And speaking of human rights ...

The Baha'i International Community issues a statement on the deplorable situation of the Baha'is in Iran.

"CIA Doctors Face Human Experimentation Claims" -- The Guardian

Do no harm / Just following orders: doublethink ...

I wrote about this sort of moral dirt in Double-blind. I wanted Dr. Bozeman's psychiatric experiments and research for a Cold War agenda to come off utterly plausible but safely historical. As in, left behind. In the past. Never again, ya know?

Silly me.

More here from Physicians for Human Rights.

Underwood No 5 -- yes, I think this is extremely cool

This photo from Richard Polt's The Classic Typewriter Page is not of my Underwood No 5 -- my digital camera is toast -- but it's very similar to mine, except mine has black keys. These gorgeous machines would survive Armageddon and ask for more. Cleaned and oiled, they can work just fine. My Underwood No 5 -- affectionately, The Sook -- stutters and jams on spacing, which fits.

You want truly delicious? View this Thesteampunkhome blog.

Possibilities, possibilities ..

Yes, I think this is cool

The feature article today at Wikipedia: Star Trek character Khan Noonien Singh.

--Where do you get your ideas?

I dislike that question, because I can never respond intelligently. It's right up there with --Why are there so many good writers coming out of Newfoundland? To that one I can at least throw a saucy and sincere answer: --Why are you so surprised?

But this morning, I got an idea the old-fashioned way. I looked around. Saw a guy on the bus. Felt afraid of him as he stared right through me with glazed blue eyes, as his jaw twitched and his hands flopped on his open notebook, but no way would he drop his pen. Demons, I thought. Something gnaws at him, and gnaws violently this morning. Rips flesh from his back, spits it out, digs for more. Sudden pleading - blink - agitation, fear, and that hot, hot glaze, almost a glisten now: no, not tears. I look out the window at dried-up trees, leaves brittle from desperate sucking wasps. Count to twenty-mississippi before glancing his way again; he's still staring, like he knows something terrible about me, like he's desperate not to tell me. Another woman gets off the bus -- she's much younger than me, a kholed sylph in size two jeans; he stares at her bust and butt, starved, stares back at me, writes something down.

I miss my stop.

Story title, theme, protag and antag arcs spark. Yay for me, woohoo, ain't that grand.

But something gnaws at him.