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"
Showing posts with label shout-out. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shout-out. Show all posts
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
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"
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"
Sunday, March 30, 2014
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"
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"
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"
Sunday, February 16, 2014
DAY 44: Ray's Story (more than a little Emo...)
I met Ray at the waiting room of an urgent care clinic. I asked him what he was there for, which started this tale:
"I was an only kid growing up, just me, my mom and dad. Saturdays, you got my mom in the kitchen, my dad in the garage, and me in a beach towel for a cape, trying to get somebody to play with me. I say, 'Daddy! Daddy! Play with me!' He says, 'I will, I will, here's some candy, go find your mother.' I run to the kitchen- 'Mommy! Mommy! Play with me!' She says 'I will, I will, have a cookie, go find your father.' Run back to the garage- 'Daddy! Daddy! Play with me!' He says, 'We are, we are, grab a licorice, bug your mother.' Back in the kitchen 'Mommy! Mommy!', another cookie, 'go to father.' To the garage, out the door, I trip on my cape- boop! on my nose... Dad comes out of the garage, helps me to my feet, checks me out, and yells to the house, '15-love! Coming at ya!'
"...and that is why I have diabetes."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Secret Origins of Cosmic Rays". and Emo Phillips.
"I was an only kid growing up, just me, my mom and dad. Saturdays, you got my mom in the kitchen, my dad in the garage, and me in a beach towel for a cape, trying to get somebody to play with me. I say, 'Daddy! Daddy! Play with me!' He says, 'I will, I will, here's some candy, go find your mother.' I run to the kitchen- 'Mommy! Mommy! Play with me!' She says 'I will, I will, have a cookie, go find your father.' Run back to the garage- 'Daddy! Daddy! Play with me!' He says, 'We are, we are, grab a licorice, bug your mother.' Back in the kitchen 'Mommy! Mommy!', another cookie, 'go to father.' To the garage, out the door, I trip on my cape- boop! on my nose... Dad comes out of the garage, helps me to my feet, checks me out, and yells to the house, '15-love! Coming at ya!'
"...and that is why I have diabetes."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Secret Origins of Cosmic Rays". and Emo Phillips.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
DAY 29: The One-Acre Wood
This story is at least 60% true.
Years ago, before I knew better, I lived with my girlfriend, trying to make the best of a bad situation. Shortly after moving into what would be our nicest home, we hosted a gathering for her family, so she could assure them that we were doing well for ourselves. As the blood relations bonded, I found myself with the inferred duty of hanging out with the other 'guest': some cousin's baby daddy, a boorish man from outside Chicago that was rapidly disenchanting the family. He was as loud as I was quiet, but we found solidarity in our mutual predicament, and we began to get to know each other.
Like the rest of the family, Chicago was impressed with the neighborhood we had managed to move into: cul-de-sacs of 3 bedroom/2-garages, in the contemporary aspirational-suburban style. He had lived near the area for a few years, and remembered when the houses were first being built. After a few hours of good cheer, he decided I was worthy of sharing a secret. "If you want," he said, "I can show you the slave graves they got hidden at the end of the street.
The end of my street was the only untamed acre in the entire housing development. Every other lot had been domesticated; if they weren't already a home, they were in some phase of construction. But there was one lot that was not disturbed. It was walled with several trees and brush, and even the grass had been allowed to grow taller than men stand. This forbidden forest was separated from the housing development by yards and yards of grass, a sea of grass.
I had seen the 1-acre wood lots of times, dismissed it as an unclaimed purchase. But Chicago had another story. "When I would visit my buddy here, that's where we'd drink. He showed me the graves; he thought they were left over from when this place was a plantation. And the owners are never going to be able to sell it... y'know, because of the ghosts."
Chicago's story did not change the family's opinion of him. However, I was eager to see it for myself. We walked to the end of the street, through the sea of grass, to the edge of the one-acre wood. The hardest part was finding a way in; the biggest gap in the bramble still required us to hunch over and through for several steps. The center, by comparison, was pretty clear; dominated by the ceders that grew within, and only stones and tufts of grass beneath them. Some errant litter, as well, but nothing to suggest that anyone had been here for a long time.
Chicago found his sitting spot and pointed to one of the larger white stones, as long as my shoe, a smooth half dome. He was looking at the clear side; I walked to the other side, and wiped dirt off the number "1834".
I started to look for other slave graves, which Chicago watched me between sips of his beer, grinning with pride. I found a partly-submerged gravetop broken in half; other fragments identified two more resting places. Finally, I found another gravestone. It had the most to say: "MARQUETTE, JUL 4 1835- JAN 15 1837".
When we got back to the house, I presented my testimony to the assembled family. They were temporarily amused. Chicago was satisfied with his tiny vindication, and moved on to his next beer.
But I had to keep digging. A couple of Internet searches, and some deductive reasoning, filled in a few more blanks about the Marquette family.
The graves were not for plantation slaves; they were for the children of Farmer Marquette. In the years of the farm's establishment, the Marquette family would lose several children before that generation would take hold and prosper in the region. Their graves were nameless due to the briefness of their lives; names were gifts bestowed to those who would grow to pass them on. Instead, these children were given a different gift in their passing. Their time was carved in stone, their place was marked in the earth, and the relations to follow made that ground sacred, surrendering it to nature and shielding it from the progress and civilization that would swallow up everything else of their era.
I returned alone to that sacred spot several times while I lived in that neighborhood, sharing the secret with few. Years after I left, I repaid a visit to the one-acre wood, still an undisturbed fortress in its green and yellow sea. The bramble had grown even thicker; only a child could enter it now, which is probably just as well.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Lost Spanish Fort Finally Revealed"
Years ago, before I knew better, I lived with my girlfriend, trying to make the best of a bad situation. Shortly after moving into what would be our nicest home, we hosted a gathering for her family, so she could assure them that we were doing well for ourselves. As the blood relations bonded, I found myself with the inferred duty of hanging out with the other 'guest': some cousin's baby daddy, a boorish man from outside Chicago that was rapidly disenchanting the family. He was as loud as I was quiet, but we found solidarity in our mutual predicament, and we began to get to know each other.
Like the rest of the family, Chicago was impressed with the neighborhood we had managed to move into: cul-de-sacs of 3 bedroom/2-garages, in the contemporary aspirational-suburban style. He had lived near the area for a few years, and remembered when the houses were first being built. After a few hours of good cheer, he decided I was worthy of sharing a secret. "If you want," he said, "I can show you the slave graves they got hidden at the end of the street.
The end of my street was the only untamed acre in the entire housing development. Every other lot had been domesticated; if they weren't already a home, they were in some phase of construction. But there was one lot that was not disturbed. It was walled with several trees and brush, and even the grass had been allowed to grow taller than men stand. This forbidden forest was separated from the housing development by yards and yards of grass, a sea of grass.
I had seen the 1-acre wood lots of times, dismissed it as an unclaimed purchase. But Chicago had another story. "When I would visit my buddy here, that's where we'd drink. He showed me the graves; he thought they were left over from when this place was a plantation. And the owners are never going to be able to sell it... y'know, because of the ghosts."
Chicago's story did not change the family's opinion of him. However, I was eager to see it for myself. We walked to the end of the street, through the sea of grass, to the edge of the one-acre wood. The hardest part was finding a way in; the biggest gap in the bramble still required us to hunch over and through for several steps. The center, by comparison, was pretty clear; dominated by the ceders that grew within, and only stones and tufts of grass beneath them. Some errant litter, as well, but nothing to suggest that anyone had been here for a long time.
Chicago found his sitting spot and pointed to one of the larger white stones, as long as my shoe, a smooth half dome. He was looking at the clear side; I walked to the other side, and wiped dirt off the number "1834".
I started to look for other slave graves, which Chicago watched me between sips of his beer, grinning with pride. I found a partly-submerged gravetop broken in half; other fragments identified two more resting places. Finally, I found another gravestone. It had the most to say: "MARQUETTE, JUL 4 1835- JAN 15 1837".
When we got back to the house, I presented my testimony to the assembled family. They were temporarily amused. Chicago was satisfied with his tiny vindication, and moved on to his next beer.
But I had to keep digging. A couple of Internet searches, and some deductive reasoning, filled in a few more blanks about the Marquette family.
The graves were not for plantation slaves; they were for the children of Farmer Marquette. In the years of the farm's establishment, the Marquette family would lose several children before that generation would take hold and prosper in the region. Their graves were nameless due to the briefness of their lives; names were gifts bestowed to those who would grow to pass them on. Instead, these children were given a different gift in their passing. Their time was carved in stone, their place was marked in the earth, and the relations to follow made that ground sacred, surrendering it to nature and shielding it from the progress and civilization that would swallow up everything else of their era.
I returned alone to that sacred spot several times while I lived in that neighborhood, sharing the secret with few. Years after I left, I repaid a visit to the one-acre wood, still an undisturbed fortress in its green and yellow sea. The bramble had grown even thicker; only a child could enter it now, which is probably just as well.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Lost Spanish Fort Finally Revealed"
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
DAY 28: Kanye Needs His Tiger Koalas
Dr Hale's phone buzzed. His receptionist chirped, "Mr West on line 1. Not happy."
"Thank you, Lexi." Dr Hale sighed deeply and watched the phone light blink. Breakfast here in Sydney was lunchtime in LA; not an odd hour to get a call. Perhaps it would be a pleasant conversation.
He picked up the receiver. "Good afternoon, Mr West."
"Don't 'good afternoon' me, 'mate'! We got a situation here!"
"Of course. What seems to be the trouble?"
"These bears are going crazy! The training won't stick! I got the best trainer in town, and he just ran off screaming! Literally! I got video!"
Dr Hale looked at the photo on the wall, of the institute's ribbon-cutting ceremony, where he and Mr West held the scissors for the cameras. "Well, they are technically bred from koalas, sir. Koalas have comparatively underdeveloped brains. Training may not be a possibility"
"When the hell were you planning on telling us that? We can't have that! They're starting to hiss at the kids! And mama don't wanna touch them since they grew too big to fit in her bag! Besides, these ain't regular koalas, these are tiger koalas! We got some tiger stripes on them bears, we gotta have some tiger brains in there too, right? Help me, Doctor!"
"Well, let's start with telling me about their current health. How are they doing? How big are they?"
"Let's see..." Mr West clicked his tongue as he began to calculate. "Da Vinci's the biggest; she's about 25 pounds, big as the corgi. Pollack's almost as big, but Da Vinci's the eater. and Jocko's catching up to them - oh, and he's packing extra heat"
"That's a bifurcated penis; most marsupials are equipped with double genitalia. Are they active?" This issue was a greater concern beyond Mr West's pets. STDs were the threat that had first put koalas on the endangered species list - and provided Dr Hale with a cause celebre for his research to adopt.
The final piece of good fortune was Mrs West, who wanted to add to her alliterative menagerie. On a tour of Australia (attempting to circumvent the embargo on marsupial export), she and Mr West learned about the institute. Contributing to the public efforts to reverse extinction was admirable; the private opportunity to own a custom-designed, one-of-a-kind pet was irresistible. Within five years, his facility had resurrected twelve formerly-extinct species. Quietly, they had also created something new.
"Not that I've seen, Doc." (He was calling Dr Hale "Doc." That was a good sign.)
"We should watch out for that, Mr West. They're getting to the age, and it may affect their mood. But the surliness, the disagreeableness... that's very koala of them. They just need space, from each other and visitors. I wouldn't expect them to play catch - not on the first try. Your trainer - what kind of animal training was he qualified for? Big cat training?"
"I don't know; she took care of that."
"You need someone that's worked with big cats; if there's any tiger brains in there, the right trainer can help develop that. A trainer's a good idea; we just gotta a qualified one. I'll be on your side of the pond in three weeks; I can find someone to recommend before then."
Mr West audibly composed himself. "Look, the kids still love 'em. Kim still thinks they're adorable, and they're scaring her mom away, so I'm happy. They're awesome cute, but the first time they bite one of mine is the last. I'm gonna make me a coat - come to think of it, that might be nice... And then you'll need to make some more. Maybe pygmy this time"
"Wellllllll.. we have accomplished some truly amazing stuff so far."
"Damn right, we've done impossible stuff. Future is now! Okay, we got a plan. When you come to town, you got a place to stay, aight?"
"Sounds good, Mr West."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Resurrecting an Extinct Frog"
"Thank you, Lexi." Dr Hale sighed deeply and watched the phone light blink. Breakfast here in Sydney was lunchtime in LA; not an odd hour to get a call. Perhaps it would be a pleasant conversation.
He picked up the receiver. "Good afternoon, Mr West."
"Don't 'good afternoon' me, 'mate'! We got a situation here!"
"Of course. What seems to be the trouble?"
"These bears are going crazy! The training won't stick! I got the best trainer in town, and he just ran off screaming! Literally! I got video!"
Dr Hale looked at the photo on the wall, of the institute's ribbon-cutting ceremony, where he and Mr West held the scissors for the cameras. "Well, they are technically bred from koalas, sir. Koalas have comparatively underdeveloped brains. Training may not be a possibility"
"When the hell were you planning on telling us that? We can't have that! They're starting to hiss at the kids! And mama don't wanna touch them since they grew too big to fit in her bag! Besides, these ain't regular koalas, these are tiger koalas! We got some tiger stripes on them bears, we gotta have some tiger brains in there too, right? Help me, Doctor!"
"Well, let's start with telling me about their current health. How are they doing? How big are they?"
"Let's see..." Mr West clicked his tongue as he began to calculate. "Da Vinci's the biggest; she's about 25 pounds, big as the corgi. Pollack's almost as big, but Da Vinci's the eater. and Jocko's catching up to them - oh, and he's packing extra heat"
"That's a bifurcated penis; most marsupials are equipped with double genitalia. Are they active?" This issue was a greater concern beyond Mr West's pets. STDs were the threat that had first put koalas on the endangered species list - and provided Dr Hale with a cause celebre for his research to adopt.
The final piece of good fortune was Mrs West, who wanted to add to her alliterative menagerie. On a tour of Australia (attempting to circumvent the embargo on marsupial export), she and Mr West learned about the institute. Contributing to the public efforts to reverse extinction was admirable; the private opportunity to own a custom-designed, one-of-a-kind pet was irresistible. Within five years, his facility had resurrected twelve formerly-extinct species. Quietly, they had also created something new.
"Not that I've seen, Doc." (He was calling Dr Hale "Doc." That was a good sign.)
"We should watch out for that, Mr West. They're getting to the age, and it may affect their mood. But the surliness, the disagreeableness... that's very koala of them. They just need space, from each other and visitors. I wouldn't expect them to play catch - not on the first try. Your trainer - what kind of animal training was he qualified for? Big cat training?"
"I don't know; she took care of that."
"You need someone that's worked with big cats; if there's any tiger brains in there, the right trainer can help develop that. A trainer's a good idea; we just gotta a qualified one. I'll be on your side of the pond in three weeks; I can find someone to recommend before then."
Mr West audibly composed himself. "Look, the kids still love 'em. Kim still thinks they're adorable, and they're scaring her mom away, so I'm happy. They're awesome cute, but the first time they bite one of mine is the last. I'm gonna make me a coat - come to think of it, that might be nice... And then you'll need to make some more. Maybe pygmy this time"
"Wellllllll.. we have accomplished some truly amazing stuff so far."
"Damn right, we've done impossible stuff. Future is now! Okay, we got a plan. When you come to town, you got a place to stay, aight?"
"Sounds good, Mr West."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Resurrecting an Extinct Frog"
Monday, January 13, 2014
DAY 13: The Apartment Arms Race
Saturday afternoon was Battledfield day; no negotations, Josh said. Joe's coursework was going to wait until Josh's squadron totally pwoned Joe's crew; which was usually a 3 hour process. Joe was uncharacteristically coopeartive this weekend, and complied.
And so it was that Joe set aside his theoretical calculus and cybernetics, and grabbed a controller. He caught sight of Josh's Red Sox cap. "How about you let me wear Red today?" Josh responded with a quick swipe, planting it on his own head.
An hour later, Team Red had Team Blue down 19-15, when Joe decided to take a bathroom break. Josh didn't see Joe's controller leave with him. He was too busy riding shotgun in the Jeep, shoving grenades into people's faces. "Take us to the roof!" Josh shouted. Grid1ron423 drove up the stairs, while Josh kept a steady bead on Red Team's flagbearer. He pulled out the SRAW, took aim, and...
BWHAM! The jeep was a mushroom cloud. "What was that?!?" GridIron wailed.
"Focus! We're coming back!" Josh barked. They emerged, and Josh began scanning his arsenal, looking for the right weapon. He saw his Shorty 12G, one of his favorites. "J-Lo," he purred. As GridIron ran ahead, Josh made his selection. It promptly materialized in his hands, and fired a round straight into GridIron's back. "What the hell?" GridIron squawked.
Josh, meanwhile, was watching his weapons selection scroll faster than his eyes could keep up. "I've been hacked!" He started trying to push every button he could-
"Whatev! You're telling me you ain't pushing the buttons?"
"Seriously!, Joe, look-" Josh looked at Joe's empty chair. Josh looked down at his own fingers; they were pushing the buttons... but not the buttons he wanted. He watched his fingers select his bank account and check the balance. He tried to drop the controller, but his hands refused. The rest of Blue team, meanwhile, were building distance.
"Joe!" Josh awkwardly got off the couch, controller still between his hands.
"Joe!" Josh looked in all directions, rage building.
"JOE!" Josh roared at the bathroom door. "Stop it! Turn it off!"
On the other side of the door, Joe gleefully stared at the tablet that provided a view of Josh's predicament, while he mashed his controller buttons. "Dude, just take off your hat!"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Mind Melds Made Real"
And so it was that Joe set aside his theoretical calculus and cybernetics, and grabbed a controller. He caught sight of Josh's Red Sox cap. "How about you let me wear Red today?" Josh responded with a quick swipe, planting it on his own head.
An hour later, Team Red had Team Blue down 19-15, when Joe decided to take a bathroom break. Josh didn't see Joe's controller leave with him. He was too busy riding shotgun in the Jeep, shoving grenades into people's faces. "Take us to the roof!" Josh shouted. Grid1ron423 drove up the stairs, while Josh kept a steady bead on Red Team's flagbearer. He pulled out the SRAW, took aim, and...
BWHAM! The jeep was a mushroom cloud. "What was that?!?" GridIron wailed.
"Focus! We're coming back!" Josh barked. They emerged, and Josh began scanning his arsenal, looking for the right weapon. He saw his Shorty 12G, one of his favorites. "J-Lo," he purred. As GridIron ran ahead, Josh made his selection. It promptly materialized in his hands, and fired a round straight into GridIron's back. "What the hell?" GridIron squawked.
Josh, meanwhile, was watching his weapons selection scroll faster than his eyes could keep up. "I've been hacked!" He started trying to push every button he could-
"Whatev! You're telling me you ain't pushing the buttons?"
"Seriously!, Joe, look-" Josh looked at Joe's empty chair. Josh looked down at his own fingers; they were pushing the buttons... but not the buttons he wanted. He watched his fingers select his bank account and check the balance. He tried to drop the controller, but his hands refused. The rest of Blue team, meanwhile, were building distance.
"Joe!" Josh awkwardly got off the couch, controller still between his hands.
"Joe!" Josh looked in all directions, rage building.
"JOE!" Josh roared at the bathroom door. "Stop it! Turn it off!"
On the other side of the door, Joe gleefully stared at the tablet that provided a view of Josh's predicament, while he mashed his controller buttons. "Dude, just take off your hat!"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Mind Melds Made Real"
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
DAY 8: "Catch That Hominid!", chapter 37
Ook the Caveman careened down the street so fast, the bike was pedaling him. He managed to drift at the corner, veering left to escape the pursuing scientists and the traffic jam in his wake. Riding alongside, Bri squealed, "Ook, that was awesome!"
Dr Kealy's van peeled out of the pileup and resumed the chase. "We can't let them leave campus, Herman!" he barked, as he loaded the tranquilizer gun. "If we can return that hominid to the lab for study, I can make Paleontological history!"
At that moment, the cell phone rang. It was Dr Estelle Besoin, from the the anthropology department. "Don't you dare touch a hair on that human's head! There is too much to learn from him before you turn him into a dissected frog!"
Dr Kealy yelled into his phone, "Like what? Learn how long it takes him to say 'please' and 'thank you'? He's riding a BMX bike and wearing Nikes! Your experiment is tainted! I need his body before he joins the Walmart nation!"
From the car alongside, Dr Segure yelled back, "You're thinking too small!" With one hand on his own steering wheel, he slapped Dr Kealy's van with the other. "I heard the last part of your sentence, and can easily guess everything else your predictable mind said! Your butchery won't get one-tenth of the information that my DNA analysis can reveal!"
"Herman, get him off the road!"
Dutifully, Herman jerked the van right, slamming into Dr Segure's Miata. Together, they slid against the parked cars alongside the road, fusing into a gnarled mess. As they continued to slide down the street, the trapped Doctors could only glare at each other. "Genetic paleontology is the future, Kealy!"
"That's funny, Segure, because I thought paleontology was about the past!"
Just as their momentum was spent, a Smart Car smacked into them; a germanic "Oops!" popped out of the coupe. Dr Kealy rolled his eyes; "Great, more of you genetic fanboys!"
"Hey, don't lump in Dr Wimmer with me! I've got nothing to do with genetic archaeology!"
From the back, Dr Wimmer murmered, "Actually, I'm an archaeological geneticist; a genetic archaeologist would excavate long-forgotten habitats of a tribe of geneticists." He allowed himself a laugh. "But seriously, that's Doctor Werner."
Dr Kealy muttered to Herman, "There's a lot of competition for tenure these days, isn't there?"
On his ten-speed, Dr Beiber, creationist archaeologist, rode up to the wreck, "Where's the caveman?"
"Back off, Ed, he doesn't know anything about dinosaurs!" Dr Segure barked. "Soon as I line his chromosomes up, you won't have a leg to stand on!"
"Threatened, Ramon? Just give me ten minutes with him, we can settle the Old Creationist versus New Creationist debate, and blow everyone's minds!"
"Dude, he is checkmate! A living, breathing rebuttal!"
"Oh, really? 'Victim's got a bullet hole, but I don't see a gun - I guess he wasn't shot!'"
****
Meanwhile, Ook and Bri had made it off campus, and still racing down the street. "Ook, as soon as we get back to my place, we have to get you a better disguise, so we can find Teddy, and get you home!" She turned to face him- but he was gone...
...following the strong and unmistakable scent of well-hunted and grilled meat. He wound his way to a laundromat parking lot, where a large man in an Iron Maiden-marked denim vest was grilling by a fatigued mini-van. The large man held the turkey leg over his head. Ook rode toward the turkey leg, crashing himself into the open minivan to claim his prize. The assistant slid the door quickly to lock Ook inside.
"That worked great, Red! How'd you know?"
Red doused the grill. "I'm a crypto-anthropologist, Shiela. I know how to catch Bigfoot."
inspired by the Discover Magazine article, "Extracting Family Trees from Ancient Genomes"
Dr Kealy's van peeled out of the pileup and resumed the chase. "We can't let them leave campus, Herman!" he barked, as he loaded the tranquilizer gun. "If we can return that hominid to the lab for study, I can make Paleontological history!"
At that moment, the cell phone rang. It was Dr Estelle Besoin, from the the anthropology department. "Don't you dare touch a hair on that human's head! There is too much to learn from him before you turn him into a dissected frog!"
Dr Kealy yelled into his phone, "Like what? Learn how long it takes him to say 'please' and 'thank you'? He's riding a BMX bike and wearing Nikes! Your experiment is tainted! I need his body before he joins the Walmart nation!"
From the car alongside, Dr Segure yelled back, "You're thinking too small!" With one hand on his own steering wheel, he slapped Dr Kealy's van with the other. "I heard the last part of your sentence, and can easily guess everything else your predictable mind said! Your butchery won't get one-tenth of the information that my DNA analysis can reveal!"
"Herman, get him off the road!"
Dutifully, Herman jerked the van right, slamming into Dr Segure's Miata. Together, they slid against the parked cars alongside the road, fusing into a gnarled mess. As they continued to slide down the street, the trapped Doctors could only glare at each other. "Genetic paleontology is the future, Kealy!"
"That's funny, Segure, because I thought paleontology was about the past!"
Just as their momentum was spent, a Smart Car smacked into them; a germanic "Oops!" popped out of the coupe. Dr Kealy rolled his eyes; "Great, more of you genetic fanboys!"
"Hey, don't lump in Dr Wimmer with me! I've got nothing to do with genetic archaeology!"
From the back, Dr Wimmer murmered, "Actually, I'm an archaeological geneticist; a genetic archaeologist would excavate long-forgotten habitats of a tribe of geneticists." He allowed himself a laugh. "But seriously, that's Doctor Werner."
Dr Kealy muttered to Herman, "There's a lot of competition for tenure these days, isn't there?"
On his ten-speed, Dr Beiber, creationist archaeologist, rode up to the wreck, "Where's the caveman?"
"Back off, Ed, he doesn't know anything about dinosaurs!" Dr Segure barked. "Soon as I line his chromosomes up, you won't have a leg to stand on!"
"Threatened, Ramon? Just give me ten minutes with him, we can settle the Old Creationist versus New Creationist debate, and blow everyone's minds!"
"Dude, he is checkmate! A living, breathing rebuttal!"
"Oh, really? 'Victim's got a bullet hole, but I don't see a gun - I guess he wasn't shot!'"
****
Meanwhile, Ook and Bri had made it off campus, and still racing down the street. "Ook, as soon as we get back to my place, we have to get you a better disguise, so we can find Teddy, and get you home!" She turned to face him- but he was gone...
...following the strong and unmistakable scent of well-hunted and grilled meat. He wound his way to a laundromat parking lot, where a large man in an Iron Maiden-marked denim vest was grilling by a fatigued mini-van. The large man held the turkey leg over his head. Ook rode toward the turkey leg, crashing himself into the open minivan to claim his prize. The assistant slid the door quickly to lock Ook inside.
"That worked great, Red! How'd you know?"
Red doused the grill. "I'm a crypto-anthropologist, Shiela. I know how to catch Bigfoot."
inspired by the Discover Magazine article, "Extracting Family Trees from Ancient Genomes"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)