Posts filed under ‘PUBLISHED WORKS’
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: MY CHILD SMILES
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Memories of the Halcyon Days,1987.
MY CHILD SMILES
My child smiles
For she knows nothing of the world
And that is good.
My child cries
And she knows nothing of the sorrow of the world
And that is good.
My child laughs
And that is good for the world.
UNWELCOMED GUESTS: A GHOST STORY
On one side of my property, some eight to ten feet deep, is a gully. I was told some time ago that this gully belonged to a railroad. I have seen an arial photo, taken perhaps in the 50’s, showing tracks at the bottom of the gully. I’ve also been told that they were either train or trolley tracks. I began thinking, What if there was ever an accident down there?
Unwelcomed Guests was accepted for publication by Necrology Shorts in February 2010.
UNWELCOMED GUESTS
Will Trizma was a writer of ghost stories and mined the local countryside for legends and their settings. The area abounded in both. His wife, Joan, acted as his editor and sounding board for his ideas. At times, the only comment she would make is, “You’re sick.”
Not only did he write ghost stories, but he also dreamt of them. One night he conjured a most vivid story; a story from the future. But unlike most of his dreams, he could not remember this tale. The only recollection he had was that it was horrifying.
* * *
It was the evening of August 15, 1949. The time was slightly before ten as a train made its way toward West Chester. There were fifteen souls aboard, counting the crew and passengers on this quiet summer night. The steam locomotive was pushing a caboose and two passenger cars. The weather had been stormy for days and up ahead the foundation of the bridge spanning Ship Road had been undermined by runoff. Jim Purvis, making his last run in a fully loaded fuel truck, slowly crossed the bridge. As he reached the span’s center, it collapsed leaving the truck astraddle the tracks. Jim could not believe he was still alive considering the load he was carrying. Although injured, he managed to climb out of the ravine and go seek help.
As the train slowly made its way into a depressed section of track, the conductor, Ben Elliot, sat on the caboose’s platform and began filling his pipe thinking about sharing a late dinner with his wife. He looked down to light the pipe, and once achieving a satisfactory burn, he puffed contently, and then looked up. The sight before him made his scream, “Holy sh…! He never finished the expletive.
The caboose rammed the truck, followed by the cars. The locomotive cut through the wreck until it reached the truck exploding the gas tank and turning the wreck into a funeral pyre.
* * *
Writing is a lonely profession, and years ago Will sought out a local writer’s group for support and editorial advice. During a Christmas dinner attended by all the writers, Will and Joan suggested a summer party and volunteered to hold it at their house. As the day of the party approached, one spouse or two became sick and others were called away unexpectedly on business.
Will and his wife greeted their guests, their thirteen guests.
Their dog, Millie, a lab mix was her usual excited self with the arrival of every new visitor. Once everyone was there, she settled down and dozed in the sun.
The conversation was lively with all the creative minds present, and as dusk approached, Will was called upon to tell a ghost story. “Not dark enough yet,” he answered.
Dessert was served, and when there was no longer a hint of sunlight, and with the patio bathed in twilight, Will deemed the time right for his tale and went into the house. He returned with candles, one for each table, after extinguished all the inside lights. “Now we have the right atmosphere,” he said. Will began his story and even Millie appeared interested, her eyes reflecting the candlelight.
The weather had been rainy the last few days, and at ten as he began to read, Will noticed a mist begin coming out of the gull bordering one side of his property. A few guests had asked him earlier about the gully and he answered that it had once harbored a railroad track.
The mist became denser and soon overtook the yard along with the guests. One by one they all fell asleep, including Millie. As the wall of fog enveloped all present, fifteen human shapes began to form. The specters slowly made their way to the dozing, and one by one, entered their bodies.
The next morning, they awoke from their deep sleep and knowingly smiled at one another. Ben Elliot looked around, and Will’s eyes filled with tears. “We’ve waited sixty years for this moment.”
Millie awoke and growled. She knew there was something terribly wrong with her master.
THE END
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: CITY MORN
Accepted for publication by Expressive Arts Review, 1974
CITY MORN
Sunlight filtering thru elevated
Roadways,
Dawn, finding its way thru twilight
As the sleeping city greets another
Day,
Delicate steel webs vaulting gray
Rivers,
Ribbons of concrete conveying
Sleepy-eyed travelers,
The hush of night giving way to
Din of traffic,
Morning-sky reds lost to haze,
Another day begins.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART VIII; A SHORT STORY
It was late Friday night, sometimes early Saturday morning, and Mac was closing up his club he would pause and listen. Lately, he always made sure he was alone when he locked. For those nights were special. Just before he turned the key in the door he would stand there, with the door slightly ajar, and listen. From afar, he could hear the sweet sound of Sweats playing his sax. But it wasn’t just Sweats playing. There was also a tenor sax, drums and more. The music was the sweetest Mac had ever heard. Mac lived for closing on those nights.
Hope you enjoyed the story. There will be more posts coming. Short stories, poem, both published and nonpublished along with some thoughts and observations. Hope you stay tuned.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART VII; A SHORT STORY
The following Friday night the air was the same – electric. Everyone in the band was smiling, joking and having the time of their lives. They were “on” again, their boss, Mac, knew it and the audience knew it. Halfway through the evening, during a piano solo, Sweats once again scanned the crowd. He blinked his eyes in disbelief. There sat Miles Davis again, out in front. Beside him was someone Sweats also recognized. The man wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. Sweats could easily hear his gravelly voice. It was Satchmo. Louis Armstrong was watching Jerome Connelly play. Sweats was numb with excitement and fear. He had no doubt that he was looking at two dead men. They were his idols, but they were dead. When it came time for Sweats’ sax solo, he flubbed the piece. His playing was terrible. There was no way he could concentrate on playing his sax with Miles Davis and Louis Armstrong in the crowd.
When the night’s work was over, Leroy walked over to Sweats and said, “Don’t worry kid. No one is on all the time.”
There was no way he could tell Leroy why he was off. He avoided all contact with Joe. Sweats walked home doubting his sanity.
Another Friday night and Sweats was living up to his name. He usually calmed down after he arrived at the club. But now, even the club wasn’t his sanctuary. There were dead men watching him play and he couldn’t tell anyone about it. He always found solace in his music. Now even that was gone. If dead men kept showing up to hear him, his only sanctuary would be destroyed.
The band began to play. Sweats didn’t dare look to the front of the audience but couldn’t help himself. There, at Miles’ table, sat Louis Armstrong, along with Duke Ellington and one of the greatest jazz drummers of all time, Gene Krupa. Sweats could tell they were enjoying the music. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he played his heart out. They were part of the audience and deserved to be entertained. He never mentioned the patrons of the ghost table again. He just played as well as he could for them.
The next Friday was the last Sweats ever played with the band. The ghost table had a new member. It was John Coltrane. He sat deathly still, just staring at Sweats, his gaze never wavering. When the band was done for the night, the ghost crew was still there. Sweats was totally unnerved. John Coltrane was motioning him to the table.
As Sweats left the stage, the lights of the club dimmed, and a milk-white haze enveloped all but the ghost table. Sweats sat down in the only empty seat.
In a quiet voice, no more than a whisper, Coltrane said, “We’ve been following you Sweats, not only your music, but also your life. We want you to join our group. It will be the gig of a lifetime. We have an audience that spent their whole existence loving jazz, living it. Say yes, and the fears, the streets you dread will be gone forever.
Sweats agreed and was never seen again.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART VI; A SHORT STORY
When Sweats arrived home, his mother was waiting for him. She waited every night he worked with a hot meal. As he sat eating, she said, “You know, honey. I was reluctant to let you quit high school, but then you got your job, and the extra money is helping out. And you seem to be happier than I’ve ever seen you. You’re a man now, and I’m proud of you.”
Sweats sat quietly eating, thinking. How could he tell his mother that his life was still a nightmare while he lived in this neighborhood? How could he tell her that all he wanted was to play his music? Nothing else mattered.
There was an uneasy quiet as his mother watched him eat. Sweats decided to tell her what happened at the club. “Mom, tonight I thought I saw Miles Davis in the audience. Joe said that he’s dead. Is that true?” He knew his mother loved jazz, had been to the club a couple of times to hear the band play. Then she would walk him home, talking about his music and how proud she was of him.
“That’s true, baby. Miles died a few years ago. It had to be someone who just looked like him.”
Sweats just nodded and went on eating. He was sure it was Miles.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART V, A SHORT STORY
The following Friday night, the band was setting up when Joe turned to Sweats and said, “Can you feel it, Sweats? The air is electric. We’re going to be right on tonight.”
Sweats looked at Frank, Fats and Leroy, who nodded in agreement. As soon as he walked into the club that night, he had felt it too. He just didn’t know what “it” was.
As soon as the band began to play, Sweats knew that Joe was right. All five members of the band found their groove and inhabited their own musical heaven. During Frank’s drum solo, Sweats looked out at the audience. They were clearly enjoying the band. His eyes drifted to a table in front. There, sitting alone was a man he recognized. The man smiled broadly as his head bobbed back and forth and his hands rapped on the table, keeping time with the music.
After the performance was finished, backs were slapped, and high-fives passed around the band. Frank said to Joe, “Man, were we on tonight, or what?”
Joe said, “Shit, man. We were beyond on. We were on holy ground!”
Frank, Fats and Leroy walked to the bar to celebrate. After they left, Sweats approached Joe and asked, “Say Joe, did you happen to get a good look at the audience tonight?”
“Sure, kid. I gave them a look. There were some sweet women out there. That what you talking about?”
“No,” answered Sweats. “There was a man sitting out front. I recognized him. I can’t believe he came to hear us play.”
Joe asked, “You mean a friend of yours came to give us a listen. He sure caught us on a good night.”
“No, Joe. It wasn’t a friend of mine. Sitting there in the front row was Miles Davis.”
“Shit, kid, you must be crazy.”
Sweats insisted, “No, Joe. I’m sure it was Miles Davis. I recognized him from his CD cover.”
Joe stepped back and looked at Sweats, then said, “I don’t know who you saw, but it wasn’t my man Miles. He passed away about two years ago.”
“But, Joe, I’m sure…”
“Go home and get some rest. And next week, if you see Satchmo in the crowd, let me know.”
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART IV; A SHORT STORY
Sweats had been playing with the band for a few weeks when Joe approached him, as he was getting ready to head for home. “Hey, Sweats. Good session, man.”
As he packed up his instrument, Sweats said, “Thanks, Joe. I love playing with you guys. The best time I have is when I’m up here on the stage.”
Joe said, “I’ve got to tell you, kid. When I first laid eyes on you, I had my doubts. Shit, they were more than doubts, but you proved me wrong. Telling you honest, we all play better since you joined the group. Hell, Mac hired us to provide background music while folks sit out there and drown their sorrows. But you notice something about the people now?”
“No, sir,” Sweats said. “Can’t say I do.”
“They’re listening to us play, Sweats. When we start up, the room quiets down. You’re good and playing with you is making us better.”
Sweats responded, “Thanks, sir. I appreciate that.” But he was embarrassed by the praise, and deep inside, knew he still had a ways to go.
He made for the door, then turned and said, “Thanks, Joe, for the encouragement.”
As soon as he left the club, he broke into a heavy sweat. The excitement of playing with the band initially blocked out the fact that he would still have to walk the same dangerous streets he walked to school, but now at night. His mother’s words came back to him. He felt a new level of terror as he walked the streets past midnight. On the way home, men he knew by reputation had approached him. During the day, they were around but kept a low profile. Nighttime was the time they owned the streets, when the fears that gave Sweats his name became reality. The only time Sweats felt alive and safe was when he played his music. Feeling the frustration of his life, he shouted into the night, “I just want to play!” He was tired of his life bouncing between the deepest fear and greatest ecstasy.
What Sweats didn’t know was that his plea was heard.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART III, A SHORT STORY
The four band members began filtering in at eight o’clock, nodded to their boss, and began setting up the stage.
Mac walked up to the stage.
“What’s up, boss?” asked Joe the piano player.
“Might have a sax player for y’all.”
Frank, the drummer, said, “That’s great! About time somebody saw your damn sign.” The other band members laughed as they nodded in agreement.
“Don’t get too worked up,” said Mac. “He’s just a kid. I’m sure he lied about his age. But there aren’t many musicians in this part of the city, and those that wouldn’t work in a dive like this. Hell, by this time of night, there ain’t many sober folks of any sort in this part of the city. He’ll be here at nine. We’ll see if he has anything.”
At nine sharp the door to the club opened and Sweats walked in carrying his sax in a beat-up case.
Joe took one look at Sweats and muttered, “Shit.”
Sweats walked to the stage.
“So they call you Sweats,” Joe said. “Does your mom know you’re here, little boy?”
Sweats’ forehead instantly grew a glistening sheen.
After studying Sweats’ face, Joe said, “I take that to be a no. Well, boy, I’m sure it’s going to be a waste of our good time, but we’ll give you a try.”
Sweats hurriedly took out his sax and scanned the sheet music handed to him, while Joe introduced the band. Pointing to each member, he said, “This here is Frank. He plays drums. Leroy, over there, plays brass and Fats plays bass.” The musicians looked Sweats up and down. He could see the ridicule in their eyes.
The band began to play the first set. Sweats was nervous at first and made some mistakes, causing Joe to wince. But halfway through the second piece, Sweats fell into his groove and took off. The rest of the band had to work to keep up with him. One by one, the band members stopped playing and listened. The conversation in the club died down. Only the sweet sound of Sweats playing his sax filled the club. Sweats was lost in the music. He was at a level the band members tried for but never attained. At that moment, his entire world consisted of his sax and the notes it produced. When Sweats was done, he was drenched; the club was silent. Slowly, the audience began to clap. The enthusiasm of the crowd picked up with shouts for more.
Joe handed Sweats more music and the band played until one. As they were packing up, Joe said, “See you at eight tomorrow night, kid. We play Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. That okay with you?”
“That’s fine sir.” Sweats was getting ready to leave when Mac called out his name and motioned him to the bar. “Looks like you got yourself a job, kid. I got to tell ya’, kid, you fooled me big time.” He handed Sweats two twenty-dollar bills.
He had totally forgotten that he would be getting paid to play. However, his euphoria ended when he thought about going home and facing his mother. He knew she would be home before him, probably waiting for him now.
Sweats made his way home on the darkened streets to the apartment he shared with his mother. Entering quietly, he locked the door behind him. He put down his instrument in the hallway and walked into the tiny kitchen. His mother sat at the beat-up table drinking coffee.
“Where in the hell you been, boy?”
“I got the job, Mom,” Sweats said as he laid his pay on the table and pushed it across to her.
“What kind of job, and where you working?” she said as she looked down at the money.
“Playing my sax, Mom. I’m getting paid to play. Shit, I’d play for nothing if I had to, but they’re paying me.”
“Watch your mouth, boy”
“Sorry, Mom.”
“Listen, Jerome, the streets around here aren’t safe during the day, never mind at night.”
“I’ll be careful Mom. I’m playing with a band, and I love it.” As he said this, Sweats pushed the money closer to his mom. She looked at the money. Sweats knew they were barely making it.
“Oh, Baby,” said his mom.
Sweats knew he had her, again.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART II, A SHORT STORY
Sweats dropped out of high school with his mother’s reluctant permission. He still poured sweat, but now it was the perspiration of passion and emotion while playing his sax, not from fear of his surroundings.
One day, while darting through the neighborhood on an errand, Sweats saw a sign hanging in the window of one of the local run-down clubs. JAZZ MUSICIAN WANTED, proclaimed the placard. Sweats went inside.
It was eleven o’clock in the morning and the place was mostly empty. There were a few customers sitting at the bar nursing their drinks, behavior born from hopeless lives. About a dozen tables were set up, and across from the bar, was a small stage. Behind the bar stood a man washing glasses and preparing for the day’s business. His name was Mac Shorter, a tough looking man who had evidently led an equally tough life. He was the bartender and owner.
Sweats approached him and said, “I’m here about the musician’s job.”
Mac looked up at Sweats, and asked, “How old are you, boy?”
Because of his height Sweats looked older than his sixteen years. “I’m eighteen,” he replied. Eighteen was the minimum age to work in a place that served liquor.
Mac was a keen observer. He rubbed his whiskered chin in disbelief. “What instrument you play?” he asked.
“Alto sax sir, and pretty damn good,” was Sweats response.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Come back with your instrument tonight, about nine o’clock, while the band’s here. We’ll see if you have anything.”
Sweats knew his mother would be working the night shift at the café.
“I’ll be back tonight, sir,” Sweats responded as he made for the door. He knew that tonight he would have to play like he had never played before.
As he was leaving, Mac yelled, “What’s your name, boy?”
“Sweats Connelly, sir.”
Sweats went home and practiced more intensely than ever. By the time he was done his fingers were stiff, but he knew he was right on for the audition. He left a note for his mother saying he would be out late and headed for the club.
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