Victor D. López's Blog: Victor D. Lopez, page 91

The New “Obama Youth”?

There is a thin line between education and indoctrination. For zealots, the divide is simple: getting out their message is education, by whatever means necessary, and any who disagree are quickly marginalized, ridiculed and ostracized as wrong headed obstructionists who need to get out of the way or face being run down by the progressive train.

As is true of all political discourse, adults can draw their own conclusions and argue the merits/wisdom/need of managing information in order to impact public opinion in the service of the public good. I have no problem with that. As a university professor, I have never shied from controversial topics and have always endeavored to engender honest discussion about issues of public interest in class. When I have a strong opinion on the wisdom of a specific law or public policy, I briefly share it for the sake of full disclosure with my class; they have a right to know the filter through which I view the world. I never try to convince any of my students that my point of view is the correct one or to marginalize dissenting views. If I can’t draw out an opposing viewpoint from the class, I do my best to articulate one in a clear and fair manner so that students can draw their own conclusions. I love to play the devil’s advocate, borrowing a page from the Jesuits who have always done so in the name of knowledge and have historically drawn much fire for their refusal to blindly embrace dogma in the pursuit of knowledge.

My own teachers and college professors in the late 60s through the early 1980s  were not quite so open minded or tolerant of dissent, actively promoting a leftist agenda directly and indirectly in too many of my classes. As someone who has never been easily swayed by the current direction of the prevailing societal winds, this made little difference to me. I was more than capable of separating the grain from the chaff by the fourth grade, and shrugged off the sometimes heavy-handed editorializing for what it was. Nevertheless, I have no doubt that then and now the constant drumbeat from the left has a significant influence on the  malleable minds of children through high school and young adults beyond, as it takes an intellectually mature person with a healthy sense of self to avoid marching in lockstep to a constant, consistent drumbeat throughout K-12 and beyond.

I was neither greatly affected nor scarred by my left leaning professors and teachers for most of whom I had and still have a great deal of respect and gratitude. Nor did the very few right-leaning professors I encountered have any greater impact. For good or ill, I am not someone who is easy to indoctrinate and reject the strict dogma of both extremes and always have. My own politics are right of center but I will not pass a right-wing litmus test any more than I would one from the left. I believe in freedom of expression and hate attempts to undermine it for any reason with very few exceptions–and I strongly oppose any effort from the government to quash dissent or regulate free speech beyond the proscription against obscenity or the instigating of violence.

I offer the above for the purpose of placing what I am about to write in proper context. I am outraged by a report today about efforts in California to indoctrinate and use have public school students “trained to be messengers to family members.”

According to The Heartland Institute, a spokeswoman for Covered California said the group has “confidence” the Los Angeles program “will be successful in reaching our target population, which includes family members of students.” Teens will be trained in this “pilot program” to provide “outreach and limited education to family and friends in and around their homes, . . . educating adults that they already know (e.g., family or friends) and not other adults.”

I have not searched the web for reaction, but I know I will not be the only one to rightfully see the troubling parallels to the “Hitler youth” in this. With $990,000 reportedly earmarked by a grant for this particular purpose, can a Minister or Propaganda be far behind? If successful, will this “pilot” be extended to having students explain to their family and friends the President’s interpretation of the Constitution and why he is justified in circumventing Congress by legislating by presidential fiat (a/k/a Executive Order) whenever Congress refuses to adopt his agenda?

Even avoiding the Hitler Youth elephant in the room (and please spare me the, “No, no, you stupid troglodyte this is not Hitler but O-B-A-M-A, get it?” feces of male bovine, it seems to me that with U.S. students’ performance lagging behind the world’s industrialized nations and making us an appropriate laughing stock in our penchant for spending more money than anyone on the planet on education per capita without being able to teach our children to read, write, or do math,  is this an appropriate change to the curriculum or wise use of limited funds?  Is there a single rational person out there who can answer “yes” with a straight face outside of Congress or the state legislature in California? If so, please send your photo to Wikipedia so that your picture can be added to the definition of Chutzpah.

Read more: http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2013/06/29/teens-urged-to-promote-obamacare-under-california-grant-report-says/#ixzz2Xuu1JI15

Tagged: obamacare

The Riddle of the Sphinx: Solved

The midday sun blazed in blinding glory directly over the Great Sphinx of Giza as Dr. Zahi Hawass, the famous Egyptologist whose love of Egyptian antiquity seems rivaled only by his love of the camera, faced the score of reporters with his well worn Indiana Jones hat and best cat-who-swallowed-the-canary-smile. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. This is a great day for Egypt and the world,” he began with an enthusiastic smile and eyes sparkling like a sleepy child’s on Christmas morning. “Our efforts over the past year to excavate the recently found chamber under the right paw of the Sphinx is complete and we are ready to reveal its content for the first time. Please, come with me that we may share this moment together.”

Without further ado and in an uncharacteristically brief fashion, Dr. Hawass turned to his left, gesturing for the cameras to follow. As he walked, he continued, turning to the cameras and beaming contentedly. “We have uncovered a portal but have not yet broken the seal as we wish to share this moment with the world.”

“Zahi,” a reporter following closely to his right called out, “Can you tell us what you expect to find?” The Egyptologist stopped and turned to the reporter, with a patient, avuncular smile, and stopped, facing the cameras directly. “I have no idea, but I expect it will be wonderful things.” He then turned and took several steps before stopping and turning to the camera once more. “You will see that there are no artifacts in the small antechamber we have uncovered, nor any artwork or extensive writing. There is, in fact, no traditional writing of any kind but for a line of undecipherable writing above a sealed doorway that is unlike anything I have uncovered in the past.”

“You mean the writing is illegible?” the reporter interrupted.

“No,” Dr. Hawass replied, dabbing at his damp forehead with a handkerchief.” “The writing is quite legible but is unlike any writing in the ancient or modern world. There are no glyphs, but symbols over the doorway. The writing is not painted but etched onto the stone and glows quite visibly in low light. I expect it will take us quite some time to decipher its meaning and the means utilized to achieve the bright glow, though we suspect it is some type of radioactive material similar to that used in instruments and watches in the past, though no trace of radiation has been picked up by our instruments.” He then began walking again towards the excavation, still some fifty feet away. “It is all part of the mystery and augers well for whatever archeological treasures may be secreted beyond the sealed wall, don’t you think?” His statement ended right on cue at the foot of the vertical tunnel that resembled more a well than the traditional entrance to a burial chamber. “You must be careful descending the wooden ladder. There is only room for a few people down there as the antechamber is only approximately two meters by two meters and we already have two workmen down there ready to breach the sealed door. I can only take a camera operator down with me and will be happy to hold an extensive news conference later once what lies beyond the seal is uncovered.”

Dismissing the numerous questions shot at him by members of the media present with a wave of the hand, he pointed to the closest Egyptian camera operator and said “You can accompany me. Careful, though. The workmen will steady the ladder below, but it is a long way down and the ladder will be unsteady.” He then stepped onto the ladder protruding above the meter-wide circular hole with the camera operator first filming his descent, and then following carefully, holding onto the ladder with his left hand as he balanced his the light but awkward camera on his shoulder harness with his right hand, filming nothing but his handhold on the ladder as he descended, not wanting to break the suspense.

Approximately three stories down, he finally hit solid ground, finding a chamber that appeared dug out of bedrock, with perfectly smooth walls everywhere but for the circular hole through which they descended on the ceiling. The cameraman immediately swept his camera around the tiny room panning back to the limits of his camera’s wide angle view. Two workmen could be seen to each side of a wall directly opposite the ladder with hand-held jackhammers from which pneumatic lines snaked out and disappeared rising behind the ladder to the surface. The cameraman focused on the recessed symbols that arched above the perfect outlines of a rectangular door approximately a meter in width and two meters in height. “Keep the camera on the writing,” the Egyptologist commanded and wait to be amazed.” He then turned off the lights by pressing a switch on the line leading to the dual halogen work lights that had brightly illuminated the small room, and the symbols came alive with a red glow from within the carved stone. The symbols themselves were reminiscent of geometric figures and mathematical symbols, but were neither glyphs nor words in an unknown alphabet but a sort of combination of the two that was disorienting to the mind.

“We are about to begin. Please wear these dust masks and ear protectors,” Dr. Hawass told the cameraman, giving him a dust mask and two silicone hearing protectors, then placed two of these in his own ears while donning a mask of his own.  He then nodded to the workmen and bid them begin as they sported their heavier ear protectors. Even with the hearing protectors, the noise in the stone chamber was loud enough to be painful, with  the vibration from the dual jackhammers rattling their teeth as the workmen applied their tools to the center of the door which had no visible means of opening from this side of the chamber and, apparently, had not yielded to prior efforts at pushing, prodding or otherwise forcing it open.

Five minutes later as the camera captured the dense swirling dust of the jackhammers’ work and its deafening sounds as the ancient stone gave up its last efforts at resistance and a small hole was finally breached in the center of the door.  In an instant, the chamber was flooded by a bolt of plasma that filled the chamber and shot up through the well, instantaneously vaporizing the still smiling Egyptologist, the cameraman, and the jack hammer operators and continuing upwards through the circular opening to the surface like a coronal emission radiating outward beyond the orbit of Mars. Blackest shadows followed, flowing outwards like a billion bats exploding from a cave in which dynamite had been detonated, evil personified shrieking outward freed from the restrictive seal placed what would subsequently become a primordial cradle of civilization by long forgotten protectors.

The carved letters above the breached portal left by the victors of a galactic war whose final battle was fought on Sol millennia ago, and the remnants of whose vanquished hoards, forced to march through a portal to oblivion hidden below ground of an insignificant, life sustaining planet. The portal was then sealed and a guardian erected to mark the spot—using local materials and a magnificent predator from this planet to serve as a warning to the locals to stay away from this site marked by the gods. With the passage of time and the rise of arrogant, foolish men who feared nothing but oblivion, the glorious lion’s head and flowing mane were ordered to be defaced and carved into the likeness of Khufu whose megalomania could not be satisfied by building the largest monument to himself that the world has ever known by way of the Great Pyramid at Giza. The result would become the iconic figure that would spawn mysterious controversies among historians and Egyptologists in the modern era with its too-small head in proportion to the lion’s body, the unavoidable result of having to fit a human face and headdress within the features of the original perfectly proportioned lion’s head. In time, Khufu’s face would itself be defaced by having its nose chiseled away as clearly evidenced by the chisel scars left behind by the ancient defacers of the defacer. Whether the deed was done as some argue as an act of vengeance by another pharaoh, by religious zealots attempting to eradicate a blasphemous idol, or for some other reason, it matters little. With the original warning unheeded, this now lonely symbol stands as a pointless monument to the boundless foolishness of a now dead race which loosed once more upon an unsuspecting galaxy evil that had been conquered at great cost before the ascent of humanity, a race which having learned nearly nothing since climbing down from the trees ignored a blazing warning in a forgotten tongue above a portal it blindly breached. The words originally written there would much later be echoed by Dante, inspired by the residual record of that prehistoric struggle between good and evil and which in the original tongue, as in its later Latin version, could be translated as “Abandon all hope all ye who enter.”

(C) June 2013 by Victor D. Lopez (All rights reserved.)

This short story will appear in the next edition of my short story collection. The current edition, Book of Dreams 2nd Edition: Science Fiction and Speculative Fiction Short Stories, is available for the Kindle and in paperback. Information about the current collection and an additional free preview are available at  http://www.amazon.com/Book-Dreams-2nd-Science-Speculative/dp/1480295914/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372698226&sr=1-3

Unsung Heroes — Excerpt #4: Maria

Maria (Paternal Grandmother)

You were a gentle, genteel young woman swept away by a man
Thirteen years your senior who gallantly courted you,
Riding proudly atop his great steed, and who offered you
Safety, security, his good name and his heart.
 
He gave you four children—two boys and two girls—and left you,
And them, just before the Guardia Civil came for him. You told them that
Your husband had emigrated to Argentina and was an honorable man.
They questioned you but left empty handed and did not trouble you again.
 
For the next decade, you managed your husband’s affairs,
Continued with his business for a time,
Grieved the death of your youngest son, Manolito, to meningitis,
And found comfort in your lot, which was better than most.
 
You were a proud, prim, proper, handsome woman,
With large, penetrating, deep blue eyes.
Though you were not the a radiant beauty like your older sister,
Who died young but whose beauty long outlived her in the eyes of many.
 
But you were beautiful, and turned more than your share of heads in younger days.
And you fondly recalled all the good, young men from good families who courted you,
Whom you kept at a proper distance through your virtue, wielded like
A great shield; yet you took no small pride in recounting their attentions.
 
You were kind, generous, and self sacrificing. And you were strong, though this
Trait was not encouraged of proper women of the time. You were a
Good friend, and though you could appear as aloof as a queen walking among her
Subjects, you had many close friends among both rich and poor.
 
Though you were proud, you tilled the soil and grew potatoes, beets, beans,
Cabbage, artichokes and many other vegetable in your ample garden,
Picked apples, lemons, pears, figs and many other fruits for your family,
From your fruit trees, milked your cows, and raised chickens and rabbits.
 
Your pride sustained you through the tough times, and you took comfort from
Your illustrious relative, José Sánchez Bregua (1810-1897), the distinguished
Four-star General, Commander in Chief of the forces of Spain, and War Minister whose
 
State funeral was the first moving picture shot in Spain. Your memories of a gentler past colored by both real and imagined glory,
And your overly strong pride in your children, grandchildren and family,
Rescued you from loneliness and the unpleasant realities of life,
And condemned you to remember the past at the expense of living the present.
 
The last time I saw you, you were as strong and lovely as ever, with perfect
Posture, and every hair in place. Your eyes were still clear, and your smile as
Gentle and reassuring as it had always been. But you did not know me, and spoke to me of
Your son and grandson in New York of whom you were so proud.
 
While dad and I sat next to you, you told us both about ourselves and of
Sánchez Bregua, and of your many suitors when you were young, and of your
Virtuous friends, and of your husband’s good name, and of his standing in the
Community, and whispered not a word of pain, of loneliness or of self-sacrifice.
 
Your soft voice spoke only of pleasant things I’d heard many times before that belied
Your strength, your mettle, your life deferred, your wounds covered over by the only
Salve available to you—pride—and by the unshakable knowledge of who you were
Without a moment wasted in the pointless contemplation of what might have been.
 
Dad and I left you for the last time, contentedly fussing with your old sewing
Machine, the same one on which you had made your children’s clothes, and taught
Your two daughters their craft. You did not recognize us, but chatted politely and did
Not notice our tears when dad and I said what would prove to be our final good-byes.

Excerpt from Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. Lopez. The book is available for  the Kindle and in paperback at http://www.amazon.com/Of-Pain-Ecstasy-Collected-ebook/dp/B0059XEREI/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1371405797&sr=1-9
Various sample readings from of Pain and Ecstasy are available at http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGA9jqMarpGQdW3Zj6X1CZw/videos?view_as=public

Tagged: American poetry, blank verse, contemporary poetry, poem

Unsung Heroes — Excerpt #3

Manuel (Paternal Grandfather)

They also came for you in the middle of the night,
But found that you had gone to Buenos Aires.
The Guardia Civil questioned your wife in her home,
Surrounded by your four young children, in loud but respectful tones.
 
They waved their machine guns about for a while,
But left no visible scars on your children,
Or on your young wife, whom you
Left behind to raise them alone.
 
You had been a big fish in a little pond,
A successful entrepreneur who made a very good living,
By buying cattle to be raised by those too poor
To buy their own who would raise them for you.
 
They would graze them, use them to pull their plows
And sell their milk, or use it to feed their too numerous children. 
When they were ready for sale, you would take them to market,
Obtain a fair price for them, and equally split the gains with those who raised them.
 
All in all, it was a good system that gave you relative wealth,
And gave the poor the means to feed their families and themselves.
You reputation for unwavering honesty and fair dealing made many
Want to raise cattle for you, and many more sought you out to settle disputes.
 
On matters of contracts and disputed land boundaries your word was law.
The powerless and the powerful trusted your judgment equally and sought you out
To settle their disputes. Your judgment was always accepted as final because
Your fairness and integrity were beyond question. “If Manuel says it, it is so.”
 
You would honor a bad deal based on a handshake and would rather lose a
Fortune than break your word, even when dealing with those far less honorable
Than yourself. For you a man was only as good as his word, and you knew that the
Greatest legacy you could leave your children was an unsullied name. 
 
You were frugal beyond need or reason, perhaps because you did not
Want to flaunt your relative wealth when so many had nothing.
It would have offended your social conscience and belied your politics.
Your one extravagance was a great steed, on which no expense was spared.
 
Though thoughtful, eloquent and soft-spoken, you were not shy about
Sharing your views and took quiet pride in the fact that others listened
When you spoke.  You were an ardent believer in the young republic and
Left of center in your views. When the war came, you were an easy target.
 
There was no time to take your entire family out of the country, and
You simply had too much to lose—a significant capital tied up in land and
Livestock. So you decided to go to Argentina, having been in the U.S. while
You were single and preferring self exile in a country with a familiar language.
 
Your wife and children would be fine, sheltered by your capital and by
The good will you had earned. And you were largely right.
Despite your wife’s inexperience, she continued with your business, with the
Help of your son who had both your eye for buying livestock and your good name.
 
Long years after you had gone, your teenaged son could buy all the cattle he
Wanted at any regional fair on credit, with just a handshake, simply because
He was your son. And for many years, complete strangers would step up offering a
Stern warning to those they believed were trying to cheat your son at the fairs.
 
“E o fillo do Café.” (He is the son of the Café, a nickname earned by a
Distant relative for to his habit of offering coffee to anyone who visited his
Office at a time when coffee was a luxury). That was enough to stop anyone
Seeking to gain an unfair advantage from dad’s youth and inexperience.
 
Once in Buenos Aires, though, you were a small fish in a very big pond,
Or, more accurately, a fish on dry land; nobody was impressed by your name,
Your pedigree, your reputation or your way of doing business. You were probably
Mocked for your Galician accent and few listened or cared when you spoke.
 
You lived in a small room that shared a patio with a little schoolhouse.
You worked nights as a watchman, and tried to sleep during the day while
Children played noisily next door. You made little money since your trade was
Useless in a modern city where trust was a highly devalued currency.
 
You were an anachronistic curiosity. And you could not return home.
When your son followed you there, he must have broken your heart;
You had expected that he would run your business until your return; but he
Quit school, tired of being called roxo (red) by his military instructors.
 
It must have been excruciatingly difficult for you.  Dad never got your pain.
Ironically, I think I do, but much too late. Eventually you returned to Spain to
A wife who had faithfully raised your children alone for more than ten years and was
No longer predisposed to unquestioningly view your will as her duty.
 
Doubtless, you could no more understand that than dad could understand
You. Too much Pain. Too many dreams deferred, mourned, buried and forgotten.
You returned to your beloved Galicia when it was clear you would not be
Persecuted after Generalisimo Franco had mellowed into a relatively benign tyrant.
 
People were no longer found shot or beaten to death in ditches by the
Side of the road. So you returned home to live out the remainder of your
Days out of place, a caricature of your former self, resting on the brittle,
Crumbling laurels of your pre Civil War self, not broken, but forever bent.
 
You found a world very different from the one you had built through your
Decency, cunning, and entrepreneurship. And you learned to look around
Before speaking your mind, and spent your remaining days reined in far more
Closely than your old steed, and with no polished silver bit to bite upon.
 

Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. Lopez is available for  the Kindle and in paperback at http://www.amazon.com/Of-Pain-Ecstasy-Collected-ebook/dp/B0059XEREI/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1371405797&sr=1-9

Various sample readings from of Pain and Ecstasy are available at http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGA9jqMarpGQdW3Zj6X1CZw/videos?view_as=public

Tagged: blank verse, poetry

On Shattered Dreams

Memories assault my mind,

And make me drink a drought of darkness all my own,

The once-filled corners of my soul,

Are empty now, and though accompanied, I am alone.

I’ve given all I had to chase a dream,

Which taunted me for much too long a time,

Shards of reality now cut the empty refrains,

Of what might have been,

Of shattered truths and dreams gone awry.

I seek with the hunger of a dying soul,

For that which I know can never be found,

And am rewarded for my foolishness,

By finding an endless void where the only meaning to be gleaned,

Is from the shadows cast by my dying mind.

What of Don Quixote,

With his faithful Sancho Panza,

When dragons begin to take their true forms,

And windmills appear? He fights to hold on to the dream,

And failing to do so dies from the crushing weight of his reality.

When I awake, I will redden profusely,

Put down my ragged lance,

And take my rightful place,

Beside the great dolts of our time.

But still I sleep,

Though I know the uneasiness of incipient wakefulness,

I cling on to the dream, knowing it a dream,

For in its sweet promises lie the only truths I can accept,

My only hope the evanescent reverie of an immature mind.

(c) 1988,2012 Victor D. Lopez.

Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. Lopez is available for  the Kindle and in paperback at http://www.amazon.com/Of-Pain-Ecstasy-Collected-ebook/dp/B0059XEREI/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1371405797&sr=1-9

Various sample readings from of Pain and Ecstasy are available at http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGA9jqMarpGQdW3Zj6X1CZw/videos?view_as=public

 

 

On Fading Dreams

On Fading Dreams

Why have you left me, sweet old dreams of youth?

I’ve tried so hard to hold them in my heart,

Where have they fled, faith, honesty and truth,

Or were they only visions from the start?

Do I hear music deep within my soul?

Or mocking echoes from a bygone time?

The embers grow, though I am growing old,

But they grow dark and cold, as does my rhyme.

Each passing moment wears away my hope,

As does the wind-swept sand the desert stone;

Rich symphonies fading into one note,

Leaving me empty, bitter and alone.

I grieve not for my life; I have more sense,

I grieve far greater loss — my innocence.

From Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011 Victor D. Lopez

Various sample readings from of Pain and Ecstasy are available at

http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGA9jqMarpGQdW3Zj6X1CZw?view_as=public

On Fading DreamsWhy have you left me, sweet old dreams o...

On Fading Dreams

Why have you left me, sweet old dreams of youth?

I’ve tried so hard to hold them in my heart,

Where have they fled, faith, honesty and truth,

Or were they only visions from the start?

Do I hear music deep within my soul?

Or mocking echoes from a bygone time?

The embers grow, though I am growing old,

But they grow dark and cold, as does my rhyme.

Each passing moment wears away my hope,

As does the wind-swept sand the desert stone;

Rich symphonies fading into one note,

Leaving me empty, bitter and alone.

I grieve not for my life; I have more sense,

I grieve far greater loss — my innocence.

Mergs (Or Why Godot Can’t Come . . .)

Mergs (Or Why Godot Can’t Come . . .).

Mergs (Or Why Godot Can’t Come . . .)

[From Book of Dreams 2nd Edition: Science Fiction and Speculative Fiction Short Stories (C) Victor D. Lopez 2012]

Something was definitely wrong with the world. The Provider appeared to have abandoned his children, and the cold advanced unchecked from the great beyond, even as the land lost its life-giving warmth. And, although every single being was aware of the incipient disaster, none could understand the reason for the inexplicable climate change, let alone think of a way to stave off the certain destruction of their kind.

Mergs, the dominant beings in a world of almost limitless bounty, are highly resilient, sentient beings who had evolved in an environment that offers no natural impediment to their growth and development. With no natural enemies to protect against and no need to marshal limited resources, Mergs, who are not by nature particularly gregarious, never developed a social structure or any concept of property; all the necessities of life are provided by the land in inexhaustible quantities. Each simply takes from the land in accordance with its needs or appetites without the slightest need for toil, industry or planning. Food can be found all around in limitless quantities and variety. All that is required to procure a meal is to bend down and scoop up tasty, highly nourishing morsels of delectable substances in endless varieties and inexhaustible quantities. Thirst quenching, delicious liquids quite nourishing in their own right are available in pools, lakes and rivers of various sizes scattered throughout the land. As with the solid food, the land offers up liquid nourishment in endless variety, some yielding intoxicating effects not unlike that of alcohol and hallucinogenic drugs in the human system. These intoxicating springs are particularly popular with Mergs who are not by nature temperate creatures.

Although the Mergs’ existence might seem a utopian one, there is, alas, a price exacted for such a life of perpetual ease and unending bounty. Endless leisure and an existence devoid of challenge had made the Mergs into a rather intellectually dull race. Intelligence is not prized in a land that so freely yields up its bounty, where there is no game to hunt or trap, no enemy to guard or plot against, and no need for shelter to protect one’s property or oneself from the elements, or the aggression and greed of others. Thus, while Mergs had the same genetically coded survival instinct as all other living organisms, the particular circumstances of their rather hospitable world did not necessitate that it give birth to science, mathematics, or the cultivation of knowledge that at its most fundamental core is born of the survival instinct. For Mergs, survival merely requires eating, sleeping and reproducing to take place. And, since Mergs reproduce asexually, that function is best served by eating as much as possible, thus obtaining the necessary mass and energy required by the reproductive function. Not surprisingly, then, Mergs spend most of their waking hours eating, or looking for new sources of food in order to find pleasure in what would otherwise be the tedium of their primary occupation.

Although the Mergs have no religion as such, they share a universal belief in the Provider, their creator who is the source of life and, in accordance with their belief system, constantly replenishes their supply of food and keeps the land warm for their benefit. Perhaps such a belief system developed due to the destructive floods and killing fumes that are inexplicably visited at least once on the land during the typical Merg’s life cycle. In the Mergs’ belief system, the Provider doles out such catastrophes as punishment for unknown transgressions of which they must surely be guilty, though they be beyond their comprehension. But, because such punishments are uncommon, they represent more an apocalyptic myth than a reality to be feared by the average Merg.

When such disasters occur, the remarkable resilience of these creatures allows them to spring back undaunted to soon forget they had taken place. And if the Provider earned their respect  through the awesome power he wields, he also earns their unwavering devotion through his constant replenishment of their food supplies which miraculously appeared daily throughout the land, rumored to emanate mostly in a far-off region of the world, where they are said to gush forth in incalculable quantities, conjured forth by the benevolent Provider, erupting from the bowels of the land  and spread by Him to the four corners of the land through powers beyond their ken.

Despite the fact that most Mergs spend their whole life in a relatively small area, some travel does occur in one of two ways: some Mergs literally eat their way from one place to another in search of different sources of food, and each recurring flood deposited a few hardy survivors in far-off lands. Additionally, some of the more adventurous Mergs‑‑those not yet of breeding age who for that reason need not spend most of their time eating‑‑sometimes venture to climb “the growing regions,” incomprehensively vast, dark mountains that rise upward slowly and inexorably as lava-fed islands do on Earth’s oceans, reaching for the heavens, stretching out endlessly into the Great Beyond. Unlike the beneficent land, these regions are largely bereft of food and contain no pools of liquid from which to drink.  Some Mergs believe that these massive desert regions are a link to the Great Beyond through which a brave Merg with a pure heart might travel, prove its worth and earn the right to meet the Provider. Few were brave or foolish enough to attempt the quest, and of those who did, fewer still returned to tell of it. The fortunate few who made it back alive uniformly reported that the warmth of the land did not reach into the higher regions, but clung close to the ground. Despite such discouraging reports, a few Mergs still ventured forth from time to time, convinced that none who had tried the ascent before them had been worthy, and taking heart in the fact that so many had not returned, believing these to be enjoying the unimaginable Epicurean delights awaiting in the Provider’s domain.

But then the cold began to spread over the land, bringing with it more death and devastation than had ever been visited by floods or noxious clouds. Many Mergs blamed the adventuresome youths for having angered the Provider by trying to venture into his realm, thus visiting upon them this new, harsher punishment. The practice must be stopped. An alarm call went out to every corner of the land summoning Mergs to come together. Although Mergs normally kept to themselves, communication was possible between them at a low, instinctual level; news could travel very fast between them in reporting disaster or new sources of food. Other than the rare flood and killing cloud warnings, Mergs communicate with one another most often to report the opening up of a canyon in the land; such canyons, which indiscriminately appear and slowly disappear again as the land exposes for a time its most rare, delectable food source.  These ephemeral canyons are believed to be a special reward from the Provider, and are very much welcomed. But this time the Mergs’ natural communications network was exploited for a far more important purpose, a call for prayer to seek forgiveness from the Provider. And so they prayed for forgiveness, and for the wisdom not to stray again from the path he’d intended for them to take.

Their contrite supplications, however, went unanswered, and the world slowly, inexorably cooled down. And still they prayed, with every ounce of remaining energy, their communal supplications rising above an ocean of despair threatening to engulf them. But if the Provider heard them, he was unmoved; rather, he seemed to mock them by delivering ever greater quantities of food in endless waves of tantalizing richness even as he allowed the earth to cool, spreading out before them a cornucopia of delights while doling out a slow and painful death.

And still they prayed. And still the earth grew colder.  And still they died.  And still those that remained, clung to hope, huddling together in groups, billions upon billions of Mergs, making use of what little warmth remained in their bodies and in the land, ensuring that the ones in the center of the group survived a little longer to raise their thoughts skyward, towards the dark, forbidding Great Beyond, hoping that the Provider would hear their prayers and deem them worthy of deliverance.

* * *

         Meanwhile, a universe away at the intersection of Houston Street and the Bowery in New York City’s Lower East Side, two police officers knelt by the decrepit figure of a man who lay motionlessly in a tightly curled fetal position on the snow covered ground, dressed in many layers of tattered, filthy clothing, covered by sever­al oily sheets of cardboard from under which emerged shoeless, deeply callused, dirt encrusted feet which, like the man’s leathery face, had turned somewhat blue in the sub freezing temperature.  He was lying in a pool of melted snow mixed with vomit and bodily wastes. The older of the two officers was trying to find a pulse in the man’s neck.

“He’s dead, Harry,” he said to the younger man, looking up into the latter’s somewhat contorted expression, large brown eyes squinting behind a large leather-gloved hand cupped over his nose in a vain attempt to keep out a most inhuman smell. “Call an ambulance,” the kneeling man added, fighting to quell a wave of nausea. The young officer did not respond for a few moments; he simply stared at the body, a mixture of sadness, shock and revulsion on his face.

“Did you hear me, Harry? Call a damned ambulance, now. I don’t want to spend the rest of the shift here.”

“Yeah, Mike,” the young officer replied, finally hearing the other’s voice. “Are you sure he’s dead?” he queried, rising to comply with his partner’s request.

“He’s dead all right, but not too long; he’s not stiff yet. I’d swear I felt a bit of warmth in his neck when I took his pulse. Poor bastard. Seems about 50-55 with no visible trauma;  My guess is the booze got him, or the cold. There’s no I.D. on him. Just another John Doe for the morgue.”

“I’ll never get used to this,” exclaimed the younger man, turning towards the squad car to place the call.

“Don’t sweat it, Mike. He kicked off peacefully, which is all any of us can hope for. Nobody’ll even know he’s gone.”

* * *

         And still the Mergs prayed for deliverance to a deity who could not hear them, hoping to recapture the favor of their divine Provider, clinging with the last remnants of their strength to a faith powerless to stave off the advancing chill of death.

This is one of eight short stories from my Book of Dreams 2nd Edition: Science Fiction and Speculative Fiction Short Stories, available in paperback and Kindle versions from Amazon.com. Additional information and another short story preview are available at http://www.amazon.com/Book-Dreams-2nd-Edition-Speculative/dp/1480295914/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1370368407&sr=8-8&keywords=victor+d+lopez

Siren’s Song

[From Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems]

Poetry is a dangerous siren’s song,

That calls the soul towards a chasm deep,

Dulling the senses and making the heart long,

For that which it may touch yet never keep.

A sonnet is too much the friend of truth,

And leaves no room for self-deluding lies,

It emulates the honesty of youth,

And artifice, through artifice, soon dies.

Essential truths will spill onto the page,

Transpiring through the pores of consciousness,

Leaving exposed the battles that we wage,

To build facades of hope for hopelessness.

I can deny the painful song I hear,

But it’s too late; its message is too clear.