Walt Trizna's Blog, page 42

THE GIG OF A LIFETIME PARTI, A SHORT STORY

 This story was accepted for publication by Toasted Cheese, a literary journal, in April 2010.

                                 The Gig of a Lifetime

Sweats Connelly was having the time of his life.  He nodded to the rest of the band and played his heart out.  A glowing fog obscured the audience, but he knew they were there listening as he gave them his sweet music.

                                                 * * *

Jerome Connelly grew up under the care of his unwed mother on the hard streets of an unforgiving city.  His skin was a rich ebony, and from the time of his birth, he was rail-thin with the delicate features of a father he never knew.  His nickname was Sweats, a direct result of the mean streets he called home.  His friends gave him the name because, even on the coldest winter’s day, Jerome would arrive at school drenched in sweat.

His friends would ask, “Hey man, why you always sweating?”

He would mumble something about running late, wipe his face, and head for class.  He couldn’t tell his friends that he was sweating from fear.  The walk to school was through streets where drugs were dealt, where people were shot for no reason, where life was cheap and held no promise.

First his friends, then everyone he knew began to call him Sweats Connelly.  It wasn’t long before there was no one who called him Jerome, except for his mother. 

Sweats began playing sax in his middle school band.  He continued to play into his high school years, but alone for his own pleasure.  With money earned doing odd jobs, he managed to buy a used alto sax, which quickly became his most prized possession and his only close friend.  Hours spent playing in the safe solitude of his bedroom sharpened his skills.  He was good, and with time to focus on his playing, he knew he could be a lot better.  Now sixteen, Sweats felt he was wasting his time in class.  He had discovered the meaning of his life and none of the classes he took furthered that purpose.

Sweats returned to the small apartment he called home one day after school and carefully closed and locked the door.  His mother, Martha, suspecting that something was bothering her son for some time now, asked him, “What’s wrong Jerome?  You just not yourself lately.”

“Mom, I can’t take this shit anymore.”

“You watch your tongue,” his mother warned.

“Okay, I can’t take school anymore.  I ain’t learnin’ nothin’.  I want to play my sax, that’s all.  I’m good Mom, and someday I could make some real money.”

Jerome’s mother bristled when he talked about dropping out of school.  “I want you to do something with your life, Jerome.  Not be like the bums you see everywhere on these streets.”

Martha said to her son, “It’s against my better judgment, school is important…

“I know mom, but playing my sax is important to me.  I promise to get my GED, but I need time to practice.

“Oh, Baby,” cooed Martha.

Sweats knew he had her.

MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY

wrote the following poem in remembrance of my grandmother.

Published by New Worlds Unlimited in 1982 in their anthology, Dreams of the Heroic Muse.

ROSES

Roses were her love,

Great flowing rainbows of pink, red and white.

Her children, small strangers would come

And each take home

A fist full of gaily colored affection.

Roses were her love,

And when rest had finally come from roses

Roses were hers,

Elegant creations of empty colors

Looking out on empty eyes.

Roses were her love,

And now her small garden

Has yet to discover

A rose.

I have a few different series of posts in progress: published and unpublished poems, published and unpublished short stories and views of how life has changed looking back from old age.

You will also come across the occasional essay.

Hope you enjoy these various posts.

MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: THE WANDERER

What follows is my first published poem, published by The Shore Publishing Co. in their anthology, Shore Poetry Anthology, in 1973.

THE WANDERER

Hair matted and long

Face overgrown with mustache and beard

He walks down the city streets alone

  A broken man,

He stumbles about in the dead of night

With only a ragged coat to keep out the cold

  And cheap wine his only refuge.

Perhaps he once dreamt

  A dreamer of dreams

    And a victim of fate,

For the greatest and lowliest man are of the same stock

Dreamers all,

The only difference being God’s frown

  Or smile.

MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY

This poem was never published. I’m sure the

places where I usually sought publication would

not welcome it.  

       TWO LOVERS

She fondles the syringe

As she was once fondled

By a lover long ago

For this is her love now.

The product of her first love

Gently moves within,

The product of her new love

Scars arms and thighs.

Her child kicks,

Struggling for life,

She forgets the past

As the child is robbed of a future.

She sends her new love coursing her veins,

The child trembles then is still.

All is quiet as the night begins,

All is quiet,

As the endless night begins.

MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY

This poem was published in Quality American Poetry, 1975-1976, Book III.

The anthology was published by Valley Publications and edited by William Lloyd Griffin.

SUNDAY PARK BENCH

Alone,

Rumpled newspaper in hand

Sits the old man,

Cold morning air sends a chill

Through a heavy overcoat,

Sunday morning light filtering

Through burnished leaves of autumn

Kindling thoughts of Sundays long gone,

Waking next to his wife,

The sound of children filling the house;

Now children grown – wife gone,

Sunday mornings bring only rumpled papers

On a park bench,

MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY CLOUDS

Clouds was published in 1974.  The title of the anthology was, Quality American Poetry Book II. The title of this anthology, quite a stretch.  The publisher was Valley Publications edited by William Lloyd Griffin.

CLOUDS

I reach for clouds

High, ever so high do I soar,

Clutching – grasping – then tumbling back.

Clouds are but wisps of vapor,

Phantoms in the sky,

Who can touch a cloud?

I try – fail – then try again;

At times mind joins clouds – soaring,

While I stay behind exposed to the cold – stumbling.

One day mind and soul shall soar skyward

And beyond;

Leaving behind a shell – falling,

Never again to rise,

And reach for a cloud.

MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY

                          MY ATTEPT AT WRITING POETRY

I think, in the remote passages of my brain, I have always wanted to be a writer. There was something about holding a pencil and recording ideas and stories I found appealing.

I eventually chose science as a career. But long before I knew science was the path I would follow, I began writing. My first attempt at writing was poetry and had my first poem published while in high school. I wrote a poem for acceptance in a high school poetry anthology. My friends thought it was a good poem, but my English teacher did not. She changed the end of the poem to something I thought ruined it, but it was published.

While in college and beyond I continued and continue to write poetry. I had quite a few poems published by little-known publishers in even lesser-known publications. One publisher published at least one poem of mine in a yearly anthology for fourteen years. While publishing poetry I adhered to a principle I continue to this day. I will never pay to have something I have written published.

I now write science fiction and horror and have for the last twenty-three years, and still, the occasional poem.

What follows will be a series of published poems.

Hope you find some enjoyment in them.

THE SUPERIOR SPECIES: WHAT DID YOU THINK?

In my most recent post I concluded my unpublished short story, The Superior Species.

Did you enjoy the story?

I ask this because I have a trove of unpublished short stories. Most have been rejected by publishers. The comments I receive about The Superior Species will help me decide whether to write some of these stories on my blog. They failed the publishers test, of course, so did The Superior Species. So let me know your opinion.

On a happy note, I have recently had two short stories accepted for publication.

YELLOW MAMA accepted my short story Revenge and Redemption. The story will appear June 15 in issue 104.

Creepy Podcast accepted Beetle Mania for broadcast. I don’t know when that will occur, but as soon I find out I will let you know.

THE SUPERIOR SPECIES: PART VII, HISTORY IS REPEATED

                                  HISTORY IS REPEATED

When news of the existence of the two Neanderthal children became known to the scientific community, Gold was overwhelmed with requests to study them.  The boys were now ten and possessed all the characteristics of the typical Neanderthal physique.  They were short and extremely muscular with prominent brows and wide nose associated with their kind.  It was their mental abilities that Gold found both interesting and disturbing. 

Gold taught the boys to read.  Now they devoured books.  They were sponges for knowledge.  Fielding still visited the boys.  On one such visit he told Gold, “You know Carl, physically, the Neanderthals are developing precisely as expected.  It is their mental faculties that I find intriguing.”

“I share your amazement,” said Gold.  “They have a thirst for knowledge that far surpasses what their human contemporaries demonstrate.  It’s almost as if they are making up for thousands of years of extinction.”

                                                   * * *

  A wild storm raged as Gold drove to the Neanderthal residence.  They were fifteen now and had become something beyond human. 

Gold entered the living room to find Adam and John reading.  They were always reading.  Gold stood drenched before them.  He reached into his pocket and produced a revolver.

Adam said, “I fully expected this to happen someday.  I expected history to repeat itself.  You fear us.  I have read all that has been written about Neanderthals.  I know the conjectures your fellow scientists have about our intelligence.  I knew, early on, that you realized how wrong those theories were.

“At the same time, we both realized that you would not accept us as merely different.  Because of your human egos, we appear threatening, superior.  John and I are ready to accept the only outcome this experiment could produce.”

Gold shot twice with the realization that he was the savage were and the Neanderthals were the superior species.

                                                   THE END

THE SUPERIOR SPECIES: PART VI, REALIZATION

                                           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.