Posts filed under ‘UNPUBLISHED WORKS’
COMING SOON: THE ULTIMATE EXPERIMENT, A HARD SCIENCE FICTION SHORT STORY
COMING SOON, THE ULTIMATE EXPERIMENT
I mentioned in a previous post that I would soon offer my unpublished short story The Ultimate Experiment.
It is a hard science fiction story.
To whet your appetite; the story involves string theory and the existence of heaven.
HAVEN OF HORROR: HORROR SHORT STORY, PART VII
WARNING
This story contains an ‘F Bomb’ which, in today’s publications, is not a rare occurrence. If you read The New Yorker, among other publications, you are aware of this. Also, sensitive people may find the theme of this story disturbing.
HAVEN OF HORROR
“How you doin’? the old man asked. “Need some gas?”
Mark answered, “Yes,” and didn’t bother to say what type for obviously there was only one type available.
The man began to pump, and Mark wondered about the quality of the product, but he was low and had no choice.
His family had also been complaining about hunger for some time, so Mark asked the attendant, “Any place to eat around here?”
The old man scratched his chin and said, “No restaurants, but there is a family and they do offer meals.” Mark got directions which led the family to a rustic-looking house which wasn’t a surprise for the entire town appeared rustic.
The family rang the doorbell and was greeted by a very pleasant woman. Yet there was something about her putting Mark off. But his family was hungry.
Mark said, “The gas station attendant said that you might be able to provide us a meal. We are more than willing to pay and pay we should.”
The woman said, “Of course I can feed you,” and her mind added, And of course you will pay. But before you eat, we have a local wine we offer to tourists with the hope they like it and tell their friends. Let me give you each a sample. I guess your boy and two girls are not old enough to drink, but a taste won’t hurt them.”
The woman poured five glasses of wine, and, as they drank, the look on the faces of the family showed enjoyment.
The End
HAVEN OF HORROR: HORROR SHORT STORY, PART VI
HAVEN OF HORROR
WARNING
This story contains an ‘F Bomb’ which, in today’s publications, is not a rare occurrence. If you read The New Yorker, among other publications, you are aware of this. Also, sensitive people may find the theme of this story disturbing.
Jeff yelled, “Are you fucking blind?”
The sheriff, in a garbled voice replied, “Our cloistered friends are about to have a party and you, you could say, will be the guests of honor.”
Jeff, not understanding the sheriff’s response began to scream every curse he knew. While all Karen could do was softly weep.
The sheriff slowly walked away, then a siren sounded. All the residents outside now hurried to their houses. Upon entering the town, Jeff observed a small building, windowless with a single door. The door slowly opened, and Jeff could not believe the spectacle approaching them. Some walked on two, some on four limbs. They were hideous, of human size, but that was where all resemblance to a human ended. They were green with white underbellies. The head resembled that of a frog but with a stark difference, a mouth containing sharp rows of teeth. Above the grotesque mouth was a pair of blunted nostrils. Above the nostrils was a pair of eyes, knowing eyes. Intelligent eyes. The legs ended in webbed feet. On what would be arms were distorted humans had hands with sharp claws.
The ungodly mass began to make their way to Jeff and Karen, looking predatory and surrounded the naked couple. A hideous scream exited those misshapen mouths. Then they attacked. Horrible screams came from the couple, then suddenly ceased. The beasts were a mad blur of feeding frenzy. Once done with their meal they departed to the enclosure from which they came leaving behind two hanging skeletons.
***
Mark and Candice, along with their three teenage children were on a summer vacation of hiking and camping. Mark had been observing the fuel gauge. When he saw a small road off the main, he told the family, “We’re a little low on fuel, and if it leads to a town it must have a gas station.” He carefully maneuvered his SUV down the rutted, potholed road. After not too long he said, “I told you. there’s a town.” He was proud of himself for his decisions were usually wrong about directions. And when he did decide which way to go, one the family would chime in, “Remember when you …”
Mark surveyed the town and was right. There was a gas station. But to his surprise it had only one pump, unusual for this day and age. On closer observation the town looked like something out of a time warp. When he drove into the station, he saw an old man in a rickety chair leaning against the building. Mark waved to the old man, who got out of his chair and slowly drifted over to the SUV.
HAVEN OF HORROR: HORROR SHORT STORY, PART V
WARNING
This story contains an ‘F Bomb’ which, in today’s publications, is not a rare occurrence. If you read The New Yorker, among other publications, you are aware of this. Also, sensitive people may find the theme of this story disturbing.
HAVEN OF HORROR
The couple nodded and she poured them each a glass.
Sipping, Karen said, “This is excellent wine.” But she soon noticed her vision begin to blur and she slumped to the floor. After a short time, Jeff joined her.
When they first arrived, they noticed a strange structure in the town park. It had uprights maybe seven feet tall and a crossbar of perhaps ten feet. Karen asked Jeff, “What do you think that is for?”
“I have no idea”, he said. “Can’t be for kids. Can’t be for anyone.”
Now they had the answer. They were hung suspended from the structure by the wrists, naked.
Jeff screamed, “What the hell is going on. Where are the police?”
An old man approached them and said, “I’m the police. What seems to be the problem?”
Jeff saw that something about the man wasn’t quite right. It was his face. It appeared a little ‘wrong’.
HAVEN OF HORROR: HORROR SHORT STORY, PART IV
HAVEN OF HORROR
WARNING
This story contains an ‘F Bomb’ which, in today’s publications, is not a rare occurrence. If you read The New Yorker, among other publications, you are aware of this. Also, sensitive people may find the theme of this story disturbing.
At first light,
when visitors were needed the camouflage concealing the small road to the
hamlet was removed. The town now waited.
***
While filling up
Jeff asked the attendant if there was any lodging in the town and he replied,
“No hotels in town. But there is a house that will rent out rooms and proceeded
to them directions.
Tired and hungry,
they found the house and were greeted by a kindly woman, who guaranteed a room
and dinner. Jeff noticed something strange about her facial features, but being
tired and hungry he chose not to inquire just yet about this observation, maybe
later. He did, however, ask why this town was not on the map.
The woman
answered, “Because we are happy the way we are. Don’t want strangers
interfering with our lives. Yet, when strangers do come it’s an event. When
they chose to stay it’s a celebration.”
This made no sense
to Jeff but he decided not to pursue it now.
The woman studied
the couple and said, “We have a local winery. Would you care for a sample –
free.
HAVEN OF HORROR: HORROR SHORT STORY PART III
HAVEN OF HORROR
WARNING
This story contains an ‘F Bomb’ which, in today’s publications, is not a rare occurrence. If you read The New Yorker, among other publications, you are aware of this. Also, sensitive people may find the theme of this story disturbing.
They wondered for an explanation on the source of this ghastly conversion. No one could mine an answer. There were legends of drawings found in the cave, of beings beyond imagination. Monsters with no place in nature. From this knowledge they speculated that beyond this horrible transformation a third journey to, yet another transformation existed. But no one could be certain of the changes awaiting the morphed. Before they managed to isolate those transformed some of the residents journeyed deeper into the cave and thought they heard distant waves crashing on some unknown shore. What did the presence of this unknown ocean mean to those transformed? Could these transformed humans be destined for another phase dependent on the ocean? And what did that turn their friends and relatives into. Were there cities on the ocean floor awaiting new residents? As if all this wasn’t enough to challenge reality, a horrible event took place. The transformed began attacking the still normal residents. Devouring them. The number of mutants was not great and when their threat was realized, it was no problem to repel them to the entrance of the cave. And while a force of guards stood by, a small structure was built above the entrance with no windows and a solitary door. The residents of the town were now aware of the horror that awaited them and did not want to cut off a place where they might survive.
HAVEN OF HORROR: SHORT HORROR STORY PART II
This story contains an ‘F Bomb’ which, in today’s publications, is not a rare occurrence.
If you read The New Yorker, among other publications, you are aware of this.
Also, sensitive people may find the theme of this story disturbing.
HAVEN OF HORROR
Schuylkill Haven, a small town not appearing on any maps, was of little value to visitors who happened upon it. In fact, shunned visitors until they were needed. When this occurred, the residents revealed the heavily rutted road to the town visible and waited for guests. Just as the town was not on maps, so was the road. The entrance to the road was usually heavily concealed for the residents liked, needed their privacy. The road to the town was now uncovered and the people of the haven waited.
The town of Schuylkill Haven came into existence most unnaturally centuries ago. From a small hill far from any inhabitants, late in the 1600’s the town was born.
One day there was movement of the earth on the side of the hill. The bottom of the hill began to push outward forming a cavity which grew into a cave. The first residents of the town began to arrive from within.
Men, women, and children, all naked, streamed out of the newly formed fissure studied the surroundings. At first the light nearly blinded them, but eventually they adjusted to the harsh glow of daylight.
The new arrivals were helpless in this new world. With no food or lodging the were certainly doomed. Coming to their rescue was a wondering tribe of native Americans. With compassion for these new arrivals, they shared food with them, taught them how to plant crops, hunt, construct shelters and make clothing. Eventually explores happened upon the town and were amazed to find white men in such a remote location. With the explorers came more modern methods of agriculture and more substantial lodging. Slowly a town took shape and the residents thrived. But there was a disturbing knowledge revealed to the residents. The elders began to have a greenish tint to their skin and took on strange physical characteristics. Their heads became misshaped and enlarged with mouths wide and menacing. The residents knew they had a secret meant to be kept and concealed these morphed humans.
SCHUYLKILL HAVEN: A HORROR SHORT STORY PART I
I’ll be posting short stories for a while again. The story I’m posting next has not been published. It will appear in seven parts.
WARNING
This story contains an ‘F Bomb’ which, in today’s publications, is not a rare occurrence. If you read The New Yorker, among other publications, you are aware of this. Also, sensitive people may find the theme of this story disturbing.
HAVEN OF HORROR
Jeff and Karen were recently married. Not much later Jeff accepted a better job than he had with more pay. They needed to move. With great anticipation they now were on a road trip to explore the area which would be their new home. Jeff loved wandering down roads he had never traveled, and for him this trip was a treat. A new area to be visited ripe for exploration.
As they drove along, not really sure where they were, Karen said, “I’m tired and hungry. Let’s stop at the next town for some rest and food.” They had been on the road for several days driving from California to Pennsylvania. Today, they had been driving for ten hours and they both needed rest and food.
Jeff spied what looked like a seldom used road, “Let’s go down that road. It must lead to somewhere.”
Karen looked at him as if to say, ‘Give me a break’ for it looked like it would lead to nowhere. The newness of marriage had not yet dissolved, but it was getting there.
Karen glanced at the maps they had brought along, “Jeff, this road is not on the map!”
Jeff’s response was, “Great.” Karen just shook her head. And off they went down an unmapped road hoping to find food and perhaps lodging for the night as the sky was steadily darkening the landscape. He looked at Karen and wondered if the stop would lead to ‘cuddling’ – and perhaps more. He wondered how long those episodes would last. He had heard stories.
With Karen constantly complaining about how tired and hungry she was, they approached a small town. Jeff was hungry too, and ready for some nighttime activity. As they entered the town it was as if they were visiting a page out of history. There was not a modern structure. It was like something of a lot for filming an old movie. There was a gas station with only one pump. An old guy in a chair was leaning against the building.
The old man waved and said, “Hi. Don’t see many strangers here.”
The town was Schuylkill Haven.
THE DRIVING LESSON: A COMEDY
An unpublished story
THE DRIVING LESSON
Many years ago, while I was in high school, Sam Franks was my driving instructor. He was a good instructor, easy-going and fun. Then one day I had an instructor change: a change from hell.
I was a junior, and every Thursday, during, my study hall I was scheduled for a driving lesson. Mr. Franks taught me to drive a Honda, equipped for student drivers; I loved driving that little car.
The morning of my fourth lesson arrived and I went out to the parking lot to meet Mr. Franks, but he wasn’t there, and the Honda was nowhere in sight. I walked around the lot looking lost when I heard my name called out. I turned to see a man approaching, a stranger to me, and someone who seemed out of place in a high school parking lot. He appeared to be in his sixties, tall and thin. What really made him stand out were his clothes. He wore faded bib overalls, stained with oil and grease and a mixture of other things better left unknown. Under his overalls he wore a white sweatshirt, or at least a sweatshirt that was white at one time years ago. On his head he wore a faded green John Deere cap rimmed with sweat stains. Long white hair emerged from beneath the cap. Work boots completed the outfit. His heavily whiskered cheek bulged with what I thought was the largest piece of gum I had ever seen anyone chew.
As he approached he shouted, “Can I help you? Looking for a driving lesson?”
“Well, yes”, I replied,” I’m looking for Mr. Franks.”
“Well, you found him, “came his answer. Now my Mr. Franks was in his thirties, kind of preppy while this guy was old enough to be his – father. The fact that this man knew my name at first puzzled me, but I started putting two and two together – fast. “I guess you expected to see Sam Jr., well, he ain’t here, gone to Pittsburgh to interview for another job and I’m filling in.
“Are you a teacher?” I asked with an unsteady voice.
“Listen, I taught Sam Jr. how to drive a tractor. If I could teach that lunkhead son of mine to drive a tractor I sure as hell can teach you to drive a car. The principal of the school said I needed a teaching credential but I had a year to get it, so I figured what the hell, I’ll make some money for a year and then I’m out of here. Now let’s get your butt behind the wheel.”
That was the other problem I immediately identified, there was no car. I guess from the look on my face, Mr. Franks Sr. knew what I was thinking. “Sam Jr. loaned that little Honda to another teachee, so I had to bring my own vehicle.” With that, Mr. Franks pointed to a pickup truck older than me. Between the rust and the patching, I found it hard to determine the color, but I think it had once been blue. Now the Honda I loved had three peddles – a gas pedal and two brake pedals. The truck had three peddles also, but they were all on the driver’s side. This damn old piece of crap had a standard transmission.
“I can’t drive a standard transmission,” I said.
“Oh yes you can,” came Mr. Franks reply.
“What about the instructor’s brake?” was my next question?
“I got long legs,” he said, “and I figure after I squash your foot a couple of times you won’t make any more stupid damn mistakes.”
Did I want to go back into school or what – but the lessons were paid for and Mr. Franks did not look like the kind of man that would give refunds. When I entered the cab of the pickup I got a sickening feeling that it wasn’t gum that was bulging his cheek. There, attached to the dash, with a piece of coat hanger, was an old coffee can, which he wound up using often during the lesson. Reluctantly, I sat on the bench seat of the pickup, and with some difficulty, attached the lap belt. The next the thing I knew, Mr. Franks was shouting, “Damn it, what in the hell are you doing messing up the seat belts?”
“I’m using it,” I said firmly.
“I had them all laid out so nice and now you screwed them up,” he groaned, “don’t let it happen again.”
With the seat belt part of the lesson out of the way, I started the engine. We immediately lurched forward and the engine died. “What in the hell do you think the clutch is for, decoration?” he screamed. I thought maybe he could teach me the use of the clutch, but I kept that idea to myself. I felt a demonstration would be helpful and it was soon in coming. “Put your foot on the clutch,” he said, and I did. Before I knew it his size twelve work boot had smashed the clutch peddle, along with my foot, down to the floor. “You step on the clutch when you start the engine and when you change gears, you idiot.”
I will not describe the next fifteen or so minutes because it has taken me years trying to forget. I finally got the truck started and sort of found most of the gears. The fact that I didn’t have to wear a neck collar for months after the lesson was a miracle. By the time we made it out of the parking lot, my lesson was more than half over. “We’ll just do a little driving and then head back,” he said. After a little time on the road, I gained some confidence, although confidence might be too strong a word. We were driving along when I noticed that the light at the intersection about half a block away had turned yellow. I started to gently ease off on the gas when Mr. Franks’ size twelve mashed my foot and the gas pedal down to the floor. People dove for the sidewalk as we barreled through the red light. I sat waiting for the explanation for this maneuver and it was soon coming. “You heard about defensive driving?” he asked. I nodded yes. “Well remember this; the best defense is a good offense.” I rolled my eyes. Mr. Franks was into offensive driving, what a surprise.
The next thing I knew he grabbed the wheel and jerked it to the right. I felt a slight thump, thump as the wheels ran over something. “Stop the truck,” he yelled, “I think we nailed him.” I looked in the rearview mirror and could not believe my eyes. A squirrel lay dead in the street. Franks hopped out of the truck, retrieved a burlap bag from the truck bed, and bagged the poor critter. “Won’t have to go shopping on my way home now,” he said. “You know,” he went on, “all you need to do is skin ‘em and gut ‘em. The wheels act as kind of a natural tenderizer – breaks up the bones and the meat just melts in your mouth.”
I was going to be sick.
That was my first lesson with Sam Franks Sr., but not my last. I finished the course with him and went on to get my license, but I was never quite the same.
I’m married now and have a daughter who wants to learn to drive and wants me to teach her. She doesn’t think her dad has the patience. We’ve gone driving a few times now. Our seatbelts are always buckled, and when we approach a yellow light I make her stop even if she thinks she can make it. I’ve cleared most of Mr. Franks Sr.’s unique habits from my teaching techniques. But I still harbor the memory of that poor little squirrel.
Suddenly a squirrel darts out onto the road, I have a sudden urge, but I keep it under control.
THE END
INVASION: A SCIENCE FICTION SHORT STORY
This story has not been published. It was written in 2006. That was when NASA was launching probes to Mars. When to vehicle reached the planet balloon-like appendages were deployed, and upon reaching the surface, the vehicle would bounce until coming to rest.
INVASION
I am the protector of the ‘king and living god of Zyron’ and I have just witnessed the unspeakable.
We inhabitants of Zyron are a peaceful lot, enjoying our quiet lives in the planet’s interior. Fierce conditions make the surface uninhabitable for more than a short period of time. Violent storms engulf the planet, blowing clouds of red dust into the arid air, making a stroll on the surface most uncomfortable. We Zyrons enjoy the warm moist interior of the planet formed many millions of years ago when violent earthquakes opened the ocean floor draining the surface dry. Then, another few million years passed, and our surface atmosphere changed to what we have now, conditions that will not support life for an extended period of time.
On the neighboring planet, Gothor, life is less peaceful than ours. In our language, Gothor translates to blue sphere, a tranquil looking place but tranquil it is not. We have witnessed their many wars and constant conflicts. They foolishly broadcast their audio and video signals into the atmosphere giving information of their civilization to less friendly inhabitants of other planets. Gothorians know nothing of our civilization on their neighboring planet. The existence of the Zyonions is kept secret, our communications, shielded by the surface of our planet, cannot be intercepted by prying civilizations. A recent development on Gothor had given us even more information of the planet. They have developed a network that connects their computers, and with the increased knowledge we have gleaned for this network, we marvel at how much they achieve while so many of their number lack a sense of purpose, a need to contribute to their civilization.
Professions that do not, in some way, serve the good of society are shown little respect on Zyron. That is why the Zyronians find some of what they learn of the Gothians to be comical. So many of their society do nothing but serve themselves. They also require something they call self-help books to further their decline into shallowness.
When Zyronians greet one another we give our name and value to society. I would say, “I am Gorn, protector of the king. Others would give their name and say that they were the cleaners or the scientists or the meat keepers. When we Zyrons meet, we bow to one another, and the depth of the bow depends on the value one lends to society. If I were to say, “I am Gorn the poet,” the bow I would receive would be deep indeed. And if I were Gorn the teacher, the bow offered must be so deep that the small horns on our heads must touch the surface on which we stand.
We know a great deal about the lives of the Gothorians and some of the ways they spend their lives. If a Gothor revealed some of the professions that exist there to a Zyonian, the back of the Zyronian would remain ridged. If I were to introduce myself on Zyron as Gorn the telemarketer or Gorn the E Bay zapper, no bow would be given. Our cultures even have different perceptions of the same profession. On Zyron, if I am Gorn the athlete, I receive a customary bow, but the athletes from Gothor may merit a slight bend of the back, for on Gothor in many cases, the game is secondary to financial rewards.
We Zyronians know the inhabitants of Gothor are giant creatures and are yet dwarfed by less intelligent creatures that inhabit other worlds. Our king stands no more than six of Gothor inches, and his line is the tallest on Zyron. Our king and his subjects closely resemble animals known as lizards living on Gothor, but their lizards are dumb beings where we have the advanced intelligence responsible for the culture that thrives on Zyron. Unlike the lizards on Gothor, we on Zyron walk upright, and possess appendages referred to as hands, similar to those of the Gothorians.
We view the Gothorians as having a hostile purpose towards our planet. Many times they have sent missions to our planet, devices that orbit our planet seeking information. We had developed a ray that disabled many of their machines, but we could not doom them all. One day a machine landed on the surface of Zyron, bouncing uncontrollably until it came to a halt. The device opened, revealing another machine that set forth on the surface of our planet. This was a true invasion, our planet violated. We Zyrons observed the machine until we detected no further transmissions to Gothor, we then retrieved it for examination.
Since the first bouncing machine landed there have been other probes sent from Gothor to orbit our planet with instruments, taking photographs and other measurements of our surface, trying to detect our presence but the Gothorians will never discover us and will probably succumb to some other civilization of some planet waiting to use the vast resources contained on their blue sphere.
Then one day it was decided that we would attack Gothor, and I was a witness to the catastrophe that precipitated this decision.
Our beloved king, on occasion, would roam the surface of our planet and gaze at the stars and wonder of the world his ancestors inhabited so many million years ago. It was on one of the ventures to the surface that the most horrible fate beset our king.
I, along with two other guards, accompanied the king on his journey to Zyron’s surface. We walked a short distance when the king halted and gazed at the stars in the cold Zyronian night sky. We guards followed the king’s example when we all detected a strange movement in the blackness. A speeding light approached, it flamed, and then the flames extinguished but still the light approached. It grew in size until the realization of another invasion from Gothor became apparent. It was another bouncing machine. It landed a great distance away, then began its haphazard bouncing along our planet’s surface. The king and we guards ran, scattering. Once the device came to a halt we reformed but could not find the king. We separated, searching for our ruler. I will never forget the wail of the guard who discovered our poor monarch. The huge bouncing device from Gothor had squashed him. We carried his limp body, for most of his bones were broken, down to his kingdom and placed it on his throne.
His son, our beloved prince, was enraged with grief and full of hate for Gothor. “Enough of this invasion of Gothor,” he yelled. “I seek revenge.”
Zyron had developed a ray, a death ray. We kept the ray for use against attacking civilizations, and now the new king demanded, “Prepare the death ray; we must retaliate.” All Zyronians knew that any planet exposed to the ray would suffer grave consequences. The area of the sphere exposed to the ray would be destroyed.
There was a fringe of land from which the Gothorians launched their devices. This would be the target. The new beloved king waited for Gothor to revolve, exposing the target.
THE END
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