6 facts About Roaches and a Sighting by Robert Scotellaro (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) The earliest fossil cockroach is about 280 million years old—80 million years older than the first dinosaurs. The modern roach can swim, holding its breath for 40 minutes at a stretch. Its heart is a simple tube with valves. The tube can pump blood backwards and forwards. It can even stop, suddenly, without causing harm. When the roach sheds its skin, the roach turns completely white. However, the skin grows back within a period of 8 hours. Some females mate only once and are pregnant for the rest of their lives. The roach can live for a week without its head and only dies because without a mouth, it can no longer drink water.
A renowned professor of astronomy, Eric Kliemhorn, inventor of the Kliemhorn Solar-Snoop telescope, claims to have viewed them (a grander genus—Blattaria Giganticus) crawling along the photosphere of the sun—radiated and plump—riding the roiling flares, one to another. Others, he states in his published findings, “Surviving Creep-Outs,” perch on fiery tips, still as agate—feelers swiping (the only parts that move), sniffing the universe. Their shells, luminous; the color of Puerto Rican rum. From all appearances, Kliemhorn speculates, they are waiting— their bellies full and warm.
by Robert Scotellaro (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) When I enter the living room, I see the fish, a fancy platy, shoot from the tank, half-way across the room, into my son’s glass of Kool-Aid. “Oooh, gross!” He grimaces and pours the fish, drink and all, back into the water. Then my oldest daughter comes bounding down the stairs and I notice the two live baby alligators dangling from her ears by their small clenched teeth. “Hi, Dad,” she pipes. “Gotta run.” A car beeps outside. “Doesn’t that hurt?” I ask. “Not really,” she says. “They’re not squeezing all that hard. And besides, I’ve always wanted multiple piercings.” She chuckles at her own joke. I’m not amused. As she is nearly out the door, my wife comes in from the yard with a long necklace of bees, buzzing loudly, clear down to her cleavage. “Get home at a decent hour,” she says in our daughter's wake. I stare at the perfectly formed, living adornment—the symmetrical yellow and black pattern, the stationary wing-flutters against her skin. “What the hell’s going on?” I say. “She’s growing up is all.” “I don’t mean that. The earrings, the bees.” “Oh, that. It’s Freaky Animal Day, silly,” she reminds me. I take out the calendar card I keep in my wallet—study it. “Oh, yeah,” I say, a little sheepishly. “It’s hard keeping up.” She beams, then points. “So, what do you think?” “They’re… It’s lovely,” I tell her. I gaze at the calendar for a moment longer, then slip it back in my wallet. In the bedroom, I take out the bulletproof vests and lay them on the bed. I hear a tapping at the window, turning in time to see a crow poised at the glass with a red Mr. Potato Head derby hat in its beak before it flies off. I smooth out each vest, check for any unmended holes in the outer cloth. My youngest daughter’s is tiny, with pink polka-dots. Amazing, I think, that they can make them so small. There’re a few tears I’ll have to patch with duct tape ‘til I can have them professionally repaired. Later, I’ll go to the garage and dig out the helmets. I hear a loud thump!—something heavy lands on the roof and walks across it. Okay, so I screwed up, I tell myself—forgot what day it was. That’s okay. I gather the vests in a neat little pile and place them on the nightstand beside my alarm clock. Freaky animals are one thing—no biggie. But no way, no way in hell I’m forgetting tomorrow is Random Drive-by Shooting Day.
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