Walt Trizna's Blog, page 44

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You remember when banks gave away small appliances, such as toasters, to those starting new accounts.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You dwell on the past more than the future.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You read the birthdays of the day in your local newspaper for celebrities and those famous and you realize you recognize most of those over 50 years old, but very few under 50.

THE DREAM CATCHER, A HORROR COMEDY

This story was accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in December 2011.  My dreams are still quite vivid. 

               THE DREAM CATCHER

               Based on a true dream

Walt was a dreamer, but on occasion, there were consequences.

His wife, Joni, yelled, “Knock it off.”  It was the dead of night, about 3 AM, and approaching winter.  Thank God the windows were closed, or the neighbors might have gotten the wrong idea.

Joni often shouted, “Knock it off,” or “Leave me alone,” no matter what the level of the windows.  However, their two cats were usually the problem, either trying to sleep beside her or getting into a scuffle.  But in the wee hours of the morning, Walt was usually the guilty party.

Walt had a most active imagination, both day and night, and night was the problem.  Day was good; as a writer, when his imagination was working at full steam ahead, that was beneficial.  At night, full-steam-ahead was a drawback, especially for Joni.  His dreams were beyond vivid; they were an alternate life.  He remembered them in great detail.  Some he could recall clearly and think about them when awake.  There were nights when he would revisit a location from past dreams to experience new adventures. 

On one particular night, the basis of this story, in his dream Walt attended a baseball game.  Sitting along the first base line, he hoped to snag a foul ball.  The problem was that none came anywhere near him, and the game was half over.  Then it began; they started coming his way.  The balls, arching over the spectators, had a dream-like quality.  (Wonder why?)  Try as he might, Walt could not catch one.  They sailed by just out of reach or were caught by someone else before he had a chance.  For some strange reason, every time he tried to catch a ball he would hit the head of a blond-headed man sitting in front of him.  After this occurred a few times, he heard the cry, “Knock it off!”

Walt had constantly been rubbing Joni’s head.

He sheepishly said, “I’m sorry,” and went back to sleep.

The following morning, over breakfast, he related his dream.  Joni more or less took it in stride for he’d been known to react to dreams with her on the receiving end.  We won’t go into how many times he dreamt he fell over a wall and wound up on the floor with a crash.  Walt was not a small person.  While they were eating, he joked, “Tonight I’m taking my softball glove to bed.”

Joni rolled her eyes, told him in no uncertain terms what she thought of the idea, and went to work.

That afternoon Walt rummaged through the garage until he found his old glove.  When night came, he waited until Joni was in the bathroom and gently placed the glove between their pillows.

As she prepared to climb into bed, she saw the glove, shook her head, and said, “You’re nuts.”

With lights out, Walt hoped to return to the game.  Before long, he was once again seated near first base.  Soon the foul balls began coming his way.  One after another, his glove met them all.  He was a catching machine.  He couldn’t miss.  That night Joni had a good night’s sleep.  No mussing her hair.

Walt awoke refreshed with his glove on his hand.  “Must have put it on during the night,” he said to himself.  He got out of bed and immediately crashed to the floor, stumbling on the scattered baseballs.

Joni peered over the edge of the bed.  “Not again,” she said.  “This has got to stop.

“Remember the time you dreamed about trapping skunks?  It took us a month to fumigate the house.”

That night, Joni had an idea.  She waited until Walt began snoring, and then began quietly whispering over and over, “Electronics, money.  Electronics, money.”

                                                      THE END

YOU KNOW YOU’R GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You remember when airmail stamps existed.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You read obituaries of those who died at or around you age to see what they did with their time.

BALANCE, A HORROR SHORT STORY

 Balance was accepted for publication by Necrology Shorts in January 2010

It is a story where good intentions go horribly wrong.                                                                                                           

                                                                Balance

Nijo London pounded on the door of her small cell – her world now for over a year – until her fists bled.  “Let me out!” she screamed although she knew her plea would go unanswered.  She stepped back and studied the door covered with dark brown outlines of her fists from past attempts to summon help.  She was not sure why she was being held captive, but there were times she was not sure she wanted to know.

Nijo was thirty-five of medium height and slender, with close-cropped black hair and startling blue eyes.  She was slender now because of her imprisonment, but she once drifted up and down in her weight.  After each of her two pregnancies, the pounds tended to remain more than being shed.

It had been a year since she last saw the sun.  No one would speak to her, let alone answer her questions.  But she heard occasional conversations through her door.  There was hushed talk of brutal murders.  One time she thought she heard the mention of cannibalism, but she couldn’t be sure.

Surely these conversations could not be connected to Nijo; she was a nurse and devoted her life to caring for the sick.  But she had vague memories that she didn’t understand; flashes of perception that were more than disturbing.  They were horrifying.  There was also some connection with these horrors to ancient rituals of healing she had tried to incorporate into her practice.  Nijo also recalled the most unsettling consequence of using these ancient rights: the complete loss of memory after she used the power.

                                                           * * *

Nijo had been content with her life.  Her husband, Jim, was a hard-working engineer and provided a good life for her and their two daughters, Kim, age two, and Heather, age four.  She was a nurse, and didn’t need to work, but she loved her profession and could not imagine life without nursing.  When caring for the sick, she felt complete.  To serve the patients most in need of her skills, she chose hospice nursing, and with that decision she would do a great deal of good but also seal her fate. 

The patients she encountered had the most urgent care requirements.  They required comfort along the road toward their death.  And Nijo provided help along that road with care and compassion.  But, deep inside she felt she was not doing enough to ease the suffering of the dying.

It was shortly after this feeling of inadequacy began that she met Robbie.  Robbie, Roberta, was a hospice nurse working at the same agency.  She was older than Nijo, blond, tall and had a striking presence of authority whenever she entered the room of a patient.  Extremely competent in her discipline, she used all the skills at her command to ease the fears and pain of the dying.  It was Robbie’s knowledge of a little recognized discipline that would determine Nijo’s future.

Robbie and Nijo became close friends.  One day Nijo asked, “There are times I feel I could do more for my patients.  Robbie, your patients seem to possess an inner peace different from those I work with.  What do you do for them that I don’t?”

Robbie replied, “I’ve learned to use a healing method called Reiki.  When you use this discipline, power comes through your hands as you work with the patient to help heal and provide a feeling of peace.  For some patients it works, for some it doesn’t, but in our profession, you do what you must to ease pain and suffering.”

Nijo took some Reiki classes with Robbie and began to see the benefits of this mystical approach to helping the dying.  However, the success rate was less than she had hoped for, that’s when she asked Robbie, “Is there anything more I can do?  Is there another step beyond Reiki?”

Robbie hesitated, and then answered, “There is a force beyond Reiki, but it is dangerous.  There are consequences to the practitioner if it is used.  You might say, when you use this power, there are debts to be paid.  I’ve never had the nerve to pursue it.”

Nijo responded, “If we can comfort the dying, no debt is too much.  Will you tell me what this method is called?”

“It is called Mejocuthru.  No one knows its origin.  Even its most practiced masters seldom use this power.  They fear it.”

Nijo asked Robbie, “Who are these masters?  How can I meet them?”

Robbie paused, and then said, “I once asked the same questions and was led to a master.  But what she told me stopped me from asking more.”

“What did this master tell you?”

“She said that with every use of Mejocuthru you must do the equivalent amount of harm to match the good you accomplished.”

Now it was Nijo’s turn to hesitate.  She thought for a while, and then said, “If there is something out there that will help me with my patients, I would like to at least look into it.  How can I meet this master?”

Robbie replied, “I shouldn’t have told you about Mejocuthru.  It’s dangerous.”

“Look, Robbie, you know the type of patients we deal with.  For the most part, their lives are full of pain and suffering, not to mention the emotional strain on their families.  I would do anything to help these people.  To be honest, I’m surprised you have not used this discipline.”

Robbie thought for a moment and considered how persuasive the master had been against her learning Mejocuthru.  She thought the master would also be able to discourage Nijo, so reluctantly, she gave Nijo the master’s address.

                                                           * * *

It was weeks before Nijo had time to search out the Mejocuthru master.  The workload was unusually heavy and her kids were sick so when she wasn’t caring for her patients she was nursing her children.

One sunny cold Saturday afternoon she asked Jim to watch the girls.  “I’ve got some errands to run.  Would you mind staying home with the kids?”

Jim looked up from the college football game he was watching and said, “No problem.  On your way home, why don’t you pick up a pizza for dinner?”  He returned to the game as his wife closed the front door.

She made her way to the address Robbie supplied.  It was in the Chinese section of town.  She consulted a city map and had no trouble locating the home of the Mejocuthru master.  She pulled up in front of the building and was momentarily confused, “This can’t be the right address,” she said to herself.  The building housed a Chinese restaurant.  In the window of the grimy building was a row of cured ducks hung by their necks, suspended over oriental fruit and vegetables.  Above were apartments, but the doorway leading upstairs displayed a different number.

Nijo went into the restaurant and was immediately approached by a waiter who asked in a heavy accent, “Can I seat you?”  The room smelled of exotic sauces and spices.  Clouds had darkened the afternoon sky, and the room appeared not to absorb what little light that filtered through the dirty front window.  The few customers present were seated in the darkness muttering in Asian dialects.

Nijo said, “I was given this address by a friend.  I’ve come to see the Mejocuthru master.”

The waiter’s expression changed from neutral to one of malice.  “That is not possible,” he said.  “Who sent you here?”

She gave him Robbie’s name.  A brief look of recognition passed over his face.

“Sit here,” he growled, pointing to the area reserved for take-out customers and disappeared through a beaded curtain leading to the kitchen.  Sometime later he reemerged, perspiring heavily. He had the same countenance of anger, but now he also bore a hint of uncertainty.

In a gruff voice, he said, “Follow me.”

The waiter led Nijo through the beaded curtain and into the kitchen where a host of Chinese cooks shouted to one another in their sing-song language.  Here the exotic smell of the food was overpowering.  Hurriedly, Nijo was shown to the rear of the room to a flight of stairs leading to the basement.  The steps leading into the darkness were wooden and well-worn.  In the faint light from an occasional bare bulb, Nijo found herself walking through a maze of tiny storerooms containing shelves of cans displaying Asian characters and jar upon jar of spices.  One room was reserved for nothing but tea; another for huge bags of rice.  He led Nijo to the darkest recesses of the cellar and a rust-stained metal door.  He unlocked a heavy bolt and motioned Nijo inside.  Immediately after she entered, the door was locked behind her.  Her nostrils were attacked by the heavy smell of incense.  Behind a single wavering candle flame appeared to be a pile of rags.  Then the rags began to move, becoming a solitary figure surrounded by cushions.  Even after her eyes had adjusted, Nijo could only make out a shadowy figure.

In perfect English, without the hint of an accent, the specter motioned to the pile of cushions and said, “Come here, child, and sit.”

The voice was that of a woman and was gentle but with an undertone of despair.  Now seated, Nijo could begin to discern the woman’s features.  Her face was a mass of wrinkles with deep-set slanted eyes, a flat nose and small mouth.

“My name is Maggie Wu,” said the woman.  “I have been a prisoner in this room for many years.  It is a painful, lonely existence, one I wish I could end, but I am powerless to do so.”

Nijo asked, “Why are you held prisoner?  Are these people holding you hostage?”

The old woman answered, “I do not know why I am here.  They say I did terrible things, but I don’t recall.  I have had visitors, but they were either curious or vengeful.  This has been my existence for more years than I can remember.  “What brings you here, my child?”

Nijo answered, “A friend of mine and I have been practicing Reiki to help our patients.  We are hospice nurses and have had some success in relieving some of their pain, but nothing consistent.  I asked my friend, Robbie, if there was some stronger discipline we could use with more power and more certainty.  Reluctantly, she told me about Mejocuthru and how to find you.  She said there were risks but I would risk anything to help my patients.”

“Would you, my dear?  I recall your friend.  You must have been very persuasive, for not only did I deter her from using Mejocuthru but made her swear not to tell anyone of my existence.”

Nijo said, “I was rather relentless in my questioning.  Do not be mad at Robbie.  Please agree to teach me.”

The old woman reached out her gnarled hands to Nijo.  “Give me your hands,” she ordered.

Nijo extended her hands and felt a strange tingle when they were held by the woman.

The woman said, “You have a deep desire to heal.  I have never experienced this power in another.  Perhaps you could control the power of Mejocuthru.  I will tell you my history; then we will see.

“I was a healer taught by healers from the old country.  They said I had many natural abilities and revealed to me powers and cures unknown in this country.  I did much good for the Chinese community, but I felt I wasn’t doing enough, that there was a further step I could take.”

“I have the same feelings,” said Nijo, “that there is something beyond the Reiki I use.”

The old woman shook her head in disgust.  “Reiki is for amateurs, a weak discipline practiced by weak people.  Mejocuthru is where the real power lies.  With Mejocuthru you can perform miracles.  The old masters warned me of dangers, of doing well but of also doing evil. But I accepted the power.  I raised the dead.  It was only then I realized the power I possessed.

“The old masters said I would perform unspeakable acts if I used this knowledge.  After I began to cure using Mejocuthru, the only problem I encountered was the loss of memory after healing.  Soon after I raised a young woman from death I was imprisoned and have been here ever since.  I long to be free.  No one will explain why I am here, but I know I did some good and that is what is important.  Those thoughts are what keep me alive.”

Nijo said, “I do not understand how such a great healing tool can do evil.  I want to learn.  I want to possess this power.”

The old woman smiled and said, “I will teach you.  There is a chant you must learn.  One that will release the powers of Mejocuthru into the people you touch to heal the disease that sickens them.

“Come, child.  Lean forward and I will whisper the chant so that you may heal the sick.”

Nijo leaned close to the ancient healer.  The old woman spoke the chant into Nijo’s ear.  When the lesson was finished, the old woman told Nijo, “You are now a Mejocuthru healer.  Go and help the sick; the power is yours.”

As soon as she said these words, the old woman’s images appeared to waiver; then slowly fade.  Before Nijo’s disbelieving eyes, there appeared a boiling black cloud where the woman had been.  Rather than dissipating, the cloud began to fall into itself.  It became constantly smaller until all that remained was a solitary black dot hovering above the candle.  Then it was gone.

Nijo shuddered and rose from the cushions.  She had no idea what she had just witnessed, however, she felt a new sense of power that was pleasurable, that needed to be shared.  She pounded on the door to be released.  The door was opened by the waiter who had led her to the room.  Nijo said, “I am finished here,” and walked past the man.  After a minute or so, his eyes began to adjust to the darkened room.  The chamber was empty.  He searched the small room in disbelief and horror.

                                                           * * *

After arriving home, Nijo called Robbie.  The excitement in Nijo’s voice was obvious; a flash of fear crossed Robbie’s mind.  Nijo said, “I saw her, the Mejocuthru master.  She told me her secrets and then…”

“And then what?” asked Robbie.

In all honesty, Nijo had no idea what she had witnessed.  The woman had disappeared.  Was this part of the associated curse?  Nijo quickly steered the conversation away from the old woman.  “I can feel the tingle of this new power in my body,” said Nijo.  “I feel I must use it soon.”

The opportunity soon presented itself.  Nijo was assigned a patient, Mary Littlecroft, age twenty-six, suffering from bone cancer.  Chemotherapy did not provide a cure and her right leg was to be amputated.  Mary was heartbroken when told the news.  When Nijo came to visit, Mary cried, “I can’t bear the thought of losing my leg.  I’ve always been athletic – a runner.  I know I’ll survive without my leg, that many people with cancer have no hope at all.  I know I’m being selfish, but if I lose my leg…”

Nijo tried to console Mary.  After a few visits, Nijo noticed something.  Every time she came near the young woman, she felt a tingle she knew was the force of Mejocuthru inside of her waiting to be released.  Nijo finally decided to use her healing power on Mary. 

After lowering the lights, Nijo approached Mary’s bed and quietly said, “I want to try something I learned.  I have never used it before.  There should be no pain.  It might not work, but I’d like to try.”

Mary said, “I have nothing to lose but my leg.  Try anything you want.”

Nijo placed her hands on Mary’s leg.  Blue-white sparks danced from her fingertips.  Mary groaned, but it was not one of pain but of pleasure.  Mary said, “I feel something in my leg that is overcoming the dull pain I feel constantly.”  As tears welled in her eyes, she continued, “My leg has not felt like this for a long time.”  She pushed away the covers and stood; then walked.  That was when the flow of tears became a flood.  Mary cried, “I don’t know what you did, Nijo, but something wonderful has happened to my leg.  What did you do?”

With an amazed voice, Nijo said, “I learned a new healing discipline.  You are the first person I have tried it on.”

To that Mary said, “You have a gift, a healing gift.  Thank you so much.”

Nijo was unsure what to say.  She had no idea her experience with Mejocuthru would be so positive so quickly.  Could this power reverse the cancer or just provide momentary comfort?  Nijo said good-bye to her patient, and then walked to her car.  She felt a strange emptiness and decided to take a walk along the darkened streets before she returned home.  It was something she needed to do.  She put her nursing bag in her car and then began walking.  After a few steps she blacked out and did not come to again until she was sitting in her car.  Not knowing what had happened, she felt uncomfortable about the blackout.  Nothing like this had ever happened before.  She went home, kissed her husband, and played with the girls after dinner.  It was still early when she told Jim, “I’m drained.  I think I’ll go to bed early.”

“No problem,” answered Jim.  “I’ll put the girls to bed soon and then maybe read for awhile.”

The next morning Jim leafed through the local paper.  The rag was a joke in the community.  The stories they published were often confusing, and occasionally, made no sense at all.  As he read the paper, Jim was known to often shout, “Doesn’t anyone proof-read this stuff?  It’s a joke.”

As he sat at the breakfast table, a small article caught his attention.  As Nijo entered the kitchen, he said, “Listen to this.  Last night someone leapt out of some bushes and struck a young woman in the leg, breaking it.  It was near where you saw a patient yesterday.  You better be careful in that neighborhood.”

“That’s strange,” said Nijo.  “It’s such a quiet community.”  She began to cook breakfast and quickly forgot about the article.

Over the next few weeks, Nijo used her Mejocuthru powers on patients whose lives were so full, yet were racked by pain and the specter of death.  Every time she practiced this ancient right she blacked-out.  Blacking out was the side effect she associated with her healing.

Then the event occurred that would change her life forever.  She had a patient, a young woman of thirty, pregnant with twins and found to have colon cancer.  She needed chemotherapy, and without it, would surely die.  But the therapy would destroy the twins.  Nijo was assigned the case.  Her patient, Julie, refused the chemo.

“I could not go on with my life if it would cost the lives of my babies,” she told Nijo.

Nijo could feel the stress Julie and her husband, Jonathan, were under.  She kept her powers in check, hoping for some miracle, until she realized she was their only hope.  The tingling had also begun, more intense than ever before.

Then one day she went to visit Julie and could tell the end was near, probably in a matter of hours.  Nijo felt a compassion she could not overcome.  She needed to do something to save this young family.  She needed to use her powers.  Sitting next to Julie, she put one hand on the woman’s head and one on her belly, while she recited the Mejocuthru chant.  Feeling a power she had never experienced, she continued to chant with a voice that soon filled the house.

Jonathan became concerned and entered the bedroom.  He found Julie sitting up in bed, resting against the pillows and smiling as she clutched her belly.  He next gazed at Nijo.  She had a vacant stare, walked past him and left the house.

Nijo had used the full force of her powers.  She remained in a trance for months after the healing.  Little did she realize that the consequence of using so much power would destroy her life and that of her family.

When Nijo returned home after the healing, neighbors reported hearing ungodly screams coming from the home and called the police.  They arrived, but it was too late.  Nijo sat amid the carnage that was once her family.  Veteran officers were sickened by what they saw.  After a short trial, Nijo was committed to an insane asylum.  This was where she returned from her blackout.

                                                           * * *

There was a recent nursing graduate, Debbie, who was assigned to Nijo’s wing in the asylum.  Being new, she had not yet developed the thick skin necessary to deal with some of the patients.  She had been told to never talk to this particular patient, told she was too dangerous.  One night she approached the cell with dinner, and instead of just leaving it, said, “Here’s dinner,” out of force of habit.

Nijo ran to the door.  No one ever spoke to her.  “Thank you,” Nijo replied.

Debbie said, “I was told not to talk to you.  I’m sorry,” then turned to leave.

“I’m not insane,” answered Nijo, “just confused.  I’ve been confused for a long time.”

“Why are you here?” asked Debbie.

“I’m not sure, but you are the first nurse that has talked to me.  I have a special healing power and am no longer allowed to use it.”

“What sort of power?”

“There is a chant I know that can cure anything you wish to cure.  It may cause you to blackout, but it would be a waste to have it die with me.  Could I tell you about it?”

Debbie listened to Nijo’s story about the old Chinese woman and the chant she learned.  She then asked, “Could you teach me how to use this power?  I want to help the sick, that’s why I’m a nurse.”

Nijo leaned close to the small opening in the door of her cell and revealed to Debbie the chant.  Debbie immediately felt a tingling over her entire body.  She knew something had happened, and then said, “Thank you, Nijo.  I know I can do well with what I feel.”

But Nijo never heard Debbie’s thanks.  Her body separated into countless particles yet remained united in their intelligence.  Her body became a dark boiling cloud which soon concentrated into an indigo point and disappeared.  This was the dark, the evil consumed by the power of the owner to heal.  This was the balance.  Nijo felt herself drifting, leaving the Earth behind; searching for the next level as she being dissipated in space.

                                                  THE END

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You remember when the TV stopped working and you called for a repairman to come and fix it. This was before every appliance was disposable – they were repaired. And you dreaded the chance that the repairman might say, “I have to take it to the shop”.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You remember a time when ballpoint pens did not exist. If you wanted to write in ink you used a fountain pen which you loaded with ink. When ballpoint pens did make their appearance, they were not disposable. When you ran out of ink you bought a refill.

SNOW, A WINTER POEM

I offer this poem, for obvious reasons, when it snows. In the area of Pennsylvania where I live, we have just had our first measurable snow in almost two years. So, it’s time has once again arrived.

This poem was inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s, The Bells.

           THE SNOW

See the delicate snowflakes fall,

Falling, falling, falling.

Whitening the earth, waiting below,

Falling, falling, falling.

See the mounds of glittering white,

Building, building, building.

As they hide the ground from our sight,

Building, building, building.

See the ceaseless falling snow,

Falling, falling, falling.

Will it stop, no one quite knows,

Falling, falling, falling.

See the drifts accumulate,

Building, building, building.

My longing for spring intensely waits,

Building, building, building.

SEE THE DAMNED WHITE BLANKET GROW,

HIDING, HIDING, HIDING.

MY CAR, MY LAWN, ALL I KNOW,

HIDING, HIDING, HIDING.

SEE MY MADNESS, MY URGE TO KILL,

GROWING, GROWING, GROWING,

CROSS MY PATH, AND I’LL DO YOU ILL,

SMILING, SMILING, SMILING.