Posts tagged ‘fiction’
The inspiration for writing this short story, Second Chance, was from hearing those questioning the value of space exploration. They say, “Why send all that money into space?” If these folks are pure in their belief, they must reject all that our investment into space has provided. They probably don’t use cell phones, watch news broadcast from around the world, or watch weather reports. And don’t forget, space travel has given us Tang.
Second Chance was accepted for publication by Books To Go Now in November 2011, and by Separate Worlds in December 2013.
Second Chance
Richard Walsh, 95, relaxed in his backyard beach chair. The air was crystal clear; this was highly unusual for the smog, blown in from the coastal cities, often obscured the sky. He enjoyed this rare moment and felt at peace as he gazed at a host of constellations. Richard prided himself on being able to identify everyone visible in his piece of the sky. He chose to live in the desert, much to the dismay of his wife Molly, 80, to fulfil his passion for the universe.
They had married forty years ago and were beginning to feel their age. “Why can’t we live closer to Debbie?” Molly constantly asked.
He would answer, “We can fly to visit her and be there in less than two hours. I need the night sky for my studies. I need to be far away from the maddening city lights, but even here, the smog is a problem.” Secretly, he wished they could move farther from the pollution, but they were too old to begin life again in a new location.
Richard was a science writer and worked from home. As he gazed up at the stars, he would mutter, “Someday, man will make journeys into space that I cannot even imagine. That is where our future lies.”
###
Voyages eventually were made to the world’s moon, but Richard died before they were accomplished. The exploration of the moon was as far as space travel went. There were too many problems to tend to on the planet as the population continued to grow and resources were devoured.
GENERATIONS LATER
Dr. Gregor Adomski, with his bushy eyebrows and lion’s mane of gray hair, was an astronomer. At age seventy-three, he had never lost his child-like amazement with the universe. He was an advocate of space exploration. However, there wasn’t a government on the planet that would spend the money to make the jump into space. For generations man pondered the end of their world, the fact that their world would someday cease to exist was known. Scientists could predict cosmic events, but they had little influence on how the information was incorporated in future practices of governments. Those decisions were more of a political nature and science had no place in politics.
Adomski also noted a growing trend. Due to the planet’s growing population, weather conditions had deteriorated during the last fifty years. These changes resulted in massive crop failures and a ‘once in a century’ storm became a common occurrence. Turning to his assistant, Dr. Jeff Farber, Adomski said, “Our world cannot continue on this course. Civilization is on a downward spiral. We still have time to take action to ensure the survival of our society, but will we? Man was meant to explore the universe, to push the limits of his existence. Perhaps future generations can reach distant planets of solar systems that have yet to be discovered. Time is of the essence. We must act now or accept our fate.”
Jeff shared Adomski’s concern. The planet’s doom loomed in the distant future. Yet, most of the planet’s inhabitants were too occupied in their daily lives to care about an event that would not occur for thousands of generations. The average person thought, Why should I care about what happens in the distant future when I need to feed my family now?
Satellites were launched. Their purpose was to monitor weather and improve communications of the planet, not as stepping stones for space travel. Jeff hoped that someday space exploration would begin. But his heart told him it would not be so; the planet was consumed by too many problems to make precious resources available for space exploration. When he went home and shared his concerns with his wife, Janet. She only reinforced the population’s mindset.
She would say, “Why do you need to worry about something so distant when there are so many problems facing the planet here and now? I just don’t understand your priorities.”
Jeff recently visited a farm; most of the population of the planet was encouraged to do so to see how the governments were staying ahead of any crisis. The tour was led by Stuart Gromley, more of a scientist than a farmer, gaining the knowledge necessary to provide the food needed by the ever-expanding population.
Gromley began his tour, which would be short, for in reality, farms no longer existed, land was too precious, to grow crops greenhouses the size of skyscrapers was used. Through enhanced fertilizers and crop genetics, what would have taken thousands of acres to grow took just one acre of land. Farms went vertical. Gromley was proud of his farm and said to the tour, “As you can see, not an ounce of precious soil is wasted. Hydro farming allows us to grow any crops we want with only water and chemicals. Healthy food is brought to your table with little drain on the planet.”
The hand of a young woman shot up.
Gromley muttered, “Shit, there always has to be one,” and then said out loud, “Do you have a question?”
“Yes,” she responded, “I have read papers stating that some of these chemicals used to produce our food can build up in our bodies and produce cancers.”
Gromley shared a secret thought that many of his profession shared, Honey, would you rather die now of starvation or die later of cancer? But no one ever said this out loud.
Gromley held his temper and said, “Studies are still ongoing to see if these claims are true. Our research, thus far, has not proven any of these claims.” He did not share the fact that the research was nonexistent.
Overall, however, science improved and extended the lifespan of the world, and the population lived longer. Those in power concentrated on the immediate, as for the distant future, science would always find a way to solve the world’s problems.
TEN THOUSAND GENERATIONS LATER
Adomski and Farber were long dust. The fears they shared for the planet were forgotten.
Laws were passed by the most technologically advanced nations and space travel was ignored in favour of improving the condition of humanity. As these decisions were made, scientists on the planet predicted the maximum population the planet could support. Centuries since that prediction, the population of the planet soared to double that prediction. Yet, with further advances in technology, life continued. However, turmoil broke out on the planet. The more advanced countries continued to live fairly well, but the third world countries were in chaos. These circumstances reinforced the opponents of space exploration in favour of helping the people.
After dinner, Alex Reed, an expert in population dynamics, went to his study and quietly closed the door, blocking out the sounds of his children at play before their bedtime. He did this more and more often to turn on his computer and review the history of his planet and the dreams of space exploration attributed to the writings of Dr. Adomski and a host of the scientist that came along after his death. They all shared the hope that exploration of the universe would go forward and save the species.
Reed was both a scientist and an intellectual. He studied the great accomplishments made in art and literature going back thousands of years, but as a scientist, he knew that at some distant day it would all be destroyed. “All of this will be nothing but cinders,” he said to no one there. “All these magnificent accomplishments of the planet will be lost. Is it too late to think about the preservation of mankind’s history, of the great works produced?”
Reed remembered well the warnings Dr. Adomski had postulated and could not believe how self-centered the people of the planet had become. Even now, with the time of its demise calculated, the population remained uninterested in space exploration. He reasoned that he was only a scientist and had no power over the decisions that determine the destiny of the planet. Elected officials made policy and the rest of humanity, relying on their intelligence, would have to accept the judgement. Election and power were more important than reality.
EIGHTY THOUSAND GENERATIONS LATER
The planet was populated beyond belief. Every acre of land had hundreds of residents and resources were being stretched to the limit. When all the land was occupied, floating cities were constructed. It was not long before the entire surface was in use, reducing the planet to a seething cauldron of toxins and waste. Conditions had been deteriorating for many thousands of years, but they now accelerated to astronomical proportions. Food riots had begun and, more frequently, water riots. As predicted, the sun was getting brighter and spontaneous fires erupted, destroying vast areas and populations. The world was one large metropolis and there was nowhere to run; nowhere to escape the final result.
President Addis, leader of half the planet’s population, summoned top scientists for a conference to discuss the world’s future. The president sat patiently and listened to their talks.
Most were the same, full of hope, yet unable to dictate a plan that would save man.
In attendance was Dr. Scious Minori. She was the world’s leading authority on the state of the planet; the president listened to her speech. The message was most disheartening.
She began by saying, “My presentation will be brief. Our planet, our species, is doomed. I see no hope for any intervention that can alter the future. Our resources are stretched beyond the ability to support the population. Our future will be nothing but turmoil.
“The planet is beyond repair. There are no errors in the calculations. In approximately twenty thousand years, the sun in its death throws will engulf our world. Until then, our existence will be that of a constant conflict. The only peace our people will know is at the end of our existence.
“We have waited too long to ensure survival of our species and all the life that inhabits our planet. Now, it is not possible to journey into space, even though there is time. At this point, to build a facility for space exploration would displace hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of people. On the entire planet, there is no room for such a center for space exploration. We are at a loss to save our civilization.”
The president, however, missed one presentation that shared a glimmer of hope for the future, not for the planet but for the species, and provided statistics that speculated the proposition that Homo sapiens was not doomed. It was held in a small room with seating for less than thirty. The speaker was Dr. Fermi Rialtos, a bacteriologist. The presentation was so esoteric that it was not considered worthy of the president’s attention.
There were only ten scientists in the audience.
Dr. Rialtos began his talk by saying, “The bacteria I primarily study is E. coli. One of the purposes in my use of these bacteria was the study of evolution. The benefit to studying these organisms is that one can observe thousands of generations in a short period of time. “I inoculated twelve flasks of bacteria and studied them for 30,000 generations with the E. coli exposed to identical conditions through the course of the study. At the conclusion of the experiment, I analyzed the genetics of all twelve flasks. Their pattern of development was identical.
“I feel this demonstrates that evolution is not random. Given similar conditions, life will progress in a similar manner.
“I am also something of an amateur astronomer. There are hundreds of stars, around which planets have or are presently forming. The attributes of some of these planets are similar to our planet, millions of years in the past.”
Dr. Rialtos went on to describe the conditions on some of these recently discovered planets. “One planet I have been studying is very young, a mere neophyte, but I think there may be a possibility that it will someday harbour life. The star it orbits is slightly larger than our own sun, making their years slightly longer, but the planet’s position is a close approximation to that of our own world in relation to our sun. I feel it may be capable of supporting life, but it is only one of possibly thousands that we have discovered in the universe. Perhaps our civilization will be replicated in the cosmos with more lasting results”
He finished by saying, “Embrace your children every day and enjoy the life you have.”
###
Toward the end of their world, the population prayed to the God they believed would save them. But God had other plans.
###
The end of civilization was not pretty.
In the distant past, it would have been survival of the fittest. But now, thanks to globalization and shared technology, all populations of the planet were on an even footing. Equals fought equals to the death to exist. And in the end, as the sun spent the last of its life-giving force, the last of the species perished.
###
On a planet millions of light-years away, backyards were full of people looking skyward, straining to see the star-like light racing across the heavens. The year was 1957.
Tim Riddell, age five, stood outside with his parents. His father, Eli, told him what to look for and where to look. As they watched, the Riddell family could hear voices all around them as neighbours also looked to the heavens.
This was an historic event. It was the first of its kind. Earth was being orbited by a man-made machine.
Tim began to shout, “I see it! I see it!” and his small arm pointed skyward.
All around people also began to point and shout, “There it is!”
Liz, Tim’s mom, said to no one in particular, “I feel so exposed.”
Eli smiled and said, “Tonight, I want to be your Sputnik.”
The space race was on. Sputnik made history for the U.S.S.R. Later, after many embarrassing attempts, the U.S. also launched a satellite. The race would last for decades and initiate Earth’s journey into space.
###
The year was now 2093, and the advances in science and space travel were beyond belief. Those who stood in their backyards gazing up at the sky in 1957 only witnessed the beginning. Science and mankind had developed a propulsion system that enables man to visit the closest neighbouring solar system. At the same time, great advances were made in astronomy with platforms installed in deep space.
One day, Dr. Theo Thurber was monitoring one of the platforms when alarm bells began to ring indicating an event worthy of study. He rushed to his monitor in time to witness the beginning of the death of a distant star. The bright glow of its passing lasted for weeks, and then slowly dimmed and disappeared.
After the initial observation, Dr. Thurber dictated into his records, “Witnessed the death of a distant star two million light years away. Nothing unusual. This is not a significant event.”
Thurber could not know that a distant civilization had come to and end.
© Copyright 2013 Walt Trizna. All rights reserved.
January 2, 2024 at 8:16 pm
A writer’s group I once belonged to would celebrate Christmas at an Italian restaurant. The place had a unique room called the Pope’s room. It was a large circular room with a domed ceiling and had a large circular table and the walls were covered with pictures of past popes. In the center of the table was a bust of Pope John II. We needed a large room for there were often ten or more of us in attendance. The domed ceiling made for a unique feature. What was said on one side of the room, in a soft voice, could easily be heard on the opposite side. That phenomena gave birth to this story.
DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR? was accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in October 2007.
DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR?
W___ was known for his stories of murder and mayhem. Tales of ghosts and monsters were his claim to meager fame. As member of a writers’ group, he enjoyed sharing his twisted stories with the group and the support they provided. But how could they know, imagine, that the stories, born in his twisted mind, would someday become reality. W___ would carry demons within his mind. Even his wife did not know the visions, the “truths” that journeyed through his muddled brain.
It was during November’s 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 whenW___ 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, greeting his fellow writers; he took his seat next to S___. The room was a large room 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. A conversation manufactured in his brain. 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, for 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 members remaining were W___ and S___. 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 when his ears perked. 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
December 20, 2023 at 8:58 pm
The Reluctant Zombi was accepted for publication by Blood, Blade & Thruster, a print publication, in October 2006.
There is a story behind this story.
Blood, Blade & Thruster ran a contest to see which story they would publish according to which story received the most votes. I can’t remember, but the stories must have been published online for people to read and then to vote.
I told friends about the contest. My wife told her friends about the contest. Then our friends told their friends about the contest.
I won. That is why you are now reading this story.
After the story was published someone posted online that they thought my story should not have been published because winning a contest by number of votes was not a valid way to obtain publication.
I guess he should have had more friends.
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE
As Norman stumbled through the dank Haitian swamp, he groaned, “Willard, it feels so unnatural walking around with my arms outstretched, but I can’t seem to put them down. “I have an image to uphold.”
Willard, who was shuffling along, shook his head and sighed, “Of course it’s unnatural, you’re a zombie, damn it. And your image is history.”
Norman complained, “I didn’t ask to be a zombie.” With some difficulty, he swiveled his neck and surveyed the Haitian countryside.
Norman took in the landscape surrounding him. He walked through a village. It was nothing more than a few huts of mud and straw along a dusty road. Chickens pecked in the brush along the roadside. Chickens! For some reason their presence made him uncomfortable. “I really don’t want to be a zombie,” Norman muttered. He was a forty-year-old college professor, a dark-haired trim man who always dressed well. Now he was walking around covered in grime and dressed in rags.
Willard said, “If you didn’t want to become a zombie, you shouldn’t have run over the old voodoo woman’s chickens with your jeep. Was she ever pissed? She’s also the one that converted me into a zombie, but that’s another story.”
Norman looked at Willard and could not guess what he once looked like. Willard was pale, gaunt and dressed in rags. His age made undeterminable by his zombie state.
“As soon as you angered her, she began making one of her little dolls. She cackled while she worked. That is never a good sign. The doll is where your soul now resides.”
“I can’t believe this is happening to me, Willard. I came to Haiti to do research on Haitian religions. I am, or was, a respected and well-published anthropologist. Now look at me. I’m wearing rags and walking around like a…, like a …”.
“Zombie!” asked Willard.
“Just because I ran over a few chickens?”
“Um, Norman, they looked like chickens, but they weren’t. Nothing around the voodoo woman’s house is what it appears. They were once her enemies. She changed them into chickens, and you freed them from pecking for insects along the road for the rest of their lives. You ended their suffering. So naturally, in her anger, she turned you into a zombie. I am assigned to train all novice zombies. To instruct how to attack people, teach them what are the best parts to eat.”
Norman made a face at this remark.
“Now what?” asked Willard.
Norman sighed, “I’m a vegetarian. But I will eat dairy.”
Willard said with disgust, “There are no vegetarian zombies. And attacking the dairy section of a store is not going to do much for the zombie image.”
Norman grumbled, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do anything to detract from the zombie image. Give me a break.”
As the two zombies were arguing, Willard happened to glance over to the voodoo woman’s house. There she stood in the doorway. Willard could tell she was not happy.
She hobbled toward Willard and Norman, a waddling mass adorned with bones and beads. Her crown of thick dreadlocks made her appear as if some multi-legged beast was sitting on her head.
The old voodoo woman shouted at Norman, “I knew you be a troublemaker, with your fancy jeep and running over people’s property.”
Norman mumbled, “Sorry about the chickens.”
“You sorry all right. You be good and sorry real soon.”
The old woman produced her Norman doll, lifted the doll skyward, and began chanting in a low rumbling voice.
Norman’s soul returned to his body. He felt like his old self. He laughed with relief, then glanced up. Willard stumbled toward him; arms raised.
“Willard old buddy, we’re friends – right?”
Willard only growled and roared.
Norman looked desperately for an escape. On either side of him, zombies with ash-gray complexions staggered in his direction. He was surrounded.
The old voodoo woman said, “Here be my ‘children’, and they be hungry.” She cackled as the circle of zombies grew smaller and smaller around Norman.
From beyond the wall of the living dead, Norman pleaded, “Please, make me a chicken!”
THE END
December 18, 2023 at 7:12 pm
This story was accepted for publication by Nocturnal Ooze in November 2006.
THINK NO EVIL
I have always had an active imagination. If I had had the courage to put a bullet through my head when I first realized the consequences of my thoughts, you dear reader, would have more than five days to live. I suggest, for your own sanity, you put down this story. Now!
Consider yourself warned.
I used my vivid imagination to write works of science fiction and had some measure of success. I was no Ray Bradbury, but I was able to make a reasonable living with my novels with flashy covers showing alien worlds and their weird residents. The occasional scantily clad Earth females depicted on the covers didn’t hurt sales either. I would let my imagination run wild and my pen would follow. I do not know the true extent of the powers, but I fear I may have done some damage light years from Earth.
The first hint of my peculiar ability occurred a month ago. I visited a bagel shop early one morning, as was my habit, to avoid crowds. In my southeastern Pennsylvania community, three people constitute a crowd, four a mob.
I entered the store and found, and much to my satisfaction, I was the only customer. A husband and wife owned and ran the establishment. They were always there together.
I placed my order, and as I stood idly, a strange thought emerged. How easy it would be to rob this store at this early hour. I could write a mystery. It would be my first attempt at something other than science fiction. My mind was consumed with plotting the crime, and as I waited for my bagels, my thoughts set up the robbery scene. Seven days later, that store was robbed and the couple murdered.
What a strange coincidence, I thought, as I read the newspaper.
A few days after the robbery, I was driving along an interstate highway behind an old pickup truck. A ladder was propped up against the tailgate. I imagined the truck hitting a large bump in the road and the ladder being hurled from the truck and through the windshield of the car following. I switched lanes and forgot the vision.
Seven days later a horrendous accident happened, almost identical to the scene I imagined. It made the local news.
This time I was shaken. Was this just a second coincidence?
I tried an experiment. I pictured a week of continuous rain. We were under drought restrictions at the time, so I thought this would be an innocent and perhaps beneficial test. Exactly seven days later, the rains poured down and rivers overran their banks. I had forgotten about the rivers. Property was ruined. Lives were lost.
To avoid more damage, I went back to writing science fiction. Fiction that I ensured occurred far from this planet.
Then it happened. Two days ago, after I vowed never to conjure up stories about the here and now, I slipped. I was writing a story about an alien ship traveling through an asteroid belt. Before I knew it, my mind was picturing the asteroid that impacted the Earth some sixty-five million years ago causing the extinction of the dinosaurs. But God help me, my mind wandered and took another step. I wondered what the Earth would be like if an asteroid ten times the size of the one that killed the dinosaurs impacted the Earth.
We have five days left.
THE END
December 14, 2023 at 8:27 pm
CONFLICT
Mildred watched as the members of the Tinkerer’s Club ascended the stairs from the cellar and prepared to depart. Harold Kinter, William Dupree and James Forsyth bid her goodbye. Much to her surprise, Kingsley Dasher took her hand and said, “Elmo has a marvelous intellect and his invention could someday garner you a great deal of money. Only time will tell.” With that he walked out the door and was gone.
Elmo was the last to depart the cellar and Mildred could immediately tell that things had not gone as well as he had anticipated. She was puzzled by Elmo’s downtrodden appearance and Kingsley’s departing comment. Wanting to question her husband, she asked, “Elmo, why don’t I pour us some coffee and we have some dessert?”
Elmo, distracted by his thoughts, after a moment, replied, “That’s fine with me, my dear. I have a great deal on my mind, and perhaps talking would help. Things did not go as I had hoped during the meeting and I need to gather my thoughts. I am confused about the future of my invention. Nothing is going as I had planned.”
Mildred set the kitchen table with two steaming mugs and plates of Elmo’s favorite dessert, spice cake. She watched Elmo sip his coffee, and then push the dessert away. Now she knew something was definitely wrong. Elmo never refused spice cake. “What happened in the cellar?” Mildred asked.
Elmo hesitated, and then began, “I demonstrated my time machine using the kitten and the results were as I expected. To everyone’s surprise, Kingsley made a comment after the experiment. As he began to speak, I expected him to give insight into why the machine was not working, but to my surprise he said that it was working. Only it was working in a manner not that I appreciated. He said that I had invented the perfect prison and that my machine had the potential to change society.”
Mildred sat deep in thought remembering what Kingsley had said before departing. Suddenly her face lit up, “He’s right. I never would have made the connection. The man’s a genius. I’m so proud of you, Elmo. Your invention will change our society.”
This did not serve to heal Elmo’s fragile ego, instead, Mildred’s comment only served to increase its fragility.
Elmo had invested a great deal of effort in planning and then building his machine. Now, not only did it not work, but someone else had discovered its use.
Mildred could see that her husband was deeply upset. She extended her hand across the table and said, “Come to bed, my dear. Perhaps there is something I can do to improve your mood.” Mildred was successful, but it wasn’t long before matters took a drastic turn. Once again it was something that Kingsley had hinted might happen, but even he could not predict the extent of the turmoil Elmo’s machine would cause.
* * *
To this day Elmo doesn’t know how it happened or who was the one to break the secrecy surrounding the meeting of the Tinkerer’s Club. For a moment he thought maybe Mildred, but no, she would never break his confidence. He was sure it wasn’t Kingsley. Kingsley had trouble communicating with the members of the club. Elmo could not picture him going to the press, or even breaking the club’s confidence with a friend. Elmo doubted he had few friends outside the club. That left James Forsyth, William Dupree and Harold Kinter as the culprit. He questioned them all and every one denied that they talked about the machine. Elmo knew one of them was lying. His money was on either James Forsyth or William Dupree.
James was a people person and loved being the center of attention. He also enjoyed talking about his work and Elmo could just picture him letting slip the nature of the Tinkerer’s meeting. James’ tongue was often ahead of his brain when he really got going in a conversation.
William was also suspect. Being short, and as most short people, he feared being ignored, feared being lost in a crowd – literally. So how better to avoid being lost then becoming its center. Elmo could picture him trying to impress people. Telling them of a great new device that would do away with prisons and save society billions of dollars. And after explaining all this, whispering, “Now promise that you won’t tell a soul.”
The more he thought about who the culprit might be, the more Elmo became sure that William was the guilty party, but William, as well as the rest of the members present that night, emphatically denied speaking about the machine to anyone.
The manner in which Elmo discovered that the secrecy of the Tinkerer’s Club meeting had been broken was a phone call he received from a local newspaper. Published only once a week, The Los Alamos Herald was primarily concerned with community events, births, weddings and funerals. Most of what was news in the town of Los Alamos was Top Secret so there really wasn’t much to report. When word of Elmo’s invention began to spread through the tight-knit community, the paper was all over it.
One evening, while Elmo and Mildred were enjoying their supper, the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” said Elmo as he rose to answer. This was long before the age of telemarketers, and for that matter, answering machines. When the phone rang you knew it was something important. Elmo answered, “Hello.”
A voice on the other end said, “Hello, this is Nate Bush calling from The Los Alamos Herald. I’d like to speak to Dr. Elmo Baker.”
Mildred watched Elmo and saw his expression range between puzzlement and fear.
Elmo said, “Elmo here. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been told you’ve invented a rather unique machine, a machine that may do away with prisons. Could you comment on this device?”
Elmo did not know how he should answer. He thought the events of the meeting would remain confidential. He now felt anger and frustration and did not know where to direct it. He had to respond. He couldn’t lie because he would soon be filing a patent for his machine. “I have built a device that can age the occupant to a predetermined age.”
“How long does this process take?”
Elmo responded, “Oh, just a matter of minutes.”
“How exactly does it work?”
Elmo was not about to admit that he really didn’t know, that it was intended to be a time machine and that something went wrong, so he answered, “I’d rather wait until I patent the device before I divulge its workings. Also, I’d appreciate it if you would postpone writing any article until I receive the patent.”
Nate was disappointed at this request but felt he had to respect Elmo’s wishes. He responded, “I’ll write-up the article and wait until I hear that your patent has been granted.”
Elmo, somewhat relieved, said, “I would appreciate that a great deal. I’ll give you a call when the patent is approved.”
After hanging up the phone, Elmo said to Mildred, “Someone broke their word. That was The Los Alamos Herald and they wanted to know about my invention. I can’t believe all this is happening about something I truly do not understand.”
* * *
Later that day George Holkum walked over to Nate’s desk. The paper was losing money and George, the managing editor, needed to turn that around.
He asked Nate, “How did that prison thing interview go? Are we dealing with a nutcase or what?”
Nate began to perspire. He knew that the paper was in trouble and needed sales. He also knew he had a fantastic story, but he had given his word. Nate said, “I think it’s the real thing. The man is a scientist and he wants to keep things quiet until he gets a patent.”
George said, “Publish the story. Maybe it will increase our circulation. We’re not in a position to not publish something important. We have a responsibility to the stockholders.”
Nate responded, “But boss, I gave my word.”
“Your word won’t sell papers. Publish your story!”
* * *
The following Wednesday Elmo went to work and immediately became aware that something was not quite right. Everyone stared at him as if he had two heads. His usually friendly coworkers were avoiding making eye-contact with him, were uncomfortable to be in the same room with him. Someone finally handed Elmo the latest edition of the Los Alamos Herald, published that morning.
Elmo was shocked at the headline, shouting in huge bold print, Scientist, Elmo Baker Has Invented a Prison that will Change Humanity. He couldn’t believe it. He kept muttering to himself, “They promised not to publish.” He read on and found to his dismay all the details he shared with Nate Bush. How would this change his life? He was sure it would not be for the better; trouble was surely down the road and he had a feeling the road would not be a long one.
After sitting in his cubicle, he immediately phoned Nate. “You promised not to publish anything about my invention. I trusted you.”
Elmo could hear the guilt in Nate’s voice as he answered, “I wanted to honor my promise but the managing editor insisted I publish the article. Circulation is down and he wanted something that would catch the readership’s interest. All we ever get to report is the local news, and with the gossip in this town, most people know what we publish before we publish it. This story is big.
“But I trusted you. People at work look at me as if I’m some kind of freak. What are the rest of the people in Los Alamos going to think?”
“Take it easy, Elmo. I’m sure this will blow over in no time at all and everything will return to normal.”
The next day Elmo’s life would change in a big way.
* * *
The Los Alamos rag was read by the locals for local news. Because interest in the paper’s stories appealed to former Los Alamos residents, stories were posted with a wire service. That’s how Elmo’s problems reached a new level.
The Friday morning after the story appeared in The Los Alamos Herald, Elmo and Mildred were sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast. Mildred asked, “Things calmed down at work, Elmo?”
“Things are better now. I explained, to anyone interested, that I discovered the ‘prison’ by mistake, that I’m not really sure that it has any practical purpose and that’s the truth. I can’t picture the thing being used, and Kingsley Dasher hinted that there may be problems down the road even though he was the one who first envisioned the device as a prison. I sure didn’t tell anyone that it was a time machine that I really wanted to invent. I can just imagine the response I would get from that bit of information.”
Elmo was about to continue when the ringing phone interrupted him.
Mildred said, “I’ll get that. Hold your thought.”
Elmo watched as she answered the phone. At first she had a puzzled look on her face, and then her eyebrows knit and her forehead wrinkled with shock and confusion. She said to the caller, “Yes, Mr. Slattery, this is the residence of Elmo Baker. He’s right here.”
Elmo was puzzled. He didn’t know a Mr. Slatterly.
Mildred held her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “He’s a reporter from The New York Times.”
A film of sweat broke out on Elmo’s forehead. He knew this was going to be trouble. He slowly took the phone from Mildred. “Hello, this is Elmo Baker. How can I help you?”
“Dr. Baker, this is Joe Slatterly from The New York Times, the paper is extremely interested in the wire story published by The Los Alamos Herald. I’d like to come to New Mexico and interview you and take some pictures of your machine. It could change the penal system as we know it. We feel that the public needs to know about your invention.”
Elmo thought about the reaction that the locals had when they read about his invention. He could not imagine what it would be like if the entire country, no wait, the entire world knew about his invention.
Elmo said, “I don’t think I’d be comfortable letting the world know about my invention. The reaction locally was not the best. I’d rather forget about the whole thing.”
“But Elmo. Can I call you Elmo?”
“Sure, Elmo’s fine.”
“You could change society for the better. The convicted could fulfill their debt to society and not experience the degradation and dangers of prison life. There would be less recidivism. Prisoners could get on with their lives without the scars of prison life.”
Elmo began to weaken. “I suppose my machine could serve a benefit to society.”
“I’m sure it would. Have you thought much about patenting and selling it?”
“I do plan to patent it, but after that, I don’t know. I’m just now getting over the shock of how the news was taken around here.”
Slatterly talked fast. He didn’t want to lose Elmo. “Well, an article in The New York Times would certainly provide a great deal of publicity. It might cause some rough spots for you, but it would definitely make the public aware of your device, especially potential customers. And you know what they say. ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity.’”
Mildred listened to Elmo’s end of the conversation and could tell he was wavering and began to think he would do what the reporter wanted him to do. The gleam in his eyes was beginning to frighten her. See had seen that look too many times before.
After a few more minutes Elmo finished his conversation by saying, “That would be fine, Mr. Slatterly. I’m looking forward to seeing you the day after tomorrow.”
After Elmo hung up Mildred immediately asked, “Elmo, what are you doing? Are you going to talk to that reporter even after how our neighbors and friends reacted after they found out about your machine? How could you?”
Doubt passed over Elmo’s face, but he quickly recovered. “Mil, I could help society, free-up money for uses more important than prisons, like education and medical research.”
“Oh I see, Elmo. You are going to save the world while we become lepers in our own community.”
“That’s a little harsh, Mil.”
“We’ll see,” Mildred said as she stormed out of the room.
* * *
Two days later The New York Times reporter, along with his photographer, appeared at Elmo’s front door. They called ahead from the airport before they left New York to let Elmo know when he should be expecting them. When the doorbell rang Elmo wanted to get to the front door before Mildred, who had been moody ever since the reporter’s call.
Elmo opened the door and extended his hand to the young smartly-dressed man before him. “You must be Joe Slatterly from The New York Times.”
“That’s right, sir. And this is my photographer, Larry Hitchcock. I’ve been looking forward to this interview and seeing your machine.”
Elmo began, “First, call me Elmo. Let’s go down to the cellar. I’ve been planning a demonstration for you.” Elmo led the way to the cellar door and found Mildred standing close to it. She was civil to the two men from The New York Times, Elmo knew she would be. What he feared was how she would react and what she would say after they left.
As the group descended the stairs to Elmo’s laboratory, Elmo said, over his shoulder, “I’ve arranged a little demonstration to show you how my device works.”
Once in the cellar, Larry said, “Look, Joe, an old iron lung. I haven’t seen one of those in years. Elmo, do you collect old medical equipment too?”
Slatterly was in a hurry. He wanted to see the demonstration, talk to Elmo and get out of Hicksville as soon as possible. “So,” Slatterly asked, “where is your machine?”
Elmo pointed to the iron lung, “That’s it, gentlemen. I needed a chamber that would fit a human. Although it may not look like much, what makes this iron lung unique is the electronics I’ve incorporated. Let me show you how it works.”
Walking to a cage at a far wall, Elmo extracted a rat he had recently obtained, and returned to the iron lung. He put the rat in the chamber and motioned for Larry to approach. “Larry, you might want to take a ‘before’ photo of the rat.”
“Sure, Elmo.”
Once the photo was taken Elmo said, “I will conduct this experiment in two stages. This rat is about four months old. The lifespan of a rat is about three years. I will first set the time dial to two years and the length of the experiment to one minute.” Elmo pushed the initiate button and said to the men, “Please observe.”
They stepped closer to the chamber and saw that a white mist had enveloped the rat, and then quickly disappeared. The rodent appeared to be slightly bigger than before.
Elmo said, “As you can see, the rat has increased in size. Now I shall set the time dial to twenty years.”
Once again Elmo initiated the sequence and once again the chamber filled with a white mist. As the mist began to clear, Nate and Larry could see the rat shrivel. It became no more than a husk and then collapsed into a mound of dust and bones. Elmo told Larry, “You can take the ‘after’ picture now.”
Joe and Larry were speechless. Both expected this claim, for a device which could serve as a prison, to be the fantasy of some demented scientist, but here was the proof before their eyes. They were truly amazed at what they had witnessed. Larry took the picture but still couldn’t believe what he had seen.
Joe, still mystified at what he had witnessed, asked, “How did you do that, Elmo?”
“Well,” Elmo began, “the science is rather complicated. Let’s just say that the theory and principles behind this device are based, for the most part, on Einstein’s work.” Elmo could not reveal, in reality, that he did not truly understand how it worked and that it was meant to be a time machine.
Joe asked, “So this thing will kill the occupant?”
Elmo was shocked and quickly answered, “Oh no, no. As you witnessed, the first run only aged the rat. I wanted the rat to expire in order to demonstrate that time, in the chamber, had truly advanced. I wasn’t sure if you would believe, with the first experiment, that the rat had aged.
“If a human had been in the chamber he would have aged twenty years in a matter of minutes. His debt to society, paid.”
After a few more questions for Elmo, Joe said, “I guess we’re finished, Elmo. This will make a great story and the pictures should really open the eyes of the public.”
Elmo felt apprehension with the last comment.
Joe asked, “Elmo, could we get a photo of you standing in front of your machine?”
Elmo hesitated, but finally said, “I guess it would be all right.”
Larry took the picture and the trio then walked up the stairs out of the cellar. Joe and Larry said their good-byes and drove away.
As Elmo closed the door he could hear Mildred walk into the room behind him. This was the moment he dreaded.
“Well, Elmo, were those fellas impressed by your machine? Did they get the story they wanted?”
“Yes, dear, I think things went rather well. I demonstrated the device and they were most impressed.”
Mildred turned and, as she left the room, said with coldness in her voice, “We’ll see what happens when the story comes out. I hope I’m wrong about bad things to come and soon the entire matter just fades away.”
Elmo began to think that this was going better than he had hoped, but that thought was short lived.
November 6, 2023 at 7:24 pm
It has been quite a while since I posted on my blog.
But I’m back.
I plan to post a few portions of my memoir beginning with this piece about my youth and where I grew up.
Also, I will share my novella Elmo’s Invention.
Elmo’s Invention is a prequel to an earlier novella I wrote, Elmo’s Sojourn. Elmo’s Sojourn was published online by Bewildering Stories in 2006. Later, it was published by another publisher in a print anthology.
I sometime ago, purely by accident, found that the first two chapters of Elmo’s Invention were published in China in 2008. I have no idea how that happened.
At the end of Elmo’s Invention, I will provide a link to Bewildering Stories taking you to Elmo’s Sojourn. You will then have an opportunity to read the novellas in chronological order.
MY NEWARK EXPERIENCE
I was born and raised in Newark, New Jersey. I am often reminded that there is a Newark in Delaware, but they use a different pronunciation than the New Jersey version. I guess they don’t want to be confused with my Newark. Just conjecture.
Born in 1947, I lived in Newark until I was eighteen. That’s when I left for Oklahoma to attend college. Graduation was followed by four years in the air force.
Now a description of my Newark home.
Our dwelling was a two-bedroom flat in Newark’s Ironbound section. You entered through the kitchen. Then walk straight into the first bedroom, then straight into the second bedroom, and finally into the parlor. One long line of rooms. No doors between rooms. Total lack of privacy. There were six in my family when all was said and done. A tight squeeze with only two bedrooms.
I enjoy exploring page three of the Sunday New York Times’s real estate section and the dwellings for sale. Usually priced in the millions with many bedrooms and bathrooms and laugh at the downsides sometimes given for the houses. One often mentioned problem is the lack of a window in the bathroom. I realize now how good we had it. Our one bathroom had a window. The only drawback was it lacked a bath tub, shower and running hot water. No running hot water in my home. I thank my lucky stars that we had a window. I lived in that flat for eighteen years.
In the summer air conditioning was supplied by an open window.
In the winter, heating was a challenge.
There were two stoves offering heat fueled with kerosene. One in the kitchen and one in the other end of the flat in the parlor. The stove in the kitchen kept the room cozy in the winter. No heat in the bedrooms and the stove on the parlor was useless.
I slept for years in the parlor in a single pull-out bed. I would drape my clothes on the stove next to my bed during the winter to get them warm. The stove could barely accomplish the task. During the winter ice would form on the inside of the parlor windows. Once it began forming on a wall. I laughed when a few years ago I saw a woman on the news complaining that during the winter she could sometimes see her breath in her apartment. Compare to the way my home looked, her apartment appeared a palace. I’m thinking, What’s your problem? Seeing your breath during the winter in the parlor with a stove was a common event.
This is a taste of my past.
More from my past will follow with entries from my memoir.
October 6, 2023 at 8:53 pm
Have you ever made a mistake and said, “I’m only human?”
Being a writer of science fiction, my mind dwelled on the phrase.
Who knows why?
Of course at this point I let my imagination take over, conquering rational thought. I pictured an expedition to a distant planet much like ours. They landed and found no occupants. After months of searching one of the team found a document explaining the demise of the civilization. “We were a race of perfection. No mistakes were ever made. Eventually, we die of boredom.
June 13, 2018 at 11:02 pm
My short story, He Flew Away, has just been accepted by Cemetery Moon.
If you are familiar with the invasion of stink bugs you might enjoy this story. I’ll let you know when it is available and how to get a copy.
January 8, 2017 at 12:00 am
This piece is a sample of upcoming posts to this blog.
The following is a list of websites to help writers find markets and agents. In the future I will discuss each site in more detail, but I thought I would offer this piece for writers to explore these sites, if they want, on their own.
First, I am sad to say that one of my favorite sites to explore the validity of markets and agents no longer exists. The site is Preditors & Editors, a site I have looked to over the years for their opinion about markets and agents. They will be sorely missed.
Now let’s deal with markets.
To my mind, Duotrope is the go-to site for seeking markets for fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Once free, it now charges 50$ a year to use it. Although there are some that argue about the fee, I think, for the service they provide, it is well worth the cost. This site is a fantastic search-engine to find markets specific to your work.
Here is the site:
https://duotrope.com/index.aspx?bp=search
Here is a site to find markets for science fiction and more. I have yet to become acquainted with it, but I will before I report on it.
http://www.ralan.com/index.htm
Now for agents.
In my opinion, this is the site to first visit when seeking an agent. The site is for the Association of Writers Representative. You can search the site for your specific genre and be connected to the agent’s site. You should never have to pay an agent to read your work. With the agents associated with this site, you never will. They have taken a pledge of honesty.
Here is the site:
http://www.aaronline.org/Find
Next is a site devoted to the writer to query other writers about their experience with publishers and
agents. Great place to check on honesty.
Here is the site:
http://absolutewrite.com/forums/activity.php
Finally, here is a site to use to see an agents background. I will discuss this site in greater detail in a later post.
Here is the site:
http://www.agwentquery.com/default.aspx
I hope this helps my fellow writers on their journey to publication. As promised, a more extensive look at each site will follow. I want to help my fellow writers to be where they want to be.
October 19, 2016 at 8:55 pm
Why do you write?
If you’re young, it’s to begin and establish a career, and along the way, perhaps make a living. If you are young this article may not interest you for it’s coming from a different place in life. The place is old age, but the need, perhaps not the reason remains the same. But then again, you will not be young forever.
My first and only novel published thus far appeared while I entered my sixties. Now, at the ass-end of that decade, when maturity infiltrates my brain, I still have a need to write as demonstrated in these mumblings. Do I enjoy it? Hell no!
I should not be working now. I should be enjoying ‘the golden years’. But my personality has always had a strange quirk, the need to accomplish something meaningful. This disease began while I was a teen and has pursued me ever since. Someday soon I may write of how this change to my personality began.
But for now, to the point of this article.
At the end of last year I receive an email from Books To Go Now, a publisher of e-stories telling me I had made 16 cents for the year. This notification brought me joy in a year of a publishing drought. I don’t know and will never meet the person who put down money to read my work.
In my mind, my friends, that is what it is all about. Not fame or fortune which is rightfully sought by the young, but appreciation of our efforts in writing. The bottom line is that appreciation and recognition, no matter how minimal of your work is important. It means someone finds your work worthy of buying. The buying is not the important part, the desire to read your work is.
That is why I write, and perhaps your reason too.
May 28, 2016 at 9:27 pm
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