Posts tagged ‘books’
SHOULD ALIENS WEAR CLOTHES?
Another alien-inspired post the subject of which I’m fairly sure that is alien to most.
SHOULD ALIENS WEAR CLOTHES?
For those not addicted to science fiction movies the only movies of this genre may be Star Trek and Star Wars. In these two movies, to the best of my knowledge, all the aliens wear clothes.
But let’s now take a look at other science fiction movies and alien attire. I recently rewatched Independence Day and paid attention to the aliens in this movie. Naked. I recall one of my favorite movies, War of the Worlds, the Gene Barry version from the 1950’s. In the brief view of the aliens, they were naked.
I think there are at least two issues demonstrating the importance on wearing clothes. In defining the position in society and in the military. What triggered the thoughts for this post were whether a society can function when everyone is naked? To me, clothes help define the person. Their position in society, at least the societies on Earth. Think about some of the terms used in our society. Blue-collar workers and white-collar workers definitely indicate the status of the individual.
When you’re walking down the street and you see one individual in overalls and another in a fur coat you know immediately that their rank in society is not the same.
And talking about rank, lets consider the military. Could an army function with no indication of rank? And army where there is no distinction between individuals. No display of rank to indicate who commands respect and obedience, and whose orders should be followed. And who should follow the orders. I cannot picture a naked army functioning. And yet in science fiction movies where there is an invading army it stands to reason that that force is an army, always a naked army.
Returning to my favorite science fiction movie, War of the Worlds, there are a multitude of versions. I have not seen all the versions, but in the ones I have seen the aliens are naked. How does such an army recognize who is who?
In the book War of the Worlds it is described, in a manner, how this problem is overcome. In the book the cylinders land on Earth and it is quite a while before the machines make their appearance. That is because the machines must be first assembled. They do not come to Earth ready to go. And to do the construction there is a sub-species to do the work. They don’t use robotic workers. The sub-species is an intelligent life form but below the class of the invading army. Wells negates the need for uniforms in this respect by creating different levels of intelligence, but I feel the attacking army still needs some distinction between individuals. Now, it is possible even though there are no uniforms to indicate rank there could be another means of making the distinction between individuals. Perhaps it is smell or another sense which exists for the Martians which does not exist on Earth. Or perhaps it is communication through thought.
Am I the only one with these concerns about alien society, probably, but now your mind is scared by these thoughts. So the next time you are watching a science fiction movie if the action takes place on a distant planet, watch for alien attire. Or if the movie involves an alien invasion look for uniforms or some indication of how to define who is who.
THINK NO EVIL: A SHORT STORY WITH A DANGER
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 not 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, found 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 shaking. 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, but 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
THE ULTIMATE EXPERIMENT: WHERE SCIENCE MEETS RELIGION
An unpublished story
THE ULTIMATE EXPERIMENT
George Stewart, age 94, with his mane of white hair and flowing beard, looked the part he had chosen in life, that of a distinguished scientist. His mind wandered as he waited in his study for Virginia to arrive. He always anticipated her visits. Twice a week she came. Finally, the door to his study opened and she entered.
“Virginia, how are you doing?” he said.
Virginia was thirty-five of medium build and quite attractive. But it was the nurturing she gave her patients that revealed her inner beauty. She put down her nursing bag and replied, “How are you doing, Dr. Stewart?” although she knew the answer.
Virginia had been an oncology and hospice nurse for four years. The work was demanding and emotionally draining, but she derived comfort in knowing she helped the people she cared for to make their last days as comfortable as possible.
“I’m maintaining Virginia. I’m so very glad to see you my dear.”
Virginia smiled as Stewart adjusted his body in his hospital bed. She enjoyed spending time with Stewart, easily the most famous patient she had ever had. In 1975, he won the Nobel Prize for Physics. His breakthrough theories and research led to the proposal of string theory. At his advanced age, his brain was still nimble. But his body was riddled with colon cancer and the malignant fingers of death had spread to other organs.
Stewart lived alone in a grand old house. His wife died some years ago and he still deeply mourned her. His only child, a son near 70, lived nearby and would visit when he could. Stewart would have liked to see his two grandchildren more, but they had their own lives and families. He cherished the rare visits they managed. A nurse’s aide kept watch over him and tended to his daily needs.
When Virginia began managing Stewart’s care one month ago, he was given three months to live. “I’ll spend my final days at home,” he told his doctor.
Virginia was assigned Stewart’s case and, during her first visit, she told him, “I’m having a hospital bed delivered today to make you more comfortable. What bedroom do you want it set up in?”
“Oh my dear,” he answered, “I want to spend my last days with my very close friends. Set it up in my study.”
He could tell she did not understand his request. “Wheel me into my study and you shall meet them.”
She wheeled him up to the sliding double doors of darkly stained wood. When she opened them her eyes were greeted by floor to ceiling shelves overflowing with books.
“These are my very close friends. I have spent my life with their thoughts, their ideas, and their dreams. On these shelves are the works of scientists, philosophers and poets. I can gaze at their spines and recall the cherished words they hold. This is where I choose to spend my last days.” Over the days she cared for him she grew to understand how much these friends meant to him.
Now she saw Stewart as her patient and friend. As she tended to him, Virginia asked, “Have you received communion yet today?” She knew that Stewart was a devout Catholic and received the sacrament every morning from a visiting priest or lay member of the church.
“Yes, my dear. Monsignor visited me early this morning. I do so love visiting with that man. We prayed together and talked about my journey into the next life. I’ve worked hard in this life. I am satisfied with what I have accomplished. But I am so very tired. I look forward to the next life and being united with my dear wife.”
Virginia finished with her patient and left instructions with the nurse’s aide as to what needed to be done until her next visit. With her work done, Virginia packed her bag and prepared for her next visit. They said their good-byes, and then Stewart mentioned, “I’m expecting a visitor this afternoon, a former student of mine. His name is Donald Ball, and he has made quite a name for himself in the field of quantum mechanics and string theory. I have not seen him for thirty years or more. I can’t imagine what the purpose of his visit might be.”
“Just don’t overdo it Dr. Stewart. I’ll see you in two days.”
Whenever Virginia left Stewart, she never knew whether she would see him again. She knew the end was very close.
* * *
Donald Ball drove his rental car along the back roads of southeastern Pennsylvania. He chose this circuitous route to give him time to think, although his mind had been occupied with one subject for some time now. He wanted to talk about an extremely sensitive and private matter: his old teacher’s imminent death.
Ball had a collaboration to discuss with his mentor. That is why he traveled from California to Pennsylvania. He had in mind the ultimate physics experiment and needed Stewart’s help to prove a theory that, until now, he had not dared share with anyone.
* * *
Ball arrived at Stewart’s residence and parked on the circular drive. The nurse’s aide answered the door and led him to the study. The sliding doors were open. As he entered, he was immediately astounded at the number of books crammed into the room. However, he was more astounded and saddened to see the shell of a man that was once George Stewart.
Stewart smiled as his former student approached the bed.
Ball extended his hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again Professor. How are you?” He immediately gave himself a mental slap for asking a man who was dying how he was doing.
“I meant to say….”
Stewart waved a dismissive hand. “I understand Donald. When one is as close to death as I, life’s daily greetings can seem out of place. I’m glad to see you but I must admit I am puzzled by this visit. I cannot fathom why you would drop your important work at U C Irvine to come visit your old professor?”
Ball knew this conversation would be extremely difficult. He had practiced what he would say since he first conceived the idea, when he first heard of Stewart’s condition.
Motioning for Ball to take a seat, Stewart asked the nurse’s aide to bring some tea.
When they were alone, Ball began to explain his visit. “Professor Stewart, I have always respected you as an outstanding scientist. No, respect is the wrong word. I have always been in awe of your intellect. And I have always respected you as a man, a person of honesty and integrity.”
Stewart smiled, “I appreciate your comments, he said, “but I’m sure you didn’t travel three thousand miles just to compliment me on the life I have lived.”
Ball hesitated, and then said, “Um, professor, this may seem like an odd question, but are you still a religious man?”
This question took Stewart by surprise. “Why yes, I am. I must say I find this conversation most puzzling.”
“Professor, I am here because you have three qualities I am seeking in an individual, someone I need to help me prove a theory of mine. It is a theory that goes beyond science to the essence our very existence. You meet my criteria. You are a highly intelligent physicist, you have led an honorable life and you are dying.”
Stewart said, “This conversation is becoming more and more bizarre. I presume you can explain your comments.”
Ball nodded, “I will try my best Professor. “As you know, I am working at the Super-Kamiokande detector used for detection of neutrinos. I am also conducting a graduate-level course in string theory. While teaching this course, I formed a theory on a subject that I never put much credence in: the existence of heaven.”
“Now I am truly lost,” replied Stewart.
“You see Professor, I have never been a religious man. I was not raised in any faith. But as a scientist, the more I think about life the more I find it difficult to picture our life force, that energy that each of us possesses, coming to a complete end with our death.”
“I can appreciate your observation on life. But I cannot fathom the connection between string theory and heaven.”
Ball began to explain his theory.
“One of the estimations of string theory, as you well know, is the existence of not four but eleven dimensions. Presumably, some of these dimensions are too miniscule to be observable. I began thinking about the existence of alternate universes. I thought of our own universe with its three physical dimensions and the fourth, time. I envisioned two alternate universes, each with three dimensions. I assumed time to be a constant for all three dimensions, ours and the two unknowns.”
Stewart interrupted. “That theory,” he hesitated, “would explain the presence of ten dimensions. You are left with one unexplained ….” The startled expression on Stewart’s face told Ball that he now comprehended the connection between string theory and heaven.
“That is correct, Professor Stewart. We are left with one dimension, one universe that is infinite, a universe of energy, and a universe where physical reality does not exist. The one remaining universe is heaven.”
Both men fell silent. Ball continued, “I have thought about the next aspect of my theory a great deal. As I said, I am not a religious man. But I appreciate the good and the evil in the world. If the one remaining dimension is heaven, then what comprises hell? Could it be a continuum of the heavenly dimension, or does it not exist?”
Ball paused for emphasis, and then continued, “I propose that hell does not exist. The reward for an errant life is oblivion. Your life force is dissipated for some other purpose and your consciousness; your existence is lost.”
Stewart looked at Ball and said, “I must admit your theory interests me. I now see why you require a man who, some would say, led an honorable life and why you require the help of someone about to die. But what is your need for a scientist?”
“History is overflowing,” Ball said, “with people who have vowed to communicate with the living after their death. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of the popular Sherlock Holmes stories, considered those works a minor representation of his entire output. He was primarily concerned with the afterlife and communication from the beyond. What happened after he passed? Nothing.
“Harry Houdini spent a good part of his life trying to contact his departed mother, and in the process debunked quite a few mediums. He vowed that he would communicate to his wife from the next world – nothing.
“But these people weren’t scientists. Even if they had been, the level of technology did not exist to allow them to communicate from that singular dimension. I’m asking you, Professor Stewart, after you pass, to send me a sign. Something that we will now plan. Something that will prove my theory.”
Stewart’s eyes twinkled as he said, “I think I know just the event.”
* * *
A few days after Donald Ball’s visit, Virginia noticed a steady decline in George Stewart’s condition. Every time she saw him she thought it would be the last. Each time she approached his bed, Stewart appeared as a corpse, his complexion gray. Only the occasional rise and fall of his chest signaled that his body still harbored life.
“How are you today, Professor Stewart?” Virginia did not expect an answer but he opened his eyes.
“I don’t think I have long for this world, my dear,” he said with great effort. “But I am at peace. I have one request of you before you leave.”
Two hours later, while making another visit, Virginia was paged by the nurse’s aide caring for Stewart.
“The professor passed away.”
Virginia went to pronounce him dead. She had lost a patient and a friend. Then she fulfilled Stewart’s last request.
* * *
Donald Ball was at work when his phone rang.
“Hello, Dr. Ball?”
“Yes, this is Dr. Ball.” He did not recognize the voice.
“This is Virginia Madison. I’m a visiting nurse. I have been taking care of George Stewart.”
Ball knew immediately the purpose of the call.
“George Stewart passed away today. He told me it was very important that you know when he died.”
“Thank you for calling. He was a good man and friend. He will be missed.”
“He was a good man. Good-bye.”
Donald Ball hung up the phone. He sat alone in his office for a long time thinking of what might occur. He felt a chill of anticipation.
* * *
Two days later John Coolidge, a graduate student working for Dr. Ball, sat at the computer console connected to the Super-Kamiokande detector. He had seen what the computer images of past neutrino events looked like and detected a few events himself. He was reading a physics textbook when the alarms began to sound. As he looked at the monitor he said out loud, “Holy shit, I’m going to be famous.”
* * *
Ball looked up from his work as his normally reserved graduate student came running into his office. This usually calm student was in an extreme state of agitation.
“Professor, you’ve got to come quick! We’ve just recorded a unique event. Nothing like this … you’ve got to come!”
“Calm down John. Now tell me what has happened.”
“We’ve detected a new form of neutrino! It is not any of the three known types – electron, muon or tau!”
Now Ball was getting excited. “Tell me about its chirality – its orientation.”
“That’s the strangest part, Dr. Ball. It has none. It is not left-handed as all neutrinos are. I’ve got to get back. Are you coming? There might be more events.”
“I’ll be right there, son.”
After the graduate student left Donald Ball sat for a moment alone. He was simultaneously excited and numb. He cried, and then he laughed. He also felt calmness he had never experienced before. He knew this was a unique event. Because it seemed inexplicable, the event would probably be deemed the result of faulty sensors. But Ball knew better. The new neutrino was the type of particle Stewart had agreed to generate from beyond the grave.
THE END
CHRISTMAS HORROR STORY
W** was known for his stories of murder and mayhem. Tales of ghosts and monsters were his claim to meager fame. A member of a writers’ group, he enjoyed sharing his twisted plots with the group and the support they provided. But how could they know, imagine, they were not all stories. W** carried demons of his own. Even his wife did not know the visions, the “truths” that journeyed through his muddled brain.
It was during the November writers’ meeting that the group leader, S**, announced, “In place of our December meeting, I suggest we meet for a holiday dinner. It will be a chance to relax and prepare for the year’s writing ahead.” The approval of the group was unanimous.
Reservations were made and the day of the dinner arrived. It was a rainy evening when W** set out for the restaurant. The back-and-forth motion of the windshield wipers gave him a slight headache. He was one of the last to arrive, greeted his fellow writers and took his seat next to S**.
The room was large with a single circular table at its center. A curious aspect was the room’s ceiling. It was domed with a most unsettling feature. From one side of the room conversations, even in the softest whisper, were conveyed to the opposite side of this domed affair.
As the meal was served, W** looked across the table to C** and G**, deep in conversation, discussing light matters. Suddenly, the conversation changed. To his disbelief, W** heard them plotting his murder. He clearly heard their voices discussing every detail. W** sat in disbelief while those about him laughed and shared stories. His friends asked if there was anything wrong, because he was visibly shaken. “I’m fine,” he replied and left the restaurant to make plans of his own.
January arrived and it was time for another meeting. S** was the last to arrive. “I have terrible news. C** and G** have met with horrible accidents. They are both dead.”
The group sat there in shock. Disbelief was soon followed by sounds of sorrow and grief.
The year swiftly went by. It was a good year with many of the members being published. Once again, at the November meeting, S** announced the plans for a Christmas dinner. The site would be the same as last year.
W** once again made his way to the restaurant, this time during a light and peaceful snow. He greeted his friends and took his place. Once again, he could hear the whispered conversations from across the room. And once again he heard his murder being plotted, this time it was T** and B** who made the fiendish plot. Once again two members of the group were visited with horrible and fatal accidents.
January found the group deep in sorrow once more. That was five years ago. And for each of those years, a Christmas dinner was held and shortly after, two more members met their demise.
Christmas neared once again, but there would be no Christmas dinner, for the only member remaining was W**. A creature of tradition, W** reserved the domed room for his private dinner. There he sat, alone with no whispering conversations to fill his head.
He gazed around at the empty seats, and his ears perked up. There were voices plotting his murder. Looking out at the overflowing restaurant, he saw a young family that he was sure was plotting his end. A fiendish smile crossed his lips. His work was not yet done.
The End
NIGHTS WITH JEAN SHEPERD AND CRIPPLED JOE
NIGHTS WITH JEAN SHEPERD
AND CRIPPLED JOE
It was a time before cell phones, before computers and instant messages. It was a time before people felt obligated to be at the beck and call of anyone who has anything to communicate no matter how insignificant the information might be. To many today, the ability to communicate – to use technology – is more important then the content of what they have to say.
The past was a time of relative freedom, when you hen people did not feel uncomfortable to be out of the loop, for to a great extent the loop did not yet exist. We were individuals, not part of a grid. It was a time when people were allowed to live their lives without the constant intrusions that today we consider to be normal – no telemarketers, no SPAM. You could answer the phone at dinnertime and be fairly sure it was someone you wanted to talk to instead of someone trying to sell you something.
Growing up, my family did not have a phone. We lived in a four-family house and only one family had a phone, a family on the second floor of our two-story house, and you only asked to use it if there was a real emergency. I’m talking seizure or some other life-threatening event. About the time I entered my teenage years we did get a phone, but in those days it was on a party line, and, with our plan, you were limited to thirty calls a month, then you paid extra for every call over thirty. Imagine those limitations today in a family of six that included two girls.
But don’t get me wrong, when I was young the exchange of information was important – there was just so much less of it. Or maybe it is that today, what we call information is not information at all, only considered information by those who generate it.
I watched my share of TV while growing up, maybe more than my kids do now, but I would never admit that to them. I listened to the radio, there always seemed to be a radio on in the house. That is why now, when I hear just the first few bars of a song from the late 50’s or 60’s I can usually share the song’s title and the artist singing with my children although they could care less about this information. I would listen to talk shows. Back in the 60’s, radio seemed to be more genuine, didn’t seem so full of itself, or maybe I was too young to be observant of what I was hearing. These days I still listen to quite a bit of radio, usually National Public Radio when I’m not listening to an oldies station.
I listened to Jean Sheperd broadcasting on WOR weekday nights from 10:45 to 11. What a fantastic storyteller. When he died at the age of seventy-eight, his obituary read, “A Twain of the radio.” He would start each show and off he would go on a forty-five-minute monologue about what it was like when he was growing up in Indiana or his observations of what life was like around him, and you never knew where he would end up by the end of his show. He was genuine, one of life’s observers, and listening to him relate his memories and thoughts was a true treasure. He would conjure up stories of his childhood, remembering things that happened to us all but taking a slightly different slant in his observations and in doing this create those wonderful views of his youth. Jean Sheperd wrote A Christmas Story which is now a Christmas tradition.
I would listen to Jean Sheperd during the final hour of my shift working in a newsstand at the corner of Broad and Market streets, the heart of Newark. I would be counting the papers and magazines and getting the place ready for my relief. I worked at this newsstand for most of my high school and college years and came to know quite a collection of characters. Some were old men haunting the nights on Newark’s streets. Talking to one another, carrying newspapers days old and talking to me because I was a regular of Newark’s night too. One individual, who could have been a character in a novel, was the man who would relieve me, a man with the most impolitically correct name I have ever had the honor to hear – his name was Crippled Joe.
Now Crippled Joe must have been in his 50’s and walked with the use of a cane. His deformity was one leg that had an almost ninety-degree bend in the top before it entered the hip. Crippled Joe had worked for my boss, the owner of the newsstand, for years and years, working the 11 PM to 6 AM shift and he was my relief of the Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays that I worked. And every night all papers and magazines would have to be counted, and the money counted and locked up for Crippled Joe would try to steal whatever wasn’t accounted for, and my boss knew this and that was the relationship they had, Crippled Joe could be trusted as long as he was not given an opportunity not to be trusted.
Joe also had a little side business going. He used to run a numbers racket at the newsstand. Everyone knew about it, my boss, the other workers – everyone, yet every night Joe would complete these secret transactions, and I suppose he really thought they were secret. Men would come up while I was changing over with Joe, whisper something in his ear and handed him some bills but would never take a newspaper or magazine. Being just fifteen or sixteen when I started to work, and quite naive, I soon figured out what was going on and used to think it funny that, after all the years I worked there, every night he would still try to hide these transactions.
I worked year-round while in high school and summers while in college. The newsstand was a good-sized booth with the front open to about waist level. We sold all the Newark and New York City papers. Back then Newark had two daily papers and New York at least five. We sold comics and magazines and some kind of dream cards that told you which numbers you should play according to the dreams you were having. Working at the newsstand during the winter was a real challenge. The wind would whip around into the booth, and all the papers had to be held down with heavy metal weights. The change was kept in a metal change holder, a series of metal cups nailed in front of where you stood in the booth. When it was cold, I mean really cold, the change would freeze to your bare fingertips. You kept gloves on when no one was buying anything, but when the time to make a sale came, off came the gloves and those warm fingers would freeze right to the coins. Snowstorms were a challenge also. I had what some might determine to be a twisted sense of duty. During one particular storm, the snow was drifting against the door inside the booth. We had electric heaters but unless you were right on top of them you froze. I kept the stand open even though no one in his or her right mind was out on a night like this. Finally, I got the word to close down. It was the first time I ever saw the newsstand closed.
During the summers of my high school and early college years I worked days and ran the newsstand for my boss who would drop by once a week to pick up the deposit slips and see how things were going. It was about this time that my well-established hormones began to really kick in and along with fantasies about some of my customers. I can recall one short-haired blond girl, who must have been a secretary, and every day would pick up a paper – perhaps for her boss. I was in college at this time and she was about my age, probably working right out of high school. By the time I would sell her a paper I was dirty with newsprint from the early morning rush hour. I would see her every day, and she would never say a word. Thinking back, it was probably good that she hadn’t for I probably would have answered with some garbled message. So, I would have my fantasies of meeting for a soda after work, maybe a movie but all I did was keep folding her papers and taking her money.
There was another girl I remember but she haunted the nights. I first noticed her while I was still in high school. She was about my age, maybe seventeen, not pretty but not unattractive either. She was very slim with long red hair and would hang out on the corner where I worked. She usually had other kids with her, but she was the oldest. I never knew if the other kids were siblings or just friends. She was not well dressed and just looking at her, you could tell she had very little money. I just wondered what she was doing night after night on that corner. Even now, when I think of her, I can hear Frankie Vallie singing ‘Rag Doll’. I wonder what became of the ‘rag doll’ as I wonder about other people that crossed my path during those nighst and days I spent selling papers.
On Mondays and Wednesdays my shifts were from 6-11PM, but on Fridays I went to work straight from school starting at 3PM and working until 11. I got quite a few stares and have to do some explaining after gym as I was putting on my long johns in preparation for a winter’s night work.
Fridays, I would get home about 11:30 have some dinner and go to bed. My bed by now was a single pull-out bed in the parlor next to the kerosene stove which, during the winter, you could almost sit on and have no fear of injury. The stove was useless. But my radio listening for the day was not yet over, or just beginning, depending on which way you wanted to approach the time of day, for another of my favorite radio shows was about to begin – Long John Nebal whose talk show on WOR radio ran from midnight to about five in the morning. The topics would vary but the subject that stirred my interest was flying saucers. He would sometimes have on his show the editor of Saucer News. Saucer News was a local magazine type publication although calling it a magazine was quite a stretch, and of course I immediately sent away for a subscription. It was just a few pages long and would be filled with pictures of flying saucers along with local sightings and editorial comments. The funny thing was that most of the editorial comments were about the editor’s ongoing divorce. For some reason I’ve always been drawn to slightly wacko subjects, here’s where my kids could provide an editorial.
Anyway, I would listen to these shows as late into the night as I could. Now I wouldn’t use my newsstand radio for that would be a waste of batteries, I used my crystal radio. Let me explain what this is, although my theoretical knowledge may be a little rough. The radio contained a crystal and onto it pressed a thin piece of wire called a cat’s whisker. The pressure generated electricity and it was also the way you tuned in a station, by moving the cat’s whisker around the crystal. My radio was in the shape of a rocket and about six inches long, a black and red beauty. Coming out the rocket were three wires. One wire ended in and alligator clip for the ground, one wire was an earpiece, and the last wire was the antenna. The antenna was rather long, somewhere between twenty and thirty feet and I would stretch it through the whole house before climbing into bed. I tend to toss and turn in my sleep so I would always wake up all wrapped up in the earphone and antenna wire, but no electricity was wasted although every night I listened to my crystal radio I risked death by strangulation.
Looking back, they were rough days, hard days but good days. I was easily entertained. I worked hard, and ever so slowly I matured.
HISTORY DESTROYED: THE U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
HISTORY DESTROYED: THE U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
Time accomplished what the Japanese could not.
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. During the 70’s, I remember this area looking like a floating World War II naval museum. There would be row upon row of Liberty Ships awaiting the scrappers’ torches, destroyers 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 in particular, 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, without a doubt the most famous aircraft carrier to participate in World War II. Now this historic vessel awaited the scraper’s torch. There this magnificent vessel sat, amongst her comrades in the great struggle of the war. I cannot imagine why a movement could not save this ship from destruction. With all the battles, all the victories and sorrows that formed the ship’s past, the Enterprise would have provided a floating history lesson for generations to come.
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. After the deck was removed, you could look down on the complex of compartments, areas where brave men worked to defeat the Japanese navy and were some of them died. 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.
HOW DOES A WRITERS PRODUCE THEIR MAGIC?
WRITERS, WHERE DO THE IDEAS COME FROM?
Where do the ideas writers use to develop their stories they write come from?
I see major differences between producing fiction and nonfiction. For nonfiction the writer begins with a subject which I’m sure involves an interest and creative thoughts. Then comes the research. Sometimes a massive amount of research, but the writer has a concrete goal. This writing demands skill to create a work of value. And to complete a valued work requires writing skill but little imagination. However, the genre of creative nonfiction does require a creative approach to a nonfiction story..
Now for fiction.
In fiction the writer begins with an idea and then creates something from nothing and hopefully an intriguing story. But where does that initial idea come from along with the details that follow? What triggers the mind of the writer to begin down the road to producing a work of fiction.
I feel the answer lies in experiences and observations, which the writer has undergone on the way to developing their work. Some remembered consciously, but most stored deeply in the writer’s subconscious. We all have exposure to various situations, challenges – some won, some lost. But I feel the writer records these, to a much greater extent, than the nonwriter.
Another difference may be that most people are talkers where the future writer is more of a listener. And what they hear accumulates somewhere in the reaches of their brains. Eventually, this accumulated data on a subject of interest, an idea for a story comes into being with details filled in by the writer’s life. Then there is the skill the writer needs to form an effective story. Can that skill be taught or does it come naturally? I feel the answer is both. So many successful writers have gone through the process of an MFA. But look at all the famous writers who possessed great skill without the benefit of an education in writing. There are so many questions which spring to life when considering what prompts a work of fiction. Could we ever answer that mystical mystery of what process goes into creating a work of fiction? The answer is imagination, but is that an answer, or just fodder for more speculation?
What happens to a writer sitting alone with a pencil and paper or a computer and just begins thinking, I think, is a minor or sometimes major miracle.
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
SIDE EFFECTS: UNEXPECTED RESULTS OF LONG PAST GENETICS
Previously accepted for publication by Dream Fantasy, International in 2005 and accepted for publication by Black Petals.
Set in motion in the distant past, an unanticipated effect of a pharmaceutical caused disaterous results.
SIDE EFFECTS
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 transmenbrane 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 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, 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 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 definitely 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 ANNIVERSARY, A GHOST STORY
The Anniversary was accepted by Bewildering Stories for publication in 2007.
This is a ghost story with a happy and somewhat unexpected ending.
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 leafless maples helped to relax her and to mentally prepare her for the visit. She 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, 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. 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 wish Emily could enjoy this day,” Julie said. Emily was so sweet and she had a special place in Julie’s heart. 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 a nearby field stood barren waiting for the spring planting. Some would find little beauty in winter’s harsh scene, but Julie found each season had its own special qualities.
She parked on the circular gravel drive and walked up to the modest farmhouse that Emily Taylor had called home for many years. Not another house was in sight, and the view went on for miles revealing the central Pennsylvania countryside. The homestead, surrounded by solitude, set Julie thinking, She has been alone for so long, the poor woman’s life reflects the scene that inhabits this place.
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. Emily is so excited.”
Julie thought, Poor thing, if this fantasy keeps her going; where’s the harm?
Julie entered the front door to a small living room furnished with plain, well-worn pieces. 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. 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 young and pretty, my girl. We must find you a husband.”
They talked for a while more, and then Julie began to care for her patient. She took Emily’s vitals and 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.” 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 outlived all her close relatives. No one visits her – there’s no one left.”
“I know,” said Julie. “The only pleasure she gets is in her fantasies. And if they give her joy, who are we to disturb them?”
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 Diane, 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 Emily and Ralph with a baby, then more pictures with a toddler and another baby. There were photos tracing the two girls maturing, and Emily and Ralph growing older. The most recent pictured 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 better communicate 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 life with her family was robbed from her 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 from 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 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 day.
“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 that 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 all right for awhile, as all right 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 and had to postpone Emily’s visit until 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 landscape of days past.
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 goodbyes 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 outran two young 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 Emily 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
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