Posts tagged ‘books’
THE HORROR AT LAKE HARMONY: HORROR SHORT STORY, PART IX
HORROR AT LAKE HARMONY: HORROR SHORT STORY, PART THE IX
This story was published by Necrology Shorts in January 2010.
THE HORROR AT LAKE HARMONY
As I sat there waiting, I felt a strange fear creep into my bones as the waves gently caressed the shore. All was quiet; most of the campers were fast asleep. Would anything happen? Of course not, that is the stuff of movies!
The moon illuminated the water’s surface. I was tired, drowsy and falling asleep when I noticed a peculiar glow in the water. “The legend is not a legend!” A glow rose from the murky depths, two red-hot coals just below the water’s surface. Next, the unimaginable. The surface of the water parted and what greeted my eyes was unspeakable. The figure appeared a mockery of the human form. And the eyes, they appeared as two suns. I wanted to look away but couldn’t. Suddenly jets of flame exploded from those orbs of doom and blinded me. Entered my eyes, my brain.
I felt pain; I felt …
* * *
A local newspaper published an article telling of campers killed at Lake Harmony. After four years, the incident was only a vague memory, until …
THE END
HAVEN OF HORROR: SHORT HORROR STORY PART II
This story contains an ‘F Bomb’ which, in today’s publications, is not a rare occurrence.
If you read The New Yorker, among other publications, you are aware of this.
Also, sensitive people may find the theme of this story disturbing.
HAVEN OF HORROR
Schuylkill Haven, a small town not appearing on any maps, was of little value to visitors who happened upon it. In fact, shunned visitors until they were needed. When this occurred, the residents revealed the heavily rutted road to the town visible and waited for guests. Just as the town was not on maps, so was the road. The entrance to the road was usually heavily concealed for the residents liked, needed their privacy. The road to the town was now uncovered and the people of the haven waited.
The town of Schuylkill Haven came into existence most unnaturally centuries ago. From a small hill far from any inhabitants, late in the 1600’s the town was born.
One day there was movement of the earth on the side of the hill. The bottom of the hill began to push outward forming a cavity which grew into a cave. The first residents of the town began to arrive from within.
Men, women, and children, all naked, streamed out of the newly formed fissure studied the surroundings. At first the light nearly blinded them, but eventually they adjusted to the harsh glow of daylight.
The new arrivals were helpless in this new world. With no food or lodging the were certainly doomed. Coming to their rescue was a wondering tribe of native Americans. With compassion for these new arrivals, they shared food with them, taught them how to plant crops, hunt, construct shelters and make clothing. Eventually explores happened upon the town and were amazed to find white men in such a remote location. With the explorers came more modern methods of agriculture and more substantial lodging. Slowly a town took shape and the residents thrived. But there was a disturbing knowledge revealed to the residents. The elders began to have a greenish tint to their skin and took on strange physical characteristics. Their heads became misshaped and enlarged with mouths wide and menacing. The residents knew they had a secret meant to be kept and concealed these morphed humans.
WRITER’S FORUM: MAUSCRIPT FORMATING-WRITING PICTURE BOOKS FOR CHILDREN
WRITER’S FORUM
MANUSCRIPTE FORMATING – WRITING PICTURE BOOKS
FOR CHILDREN
The owner of this blog teaches creative writing for adults at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education in Boston.
Subjects covered by the blog include Types of Picture Books, Manuscript Formatting, Cover Letters and Agents.
Concerning agents, you are told what I have emphasized in the past. Never send money to any agent. If an agent asks for money they are not reputable.
The website is free.
Manuscript formatting – Writing Picture Books for Children
WARNING
As I’m sure you know in our current society very little is free. When you use a site indicating that it is free your email address or telephone number is probably being added to a list which will be sold. So when using any website consider the value of the site to you and if it is worth the occasion annoying ad.
WRITER’S FORUM: AGENTQUERY
WRITER’S FORUM
AGENT QUERY
AgentQuery provides a wealth of information about agents and publishers. Information is provided as to where to find agents, organize and track queries and look at agents’ data. Publishers’ info is also available.
If you do find an agent or publisher that fits your needs; do some research before you make any commitments. Using this website is free.
In future posts I will introduce you to the websites which can provide information on how reputable agents and publishers are. These sites include Duotrope for which information has already been posted. Other sites in upcoming posts which will also be helpful are Predators and Editors and also Absolute Water Cooler.
AgentQuery :: Find the Agent Who Will Find You a Publisher
WARNING
As I’m sure you know in our current society very little is free. When you use a site indicating that it is free your email address or telephone number is probably being added to a list which will be sold. So when using any website consider the value of the site to you and if it is worth the occasion annoying ad.
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART XI
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART XI
It was fall now: time to harvest what our garden has produced, cut and split firewood and get ready for the winter, our first winter in the country. I wanted to get as much firewood as I could in the barn. But before I stacked wood in the barn, I would have to clear the place out, a job I’d been avoiding for as long as possible. Unfortunately, there was no avoiding it any longer.
It was a beautiful crisp Saturday afternoon, and time to tackle the barn. I began by picking up the clutter on the floor, old tools and the usual barn debris. Off to one corner I saw a stack of large wooden boxes. I assumed they would be too heavy for me to move on my own, so I cleaned up around them. Soon, I had the barn in reasonable shape.
After a few days, I returned to finish the cleaning. All that remained was that stack of wooden crates to move and I would be done. I still thought I’ll need help moving them, but I figured I’d give one a try. Much to my surprise, the boxes were empty and extremely light. Why would anyone store a bunch of old wooden boxes in a barn, wasting all that space? Once the boxes were removed, all that remained to be done was sweep out the hay that littered the barn floor. I began with the area I had just cleared when I noticed a large metal ring set in the floor. A little more sweeping revealed a large trap door. Must be some sort of root cellar or storm shelter I speculated, could be a fallout shelter. The house was extremely old, dating back to the nineteenth century, but the barn was more recent, maybe only fifty of sixty years old. Pulling open the door, I saw a set of concrete stairs descending into the darkness. Spying a light switch on the wall, I flipped it up, and saw banks of fluorescent lights coming on below.
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART IV
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART IV
At closing, my wife and I learned a little more about the former owner from his sister Joan. “My brother,” she explained, “was Marcus Worthy, a scientist interested in both marine biology and genetics.” She went on to tell us that Marcus was part of a group involved in a start-up company, which discovered a breakthrough drug for the treatment of cancer. Joan said that her brother made a fortune with his investments in the company while working in their research department, but the company bureaucracy began to get in the way of his research methods, and he quit. He liked to dabble, do a few experiments that interested him and then move on to something new, answering his own questions and not the company’s.
Joan said, “His studies were in natural occurring substances existing in marine life. He studied the venom of mollusks and sea snakes, was intrigued by the fact sharks were immune to infection. His mind was full of questions he wanted to answer but the company had no interest in such work and so, in frustration, he resigned. Worthy found this house in rural Pennsylvania, sunk a great deal of money into renovations, and there he would study and live his life on his own terms. He never married and his only contact with the rest of the world was through me, his sister. By his own choice, he slipped away from society.”
Then Joan recalled, “One day I realized that I had not heard from my brother for an unusually long period of time. I tried calling for days but got no response, so I decided to pay him a visit. I had never visited before and had some difficulty locating the house. After parking on the circular drive, I went up the few steps to the screened porch and rang the doorbell. There was no answer. I tried the door and was surprised to find the door open. I entered the darkened house and proceeded to search every room but found no sign of my brother. I did find spoiled food in the refrigerator, moldy dishes in the sink and an ungodly mess in the bathroom, but no indication of what had happened to Marcus. It was as if my brother had just decided to leave one day, but then outside I found his car. I hadn’t a clue as to what happened to him. I thought that perhaps he took a walk and fell victim to an accident. I checked with the local police and hospitals, but they had no knowledge of his whereabouts. I filed a missing person’s report with the police, and in a confused state, left for home. No one ever saw my brother again.”
UNWELCOMED GUESTS: A GHOST STORY
On one side of my property, some eight to ten feet deep, is a gully. I was told some time ago that this gully belonged to a railroad. I have seen an arial photo, taken perhaps in the 50’s, showing tracks at the bottom of the gully. I’ve also been told that they were either train or trolley tracks. I began thinking, What if there was ever an accident down there?
Unwelcomed Guests was accepted for publication by Necrology Shorts in February 2010.
UNWELCOMED GUESTS
Will Trizma was a writer of ghost stories and mined the local countryside for legends and their settings. The area abounded in both. His wife, Joan, acted as his editor and sounding board for his ideas. At times, the only comment she would make is, “You’re sick.”
Not only did he write ghost stories, but he also dreamt of them. One night he conjured a most vivid story; a story from the future. But unlike most of his dreams, he could not remember this tale. The only recollection he had was that it was horrifying.
* * *
It was the evening of August 15, 1949. The time was slightly before ten as a train made its way toward West Chester. There were fifteen souls aboard, counting the crew and passengers on this quiet summer night. The steam locomotive was pushing a caboose and two passenger cars. The weather had been stormy for days and up ahead the foundation of the bridge spanning Ship Road had been undermined by runoff. Jim Purvis, making his last run in a fully loaded fuel truck, slowly crossed the bridge. As he reached the span’s center, it collapsed leaving the truck astraddle the tracks. Jim could not believe he was still alive considering the load he was carrying. Although injured, he managed to climb out of the ravine and go seek help.
As the train slowly made its way into a depressed section of track, the conductor, Ben Elliot, sat on the caboose’s platform and began filling his pipe thinking about sharing a late dinner with his wife. He looked down to light the pipe, and once achieving a satisfactory burn, he puffed contently, and then looked up. The sight before him made his scream, “Holy sh…! He never finished the expletive.
The caboose rammed the truck, followed by the cars. The locomotive cut through the wreck until it reached the truck exploding the gas tank and turning the wreck into a funeral pyre.
* * *
Writing is a lonely profession, and years ago Will sought out a local writer’s group for support and editorial advice. During a Christmas dinner attended by all the writers, Will and Joan suggested a summer party and volunteered to hold it at their house. As the day of the party approached, one spouse or two became sick and others were called away unexpectedly on business.
Will and his wife greeted their guests, their thirteen guests.
Their dog, Millie, a lab mix was her usual excited self with the arrival of every new visitor. Once everyone was there, she settled down and dozed in the sun.
The conversation was lively with all the creative minds present, and as dusk approached, Will was called upon to tell a ghost story. “Not dark enough yet,” he answered.
Dessert was served, and when there was no longer a hint of sunlight, and with the patio bathed in twilight, Will deemed the time right for his tale and went into the house. He returned with candles, one for each table, after extinguished all the inside lights. “Now we have the right atmosphere,” he said. Will began his story and even Millie appeared interested, her eyes reflecting the candlelight.
The weather had been rainy the last few days, and at ten as he began to read, Will noticed a mist begin coming out of the gull bordering one side of his property. A few guests had asked him earlier about the gully and he answered that it had once harbored a railroad track.
The mist became denser and soon overtook the yard along with the guests. One by one they all fell asleep, including Millie. As the wall of fog enveloped all present, fifteen human shapes began to form. The specters slowly made their way to the dozing, and one by one, entered their bodies.
The next morning, they awoke from their deep sleep and knowingly smiled at one another. Ben Elliot looked around, and Will’s eyes filled with tears. “We’ve waited sixty years for this moment.”
Millie awoke and growled. She knew there was something terribly wrong with her master.
THE END
POEMS AND FLEETING THOUGHTS: OLD BOOKS
My old books,
Some two hundred years
Have little value
Except to me,
I wonder at their owners,
Readers long gone.
Gazing into a future
Unknown,
With my words
Hundreds of years gone
Cause the same ponder
Of a lover of books.
ADDICTED TO PRINT
Perhaps it is my age or my past or a combination of both, but I am addicted to the word printed on paper. I know my love spells doom for many trees but I am in too deep. I also know that this is the age of the eBook. Some of my work is available in this medium. I am intrigued by the Kindle White, the prospect of carrying a thousand books with you. But for now I’ll stick with paper.
One question I have is, “How well do the eReaders bounce?”
I am forever falling asleep while reading, either in bed or in my favorite chair (I am getting old). When I awake my book is usually on the floor and closed; my place gone. In my daughter, Lynn’s, younger days I would tell her I lost my place and she would answer, “Don’t worry, Dad. It’ll turn up.”
Here are more reasons why I may never switch to the electronic medium. I love the smell of books. I know many of you are also closet book sniffers. When I begin a new book I open it up to its middle and breathe in its scent. I love holding books and being surrounded by piles of them waiting to be read.
I especially love the smell of old books. Some you need not open to gain their odor. The smell of their history bombards you. I have a bookcase full of old books. My oldest is a book of English history from the late 1700’s. I doubt if my old volumes have much value. Why I cherish them is, as I hold them, I wonder who held them when they were new, and how those people lived. I wonder if they appreciated the books scent when it was new.
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