TerryWalstrom

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Posts by TerryWalstrom

• 
  12

  It was a Portrait of a Man ... Falling

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  (a short story by terry edwin walstrom).

  “get out of here—this is my father’s funeral; you don’t belong here; you are a liar!”.

  the woman’s face reflected terrible pain—the worst pain possible, to the point of breakdown.

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  TerryWalstrom

  When an "injured party" shows up to complain, I'll discuss it with them.
• 
  12

  It was a Portrait of a Man ... Falling

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  (a short story by terry edwin walstrom).

  “get out of here—this is my father’s funeral; you don’t belong here; you are a liar!”.

  the woman’s face reflected terrible pain—the worst pain possible, to the point of breakdown.

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  2. 
  3. 
• 

  TerryWalstrom

  If I were charging money for it, you might have a point.
  I have no reputation as a writer--so it can't be ruined very much :)
• 
  12

  It was a Portrait of a Man ... Falling

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  (a short story by terry edwin walstrom).

  “get out of here—this is my father’s funeral; you don’t belong here; you are a liar!”.

  the woman’s face reflected terrible pain—the worst pain possible, to the point of breakdown.

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• 

  TerryWalstrom
• 
  1

  Expoding Clown

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  exploding clown inmate hertzler scurried toward his cell lugging another packet of art supplies sent by his faithful old mom back in oklahoma.

  once inside, his filthy fingers ripped off the brown paper around the cigar box.

  a glut of tubes of winsor oil paint gorged the roi-tan cigar box.

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• 

  TerryWalstrom

  EXPLODING CLOWN
  
  

  Inmate Hertzler scurried toward his cell lugging another packet of art supplies sent by his faithful old Mom back in Oklahoma.

  Once inside, his filthy fingers ripped off the brown paper around the cigar box. A glut of tubes of Winsor Oil Paint gorged the Roi-Tan cigar box. Under them, a detail brush with sable hair had been Scotch-taped to the bottom. Hertzler grinned and his rotting front teeth appeared briefly like a Jack O’lantern. He sniffed in the strong scent of cheap cigars. How he missed them! His appreciative low chuckle was enough to frighten even the cockroaches.
  
  All packages and envelopes searched before release from the mailroom required listing and dating. Next to Hertzler’s name- extra three sheets had been loosely attached.
  Lieutenant Bennett shook his head with boiling disapproval and grunted out loud to himself.

  This inmate pushed Warden Ayala’s liberal policy to the breaking point.
  
  “This freak can’t even paint!”
  
  Indeed, Hertzler’s cell was crowded with stacks of finished clown portraits--awful child-like splotches of misshapen approximations. Garish abortive eyesores half-finished and drying leaned against the concrete wall next to the toilet/sink. On a wobbly easel in the middle, a red headed clown awaited the final touches from the detail brush.
  
  Lt. Bennett half-marched down the hallway to the Warden’s office muttering under his breath. Bennett had been a Drill Instructor in the marine corp and had no space allotted for nonsense inside his 200 lb. six-foot frame.

  He swiveled left and entered Ayala’s office without knocking.
  
  “We gotta put a stop to inmate Hertzler’s clown painting rampages. He got another box from his mother today and that makes 113 this year. Just give the word and it’s done.”
  
  Warden Ayala slowly looked up from his desk where he had been trying to memorize his grand children’s birthdays. The dates were printed in his wife’s neat pencil figures on a sheet of paper and thrust into his hand with a glare. He’d missed the third grand child’s birthday and it was--to his wife--an unforgivable lapse of character.
  
  “What did you say? Hertzler? He’s not hurting anybody. What do you care? Besides, I asked him to paint a red headed clown with freckles for my granddaughter’s birthday for me. She loves clowns.”

  
  
  Bennett stiffened. Ayala had the last word on prison policy. Ayala was a man accustomed to getting his way; a man who took no counsel from others.

  He gave orders and heels clicked.
  
  

  
  

  
  “Beggin’ your pardon, Sir. Hertzler’s cell smells like paint thinner and he’s probably using that stuff to get high--not just clean his paint brushes.

  Other inmates are trading him smokes so’s they can hang his shit on their walls. Now the entire 2nd floor of building 4 looks like a clown gallery from hell.”

  
  

  Ayala shrugged and went back to memorizing. His message was clear--’Get the hell out of my office and leave me alone.’
  Bennett’s jaw clenched. He about-faced and marched out. His face and neck glowed like molten steel in a blacksmith’s forge.
  ____
  
  Three days later.
  Inmate Hertzler scurried toward his cell lugging another packet of art supplies sent by his faithful old Mom back in Oklahoma. Once inside, his filthy fingers ripped off the brown paper around the cigar box inside.
  The disgusting little man’s eyes narrowed and the look of surprise momentarily resembled the facial expression of one of his horrid clown portraits.

  
  “What’s this, Mom?” He mumbled.

  
  
  The tips of his filthy fingers scraped at the bottom of the cigar box as he fumbled aside a random assortment of used paint brushes. A cigar stuck to the bottom and a book of matches, too.
  The toothy Halloween grin widened.

  
  “Awww, Mommy--I love you, too.”
  
  

  Lt. Bennett followed behind Hertzler after mail packet pickup, discreetly and purposefully. As the insufferable convict scratched a match against the matchbook cover and the fat Roi-Tan cigar dangled between his lips, Bennett smiled a cold-blooded expression of amusement only a mortician might admire.
  
  Drawing in a lungful of sweet, pungent smoke, inmate Roy Hertzler exhaled slowly and closed his eyes in dreamlike reveries of remembrance.
  His last puff of a Roi-Tan had been as he stood over his handiwork looking down. The newspapers would call it the fifth of a series of Clownface murders. Hertzler had been glimpsed by witnesses to his first tour de force and reported to police what they’d seen.
  Yes, he wore clown makeup--so what?
  These desecrated corpses had--minutes before--beheld the last vision any of them would ever see: an angry clown. . . a rejected entertainer. A man denied his livelihood by Ringling Bros. and their minions. Why? Why? Just because he had lost his temper that one time?
  Everybody is entitled to one mistake! But no--child stomping was against company policy.
  Nobody saw it go down. Nobody could be sure it wasn’t just as he’d described it.

  
  “Oh yeah--it was awful the way that elephant stepped on the little kid. The child wuz uh fuckin’ with Ringo the elephant and I warned him not to. You know how kids are.”

  
  Some people just have it coming. The little boy was one of them, or so Hertzler thought.
  The little brat had mocked him instead of laughing. The little bastard tossed elephant shit in his face. That--THAT was something unforgivable! Hershel Hertzler was a great artist deserving of dignity, respect, and an appreciative audience instead of mockery and elephant shit! The boy should have listened. He brought it on himself.
  
  Inmate Hertzler drew in another savored moment of hot cigar smoke and sighed the billowy cloud back out again.
  It was that last victim where it all went wrong.
  The policeman with the red crew cut had figured it all out. He was one step ahead of Hertzler.
  The cop explained to the newspaper reporter after the arrest.

  
  “The killer’s family were circus folks going way back two generations before their son came along and fucked things up for them.

  He is definitely some kind of Sociopath or Psychopath--whatever the latest word being used. Each of his victims was relatives of circus management--people who had refused to give him back his job. It was Tiny, the circus midget, who ratted him out quietly to management. He overheard Hertzler raving to himself.They didn’t press charges because of bad publicity. An elephant accident is one thing--but deliberate murder and by a clown? It would destroy their business forever. So, they fired him and told him not to come back. He didn’t listen. The guy is nuts. So, he started in--one by one--gruesome revenge murders: clown paint and elephant shit--a real bad way to go.”
  
  Lt. Bennett was laughing quietly, gleefully--a deeply satisfying, heartfelt laugh welling up from the soles of his black shoes to the bald spot on the back of his sunburned scalp.

  He spoke just loud enough for his own ears.

  
  

  “Any second now.”
  
  Just then, the sound of a .357 magnum bullet exploded inside the cell of Hershel Hertzler. The percussion wave rocketed from the concrete walls and reverberated into a shockwave of surprise clear to the other end of Building 4.

  
  Lt. Bennett’s heart swelled in pride of a job well done. He self-appreciated his scathing scheme: the oldest clown prank in the world: a cigar load!

  Instead of a small squib of black powder, Bennet had substituted the magnum bullet with the lead inserted within the Roi-Tan, pointed right at the back of the smoker’s head.

  
  The splatter of Hertzler’s blood blossomed into a spray of tiny droplets. The almost-finished portrait of a redheaded clown received the final freckle touch ups, completing Warden Ayala’s commissioned birthday gift.

  
  The following day, his granddaughter squealed with delight!
  
  _________
• 
  12

  It was a Portrait of a Man ... Falling

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  (a short story by terry edwin walstrom).

  “get out of here—this is my father’s funeral; you don’t belong here; you are a liar!”.

  the woman’s face reflected terrible pain—the worst pain possible, to the point of breakdown.

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  TerryWalstrom

  It makes an otherwise dead loss into an uplift--the American version of legend making.
  Remember the end of The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence?
  
  

  • Ransom Stoddard
    

    You're not going to use the story, Mr. Scott?

  • Maxwell Scott
    

    This is the west, sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.
• 
  12

  It was a Portrait of a Man ... Falling

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  (a short story by terry edwin walstrom).

  “get out of here—this is my father’s funeral; you don’t belong here; you are a liar!”.

  the woman’s face reflected terrible pain—the worst pain possible, to the point of breakdown.

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  2. 
  3. 
• 

  TerryWalstrom

  PORTRAIT of a MAN FALLING
  

  (A short story by Terry Edwin Walstrom)

  
  

  “Get out of here—this is my father’s funeral; you don’t belong here; you are a liar!”

  ________________

  The woman’s face reflected terrible pain—the worst pain possible, to the point of breakdown. A thousand unanswered questions had been washed from her eyes by the flow of many tears. She was bent forward slightly—not from physical infirmity—but the burden of suffering; a suffering shared by her family.

  A stranger was speaking to her and in his trembling hand, she caught sight of the photograph. There was pleading in his voice, a quiet voice, and something in his eyes meant her no harm . . . so she had dropped her gaze . . . and immediately collapsed.

  
  

  The Editor and his staff listened quietly and a nodded hesitatingly.

  “I don’t know who this is, but it’s pretty clear he was somebody.”

  Faces simply stared back at him, wanted to listen, wanting to be convinced. Yet, at the same time, they didn’t want to do the wrong thing in the wrong way at this—the worst of all possible wrong times.

  “A carpenter reaches for his hammer without thinking. I’m a photographer—I reached for my camera and started taking pictures . . . that’s all it was . . . that’s all.”

  Outside the office, a bustle of activity bespoke controlled chaos. Like an anthill stomped upon, a flurry of busy randomness had seized everyone in an invisible panic.

  “I’d like to know. But—it’s not my call. I don’t know what I’m asking, but maybe you all do.”

  _______

  The clear morning sky gave bright promise to the optimism of a perfect day. It was the kind of day even the most jaded urban sophisticate could glance at sideways and give up a begrudging smile of approval.

  Traffic zipped, clotted, zoomed, or stalled to the dancing red, yellow or green of the bedeviling signal lights along the avenues. Horns honked, shoe leather patted concrete sidewalks in a pattern of big city syncopation. Commuters and panhandlers went through the motions of survival at both ends of the spectrum in a Darwinian paradise of tall, tall buildings and crisp fall air.

  It was 9:41.

  The photographer had snatched his camera up and took off at a brisk jog exactly to the spot where he suddenly froze. The carpenter reached for his hammer without thinking about it, Richard Drew would later say to the others, just as he pointed his camera upward toward the object which had caught his professional eye in the viewfinder, and he began snapping instinctively. There was no right or wrong about it—he snapped and his lens followed as it covered almost fifteen hundred feet of vertical space, top to bottom in blink, snap- blink, snap-blink of an eye.

  _____

  The theologian was asked to comment and he reluctantly agreed.

  The photograph laid out in front of him seemed to be all stripes of black, gray and white with a random speck near the top. Doctor Thompson adjusted his glasses and drew in a slow, deep breath as if bracing himself for the worst. It took a few moments, like a strong drink swallowed too fast, burning on the way down until. . .he removed his glasses again and pinched the top of his nose with his eyes tightly squinted. The newspapers reprinted his comment.

  "Perhaps the most powerful image of despair at the beginning of the twenty-first century is not found in art, or literature, or even popular music. It is found in a single photograph."

  ______

  Next day, on page 7 of the New York Times, the world stared at the photograph. Reaction came immediately like the image in Edvard Munch’s painting, The Scream—an excruciating wail of anger, pain, and denial swept back upon the monsters who would publish such an image!

  ______

  Official quote from the New York Medical Examiner’s office:

  "A 'jumper' is somebody who goes to the office in the morning knowing that they will commit suicide. These people were forced out by the smoke and flames or blown out."

  ______

  Only one man seemed driven to ask the questions nobody else dared to ask. In his curiosity and determination, he questioned the wrong people—showing them the terrible photograph. After all, he was guessing—and guessing means getting it wrong as easily as getting it right. If the unknown was too great a burden for him to bear, so too was it an unthinkable abomination—a blasphemy for the Hernandez family at their father’s funeral. It was a sin to commit suicide and it would send their beloved Norberto to the fires of hell! The daughter lashed out with her bitter words and sent reporter Peter Cheney back out into the street, stunned at the damage his questions had wrought.

  The quest went forward. Another possibility arose: Jonathan Briley, as the falling object in the cursed picture, forever suspended upside down in mid-air, one improbable knee bent, as the slim healthy man plummeted at maximum velocity toward infinity below. Briley’s brother, Timothy identified him by his clothes and shoes, as well as a ridiculous orange undershirt barely visible as the white shirt ballooned out in the updraft of the awful fall—he remembered his brother wearing it that morning.

  His grief-stricken sister told the reporter, "When I first looked at the picture ... and I saw it was a man—tall, slim—I said, 'If I didn't know any better, that could be Jonathan.”’

  Approximately 200 people fell or jumped that day. None was deemed a “jumper,” but a victim of blunt force trauma in a murderous attack on the World Trade Center.

  The Hernandez family was again contacted and their minds put at ease—not a minute too soon. Norberto’s daughters had been torn apart by embittered consciences stricken by devout Catholic teaching. At last, they could accept he had simply been one victim—a martyr to be sure—among the 2,996 which perished.

  Of all the unspeakable horror of that day of infamy, the photograph—a portrait of a man falling—became the focal point of unacceptable remembrance.

  Why?

  None could or would accept the small measure of “choice” implied in this man’s demise. The only possible way the human mind could categorize the event was in terms of murder—not elective suicide.

  Few persons could wrap their mind around the idea of “postponement” of the inevitable, in those few incredible minutes out in the open air—free of smoke and terrible flames—the illogical logic of not wanting to be incinerated in choking blackness and screams. . . Yet—it is so remarkably beautiful to come away with a powerful sense of defiance and freedom in that last act—refusal to accept a death chosen for them by brutal sadists on a feckless and twisted Jihad.

  To jump and sail free in an impossible escape on the wings of God’s angels—or the simple purchase of five seconds more of precious life—who are we to judge this man or the 200 others and affix blame or assign moral verdicts?

  In that moment of 9:41 a.m. September 11, 2001—there is an eternal portrait of a man falling. He who may have greater courage than any human has ever shown. 1,500 feet of flight on a most beautiful day with its morning sun bright and clear, and a casual breeze softly caressing his flight in a transcendent prayer of human dignity.

  FREEDOM at any cost.

  
  

  
  
• 
  6

  His Name was John and he is a Master's Degree student

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  i see myself as being like the little (roomba) robot vacuum cleaner, bumping into things, turning slightly this way or that, then proceeding merrily on my way.

  “yes life sucks,” i seem to say, “but life goes on--let’s make the most of it.”.

  yesterday at the starbucks on the hill, i hit a bump in a conversation with a young, bearded master’s degree student.

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  TerryWalstrom

  Hilarious update:
  
  I was sitting outside Starbucks writing yesterday and I saw John pull up in his car.
  He must have seen me, too.
  He pulled out of the parking lot and drove off.
  
  
  
• 
  14

  ... The Teacher Appears

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  text: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1s2nu2bw_em6i9kp7wugj4yjqmhps2yio-ytehl4jbmy/edit?usp=sharingthe teacher appears.

  he was paul miyoshi.. i passed by him; he raised his head with flashing white hair and set his gaze serenely upon me that first time.

  the pupils of his eyes were black, mysterious, as from another world.“konichiwa” he spoke with a smile wrapped in mischief.. there had been a slight bow which triggered a mirrored response.. over the next year and a half, i’d get to know this man much in the way a box within a box reveals more boxes.

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  TerryWalstrom

  A community of mentors. Hmmmmm.
  
  Ex-Dubs are persons utterly convinced they once had absolute truth but eventually disabused to the point of realizing they were dead wrong.
  
  Now, I have to ask myself--are these the sort of people I want advice about life from?
  I'm being a bit facetious, of course.
  
  Discovering you were fooled, misinformed, lied to, deceived is traumatic. It doesn't guarantee you are able to see clearly about anything ever afterward, however.
  I can be correct in telling you about how wrong you are without being able to tell you what is best to turn to for a replacement.
  
  Our mechanism for determining what is true is broken. Just knowing your watch is broken isn't the same as knowing what time it really is.
  
  I think of a Mentor as a one-on-one relationship between an expert and a novice rather than a doctor / patient therapy session in which the doctor needs a therapist too :)
  
  
  There is good advice to be had if the advice giver has something to lose when the advice backfires. The advice taker certainly does.
  
  
• 
  14

  ... The Teacher Appears

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  text: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1s2nu2bw_em6i9kp7wugj4yjqmhps2yio-ytehl4jbmy/edit?usp=sharingthe teacher appears.

  he was paul miyoshi.. i passed by him; he raised his head with flashing white hair and set his gaze serenely upon me that first time.

  the pupils of his eyes were black, mysterious, as from another world.“konichiwa” he spoke with a smile wrapped in mischief.. there had been a slight bow which triggered a mirrored response.. over the next year and a half, i’d get to know this man much in the way a box within a box reveals more boxes.

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  TerryWalstrom

  I spent yesterday evening with a 21-year-old JW fellow I "woke up" about a year and a half ago. His adventure (while staying in) in staying inside the religion while having a double life is most informative to me. I seem to have taken on the role of Sensei to him because he calls me and visits for outside perspective. It makes me think back to my relationship with Paul at Triangle Industries.
  
  I only wish I had had a mentor (father OR father figure) to reliably advise me BEFORE I was introduced to JW's.
  There needs to be a JW Hotline for such purposes.
• 
  14

  ... The Teacher Appears

  by TerryWalstrom in

  1. jw
  2. experiences

  text: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1s2nu2bw_em6i9kp7wugj4yjqmhps2yio-ytehl4jbmy/edit?usp=sharingthe teacher appears.

  he was paul miyoshi.. i passed by him; he raised his head with flashing white hair and set his gaze serenely upon me that first time.

  the pupils of his eyes were black, mysterious, as from another world.“konichiwa” he spoke with a smile wrapped in mischief.. there had been a slight bow which triggered a mirrored response.. over the next year and a half, i’d get to know this man much in the way a box within a box reveals more boxes.

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  TerryWalstrom

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7708E1bmoxc

  I found this never-aired episode about traditional Japense carpentry without nails.