Posts filed under ‘Walt Trizna's Stories’
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBI
The Reluctant Zombi was accepted for publication by Blood, Blade & Thruster, a print publication, in October 2006.
There is a story behind this story.
Blood, Blade & Thruster ran a contest to see which story they would publish according to which story received the most votes. I can’t remember, but the stories must have been published online for people to read and then to vote.
I told friends about the contest. My wife told her friends about the contest. Then our friends told their friends about the contest.
I won. That is why you are now reading this story.
After the story was published someone posted online that they thought my story should not have been published because winning a contest by number of votes was not a valid way to obtain publication.
I guess he should have had more friends.
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE
As Norman stumbled through the dank Haitian swamp, he groaned, “Willard, it feels so unnatural walking around with my arms outstretched, but I can’t seem to put them down. “I have an image to uphold.”
Willard, who was shuffling along, shook his head and sighed, “Of course it’s unnatural, you’re a zombie, damn it. And your image is history.”
Norman complained, “I didn’t ask to be a zombie.” With some difficulty, he swiveled his neck and surveyed the Haitian countryside.
Norman took in the landscape surrounding him. He walked through a village. It was nothing more than a few huts of mud and straw along a dusty road. Chickens pecked in the brush along the roadside. Chickens! For some reason their presence made him uncomfortable. “I really don’t want to be a zombie,” Norman muttered. He was a forty-year-old college professor, a dark-haired trim man who always dressed well. Now he was walking around covered in grime and dressed in rags.
Willard said, “If you didn’t want to become a zombie, you shouldn’t have run over the old voodoo woman’s chickens with your jeep. Was she ever pissed? She’s also the one that converted me into a zombie, but that’s another story.”
Norman looked at Willard and could not guess what he once looked like. Willard was pale, gaunt and dressed in rags. His age made undeterminable by his zombie state.
“As soon as you angered her, she began making one of her little dolls. She cackled while she worked. That is never a good sign. The doll is where your soul now resides.”
“I can’t believe this is happening to me, Willard. I came to Haiti to do research on Haitian religions. I am, or was, a respected and well-published anthropologist. Now look at me. I’m wearing rags and walking around like a…, like a …”.
“Zombie!” asked Willard.
“Just because I ran over a few chickens?”
“Um, Norman, they looked like chickens, but they weren’t. Nothing around the voodoo woman’s house is what it appears. They were once her enemies. She changed them into chickens, and you freed them from pecking for insects along the road for the rest of their lives. You ended their suffering. So naturally, in her anger, she turned you into a zombie. I am assigned to train all novice zombies. To instruct how to attack people, teach them what are the best parts to eat.”
Norman made a face at this remark.
“Now what?” asked Willard.
Norman sighed, “I’m a vegetarian. But I will eat dairy.”
Willard said with disgust, “There are no vegetarian zombies. And attacking the dairy section of a store is not going to do much for the zombie image.”
Norman grumbled, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do anything to detract from the zombie image. Give me a break.”
As the two zombies were arguing, Willard happened to glance over to the voodoo woman’s house. There she stood in the doorway. Willard could tell she was not happy.
She hobbled toward Willard and Norman, a waddling mass adorned with bones and beads. Her crown of thick dreadlocks made her appear as if some multi-legged beast was sitting on her head.
The old voodoo woman shouted at Norman, “I knew you be a troublemaker, with your fancy jeep and running over people’s property.”
Norman mumbled, “Sorry about the chickens.”
“You sorry all right. You be good and sorry real soon.”
The old woman produced her Norman doll, lifted the doll skyward, and began chanting in a low rumbling voice.
Norman’s soul returned to his body. He felt like his old self. He laughed with relief, then glanced up. Willard stumbled toward him; arms raised.
“Willard old buddy, we’re friends – right?”
Willard only growled and roared.
Norman looked desperately for an escape. On either side of him, zombies with ash-gray complexions staggered in his direction. He was surrounded.
The old voodoo woman said, “Here be my ‘children’, and they be hungry.” She cackled as the circle of zombies grew smaller and smaller around Norman.
From beyond the wall of the living dead, Norman pleaded, “Please, make me a chicken!”
THE END
YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .
Hanging laundry on a clothesline was the only way to dry clothes.
THINK NO EVIL
This story was accepted for publication by Nocturnal Ooze in November 2006.
THINK NO EVIL
I have always had an active imagination. If I had had the courage to put a bullet through my head when I first realized the consequences of my thoughts, you dear reader, would have more than five days to live. I suggest, for your own sanity, you put down this story. Now!
Consider yourself warned.
I used my vivid imagination to write works of science fiction and had some measure of success. I was no Ray Bradbury, but I was able to make a reasonable living with my novels with flashy covers showing alien worlds and their weird residents. The occasional scantily clad Earth females depicted on the covers didn’t hurt sales either. I would let my imagination run wild and my pen would follow. I do not know the true extent of the powers, but I fear I may have done some damage light years from Earth.
The first hint of my peculiar ability occurred a month ago. I visited a bagel shop early one morning, as was my habit, to avoid crowds. In my southeastern Pennsylvania community, three people constitute a crowd, four a mob.
I entered the store and found, and much to my satisfaction, I was the only customer. A husband and wife owned and ran the establishment. They were always there together.
I placed my order, and as I stood idly, a strange thought emerged. How easy it would be to rob this store at this early hour. I could write a mystery. It would be my first attempt at something other than science fiction. My mind was consumed with plotting the crime, and as I waited for my bagels, my thoughts set up the robbery scene. Seven days later, that store was robbed and the couple murdered.
What a strange coincidence, I thought, as I read the newspaper.
A few days after the robbery, I was driving along an interstate highway behind an old pickup truck. A ladder was propped up against the tailgate. I imagined the truck hitting a large bump in the road and the ladder being hurled from the truck and through the windshield of the car following. I switched lanes and forgot the vision.
Seven days later a horrendous accident happened, almost identical to the scene I imagined. It made the local news.
This time I was shaken. Was this just a second coincidence?
I tried an experiment. I pictured a week of continuous rain. We were under drought restrictions at the time, so I thought this would be an innocent and perhaps beneficial test. Exactly seven days later, the rains poured down and rivers overran their banks. I had forgotten about the rivers. Property was ruined. Lives were lost.
To avoid more damage, I went back to writing science fiction. Fiction that I ensured occurred far from this planet.
Then it happened. Two days ago, after I vowed never to conjure up stories about the here and now, I slipped. I was writing a story about an alien ship traveling through an asteroid belt. Before I knew it, my mind was picturing the asteroid that impacted the Earth some sixty-five million years ago causing the extinction of the dinosaurs. But God help me, my mind wandered and took another step. I wondered what the Earth would be like if an asteroid ten times the size of the one that killed the dinosaurs impacted the Earth.
We have five days left.
THE END
YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD . . .
When you remember a time when credit cards did not exist, and people only made purchases they could afford.
THE ANNIVERSARY
A mellow ghost story.
Accepted by Bewildering Stories June 2007.
THE ANNIVERSARY
Julie Barber carefully made her way down the winding tree-lined dirt road to visit her next patient. The sun filtering through the ancient maples lining the road helped relax Julie and to mentally prepare her for the visit. Julie was a visiting nurse seeing oncology and hospice patients and she was now on her way to see Emily Taylor. She had been seeing Emily for three months now, with failure to thrive as the diagnosis, but Julie also knew that a healthy amount of dementia was mixed into the ninety-six-year-old patient’s milieu of symptoms.
As a young woman, Emily had been petite. Now, as an old woman, she was beyond frail. The black hair of her youth now formed a snow-white frame around her withered face.
It was a crisp January afternoon with the sky a brilliant blue. “God, I with Emily could enjoy this day,” Julie said. Emily was so sweet, and she had a special place in her heart for the old woman. She loved all the elderly patients she saw, enjoyed listening to their history and felt pride in knowing she made a difference in their final days.
As she drove, she viewed the peaceful winter landscape. The meadows were brown with dormant grass and the field stood barren waiting for the spring planting. Some would find little beauty in winter’s harsh scene, but Julie found each season special with its own qualities.
Julie parked on the circular gravel drive and walked up to the modest farmhouse that Emily Taylor had called home for so many years. There was not another house in sight, and the view went on for miles revealing the central Pennsylvania countryside. The homestead, surrounded by solitude set Julie thinking, The poor woman’s life reflects the scene that inhabits this place, she has been so alone for so long.
She walked up to the front of the house and used the brass knocker on the ancient wooden door to announce her arrival. The door opened and there stood Ruth, one of the twenty-four-hour caregivers who stayed with Emily.
“How’s my patient?” asked Julie.
“Oh, you know Julie. Ralph and the kids are set to show up anytime now and she’s so excited. Poor thing, I figure if this fantasy keeps her going; where’s the harm?”
Julie entered. The house was well over a hundred years old. A sturdy dwelling, it was a small two-story structure and had the feeling of ‘no show, just practicality’ rarely found in today’s houses. Upstairs were two bedrooms, one of which her patient hadn’t left for months. The first floor held a small cozy kitchen with a bathroom off to one side, the only part of the structure that was not original. A modest living room was entered from the front door. Julie trudged up the well-worn stairs to care for her patient.
As soon as he entered the bedroom, Emily smiled and said, “How are you my dear? You know Ralph and the girls will be here soon. I can’t wait to see how much the girls have grown, although they never seem to change. And Ralph, he’s always as handsome as ever. How’s your husband?”
Julie responded, “Emily, don’t you remember? I don’t have a husband.”
Emily said, “Then we should find you one. Husbands and children are why we were put on this Earth. That’s what life is all about. You are so young and so pretty, my girl. We must find you a husband.”
They talked a while more, and then Julie began to care for her patient. She took Emily’s vitals, and then tended to the bedsores she had developed. As Julie packed her nursing bag, she said to Emily, “I’ll see you next week. I’ll be here Tuesday; she didn’t mention the date. The fact that it would be January 28th might disturb the old lady. But more likely, it would have no meaning at all.
Julie walked to the bedroom door and said, “You take care, Emily. I’ll see you next week.
Emily answered, “I have company coming next week. My family will be here for a visit.”
Ruth was outside the door and heard everything. “Poor thing,” she said, “all alone in the world. With her family gone all these years, I don’t know what makes her hold on like she does. She’s so alone. She’s outlived all her close relatives. No one visits the poor thing.”
“I know,” said Julie. “The only pleasure she gets is in her fantasies. And if that gives her joy, who are we to disturb it?”
Julie left the farmhouse and retraced her route down the rutted dirt road to visit her next patient.
* * *
Shortly after beginning to care for Emily Taylor, Julie approached the social worker assigned to her case. In Emily’s bedroom, Julie could not help but notice a host of family pictures. There were pictures of Emily as a young bride embracing a young dark-haired man, her husband Ralph. Other family photos showed Julie and Ralph with a baby, then more pictures with a toddler and another baby. There were photos tracing the two girls growing and Emily and Ralph growing older. The most recent picture was Ralph and Emily in their forties, with two girls about to reach their teenage years. Julie enjoyed learning the history of her patients so she could communicate better with them. What she learned of Emily’s past saddened her deeply.
“Diane, would you mind if I asked you some questions about Emily Taylor? She’s such a sweet old woman and I know she has no living close relatives. I was wondering what happened to her family in the photos.”
Diane replied, “I see you’ve noticed all the photos in her bedroom. Who could help but notice them? The little old lady’s future of a life with her family was robbed from her so many years ago. Her husband and two daughters were killed. Since then, she has lived part of her life in a world of fantasy where her husband comes to visit, and her children never grow old.
“It was in the mid-fifties when the Taylor family could afford their first new car. It was a black and white Chevy. It was January 28th, 1954, when Ralph went to pick up his new vehicle…
The door slammed and Ralph walked into the small, warm kitchen. The smell of a roast filled the air. Emily was in an apron stirring a pot on top of the coal stove.
“Emmy,” said Ralph, joy filled his voice, “let’s go for a ride.”
“Ralph, I’m cooking dinner. Anyway, the roads are full of ice from the last storm.”
“I know Emmy, but I made it home just fine. Our car will be new only once. Where are the girls?”
“They’re upstairs doing their homework. For God’s sakes, the car doesn’t even have a heater.”
“No problem,” answered Ralph, “we’ll grab a few army blankets. They’ll keep you and the girls warm just fine.”
“You just can’t stay away for that car?” Emily said.
Ralph approached Emily and said, “That’s not all I can’t stay away from.” He hugged his wife and his hands roamed the curves of her body.
“Stop it Ralph, the children.”
“Emmy, I guess you’ll have to wait for next time for your ride. I’ll take the girls and be back way before dinner.”
He shouted upstairs, “Who wants to go for a ride in our brand-new car?”
The two young girls came bounding down the stairs, shouting in unison, “Me daddy, me…”
Diane said, “There was a local farmer that was known to have a drinking problem. He was more wasted than usual when he got behind the wheel of his pickup that night.
“The two girls were in the back seat of the Chevy huddled in blankets. Of course, it was well before the time of seatbelts or airbags. The story goes Ralph was rounding a curve when he saw the drunken farmer coming at him. There was no time for him to react. The farmer was in Ralph’s lane and hit him head-on. Everyone was killed.
“Emily was alright for a while, as alright as anyone could be, then she lost it. She kept on talking about Ralph and the girls and how they came to visit. Gradually, all the close family she had died. She lives on that beautiful countryside; she lives in the past talking about her husband and daughters as if they were still alive.”
* * *
Tuesday arrived and it was time to visit Emily once again. Julie preferred to see Emily in the early afternoon, but she had an emergency visit and had to postpone Emily’s visit till the end of the day. As she drove the country road near dusk, she was aware of an unpleasant change. The desolation of the countryside was pronounced in a haunting way. The tree-lined road leading to her patient’s farmhouse now seemed bordered by lurking giants instead of the stately maples she had grown to love. The gray and colorless scene was nothing like the colorful landscape she had grown to love.
Julie knocked on the farmhouse door. Ruth answered immediately.
“Julie, Emily doesn’t look so good. Hurry!”
As soon as she entered the bedroom, Julie could see that Emily was dying. Her breathing was shallow and her complexion gray. Julie took her vitals and shook her head. Emily’s eyes were closed.
Julie said, “Emily, can you hear me?”
In a soft, weary voice, Emily replied, “Julie, I’m so tired. Could you comb my hair? Ralph and the girls will be here soon.”
With tears in her eyes, Julie complied. After finishing, she said, “You look beautiful Emily. Ralph and the girls will think you’re so lovely.”
As she was leaving the farmhouse, Julie said to Ruth, “I doubt she will last the night.”
Ruth and Julie said their good-byes and Julie began walking to her car. As she slid into the driver’s seat, she noticed a faint glow amid the fading light of the darkened countryside. The light held close to the road and followed its twists and turns. The closer it came to the farmhouse, the brighter it became. As the light entered the driveway it gained definition. Soon it morphed into a very old car. Julie froze not knowing what to expect next.
The driver’s door of the specter opened and out stepped the glowing figure of a man. Julie recognized him immediately. It was Ralph. The back doors opened and out bounded two little girls.
Julie was cemented in place, afraid to move, afraid to think. Then the hairs on the back of her neck stood as she heard the shimmering figures of the girls call, “Mom, come on Mom. It’s time to go for a ride.”
Movement near the front door caught Julie’s eye. A glowing figure emerged from the farmhouse. Julie immediately recognized the young Emily Taylor as she appeared in the final family photo.
The youthful Emily walked towards her daughters. She held them close and kissed them. The girls responded with giggles and shouts of joy. Then Emily went to her husband. There was a long embrace and Julie thought she could hear weeping.
The four apparitions climbed into the old car and disappeared down the country road with the glowing specter of the Chevy fading into the night.
THE END
HE FLEW AWAY
This story was inspired by the stink but infestation about seven or eight years ago.
I was camping with my wife and friends and the population of stink bugs was enormous. In the restroom they attacked me. The side of a white RV was almost totally black with the beasts. Luckly, birds eventually developed a taste for them.
He Flew Away was published in 2016 by Cemetery Moon, a print publication.
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 a change 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 forest 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 campfire with the smell of burning wood and the way the tranquility of a camping evening brought a sense of wellbeing. 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 showed 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. A fellow camper entered the restroom and listened to Walt complain and agreed with a nod of his head to his observations. Walt 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 again 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 hikers realized how lost they were, and 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, with the warmth of the sun, and spending 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, and before long were joined by a swarm hovering which quietly settling down to join their comrades. Swarm after swam followed, creating a mass of hundreds of thousands of the 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 hspeed to create a new horror. Gradually a new creature was created which would become swarms of monsters defying the laws of nature and challenging 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 becoming 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
SIDE EFFECTS
This story was published by Dream Fantasy International in December 2005.
SIDE AFFECTS
The female picked up her baby and held it close, suckling it for the last time. She did not have a name; language was thousands of years in the future. As she gazed at her infant, only days old, tears rolled down her cheeks. She caressed the small hairy body and kissed the prominent brow, the two characteristics that spelled the infant’s doom. She stood, and slowly walked into the forest. Moments later the forest echoed with a child’s scream, cut suddenly short. The female emerged from the forest alone.
She thought of another member of the loosely formed tribe with a similar baby, who did not have the strength to destroy it. The female raised the child, its aggressiveness and appearance different from the other children living in the clearing in the African forest. The child grew strong and hateful. One day a member of the tribe found the mother dead, partially devoured. The child was never seen again. It entered the jungle, more animal than human, to live as its ancestors did thousands of years before.
***
Modern science could have discovered the explanation for these mysterious births. The cause was a unique receptor, a protein on the surface of the cell. Many receptors discovered today are seven transmembrane receptors; they course the cell wall seven times weaving in and out like a tiny thread. These aggressive individuals had receptors that were fourteen transmembrane receptors, monstrous in size and in action, bringing together hormones in rare mixes, resulting in a savage monster. These receptors disappeared with the extinction of the savage individuals, but the genetic machinery that manufactured these monstrous receptors did not.
Thousands of years ago, as these monsters were born and eliminated, there was another type of individual created. It was rare, rarer than its savage counterparts. These individuals possessed the genetic machinery to produce the aberrant receptors, but this could only occur when there was a change in serotonin levels. These changes don’t normally occur in nature now, and the birth of these individuals continued with their genetic potential unrealized. Unrealized, that is, until the advent of the new antidepressants.
***
Jeff Skovich was a quiet guy, the kind of guy you never noticed, primarily because he didn’t want to be noticed. Only Jeff and his wife Linda knew the torment of his life. Lately he was blowing up at the slightest provocation. He was angry all the time and had more and more difficulty dealing with daily routines. Then, one day, Jeff had a particularly violent argument with Linda. After Jeff had nearly struck her she shouted, “You need help! I refuse to go on living like this,” and stormed out of the house. Confused and hurt, she drove aimlessly for hours and when she returned, Jeff was gone.
Days later, a sullen Jeff returned home, and would not tell Linda where he had been. They spent a week passing each other in the house, avoiding any contact, sleeping in different rooms. The love Jeff felt for Linda ran so deep, he could not bear the thought of life without her but could not confront her. Finally, Linda broke the ice. “I love you”, she told him, but insisted, “You need help for your mood swings, and we really can’t go on like this.”
At first Jeff said nothing, and then his feelings poured out, “I feel hopeless all the time. I can hardly function because nothing seems to have any importance. I use all the energy I have just to get through the day. By the time I come home I’m spent, angry and confused. I just can’t deal with things the way I once did.” As Jeff talked, the tears started to flow from Linda’s eyes and from Jeff’s. Linda knew the man Jeff once was and wanted him back.
Jeff finally agreed to see Dr. Roberts, their family doctor, and after a short discussion Roberts said, “I’m going to put you on one of the new serotonin reuptake inhibitors. I think that this medication will help you. We’ll give it a try and see if it makes a difference.”
Jeff filled the prescription and started the therapy he hoped would return his life to him. After a week he noticed a difference in his approach to problems; instead of flying into a rage, he stopped and thought through the conflict he felt. He was no longer angry all the time, had more patience and was more focused on his work. Linda noticed the change too. She no longer dreaded coming home from her job, trying to gauge Jeff’s mood for the evening. Jeff and Linda began enjoying life and their marriage to the fullest. Jeff’s job as an electrical engineer took off. The work he accomplished won recognition and promotions. Linda also grew comfortable in her life. Her job teaching at the local middle school gave her great satisfaction. Linda adored children but was not able to have her own, so this proximity to children fulfilled a need.
Jeff had now been on the antidepressant for years. His life with Linda could not be better; he found himself feeling guilty at times for the happiness that was his. He was now in charge of a major project for the company. The outlook of every facet of his life was positive.
“You know Linda,” Jeff said one morning, “I think it’s a waste of money for me to continue to take the antidepressant. I feel fine, we get along great, and things couldn’t be better at work. I’m going to have a talk with Dr. Roberts and see what he says.”
Jeff made the appointment and Linda went with him to testify to the changes Jeff had undergone. Dr. Roberts agreed and slowly began to wean Jeff off the medicine. When Jeff began taking the drug, he started at a low dose and gradually increased the dosage until he underwent the full benefits of the drug. Now he reversed the process and began taking less and less, paying attention to any changes in his mood or behavior, until he was taking the lowest dose used. He still was doing fine so he stopped taking the drug altogether.
Weeks, then months went by, and Jeff was even tempered and happy as he had been when he was on the medication, but deep within his genetic makeup subtle changes were taking place. Removing the drug from his system set his cellular machinery into gear, in a manner that had not taken place in man for thousands of years. Proteins were being manufactured that were awesome in length and complexity. They weaved through the walls of his cells fourteen times, like vipers ready to do their damage. The process was slow, gradually creating a monster. The night he began the crossover, Jeff had a dream.
Jeff dreamt he walked an African savanna, hunting for what he knew he needed to continue his existence – food. He stalked his prey, made a kill and feasted on his quarry’s raw flesh. Jeff awoke bathed in sweat, unable to understand his apparition’s meaning. The final image remained imprinted in his mind. In his dream the quarry had been human. This deeply disturbed him for days. He tried to dismiss the dream but couldn’t, for it reoccurred. And as the side effects began to alter his body, his dreams became more and more vivid as his mind was also altered.
Six months went by before Jeff noticed a change in his behavior. He was out shopping one day and was about to pull into a parking space when another car beat him to the spot. Normally, he would have uttered some epithet to himself and gone on his way, but this time was different. He pulled his car behind the intruder to prevent him from leaving, then jumped out of his car and attacked. Jeff hammered his fist on the closed window, confronting an elderly couple. The face of the old man behind the wheel revealed shock and disbelief. Both he and his wife cowered as Jeff continued to yell and pound the window. In desperation, the old man began to blow his horn continuously, hoping to attract attention. The noise and forming crowd brought Jeff to his senses. He jumped into his car and left.
As he drove away, Jeff was shaking with fear and rage. Years ago, when he was depressed, he felt rage, a rage born of desperation. The rage he felt now was different; it was animal. For a moment, he wanted to kill the old couple, not considering the consequences.
He did not mention this incident to his wife. He was both scared and ashamed and wanted to forget all about what had happened. Jeff wondered if maybe he should return to his antidepressant but couldn’t realize that there was no turning back. His genetic machinery was in overdrive and could not be reversed.
Jeff had always had a heavy beard. With his thick black hair, his five o’clock shadow would sometimes appear at three, but now by eleven o’clock he looked like he hadn’t shaved at all that morning, and his normally densely haired torso and arms seemed to be growing additional hair. Another change took place that he did not understand, seeming impossible. His face seemed to be altered ever so slightly. His brow seemed to be thickened. It was almost impossible to notice without close inspection. The way Jeff first became aware of this change was that his glasses felt uncomfortable to wear. But this was not a problem for his eyesight seemed to be improving to the extent that he didn’t need his glasses.
The change that distressed Jeff the most was the change in his temper. These days he avoided Linda for fear of a blowup. Small things that she had always done, her little habits, would now grate his nerves generating a mad rage that he fought to keep under control. He had more fits of anger while in public. One day, an elderly woman entered a checkout line at the same time as Jeff, and he pushed her, knocked her to the ground yelling obscenities. A crowd gathered as he ran from the store. In the distance he could hear the wail of a police siren. He walked for hours until darkness fell, and then returned to the store’s parking lot to retrieve his car.
Day by day, his appearance was changing. His brow was becoming more prominent and there was no controlling his beard growth, and his body was covered with what appeared to be fur. Jeff was at a loss as to what to do, whom to turn to for he found it impossible to communicate his rage.
Then one day, Linda was gone from his life too. She knew he was angry again, but not like before. The rage was constant, and she couldn’t help but notice the change in his appearance. She couldn’t take the anger any longer and asked, “What’s happening Jeff?”
Jeff’s reply was both verbal and physical, “Shut up bitch,” he shouted and slapped Linda as hard as he could. He had never struck her before. Linda fell to the floor and Jeff began to kick and stomp her until his energy was spent. Linda’s face was no longer recognizable. He left and entered a primal world from which he would never return.
THE END
THE INHERITANCE
This story was accepted for publication by Black Petals in July 2006. Don’t you just love happy endings?
THE INHERITANCE
May lay deathly still, listening, as her two daughters, Joan and Heidi, searched through her belongings looking for treasure. Joan was the first to speak, “I hope the old bat dies before the end of the month. That would save us a month’s rent.’
Heidi answered, “Quiet Joan, she’ll hear you.”
Joan replied, “Are you kidding? She’s toast. Even her doctor can’t explain what keeps her going.”
May Connors, age 62, lay dying in her bed in the small bedroom of her apartment in the assisted living wing of The Towers Nursing Home. She appeared as a corpse ready for burial, her face ashen and her jaw slack. Only the rare rise and fall of her chest brought home the fact that her withered body still harbored life. Cancer had ravaged her physically just as cruel circumstances had ravaged her existence. At one time her life was full of promise. Now she had nothing, nothing but the cruel words of her daughters that seared into her brain.
* * *
May’s mind wandered back to when her daughters were young. Five-year old Joan would day, “I love you mom, you’re the bestest mother in the whole world.”
Three-year-old Heidi would add, “I love mom.”
Those moments made the sacrifices she made for her daughters worthwhile. Now her daughters’ cruel words blotted out the love she once held so close.
May clung to life with the hope that her two daughters, distant for so long, would show a measure of love for her before she died. With her daughters’ words she knew that would not be. The love she had sheltered in her heart became a cold hate. A desire for revenge replaced her will to live. Locked in the prison of her body, May’s mind and soul were tormented with the desire to somehow confront the shallowness, the evil her daughters exhibited.
As May’s determination for revenge grew, she heard Joan say, “I always liked this knife set from Switzerland. It would look nice in my kitchen.”
Heidi snickered, “As if you’d ever use them to cook.”
Joan moaned, “I didn’t say I’d use them. I said they would look nice.”
Heidi said, “You can have the knives if I can have the antique mirror. I’ve always admired the frame and it would look good in my bedroom.”
Before she could help herself, Joan commented, “On the ceiling of course!” Both women laughed hysterically while May’s brain did a slow burn.
Joan said, “Since that’s settled, let’s go through the rest of this junk and see what we want. What’s left can go straight to the dumpster out back.”
Then Heidi said, “Especially the crap she’s made over the years. What about her clothes?
Joan replied, “Try to find a dress without food stains that she can be buried in and bag the rest for Goodwill.”
As her daughters mocked all that she held dear, May remembered a life of disappointment and tragedy.
* * *
May recalled five months ago when she visited Dr. Stevens.
“I came for a checkup doctor. I’ve felt rundown lately and have been losing weight.”
Dr. Stevens said, “We’ll run some tests and give you a physical. That should tell us what’s going on.”
Two weeks later May sat in Dr. Stevens’ office. The look on his face told May that the news was not good.
“May, we have discovered your problem. You have pancreatic cancer. It has spread to your liver and stomach. I’m so sorry.”
May was in shock. The rest of Dr. Stevens’ words tumbled into a blur. He went on to talk about options and a realistic assessment of the time May had left, but the words seemed unreal.
The deadly cells had been spreading their evil throughout her body even as she planned her future. May had thoughts of growing old and seeing her daughter’s lives blossom. Now these alien cells did more than plan; they determined her future.
Life had dealt her many blows in the past, but May had always persevered. It seemed distant now, but her life was once a dream, a dream that slowly crumbled. May married late in life yet still managed to have two healthy daughters. She quit her job as an interior decorator and devoted her life to raising her children. Her husband Charlie’s salary as vice president at a local bank provided more than enough to enable the family to live comfortably. Then the life she planned began to fall apart.
One day, as he did every day, Charlie kissed May and said, “I love you, see you tonight.” She never took that kiss for granted because she knew how much he loved her. But she never saw her Charlie again that night, or any other night.
Later that day, the phone rang, and May answered. She recognized the hysterical voice on the line. It was Charlie’s secretary. “Charlie had a heart attack. They’re taking him to Glen Grove Hospital. I can’t believe it, oh May.”
May rushed to the hospital. Dr. Perkins greeted her. He slowly approached her, and then said, “I’m the doctor that first saw Mr. Connors. I’m sorry Mrs. Connors. We did everything we could. Your husband passed away.” Her Charlie, at the age of fifty and fit, died of a massive heart attack.
When her daughters graduated from high school, they also exited May’s life. Joan and Heidi, two years apart in age, went off to college and never returned. They both chose careers in business, and both rose rapidly on their respective corporate ladders. Joan became a manager at a major pharmaceutical company. Heidi worked her way up to chief buyer for a major department store. Neither woman had any thoughts of marriage and would not even think of sharing their lives with children. They wanted their lives to be their own. They lived well and traveled extensively. There was no room in their existence for anyone else. May’s hopes for grandchildren and family gatherings were dashed.
May’s lifestyle went downhill rapidly. In the ten years that followed, May found menial work and seldom saw her daughters. When her children did visit, they would suggest she start selling some of the possessions she and Charlie had accumulated over the years. They never offered to help their mom.
Shortly after a course of chemotherapy, May suffered a stroke leaving the left side of her body paralyzed and her unable to communicate. Her daughters arranged for a placement in assisted living rather than oversee caregivers at home. May’s home and possessions were mostly sold. The rest were kept to furnish her small room.
Now May was dying while her daughters scurried through her tiny apartment like vultures waiting for the end so they could pick May’s life clean. Their mistake was that their greed would not allow them to wait until their mother was gone.
Two days later May died. Her daughters got their wish and split the money they would have paid on another month’s rent. But May also left them much more than money, she left revenge.
* * *
It had been months since May’s death. Joan and her sister had picked over their mother’s possessions and wound up disposing of almost everything the old women owned. Joan found counter space for her mother’s knife set in her immaculate kitchen, a kitchen seldom used.
One day Joan’s friend Phyllis dropped by with the makings of a salad and a bottle of wine. Phyllis drew one of the fine Swiss knives from its wooden holder and noticed a flaw. It was a large knife and there appeared to be a cloudy area on one side of the blade. Phyllis asked her friend, “What is this mark?” Joan took the knife to the sink and tried to clean it without success.
“I’ve never noticed that mark before,” Joan said.
Phyllis asked, “Have you ever used the knife before?” She then replaced the knife in its holder, chose another and prepared the salad.
The next day Joan dragged herself into the kitchen to clean up Phyllis’ salad mess when she noticed the flawed knife on the counter. “Now how did that get there?” she said to herself. As Joan studied the flaw it changed, became more defined. Minutes passed as Joan began to recognize something taking shape. She suddenly screamed, as the imperfection on the knife blade slowly became the smiling face of her mother. The image sharpened and the blade began to move. Joan backed away. The blade followed. Finally, she was cornered in the kitchen. She closed her eyes. On the front of her slacks she could feel a pressure followed closely by a searing pain in her abdomen. Something warm and wet fell onto her feet. She looked down to see the purple-tinged ropes of her intestines on the floor. She looked up to see the knife back away, then come rapidly toward the middle of her chest.
* * *
Heidi had hung her mother’s mirror in the bedroom where she often enjoyed admiring her trim figure in its reflection. It hung on the wall near the bathroom, and she would smile as she glanced at her naked body fresh from the shower.
One day, while applying her makeup, Heidi noticed a cloudy area in the mirror. She tried to clean it but it only became larger. She hoped she wouldn’t need to have the glass replaced.
Heidi awoke early a few days later to catch a flight to France. She was now the chief buyer at the store and had been looking forward to this trip for some time. After her shower, she entered the darkened bedroom. As the mirror caught the image of her naked body, the cloudiness in the mirror began to glow. She stepped closer to examine it. An image began to take shape. Looking at her was the smiling face of her mother. Heidi screamed as the glass exploded. Shards penetrated her eyes. She could feel the vitreous humor and thicker blood flow down her face. With gentle pressure the twin shards were pushed further into her brain.
* * *
Six feet beneath her blanket of earth, in the dank blackness of her coffin, a visage of peace crept across May Connor’s decaying face. One might even say the ravaged face smiled.
THE END
REUNION
This is my first published story. Published by Enigma in 2003, a Philadelphia small publisher no longer is existence.
REUNION
The June morning was brilliant and clear with just enough of a breeze to keep you cool despite the predicted eighty-degree day. At the age of eighty-two, for Christopher Johnson, getting up in the morning was not an easy chore and had lately not seemed worth the effort. He turned his head and looked at the pillow beside him. “I miss you so much honey,” he said quietly. His wife Peggy had died less than a year ago. One night they went to bed as usual. The last words he had said to her were the words he always said to her before falling asleep, “I love you.” When Chris awoke, Peggy was dead of a heart attack. A few days later he was looking into her grave knowing a large part of his life was now buried in the cold earth. After almost sixty years of marriage, the pain of her loss was intense, almost as intense as the love they had shared all those years.
With Peggy still on his mind, he sat up and began to stretch his arthritic limbs knowing the pain that would follow. Next, he stood up and took a few steps; those first steps, they were the worst of the day. He winced with every movement, but soon his joints and muscles settled down to the constant pain that accompanied him these days.
He had gotten up earlier than usual, for today, unlike most of his days, he had an appointment, something to do. He opened his closet door and, in the back, he found what he was looking for: his U.S. Army ranger dress uniform, the one he had worn on his return home after being wounded during World War II. With persistent pain, he maneuvered his body into the uniform that, after sixty years still fit his slender frame. He looked in the mirror, and the toll of those sixty years stared back at him. The hair on his head and his mustache had gone gray years ago. His eyes, once admired by his fellow soldiers for their ability to spot enemy aircraft or fortifications before anyone else, now watered behind heavy bifocals. He inspected his image, looking over the uniform for signs of moth damage. The area of his uniform he examined first was his chest; there hung the Purple Heart and the Congressional Medal of Honor. He was proud to have served his country, proud of his awards but knew, that in combat, a split second could mean the difference between a dead soldier and a hero. Satisfied that his uniform had survived another year, he returned it to the closet and dressed in his usual summer shirt and khakis.
While Chris hung up his uniform, his mind still held the Medal of Honor and the events that led to its award.
The day was D Day, early in the morning of June 6th. Chris was among a group of Army Rangers that would be the first to hit the beach. Their objective was to climb and secure the cliffs overlooking the landing sites. These cliffs held guns that could hazard the ships and soldiers, and the hazard needed to be removed. German soldiers were stationed on the cliffs, ready to rain death on unprotected soldiers landing on the beach below. Chris and his three buddies Frank Grimes, Larry Schwartz and Duck Dupont were together in the landing craft, along with twenty other rangers heading toward the beach.
Chris had begun basic training knowing no one. Soon he gravitated to three other guys who seemed to be as lost and alone as he was. The four of them gradually became friends and survived the ordeal together. Of the three, he was closest to Duck Dupont. Duck’s real name was Willard; he gained his nickname Duck during a basic training class. The class was walking past the artillery area when a practice round went off. Most of the class flinched, but Duck was on the ground with his head covered by his hands. From then on he was known as Duck.
His thoughts returned to June 6th.
It was still dark and they landed unopposed. The men quickly and quietly disembarked and headed for the base of the two hundred foot cliff – it would be quite a climb. When everyone was in position, they fired ropes up the side of the cliff. This brought the response they expected, Germans began firing down the cliff and rangers began to collapse on the beach. Chris and his friends were to stay together and climb along with most of the rangers while the rest provided cover fire. Soon the German fire lessened then ceased as the rangers continued their climb.
The four friends were the first to reach the top of the cliff. What they saw sent a shiver through them all. Before them, set back about fifty yards from the edge of the cliff, stood a series of three bunkers. The first light of dawn streamed through the trees beyond the enemy, and all seemed quiet and peaceful except for the machine guns projecting from behind sandbags. They knew they had to act fast, for if they didn’t, the rangers coming up the cliff would be cut down as soon as they reached the top. They split up into two groups; Chris and Duck went to the left – Frank and Larry to the right. The two flanking bunkers had to be eliminated before the middle position could be attacked. Each group approached the nearest bunker and tossed a grenade inside. The simultaneous explosions sent German soldiers into action. The rangers had missed one. Along with fire from the third remaining bunker, a fourth bunker opened up along with mortar fire from behind the bunker. The fourth bunker surprised the rangers and had a clear shot at them. Duck was literally cut in half by machine gun fire. Larry was attacking the third of the bunkers they had seen, having just pulled the pin from a grenade when he was shot. They never did find Frank. Chris entered the first bunker they had taken out, pushed aside the mangled German bodies and manned the machine gun. He quickly took out the bunker they had overlooked before, creeping up to the last remaining bunker; he destroyed it with grenades. The actions of the four men had saved the lives of the rangers now reaching the summit of the cliff and helped secure the landing site for the invasion.
In the early morning silence, after the heat of battle, Chris collapsed on the ground part from fatigue, part from pain, but mostly from grief – his friends were gone. Chris had shrapnel wounds in his left arm and hip. At some point his helmet had taken a hit and deflected the bullet but the impact gave him a nasty scalp wound. Blood now streamed down the side of his face and soaked his collar.
These are the memories that flooded into Chris’s mind as he put away his uniform and prepared to spend a weekend at the Mid Atlantic Air Museum as a guest of honor, something he had done for the last five years. This would be his first year going without Peggy at his side. He knew it would not be the same without her, but he still looked forward to the event.
The museum had organized a weekend devoted to the history of World War II for the last ten years. It was a living history lesson with vintage aircraft flown in from all over the country, and encampments set up with hundreds of reenactors dressed in the World War II uniforms of the United States, England, France and Germany. The museum also invited veterans from the war who would give first hand accounts of combat. But none of them told what the war was really like for their memories were selective, cleansed by time, and they all carried within them that area of memory they would never enter again.
World War II weekend started Friday morning and, although he wasn’t scheduled to give his presentation until Saturday, Chris always went Friday to wander the hanger and apron crammed with vintage World War II fighters, bombers, trainers and transports. He could remember when the skies were filled with their kind. Now there remained only a few of each. On those warm Friday afternoons, he enjoyed walking through the encampments. At one point he saw three men in ranger combat uniforms. He smiled to himself, glad to see his branch of the army represented. Chris loved strolling through the tents. In his mind, there was nothing like the smell of a real canvas tent; the open flaps were your windows and the grass was your floor. He had seen the tents his grandchildren used when they camped, it was like camping in a nylon bag, no smell, no character. In one of those old canvass tents, he could stand, close his eyes, and the memories of his days in the army would flood into his brain.
Another reason he enjoyed the Fridays was the veterans whose attendance was heavy. The old men and women enjoyed the smaller crowds and slower pace that Fridays afforded. He enjoyed conversations with his contemporaries, reliving the past and recalling the days they were once young and involved in the great adventure they shared.
Saturday morning arrived, the sky again clear and blue. He went through his morning routine, slowly struggled into his uniform and waited for his nine o’clock ride to the museum. Chris looked forward to the day. Although he had never made a big deal about his award, one day bathed in the admiration of people who appreciated the sacrifices made during World War II did not hurt him, not at all.
With his first lecture scheduled for 10:30, he was anxious to get to the museum. He found the tent for his lecture. There were about fifty folding chairs set up. He took a moment and stood there alone, letting his mind recall memories that he usually avoided, memories that he would touch slightly, just slightly today.
As he waited at the speaker’s platform, the tent began to fill up. At the back of the tent, he spied the three young men in ranger uniforms he had seen the day before, standing together apart from the crowd. Maybe today they would learn something about the uniforms they wore.
The chairs were full and people were standing in the back as Chris went into his presentation. He shared with them the events of that early morning on the French coast, sanitized, but with enough action to keep the crowds attention. After thirty minutes he was done and ready for questions. Half way through the questions one of the men dressed as a ranger raised his hand and said, “Sir, I just want you to know we appreciate what you did for your country.”
That brought a smile to Chris’ face, “I appreciate that son,” he answered.
The presentation over, the tent was cleared, and it was time for a little lunch and a chance to watch the vintage aircraft flying. This was the part he most enjoyed. The drone of the B-17 accompanied the whine of the Merlin powered P-51s. He knew the planes were the big draw, not old men wearing old uniforms, but he was happy to be part of the show.
First to fly were the trainers, SNJs and T-28s. Then the observation aircraft would fly, the L-19s, followed by the transports, the C-47s and a C-54. Before the fighters and bombers took off, the reenactors took the field in front of the crowd. To the left were the men in German uniforms, to the right the U.S. Army.
The uniformed men fired blanks and mock mortars at each other. There were also smoke grenades thrown by both sides. All this action took place in a grassy area between the runway and aircraft taxiway. As usual, the fire department stood ready for the grass fires the smoke grenades always started, and this year was no exception. The grass fires were more of a nuisance than a danger, and they were always rapidly dealt with. In fact, the dense plumes were greater than any of the regular attendees of the show could remember, and the fire company quickly prepared to hose down the grass. Chris stood there with the rest of the crowd as the shroud of smoke drifted over them.
Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was one of the rangers, “Sir, we need your help.”
“Sure son, what can I do for you?” came Chris’ reply.
“Could you join us sir?” the ranger questioned. The ranger started walking towards the smoke set off by the mock battle, flanked by the two other rangers Chris had noticed before, and bewildered, Chris followed.
Soon smoke enveloped the four men. The crowd, watching the firemen putting out the grass fire saw the three reenactors on the field but could not imagine why an old man in uniform was traipsing in after them. They saw the four enter the clouds of smoke and lost sight of them.
Chris walked, not knowing where the three young men were taking him. His arthritis bothered him as he entered the smoke, but a few steps into the haze his pain was reduced, and then gone. He noticed something else; he no longer wore his dress uniform but wore the ranger combat uniform, same as the reenactors. All at once he was puzzled and amazed and had no idea what their destination could be.
The three reenators slowed down and Chris easily caught up with them. “How in the hell are you, Chris?” asked Duck. Frank and Larry were slapping his back and pounding his shoulders, his young shoulders.
“We’re on a mission and need your help,” said Frank. “We need the squad together,” he continued.
“I’m your man,” said Chris taking off his helmet and running his hand through his thick dark hair. His mind still could not wrap itself around what was happening.
Some of the crowd there to watch the flying saw four figures begin to emerge from the smoke, the figures of four young men. The men entered another cloud of smoke before them and were gone.
Chris and his three buddies came out of the haze. They were on a dirt road surrounded by a forest. They were all holding rifles, but Chris could sense no danger. They were on patrol and Chris felt better than he had ever felt in his life. He was with his best friends, men he had missed all these years and men he loved. The sky was so blue it almost hurt his eyes. The trees and grass were the greenest green he had ever seen. He set out with his three friends, easily matching their stride.
Suddenly, Chris’ eyes filled with tears. He did not know how, did not understand what was happening, but somehow, he knew his young and pretty Peggy was waiting.
ELMO’S INVENTION XI
THE FUTURE OF ELMO’S TIME MACHINE
Kingsley walked home with tomorrow’s paper. He was deep in thought and anxious to organize them. As soon as he got home he retrieved a pad and pencil, opened the paper, and while reading took copious notes. His expression grew grave as he worked and highlighted the articles and sections he thought were important. Once this was accomplished he prepared for bed knowing he would get little sleep. The next morning he awoke from the restless night he anticipated. After a meager breakfast he placed a call to Elmo.
Elmo answered to phone and Kingsley could hear the anticipation in his voice. This did not do much for Kingsley’s spirits. “Elmo, this is Kingsley. I thought we might get together and have a discussion about your machine. Would six tonight be okay?”
“Sure,” Elmo responded. “I can’t wait to talk to you about it. It’s all I can think about.”
Mildred was listening and instantly knew the subject of the conversation. She tried to hide her growing apprehension thinking about the last time her husband’s invention was made public.
Kingsley arrived at precisely 6:00PM to Mildred waiting with a steaming mug of coffee. She said, “Elmo is so excited to talk to you.” She looked at Kingsley’s expression and could detect and uneasiness. She said no more and Kingsley walked down the stairs to the cellar.
“Kingsley, my friend, I’m so glad you came. I can’t wait to talk to you about the prospects of patenting my machine.”
Kingsley was known for his directness, and Elmo expected that now, but to say he was less than enthusiastic with what he heard would be a stretch.
Holding the paper obtained during his time travel, Kingsley referred to his pad of notes although he knew exactly what he needed to say. “Elmo, I’ve highlighted some sections and articles in this paper. Areas where your time machine would have an impact.”
Elmo and noticed that the entire sports section was marked. He looked up at his friend.
“Your machine could spell the end of sports betting both legal and illegal. The horse racing industry would collapse. If just one person knew the future and outcome of any sporting event and sold that information, well you can see what would happen.”
As Elmo continued to study the paper Kingsley went on. “Keep in mind that one person selling information scenario. What would happen if the future of the stock market was known? I have no idea how it would effect the economy, but I don’t think it would be for the best.
“Then there are political races. Knowledge of the winner would be devastating. It would result in a self fulfilling prophecy. Why vote if the winner is known?
“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.
“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 future holds?
“Elmo, I’m just afraid from the public may not be as immediate as it was when your machine was a prison, but eventually the response could be more devastating and disruptive to you and Mildred.”
Kingsley’s opinions carried a great deal of work 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 produced knowledge that our society is unable to handle. I know it isn’t much, but I’m proud of what you accomplished. Perhaps there will come a time when your time machine will serve a useful purpose, 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 had 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 the corner of the cellar where his transport chambers stood. The machine that had cost Mildred her tea cups. She walked up to her husband and gave him a hug and a lingering kiss.
He said, “Well, Doll, we won’t make our fortune off my time machine.”
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. Of one thing we can be certain, this will not be Elmo’s last invention.
This concludes my novella, Elmo’s Invention. I hope you enjoyed it.
Next will come my published short stories followed by my published novella, Elmo’s Sojourn, which is a sequel to Elmo’s invention.
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