SkeeK
The Original, Rock n' Roll Doggie, VIP PASS
Part one of my neverending quest to make arts courses out of science courses... I wrote this story as a physics independant study project.
Uh.. just as a warning, this story is kinda messed. I hope no one is offended, I don't know that anyone would be, but sometimes people are. *shrug*. well if you get through it, let me know what you think.
The pencil had slid across the desk and come to rest, its momentum absorbed by kinetic friction. Now it teetered precariously on the edge, the eraser-end protruding over the carpeted floor 0.76 metres below. If the tip was .002 metres closer to the edge of the desk, the 9.8 m/s2 downward acceleration would have captured it and pulled it down. All that kept it on the desk was a negligible coefficient of static friction. He reached over and carelessly flicked the end of the pencil sideways. The force of his nail impacting the softwood was transferred into kinetic energy and the pencil twirled for a few seconds, creating a trivial amount of centrifugal force before leaving its security on the desk and utilising all its potential energy in a haphazard tumble to the floor.
He had known, before he had even touched the pencil, exactly what its downward trajectory would look like. Known how high and in what manner it would bounce. Known how much heat energy would be created by friction as it met the end of its flight. Even known how the very low amplitude sound waves, emitted as the pencil struck the carpet, would interact with every object in the room. He didn?t calculate any of the numbers. Because he didn?t know any of the numbers. Nor did he know any equations like Ek=1/2mv2. He had no use for mu or any other Greek letter. He simply knew.
Anywhere he looked, he understood what was going on at the most basic level. He understood the interaction of charged particles, though he didn?t know them as electrons or protons. He knew how hard he would have to throw a pebble to break a window the instant he saw it. When he rolled dice he knew exactly what numbers would show. He could instantly tell the tension of a rope, the frequency of a sound wave, or the precise location of a penny visually dislodged by refraction. He understood it all, but without any extra mathematical or scientific baggage.
Raymond McClaren sat on his swivelling desk chair, his mind screaming at him every detail, every force, and every imminent motion. He looked toward the wooden door of his room, and hated knowing exactly how heavily he would have to swing his heel to bust off the door handle, the sharp burst of pain, and the dull residual ache.
As a four year old, the sandbox had been a much more complicated pastime for him than for most children. Accounting for each minuscule grain of sand had been a welcome challenge. He scooped, packed, and watered like the other kids, but where they ended up with lumps of sand vaguely resembling medieval edifices, Raymond delighted in the regular, geometric shapes. He discerned where every grain needed to be in order for a perfect tetrahedron to disrupt the disordered sandbox landscape. The real amusement though, was in watching the small, loose grains of worn or disintegrated rock tumbling over each other as a landslide engulfed the perfect shape, or splashing violently into the surrounding air. For a few brief seconds, the chaos would overwhelm his unwanted recognition of the inherent patterns of the universe. He watched in bemusement, even joy, as the tiny grains dove, circled, and spun gracefully in a mysterious, momentarily unpredictable, dance. He was eight years older now though, presumably wiser, and a sandbox no longer held the same ability to enchant as it once had.
A knock on the door, no doubt signifying suppertime, sent waves of sound flooding into his ears. He stood. The door clicked and swung open to reveal his mother. Short, with tawny hair tied behind her head in a bun, wearing a pale blue skirt. As always, her eyes looked tired and worried, creased by lines unexpected at her age. She smiled wanly as Raymond trudged towards her. He continued past, not pausing in recognition, seeing the face and the structure of muscle and fibre, but not understanding any sentiment held therein.
To every query or remark Raymond responded with a similar, noncommittal grunt. ?How are you feeling today, Raymond? Did you look at that book I brought you at all? Your father called today, he may be coming up to visit in August.? Once seated at the table he took the plastic fork in hand and began the familiar process of moving the store-bought lasagne in stages from the cardboard plate to his stomach.
Raymond didn?t care for books, though his mother brought them to him almost daily. He made time to leaf through each one (time was definitely in abundance), but all he saw were useless blackened scribbles. He knew there was a pattern to these repeated shapes, but he didn?t care to discern it. The pictures were slightly more interesting once he recognized the splashes of colour were intended as representations of one aspect or another of the world around him. So simple though, so flat, stationary, and lifeless. Depressing. Music was definitely more interesting?the way the frequencies reverberated and played off of one another to form complex patterns. Television though, while he was still allowed to watch it, had been one of the few pastimes of others that he had truly enjoyed. Though he had no concept of TV plots or favourite actors, the dance of AC current fuelled electrons and those that shot from cathode and anode toward coloured phosphorous, and the unpredictability of projected image... it was fascinating enough to keep him entertained for hours.
After supper his mother supervised him as he trudged back up the stairs. Back in his room, he sat once more, and stared out the window. In the summer the window was sometimes left open to provide a supply of fresh air to circulate and liven the stagnant air of his unvarying room. He remembered the glee of watching the cascade of glass shards that ricocheted off one another after he had hurled the bathroom mirror through his window. The glitter of light reflected and refracted as the crystalline shards spun and spiralled through the air. The pattern that formed as thousands of intricately randomized fragments sprinkled on the ground six metres below. Those short, brilliant moments of unpredictability in what was otherwise an entirely predictable world. That was beauty. When he had been restricted from leaving his room, one year after he broke his window for the first time and one year before he idly flicked a pencil onto the floor, his window had been replaced by a transparent sheet so strong he knew it was futile to even attempt breaking it. Now the only thing that could pique his interest was the places his imagination took him.
* * *
The sun painted Mirren Crescent in a layer of heat and sweat. The pungency of decay and unwanted refuse lifted through the air to Derrick?s nostrils as he heaved a weighty green plastic bag to the rear of the truck.
?Fuckin? Asshole!?
?There?s only one way to stick in garbage in a truck, and I?m doing it. So you can shut up. And if there?s a hole in the bag, well that sure ain?t my fault now is it??
But Jeremy wasn?t talking to Derrick. His eyes were narrowed at second story window of the white house across the street.
?What??
?You never heard of that kid up there? What he did??
Derrick shook his head. He hadn?t worked this part of town long, wasn?t up on the local gossip yet.
?This kid?s majorly messed up. Some sort of retard or something. Can?t talk properly... stupid in the head and all. Anyway, supposedly the only way this kid has fun is by destroying things. Yeah I know, pretty screwed up. So one day this little shit somehow, God knows how, gets his hands on some explosives... Six fucking people dead. Two kids for fuck sakes! And this kid just sits there, this big stupid grin on his face. He?s under house arrest with his mother now somehow. They should lock him up. When shit like this happens... I dunno man, nothing makes sense. It?s one crazy, fucked up world.?
Uh.. just as a warning, this story is kinda messed. I hope no one is offended, I don't know that anyone would be, but sometimes people are. *shrug*. well if you get through it, let me know what you think.
The pencil had slid across the desk and come to rest, its momentum absorbed by kinetic friction. Now it teetered precariously on the edge, the eraser-end protruding over the carpeted floor 0.76 metres below. If the tip was .002 metres closer to the edge of the desk, the 9.8 m/s2 downward acceleration would have captured it and pulled it down. All that kept it on the desk was a negligible coefficient of static friction. He reached over and carelessly flicked the end of the pencil sideways. The force of his nail impacting the softwood was transferred into kinetic energy and the pencil twirled for a few seconds, creating a trivial amount of centrifugal force before leaving its security on the desk and utilising all its potential energy in a haphazard tumble to the floor.
He had known, before he had even touched the pencil, exactly what its downward trajectory would look like. Known how high and in what manner it would bounce. Known how much heat energy would be created by friction as it met the end of its flight. Even known how the very low amplitude sound waves, emitted as the pencil struck the carpet, would interact with every object in the room. He didn?t calculate any of the numbers. Because he didn?t know any of the numbers. Nor did he know any equations like Ek=1/2mv2. He had no use for mu or any other Greek letter. He simply knew.
Anywhere he looked, he understood what was going on at the most basic level. He understood the interaction of charged particles, though he didn?t know them as electrons or protons. He knew how hard he would have to throw a pebble to break a window the instant he saw it. When he rolled dice he knew exactly what numbers would show. He could instantly tell the tension of a rope, the frequency of a sound wave, or the precise location of a penny visually dislodged by refraction. He understood it all, but without any extra mathematical or scientific baggage.
Raymond McClaren sat on his swivelling desk chair, his mind screaming at him every detail, every force, and every imminent motion. He looked toward the wooden door of his room, and hated knowing exactly how heavily he would have to swing his heel to bust off the door handle, the sharp burst of pain, and the dull residual ache.
As a four year old, the sandbox had been a much more complicated pastime for him than for most children. Accounting for each minuscule grain of sand had been a welcome challenge. He scooped, packed, and watered like the other kids, but where they ended up with lumps of sand vaguely resembling medieval edifices, Raymond delighted in the regular, geometric shapes. He discerned where every grain needed to be in order for a perfect tetrahedron to disrupt the disordered sandbox landscape. The real amusement though, was in watching the small, loose grains of worn or disintegrated rock tumbling over each other as a landslide engulfed the perfect shape, or splashing violently into the surrounding air. For a few brief seconds, the chaos would overwhelm his unwanted recognition of the inherent patterns of the universe. He watched in bemusement, even joy, as the tiny grains dove, circled, and spun gracefully in a mysterious, momentarily unpredictable, dance. He was eight years older now though, presumably wiser, and a sandbox no longer held the same ability to enchant as it once had.
A knock on the door, no doubt signifying suppertime, sent waves of sound flooding into his ears. He stood. The door clicked and swung open to reveal his mother. Short, with tawny hair tied behind her head in a bun, wearing a pale blue skirt. As always, her eyes looked tired and worried, creased by lines unexpected at her age. She smiled wanly as Raymond trudged towards her. He continued past, not pausing in recognition, seeing the face and the structure of muscle and fibre, but not understanding any sentiment held therein.
To every query or remark Raymond responded with a similar, noncommittal grunt. ?How are you feeling today, Raymond? Did you look at that book I brought you at all? Your father called today, he may be coming up to visit in August.? Once seated at the table he took the plastic fork in hand and began the familiar process of moving the store-bought lasagne in stages from the cardboard plate to his stomach.
Raymond didn?t care for books, though his mother brought them to him almost daily. He made time to leaf through each one (time was definitely in abundance), but all he saw were useless blackened scribbles. He knew there was a pattern to these repeated shapes, but he didn?t care to discern it. The pictures were slightly more interesting once he recognized the splashes of colour were intended as representations of one aspect or another of the world around him. So simple though, so flat, stationary, and lifeless. Depressing. Music was definitely more interesting?the way the frequencies reverberated and played off of one another to form complex patterns. Television though, while he was still allowed to watch it, had been one of the few pastimes of others that he had truly enjoyed. Though he had no concept of TV plots or favourite actors, the dance of AC current fuelled electrons and those that shot from cathode and anode toward coloured phosphorous, and the unpredictability of projected image... it was fascinating enough to keep him entertained for hours.
After supper his mother supervised him as he trudged back up the stairs. Back in his room, he sat once more, and stared out the window. In the summer the window was sometimes left open to provide a supply of fresh air to circulate and liven the stagnant air of his unvarying room. He remembered the glee of watching the cascade of glass shards that ricocheted off one another after he had hurled the bathroom mirror through his window. The glitter of light reflected and refracted as the crystalline shards spun and spiralled through the air. The pattern that formed as thousands of intricately randomized fragments sprinkled on the ground six metres below. Those short, brilliant moments of unpredictability in what was otherwise an entirely predictable world. That was beauty. When he had been restricted from leaving his room, one year after he broke his window for the first time and one year before he idly flicked a pencil onto the floor, his window had been replaced by a transparent sheet so strong he knew it was futile to even attempt breaking it. Now the only thing that could pique his interest was the places his imagination took him.
* * *
The sun painted Mirren Crescent in a layer of heat and sweat. The pungency of decay and unwanted refuse lifted through the air to Derrick?s nostrils as he heaved a weighty green plastic bag to the rear of the truck.
?Fuckin? Asshole!?
?There?s only one way to stick in garbage in a truck, and I?m doing it. So you can shut up. And if there?s a hole in the bag, well that sure ain?t my fault now is it??
But Jeremy wasn?t talking to Derrick. His eyes were narrowed at second story window of the white house across the street.
?What??
?You never heard of that kid up there? What he did??
Derrick shook his head. He hadn?t worked this part of town long, wasn?t up on the local gossip yet.
?This kid?s majorly messed up. Some sort of retard or something. Can?t talk properly... stupid in the head and all. Anyway, supposedly the only way this kid has fun is by destroying things. Yeah I know, pretty screwed up. So one day this little shit somehow, God knows how, gets his hands on some explosives... Six fucking people dead. Two kids for fuck sakes! And this kid just sits there, this big stupid grin on his face. He?s under house arrest with his mother now somehow. They should lock him up. When shit like this happens... I dunno man, nothing makes sense. It?s one crazy, fucked up world.?
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