All posts by Quinnland23

Robert delights in being a struggling writer and artist. He’s illustrated the children’s book “A Different Kind of Day” and worked as staff cartoonist at the Sacramento State Hornet. When he’s not struggling creatively he works as a code monkey specializing in education and user experience. Robert lives in Rocklin, California where he also struggles with writing short author bios.

Spiral Paradox (part 1)

I stood in stunned silence staring at the broken box; the delicate pieces of machine work still skittering away from the fragmented shell. I froze in that eternal moment waiting for the fallout of what I’d done. I wondered what effect it would have on me or my surroundings. What effect had it held upon the universe that might now suddenly unravel? When it became clear that the few hissing sparks were the extent of the current fallout I expanded my worry beyond myself and wondered if Whitney had heard it from his position outside.

“What the fuck was that?!” Whitney hissed from the hallway, lowering his weapon as he peaked inside. “Please tell me that was not the Marque Device we were sent for.”

“Could have been” I shrugged sheepishly scratching at the back of my hood. “There’s a lot of crap in here, and I honestly don’t know what half of this shit is.” I waved my pistol at the assorted shelves and work-tables littered with gadgets, gears and machinery of every sort.

I knelt over the remains of what had just moments before been a silver box inlaid with golden symbols and spiral patterns. “I was just taking it all in after I cleared the room, but this thing was surrounded by some sort of field.” I prodded it with the barrel of the gun to confirm the field was no longer active. “It was sitting right over there on the table, and as I reach out it just flies off its stand and shatters like it was dipped in dry ice.”

Whitney moved to the indicated stand to get a closer look. He slings his pistol under his arm and kneels down to eye-level with the small digital readout on the base of the stand. “My Verian is bit rusty but looks like ‘time,.. no, waiting for,… er, awaiting a command or input’.”

“Well just back off, we’re not inputting anything. Question is how do we proceed? The mission files were vague on visuals and unfortunately that is not the only object here that could fit the bill. We can’t take it all will us and Granger will know something is up when he comes back and finds this mess.”

“I say we take some footage for the Geek Squad, and let them sort it out. If that was the Marquee Device maybe we can just ca-” Whitney jumped suddenly as the mechanical base let out a high pitch tone. Our guns were out in a heartbeat seeking any new threat. After a quick scan Whitney slowly eased back to visual range of the digital readout. “’Request in-bound,….’, ‘Agree,… er, confirm,… gate?’,… I’m not sure what this symbol is, but I think it’s asking for a response. Oh,… oh crap,… it repeated the question,… and now there’s some type of countdown going,… but these aren’t the Verian numbers I learned.”

“Let’s clear out, take what you can, I’ll transmit visuals for tech.” Another high pitch tone sounded this one softer than the one before. “That’s not good”. Another tone, again softer. “OUT! To the extraction point, now!” Whitey strapped up his bag which still appeared to be mostly empty, slung it over a shoulder and moved to the entrance pistol leading the way.

One last tone barely audible followed by a soft voice overlaid with a second voice translated to Tellurian. “Gate paradox. Spiral redirected”.

I exchanged looks with Whitney. “Mother is not going to be happy about this!”

 

<to be continued…>

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Mean Cuisine

I would like to propose a new show for the Food Network; “Kitchen Swap – Iron Chef Edition” where top professional chefs and their picturesque TV kitchens trade places with random normal folks and their overused overpopulated suburban kitchens; Watch as Bobby Flay spends 25 minutes trying to find which drawer someone has hidden the good spatula in. Watch as he struggles to navigate the kitchen tripping over dogs and dodging Nerf bullets. Meanwhile watch as I casually prepare a full weekend brunch sipping a cocktail in the fully stocked kitchen with not a single interruption or distraction to be had. Ok perhaps more of a personal fantasy then a show pitch but it might help me to appreciate cooking again.

It had actually crossed my mind (albeit a quick sprint across the mostly vacant frontal cortex) to make this a cooking blog instead of a,… whatever this is. I could have been the next Pioneer Woman, minus the ranch, cattle and womanhood. I could have posted pretty pictures of culinary creations if I were actually capable of taking pictures half as good as the Pioneer Woman and if said creations weren’t just modified versions of stuff the Pioneer Woman has already posted.   “Ranch House Chili” lacks a certain credibility when coming from a computer programmer living in the suburbs. In all honestly I actually love to cook and have made a few recipes my own over the years or at least have waited out the fame of the original chefs enough to make my claims uncontested. The real problem comes in the form of 6 painfully picky eaters. I mean to the extent that 90% of their diet can be defined as ‘carbs and cheese’ with the remaining 10% being pure sugar. I can spend 3 hours preparing a delicious Coq au Vin only to have the kids push it aside in disgust and ask for seconds of the butter noodles I made as the side,… and then proceed to inform me, butter dripping from their chins, that the noodles would go great with frozen chicken nuggets, which in turn gets a boisterous roar of approval from the others, the very same boisterous roar of approval that my deluded mind somehow thought I’d hear for making the savory homemade chicken with a sauce reduction. “They’re both chicken for god’s sake!! Quit your bitchin and eat!” screams my inside voice, while my outside voice says with just a dash of bitterness “Fine! Eat your butter noodles, but don’t expect the Ranch House Chili tomorrow!” To which they respond with another boisterous roar of approval.

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Dog Gone

Along with the four kids our combined family also came bundled with two canine additions; a brilliantly high-strung Border Collie, Meg and a dumber than a doorstop Siberian Husky, Maya. While Meg has her own assortment of doggie quirks (number one of which is her singular devotion to Nicole to the extent that she will pine miserably by the front door until her raison d’être returns), the many annoyances of Maya are much more difficult to catalog. We could talk about the “husky tumble weeds” that drift freely about the house requiring us to strap on a vacuum cleaner like the Ghostbusters and chase down the offending hairballs, or perhaps the way she sleeps on her back until roused by a convulsive burst of gagging snorts followed by a long series of sneezes.   But by far her single biggest doggie quirk is the fact that she’s not much of a dog at all; she doesn’t come when you call her, has not an ounce of loyalty and is driven solely by self-interest; basically, she’s a large, dumb cat. She is not a member of the family sharing our home, she is a ward of the state imprisoned within our house.   Given the choice she’d run wild without a backwards glance. She plots constantly for her escape and has succeeded on multiple occasions. We’ve met more neighbors through prisoner exchange then we have from PTA, and block parties combined. Unfortunately Maya comes equipped with both the old school dog tags and a sub-dermal GPS tracker that both direct the little convict back to our front door.   During one such prison break she was taken in by a nice family of dog lovers including one little girl that was hoping and praying that Maya’s owners would never find her. How many times since then have I regretted picking her up or thought about going back to make a little girls dreams come true. I thought about it when Maya peed all over the entryway the morning I was rushing out the door for a business trip. I thought about it when Maya started treating bathroom garbage cans as her own person smorgasbord.   I thought about it when Maya got sick repeatedly all over the house, 90% of which landed predictably on carpet.

Now this last one brings us to the other joy that is Maya; the expense. Being a husky she is already predisposed to have certain joint conditions, specifically in her hips, that require some additional expenses; supplements, medicine, therapeutic beds, a doggie walker with little tennis balls on the feet,… you get the idea. And I get it too. I’m a dog lover, and dogs can be an important part of the family. But an animal that runs past your outstretched arms choosing the open road over your loving embrace does not embody the spirit of Ohana. I start to ask myself “how much money do I want to invest in an apathetic animal”. This was the dilemma, when Maya started to have difficulty standing, then walking, and then the next day became a fountain of bile. Luckily our local vet is gracious enough to be open on Sundays so the first thing in the morning we brought Maya in for a checkup knowing full well the potential money pit we were leaping into. Our worse fears were confirmed on both fronts and after a $1000 visit the radiologist suspected a possible tumor in the stomach and throughout the intestines. Now I wouldn’t be telling this story if it actually ended that horribly, I may not be organizing a Maya fan club but I’m not completely heartless,… penniless perhaps, but not heartless. So when the vet suggested we follow up with an ultra-sound we reluctantly agreed. I figured that since the diagnosis had no real treatment options we at least owed it to her to get solid confirmation of her condition. In my mind though it was merely a formality. For a fleeting moment my mind danced with the freedom of having a single dog. A loyal dog. An intelligent dog. Not a chain sneezing flight risk. It was a world free of fur drifts, free of unpleasant surprises. It was a beautiful, peaceful, allergy-friendly world. And then it was gone.

After a $500 appointment with the ultra-sound the very same tech that had, only the day before, condemned our overgrown furball to imminent doom gracefully back pedaled with a new theory that maybe it was just something she ate, like a lump of clay or an extra helping of toilet paper. The governors’ pardon on her supposed death sentence. The convict was coming home.

And now every time I see one of those husky tumbleweeds I can’t help but see little money signs; money signs drifting off her body with every step, money signs bursting off her body with every sneeze, money signs littered down the hallway with the shredded tissue paper. Every annoyance that is Maya is now decorated with sad little money signs. Is it too late to make a little girl’s dreams come true?

 

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