4 Ways Technology Can Beat Writer’s Block

May 22, 2015 by Sparks 0 Comments

There’s a lot of tips and tricks on how to bear writer’s block.  Ultimately, as we all know, the only way to beat writer’s block is to simply write.  Still, there’s something to be said for kickstarting your creative thought process.  Ideas come from the strangest places.

Most of us nowadays write on our computers, but all of the suggestions foe beating writer’s block usually entail getting away from the computer.  Stretch.  Walk.  Get away.  Yoga.  These are all fantastic ways to loosen the body and open the mind, but there are other ways to pique your curiosity and get inspired.

1. Random Wiki

This is my favorite.  You’ll either beat writer’s block or get sucked down the rabbit hole for hours.  Either way, remember to feed yourself before you start this because it might be a while before you remember to eat.  Or shower. Or shave.  Or pick up the kids.

Essentially, you can click a single button and get a completely random Wikipedia entry, sure to pique your interest and, hopefully, get those creative juices flowing.  And it’s really easy:

  1. Go to Wikipedia.org and bookmark it in your browser.
  2. Open your Bookmark Menu edit the bookmark you just created.
  3. Change the location to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Randompage
  4. Save your changes
  5. Click the new bookmark
  6. Viola! A random Wikipedia article is there for you.

Here is a link so you can try for yourself: COMPLETELY RANDOM WIKIPEDIA ENTRY.

The Exercise

When you find an article that intrigues you, open up text editor on your computer, copy the URL and a short sentence about what you liked.  Add a few keywords.  After you are done, review the list and see what grabs you.  Hopefully, something there will inspire you to write.

2. StumbleUpon

This is in the same vein as the Random Wiki – except instead of a random entry form Wikipedia, it’s a random website from the entire Internet based on your personal preferences. As before, take all necessary precautions before you go this route.  It might be days before you remember to reapply your deodorant, so please remember those around you.

Sign up for a StumbleUpon account if you haven’t done so already.  When you sign up, make sure you take the time to fill out every singly interest you have.  Garbage in, garbage out as they say.  If you take those precious few minutes to be as detailed as possible in your interests, you’ll be amazed at the random cool sites StumbleUpon will present to you.

The Exercise

As before, when you find a site that intrigues you, open up text editor on your computer, copy the URL and a short sentence about what you liked.  Add a few keywords.  After you are done, review the list and see what grabs you.  Hopefully, something there will inspire you to write.

3. Random YouTube

You’re beginning to see a pattern here, right?  This is no different except that instead of articles or websites, this is a random video.  The idea here is that hopefully a random video of cats or pimple-popping will somehow inspire you to write.  Jesting aside, though, this is also one of my favorites because it’s a way to people watch.  Random videos give me so much inspiration on character trait and development it’s not funny.

People have ben known to explode from failure to pee when watching YouTube videos, so keep a bucket or something nearby.  Here’s how you do it:

  1. Navigate to http://randomyoutube.net/
  2. On the right side of the screen is a random video.
  3. Click the link – watch the video
  4. Go back to the randomyoutube.net tab
  5. Repeat

You’ll get a few terrible videos, a lot of mediocre ones, and occasionally a nugget of gold that will really inspire you.

The Exercise

When you find a video that intrigues you, open up text editor on your computer, copy the URL and a short sentence about what you liked.  Add a few keywords.  After you are done, review the list and see what grabs you.  Hopefully, something there will inspire you to write.

4. Random Google Image

Yep – exactly the same as the other suggestions.  I won’t even bother explaining it.  Here is what you do:

That’s it.  Break that block.  A writer writes.  You can do it!

Blogging
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Image of Venus courtesy of NASA

3 Things You Don’t Know About Venus

May 21, 2015 by Sparks 0 Comments

Anyone can tell you Venus is the second closest planet to the sun. Or that it’s hotter than the devil’s underpants on the surface (over 850-degrees Fahrenheit). Or that it rotates backwards. Pish posh! I’m going to leave all of those vanilla facts about Venus to the myriad of sites that like the mediocrity of repeating what’s been said too often.

This list is a list of facts about Venus that aren’t normally covered, and that people generally aren’t aware of.  These are rare, uncommon, and intriguing tidbits of trivia that you can share and delight your friends with. If you already know them, well bully for you.  Stop being a smart-ass and rubbing it in.  Let the rest of us learn something new.

1. It was once believed that Venus had a moon.

In the late 1600s Giovanni Cassini looked through his telescope and saw an object close to Venus. He saw it again sixteen years later and declared he had discovered the moon of Venus. A mad rush ensued to confirm these observations and other astronomers chimed in with positive results. You might recognize such names as Andreas Mayer, James Short, and Joseph Lagrange.

Other astronomers never saw the elusive moon on Venus, and for over a hundred years the search for absolute proof of this mysterious moon raged on. The moon of Venus was given the name “Neith,” after the Egyptian goddess of war and hunting. Finally, though, the debate was laid to rest in 1887 when it was determined that in nearly every instance of Neith-sightings, the object misconstrued as a moon were, in fact, stars in the background.

2.  Former President Jimmy Carter thought Venus was a UFO.

As bright as Venus is, and for as long as humans have been observing and cataloging her movements in the sky, people still look up and are surprised by the sight of our sister planet on the horizon.  It’s not just farmers in the midwest who see aliens and UFOs, people.

Early one evening in 1969, former President Jimmy Carter reporting seeing a “strange object” about 30 degrees above the horizon to the west of where he was standing.  He later testified to the International UFO Bureau:

There were about twenty of us standing outside of a little restaurant, I believe, a high school lunch room, and a kind of green light appeared in the western sky. This was right after sundown. It got brighter and brighter. And then it eventually disappeared. It didn’t have any solid substance to it, it was just a very peculiar-looking light. None of us could understand what it was.

After the incident, years later in fact two Ufologists determined that what Carter saw was, in fact, Venus and he may have been seeing a “halo effect” around the planet due to atmospheric conditions at the time.  Carter went on record denying that what he saw was Venus and stating that, as an amateur astronomer himself, he would know if had seen Sol’s second planet.

Evidently, of the twenty or so people standing with Carter, none could remember the incident seven years later or didn’t find it significant or noteworthy.

3. Ancient astronomers actually thought Venus was two planets.

Venus has been called both the Morning Star and the Evening Star.  This is no coincidence.  Ancient astronomers mistakenly thought that Venus was two separate planets as they could see it both evening and night sequentially. They even had names for each aspect: Eosphorus as the morning star and Hesperus as the evening star. The planet Mercury, too, had a similar case of split personality.

It wasn’t until later, when Eosphorus and Hesperus were confirmed to be the same wandering star, that she earned the name “Venus” after the Roman goddess of love and beauty.

Nature
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It Hurts (Poem)

May 16, 2015 by Sparks 1 Comment

 

I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom lately; she passed away in November, 2010.  This is for her.

 

when I was five and life was a song of
excitement and innocence
the world was full of mystery
and I had never felt
the pain of hurt or loss of
any kind    and then
one day
a playmate pushed me right off the swing
you picked me up   brushed me off
   told me not to cry
‘mommy,’ I said,
‘it hurts’

when I was sixteen and in love for the  first time
to a young Cuban girl I felt like
    an adult doing adult things
dates and kissing and groping
and late-night phone calls with the
cord stretched and twisted through the house 
and under my door    and then
one day
she left me for another teenage crush
and I felt world-ending
anguish  burning, hot, consuming
as only a teenager can feel them
you held me close
   told me I’d be ok
‘but mom,’ said I,
‘it hurts.’

when I was thirty-five at the end of my marriage
holding on to it with desperate and futile hands
trying to be a good father to my sons
who put me on a pedestal high enough 
to rival the gods
I fought depression 
and anger
even as I felt co-dependent longing
for the woman who was
  breaking my heart
there at the end of that marriage
one day
you held your grandchildren 
and me
   and told us we’d be ok
‘mom,’ I said
   ‘it hurts.’
   
when I was thirty-eight and dying
from the cancer eating  my body 
  repulsed by
the very sight of my
shriveled and sunken body with
chemotherapy eyes set deep
deep inside my skull
and scars on my body finally
making me as ugly in life as I felt inside
I despaired and I grieved
the loss of innocence
in my children and the burden
on my new girlfriend
one day
you sat by my bedside 
and held my hand,
  told me the kids 
and I
were stronger than I knew
‘but mom’ I said, looking
at their pictures,
‘it hurts.’

when I was forty and strong again,
recovered from cancer
and from divorce
my scars a badge of character and honor
with a beautiful new bride by my side
 a new life to live
and a new daughter to love
that day
  you lay in a hospital bed
clinging desperately to life
      machines to monitor
tubes to breath
nurses to care and
doctors to treat
I held your hand, like you always held mine,
  alongside 
your daughter (my sister) and
your other son (my brother)
as you breathed your last
even as I 
   sobbed at your passing
and fell into the arms of my wife and siblings
I wondered
  selfishly
who now will hold me like you did
like only you could
because oh god, mom
it hurts.

2015-05-16

Cancer, Cancer & Recovery, Divorce, Family, Health, Life, Love, Recovery
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Trending (short fiction)

May 14, 2015 by Sparks 1 Comment

“It’s happened again.”

Milla ran an ash-covered hand across the heavy lids of her eyes and turned her gaze towards her partner. The reports had been coming in all night long; people, most of them teenagers, all over the city becoming comatose and unresponsive. Not just a few reported incidents, but hundreds of them so far with more coming in every few minutes. Local police and medical were so overwhelmed they were calling in reinforcements from across the city to help. Hence Milla, high-school guidance counselor, and Isla, off-duty nurse.

“Where?” she asked.

Isla put her phone back in her purse, stress lines in her face reflecting the hopelessness that Milla feeling as well. “Two blocks over. We can get there in a minute or two when we’re done here.”

“Yeah, okay.” Milla stood and looked down at the young girl in the bed. She had been smoking a cigarette when …. whatever …. had happened. The bed was still smoking from the fire and third-degree burns covered her legs. That wasn’t the worst part, though.

The worst part was that she was still alive. Her eyes were open, but her jaw was slack and she showed no signs of having felt the pain of flesh boiling off of her body. Milla shuddered and looked away; staring into those eyes for too long, those dead eyes, was like standing at the edge of a cliff. You got that weird sensation of movement like you were going too fast on a swing.

“Let’s catalog this scene while we wait for EMTs to arrive,” she said to Isla.

“Almost identical to the others we’ve seen so far,” Isla replied.

“I know,” Milla nodded, “but let’s go through it anyway.” A lump formed in her throat and she retreated to the window, her breath coming in heavy gasps as she listened to the sirens wailing from numerous points in the distance. So many. So many kids like this. Christ, what was going on?

A soft hand fell on her shoulder; Milla leaned back against Isla and allowed those slender arms to envelope her in a comforting embrace. She cried for a moment.

“You know her, don’t you?” asked Isla.

Trust Isla to immediately understand. The five others they had seen tonight had been strangers. Milla had been able to keep her emotional distance, despite the growing horror that shrouded the entire night. She wasn’t like Isla. She wasn’t a nurse used to seeing and dealing with patients and grief.

It was the parents who made it unbearable. They were inconsolable and looking for answers, for cures, and for reassurance that their babies would be ok. They had called the authorities for help, and Milla had shown up instead. They expected Milla and Isla to take control and make everything better, or at least pretend convincingly that they had everything under control.

Isla was who they naturally gravitated towards. As a nurse, she exuded the air of professionalism and confidence the frenzied parents needed. By dropping just a few pseudo-medical terms in a patient and authoritative voice, Isla was able to at least get in the door, if not gain their trust.

Milla took a deep breath and turned in Isla’s arms, giving her a brief kiss. She felt ashamed for her weakness; what if the parents had seen? Stepping back, she compartmentalized her fear and horror and looked back at the girl on the bed.

“Jessica Anders; eleventh grade. She’s a good student. Into art and plays the clarinet in the band.”

Isla nodded. “If you’re ready, we can review the scene.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Isla looked at the tablet she was using to take notes, “Victim was alone, like the others. Female, but some have been male.”

“Right,” Milla agreed, “So gender probably isn’t a factor.”

“She was in her bed, but others were in cars or elsewhere in the house.”

“Location as a catalyst: out,” said Milla.

“Her laptop is across the room, and her television is off.”

“Wait a sec,” said Milla. “Her phone’s in her hand.”

“Yeah,” said Isla, consulting her tablet again. “All the others, too.”

“This could be something. All six of our callers tonight have their phones in hand.” Her heart started beating faster. “Call the police coordinator and see if this is significant. Are the others holding their phones too?”

Milla waited in impatient silence as Isla made the call. The sirens outside were getting louder; almost loud enough to drown out the wails of grief that were coming from multiple houses on the block. It was just past eleven o’clock, but Milla felt as if she had been up for a week. She wasn’t sure how many more callers she could take.

“Milla,” Isla’s voice broke into her dark thoughts. “You’re right; the phone is the common denominator. All the victims had phone in hand.”

“Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Call them ‘victims.’ It dehumanizes them somehow. They’re kids. Humans.”

“I’m sorry.” Isla looked at her in both annoyance and concern, “What should I call them?”

“I don’t know.”

Isla puffed out her cheeks and blew hard, “Fine. All the people affected by this phenomenon have been holding phones in their hands. We created quite an uproar with that observation, by the way. The geeks are all over it now, trying to find out why this is important.”

Milla walked over to Jessica’s prone form on the bed, “Let’s find out what she was doing last on her phone. If we can get in without rebooting the device, the app she was last using should be active and running.”

The warm, but dead, hand of Jessica reluctantly relinquished the phone. Milla suppressed a shudder of revulsion at the feel of her skin. It didn’t feel right; it felt alive, yet not. It reminded her of how her grandmother’s arm felt when she had been in a coma before she passed.

“Crap, the phone’s locked.”

Isla rifled through Jessica’s purse and pulled out her license. She took the phone from Milla, “Her birthday’s June seventeenth. Let’s try 0617 as the code.”

“That won’t work,” said Milla.

“It didn’t work.”

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Don’t know.”

“Go downstairs and ask the parents. You know they don’t like me.”

Milla waited again, her self-control threatening to leave her as she looked at Jessica’s body on the bed. That’s what it was; it was just a body. Even though she was ostensibly still alive, Milla knew that Jessica wasn’t there any longer. It was just a living, empty, shell. And it was more terrible to behold than anything she had ever seen in her life.

Isla returned with the phone in hand. “She has a boyfriend; Mason.”

“Did you get his birthday?”

“And their anniversary date,” Isla nodded.

“Try them,” said Milla woodenly. She was beginning to feel like an observer. Her compartmentalization was placing her on the outside of events, and that was almost as unsettling as everything else that she had seen this evening.

“Birthday is a bust,” said Isla. Her face lit up, “But the anniversary worked!”

“What app is running?”

“The camera.”

Milla grabbed the phone and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her partner. She drew strength from that touch. “Let’s see the last picture she took.”

A touch on the phone brought up the camera roll.

“Of course,” said Isla with a grim chuckle. “A selfie. That’s all kids take nowadays.”

The beginnings of suspicion formed in Milla’s mind. “I bet it’s the same for all of them.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Just call the police coordinator and ask.”

“Okay.”

Milla walked over to Jessica as she waited for Isla to make the call. Gritting her teeth, she gently grasped Jessica’s clammy hand. She looked again into her eyes and knew she was right. All the kids affected had been taking selfies. Nothing else explained the dead eyes. The missing essence of the ‘victim’, as Isla called them.

“You’re right,” Isla whispered.

Milla looked away from the abyss that was Jessica’s eyes. “All of them?”

“Yeah,” said Isla, shaken, “They all seem to be taking selfies.”

“She’s gone,” said Milla, glancing at Jessica again. “Not here; her soul is gone.”

“From a picture?” asked Isla incredulously.

“Zoom in on her eyes in the picture,” said Milla, her weariness growing by the moment. “I thought I saw it when we looked the first time.”

“Saw what?”

“Just zoom.”

Isla’s fingers pinched outwards on the screen. She gasped. “Reflected in her eyes….. Is that a….”

“Yeah.”

“A demon?”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit,” whispered Isla. “What do we do with that?”

“I don’t know,” said Milla. “Call a priest?”

She grabbed the phone and placed it gingerly on the bed next to Jessica’s body. “Come on, babe,” she said, grabbing Isla’s hand. “I want to go home.”

“Yeah,” said her partner with a quiet sob, “me too.”

Fiction
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Google HTC Nexus 9 Tablet Clicking issue

May 10, 2015 by Sparks 1 Comment

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2GovdHP0Jlc&feature=youtu.be

I was very excited to buy my Google Nexus 9 tablet from Amazon in March, 2015.  I happily gave up my iPad mini and was looking forward to going back to Android.  With the release of Lollipop, I was not disappointed.  Sure, it has some issues, most notably a memory leak) but finally the OS was comparable to iOS in my opinion.

For a couple of weeks, everything was great, but then it went wrong.  I was vacationing in NYC and settling down in the hotel room after a long day of sightseeing.   I powered up the tablet and heard this “clicking” sound coming from the bottom speaker.  I immediately thought I had done something.  Had I dropped the tablet?  Banged it too hard?  But I hadn’t.  I have a case for it, and I treat it with kid gloves.

Of course the issue started literally 15 days after I bought the device.  I didn’t think it was a permanent problem, and I was in NYC, so I didn’t immediately assume I would have to send it back.  I noticed that sometimes it didn’t make the clicking sound at all.  I could go an hour or more without it happening.

So I tried, over the course of two more weeks, to diagnose it myself.  Was it the charging cable?  I bought a new one.  Was it when the battery was full?  So I let it drain down to 15%.  Was it an app?  I factory reset the device.  Nothing helped.

By this time, over 30 days had passed since I had purchased the device.  31 to be exact.  I wasn’t sure if Amazon would take it back.  So I reached out to HTC here:  http://htc.cust-serv.com/chat.aspx

I was walked through a script, where the help desk agent started by telling me that clicking was normal, it was a feedback signal from the device that a button had been pressed.  After 15 minutes, I got him to understand that it was NOT normal.  He was sure my problem was an app I had installed and asked me to factory reset the device.  Even though I explained I had already done all of this – I had to follow is annoying script.

Finally, help desk admitted defeat and asked me to send it in for repair.  ON MY DIME.  With packing materials, insurance, and signature on delivery – $25.00 to ship.

So I did.  I lost my tablet for 2 weeks while it was sent in for repair.  I got it back 2 days ago and eagerly unpacked it, happy the situation was finally resolved.

ONLY IT WASN’T.

Nothing had changed.  It has the exact same issue that it had when I sent it in.  Now, they are asking me to spend another $25.00 to ship it to them again.

I verified that they repair work they did last time was a simple speaker replacement.  They didn’t even check it or run diagnostics as far as I know; they just replaced the speaker and sent it back to me.

The problem is not the speaker.  There is something creating feedback that the speaker is expressing as clicks – but the feedback is the issue.  HTC went right for symptom and not root cause.

SoI am not happy.  I am out $50.00 for a repair that is their problem.  This is where Apple has Google beat hands down.  Were this an Apple product, I’d take it right to the store, pay nothing, and get it back (or fixed same day).

After this, if it comes back still unrepaired, I’m going to have some choice words for HTC.

Uncategorized
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The Patriotic Racist

April 28, 2015 by Sparks 3 Comments

Take a look at this picture I saw on Facebook yesterday.  Let me describe it to you.

This self-proclaimed patriot, Dave Southern, ostensibly says he takes issue with flag burning.  He’s crouching in front of an American flag, an AR-15 cradled in his lap.  He’s wearing a tactical vest, sunglasses, a baseball cap, and appears to have a lip full of chewing tobacco.  He is pouring a bottle of grape soda on the ground in front of him as he simultaneously burns a bucket of KFC chicken.

The text of his message is as follows:

This photo is in response to all those un-American black punks in Baltimore, chanting “Fuck America” while burning the U.S. flag. As a proud American and coming from a long line of U.S. Veterans, disrespecting our flag like that makes me furious beyond words.  I love this country for the principles and foundation that it was built on. Countless people have dies just so you have the right to disrespect and trash talk out country. If you honestly don’t like it here in America, Then leave.  It’s as simple as that.  If any of my friends have any American balls and aren’t focused on that transgender washed out murderer, The share this picture. I want this to reach Baltimore. Before anyone starts calling me a “Racist” or any of that crap, this picture is aimed at ANY pieces of shit that have burned the U.S. flag.  I have black friends/ old co-workers who also strongly disagree with Baltimore/Ferguson.

So let’s catalog his words and his picture:

  1. The “black punks” in Baltimore are un-American in his opinion
  2. He is angry over the burning of the flag
  3. He has an issue with Bruce Jenner’s sexual orientation, even though he doesn’t call her by name.
  4. He asserts he is not racist.
  5. He is burning a bucket of KFC chicken
  6. He is pouring grape soda on the ground.

What do transgender issues, burning a bucket of fried chicken, and pouring out grape soda have to do with expressing outrage over burning the flag?

Absolutely nothing.  But it has everything to do with bigotry and racism.  Let’s start with . . .

The White Symbol of America: The American Flag

The symbol Dave Southern embraces is the American flag.  He’s a patriot, after all, from a long line of white patriots.  The American flag is the symbol of his country.  ‘MURICA!  He is angry that it has been burned.  So he retaliates by “desecrating” what he perceives to be the symbols of black people in America: fried chicken and grape soda.  That’s about as unsubtle as it gets, people.  He grasps the racially-insulting stereotype and uses it to piss off black people in America. But he’s not a racist.  He said so, remember?  He even has black friends, lest we forget.  And old co-workers who are black.

He is denying the American flag as a symbol to black people.  It’s his symbol, not theirs.  Even though the Supreme Court has ruled again and again that flag burning is an expression of free speech – that only applies to white Americans to whom the flag is a symbol for.

This is racist.  The American flag is a symbol for all Americans, not just white people.

The Black Symbol of America; Fried Chicken and Grape Soda

If Dave Southern believed that the American flag was a symbol for all Americans, and not just white Americans, he would hardly be burning a bucket of KFC and pouring grape soda on the ground.  Black people don’t rate, in his opinion.  They don’t deserve the American flag.  They get derogatory stereotypes as symbols, and he’s out to piss off black America by burning their symbol, just like black people angered him by burning his symbol.  But again, he’s not racist, remember?

Black people drinking grape soda is a derogatory stereotype.  The thinking is that more black people drink grape soda than white people – that black people love grape soda – or that’s all they can afford.  The most frequent black person stereotypes revolve around the belief that they really like fried chicken, Kool-Aid, watermelon and grape-flavored drinks.

This is racist in the extreme, and saying you’re not racist doesn’t make it any less so.

Sexuality is somehow a factor in an accident

While Dave Southern doesn’t refer to Bruce Jenner by name, he is clearly referencing her in his diatribe, calling her a murderer for her involvement in a fatal car crash earlier this year.  Not only does Dave Southern have preemptive knowledge of the justice system in America, he’s positive Jenner’s sexuality is a factor worth mentioning.

Bruce Jenner has, literally, nothing to do with the protests in Baltimore, the riots in Baltimore, or the burning of American flag.  Yet somehow she’s significant enough to rate mention in a rant that is supposed to be about flag burning.  This is typical thinking by a guy like this, I suspect.  His hates and outrages are all the same and blend into one big mass of ambiguous loathing for anything that isn’t just like him.

Sad Fact: People Agree With This Idiot

I was shocked and dismayed to see that in the space of just a single day, this image was shared over 160,000 times on Facebook.  Yeah, 160,000.  That many discrete individuals read this message, agreed with the hatred and racism so much that they were willing to share it with their friends.

The average number of friends a person has on Facebook is about 400.  That means approximately 64 million people saw this hate-filled message disguised as patriotism.  64,000,000.  Or 25% of the American population if every viewer was American.

That’s a staggering number of impressions this racist received for his message.  160,000 people shared this message with millions of like-minded individuals.

Happy Fact: Some People did Not Agree With This Idiot

When I went back to Facebook today, the post was gone.  Enough people recognized it for the hate propaganda that it was and reported it to Facebook, whereupon they pulled it.  I was one of those who reported the message as inappropriate, but was smart enough to grab the screenshot before it disappeared forever.  If his impression of hate is going to survive, I’m going to make sure the world knows the idiot who spews ignorance.

The scary fact is that this message still had enough wind behind it to reach tens of millions of people before it was removed.  The damage was done.  Hate was perpetuated and ignorance was embraced by millions.

The Patriotic Racist

This guy is a poster child for misplaced patriotism.  In his America, the flag can’t be burned, ever.  It’s a crime.  Black people are not allowed to protest, because, after all, they have it way better than they used to.  Homosexuality is a terrible thing and homophobia is perfectly acceptable.  Oh, and he has an AR-15 and thinks it’s entirely appropriate to use it to imply a threat against black people who burn American flags.

As my friend Paxxer points out, he’s even displaying the flag incorrectly.

“When the flag is displayed in a manner other than by being flown from a staff, it should be displayed flat, whether indoors or out. When displayed either horizontally or vertically against a wall, the union should be uppermost and to the flag’s own right, that is, to the observer’s left. When displayed in a window it should be displayed in the same way, that is with the union or blue field to the left of the observer in the street. When festoons, rosettes or drapings are desired, bunting of blue, white and red should be used, but never the flag.”

He’s not only a bigoted, intolerant, racist; he’s ignorant of how to display the symbol he claims to cherish so dearly.  So, in other words; he’s an idiot.

This is the default patriotism of so many fundamentalists in America, especially in the South.  This hatred is an everyday attitude,  and the world is a darker place for it. Lets examine the ignorance, hatred, and bigotry of some of Dave Southern’s other Facebook posts.  These same posts could have come from anyone – he’s not unique in his twisted form of hatred and logic.  This is the uneducated hate that fills the underbelly of social media every day nowadays.  Social media shines a light not only on the best of humanity, but also the worst.

Screen Shot 2015-04-27 at 10.21.11 PM

Not sure what I can say here; the hatred and bigotry is plain as day.  It’s a joke to this idiot that a homosexual couple was beaten nearly to death in Philadelphia.  And eleven of his friends laughed with him, “liking” the post.  Sickening.  Humans are humans; no one deserves an unprovoked beating for any reason, let alone sexuality.

Screen Shot 2015-04-27 at 10.20.41 PM

Twenty of his friends buy the fallacious argument that everyone on government aid abuses the system.  And he is laying claim on the goods and property of those who are forced to rely on government assistance.  He seems to be advocating indentured servitude, if not outright slavery.  After all, his taxes paid for the program – so these unfortunate souls owe Dave SOuthern and should pay him back.

Screen Shot 2015-04-27 at 10.19.56 PMAnd last, but not least, the good old “Fuck Islam” picture with an American flag in the background.  After all, his America is Christian.  It has no room in it for Moslems, Hindus, Atheists, or any other religion.  You must be Christian, probably Southern Baptist if I had to guess, to be in his America.

Parting Thoughts

Dave Southern is not unique.  There are, unfortunately, millions of him in the world.  He is not a majority, though.  He is becoming a minority – which is why these idiots are getting more vocal.  They are becoming increasingly irrelevant and inconsequential in the world that is moving past them.  He is a dinosaur destined for extinction.  His days are numbered.

Dave Southern is a coward.  He can’t face a world of tolerance and acceptance, and can’t accept a world any different than the one he knows.  He is afraid of change.  He is afraid of losing his white privilege.  His fear leads him to hate, and his hate leads to this – being used as an example of a racist bigot who couches his hatred as patriotism.

He is not a patriot.  He is un-American – that’s the irony.

Friends, readers; when you see idiots like this on social  media please call them out.  Shine a light on their hatred and expose them for the cowards they really are.

Activism, Politics, Religion
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The Pumpkin Principle (short fantasy)

April 20, 2015 by Sparks 2 Comments

(My friend Stephanie bought me “Magic and Fairy Tale Dice” for my birthday.  You roll the dice and make a story out of the results.  This is my first story from the dice.  Dice rolled were:  mask, mermaid, moon, skull, wand, frog, hourglass, pumpkin)

“It wasn’t supposed to be a pumpkin, you know.  They play hell on transformation spells.”

Elsie would know; she was, after all, a level seventy-four Witch.  Her conical hat was embroidered with the crest of our Order, and rumor had it she was next in line to become Matriarch of the order.  Of course, the current Matriarch would have to die first.  Considering the Deal Marhkat had made with certain Powers, the chances of that happening anytime in the next few centuries was slim indeed.  Still, accidents did happen.  Rather more frequently the higher in the Order on rose, as happenstance would have it.

“What was it supposed to be?” I dutifully asked, even though Elsie had passed this tidbit of knowledge on to the rest of us on at least three prior occasions.  I winced inwardly at the sound of my voice; I still wasn’t used to the glass-on-chalkboard grating that emerged from my mouth every time I spoke.

Elsie raised a wrinkled hand and pointed a long, bony, finger at us. Dirt and grime under the jagged nail caused me to blanch as the appendage came within millimeters of my own pointed and hooked nose.  “Pumpkins are not native to the land here.  They come from the New World, and New World magic works best with them.  Here, we need…”  She reached behind a jar with filled with brine and the eyeballs of a dozen frogs and whipped out … “a turnip!”

“Then why did the Fairy Godmother use a pumpkin?”  I looked over at Mildred as she asked the question.  Ass-kisser, I thought sourly.  The Cinderella story was hundreds of years old and was certainly not accurate anyway.  Mildred knew this, but currying favor was her specialty.  Her spells certainly were sub par.  She even had to use a wand to perform them.  It would take a miracle for her to reach even level ten, and the Deal we had each signed in blood to become Evil Witches pretty much made miracles an impossibility.  I cackled softly to myself at the memory of coating her wand with poison from a South American amphibian.  Mildred’s hands were still puckered with boils.

“Because,” hissed Elsie, “she was an amateur!  A rank, unqualified, run-of-the-mill, boneheaded, ignorant, amateur!  Fairy Godmother was more interested in the latest fads than in magic.  Pumpkins were the rage back then; newly introduced from the New World.  Every witch, good and evil, was curious about the effect a pumpkin would have on spells, recipes, and incantations.”

Elsie paced the classroom, stopping to pick up a skull from her desk.  She showed it to us, a hideous snaggle-toothed grin on her face as she did so.  “This was my ex-husband.”

None of us were shocked by this revelation.  I, myself, had an eye on a male suitor; a computer programmer for some financial firm.  My befuddlement potions were doing an excellent job of keeping him from the realization that I was an ugly witch with scales instead of skin.  He would make an excellent lich as soon as I progressed far enough to master the spell required.

“The potion,” continued Elsie, “that killed my ex-husband was derived primarily from the stalk of a pumpkin.  Pumpkins are excellent in Destruction and Conjuration spells.  Never transformation.”

“But you can use a pumpkin for transformation if you absolutely must, right?” asked Mildred again.  She was determined to milk this trite lesson for all it was worth.  I sighed and plotted the ways in which I could kill her and make it look like an accident.  I saw the seething glares of my fellow students and realized I was not the only one.  Mildred’s time was nearly up.  Just a few more grains of sand in the hourglass of her life.  I hoped nobody got to her before I did.

“That thick headed twit used a pumpkin, yes,” screeched Elsie.  “And it put a time limit on every spell she cast that night!  No matter what spell Fairy Godmother cast that night, there was an expiration.  Because of the pumpkin.”

“Midnight,” someone said.

“Midnight,” said Elsie, with finality.  “If Fairy Godmother had used a turnip, as she should have done were she not trying so hard to ‘be cool’,” her skeletal fingers mimed air quotes,  “her spells would have lasted the standard twenty-eight days.”

“So,” said Mildred, oblivious to the venom dripping from the eyes of every student in the class, “her coach, her dress, her party mask, and her iconic glass slippers all expired at midnight because Fairy Godmother made a mistake in using pumpkins for Transformation.”  She made it a statement, not a question.  But Elsie didn’t mind; the old bat actually seemed to enjoy the sucking up from Mildred.

“And then, rather than admit her mistake, she gave Cinderella only a scant few hours to find her Prince and make him fall in love with her!”  Elise hissed again, spittle flying from her chapped lips.  She was truly upset, and curiosity flared like brimstone in my breast.

“And yet she succeeded,” I said.  “Cinderella’s Prince fell in love with her and turned a kingdom upside down to find her.”

“I didn’t know….” moaned Elsie, a single crocodile tear forming in her dark sockets.

“Where was the evil witch?” I asked as a terrible realization slid down my gullet.  “There’s no mention in the story of the evil witch who should have been there to thwart Fairy Godmother’s efforts.  Did someone drop a house on her?”

“Once I saw the pumpkin,” whispered Elsie with feral cat intensity, “I laughed, jumped on my broomstick, and flew away.  There was a better chance of a mermaid flying than Cinderella causing a Prince to fall in love with her in just a couple of hours.”

“So it’s all true,” I said in surprise.  “The entire Cinderella story is true?”

Elsie nodded, “Yes.  It’s all true, and it’s my greatest failure in over seven hundred years as a Witch.  Let this be a lesson to you all; never be derelict in your duties as an Evil Witch – because Good Witches are always luckier than we are.  Only strict attention to detail and planning for every contingency can combat the confounded luck of the Good Witches. Now go,” she said dully, “Class is dismissed for the evening.”

“I’m sure you never made another mistake,” said Mildred primly as she gathered up her books and wand.

I didn’t hear Elsie’s response as I grabbed my broom and flew into the waxing moon, plotting my move against the teacher’s pet.

Fiction
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The BinaryBiker is a Candy Striper

March 31, 2015 by Sparks 1 Comment

Today was my first shift as a volunteer at the UPMC Hillman Cancer Center in Pittsburgh.

I’ve been wanting to give back for a while now.  I’ve struggled with cancer awareness and activism, because it always made me feel a little . . . vain.  It makes me feel self-conscious.  I don’t want to be one of those guys who stands from the mountaintop and demands that people pay attention to me because I had cancer.

I just want to help, and give back.

With that in mind, I reached out to the volunteer coordinator at UPMC a couple of months ago and discussed my options for volunteering in the cancer ward at the hospital.  I remembered from my multiple stays in the hospital during my treatments the volunteers on the floor.  I feel sorry for them now – I was a terrible patient and barked at everyone.  Even though I was often grumpy, I do remember them always smiling, and I was appreciative that there were people on the floor who didn’t want to poke me, prod me, or give / take fluids from me.

The volunteers were silent heroes.  A pleasant face in my memories of the time that were awash in a sea of negative emotions.  They didn’t ask for recognition.  They didn’t do it for kudos, respect, or attention.  They were just there.  Because they cared.  That’s what I wanted to do.

I realized that since I work contracts now, and set my own schedule, I had no barriers any longer.  I could just start volunteering; the only thing holding me back was me.  And so, I reached out to UPMC.  It has been an amazingly positive and pleasant experience.  The volunteer staff at UPMC has welcomed me with open arms and have made me feel a part of the team.  In truth, they were surprised by me.

Apparently, nearly all of the volunteers at the hospital are college kids getting college credit for volunteering.  The UPMC staff was surprised by an “adult volunteer,” especially one who is a cancer survivor himself.  I found out that there are very few people who actually volunteer at the cancer ward.

And that’s just sad.  Cancer fighters are some of the most amazing people in the world.

While I can’t talk about the amazing people I met today, I can detail out a few of my thoughts and observations from my first volunteer experience today:

  • I was nervous when I arrived.  I am, by nature, an introvert and I knew I was going to be dealing with and talking with many people, almost all of them cancer fighters.  I was going to have to be on my A / extrovert game.
  • I started by simply going room-to-room introducing myself.  I refilled ice cups and water pitchers.  I smiled, and allowed myself to make minor chit-chat, looking for an ice-breaker.
  • Some patients were just tired, but they all smiled when I came in, even if they didn’t really want another body in their room.  This is the amazing fortitude that I so admire in cancer patients.  They adjust to a life of constant interruptions, loss of privacy, and a routine punctuated by beeping monitors – and they do it with a smile.  Such amazing strength.
  • I serviced over 20 rooms, and made connections with a half-dozen patients.  I was not expecting that.  Once the patient found out I was a cancer survivor myself, they opened up and we just chatted for minutes at a time before I was shooed out by a nurse needing access to the patient.  We talked life, philosophy, politics, cancer, motorcycles, taste buds – you name it.
  • I learned about an awesome aquarium in Columbus, OH and a real, legit, biker bar in Pittsburgh.  I learned of towns in West Virginia, places in Idaho, and shared memories of South Carolina with patients.
  • I must have washed my hands a hundred times in the four hours I was volunteering.  Wash before you go in, wash when you leave.  Some rooms require masks, gloves, and gowns.  Cleanliness is THE FOCUS of everyone on the floor.  It’s easy to see how hard it is to follow 100% of the time and how easy it could be to forget.  I am required to wash as I go in and as I leave.  If I don mask, gloves, and gown, they must be discarded in the room before I leave it.  It is ingrained in the staff, and they follow it religiously, and I was seriously impressed by their diligence.
  • The nursing staff was very welcoming and friendly; they welcomed me and were, frankly, not sure what to task me with.  All other volunteers are college students who excel at keeping supplies present, gowns available, gloves ready, and things of that nature.  Of course, I did those tasks as well, but I was left to my own devices – and I used that time to meet and talk with the patients.

I had a very positive experience today, and I can’t wait to do it again.   Selfishly, I really loved the feeling of giving back, of just being there for these amazing patients living life more fully every day than most of us do in a week.  I was reminded again how precious life is and what is important in life.  Live every day, day-to-day, and squeeze as much from each day as you can.

If you don’t volunteer, please consider doing so.  Consider giving a couple of hours a week to a local charity, hospital, or other charitable organization.  It makes a difference.  A big one.

Cancer, Cancer & Recovery, Health
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Syncopathic Synthesis (poem)

February 15, 2015 by Sparks 0 Comments

 

A Valentine’s Day poem for my beloved Carey.

 

Some men listen to the
    beat
  of music; they sway in
mute ecstasy as the bass
pushes syncopathic within
their chest
    Some men stand on
top
    of the mountain, drinking in
the whole world synoptically
and revel in the beauty of
existence.
    Others, well they find the
muse
in a singularly beautiful sunset,
in the simple allure of the sea,
or in a
synthesis
of their senses and emotions.
Me?
I have the pinnacle,
the apogee,
the apex of inspirations –
one that overwhelms the
basic beats of a mere man made
    instrument –
that offers not the wan vistas
of Earth
but instead hints at the
infinite majesty
    of the universe –
one that is more
    radiant than the sunset;
deeper than the seas;
greater than any sense can
encompass.

I have you.

— Ron Sparks © 2015

Poetry, Writing
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Common Ancestor (sci-fi)

December 30, 2014 by Sparks 0 Comments

Wynona rubbed the lump on the back of her head in sullen silence as Maxine and Carla laughed at her.  The iceball had caused her to see stars and fall to the ground in shocked agony.  Iceballs were illegal according to the unspoken rules of schoolyard snowball fights, but Maxine and Carla didn’t care.  They went out of their way to badger her, and often recruited others in the class as well.

Ignoring the catcalls and jeering of her tormentors, she picked up her backpack and trudged across the snow-covered lawn and into the comforting warmth, and relative safety, of the school itself.  Here, for the most part, she was protected from physical abuse.  Aside from the occasional tripping, books scattered from her arms, or glasses knocked from her face, her only tribulations were of the verbal kind.  She had learned long ago to retreat inside of her head, to a place where the spiteful words couldn’t reach her, to avoid the bullying.

“Out of my way, freak,” a rough shoulder shoved her into the doorframe of her first period class.  Wynona looked up as Carla shoved her way past with a glare, and a promise of more to come in those eyes.  Of course, they had followed her inside.  With a small sigh, Wynona realized today was going to be one of those days.  She took a moment to buttress her internal fortitude.  She was going to need it.

Carla was smaller than Wynona.  Skinnier.  Her long neck, pale skin, and large nose, underneath a shock of unruly red hair, made her like a human-chicken mutant to Wynona.  Her small and weak chin made her look even more birdlike.  Her appearance and size notwithstanding, she was perhaps the biggest bully in their grade.  With an acid tongue and no compunction against physical violence, pretty much everyone walked on eggshells around Carla.  Even the teachers.

Maxine was a different story.  She was beautiful, and everyone loved her.  Dark skin, almond eyes, and a soft voice; Wynona never understood why she gravitated towards and followed Carla.  They should have been incompatible, and yet they were best friends.  While she didn’t have the sadistic cruelty of Carla, her jabs and taunts were nonetheless more hurtful to Wynona.  Because she, unlike Carla, had a choice.  Carla was just a bad egg, through and through.  She hated everyone and bullied indiscriminately.  But Maxine was not like that; she was nice and friendly to everyone.  Except Wynona.  So her vitriolic attitude towards Wynona was more personal, for reasons she never understood.

With a small sigh, Wynona found her regular seat, at the back of the class and as far away from Maxine and Carla as she could manage.  She spent her time before class doodling in her notebook, ignoring the paperballs that managed to hit her and her desk with annoying consistency.  By the time Mr. Duke, the science teacher, walked in there were half a dozen crumpled up balls at her feet and around her desk.

“Wynona, please pick up your trash,” frowned Mr. Duke as he set his briefcase on the desk.

Knowing better than to argue, Wynona picked up the paper and dutifully discarded it in the trash can at the front of the class.  Carla sniggered and kicked her feet as she walked past.  Wynona ignored her.

“Okay,” said Mr. Duke as Wynona found her seat, “You’ve been studying common ancestors in science and genealogy in social studies.  They’re actually very similar and today we have a lab that will demonstrate both to us.”

He pointed to a rolling cart that was set up in the corner of the classroom.  “This,” he said, “is on loan from the University.  It’s a DNA sequencer, connected over the Internet to the University mainframe.  It can, with a little effort, find a common ancestor for any two living beings.  All we have to do it supply it with a drop of blood from each.”

Pitor, the school’s resident science geek, raised his hand and asked a question without waiting for acknowledgement, “What does that have to do with genealogy?”

“Good question,” said the teacher.  “I could use this machine to find the common ancestor between you and a donkey.”  The classroom erupted in laughter and Pitor’s cheeks reddened.  “But how accurate can it be to find a common ancestor between you and, say, Maxine?”  Maxine smiled at Mr. Duke, winning him over like she did every teacher.  She was a favorite.

Pitor frowned, “That’s what I asked you.”

“Take a guess,” prompted Mr. Duke.

“Well,”  he began, “I suppose if it’s tied into the mainframe and we have DNA for everyone’s ancestors we would know exactly who, in the past, was a common relative.”

“Right,” said Mr. Duke.  “But we don’t have DNA for everyone, so the best the machine can do for two people is estimate how far back in time two people shared a common relative.”

This was going to be a fun lab.  Students were all looking at each other, wondering and placing bets on how far back in time they shared common ancestry.  Cliques and groups were organically forming in anticipation of using the DNA sequencer.  Predictably, Maxine and Carla paired up, proclaiming in shrill voices that they were going to go first to see how closely related they were.  No one offered to pair with Wynona.

With a wave of his hand, Mr. Duke quelled the talking, with limited success.  The excitement of the lab had the entire class murmuring in a low hum, even after his admonishment for noise.  “First,” he said, in a loud voice that was heard over the din, “We’re going to find the common ancestor for a human and ….” He paused.

Silence finally fell as the sentence hung in the air.  With a showman’s flourish, Mr. Duke finished his sentence “… a bat!”

A young lady in a white lab coat walked into the classroom, carrying a cage with a small bat in it.  “This,” said Mr. Duke, “is Ms. Berry.  She’s a graduate student at the University and is here to help us with the lab today.  Ms. Berry,” he said to the grad student, “what can you tell us about the bat?”

Ms. Berry cleared her throat nervously.  “This is a healthy specimen of desmodus rotundus, or what you might know as the vampire bat.”  A collective “ooooohhhh” sounded from the class.  Ms. Berry continued, “It’s pretty common to the Americas and is one of only three parasitic mammals, mammals who feed from the blood of other animals.  No, not humans,” she smiled.  “Usually livestock, like cows.”

Mr. Duke picked up the dialogue, “The vampire bat and a human have a common ancestor.  We both evolved from the same distant ancestor in the past.  Anyone want to hazard a guess as to what kind of animal we share a common ancestor with?”

“A dinosaur,” said Carla immediately.

“A fish,” said Pitor.

Other guesses were shouted, mostly variations of the first two.   Wynona shook her head at them all.  Carla had already said dinosaur, so shouting out “T-Rex” was the same thing. “Shark” was the same as a fish.  She hated it when students shouted just to have a voice. It made no sense; just shut up and wait.  The lab would prove the common ancestor soon enough.

“Ok, ok!” shouted Mr. Duke, not at all pleased with the cacophony of sound he had elicited from his last question.  “Let’s run the test and see.”

Ms. Berry held up a small vial of blood, “I drew this sample from our vampire bat friend here at the University before I came here.”  She poured a tiny drop onto a slide and inserted it into the DNA sequencer.

“Now,” she said, “I just need a drop of human blood.  She held up a small device that looked like a diabetes needle.  “This is a diabetes lancet,” she confirmed Wynona’s suspicion.  “It doesn’t hurt and can get a drop of blood from a tiny prick on your finger.”

“I’ll go first,” said Mr. Duke.  “I assume you all trust I’m human, so my blood is as good as yours to compare with the bat.”  A small laugh from the class.  Wynona groaned.

Ms. Berry inserted a new needle into the lancet device and extracted a small drop of blood from Mr. Duke.  Placing on a slide, she inserted it into the DNA sequencer next to the bat’s blood.

“Now,” said Ms. Berry, “we wait.  It should only take a minute.”

It took less than a minute.  In half that time, the computer display lit up with results, which Mr. Duke projected on the wall for all to see.  On the screen was a small, mouse-like, animal.

“This,” said Ms. Berry, “is the common ancestor for the vampire bat and a human.  It was a small shew that thrived about sixty-five million years ago after the cataclysm that killed the dinosaurs.  It lived on a diet of mostly insects and was the earliest placental mammal we know of – meaning it is the common ancestor for not just humans and bats, but any mammal with a placenta.  Like whales, bears, lions, cows, and the like.”

Wynona looked in awe at the depiction on the wall.  That everyone in this room came from the same animal species millions of years ago was amazing.  She glanced over at Carla, who for once was not spewing vile but was instead staring in rapt wonder at the display as well.  We are all the same, Wynona thought.  We all come from the same place and are not so different after all.  She almost, not quite, but almost, felt a connection between her and her tormentors.

“Ok class,” said Mr. Duke, breaking her reverie, “I know you’ve already paired up with someone.  Grab your partner and line up; we’ll see how closely related you are.”

Excitement filled the room as students shoved desks out of the way, found their partner, and jostled for position as close to the front of the line as they could.  Wynona was partnerless, at the back of the line.

Maxine and Carla went first.  Carla cried out in pain at the tiny prick of the lancet.  Not so tough after all, thought Wynona.  After a minute, their result came back.

“Maxine and Carla,” said Mr. Duke over the class, “share a common ancestor about two hundred and thirty years ago.  A European ancestor.  Both Maxine and Carla also have bits of Neanderthal DNA in them as well, but Carla has almost twice as much as Maxine.”

The entire class laughed but nervously quieted down as Carla spun to glare at the laughter, her face as red as her hair.  Quieted down, but not completely.  Everyone was still smiling.  Wynona smiled to herself as well; it figured Carla was a Neanderthal.  Mr. Duke had, with a well-placed observation, diminished some of the power of the bullying duo with his statement.  She felt a rush of gratitude towards the science teacher.

Pitor and Sam shared an ancestor eight hundred years ago and were both related to Ghengis Khan.  Both strutted away from the machine with their chests puffed out and heads held high.  Mr. Duke was making sure to reward the students he liked with what the students would think was a positive result.

Chris and Ashley had a shared relative a hundred and seventy years in the past, a Native American ancestor and probably a member of the Cherokee tribe.  Wynona grinned as they both did an impromptu rain dance around the room.  The rest of the class whooped and did Indian cries with them.

Finally, only Wynona remained untested.

Mr. Duke looked at her with a sympathetic smile, “Odd man out again, huh?”

She nodded.

“That’s ok,” he said, “I’m sure someone wants to go again.”

No one wanted to pair with Wynona, but everyone wanted to go again.  Hands shot up.  At random, Mr. Duke chose Klaus – a classmate who ignored her like everyone else, but had never picked on her.  Maybe not so random, Wynona realized.

The pinprick was painless, as promised, and both student’s blood was inserted into the DNA sequencer.  There was no result after a minute.  Then two.

Ms. Berry looked at the machine, a small worry line across her forehead.  After three minutes, the machine spit out a result.  No match.

Carla laughed out loud.

“Probably a glitch in the Internet connection to the mainframe,” explained Ms. Berry.  Let’s run it again.”

Another drop of blood from Klaus and Wynona.  Three minutes later, the same result.  No match.

The class hissed ominously and Carla laughed again.  Wynona hated that laugh.  Mr. Duke shushed everyone.  “Run Klaus and me,” he said, offering a finger to the lancet.

The results came back in less than thirty seconds.  Mr. Duke and Klaus shared a common ancestor five hundred years in the past, from Africa.

Ms. Berry frowned and looked thoughtfully at Wynona.  A ball formed in the pit of Wynona’s stomach as she looked away.

“Now me and Wynona,” said Mr. Duke quietly.  The classroom had gone strangely silent as well, anticipating the result.

Four minutes later.  No match.

A tremble formed in Wynona’s legs and she felt a heat rush begin to crawl up her back and to the nape of her neck.  Carla and Maxine started laughing again, but it was strangely muted to her ears.

“One more test,” she heard Mr. Duke mutter. “Just one more.  Wynona and the bat.”

She shook her head.  “I don’t ….”

“It’s ok,” said Mr. Duke.  “Just one more.  Class is almost over.”

Reluctantly, she nodded and allowed another drop of blood to be drawn from her finger.  Ms. Berry poured another drop of bat blood on a slide.  Both were inserted into the machine.

Wynona sat down in Mr. Duke’s chair as the inevitable result came back on the screen, staring accusingly at her.

No match.

She heard Carla’s annoying laughter right by her ear as the bell rang and the class filed out the door.  “You really are a freak,” she whispered as she shoved her way past.

— end —

Fiction, Writing
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