Daimen Icker

Daimen Icker sits at the black table in the bay window with his Mississippi topo atlas, scribbled notes and laptop perusing the scanned pages of the ancient land office records while the dog scratches and half-naked children with magic marker painted faces scurry about in the chilly air. A walk around the block, a jog around the playground, stabs of pain, forty push ups, no chin ups, Daimen Icker feels old. He collects samples for the eyeclops back at the house, a toy magnifier that projects an image increased 200x onto the television screen. Delighted to find a pair of tiny mite-like creatures in a piece of moldy wood, he returns to his ant-like tasks. Now it is dark.