POETRY: LEGACY

In honor of Father's Day this Sunday.

Some are better some are worse

But we can't pick and choose

The one we've got's the one we get

And on the good one's will I muse

Sometimes they wake up early

To get to work on time

Sometimes they stay up late

Making sure that all is fine

They offer words of comfort

And give us sage advice

They bear us up when times are hard

And make us feel so nice

If we do wrong, they discipline

Ensure we don't repeat

Lessons we will not forget

To keep us on our feet

They lead us by example

Ignoring any bother

They raise us up to do what's right

Because they are our fathers

So thank you Dad's across the world

For all that you have done

What you've taught us we now pass on

To children of our own.

SHORT STORY: CRIER Part 3

It had been hours since Dr. Ryshard and the others had left. Their final remarks still burned in his mind. Just hang in there. Sam punched the wall, adding yet another dent. His knuckles were bleeding and his wrist hurt but he liked the pain, it helped distract from the other pains he felt, the pains that weren't his. He punched again, and again, burying both fists into the wall as the sheet rock gave way. He didn't stop hitting. With each blow he felt his mind clear a little bit more, numbed the foreign thoughts and feelings. At last, he heard a crack that wasn't the wall and a stab of pain shot from his hand and up his arm like electricity.

His mind was clear.

Sam panted, lying down on the floor and cradling his broken hand. He still had his own negative emotions, but the others were gone, blocked somehow. Sam knew what a dangerous precedent this was to set, but finding relief from the anguish was worth it, for now. With his mind clear, the oddness about Dr. Ryshard and the others struck him. they'd expressed worry, concern, perhaps even fear. Things no one but the Crier was supposed to be able to feel.

The pain in Sam's hand began to lessen and the other pain returned, driving out his ability to focus. The only thing he knew was that Dr. Ryshard, and the few others with him, weren't part of the system. Their emotions were their own. Still, he wouldn't get anywhere without being able to focus. Perhaps he'd be able to find more out at his new job.

Getting ready for the day was a chore in and of itself. Not only did he get overcome with emotion every few minutes, but with the broken hand even simple tasks like buttoning up his shirt became almost impossible. He was late, but Dr. Ryshard should understand.

It was well past midday by the time Sam found himself staring up at Ryshard Dynamics. The building was the largest in the city, the highest levels passed above the cloud layer that hung over the city on most days. At the very top, Sam knew, were the emitters of the signal that created the Emotional Resonance. His identity card granted him access into the building and he quickly made his way to the restroom. His nervousness and anxiety fed off of the other fears swarming his mind and his stomach clenched. He spent several minutes face down in the toilet bowl. By the time he calmed himself down enough to leave, his stomach muscles ached and his teeth felt gritty and rough. Not to say anything about the taste.

His office was small but not so small that he felt trapped. The windows offered what he would have once thought of as a pristine view of the city. His work station lent itself to just about anything he could want to work on with places for experiments, diagrams, computers, prototypes, and notes. He just didn't know what he wanted to do with it now, if anything at all.

“I didn't expect you today.”

Sam turned. Dr. Ryshard stood in the open doorway, leaning against the door frame with a concerned look on his face.

“I have a job to do,” Sam stated. The knot in his stomach tightened and he was thankful he'd already purged.

“Yes,” Dr. Ryshard said, stepping properly into the room, “And if spending some time here helps then by all means. Anything you want.”

“I meant my job here,” Sam motioned to the work station. “Or was this all part of your plan?”

“I told you before,” Dr. Ryshard ran a hand along the work station's surface, “The Crier's aren't chosen by us. We just keep an eye out for them so we can educate them, just like we did for you this morning.”

“So,” Sam said, his anger rising, “you don't even want me here?”

“I do want you here, Sam,” Dr. Ryshard said, meeting his gaze, “But given the recent changes you've experienced I think it would be quite unfair of me to either fire you or force you to show up on time for work.”

Dr. Ryshard sighed, looking much older than he was as the concern wrinkled his face in the afternoon light. “All I can ask is that you do your best. You'll still the same pay and benefits that you would have done had this not happened.” He moved back toward the door to leave.

“How do you do it?” Sam finally asked, not knowing if or when he'd have another opportunity to speak so openly with Dr. Ryshard. Somehow, he doubted that the president of such a large corporation didn't make personal visits to employees that often.

“Do what?” Dr. Ryshard asked, turning back to look at Sam.

“You feel your emotions, all of them,” Sam knew it sounded awkward but it couldn't be helped. “How do you do it?”

Dr. Ryshard shook his head. “You know how many people notice that about me?

“It isn't just you,” Sam interjected.

“There are others, yes, but still, most people can't feel concerned by it and so they never think about it,” Dr. Ryshard moved back into the room and shut the door behind him, presumably so that no one else would hear their conversation. “But what's always surprised me is that not even the Crier's seem to ever notice. Or if they have, they never asked about it.”

“So what?” Sam asked.

“Just noting your observation.”

“And?”

“And regretting the fact that I cannot give you a satisfactory answer,” Dr. Ryshard sat down in one of the rooms two chairs.

“Why not?” Sam asked, taking the other seat at Dr. Ryshard's gesture.

“This is dangerous ground, Sam, for both of us.”

Sam waited. He wanted to speak but the emotions were welling up again and were threatening to overpower him. Hot tears streamed down his face but other than that he kept his composure.

“If you need a few moments to—

“Just tell me,” Sam said through his tightening throat.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” Dr. Ryshard said, lowering his voice, “You cannot speak about my emotions, or anyone else who feels like I do...And no, you cannot do what we do, there's no way of knowing what it would do to the system.”

IMMOLATION: Chapter 20

“Oh my gosh, shut up!” Melanie cried, throwing one of the many shirts laid out in front of her at Joan.

“It's true,” Joan said, holding up her arms in defense against the projectile clothing.

Melanie glared non-threateningly at Joan and tried on another outfit. “What about this?” She asked.

Joan only shook her head. “You're supposed to be helping me decide on what to wear,” She said witheringly, “Not the other way around.”

“Yes, well,” Melanie retorted, “You're not trying very hard so you might as well help me instead.”

“Right.”

“Besides,” Melanie went on, “It's your first date.”

“Exactly,” Joan exclaimed as she held up another outfit for appraisal to which Melanie made a face of disgust. “You and Mike are already going out. I don't see why you're so concerned.”

“Ah, see, that's where you're wrong,” Melanie said wisely. “Why try hard when there's no solid relationship? No promise of reward. But when you've got 'em hooked,” Melanie winked conspiratorially, “That's when you want to impress them and keep them interested.”

Joan shrugged and returned to her own pile of clothing.

“I don't even know why you wanted so much time to get ready,” Melanie said, more to herself than to Joan, “Date's not even for another three hours.”

“Hey Mel,” Joan said, using a nickname reserved only for the most dire of situations.

“What is it?” Melanie asked, dropping both her pretense and the clothes she was holding.

“I haven't been on a date since Junior year.”

Melanie stared at Joan for a while, taking in the anxiety in her face, the worry in her voice. “That long, huh?” She said at last.

Joan shrugged. She knew it was a silly thing, especially considering how nervous and uncomfortable Tom apparently was with the whole situation. But still, it was one more thing her lost year had taken from her. Not to mention the renewal of how disappointing her Senior year had been without a single date. She and Melanie hadn't been as close as friends then so it didn't surprise her that Melanie didn't know.

“Okay, then” Melanie said, brightening, “Tom's favorite color is yellow so I think that top there would be best,” Melanie indicated a shirt in her own pile. “And that skirt there would go really well with it,” She pointed to one of Joan's skirts, a lightweight flowery one she'd bought the moment she was released but hadn't found the right occasion to wear it yet.

Joan eyed the shirt Melanie was holding out for her, it was new, the tags were still on it and everything. “You know what could happen,” She said, still not taking the shirt.

“It's okay,” Melanie said, not backing down and offering the shirt more forcefully.

“But what if—

“Oh just burn a hole in the back of it and get it over with!” Melanie chuckled, half throwing the shirt at Joan.

Joan pulled the shirt off from covering her face. The tags caught slightly in her hair as she did but came free without too much trouble. “You're sure?” Joan asked before changing.

“Burn away,” Melanie said with a flippant wave of her hand, though Joan could see a hint of regret in her eyes.

Melanie would never let Joan go on the date now without the shirt and Joan knew it.

“I'll try not to burn,” Joan said as she put on the shirt and looked herself over in the mirror. It fit her quite nicely. “Thank you,” She said.

Melanie nodded and opened her mouth to say something but her cell phone rang and cut her off before she could get any words out.

“Hello?” Melanie said as Joan put on her flowery skirt and admired her reflection. She'd never had a very good eye for matching clothes. Melanie was a natural. Perhaps Melanie could—

“NO!” Melanie screamed, making Joan jump and almost ignite.

In the short amount of time it took Joan to turn around, Melanie had sprinted from the room.

“What's wrong?” Joan called out, following her into the living room. The TV was on and Melanie had collapsed onto the couch, barely in a sitting position.

Melanie's heart didn't seem to want to work right. It couldn't be true. Something, someone had to be wrong. But there it was, on the television, breaking news and everything.

“...this morning when the first of three explosions rocked the facility,” The news anchor said. “Authorities are still uncertain how much radiation has been released.”

“Melanie?” Joan's voice intoned from somewhere nearby.

“...that were supposed to prevent this kind of accident seem to have failed,” An expert was saying. “We're not sure why yet, and we're not ruling out the possibility that this wasn't an accident at all, though our investigation is ongoing and may take some time.”

The image on the television screen changed to that of an areal view of the nuclear power plant. The silos that vented the heated steam were gone, collapsed in on top of themselves. Several of the containment units were nothing more than piles of rubble.

“Melanie?” Joan's voice again, closer this time.

Melanie's heart still didn't want to work right and insisted on skipping beats. Her breathing was becoming uneven too.

“It could take weeks, if not months, to clean all this up enough for us to begin recovering the bodies,” The expert on the television said.

“Dad,” Melanie managed to utter. She swayed, her vision tinting green and darkening around the edges. Her stomach joined her heart in its irregular constrictions and she thought she might be sick if she didn't pass out first. In fact, it seemed to Melanie that it had become a race between the two.

Her stomach won. Barely.

Joan got to Melanie's side right in time to get a lap full of vomit. Through her disgust and gagging, Joan still manged to catch Melanie before she hit the floor.

POETRY: NIGHTMARES

Inspired by the night terrors I had as a child.

 Another night to toss and turn

Of pains and dreams unwanted

Nightmares so real that when I wake

The wounds from them I feel

Every night I find I'm hunted

Chased, attacked, and broken

In the morn, my body bruised

Where joint and flesh were torn

I stretch, I ache, I carry on

I try not to complain

I always wonder why it is

I suffer in this manner

   

SHORT STORY: CRIER Part 2

Dr. Ryshard shifted in his seat, which was odd. It showed discomfort, something he shouldn't be able to feel. “Tell me,” He said, “What do you know about the system that makes our world perfect?” He said.

Sam had heard of it everyone had. Emotional Resonance. Though the details were always a bit vague.

“All negative emotions are muted, leaving only the positive emotions to be experienced,” Sam said.

Dr. Ryshard pursed his lips and bobbed his head in partial agreement. “Yes,” He said, “And no. You see, imagine every person in the world is like so many tiny pools of water, and their emotions are like ripples. Some ripples are calming, others disruptive. What Emotional Resonance does, in simple terms, is collect all of those disruptive ripples and focus them all into one pool, allowing the rest to continue on peacefully.”

Sam frowned and looked away from the group of people gathered before him, thinking. The sky outside was clear and blue but if it gave him any joy he couldn't tell. Anger and depression swelled up again inside of him.

“And so now I'm that pool?” He demanded, making the others in the room shy back.

Dr. Ryshard sighed. “It would appear so,” He said calmly.

“Well I don't want it!” Sam screamed. “Pick someone else. Get a volunteer. I DIDN'T SIGN UP FOR THIS!”

The others in the room backed even further away at this outburst. Everyone except Dr. Ryshard.

“I'm afraid no one ever has a choice in this matter,” Dr. Ryshard explained in his still, calm voice. “When my father first implemented the use Emotional Resonance, he thought everyone would benefit. Then they found the first Crier.”

“The what?” Sam interrupted.

“Crier, it's the term they use for people like you.”

“Because we cry,” Sam muttered angrily.

“Given their options at the time, I believe it was a rather gentle term.”

Sam glared at Dr. Ryshard.

“You see,” Dr. Ryshard went on, “They only found the first Crier after he died. His family hadn't heard from him, he'd stopped going to work, never answered his phone. But no one was all that concerned, no one could feel concerned. Eventually his neighbor went to see him and found him dead. He'd killed himself. Two more Criers died before my father and his colleagues were able to figure out what was going on.”

“And that was?” Sam prompted when Dr. Ryshard paused in his explanation.

“Could I have a glass of water?” Dr. Ryshard asked.

“What? No!” Sam exclaimed and moved to get to his feet. What he intended to do once he got there he wasn't sure but he couldn't just sit.

The woman on his other side reached out her arm and took hold of his shoulder, preventing him from getting up. Sam bumped back down, his head knocking against the back of the couch painfully. She gently stroked his back before he could react and that was enough to take the edge off his anger and keep him in his seat.

“Unfortunately,” Dr. Ryshard continued as though there had been no interruption, “We can't control who becomes a Crier. Nor can we take this calling away from you.”

“But why?” Sam asked, aware of the tears that were beginning to run down his face.

“Let's go back to the analogy of the ponds,” Dr. Ryshard said. “Let's imagine that there were a device that could transmit a sound that would steady the water, cancel out the larger waves. Well, some times, there would be a pond who's waves were out of synch. They would be strengthened, rather than dampened. Emotional Resonance works in a similar manner with one exception.”

“And what's that?” Sam asked.

“Human emotions, unlike ripples the in a pond, change the signal,” Dr. Ryshard said. “Every time the Emotional Resonance signal affects a person, taking away their negative emotions, the signal changes. Over time those changes add up until, somewhere in the world, those changes have to be removed from the signal or else the system falls apart.”

Dr. Ryshard became very interested the carpet and the backs of his hands as he gathered his thought. Sam wanted to speak, he had a thousand arguments to make, but somehow he couldn't find the will to voice them. He wanted to die. Let it all end, let the world and all of it's terrible misery die with it.

“We've tried putting relays in the system that could reboot the signal. Tried medication for the Crier. Countess other thing. Nothing works. The most we've ever accomplished was to cancel out the signal,” Dr. Ryshard's face darkened, “And that was the worst moment of all. So many people, suddenly feeling emotions they'd never had to deal with, it–”

“Oh, poor them,” Sam said, “How terrible for them to feel their own emotions. What about me? I have to feel EVERYONES!” He didn't mean to scream but he couldn't help it. Now that he knew these emotions weren't his, the random fluctuations were easier to detect. Certainly, his personal emotions played a role in which emotions got the focus and attention, but the intensity, the instability, was not his own.

“Thousands died that day,” Dr. Ryshard said.

“But they weren't Criers,” Sam noted.

“No, they weren't,” Dr. Ryshard agreed, “But they were all born after the invention of Emotional Resonance. They'd never experienced depression, disappointment, anger. They had no coping mechanisms to help them.”

“And what about me?” Sam asked. “How long before I just go and jump off a building?”

“You won't.”

“Why not? I want to.”

“But you won't,” Dr. Ryshard assured him. “You see,” He went on, “It seems that each Crier is selected because they have a naturally strong desire to live as well as a high resistance to the negative emotions. Now true, many of the early Criers took their lives, but they didn't have what you have.”

“And that is?” Sam asked, knowing, and hating, that Dr. Ryshard's words were true.

“Understanding,” Dr. Ryshard said. “You know why you suffer, that the pain is not yours and so you may, perhaps, find a way to detach yourself from it. Others in the past have done so.”

“But why not just shut off the signal?” Sam pleaded.

“I already told you what happened before, when we accidentally canceled out the Emotional Resonance.”

“Give them warning,” Sam said, “Besides, a few thousand people scattered throughout the world—

“The signal was not lost over the entire world,” Dr. Ryshard interrupted, “Only in one town. Barely a handful of people were left and they were mostly the ones who were either too old or too young to end their suffering.”

Dr. Ryshard stood, the woman on his other side following suit.

“So what do I do now?” Sam asked.

IMMOLATION: Chapter 19

A bell dinged at the front of the shop and Joan stopped a moment in her sorting, trying to guess which path would take her in that direction. She still wasn't sure, though this was still her first week working in the bookshop. As it was, she sat in one of the back corners, sifting through boxes of books, pricing them, and then stacking them in piles to be shelved later.

“Is Joan in today?” A familiar voice asked not far from where Joan sat.

Tom.

The small patch on Joan's back, between her shoulder blades, caught fire. Before Joan could react, the flame burned through her shirt leaving a fist sized hole.

“She's in the back,” Joan heard Mike tell Tom.

The fire on her back wouldn't go out. She stopped it from spreading at least and gained enough control over it to prevent it from burning her shirt any more.

Footsteps were getting closer. Joan looked herself over and the fire on her back intensified. After her first day, with all the dust and then her burning, she'd decided to wear clothes that she cared less about. Now she regretted that decision. Joan pulled her hair out of its ponytail to cover up as much of the flame as she could, not to mention the hole in her shirt. She smoothed out the lumps in her sweatpants but had no time to adjust her shirt. A shadow came around the corner, followed moments later by its owner.

“Looking good,” Melanie smirked. “I told Mike to buy you some time so you can relax a bit.”

Joan fixed her shirt as best she could while Melanie stood lookout.

“So, what do you think?” Melanie asked, picking up a book and turning it over.

“About Tom?” Joan asked, keeping her fire in check as she regretted more and more her clothing choices that morning.

Melanie's eyes lit up. “Well, no that's not what I was asking about, but we can talk about that too” She said with a devious look, “I was actually asking how you were liking the job.”

“It's fine, so far,” Joan said, standing up and turning for Melanie to appraise her, “I like books.”

“Mmmm,” Melanie said as she had Joan turn around once more, “You're hair's all lumpy. I'd put it in a ponytail or something.”

“It was in a ponytail,” Joan said, “But I was trying to hide this.”

Joan pulled her hair back up and wrapped the band around it, revealing the hole in her shirt and the fire on her back.

“I could still see the fire through your hair anyway,” Melanie said. “Besides, I think it's better this way. Use your fire to your advantage. Make a fashion statement, you know?”

Joan grimaced. “Burned clothes and random patches of fire on my body, just what every man wants in a woman.”

“I didn't say anything about Tom,” Melanie said innocently.

“Well that's a relief,” Tom said, stepping out from behind the two young women. “I hate being talked about behind my back.”

Joan blushed and reached up instinctively to pull out her hair band again.

“Please don't,” Tom said before Joan could let her hair back down, “You look good with it up,” Tom reached out, his hand growing closer to Joan's face, only to turn off to the side at the last minute to grab a book. “Does this come in paperback?”

Before responding, Joan checked her fire: it was hot but not spreading. The book in Tom's hand was a paperback. She thought back, making sure she'd heard Tom correctly, then chuckled sarcastically.

“Ha, ha,” She said and snatched the book away from him and placed it back on the shelf. Joan picked out the hardcover copy of the same book and put it in Tom's still-open hand. “Why yes,” Joan said, pulling the paperback copy back off the shelf, “Yes we do have that book in paperback.”

Joan held out the book for Tom, who laughed.

“You learn quick,” He said.

“It's not that hard when you only have one trick,” Joan replied offhandedly.

Joan turned her back to Tom, showing him the flame on her back, as she bent down to pick up the box of books she'd been sorting.

“Come on Melanie,” Joan said casually, “I think the rest of these need to go someplace else.”

They left a slack jawed Tom behind as they made their way to another part of the bookstore. Once they were out of earshot, they both broke out into stifled giggles.

“Did you see his face?” Joan asked

Melanie nodded, holding back her laughter. “He's been needing someone to cut him down to size,” She said. “He's always in here, playing his tricks, flirting like he's back in high school or something.”

“I know, right?” Joan smiled to herself for getting the upper hand on Tom.

Mike came around the corner, a confused look on his face. “Tom just left,” He said, “Are we all set for this Saturday?”

“Saturday?” Melanie asked, “What are you talking about?”

“So Tom didn't find you two?” He asked.

“Oh he found us,” Joan said, “And we put him in his place.”

“What?” Mike asked.

“We saw through his act, trying to play me for a fool,” Joan explained, “So we turned his tricks back on him.”

“Joan, do you know what you've done?” Mike asked.

“No,” Joan said uncertainly.

“He was going to ask you out,” Mike explained, “Mel and I were going to double with you so it wouldn't be awkward.”

“But,” Melanie began, “He's never asked anyone out, ever.”

“That's the point,” Mike said in frustration, “Do you know how long I've been working on him? Trying to build up his confidence enough so that he'd stop playing around and actually go on a date.”

“Tom?” Joan asked, “Lack confidence? Right.”

“You don't understand,” Mike said, “Tom and I were friends growing up and he didn't hit his growth spurt until our Junior year of high school. The first time he asked a girl on a date, he was a good foot shorter than she was. She didn't say anything, just laughed at him and walked away. He's been terrified of asking anyone out ever since.”

“Really?” Joan said.

Mike nodded. “I told him you were really nice and that he didn't have anything to worry about.”

The fire on Joan's back flared a bit.

“Please don't stand so close to the books,” Mike said, holding back his anxiety as best he could with Melanie present. Joan knew if it weren't for Melanie, Mike would have never hired her. “Look, watch the store,” He said, looking at Melanie. “I've got to go catch Tom and bring him back. And you,” Mike turned a hard look on Joan, “Please say yes if he asks you out.”

With that, Mike turned and left. Joan's fire went out and Melanie went to find the front desk, leaving Joan with the box of books that still needed sorting.

POETRY: QUACK and MORNING

These poems were inspired by some recent experiences I had with my son.

Quack

Quack went the duck and my son quacked back

Honk went the goose and my son quacked back

Tweet went the bird and my son meowed back

I blinked, and I looked, and I spied the cat

That distracted my son from quaking back

Morning

The sun is gone and blinds are drawn

The chill set in of evening

My drowsy son lies in my arms

All limp and slowly breathing

His eyelids droop but still he smiles

I lay him in his crib

With parting glance, a knowing look

He asks a bottle to imbibe

With blankets warmed and lights extinguished

I start to drift asleep

Until a fragrance wafts my way

Unwelcome scent, it creeps

One diaper later and change of sheets

My son is wide awake

He grabs a book and turns a page

My focus starts to slake

We play a game and sing some songs

The moon outside is bright

It must be full, the blinds are glowing

And cloudless be the night

It's not until I lay my son

Back down, asleep and calm

I hear a tone all too familiar

The sound of my alarm

It's not the moon outside my home

That brightens up the room

The rising sun is cresting up

This morning came too soon

But still my son is gently sleeping

No matter all the bother

I may be drowsy because of him

But that's my price to be a father