Posts filed under ‘Walt Trizna's Stories’
I would like to take this opportunity to discuss two of my favorite authors, James Lee Burke and Cormac McCarthy. I refer to these writers as ‘writers of place’ because of their similar styles, their ability to immerse you not only in excellent stories but also in the rich atmosphere, the fullness of the story’s location.
James Lee Burke’s novels are primarily crime novels with two recurring characters both of whom are sheriffs. One, Dave Robicheaux, is sheriff of New Iberia, Louisiana. Read this series and you become immersed in life in the Louisiana bayous. You can feel the humidity and smell the smells of the region when you read these stories. His most recently published novel, Light of the World, features Robicheaux but with a change of location to Missoula, Montana.
Hackberry Holland is the principle character in another of Burke’s series. He is a sheriff in southwest Texas. With Holland you experience the grit and desolation of the west. Reading Burke’s novels is like buying a ticket to the region where they take place.
My second ‘writer of place’ is Cormac McCarthy. His work is not for the faint of heart. Two of his novels, No Country for Old Men and The Road, have recently been made into movies. No Country for Old Men is an especially violent movie, closely following the book. It is the rare novel where the ‘bad guy’ comes out on top in the end.
McCarthy is also known for his trilogy taking place in the early 1900’s in Texas and Mexico. All the Pretty Horses, The Crossing and Cities of the Plains immerse you in the changing west and the end of the cowboy way of life. All are rich in the texture of their locals and excellent reads.
I highly recommend the works of Burke and McCarthy, novels rich in atmosphere and memorable characters.
August 29, 2013 at 6:36 pm
I’ve lived life as a fulltime writer for some years now and have made some interesting observations.
I now accomplish less writing than when I was writing and holding a fulltime job. Hopefully, I’m about to change that situation.
It is not for lack of ideas. If anything I have too many irons in the fire. A host of short stories have begun their lives on legal pads and await completion. Two completed novels await editing and ideas for novels fill notebooks. But what I have now that stands in my way is time.
Let me explain.
When I had a fulltime job, I would spend every stolen moment writing. I write my first drafts in longhand so I could write anywhere. My backpack was always full of my works in progress. Now that I have all the time in the world, there is always tomorrow to work on what awaits in my study. But health issues and advancing age has brought a new light to my eyes. How many tomorrows are left?
I hope this insight brings my writing career new benefits.
Stay tuned. I’ll keep you informed.
August 2, 2013 at 7:44 pm
Good news!
My novella, Elmo’s Sojourn, already published by Melange Books in their anthology, Curious Hearts, will be released as an eBook.
The projected date of release is February of 2014.
Elmo is a character I’ve grown to love. He began life in a short story which grew into a novella due to my curiosity. I wanted to know what would happen to him in his other-worldly adventure.
In Elmo’s Sojourn, Elmo is a retired Los Alamos scientist who tinkers in his cellar with used scientific gear gleaned from Los Alamos dumpsters. He invents a way to travel through wormholes and begins an adventurous life on a distant planet.
I’ve since written another novella, Elmo’s Invention, in which Elmo is a young scientist recently married and working in his cellar on a time machine with unexpected results. Hopefully, more of Elmo’s life and adventures will follow.
July 31, 2013 at 6:29 pm
As mentioned in my last post, I would like to discuss my writing style or lack there of.
I have this fault when writing novels, but it really rears its ugly head when I write short stories. I think about the story I’m going to write for quite some time before I put one word on paper. When I’m finally ready to begin writing I am in such a rush to write the story, my first draft is always written with pencil and legal pad, I tend to write a bar-bones story lacking details that would make it more readable and interesting. Hence, one editor said my stories were like outlines.
Let me demonstrate.
Betty was cooking dinner when Harry walked into the kitchen.
Earlier in the story, who the characters are, may have been established. If not, this sentence raises many unanswered questions. Who are they? What is their relationship? What do they look like?
To give some depth to the scene: What is Betty cooking? What are the smells? What does the kitchen look like? Not all of this may be important but some detail will help form a mental image to help the story along.
I hope to improve my style in my upcoming work and in the stories I have yet to publish walking the fine line between detail and padding.
July 12, 2013 at 7:17 pm
As promised yesterday, my friends, here is a story about motherhood but totally inappropriate for Mother’s Day.
Let me know if you are curious and I’ll send you the full story.
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 13, 2013 at 5:40 pm
First, I would like to wish all those moms out there a Happy Mother’s Day. I was going to post a short story, my only story that specifically is about a mother. But I felt it would be totally inappropriate and in poor taste. So I’ll post part of it tomorrow and see if anyone is interested in seeing the rest, FOR FREE.
In the meantime, here is a taste of another short story already published. Pardon the pun.
If anyone would like to see the entire story, just email me at wtrizna@comcast.net.
I promise you that all you will receive is the rest of the story. The only thing I ask is that if you enjoy the stories, tell your friends about my blog.
Here is a taste.
THE GIFT OF DEATH
Will’s bedroom was cast in shadows by the moonlight filtering through the window. Lying next to him was the naked body of a young woman. With her lips slightly parted, she appeared as if she were in a gentle sleep. He face, framed by short blond hair, was at peace. Her body was perfect, fit and trim. He knew she was dead. It was not the first time this happened and he knew, with disgust and resign, it would not be the last.
He had met the woman in a bar. They had returned to his apartment, both intoxicated and undressed for a session of lovemaking, but Will’s desires were much different than the girl’s. Will felt excitement as he entered her then his gaze fell to her neck. Lowering his head to that delicate neck was the last thing he remembered. He blacked out during the thrill of intense feeding. Before the feeding, Will felt an attraction for the girl, and for the short time they were together, he fought to keep himself under control with the fleeting promise of companionship. But as the alcoholic must have his drink, in the end, Will’s desire to feed won out.
May 12, 2013 at 7:08 pm
My consistent readers,
In a few days I will post a snippet of a short story. If you are interested, you can email me and receive the entire story.
May 10, 2013 at 5:35 pm
Traffic through the shop was light, had been for months. Three-thirty arrived and Foster told Joe he was thinking of riding some waves until Heather came home. “I don’t think I’ll be able to handle this crowd all alone,” Joe said as he looked around the empty store. “Go ahead; get your butt on the beach.”
Foster got a couple good rides before Rich showed up. They rode together for a while until Rich caught a wave that Foster missed. Foster paddled back out to deeper water turned toward the beach and was preparing to get up on his board
It was 4:20.
He could see Rich on the beach taking a breather, when his friend suddenly fell to the sand. Foster thought to himself, “What the hell is he doing now?” Then he noticed branches falling from the palm trees. In quick succession, the roof of the shop caved in leaving a pile of rubble where the shop and apartment had been. He quickly paddled to shore, and as soon as his feet made contact with the sand, he fell to his knees in the shallow water. He looked up and down the beach and the few people still standing were holding onto a tree or other stabilizing object with looks of shock and disbelief on their faces.
The trembling lasted minutes, but it seemed like hours. Time slowed as the Earth shook. The violent shaking subsided, settling down to series of lesser and lesser ripples of movement. Foster ran around front and found Joe sitting on the grass clutching a blood-soaked towel to his head.
“Is this what we’ve been waiting for?” asked Joe.
Foster pointed to the south. “What’s that Joe, a fire?”
“If it is, it’s one hell of a fire.”
Then they noticed pillars of smoke dotting the horizon.
“I think some of our dead volcanoes have come to life. Come on, we need to get to the B&B. Although the trembling had ceased, the trembling of both men had not. A mixture of adrenaline, fear and awe fed emotions waiting for months to be released. Both men knew in their hearts THIS WAS IT.
They hopped into Joe’s jeep and began the short drive to the bed and breakfast. A drive that should have taken minutes took nearly an hour. The narrow road was littered with tree branches and debris from collapsed buildings and clogged with people walking, stumbling in a state of shock, and not knowing where to go or what to do. Screams could be heard from some of the partially collapsed structures, but for now, aid was nonexistent.
Joe could see the column of smoke issuing to the sky before his business came into view. As they turned the last bend in the road, there stood the B&B, or at least what was left of it, engulfed in flames. The men felt relief when they saw Lulu and Heather standing in the parking lot holding the baby. Their clothes were torn and they were both covered in soot, but they were safe.
They parked the jeep a safe distance from the fire and approached the women. Lulu was in hysterics, sobbing and could not be consoled.
“Thank God you’re all safe. It’s only a building,” Joe said as he embraced his frantic wife.
All Lulu could say over and over was, “Oh no, no, no.”
Foster noticed Heather was also crying. He hugged her and his son. Through choked-back tears she explained what had happened. “Lulu and I were in the kitchen. Thank God we had the baby with us. We were preparing tomorrow’s breakfast when everything began to shake. Things fell off the shelves and the ceiling started coming down. We made it out just in time before the whole place came crashing down and began to burn.”
Lulu stood listening, clutching herself and moaning.
“A few hours ago we had the first guests we’ve had in a long time check in, a young couple from California, along with their five year old son. They went upstairs to get some rest before they began their tour of the island. They never came out.”
They all watched the burning structure as it caved in further. As the flames singed the nearby palms, they knew it was also a funeral pyre. Both women sobbed as the men stood helpless. Oahu and the rest of the Hawaiian Islands were also helpless, caught in the grasp of a power that was no longer a theory.
April 30, 2013 at 6:27 pm
This is a sample of the destruction leading up to the ultimate event.
Chapter Ten
Joe Sparks had drawn night duty on the bridge of the Clementine. He enjoyed the solitude of the darkened bridge, the tropical breeze soft and gentle and the total lack of passengers. Joe was not a ‘people person’ and the fact that the ship carried passengers in addition to cargo irritated him to no end. He knew Captain Roberts, a good man and captain of the Clementine. Joe had served with him on other vessels and he was a man to be trusted. Roberts knew the ocean, was a good sailor and a fair boss. When Joe heard Roberts was commanding the Clementine, he signed up. This was Joe’s first voyage on the ship, and when he arrived dockside, he couldn’t believe the line of civilians filing aboard. His love of working with Roberts was greater than his distaste for the passengers. He immediately signed up for night bridge duty.
The ship basically sailed itself. All Joe needed to do was monitor the course and make sure the autopilot was doing its job. Other than that, along with handling the occasional minor malfunction, Joe spent most of his time drinking coffee and reading. The only other person on the bridge was the radar operator. His presence in these waters was just to fulfill regulations. There were no landmasses for hundreds of miles and they were sailing far from the well-traveled shipping lanes of the Pacific.
Not prepared to see anything on his scope, he was surprised to pick up a reading a few miles away. “Joe, I don’t understand it, I’ve got a reading ten miles off the starboard bow. It appears to be land but there shouldn’t be any land out there.” Just as the radar operator began to speak, Joe noticed a glow on the ocean’s surface in the same direction.
“I’d better call the captain on this one.
* * * *
On deck, George and Emily strolled along the starboard side of the ship. With dinner finished, they decided to walk for a while on deck before retiring for the night. Emily gave George’s hand a squeeze. “I know how much you wanted a home near the ocean. I also know what a sacrifice it was to see that the girls were educated. I’m proud of our girls and I’m proud of what you’ve done for them.”
George held Emily’s hand and was about to respond when he noticed a light off in the distance. “That’s strange. I thought we weren’t near any land. That’s too bright to be another ship.”
At the same time George was pointing out the unusual glow to Emily, Captain Roberts entered the bridge and joined Sparks. The freighter’s course had taken it to within a few miles of the new volcano. Roberts was about to reach for the binoculars when the glow went dim. No one on board the Clementine knew they had but moments to live.
On deck George too saw the glow go faint. He was holding Emily’s hand and about to tell her, “I love you”, but the words never came.
The cone of the volcano exploded with a deafening roar. A massive wall of ash and super-heated gases bore down on the Clementine. A fraction of a second after the sound of the explosion reached the Clementine; she was engulfed in the deadly cloud. Anything on deck that was combustible burst into flame – deckchairs, lifeboats and human flesh were incinerated. Debris broke the windows of the bridge, and then everything and everyone on the bridge were consumed in a holocaust. Those below deck survived a second or two longer, but soon the Clementine was transformed into a floating funeral pyre. The inferno reached the ship’s fuel tanks and the Clementine was no more.
April 29, 2013 at 5:46 pm
Older Posts
Newer Posts
