Posts tagged ‘books’
WALT TRIZNA: COMIC BOOKS
COMIC BOOKS
When perhaps the age of nine or ten, I recall making trips with my father to used bookstores to buy comic books.
The stores are now long gone, torn down and replaced by skyscrapers, but once there was a series of used bookstores, the only ones in the area, huddled together on Market Street, located where the uptown section of Newark began, just beyond Penn Station, the train station and accompanying railroad that bisected Newark. Once you left my area of Newark and made your way to Penn Station and under the elevated railroad you were uptown, walking toward Broad and Market, the heart of Newark, but more on that intersection later.
Off I would go with my Dad to buy comic books. The stores were old musty-smelling rooms filled with piles upon piles of books from creaky hardwood floor to the grimy ceiling. I love bookstores to this day, both old and new, and the smells of the used bookstores take me back to Market Street. The bookstores of Market Street had huge front windows crammed with books, and the store overflowed with books. And somewhere in this maze of books were bags and bags of used comic books. The comics had their covers removed (which might have indicated something illegal) and sold for a nickel each or six for a quarter and we would buy them by the stack.
There would be romance comics for my mother, science fiction and action heroes for me and for the younger kids there would be Nancy, Donald Duck, Archie and more. We would bring home a bundle of comics, along with the musty smell of the store, sit around the kitchen table and divide them up.
Taking part of my stack of comics and hiding some in the bathroom for nature’s calls did not endear me to my family. There was a water pipe running from floor to ceiling on the outer wall and I would hide my comics rolled up and wedged between the pipe and the wall near the ceiling. Of course, they were in plain sight. I just assumed no one would ever look up.
At the age of nine or ten comics were my entertainment; they were my entry to the world of reading and imagination. To this day I lose patience with computer games, get bored with TV and other electronic means of filling your day. But given a good book, I get lost for hours always needing to know what the next page holds.
THOUGHTS ON SELF-PUBLISHING
Self-publishing is very popular these days. A way to stroke your ego, and in most cases, involves little effort in producing a work which deserves publication.
One definition of an author is of a writer whose work has been published. With that meaning in mind, is a writer who pays someone to publish their work an author?
THOUGHTS ON SELF-PUBLISHING
In the past presses involved in self-publishing were known as vanity presses. For that is what they were. Getting a book published was a way to stroke your ego even if the only people who would see it were your mother, siblings, kids and close friends. The fact that there is no standard of quality centered on publication or gatekeepers makes it possible of getting a book connected to your name rather easy, if you have the money.
Not long ago I was looking for a publisher for my science fiction/horror novel. In the past Tor was one of the few, or perhaps only, major publisher where you could submit a manuscript without an agent with the qualifier that it needed to be at least 80,000 words long. Being a well-known publisher of science fiction and fantasy I began an internet search, something for which I do not have a great deal of skill. I was unable to obtain the information I wanted but somehow stumbled upon the publisher Dorrance.
Dorrance was the primary vanity press publisher in the past. Now they are a self-publishing press. From that stumble, and apparently for the next six months, every time I began to use the internet I was treated to an ad by Dorance saying that they wanted to read my book. What did they know about the book such as genre or length or whether it was fiction or nonfiction – nothing. What did they know about me as a writer – nothing. But they wanted to read my book.
I wonder how many books they ask to read they actually read; my guess is none. I wonder how many manuscripts they are sent and decide not to publish, my guess is none. With the advent of self-publishing this company does not stand alone. A later article will discuss why I think self-publishing has greatly expanded.
There are now a host of publishers who will publish your book. One ad which I have seen has a man lying on the floor in front of his laptop. There is a toddler sitting on his back and another sitting on the floor on his left. In this condition he is writing ‘for a higher purpose’. The ad is for a Christian publisher. If this works I need to hire a couple of toddlers and with a higher purpose in mind get my novel published. My purpose in the past must not have been high enough. My purpose was not high enough to get the job done.
Now, it is possible to have a book self-published and be extremely successful. Andy Weir, the author of The Martian, a bestseller and later made into a movie, is a prime example. Since publishing that book he has published two more. His latest book, Project Hail Mary, made it to the combined hardcover and paperback bestseller list in The New York Times.
To reach this level there are a few requirements. First, you must be one hell of a writer. Sad to say, there are a good number, maybe most, of self-published books where the author is not a very good writer. You must also be willing to be able to work your ass off peddling your book by any means possible. That means making a major investment by buying large amounts of books and keeping them around, in the trunk of your car, and try to sell them whenever an opportunity presents itself. Being a capable salesman probably also doesn’t hurt.
I have heard of another method in the past where writers have had publishers show interest in their books. But that was sometime ago and carries with it a certain amount of risk.
A blog is a great way to tell the world who you are and what you do, such as writing books. However, a blog has the same amount of gatekeeping as self-publishing has. In the past writers have posted chapters of their books on their blogs. These chapters stimulated interest in their readers and that interest gained the attention of a publisher. For this to be successful it does not hurt to have a large readership for your blog.
But here is the danger. Many publishers consider something having been published if you have posted on your blog. They will not touch something that has already been published, and they would consider those chapters as having been published. So, you are taking major chance going down that road.
Another thing you must consider is that your self-published book is going to have a hell of a lot of competition. Because self-published books have no gatekeepers, I feel that any book submitted to a publisher publishing those books will publish it. And the competition could be in the hundreds of thousands of books published every year. So, your book must really be able to stand out in a crowd. But it is possible for a self-published book to be a success. Look what Andy Weir was able to accomplish with a self-published book.
WALT TRIZNA: DOWNNECK NEWARK
DOWNNECK
I began my life on August 1947 in Newark, New Jersey, the Down Neck section, and lived in that city, in the same house, the same cold water flat for nearly twenty years. This section of Newark is still known by this name for a few years ago, on a train to New York with my wife and two daughters, we passed a sign for a pizza place that stated, ‘ A DOWN NECK TRADITION’. My hometown is along the eastern edge of the city, not far from Newark Bay and the bridges leading into Jersey City. It is also referred to, as the Ironbound Section, gaining its name from the railroad tracks that ring the area and known for the light and heavy industry. Small factories existed amongst the two and four family homes and tenements that predominated the area. The mingling of homes and factories was a mixture ready for disaster. Even the Passaic River, flowing through the area was known to catch fire.
One Good Friday afternoon, during my teenage years, while getting ready for church I noticed the sky turning black. At first I thought a storm was approaching but soon realized that somewhere a huge fire was burning. I went outside to see what was going up in flames. Immediately, I was being joined by scores of people seeking the same exciting rush of a fire. Walking up Ferry Street, one of the major streets of the area, I could see that the coke trestle was on fire. As I approached to within a couple of blocks of the source of all the smoke, fifty-five-gallon drums full of God knows what began to explode. The situation went from the usual spectacle of a fire to people running for their lives as the drums shot flames into the air and rained debris – smoking pieces of trestle – down around the scattering people who had moments before been spectators. Needless to say, everyone got out of there fast. Some had to go home and wet down their roofs because some of the debris and embers were falling and starting other houses on fire. This made for a memorable afternoon; ten to fifteen houses along with the trestle were lost.
Our house was lucky, because we stood literally in the shadows of Balentine Brewery. Across the street from our house was a four-story building, which was part office building, part garage and truck wash located on the lower level. This structure, along with many others on the surrounding city blocks, owned by Balentine, created Newark’s life’s blood, Balentine beer and ale. This building stood between the fire and us, so it bore the brunt of the embers and debris raining down on the houses on my block.
The reason I mention this event is to lend a flavor to what life was like back then, and what life was like in Newark. Life happened and the consequences accepted – right or wrong – that’s how it was and when life went less than perfectly, you just moved on. Life did not always treat people well, but they endured, didn’t whine about their state in life. They took responsibility for their actions. They all didn’t prosper, yet people didn’t step on one another to get ahead.
Things were not always politically correct either. In fact, I cannot recall anything about my time as a youth in Newark that was politically correct. For example, I once had a math teacher toward the end of my high school career with a bit of a temper. One day during class, there were a few guys talking in the rear of the classroom. My teacher blew up. He yelled at the class, “Do you know what is wrong with you guys? Not enough of you drop out of school. If you don’t want to learn, you’re wasting everyone’s time by staying in school. You’re just holding people who want to learn back.” I do not think there exists the honesty today to say that before a class of unruly students.
People were once able to observe the world, analyze their surroundings, draw on their common sense and speak their mind. That age is long gone, but it still echoes Down Neck’s past. The talking heads of today say we all have the same potential if only given the right circumstances or drug therapy. Nonsense! Twelve years or more of education are given free to each member of our society. Granted, the conditions under which the education is applied varies along a wide spectrum. And when there is a breakdown in the educational goals meant to be accomplished, as happens all to often, it is always the fault of the system and never the individual. The usual solution is to throw more money at the problem, but until the real problem is addressed, this will never help. The individual student along with their parents carries the burden of responsibility and the older the student the more directly responsible for their education. These seem to be times of a total lack of responsibility of the individual. Whenever someone makes a really boneheaded move, there is always something that happened to him either done by his family or society that was the cause of that action. We live in a time of not guilty because of whatever reason other than my own actions. Of course, in some cases a person’s life gets completely out of control, but the excuses people create these days for their actions is sometimes unbelievable.
The theory that we all have the same potential also totally negates that one thing that has, in my eyes, an influence equal to education in persons potential, the influence of personality. Those who succeed are those who realize they must seize the opportunity, the knowledge and go forward. It takes personal drive, ambition and purpose along with a strong education. This is the combination that makes a successful individual.
And what is success? This can mean so many different quantities, depending on an individual. Does success mean money, fame, family, a life free of conflict or a life full of conflict and challenge? The levels, the goals we attain, depend to a large extent on education. But what we do when we arrive at our goals and the life we mold around those accomplishments depends on personality.
I know I digress, but the purpose of this effort is to point out my view of the mindset of today and how my upbringing, my environment has formed my mindset. So we’ll return now to my past, to Newark’s past, and see this mindset take form.
Balentine brewery ruled the Down Neck section of Newark, with a major factory and office complex that stretched for blocks. Across from our house was the office and garage. Next to that building was a parking lot that stretched to the next parallel street, and taking up the last third of the block was the catholic school, which was part of Saint Aloysius parish. The brewery’s lot was a remarkable sight when a storm was approaching, with workers just standing there waiting, leaning on their snow shovels looking toward the sky. God help the first snowflake that fell and all its partners for they were gone in an instant. Our street was never clogged with snow; the beer trucks had to roll out of the parking lot unhampered. They did not move the snow they removed the snow, taking and dumping it in the Passaic River. At times, long after the parking lot was cleared of snow, the city streets were opened. The beer was delivered but the city government took a while to get going.
As I mentioned earlier, the building across from our house housed the truck wash for cleaning the beer trucks and the tractor trailer cabs, an endless procession of dark blue trucks sporting three golden rings. Our street was a narrow street with parking on both sides, and the locals knew not to park their cars directly across from the truck wash exit. Now the reason lies in the fact that they knew that instead of coffee breaks some of the drivers took beer breaks. Once the truck was washed, they would have to exit the building and make a sharp left, and sometimes the left was not quite sharp enough, as the unsuspecting person who found a good parking spot and could not figure out why it was vacant found out when they returned to their slightly bent automobiles.
Some of the trucks used for the brewery were themselves interesting. They were old trucks with hard rubber tires and driven by a chain drive connected to the rear axle. But somehow these trucks did not look out of place going down my street because for much of my early youth my street was paved with cobblestone. So, these trucks would rattle down my street carrying their loads of used grain from the brewery, stubbornly resisting progress.
Change seemed to come slowly to Newark in its vehicles and its people. We lived just four blocks from Hawkins Street School. Hawkins Street was a typical ‘Down Neck’ street with parking on both sides and just enough room for two-way traffic. It was the same elementary school my mother attended. In fact, her family once lived across the street from the school. While I was attending elementary school, two of her sisters and a brother, all of whom were unmarried, continued to live in the same two-family house rented by their parents.
While attending Hawkins Street School, I had the same first grade teacher my mother had and after that another two or three teachers that taught her. When we had an open house, and my mother would walk with me through the corridors of the school she once attended, she would point out changes in the school that had been made since she attended. The gym in use while I was there was new, however, the faded markings of the basketball court from the old gym were still on the floor of some of the nearby classrooms.
I have not returned to my grammar school since I graduated, with the exception of one of my sister’s graduations, but I have heard reports of the changes that have taken place from my nieces who also attended Hawking Street School. The changes were not for the best, gone is the library – classrooms, the cafeteria – is being used for classrooms. Changes happen to old cities and schools, and they are not always for the better. But people endure. People who want to learn, who want to succeed, seem to be able to do so in spite of the circumstances, in spite of what life has dealt with them. That is why, to this day, and it seems to increase with age, I have little sympathy for those who complain that everything is not going as it should for them to reach their full potential. I honestly feel that there is something inside us all – call it a spark – call it will or destiny – call it a road we start at birth and end at death, but we must be more than just a traveler, we must take control. Too many times, we look around and see what the world seems to offer and settle for the inevitable. Our future is in our hands if we only have the courage to grasp our potential and pursue our goals.
My mother’s fate was tied to Newark and so was that of some of her friends. I became friends with two boys who were the sons of friends my mother had in school. With one of these friends, I completed twelve years of school. I chanced to meet this friend after I had attended an out-of-state college and spent four years in the military, he had not left home. We no longer had anything in common. It was not the fact that I had left, and he had stayed, people just change.
The old neighborhood seemed to resist change. It was small, compact, and is to some extent to this day. You walked to church, you walked to school, and even downtown Newark was a short bus ride or a healthy walk away from my home. Nowadays, my kids have to be driven everywhere. They make no decision about whether or not to attend mass; I the driver have that power. When I was a kid, you looked out the parlor window and saw the church steeple two blocks away and heaven help you – literally – if you missed church. When you could walk, you were in control.
These are some of the memories, the feelings that remain with me of ‘Down Neck’ Newark, New Jersey. Time tends to erase the harsh memories; time and distance tend to smooth the rough edges. What I wanted to show here was that my hometown was not perfect, it was real. I know that there were better neighborhoods than mine, many not too far away, but I look at where I have come from and what I am and see the mark my youth has left. The past I carry within me, for better or worse, has made me the person that I am. And sometimes, in the situations that life presents, I am glad I carry within me a small part of ‘Down Neck’ Newark, and approach life not to grieve for what I don’t have but rejoicing for what I possess.
WALT TRIZNA: GROWING UP IN NEWARK
GROWING UP IN NEWARK
My youth and early childhood were spent in Newark, New Jersey. Since then, I have traveled the country, lived in either coast or in the Midwest, yet never left Newark totally behind. There is always a hint of Newark in my attitude, my approach to life.
Life changes, but the experiences that mold us come early instilling values we carry within us. It is with these values that we set out on this great adventure called life. My values were born on the gritty streets of Newark, New Jersey during the fifties and sixties. Life has molded me since then, but in my memories, there is still that young boy wandering down Newark’s city streets wondering what the future will bring.
This is a remembrance of my life as a young boy growing into manhood and of my hometown from 1947, the year of my birth, until I was nearly twenty-one. The story is of a family of six living in a two-bedroom cold water flat and just getting by.
I grew up in the ‘Down Neck” section of Newark, although I have no idea how the area got its name, but it may have something to do with the shape of the Passaic River as it passes by my area of Newark. As in any city, there are associated with sections of the town names whose meaning or significance has been long lost. My mother was born in a section of Newark that was called ‘The Island” although there was no water nearby.
Newark never seemed like such a bad place to me. When you have experienced nothing else, you have no means of comparison. I have returned to the area of Newark I once called home and walked the gritty streets of my old neighborhood with its brick storefronts and multiple family dwellings and the feelings of despair, surrounding me, were blocked out. The feeling of home dispelled, from my eyes, the visage of a poor and troubled city. No matter how destitute Newark becomes, it is the place where my young hopes were many and my dreams unlimited. Shortly after we were married, I took my wife Joni on a walk through the ‘Down Neck’ area of my youth, showing her the house where I once lived, where the tree used to stand under which I read as a child on hot lazy summer afternoons. And all she could see was filth and decay. She could not imagine the little boy sitting on a stump, under a tree lost in the world of Treasure Island or Moby Dick, books that brought promise and adventure to a young ‘Down Neck’ boy, but his ghost was there for me.
I still think of that small boy there sitting beneath a tree. Because, for better or for worse, what and who I am today was, in part, formed by what I learned beneath that tree, in that house and that Newark neighborhood. Where we begin life is beyond our control. What we do with that start is up to us, using the lessons our surroundings provide to improve the life we have been given.
I hope to explore three levels with this writing. First, remember what Newark was physically like and the memories that go hand in hand with growing up in a city that has had a constant black eye, a city whose reputation is known and not envied. I will recall the streets, the people and the events that make memories of what they are. The second is the emotions, hopes and dreams that were fostered by my youth, by the conditions under which I lived. The third and most important reason for this text is what I see in the world that surrounds me today. I am a quiet person, an observer of the world around me. It is these observations of today with the memories of yesterday that will fill these pages. I hope they kindle some memories you may carry, memories neglected but not forgotten.
THE INHERITANCE: NOT A STORY FOR MOTHER’S DAY
This story was published in Black Petals in 2006. I recently submitted the story to another publisher saying that I am sending it now, because if published, I did not want it published anywhere near Mother’s Day.
THE INHERITANCE
May lay deathly still, listening, as her two daughters, Joan and Heidi, searched through her belongings looking for treasure. Joan was the first to speak, “I hope the old bat dies before the end of the month. That would save us a month’s rent.’
Heidi answered, “Quiet Joan, she’ll hear you.”
Joan replied, “Are you kidding? She’s toast. Even her doctor can’t explain what keeps her going.”
May Connors, age 62; lay dying in her bed in the small bedroom of her apartment in the assisted living wing of The Towers Nursing Home. She appeared as a corpse ready for burial, her face ashen and her jaw slack. Only the rare rise and fall of her chest brought home the fact that her withered body still harbored life. Cancer had ravaged her physically just as cruel circumstances had ravaged her existence. At one time her life was full of promise. Now she had nothing, nothing but the cruel words of her daughters that seared into her brain.
* * *
May’s mind wandered back to when her daughters were young. Five-year old Joan would say, “I love you mom, you’re the bestest mother in the whole world.”
Three-year-old Heidi would add, “I love mom.”
Those moments made the sacrifices she made for her daughters worthwhile. Now her daughters’ cruel words blotted out the love she once held so close.
May clung to life with the hope that her two daughters, distant for so long, would show a measure of love for her before she died. With her daughters’ words she knew that would not be. The love she had sheltered in her heart became a cold hate. A desire for revenge replaced her will to live. Locked in the prison of her body, May’s mind and soul were tormented with the desire to somehow confront the shallowness, the evil her daughters exhibited.
As May’s determination for revenge grew, she heard Joan say, “I always liked this knife set from Switzerland. It would look nice in my kitchen.”
Heidi snickered, “As if you’d ever use them to cook.”
Joan moaned, “I didn’t say I’d use them. I said they would look nice.”
Heidi said, “You can have the knives if I can have the antique mirror. I’ve always admired the frame and it would look good in my bedroom.”
Before she could help herself Joan commented, “On the ceiling of course!” Both women laughed hysterically while May’s brain did a slow burn.
Joan said, “Since that’s settled, let’s go through the rest of this junk and see what we want. What’s left can go straight to the dumpster out back.”
Then Heidi said, “Especially the crap she’s made over the years. What about her clothes?
Joan replied, “Try to find a dress without food stains that she can be buried in and bag the rest for Goodwill.”
As her daughters mocked all that she held dear, May remembered a life of disappointment and tragedy.
* * *
May recalled five months ago when she visited Dr. Stevens.
“I came for a checkup doctor. I’ve felt rundown lately and have been losing weight.”
Dr. Stevens said, “We’ll run some tests and give you a physical. That should tell us what’s going on.”
Two weeks later May sat in Dr. Stevens’ office. The look on his face told May that the news was not good.
“May, we have discovered your problem. You have pancreatic cancer. It has spread to your liver and stomach. I’m so sorry”
May was in shock. The rest of Dr. Stevens’ words tumbled into a blur. He went on to talk about options and a realistic assessment of the time May had left, but the words seemed unreal.
The deadly cells had been spreading their evil throughout her body even as she planned her future. May had thoughts of growing old and seeing her daughter’s lives blossom. Now these alien cells did more than plan; they determined her future.
Life had dealt her many blows in the past, but May had always persevered. It seemed distant now, but her life was once a dream, a dream that slowly crumbled. May married late in life yet still managed to have two healthy daughters. She quit her job as an interior decorator and devoted her life to raising her children. Her husband Charlie’s salary as vice president at a local bank provided more than enough to enable the family to live comfortably. Then the life she planned began to fall apart.
One day, as he did every day, Charlie kissed May and said, “I love you, see you tonight.” She never took that kiss for granted for she knew how much he loved her. But she never saw her Charlie again that night, or any other night.
Later that day, the phone rang and May answered. She recognized the hysterical voice on the line. It was Charlie’s secretary. “Charlie had a heart attack. They’re taking him to Glen Grove Hospital. I can’t believe it, oh May.”
May rushed to the hospital. A doctor, Dr. Perkins, slowly approached her, and then said, “I’m the doctor that first saw Mr. Connors. I’m sorry Mrs. Connors. We did everything we could. Your husband passed away.” Her Charlie, at the age of fifty and fit, died of a massive heart attack.
When her daughters graduated from high school, they also exited May’s life. Joan and Heidi two years apart in age went off to college and never returned. They both chose careers in business and both rose rapidly on their respective corporate ladders. Joan became a manager at a major pharmaceutical company. Heidi worked her way up to chief buyer for a major department store. Neither woman had any thoughts of marriage and would not even think of sharing their lives with children. They wanted their lives to be their own. They lived well and traveled extensively. There was no room in their existence for anyone else. May’s hopes for grandchildren and family gatherings were dashed.
May’s lifestyle went downhill rapidly. In the ten years that followed, May found menial work and seldom saw her daughters. When her children did visit they would suggest she start selling some of the possessions she and Charlie had accumulated over the years. They never offered to help their mom financially.
Shortly after a course of chemotherapy, May suffered a stroke leaving the left side of her body paralyzed and her unable to communicate. Her daughters arranged for a placement in an assisted living residence. May’s home and possessions were mostly sold. The rest were kept to furnish her small room.
Now May was dying while her daughters scurried through her tiny apartment like vultures waiting for the end so they could pick May’s life clean. Their mistake was that their greed would not allow them to wait until their mother was gone.
Two days later May died. Her daughters got their wish and split the money they would have paid on another month’s rent. But May also left them much more than money, she left revenge.
* * *
It had been months since May’s death. Joan and her sister had picked over their mother’s possessions and wound up disposing of almost everything the old women owned. Joan found counter space for her mother’s knife set in her immaculate kitchen, a kitchen seldom used.
One day Joan’s friend Phyllis dropped by with the makings of a salad and a bottle of wine. Phyllis drew one of the fine Swiss knives from its wooden holder and noticed a flaw. It was a large knife and there appeared to be a cloudy area on one side of the blade. Phyllis asked her friend, “What is this mark?” Joan took the knife to the sink and tried to clean it without success.
“I’ve never noticed that mark before,” Joan said.
Phyllis asked, “Have you ever used the knife before?” She then replaced the knife in its holder, chose another and prepared the salad.
The next day Joan dragged herself into the kitchen to clean up Phyllis’ salad mess when she noticed the flawed knife on the counter. “Now how did that get there?” she said to herself. As Joan studied the flaw it changed, became more defined. Minutes passed as Joan began to recognize something taking shape. She suddenly screamed, as the imperfection on the knife blade slowly became the smiling face of her mother. The image sharpened and the blade began to move. Joan backed away. The blade followed. Finally, she was cornered in the kitchen. She closed her eyes. On the front of her slacks she could feel a pressure followed closely by a searing pain in her abdomen. Something warm and wet fell onto her feet. She looked down to see the purple-tinged ropes of her intestines on the floor. She looked up to see the knife back away, then come rapidly toward the middle of her chest.
* * *
Heidi had hung her mother’s mirror in the bedroom where she often enjoyed admiring her trim figure in its reflection. It hung on the wall near the bathroom and she would smile as she glanced at her naked body fresh from the shower.
One day, while applying her makeup, Heidi noticed a cloudy area on the mirror. She tried to clean it but it only became larger. She hoped she wouldn’t need to have the glass replaced.
Heidi awoke early a few days later to catch a flight to France. She was now the chief buyer at the store and had been looking forward to this trip for some time. After her shower, she entered the darkened bedroom. As the mirror caught the image of her naked body, the cloudiness in the mirror began to glow. She stepped closer to examine it. An image began to take shape. Looking at her was the smiling face of her mother. Heidi screamed as the glass exploded. Shards penetrated her eyes. She could feel the vitreous humor and thicker blood flow down her face. With gentle pressure the twin shards were pushed further into her brain.
* * *
Six feet beneath her blanket of earth, in the dank blackness of her coffin, a visage of peace crept across May Connor’s decaying face. One might even say the ravaged face smiled.
THE END
MY LIFE WITH MILLIE AND SAM: THE FINISH
MY LIFE WITH MILLIE AND SAM
10/16/2021
Millie was losing even more weight, and her arthritis was causing her great pain. She hadn’t eaten for two days. So, I made one of the most difficult calls I have ever made in my life. I called the vet’s office and said it was time. I drove her to the vet. Went inside to tell them we were in the parking lot. As I walked back to my car there was Millie lying on the back seat looking at me with her beautiful eyes full of love.
A vet who has known Millie all her life came into the exam room and immediately said by the smell she could tell the problem was her kidneys.
The process went very fast. First Millie got something to make her sleep. Millie was standing and just keeled over. The vet said it was not usually so dramatic. Next came the injection which would relieve Millie of all her pain and sleep forever.
Millie is gone now but will never be forgotten.
Update 6/27/2025
Since this story was first written my cat, Sammy, has died at the age of 17. I have never been much of a cat person, but after 17 years I must say Sammy grew on me. However, Sammy being Sammy, I’m not sure of Sammy enjoying having me around.
MY LIFE WITH MILLIE AND SAM: CONTINUED
She came home with us, and we crated her in the living room, then went upstairs in our split-level home to go to sleep. Millie began crying. We thought she missed her siblings, but she was missing company. Once moved to our bedroom, the crying stopped.
In September my wife went on vacation, and I was left with un-house-broken Millie. I brought Millie into the sunroom and closed the door to the rest of the house. Armed with paper towels and a host of cleaners I was prepared to clean up after Millie until she learned where to do what had to be done. Eventually she learned to go to the back yard and do her business. Before she left on vacation Joni said Millie should not go on the couch in the sunroom. I figured, okay, I would lie on the couch and Millie would lie on my chest. The rules were met somewhat. To make a long story short that couch was one of her favorite places. She loved to lie down with her head on pillows. She loved pillows. The couch is now heavily stained with ripped cushions. But Millie was happy on her couch and that is what mattered.
Joni enrolled Millie in a dog training school. I went along with them but had to stop. While all the dogs were walking in a circle on leashes Millie would come over to me to say hello.
As with most dogs Millie became more than a pet. She was a member of our family.
I remember when our cat did something unacceptable. Joni sprayed water on the cat, and the criminal ceased the activity. When Millie did something Joni did not approve of she sprayed Millie. Millie loved it. During the winter Millie would break through ice to get to water.
Millie has such a mild personality. Sometimes our cat, Sammy, would sleep on Millie’s bed or Millie’s favorite chair. Now Millie was at least seven- or eight-times Sammy’s size, but she would not bother the cat. Millie would come to me looking up as if to say, “Dad do something.” When we would pass a barking dog on walks, Millie looked as if she was thinking ‘What’s your problem’?
When Millie grew old and somewhat confused, if she wanted me to do something she would stamp her left front paw. How she learned that I have no idea. As I tried to figure out what she wanted she would go to her bed and lie down forgetting that she wanted something.
There are two incidents in Millie’s I will never forget.
One day Millie went to the backyard when nature called. She began barking. Millie never barks. I went out to investigate and there she was challenging a groundhog which had reared up on its back legs. Not a good sign. After I saw what was going on I went into the house and got a broom to chase the groundhog away. But for some reason I chose a different tactic. I hit Millie on the head to get her attention, allowing the trespasser time to escape.
The second event could have been disastrous.
Millie has only left the backyard twice, crawling under the fence. She barks when she wants to be let back in. One day, no barking. She was outside for a long time, so I went out looking for her. No Millie. We live on a very busy street. In was close to Christmas so the street was busier than normal. I heard horns blaring and went out front to see what was going on. Traffic was stopped in both directions and there sat Millie on the double yellow lines. How she got there without getting killed I’ll never know. I called her to come, and she did with what I thought was a guilty look on her face.
With advancing age Millie became more and more confused and developed arthritis. And not long ago she stopped eating dog food. She was losing weight. The vet told me I should cook for her. I made her scrambled eggs or pancakes for breakfast and pork chops, fish sticks or chicken for dinner. But eventually she ceased to eat human food. I could see the end was approaching, fast.
UNHOLY GROUND, A HORROR SHORT STORY, CHAPTER IX
UNHOLY GROUND
THE BARN
Moonlight illuminated the night. A full moon hovered over the rolling Pennsylvania hills as Chris and Junior snuck out of their houses to carry out Chris’ artistic callings. As Chris made his way down the road, he could see Junior up ahead. Finding the barn by daylight was difficult enough, at night, if Chris was alone, it would be impossible.
“How’s it going, Junior? Ready to do a little painting?”
“I’m telling you, Chris, this is not a good idea.”
Junior could see the determination in his friend’s eyes. Armed with five cans of spray paint and flashlights, they made their way down the dirt road toward the barn.
Initially, the boys let the moonlight guide them. Crickets filled the night with their song, joined by the occasional frog. When they were farther along, they illuminated the forest to their right with their flashlights. Chris knew it would be difficult to find where the path branched off the road. Junior told him, “There are two tall maple trees, one on either side of the path. Keep a lookout for those trees.”
The walk seemed longer than the last time to Chris. Maybe it was the night or maybe it was doing something that Junior and old-man Alexander warned him against.
Junior found the two maples. Now their flashlights have become a necessity. The dense forest blocked the moonlight just as it did the sun. The nighttime forest had an intensified air of mystery, more sinister than during the day. The soft rustlings on either side of the path only served to increase the sense of dread. More than once, Chris considered turning back. But he could not, would not give in to the seeds of fear planted by the locals. As he walked next to Junior, he sensed a tension in the forest, something he had not felt during his daytime visit. He also knew Junior was terrified. At one point his friend was actually whimpering. Then the boys thought they heard distant voices.
“You hear that, Chris? Let’s turn back.”
Chris shoved him in the back. “Keep going,” he said.
Up ahead, Chris saw a moonlit area through the trees. He knew he was approaching the clearing and the barn. The boys stepped out of the forest.
Chris walked up to the barn. Junior hung behind shaking with fear. From his backpack, Chris produced cans of spray paint and began to deface one side of the wooden structure. He laughed as he painted his name in outlandish letters and added a multitude of designs. The painting went on until the cans ran dry.
He turned to Junior. “Now that is what I call art.”
Junior’s response was, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
* * *
For the next week all Chris could think about was how great it felt to spread his graffiti over the white walls of the barn. With the image of the three remaining virgin walls in his mind, he decided to purchase more paint and complete the project. He approached Junior and asked, “What do you say we decorate the barn a little more? I’ll let you share bragging rights when we go back to school. I’ll meet you tonight.” Chris turned, not giving Junior a chance to reply.
The boys met on the road. This time the moon was only a sliver, and they had to use their flashlights much earlier.
“This will be awesome,” Chris told Junior. He could see his friend shaking with fear while he experienced an adrenaline rush.
The boys made it to the clearing and the barn. Junior elected to remain amongst the trees while Chris approached the barn. “Shit, what the hell?” Chris said. He looked in disbelief. There wasn’t a sign of the painting he had done. The wall of the barn glowed a pristine white.
Then he heard voices coming from within. He could see blood-red light through the joints in the wall. He wanted to confront whoever spoiled his artwork. Something was taking place in the lower confines of the building. Suddenly, the place just didn’t feel right. Chris’ courage dissolved in a need for flight. That’s when his eye caught a figure standing before him where none had been a moment ago.
It was a boy dressed in an odd costume – old fashioned. Even more peculiar was that the boy glowed from within.
“My name is Thomas Young. My family and I have been waiting for a visitor, someone to help us protect this ground”
Junior shouted, “Chris, run!” But Chris was frozen to the spot.
The boy continued, “I welcome you to the land of the Ancients. You have angered them, and it is with them that you will dwell forever.”
The glowing youth stepped closer. Soon the boys stood face to face. As Chris stood stark still, the boy took another step and went through Chris. He suddenly felt cold; falling to the ground he underwent the conversion to a sentry of the Ancients.
“You are one of us now. You will dwell in this barn and guard the land. To leave this clearing is to enter oblivion.” Thomas turned and walked through the barn wall.
Chris stood alone in the moonlight, unable to comprehend what had happened. He looked toward the welcoming forest, and in an instant, felt the loss of his life and his future, feared the existence that awaited him.
Junior ran back into the forest, never to enter the territory of the Ancients again.
* * *
Junior never told anyone about the incident at the barn, even when the police questioned him about his friend’s disappearance. Never said a word until one day his grandson asked, “Gramps, do you know about the haunted barn?
THE END
UNHOLY GROUND, A HORROR SHORT STORY, CHAPTER VII
UNHOLY GROUND
“Bullshit,” Chris screamed when his parents told him of their plan to move to the country. “Philadelphia is my home. I don’t want to live with a bunch of hayseeds that get their kicks watching corn grow or whatever the hell they grow out there.”
Chris was tall and lean with a shock of red hair and a face full of freckles. He resembled his dad and had his dad’s forward manner. Bob was irritated at how much his son was like him, especially in ways he wanted to change in himself.
“Now listen here,” Bob said. “The decision is made, so you might as well accept it. And watch your language. The attitude you’ve taken lately is one of the reasons we made this decision.
“And furthermore, I’d rather see you keep company with hayseeds than those hoodlums you call your friends. I did not enjoy picking you up at the police station after you and your friends were caught spraying graffiti on that old warehouse.”
Chris said sarcastically, “We were just being artistic.”
“Well son, your form of art is considered vandalism. There are no two ways about it. We’re moving to Pinebrook to make a new start.”
Chris grumbled up to, during and after the move was completed. His attitude improved when he met Junior Dawson. Junior had a talent for getting into trouble and nothing scared him. Well, almost nothing.
* * *
In his fifteen years, Junior Dawson had never strayed far from Pinebrook. For vacations, his family would seek out campgrounds in nearby Pennsylvania state parks. He seldom visited a big city. When Chris moved to Pinebrook, he brought Junior a window to a world he barely knew.
Junior liked Chris’ swagger, his whole attitude. No one in Pinebrook had an attitude, that is if you didn’t count old-man Alexander, who was perpetually pissed off. In Pinebrook there was no reason to have an attitude. People just lived their lives and accepted what came their way.
The two boys were neighbors, but with the size of the farms, their houses were not within sight of one another. Although they were in different classes at school, they became fast friends. One lazy Saturday afternoon, Chris asked Junior, “What do you do for kicks around this place?”
“Oh, we hike and fish. And when it gets warm, we swim in the lake.”
“Shit, John-Boy, I’m talking fun, not Boy Scout camp.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Junior replied. “There’s not much to do around here.”
“No shit,” answered Chris.
“Listen, when I lived in the city, me and some of my pals used to get cans of spray paint and decorate the walls of some vacant and not so vacant buildings. Then you could walk by anytime you wanted and look at your artwork.”
Junior said, “I know what graffiti is but what are you going to paint around her’, the trees? All the farms are busy places. You can’t even sneak up on them at night for all the dogs. There aren’t any vacant buildings except… ‘
“Except what?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit! Except what?”
“Well, there’s this old barn. Sits all by itself in the middle of the woods about a mile or so from here. People around here don’t talk about it much. It’s a strange place. I’ve been to it once and don’t want to go back there again.”
“Man, it sounds perfect. What could be so strange about an old barn in the middle of nowhere? I bet it’s just screaming for a paint job.”
“No, it’s not, Chris. Believe me, it’s not. No one knows how old the barn is, but it looks like it was built yesterday. And although no one tends to it, the forest just grows up to about twenty feet from the barn and stops.”
“Oh, that sounds scary,” Chris said with all the sarcasm he could muster.
Junior said, “I’ve been there once, with a couple of friends during the day. The place gave me the creeps; a strange feeling like someone was watching me. Like someone was about to yell at me. We all high-tailed it outa there. We all felt the same thing and it didn’t feel good.”
“Now you’re really getting me scared, Junior. There’s an old, abandoned barn in the middle of the woods that everyone around here is afraid to visit. Shit, it sounds perfect. We can paint to our heart’s content, and no one will ever disturb our work. Maybe we could make it into a kind of clubhouse, a kind of drinking and smoking clubhouse.
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea, Chris,” Junior said.
“I do. Let’s go.”
After more arguing, Junior finally gave in. The boys headed down the dirt road that separated their properties. Fields of wheat and corn bordered the road, with an occasional stand of trees. The air was full of the smell of a country afternoon and insects, which the boys would swat away. Once past their farms, Junior slowed and began looking for a trail that would lead off to the right. He finally found what he was looking for.
“Here’s the trail to the barn.”
“You call that a trail.”
“I told you no one comes out here. We shouldn’t be here either.”
“Don’t pussy-out on me now, Junior. Take me to your scary barn.”
Following the path was not easy.
“I can’t believe how dense this forest is.” said Chris.
“You want to turn back?”
Chris shoved Junior in the back and said, “Keep going.”
They walked for half an hour, crossing streams and glancing up at the giant canopy of trees blocking the sky. If anything, the trees became denser as they walked making the going extremely difficult.
“Oh, Junior, this place is so scary even the bugs won’t come here,” Chris said.
This only added to Junior’s fears because the bugs really were gone.
Suddenly, up ahead there appeared a clearing. In the middle of the clearing stood a barn, painted white. The doors and shutters surrounding the window of the loft were painted black and closed.
“You are sure this barn is old, Junior? It looks brand new.”
“I told you this was a strange place. And I’m sure it’s old. My grandpa said his grandpa told him about it.”
Chris immediately observed how clear the area was around the building, and asked, “Who keeps the area around the barn free of trees?”
“No one,” answered Junior. “I told you. It just stays clear on its own.”
The boys stood at the edge of the trees.
“Can you feel it, Chris? Like we’re being watched. Like we’re not alone.”
Looking off, Chris pointed to a figure emerging from behind the barn and said, “We’re not alone.”
UNHOLY GROUND, A HORROR SHORT STORY, CHAPTER V
UNHOLY GROUND
John Taylor’s son, Simon, age eight, heard his father tell his mother of the mysterious disappearance of the Young family. “They are simply gone. They left behind everything. All their tools, clothes – everything is still in the barn.”
Simon had spent some time in the Young’s barn playing with Jake. He remembered a ball that Jake had. I wonder if that ball is still there, Simon thought. His excitement over finding the ball overshadowed any bad feelings he had for the disappearance of his friend. He decided that that night he would sneak out of his room and visit the barn.
It was two in the morning when Simon climbed through his window and headed for the Young homestead. The full moon made finding his way easy. As he came within sight of the barn Simon realized that his father had been mistaken. There, before the barn, stood Zeke Young. Zeke studied his property, and then suddenly focused on the spot where Simon stood. Simon noticed that Zeke appeared to glow, brighter than the moonlit countryside. Then Zeke jumped into the air and began to fly directly to Simon. The boy screamed and ran for all he was worth, stumbling over bramble and bushes, daring not to look back. After running a good distance, he finally found the courage to look in the direction of the barn. There, hovering above the building was the glowing specter. Simon never set foot on that property again.
Chris Walters
Zeke Young’s barn stood as a sentinel in the dense forest for two hundred years, pristine, untouched by time or the elements. Over the years there had been disappearances of those who thought the haunted barn a legend and chose to investigate. It had been one hundred years since the demons occupying the unholy ground claimed their last victim. The stories of the property became myths, part of the legend of the area, one that none of the locals dared to test.
Development had yet to march through these rolling hills of Pennsylvania, leaving the countryside spotted with farms and stands of virgin forest. The surrounding communities shared the legend of the barn from generation to generation. There was talk of mysterious light and phantoms flying through the sky. Each generation produced boys seeking to test the legend and dare each other to visit the barn. Those that made the pilgrimage experienced a strange presence as they approached the structure. And no matter how brave and daring they felt before they reached the site, no one would walk up to the barn, and they never ventured there after dark. The barn was left alone for years, that is, until Chris Walters moved into a neighboring farm community with his family.
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