Feeling guilt and professional obligation, the Biochemist lugs the corpse of the Biologist to the two cairns by the creek. Sneezing, coughing, and suspiciously warm, she loses grip of the Biologist's jacket every ten paces or so. She falls often, hands and face now filthy, hair matted, soaked from top to bottom.
At some point while piling stones - the Biologist now half buried - she becomes feverish, delusional. Her footing becomes confused. On a trip further downstream for larger rocks she trips and plunges into the current, hands outstretched. She hits stone beneath the water. Her left wrist cracks clean in the bend of an unseen souse hole. She lashes in pain, screams, grasps for dull roots in the spring rain.
On the bank, panting, groaning, she collapses.
Several hours pass.
The Biomedical Scientist pokes her on the bottom with the Bhikkhuni's staff. She wakes, startled. Then moans, sputtering.
I thought you were dead, says the Biomedical Scientist. After an hour of waiting I started poking everything.
You gave me hyacinths first a year ago, she murmurs. They called me the hyacinth girl....
Are you okay?
No answer.
The Biomedical Student deduces that she's not okay. Gently, he takes her by the crook of the arm and lifts. She reaches out to push, wailing when pressure's put on her left hand. Shocked, he drops her. She rolls on the ground. He waits, then attempts again. She pushes with her right hand and rises. Arm over his shoulder, they walk back to the oak. Her face is marked with scrapes from the struggle. A bruise rises from her forehead.
At the oak, all attempts by the Biomedical Scientist to comfort her go unwanted. She repeatedly crawls toward the table and the pistols. Finally ceding, he helps her up, takes her to the table. She choses a pistol. He takes the other. They walk to the field. She - amazingly - manages to stand, however shakily, on her own. He walks ten paces away.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Showing posts with label biochemist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label biochemist. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Biochemist v. Biologist
The rain continues. The ground softens. The creek rises.
The Bellmaker's deck of cards and the Archivist's List of the Dead - both damp and warped from the rain - lie protected in the hole in the oak above her head, beside the ketsune statuette, eight feet above the Biochemist's head. She wears the Biographer's green bucket hat. His wax jacket's draped over her shivering body.
As she waits she sees figures in the field to the north. They trudge the earth, through the train, boots heavy and swollen with mud. Two figures, adults, sex indeterminate. They walk to the abominable shack, open the door, and disappear inside. Soon smoke rises from the shack's tin chimney.
From the road a slouched man in jeans and yellow rain boots approaches, face hidden behind the overhand of a black umbrella.
He lifts the umbrella when he arrives at the oak. The Biochemist blinks on seeing the Biologist, professor emeritus. He immediately reaches into the musty tweed jacket under his overcoat and pulls an off-white handkerchief. She makes to stand - he helps her up using the clothed hand - and provides shelter under the umbrella. She shakes off the damp.
He frowns, looking to the bodies by the north fence. That smell, he says. Hanging on the air. Almost palpable.
She asks about the faculty.
Your husband, he says, is still missing. I thought he might be here.
She says nothing.
The Bacteriology department lost an associate. You know about astronomy, their loss. Thankfully, they may have found a replacement: a man from Oxford. The geneticists have their discovery, currently under peer-review, which - as I'm sure you've heard - should make news for the university. Apart from this, nothing new: the chemists are chemists, the physicists aloof, and the geoscientists knocked three humanitiarians unconscious in the last faculty hockey game.
Why did you come? she asks.
I didn't think I had a choice.
I shot my husband.
These things happen.
I buried him by the creek under stones.
I see.
Did everyone know? Of his affiar?
No, no one. Well, some. A handful. Two dozen. So yes - everyone.
They chose their guns and take the field, standing ten paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The Bellmaker's deck of cards and the Archivist's List of the Dead - both damp and warped from the rain - lie protected in the hole in the oak above her head, beside the ketsune statuette, eight feet above the Biochemist's head. She wears the Biographer's green bucket hat. His wax jacket's draped over her shivering body.
As she waits she sees figures in the field to the north. They trudge the earth, through the train, boots heavy and swollen with mud. Two figures, adults, sex indeterminate. They walk to the abominable shack, open the door, and disappear inside. Soon smoke rises from the shack's tin chimney.
From the road a slouched man in jeans and yellow rain boots approaches, face hidden behind the overhand of a black umbrella.
He lifts the umbrella when he arrives at the oak. The Biochemist blinks on seeing the Biologist, professor emeritus. He immediately reaches into the musty tweed jacket under his overcoat and pulls an off-white handkerchief. She makes to stand - he helps her up using the clothed hand - and provides shelter under the umbrella. She shakes off the damp.
He frowns, looking to the bodies by the north fence. That smell, he says. Hanging on the air. Almost palpable.
She asks about the faculty.
Your husband, he says, is still missing. I thought he might be here.
She says nothing.
The Bacteriology department lost an associate. You know about astronomy, their loss. Thankfully, they may have found a replacement: a man from Oxford. The geneticists have their discovery, currently under peer-review, which - as I'm sure you've heard - should make news for the university. Apart from this, nothing new: the chemists are chemists, the physicists aloof, and the geoscientists knocked three humanitiarians unconscious in the last faculty hockey game.
Why did you come? she asks.
I didn't think I had a choice.
I shot my husband.
These things happen.
I buried him by the creek under stones.
I see.
Did everyone know? Of his affiar?
No, no one. Well, some. A handful. Two dozen. So yes - everyone.
They chose their guns and take the field, standing ten paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Biochemist v. Biographer
Sobs as the Biochemist drags the body of the Bioengineer, yard by yard, to the Archer’s hound's cairn.
The rain, which had abated, begins again.
A few yards west from the cairn she drops the body. She takes stones from the river and begins piling them. A pile forms, covering the Bioengineer's corpse. Larger than the Archer's hound's cairn. Exhausted after several hours of dragging and lifting and dropping, she collapses. She's soaked with tears and rain and sweat.
When the Biographer arrives, rain dripping from the brim of his light green bucket hat, down his long waxed jacket, he sneezes. Then again. Then uncontrollably, several times, before wiping his watery eyes. He's a younger man in his early thirties, who - with long face, great goatee and glassy stare - has the look of a disappointed schnauzer.
He sniffs, spots the Biochemist lying against her husband's cairn, and trods over.
He introduces himself. She nods, wiping her eyes with the cuff of her jacket. He sneezes.
Excuse me, he says. The change of seasons always brings on a cold. I can't think of anything worse.
She notifies him of the death of her husband, buried under the cairn.
The Biographer, standing awkwardly, shuffles through a list of platitudes. Coming over nothing that meets his standard, he quotes:
But who knows the fate of his bones, or how often he is to be buried? Who hath the Oracle of his ashes, or whether they are to be scattered?
The Biographer pauses for effect, folding his hands. Sir Thomas Browne, he says.
She stands.
Whose skull, the Biographer adds lightly, wiping a finger under his nose, was - I guess fittingly - stolen from his casket and kept on display at a medical museum for over a century. Until being re-interred in nineteen twenty-something. I forget the exact date. But maybe that wasn't an appropriate piece of trivia at a time like this.
No, she says. She walks toward the oak.
It probably wasn't, he agrees. He follows close behind.
They choose their guns, then walk to the field, standing ten paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The rain, which had abated, begins again.
A few yards west from the cairn she drops the body. She takes stones from the river and begins piling them. A pile forms, covering the Bioengineer's corpse. Larger than the Archer's hound's cairn. Exhausted after several hours of dragging and lifting and dropping, she collapses. She's soaked with tears and rain and sweat.
When the Biographer arrives, rain dripping from the brim of his light green bucket hat, down his long waxed jacket, he sneezes. Then again. Then uncontrollably, several times, before wiping his watery eyes. He's a younger man in his early thirties, who - with long face, great goatee and glassy stare - has the look of a disappointed schnauzer.
He sniffs, spots the Biochemist lying against her husband's cairn, and trods over.
He introduces himself. She nods, wiping her eyes with the cuff of her jacket. He sneezes.
Excuse me, he says. The change of seasons always brings on a cold. I can't think of anything worse.
She notifies him of the death of her husband, buried under the cairn.
The Biographer, standing awkwardly, shuffles through a list of platitudes. Coming over nothing that meets his standard, he quotes:
But who knows the fate of his bones, or how often he is to be buried? Who hath the Oracle of his ashes, or whether they are to be scattered?
The Biographer pauses for effect, folding his hands. Sir Thomas Browne, he says.
She stands.
Whose skull, the Biographer adds lightly, wiping a finger under his nose, was - I guess fittingly - stolen from his casket and kept on display at a medical museum for over a century. Until being re-interred in nineteen twenty-something. I forget the exact date. But maybe that wasn't an appropriate piece of trivia at a time like this.
No, she says. She walks toward the oak.
It probably wasn't, he agrees. He follows close behind.
They choose their guns, then walk to the field, standing ten paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Biochemist v. Bioengineer
She spots the Bioengineer.
Well this is awkward, she says.
He walks from the road. When he spots the Biochemist he pauses, sighs, continues. He arrives at the oak. He finds it hard to look her in the eye.
The Biochemist, in the same moderate, precise, commanding tone that won her respect from the community of scientists within the chemistry department, using the same tone and awkward poise that ultimately (in conjunction with a favorably received book that proposed the medical administration of trace chemicals believed to be organically manufactured during sex to extend the lives of celibates, so that they'd match those of married individuals) won her tenure - using these she begins an inquisition into the circumstances that led to the Bioengineer's recent flight, his dalliance with a young Registrar in the administrative department, and the discovery of a manuscript of poetry written to the girl that the Biochemist had found beneath tax returns in the desk drawer of their study. She finishes by asking why he hasn't returned her calls.
The Bioengineer pinches the bridge of his nose.
She asks if he'd like to give their relationship another chance. He asks about the paperwork. She reaffirms her refusal to sign off on a divorce. Until, she says, she's satisfied that nothing can salvage their vows.
He laughs. She accuses him of childishness.
All this, she says, is a just matter of insecurity. We discussed it with the Marriage Counselor. You admitted a fear of cerebral, successful women. It's something we both know you can overcome.
I don't want to overcome, he says. At thirty-seven, I can't overcome.
She tells him he's delusional. Boiling, he spouts. Spouting, he lists several examples of things that have an inherently greater sex appeal than her, including:
- The Book of Leviticus
- The New England Journal of Medicine
- The Gettysburg Address
- A nature documentary on the asexual reproduction of Acrtic lichen
I don't know how to make this clearer, he says. I've lost all physical attraction to you.
I think you need to temper your passion and listen to reason, she says.
He takes up a pistol and walks to the field. She takes the other and follows. They stand ten paces apart.
I thought your poems to her were laughably jejune, she says. I read them all.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Well this is awkward, she says.
He walks from the road. When he spots the Biochemist he pauses, sighs, continues. He arrives at the oak. He finds it hard to look her in the eye.
The Biochemist, in the same moderate, precise, commanding tone that won her respect from the community of scientists within the chemistry department, using the same tone and awkward poise that ultimately (in conjunction with a favorably received book that proposed the medical administration of trace chemicals believed to be organically manufactured during sex to extend the lives of celibates, so that they'd match those of married individuals) won her tenure - using these she begins an inquisition into the circumstances that led to the Bioengineer's recent flight, his dalliance with a young Registrar in the administrative department, and the discovery of a manuscript of poetry written to the girl that the Biochemist had found beneath tax returns in the desk drawer of their study. She finishes by asking why he hasn't returned her calls.
The Bioengineer pinches the bridge of his nose.
She asks if he'd like to give their relationship another chance. He asks about the paperwork. She reaffirms her refusal to sign off on a divorce. Until, she says, she's satisfied that nothing can salvage their vows.
He laughs. She accuses him of childishness.
All this, she says, is a just matter of insecurity. We discussed it with the Marriage Counselor. You admitted a fear of cerebral, successful women. It's something we both know you can overcome.
I don't want to overcome, he says. At thirty-seven, I can't overcome.
She tells him he's delusional. Boiling, he spouts. Spouting, he lists several examples of things that have an inherently greater sex appeal than her, including:
- The Book of Leviticus
- The New England Journal of Medicine
- The Gettysburg Address
- A nature documentary on the asexual reproduction of Acrtic lichen
I don't know how to make this clearer, he says. I've lost all physical attraction to you.
I think you need to temper your passion and listen to reason, she says.
He takes up a pistol and walks to the field. She takes the other and follows. They stand ten paces apart.
I thought your poems to her were laughably jejune, she says. I read them all.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Bhikkhuni v. Biochemist
The Bhikkhuni prays over the dead. She prays over the bones on the pyre and prays over the eaten and half-eaten bodies by the fence.
She returns to the oak. She looks at the design of the bell drawn at the bottom of the List of the Dead. She flips the List. On the reverse, a grocery receipt:
COSMO'S ARTICHOKE HEARTS $1.29
APPLGT P/S HAM ANTIBIOTIC-FREE $6.49
VERMONT OG MULTI GRN BR $4.19
APPLE, ROYAL GALA (weighed) $3.13
etc.
Her first thought is that the prices seem high. Her second thought: who buys artichoke hearts?
She turns the receipt over and, reading the list, awakens to its purpose. She writes Bellmaker, Bhikkhuni, Bhikkhu. Then she folds the list, places it beneath the Artist's box of matches and the Bellmaker's deck of cards, next to the pistols, and takes to tidying the area.
The Biochemist arrives, dressed in a coat and dark slacks and a black thick-knit turtleneck sweater. Her face is closed, chin predominant and cleft, nose long and sharp, eyes drooping. A spindly, awkward figure. She wears a wedding band.
When she meets the Bhikkhuni she bows slightly, glances at the pistols, then at the Bhikkhuni.
The Bhikkhuni conscripts the Biochemist. Together they move the body of the Bellmaker beside the pyre. The Biochemist, a curious woman, walks to the eaten and half-eaten bodies by the fence. The crows scatter, alighting on the wire fence nearby. The rats squeak and worm away through the tall grass. She kneels over the body of the Bacteriologist. Mostly disfigured and torn, but her pink jacket and russet hair make their mark.
Oh, she says. She calls the Bhikkhuni over. The Biochemist explains that they had worked together at the university. The Biochemist offered advice on the Bacteriologist's post-doc paper regarding the viral-induced manufacture of spider pheromones. As she says this, a large spider crawls over the Biochemist's face, and into her black and gaping mouth.
They return to the oak and select their pistols. They take the field, standing ten paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
She returns to the oak. She looks at the design of the bell drawn at the bottom of the List of the Dead. She flips the List. On the reverse, a grocery receipt:
COSMO'S ARTICHOKE HEARTS $1.29
APPLGT P/S HAM ANTIBIOTIC-FREE $6.49
VERMONT OG MULTI GRN BR $4.19
APPLE, ROYAL GALA (weighed) $3.13
etc.
Her first thought is that the prices seem high. Her second thought: who buys artichoke hearts?
She turns the receipt over and, reading the list, awakens to its purpose. She writes Bellmaker, Bhikkhuni, Bhikkhu. Then she folds the list, places it beneath the Artist's box of matches and the Bellmaker's deck of cards, next to the pistols, and takes to tidying the area.
The Biochemist arrives, dressed in a coat and dark slacks and a black thick-knit turtleneck sweater. Her face is closed, chin predominant and cleft, nose long and sharp, eyes drooping. A spindly, awkward figure. She wears a wedding band.
When she meets the Bhikkhuni she bows slightly, glances at the pistols, then at the Bhikkhuni.
The Bhikkhuni conscripts the Biochemist. Together they move the body of the Bellmaker beside the pyre. The Biochemist, a curious woman, walks to the eaten and half-eaten bodies by the fence. The crows scatter, alighting on the wire fence nearby. The rats squeak and worm away through the tall grass. She kneels over the body of the Bacteriologist. Mostly disfigured and torn, but her pink jacket and russet hair make their mark.
Oh, she says. She calls the Bhikkhuni over. The Biochemist explains that they had worked together at the university. The Biochemist offered advice on the Bacteriologist's post-doc paper regarding the viral-induced manufacture of spider pheromones. As she says this, a large spider crawls over the Biochemist's face, and into her black and gaping mouth.
They return to the oak and select their pistols. They take the field, standing ten paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
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