Jade Thief, part 1

I've been working on something new recently. Well, really the only "new" thing about it is the time period it's written in. If you're familiar with my character preferences, Jade won't surprise you at all. I hope you enjoy.
---
The man was following me. I was sure of it. I also had a pretty good idea who he was working for.

Hoping I was wrong but deep down knowing better, I picked up the pace a little and slipped one hand casually in the pocket of my jacket.

“Uh-uh. Hands where I can see them,” a voice emerged from the darkness of an apartment stairwell. I stopped, knowing who it was. Knowing it had only been a matter of time before he caught up to me. Reluctantly, I released the handle of my knife and eased my hand back into the open.

“Garm. Funny, meeting you here,” I said, smoothly.

“Jade. I’ve heard stories about you,” he replied, giving me a once-over. “Frankly, I’m not impressed.”

“I haven’t heard much about you,” I responded, matching his tone and condescending glance. “Now I know why: there’s nothing worth mentioning.”

He glared.

“You’ve been playing both sides, Garm,” I said, making my voice deadly quiet. “You’re outmatched here. Surrender and I’ll ask my boss to let you off lightly.”

The traitor didn’t look overly concerned. Casually, he drew his pistol and pulled back the hammer. “How about you surrender to me, and in return, I’ll let you live. Under certain conditions.”

“Uh huh.” I sensed Garm’s man, my shadow, close behind me. Only a few more steps... “What kind of conditions?” I asked, just to keep Garm talking.

“You tell me where your boss’ secret warehouse is- and you help make me disappear to a place where he’d never find me.” Garm’s eyes glinted.

“I can make you disappear, all right,” I agreed as I whirled, catching both my shadow and my prey by surprise. A subtle movement of my thumb and forefinger and the man dropped the piece of pipe he was holding. And then I was standing behind him with his arms wrenched painfully behind his back, holding my knife to his throat and looking meaningfully at Garm. “Put that gun down and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Garm’s lips twisted- perhaps he remembered saying those very words to me a few minutes ago. He frowned, but he didn’t drop the pistol. “You think I care about a lowly mercenary? Go ahead; knife him. You’ll both be dead before you take another breath.” He put all the bluster he could into the words.

I studied him for a second, then heaved a sigh and released my hostage. Immediately, the thug whirled and knocked the knife from my grasp. I was ready for this trick. Feigning weakness, I let him drop the knife. Then I threw my weight forward hard, surprising him and knocking him off balance.

It would’ve been nice if the thug knocked into Garm before he fell- but Garm was too fast. He took two quick steps back and squeezed the trigger of his pistol.

Fast as he was, I was faster- already diving below the shot and drawing a smaller gun from a hidden holster on my forearm. I fired once, and Garm let out a howl and clutched his trigger finger. The pistol dropped to the ground.

I stepped quickly forward, squeezing off a second bullet to encourage the mercenary to stay where he was while I kicked his gun back behind me. The third shot took Garm in the shin, just in case he tried to run. He screamed.

“Jade, please!” he blubbered as I collected my knife from where it lay, keeping my gun trained on the thug at all times. “We can make a deal. I tell you all I know about the Shiian, and in return you don’t turn me over to your boss.”

“I’m sorry, Garm.” I didn’t even try to pretend he could bargain. “I’m not authorized to accept any last-minute pleas for mercy. I’m sure my boss will hear you out before he unlocks your secrets.”

I glanced at the thug. "I don't have orders to retrieve any of Garm's lackeys. Don't make me regret it."

The thug slowly got to his feet. "'Course not. I was never here. But if you ever need a favor..."

Good. He understood. I gestured with the gun. "Get out of here."

The guy picked up his pipe and disappeared. I sheathed my knife, then tapped out a quick coded message on my fist-sized walkie-talkie.

Less than a minute later, a post van pulled up to the apartment building. When two men got out and made their way to the stairwell, Garm fainted. I was glad; it saved me the trouble of knocking him unconscious.

The men didn't speak to me, but when they opened the back of the van and slid Garm in, I climbed in with him and they closed the doors.

It was time to make a delivery.
--
Clark watched the van pull away from the apartment building and thumbed the TALK button on his radio. "I've got a ten ninety-nine and a ten thirty-one. The 10-99 matches the description we're looking for. She disarmed two others in a short scuffle. A middle-aged white male was just taken away in a postal van. Subject let the second man go. Sir, I think we may have found her. Over."

The radio came to life as soon as Clark finished speaking. "Do you have a plate number?"

Clark raised his binoculars again and stared at the van through the second-story apartment window, but it disappeared too quickly for him to see the numbers on its license plate. "Negative. I couldn't make it out, but it's heading north on Mill Street."

"I'll send out a general alert," the other said. "See if you can find the man on foot."

"Copy that," Clark said. "Entering silent mode. Pursuit in progress."

His sergeant acknowledged, and Clark took out his earpiece and plugged it in. While he searched for the second man in the alley, he would only be able to communicate with the sergeant with the number pad in his pants pocket, but the sergeant would be able to talk to him through the earpiece.

His heartbeat quickened as he took the stairs three at a time. The woman he'd seen was the one they were looking for, he was sure of it. If he could find the man she'd let go, chances seemed good they would apprehend her at last.

This was the closest they'd ever been to the one called Jade.

Looking in the mirror, a pensive short essay

When I shared this with you before, I called it "Scars." After writing on it (finishing it?) more today, the title didn't suit anymore. Here's the most recent version complete with a new title. Skip to the new part.

In the Mirror, (c) J.M. Henrie

Kate stared at the back of her hand, looking at a long red scrape in particular which led toward the bandage on her thumb - the aftermath of accidentally brushing against a piece of broken glass. When she tired of tracing the thin bloody line, she turned her attention to the skin around it. It was pale and dry. If she looked closely, she imagined she could see every pore. She flexed her fingers and watched the muscles and sinew move underneath the skin. Her veins were very, very blue.

Her eyes moved to her right forearm, to a pale white scab that came of scratching a mosquito bite one too many times. She had scars on her back, shoulders, and torso from various accidents throughout her life, permanent reminders of painful experiences.

The human body was a marvelous thing, Kate thought, continuing to wave her fingers but watching the inside of her wrists now, in fascination. Its ability to recover from injury - even its very existence - was nothing short of miraculous.

Finished playing with the muscles in her hands, Kate’s hand strayed to her lower back where the largest scar was located. It was left over from a painful lancing when she contracted a staph infection when she was sixteen. The details of the memory had faded, but Kate could still remember how she cursed and cried and gritted her teeth when the nurse had lanced it. Just touching the scar reminded her how scared she’d been to show anyone the sore, and of the day when the pain of hiding it became greater than the fear of lancing and she had finally succumbed.

The scar didn’t pain her anymore. The wound had healed oddly, leaving a slight lump in the skin, but causing no further problems. Kate had moved on to other bumps and bruises, occasionally adding another scar to her collection. They were all memories of pain, of lessons learned or simple misfortunes. Though the pain of the experience was gone, the memories - and their physical representations - would never be.

It was part of life to have misfortunes, Kate thought. It was certainly part of life to make and hopefully learn from mistakes. And there were plenty of other wounds that left no physical trace but an occasional ache inside. There were things she would carry to her grave.

But an occasional ache didn’t mean unhealed. The difference was how often she ached, and how severely. The memory of pain was different from real hurt. Sometimes it was even a benefit, reminding her of past lessons she had no desire to relearn.

She was a new university freshman and excited about riding her bicycle to school for the first time. She thought she knew the way, but a turn taken too soon led her to the lower part of campus, from which the only routes to upper campus were a long series of stairs and a winding ramp she was too new to know about yet.

When she realized what had happened, she had simply picked up her bike and carried it up the six long flights of stairs. People kept stopping her to ask if she needed help, but each time she replied in the negative, determined to make it to the top by herself. When she finally reached the crest of the hill, she put down the bike and took a moment to breathe. And in the following moment of pride that she had overcome what had seemed a great challenge, she forgot how sweaty and undignified she must have looked.

It was interesting to note, Kate reflected now, thinking about similar athletic accomplishments, how often pride in a challenge well met correlated with some indignity. Getting her hands dirty, so to speak. Working hard, sometimes harder than she had planned for or expected.

That was her favorite kind of challenge: one she felt she could accomplish on her own merits, where she didn’t have to accept help from others. There was no way around it: Kate was an independent soul. She learned a lot about her own capabilities from such challenges, and for the most part, she enjoyed it. It was the challenges that taught her about her limits and weaknesses she didn’t like so much.

There was the summer when she had felt abandoned by someone she loved; the day her friends surprised her with a birthday party in the morning and she took her dog to be euthanized that afternoon. There were the stories behind almost every scar she had on her body, and the day a dear childhood friend called her from prison.

In each of those situations, and many others, there had been no easy way out, and no way to work through her complicated feelings alone. She had poured out her soul to God, and close friends, repeatedly. Some days were harder than others. Sometimes her emotions were so mixed up, whole days passed where she didn’t feel the same from one moment to the next, and she wondered if this was how it felt to go insane.

And yet. She had made it through each challenge, and although the scars on her soul still hurt, sometimes so badly she questioned whether they had really scabbed over at all, she knew. An occasional ache didn’t mean unhealed. The memory of pain was different from real hurt.

In the perspective that hindsight provided, Kate could even see a theme in each of those scars: that no matter how badly she wanted to be able to do everything herself, overcome everything herself, it was not on her own merits that she survived as well as she had. It was on another’s, one whose merits and goodness were perfect, who knew many sorrows and was acquainted with grief but in the very act of overcoming his own life challenges, he reached a non-exclusive hand behind to help pull others through theirs. It was his purpose, and he accomplished it well and willingly. Because of him, Kate knew she could handle future challenges - if only she could learn to ask for his help when she first needed it, because things always felt so much smoother that way. Not necessarily peaceful, but also not alone in grief.

Scars, a pensive short story

I've been working on a short story. I will be very upset if any of you steal my idea. ;) ... (But really, don't do that.) It's a personal story, almost autobiographical, so it'd be hard to copy anyway. I have an idea that lots of people relate to this subject, but in radically different ways. I'm taking my time with this story. I want it to be right. At the rate it's been growing, I probably won't finish it until after my mission, and I wouldn't want it any other way. Enjoy the preview you're getting now. Who knows what it will say in two or three years.

Scars, (c) J.M. Henrie

Kate stared at the back of her hand, looking at a long red scrape in particular which led toward the bandage on her thumb - the aftermath of accidentally brushing against a piece of broken glass. When she tired of tracing the thin bloody line, she turned her attention to the skin around it. It was pale and dry. If she looked closely, she imagined she could see every pore. She flexed her fingers and watched the muscles and sinew move underneath the skin. Her veins were very, very blue.

Her eyes moved to her right forearm, to a pale white scab that came of scratching a mosquito bite one too many times. She had scars on her back, shoulders, and torso from various accidents throughout her life, permanent reminders of painful experiences.

The human body was a marvelous thing, Kate thought, continuing to wave her fingers but watching the inside of her wrists now, in fascination. Its ability to recover from injury - even its very existence - was nothing short of miraculous.

Finished playing with the muscles in her hands, Kate’s hand strayed to her lower back where the largest scar was located. It was left over from a painful lancing when she contracted a staph infection when she was sixteen. The details of the memory had faded, but Kate could still remember how she cursed and cried and gritted her teeth when the nurse had lanced it. Just touching the scar reminded her how scared she’d been to show anyone the sore, and of the day when the pain of hiding it became greater than the fear of lancing and she had finally succumbed.

The scar didn’t pain her anymore. The wound had healed oddly, leaving a slight lump in the skin, but causing no further problems. Kate had moved on to other bumps and bruises, occasionally adding another scar to her collection. They were all memories of pain, of lessons learned or simple misfortunes. Though the pain of the experience was gone, the memories - and their physical representations - would never be.

It was part of life to have misfortunes, Kate thought. It was certainly part of life to make and hopefully learn from mistakes. And there were plenty of other wounds that left no physical trace but an occasional ache inside. There were things she would carry to her grave.

But an occasional ache didn’t mean unhealed. The difference was how often she ached, and how severely. The memory of pain was different from real hurt. Sometimes it was even a benefit, reminding her of past lessons she had no desire to relearn.

Run, turkey, run!

After finishing a big project at work today, I rewarded myself by brushing up on my Photoshop skills. I'd almost forgotten how to make an animation...

Turkey Run

(Kinda weird how the solid black flashes in and out, isn't it? Just so you know, clicking on it will solve that problem.)

I wonder if these will work

As I was cleaning out my work U drive this morning I came across three previously un-posted (I checked), never-before-seen animations (GASP)!

I'm not sure they'll work. Try clicking on them or opening them in a new tab if they don't work right away. Here goes nothing:

Basketball dribble

Car chase

Frog's lunch- it looks like this one isn't set to repeat, so you'll have to click on it.

Ary raps about world peace- raw version

CREDITS
Videographer: Katelyn
Rapper: Ary
Singing the beginning of the Circle of Life: Sketti and I

In the world of Harry Potter

I had a crazy dream last night. It went like this: me, my friends Rachel and Rebecca B. from UCAS and my friend Rachel H. from my current ward, were all Hogwarts students. We were mischievous but really smart, like four mixes of Hermione and James Potter.

In my dream, we were sneaking into Hogsmeade as animals (we were secretly all Animagi)- me as a big, shaggy dog, Rachel H. as a doe, Rachel B. as a gray owl and Rebecca as a little black monkey. Just messing around, we tried to get into Three Broomsticks, but we tripped a magical security system and were caught red-handed. The grumpy old man who caught us demanded that we turn back into people ("I know ye're students!") before he sent us back to the school, and everyone did except me. I was so flustered I couldn't think how to change back.

The man finally got tired of waiting for me and sent my friends to school without me, all the while getting more impatient as I failed repeatedly at becoming human again. The two Rachels came back a bit later with McGonagall just as I changed my mental command from, Human. Human. Turn human! to Dog. Dog. Dog.

For whatever reason, that worked immediately, and my friends and I laughed about it later, after our sentences had been handed down by Professor McGonagall.

The post Graig's been waiting for

My second conference short story came to me in the middle of the night. That is to say, roughly 8:30 AM until 9:05 when “High Times, Hard Times” from Newsies, sung by my two younger brothers, entered the dream first as a whistle and then, as I began waking up, the song.

About the dream, the most important thing I must stress is this: it was vitally important that we win the game. It was The Game, after all, the only one that mattered: yelling out more synonyms of each particular word called out by the referee than the other team.

Let me begin.

I started out the day on my own. The first several tournaments were always held to weed out the illiterate and test the mettle of the survivors. From the beginning, the rule was: lose two games, and you are out. Everyone got one second chance. Only one.

As the morning wore on, I watched the friends I came with slowly disappear and drift off to adjacent rooms one by one, to continue watching the contest via its live, in-house broadcast some thoughtful higher-up had set up.

The individual rounds ended with me and five others coming out on top. Only six, out of perhaps two hundred that had contested.

“Pick your teams,” the referee said. “The final rounds will be played on two teams of three members.”

“The next few minutes are the crux point,” a woman’s voice said animatedly. The reporter and her cameraman had showed up for the last several individual rounds and had been annoying everyone ever since. “Who will take home the trophy for the Battle of Words 2012?”

Everyone ignored the camera as the cameraman panned our faces and the stiff, bored face of the referee. When the ref saw he was being filmed, he smiled – but only a little. And it looked false. It made unusual wrinkles in his forehead and cheeks that weren’t normally there.

One of the six left in the game was familiar to me and probably all the others in the group. He called himself Hammer, and he had won three of the past Battles of Words in a row. Two of the players, a guy and a girl, immediately flocked to Hammer, but I stayed where I was. I’d met him before, and it had only taken all of twenty seconds to realize he had an ego large enough to have its own gravitational pull and many moons with red-caked lips and high-pitched giggles that called themselves fans.

I would sooner lick a bathroom floor than be on his team.

“It looks like it’s going to be Graig, Billy and Jess facing down Tim, Tina and Hammer for the win,” the reporter said into her camera. “An unusual lineup; only Hammer has ever won the Battle trophy, and he’s done it now for three years in a row. The last few rounds today will determine whether that streak will continue.”

I exchanged glances with my new teammates. Graig gave me a smile. Billy just cocked his head sardonically.

There could be problems with that one, I thought, but there was no time to dwell on such thoughts, because the referee was pulling out a fresh thick stack of note cards. The final games were about to begin.

“The end tournament is best-out-of-three.” His voice was as flat as his expression. “It begins… now.”

So the bored referee had a sense of the dramatic flair. I didn’t have time to give that much thought before he called out the first word: clever.

Hammer began the round with the most cliché synonym imaginable. “Smart!”

“Witty,” I challenged.

“Intelligent!”

“Intellectual.”

“Brainy!”

“Bright!”

“Intelligent!”

A loud buzzer went off. The referee waved his arm to punctuate the end of the round. “Repeated word violation. First round goes to Graig, Billy and Jess.”

I barely had time to taste our success when round two was in full swing. Here Graig and the other members of Hammer’s team proved their worth, throwing out words as fast as each could think. Hammer finally stumped us with cinematic production, a pretty creative synonym for movie, considering who it came from.

Billy stood stoic the whole time with a half frown on his face. Before the referee could start round three, I quickly called a time out – teams were only allowed one – to find out why.

“What’s your problem? I saw you in the earlier rounds; your vocabulary is more than big enough to be competitive,” I demanded of our deadweight team member.

He shrugged, giving me an incredulous look. “We’re up against Hammer. We’re going to lose. Why even try?”

“Did you come to this competition to lose?” Graig asked. “We can beat him.”

“I didn’t really expect to get this far,” Billy began, but I cut him off.

“Lies! Listen to Graig. We can win this. But only if we work together.”

“Time!” the referee called. “Teams, ready.”

“Ready!” Hammer said confidently.

“Ready,” I replied with one last, stern glare directed at Billy.

“Ready,” I heard Graig and – this was a bit of a surprise – Billy repeat under their breaths. When I looked back at Billy again, he shrugged but sent me a hint of a real smile.

So the final challenge began. The culminating word was theatrical. Graig and I didn’t even have to say a word; Billy was ready with a new word each round, confounding the other team after about six back-and-forth passes between him and Hammer.

“That’s game!” the referee shouted. Graig and I hugged each other and patted Billy on the back.

“I knew we could do it!” Graig said.

The reporter’s microphone found its way to my mouth right under my nose. “You’ve just beaten a boy who won three years in a row,” the woman said. “How does it feel?”

“Great,” I said. It was all I could say. "Really great."

Five chemistry memes

Meme: A humorous photo caption often utilizing inside jokes or making fun of stereotypes.

I've been writing some of my own memes lately, in my spare time at work. The first two use a picture I took last February when Dr. Prince's grad students had a birthday party for him. The last three are written on a picture I took last week during Dr. Wood's annual St. Patrick's Day Magic Show. He can be quite the ham.

(I wrote this one because Dr. Wood's expression reminded me of a David Tennant face)

(Dr. Wood could give Bill Nye a run for his money, don't you think?)

Immortalizing my roommates as dogs

Sara: hyperactive as usual
Holly and Kelly: best buds, telling one another stuff about their lives
Jen: off in her own little world (probably thinking about Lee Min Ho :) )
Jess: "Play with me!"
Mara: "Zzzzzzzz..."
Josh (the honorary roommate): sort of in his own world (because Mara's asleep), sort of looking for attention (because Mara's asleep)

Mara was in my dream last night

“Can you fly with someone holding on to you?” Corrie asked Mara.

“Maybe. Let’s try it.” Mara turned her back toward Corrie and waited.

After a few failed attempts to wrap herself securely around Mara’s waist, Corrie settled for the piggyback position, using her legs and arms to hold on tight. As soon as she stopped wiggling around, Mara leaned forward, spread out her arms, and began to run.

Takeoff came slowly with her labored gait, but almost twenty seconds after she started her sprint, Mara felt the magic kick in, lifting her feet off the ground even as they continued to churn, running in midair. Corrie clung to her tighter as Mara flapped her arms, lifting them ever higher until they were over the castle wall.

“No fair!” Ben, who had just vaulted the same wall, shouted up at them from the forest side. “How come you get to fly?”

Corrie whooped as Mara glided down to land in front of him. “You did it!” She slid off Mara’s back and grinned foolishly at Ben. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

Just then, all three of them heard a shout from the castle. “I don’t have time to be jealous,” Ben said. “I’m too busy running!”

By the time the castle’s occupants had lowered the drawbridge and sent men to look for the three vagabonds, Ben, Corrie and Mara had disappeared into the forest for good.
--
Mara landed silently and dove behind the largest cluster of rocks she could find. Immediately after she was hidden, a swarm of electronic insects buzzed noisily overhead. Their needle-like pincers flashed dully in the dusky light. Mara winced, thinking of what would have happened if they had caught her. Angering that magician had been the stupidest thing she, Corrie and Ben had ever done on purpose.

Dr. Reed has some explaining to do, she thought darkly. But unfortunately, she couldn’t confront Reed until she found him. That llama.

She shifted slightly to a more comfortable position while she waited for the swarm to end. Something caught her eye. A dark shape.

Spies and assassins forgotten, Mara rolled to her knees and peered at it. It looked like the entrance to a cave, but the cavity was so overgrown she hadn’t noticed it at first. She glanced once at the sky, where the swarm had finally begun to thin out, and then crawled over to it, ducked under the lichens and cobwebs and entered.

The cave was large enough for her to sit up straight but not enough for her to stretch out on the floor. However, even if Mara were claustrophobic she wouldn’t have cared. There was a small pool in the middle of the floor, perfectly circular and about a foot wide in all directions. On the top of the water was a sheet of ice, frozen so still it looked like glass. It glowed with a pale blue light Mara instantly recognized as magic.

She went closer, moving slowly and with caution, until she was staring at her reflection in the pool. Her face was thin, her hair windblown. She glanced to the side and saw a stack of parchment paper, a feather pen, and a jar of black ink. A thrill went through her. This is a magician’s postal station!

She had only heard of magician’s post in stories. Most didn’t believe in it. Mara certainly hadn’t. Until the night she’d unwittingly received the power of flight, Mara hadn’t even believed in magic.

It was said that any letter placed in a magician’s postal station would be sent and received instantaneously by the intended recipient. Mara couldn’t even imagine such speed of communication, but she was eager to try it. Seizing the pen and ink, she selected a piece of paper and wrote,

Corrie. I’m still alive. Searching for Dr. R. and B. to help rescue you. Hang tight. M.

Holding her breath, Mara picked up the letter and set it gently on the surface of the pool. A flash of blue light startled her and seared her vision, but when the spots cleared, she saw that the letter had vanished. Somewhere, Corrie had just received a message of hope.

I hope she was alone, Mara thought suddenly, and her stomach clenched with worry. What if she wasn’t alone?

Outside the cave, a single electronic insect hovered low to the ground. One of the last in the swarm to pass overhead, a muddled bright flash had caught its attention, sending it sweeping down to investigate. Buzzing mechanically, it zipped forward, scanning the clusters of rocks for anything suspicious. It noticed what appeared to be a cavity in a rock and headed toward it. As it got closer, the insect glimpsed a shadowed figure partially illuminated by a dull blue glow. The figure’s head swung suddenly toward it; one hand, clenching something, moved quickly.

The insect went into full reverse and narrowly escaped being struck with what looked like an ink bottle. Switching from a buzz to a loud, blaring siren, it lifted into the air and flew after the swarm.

I opened my eyes and smiled to myself. "Wow, that was a super awesome dream." Then I looked at the clock. "Wow, I should be leaving right now."

Margaret and the righteous midterm

I belong to an unofficial novel writing club composed of some former Creative Writing classmates from last fall and friends. Yesterday on Facebook, Tyler informed us he wouldn't be able to make the weekly meeting because of "evil midterms," to which our teacher Margaret responded, "If there are evil midterms, there must also be righteous ones because there is opposition in all things." This post, written by Margaret, followed.

Righteous midterm: Time limit: 2 hours. Begin immediately. Art: Given one eight-count box of crayons and three sheets of notebook paper, recreate the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Skin tones should be true to life. Biology: Create life. Estimate the differences in subsequent human culture if this form of life had developed 500 million years earlier, with special attention to its probable effect on the English Parliamentary System circa 1750. Prove your thesis. Chemistry: You must identify a poison sample which you will find at your lab table. All necessary equipment has been provided. There are two beakers at your desk, one of which holds the antidote. If the wrong substance is used, it causes instant death. You may begin as soon as the professor injects you with a sample of the poison. (We feel this will give you an incentive to find the correct answer.) Civil Engineering: This is a practical test of your design and building skills. With the boxes of toothpicks and glue present, build a platform that will support your weight when you and your platform are suspended over a vat of nitric acid. Computer Science: Write a fifth-generation computer language. Using this language, write a computer program to finish the rest of this exam for you. Economics: Develop a realistic plan for refinancing the national debt. Trace the possible effects of your plan in the following areas: Cubism, the Donatist Controversy and the Wave Theory of Light. Outline a method for preventing these effects. Criticize this method from all possible points of view. Point out the deficiencies in your point of view, as demonstrated in your answer to the last question. Electrical Engineering: You will be placed in a nuclear reactor and given a partial copy of the electrical layout. The electrical system has been tampered with. You have seventeen minutes to find the problem and correct it before the reactor melts down. Engineering: The disassembled parts of a high-powered rifle have been placed on your desk. You will also find an instruction manual, printed in Swahili. In 10 minutes, a hungry Bengal tiger will be admitted to the room. Take whatever action you feel necessary. Be prepared to justify your decision. Epistemology: Take a position for or against truth. Prove the validity of your stand. General Knowledge: Describe in detail. Be objective and specific. History: Describe the history of the Papacy from its origins to the present day, concentrating especially, but not exclusively, on its Europe, Asia, America and Africa. Be brief, concise and specific. Mathematics: Derive the Euler-Cauchy equations using only a straightedge and compass. Discuss in detail the role these equations had on mathematical analysis in Europe during the 1800s. Medicine: You have been provided with a razor blade, a piece of gauze, and a bottle of scotch. Remove your appendix. Do not suture until you work has been inspected. You have fifteen minutes. Metaphysics: Describe in detail the probably nature of life after death. Test your hypothesis. Music: Write a piano concerto. Orchestrate and perform it with flute and drum. You will find a piano under your seat. Philosophy: Sketch the development of human thought. Estimate its significance. Compare with the development of any other kind of thought. Psychology: Based on your knowledge of their works, evaluate the emotional stability, degree of adjustment, and repressed frustrations of each of the following: Alexander of Aphrodisis, Rameses II, Hammuarabi. Support your evaluation with quotations from each man's work, making appropriate references. It is not necessary to translate. Physics: Explain the nature of matter. Include in your answer an evaluation of the impact of the development of mathematics on science. Political Science: There is a red telephone on the desk beside you. Start World War III. Report at length on its socio-political effects if any. Public Speaking: 2500 riot-crazed aborigines are storming the classroom. Calm them. You may use any ancient language except Latin or Greek. Religion: Perform a miracle. Creativity will be judged. Sociology: Estimate the sociological problems which might accompany the end of the world. Construct an experiment to test your theory. Extra Credit: Define the universe, and give three examples.

Young, Margaret. Untitled. BYU Book Club. Facebook, 8 Nov 2011. Web.

Ah, juice boxes

Ode to the Juice Box

Small, quick, convenient, tasty
Best accompanied by a granola bar or cookies
100% juice, composed of a dozen things I've never heard of
I love lunch


Disclaimer: I wrote the above poem in about 2 minutes... yeah.

Dream 10-5-11

In the dream, I was an astronaut.

Mara, Sara, Jill and I were the crew on a new line of spacecraft. NASA had a fancy, official-sounding name for it. We just called it "Marshmallow."

The unique thing about our ship was the giant sail made entirely of marshmallows (the big kind). It worked just like the sail on a boat- don't ask me where the wind came from once we were out in space. Dreams don't have to make sense.

The maiden voyage of the Marshmallow went like a charm. Mara, Sara, Jill and I got to go to the moon and play Frisbee in its lessened gravity for a few hours. When we re-entered the atmosphere, however, our already-singed sail just burned up completely. We managed to land the ship in a field somewhere in Russia, but in order to get it back home to the States we had to go out and buy more marshmallows, go back into space, and return to the right place the second time. (Russian marshmallows must be tougher.)

In the middle of the dream, I dreamed (or did I?) I woke up because Mara was saying something about marshmallows in her sleep and I was all excited- "Are we having the same dream?" "...the moon..." "Maybe you're having the same dream, but from your perspective!" (I asked her about it the next morning and she told me I was crazy.)

Later that day, I drew roughly what our ship looked like in my head.

A closer look at the marshmallow spaceship...

A fairy tale for the conference break

Sir Marcello was a royal knight in the humble kingdom of Provo. He was loyal and kind. His horse was small but sturdy and reliable. The horse was small because Marcello was small.

Marcello was one of the king's most trusted knights. He had been sent on many a dangerous mission and returned to tell the tale. He was instrumental in keeping the peace the kingdom had enjoyed for many years.

"Marcello, you've worked hard," the king said to the knight one day. "Take some time off. A week or two. There are many ladies I know who would be delighted to attend a dance with you, if that's how you want to spend your time."

The king often held dances and festivals for the people in his kingdom to enjoy themselves.

"I think I'll go home," Marcello said. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

Sir Marcello hadn't been home for more than a week in all the past year. He packed light and left that afternoon, enjoying the feel of the wind in his hair and anticipating a cheerful reunion with friends and family he'd left. He arrived home as the sun was setting, transforming the western sky into a glorious painting of red and gold.

His mother ran out of the house just as he was dismounting and threw her arms around him. He hugged her back automatically and was surprised when she pulled away after only a second. There were tears in her eyes.

"You've returned at the perfect time," she said.

"What's wrong?" Marcello asked.

"It's your sister. She caught a chill a few days ago and it's gotten bad. I was just about to send a message to you when old Nelson down the road heard you were on your way. I don't know why the king chose this time to give you a vacation, but I'm grateful he did."

"Tell me what I can do."

His mother smiled broadly at him. "I knew you would say that. You're a good boy. I'm proud of the man you have become. I know the apothecary in the capital has the medicine Laura needs. I hate to ask you to go back just when you've returned, but-"

"You don't have to say it." Marcello glanced at his faithful horse. "Just give Bertha a moment's rest and I'll be on my way."

A bright harvest moon lit the way as Marcello rode back. Despite the urgency he felt, he could almost forget the nature of his errand in the dazzling array of stars winking happily at him from the black night.

The apothecary was closed when Marcello arrived around 2 a.m. He had expected it.

"Come on, Bertha," he said tiredly, sliding off his horse's back. "We've got about four hours to rest."

He slept in the stable with Bertha, and in the morning he was there when the apothecary opened. He paid for the medicine and threw his aching body over the horse again.

It was high noon when he got back to his childhood home. After he stabled Bertha, his mother sent him in with the medicine to his sister, lying miserably in bed with a fever and racking cough, and fed him a satisfying and delicious lunch after he delivered the medicine.

"Thank you again," his mother said as she washed dishes afterward. "You saved her a lot of misery."

"It was no problem," Marcello said. He enjoyed the rest of his vacation thoroughly.

Paper shredder

It's four feet tall and devours everything you feed into it with its dozens of tiny, grinding, zipper-like teeth. The following warning is displayed above the machine: ALL THAT REMAINS OF THE LAST VICTIM, with a small red bag about six inches long and two inches wide.

Sue let me use the beastie yesterday when I asked if she had anything I could do at work. :)

My attempts at art... which I am proud of

Siberian Tiger

Digital version

Hard copy version (now the property of one Mikayla B.)

Hard copy version (prior to adding color)

aka White Siberian Tiger

Flashbacks

The boy spread out his big, yellow and white coat on the grass near the mall parking lot and lay down, half in the sun, half in the shade. Perfect. He slipped off his shoes and socks, tied them together and set them near his head, one hand twined in the shoelaces so they couldn't disappear while he napped. After a quick glance around the parking lot, he closed his eyes and relaxed, quickly dropping off into a light sleep.

Coming home from a long day at school. Jaron unlocked the door to his apartment and pushed it open. The presence of Jake's backpack on the couch told Jaron his roommate was home, probably shut up in his room, which he and Mark had nicknamed "The Cave" because of the amount of time Jake spent in it. Jaron had to smile to himself at the familiar routine as he dropped his backpack on the floor by the door, slipped off his shoes, and went into the kitchen for a snack.

Mark wasn't home yet, but Jaron didn't expect to see him until dinnertime. Munching on a handful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, he wandered into The Cave to see what Jake was up to.

The scene changed.

He was sitting on the grass outside the main building of his apartment complex, listening to Jake strum his guitar. Jake had only been playing for a year or so, but the self-taught Tennessean had already worked up a respectable repertoire of songs, including two he'd written himself. He picked up new melodies fast, and the fact that most of the accompaniments he knew were just chords didn't slow him down at all. Jaron knew it wouldn't be long before Jake moved on to combining chords with individual notes, but he didn't think much about it.

At that moment, nothing mattered but the sound of the guitar.

Another change; another memory.

"Does Mark even remember I have a concert?" Jake asked. Something in his voice told Jaron his roommates' support mattered to Jake. Mattered a lot.

"He told me yesterday he was going, Jake," Jaron said, and some of the lines on Jake's face relaxed. "I'll be there too."

Jake nodded and gave a half-smile. "I bet you can't wait for it to be over," he said. "You're probably as sick of this song as I am."

It was probably true. Jake had been practicing hard for two weeks. Most of his practice took place outside the apartment, but Jaron still felt he'd heard the song Jake was performing a million times.

"Nah," he said. "I'm not that tired of it."

"Liar." Jake grinned.

Mark and Jaron were both in the audience at the concert the following night, as promised. So were Jake's grandmother and aunt, who lived nearby.

It was fantastic.

Jaron stirred slightly as a public transportation bus rumbled past to the stop only about two hundred feet from where he lay. He opened his eyes just in time to see a brown-haired girl in a black hat looking out at him from one of the big black windows. Their eyes met. She looked thoughtful.

The bus stopped and several people got off. None of them were the girl. Some people got on, the doors closed and the bus drove away. Jaron lowered his head, closed his eyes, and was soon asleep as fast as he'd awoken. Dreaming of another time and place.

Three very short stories

The Car

Jed drove. He cranked the front window down on the driver's side and focused on the road ahead, enjoying the heat reflecting off the street, the wind in his hair as he drove with one arm out the window, hanging partway down the side of his car. He turned up the music and sang along, not caring if he sounded off key, not caring whether he sang the right words, not caring about anything except how good the heat and the breeze and the steering wheel felt on his face, in his hands. It was just that kind of day.

Untitled

“Don’t you understand? I’m not coming back. You’re a freak. Every person in this gang is a freak.”

His every word hit Sara like a physical blow. She felt her eyes filling with tears. She’d never felt this much pain from anyone. It just kept coming, washing over her in waves like a tsunami.

Derek shook her hand from his shoulder and bowed his head low. She saw his shoulders shake and moved instinctively to touch him again, to help him, to take away his pain-

“Stop it!” he cried and her hand jerked back. “Don’t touch me. You don’t deserve this life, Sara. You don’t deserve my pain. Let me carry it on my own.”

The wetness on her cheeks betrayed the tears. “I can help.” Sara repeated the words, over and over. “I can help. I can.”

“I know you can.” Derek’s voice was still shaking, but the tone was calmer as he strove for patience. “My friend just died, okay? Give me some space.”

Sara took a step back, feeling like trash. It was hard enough knowing someone she cared about felt such anguish. It was harder still only being allowed to watch him suffer. She watched him, torn, as he cried silently into his sleeve and then pulled himself together.

He grabbed his jacket and took a step toward the door, avoiding eye contact. “I’m leaving.”

She watched as he pulled on the worn leather covering as he walked away. When he got to the door, he hesitated and looked back. “Thank you. I’m sorry about what I said. You’re not a freak. You just don’t have a life of your own. Take care of yourself, Sara.”

The door opened and closed. Sara watched him go. She could not bring herself to track his leaving through the window. She sat slowly, then rested her head on her knees and wept.

Summer Day

Jan stared off into the distance, gaze roving, not really seeing anything her eyes touched. It had been years since she'd last been here, her hometown. The sun felt good on her back, soaking through her shirt like mist. A light breeze cooled her skin and swept the hair from her eyes. She gazed straight ahead from the front step of the train station entrance, looking and yet not looking at the street, bustling with afternoon activity and noise. Nothing could touch her in the place where she was. Nothing, ever again.

Total Empathy

Sara could hardly look at Bethany’s arm. It was bent at a weird angle underneath her. Bethany herself lay unmoving in the ditch, the 4-wheeler overturned beside her. It was a miracle it hadn’t landed on her.

Bethany groaned as Sara slid down the steep incline into the dirt nearby. Sara’s heart was thumping like a drum, moving up into her throat as she surveyed her cousin. Bethany didn’t look too good. Her face was pale and drawn. She was as helpless as Sara had ever seen anyone.

“Sara?” Bethany’s voice came out weak and thin. She coughed, winced, and tried again. “Sara. We have to call my dad.” Her voice came out stronger the second time.

Reflexively, Sara reached to her jacket to the little zippered pocket where she kept her phone. Her fingers shook slightly as she undid the zipper and slid out the phone. Bethany grimaced and closed her eyes. Her mouth was tight in a firm line. Sara went into the contacts list and selected Bethany’s dad. Her thumb skid over the SEND button to press 3. Sara quickly erased the mistake, got ahold of herself, and pushed the button. Slowly she raised the phone to her ear.

It rang. Bethany let out another little groan and opened her eyes. Sara kept the receiver glued to her ear, trying to watch her cousin at the same time without letting Bethany know she was worried.

No answer. Sara got the answering machine. She glanced up unwillingly and met Bethany’s eyes.

“Try my mom,” Bethany said. She kept her eyes open, focused on Sara. Her face remained tight and pale. Sara found the number, pressed SEND obediently and listened to the ringing distantly. She was having difficulty thinking clearly.

There was no luck with that call either. They tried Sara’s parents next, then various other friends and relatives who might be in a position to help or find help.

“Call 911,” Bethany finally said. She closed her eyes again, tightly. The corners of her eyes began to leak tears of pain and exhaustion. Sara pretended not to see. She pushed the buttons crisply, raising the phone to her ear once more, expecting to hear an operator soon.

Silence. Sara took the phone from her ear and examined it. “Signal lost,” a message on the screen said.

“Blast it!” Bethany burst out. Sara looked up to see tears running down her face in earnest. Sara still could not bear to look at Bethany’s arm. “Someone answer!”

“It’ll be okay,” Sara heard herself say in a quiet, assured voice.

“Like heck it’ll be okay!” Bethany yelled at her. “Nobody will freaking answer their stupid phone!” She glared, breathing hard, daring Sara to try again. When she said nothing, Bethany’s anger faded and she closed her eyes again. After a moment, she said, “It hurts.”

What? Sara almost asked, but she knew. How could she not know? Bethany’s arm was twisted, bent awkwardly in two places and folded uncomfortably under her torso.

“Help me,” Bethany said. She opened her eyes and looked at Sara pleadingly.

Barely aware of what she was doing, Sara went over and knelt next to her cousin. She looked her in the eyes. She looked at her arm. Her breath caught. “I don’t know how-”

“You can help me. Please help me,” Beth said.

Sara stared at her for a moment, and then slowly lowered her hands to Bethany’s cheek and shoulder. She could feel her cousin’s heartbeat, faster than it should be. She could feel her muscles tightening, the sweat forming.

And then she felt the pain. Pain, starting in her left arm and shooting up into her shoulder. Pain from a bloody scratch on her left knee. Pain, fiery and hot, growing fiercer by the minute as if it were being stoked. How had Bethany managed to hold it in so long?

“Ahh,” Bethany said. Her eyes glazed. And Sara felt the pain.

She felt it. She took it, feeling her own wholeness flow into Bethany in return. Bethany sighed in relief. She closed her eyes, peacefully this time. She could almost have been asleep.

Sara could see the effects through the haze of pain. She watched as Bethany relaxed, no longer burdened by her injuries. Sara touched her, and Sara felt her pain for her.

Her phone went off. The sound startled them both, Bethany from a healing half-doze, Sara from her position crouching over Bethany’s chest. With a quick look of apology, Sara lifted her hands from her cousin and answered the call. It was Bethany’s mother.

Bethany hissed through her teeth at the immediate return of her own pain, grateful for the precious seconds Sara had taken it but wishing for peace again.

When Sara ended the call, she put the phone down and put her hands back on Bethany after only a slight hesitation.

“Thank you,” Bethany sighed. Sara couldn’t answer. Their eyes slowly filled up with tears.

“I’ll never forget this,” Bethany said.

When Beth’s father arrived in the 4-wheel drive, Sara helped carry her cousin into the backseat and sat by her there, holding her unbroken hand, still feeling the pain.

“Beth, you can’t tell anyone what I can do,” Sara said when they got to the hospital. She spoke in a low voice so her uncle wouldn’t hear. “What I can do, it’s not normal.”

“It’s wonderful,” Bethany said. Her jaw tightened. “You can stop doing it now. I’ll take it from here.”

Sara released her, watching as the pain flowed back into Bethany again. When Beth had it under control, she looked Sara in the eye and said, “I won’t tell. I promise.”