When I think of ‘Walmart,’ I don’t think of ‘green’

Walmart is America’s store, isn’t that right?

At any Small Town, USA, you are likely to see a VGW hall, a Sunoco station, and a Walmart. Inside, you’ll find lots of red, white and blue amongst the $3.58 cases of Sam’s Club sodas. Walmart has staked its claim to the values embodied by rural America: community, fairness, and hard work.

At the soon-to-be-vacant Walmart on Mary Esther Cut-Off, you can see these values articulated on mission statements that hang above the shopping cart stall just inside the entrance.

Incredibly, you can also read about Walmart’s commitment to the environment. Walmart, the statement boasts, likes “to leave each community a little greener than we found it.”

(In fact, Walmart will hold a “town meeting” on April 22, Earth Day, to choose an environmental project its workers can perform for the following year.)

Now, I am as guilty as the next person of saving money at Walmart. Just the other night, I bought a battery for my car’s keyless entry system. The young fellow behind the camera counter dismantled my unit and replaced the battery for me. Walmart has always employed courteous workers.

So it is with a certain sense of misgiving that I hold my nose and gag when talk turns to Walmart’s commitment to the environment. “Walmart” and “green” do not leap to mind in any word-association test.

To be honest, when I think of Walmart, at least in an environmental context, I think of that ugly scar on Beal Parkway in Wright that was once a wooded lot and will soon become another warehouse-style hulk while its predecessor sits empty on Mary Esther Cut-Off.

I think of a huge gash bulldozed out of a unique and irreplaceable scrub forest east of Destin, and then a short time later, the building abandoned as a new and even bigger gash is taken out of the woodlands right next door for a Walmart Supercenter.

I also think of a Walmart building in DeFuniak Springs going unoccupied for two years as a new super store is built in the same town. (Walton County has agreed, in principle, to buy the building for office space.)

And I think of Walmart’s neighbors in anta Rosa County pleading with the store to tone down its garden center and parking lot lighting, and the store doing nothing – for months – until the County Commission threatened to withhold its certificate of occupancy, which they granted only minutes before the grand opening in January.

When I think of Walmart, I think of low prices and courteous employees.

But I also think of acres and acres of asphalt.

I think of a company that roars into town, plows down the woodlands, constructs its buildings, and shuts them down to build new and bigger buildings.

This strikes me as unconscionable waste and consumption.

But at least you can buy a case of house brand sodas for under $4. I suppose that’s what counts.

I have a suggestion for Walmart’s environmental project: Rewrite your company’s mission statement to say, “When we arrive in a community, we will build our store and STAY THERE. Amen.”

Unless it’s a different kind of “green” Walmart is talking about.

This column was originally published in the March 18, 1998 edition of the Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

Despite the name "Golden Girl" appearing near the nose of this B-24, it's real name is "All American" and was operated by the Collings Foundation of Massachusetts. The author flew aboard the "All American" on a hop from Panama City to Crestview in March 1998. Image courtesy of Del Stone Jr.

On March 4 it was my honor to fly aboard the “All American,” the world’s only operational B-24 Liberator. This World War II-era bomber, restored and operated by the Collings Foundation of Stowe, Mass., flew from Panama City Airport to Bob Sikes Airport in Crestview along with the “Nine-O-Nine,” a similarly restored B-17.

This is what our flight was like:

As you stand in the prop wash of those big Pratt & Whitney engines, memories that aren’t even yours blow over you: strains of Benny Goodman and images of skinny 19-year-olds in flak vests and a fervent wish that no matter what happens, the old girl is good for one more ride.

You crawl through a hatch on the bottom of the fuselage. Your first impression is that this is not your father’s Oldsmobile – it’s your grandfather’s.

Virtually everything that is covered up, carpeted or padded in a commercial airliner is laid out for all the world to see – steel ribs, control cables, ammo boxes, oxygen tanks, rotating gun turrets – everything.

They fire up the engines and clouds of white exhaust sweep into the wash, something called “churn and burn,” according to a former tail gunner who’d come out to see her take off. It’s oil that seeped into the cylinders. It burns off.

Once all four engines are running cleanly you taxi out to the runway. The engine noise is deafening – you have to shout at the guy sitting next to you to make yourself heard.

When they throttle up to take off, she sprints down the runway with amazing power. The landscape rushes by with increasing velocity, the sound of the wind grows louder, and the old girl bounds into the air.

This is flying like you’ve never experienced. The waist gun ports, about the size of your refrigerator door, are totally open. Stick your head out there and see what 300 mph feels like.

You have to be careful where you step. The bomb bay doors, for instance, are designed to tear away if something heavy – like you – falls on them. Slip off the narrow catwalk and there’s nothing between you and the ground but 2,000 feet of Northwest Florida afternoon.

Wind howls through the aft part of the airplane. The cold is amazing. You think of those kids in their fleece-lined jackets, aiming .50-calibers at incoming fighters, and you wonder how in the name of God they did it.

The trip takes an hour. When you get to Crestview, you come in at treetop level and buzz the airport. The world spins crazily as you climb and simultaneously bank for the go-around to land.

You get out and pat her on the fuselage and tell her, “Good airplane,” and two important changes have taken place over the afternoon.

Now that you’ve had a taste of what it was like to fly in these airplanes, you have a new awe and respect for the men who flew them into war.

And maybe you’re a little said that never, not in your entire life, will you ever do anything as fine as what those men did.

But you have done something that not many people will get to do anymore. You flew aboard a B-24 Liberator.

The old girl was good for one more ride.

This column was originally published in the Wednesday, March 11, 1998 edition of the Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

Julie Coble (in purple shirt) is serenaded by a gorilla during a birthday celebration at Lucky Strike Lanes in 1996. Image by Del Stone Jr.

In September 1991, I joined the Friday Nite Early Mixers, a bowling league headquartered at Lucky Strike Lanes in Fort Walton Beach.

That first night was a lesson in humility for me. My brand-new ball wouldn’t hit the big side of a barn, I couldn’t keep score fast enough. And there was this woman who kept laughing. …

She laughed all night long – a trail of unconstrained mirth that caused everyone around her to laugh, too. I went home with the certainty that whoever she was, she was having a darned good time.

Later, I would learn her name.

Julie Coble.

Later still we’d bowl on the same team. We’d bowl in tournaments. We’d hang out, talk on the phone, and do all the tings good friends do.

I’m one of hundreds of people who can say that about Julie. She was everybody’s friend, and that’s why she laughed. Her heart held that much.

She was a terrific bowler. She threw a backup ball that would slide into the 1-2 pocket and produce a lethal scattering of pins. But you wouldn’t ask her to pick up the 7 pin. Her ball would either drop into the gutter or slide to the right.

The pin she made sure to get was the 5 pin, the one right in the middle. The “sex” pin. Pick up the 5 pin, and romance was in your immediate future. Miss it, and you’d be sleeping on the couch. She rarely missed it.

We teased her about that, a subject that elicited embarrassed peals of laughter and a blushing, unspoken acknowledgement that there were some things she wouldn’t share, not even with her very good friends. And being her very good friends, we teased her even more.

But Julie was more than our bowling friend.

She was a wife and a mother. She was an award-winning newspaper carrier. She had an uncanny knack for winning games of chance, like bingo, raffles and cards.

She could pick up at 4-10 split, or take on a lame tournament partner and roll a 600 series.

Best of all, give her a bowling alley full of grouchy people, and she’d have ’em laughing till they cried. She knew, and loved, everybody. And everybody knew, and loved, her.

About two years ago, Julie discovered she had inoperable cancer. The news cast a pall over the bowling alley.

But Julie simply carried on. This would not stop her, and indeed, it did not. Until a short while ago, she appeared at the bowling alley every Friday night, laughing and bowling. When the chemo took her hair, she got a wig and kept right on going. When she could no longer heft her 14-pound ball, she bought a lighter ball.

Through the worst of everything, she laughed. It was a humbling thing to see. Her heart was larger than any of us could imagine.

Julie died Saturday night. She would have been 46 on March 18.

It is impossible to remember Julie without remembering how much she loved this world and her life. We are all sad, but somehow, as I think about her, I find myself trying to smile.

Whenever Julie told somebody goodbye, she’d sign off with, “See ya, Sweetie.”

So for all of us, I say:

We’ll see ya.

Sweetie.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

Image courtesy of Picryl under a Creative Commons license.

Greetings from Stockholm, where I am receiving the Nobel Prize for chemistry. I thought invite you, but only people with IQs above 185 are allowed.

I have been very busy the past year. I not only conquered my fear of flying but obtained my commercial airline pilot’s license, which enabled me to ferry the president and his concubine aboard the Concorde on a fact-finding tour of Bali.

And that little weight problem I grappled with last year? Not only did I get back into shape, I recently posed for the Mr. November foldout of the Undergear catalog. Good thing my washboard abs were honed to a glistening edge by my personal trainer, Arnold Schwarzenegger.

My goal for the coming year is to occupy the top 10 positions on the New York Times best seller list – simultaneously.

My wife, Carolyn Murphy, the supermodel, finished that shoot in Milan and came home to complete her doctorate’s – magna cum laude, of course – in quantum mechanics. She will complete her Grand Unification Theory aboard the International Space Station, once she’s finished carving that sculpture of the president into Mount Rushmore.

Our daughter, Zelda, recently won the best actress Academy Award for her portrayal of Juliet Capulet in James Cameron’s new movie, “Shakespeare vs. The Terminator,” which grossed over $2 billion in worldwide ticket receipts. Now it’s back to Oxford – assuming they grant her tenure. If not, she’s been asked to serve a term as prime minister of Japan.

Meanwhile, our son Abercrombie defeated the Russian Federation representative for the world chess crown and recently established radio contact with the Antareans, a race of superbeings who inhabit a distant planet and have promised to share their secrets of immortality and galactic peace with humanity. He’s a clever scamp. Now if I could only get him to make his bed!

Even the family dog, Clytemnestra, has news. She received a presidential citation for leading the passengers and crew of a grounded cruise liner to safety, and recently disarmed a gang of thugs trying to make off with the Spode. If you see her story on “60 Minutes” pay close attention to the tile in the entryway – it’s Tuscany, and I quarried, cut, polished laid it myself (with a little help from Bob Vila).

Lastly, our house has been declared a national sanctuary by federal wildlife officials after a rare orchid, thought to have been extinct 100 million years ago, was discovered growing in our back yard amidst the kiwi grove.

Well, enough about me and my family. How was your tawdry, hollow shell of an existence for the year?

This column was originally published in the Dec. 3, 1997 edition of the Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, Ello and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

Image courtesy of Del Stone Jr.

Today’s cat itinerary:

5 a.m. – Sit outside the big guy’s door and meow frantically as if to shout, “The house is on fire!” When he’s standing in front of you, wild-eyed and hair sticking out at crazy angles and screaming, “What’s the matter, kitty?” stare at him blankly. Then walk away.

5:15 a.m. – Go spelunking inside the couch, using the entrance you just created by sharpening your claws.

5:30 a.m. – Make sure all the dirty dishes in the sink are licked clean.

6 a.m. – The big guy just got out of the shower. Lap up all the water in the bottom of the bathtub. Then take a long swig from the toilet.

6:30 a.m. – The big guy just got back from jogging and he’s all sweaty. Leap into his arms and rub all over him, especially if you’re shedding.

7 a.m. – Meow piteously as if you were starving, as he replaces the dry food in your dish with NEW dry food. Look at it. Walk away.

7:30 a.m. – He’s brushing you. For no reason whatsoever, BITE him.

8 a.m. – He’s leaving for work. Follow him to the door. Gaze up at him with that I-Know-You’re-Leaving-And-I’ll-Be-Here-All-Day-Alone-But-I-Guess-It-Beats-The-Kitty-Gas-Chamber-Down-At-PAWS look.

8:01 a.m. – He’s gone, thank God. Thought he’d NEVER leave. Now, down to business.

8:15 a.m. – Traipse across all the cabinets, the kitchen table, the stereo, the TV, and all the other places you’re not allowed to go when the big guy is here.

8:30 a.m. – Sharpen your claws on the BACK of the stereo speaker so the big guy won’t see it until they replace the carpeting.

9 a.m. – Wallow in that basket of fresh laundry, getting cat hair on his dress pants and work shirts.

9:30 a.m. – Take a break.

Noon – Have a brunch of VCR wiring.

1 p.m. – Practice rappelling down his collection of Polo shirts hanging in the closet.

2 p.m. – Uh oh. It’s hairball time. Find a nice clean spot on the carpet.

3 p.m. – Climb upside down on the bottom of the box springs, ripping the fabric in the process.

4 p.m. – Find the one breakable item in the house and accidentally knock it off the shelf, breaking it. Hide the pieces under the couch. The big guy will find it next time he moves.

5 p.m. – A door slams. It’s the big guy! He’s home. Hooray!

5:10 p.m. – Saunter downstairs to see what the big guy’s doing. Don’t be TOO friendly – he doesn’t need to think he’s wanted … very much.

6 p.m. – Hey! A strange cat approaches the sliding glass door. Bow up, raise your hackles, spit, hiss, then fight with the interloper through the screen door.

7 p.m. – the big guy is on the phone, which means he’s not lavishing attention on you. Look him squarely in the eye, rake your claws across the couch and run like hell.

8 p.m. – He finally sits down. Good. You needed a warm lap to curl up on and sleep. He really is good for something.

About that photo … Jason’s off the hook. I was within a hairsbreadth of publishing the photo when a rush of nay votes spared Jason the indignity of having his, uh, girlish figure displayed before all. Next time, I’ll ask for our readers’ forgiveness, not their permission. Got it, Jason?

This column was originally published in the November 5, 1997 Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, Ello and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

Image courtesy of Credo Entertainment Group and USA Pictures.

“Trucks” stars Timothy Busfield as Ray, Brenda Blake as Hope, Brendan Fletcher as Logan, Amy Stewart as Abby, and others. Directed by Chris Thomson. Rated PG-13 with a 95-minute run time. See it on Amazon Prime, Tubi, Apple TV and Vudu.

Mladen’s take

To recuperate my manliness after Del forced me to watch and review “Barbie” and “Wham!,” I made him watch 1997’s “Trucks.” And, what a film it is. From its big rig practical effects to the bonkers scene involving a Tonka-looking radio-controlled toy truck, the movie plows through your disbelief and eye rolling like a convoy of rabid Teamsters through a school zone.

Here, feel free to skip to the next paragraph. Del wants a movie summary in each review, so I’m giving you one, like it or not. “Trucks” is based on a Stephen King short story. In “Trucks,” trucks come alive, herding people into crappy buildings in a dusty town not far from Area 51. The trucks terrorize the huddled humans and, when needed, run over or otherwise murder a few. The self-driving, bloodthirsty machines, who talk to each other by flashing their headlights and switching windshield wipers on and off, are animated by … I’m not sure. The victims talk about mysterious satellite dishes erected at the nearby Air Force base, aliens attracted to Earth by SETI, a stolen election for president, the contents of Hunter Biden’s laptop, and, wait, I think I’m confusing one government conspiracy with another.

“Trucks” has flaws that go unremedied. There’s no nudity. The swearing is mild. The violence is not as graphic as it could’ve been, though the fire axe-wielding hazmat suit scene in a disaster response van is pretty damn terrific. And, let’s not forget the toy truck and mailman incident that unfolds about half-way through the film. It’s imaginative. It’s ridiculous. It’s carnage laced. In short, it’s perfect.

“Trucks” also has flaws that get remedied. For example, the killer trucks are autonomous but have no way of refueling themselves. So, through much of the film, I’m like, “Stupid rednecks, sit tight until the monstrous machines run out of gas.” Then comes along our principal scared, bewildered, and desperate protagonist (“Ray” portrayed by Timothy Busfield) who notices that the trucks had chances to kill him but didn’t. Why? Why did he live while some of his fellow captives died? Well, the trucks signal the answer to him. You see, Ray is the town’s gas station owner. The machines spared Ray because they needed him to refuel them. If he didn’t, they’d splatter his son and nascent girlfriend all over the desert sand. Come on, concede that’s a clever way for the trucks (and the movie’s plot) to overcome their lack of hands with opposable thumbs to pump diesel.

Because “Trucks” is based on a King short story and King often sways toward the bleak, the film’s ending is somewhat discombobulating. But, don’t worry, the ending is nothing like the heavily traumatizing conclusion of another movie based on King’s writing, “The Mist.”

Del’s take

I was confused.

Fifteen minutes into “Trucks” and still no Emilio Estevez. What the hell was going on?

A quick dive into the Internet Movie Database disabused me of my mental fog. “Trucks” is not “Maximum Overdrive,” the cheesy ’80s-vintage scifi-horror movie directed by none other than horror author Stephen King. Instead, “Trucks” is a cheesy ’90s-vintage scifi-horror movie based on the same short story, “Trucks,” that inspired “Maximum Overdrive.” And that story was written by none other than horror author Stephen King.

That’s about as clear as my soap-scum infused glass shower doors.

I’d describe “Trucks” as a genre hybrid, falling somewhere between a classic ’50s big bug movie and a Robert Rodriguez grindhouse gorefest, Why anybody thought “Trucks” was worthy of a remake escapes me, especially when King wrote many other memorable stories – the one about the guy who drinks bad beer and turns into a giant escargot comes to mind every time I pop the tab on a can of Natty Light. But then, why are there 27 “Children of the Corn”s or 91 “Lawnmower Man”s? The answer, of course, is that Americans have no bottom when it comes to schlock.

And that’s what “Trucks” is – schlock. It’s one of those movies that’s so bad, it’s good – except “Trucks” isn’t good. It’s terrible, and Mladen owes me big time. At least when I make him watch something out of his comfort zone it’s something decent, and good. “Trucks” is a Baby Ruth bar floating in the swimming pool of moviedom. The acting is awful. The script is laughably inept. No cliché is left behind. And there are plot holes big enough to … ahem … drive a truck through. It’s like watching political aides trying to teach Ron DeSantis how to eat pudding with chopsticks. In other words, it’s a mess.

Here’s an example of the breathtaking dialogue:

Teenage girl: “Why does everybody keep dying?” (Hmmm? Could it possibly have anything to do with the fact that they’re being RUN OVER BY TRUCKS?)

Old man: “I don’t know. I’m just an old hippie.”

??????????????????????

The trucks, we are told, have been brought to life by either Area 51, a toxic gas cloud, the Earth sailing through a comet’s tail, aliens … or maybe “Trucks” is a cautionary tale, warning against the unintended consequences of electing a fascist as president of the United States and then letting him skate when his crimes become public knowledge. Either way, I think everyone involved in the movie sailed through a comet’s tail because if “Maximum Overdrive” proves that horror authors should stick to writing horror stories and not directing horror movies, “Trucks” proves that even dedicated filmmakers can sometimes screw up, and “Trucks” is a Godzilla-sized Phillips-head of a screw(up).

Mladen didn’t assign a letter grade to “Trucks” so I’ll assume he’s giving it an F. I’ll be generous and award a D- seeing as how it’s truer to the short story than “Maximum Overdrive.”

When they come out with a scifi-horror movie titled “Night of the Killer Prius,” I’m there. But “Maximum Overdrive” and “Trucks” is a two-movie convoy of 18-wheeled schlock. For a vastly superior killer truck movie, check out “Duel.” Meantime, I’ll stick to the passing lane.

Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and writer.

Christine and Rainer's factory has seen better days after decades of misuse and neglect by Soviet occupiers. Image by Del Stone Jr.

Their names are Christine and Rainer, and they live in what used to be the German Democratic Republic, or East Germany.

Now things are better.

They own a small factory, across the street from their house, which produces rubber parts. About nine people punch a clock there, a huge improvement over the days when Christine and Rainer worked alone.

They have all the conveniences you’d expect in a modern household – telephones, satellite TV, microwave oven, dishwasher. A new Mercedes is on the wish list.

So they live well – better than a lot of East Germans who were brought up under the dubious oversight of socialism and foundered when capitalism rushed in behind the collapse of the Berlin Wall.

But it was not always so for Christine and Rainer. Rainer’s father, who owned the factory in 1945, was beaten by the invading Soviets so badly he spent the rest of his life in and out of hospitals.

The Russians took away the factory, and took away the house across the street. They rented it to one of the own for 39 marks a month, about $24. When Rainer and Christine came of age, they were assigned apartments. Rainer was conscripted by the military and spent the months immediately after the Cuban Missile Crisis working as a technician at an East German radar site.

Later, he would return to the factory after the Russians could no longer make it work.

When the wall came down, Rainer and Christine, who were together by now, petitioned the government for the return of their property. Enough points of verification existed that they won their case.

But the house had been run down. The factory had been similarly damaged.

So they set about rebuilding.

We stroll the factory grounds on a gray, cool morning. Somehow, the weather captures the mood perfectly.

One building contains the offices, and another houses the machinery that makes the parts. But the other 10 or 12 buildings just sit there – empty, crumbling shells.

It is a scene from “Schindler’s List” – coal-blackened bricks, fractured masonry, weed-overgrown lots, broken widows glaring darkly like empty eye sockets. It should all be in black and white, you think.

Everywhere you smell the decay, underlaid with a strange cocktail of contrasting odors: machine oil and wildflowers, chemicals and dew, about every unlikely juxtaposition of scents you can imagine.

This place died of neglect, pure and simple. To keep a place like this going, you need loyalty, and determination, and most of all, love. It is plain to see the communist overmasters possessed none of those traits, and the state was certainly not able to bestow them upon their “proletariat.”

As we explore these magnificent and terrifying ruins, we hear something that describes the history of this place.

All across Germany, church bells ring in the top of the hour.

But at this place, as our watches strike 11, we do not hear church bells.

We hear the unearthly wail of an air raid siren.

Is this, I ask myself, what passed for church bells in East Germany?

Is this what passed for communism’s soul?

This column was previously published in the Wednesday, Oct. 9, 1997 edition of the Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

Dachau is a testament to the German sense of order and efficiency. The camp is a huge box surrounded by a moat and two rows of fencing. Guard towers overlook the perimeter. The interior consists of an administration building and quarters for the guards, plus row upon row of box-like plywood structures to house the inmates. Image by Del Stone Jr.

It was hot the day we came to Dachau.

The air was thin and unbreathable, the sun boring through the haze with a strange determination.

Absolutely nothing should be right with a place where hundreds of thousands of people were put to death.

Nothing was right with Dachau.

The land surrounding the camp is rich and febrile with life – lush fields of corn and greenly dark swaths of forests standing in cruel apposition to this deadly patch of ground where little more than stiff bristles of grass will grow.

We parked the car and followed an asphalt footpath that led through a canopy of trees. Leaves swished in the wind. Cars raced by on a nearby road. Somehow, these sounds were smothered.

Ahead, a gate admitted us to the concentration camp.

The complex is enclosed by two rows of fences. The outermost is linked to a series of guard towers, with vast, open spaces on either side, room enough for even the worst shot in the S.S. to cut down an escapee.

A moat runs the perimeter, parallel to the fence, and then an inner fence, topped with reptilian coils of barbed-ware, finishes the camp’s security barriers.

The camp itself is a huge rectangle, maybe half a mile in length. The administration building sits at one end, a huge, C-shaped structure, low as a pill box and unlovely as a mausoleum. Fronting this is a sprawling, empty expanse – again, the mind conjures images of machine guns sweeping their deadly rattle across a field of screaming people.

The barracks lay on the other side of that expanse. Row upon row of barracks – I don’t remember how many, but only one row remains now – and it is only a reconstruction of the originals. More than 700 people were crammed into each barrack. The buildings were built of flimsy plywood. The people must have frozen in the winter and suffocated in the summer.

At the back of the camp we crossed a fresh, clear-running stream, and passed through a gate. There were two buildings here. They contained the gas chambers and the ovens.

The gas chambers were simple, block rooms, with drains in the floor and vents in the ceiling. No light entered these rooms.

The ovens were sturdy hulks of sold steel with blackened mouths, sooted by fire. They hunkered at the back of a room that lay between the gas chambers. Visitors had filled the ovens with bouquets of flowers, but the gurneys were still visible. They resembled the stretchers an ambulance attendant wheels into a hospital emergency room. The webbing sagged with the weight of all the bodies they had carried into the fire.

The administration building at Dachau has been made into a museum, where the history of the Nazi Party, and of the concentration camps, has been presented in photographs and artifacts. You can see the horrible story that unfolded there, from the clothes inmates wore to the charting of inhuman medical experiments.

But most horrible of all is the camp itself, which is laid out with a precision and efficiency that defies description. Evil is more unthinkable when it wears the face of a monster, but at Dachau the monster is no uglier than any other human endeavor.

A tidy little murder factory.

That was Dachau, on a hot summer afternoon.

This column was originally published in the Wednesday, Oct. 1, 1997 edition of the Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

This is a look back at the restaurant that occupies Eagle's Nest, Adolf Hitler's mountaintop retreat in Bavaria during World War II. Image by Del Stone Jr.

A river runs through the little town of Bertchesgaden, Germany – a clear, blue ribbon of foam, as pretty as a river can be.

The river tumbles down from mountains that ring the village like a crown reaching into the sky. Granite peaks are softened by forest and meadow and wildflower.

Everywhere is a picture postcard vista, so breathtaking your heart aches to look. River, sky, mountain, all done up in pure, unsullied beauty.

Surely this must be heaven.

Unbelievably, this once was hell.

Because atop one of these lovely peaks is a single house, inconspicuous as a single cell of cancer.

The house is called Eagle’s Nest. It is the old mountain redoubt of Adolf Hitler, chancellor of the Third Reich, would-be master of the world, and murderer of millions.

Such monstrous ugliness, juxtaposed with such stark beauty, is hard to conceive. Yet at this very spot, Hitler formulated his plans for genocide. No sane person could resist the charms of Bavaria. Hitler’s apparent immunity makes him all the more horribly alien.

Some day, you must see Eagle’s Nest.

A convoy of tour buses leaves a depot in town, every hour and darn well on the hour, to ferry tourists up the mountain. It is a trip riders are happy to leave to drivers.

The diesel engine strains as the bus labors up the steep grade. A narrow switchback cuts through a forest of evergreen before emerging onto the mountain’s rocky flank.

There, the ride becomes more perilous, almost hair-raising, as the bus negotiates curves that send its riders swinging out over the edge and staring into chasms of rocky spires and spiky trees whittled to nothing by arid wind and soil.

A huge landing has been carved from the mountain, and there you disembark to walk through a dank, freezing tunnel, along the same path taken by Hitler’s Mercedes 60 years ago.

You wait in line for an elevator, which takes you through the mountain to Eagle’s Nest.

It is now a restaurant, with the mandatory patio café. Just off the café is a kiosk that sells film and postcards. You’ll want both.

Because the view is nothing short of spectacular. From Eagle’s Nest, you can see Austria. You can see Australia, for that matter. The entire Earth seems laid out before you, spreading in a gauzy quilt of green plains, pearly rivers, icy-cold lakes and the slate fangs of mountains.

On a rise above the patio, a cross has been erected to memorialize all the victims of World War II. Above that, rocks offer a more adrenaline-inducing perspective on the chasms and cliffs around you.

Below and all around are steeply banks meadows sprinkled with gorgeous flowers that waggle in the cool wind as they suck in all that warm mountain sunshine.

Gazing out over all this, you think of peace, and serenity. Not Stukas and gas chambers.

You appreciate the miracle of creation, not the horror of destruction.

If you come here, you will learn that even within the grasp of fantastic beauty, seeds of unknowable ugliness may sprout and take root.

It is a lesson you must never, ever forget.

This column was published in the Sept. 24, 1997 edition of the Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

Germans refer to Berlin as the world's biggest construction project. Image courtesy of Del Stone Jr.

The drive from Leipzig to Berlin, in what was once East Germany, carries you from the past into the future.

The past begins on the autobahn, which in some places still uses the cobblestone-like ext and entry ramps of the original road network built by prewar Germany.

If you take the former supply route that served as a lifeline for West Berlin during the Cold War, you will see what remains of the old checkpoints, and the guard towers where East German soldiers made sure nobody got on or got off the autobahn.

But as you near Berlin, a wonderful thing happens.

You start to see the future.

The road smoothes out. The Germans are rebuilding the crumbled infrastructure of the East, replacing uninspired communist workmanship with modern highways and utilities built to contemporary standards.

But even more amazing is the change in atmosphere.

Architecture shows an artistic flair. Buildings bloom with color. The night fairly glows with neon. The drab, neglected and crumbling shadow of socialism gives way to a vibrancy that exists only when people are allowed to freely express their thoughts.

Berlin is that way too, a city still divided by the past and the future. But today’s Germans are racing to put that division behind them.

Downtown Berlin is very much like a college town, with tree-lined streets, sidewalk cafes, and a bright, colorful funkiness that speaks of art, style and culture.

The day we traveled to Berlin, a street festival was unspooling along the main drag. It was a wonderful procession of bizarre kiosks, wild music, crazy dancing, exotic foods, and it was populated with a fascinating diversity of people – gawkers like us, leather-clad cross-dressers, baggy-trousered skinheads, and Bavarian gents in lederhosen.

Amid all the modernity is history, much of it recent.

We drove beneath the Brandenburg Gate, and stopped to photograph Checkpoint Charlie. Even a stretch of the old Wall remains, although it has been mostly scavenged away.

Germans call Berlin the world’s largest construction project – not without reason. Cranes rear stork-like over the buildings, and everywhere you look, skyscrapers are going up. Even the Reichstag, the old parliamentary building, has been rebuilt and is nearing completion.

But if you drive along the old border you can see the difference – the glaring difference – between East and West, communism and capitalism, the past and the future. The buildings on one side of the road are lively and well-kept; the buildings on the other side are run-down and depressing.

Most gratifying to me was the Free Press building, which towered above the skyline on the border. Our guide told us the communists were so enraged by the newspaper building that they constructed a series of skyscrapers on their side of the border to block the view.

Berlin retains much of its old allure. The night of our stay, we sat out on the balcony of our apartment, chugging on huge Cuban stogies and speculating about life in what had been the spy capital of the universe. A Polizi van and its shrill siren completed the aura of mystery.

Berlin is rising anew, and it is as lovely a city as you’ll ever see.

The column was originally published in the September 17, 1997 edition of the Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .