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

Month: June 2024

Enigma

By Dirk de Jong.

After a quick bachelor-type dinner of canned soup and a sandwich, Anton picked up his phone. He had – on the advice of one of his friends – half-heartedly subscribed to a dating app for seniors.

“I damn sure don’t want to go kayaking,” Anton muttered to himself, as he scrolled through the recommended matches. He also did not want to learn tai chi, or travel to far-flung places he was no longer interested in visiting. Shit, he was too old for that. Finally, as he was about to give up on the whole enterprise, one profile caught his attention: I don’t like to talk much about myself via this medium. Instead, I want people to learn about me through human interaction. Suffice it to say that I am not perfect, that I have been through the ups and downs of life, and that I am still hopeful to connect on a meaningful and intimate level if you give me time.

Something about that entry portrayed a degree of vulnerability to Anton, a vulnerability he appreciated and related to. A single picture complemented the brief profile. It showed a woman with gray hair, tied in a ponytail. Her eyes seemed to look right into Anton’s. Her look was intense, somewhat sad, but also inquisitive. The only other information he gleaned from the post was her name, Brigitte, her age, 64, and the fact that – like he – she lived in Vermont. For the first time during his six weeks of app membership Anton felt the urge to respond.  Hi Brigitte. I understand your sentiments. This dating app sucks. Most of the matches recommended to me are women who like to kayak. I don’t like to kayak. I do like coffee, and I hope you do too. If so (or even if you don’t), let’s meet up this weekend and talk. My name is Anton. I live in southern Vermont but can meet you anywhere.  You name the place.

Brigitte messaged him back about 50 minutes later: Hi Anton. Saturday at one. Half Moon Cafe, Middlebury.

                                                                 ***

Brigitte was sitting at a table in a corner of the outdoor terrace. She was a little taller than he had expected her to be, maybe 5’8”. She had jeans on that were ripped at the knees. She wore a ponytail. Her fingernails were short and painted black. She smiled as Anton walked up to her.

“Hi,” said Anton. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” responded Brigitte.

They politely shook hands.

“Hey, I see they have Turkish coffee here,” said Anton. “How are you with that?”

“Sounds good. Bring it on.”

Anton ordered two Turkish coffees and adjusted the sun umbrella so he could make eye contact without having to squint.

“I liked how you responded to my profile,” said Brigitte. “Oh, and I do like kayaking, once in a while.’”

“I am sure there is more to you than that,” replied Anton. “I just started learning to play the harmonica. Fun, but not as easy as I was hoping. Do you like music?”

“I used to sing… took lessons for a while.”

They both sipped their coffee. Anton waited for Brigitte to continue, but she remained silent.

“What made you go on a dating app?” Anton asked.

Brigitte hesitated briefly.

“Loneliness, probably. I am fine by myself, but I do get lonely at times. How about you?”

“I feel pretty content living alone,” Anton started his response. “But rural Vermont can make you feel lonely sometimes. Fortunately, I still have work, and I see my kids pretty regularly. Do you have kids?”

Brigitte flinched. “I did,” she said.

“Oh… I am sorry,” replied Anton. “Really sorry…”

They were quiet for a minute or so. Brigitte took another sip of her coffee, then grabbed her handbag and got up.

“Thanks for coming out to meet me. I got to go.”

Somewhat stunned, Anton watched her cross the street to go to her car, an older Ford Focus. Then he threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table and rushed after her. She rolled down the car window and looked at him with her eyebrows raised.  Anton took one of his business cards out of his wallet and scribbled his cell phone number on it. “Here. Text or call if you want to meet again.”

She took the card and placed it in the glove compartment. “Thanks.” Then she rolled the window back up and drove off.

                                                              ***

That Monday Anton ran into Sophia, one of his colleagues in the political science department of the college where he worked, and someone he often confided in.

“How was your weekend?” she asked.

“Well, I went on a date,” replied Anton.

Sophia looked surprised. “Wow, judging by your dating app adventures so far, I didn’t think you were ready for that yet. How was it?”

“It was weird. I liked this woman’s profile online. We met at a cafe in Middlebury. We had Turkish coffee and a little bit of conversation. Then she got up, apologized, and left. I did have a chance to give her my cellphone number at least.”

“What made her leave so suddenly?” Sophia asked.

“I don’t know. When I asked if she had kids, she said that she did, like in the past tense. She seemed upset. I told her I was sorry. It’s strange, but I really would like to see her again.”

“Well,” replied Sophia, “since you are both a little weird, that may happen yet.” She winked in encouragement. “Gotta go. Political theory class is calling.”

As he was cleaning up in the kitchen, later that night, Anton was notified of a text from Brigitte: Sorry about leaving abruptly. I would like to see you again. Anton’s heartbeat seemed to quicken a little and he felt his face grow warmer. What was it? He was 72 and didn’t even know this woman. Yet he was eager to reply. How about lunch at the Black Tulip in Rutland, Saturday at noon, he texted back. Looking forward to seeing you again.

                                                           ***

They arrived at about the same time. Anton was getting out of his car just when Brigitte drove into the parking lot. This time she wore a long skirt with what looked to Anton like an Indian motif. He walked over to her. “That’s a beautiful skirt,” he exclaimed.

Brigitte smiled and did a little mock curtsy in acknowledgement of the compliment. “Nice to see you again.”

They sat inside this time, near a window that offered a spectacular view of the mountains in the distance.

“I want to apologize again for my rude behavior last time,” began Brigitte.

“Thanks, but not necessary,” replied Anton. “It made you more interesting. I really wanted to meet again and learn more about you. I can start by telling you a little about myself.

Brigitte looked relieved. “Yes, please do.”

“Well, I am divorced… have been for about eight years now. I have two kids. And I teach at Mountain College. I live by myself, except when my youngest son is home from school.”

Anton paused. “Your turn to lift the veil a little bit.”

“Okay, but just a little. I also live by myself. I rent an apartment in White River Junction. It comes with a small studio. I am a painter, acrylics mostly. Landscapes, portraits, some abstract stuff. I exhibit and sell at fairs in the New England area… also through a gallery in Burlington. I am an introvert. I don’t care much for a lot of social stimulation. Do I sound boring to you?”

“Not at all. I usually gravitate toward people with rich inner lives.”

Birgitte was quiet. It looked like she was thinking about something, or almost as if she was dissociating from the moment. Then she looked up. “Sorry Anton, but I have to go.”

Before he could respond, she was already at the door, then disappeared into the bright sunlight. This time Anton did not follow her.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Sophia caught up with Anton in the hallway after both had been teaching class. “Let’s go in my office,” she said. She closed the door behind them and looked at Anton. “There is a rumor going around about your new friend. They say you are dating a ‘baby killer’.”

Anton seemed confused. “What?”

“Felix, that guy from the visual arts department, saw you and your friend out on the town. Apparently, he knows that she is a somewhat successful painter. He says that she was convicted many years ago of negligence in the death of an infant. Word is that she was out working as a stripper while her boyfriend shook their baby, causing a fatal brain injury. I guess both did time for that.”

Anton was stunned.  Sophia stayed silent for a minute, while Anton was trying to focus on what he had just been told. Then she touched his arm. “I am sorry. I wanted to be the one to break it to you. I felt you should know.”

“Yes…yes…of course. Thank you,” stammered Anton. “And where was this supposed to have happened?”

“In Albany, New York, I believe. Yes, that makes sense, Felix went to the university there. He probably heard about it then.” Sophia looked at him earnestly. “Hey, let me know if you want to talk more.”

After the brief conversation with Sophia, Anton went straight home. At his desk, he opened his laptop and searched the database of the Albany Sentinel. There it was, dated June 3, 1980: Mother convicted of involuntary manslaughter in death of infant, screamed the headline. The account was pretty much as Sophia had summarized it for him. And it was her name: Brigitte McClure. She would have been 21 at that time.

Anton laid down on his bed, attempting to process what he had learned about Brigitte. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep.

He awoke as it was getting dark outside. He got up, went over to his desk and composed a brief email to Felix: Leave Brigitte McClure alone. We all have made mistakes – they shouldn’t define us. You don’t have permission to retraumatize someone who never did anything to you. So lay off, or I will initiate a complaint with Human Resources.

Mere minutes later, Anton was notified that a new message had arrived in his mailbox. It was from Felix. It read: Kevin O’Connell was my stepbrother. He was in a relationship with Brigitte when she got pregnant. He never knew if it was really his baby. The baby was a handful, and he was the one who took care of him most of the time. He lost his cool once and the baby died as a result. Kevin received fifteen years behind bars for second degree murder. He overdosed two years after he got out. Damn right: We all make mistakes. His was to get involved with Brigitte.


Time Beyond Time

By James Gonda.

Inspired by true events

I was a vintner, and the chores of the vineyard consumed my days. Pruning. Harvesting. Fermenting.

So, when I decided to excavate a new wine cellar beneath my home, I expected only sweat and dust.

It was a crisp morning when my shovel clanged against something hard. I brushed aside dirt and discovered a massive bone. Its surface was smooth to the touch. Then I unearthed more bones, each one larger than the last. It struck me like a thunderclap—these were mammoth bones!

News of my find spread throughout the region. The local media buzzed; the winery saw an influx of visitors to see the prehistoric relics. Amidst this hullabaloo, a woman named Alka slinked in. She claimed to be an archaeologist. “I’ve heard about your discovery,” she said. “May I see the bones?”

I took her to the cellar.

She examined skull pieces with a discerning eye. After a long silence, she turned to me. “These bones are not just remnants of the past. They are linked to something more significant.”

I had no idea what she was talking about.

“I belong to a society that studies temporal anomalies,” she said. “We investigate rifts in the fabric of time—portals that offer glimpses into different eras. These bones are connected to one such rift.”

I thought she was talking nonsense.

“I know it sounds unbelievable,” she said, “but I can prove it. Will you let me?”

Despite my skepticism, I agreed.

Alka produced a small, intricate device from her bag. It looked like a cross between a compass and an astrolabe. She positioned the gadget near the bone pit and began to manipulate its dials.

The air in the cellar grew heavy; a low hum filled the space. Then a shimmering portal opened before us, projecting a pale light. “Come,” she said, extending her hand. “We must step through together.”

I hesitated before deciding to play along.

When we crossed the threshold, everything dissolved into a swirling vortex of light. As the whirl of colors subsided, we were on a vast plain. Towering mammoths lumbered across the landscape. Nearby, a group of early humans—clad in furs and armed with spears—stalked their massive prey.

I watched as they coordinated their attack to bring down one of the beasts. After the mammoth fell and the hunters celebrated their victory, the vision began to blur and fade. I turned to Alka. “What the heck was that?”

“A scene from eons ago, she said. “The rift allows us to witness history. But we’re only observers—we cannot interact with the past.”

The portal closed and we found ourselves back in the cellar. I stood there, absorbed in the enormity of our experience. My crude hole in the ground felt like a nexus of unimaginable power.

Alka showed concern. “These rifts are delicate. Disturbances like our presence can exacerbate their instability. So, we need to monitor it to ensure it stabilizes. Then we must protect this site to prevent further disruptions.”

My life was suddenly upended.  

In the following days, I helped Alka set up equipment to monitor the rift. My cellar was transformed into a command center: screens with energy readings and charts that mapped temporal distortions. I tried to read about time anomalies and theoretical physics but found these subjects incomprehensible. Meanwhile, my hired man took over my tasks in the vineyard.

 One day during some down time I asked Alka how she got involved in this line of work. She smiled. “I’ve always been fascinated by time—how it shapes us, how we’re all just specks passing through. When I discovered these rifts, I thought I found the pulse of the universe. They’re also dangerous, and that attracted me. Any rift could unravel everything we are.”

Then without warning the cellar’s alarms blared. The rift’s energy had surged. The portal flickered, threatening to burst open. “We need to act now!” Alka shouted. I grabbed the temporal stabilizer and positioned it near the rift. Alka adjusted the controls. As it activated, the rift pulsed wildly, full of energy. Slowly, its fluctuations began to calm. The portal’s edges solidified, and the shimmering light faded. We watched, breathless, as the rift settled into a stable, dormant state. Alka turned to me. “We did it. For now.”

I was alone in the cellar the next day scanning energy readings when a spike caught my attention. The rift was beginning to fluctuate again. Panic surged through me. Without Alka’s supervision, I was unsure what to do. I grabbed the temporal stabilizer and adjusted the controls from memory. The rift’s energy swelled, and the shimmering light began to appear. I worked like a madman trying to calm it, but the fluctuations only intensified. Then the portal opened, and the swirling vortex manifested. Its pull was irresistible. Before too long I was back on the plain with the mammoths and hunters. A tall figure stood out. As I approached, he turned; I gasped in shock. The face looking back at me was my own. I cowered. The other me smiled. “Don’t fret, Wolfgang, I am you, but from a different starting point. The rift doesn’t just show the past; it creates different timelines. In my world Alka and I mastered the rifts and harnessed their power.” I was speechless. “Time is not linear—it’s a web of possibilities. The rift is a gateway. One can choose to follow the same path or forge a new one.” Then I was pulled back through the vortex and returned to the cellar. The stabilizer beeped; the rift was stable once again.

Alka rushed in. “What’s happened?”

I explained how I saw myself from another timeline.

Her eyes widened. “The scope and breath of these rifts are enormous.”  

My life took another turn—I became a caretaker of time. Past and present intertwine like vines on the trellis. Being a vintner gave me roots; time is now my vineyard, vast and beyond one’s imagination.  

Cookies (fifth commandments)

By John Hargraves.

Both my parents preferred using the strap. They each had their own thick leather belt. Ma’s was a two-inch wide red beater that she kept handy. The old man’s inch-wide black whip was kept around his 44-inch waist to hold up his pants. He’d whisk it through his trouser loops and hold it under my nose. “Smell it!” he’d demand.

Both were bound to ritual. They also avoided each other’s witness. Ma was volatile and her beatings were more frequent. She strapped with benchmarks in mind. After learning what she strived for, the belt incited anticipatory dread. Afterwards she became guilty and baked repentance cookies for me. My old man’s temper crescendoed in a sinister fashion. Once he was hot, he could not strike until I complied by smelling the leather. I was always reluctant to sniff. His punishment methodologies were otherwise less predictable, and he was always without remorse. 

Never knowing what would trigger ma’s anger, I learned secondary and tertiary prevention measures. Not responding to command and not knowing I was deaf in one ear; my disobedience often initiated the ritual. Without words, ma would hasten for the red leather. It had a deep burnished hue and she would fold it in half and make it snap. She liked the sound and did it several times, filling me with terror. A large mahogany dining room chair with a cream-colored cushion was pulled out and she ordered me to lie across. Arms stretched forward with my torso balanced across the cushion, I was required to stay still and quiet. The number of lashes was announced with add-ons given for every flinch or yelp that broke forth. As the blows varied it was hard to brace. The number always rose and it ended without completion when sympathy intervened. I heard her “Sorry” between my choked recovering breaths; followed by her rustling to the kitchen for redemption.

Being resourceful I conjured a remedy to stay still and quiet during a beating. I learned to love books and chose them well. Ones that would fit well in the seat of my pants. This provided absolute resolution for several beating cycles before I self-sabotaged. Hearing the less than fleshy impact of her painless strikes, I began to chortle. Her startled awareness begat a fury and provided me with a taste of the buckle. At that point I enacted Plan B. This was adhered to thereafter whenever possible. Realizing I could move faster and that she did not swing at moving targets, I dashed for the bathroom and locked the door. The red rage pounding the other side completed its combustion without fail within 30 minutes. Safe passage was assessed by my singing a silly rhyme and listening for her laugh.

One day Ma had to accompany my older sister to the doctor’s office. This was a rare abandonment of the house. Around seven years of age and starting to get chubby, I enjoyed sweet treats. The old man knew this and guarded his Fig Newtons in the kitchen pantry. He warned me to keep away from them. Given the strength of my cravings, I was not deterred. Anticipating my weakness in the pantry of Eden, he discovered my consumption of the forbidden cookies. He bellowed and accused me of transgression. My denial was firm. He unclasped his belt buckle with both hands and unleashed the leather with a swooshing sound. “Smell it!” he roared. “Your mother’s not here to protect you.” Running the strap under my nose, he was satisfied even though I held my breath. His left hand grasped my shirt collar as I ran in orbit around his waist. Unable to dodge the strikes, I began to cry and let the blows sear my memory for a future reckoning.

The Orchids and Their Alien Secret

By James Gonda

(i)

Dr. Elaine Thomas spends weeks in the Tibetan forest studying orchids known as Ward’s Lady’s Slipper. These white and purple flowers have always stoked her curiosity; she notices what looks like pollen dusts their slipper-shaped lips. But Elaine knows it’s pseudo-pollen, designed to attract and deceive pollinators. By mimicking real pollen, the orchids increase their pollination success without expending energy to produce the real thing.

Elaine has an exceptional way of “seeing”.  She can parlay mundane observations into unique insights and has a knack for identifying patterns. She’s in her early 50s. Her short hair frames a kind face, and her pleasing shape betrays an active lifestyle.

One evening a glow emanates from the orchids. How odd, Elaine thinks. Bioluminescence is not a known behavior of these plants. She hypothesizes they might be prone to disturbances in electromagnetic fields (EMFs). EMFs are omnipresent and invisible to the human eye. Solar flares cause EMF disturbances, and they can impact biological systems.

Elaine decides to test her theory. She engineers an experiment to monitor the orchids’ reactions to EMF disturbances. She tracks growth patterns, flowering times, and production of pseudo-pollen. As suspected, there is a heightened sensitivity to the disruptions. But the data also suggests that known scientific processes cannot explain the orchids’ reactions. What’s going on here? So, Elaine begins to entertain a more radical hypothesis: the orchids have a symbiotic relationship with an otherworldly entity. If this notion is confirmed, then the orchids are not merely exotic flora but emissaries of an extraterrestrial presence.

Yet Elaine grapples with disbelief. It has never been proven that extraterrestrial symbiosis is possible. As a scientist, though, she cannot deny her findings: The Ward’s Lady’s Slipper orchids are connected to something beyond planet Earth.

(ii)

Elaine reaches for her phone to contact Dr. Ahmad Seraj, a botanist known for his work on plant genetics. Their relationship is professional but was once more intricate. Years ago, during a project in the rainforests of Borneo, their passion for plant life sprouted a romance. Late nights cataloging rare species and early mornings discussing ecological conservation cultivated a bond that superseded academic pursuits. But individual ambitions and commitments siphoned time from their fling. The romance withered and died. As she scrolls for his number, angst fills her chest. What if he dismisses my findings as fantasy? she thinks. What if he ridicules me for postulating such an absurd idea?

“Elaine?” Dr. Seraj’s voice crackles. 

“Ahmad, I’ve found something extraordinary.” She details the bioluminescence, the EMF disturbances, her findings, and her hypothesis of extraterrestrial symbiosis.

There is a long silence . . . .

“Elaine, are you sure about this?” He sounds incredulous. 

“Yes, the data is solid, but the conclusion—it defies everything we know.”

“Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence,” he reminds her. “You’ll need to verify this. I trust your judgment, but you must be thorough. As you said, this would change everything.”

Ahmad’s support is reassuring, but Elaine knows the scientific community will scrutinize, dissect, and contest her discovery. She needs to navigate these hazards with care. So, she reaches out to a select group of colleagues for their open-mindedness and discretion. Together, they establish a network of clandestine research stations in locales where the orchids thrive. And to avoid distractions, she excludes Dr. Seraj.   

(iii)

One late evening in her station, Elaine receives an unusual transmission: a burst of electromagnetic radiation encoded with a series of mathematical equations. Electromagnetic radiation is a form of energy that travels through space at the speed of light. It’s used to send data across vast distances, using electromagnetic waves to traverse the void of space.

At first, Elaine figures the transmission is a glitch. Then she unpacks it further and realizes it’s a message from the stars. Oh dear! Her heart skips a beat or two. She works almost nonstop for three days decoding it. She finds a schematic for a device to communicate with an extraterrestrial civilization. I’m on top of the world! The team’s research is no longer about orchids—it’s about contacting another intelligent species that has been trying to connect with us. There is a lot to do. I must be meticulous.

(iv)

Elaine and her cohorts begin constructing the communication device. Wires of various colors snake across workbenches, connecting circuit boards to glowing displays. Screwdrivers, wire strippers, pliers, and other hand tools litter the tables.

A few weeks pass as they assemble the machine. Elaine christens their creation “Gabriel” for the divine messenger. Gabriel stands tall, a latticework of metal and plastic with an array of blinking lights. The central processor, a sleek black box, hums. Its surface is warm to the touch. Atop Gabriel sits a polished, dome-shaped antenna.

As Gabriel comes to life, its screen flickers with a soft blue light. The first test message scrolls across its display. It feels like a miracle, a testament to their hard work. The team agrees that Gabriel is ready to bridge the gap between humanity and the unknown.

They gather in the Tibetan forest to transmit their first message. Elaine activates the device with a sense of reverence, and Gabriel hums to life. Then they wait, uncertain of what response, if any, they will receive.

On a humid night several days later, a faint signal emerges from Gabriel. The device crackles; its screen flickers. Elaine and her team gather around. The transmission becomes clearer: more mathematical equations, including odd symbols. They go to work to decode the message; it takes almost a month to make sense of it. Its content exceeds their wildest dreams: a map of a distant star system and instructions for building a portal-like transporter. “Mary mother of God,” Elaine says other her breath. They’ve contacted an extraterrestrial civilization and received the means to travel there.

Elaine’s excitement turns to unease. The instructions for the portal include sequences that look familiar. She scans the data again and again until it hits her. The portal’s architecture matches that of the Ward’s Lady’s Slipper orchids. This recognition crashes over her. The orchids might be more than emissaries—they could be gatekeepers. Elaine steps back from Gabriel, her mind reeling. Does the pseudo-pollen in some way interface with the portal? she wonders. If they’re gatekeepers, are they guarding against misuse of the portal? Or something else? As the team debates the next steps, an unexpected visitor arrives: Dr. Ahmad Seraj. Elaine is stunned. I never shared our location with him.

“Elaine, we need to talk,” he says. His voice is grave. “There are things about these orchids you don’t know.”

“How did you find us?” she wants to know.  

“I tracked EMF anomalies to this station.” He scans the setup around Gabriel. “These orchids, Elaine, are not what they seem. You need to understand what you’re dealing with.”

Elaine and her team exchange glances. “What are you saying?”

“Years ago, during my research in the Amazon, I encountered orchids almost identical to Ward’s Lady’s Slipper. They too exhibited bioluminescence and reacted to EMF disturbances. But we discontinued our work—it became too risky.”

“Risky? How?”

“We learned the orchids are part of a network, a surveillance system. They monitor and report back to their creators. Pseudo-pollen isn’t only a lure for pollinators; it’s a data collection tool. They communicate via the EMF disturbances.”  

Elaine gets a chill. “Communicate what?”

“Everything,” Ahmad says. “Environmental changes, biological interactions, the presence of humans, etcetera. These orchids are scouts, gathering intelligence for an extraterrestrial species.”

Elaine’s team murmurs in disbelief, but the pieces fit together: the bioluminescence, the transmission from the stars, the portal instructions—it all aligns.

Elaine glares at Ahmad. “Why didn’t you warn me sooner?” 

“When you called, I thought the orchids were a coincidence,” he says. “Then I analyzed recent EMF disturbances and realized you’re encountering the same phenomenon.”  

If the orchids are monitoring agents, Elaine thinks, then the portal is not the breakthrough we thought. It could be a trap. Or a way for extraterrestrials to establish a link to Earth.

“We need to disable Gabriel,” Elaine announces. “We can’t risk activating a portal.”

Her team hesitates but ultimately agrees. They power down Gabriel and dismantle its key components.

Ahmad places his hand on Elaine’s shoulder. “If you elect to study these orchids further, then you must be super cautious.”

(v)

Elaine and her team continue to gather more data on the orchids, their pseudo-pollen, the electromagnetic patterns, and their communication methods. The goal is to understand the full scope of the orchids’ role without tipping off the extraterrestrials.

Weeks go by and their research unveils startling revelations. The orchids’ pseudo-pollen contains microscopic nanostructures, capable of storing vast amounts of data. They aren’t just scouts; they’re repositories of knowledge, waiting to transmit their collected information.

One night as Elaine reviews the latest data, she receives another transmission, this time in English: we have been watching the choice is yours collaborate or be observed. 

Elaine gasps. Busted.  

If we collaborate, she thinks, then that means working with these beings, gaining knowledge and technology, assuming they’re benevolent. If we choose not to collaborate, then the beings will observe us without sharing what they know. What a pity! Is this a warning? Or a trick? Or a Pandora’s box?  

Elaine goes outside and gazes at the night sky: a constellation of twinkling stars. They’re out there, watching. She ponders the message for a long time; she knows it requires a team meeting. Her hunger for knowledge is insatiable. Does she have the willpower to say no?

Cloak of Leadership

(Credits to Buckthorn Jesus)

By John Hargraves

Delusions of
Invisibility
Are transparent
The leader cannot
See themself
Through the crystal
Lens of the observers
Reckoning a
Gift of insight

Moving about
Unaware
Obvious to all
Shortcomings
Fallibility
Humanity’s
Drink of power
Cannot hide
Cannot forgive
Responsibility

Said the more than
Human creation
To the collective ego
Of mankind.