Image courtesy of Caleb George by way of a Creative Commons search. https://unsplash.com/@seemoris
They had to pry my hands off the armrest. I didn’t know which was worse: flying 2,500 turbulent miles or landing at Los Angeles International Airport. I was a nervous wreck. Where was my luggage? “Over there,” a security guard… READ MORE
Image by Del Stone Jr.
Instead of New Year’s resolutions, or a madcap review of 1998, I offer this take on the upcoming 12 months. January: In an effort to lure shoppers, downtown Fort Walton Beach merchants and chamber officials come up with a catchy… READ MORE
This Christmas I received many, many newsletter updates about my friends, their families and their lives. I enjoy these epistles, but I come away from them feeling inadequate, which is a nice way of saying I come away from them… READ MORE
Image courtesy of Shannon Holman. https://www.flickr.com/photos/shannonholman/
They came by email and they came by telephone and they came by fax and even good old Uncle Sam’s snail mail. And almost to a man and woman they cried: Kick the flickers. You folks really hate people who… READ MORE
This photo has been largely agreed upon as having been taken at the Palm Theater in Fort Walton Beach, although some doubt remains. I was unable to find the name of the photographer. If anybody knows the identity of the photographer, please let me know. I'll be happy to include a credit or remove the photo, if the photographer would prefer. I found it under a Creative Commons license and it appears to be available for use.
First they closed the Stardust. Now, the old Palm Theater has burned to the ground. Ashes to dust. For me, the Palm, called The Picture Show these past few years, had assumed a warm and comfortable place in memory, like… READ MORE
Image courtesy of NOAA. — As the dark clouds and the muddy waters swirl, let us pause to express our gratitude. It could have been worse. Much worse. The hurricane could have been named “Monica,” leaving bashful journalists deprived of… READ MORE
Image courtesy of Freepik.
If this column leaves you steaming, don’t call me to complain. I’m not here. In fact, I’m on vacation. I intentionally waited until I was far, far away before publishing this column, because I am a gutless weenie. You’ll see… READ MORE
Image courtesy of Gage Skidmore, Wikimedia Commons. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bill_Clinton_by_Gage_Skidmore_(1).jpg
Like many of you, I watched television Monday night as President Clinton admitted to the nation that he is a liar. Unlike many of you, I am not ready to forgive and move along. I have not written about any… READ MORE
The author poses with a scrub jay in this photo that was taken in the 1970s during a Stone family vacation. Image courtesy of Delmar S. Stone Sr.
Every time I speak against the rising swell of pollution, congestion and destruction that is overwhelming the Asphalt Coast, quivering snouts emerge from the quagmire to squeal for pearls. “Show us the numbers,” they demand, and then they cast forth… READ MORE
Life goes on, even when it has nowhere to go.
Last Tuesday was a dog day to be sure. The heat pressed down on Racetrack Road in shimmering waves that seemed to liquefy the asphalt, and torrid devils of oxygen-starved wind trailed the cars, trucks and vans making their way from one side of town to the other.
At the west entrance ramp to the parking lot at Choctawhatchee High School, four tiny birds stood on the baking concrete, pondering a dilemma:
How to get across the road.
They were no bigger than sandpipers, with pipe-straw legs and tweezer-like beaks and sequined black eyes. They stood in tight formation.
Across the road, on the curb of the median, stood a single, larger version of the tiny birds. A killdeer.
The tableau became evident: Mother bird, separated from her babies by two lanes of traffic, wanted them to follow her across. For whatever reason, they hadn’t done that.
The killdeer is not a small bird. It grows to about 10 inches in length. A favorite of farmers, it lives off the bugs that ruin crops, and is protected by game laws.
Racetrack was uncharacteristically empty. But in the distance, at the traffic light in front of the school, a pack of cars waited, engines racing.
He tiny birds darted into the road, their tiny legs working comically. They stopped about halfway across and stared indecisively. After an agonizing moment, they turned and scurried back.
The light in front of Choctaw turned green.
The birds dashed back into the road. One brave fellow ran about three-quarters of the way across. The others were strung out in a ragged line behind him.
Then the lead bird lost his courage, turned and ran back, and the others ran back, too.
Traffic was approaching, a wall of metal and glass and noise bearing down on the tiny creatures. The birds stood on the entrance ramp, gazing across at their mother.
It looked like they were waiting for the traffic to go by, the way schoolchildren bunch up at a crosswalk behind the protective flag of a crossing guard.
But at the last moment, they darted en masse into the road again. Three of them sprinted for the other side.
One tiny fellow lagged behind, looking even smaller as a beat-up van bore down on him.
That’s when Momma bird flew into the rescue.
She whipped in beside him, a whirlwind of black-and-white wings, and hustled him out of harm’s way. He dashed safely for the other side.
And then, as the mother bird tried to save herself, the van caught her in mid-air and blasted her into a cloud of feathers.
She flew a short distance then lay down in the road to die. A woman in a station wagon finished the job.
It was sickening, utterly sickening.
The man in the van drove on.
He could have slowed down. A couple of foot pounds of pressure on the brake pedal is all it would have taken.
Instead, four tiny birds fled into the bushes by Racetrack Road with nowhere to go and no one to take them there.
Life, we hope, goes on.
This column was originally published in the Wednesday, July 1, 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 .
Life goes on, even when it has nowhere to go. Last Tuesday was a dog day to be sure. The heat pressed down on Racetrack Road in shimmering waves that seemed to liquefy the asphalt, and torrid devils of oxygen-starved… READ MORE