Michael Swartz
Michael Swartz
My first story explores the identity of a human chimera. A chimera is anything with two different sets of DNA. Shown in the diagram below, occassionally when there are two faternal (non-identical) twins, one dies and is absorbed by the other. The resulting child will have two different sets of DNA. Although the use of a chimera has been used in several TV shows often discussing paternity, my thought was what would happen if the traits of each parent dominated one side? The child would be split. If one parent was viewed as good and the other evil, the child might not understand his/her identity.
My first novel is about 16-year-old Ethan Rivers who is a chimera: the rare fusion of two fraternal twins into a single child. But he is Split, the traits on his left side resemble his father and the traits on his right side resemble his mother. One side has to win.Since Ethan’s father has returned from Operation Desert Storm, he has been agitated, complained of headaches, and is physically abusive. When Ethan also develops headaches and violently attacks a lifelong bully, it confirms his worst fear: his father’s half is dominant. Ethan must protect his mother from his violent father while reconciling his identity, the importance of his unique diagnosis, and whether he is destined to behave like his father.
Chapter OneSeptember 1995My first punch lands square on Jackson VanPatten’s face. The crack of his nose breaking is muffled by the boisterous conversation from the other customers in the diner. Most of the booths, and a good quarter of the counter seats, are occupied. In the table next to ours, a family enjoys their dessert. Somehow, the bubble that contains our violent chaos remains intact. Jackson stands frozen. He’s looking down at his hands, watching drops of blood spill into his palms. Like an actor who needs to see the tear in his clothes and the blossoming circle of blood to register that he’s been shot, apparently Jackson can’t believe I hit him. To be honest, neither can I. Since sixth grade, Jackson has been the bigger, stronger, and richer kid who identified me as an easy target. I’d had enough of Jackson VanPatten’s abuse.
I’d been sitting across from my friends, Aia and Mo, and hadn't heard Jackson approach. Jackson’s Super Bowl sized class ring, hurtling toward Aia made me look up. Jackson always targeted me, never her. Crack! His hand smacked Aia’s head; her whole body lurched forward and her hands landed against the table with a thud. A tear trickled from her left eye and the corners of her mouth turned down. Jackson sneered. I jumped from my seat to throw a punch. Jackson screams and the bubble around us pops. His friends, at the other end of the diner, glance in our direction. Jackson’s shout is not the high-pitched whimper of a wounded animal but the barbaric cry of a savage warrior. Everyone in the diner freezes. Chocolate ice cream threatens to drip from the spoons held by two kids, not much older than three, in the booth next to ours. “Ethan, I’m going to kill you,” Jackson growls slowly. I believe him. I grit my teeth, ignoring the throbbing pain in my knuckle, and hit him hard in the abdomen. A gasp quickly replaces his scream. Like the sucking sound after opening a jelly jar. I jab, twisting my fist, and Jackson swings backward violently, crashing against the edge of the table. His arms wave in a failed attempt to keep his balance. His skull hits the floor with such force that the thud reverberates loudly within my own head. It is the sound of a hammer breaking a piece of wood. It’s the sound of breaking bone. I know that sound. I remember that sound. No one speaks. No one breathes. Jackson lies crumpled on the floor. His legs are crossed precariously; his left arm cradles his head. Rivulets of dark blood spill into the seams of the black-and-white linoleum-tiled floor, forming rivers and then lakes. His blood has spattered onto the white fabric of my shirt. What have I done? Seriously, what have I just done? Mo is still sitting in the booth, his mouth open. Next to him, his sister, Aia, has tears in her eyes but is searching nervously for the threat of retaliation, which for the moment is too far off. Jackson’s friends are still at the other end of the diner, and only now stand. “Jack,” one of them says, looking at the floor and then me. The rest of the diners remain motionless. My jaw, clenched tight, loosens, and my teeth chatter like I’m freezing. My hands and legs shake. All the surging adrenaline is looking for a release. Maybe this is a dream. Some sort of nightmare. But the acrid taste of blood in my mouth from inadvertently biting my tongue suggests otherwise. Jackson remains motionless on the floor. I tower over him, the apparent victor in this struggle. I’d almost convinced myself that my father’s half didn’t have a hold on my personality or my actions. Clearly, I was wrong. The diner owner comes from behind the counter cautiously, pointing a Louisville Slugger. Breathing raggedly, I look around. Searching for what? Praise that I’ve slayed Goliath? An escape? I lock onto the mother and father at the table next to ours, cradling their children and trying to protect them from what just happened. They look at me as if I’m a monster. “I am not my father!” I scream. “I don’t care who you think you are, don’t move!” the owner commands, while a waitress behind the counter speaks quietly into the phone. Jackson’s two friends fix their eyes on me and walk calmly forward, their fists clenched at their sides. I bolt for the door and run down the cement steps two at a time toward Route 173. The thick night air swallows me. Behind, I can hear sirens but no trailing footsteps. Finding the field where 173 splits, I surge into the woods that connect to the back of my house. Camouflaged by the safety of the thick pine trees, I pull out my inhaler. I take two quick puffs and then vomit to the side; several large dry heaves leave me shaking. The image of Jackson VanPatten’s lifeless body on the floor replaces the partially digested French fries. Looking down at my hands, the instruments of destruction, I focus specifically on the left one. The fist that gave the final blow. Only by memory do I walk through the darkened night over fallen logs and turn by the pile of shale next to the stream, all while focusing on my left hand. Standing where the corn of Henderson’s farm meets the grass of our own property, I look down at the earth where a raised mound is barely visible. A box of letters and memorabilia that were buried here marked the moment I promised I would never become him. That my mother’s half, the good half, would win out over my father’s. That promise has now been broken. The split inside me, the divide between who I want to be and who I really am, is obvious. I rub my eyes, trying to erase the picture of Jackson’s lifeless body, and instead hear his head crack against the table and then against the floor. The two sounds now in synchrony with my heartbeat. Crack, Thud. Words I'd heard a couple years ago flood my memory. Subdural hematoma. Increased intra-cranial pressure. Near death. Could go at any moment. Jackson looked dead. Was I a murderer? Was that how far things had gotten out of control in one instant? How long did I have until the police came? Or maybe Jackson’s friends would find me first. There would be no need for criminal justice if that happened. I sit on the dewy grass in the backyard. Our house is dark, and I lose myself until I hear the sound of tires on the driveway. The footsteps coming in my direction are not the boots of an officer or heavy sneakers out for revenge. They are lighter. Graceful. The smell of familiar perfume wafts in my direction, and I relax. “How’d you know I’d be here?” I ask, not looking at Aia, focusing instead on the ground in front of me. My knees tight to my chest, she sits so close that our shoulders touch. She grasps my hand and says softly, “You told me.”I look at her, perplexed. I know that when I ran out of the diner, I hadn’t said a word. “Two years ago. You said it’s where you buried everything he ever gave you,” she says. Her eyes travel toward the ground, searching for what she knows is there. “This doesn’t change anything,” she says, pulling my gaze into her green eyes. “You understand that, right? What happened at the diner, what you did, doesn’t change a thing. You are your own person, not like your father. You defended me.” I want to agree with her. Really I do. That this is a single event. That it’s never happened before. That it’s different. Instead, I ask, “Is he alive?”
I’d been sitting across from my friends, Aia and Mo, and hadn't heard Jackson approach. Jackson’s Super Bowl sized class ring, hurtling toward Aia made me look up. Jackson always targeted me, never her. Crack! His hand smacked Aia’s head; her whole body lurched forward and her hands landed against the table with a thud. A tear trickled from her left eye and the corners of her mouth turned down. Jackson sneered. I jumped from my seat to throw a punch. Jackson screams and the bubble around us pops. His friends, at the other end of the diner, glance in our direction. Jackson’s shout is not the high-pitched whimper of a wounded animal but the barbaric cry of a savage warrior. Everyone in the diner freezes. Chocolate ice cream threatens to drip from the spoons held by two kids, not much older than three, in the booth next to ours. “Ethan, I’m going to kill you,” Jackson growls slowly. I believe him. I grit my teeth, ignoring the throbbing pain in my knuckle, and hit him hard in the abdomen. A gasp quickly replaces his scream. Like the sucking sound after opening a jelly jar. I jab, twisting my fist, and Jackson swings backward violently, crashing against the edge of the table. His arms wave in a failed attempt to keep his balance. His skull hits the floor with such force that the thud reverberates loudly within my own head. It is the sound of a hammer breaking a piece of wood. It’s the sound of breaking bone. I know that sound. I remember that sound. No one speaks. No one breathes. Jackson lies crumpled on the floor. His legs are crossed precariously; his left arm cradles his head. Rivulets of dark blood spill into the seams of the black-and-white linoleum-tiled floor, forming rivers and then lakes. His blood has spattered onto the white fabric of my shirt. What have I done? Seriously, what have I just done? Mo is still sitting in the booth, his mouth open. Next to him, his sister, Aia, has tears in her eyes but is searching nervously for the threat of retaliation, which for the moment is too far off. Jackson’s friends are still at the other end of the diner, and only now stand. “Jack,” one of them says, looking at the floor and then me. The rest of the diners remain motionless. My jaw, clenched tight, loosens, and my teeth chatter like I’m freezing. My hands and legs shake. All the surging adrenaline is looking for a release. Maybe this is a dream. Some sort of nightmare. But the acrid taste of blood in my mouth from inadvertently biting my tongue suggests otherwise. Jackson remains motionless on the floor. I tower over him, the apparent victor in this struggle. I’d almost convinced myself that my father’s half didn’t have a hold on my personality or my actions. Clearly, I was wrong. The diner owner comes from behind the counter cautiously, pointing a Louisville Slugger. Breathing raggedly, I look around. Searching for what? Praise that I’ve slayed Goliath? An escape? I lock onto the mother and father at the table next to ours, cradling their children and trying to protect them from what just happened. They look at me as if I’m a monster. “I am not my father!” I scream. “I don’t care who you think you are, don’t move!” the owner commands, while a waitress behind the counter speaks quietly into the phone. Jackson’s two friends fix their eyes on me and walk calmly forward, their fists clenched at their sides. I bolt for the door and run down the cement steps two at a time toward Route 173. The thick night air swallows me. Behind, I can hear sirens but no trailing footsteps. Finding the field where 173 splits, I surge into the woods that connect to the back of my house. Camouflaged by the safety of the thick pine trees, I pull out my inhaler. I take two quick puffs and then vomit to the side; several large dry heaves leave me shaking. The image of Jackson VanPatten’s lifeless body on the floor replaces the partially digested French fries. Looking down at my hands, the instruments of destruction, I focus specifically on the left one. The fist that gave the final blow. Only by memory do I walk through the darkened night over fallen logs and turn by the pile of shale next to the stream, all while focusing on my left hand. Standing where the corn of Henderson’s farm meets the grass of our own property, I look down at the earth where a raised mound is barely visible. A box of letters and memorabilia that were buried here marked the moment I promised I would never become him. That my mother’s half, the good half, would win out over my father’s. That promise has now been broken. The split inside me, the divide between who I want to be and who I really am, is obvious. I rub my eyes, trying to erase the picture of Jackson’s lifeless body, and instead hear his head crack against the table and then against the floor. The two sounds now in synchrony with my heartbeat. Crack, Thud. Words I'd heard a couple years ago flood my memory. Subdural hematoma. Increased intra-cranial pressure. Near death. Could go at any moment. Jackson looked dead. Was I a murderer? Was that how far things had gotten out of control in one instant? How long did I have until the police came? Or maybe Jackson’s friends would find me first. There would be no need for criminal justice if that happened. I sit on the dewy grass in the backyard. Our house is dark, and I lose myself until I hear the sound of tires on the driveway. The footsteps coming in my direction are not the boots of an officer or heavy sneakers out for revenge. They are lighter. Graceful. The smell of familiar perfume wafts in my direction, and I relax. “How’d you know I’d be here?” I ask, not looking at Aia, focusing instead on the ground in front of me. My knees tight to my chest, she sits so close that our shoulders touch. She grasps my hand and says softly, “You told me.”I look at her, perplexed. I know that when I ran out of the diner, I hadn’t said a word. “Two years ago. You said it’s where you buried everything he ever gave you,” she says. Her eyes travel toward the ground, searching for what she knows is there. “This doesn’t change anything,” she says, pulling my gaze into her green eyes. “You understand that, right? What happened at the diner, what you did, doesn’t change a thing. You are your own person, not like your father. You defended me.” I want to agree with her. Really I do. That this is a single event. That it’s never happened before. That it’s different. Instead, I ask, “Is he alive?”
Recent Publications-Examples of my scientific writing
Swartz MF
INTRAOPERATIVE CORTICAL ASYNCHRONY PREDICTS ABNORMAL POSTOPERATIVE ELECTROENCEPHALOGRAM
2021
Swartz MF
MET-HEMOGLOBIN IS A BIOMARKER FOR POOR OXYGEN DELIVERY IN INFANTS FOLLOWING SURGICAL PALLIATION.
2019
Swartz MF
TRANSFER OF NEONATES WITH CRITICAL CONGENITAL HEART DISEASE WITHIN A REGIONALIZED NETWORK
2017
Swartz MF
DISTAL TRANSVERSE ARCH TO LEFT CAROTID ARTERY RATIO HELPS TO IDENTIFY INFANTS WITH AORTIC ARCH HYPOPLASIA
2015
Swartz MF
NEURODEVELOPMENTAL OUTCOMES AFTER NEONATAL CARDIAC SURGERY: ROLE OF CORTICAL ISOELECTRIC ACTIVITY.
2016
Michael Swartz
Email: Michael_swartz@urmc.Rochester.edu
