Posts filed under ‘Walt Trizna's Stories’

OUR DEMOCRACY IS DYING

                                  OUR DEMOCRACY IS DYING

The direction in which this country is moving is both strange and disturbing. Since Trump became president the principles associated with our Constitution have been diminishing. And the separation of the three branches of government has become blurred.

The primaries have become a killing field for Republicans running for office who have defied Trump in some way. Who went against decisions Trump has made which were less than beneficial for the country. To run against these errant Republicans Trump has chosen to supply competition of his own choice with the population being represented having no say in the matter. Their only qualification to run for office is the willingness to accept any decision that Trump makes.

I wonder of the qualifications the candidates Trump chooses keeping in mind the qualifications of those he has selected to serve in his cabinet.

The job of Congress is to serve the people they represent. This has been replaced by fear of losing their job if they defy Trump. Our democracy has been diminished by a president who values himself more than the country he was elected to serve.

Fear has replaced duty in the Republications in Congress. The values associated with our country are disappearing and the direction our country is taking is beyond our control.

May 23, 2026 at 11:09 am Leave a comment

AN OBSERVATION FOR MEMORIAL DAY

                                                SCRAPPING HISTORY

Located on the eastern boarder of Newark is Newark Bay, a body of water leading out to the Atlantic Ocean.  I have always loved the smell of the ocean, the proximity of primal life.  However, by the time the ocean’s water mixed with the additions contributed by the factories, all that was left was a hint of what was once the ocean’s promise.

Located at the water’s edge is Port Newark, an area that we had always referred to as “The Dumps”.  The area surrounding the dock was the home of tank farms, sewage treatment plants, junkyards and a few factories.  It did not take a great stretch of the imagination to determine how “The Dumps” got its name.  On hot summer nights, the family would pile into the old Chevy and take a ride “down the dumps”.  It was a chance to escape the heat, get a change of scenery for what it was worth and hour or two away from the house.

We would park along one of the perimeter roads and look at the freighters and container ships, some from countries we could only dream of visiting – distant lands holding even more distant dreams.  On one of the roads where we usually parked, if you turned 180 degrees you could see the runways of Newark Airport. This was before the age of jet airliners – props and turboprops ruled the skies.  If you watched enough airplane fly overhead, I always looked up at the sound of their engines, you would sometimes see a four-engine plane flying with one propeller lazily turning, a sure sign of engine trouble.  Sometimes, when we were being extravagant, we would stop for a pizza before taking our ride.

There was this elderly Italian man – he must have been at least fifty – who decided to open a pizzeria.  So, what did he do?  He rented a garage, bought a pizza oven, a couple of small tables, and he was in business.  The garage was a freestanding cinderblock structure containing three one-car garages.  He rented one of the end garages, cut a door through the garage door and this served as the entrance.  Located on a narrow street, not more than an alley, it was a far cry from today’s chain-store pizza establishments.  Each pizza had a bubbly hard crust and stood as an individual creation – nothing massed-produced here.

Later, when the quality of his product became known, he rented the adjoining garage, knocked down part of the common wall and expanded.  Could this happen today, with all the zoning laws and chain-store competition, I don’t think so.  But back in the fifties he thrived and produced great pizzas.

So, on hot summer nights, perhaps armed with a pizza, we would go ‘Down the Dumps’, to see the ships and watch the airplanes land.  We could escape our tiny house and dream of a world that we might never see as we gazed at the ships and planes coming from and bound for far-off lands and distant cities.

On weekdays after supper was done, and on weekends, the roads of the port were mostly deserted.  With its many roads and parking lots, this area was an ideal place to learn to drive.  It was along one of these deserted roads that I almost put my father through the windshield.  While driving one of these roads he instructed me to stop, not yet acquainted with the feel of the brakes, I performed this maneuver rather aggressively.  My early driving lessons occurred long before seatbelts were standard equipment, hence my aggressiveness resulted in my father flying unrestricted around the car.  I finally learned to drive some years later on the back roads of Alabama, after I had already learned to fly an airplane, but that’s another story.

At the northern end of Newark Bay there were a series of bridges leading to Jersey City and on to New York.  It was from the first of these bridges that you could look down on a complex devoted to scrapping ships for their iron and other metals of value.  It was during the 70’s that I remember this area looking like a floating World War II naval museum.  There would be row upon a row of Liberty Ships awaiting the scrappers’ torch.  There would be a destroyer and the occasional heavy cruiser.  Ships bathed in history waiting for oblivion.  I know they could not all be saved, but it saddened me to see history reduced to a dollar value.   It had been some thirty years since the war had ended; time enough for the whole-scale destruction of military equipment that routinely occurs after the conclusion of a war.  Yet there before my eyes floated a living history soon to be no more, it would be gone forever.

I witnessed the destruction of one ship, which touched me deeply.  This ship was perhaps the most famous American ship of World War II and for years the Japanese sought its destruction.  If ever a ship was worth preserving, to serve as a floating monument to the struggles of the United States Navy during World War II, this was the ship.

During my youth, I devoured books about airplanes; I read everything I could about aviation during World War I and World War II.  I rarely read books about ships, but my love for aviation led me to read one book that I have longed to read again.  To this day, when I get circulars in the mail advertising military books I always look for that title that impressed me in my youth.  The title of the book was THE BIG E, the story of the U.S.S. Enterprise, and that was the ship I saw doomed to the scrappers torch.

Having known its history, I could not believe that I was witnessing its destruction.  I would think back to the drama, the life and death struggles that occurred on that ship, but soon it would be no more.  More than once the Enterprise was reported sunk by the Japanese navy, but having been severely damaged in battle this great ship lived on to fight another day.  I know there were many ships during World War II, whose stories echoed with bravery and glory, but I knew the story of the Enterprise and this to me gave it a closeness I could not feel for the other ships torn apart.  There were many ships scrapped at this yard, but the only one I saw mentioned by name in the newspaper was the Enterprise.  I was sorry to witness the loss to history of this great ship, but I was glad I had the opportunity to see such an important piece of our naval and aviation heritage.

May 20, 2026 at 10:39 am Leave a comment

TRANSITI0NS: A POEM OF CHANGE

When you’re old enough to look back.

TRANSITIONS

The years, they march unceasing,
Dreams flare, then fade away,
Some reach, some corner of my mind
Still plays with yesterday.

The years, they take their toll,
Hopes dim, then fade away,
My youth, now past now spent
Has abandoned me this day.

I pause, I catch the sound
Of small children, my children at play,
The world does comes full circle,
I pause, not knowing what to say.

Their years, they grow, they flourish,
Their dreams, they seize the day,
I retreat, then yield and vanish,
Hope fills their world today.

May 17, 2026 at 12:02 pm Leave a comment

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.

Corner Bar Magazine

The story appears in the 2026, April 30 issue.

May 14, 2026 at 3:15 pm Leave a comment

WHERE’S THE INORGANIC?

WHERE’S THE INORGANIC?

The next time you’re at the grocery store and you see a clerk near a product advertised as ‘organic’ ask where you can find the inorganic version of that product.

Say an apple. To answer your question, he would have to take you to a display of plastic apples. You see, all food is organic. Now if they said the product was grown under organic principles, that would be a valid designation and give it

I feel a great deal of food labeled as ‘organic’ is a scam just to make you think that the product is a healthier choice than other like products. When in effect, there is no difference.

I know something about how difficult it is to grow food in a truly organic manner.

I have a daughter who is a farmer. She once worked for Rodale, a well-known publisher of literature concerned with organic methods of growing produce. The nine-acre farm she managed was owned by St. Luck’s hospital systema and her job was to provide fresh produce for six hospitals.

The aim was to have the property designated as growing organically produced food. After three years, I don’t think it made the grade. For I discovered, from her, how difficult it is to gain that designation.

The most difficult challenge is to try to get an organic designation using land which was once used as a farm using standard growing methods. That is fertilizers, pesticides and other products which are inorganic- chemicals. I’m not sure what is involved in getting such property the designation as a farm producing organically grown produce.

Another problem is neighboring property. If the farm next door is using inorganic methods the property for an organic farm must fallow land next to that farm. If the farm you want to get an organic designation is next to an orchard you must leave an ever-greater amount of land barren dure to the arial spraying of the trees.

I’m sure some produce labeled organic is grown using organic methods. But I think that is what should be stated. Just to say something is organic is meaningless.

May 12, 2026 at 7:58 pm Leave a comment

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   

April 29, 2026 at 6:58 pm Leave a comment

AI AND YOUR WRITING

                                 AI AND YOUR WRITING

At a recent meeting of a writer’s group I belonged to we had an interesting discussion on the use of AI in one’s writing. One of the authors present was having a problem in determining if the question of using AI should be considered should come into play when considering a publisher. The problem considered what percentage of the manuscript was AI assisted.

I use Duotrope, a website I have highly recommended in the past, to locate publishers. Many of the publishers I have referenced make it clear that they will not accept any work generated by AI. The question raised in the above-mentioned meeting was what percentage of the work involving the use of AI was used.

Here is my approach in the use of AI in my work. I use a version Word in the writing of manuscripts. Quite often the program suggests a word to use in place of the one I did use or suggests punctuation to use. With word selection I consider the use of the word in the sentence under construction. When it comes to punctuation I’m fairly sure that AI knows more about punctuation than I do. The only exception is in the use of commas. However, I never let AI change an entire sentence, or for that matter, a thought going into my wort. I fear if you start letting AI interfere with entire sentences or the meaning you want your work to possess my style, for what it’s worth, is in jeopardy of being changed from what I have demonstrated in the past or the meaning I intend to get across.

So here is, I think, the problem in considering what you need to indicate in your use of AI. If you let AI determine the use of an occasional word or punctuation, does that qualify when a publisher asks you whether AI was used in writing your work. What percentage does the use of AI qualify in your admitting the use of AI? AI has infiltrated our society, and for better or worse, if you use a program to generate your work, has the use of words or punctuation require to say that AI was used to represent an admission to publishers.?

What do you think?AI AND YOUR WRITING

April 27, 2026 at 8:40 pm Leave a comment

ANDY WEIR: PATRON SAINT OF SELF-PUBLISHING

               ANDY WEIR: PATRON SAINT OF SELF-PUBLISHING

I nominate Andy Weir for patron saint of self-publishing. I sincerely think he has earned that title.

Weir’s work first caught attention when he published some work online. Next came his novel, The Martian, which he self-published. That novel made The New York Times bestseller list and was eventually made into what became a popular movie.

The reason I am writing this piece is because the novel was self-published.

The road from self-published to fame is less than certain, and that’s putting it mildly. First requirement for writing success no matter how much you desire publication is that you must be a competent writer, actually more than just competent. I once was a member of a writer’s group meeting at Barnes & Noble, and the moderator of the group was employed by the bookstore. She stated that the store did not carry self-published books because the quality of many of the books was embarrassing. There is no gatekeeper for self-published books. The only hurdle to getting a book published is money.

Now back to Andy Weir.

I’m sure he worked his ass off, riding around with a trunk full of books and taking every opportunity to make a sale. I’m also quite sure that he had friends who were willing to work their asses off to help with sales. He also must have had a great deal of confidence in his writing ability. I say this because to make an impact with a self-published book must require selling a large quantity of books which requires an author buying a large quantity of books which requires a large quantity of money.

After The Martian Weir came out with a second novel, Artemis. The only review I saw for that novel was not very encouraging.

Next he published Project Hail Mary which made The New York Times bestseller list and went on to become a very successful movie.

I hope this review of Weir’s work provides the reason I am considering Andy Weir the patron saint of self-publishing. Thousands upon thousands of self-published books exist, published by authors with varying purposes in mind. But as in religion where many believers try to model their lives after that of their favorite saint for life in the eternal. If it is possible for you to duplicate some of the elements of Weir’s career, you just might hit the bestseller jackpot.

April 18, 2026 at 11:45 am Leave a comment

SECOND CHANCE: SPACE EXPLORATION?

Here is the story dealing with a planets decision not to invest in space exploration.

Second Chance has been published twice. The first publication was by Books To Go Nowin2011 and the second by Separate Worlds in 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 every one visible in his piece of the sky.  He chose to live in the desert, much to the dismay of his wife Molly, 80, in order 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.  I’m sorry I will miss it.”

                                     * * *

Richard, now an old man, thought he would live to see the beginning of his dream realized.  Voyages eventually were made to the world’s moon and Richard died thinking his dreams would be realized.  But 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 73, he had never lost his child-like amazement of the heavens.  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, 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.  Those decisions were more of a political nature, at times not based on any reality at all.  At the time of destruction, the sun would expand, engulfing their world, and then pull back to become a cindered dwarf.

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 this trend.  Civilization is in a downward spiral.  We still have time to take action to ensure the survival of our society.  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 with 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 had been launched, but their purpose was to monitor and improve communications of the planet.  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 shared the mindset of the planet’s population.

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 and his wife never really argued.  Avoiding arguments with his wife had resulted in two children, both girls and both images of their mother.  Farber and Janet desperately wanted to be parents.  At the same time, because of the population’s immediate problems, he felt guilty of their need.  His only reassuring thought was that, through the technological advances over thousands of years, vast efforts to improve the life of mankind were made.

Farber had recently visited a farm; most of the population of the planet was encouraged to do so to see that the governments were staying ahead of any crisis.  The tour was led by Stuart Gromley, more of a scientist than a farmer, but that was what was necessary these days 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 were 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.  Also, 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, up until now, has not proven any of these claims.”  He did not share the fact that the research was nonexistent.

As health and education methods improved and extended greatly the lifespan of the world compounding the problems facing civilization.

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 favor 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 favor 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 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, and 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 in 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.

All were the same, full of hope, yet unable to dictate a plan that would save man.

In attendance was Dr. Scious Minnori.  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 for the strong to survive.

“Our planet is beyond repair.  There is no error 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 the survival of our people.  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 are 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 may someday harbor 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.  We have discovered so many planets 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 neighbors 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 3093, and the advances in science and space travel were beyond belief.  Those who stood in their backyards gazing up at the sky only witnessed the beginning.  Science and mankind had developed a propulsion system that enables man to visit the closest neighboring 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, but it was”

© Copyright 2013 Walt Trizna. All rights reserved.

April 15, 2026 at 5:22 am Leave a comment

AMERICA RETURNS TO SPACE

AMERICA RETURNS TO SPACE

The entire country is in awe of our return to the moon and that now our curiosity about space has returned and I hope it is maintained.

I thought I’d take this opportunity to share with you a story I wrote sone time ago about a society which thought space exploration was a waste of time and money. My story, Second Chance, is that story

Second Chance describes a distant planet where a society exists which can see no reason to explore space while there are so many problems its occupants face on a daily basis. Immediate problems take precedence over space exploration.

I’m sure we have all encountered individuals who are of the opinion that money is better spent on Earth rather than wasting it on space exploration. That opinion spells doom for the society in my story and leads eventually to conditions which cannot be reversed.

How do you think our planet will look in a few thousand years from now with space exploration, or without it? 

April 12, 2026 at 12:56 pm Leave a comment

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