Walt Trizna's Blog, page 38

PLUMBING PROBLEMS: AN INTRODUCTION TO A SHORT STORY

Soon I will be beginning posting my short story, Plumbing Problems, published in 2004 by Hadrosaur Press. It is a rather ‘long short story and will appear in seventeen posts.

I hope you find this story entertaining. I’m a retired scientist and had fun thinking about the plot and discussing the science. There are both scientific facts and scientific fantasy in the story. I’ll let you figure out which is which.

Hope you stick with it.

MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: THE WHEATFIELD REVEALED

The following poem was published in the Clover Collection of Verse Vol. XII, edited by Evelyn Petry, in 1976.

                   THE WHEATFIELD REVEALED

Friendless you toiled with palette and brush,

Forlorn amidst wheatfields with only the rush

Of flying crows to mark the day,

Crossed paths unite yet yield no safe way,

Fulfillment beneath sorrowful skies

Painting with troubled soul once cries

Out for love but finds only torment,

Thus, your life spent.

Tramping through fields of cypress and corn

With stars and suns swirl in a morn,

Hatband-held candles yield flickering light

Sustaining your soul on last starry night,

Rooks swirled in violet a soul hungers still,

Standing alone – the wheatfield revealed.

THE DRIVING LESSON: A COMEDY

An unpublished story

THE DRIVING LESSON

Many years ago, while I was in high school, Sam Franks was my driving instructor.  He was a good instructor, easy-going and fun. Then one day I had an instructor change: a change from hell.

I was a junior, and every Thursday, during, my study hall I was scheduled for a driving lesson.  Mr. Franks taught me to drive a Honda, equipped for student drivers; I loved driving that little car.

The morning of my fourth lesson arrived and I went out to the parking lot to meet Mr. Franks, but he wasn’t there, and the Honda was nowhere in sight.  I walked around the lot looking lost when I heard my name called out.  I turned to see a man approaching, a stranger to me, and someone who seemed out of place in a high school parking lot.  He appeared to be in his sixties, tall and thin.  What really made him stand out were his clothes.  He wore faded bib overalls, stained with oil and grease and a mixture of other things better left unknown.  Under his overalls he wore a white sweatshirt, or at least a sweatshirt that was white at one time years ago.  On his head he wore a faded green John Deere cap rimmed with sweat stains.  Long white hair emerged from beneath the cap.  Work boots completed the outfit.  His heavily whiskered cheek bulged with what I thought was the largest piece of gum I had ever seen anyone chew.

  As he approached he shouted, “Can I help you?  Looking for a driving lesson?”

  “Well, yes”, I replied,” I’m looking for Mr. Franks.”

  “Well, you found him, “came his answer.  Now my Mr. Franks was in his thirties, kind of preppy while this guy was old enough to be his – father.  The fact that this man knew my name at first puzzled me, but I started putting two and two together – fast.  “I guess you expected to see Sam Jr., well, he ain’t here, gone to Pittsburgh to interview for another job and I’m filling in.

“Are you a teacher?” I asked with an unsteady voice.

  “Listen, I taught Sam Jr. how to drive a tractor.  If I could teach that lunkhead son of mine to drive a tractor I sure as hell can teach you to drive a car.  The principal of the school said I needed a teaching credential but I had a year to get it, so I figured what the hell, I’ll make some money for a year and then I’m out of here.  Now let’s get your butt behind the wheel.”

That was the other problem I immediately identified, there was no car.  I guess from the look on my face, Mr. Franks Sr. knew what I was thinking.  “Sam Jr. loaned that little Honda to another teachee, so I had to bring my own vehicle.”  With that, Mr. Franks pointed to a pickup truck older than me.  Between the rust and the patching, I found it hard to determine the color, but I think it had once been blue.  Now the Honda I loved had three peddles – a gas pedal and two brake pedals.  The truck had three peddles also, but they were all on the driver’s side.  This damn old piece of crap had a standard transmission.

“I can’t drive a standard transmission,” I said.

  “Oh yes you can,” came Mr. Franks reply.

 “What about the instructor’s brake?” was my next question?

  “I got long legs,” he said, “and I figure after I squash your foot a couple of times you won’t make any more stupid damn mistakes.”

Did I want to go back into school or what – but the lessons were paid for and Mr. Franks did not look like the kind of man that would give refunds.  When I entered the cab of the pickup I got a sickening feeling that it wasn’t gum that was bulging his cheek.  There, attached to the dash, with a piece of coat hanger, was an old coffee can, which he wound up using often during the lesson.  Reluctantly, I sat on the bench seat of the pickup, and with some difficulty, attached the lap belt.  The next the thing I knew, Mr. Franks was shouting, “Damn it, what in the hell are you doing messing up the seat belts?” 

“I’m using it,” I said firmly. 

“I had them all laid out so nice and now you screwed them up,” he groaned, “don’t let it happen again.”

With the seat belt part of the lesson out of the way, I started the engine.  We immediately lurched forward and the engine died.  “What in the hell do you think the clutch is for, decoration?” he screamed.  I thought maybe he could teach me the use of the clutch, but I kept that idea to myself.  I felt a demonstration would be helpful and it was soon in coming.  “Put your foot on the clutch,” he said, and I did.  Before I knew it his size twelve work boot had smashed the clutch peddle, along with my foot, down to the floor.  “You step on the clutch when you start the engine and when you change gears, you idiot.”

I will not describe the next fifteen or so minutes because it has taken me years trying to forget.  I finally got the truck started and sort of found most of the gears.  The fact that I didn’t have to wear a neck collar for months after the lesson was a miracle.  By the time we made it out of the parking lot, my lesson was more than half over.  “We’ll just do a little driving and then head back,” he said.  After a little time on the road, I gained some confidence, although confidence might be too strong a word.  We were driving along when I noticed that the light at the intersection about half a block away had turned yellow.  I started to gently ease off on the gas when Mr. Franks’ size twelve mashed my foot and the gas pedal down to the floor.  People dove for the sidewalk as we barreled through the red light.  I sat waiting for the explanation for this maneuver and it was soon coming.  “You heard about defensive driving?” he asked.  I nodded yes.  “Well remember this; the best defense is a good offense.”  I rolled my eyes.  Mr. Franks was into offensive driving, what a surprise.

The next thing I knew he grabbed the wheel and jerked it to the right.  I felt a slight thump, thump as the wheels ran over something.  “Stop the truck,” he yelled, “I think we nailed him.”  I looked in the rearview mirror and could not believe my eyes.  A squirrel lay dead in the street.  Franks hopped out of the truck, retrieved a burlap bag from the truck bed, and bagged the poor critter.  “Won’t have to go shopping on my way home now,” he said.  “You know,” he went on, “all you need to do is skin ‘em and gut ‘em.  The wheels act as kind of a natural tenderizer – breaks up the bones and the meat just melts in your mouth.”

 I was going to be sick.

That was my first lesson with Sam Franks Sr., but not my last.  I finished the course with him and went on to get my license, but I was never quite the same.

I’m married now and have a daughter who wants to learn to drive and wants me to teach her.  She doesn’t think her dad has the patience.  We’ve gone driving a few times now.  Our seatbelts are always buckled, and when we approach a yellow light I make her stop even if she thinks she can make it.  I’ve cleared most of Mr. Franks Sr.’s unique habits from my teaching techniques. But I still harbor the memory of that poor little squirrel.

Suddenly a squirrel darts out onto the road, I have a sudden urge, but I keep it under control.

                                          THE END        

MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: CAMERA’S EYE

For a while I was living in Newark, New Jersey, working in the Bronx and driving to work on the New Jersey Turnpike. The drive took me through the marsh between Newark and the Hudson River. Along the way I noticed a small dock with a boat or two there. The surrounding area was less than attractive but, in my mind, I would imagine the dock on a tranquil lake or on an inlet leading to the ocean. This poem is the result of those thoughts.

The following poem was published in the Clover Collection of Verse Vol. XII, edited by Evelyn Petry, in 1976.

CAMERA’S EYE

Camera’s eye catches delicate flowers,

Views the graceful bee in pollination flight,

Spies the brushing of pollen – laden stamens,

Holds in time a scene most tranquil;

Yet does not discover the roadside trash,

The flower’s home amid mud and mire;

Does not smell the exhaust raining acid

On delicate flowers.

Camera’s eye gazes upon a child framed in a window,

Beholds the easy lean of chin in palm, elbow on windowsill,

Wide eyes looking out at the world in wonder,

Knows the innocent child – wisdom;

Yet ignores the window’s building,

Screens out the ghetto of rotted houses and dreams.

MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: CITY DEATH

Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Whispers of the Unchained Heart in 1977.

                                  CITY DEATH

Gone-

Murdered by concrete

And polluted air,

Witness to city’s growth,

Yielding shade on sultry days,

Forming crystalline sculptures in winter,

Morning drones with saws,

A barren stump your marker,

Death your reward.

MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: CITY DEATH

   Dec 26, 2024 12:30 PM

INVASION: A SCIENCE FICTION SHORT STORY

 This story has not been published. It was written in 2006. That was when NASA was launching probes to Mars. When to vehicle reached the planet balloon-like appendages were deployed, and upon reaching the surface, the vehicle would bounce until coming to rest.

                                                                                                                                                              INVASION

I am the protector of the ‘king and living god of Zyron’ and I have just witnessed the unspeakable.

We inhabitants of Zyron are a peaceful lot, enjoying our quiet lives in the planet’s interior.  Fierce conditions make the surface uninhabitable for more than a short period of time.  Violent storms engulf the planet, blowing clouds of red dust into the arid air, making a stroll on the surface most uncomfortable.  We Zyrons enjoy the warm moist interior of the planet formed many millions of years ago when violent earthquakes opened the ocean floor draining the surface dry.  Then, another few million years passed, and our surface atmosphere changed to what we have now, conditions that will not support life for an extended period of time.

On the neighboring planet, Gothor, life is less peaceful than ours.  In our language, Gothor translates to blue sphere, a tranquil looking place but tranquil it is not.  We have witnessed their many wars and constant conflicts.  They foolishly broadcast their audio and video signals into the atmosphere giving information of their civilization to less friendly inhabitants of other planets.  Gothorians know nothing of our civilization on their neighboring planet.  The existence of the Zyonions is kept secret, our communications, shielded by the surface of our planet, cannot be intercepted by prying civilizations.  A recent development on Gothor had given us even more information of the planet.  They have developed a network that connects their computers, and with the increased knowledge we have gleaned for this network, we marvel at how much they achieve while so many of their number lack a sense of purpose, a need to contribute to their civilization.

Professions that do not, in some way, serve the good of society are shown little respect on Zyron.  That is why the Zyronians find some of what they learn of the Gothians to be comical.  So many of their society do nothing but serve themselves.  They also require something they call self-help books to further their decline into shallowness.

When Zyronians greet one another we give our name and value to society.  I would say, “I am Gorn, protector of the king.  Others would give their name and say that they were the cleaners or the scientists or the meat keepers.  When we Zyrons meet, we bow to one another, and the depth of the bow depends on the value one lends to society.  If I were to say, “I am Gorn the poet,” the bow I would receive would be deep indeed.  And if I were Gorn the teacher, the bow offered must be so deep that the small horns on our heads must touch the surface on which we stand.

We know a great deal about the lives of the Gothorians and some of the ways they spend their lives.  If a Gothor revealed some of the professions that exist there to a Zyonian, the back of the Zyronian would remain ridged.  If I were to introduce myself on Zyron as Gorn the telemarketer or Gorn the E Bay zapper, no bow would be given.  Our cultures even have different perceptions of the same profession.  On Zyron, if I am Gorn the athlete, I receive a customary bow, but the athletes from Gothor may merit a slight bend of the back, for on Gothor in many cases, the game is secondary to financial rewards. 

We Zyronians know the inhabitants of Gothor are giant creatures and are yet dwarfed by less intelligent creatures that inhabit other worlds.  Our king stands no more than six of Gothor inches, and his line is the tallest on Zyron.  Our king and his subjects closely resemble animals known as lizards living on Gothor, but their lizards are dumb beings where we have the advanced intelligence responsible for the culture that thrives on Zyron.  Unlike the lizards on Gothor, we on Zyron walk upright, and possess appendages referred to as hands, similar to those of the Gothorians.

We view the Gothorians as having a hostile purpose towards our planet.  Many times they have sent missions to our planet, devices that orbit our planet seeking information.  We had developed a ray that disabled many of their machines, but we could not doom them all.  One day a machine landed on the surface of Zyron, bouncing uncontrollably until it came to a halt.  The device opened, revealing another machine that set forth on the surface of our planet.  This was a true invasion, our planet violated.  We Zyrons observed the machine until we detected no further transmissions to Gothor, we then retrieved it for examination.

Since the first bouncing machine landed there have been other probes sent from Gothor to orbit our planet with instruments, taking photographs and other measurements of our surface, trying to detect our presence but the Gothorians will never discover us and will probably succumb to some other civilization of some planet waiting to use the vast resources contained on their blue sphere.

Then one day it was decided that we would attack Gothor, and I was a witness to the catastrophe that precipitated this decision.

Our beloved king, on occasion, would roam the surface of our planet and gaze at the stars and wonder of the world his ancestors inhabited so many million years ago.  It was on one of the ventures to the surface that the most horrible fate beset our king.

I, along with two other guards, accompanied the king on his journey to Zyron’s surface.  We walked a short distance when the king halted and gazed at the stars in the cold Zyronian night sky.  We guards followed the king’s example when we all detected a strange movement in the blackness.  A speeding light approached, it flamed, and then the flames extinguished but still the light approached.  It grew in size until the realization of another invasion from Gothor became apparent.  It was another bouncing machine.  It landed a great distance away, then began its haphazard bouncing along our planet’s surface.  The king and we guards ran, scattering.  Once the device came to a halt we reformed but could not find the king.  We separated, searching for our ruler.  I will never forget the wail of the guard who discovered our poor monarch.  The huge bouncing device from Gothor had squashed him.  We carried his limp body, for most of his bones were broken, down to his kingdom and placed it on his throne.

His son, our beloved prince, was enraged with grief and full of hate for Gothor.  “Enough of this invasion of Gothor,” he yelled.  “I seek revenge.”

Zyron had developed a ray, a death ray.  We kept the ray for use against attacking civilizations, and now the new king demanded, “Prepare the death ray; we must retaliate.”  All Zyronians knew that any planet exposed to the ray would suffer grave consequences.  The area of the sphere exposed to the ray would be destroyed.

There was a fringe of land from which the Gothorians launched their devices.  This would be the target.  The new beloved king waited for Gothor to revolve, exposing the target.

                                                      THE END   

MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: PARK RESIDENT

Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Shadows of the Elusive Dreams in 1975.

                        PARK RESIDENT

Winding through city streets,

Stumbling from a park-bench sleep,

In the uncertain light of dawn

He wanders,

Eyes brimmed with despair,

Blessed with another day

His mind recalls vague dreams,

Dreams of his youth

Gone to mist,

Less often now come dreams

Unknown to park-bench beds,

Night brings only cold,

Thoughts void of future.

LESIURE SUITS CAUSE CANCER

                                                  LEISURE SUITS CAUSE CANCER

I bet that caught your attention.

This piece goes along with my series of, YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN, because this statement comes from a TV show from a while ago which I found to be hilarious. The show began as Fernwood Tonight and morphed into America Tonight.

The host was played by Martin Mull. His presentation mocks the job of host. The band was Happy Klien and the Mirth Makers. Happy Klien exudes the excitement of a brick.

That’s the atmosphere which made this program so great. It was mocking late night shows by comically presenting a show which appeared to be serious.

In the skit involving the leisure suits, a ‘scientist’, an obvious huckster, said he found that leisure suits caused cancer. He had with him rats dressed in little leisure suits.

They don’t make them like that anymore.

If they did, there would probably be a leisure suit society, if one exists, on the phone to a lawyer.

MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: EVERGLADE’S JOURNEY

Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Mirrors of the Wistful Dreamer in 1980.

                     EVERGLADE’S JOURNEY

Propellor spins,

And engine speaks a staccato song

To water and tree,

Sawgrass streaks by

In a maze of wildlife and nature,

Animals scurry,

Alligators lift their horny heads

And lacking patients with mankind

Move on,

Free,

Gliding along a filmy surface of life

Where nature exists as a power

Not as a tool.