Second surge from the writers corner

We had no idea so many of you were out there tapping away on keyboards, whipping up creative storms of verse and prose.

You've unleashed them on us, and word-wranglers, we want you to keep them coming. Sling us more of your rhymes, your tales, your limericks.

We'll love you for it as long as you remember: We really, really, really prefer to receive your submissions by e-mail.

Send your creative bursts to Maureen Dolan at mdolan@cdapress.com.

You can send hard-copies by mail to Maureen Dolan at The Press, 201 Second St., Coeur d'Alene, ID 83814. But remember, dear writers, e-mail keeps us smiling as we read your work.

And now, we unveil the second round of poems and stories penned by you, our readers.

A QUIET COUPLE

By Faye Higbee

Post Falls

Whenever the media interviews the neighbors of a serial killer or some other major crime, the answers always contain a common thread : "Yeah, they seemed like such nice people. They're real q.u.i.e.t. and keep to themselves."

Uh,huh. That's the answer that sends chills up my spine. And our neighborhood has such a couple. All the rest of us get together frequently for dinner or lunch, or we wave and chit-chat in the driveways. This couple? No way. They avoid contact with us at all costs.

And they are mucho-weird. The husband often stands around in one of our front yards at night. Just stands there and doesn't do anything. One night I actually followed him while he moseyed down the road to see where he went, but he was too quick for me and disappeared into the night. Probably that was dangerous, but he didn't even give me a second glance. I kept my distance, though; after all it's the quiet ones that can go postal on you.

Sometimes I've seen the wife off by herself down the street from me. She, too, just stands there. And I don't think they have air conditioning in their house because sometimes they stand in people's sprinklers in the summer time. What's up with that? I think they're a little slow. They don't seem to be very social.

And the wife always strolls behind her husband by several feet. I think she's scared of him. Of course, I'd be scared of him too, if my husband weighed around 700 pounds.

They've lived here for a little over a year and have never bothered anyone. They seem to be very nice people. But they are q.u.i.e.t., so we are all aware. Oh, and did I mention? Their name is Moose. Mr. and Mrs. Moose.

TRUE FACE

By Lynn Affeldt

Post Falls

In the contemporary digital age in which we live, it seems everything and anything is game. Not a day goes by, let me rephrase that, not a moment goes by that humans aren't interacting on the web, and on oft occasions their behavior is questionable. Time and again, social media users are subject to a plethora of information they would rather forego as in learning every painful, minuscule detail of someone's family crisis, what just happened in the bathroom or God forbid, the bedroom, utter amazement over a friend's glorified or seedy personality, and equally revolting reflections after every YouTube video. Ready or not, welcome to the digital social era where anything goes and all is revealed!

A person only need spend a week on any of the myriad social media sites such as Twitter, MySpace, Facebook, etc. to become fully impacted by how others represent themselves in cyber world. My own entrance into the maze of digital life was through Twitter. It felt immediately comfortable and with only 140 characters available, it also felt manageable; not spending quantities of time online. I soon discovered users were exceedingly clever in leaving "tweets" usually lacking in authenticity, and there were many causes or celebrities to "follow" which didn't interest me. Peggy Orenstein explains Twitter as "blurring the lines not only between public and private but also between the authentic and contrived self." It was too much angst for me and why the facade? When the migration began from juvenile MySpace to the more refined Facebook (FB), I abandoned Twitter for what I perceived as greener pastures and signed on. I now believe I have squarely landed in the manure.

What seemed innocuous to me at first, Facebook has squashed any expectation of what is real and trustworthy. Some users project appealingly done profiles, tag impressive moment-in-time pictures, and are quite adept at painting a skewed but glowing picture of themselves. In his song "Online" Brad Paisley sings "But there's a whole 'nother me that you need to see, go check out MySpace; I'm so much cooler online" about his false image as a Beverly Hills millionaire with fancy cars and women aplenty, when in reality he's really only 5'3", still living at home at 30, and working at the Pizza Pit (Paisley).

Profile pictures are changed as much as underwear or to support a hypothetical cause and we all follow like sheep lest we be uncool! Mother would have said, "If your friend jumps off a cliff..." It seems we have totally lost the ability to just be ourselves, creating personas barely related to genuine self and scrambling for inclusiveness. It's fake, it's phony but often comical. According to one young male FB user, when a post is made stating "Going to battle" or "I went to battle last night" that's secret FB code for "I'm going out drinking to get drunk." Or recently, only FB women made posts on my news feed covertly declaring "I do it on the chair, the table, the counter, or doorknob" until I finally obtained clarification - lingo for where they hang their purse. All on Facebook, is not apparently what it seems.

As modern day fingers are busy typing online or texting frantically about glorious pursuits and conquests, I can't help wonder what it would be like if the world went face-to-face once more. If only we could slow down long enough to look into each others eyes instead of glowing screens, and know the authenticity of the person in front of us, not a bogus representation of our personal being. If you'll excuse me now, I must go polish up my profile and pay a visit to my Wall to see what my friends have over shared today.

Christ's Mass 2005

'Today' - it is an awesome present

The link in an endless chain

A bridge that connects the past and the future

As long as we have today we will be gifted with the little ones

Every child having a physical pathway to the spiritual

Our spirit lives outside of this place called time

Embrace the children and be filled and smile

Our paths are directed and our steps are numbered

We stand on the footpath of that single day . . . while he silence within deceives us

We expect and even tire of the flow . . . yet only have the shortness of now

Yes we, all of us, are the children

He tells us to listen and know and then do

The river of life joins the great body waiting

See the children, aged and grey, are young again

Worn pathways give way to the perfect one

So crowd the bridge for as long as it's called 'today'

Embrace His gift . . . The Present

- Randy Huska, Post Falls

THE SEER

By Roger Sinclair

Coeur d'Alene

Criminal justice took a weird turn after Roy Ganz was confirmed to be legitimate.

The bloggers and the late-night comedians had a field day when Mr. Ganz was discovered. The jokes were rich, the laughs hardy, and everyone assumed the teenage Ganz was another passing fad, an imp, a diversion from the more important, immediate events of the time.

Then came what appeared to be stunning proof. The Amazing Randi unlocked his safe and wrote Mr. Ganz a check for one million dollars. That money had been sitting there for decades, awaiting proof of true psychic abilities. Randi confessed that he thought he'd go to the grave with that money. Not so.

Suddenly people found themselves in a world where it was possible for someone to read your thoughts, to know what you knew.

The Federal Government pounced on Mr. Ganz with obvious enthusiasm. There were public hearings, and certainly very private hearings with various three-letter-acronym agencies both known and unknown.

Being able to read minds meant that Mr. Ganz was no fool. All too often, a clever corporate executive would come along and try to monopolize Ganz's abilities. Being psychic, however, Ganz knew instantly what was up. He knew, for example, how much the corporation would make, which contractual details were to the company's advantage, and which intellectual property rights were being stolen.

There was no negotiating with Mr. Ganz.

It was Ganz himself who asked the question how he could put his awesome talent to use. That's when a retired judge asked Roy if he would be interested in being an expert witness.

The first case was an unsolved murder. Ganz didn't know who committed the crime, but he could see into the minds of each criminal paraded before him. After viewing several hundred, Roy wrote "No. 87" on a piece of paper and slid it to the judge.

There was little existing evidence against No. 87, but with a new focus and direction, investigators uncovered a key link. The case went to trial. The jury convicted. Predictably, No. 87's lawyers appealed. And appealed. And appealed.

By the time the case reached the Supreme Court, it wasn't about a murder, it was about Roy Ganz.

"Can you predict the future, Mr. Ganz," asked the Chief Justice.

"No," replied Ganz. "But I can tell you that you had toast and cold coffee for breakfast. That you're disappointed the Nationals lost last night on what you feel was a botched call by the umpire. And that you put on one black and one navy blue sock this morning, but figured it was okay because it's dark in here and no one looks at your feet."

It was rare for there to be laughter when the Supreme Court was in session.

"Your honor," Ganz went on, "I read minds. I know what you think, what you did. I can read anyone's thoughts."

The Supreme Court upheld the conviction. Roy Ganz found a new line of work, and a rather lucrative one: If you could afford him, you could hire Roy Ganz to be an expert witness. One look at the suspect and Roy would instantly tell you guilty or innocent.

Surprisingly the nature of criminal justice didn't change radically with Ganz in the picture. For one, Ganz was considered only a witness. Next, his exorbitant fees limited his use to only the most high-profile of cases. Also, the mere threat of bringing Ganz into a case almost always brought a full confession.

There were those who thought that Ganz was a ruse, invented by the government to ease conscientious scofflaws into a quick confession. Then every so often, Ganz would show up on a talk show and embarrass a celebrity with some tiny, scintillating tidbit. It was hard to doubt that he was legitimate.

I went face-to-face with Mr. Ganz when he was in his late 30s. By then his fees were in the millions, so beyond a few courtesy readings he did for local law enforcement (most likely to maintain a positive public image), Ganz's talents rarely saw the inside of a courtroom. My case was different.

As the financial director for a large, west coast bank, I had dealt with billions of dollars. The accounting was complex. The process was daunting. The scam was brilliant, of course: Stupid people rob liquor stores. Smart people embezzle million of dollars from major corporations the way a leaky outside faucet drains gallons of water: slowly and with no one paying attention.

I knew I'd get caught, so I planned for it. The knot I threaded to cover my tracks would put Gordian to shame. Legions of attorneys and throngs of forensic accountants would take years to uncover my crime. It would cost the company more to convict me than it would to simply cover it up and send me on my way.

Or so I thought.

The company and the prosecutors based their entire case upon one witness: Roy Ganz.

During the trial, they called Ganz to take the stand. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, hair disheveled and unwashed. He made eye contact with no one. It was not the picture of a man who was most likely being paid several million dollars for 30 seconds worth of work. Ganz sat in the witness stand. He snorted. He fidgeted. He looked down. He mumbled. The judge asked him to speak up. Loudly, he said, "He didn't do it." Quickly he got up and walked out.

After a few minutes of hurried, hushed conversations by the prosecutors, aided by some gavel-tapping by the judge, the chief prosecutor rose. He said, "Your Honor, we withdraw the charges in this case."

My attorney was floored. Outside the courtroom he pulled me aside. "I knew it," he exclaimed. "I knew it! That Ganz is a phony. He's the greatest con man the world has even seen!"

I reminded my attorney that Ganz was, as far as anyone knew, legitimate, and that I was, in fact, legally not-guilty of the charges. I was free to go.

It didn't take any psychic abilities on my part to expect Ganz to be waiting for me by my car. I had deliberately parked in a lot very far away from the courtroom, a secluded lot far away from the press, in a smelly part of town where BMWs and Mercedes don't stay parked for long.

"You're psychic, right," Ganz asked me.

"No," I laughed, "Not at all. What I am, Roy, is smart. I plan for the future. You simply read the past. That's a special talent, but not as lucrative as someone who can, within a certain degree, know the future."

Roy shrugged. "It hasn't been that lucrative, recently. I priced myself out of the market. Today I was planning on making a cool five million. Even so, all that money is spoken for."

"I figure you're in the hole for more like seven million," I told him. He smiled, "You're good."

"I once ran financial operations for the world's fourth-largest bank." Roy looked puzzled. "But I still don't get it. You stole $29 million. This afternoon you transferred 25 million of that into an offshore account with my name on it. Why not just transfer the seven that I needed?"

"Because I need only four million," I laughed.

I added,"You should have seen that."

Up on the Hill

Never mind the class I have the hill to climb

sit and watch another day die

the moon chases the sun into orange ecstasy.

Over the clock's tower chime my mind

rolls the question, "Will I die?"

On the hill sit with the rocks

stare birds in their yellow eye as they swiftly fly.

On the hill I remember what life was

and ask, "How is it man can do what he does?"

Witness teenage love and angst

the phony laughs ache my ears and mind.

Never working with always working against

earth's death day by day easier to find.

Nothing we never truly give nothing

and everything we continue to take everything.

On the hill hover with the hued birds

almost able to squeeze the orange clouds above.

On the hill I roam my soul for words

my mind rolls the question, "Will I love?"

On the hill hover with the hued birds

on the hill I roam my soul for words.

- J.R. Poole, Post Falls

THE THIEF

By Gwen Summers

Coeur d'Alene

"I know what I'll do-I'll go down to the Lake."

She'd awakened a little out of sorts that morning--not her usual sunny self. She needed the Lake. It always calmed her...as she watched the gentle waves lap, lapping on the shore, somehow she knew that time went on and on, stretched to eternity, and, whatever happened, she'd be alright.

She'd made it so far, hadn't she? Born in a tiny country village where everyone felt so safe they didn't even lock their doors, she'd seen that world crack and crumble and fall to pieces, the pieces falling farther and farther until there was nothing left of the village, nothing left of the country, nothing left to eat, nothing left...

She shook her head hard. No need to get into that now. What was the matter with her? Concentrate on the present, the bright, happy present; she was in a warm house with lots of food, a huge TV screen, a thick carpet...why, she could have anything she wanted! She'd been told that John left her with lots to live on, hadn't she? She was lucky, lucky, LUCKY!

And she had the lake.

Only about ten blocks away, it had been a big reason why John and she had moved here in the first place. She loved open water. There'd been none close to her birthplace, but as soon as she saw the ocean she loved it, and privately vowed that she'd always live close to water. She busied herself making a thermos of soothing Chamomile tea to take with her. It was miserably cold this morning, so she'd have to content herself with sitting in the car rather than on the bench as she usually did.

She drove carefully through the ice and snow in her 2010 Toyota Camry with its studded tires and power brakes. When she reached her favorite viewing spot, she parked her car facing the water and turned off the key. Often busy in the summer, today no one else was there. "Well, good," she thought. "It'll be all the more peaceful."

She settled herself and was reaching for her thermos of tea when she glanced in the rearview mirror. A truck was slowly coming down the main road; it turned in at the viewing area and crept past her car, stopped, backed up... then deliberately stopped right behind her, incredibly close.

She was trapped! How can that be?

Naked fear took over for a moment. Her hands shook, her head throbbed, her eyesight blurred.

She got hold of herself. THINK! What did she need to do? She'd prepared for emergencies like this..."Darn, my mace is in the trunk! Just a minute...the cellphone! No, the horn!" She pressed hard on the horn, but the truck didn't move. She kept on pressing the horn-"maybe someone will come by, hear it, and know I'm in trouble!"

But no one did.

Finally, the truck started up, turned around, and slowly headed toward town. She followed it closely because she wanted to get its license number, which she did, and made sure the driver saw her writing it down. She only caught a glimpse of someone tall and blond at the wheel before she turned up a street that would take her home.

Who was he? What did he want? She'll never know.

There is one thing she does know-that he's a thief, a miserable, rotten thief, who stole from her something truly beyond price: The beautiful tranquility and peace she'd always known when she drove down and looked out over the Lake.