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"

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.

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. 

inspired by Discover Magazine article, "A Drop of Goo Becomes World Famous"

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!"

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"

DAY 86: Squeak

He came up to my counter with a smile and a flip phone from 4 years too late, asking if I could provide twelve more.  I tried to upsell him on the new ones, but he wouldn't budge unless they could 'sing the same song'.

He earned the phone back in Uganda, from a volunteer doctor.  In his village, he was one of the men who learned to maintain, repair, and protect the village generator.  He also made sure the doctor's technical equipment would remain freshly charged - including her phone.
One night, she did not remember to take the phone home.  In the middle of the night, he woke up to a strange noise; it disappeared before he could find it.  An hour later, it happened again, and it was gone before he could find the noise - but he found the phone.  An hour later, the phone chirped in his hand, and he knew he had found it.
The next morning, he returned the phone to the very grateful doctor, who explained that the noise was to keep crickets out of her room.  There happened to be a cricket nearby as she was talking to him; she set the phone to 'chirp', and the cricket couldn't hop away fast enough!  And that gave the young man an idea.

His mother's garden was suitably fortified from larger animals, but it didn't keep out the crickets.  He bargained with the doctor, and she gave him the phone, teaching him how it worked.  He made a scarecrow for his mother, with a place in the scarecrow's head to hold the phone.  He set the phone to 'chirp' a few times each hour, throughout the night.  A month later, his mother served their first dinner harvested from her garden.
That was two years ago.  Last month, he had been given a plane ticket to the US, to talk to churches and look at colleges.  But he dreamed of making a dozen more scarecrows, for the entire village - which
brought him to my store.
The phone was retired - but the chirp wasn't.  I helped him find the sound on some of our display phones, and sold him a dozen floor models for 20% retail.  The kid knows how to bargain.



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Low-Tech Solutions for High Stakes Problems"

DAY 85: Seeding the Clouds

When I was born, my mom wanted me to follow a life path of my own choosing.  But my father found a way around it.  For many years, a typical bedtime included lesson time; dad would come in and ask me to teach him something I had learned that day.  So I taught him about the letter R, the number 6, "twinkle twinkle", how to share...  He was patient with all of it.  Sometimes, we'd stare up at the bedroom walls, painted to look like heavenly clouds, and we'd tell stories of the things that lived there.

"What's that one?"  he'd say.

"Mop-mop.  It looks like the head of a mop!"

He squinted at it.  "I suppose.  What about that one next to it?"

"Go-gi!"

"I like that one.  What are they doing?"

"Gogi makes food for everybody in his restaurant.  And then somebody on the other side of the cloud calls in their order, and Gogi's delivers!  That's the delivery bubble over there."

"Wow.  There's a lot of delivery trucks on that cloud.  That's a big one!"

"That's Lisa's garbage truck.  She doesn't deliver food.  And it's bubbles!.  They're all bubbles!"

***

After placement testing in junior high, I was never in one grade again.  The year that I took eighth grade english and gym, I was also enrolled in ninth grade spanish and history, tenth grade biology, AP calculus, and played 2nd chair cello.  Mom also had me cook family dinner once a week.

It was in biology class that I learned one of my dad's tricks.  Our teacher was introducing us to the components of the typical mammalian cell unit, via a video presentation and a monotone narration.  "The cell membrane is the semi-porous outer boundary that keeps the organelles contained.  At the center is the nucleus, the cell's 'brain' ; this is surrounded by the endoplasmic reticulum (both smooth and rough.)  Enzymes are transported throughout the cell by vesicles, to or from the nucleus, the mitochondria, the golgi apparatus..."

That took me back to my room, and the painted ceiling; to Gogi and MopMop, to Lisa and Nuclearman and Mighty Condi...  As we watched archival footage of a typical single cell organism's life cycle, I saw a neighborhood that had been floating over my head for years.  I knew them, how they helped each other and why.  That class didn't teach me anything new about cell structure.  But it did teach me that my dad's a sneaky guy.



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Immune Attack Up Close"

DAY 80: Number 175

I became a vegetarian around my 175th chicken.
When college didn't work out, I was looking for some money and an adventure.  I joined the crew of a cargo ship, helping transport some 400 chickens out of Portland.  Halfway to port, my lead found a sick one, told me to kill it, and send it to the kitchen.  I did it, and located my lead to let him know it was done; he happened to be with the captain, at the time.   I was sent back to the pens immediately, while the captain and my lead had words.
It was the captain who came back for me in the pens.  Live birds would be under Chinese jurisdiction, which meant an extended stay and uncertain repercussions ; the only certainty was not getting paid.  Bird parts, however, would have a ready buyer in Shanghai.  Effectively immediately, the chickens had to be slaughtered before we got to port.  With my lead relieved of his duties, the task of dispatching the birds was left to me; they gave me the keys of the equipment, a couple of manuals, and four days.

I figured out a routine pretty quick: after slitting the chickens in groups of eight, I'll pile them in a wire basket for scalding, then chill them in the ice water trough.  Plucking and prep would have to be on its own time, but the ones I couldn't would still have someone to buy them.  Someone got word (or, more likely, heard the non-stop squawking) and sent down a taser; that cut down the flapping and scratching.  I became scarily efficient.
Each crate held 120 chickens; I was nearly three crates done before I noticed the taser winding down.  I should have expected its charge to wear down eventually, but I wanted to get done what I could.  Five hens to the end of the crate, then time for a cigarette, toss out the blood buckets and freshen up the ice for the next batch...
This bird, I tased, then I laid it upside down to slit.  It got away from me, even as it grazed up on the blade.  For the next 30 seconds, it was flapping above me, clawing for higher ground; arterial spray out the neck, on me, on the other chickens, all over the hold... And then she was done.  She collapsed on top of the crate.

It was a lot quieter after that.  I looked over the remaining hens in the hold, counting back to number 175, draped on the cage.  I got it in the scalding pot.  I got the rest done, with 14 hours to port, before I returned to my bunk.  I took a plane home.
I don't have a problem with people eating meat, or overeating it, or with the people who provide it.  I'm just tired of it.



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Chicken Could Go 'Round the World"

DAY 78: The Waiting Room

Tyree was in the wrong wing of the hospital, I thought.  I usually saw him on alternating Thursdays at the PT clinic, working on his walking.  So I was surprised to find him flipping through TV channels in the waiting area outside the maternity ward.  Not the flipping part; his family gave him a universal TV remote last christmas, and became fascinated with the "universal" part, figuring out how to take over whatever TV's in whatever clinic he's in.

"Tyree!  What are you doing here?  You got an appointment today?"

He turned to me, studying my face.  "Hi, Carl. Got a baby coming."  He returned to the TV.

An anxious man in his work clothes approached me.  "Hey, are you a nurse here, or whatever?  I need to check on how my girlfriend's doing."

"Well, I don't actually work at this wing, but I'll try to help.  You want to see about getting you in?"

He shook his head.  "No, that ain't happening.  I just want to get an idea of what's going on."

"Okay.  I know one of the girls here, I'll find out how far along she is-"

"-Look, be cool about it. I got a little heated earlier, trying to find out what's going on.  I've calmed down now, but they're busy, they're not hearing me yet.  They're worried about the baby, that's fine, that's their job, I'm sorry about getting in the way of that, I want them to know.  Her mom's in there, she got problems with me, I don't want that in the way, but they're in the way, so I'm staying out, but I gotta know what's going on.  You know Tyree's mom?"

"Not really; I haven't met her yet.  Tyree usually comes by himself.  I didn't even know he had a sister."

"Yeah, and it's not like there's a family resemblance, amiright?"  He moved on.  "Moms wouldn't want me here, if she could.  But it's not for her to say  She don't want me in that room, I'm fine with that, I can't do anything in there, I don't even know what she's doing in there.  But I just need the car keys right now."

"The car-?"

"I know.  They got too many things going on, it's not important with everything they got going, but listen-  There's stuff to take care, I gotta get back to the house.  I should probably be bringing Cece's brothers and sisters up here, although this could take a while, right?  I mean, they could've waited until I got done with work to take them in the car.  Or, if it was such an emergency, take an ambulance!  That's what they're for!"

The TV flipped to the middle of one of the local ads by the "Legal Eagles" (whose names escape me, at the moment.)  When the computer-generated eagle let out a screech, Tyree stopped to let out a screech, just as loud.

Babydaddy snapped, "Cool it!"  He changed his tune when he returned his attention to me.  "Look, man, you can tell I don't belong here.  I need to get out of here!  Just ask them for the keys, and I'll be on my way."

"I believe you, sir.  But I don't know if I can do what you're asking, because this isn't my ward, and your girl's family doesn't know me.  But I know who might be able to.  Why don't you ask Tyree to get the keys?"

Babydaddy looked at Tyree, looked at me, and sat the f down.

inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Shutting Off the Down Syndrome Chromosome"

DAY 72: Arsenic and Old Rice

Jiro was trying to talk himself out of eating sushi.  He had two phones and a tablet by his plate, to help him..  The tablet identified the components of his dinner - a list of ingredients in the Crunchy Rainbow roll, under sesame sauce and presented with a side of wasabi.  In the phone to his immediate right, he searched for documentation of identified toxins with each ingredient.  In the other phone, he calculated the estimated toxin levels he could expect to be exposed to, down to the piece.

He had been proud of his dietary lifestyle: not as doomed as the bacon cheeseburger worshippers, not as pretentious as the vega-ova-terrestrials... just chicken, fish, and the kind of stuff that gets a B-to-B-plus on the nutritional report card.  But then the local news reported that a sister location of his favorite grocery store had recalled a week's worth of chicken breasts sales, after several families contracted a previously unidentified strain of avian flu.  He started reading headlines about the risks in foods that he had trusted, to the point that he recognized he was becoming phobic about the act of eating.  He compromised with his fears, and began his dietary audit.

Jiro had been eating sushi since he was 13 years old.  Now, he sat in front of his favorite order, trying to figure out how many more pieces he could eat in his life.  He attempted to ascertain the levels of mercury in the fish, arsenic in the rice, lead in the seaweed...  He looked up from his mathwork, and eyed the colorful plate.  By his own determination, this plate of sushi would be his third-to-last ever, to be safe.
He was studying his food so intently, he did not see the waitress refresh his drink.  He shifted his gaze to the glass of tap water...  and he froze.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Arsenic-Tainted Rice is Harmful to Humans"

DAY 66: I Lost My Heart on the Super Coaster

I lost my girlfriend to the Sunshine Valley Super Coaster.

Up to that point, it had been a fun day at the park.  We had enjoyed some other rides, played some games, even watched a sidewalk magician... half-way around the park, before she was willing to stand in line for as long as it would take to get on the coaster.  She swore she hated coasters, even as she admitted she'd never been on one.  But I beat her at a boat race, and I promised I would win her something at the skee-ball, so she relented and checked her phone as we waited in line, until it was our turn to board.
She was audibly nervous, especially when they sat us in the front cab.  She double-checked her restraints (and mine), while I kept trying to reassure her, telling her stories about other coasters even bigger and faster than this, so this won't be a problem.  But as soon as the coaster pulled out, and the clacking and hissing began, she started muttering in hyperspeed, "idon'twannadothis,idon'twannadothis..."  I laughed off her anxiety, raising my arms up and whooping with others in anticipation.  She told me how much I owed her for putting her in this predicament, and probably getting her killed, while everything left our field of vision but sky...
...and then we plunged.  And the screaming began.

At first, it was hilarious, all of us screaming as we plummeted, and her the loudest.  Not just screaming, but cussing, digging her fingers into my leg, holding on for dear life...
By the end of the first dip, she was hyperventilating, cussing in tongues, while we were twisted and titled at breakneck speed.  By the second dip, her yells were deafening.
On the third incline, most of us were catching our breath, laughing - and so was she, but more so.  Her hands were tight on the armbars now, and her eyes were barely open.  That's when the thought entered my head, remembering the screams she made the night she heard something bang up against the front door, or when she startled a mouse in her kitchen.  This moment was different.
When we returned, she couldn't get out of the cab by herself.  I was her crutch, as she wobbled her way to the exit.  She asked to go again, but I told her I had a prize I promised to win her.  I ended up winning her a polar bear as big as she was; she asked me to hold it while she went on the coaster again.  When I caught up with her later, she was waiting at the exit with a cigarette.

Things were not the same after that; two weeks later, it was over.  I lost her to the Super Coaster.  She left me the bear.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Evidence for Flavor-Switching Neutrinos"

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"

DAY 62: Her impeccable sense of direction

She dumped him the night before he lost the game. He didn't lose the first time she saw me, picking off his toss from three yards away.  She consoled him all the way to the victory bus. Meanwhile, she saw me.
She knew me when I walked in on her shift, and she made my sandwich anyway.  I wanted to talk to her, and she said anything but football. So I shut up and let her talk, about school and after school, and life after school. That week, I had my first scoring interception.  I couldn't see her in the stands, but I could still feel her with me.  That was a good night.
The next week, I thought I wouldn't see her, until I did.  She was waiting in the parking lot; his team had a road game.  She celebrated with me, let me cheer her up. Another good night.
He found me the next week.  I was ready for a fight; I wasn't ready for what he said He said she'd been his girlfriend since her last boyfriend moved to Auburn. He said she's dropped him before, then came back when his team got their hot streak.  He said to tell her he wasn't gonna take her back when they were winning again. He said she dumped him the night before he lost the game.
I tried not to tell her. But she knew, and she said I was stupid for listening to him. "I'm just a girl!  I'm not a good luck charm! I don't even like football!"
She dumped me. Tomorrow's the game.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Found: The Brain's Own GPS"

DAY 60: The Muskie in the Tub

They were allowed to return to the cabin two days after the water receded.  It took that long to clear the main road of the Roadside Giant, an 80-foot Englemann Spruce whose roots capsized out of the overhydrated soil.  When road crews partioned the trunk, they discovered the Giant was nearly 200 years old.
Kov's jeep made the journey to the cabin. The river seemed to have brought everything it could carry to their doorstep. Lawrence helped his wife over the refuse. Ty and Viv began clearing branches, but it devolved into a mudfight. Kov was helping Lawrence move some doors when they heard the Mrs scream.
She had made it to the patio, where the hot tub held a surprise in the retained floodwater. It was a tiger muskie, and it bared its teeth at those who dared wake it.  She had grabbed a plank to club the muskie, when Lawrence cried, "wait! Kov, find the lid!"
Lawrence embraced his wife, consoling her, while Kov secured the lid.  He would later confide in Kov, "That river's taken enough from me.  That muskie's mine..."


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Colorado Deluge"

DAY 58: Doesn't Taste like Chicken

"Martin Hamilton," the boy said.
The house opened its front door and said, "Welcome home."

Martin slung off his schoolbag and dropped on the couch.  "Mom!"  The speakers of the house echoed with the dialing ringtone, connecting to Mrs Hamilton's office phone.
She picked up after the second tone.  "Hi, honey!  How was school?"
Martin said nothing, grinding his face into a couch cushion.
"Martin honey, give yourself fifteen minutes and then get on with your schoolwork while it's fresh in your head.  I've already set the house to block the network until you zip it to me, so the sooner you send it to me, the sooner you can get to killing zombies, which is a very incorrect phrase - so, whatever you do, you're doing homework first!  Call me if you need anything!"
The phone disconnected with a chirp, and Martin slumped to the kitchen.

"Open," Martin said, searching for his afternoon snack.  Half the shelves were full of his mother's pre-cooked entrees (fancy dinner for four, table ready in ten.)  He peered through the shelves, looking for something to sate him.  "Fruit," he said; the carousel spun around to offer the drawer of watermelon slices and grapes.  He didn't want that.  "Pudding."  The fridge buzzed; an overhead monitor asked, "would you like to add to list?"  Martin kept looking...
At the 25-second mark, the fridge started to beep, and the doors prepared to close.  "Wait!"  Martin caught the door.  He was about to surrender when he saw-
"Yummy Putty."  The fridge opened its doors, and the carousel spun to a tube of translucent white paste.  "Pork Barbecue sauce... buttered potato sauce... Bacon Cheeseburger sauce... Cinammon Bun sauce..." Martin grabbed up the selections, and headed for the microwave.

Martin squeezed out the Putty onto a plate, and shaped it into a shallow bowl.  He applied the barbecue sauce, and the aroma of 12-hour marinated pork overtook the kitchen.  The putty began to flake into strands of meat, the color of deep cherrywood.
He squirted a few drops of Buttered Potato sauce in the center, and watched the spots change from reddish-brown to cottony white; the scent of creamy melted butter greeted him.  He put his creation in the microwave, on the 'culturize' setting.
As he waited, his eyes rested on the tube of Cinnamon Bun sauce.  He grinned a crooked grin, and took the tube in his mouth like a baby bottle.

When Mrs Hamilton arrived home, Mark was inconsolable.  The floor was a mess from his incomplete trips to the trashcan and bathroom.  His attempts to answer his mother's questions were incomprehensible; the only words the admittng nurse could understand was "I taste like cinnamon! I taste like cinnamon!"


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Lab-Grown Meat Tastes... Boring"

DAY 54: The United Minds of America

"Well, we just crossed the state line to Montana," Norm said, staring into the sunset.  "I don't even need to touch the steering wheel for an hour."
In the navigator's seat, Miles kept his eyes on his laptop.  "Should I set the cameras to sleep?"
"Dude, we're not coming up on anything before dark.  We're done for the day."
Miles continued to monitor as the Street View cameras shut down.  "You know, it's a beautiful thing we're doing here."
"Yeah, it's a nice sunset, I guess."
"No, not that.  I mean, this: cruising around, cataloging this country, one road at a time.  And what we're doing here is gonna be seen by millions of others-"
"Hundreds, dude.  We're in Montana, remember?"
"-but you get what I'm saying, right?  These highways and byways and roadways, bearing the traffic of goods and services and people and ideas, Norm! Ideas!  I mean, we're on this road that connects to all the other roads and highways in the US Interstate system.  But we're also on the road that connects to all these counties and cities in this concept called the State of Montana.  And this path we're on aligns with cellular coverage that connects our phones with everybody else's, our computers with everybody else's.  And there's all the other threads we have to connect us with all kinds of things on this planet!  Our families, our contacts lists, our peers in demographics, in idealogy...  We are visualizing the connective tissue of our society!  We're quantifying the neural nets of the Mind of our nation!  Once we're all connected, what happens when we share the same vision?  Not just the video images and pop songs, but real ideas and concepts!  What could we make real just because we believe in it?"


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Human Brain in 3-D Detail"

DAY 49: A Moment in Skull Valley

They were stalled on the side of the road, 50-odd miles shy of Surprise, Arizona.  In the time it would take for a tow truck to bring some fuel, the sun would be overhead to juice them up.  So they waited for the end of the darkest part of the night.

Jesse flexed his grip on the steering wheel as he watched the horizon, intermittently re-forgetting that the morning light was not going to let him charge out of the gate.  But they'd get navigation back before they were on the road again; he'd find a selection of breakfast eateries to offer her, then wake her with some music from the playlist she set up for the trip, get her far enough down the road that he could apologize... But all he could do now is wait for sunrise, and let her sleep.
Gloria let him think she was asleep, while her phone, still tethered to the car charger, shifted silently in her hand.  The phone had lasted twenty minutes longer than the car - enough time to call a tow truck and decide to wait it out.  That phone was heavy with sweat, long past ready to drop, but she wouldn't make a move; she was waiting for a snore.  And so they waited for the dawn, as the silence roared.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "On a Wing and a Photon: Solar Impulse Flies Across America"

DAY 48: The Chin under the beard

Nothing scared me like meeting my father-in-law.  Clay was a large man, comfortable in camo overalls and an oversized beard.  He had a reputation as a stone cold man. I heard the story of when he caught a neighbor's dog on his farm, snacking on a couple of hens; he shot the dog and fed it to his pigs.  This story is not verified, but no one disputes it as entirely probable.
But we could not delay the inevitable, so my fiancee and I finally made the trip.  He was reticent all the way through dinner, until he finally pulled me aside for a porch side beer.  After a  few sips, he finally said, "I should show you my Chin." I was about to tell him I wasn't that kind of doctor, when he let out a sharp, yodel-high yip.

From out of the brush, a tiny creature peeked out.  Clay offered his hand as a perch.  "Just got this here pocket monkey last week.  Archie-cebus Achilles, in Latin.  And I don't know what they call them in China.  They say they been extinct forever, until some scientists brought them back, to see if they could.  Once they did, they started selling them."
Chin swung by its tail off of Clay's pointer finger, staring intently at me.  Clay explained how his pet was bred by injecting prehistoric DNA into a customized embryo that used sugar glider and guinea pig DNA to fill in the blanks.  "I missed the sugar glider bandwagon, so as soon as I read about this, I snatched one up.  I named him Chin because he's Chinese!... and I don't know if he's a she."

Clay asked me to examine his pet (a girl, I determined), and we talked about feeding habits and such.  Chin had taken up permanent residence in Clay's beard (presumably comforted by Clay's basso profundo tones)  Crickets and mealworms were fine for Chin, although she had a taste for whatever nibbles didn't make it in Clay's mouth.  "And I haven't slept on my beard in a decade, so she's fine there."  I gave what veterinary advice I could, and he promised to keep me updated on her progress.

As the summer progressed, Chin enamored himself to the entire family.  By the day of the wedding, Clay had trained Chin to bear our rings.  They were inseperable for years, up to the day he lost her.  The only accounts I have heard are second hand: apparently, as Clay was feeding the pigs one particularly early morning, a half-awake Chin tumbled out of the beard without his awareness.  He discovered Chin's absence too late.  I haven't verified this, but I can tell you what I saw for Chin's backyard funeral: Mrs Clay wiping a tear off of Clay's clean-shaven face.


Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Oldest Primate Finds its Place on the Tree of Life"

DAY 45: What We Share

Marilyn was sleeping through her sponge bath.  She always found it soothing when her daughter Grace, or any of Grace's children, assumed nursing duties for the day.  Marilyn did not yet feel comfortable with the home nurses - different and unpredictable faces in the same uniform.  But at least she was home.  And when family was there, it was perfection.

Loni, meanwhile, was freaking out.  She measured the seconds between each snore, assuring herself that grandma had not died on her watch.  She even held her grandma's head beside her ear, as if it were a conch shell holding the ocean's roar.  

And it was while her grandmother's face was in her hands that Loni saw her mother's brow.  Loni moved the cheekflesh around, studying that face; she saw her mom in ten years, and maybe her sister in 40.  She flattened some wrinkles, and saw one corner of her grandmother's face at 20 years old, a glimpse of the woman she was.  Beneath the face that had made a pretty convincing Mrs Claus last Christmas, Loni saw the cigarette girl that charmed a soldier's heart, and the lady that would have marched with her last year in Augusta.  

Her grandmother was still sleeping.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, " 'Genetic Adam' Lived Much Earlier than Previously Thought"

DAY 41: The Fire Bug

Lanaius hugged his Cousin Evelyn last.  He was sitting on a couch arm, eating seconds, when she finally arrived, and the whole family shrieked and hugged her.  He still had to enter high school, but to hear the aunties talk about the other kids, he was pretty certain he'd be the next one to go to a real college, the kind that wasn't advertised during court shows, or only talked about on ESPN.  Evelyn was the most likely to understand the dreams that he had, so when he finally had her undivided attention, he hugged her the tightest.  "I gotta show you something!"
"Well, can I eat first?"  Lanaius complied; he even brought up a bowl of Nana's banana wafer pudding before his cousin was done with her turkey and greens.  When his momma scolded him for it, he retreated to his room and journals, drawing animals and biding time.

He was napping when Evelyn found him.  She picked up one of his journals, examining his notes.  "You said you wanted to show me something.  Are these it?"
Lanaius shot up, grabbing the notebook.  "No!  But it's my work!"  He picked up speed, practically riffling the pages as he talked.  "I had a project in class, where we got assigned 'biodiversity'.  He said even here, there were animals to study, and he was right!  Dogs and cats and birds, but we also got possums and raccoons, and snakes and bugs, and coyotes and mice and - I gotta show you something!"  He led her out the door and two houses over.

Lanaius' latest aspiring stepfather had some real estate investments in the neighborhood; managing and maintaining those properties had become a family business. Lanaius' job was monitoring the pest traps; it was one of the few things he could do to help, and a task that only he enjoyed, to the bewilderment of the family. But no one gave it a second thought that he would go into one of the neighborhood rat-holes for a couple of hours, not even Evelyn.
Lanaius handed her a flashlight and led her to the basement.  "If I turn on the light, they get real noisy."  Improvised tables and shelves held small tubs of bugs - moths, roaches, beetles and worms.  "I don't have enough food to keep anything bigger.  I tried keeping a rat, but it chewed its way out of the cage, so I don't do those anymore."

He passed her a margarine tub.  "Have you ever seen these before?"
The inside of the tub was lined with dirt, and a winged beetle rested on top.  Evelyn thought the abdomen looked familiar.  "You're growing fireflies?"
"I found 'em near the bridge.  They kinda look like these fireflies-"  He held out a few fireflies in his hand, then smushed them against a paint stirrer.  "Those were dead already." Their luminescence was smeared onto the stick, offering a greenish glow.  "Watch this," he said, and started waving the glow toward and away from the tub's contents.  The lightning bugs glowed in return - a bright red glow.

"I couldn't find it on the internet.  Do you know what it is?"
Evelyn shook her head.  She examined one under her flashlight.  "What did you do to them?"
"Nothing.  That's how I found them."
"How many is 'them'?"
"I got 5 or 6 in there.  But one time, I counted 16 flying around at the dog park."
She examined the bug's form: the patterns of its carapace, the barb-tipped antennae, the shape of its wings.  "Lanaius, how are your grades?"
"A's and B's."
"You know where you want to go to college?"
"Not yet."
"Well, this bug is going to get you there."


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Five of the Coolest Species Discovered in 2013"

DAY 39: The Appalaticians

The interstate was twenty minutes ago, and Sarina was getting nervous.  She trusted that Nate knew his way home, but she did not know what to expect for herself.  As she watched the bars on her cell phone shrink away, all the warnings that her friends and family had given her about America began echoing in her ears.  "My phone's lost signal.  Where are you taking us?"
"We'll pick up a signal again when we get up the hill.  We're almost there."  When Nate had invited her to come, she thought that he was attempting to save her from Cartesian coordinates and the solitude of Thanksgiving on campus.  She even entertained the thought that he had more than an intellectual interest in her company.  But on the long ride to Nate's home, he talked about his large family, a veritable tribe that had lived in the hills for generations; he also talked about how different he felt from them all, despite his love and familial devotion.  Almost no one ever left Fawkes County; most residents acted as if it was their choice.  Sarina understood, and she was ready to grant his unspoken request.

The house was in its twentieth year of development; from its humble beginnings as a single-wide pre-aluminum trailer, Nate's family had constructed a patchwork of hardware to accomodate the twenty-five souls that had occupied it, at one point or another.  Presently, Nate's mother, grandma, three sisters (one with child), an uncle, his girlfriend, four cousins, and two kids whose families had abandoned them... resided.  Nate had been assured, however, that he and his lady friend would have a room to themselves.
He managed to take three steps away from the car before he was swarmed by excited (and chores-averse) kids.  They were unkempt and unruly, and Sarina reflexively held tighter to her purse.  She didn't notice she was being watched until little Sunny said, "Are you Nathaniel's girlfriend?"
Sunny, 6 years old and overwhelmed by her bangs and a grown-up's t-shirt, was adorable enough for Sarina to let down her guard and introduce herself.  "I am Sarina.  I study with Nate at the university."
"What are you?"
That made Sarina laugh.  "I'm Indian."
Sunny's slightly older sister, with a buzz cut, chimed in.  "No.  You have to say 'Native American'."
"No, I really am from India.  I have only been in America for three years."
The girls absorbed this fact, and then ran off.
Nate, at the porch, called out, "Come on in!  I have to help my mom with something, but I'll get the stuff out of the car in a minute!  This is my grandma!"  He pointed to the lady in the rocking chair and ran inside.
Sarina walked up to the porch.  At a loss for words, she half-bowed to Grandma, her silver hair in a high bun, her pupils almost hidden in the recesses of her wrinkles.  Grandma returned a silent nod to her.

A rust-eaten pickup truck pulled up to the porch, holding several bushels of apples and three teenagers.  Sarina estimated the driver to be no older than 14.  The young driver, aware of the visitor, adjusted his hat and mustered up some swagger for his audience.
"Mom-mom, we need the tables," a girl in the flatbed said.
Grandma's mouth went sideways.  "Nuh-uh.  You took too long,"
"But Mom-mom!  We don't want to go to Watkins Market.  We wanna make some real money."
"You want- you wanna make- kids! get over here!- you wanna make real money, Lulu?  Okay, how much is Watkins paying for apples?"
"45 cents!  And they're selling for 99!"
"Okay, then!  Tommy, you sold on the road last week.  What was they paying?"
The young driver muttered.  "85 cents."
"Okay, Sunny, how many in that basket there? Hurry up!"
The little girl studied the bushel next to her; Sarina studied it, too.  She counted six apples across, and it looked as deep as-
"72!" Sunny chimed in.  Sarina, still calculating, was slightly shocked.
Grandma asked, just as quickly, "How many baskets we got?"
"14!"
"Right!  How many-"
Miss Buzzcut interrupted. "1008!"
"I wanted Sunny to answer that, Amy.  But you tell me how many pounds we got about."
"336."
"Okay, we got 336 pounds of apples here, kids.  Lulu, you sell every single apple, how much you bringing home?"
"285 dollars and 60 cents!" Lulu said triumphantly.
"Right; but you ain't gonna sell them all.  Tommy, you and Jason were on the road last week; how many bushels did you bring home?"
"Ten."
"Ten bushels of?"
"Seventeen."
"Give me the per-cent, Tommy."
"...58 percent."
"What?"
"58.8 percent."
"Thank you!  New girl, how much money did they bring home?"

Sarina realized everyone was waiting for her to chime in.  She didn't have an answer; 58 percent of, uh...
Grandma turned to Jason.  "How much did you bring home?"
"...$135 dollars...."
Grandma continued lecturing the kids, explaining it was more profitable to get rid of all the apples, with the bonus of ending the family apple recipe fatigue.  Sarina, meanwhile, was still attempting to regain her cognitive footing.  By the time she had reframed Grandma's word problem, the truck had restarted on its way to Watkins Market.  Grandma looked at Sarina and said, "So, I take it you're one of those liberal arts students?"


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Why Some of Us are Better at Math Than Others"