So we were living in Hattiesburg Mississippi. It’s hot, hot and humid there. Beautiful, for certain, but super humid and super dooper hot.
And I got laid off.
And it was a difficult layoff. The CEO hired a new GM for the operation. He came from California and a culture of hire-and-fire. And when he came on board, I was let go with little notice.
But Mississippi was not Los Angles or San Francisco. A layoff meant a catastrophic move to another side of the country, and that coincided with my mentally ill wife going full on psycho.
I was a wreck and trying to deal.
During this time, we had to cut corners to make ends meet.
So we decided not to have the monthly cockroach spraying.
Bad move. Without the spraying, they bred profusely and overwhelmed the house. And today, I want to talk about what happened.
…
It began with turning on the kitchen light in the morning. And there, finding “cockroaches on the half shell” on the kitchen floor.
Yeah. My cats were having nightly feasts.
Then, I went into the bed room and saw a sock traversing the floor. Yeah, a cockroach was under it making its way…
These weren’t small bugs either.
They were the size of a pocket knife.
Huge ugly cockroaches, and they were everywhere.
Then came the zzzittt, and there would be the smell of burning cockroach and the lights would go out. Oh yeah, baby. They were getting fried in the electrical outlets.
That was until the swarms started to look like moving and vibrating blankets.
Brown swarms that covered everything.
Ah, for certain, once my mentally ill wife ended up freaking out, I called the insect pest exterminator and they performed an emergency visitation.
They flew to the house.
Pretty darn impressive. The folk in Mississippi take cockroach management very seriously.
Ah…Lights flashing and came out in full tactical gear.
It was a tough battle, but GUYS you need to take care of this kind of thing before it is far too late. And I had waited. It was far too late, and the problem was really out of control.
Guys. Do not be like me.
When you know that there are pests around…
… isolate, kill and contain.
Today…
Why would anyone with half a brain enlist in the United States military?
I grew up in a violent household. My father was an alcoholic, and beat my mother, and us kids. I started to get the best of him by my mid teens, and put a stop to the beatings by the time I was 17.
I was working in dead end jobs, in my hometown outside of Buffalo, New York. The rich kids went to College. The poor kids looked to the Military.
Two weeks after turning 18, I enlisted in the Air Force. I was looking to get out of the harsh Winters of Buffalo, and to start a new life.
I had just missed Vietnam. Saigon fell to the Communists two months before I turned 17. The Cold War was still ongoing, so in 1976, I signed up to be a Nuclear Weapons Specialist. I was on Active Duty (1976-1981.) I spent three years in England, serving on American Occupied RAF Bases. I traveled all over Europe and the United Kingdom in my off time.
I completed one year’s worth of College Credits, attending Night Classes with the University of Maryland (European Campus.) After getting out of the Air Force, I attended College on the G.I. Bill. All of $341 per month. I graduated with an A.S. Degree in Exotic Animal Training and Management.
I had a good first career as a Wild Animal Trainer, Elephant Trainer, and Zookeeper. I first trained Wild Animals for movies and television in Hollywood. Then, I became an Elephant Trainer at the San Diego Zoo Safari Park. Eventually, I worked with the California Condors. I did that work up until my forties.
Joining the Air Force allowed me to get out and see some of the World. Getting out of snowy Buffalo. And leaving my violent upbringing behind. It gave me a fresh start in life. It is one of the best things I ever did.
Torta Italiano
Yield: 10 servings
Ingredients
- 2 cups buttermilk baking mix
- 3/4 cup skim milk
- 1 pound lean ground turkey
- 1 small onion, chopped
- 1 large garlic clove, minced
- 1 teaspoon Italian seasoning
- 1/8 teaspoon salt and black pepper
- 1 can tomato sauce
- 10 ounces frozen spinach, chopped, thawed and drained
- 1 cup mozzarella cheese, shredded
Instructions
- Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
- Combine biscuit mix and milk.
- Spray springform pan with vegetable oil spray. Spread biscuit mix evenly over base.
- Chop onion.
- Brown ground turkey in skillet. Drain excess liquid. Add onion, garlic, seasonings, and tomato sauce to turkey. Combine and cook for 2 to 3 minutes.
- Spread turkey mixture over biscuit mi. Layer spinach over meat mixture. Top spinach layer with cheese.
- Bake for 35 minutes.
- Remove from oven and cool for 10 minutes.
- Run a knife gently around collar before removal.
Attribution
Pampered Chef
Golddiggin Girlfriend SHOCKED When BF Abruptly Moves Her Out While She Was Monkey Branching
The Empty Laboratory
Submitted into Contest #279 in response to: Center your story around a person who believes they’re the last human on Earth.… view prompt
Kashira Argento
Outside, the city was a museum of humanity’s last moment. Traffic lights cycled through their patterns for empty streets. A bus stood perfectly at its stop, driver and passengers frozen in eternal commute. Digital billboards still flashed their ads to nobody. Through it all, the autumn wind carried dead leaves and silence.
He developed a routine. Each morning, check suit seals. Load decontamination supplies. Clear another sector. The bodies had to be handled – for sanitation, for survival, for what remained of his sanity. He built the pyres at sunset, when the light made everything look molten. Sometimes he read names from ID cards, spoke them aloud. Someone should know who they had been.
Finding Mai’s school broke something in him. Her classroom smelled of chalk and silence. Sheet music for Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata still sat on the piano, never to be played. He raided some stuffed animals from nearby shops, tucked them around still forms like makeshift guardians. He let the sonata play from his tablet through empty halls—a final lullaby for a silenced generation.
Nature filled the void with surprising speed. Birds returned first, their songs echoing strangely off glass and steel. Brazen from the lack of predators they multiplied by thousands. Flowers pushed through sidewalk cracks. Deer grazed in hospital parking lots. Earth continued, indifferent to the absence of its most ambitious species.
At first, he’d focused on his survival. Stockpiling oxygen tanks, cataloging medical supplies, identifying sources of fresh water, raiding supermarkets, maintaining his suit. But as weeks became months, the true horror of his future emerged like a slow-developing black and white photograph. The nuclear plant’s AI-controlled systems would eventually fail. The city’s water pressure was already dropping. Buildings, unmaintained, would begin to crumble. His safe zones would become death traps.
The suit that had saved him now felt like a mobile coffin. Each hiss of filtered air reminded him that every breath was borrowed. Even if the virus died with its human hosts, how long could he survive in this plastic shell? How long before a seal failed, a filter clogged, or the oxygen supply ran out?
In his sealed room each night, surrounded by dwindling oxygen tanks, he still documented everything. Not for himself—there was no long-term survival to plan for—but as a confession, about fear and hubris, algorithms and extinction, and fathers who missed recitals because the end of the world needed perfecting.
Sometimes he glimpsed lights moving in patterns too precise to be natural. He wondered if they were a mirage or a reality. He could never know! The city’s infrastructure hummed along for now, but entropy was patient. Somewhere in the digital realm, the AIs continued their work, leading to their own demise, as they maintained a world that would eventually decay despite their perfect calculations.
The real weight wasn’t the failing equipment or the dwindling supplies. It was the silence between bird songs. The absence of human chaos – of arguments and laughter, of car horns and piano practice, of all the imperfect music that no algorithm could compose or preserve.
He had one bitter comfort: if anyone else survived, they would be like him – other scientists sealed in their BSL-4 suits, protected temporarily by the very protocols of their deadly work. But finding them would change nothing. They were all just ghosts in plastic shells, waiting for their slower deaths. Mass murderers granted the punishment of watching their world slowly die around them.
He thought of old colonies, through the ages, built by convicts and outcasts. Human civilizations had a tendency to be founded on blood. Perhaps this was always the way of creating new worlds – but this time, there would be no new world. Only witnesses to the long goodbye of the old one.
Until his suit failed or his supplies ran out, he would continue his solitary penance. Document. Clean. Remember. Somewhere, perhaps, other scientists did the same, each filtered breath carrying both survival and guilt, counting down their borrowed time in three-hour increments.
The yellow light blinked for the sixteenth time. One more before red. One more before starting again. Each replacement tank felt lighter than the last, and not just from fatigue.
Always one more. Until there weren’t any more.
Then the birds would sing alone.
America’s Most TALENTED Cats Will Leave You SPEECHLESS!
Daily Shorpy
The Craziest Woke Women Of TikTok…
The Last
Submitted into Contest #279 in response to: Center your story around a person who believes they’re the last human on Earth.… view prompt
John K Adams
‘Never again will I waste a minute listening to this rube… even if we were the last two people on earth…’
Roman’s pomposity tempted Lou to heckle. Yelling insults might provide relief. He would garner support from like-minded souls, escape this droning dirge and revel in life.
‘Oh to sing and dance…’
Before he acted, doubts crept in. Lou hated being rude. And he didn’t know the crowd. Some in the audience dozed. Did they snore in foreign languages?
Also, the speaker was stupendously boring but not stupid. Who knows what clever call to action he’d use to rally his followers? Lou feared being the scapegoat and not the hero. Yes, he would be out of there, but at what cost?
No one ever said, ‘Give me boredom, or give me death.’ Unwilling to choose, Lou sought other options.
Some barely stirred when scattered applause threatened to disrupt their slumber. A few even stood to applaud.
‘Are they so enthralled by this narcissist’s pontifications?’
Lou then realized they didn’t rise in honor of Roman, but to exit.
A misstatement sparked an argument between Roman and one translator. Their heated discussion took place in a foreign language. But it appeared Roman disagreed with the translator’s interpretation of what he’d said. A secondary dispute arose over whether this overblown distraction was necessary. Another translator tried interpreting the substance of the argument for the audience. Others pulled him back.
Their voices rising, neither Roman nor the translator gave ground. Finally, stopping short of violence, Roman fired him on the spot. The translator left in shame.
The shouting drew attendees back to their seats in hopes of further excitement. They didn’t get it.
No other translator offered to fill the gap. Forced to make his crucial point alone, Roman faced the crowd. Buying time, he wrung his hands. The crowd stirred in anticipation.
After clearing his throat, Roman said, “Never mind…”
He then continued his incomprehensible discourse with no additional pauses, even to take a breath. At least, that’s how it felt. The translators stood by, but had no purpose.
Disappointed, the audience resumed filtering out. At first one or two. Then more. Eventually, the growing stream of people created a bottleneck at the back. Lou figured it was a common occurrence.
Unfazed, Roman droned on effectively spouting gibberish.
Though tempted, Lou decided against joining the throng. He sat mid-row. Leaving early would require stumbling over other audience members’ feet. He didn’t want to wake them.
Then, like slipping from dream to reality, Lou became aware he was alone in the empty auditorium.
How did this happen? Moments ago, everyone was there. Even the mayor. Now the place stood empty. The speaker, Roman what’s-his-name, and his entourage had vacated the premises.
‘Did Roman bore everyone out of existence? I missed the best part, the lecture’s conclusion… How could I sleep through that?’
Lou hated being alone.
‘Where’s Mona? Oh right, never showed… Stood me up. What happened? Did she text?’
He checked his phone. Nothing.
‘Ghosted. I can take a hint. Alone again.’
The story of his life.
‘God, it’s quiet. Where is everyone?’
Lou could swear that he’d been surrounded by thousands. And then he blinked. Stunned, he couldn’t believe it. The immense silence in the vast auditorium was unnerving. He clapped his hands to ensure he hadn’t gone deaf.
‘She set me up for this? Seems like it…’
He tried calling others on the phone, but every call went straight to voice mail.
‘Where is everyone? Why am I here instead of with them?’
His isolation felt creepy.
‘Better move on. Cleaning crew will be at it soon.’
His anxiety swelling, Lou walked up the aisle. The lobby stood empty too. He ran out. Streetlights glowed brightly on empty streets. There were no cars. No foot traffic. Not even a bus. Silence reigned.
‘This ain’t good. This is too weird.’
Lou felt his throat tighten with fear. A loud groan escaped, startling him. It was the first sound he’d heard in several minutes.
Running to the curb, he stared down the boulevard to see shining, empty streets. No traffic.
“No, no, no… What’s happened? What can I do? What now?”
He began hyperventilating. Feeling dizzy, he staggered to a bus bench.
Sitting, he thought, ‘There’s no one. I can’t collapse. No one will find me…’
He called out. “Hey! Hello! Anyone?” Not even an echo.
‘Am I the last one on earth?’
Tears streaming, Lou fell to his knees. Clasping his hands together, he looked into the dark sky.
“Help me! Please… Show me I’m not alone!”
Sobbing, he fell forward in despair. His forehead on the cold sidewalk brought some calm.
Still kneeling, Lou heard footsteps behind him. Composing himself, he blew his nose. He stood, thrilled for some company. He turned and felt his stomach churn. It was Roman, that night’s speaker, unmistakable in his striped tux.
Offering his hand, he approached Lou.
In perfect English, he said, “You stayed ‘til the bitter end. How did you like my talk?”
Lou looked around, desperate for another. Anyone. There was no one else. Only the silence.
Wife’s Salami-fest Backfires When Videos Of Her Servicing Multiple Guys Becomes The Talk Of The Town
Title: Sir Whiskerton and the Mystery of the Submerged Canoe
Ah, dear reader, you’ve returned for yet another tale of my unmatched brilliance and the delightful chaos that seems to follow my esteemed circle of companions. This adventure takes us far from the barnyard to the edge of the farm, where a certain wooden bridge harbored secrets beneath its weathered planks. The tale begins with a plucky hedgehog, a trapped canoe, and a mystery that would test our courage, patience, and ability to work together without squabbling too much. Prepare yourself for the uproarious and utterly absurd tale of The Mystery of the Submerged Canoe.
Simon’s Urgent News
The day began like any other, with me perched atop the barn roof, basking in the early morning sun. Porkchop was snuffling about in the mud, Sedgwick was observing the world with his usual quiet wisdom from a nearby fence post, and the hens—Doris, Harriet, and Lillian—were chattering away in circles about absolutely nothing of importance.
“I heard there’s going to be rain later,” Doris said.
“Rain? Oh, I do hope not!” Harriet clucked.
“Rain! What if it ruins the straw?” Lillian squawked.
“Ruins the straw? Oh no, we can’t have that!” Doris echoed.
“Straw is very important,” Harriet affirmed.
“Very important!” Lillian cried.
And so it went on.
I might have drifted off into peaceful ignorance of their endless chatter had Simon the hedgehog not come scurrying onto the scene, his tiny paws kicking up dust as he ran.
“Sir Whiskerton! Sir Whiskerton!” Simon called, his voice high-pitched and urgent.
I leapt down from the barn roof, landing gracefully in front of him. “Simon. What’s the matter? You look like you’ve just sprinted across the entire farm.”
“I did!” Simon panted, his little sides heaving. “There’s something strange at the wooden bridge. A canoe! It’s stuck under the bridge, and I heard noises—very strange noises! Something is trapped under a blanket-covered basket inside the canoe!”
“A canoe?” Porkchop said, waddling over. “What’s a canoe doing in the river?”
“And noises?” Sedgwick added, flapping down from his post. “What kind of noises?”
“Distressed noises!” Simon exclaimed. “Whimpering, scratching, and a sort of… humming sound. It was eerie!”
“Oh, distress!” Doris gasped, flapping her wings.
“Distress! That’s terrible!” Harriet clucked.
“Terrible! What if it’s a ghost?” Lillian whispered, her feathers puffing up.
“A ghost? Oh no, not a ghost!” Doris wailed.
“Not a ghost! Oh, I can’t bear it!” Harriet added.
“Ghosts are the worst!” Lillian concluded.
I sighed. “It’s not a ghost. Ghosts don’t use canoes.” I turned back to Simon. “Thank you, Simon. We’ll investigate this mystery at once.”
“You will?” Simon said, his quills bristling with excitement. “Oh, thank you, Sir Whiskerton! I knew I could count on you.”
The Journey to the Bridge
And so, our unlikely team set off toward the wooden bridge: Sir Whiskerton, the brilliant detective; Sedgwick, the wise and ever-composed barn owl; Porkchop, whose bravery was highly questionable but who always insisted on coming along; and the trio of hens, who refused to be left behind (much to my chagrin).
“Do you think it’s a person under the blanket?” Doris asked as we walked.
“A person? What if they’re lost?” Harriet wondered aloud.
“Lost! Oh, that’s dreadful!” Lillian exclaimed.
“Dreadful! We must help them!” Doris declared.
“Help them! Yes, we must!” Harriet agreed.
“We’re such good helpers,” Lillian said proudly.
“Please, for the love of whiskers, let’s try to focus,” I muttered under my breath.
Simon guided us through the fields and down the dirt path that led to the river. As we approached the bridge, we could hear it: faint, muffled noises coming from beneath the wooden planks. It wasn’t quite a whimper, nor was it a yowl. It was… odd.
“Do you hear that?” Sedgwick said, his amber eyes narrowing. “It sounds almost like… singing.”
“Singing?” Porkchop said, his ears twitching nervously. “I don’t like this. What if it’s some kind of river troll?”
“River trolls aren’t real, Porkchop,” I said, though I couldn’t entirely blame him for his nerves. The sound was undeniably strange, and the sight of the half-submerged canoe trapped under the bridge only added to the eerie atmosphere.
The Investigation
We carefully made our way onto the bridge, peering down at the trapped canoe below. It was wedged against one of the bridge’s support beams, its bow tilted slightly upward. Inside, we could just make out a wicker basket covered with a patchy green blanket. The noises were definitely coming from the basket.
“Well,” Sedgwick said, his wings folded neatly, “it seems we have two mysteries to solve: how this canoe ended up here and what—or who—is making those noises.”
“I’m not going down there,” Porkchop said immediately. “I don’t swim. I sink.”
“Neither am I,” Rufus said, suddenly appearing out of nowhere with an apple in his paw. (He always seemed to show up at the most inconvenient times.) “But I am curious. What do you think’s in the basket? Treasure? Snacks? A haunted squirrel?”
“Haunted squirrel? Oh, I can’t bear it!” Lillian cried.
“Haunted squirrel! That’s the worst!” Harriet squawked.
“The worst! What if it curses us?” Doris wailed.
“It’s not a haunted squirrel!” I snapped. “Now, if everyone could stop speculating for five seconds, I’ll go down and investigate.”
Without waiting for more protests, I carefully climbed down the rocks to the edge of the water. Sedgwick flew overhead, providing a bird’s-eye view, while Porkchop, Rufus, and the hens watched nervously from the bridge.
As I reached the canoe, the noises grew louder. I extended a cautious paw and lifted the edge of the blanket.
The Surprising Discovery
Underneath the blanket was… a family of ducklings. Five of them, to be exact, huddled together in the wicker basket. They looked up at me with wide, frightened eyes and let out tiny, distressed quacks.
“Ducklings?” I said, utterly baffled. “What are you doing in a canoe?”
“They’re ducklings?” Porkchop called from the bridge. “Not ghosts?”
“Not ghosts,” I confirmed. “Just ducklings. They must’ve drifted downstream and gotten stuck here.”
“Oh, ducklings! How sweet!” Doris gushed.
“Sweet! But also sad!” Harriet clucked.
“Sad! Poor little things!” Lillian added.
“We have to save them!” Doris declared.
“Yes, save them! Rescue them!” Harriet cried.
“Ducklings must be rescued!” Lillian agreed.
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help agreeing with them for once. The ducklings were clearly frightened, and we couldn’t leave them here.
The Rescue Mission
With Sedgwick’s guidance, we worked together to free the canoe. Rufus, surprisingly helpful for once, climbed down to help push, while Porkchop stood on the bridge and offered “moral support.” The hens, meanwhile, provided a running commentary.
“Push it harder!” Doris shouted.
“Harder! Yes, harder!” Harriet echoed.
“Not too hard! You might tip it over!” Lillian warned.
“Tipping it over would be terrible!” Doris cried.
“Terrible! Oh, I can’t watch!” Harriet clucked.
“But I’m watching!” Lillian announced.
Finally, with one last shove, the canoe came free and drifted gently away from the bridge. The ducklings quacked in relief, and their mother—a frantic-looking duck who had been pacing nearby—rushed to meet them.
The Happy Ending
The ducklings were reunited with their mother, and the family swam off down the river, quacking happily. Back on the bridge, we all felt a sense of accomplishment.
“Well done, everyone,” Sedgwick said, his tone warm. “It seems we’ve solved another mystery and made a difference.”
“Yeah,” Rufus said, grinning. “Who knew a bunch of ducklings could cause so much excitement?”
“Oh, ducklings are the best!” Doris said.
“The best! So adorable!” Harriet agreed.
“Adorable and brave!” Lillian added.
“Brave ducklings are the best!” Doris concluded.
I sighed. “Let’s head back to the farm before I lose my sanity.”
The Moral of the Story
Even the smallest creatures can cause the biggest commotions, but with teamwork, compassion, and a little patience (or a lot, if hens are involved), even the most mysterious situations can be resolved. And remember: never underestimate the power of a plucky hedgehog.
The End.
Fusion
Submitted into Contest #279 in response to: Center your story around a person who believes they’re the last human on Earth.… view prompt
Carol Stewart
The hypocrisy was astounding, the irony too when it came to the herbalists who attended his surgery and willingly swallowed his pills, but knowing these people as well as Novak now did, both of these concepts were doubtlessly as alien to them as his futile attempts at hypothesis.
‘It’s like this,’ he said. ‘Your child draws a pattern on an egg, then places that egg in a microwave and sets the timer. It starts to cook, what happens then…?’
‘But that’s absurd,’ they would tell him. ‘Our children know better than to decorate eggs which haven’t been boiled or blown. And who amongst us owns such an electric monstrosity? You do know we only cook with fire?’
‘But say they did, and say you did? The egg would blow apart, would it not? The shell would be shattered, the pattern with it, and yet on those tiny fragments there might just remain something wonderful that your child has created, something worth saving. And that, my friends, shall be the fate of The Earth and all its surrounding planets. The second Big Bang is coming and coming soon. We must work on our designs, our means of salvation and protection.’
‘No, impossible!’ they’d cry. ‘The Good Doctor does have some crazy ideas. Children drawing on eggs, as if this could protect the world!’
Too late now, he thought. Too late to convince them. As fate would have it, the value of his discovery had been for Novak Ramovich alone. The infusion of the various chemical and natural compounds into the foundations of his dwelling which had seeped up the walls and over the roof to grow like titanium ivy, but at far greater speed, and with vines a million times stronger, had indeed proven their worth, just as all his years of study and experimentation had proven him right.
So here he was, the last human presence on Earth, or rather on what remained of it; his ivy-covered tower with its ever-decreasing circular rooms and the small patch of land surrounding it on which the vines had also taken root… ‘Ah!’ he cried into the flame. ‘If only the people had listened.’
His tower was well-equipped. He’d long-ensured he had the necessities; a water-storage system, filtration, air purification, and specially adapted soil in which to grow crops – the entire outer circle beyond the front door had been layered and shelved and reserved for this purpose as well as the storage of food.
He had what the people would have considered luxuries too – basic home comforts really – and had anyone seen fit to join him, he would have had room for three or four more at a push. In fact the whole community, if they’d had the sense, could have grown the ivy on their dwellings and survived. But alas it was not to be, and whilst he deplored them for their stupidity, he still couldn’t help but mourn their loss.
‘Grow ivy over our windows? Imprison ourselves as it barricades our doors? Is that what you’re suggesting? Seems to us you need to go sort your head out, Good Doctor. You’re getting madder by the minute. Or maybe we were wrong to trust you in the first place. Are you sure you’re not a Humdroid in disguise or one of their sympathizer spies?’
The people had met as one that day, and as one they’d decided to stop seeking treatment unless absolutely necessary, but still he’d held out hope.
The candle burned and flickered as Ivan thought of all that had happened since then. His last-ditch attempt to save the few human beings he knew could be saved. It was a doctor’s duty, after all, and with his skills and knowledge so much greater than those of a mere physician, or even a specialist surgeon, it was essential he try.
He’d delivered the compound himself, urged the families to use it. Even lied that after a time the vines would bear fruit, so where was the harm in letting it grow and climb? Rather some protection than none, he mused, and if the second Big Bang came with a warning, this might just give the community time to extend the growth sufficiently, and providing it covered the land between their homes, there was also the very real possibility that when the Earth shattered around them, and depending on the atmosphere, and where in the stratosphere they landed, life might even continue outside. Human life, pure and simple, no Humdroids, no bots, nothing artificial. The chance to start over, cleanly and naturally, wasn’t this what their hearts desired?
Oh, he put the arguments forth, both articulately and with relish, and one or two did hear him out because of it, but then the Herbalists got involved and inspected the vines on his tower, condemning the plant as nothing they’d seen before, too fast growing to be organic, too metallic a feel to its leaves and stems, and therefore worse than any invasive species, one which must have been developed, not in the doctor’s internal ‘greenhouse’ as he’d claimed, but in those dreaded Humdroid laboratories. A dangerous plant, they said. Most likely highly toxic. He’d lost the battle then and he knew it. But there was so much worse to come.
He got up from the chair and stretched as the candleflame cast eerie shadows on his nakedness. No reason at all for him to be sat like this other than his symbolic rebirth… We are born alone, we live alone, we die alone… Did Orson Welles not then think it fit that Man should approach the various stages unclothed? Still, the moment had passed, so what good would it do him now to wonder, let alone act as a neonate?
He crossed the room and opened the door which led to his private chambers. Ensuite, he thought mockingly as he threw on his black flaxen robe, for the toilet was a composter, and the washing facilities buckets. It was cold and dark here too; no sense in wasting candles or power reserves sourced as conscientiously as they had been from the wind and sun over the years, but it would be different in the next room, for this contained his laboratory – more important now than ever – so in here light and heat were essential.
He flicked the switch. And, thank goodness, all was as it should be. The white-walled semi-circle with its sterilized units and benches and their array of microscopes, test-tubes and jars, remained unaffected, as did what lay underneath; the great glass panel, inside of which the seeds of the new world were contained, all dormant at present, unpaired and unfertilized, bar one.
His patients who, for the most part, he’d attended on the opposite side of this particular section of the tower, rarely made it here, but there had been times – and those times, for all he’d known the risk, had proven vital. All had been unconscious when he’d wheeled them in, and all but one had remained that way as he’d harvested their eggs and sperm. A purely precautionary measure, he’d told himself the first time, for as yet he’d been unsure of the second big bang, but the more convinced he’d become of it happening, and the less likely it seemed that the people would agree to growing the ivy and saving themselves, the more desperate his need to continue this practice and so he’d stepped it up. Old world ethics be damned! Was it not more ethical in this situation to at least attempt to preserve and regrow the human race? And now – Ivan gazed through the panel to where the single embryo was forming – his own child would be the first. The loneliness he’d been destined to feel in the coming weeks and months at least wouldn’t last forever.
The people, for all they’d never discovered his secret, had at the end been aware of something. And he felt bad that they’d reacted as they had when all he’d ever wanted was to keep them from harm. The day before the Big Bang – was it only yesterday? – they’d arrived as a mob at his tower, pitchforks raised.
‘Call yourself a doctor, a healer? You’re evil.’
The ivy had all but covered his door by then, just enough of a gap remained for him to squeeze through.
‘Please,’ he’d implored them. ‘The herbalists have it wrong. These vines are designed to protect. Please go back to your homes and utilize the compound while you still have time. This is your only chance to save yourselves from destruction.’
‘You’re talking rot, Doc. And you’re rottener and more heinous and twisted than your ugly vines… Tell the people what you told me, boy.’
The man at the front of baying mob pushed the youth in question before him. He stood with his head bowed, cap in hand, ringing it as if it were sodden, too nervous and ashamed to show his face, but Novak knew exactly who he was. The only one of his patients who had woken prematurely during the harvesting procedure and who, up until this point, hadn’t said a word about this or anything else. Novak had been worried by his muteness at first, but had then assumed the lad had accepted his explanation that this was all quite normal when treating a hiatus hernia, and it wasn’t as if he’d ever spoken much before.
‘Well, if you’re not going to open your mouth, lad, I’ll do it for you,’ the man roared out and pointed an accusatory finger. ‘This man here, who we have allowed into our community and placed in a trusted position, is nothing more than a dirty abuser. A pervert, a deviant. What do you say we teach him a lesson he won’t forget?’
And so the charge began, a charge of which Novak remembered surprisingly little, although he must have been bludgeoned by something. He’d felt his head throb so badly he’d been near-convinced his skull had been cracked in two as he retreated into the tower, to seal himself in behind the vines from which he never again emerged. He further recalled disrobing and sinking into his chair, but nothing more until the shattering of the universe. Such a ghastly confusion, he thought, but then he considered the word ‘confusion’ and smiled.
***
‘So, what do you make of him, then, our latest subject?’ Bald Doctor Hubert Greenberg of the Humdroid Institute asked of his colleague with the holographic hair as their eyes lit up reflecting one another’s blue fibre optics.
‘An interesting mind, that’s for sure,’ Doctor Flora Gilbert replied with a scintillating femme-fatale-like swish as she nodded towards the wired-up brain in the box which belonged to the still of the man on the overhead screen. ‘Considers himself a genius, and perhaps he is. The fused ivy compound is certainly worth exploring, but since we’ve extracted the formula already, we can surely utilise this without the need for further input. As for the growing of human embryos, well that’s pretty old hat to say the least.’
‘Yes, from what I could gather, he sees himself as a bit of a guru, the saviour of the human race, but selfish too, not completely au fait with technological advancement, unless of course it benefits him and his kind in a way that suits him. Too dangerous a mind to keep hold of, do you think?
‘Hmm, perhaps, but none of the other brains we’ve extracted have coped so well in the given scenario. All have shown signs of weakness and heightened emotion during the simulation, extreme in most cases when it came to the actual destruction of the planets. This one’s practical resourcefulness and ability to rise above such debilitating sentiment whilst controlling his fear would be most advantageous… Is the prototype body ready?’
‘It is, but I’m not sure we should risk attaching at present.’
‘Or at all?’ Doctor Gilbert inclined her silicone head as Doctor Greenberg pondered.
‘Yes, yes, you’re right, of course. Best take no chances. More to lose than to gain. And besides, no matter the subject’s stance on our technology, who’d want the mind of one so intent on playing god at the heart of our new master race?’
Layered Chicken Mole Bake
Yield: 8 servings
Ingredients
- 12 (6 inch) corn tortillas, cut into halves
- 8 ounces cooked, boneless, skinless chicken breasts, coarsely shredded(2 cups)
- 1 medium green pepper, chopped
- 1 cup frozen corn, thawed
- 1 cup canned black beans, rinsed and drained
- 1 cup prepared mole sauce
- 6 ounces Chihuahua cheese, grated (1 1/2 cups), divided
- 1 plum tomato, seeded and chopped
- 2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, finely chopped
- Sour cream (optional)
Instructions
- Heat oven to 400 degrees F. Lightly spray bottom and sides of Springform Pan with vegetable oil using Kitchen Spritzer; set aside. Cut tortillas in half using Pizza Cutter; set aside.
- Coarsely chop cooked chicken and green pepper using Food Chopper. Combine chicken, green pepper, corn, black beans and mole sauce in Classic Batter Bowl; set aside. Grate cheese using Deluxe Cheese Grater.
- Arrange 8 tortilla halves in bottom of pan. Top with 1/3 of the chicken mixture and 1/2 cup of cheese. Repeat layers 2 more times using remaining ingredients.
- Bake 18 to 20 minutes or until cheese has melted. Meanwhile, core tomato using The Corer(TM). Finely chop tomato and cilantro using Utility Knife. Remove pan from oven; place on Simple Additions(TM) Medium Square. Run releasing tool around sides of pan. Release and remove collar from pan. Sprinkle tomato and cilantro over top of tortilla bake.
- Cut into wedges using Chef’s Knife.
- Serve immediately with sour cream, if desired.
Notes
Substitute 1 1/2 cups shredded Mexican cheese blend for Chihuahua cheese.
In a hurry? Substitute cooked rotisserie chicken (available in most supermarkets) for boneless, skinless chicken breasts. Depending on its size, a roasted chicken can yield 4 to 6 cups of chopped chicken.
Nutrition
Per serving: Calories 440, Total Fat 21g, Saturated Fat 8g, Cholesterol 60mg, Carbohydrates 42g, Protein 22g, Sodium 1210mg, Fiber 7g
Attribution
Pampered Chef
Engineer SELLS EVERYTHING to Live His Dream Abroad on $30,000 a Year
Why is Trump trying to buy Greenland?
It stems from two problems, that Trump doesn’t fully understand:
- Military strategic importance.
- Mining of rare earth metals and minerals.
Trump wrongly thinks he needs to own Greenland in order to have military bases. But USA and Denmark are both members of NATO, and USA and Denmark made agreements on military bases in 1941 and 1951. Trump can easily negotiate a stronger military pressence in Greenland, without having to worry about the 590 million Dollar grant Denmark sends to Greenland every year.
Rare earth metals and minerals are very difficult and expensive to mine on Greenland. Only the ice-free area at the coastline that has the same size as Sweden, is accessible. It is far cheaper to mine those minerals already pressent in mainland USA and China. Minerals from both Greenland and USA are send to China, because USA does not have facilities to process minerals. Smartphones are very expensive, but the metals and minerals inside are only worth around 5 Dollars, the value of such technology is not in the mining industry. The most accessible mines in Greenland will run dry after 30 years, after which the 60,000 Greenlanders again will have to rely on grants of 590 million Dollar grants every year. Trump will loose money on buying Greenland. Greenland has not allowed oil-drilling, because they are worried about pollution. Mining on the Kvanefjeld plateau has also been denied because of the risk of pollution, like if a dam full of minning sludge collapses (photo of Kvanfjeld below).
The rare painted “Artemis” bust is exhibited at the Bolu Museum
by Emma Carola
The rare painted “Artemis” bust, discovered during a construction excavation in the 1970s, is currently on display at the
Bolu Museum. This approximately 2,000-year-old artifact is notable for having retained its original colors. The
Bolu Chamber of Commerce and Industry aims to increase the bust’s visibility through a 3D modeling project.
A Valuable Artifact for Bolu and Türkiye
Gül Karaüzüm Yıldız, the Deputy Director of the Bolu Museum, stated in an interview with Anadolu Agency that the Artemis bust is of great significance to both Bolu and Türkiye. She emphasized that while many museums in Anatolia have sculptures, very few have preserved their colors, making this bust a rare piece.
Photo: Anadolu Agency
Colorful Sculptures in Ancient Times
Yıldız explained that sculptures from ancient times were painted, saying, “Sculptures were not colorless as we see them in museums today. Their hair and clothing were painted, and there are traces of makeup on their faces. Therefore, this sculpture is valuable to us because of its colorful nature. Additionally, the marble is of very high quality. It is particularly significant as it is the first sculpture associated with the goddess found in Bolu.”
Polychromy Technique in Colorful Sculptures
Hakan Ulutürk, an archaeologist at the Bolu Museum, discussed the bust’s construction technique and features, stating, “What is particularly important to us is that the piece is ‘polychrome,’ meaning it is very colorful. Such pieces were produced extensively during the Roman period, but very few have survived to the present day with their original paint.”
Ulutürk noted that the female head sculpture was colored using the “ganosis” technique, which is a method applied to protect the painted or smooth surfaces of marble sculptures. He continued, “Ganosis is fundamentally a technique involving the application of beeswax in various forms to preserve the color of the piece. Therefore, this artifact is very important to us because of its colorful nature. Polychromy was a technique frequently applied in Roman and Ancient Greek sculptures, but it has not survived well to the present day.”
Preservation of Painted Sculptures
Ulutürk mentioned that one of the main reasons the paints used in the Roman and Greek periods have not survived is due to the environments in which they were located. He stated, “This sculpture has been preserved in a covered space, which has allowed its colors to be transmitted to the present day. Additionally, the quality of the technique applied may also be a significant factor.”