Posts tagged ‘writing’
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: CONTINUED
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: CONTINUED
What happened next I wanted to credit to a dream, but I know it was real.
The blackness of the forest became full of a milk-white vapor, although above, the sky was full of stars. There was no wind, yet the mist came rapidly from different directions and formed a shell of white around the concrete slab. Soon the vapor took the form of a house, becoming a solid structure. Windows, now present, glowed bright red and I could see figures dancing within. The door of the house opened and there appeared a group of naked men and women horribly burned, their bodies smoking. I wanted to look away but could not. Their obscene presence came toward me. They lunged at me. Their hideous laughter screamed in my ears. Now the horrors surrounded me. My mind could not take any more. I lost consciousness and dreamed of daemons and devils surrounding me in an attempt to capture my soul.
I awoke the next morning with a feeling of dread, not wanting to open my eyes. The ruin was the same as it appeared the night before, although the debris on the forest floor leading to my campsite appeared disturbed. I looked down, and to my horror, my sleeping bag bore handprints burnt into the fabric.
I packed up my gear and headed down the trail to meet my wife and return to the comfort of my home, never wanting to return to French Creek again.
* * *
I tried to put the horror of that night clear of my mind, but it wouldn’t happen. I felt I had brought something back from that gruesome night and could not escape its presence. Damned if I could figure out what it was. So, I switched gears and embraced the event. After some research on Druids, I worked my experience and new-found background on a few stories that I managed to sell.
Nearly a year had passed since that dreadful night, when Joan announced, “I think we need to get away. How about a short four-day vacation?”
“Sounds great, but it better be cheap,” I said. “You know money is tight.”
“Camping is not expensive,” she answered. I’ve reserved a site from June 19 to June 22.” She saw my face grow deathly pale, and then quickly added, “A site at Rickett’s Glen.”
“I thought you were talking about French Creek. I’m never going back there again.”
Rickett’s Glen was one of our favorite campgrounds. I quickly warmed to the thought of getting away. The park had a large man-made lake, and we always camped at the water’s edge making good use of our canoe. The only downside was that Millie could not accompany us.
Leaving the house that June morning, I felt great anticipation at the chance to relax and unwind. Just lately, the writing had not been going so well and the words that were produced didn’t satisfy me. I looked forward to returning home and plunging back into my work with a relaxed brain.
Once camp was set up, we decided to take a hike and see a few of the waterfalls for which the park is famous. The air was cool for June, and I anticipated a stress-relieving walk. As I packed some snacks into my backpack, my hand brushed against an outside pocket of the pack I seldom used. There was something small and hard inside. I unzipped the pocket and reached in, withdrawing something that set me shaking. It was a Druid talisman. I knew from my research exactly what it was and its blasphemous purpose. The crude fetish was in the form of a naked woman with prominent breasts and an obvious cleft between her stunted legs. I had seen a drawing of a statue exactly like this in a book of ancient Druid curses and spells. Its specific purpose was to summon Druid spirits to its possessor on the night of the summer solstice. After a year, was I still to be haunted by these demonic specters? I had to dispose of this totem, and soon.
“I think I’ll take a canoe ride before dinner,” I told Joan after quickly forming a plan.
I pushed the canoe out, jumped in, and paddled toward the center of the lake. When I was far from shore, I reached into my pocket, retrieved the crude statue, and hurled it into the water. I was now free of the talisman and free of its purpose, or so I hoped.
Tonight, will be a very long night.
THE END
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: CONTINUED
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: CONTINUED
I pulled a small pad and a pen from my shirt pocket. “Mind if I take some notes?”
“Hell no. Most around here know the story – it’s no secret.”
He began his tale.
“Grandpa first told me this story when I was young. Wanted to scare the hell out of me, I suppose. Used to enjoy doing that a lot. Starts back in the late 1700’s when some people moved in that weren’t welcomed in this neck of the woods. They came from England. Some kind of pagan cult called Drubids.”
“Do you mean Druids?” I asked.
“Ya, something like that. Anyway, they wanted to be left alone so they built a house way out in the woods. There was men and women, but no children. Young, they was. Maybe eight or ten of them.
“Seems the locals, being of the religious type, didn’t take too kindly to these pagans. Then the trouble started. Farm animals turned up missing, some cows and sheep. The locals suspected treachery by the pagans, but they kept their peace. Then, within two weeks’ time, three children went missing. A group of townsfolk paid a visit to the pagans. The heathens said they knew nothing of the animals or children disappearing. But the locals thought they were acting suspicious.
“This all happened in the spring. Then came the massacre.
It was the night of the summer solstice. The nearest residents to the pagans reported a red glow in the forest that night. Some of the local men, well-armed, went to investigate. They approached the pagan camp and saw the men and women dancing naked around a fire. There was a pile of cut-up carcasses, no one could tell what they were being thrown into the fire.
“One of the men, nervous I suppose, shot into the air and the pagans made for the cabin. The story goes that the men surrounded the cabin, and then someone threw a blazing brand onto the roof. The cabin caught fire. Screams could be heard coming from the house. Some of the pagans tried to escape through the door and windows, but they were shot and fell back into the inferno. While they waited on of the men poked around in the fire. Found bones, small human bones so the story goes. The men of the town remained until the house collapsed. By morning, it was just a smoking ruin. They left and said little of what they had done to anyone outside the community. Some of the curious would visit the site of the pagan compound, but that ended after a while. And as time passed, the story faded but was not totally forgotten.
“It was in the early 1920’s when a new preacher came to town. During the late summer the townsfolk said they would build him a house. He walked not far from the church and saw a level area with little growth. Apparently, the damn fool picked the site where the pagans’ cabin once stood.
“The house was built before winter set in, and the congregation spent the remainder of the winter and the next spring worshipping, led by the new minister.
“Then the night of the summer solstice arrived. No one knows what happened, but the minister’s house burnt down that night with him in it. The church caught fire and burned to the ground too.
“Eventually, during the depression, the town died, and the area returned to wilderness. Here’s where the legend takes over, my young friend. All the buildings were overgrown by the forest except for the minister’s. The concrete slab that served as its foundation is still there, along with some burnt up debris. The forest won’t touch that rubble, so the legend says, because the pagans still dwell there underground. I don’t know exactly where it is, but it’s somewhere on the perimeter of French Creek State Park. Folks say it’s still there, easy to find along one of the popular trails, but I never bothered lookin’. Some say they get a strange feeling when they hike past the rubble on the day of the summer solstice. No one goes there that night. Campers all stay snug and warm by their fires or in their tents, and town folks safe in their homes.”
“That’s a great story,” I told the old man. “Maybe I could use some of it in a story. But first, I’ll try to find the ruin you mentioned.”
“Don’t know if you should, mister. All legends have a bit of truth. I wouldn’t want to cause you any harm.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
I shook his hand and left the small store, my mind full of ideas. I kept in mind the details he gave me about the location of the minister’s house. With our impending camping trip to French Creek State Park, I thought the coincidence was perfect for me to do some research. If I could locate the site I could use the surroundings to give my story a realistic bent.
TO BE CONTINUED
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: A GHOST STORY WITH A TOUCH OF FACT
The Legend of French Creek was accepted for publication by Necrology Shorts in January,2010.
I enjoy writing stories using actual locations. French Creek and Ricketts Glen are both fantastic state parks in Pennsylvania. Since I write mostly horror I imagine, even though it’s fiction, that the story might provide a bit of a chill to nearby residents of these locations.
The trail mentioned as being in French Creek exists as does the remains of a structure next to the trail.
Unfortunately, our dog, Millie, no longer exists but she did go camping with us on the camping trip used in this story. I miss her.
The Legend
of
French Creek
In southeastern Pennsylvania, the small towns yield to a rural countryside. Heavily timbered, with a sense of remoteness, the area has always been one of legend and mystery. The story you’re about to read is one of the legends generated by this atmosphere. For those curious enough to seek out the location of this tale, the signposts are in the story. A map of French Creek State Park is all you need.
* * *
My name is Will Trizma, and like most writers of the macabre, I am constantly on the look-out for material to weave into a piece of horror, spending time driving down back roads seeking scenes and atmosphere for my stories.
One warm October day, with the foliage a kaleidoscope of rich color, I went for a drive and chanced upon what I thought was a goldmine, but now I’m of a different mind. But, as you can see, a story was created.
My wife, Joan, and I were about to go camping at French Creek State Park on Halloween night. Our dog, Millie, would join us. Her disposition is gentle, but she is always aware of strangers or something out of the ordinary.
Joan was a high school teacher and gone most of the day. I spend my days at home writing. But when my muse fails, I drive the rural roads taking notes on settings that I may be able to use in a story. It was one such drive that inspired the tale you are reading.
I was driving along highway 23, just east of Elverson, when I saw a roadside store I just had to explore. It was a small building, faded white in color, and above the door was a sign proclaiming, General Store, in equally faded gold letters with a green background, looking like something out of the 1950’s. I parked in the small, graveled lot. Along one side of the store was a good-sized garden with the last tomatoes and peppers of the season. A series of vines snaked through the garden with butternut squash waiting for the first frost of fall to turn them into a golden brown. I smiled, thinking that the bounty of this garden was the source for produce for sale in the store I was about to enter.
I climbed two well-worn stairs and entered an earlier era. Behind two rows of fully stocked shelves was the counter, and behind the counter stood a man who had to be eighty if he was a day. He called out, “Hello, young fella. What can I get for you?”
The store was the sort that existed before the supermarket came into existence. To my right was an ancient refrigerator case holding cold cuts and cheese. I walked the two rows of shelves. There was soup, canned vegetables and a host of other products. But where a modern grocery store might have ten brands of the same product and a vast quantity of each, there was only one brand with four or five samples available. As a guy, I thought this made shopping a lot easier. The shelves to the far left held products for the local sportsman. Ammo and freshwater tackle lined the shelves. After drinking in the atmosphere of the store, I wandered up to the counter. I really wanted to talk to this old fella and get more of the feel for this area to perhaps use in a story.
On the counter was a cardboard display of beef jerky. I took out a sleeve and laid it down.
“That’ll be seventy-five cents,” said the old man. “You from these parts?”
“No, just driving around,” I answered.
“Must be on vacation driving around in early afternoon.”
“No, not on vacation,” I said.
“Young fella like you out in the middle of the day must be unemployed.”
“No sir, I’m a writer. I’m always working, maybe not making much money, but always working.”
“What’ cha write?”
“I write horror stories. This area of the county is full of ghost stories and legends. When I’m between stories, I ride around looking for atmosphere and leads I can use.”
“What’s your name?”
“Will Trizma,” I replied.
“Ain’t never heard of you. I do enjoy a good ghost story but never heard of you.”
“That’s one of my problems,” I answered. “Not enough people have heard of me, but I’m working on that. Right now, I’m looking for inspiration for a new story.”
“What’s your new story about?”
“That’s the problem; I’m stuck. I’ve found plenty of atmosphere, but no story line.”
The old man leaned forward, “You want a story?” He looked over his shoulder, although we were the only ones in the store. “I first heard this story from my grandpa. Scared the ‘you know what’ out of me.”
“Sure,” I said full of anticipation. “I enjoy hearing the local lore and set my stories in locales that really exist.”
The old man’s voice grew soft, “This is a story, or maybe not. I don’t know and never had the nerve to check it out. It’s called The Legend of French Creek, although it comes from way before the state park existed.
TO BE CONTINUED
DOWNNECK ST. PATRICK’S DAY PARADE: A NEWARK MEMORY
ST. PATRICK’S DAY PARADE
The section of Newark, New Jersey I called home was referred to as the ‘Down neck Section’ of Newark, why, I once read that it had something to do with the shape of the Passaic River as it passed the area where I lived. And on the Sunday afternoon, closest to St. Patrick’s Day, the residents of my street were treated to what had to have been the shortest St. Patrick’s Day in the area, perhaps the world.
The local Catholic Church sponsored the parade, the steeple of which I could see from my parlor window. It had to be held on Sunday for between my house and the church, right across the street, stood Balentine Brewery. Weekdays were filled with the rumble of trucks quenching the thirst of a parched city. Sunday was a day of rest for the trucks, making the parade possible.
Magically, sometime before the parade, a green line appeared down the center of our street, the first harbinger of a gala event. I never witnessed this line’s creation, but every year it materialized. Around one-thirty the residents began to gather on the sidewalk with the crowd, at places, one deep. Since the brewery and Catholic school took up one side of the street, the number of residents was few. Of course, there were always the annoying boys riding their bikes down the center of the blocked off street before the parade began. I was proud to add to their number.
The parade began around the far corner from my house, on Market Street. There was always a band, not a school band, but one made up of adult men most of which had almost mastered the instrument they were assigned. Before the band came a few ruddy-faced Irish men, decked out in their top hats, waving to the minuscule crowd. At the front of this procession were the parish priests. The part of the parade I witnessed was the length of my street and took about thirty seconds to pass. The procession turned the corner on to Ferry Street and marched a short way further, melting into the Down neck neighborhood.
THE SUPERIOR SPECIES: CONTINUED
THE BIRTH
Bill March had three women he had used as surrogate mothers in the past who refused to see the babies for whom they had made life possible. They were ready to perform the function again. All were young, in their mid to late twenties and all were single. They were all paid for their service and all three shared similar feelings about their pregnancy. They wanted to provide a family to couples who needed help.
The three women were each implanted with two of the Neanderthal embryos. They were all told that the fetuses belonged to a very wealthy couple, and that they would be paid well for their services and their confidentiality. When it came time to deliver the babies, the births would take place at the couple’s country estate. All preparations had been made to equip a room at the estate with the criteria of a delivery room, all the latest equipment necessary to handle whatever emergency might occur.
Two of the women miscarried.
These miscarriages revived the doubts March originally felt about the project.
Pat Meyers carried the last two fetal Neanderthals to term. She knew she was pregnant with twins, but she grew no larger than she had when she carried a single child. This disturbed her. She also knew she carried two boys. Even with her doubts, it made her happy to know she was bringing joy and creating a family. She was making it all possible.
Two weeks before her due date, she was moved to a country estate in northern Connecticut. The house belonged to Gold and had been in his family for many years. Mark told the two nurses who would assist in the delivery, “The babies may seem somewhat peculiar. You will be paid to overlook anything out of the ordinary. After all, we must be sensitive to the parent’s feelings.”
Pat went into labor and had an extremely easy delivery. Although she had carried the babies to term, both were less than four pounds at birth.
Each nurse cared for one of the infants. The boys were covered with a fine down of black hair. One of the nurses whispered to the other, “Look at his head. It’s so misshapen after such an easy delivery.”
Once the babies were settled in the nursery, the nurses left the estate. As they walked to their cars one said to the other, “Those infants were indeed peculiar with their misshapen skulls and covered with hair like an ape. But the one thing I will never forget about them was their eyes. They weren’t the eyes of any baby I’ve ever seen. They had a weird look to them, like intelligence. I felt they were looking right through me.
The other nurse responded, “Did you also get the feeling that they feared our touch. I’ve never seen that in a newborn before.”
REALIZATION
From the time of their births, the babies struck Gold, Fielding, Sanders, and Mark as odd. The infants appeared tense, as if they had an inherent fear of Homo sapiens. The only time they relaxed was when they could see one another.
“Strange,” Gold noted, “it’s as if they know they are alien to us.”
The babies grew into muscular toddlers and were walking at six months. Gold and Fielding closely followed their development. Sanders and Mark occasionally inquired as to the progress of the children, but other projects quickly took them out of the picture. Their major concern was when Gold would go public with the astounding accomplishment. They were eager for the recognition their work would bring. Gold would answer their inquiries by saying, “Soon, very soon.”
Fielding spent hours observing the Neanderthal infants, monitoring how their bodies developed as they matured. They were far more agile than he expected, nothing like the lumbering brutes commonly associated with Neanderthals. As expected, their frames indicated that they would develop into adults of short stature compared to modern man. Their physique began to fill out, becoming more muscular than that of human babies. Gold, however, would uncover the true mysteries of the Neanderthals when he studied their psychological development.
The infants began talking at eighteen months, and not with the fumbling birth of knowledge of speech associated with human children. Gold discovered them talking one day as he entered the room where they slept. He was stunned, for he never heard them parrot sounds as children do to develop speech. The Neanderthals did possess the high nasal voices predicted by the bone structure of their skulls. Gold found the sound of their voices annoying.
Studying their psychological development, Gold thought, these infants are progressing far more rapidly than human toddlers of comparable age. Gold began recording his conversations with the Neanderthals. During one of his sessions with them they both seemed withdrawn. He asked, “What do you boys think about?”
The Neanderthal born first was called Adam, the other John. Adam answered, “Why, he asked,” are we so different from you and the others we meet?”
* * *
It had been four years since the Neanderthals were cloned and Gold became more and more ill at ease about what the experiment had created. Fielding and Sanders wanted the results of the experiment to be published. Mark preferred to be left out of the picture.
One night Fielding and Sanders visited Gold in his study, site of the initial plans for the project. Fielding asked Gold, “Carl, don’t you think it’s time to publish our Neanderthal results?”
Sanders added, “The boys have shown none of the signs of premature aging that many of the animals clone in the past have exhibited.”
Gold said, “The boys are coming along fine. In fact, their intelligence level, given their age, is remarkable. But I still feel we should wait to publish. There is something strange about the boys. I would prefer to let them develop further before we go public.”
In the end, Fielding and Sanders persevered. A manuscript was prepared and sent to Science.
TO BE CONTINUED
THE SUPERIOR SPECIES: CONTINUED
NEW HAVEN, CONNETICUT
It was a wild night with a howling and frigid wind buffeting the windows of the senior faculty house on the Yale campus. Sheets of rain kept all the details of the world beyond the windows indefinite.
Four men, leaders in their fields, sat before a roaring fire, the flames reflecting off the dark wooden panels of the study walls. Each man held a brandy stiffer and appreciated the ambiance of the room and the moment. The men were in one of the faculty houses provided to senior members of Yale. The residence was that of Dr. Carl Gold, an evolutionary psychologist. Gold was in his mid-sixties, and with his trim build and gray mane of hair, would not be out of place in the boardroom of a major company or arguing on the floor of the senate. He was a leader in his field with a worldwide reputation.
Gold had invited three men he knew by reputation as giants in their own fields. He also knew them all personally, in varying degrees, and was confident that what was discussed this stormy night would not go beyond the walls of his study.
Across from Gold sat Fred Fielding. Tall and gaunt, Fielding had a permanent tan from his many field trips as physical anthropologist. Next to Fielding was John Sanders, a world-renowned human geneticist. Sanders published his work in all the major journals, but most of his work was now tied up in the debate over the use of human stem cells. Sanders, with his short thick build, was the opposite of Fielding. With his thick black hair and swarthy complexion, he was often mistaken for a maintenance man. The broken nose he earned during his collegiate boxing career added to the image.
The last of the three invited guests was Dr. Bill Mark, a fertility specialist and adjunct professor in Yale’s medical school. Tall, slim and blond, with his athletic build, he appeared to be in his mid-forties although he was well on the way to sixty. As each man introduced himself and discussed their specialties, Mark wondered if he had been summoned to this meeting by mistake. His discipline did not fit in with the others present. He was not a researcher. He was a physician.
Gold surveyed his colleagues and friends. “Gentlemen, the storm that rages beyond these walls will be dwarfed by the storm that may rage within these walls tonight. I’m sure you are all aware of the magnificent discovery made in the Swiss Alps. The body of a perfectly preserved Neanderthal, using carbon dating, is estimated to be thirty thousand years old. I have spent my life studying these creatures. From the time the first Neanderthal skull was found in 1848, this subset of man has remained a mystery. We are still trying to fathom the extent of their intelligence and how they fit into the human tree of development.
“There are many facts about these distant relatives of modern man that lead to fascinating conjecture. To begin with, their brains were ten percent larger than that of modern man, yet they are thought to be simple brutes. We now know that Neanderthals manufactured tools and produced art. The mask found on the banks of the Loire in France was an unexpected find. The fact that they produced art indicates they had an appreciation of life beyond their own existence. They apparently did lack one skill. They were not as adept at fashioning weapons as their fellow bipeds.
“Another intriguing discovery found in the Kabara Cave in Israel was a Neanderthal bone of extreme importance. The bone I refer to was a Neanderthal hyoid bone. This find dispels the theory that Neanderthals could do nothing but grunt. The presence of a hyoid bone indicates they were capable of speech. Taking into consideration other aspects of their skulls, it is thought that Neanderthals had a high, nasal voice.
“There are many questions to be answered, and now we have the means at our disposal to journey from conjecture to fact. I have obtained a sample of the newly discovered Neanderthal. The reason I have called you all together this evening is to formulate a plan, that my utilizing modern genetics and in vitro fertilization will produce a Neanderthal. We shall be able to answer all the questions that have plagued modern man about the Neanderthal enigma.”
Fred Fielding was the first to speak. “As a physical anthropologist, I look forward to examining the body of the recently discovered Neanderthal. But your point is clear. To see how the physical characteristics, whose meaning we assume to deduce, come into play in a living specimen would mean phenomenal advances in our knowledge of man’s distant relative.”
John Sanders, the geneticist, now spoke up. “With a specimen from this newly discovered Neanderthal, modern genetics could solve, once and for all, the debate of where Neanderthals reside in man’s family tree. However, what you propose is to produce a living individual. To do that would require cloning, a method too dangerous to try on a human – to say nothing about it being illegal.”
Gold said, “My dear Dr. Sanders, you would not be cloning a member of the Homo sapiens species. You would be cloning an example of Homo neanderhtalensis.”
A smile crept across Sanders’ face. This argument would be viable, until the law caught up with the science. “In that case, I am willing to isolate the DNA. What we would need next is a human egg and female willing to carry the Neanderthal to term.”
All eyes were now on Dr. Mark, the fertilization specialist. He said, “I now see where I fit in. I see how we all fit into this project. I will not mince words. I feel uncomfortable about this proposition. The mechanisms of the plan would be simple. I have a supply of donor eggs. We can remove the egg’s DNA and use cloning methods described in the literature, insert Neanderthal DNA and initiate mitosis. I also have a group of women we use in my practice who are willing to carry babies as surrogate mothers but refuse to see the baby after birth. They want no chance to form an attachment to the child.
“I think the experiment Dr. Gold proposes can be accomplished. My question is should it be done? By using the scientific name of the Neanderthal as a loophole, we feel we are free to create an individual who may possess human emotions, who may possess a soul. This is much different than cloning a sheep or a cat, no matter how much we choose to belittle the difference. I am not sure I can proceed with this endeavor.”
Gold said, “I picked you, Bill, because I knew you would not go easily with this plan. What we are planning to do is of profound importance, and also of profound scientific and moral complexity. Yet, for science to advance, sometimes risks must be taken. I appreciate your arguments. I know there are risks, but we have the capacity to venture into the unknown and bring light to a land of mystery. Through our expertise we can gain knowledge of the beginning of our humanity.”
The debate went on until dawn lit the study windows. Fielding and Sanders warmed up to their initial confidence. Mark persisted in his initial skepticism. But in the end, as a new day on Earth began, a new chapter in mankind’s knowledge was agreed upon.
THE CLONING
John Sanders received frozen tissue samples from Gold. As he gazed at the sample packed in dry ice, he could not believe he was peering into a box containing a tissue sample of a ‘man’ dead thirty thousand years. Sanders’ ego did not get the better of him. He knew he had been out of the lab for too long to attempt the important work that lay ahead. He employed a promising PhD candidate, Michael Rose, to do the actual work. He would tell Rose as little as possible about the nature of the experiment. The meeting at Gold’s study had left him with the feeling that he was involved in a conspiracy rather than an experiment, the fewer people that knew about the true purpose of the experiment, the better.
Sanders’ first meeting with Rose went well. “Michael, I would like you to help me in a special project.”
“Certainly Dr. Sanders. I’m a little desperate for a new project now that the study I’m working on is going nowhere.”
Sanders said, “It’s a cloning experiment.”
“Fantastic,” said Rose. “What will we be cloning?”
Sanders hesitated, and then answered, “A non-human primate.”
“Has that ever been done before Dr. Sanders?”
“Not to my knowledge. We would be making history.”
Rose could not believe his luck. He was going from a dead-end research project to an historic experiment.
“When do we begin?”
“Immediately,” Sanders said. “I already have a tissue sample from which you can extract the DNA for the cloning. I also have a list of references I want you to read and extract from them the method used to fertilize the egg and develop it into an embryo.”
* * *
Two weeks later Rose had the DNA extracted and the materials he would need for the union of the egg and extracted DNA to begin their journey to a living entity.
Sanders called Mark, “Bill, we’re ready to implant the DNA into the eggs.”
“I’ll ship them out by express mail,” said Mark. “Good luck!”
The eggs arrived in a container of liquid nitrogen. The paperwork indicated that there were ten eggs contained in the container. When all was ready, with Sanders at his side, Rose began the cloning experiment.
The eggs were rapidly thawed. Once thawed, Rose removed their DNA and inserted the ‘primate DNA’ he had prepared. Each egg was given its own petri dish of life sustaining fluids and put into an incubator.
Both Sanders and Rose periodically checked on the eggs. Initially, all ten began to divide. But soon four of the small balls of cells died. The remaining six progressed to a point where they could be slowly cooled, then frozen and stored in liquid nitrogen until they could be implanted into a uterus.
Rose was excited as he entered Sanders’ office. “Dr. Sanders, the embryos are frozen. I’m looking forward to seeing the results of the experiment.”
Sanders said, “I’ll let you know how things progress.”
“Do we have the monkeys that will carry the embryos to term here?”
“No Michael, the implantation will be done at another institution.”
After Rose left, Sanders sat at his desk and thought, You’ll be told the embryos all died after implantation. For you, this experiment is over.
Strangely, Sanders found himself feeling envy for Rose. His dreams had recently been haunted by what this adventure might produce.
TO BE CONTINUED
A VALENTINE’S GIFT: A STORY OF UNDYING LOVE
A VALENTINE’S GIFT: A STORY OF UNDYING LOVE
Jim Reed sat in a desolate park in a seedy section of the city and pulled the collar of his badly worn coat up as the North wind howled, he sipped from the bottle concealed in the brown paper bag and, with each sip, a grimace spread across his face while momentary warmth filled his empty belly.
“That god damned day is coming,” he thought. He did not have a calendar for a calendar needed a wall on which to hang and his watch was gone, long gone to a pawnshop. Jim kept track of the date and headlines the world produced from the newspaper machines along the sidewalk.
He drank rapidly; trying to prevent his mind from wandering to the day he lost his future, his purpose, that Valentine’s Day five years ago. But he could not prevent his numbed mind from reviewing his life and recalling the day his reason for being was erased.
* * *
While in college, Jim developed a drinking problem, and it lingered after graduation. He found a job as an accountant, worked hard during the day and drank hard during the night.
A friend from work wanted to fix Jim up with a girl. A date was arranged, a Dutch-treat dinner. Jim arrived at the Italian restaurant early, sat at the bar drinking red wine when a stunning woman with long black hair walked in searching for someone. She approached Jim and said, “I’m Debbie Wilson, could you be Jim Reed?”
Jim could not believe that this woman was his blind date. He gulped down his wine, took her hand, and headed for the restaurant area. He drank less than he usually did on a date and just enjoyed talking to Debbie. Before he knew it, they had spent two hours over dinner, and he was sober. He wanted to pay for dinner, but Debbie demanded to pay her own way. She smiled and said, “Next time you can treat.” This brought a grin to Jim’s face. Debbie paid her part of the bill, and as the cashier placed the change in her hand, Debbie exclaimed, “What’s this?” She looked down at the dirty white penny in her hand.
“That’s a steel penny,” Jim explained. “One year, during World War II, pennies were made of a composite in order to save copper in order to make shell castings.”
Debbie’s eyes brightened as she said, “This is going to be my lucky penny. It’s so unusual.”
Their relationship grew into love, and six months later they were married. They bought a small house and soon Debbie was pregnant. Jim’s life had a hope he had never imagined as he watched Debbie grow with their child.
They found a hospital providing a room for natural birth but had the facilities to cope with any problems that might occur. One day, as Debbie was preparing a special dinner to celebrate a special day, her water broke. Jim rushed her to the hospital thinking, “By the time this Valentine’s Day is over, I’ll have two loves, not one.”
After they entered the hospital, a nurse took Debbie’s blood pressure and immediately had her rushed to the emergency room. Debbie’s eyes reflected the fear Jim felt as he sat at her bedside. When Debbie began to convulse, Jim was escorted to the waiting room.
Hours later their obstetrician entered the waiting room and sat next to Jim. The doctor’s eyes never left the floor. In a soft voice he told Jim, “I’m sorry but your wife is gone, we lost the baby girl too. If you will come with me, I’ll take you to your wife.”
Jim felt horror, shock and helplessness all at once. On shaky legs he followed the doctor and soon found himself standing next to a bed and staring down at Debbie’s pretty face. She seemed so much at peace while Jim was in such torment.
The next few days were a blur; Jim drank himself into numbness while friends and family expressed their regrets. Jim stayed numb for five years, never cried over his loss, keeping the grief tied up inside. He stayed numb as he was fired and eventually lost his house. He had been homeless for two years now and just didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything.
* * *
Jim left the park and made his way into the city. He mumbled, “That god damned day is here,” as he sat on the grate of an office building immersed in the steam, trying to stay warm. The hour was late and the street was strangely deserted. Steam created an odd glow around the streetlamps. Through the mist, a woman holding a small baby approached him.
“You look so sad. You deserve a better life,” she said.
Jim yelled, “Get the hell away from me,” but the woman wouldn’t budge. She just stood before Jim as her eyes filled with tears.
“Your life needs to turn around, I’d like to help you,” she repeated this as she placed a small cloth sack before Jim. As she turned to leave she said something strange, “We love you.”
Jim watched through the mist as the women departed; saw the figure of the woman recede into the distance, melting into the mist.
Jim sat there, drinking from his bag and lifted the small cloth sack. He opened it and spilled its contents into his hand. He sat there looking at the single dirty white penny. He lifted the paper bag to his lips and then tossed it away as tears coursed his face.
THE END
DOGS’ TALE: A LOVE STORY, CONTINUED
DOGS’ TALES (CONTINUED)
I had a similar experience when I was a kid, but it was not so drastic. My Auntie Zushia took my cousin Dolores a.k.a. D.O. and I to a pet shop and introduced us to the owner Henry. I have always loved pet shops. His shop had a few rows of tanks full of tropical fish. I love the smell of a room full of fish tanks, the humid tropical smell they give off. Henry also had some Spits puppies. They were light tan in color and D.O. and I each picked one out. They named D.O.’s dog Skippy and they had him for years and years. I don’t know if we ever named mine for we had him for less than a week, he would snap at everyone. So back to Henry’s pet shop we went to return the dog. Sadly, I read years later that Henry had been killed during a robbery at his pet shop. He was a gentle man who loved animals and loved sharing his knowledge of them with whoever ventured into his store.
Now back to Pook, the dog I knew in my youth and was with my family after I became a man. My sister Shirley had a friend in grade school whose dog had a litter and Shirley was offered one of the pups. My dad was as bad as I am when it comes to animals, no is not an option. We named him Spoofy but usually called him Pook. He moved into our house and slept in a little alcove behind our kitchen stove. He was a little black furry ball. We went through the usual aggravation of house training, but he finally got the idea down. A few months after we adopted him we were set to go on summer vacation, but Pook was not allowed to come along. Another friend of Shirley’s offered to take care of him while we were away, so we were set.
When we arrived home from our vacation Pook was returned to us, and he was a mess. Pook was not super – intelligent as a pup, but what pup is? During his stay with Shirley’s friend he tried to jump off the second-floor porch and the try was successful, but the landing was not, causing an injury to one of his front paws. It was swollen and he couldn’t put much weight on it. This injury did not help his appetite so along with his leg injury he had a touch of malnutrition. My father took him to the vet expecting to have him put to sleep, but Pook came back home. The vet said he thought he would be okay, to give him some time and see how he did. Pook did stop his limp after a while, but that area of his leg was permanently enlarged and always somewhat tender.
He grew to be a medium-sized longhaired black dog with his tail curling up over his back. I would defy anyone to determine his breed, for as they say these days he was truly an eclectic dog. He grew to love us and we loved him. He protected us. If a man who was not a family member he would growl, a low growl that would not stop, that could not be stopped. No matter where you put him the growl would continue, from other rooms, from behind closed doors.
He loved and tolerated us. He had to tolerate my sisters more than the rest of the family for they would dress him up and even put him in a carriage. He would sit perfectly still as the girls adorned him in either their clothes or something from their larger dolls but he would get a look in his eyes, as if to say, can you believe what I have to go through. His eyes told the true level of enjoyment he was experiencing.
Pook was with us for a long time and made the move with the family from Christie Street to Somme Street, from our days of cold water to our days of hot water. I recall especially cold winter nights on Somme Street. He would be sound asleep and, since we had no back yard where he could ‘freshen up’, he had to be walked. I remember countless nights when I would have to walk him before I could go to sleep. The night was like ice. I would say,”Pook, you have to go out!” I would have to say this a few times while nudging him. Finally, aroused from his slumber I was treated to a low throaty growl, but I finally had his attention. A little more nudging and coaxing on my part and a little more growling on his part and he would stiffly get up and be nice enough to accompany me on my walk through the cold night.
Pook was with us for a long time. He was with us through my high school years, college years, four years in the service and three years into my career. As I went through the various stages of my life, I would come home for vacation and Pook’s all black face became more and more gray. I was living in Miami and my brother and sister Judy along with her daughter were visiting me when I got the call. My mother said Pook had had a stroke and, after a few days, it was clear there was no hope. My father had to take Pook in and they put him to sleep. My mother said that my father cried. I think we all cried a little with the news; Pook was with us for so long. It was hard to remember when he wasn’t part of the family and now he was gone.
Pook was a great eclectic dog. He shared our cold and our hot water days, gave love and accepted love back. And as far as I know, my brother still carries a picture of him in his wallet.
DOGS’ TALE: A LOVE STORY
DOGS’ TALE
Our family has had two great dogs, Whitey and Millie. Whitey was my family’s second dog, an SPCA adoption. Buy first came Max, more about her later. My wife Joni found him at the SPCA and inquired about adopting him. The whole family had to drop what they were doing; I had to leave work, and my daughter Annie had to be pulled from recess, to check him out. He was about a year old and met all the qualifications, already house-broken and could tolerate cats. They paraded their test cat before Whitey to assure us he would get along with our cat Stimpy. We took this little white ball of fur home, and he’s been a great dog. He had his weaknesses, but as long as we keep the bathroom doors closed so he can’t chew up the trash, and the litter box for the cats picked up so he can’t chew other things, he’s a great pup.
After Whitey we had another fantastic dog, Millie who was with us fourteen years and who I greatly miss.
While I was growing up we also had a dog and his name was Spoofy or Pook for short. Just like Whitey, Pook was not our first family dog. In the case of my own family, the first dog we had was Maxine, or Max for short. My wife worked with a woman and her brother’s dog had pups. The mom was a pure bread German shorthaired pointer, but a dog apparently got over the fence, so the pups had no papers. We picked Max because she was the quietest pup of the litter. About a week after we brought her home we found out that her calmness was due to a full-blown case of worms. Once cured of the worms she was never the same. Unfortunately, Max never became a pet, too high strung and always wanting to roam. Our dog Whitey follows the example of our cats and sleeps most of the time, except when there is a thunderstorm. Max never stood still. We have a large backyard, and Max was constantly going under the fence into the neighboring gully. She was a hunting dog. When our neighbor put up a chicken coup next to our back fence that really got Max’s attention. She sometimes would stay overnight in the gully after crawling under the fence. Then one day, she managed to get herself hit by a car. My wife saw Max in the gully covered in blood. When she was around our family she was constantly jumping on everyone. I had to lock her in her cage when my wife came home from work for she would jump all over Joni as if Joni had been gone for years and not only twelve hours.
Then came that fateful Sunday. My wife was at work, and I was working in my garden. Annie and Lynn were in the backyard playing with Max when a neighbor from a few housed down brought her daughter Ashley, a friend of Annie’s, over and asked if Ashley could play with my girls. I said sure, the mom left, and I went back to my garden. Soon I heard a blood-curdling scream and looked up to see Ashley holding her face. Max had bitten her through her cheek and into her gum. I ran the little girl back to her house and that’s when I met her black Lab for the first time. Her dog was thankfully calmer than Max. I then met her father, the lawyer, for the first time that thankfully was calmer than most lawyers. Ashley finally removed her hand from her face, and it appeared as if someone had painted the bottom of her face with red paint. Ashley’s parents took her to the hospital immediately, the same hospital where Joni was working her weekend as an R.N. I called Joni and told her what had happened and she said she would go to the emergency room to meet them. I eventually found out what had happened. My neighbor, who saw what had occurred said that Ashley was holding a stick up and teasing Max. Max went for the stick, her aim was bad and got Ashley in the face.
We had to isolate Max for ten days in the garage and then Joni took him to the SPCA for adoption. After that experience I never thought we would have another dog but with Whitey we really got a great pup.
TO BE CONTINUED
SEASIDE HEIGHTS: MEMORIES WERE NOT RELIVED
I have a habit I have developed over the years when I form a great memory at a location as the years pass I don’t return. For I don’t want my memories dashed if things have changed for the worse. The following is a story that reinforces that habit of mine.
SEASIDE HEIGHTS: MEMORIES WERE NOT RELIVED
In my youth growing up in Newark, New Jersey, a week’s vacation at the shore was rare for our cash-strapped family, but they did occur. When they did take place, it was always at Seaside Heights, located on the New Jersey shore, and always the same bungalow on Sumner Avenue. The event was an extended family affair with my mother’s siblings and always with her oldest sibling, unmarried Auntie Zosia (Polish for Sophie). I have a feeling she contributed a great deal of my family’s share of the cost, she was always helping us out. Perhaps, a future post will be dedicated to Auntie Zosia. She deserves to be remembered.
Another unusual characteristic of our shore vacation was that every night my dad would be handing out cash to us kids to spend while walking the boardwalk while normally little money was available. I think this was Auntie Zosia in action again behind the scenes. Nothing was ever said about the source of this new-found wealth, but that was the way she usually worked.
The bungalow on Sumner Avenue was only half a block from the boardwalk, and because of its close proximity to the ocean, the house was permeated with constant salt-tinged moisture, not an unpleasant benefit of a life near the ocean.
The week was filled with family bonding and boardwalk adventures. An early morning visit to the beach to claim our piece of sand with an army blanket, in those days everyone had an army blanket, then a patrol exploring the area of the boardwalk under the shooting gallery to harvest the small copper shell casings that would fall through the boards. Why, because we were kids.
The days were spent on the crowded beach with the occasional dip into the frigid ocean jumping the waves. Nights were spent on the boardwalk playing miniature golf and going on the amusement rides. The adults would congregate around the spinning wheels of chance hoping to win towels, candy and yes – cigarettes.
Those were also the days of the penny arcade when a pocket full of pennies could entertain you for hours. Investing pennies in claw machines harvesting tiny sets of plastic false teeth along with other plastic junk you kept forever or until your mother cleaned. One of my favorite ways to spend my pennies was at the card machines. For two cents inserted, out would pop a post-card sized picture of a baseball player or airplane.
Rainy days were not a washout at the shore thanks to the penny arcade. If you wanted to make a slightly larger investment of a nickel, you could play the baseball pinball machine. A steel ball was pitched and the lever you worked was your bat. Depending on your skill, and of course luck, you scored runs. The best part was, as the runs added up, you were rewarded with free games. A nickel sometimes brought you an hour’s worth of entertainment if you were ‘hot’ that day.
You can tell my memories of summers spent on Sumner Avenue in Seaside Heights are fond and cherished. I tried to pass some of that fondness on to my kids – didn’t work.
It was shortly before Easter when I drove my wife and two daughters through the pine barrens of New Jersey to visit Seaside Heights for a weekend to renew my love and establish their love for this beach town. It had been more than twenty years since I last visited the resort. I expected some change, or course, but was not prepared for the amount of change I discovered. I guess Thomas Wolfe was right. Driving down Sumner Avenue I was stunned. Where were all the bungalows, the saltwater toffee store selling that traditional costal confection, the bakery where daily we purchased rolls for lunch – all gone? The eccentric guy who lived on the corner of Sumner Avenue across the street from the boardwalk whose overgrown yard was the source of fantastic stories – gone. All replace by an endless parking lot surrounded by loud bars. My mind’s eye could see what was once there, but nothing could be shared with my family other than what it was now.
But there was still the boardwalk.
Surprisingly, the boardwalk was more or less as I remembered. It was off-season so the only ride open was the indoor merry-go-round. Of course, the penny arcade – gone, replace by mindless video games, no chance to claw-up those precious little false teeth. At least my girls got to play Skee ball and watch their prize tickets accumulate to be redeemed for useless junk precious to me.
Driving home, I know my family wondered what the big deal was, while I sought to regain the memories dashed by our pilgrimage, trying to erase the reality of our visit. Now, only the boardwalk anchored my memories of what it used to be, and that young boy with his pennies and his dreams of the rewards they would win.
Then Sandy came for a visit and the roller-coaster was ocean-bound and the wheel-of-chance booths blown asunder. Some rebuilding slowly accomplished only to be erased by fire.
First, all my memories finding no renewal other than that beloved boardwalk, and then the double dose of destruction visited upon the memorial of my youth. I cannot revisit Seaside Heights. That little boy haunting the boards did not survive fire and flood
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