Posts filed under ‘PUBLISHED WORKS’

PUBLISHING UPDATE

Some time ago I told you that I had a story accepted by Cemetery Moon. I recently received word that the story, He Flew Away, will be published close to Halloween. As a preview, if you remember our infestation of stink bugs on the east coast, you might enjoy this story. After the story is published I will provide a link to purchase the edition.

I also want to tell you that my good friend and published poet, Steve Kupferschmid, has had a poem accepted by The Aurorean, a magazine published in Farmington,ME. If you enjoy the poetry of Billie Collins, you are in for a treat. I will keep you updated on these publication.

I know, after promising to write about writing, I have let you down. It’s just that there is so much happening to this country, I cannot fail to have an opinion.

 

August 27, 2017 at 10:11 pm Leave a comment

A BELATED VANENTINE

A BELATED VALENTINE’S DAY GIFT

 

I had intended to post this yesterday, but transferring from one computer to another shut my goals down.

Finally here it is. I wanted to share with you a story of love, although you will have to read this short story to the end to see what I mean.

This is my first published story, published by Enigma. The location of the story is the Mid Atlantic Air Museum located in Reading, PA. Every year the present a fantastic show during the first weekend in June celebrating the men and machines of WWII. If you are drawn to history, to see aircraft of that era flying as well as reenactors and vehicles of the war we fought, I encourage you to attend.

I am member of the museum and have worked admissions for more than ten years. If you can locate me, when you make the effort to attend, tell me if you enjoyed the show, and if you can’t attend, tell me if you enjoyed the story.

 

                                                       REUNION

 

The June morning was brilliant and clear with just enough of a breeze to keep you cool despite the predicted eighty-degree day.  At the age of eighty-two, for Christopher Johnson, getting up in the morning was not an easy chore and had lately not seemed worth the effort.  He turned his head and looked at the pillow beside him.  “I miss you so much honey,” he said quietly.  His wife Peggy had died less than a year ago.  One night they went to bed as usual.  The last words he had said to her were the words he always said to her before falling asleep, “I love you.”  When Chris awoke, Peggy was dead of a heart attack.  A few days later he was looking into her grave knowing a large part of his life was now buried in the cold earth.  After almost sixty years of marriage, the pain of her loss was intense, almost as intense as the love they had shared all those years. 

With Peggy still on his mind, he sat up and began to stretch his arthritic limbs knowing the pain that would follow.  Next he stood up and took a few steps; those first steps, they were the worst of the day.  He winced with every movement, but soon his joints and muscles settled down to the constant pain that accompanied him these days. 

He had gotten up earlier than usual, for today, unlike most of his days, he had an appointment, something to do.  He opened his closet door and, in the back, he found what he was looking for: his U.S. Army ranger dress uniform, the one he had worn on his return home after being wounded during World War II.  With persistent pain, he maneuvered his body into the uniform that, after sixty years still fit his slender frame.  He looked in the mirror, and the toll of those sixty years stared back at him.  The hair on his head and his mustache had gone gray years ago.  His eyes, once admired by his fellow soldiers for their ability to spot enemy aircraft or fortifications before anyone else, now watered behind heavy bifocals.  He inspected his image, looking over the uniform for signs of moth damage.  The area of his uniform he examined first was his chest; there hung the Purple Heart and the Congressional Medal of Honor.  He was proud to have served his country, proud of his awards but knew, that in combat, a split second could mean the difference between a dead soldier and a hero.  Satisfied that his uniform had survived another year, he returned it to the closet and dressed in his usual summer shirt and khakis.

While Chris hung up his uniform, his mind still held the Medal of Honor and the events that led to its award.

The day was D Day, early in the morning of June 6th.  Chris was among a group of Army Rangers that would be the first to hit the beach.  Their objective was to climb and secure the cliffs overlooking the landing sites.  These cliffs held guns that could hazard the ships and soldiers, and the hazard needed to be removed.  German soldiers were stationed on the cliffs, ready to rain death on unprotected soldiers landing on the beach below.  Chris and his three buddies Frank Grimes, Larry Schwartz and Duck Dupont were together in the landing craft, along with twenty other rangers heading toward the beach.

Chris had begun basic training knowing no one.  Soon he gravitated to three other guys who seemed to be as lost and alone as he was.   The four of them gradually became friends and survived the ordeal together.  Of the three, he was closest to Duck Dupont.  Duck’s real name was Willard; he gained his nickname Duck during a basic training class.  The class was walking past the artillery area when a practice round went off.  Most of the class flinched, but Duck was on the ground with his head covered by his hands.  From then on he was known as Duck.

His thoughts returned to June 6th.

It was still dark and they landed unopposed.  The men quickly and quietly disembarked and headed for the base of the two hundred foot cliff – it would be quite a climb.  When everyone was in position, they fired ropes up the side of the cliff.  This brought the response they expected, Germans began firing down the cliff and rangers began to collapse on the beach.  Chris and his friends were to stay together and climb along with most of the rangers while the rest provided cover fire.  Soon the German fire lessened then ceased as the rangers continued their climb.

The four friends were the first to reach the top of the cliff.  What they saw sent a shiver through them all.  Before them, set back about fifty yards from the edge of the cliff, stood a series of three bunkers. The first light of dawn streamed through the trees beyond the enemy, and all seemed quiet and peaceful except for the machine guns projecting from behind sandbags.  They knew they had to act fast, for if they didn’t, the rangers coming up the cliff would be cut down as soon as they reached the top.  They split up into two groups; Chris and Duck went to the left – Frank and Larry to the right.  The two flanking bunkers had to be eliminated before the middle position could be attacked.  Each group approached the nearest bunker and tossed a grenade inside.  The simultaneous explosions sent German soldiers into action.  The rangers had missed one.  Along with fire from the third remaining bunker, a fourth bunker opened up along with mortar fire from behind the bunker.  The fourth bunker surprised the rangers and had a clear shot at them.  Duck was literally cut in half by machine gun fire.  Larry was attacking the third of the bunkers they had seen, having just pulled the pin from a grenade when he was shot.  They never did find Frank.  Chris entered the first bunker they had taken out, pushed aside the mangled German bodies and manned the machine gun.  He quickly took out the bunker they had overlooked before, creeping up to the last remaining bunker; he destroyed it with grenades.  The actions of the four men had saved the lives of the rangers now reaching the summit of the cliff and helped secure the landing site for the invasion.

           In the early morning silence, after the heat of battle, Chris collapsed on the ground part from fatigue, part from pain, but mostly from grief – his friends were gone.  Chris had shrapnel wounds in his left arm and hip.  At some point his helmet had taken a hit and deflected the bullet but the impact gave him a nasty scalp wound.  Blood now streamed down the side of his face and soaked his collar.                                                                                                                                                             

These are the memories that flooded into Chris’s mind as he put away his uniform and prepared to spend a weekend at the Mid Atlantic Air Museum as a guest of honor, something he had done for the last five years.  This would be his first year going without Peggy at his side.  He knew it would not be the same without her, but he still looked forward to the event.  

          The museum had organized a weekend devoted to the history of World War II for the last ten years.  It was a living history lesson with vintage aircraft flown in from all over the country, and encampments set up with hundreds of reenactors dressed in the World War II uniforms of the United States, England, France and Germany.  The museum also invited veterans from the war who would give first hand accounts of combat.  But none of them told what the war was really like for their memories were selective, cleansed by time, and they all carried within them that area of memory they would never enter again. 

World War II weekend started Friday morning and, although he wasn’t scheduled to give his presentation until Saturday, Chris always went Friday to wander the hanger and apron crammed with vintage World War II fighters, bombers, trainers and transports.  He could remember when the skies were filled with their kind.  Now there remained only a few of each.  On those warm Friday afternoons, he enjoyed walking through the encampments.  At one point he saw three men in ranger combat uniforms.  He smiled to himself, glad to see his branch of the army represented.  Chris loved strolling through the tents.  In his mind, there was nothing like the smell of a real canvas tent; the open flaps were your windows and the grass was your floor.  He had seen the tents his grandchildren used when they camped, it was like camping in a nylon bag, no smell, no character. In one of those old canvass tents, he could stand, close his eyes, and the memories of his days in the army would flood into his brain.

  Another reason he enjoyed the Fridays was the veterans whose attendance was heavy.  The old men and women enjoyed the smaller crowds and slower pace that Fridays afforded.  He enjoyed conversations with his contemporaries, reliving the past and recalling the days they were once young and involved in the great adventure they shared. 

Saturday morning arrived, the sky again clear and blue.  He went through his morning routine, slowly struggled into his uniform and waited for his nine o’clock ride to the museum.  Chris looked forward to the day.  Although he had never made a big deal about his award, one day bathed in the admiration of people who appreciated the sacrifices made during World War II did not hurt him, not at all. 

With his first lecture scheduled for 10:30, he was anxious to get to the museum.  He found the tent for his lecture.  There were about fifty folding chairs set up.  He took a moment and stood there alone, letting his mind recall memories that he usually avoided, memories that he would touch slightly, just slightly today.

As he waited at the speaker’s platform, the tent began to fill up. At the back of the tent, he spied the three young men in ranger uniforms he had seen the day before, standing together apart from the crowd.  Maybe today they would learn something about the uniforms they wore.

The chairs were full and people were standing in the back as Chris went into his presentation.  He shared with them the events of that early morning on the French coast, sanitized, but with enough action to keep the crowds attention.  After thirty minutes he was done and ready for questions.  Half way through the questions one of the men dressed as a ranger raised his hand and said, “Sir, I just want you to know we appreciate what you did for your country.”

  That brought a smile to Chris’ face, “I appreciate that son,” he answered.

The presentation over, the tent was cleared, and it was time for a little lunch and a chance to watch the vintage aircraft flying.  This was the part he most enjoyed.  The drone of the B-17 accompanied the whine of the Merlin powered P-51s.  He knew the planes were the big draw, not old men wearing old uniforms, but he was happy to be part of the show.

First to fly were the trainers, SNJs and T-28s.  Then the observation aircraft would fly, the L-19s, followed by the transports, the C-47s and a C-54.  Before the fighters and bombers took off, the reenactors took the field in front of the crowd.  To the left were the men in German uniforms, to the right the U.S. Army.

The uniformed men fired blanks and mock mortars at each other.  There were also smoke grenades thrown by both sides.  All this action took place in a grassy area between the runway and aircraft taxiway.  As usual, the fire department stood ready for the grass fires the smoke grenades always started, and this year was no exception.  The grass fires were more of a nuisance than a danger, and they were always rapidly dealt with.  In fact, the dense plumes were greater than any of the regular attendees of the show could remember, and the fire company quickly prepared to hose down the grass.  Chris stood there with the rest of the crowd as the shroud of smoke drifted over them.

Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder.  It was one of the rangers, “Sir, we need your help.”

 “Sure son, what can I do for you?” came Chris’ reply.

  “Could you join us sir?” the ranger questioned.  The ranger started walking towards the smoke set off by the mock battle, flanked by the two other rangers Chris had noticed before, and bewildered, Chris followed.

Soon smoke enveloped the four men.  The crowd, watching the firemen putting out the grass fire saw the three reenactors on the field but could not imagine why an old man in uniform was traipsing in after them.  They saw the four enter the clouds of smoke and lost sight of them.

Chris walked, not knowing where the three young men were taking him.  His arthritis bothered him as he entered the smoke, but a few steps into the haze his pain was reduced, and then gone.  He noticed something else; he no longer wore his dress uniform but wore the ranger combat uniform, same as the reenactors.  All at once he was puzzled and amazed and had no idea what their destination could be.

The three re-enactors slowed down and Chris easily caught up with them.  “How in the hell are you, Chris?” asked Duck.  Frank and Larry were slapping his back and pounding his shoulders, his young shoulders. 

“We’re on a mission and need your help,” said Frank.  “We need the squad together,” he continued. 

“I’m your man,” said Chris taking off his helmet and running his hand through his thick dark hair.  His mind still could not wrap itself around what was happening.

Some of the crowd there to watch the flying saw four figures begin to emerge from the smoke, the figures of four young men.  The men entered another cloud of smoke before them and were gone.

Chris and his three buddies came out of the haze.  They were on a dirt road surrounded by a forest.  They were all holding rifles, but Chris could sense no danger.  They were on patrol and Chris felt better than he had ever felt in his life.  He was with his best friends, men he had missed all these years and men he loved.  The sky was so blue it almost hurt his eyes. The trees and grass were the greenest green he had ever seen.  He set out with his three friends, easily matching their stride.

Suddenly, Chris’ eyes filled with tears.  He did not know how, did not understand what was happening, but somehow he knew his young and pretty Peggy was waiting up ahead.

 

                                            THE END 

 

 

 

 

February 15, 2017 at 11:53 pm Leave a comment

UPDATE: NEW PUBLICATION

My short story, He Flew Away, has just been accepted by Cemetery Moon.

If you are familiar with the invasion of stink bugs you might enjoy this story. I’ll let you know when it is available and how to get a copy.

January 8, 2017 at 12:00 am 6 comments

WHO I AM

Some time ago I received a questionnaire from Book Buzzr, a marketing website I’m using to promote my novel, New Moon Rising. I thought I would share my answers to give you a closer look into who I am.

BOOK BUZZR

 

Could you tell us a little about yourself?

Now a retired scientist, I spent 34 years studying renal physiology.

I’m a Newark, New Jersey boy now living in West Chester, Pennsylvania, divorced with two outstanding daughters. One is a farmer working for the Rodale Institute and the other is pursing and MFA in fiction at Syracuse University.

 

Describe your book, New Moon Rising, in 30 words or less.

The novel is science fiction centered on the Ring of Fire. Think of the movie, Deep Impact, but in reverse.

 

What was the hardest part of writing this book?

Editing? I hate editing. The initial story just flowed. I went along with the characters and saw the action through their eyes. But when it came to editing the adventure was over, and I missed it.

 

What books had the greatest influence on you?

When I was in high school I read three books by Tom Dooley, a doctor who went to Laos, among other countries, to provide medical assistance. Of the three, the only title I can remember is The Night They Burned the Mountain.

His work was influential in establishing CARE.

What Dooley did to me I could never reverse. His words established in me the need for a sense of purpose, that you must strive to make a difference. Even at my advanced age, I cannot shake this mind-set.

 

Briefly share with us what you do to market your book.

Not enough. I have has one signing at a local bookstore which went quite well.

I am, of course on your site. I also have a blog, walttriznastories.wordpress.com, where I have discussed my novel and have provided links to my publisher, Melange Books, barns&noble.com and amazon.com., where my novel is available.  But the primary purpose of my blog is to provide help for writers on the road to publication.

 

How do you spend your time when you are not writing?

I read a great deal, as most writers do. I firmly believe the basis for any writers desire to write begins with reading and the love for books. Of house and outside chores also require certain amount of time.

 

What are you working on next?

I have multiple short stories I am editing and hope to publish.

I also have two novels that are written and need to be edited and published.

The first, Sweet Depression, follows a corrupt high-level officer in a pharmaceutical company fulfilling his need for control and greed with devastating results. Think of a cross between novels written by James Patterson and Robin Cook.

The second novel, The Beast Awaits, combines illicit stem cell research creating a monster mindlessly intent on destroying our world.   

October 7, 2016 at 9:24 pm 1 comment

FROM GOOGLE

I just received this email from Google.  I have no idea of it,s importance, or whether I’m being ripped off ( which happens these days, but has always been the practice of a certain element of society, i.e., losers).

https://web.mail.comcast.net/zimbra/mail?app=mail#5

I’m also including the sit they reference.

https://www.funmatrix.net/signup?ad_domain=ads.ad-center.com&ad_path=%2Fsmart_ad%2Fdisplay&prod=2&ref=5039902&q=Elmo%20S%20Sojourn%20Walt%20Trizna&sub_id=Elmo%20S%20Sojourn%20Walt%20Trizna&seed=2067700206&utm_source=ybutf.top&utm_medium=referral&placement=http%3A%2F%2Fybutf.top%2Felmo-s-sojourn-walt-trizna.html&adserver=0.18.4-rc1&sf=eone&sem=books&sfv=11&_sign=73af4830f7ce4faad777d1c2bd53144f&_signt=1459460554

To be honest, I would prefer you purchase my story from Melange Books.  I make money, and more in important, my publisher makes money.

As a side note, I occasionally check my name on Google. It’s not an ego thing, I just want an update on what of my work has been published. Interestingly, I did discover one of my stories publish.  That knowledge was new to me.  I also found that the first two chapters of Elmo’s Sojourn has been published in China. I waited for the money from millions of sales to roll in.  Of course, I knew that China has little use for our copyrights, but the next time I visit the Orient, I expect a huge outflowing of love.

In spite of my age, I still dream.

 

March 31, 2016 at 10:25 pm Leave a comment

A VALENTINE FOR MY READER(S)

Happy Valentine’s Day.  Here’s my present; a free story.

 

 

A VALENTINE’S GIFT                                 

 

 

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 god damned 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 castings.”

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 god damned 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 his face.

 

 

                                              THE END

 

February 14, 2016 at 8:11 pm Leave a comment

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

On the eve of this horror holiday, I thought I would offer a zombie treat.

This story was published in the now defunct Blood, Blade, & Thruster in their Winter 2006/2007 issue.  Included in this issue was an interview published with Piers Anthony.  This association caused my writing career to soar.  JUST KIDDING.  I should have saved that for April 1st.  Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story, and if you have a moment during your busy life, LET ME KNOW, my ego would appreciate the response.

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 trouble maker, 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 glance 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

Those that observe ‘Mischief Night, please be kind.

Here are some links where you may purchase my work.

Melange Books

http://www.melange-books.com/authors/walttrizna/index.html

Barnes & Noble.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/walt-trizna?store=book&keyword=walt+trizna

 

Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=walt+trizna

October 30, 2015 at 9:12 pm Leave a comment

Older Posts


Calendar

October 2017
M T W T F S S
« Sep    
 1
2345678
9101112131415
16171819202122
23242526272829
3031  

Posts by Month

Posts by Category