Summer has come to an end, and with that ending comes the start of school, winterizing projects, and, finally, some free time to pursue my writing. This year, however, is a very special year since we're playing host to a very important guest.
A monarch butterfly cocoon.
You see 'Pudge' (as we named our caterpillar) came to us as an egg just about 4 weeks ago now, a little dot on the back of a milkweed leaf which we plucked and brought into the safety of our home. While my son and I have been raising monarch caterpillars all summer long, watching this particular little creature hatch out and grow into the fattest larvae we'd ever seen, has been a special joy. Pudge even developed a personality during he stay with us, since s/he would sulk for a bit whenever we changed the milkweed cuttings out for fresh ones (though, of course, s/he would go right back to eating after awhile). When the day came that Pudge decided it was time to find that all important spot at the top of the cage, we all watched carefully. Transforming into a chrysallis is not a sure thing, after all - sometimes things go wrong, as we'd unhappily learned from studying other caterpillars during the summer.
This time, though, we needn't have worried. The resulting cocoon is the biggest and prettiest to date.
The day is now upon us when Pudge is due to emerge in his or hers adult state, transformed by the miracle of metamorphasis into a beautiful butterfly. Being mid-September, however, my concerns for Pudge have taken a different turn. It's been quite awhile since I've seen any monarchs flitting around our property, which probably means that they all have begun their great migration to Mexico. And the weather here has been unseasonably cool, which casts a giant shadow on what might await Pudge in the future.
Still, the latest forecasts have been promising. All we can do is wait and watch, and, when the day comes and Pudge (who'll be rechristened upon his emergence) is ready to take flight, set him or her free. Who knows? Maybe, just maybe, Pudge will be one of those fortunate Monarchs who complete their migratory journey - and his or hers offspring just may be among those who return to our property next spring to start the entire cycle over again.
For more information on Monarch Caterpillars and Butterflies, click HERE.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Moriarity's Reprise - Part 2
“Your observations are truly noteworthy, Watson,” he said, as he returned to his seat, drink in hand. “But, in the end, none of the women documented in those case files from 160 years ago can hold a candle to Sylvia Moriarity.”
There was no getting around the subject now. “How has Sylvia come under your scope again?” I asked. “I thought you were tying up loose ends on that John Stewart case we just completed.”
“I was,” Holmes said. “It is true we caught the assassin – Leona Ducati, as cold-blooded a killer as ever there was – but I was interested in the power behind Miss Ducati. I found my thread, Watson, and I followed it, until, after a thousand cunning windings, it led me to Sylvia Moriarty, CEO of Lexitant Technologies.”
I sat up straight. “Then you have evidence to indict her?” I said.
Holmes shook his head, and setting aside his drink, rose to his feet again. “She is the greatest schemer of the millennium,” he said as he began pacing, “the power behind every deviltry, the controller of organized crime, gifted with a brain that is inexorably shaping the world to her wishes – and yet, so exhaustive is her self-effacement, so immune is she from criticism, that I cannot find enough evidence against her to stand in a court of law.”
“It is remarkable, come to think of it,” I said. “All that I have read about her paints her as an upstanding citizen. Born to wealthy parents, attended only the best schools, graduated summa cum laude from Universal Technological Institute… Even today, the news was touting some philanthropic venture or other of hers.”
“Ah, but there’s a dark side to Sylvia Moriarity, one that the journalists dare never show for fear of their own safety,” Holmes said. “For instance, were you aware that, at the age of 13, Sylvia was caught hacking into the American security network? Her parents hushed the matter up quickly, of course. And that treatise she wrote at the age of 21 – ‘Microprocessors, the Third Wave.’ Did you know that it was based in large part on the work of the brilliant but relatively unknown software pioneer Vincent Chang, a man who happened to disappear shortly before Sylvia’s dissertation was published? That is not to imply that Miss Moriarty doesn’t have a brain of the first order – she does, make no mistake. But it illustrates what lengths she will go in order to eliminate any and all competition.”
“But then, how can you possibly hope to beat her?” I asked, as our general-use computer beeped, warning that new mail had just arrived.
“No one is infallible, Watson,” he said, crossing over to his desk. “One day, Sylvia will make a trip – perhaps only a little, little trip – and then, I will be upon her.”
I rose from my chair and stretched as Holmes pulled up the new message and scanned its contents. To my surprise, I heard him mutter a low oath. “No sender; virtually untraceable,” he added, as I came up behind him and stared at the note’s brief contents.
The words - “Dear me, Mr. Homes. Dear me!” - were all that met my eyes.
“A point for you, Sylvia,” Holmes said, straightening, his grey eyes growing dark with cold fury. “But one day, my time will come, I promise you.”
“May I be there to see it with you,” I said. But even as I spoke, the icy fingers of a dreadful premonition crept slowly down my spine.
There was no getting around the subject now. “How has Sylvia come under your scope again?” I asked. “I thought you were tying up loose ends on that John Stewart case we just completed.”
“I was,” Holmes said. “It is true we caught the assassin – Leona Ducati, as cold-blooded a killer as ever there was – but I was interested in the power behind Miss Ducati. I found my thread, Watson, and I followed it, until, after a thousand cunning windings, it led me to Sylvia Moriarty, CEO of Lexitant Technologies.”
I sat up straight. “Then you have evidence to indict her?” I said.
Holmes shook his head, and setting aside his drink, rose to his feet again. “She is the greatest schemer of the millennium,” he said as he began pacing, “the power behind every deviltry, the controller of organized crime, gifted with a brain that is inexorably shaping the world to her wishes – and yet, so exhaustive is her self-effacement, so immune is she from criticism, that I cannot find enough evidence against her to stand in a court of law.”
“It is remarkable, come to think of it,” I said. “All that I have read about her paints her as an upstanding citizen. Born to wealthy parents, attended only the best schools, graduated summa cum laude from Universal Technological Institute… Even today, the news was touting some philanthropic venture or other of hers.”
“Ah, but there’s a dark side to Sylvia Moriarity, one that the journalists dare never show for fear of their own safety,” Holmes said. “For instance, were you aware that, at the age of 13, Sylvia was caught hacking into the American security network? Her parents hushed the matter up quickly, of course. And that treatise she wrote at the age of 21 – ‘Microprocessors, the Third Wave.’ Did you know that it was based in large part on the work of the brilliant but relatively unknown software pioneer Vincent Chang, a man who happened to disappear shortly before Sylvia’s dissertation was published? That is not to imply that Miss Moriarty doesn’t have a brain of the first order – she does, make no mistake. But it illustrates what lengths she will go in order to eliminate any and all competition.”
“But then, how can you possibly hope to beat her?” I asked, as our general-use computer beeped, warning that new mail had just arrived.
“No one is infallible, Watson,” he said, crossing over to his desk. “One day, Sylvia will make a trip – perhaps only a little, little trip – and then, I will be upon her.”
I rose from my chair and stretched as Holmes pulled up the new message and scanned its contents. To my surprise, I heard him mutter a low oath. “No sender; virtually untraceable,” he added, as I came up behind him and stared at the note’s brief contents.
The words - “Dear me, Mr. Homes. Dear me!” - were all that met my eyes.
“A point for you, Sylvia,” Holmes said, straightening, his grey eyes growing dark with cold fury. “But one day, my time will come, I promise you.”
“May I be there to see it with you,” I said. But even as I spoke, the icy fingers of a dreadful premonition crept slowly down my spine.
This and That
Well, it certainly has been awhile! Lots of things to write about like monarch butterflies, and lost peahens. Still, writing requires time, and being mom to an at-home nearly 13-year-old during the summer months means keeping VERY busy. Until I get a spare moment, please enjoy the following: the second installment of "Moriarity's Reprise."
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Moriarity's Reprise - Part 1
One of the biggest challenges I personally face during the summer is finding time to sit down and actually write. The pressures of being home with a pre-teen and keeping that young person active means that I have to get creative in order to be creative, if you catch my meaning ;).
That being said, until I can actually find a moment to wax prosaic on some other topic, please enjoy installment number 1 of "Moriarity's Reprise". Like its predecessor, "The Case of the Missing Amati," it is a Sherlock Holmes pastiche based on a futuristic Sherlock.
Moriarity's Reprise - Part 1
The sound of the back door slamming jolted me awake.
“Draw the shutters, will you Mrs. Hudson?’ I heard Holmes say as I sat up in my chair and rubbed the remnants of my impromptu snooze from my face. “And please fix me a caramel chocolate latte.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” the house computer replied in its feminine monotone. “I shall notify you when your beverage is ready.”
As the shutters automatically started to close, Holmes walked into the living room and, crossing to his chair, sank wearily into it. I thought that he looked thinner and paler than usual.
“Yes, I have been using myself up a bit too freely of late, Watson,” he said before I could ask, stretching out his long legs. “I’ve concluded that my illustrious predecessor had a much easier time of it in his age. I often wondered what he would have made of the women of today.”
“Sylvia Moriarity again?” I asked.
“Yes, Sylvia,” Holmes muttered, and leaning his head back, shut his eyes.
The words “illustrious predecessor” always meant one thing coming from Escott Sherlock Holmes, or rather, was a reference to only one person – the Victorian Sherlock Holmes, the man whose genetic material was the basis for much of Escott’s own DNA. As his friend and colleague, I, James C. Watson, understood that better than anyone else, and better than anyone else, I understood the huge burden this legacy placed on Escott. It drove him to such rarefied achievements, that British Intelligence now considered him their top agent, despite his unofficial status.
Yet I also knew that another impetus lay behind those achievements, one that stemmed from a person living in the here and now: Sylvia Moriarty, the descendant of the self-proclaimed illegitimate son of the infamous mathematics professor, was fast becoming Escott’s greatest antagonist.
“I don’t know, Escott,” I said, hoping to ease his mind towards the mundane. “I think you are underrating the experiences that Sherlock endured during his career. Take for instance, the young woman who was so enamored with that ruthless German, Baron Gruner. She certainly had a will of iron.”
“Violet De Merville,” Holmes said, without opening his eyes. “And Baron Gruner was Austrian, not German.”
“Well, and then there was that unnamed noblewoman, who shot and killed the despicable blackmailer, Charles Augustus Milverton. And finally, there was Irene Adler, the only woman ever to beat Sherlock Holmes. You have to admit, she showed not only fortitude but intelligence.”
Holmes’ eyes flashed opened as he lifted his head. “I hardly think, Watson, that either a woman desperate to marry well, or a woman caught in the grips of despair, fall into the category of being strong willed. As for Irene Adler – well, one can hardly say that my predecessor was in his best form on that case. After all, he allowed himself to be duped from the start when he assumed his client was the victim and not the persecutor.”
His grey eyes flitted irritably towards the kitchen. “Mrs. Hudson, isn’t that latte done yet?”
“It’s just finished, Mr. Holmes,” the house computer intoned.
Rising from his chair, Holmes crossed to the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room and, reaching in, retrieved a large, frothy, steaming mug. I watched as he took a long draught from his drink, his eyes closing as if the soothing influence was grateful to him.
That being said, until I can actually find a moment to wax prosaic on some other topic, please enjoy installment number 1 of "Moriarity's Reprise". Like its predecessor, "The Case of the Missing Amati," it is a Sherlock Holmes pastiche based on a futuristic Sherlock.
Moriarity's Reprise - Part 1
The sound of the back door slamming jolted me awake.
“Draw the shutters, will you Mrs. Hudson?’ I heard Holmes say as I sat up in my chair and rubbed the remnants of my impromptu snooze from my face. “And please fix me a caramel chocolate latte.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” the house computer replied in its feminine monotone. “I shall notify you when your beverage is ready.”
As the shutters automatically started to close, Holmes walked into the living room and, crossing to his chair, sank wearily into it. I thought that he looked thinner and paler than usual.
“Yes, I have been using myself up a bit too freely of late, Watson,” he said before I could ask, stretching out his long legs. “I’ve concluded that my illustrious predecessor had a much easier time of it in his age. I often wondered what he would have made of the women of today.”
“Sylvia Moriarity again?” I asked.
“Yes, Sylvia,” Holmes muttered, and leaning his head back, shut his eyes.
The words “illustrious predecessor” always meant one thing coming from Escott Sherlock Holmes, or rather, was a reference to only one person – the Victorian Sherlock Holmes, the man whose genetic material was the basis for much of Escott’s own DNA. As his friend and colleague, I, James C. Watson, understood that better than anyone else, and better than anyone else, I understood the huge burden this legacy placed on Escott. It drove him to such rarefied achievements, that British Intelligence now considered him their top agent, despite his unofficial status.
Yet I also knew that another impetus lay behind those achievements, one that stemmed from a person living in the here and now: Sylvia Moriarty, the descendant of the self-proclaimed illegitimate son of the infamous mathematics professor, was fast becoming Escott’s greatest antagonist.
“I don’t know, Escott,” I said, hoping to ease his mind towards the mundane. “I think you are underrating the experiences that Sherlock endured during his career. Take for instance, the young woman who was so enamored with that ruthless German, Baron Gruner. She certainly had a will of iron.”
“Violet De Merville,” Holmes said, without opening his eyes. “And Baron Gruner was Austrian, not German.”
“Well, and then there was that unnamed noblewoman, who shot and killed the despicable blackmailer, Charles Augustus Milverton. And finally, there was Irene Adler, the only woman ever to beat Sherlock Holmes. You have to admit, she showed not only fortitude but intelligence.”
Holmes’ eyes flashed opened as he lifted his head. “I hardly think, Watson, that either a woman desperate to marry well, or a woman caught in the grips of despair, fall into the category of being strong willed. As for Irene Adler – well, one can hardly say that my predecessor was in his best form on that case. After all, he allowed himself to be duped from the start when he assumed his client was the victim and not the persecutor.”
His grey eyes flitted irritably towards the kitchen. “Mrs. Hudson, isn’t that latte done yet?”
“It’s just finished, Mr. Holmes,” the house computer intoned.
Rising from his chair, Holmes crossed to the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room and, reaching in, retrieved a large, frothy, steaming mug. I watched as he took a long draught from his drink, his eyes closing as if the soothing influence was grateful to him.
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