Every time I board an airplane I swear it will be the last, but it never is
This is why I don’t like flying:
You walk into a metal cylinder that resembles an iron lung, but rather than helping you breathe, this lung prevents you from performing that basic function. It is too small and too narrow and too confining.
If one person dares to stop in the aisle, you cannot get past him, not even if you push. The aisle is simply too small.
You stare out a window as important-looking people walk around the airplane, kicking the tires and scratching their chins over fluids dripping out of the engine. You have seen that look on the faces of mechanics wondering why your car died in the middle of the freeway.
Then the engines start and the plane shudders – a sound louder than your knees knocking together. You palms are slick; your heart yammers and you can feel it with every cell of your body.
The plane taxis to the runway. The wings wobble back and forth, and you suddenly remember the soft drink cans you’ve bent in half by working them back and forth, back and forth, until metal fatigue sets in and the cans tear. You hope the wings aren’t made of soft drink cans.
The airplane’s snout points at the dragstrip runway and the pilot steps on the gas. You’re slapped back into your seat as the plane trundles over bumps in the concrete. Your speed increases and you realize you’re going faster than you ever went in your car. The Lord never meant for you to go so fast.
The nose rises. The fuselage doesn’t want to follow it, but everything is whizzing by so quickly now that if you don’t become airborne, the plane will go off the runway.
The thudding stops as the jet claws its way into the air. The belly wallows sickeningly. You hear pops and bangs as the gear comes up. You don’t want to look out the window. You don’t want to see what’s happening. You really don’t.
The plane ascends for several minutes, and then the pilot throttles back. The change in engine pitch is enough to convince you something terrible has happened.
You cruise for a long, long time. Time stands still in an airplane. Then the engines change pitch again, the nose of the plane points earthward and you stretch into your seatbelt as your airspeed decreases. This is the crash you’ve been dreading, but the pilot announces final approach to your destination.
More pops, bangs and rattles. The gear is coming down. Weird flaps and such are moving on those flopping wings. The plane tilts this way and that. You see houses beneath you, buildings, highways with safe people in their safe cars on the blessed ground.
The plane touches down with a thud, the main gear first, then the nose wheel. The pilot switches on the thrust reversers and the plane slows as quickly as it accelerated on takeoff.
Your palms are below zero. Your heart is about to explode. You swear you’ll never fly again.
But you always do.
This column was published in the Playground Daily News during the 1980s 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.
This is why I don’t like flying: You walk into a metal cylinder that resembles an iron lung, but rather than helping you breathe, this lung prevents you from performing that basic function. It is too small and too narrow… READ MORE
Elect me and I’ll be concerned about our embassy to the USSR being bugged
Several important elected officials who are taking a break from investigating golf courses that someday might require federal assistance, have expressed shock that the U.S. embassy in Moscow has been compromised by KGB bugs.
(IMPORTANT NOTE: These bugs, of course, are not insects. Otherwise, nearly every American restaurant and breakfast cereal manufacturing plant would have throngs of important elected officials swarming over them, making important puffing gestures of concern, forming committees and generally scaring away the bugs, whose only earthly pleasure is to lay thousands of eggs in unguarded jelly sandwiches.)
These same important elected officials have learned that certain U.S. Marines guarding the embassy exchanged important government secrets to perform the sex act or purchase the latest in burlap fashions for slinky Russian temptresses.
The loss of these secrets (such as the real reason a researcher at the Gentle Ben College of Divinity received a federal grant to study the nostril hairs of the slobber-master walrus) represents an intelligence disaster for the United States and will give the Soviets an unfair advantage in the awarding of grants for studies of the animal kingdom’s private parts and other important subjects.
These important elected officials, whose knowledge of the Soviet Union consists of watching videotapes of “Dr. Zhivago,” have expressed shock that the Russians would plant listening devices in OUR embassy and seduce secrets from OUR boys, although nobody said a word when a crack team of KGB construction workers toiled since before the Bolshevik revolution to build the embassy, or Marine guards returned to their posts with cabbage on their breath.
(IMPORTANT NOTE: These important elected officials are NOT shocked to discover the Soviets have bugged our embassy. What they’re really saying is: “I am shocked to discover the Soviets have bugged our embassy, and I expected concerned voters to return me to office so that I may continue to be shocked and make important puffing gestures and form committees which will spend millions of dollars to produce reports the size of the Chinese telephone directory, which will then be used as doorsteps at U.S. embassies.”)
It is not as if these important elected officials weren’t warned. For instance, Buford “Hawg Lips” Stumpknocker, who worked at the Sunoco station just outside Scumbag, Miss., (the Snapping Turtle Capital of the Western Hemisphere) warned customers for years that “you can’t trust them egg-sucking, vodka-swilling Godless heathen red-dog commie shylocks.”
Sadly, nobody listened to Hawg Lips until he got himself elected and appointed to an important committee. Now, as all politicians, he is SHAWCKED that such a dastardly thing could be allowed to happen.
This column was previously published in the Playground Daily News in the 1980s 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.
Several important elected officials who are taking a break from investigating golf courses that someday might require federal assistance, have expressed shock that the U.S. embassy in Moscow has been compromised by KGB bugs. (IMPORTANT NOTE: These bugs, of course,… READ MORE
Old Betsy had the last laugh on Angelo
The Car Care Council news release had a sad story to tell. It was the story of Angelo.
Angelo is like millions of other Americans – except that Angelo is fictitious. Aside from that, Angelo is a regular sort of guy.
But Angelo has a dark secret. He abuses cars.
Pinto runabouts. Chevrolets. Korean compacts … the list of his victims reads like a selection of pages from the Blue Book – which in reality is yellow, no doubt an effort to baffle those who are not in the business of buying and selling automobiles.
The iniquitous Angelo’s story began as he was driving his latest victim to the dealership to be traded in on some sweet young new model. When the light turned green at the intersection, the CCC said, Angelo stepped on the gas and Old Betsy just wouldn’t budge. Angelo had PUT OFF basic maintenance on his car TOO LONG.
Angelo didn’t want to have Old Betsy towed to the dealership, where they might try to gyp him out of the $500 trade-in they had agreed on. Instead, Angelo, ever the consummate businessman, had Old Betsy towed back to his house where he could have it repaired just long enough to unload it, as planned, on the dealership.
But Old Betsy had the last laugh. You see, Angelo had neglected to have the transmission fluid and filter changed. And the truth were known, he probably never Armor-Alled the dashboard, which left it looking cracked and peeling like the skin of an elephant with eczema. And he probably never vacuumed it or put carpet deodorizer on the floors, not even after his neighbor’s cat used it for a year and a half as a litter box. These car abusers follow predictable patterns.
Anyway, after years of this wretched existence, Old Betsy simply gave up the ghost, the automobile equivalent of hara-kiri, thus denying the wicked Angelo his $500 trade-in (plus towing charges, the CCC release was quick to add).
And what do you think Angelo learned from this experience? To stay away from cars named Old Betsy? To have the dealership salesman drive to his house on the day of the sale?
To STOP abusing his car?
Heaven forbid! Angelo learned that by abusing his car, his story would be picked up by a prestigious national organization and dramatized before a horrified and disbelieving audience of millions of people, who would be scandalized that an unthinking, unfeeling car could be so inconsiderate of its owner – the same owner who shelled out thousands of hi hard-earned dollars and asked for nothing in return but to be transported from Point A to Point B in a modicum of style and comfort, and to be able to enjoy the enhancement of his self-image by owning and operating a vehicle that functioned in a reliable manner despite its owner’s few piddling transgressions of neglect.
That isn’t exactly what the CCC news release said, but you get the picture.
This column was published in the Playground Daily News sometime in the 1980s 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.
The Car Care Council news release had a sad story to tell. It was the story of Angelo. Angelo is like millions of other Americans – except that Angelo is fictitious. Aside from that, Angelo is a regular sort of… READ MORE
Long vacation road trips at night are not an option
On the list of things not to do this summer, taking a long car trip to a vacation destination ranks second only to letting a gigantic crab enter your bathing suit.
The trip must begin with somebody forgetting to turn off a burner on the stove. This recollection usually comes flooding back after the second hour on the interstate. It is followed by a frantic stop at a gas station for a collect call to “the neighbors,” except the neighbors won’t accept the charges and the gas station attendant, who is wearing a hockey mask and is sharpening a machete, stares at you the way werewolves stare at their victims before lunging.
If the trip begins at night, the driver must ply himself with coffee so he can “stay awake at the wheel,” although his last three accidents occurred when he was wide awake. Of course, all that coffee has to go somewhere, which means stops are made at every bait shop, every backwoods grocery store and every clump of bushes that might conceal a nocturnal visitor from passing motorists.
Meanwhile, the passengers are contorting themselves into various torture positions and trying to sleep, despite having door-lock knobs forcibly inserted into their nostrils every time the car hits a bump, or enduring the threats of a late-night radio station preacher who missed a payment on his satellite dish because YOU did not send in enough money, and YOU ARE GOING TO DIE AND GO TO HELL AND BURN FOREVER, AMEN.
As the hours go by and rigor mortis sets in, the passengers try to entertain themselves with road games, such as “You Count Chevrolets and I’ll Count the Fords.” This can be a game of heart-pounding intensity at night, as the pitch dark outside the window is broken by a whizzing streak of light, so that the passengers, who are now blinded, grope among themselves shouting, “It was a Ford!” “No, it was a Chevy!” and “If you don’t stop cheating YOU ARE GOING TO DIE AND GO TO HELL AND BURN FOREVER, AMEN!”
The driver, who had confidently studies the map for an entire three seconds before pulling out of the driveway, suddenly realizes he does not know what country he is in and asks for navigational assistance from the passengers. The passengers’ navigational resources consist of one stylized map-cartoon place mat stolen from a fast-food restaurant. The place mat depicts England as being in the approximate location of New Jersey, a fact duly reported to the driver, who begins driving on the left side of the road, causing a 44-car pileup.
As night gives way to the first pearly wisps of morning smog, the bleary-eyed occupants of the car are ready to stop anywhere, be it an old gravel quarry or Madame Rosa’s Voodoo & Chiropractic Clinic. But the driver’s foot has permanently cramped to the accelerator, so stopping is not an option.
The column was published in the Playground Daily News in the 1980s 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.
On the list of things not to do this summer, taking a long car trip to a vacation destination ranks second only to letting a gigantic crab enter your bathing suit. The trip must begin with somebody forgetting to turn… READ MORE
Mladen and Del review ‘Phase IV’
Image courtesy of Paramount Pictures.
“Phase IV” Starring Nigel Davenport, Michael Murphy, Lynne Frederick, Lots of Ants and others. Directed by Saul Bass. 84 minutes. Rated PG. Hulu, Prime. Mladen’s take “Phase IV,” lovingly built in 1974 with an admirable effort at incorporating animated and… READ MORE
Tornado!
This photo, taken Dec. 10, 1967, shows the path of a tornado through the Belaire Subdivision of Fort Walton Beach. Our house is at the bottom, slightly left of center.
I wrote this essay on March 25, 1972, which would have made me 16 years old at the time. TORNADO! We, being myself, my parents, my younger sister and at the time, my older sister, live in the town of… READ MORE
Could you survive a nuclear attack?
Note: I wrote the following piece when I was 16 years old.
It is an everyday Saturday morning. You have just finished drinking your coffee and reading the paper, and you are now watching a television program for a few minutes before you plan your day’s activities.
Suddenly, your program is interrupted and you see the letters EBS flash onto the television screen. Your first thought is that this is another test of the Emergency Broadcast System. A frantic announcer’s voice appears and says, “This is not a test, I repeat, this is not a test. Northern based radar stations have detected the launching of hundreds of missiles, the estimated time for their arrival is 30 minutes. I repeat, you have 30 minutes to reach safety. …”
Immediately you panic. You circle the room, terrified, completely ignorant as to what to do. You begin to calm yourself so that you can think straight. Your first decision is to reach a bomb shelter, but you have no idea as to where the nearest one is. You center your attention once again to the announcer. He seems to have calmed somewhat also, because he is now busily rattling off street names and the appropriate shelter for these streets.
You listen, and soon he announces your street along with a few neighboring streets and gives the location of their bomb shelter. You are thankful you live in a large city where adequate protection may be found. After hearing the location of your shelter, you hurriedly change your clothes, then go outside, unlatch the garage door and drive to the location.
You are greeted by a locked door. A few others are pounding piteously on it, trying to gain entrance. The shelter has been filled to capacity in minutes. You are sick to your stomach. You shake uncontrollably, and curse yourself for not preparing for this day.
A policeman advises you to go home and construct a makeshift shelter in your basement, if you have one, using heavy furniture for the shelter’s walls. Your hope in renewed.
You return to your car to only discover it has been completely encompassed by other automobiles, making it impossible to move. Forgetting about it, you begin to run home, making it in 3 minutes. You now have 20 minutes left to prepare for the attack.
You stagger into your living room, exhausted from the run, and descend into the basement to inspect the area you have in mind for the makeshift shelter.
A 6 foot long section of concrete, about 5 feet high, protrudes from the wall. It had been constructed for some unknown purpose by the previous owner of the house. You decide to use it plus your couch, two bookshelves and a chester drawers for the remaining walls.
You manage to drag the bulky couch down the stairs and arrange it to your liking, but in the process, you break off one of the legs. The remaining pieces of furniture are easier to carry down. For the roof, you use the only thing possible, a big square slab of plywood. After the shelter has been completed, you turn to gathering supplies.
To your dismay you discover there are no large containers in our house to store water in. You do manage to find a quart container that once held bleach, but the mainstay of your water supply containers are glass jars that you have been cleaned and saved for a recycling project you were part of. There are only 9 of these, and you hare forced to empty a few more jars of food that would normally require refrigeration. After you have gathered your water and hauled it to the shelter, you begin gathering food. You pick out several canned items from the shelf, along with a few containers of milk that will have to be drunk quickly lest they sour, and a few eating utensils. After this has been taken care of, you begin to gather clothes, blankets, and a first aid kit that you have previously bought for your car in case of an accident but had failed to put in the trunk.
You glance at your watch and see that you have 10 minutes left. You get one more jar of water and a few more items to eat. You are terrified, but you feel more secure.
You bend to your knees and pray to God, asking him for his help in your survival. Your prayer is interrupted by a bright flash. It is blinding, even in the center of your home where the light of day rarely falls. You dash down the stairway and enclose yourself in the shelter. Seconds later, there is a terrific thud and a wave of heat. A glass window, the only one in the basement, smashes, showering pieces on the plywood roof. Other windows break. The ground heaves as in an earthquake, causing slight structural damage to your home. It is lucky for you that you live on the outskirts of the city or the damage might have been greater. The foundation of the house shudders and several pipes are ruptured. You sit in pure terror, your heart thudding as never before. The situation you are now in has provided many an author the subject for books, and you did not even enjoy reading them, much less taking part in them. The air becomes incredibly stuffy, and one of your precious jars of water has been broken by the shock wave of the explosion.
You lay there, cramped, hot, damp from the water, you feel sick. It is pitch dark, preventing you from even making out the outline of the walls that surround you. Sleep comes hard. You wake up several times during the night. Once you hear someone prowling about the house and you wish you had a gun. Later that night you wake up and have to use the bathroom. Before the explosion occurred you had arranged a garbage can for a makeshift toilet, and even had a supply of plastic bags to store the waste in. After you finish you tightly bundle the bag with a wire twist, then you remove a drawer from the chester drawer and drop the bag in the can, then, you put the lid on and return the drawer to it’s berth. A highly efficient operation, you think, and commend yourself for your ingenuity. You again sleep till you are unable to any longer. You smell the faint odor of gas and hope that the leak does not poison you. You drink a jar of your water and open a can of mixed vegetables. You then drink the entire quart of milk that you brought along. Your legs ache, and you frequently have to rub cramps out of them. The air is constantly stuffy; you never seem to be able to get enough oxygen. As the day progresses, you become more and more bored. At first, you listen to the sounds of the outside world. Occasionally you hear the sounds of people talking, and once you hear the sounds of a savage fight between two dogs. But other than that, there is complete silence.
You eat, drink, and sit. You become so bored that you frequently daydream and resort to reading the labels on the cans. During the day, a slight amount of light managed to filter it’s way into the shelter, but as it progressed, this decreased in intensity, then disappeared.
You go through the same cycle you did the night before until the next day when the light entered the shelter. You begin exploring the perimeter of your shelter trying to discover something previously unknown. To your surprise and pleasure, you discover a book in one of the drawers. There is not enough light to read by, so you search through your belongings and produce a candle and a book of matches. You set up the candle so that it will not topple, then, taking a match from the book, you light it. There is a “puff” and your enclosure is engulfed in flame for a second. Your hair, eyelashes, nostrils and other portions of your body are burned. Thankfully the shelter did not, but you are flabbergasted by what happened. You wince in pain as you apply a sav from the first aid kit to the worst areas. You later deduce that the gases from the broken pipeline had been trapped in the shelter. You try piteously to read the book, but it is to much of a strain. Feeling sorry for yourself, you burst into tears. After a period of crying, you feel better and sleep.
You wake the next day with a fever. Later in the day you become sick to your stomach, but fight off the urge to vomit. During the night mosquitoes have completely riddled your arms and legs, but you are too sick to care. You do not eat anything that day, and you drink little. The next day you feel better, but because you did not get a tight lid for your garbage can toilet, a terrible stench has resulted. You decide that day you will come out of your shelter. You have been crammed into a tiny area for days, sick, thirsty, cramped, and near death from sheer boredom. You did not know it at the time but you had a mild case of radiation sickness. You eat, use the bathroom, and remove one of the drawers so you may have light to read your book by. When it gets dark, you drink the last container of water, and are able to finally get a decent night of sleep. The next morning you awaken to find yourself totally soaked, and a thin layer of water covering the floor. Somewhere, a water pipe had broken and water was draining into the basement. You rise and unbarricade yourself. It feels wonderful to stretch your weary self. A bright beam of sunshine streaks through the broken window, displaying the cracked woodwork above your head.
You ascend the stairs and explore the house. The water is coming from the kitchen. A broken pipe juts through the floor amid broken glass. In fact, every window in your house is broken. The house across the street has completely burned to the ground. Down the street you can see a camp with many tents and a Red Cross truck parked nearby.
You find the gas valve and shut it off, take a drink of water that remains in the pipes, then change your filthy clothes, and leave your house to see what has become of the world.
This has been a story of what could happen to anyone in a time of nuclear war. The person in the story was extremely lucky in surviving.
What did he (or she) do wrong?
The first thing was that she panicked. No mater how hard it may seem, you must stay calm in a situation like this. One cannot think clearly if in a panic.
The worst thing she did was not planning ahead. She did not know where the bomb shelter was among a multitude of other things. You should know the location of the nearest bomb shelter to your home. In the story, when she did discover the shelter’s whereabouts, she took no supplies with her, and she drove to it. Bomb shelters are limited in the amounts and types of supplies they can carry. You should take clothing and any other materials needed for your family. You should not drive unless you can park somewhere out of the way. The roads should be left open for emergency and military vehicles.
If you do not think you could reach a public shelter, construct one of your own in your basement or back yard. A temporary shelter can be constructed out of heavy furniture such as the one in the story. It would be best to take advantage of any shielding you can possibly find. If you happen to have a piece of furniture in your temporary shelter with drawers in them fill them with sand. Be sure that your shelter is well ventilated.
You should have several plastic gallon containers handy for the storage of water.
You should also have food that can be kept over long periods of time without spoiling. Items such as clothes, blankets, utensils and medical supplies are also very important. You should make sure your utilities are shut off (gas and water), because like in the story, a pipe could be broken and you could be poisoned or catch some diseases from water that has flooded your shelter.
A makeshift toilet can be made from a garbage can. Small portable toilets can be bought, the garbage can is used for disposal. Make sure the lid fits tight or you could wind up like the person in the story. You should also carry some type of insect spray.
There are hundreds of other suggestions I could give you, but probably the most important is to acquire a Civil Defense manual. In this book, everything you would like and need to know is covered and written simple enough for nearly anyone to understand.
It could, some day, save not only your, but your family’s life.
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.
Note: I wrote the following piece when I was 16 years old. It is an everyday Saturday morning. You have just finished drinking your coffee and reading the paper, and you are now watching a television program for a few… READ MORE
Mladen and Del review: ‘Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb’
“Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb” Starring Peter Sellers, George C. Scott, Sterling Hayden, Keenan Wynn, James Earl Jones and Slim Pickens. Directed by Stanley Kubrick. 93 minutes. Rated “approved.” Mladen’s take Ever… READ MORE
Del and Mladen review ‘The Haunting’
Image courtesy of MGM.
“The Haunting” Starring Julie Harris, Claire Bloom, Richard Johnson, Russ Tamblyn, and Lois Maxwell. Directed by Robert Wise. 1 hour, 52 minutes. Rated G. Shudder. Del’s take The opening paragraph of Shirley Jackson’s “The Haunting of Hill House,” upon which… READ MORE
Del reviews ‘This Is Not a Test’
Image courtesy of GPA Productions.
“This Is Not a Test” Starring Seamon Glass, Thayer Roberts, Aubrey Martin, Mary Morlas, Michael Greene and others. Directed by Frederic Gadette. 1 hour, 13 minutes. Unrated. Streaming on YouTube, Internet Archive. Plot synopsis: A sheriff’s deputy sets up a… READ MORE
