Monday, November 16, 2015

January 17, 2438

Short Short by Korinza Elaine Shlanta of Cerro Coso Community College
2015 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Fiction

January 17, 2438

The last few nights have been so restless I have found no sleep. I dare not sleep. I made my official record three days ago, but it was neither appropriate nor relevant to the scientific journal I include what has struck my heart and mind with such profound observations. Though this journal is of no significance and will likely not be read, I feel I must divulge what happened January 14th, 2438.

It was not a routine sleep study. I was working alongside an esteemed colleague, Dr. Thanatos Somnus. When we began our, what I expected to be, month long sleep study I was excited to use such new and innovative technology. Dr. Somnus and I were hired by a private client who has been interested in revisiting Freud’s theories concerning the meaning of dreams. Instead of the average sleep study telling a patient they have some form of a slight abnormality in their sleeping pattern and recommending the usual supplements, Dr. Somnus and I would be conducting a sleep study using a monitor that creates images from the pattern of firing synapse.

The relative location and numbers of synapses firing would be relayed into the monitor to project images. A second system was in place to make a transcript of the patient’s thoughts, this was attached to the external soft tissue directly in front of hyoid bone, even if a person doesn’t talk in their sleep slight tension in the soft tissue surrounding the hyoid bone would be transmitted and then turned into a script following the small movements. No other joined myself and my colleague for this particular study. The subject was Dr. Thanatos Somnus himself. Aside from him being the subject of study he would be able to later give qualitative observations about the dreams he had and we would compare them to the images we would record on the monitor. This was any psychologist’s playground! The opportunity! The possibilities! The new discoveries. Yet, I am so haunted by those images and by what was supposed to be an amazing achievement, I cannot sleep. I must record what is the truth before it is marred by sleep deprivation.

For the first week of our experiment, everything went smoothly, and it was a joy to see Somnus’ dreams. He had a fantastic imagination, and it suited our purposes well, and perhaps that is the truth of what happened. It was just his imagination, for my heart is heavy with grief and guilt. This is as much my confession as it is my account of the matter. January 14th began as the other nights did; I waited for my colleague to slip into the first stage of sleep and began my recording of the images and the transcript. The first images came up, they were simply a blend of soft colors and as was expected it went through the progression of the spectrum as the doctor settled in his sleep. About three hours into our study came more distinct images and the first words on the transcript. The image was of a large arched stone gateway, and held an inscription of unrecognizable characters. The doctor seemed to translate them to English and I read them on the transcript, “Weary may be those that enter. Do not seek what you cannot find.” Somnus moved to push the gate, but it did not move. I began to analyze thinking his dream was a representation of a problem in his life that he could not move forward with nor find any absolute answer.

As I began recording this in the log, the stone door opened and voice came from within, “Enter.” I stopped breathing. All of his synapses had fired at once as the transcript printed, Enter. I dared not wake him for this was a breakthrough, our first nightmare. The doctor moved into blackness, and when the screen came back into focus, my heart found its way into my throat. I could only hear my own heartbeat, and I had to compose myself to notice the transcription machine was printing rapidly. The view screen showed not a room as I first thought, but a small clearing surrounded by trees. Somnus walked to the center as the transcription machine kept ticking away, “Do not seek what you cannot find.”

The words were being repeated at an unnatural speed. The doctor sank to his knees and the transcription simultaneously stopped. I rose from my chair a looked at the patient himself through the observation window. He looked so calm, no turning, just light breathing. The view screen held the same image of the clearing, but new figures were forming in the trees. Each of the figures looked almost human, but something was unnatural about them. I could not place what was odd about these beings, but I was so transfixed it seemed to not matter. There was a sense of both fear and tranquility that pervaded my body. Everything held so still my heartbeat was the only thing that seemed to be moving. Then in an instant those horrible beings changed, they started clawing, biting, howling, devouring, destroying Somnus. The transcription machine started printing again. The machine was printing the words, “Help. Help me. Stop them. Please. Stop them. Please. Please. Please.”

I looked back at the screen to find Somnus’ body being torn and devoured by what now looked like the common picture of demons. They were in a frenzy joyously feasting upon him. The transcription printed again “Help. Help me please. Please.” A pause, then my breath was taken from my body as I saw it printed. “Simon, wake me up. I’m begging. Stop. Please.” He addressed me. Surely, not me.

The image started to fade and I realized he was waking up. I entered the sleep room. I stood on the edge waiting for him to wake. I approached, and felt his pulse. There was none.

Dr. Thanotos Somnus died, in his sleep, January 14, 2438.

Monday, November 09, 2015

Mom

Poem by Michelle A. Lundberg of Cerro Coso Community College
2015 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Poetry

Nothing was ever wrong.
She would never let us know.
She was so strong.

Constant pain, all along.
Silence was her companion.
Nothing was ever wrong.

Cries she held in for so long,
A tear never left her eye.
She was so strong.

Head pounding, an endless throng.
A smile was always on her face.
Nothing was ever wrong.

The ride to the hospital, we sang a song.
I didn’t know it would be out last.
She was so strong.

Our misery, she tried to prolong.
Now all we feel is pain.
Nothing was ever wrong.
She was so strong.

Monday, November 02, 2015

Father Nicholas

Short Short by Shari Allison of Cerro Coso Community College
2015 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Fiction

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

After the realization that the voice was that of Isaac Portrosky’s, Father Nicholas relaxed against the thick padding of the confessional.

“It has been twenty-one hours since my last confession,” stated the contrite man in the adjoining booth.

Father Nicholas made sure his sigh was inaudible. Isaac was a consummate sinner and a devout confessioner.

“I could not help myself. Isabella is so sick and Maria is so ample. Father, I am an accursed man.” Isaac’s confession proceeded with little variation from the one given twenty-one hours earlier.

The priest heard the chime of the clock tower and realized it was lunch. He would make Isaac Portrosky his last confession and break for lunch. He still had his Sunday sermon to prepare and he promised to listen to choir practice that evening.

“Please Father, I beg of you to visit my beloved Isabella, to pray with her.” It was an unusual request from Portrosky, perhaps he was working toward change.

“Very well my son, I shall do as you have asked and visit God’s dear child Isabella.” He was mentally reassigning his activities for the afternoon while routinely dispensing Isaac’s penance.

Shortly after Father Nicholas prayed for the sinner and left the confessional. He saw Isaac several pews down, prostrate, and praying to the Blessed Virgin Mary. It wasn’t until the priest stepped forward that the light caught his eye. Something was shining. He stepped back from the brightness to locate the source within the church. It appeared to be coming from Isaac Portrosky!

Slowly, quietly, the priest made his way to Portrosky. There, next to the praying man laid a silver watch. How could this be? Mr. Portrosky was poor like most of his parishioners. Yet there it was, reflecting the light from the stained glass portrayal of the baby Jesus in the Virgins Mary’s arms, like a divine gift from god calling out to him. The watch lay free from any confinements. Perhaps it was not even Mr. Portrosky’s, he only happened to perform his penance beside it.

Father Nicholas carefully lifted the silver watch from the floor. The arduous sinner continued to pray. The silver object forced its way into the pocket of the priest’s robe, with no defense from the pocket’s wearer.

An obsession seemed to overtake the priest. He took the watch to different stained glass windows of the church to reflect the scenes onto the silver surface. It was so beautiful, the colors would mix and mingle. The baby Jesus’ face had never looked as magnificent as it did shining back from the silver exterior of the watch.

He skipped lunch and spent much of the afternoon avoiding everyone, including those involved in a ruckus that overtook the church. He sat next to a lit candle in his room and watched as he artfully turned the watch to display the painting of the Virgin Mary hanging on his wall manifest itself in silver.

It was well after five when Father Nicholas placed the watch in his robe and left the church on route to the Portrosky home.

Maria was the one to open the door after several drummed knocks. Her face was not one of surprise, nor was it of beauty. The woman had small eyes, which seemed to get smaller in comparison to her large nose and even larger lips. The one characteristic she did possess that could not be missed, even by a priest, was the obvious fact that Maria had an enormous bosom that was always partially exhibited.

“Oh good Father, you are here?” she said. Her acerbic tone did not match her words and neither did her lack of body movement to let the priest in. She was not a parishioner, so his manners were less engaged when he pushed past her. Their front door opened into the kitchen with a roaring fire blazing in the hearth to cut the cold from coming inside, and to prepare dinner.

“It’s your priest,” Maria yelled into the house from behind him.

“Father? Father are you here?” came a frail voice from the bedroom.

Father Nicholas made his way to the bedroom. In a large bed laid the small frame of Isabella Portrosky. She, unlike her sister Maria, had always been fragile and delicate of health. Easily lovelier than her sister in youth, she had married young and produced no children. The family could not secure a husband for Maria, according to Isaac, so when Isabella took ill, Maria was obligated to care for her.

“Father, you have come at last.” Isabella said in wispy gasps.

“Yes my child, I am here to comfort and pray with you.” Isabella was a devout worshipper, and one he liked to visit regularly.

“Thank you Father, and did you find the watch?” She asked as tears welled up in her eyes.

The priest could feel his feet go cold and a chill run up the length of his body.

“Watch?” he inquired with as much conviction as he could summon.

“Yes. My father’s silver watch. Isaac took it with him to church this afternoon. He likes to pray for me with something of importance to me. He said it brings me and god closer to him. You did find it Father, didn’t you?”

Isabella’s face resembled that of the Virgin Mary’s picture which hung in his room. Isabella’s teary eyes looked at him questioningly. Concern filled every aspect of her face.

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. “The silver watch Maria gave me?” He didn’t know all of the ramifications his lie would cause, but it was too late, the path was set. “I would happily give it back, I did not know it was yours.” It would be the ungodly Maria’s word against his, a priest. Father Nickolas knew one thing, he had solved Isaac’s problem. Maria would likely be sent home and someone else less buxom and willing, sent in her stead.