Posts filed under ‘PUBLISHED WORKS’
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.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART I, A SHORT STORY
This story was accepted for publication by Toasted Cheese, a literary journal, in April 2010.
The Gig of a Lifetime
Sweats Connelly was having the time of his life. He nodded to the rest of the band and played his heart out. A glowing fog obscured the audience, but he knew they were there listening as he gave them his sweet music.
* * *
Jerome Connelly grew up under the care of his unwed mother on the hard streets of an unforgiving city. His skin was a rich ebony, and from the time of his birth, he was rail-thin with the delicate features of a father he never knew. His nickname was Sweats, a direct result of the mean streets he called home. His friends gave him the name because, even on the coldest winter’s day, Jerome would arrive at school drenched in sweat.
His friends would ask, “Hey man, why you always sweating?”
He would mumble something about running late, wipe his face, and head for class. He couldn’t tell his friends that he was sweating from fear. The walk to school was through streets where drugs were dealt, where people were shot for no reason, where life was cheap and held no promise.
First his friends, then everyone he knew began to call him Sweats Connelly. It wasn’t long before there was no one who called him Jerome, except for his mother.
Sweats began playing sax in his middle school band. He continued to play into his high school years, but alone for his own pleasure. With money earned doing odd jobs, he managed to buy a used alto sax, which quickly became his most prized possession and his only close friend. Hours spent playing in the safe solitude of his bedroom sharpened his skills. He was good, and with time to focus on his playing, he knew he could be a lot better. Now sixteen, Sweats felt he was wasting his time in class. He had discovered the meaning of his life and none of the classes he took furthered that purpose.
Sweats returned to the small apartment he called home one day after school and carefully closed and locked the door. His mother, Martha, suspecting that something was bothering her son for some time now, asked him, “What’s wrong Jerome? You just not yourself lately.”
“Mom, I can’t take this shit anymore.”
“You watch your tongue,” his mother warned.
“Okay, I can’t take school anymore. I ain’t learnin’ nothin’. I want to play my sax, that’s all. I’m good Mom, and someday I could make some real money.”
Jerome’s mother bristled when he talked about dropping out of school. “I want you to do something with your life, Jerome. Not be like the bums you see everywhere on these streets.”
Martha said to her son, “It’s against my better judgment, school is important…
“I know mom, but playing my sax is important to me. I promise to get my GED, but I need time to practice.
“Oh, Baby,” cooed Martha.
Sweats knew he had her.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY
wrote the following poem in remembrance of my grandmother.
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in 1982 in their anthology, Dreams of the Heroic Muse.
ROSES
Roses were her love,
Great flowing rainbows of pink, red and white.
Her children, small strangers would come
And each take home
A fist full of gaily colored affection.
Roses were her love,
And when rest had finally come from roses
Roses were hers,
Elegant creations of empty colors
Looking out on empty eyes.
Roses were her love,
And now her small garden
Has yet to discover
A rose.
I have a few different series of posts in progress: published and unpublished poems, published and unpublished short stories and views of how life has changed looking back from old age.
You will also come across the occasional essay.
Hope you enjoy these various posts.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: THE WANDERER
What follows is my first published poem, published by The Shore Publishing Co. in their anthology, Shore Poetry Anthology, in 1973.
THE WANDERER
Hair matted and long
Face overgrown with mustache and beard
He walks down the city streets alone
A broken man,
He stumbles about in the dead of night
With only a ragged coat to keep out the cold
And cheap wine his only refuge.
Perhaps he once dreamt
A dreamer of dreams
And a victim of fate,
For the greatest and lowliest man are of the same stock
Dreamers all,
The only difference being God’s frown
Or smile.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY CLOUDS
Clouds was published in 1974. The title of the anthology was, Quality American Poetry Book II. The title of this anthology, quite a stretch. The publisher was Valley Publications edited by William Lloyd Griffin.
CLOUDS
I reach for clouds
High, ever so high do I soar,
Clutching – grasping – then tumbling back.
Clouds are but wisps of vapor,
Phantoms in the sky,
Who can touch a cloud?
I try – fail – then try again;
At times mind joins clouds – soaring,
While I stay behind exposed to the cold – stumbling.
One day mind and soul shall soar skyward
And beyond;
Leaving behind a shell – falling,
Never again to rise,
And reach for a cloud.
THE CRYSTALS OF LIFE, A SCIENCE FICTION SHORT STORY
This story was accepted for publication by Books To Go Now in July 2011.
THE CRYSTALS OF LIFE
Jacques Stern was tall and lean and with his Van Dyke beard, exuded an air of sophistication. As the head of the Martian probe, THE QUEST FOR LIFE, he shouted to all in the command center, “We have a successful liftoff.” A mighty cheer went up from the men and women in the room who had toiled for so many years on the project to bring Martian samples back to Earth. They finally would realize the fruits of their labor, a chance to study these historic samples for signs of life.
An earlier probe, SEEKING LIFE, had identified a strange deposit of crystals. Analysis done by the miniature lab aboard the probe yielded puzzling results. The crystals were composed of elements found on Earth, but in a distinctively bizarre construction. There was an unexpected find with their analysis: they could initiate some sort of metabolism when introduced to a nutrient broth. This stymied the scientists studying the data. Checks and tests were accomplished on Earth and no fault could be found in the probe or the programs doing the analysis. This was a mystery that required further investigation.
A new unmanned spacecraft was designed along the lines of the Apollo spacecraft sent to explore the moon. A mother ship would insert into orbit around Mars from which a probe would be released to gather data and samples from the surface of the planet. There was no problem in determining where to land. The previous less sophisticated probe found these crystals just below the surface wherever they explored the planet. Now, to find the source of the first crystals analyzed, the new probe would have to land close to where the last probe made its discovery.
The miniature lab on the probe was much more advanced to that of the initial probe, SEEKING LIFE, which tested the crystals. However, this probe also contained a small module that would take harvested crystals and transport them to the mother ship and bring them back to Earth.
Stern, with his vast experience with SEEKING LIFE, was made head of this latest mission. He retained many of the scientists involved with the last Mars mission. He also enlisted the remaining members of the team responsible for the Apollo missions. With this group of scientists in place, he planned to carry out the current mission. He hoped the current effort would be successful in returning samples to Earth because the data from the last probe made no sense. Once the samples were brought to Earth, the mystery could be unraveled.
As he sat in the officers’ club at Patrick Air Force Base, looking out on the brilliant blue Atlantic Ocean, he questioned his friend, Tom Watson, for the hundredth time. Watson was the exact opposite of Jacques. He was short and portly, and with his selection of wardrobe, was often confused for one of the maintenance personnel. He was a friend from graduate school and Jacques often went to him for an explanation of the results found by some of his projects. Tom, as he often said, ‘was a jack of all trades but a master of none’. He was a skilled scientist in many disciplines who was often approached to delve out the answer to puzzling data.
“I’ve spent years going over the data, Tom. I’ve consulted the top geologists and inorganic chemists I could find; not one can explain the findings of the first probe. “What mechanism of nature could possibly allow a pure crystalline structure to show signs of life?”
Watson was used to this line of questioning; he paused to consider the data, and then said, “We have a built-in limit to what we understand. We gauge all our discoveries by what we have experienced, not by our imagination. We are prisoners of the known.
“On Earth, the building blocks of life are carbon-based. Out in space, it could be sulfur or some other element which we on this planet could never imagine being the backbone of life. With this next probe we will be able to test the findings of SEEKING LIFE. If the findings of the first probe are confirmed, the availability of samples will broaden our knowledge of the characteristics of the crystals and perhaps what constitutes life on the red planet.
* * *
THE QUEST FOR LIFE made its lonely passage through space, through the vacuum and cold toward the growing blood-red dot. After traveling many months, the probe began its orbit in the ink-black sky of Mars.
Back on Earth, a mighty cheer echoed throughout the command center monitoring the probe’s progress. Next was the anticipation of a successful landing on the red planet to analyze and gather samples, and then return to the mother ship.
* * *
As the probe inserted into orbit around Mars, a cold and unfeeling intelligence monitored the probe’s progress. The intelligence was passive, subject to the whim of any life form it encountered. Millions of years had gone by since this calculating entity had been ferried to its present home and occupied the surface of Mars waiting for a new life form to visit. If no contact was made, it did not matter, the presence could wait millions more years until it could enact its cycle. The intelligence occupying the surface of Mars had been patiently anticipating the arrival of a new life form, with the outcome of this encounter up to the invaders.
* * *
Stern gave the command for the mother ship to release the probe.
An intense atmosphere filled the command center.
“The probe has been disengaged,” reported one of the engineers from her station.
After a few minutes, which seemed like an eternity, another station reported, “We have ignition of the lander.”
Minutes later came word that the probe had landed on Martian soil. Another cheer enveloped the command center. Backs were slapped and the champagne opened. Off in one corner stood Stern wondering if the result from the last probe could be duplicated, and if some of the more sophisticated tests incorporated in the current probe would unravel the secrets held within the mysterious crystals.
Stern, along with the rest of the staff, monitored the progress of the lander. Again, white crystals were found after breaking through the surface layer of red soil. A sample, uncontaminated by the surface soil, was scooped up and introduced into the chamber with nutrients which would duplicate the tests performed by the previous mission. The results were the same. A battery of further tests was unable to explain the metabolic activity possessed by the crystal samples. The mission staff experienced relief that the results could be duplicated, but apprehension that this mystery might not be unraveled.
A command sent to the probe had samples introduced into a chamber for transport back to Earth. Once the mother ship obtained the proper position, the probe fired its engine and slowly lifted into the black Martian sky starting the long journey back to Earth.
“We have the returning capsule locked and secured,” called out one of the engineers. The mother ship fired its engines and left Mar’s orbit, heading home.
The mission specialists monitored the progress of THE QUEST FOR LIFE as it glided toward Earth. Stern spent this time conducting meetings at universities and centers of excellence in geology and inorganic chemistry. He filled notebooks with reports speculating on the science behind the unusual activity shown by the Martian crystals; how minerals could show metabolic activity. The common consensus was that either microbes were harbored on or within the crystals or the crystals themselves caused some sort of breakdown of the nutrient broth that mimicked metabolism.
Stern sat once again with his good friend Watson, this time in Stern’s sprawling ranch near Cocoa Beach. “Tom, in a matter of months we’ll have the Mars probe back on Earth. The excitement level in Houston, where the crystals will be analyzed, is tremendous. NASA has assembled some of the world’s foremost geologists, biologists and physicists to conduct an extensive battery of tests. This is the first time man has had an opportunity to examine material from another planet in our solar system. We could gain knowledge of a new life form, or a chemical process not found on Earth.
“I’m disappointed that I will not be present when the probe is opened in Houston, but once it splashes down in the Pacific, my responsibility for the mission is finished.”
“These are historic times,” said Tom. “It’s a great era in which to live. Perhaps the answer to one of the major questions mankind has pondered will finally be answered. Are we alone in the universe or just a speck of inhabited rock adrift in a cosmos teeming with life?”
* * *
THE QUEST FOR LIFE sailed toward a distant speck in the black void of space. The spec grew, becoming a small disc and finally a planet with clouds in the atmosphere and dark expanses of ocean. As the probe entered the first hint of the Earth’s atmosphere, the crystals altered their configuration ever so slightly, sensing the prospect of renewed life.
Aboard the U.S.S. Hornet, latest in a new line of aircraft carriers and named for the historic vessel of World War II, preparations were under way to retrieve the probe. Stored below deck in the carrier’s massive hangar was the steel vault that would be used to carry the precious cargo from Mars to Houston for study.
Managers in Houston followed the probe’s path to splashdown and radioed the carrier that they should soon be able to make visual contact. Hundreds of sailors crammed the deck and scanned the sky. A cheer went up when the three parachutes were spotted which would bring the craft gently down in the Pacific and end its long voyage of discovery. As soon as the probe was sighted, two Navy helicopters launched from the deck, bearing frogmen to recover the spacecraft. The primary helicopter hovered over the probe, now surrounded by an inflatable collar, the prop wash dampening the ocean waves. Two frogmen jumped into the ocean and attached a cable that would lift the space vehicle for transport to the Hornet. Once it was transferred to the deck, a group of scientists examined the vehicle to ensure there was no damage. “We have a good vehicle,” they reported.
While the recovery was being accomplished, NASA, along with naval personnel brought the vault topside and rolled it near to where the helicopter would place the probe. A specifically designed forklift gently maneuvered the vehicle into the vault. The mission was accomplished. The vault was sealed and returned below decks for the journey to California and then on to Houston.
* * *
After the Johnson Space Center in Houston received word that the probe was safe and secure, years of anticipation had come to an end. Now it was time to get to work and find out what those crystals were. There was a celebration. Jacques Stern approached the podium to address the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, today we made history. We secured, for the first time, samples from another planet. You are all to be congratulated for the excellent work you have done to see this mission to its successful conclusion.
“Now it is up to the scientists at Johnson to analyze these mysterious crystals and uncover the secrets hidden within their structure.”
Stern finished his speech, and that night driving home, wondered at the mysteries that might be revealed.
The Hornet’s journey to California took nearly a week. This wait added to the eagerness among the scientists waiting to work with the crystals, for there wasn’t an aircraft able to take off from the carrier that could accommodate the vault.
Dr. Jeff Watts, a leader in crystallography, was head of the team selected to study the Martian samples. Jeff was in his mid-fifties but looked ten years younger. With his short-cropped salt and pepper hair and a runner’s build, he looked nothing like the world-renowned scientist he was.
Assisting Watts was Igor Stanovich, a highly respected Russian physicist. Stanovich was in his mid-sixties, muscular, and a short solid man. He projected a no-nonsense air yet hidden beneath his gruff exterior was a caring heart for those who were willing to break through his protective shell.
The third member of the team, and youngest, was Beverly Yochum, already a legend in her field of geology at the age of thirty-five. She accomplished an impressive number of discoveries and was an expert in the study of the most hostile environments the world offered. Blue-eyed and blonde, with a model’s figure, she often turned heads but kept busy in her work. Married at twenty-five, she lost her husband in a car crash five years later and looked to work to consume her pain.
The team gathered in San Diego and anxiously awaited the Hornet’s arrival. Once the ship docked, the team hurried aboard and stood in the Hornet’s hangar staring at the vault containing the samples from Mars, feeling the excitement of their quest for knowledge of another planet.
Dr. Watts said to his colleagues, “I have a great deal of anticipation for the project we are about to undertake.” His words were refined but his voice betrayed the excitement of a child in a toy store.
The vault was brought ashore and trucked to an awaiting Air Force C-17 cargo plane to continue its journey to Houston. The three scientists rode to Texas with their precious cargo. They sat in silence, observing the vault and wondering at the secrets that lie within.
Even before the Mars mission was launched, construction had begun on a special laboratory, isolated from any other structure, to study the Martian crystals. It would be equivalent to the labs used to study the most highly contagious pathogens known to man. Once completed, it was equipped with all the state-of-the-art instruments required for geological and biological research. The scientists and technicians working in the lab would go through a vigorous cleansing and gowning procedure, donning spacesuit-like gear to ensure that no contamination was released or introduced.
While the lab was being built, Watts and his team planned the experiments needed to solve the crystals’ mysterious qualities of appearing as a mineral yet having biological properties.
Upon reaching Houston, the vault was carefully unloaded and taken to the lab which would act as both a storage chamber and laboratory for the crystals and the probe. Now that the vault was safely in the lab, the scientists were full of anticipation ready to examine their precious samples.
The next morning, Watts began, “Now comes the moment we have anticipated for years, and that mankind has dreamed of ever since the red planet was discovered. We stand on the threshold to answering the age-old question, Is there life on Mars: are we alone?
Watts opened the vault and inside lay the probe. Using a special wrench, he opened the chamber containing the crystals. There was a whooshing sound as the sterile air from the lab entered the chamber. Watts pulled from the chamber a cup-like device containing crystals. The entire planet witnessed this historic moment via miniature cameras attached to the headgear of the scientists.
The three gathered around the crystals. Watts said, “They appear to be pure white, like grains of salt but coarser. A few have a reddish-brown discoloration which must be Martian soil.” The excitement in his voice was evident. After a few more moments of inspection, he carefully placed the cup on the floor of the vault and secured the door. He then turned to his colleagues and said, “Tomorrow we begin our work.”
As the scientists slept, cameras trained on the vault were constantly monitored by NASA personnel. The vault must be observed at all times to ensure the crystals had not been tampered with. This would also make it certain that all findings made would not be subject to doubt of any type.
It was two thirty in the morning when the technician monitoring the vault saw the first bulge in its side appear. By the time Watts and his team were alerted, all sides of the vault were peppered with disfigurations, as if someone was firing a shotgun at the walls from inside. Then, before the horrified eyes of all watching the monitor, the vault’s door burst open. From inside they could see a mass of white forms.
Watts shouted, “Quick, we have to get to the lab.”
After an abbreviated decontamination, the scientists donned their protective suits and entered the lab. Near the vault, they could see spheres the size of basketballs with octagonal surfaces lying on the floor. Within the vault there were several similar objects, which, although smaller, appeared to be growing.
Watts leaned forward and picked up one of the white masses. Immediately he let out a blood-curdling scream and watched in disbelief as his hands penetrated the giant crystal. Before his unbelieving eyes, his thick protective gloves dissolved, followed by the skin of his hands. He looked down on his muscles and tendons and the veins and arteries, coursing blood through his hands and fingers. Soon his hands were no more than bone and the growing globe dropped to the floor shattering and raining crystals on all three scientists. The crystals immediately melted through the suits, seeking the life-giving water within.
The technicians monitoring the vault were in shock as it appeared that all three suits were now empty, and the crystals continued to grow at an alarming rate.
It wasn’t long before the white masses breached the lab. The entire building was ordered evacuated. The military was alerted and established a perimeter a half mile away from the rapidly disintegrating building. Tanks and artillery pieces trained their guns on the growing mass of white. Suddenly, the air was filled with the roar of fighters dropping bombs and obliterating the crystals in fire and smoke.
No scientists were consulted on this plan of attack. If they had been, the officers in charge of the operation would have been told you cannot kill a crystal. The wiser approach would have been to bury them. Soon Martian crystals were swept up into the jet stream. Some were deposited in the ocean, and this provided the first clue about their survival. Ships in the warm southern Atlantic reported monstrous icebergs. But what they truly saw were giant mountains of crystals attached to the ocean floor and growing at a fantastic pace. More than one vessel accidentally sailed into the crystalline islands and disappeared.
Too late to save the planet, the growth requirement for the crystals was discovered to be water. When the probe was opened, water vapor entered and initiated the process.
Now with the abundance of water on Earth, a growth process that could not be halted was in progress. It was not long before huge white mountains were seen where the land was once flat. The oceans began to recede as a vast number of white crystalline islands began to appear. The Earth’s population not directly absorbed by the crystals died from lack of water, and Earth soon resembled its sister planet Mars, barren of life.
Once every molecule of water was consumed, the massive crystal mountains began to crumble leaving the planet covered in a thick layer of white. But the planet was not entirely dead. It was still geologically alive. Volcanoes erupted and earthquakes spread a thick layer of new rock and ash covering the crystals. The great cities of the Earth, all signs of the civilization that once existed, were buried.
* * *
Millennia later, a bright, fast moving light appeared in the dead planet’s sky. The light intensified and entered the orbit of the desolate planet. From the orbiting visitor, a smaller light emerged and headed for the planet’s surface.
THE END
THE DREAM CATCHER, A HORROR COMEDY
This story was accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in December 2011. My dreams are still quite vivid.
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 fell 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.”
With 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 END
BALANCE, A HORROR SHORT STORY
Balance was accepted for publication by Necrology Shorts in January 2010
It is a story where good intentions go horribly wrong.
Balance
Nijo London pounded on the door of her small cell – her world now for over a year – until her fists bled. “Let me out!” she screamed although she knew her plea would go unanswered. She stepped back and studied the door covered with dark brown outlines of her fists from past attempts to summon help. She was not sure why she was being held captive, but there were times she was not sure she wanted to know.
Nijo was thirty-five of medium height and slender, with close-cropped black hair and startling blue eyes. She was slender now because of her imprisonment, but she once drifted up and down in her weight. After each of her two pregnancies, the pounds tended to remain more than being shed.
It had been a year since she last saw the sun. No one would speak to her, let alone answer her questions. But she heard occasional conversations through her door. There was hushed talk of brutal murders. One time she thought she heard the mention of cannibalism, but she couldn’t be sure.
Surely these conversations could not be connected to Nijo; she was a nurse and devoted her life to caring for the sick. But she had vague memories that she didn’t understand; flashes of perception that were more than disturbing. They were horrifying. There was also some connection with these horrors to ancient rituals of healing she had tried to incorporate into her practice. Nijo also recalled the most unsettling consequence of using these ancient rights: the complete loss of memory after she used the power.
* * *
Nijo had been content with her life. Her husband, Jim, was a hard-working engineer and provided a good life for her and their two daughters, Kim, age two, and Heather, age four. She was a nurse, and didn’t need to work, but she loved her profession and could not imagine life without nursing. When caring for the sick, she felt complete. To serve the patients most in need of her skills, she chose hospice nursing, and with that decision she would do a great deal of good but also seal her fate.
The patients she encountered had the most urgent care requirements. They required comfort along the road toward their death. And Nijo provided help along that road with care and compassion. But, deep inside she felt she was not doing enough to ease the suffering of the dying.
It was shortly after this feeling of inadequacy began that she met Robbie. Robbie, Roberta, was a hospice nurse working at the same agency. She was older than Nijo, blond, tall and had a striking presence of authority whenever she entered the room of a patient. Extremely competent in her discipline, she used all the skills at her command to ease the fears and pain of the dying. It was Robbie’s knowledge of a little recognized discipline that would determine Nijo’s future.
Robbie and Nijo became close friends. One day Nijo asked, “There are times I feel I could do more for my patients. Robbie, your patients seem to possess an inner peace different from those I work with. What do you do for them that I don’t?”
Robbie replied, “I’ve learned to use a healing method called Reiki. When you use this discipline, power comes through your hands as you work with the patient to help heal and provide a feeling of peace. For some patients it works, for some it doesn’t, but in our profession, you do what you must to ease pain and suffering.”
Nijo took some Reiki classes with Robbie and began to see the benefits of this mystical approach to helping the dying. However, the success rate was less than she had hoped for, that’s when she asked Robbie, “Is there anything more I can do? Is there another step beyond Reiki?”
Robbie hesitated, and then answered, “There is a force beyond Reiki, but it is dangerous. There are consequences to the practitioner if it is used. You might say, when you use this power, there are debts to be paid. I’ve never had the nerve to pursue it.”
Nijo responded, “If we can comfort the dying, no debt is too much. Will you tell me what this method is called?”
“It is called Mejocuthru. No one knows its origin. Even its most practiced masters seldom use this power. They fear it.”
Nijo asked Robbie, “Who are these masters? How can I meet them?”
Robbie paused, and then said, “I once asked the same questions and was led to a master. But what she told me stopped me from asking more.”
“What did this master tell you?”
“She said that with every use of Mejocuthru you must do the equivalent amount of harm to match the good you accomplished.”
Now it was Nijo’s turn to hesitate. She thought for a while, and then said, “If there is something out there that will help me with my patients, I would like to at least look into it. How can I meet this master?”
Robbie replied, “I shouldn’t have told you about Mejocuthru. It’s dangerous.”
“Look, Robbie, you know the type of patients we deal with. For the most part, their lives are full of pain and suffering, not to mention the emotional strain on their families. I would do anything to help these people. To be honest, I’m surprised you have not used this discipline.”
Robbie thought for a moment and considered how persuasive the master had been against her learning Mejocuthru. She thought the master would also be able to discourage Nijo, so reluctantly, she gave Nijo the master’s address.
* * *
It was weeks before Nijo had time to search out the Mejocuthru master. The workload was unusually heavy and her kids were sick so when she wasn’t caring for her patients she was nursing her children.
One sunny cold Saturday afternoon she asked Jim to watch the girls. “I’ve got some errands to run. Would you mind staying home with the kids?”
Jim looked up from the college football game he was watching and said, “No problem. On your way home, why don’t you pick up a pizza for dinner?” He returned to the game as his wife closed the front door.
She made her way to the address Robbie supplied. It was in the Chinese section of town. She consulted a city map and had no trouble locating the home of the Mejocuthru master. She pulled up in front of the building and was momentarily confused, “This can’t be the right address,” she said to herself. The building housed a Chinese restaurant. In the window of the grimy building was a row of cured ducks hung by their necks, suspended over oriental fruit and vegetables. Above were apartments, but the doorway leading upstairs displayed a different number.
Nijo went into the restaurant and was immediately approached by a waiter who asked in a heavy accent, “Can I seat you?” The room smelled of exotic sauces and spices. Clouds had darkened the afternoon sky, and the room appeared not to absorb what little light that filtered through the dirty front window. The few customers present were seated in the darkness muttering in Asian dialects.
Nijo said, “I was given this address by a friend. I’ve come to see the Mejocuthru master.”
The waiter’s expression changed from neutral to one of malice. “That is not possible,” he said. “Who sent you here?”
She gave him Robbie’s name. A brief look of recognition passed over his face.
“Sit here,” he growled, pointing to the area reserved for take-out customers and disappeared through a beaded curtain leading to the kitchen. Sometime later he reemerged, perspiring heavily. He had the same countenance of anger, but now he also bore a hint of uncertainty.
In a gruff voice, he said, “Follow me.”
The waiter led Nijo through the beaded curtain and into the kitchen where a host of Chinese cooks shouted to one another in their sing-song language. Here the exotic smell of the food was overpowering. Hurriedly, Nijo was shown to the rear of the room to a flight of stairs leading to the basement. The steps leading into the darkness were wooden and well-worn. In the faint light from an occasional bare bulb, Nijo found herself walking through a maze of tiny storerooms containing shelves of cans displaying Asian characters and jar upon jar of spices. One room was reserved for nothing but tea; another for huge bags of rice. He led Nijo to the darkest recesses of the cellar and a rust-stained metal door. He unlocked a heavy bolt and motioned Nijo inside. Immediately after she entered, the door was locked behind her. Her nostrils were attacked by the heavy smell of incense. Behind a single wavering candle flame appeared to be a pile of rags. Then the rags began to move, becoming a solitary figure surrounded by cushions. Even after her eyes had adjusted, Nijo could only make out a shadowy figure.
In perfect English, without the hint of an accent, the specter motioned to the pile of cushions and said, “Come here, child, and sit.”
The voice was that of a woman and was gentle but with an undertone of despair. Now seated, Nijo could begin to discern the woman’s features. Her face was a mass of wrinkles with deep-set slanted eyes, a flat nose and small mouth.
“My name is Maggie Wu,” said the woman. “I have been a prisoner in this room for many years. It is a painful, lonely existence, one I wish I could end, but I am powerless to do so.”
Nijo asked, “Why are you held prisoner? Are these people holding you hostage?”
The old woman answered, “I do not know why I am here. They say I did terrible things, but I don’t recall. I have had visitors, but they were either curious or vengeful. This has been my existence for more years than I can remember. “What brings you here, my child?”
Nijo answered, “A friend of mine and I have been practicing Reiki to help our patients. We are hospice nurses and have had some success in relieving some of their pain, but nothing consistent. I asked my friend, Robbie, if there was some stronger discipline we could use with more power and more certainty. Reluctantly, she told me about Mejocuthru and how to find you. She said there were risks but I would risk anything to help my patients.”
“Would you, my dear? I recall your friend. You must have been very persuasive, for not only did I deter her from using Mejocuthru but made her swear not to tell anyone of my existence.”
Nijo said, “I was rather relentless in my questioning. Do not be mad at Robbie. Please agree to teach me.”
The old woman reached out her gnarled hands to Nijo. “Give me your hands,” she ordered.
Nijo extended her hands and felt a strange tingle when they were held by the woman.
The woman said, “You have a deep desire to heal. I have never experienced this power in another. Perhaps you could control the power of Mejocuthru. I will tell you my history; then we will see.
“I was a healer taught by healers from the old country. They said I had many natural abilities and revealed to me powers and cures unknown in this country. I did much good for the Chinese community, but I felt I wasn’t doing enough, that there was a further step I could take.”
“I have the same feelings,” said Nijo, “that there is something beyond the Reiki I use.”
The old woman shook her head in disgust. “Reiki is for amateurs, a weak discipline practiced by weak people. Mejocuthru is where the real power lies. With Mejocuthru you can perform miracles. The old masters warned me of dangers, of doing well but of also doing evil. But I accepted the power. I raised the dead. It was only then I realized the power I possessed.
“The old masters said I would perform unspeakable acts if I used this knowledge. After I began to cure using Mejocuthru, the only problem I encountered was the loss of memory after healing. Soon after I raised a young woman from death I was imprisoned and have been here ever since. I long to be free. No one will explain why I am here, but I know I did some good and that is what is important. Those thoughts are what keep me alive.”
Nijo said, “I do not understand how such a great healing tool can do evil. I want to learn. I want to possess this power.”
The old woman smiled and said, “I will teach you. There is a chant you must learn. One that will release the powers of Mejocuthru into the people you touch to heal the disease that sickens them.
“Come, child. Lean forward and I will whisper the chant so that you may heal the sick.”
Nijo leaned close to the ancient healer. The old woman spoke the chant into Nijo’s ear. When the lesson was finished, the old woman told Nijo, “You are now a Mejocuthru healer. Go and help the sick; the power is yours.”
As soon as she said these words, the old woman’s images appeared to waiver; then slowly fade. Before Nijo’s disbelieving eyes, there appeared a boiling black cloud where the woman had been. Rather than dissipating, the cloud began to fall into itself. It became constantly smaller until all that remained was a solitary black dot hovering above the candle. Then it was gone.
Nijo shuddered and rose from the cushions. She had no idea what she had just witnessed, however, she felt a new sense of power that was pleasurable, that needed to be shared. She pounded on the door to be released. The door was opened by the waiter who had led her to the room. Nijo said, “I am finished here,” and walked past the man. After a minute or so, his eyes began to adjust to the darkened room. The chamber was empty. He searched the small room in disbelief and horror.
* * *
After arriving home, Nijo called Robbie. The excitement in Nijo’s voice was obvious; a flash of fear crossed Robbie’s mind. Nijo said, “I saw her, the Mejocuthru master. She told me her secrets and then…”
“And then what?” asked Robbie.
In all honesty, Nijo had no idea what she had witnessed. The woman had disappeared. Was this part of the associated curse? Nijo quickly steered the conversation away from the old woman. “I can feel the tingle of this new power in my body,” said Nijo. “I feel I must use it soon.”
The opportunity soon presented itself. Nijo was assigned a patient, Mary Littlecroft, age twenty-six, suffering from bone cancer. Chemotherapy did not provide a cure and her right leg was to be amputated. Mary was heartbroken when told the news. When Nijo came to visit, Mary cried, “I can’t bear the thought of losing my leg. I’ve always been athletic – a runner. I know I’ll survive without my leg, that many people with cancer have no hope at all. I know I’m being selfish, but if I lose my leg…”
Nijo tried to console Mary. After a few visits, Nijo noticed something. Every time she came near the young woman, she felt a tingle she knew was the force of Mejocuthru inside of her waiting to be released. Nijo finally decided to use her healing power on Mary.
After lowering the lights, Nijo approached Mary’s bed and quietly said, “I want to try something I learned. I have never used it before. There should be no pain. It might not work, but I’d like to try.”
Mary said, “I have nothing to lose but my leg. Try anything you want.”
Nijo placed her hands on Mary’s leg. Blue-white sparks danced from her fingertips. Mary groaned, but it was not one of pain but of pleasure. Mary said, “I feel something in my leg that is overcoming the dull pain I feel constantly.” As tears welled in her eyes, she continued, “My leg has not felt like this for a long time.” She pushed away the covers and stood; then walked. That was when the flow of tears became a flood. Mary cried, “I don’t know what you did, Nijo, but something wonderful has happened to my leg. What did you do?”
With an amazed voice, Nijo said, “I learned a new healing discipline. You are the first person I have tried it on.”
To that Mary said, “You have a gift, a healing gift. Thank you so much.”
Nijo was unsure what to say. She had no idea her experience with Mejocuthru would be so positive so quickly. Could this power reverse the cancer or just provide momentary comfort? Nijo said good-bye to her patient, and then walked to her car. She felt a strange emptiness and decided to take a walk along the darkened streets before she returned home. It was something she needed to do. She put her nursing bag in her car and then began walking. After a few steps she blacked out and did not come to again until she was sitting in her car. Not knowing what had happened, she felt uncomfortable about the blackout. Nothing like this had ever happened before. She went home, kissed her husband, and played with the girls after dinner. It was still early when she told Jim, “I’m drained. I think I’ll go to bed early.”
“No problem,” answered Jim. “I’ll put the girls to bed soon and then maybe read for awhile.”
The next morning Jim leafed through the local paper. The rag was a joke in the community. The stories they published were often confusing, and occasionally, made no sense at all. As he read the paper, Jim was known to often shout, “Doesn’t anyone proof-read this stuff? It’s a joke.”
As he sat at the breakfast table, a small article caught his attention. As Nijo entered the kitchen, he said, “Listen to this. Last night someone leapt out of some bushes and struck a young woman in the leg, breaking it. It was near where you saw a patient yesterday. You better be careful in that neighborhood.”
“That’s strange,” said Nijo. “It’s such a quiet community.” She began to cook breakfast and quickly forgot about the article.
Over the next few weeks, Nijo used her Mejocuthru powers on patients whose lives were so full, yet were racked by pain and the specter of death. Every time she practiced this ancient right she blacked-out. Blacking out was the side effect she associated with her healing.
Then the event occurred that would change her life forever. She had a patient, a young woman of thirty, pregnant with twins and found to have colon cancer. She needed chemotherapy, and without it, would surely die. But the therapy would destroy the twins. Nijo was assigned the case. Her patient, Julie, refused the chemo.
“I could not go on with my life if it would cost the lives of my babies,” she told Nijo.
Nijo could feel the stress Julie and her husband, Jonathan, were under. She kept her powers in check, hoping for some miracle, until she realized she was their only hope. The tingling had also begun, more intense than ever before.
Then one day she went to visit Julie and could tell the end was near, probably in a matter of hours. Nijo felt a compassion she could not overcome. She needed to do something to save this young family. She needed to use her powers. Sitting next to Julie, she put one hand on the woman’s head and one on her belly, while she recited the Mejocuthru chant. Feeling a power she had never experienced, she continued to chant with a voice that soon filled the house.
Jonathan became concerned and entered the bedroom. He found Julie sitting up in bed, resting against the pillows and smiling as she clutched her belly. He next gazed at Nijo. She had a vacant stare, walked past him and left the house.
Nijo had used the full force of her powers. She remained in a trance for months after the healing. Little did she realize that the consequence of using so much power would destroy her life and that of her family.
When Nijo returned home after the healing, neighbors reported hearing ungodly screams coming from the home and called the police. They arrived, but it was too late. Nijo sat amid the carnage that was once her family. Veteran officers were sickened by what they saw. After a short trial, Nijo was committed to an insane asylum. This was where she returned from her blackout.
* * *
There was a recent nursing graduate, Debbie, who was assigned to Nijo’s wing in the asylum. Being new, she had not yet developed the thick skin necessary to deal with some of the patients. She had been told to never talk to this particular patient, told she was too dangerous. One night she approached the cell with dinner, and instead of just leaving it, said, “Here’s dinner,” out of force of habit.
Nijo ran to the door. No one ever spoke to her. “Thank you,” Nijo replied.
Debbie said, “I was told not to talk to you. I’m sorry,” then turned to leave.
“I’m not insane,” answered Nijo, “just confused. I’ve been confused for a long time.”
“Why are you here?” asked Debbie.
“I’m not sure, but you are the first nurse that has talked to me. I have a special healing power and am no longer allowed to use it.”
“What sort of power?”
“There is a chant I know that can cure anything you wish to cure. It may cause you to blackout, but it would be a waste to have it die with me. Could I tell you about it?”
Debbie listened to Nijo’s story about the old Chinese woman and the chant she learned. She then asked, “Could you teach me how to use this power? I want to help the sick, that’s why I’m a nurse.”
Nijo leaned close to the small opening in the door of her cell and revealed to Debbie the chant. Debbie immediately felt a tingling over her entire body. She knew something had happened, and then said, “Thank you, Nijo. I know I can do well with what I feel.”
But Nijo never heard Debbie’s thanks. Her body separated into countless particles yet remained united in their intelligence. Her body became a dark boiling cloud which soon concentrated into an indigo point and disappeared. This was the dark, the evil consumed by the power of the owner to heal. This was the balance. Nijo felt herself drifting, leaving the Earth behind; searching for the next level as she being dissipated in space.
THE END
FICTION SEEKING TRUTH, A FREE HORROR STORY
Fiction Seeking Truth was accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in July 2008. Of course, this is fiction, but it was inspired by a living author and an incident in his life.
FICTION SEEKING TRUTH
Stewart Kingman was a very successful writer of horror stories.
After an exhausting day of writing, he popped a brew and said to his wife, Talia, “Babe, you know my method for developing a story. I take some glimmer of truth and twist it into a tale of horror. What if some of the unworldly situations I create could exist? People read my books to escape to a world that scares the hell out of them, and they enjoy that world because they can always close the book to escape the horror. What if some of the horror existed outside the book? That’s the reason JAWS was so popular – the book was frightening but possible. You could close the book and jump in the ocean and fiction could suddenly become reality and your ass is shark bait.
“Sure, Dracula had his roots in Vlad the Impaler, but old Vlad was just a weird dude, nothing supernatural, but the public craves the unexplainable, needs it. I think I’m going to take a lesson from my old friend Houdini and look for the truth behind the fiction.”
Kingman was fascinated by the life of Harry Houdini, living a public life spent creating illusions and a private life seeking the truth behind the illusion, performing as an escape artist and at the same time a debunker of charlatans claiming to be able to communicate with the dead. Houdini constantly tried to communicate with his dead mother and his efforts only resulted in exposing one fake after another. As he was dying, he told his wife he would beckon to her from the grave but as far as anyone knew, he never succeeded.
Stewart did not discuss his theory of the truth behind fiction any further with Talia, but she knew that he was doing research on the topic. He had a vast library of folklore he used to give him ideas for his stories. He was now spending a great deal of time rereading some of his favorite volumes.
He decided to post a message on his website saying, has anyone had an experience that they feel defies natural law? This opened the floodgates.
“What a bunch of nonesense,” he said as he scrolled through his email.
The message he was searching for arrived late that spring.
Dear Mr. Kingman,
I read the question on your website – about having a strange experience. My life has changed since I had a brush with the hereafter. I can’t explain it, but I seem to be able to control the future. I’m not a nut. I just thought I’d respond to your question.
Yours truly,
Frank Talbot
Kingman emailed Talbot requesting more detail. A few days later Talbot replied.
Dear Mr. Kingman,
It took me a long time to sit down and write this letter. On one hand, I can’t believe I’m corresponding with you, on the other hand, you’ll think I’m nuts.
I’m a lineman in Massachusetts and last winter we had the ice storm from hell. I was up on a pole, after working I don’t know how many hours, when I wasn’t careful and touched a live wire. My work crew told the rest of the details to me. They lowered me from the pole and I wasn’t breathing. They took turns doing CPR and got me going again. The ambulance came, and on the way to the hospital I tried to leave this world again. The ambulance driver gave me a jolt with the defibrillator, and I returned to the living once more.
Now comes the weird part that you might not believe but I swear it’s true.
I was off from work for a couple of weeks, and it’s during this time that strange things began to happen. I was sitting in the living room thinking about my kid brother who’s in the army stationed in Iraq and how great it would be to see him. I blacked out for a minute or two after thinking about my brother. That’s when the TV suddenly came on. On the TV was a news special and the guy reading the news looked like living death, definitely a strange looking dude. Then this guy on the TV, looking like an extra from Dawn of the Living Dead says the 85th armor division is coming home – my brother’s outfit. The screen then went blank.
A month later, my brother came home.
Here’s the really creepy part; the TV wasn’t plugged in. So now you’re sure I’m nuts, but I swear it’s the truth. It’s happened a few times since. I think about something, black out as I’m sitting in front of the TV when Mr. Death Warmed Over comes on the air and makes an announcement, making my thoughts reality. I don’t know where the broadcasts come from and I don’t know how the TV got unplugged. Maybe I had some sort of seizure and unplugged it before the broadcast began. I don’t know.
Anyway, I’ve included my telephone number if you want to call me.
Yours truly,
Frank Talbot
Kingman reread the email. It had a different feeling than all the other he received. Here was an ordinary guy, not full of self-importance, who could not explain what was happening to him. He decided to give Talbot a call.
“Hello, Frank Talbot here.”
“Mr. Talbot, this is Stewart Kingman. I’m intrigued by your experience. I’d like to meet with you and talk about the phenomenon you describe.”
There was a pause, and then Talbot said, “I guess that would be okay, Mr. Kingman.” Talbot gave directions to his house and set up a date for Kingman to come see him. After he hung up, he wondered if Kingman would really believe him; then a smile crossed his lips.
On a pleasant May morning, Kingman set out for Frank Talbot’s house. He drove onto I-95 planning to take the interstate into Massachusetts. The traffic was unusually light, and as he approached the Massachusetts boarder, Kingman found that the only vehicle other than his was a tractor-trailer hauling a sailboat, shrink – wrapped in blue plastic down the highway in front of him.
Kingman had the cruise control set on his SUV and the tunes playing. He was slightly daydreaming when the daydream became a nightmare. The sailboat somehow fell off the trailer and was pin wheeling down the highway heading straight for him. The weight of the rudder caused the boat to spin faster and faster. What followed was pure luck. He swerved to the far-left lane of the three-lane highway with the spinning boat rapidly approaching him. When he was sure he was going to die, the mast swept over his SUV inches above the roof. If the boat had been a little smaller and the mast closer to the ground as the boat lay on its side, he would have become a giant Kingman kabob. He pulled onto the shoulder and sat there until his shaking hands could again grip the steering wheel. The rest of the trip was uneventful.
He found Talbot’s house without much trouble and pulled into the driveway of a modest ranch. He was about to knock when the door opened and there stood Frank Talbot, an average looking guy about thirty years of age. Before Kingman could say hello, Talbot said, “Glad the sailboat missed you.” This caught Kingman totally by surprise.
“How in the hell did you know about the boat?” but Kingman instantly knew the answer to his own question. “You saw it on TV.”
Talbot replied, “I had to find a way to convince you that what I was experiencing was real. I thought that the encounter with the sailboat would get your attention. I caught Mr. Death’s broadcast just before you pulled into my driveway.”
“You definitely got my attention. I nearly messed my pants,” Kingman said. The two men then sat and talked for hours, and when Kingman left he already had the outline for a book, deciding it would be fiction but with an introduction dealing with the fact behind the fiction. Kingman began writing.
It was late summer, and the writing was progressing well. Kingman loved walking the country roads near his property. On an August evening, he set out walking and thinking of the day’s writing and what he would put down on paper next. He never heard the approaching van.
Kingman awoke in the hospital with more pain than he had ever experienced in his life. A young doctor told him of his multiple fractures but reassured him that he would walk again. The doctor also told him that his heart had stopped twice in the ambulance due to the trauma his body had endured. “They defibrillated you,” the doctor said.
Kingman’s recovery took a long time and rehabilitation was painful. Shortly after the accident he learned that the driver of the van, already cited twice for reckless driving, blamed Kingman for the accident. He said that Kingman shouldn’t have been walking on the road. Kingman felt a rage he had never felt before. His pain was excruciating. The painkillers destroyed his writing. He spent hours just dwelling on the accident, the insane accusations of the van driver and how the whole thing had changed his life.
Fall arrived, the changing leaves brightened the countryside, and Kingman took his first steps with the use of two canes. Every step delivered agony, but now he knew he would walk again. He hated the driver that struck him but suppressed it as he tried to overcome the pain and hoped he could be able to write soon.
The trees were now bare; fall was setting the landscape for winter. Kingman still could not write. He would spend hours thinking of plots and characters, but when he sat down to put words to paper, nothing would come.
Late one afternoon, as the shadows lengthened, Kingman sat alone in his family room – thinking. A short walk had left him exhausted, and his legs were screaming with pain. Suddenly, the TV lit the room. On the screen, an announcer looking near death related the news of a suicide and produced a picture. It was a picture of the driver that struck him. Kingman glanced at the TV’s plug and a slight smile crossed his lips.
THE END
Walttriznastories's Blog 