Posts tagged ‘Walt Trizna’
HOW DOES A WRITERS PRODUCE THEIR MAGIC?
WRITERS, WHERE DO THE IDEAS COME FROM?
Where do the ideas writers use to develop their stories they write come from?
I see major differences between producing fiction and nonfiction. For nonfiction the writer begins with a subject which I’m sure involves an interest and creative thoughts. Then comes the research. Sometimes a massive amount of research, but the writer has a concrete goal. This writing demands skill to create a work of value. And to complete a valued work requires writing skill but little imagination. However, the genre of creative nonfiction does require a creative approach to a nonfiction story..
Now for fiction.
In fiction the writer begins with an idea and then creates something from nothing and hopefully an intriguing story. But where does that initial idea come from along with the details that follow? What triggers the mind of the writer to begin down the road to producing a work of fiction.
I feel the answer lies in experiences and observations, which the writer has undergone on the way to developing their work. Some remembered consciously, but most stored deeply in the writer’s subconscious. We all have exposure to various situations, challenges – some won, some lost. But I feel the writer records these, to a much greater extent, than the nonwriter.
Another difference may be that most people are talkers where the future writer is more of a listener. And what they hear accumulates somewhere in the reaches of their brains. Eventually, this accumulated data on a subject of interest, an idea for a story comes into being with details filled in by the writer’s life. Then there is the skill the writer needs to form an effective story. Can that skill be taught or does it come naturally? I feel the answer is both. So many successful writers have gone through the process of an MFA. But look at all the famous writers who possessed great skill without the benefit of an education in writing. There are so many questions which spring to life when considering what prompts a work of fiction. Could we ever answer that mystical mystery of what process goes into creating a work of fiction? The answer is imagination, but is that an answer, or just fodder for more speculation?
What happens to a writer sitting alone with a pencil and paper or a computer and just begins thinking, I think, is a minor or sometimes major miracle.
FICTION SEEKING TRUTH: A SHORT STORY CONTAINING A TOUCH OF REALITY
Accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in July 2008.
For those fans of horror, you may recognize multiple incidents described in this story which are not fiction.
FICTION SEEKING TRUTH
Stewart Kingman was a very successful writer of horror stories. What made his fiction popular was that the stories contained a glimmer of truth. He always included an element of nonfiction in his fiction, just enough to add a macabre reality. His mind would wrap around events and give bizarre possibilities to a mundane world.
Kingman would tell his wife Talia, “I feel there is some truth behind all the stories I write. Perhaps some of the unworldly situations I create could be true. Or maybe all this horror shit is just getting to me. People read my books to escape to a world that scares the hell out of them, and they enjoy that world because they can always close the book to escape the horror. What if some of the horror actually existed outside the book? That’s the reason JAWS was so popular – the book was frightening but possible. You could close the book and jump in the ocean and fiction could suddenly become reality and your ass is shark bait.”
“Sure, Dracula had his roots in Vlad the Impaler, but old Vlad was just a weird dude, nothing supernatural. Why does all this shit get published, and some of it is real shit. I think I’m going to take a lesson from my old friend Houdini and look for the truth behind the horror.”
Kingman was fascinated by the life of Harry Houdini, living a public life spent creating illusions and a private life seeking the truth behind the illusion, performing as an escape artist and at the same time a debunker of charlatans claiming to be able to communicate with the dead. Houdini constantly tried to communicate with his dead mother and his efforts only resulted in exposing one fake after another. As he was dying, he told his wife he would beckon to her from the grave but as far as anyone knows, he never succeeded.
Stewart did not discuss his theory of the truth behind fiction any further with Talia, but she knew that he was doing research on the topic. He had a vast library of folklore he used to give him ideas for his stories. He was now spending a great deal of time rereading some of his favorite volumes.
Along with this work, he was doing something new. He had begun getting involved with his fan mail. He had a publicist with a staff of five who handled the vast quantity of mail he received. Letters arrived requesting a copy of his picture and relating how Stewart Kingman was their favorite author.
He decided to take a closer look at his fan mail himself to see if anyone mentioned a true occurrence, something that defied known reality.
Kingman rapidly discovered why he did not get involved with his fan mail. He received letters from fans who were mating with monsters, having their minds controlled by alien forces or by your run-of-the-mill witch, which might also led to mating. He corresponded with them all, seeking out the faintest glimmer of fact the wacko stories might contain, but there was none.
The letter Kingman was searching for arrived late that spring.
Dear Mr. Kingman,
I can’t say I’ve read all your books, but the ones I’ve read I’ve enjoyed.
I was wondering if you ever thought of writing a story about someone who had something happen to him and wound up being able to control the future.
Yours truly,
Frank Talbot
Kingman wrote to Talbot requesting more detail. A few weeks later another letter arrived from Talbot, a longer letter containing much more detail.
Dear Mr. Kingman,
It took me a long time to sit down and write this letter. On one hand, I can’t believe I’m corresponding with you, on the other hand, you’ll think I’m nuts.
I’m a lineman in Massachusetts and last winter we had an ice storm from hell. I was up on a pole, after working I don’t know how many hours, when I wasn’t careful and touched a live wire. My work crew told me the rest of the details. They lowered me from the pole and I wasn’t breathing. They took turns doing CPR and got me going again. The ambulance came, and on the way to the hospital I tried to leave this world again. The ambulance driver gave me a jolt with the defibrillator, and I returned to the living once more.
Now comes the weird part that you might not believe but I swear its true.
I was off from work for a couple of weeks, and it’s during this time that strange things began to happen. I was sitting in the living room when the TV suddenly came on. On the TV was a news special and the guy reading the news looked like living death, definitely a strange looking dude. Just before the set came on I was thinking about my kid brother who’s in the army stationed in Iraq and how great it would be to see him. Then this guy on the TV, looking like an extra from Dawn of the Living Dead says the 85th armor division is coming home – my brother’s outfit. The screen then went blank.
Here’s the really creepy part; the TV wasn’t plugged in. So now you’re sure I’m nuts, but I swear it’s the truth. It’s happened a few times since. My mind wanders as I’m sitting in front of the TV when Mr. Death Warmed Over comes on the air and makes an announcement. I don’t know where the broadcasts come from and I don’t know how the TV got unplugged. Maybe I had some sort of seizure and unplugged it before the broadcast began. I don’t know.
Anyway, I’ve included my telephone number if you want to call me.
Yours truly,
Frank Talbot
Kingman read the letter over and over. The guy sounded like the genuine article. He gave Talbot a call and arranged to pay him a visit. The drive from Kingman’s home in Maine to Talbot’s in Massachusetts would not take long and might be a nice getaway. Kingman loved long drives and who knew, some of this might actually be true.
On a pleasant May morning, Kingman set out for Frank Talbot’s house. He drove onto I-95 planning to take the interstate into Massachusetts. The traffic was unusually light, and as he approached the Massachusetts boarder, Kingman found that the only vehicle other than his was a tractor-trailer hauling a sailboat, shrink – wrapped in blue plastic down the highway in front of him.
Kingman had the cruise control set on his SUV and the tunes playing. He was slightly daydreaming when the daydream became a nightmare. The sailboat somehow fell off the trailer and was pin wheeling down the highway heading straight for him. The weight of the rudder caused the boat to spin faster and faster. What followed was pure luck. He swerved to the far left lane of the three-lane highway with the spinning boat rapidly approaching him. When he was sure he was going to die, the mast swept over his SUV inches above the roof. If the boat had been a little smaller and the mast closer to the ground as the boat lay on its side, he would have become a giant Kingman kabob. He pulled onto the shoulder and sat there until his shaking hands could again grip the steering wheel. The rest of the trip was uneventful.
He found Talbot’s house without much trouble and pulled into the driveway of a modest ranch. He was about to knock on the door when it opened and there stood Frank Talbot, an average looking guy about thirty years of age. Before Kingman could say hello, Talbot said, “Glad the sailboat missed you.” This caught Kingman totally by surprise.
“How in the hell did you know about the boat?” but Kingman instantly knew the answer to his own question. “You saw it on TV.”
Talbot replied, “I had to find a way to convince you that what I was experiencing was real. I must have invented the accident in my subconscious, something that would cause you no harm but get your attention. I caught Mr. Death’s broadcast just before you pulled into my driveway.”
“You definitely got my attention,” Kingman said. The two men then sat and talked for hours, and when Kingman left he already had the outline for a book. Deciding it would be fiction but with an introduction dealing with the facts behind the fiction, Kingman began writing the book.
It was late summer, and the writing was progressing well. Kingman loved walking the country roads near his property. On an August evening, he set out walking and thinking of the day’s writing and what he would put down on paper next. He never heard the approaching van.
Kingman awoke in the hospital with more pain than he had ever experienced in his life. A young doctor told him of his multiple fractures but reassured him that he would walk again. The doctor also told him that his heart had stopped twice in the ambulance due to the trauma his body had endured. “They defibrillated you,” the doctor said.
Kingman’s recovery took a long time and rehabilitation was painful. Shortly after the accident he learned that the driver of the van, already cited twice for reckless driving, blamed Kingman for the accident. He said that Kingman shouldn’t have been walking on the road. Kingman felt a rage he had never felt before. His pain was excruciating. The painkillers destroyed his writing. He spent hours just dwelling on the accident, the insane accusations of the van driver and how the whole thing had changed his life.
Fall arrived, the changing leaves brightened the countryside, and Kingman took his first steps with the use of two canes. Every step delivered agony, but now he knew he would walk again. He still hated the driver that struck him but suppressed it as he tried to overcome the pain and hoped he would be able to write soon.
The trees were now bare; fall was setting the landscape for winter. Kingman still could not write. He would spend hours thinking of plots and characters, but when he sat down to put words to paper, nothing would come.
Late one afternoon, as the shadows lengthened, Kingman sat alone in his family room. A short walk had left him exhausted and his legs were screaming with pain. Suddenly, the TV lit the room. On the screen, an announcer looking near death related the news of a suicide and produced a picture. It was a picture of the driver that struck him. Kingman glanced at the TV’s plug and a slight smile crossed his lips.
THE END
WHAT DA VINCI SAID
WHAT DA VINCI SAID
In my last post I mentioned that I worked to leave a record. I feel most creative people (I feel it takes some nerve to call myself creative) somewhere in the corridors of their mind consider that purpose while they are producing their work.
Where my thoughts on this subject began was after I read Walter Isaacson’s excellent biography of Leonardo da Vinci. If you were at all interested in da Vinci’s life and work I highly recommend this book.
It is thought that if da Vinci had been alive today he would probably been on medication. He had difficulty completing a project. His most famous work, the Mona Lisa, was commissioned by a husband as a portrait of his wife. The husband never received the portrait, and da Vinci carried it with him wherever he went for the rest of his life occasionally adding a few brush strokes.
He was known to be a hard worker and when someone asked him why he worked so hard he said, “I want people to know I was here.”
WHO ARE ‘THEY’?
WHO ARE ‘THEY’?
I keep my blog with a purpose in mind. Leaving a record of my existence, my thoughts and the work I produced. That someday someone might stumble upon my blog and say, “Jesus Christ, this guy’s stories are pretty good.” One can only hope. But the internet has provided, for me, some competitors.
My record, I believe, will be drowned out for today everyone with a cell phone is also leaving behind a record whether they want to or not. The question is, how long will that record exist? For some, too long.
While using your cell phone ‘they’ know where you are and where you have been. ‘They’ have recorded your phone calls. For proof, listen to the news and see how many criminals have been caught through their phone calls. I don’t think they record only the phone calls of criminals.
‘They’ also record your past texts. Ask Fox News about that. Also, it seems that past texts, thought to be erased, still exist somewhere out there. Proof of this is how past texts, thought to be erased, bite people, especially politicians, some who change their opinions as much as they change their underwear depending which direction the wind is blowing. They change their opinions to save their careers, but their past opinions still exist.
This installment poses the question, who are ‘they’? And further, how long do ‘they’ keep the information ‘they’ obtain. And to whom do ‘they’ give this information to other than law enforcement? Are there nefarious actors involved in this distribution? So many important questions which could play a part in your future.
WALT TRIZNA: ON THE ROAD TO MISSILES
ON THE ROAD TO MISSILES
After my check ride the handwriting was not only on the wall, it covered every wall, the ceiling and floor.
Also, a formal hearing was held with a panel listening to the testimony of my instructors. These were guys I sat next to in the T37. With what they related about their experience with me. That I was a complete moron when it came to flying the jet. Unfortunately, they were right. I’m surprised that, during the hearing, hand me a stick of gum and challenge me to walk knowing for sure that I would fall.
During the hearing I was asked if I wanted another chance and reenter pilot training. I was more than familiar with the handwriting all over the room and declined. Then they asked me if I would like to train to be a navigator. And I’m thinking how this would work out with my nonexistent sense of direction.
At the end of the hearing, I was given a phone number to call, if I remember right it was a phone number to Randolf Air Force Base, and I would be given a list of assignments from which I could select my future in the air force. I think that it was highly unusual to be given you choice of what you wanted to do in the military.
After the hearing I had to turn in some of the equipment I was issued when I began pilot training. During each encounter when the person I was dealing with learned that I had washed out I fully expected to be given another stick of gum.
I made the call to Randolf and one of the possibilities I was offered was missile duty. I had heard that while you were on a missile crew there was often the ability to study at a college. I thought that going to graduate school might be a good idea since my education was in science and that science changes so rapidly that being away from science for four years would not make it easy to get a job. I did not plan on a recession during 1973 while I was looking for a job and even with graduate school under my belt it still took me nearly a year to find employment. More on that later.
On thing I did not know when I made my choice for missiles I was guaranteed to be assigned to missile the air force was having trouble getting officers to serve on crews. This was ever with the fact that this was during the Viet Nam war, and you were guaranteed not to leave the United States for four years because of the extensive training involved. The air force was having so much trouble getting officers for missile crews that they lowered the requirements for OTS (officer training school). In no time at all I received orders to report to Sheppard Air Force Base in Wichita Falls, Texas to begin missile training for my career in missiles.
WALT TRIZNA: PILOT TRAINING, AN END AND A BEGINNING
I thought I would use the next series of posts to relate my experience while a member of the United States Air Force (1969-1973). I found my experience in the military to be rewarding. We will begin with my entering pilot training. For those who find these posts interesting you might want to read a past post about my time in college posted on 10/17/2025. This post leads into my time in the air force.
PILOT TRAINING, PART I
It was a beautiful Sunday morning. The class was loaded onto a bus and headed toward the runway. But there was no flying today. And we were headed not for the runways but to the grassy area between the runways.
It was parachute time.
The way this was accomplished was by putting a parachute harness with an exposed parachute on your backs. A couple men would hold the parachute open so that it would fully open when the 500-foot rope attached to the front of the harness and the other end attached to a jeep and the jeep began to move. When the jeep did start to move you ran for about two or three steps and up you went.
Before I went aloft one guy hooking up my harness looked into my eyes. They must have been fully dilated because he asked me if I was scared. I was scared shitless.
The ride up once the parachute was inflated was great. When you stopped gaining altitude and came to a stop, the view was fantastic. Then the rope was released from the jeep, and you were on the way down. This part was terrifying.
I remember looking down and thinking that I don’t want to impact the ground. How do I avoid impacting the ground? Of course, this was an extremely stupid thought for the ground was rapidly coming up to meet me. And before I knew it we did meet, and I didn’t break anything.
Now to the problems I had with flying.
To start off, when you were on the runway in the T37, before you took off, you ran the engines, holding down the brakes which were also the rudder pedals, up full. Turns out the engines were stronger than my legs and the plane would ever so slowly turn to the left. After straightening the plane, we took off.
My next problem was the windshield which, in the jet, had a different shape than the two propeller planes I flew. My mind could not make the change between the two types, so I was flying with the image of the prop plane in my mind. Therefore, I was constantly flying with a slight bank to the left. A simple look at my instruments could have corrected this. Didn’t do it.
Then there was the trim.
The trim was meant to make it easy to control the aircraft. There were small flaps on the tail trailing edges controlled by a button on the top of the stick. If you had the plane trimmed up right you could let go of the stick and the plane would not change the attitude in which it was flying. My instructor could let go of the stick while making a turn and the plane would just continue making the turn. He had the plane trimmed that well. If I was flying and let go of the stick we would have crashed. Never got the hang of the trim.
Now the major problem I had with the difference between the prop plane and the jet with power control.
With the prop plane, when you needed power you pushed the throttle forward and power was instantly available. In the jet you pushed the throttle forward and it took some time for the engine to wind up and provide the power you needed. You had to be able to anticipate your power needs. In fact, in the T37 there were thrust attenuators which came out behind the engines when you were set up to land. So, if you ran into trouble when landing you raised your landing gear, the thrust attenuators were retracted, and you instantly had more power.
With all these deficiencies it was determined that a check-ride was called for. That ride was scheduled for Labor Day, 1969. This flight would determine whether or not I should continue in the pilot training program.
Before you took off, you first had to complete the preflight checklist. I walked around the plane checking what needed to be checked. As I was about to climb into the plane, stepping onto the ejection seat the instructor was already sitting in the right seat. He looks at me and holds up a pin with a small red flag attached. Now, this pin was inserted in the bottom of the ejection seat to ensure that you did not accidentally eject yourself from the aircraft as you climbed in. I forgot to check the pin. The instructor had removed it and I didn’t notice it was missing. So, in reality I had probably failed the ride before I had even left the ground. The ability I demonstrated during the flight further sealed my fate.
To confirm what I was sure was true, while walking away from the plane the instructor asked, “Well, Lieutenant Trizna, what else would you like to do in the air force?”
WALT TRIZNA: PILOT TRAINING, PART II
I thought I would use the next series of posts to relate my experience while a member of the United States Air Force (1969-1973). I found my experience in the military to be rewarding. We will begin with my entering pilot training. For those who find these posts interesting you might want to read a past post about my time in college posted on 10/17/2025. This post leads into my time in the air force.
PILOT TRAINING, PART II
Every day we went to a classroom. We were tested on emergency procedures and then waited for out turn to fly. When not flying we also spent hours sitting in the cockpit of a T37 on the ground. The purpose was to facilitate ourselves with the location of all the instruments. This was so, that in a glance, we could see what was happening with the plane.
Along with classroom training on the ground there was a host of other training activities. One task was learning how to release yourself from a parachute harness when landing on a windy day. I think the enlisted men loved this training because they got to drag an office all over the ground. This training was done wearing an empty parachute harness with a rope attached. The other end of the rope was attached to a jeep being driven by an enlisted man the jeep began moving and off you went. The jeep did not go very fast but bumping along. The uneven ground was not much fun and did not make the release easy.
There was training conducted in an altitude chamber. They let us experience rapid decompression. They then let us become hypoxic. We teamed up with both of us wearing oxygen at an altitude where they would be required. One guy would take off his mask while the other kept an eye on him. After he passed out he would put his partner’s mask back on. This was so you got a feeling for what it was like when you were about to pass out from lack of oxygen.
Another bit of training was jumping into a swimming pool wearing your flight suit and swim to the edge of the pool and get out. Thankfully you were allowed to wear sneakers instead of the combat boots you would normally wear while flying.
Then there was the ejection seat experience. There was an ejection seat mounted on a vertical rail. Now in the T37 there was something like a large shotgun shell to get you out of the plane. The next trainer was the T38, a supersonic jet and this plane had a rocket attached to the ejection seat. You could eject on the ground if you had enough forward speed.
There was another difference between the two trainers. The T38 stood taller than the T37. There was a set of cables at the end of the runway because in the event you could not stop the plane the cable would stop you. This was only for the T38. You see the T37 was a lot shorter than the T38. If you were headed for the cables in a T37 you were instructed to run the plane off the runway. You see, because the T37 was much shorter than the T38 the cables would not stop the plane. Rather, they would roll over the nose of the plane and shear off the canopy, along with the head who was unfortunate enough to be sitting in the cockpit.
Then there was parachute training. The first step was learning how to fall. This was done using a platform about three feet off the ground into a pit which looked like a mixture of sawdust and mulch. You stood on the platform and jump, falling the way you had been instructed. I think in this training I used neck muscles I had never used before because when I woke up the next morning I could not raise my head.
Next came a touch of reality in parachute training.
WALT TRIZNA: PILOT TRAINING, PART I
I thought I would use the next series of posts to relate my experience while a member of the United States Air Force (1969-1973). I found my experience in the military to be rewarding. We will begin with my entering pilot training. For those who find these posts interesting you might want to read a past post about my time in college posted on 10/17/2025. This post leads into my time in the air force.
PILOT TRAINING, PART I
Not many days after graduation from Oklahoma State University I was instructed to report for pilot training at Craig AFB outside Selma, Alabama.
The class was made up of twenty to twenty-five, and the number steadily decreased as time went on. Most were air force second lieutenants with one Marine first lieutenant and three Iranian officers.
This was 1969 and this country was training Iranian pilots. There was one thing different with their future than with the Americans. They entered pilot training as officers with a career commitment. If they washed-out they still had a career commitment but as enlisted men.
The leader of the class was Captain Rotella. He had been a navigator and now wanted to be a pilot. I heard that after he graduated from pilot training he was assigned to C130 training. He was on an orientation ride on a C130 when an engine fell off the plane. The plane crashed and all aboard were killed.
The first plane we flew in pilot training was the T41 which was a Cessna 172. A four-seat plane slightly larger than the two-seat Cessna 150 on which I learned to fly. Interestingly, we went to a civilian airport where the planes were kept and were taught by civilian instructors. This makes a lot of sense because you wouldn’t want students flying prop planes while there were jets, also being flown by students, zooming around.
Since most of us already knew how to fly we were soloing in no time.
There is one incident I recall while flying solo in the T41 that was rather unusual. I was flying in the traffic pattern on the downwind leg when I received a radio call to exit the traffic pattern. Turns out there was an Iranian student also in the traffic pattern who was radioed to leave the pattern a couple of time and did not respond. They told me where he was, and I looked behind me to my left and a little below and there he was. We were flying in formation in the traffic pattern. With, of course, no knowledge of how to fly in formation. Things would have gotten very interesting when it came time to bank and enter the base leg. I exited the traffic pattern immediately.
Once we completed our T41 training it was on to the T37. This was a small twin engine straight-winged jet and flight training was now at the base. I found that flying a jet was much different than flying a propeller plane. More on that latter.
WALT TRIZNA: ANOTHER NEWARK MEMORY
SCRAPPING HISTORY
Located on the eastern boarder of Newark is Newark Bay, a body of water leading out to the Atlantic Ocean. I have always loved the smell of the ocean, the proximity of primal life. However, by the time the ocean’s water mixed with the additions contributed by the factories, all that was left was a hint of what was once the ocean’s promise.
Located at the water’s edge is Port Newark, an area that we had always referred to as “The Dumps”. The area surrounding the dock was the home of tank farms, sewage treatment plants, junkyards and a few factories. It did not take a great stretch of the imagination to determine how “The Dumps” got its name. On hot summer nights, the family would pile into the old Chevy and take a ride “down the dumps”. It was a chance to escape the heat, get a change of scenery for what it was worth and hour or two away from the house.
We would park along one of the perimeter roads and look at the freighters and container ships, some from countries we could only dream of visiting – distant lands holding even more distant dreams. On one of the roads where we usually parked, if you turned 180 degrees you could see the runways of Newark Airport. This was before the age of jet airliners – props and turboprops ruled the skies. If you watched enough airplane fly overhead, I always looked up at the sound of their engines, you would sometimes see a four-engine plane flying with one propeller lazily turning, a sure sign of engine trouble. Sometimes, when we were really extravagant, we would stop for a pizza before taking our ride.
There was this elderly Italian man – he must have been at least fifty – who decided to open a pizzeria. So, what did he do? He rented a garage, bought a pizza oven, a couple of small tables, and he was in business. The garage was a freestanding cinderblock structure containing three one-car garages. He rented one of the end garages, cut a door through the garage door and this served as the entrance. Located on a narrow street, not more than an alley, it was a far cry from today’s chain-store pizza establishments. Each pizza had a bubbly hard crust and stood as an individual creation – nothing massed-produced here.
Later, when the quality of his product became known, he rented the adjoining garage, knocked down part of the common wall and expanded. Could this happen today, with all the zoning laws and chain-store competition, I don’t think so. But back in the fifties he thrived and produced great pizzas.
So, on hot summer nights, perhaps armed with a pizza, we would go ‘Down the Dumps’, to see the ships and watch the airplanes land. We could escape our tiny house and dream of a world that we might never see as we gazed at the ships and planes coming from and bound for far-off lands and distant cities.
On weekdays after supper was done, and on weekends, the roads of the port were mostly deserted. With its many roads and parking lots, this area was an ideal place to learn to drive. It was along one of these deserted roads that I almost put my father through the windshield. While driving on one of these roads he instructed me to stop, not yet acquainted with the feel of the brakes, I performed this maneuver rather aggressively. My early driving lessons occurred long before seatbelts were standard equipment, hence my aggressiveness resulted in my father flying unrestricted around the car. I finally learned to drive some years later on the back roads of Alabama, after I had already learned to fly an airplane, but that’s another story.
At the northern end of Newark Bay there were a series of bridges leading to Jersey City and on to New York. It was from the first of these bridges that you could look down on a complex devoted to scrapping ships for their iron and other metals of value. It was during the 70’s that I remember this area looking like a floating World War II naval museum. There would be row upon a row of Liberty Ships awaiting the scrappers’ torch. There would be a destroyer and the occasional heavy cruiser. Ships bathed in history waiting for oblivion. I know they could not all be saved, but it saddened me to see history reduced to a dollar value. It had been some thirty years since the war had ended; time enough for the whole-scale destruction of military equipment that routinely occurs after the conclusion of a war. Yet there before my eyes floated a living history soon to be no more, it would be gone forever.
I witnessed the destruction of one ship, which touched me deeply. This ship was perhaps the most famous American ship of World War II and for years the Japanese sought its destruction. If ever a ship was worth preserving, to serve as a floating monument to the struggles of the United States Navy during World War II, this was the ship.
During my youth, I devoured books about airplanes; I read everything I could about aviation during World War I and World War II. I rarely read books about ships, but my love for aviation led me to read one book that I have longed to read again. To this day, when I get circulars in the mail advertising military books I always look for that title that impressed me in my youth. The title of the book was THE BIG E, the story of the U.S.S. Enterprise, and that was the ship I saw doomed to the scrappers torch.
Having known its history, I could not believe that I was witnessing its destruction. I would think back to the drama, the life and death struggles that occurred on that ship, but soon it would be no more. More than once the Enterprise was reported sunk by the Japanese navy, but having been severely damaged in battle this great ship lived on to fight another day. I know there were many ships during World War II, whose stories echoed with bravery and glory, but I knew the story of the Enterprise and this to me gave it a closeness I could not feel for the other ships torn apart. There were many ships scrapped at this yard, but the only one I saw mentioned by name in the newspaper was Enterprise. I was sorry to witness the loss to history of this great ship, but I was glad I had the opportunity to see such an important piece of our naval and aviation heritage.
SIDE EFFECTS: UNEXPECTED RESULTS OF LONG PAST GENETICS
Previously accepted for publication by Dream Fantasy, International in 2005 and accepted for publication by Black Petals.
Set in motion in the distant past, an unanticipated effect of a pharmaceutical caused disaterous results.
SIDE EFFECTS
The female picked up her baby and held it close, suckling it for the last time. She did not have a name; language was thousands of years in the future. As she gazed at her infant, only days old, tears rolled down her cheeks. She caressed the small hairy body and kissed the prominent brow, the two characteristics that spelled the infant’s doom. She stood and slowly walked into the forest. Moments later the forest echoed with a child’s scream, cut suddenly short. The female emerged from the forest alone.
She thought of another member of the loosely formed tribe with a similar baby, who did not have the strength to destroy it. The female raised the child, its aggressiveness and appearance different from the other children living in the clearing in the African forest. The child grew strong and hateful. One day a member of the tribe found the mother dead, partially devoured. The child was never seen again. It entered the jungle, more animal than human, to live as its ancestors did thousands of years before.
***
Modern science could have discovered the explanation for these mysterious births. The cause was a unique receptor, a protein on the surface of the cell. Many receptors discovered today are seven transmembrane receptors; they course the cell wall seven times weaving in and out like a tiny thread. These aggressive individuals had receptors that were fourteen transmenbrane receptors, monstrous in size and in action, bringing together hormones in rare mixes, resulting in a savage monster. These receptors disappeared with the extinction of the savage individuals, but the genetic machinery that manufactured these monstrous receptors did not.
Thousands of years ago, as these monsters were born and eliminated; there was another type of individual created. It was rare, rarer than its savage counterparts. These individuals possessed genetic machinery to produce the aberrant receptors, but this could only occur when there was a change in serotonin levels. These changes don’t normally occur in nature now, and the birth of these individuals continued with their genetic potential unrealized. Unrealized, that is, until the advent of the new antidepressants.
***
Jeff Skovich was a quiet guy, the kind of guy you never noticed, primarily because he didn’t want to be noticed. Only Jeff and his wife Linda knew the torment of his life. Lately he was blowing up at the slightest provocation. He was angry all the time and had more and more difficulty dealing with daily routines. Then, one day, Jeff had a particularly violent argument with Linda. After Jeff had nearly struck her she shouted, “You need help! I refuse to go on living like this,” and stormed out of the house. Confused and hurt, she drove aimlessly for hours and when she returned, Jeff was gone.
Days later, a sullen Jeff returned home and would not tell Linda where he had been. They spent a week passing each other in the house, avoiding any contact, sleeping in different rooms. The love Jeff felt for Linda ran so deep, he could not bear the thought of life without her but could not confront her. Finally, Linda broke the ice. “I love you”, she told him, but insisted, “You need help for your mood swings, and we really can’t go on like this.”
At first Jeff said nothing, and then his feelings poured out, “I feel hopeless all the time. I can hardly function because nothing seems to have any importance. I use all the energy I have just to get through the day. By the time I come home I’m spent, angry and confused. I just can’t deal with things the way I once did.” As Jeff talked, tears started to flow from Linda’s eyes and from Jeff’s. Linda knew the man Jeff once was and wanted him back.
Jeff finally agreed to see Dr. Roberts, their family doctor, and after a short discussion Roberts said, “I’m going to put you on one of the new serotonin reuptake inhibitors. I think that this medication will help you. We’ll give it a try and see if it makes a difference.”
Jeff filled the prescription and started the therapy he hoped would return his life to him. After a week he noticed a difference in his approach to problems; instead of flying into a rage, he stopped and thought through the conflict he felt. He was no longer angry all the time, had more patience and was more focused on his work. Linda noticed the change too. She no longer dreaded coming home from her job, trying to gauge Jeff’s mood for the evening. Jeff and Linda began enjoying life and their marriage to the fullest. Jeff’s job as an electrical engineer took off. The work he accomplished won recognition and promotions. Linda also grew comfortable in her life. Her job teaching at the local middle school gave her great satisfaction. Linda adored children but was not able to have her own, so this proximity to children fulfilled a need.
Jeff had now been on the antidepressant for years. His life with Linda could not be better; he found himself feeling guilty at times for the happiness that was his. He was now in charge of a major project for the company. The outlook of every facet of his life was positive.
“You know Linda,” Jeff said one morning, “I think it’s a waste of money for me to continue to take the antidepressant. I feel fine, we get along great and things couldn’t be better at work. I’m going to have a talk with Dr. Roberts and see what he says.”
Jeff made the appointment, and Linda went with him to testify to the changes Jeff had undergone. Dr. Roberts agreed and slowly began to wean Jeff off the medicine. When Jeff began taking the drug, he started at a low dose and gradually increased the dosage until he underwent the full benefits of the drug. Now he reversed the process and began taking less and less, paying attention to any changes in his mood or behavior, until he was taking the lowest dose used. He still was doing fine so he stopped taking the drug altogether.
Weeks, then months went by and Jeff was even tempered and happy as he had been when he was on medication, but deep within his genetic makeup subtle changes were taking place. Removing the drug from his system set his cellular machinery into gear, in a manner that had not taken place in man for thousands of years. Proteins were being manufactured that were awesome in length and complexity. They weaved through the walls of his cells fourteen times, like vipers ready to do their damage. The process was slow, gradually creating a monster. The night he began the crossover; Jeff had a dream.
Jeff dreamt he walked an African savanna, hunting for what he knew he needed to continue his existence – food. He stalked his prey, made a kill and feasted on his quarry’s raw flesh. Jeff awoke bathed in sweat, unable to understand his apparition’s meaning. The final image remained imprinted in his mind. In his dream the quarry had been human. This deeply disturbed him for days. He tried to dismiss the dream but couldn’t, for it reoccurred. And as the side effects began to alter his body, his dreams became more and more vivid as his mind was also altered.
Six months went by before Jeff noticed a change in his behavior. He was out shopping one day and was about to pull into a parking space when another car beat him to the spot. Normally, he would have uttered some epithet to himself and gone on his way, but this time was different. He pulled his car behind the intruder to prevent him from leaving, then jumped out of his car and attacked. Jeff hammered his fist on the closed window, confronting an elderly couple. The face of the old man behind the wheel revealed shock and disbelief. Both he and his wife cowered as Jeff continued to yell and pound the window. In desperation, the old man began to blow his horn continuously, hoping to attract attention. The noise and forming crowd brought Jeff to his senses. He jumped into his car and left.
As he drove away, Jeff was shaking with fear and rage. Years ago when he was depressed, he felt rage, a rage born of desperation. The rage he felt now was different; it was animal. For a moment, he wanted to kill the old couple, not considering the consequences.
He did not mention this incident to his wife. He was both scared and ashamed and wanted to forget all about what had happened. Jeff wondered if maybe he should return to his antidepressant but couldn’t realize that there was no turning back. His genetic machinery was in overdrive and could not be reversed.
Jeff had always had a heavy beard. With his thick black hair, his five o’clock shadow would sometimes appear at three, but now by eleven o’clock he looked like he hadn’t shaved at all that morning, and his normally densely haired torso and arms seemed to be growing additional hair. Another change took place that he did not understand, seeming impossible. His face seemed to be altered ever so slightly. His brow seemed to be thickened. It was almost impossible to notice without close inspection. The way Jeff first became aware of this change was that his glasses felt uncomfortable to wear. But this was not a problem for his eyesight seemed to be improving to the extent that he didn’t need his glasses.
The change that distressed Jeff the most was the change in his temper. These days he avoided Linda for fear of a blowup. Small things that she had always done, her little habits, would now grate his nerves generating a mad rage that he fought to keep under control. He had more fits of anger while in public. One day, an elderly woman entered a checkout line at the same time as Jeff, and he pushed her, knocked her to the ground yelling obscenities. A crowd gathered as he ran from the store. In the distance he could hear the wail of a police siren. He walked for hours until darkness fell and then returned to the store’s parking lot to retrieve his car.
Day by day, his appearance was definitely changing. His brow was becoming more prominent and there was no controlling his beard growth, and his body was covered with what appeared to be fur. Jeff was at a loss as to what to do, whom to turn to for he found it impossible to communicate his rage.
Then one day, Linda was gone from his life too. She knew he was angry again but not like before. The rage was constant, and she couldn’t help but notice the change in his appearance. She couldn’t take the anger any longer and asked, “What’s happening Jeff?”
Jeff’s reply was both verbal and physical, “Shut up bitch,” he shouted and slapped Linda as hard as he could. He had never struck her before. Linda fell to the floor and Jeff began to kick and stomp her until his energy was spent. Linda’s face was no longer recognizable. He left and entered a primal world from which he would never return.
The End
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