Posts tagged ‘Walt Trizna’
WALT TRIZNA: ESCAPE FROM THE CITY
There are quite a few more chapters of my memoir I want to share. Along with those posts I will occasionally post opinions, websites and the occasional story to provide some variety. I hope you will find this mixture interesting and worthy of your attention.
ESCAPE FROM THE CITY
As a youngster I was a member of scouts for years, going from Cub Scout to Boy Scout and on to Explorer. Along the way I earned an Eagle Award and learned and explored many things a city boy would not normally encounter. One of the activities I enjoyed the most was the opportunity to go camping.
An hour’s drive northwest of Newark was a Boy Scout campground near Booton, New Jersey. My troop would camp there several times a year, mostly in the winter. Cabins of various sizes dotted the campground. The only source of heat was a fireplace, and cooking was done on a wood-burning stove. One winter, the weather was so cold that the pipes to the old hand pump burst, and we had to melt ice for water. It seemed the harsher the conditions; the more we enjoyed the outing. City boys were facing nature head on.
The camping trips were formal outings organized by troops. The less formal day hikes to the local Boy Scout area located in the South Orange Mountain Reservation, would be organized spontaneously, when a group of us were just hanging around with nothing to do. For a group of boys ranging from maybe eleven to thirteen, these trips were a real adventure. The beauty of these outings was that the city bus could take us to the base of the mountain. No adult input was required, once permission to go was obtained.
We usually caught the bus fairly early in the morning because once we arrived at the base of the mountain; it was at least an hour’s walk up the mountain to the Boy Scout area. Sitting amongst commuters going to work or out to do some shopping, we were ladened with packs and canteens and any other camping paraphernalia we thought we might need. We rode through the Newark downtown area, then north through some of the blighted areas of the city, and finally on to the more affluent suburbs. The bus would leave us in the shopping district of South Orange, where we would start to trudge up the hill to what us city boys considered wilderness. We hiked past stately homes with manicured lawns, a far cry from our homes in Newark. Finally, the houses were replaced with trees and the sidewalks with a dirt shoulder – we were almost there.
Our destination lay down on a dirt road branching from the main highway. The area was large and open, set aside where scouts could build fires and cook their meals. Across a stream bordering the area and up into the trees, stood a few cabins for weekend trips. The day hike area was also supplied with a generous amount of wood provided by work crews trimming trees. For a bunch of boys who thought starting a charcoal fire by themselves was an adventure – this was nirvana.
Everyone’s lunch usually consisted of hot dogs and foil-wrapped potatoes and onions. The fire built to prepare these meager meals was immense to say the least. Once everyone tired of throwing on wood, we had a fire too hot to approach to do any cooking. Either you waited for the flames to die down or had to find a very long stick to cook our hot dogs.
Late afternoon we found us journeying down the mountain to catch the bus home. People on the bus would stare at us because we smelled of smoke on our ride home to Newark.
WALT TRIZNA: DOWNNECK NEWARK
DOWNNECK
I began my life on August 1947 in Newark, New Jersey, the Down Neck section, and lived in that city, in the same house, the same cold water flat for nearly twenty years. This section of Newark is still known by this name for a few years ago, on a train to New York with my wife and two daughters, we passed a sign for a pizza place that stated, ‘ A DOWN NECK TRADITION’. My hometown is along the eastern edge of the city, not far from Newark Bay and the bridges leading into Jersey City. It is also referred to, as the Ironbound Section, gaining its name from the railroad tracks that ring the area and known for the light and heavy industry. Small factories existed amongst the two and four family homes and tenements that predominated the area. The mingling of homes and factories was a mixture ready for disaster. Even the Passaic River, flowing through the area was known to catch fire.
One Good Friday afternoon, during my teenage years, while getting ready for church I noticed the sky turning black. At first I thought a storm was approaching but soon realized that somewhere a huge fire was burning. I went outside to see what was going up in flames. Immediately, I was being joined by scores of people seeking the same exciting rush of a fire. Walking up Ferry Street, one of the major streets of the area, I could see that the coke trestle was on fire. As I approached to within a couple of blocks of the source of all the smoke, fifty-five-gallon drums full of God knows what began to explode. The situation went from the usual spectacle of a fire to people running for their lives as the drums shot flames into the air and rained debris – smoking pieces of trestle – down around the scattering people who had moments before been spectators. Needless to say, everyone got out of there fast. Some had to go home and wet down their roofs because some of the debris and embers were falling and starting other houses on fire. This made for a memorable afternoon; ten to fifteen houses along with the trestle were lost.
Our house was lucky, because we stood literally in the shadows of Balentine Brewery. Across the street from our house was a four-story building, which was part office building, part garage and truck wash located on the lower level. This structure, along with many others on the surrounding city blocks, owned by Balentine, created Newark’s life’s blood, Balentine beer and ale. This building stood between the fire and us, so it bore the brunt of the embers and debris raining down on the houses on my block.
The reason I mention this event is to lend a flavor to what life was like back then, and what life was like in Newark. Life happened and the consequences accepted – right or wrong – that’s how it was and when life went less than perfectly, you just moved on. Life did not always treat people well, but they endured, didn’t whine about their state in life. They took responsibility for their actions. They all didn’t prosper, yet people didn’t step on one another to get ahead.
Things were not always politically correct either. In fact, I cannot recall anything about my time as a youth in Newark that was politically correct. For example, I once had a math teacher toward the end of my high school career with a bit of a temper. One day during class, there were a few guys talking in the rear of the classroom. My teacher blew up. He yelled at the class, “Do you know what is wrong with you guys? Not enough of you drop out of school. If you don’t want to learn, you’re wasting everyone’s time by staying in school. You’re just holding people who want to learn back.” I do not think there exists the honesty today to say that before a class of unruly students.
People were once able to observe the world, analyze their surroundings, draw on their common sense and speak their mind. That age is long gone, but it still echoes Down Neck’s past. The talking heads of today say we all have the same potential if only given the right circumstances or drug therapy. Nonsense! Twelve years or more of education are given free to each member of our society. Granted, the conditions under which the education is applied varies along a wide spectrum. And when there is a breakdown in the educational goals meant to be accomplished, as happens all to often, it is always the fault of the system and never the individual. The usual solution is to throw more money at the problem, but until the real problem is addressed, this will never help. The individual student along with their parents carries the burden of responsibility and the older the student the more directly responsible for their education. These seem to be times of a total lack of responsibility of the individual. Whenever someone makes a really boneheaded move, there is always something that happened to him either done by his family or society that was the cause of that action. We live in a time of not guilty because of whatever reason other than my own actions. Of course, in some cases a person’s life gets completely out of control, but the excuses people create these days for their actions is sometimes unbelievable.
The theory that we all have the same potential also totally negates that one thing that has, in my eyes, an influence equal to education in persons potential, the influence of personality. Those who succeed are those who realize they must seize the opportunity, the knowledge and go forward. It takes personal drive, ambition and purpose along with a strong education. This is the combination that makes a successful individual.
And what is success? This can mean so many different quantities, depending on an individual. Does success mean money, fame, family, a life free of conflict or a life full of conflict and challenge? The levels, the goals we attain, depend to a large extent on education. But what we do when we arrive at our goals and the life we mold around those accomplishments depends on personality.
I know I digress, but the purpose of this effort is to point out my view of the mindset of today and how my upbringing, my environment has formed my mindset. So we’ll return now to my past, to Newark’s past, and see this mindset take form.
Balentine brewery ruled the Down Neck section of Newark, with a major factory and office complex that stretched for blocks. Across from our house was the office and garage. Next to that building was a parking lot that stretched to the next parallel street, and taking up the last third of the block was the catholic school, which was part of Saint Aloysius parish. The brewery’s lot was a remarkable sight when a storm was approaching, with workers just standing there waiting, leaning on their snow shovels looking toward the sky. God help the first snowflake that fell and all its partners for they were gone in an instant. Our street was never clogged with snow; the beer trucks had to roll out of the parking lot unhampered. They did not move the snow they removed the snow, taking and dumping it in the Passaic River. At times, long after the parking lot was cleared of snow, the city streets were opened. The beer was delivered but the city government took a while to get going.
As I mentioned earlier, the building across from our house housed the truck wash for cleaning the beer trucks and the tractor trailer cabs, an endless procession of dark blue trucks sporting three golden rings. Our street was a narrow street with parking on both sides, and the locals knew not to park their cars directly across from the truck wash exit. Now the reason lies in the fact that they knew that instead of coffee breaks some of the drivers took beer breaks. Once the truck was washed, they would have to exit the building and make a sharp left, and sometimes the left was not quite sharp enough, as the unsuspecting person who found a good parking spot and could not figure out why it was vacant found out when they returned to their slightly bent automobiles.
Some of the trucks used for the brewery were themselves interesting. They were old trucks with hard rubber tires and driven by a chain drive connected to the rear axle. But somehow these trucks did not look out of place going down my street because for much of my early youth my street was paved with cobblestone. So, these trucks would rattle down my street carrying their loads of used grain from the brewery, stubbornly resisting progress.
Change seemed to come slowly to Newark in its vehicles and its people. We lived just four blocks from Hawkins Street School. Hawkins Street was a typical ‘Down Neck’ street with parking on both sides and just enough room for two-way traffic. It was the same elementary school my mother attended. In fact, her family once lived across the street from the school. While I was attending elementary school, two of her sisters and a brother, all of whom were unmarried, continued to live in the same two-family house rented by their parents.
While attending Hawkins Street School, I had the same first grade teacher my mother had and after that another two or three teachers that taught her. When we had an open house, and my mother would walk with me through the corridors of the school she once attended, she would point out changes in the school that had been made since she attended. The gym in use while I was there was new, however, the faded markings of the basketball court from the old gym were still on the floor of some of the nearby classrooms.
I have not returned to my grammar school since I graduated, with the exception of one of my sister’s graduations, but I have heard reports of the changes that have taken place from my nieces who also attended Hawking Street School. The changes were not for the best, gone is the library – classrooms, the cafeteria – is being used for classrooms. Changes happen to old cities and schools, and they are not always for the better. But people endure. People who want to learn, who want to succeed, seem to be able to do so in spite of the circumstances, in spite of what life has dealt with them. That is why, to this day, and it seems to increase with age, I have little sympathy for those who complain that everything is not going as it should for them to reach their full potential. I honestly feel that there is something inside us all – call it a spark – call it will or destiny – call it a road we start at birth and end at death, but we must be more than just a traveler, we must take control. Too many times, we look around and see what the world seems to offer and settle for the inevitable. Our future is in our hands if we only have the courage to grasp our potential and pursue our goals.
My mother’s fate was tied to Newark and so was that of some of her friends. I became friends with two boys who were the sons of friends my mother had in school. With one of these friends, I completed twelve years of school. I chanced to meet this friend after I had attended an out-of-state college and spent four years in the military, he had not left home. We no longer had anything in common. It was not the fact that I had left, and he had stayed, people just change.
The old neighborhood seemed to resist change. It was small, compact, and is to some extent to this day. You walked to church, you walked to school, and even downtown Newark was a short bus ride or a healthy walk away from my home. Nowadays, my kids have to be driven everywhere. They make no decision about whether or not to attend mass; I the driver have that power. When I was a kid, you looked out the parlor window and saw the church steeple two blocks away and heaven help you – literally – if you missed church. When you could walk, you were in control.
These are some of the memories, the feelings that remain with me of ‘Down Neck’ Newark, New Jersey. Time tends to erase the harsh memories; time and distance tend to smooth the rough edges. What I wanted to show here was that my hometown was not perfect, it was real. I know that there were better neighborhoods than mine, many not too far away, but I look at where I have come from and what I am and see the mark my youth has left. The past I carry within me, for better or worse, has made me the person that I am. And sometimes, in the situations that life presents, I am glad I carry within me a small part of ‘Down Neck’ Newark, and approach life not to grieve for what I don’t have but rejoicing for what I possess.
WALT TRIZNA: GROWING UP IN NEWARK
GROWING UP IN NEWARK
My youth and early childhood were spent in Newark, New Jersey. Since then, I have traveled the country, lived in either coast or in the Midwest, yet never left Newark totally behind. There is always a hint of Newark in my attitude, my approach to life.
Life changes, but the experiences that mold us come early instilling values we carry within us. It is with these values that we set out on this great adventure called life. My values were born on the gritty streets of Newark, New Jersey during the fifties and sixties. Life has molded me since then, but in my memories, there is still that young boy wandering down Newark’s city streets wondering what the future will bring.
This is a remembrance of my life as a young boy growing into manhood and of my hometown from 1947, the year of my birth, until I was nearly twenty-one. The story is of a family of six living in a two-bedroom cold water flat and just getting by.
I grew up in the ‘Down Neck” section of Newark, although I have no idea how the area got its name, but it may have something to do with the shape of the Passaic River as it passes by my area of Newark. As in any city, there are associated with sections of the town names whose meaning or significance has been long lost. My mother was born in a section of Newark that was called ‘The Island” although there was no water nearby.
Newark never seemed like such a bad place to me. When you have experienced nothing else, you have no means of comparison. I have returned to the area of Newark I once called home and walked the gritty streets of my old neighborhood with its brick storefronts and multiple family dwellings and the feelings of despair, surrounding me, were blocked out. The feeling of home dispelled, from my eyes, the visage of a poor and troubled city. No matter how destitute Newark becomes, it is the place where my young hopes were many and my dreams unlimited. Shortly after we were married, I took my wife Joni on a walk through the ‘Down Neck’ area of my youth, showing her the house where I once lived, where the tree used to stand under which I read as a child on hot lazy summer afternoons. And all she could see was filth and decay. She could not imagine the little boy sitting on a stump, under a tree lost in the world of Treasure Island or Moby Dick, books that brought promise and adventure to a young ‘Down Neck’ boy, but his ghost was there for me.
I still think of that small boy there sitting beneath a tree. Because, for better or for worse, what and who I am today was, in part, formed by what I learned beneath that tree, in that house and that Newark neighborhood. Where we begin life is beyond our control. What we do with that start is up to us, using the lessons our surroundings provide to improve the life we have been given.
I hope to explore three levels with this writing. First, remember what Newark was physically like and the memories that go hand in hand with growing up in a city that has had a constant black eye, a city whose reputation is known and not envied. I will recall the streets, the people and the events that make memories of what they are. The second is the emotions, hopes and dreams that were fostered by my youth, by the conditions under which I lived. The third and most important reason for this text is what I see in the world that surrounds me today. I am a quiet person, an observer of the world around me. It is these observations of today with the memories of yesterday that will fill these pages. I hope they kindle some memories you may carry, memories neglected but not forgotten.
WHO IS WALT TRIZNA?
WHO IS WALT TRIZNA?
Who is Walt Trizna? Well, you’re about to find out.
I’m going to occasionally take a break from posting short stories and websites and let you know something about who is responsible for providing these posts.
These posts will be remembrances of my youth growing up in Newark, NJ. There will be sections of a memoir I began in 2000. Next will be memories of my college days, my experiences in the air force and then my career in science.
I have been very lucky that I have had two overlapping careers. As a scientist, I spent thirty-four years working from 1974-2008. I have been working as a writer from 2000 to the present and hopefully beyond.
I hope you will find these posts interesting.
WRITER’S WEBSITE: WRITER BEWARE BLOG
WEBSITES FOR WRITERS
Every year WRITER’S DIGEST published 100 best websites for writers. I took the list published in 2025 and selected what I thought were some of the best for this year and not repeated from last year. Here is one of them.
Before I post the next website for writers, which I feel is extremely important, I want to mention two other websites, one which no longer exists and one which does.
The one which no longer exists was Editors & Predators. This was an excellent website to check on publishers and agents to see what their reputation looks like. The reason I mention it is that I check it every so often since it ceased posting but every time I check I get a message that they are coming back.
The other website that still does exist which is of great importance is Absolute Water Cooler. This is a site for authors by authors. If you are going to deal with a publisher or agent you can go to this site and see what experience other authors have had with them. I will post a more extensive discussion of this site in the future.
Writer Beware Blog
WriterBeware.org
Covers scams and suspicious businesses that prey on writers.
Supported by Science Fiction & Fantasy Association, the Writer Beware Blog and WriterBeware.com aides writers in recognition frauds. Also helps writers stay current on publishing news.
WRITER’S WEBSITE: AUTHORS GUILD
WEBSITES FOR WRITERS
Every year WRITER’S DIGEST published 100 best websites for writers. I took the list published in 2025 and selected what I thought were some of the best for this year and not repeated from last year. Here is one of them.
The Authors Guild
AuthorsGuild.org
Oldest and largest organization for published authors.
Supports free speech and advocates for fair contracts. Also protects against AI.
Has five membership levels of varying price points.
WRITER’S WEBSITE: EQUITY DIRECTORY
WEBSITES FOR WRITERS
Every year WRITER’S DIGEST published 100 best websites for writers. I took the list published in 2025 and selected what I thought were some of the best for this year and not repeated from last year. Here is one of them.
Equity Directory
EquityDirectory.org
Created by Literary Agents of Change and it’s free. Helps querying authors find BIPOC (Black, Indigenous and People of Color) agents.
Gives information on agents participating in various communities such as the Association of American Literary Agents as to what queries they are seeking and offers connections to their websites.
THE BEST WRITER’S WEBSITE: DUOTROPE
WEBSITES FOR WRITERS
Every year WRITER’S DIGEST published 100 best websites for writers. I took the list published in 2025 and selected what I thought were some of the best for this year and not repeated from last year. Here is one of them.
Duotrope
Duotrope.com
If you follow my blog you have heard about Duotrope. I have used this website for years to find publishers. It is a powerful tool. Once free, it now costs $50 a year, but if you are a serious writer or artist or in need of an agent, this website is a must.
They list over 7,600 active agents and publishers. They also offer a submission tracker.
To find a publisher, agent or outlet for your work you fill out a form detailing what type of outlet you are looking for. Then you run a search and a list of places which could use your work is produced. With each site listed is a link to that site. This list is also constantly updated.
If you are serious about your craft this website is a must.
I might also add, from an article in Poets & Writers, there are 4000 literary journals in this country.
So many opportunities to get your work published.
THE INHERITANCE: NOT A STORY FOR MOTHER’S DAY
This story was published in Black Petals in 2006. I recently submitted the story to another publisher saying that I am sending it now, because if published, I did not want it published anywhere near Mother’s Day.
THE INHERITANCE
May lay deathly still, listening, as her two daughters, Joan and Heidi, searched through her belongings looking for treasure. Joan was the first to speak, “I hope the old bat dies before the end of the month. That would save us a month’s rent.’
Heidi answered, “Quiet Joan, she’ll hear you.”
Joan replied, “Are you kidding? She’s toast. Even her doctor can’t explain what keeps her going.”
May Connors, age 62; lay dying in her bed in the small bedroom of her apartment in the assisted living wing of The Towers Nursing Home. She appeared as a corpse ready for burial, her face ashen and her jaw slack. Only the rare rise and fall of her chest brought home the fact that her withered body still harbored life. Cancer had ravaged her physically just as cruel circumstances had ravaged her existence. At one time her life was full of promise. Now she had nothing, nothing but the cruel words of her daughters that seared into her brain.
* * *
May’s mind wandered back to when her daughters were young. Five-year old Joan would say, “I love you mom, you’re the bestest mother in the whole world.”
Three-year-old Heidi would add, “I love mom.”
Those moments made the sacrifices she made for her daughters worthwhile. Now her daughters’ cruel words blotted out the love she once held so close.
May clung to life with the hope that her two daughters, distant for so long, would show a measure of love for her before she died. With her daughters’ words she knew that would not be. The love she had sheltered in her heart became a cold hate. A desire for revenge replaced her will to live. Locked in the prison of her body, May’s mind and soul were tormented with the desire to somehow confront the shallowness, the evil her daughters exhibited.
As May’s determination for revenge grew, she heard Joan say, “I always liked this knife set from Switzerland. It would look nice in my kitchen.”
Heidi snickered, “As if you’d ever use them to cook.”
Joan moaned, “I didn’t say I’d use them. I said they would look nice.”
Heidi said, “You can have the knives if I can have the antique mirror. I’ve always admired the frame and it would look good in my bedroom.”
Before she could help herself Joan commented, “On the ceiling of course!” Both women laughed hysterically while May’s brain did a slow burn.
Joan said, “Since that’s settled, let’s go through the rest of this junk and see what we want. What’s left can go straight to the dumpster out back.”
Then Heidi said, “Especially the crap she’s made over the years. What about her clothes?
Joan replied, “Try to find a dress without food stains that she can be buried in and bag the rest for Goodwill.”
As her daughters mocked all that she held dear, May remembered a life of disappointment and tragedy.
* * *
May recalled five months ago when she visited Dr. Stevens.
“I came for a checkup doctor. I’ve felt rundown lately and have been losing weight.”
Dr. Stevens said, “We’ll run some tests and give you a physical. That should tell us what’s going on.”
Two weeks later May sat in Dr. Stevens’ office. The look on his face told May that the news was not good.
“May, we have discovered your problem. You have pancreatic cancer. It has spread to your liver and stomach. I’m so sorry”
May was in shock. The rest of Dr. Stevens’ words tumbled into a blur. He went on to talk about options and a realistic assessment of the time May had left, but the words seemed unreal.
The deadly cells had been spreading their evil throughout her body even as she planned her future. May had thoughts of growing old and seeing her daughter’s lives blossom. Now these alien cells did more than plan; they determined her future.
Life had dealt her many blows in the past, but May had always persevered. It seemed distant now, but her life was once a dream, a dream that slowly crumbled. May married late in life yet still managed to have two healthy daughters. She quit her job as an interior decorator and devoted her life to raising her children. Her husband Charlie’s salary as vice president at a local bank provided more than enough to enable the family to live comfortably. Then the life she planned began to fall apart.
One day, as he did every day, Charlie kissed May and said, “I love you, see you tonight.” She never took that kiss for granted for she knew how much he loved her. But she never saw her Charlie again that night, or any other night.
Later that day, the phone rang and May answered. She recognized the hysterical voice on the line. It was Charlie’s secretary. “Charlie had a heart attack. They’re taking him to Glen Grove Hospital. I can’t believe it, oh May.”
May rushed to the hospital. A doctor, Dr. Perkins, slowly approached her, and then said, “I’m the doctor that first saw Mr. Connors. I’m sorry Mrs. Connors. We did everything we could. Your husband passed away.” Her Charlie, at the age of fifty and fit, died of a massive heart attack.
When her daughters graduated from high school, they also exited May’s life. Joan and Heidi two years apart in age went off to college and never returned. They both chose careers in business and both rose rapidly on their respective corporate ladders. Joan became a manager at a major pharmaceutical company. Heidi worked her way up to chief buyer for a major department store. Neither woman had any thoughts of marriage and would not even think of sharing their lives with children. They wanted their lives to be their own. They lived well and traveled extensively. There was no room in their existence for anyone else. May’s hopes for grandchildren and family gatherings were dashed.
May’s lifestyle went downhill rapidly. In the ten years that followed, May found menial work and seldom saw her daughters. When her children did visit they would suggest she start selling some of the possessions she and Charlie had accumulated over the years. They never offered to help their mom financially.
Shortly after a course of chemotherapy, May suffered a stroke leaving the left side of her body paralyzed and her unable to communicate. Her daughters arranged for a placement in an assisted living residence. May’s home and possessions were mostly sold. The rest were kept to furnish her small room.
Now May was dying while her daughters scurried through her tiny apartment like vultures waiting for the end so they could pick May’s life clean. Their mistake was that their greed would not allow them to wait until their mother was gone.
Two days later May died. Her daughters got their wish and split the money they would have paid on another month’s rent. But May also left them much more than money, she left revenge.
* * *
It had been months since May’s death. Joan and her sister had picked over their mother’s possessions and wound up disposing of almost everything the old women owned. Joan found counter space for her mother’s knife set in her immaculate kitchen, a kitchen seldom used.
One day Joan’s friend Phyllis dropped by with the makings of a salad and a bottle of wine. Phyllis drew one of the fine Swiss knives from its wooden holder and noticed a flaw. It was a large knife and there appeared to be a cloudy area on one side of the blade. Phyllis asked her friend, “What is this mark?” Joan took the knife to the sink and tried to clean it without success.
“I’ve never noticed that mark before,” Joan said.
Phyllis asked, “Have you ever used the knife before?” She then replaced the knife in its holder, chose another and prepared the salad.
The next day Joan dragged herself into the kitchen to clean up Phyllis’ salad mess when she noticed the flawed knife on the counter. “Now how did that get there?” she said to herself. As Joan studied the flaw it changed, became more defined. Minutes passed as Joan began to recognize something taking shape. She suddenly screamed, as the imperfection on the knife blade slowly became the smiling face of her mother. The image sharpened and the blade began to move. Joan backed away. The blade followed. Finally, she was cornered in the kitchen. She closed her eyes. On the front of her slacks she could feel a pressure followed closely by a searing pain in her abdomen. Something warm and wet fell onto her feet. She looked down to see the purple-tinged ropes of her intestines on the floor. She looked up to see the knife back away, then come rapidly toward the middle of her chest.
* * *
Heidi had hung her mother’s mirror in the bedroom where she often enjoyed admiring her trim figure in its reflection. It hung on the wall near the bathroom and she would smile as she glanced at her naked body fresh from the shower.
One day, while applying her makeup, Heidi noticed a cloudy area on the mirror. She tried to clean it but it only became larger. She hoped she wouldn’t need to have the glass replaced.
Heidi awoke early a few days later to catch a flight to France. She was now the chief buyer at the store and had been looking forward to this trip for some time. After her shower, she entered the darkened bedroom. As the mirror caught the image of her naked body, the cloudiness in the mirror began to glow. She stepped closer to examine it. An image began to take shape. Looking at her was the smiling face of her mother. Heidi screamed as the glass exploded. Shards penetrated her eyes. She could feel the vitreous humor and thicker blood flow down her face. With gentle pressure the twin shards were pushed further into her brain.
* * *
Six feet beneath her blanket of earth, in the dank blackness of her coffin, a visage of peace crept across May Connor’s decaying face. One might even say the ravaged face smiled.
THE END
WRITER”S WEBSITES: TV TROPES
WEBSITES FOR WRITERS
Every year WRITER’S DIGEST published 100 best websites for writers. I took the list published in 2025 and selected what I thought were some of the best for this year and not repeated from last year. Here is one of them.
TV Tropes
TVTropes.org
This website supplies more than just TV Tropes. You can research genres, media types, narration types to find sub-indexes of various tropes detailing potential problems with those tropes.
Also available are folders featuring film, TV, literature and music.
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