This is the fifth and final (Yay! At last!) part of a five-part series. You can start from the beginning here. I wonder, are there any great stories that aren't morally problematic?
Among the things the old man left behind, I found some paper. I've been writing this while the others work -- and despite my expectations, they've encouraged it. I thought someone would rebuke me for not helping out, but no one did. Part of that, I'm sure, was because I'd made the climb into the boat... but I think that another part of it is a desire to be remembered, to have some record of who we were, and what we did when the waters rose.
Our final project is as simple to describe as it is difficult to complete: to rip the roof off the old man's house, whole and intact, and invert it. With any luck, and a lot of work, we can make an impromptu boat and put the children inside.
When the old man and his sons lowered me out of their boat, they gave me a length of rope. Once our own boat is ready, I'll make that climb again, and tie that rope to his ship. The other end will be attached to our boat, the life raft we're crafting from his roof, tying it to his floating barn.
I doubt the raft will last long. It might not even survive the arrival of the waters, but there's nothing I can do about that. Still, if it lasts until daylight... my last, great, burning hope is that the old man and his family will be forced to choose between bringing the children aboard, and watching them drown. I hope -- and, yes, even pray -- that they'll choose the former. But if they don't, let them have my curse: let their descendents be just as we are now. Just as varied, just as selfish, just as petty and greedy and warlike. If God can curse the world to death by water, surely I can curse the old man's descendents to be human and imperfect.
And if my curse has any power, then you -- eventual reader, the person who finds this record -- will know how the old man chose.
None of the adults will go with the raft. There's only barely room for the children, and the old man will absolutely ignore any vessel with any of us in it. We've resigned ourselves to dying, to give them a better chance to live. If we are truly part of the sin and iniquity that brought about the end of the world, then we'll pay for it now.
I have an empty bottle here beside me: dry, discarded. When I finish, I'll put these papers inside and seal the top as best I can. If there's any justice in the world, someday someone will find them and learn what we did. And if there isn't, you can at least consider this my last defiant act: spitting in the eye of a god who would wipe us all from the face of the Earth for being what he made, rather than what he hoped for.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Until the Rainbow, Part Four
This is the fourth piece of a three-part four-part five-part short story. (Honestly, I really thought that three would do it!) You can read part one here. Feel free to leave thoughts or corrections in the comments.
I gripped the wet, slick wood with trembling fingers, and pulled myself up to the edge so I could see in the window. It was a ridiculous position: I was fifty feet in the air, balanced precariously on an unstable structure, in the midst of the worst downpour the world had ever seen... and I was doing this mere hours after a cross-country hike (also in the battering rain) which had taken most of the day.
We'd tried to build a ladder, using anything available: bits of furniture the old man and his family had left behind, wood from a couple of outbuildings that we'd disassembled, bits of fence post, even some scrap lumber that looked to be left over from the construction of the old man's crazy boat. What we got wasn't really a ladder, let alone anything as useful as steps. It was just a very steep pile, held together by whatever we could find: bits of clothesline, belts, and as much of our clothing as we could spare.
I was the third one to try to climb it. The first attempt had been made by one of the teenage boys. Two-thirds of the way up, the pile had shifted and he'd lost his grip. The second attempt was made by the father from a young couple who had arrived with their small children on their backs. He'd made it halfway up, then came back down and refused to try again. He said that with all the rain he couldn't get a grip on the wood, but he'd also helped us with the boy who fell; he'd seen the bone sticking out of his shin, seen us force it back in and splint the leg. If his nerve had simply given out, I really couldn't blame him. The whole attempt was suicidal. Even if one of us made it up there, we'd never get anyone else up unless the old man and his family were willing to open the door, or at least lower ropes.
I couldn't blame him, but I couldn't afford to wait for daylight, either: the ground was giving the first faint hints of trembling, precursors to the unmistakable vibration that would herald the arrival of the devouring waters.
So I climbed. The gathering darkness may have helped, forcing me to feel for my next hold as I labored my way up. There was, at least, enough angle that I could stop and lean into the slope when I grew tired.
And now there I was, balanced against the driving rain, standing atop the pile and gripping the edge of the old man's ship. The exposed deck was covered by a massive roof, which was supported by a central structure (little more than a blacker area of the darkness) that probably held the stairs down to the lower decks. The edge of the roof was just above my head, forming a sort of window that went all the way around the boat. It was about a foot and a half high: enough room to squeeze through.
I shifted my arm, and got an elbow on top of the wall. Then I pulled myself up, feet scrambling against the slickness of the hull. If this didn't work, I wasn't going to be able to climb back down.
I got my head through, hooked my other elbow over, and pushed myself out over the deck. I tilted forward, then began to slip down; fortunately, it was in the direction I wanted. I crashed onto my forearms, barely shielding my head from the impact, and let the rest of my body slide down the low wall and flop to the side. For a long moment I could barely move; I just lay there on the deck, aching all over and trying to breathe.
I'd done it.
Then there were voices, and a flare of light that seemed shockingly bright. The old man's sons were spilling out of the central structure. They were just starting to spread out across the deck when one of them saw me and cried out. Then they were all approaching.
I flopped over and forced myself up to my hands and knees. I got a foot under me, then looked up. Kneeling was about as far as I was going to make it: they were standing around me now. The one in front of me held a shovel, and think one of the others had something else, but I didn't have the energy to turn my head and see. "We need--" I said, and began to cough. They just stood there, uncertain or maybe waiting. "We need your help," I said. "There are people down there. You have to get them onto the boat."
"I have to do no such thing," said a voice. The younger men parted to make way for the crazy old man. "I couldn't even if I wanted to."
I started to say, "You can--" but he cut me off.
"The Lord himself has closed up this vessel. He has determined to cleanse the evil from this world, and only we are to be spared. You and all your kind must perish."
"What?" I shouldn't have said that; I saw his expression harden. I took a deep breath and tried again. "You know me. I run a restaurant. What have I done that's so evil that... I don't know... the only solution is to kill the world and start over?"
"That is between you and God," he told me. "I know only what He has chosen to share with me: that the world has grown full of sin and iniquity, and that He will wipe it all away."
I couldn't believe this. All this way, all this effort to save my family, and this monster was going to stand there and let us die. Anger flickered briefly through my veins, but I was too exhausted to support it. Instead, I begged: "My daughter just turned two. She's too young to be wicked. You can raise her, teach her the proper ways of worship and obedience and..." I trailed off, uncertain of what else God might find us lacking in. "Whatever else God requires. At least save the children."
But the old man shook his head. "I would not dare. If the Lord Almighty intended to save them, they would already be aboard. To bring them on now would risk the safety of the ship. If I do not abide by His commands, none of us will survive."
I put a hand on the railing and managed to stand. With nothing left to lose, I asked: "This is your idea of righteousness? To stand by and save yourselves, while all around you children die? What good and loving God would have you make that choice?"
"No." The old man shook his head. "Your mockery did not shake my faith. Your whispers did not shake my faith. Your questions will not shake it now. Go back to your family. Enjoy what time is left to you."
"Enjoy...?" I looked at his sons, and knew I couldn't take them. They were too many, and I was too weak. I had nothing left. I hadn't even brought a weapon; I didn't dare try to climb with one. "You know what? Fine. But you're going to have to lower me down." I paused, looking around me. "Or you can throw me off, and have my blood directly on your hands. I'm honestly too tired to care, at this point."
The old man stiffened. He was silent for a long moment, but finally he said: "Fetch some rope." One of his sons hurried away.
A short time later I was bumping my way down the side of the boat. They'd tied a sort of basket or harness around me, and helped me squeeze back out the window. It was not a comfortable trip, but after everything else I barely noticed.
Then I was lying in the mud, with the rain steadily battering my body: defeated, fallen, and utterly damned. There was a slight tug on the rope, and then it went slack. A moment later it began to pour down on top of me, coil after coil. They'd released it entirely rather than risk that I might try to climb back up.
Hands found me, touched me, helped up. I couldn't see the figures beside me; it was too dark for that. I could barely hear their voices over the rain. But they put their arms around me, and carried me back into the old man's house.
I should have been broken by the knowledge that we were all going to die, but I wasn't. It was as if, with my death assured, my body gave up the last of its hoarded energy. Suddenly, I had enough strength to be angry.
The others were looking at me as they carried me in the door: expectant, hopeful, sure that nobody would knowingly leave us to die in the rising waters. I stood there, not answering, and saw the knowledge and despair spread across their faces.
"One final effort," I rasped. "One last thing to try."
I knew even then that I was lying. I would keep trying one last thing until the waters claimed my corpse, or until the Almighty himself rose up to strike me down. I was only sorry that we lacked the tools to put a hole in that ridiculous, oversized nightmare of a boat. If God was really out to destroy the world, maybe that would have forced Him to renegotiate.
But we couldn't do it. So instead we tried something else. One last thing, before the waters took us.
Continued in Part Five.
I gripped the wet, slick wood with trembling fingers, and pulled myself up to the edge so I could see in the window. It was a ridiculous position: I was fifty feet in the air, balanced precariously on an unstable structure, in the midst of the worst downpour the world had ever seen... and I was doing this mere hours after a cross-country hike (also in the battering rain) which had taken most of the day.
We'd tried to build a ladder, using anything available: bits of furniture the old man and his family had left behind, wood from a couple of outbuildings that we'd disassembled, bits of fence post, even some scrap lumber that looked to be left over from the construction of the old man's crazy boat. What we got wasn't really a ladder, let alone anything as useful as steps. It was just a very steep pile, held together by whatever we could find: bits of clothesline, belts, and as much of our clothing as we could spare.
I was the third one to try to climb it. The first attempt had been made by one of the teenage boys. Two-thirds of the way up, the pile had shifted and he'd lost his grip. The second attempt was made by the father from a young couple who had arrived with their small children on their backs. He'd made it halfway up, then came back down and refused to try again. He said that with all the rain he couldn't get a grip on the wood, but he'd also helped us with the boy who fell; he'd seen the bone sticking out of his shin, seen us force it back in and splint the leg. If his nerve had simply given out, I really couldn't blame him. The whole attempt was suicidal. Even if one of us made it up there, we'd never get anyone else up unless the old man and his family were willing to open the door, or at least lower ropes.
I couldn't blame him, but I couldn't afford to wait for daylight, either: the ground was giving the first faint hints of trembling, precursors to the unmistakable vibration that would herald the arrival of the devouring waters.
So I climbed. The gathering darkness may have helped, forcing me to feel for my next hold as I labored my way up. There was, at least, enough angle that I could stop and lean into the slope when I grew tired.
And now there I was, balanced against the driving rain, standing atop the pile and gripping the edge of the old man's ship. The exposed deck was covered by a massive roof, which was supported by a central structure (little more than a blacker area of the darkness) that probably held the stairs down to the lower decks. The edge of the roof was just above my head, forming a sort of window that went all the way around the boat. It was about a foot and a half high: enough room to squeeze through.
I shifted my arm, and got an elbow on top of the wall. Then I pulled myself up, feet scrambling against the slickness of the hull. If this didn't work, I wasn't going to be able to climb back down.
I got my head through, hooked my other elbow over, and pushed myself out over the deck. I tilted forward, then began to slip down; fortunately, it was in the direction I wanted. I crashed onto my forearms, barely shielding my head from the impact, and let the rest of my body slide down the low wall and flop to the side. For a long moment I could barely move; I just lay there on the deck, aching all over and trying to breathe.
I'd done it.
Then there were voices, and a flare of light that seemed shockingly bright. The old man's sons were spilling out of the central structure. They were just starting to spread out across the deck when one of them saw me and cried out. Then they were all approaching.
I flopped over and forced myself up to my hands and knees. I got a foot under me, then looked up. Kneeling was about as far as I was going to make it: they were standing around me now. The one in front of me held a shovel, and think one of the others had something else, but I didn't have the energy to turn my head and see. "We need--" I said, and began to cough. They just stood there, uncertain or maybe waiting. "We need your help," I said. "There are people down there. You have to get them onto the boat."
"I have to do no such thing," said a voice. The younger men parted to make way for the crazy old man. "I couldn't even if I wanted to."
I started to say, "You can--" but he cut me off.
"The Lord himself has closed up this vessel. He has determined to cleanse the evil from this world, and only we are to be spared. You and all your kind must perish."
"What?" I shouldn't have said that; I saw his expression harden. I took a deep breath and tried again. "You know me. I run a restaurant. What have I done that's so evil that... I don't know... the only solution is to kill the world and start over?"
"That is between you and God," he told me. "I know only what He has chosen to share with me: that the world has grown full of sin and iniquity, and that He will wipe it all away."
I couldn't believe this. All this way, all this effort to save my family, and this monster was going to stand there and let us die. Anger flickered briefly through my veins, but I was too exhausted to support it. Instead, I begged: "My daughter just turned two. She's too young to be wicked. You can raise her, teach her the proper ways of worship and obedience and..." I trailed off, uncertain of what else God might find us lacking in. "Whatever else God requires. At least save the children."
But the old man shook his head. "I would not dare. If the Lord Almighty intended to save them, they would already be aboard. To bring them on now would risk the safety of the ship. If I do not abide by His commands, none of us will survive."
I put a hand on the railing and managed to stand. With nothing left to lose, I asked: "This is your idea of righteousness? To stand by and save yourselves, while all around you children die? What good and loving God would have you make that choice?"
"No." The old man shook his head. "Your mockery did not shake my faith. Your whispers did not shake my faith. Your questions will not shake it now. Go back to your family. Enjoy what time is left to you."
"Enjoy...?" I looked at his sons, and knew I couldn't take them. They were too many, and I was too weak. I had nothing left. I hadn't even brought a weapon; I didn't dare try to climb with one. "You know what? Fine. But you're going to have to lower me down." I paused, looking around me. "Or you can throw me off, and have my blood directly on your hands. I'm honestly too tired to care, at this point."
The old man stiffened. He was silent for a long moment, but finally he said: "Fetch some rope." One of his sons hurried away.
A short time later I was bumping my way down the side of the boat. They'd tied a sort of basket or harness around me, and helped me squeeze back out the window. It was not a comfortable trip, but after everything else I barely noticed.
Then I was lying in the mud, with the rain steadily battering my body: defeated, fallen, and utterly damned. There was a slight tug on the rope, and then it went slack. A moment later it began to pour down on top of me, coil after coil. They'd released it entirely rather than risk that I might try to climb back up.
Hands found me, touched me, helped up. I couldn't see the figures beside me; it was too dark for that. I could barely hear their voices over the rain. But they put their arms around me, and carried me back into the old man's house.
I should have been broken by the knowledge that we were all going to die, but I wasn't. It was as if, with my death assured, my body gave up the last of its hoarded energy. Suddenly, I had enough strength to be angry.
The others were looking at me as they carried me in the door: expectant, hopeful, sure that nobody would knowingly leave us to die in the rising waters. I stood there, not answering, and saw the knowledge and despair spread across their faces.
"One final effort," I rasped. "One last thing to try."
I knew even then that I was lying. I would keep trying one last thing until the waters claimed my corpse, or until the Almighty himself rose up to strike me down. I was only sorry that we lacked the tools to put a hole in that ridiculous, oversized nightmare of a boat. If God was really out to destroy the world, maybe that would have forced Him to renegotiate.
But we couldn't do it. So instead we tried something else. One last thing, before the waters took us.
Continued in Part Five.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Proposal: No More Mid-Week Holidays
Having Independence Day on a Wednesday has completely weirded out my sense of time. (Most of my co-workers have, quite sensibly, used some vacation days to connect the holiday to a weekend; several have taken the whole week off, which also sounds appealing.) It really feels like this should be Sunday -- especially since we spent yesterday eating hot dogs and burgers, and swimming in the neighborhood pool. Well, and being part of an Independence Day parade. So, rather than trying to come up with any worthwhile writing for today, I'm going to work on finishing up Until the Rainbow for tomorrow.
Before I go, though, I'd like to propose a bit of Federal legislation. I call it the No More Mid-Week Holidays Act. This act would mandate that whenever a Federal holiday falls on a Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, all calendar producers would be required to re-number their calendars so that the offending holiday falls on a Monday or Friday instead. How would that work?
Well, this week the calendar looked like this:
July 1 (Sun) | July 2 (Mon) | July 3 (Tue) | July 4 (Wed) | July 5 (Thu) | July 6 (Fri) | July 7 (Sat)
Under my proposed system, it would look like this, instead:
July 1 (Sun) | July 2 (Mon) | July 3 (Tue) | July 5 (Wed) | July 6 (Thu) | July 4 (Fri) | July 7 (Sat)
Bam! Three-day weekend. Short, but uninterrupted work-week. My brain: substantially less confused. The balance of the Universe: safely restored.
Naturally, I'll be starting petitions and seeking Congressional sponsors immediately. Or, well, I would, if my brain didn't still think it should be Sunday.
Before I go, though, I'd like to propose a bit of Federal legislation. I call it the No More Mid-Week Holidays Act. This act would mandate that whenever a Federal holiday falls on a Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, all calendar producers would be required to re-number their calendars so that the offending holiday falls on a Monday or Friday instead. How would that work?
Well, this week the calendar looked like this:
July 1 (Sun) | July 2 (Mon) | July 3 (Tue) | July 4 (Wed) | July 5 (Thu) | July 6 (Fri) | July 7 (Sat)
Under my proposed system, it would look like this, instead:
July 1 (Sun) | July 2 (Mon) | July 3 (Tue) | July 5 (Wed) | July 6 (Thu) | July 4 (Fri) | July 7 (Sat)
Bam! Three-day weekend. Short, but uninterrupted work-week. My brain: substantially less confused. The balance of the Universe: safely restored.
Naturally, I'll be starting petitions and seeking Congressional sponsors immediately. Or, well, I would, if my brain didn't still think it should be Sunday.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Blog Filler: Independence Day
I think, on these historical holidays, that it's important to reflect not only on our nation's past, but on its current course and what that says about its - and our - future. I must therefore ask you to consider your duty as an American citizen:
Remember: a prepared citizenry is a citizenry that does not get eaten by the shambling hordes. And the Founding Fathers did not create this great country just to see it fall to the hungry dead.
Remember: a prepared citizenry is a citizenry that does not get eaten by the shambling hordes. And the Founding Fathers did not create this great country just to see it fall to the hungry dead.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Blog Filler: Pre-Independence Day edition
Right, so, I'm working this week. I'm apparently one of about five people in the entire Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex who are working this week. Everyone else is visiting relatives, relaxing at home, or driving like complete and utter lunatics.
That being the case, I'm not getting a lot of writing done. And, honestly, I'm not entirely recovered from being sick for nearly all of last week -- though I am a lot better than I was!
So, rather than offering any of the written whimsy you all know and love, here's a picture of some baby platypuseses. Platypi. Platypus.
Those guys.
In hats.
You're welcome.
That being the case, I'm not getting a lot of writing done. And, honestly, I'm not entirely recovered from being sick for nearly all of last week -- though I am a lot better than I was!
So, rather than offering any of the written whimsy you all know and love, here's a picture of some baby platypuseses. Platypi. Platypus.
Those guys.
In hats.
You're welcome.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Notes from the Mad Science Lab: Supervolcano Prevention
It's been a busy weekend. How to explain...? Well, one of my, er, colleagues has lately become concerned with the dangers of global warming and its potential socio-ecological effects. This, to be fair, is a reasonable concern.
Where it became a problem was, more or less, the point at which Max Cognate (not his real name, obviously) decided that the solution was as simple as it was obvious: he would find a way to trigger an eruption of the Yellowstone Supervolcano, thus hurling enough dirt and ash into the atmosphere to create a miniature Ice Age. At that point, Global Warming would seem like a happy memory.
Now, Mad Scientists aren't generally noted for our restraint; and we certainly admire Alexandrian solutions. (Though, to be sure, no Mad Scientist worth his salt would have been satisfied with using a mere sword to cut the Gordian Knot; a spinning wheel of scythes attached to the front of a chariot seems more likely.) So, upon hearing about this project, my initial reaction was mainly admiration for the elegant simplicity of Max's plan. But, well...
Do you have any idea how hard it is to clean up volcanic ash? It's horrible, horrible stuff, it sticks to everything, and it takes an industrial-grade washer to get it out. That wouldn't be a problem, except that my industrial grade washer is solar powered. So a gigantic cloud of volcanic ash is pretty much my sartorial Achilles' Heel. Therefore, I could not allow Max Cognate to follow through on his plan.
I hope you won't think me sentimental if I tell you that I didn't want to kill Max. Granted, that was the simple and obvious solution, but Max was simply trying to avert disaster. A gruesome death didn't really seem warranted. (It would have been another matter altogether if he had been competing with my research, obviously.) Also, I wasn't entirely sure that killing him was possible. Max and I were among the few surviving members of the 1999 graduating class at the Victor Frankenstein School of Natural Philosophy; which is to say that each of us had failed to kill the other on several occasions already.
So, I sent a cyberspider to, ahem, "bug" Max's secret laboratory. That allowed me to discover what his initial attempt would look like: deep-burrowing mutant gophers.
No problem. The shark-toothed wombats burrowed in behind them, and ate them before they got deep enough to be a danger. Round One: me.
His second attempt was more interesting: an orbital micro-laser which would punch a hole in the rock and allow all that pressurized magma to come rushing to the surface. That would have been trickier if the satellite had already been in orbit. As it happened, the satellite finished its launch with a small, but exceedingly powerful, electromagnet attached to it. The magnet immediately pulled in two weather satellites, which sent the laser spinning off-course. I think it was the collision with the CIA's spy-satellite that finished it, though. Round Two: also me.
At this point, Max Cognate realized that someone was actively interfering with his work. He located my cyber-spider, which immediately self-destructed. That should have prevented him from tracing the signal back to me, but I couldn't count on that. So...
I called him. On the phone. Pathetically twentieth-century, I know, but it was the easiest way. Max was reasonably gracious about the whole thing, though I can fairly expect a couple of my own projects to go mysteriously awry over the next couple of years. In any case, Max Cognate is now working on a new project: a network of geothermally powered Weather Control Stations across the globe. That will keep him busy for a while, and won't spread ash all over my solar collectors.
So, all's well that ends well. Unless, of course, he was lying when he said he wouldn't try to kill me...
Where it became a problem was, more or less, the point at which Max Cognate (not his real name, obviously) decided that the solution was as simple as it was obvious: he would find a way to trigger an eruption of the Yellowstone Supervolcano, thus hurling enough dirt and ash into the atmosphere to create a miniature Ice Age. At that point, Global Warming would seem like a happy memory.
Now, Mad Scientists aren't generally noted for our restraint; and we certainly admire Alexandrian solutions. (Though, to be sure, no Mad Scientist worth his salt would have been satisfied with using a mere sword to cut the Gordian Knot; a spinning wheel of scythes attached to the front of a chariot seems more likely.) So, upon hearing about this project, my initial reaction was mainly admiration for the elegant simplicity of Max's plan. But, well...
Do you have any idea how hard it is to clean up volcanic ash? It's horrible, horrible stuff, it sticks to everything, and it takes an industrial-grade washer to get it out. That wouldn't be a problem, except that my industrial grade washer is solar powered. So a gigantic cloud of volcanic ash is pretty much my sartorial Achilles' Heel. Therefore, I could not allow Max Cognate to follow through on his plan.
I hope you won't think me sentimental if I tell you that I didn't want to kill Max. Granted, that was the simple and obvious solution, but Max was simply trying to avert disaster. A gruesome death didn't really seem warranted. (It would have been another matter altogether if he had been competing with my research, obviously.) Also, I wasn't entirely sure that killing him was possible. Max and I were among the few surviving members of the 1999 graduating class at the Victor Frankenstein School of Natural Philosophy; which is to say that each of us had failed to kill the other on several occasions already.
So, I sent a cyberspider to, ahem, "bug" Max's secret laboratory. That allowed me to discover what his initial attempt would look like: deep-burrowing mutant gophers.
No problem. The shark-toothed wombats burrowed in behind them, and ate them before they got deep enough to be a danger. Round One: me.
His second attempt was more interesting: an orbital micro-laser which would punch a hole in the rock and allow all that pressurized magma to come rushing to the surface. That would have been trickier if the satellite had already been in orbit. As it happened, the satellite finished its launch with a small, but exceedingly powerful, electromagnet attached to it. The magnet immediately pulled in two weather satellites, which sent the laser spinning off-course. I think it was the collision with the CIA's spy-satellite that finished it, though. Round Two: also me.
At this point, Max Cognate realized that someone was actively interfering with his work. He located my cyber-spider, which immediately self-destructed. That should have prevented him from tracing the signal back to me, but I couldn't count on that. So...
I called him. On the phone. Pathetically twentieth-century, I know, but it was the easiest way. Max was reasonably gracious about the whole thing, though I can fairly expect a couple of my own projects to go mysteriously awry over the next couple of years. In any case, Max Cognate is now working on a new project: a network of geothermally powered Weather Control Stations across the globe. That will keep him busy for a while, and won't spread ash all over my solar collectors.
So, all's well that ends well. Unless, of course, he was lying when he said he wouldn't try to kill me...
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Movie Recommendation: Shining
Another Sunday morning, and -- since I'm still recovering from being sick last week -- I'm not going to try to produce any worthwhile writing. Instead, for the benefit of anyone who hasn't see it already, I'm just going to recommend one of those heartwarming, uplifting movies that you can watch when you're feeling down. It's called Shining:
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