Hurricane season is about to become active. Are NOAA and FEMA up to the challenge?
This was the scene on Sept. 23, 1973, as Hurricane Eloise struck the Florida panhandle. This photo was taken by my father, Del Stone Sr., from the kitchen window of our house in Fort Walton Beach.
We are entering the heart of hurricane season. Statistically, August and September are the months most likely to see tropical cyclone formation.
And we still don’t know if the various weather-forecasting services are going to be up to the job.
That’s because the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which is the parent organization of the National Hurricane Center and the National Weather Service, suffered significant staff reductions as a result of DOGE cuts.
I was not able to determine how many weather forecasters lost their jobs, but yes, meteorologists were among those who were let go, along with people who fly into hurricanes to take direct measurements from the storm, people who run the weather models to predict a storm’s future path, people who monitor data coming in from remote sensing platforms like satellites, buoys and weather balloons, radar technicians, and other people with mission-critical responsibilities.
What a lot of people don’t understand is the National Hurricane Center must coordinate with local offices of the National Weather Service to make sure people in the path of a landfalling hurricane have the latest information about the storm. NHC figures where the storm is, where it’s going, when it will hit and how strong it will be. NWS figures out what the local effects will be and warns people about the threat. We’ve seen how important that can be when, earlier this year, floods struck Texas, causing massive loss of life.
Also what remains to be seen is how, and if, FEMA responds to a natural disaster like a hurricane. That’s because FEMA also suffered cutbacks, and was compelled to spend about a billion dollars building an immigrant detention facility in the Everglades, the infamous “Alligator Alcatraz.”
So there are lots of unanswered questions as we enter this busy part of the hurricane season, and I think the inescapable conclusion any reasonable-minded person could draw from our current situation is that this regime does not care about people. It cares about money. Because if you took the money we taxpayers spend on ONE golf trip by the president to the state of Florida, we could probably rehire all of those forecasters.
That’s where their priorities lie – in golf trips and tax breaks for billionaires, not us taxpayers struggling to get by in a system rigged to favor rich white men and mega-corporations.
Tells you a lot about their character, doesn’t it?
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 by NOAA.
May 15 marks the beginning of hurricane season in North America, and my concern is that this year will serve to illustrate the disservice provided to the residents of the Gulf of Mexico coastline and the Eastern Seaboard by the Trump regime.
Hurricane season typically runs from June 1 to November 30, but due to the unusual number of storms forming in May, the National Hurricane Center has begun to post its daily tropical weather updates starting on May 15.
This is a direct result of climate change, something Donald Trump has dismissed as a hoax.
Today, storms are forming in May. I expect the day will come when hurricanes form every month of the year.
Additionally, the number of storms forming is increasing. The ferocity of storms is increasing. Episodes of rapid intensification are increasing. Hurricanes are moving more slowly and producing more intense rainfall.
These changes are a result of climate change.
I know as sure as I’m sitting here that some people will, as Trump has, deny the reality of climate change. I encourage you not to listen to them. Climate change is real, it’s happening, and human beings are causing it.
This year is expected to be a more active hurricane season, a condition that has existed since 1995, when virtually every season became hyperactive. What isn’t known is the quality of forecasting this year.
The Trump regime, and Elon Musk, cut 1,300 jobs from the National Oceanic & Atmospheric Administration, parent agency of the National Hurricane Center. We don’t know if those cuts will affect the accuracy of hurricane forecasts, but officials say the number of recon flights into storms will most likely be reduced, and that’s how we get the best data.
We also don’t know how the government will respond to a hurricane disaster. That’s because the Trump regime and Musk have cut hundreds of jobs from FEMA. Will the agency be able to handle a disaster like Hurricane Ivan? We don’t know.
Additionally, if you live in Florida and use the state-provided pool for windstorm insurance, you should be aware the state is one strong hurricane away from insolvency. There may not be any money for you to repair your house.
My advice to anybody living along the Gulf of Mexico coastline and the Eastern Seaboard is to be prepared. Have your evacuation plans in place, and your supplies on hand – water, food, medications and batteries sufficient to last you several days should you be without electricity or transportation.
Climate change is real, and the storms are coming.
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 .
Hurricane Helene struck a couple of hundred miles to the east but still caused significant flooding at Ferry Park in Fort Walton Beach, Florida. Photos by Del Stone Jr.
Since the late 1800s, scientists have been telling us that our use of fossil fuels was changing the climate.
For the past 50 years, scientists have been telling us that the ice caps are melting and sea levels are rising; summers are growing hotter; droughts and forest fires are happening more frequently; thunderstorms and tornadoes are becoming more violent, and hurricanes are forming more often, intensifying more rapidly, growing stronger, and producing more rain.
The loss of life, the destruction, and the misery we are seeing in the Southeast right now, as a result of Hurricane Helene, was entirely preventable.
If we had just listened to the scientists and not the politicians.
This is too important not to say:
We have an election coming up.
One party believes climate change is a hoax.
The other party believes it’s real and we can do something about it.
For the love of God, people – vote for reality.
If you don’t, this will just keep happening.
It’ll get worse.
And right now, it’s hard to believe there could be a worse.
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 Laura Joyce Stone.
The Florida Legislature continues to ensure Florida remains unaffordable to anybody who isn’t independently wealthy.
The Legislature recently approved a measure, Senate Bill 2-A, which among other things requires people who insure their homes through the state pool, Citizens Property Insurance, to purchase flood insurance.
For the upcoming year it applies to only structures with an appraised value of $600,000. But that threshold declines every year until 2027, when all structures insured through Citizens will be required to carry a flood policy.
The requirement exists whether the structure is located in a flood zone or not. That means somebody who owns a modest house in Gainesville or Orlando will be forced to carry flood insurance, if their home is insured through Citizens, despite being located many miles away from the coast or an inland waterway.
The cost of flood insurance varies, anywhere from a minimum of $261 per year to as high as $7,600, depending on the appraised value and location of the property.
Wealthy waterfront property owners can afford such insurance. People who live on a fixed income, such as Social Security recipients, cannot.
It would seem the purpose of requiring property owners who don’t live in a flood zone to purchase flood insurance is an effort to subsidize the cost for those who do, and if that’s the case it represents a terrible injustice. Once again, the wealthy benefit off the backs of those who once represented the state’s middle class.
Add this to the relatively new requirement that homeowners replace their roofs every 10 years – a $15,000 expense on average – and you have two measures designed to weed out a certain socio-economic constituency.
The Republican supermajority in the Legislature and Gov. Ron DeSantis have been braying these past few years about how much they cherish personal freedom. DeSantis even calls the Sunshine State the “free state of Florida.”
Yet they have no qualms about slipping the government’s sticky fingers, to an ever-increasing extent, into yours and my wallets to extract more and more of our hard-earned dollars.
All this “freedom” sure ain’t free.
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 Paramount Home Entertainment.
“Crawl” starring Kaya Scodelario, Barry Pepper, Morfydd Clark. Directed by Alexandre Aja. 127 minutes. R rated.
Mladen’ take
The film “Crawl” is a model of efficiency and efficacy. In the first, oh, 10 minutes, the audience is introduced to the fact that our heroine Haley is a good swimmer who wants to be gooder; that there’s tension in her family; that a powerful hurricane changed course unexpectedly and is heading for South-ish Florida; that first responders will be unable to help if you’re stranded; that Dad isn’t answering calls or texts; and that the family’s dog faces peril. Hell, even the film’s title is efficient because much of the action takes place in a “Crawl” space beneath a home “Crawl”ing with particularly vicious alligators.
“Crawl” has been graded by IMDB viewers as a mediocre horror movie. They’re wrong. This film is an A-, though it misfires here and there. For example, the first couple of gators to attack Dad and Haley hiss, which is OK, and grumble‑moan like they have larynxes. During courtship, bull gators do generate low-frequency sonic vibrations through the water to show-off their manliness to breed and designate territory. But, in “Crawl”, the gator sonics happen in a largely dry, for the moment, “Crawl” space when, I imagine, the gators were thinking about something other than mating. Don’t misunderstand. The gator grumble‑moans were nothing like the shark in “JAWS IV” (or was that “V”?), breaching and then roaring. Still, making the gators make intimidating noise to add menace to the movie was a tad contrived. Also, the film’s depicted family strife is unneeded and the occasional pep talk from Dad for his daughter Haley’s benefit when her tenacity, spirit, resourcefulness, guts, or hope flag amid heavy rainfall, a flooding house, and death‑by‑gator of a childhood friend languorous. And, yes, there’s the questionable decision to leave the house after Haley and Dad finally escape from the reptile‑infested “Crawl” space to reach a boat by wading a couple of hundred feet through murky, hip-high water.
The boat, by the way, was parked at an inundated gas station and convenience store. It was to be used as the escape vehicle by three people who wanted to steal the store’s ATM. Can you guess what happens to the robbers? The fate of the trio is an example of the many times that “Crawl” excels as creature feature horror.
Del will complain about the jump-out-of-your-seat moments in this movie, but I loved the hell out of them. The gator busting through a staircase. The lightning bolt that illuminates a big‑ass meat eater, jaw agape, behind Haley. And, there’s suspense. Lots and lots of suspense. Reaching from a somewhat safe perch across flood water strewn with floating debris that obstructs your view to get your dead friend’s Glock – he was a sheriff’s deputy – for protection. The dog swimming through a long, darkened hallway to reach Dad. All delightful.
“Crawl” also provides a solid dose of gore. Water turning red as gators bite and thrash their human prey. A death roll. A gator gripping Dad near the elbow, snapping his arm in half and then tearing it off. Floating corpses. Wait to you see how Haley dispatches a gator that has taken hold of her. Dad, too, before losing his arm later in the movie, whacks a gator after trapping it in a clever way.
Sit back, if you can, and enjoy “Crawl”. It’s a masterful little film with likeable characters facing cold‑blooded, almost plausible, threats.
Del’s take
“Crawl” is a two-hour and seven-minute wet T-shirt contest, which explains why Mladen likes it so much.
Me? I can take it or leave it. I have nothing against standard-issue potboilers, even if they’re shameless cash grabs, in this case by the studio and a slumming Barry Pepper, who usually chooses more artistically meritorious projects. But schlock is like Hooters chicken wings – to enjoy them one must be in the mood for them, assuming one can focus on the wings and not the breasts. Maybe I wasn’t in the mood for a serving of grease delivered by a perky coed.
As Mladen explained, the protagonist, Haley, travels two hours south of Gainesville to look for her dad as a cat five hurricane approaches. Dad isn’t answering his phone and Haley’s sister up north fears the worst. Haley and Dad are especially close; she’s a college swimmer and he was her coach throughout her youth. But now she’s having doubts after losing a relay, and somehow that means Dad is a monster, or something like that. You know … something conflicty.
As she treks to the AWOL Dad’s seaside abode she passes a flooded alligator farm. These are the Special Super Intelligent Mind-Reading Alligators from Mars or something based on what happens later in the movie. She finds Dad in the crawl space beneath his house, clawed to damn near bloody ruin by … well, OK. I should let you watch the movie to find out, but, Psssttt! It crawls.
What follows is a string of predictable pitfalls, emotional ups and downs and cliché after soggy, growly cliché. I will give “Crawl” credit – in most of these movies the protagonist is a crack shot who always dodges the falling asteroid and ambles into the sunset with the girl – or boy – slung over his or her shoulder. In “Crawl,” no such immunity is granted, and since it’s a father and daughter there will be no ambling into the sunset. Well, maybe an AARP lecture or two.
No, Mladen, I didn’t object to the jump scares. What I did object to was the stupidity – like helicopters flying in a cat five hurricane. Like people strolling the flooded streets in a cat five hurricane. Like a one-armed guy able to bludgeon his way through a roof with his bare hand.
If you go into “Crawl” with sufficiently low expectations you’ll enjoy it, because it’s a decently entertaining movie with not bad special effects. But that’s all we’re talking here – entertainment. Not art.
I give it between a B- and a C+. Make it a B- because the hurricane actually looked somewhat realistic (although heads up, moviemakers: We just had a cat five here in the Panhandle and there’s tons of footage on YouTube if you’d care to educate yourself about what a storm like that looks like).
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.
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 verbs. How do you describe a windstorm without using the word “blow”?
Ah, but there’s no sexual connotation to that word – not according to the Clintonites, who want to move along because they’re “tired” of hearing about the lies/scandals/hypocrisy. Once again, the flatulent, huffing-their-own-gases segment of the population votes with its comfort level.
Not so for the shell-shocked denizens of the Gulf Coast, who remain glassy-eyed from the near-continuous barrage of hurricane coverage. I should be more grateful, but my eyes are still rolling in the sockets, following the leathery hand of The Weather Channel’s John Hope as he traces swirly motions over the infrared/radar/satellite image of what could be a hurricane or could be the White House after hours. It’s all a disaster looking.
Once Georges lurched ashore, it dropped brimming buckets of rain, creating an instant market for anybody who knows how to fix a leaky roof … or refloat a house.
FEMA knows how to refloat a house, especially if it’s a mansion build on a sandbar. They’ve been doing it for years, and guess whose pockets they pluck to do it. I’ll bet if the FEMA boys dug through their files, they could find a policy for Atlantis.
If the FEMAtics really want to help, give every man, woman and child in Northwest Florida his own liquor license. I’m feeling empowered already!
But I doubt the feds will cooperate. Instead, we’ll get McCarthy-era macaroni, forms in triplicate to jam under the doors, and a visit from a high-ranking official, maybe even Linda Tripp!
So let’s look on the private-sector bright side: The trend is downward for hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico, as reported in the July 23 Daily News in a story about GLOBAL WARMING. Maybe storms Charley, Early, Francis and Georges didn’t catch that part. They got to the words GLOBAL WARMING and tuned out, the way MONICA LEWINSKY affects the fashionably flawed.
But let’s not carp about GLOBAL WARMING. It’s been debunked by editorial writers everywhere, same as the infamous OZONE HOLE. Except the ozone hole is real. Oops.
Nevertheless, be of good cheer. The wet got wetter, but with luck we won’t be one of them, and even if we are, the benevolent hand of somebody – the media, the government, maybe President Bill himself – will lift us up, or at least tell us they did.
And that’s what matters: the appearance, not the substance, of a thing.
So don’t worry. When Hurricane Monica forms, it won’t come into the gulf. And if it does, macaroni is only a stack of forms in triplicate away!
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 the National Hurricane Center.
The list of hurricane names for 1997 is out, and what a sorry list of names it is.
The A storm will be called Ana. I have a friend whose name is Anna, so I will not say anything bad about this name. But just between you, me and the fence post, I would never trust a storm named Ana, which is no reflection on the real Anna, who is entirely trustworthy. Well. Almost.
The B storm will be Bill. It will arrive collect-on-delivery. Ha ha. That’s my only “Bill” joke.
Next we have Claudette. Claudette is too exotic a name. I see French madams prowling the gas lit back alleys of the New Orleans French Quarter – a fearful image of you worry about diseases, not hurricanes.
Then there’s Danny. How could anybody run away from a Hurricane Danny? When I think of Danny, I think of a “Far Side” Irish setter, its tongue lolling, its eyes slightly crossed. Danny is too friendly a name for a hurricane.
For the E storm we have Erika. I like this name. I see a rigid Nordic disciplinarian, one who would deal a devastating blow to a city filled with Bills and Claudettes. Erika would teach them a thing or two.
The F storm will be named Fabian.
You’ve got to be kidding.
Fabian? Do you expect me to take a storm named Fabian seriously? Why not Frankie? Annette? Or, the Hurricane Formerly Known as Fabian?
The G name is excellent. Grace. It embodies an ironic contrast between the naturally violent nature of a tropical cyclone and the gentle, moral forthrightness of forgiveness. Or something like that.
Next we have Henri, pronounced ahn-REE, like the waiter who brings you a platter of snails and sneers at your non-gold Visa card and then slinks away for a rendezvous with Claudette. You can imagine this storm muttering, “I SPIT on your waterfront property” in a French accent.
The I storm will be Isabel, as in the queen of Spain who dispatched Columbus on his journey westward. Not a bad choice, especially if Isabel is a Cape Verde hurricane.
The next two storms are familiar refrains from 1985, Juan and Kate. Juan struck Pensacola. Kate struck Panama City. Hmmm. If there were a letter between J and K, we’d be in big trouble.
The L hurricane will be Larry. I sit in front of a Larry. As I write this, I can feel his eyes boring into the back of my neck, like laser beams. He edits this column, which is why you haven’t been seeing my curse words lately.
I think Larry is a great name.
Forgive me for chortling, but the M storm will be called Mindy. We have a Mindy who works here, but I think I could take her two falls out of three. Therefore, it’s only with a little trepidation that I say Mindy is a terrible name for a hurricane. Na-noo, Na-noo.
The N and O storms have names I don’t really care about, Nicholas and Odette. I think the hurricane center must be growing desperate. Odette? Sorry all you Odettes. I think this name is a 0.
The last name on the list is Peter. I don’t think Hurricane Peter is a good idea. To put it bluntly, I fear the pun potential is too enormous, and every scatologist in the nation will be jeering.
Who would want to be struck by Peter?
This column was published in the Wednesday, May 21, 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 .
Photo by Del Stone Jr.
On Tuesday, Oct. 4, 1995, I was sitting in a staff meeting listening to the disaster plan should Hurricane Opal come our way.
I remember that day for two reasons. O.J. Simpson had just been found innocent of murder and Opal was in the southwest Gulf of Mexico, a trifling 90 mph storm predicted to move northeast and strike the north-central Gulf Coast sometime Thursday.
I remember the wrongness of it all – the wrongness of the verdict and the wrongness of the forecast. Surely after everything that had happened with Simpson a rational jury would convict. Hadn’t he tried to flee before a national television audience? And how could the National Hurricane Center believe Opal would dither in the gulf until Thursday when a vigorous cold front was approaching. Hadn’t previous experience suggested cold fronts act as siphons, pulling tropical weather systems along their boundaries at high rates of speed?
On the way back to the newsroom I told the editor I thought Opal would arrive much sooner – as of Wednesday. He expressed surprise. That wasn’t in the forecast. And of course I’m not a weather forecaster. Still, I’d seen it before, most notably with Eloise in ’75. I was sure the storm would strike the next day.
I don’t remember what I did that night but I remember being awakened at 5:30 Wednesday morning by the telephone. It was one of my feature writers, whose voice sounded thin as cellophane. Opal had intensified rapidly during the night and was racing for the Northwest Florida coast with winds of 135 mph. She wanted to evacuate – could she please evacuate?
Now now, I laughed. Let me take a look at the forecast and I’ll call you back.
I turned on the TV and dialed in The Weather Channel. There sat TWC’s septuagenarian hurricane expert, John Hope, who gravely confirmed everything my feature writer had told me. In fact the news was worse – Opal could further strengthen before moving onshore.
I called her back and said yes, she could evacuate. “OK thanks ‘bye” she blurted. No comma stops in that declaration. I imagine 30 seconds later her car was screeching out of the driveway.
Then I called my parents. They live close to the water and Mom has no love of hurricanes. I knew they’d want to evacuate. The sound of a phone ringing early in the morning can bring nothing but bad news but they took my storm warning in stride. The day would mean a long drive to Huntsville, Ala., where they’d rent a hotel room and watch it unfold on TV. At least they wouldn’t be here, where I’d worry about them.
I showered, shaved and drove to work. It was a dark, gloomy morning, but traffic was light and I made the trip quickly. I worried a little about my cats back at the townhouse. Would they be OK if I had to remain at the office during the storm?
The time was 6:30 a.m.
When I got to work few people were about. I called the editor and roused him from bed. He called the publisher. We’d have a meeting at 7:30. The telephones were ringing like crazy, people wanting to know what was going on and old coworkers who had moved on to other locales calling to ask if we were OK. Well, no, we weren’t OK. We were about to be clobbered by a category 3 hurricane. That’s never OK.
The editor and publisher showed up. We met. We discussed options – publishing a special edition before the storm, or another special edition after the storm.
Then, one of our columnists burst through the newsroom door and shouted, “The winds are up to 150 mph and it could become a category 5!”
I could think of nothing else to say except, “You’re lying.”
“No! I’m not! Check The Weather Channel!”
We turned the TV to The Weather Channel and sure enough, there sat John Hope announcing Opal had continued its rapid intensification and was now a category 4 storm with winds of 150 mph. Further intensification was possible and Opal could become a category 5 storm as it struck the Florida Panhandle later that afternoon. He said, “If you’re in the Florida Panhandle you need to get out. You’ve got to get out of there.” Or something to that effect.
My stomach turned to mush. Category 5. What would that do to our community?
At that point the publisher made his decision. We would not publish a Thursday edition. Most of the staff had left – not just the reporters but the press crew, mailroom employees and carriers too. Even if we could produce a special section, nobody would be available to print it or distribute it. And who would be available to read it? He urged everybody to evacuate. We were told we could shelter at the building or go to our homes. God help us.
About 8 a.m. I left the newspaper. I knew better than to shelter there. I would be up all night with no sleep. When the real work was needed, the next day, I’d be in horrible shape to do it. I decided to go home, ride out the storm with my cats, and report to work the next morning.
I drove to the main thoroughfare through town. All three lanes heading north were jammed bumper-to-bumper with cars moving at about 3 mph. All three lanes heading south were empty. I think that was the moment I became most scared – as I turned right and began heading south, the lone car on the road. It was as if the people in those cars heading north knew something I didn’t. I felt utterly and terribly alone.
I had to drive to the southernmost intersection of town to find a place where I could cross to the other side of the road. I took back streets until I found myself sitting in my parents’ driveway. Their car was gone and the house locked up. I became even more frightened. I was truly on my own.
I drove to my townhouse. There, everything seemed normal. The lights were on, the AC running and my cats were nonchalantly curious as to why I was interrupting their solitude on a work day. I vacuumed the house, made a pot of coffee and for the first time ever, filled up a five-gallon jug with drinking water.
Throughout the morning vicious rain bands rolled onshore dumping copious amounts of water. At one point the parking lot where I live began to flood. I knew from previous experience the storm drain gutter must be plugged up – it traps leaves and debris preventing the rain from draining. So I donned my wet shoes, grabbed a plastic bag and went outside to clean out the drain. It needed to be done. If not I might have a foot of stormwater sloshing around in the townhouse.
As I stuffed handsfulls of leaves into the bag a Jeep Grand Cherokee plowed through a lake in the road, sending a tsunami of foul stormwater crashing over me. I stopped, gazed balefully at the Jeep and shook my fist. The Jeep driver had stopped, but having thought escape was the better part of valor he drove off, leaving me standing there soaking wet.
Luckily the parking lot emptied once I got the storm drain cleaned out and I was able to return home and take the last hot shower I’d enjoy for the next four days. Then, perversely, the battery in my TV remote went dead. You wouldn’t think a dead remote battery would be a major concern with a category 4 storm approaching but to me it was a crisis – I needed a new battery. Otherwise I’d have to get off the couch and manually change the channel. Horrors!
I live across the street from a major shopping center – one with a Radio Shack – so I decided to stroll over there and buy a new battery.
Surprise. All the stores were closed.
That’s when the enormity of the impending disaster struck me – when I couldn’t buy a stupid battery for my TV remote.
This is the end of Part 1 of this narrative. I will post Part 2 later.
I was sitting in my Nissan Pathfinder, staring at a deserted shopping center at 11 o’clock in the morning, and I thought, This is what the end of the world will look like.
The parking lot, which should have been jammed with cars, was empty. Dim lights shone from the stores but no shoppers browsed the aisles. The streets on either side of the shopping center were empty. I was the only moving thing in that forlorn rectangle of commerce except for the stray piece of trash picked up the wind.
The sky to the south was the color of a nasty bruise, the deep bluish-gray some people describe as purple. A brisk southeasterly wind came in fits and starts, shaking the Pathfinder as I nudged it through the parking lot. Pools of standing rainwater rippled with the gusts.
I debated trying to find another store that might be open but finally decided to get myself back home and finish storm preparations. I had much to do. The computer needed protection and my floppy discs, which contained a lifetime of writing, would have to be put somewhere so that if a window shattered they wouldn’t be destroyed by water.
When I arrived the parking lot was blessedly free of lakes. I guess a dowsing was worth the peace of mind. Inside, the TV continued a never-ending, manic outpouring of storm “information,” most of it bullshit as the reporters and talking heads ad libbed their way into realms of coverage for which they were not adequately prepared. Disgusted, I turned to The Weather Channel. At least John Hope knew what he was talking about, even if he were a doomcaster.
At one point I found myself praying the storm would weaken. I am not an atheist but I don’t believe in organized religion. Don’t get me wrong. I think religion does a lot of good, despite the obvious bad wrought in the name of Jesus, Mohammed and other prophets. But I think God looks out for us after a fashion and I called upon him to look out for me and my community as this cyclonic devil bore down on us.
The 11 a.m. advisory had just come in and saints be praised, Opal had weakened! Winds were down to a mere 135 mph. Later I would learn Opal had passed over the “Gulf loop,” a whorl of super warm water in the central gulf that sometimes develops from currents flowing up from the Caribbean. That had contributed to Opal’s latest burst of intensification. But now Opal was undergoing what weathermen call an “eyewall replacement cycle” in which a tight inner eye cannot be sustained by the available heat and moisture so it collapses, to be replaced by a larger eye that diffuses the wind field.
Given time and energy Opal would redevelop that tight, inner eye. With luck she’d go inland before that happened.
I trudged upstairs and encased the computer in a plastic garbage bag. I put the floppies in a zipper-top bag and relocated them to the bathroom linen closet. Then I set about covering the windows with rows of masking tape. I glared balefully at my neighbor’s upstairs patio. The asshole had left a potted impatien in one of those macrame holders swinging from the railing. I could picture it being snatched up by the wind and dashed against my upstairs sliding glass door. I wanted to strangle her.
Sometime between 11 a.m. and noon the power went off. I felt myself frowning. The weather didn’t seem that bad just yet. Why had the power gone off? And it wasn’t as if I could call Gulf Power and report an outage. I shook my head and got out the candles and flashlights. Luckily I had set the thermostat to 68 degrees so the AC had been running all morning. It would be a few hours until the temperature inside the townhouse became clammy and uncomfortable.
Now there was nothing to do but wait.
At about 1 p.m. the wind began blowing really hard. The trees were gyrating so violently I wondered why they didn’t snap in half and crash to the ground. The air was filled with flying leaves – that and the notorious sideways rain you hear about. Once or twice that afternoon I stepped outside to witness the storm firsthand. Just opening the door was an ordeal – apparently the pressure inside the house was greater than outside because I had to put some muscle into getting the door open.
You can’t really know what a hurricane is like until you’ve experienced one. The world outside your door is a cacophony of swishing – the wind is hurling itself against your house, your car and the trees in your yard. Anything unable to withstand the gale is swept away. Meanwhile a basso roar insinuates itself beneath the higher frequency hissing of wind. That would be the Gulf of Mexico thundering against the barrier island that protects Fort Walton Beach, my hometown. The island, which we call Okaloosa Island, lies a mere half mile from shore. It is a thin ribbon of sand that stretches from Destin all the way to Pensacola, 45 miles to the west. It rises above sea level a mere 3 or 4 feet, except where sand dunes tower to as high as 30 feet. Thanks to development many of these sand dunes have been leveled. The gulf is free to visit the mainland.
I could hear this as I stood on the front porch, and truth be told it terrified me. A hurricane’s most insidious power over a human being is its assertion of authority. You have absolutely no control over what’s happening. You can tape windows, light candles and pray, but the hurricane will do to you what it chooses. I felt tiny, almost insectile, as I stood there watching the world fly by me.
The next four hours were probably the worst four hours of my life. The townhouse shivered as gusts of wind over 120 mph battered the building. I heard loud knocks and thuds as debris struck the roof. The windows began leaking around the edges. At times the entire townhouse seemed to shrink, then expand, and the air pressure changed from one minute to the next causing my ears and sinuses to pop. I saw objects flying through the air – I didn’t know what they were. I went upstairs a few times to call the newspaper and make sure everybody was OK – I had a landline phone up there that was still working – and the building shimmied beneath my feet. I felt the constant urge to duck as something heavy and loud rumbled across the roof.
About 5 o’clock that afternoon the sky turned a sickening shade of green. Clouds raced overhead and I could see small objects sailing overhead – for God’s sake they were birds, flocks of birds! What would birds be doing out in a storm of this magnitude? Then I looked closer and realized they weren’t birds at all. Debris. Roofing shingles. Flashing. Flotsam and jetsam, picked up by the wind. I wondered how many miles they would sail, and who would puzzle over them once they descended to earth.
Then an incredible thing happened. I heard whoops of joy and saw a group of men dash from a nearby townhouse and hurl themselves into the courtyard swimming pool. They were GIs, probably from nearby Eglin Air Force Base. I guess they were having a hurricane party and had gotten drunk and would now enjoy a brisk splash in the pool as the eye of Hurricane Opal crossed the coast.
And indeed that was what happened. I’d brought downstairs my boombox and was listening to a local radio station that had a correspondent stationed at the local emergency operations center. The center of Opal crossed the coastline somewhere near Navarre Beach, about 20 miles to our west, at about 5 p.m. Finally – blessedly – the worst was behind us.
Darkness fell. I lit candles and turned on the flashlight. At one point I turned off the radio – I couldn’t stand listening to the frantic declarations of the announcer. Any and all rumors were being broadcast. Somebody had reported a major bridge had been toppled and they broadcast the information without any verification – turns out no bridge had collapsed. They reported a body had washed up on the northern shore of Choctawhatchee Bay. That wasn’t true either, although the real story was far more interesting. A truck driver trying to make the dash from Destin to Fort Walton Beach had been tossed from his rig and floated across the bay to land on its northern shore. What they did report, and what turned out to be true, was that the Gulf of Mexico had breached Okaloosa Island. Never in my decades of living in this area had that happened.
Late that night I trudged upstairs and went to bed. It was difficult finding sleep. The wind howled through the pergola on my upstairs patio and it sounded too much like a human being screaming … or maybe not a human being. At some point I fell asleep. …
… To awaken to gloriously blue skies and refreshing fall temperatures. Apparently the cold front that had sucked up Opal and spit her out on our shores had passed through. Our weather was splendid. I took a freezing cold shower, got dressed, cleaned out the litter boxes, gave the kitties an extra helping of food and water, then headed out.
My first stop was Mom and Dad’s house. I wanted to make sure everything was OK there. The drive over was dicey – trees were down and floodwaters still made some of the roads impassible. In some spots the road was clogged with debris or fallen power lines. Eventually I got there and was shocked by what I saw – giant trees I’d known all my life lay like fallen brontosauruses in the back yard. Something big had taken off the corner of the roof. The fence was crushed in several locations. Overall the damage appeared manageable but Dad would have his hands full the next few days.
I toured the neighborhood. I was horrified to see the water from Choctawhatchee Bay had come up over the street abutting Mom and Dad’s back yard. A few more hours of southerly winds and my folks might have had the bay in their house.
The trip to work was equally revelatory. Damage was everywhere – buildings with their roofs torn off, signs down, trees lying prone, debris wrapped around telephone poles. Each time my tires crunched over mounds of shingles I wondered if a nail would immobilize my Pathfinder.
When I got to work I was greeted by what struck me as an insurmoutable tableau of chaos. A Honda generator chugged on the sidewalk with extension cords running through the door to inside. The newsroom was pitch black. Reporters who had sheltered there staggered about, sleep deprived and unable to function. One reporter was bleery-eyed drunk, as was one of the management team. The phone rang endlessly. Most ominously, I was the senior editor present. How the hell would I make sense of this?
As the morning wore on the news became grim, then grimmer. The Gulf of Mexico had breached the island and everything there was in a state of destruction. We’re talking million-dollar-an-acre real estate, home to McMansions, giant condos and pricey restaurants. The main thoroughfare from Fort Walton Beach to Destin – U.S. Highway 98 – had been utterly destroyed. Boats and hotels were lying in the roadway in downtown Fort Walton Beach. The Sheriff’s Office had set up a blockade on the county’s borders.
I took out a yellow legal pad and began breaking down the catastrophe into manageable chunks. Our coverage would mirror our beats. We would fill the newspaper with stories and photos – especially photos – of what had happened. Every municipality around us would get its own story, unless the reporter covering that beat failed to make an appearance. I felt like a triage nurse, salvaging what could be salvaged. But I believed it was the only manageable way to deal with the situation.
Throughout the day editors and reporters came in and the business of managing the crises became easier and easier. It was all falling into place. What had seemed like a disaster of news coverage that morning had become a manageable – albeit difficult – issue of coordination by late afternoon.
Speaking of which, about 5 p.m. I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. I strolled past the electric meter on the side of the building and noticed an orange glow inside the meter. The proverbial light bulb clicked. Electricity. Somehow electricity was reaching the meter but not being transferred to the building itself. I tracked down the maintenance man and made him come outside with me. When I showed him the meter he slapped his head and declared, “Damn, I forgot!”
Prior to Opal’s arrival he’d shut off the main circuit breakers, fearing damage to the computers and AC systems. We made our way into the mailroom, where the breaker box was located. He shoved the switches up and the lights burst forth in a blaze of fluourescent glory! The ACs kicked into gear. We had electricity!
You could hear the cheer reverberate throughout the building.
Because we were a “priority customer,” due to our public information role, Gulf Power had worked hard to get us back online. Never was an electric pencil sharpener more welcome.
After that, getting out the newspaper became a snap. Our reporters were able to write their stories at their own PCs. Our paginators were able to design the pages. Our photographers could develop their film. The press crew could print the paper, and what carriers showed up could deliver it.
I drove home at midnight in utter blackness. Traffic signals weren’t working so we relied on the honor system at intersections. Those of us who remained behind fastidiously observed this system in negotiating major byways in town. When I arrived home the kitties were just fine. It was cool inisde. I had a lovely dinner of soggy, half-thawed hotdog buns and chicken bullion.
Over the next few weeks we would cover Opal like we’d never covered any story before. We were national news. Opal had killed 63 people and caused $3 billion in damage. Our shorelines were in ruins. And to this day we are still dealing with the aftermath – Opal wiped out many of the dunes on Okaloosa Island, which means every tropical storm that visits the Florida panhandle threatens to overwash the island, damaging the properties there and bringing floods to the mainland. Hurricanes Ivan, Dennis and Katrina exacerbated the problem. Even Hurricane Ike, which came nowhere near us, overwashed part of the highway between Fort Walton Beach and Destin.
But we are still here.
I remember a letter to the editor shortly after Opal struck. I can’t quote it verbatim but it went something like this: “No lights, no phone, no TV, no water. But by God my newspaper was in the driveway.”
I felt proud to be a journalist.
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 .
The sadists I work with on the wired desk have a game they play from June 1 to Nov. 30.
They know I am fascinated by hurricanes. They see my tracking charts featuring the scribbled admonition that he who steals this chart will die of earworms.
Worst of all, they know I am always anxious to study the satellite photographs.
We receive three satellite photographs each day. The first is transmitted at about 4 a.m., the second at 4 p.m. and the last at 9:30 p.m. Each has its own idiosyncrasies. The morning photo has poor resolution. The afternoon photo is usually sharp, and more closely represents the extent of the cloud cover. This is the photo we publish in the newspaper. The night photo exaggerates the cloud cover, but it can give you an idea of trends in a storm’s movement.
At any rate, I want to see them all. Enter the sadists.
My desk used to be next to the Laserphoto receiver and I could quickly intercept any photographs entering its collection tray. But now my desk is located across the room. Now I must rely on the good graces of the wire desk to supply me with satellite photos.
Ha ha ha ha ha, boy am I a schmuck. Relying on the good graces of the wire desk is like hiring a 40-foot python to babysit small children.
The game goes like this:
1. I am sitting across the room, minding my own business, when suddenly I hear the telltale click of a Laserphoto being cut and fed into the collection tray. All eyes on the wire desk also turn to the Laserphoto machine, as if were a slot machine that had just rung up four cherries.
2. Somebody on the wire desk leaps up and snares the photo.
3. A triumphant “AH HA!” rings across the newsroom.
4. The satellite photo is held so that everybody on the wire desk may see it, but not I.
5. Suddenly, everybody on the wire desk becomes an expert at interpreting satellite photography. “Looks like a suspicious cloud mass in the Caribbean,” they shout in delight. “Yes sir, I see evidence of a circulation in that cloud mass,” or, “Are those spiral bands beginning to form in that Atlantic disturbance?”
6. They sneak peeks at me and titter like schoolgirls. They want me to get p and come over there and try to beg for the photo, but I know they’d pass it from person to person in a perverse game of keep-away, so I refuse to act like I’m interested.
7. They raise the stakes by saying in loud voices, “Uh oh, this looks like a Category 5 storm to me. I don’t think we better let Del see this. I think we should tear this up and burn it. Del wouldn’t be interested, anyway.”
8. The final act in the game involves my capitulation, where I must prostrate myself and shout, “Come on you slimes, gimme that satellite photo. PLEEEZE?” This always is greeted with malicious merriment, especially if I have to get down on my knees and grovel.
Now isn’t that sick?
This column was published in the Playground Daily News sometime in the 1980s, possibly 1986, 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 .