Walt Trizna's Blog, page 12

THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE: A SHORT STORY

The Reluctant Zombie is a humorous short story involving a college professor visiting Haiti where he succeeds in getting himself turned into a zombie.

It has been previously published by Blood, Blade & Thruster in their Winter 2006/2007 issue.

                                       THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE

As Norman stumbled through the dank Haitian swamp, he groaned, “Willard, it seems so unnatural walking around with my arms outstretched, but I can’t put them down. I have an image to uphold.”

Willard, who was also stumbling along shook his head and sighed, “Of course its unnatural, you’re a zombie, damn it – your image is history.”

Norman complained, “I didn’t ask to be a zombie.” With some difficulty he swiveled his neck and surveyed the Haitian countryside.

Norman took in the landscape surrounding him. He walked through a village. It was nothing more than a few huts of mud and straw along a dusty road. Chickens pecked in the brush along the roadside. Chickens! For some reason their presence made him uncomfortable. “I really don’t want to be a zombie,” Norman muttered. He was a forty-year-old college professor, a dark-haired trim man always dressed well. Now he was walking around covered in grim and dressed in rags.

Willard said, “If you didn’t want to be a zombie, you shouldn’t have runover the old voodoo woman’s chickens with your jeep. Was she pissed… She’s also the one that converted me into a zombie, but that’s another story.”

Norman looked at Willard and could not guess what he once looked like. Willard was pale, gaunt and also dressed in rags. His age was made undeterminable by his zombie state.

“As soon as you angered her she began making one of her little dolls. She cackled while she worked. That’s never a good sign. That doll is now where your soul now resides.”

“I can’t believe this is happening to me, Willard. I came to Haiti to do research on Haitian religions. I am, or was, respected and well-publicized anthropologist. Now look at me. I’m wearing rags and walking around like a … like a …”

“Zombie?” asked Willard.

“Just because I ran over a few chickens?”

“Um, Norman, they looked like chickens, but they weren’t. Nothing around the voodoo woman’s house is what it appears to be. They were once her enemies. She changed them into chickens, and you freed them from pecking for insects along the road for the rest of their lives. You ended their suffering. So naturally, in her anger, she turned you into a zombie. I’m here to instruct zombies how to attack people and teach them what are the best parts to eat.”

Norman made a face at this remark.

“Now what’s the matter?” asked Willard.

Norman sighed, “I’m a vegetarian, but I do eat dairy.”

Willard said with discuss, “There are no vegetarian zombies. And attacking the dairy section of a store is not going to do much for the zombie image.”

Norman grumbled, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do anything to detract from the zombie image. Give be a break.”

As the two zombies were arguing, Willard happened to glance over at the woman’s house. There she stood in the doorway. Willard could tell she was not happy.

She hobbled toward Willard and Norman, a waddling mass adorned with bones and beads. Her crown of thick dreadlocks made her appear as if some multi-legged beast was sitting on her head.

The old voodoo woman shouted at Norman, “I know you be a troublemaker, with your fancy jeep, running over people’s property.”

Norman mumbled, “Sorry about the chickens.”

“You sorry alright. You be good and sorry real soon.”

The old woman produced her Norman doll, lifted the doll skyward, and began chanting in a low rumbling voice.

Norman’s soul returned to his body. He felt like his old self. He laughed with relief, then glanced up. Willard stumbled toward him; arms raised.

Willard, old buddy, we’re friends – right?”

Willard only groaned and roared.

Norman looked desperately for an escape. On either side of him zombies with ash-grey complexions staggered in his direction. He was surrounded.

The old voodoo woman said, “Here be my children, and they be hungry.” She cackled as the circle of zombies grew smaller and smaller around Norman.

From beyond the wall of the living dead, Norman pleaded, “Please, make me a chicken!”

                                             The End

A CHRISTMAS TREE STORY

THIS IS A REPOST OF A STORY FROM LAST CHRISTMAS WHICH I THINK REFLECTS THE SPIRIT OF THE SEASON

                                           A CHIRISTMAS TREE STORY

For many years my family practiced a Christmas tradition involved in obtaining a Christmas tree. This experience holds a special place in our hearts. Those of you buying a live tree this Christmas season, a tree with an enormous price, may shed a tear after reading this story.

Many years ago, a friend at work told me about a unique tree farm where trees cost seven dollars. I can assure you that the prices of trees on Christmas tree lots, at that time, were much more. I obtained directions to the farm, and one Sunday afternoon, piled the family into our car and off we went. After a few wrong turns I found the farm. And for years we went there for our Christmas tree and experienced the true meaning of Christmas.

The tree farm was south of Phenixville Pennsylvania. I learned from the owner that the property was once the site of a small airport having a hanger in which he could store his powder blue tail-dragger single engine high wing plane. After many years the hanger was falling apart, and much to his amazement, he was able to fire up the engine and taxi the plane out. But I doubt that the plane will ever fly again.

Now back to the trees.

The tree farm was made up of groves of jack-pine trees, and he spent the off season trimming the trees for sale for Christmas. He was in his late seventies or early eighties, and you could tell, for now, it was his life’s work.

Now a jack-pine is an evergreen with branches, far apart, along its trunk. They were scraggly looking trees, but you could load ornaments along the full length of the branches. As opposed to the usual ‘full’ Christmas trees where only the tips of the branches could be decorated. Once decorated, these jack-pine trees were beautiful.

For tree selection my two daughters brought along multiple scarves to drape on trees which showed promise. Once the ‘perfect tree’ was chosen I cut it down and carried it to the small trailer he kept on the property. He wrapped the tree with twine then went inside with my wife and daughters to sip hot chocolate. While I was left to tie the tree to the car roof coming close to suffering frostbite.

On the wall of the trailer were mounted news articles. Clippings about the farm and his generosity. He donated trees to churches and organizations. I’m he would give trees to those suffering hardship.

Once home, we decorated our scrawny ‘Charlie Brown tree’ and turned it into a thing of beauty.

After a few years of getting our trees at the farm the owner told me he thought he was charging too much so he lowered the price to five dollars. I began bringing him a loaf of homemade cinnamon raisin bread and he told me I could have a tree for free. I assured him that five dollars was what I would pay.

The man through all the years had a collie running free on the property. But the dog wandered somewhere causing someone to complain. A township official arrived and warned the man about his dog. The next time we went to buy a tree he told me that that’s it and he was selling the property. I hope he got a good price and I’m sure some developer filled the land with McMansions sitting cheek to jowl. Houses with no character, only volume.

I will never return to that property for it would spoil my memories of a wonderful Christmas tradition. That fellow was the epitome of the Christmas spirit with the kindness and generosity of the holiday season.     

MY NEED TO FLY, FINAL PART

                     MY NEED TO FLY, FINAL PART

The thoughts behind the birth of this piece is that my love for aircraft still remains and I read extensively about the subject. My reading includes a great deal of reading about World War II. I had been reading articles about German pilots during that war and could not believe how they could fly for that monster, Hitler. How could they do that? Then I realized they were flying because of their love for flying, not for Hitler. I came to this conclusion upon studying my own experience with flying.

I was learning to fly during the Viet Nam War. And never once considered the merits of that war. A war which many, back then, thought to be unjust. And how history has proved them to be right. But I wanted to learn to fly, and that desire clouded my thoughts about the situation the country was involved in during that period. So, in reality, I came to realize that there is little difference between me and those German pilots. The desire to fly was primary. 

MY NEED TO FLY, PART II

Upon entering the air force, the first plane I flew was the T-4, a Cessna 172. After that aircraft came the Cessna T-37, a small straight winged twin engine jet which would be my downfall.

Flying a jet is totally different than flying a propeller aircraft. The major difference, other than speed, is throttle management. You see, with a propeller aircraft you push the throttle forward and the power is available instantaneously. With a jet it takes time for the engines to wind up and provide the power you need. I also had trouble with trim management. You use the trim to help maintain control of the aircraft. Trim tab are small panels on the primary control surfaces. My instructor could take his hand off the stick in a turn and the plane would complete the turn. When I was in control if I took my hand off the stick, while flying straight, the results were somewhat less than control.

So, I washed out of pilot training, but did fulfill my dream of learning to fly. From flight training I entered the Titan II missile program and became commander of a four-man crew for the rest of my air force career.

BACK TO BASICS

    My blog is returning to stories both personal and of the mind.

                                     MY NEED TO FLY, PART I

Ever since I can remember I have been in love with airplanes and flight. Reading about their history and current developments along with learning about famous pilots in the past kept my interest alive.

In my youth I began on the road of becoming a voracious reader with comic books. The genres I loved the most were superheroes and horror. If you read my short stories you would see that my love for horror continues.

One thing I remember about comic books back then was the back page. Most of the time there were ads. One of the common ads was of some wimpy guy having sand kicked into his face by a muscular Heman. With the help of this ad, you could become a muscular Heman, and I guess kick sand into a guy not as well-developed as you.

Now I’m talking about the early 1960s, less than 20 years after the conclusion of World War II. The country still had a massive amount of military equipment. You could find ads at the back of comic book for some of this equipment for sale. Of course, readers of comic books had plenty of money to make purchases of these items. For sale were army jeeps for $99. A lot of money back then. I am shocked at the price of cars these days. I bought my first Volkswagen Beetle in late 1969 for slightly over $2000. The only reason it was more than $2000 was that I wanted a radio, AM. There were also ads for crated airplanes from World War II with no indication whether they were bombers or fighters.

This was way before the War Bird movement for restoring and flying such aircraft came into existence. Now these same planes are for sale for millions of dollars. I recall reading a story, not long ago, of a Hellcat, a navy carrier aircraft, being flown cross-country to a school where these aircraft were used for instruction. The plane ran out of fuel and the pilot made a perfect emergency landing in a farm field. When it was time for the farmer to plow, the plane was offered by the government for free to whomever would tow it away. Obtained for free was an aircraft which would cost millions today/

It was no surprise that when I was in high school these ads caught my attention. I, along with some friends of mine who were also crazy about airplanes decided to buy one. Where money would come from was caught up in our dreams.

Now, we planned to buy an airplane. Did we have any tools to accomplish the construction of said plane? No! Did we have any of the skills required to accomplish this task? No! Did we have a place to do the work? No! Of course, nothing came of this plan, but for a very short time, we dreamed

My interest in airplanes never wavered and was carried into college where I enrolled in Air Force ROTC. I took a gamble that I would qualify for piolet training, and I won. When you qualify for piolet training, the government pays for 36.5 hours of flight instruction during your senior year.

I was going to learn to fly – for free.

I still look back on those days of flight training fondly. Of the day when I was shooting touch and go landings. My instructor had me stop on the runway, got out, and I was on my own rejoining the traffic pattern.

I flew twice a week and remember one morning when the air was like silk, and the plane and I became one. Now, this flying was taking place in Oklahoma where it can be rather windy. One afternoon I was flying solo in the little Cessna 150 being used for flying lessons and the wind was blowing hard. I came in for a landing on a runway long enough to land a Boeing 707. I flew the length of the runway but couldn’t stay over the runway long enough to land and had to go around.

Then there was the time I was lost flying solo. I have no sense of direction and did not believe my instrument used for direction. But that’s another story.

Even with a few speedbumps I enjoyed every minute I spent learning to fly.

REALITY CHECK

here we go again…

WRITER’S FORUM PRINT RUN PODCAST

We’re going back, for a few days, to websites beneficial to writers. Then a bit of personal history.

                        WEBSITES HELPFUL TO WRITERS  

This is a series of posts which, I think, will be beneficial to writers.

But first, I would like to include my usual warning about using websites.

Whenever you check a website you are, in my opinion and I talk from experience, being put on a list for sale. So, expect the possibility of being bombarded by ads from companies you, perhaps, have never heard of and have no interest in.

By the same token, I feel that once you call a business for information you are also put on a list, for sale, of similar companies to the one you have called.

That’s just how it is in today’s society.

I hope you find the information offered in these posts helpful.

Print Run Podcast

PrintRunPodcast.com

This podcast covers current publishing details writers need to know.

Details include strikes and trends to subjectivity in literary awards.

Episodes are available at a nominal price.

THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART VIII

                                                        The Legend

                                                         of                    

                                                 French Creek

 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

            HAVE A GREAT THANKSGIVING HOLIDAY

THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART VII

                                                                   The Legend

                                                         of                    

                                                 French Creek

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 Park again.

                                                   * * *

 I tried to make 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 the Druids, I worked my experience and new-found background into 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.”

I tried to make 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 the Druids, I worked my experience and new-found background into 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 Ricketts Glen.”

 “I thought you were talking about French Creek.  I’m never going back there again.”

THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART VI

                                                                  The Legend

                                                         of                    

                                                 French Creek

I formulated a plan.  I would have Joan drop me off the evening of the summer solstice, which would be a Tuesday night.  Joan was hesitant but gave in after I told her it would help me with a story I was working on.  She knew I was going through a dry period.  An hour before dusk, I would set out on the Orange Trail with a pack containing a sleeping bag and whatever I might need for the night.  Appearing to be just another hiker, I would make camp near the ruins and see for myself if there was anything to The Legend of French Creek.

 The night of the summer solstice was rapidly approaching, and my feelings ranged from that of stupidity with this pursuit to fear of spending the night alone deep in the woods.

 The morning of June 21st I found myself packing my gear.  I would not build a fire, so I included a can of beans, bread and a can of SPAM©.  My wife entered the bedroom and wrinkled her nose as she saw the SPAM© going into my backpack.  She does not appreciate this brick of pork-flavored heaven as much as I do.

 “So, you’re really going through with this crazy plan,” she said.  Joan had been trying to humor me but at the same time talks me out of going for some time now.  Her arguments only strengthened my determination to see it through, but also added to my occasional thoughts of what a stupid idea this was.

 At seven o’clock that night we set out on the forty-five-minute drive to the park.  Along the way, Joan would continually ask, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

 I responded, “Yes,” although it was not as firm a ‘yes’ as I intended.

 We entered the park and stopped along the circular road near our former campsite.  I got out, shouldered my backpack, and said, “I guess I’m ready.”

 Joan replied, “I know you won’t reconsider.  Please be careful.  I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon.”   We kissed, and she drove off.  My writer’s mind was already on hyper drive.  And this was the last time he saw my wife, I thought.

 I walked the Orange Trail toward the ruin.  The smell of campfire smoke filled the air.  Alone on the trail, with thoughts full of horror and mayhem, I pressed on.  As I approached the site of the burned structure, the sun was a giant orange ball peeking through trees racing toward the horizon.  An open space across the trail from my quarry caught my attention.  It was there I would make my camp.

 The forest was darkening now and becoming chilly.  I climbed into my sleeping bag and leaned against a boulder to begin my vigil.  Cutting the SPAM© into slices, I made two sandwiches and opened the beans.  Saving some SPAM© for my morning meal, I consumed my dinner. 

The forest was dark now, but I dare not light a light.  I concentrated on the ruin taking note of the sounds and the feelings of dread I encouraged my mind to pursue.  I tried to remain awake, but the warmth of my sleeping bag and a full stomach made me drowsy, and I soon fell asleep.

 What happened next I wanted to credit to a dream, but I know it was real.