Posts filed under ‘free stories’
THOUGHTS OF MONDAY, AN UNPUBLISHED STORY
My consistent readers,
Although I am now retired from my ‘day job’, I have been a writer for some time now and will continue that endeavor as long as my mind continues to generate thoughts.
I do recall, however those dreaded Monday mornings.
MONDAY MORNING BLUES
On early summer mornings I’m first out the door and on my way to work. Without exception, I run smack into spider webs built across the area of the doorway during the night. Not the way I chose to start my day, pulling nearly invisible strands of spider secretions from my face and arms.
One Saturday morning I decided to use the garage door and walk down the driveway to get the papers. As I returned to the house I noticed spider webs running from nearby bushes and trees to our parked cars. On inspection, I also discovered a huge web across the side door; I found another web blocking the back door. A broom took care of the webs across the doors, but they provided more resistance that usual. As my wife went off in the van to run some errands, she dislodged the webs. Was it my imagination or did the van’s tires hesitate for better traction just before breaking free?
Monday morning, I leave for work but don’t get far. I hit the spider web and stop short, cannot move! The damn thing has me stuck and the more I thrash about the more enveloped I become in the sticky mass. I’m about to cry out to my wife for help when, from behind the house, illuminated by the porch light, extends a hairy leg, thick around as a small tree.
Don’t you just hate Monday mornings?
UNPUBLISED WORK; A SHORT STORY
My consistent readers,
I am a dreamer. What writer isn’t?
We dream of people reading our work, and enjoying it. Or maybe, finding something our effort says to them, and those of us that are bold dream of making a profit.
I also happen to be a dreamer at night with my imagination going full-bore. When I say this is based on a true dream, I am not joking.
THE DREAM CATCHER
Based on a true dream
Walt was a dreamer, but on occasion, there were consequences.
His wife, Joni, yelled, “Knock it off.” It was the dead of night, about 3 AM, and approaching winter. Thank God the windows were closed or the neighbors might have gotten the wrong idea.
Joni often shouted, “Knock it off,” or “Leave me alone,” no matter what the level of the windows. However, their two cats were usually the problem, either trying to sleep beside her or getting into a scuffle. But in the wee hours of the morning, Walt was usually the guilty party.
Walt had a most active imagination, both day and night, and night was the problem. Day was good; as a writer, when his imagination was working at full-steam-ahead, that was beneficial. At night, full-steam-ahead was a drawback, especially for Joni. His dreams were beyond vivid; they were an alternate life. He remembered them in great detail. Some he could recall clearly and think about them when awake. There were nights when he would revisit a location from past dreams to experience new adventures.
On one particular night, the basis of this story, in his dream Walt attended a baseball game. Sitting along the first base line, he hoped to snag a foul ball. The problem was that none came anywhere near him, and the game was half over. Then it began; they started coming his way. The balls, arching over the spectators, had a dream-like quality. (Wonder why?) Try as he might, Walt could not catch one. They sailed by just out of reach, or were caught by someone else before he had a chance. For some strange reason, every time he tried to catch a ball he would hit the head of a blond-headed man sitting in front of him. After this occurred a few times, he heard the cry, “Knock it off!”
Walt had constantly been rubbing Joni’s head.
He sheepishly said, “I’m sorry,” and went back to sleep.
The following morning, over breakfast, he related his dream. Joni more or less took it in stride for he’d been known to react to dreams with her on the receiving end. We won’t go into how many times he dreamt he was falling over a wall and wound up on the floor with a crash. Walt was not a small person. While they were eating, he joked, “Tonight I’m taking my softball glove to bed.”
Joni rolled her eyes, told him in no uncertain terms what she thought of the idea, and went to work.
That afternoon Walt rummaged through the garage until he found his old glove. When night came, he waited until Joni was in the bathroom and gently placed the glove between their pillows.
As she prepared to climb into bed, she saw the glove, shook her head and said, “You’re nuts.”
Lights out, Walt hoped to return to the game. Before long, he was once again seated near first base. Soon the foul balls began coming his way. One after another, his glove met them all. He was a catching machine. He couldn’t miss. That night Joni had a good night’s sleep. No mussing her hair.
Walt awoke refreshed with his glove on his hand. “Must have put it on during the night,” he said to himself. He got out of bed and immediately crashed to the floor, stumbling on the scattered baseballs.
Joni peered over the edge of the bed. “Not again,” she said. “This has got to stop.
“Remember the time you dreamed about trapping skunks? It took us a month to fumigate the house.”
That night, Joni had an idea. She waited until Walt began snoring, and then began quietly whispering over and over, “Electronics, money. Electronics, money.”
THE HIP HIP, for Ella
My readers,
Here is a story I wrote for a very special lady.
THE HIP HIP
Ella was a feisty eighty-eight year old line-dancer. Line-dancing kept her young and full of life, but things were about to change. If for better or worse, I’ll let you decide.
* * *
Ella limped into the Brickette Lounge on a Thursday night. She was immediately surrounded by the usual line-dancing crowd. Sitting down on the first available chair, Richard and Rainy made their way to her, followed by Joni, Amanda and Nancy. Joe, from across the dance floor, wandered over. Elizabeth joined the group.
Amanda was the first to ask, “Ella, what’s wrong?”
Ella answered, “I need another hip replacement.”
Now, Ella blew out hips like some people blow out tires. This would be her fourth redo.
Ella told her friends, “I’ll be back with a new hip. Then, try to keep up with me you children.
* * *
Ella’s surgeon told his colleague, “I have a patient, a spry old woman, who loves to line-dance. She suggested an unusual test. I figure, it can’t hurt, so here it goes. She gave me a CD to play to the hips.’
The doctor placed the CD in a portable player and turned it on. On the table lay a group of hips he could choose for the implant. He studied the hips and said to his colleague, “That’s the one.”
* * *
A month after Ella’s surgery, on a Thursday night she returned to the Brickette.
Amanda elbowed Joni when she saw Ella enter, “There’s Ella. She has a strut now. That hip must me a real blessing.”
Ella sat down with her friends. She appeared fidgety, and upon closer inspection, exhausted.
Joni said, “I’m so glad to see you’re back. You’re looking great, although a little tired.”
“Well, that’s my fault,” she replied.
The DJ began the music and Ella was the first one up. She danced to the first song playing and every other song the DJ offered. Not once did she sit down.
At ten o’clock the music stopped. Ella blew a sigh of relief and staggered over to the table to sit with her friends.
Nancy was the first to ask,” Ella, are you okay?”
Ella responded, “Actually, no. But it’s my fault.”
“How do you mean?” Bronwyn asked in her Australian accent.
“Well,” said Ella, “I insisted the surgeon test the possible hips he could implant.”
“What was the test?” asked Joni.
“I asked him to play a CD that I gave him. I told him to watch for the hip that began reacting, vibrating; that was the one I wanted.
“I made a huge mistake. I can’t turn on music at home without dancing. I can’t listen to the music I love, and at the same time, get anything done.
“If I’m walking down the street and some youngster is listening to music in one of those ear things, and I can hear it, by the way, they have it turned up far too loud, I start dancing in the middle of a street or a sidewalk.
“My surgeon said this hip should last about ten years, and then I’ll get one that will give me some peace.”
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME
My Reluctant Readers
I had mentioned earlier that this story was published by Toasted Cheese, a quarterly literary journal.
Now that it has been archived, I’m allowed to give you a direct link. I hope you enjoy the story.
WALT’S LATEST PUBLICATION
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME
Here is another story, one which I have had a special affection for.
Toasted Cheese, a literary journal, liked it too and published it.
Go to ‘current issue’ and enjoy the story.
WALT’S LATEST PUBLICATION
THE ULTIMATE EXPERIMENT
My reluctant readers.
I have had another story published, this time, by Aphelion.
The story concerns the use of physics to prove the existence of a concept man has sought to understand foe millennium.
I hope you find it intriguing.
http://www.aphelion-webzine.com/shorts/2010/05/TheUltimateExperiment.html
WALT’S LATEST PUBLICATION
My reluctant reader(s).
Necrology Shorts has published yet another one of my stories.
This is a vampire story with a twist.
I hope you enjoy it.
http://www.necrologyshorts.com/category/authors-p-v/walt-trizna/
PUBLICATIONS THAT HAVE APPEARED IN BEWILDERING STORIES
My reluctant reader(s).
I am including a link to my work published in Bewildering Stories. Most of the stories have already appeared in this blog, however, include now is a novella and poem. Part of this novella was published in China, much to my surprise.
Enjoy
VALENTINE’S GIFT
VALENTINE’S GIFT
My reluctant readers, here is an offering to commemorate that day of love, Valentine’s Day. As in most of my stories, there is a twist. Love is precious in life, and beyond life’s existence.
This story was published by Bewildering Stories.
A Valentine’s Gift
by Walt Trizna
Jim Reed sat in a desolate park in a seedy section of the city and pulled the collar of his badly worn coat up as the North wind howled, he sipped from the bottle concealed in the brown paper bag and, with each sip, a grimace spread across his face while momentary warmth filled his empty belly.
That goddamned day is coming, he thought. He did not have a calendar for a calendar needed a wall on which to hang and his watch was gone, hocked long ago. Jim kept track of the date and headlines the world produced from the newspaper machines along the sidewalk.
He drank rapidly; trying to prevent his mind from wandering to the day he lost his future, his purpose, that Valentine’s Day five years ago. But he could not prevent his numbed mind from reviewing his life and recalling the day his reason for being was erased.
* * *
While in college, Jim developed a drinking problem, and it lingered after graduation. He found a job as an accountant, worked hard during the day and drank hard during the night.
A friend from work wanted to fix Jim up with a girl. A date was arranged, a Dutch-treat dinner. Jim arrived at the Italian restaurant early, sat at the bar drinking red wine when a stunning woman with long black hair walked in searching for someone. She approached Jim and said, “I’m Debbie Wilson, could you be Jim Reed?”
Jim could not believe that this woman was his blind date. He gulped down his wine, took her hand, and headed for the restaurant area. He drank less than he usually did on a blind date and just enjoyed talking to Debbie.
Before he knew it, they had spent two hours over dinner, and he was sober. He wanted to pay for dinner but Debbie demanded to pay her own way. She smiled and said, “Next time you can treat.”
This brought a grin to Jim’s face. Debbie paid her part of the bill, and as the cashier placed the change in her hand, Debbie exclaimed, “What’s this?” She looked down at the dirty white penny in her hand.
“That’s a steel penny,” Jim explained. “One year, during World War II, pennies were made of a lead composite in order to save copper in order to make shell casings.”
Debbie’s eyes brightened as she said, “This is going to be my lucky penny and always remind me of this night.”
Their relationship grew into love, and six months later they were married. They bought a small house and soon Debbie was pregnant. Jim’s life had a hope he had never imagined as he watched Debbie grow with their child.
They found a hospital providing a room for natural birth, but had the facilities to cope with any problems that might occur. One day, as Debbie was preparing a special dinner to celebrate a special day, her water broke. Jim rushed her to the hospital thinking, “By the time this Valentine’s Day is over, I’ll have two loves, not one.”
After they entered the hospital, a nurse took Debbie’s blood pressure and immediately had her rushed to the emergency room. Debbie’s eyes reflected the fear Jim felt as he sat at her bedside. When Debbie began to convulse, Jim was escorted to the waiting room.
Hours later their obstetrician entered the waiting room and sat next to Jim. The doctor’s eyes never left the floor. In a soft voice he told Jim, “I’m sorry but your wife is gone, we lost the baby girl too. If you will come with me, I’ll take you to your wife.”
Jim felt horror, shock and helplessness all at once. On shaky legs he followed the doctor and soon found himself standing next to a bed and staring down at Debbie’s pretty face. She seemed so much at peace while Jim was in such torment.
The next few days were a blur; Jim drank himself into numbness while friends and family expressed their regrets. Jim stayed numb for five years, never cried over his loss, keeping the grief tied up inside. He stayed numb as he was fired and eventually lost his house. He had been homeless for two years now and just didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything.
* * *
Jim left the park and made his way into the city. He mumbled, “That goddamned day is here,” as he sat on the grate of an office building immersed in the steam, trying to stay warm. The hour was late and the street strangely deserted. Steam created an odd glow around the streetlamps. Through the mist, a small girl approached and stood before him.
“I’d like to help you mister,” she said.
Jim yelled, “Get the hell away from me,” but the girl wouldn’t budge. She just stood before Jim as her eyes filled with tears.
“I’d like to help you mister,” she repeated as she placed a small cloth sack before Jim. As she turned to leave she said something strange: “We love you.”
Jim watched through the mist as the girl departed; saw the tall figure of a woman waiting in the distance for the child. The child stood next to the woman and they joined hands as they looked back, and then melted into the mist.
Jim sat there, drinking from his bag and lifted the small cloth sack. He opened it and spilled its contents into his hand. He sat there looking at the single dirty white penny. He lifted the paper bag to his lips and then tossed it away as tears coursed down his face.
Copyright © 2006 by Walt Trizna
WALT’S LATEST PUBLICATION
MY RELUCTANT READERS,
Necrology Shorts has published another one of my stories, Balance.
The story involves good becoming evil. Have you ever notice that it never goes the opposite way?
I hope you enjoy the story I offer.
Walt
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