Tag: Judith San Nicolas
• Deadline for the May 2024 issue is April 20.
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- If a Writer Sits in a Forest and Doesn’t Write, Is the Forest Really There?
Now that may sound like a silly headline, but these days, metaphysical constructs and ideas seem rife across social media, as well as in the real world (yes, I distinguish between the two.) We are programmed. Everything is programmed. From your earliest thoughts, you have been shaped to fit the world and the society in which you emerged. What to think. Manners. Codes of conduct. Rules. Regulations. Social mores, work ethic, goals, and aspirations, right down to the shirts you wear and the cars you choose to drive. We like to believe that these are our choices, but in reality, they are choices that have been presented from which you choose. “It’s a big club,” Carlin said, “and you ain’t in it.” The late comedian George Carlin used to joke that we have endless choices for the illusion of freedom: just look at the cereal aisle in any supermarket, endless flavors of anything you might think you want, much geared to psychologically manipulate you. But the really important choices, such as politics, come to two parties, variations on a theme, presented by what he called “The real owners of the world,” the elites and multi-billion dollar corporations like Blackrock that own most things in the world. “It’s a big club,” Carlin said, “and you ain’t in it.” Writers sit down and develop an idea, but the idea is not new or unique; so few things are unique, anymore. We present a spin on an older idea, updated to the current age, with a few twists here and there, and we have something new. Take a murder mystery—there are only so many ways to kill someone and most have been done before. Still, by redirecting focus to a compelling character, the illusion of freshness stands out. Reality. A word we blithely accept without too much thought. But what is reality? One of my favorite authors, Philip K. Dick, dealt heavily with the quest to understand reality. You’re like familiar with the movie ‘Blade Runner’ and the sequel ‘Blade Runner 2049’. The former came from Dick’s book ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep,’ which posited the idea of a future where no real animals existed and people like Deckard, a variant of a policeman, saved his money to buy an electric version of one, treating it like a prized possession. Dick was fascinated by what was, and what was not real. In one story household objects disappeared, replaced by notes that read: Fridge. Couch etc. In another short story, the ice cream man would come in his truck to the terror of the neighborhood kids, because when parents had enough of misbehaving kids they would call the ice cream man to take them away. I use Dick as an example because we do not have a valid definition of reality. Subjectively believing that something is real is not a strong standard. How many of you have had a dream so realistic and so emotion-filled that upon awakening, it all carries with you for much of the day? Or is that the real world and this is the dream state? Can you prove either to me? Another of Dick’s works ‘Total Recall’ from a novel called ‘We Can Remember It For You Wholesale,’ where you could have false memories of expensive vacations implanted in your mind so you can enjoy the sensation of something you would otherwise be unable to experience, complete with postcards mailed from the destinations you were never at. And yet another story, ‘Minority Report’ made into a movie with Tom Cruise as the lead in a Pre-Crime Police force, arresting people because three telepaths have foreseen a crime before the crime occurred. If you did not commit the crime but got arrested for it, how can you prove that the crime would happen? If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to witness it, does it make a sound? I add, ‘Does it fall? Is it really there? Does the forest even exist?’ Social media is rife with alien encounters, secret plots, and wild imaginings. Within those, there are many truthful elements, things that time changes from conspiracy theories to facts. How do we know what is real, anymore? Did you know that all media is owned by a handful of corporations and that most anchors parrot the same words? This has been proved. You are fed what they want you to know. Nothing more. Contrarians, or those who question the narrative are shamed and shut down. We saw this during the COVID hysteria, and still today, although the number of believers has drastically reduced. The point is not what they say, but the fact that you have to accept it because you have no other means to discern the truth short of traveling to the source yourself, hardly practical. Death is another reality question. Do we really die? Does our spirit continue on? Is this just a fraction of the real world, the red pill of ‘The Matrix,’ another movie series that questioned reality? Or, as my mother would tell me, ‘Does it really matter?’ When something is unprovable, what is the value? My answer to that is to cite religious belief and the reality or lack of that somehow does not deter those of faith, while rejected by those prone to questioning. As a writer, when you look at the sheer volume of written work dating back to the very first scribblings in cuneiform back in the time of the Sumerians some 6,000 plus years ago, you have to ask yourself how you fit in this giant tapestry of ideas and words, all written by passionate writers. And what does it all mean? And if we are programmed by our society, to believe that we have an element of freedom of choice, is it all a distraction to keep us from focusing squarely on the big question: What is real? “There are things known and there are things unknown, and MORE
- Wild Imaginings and a Solar Eclipse
It could be a plot for a dystopic science fiction novel; the great solar eclipse that will affect a small swath of central USA this very afternoon, lasting a mere three and a half minutes; this relatively simple obstruction of the sunlight by the moon in a perfect match up, that happens at various places on Earth with some regularity. And yet… Doomsday predictions… after all, just days ago the Statue of Liberty was struck on the torch by a bolt of lightning, captured on film. And then New York experienced an earthquake. And then social media lit up with reports that the CERN Large Hadron Collider (LHC) will be firing up a massive experiment at the same moment, potentially ripping the very fabric of space and time and creating a massive vortex allowing inter-dimensional beings to come and wipe us out, or a giant black hole that will suck the Earth itself. And those are the tame theories. Include the government planning a massive power grid failure forcing martial law and FEMA camps upon us. An invasion by China that has been sending more balloons across the skies. Or worse, our alien overlords, apparently lizard people, returning to enslave us, and possibly eat us, although that would not be healthy for them with our current state of pollutants. I have experienced a few solar eclipses in my life, the result of being in different places. One time in Australia, the world turned dark for about the same amount of time. Back then, I thought, as I do now, the implications of that darkness, and I realized it had a name: Nighttime! If you want darkness, go out at night. Clouds block sunlight, but we don’t melt down over that. Just be glad it is not an asteroid… wait, it isn’t an asteroid, right? With all the imaginative fears resonating, somewhat like the Y2K bug that threatened all computers of the world one minute after 11:59 pm, December 31, 1999, I suspect it will be a giant letdown four minutes after the light begins to dim, and only for those people in the path of the totality. This all comes to pass in a few hours from the time I post this. Most of you will read this after the fact and, hopefully, have a chuckle. If you are not being devoured by those inter-dimensional beings, that is. ~William Gensburger Image from AI
- APRIL 2024 Books & Pieces Magazine is Ready for You to Read
A brand new issue with short stories and poems you won’t want to miss. Read it on our Flip Magazine site. If you prefer, you can download it from there. Click the [ ] symbol to go full screen. If you would rather read it on your Kindle or EPub reader, email Editor@BooksnPieces.com and ask for the ePub version. Enjoy. William Gensburger
- Short Story: War Torn By Corey Villas
War Torn by Corey Villas He had gone into town to pick up his usual haul – canned meats, bottled water, batteries, candles, matches, toilet paper, whatever he could get his hands on. The day was unseasonably warm for this late in the fall, not entirely uncommon in the Southeast. Wearing his trademark laceless combat boots and an army helmet, he was loading all of his essentials into the back of his Chevy when a group of boys came up behind him. He recognized them from several encounters before, too many to keep count. “God damn, he smells like fart and rotten garbage,” the blonde-haired boy said. The others howled, one boy laughing so hard that he had to lean against another boy to stop himself from falling over. The man ignored them, his belly hanging out of the bottom of his stained shirt as he reached across the bed of the truck for the last strap to secure his cargo. “When’s the last time you took a shower, you crazy bastard?” the short, red-headed boy tormentingly asked. “This dipshit probably doesn’t know how to clean himself, bet he can’t wipe his ass right either,” the blonde boy mocked. The man got into his truck and closed the door, ignoring the boys, and started the engine. “That’s right, go home and hose yourself down, you damn weirdo,” the man heard through his window as he took off down Maple Street, heading out of town for home. This was a normal day in the life of Randy Boggs. It had not always been like this, though. Before the war, he lived a normal life, working in a local auto shop turning wrenches and doing body work. Some might even say he was handsome. But all that changed after Vietnam. When he was drafted into the Army, the last thing his Mama told him the day he left for basic training surprised him: you come back to me the same, don’t let over there ruin you. He figured she just meant don’t get killed. But as it turned out, some things might be worse than death. ~~~ When he returned home in ‘71, he tried to live his old life again, to pick up right where he left off. But anyone who knew him from before knew that he was not the same man he once was. Things were bad at home, where he still lived with Mama. Sometimes he would sit at the window in a kitchen chair, staring outside for hours, silent, unresponsive to anything, lost within himself. Other times, Mama would catch him biting his fingernails so badly that all shred of nails was gone, blood running down his hands and wrists, oblivious to the mess and the pain. She even came home from bingo one night to find him with a skewer of whole squirrels he had trapped and kabobbed in the backyard. Things got worse when he got fired from the auto shop. The owner, Mr. McGill had moved Randy into the office to keep him away from tools and loud noises, trying to help a veteran and a once good employee. But when customers began to complain about him – his hygiene, his uncomfortable and awkward demeanor, his inability to communicate, one even claimed he thought Randy was going to attack him – Mr. McGill had no choice but to let him go. As time went on, Randy began to slowly assimilate back into some semblance of life. But even as he did, he could not shake the feeling of being unsafe anywhere and everywhere he went, constantly exposed, vulnerable. One day, he went to the grocery store to pick up a few things for Mama and returned with an Army helmet from the surplus store the next town over. He began to wear it everywhere. Sometime later, Mama got sick and eventually passed. She left the trailer, a couple of acres of land, and the little bit of money she had all to Randy. When she died, Randy became a recluse and had been ever since. His new hobby quickly became stockpiling survival goods. He built a ramshackle wooden shed to store all kinds of supplies in, hoarding them in there for whenever he might need them. Stores in town began carrying more of the items they knew he’d buy, as his visits into town were only to buy more and more supplies and nothing else. This is when the torment from locals began. Mostly just kids, like the group of boys giving him hell. But there were others. Not too long ago, a group of mothers had started a petition for the sheriff to ban Randy from town, calling him a “dangerous nuisance” and “a threat to the safety of the town’s children.” Another time, when Randy got bent out of shape about a store not having SPAM in stock, the owner called the police. No reason was given as the police hauled him off to the local jail, where he spent the night screaming and cowering in the corner of his cell. The police let him go early the next morning, mostly because they couldn’t take the noise anymore. Nonetheless, he continued his trips into town to restock, never concerned with what might happen. ~~~ When Randy returned home, he drove around back to his shed and immediately began unloading his latest haul. He stocked and organized everything in great detail, taking note of how much he had of every item. As nightfall neared, Randy locked up his shed and went inside for the evening. Once inside, he sat in front of the TV and watched whatever station he could pick up, the images blurring in and out, the static contorting the shapes on the screen. Randy watched, unblinking, not concerned with the poor reception, not even aware of it. When he realized he was hungry, he went to his freezer and pulled out a frozen TV dinner – Salisbury steak, corn, MORE
- 2 Short Stories: ‘Are You Okay?’ and ‘No Thank You,’ by Alan Rice
Here are TWO short stories by Alan Rice. Alan teaches Advanced Placement Literature and Composition and has had several publication successes. Learn more at the end in the ‘About the Author’ section. Are You Okay? by Alan Rice The bus turned into its space in the garage and hissed to a stop. The boy was already awake; he hadn’t really slept since about two that morning, despite his intentions. He had his phone and camera bag; that was it. The other passengers, mostly middle-aged, were up at once and pulling on their coats, smiling and chatting. He couldn’t tell if they were all of one group; they seemed to know each other, but then maybe they had just become acquainted on the ride down from Connecticut. He was the only teenager and didn’t know anyone. They smiled at him, and he smiled back, trying to look friendly. The mood was cheerful. Once outside, the driver opened up the side panel for the luggage. Except there wasn’t any luggage; one of the women—a rather round, particularly enthusiastic woman—was handing out large cardboard signs stapled to strips of lumber. “End Gun Violence,” some read. “Stop the Insanity.” “Listen to the Kids.” “March for Our Lives.” Most looked hand-made, but many were obviously printed. The boy felt a little sad that he hadn’t thought to bring something, but then that he had his camera. He couldn’t hold a sign and take pictures at the same time. Besides. He wasn’t a protester. He was . . . “And where are you from?” a woman asked him. She looked to be about sixty, her gray hair tied back and covered with a bandana. “We didn’t see you get on.” She smiled at him. He felt momentarily angry; he didn’t want to talk to anyone, explain who he was or why he was there, but he didn’t want to be rude. “Hartford,” he said. “Near Hartford.” “Are you with a group? From your school?” “Uh—” He hesitated. She was only trying to be friendly, not nosy, but there weren’t any other students. Say something that would keep her happy, he thought. She’ll want to know why. Or why not? “No, not exactly. I just wanted to come. I . . .” He couldn’t finish; instead, he tried to think of a way to answer her question without telling her anything. “Well, we’re here.” A tall man, also gray-haired and wearing an LL Bean jacket and grinning, was standing beside the woman. Her husband. “Well, where’d you think?” she answered, which seemed kind of rude but she said it with a smile, so the boy assumed that it was some kind of inside joke. Turning to the boy, she said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.” Again, she was friendly, but not too pushy. Or condescending. He liked that. He’d forgotten his anger. “Steve,” he said. “I’m Marjorie,” said the woman. and she put out her hand. Then, over her shoulder to her husband, “Steve’s from Hartford.” “Hi, Steve. I’m John,” and he shook Steve’s hand. “Are you here alone?” “Well, yeah. I’m . . .” “You’re a photographer?” John asked. “Uh, yeah. Sort of.” “On assignment?” Why would he say that? Did he look like, what, a reporter? “Well, sort of. I’m. . .” He swallowed. “I’m taking some pictures for the paper. The school paper.” The man nodded. “It’s nice to see someone using a real camera, not just a cell phone.” “Yeah, well. Thanks.” His camera was in the bag, the one his mom had given him for Christmas that year, with “Sony” conspicuously on the flap. He almost made a move to conceal it or put his hand over the logo. “Didn’t anyone else from your school come down?” Marjorie asked. Anger flared up in him again, and he had to beat it down, “Well, they were going to charter a bus, but not enough signed up, I guess.” What bullshit. There was no charter. A couple of kids in Student Council had made some noise about doing it, but without the administration’s backing nothing came of it. Steve had talked to a couple of his friends about going down together, but they backed out. Or gave the usual “Sure” and then didn’t do anything. “I just found out about this one by accident, sort of.” “Well, it was good of you to come,” said John. “You know, just being here, just your presence, is important. That’s what I always say.” “Yes,” Marjorie chimed in. “The more of us, the better!” She meant well, Steve thought, but her enthusiasm set his teeth on edge. “Do you know where you’re going?” she asked. “Well, not exactly, no. I have an app on my phone, though. For directions.” “Well, that’s OK,” said John. “We’re going to try to meet up with our daughter. She’s at Georgetown, and said she’d try to meet us near the FDR monument.” “Do you want to come with us?” asked Marjorie, a little too eagerly. “Gee, well, thanks, but . . .” Don’t be rude. Don’t be rude, he thought. But he couldn’t deal with the company now. “I don’t want to impose.” “Look, tell you what,” John broke in. “Here’s my number.” He was already writing on the back of a business card. “You don’t have to use it, but here it is. Send us a text if you want. I guess we’ll be going back on the same bus, but maybe my daughter will want us to stay, I don’t know. Anyway, here it is,” and he handed Steve the card. “Thanks, maybe I will. Do you want…” “Just send us some of your better pics. We’d love to see them. We’ll catch up later.” John was smiling, and Steve felt relieved. Maybe it was OK. He slipped the card into his jacket pocket and waved. “See you later,” he said, then he headed off in the direction of the staging area. MORE
William Gensburger is the bestselling author of Texas Dead, Angle of Death, American Dead, Homo Idiotus, and Distant Rumors: 10 Short Stories.
He is also the publisher of Books & Pieces Magazine since 2017 featuring short stories, interviews and articles. You can learn more and view his books at www.MisterWriter.com.
©2023 William Gensburger