Poem

This convenience is bad for my health

When I’ve got access to Netflix don’t wanna do nothing else

When Amazon delivers and Uber rides

My mental health dies and my consumerism thrives

My coffees instant and my dinners frozen fast

I get it all quickly but none of it lasts

Push a button on my phone and get it all quick

Is it a convenience or is it all a big trick?

Who’s the one winning when I’m losing faith

In every institution, in the whole human race?

Do we really need more or can we do with less

Conflict, contradiction, worrying and stress?

What’s really the problem when so many folks are hungry

But we produce 10 times the food to feed the whole country

We’re fighting wars overseas yet we got people on the streets

Giving out billions but can't spare some change to eat

Reference to Monster at Midnight by Julia123 for credit in this continuing story. I really was proud of my work. And depending on the reception I could consider this piece for the Emerald Author challenge.

The blizzard subsided after a short 36 hours.

Though for a ten-year-old kid trying to traverse such a barren, hostile tundra roaming with predatory authority figures, waiting for the city to clear off all the excess became a must.

Lucky for Caleb it was doubtful that Donald and Delilah would even bother to report him missing. Their next check was due in another two weeks, that meant for at least ten days they could put off making a big stink, come up with excuses, get into character, and get the stories straight. That is, if they'd been recovered alive from that fire.

Then again, it didn't matter either way did it?

The best course of action would be to leave the city completely.

Just a few streets down there was a library whose computer he could use and a thrift shop just around the corner of the motel to get some cheap extra clothes.

Looking out the window Peter was salting the sidewalk, bundled in a hideously burnt orange parka, unspooling wool scarf, and gloves with the pointer fingers poking out on both.

"Things are gonna get a bit harder from here on out," he said apologetically to Midnight. An adorable little stray pretty beaten down by life and uncaring older people a lot like he was.

She'd softened some of the broken pieces so that memories of Mother's strawberry scented hair were less melancholy than they were before.

Meanwhile, he could do his utmost to make sure she was loved and cared for. Not that he could do much compared to that Ivory dog he'd dreaded she used to be.

That was probably a terrible thing to think. If only she could be that lucky.

To have a home to call her own, an owner who looked out for her, someone who would care if she were caught by some sick high schooler who was probably the reason old-school asylums from horror movies were thought up.

If anyone were to deserve strap-down beds and some good shocks it was jerks who couldn't care less for the little things like dogs and boys who slept in a basement. Motherless and unwanted.

Pete pursed his lips when Caleb would make his round trips to the library or picking up groceries with the money he was trusted with.

Always too much for the meager things Pete said were necessary for his own little kitchenette or in making breakfasts for the motel guests.

These were the times he was forced to leave Midnight in his care, though if there was an adult to be trusted with the job it may as well have been the one taking him in all this time.

Pete probably had an inkling of what Caleb wanted to do.

When he'd first came in to check on the lodger in Room 216 he'd been using a stolen notepad to chart out bus ticket prices and dog food as well as a leash.

Either way, the friendly drunk didn't voice his concerns or try and get all stern like some teachers would have or start harranguing him like his social worker to "make this work for once."

What if when he did book it out of here, wander around for a bit, he was found by those outcast superhero groups from Teen Titans or Gifted comic books? The notion was a ridiculous one but, hmm. Would a gang be so bad really? If not a superpowered justice brigade, why not be the villain? Those origin stories often started like this.

Too bad comics weren't reality. As much as a group might be nice Caleb had had his share of bad neighborhoods. Gangs often wanted money and something called Coochey. Which sounded like some drink. Probably alcohol.

He thinks some man who ran a group had been pretty blunt about those things. Saying the word hadn't gone over well when he'd tried asking a teacher what it was. Then presto, social worker coming to collect false smile on and sympathy dripping sweet from her lips of the trouble Caleb must have caused.

He could be a handful.

His money was really starting to get low. As expected few people asked questions about a ten year old in a motel, Pete had made sure of it.

Heck, it was no one but two or so clients a week coming in for a one-night room. Pete said a couple were a bit like Caleb. Crazy in love and ready to tie it. Elope was the word he'd used.

Then gone on a wistful tangent about being young and to have some fun if the chance ever arose. "Are you sure you wouldn't want to hash it out with your worker? If anyone deserved to just pop off on the social care system it is you. I dunno you have to be old enough now right, where you can decide what you want?"

"I want for Midnight and me to be together. Foster parents hardly want me around, the social worker never wants to have to see my face."

"I know I am the last person to be harping on it but, geez kid," he moaned, "you look so angry. Please, I-- I don't want to see you like this. Anger like that," Pete shook his head in reproach, though it looked, "you make bad decisions. Piss poor choices about making the pain behind it stop." That Pete was hating and mad at himself most of all.

Caleb couldn't exactly grasp what he was saying. Another one of those adult things then.

"Just Caleb, never forget that Midnight'll need you then and y'know, just knock on doors until someone answers you okay."

"Wha?" "Something I read online. Was I wrong then?"

Was I wrong. Such a question was always a trap. Just waiting for the excuse. To call the child impudent, smartass, ass.

Caleb was all packed up. His hands stroked soothingly at Midnight's neck and between her ears, catching each tremor at knowing what the thing hanging off her owner's-- friend's-- hand was.

Caleb spoke softly when explaining that the leash had to be on. Locking it to her throat and sternum. "First opportunity." He'd take it off.

Until then he held her in his arms, shuffling with an extra duffel bag on one shoulder.

Morning didn't start for the motel until six-fifteen on the dot. It had always been like that and hadn't shown any chance of changing within the eight days he'd been here.

Change from groceries let him save up for bus fare and an extra eight dollar cushion. The rest had become non-perishable foods, a blanket, and basic toiletries. Toothbrush, floss, and toothpaste. Turning in his room key at the empty desk Caleb ended up running a hand through the wood.

Unbidden, he thought of the days Pete would drink his-- actually had he seen him drink in the times they'd talked lately?-- and get Caleb a Pop from the vending machine. He'd let Caleb sit up on the front desk. When had he gotten the gall to do that!

Midnight whimpered, beginning to scratch at the desk. Big, dark eyes seeming to say what he didn't want to admit. "Don't go."

"I don't want to."

And that was ridiculous.

"At least get a ride to the bus stop." Caleb whirled around, undiluted terror pumping through his veins to realize he wasn't alone.

Pete stood there. In awful, stained boxer shorts, a shirt, and fluffy grey collared black robe with open-toed slippers. "Going out alone right now is a virtual game over." And though he really didn't have to, accentuated that point to Caleb with a thumb cutting across his own throat.

Looking to Midnight then to the likely hungover man, gave a dourly apathetic look.

"Now I know your ticket's for eight in the am but look, earlier bus stops goes the same route. You just have to get off at a lovely little park near a pharmacy and wait for the yellow lane. Plus, cheaper fee before the work hour rush."

Caleb still couldn't retract his skepticism.

"I promise you I am sober kid and am not doing this to get a fix for booze." Midnight, didn't seem perturbed as her owner did. Heck, when he picked her up, the first time he'd ever seen such a thing, the puppy leapt up like nothing to lick his face.

Sly old dog.

Traitors the lot of them.

"Fine. But I don't wanna talk."

"Alright then, let's go."

And from somewhere Pete took out his keys. But Caleb didn't want to think from where. The robe had no pockets. There was only one delay for Pete to get some pants on, knowing he'd "forgotten something," but smiling much too widely and goadingly for Caleb to believe otherwise. Still a fifty-fifty on the sober bit. Buut, he walked just fine either way.

When putting his key in or his seatbelt on he didn't fumble around about it. Overall it was a smooth, meandering drive through the streets for the Central bus terminal as sun began to rise in power from the sky. Pete put on the radio to fill the silence at around six thirty. With only forty minutes to reach their destination.

And when they did Midnight was the first to peep out the window and bark, alarming Caleb just about to doze off. Head in distant memories that were already fading from importance of a basement and rickety heavy shower head for a low-floor bath.

Peeking out he realized what had Midnight's hair stand on end.

A woman waiting where the bus would come.

She wore a smart pantsuit in aqua marine with chunky blue ball earrings and running mascara. From rubbing at her eyes, muttering to her self and cleaning with a kerchief.

Just when Pete took out his phone so did the woman. Caleb leveled a glare toward the drunken motel owner.

"I can't see your pupils that's not good."

Brought into this world

With no say in the matter

many years ago

A child scrapes his knees

Treats the wound in a puddle

Friends laugh, so do I

No more jobs in town

Faithless are the once faithful

The lifeblood drained

I’m falling in love

Thirty hours of pain, and my

Wife births my whole world

An old man, am I

In the mirror, he looks tired

A flash, and it’s gone

pushing through the maze

of amniotic fluid

catching life’s lightening

toddling through breaking

glass, the abusive dry leaves

of silent knowledge

making fake friends laugh

was my one superpower

without the red cape

working for nothing

but raising a family

the means to an end

padding retirement

in the golden years of life

working till i’m dead

The day before my birthday

This challenge ended

To judge my wordplay

And cleverness defended

Tasked with a long poem written

To change the world or just one life

OK, you can say I've bitten

To meet criteria that suffice

So here it lies

A poem about nothing

And the space it occupies

Further exam says I'm bluffing

I've got nothing to say

And a meter to say it in

Be it take a night or a day

I just do what I've been bidden

I can drop names of import

Like Jesus, Nietzsche, or Freud

Or even God as a last resort

Or deny Him to the void

As long as it sounds deep

It will get some attention

From the literary sheep

Who thrive on pretension

I want to please the ones who like Shakespeare

And wax iambic—I amb what I amb

To make the statements that soon disappear

They're written temporarily in jam

For those who like Dickenson

I can choose a meter for

A singsong Caruso, like Robinson

Gilligan and more

For ee cummings fans

I ups so many floating words say

Punctuations all **%^%

And sensibility's defrayed

And once I wrote a limerick

That was--like this poem--a trick

It didn't mean a thing

And couldn't help from being

A poem written by a prick

And haikus lose me

In terseness and in nonsense

Too few words to see

And free form is just

An excuse

To vomit jabberwocky

And -ish from my jibber

As I pine about truth and justice and

The American weigh

Your options carefully

Writing pall-mall and willy nilly

Until I can throw in

Someone like Camus in the mix

It's just absurd!

If you read this backward

It can certainly serve

As a self-righteous op-ed

Of opinion that strikes a nerve

You just can't beat

Pithy and laconic

But this poem can neither meet

Metaphyzzy or ironic

Yesterday was the 4th of September

Labor Day for expectant mothers

The day before my birthday

Cooking dogs and burgers with others

One day we'll all be dead

And history won't remember

The cow we grilled or us we fed

On that 4th day in September

But words and rhymes are cheap

And come easily without fail

The bullshit in long poems is deep

When everything's on sale!

For once in a while Sammy woke completely. Patricia had pulled out all the stops to pamper the Prince in his bedroom. At least Tyler couldn't see. Then he noticed his Mother curled like a little girl on the couch across the bed. "Mom," Sammy said rousing her.

And she rose slowly. Still, hardly believing what her own eyes could tell her just a few feet away. "Oh my baby boy," she choked out as she nearly hugged him to death.

Now his ego was thoroughly smothered to submission, realizing how much he truly craved contact. Her eyes were red and more tears were welling up.

"What about Tyler?" he asked. At once she regained herself just a bit, rising her spine straight and with a breath, holding herself to the standards of the Queen.

Seated on his bed her face now held the look that had always indicated to Sammy a serious talk was at her lips.

A sickening cold had suddenly gripped his stomach. "Is Tyler--?" he couldn't get it out, refused to make a horrid notion final.

Like any Mother she grasped the situation immediately. "Oh no, Sammy, he's fine. Healthy, patched, and any trace-- well like it hadn't even happened. However, your Father... made an arrangement. One you should know about as to how he incurred the child's services," she said, at least assuaging those fears.

"What deal?" Sammy asked.

Lucy told her son of the vampire's probation period, with significant apprehensions.

She watched closely for his reaction. Of which there was no need.

It was quite unexpected and overt, the delight on Sammy's face. Going so far as to suggest the old playroom as his quarters.

_________________

It was another week before Tyler was released. The nurses had been adamant that the wound had to be gone.

Immediately he was guided into a meeting room where the whole royal family was seated.

Of course Clemont projected strength as he faced him. "Well, there are details that still need to be worked out. Between us all, before you can start. For one Sammy has kindly suggested you take his old playroom."

The whole conversation went on like that. From schedule, salary, and other necessary accommodations along with which staff member to place the trust in enforcing them.

Which went along with the out-of-sight eyes Tyler should expect to feel roaming the castle from here on.

For the last, Tyler also asserted some power asking for a private conversation.

A good while later Tyler found Sammy waiting for him.

"So you want to--?" he started, the dark trace of suspicion present cluing Tyler into the hanging question immediately.

"No, not-- not right at this very moment," he replied, putting on an apologetic front, placating the Prince.

No book could tell these two friends what would come next. That this peace would be shattered and their bond tested.

And with a handshake, I had my first real job. I did not receive a paycheck or have taxes withheld. I did not have a time card or a health plan. But I did have a direct supervisor.

In the summer of 1981, I was not looking forward to gainful employment with mercantiles, fast food, mowing lawns, house painting, or such. I was a business major, an up-and-coming senior, a man with champagne dreams, and a Kool-Aid budget. My parents wrote that I should come home for the summer to find gainful employment. My friends urged me to stay in the city. My head wanted to intern on Wall Street. But my heart found greater opportunities upstate.

On Thursday, June 4th, I found an ad on the campus bulletin board for a driver to pick up a car in Baltimore and drive it to Schenectady for delivery. With acute driving skills in hand, I removed the entire index card (thus denying others the chance to pull a tab) and called from a local coffee shop. The voice on the other end took my details and asked for my number. He would return my call in an hour after verifying my information. True to his word, exactly on the hour, the phone rang. Within 15 minutes, I had a taxi heading my way, a bus ticket to Baltimore, and a parking lot attendant named Louie waiting for me. The trip would take all night one way to arrive and twelve hours to return. Directions, registration, and gas money waited for me. True to my word, I made the trip, both ways, on time, and had the Mercedes-Benz Model W114 Executive sedan nestled between a Vale and Central Park address before midnight.

That is when I met Mr. Afonso.

My world would never be the same.

Mr. Afonso answered the door by telling me it was unlocked. I opened the heavy steel door to find myself in a large atrium of polished marble floors and hard carved woodworking (ebony? perhaps mahogany?) leading up the main stairs.

Mr. Afonso walked from the adjacent study to greet me. His large frame spoke of glory days of athletic championships and his gray executive hair permitted all to believe he had his finger on the pulse of all in his midst.

His wooden cane was as sturdy as his frame, most likely as unbreakable, and a formidable aid against those not subscribing to his point of view.

I offered the keys and paperwork with my left hand as we shook with our rights.

This man, even at his age (60ish) could kill with that handshake.

He introduced himself as Efram and asked if I would like to listen to an offer. I am always open to a conversation leading to a financial windfall. By 2am, he made his offer of contract employment for the summer with an option for him to exercise should both my disposition and academic marks be sufficient, for full time employment after the conclusion of my undergraduate studies.

And with a handshake, I had my first real job.

I also felt the need for sleep.

Efram offered the pool house for my current habitation and explained by 10am I was to begin reading the volumes of paperwork every employee of his needed to know. He would send the maid over to introduce me to my new found future.

A walk toward the pool, a quick shower, and a good night’s sleep and life never looked better.

Morning came as mornings do with all the accouterments. I have the sun shining in my eyes. I heard a few birds chirping. I saw a woman looking at me looking at her.

She looked to be mid-forties, with raven hair, and doe-like brown eyes. She wore a simple mid-thigh dress and an apron. I wore nothing.

Normally, I might have been embarrassed. However, today was not anything to be described as normal.

I gave off a slight cough (still not covering up) before engaging in a conversation.

“Hello”. It was all I needed to utter. She continued staring at me in the manner at which one would enjoy being stared at.

“My name is . . .” I paused during my greeting. Her look remained fixated upon my groin. It began as curious and soon morphed to libidinous and then more than suggestive. She began to permit her tongue to ever-so-slightly moisten her lips as her grip on the broom handle mimicked many of my current desires.

“Are you the maid?” If she answered yes, this summer was off to a great start.

Hers was not steeped in discourse or diction. Funny how I chose those exact words at this exact time. The hour I had remaining before my 10am makeup call I spent (ironically) trying to coax this vixen into proper channels of first contact etiquette and continued aerobic activities.

The removal of both her apron and her dress convinced me of the feebleness of the former.

How she remained encased in her molded bra and how I did not lose consciousness are two mysteries I will never solve.

“Are you monitoring his vitals? We cannot permit him to crash again.”

“The patient is currently stable with elevated dopamines and serotonins. He is experiencing a personal memory. I implanted this one during our last extraction just in case.”

“I can only guess he is feeling no pain. Will he survive another extraction?”

“He is young. He will recover.”

The end of summer brought two surprises my way. The first was the death of Efram from his injuries from the construction site collapse. The second was Veronica’s disclosure of her pregnancy. Both on the same day. Both prior to her eventually forced (by her physician) bed rest. I didn’t have a leg to stand on. My time was up in Schenectady. My classes will begin soon. I didn’t get to say goodbye. Perhaps it was for the best.

“He will require constant monitoring during his convalescence. This one has a strong will, but constant extractions and implants will eventually destroy any resistance he has. No longer on Earth, and always within the quarantine fields, his immune system will soon fail. My diagnosis for his ability to survive further use is extremely limited.”

“He will have to survive for the interim. His is a rare species and we have no suitable substitute from which to draw from. Is he capable of breeding? His implanted memories indicate he is most capable of such a performance.”

“Unfortunately, we have no female of his species and will not for the near future. If we wish to invest in him as livestock and no longer as a carrier, the extractions must terminate immediately to preserve what remains.”

Veronica appeared in my office today. Her dress indicated a business secondary to her real purpose. I was hoping for the time together we shared during that summer. Who am I kidding? I was hoping for so much more.

“Cardiac arrest! Bring the human in for immediate extraction.”

“NO! Let the memory continue. An extraction will kill him. He must tell us what we need to know.”

Veronica always played her cards close to the vest. Today, her last day, would be no different. I know what she wanted to tell me. I waited twenty years to know. In fact, I deserve to know.

And I would never.

Veronica, Mrs. Afonso (she never remarried) died that evening, alone, with pen and paper close at hand. She wanted solitude over my best advice. She had the opportunity to right that last wrong. The paper remained untouched.

“Pulse is dropping. Heartbeat is weak. Apply the stimulator to his heart. He cannot die like this. Not this close. Not today.”

I had the last box packed and the van backed down the driveway. The house seemed too vast for a single man. My move to the coast was past due. This pipe dream of a family was just that, a pipe dream, my pipe dream.

I took the long walk, for the last time, toward the taxi.

“Increase the current to his heart. This is what we have been waiting for.”

The taxi driver opened my door and introduced herself as Crystal. It was the first time I met my daughter. Veronica’s will informed me of her existence. The years of waiting finally became worth the wait. Schenectady, the greatest memory of my life, suddenly became supplanted by an open file of greatest memories yet to come.

Crystal said the taxi was hers (some people drive classic cars, some people drive sports cars) and she knew of a quaint coffee shop nearby. She had her mother’s, Veronica’s, smile.

“Charge the heart stimulator again. Increase the current. Do something!”

“Sir, there is nothing I can do for him. He is dead.”

“Tell me you know the location of this Crystal. Tell me you have the information.”

“Not only her location, but her file. She is the last of the females of her species, cross-breedable,

and currently on-loan in the national museum on Proxima Centauri. If we move quickly, we can resume where we left off.”

“Excellent.”

You wake in a foreign prison with the only understanding you will be hanged in 3 hours, no reason given... rather than a last meal, you are given just a pen and 3 pages of lined paper with a guard who speaks no English and who appears to be very good at whatever his job is. Whatever you put on the pages is posted globally for a year. What do you write?