Manusia merupakan makhluk yang memiliki banyak misteri. Pernahkah Anda bertanya-tanya mengapa golongan darah tiap orang berbeda-beda?
Keberadaan golongan darah manusia yakni untuk menangkis penyakit menular. Namun, ketidakcocokan beberapa golongan darah sebenarnya hanyalah sebuah kecelakaan evolusi pada manusia itu sendiri.
Terdapat empat empat jenis golongan darah utama. Golongan darah A merupakan golongan darah paling kuno. Pasalnya, golongan darah ini sudah ada sejak sebelum spesies manusia berevolusi dari moyang hominidnya.
Golongan darah B diduga kuat berasal dari 3,5 juta tahun silam dari mutasi genetik yang memodifikasi salah satu gula yang berada di permukaan sel darah merah. Dimulai pada 2,5 juta tahun silam, mutasi terjadi dan membuat gen gula itu menjadi lamban.
Alhasi, tercipta golongan darah O yang tak memiliki versi gula dari golongan darah A atau B. Kemudian, ada golongan darah AB yang memiliki gula golongan darah A dan B. Gula inilah yang membuat beberapa jenis golongan darah tak cocok.
Jika darah dari donor bergolongan darah A diberikan pada orang dengan golongan darah B, sistem kekebalan tubuh penerima akan mengenali gula asing itu sebagai penyerbu dan isyarat serangan.
Reaksi kekebalan yang terjadi bisa sangat mematikan. Golongan darah O negatif dikenal sebagai ‘donor universal’ karena tak memiliki molekul yang akan memprovokasi reaksi tersebut, ‘negatif’ dalam hal ini kurangnya jenis molekul permukaan lain yang dikenal sebagai antigen Rh.
Namun, ketidakcocokan bukanlah bagian dari alasan manusia memiliki golongan darah, kata kepala pengobatan transfusi Harvey Klein di National Institute of Health Clinical Center. “Transfusi darah merupakan fenomena baru (ratusan tahun, bukan jutaan tahun lalu), dan karenanya hal ini tak ada hubungannya dengan evolusi golongan darah,” paparnya.
Penyebab evolusi atau setidaknya salah satu di antaranya adalah penyakit. Misalnya menurut ahli hematologi Christine Cserti-Gazdewich dari Toronto General Hospital, malaria tampaknya menjadi kekuatan utama di balik selektifitas golongan darah O.
Golongan darah O lebih umum dijumpai di Afrika dan bagian lain dari dunia yang memiliki beban tinggi malaria. Hal ini menunjukkan, golongan darah membawa semacam keuntungan evolusi.
“Dalam kasus ini, keuntungannya adalah, sel-sel yang terinfeksi malaria tak menempel dengan baik pada sel darah golongan darah O atau B,” kata Cserti-Gazdewich. Sel darah yang terinfeksi malaria cenderung menempel sel dengan gula golongan darah A.
Setelahnya, gumpalan yang dikenal sebagai ‘mawar’ akan terbentuk dan gumpalan ini bisa sangat mematikan ketika terbentuk di organ vital, seperti otak. Akibatnya menurut hasil studi 2007 yang diterbitkan di Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, orang bergolongan darah O tak akan merasakan sakit yang terlalu parah saat terinfeksi malaria.
Di sisi lain, orang bergolongan darah O lebih rentan pada penyakit lainnya. Misalnya, orang bergolongan darah O lebih rentan pada Helicobacter Pylori, bakteri yang menyebabkan bisul, kata Klein. Namun sayangnya, hasil riset belum menunjukkan apakah hal tersebut atau beberapa penyakit lain menjelaskan mengapa manusia masih memiliki golongan darah.
[forumvivanews]
Rabu, 29 Februari 2012
Tokoh Kartun Ketika Usianya 50 Tahun
Lukisan Dari Sel Otak Sungguh Menakjubkan
Greg Dunn sedang menempuh gelar doktor neurosains di University of Pennsylvania. Menariknya, ia menggunakan ‘teman’ sehari-seharinya menciptakan hasil seni teraneh dunia.
Greg melukis pohon namun ‘pohon’ dalam gambar ini bukanlah tanaman melainkan neuron, sel yang membentuk otak manusia. Pria ini mengaku menikmati seni lukisan Asia dalam gaya sumi-e, teknik lukis sikat Jepang.
Teknik tersebut menggunakan tinta dengan konsentrasi berbeda-beda untuk menciptakan efek ‘cuci’. “Saya terutama suka gulungan minimalis dan lukisan layar dari periode Edo di Jepang,” ujarnya.
Selain menyukai seni, ia juga menyukai neurosains, “Saat kedua gairah saya bersatu, bentuk elegan neuron bisa tercipta secara ekspresif dalam gaya sumi-e Asia,” katanya.
Neuron memang berskala kecil namun mereka memiliki keindahan yang sama yang ada dalam bentuk tradisional media (pohon, bunga dan binatang), katanya seperti ditulis DM.
Greg melukis pohon namun ‘pohon’ dalam gambar ini bukanlah tanaman melainkan neuron, sel yang membentuk otak manusia. Pria ini mengaku menikmati seni lukisan Asia dalam gaya sumi-e, teknik lukis sikat Jepang.
Teknik tersebut menggunakan tinta dengan konsentrasi berbeda-beda untuk menciptakan efek ‘cuci’. “Saya terutama suka gulungan minimalis dan lukisan layar dari periode Edo di Jepang,” ujarnya.
Selain menyukai seni, ia juga menyukai neurosains, “Saat kedua gairah saya bersatu, bentuk elegan neuron bisa tercipta secara ekspresif dalam gaya sumi-e Asia,” katanya.
Neuron memang berskala kecil namun mereka memiliki keindahan yang sama yang ada dalam bentuk tradisional media (pohon, bunga dan binatang), katanya seperti ditulis DM.
Kucing Terpendek Pecahkan Rekor Dunia
Seekor kucing munchkin dari California berhasil memecahkan rekor terpendek di dunia. Kucing ini hanya setinggi 6 inci. Seperti apa?
Organisasi pemegang rekor ini menandai Hari Hewan Sedunia dengan menyatakan Fizz Girl berusia tiga tahun milik Tiffani Kjeldergaard dari California selatan sebagai kucing dengan perawakan terpendek di dunia.
Kucing ini yang masuk dalam keluarga kucing munchkin ini memang terkenal karena kaki pendeknya yang tak biasa. Kjeldergaard mengatakan seperti ditulis UPI, ia telah memelihara kucing jenis ini namun Fizz Girl menjadi yang terpendek.
“Fizz Girl sadar dirinya pendek namun ia tak kesulitan memanjat atau menaiki tempat yang lebih tinggi,” katanya.
Rekor sebelumnya dipegang kucing campuran Himalaya-Siam bernama Itse Bitse dengan tinggi 3,75 inci. Namun kemudian, kucing ini menghilang. Berikut videonya.
[forumvivanews]
Organisasi pemegang rekor ini menandai Hari Hewan Sedunia dengan menyatakan Fizz Girl berusia tiga tahun milik Tiffani Kjeldergaard dari California selatan sebagai kucing dengan perawakan terpendek di dunia.
Kucing ini yang masuk dalam keluarga kucing munchkin ini memang terkenal karena kaki pendeknya yang tak biasa. Kjeldergaard mengatakan seperti ditulis UPI, ia telah memelihara kucing jenis ini namun Fizz Girl menjadi yang terpendek.
“Fizz Girl sadar dirinya pendek namun ia tak kesulitan memanjat atau menaiki tempat yang lebih tinggi,” katanya.
Rekor sebelumnya dipegang kucing campuran Himalaya-Siam bernama Itse Bitse dengan tinggi 3,75 inci. Namun kemudian, kucing ini menghilang. Berikut videonya.
[forumvivanews]
Sejak Homo Erectus Manusia Mulai Memasak
Nenek moyang manusia yang pertama mengolah makanan dengan cara memasaknya diduga adalah homo erectus.
Saat ini manusia mengolah makanan dengan cara memasak. Ternyata kegiatan masak-memasak sudah dilakukan sejak zaman prasejarah. Pendahulunya adalah homo erectus yang hidup sekitar 1,9 juta tahun lalu.
Diberitakan The Australian, menurut ilmuwan Universitas Harvard, kemampuan memasak dan mengolah makanan inilah yang membedakan homo erectus, Neanderthal, dan homo sapiens dengan simpanse dan primata lain.
Hasil temuan ini bersumber dari analisis DNA dan ukuran tubuh, karena peneliti berasumsi menyiapkan makanan dengan peralatan dan api,menghabiskan lebih banyak kalori.
Sebagai perbandingan, hewanyang ukurantubuhnya lebih besar,menghabiskan lebih banyak waktuuntuk makan. Homo erectus hanya membutuhkan waktu 6,1% sehari untuk makan, sedangkan manusia zaman sekarang hanya membutuhkan waktu 4,7%.
Tidak hanya homo erectus, memasak mungkin juga adalah aktivitas yang sudah dilakukan manusia purba di Afrika, seperti homo habilis dan homo rudolfensis.
Saat ini manusia mengolah makanan dengan cara memasak. Ternyata kegiatan masak-memasak sudah dilakukan sejak zaman prasejarah. Pendahulunya adalah homo erectus yang hidup sekitar 1,9 juta tahun lalu.
Diberitakan The Australian, menurut ilmuwan Universitas Harvard, kemampuan memasak dan mengolah makanan inilah yang membedakan homo erectus, Neanderthal, dan homo sapiens dengan simpanse dan primata lain.
Hasil temuan ini bersumber dari analisis DNA dan ukuran tubuh, karena peneliti berasumsi menyiapkan makanan dengan peralatan dan api,menghabiskan lebih banyak kalori.
Sebagai perbandingan, hewanyang ukurantubuhnya lebih besar,menghabiskan lebih banyak waktuuntuk makan. Homo erectus hanya membutuhkan waktu 6,1% sehari untuk makan, sedangkan manusia zaman sekarang hanya membutuhkan waktu 4,7%.
Tidak hanya homo erectus, memasak mungkin juga adalah aktivitas yang sudah dilakukan manusia purba di Afrika, seperti homo habilis dan homo rudolfensis.
[sumber]
SHORT STORY - THE DRAWER
THE DRAWER
author : lisa salje
The drawer... Quietly Gretl pushes back the blanket and unfurls her body, naked and warm inside her crumpled, pearl-grey linen nightshirt. It gleams as it crosses the path of the beam. She steadies herself onto the floor, her head melts with the shadows of the room but her long braided plait drops heavily onto the resplendent gown. At each step her tendons tense up against the skin of her slender feet. She pauses a while in front of the chest of drawers, then turns towards the door. She advances along the corridor, the soles of her feet impervious to the cold that has settled on the black and white marble tiles. From the end of the corridor, the chime of the big pendulum clock invades the silence of the sleeping house. Two gongs. Its fading echo just covers the sharp, split-second clank of a bolt being pushed back. In the bedrooms, inside the freshly starched sheets, the sleep-warm bodies move a little, turn over, then freeze again.
Gretl’s shirt billows in the soft night breeze, and for a brief instant its folds catch the shine of the stars, of a particular brilliance that night. The rhythmical crunch of the sharp gravel under her feet hardly scratches the stillness of the garden. As she brushes along the branches, they catch the sleeves of her outstretched arms, gently, as if to retain her, keep her from harm, then they let her go again as she continues on her erring journey through the garden.
“Tasso, hush!” A brusque man’s voice. The porter pulls the dog by the collar and Tasso dissolves back into the angular shadows of the gate. The porter knows. As delicately as he can he lays his brawny hand onto her sleeve. Gretl lets it happen, as if this act was part of the dream. Her eyes are fixed onto him but her gaze reaches the space between the stars. Not a word is said. Docile, she lets him guide her gently along the path, back towards the house.
The house is in alarm. One by one the rooms light up. Hurried steps down the staircase, hushed, worried voices, fluttering white night dresses and lace bonnets move into the narrowing circle of Gretl’s consciousness. She gradually wakes up to reality. An indistinct whirl of words reach her ears, of which she only catches snippets “sleepwalking again”, “Tasso”, “give a drink”... Her soles are burning, and her body is shivering real shivers of cold and shock. Her mother, her sisters are all around her bed, wrapping her in soft, caring comfort.
Between the agitated, bobbing silhouettes of her sisters’ heads her eyes focus on the chest by the wall on which someone has placed a gas lamp. Her heart constricts to a clenched fist. The bottom drawer is half open, revealing a pile of large sheets of art paper. Drawings. Her drawings from Weimar, the secret drawings she had never shown to anyone! On the uppermost drawing, lit up by the dull shine of the lamp, slender feet strung with fine tendons, sinuous muscles running along the legs ... a woman’s body. Naked. Annabel. Oh dear, dear Annabel...
SHORT STORY - THE PARK
THE PARK
author : lisa salje
After the intense heat of the day, the air in the little Parisian park is still barely breathable, even at this late hour. Yes, Sohane had overstepped the boundaries. Hamza had caught her glancing at the young Frenchman on the far bench, furtively, repeatedly. Athletic type. Good looks. Probably one of those boys from that lycée on the other side of the street. “Hey, Jean-Pierre! You coming with us?” But Jean-Pierre was revising for an exam. They’d light-heartedly teased and joked a while and disappeared again. Jean-Pierre… a fine, French name. And Sohane’s eyes had kept returning to the quietly reading boy with the good name, until Hamza had caught her unguarded gaze resting on him for longer than the split-second allowed for just a casual, indifferent look. He had joggled himself up into the old anger that always inhabited him, ready to pounce, and he had discharged at her a salvo of words whose sharp, guttural edges had grated deep into her - Dishonour of the family… Slutty behaviour... Shame… Sohane’s feeble retort had only driven Hamza to one of his uncontrolled, whimsical, dangerous rages against the whole world, and especially the French – and he’d flicked the knife.
Under her sweaty hand Sohane feels the tremor of Hamza’s suppressed anger concentrated in his right forearm. Under the big chestnut trees, darkness is swallowing one by one the line of the five benches with their unfriendly open S-shape that lets each bar dig into the flesh. She knows that she has overstepped what is permitted for a girl like her. After all, as the only boy of the family, Hamza is entrusted with the wardenship of his sister’s honour... but he can be so unpredictable. Sohane shivers. The knife in his hand, the darkness, the deep furrow of hatred between his charcoal eyes - and the French boy just a few metres away. Still holding back Hamza’s arm, Sohane risks a quick glance over. The boy has closed his folder and put his earphones on. His eyes are closed. Behind the trees a passing bus shoots an aggressive horn at some unruly pedestrian crossing by red. Sohane holds tighter. At last she feels the muscle soften and the tendons recoil inside the flesh. Only then does she release her grip, leaving a dark red mark on the brown skin. Slowly, grudgingly, Hamza folds the blade back into its handle. “Come on, let’s go home” is all he can say, a vanquished tiger’s raspy growl.
A sudden gust of wind plucks up some heat-dried leaves from the chestnut tree above their heads, lets them flutter hesitantly in the dense hot air before allowing them to land at their feet. “Oh, come on Sohane!” Hamza’s voice now quivers with impatience. The clammy jeans stick to her skin as she slowly gets up and starts to walk. To reach the little metal gate at the end of the path, now vaguely lit by a flimsy street lamp, they must pass Hamza’s intended victim. Will Hamza keep calm? Sohane’s heart beats double speed. The French boy’s pose on the torturous bench is surprisingly relaxed, as if he does not feel the unevenly curved grate prodding into his back – at any rate he is blissfully unaware of the danger brushing just past him. Nor does he recognise the approach of his guardian angel. Angels?! No such thing! Whatever next…
At each step they take on the gravel path, the gritty sound of Hamza’s sneaker soles mingles rythmically with the tapping of Sohane’s sweaty feet sticking onto her plastic flip-flops. Step – Tack – Step –Tack – and-the-crazy-beat-of-her-heart – Step - Tack... Warning drums in the desert. Surely he must hear them coming? Reflected in the light of the lamp, his immaculate Nike trainers make two starkly white shapes as they stamp some mysterious rhythm into the dust. Sohane perceives muffled jazz music. She looks at him intensely. Kind face, soft eyelashes, like a girl’s, brown hair, long and wavy. Two strands dance on his forehead to the swaying of his head rocked along by the jazz devil in his ear. His green Benetton T-shirt loosely touches his slender, muscular torso... Step - Tack… for one infinite, delicious second her gaze envelops his face, his body, his hair, his pose at ease on the treacherous bench, as if he offered himself whole to some goddess. At that moment, Jean-Pierre looks up. Sohane quickly averts her eyes.
The little gate clanks shut and Jean-Pierre remains alone in the park, with the music and the split-second image of the young girl that just passed him. Arabic features, ripped jeans, probably one of these girls from the banlieues north of Paris. The vision lingers on, it remains stuck to his mind, it demands recognition. Reluctantly, Jean-Pierre lets it settle in a corner of his sub-conscience, where it grapples for a moment with the solo saxophone. A fierce, complex rythm, soon perturbed by the girl’s brown, oval face, the shine of the lamp on her raven hair and the tapping of her feet against the plastic flip-flops… With one flick of his fringe he dismisses her, but the diabolical tempo of the pianist now conjures up instead whiffs of hideous ghetto cités, pockmarked estates, troublesome neighbourhoods, burnt cars, unwarranted acts of violence, gang warfare in which even the police does not dare intervene. Like the jingle of puzzles pieces thrown into the air, scraps of an essay flash past him that Jean-Pierre had written about the integration - or lack of - of Algerian immigrants into French society. The drum solo beats itself into a cleverly controlled climax, the fine hair of his suntanned forearms stand on end… The girl did have beautiful eyes. Held in place by all four musicians, an endlessly drawn out fortissimo note is abruptly whacked to a halt by one last mighty beat on the drum. Numbed by the music, the residual warmth of the air and the little bit too much alcohol in his veins from his earlier bistro round, Jean-Pierre rips off his ear phones. He safely buries music, girl vision and all two strata down his conscience and exposes his senses to the eerie silence of the park. “It’s so dark here, it must be late” - the little boy inside him does not much like the dark, and all of a sudden he is grabbed by a compelling surge of longing for the soft white pillow on his bed – the bed in his airconditioned room – the room in his white luxury mansion – his home in the middle of the plush, clean eighth arrondissement. He also wishes for the paracetamol in the cupboard which will relieve the headache he already feels coming. He gets up and walks away – leaving the malicious, fretful little wind of the summer night to play harp with the bars of the benches.
“Where’s Hamza”. “I don’t know”. Sohane’s mother sighs and pauses a moment looking vaguely out of the kitchen window. The blocks of flat of the Cité Soubise are outwardly quiet, but she knows that the quotidian turpitudes that make the usual banlieues headlines in the media are at work underneath the cité’s cracked grey skin. She takes out a little knife and with quick, expert strokes slices through the carrot. “Couscous tonight for dinner, Sohane”. Then, under her breath she mutters “What is that boy up to this time?” Sohane jumps at the chance offered to her. She wants, no she needs to go out, to escape for a few hours, to dream a little. For once she will skip the oppressive, obligatory male accompaniment imposed by her mother. “It’s for your own good, for your safety”. The usual refrain. “You know how they lay in wait for you, loitering near the lift or at the front door. Remember what happened to your friend Fatima”… Sohane remembers only too well. When the boys of the Cité have drunk or smoked, they start to heckle and taunt the girls.Then they hurl insults, call them names… sometimes bad things happen. Sohane looks at her mother, the irregular pattern of grease stains on the walls, the washing outside flapping like birds caught by the wing, all these hated bars of her cage. She boldens up. “It’s for the job, Mother” she lies. “I have to go and speak with that woman from the office of social affairs…” A job? a joke rather. Bad school results, no skill, no money. An Arabic sounding name. The social worker had not given her any hope. Why bother? The mother quickly looks up, but says nothing. Sohane grabs her bag and nearly runs to the door before she should change her mind.
On the bench where the French boy had sat, a young woman says something funny to her boyfriend and he bursts out in laughter. Sohane pretends to read the free newspaper she had found on her seat in the underground, but all her senses are on alert. Jean-Pierre… His relaxed demeanour, his green T-shirt, his music… imprinted on the surface of her memory his velvet face lays like a caress. Above her head the chestnut leaves rustle, like the other night. Her heart thumps out of control. What is she hoping for? He has barely looked at her, and for him she is surely just one of these meuf des banlieues? This abyss between both their worlds, no magic wand is powerful enough to make it vanish. Pressed through her thin black polyester jacket the torture bars push into her back. Around her flip-flops lie many cigarette stubs and an empty package with “smoking kills” written in big black letters on it. She feels heady. The powerful scent of the lime trees in full blossom maybe? Will he come again? What will she do if he does, if he looks at her? She hopes he does not come. On his bench, the couple now hold each other in a long, intense kiss. Sohane looks away.
At that moment, the little green metal door claps shut. Steps on the path, and the drum beat of her heart soars into a wild firefly dance of longing, fear, dispair and hope again. Jean-Pierre is back. Jean-Pierre is not alone. His hand holds another hand. At the end of the hand there is a body resplendent with impeccable, contemporary, blond l’Oreal beauty. The wind strums at the bars, the bus hoots at the pedestrians and the dead chestnut leaves crunch under the couple’s healthy, self-contented step. But Sohane does not hear any of this any more. Her bench is empty.
The diesel smell from the busses loaded to the brim, the flow of people on the pavement going nowhere, the aggressive honks of cars at the back of the queue by the traffic lights, the gummy white noise of conversations and mobile phone tunes, the syruppy crowd of perspiring bodies pressed together as they flow down the dirty concrete steps of the metro, the backs of many heads bobbing and swaying with each step, the toxic smells of cheap perfume, unwashed hair, stale urine from the corridors and musty air breathed out, in, and out again from a thousand unknown lungs on the platform. And one black polyester jacket, dissolving in the shapeless human mass.
SHORT STORY - JOUSIE'S JOURNEY
JOUSIE'S JOURNEY
author : julie noble
‘Anyone important? Do you need to reply to that?’ she asked.
‘No, no. Nothing that can’t wait until later,’ he said. ‘What about you?’
‘I don’t know. Am I supposed to reply and thank the local ‘phone network provider for welcoming me to the country?’
The moment dissolved into laughter.
She hoped he didn’t suspect anything.
They were smiling at each other, pretending that nothing was wrong, but she could feel the mood of suspicion tightening its grip.
This was meant to be a happy place - somewhere where she could retreat to, where she could be herself, where they all could be themselves. She longed for those wonderful, carefree halcyon days when she was innocent, when they all were.
‘What’s shifted?’ she wondered. Deep down, she knew it was she who had changed but he had too. Had she left it too late to come back? She had tortured herself with these thoughts, had contemplated coming back earlier, but had been worried that it would be too early, that she wouldn’t have had enough time to get everything in order. Greg, her best friend back home had warned her that this might happen.
‘I don’t think you should go’, he’d warned her. ‘You’re not ready yet and I won’t be there to pick up the pieces this time.’ He had begged her to reconsider. He was dreadfully jealous of her life before him, he tried to keep her from going back to it, but this time the pull was too strong and she couldn’t delay any longer.
‘Is everything OK Xavi?’ she asked. ‘You seem agitated.’
‘Look Josie, I don’t want you to worry or for you to get caught up in the mess that’s going on in the village, but you’ll probably hear some rumours. It’s best you keep out of it, you’re only here for a while, you don’t want to get involved, believe me.’
‘Why does everyone keep trying to keep me outside? Thinking they’re protecting me? You all think you can control me, well you can’t! I’m perfectly in control and it’s all of you who need to be careful!’
‘My God! Where did that outburst come from? What are you talking about Josie?’
‘I’m just trying to make sense of everything, maybe I’m tired and I’ve had a bit too much to drink. Ignore me. Let’s go and meet the others.’ Her voice was strained.
Greg had warned her about her unruly emotion. She would have to be careful. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t get emotional, wouldn’t give the game away and let Xavi guess the real reason for her visit.
She looked down at her hands, they were shaking.
How was she going to get that newspaper back?
She laughed, an awkward, embarrassed laugh.
SHORT STORY - PAY DAY
PAY DAY
author : geraldine frasher
Twenty minutes later she pressed the bell to The Old Manse and let herself in. “Morning” she called as she crossed through the tiled hall to the vestibule at the back door. She collapsed her saturated umbrella, and draped her anorak on a peg.
She turned on the tap in the utility room and as she waited for the water to run hot, the thoughts she had been trying to suppress, forced themselves over her like a fog. Yesterday was the third anniversary of his death. The rent had increased again and there was nothing left to pay the bills. The cooker was broken and they had threatened to cut off her telephone. She felt a pain in her chest as she thought of it. She couldn't ask her children for a loan; it wasn't fair to them. His accident at work had shattered her and the children. The company had refused to admit responsibility for his death and thus extinguished any hope of compensation. The pain and shock had subsided somewhat, but the financial insecurity was unrelenting. At sixty-three, the other women she knew had been giving up work just as she was starting it. With her only experience being a housewife and mother, the notice in the shop had been a miracle when she needed it most: “Cleaner wanted, usual domestic chores.” That had been the start. It didn't pay much, four pounds an hour – it was less than the minimum wage.
She filled the bucket and lugged it painfully into the hall. The suds spilled over the edge as she dipped in the mop and the black and white tiles gleamed as the water splashed over them. She could see her reflection in the soapy floor and it was of a woman whom she no longer recognised. Her round face had aged and her eyes were small and tired. Mrs Spencer was coming down the wide staircase.
“Good morning, Betty,” the words clipped from her delicate mouth. “Would you mind awfully if you could have another go at the windows upstairs? I know you tried them last week, it's just that they still seem a little on the dirty side.” Her high heels clicked as she made her way into the sitting room. “And could you make up the bed in the guest room, we're entertaining this weekend. The satin sheets will be fine.”
Betty put the mop down. She wiped her hands on her pinafore and slowly stepped towards the sitting room. “Em, Mrs Spencer, I had been meaning to ask you something, if it's all right? I'll do the windows again, not to worry. It's just that, you see, I've been doing a bit more than the five hours worth and was wondering if I could maybe get a bit more than the twenty pounds?” Her voice had drained into a croak.
Emily Spencer swung round. She threw the magazine she was holding onto a pile at the edge of the velvet chaise longue. She straightened up, immaculate in her silk blouse and tight pencil skirt. She eyed Betty up and down. “I'm sorry Betty. If you want more money we'll need to cut your hours. She cocked her head to the side and twisted the pearls around her neck. “Would you rather come in once every two weeks?”
“Oh, I see. Oh, no, we'll just leave it then.” Betty retreated back to the mop.
An hour and two cleaned bathrooms later and Emily Spencer was declaring her intention to go shopping. “It bothers me so when it's busy, I can't get first pick,” She put on her fur trimmed coat. Roger Spencer, her husband and workaholic, had left for work before Betty arrived. Betty had met him on only a few occasions, and each time he had been brisk and offhand. It didn't seem to occur to him that Betty pressed his smalls and tidied his mail. He was obviously the type who would not meddle with matters concerning the house, leaving that to his wife's charge.
“Roger's just been promoted to partner, now I'll get to go to all the best parties!” Emily had sung at her just three weeks ago.
Betty breathed with relief when she finally had the house to herself. She turned on the radio in the kitchen and lost herself in hard work: dusting, hoovering, tidying, ironing. After the routine chores were complete, she gave the upstairs windows a thorough clean, and finally made up the bed in the guest room.
It was already ten past one, and Betty was about to lock up, but noticed that the fireplace in the sitting room was needing cleared out. She sighed and crouched down onto her knees in front of it. There was no point in leaving a job half finished. She scooped up the ashes and brushed down the marble. She was just about to replace the fire-guard over the hearth when she noticed something fluttering up inside the chimney. Panicking, she thought it must be a bird, trapped, but bending over she was relieved to find it was just a bit of paper, caught between the bricks. It was billowing in the draft. She put the bag of ashes carefully into the coal bucket and reached up to grasp the stray paper. She shook her head thinking of how the chimney could have caught fire had it been lit. She pulled it out. It was black with soot. She blew on it and fine black freckles dispersed. It looked like a receipt, but upon closer scrutiny she realised it was a lottery ticket. It was from Saturday's draw. Yet she could not bring herself to add it to the pile of ashes so she wiped it on her pinnie and stuck it her pocket.
After thirty minutes or so of unpaid overtime, Betty finally picked up her twenty pound note from the kitchen table. Her anorak had dried out and she put it on and zipped it up. She was just about to leave when she saw a newspaper lying open on the table. It was turned to the television listings. At the bottom she noticed the results printed for Saturday night's lottery. With a despondent smile, she dug through her anorak into her pinnie and found the old lottery ticket. She squinted at the numbers on the paper.
She scribbled a message on the back of an envelope and set it on the table, then left the house.
At six o'clock that evening, Betty's telephone rang, startling her. She switched off the black and white television and reached for the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Yes, this is Mr Spencer. From The Old Manse. You left a note asking us to call you about something important. What is it exactly Betty? We're extremely busy people and don't have time for any nonsense. If it's about getting paid more, my wife has already given you the answer to that.”
“Oh, no, it's not about that Mr Spencer. I'm really very sorry to bother you. I just had to tell you something... something very important.” Betty's breath caught in her throat as she struggled to remain calm.
“What is it?” he snapped.
“It's to do with something I found in the fire-”
“Something you found in the fire? Please do not be so ridiculous as to bother us about such a thing. It's of no interest to us and whatever it is you can keep it. Please do not disturb us with such frivolities again. Good night.” He hung up.
Betty stared at the silent phone for over a minute, and then for the first time in three years, she began to laugh.
One week later, Betty Winslop sat on her new armchair with her feet up. She wrote out a cheque for fifty thousand pounds. It was a twentieth of the total prize money. She attached a note to the cheque, which read:
Dear Mr & Mrs Spencer,
Please accept this as notice that I am no longer available for cleaning duties. The money enclosed is for hiring another cleaning lady and will be enough to pay her a decent wage.
Kind regards,
Elizabeth Winslop.
SHORT STORY - A MOURNING WALK
A MOURNING WALK
author : robert gregson
A small movement on one of the monitors grabbed his attention, as a woman with a small pushchair moved past Body Shop, and across the precinct.
‘Guv,’ he called to his supervisor, who was resting his eyes under the cover of a Daily Mirror, ‘ this woman here, with the pushchair, I’ve clocked her every day for three weeks, always the same time, 11.55 precisely, same direction, wearing the same black clothes. What’s with this strange ritual, coming to a stop, standing there praying for a minute or so? Anything in that, do we check her out?’
The supervisor yawned, belched, rubbed his eyes clear of sleep, and pulled a wry expression across his face.
‘I should have told you about her, lad. That’s Nancy Semple, Mad Nancy as she’s known in the town. Poor woman, such a sad case...sad case’.
The junior returned to his screen, and zoomed in on the woman. He could see that she was speaking to the pushchair, and he increased the volume of the directional microphone. A reedy voice echoed through the room.
‘Don’t cry, baby, we’ll soon be home. No, no, don’t worry about your brothers and sisters, they’re all fine and warm, and Monitor’s looking after them’
‘How many children has she got?’ asked the trainee.
‘That’s the tragedy of it, she doesn’t have any’
‘You mean the pram’s empty?’
‘Not exactly. She’s got a doll in there. I’ll tell you the whole sorry story. Three years ago, Nancy was happily married and had a baby son. After maternity leave she returned to her job at Manton’s, you know, the big store at the top of the town. She and her husband were able to manage the child-minding duties between them. One day, I think it must have been a Thursday, late-night shopping, she returned home late from her shift, to find her husband and baby unconscious. They were rushed to hospital, but, sadly never regained consciousness. I don’t know the full facts, but I heard that it was caused by a faulty boiler.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose .
‘Nancy was devastated by grief, as you can imagine, and, unable to cope, was taken into intensive psychiatric care for several months. She’s relatively stable now, and has been home for some time, but since the tragedy she has been driven to find substitutes for her baby. Those substitutes are dolls. She steals them from the store where she used to work. She thinks nobody knows that she takes them from the Toy Department, but, of course, they do, and being compassionate people, and knowing her history, they turn a blind eye to it. What happened to her has touched everybody’s heart.’
*****
Nancy has reached the haven of her flat. Opening the front door she calls out ‘Babies, Mummy’s home.’
She feels reassured by the warmth of the flat, and the flickering light coming from the living room. The forty inch television monitor on the wall is doing its job, and she greets her family again. ‘Hello, darlings’. A series of small clicking sounds is heard, as 32 pairs of mechanical eyes swivel towards her, and then back to the screen.
Removing her coat Nancy almost trips over a figure lying on the floor. Her heart misses a beat, and she screams
‘ Oh, Hettie, what is it, my love?’. Gently picking up the small threadbare doll, she strokes it, making gentle soothing sounds. Tears pour down her face and splash on the cracked biscuit-fired face of the doll, but the eyes remain closed. ‘Oh, Hettie, my little Hettie...’
Wiping away her tears, she takes a cardboard shoe box from a cupboard, and lays Hettie in the wrapping of black crepe paper inside the box, and then places it in a space under the stairs, alongside many other identical boxes.
Nancy Semple did not appear on the screens the next day. But she was back on the following day, this time from a different direction. She had made a detour, and visited the town’s cemetery. On one of the graves she had placed a black-edged postcard. It read simply, ‘We’ve lost our little Hettie, but we’ll have another one very soon.’
Tempat Ibadah dengan Menara yang Unik
Di dunia ini ada jutaan masjid yang tersebar di seluruh negara. model dan bentuknya pun bermacam-macam. Lain wilayah, lain pula bentuknya. Masing-masing menampilkan kekhasannya. Ada yang model umum seperti mercusuar, octagonal, persegi empat, hingga bentuk spiral.
Berikut tujuh bentuk menara masjid yang unik :
1. Menara Kudus
Masjid yang terletak di Kota Kudus, Jawa Tengah, ini dibangun pada 956 H/1549 M. Masjid ini terkenal dengan menaranya yang unik, yang merupakan bagian dari kompleks makam Sunan Kudus. Menara ini pada dasarnya meniru bangunan candi zaman Majapahit yang terdiri dari kaki dan tubuh bangunan yang berjenjang beserta pelipit-pelipit mendatar sebagai batas.
Bagian dinding menara terbuat dari material batu bata. Sementara bagian atas menara berbentuk atap tumbang dengan konstruksi kayu. Hiasan bidang, meskipun sudah disamarkan, masih tampak seperti bekas-bekas hiasan pada bangunan candi.
2. Masjid Istiqlal Jakarta
Masjid Istiqlal merupakan salah satu masjid di Indonesia yang mengedepankan gaya arsitektur Islam modern. Gaya arsitektur modern ini juga tampak pada bagian menara masjid. Bangunan menara yang berfungsi sebagai tempat muazin mengumandangkan azan sebagai tanda waktu shalat tiba ini dibangun meruncing ke atas dan memiliki lubang-lubang pada bagian dindingnya. Lubang-lubang tersebut untuk mengurangi tekanan dan hembusan angin.
Menara ini memiliki ketinggian 66,66 meter dengan diameter lima meter. Ketinggian menara ini sebagai simbol dari jumlah ayat yang terdapat dalam Alquran. Sementara di atas tempat muazin mengumandangkan azan adalah puncak menara yang terbuat dari baja tahan karat seberat 28 ton dengan tinggi 30 meter.
3. Masjid Agung Banten
Masjid ini termasuk salah satu yang tertua di Jawa. Masjid yang dibangun oleh Sultan Maulana Hasanuddin (1552-1570) terletak di sisi alun-alun dan di sebelah utara keraton. Menara Masjid Agung Banten berbentuk mercusuar dengan gaya Eropa yang tampak kurang serasi dengan bangunan masjidnya.
Awalnya, sebelum difungsikan sebagai menara masjid, menara ini digunakan sebagai menara rambu dan pengintai untuk Pelabuhan Banten yang kerap menjadi sasaran serangan oleh kekuatan-kekuatan Eropa sebagai rival Belanda. Menara ini dibangun oleh seorang arsitek Belanda, Hendrik Lucasz Cardeel, yang bekerja di kota pelabuhan itu pada abad ke-17 M.
4. Masjid Samarra Iran
Bentuk khas menara spiral digunakan di masjid-masjid di Irak yang mengadopsi tradisi dalam bangunan menara Mesopotamia. Masjid Samarra Iran dan Masjid Dullaf di Irak yang memiliki menara berbentuk spiral. Bisa dikatakan kedua menara ini sebagai peninggalan arsitektur yang memberikan kesan bahwa perhitungan geometri para arsitek pada masa itu sudah sangat akurat. Kedua menara masjid itu bahkan hingga sekarang masih tegak berdiri walaupun sudah berusia 1.200 tahun. Masjid lain yang juga memiliki menara spiral adalah Masjid Ibnu Tulun di Fustat, Mesir.
5. Menara Masjid Emin
Satu-satunya minaret berbentuk oktagonal yang terkemuka terletak di Chefchaouen Cina bernama Emin Minaret yang dibangun pada 1778 oleh Kaisar Qianlong dari Dinasti Qing (1735-1796). Menara ini memiliki tinggi 44 meter (144 kaki) dan merupakan menara masjid tertinggi di Cina.
Menara ini terbuat dari kayu dan batu bata. Modelnya sangat elegan berbentuk melingkar dan meruncing ke bagian atas. Diameter menara seluas 14 meter (46 kaki) di bagian bawah, sedangkan pada atas diamaternya sekitar 2,8 meter.
6. Masjid Hassan II Maroko
Masjid Hassan II di Casablanca, Maroko, tercatat sebagai masjid dengan menara tertinggi di dunia. Menaranya seakan mencakar langit dengan ketinggian mencapai 210 meter. Dirancang oleh arsitektur asal Prancis, Michel Pinseau, masjid ini dibangun oleh Bouyges pada 1980. Setiap malam, di puncak menara, terdapat sinar laser yang mengarah ke Makkah.
Bangunannya megah dan luas yang menghadap ke perairan Atlantik. Masjid ini berdiri di sebuah semenanjung hasil reklamasi. Pembangunan Masjid Hasan II Maroko terinspirasi oleh ayat Alquran surah Hud [11] ayat 7, “Singgasana-Nya (sebelum itu) di atas air.” Masjid ini bisa menampung lebih dari 30 ribu jamaah.
7. Masjid Agung Xi’an
Menara Masjid Agung Xi’an ini terbilang cukup unik karena menggambarkan arsitektur asli Cina. Menara ini menggabungkan dua fungsi; bulan menonton paviliun dan menara. Eksterior masjid dihiasi dengan ubin kaca biru dan kepala naga. Di dalam, langit-langit yang dicat cerah diukir dengan bunga teratai. Masjid ini dibangun pada masa Dinasti Ming tahun 700-an Hijriyah (1400 Masehi) oleh Laksamana Cheng Ho.
Menengok Ke Pabrik Pembuatan Mobil Ferrari
Berikut ini adalah pembongkaran rahasia proses pembuatan mobil ferrari yang terkenal dengan harga dan kwalitasnya. Foto-foto ini diambil untuk menjelaskan kepada anda tentang proses pembuatan sebuah mobil Ferrari dari awal sampai mobil siap dipacu. Para insinyur, teknisi dan pekerja pabrik lainnya semua ambil bagian sehingga menghasilkan sebuah mobil yang penuh tenaga, bagus bentuknya dan berkwalitas tinggi. Berikut adalah proses proses pembuatan mobil ferarri dari awal sampai akhir :
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