Posts filed under ‘PUBLISHED WORKS’
ELMO’S SOJOURN: CHAPTER 2, ELMO’S ADVENTURE BEGINS
ELMO’S SOJOURN
CHAPTER 2
ELMO’S ADVENTURE BEGINS
As Mildred returned her thoughts to the present, she wondered if the lights dimming had anything to do with Elmo’s shouting. What she didn’t know was that the lights had also dimmed in most of that region of New York and most of eastern Canada. The electrical company had never experienced a power drain like this before and was struggling to get things under control.
Now, as she opened the basement door, Mildred wondered if perhaps all those years Elmo worked in the basement unsupervised was really a good idea. She peered down the stairs He began jumping like a little boy, not the seventy-five-year-old man that he was. “I don’t have a problem. I did it! I did it!” he shouted over and over.
“I completed my first experiment,” Elmo answered and pointed to the Plexiglas chamber. Through the mist Mildred began to detect a shape. At first she thought it was a large fire hydrant but then it began to move. The fire hydrant was mottled red and green with skinny arms ending in suction-cupped fingers. Its tiny legs also ended in suction cups. The creature’s mouth resembled a funnel, which constantly opened and closed. It was breathing.
The most peculiar aspect of this creature was its eye. It had only one and it blinked constantly. As Elmo and Mildred talked, the eye followed their conversation, traveling from one to the other, as the eye physically moved around the perimeter of its head. Mildred watched as the eye moved from one side of the thing’s head to the other. She giggled as she imagined a stadium full of these creatures following a tennis match but soon got control of herself. Actually, the single eye wandering all over the alien’s head was starting to give her the creeps.
“You can’t keep it,” she said.
Elmo responded, “I don’t want to keep it. I want to go back with it.”
“You’re kidding Elmo, and where did it come from anyway?” asked Mildred.
Elmo explained, “You see my dear, you and I and all living beings in the universe are a series of chemical reactions. The cosmos is one huge chemistry set. I thought that if there was a star, similar in size to our sun, and if there was a planet with a distance similar from that star as the earth is from the sun, that life might exist there. These days, astronomers are always discovering new planets revolving around distant stars. So, I just waited until one was discovered with the right conditions and aimed my time-space machine at that planet and the results are in the chamber. But notice how our friend can barely move his arms or legs. The gravity on his planet must be much less than it is on earth. I need to go back with him and see what it’s like.”
Mildred shook her head. But she knew arguing with Elmo was useless.
“I’ll show you how to run the machine, but first get our camera,” Elmo said.
By the time Mildred found the camera and returned to the basement, Elmo had entered the chamber and had his arm around the visitor. Mildred took a picture, then another for insurance. Then Elmo exited the chamber to demonstrate the workings of the machine to his anxious wife.
“Okay dear, first you turn the machine on with this switch. Next, you turn this rheostat. To get him here, I had to set the rheostat to half maximum. To get us back, you’ll need to turn it to full. Give me about ten minutes and then bring me back.”
“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” muttered Mildred.
“Don’t worry Mildred, I’ll be back before you’re done cooking dinner.”
Elmo entered the chamber and Mildred followed his instructions. As soon as the rheostat reached max, there was a blinding flash, the chamber filled with a milk-white fog, and Elmo and the creature were gone. Shortly after they disappeared the lights in the basement went out.
Mildred sighed. “Oh Elmo, you may be gone a little longer than you expected,” she muttered and climbed the stairs to fix dinner.
What Mildred didn’t yet know was her town, the entire state of New York, along with most of the northeast, a good portion of the Midwest and a large part of Canada were also without power. Fifty million people were plunged into darkness. Elmo’s experiment had precipitated the largest blackout in history. He was going to be very very late for dinner.
ELMO’S SOJOURN: CHAPTER 1, CELLAR SCIENCE
ELMO’S SOJOURN
CHAPTER 1
CELLAR SCIENCE
“I have a problem! I have a big problem!” Elmo shouted from his cellar laboratory. Mildred shook her head, wiped her hands on her apron and headed for the basement door. After fifty years of marriage, Elmo never ceased to amaze her at the trouble he could get into.
“Could he garden like other men his age? Oh no, he has to do physics experiments,” Mildred muttered as she walked down the cellar stairs.
* * *
They had moved into this rural house in Upstate New York ten years ago, right after Elmo had retired from his job at Los Alamo Laboratory. He was a physicist at the laboratory, part of a think-tank that planned experiments. But Elmo enjoyed the lab work too. He had accumulated a lot of ideas and discarded equipment. Mildred gazed out the window of her country home. Nearby, tall electrical towers obstructed some of the bucolic scenery, but Mildred liked the house just fine. Elmo brought along the junk he had accumulated over the years, mostly discarded apparatus from failed experiments, equipment useless to everyone except Elmo. The items included large magnets and four six-foot-tall Tesla coils, specialized high voltage transformers three feet in diameter and wrapped with miles of thin copper wire. They resembled giant candles, coming to a point with electrical connections at the apex. Elmo transported all this equipment into the basement and fiddled with it for years. He then had a large Plexiglas chamber built, which set them back a bundle. He stood the Tesla coils in each corner, then mounted the magnets in the floor.
The next step in the construction of Elmo’s experiment Mildred found most undesirable. Elmo told Mildred, “I’ll need a great deal of power for my research. Soon I’ll need your help making the electrical connections for the project I’ve been working on.”
A few days ago, a truck had delivered a huge spool of heavy insulated wire, another great expense, and now Mildred was getting a bad feeling. Once it was dark, Elmo emerged from the basement wearing rubber boots and heavy rubber gloves. “Get your coat Mildred, we’re going out.” The spool of wire was in the bed of Elmo’s pickup. They drove to the base of the nearest electrical tower and parked.
“What are you going to do Elmo?” Mildred asked in a voice full of apprehension and a touch of impatience.
“I’m going to climb the tower and connect this wire which you’re going to feed out,” came his reply. Mildred shook her head and wished Elmo would act his age.
After that illegal task was accomplished, Elmo spent most of his time in the basement tinkering with his invention. He called it his Time – Space Chamber, and when Mildred asked just what he was doing Elmo explained, “I’ve always thought that if I could create an electrical field, then move those electrons in a magnetic field to approach the speed of light, I could create a wormhole to a distant time and place. I could aim at the wormhole and transport matter. The secret is the size of the magnetic field. It must be small, not like the giant cyclotrons they construct in the desert.
All Mildred could say was, “If it makes you happy dear.” It kept Elmo out of her hair for years.
ELMO’S SOJOURN IS COMING
ELMO’S SOJOURN IS COMING
In the next series of posts, you will have the opportunity to read my novella, Elmo’s Sojourn.
Recently you were introduced to Elmo in my novella, Elmo’s Invention, in which he was a scientist working at Los Alamos. But his love for science did not stop when his day’s work was done. It never stopped. In that novella Elmo’s invention was a time machine. You can read past posts to see how successful he was.
In Elmo’s Sojourn, Elmo is now retired but his love for science has not ceased. Now his efforts are consumed with travel in space using wormholes. Follow Elmo’s adventures, and misadventures in the upcoming posts offering the novella.
Elmo’s Sojourn has quite a publication history. It was first accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories and was published online in 2006. Next, Mélange Books, publisher of my novel New Moon Rising, accepted the novella in 2010 and published it in a print anthology, Curious Hearts and as an eBook. Also, totally by accident I discovered that the first two chapters of Elmo’s Sojourn were published in China in an English language science fiction publication.
I hope you read the upcoming posts and enjoy the story.
NEW MOON RISING AND THE RING OF FIRE
NEW MOON RISING AND THE RING OF FIRE
The recent rash of earthquakes associated with The Ring of Fire has prompted this article.
My novel, New Moon Rising, published by Mélange Books had as its central theme The Ring of Fire. That novel is now out of print and Mélange Books no longer exists. But I have seen copies of my novel for sale on eBay and recently also saw it offered on Amazon along with three other of my published works.
The Ring of Fire is a highly active geological area of the Earth. And it was the source of my highly active imagination in the creation of my novel.
ELMO’S INVENTION: CHAPTER 13, THE FUTURE OF THE TIME MACHINE
CHAPTER 13
THE FUTURE OF THE TIME MACHINE
Kingsley continued.
“Then there are political races. Knowledge of the winner, prior to an election, would be devastating. It would result in a self-fulfilling prophecy. Why vote if the winner is known?
“The insurance industry would collapse. Insurers of property and life could look to the future and see which policies would cost them money, and how soon. Of course, all life insurance policies would eventually result in a claim but how soon would determine if it was worth issuing a policy.
“These are just a few of the instances where your machine could determine the present by knowing the future.
“Then there is the bigger picture. In science fiction, whenever someone travels into the past they make sure not to change a single thing. Step on a beetle and you could come back to a different world. But you see, even when you are traveling into the future you are trespassing on someone’s past.
“A traveler into the future could return with viruses and bacteria unknown to the world and cause world-wide epidemics. Or coming from the past could reintroduce diseases long eradicated, for which there is now no defense.
“I’ve been thinking about H.G. Wells book The Time Machine. Of course it was fiction, but the future looked dismal for mankind. When the time traveler traveled into the distant future the planet was inhabited by giant crabs. I know this is only fiction, but do we really want to know what the distant future holds?
“Elmo, I’m afraid the society of the world, as we know it, would not survive the impact your machine would produce. The change in the fabric of society would also be devastating and disruptive in the lives of you and Mildred. Devastating to all the world.”
Kingsley’s opinions carried a great deal of weight with Elmo. He sat in silence and then said, “All that work for nothing. I’m a failure.”
“No, you’re not. It’s just that your efforts could produce knowledge the world would be unable to handle. I know it isn’t much, but I’m proud of what you accomplished. Perhaps there will be a time when your time machine will serve a useful purpose, under strict control, but I’m afraid that time is not now.
“The final choice is yours, Elmo. I can only give you my advice and opinion.”
Kingsley then stood up, put his hand on Elmo’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, and walked upstairs. He saw Mildred in the kitchen. “I think Elmo needs to be alone for a while, but he also needs you.” Kingsley left and Mildred knew the discussion did not go well.
She waited and then walked down the cellar stairs. Elmo was wheeling his time machine to a corner of the cellar and covering it with a tarp. It now stood next to his transport chambers. Whenever he looked at those chambers a slight smile would wrinkle his face wondering at the location of the wandering teacup. Mildred walked up to her husband and gave him a hug and a lingering kiss.
He said, “Well, Mil, we won’t make our fortune off my time machine after all.”
Mildred responded, “I don’t need a fortune. All I need is you. It’s getting late. Let’s go to bed.”
They walked up the stairs and put out the cellar lights. In the darkened corner stood the time machine which someday might serve a purpose, but not now.
Elmo vowed to Mildred that he was done creating or even thinking about another invention. Never again would he waste his time on another useless project. But ‘never’ ended in 1995 with speculation of the existence of wormholes. The now retired Elmo could not get wormholes out of his mind. Think about how they could be used for space travel. He thought wormholes, dreamed wormholes. With pad and pencil in hand he began jotting down ideas and drawing sketches of an invention he, of course, would never produce. What would be the harm in dreaming?
THE END
This concludes my postings of Elmo’s Invention. I hope you enjoyed the novella and getting to know Elmo.
Soon I will begin sharing another novella featuring Elmo, Elmo’s Sojourn. In Elmo’s Invention you learned of Elmo’s interest in time travel. In Elmo’s Sojourn you will learn of Elmo’s interest in space travel.
Elmo’s Sojourn has quite a publishing history. Soon I will tell you about that history and give you some information about Elmo’s Sojourn.
ELMO’S INVENTION: CHAPTER 5, ELMO’S PRISON
But first, a message from my poet friend, Steve.
Local poet Steve Kupferschmid has published a poetry chapbook with Kelsay Books entitled “Weight of Water.” The thirty-one poems in the collection reflect upon the joys and sorrows of youth and age, of love and loss. Compact in form yet rich in imagery, this collection offers an enjoyable, memorable read. Available from Amazon or any bookstore.
I have heard my friend, Steve, read his poems and they call to mind the poems of Billy Collins. Poems which tell a story, but at the same time, have a deeper meaning.
CHAPTER 5
ELMO’S PRISON
When Kingsley rose, everyone looked in his direction. It was not unprecedented that he would speak at a meeting, but it was a rare occurrence. What Kingsley said to the group would usually solve the problem at hand. Elmo prepared to hear great things from Kingsley and gain insight on how to fix his machine.
After once again clearing his throat, whether to gain everyone’s attention or because he found talking to be an effort, no one was sure, he began to speak. “Elmo, you must be rewarded for your effort. Although you have not accomplished what you set out to accomplish, and perhaps never will, your invention could possibly change the course of society. I have no doubt that mankind will greatly benefit from your invention, if they choose to embrace its benefits is a different matter. Only time will tell.”
Elmo, along with the rest of the group, was both puzzled and full of anticipation.
Kingsley continued, “However, I am a mathematician and not an ethicist and cannot predict the consequences of your discovery.”
Elmo said, “I am totally lost. You say I have made a great discovery, yet at the same time say that its use will produce ethical problems.”
“That’s correct, Elmo. Your invention, in my mind, would be the perfect prison.”
Elmo, along with William and James, stared at Kingsley in total disbelief, and then slowly began to understand what he was saying.
After a few moments of deep thought, Harold Kinter voiced his thoughts to the gathering, “Of course, I can see it now. Elmo, your invention, though unintended, could do away with prisons as we know them. Year-long sentences could be served in a matter of minutes. It would save society millions of dollars and save prisoners from the dangers inherent in incarceration.
“Think of it! No matter what the length of a prisoner’s sentence, the punishment could be delivered in a matter of minutes. Your invention could funnel money into projects that benefit society and save prisoners from harm.”
They all looked at Elmo. His visage was one of disappointment and disbelief. “I meant my invention to be a time machine; instead, you say I invented the perfect prison. I failed.”
Kingsley stepped totally out of character and attempted to comfort his colleague. “Elmo, some of the greatest discoveries in the world were made by accident. Look at all the lives that were saved by the discovery of penicillin. If Fleming had not noticed that petri dish with mold and dying bacteria, who knows how long it would have taken for someone else to discover that life-saving antibiotic.
“Think of the value of your discovery, and someday I am sure that you will determine the principle behind the device. With your invention, no matter the length of a prisoner’s sentence it could be served in minutes with virtually no expense to society. And when it comes to a death sentence, your machine can accomplish that too, but a death sentence is a death sentence no matter how it is accomplished.
Then James Forsyth began to speak, “I can think of another question which requires an answer. After a prisoner serves his term in your machine, what is his mental state? Is his mind the same as it was before the prison term? Or does his mind age along with his body? Although I cannot imagine how the mind ages with the lack of experience.”
Elmo said, “I can think of no answer to the question of mind aging. I feel this can only be determined with the test of a human subject. But I must add I owe a great deal of gratitude for introducing important questions I had not considered.”
“Your device could save society millions, perhaps billions of dollars and funnel the revenue into efforts that would better society. Education, medical research, providing for the elderly and that is only the tip of the iceberg of what could be affected by this machine. But I fear there will be obstacles to this scenario which I cannot anticipate.
“You see, our society is inconsistent. It professes one set of values yet lives by another. We say how important education is, but we do not support it the way we should, not to mention that the key to education is parental input. We pay lip service to medical advancement, but do not fund the conjecture that could become reality. And when a discovery is made, many times it is beyond the reach of those who would benefit. We say we value the elderly yet turn away when we could make their final years more comfortable.
“I fear there will be great objection to your discovery but cannot anticipate the form it will take. Good luck, Elmo. You have a difficult path ahead of you.”
HE FLEW AWAY: A STINK BUG STORY
It wasn’t too many years ago that we were inundated with stink buts. A gift from Laos. Fortunately, birds developed a taste for these odorous insects and the plague of stink bugs disappeared. This story was written during the height of the infestation.
It was published by Cemetery Moon in 2116
HE FLEW AWAY
The stink bug invasion, a product of Asian commerce, spread across the east coast like a cancer. Now, more than thirty-three states suffered their scourge. At first, the insect was nothing more than a mild discomfort. Then, ever so slowly, the discomfort grew into a major irritant, and finally as time passed, a constant source of woe. It was in the winter that the insects would reach their maximum level as a life-changing hindrance. During cold weather they ventured indoors, landing in food, beverages and disturbing sleep-in infested bedrooms, waking those light sleepers with the sound of their flight, and the heavier sleepers when they landed. Residents of the blighted areas thought this was as bad as it could get, but matters were about to take place for the worse that no one had anticipated. The nuisance of the original invasion waned as birds developed a taste for the pest. But before that took place a new, more threatening aspect, replaced the mere nuisance.
One of the many sites of this transition from annoyance to terror took place at French Creek State Park. Located in rural eastern Pennsylvania, a landscape of thick forests and rolling hills, it was an ideal setting for those wanting to leave the cares of life behind and seek nature’s solitude. The location was also ideal for the mindless advances of the now predator insects to accomplish a horrible new phase of their existence.
Walt, along with his dog, Millie, sought out the peace and tranquility of the park one early October weekend. Walt said to Millie, as he filled his van with camping equipment, “I can’t wait to spend some time outdoors with my girl camping.” Millie, a lab mix, bounded around the car anticipating an upcoming adventure. She knew something was up, and as long as she was included, she was happy.
Setting out on a Friday afternoon, a short drive brought them to French Creek State Park.
Walt began setting up his campsite looking forward to a restful evening spent around a blazing fire. However, the tranquil mood changed when Saturday morning dawned with the horrible realization that the invasion of stink bugs in the forest was intense. Walt could not believe the magnitude of the stink bug population as he attempted to clear them from the picnic table so he could make his breakfast.
Millie sensed an ominous presence in the insect invasion, something her master could not. She growled and snapped at the pests knowing they were more of a threat than her master realized.
That morning, as Walt entered the camp bathroom he was shocked to see the walls black with stink bugs. To eliminate the vermin, he slammed his towel against the walls. But that accomplished nothing more than releasing a sickening stench. “Bad idea,” he, mumbled. “It can’t get much worse than this. Back home they haven’t shown up yet. Here, it’s a major invasion. They’re everywhere.” And Walt discovered a new aspect of the pests; they’re dive-bombing now, and biting. A few of them landed on him and immediately bit down, causing intense pain. The fellow camper entered the restroom listening to Walt complain and agreed with a nod of his head to his observations. He was afraid to open his mouth to respond, the insects were that dense.
That night the smoke of the campfire kept the little monsters at bay allowing Walt to enjoy the evening. Millie lay down by the fire but sensed a looming threat in the darkness.
Late Sunday night Walt’s friends, Sherrie and Jeff, arrived in their RV. The next morning, as Sherrie and Jeff witnessed the stink bug infestation, they agreed that this year’s plague of insects was the worst they’d ever seen. Walt tried to remain positive and commented, “It will be better when we go back home, away from the forest. Let’s try to enjoy our camping and ignore the little bastards.”
On their second full day of camping Walt’s friends decided to take Millie for a walk. “We won’t get lost this time,” they promised. The previous day, the trio hiked a totally unplanned six-mile marathon. Without map or compass, they set out for a short leisurely hike. At one point, after the humans realized how lost they were, while Millie enjoyed every turn in the trail, Sherrie asked an old-timer driving by for directions. Big mistake. They walked circles around the same landscape finally sure their local guide was suffering from dementia. Nothing of the directions he gave fit the terrain, and during the hike they were constantly bombarded by stink bugs. “I hope Walt has a fire going when we get back with plenty of smoke,” Sherrie said to Jeff. “Or else you and I are going straight into the RV.
While his friends decided on a hike, Walt hung back at the campsite to try and do some work. He was a writer at the beginning of his career. As he sat in this peaceful setting ideas fired through his mind. The current infestation of stink bugs added to strong possibilities of a story.
Sitting at the picnic table, Walt started to form the idea for a work of horror, lurking on the backburner of his mind for some time now. Working at the picnic table he was constantly brushing away stink bugs landing on him. He muttered, “The little pests are everywhere. We can’t leave this place soon enough to suit me,” a definite turn to his positive attitude. But even with the constant irritation of the insects, the warmth of the sun, and a restless camping night, he began nodding off and decided to rest his head on the table, for just a minute.
As Walt’s breathing grew more regular with sleep the insects returned, the first stink bug landed on his shoulder. Soon insects occupied his shoulders and back, joined by a swarm hovering and quietly settling down to join their comrades. Swarm after swam followed, creating a mass of hundreds of thousands of bugs.
Walt stirred as the insects began penetrating his body with their mindless journey to transition, molding his structure to their own demands. He was now beyond pain as his being entered a new life, a new entity. All that was Walt was gone, replaced by a life form the world had never known. This same horrible transformation was occurring throughout the infected areas as the stink bug population multiplied with unprecedented speed to create a new horror. Gradually a new life form would create swarms defying the laws of nature and challenge all life on the planet.
* **
Hours later Sherrie and Jeff came walking back with Millie in tow. “Let’s see what Walt’s up to,” they told the tired dog. As they approached the campsite they could not believe their eyes. There, sitting at the picnic table, was a pulsating amorphous shape. As they moved closer they realized what they were seeing were thousands upon thousands of stink bugs. Before their horrified eyes, a figure rose and became more defined as the crawling mass of insects flew away leaving a solid form, one enormous shield- shaped evil-looking insect. The monster’s alien eyes surveyed its surroundings and then moved from the table to the ground. It was fully six feet long and stood four feet high. The stench it gave off was unbelievably repulsive. Suddenly, its carapace opened and huge wings appeared increasing the putrid smell even more. Giant wings began to flutter, sending up a cloud of fallen leaves, and the beast began to fly. Soon it was only a dot in the sky and then disappeared.
The End
REUNION: A STORY FOR MEMORIAL DAY
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 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 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 firsthand 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 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 struggling 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 crowd’s attention. After thirty minutes he was done and ready for questions. Halfway 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 reenactors 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.
RECENT PUBLICATION, CLIFF’S NOTE
The Corner Bar recently accepted my short story, Cliff’s Note, and it has just been published. Here is a link if you would like to read it.
The story appears in the 2026, April 30 issue.
FICTION SEEKING TRUTH: A SHORT STORY CONTAINING A TOUCH OF REALITY
Accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in July 2008.
For those fans of horror, you may recognize multiple incidents described in this story which are not fiction.
FICTION SEEKING TRUTH
Stewart Kingman was a very successful writer of horror stories. What made his fiction popular was that the stories contained a glimmer of truth. He always included an element of nonfiction in his fiction, just enough to add a macabre reality. His mind would wrap around events and give bizarre possibilities to a mundane world.
Kingman would tell his wife Talia, “I feel there is some truth behind all the stories I write. Perhaps some of the unworldly situations I create could be true. Or maybe all this horror shit is just getting to me. People read my books to escape to a world that scares the hell out of them, and they enjoy that world because they can always close the book to escape the horror. What if some of the horror actually existed outside the book? That’s the reason JAWS was so popular – the book was frightening but possible. You could close the book and jump in the ocean and fiction could suddenly become reality and your ass is shark bait.”
“Sure, Dracula had his roots in Vlad the Impaler, but old Vlad was just a weird dude, nothing supernatural. Why does all this shit get published, and some of it is real shit. I think I’m going to take a lesson from my old friend Houdini and look for the truth behind the horror.”
Kingman was fascinated by the life of Harry Houdini, living a public life spent creating illusions and a private life seeking the truth behind the illusion, performing as an escape artist and at the same time a debunker of charlatans claiming to be able to communicate with the dead. Houdini constantly tried to communicate with his dead mother and his efforts only resulted in exposing one fake after another. As he was dying, he told his wife he would beckon to her from the grave but as far as anyone knows, he never succeeded.
Stewart did not discuss his theory of the truth behind fiction any further with Talia, but she knew that he was doing research on the topic. He had a vast library of folklore he used to give him ideas for his stories. He was now spending a great deal of time rereading some of his favorite volumes.
Along with this work, he was doing something new. He had begun getting involved with his fan mail. He had a publicist with a staff of five who handled the vast quantity of mail he received. Letters arrived requesting a copy of his picture and relating how Stewart Kingman was their favorite author.
He decided to take a closer look at his fan mail himself to see if anyone mentioned a true occurrence, something that defied known reality.
Kingman rapidly discovered why he did not get involved with his fan mail. He received letters from fans who were mating with monsters, having their minds controlled by alien forces or by your run-of-the-mill witch, which might also led to mating. He corresponded with them all, seeking out the faintest glimmer of fact the wacko stories might contain, but there was none.
The letter Kingman was searching for arrived late that spring.
Dear Mr. Kingman,
I can’t say I’ve read all your books, but the ones I’ve read I’ve enjoyed.
I was wondering if you ever thought of writing a story about someone who had something happen to him and wound up being able to control the future.
Yours truly,
Frank Talbot
Kingman wrote to Talbot requesting more detail. A few weeks later another letter arrived from Talbot, a longer letter containing much more detail.
Dear Mr. Kingman,
It took me a long time to sit down and write this letter. On one hand, I can’t believe I’m corresponding with you, on the other hand, you’ll think I’m nuts.
I’m a lineman in Massachusetts and last winter we had an ice storm from hell. I was up on a pole, after working I don’t know how many hours, when I wasn’t careful and touched a live wire. My work crew told me the rest of the details. They lowered me from the pole and I wasn’t breathing. They took turns doing CPR and got me going again. The ambulance came, and on the way to the hospital I tried to leave this world again. The ambulance driver gave me a jolt with the defibrillator, and I returned to the living once more.
Now comes the weird part that you might not believe but I swear its true.
I was off from work for a couple of weeks, and it’s during this time that strange things began to happen. I was sitting in the living room when the TV suddenly came on. On the TV was a news special and the guy reading the news looked like living death, definitely a strange looking dude. Just before the set came on I was thinking about my kid brother who’s in the army stationed in Iraq and how great it would be to see him. Then this guy on the TV, looking like an extra from Dawn of the Living Dead says the 85th armor division is coming home – my brother’s outfit. The screen then went blank.
Here’s the really creepy part; the TV wasn’t plugged in. So now you’re sure I’m nuts, but I swear it’s the truth. It’s happened a few times since. My mind wanders as I’m sitting in front of the TV when Mr. Death Warmed Over comes on the air and makes an announcement. I don’t know where the broadcasts come from and I don’t know how the TV got unplugged. Maybe I had some sort of seizure and unplugged it before the broadcast began. I don’t know.
Anyway, I’ve included my telephone number if you want to call me.
Yours truly,
Frank Talbot
Kingman read the letter over and over. The guy sounded like the genuine article. He gave Talbot a call and arranged to pay him a visit. The drive from Kingman’s home in Maine to Talbot’s in Massachusetts would not take long and might be a nice getaway. Kingman loved long drives and who knew, some of this might actually be true.
On a pleasant May morning, Kingman set out for Frank Talbot’s house. He drove onto I-95 planning to take the interstate into Massachusetts. The traffic was unusually light, and as he approached the Massachusetts boarder, Kingman found that the only vehicle other than his was a tractor-trailer hauling a sailboat, shrink – wrapped in blue plastic down the highway in front of him.
Kingman had the cruise control set on his SUV and the tunes playing. He was slightly daydreaming when the daydream became a nightmare. The sailboat somehow fell off the trailer and was pin wheeling down the highway heading straight for him. The weight of the rudder caused the boat to spin faster and faster. What followed was pure luck. He swerved to the far left lane of the three-lane highway with the spinning boat rapidly approaching him. When he was sure he was going to die, the mast swept over his SUV inches above the roof. If the boat had been a little smaller and the mast closer to the ground as the boat lay on its side, he would have become a giant Kingman kabob. He pulled onto the shoulder and sat there until his shaking hands could again grip the steering wheel. The rest of the trip was uneventful.
He found Talbot’s house without much trouble and pulled into the driveway of a modest ranch. He was about to knock on the door when it opened and there stood Frank Talbot, an average looking guy about thirty years of age. Before Kingman could say hello, Talbot said, “Glad the sailboat missed you.” This caught Kingman totally by surprise.
“How in the hell did you know about the boat?” but Kingman instantly knew the answer to his own question. “You saw it on TV.”
Talbot replied, “I had to find a way to convince you that what I was experiencing was real. I must have invented the accident in my subconscious, something that would cause you no harm but get your attention. I caught Mr. Death’s broadcast just before you pulled into my driveway.”
“You definitely got my attention,” Kingman said. The two men then sat and talked for hours, and when Kingman left he already had the outline for a book. Deciding it would be fiction but with an introduction dealing with the facts behind the fiction, Kingman began writing the book.
It was late summer, and the writing was progressing well. Kingman loved walking the country roads near his property. On an August evening, he set out walking and thinking of the day’s writing and what he would put down on paper next. He never heard the approaching van.
Kingman awoke in the hospital with more pain than he had ever experienced in his life. A young doctor told him of his multiple fractures but reassured him that he would walk again. The doctor also told him that his heart had stopped twice in the ambulance due to the trauma his body had endured. “They defibrillated you,” the doctor said.
Kingman’s recovery took a long time and rehabilitation was painful. Shortly after the accident he learned that the driver of the van, already cited twice for reckless driving, blamed Kingman for the accident. He said that Kingman shouldn’t have been walking on the road. Kingman felt a rage he had never felt before. His pain was excruciating. The painkillers destroyed his writing. He spent hours just dwelling on the accident, the insane accusations of the van driver and how the whole thing had changed his life.
Fall arrived, the changing leaves brightened the countryside, and Kingman took his first steps with the use of two canes. Every step delivered agony, but now he knew he would walk again. He still hated the driver that struck him but suppressed it as he tried to overcome the pain and hoped he would be able to write soon.
The trees were now bare; fall was setting the landscape for winter. Kingman still could not write. He would spend hours thinking of plots and characters, but when he sat down to put words to paper, nothing would come.
Late one afternoon, as the shadows lengthened, Kingman sat alone in his family room. A short walk had left him exhausted and his legs were screaming with pain. Suddenly, the TV lit the room. On the screen, an announcer looking near death related the news of a suicide and produced a picture. It was a picture of the driver that struck him. Kingman glanced at the TV’s plug and a slight smile crossed his lips.
THE END
