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January 12, 2006

January 12, 2006

You are far from home and find a pile of rocks.

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D: Walker

As I strode through the purple heather and cloying bracken of the Scottish Highlands, dressed in the kilt of my clan I paused at a small pile of rocks. Cairns frequently mark the summit of a mountain, but in this case it was more likely a burial site of some walker dead long before me. I paused to offer silent condolences and spied a full bottle of whisky tucked behind the stones.

Hill walking can be thirsty work so I downed it in one.

Then I blanched and refilled it for the next stupid bastard to make the same mistake.

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Jim: Hypotheses

Shimmering mirages danced over the wind-blown Saharan sands. The expedition’s swarthy guide wiped his brow, muttered something, and stopped the Land Rover. Scientists tumbled out of the truck and darted to the small stone mound.

“Obviously glaciation drop stones,” declared Reed, the geologist.

Thompson, the anthropologist, shook his head. “Nomadic burial site,” he surmised.

“The remains of a buried city,” Green, the archeologist, decided.

“Glaciers!”

“Graves!”

“City!”

While the debate raged, the guide strode to the mound and removed the stones. He dragged out a five-gallon water jug and filled the canteens.

It was not a proud day for science.

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Michele: The F Stop

Here eyes darted left and right as she spotted creeks and clouds and crocuses, all of which demanded her attention.

“Pull over here!” “No, here!”

Pete pulled over every time and waited patiently while listening to clicks and whirrs and sounds of triumph.

At Exit 82, she spotted a pile of rocks.

“STOP!”

Pete kept going. He’d pulled over for everything from birds to dew. He was done.

Jessica leaned over Pete, opened the door and pushed him out of the car.

The last thing Pete saw was the I BRAKE FOR PHOTO OPS bumper sticker racing away from him.

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