Posts tagged ‘books’
ELMO’S INVENTION: CHAPTER 1, ELMO’S WORKSHOP, THE BEGINNING OF THE TIME MACHINE
ELMO’S INVENTION
CHAPTER 1
ELMO’S WORKSHOP
“Mildred,” Elmo Baker shouted, “Come down here. I have something important to show you.” Standing at the base of the cellar stairs, Elmo was in his usual excited state when a project was completed. Of medium build, with a broad face and a mass of curly black hair, Elmo’s passion was science, physics in particular. Mildred, with great trepidation, began walking down the stairs to the cellar. At the base of the stairs stood Elmo, beaming, not a good sign, and Mildred could tell by the twinkle in his eye as she approached her husband, that a demonstration or explanation of an invention was about to take place. And that twinkle would slowly if the experiment failed, which was often the case.
The year was 1966, and Mildred loved Elmo so, but shortly after their marriage three years ago, it became clear how intense Elmo’s love for science was and that love would follow them all of their lives. Mildred loved Elmo’s sense of curiosity but not the prospect of cleaning up the destruction, the mess of a failed experiment.
“Come here, Mil, I’ve got something to show you.” Elmo held out his hand to Mildred and said, “You have got to see this. I’m ready to make the first test.”
Mildred was not looking forward to what Elmo might present to her. Her husband was one of the first ‘dumpster divers’. Los Alamos was the government facility known for its research of the atom, and it was where Elmo worked. And he knew that when an experiment failed, some of the materials that went into the effort were tossed, deemed trash. Lab bosses also discarded equipment they considered ‘obsolete’ to be replaced by the latest version. But Elmo thought of this trash as treasure. This was much to Elmo’s benefit and was the source that supplied his cellar laboratory. At the end of his workday at his Los Alamos lab, Elmo would back his car up to the dumpster area and go to work. On many days, he would come home with the backseat of his Chevy filled with scientific odds and ends. To Elmo, Los Alamos’ trash was the building blocks of his inventions.
Elmo led Mildred to the corner of the cellar where he had his workbench and lab of the cellar. The remainder of the room was occupied by the usual accumulation of life which now had no use but never thrown away. Below a bare overhead bulb was his invention. Which looked to Mildred like and iron lung, one she had seen delivered. Elmo could see the confusion on his wife’s face, and proudly said, “Doll, I have invented a time machine.”
* * *
Mildred kept her love for Elmo strong, although that could be difficult at times.
Elmo was two years older than Mildred. He was handsome, but that was not what had attracted Mildred to him. It was his passion for a new curiosity he discovered, usually scientific. He found the world of science fascinating, with the wonder of a child enthralled by a rattle. At times he could sit for hours just thinking and occasionally smiling. However, the toys that mystified him were sometimes slightly more dangerous than a toy.
Mildred could not recall how many times Elmo called from the cellar, “Call the fire department!” Shortly thereafter, dense smoke would issue from the open cellar door and begin to fill the kitchen. This was long before 911 existed. Mildred knew the phone number of the local fire department by heart.
She recalled the time Elmo constructed two small chambers attached by wires to an intricate control device with a host of dials and flashing lights. The device was meant to transfer objects through space. He wanted to test the machine before building the full-scale model.
Unfortunately for Mildred, she had been busy in the cellar doing some unpacking. She wanted to display in her hutch the beautiful delicate six china teacups and saucers her mother had left her. She knew exactly where they were packed and couldn’t wait to see them again.
The search did not take long, and while admiring one of the cups, she heard Elmo mutter, “I need something small.” He happened to glance at Mildred and exclaimed, “Perfect.”
Before she realized what her husband was up to, he grabbed a cup and put it in one of the chambers.
“Elmo, what are you doing? That was my mother’s cup!” shouted Mildred. “It’s precious to me.”
Elmo was only half listening as he began turning dials and focusing his attention on the chamber containing the cup. “Don’t worry, Mildred. Your cup is perfectly safe. I’m just going to send it to the chamber at the other end of my workbench.”
Much to Mildred’s surprise, her vision of the cup appeared to waver, and then disappears.
Much to Elmo’s surprise, it did not reappear in the other chamber.
“Don’t worry, Mildred. Let’s just give it some time.”
An hour later Mildred went storming up the stairs with five cups and six saucers, angry and sad at her loss.
Elmo continued to stare at the second chamber scratching his head and repeating over and over again, “I wonder where it went.” He was happy that his wife wasn’t there when suddenly he began laughing hysterically, thinking of the cup suddenly appearing someplace quite by surprise and mystifying some unsuspecting person. He was sure the cup went somewhere as matter. For if it had been converted to energy, all that would be left of his house and most of the surrounding area would be cinders.
THE BEGINNING OF THE TIME MACHINE
One day after visiting the supermarket, although in those days they weren’t very super, Mildred was pulling her two-wheeled shopping cart down the street and was amazed to see a pickup parked in her driveway. It was three in the afternoon, and four burly men stood behind the truck. They looked relieved when they saw her approach. In the bed of the truck was a huge piece of equipment. Mildred recognized it immediately. It was an iron lung.
Just recently, the newly developed polio vaccine began distribution on sugar cubes. Gradually iron lungs were no longer needed. However, Mildred had lived with the fear of polio, knew people who had contracted the disease. Some still depended on the device for their lives to continue. “Where do you want this, lady?” asked the man obviously in charge.
“I don’t want it anywhere,” answered Mildred. She had no idea why they had brought this to her home. Then her mind had a flash, Elmo.
“Does an Elmo Baker live here?” the man asked.
There it was. Her husband had bought an iron lung. Shaking her head, Mildred said, “I’m sure it belongs in the cellar. I’ll show you the way.”
After many grunts and groans, the machine rested on its wheels in the cellar.
“What could Elmo want with this thing?” pondered Mildred out loud.
Hearing Mildred one of the men said, “I don’t know nothing, lady. We just deliver.”
The crew went back upstairs and climbed into their truck and left. And Elmo had some explaining to do when he came home from work.
BOOK REVIEW: THE DELUGE BY STEPHEN MARKLEY
BOOK REVIEW: THE DELUGE BY STEPHEN MARKLEY
The Deluge is an excellently written book where the author takes a surprisingly accurate glimpse into the future.
The book deals with the future of climate change and global warming. Surprisingly the author also has a massive fire which destroys Los Angeles. Among critical events the Capital is also taken over, but this time by an environmentalists’ group. After camping on the Capital grounds, they are thwarted in their mission in a disastrous meeting with the authorities.
There are other conditions in this book which make for a compelling story. Conditions which I hope never comes to pass. States become entities unto themselves regulating entry and establishing a host of frightening conditions for their citizens.
This is an extremely well-written book peopled by interesting characters and weaving an exciting story. The book describes a possible future, part of which has already occurred and also a disastrous future for our country.
CATS EYES: A NEW LOOK FOR A HORROR WRITER
CATS EYES
Joe Flannelly sat with his good friend, Howard Long, at their standard table in their favorite pub. The first few rounds of beer went down easy and fast. When Joe lifted his glass and said, “Here’s looking at you, Howard.” But Joe offered his toast without his usual cheerfulness. In reality, he had offered the toast out of habit putting little thought into it.
Howard shook his head and mumbled, “Shit, Joe, can’t you come up with another toast? You say the same damn thing every time we get together for some beers. Okay for shit’s sake, I’m an ophthalmologist. I got it the first time you said it years ago.”
Joe’s expression suddenly grew serious, and he yelled, “Fuck you!” This was unlike Joe who had always appeared mellow, happy.
Taken by surprise, Howard asked, “Are you okay, buddy?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not. I thought I might need glasses, so I had my eyes checked the other day. I have the wet form of macular degeneration, the worst type. I’ll lose the central part of my vision to the disease. I’m a writer, damn it. How the hell can I write like that? I’m only fifty-five, and my career is just beginning to come together. How do I finish the work I want to do? I might as well be dead.”
You could cut the silence with a knife.
Finally, Howard said, “Shit, man, I can’t imagine a tougher break.”
“I know, Howard, I guess my career will soon come to an end.”
Howard asked, “Can’t you dictate to the computer? I hear the programs have improved.”
Joe answered, “I guess I could, but that’s not my style. I need to see my words on a sheet of paper and think about where the story is going.”
Howard looked intently at his friend. Joe sipped his beer. He could tell Howard was struggling with a thought. Joe asked, “What’s on your mind?”
Howard took a long drag on his beer.
“I’m not supposed to tell anyone this.” His tone became hushed. “I have a friend, went to school with him. He’s an eye surgeon. He’s been experimenting with eye transplants and told me he just recently had a breakthrough.”
Excited, Joe said, “That’s great, Howard. That means there’s hope for me.”
“Not so fast, Joe. So far my friend has only experimented on animals. And the breakthrough has a major drawback. The donor eyes, to be useful, must be harvested functioning not just functional before the time of death. And the recipient must still possess some vision so that the sensory apparatus is intact. It’s not like any other transplant. The donor and recipient must be in the same room for a rapid transplant to ensure a chance of success. If the method was ever used, it would raise a host of moral questions. Taking the eyes of a living subject would leave the patient blind. That is if that had anymore life to live. I can’t imagine anyone volunteering offering their eyesight unless death is certain. Just around the corner like conditions such as euthanasia.
* * *
Joe thought constantly about what his friend had told him about the chance for a transplant and of his condition. Macular degeneration was a slow process, for some not so slow, but the endpoint was certain.
Joe was writing in his study, when in walked his cat, Sammy. Sammy was short for Samantha, and she was hell on wheels, or rather, paws. His older cat, Sally’s life was drastically disrupted by this new member of the family. When Sammy wasn’t running around like a maniac or sleeping; she was stalking Sally. Poor meek Sally was leading a tormented life. As Sammy entered the study, she was her usual hyperactive self. She paused to be petted, then ran about madly bouncing off the piles of books scattered around the house. In the middle of her insane race, she did something that Joe had seen both Sammy and Sally do. She stopped in her tracks, sat down, and gazed at the ceiling. She was watching something, something that Joe could not see, yet it took up her full attention. Sammy turned her head from side to side as if following a vision. After a few moments she returned to her manic activity.
What is she seeing? Joe thought. His writer’s mind began to work in overdrive. Among other genres, he wrote horror. Maybe she’s seeing ghosts, he thought. Imagine if I could see what she is seeing. Joe anticipated his next drinking session with Howard.
* * *
Joe met Howard at their usual spot and shared small talk through the first few rounds. Howard noticed that Joe suddenly became quiet and stared at him. Finally, Howard asked, “What’s on your mind, buddy?”
“Howard, I’ve been thinking about the eye transplant procedure you told me about.”
“Stop thinking about it, Joe. You have to take the person’s eyes out while they’re still alive. Except for some kidney and liver transplants, most transplants are not done until the donor is declared dead. Even for someone brain-dead, they do not begin harvesting until they pull the plug, and by then it’s too late for an eye transplant. I can’t imagine a family consenting to a transplant of a loved one’s eyes while the patient is still alive.”
Joe hesitated, and then said, “I don’t want human eyes.”
Howard cried, “What the hell, are you nuts?”
His raised voice brought stares from the other patrons who then rapidly returned to their drinks.
Joe continued, “Listen, Howard. I’ve been doing some research on my own, along with something I’ve observed in cats.”
Howard laughed, “This has got to be good,” but his body language indicated a total lack of ease.
Joe said, “I was looking up research involving cats and ran across an article published in The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences concerning the cat’s central nervous system: how it easily repairs itself. Maybe this is true of other nerves, like the optic nerve. Maybe the optic nerve could join with that of another species and restore sight.”
Howard began to feel uncomfortable. “Where the hell are you going with this, Joe?”
“I’m going blind. That’s where I’m going. I know I won’t be totally blind, but in my profession; I might as well be.”
“Now listen, Joe. There are plenty of options you can use to continue writing. Look into them.”
“Howard, I want to continue writing as I do now, just me, a pencil and a piece of paper. I don’t want a life where I can’t sit down anywhere I want and write. I’ve also become acquainted with what is known about how cats see. There’s something else, and you’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“Joe, I’ve passed that milestone some time ago.”
“I think cats can see something I can’t, that humans can’t. I want my eyes replaced with that of a cat.”
“Shit, Joe, you are nuts.”
“No, listen, Howard. A baboon heart was once implanted into a child when there was no hope of the child surviving. Pig valves are routinely used in heart surgery. Why not transplant cat’s eyes?”
They drank another beer in silence. Joe was talked out and Howard was pondering about what Joe had said. Howard broke the silence. “Damn it, Joe. I’ll talk to my friend. I also want to find out more about cat vision. I’m not promising anything, but I’ll see what I can do. And Joe.”
“Yes?”
“I still think you’re nuts.”
Joe’s mood lifted, “Thanks buddy. You’ve given me some hope.”
After the two friends parted, Joe went home to write. Howard went home to research cat’s eyes and how their vision differed from that of humans.
* * *
Joe was in the middle of writing a story. His phone rang, which he never answered, waiting for his machine to take care of the chore. The voice coming through the phone said, “Joe, it’s Howard. Pick up.”
Running to the phone, Joe answered and said, “Howard, what’s the news?”
“Let’s meet at the bar, Joe. I’ve got a lot to tell you.”
“I’ll see you there in an hour.”
When Joe walked in, he immediately saw Howard sitting at their usual table nursing a beer. Joe went to the bar, placed his order, and then went to sit with his friend, waiting for him to speak.
Howard looked into his beer for a while, and then looked at Joe. Without saying a word, Howard reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper which he pushed toward Joe.
“What’s this?” Joe asked, although he could see it was a prescription script.
Howard answered, “It’s a script for a heavy-duty anti-rejection drug.”
Joe’s face lit up.
“Listen, my friend, there may be some as yet unknown side effects associated with taking this. To say nothing of the tons of legal requirements which have to be met making sure you won’t sue if things go south after the surgery.” Howard then ran through a list of things that ranged from mere annoyances to life threatening.
Joe listened intently as he pocketed the script. “Howard, I’m having periods of wavy and blurred vision, bad enough at times to stop me from writing. I’ll do anything to be able to see perfectly again.
“Hold on, Joe. I’ve done some research too. You won’t be able to see as a human. You will have the vision of a cat.
“First of all, you will be nearsighted. Nearsightedness enables cats to catch their prey. That can be easily corrected. You will also be able to see extremely well in the dark, but with the absence of color. The big difference is what you see in the light. The only colors you will see are purple, blue and green. It will take some time for you to adapt to having the vision of a cat.
“My friend has agreed to do the surgery. He even got permission from the N.I.H. to do it as an experimental procedure. Of course, you’ll have to sign a ton of forms as I already mentioned.”
Joe was ecstatic. “This is great news. When can we do the surgery?”
“In a few weeks. You must take the course of anti-rejection drugs, and my friend has to find a cat totally free of disease.”
* * *
The weeks went by slowly for Joe as his vision continued to deteriorate. He experienced a few side effects from the drug, but nothing serious. Finally, the day for his pre-op and conference with the surgeon arrived. He drove to the hospital to meet Dr. Greg Glassy.
After his pre-op exam, he found Glassy’s office and was soon led in. The man who rose from behind the large, cluttered desk was much younger than Joe expected. Joe doubted he was thirty-five.
Greg Glassy was tall and thin. He looked more like he belonged on a basketball court than in a surgical suite. The two men shook hands and Glassy motioned for Joe to sit down. Glassy said, “Joe, you’re about to make a great contribution to science by taking the first step in helping blind people to regain their vision. I must say that I would feel more comfortable to replace your eyes with those of a primate, but in all honesty, primates carry a host of diseases that are easily transferred to humans.”
“I appreciate your concern and help, Dr. Glassy. You’re well aware of my condition. I chose to have cat’s eyes to help me with my writing. I can’t explain it because I don’t fully understand what I will see, but I feel it will help my work.”
“Joe, you must understand that there is a huge risk of total blindness. The only reason I’ve agreed to use feline eyes is because of the article you brought to Howard’s attention. There is a good chance your optic nerves will fuse with the feline nerves.” After more discussion, Dr. Glassy rose, extended his hand, and said, “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”
* * *
When Joe was wheeled into the operating room, the first thing he noticed was a cat lying on a small table. It was being ventilated and sound asleep. Joe thought, When this is over, I’ll be seeing through your eyes, seeing what my cats find so interesting. And maybe, instead of going blind, a whole new universe will open for me to explore in my writing.
* * *
When Joe awoke he instantly felt for his eyes. They were covered in thick bandages. The nurse keeping watch over him quickly went to get Dr. Glassy.
“Joe, the surgery went fine. Better than I had expected. Your eyes will be bandaged for a few months to give the optic nerves time to heal and for your eye muscles to firmly attach to your new eyes.”
Joe reached out and Dr. Glassy took his hand. “Thanks, doctor. Thank you so much.”
Dr. Glassy answered, “When your bandages are removed we’ll determine how well your new eyes’ function, but I’m very hopeful.
* * *
The time came for the bandages to be removed. Joe was full of anticipation. After the long period of having his eyes bandaged, he came to realize what being blind would be like. How going from seeing to not seeing changes your life. Dr. Glassy said, “We’ll be removing your bandages now. Do not open your eyes until I tell you to. After we remove the bandages, I want you to look down and remain looking down. I want to make sure the muscles are firmly attached. The room will be in total darkness. I don’t want to expose your new eyes to harsh light.”
“I understand,” responded Joe, anxious to experience how his new eyes would function.
He could feel the bandages being unwound from his head, and then thick gauze being removed from his eyes.
“All right, Joe. Slowly open your eyes.”
Joe did as he was told, keeping his eyes down. “I thought you said the room would be dark,” his voice full of anticipation.
“Joe,” Dr. Glassy said in a rush of excitement, “This room is pitch black. I cannot see you!”
With a quivering voice, Joe said, “But doctor, I can clearly see the floor, my legs. The light is dim, but I can see.”
Dr. Glassy, almost shouting, said, “Joe, I think the surgery was a success. Keep looking down, and slowly move your eyes from side to side.”
Joe did as he was told. “I have no trouble moving my eyes,” he said. It felt no different than when he still had his eyes, his human eyes.
“Is there any pain?”
“None.”
“Okay, Joe, we’re going to slowly increase the light. Tell me if you feel any discomfort.”
The light level was slowly raised to that of normal.
Joe said, “I have no problem. I see clearly. Especially objects which are close.”
“Great, Joe. Keep your eyes down. I’m going to show you a series of colored dots. Tell me what colors you see.” As expected, Joe could see only purple, blue and green. With that test concluded, Dr. Glassy said, “Now, Joe, look up at me.”
Joe slowly raised his eyes to Dr. Glassy’s face. He saw the doctor smiling. But movement toward the ceiling caught his attention. At first he had trouble comprehending what he was seeing. Then, in horror, he realized he was privy to a host of worlds, one atop another. Realms and dimensions overlapping into what seemed infinity, inhabited by beasts never before seen by man. Joe’s brain was taken on a wild ride. In an instant he knew that cats could see what humans couldn’t. A series of other worlds, which a cat’s brain could not process so with what they were observing, they showed no fear. However, his brain revealed the terror his eyes observed.
Revealed was a multitude of dimensions never imagined by man. Occupied by beings of unspeakable character. The closest dimension was inhabited by beings with human form, but any other resemblance to man stopped there for their arms were replaced by tentacles. Others had arms issuing from their chests, ending in horrible appendages for unknown purposes. A multitude of creatures with horrible appearances were revealed to Joe’s now cat’s eyes. Misshapen heads and misaligned features dominated their features. On occasion some of these creatures, detecting Joe’s observance would venture into Joe’s dimension. But when they crossed the film between dimensions they became ghostly white with no mass. Accompanying the grotesque creatures already observed were winged insects covered with chitin-like armor bristling with deadly spikes. One of these beasts realized it was being watched and turned its many-faceted eyes toward Joe then the ghostly image flew at a dazzling pace to the unwelcomed observer.
With his mind finally able to absorb the horror his cat’s eyes revealed Joe screamed as a man possessed.
He went to tear at his eyes, then stopped. Joe’s thoughts shifted from terror to the realization that this was the outcome he was hoping for after acquiring the cat’s eyes. He also became aware that no matter how horrible the creatures in these other dimensions were, once crossing into his, they were powerless. Right before his eyes was an untold number of potential stories.
Now that he had his emotions under control he turned to Dr. Glassy and asked, “Could I have a pencil and paper?”
The End
REUNION: A STORY FOR MEMORIAL DAY
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 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 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 firsthand 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 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 struggling 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 crowd’s attention. After thirty minutes he was done and ready for questions. Halfway 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 reenactors 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.
AN OBSERVATION FOR MEMORIAL DAY
SCRAPPING HISTORY
Located on the eastern boarder of Newark is Newark Bay, a body of water leading out to the Atlantic Ocean. I have always loved the smell of the ocean, the proximity of primal life. However, by the time the ocean’s water mixed with the additions contributed by the factories, all that was left was a hint of what was once the ocean’s promise.
Located at the water’s edge is Port Newark, an area that we had always referred to as “The Dumps”. The area surrounding the dock was the home of tank farms, sewage treatment plants, junkyards and a few factories. It did not take a great stretch of the imagination to determine how “The Dumps” got its name. On hot summer nights, the family would pile into the old Chevy and take a ride “down the dumps”. It was a chance to escape the heat, get a change of scenery for what it was worth and hour or two away from the house.
We would park along one of the perimeter roads and look at the freighters and container ships, some from countries we could only dream of visiting – distant lands holding even more distant dreams. On one of the roads where we usually parked, if you turned 180 degrees you could see the runways of Newark Airport. This was before the age of jet airliners – props and turboprops ruled the skies. If you watched enough airplane fly overhead, I always looked up at the sound of their engines, you would sometimes see a four-engine plane flying with one propeller lazily turning, a sure sign of engine trouble. Sometimes, when we were being extravagant, we would stop for a pizza before taking our ride.
There was this elderly Italian man – he must have been at least fifty – who decided to open a pizzeria. So, what did he do? He rented a garage, bought a pizza oven, a couple of small tables, and he was in business. The garage was a freestanding cinderblock structure containing three one-car garages. He rented one of the end garages, cut a door through the garage door and this served as the entrance. Located on a narrow street, not more than an alley, it was a far cry from today’s chain-store pizza establishments. Each pizza had a bubbly hard crust and stood as an individual creation – nothing massed-produced here.
Later, when the quality of his product became known, he rented the adjoining garage, knocked down part of the common wall and expanded. Could this happen today, with all the zoning laws and chain-store competition, I don’t think so. But back in the fifties he thrived and produced great pizzas.
So, on hot summer nights, perhaps armed with a pizza, we would go ‘Down the Dumps’, to see the ships and watch the airplanes land. We could escape our tiny house and dream of a world that we might never see as we gazed at the ships and planes coming from and bound for far-off lands and distant cities.
On weekdays after supper was done, and on weekends, the roads of the port were mostly deserted. With its many roads and parking lots, this area was an ideal place to learn to drive. It was along one of these deserted roads that I almost put my father through the windshield. While driving one of these roads he instructed me to stop, not yet acquainted with the feel of the brakes, I performed this maneuver rather aggressively. My early driving lessons occurred long before seatbelts were standard equipment, hence my aggressiveness resulted in my father flying unrestricted around the car. I finally learned to drive some years later on the back roads of Alabama, after I had already learned to fly an airplane, but that’s another story.
At the northern end of Newark Bay there were a series of bridges leading to Jersey City and on to New York. It was from the first of these bridges that you could look down on a complex devoted to scrapping ships for their iron and other metals of value. It was during the 70’s that I remember this area looking like a floating World War II naval museum. There would be row upon a row of Liberty Ships awaiting the scrappers’ torch. There would be a destroyer and the occasional heavy cruiser. Ships bathed in history waiting for oblivion. I know they could not all be saved, but it saddened me to see history reduced to a dollar value. It had been some thirty years since the war had ended; time enough for the whole-scale destruction of military equipment that routinely occurs after the conclusion of a war. Yet there before my eyes floated a living history soon to be no more, it would be gone forever.
I witnessed the destruction of one ship, which touched me deeply. This ship was perhaps the most famous American ship of World War II and for years the Japanese sought its destruction. If ever a ship was worth preserving, to serve as a floating monument to the struggles of the United States Navy during World War II, this was the ship.
During my youth, I devoured books about airplanes; I read everything I could about aviation during World War I and World War II. I rarely read books about ships, but my love for aviation led me to read one book that I have longed to read again. To this day, when I get circulars in the mail advertising military books I always look for that title that impressed me in my youth. The title of the book was THE BIG E, the story of the U.S.S. Enterprise, and that was the ship I saw doomed to the scrappers torch.
Having known its history, I could not believe that I was witnessing its destruction. I would think back to the drama, the life and death struggles that occurred on that ship, but soon it would be no more. More than once the Enterprise was reported sunk by the Japanese navy, but having been severely damaged in battle this great ship lived on to fight another day. I know there were many ships during World War II, whose stories echoed with bravery and glory, but I knew the story of the Enterprise and this to me gave it a closeness I could not feel for the other ships torn apart. There were many ships scrapped at this yard, but the only one I saw mentioned by name in the newspaper was the Enterprise. I was sorry to witness the loss to history of this great ship, but I was glad I had the opportunity to see such an important piece of our naval and aviation heritage.
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
ANDY WEIR: PATRON SAINT OF SELF-PUBLISHING
ANDY WEIR: PATRON SAINT OF SELF-PUBLISHING
I nominate Andy Weir for patron saint of self-publishing. I sincerely think he has earned that title.
Weir’s work first caught attention when he published some work online. Next came his novel, The Martian, which he self-published. That novel made The New York Times bestseller list and was eventually made into what became a popular movie.
The reason I am writing this piece is because the novel was self-published.
The road from self-published to fame is less than certain, and that’s putting it mildly. First requirement for writing success no matter how much you desire publication is that you must be a competent writer, actually more than just competent. I once was a member of a writer’s group meeting at Barnes & Noble, and the moderator of the group was employed by the bookstore. She stated that the store did not carry self-published books because the quality of many of the books was embarrassing. There is no gatekeeper for self-published books. The only hurdle to getting a book published is money.
Now back to Andy Weir.
I’m sure he worked his ass off, riding around with a trunk full of books and taking every opportunity to make a sale. I’m also quite sure that he had friends who were willing to work their asses off to help with sales. He also must have had a great deal of confidence in his writing ability. I say this because to make an impact with a self-published book must require selling a large quantity of books which requires an author buying a large quantity of books which requires a large quantity of money.
After The Martian Weir came out with a second novel, Artemis. The only review I saw for that novel was not very encouraging.
Next he published Project Hail Mary which made The New York Times bestseller list and went on to become a very successful movie.
I hope this review of Weir’s work provides the reason I am considering Andy Weir the patron saint of self-publishing. Thousands upon thousands of self-published books exist, published by authors with varying purposes in mind. But as in religion where many believers try to model their lives after that of their favorite saint for life in the eternal. If it is possible for you to duplicate some of the elements of Weir’s career, you just might hit the bestseller jackpot.
THE WRECK OF THE EDMOND FITZGERALD
THE WRECK OF THE EDMOND FITZGERALD
I have written, on occasion, book reviews in the past. Recently I finished reading the best nonfiction book I have read in quite a while, the title of the book, The Gales of November, by John U. Bacon, which made The New York Times Sunday book section’s bestseller list in the past. The title comes from the popular song by Gordon Lightfoot, The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald. More about that song later.
The Edmond Fitzgerald was launched on June 7, 1958. The Fitzgerald was built to last 100 years. It sank on November 10, 1975. At the time it was built it was the longest boat (vessels are called boats on the Great Lakes, ships on the oceans) sailing on the Great Lakes. The Fitzgerald sailed primarily on Lake Superior and Lake Huron. The book goes into great detail discussing the crew, their backgrounds and their families.
The Fitzgerald was 729 feet long and 75 feet wide. The construction of the boat is covered and points out a new method used in its construction, welds as opposed to rivets. New was also that it was built in modular sections. The use of welds saved weight but did have its drawbacks. The Fitzgerald’s primary mission was to transport taconite, a form of iron ore.
One fact mentioned in the book which I found amazing was that sailing on the Great Lakes was more dangerous than sailing on the ocean. The reason, salt. The ocean salt results in the formation of waves, due to the weight of the salt, which are different from the waves formed in fresh water. In freshwater, waves come more frequently. This results in the possibility that the long freighters on the lakes being suspended so that the bow is on the peak of one wave while the stern is on the peak of another wave resulting in no support for the middle of the boat. Another reason sailing in freshwater is more dangerous is spray during cold weather. Freshwater spray freezes immediately and can add a great amount of weight to the boat. In the ocean the freezing point of the spray decreases due to the salt making ice less of a problem.
The size of the boats sailing the Great Lakes can also be a problem. The Edmond Fitzgerald sailed in Lake Superior and then on to Lake Huron. Between the two lakes is a river, and to enable these huge boats to sail between the lakes locks were built. The dimensions of the locks determined limits for the size of the boats. The narrow width which the boats needed to use the locks made it possible for the boats to capsize.
Also described were possible reasons the boat sank. It turns out that there wasn’t one reason but multiple problems which accumulated and spelled disaster. Examination of the wreck yielded some of these. The location of the wreck was easily found by knowing the approximate location of the sinking and then finding an area where the magnetic properties changed.
Now for the popular song by Gordon Lightfoot, The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald. Lightfoot had the melody for the song but not the subject. He was familiar with the Great Lakes, and like anyone who was, was immediately affected by the boat’s sinking. He studied the articles published about the event and found lines in them which seemed appropriate for the song. And he felt strongly about the song which resulted, so even though it was completed, he never performed or recorded it. When he was finally persuaded to record the song, the band was playing it for the first time. They completed more takes and they all agreed after listening to the tries that the first take was the best and that’s the song that we know. Lightfoot also got to know the families of the crew and kept in touch with them.
Bottom line, if you have an interest in the demise of the Edmond Fitzgerald and why it happened along knowledge of the men lost with the boat’s sinking read this well written and thoroughly researched book.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: CONTINUED
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: CONTINUED
I pulled a small pad and a pen from my shirt pocket. “Mind if I take some notes?”
“Hell no. Most around here know the story – it’s no secret.”
He began his tale.
“Grandpa first told me this story when I was young. Wanted to scare the hell out of me, I suppose. Used to enjoy doing that a lot. Starts back in the late 1700’s when some people moved in that weren’t welcomed in this neck of the woods. They came from England. Some kind of pagan cult called Drubids.”
“Do you mean Druids?” I asked.
“Ya, something like that. Anyway, they wanted to be left alone so they built a house way out in the woods. There was men and women, but no children. Young, they was. Maybe eight or ten of them.
“Seems the locals, being of the religious type, didn’t take too kindly to these pagans. Then the trouble started. Farm animals turned up missing, some cows and sheep. The locals suspected treachery by the pagans, but they kept their peace. Then, within two weeks’ time, three children went missing. A group of townsfolk paid a visit to the pagans. The heathens said they knew nothing of the animals or children disappearing. But the locals thought they were acting suspicious.
“This all happened in the spring. Then came the massacre.
It was the night of the summer solstice. The nearest residents to the pagans reported a red glow in the forest that night. Some of the local men, well-armed, went to investigate. They approached the pagan camp and saw the men and women dancing naked around a fire. There was a pile of cut-up carcasses, no one could tell what they were being thrown into the fire.
“One of the men, nervous I suppose, shot into the air and the pagans made for the cabin. The story goes that the men surrounded the cabin, and then someone threw a blazing brand onto the roof. The cabin caught fire. Screams could be heard coming from the house. Some of the pagans tried to escape through the door and windows, but they were shot and fell back into the inferno. While they waited on of the men poked around in the fire. Found bones, small human bones so the story goes. The men of the town remained until the house collapsed. By morning, it was just a smoking ruin. They left and said little of what they had done to anyone outside the community. Some of the curious would visit the site of the pagan compound, but that ended after a while. And as time passed, the story faded but was not totally forgotten.
“It was in the early 1920’s when a new preacher came to town. During the late summer the townsfolk said they would build him a house. He walked not far from the church and saw a level area with little growth. Apparently, the damn fool picked the site where the pagans’ cabin once stood.
“The house was built before winter set in, and the congregation spent the remainder of the winter and the next spring worshipping, led by the new minister.
“Then the night of the summer solstice arrived. No one knows what happened, but the minister’s house burnt down that night with him in it. The church caught fire and burned to the ground too.
“Eventually, during the depression, the town died, and the area returned to wilderness. Here’s where the legend takes over, my young friend. All the buildings were overgrown by the forest except for the minister’s. The concrete slab that served as its foundation is still there, along with some burnt up debris. The forest won’t touch that rubble, so the legend says, because the pagans still dwell there underground. I don’t know exactly where it is, but it’s somewhere on the perimeter of French Creek State Park. Folks say it’s still there, easy to find along one of the popular trails, but I never bothered lookin’. Some say they get a strange feeling when they hike past the rubble on the day of the summer solstice. No one goes there that night. Campers all stay snug and warm by their fires or in their tents, and town folks safe in their homes.”
“That’s a great story,” I told the old man. “Maybe I could use some of it in a story. But first, I’ll try to find the ruin you mentioned.”
“Don’t know if you should, mister. All legends have a bit of truth. I wouldn’t want to cause you any harm.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
I shook his hand and left the small store, my mind full of ideas. I kept in mind the details he gave me about the location of the minister’s house. With our impending camping trip to French Creek State Park, I thought the coincidence was perfect for me to do some research. If I could locate the site I could use the surroundings to give my story a realistic bent.
TO BE CONTINUED
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: A GHOST STORY WITH A TOUCH OF FACT
The Legend of French Creek was accepted for publication by Necrology Shorts in January,2010.
I enjoy writing stories using actual locations. French Creek and Ricketts Glen are both fantastic state parks in Pennsylvania. Since I write mostly horror I imagine, even though it’s fiction, that the story might provide a bit of a chill to nearby residents of these locations.
The trail mentioned as being in French Creek exists as does the remains of a structure next to the trail.
Unfortunately, our dog, Millie, no longer exists but she did go camping with us on the camping trip used in this story. I miss her.
The Legend
of
French Creek
In southeastern Pennsylvania, the small towns yield to a rural countryside. Heavily timbered, with a sense of remoteness, the area has always been one of legend and mystery. The story you’re about to read is one of the legends generated by this atmosphere. For those curious enough to seek out the location of this tale, the signposts are in the story. A map of French Creek State Park is all you need.
* * *
My name is Will Trizma, and like most writers of the macabre, I am constantly on the look-out for material to weave into a piece of horror, spending time driving down back roads seeking scenes and atmosphere for my stories.
One warm October day, with the foliage a kaleidoscope of rich color, I went for a drive and chanced upon what I thought was a goldmine, but now I’m of a different mind. But, as you can see, a story was created.
My wife, Joan, and I were about to go camping at French Creek State Park on Halloween night. Our dog, Millie, would join us. Her disposition is gentle, but she is always aware of strangers or something out of the ordinary.
Joan was a high school teacher and gone most of the day. I spend my days at home writing. But when my muse fails, I drive the rural roads taking notes on settings that I may be able to use in a story. It was one such drive that inspired the tale you are reading.
I was driving along highway 23, just east of Elverson, when I saw a roadside store I just had to explore. It was a small building, faded white in color, and above the door was a sign proclaiming, General Store, in equally faded gold letters with a green background, looking like something out of the 1950’s. I parked in the small, graveled lot. Along one side of the store was a good-sized garden with the last tomatoes and peppers of the season. A series of vines snaked through the garden with butternut squash waiting for the first frost of fall to turn them into a golden brown. I smiled, thinking that the bounty of this garden was the source for produce for sale in the store I was about to enter.
I climbed two well-worn stairs and entered an earlier era. Behind two rows of fully stocked shelves was the counter, and behind the counter stood a man who had to be eighty if he was a day. He called out, “Hello, young fella. What can I get for you?”
The store was the sort that existed before the supermarket came into existence. To my right was an ancient refrigerator case holding cold cuts and cheese. I walked the two rows of shelves. There was soup, canned vegetables and a host of other products. But where a modern grocery store might have ten brands of the same product and a vast quantity of each, there was only one brand with four or five samples available. As a guy, I thought this made shopping a lot easier. The shelves to the far left held products for the local sportsman. Ammo and freshwater tackle lined the shelves. After drinking in the atmosphere of the store, I wandered up to the counter. I really wanted to talk to this old fella and get more of the feel for this area to perhaps use in a story.
On the counter was a cardboard display of beef jerky. I took out a sleeve and laid it down.
“That’ll be seventy-five cents,” said the old man. “You from these parts?”
“No, just driving around,” I answered.
“Must be on vacation driving around in early afternoon.”
“No, not on vacation,” I said.
“Young fella like you out in the middle of the day must be unemployed.”
“No sir, I’m a writer. I’m always working, maybe not making much money, but always working.”
“What’ cha write?”
“I write horror stories. This area of the county is full of ghost stories and legends. When I’m between stories, I ride around looking for atmosphere and leads I can use.”
“What’s your name?”
“Will Trizma,” I replied.
“Ain’t never heard of you. I do enjoy a good ghost story but never heard of you.”
“That’s one of my problems,” I answered. “Not enough people have heard of me, but I’m working on that. Right now, I’m looking for inspiration for a new story.”
“What’s your new story about?”
“That’s the problem; I’m stuck. I’ve found plenty of atmosphere, but no story line.”
The old man leaned forward, “You want a story?” He looked over his shoulder, although we were the only ones in the store. “I first heard this story from my grandpa. Scared the ‘you know what’ out of me.”
“Sure,” I said full of anticipation. “I enjoy hearing the local lore and set my stories in locales that really exist.”
The old man’s voice grew soft, “This is a story, or maybe not. I don’t know and never had the nerve to check it out. It’s called The Legend of French Creek, although it comes from way before the state park existed.
TO BE CONTINUED
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