Posts tagged ‘books’
ELMO’S INVENTION, CHAPTER 7
ELMO’S INVENTION
CHAPTER 7
THE TIME MACHINE REVEALED
Mildred watched as the members of the Tinkerer’s Club ascended the stairs from the cellar and prepared to depart. Harold Kinter, William Dupree and James Forsyth bid her goodbye. Much to her surprise, Kingsley Dasher took her hand and said, “Elmo has a marvelous intellect, and his invention could someday garner you a great deal of money. Only time will tell.” With that he walked out the door and was gone.
Elmo was the last to depart the cellar and Mildred could immediately tell that things had not gone as well as he had anticipated. She was puzzled by Elmo’s downtrodden appearance and Kingsley’s departing comment. Wanting to question her husband, she asked, “Elmo, why don’t I pour us some coffee and we have some dessert?”
Elmo, distracted by his thoughts, after a moment, replied, “That’s fine with me, my dear. I have a great deal on my mind, and perhaps talking would help. Things did not go as I had hoped during the meeting, and I need to gather my thoughts. I am confused about the future of my invention. Nothing is going as I had planned.”
Mildred set the kitchen table with two steaming mugs and plates of Elmo’s favorite dessert, spice cake. She watched Elmo sip his coffee and then push the dessert away. Now she knew something was definitely wrong. Elmo never refused spice cake. “What happened in the cellar?” Mildred asked.
Elmo hesitated, and then began, “I demonstrated my time machine using the kitten and the results were as I expected. To everyone’s surprise, Kingsley made a comment after the experiment. As he began to speak, I expected him to give insight into why the machine was not working, but to my surprise he said that it was working. Only it was working in a manner not that I appreciated. He said that I had invented the perfect prison and that my machine had the potential to change society.”
Mildred sat deep in thought remembering what Kingsley had said before departing. Suddenly her face lit up, “He’s right. I never would have made the connection. The man’s a genius. I’m so proud of you, Elmo. Your invention will change our society.”
This did not serve to heal Elmo’s fragile ego, instead, Mildred’s comment only served to increase its fragility.
Elmo had invested a great deal of effort in planning and then building his machine. Now, not only did it not work, but someone else had discovered its use.
Mildred could see that her husband was deeply upset. She extended her hand across the table and said, “Come to bed, my dear. Perhaps there is something I can do to improve your mood.” Mildred was successful, but it wasn’t long before matters took a drastic turn. Once again it was something that Kingsley had hinted might happen, but even he could not predict the extent of the turmoil Elmo’s machine would cause.
* * *
To this day Elmo doesn’t know how it happened or who was the one to break the secrecy surrounding the meeting of the Tinkerer’s Club. For a moment he thought maybe Mildred, but no, she would never break his confidence. He was sure it wasn’t Kingsley. Kingsley had trouble communicating with the members of the club. Elmo could not picture him going to the press or even breaking the club’s confidence with a friend. Elmo doubted he had few friends outside the club. That left James Forsyth, William Dupree and Harold Kinter as the culprit. He questioned them all and everyone denied that they talked about the machine. Elmo knew one of them was lying. His money was on either James Forsyth or William Dupree.
James was a people person and loved being the center of attention. He also enjoyed talking about his work and Elmo could just picture him letting slip the nature of the Tinkerer’s meeting. James’ tongue was often ahead of his brain when he really got going in a conversation.
William was also a suspect. Being short, and as most short people, he feared being ignored, feared being lost in a crowd – literally. So how better to avoid being lost than becoming its center. Elmo could picture him trying to impress people. Telling them of a great new device that would do away with prisons and save society billions of dollars. And after explaining all this, whispering, “Now promise that you won’t tell a soul.”
The more he thought about who the culprit might be, the more Elmo became sure that William was the guilty party, but William, as well as the rest of the members present that night, emphatically denied speaking about the machine to anyone.
The manner in which Elmo discovered that the secrecy of the Tinkerer’s Club meeting had been broken was a phone call he received from a local newspaper. Published only once a week, The Los Alamos Herald was primarily concerned with community events, births, weddings and funerals. Most of what was news in the town of Los Alamos was Top Secret so there really wasn’t much to report. When word of Elmo’s invention began to spread through the tight-knit community, the paper was all over it.
One evening, while Elmo and Mildred were enjoying their supper, the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” said Elmo as he rose to answer. This was long before the age of telemarketers, and for that matter, answering machines. When the phone rang you knew it was something important. Elmo answered, “Hello.”
A voice on the other end said, “Hello, this is Nate Bush calling from The Los Alamos Herald. I’d like to speak to Dr. Elmo Baker.”
Mildred watched Elmo and saw his expression range between puzzlement and fear.
Elmo said, “Elmo here. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been told you’ve invented a rather unique machine, a machine that may do away with prisons. Could you comment on this device?”
Elmo did not know how he should answer. He thought the events of the meeting would remain confidential. He now felt anger and frustration and did not know where to direct it. He had to respond. He couldn’t lie for he would soon be filing a patent for his machine. “I have built a device that can age the occupant to a predetermined age.”
“How long does this process take?”
Elmo responded, “Oh, just a matter of minutes.”
“How exactly does it work?”
Elmo was not about to admit that he really didn’t know that it was intended to be a time machine and that something went wrong, so he answered, “I’d rather wait until I patent the device before I divulge its workings. Also, I’d appreciate it if you would postpone writing any article until I receive the patent.”
Nate was disappointed at this request but felt he had to respect Elmo’s wishes. He responded, “I’ll write-up the article and wait until I hear that your patent has been granted.”
Elmo, somewhat relieved, said, “I would appreciate that a great deal. I’ll give you a call when the patent is approved.”
After hanging up the phone, Elmo said to Mildred, “Someone broke their word. That was The Los Alamos Herald, and they want to know about my invention. I can’t believe all this is happening about something I truly do not understand.”
* * *
Later that day George Holkum walked over to Nate’s desk. The paper was losing money and George, the managing editor, needed to turn that around.
He asked Nate, “How did that prison thing interview go? Are we dealing with a nutcase or what?”
Nate began to perspire. He knew that the paper was in trouble and needed sales. He also knew he had a fantastic story, but he had given his word. Nate said, “I think it’s the real thing. The man is a scientist, and he wants to keep things quiet until he gets a patent.”
George said, “Publish the story. Maybe it will increase our circulation. We’re not in a position to not publish something important. We have a responsibility to the stockholders.”
Nate responded, “But boss, I gave my word.”
“Your word won’t sell papers. Publish your story!”
MY NEED TO FLY, FINAL PART
MY NEED TO FLY, FINAL PART
The thoughts behind the birth of this piece is that my love for aircraft still remains and I read extensively about the subject. My reading includes a great deal of reading about World War II. I had been reading articles about German pilots during that war and could not believe how they could fly for that monster, Hitler. How could they do that? Then I realized they were flying because of their love for flying, not for Hitler. I came to this conclusion upon studying my own experience with flying.
I was learning to fly during the Viet Nam War. And never once considered the merits of that war. A war which many, back then, thought to be unjust. And how history has proved them to be right. But I wanted to learn to fly, and that desire clouded my thoughts about the situation the country was involved in during that period. So, in reality, I came to realize that there is little difference between me and those German pilots. The desire to fly was primary.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART VII
The Legend
of
French Creek
The blackness of the forest became full of a milk-white vapor, although above, the sky was full of stars. There was no wind, yet the mist came rapidly from different directions and formed a shell of white around the concrete slab. Soon the vapor took the form of a house, becoming a solid structure. Windows, now present, glowed bright red and I could see figures dancing within. The door of the house opened and there appeared a group of naked men and women horribly burned, their bodies smoking. I wanted to look away but could not. Their obscene presence came toward me. They lunged at me. Their hideous laughter screamed in my ears. Now the horrors surrounded me. My mind could not take any more. I lost consciousness and dreamed of daemons and devils surrounding me in an attempt to capture my soul.
I awoke the next morning with a feeling of dread, not wanting to open my eyes. The ruin was the same as it appeared the night before, although the debris on the forest floor leading to my campsite appeared disturbed. I looked down, and to my horror, my sleeping bag bore handprints burnt into the fabric.
I packed up my gear and headed down the trail to meet my wife and return to the comfort of my home, never wanting to return to French Creek Park again.
* * *
I tried to make the horror of that night clear of my mind, but it wouldn’t happen. I felt I had brought something back from that gruesome night and could not escape its presence. Damned if I could figure out what it was. So, I switched gears and embraced the event. After some research on the Druids, I worked my experience and new-found background into a few stories that I managed to sell.
Nearly a year had passed since that dreadful night, when Joan announced, “I think we need to get away. How about a short four-day vacation?”
“Sounds great, but it better be cheap,” I said. “You know money is tight.”
“Camping is not expensive,” she answered. I’ve reserved a site from June 19 to June 22.” She saw my face grow deathly pale, and then quickly added, “A site at Rickett’s Glen.”
“I thought you were talking about French Creek. I’m never going back there again.”
I tried to make the horror of that night clear of my mind, but it wouldn’t happen. I felt I had brought something back from that gruesome night and could not escape its presence. Damned if I could figure out what it was. So, I switched gears and embraced the event. After some research on the Druids, I worked my experience and new-found background into a few stories that I managed to sell.
Nearly a year had passed since that dreadful night, when Joan announced, “I think we need to get away. How about a short four-day vacation?”
“Sounds great, but it better be cheap,” I said. “You know money is tight.”
“Camping is not expensive,” she answered. I’ve reserved a site from June 19 to June 22.” She saw my face grow deathly pale, and then quickly added, “A site at Ricketts Glen.”
“I thought you were talking about French Creek. I’m never going back there again.”
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART VI
The Legend
of
French Creek
I formulated a plan. I would have Joan drop me off the evening of the summer solstice, which would be a Tuesday night. Joan was hesitant but gave in after I told her it would help me with a story I was working on. She knew I was going through a dry period. An hour before dusk, I would set out on the Orange Trail with a pack containing a sleeping bag and whatever I might need for the night. Appearing to be just another hiker, I would make camp near the ruins and see for myself if there was anything to The Legend of French Creek.
The night of the summer solstice was rapidly approaching, and my feelings ranged from that of stupidity with this pursuit to fear of spending the night alone deep in the woods.
The morning of June 21st I found myself packing my gear. I would not build a fire, so I included a can of beans, bread and a can of SPAM©. My wife entered the bedroom and wrinkled her nose as she saw the SPAM© going into my backpack. She does not appreciate this brick of pork-flavored heaven as much as I do.
“So, you’re really going through with this crazy plan,” she said. Joan had been trying to humor me but at the same time talks me out of going for some time now. Her arguments only strengthened my determination to see it through, but also added to my occasional thoughts of what a stupid idea this was.
At seven o’clock that night we set out on the forty-five-minute drive to the park. Along the way, Joan would continually ask, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I responded, “Yes,” although it was not as firm a ‘yes’ as I intended.
We entered the park and stopped along the circular road near our former campsite. I got out, shouldered my backpack, and said, “I guess I’m ready.”
Joan replied, “I know you won’t reconsider. Please be careful. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon.” We kissed, and she drove off. My writer’s mind was already on hyper drive. And this was the last time he saw my wife, I thought.
I walked the Orange Trail toward the ruin. The smell of campfire smoke filled the air. Alone on the trail, with thoughts full of horror and mayhem, I pressed on. As I approached the site of the burned structure, the sun was a giant orange ball peeking through trees racing toward the horizon. An open space across the trail from my quarry caught my attention. It was there I would make my camp.
The forest was darkening now and becoming chilly. I climbed into my sleeping bag and leaned against a boulder to begin my vigil. Cutting the SPAM© into slices, I made two sandwiches and opened the beans. Saving some SPAM© for my morning meal, I consumed my dinner.
The forest was dark now, but I dare not light a light. I concentrated on the ruin taking note of the sounds and the feelings of dread I encouraged my mind to pursue. I tried to remain awake, but the warmth of my sleeping bag and a full stomach made me drowsy, and I soon fell asleep.
What happened next I wanted to credit to a dream, but I know it was real.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART V
The Legend
of
French Creek
Two weeks later, we were packing for our camping trip. Our dog, Millie, appeared to be as excited as we were, seeing her food and toys packed up and taken out to the van.
We set out on the afternoon of Halloween full of anticipation in leaving our daily lives and spending a weekend in the wilderness with our pup. After finding our campsite, we quickly set up camp and Millie, attached to a long lead, sniffed the forest floor. That night, seated by a roaring campfire with Joan, my imagination ran wild. I pictured Druids descending on our campsite, with us captured for their human sacrifices. Of course, nothing happened. The entire night passed, uneventful. My imagination can be a weird place.
The next morning, we planned our first hike with Millie. The Orange Trail passed behind our tent. It was an easy trail, ideal for Millie, my wife and me. After packing lunch, we set out in late morning with Millie taking the lead, full of excitement. We walked the trail for a little more than two miles when it meandered toward the perimeter of the park. After another half mile, Millie’s excitement on this adventure changed dramatically. Our pup began to growl and pull away from the direction we were going, not wanting to continue. We pulled her along and her growl became a whimper of fear, something we’d never seen her exhibit. Another fifty feet and there it was. I was sure it was the site of the minister’s house described by the old man in the store.
As Millie pulled back on her leash, we approached the destroyed structure. There was a concrete slab about thirty by twenty feet off the trail with charred posts sticking out from points in the foundation. A rusted bedspring was the only sign of furniture. A few decaying pipes punctured the concrete slab. What was unusual was the lack of vegetation surrounding the slab. No trees had invaded the immediate area. Only weeds and forest litter marred the land.
We stood there, with Millie pulling away. Joan said, “What a curious place out here in the middle of nowhere. And why is Millie acting so strange?”
I had yet to relate to Joan the story the old man told me. As we continued on our hike, I told her about the old man’s story. We both noticed that the farther we walked along the trail, the more Millie returned to her pleasant disposition.
I knew I had to return to these ruins on the summer solstice to investigate.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART II
The Legend
of
French Creek
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
CAT’S EYES, PART VIII
CAT’S EYES, PART VIII
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
CAT’S EYES, PART III
CAT’S EYES, PART III
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.”
CAT’S EYES, PART III
CAT’S EYES, PART III
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.
RETURNING TO SHORT STORIES
CAT’S EYES
Cat’s Eyes was published Books To Go Now in 2011.
The story involves a writer going blind and, as a last resort, comes up with a bizarre solution.
CAT’S EYES, PART I
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 I had any more 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.
Walttriznastories's Blog 