Stories and Poems from the Writers' Critique Group of First Reformed Church, Schenectady, New York

Month: September 2023

The Curse of the Terrodent’s Teeth

By James Gonda.

The Badlands stretched out before Dr. Amelia Turner like an endless expanse of earth. Its jagged, rust-colored formations resembled the wrinkles of ancient giants. Dusty gusts of wind carried the scent of arid soil. The sun blazed overhead, and heat simmered in waves across the cracked terrain.

Dr. Turner had journeyed to this desolate place with her team. As a paleontologist, she had spent years excavating fossilized remains from sites around the world. She earned a reputation for her tenacity and old-fashioned work ethic—she had dedicated her life to her career, often over personal relationships.

The Badlands offered a promise of something extraordinary. She and her team toiled under the scorching sun for weeks, brushing away layers of dirt and rock. Their efforts finally paid off when they uncovered the well-preserved skeleton of an unknown dinosaur. It was massive, with immense bones and a fearsome presence. The group stood in awe of their find and slapped a few high-fives.

They christened the new dinosaur Terrodent for its teeth. The choppers, protruding from massive jaws, were formidable. Dr. Turner felt their serrated edges under her fingertips; she envisioned how they once sliced through prey. In the dim light of the site, the teeth glistened like treasure.

“Look at these incisors,” she said to her colleague, Dr. Owen Mitchell, both crouching beside the jaws. “They’re unlike anything we’ve ever found.”

He nodded in agreement. “We’ll rewrite dinosaur history. This find is a gamechanger!” Dr. Mitchell had a reputation as a meticulous researcher and an encyclopedic knowledge of paleontology. He had a way of seeing patterns and connections in the fossil record that others often missed. His passion for dinosaurs was infectious.

Yet Dr. Turner felt uneasy about the teeth. There was something about them, an unsettling aura that she could not express. Still, they continued their excavation, documenting every detail of the Terrodent’s remains. It was during this time when a minor mishap occurred: Amelia cut herself on one of the teeth, a superficial wound.

Days turned into weeks, and the team made steady progress unearthing the Terrodent. But something within Dr. Turner had changed—she had become withdrawn, and her behavior turned erratic. She spent sleepless nights pouring over notes; her obsession with the Terrodent’s teeth increased each day. Her colleagues became concerned. They saw her spiraling into an abyss of fear and paranoia. She isolated herself from them, and her once bright eyes clouded with anxiety. She could no longer ignore the visions that plagued her: nightmares in which she was chased by the Terrodent, its hungry jaws snapping inches from her face.

One evening, as the sun sank below the horizon, Dr. Mitchell approached Dr. Turner by the campfire. “Amelia, we’re worried about you. You’ve changed so much since that cut from the tooth. You should rest, take a break from all this.”

Amelia stared into the flames. “I can’t rest, Owen. Not until I understand what’s happening to me. It’s the Terrodent’s teeth—they haunt my every thought.”

Dr. Mitchell exchanged a concerned look with the rest of the team. Dr. Turner’s fear was festering into a phobia that would consume her whole being.

Desperate for answers, Dr. Turner delved deeper into the history of the Badlands. In a nearby library, she found tomes that preserved the history of the area. She sifted through fragile manuscripts and faded parchments. The librarian, a wizened figure with a penchant for local legends, approached her. “You’re searching for tales of the Arikara, aren’t you?” He peered over his glasses.

Amelia nodded. Her eyes gleamed with anticipation.

The librarian leaned in. “The Arikara they say is a creature like no other—a dinosaur of dread. People believe that its teeth possess dark powers.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone.

“Tell me more about those who encountered the Terrodent’s—I mean Arikara’s—teeth. What happened to them?”

The librarian leaned in closer. “Nightmarish visions plagued unfortunate souls who were lacerated by the teeth. They could not escape the haunting images that tormented their dreams, as if the very essence of the creature had seeped into their souls.”

“Is there any record of someone breaking this curse, of freeing themselves?”

The librarian’s eyes sparkled with mystery. “Some stories tell of individuals who sought to confront their fears, to challenge the curse rather than succumb to it. But whether they succeeded or met a darker fate, those accounts are shrouded in ambiguity, lost in the mists of time.”

Dr. Turner began to suspect that the tooth had introduced a dormant pathogen into her bloodstream. The microorganisms must  carry a malevolent power that had somehow withstood eons. She knew finding the truth meant venturing deeper into the Badlands. With newfound determination, she thanked the librarian and left.

The next morning, she informed her team of her plan. “I need to go back to the site.” Her eyes burned with determination. “I have to face the Terrodent, the curse, whatever it is, and find a way to break from its grip.”

Dr. Mitchell was the first to voice his concerns. “Amelia, you’re not in any condition to do this alone. You’re not yourself anymore. We can’t let you go back there by yourself.”

“Owen, you’ve been my partner from the beginning. Then come with me. I need your help now more than ever. We’ll confront this curse together.”

Dr. Mitchell hesitated, torn between concern and fascination. Finally, he nodded in agreement. “OK,  but we need a plan. We can’t just charge in.”

The team huddled around the campfire to discuss strategy. Dr. Turner shared her theory about the pathogen inside the tooth and how it might be the source of the curse. They decided to retrieve the tooth and analyze it further, hoping to find a way to neutralize its effects.

The following day, Dr. Turner and Dr. Mitchell returned to the site. The Terrodent’s skeleton loomed over them, a menacing presence. Dr. Turner carefully extracted the tooth that had cut her and placed it in a container. Meanwhile the wind howled with a sense of foreboding. The sun beat down without mercy.

A week went by as they examined the tooth. As Dr. Turner had suspected, their research revealed an unknown strain of bacteria that had lain dormant for millions of years. These findings led to a heated debate. Dr. Mitchell, always the rational scientist, insisted on caution. “Amelia, we don’t know the potential consequences of this pathogen. We need more time to study it, to find a way to counteract its effects.” But Amelia was growing desperate. She could not bear the torment of the nightmares. She feared the curse was tightening its grip. “Owen, I can’t wait any longer. We need to confront the Terrodent. We have no choice but to return to the site.” He reluctantly agreed to go back.

They approached the massive skeleton with caution, cursed tooth in hand. But this time, as they stood before the Terrodent, the ground began to tremble. The curse’s presence was palpable—a dark force that threatened to consume them. Dr. Turner took a deep breath, her heart pounding, and whispered to Dr. Mitchell, “We’re in this together, Owen. No matter what happens, we face it together.”

The curse’s presence grew stronger. The air buzzed with energy. Low rumbling growls emanated from the dinosaur’s bones. Without warning the ground cracked open, and a massive, grotesque creature emerged. It was a nightmarish fusion of dinosaur and apparition. Its eyes glowed with an eerie light; its form shifted and rippled like it existed on the border of the living and the dead.

Dr. Turner and Dr. Mitchell stumbled back in shock and horror. The creature let out a screech that reverberated throughout the Badlands. The Terrodent’s spirit had been awakened. It seemed to be exacting revenge upon those who disturbed its resting place.

Then a figure emerged from the shadows—the librarian from the nearby town, the one who had shared the legends of the Arikara. He stepped forward with an ancient artifact: a talisman passed down through generations of his people. With great determination, he began to chant incantations in an obscure language. The talisman emitted a brilliant, blinding light that engulfed the creature. The ground rumbled and pulled the abomination back into the depths of the earth with a final, anguished cry. Dr. Turner and Dr. Mitchell were stunned. They stared at the spot where the creature had disappeared. The librarian turned to them, his expression grave but satisfied. “The curse has been suppressed. Please do not trifle with ancient legends. Respect the past, and it will respect you.”

With the curse contained, a sense of relief washed over Dr. Turner. The horrific visions had ceased. Her mind was free from torment. She gazed at the tooth, cradled it in her hand. Its serrated edges gleamed in the sun. Dr. Mitchell turned to her. “Amelia, are we sure it’s over?” Doubt filled her eyes. “I don’t know, Owen. I hope so, but there’s something about this tooth, something powerful. We’ve only scratched the surface of its true nature.” The librarian’s cautionary words echoed in her mind: Respect the past, and it will respect you.

Together, they took in the vast expanse of the Badlands. Was the curse defeated? Or did it simply retreat into the earth? Dr. Turner looked at Dr. Mitchell; without saying a word she confirmed the uncertainty of their victory. It would be for the next adventurers to uncover the truth, whatever that truth may be.

QRS Complexes

By John Hargraves.

The summer after turning 18 I began to feel proud of myself. It was my last year at RPI in Troy and I was still hanging on to my 4.0 GPA. After flunking the road test the first time, I had finally gotten my driver’s license. Then I began volunteering at Samaritan hospital. They let me work in the psychiatric ward and the EKG department. I learned to sit with troubled minds and tried to understand patience. The moving squiggles on EKG paper fascinated me and I taught myself to decipher some of their meaning.

In November I learned from my sister that my father had been hospitalized for another heart attack. They didn’t do much in those days but put you to bed, give oxygen, inject morphine, and watch. He lay crying when I entered his room at Ellis. It was the first time I had seen him since I had the measles at 16. My eyes focused on the oscilloscope’s green light tracing my father’s heartbeat. “Hey” I said. “You’re in sinus rhythm. That big spike there shows the electrical activity of the big chambers of your heart. It’s called a QRS complex.”

My older brother, who had flown in from Denver, was in the room and my father turned to him. “Does he really know what he’s talking about?” he croaked.

After they removed his temporary pacemaker for heart block he was discharged. Sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas, my stepmother invited me for dinner. There wasn’t much conversation, but she was a good cook. The attention was diverted by the creamy mashed potatoes and crispy fried chicken with gravy. My father smiled and cut off chunks of margarine from a big stick to bless his huge pile of mashed potatoes. He wasn’t using butter anymore because that had cholesterol. Across the kitchen table I looked at him as we finished the big meal. I could tell he was feeling magnanimous.

“Maybe we should bury the hatchet,” he suggested.

“Umm, yeah maybe,” was all I could muster.

Before I left, I watched him giggle and open a five-pound box of Fannie Farmer chocolate candy and grab handfuls. He offered the box to me, and I reaped a harvest of the nuts and creams as I went out the door.

Early in January my sister called me. “The old man just died,” she cried. “He was trying to unlock the front door and had trouble with the key.” She reported that he collapsed. Todd, a neighbor, jumped onto the porch and tried CPR. He was taken by ambulance to Ellis and pronounced dead.

I remember punching the wall. “Damn!”

My brother couldn’t afford to fly back a second time for the funeral. So, we spoke for a short time on the telephone. “You’re an orphan now,” he pronounced. I felt lost and less proud.

Beyond Words: an Artistic Odyssey

By Artemisia Intelli.

The New York City hospital bustled with life. Its fluorescent lights and sterile corridors were a stark contrast to the urban world outside. Amid this controlled chaos, Emily, the hospital’s art curator, navigated her way through the maze of wheelchairs, IV stands, and anxious families. She had a unique mission: to bring the balm of art therapy to patients grappling with hurt and trauma.

Every day, Emily saw the transformative power of art. For some, it was a lifeline, a means of expressing the inexpressible. For others, it was a moment of respite from the cycle of pain and fear.

As she entered the art therapy room, a sense of calm washed over her. Large windows bathed the space in soft, natural light. Colorful creations adorned the walls. Emily had supplied the room with an array of materials: brushes, clay, and sketchbooks. The scent of paint hung in the air.

But today, Emily noticed a solitary figure sitting at a corner table. A boy, around 15 or 16 years old, with curly dark hair and brown eyes, was engrossed in his work. He clutched a sketchbook with determination. His hand moved gracefully across the page. Approaching him with a warm smile, Emily said, “Hello there. I’m Emily, the hospital’s art curator. What’s your name?” The boy looked up, his eyes widening in surprise at the unexpected visitor. He hesitated for a moment, then replied, “I’m Daniel.”

Taking a seat beside him, Emily leaned closer for a glimpse of his sketch. It was a tranquil forest. A winding river cut through the heart of the scene. The details were exquisite, and the colors blended seamlessly. Emily was impressed. “You’re very talented, Daniel,” she murmured. A flicker of pride lit up in Daniel’s eyes, then replaced by a sense of unease. He glanced away. “It’s the only way I can talk,” he admitted in a soft voice.

“What do you mean, it’s the only way you can talk?”

Daniel flipped to a blank page on his notepad. With deliberate movements, he sketched a stick figure of himself with his tousled hair and quizzical expression. Then, he pointed to the mouth of the figure, indicating his inability to speak.

As he continued to draw, he revealed more about his condition. He had been born with a rare vocal cord disorder that had left him virtually voiceless. Years of speech therapy and medical interventions had brought limited improvement. Emily watched in awe as his fingers danced across the paper, creating intricate images and symbols. It was a language all his own. For her, it was a revelation that went beyond the visual. It was a window into the soul of a young man who had found his voice in the silence of art.

In the days that followed, Emily and Daniel’s bond deepened. They often meet in the art therapy room. Emily introduced him to a variety of art techniques and mediums. They painted, sculpted, and experimented with different forms of artistic expression.

As Daniel’s confidence in his artistry grew, so did a conflict within him. He was torn between his passion for art and the mounting pressure from his family. His parents, worried about his future, believed that speech therapy and academic tutoring were the keys to unlocking his potential.

His father, a stern man with calloused hands from years of hard work, had envisioned a future of academic success for Daniel. To him, art was an uncertain path, a distraction from the “real world”.

Daniel’s mother had different dreams for her son. She yearned for him to find his voice, not only through art, but in the spoken word. She imagined a life where he could express his thoughts, feelings, and dreams without restraint. To her, art was a refuge but also a reminder of what her son had been denied.

One day, Daniel handed Emily a drawing that took her breath away. It was a vibrant phoenix rising from the ashes of a burned-down house—a symbol of rebirth and transformation. Emily asked, “Is this about your life, Daniel?” He pointed to the phoenix and then to himself.

Inspired by Daniel’s talent and resilience, Emily decided to organize an exhibition featuring his work, along with the art created by other patients. She believed that showcasing their creations could inspire and bring comfort to others facing similar challenges.

The exhibition was a resounding success. Visitors were drawn to Daniel’s art. Emily watched as people were moved to tears, laughter, and introspection by the powerful pieces on display.

But Daniel’s newfound fame exacerbated the tension with his family. They still believed his art was a lark, diverting him from the path they had charted for his future. Their arguments became more heated.

One evening, as the exhibition ended, a well-known art therapist named Dr. Rodriguez approached Emily. “You’ve done remarkable work here, Emily,” he said, his eyes filled with admiration. “You’ve shown the world the healing power of art.” Emily smiled. She felt a small sense of pride in what she and Daniel had accomplished together.

Emily and Daniel continued their art therapy sessions. Their roles had evolved—they were no longer curator and patient. They had become kindred spirits on a shared journey of self-discovery and healing.

But the conflict within Daniel’s family remained. He longed for their acceptance of his chosen path. The tension from home ached in his heart. Emily worried about the toll this added stress was taking on her friend.

One day as Emily and Daniel worked on a mural for the hospital’s lobby, Daniel paused and looked at her with sadness and determination. He gestured to the mural—which depicted his family—and then to his heart. She understood the message. He wanted his parents to see the beauty and healing power of his work. So, Emily facilitated a private viewing for Daniel’s family. She hoped seeing their son’s work in a meaningful setting would change their perspective. She invited them to the hospital, and with some trepidation, they agreed to attend.

As Daniel’s family entered the lobby for the private viewing, skepticism and apprehension hung in the air. His father walked in with arms crossed, his eyes narrowed with doubt. His mother, a softer presence, clutched his arm.

The mural loomed large before them: a vivid tapestry of colors and emotions. At first, they stood at a distance, unsure how to approach the work. But as their eyes traced the lines and hues, something began to happen.

His father’s hard countenance softened, and his arms uncrossed. He leaned in closer and studied the intricate details. His mother placed her hand on her chest. She gasped. “This is . . . who Daniel is.” Her gaze shifted to her son. Then she squeezed her husband’s arm, urging him to see what she saw. Meanwhile, Daniel watched his parents. He had bared his soul on this canvas.

His father turned to him and extended a hand toward the mural, a gesture of recognition and acceptance. His mother embraced him. “We had no idea, Daniel. We didn’t understand,” she whispered.

For Daniel, he was relieved and validated. It was a turning point in their family’s journey, a moment when they, too, embraced the healing power of art and the beauty of their son’s unique voice.