The Friday Challenge for 10/16/09 - The second annual Halloween story challenge
Amber turned her head away as soon as the scene was over, so the camera wouldn’t see her clench her teeth. They had shot it eleven times, and if she had to do it one more time, she knew she would lose it. She walked over to pick up her cigarettes and then moved toward the door. She had to get outside and calmed down somehow.
She managed to get out without the others noticing, although it was only a matter of time before that ape Tommy would be out here, supposedly smoking, but what he would really be doing was drinking beer out of the cooler he had stashed in the director’s car.
She wrenched her thoughts away from Tommy. Thinking about him would only cause her to be more upset, and she still had a small hope that this movie would lead to something, so she didn’t want to go berserk in front of everybody.
“Are you okay?” Amber jumped a little at the voice, but it was only Lynn, the actress playing the other vampire. Lynn was perfect for the part, and Deanna had done a great job on her makeup. She looked exactly like a female vampire ought to look, and she played her part with wicked enjoyment.
“Yeah, I just really needed a smoke,” she replied to Lynn’s question.
Lynn smiled knowingly. “That a*****e Tommy is ruining the film, isn’t he? I don’t know how much more of this I want to put up with.”
Surprised at this admission, Amber looked into Lynn’s eyes. “I didn’t know he was bothering you, too. You are really a good actress, because you make it look like you think he’s great.”
“Well, that’s what the role calls for. I’m supposed to think he’s cool. What I’d really like to do is torture him for a couple of days and then kill him in the most painful way I could think of.” She smiled again.
“Wow. I’d love to see that,” said Amber, her voice oozing with admiration.
Lynn looked at Amber thoughtfully. “Would it help you get through the rest of the scenes if I told you I have a plan to get revenge on him? I guarantee I will make him pay for every time he has touched me when we weren’t shooting. The slob can’t keep his hands to himself. And he gets right in my face with his disgusting tequila breath. Yuk.”
Amber giggled. She couldn’t help herself. “What are you going to do?”
“We don’t have time to go into details. Just believe me: he will be sorry he ever laid eyes on us. Here he comes. Let’s go back inside.”
The two girls walked back into the house huddled together, giggling and whispering, completely ignoring Tommy’s loud protestations.
As the evening progressed, Tommy got more and more obnoxious to all the women, and more irritating to the men, even to the point of telling Carlos how to direct and Michael how to shoot each scene. He changed the script on the fly, adding his own little touches, like bumping the ax into Shanna's jaw, the actress playing the part of the wife in the home invasion, who was to be beheaded with it in the next scene. He didn’t bump her hard enough to leave a bruise, but it was obvious she didn’t like him flourishing it in her face. She channeled her anger into her acting, however, which produced a superbly triumphant performance.
Tommy’s growing belligerence was explained when a crew member caught him drinking out of a bottle of tequila he had found in a kitchen cabinet. One thing he was really good at was ignoring anybody who told him not to drink, so the crew member eventually resorted to hiding the bottle. That didn’t faze him in the least. He just rummaged around the cabinets until he found a different bottle, bourbon this time.
A quick conference was held the next time Tommy was outside, and Carlos decided to try salvaging the movie by getting the filming done as soon as possible, before the actor became too drunk to continue. He cut some scenes and shortened others, and finally the last scene was done for the second home invasion.
The movie consisted of two home invasions done by Tommy and James, and the first one had already been filmed. All that was left on the schedule for today was the night scene with the car. Tommy and James were supposed to stop on the road to help with a flat tire, although they were only interested in chasing away the two men and absconding with the two women, who turned out to be the vampire girls participating in the second home invasion. Of course, Tommy and James hadn't yet learned they were vampires.
Making sure James was driving the SUV, Carlos, Michael, Tommy, and the vampire girls drove off to find a good spot to film the flat tire scene. The remaining actors and crew gathered in the kitchen to snack on pizza, soda, cheese and crackers.
“Finally! He's gone!” gloated Deanna.
“Yeah!” seconded Dan, who had played the husband. He fingered the holes in his t-shirt made by the special effects bullets. “I'm glad it was James who shot me. I would have freaked out if Tommy had pointed that gun at me.”
“I am so sick of that loudmouth jerk. He won't listen to anybody, not even Carlos. I kept pulling him outside to smoke because he wouldn't stop talking when they were filming. They'll probably have to throw out most of what they shot tonight.”
The others joined in the venting session, listing Tommy's many faults as an actor and a man. When they ran out of new character defects, they pulled out their phones and texted for a while.
After what seemed like forever, the SUV returned. Carlos gathered everyone together to let them know he wanted to continue filming the next day.
“We will be shooting the scenes where James and Tommy find out the girls are really vampires, so I need all of you to meet at eight at Tommy's house, except for Dan and Shanna of course. If any of you need the address or directions, talk to Tommy.”
“It's gonna be a party!” Tommy burst out. “Lots of food and beer and anything else you want. It's gonna be a real party!” He walked around through the group, repeating himself with great enthusiasm, while Lynn rolled her eyes and smirked at Amber.
The next night was a dark and cloudy one, but inside Tommy's house all the lights were on, and there was a lot of food, beer, and noise. Carlos seemed irritable, perhaps because he had been watching what had been filmed the previous night.
“I want you two over here, and James here, and Amber, down on the floor here. Okay, QUIET!” He glanced at Tommy, then said, “Action!”
James bent down toward Amber and began strangling her, laughing cruelly. She struggled and choked dutifully. After shooting that several times with variations suggested by Carlos, the scene shifted to Tommy and Lynn.
“You grab her and take a handful of her hair to hold her head back. Then you try to bite her on the neck. She gets mad and pushes you away. Got it?” Tommy and Lynn nodded, and Carlos called, “Quiet! Action!”
The scene went according to plan up until Tommy decided to add some pawing of Lynn's breast while he was trying to bite her neck. She snarled and wrenched his hand away, gouging his wrist with her nails. As Tommy howled in pain, she shoved him into the wall, and he slid down and landed hard on the floor.
“Wow, that was great, Tommy!” Carlos leaned toward Michael and muttered, “See, he really is a good actor.”
Tommy slowly got to his feet, looking a little dazed. Then he noticed his wrist was bleeding.
“YOU B**CH!” he yelled. “YOU CUT ME!” He stomped over to Lynn with a vicious look on his face.
Lynn leaned toward him and said very quietly, “You keep your hands off of me or you'll be the b**ch.”
Tommy looked at her with a strange expression on his face, as if he couldn't figure out what she was telling him. He evidently decided she wasn't making any sense, so he ignored her and went into the bathroom to clean up his wrist.
As the evening progressed, Tommy continued to take liberties with Lynn during the scenes, and she continued to fend him off. Finally they reached the scene where the vampire girls get tired of the men trying to kill them, and they turn the tables.
Carlos was very pleased at this point. He could hardly believe his luck in finding such a good actress as Lynn, who was obviously bringing out the best in Tommy. James and Amber were doing a good job, too. The film was turning into magic in his mind. He took extra care to set up the climactic scene, and called, “Quiet! Action!” with great enthusiasm.
This scene called for Lynn and Amber to overcome the two men by their vampire charisma and put them into a trance. Then they were to bite their necks and drain their blood. The girls had been instructed how to use the fake teeth and the fake blood to make it look real, and they did a good job. It looked incredibly real.
But with each take, Carlos grew more disappointed. He wasn't sure what was wrong, but something was missing. James and Amber were doing pretty well, but Tommy was messing it all up. He had become quiet. Too quiet.
“Tommy! You are too quiet. Ham it up! Moan like you're having sex. You're just lying there, and it's boring!”
Tommy tried. He moaned, but so softly it was hard to hear.
Carlos exploded at him. “What's wrong with you? Come on! Put something into it, for Pete's sake!”
Tommy sat up and groaned. “I don't feel good. I need some beer.”
Carlos threw up his hands in disgust. “Somebody get him some beer, and let's take a break.” He walked out of the room.
After two beers, Tommy agreed to try the scene again. Everybody took their positions and the camera began recording. Tommy started out moaning loudly, and James was hamming it up, too, but then Tommy grew so quiet he looked almost dead.
Carlos impatiently called, “Cut!” Amber sat up tiredly, but Lynn only laughed coldly and kept on draining Tommy's blood.
“Cut, I said! CUT!”
He stared at Lynn in disbelief. What was she doing? Finally, Lynn raised her head, a single drop of blood ran down her chin, and she said, “Okay, I'm done. Wait, one more thing.”
She walked over to her backpack and pulled out a long wooden stake. Returning to Tommy's body, she plunged it into his heart.
“You better keep that in there. We wouldn't want him to return as a vampire.”
She picked up her pack and walked out.
Nobody moved for several seconds, then Carlos turned to Michael. “Did you get that?”
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The Six Million Centavos Man
Entry for The Friday Challenge 9/18/09 Since it's a picture, you really need to look at it to understand the story.
Carlos did a double take at his computer screen, and his jaw dropped as he stared at the strange picture that had been posted on his favorite blog. It wasn't the strangeness of it, but rather its familiarity that had caught his attention.
He rummaged through the papers on his desk and finally found the letter he had received from his grandfather's lawyer last week. He pulled out the enclosed picture and looked at it again. It looked like the same picture, but when he held it up to the screen, he saw it was slightly different. It had the same people, but their expressions and positions weren't quite identical. Except for the thing in the middle. That part was exactly the same.
The pictures showed a dozen or so men, dressed like Mexican soldiers, all with ammunition belts crossed over their chests and another one around their waists. They each had a rifle poised butt down on the dirt. In the center of the group was something that looked like the tin woodsman out of The Wizard of Oz, only he also had the rifle and ammunition belts, and he stood a foot taller than most of the men.
Carlos opened the letter and read it again. It seemed very ordinary, just a letter informing him that his grandfather had left him this picture and some papers which he would be expected to pick up at his earliest convenience and please call for an appointment, etc. He hadn't called yet. It didn't seem urgent, since he was unaware of anything valuable owned by his grandfather.
A week later, Carlos walked in to the lawyer's office, picture in hand. The papers were quite interesting, especially the one that gave the names of the men in the picture, and also the name of the metal man, “Centavos Man.” However, Carlos' grandfather had given him the nickname “The Six Million Centavos Man” after the TV show. Carlos remembered his grandfather watching that show and laughing at its name.
As the lawyer answered his many questions, he learned that each man in the photo had a similar picture, and each had arranged with a lawyer to keep in touch with the other lawyers, and when the last man in the picture had died, all the next of kin would be sent the pictures and receive this same information.
“But why wait until they were all dead?” puzzled Carlos.
“Because they could still be charged with murder if they were alive,” explained the lawyer. “This group of men were known as the Centavos Gang. They robbed quite a few banks in their day, and anything else that had money. But they only took pennies, or in Mexico, centavos. There were a few people that were shot during their robberies, and some died. I've just learned all this myself, now that we could open the papers left in our care by your grandfather.”
Carlos sat in silence, absorbing it all. He had no idea his grandfather had such an interesting past. But where was the money? Had it been melted down and used to make Centavos Man? And if so, where was he?
There were still many unanswered questions, and several more papers to study. Time to meet the other relatives. If they put their heads together, they might figure it out and end up rich. He was going to start with the person who ran that blog.
Carlos did a double take at his computer screen, and his jaw dropped as he stared at the strange picture that had been posted on his favorite blog. It wasn't the strangeness of it, but rather its familiarity that had caught his attention.
He rummaged through the papers on his desk and finally found the letter he had received from his grandfather's lawyer last week. He pulled out the enclosed picture and looked at it again. It looked like the same picture, but when he held it up to the screen, he saw it was slightly different. It had the same people, but their expressions and positions weren't quite identical. Except for the thing in the middle. That part was exactly the same.
The pictures showed a dozen or so men, dressed like Mexican soldiers, all with ammunition belts crossed over their chests and another one around their waists. They each had a rifle poised butt down on the dirt. In the center of the group was something that looked like the tin woodsman out of The Wizard of Oz, only he also had the rifle and ammunition belts, and he stood a foot taller than most of the men.
Carlos opened the letter and read it again. It seemed very ordinary, just a letter informing him that his grandfather had left him this picture and some papers which he would be expected to pick up at his earliest convenience and please call for an appointment, etc. He hadn't called yet. It didn't seem urgent, since he was unaware of anything valuable owned by his grandfather.
A week later, Carlos walked in to the lawyer's office, picture in hand. The papers were quite interesting, especially the one that gave the names of the men in the picture, and also the name of the metal man, “Centavos Man.” However, Carlos' grandfather had given him the nickname “The Six Million Centavos Man” after the TV show. Carlos remembered his grandfather watching that show and laughing at its name.
As the lawyer answered his many questions, he learned that each man in the photo had a similar picture, and each had arranged with a lawyer to keep in touch with the other lawyers, and when the last man in the picture had died, all the next of kin would be sent the pictures and receive this same information.
“But why wait until they were all dead?” puzzled Carlos.
“Because they could still be charged with murder if they were alive,” explained the lawyer. “This group of men were known as the Centavos Gang. They robbed quite a few banks in their day, and anything else that had money. But they only took pennies, or in Mexico, centavos. There were a few people that were shot during their robberies, and some died. I've just learned all this myself, now that we could open the papers left in our care by your grandfather.”
Carlos sat in silence, absorbing it all. He had no idea his grandfather had such an interesting past. But where was the money? Had it been melted down and used to make Centavos Man? And if so, where was he?
There were still many unanswered questions, and several more papers to study. Time to meet the other relatives. If they put their heads together, they might figure it out and end up rich. He was going to start with the person who ran that blog.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Nine Eleven
Friday Challenge 9/11/09 - memories
At the time the first plane hit the World Trade Center, I was driving to work. The radio was on, but it wasn’t a station that had news, or at least not the what’s-happening-right-this-minute kind of news. I got all the way to my cubicle on the fourth and top floor of the Hornet building and settled in to start work before Tom popped his head over the cubicle wall and told me about it.
Now you have to keep in mind the fact that Tom always popped his head over the cubicle wall and said something strange. Often he just woofed at me (he has Saint Bernards, and yes that is plural) and disappeared. I think this might have been his way of saying it was a good day and he was feeling great. He always got me laughing, and he is a good programmer, which is sometimes a rarity.
By the time Tom told me about the first plane, there were already rumors about a helicopter crashing at the pentagon. At least they knew there was a lot of black smoke there. So it never really seemed to me like it could have been an accident. There was a debate going on amongst the fourth floor occupants about it, but that ended shortly when the second plane crashed into the other tower. After that, nobody did much work. Radios were on all over the building.
The Hornet building, named after the street it is on, is the counterpart of the building ~brb was in that day. It is about a mile from the end of a main runway at Lambert. The usual wind direction made it a main runway for planes taking off. Depending what direction they were aiming for, they would often go right over us. If you happened to be looking at the windows, you would see the plane’s shadow block the sunlight for half a second. Larger planes made the building shake. Being on the top floor made it louder. Sometimes in a meeting or on the phone we would have to wait for the noise to die down before continuing. I had been there for a few months, but I still noticed when the building shook.
When the planes stopped, all the radios became noticeable. And every morning for weeks after that, I noticed the fighter jets taking off. It was the same time every day, and there were always four of them, about a minute apart. No matter how deep my brain was into a program, it came back up at the sound of that first jet, counted four of them, and only then would it be able to return to the task at hand.
And boy, do I remember the day a couple weeks later that plane near Chicago failed to identify itself! I swear there were at least a dozen fighters streaking off to Chicago. It was obvious something was happening, but none of the radios or web sites had any information. I didn’t hear what it was until that evening. Didn’t get much done that day, either.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
As for making sense of it, I just now figured it out. I know, I know, I'm really gullible and naïve.
Hey, there are two dots over that “i.” When did that start happening? The computer knows what word I'm using the “i” in, and puts one or two dots accordingly? But … those two dots are German, aren't they? And naïve is a French word, isn't it? Blastit.
Being here at The Friday Challenge has opened my eyes to a lot of things. Not just books I never heard of, but new ideas to argue about, and gobs of conspiracy theories. But they are hidden very well, and if it hadn't been for the new view on life that I picked up in Nashville this summer, I probably wouldn't have noticed a thing.
The tip-off was Topher's tale of Pompeii's last summer. I searched for disasters in 1883 (and found Krakatoa), and there were loads of them. I never knew about most of them. And it wasn't just 1883. There were disasters every year that wiped out whole villages or families. I began to notice the islands. They seemed to have an affinity for wiping out whole islands, or at least getting rid of all the people on them. There was that island off the eastern seaboard in the sixteenth century. All the people just disappeared.
Manhattan is an island.
I believe their original plan was to convince New Yorkers that Manhattan was sinking, and to fix it they needed to saw off the island, tow it out a ways, turn it around, and push it back.** The only problem was that Long Island was in the way. Of course, what they didn't tell the New Yorkers was that they had no intention of pushing the island back. They wanted to tow it out into the ocean and just sink the whole thing.
When that plan fell through, they thought up a different one.
The only thing I haven't figured out yet is this: Did Topher stumble on this pattern by accident? Or is he one of them? Or is everybody at The Friday Challenge one of them?
Am I one of them?
- - - - - - - - - - - -
** Wikipedia
- - - - - - - - - - - -
At the time the first plane hit the World Trade Center, I was driving to work. The radio was on, but it wasn’t a station that had news, or at least not the what’s-happening-right-this-minute kind of news. I got all the way to my cubicle on the fourth and top floor of the Hornet building and settled in to start work before Tom popped his head over the cubicle wall and told me about it.
Now you have to keep in mind the fact that Tom always popped his head over the cubicle wall and said something strange. Often he just woofed at me (he has Saint Bernards, and yes that is plural) and disappeared. I think this might have been his way of saying it was a good day and he was feeling great. He always got me laughing, and he is a good programmer, which is sometimes a rarity.
By the time Tom told me about the first plane, there were already rumors about a helicopter crashing at the pentagon. At least they knew there was a lot of black smoke there. So it never really seemed to me like it could have been an accident. There was a debate going on amongst the fourth floor occupants about it, but that ended shortly when the second plane crashed into the other tower. After that, nobody did much work. Radios were on all over the building.
The Hornet building, named after the street it is on, is the counterpart of the building ~brb was in that day. It is about a mile from the end of a main runway at Lambert. The usual wind direction made it a main runway for planes taking off. Depending what direction they were aiming for, they would often go right over us. If you happened to be looking at the windows, you would see the plane’s shadow block the sunlight for half a second. Larger planes made the building shake. Being on the top floor made it louder. Sometimes in a meeting or on the phone we would have to wait for the noise to die down before continuing. I had been there for a few months, but I still noticed when the building shook.
When the planes stopped, all the radios became noticeable. And every morning for weeks after that, I noticed the fighter jets taking off. It was the same time every day, and there were always four of them, about a minute apart. No matter how deep my brain was into a program, it came back up at the sound of that first jet, counted four of them, and only then would it be able to return to the task at hand.
And boy, do I remember the day a couple weeks later that plane near Chicago failed to identify itself! I swear there were at least a dozen fighters streaking off to Chicago. It was obvious something was happening, but none of the radios or web sites had any information. I didn’t hear what it was until that evening. Didn’t get much done that day, either.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
As for making sense of it, I just now figured it out. I know, I know, I'm really gullible and naïve.
Hey, there are two dots over that “i.” When did that start happening? The computer knows what word I'm using the “i” in, and puts one or two dots accordingly? But … those two dots are German, aren't they? And naïve is a French word, isn't it? Blastit.
Being here at The Friday Challenge has opened my eyes to a lot of things. Not just books I never heard of, but new ideas to argue about, and gobs of conspiracy theories. But they are hidden very well, and if it hadn't been for the new view on life that I picked up in Nashville this summer, I probably wouldn't have noticed a thing.
The tip-off was Topher's tale of Pompeii's last summer. I searched for disasters in 1883 (and found Krakatoa), and there were loads of them. I never knew about most of them. And it wasn't just 1883. There were disasters every year that wiped out whole villages or families. I began to notice the islands. They seemed to have an affinity for wiping out whole islands, or at least getting rid of all the people on them. There was that island off the eastern seaboard in the sixteenth century. All the people just disappeared.
Manhattan is an island.
I believe their original plan was to convince New Yorkers that Manhattan was sinking, and to fix it they needed to saw off the island, tow it out a ways, turn it around, and push it back.** The only problem was that Long Island was in the way. Of course, what they didn't tell the New Yorkers was that they had no intention of pushing the island back. They wanted to tow it out into the ocean and just sink the whole thing.
When that plan fell through, they thought up a different one.
The only thing I haven't figured out yet is this: Did Topher stumble on this pattern by accident? Or is he one of them? Or is everybody at The Friday Challenge one of them?
Am I one of them?
- - - - - - - - - - - -
** Wikipedia
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Thursday, September 10, 2009
What I did on my summer vacation
The Friday Challenge for 9/4/09 is to write an essay about what you would like to have done on your summer vacation.
This summer, my vacation was very restful and refreshing. I needed that badly after the long, intense project at work. I think the Doctor needed the rest, too, judging by a couple of offhanded comments he made.
We went to some very novel places, but all of them had one thing in common: there were no demands on us. There was nothing on a to-do list, no cooking or cleaning, and most importantly, no stress. Just sit back and enjoy the scenery, or make friends with the local creatures. There were a few more exciting moments here and there, like our visit to Trenco, but I never felt in danger. The Doctor has many talents, and he always made sure we were safe.
Our first stop was Zabriska. I had always wanted to see a fontema in person, and I was especially curious about their water needs. The descriptions of Zabriska never included any water. No rivers, lakes, ponds, rain, or even dew. But I found it hard to believe that a creature could exist without water of any kind. I was also curious about Zabriska’s sun. Since it provided all the nourishment a fontema needed, would it be beneficial to a human, or harmful?
We touched down halfway between the equator and a pole, and the Doctor ran his tests on the sunlight. After several minutes, he decided it would not be harmful to either of us, but it wouldn’t be beneficial, either. It was simply very different. We didn’t have the receptors the fontemas had, so we had no way of receiving any energy or nourishment from it.
We opened the door and stepped out onto the dry, sandy surface of Zabriska, and started looking for a fontema. We had brought along our own shade in case we had to wait a while, so we set up the umbrella and lounge chairs and had a picnic. This gave us the chance to experiment a little with water.
We found that a drop of water spilled on the ground would evaporate very quickly, but it seemed to form a tiny thin cloud just above the ground. There was no wind, so the cloud didn’t move. This caused the Doctor to go hunting for more testing equipment so he could test the air. He found the air was full of evaporated water, enough so there wasn’t any more room for the drop we had spilled. It stayed partly condensed in the air rather than completely evaporating.
We were both scratching our heads over that one, but the Doctor couldn’t rest until he figured out how it worked, so he kept poking around with various machines, talking to himself and making vigorous hand gestures. I think he did figure it out, but I didn’t understand much of his explanation. I caught the fact that the ground was hotter than the air, and that made more water able to evaporate on the ground than in the air. He also launched into some theories about fontema skin really being their stomach, which could absorb water from the air and transform sunlight into energy. It was interesting, but too much work for my brain on vacation.
While he was working on the water question, I got out my book to read. I was about halfway through Havah, which was the perfect book to read on vacation. It was very soothing and full of exquisite beauty. I kept checking the stretch of dirt in front of me for any sign of a fontema, and finally I saw a slight movement off in the distance. I picked up the binoculars and tried a closer look. It was definitely a moving creature, coming right toward us.
We had an interesting time playing with the fontema, which completely ignored us no matter what we did. It acted exactly like all the descriptions of it, falling asleep instantly when we shaded it from the sun. I felt much more appreciative of the expression “less brains than a Zabriskan fontema.”
As we were just about to pack up and leave, we spotted another one coming toward us, and we turned around the one we had been playing with to head toward it. We got to see first hand the reproductive process of fontemas, which was about as exciting as that of amoebas. They met, merged, and divided into four fontemas, who immediately moved off in the four different directions.
From Zabriska we went to Trenco. We had a big advantage in our method of travel, because we didn’t have to face the winds or the chaotic perception changes. We could put down inside the shelter instead of having to time our landing during the time of the least wind, then spend a very short time doing whatever we had come for and take off before the winds became too strong.
I spent most of my time there staring out through the thick plexiglass, or whatever it was, watching the plants grow. I thought the “tree weeds” in my yard grew fast, 15 feet in a couple of months, but this was unbelievable. These plants lived for one day, because they couldn’t withstand the violent wind and storms during the night. Each morning seeds sprouted, the huge leaves grew in a few hours, more seeds were produced and deposited into the mud, swirled away to another part of the planet during the night while the leaves were ripped up and shredded by the wind, and everything started over the next day.
All I could think was thionite must be some terrific drug to make people risk their lives to gather the leaves to make it.
Our last stop was Arisia. We contacted the authority to get permission to come, and Mentor met us as we walked in the garden. Actually, we had gotten separated by that time, so Mentor met each of us. To me she appeared as a beautiful and very wise woman, dressed in flowing magenta and gold robes. Even though I knew she was really not a single entity, but a four-way Arisian mind meld, it was hard to think of her like that.
I’m not sure how long we were there, but it was completely refreshing to me. I basked in Mentor’s presence as in the sun, and my spirit relaxed and stretched like a sleepy cat. We talked about deep things, both dark and joyous, and I felt my soul growing in wisdom and understanding.
As in all good vacations, I regretted having to come back home. I would especially miss the suite of rooms the Doctor had created for me. They had everything I could have wanted in a house. I would love to spend more time there.
As I opened the door and stepped out into my own yard, I turned back to look at the Doctor. “Will you come and pick me up next year for my vacation?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered with a smile. “It will be in August, and we will be going to the sci-fi conference near Henry’s house. We can stop and pick up anybody else that needs transportation – Minnesota for Bruce, Nashville for Vidad, Texas for the Bandit, Colorado Springs for Rain and Waterboy, New Jersey for Snowdog, and even Italy for Vox. There are plenty of rooms for anybody that wants to sleep here, and the Tardis will fit in Henry’s back yard. Just tell everyone to let me know.”
This summer, my vacation was very restful and refreshing. I needed that badly after the long, intense project at work. I think the Doctor needed the rest, too, judging by a couple of offhanded comments he made.
We went to some very novel places, but all of them had one thing in common: there were no demands on us. There was nothing on a to-do list, no cooking or cleaning, and most importantly, no stress. Just sit back and enjoy the scenery, or make friends with the local creatures. There were a few more exciting moments here and there, like our visit to Trenco, but I never felt in danger. The Doctor has many talents, and he always made sure we were safe.
Our first stop was Zabriska. I had always wanted to see a fontema in person, and I was especially curious about their water needs. The descriptions of Zabriska never included any water. No rivers, lakes, ponds, rain, or even dew. But I found it hard to believe that a creature could exist without water of any kind. I was also curious about Zabriska’s sun. Since it provided all the nourishment a fontema needed, would it be beneficial to a human, or harmful?
We touched down halfway between the equator and a pole, and the Doctor ran his tests on the sunlight. After several minutes, he decided it would not be harmful to either of us, but it wouldn’t be beneficial, either. It was simply very different. We didn’t have the receptors the fontemas had, so we had no way of receiving any energy or nourishment from it.
We opened the door and stepped out onto the dry, sandy surface of Zabriska, and started looking for a fontema. We had brought along our own shade in case we had to wait a while, so we set up the umbrella and lounge chairs and had a picnic. This gave us the chance to experiment a little with water.
We found that a drop of water spilled on the ground would evaporate very quickly, but it seemed to form a tiny thin cloud just above the ground. There was no wind, so the cloud didn’t move. This caused the Doctor to go hunting for more testing equipment so he could test the air. He found the air was full of evaporated water, enough so there wasn’t any more room for the drop we had spilled. It stayed partly condensed in the air rather than completely evaporating.
We were both scratching our heads over that one, but the Doctor couldn’t rest until he figured out how it worked, so he kept poking around with various machines, talking to himself and making vigorous hand gestures. I think he did figure it out, but I didn’t understand much of his explanation. I caught the fact that the ground was hotter than the air, and that made more water able to evaporate on the ground than in the air. He also launched into some theories about fontema skin really being their stomach, which could absorb water from the air and transform sunlight into energy. It was interesting, but too much work for my brain on vacation.
While he was working on the water question, I got out my book to read. I was about halfway through Havah, which was the perfect book to read on vacation. It was very soothing and full of exquisite beauty. I kept checking the stretch of dirt in front of me for any sign of a fontema, and finally I saw a slight movement off in the distance. I picked up the binoculars and tried a closer look. It was definitely a moving creature, coming right toward us.
We had an interesting time playing with the fontema, which completely ignored us no matter what we did. It acted exactly like all the descriptions of it, falling asleep instantly when we shaded it from the sun. I felt much more appreciative of the expression “less brains than a Zabriskan fontema.”
As we were just about to pack up and leave, we spotted another one coming toward us, and we turned around the one we had been playing with to head toward it. We got to see first hand the reproductive process of fontemas, which was about as exciting as that of amoebas. They met, merged, and divided into four fontemas, who immediately moved off in the four different directions.
From Zabriska we went to Trenco. We had a big advantage in our method of travel, because we didn’t have to face the winds or the chaotic perception changes. We could put down inside the shelter instead of having to time our landing during the time of the least wind, then spend a very short time doing whatever we had come for and take off before the winds became too strong.
I spent most of my time there staring out through the thick plexiglass, or whatever it was, watching the plants grow. I thought the “tree weeds” in my yard grew fast, 15 feet in a couple of months, but this was unbelievable. These plants lived for one day, because they couldn’t withstand the violent wind and storms during the night. Each morning seeds sprouted, the huge leaves grew in a few hours, more seeds were produced and deposited into the mud, swirled away to another part of the planet during the night while the leaves were ripped up and shredded by the wind, and everything started over the next day.
All I could think was thionite must be some terrific drug to make people risk their lives to gather the leaves to make it.
Our last stop was Arisia. We contacted the authority to get permission to come, and Mentor met us as we walked in the garden. Actually, we had gotten separated by that time, so Mentor met each of us. To me she appeared as a beautiful and very wise woman, dressed in flowing magenta and gold robes. Even though I knew she was really not a single entity, but a four-way Arisian mind meld, it was hard to think of her like that.
I’m not sure how long we were there, but it was completely refreshing to me. I basked in Mentor’s presence as in the sun, and my spirit relaxed and stretched like a sleepy cat. We talked about deep things, both dark and joyous, and I felt my soul growing in wisdom and understanding.
As in all good vacations, I regretted having to come back home. I would especially miss the suite of rooms the Doctor had created for me. They had everything I could have wanted in a house. I would love to spend more time there.
As I opened the door and stepped out into my own yard, I turned back to look at the Doctor. “Will you come and pick me up next year for my vacation?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered with a smile. “It will be in August, and we will be going to the sci-fi conference near Henry’s house. We can stop and pick up anybody else that needs transportation – Minnesota for Bruce, Nashville for Vidad, Texas for the Bandit, Colorado Springs for Rain and Waterboy, New Jersey for Snowdog, and even Italy for Vox. There are plenty of rooms for anybody that wants to sleep here, and the Tardis will fit in Henry’s back yard. Just tell everyone to let me know.”
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Southern Knights: The Movie
This is a last minute entry for the 8/28/09 Friday Challenge, write a scenario for a movie of the Southern Knights comic book series.
Dragon has changed into his human guise, Mark Dagon, in order to go shopping for party supplies for the Southern Knights celebration that night. They are celebrating getting out of Atlanta. Their new location will be Hookworm, Mississippi, and they are planning to leave the next day.
While he is in the 7-11, a crazy but beautiful (in a slutty way) woman comes in with a big gun, looking for her ex-boyfriend. She sees Mark and thinks he's the boyfriend and shoots him three times in the back. When he falls down, she sees he's not the boyfriend, and she drags his unconscious body out to her car and drives him back to her dumpy, run-down shack out in the rural outskirts of Atlanta.
He is not quite dead, and she nurses him for a month until he regains consciousness. He has amnesia and doesn't remember he is really a dragon. She has fallen in love with him while he was unconscious, and he becomes her current boyfriend. She convinces him he used to help her rob convenience stores, and they eventually go out to rob one.
Meanwhile back at the ... lair of the Southern Knights, when Dragon never shows up, they go looking for him, but can't find him. They decide he has left the gang because he didn't really want to leave Atlanta, so they go on to Hookworm without him. But about six months later, they see security camera pictures of him robbing a 7-11 in Atlanta with his girlfriend ("Do you know either of these people? Call this number to tip off the police."), and they recognize him and go back to Atlanta to rescue him from this life of crime.
The ex-boyfriend also sees the pics and recognizes the ex-girlfriend, and he knows where to find her. So he goes to her shanty to try to rescue her from this life of crime. He is not the horrible monster you might have thought, but rather just a bumbling idiot. (Perfect part for Larry the cable guy.)
When Larry arrives at the shack, he manages to make Mark really mad, and he changes into Dragon unexpectedly. Dragon is horrified and thinks he has become a monster, and he goes off to find a bridge to jump from. Unfortunately, he can fly, so he isn't hurt by jumping.
At that moment, the Southern Knights show up and explain to him who he is and what he does. They want him to come back home to Hookworm, Mississippi, but he doesn't believe them, and flies off into the sunset.
The remainder of the Southern Knights become very depressed and stop saving people, and Kristin especially begins to act out. She starts dressing in Daisy Dukes and wet t-shirts, and hangs out in bars trying to pick up men by dancing in irresistably sexy ways. When Larry arrives in the bar, they hook up and live unhappily ever after.
The End
Dragon has changed into his human guise, Mark Dagon, in order to go shopping for party supplies for the Southern Knights celebration that night. They are celebrating getting out of Atlanta. Their new location will be Hookworm, Mississippi, and they are planning to leave the next day.
While he is in the 7-11, a crazy but beautiful (in a slutty way) woman comes in with a big gun, looking for her ex-boyfriend. She sees Mark and thinks he's the boyfriend and shoots him three times in the back. When he falls down, she sees he's not the boyfriend, and she drags his unconscious body out to her car and drives him back to her dumpy, run-down shack out in the rural outskirts of Atlanta.
He is not quite dead, and she nurses him for a month until he regains consciousness. He has amnesia and doesn't remember he is really a dragon. She has fallen in love with him while he was unconscious, and he becomes her current boyfriend. She convinces him he used to help her rob convenience stores, and they eventually go out to rob one.
Meanwhile back at the ... lair of the Southern Knights, when Dragon never shows up, they go looking for him, but can't find him. They decide he has left the gang because he didn't really want to leave Atlanta, so they go on to Hookworm without him. But about six months later, they see security camera pictures of him robbing a 7-11 in Atlanta with his girlfriend ("Do you know either of these people? Call this number to tip off the police."), and they recognize him and go back to Atlanta to rescue him from this life of crime.
The ex-boyfriend also sees the pics and recognizes the ex-girlfriend, and he knows where to find her. So he goes to her shanty to try to rescue her from this life of crime. He is not the horrible monster you might have thought, but rather just a bumbling idiot. (Perfect part for Larry the cable guy.)
When Larry arrives at the shack, he manages to make Mark really mad, and he changes into Dragon unexpectedly. Dragon is horrified and thinks he has become a monster, and he goes off to find a bridge to jump from. Unfortunately, he can fly, so he isn't hurt by jumping.
At that moment, the Southern Knights show up and explain to him who he is and what he does. They want him to come back home to Hookworm, Mississippi, but he doesn't believe them, and flies off into the sunset.
The remainder of the Southern Knights become very depressed and stop saving people, and Kristin especially begins to act out. She starts dressing in Daisy Dukes and wet t-shirts, and hangs out in bars trying to pick up men by dancing in irresistably sexy ways. When Larry arrives in the bar, they hook up and live unhappily ever after.
The End
Saturday, August 8, 2009
The Fatal Cup of Coffee
This is for the Friday Challenge known as The Second Annual Ultimate Snowdogging Competition!
I'm not quite sure when it's due. Could be 8/13/09 or 8/6/09 or maybe a year ago, but that doesn't really matter, since it's a Snowdogging competition, and all entries are expected to be late. Snowdog invented and perfected the late entry for Friday Challenges.
I'm picking a challenge from last year, before I stumbled across the Ranting Room. It's to write about your favorite or most hated appliance and what it will be like in twenty years.
The Fatal Cup of Coffee
There was no two ways about it: the coffee maker was broken, beyond any fixing. Martha had determined by careful examination, with glasses on, that it was a split piece of plastic tube that was causing the water to leak back in to the water container during the brewing process. It couldn't be taped or glued, because it was split in several places, and she couldn't get in there to apply tape or glue to every spot, even with the tiny pliers she had in the drawer. She couldn't take the tube out to fix it, because it was all one piece with the body of the coffee maker. It was hopeless.
It would only get worse as the cracks widened and multiplied. It already took five times as long as usual to get half a pot of brewed coffee, and impossible to get a whole pot. The water just kept going around and around until it boiled away.
Martha turned away from the coffee maker and as her eyes swept over the refrigerator, her shoulders slumped in complete despair. The refrigerator had been broken for over a year. The thermostat had gotten farther and farther off, until the only place she could keep milk without it going bad was in the freezer compartment, which no longer froze anything.
And the oven wouldn't heat at all, and only one burner on the top would still light. The microwave had quit working two or three years ago, but that wasn't a necessity. She still had the toaster oven, but only one of its elements heated now.
She was trapped. There was no escape. Soon her last working cooking appliances would break, and she would have to give in and buy a foodbot. I might as well just shoot myself and get it over with, she thought.
All of Martha's friends and relatives were now using foodbots. One by one, they had converted over, some eager for the easier lifestyle, some resisting as long as possible. But all of them got sick. She could see it, but they evidently could not. She kept on repairing and stealing parts from one appliance to fix another. As time went by, it became more and more impossible to get new appliances or to have the old ones fixed. There were no more parts and no more repair people. Not since the Food Processing Act in 2016.
The FDA had collapsed under its own corruption fifteen years ago, and after that, all the damaging evidence about plastic, Teflon, and aluminum cookware and food containers had come out, splashing fear into voters everywhere. Laws were passed in record time, making it a federal offense to allow food to come into contact with plastic, Teflon, or aluminum under any conditions in public places or manufacturing companies.
Martha vividly remembered the chaos of 2015. That was when she had started hoarding appliances. She had been able to get hold of several small appliances at garage sales. Since individuals were not included in the new laws, she could buy them, and their owners were eager to sell them, but that didn't last long.
More research was done that year than ever before. It took only a few weeks for new products to appear, one of which was the foodbot. It started out as a replacement for fast food restaurants, which had all closed. Then the personal foodbot appeared. All houses being sold were required to have a foodbot, thanks to the Food Processing Act.
Foodbots were made of human-friendly materials: glass, some ceramics, and specially treated iron or steel. They were like a combination of all the old appliances. You put food in, it was stored at its optimum temperature until you requested it to be prepared for eating, whereupon the foodbot would wash it, cut it, cook it, or whatever was appropriate, and then serve it up in human-friendly dishes. When you finished eating, you would put the remains into a different part of the foodbot, and it would clean the dishes and dispose of the food scraps.
Reluctantly, Martha put on her coat. She would need to go pick out her new foodbot, and on the way she would stop at MacBot for coffee. Their coffee wasn't too bad. As long as you didn't think about what might be in it.
The salesman at the foodbot showroom met her as she walked through the door, which made her nervous. She always preferred to browse by herself until she had her mind made up. But he was very nice and never made her feel captive to his persuasions.
There wasn't a lot of decision making required when buying a foodbot. Of course they tried to make it fit in with your kitchen style and color scheme, but by the time you take out the refrigerator, stove, microwave, dishwasher, and half of the cabinets, you're pretty much starting over, anyway. She picked out a cream color with Indian style trim in turquoise, pick, and orange.
“What persona would you like,” asked the salesman. “We have man, woman, boy, or girl, of course, but we also can copy your voice and personality.”
At Martha's look of surprise and interest, he continued enthusiastically. “That's brand new last month. I've installed twenty of them so far, and all twenty customers like them much better than their old ones. They say their bot understands them and knows how to fix things the way they like.”
That was too appealing to pass up, so Martha found herself answering many questions and reading some printed material out loud in a soundbooth, where her voice and personality were recorded for programming into her new bot.
After several hours, everything was set up for the installation and personal training session by her salesman, who was apparently much more than just a salesman. She only had to wait four days. She walked out, headed to TacoBot for a late lunch.
Installing a foodbot was an all-day event. First the old appliances were removed, and cabinets were rearranged or removed, then the bot was brought in and assembled. It was too big to fit through the door in one piece. The training session was last on the agenda, serving a dual purpose as a way of testing that the bot was running correctly.
Martha was amazed at the mass of details the bot had to think about. Well, if the bot thought. It was an AI computer, of course. It would track everything she put into it and let her know if something was getting close to its expiration date. It knew how much of each ingredient to use to make one serving, and it could adjust that if she said she was extra hungry or not very hungry. It would track how much and what foods she ate, and make suggestions for optimum health. It could detect spoiled food and would dispose of it. It would help her plan ahead and provide shopping lists. It would even know if it had a broken part or was not running correctly, and it would tell her.
“What's her name?” the salesman asked.
“Oh,” replied Martha. “It's Betty.” Not bottie, or batty, but close, she thought, secretly smirking while the salesman programmed in Betty's name.
“Okay, you say her name and then give her instructions. When she hears her name, she will know the instructions are for her.”
After everyone was gone, she sat at the kitchen table and gazed at Betty. She needed to try something. “Betty, make a cup of coffee, the French roast.”
Her own voice said, “The coffee will be ready in two point six minutes.”
Martha heard a grinding noise, then something that sounded for all the world like percolating. It wasn't exactly the same as her old coffee maker, which she had hidden under her bed to keep it from being confiscated by the installers. At the end of the percolating, her coffee maker always opened its lid slightly, and she had to punch it down. She saw a mental picture of herself pounding her fist on Betty and giggled.
“The coffee is ready,” said Betty, ignoring the giggle. A door opened at one end of the bot, disclosing a cream colored cup with Indian style trim in turquoise, pink, and orange.
Martha moved over to get the cup, and saw the coffee was black. “Oh. Betty, put cream in the coffee.”
This would be the acid test. The cream that Martha had transferred from the old refrigerator was raw cream, organic, unpasteurized, unhomogenized, with no contaminants of any kind. It was so thick the bot wouldn't be able to pour it. It was solid. She picked it up once a week from Tim, a dairy farmer forty miles out of town.
The door closed. There were a few faint clicks and a humming noise. Then the door opened again and Betty said, “One serving of cream is in the coffee. It was not pasteurized or homogenized. That has been corrected. The coffee is ready. All caffeine has been removed.”
Martha frowned, or rather, glared at the foodbot. “Betty, how much cream is one serving?”
“One serving of cream is one half teaspoon,” was the reply. “The cream was diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency.”
“Betty, put more cream in the coffee. I want ten servings of cream. Do not dilute it!”
“Ten servings of cream is not healthy,” Betty responded.
Martha picked up the cup of coffee and tasted it. The door closed. “This is awful!” Actually, the coffee tasted quite a bit like the MacBot coffee she had been living on for the past several days. It wasn't that bad.
“This is awful!” Martha repeated. “I want you to make another cup of coffee, and I want you to leave the caffeine in it, and I want you to leave my cream unpasteurized and unhomogenized and undiluted, and I want at least a tablespoon of it in my coffee!”
Silence.
I guess I should have named her Simon Says, thought Martha.
“Betty, make another cup of coffee with the French roast. Do not remove the caffeine. Put one tablespoon of cream in it. Do not homogenize the cream. Do not pasteurize the cream. Do not dilute the cream.”
A piece of paper slid out of a slot next to the door. Betty said, “A shopping list has been printed. You need coffee and cream. All the caffeine has been removed. All the cream has been pasteurized. All the cream has been homogenized. All the cream has been diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency.”
Martha's mouth opened. She blinked.
“Betty, I want to plan tomorrow's meals. Today I will get the things on the shopping list: coffee with caffeine in it and unpasteurized, unhomogenized, undiluted cream. Tomorrow morning I want you to make a cup of coffee. Do not remove the caffeine. Put one tablespoon of cream in it. Do not homogenize the cream. Do not pasteurize the cream. Do not dilute the cream.” Martha pounded her fist on the foodbot's top surface.
More faint clicks and humming exuded from the foodbot. After what seemed like a very long time, there was a loud clunk, and then silence.
“Betty, print the meal plan for tomorrow morning.”
“The meal planning module is not able to plan tomorrow morning's meal.”
“Betty, why can't the meal planning module plan tomorrow morning's meal?”
“The meal planning module is unable to find coffee with caffeine and cream that is not pasteurized, homogenized, and diluted. The shopping list adjusts the quantity of coffee and cream, but when the cup of coffee is made tomorrow morning, the caffeine will be removed and the cream will be pasteurized and homogenized and diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency and one half teaspoon of cream will be put in the coffee. Six servings of cream is not healthy.”
“Oh, Betty, Betty, Betty!' groaned Martha, burying her face in her hands. “Just shoot me now and get it over with!”
After several more faint clicks, another door opened in the foodbot, near the floor. A cream colored gun with Indian style trim in turquoise, pink, and orange protruded. And fired.
I'm not quite sure when it's due. Could be 8/13/09 or 8/6/09 or maybe a year ago, but that doesn't really matter, since it's a Snowdogging competition, and all entries are expected to be late. Snowdog invented and perfected the late entry for Friday Challenges.
I'm picking a challenge from last year, before I stumbled across the Ranting Room. It's to write about your favorite or most hated appliance and what it will be like in twenty years.
The Fatal Cup of Coffee
There was no two ways about it: the coffee maker was broken, beyond any fixing. Martha had determined by careful examination, with glasses on, that it was a split piece of plastic tube that was causing the water to leak back in to the water container during the brewing process. It couldn't be taped or glued, because it was split in several places, and she couldn't get in there to apply tape or glue to every spot, even with the tiny pliers she had in the drawer. She couldn't take the tube out to fix it, because it was all one piece with the body of the coffee maker. It was hopeless.
It would only get worse as the cracks widened and multiplied. It already took five times as long as usual to get half a pot of brewed coffee, and impossible to get a whole pot. The water just kept going around and around until it boiled away.
Martha turned away from the coffee maker and as her eyes swept over the refrigerator, her shoulders slumped in complete despair. The refrigerator had been broken for over a year. The thermostat had gotten farther and farther off, until the only place she could keep milk without it going bad was in the freezer compartment, which no longer froze anything.
And the oven wouldn't heat at all, and only one burner on the top would still light. The microwave had quit working two or three years ago, but that wasn't a necessity. She still had the toaster oven, but only one of its elements heated now.
She was trapped. There was no escape. Soon her last working cooking appliances would break, and she would have to give in and buy a foodbot. I might as well just shoot myself and get it over with, she thought.
All of Martha's friends and relatives were now using foodbots. One by one, they had converted over, some eager for the easier lifestyle, some resisting as long as possible. But all of them got sick. She could see it, but they evidently could not. She kept on repairing and stealing parts from one appliance to fix another. As time went by, it became more and more impossible to get new appliances or to have the old ones fixed. There were no more parts and no more repair people. Not since the Food Processing Act in 2016.
The FDA had collapsed under its own corruption fifteen years ago, and after that, all the damaging evidence about plastic, Teflon, and aluminum cookware and food containers had come out, splashing fear into voters everywhere. Laws were passed in record time, making it a federal offense to allow food to come into contact with plastic, Teflon, or aluminum under any conditions in public places or manufacturing companies.
Martha vividly remembered the chaos of 2015. That was when she had started hoarding appliances. She had been able to get hold of several small appliances at garage sales. Since individuals were not included in the new laws, she could buy them, and their owners were eager to sell them, but that didn't last long.
More research was done that year than ever before. It took only a few weeks for new products to appear, one of which was the foodbot. It started out as a replacement for fast food restaurants, which had all closed. Then the personal foodbot appeared. All houses being sold were required to have a foodbot, thanks to the Food Processing Act.
Foodbots were made of human-friendly materials: glass, some ceramics, and specially treated iron or steel. They were like a combination of all the old appliances. You put food in, it was stored at its optimum temperature until you requested it to be prepared for eating, whereupon the foodbot would wash it, cut it, cook it, or whatever was appropriate, and then serve it up in human-friendly dishes. When you finished eating, you would put the remains into a different part of the foodbot, and it would clean the dishes and dispose of the food scraps.
Reluctantly, Martha put on her coat. She would need to go pick out her new foodbot, and on the way she would stop at MacBot for coffee. Their coffee wasn't too bad. As long as you didn't think about what might be in it.
The salesman at the foodbot showroom met her as she walked through the door, which made her nervous. She always preferred to browse by herself until she had her mind made up. But he was very nice and never made her feel captive to his persuasions.
There wasn't a lot of decision making required when buying a foodbot. Of course they tried to make it fit in with your kitchen style and color scheme, but by the time you take out the refrigerator, stove, microwave, dishwasher, and half of the cabinets, you're pretty much starting over, anyway. She picked out a cream color with Indian style trim in turquoise, pick, and orange.
“What persona would you like,” asked the salesman. “We have man, woman, boy, or girl, of course, but we also can copy your voice and personality.”
At Martha's look of surprise and interest, he continued enthusiastically. “That's brand new last month. I've installed twenty of them so far, and all twenty customers like them much better than their old ones. They say their bot understands them and knows how to fix things the way they like.”
That was too appealing to pass up, so Martha found herself answering many questions and reading some printed material out loud in a soundbooth, where her voice and personality were recorded for programming into her new bot.
After several hours, everything was set up for the installation and personal training session by her salesman, who was apparently much more than just a salesman. She only had to wait four days. She walked out, headed to TacoBot for a late lunch.
Installing a foodbot was an all-day event. First the old appliances were removed, and cabinets were rearranged or removed, then the bot was brought in and assembled. It was too big to fit through the door in one piece. The training session was last on the agenda, serving a dual purpose as a way of testing that the bot was running correctly.
Martha was amazed at the mass of details the bot had to think about. Well, if the bot thought. It was an AI computer, of course. It would track everything she put into it and let her know if something was getting close to its expiration date. It knew how much of each ingredient to use to make one serving, and it could adjust that if she said she was extra hungry or not very hungry. It would track how much and what foods she ate, and make suggestions for optimum health. It could detect spoiled food and would dispose of it. It would help her plan ahead and provide shopping lists. It would even know if it had a broken part or was not running correctly, and it would tell her.
“What's her name?” the salesman asked.
“Oh,” replied Martha. “It's Betty.” Not bottie, or batty, but close, she thought, secretly smirking while the salesman programmed in Betty's name.
“Okay, you say her name and then give her instructions. When she hears her name, she will know the instructions are for her.”
After everyone was gone, she sat at the kitchen table and gazed at Betty. She needed to try something. “Betty, make a cup of coffee, the French roast.”
Her own voice said, “The coffee will be ready in two point six minutes.”
Martha heard a grinding noise, then something that sounded for all the world like percolating. It wasn't exactly the same as her old coffee maker, which she had hidden under her bed to keep it from being confiscated by the installers. At the end of the percolating, her coffee maker always opened its lid slightly, and she had to punch it down. She saw a mental picture of herself pounding her fist on Betty and giggled.
“The coffee is ready,” said Betty, ignoring the giggle. A door opened at one end of the bot, disclosing a cream colored cup with Indian style trim in turquoise, pink, and orange.
Martha moved over to get the cup, and saw the coffee was black. “Oh. Betty, put cream in the coffee.”
This would be the acid test. The cream that Martha had transferred from the old refrigerator was raw cream, organic, unpasteurized, unhomogenized, with no contaminants of any kind. It was so thick the bot wouldn't be able to pour it. It was solid. She picked it up once a week from Tim, a dairy farmer forty miles out of town.
The door closed. There were a few faint clicks and a humming noise. Then the door opened again and Betty said, “One serving of cream is in the coffee. It was not pasteurized or homogenized. That has been corrected. The coffee is ready. All caffeine has been removed.”
Martha frowned, or rather, glared at the foodbot. “Betty, how much cream is one serving?”
“One serving of cream is one half teaspoon,” was the reply. “The cream was diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency.”
“Betty, put more cream in the coffee. I want ten servings of cream. Do not dilute it!”
“Ten servings of cream is not healthy,” Betty responded.
Martha picked up the cup of coffee and tasted it. The door closed. “This is awful!” Actually, the coffee tasted quite a bit like the MacBot coffee she had been living on for the past several days. It wasn't that bad.
“This is awful!” Martha repeated. “I want you to make another cup of coffee, and I want you to leave the caffeine in it, and I want you to leave my cream unpasteurized and unhomogenized and undiluted, and I want at least a tablespoon of it in my coffee!”
Silence.
I guess I should have named her Simon Says, thought Martha.
“Betty, make another cup of coffee with the French roast. Do not remove the caffeine. Put one tablespoon of cream in it. Do not homogenize the cream. Do not pasteurize the cream. Do not dilute the cream.”
A piece of paper slid out of a slot next to the door. Betty said, “A shopping list has been printed. You need coffee and cream. All the caffeine has been removed. All the cream has been pasteurized. All the cream has been homogenized. All the cream has been diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency.”
Martha's mouth opened. She blinked.
“Betty, I want to plan tomorrow's meals. Today I will get the things on the shopping list: coffee with caffeine in it and unpasteurized, unhomogenized, undiluted cream. Tomorrow morning I want you to make a cup of coffee. Do not remove the caffeine. Put one tablespoon of cream in it. Do not homogenize the cream. Do not pasteurize the cream. Do not dilute the cream.” Martha pounded her fist on the foodbot's top surface.
More faint clicks and humming exuded from the foodbot. After what seemed like a very long time, there was a loud clunk, and then silence.
“Betty, print the meal plan for tomorrow morning.”
“The meal planning module is not able to plan tomorrow morning's meal.”
“Betty, why can't the meal planning module plan tomorrow morning's meal?”
“The meal planning module is unable to find coffee with caffeine and cream that is not pasteurized, homogenized, and diluted. The shopping list adjusts the quantity of coffee and cream, but when the cup of coffee is made tomorrow morning, the caffeine will be removed and the cream will be pasteurized and homogenized and diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency and one half teaspoon of cream will be put in the coffee. Six servings of cream is not healthy.”
“Oh, Betty, Betty, Betty!' groaned Martha, burying her face in her hands. “Just shoot me now and get it over with!”
After several more faint clicks, another door opened in the foodbot, near the floor. A cream colored gun with Indian style trim in turquoise, pink, and orange protruded. And fired.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Supersubstantial
This story is a response to the Friday challenge for 7/10/09. Please forgive my lack of Greek letters, but my computer refuses.
Supersubstantial
For Robert
Martin Luther sat at his desk ostensibly working on his translation of the Lord's Prayer from Greek into German. Even after comparing the various texts available to him, the more times he went over that center phrase, the more frustrated he became. His quill lay unmoving next to the ink bottle.
Surrounding his hunched figure were an astonishing number of unseen demons, and an equally astonishing number of unseen angels were present, waiting expectantly in the background. This was an important moment, and none of them wanted to miss it. It was so important that the Evil One himself had been hovering in the vicinity for days, sending faint thoughts from his mind into Luther's, trying to influence his decision without being noticed. And it was so important that heaven opened a window so all the angelic beings could watch. God Most High watched from his throne with a sad look, for he was the only one who knew what was going to happen.
By contrast, Satan was busy at work, expertly inserting confusion and tiredness into Luther's feelings, adding just a touch of “I really want to do this right.” Steadily he nourished the attitude he had introduced many years earlier, that of viewing the common people as not quite able to understand the deeper, more complicated ideas in Scripture. After all, most of them couldn't read or write. Their lives were full of the mundane tasks of getting enough to eat and a place to live for their families. They had neither the ability nor the desire to study these ancient writings in an unfamiliar language. That was why it was so important to Luther to give these people the scripture in a form they could understand and remember.
Luther's usual routine when he came to a difficult passage was to go back to "How would the people say this?" He had spent many hours walking in the villages, listening to the conversations, wanting to absorb the words, the turns of expression, every nuance of current German language. He didn't want any part of his translation to sound like a monk or priest secluded for years with only other clerics to talk to and dusty, outdated writings to read.
This time that wasn't helping. He couldn't put a phrase into the common tongue when he didn't really know what it meant, himself. It was that one word in the center, "epiousian", that had him stuck. The problem was that no one really knew what it meant. It could not be found in any other Greek text, not just Biblical texts, but any writing whatsoever.
Eleven centuries ago, Jerome had translated it from Greek to Latin, phrasing it “Panem nostrum supersubstantialem da nobis hodie,” or “Our bread supersubstantial give us today.” Luther had even consulted Wycliffe’s translation from Jerome’s Latin to English, but it wasn’t much help. Wycliffe put it “yyue to vs this dai oure breed ouer othir substaunce.”
It seemed obvious to Luther that Jesus was speaking of some bread that was out of the ordinary, perhaps symbolic, or more likely a reference to Jesus’ statement that he was the bread of life, a bread that ended all hunger. But how to translate that into an idea that the common people would understand?
All the spiritual beings grouped around Luther intensified their focus, waiting for this man’s decision upon which so much would hang. Satan no longer sent thoughts into his mind, feeling perhaps that his work was complete. Luther’s head hung over the desk. There was no sign that he heard any tiniest whisper from the Spirit of the Holy One within him. Was he listening for it, or was he distracted and deceived by the swirl of conflicting goals in his heart, planted there and nourished devotedly by the father of lies?
At last he sat up, his decision made. The people would never be able to understand something so esoteric. It would cause them to hesitate, even to stumble in the center of this most important of prayers. He would exchange the difficult phrase for one they would feel comfortable repeating. The prayer asked God for bread this day. Therefore it was daily bread. “Give us this day our daily bread” would remind them how wonderfully God provided for their needs, and how dependent they were on him. Luther nodded once, satisfied at last.
Satan and the other demons danced wildly in celebration of stealing one word from the mouth of God. They didn’t yet know the whole result of their deception. God alone could see hundreds of years into a future where people would demand rather than ask, where they would portray him as Santa Claus, a jolly elf whose function was to give them everything they wanted, where materialism reigned, where food was distorted beyond any recognition and worshipped by its slaves, where almost no one knew God as the provider of a bread that satisfied the heart and the spirit for eternity.
Creation groaned.
Romans 8:22-23 (New American Standard Bible)
22 For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now.
23 And not only this, but also we ourselves, having the first fruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our body.
Supersubstantial
For Robert
Martin Luther sat at his desk ostensibly working on his translation of the Lord's Prayer from Greek into German. Even after comparing the various texts available to him, the more times he went over that center phrase, the more frustrated he became. His quill lay unmoving next to the ink bottle.
Surrounding his hunched figure were an astonishing number of unseen demons, and an equally astonishing number of unseen angels were present, waiting expectantly in the background. This was an important moment, and none of them wanted to miss it. It was so important that the Evil One himself had been hovering in the vicinity for days, sending faint thoughts from his mind into Luther's, trying to influence his decision without being noticed. And it was so important that heaven opened a window so all the angelic beings could watch. God Most High watched from his throne with a sad look, for he was the only one who knew what was going to happen.
By contrast, Satan was busy at work, expertly inserting confusion and tiredness into Luther's feelings, adding just a touch of “I really want to do this right.” Steadily he nourished the attitude he had introduced many years earlier, that of viewing the common people as not quite able to understand the deeper, more complicated ideas in Scripture. After all, most of them couldn't read or write. Their lives were full of the mundane tasks of getting enough to eat and a place to live for their families. They had neither the ability nor the desire to study these ancient writings in an unfamiliar language. That was why it was so important to Luther to give these people the scripture in a form they could understand and remember.
Luther's usual routine when he came to a difficult passage was to go back to "How would the people say this?" He had spent many hours walking in the villages, listening to the conversations, wanting to absorb the words, the turns of expression, every nuance of current German language. He didn't want any part of his translation to sound like a monk or priest secluded for years with only other clerics to talk to and dusty, outdated writings to read.
This time that wasn't helping. He couldn't put a phrase into the common tongue when he didn't really know what it meant, himself. It was that one word in the center, "epiousian", that had him stuck. The problem was that no one really knew what it meant. It could not be found in any other Greek text, not just Biblical texts, but any writing whatsoever.
Eleven centuries ago, Jerome had translated it from Greek to Latin, phrasing it “Panem nostrum supersubstantialem da nobis hodie,” or “Our bread supersubstantial give us today.” Luther had even consulted Wycliffe’s translation from Jerome’s Latin to English, but it wasn’t much help. Wycliffe put it “yyue to vs this dai oure breed ouer othir substaunce.”
It seemed obvious to Luther that Jesus was speaking of some bread that was out of the ordinary, perhaps symbolic, or more likely a reference to Jesus’ statement that he was the bread of life, a bread that ended all hunger. But how to translate that into an idea that the common people would understand?
All the spiritual beings grouped around Luther intensified their focus, waiting for this man’s decision upon which so much would hang. Satan no longer sent thoughts into his mind, feeling perhaps that his work was complete. Luther’s head hung over the desk. There was no sign that he heard any tiniest whisper from the Spirit of the Holy One within him. Was he listening for it, or was he distracted and deceived by the swirl of conflicting goals in his heart, planted there and nourished devotedly by the father of lies?
At last he sat up, his decision made. The people would never be able to understand something so esoteric. It would cause them to hesitate, even to stumble in the center of this most important of prayers. He would exchange the difficult phrase for one they would feel comfortable repeating. The prayer asked God for bread this day. Therefore it was daily bread. “Give us this day our daily bread” would remind them how wonderfully God provided for their needs, and how dependent they were on him. Luther nodded once, satisfied at last.
Satan and the other demons danced wildly in celebration of stealing one word from the mouth of God. They didn’t yet know the whole result of their deception. God alone could see hundreds of years into a future where people would demand rather than ask, where they would portray him as Santa Claus, a jolly elf whose function was to give them everything they wanted, where materialism reigned, where food was distorted beyond any recognition and worshipped by its slaves, where almost no one knew God as the provider of a bread that satisfied the heart and the spirit for eternity.
Creation groaned.
Romans 8:22-23 (New American Standard Bible)
22 For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now.
23 And not only this, but also we ourselves, having the first fruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our body.
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