Archive for December, 2023
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBI
The Reluctant Zombi was accepted for publication by Blood, Blade & Thruster, a print publication, in October 2006.
There is a story behind this story.
Blood, Blade & Thruster ran a contest to see which story they would publish according to which story received the most votes. I can’t remember, but the stories must have been published online for people to read and then to vote.
I told friends about the contest. My wife told her friends about the contest. Then our friends told their friends about the contest.
I won. That is why you are now reading this story.
After the story was published someone posted online that they thought my story should not have been published because winning a contest by number of votes was not a valid way to obtain publication.
I guess he should have had more friends.
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE
As Norman stumbled through the dank Haitian swamp, he groaned, “Willard, it feels so unnatural walking around with my arms outstretched, but I can’t seem to put them down. “I have an image to uphold.”
Willard, who was shuffling along, shook his head and sighed, “Of course it’s unnatural, you’re a zombie, damn it. And your image is history.”
Norman complained, “I didn’t ask to be a zombie.” With some difficulty, he swiveled his neck and surveyed the Haitian countryside.
Norman took in the landscape surrounding him. He walked through a village. It was nothing more than a few huts of mud and straw along a dusty road. Chickens pecked in the brush along the roadside. Chickens! For some reason their presence made him uncomfortable. “I really don’t want to be a zombie,” Norman muttered. He was a forty-year-old college professor, a dark-haired trim man who always dressed well. Now he was walking around covered in grime and dressed in rags.
Willard said, “If you didn’t want to become a zombie, you shouldn’t have run over the old voodoo woman’s chickens with your jeep. Was she ever pissed? She’s also the one that converted me into a zombie, but that’s another story.”
Norman looked at Willard and could not guess what he once looked like. Willard was pale, gaunt and dressed in rags. His age made undeterminable by his zombie state.
“As soon as you angered her, she began making one of her little dolls. She cackled while she worked. That is never a good sign. The doll is where your soul now resides.”
“I can’t believe this is happening to me, Willard. I came to Haiti to do research on Haitian religions. I am, or was, a respected and well-published anthropologist. Now look at me. I’m wearing rags and walking around like a…, like a …”.
“Zombie!” asked Willard.
“Just because I ran over a few chickens?”
“Um, Norman, they looked like chickens, but they weren’t. Nothing around the voodoo woman’s house is what it appears. They were once her enemies. She changed them into chickens, and you freed them from pecking for insects along the road for the rest of their lives. You ended their suffering. So naturally, in her anger, she turned you into a zombie. I am assigned to train all novice zombies. To instruct how to attack people, teach them what are the best parts to eat.”
Norman made a face at this remark.
“Now what?” asked Willard.
Norman sighed, “I’m a vegetarian. But I will eat dairy.”
Willard said with disgust, “There are no vegetarian zombies. And attacking the dairy section of a store is not going to do much for the zombie image.”
Norman grumbled, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do anything to detract from the zombie image. Give me a break.”
As the two zombies were arguing, Willard happened to glance over to the voodoo woman’s house. There she stood in the doorway. Willard could tell she was not happy.
She hobbled toward Willard and Norman, a waddling mass adorned with bones and beads. Her crown of thick dreadlocks made her appear as if some multi-legged beast was sitting on her head.
The old voodoo woman shouted at Norman, “I knew you be a troublemaker, with your fancy jeep and running over people’s property.”
Norman mumbled, “Sorry about the chickens.”
“You sorry all right. You be good and sorry real soon.”
The old woman produced her Norman doll, lifted the doll skyward, and began chanting in a low rumbling voice.
Norman’s soul returned to his body. He felt like his old self. He laughed with relief, then glanced up. Willard stumbled toward him; arms raised.
“Willard old buddy, we’re friends – right?”
Willard only growled and roared.
Norman looked desperately for an escape. On either side of him, zombies with ash-gray complexions staggered in his direction. He was surrounded.
The old voodoo woman said, “Here be my ‘children’, and they be hungry.” She cackled as the circle of zombies grew smaller and smaller around Norman.
From beyond the wall of the living dead, Norman pleaded, “Please, make me a chicken!”
THE END
YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .
Hanging laundry on a clothesline was the only way to dry clothes.
THINK NO EVIL
This story was accepted for publication by Nocturnal Ooze in November 2006.
THINK NO EVIL
I have always had an active imagination. If I had had the courage to put a bullet through my head when I first realized the consequences of my thoughts, you dear reader, would have more than five days to live. I suggest, for your own sanity, you put down this story. Now!
Consider yourself warned.
I used my vivid imagination to write works of science fiction and had some measure of success. I was no Ray Bradbury, but I was able to make a reasonable living with my novels with flashy covers showing alien worlds and their weird residents. The occasional scantily clad Earth females depicted on the covers didn’t hurt sales either. I would let my imagination run wild and my pen would follow. I do not know the true extent of the powers, but I fear I may have done some damage light years from Earth.
The first hint of my peculiar ability occurred a month ago. I visited a bagel shop early one morning, as was my habit, to avoid crowds. In my southeastern Pennsylvania community, three people constitute a crowd, four a mob.
I entered the store and found, and much to my satisfaction, I was the only customer. A husband and wife owned and ran the establishment. They were always there together.
I placed my order, and as I stood idly, a strange thought emerged. How easy it would be to rob this store at this early hour. I could write a mystery. It would be my first attempt at something other than science fiction. My mind was consumed with plotting the crime, and as I waited for my bagels, my thoughts set up the robbery scene. Seven days later, that store was robbed and the couple murdered.
What a strange coincidence, I thought, as I read the newspaper.
A few days after the robbery, I was driving along an interstate highway behind an old pickup truck. A ladder was propped up against the tailgate. I imagined the truck hitting a large bump in the road and the ladder being hurled from the truck and through the windshield of the car following. I switched lanes and forgot the vision.
Seven days later a horrendous accident happened, almost identical to the scene I imagined. It made the local news.
This time I was shaken. Was this just a second coincidence?
I tried an experiment. I pictured a week of continuous rain. We were under drought restrictions at the time, so I thought this would be an innocent and perhaps beneficial test. Exactly seven days later, the rains poured down and rivers overran their banks. I had forgotten about the rivers. Property was ruined. Lives were lost.
To avoid more damage, I went back to writing science fiction. Fiction that I ensured occurred far from this planet.
Then it happened. Two days ago, after I vowed never to conjure up stories about the here and now, I slipped. I was writing a story about an alien ship traveling through an asteroid belt. Before I knew it, my mind was picturing the asteroid that impacted the Earth some sixty-five million years ago causing the extinction of the dinosaurs. But God help me, my mind wandered and took another step. I wondered what the Earth would be like if an asteroid ten times the size of the one that killed the dinosaurs impacted the Earth.
We have five days left.
THE END
THOUGHTS ON RETIREMENT
THOUGHTS ON RETIREMENT
I’m going to step away from the subjects usually contained in my posts and focus on the subject of retirement.
It has recently been reported that many folks are not saving enough for their retirement. The fact that 47% of working people cannot put aside $1000 for an unexpected bill. How can people save for retirement when they have so little cash available?
There are numerous ads for various schemes guaranteeing you a percentage of profit from your investments no matter what happens to the stock market. They guarantee you a safe and secure retirement.
I’ve been retired for fifteen years, and, in my opinion, all these guarantees are BS. The only individuals who are assured of having a safe and secure retirement are those who have enough money so that no matter what happens to the economy and the stock market their future is safe.
In my mind there is one important question, the most important question, which must be answered before you discuss the quality of your retirement. How long are you going to live after you retire? For the longer you live, the less the money you have saved is worth.
I look at the cost of living now and compare it to fifteen years ago. I look at current salaries and compare them to my salary fifteen years ago. Fifteen years ago, my family’s income provided a comfortable life. That same salary today might pose a struggle.
Some of the retirement plans offered guarantee that you can maintain your lifestyle you had before retirement into your retirement. That guarantee, I feel, depends upon two factors. What is the lifestyle you plan to maintain and how long you live once retire?
In reality, as all things in life, there are no guarantees.
YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD
When you remember doctors making house calls.
YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD . . .
When you remember a time when credit cards did not exist, and people only made purchases they could afford.
THE ANNIVERSARY
A mellow ghost story.
Accepted by Bewildering Stories June 2007.
THE ANNIVERSARY
Julie Barber carefully made her way down the winding tree-lined dirt road to visit her next patient. The sun filtering through the ancient maples lining the road helped relax Julie and to mentally prepare her for the visit. Julie was a visiting nurse seeing oncology and hospice patients and she was now on her way to see Emily Taylor. She had been seeing Emily for three months now, with failure to thrive as the diagnosis, but Julie also knew that a healthy amount of dementia was mixed into the ninety-six-year-old patient’s milieu of symptoms.
As a young woman, Emily had been petite. Now, as an old woman, she was beyond frail. The black hair of her youth now formed a snow-white frame around her withered face.
It was a crisp January afternoon with the sky a brilliant blue. “God, I with Emily could enjoy this day,” Julie said. Emily was so sweet, and she had a special place in her heart for the old woman. She loved all the elderly patients she saw, enjoyed listening to their history and felt pride in knowing she made a difference in their final days.
As she drove, she viewed the peaceful winter landscape. The meadows were brown with dormant grass and the field stood barren waiting for the spring planting. Some would find little beauty in winter’s harsh scene, but Julie found each season special with its own qualities.
Julie parked on the circular gravel drive and walked up to the modest farmhouse that Emily Taylor had called home for so many years. There was not another house in sight, and the view went on for miles revealing the central Pennsylvania countryside. The homestead, surrounded by solitude set Julie thinking, The poor woman’s life reflects the scene that inhabits this place, she has been so alone for so long.
She walked up to the front of the house and used the brass knocker on the ancient wooden door to announce her arrival. The door opened and there stood Ruth, one of the twenty-four-hour caregivers who stayed with Emily.
“How’s my patient?” asked Julie.
“Oh, you know Julie. Ralph and the kids are set to show up anytime now and she’s so excited. Poor thing, I figure if this fantasy keeps her going; where’s the harm?”
Julie entered. The house was well over a hundred years old. A sturdy dwelling, it was a small two-story structure and had the feeling of ‘no show, just practicality’ rarely found in today’s houses. Upstairs were two bedrooms, one of which her patient hadn’t left for months. The first floor held a small cozy kitchen with a bathroom off to one side, the only part of the structure that was not original. A modest living room was entered from the front door. Julie trudged up the well-worn stairs to care for her patient.
As soon as he entered the bedroom, Emily smiled and said, “How are you my dear? You know Ralph and the girls will be here soon. I can’t wait to see how much the girls have grown, although they never seem to change. And Ralph, he’s always as handsome as ever. How’s your husband?”
Julie responded, “Emily, don’t you remember? I don’t have a husband.”
Emily said, “Then we should find you one. Husbands and children are why we were put on this Earth. That’s what life is all about. You are so young and so pretty, my girl. We must find you a husband.”
They talked a while more, and then Julie began to care for her patient. She took Emily’s vitals, and then tended to the bedsores she had developed. As Julie packed her nursing bag, she said to Emily, “I’ll see you next week. I’ll be here Tuesday; she didn’t mention the date. The fact that it would be January 28th might disturb the old lady. But more likely, it would have no meaning at all.
Julie walked to the bedroom door and said, “You take care, Emily. I’ll see you next week.
Emily answered, “I have company coming next week. My family will be here for a visit.”
Ruth was outside the door and heard everything. “Poor thing,” she said, “all alone in the world. With her family gone all these years, I don’t know what makes her hold on like she does. She’s so alone. She’s outlived all her close relatives. No one visits the poor thing.”
“I know,” said Julie. “The only pleasure she gets is in her fantasies. And if that gives her joy, who are we to disturb it?”
Julie left the farmhouse and retraced her route down the rutted dirt road to visit her next patient.
* * *
Shortly after beginning to care for Emily Taylor, Julie approached the social worker assigned to her case. In Emily’s bedroom, Julie could not help but notice a host of family pictures. There were pictures of Emily as a young bride embracing a young dark-haired man, her husband Ralph. Other family photos showed Julie and Ralph with a baby, then more pictures with a toddler and another baby. There were photos tracing the two girls growing and Emily and Ralph growing older. The most recent picture was Ralph and Emily in their forties, with two girls about to reach their teenage years. Julie enjoyed learning the history of her patients so she could communicate better with them. What she learned of Emily’s past saddened her deeply.
“Diane, would you mind if I asked you some questions about Emily Taylor? She’s such a sweet old woman and I know she has no living close relatives. I was wondering what happened to her family in the photos.”
Diane replied, “I see you’ve noticed all the photos in her bedroom. Who could help but notice them? The little old lady’s future of a life with her family was robbed from her so many years ago. Her husband and two daughters were killed. Since then, she has lived part of her life in a world of fantasy where her husband comes to visit, and her children never grow old.
“It was in the mid-fifties when the Taylor family could afford their first new car. It was a black and white Chevy. It was January 28th, 1954, when Ralph went to pick up his new vehicle…
The door slammed and Ralph walked into the small, warm kitchen. The smell of a roast filled the air. Emily was in an apron stirring a pot on top of the coal stove.
“Emmy,” said Ralph, joy filled his voice, “let’s go for a ride.”
“Ralph, I’m cooking dinner. Anyway, the roads are full of ice from the last storm.”
“I know Emmy, but I made it home just fine. Our car will be new only once. Where are the girls?”
“They’re upstairs doing their homework. For God’s sakes, the car doesn’t even have a heater.”
“No problem,” answered Ralph, “we’ll grab a few army blankets. They’ll keep you and the girls warm just fine.”
“You just can’t stay away for that car?” Emily said.
Ralph approached Emily and said, “That’s not all I can’t stay away from.” He hugged his wife and his hands roamed the curves of her body.
“Stop it Ralph, the children.”
“Emmy, I guess you’ll have to wait for next time for your ride. I’ll take the girls and be back way before dinner.”
He shouted upstairs, “Who wants to go for a ride in our brand-new car?”
The two young girls came bounding down the stairs, shouting in unison, “Me daddy, me…”
Diane said, “There was a local farmer that was known to have a drinking problem. He was more wasted than usual when he got behind the wheel of his pickup that night.
“The two girls were in the back seat of the Chevy huddled in blankets. Of course, it was well before the time of seatbelts or airbags. The story goes Ralph was rounding a curve when he saw the drunken farmer coming at him. There was no time for him to react. The farmer was in Ralph’s lane and hit him head-on. Everyone was killed.
“Emily was alright for a while, as alright as anyone could be, then she lost it. She kept on talking about Ralph and the girls and how they came to visit. Gradually, all the close family she had died. She lives on that beautiful countryside; she lives in the past talking about her husband and daughters as if they were still alive.”
* * *
Tuesday arrived and it was time to visit Emily once again. Julie preferred to see Emily in the early afternoon, but she had an emergency visit and had to postpone Emily’s visit till the end of the day. As she drove the country road near dusk, she was aware of an unpleasant change. The desolation of the countryside was pronounced in a haunting way. The tree-lined road leading to her patient’s farmhouse now seemed bordered by lurking giants instead of the stately maples she had grown to love. The gray and colorless scene was nothing like the colorful landscape she had grown to love.
Julie knocked on the farmhouse door. Ruth answered immediately.
“Julie, Emily doesn’t look so good. Hurry!”
As soon as she entered the bedroom, Julie could see that Emily was dying. Her breathing was shallow and her complexion gray. Julie took her vitals and shook her head. Emily’s eyes were closed.
Julie said, “Emily, can you hear me?”
In a soft, weary voice, Emily replied, “Julie, I’m so tired. Could you comb my hair? Ralph and the girls will be here soon.”
With tears in her eyes, Julie complied. After finishing, she said, “You look beautiful Emily. Ralph and the girls will think you’re so lovely.”
As she was leaving the farmhouse, Julie said to Ruth, “I doubt she will last the night.”
Ruth and Julie said their good-byes and Julie began walking to her car. As she slid into the driver’s seat, she noticed a faint glow amid the fading light of the darkened countryside. The light held close to the road and followed its twists and turns. The closer it came to the farmhouse, the brighter it became. As the light entered the driveway it gained definition. Soon it morphed into a very old car. Julie froze not knowing what to expect next.
The driver’s door of the specter opened and out stepped the glowing figure of a man. Julie recognized him immediately. It was Ralph. The back doors opened and out bounded two little girls.
Julie was cemented in place, afraid to move, afraid to think. Then the hairs on the back of her neck stood as she heard the shimmering figures of the girls call, “Mom, come on Mom. It’s time to go for a ride.”
Movement near the front door caught Julie’s eye. A glowing figure emerged from the farmhouse. Julie immediately recognized the young Emily Taylor as she appeared in the final family photo.
The youthful Emily walked towards her daughters. She held them close and kissed them. The girls responded with giggles and shouts of joy. Then Emily went to her husband. There was a long embrace and Julie thought she could hear weeping.
The four apparitions climbed into the old car and disappeared down the country road with the glowing specter of the Chevy fading into the night.
THE END
YOU KNOW YOU ARE GETTING OLD WHEN …
When rips in jeans were patched and not considered a fashion statement.
YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD . . .
Now that I am retired, and consider myself a well-seasoned individual, I have time to reflect on my past and the present. This series of short posts will look at the way things once were many years ago. And let those of younger generations compare what once was and what is.
You know you are getting old when you can recall when a postage stamp cost 3 cents.
HE FLEW AWAY
This story was inspired by the stink but infestation about seven or eight years ago.
I was camping with my wife and friends and the population of stink bugs was enormous. In the restroom they attacked me. The side of a white RV was almost totally black with the beasts. Luckly, birds eventually developed a taste for them.
He Flew Away was published in 2016 by Cemetery Moon, a print publication.
He Flew Away
The stink bug invasion, a product of Asian commerce, spread across the east coast like a cancer. Now, more than thirty-three states suffered their scourge. At first, the insect was nothing more than a mild discomfort. Then, ever so slowly, the discomfort grew into a major irritant, and finally as time passed, a constant source of woe. It was in the winter that the insects would reach their maximum level as a life-changing hindrance. During cold weather they ventured indoors, landing in food, beverages and disturbing sleep in infested bedrooms, waking those light sleepers with the sound of their flight, and the heavier sleepers when they landed. Residents of the blighted areas thought this was as bad as it could get, but matters were about to take a change for the worse that no one had anticipated. The nuisance of the original invasion waned as birds developed a taste for the pest. But before that took place a new, more threatening aspect, replaced the mere nuisance.
One of the many sites of this transition from annoyance to terror took place at French Creek State Park. Located in rural eastern Pennsylvania, a landscape of thick forest and rolling hills, it was an ideal setting for those wanting to leave the cares of life behind and seek nature’s solitude. The location was also ideal for the mindless advances of the now predator insects to accomplish a horrible new phase of their existence.
Walt, along with his dog, Millie, sought out the peace and tranquility of the park one early October weekend. Walt said to Millie, as he filled his van with camping equipment, “I can’t wait to spend some time outdoors with my girl camping.” Millie, a lab mix, bounded around the car anticipating an upcoming adventure. She knew something was up, and as long as she was included, she was happy.
Setting out on a Friday afternoon, a short drive brought them to French Creek State Park.
Walt began setting up his campsite looking forward to a restful evening spent around a blazing campfire with the smell of burning wood and the way the tranquility of a camping evening brought a sense of wellbeing. However, the tranquil mood changed when Saturday morning dawned with the horrible realization that the invasion of stink bugs in the forest was intense. Walt could not believe the magnitude of the stink bug population as he attempted to clear them from the picnic table so he could make his breakfast.
Millie sensed an ominous presence in the insect invasion, something her master could not. She growled and snapped at the pests knowing they were more of a threat than her master realized.
That morning, as Walt entered the camp bathroom, he was shocked to see the walls black with stink bugs. To eliminate the vermin, he slammed his towel against the walls. But that accomplished nothing more than releasing a sickening stench. “Bad idea,” he, mumbled. “It can’t get much worse than this. Back home they haven’t showed up yet. Here, it’s a major invasion. They’re everywhere.” And Walt discovered a new aspect of the pests; they’re dive-bombing now, and biting. A few of them landed on him and immediately bit down, causing intense pain. A fellow camper entered the restroom and listened to Walt complain and agreed with a nod of his head to his observations. Walt was afraid to open his mouth to respond, the insects were that dense.
That night the smoke of the campfire kept the little monsters at bay allowing Walt to enjoy the evening. Millie lay down by the fire but again sensed a looming threat in the darkness.
Late Sunday night Walt’s friends, Sherrie and Jeff, arrived in their RV. The next morning, as Sherrie and Jeff witnessed the stink bug infestation, they agreed that this year’s plague of insects was the worst they’d ever seen. Walt tried to remain positive and commented, “It will be better when we go back home, away from the forest. Let’s try to enjoy our camping and ignore the little bastards.”
On their second full day of camping Walt’s friends decided to take Millie for a walk. “We won’t get lost this time,” they promised. The previous day, the trio hiked a totally unplanned six mile marathon. Without map or compass, they set out for a short leisurely hike. At one point, after the hikers realized how lost they were, and Millie enjoyed every turn in the trail, Sherrie asked an old-timer driving by for directions. Big mistake. They walked circles around the same landscape finally sure their local guide was suffering from dementia. Nothing of the directions he gave fit the terrain, and during the hike they were constantly bombarded by stink bugs. “I hope Walt has a fire going when we get back with plenty of smoke,” Sherrie said to Jeff, “or else you and I are going straight into the RV.
While his friends decided on a hike, Walt hung back at the campsite to try and do some work. He was a writer at the beginning of his career. As he sat in this peaceful setting ideas fired through his mind. The current infestation of stink bugs added to strong possibilities of a story.
Sitting at the picnic table, Walt started to form the idea for a work of horror, lurking on the backburner of his mind for some time now. Working at the picnic table he was constantly brushing away stink bugs landing on him. He muttered, “The little pests are everywhere. We can’t leave this place soon enough to suit me,” a definite turn to his positive attitude. But even with the constant irritation of the insects, with the warmth of the sun, and spending a restless camping night, he began nodding off and decided to rest his head on the table, for just a minute.
As Walt’s breathing grew more regular with sleep the insects returned, the first stink bug landed on his shoulder. Soon insects occupied his shoulders and back, and before long were joined by a swarm hovering which quietly settling down to join their comrades. Swarm after swam followed, creating a mass of hundreds of thousands of the bugs.
Walt stirred as the insects began penetrating his body with their mindless journey to transition, molding his structure to their own demands. He was now beyond pain as his being entered a new life, a new entity. All that was Walt was gone, replaced by a life form the world had never known. This same horrible transformation was occurring throughout the infected areas as the stink bug population multiplied with unprecedented hspeed to create a new horror. Gradually a new creature was created which would become swarms of monsters defying the laws of nature and challenging all life on the planet.
* **
Hours later Sherrie and Jeff came walking back with Millie in tow. “Let’s see what Walt’s up to,” they told the tired dog. As they approached the campsite, they could not believe their eyes. There, sitting at the picnic table, was a pulsating amorphous shape. As they moved closer they realized what they were seeing were thousands upon thousands of stink bugs. Before their horrified eyes, a figure rose becoming more defined as the crawling mass of insects flew away leaving a solid form, one enormous shield- shaped evil-looking insect. The monster’s alien eyes surveyed its surroundings, and then moved from the table to the ground. It was fully six feet long and stood four feet high. The stench it gave off was unbelievably repulsive. Suddenly, its carapace opened and huge wings appeared increasing the putrid smell even more. Giant wings began to flutter, sending up a cloud of fallen leaves, and the beast began to fly. Soon it was only a dot in the sky, and then disappeared.
The End
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