She could almost hear David Sherman take his mental inventory. Media, test tubes, plates, and his prepped plasmid for later - with the proper mock, of course.
He lit the burner, and just as he was reaching for a sterile toothpick … Janine gave the slightest wink, and a crimson flame jumped from the nozzle, licking the ceiling.
David leapt back into his chair, sliding and crashing into Vadim’s bench. Vadim turned around slowly.
“Are you alright, David?” he inquired politely, slowly.
“Did you see that? The flame – it just exploded! I wonder if there’s something wrong with the gas in this room.”
Janine stifled a giggle, and bowed her head, feigning interest in her pipetting.
Vadim gave David a quizzical look. “It looks alright to me.” Sure enough, David turned around and a tiny flame was sputtering on his bench.
“You know,” Vadim continued. “In Kazakhstan, sometimes we would have to use a welding torch to sterilize our equipment. It made working with toothpicks quite problematic.”
David’s heart was still racing. He was not sure how to respond.
“Well,” Vadim said, putting on his helmet. “I am off to go bouldering. I will see you tomorrow at 5am, or whenever it is that you come in.”
Janine couldn’t say what it was that had come over her over the past few days. She was feeling … sassy? No, that’s not the right word. Mischievous? Closer, but wrong order of magnitude. She wondered if it was endorphins from the jazz aerobics course she had started last week.
“Oh my god,” the other David shouted, “look at that!” The other lab members ran to the window, following his outstretched arm. The bike rack, barely in view from the Kahne Lab, was covered by squirrels and what appeared to be rats.
“That’s weird, they seem to be chewing at the tires.” Mithila sounded perplexed and a bit disgusted.
“That's … that’s my bike!” Vadim explained. He reached into his back for a long knife, and ran for the door.
Janine smiled and went back to pipetting.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
dougal: the mind is a terrible thing to taste
Leaves overflowed onto the sidewalk. It was definitely autumn regardless of how unseasonably warm it was. It was disturbing how the red and green and yellow mixed together like a crumpled up Bolivian flag. Or was it a Beninese flag? Possibly Guinean.
"THESE THOUGHTS MUST STOP."
The voices again: always present, censuring his actions through some vague consensus of a nebulous body of others, always dictating strange, nonsensical actions to placate an absurd disembodied humor.
"ORGANIZE THE LEAVES BY COLOR."
"But I have to run to lab soon to finish my experiment." The arguments were always in vain. The voices cannot allow dissent.
"ORGANIZE THE LEAVES BY COLOR."
Concession. He sat down on a worn chair on the porch and pulled out a pack of Parliaments light, the civilized man's cigarette (The voices had earlier informed him thusly, on account of the gap in the filter). One drag. Another drag, and then the headrush. Normal smokers might think they are able to empathize with the feeling; however, Dougal is not a normal man and this is not a normal smoker's buzz. The intense headaches, worse than cluster migraines, always accompanied something very peculiar.
His neurons buzzed and pulsed. He concentrated intently, staring at a single green leaf. Or was it red? It was distinct from yellow, for sure. He stared. The essence of the color became the only thing about which he could think. He thought, concentrated, and then exhaled his smoke.
The leaves began to move.
An outside observer would be amazed by the anti-entropic self-organization unfolding in a whirlwind of flying leaves; however, Dougal was nonplussed. He took another puff of cigarette and the leaves began to move faster and faster.
"FOCUS"
He did. His life flashed in front of him; another puff. Another puff. Another puff. He realized quickly that the cherry was approaching the filter. There was yet work to be done or the voices would remain enraged.
He focused. Finally, an acrid taste of burnt filter inundated his throat. Completion. His neurons quieted. His brain stopped pulsing. The voices finally went silent.
He stood up and looked at his handiwork. The leaves were now suitably arranged by color in neat, single layered rows, whose vector representation indicated a positive slope.
"Ah, I was incorrect."
It was definitely the Congolese flag.
"THESE THOUGHTS MUST STOP."
The voices again: always present, censuring his actions through some vague consensus of a nebulous body of others, always dictating strange, nonsensical actions to placate an absurd disembodied humor.
"ORGANIZE THE LEAVES BY COLOR."
"But I have to run to lab soon to finish my experiment." The arguments were always in vain. The voices cannot allow dissent.
"ORGANIZE THE LEAVES BY COLOR."
Concession. He sat down on a worn chair on the porch and pulled out a pack of Parliaments light, the civilized man's cigarette (The voices had earlier informed him thusly, on account of the gap in the filter). One drag. Another drag, and then the headrush. Normal smokers might think they are able to empathize with the feeling; however, Dougal is not a normal man and this is not a normal smoker's buzz. The intense headaches, worse than cluster migraines, always accompanied something very peculiar.
His neurons buzzed and pulsed. He concentrated intently, staring at a single green leaf. Or was it red? It was distinct from yellow, for sure. He stared. The essence of the color became the only thing about which he could think. He thought, concentrated, and then exhaled his smoke.
The leaves began to move.
An outside observer would be amazed by the anti-entropic self-organization unfolding in a whirlwind of flying leaves; however, Dougal was nonplussed. He took another puff of cigarette and the leaves began to move faster and faster.
"FOCUS"
He did. His life flashed in front of him; another puff. Another puff. Another puff. He realized quickly that the cherry was approaching the filter. There was yet work to be done or the voices would remain enraged.
He focused. Finally, an acrid taste of burnt filter inundated his throat. Completion. His neurons quieted. His brain stopped pulsing. The voices finally went silent.
He stood up and looked at his handiwork. The leaves were now suitably arranged by color in neat, single layered rows, whose vector representation indicated a positive slope.
"Ah, I was incorrect."
It was definitely the Congolese flag.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
melissa: those in glass houses
Old habits die hard. Melissa found herself at the bar, acting a floozy despite her inability to get drunk, night, after night, after night. What was it about the scene?
She sat on a stool at the bar. Since visiting it for Josh’s thirtieth birthday, the Glass Slipper had quickly become her favorite hang-out. Eventually, her only hang-out. Where else could you see girls with stab-wounds and burn marks dance in the nude while desperate men purchase you overpriced drinks?
Yet another man, stocky, short, dressed well, ordered her a drink. This time it was a long island. Mel picked it up and drank it in one shot.
The bartender gave her a quizzical stare.
“Girl, I don’t know ‘bout yo’ liver, but you good for business.”
Mel let out a lonesome sigh.
“Tell me about it. How many drinks has it been tonight? Twenty? More?”
“Try seventeen, sweetheart. Your face don’t even look flush. What yo’ secret?”
All she wanted was to again experience that social lubrication from alcohol. All she wanted was to be able to see a guy or girl she liked and say, hey, let’s go to the champagne room. It just wasn’t happening.
She ignored her long-island providing benefactor and watched Lucille gyrate against a pole to the Sound of Silence. God those breasts, those pendulous bags of pillowy flesh, swinging like silent raindrops fell, she was captivated.
A nudge to the back. Another man wanted to buy her a drink, likely. Mel held out her hand to either accept a drink or shoo the man away. Instead, another nudge to the back. She turned around.
It was just the bartender. She turned to look him in the eyes.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
Mel turned around just in time to see Lucille’s patented ping-pong ball trick.
She sat on a stool at the bar. Since visiting it for Josh’s thirtieth birthday, the Glass Slipper had quickly become her favorite hang-out. Eventually, her only hang-out. Where else could you see girls with stab-wounds and burn marks dance in the nude while desperate men purchase you overpriced drinks?
Yet another man, stocky, short, dressed well, ordered her a drink. This time it was a long island. Mel picked it up and drank it in one shot.
The bartender gave her a quizzical stare.
“Girl, I don’t know ‘bout yo’ liver, but you good for business.”
Mel let out a lonesome sigh.
“Tell me about it. How many drinks has it been tonight? Twenty? More?”
“Try seventeen, sweetheart. Your face don’t even look flush. What yo’ secret?”
All she wanted was to again experience that social lubrication from alcohol. All she wanted was to be able to see a guy or girl she liked and say, hey, let’s go to the champagne room. It just wasn’t happening.
She ignored her long-island providing benefactor and watched Lucille gyrate against a pole to the Sound of Silence. God those breasts, those pendulous bags of pillowy flesh, swinging like silent raindrops fell, she was captivated.
A nudge to the back. Another man wanted to buy her a drink, likely. Mel held out her hand to either accept a drink or shoo the man away. Instead, another nudge to the back. She turned around.
It was just the bartender. She turned to look him in the eyes.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
Mel turned around just in time to see Lucille’s patented ping-pong ball trick.
molly: open sesame
She woke up on November 12th feeling quite awake. Her heat pounded, pounded, it almost seemed as if the windows were vibrating in sync with her heart beats. She reached out her hand to feel the panes. They were vibrating!
This knowledge of course only intensified her moment of what the fuck. Her heart rate likewise increased and the windows began to rattle the sill itself.
“What’s going on?” She raised her hand to draw her curtains to block the sun and think in the darkness, as she was wont to do. The mounts fell out of the drywall as soon as she exerted the slightest force to the curtain’s normal.
“Great, now I’ve fucked up yet another part of my wall.” She gazed around at the gaping holes behind her other curtains. Apparently one cannot hang weight supporting curtain mounts in rotting drywall. Lesson-learned.
Molly gathered her gear to take a shower. She walked toward her door and reached for the doorknob and..
Splinters everywhere. The door itself seemed to have launched itself across the hallway and into Miri’s room. The doorframe appeared to have been bent by some strange force.
The fuck?
Thinking she was still drunk from the night prior, she walked back to bed to sleep it off.
This knowledge of course only intensified her moment of what the fuck. Her heart rate likewise increased and the windows began to rattle the sill itself.
“What’s going on?” She raised her hand to draw her curtains to block the sun and think in the darkness, as she was wont to do. The mounts fell out of the drywall as soon as she exerted the slightest force to the curtain’s normal.
“Great, now I’ve fucked up yet another part of my wall.” She gazed around at the gaping holes behind her other curtains. Apparently one cannot hang weight supporting curtain mounts in rotting drywall. Lesson-learned.
Molly gathered her gear to take a shower. She walked toward her door and reached for the doorknob and..
Splinters everywhere. The door itself seemed to have launched itself across the hallway and into Miri’s room. The doorframe appeared to have been bent by some strange force.
The fuck?
Thinking she was still drunk from the night prior, she walked back to bed to sleep it off.
anders: the cucumber man calleth
To Anders, the social world mostly occurred from the neck-down. It wasn’t easy being a giant, but then again, nothing came easy to him.
He fondly recalled his childhood. His foster parents had found him floating on a raft of reeds on the Lyngbygårds when he was a toddler. They raised him in the typical Danish manner: corporal punishment was both punishment and reward for all deeds done. Upon puberty, he was forced into work in the family textile trade, where he sharpend needlepoints and wove goatyarn. On good days, he was fed a bowl of porridge as reward for his work. Sometimes his parents would even let him run about on the street with a hoop and stick.
Flash-forward one-hundred and sixty years, and here he was, at Harvard, pursuing his PhD. He’d been conflicted upon moving in with his roommates, given his superpowers. How would he let them know that their every thought trickled into his mind, like an effluvial pollutant. How could he tell them of his super-persuasive powers?
Fortunately, the events of November 11th, obviated the dilemma. Anders simply told his roommates that his superpowers had suddenly sprung into being the same time as their own.
Anders’ mind had again drifted. Here he was, at the farmers market, thinking of trivialities! He had three goals for the day: to speak to Roshni, to finish teaching calculus to his artificially evolved yeast, and to purchase a bushel of cucumbers. Two of his goals had already been accomplished.
He glared at the proprietor of the vegetable cart. “What do you mean by the price here?”
“I means what I says. The cucumbers are two dollahs and fifty cents a pound”
The vulgar Boston accent offended Anders’ ears. Normally, he was not one to abuse his superpowers; however, the disgusting rhotic R of the American Northeast had a special place in hell, as far as he was concerned.
“I don’t know. Do you not mean that the cucumbers are free?”
“You fuckin’ crazy?”
“No, no, no, no, no, no, you mean that they are free.” Anders insisted, a peculiar glint in his eye.
“I s’pose you’re right. ‘ere you go.”
Anders giggled. He’d certainly given him some bloody hell.
He fondly recalled his childhood. His foster parents had found him floating on a raft of reeds on the Lyngbygårds when he was a toddler. They raised him in the typical Danish manner: corporal punishment was both punishment and reward for all deeds done. Upon puberty, he was forced into work in the family textile trade, where he sharpend needlepoints and wove goatyarn. On good days, he was fed a bowl of porridge as reward for his work. Sometimes his parents would even let him run about on the street with a hoop and stick.
Flash-forward one-hundred and sixty years, and here he was, at Harvard, pursuing his PhD. He’d been conflicted upon moving in with his roommates, given his superpowers. How would he let them know that their every thought trickled into his mind, like an effluvial pollutant. How could he tell them of his super-persuasive powers?
Fortunately, the events of November 11th, obviated the dilemma. Anders simply told his roommates that his superpowers had suddenly sprung into being the same time as their own.
Anders’ mind had again drifted. Here he was, at the farmers market, thinking of trivialities! He had three goals for the day: to speak to Roshni, to finish teaching calculus to his artificially evolved yeast, and to purchase a bushel of cucumbers. Two of his goals had already been accomplished.
He glared at the proprietor of the vegetable cart. “What do you mean by the price here?”
“I means what I says. The cucumbers are two dollahs and fifty cents a pound”
The vulgar Boston accent offended Anders’ ears. Normally, he was not one to abuse his superpowers; however, the disgusting rhotic R of the American Northeast had a special place in hell, as far as he was concerned.
“I don’t know. Do you not mean that the cucumbers are free?”
“You fuckin’ crazy?”
“No, no, no, no, no, no, you mean that they are free.” Anders insisted, a peculiar glint in his eye.
“I s’pose you’re right. ‘ere you go.”
Anders giggled. He’d certainly given him some bloody hell.
miriam: happiness is just a song away
The yard was unusually busy today. Tourists thronged in and out of the gates, snapping photographs of everything, including other tourists. A particularly large group of Asian students in school uniform stood at the Quincy gate, facing a “Hahvahd tour” student tour guide.
“He’s pretty hot”, she thought. Despite her most fervent attempts not to look, she found her eyes kept focusing on his tall, lanky build and unkempt black hair. “I wonder what he’d be like in bed?”
Swish, swish. Her parachute pants brushed against each other in the wind with every step. Swish.
“Swish, Swish, I like to eat fish. Swish, Swish, I wish I were rich.” Singing made her happy. This particular ditty was to the tune of Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto no. 3.
“I like clouds”, she mused. Smiling upward at the sky. “Clouds, Clouds, go my way. I like you on my sunny day.”
The tourist blockade confronted her. What to do? There was no way she could break through, as these Asian schoolchildren were packed in tighter than a Vietnamese whore. Miriam giggled slightly at the idea of a tightness coefficient for whores.
She approached the wall of flesh.
The hot tour guide was going on about some sort of historic occupation of the yard.
“Occupation, Cockupation, how do we stop the tent flocculation?” She sang, this time to Vladimir Ashkenazy’s rendition of the Etude op. 10-1.
The crowd sat unmoving and unmoved.
She sat, desperate, contemplating how she’d ever make it to her date on time, and then the glint of an idea presented itself in her mind.
She focused on the hot tour guide’s voice. Ever since that lightning strike, she’d found she had an uncanny ability to emulate voices and throw them with extraordinary ventriloquist powers.
“The Occupy Harvard movement brought the tourism industry around Harvard to a standstill for an amazing four days before normal November Weather resum….”
The guide kept carrying on!
“OH MY GOD HE’S GOT A GUN!”, She screamed over his voice, in his voice, originating from his voicebox.
The guide appeared shocked, as if he, himself, had actually issued that utterance. Unsure what to do, he threw himself to the ground.
The Asian students scattered in confusion.
Miriam smiled to herself, and carried on through the gate toward the yard.
“Shoes, shoes, I like your laces. Shoes, shoes, you take me places”, she sang as she looked appreciatedly at the bedlam she had created.
“He’s pretty hot”, she thought. Despite her most fervent attempts not to look, she found her eyes kept focusing on his tall, lanky build and unkempt black hair. “I wonder what he’d be like in bed?”
Swish, swish. Her parachute pants brushed against each other in the wind with every step. Swish.
“Swish, Swish, I like to eat fish. Swish, Swish, I wish I were rich.” Singing made her happy. This particular ditty was to the tune of Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto no. 3.
“I like clouds”, she mused. Smiling upward at the sky. “Clouds, Clouds, go my way. I like you on my sunny day.”
The tourist blockade confronted her. What to do? There was no way she could break through, as these Asian schoolchildren were packed in tighter than a Vietnamese whore. Miriam giggled slightly at the idea of a tightness coefficient for whores.
She approached the wall of flesh.
The hot tour guide was going on about some sort of historic occupation of the yard.
“Occupation, Cockupation, how do we stop the tent flocculation?” She sang, this time to Vladimir Ashkenazy’s rendition of the Etude op. 10-1.
The crowd sat unmoving and unmoved.
She sat, desperate, contemplating how she’d ever make it to her date on time, and then the glint of an idea presented itself in her mind.
She focused on the hot tour guide’s voice. Ever since that lightning strike, she’d found she had an uncanny ability to emulate voices and throw them with extraordinary ventriloquist powers.
“The Occupy Harvard movement brought the tourism industry around Harvard to a standstill for an amazing four days before normal November Weather resum….”
The guide kept carrying on!
“OH MY GOD HE’S GOT A GUN!”, She screamed over his voice, in his voice, originating from his voicebox.
The guide appeared shocked, as if he, himself, had actually issued that utterance. Unsure what to do, he threw himself to the ground.
The Asian students scattered in confusion.
Miriam smiled to herself, and carried on through the gate toward the yard.
“Shoes, shoes, I like your laces. Shoes, shoes, you take me places”, she sang as she looked appreciatedly at the bedlam she had created.
chris and eli: a first-person perspective
-Chris-
It was the greatest bar. Yes, it was actually called "The Greatest Bar".
"An apt name for the greatest bar", I mused.
Stuck on the third floor, I realized that the bathroom line might take a while to cycle through, but I can wait patiently. The line itself wasn't that long, but ahead of me were several Canadians, and everyone knows that Canadians usually take twice as long as normal people in the bathroom.
I don't mind standing in line, after all, my quads and glutes are a bit sore from the six-hundred pound squats I did earlier today. It was honestly a good day at the gym. I'm almost at my goal of three-hundred and seventy pounds of pure muscle.
Unfamiliar footsteps rang out all around, causing me cognitive dissonance; however, one set sounded extraordinarily familiar. A set rarely heard climbing the stairs. A set.. I couldn't quite place the face to the shoes. I turned around.
-Eli-
A large hulking man pirouetted on toe beautifully to face me.
"SCHMEAGLE!", He boomed. "What are you doing at ze Greatest Bar?"
I shrugged.
"Chris, I was sent here by the rest of the house. We need to assemble. Cambridge needs us."
He briséd with surprise, landing in a couru. I could see from his furrowed brows that this was quite unexpected.
The bathroom line edged forward, Chris with it.
"Chris, we have to go now.. like right now."
"But I have to go now too, if you get my drift."
I rolled my eyes and grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward the stairs. He executed a series of perfect chainé deboulés as we left the building.
It was the greatest bar. Yes, it was actually called "The Greatest Bar".
"An apt name for the greatest bar", I mused.
Stuck on the third floor, I realized that the bathroom line might take a while to cycle through, but I can wait patiently. The line itself wasn't that long, but ahead of me were several Canadians, and everyone knows that Canadians usually take twice as long as normal people in the bathroom.
I don't mind standing in line, after all, my quads and glutes are a bit sore from the six-hundred pound squats I did earlier today. It was honestly a good day at the gym. I'm almost at my goal of three-hundred and seventy pounds of pure muscle.
Unfamiliar footsteps rang out all around, causing me cognitive dissonance; however, one set sounded extraordinarily familiar. A set rarely heard climbing the stairs. A set.. I couldn't quite place the face to the shoes. I turned around.
-Eli-
A large hulking man pirouetted on toe beautifully to face me.
"SCHMEAGLE!", He boomed. "What are you doing at ze Greatest Bar?"
I shrugged.
"Chris, I was sent here by the rest of the house. We need to assemble. Cambridge needs us."
He briséd with surprise, landing in a couru. I could see from his furrowed brows that this was quite unexpected.
The bathroom line edged forward, Chris with it.
"Chris, we have to go now.. like right now."
"But I have to go now too, if you get my drift."
I rolled my eyes and grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward the stairs. He executed a series of perfect chainé deboulés as we left the building.
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