Posts tagged ‘Walt Trizna’
THE BLOB: A CLASSIC WITH FLAWS
THE BLOB: A CLASSIC WITH FLAWS
I just finished watching, perhaps, the worst science fiction/horror movie I ever saw. And I have seen quite a few science fiction movies because they are my favorite genres. Yet this movie is one of the most famous movies of this type made during the 1950’s.
The movie was The Blob made in 1958. I must have seen it as a kid. Now I wanted to see the movie again because I live in the middle of Blob country., West Chester, PA. Mentioned in the movie is the town of Downingtown, which is just down the road. But the hub of Blob country is the nearby town of Phoenixville home of the Colonial Theater. The town holds a Blob fest every summer. And if you want to be part of the main event during the fest and redo the most famous scene from the movie you can be part of the crowd running out of the Colonial Theater.
The inspiration for this post was the ending seem in many monster movies of this era, The End ?.
In the movie Steve McQueen is the only name which survived the test of time. I can’t really say he acted in the movie; no one really acted in the movie, they just talked. And I would say the plot was weak at best. The blob comes down as a meteor and forms a crater. In the crater is a small sphere which opens when an old man discovers the crater and when the sphere opens, there is the blob which attaches to the man and the ‘action’ begins. Later in the movie Steve McQueen’s character, along with some of his friends, discovers the crater and a hot rock which they theorize as the origin of the blob. This is never corrected so the origin of the blob goes from being a sphere to a rock.
McQueen’s character and his friends spend the majority of their time trying to convince the town sheriff that there is a monster rolling around town eating people. Soon the sheriff goes from disbelief to accepting the fact that people are being eaten and puts the number at 50 for no apparent reason while trying to disperse the growing crowd. Little to nothing is explained in the movie as to the origin of the Blob. Things just happen. What inspired this piece is how the Blob is defeated.
It turns out that the Blob cannot stand cold. After cooling it down using fire extinguishers they somehow load it onto a transport, I assume the plane is refrigerated, there is a lot that needs to be assumed in this movie. The blob is transported on a pallet which is attached to a parachute and dropped into the arctic.
The end of this movie should, especially if you are a science fiction writer, start your mind churning. Visit my blog on January 21 and your imagination will receive some direction.
VENEZUELA VS THE AFFORDABLE CARE ACT
VENEZUELA VS THE AFFORDABLE CARE ACT
Could someone explain to me why there is not enough money to help millions of Americans to keep their medical benefits through The Affordable Care Act yet there is enough money to send 105 aircraft, carrying highly sophisticated weapons, to attack Venezuela and at the same time maintain a massive naval force off the country’s coast?
And now there is another list of countries who may deserve America’s attention.
I don’t understand anything anymore.
Where are the Adults?
NEWARK MEMORY: LIFE ON A SHOESTRING
We have just finished the annual ‘season of shopping’. What follows are some shopping memories, a time when you only bought what you could afford.
LIFE ON A SHOESTRING
Some time ago I heard a report which stated that the average person carries about eight thousand dollars in debt. I am sure that that amount has increased since then. I have only a couple credit cards and try to keep my debt under control. I also use my credit cards as seldom as possible for they can be easily compromised. But on hearing this broadcast, my mind wandered back to my youth, a time when people not so much lived without but lived with what they could afford.
For most of my youth credit cards did not even exist. They started flourishing in the 60’s so, when I was young, they were not even an option. My parents didn’t even have a checking account. When there was a bill that needed to be paid we went to the drugstore and got a money order. Money orders were the only way we sent money through the mail.
In my neighborhood, credit was not as much a way of life as it is today. People lived on what they could afford. With the exception of houses and cars, you bought what you could pay for then and there. I must admit just writing about life without credit seems so foreign and unreal. Buying just what you can afford seems like such an odd concept, yet that is the way it once was.
The way a person received their pay was also different in my youth. Friday afternoons, my dad was home from working at the tannery for hours, but he had to return Friday afternoons to get his pay. I would sometimes take a ride with him; you could smell his place of employment long before you could see it – Ocean Leather – gaining this name because it was the only tannery at that time that could tan shark skins. We would drive around to the loading dock where drums of chemicals stood, the soil, stained shades of purple and green was soil to be an OSHA nightmare. So, into the building we would go, past large rooms where various stages of tanning was taking place, and into the office. Here my dad was handed a brown envelope with bills and change and that was his pay. That’s the way people were paid back then; you actually held your pay in your hand. It was not electronically sent to your bank from which you electronically paid your bills. You were able to hold what you earned, actually see it.
Friday was also allowance day for me, as it is now for my children. For completing my choirs, I received fifty cents a week, and when I could really control my spending – not wanting another model or book – I turned those quarters into a dollar bill, real folding money, which I would immediately take to the cellar and hide. In some respects, I never did get over the hiding fetish. I still have hordes of Kennedy quarters and half dollars along with a plastic bag stashed away for the new state quarters being minted. To this day a quarter to me is still real money. Although my kids make fun of my concept of value, with a quarter in my pocket I’m okay. How things have changed, and how I remain the same.
BOWL GAMES: GREED DILUTES SIGNIFICANE
BOWL GAMES: GREED DILUTES SIGNIFICANE
I first noticed a trend in Bowl Games beginning a few years ago. The number of Bowl Games had increasedcontinues to do so.
I can remember, and I’m talking about maybe 60 years ago, the number of college Bowl Games were few and for a school making it to a Bowl Game was quite an honor. The Bowl Games in existence back then, were to the best of my memory, the Rose Bowl, Orange Bowl, Cotton Bowl and Sugar Bowl and along with three or other Bowl Games, most of which were planned on or near New Year’s Day.
How things have changed.
Here are the Bowl Games listed recently in my local newspaper.
Reported on 12/27/2025
Go Bowling Military Bowl
Bad Boy Mower’s Pinstripe Bowl
Wasabi Fenway Bowl
Pop-Tarts Bowl
Snoop Dog Arizona Bowl
Isleta New Mexico Bowl
TaxSlayer Gator Bowl
Kinder’s Texas Bowl
Reported on 12/29/2025
Radiance Technologies Independence Bowl
Liberty Mutual Music City Bowl
Valero Alamo Bowl
I’m sure there are more to come because the ones mentioned don’t include the ones I remember.
Do you see the existence of the trend I mentioned. To me having made it into a Bowl Game has much less significance these days. I could be wrong but the increase in the number of Bowl Games has more to do with profit and recognition of the sponsor then the significance of the game and the honor of playing.
What do you think?
IN THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS
I post this piece on or around Christmas each year to relive Christmas spirit which in the holiday rush, is sometimes lost.
A CHIRISTMAS TREE STORY
For many years my family practiced a Christmas tradition involved in obtaining a Christmas tree. This experience holds a special place in our hearts. Those of you buying a live tree this Christmas season, a tree with an enormous price, may shed a tear after reading this story.
Many years ago, a friend at work told me about a unique tree farm where trees cost seven dollars. I can assure you that the prices of trees on Christmas tree lots, at that time, were much more. I obtained directions to the farm, and one Sunday afternoon, piled the family into our car and off we went. After a few wrong turns I found the farm. And for years we went there for our Christmas tree and experienced the true meaning of Christmas.
The tree farm was south of Phenixville Pennsylvania. I learned from the owner that the property was once the site of a small airport having a hanger in which he could store his powder blue tail-dragger single engine high wing plane. After many years the hanger was falling apart, and much to his amazement, he was able to fire up the engine and taxi the plane out. But I doubt that the plane will ever fly again.
Now back to the trees.
The tree farm was made up of groves of jack-pine trees, and he spent the off season trimming the trees for sale for Christmas. He was in his late seventies or early eighties, and you could tell, for now, it was his life’s work.
Now a jack-pine is an evergreen with branches, far apart, along its trunk. They were scraggly looking trees, but you could load ornaments along the full length of the branches. As opposed to the usual ‘full’ Christmas trees where only the tips of the branches could be decorated. Once decorated, these jack-pine trees were beautiful.
For tree selection my two daughters brought along multiple scarves to drape on trees which showed promise. Once the ‘perfect tree’ was chosen I cut it down and carried it to the small trailer he kept on the property. He wrapped the tree with twine then went inside with my wife and daughters to sip hot chocolate. While I was left to tie the tree to the car roof coming close to suffering frostbite.
On the wall of the trailer were mounted news articles. Clippings about the farm and his generosity. He donated trees to churches and organizations. I’m he would give trees to those suffering hardship.
Once home, we decorated our scrawny ‘Charlie Brown tree’ and turned it into a thing of beauty.
After a few years of getting our trees at the farm the owner told me he thought he was charging too much so he lowered the price to five dollars. I began bringing him a loaf of homemade cinnamon raisin bread and he told me I could have a tree for free. I assured him that five dollars was what I would pay.
The man through all the years had a collie running free on the property. But the dog wandered somewhere causing someone to complain. A township official arrived and warned the man about his dog. The next time we went to buy a tree he told me that that’s it and he was selling the property. I hope he got a good price and I’m sure some developer filled the land with McMansions sitting cheek to jowl. Houses with no character, only volume.
I will never return to that property because it would spoil my memories of a wonderful Christmas tradition. That fellow was the epitome of the Christmas spirit with the kindness and generosity of the holiday season.
MERRY CHRISTMAS
A TWO-YEAR-OLD DIED TODAY
A TWO-YEAR-OLD DIED
12/22/2025
I heard on the news this morning that a two-year-old just died. To make the news the circumstances must be suspect. This news grabbed me and would not let go. I suspect the reason is the season and I associate children with happiness, especially now.
What follows are thoughts trying to be a poem.
A TWO-YEAR-OLD DIED
A two-year-old died today,
Does anyone ask, “Why”?
Or break down and cry.
A two-year-old died today,
Will it happen again?
Just a matter of when.
THE ULTIMATE EXPERIMENT: WHERE SCIENCE MEETS RELIGION
An unpublished story
THE ULTIMATE EXPERIMENT
George Stewart, age 94, with his mane of white hair and flowing beard, looked the part he had chosen in life, that of a distinguished scientist. His mind wandered as he waited in his study for Virginia to arrive. He always anticipated her visits. Twice a week she came. Finally, the door to his study opened and she entered.
“Virginia, how are you doing?” he said.
Virginia was thirty-five of medium build and quite attractive. But it was the nurturing she gave her patients that revealed her inner beauty. She put down her nursing bag and replied, “How are you doing, Dr. Stewart?” although she knew the answer.
Virginia had been an oncology and hospice nurse for four years. The work was demanding and emotionally draining, but she derived comfort in knowing she helped the people she cared for to make their last days as comfortable as possible.
“I’m maintaining Virginia. I’m so very glad to see you my dear.”
Virginia smiled as Stewart adjusted his body in his hospital bed. She enjoyed spending time with Stewart, easily the most famous patient she had ever had. In 1975, he won the Nobel Prize for Physics. His breakthrough theories and research led to the proposal of string theory. At his advanced age, his brain was still nimble. But his body was riddled with colon cancer and the malignant fingers of death had spread to other organs.
Stewart lived alone in a grand old house. His wife died some years ago and he still deeply mourned her. His only child, a son near 70, lived nearby and would visit when he could. Stewart would have liked to see his two grandchildren more, but they had their own lives and families. He cherished the rare visits they managed. A nurse’s aide kept watch over him and tended to his daily needs.
When Virginia began managing Stewart’s care one month ago, he was given three months to live. “I’ll spend my final days at home,” he told his doctor.
Virginia was assigned Stewart’s case and, during her first visit, she told him, “I’m having a hospital bed delivered today to make you more comfortable. What bedroom do you want it set up in?”
“Oh my dear,” he answered, “I want to spend my last days with my very close friends. Set it up in my study.”
He could tell she did not understand his request. “Wheel me into my study and you shall meet them.”
She wheeled him up to the sliding double doors of darkly stained wood. When she opened them her eyes were greeted by floor to ceiling shelves overflowing with books.
“These are my very close friends. I have spent my life with their thoughts, their ideas, and their dreams. On these shelves are the works of scientists, philosophers and poets. I can gaze at their spines and recall the cherished words they hold. This is where I choose to spend my last days.” Over the days she cared for him she grew to understand how much these friends meant to him.
Now she saw Stewart as her patient and friend. As she tended to him, Virginia asked, “Have you received communion yet today?” She knew that Stewart was a devout Catholic and received the sacrament every morning from a visiting priest or lay member of the church.
“Yes, my dear. Monsignor visited me early this morning. I do so love visiting with that man. We prayed together and talked about my journey into the next life. I’ve worked hard in this life. I am satisfied with what I have accomplished. But I am so very tired. I look forward to the next life and being united with my dear wife.”
Virginia finished with her patient and left instructions with the nurse’s aide as to what needed to be done until her next visit. With her work done, Virginia packed her bag and prepared for her next visit. They said their good-byes, and then Stewart mentioned, “I’m expecting a visitor this afternoon, a former student of mine. His name is Donald Ball, and he has made quite a name for himself in the field of quantum mechanics and string theory. I have not seen him for thirty years or more. I can’t imagine what the purpose of his visit might be.”
“Just don’t overdo it Dr. Stewart. I’ll see you in two days.”
Whenever Virginia left Stewart, she never knew whether she would see him again. She knew the end was very close.
* * *
Donald Ball drove his rental car along the back roads of southeastern Pennsylvania. He chose this circuitous route to give him time to think, although his mind had been occupied with one subject for some time now. He wanted to talk about an extremely sensitive and private matter: his old teacher’s imminent death.
Ball had a collaboration to discuss with his mentor. That is why he traveled from California to Pennsylvania. He had in mind the ultimate physics experiment and needed Stewart’s help to prove a theory that, until now, he had not dared share with anyone.
* * *
Ball arrived at Stewart’s residence and parked on the circular drive. The nurse’s aide answered the door and led him to the study. The sliding doors were open. As he entered, he was immediately astounded at the number of books crammed into the room. However, he was more astounded and saddened to see the shell of a man that was once George Stewart.
Stewart smiled as his former student approached the bed.
Ball extended his hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again Professor. How are you?” He immediately gave himself a mental slap for asking a man who was dying how he was doing.
“I meant to say….”
Stewart waved a dismissive hand. “I understand Donald. When one is as close to death as I, life’s daily greetings can seem out of place. I’m glad to see you but I must admit I am puzzled by this visit. I cannot fathom why you would drop your important work at U C Irvine to come visit your old professor?”
Ball knew this conversation would be extremely difficult. He had practiced what he would say since he first conceived the idea, when he first heard of Stewart’s condition.
Motioning for Ball to take a seat, Stewart asked the nurse’s aide to bring some tea.
When they were alone, Ball began to explain his visit. “Professor Stewart, I have always respected you as an outstanding scientist. No, respect is the wrong word. I have always been in awe of your intellect. And I have always respected you as a man, a person of honesty and integrity.”
Stewart smiled, “I appreciate your comments, he said, “but I’m sure you didn’t travel three thousand miles just to compliment me on the life I have lived.”
Ball hesitated, and then said, “Um, professor, this may seem like an odd question, but are you still a religious man?”
This question took Stewart by surprise. “Why yes, I am. I must say I find this conversation most puzzling.”
“Professor, I am here because you have three qualities I am seeking in an individual, someone I need to help me prove a theory of mine. It is a theory that goes beyond science to the essence our very existence. You meet my criteria. You are a highly intelligent physicist, you have led an honorable life and you are dying.”
Stewart said, “This conversation is becoming more and more bizarre. I presume you can explain your comments.”
Ball nodded, “I will try my best Professor. “As you know, I am working at the Super-Kamiokande detector used for detection of neutrinos. I am also conducting a graduate-level course in string theory. While teaching this course, I formed a theory on a subject that I never put much credence in: the existence of heaven.”
“Now I am truly lost,” replied Stewart.
“You see Professor, I have never been a religious man. I was not raised in any faith. But as a scientist, the more I think about life the more I find it difficult to picture our life force, that energy that each of us possesses, coming to a complete end with our death.”
“I can appreciate your observation on life. But I cannot fathom the connection between string theory and heaven.”
Ball began to explain his theory.
“One of the estimations of string theory, as you well know, is the existence of not four but eleven dimensions. Presumably, some of these dimensions are too miniscule to be observable. I began thinking about the existence of alternate universes. I thought of our own universe with its three physical dimensions and the fourth, time. I envisioned two alternate universes, each with three dimensions. I assumed time to be a constant for all three dimensions, ours and the two unknowns.”
Stewart interrupted. “That theory,” he hesitated, “would explain the presence of ten dimensions. You are left with one unexplained ….” The startled expression on Stewart’s face told Ball that he now comprehended the connection between string theory and heaven.
“That is correct, Professor Stewart. We are left with one dimension, one universe that is infinite, a universe of energy, and a universe where physical reality does not exist. The one remaining universe is heaven.”
Both men fell silent. Ball continued, “I have thought about the next aspect of my theory a great deal. As I said, I am not a religious man. But I appreciate the good and the evil in the world. If the one remaining dimension is heaven, then what comprises hell? Could it be a continuum of the heavenly dimension, or does it not exist?”
Ball paused for emphasis, and then continued, “I propose that hell does not exist. The reward for an errant life is oblivion. Your life force is dissipated for some other purpose and your consciousness; your existence is lost.”
Stewart looked at Ball and said, “I must admit your theory interests me. I now see why you require a man who, some would say, led an honorable life and why you require the help of someone about to die. But what is your need for a scientist?”
“History is overflowing,” Ball said, “with people who have vowed to communicate with the living after their death. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of the popular Sherlock Holmes stories, considered those works a minor representation of his entire output. He was primarily concerned with the afterlife and communication from the beyond. What happened after he passed? Nothing.
“Harry Houdini spent a good part of his life trying to contact his departed mother, and in the process debunked quite a few mediums. He vowed that he would communicate to his wife from the next world – nothing.
“But these people weren’t scientists. Even if they had been, the level of technology did not exist to allow them to communicate from that singular dimension. I’m asking you, Professor Stewart, after you pass, to send me a sign. Something that we will now plan. Something that will prove my theory.”
Stewart’s eyes twinkled as he said, “I think I know just the event.”
* * *
A few days after Donald Ball’s visit, Virginia noticed a steady decline in George Stewart’s condition. Every time she saw him she thought it would be the last. Each time she approached his bed, Stewart appeared as a corpse, his complexion gray. Only the occasional rise and fall of his chest signaled that his body still harbored life.
“How are you today, Professor Stewart?” Virginia did not expect an answer but he opened his eyes.
“I don’t think I have long for this world, my dear,” he said with great effort. “But I am at peace. I have one request of you before you leave.”
Two hours later, while making another visit, Virginia was paged by the nurse’s aide caring for Stewart.
“The professor passed away.”
Virginia went to pronounce him dead. She had lost a patient and a friend. Then she fulfilled Stewart’s last request.
* * *
Donald Ball was at work when his phone rang.
“Hello, Dr. Ball?”
“Yes, this is Dr. Ball.” He did not recognize the voice.
“This is Virginia Madison. I’m a visiting nurse. I have been taking care of George Stewart.”
Ball knew immediately the purpose of the call.
“George Stewart passed away today. He told me it was very important that you know when he died.”
“Thank you for calling. He was a good man and friend. He will be missed.”
“He was a good man. Good-bye.”
Donald Ball hung up the phone. He sat alone in his office for a long time thinking of what might occur. He felt a chill of anticipation.
* * *
Two days later John Coolidge, a graduate student working for Dr. Ball, sat at the computer console connected to the Super-Kamiokande detector. He had seen what the computer images of past neutrino events looked like and detected a few events himself. He was reading a physics textbook when the alarms began to sound. As he looked at the monitor he said out loud, “Holy shit, I’m going to be famous.”
* * *
Ball looked up from his work as his normally reserved graduate student came running into his office. This usually calm student was in an extreme state of agitation.
“Professor, you’ve got to come quick! We’ve just recorded a unique event. Nothing like this … you’ve got to come!”
“Calm down John. Now tell me what has happened.”
“We’ve detected a new form of neutrino! It is not any of the three known types – electron, muon or tau!”
Now Ball was getting excited. “Tell me about its chirality – its orientation.”
“That’s the strangest part, Dr. Ball. It has none. It is not left-handed as all neutrinos are. I’ve got to get back. Are you coming? There might be more events.”
“I’ll be right there, son.”
After the graduate student left Donald Ball sat for a moment alone. He was simultaneously excited and numb. He cried, and then he laughed. He also felt calmness he had never experienced before. He knew this was a unique event. Because it seemed inexplicable, the event would probably be deemed the result of faulty sensors. But Ball knew better. The new neutrino was the type of particle Stewart had agreed to generate from beyond the grave.
THE END
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
SNOW: A TIMELY POEM
As a resident of Pennsylvania, I’m gazing at a winter wonder land. We have just had our first snow storm and I post this poem to express what some residents will soon be experiencing with their shovels.
This poem was inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s, The Bells.
THE SNOW
See the delicate snowflakes fall,
Falling, falling, falling.
Whitening the earth, awaiting below,
Falling, falling, falling.
See the mounds of glittering white,
Building, building, building.
As they hide the ground from our sight,
Building, building, building.
See the ceaseless falling snow,
Falling, falling, falling.
Will it stop, no one quite knows,
Falling, falling, falling.
See the drifts accumulate,
Building, building, building.
My longing for spring will no longer wait,
Building, building, building.
SEE THE DAMNED WHITE BLANKET GROW,
HIDING, HIDING, HIDING.
MY CAR, MY LAWN, ALL I KNOW,
HIDING, HIDING, HIDING.
SEE MY MADNESS, MY URGE TO KILL,
GROWING, GROWING, GROWING,
CROSS MY PATH, AND I’LL DO YOU ILL,
SMILING, SMILING, SMILING.