories, Irene..."
"They're probably true, Ray. I'm taking the job. I gotta go where the money is."
"You can't do that!"
"I can, and I have to. It's too good a deal to turn down. They have schools there for the kids, the health benefits are great, Tommy's best friend is already down there with his family - they're going to be fine."
"I'm gonna lawyer up!"
"They're also providing legal assistance. They've already made arrangements with the judge; you can't do a thing."
Irene cocooned glasses in bubble wrap, as she waited for Ray to recover. "Well, I guess you've thought of everything."
"They've thought of everything, Ray. They've taken care of everything. They really want me there. And you know I never wanted to leave Tampa. I never thought I'd get the chance again."
"That ain't Tampa. It's a swamp."
"Well, it's where the kids are going to call home now. So I'm going to hang up now. I gotta get us in the water, Ray. We're leaving most of the stuff here. Take what you want, sell the rest."
"Am I ever going to see them again?"
"Maybe when you get yourself together, Ray. Maybe, when you get yourself a job, you can come down."
"We know that's not going to happen."
"And there's nothing for me up here, Ray. There's not enough room."
Tommy was yelling from upstairs. "Mom!"
Irene hung up the phone and ran. Tommy was in the bathroom, filling up the tub. Fifi was on the floor, convulsing and gasping. Irene picked her up and placed her in the water, submerging Fifi's neck. Irene reached down and felt the gentle flutterings along her clavicle. "It's happening too fast."
Tommy was crying. Irene held his chin and looked him in the eyes. "Tommy, we're done packing. I'll call Aunt Colleen when we get there, and we'll give her a list. She can send it. Or maybe you can ask your dad. But we have to go." She glanced at his neck; his gills were starting to come in, as well.
Eight minutes later, they were in the car, and on the way to the coast. Fifi's car seat had been replaced with a beer cooler, filled to three-quarters with ice for the girl to slosh in. Tommy, now silent and determined, had his eyes on the road his mother was driving them down. In the passenger seat, the sum of their belongings rested within two waterproof duffel bags, emblazoned with the BP logo.
Irene, driving above the speed limit, was more agitated about the time it took to get a live person on the phone. "BP Tampa, human resources, this is-"
"Employee 586714, Irene Santiago, requesting early arrival at Research Campus 1!"
"Identified, Irene. Reason?"
"Medical! Premature programming development - my daughter! She's only 3!"
"Understood. Will you need emergency support?"
Irene turned a hard left, at the sign that read MARINA, 2 MILES AHEAD. "Yes!"
The response team was waiting at Bay 1. They confirmed that Fifi had acclimated ahead of schedule, but not abnormally so. Tommy had started feeling dizzy at the marina; once he put on the water helmet, he was fine. "The breathing part's easy," the EMT explained. "The pressure adjustment, however, isn't something we can compensate for with our equipment. I'm sorry if this is a rush, but it's for the best if you submerge now."
Irene nodded, and passed her bags to the ferry operator. She'd send the car home, contact her sister, and take care of all the things they were leaving behind later. After all, they were only things. Life was happening right now.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Fruit Flies' Genomes can change in Just Days"
Thursday, April 10, 2014
DAY 99: Cerberus and Sticks
It was a shanty on McMansion avenue, a reminder of the neighborhood's previous incarnation. Gentrification had revitalized the neighborhood, but it had driven Mr Kosten inward. He was usually seen wearing a flannel bathrobe and a grimace, and that was when he checked the mail, or straightened his 'BEWARE OF DOG" signs.
Cerberus was a blue pit mix; the posture suggested bulldog, and the proportions suggested bear. Sticks was a scrawny hound breed, a silver-furred puppy that could tower over his adoptive brother - if he ever had the inclination. They patrolled the Kosten estate day and night, barking off any would-be trespassers.
It happened that Mr Kosten's house was on the dividing line between the Raven Ridge housing development, and the Weeping Pines subdivision. The two neighborhoods collided at Redford Avenue, and they chose to split the street down the middle. Neither, however, were interested in claiming Mr Kosten. Each had learned independently that he would not be convinced, cajoled, coerced, or bribed into ceding his property, and so they let him rot in his unclaimed spot.
Neither offered their trash services to him, which he did not miss; every couple of weeks, he would load his refuse onto a battered pickup truck and drive it to the dump himself. And perhaps it was on one of those occasions that his gate was not secure enough, or simply not tall enough, but in his abscence, Sticks left the yard.
Cerberus called him back, but Sticks was intoxicated with freedom. He dashed zig-zag from yard to yard, roaming further and further, until he disappeared in the mid-afternoon silence. Cerberus trotted with worry, torn between the instinct to guard his home and to guard his brother. Finally, he began to dig, calling and waiting for an answer...
He finished his hole first, and tunneled under the driveway gate. Following the scent, Cerberus zigged and zagged, searching for any trace of Sticks. He felt a rumbling under his feet, and turned to the source, seeing a schoolbus come to a stop at the corner. As Cerberus walked toward it, the door opened, where a child waited to exit. She saw Cerberus, and screamed, and the door closed.
Cerberus circled the bus, ran laps around it as he barked and growled. Inside, some of the children stared at the window, in excitement or fear; others, along with the bus driver, were on their phones. In a moment, parents began to exit their homes, to see the beast that had their children trapped.
And then Mr Kosten drove up. Honking to get anyone out of the street, he saw Cerberus in the middle of the road. He exited the truck, and called to him. Cerberus was too jostled, too petrified; he kept barking everyone at bay.
Mr Kosten dropped to one knee, and called Cerberus. The rest of the street froze as the pit walked to his human. With a nuzzle and a pat, the old man led his dog into the truck cab. Meeting no one's gaze, he called for Sticks, and walked over to the driver's side; from out of the yards, the hound leaped into the flatbed, just as he started the engine. They drove down the avenue and up the gravel drive, closing the gate behind them.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Pluto's Crowd-Sourced Moons"
Cerberus was a blue pit mix; the posture suggested bulldog, and the proportions suggested bear. Sticks was a scrawny hound breed, a silver-furred puppy that could tower over his adoptive brother - if he ever had the inclination. They patrolled the Kosten estate day and night, barking off any would-be trespassers.
It happened that Mr Kosten's house was on the dividing line between the Raven Ridge housing development, and the Weeping Pines subdivision. The two neighborhoods collided at Redford Avenue, and they chose to split the street down the middle. Neither, however, were interested in claiming Mr Kosten. Each had learned independently that he would not be convinced, cajoled, coerced, or bribed into ceding his property, and so they let him rot in his unclaimed spot.
Neither offered their trash services to him, which he did not miss; every couple of weeks, he would load his refuse onto a battered pickup truck and drive it to the dump himself. And perhaps it was on one of those occasions that his gate was not secure enough, or simply not tall enough, but in his abscence, Sticks left the yard.
Cerberus called him back, but Sticks was intoxicated with freedom. He dashed zig-zag from yard to yard, roaming further and further, until he disappeared in the mid-afternoon silence. Cerberus trotted with worry, torn between the instinct to guard his home and to guard his brother. Finally, he began to dig, calling and waiting for an answer...
He finished his hole first, and tunneled under the driveway gate. Following the scent, Cerberus zigged and zagged, searching for any trace of Sticks. He felt a rumbling under his feet, and turned to the source, seeing a schoolbus come to a stop at the corner. As Cerberus walked toward it, the door opened, where a child waited to exit. She saw Cerberus, and screamed, and the door closed.
Cerberus circled the bus, ran laps around it as he barked and growled. Inside, some of the children stared at the window, in excitement or fear; others, along with the bus driver, were on their phones. In a moment, parents began to exit their homes, to see the beast that had their children trapped.
And then Mr Kosten drove up. Honking to get anyone out of the street, he saw Cerberus in the middle of the road. He exited the truck, and called to him. Cerberus was too jostled, too petrified; he kept barking everyone at bay.
Mr Kosten dropped to one knee, and called Cerberus. The rest of the street froze as the pit walked to his human. With a nuzzle and a pat, the old man led his dog into the truck cab. Meeting no one's gaze, he called for Sticks, and walked over to the driver's side; from out of the yards, the hound leaped into the flatbed, just as he started the engine. They drove down the avenue and up the gravel drive, closing the gate behind them.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Pluto's Crowd-Sourced Moons"
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
DAY 98: The Family Tree
Grandma got everybody together for blondies and lemonade, the better to ask us to get grandpa's skull. He had died on the operating table the day before, and while his daughters - our mothers - wept and consoled each other, it was the grandchildren that were being entrusted with the solemn request. His skull was to be cleaned and set into the family tree.
As it turned out, getting our hands on Grandpa's skull was the easy part. Mr Wanabaker had known of Grandpa's wishes for years; he consulted with an immigrant butcher of indeterminate origin (who apparently possessed a sense of discretion, along with previous experience) to make the essential preparations. When we went to the funeral home, Mr Wanabaker already had an urn, bearing the cremated remainder; he said the skull would be ready after the wake.
As it turned out, getting our hands on Grandpa's skull was the easy part. Mr Wanabaker had known of Grandpa's wishes for years; he consulted with an immigrant butcher of indeterminate origin (who apparently possessed a sense of discretion, along with previous experience) to make the essential preparations. When we went to the funeral home, Mr Wanabaker already had an urn, bearing the cremated remainder; he said the skull would be ready after the wake.
The wake was well-attended by many strangers, but we could sense those among the crowd who knew. Whenever one of us would be mentioned as a grandson, the knowledgeable would respond with a narrowing of the eyes, as if they were studying our fortitude. In their voiced condolence, they might spinkle in some tale of one of Grandpa's accepted challenges. The conversation would usually end with a squeeze of the hand or shoulder, as if to say, "mind your grandpa, now..."
The next day, we received the skull, and returned to grandma's, for the next step. She seemed bleary-eyed and agitated when she saw us on her step, and she scolded us for not calling first. A minute after holding the skull, she was composed, and she led us to the southwest corner of the backyard.
The tree was massive, a testament to the resiliency of our lineage. We had not planted it, but the tree had thrived from its symbiotic relationship with our ancestors. Dwight looked up the trunk, and said to me, "You're the lightweight, dude. Get up there."
It was 15 feet to the first branch; I started to argue with my cousin. But the clatter of Grandma trying to drag over the ladder and hatchet defused our tiff. We took the items from her hands; while my cousin made off with the ladder, she passed me the hatchet and said, "He wanted to be up in the crown, and facing the sunrise."
Unlike me, Dwight had visited our grandparents when he was tree-climbing age, so he gave me directions. "Just look for Grandpa Malcolm - he'll be the lowest - and put Grandpa about twelve inches under him. Resting above a branch is better, and threading a branch through him is great, too. Just make sure it's gonna stay."
The ladder put me in reach of the low branch. Slowly, I pulled myself up until I reached my great-grandfather. His skull was half-embedded, the bark barely an inch behind his sockets. I craned my neck upward, and counted three others, swallowed in various stages. I even thought I saw the outline of a fifth, almost completely.obscured.
With a stick, Grandma tapped the side of the tree she chose; a twinge of vertigo made it feel like an earthquake. But I found the best spot I could for Grandpa, and carved his 'seat.' After a few minutes, I yelled down for the skull. Dwight tossed first, but didn't reach me, and it fell back to Earth. Grandma caught it with her apron, glaring at both of us before we made a second try. The second try was good, and I set Grandpa in his final resting place.
When I was done, I yelled them to stand clear, and dropped the axe. But back on the ladder, I had a second thought. I pulled out my set of keys, searching for the least useful one. I pulled it off the ring, with a Mt Rushmore souvenir keychain attached; I jammed the key into the tree, about two feet below Grandpa. Patting an apology to the tree, I began my descent.
DAY 97: In the Blood
At a cellular level, he was a violent man. He was a tyro before his teeth finished coming in. By the time his whiskers started, his aggresive tendencies were well-documented, and prophetic. He celebrated his 30th birthday in state prison, awaiting to be removed from this earth as quickly as he removed three men from it. "No kids of my own, and I prevented three stupid ones from procreating - I'd call that God's work," he sneered at the minister that attempted to tend to his spiritual needs.
There was an act of benevolence that could be attributed to his name. He had provided regular donations of his blood, twice weekly. (In fact, he was arrested, for the last time, while on the donation table. He was allowed to finish.) His motivations were the immediate compensations - the money and companionship - but the plasma center recognized how valuable and rate his contributions genuinely were. Shortly before the penalty phase of his trial, representatives of the plasma center reached out to his attorney, to speak of his continued civic importance. It was enough to forestall his execution, until his fateful escape attempt, which cost the lives of two guards, the attending phlebotomist, and his own.
His blood, scarce and sorely needed, was dispersed among several patients in the region. The most notable donation was received by an elderly man of some financial significance. Victimized by a stroke that rendered him comatose and rapidly deteriorating, his fate was fiercely debated among the executors of his estate. Before the argument was resolved, the old man began to receive plasma infusions. By the time doctors were instructed to remove his ventilator tube, the issue was moot.
His eldest son-in-law (perhaps 8 years younger) came to visit; he was aggressively curious about the lack of news, regarding the passing of the family patriarch. He was directed to the old man's recovery room. The son-in-law was found two minutes later and three floors down.
insipred by Discover Magazine article, "Cells Battle to the Death in the Developing Embryo"
There was an act of benevolence that could be attributed to his name. He had provided regular donations of his blood, twice weekly. (In fact, he was arrested, for the last time, while on the donation table. He was allowed to finish.) His motivations were the immediate compensations - the money and companionship - but the plasma center recognized how valuable and rate his contributions genuinely were. Shortly before the penalty phase of his trial, representatives of the plasma center reached out to his attorney, to speak of his continued civic importance. It was enough to forestall his execution, until his fateful escape attempt, which cost the lives of two guards, the attending phlebotomist, and his own.
His blood, scarce and sorely needed, was dispersed among several patients in the region. The most notable donation was received by an elderly man of some financial significance. Victimized by a stroke that rendered him comatose and rapidly deteriorating, his fate was fiercely debated among the executors of his estate. Before the argument was resolved, the old man began to receive plasma infusions. By the time doctors were instructed to remove his ventilator tube, the issue was moot.
His eldest son-in-law (perhaps 8 years younger) came to visit; he was aggressively curious about the lack of news, regarding the passing of the family patriarch. He was directed to the old man's recovery room. The son-in-law was found two minutes later and three floors down.
insipred by Discover Magazine article, "Cells Battle to the Death in the Developing Embryo"
DAY 96: A Meeting with Mark Zuckerberg
Tonio and Shan took turns stealth-punching each other in the shoulder. They found themselves in a Palo Alto suburb, ready for their 11 o'clock appointment with Mark Zuckerberg, ready to present their world-changing idea for his consideration. At least, they were sort of ready.
"I think I'm gonna puke, Tonio." Shan lurched over, his hands on his knees, trying to breathe.
"Dude, what are you doing? Your sister set this up!"
"She's always telling me to put up or shut up. At first, I didn't believe her when she said she was his favorite barista."
"-and now you think she's lying?"
"No, I think she told him about us, so he could shut me down for good, and I can go back to med school like my mom wanted!"
"That's insane! Besides, that would be on both of us, and your sister loves me!"
"Yeah, she- huh?"
"We've been turned down by everybody," Tonio said, grabbing Shan's shoulder. "If we got one swing left, we gotta swing for the fences! Now, how do they look?"
Shan looked at Tonio's earlobes. His right ear had a 12-gauge piercing, a blinking red dot. His left lobe had a 2-inch piercing, glowing an unmistakable blue, almost touching the lapel of his suit jacket. "You look lopsided."
Tonio offered two thumbs up, and buzzed the gate.
After passing through security and his assistants, Zuckerberg met with them. The boys had been prepared for a business presentation that their host seemed unaware of. "My wife's hosting a party on the lawn. Can you guys help us move a couple couches to the backyard?"
They agreed, and found themselves relocating 17 couches from outside his house. "They're not all from the house," he said. "I'm actually renting most of them for the occasion, although we want to cut down on the grass stains, if possible. Her family's coming up, and we wanted to whip up something comfortable for the movie."
"Movie?" Tonio raised an eyebrow.
Zuckerberg pointed to the 14-foot screen mounted below the trees. "Yeah, we're going to watch out here. Dirty Dancing came out this weekend, or something - ask her." He pointed to Tonio's earlobes. "Don't those get hot?"
"No, sir!" Tonio went into salesman mode. "And the little red has over 200 gigs of music, ready to find with a voice command. The blue one holds almost a Tet!"
"Neat. Or you could make those bluetooth-ready."
Tonio reeled for a half-second. "This style's been popular so far- but I think they'd like your idea even more!"
Shan was hyperventilating under his corner of the couch. "Yeah, or phone calls, gps..."
"It's great," Tonio said, "to talk with somebody that sees the potential in them!"
Zuckerberg let out a laugh. "I can't put any money in this. We don't do hardware."
They set the couch in place. Zuckerberg led them to the next one, while out of view, Tonio let out a heavy sigh, then caught up with the others.
As they carried the last couch onto the lawn, Mrs Zuckerberg made her appearance. She was delighted with the furniture arrangement, and began placing reservation cards on the couches. As her husband introduced his help for the day, Mrs Zuckerberg complemented Tonio's ear decorations. "That's wild!"
"They're music players," he replied, and twisted off the red piercing so she could hear the music.
Her face lit up when she recognized the music. " 'Be My Baby!'"
"He said what movie you were watching tonight, so I've been listening to it since we started."
Mrs Zuckerberg wiped off the piercing, and put it on. Excited, she danced over to her husband, humming the tune. He gamely swayed with her, tossing his phone to Shan. Understanding, Shan took a few pictures of the couple dancing. When the song was over, she pecked Zuckerberg on the cheek, and returned to the house to check on aperetifs.
Shan handed the phone over to Mr Zuckerberg; Tonio tilted his other ear slightly toward Mr Zuckerberg's sightline. But he looked at his phone, shaked their hands, and said, "I'm still not buying in. But somebody's going to. Keep swinging."
It was a big house. With no one to give directions, it took far too long for Tonio and Shan to find their way back to the front gate. Tonio was morose, shellshocked. Shan, pulling him along, drank the view in with every step, as if it was the last.
Shen took his phone off silent when they got to the gate; in the time it had taken them to leave the house, his sister had called six times, and left five text messages, each more urgent than the last "Don't sign anything yet! You're trending! I got Bose and a half dozen others that want to talk to you!"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Elon Musk's Hyperloop: A Pragmatic Vision of the Future"
"I think I'm gonna puke, Tonio." Shan lurched over, his hands on his knees, trying to breathe.
"Dude, what are you doing? Your sister set this up!"
"She's always telling me to put up or shut up. At first, I didn't believe her when she said she was his favorite barista."
"-and now you think she's lying?"
"No, I think she told him about us, so he could shut me down for good, and I can go back to med school like my mom wanted!"
"That's insane! Besides, that would be on both of us, and your sister loves me!"
"Yeah, she- huh?"
"We've been turned down by everybody," Tonio said, grabbing Shan's shoulder. "If we got one swing left, we gotta swing for the fences! Now, how do they look?"
Shan looked at Tonio's earlobes. His right ear had a 12-gauge piercing, a blinking red dot. His left lobe had a 2-inch piercing, glowing an unmistakable blue, almost touching the lapel of his suit jacket. "You look lopsided."
Tonio offered two thumbs up, and buzzed the gate.
After passing through security and his assistants, Zuckerberg met with them. The boys had been prepared for a business presentation that their host seemed unaware of. "My wife's hosting a party on the lawn. Can you guys help us move a couple couches to the backyard?"
They agreed, and found themselves relocating 17 couches from outside his house. "They're not all from the house," he said. "I'm actually renting most of them for the occasion, although we want to cut down on the grass stains, if possible. Her family's coming up, and we wanted to whip up something comfortable for the movie."
"Movie?" Tonio raised an eyebrow.
Zuckerberg pointed to the 14-foot screen mounted below the trees. "Yeah, we're going to watch out here. Dirty Dancing came out this weekend, or something - ask her." He pointed to Tonio's earlobes. "Don't those get hot?"
"No, sir!" Tonio went into salesman mode. "And the little red has over 200 gigs of music, ready to find with a voice command. The blue one holds almost a Tet!"
"Neat. Or you could make those bluetooth-ready."
Tonio reeled for a half-second. "This style's been popular so far- but I think they'd like your idea even more!"
Shan was hyperventilating under his corner of the couch. "Yeah, or phone calls, gps..."
"It's great," Tonio said, "to talk with somebody that sees the potential in them!"
Zuckerberg let out a laugh. "I can't put any money in this. We don't do hardware."
They set the couch in place. Zuckerberg led them to the next one, while out of view, Tonio let out a heavy sigh, then caught up with the others.
As they carried the last couch onto the lawn, Mrs Zuckerberg made her appearance. She was delighted with the furniture arrangement, and began placing reservation cards on the couches. As her husband introduced his help for the day, Mrs Zuckerberg complemented Tonio's ear decorations. "That's wild!"
"They're music players," he replied, and twisted off the red piercing so she could hear the music.
Her face lit up when she recognized the music. " 'Be My Baby!'"
"He said what movie you were watching tonight, so I've been listening to it since we started."
Mrs Zuckerberg wiped off the piercing, and put it on. Excited, she danced over to her husband, humming the tune. He gamely swayed with her, tossing his phone to Shan. Understanding, Shan took a few pictures of the couple dancing. When the song was over, she pecked Zuckerberg on the cheek, and returned to the house to check on aperetifs.
Shan handed the phone over to Mr Zuckerberg; Tonio tilted his other ear slightly toward Mr Zuckerberg's sightline. But he looked at his phone, shaked their hands, and said, "I'm still not buying in. But somebody's going to. Keep swinging."
It was a big house. With no one to give directions, it took far too long for Tonio and Shan to find their way back to the front gate. Tonio was morose, shellshocked. Shan, pulling him along, drank the view in with every step, as if it was the last.
Shen took his phone off silent when they got to the gate; in the time it had taken them to leave the house, his sister had called six times, and left five text messages, each more urgent than the last "Don't sign anything yet! You're trending! I got Bose and a half dozen others that want to talk to you!"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Elon Musk's Hyperloop: A Pragmatic Vision of the Future"
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
DAY 95: The Sniper Sniper
Nicolau took a swig of his drink, and studied his improvised coaster. "These are - or were - snipers. I tracked two of them down myself. We captured this one" -pointing at one crossed-out name - "last year. I was assigned to interrogate him. He provided intel for intel: he asked about the fates of the men he named on this list. I confirmed that we had captured and killed all but two. The day I told him of Lubov's death - this one- he laughed. He said 'Now there is only the Wolf.'
"He was happy to tell me which kills were done by who; he thought it honored his fallen. He was more matter-of-fact about his own kills. But his stories about the Wolf were the most elaborate, for they were the closest to impossible. He was almost giddy about spreading the fear.
Nicolau began arranging the condiments on the table. "I learned as much about the Wolf as I could. I almost flushed him out once, in Zagreb. I learned he doesn't do bell towers - there are so few left, they are too easy targets. Better for him a factory, and a hundred targets. I learned he uses our own munitions, or whatever he can find. I learned that he waited two days to complete an assignment, so his target could get shot on a beautiful day. He also shot one of our generals on the toilet, from 300 yards away.
"One day, this guy" -pointing again at the list, "-requests yard time. First sun in almost a week. So he goes out into the yard, does some stretches, faces the sun-" He pantomimes a firing gun. "Dead before he hit the ground. The Wolf."
Nicolau tipped the waitress and slipped on his jacket. "Finish your drink. It's a beautiful day."
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Death of a Storm Chaser"
"He was happy to tell me which kills were done by who; he thought it honored his fallen. He was more matter-of-fact about his own kills. But his stories about the Wolf were the most elaborate, for they were the closest to impossible. He was almost giddy about spreading the fear.
Nicolau began arranging the condiments on the table. "I learned as much about the Wolf as I could. I almost flushed him out once, in Zagreb. I learned he doesn't do bell towers - there are so few left, they are too easy targets. Better for him a factory, and a hundred targets. I learned he uses our own munitions, or whatever he can find. I learned that he waited two days to complete an assignment, so his target could get shot on a beautiful day. He also shot one of our generals on the toilet, from 300 yards away.
"One day, this guy" -pointing again at the list, "-requests yard time. First sun in almost a week. So he goes out into the yard, does some stretches, faces the sun-" He pantomimes a firing gun. "Dead before he hit the ground. The Wolf."
Nicolau tipped the waitress and slipped on his jacket. "Finish your drink. It's a beautiful day."
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Death of a Storm Chaser"
Monday, April 7, 2014
DAY 94: An Awkward Itching Problem
Dr Maloney picked up the folder for room 413. As she began to peruse through the file of Ms Melanie Rufrode, nurse Cyrus took the folder out of her hand. "This one's waiting for Dr Herzog."
Maloney took the folder back. "He's detained in surgery; he's taking my evening rounds for this."
Cyrus put his fingers on the folder, ready to remove. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but this patient should really wait for Dr Herzog."
Maloney gave a fire-starting glare at his fingers. "And he's not going to be here for twelve hours. I have no intention of alterting his recommendations."
"Sherrita, you can't help this patient."
"Why not, Cyrus?"
Cyrus's eyes dropped while he searched for the word. "She's got allergies. Hives, uncontrolled itching..."
"Yes, I see that. Do I smell like I'm wearing perfume?"
"...and you're black."
Maloney was stunned silent. After a moment, she blurted out, "This is not 1953!" and bolted into the room, Cyrus behind her with gloves in hand.
The doctor entered the room, wearing her most pleasant smile. "Hello, Ms Rufrode, I'm Dr Maloney."
Melanie yanked her blanket to her chin and shuddered. "Aaa! Where's Dr Herzog?"
"He's in the middle of performing a surgery, he'll be back overnight. But we want to see what we can do until then."
"I'm so sorry!" Melanie said, through tears and neck-scratching. "I don't have a problem with black people! I voted for Obama and Jordan Sparks! I'm visiting my daughter - I'm gonna be a new grandma any day now!"
"When did this start?"
"When she came to visit me in Pocatello, with her fiancee, Derek. He wanted to ask my permission to marry her. He was very nice. But before the visit was over, I started itching all over - and it didn't stop until he left! It didn't happen again until I made the trip here! I was standing in line at the Walgreens, and I couldn't even make it to the counter, I had to leave!"
"Why do you think it's african-americans that's causing the itching?"
"I'm from Idaho! We don't have any!" Melanie was rubbing her arms. "You've got to believe me! I want to be able to hold my grandson!"
From the other side of the room, Dr Maloney referred to the chart. "I believe you. Your NPPB levels shows there's a definite physiological change going on. It's your body that's reacting, not you."
"Am I a bad person? I didn't even know everything Ashley was going through until Monday, and I got on a plane-"
"Ms Rufrode... do you think your daughter's boyfriend is a decent person?"
"Seems so. He was real nice on the phone, and when we met. But then he saw me scratching uncontrollably-" Melanie sobbed
The doctor spoke low, drawing Melanie's attention. "Ms Rufrode, my husband is allergic to dogs, all kinds - even my dogs. But he married me anyway, and let me keep them. And we've practically bought stock in Claritin, but that's what he's willing to do to keep the family together. And we can figure out what you need to do, if you want to be around the family."
Melanie nodded. Dr Maloney wrote a prescription for some antihistamines, and asked her to check in a few days, to see how she acclimated to the climate.
The next time Dr Maloney and Cyrus saw Melanie, she was carrying her newborn grandson in her arms. "That's a beautiful baby you got there, new grandma!"
"We're bringing him home today, but I just had to find you, and thank you!" Melanie passed the child to Cyrus and gave Dr Maloney a big hug. "Thank you!"
The baby started fussing and crying. "Nurse Takamoto," the doctor quipped, "I think the baby has a problem with you."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Science Behind an Itch"
Maloney took the folder back. "He's detained in surgery; he's taking my evening rounds for this."
Cyrus put his fingers on the folder, ready to remove. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but this patient should really wait for Dr Herzog."
Maloney gave a fire-starting glare at his fingers. "And he's not going to be here for twelve hours. I have no intention of alterting his recommendations."
"Sherrita, you can't help this patient."
"Why not, Cyrus?"
Cyrus's eyes dropped while he searched for the word. "She's got allergies. Hives, uncontrolled itching..."
"Yes, I see that. Do I smell like I'm wearing perfume?"
"...and you're black."
Maloney was stunned silent. After a moment, she blurted out, "This is not 1953!" and bolted into the room, Cyrus behind her with gloves in hand.
The doctor entered the room, wearing her most pleasant smile. "Hello, Ms Rufrode, I'm Dr Maloney."
Melanie yanked her blanket to her chin and shuddered. "Aaa! Where's Dr Herzog?"
"He's in the middle of performing a surgery, he'll be back overnight. But we want to see what we can do until then."
"I'm so sorry!" Melanie said, through tears and neck-scratching. "I don't have a problem with black people! I voted for Obama and Jordan Sparks! I'm visiting my daughter - I'm gonna be a new grandma any day now!"
"When did this start?"
"When she came to visit me in Pocatello, with her fiancee, Derek. He wanted to ask my permission to marry her. He was very nice. But before the visit was over, I started itching all over - and it didn't stop until he left! It didn't happen again until I made the trip here! I was standing in line at the Walgreens, and I couldn't even make it to the counter, I had to leave!"
"Why do you think it's african-americans that's causing the itching?"
"I'm from Idaho! We don't have any!" Melanie was rubbing her arms. "You've got to believe me! I want to be able to hold my grandson!"
From the other side of the room, Dr Maloney referred to the chart. "I believe you. Your NPPB levels shows there's a definite physiological change going on. It's your body that's reacting, not you."
"Am I a bad person? I didn't even know everything Ashley was going through until Monday, and I got on a plane-"
"Ms Rufrode... do you think your daughter's boyfriend is a decent person?"
"Seems so. He was real nice on the phone, and when we met. But then he saw me scratching uncontrollably-" Melanie sobbed
The doctor spoke low, drawing Melanie's attention. "Ms Rufrode, my husband is allergic to dogs, all kinds - even my dogs. But he married me anyway, and let me keep them. And we've practically bought stock in Claritin, but that's what he's willing to do to keep the family together. And we can figure out what you need to do, if you want to be around the family."
Melanie nodded. Dr Maloney wrote a prescription for some antihistamines, and asked her to check in a few days, to see how she acclimated to the climate.
The next time Dr Maloney and Cyrus saw Melanie, she was carrying her newborn grandson in her arms. "That's a beautiful baby you got there, new grandma!"
"We're bringing him home today, but I just had to find you, and thank you!" Melanie passed the child to Cyrus and gave Dr Maloney a big hug. "Thank you!"
The baby started fussing and crying. "Nurse Takamoto," the doctor quipped, "I think the baby has a problem with you."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Science Behind an Itch"
Sunday, April 6, 2014
DAY 93: Early Afternoon in the Waiting Room of a Genetic Testing Lab
Michael John Boone and John Michael Cooper sat in the waiting room, passing the time. Boone was sending one more text message to his wife at home. He looked over at Cooper, reading a magazine that had his face on the back cover, endorsing a stylish sneaker brand. Cooper, realizing he'd been caught, mimicked his magazine face, eliciting a chuckle from Boone.
"Everything alright?" Cooper asked.
"Yeah," Boone replied. "Sheila said work called. They know I had a doctor's appointment, and they're already thinking the worst."
"You didn't tell them?"
"I don't know if there's anything to tell yet."
Cooper nodded. "My work's like that, too. Times ten."
Boone looked at the magazine, and then at his feet. "You ever wear those shoes?"
In response, Cooper lifted his feet, showing off a crisp white pair. "Got a closet of 'em. My contract says I gotta wear them in public until October, and they gotta look new. There are worse ways to make money... You ever consider it?" He mimed a baseball pitch.
"I played into high school, but I wanted a job more. First job I could get was changing oil at this garage; on the first day, I met the boss's daughter - Sheila. I flunked school and busted ass so he'd let me date her. Then that was good for a while, until some folks started grumbling. So I quit the job and kept the girl, started my own garage. Pissed off the old man, but she married me anyway. But you asked about ball. Nah, didn't cross my mind. Not with a girl like that." Boone pulled up a photo of Sheila back in the day, dressed for prom.
Cooper looked at the hand holding the phone, and then his own. "I knew a girl that looked like her .In college - she married an Army guy. I send them tickets once in a while, they're alright. Brunette, short, bright eyes, didn't let anybody tell her what to think or do... I was already on scholarship, so it was what it was. And then I got signed."
Boone saw the incoming text on his phone. "Sheila was wondering if we were doing anything after this."
"She got you on a short leash, man."
"Not too short. If we ain't going anywhere, you can join us for dinner."
"That's cool, if you got room. And if you don't want to stop anywhere."
"I got cold beers at home, too... but I think I might need to pick up something at work."
Cooper autographed his face on the back of the magazine. "I don't mind the detour. I always carry a Sharpie."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Higgs Boson Found... For Real!"
"Everything alright?" Cooper asked.
"Yeah," Boone replied. "Sheila said work called. They know I had a doctor's appointment, and they're already thinking the worst."
"You didn't tell them?"
"I don't know if there's anything to tell yet."
Cooper nodded. "My work's like that, too. Times ten."
Boone looked at the magazine, and then at his feet. "You ever wear those shoes?"
In response, Cooper lifted his feet, showing off a crisp white pair. "Got a closet of 'em. My contract says I gotta wear them in public until October, and they gotta look new. There are worse ways to make money... You ever consider it?" He mimed a baseball pitch.
"I played into high school, but I wanted a job more. First job I could get was changing oil at this garage; on the first day, I met the boss's daughter - Sheila. I flunked school and busted ass so he'd let me date her. Then that was good for a while, until some folks started grumbling. So I quit the job and kept the girl, started my own garage. Pissed off the old man, but she married me anyway. But you asked about ball. Nah, didn't cross my mind. Not with a girl like that." Boone pulled up a photo of Sheila back in the day, dressed for prom.
Cooper looked at the hand holding the phone, and then his own. "I knew a girl that looked like her .In college - she married an Army guy. I send them tickets once in a while, they're alright. Brunette, short, bright eyes, didn't let anybody tell her what to think or do... I was already on scholarship, so it was what it was. And then I got signed."
Boone saw the incoming text on his phone. "Sheila was wondering if we were doing anything after this."
"She got you on a short leash, man."
"Not too short. If we ain't going anywhere, you can join us for dinner."
"That's cool, if you got room. And if you don't want to stop anywhere."
"I got cold beers at home, too... but I think I might need to pick up something at work."
Cooper autographed his face on the back of the magazine. "I don't mind the detour. I always carry a Sharpie."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Higgs Boson Found... For Real!"
DAY 92: The Scream in the Stratosphere
When Ashley didn't answer the phone, the phone answered itself. "Hello? Are you there?"
Ashley dropped the phone, blurting out an epithet. The phone responded, "Good, you are there. I need help from the person who got this phone to work. Could you contact him for me?"
"Her," she said into the phone. "I'm the one who did it."
"Thank you. I need your help. Please come to this address."
Professor Sunderland buzzed her into the lab. He was a towering man with haunted eyes. "Do it again," he said, handing her a phone.
Ashley began accessing the settings. "Did they name my dorm after you?"
"My family. My grandfather's work helped to develop the atomic bomb; my father's work shaped smartphones such as the one in your hand. I am that third generation that suffers in comparison. How long did it take you to figure out how to fix your phone?"
"About two days. I didn't know everybody else was having problems, I just wanted to be able to reach home."
"And where is home?"
"Mexico." Ashley handed back the phone. "There. You'll be able to use it for about an hour, then wait five, then so on. That's the best I can do until that solar storm passes."
"It's not a solar storm," Dr Sunderland said. "It's a man-made mess that you're going to help me fix."
The professor showed Ashley his progress at the mapping workstation. "The work is much further along than I have been comfortable sharing. My collaborations have been very focused - myopic, I've been accused of. But I don't know everyone's motivations, what they're capable of. Do you know who Emerson Hu is?"
"I've heard of him, on the news. He's been missing..."
"No, you're not in danger," Sunderland interrupted.
"You say that, and now I think I'm in danger!"
"You're going to help me find him. Just figure out the sequence for this frequency oscillation so we can retrive it."
Ashley offered a confused look. "Retrieve?"
"Yes. The interference in all the satellites the past few weeks - everybody's phones and TV signals - came from this lab. I expect to go to prison, because of it - but I'd like to clean it up first. Help me, please."
The lab was humming. At his workstation, Sunderland began to coordinate the power extraction for his experiment: the attempt would extract an hour's worth of city power, even with the batteries in the lab to assist.
Ashley continued searching for the lab frequency. "Why me?"
"Your phone works; you're halfway to solving the problem." Sunderland walked to the generators. "Comcast, AT&T, the research departments of a dozen nations have not figured a way around the electric clutter - but you did. They're telling the public it's solar flaring, leaving excess particles in the Van Allen belts - because the truth would turn too great a microscope upon human activity in the ionosphere, facing unconsidered consequences. They're not ready for that. No one's going to fix this but us."
Ashley hit the enter key in triumph. "Got it!"
"Are you sure? It has to be in sequence, I can't leave anything behind!"
"Yes, I'm sure!... as sure as I can be."
Sunderland nodded, and pointed to an empty chamber, barely larger than a bathroom stall. "Watch that room-" He hit the switch. The room flashed, then went dark.
"Check the room!" the professor shouted. Ashley opened the door to the converted closet, but Sunderland is the one who burst in, and brought out the body of Emerson Hsu. "Is your phone working, Ashley?"
Ashley checked her phone; the signal was clear.
"You may call the police now, Ashley."
Almost two hours later, the police arrived. Ashley met them outside the lab. Sunderland was waiting in the teleportation chamber, staring at the body of his departed friend. He waited until the police entered, before he pushed a button and vanished.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Third Radiation Belt Discovered Around Earth"
Ashley dropped the phone, blurting out an epithet. The phone responded, "Good, you are there. I need help from the person who got this phone to work. Could you contact him for me?"
"Her," she said into the phone. "I'm the one who did it."
"Thank you. I need your help. Please come to this address."
Professor Sunderland buzzed her into the lab. He was a towering man with haunted eyes. "Do it again," he said, handing her a phone.
Ashley began accessing the settings. "Did they name my dorm after you?"
"My family. My grandfather's work helped to develop the atomic bomb; my father's work shaped smartphones such as the one in your hand. I am that third generation that suffers in comparison. How long did it take you to figure out how to fix your phone?"
"About two days. I didn't know everybody else was having problems, I just wanted to be able to reach home."
"And where is home?"
"Mexico." Ashley handed back the phone. "There. You'll be able to use it for about an hour, then wait five, then so on. That's the best I can do until that solar storm passes."
"It's not a solar storm," Dr Sunderland said. "It's a man-made mess that you're going to help me fix."
The professor showed Ashley his progress at the mapping workstation. "The work is much further along than I have been comfortable sharing. My collaborations have been very focused - myopic, I've been accused of. But I don't know everyone's motivations, what they're capable of. Do you know who Emerson Hu is?"
"I've heard of him, on the news. He's been missing..."
"No, you're not in danger," Sunderland interrupted.
"You say that, and now I think I'm in danger!"
"You're going to help me find him. Just figure out the sequence for this frequency oscillation so we can retrive it."
Ashley offered a confused look. "Retrieve?"
"Yes. The interference in all the satellites the past few weeks - everybody's phones and TV signals - came from this lab. I expect to go to prison, because of it - but I'd like to clean it up first. Help me, please."
The lab was humming. At his workstation, Sunderland began to coordinate the power extraction for his experiment: the attempt would extract an hour's worth of city power, even with the batteries in the lab to assist.
Ashley continued searching for the lab frequency. "Why me?"
"Your phone works; you're halfway to solving the problem." Sunderland walked to the generators. "Comcast, AT&T, the research departments of a dozen nations have not figured a way around the electric clutter - but you did. They're telling the public it's solar flaring, leaving excess particles in the Van Allen belts - because the truth would turn too great a microscope upon human activity in the ionosphere, facing unconsidered consequences. They're not ready for that. No one's going to fix this but us."
Ashley hit the enter key in triumph. "Got it!"
"Are you sure? It has to be in sequence, I can't leave anything behind!"
"Yes, I'm sure!... as sure as I can be."
Sunderland nodded, and pointed to an empty chamber, barely larger than a bathroom stall. "Watch that room-" He hit the switch. The room flashed, then went dark.
"Check the room!" the professor shouted. Ashley opened the door to the converted closet, but Sunderland is the one who burst in, and brought out the body of Emerson Hsu. "Is your phone working, Ashley?"
Ashley checked her phone; the signal was clear.
"You may call the police now, Ashley."
Almost two hours later, the police arrived. Ashley met them outside the lab. Sunderland was waiting in the teleportation chamber, staring at the body of his departed friend. He waited until the police entered, before he pushed a button and vanished.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Third Radiation Belt Discovered Around Earth"
Saturday, April 5, 2014
DAY 91: The Heat is On
At halftime, Jay-Z sent one of his guys to trade seats with me. Actually, he wanted to keep me in the coach's line of sight. Everybody on the team was wearing fitbands, giving me heart rates and body temps. My role on the statistics team was graphing performance trends based on physical condition - identifying "hot streaks". After I delivered my second analysis to the coach, they had an 8-game win streak - all on the road. The team bought me flowers the day they came home, and courtside seats.
Ashford saw me from the bench, and gave me the stinkeye. When Anthony went on the injured list, Ashford got the call-up from Erie. He wants to make the most of his moment out of the D-League, but he's been frustrated with some of the coach's calls. In my report, I calculated that Ashford had 90 seconds from peak heartrate before dropoff from fatigue. It appeared that Ashford found out. Coach Mike, however, was a believer; he had me on the tablet, flagging which players were ready or done. If someone was close, I'd text their jersey to his assistant, and he'd make the call.
Later, on a Miami time-out, Coach got the team around him - and Ashford's sub, Number 14, over his shoulder. I could see Ashford arguing for more time. Coach gave me the look: how many shots does he have? I glanced at my numbers, and flashed him two fingers. Coach nodded, and gave Ashford his two-shot warning.
30 seconds later, Ashford got his first shot. He tried his second from in the paint, but missed; Miami took the ball. Number 14 stood by the scorekeeper's table, waiting for the end of the play.
But Ashford was not going to wait. He managed a steal, and then the kind of cross-court shot usually reserved for beating the buzzer. He didn't even watch it go in; he was walking back to the bench.
He didn't approach me after the game, but he saw me. With his hand, he signaled, "You: two. Me: three."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Climate Change May Lead to More Wars"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Climate Change May Lead to More Wars"
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
DAY 90: Message in a Galactic Bottle
By the time you get this message, I will no longer exist. But rest assured, among my final thoughts will be the knowledge that you were right.
I made it to Cygnus, and was on my way back, when I detected a galaxy no one had seen before. From home, it's obscured by the turbulence of Kepler's Singularity. I almost missed it myself, or dismissed it as a faulty reading. But it was real - a galaxy that no one knew existed... a galaxy I could claim for my own. I could not see that she was already spoken for. I set an approach that I intended would counteract the singularity's pull; I underestimated that force.
I identified a planet to crash on, and write these words. I have tried to fix my ship, to no avail. There is no escape from this planet, orbiting this final star, as we circle around the singularity. But it is a beautiful prison: a constant pink sky, breathable air, resources for food and shelter, and no one to compete with. I will die peacefully here.
If I remember my studies, I will die of old age here, in the space between your heartbeats. The stars in my sky do not twinkle - they tear, jagged rips of light in the sky. And in my time, I an half-certain that they are growing longer. But I think I will pass before the darkness claims this place. The only hope I allow myself is that each time I send this message, it may be the one to reach you.
You were right about so many things; I hope you are right about the rest. As stardust or as I am, I will return to you...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Tiniest Galaxy in the Universe"
I made it to Cygnus, and was on my way back, when I detected a galaxy no one had seen before. From home, it's obscured by the turbulence of Kepler's Singularity. I almost missed it myself, or dismissed it as a faulty reading. But it was real - a galaxy that no one knew existed... a galaxy I could claim for my own. I could not see that she was already spoken for. I set an approach that I intended would counteract the singularity's pull; I underestimated that force.
I identified a planet to crash on, and write these words. I have tried to fix my ship, to no avail. There is no escape from this planet, orbiting this final star, as we circle around the singularity. But it is a beautiful prison: a constant pink sky, breathable air, resources for food and shelter, and no one to compete with. I will die peacefully here.
If I remember my studies, I will die of old age here, in the space between your heartbeats. The stars in my sky do not twinkle - they tear, jagged rips of light in the sky. And in my time, I an half-certain that they are growing longer. But I think I will pass before the darkness claims this place. The only hope I allow myself is that each time I send this message, it may be the one to reach you.
You were right about so many things; I hope you are right about the rest. As stardust or as I am, I will return to you...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Tiniest Galaxy in the Universe"
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