Posts tagged ‘fiction’
STORIES RECENTLY ACCEPTED FOR PUBLICATION
THE UNIVERSE IN BALANCE accepted by the Corner Bar Magazine and should appear soon.
BEETLE MANIA accepted by Creepy Podcast. I’ll let you know when it will be broadcast.
REVENGE AND REDEMPTION accepted by YELLOW MAMA and will appear June 15 in issue 104.
I will keep you updated as these stories progress to publication.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: PHANTASY
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Images of the Mystic Truth in 1981.
PHANTASY
Sickness pervades this cloistered sphere,
This world he calls his own,
Mutterings leap with meanings unclear
Crying a message unknown.
Shadowy thoughts revoke the day
God gave His hand, then turned away.
Come see the shell that isn’t a man,
Muse at this poor wretched fool,
Look to his eyes a moment and then
Depart his mad vestibule.
A NEWARK REMEMBERANCE
DOWN NECK ST. PATRICK’S DAY PARADE
A NEWARK EVENT
During my youth I live in a section of Newark, New Jersey referred to as the ‘Down Neck’ Section of Newark. The area was also known as the Ironbound Section due to the many factories in the area. The title ‘Down Neck’ was acquired, which I once read, due to the shape of the Passaic River running past the area. And on the Sunday afternoon, nearest to St. Patrick’s Day, the residents of this area and my street, Christie Street, were treated to what had to have been one of the shortest St. Patrick’s Day parade in existence.
The local Catholic Church sponsored the parade, whose steeple I could see from my parlor window. Weekdays were filled with the rumble of Balentine Brewery trucks set on the mission to quench the thirst of a parched city. Sunday was a day of rest for the trucks, making the parade possible.
Magically, sometime before the parade, a green line appeared down the center of our street, harbinger of the gala event. I never witnessed this line’s creation, but every year it materialized. At approximately one-thirty the residents began to gather on the sidewalk. Since the brewery and Catholic Church’s school took up one side of the street, the number of residents was few. Of course, there were always the annoying boys riding their bikes down the center of the blocked off street before the parade began. I was proud to be one of their number.
The parade began around the far corner from my house, on Market Street. With a band, not a school band, but one made up of adult men most of which had almost mastered the instrument they were assigned. Before the band came a few ruddy-faced Irish men, decked out in their top hats, waving to the minuscule crowd. At the front of this procession were the parish priests. The parade was half a block long and took thirty seconds to pass. The procession turned the corner onto Ferry Street, melting into the Down neck neighborhood, and repeat the tradition next year.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: WALLS
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Treasures of the Precious Moments in 1985.
WALLS
I’m just marking time,
And can’t explain why
When the door opens
I kick it shut.
A wall was built some time ago,
The seams mossed over
So nothing can penetrate,
The wall’s purpose, lost with the key,
Yet the prisoner finds the wall insecure,
Builds walls within walls,
Breaks into himself only the find emptiness,
And the final realization comes too late,
The walls protect nothing,
And nothing was saved.
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
GENISIS: A SCIENCE FICTION SHORT STORY
This is an unpublished story.
Even endings need a beginning
Genesis
Dan Holbrook spent hours of his life looking up at the night skies. It was his job and his passion. He taught astronomy at a small university located in the high California desert. The location offered spectacular views of the universe, a universe that was about to change his life and the future of the planet, forever.
Dan was thirty-six, tall and lean, with a scruffy appearance, not a slave to fashion. He married his college sweetheart, Amy, right after graduate school ten years ago. Now they were a family of four with two daughters: Jenny age eight, and Heather six. His daughters loved exploring the desert during the day with their mother, searching for minerals and lizards. At night they studied the sky with their dad.
With a PhD in astronomy, along with the reputation for making significant contributions to the field of asteroids and comets, Dan earned a small amount of personal time on the telescope at Caltech. On one clear winter night Dan was studying the asteroid belt beyond Jupiter when something caught his attention. It was a fuzzy dot where none had been before. When he brought it into focus, he realized that it had passed Jupiter, and was now closer to the Earth. This was not unusual, for asteroids were often found between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter. He made a record of this sighting in his notebook and snapped a picture. He noted that its apparent magnitude, or measure of brightness, was +25 – extremely faint.
Dan decided to keep track of the asteroid remembering how in 2002 Asteroid 2002-MN passed within seventy-five thousand miles of the Earth. It had been the size of a football field. He doubted there was any danger, but he always believed ‘better safe than sorry’.
The following year, Dan once again was given the opportunity to observe the heavens from Caltech. Early that day, he reviewed his notes from the previous year’s observations. He had forgotten about that faint speck between Jupiter and Mars and wanted to observe it once more. That night, peering through the telescope he easily found his quarry, but now it was slightly brighter with an absolute magnitude of +20. Dan became excited, and said out loud, “Holy shit, I may be witnessing an important event.” He knew he had to follow its progress and write it up for a journal article, needed to ensure his notes were meticulous, and then contact other observatories to confirm his sighting.
The next year he published an article describing his findings and continued to keep track of his discovery, and at every viewing the object grew in brightness. There was only one explanation for this. Dan decided to contact a colleague and friend, Ralph Warner, to explore ideas.
After a few attempts, he finally reached Ralph. “Hey, buddy, how you doing? I’ve got something I’d like to pick your brains about. I’ve spotted a distant asteroid and wondered if you could study it using your telescope access?”
Ralph said, “I read your article just the other day and found it interesting.”
Dan asked, “Can’t you just take a peek at Jeneather?”
“What’s that?” Ralph asked.
“That’s what I call the asteroid, named after my two daughters.”
Ralph had limited access to the Hubble and Chandra orbiting telescopes. It was with these instruments that Dan wanted Ralph to ‘take a peek’.
Ralph answered, “Dan, do you know how precious time is for the Hubble and Chandra? I can’t just peek at things. I know this was your discovery, but the opportunity to observe it has to stand in line, a very long line.”
“I appreciate how valuable time is on the orbiting telescopes, but your observations may be able to figure out exactly what this object is and, more importantly, determine its future.”
Ralph replied, “Dan, follow its progress; when you know more – maybe then.”
Dan could hear the frustration in his friend’s voice, but he harbored just the hint of hope that Ralph might try to ‘take a peek’. Neither of them would know that in the future, all eyes on the Earth would be following the course of Jeneather’s progress.
One night the following year Dan had his daughters in the backyard looking up at the sky. He enjoyed pointing out the constellations to them and the visible planets. Their enthusiasm warmed his soul. The two girls, now eleven and nine, were in awe of the sky and would compete to see who could name whatever their father pointed out.
While looking skyward, Jennifer asked, “Where is Jeneather, Dad?”
Dan said, “Honey, you can’t see it without a telescope. Then he pointed to a region of the sky where someday he thought the object might appear.
Jenny screamed, “I can see it, Daddy. I can see Jeneather.”
Dan stood there, perplexed. The asteroid, which should not yet be visible, was there. He knew that was it, for there should have been nothing else in that little piece of the sky, at least not visible with the naked eye. He told his daughters, “Let’s go inside, it’s almost bedtime and Daddy has a lot of work to do.”
Both girls protested, “We want to look at Jeneather,” but Dan had much on his mind and the girls were ushered inside.
“Time for bed girls and Jeneather will still be there tomorrow.” Leading his daughters into the house, he yelled, “Amy, could you get the girls ready for bed? There’s something I need to do.”
Without waiting for a reply, he went to phone Ralph. Ralph was expecting a call from Dan; he picked up the second ring. “Ralph, you can now see the asteroid I discovered in the night sky without a telescope.”
“Yes,” Ralph said, “The object now has a brightness of -5, as visible as Venus. I’ve been expecting your call. Things are being kept quiet for now, but soon the entire planet will be watching the sky. Dan, you discovered a rather significant asteroid.”
“Dan, the speculation from the scientists who have closely studied this object is that the asteroid you discovered collided with another asteroid in deep space. That collision resulted in a change of both their orbits. Your asteroid is on a journey through our solar system.”
Dan paused, and then said, “That’s what I thought. It’s heading toward us. That’s why it’s getting brighter. And that’s why we can now see it in the sky. How close will it come to Earth?”
There was a long pause from Ralph, and then he said, “We’ve been tracking the asteroid’s progress. Right now, we feel it will pass between the Earth and the Moon, closer to the Moon.”
“We’ve dodged the bullet.” Ralph could hear the relief in Dan’s voice.
“Dan, this asteroid is irregular in shape, but at its widest part, it has a diameter of over 500 miles.”
“Christ, Ralph, what will that do to the tides and the tectonic plates?”
Ralph was quiet for a while, and then said, “We are still trying to estimate the scale of the damage this asteroid might cause, but between you and me, we’re in for a rough ride.”
“I just can’t believe it. Life could be changed, forever”. Dan’s voice was shaky. “Thanks for the update, and please keep me informed.”
Ralph responded, “I’ll tell you what I can, and keep this to yourself for now until we have a better handle on what we’re facing. We don’t want to cause undo panic.”
The conversation ended and Ralph sat silently in his office.
He could not tell his friend the truth; he was sworn to secrecy. The asteroid would be a catastrophe to the Earth as it passed. But that was just the tip of the destructive iceberg. Once it passed the Earth, this massive asteroid would impact Venus, perhaps obliterating the planet, or perhaps propelling Venus into the sun. This would cause a change in the influence of the gravitational pull of the Sun on all the remaining planets. The Earth could possibly change its location to replace Venus.
Unless measures were taken, unprecedented for an endeavor where all people must work together for the benefit of mankind, humanity was doomed to extinction. Even now, all the major industrial nations of the world were in secret talks. They knew the timetable. They had five years to save mankind.
THE END
A WRITER’S DILEMMA
This piece is for writers and future writers, but I encourage you readers to read and discover some of the speedbumps those words you enjoy are encountering.
As with all writers, I have accumulated my fair share of rejections. Often the rejection is a form letter with no indication as to why the work was rejected, or if it’s even been read. But on occasion I have received what I consider a ‘good rejection’. From the editor’s response you know that your work was read for they will tell you why it was rejected and what they consider to be its weaknesses. With this knowledge necessary corrections can be made which may be able to smooth the road to publication.
Now here’s the problem. When a piece is accepted for publication the editors seldom, if ever, tell you, in any detail, why they accepted the piece.
I recently had a short story accepted for publication. The editor said it was the best story she read that day. Why was it the best story of the day? I, for one, never question the editor who accepted my story as to why they accepted it.
Leave well enough alone.
So, this is the dilemma I see. For me, I have sometimes learned why my work was rejected. But never learn why it was accepted. That knowledge might be as helpful as that gained in a rejection.
What do you writers think?
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART VIII; A SHORT STORY
It was late Friday night, sometimes early Saturday morning, and Mac was closing up his club he would pause and listen. Lately, he always made sure he was alone when he locked. For those nights were special. Just before he turned the key in the door he would stand there, with the door slightly ajar, and listen. From afar, he could hear the sweet sound of Sweats playing his sax. But it wasn’t just Sweats playing. There was also a tenor sax, drums and more. The music was the sweetest Mac had ever heard. Mac lived for closing on those nights.
Hope you enjoyed the story. There will be more posts coming. Short stories, poem, both published and nonpublished along with some thoughts and observations. Hope you stay tuned.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART VII; A SHORT STORY
The following Friday night the air was the same – electric. Everyone in the band was smiling, joking and having the time of their lives. They were “on” again, their boss, Mac, knew it and the audience knew it. Halfway through the evening, during a piano solo, Sweats once again scanned the crowd. He blinked his eyes in disbelief. There sat Miles Davis again, out in front. Beside him was someone Sweats also recognized. The man wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. Sweats could easily hear his gravelly voice. It was Satchmo. Louis Armstrong was watching Jerome Connelly play. Sweats was numb with excitement and fear. He had no doubt that he was looking at two dead men. They were his idols, but they were dead. When it came time for Sweats’ sax solo, he flubbed the piece. His playing was terrible. There was no way he could concentrate on playing his sax with Miles Davis and Louis Armstrong in the crowd.
When the night’s work was over, Leroy walked over to Sweats and said, “Don’t worry kid. No one is on all the time.”
There was no way he could tell Leroy why he was off. He avoided all contact with Joe. Sweats walked home doubting his sanity.
Another Friday night and Sweats was living up to his name. He usually calmed down after he arrived at the club. But now, even the club wasn’t his sanctuary. There were dead men watching him play and he couldn’t tell anyone about it. He always found solace in his music. Now even that was gone. If dead men kept showing up to hear him, his only sanctuary would be destroyed.
The band began to play. Sweats didn’t dare look to the front of the audience but couldn’t help himself. There, at Miles’ table, sat Louis Armstrong, along with Duke Ellington and one of the greatest jazz drummers of all time, Gene Krupa. Sweats could tell they were enjoying the music. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he played his heart out. They were part of the audience and deserved to be entertained. He never mentioned the patrons of the ghost table again. He just played as well as he could for them.
The next Friday was the last Sweats ever played with the band. The ghost table had a new member. It was John Coltrane. He sat deathly still, just staring at Sweats, his gaze never wavering. When the band was done for the night, the ghost crew was still there. Sweats was totally unnerved. John Coltrane was motioning him to the table.
As Sweats left the stage, the lights of the club dimmed, and a milk-white haze enveloped all but the ghost table. Sweats sat down in the only empty seat.
In a quiet voice, no more than a whisper, Coltrane said, “We’ve been following you Sweats, not only your music, but also your life. We want you to join our group. It will be the gig of a lifetime. We have an audience that spent their whole existence loving jazz, living it. Say yes, and the fears, the streets you dread will be gone forever.
Sweats agreed and was never seen again.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART VI; A SHORT STORY
When Sweats arrived home, his mother was waiting for him. She waited every night he worked with a hot meal. As he sat eating, she said, “You know, honey. I was reluctant to let you quit high school, but then you got your job, and the extra money is helping out. And you seem to be happier than I’ve ever seen you. You’re a man now, and I’m proud of you.”
Sweats sat quietly eating, thinking. How could he tell his mother that his life was still a nightmare while he lived in this neighborhood? How could he tell her that all he wanted was to play his music? Nothing else mattered.
There was an uneasy quiet as his mother watched him eat. Sweats decided to tell her what happened at the club. “Mom, tonight I thought I saw Miles Davis in the audience. Joe said that he’s dead. Is that true?” He knew his mother loved jazz, had been to the club a couple of times to hear the band play. Then she would walk him home, talking about his music and how proud she was of him.
“That’s true, baby. Miles died a few years ago. It had to be someone who just looked like him.”
Sweats just nodded and went on eating. He was sure it was Miles.
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