Posts filed under ‘PUBLISHED WORKS’
Mansion of Nightmares was accepted for publication in the print anthology, Spellbound, by Mélange Books in June 2011.
MANSION OF NIGHTMARES
My name is Patrick Brodie, and I fear I am going mad. Let me change that; I am going mad with the fear of my death. I have lived all my twenty years in a small town in southeast Pennsylvania, and located in the boundaries of this town is where my problem began. I fear this shadow hanging over my life may never end, or perhaps it is over. I shall never know for sure.
I fear sleep, more specifically, dreaming. I am in dread of what might happen during a dream – my destruction. I know I can escape the horror in my dream, but what if some day, I can’t.
Ever since I was quite young, I was intrigued by an old, abandoned mansion not far from my home. I would ask my dad, as we drove by the forlorn estate, “Dad, what is that place?”
“Patrick,” he would answer, “I don’t know. I’ve heard stories about it, but they make little sense. Tell you the truth, I’ve often wondered about the true story of that place myself. Someday, when you’re older, why don’t you trace the property’s history? It shouldn’t be that difficult. Maybe the local historical society would be a good place to start.”
If I had only taken my dad’s advice before I decided to investigate the mansion with my friend, Brian, I might have discovered the legend and Brian might still be alive. But what’s done is done. There is no going back. If I am unfortunate to return to the mansion in my dreams, I may join Brian in what, I fear, is a never – ending hell.
The mansion that is the center of this horror sat at the intersection of two major thoroughfares at the edge of the small hometown. The place was far removed from either road by maybe a thousand feet. For those who drive by it is practically invisible, hidden by towering trees and overgrown with vines. The entrance to the deteriorating road leading to the house was framed by two brick columns with peeling plaster, between the columns hung a heavy chain blocking the entrance.
The mansion was enormous, the largest construction in the area, and surely one of the oldest. The exterior, which once was white, had turned a mottled gray. The two-storied structure contained many additions. Several gables occupied the roof, along with four massive chimneys. The roof was now sagging, a testament of neglect, as columns still supported the entrance with its massive doors.
The property was enormous; I had no idea how large. The area had experienced a rapid increase in construction, yet no Mc Mansions sprung up like mushrooms as they did these days in almost every empty tract of land.
I wanted to explore this fascinating structure, but not alone.
It was a fall sunny Saturday, when I approached my friend, Brian Jacobs, to join me on my adventure. I said to Brian, “You know that old house?” And then I went on to describe it.
“Sure, Pat, that place gives me the creeps every time I pass it. I guess every town has a haunted house, if there’s one in this town, that’s it.”
“Brian, I want you to go with me and explore it.”
“Are you nuts?” He answered. “We’ve both lived here for eighteen years and how many times have you heard of someone talk about going into that creepy place?”
“Well,” I said, “never.”
“Right. So maybe there’s a reason.”
“Like what?” I asked.
Brian answered, “Like you might not come out. I don’t know.”
“Exactly,” I answered, “you don’t know. We could be the first. Where’s your spirit of adventure? What could happen?”
I could not put into words because I was drawn to explore the old mansion, I just was. After I made many derogatory remarks about his manhood, Brian reluctantly agreed. He’s, my buddy.
“Okay genius, how do we get in with no one seeing us?” he asked.
I had already thought about how we would approach the mansion, “Some Saturday we’ll walk over. We only live about a fifteen-minute walk away. I’ll meet you about noon and we’ll go explore.”
“Oh, now I see,” Brian said. “We just stroll past the ‘Do Not Trespass’ signs, duck under the chain keeping everyone out, while we are on a major busy street in the area, and casually saunter up the long drive. Sounds like fool-proof plan to me, fool”.
“That’s not what we’re going to do smart-ass. We’ll approach it from the rear. I’m sure we’ll be able to get in with nobody seeing us.”
* * *
A month or so later we finally had a Saturday when we would both be free for the afternoon. We met and walked through the wild area of trees and brambles to approach the mansion from the rear. As we walked closer to the structure, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of uncertainty. Seeing the building up close lent an entirely new perspective than when viewed at distance from the road. It certainly had the air of neglect, but it still radiated the feeling of a strength not found in this day and age.
Like commandos, we stealthily made our way to the front entrance. This wasn’t necessary for the tall oak trees that surrounded the mansion, to say nothing of the massive number of vines the covered not only the trees, but the house itself, hid any view of the entrance from the road.
As we approached the entrance, I found what I expected; the huge doors were chained and secured with a massive padlock.
“Okay, what do we do now?” Brian asked.
I answered, “No problem. Didn’t you notice all the tall broken windows that we walked past on the first floor? We just break them a little more, and we’re in.”
I could read a great deal of apprehension in Brian. I felt the same, but I was also the one who started this whole thing, and I was determined to see it through. Looking back, you might say good sense was replaced by pride.
We walked around the structure, and before long, found a window destroyed by a fallen branch. We cleared the debris away from the window, and there was our entrance.
The gloom was overpowering, even though it was day. A feeling of dread overcame me, but I had to go on, I was the one that initiated this adventure. Dust lay heavy on the floor and every other surface.
Brian whispered, as if he were in a church or a library, “Pat, this just doesn’t feel right. I don’t think we should be here.”
I answered, “Brian, it’s the middle of the day. Bad things happen only at night, and that’s in the movies. This is real. Let’s go explore.”
We had entered through the dining room, and soon found a massive wooden staircase, decrepit but for the most part intact, leading to the upper levels. Along the way we left our tracks in the dust. It was obvious that no one had been in this house for a very long time. I’m not sure if this allayed or enforced our feeling of discomfort upon entering the structure.
We carefully crept up the staircase, singularly, testing each step before applying our full weight. Surprisingly, the stairs were in good condition, having no trouble accepting our tread, which seemed unusual at the time, but later the reason would become crystal clear.
The landing on the second floor was also intact, along with the long hallway containing six closed doors. Upon trying the doors, we discovered the bedrooms beyond were just a mass of rotten floors and collapsed ceilings. It was evident, also, that many of the gabled rooms and roofs had completely deteriorated, collapsed onto the bedrooms, yet mysteriously, the structure maintained some integrity. As I mentioned earlier the first five bedrooms, we examined were all but destroyed with the above gabled rooms and roof collapsing in on them and becoming victims of the elements. Then we opened the door to the sixth bedroom, and much to our surprise, found the room to be dust covered but intact.
Somehow, the last bedroom we entered had escaped the ravages of time. The walls, although lined with rotting bookcases, appeared strong as well as the floor. This room must have contained a massive library. I could only imagine the magnificent books these now decrepit shelves must have contained. The wall opposite the window contained a massive fireplace, still appeared to be able to welcome a warming fire. Dust was heavy on the floor, but the room was unusually sound. Neither one of us could understand how this room had survived while the others had become decayed.
Brian said, “This place gives me the creeps. Why is this room okay? What is that all about? Let’s get the hell out of here, I’ve seen enough.”
“Okay, Brian, I guess we’ve seen enough up here. Let’s go back downstairs and explore the first floor. That should be much safer and less scary.”
We made our way down and began to explore, I must say, with a great deal more confidence. The only room we had examined so far was what we thought to be the dining room, which when we exited, allowed a view of the staircase. Directly off from the dining room, we entered a large room that must have been the kitchen. A wing off the dining room contained a room lined with decaying bookshelves, which we assumed was a library or study. Another door of the dining room led toward the front of the mansion. That was where we found a massive room, which we imagined must have been the living room where a multitude of guests could be entertained. It was also there that we made a discovery that will haunt me all the days of my life, and I’m sure, cost Brian his.
Brian whispered, although there was no need to, “I’m getting out of here. This place is way beyond creepy.”
I assured Brian we would leave soon, but for some reason, I wanted to explore this room. The room, of course, was empty upon first inspection. Then we noticed a massive fireplace that nearly filled one wall, and above the mantle was a portrait. This was the only remnant of decoration or furniture that remained.
Above the fireplace was the portrait of a young woman. She appeared to be in her early twenties and of rare beauty. She had raven hair made-up in an extreme hairdo of bygone times. Severe was her dress, a dress buttoned high up to her slim neck, but none of these trappings could conceal her beauty. We were both drawn to the painting.
In the painting, the girl stood to the left, while to the right, in the distance, was the very mansion we were now in as it appeared in its glory days. Between the girl and the mansion was a great looming storm. Massive grey clouds swirled through the sky, yet the girl appeared unconcerned. The storm gave the painting an ominous feeling.
Brian said, “She must have been so hot. Who do you think she was?”
I studied the painting, and said, “I’m sure she was important to the owner.”
As we made a closer inspection of the painting, we found that it was not hung over the fireplace, but rather, attached to the wall. We both tried to move it without success.
Brian again whispered, “Shit man, this is beyond creepy. This place has been gutted, for who knows how long, of everything but this picture. What’s that about?”
I answered, but not with a valid explanation, “For the obvious reason, asshole. You can’t get it off the wall. The important question is: why can’t we get it off the wall?”
We left the mansion the same way we entered. But the image of that beautiful girl was hauntingly burned into my mind. Later, I would find she had also made a lasting impression on Brian.
I went home thinking of the mansion and the beautiful girl I had seen in the painting. Perhaps I thought about her a bit too much. For that night, I had a dream that would become the nightmare of my life.
In my dream, I returned to the mansion, but it appeared as it had existed in the past. The structure was gleaming white and not overgrown with vines. The roof was intact and not crumbling in on itself. It was solid and secure. There was a large fence made of iron stances separating the property from a dirt road. The massive expanse between the house and the road was a magnificent green. Then before my eyes night rapidly fell. The mansion was dark with the exception of one room on the second floor, one of the bedrooms. I knew from the location of the light that it was the very room that Brian and I found to be somehow preserved. I soon discovered the reason it was so immaculately intact, but not why.
I suddenly found myself in the bedroom I observed light from the lawn. The fireplace contained a welcoming fire. All around the room candles were lit, offering a mellow glow and the feeling of peace. Opposite the fireplace was a large, canopied bed with the covers turned down. The remainder of the room was filled with what I considered antique furniture. But what do I know.
From a door to the right of the canopied bed, a door slowly opened. I cannot describe the fear I felt at that moment, even though it was just a dream.
From the opened door stepped the young woman from the portrait hanging below. She was barefoot and wore a diaphanous nightgown. Her raven hair was down around her shoulders. Clear were her beautiful breasts and rose-red nipples. My eyes traveled down the gossamer fabric to the black thatch of hair between her legs.
She beckoned me with lovely, outstretched arms and an alluring smile. I felt myself become hard and could not wait to enter those welcoming arms.
As I stepped forward eagerly, my feet tangled, and I fell to the carpeted floor. That act of clumsiness saved my life, but for how long I don’t know.
Before my eyes, the air around the beautiful girl wavered; before my eyes stood a monster backed by time. If there is a hell, this demon was one of its residents. Her delicate hands grew talons, and her body became an obscene visage. I backpedaled out of the room, and once clear of the door, ran for my life.
That was when the dream ended.
I awoke the next morning with a start, tangled in my sheets, fully remembering the wonderful dream that soon became a nightmare. The welcoming sight of my bedroom offered the feeling of safety and security. Those sensations were fleeting, for I immediately knew something was terribly wrong. My feet ached.
Upon inspection, I found that they were blackened, bruised and cut. A cold chill went through my body as I realized the dream was perhaps not a dream. I knew what I had to do.
* * *
I dressed and had a quick breakfast, and then set out for the local historical society. Our town isn’t very large, and the mansion stood on such a large piece of property that I was certain there some knowledge of the place’s history must be recorded.
As I entered the research section, I was approached by a woman who appeared to be in her thirties. Otherwise, the area was empty. She said, “I’m Marjorie Factor, head of research for the most part, I am research. How can I help you?”
I told her about the mansion. “I’m curious about the history of the place. And why the property was never sold.” To my surprise, she knew exactly the piece of property I was talking about.
“You’re talking about the old Brewster place. We do have information on the history of the place. It was quite a magnificent piece of property, in its time. I’ll show you where to find the documents, but after you have studied them and want more information, I suggest you return them tomorrow. That’s when our volunteer, Elizabeth McConnell, will be working here. She is in her late eighties and knows more about the area than anyone I’ve met around here. She can fill you in about the Brewster Manor legend. She was told about the legend by her mother, who lived into her nineties. Her mother, Florence, worked as a maid for Nathaniel Brewster. Florence was present when the seeds of the legend were sown.
“I’ll show you what records we have, but if you’re interested, I strongly suggest you come back tomorrow and speak to Elizabeth. Depending on how much detail you want, she can tell you things that have never been recorded.”
Marjorie led me to a basement room lined with file cabinets. She said, “Our material is referenced by year and subject. I suggest you begin with the name, Brewster. Enjoy your research.” She then left me to my work.
I quickly found a heavy file with the heading, Brewster. I brought the file to one of the tables provided, sat down with my pad and pen, and began reading.
Nathaniel Brewster made a fortune in building railroads. There was a long article about his background published in 1869, when he moved to this area. He was then in his forties and a bachelor. Brewster said, in an interview, that he was married to his work. But the next article indicated that was about to change. The article was an engagement announcement of Mr. Nathaniel Brewster to Miss Amy Douglas. The article was accompanied by a picture of the couple.
Brewster looked like a man who was accustomed to being the one in control. He appeared intense, with piercing eyes, not one you would want to cross. Amy was a beauty. She had black hair and looked to be in her early twenties. She strongly resembled the girl in the portrait we discovered in the mansion. Could she be the same woman in the painting?
Further article described Brewster’s business success. Then, in an article dated 1871, there was a piece talking about the beginning of construction on Brewster Manor, designed by a famous architect. The building of Brewster Manor was apparently a major point of interest in the community.
I soon came to nearly the end of the file when I discovered a shocking piece of information about the Brewsters. At the back of the file were three small articles, folded, that could easily be missed. One was a birth announcement, and one an obituary filed on the same day. Amy had died giving birth to her daughter, Sarah.
The final article was the obituary of Nathaniel Brewster. He lived more than twenty years after his wife, Amy, died. His wife was mentioned in the obit, but there was no mention of a daughter. I felt this was very strange and was certain I would return tomorrow to learn the Legend of Brewster Manor and try to make some sense of my mysterious dream.
After gathering my notes and returning the Brewster file, I went to find Marjorie. She was stationed at her desk; she looked up and asked, “Did you find what you wanted?”
I answered, “Yes and no. I would really like to talk to your volunteer about the legend of the mansion. When will she be in?”
“Come tomorrow after ten. I’ll let her know if you want to talk to her. I’ll tell you; I think she would be anxious to talk to you about the residence.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
* * *
The next morning, while I sat eating breakfast, my mom received a phone call. She turned to me while she held the phone, “Its Brian’s father. Brian’s parents are frantic. He went to sleep last night, and everything appeared normal. Now he’s gone. They haven’t a clue as to where he may have gone.
“Do you know anything about where he may have gone? Did he say anything?”
“I haven’t seen Brian for a few days,” I answered. “And the last time I did see him he was fine.” But as I talked to my mother, I could not help but wonder if Brian had had the same dream. What had I set in motion with my curiosity?
My mother was still on the phone when I left for the historical society. It was not ten yet, I just needed to leave the house and be alone with my thoughts. I thought about prospects that were unbelievable, unthinkable, that couldn’t possibly happen.
I entered the historical society a little after ten and proceeded to Marjorie’s desk. Sitting next to Marjorie was a frail old woman, whom, I was sure, was the volunteer that would answer my many questions.
As I came closer, I heard Marjorie say, “This is the young man I was telling you about, Elizabeth. He was researching the old Brewster place, and I told him you could give him more detail, and about the legend.”
The old woman stood and came around the desk to shake my hand. At first sight, she appeared frail, but that was deceiving, for she had a firm grip and pale blue eyes that twinkled as those of a younger woman. With a determined walk she led me down to the research area.
As we walked, she said, “It’s most unusual that anyone is still interested in Brewster Manor, especially such a young man as you. May I ask why you want to know about the place?”
“Well,” I said, “I’ve noticed the place since I was a small kid. I just wanted to know more about it.”
Elizabeth suddenly stopped. “You haven’t been in there have you, son?”
My silence answered the question.
“Oh dear,” Elizabeth said, “This is not good. This is trouble. I’m probably the only one who knows the legend of Brewster Manor, and surely the only one that knows it is more than a legend.”
We approached a reference table and sat opposite each other. The concern on the old lady’s face sent a chill down my spine. She began speaking quietly and would eventfully answer my questions and confirm my worst fears.
“As I’m sure you know, Brewster Manor was built by Nathaniel Brewster. He was a wealthy man and somewhat of a loner, that is, until he met his future wife, Amy.
“The local papers were full of their marriage and then the building of the mansion. Once the mansion was built, they hired a small army of servants, one of which was my mother. My mother’s name was Florence, and she was there when talk of the legend began. She, however, knew that at least some of it was not legend, but truth.
“Nathaniel and Amy moved into the manor. They were so happy. Nathaniel worshiped his wife. My mother overheard him tell Amy over and over how much she had changed his life and made him more human. In a short time, Amy became pregnant, and the couple could not be happier. Nathaniel looked forward to filling the mansion with children and having heirs to pass on his wealth. Those were the happiest days poor Nathaniel would ever have.
“Amy was a petite woman, and the baby grew to be quite large. This was the 1870’s and medical knowledge was not it is today. Amy died giving birth to her daughter, Sarah.
“Nathaniel Brewster was devastated, to say the least. A dark curtain settled over the entire household; one that would never lift.
“I don’t know if Nathaniel ever held his daughter. Her care was left to the servants. Nathaniel Brewster once again sought refuge in work, and as my mother told me, at nights in drink. He appeared, to my mother, to hate the baby. He held the infant responsible for his wife’s death.
Nathaniel kept the child a virtual prisoner in the mansion. She was not allowed to leave unless supervised. And it came to a point that she was not allowed to leave at all. Her teachers were brought in. They became her only window to the world. She became an avid reader and devoured books.”
“I found rotting bookshelves in what must have been her bedroom.”
After a nod, Elizabeth continued, “Baby Sarah went from infant, to toddler, to child with little input from her father. Then a strange change occurred. As Sarah reached her teenage years, Nathaniel took a sudden interest in his daughter, for she became the image of her mother. Nathaniel developed a love-hate relationship with her. In his twisted mind, he hated Sarah because she had robbed him of his wife, but he loved the image of his wife that Sarah had become.
“As Sarah approached her late teens, the resemblance she had to her mother was more than remarkable; it was eerie. Nathaniel had his daughter sit for a portrait. That painting was hung over the mantle in the main room.
“Then one night, things went horribly wrong. My mother said that Nathaniel was up late one night drinking, as was usually the case. She watched him stagger upstairs, and instead of going to his bedroom, he entered his daughter’s.
“No one knows exactly what happened that fateful night, but a terrible scream was heard throughout the house. In a few moments, Sarah came running down the stairs, her clothes in disarray. She ran out the front door and into the forest as Nathaniel Brewster shouted, ‘Damn you to hell. You took my wife and now offer me no pleasure.’
“Sarah was never seen again.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. This story was beyond horrible. So that’s whose portrait hung over the fireplace. “But that doesn’t seem to be much of a legend,” I said. “It’s just a horrible truth.”
“There you are right, young man; now the facts become legend. Nathaniel Brewster became a man existing on the border of insanity. He lived for two years after the incident with his daughter. His decline was rapid after those two years, alcohol was the most likely culprit. As finally he lay dying, the servants gathered around him. He had no close family.
“My mother was present when he shouted with his dying breath, “Sarah, protect my home.”
“Suddenly my mother, and all the rest of the servants, heard a loud thud that shook the entire mansion. No one could imagine what had happened. The next morning it was discovered that the portrait of Sarah Brewster no longer hung over the mantle but was attached to the wall. No matter how hard the servants tried, it was impossible to move.
“Distant relatives were located. They ordered the contents and the property sold. The only item remaining in the mansion was the portrait of Sarah Brewster. No one wanted to damage the wall while the mansion was for sale, and so it remained. I am told that it remains there to this day.”
The old woman was silent, looking at me intently. Finally, I answered, “It still does.”
Elizabeth shook her head, and said, “I was afraid it was still there, and that you saw it. This is where the legend begins.
“Many buyers expressed an interest to purchase the mansion, primarily for the property. The house had fallen into disrepair the twenty odd years since Amy’s death. Nathaniel showed no interest in preserving it while he lived there. The building was not worth the asking price, but the property was of great value. But the property was never sold.
“All the serious buyers just disappeared.”
Elizabeth sat quietly, and then said, “They all disappeared after examining the mansion, and the portrait of Sarah Brewster over the fireplace. The legend developed that somehow the mansion did not want to be sold; that Sarah protected it. Some of the locals think that it had something to do with the portrait and Nathaniel beckoning his daughter to protect his property. Eventually, buyers no longer came forward and all the locals in the area stayed clear of the mansion. The legend of the portrait was forgotten, and then you came along. I should mention that some have reported seeing a light in the upper floor. But that was surely a reflection of headlights, or the moon.
“Anything strange happen to you since you went exploring, son?”
I remained silent, and then told her about my dream and Brian’s disappearance.
Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to remain silent. She finally said, “I don’t know what you’ve started or where your friend is, but I don’t think you will see him again.”
She rose and made her way out of the room leaving me with my thoughts and fears.
* * *
Full of terror and doubts of the unknown I left for home.
It took me some time to muster my strength, but I decided that I must return to the mansion. No matter what the danger, I had to see the portrait of Sarah Brewster one more time.
Taking the same route as before, I once again stood gazing at the painting. I stared at the same lovely face in the foreground, but sudden movement drew my attention to the left of the figure. The gray storm clouds between the woman and the mansion to the right in the background began to stir.
I rubbed my eyes, hoping to remove the moving image, yet the clouds continued to swirl. Before my horrified eyes, images began to take shape within the clouds. Gray faces began to emerge. The closest to Sarah, over her left shoulder, was that of Brian. His visage was one of intense horror. Slowly, other faces were revealed in ever decreasing size leading to the mansion. Could these be the potential buyers that disappeared?
I shook my head in disbelief, and then noticed yet another change. Now Sarah was smiling, a smile that possessed an intense evil.
How could I ever explain what happened to Brian? Who would believe that he now resided in this torturous painting? I ran from the mansion knowing that in my dream, if I had not stumbled, my horrified image would be there too.
* * *
It’s been years now since I decided to explore that horrible structure. We’ve had heavy snow of late, and the weight of the snow has caved in the mansion’s roof. The mansion is dying. Perhaps once it is gone, those poor souls trapped will be freed. In the meantime, I fear my dreams.
THE END
January 4, 2024 at 3:27 pm
The inspiration for writing this short story, Second Chance, was from hearing those questioning the value of space exploration. They say, “Why send all that money into space?” If these folks are pure in their belief, they must reject all that our investment into space has provided. They probably don’t use cell phones, watch news broadcast from around the world, or watch weather reports. And don’t forget, space travel has given us Tang.
Second Chance was accepted for publication by Books To Go Now in November 2011, and by Separate Worlds in December 2013.
Second Chance
Richard Walsh, 95, relaxed in his backyard beach chair. The air was crystal clear; this was highly unusual for the smog, blown in from the coastal cities, often obscured the sky. He enjoyed this rare moment and felt at peace as he gazed at a host of constellations. Richard prided himself on being able to identify everyone visible in his piece of the sky. He chose to live in the desert, much to the dismay of his wife Molly, 80, to fulfil his passion for the universe.
They had married forty years ago and were beginning to feel their age. “Why can’t we live closer to Debbie?” Molly constantly asked.
He would answer, “We can fly to visit her and be there in less than two hours. I need the night sky for my studies. I need to be far away from the maddening city lights, but even here, the smog is a problem.” Secretly, he wished they could move farther from the pollution, but they were too old to begin life again in a new location.
Richard was a science writer and worked from home. As he gazed up at the stars, he would mutter, “Someday, man will make journeys into space that I cannot even imagine. That is where our future lies.”
###
Voyages eventually were made to the world’s moon, but Richard died before they were accomplished. The exploration of the moon was as far as space travel went. There were too many problems to tend to on the planet as the population continued to grow and resources were devoured.
GENERATIONS LATER
Dr. Gregor Adomski, with his bushy eyebrows and lion’s mane of gray hair, was an astronomer. At age seventy-three, he had never lost his child-like amazement with the universe. He was an advocate of space exploration. However, there wasn’t a government on the planet that would spend the money to make the jump into space. For generations man pondered the end of their world, the fact that their world would someday cease to exist was known. Scientists could predict cosmic events, but they had little influence on how the information was incorporated in future practices of governments. Those decisions were more of a political nature and science had no place in politics.
Adomski also noted a growing trend. Due to the planet’s growing population, weather conditions had deteriorated during the last fifty years. These changes resulted in massive crop failures and a ‘once in a century’ storm became a common occurrence. Turning to his assistant, Dr. Jeff Farber, Adomski said, “Our world cannot continue on this course. Civilization is on a downward spiral. We still have time to take action to ensure the survival of our society, but will we? Man was meant to explore the universe, to push the limits of his existence. Perhaps future generations can reach distant planets of solar systems that have yet to be discovered. Time is of the essence. We must act now or accept our fate.”
Jeff shared Adomski’s concern. The planet’s doom loomed in the distant future. Yet, most of the planet’s inhabitants were too occupied in their daily lives to care about an event that would not occur for thousands of generations. The average person thought, Why should I care about what happens in the distant future when I need to feed my family now?
Satellites were launched. Their purpose was to monitor weather and improve communications of the planet, not as stepping stones for space travel. Jeff hoped that someday space exploration would begin. But his heart told him it would not be so; the planet was consumed by too many problems to make precious resources available for space exploration. When he went home and shared his concerns with his wife, Janet. She only reinforced the population’s mindset.
She would say, “Why do you need to worry about something so distant when there are so many problems facing the planet here and now? I just don’t understand your priorities.”
Jeff recently visited a farm; most of the population of the planet was encouraged to do so to see how the governments were staying ahead of any crisis. The tour was led by Stuart Gromley, more of a scientist than a farmer, gaining the knowledge necessary to provide the food needed by the ever-expanding population.
Gromley began his tour, which would be short, for in reality, farms no longer existed, land was too precious, to grow crops greenhouses the size of skyscrapers was used. Through enhanced fertilizers and crop genetics, what would have taken thousands of acres to grow took just one acre of land. Farms went vertical. Gromley was proud of his farm and said to the tour, “As you can see, not an ounce of precious soil is wasted. Hydro farming allows us to grow any crops we want with only water and chemicals. Healthy food is brought to your table with little drain on the planet.”
The hand of a young woman shot up.
Gromley muttered, “Shit, there always has to be one,” and then said out loud, “Do you have a question?”
“Yes,” she responded, “I have read papers stating that some of these chemicals used to produce our food can build up in our bodies and produce cancers.”
Gromley shared a secret thought that many of his profession shared, Honey, would you rather die now of starvation or die later of cancer? But no one ever said this out loud.
Gromley held his temper and said, “Studies are still ongoing to see if these claims are true. Our research, thus far, has not proven any of these claims.” He did not share the fact that the research was nonexistent.
Overall, however, science improved and extended the lifespan of the world, and the population lived longer. Those in power concentrated on the immediate, as for the distant future, science would always find a way to solve the world’s problems.
TEN THOUSAND GENERATIONS LATER
Adomski and Farber were long dust. The fears they shared for the planet were forgotten.
Laws were passed by the most technologically advanced nations and space travel was ignored in favour of improving the condition of humanity. As these decisions were made, scientists on the planet predicted the maximum population the planet could support. Centuries since that prediction, the population of the planet soared to double that prediction. Yet, with further advances in technology, life continued. However, turmoil broke out on the planet. The more advanced countries continued to live fairly well, but the third world countries were in chaos. These circumstances reinforced the opponents of space exploration in favour of helping the people.
After dinner, Alex Reed, an expert in population dynamics, went to his study and quietly closed the door, blocking out the sounds of his children at play before their bedtime. He did this more and more often to turn on his computer and review the history of his planet and the dreams of space exploration attributed to the writings of Dr. Adomski and a host of the scientist that came along after his death. They all shared the hope that exploration of the universe would go forward and save the species.
Reed was both a scientist and an intellectual. He studied the great accomplishments made in art and literature going back thousands of years, but as a scientist, he knew that at some distant day it would all be destroyed. “All of this will be nothing but cinders,” he said to no one there. “All these magnificent accomplishments of the planet will be lost. Is it too late to think about the preservation of mankind’s history, of the great works produced?”
Reed remembered well the warnings Dr. Adomski had postulated and could not believe how self-centered the people of the planet had become. Even now, with the time of its demise calculated, the population remained uninterested in space exploration. He reasoned that he was only a scientist and had no power over the decisions that determine the destiny of the planet. Elected officials made policy and the rest of humanity, relying on their intelligence, would have to accept the judgement. Election and power were more important than reality.
EIGHTY THOUSAND GENERATIONS LATER
The planet was populated beyond belief. Every acre of land had hundreds of residents and resources were being stretched to the limit. When all the land was occupied, floating cities were constructed. It was not long before the entire surface was in use, reducing the planet to a seething cauldron of toxins and waste. Conditions had been deteriorating for many thousands of years, but they now accelerated to astronomical proportions. Food riots had begun and, more frequently, water riots. As predicted, the sun was getting brighter and spontaneous fires erupted, destroying vast areas and populations. The world was one large metropolis and there was nowhere to run; nowhere to escape the final result.
President Addis, leader of half the planet’s population, summoned top scientists for a conference to discuss the world’s future. The president sat patiently and listened to their talks.
Most were the same, full of hope, yet unable to dictate a plan that would save man.
In attendance was Dr. Scious Minori. She was the world’s leading authority on the state of the planet; the president listened to her speech. The message was most disheartening.
She began by saying, “My presentation will be brief. Our planet, our species, is doomed. I see no hope for any intervention that can alter the future. Our resources are stretched beyond the ability to support the population. Our future will be nothing but turmoil.
“The planet is beyond repair. There are no errors in the calculations. In approximately twenty thousand years, the sun in its death throws will engulf our world. Until then, our existence will be that of a constant conflict. The only peace our people will know is at the end of our existence.
“We have waited too long to ensure survival of our species and all the life that inhabits our planet. Now, it is not possible to journey into space, even though there is time. At this point, to build a facility for space exploration would displace hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of people. On the entire planet, there is no room for such a center for space exploration. We are at a loss to save our civilization.”
The president, however, missed one presentation that shared a glimmer of hope for the future, not for the planet but for the species, and provided statistics that speculated the proposition that Homo sapiens was not doomed. It was held in a small room with seating for less than thirty. The speaker was Dr. Fermi Rialtos, a bacteriologist. The presentation was so esoteric that it was not considered worthy of the president’s attention.
There were only ten scientists in the audience.
Dr. Rialtos began his talk by saying, “The bacteria I primarily study is E. coli. One of the purposes in my use of these bacteria was the study of evolution. The benefit to studying these organisms is that one can observe thousands of generations in a short period of time. “I inoculated twelve flasks of bacteria and studied them for 30,000 generations with the E. coli exposed to identical conditions through the course of the study. At the conclusion of the experiment, I analyzed the genetics of all twelve flasks. Their pattern of development was identical.
“I feel this demonstrates that evolution is not random. Given similar conditions, life will progress in a similar manner.
“I am also something of an amateur astronomer. There are hundreds of stars, around which planets have or are presently forming. The attributes of some of these planets are similar to our planet, millions of years in the past.”
Dr. Rialtos went on to describe the conditions on some of these recently discovered planets. “One planet I have been studying is very young, a mere neophyte, but I think there may be a possibility that it will someday harbour life. The star it orbits is slightly larger than our own sun, making their years slightly longer, but the planet’s position is a close approximation to that of our own world in relation to our sun. I feel it may be capable of supporting life, but it is only one of possibly thousands that we have discovered in the universe. Perhaps our civilization will be replicated in the cosmos with more lasting results”
He finished by saying, “Embrace your children every day and enjoy the life you have.”
###
Toward the end of their world, the population prayed to the God they believed would save them. But God had other plans.
###
The end of civilization was not pretty.
In the distant past, it would have been survival of the fittest. But now, thanks to globalization and shared technology, all populations of the planet were on an even footing. Equals fought equals to the death to exist. And in the end, as the sun spent the last of its life-giving force, the last of the species perished.
###
On a planet millions of light-years away, backyards were full of people looking skyward, straining to see the star-like light racing across the heavens. The year was 1957.
Tim Riddell, age five, stood outside with his parents. His father, Eli, told him what to look for and where to look. As they watched, the Riddell family could hear voices all around them as neighbours also looked to the heavens.
This was an historic event. It was the first of its kind. Earth was being orbited by a man-made machine.
Tim began to shout, “I see it! I see it!” and his small arm pointed skyward.
All around people also began to point and shout, “There it is!”
Liz, Tim’s mom, said to no one in particular, “I feel so exposed.”
Eli smiled and said, “Tonight, I want to be your Sputnik.”
The space race was on. Sputnik made history for the U.S.S.R. Later, after many embarrassing attempts, the U.S. also launched a satellite. The race would last for decades and initiate Earth’s journey into space.
###
The year was now 2093, and the advances in science and space travel were beyond belief. Those who stood in their backyards gazing up at the sky in 1957 only witnessed the beginning. Science and mankind had developed a propulsion system that enables man to visit the closest neighbouring solar system. At the same time, great advances were made in astronomy with platforms installed in deep space.
One day, Dr. Theo Thurber was monitoring one of the platforms when alarm bells began to ring indicating an event worthy of study. He rushed to his monitor in time to witness the beginning of the death of a distant star. The bright glow of its passing lasted for weeks, and then slowly dimmed and disappeared.
After the initial observation, Dr. Thurber dictated into his records, “Witnessed the death of a distant star two million light years away. Nothing unusual. This is not a significant event.”
Thurber could not know that a distant civilization had come to and end.
© Copyright 2013 Walt Trizna. All rights reserved.
January 2, 2024 at 8:16 pm
A writer’s group I once belonged to would celebrate Christmas at an Italian restaurant. The place had a unique room called the Pope’s room. It was a large circular room with a domed ceiling and had a large circular table and the walls were covered with pictures of past popes. In the center of the table was a bust of Pope John II. We needed a large room for there were often ten or more of us in attendance. The domed ceiling made for a unique feature. What was said on one side of the room, in a soft voice, could easily be heard on the opposite side. That phenomena gave birth to this story.
DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR? was accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in October 2007.
DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR?
W___ was known for his stories of murder and mayhem. Tales of ghosts and monsters were his claim to meager fame. As member of a writers’ group, he enjoyed sharing his twisted stories with the group and the support they provided. But how could they know, imagine, that the stories, born in his twisted mind, would someday become reality. W___ would carry demons within his mind. Even his wife did not know the visions, the “truths” that journeyed through his muddled brain.
It was during November’s writers’ meeting that the group leader, S___, announced, “In place of our December meeting, I suggest we meet for a holiday dinner. It will be a chance to relax and prepare for the year’s writing ahead.” The approval of the group was unanimous.
Reservations were made and the day of the dinner arrived. It was a rainy evening whenW___ set out for the restaurant, the back-and-forth motion of the windshield wipers gave him a slight headache. He was one of the last to arrive, greeting his fellow writers; he took his seat next to S___. The room was a large room with a single circular table at its center. A curious aspect was the room’s ceiling. It was domed with a most unsettling feature. From one side of the room conversations, even in the softest whisper, were conveyed to the opposite side of this domed affair.
As the meal was served, W___ looked across the table to C___ and G___, deep in conversation discussing light matters. Suddenly, the conversation changed. To his disbelief, W___ heard them plotting his murder. A conversation manufactured in his brain. He clearly heard their voices discussing every detail. W___ sat in disbelief while those about him laughed and shared stories. His friends asked if there was anything wrong, for he was visibly shaken. “I’m fine,” he replied and left the restaurant to make plans of his own.
January arrived and it was time for another meeting. S___ was the last to arrive. “I have terrible news. C___ and G___ have met with horrible accidents. They are both dead.”
The group sat there in shock. Disbelief was soon followed by sounds of sorrow and grief.
The year swiftly went by. It was a good year with many of the members being published. Once again, at the November meeting, S___ announced the plans for a Christmas dinner. The site would be the same as last year.
W___ once again made his way to the restaurant, this time during a light and peaceful snow. He greeted his friends and took his place. Once again, he could hear the whispered conversations from across the room. And once again he heard his murder being plotted, this time it was T___ and B___ who made the fiendish plot. Once again two members of the group were visited with horrible and fatal accidents.
January found the group deep in sorrow once more. That was five years ago. And for each of those years, a Christmas dinner was held and shortly after, two more members met their demise.
Christmas neared once again, but there would be no Christmas dinner, for the only members remaining were W___ and S___. A creature of tradition, W___ reserved the domed room for his private dinner. There he sat, alone with no whispering conversations to fill his head. He gazed around at the empty seats when his ears perked. There were voices plotting his murder. Looking out at the overflowing restaurant, he saw a young family that he was sure was plotting his end. A fiendish smile crossed his lips. His work was not yet done.
THE END
December 20, 2023 at 8:58 pm
The Reluctant Zombi was accepted for publication by Blood, Blade & Thruster, a print publication, in October 2006.
There is a story behind this story.
Blood, Blade & Thruster ran a contest to see which story they would publish according to which story received the most votes. I can’t remember, but the stories must have been published online for people to read and then to vote.
I told friends about the contest. My wife told her friends about the contest. Then our friends told their friends about the contest.
I won. That is why you are now reading this story.
After the story was published someone posted online that they thought my story should not have been published because winning a contest by number of votes was not a valid way to obtain publication.
I guess he should have had more friends.
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE
As Norman stumbled through the dank Haitian swamp, he groaned, “Willard, it feels so unnatural walking around with my arms outstretched, but I can’t seem to put them down. “I have an image to uphold.”
Willard, who was shuffling along, shook his head and sighed, “Of course it’s unnatural, you’re a zombie, damn it. And your image is history.”
Norman complained, “I didn’t ask to be a zombie.” With some difficulty, he swiveled his neck and surveyed the Haitian countryside.
Norman took in the landscape surrounding him. He walked through a village. It was nothing more than a few huts of mud and straw along a dusty road. Chickens pecked in the brush along the roadside. Chickens! For some reason their presence made him uncomfortable. “I really don’t want to be a zombie,” Norman muttered. He was a forty-year-old college professor, a dark-haired trim man who always dressed well. Now he was walking around covered in grime and dressed in rags.
Willard said, “If you didn’t want to become a zombie, you shouldn’t have run over the old voodoo woman’s chickens with your jeep. Was she ever pissed? She’s also the one that converted me into a zombie, but that’s another story.”
Norman looked at Willard and could not guess what he once looked like. Willard was pale, gaunt and dressed in rags. His age made undeterminable by his zombie state.
“As soon as you angered her, she began making one of her little dolls. She cackled while she worked. That is never a good sign. The doll is where your soul now resides.”
“I can’t believe this is happening to me, Willard. I came to Haiti to do research on Haitian religions. I am, or was, a respected and well-published anthropologist. Now look at me. I’m wearing rags and walking around like a…, like a …”.
“Zombie!” asked Willard.
“Just because I ran over a few chickens?”
“Um, Norman, they looked like chickens, but they weren’t. Nothing around the voodoo woman’s house is what it appears. They were once her enemies. She changed them into chickens, and you freed them from pecking for insects along the road for the rest of their lives. You ended their suffering. So naturally, in her anger, she turned you into a zombie. I am assigned to train all novice zombies. To instruct how to attack people, teach them what are the best parts to eat.”
Norman made a face at this remark.
“Now what?” asked Willard.
Norman sighed, “I’m a vegetarian. But I will eat dairy.”
Willard said with disgust, “There are no vegetarian zombies. And attacking the dairy section of a store is not going to do much for the zombie image.”
Norman grumbled, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do anything to detract from the zombie image. Give me a break.”
As the two zombies were arguing, Willard happened to glance over to the voodoo woman’s house. There she stood in the doorway. Willard could tell she was not happy.
She hobbled toward Willard and Norman, a waddling mass adorned with bones and beads. Her crown of thick dreadlocks made her appear as if some multi-legged beast was sitting on her head.
The old voodoo woman shouted at Norman, “I knew you be a troublemaker, with your fancy jeep and running over people’s property.”
Norman mumbled, “Sorry about the chickens.”
“You sorry all right. You be good and sorry real soon.”
The old woman produced her Norman doll, lifted the doll skyward, and began chanting in a low rumbling voice.
Norman’s soul returned to his body. He felt like his old self. He laughed with relief, then glanced up. Willard stumbled toward him; arms raised.
“Willard old buddy, we’re friends – right?”
Willard only growled and roared.
Norman looked desperately for an escape. On either side of him, zombies with ash-gray complexions staggered in his direction. He was surrounded.
The old voodoo woman said, “Here be my ‘children’, and they be hungry.” She cackled as the circle of zombies grew smaller and smaller around Norman.
From beyond the wall of the living dead, Norman pleaded, “Please, make me a chicken!”
THE END
December 18, 2023 at 7:12 pm
This story was accepted for publication by Nocturnal Ooze in November 2006.
THINK NO EVIL
I have always had an active imagination. If I had had the courage to put a bullet through my head when I first realized the consequences of my thoughts, you dear reader, would have more than five days to live. I suggest, for your own sanity, you put down this story. Now!
Consider yourself warned.
I used my vivid imagination to write works of science fiction and had some measure of success. I was no Ray Bradbury, but I was able to make a reasonable living with my novels with flashy covers showing alien worlds and their weird residents. The occasional scantily clad Earth females depicted on the covers didn’t hurt sales either. I would let my imagination run wild and my pen would follow. I do not know the true extent of the powers, but I fear I may have done some damage light years from Earth.
The first hint of my peculiar ability occurred a month ago. I visited a bagel shop early one morning, as was my habit, to avoid crowds. In my southeastern Pennsylvania community, three people constitute a crowd, four a mob.
I entered the store and found, and much to my satisfaction, I was the only customer. A husband and wife owned and ran the establishment. They were always there together.
I placed my order, and as I stood idly, a strange thought emerged. How easy it would be to rob this store at this early hour. I could write a mystery. It would be my first attempt at something other than science fiction. My mind was consumed with plotting the crime, and as I waited for my bagels, my thoughts set up the robbery scene. Seven days later, that store was robbed and the couple murdered.
What a strange coincidence, I thought, as I read the newspaper.
A few days after the robbery, I was driving along an interstate highway behind an old pickup truck. A ladder was propped up against the tailgate. I imagined the truck hitting a large bump in the road and the ladder being hurled from the truck and through the windshield of the car following. I switched lanes and forgot the vision.
Seven days later a horrendous accident happened, almost identical to the scene I imagined. It made the local news.
This time I was shaken. Was this just a second coincidence?
I tried an experiment. I pictured a week of continuous rain. We were under drought restrictions at the time, so I thought this would be an innocent and perhaps beneficial test. Exactly seven days later, the rains poured down and rivers overran their banks. I had forgotten about the rivers. Property was ruined. Lives were lost.
To avoid more damage, I went back to writing science fiction. Fiction that I ensured occurred far from this planet.
Then it happened. Two days ago, after I vowed never to conjure up stories about the here and now, I slipped. I was writing a story about an alien ship traveling through an asteroid belt. Before I knew it, my mind was picturing the asteroid that impacted the Earth some sixty-five million years ago causing the extinction of the dinosaurs. But God help me, my mind wandered and took another step. I wondered what the Earth would be like if an asteroid ten times the size of the one that killed the dinosaurs impacted the Earth.
We have five days left.
THE END
December 14, 2023 at 8:27 pm
A mellow ghost story.
Accepted by Bewildering Stories June 2007.
THE ANNIVERSARY
Julie Barber carefully made her way down the winding tree-lined dirt road to visit her next patient. The sun filtering through the ancient maples lining the road helped relax Julie and to mentally prepare her for the visit. Julie was a visiting nurse seeing oncology and hospice patients and she was now on her way to see Emily Taylor. She had been seeing Emily for three months now, with failure to thrive as the diagnosis, but Julie also knew that a healthy amount of dementia was mixed into the ninety-six-year-old patient’s milieu of symptoms.
As a young woman, Emily had been petite. Now, as an old woman, she was beyond frail. The black hair of her youth now formed a snow-white frame around her withered face.
It was a crisp January afternoon with the sky a brilliant blue. “God, I with Emily could enjoy this day,” Julie said. Emily was so sweet, and she had a special place in her heart for the old woman. She loved all the elderly patients she saw, enjoyed listening to their history and felt pride in knowing she made a difference in their final days.
As she drove, she viewed the peaceful winter landscape. The meadows were brown with dormant grass and the field stood barren waiting for the spring planting. Some would find little beauty in winter’s harsh scene, but Julie found each season special with its own qualities.
Julie parked on the circular gravel drive and walked up to the modest farmhouse that Emily Taylor had called home for so many years. There was not another house in sight, and the view went on for miles revealing the central Pennsylvania countryside. The homestead, surrounded by solitude set Julie thinking, The poor woman’s life reflects the scene that inhabits this place, she has been so alone for so long.
She walked up to the front of the house and used the brass knocker on the ancient wooden door to announce her arrival. The door opened and there stood Ruth, one of the twenty-four-hour caregivers who stayed with Emily.
“How’s my patient?” asked Julie.
“Oh, you know Julie. Ralph and the kids are set to show up anytime now and she’s so excited. Poor thing, I figure if this fantasy keeps her going; where’s the harm?”
Julie entered. The house was well over a hundred years old. A sturdy dwelling, it was a small two-story structure and had the feeling of ‘no show, just practicality’ rarely found in today’s houses. Upstairs were two bedrooms, one of which her patient hadn’t left for months. The first floor held a small cozy kitchen with a bathroom off to one side, the only part of the structure that was not original. A modest living room was entered from the front door. Julie trudged up the well-worn stairs to care for her patient.
As soon as he entered the bedroom, Emily smiled and said, “How are you my dear? You know Ralph and the girls will be here soon. I can’t wait to see how much the girls have grown, although they never seem to change. And Ralph, he’s always as handsome as ever. How’s your husband?”
Julie responded, “Emily, don’t you remember? I don’t have a husband.”
Emily said, “Then we should find you one. Husbands and children are why we were put on this Earth. That’s what life is all about. You are so young and so pretty, my girl. We must find you a husband.”
They talked a while more, and then Julie began to care for her patient. She took Emily’s vitals, and then tended to the bedsores she had developed. As Julie packed her nursing bag, she said to Emily, “I’ll see you next week. I’ll be here Tuesday; she didn’t mention the date. The fact that it would be January 28th might disturb the old lady. But more likely, it would have no meaning at all.
Julie walked to the bedroom door and said, “You take care, Emily. I’ll see you next week.
Emily answered, “I have company coming next week. My family will be here for a visit.”
Ruth was outside the door and heard everything. “Poor thing,” she said, “all alone in the world. With her family gone all these years, I don’t know what makes her hold on like she does. She’s so alone. She’s outlived all her close relatives. No one visits the poor thing.”
“I know,” said Julie. “The only pleasure she gets is in her fantasies. And if that gives her joy, who are we to disturb it?”
Julie left the farmhouse and retraced her route down the rutted dirt road to visit her next patient.
* * *
Shortly after beginning to care for Emily Taylor, Julie approached the social worker assigned to her case. In Emily’s bedroom, Julie could not help but notice a host of family pictures. There were pictures of Emily as a young bride embracing a young dark-haired man, her husband Ralph. Other family photos showed Julie and Ralph with a baby, then more pictures with a toddler and another baby. There were photos tracing the two girls growing and Emily and Ralph growing older. The most recent picture was Ralph and Emily in their forties, with two girls about to reach their teenage years. Julie enjoyed learning the history of her patients so she could communicate better with them. What she learned of Emily’s past saddened her deeply.
“Diane, would you mind if I asked you some questions about Emily Taylor? She’s such a sweet old woman and I know she has no living close relatives. I was wondering what happened to her family in the photos.”
Diane replied, “I see you’ve noticed all the photos in her bedroom. Who could help but notice them? The little old lady’s future of a life with her family was robbed from her so many years ago. Her husband and two daughters were killed. Since then, she has lived part of her life in a world of fantasy where her husband comes to visit, and her children never grow old.
“It was in the mid-fifties when the Taylor family could afford their first new car. It was a black and white Chevy. It was January 28th, 1954, when Ralph went to pick up his new vehicle…
The door slammed and Ralph walked into the small, warm kitchen. The smell of a roast filled the air. Emily was in an apron stirring a pot on top of the coal stove.
“Emmy,” said Ralph, joy filled his voice, “let’s go for a ride.”
“Ralph, I’m cooking dinner. Anyway, the roads are full of ice from the last storm.”
“I know Emmy, but I made it home just fine. Our car will be new only once. Where are the girls?”
“They’re upstairs doing their homework. For God’s sakes, the car doesn’t even have a heater.”
“No problem,” answered Ralph, “we’ll grab a few army blankets. They’ll keep you and the girls warm just fine.”
“You just can’t stay away for that car?” Emily said.
Ralph approached Emily and said, “That’s not all I can’t stay away from.” He hugged his wife and his hands roamed the curves of her body.
“Stop it Ralph, the children.”
“Emmy, I guess you’ll have to wait for next time for your ride. I’ll take the girls and be back way before dinner.”
He shouted upstairs, “Who wants to go for a ride in our brand-new car?”
The two young girls came bounding down the stairs, shouting in unison, “Me daddy, me…”
Diane said, “There was a local farmer that was known to have a drinking problem. He was more wasted than usual when he got behind the wheel of his pickup that night.
“The two girls were in the back seat of the Chevy huddled in blankets. Of course, it was well before the time of seatbelts or airbags. The story goes Ralph was rounding a curve when he saw the drunken farmer coming at him. There was no time for him to react. The farmer was in Ralph’s lane and hit him head-on. Everyone was killed.
“Emily was alright for a while, as alright as anyone could be, then she lost it. She kept on talking about Ralph and the girls and how they came to visit. Gradually, all the close family she had died. She lives on that beautiful countryside; she lives in the past talking about her husband and daughters as if they were still alive.”
* * *
Tuesday arrived and it was time to visit Emily once again. Julie preferred to see Emily in the early afternoon, but she had an emergency visit and had to postpone Emily’s visit till the end of the day. As she drove the country road near dusk, she was aware of an unpleasant change. The desolation of the countryside was pronounced in a haunting way. The tree-lined road leading to her patient’s farmhouse now seemed bordered by lurking giants instead of the stately maples she had grown to love. The gray and colorless scene was nothing like the colorful landscape she had grown to love.
Julie knocked on the farmhouse door. Ruth answered immediately.
“Julie, Emily doesn’t look so good. Hurry!”
As soon as she entered the bedroom, Julie could see that Emily was dying. Her breathing was shallow and her complexion gray. Julie took her vitals and shook her head. Emily’s eyes were closed.
Julie said, “Emily, can you hear me?”
In a soft, weary voice, Emily replied, “Julie, I’m so tired. Could you comb my hair? Ralph and the girls will be here soon.”
With tears in her eyes, Julie complied. After finishing, she said, “You look beautiful Emily. Ralph and the girls will think you’re so lovely.”
As she was leaving the farmhouse, Julie said to Ruth, “I doubt she will last the night.”
Ruth and Julie said their good-byes and Julie began walking to her car. As she slid into the driver’s seat, she noticed a faint glow amid the fading light of the darkened countryside. The light held close to the road and followed its twists and turns. The closer it came to the farmhouse, the brighter it became. As the light entered the driveway it gained definition. Soon it morphed into a very old car. Julie froze not knowing what to expect next.
The driver’s door of the specter opened and out stepped the glowing figure of a man. Julie recognized him immediately. It was Ralph. The back doors opened and out bounded two little girls.
Julie was cemented in place, afraid to move, afraid to think. Then the hairs on the back of her neck stood as she heard the shimmering figures of the girls call, “Mom, come on Mom. It’s time to go for a ride.”
Movement near the front door caught Julie’s eye. A glowing figure emerged from the farmhouse. Julie immediately recognized the young Emily Taylor as she appeared in the final family photo.
The youthful Emily walked towards her daughters. She held them close and kissed them. The girls responded with giggles and shouts of joy. Then Emily went to her husband. There was a long embrace and Julie thought she could hear weeping.
The four apparitions climbed into the old car and disappeared down the country road with the glowing specter of the Chevy fading into the night.
THE END
December 6, 2023 at 3:28 pm
This is my first published story. Published by Enigma in 2003, a Philadelphia small publisher no longer is existence.
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 reenators 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.
November 23, 2023 at 8:00 pm
HE FLEW AWAY, A NEW PUBLICATION
I mentioned this in a past entry that I had my story, He Flew Away, accepted by Cemetery Moon.
It has now been published and I am providing a link if you should like to make a purchase. It’s been a long time since my last publication and my hope is this is only the beginning.
Check out the Cemetery Moon website, and if you are interested by a copy which includes my story.
Whatever you do, support writers. They are a voice during conflict as we are now suffering and a way to, however brief, enter the world of the mind.
http://www.fortresspublishinginc.com/index_files/cm.html
January 25, 2018 at 11:47 pm
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
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
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