Refracted Neurons

Image (sans UFO) by Lewis Hines, no copyright, public domain  It was the most terrifying moment of his life, at least that’s how Grandpa used to tell it.  He was ten, and he worked at the Dunningham Mill, ducking under the looms to grab fallen bobbins and loose threads.  That always sounded terrifying to me; the thunder of the chain-driven machinery, the spools moving so fast that they seemed to blur.  “Touch one and it’d split your hand open,” he’d lisp around his denture.  “Tell me more about great-gran,” I’d beg, “and how she cooked over a fireplace.  And how you ate bread and lard every day for a year.”  “There was this one lady, got her hand caught.  Machine dragged her all the way up to the ceiling.  All the boys were trying to get a look at her bloomers,” he winked.  “Was she,” I gulped a swallow, “okay?”  “I don’t imagine she ever used that hand again.”  “The other boys, did you play with them after work?  What kind of games did you play?”  I tapped my notebook

I have a confession to make: I argue with Alexa.  Yes, by Alexa, I mean that AI voice that comes out of a device that resembles a hockey puck.  Ours has a tower that makes her louder and hard of hearing.  “Speakers,” my husband says, “To make the music sound better.” ”O . . . kay.  As long as she doesn’t have a metal arm to chase me around the house.”  I’ve seen that movie.  It didn’t end well. When we first got Alexa, I decided to see if she was a proper robot.  “Alexa,” I said, “Count by primes.”  I tried asking the question in different ways and only succeeded in getting a definition of what a prime number is.  “What kind of robot are you?  Every robot should be able to count by primes.”  Just to be very clear, I cannot count primes.  But I do think a robot should be able to.  They’re descended from a long line of calculators after all.  Alexa was not pleased with my reaction.  She turned bright red and refused to speak to me for a few minutes. For a while, I thought it was

The two groups sat across the room from each other, wariness visible in the tucked-in hands and clutched sword hilts.  Sunlight snuck in through gaps in the window blinds, illuminating the dust that twirled in the air.  Orville watched as it settled on Candidate Thorne’s mace.  She sneezed, then returned his stare. “That’s the first thing we’re going to change.  We need janitorial service, I don’t care if there’s a recession,” she leaned her muscular arms on the table, “Do you agree, Candidate Stillman?” “The dust is pretty bad,” Orville allowed, “I’m sure we could come up with a solution.” “Hm,” Thorne looked him up and down, “How old are you?” “Forty,” he showed her his teeth, “Being the elder, you, of course, should run as primary.” She didn’t flinch at his barb, “Married?” “Divorced,” he held up his left hand, a white stripe still marking his ring finger. “You’re a poor candidate,” Thorne sat back with a huff. To his left, Orville heard Kamran Abram tsk. Before