Posts tagged ‘fiction’
UNWELCOMED GUESTS: A HORROR 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
CHRISTMAS HORROR STORY
W** was known for his stories of murder and mayhem. Tales of ghosts and monsters were his claim to meager fame. A member of a writers’ group, he enjoyed sharing his twisted plots with the group and the support they provided. But how could they know, imagine, they were not all stories. W** carried demons of his own. Even his wife did not know the visions, the “truths” that journeyed through his muddled brain.
It was during the November writers’ meeting that the group leader, S**, announced, “In place of our December meeting, I suggest we meet for a holiday dinner. It will be a chance to relax and prepare for the year’s writing ahead.” The approval of the group was unanimous.
Reservations were made and the day of the dinner arrived. It was a rainy evening when W** set out for the restaurant. The back-and-forth motion of the windshield wipers gave him a slight headache. He was one of the last to arrive, greeted his fellow writers and took his seat next to S**.
The room was large with a single circular table at its center. A curious aspect was the room’s ceiling. It was domed with a most unsettling feature. From one side of the room conversations, even in the softest whisper, were conveyed to the opposite side of this domed affair.
As the meal was served, W** looked across the table to C** and G**, deep in conversation, discussing light matters. Suddenly, the conversation changed. To his disbelief, W** heard them plotting his murder. He clearly heard their voices discussing every detail. W** sat in disbelief while those about him laughed and shared stories. His friends asked if there was anything wrong, because he was visibly shaken. “I’m fine,” he replied and left the restaurant to make plans of his own.
January arrived and it was time for another meeting. S** was the last to arrive. “I have terrible news. C** and G** have met with horrible accidents. They are both dead.”
The group sat there in shock. Disbelief was soon followed by sounds of sorrow and grief.
The year swiftly went by. It was a good year with many of the members being published. Once again, at the November meeting, S** announced the plans for a Christmas dinner. The site would be the same as last year.
W** once again made his way to the restaurant, this time during a light and peaceful snow. He greeted his friends and took his place. Once again, he could hear the whispered conversations from across the room. And once again he heard his murder being plotted, this time it was T** and B** who made the fiendish plot. Once again two members of the group were visited with horrible and fatal accidents.
January found the group deep in sorrow once more. That was five years ago. And for each of those years, a Christmas dinner was held and shortly after, two more members met their demise.
Christmas neared once again, but there would be no Christmas dinner, for the only member remaining was W**. A creature of tradition, W** reserved the domed room for his private dinner. There he sat, alone with no whispering conversations to fill his head.
He gazed around at the empty seats, and his ears perked up. There were voices plotting his murder. Looking out at the overflowing restaurant, he saw a young family that he was sure was plotting his end. A fiendish smile crossed his lips. His work was not yet done.
The End
NIGHTS WITH JEAN SHEPERD AND CRIPPLED JOE
NIGHTS WITH JEAN SHEPERD
AND CRIPPLED JOE
It was a time before cell phones, before computers and instant messages. It was a time before people felt obligated to be at the beck and call of anyone who has anything to communicate no matter how insignificant the information might be. To many today, the ability to communicate – to use technology – is more important then the content of what they have to say.
The past was a time of relative freedom, when you hen people did not feel uncomfortable to be out of the loop, for to a great extent the loop did not yet exist. We were individuals, not part of a grid. It was a time when people were allowed to live their lives without the constant intrusions that today we consider to be normal – no telemarketers, no SPAM. You could answer the phone at dinnertime and be fairly sure it was someone you wanted to talk to instead of someone trying to sell you something.
Growing up, my family did not have a phone. We lived in a four-family house and only one family had a phone, a family on the second floor of our two-story house, and you only asked to use it if there was a real emergency. I’m talking seizure or some other life-threatening event. About the time I entered my teenage years we did get a phone, but in those days it was on a party line, and, with our plan, you were limited to thirty calls a month, then you paid extra for every call over thirty. Imagine those limitations today in a family of six that included two girls.
But don’t get me wrong, when I was young the exchange of information was important – there was just so much less of it. Or maybe it is that today, what we call information is not information at all, only considered information by those who generate it.
I watched my share of TV while growing up, maybe more than my kids do now, but I would never admit that to them. I listened to the radio, there always seemed to be a radio on in the house. That is why now, when I hear just the first few bars of a song from the late 50’s or 60’s I can usually share the song’s title and the artist singing with my children although they could care less about this information. I would listen to talk shows. Back in the 60’s, radio seemed to be more genuine, didn’t seem so full of itself, or maybe I was too young to be observant of what I was hearing. These days I still listen to quite a bit of radio, usually National Public Radio when I’m not listening to an oldies station.
I listened to Jean Sheperd broadcasting on WOR weekday nights from 10:45 to 11. What a fantastic storyteller. When he died at the age of seventy-eight, his obituary read, “A Twain of the radio.” He would start each show and off he would go on a forty-five-minute monologue about what it was like when he was growing up in Indiana or his observations of what life was like around him, and you never knew where he would end up by the end of his show. He was genuine, one of life’s observers, and listening to him relate his memories and thoughts was a true treasure. He would conjure up stories of his childhood, remembering things that happened to us all but taking a slightly different slant in his observations and in doing this create those wonderful views of his youth. Jean Sheperd wrote A Christmas Story which is now a Christmas tradition.
I would listen to Jean Sheperd during the final hour of my shift working in a newsstand at the corner of Broad and Market streets, the heart of Newark. I would be counting the papers and magazines and getting the place ready for my relief. I worked at this newsstand for most of my high school and college years and came to know quite a collection of characters. Some were old men haunting the nights on Newark’s streets. Talking to one another, carrying newspapers days old and talking to me because I was a regular of Newark’s night too. One individual, who could have been a character in a novel, was the man who would relieve me, a man with the most impolitically correct name I have ever had the honor to hear – his name was Crippled Joe.
Now Crippled Joe must have been in his 50’s and walked with the use of a cane. His deformity was one leg that had an almost ninety-degree bend in the top before it entered the hip. Crippled Joe had worked for my boss, the owner of the newsstand, for years and years, working the 11 PM to 6 AM shift and he was my relief of the Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays that I worked. And every night all papers and magazines would have to be counted, and the money counted and locked up for Crippled Joe would try to steal whatever wasn’t accounted for, and my boss knew this and that was the relationship they had, Crippled Joe could be trusted as long as he was not given an opportunity not to be trusted.
Joe also had a little side business going. He used to run a numbers racket at the newsstand. Everyone knew about it, my boss, the other workers – everyone, yet every night Joe would complete these secret transactions, and I suppose he really thought they were secret. Men would come up while I was changing over with Joe, whisper something in his ear and handed him some bills but would never take a newspaper or magazine. Being just fifteen or sixteen when I started to work, and quite naive, I soon figured out what was going on and used to think it funny that, after all the years I worked there, every night he would still try to hide these transactions.
I worked year-round while in high school and summers while in college. The newsstand was a good-sized booth with the front open to about waist level. We sold all the Newark and New York City papers. Back then Newark had two daily papers and New York at least five. We sold comics and magazines and some kind of dream cards that told you which numbers you should play according to the dreams you were having. Working at the newsstand during the winter was a real challenge. The wind would whip around into the booth, and all the papers had to be held down with heavy metal weights. The change was kept in a metal change holder, a series of metal cups nailed in front of where you stood in the booth. When it was cold, I mean really cold, the change would freeze to your bare fingertips. You kept gloves on when no one was buying anything, but when the time to make a sale came, off came the gloves and those warm fingers would freeze right to the coins. Snowstorms were a challenge also. I had what some might determine to be a twisted sense of duty. During one particular storm, the snow was drifting against the door inside the booth. We had electric heaters but unless you were right on top of them you froze. I kept the stand open even though no one in his or her right mind was out on a night like this. Finally, I got the word to close down. It was the first time I ever saw the newsstand closed.
During the summers of my high school and early college years I worked days and ran the newsstand for my boss who would drop by once a week to pick up the deposit slips and see how things were going. It was about this time that my well-established hormones began to really kick in and along with fantasies about some of my customers. I can recall one short-haired blond girl, who must have been a secretary, and every day would pick up a paper – perhaps for her boss. I was in college at this time and she was about my age, probably working right out of high school. By the time I would sell her a paper I was dirty with newsprint from the early morning rush hour. I would see her every day, and she would never say a word. Thinking back, it was probably good that she hadn’t for I probably would have answered with some garbled message. So, I would have my fantasies of meeting for a soda after work, maybe a movie but all I did was keep folding her papers and taking her money.
There was another girl I remember but she haunted the nights. I first noticed her while I was still in high school. She was about my age, maybe seventeen, not pretty but not unattractive either. She was very slim with long red hair and would hang out on the corner where I worked. She usually had other kids with her, but she was the oldest. I never knew if the other kids were siblings or just friends. She was not well dressed and just looking at her, you could tell she had very little money. I just wondered what she was doing night after night on that corner. Even now, when I think of her, I can hear Frankie Vallie singing ‘Rag Doll’. I wonder what became of the ‘rag doll’ as I wonder about other people that crossed my path during those nighst and days I spent selling papers.
On Mondays and Wednesdays my shifts were from 6-11PM, but on Fridays I went to work straight from school starting at 3PM and working until 11. I got quite a few stares and have to do some explaining after gym as I was putting on my long johns in preparation for a winter’s night work.
Fridays, I would get home about 11:30 have some dinner and go to bed. My bed by now was a single pull-out bed in the parlor next to the kerosene stove which, during the winter, you could almost sit on and have no fear of injury. The stove was useless. But my radio listening for the day was not yet over, or just beginning, depending on which way you wanted to approach the time of day, for another of my favorite radio shows was about to begin – Long John Nebal whose talk show on WOR radio ran from midnight to about five in the morning. The topics would vary but the subject that stirred my interest was flying saucers. He would sometimes have on his show the editor of Saucer News. Saucer News was a local magazine type publication although calling it a magazine was quite a stretch, and of course I immediately sent away for a subscription. It was just a few pages long and would be filled with pictures of flying saucers along with local sightings and editorial comments. The funny thing was that most of the editorial comments were about the editor’s ongoing divorce. For some reason I’ve always been drawn to slightly wacko subjects, here’s where my kids could provide an editorial.
Anyway, I would listen to these shows as late into the night as I could. Now I wouldn’t use my newsstand radio for that would be a waste of batteries, I used my crystal radio. Let me explain what this is, although my theoretical knowledge may be a little rough. The radio contained a crystal and onto it pressed a thin piece of wire called a cat’s whisker. The pressure generated electricity and it was also the way you tuned in a station, by moving the cat’s whisker around the crystal. My radio was in the shape of a rocket and about six inches long, a black and red beauty. Coming out the rocket were three wires. One wire ended in and alligator clip for the ground, one wire was an earpiece, and the last wire was the antenna. The antenna was rather long, somewhere between twenty and thirty feet and I would stretch it through the whole house before climbing into bed. I tend to toss and turn in my sleep so I would always wake up all wrapped up in the earphone and antenna wire, but no electricity was wasted although every night I listened to my crystal radio I risked death by strangulation.
Looking back, they were rough days, hard days but good days. I was easily entertained. I worked hard, and ever so slowly I matured.
HOW DOES A WRITERS PRODUCE THEIR MAGIC?
WRITERS, WHERE DO THE IDEAS COME FROM?
Where do the ideas writers use to develop their stories they write come from?
I see major differences between producing fiction and nonfiction. For nonfiction the writer begins with a subject which I’m sure involves an interest and creative thoughts. Then comes the research. Sometimes a massive amount of research, but the writer has a concrete goal. This writing demands skill to create a work of value. And to complete a valued work requires writing skill but little imagination. However, the genre of creative nonfiction does require a creative approach to a nonfiction story..
Now for fiction.
In fiction the writer begins with an idea and then creates something from nothing and hopefully an intriguing story. But where does that initial idea come from along with the details that follow? What triggers the mind of the writer to begin down the road to producing a work of fiction.
I feel the answer lies in experiences and observations, which the writer has undergone on the way to developing their work. Some remembered consciously, but most stored deeply in the writer’s subconscious. We all have exposure to various situations, challenges – some won, some lost. But I feel the writer records these, to a much greater extent, than the nonwriter.
Another difference may be that most people are talkers where the future writer is more of a listener. And what they hear accumulates somewhere in the reaches of their brains. Eventually, this accumulated data on a subject of interest, an idea for a story comes into being with details filled in by the writer’s life. Then there is the skill the writer needs to form an effective story. Can that skill be taught or does it come naturally? I feel the answer is both. So many successful writers have gone through the process of an MFA. But look at all the famous writers who possessed great skill without the benefit of an education in writing. There are so many questions which spring to life when considering what prompts a work of fiction. Could we ever answer that mystical mystery of what process goes into creating a work of fiction? The answer is imagination, but is that an answer, or just fodder for more speculation?
What happens to a writer sitting alone with a pencil and paper or a computer and just begins thinking, I think, is a minor or sometimes major miracle.
FICTION SEEKING TRUTH: A SHORT STORY CONTAINING A TOUCH OF REALITY
Accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in July 2008.
For those fans of horror, you may recognize multiple incidents described in this story which are not fiction.
FICTION SEEKING TRUTH
Stewart Kingman was a very successful writer of horror stories. What made his fiction popular was that the stories contained a glimmer of truth. He always included an element of nonfiction in his fiction, just enough to add a macabre reality. His mind would wrap around events and give bizarre possibilities to a mundane world.
Kingman would tell his wife Talia, “I feel there is some truth behind all the stories I write. Perhaps some of the unworldly situations I create could be true. Or maybe all this horror shit is just getting to me. People read my books to escape to a world that scares the hell out of them, and they enjoy that world because they can always close the book to escape the horror. What if some of the horror actually existed outside the book? That’s the reason JAWS was so popular – the book was frightening but possible. You could close the book and jump in the ocean and fiction could suddenly become reality and your ass is shark bait.”
“Sure, Dracula had his roots in Vlad the Impaler, but old Vlad was just a weird dude, nothing supernatural. Why does all this shit get published, and some of it is real shit. I think I’m going to take a lesson from my old friend Houdini and look for the truth behind the horror.”
Kingman was fascinated by the life of Harry Houdini, living a public life spent creating illusions and a private life seeking the truth behind the illusion, performing as an escape artist and at the same time a debunker of charlatans claiming to be able to communicate with the dead. Houdini constantly tried to communicate with his dead mother and his efforts only resulted in exposing one fake after another. As he was dying, he told his wife he would beckon to her from the grave but as far as anyone knows, he never succeeded.
Stewart did not discuss his theory of the truth behind fiction any further with Talia, but she knew that he was doing research on the topic. He had a vast library of folklore he used to give him ideas for his stories. He was now spending a great deal of time rereading some of his favorite volumes.
Along with this work, he was doing something new. He had begun getting involved with his fan mail. He had a publicist with a staff of five who handled the vast quantity of mail he received. Letters arrived requesting a copy of his picture and relating how Stewart Kingman was their favorite author.
He decided to take a closer look at his fan mail himself to see if anyone mentioned a true occurrence, something that defied known reality.
Kingman rapidly discovered why he did not get involved with his fan mail. He received letters from fans who were mating with monsters, having their minds controlled by alien forces or by your run-of-the-mill witch, which might also led to mating. He corresponded with them all, seeking out the faintest glimmer of fact the wacko stories might contain, but there was none.
The letter Kingman was searching for arrived late that spring.
Dear Mr. Kingman,
I can’t say I’ve read all your books, but the ones I’ve read I’ve enjoyed.
I was wondering if you ever thought of writing a story about someone who had something happen to him and wound up being able to control the future.
Yours truly,
Frank Talbot
Kingman wrote to Talbot requesting more detail. A few weeks later another letter arrived from Talbot, a longer letter containing much more detail.
Dear Mr. Kingman,
It took me a long time to sit down and write this letter. On one hand, I can’t believe I’m corresponding with you, on the other hand, you’ll think I’m nuts.
I’m a lineman in Massachusetts and last winter we had an ice storm from hell. I was up on a pole, after working I don’t know how many hours, when I wasn’t careful and touched a live wire. My work crew told me the rest of the details. They lowered me from the pole and I wasn’t breathing. They took turns doing CPR and got me going again. The ambulance came, and on the way to the hospital I tried to leave this world again. The ambulance driver gave me a jolt with the defibrillator, and I returned to the living once more.
Now comes the weird part that you might not believe but I swear its true.
I was off from work for a couple of weeks, and it’s during this time that strange things began to happen. I was sitting in the living room when the TV suddenly came on. On the TV was a news special and the guy reading the news looked like living death, definitely a strange looking dude. Just before the set came on I was thinking about my kid brother who’s in the army stationed in Iraq and how great it would be to see him. Then this guy on the TV, looking like an extra from Dawn of the Living Dead says the 85th armor division is coming home – my brother’s outfit. The screen then went blank.
Here’s the really creepy part; the TV wasn’t plugged in. So now you’re sure I’m nuts, but I swear it’s the truth. It’s happened a few times since. My mind wanders as I’m sitting in front of the TV when Mr. Death Warmed Over comes on the air and makes an announcement. I don’t know where the broadcasts come from and I don’t know how the TV got unplugged. Maybe I had some sort of seizure and unplugged it before the broadcast began. I don’t know.
Anyway, I’ve included my telephone number if you want to call me.
Yours truly,
Frank Talbot
Kingman read the letter over and over. The guy sounded like the genuine article. He gave Talbot a call and arranged to pay him a visit. The drive from Kingman’s home in Maine to Talbot’s in Massachusetts would not take long and might be a nice getaway. Kingman loved long drives and who knew, some of this might actually be true.
On a pleasant May morning, Kingman set out for Frank Talbot’s house. He drove onto I-95 planning to take the interstate into Massachusetts. The traffic was unusually light, and as he approached the Massachusetts boarder, Kingman found that the only vehicle other than his was a tractor-trailer hauling a sailboat, shrink – wrapped in blue plastic down the highway in front of him.
Kingman had the cruise control set on his SUV and the tunes playing. He was slightly daydreaming when the daydream became a nightmare. The sailboat somehow fell off the trailer and was pin wheeling down the highway heading straight for him. The weight of the rudder caused the boat to spin faster and faster. What followed was pure luck. He swerved to the far left lane of the three-lane highway with the spinning boat rapidly approaching him. When he was sure he was going to die, the mast swept over his SUV inches above the roof. If the boat had been a little smaller and the mast closer to the ground as the boat lay on its side, he would have become a giant Kingman kabob. He pulled onto the shoulder and sat there until his shaking hands could again grip the steering wheel. The rest of the trip was uneventful.
He found Talbot’s house without much trouble and pulled into the driveway of a modest ranch. He was about to knock on the door when it opened and there stood Frank Talbot, an average looking guy about thirty years of age. Before Kingman could say hello, Talbot said, “Glad the sailboat missed you.” This caught Kingman totally by surprise.
“How in the hell did you know about the boat?” but Kingman instantly knew the answer to his own question. “You saw it on TV.”
Talbot replied, “I had to find a way to convince you that what I was experiencing was real. I must have invented the accident in my subconscious, something that would cause you no harm but get your attention. I caught Mr. Death’s broadcast just before you pulled into my driveway.”
“You definitely got my attention,” Kingman said. The two men then sat and talked for hours, and when Kingman left he already had the outline for a book. Deciding it would be fiction but with an introduction dealing with the facts behind the fiction, Kingman began writing the book.
It was late summer, and the writing was progressing well. Kingman loved walking the country roads near his property. On an August evening, he set out walking and thinking of the day’s writing and what he would put down on paper next. He never heard the approaching van.
Kingman awoke in the hospital with more pain than he had ever experienced in his life. A young doctor told him of his multiple fractures but reassured him that he would walk again. The doctor also told him that his heart had stopped twice in the ambulance due to the trauma his body had endured. “They defibrillated you,” the doctor said.
Kingman’s recovery took a long time and rehabilitation was painful. Shortly after the accident he learned that the driver of the van, already cited twice for reckless driving, blamed Kingman for the accident. He said that Kingman shouldn’t have been walking on the road. Kingman felt a rage he had never felt before. His pain was excruciating. The painkillers destroyed his writing. He spent hours just dwelling on the accident, the insane accusations of the van driver and how the whole thing had changed his life.
Fall arrived, the changing leaves brightened the countryside, and Kingman took his first steps with the use of two canes. Every step delivered agony, but now he knew he would walk again. He still hated the driver that struck him but suppressed it as he tried to overcome the pain and hoped he would be able to write soon.
The trees were now bare; fall was setting the landscape for winter. Kingman still could not write. He would spend hours thinking of plots and characters, but when he sat down to put words to paper, nothing would come.
Late one afternoon, as the shadows lengthened, Kingman sat alone in his family room. A short walk had left him exhausted and his legs were screaming with pain. Suddenly, the TV lit the room. On the screen, an announcer looking near death related the news of a suicide and produced a picture. It was a picture of the driver that struck him. Kingman glanced at the TV’s plug and a slight smile crossed his lips.
THE END
WALT TRIZNA: ON THE ROAD TO MISSILES
ON THE ROAD TO MISSILES
After my check ride the handwriting was not only on the wall, it covered every wall, the ceiling and floor.
Also, a formal hearing was held with a panel listening to the testimony of my instructors. These were guys I sat next to in the T37. With what they related about their experience with me. That I was a complete moron when it came to flying the jet. Unfortunately, they were right. I’m surprised that, during the hearing, hand me a stick of gum and challenge me to walk knowing for sure that I would fall.
During the hearing I was asked if I wanted another chance and reenter pilot training. I was more than familiar with the handwriting all over the room and declined. Then they asked me if I would like to train to be a navigator. And I’m thinking how this would work out with my nonexistent sense of direction.
At the end of the hearing, I was given a phone number to call, if I remember right it was a phone number to Randolf Air Force Base, and I would be given a list of assignments from which I could select my future in the air force. I think that it was highly unusual to be given you choice of what you wanted to do in the military.
After the hearing I had to turn in some of the equipment I was issued when I began pilot training. During each encounter when the person I was dealing with learned that I had washed out I fully expected to be given another stick of gum.
I made the call to Randolf and one of the possibilities I was offered was missile duty. I had heard that while you were on a missile crew there was often the ability to study at a college. I thought that going to graduate school might be a good idea since my education was in science and that science changes so rapidly that being away from science for four years would not make it easy to get a job. I did not plan on a recession during 1973 while I was looking for a job and even with graduate school under my belt it still took me nearly a year to find employment. More on that later.
On thing I did not know when I made my choice for missiles I was guaranteed to be assigned to missile the air force was having trouble getting officers to serve on crews. This was ever with the fact that this was during the Viet Nam war, and you were guaranteed not to leave the United States for four years because of the extensive training involved. The air force was having so much trouble getting officers for missile crews that they lowered the requirements for OTS (officer training school). In no time at all I received orders to report to Sheppard Air Force Base in Wichita Falls, Texas to begin missile training for my career in missiles.
WALT TRIZNA: ANOTHER NEWARK MEMORY
SCRAPPING HISTORY
Located on the eastern boarder of Newark is Newark Bay, a body of water leading out to the Atlantic Ocean. I have always loved the smell of the ocean, the proximity of primal life. However, by the time the ocean’s water mixed with the additions contributed by the factories, all that was left was a hint of what was once the ocean’s promise.
Located at the water’s edge is Port Newark, an area that we had always referred to as “The Dumps”. The area surrounding the dock was the home of tank farms, sewage treatment plants, junkyards and a few factories. It did not take a great stretch of the imagination to determine how “The Dumps” got its name. On hot summer nights, the family would pile into the old Chevy and take a ride “down the dumps”. It was a chance to escape the heat, get a change of scenery for what it was worth and hour or two away from the house.
We would park along one of the perimeter roads and look at the freighters and container ships, some from countries we could only dream of visiting – distant lands holding even more distant dreams. On one of the roads where we usually parked, if you turned 180 degrees you could see the runways of Newark Airport. This was before the age of jet airliners – props and turboprops ruled the skies. If you watched enough airplane fly overhead, I always looked up at the sound of their engines, you would sometimes see a four-engine plane flying with one propeller lazily turning, a sure sign of engine trouble. Sometimes, when we were really extravagant, we would stop for a pizza before taking our ride.
There was this elderly Italian man – he must have been at least fifty – who decided to open a pizzeria. So, what did he do? He rented a garage, bought a pizza oven, a couple of small tables, and he was in business. The garage was a freestanding cinderblock structure containing three one-car garages. He rented one of the end garages, cut a door through the garage door and this served as the entrance. Located on a narrow street, not more than an alley, it was a far cry from today’s chain-store pizza establishments. Each pizza had a bubbly hard crust and stood as an individual creation – nothing massed-produced here.
Later, when the quality of his product became known, he rented the adjoining garage, knocked down part of the common wall and expanded. Could this happen today, with all the zoning laws and chain-store competition, I don’t think so. But back in the fifties he thrived and produced great pizzas.
So, on hot summer nights, perhaps armed with a pizza, we would go ‘Down the Dumps’, to see the ships and watch the airplanes land. We could escape our tiny house and dream of a world that we might never see as we gazed at the ships and planes coming from and bound for far-off lands and distant cities.
On weekdays after supper was done, and on weekends, the roads of the port were mostly deserted. With its many roads and parking lots, this area was an ideal place to learn to drive. It was along one of these deserted roads that I almost put my father through the windshield. While driving on one of these roads he instructed me to stop, not yet acquainted with the feel of the brakes, I performed this maneuver rather aggressively. My early driving lessons occurred long before seatbelts were standard equipment, hence my aggressiveness resulted in my father flying unrestricted around the car. I finally learned to drive some years later on the back roads of Alabama, after I had already learned to fly an airplane, but that’s another story.
At the northern end of Newark Bay there were a series of bridges leading to Jersey City and on to New York. It was from the first of these bridges that you could look down on a complex devoted to scrapping ships for their iron and other metals of value. It was during the 70’s that I remember this area looking like a floating World War II naval museum. There would be row upon a row of Liberty Ships awaiting the scrappers’ torch. There would be a destroyer and the occasional heavy cruiser. Ships bathed in history waiting for oblivion. I know they could not all be saved, but it saddened me to see history reduced to a dollar value. It had been some thirty years since the war had ended; time enough for the whole-scale destruction of military equipment that routinely occurs after the conclusion of a war. Yet there before my eyes floated a living history soon to be no more, it would be gone forever.
I witnessed the destruction of one ship, which touched me deeply. This ship was perhaps the most famous American ship of World War II and for years the Japanese sought its destruction. If ever a ship was worth preserving, to serve as a floating monument to the struggles of the United States Navy during World War II, this was the ship.
During my youth, I devoured books about airplanes; I read everything I could about aviation during World War I and World War II. I rarely read books about ships, but my love for aviation led me to read one book that I have longed to read again. To this day, when I get circulars in the mail advertising military books I always look for that title that impressed me in my youth. The title of the book was THE BIG E, the story of the U.S.S. Enterprise, and that was the ship I saw doomed to the scrappers torch.
Having known its history, I could not believe that I was witnessing its destruction. I would think back to the drama, the life and death struggles that occurred on that ship, but soon it would be no more. More than once the Enterprise was reported sunk by the Japanese navy, but having been severely damaged in battle this great ship lived on to fight another day. I know there were many ships during World War II, whose stories echoed with bravery and glory, but I knew the story of the Enterprise and this to me gave it a closeness I could not feel for the other ships torn apart. There were many ships scrapped at this yard, but the only one I saw mentioned by name in the newspaper was Enterprise. I was sorry to witness the loss to history of this great ship, but I was glad I had the opportunity to see such an important piece of our naval and aviation heritage.
SIDE EFFECTS: UNEXPECTED RESULTS OF LONG PAST GENETICS
Previously accepted for publication by Dream Fantasy, International in 2005 and accepted for publication by Black Petals.
Set in motion in the distant past, an unanticipated effect of a pharmaceutical caused disaterous results.
SIDE EFFECTS
The female picked up her baby and held it close, suckling it for the last time. She did not have a name; language was thousands of years in the future. As she gazed at her infant, only days old, tears rolled down her cheeks. She caressed the small hairy body and kissed the prominent brow, the two characteristics that spelled the infant’s doom. She stood and slowly walked into the forest. Moments later the forest echoed with a child’s scream, cut suddenly short. The female emerged from the forest alone.
She thought of another member of the loosely formed tribe with a similar baby, who did not have the strength to destroy it. The female raised the child, its aggressiveness and appearance different from the other children living in the clearing in the African forest. The child grew strong and hateful. One day a member of the tribe found the mother dead, partially devoured. The child was never seen again. It entered the jungle, more animal than human, to live as its ancestors did thousands of years before.
***
Modern science could have discovered the explanation for these mysterious births. The cause was a unique receptor, a protein on the surface of the cell. Many receptors discovered today are seven transmembrane receptors; they course the cell wall seven times weaving in and out like a tiny thread. These aggressive individuals had receptors that were fourteen transmenbrane receptors, monstrous in size and in action, bringing together hormones in rare mixes, resulting in a savage monster. These receptors disappeared with the extinction of the savage individuals, but the genetic machinery that manufactured these monstrous receptors did not.
Thousands of years ago, as these monsters were born and eliminated; there was another type of individual created. It was rare, rarer than its savage counterparts. These individuals possessed genetic machinery to produce the aberrant receptors, but this could only occur when there was a change in serotonin levels. These changes don’t normally occur in nature now, and the birth of these individuals continued with their genetic potential unrealized. Unrealized, that is, until the advent of the new antidepressants.
***
Jeff Skovich was a quiet guy, the kind of guy you never noticed, primarily because he didn’t want to be noticed. Only Jeff and his wife Linda knew the torment of his life. Lately he was blowing up at the slightest provocation. He was angry all the time and had more and more difficulty dealing with daily routines. Then, one day, Jeff had a particularly violent argument with Linda. After Jeff had nearly struck her she shouted, “You need help! I refuse to go on living like this,” and stormed out of the house. Confused and hurt, she drove aimlessly for hours and when she returned, Jeff was gone.
Days later, a sullen Jeff returned home and would not tell Linda where he had been. They spent a week passing each other in the house, avoiding any contact, sleeping in different rooms. The love Jeff felt for Linda ran so deep, he could not bear the thought of life without her but could not confront her. Finally, Linda broke the ice. “I love you”, she told him, but insisted, “You need help for your mood swings, and we really can’t go on like this.”
At first Jeff said nothing, and then his feelings poured out, “I feel hopeless all the time. I can hardly function because nothing seems to have any importance. I use all the energy I have just to get through the day. By the time I come home I’m spent, angry and confused. I just can’t deal with things the way I once did.” As Jeff talked, tears started to flow from Linda’s eyes and from Jeff’s. Linda knew the man Jeff once was and wanted him back.
Jeff finally agreed to see Dr. Roberts, their family doctor, and after a short discussion Roberts said, “I’m going to put you on one of the new serotonin reuptake inhibitors. I think that this medication will help you. We’ll give it a try and see if it makes a difference.”
Jeff filled the prescription and started the therapy he hoped would return his life to him. After a week he noticed a difference in his approach to problems; instead of flying into a rage, he stopped and thought through the conflict he felt. He was no longer angry all the time, had more patience and was more focused on his work. Linda noticed the change too. She no longer dreaded coming home from her job, trying to gauge Jeff’s mood for the evening. Jeff and Linda began enjoying life and their marriage to the fullest. Jeff’s job as an electrical engineer took off. The work he accomplished won recognition and promotions. Linda also grew comfortable in her life. Her job teaching at the local middle school gave her great satisfaction. Linda adored children but was not able to have her own, so this proximity to children fulfilled a need.
Jeff had now been on the antidepressant for years. His life with Linda could not be better; he found himself feeling guilty at times for the happiness that was his. He was now in charge of a major project for the company. The outlook of every facet of his life was positive.
“You know Linda,” Jeff said one morning, “I think it’s a waste of money for me to continue to take the antidepressant. I feel fine, we get along great and things couldn’t be better at work. I’m going to have a talk with Dr. Roberts and see what he says.”
Jeff made the appointment, and Linda went with him to testify to the changes Jeff had undergone. Dr. Roberts agreed and slowly began to wean Jeff off the medicine. When Jeff began taking the drug, he started at a low dose and gradually increased the dosage until he underwent the full benefits of the drug. Now he reversed the process and began taking less and less, paying attention to any changes in his mood or behavior, until he was taking the lowest dose used. He still was doing fine so he stopped taking the drug altogether.
Weeks, then months went by and Jeff was even tempered and happy as he had been when he was on medication, but deep within his genetic makeup subtle changes were taking place. Removing the drug from his system set his cellular machinery into gear, in a manner that had not taken place in man for thousands of years. Proteins were being manufactured that were awesome in length and complexity. They weaved through the walls of his cells fourteen times, like vipers ready to do their damage. The process was slow, gradually creating a monster. The night he began the crossover; Jeff had a dream.
Jeff dreamt he walked an African savanna, hunting for what he knew he needed to continue his existence – food. He stalked his prey, made a kill and feasted on his quarry’s raw flesh. Jeff awoke bathed in sweat, unable to understand his apparition’s meaning. The final image remained imprinted in his mind. In his dream the quarry had been human. This deeply disturbed him for days. He tried to dismiss the dream but couldn’t, for it reoccurred. And as the side effects began to alter his body, his dreams became more and more vivid as his mind was also altered.
Six months went by before Jeff noticed a change in his behavior. He was out shopping one day and was about to pull into a parking space when another car beat him to the spot. Normally, he would have uttered some epithet to himself and gone on his way, but this time was different. He pulled his car behind the intruder to prevent him from leaving, then jumped out of his car and attacked. Jeff hammered his fist on the closed window, confronting an elderly couple. The face of the old man behind the wheel revealed shock and disbelief. Both he and his wife cowered as Jeff continued to yell and pound the window. In desperation, the old man began to blow his horn continuously, hoping to attract attention. The noise and forming crowd brought Jeff to his senses. He jumped into his car and left.
As he drove away, Jeff was shaking with fear and rage. Years ago when he was depressed, he felt rage, a rage born of desperation. The rage he felt now was different; it was animal. For a moment, he wanted to kill the old couple, not considering the consequences.
He did not mention this incident to his wife. He was both scared and ashamed and wanted to forget all about what had happened. Jeff wondered if maybe he should return to his antidepressant but couldn’t realize that there was no turning back. His genetic machinery was in overdrive and could not be reversed.
Jeff had always had a heavy beard. With his thick black hair, his five o’clock shadow would sometimes appear at three, but now by eleven o’clock he looked like he hadn’t shaved at all that morning, and his normally densely haired torso and arms seemed to be growing additional hair. Another change took place that he did not understand, seeming impossible. His face seemed to be altered ever so slightly. His brow seemed to be thickened. It was almost impossible to notice without close inspection. The way Jeff first became aware of this change was that his glasses felt uncomfortable to wear. But this was not a problem for his eyesight seemed to be improving to the extent that he didn’t need his glasses.
The change that distressed Jeff the most was the change in his temper. These days he avoided Linda for fear of a blowup. Small things that she had always done, her little habits, would now grate his nerves generating a mad rage that he fought to keep under control. He had more fits of anger while in public. One day, an elderly woman entered a checkout line at the same time as Jeff, and he pushed her, knocked her to the ground yelling obscenities. A crowd gathered as he ran from the store. In the distance he could hear the wail of a police siren. He walked for hours until darkness fell and then returned to the store’s parking lot to retrieve his car.
Day by day, his appearance was definitely changing. His brow was becoming more prominent and there was no controlling his beard growth, and his body was covered with what appeared to be fur. Jeff was at a loss as to what to do, whom to turn to for he found it impossible to communicate his rage.
Then one day, Linda was gone from his life too. She knew he was angry again but not like before. The rage was constant, and she couldn’t help but notice the change in his appearance. She couldn’t take the anger any longer and asked, “What’s happening Jeff?”
Jeff’s reply was both verbal and physical, “Shut up bitch,” he shouted and slapped Linda as hard as he could. He had never struck her before. Linda fell to the floor and Jeff began to kick and stomp her until his energy was spent. Linda’s face was no longer recognizable. He left and entered a primal world from which he would never return.
The End
THE ANNIVERSARY, A GHOST STORY
The Anniversary was accepted by Bewildering Stories for publication in 2007.
This is a ghost story with a happy and somewhat unexpected ending.
THE ANNIVERSARY
Julie Barber carefully made her way down the winding tree-lined dirt road to visit her next patient. The sun filtering through the ancient leafless maples helped to relax her and to mentally prepare her for the visit. She was a visiting nurse seeing oncology and hospice patients and she was now on her way to see Emily Taylor. She had been seeing Emily for three months, with ‘failure to thrive’ as the diagnosis, but Julie also knew that a healthy amount of dementia was mixed into the ninety-six-year-old patient’s milieu of symptoms.
As a young woman, Emily had been petite. As an old woman, she was beyond frail. The black hair of her youth now formed a snow-white frame around her withered face.
It was a crisp January afternoon with the sky a brilliant blue. “God, I wish Emily could enjoy this day,” Julie said. Emily was so sweet and she had a special place in Julie’s heart. She loved all the elderly patients she saw, enjoyed listening to their history and felt pride in knowing she made a difference in their final days.
As she drove, she viewed the peaceful winter landscape. The meadows were brown with dormant grass and a nearby field stood barren waiting for the spring planting. Some would find little beauty in winter’s harsh scene, but Julie found each season had its own special qualities.
She parked on the circular gravel drive and walked up to the modest farmhouse that Emily Taylor had called home for many years. Not another house was in sight, and the view went on for miles revealing the central Pennsylvania countryside. The homestead, surrounded by solitude, set Julie thinking, She has been alone for so long, the poor woman’s life reflects the scene that inhabits this place.
She walked up to the front of the house and used the brass knocker on the ancient wooden door to announce her arrival. The door opened and there stood Ruth, one of the twenty-four-hour caregivers who stayed with Emily.
“How’s my patient?” asked Julie.
“Oh, you know, Julie. Ralph and the kids are set to show up anytime now. Emily is so excited.”
Julie thought, Poor thing, if this fantasy keeps her going; where’s the harm?
Julie entered the front door to a small living room furnished with plain, well-worn pieces. The house was well over a hundred years old. A sturdy dwelling, it was a small two-story structure and had the feeling of ‘no show, just practicality’ rarely found in today’s houses. Upstairs were two bedrooms, one of which her patient hadn’t left for months. The first floor held a small cozy kitchen with a bathroom off to one side, the only part of the structure that was not original. Julie trudged up the well-worn stairs to care for her patient.
As soon as he entered the bedroom, Emily smiled and said, “How are you, my dear? You know Ralph and the girls will be here soon. I can’t wait to see how much the girls have grown, although they never seem to change. And Ralph, he’s always as handsome as ever. How’s your husband?”
Julie responded, “Emily, don’t you remember? I don’t have a husband.”
Emily said, “Then we should find you one. Husbands and children are why we were put on this Earth. That’s what life is all about. You are young and pretty, my girl. We must find you a husband.”
They talked for a while more, and then Julie began to care for her patient. She took Emily’s vitals and tended to the bedsores she had developed. As Julie packed her nursing bag, she said to Emily, “I’ll see you next week. I’ll be here Tuesday”. She didn’t mention the date. The fact that it would be January 28th might disturb the old lady. But, more likely, it would have no meaning at all.
Julie walked to the bedroom door and said, “You take care, Emily.” Emily answered, “I have company coming next week. My family will be here for a visit.”
Ruth was outside the door and heard everything. “Poor thing,” she said, “all alone in the world. With her family gone all these years, I don’t know what makes her hold on like she does. She’s outlived all her close relatives. No one visits her – there’s no one left.”
“I know,” said Julie. “The only pleasure she gets is in her fantasies. And if they give her joy, who are we to disturb them?”
Julie left the farmhouse and retraced her route down the rutted dirt road to visit her next patient.
* * *
Shortly after beginning to care for Emily Taylor, Julie approached Diane, the social worker assigned to her case. In Emily’s bedroom, Julie could not help but notice a host of family pictures. There were pictures of Emily as a young bride embracing a young dark-haired man, her husband, Ralph. Other family photos showed Emily and Ralph with a baby, then more pictures with a toddler and another baby. There were photos tracing the two girls maturing, and Emily and Ralph growing older. The most recent pictured Ralph and Emily in their forties, with two girls about to reach their teenage years. Julie enjoyed learning the history of her patients so she could better communicate with them. What she learned of Emily’s past saddened her deeply.
“Diane, would you mind if I asked you some questions about Emily Taylor? She’s such a sweet old woman and I know she has no living close relatives. I was wondering what happened to her family in the photos.”
Diane replied, “I see you’ve noticed all the photos in her bedroom. Who could help but notice them? The little old lady’s future of life with her family was robbed from her many years ago. Her husband and two daughters were killed. Since then, she has lived part of her life in a world of fantasy where her husband comes to visit and her children never grow old.”
“It was in the mid-fifties when the Taylor family could afford their first new car. It was a black and white Chevy. It was January 28th, 1954, when Ralph went to pick up his new vehicle…
The door slammed and Ralph walked into the small, warm kitchen. The smell of a roast filled the air. Emily was in an apron stirring a pot on top of the coal stove.
“Emmy,” said Ralph, joy filled his voice, “let’s go for a ride.”
“Ralph, I’m cooking dinner. Anyway, the roads are full of ice from the last storm.”
“I know Emmy, but I made it home just fine. Our car will be new only once. Where are the girls?”
“They’re upstairs doing their homework. For God’s sakes, the car doesn’t even have a heater.”
“No problem,” answered Ralph, “we’ll grab a few army blankets. They’ll keep you and the girls warm just fine.”
“You just can’t stay away from that car.” Emily said.
Ralph approached Emily and said, “That’s not all I can’t stay away from.” He hugged his wife and his hands roamed the curves of her body.
“Stop it, Ralph, the children.”
“Emmy, I guess you’ll have to wait for your ride. I’ll take the girls and be back way before dinner.”
He shouted upstairs, “Who wants to go for a ride in our brand-new car?”
The two young girls came bounding down the stairs, shouting in unison, “Me Daddy, me…”
Diane said, “There was a local farmer that was known to have a drinking problem. He was more wasted than usual when he got behind the wheel of his pickup that day.
“The two girls were in the back seat of the Chevy huddled in blankets. Of course, it was well before the time of seatbelts or airbags. The story goes that Ralph was rounding a curve when he saw the drunken farmer coming at him. There was no time for him to react. The farmer was in Ralph’s lane and hit him head-on. Everyone was killed.
“Emily was all right for awhile, as all right as anyone could be, then she lost it. She kept on talking about Ralph and the girls and how they came to visit. Gradually, all the close family she had died. She lives on that beautiful countryside; she lives in the past talking about her husband and daughters as if they were still alive.”
* * *
Tuesday arrived and it was time to visit Emily once again. Julie preferred to see Emily in the early afternoon, but she had an emergency and had to postpone Emily’s visit until the end of the day. As she drove the country road near dusk, she was aware of an unpleasant change. The desolation of the countryside was pronounced in a haunting way. The tree-lined road leading to her patient’s farmhouse now seemed bordered by lurking giants instead of the stately maples she had grown to love. The gray and colorless scene was nothing like the landscape of days past.
Julie knocked on the farmhouse door. Ruth answered immediately.
“Julie, Emily doesn’t look so good. Hurry!”
As soon as she entered the bedroom, Julie could see that Emily was dying. Her breathing was shallow and her complexion gray. Julie took her vitals and shook her head. Emily’s eyes were closed.
Julie said, “Emily, can you hear me?”
In a soft, weary voice, Emily replied, “Julie, I’m so tired. Could you comb my hair? Ralph and the girls will be here soon.”
With tears in her eyes, Julie complied. After finishing, she said, “You look beautiful, Emily. Ralph and the girls will think you’re so lovely.”
As she was leaving the farmhouse, Julie said to Ruth, “I doubt she will last the night.”
Ruth and Julie said their goodbyes and Julie began walking to her car. As she slid into the driver’s seat, she noticed a faint glow amid the fading light of the darkened countryside. The light held close to the road and followed its twists and turns. The closer it came to the farmhouse, the brighter it became. As the light entered the driveway it gained definition. Soon it morphed into a very old car. Julie froze, not knowing what to expect next.
The driver’s door of the specter opened and out stepped the glowing figure of a man. Julie recognized him immediately. It was Ralph. The back doors opened and outran two young girls.
Julie was cemented in place, afraid to move, afraid to think. Then the hairs on the back of her neck stood as she heard the shimmering figures of the girls call, “Mom, come on Mom. It’s time to go for a ride.”
Movement near the front door caught Julie’s eye. A glowing figure emerged from the farmhouse. Julie immediately recognized the young Emily Taylor as she appeared in the final family photo.
The youthful Emily walked towards her daughters. She held them close and kissed them. The girls responded with giggles and shouts of joy. Then Emily went to her husband. There was a long embrace and Julie thought she could hear Emily weeping.
The four apparitions climbed into the old car and disappeared down the country road with the glowing specter of the Chevy fading into the night.
The End
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
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