Shale Writes April 14, 2016 I have always had a way with stinging words together to make a coherent statement, understood by others. I don't know why my English language skills would have been better than my peers but I noticed this in high school and besides getting good grades for required work, I also wrote for my own pleasure; poems, essays and a short story, "Wildlife," a 1963 horror story in the first person similar to Poe's style. When we had to do a one-word description of our future endeavors for our yearbook in 1963, mine was "Write" However, after graduation a young man has other things to do than write. It would be two decades before I took up the hobby of writing again. As in school it started with necessity - Newspaper Opinion Page letters to the editor. My first published in December 1981 in the Gainesville Sun. Since that letter I have had 200 published before the end of the 20th Century. Some of those were full Guest Columns with fotos in the Gainesville Sun and the Miami Herald. And, one of my proud moments was being mentioned by Editorial Page Editor, Louis Salome in the last issue of The Miami News on December 31, 1988 in his column "These names made The News." I liked writing so much that I bought a manual typewriter in 1983 and soon learned how to submit my hard copies for publication, double spaced for editing. Altho I was now typing my submissions, I actually wrote them on notebook paper on a clipboard, usually while walking around the apartment. That somehow helped me focus. I also started writing for myself in 1983, with an essay called The Fotos, about rescuing lost family fotos and finding the family to return them. I then wrote my autobiography from the early 1950s to 1983. In 1984 I wrote a short fiction story called "Chrysalis" inspired by a teen daughter where I mused how nice it is that insect larvae go into a cocoon and come out an adult then fly away. I even wrote erotica, some published in Playgirl Magazine under Brenda's name. In 1987, I joined a nudist group, South Florida Free Beaches and by 1988 made my first contribution to the their newsletter The Bare Facts Nudes using my own byline "Nude Attitude." By 1989, these were picked up by the nationally distributed Naturist magazine Natural" (with cover foto) which was picked up by "Naturisme" in Europe and translated into Dutch. So, even tho I never made my living as a "writer" I was getting published with some compensation for my writing. Nudist activism seemed to have diminished from the '80s & '90s and the last article I had published in "N" magazine was in 2005. Both publishers that I worked with over those decades, Bern Loibl of Naturally and Lee Baxandall of N, have died. However, my writing continued. In 1995 I bought my first computer (IBM Aptiva, 3 MB of RAM, internal Modem) and started e-mailing my writings for publications over the Internet. I actually bought the computer to do "desktop publishing" and compiled all my Nude Attitude articles into a 58 page book with line-drawing illustrations from fotos by me. It was a labor of love and I made 100 Xerographic, numbered copies for friends, libraries and interested nudists. Now my writing is almost entirely personal. When I started traveling in 2004 with my teenage grandson Kevin, I carried a composition book and kept a travel journal. On the first two trips around the country to Washington DC, Chicago, St. Louis & New Orleans I even had Kevin write content for a Webpage of our travels.
I have been keeping a pen & paper journal on all my trips since. There is just something relaxing about carrying this notebook with you and writing by hand, just as journalists have done since the quill pens. I later transcribe these electronically and insert pix from the journey to print out for posterity, but just like walking around with my clipboard and notebook paper in the manual typewriter days, doing it by hand gives a mellower focus of the moment. On Train Chicago New Orleans Atlantic Ocean Italy 4 AM Ship Pacific Ship Grand Cayman
Wildlife Shale Stone Feb. 1963 It is a night like the many other quiet nights I've spent here in this primeval Mississippi forest. But the nights will never be the same again since I saw them and know that they exist. I keep telling myself they can't exist, things like that don't happen, especially here just ten miles from civilization. Why did I come back to this secluded swamp? I know they are vicious. Perhaps I just can't bring myself to bear the fact of their existence; it was all imagined or dreamed. I just have to prove to myself. I sit here now by the fire, contemplating my experience, pondering, rationalizing, attempting to arrive at some explanation. I have told no one, for they would merely call me a crackpot, or insane, which I wonder myself. If they are here in these woods why has no one ever seen them before? This forest is not entirely unexplored. If they existed they would surely be known. Yes, that must be it. They are merely a dream, an hallucination of some sort. But, the reality of it. Sitting here, locked within the sturdy walls of my cabin, with a blazing noisy fire, I can venture an all too vivid recollection of that unforgettable night. I was driving down here from Jackson to spend a quiet weekend at my cottage, which sits several miles in this primitive and towering forest. It was not a new trip or in any way different from the many previous trips I have made. When I arrived at the cottage though, there was something strange, an indescribable feeling about. I later realized that it was quieter than usual. At the time I thought that my silent, secluded retreat was perhaps getting the best of me. Even now I wonder if this could not be the cause of such visions as I had. Then came the evening of my departure. I closed everything up and proceeded down the half mile drive through the woods, to the road. It was dark, but the winding, crooked path was quite familiar to me. Then, as I made a turn in the road, my headlights fell upon them running back and forth across my path. At a first instance I was just shocked at what appeared to be a pack of large cats, about the size of pumas. This was most unusual. But then, as I came nearer, in the full illumination of the headlights, directly in front of me I could see the whole ghastly array. They appeared to be cats indeed, but parts of their anatomy consisted of human counterparts. They had no uniform part of the body between them, but were mixed. Some had hands, some had arms or feet, or legs. Still others had human heads or even just portions of heads. Their bodies had intermittent patches of fur and skin. These horrible creatures, if horrible could only describe them, displayed to me their grotesque forms as they ran about me, some growling yet others screaming with human voices. All, with their gleaming canine teeth looking in at me with that vicious, primitive look of murder. The terror rose within me, I couldn't stand it any longer. They had surrounded the car, and I heard them rattling the door handles. I bolted forth in a burst of speed, and did not slacken the pace until I was very far away. I don't know if they pursued the car, for everything was complete black behind me. How does one explain such a horrible nightmare. When I reached home in Jackson I swore I'd never return to this place. But then, as time went on and I thought more about it, I began doubting that I had seen anything at all. Many nights I would wake up in a cold sweat screaming at the horrors I saw in my dreams. I could not banish those fiendish figures, those grotesque faces from my mind, even though there was no explanation for what I had seen. I searched my mind, and made guesses. I determined that what I saw was some kind of hideous feline animal which stalked men and assimilated that part of its victim that it ate. This is pure insanity. The whole idea is not feasible. The tension became greater as time went by. I had to tell somebody or it would burst within me. Tell them what? That I had seen some animals that devoured humans and took the form of their bodies? I felt I was going insane, and I would if I didn't go back and prove that it was all unreal. So, here I am on this cool humid night, sitting by the hearth, looking into the fire trying to see the workings of my mind. I am well convinced now that what I saw was merely some wild concoction of my imagination. Now to go to bed, and try to get some rest, for it's been a long time since I last relaxed. That noise! There, at the window! No, it can't be, it isn't possible. It's one of them looking in at me. They're at every window, roaring and screaming. Their hideous faces with mouths making fiendish movements, all concentrating on me. There's a racket at the door. They are trying to get in. The pistol on the table! Perhaps I can fight them. With a sharp crack of the shot, the window shatters and the grotesque face peering in immediately transforms to an indistinguishable mass of bleeding flesh. The thing has fallen into the yard, and the faces are gone from the windows. Have I chased them off? There is a noise out in the yard. I must see what they are doing. No, this is even more unbelievable than the things themselves. Out on the ground is the writhing body of the wounded beast, and the whole pack has fallen upon it, tearing at it savagely and fighting among themselves over the crimson flesh. They are viciously devouring their fallen member as if he were just another victim. The bloody entrails are spread all about the area in which they are fighting. As I stand here, partially shocked, and partially curious, watching the gruesome display, I see my own corpse in that wretched beast. I must survive, I must escape. If only I could make it to the car. They have finished their bloody gore and are coming back for their original victim. Perhaps if I used their own lust for blood to divert their attention. Three shots ring out and another of the beasts falls from the window with a deafening scream of agony. The others are now around to that portion of the house, I can hear the ripping of flesh and the growls of dispute. Now is my chance, I will leave the cabin and run for the car. They see me! I can still make it to the car. The door; it's locked! They are running to me. The noise, the growling and screaming is getting louder. I must get to the other side. I made it, safe in the car. They are outside, the whole pack, swarming around, yelling and growling in utter contempt at their failure to kill me. Now to drive out of here, back to the safety of civilization. But wait, was that a shuffling in the back seat? Could they have been hiding back there? I can't bring myself to turn around for fear of what I might see. I can hear my heart, a fast dull thump in my chest, my temples surging with each beat. Are they in here with me, what are they waiting for? I can't stand it any longer, those fiendish things all around, their incessant human screams. I must look behind me and see.
The Legend by Shale Stone February 1984 (revised 1996) Come lad, let me tell you a tale of Ancient Tymes, of Men and Gods, of Peasants and Kings, Empires and Warriors. You know nothing of that tyme, for you were not yet born, and I, Merlin the Ancient One, was just a babe. This was the tyme of my Parents, of which we have little knowledge, for so much was lost in the Dark Ages, when men lived as animals and knew nothing of the Civilized Arts, but only how to kill and survive. But lad, before I grow older than my 90 years, let me tell you the tale as told me by my Father, when I was but a dozen years like you. Know you that it is true, though you may not fathom its meaning, for there are few records of the Great Civilization before the Dark Ages, gathered from the moldy books, carved stones and objects that we keep in the Archives. My father once lived in one of the Empires that ruled half the World after a great war, but saw ruin and corruption in the way men there lived, and moved us to a lesser Kingdom in the wilderness. There he pursued life's natural course, studied the Seasons, the Flora and Fauna, the Elementals and Arcana, the Ancient Truths forgotten by the Great Civilization. Mind you I said this tale was of Gods and Men, and lo, those were wondrous tymes, when some Men lived as Gods. There were Great Cities in the heart of the Empires, where dwelt Wizards whose knowledge of the Hidden Powers even I cannot fathom, but my Father was there and saw them with his own eyes. Listen carefully lad, for what I tell you is Truth, and not legend or the ramblings of an old man as so many would have you believe. Their Physicians used not only the Herbs and Roots but the very Earth and Ethers to heal all disease, and their Surgeons could remove the viscera, yea even the Heart from a corpse and make it live in another person. They controlled the power of Lightning and made it move machines and give light and make heat or cold as they desired. The lightning was also made to carry their voice and image to others around the world and even helped them think, to create more wondrous devices than they already had. There were mechanical carriages that moved five tymes the speed of a horse at full gallop, and ships of steel so large they could sail the Seas through the worst of storms, or move quickly without a breeze. Some of these I've heard can be seen today, sunken in shallow water off the coast. There were machines that flew, and could carry hundreds of people from one part of the world to the other side, and moved so fast that their own sound could not catch them. There were even such flying machines as could leave the Earth and go to the Moon. Alas, it were these very devices which destroyed the Empires and most all life on Earth, for their Sorcerers did not see that the Elements consumed by these machines were changed to noxious gas that changed not only the Air and Ethers but the very Weather itself. Verily, these changes destroyed the crops and livestock of the great civilization. The light of the Sun first burnt all things by day. Then the drought withered all that survived the burning light, before the clouds blocked out the day. In the ensuing years most men and beasts in the world succumbed to sickness or famine or the Great Winter. Only a very few survived those dreadful tymes, those Dark Ages. My Father was one. He named me Merlin after a Wizard more ancient than his own tyme, for I too refused to die, as if protected by the Hidden Powers. There were those who prepared for such a tyme, but they could not see the breadth or length of the destruction, and the hand of Death touched them with the same ease as those who were unprepared. Who lived and who died was by the Grace of God and there were many who did not wait for that Grace, for only the very strong of spirit could endure those tymes when the dead were envied by the living. My own Mother succumbed to the Great Winter, but I had been weaned and somehow lived on, eating bugs and lizards and worms that dwelt beneath the ground. We survived, as Chronicled in the New Archives, and fell in with others, each helping in our struggle for life. We built walls and fought the Marauders, found weeds and rats and grew them for food, and scavenged through the Great Winter, and survived. Now we are secure in our fine City with its stout walls. Those terrible Dark Ages have passed and we are building anew from the ruin, a New Civilization. Each day brings new Knowledge from old books for those of us who read, and with the Wisdom of all my years I can now see the Larger Scheme. This tale I have told you to pass on to others, for mark my words lad, this World I give to you will pass into change, and again and again with your children's children it will change, until someday it be, as it was in Ancient Tymes, a Great Civilization with the power of its own demise. __________________________________________ Original story of 1984, with the cold war still a threat: Alas, it were these very devices which destroyed both Empires and most all life on Earth, for their Sorcerers had also harnessed the power of the Sun. After a generation of this knowledge, both Empires unleashed this awesome power on each other, and in less than a day the Great Civilization perished. In the ensuing years most men and beasts in the rest of the world succumbed to sickness or famine or The Great Winter, which lasted a decade. Only a very few survived those dreadful tymes, ...
The Fotos by Shale Stone Miami 20 June 1983 It was another pick-up, a donation of old clothes and used household items that they were cleaning from a warehouse and had to get rid of. Apparently, unclaimed for four years, the five drums were unpacked and items sorted for training use or sale in the thrift shop, as each of us watched with curious anticipation the unwrapping of another's life. These unknown persons, W. or Y., we knew were from Jamaica but curiously enuf, except for a few items of foreign manufacture, these were the household and personal things any of us would have saved on moving. Dishes and glasses were packed in clothing and linen. There was children's clothing and books, a few coins, a small round rock, things you would find in a second hand store but here collected for personal reasons known only to those who packed them. The stranger became more familiar. Then came the fotos, three albums, which we casually perused; images of the people who had launched these capsules of their lives, which had strayed into our midst. There were also personal letters and official correspondence, which gave names and events to the still fotos and life to this household corpse we ha been dissecting. It was at this point that I decided to find out what had happened to the family portrayed in these fotos. I retrieved all the letters, documents and anything else with an address or lead. 21 June 1983 At home, going thru the papers, the lives of people never met became familiar. The young couple getting married in December 1967 is Marjorie and Dwight W. They are my contemporaries; he was born in July 1947 and she on June 26, 1946. She graduated from Buxton High School in 1964, a year after my own graduation in Missouri. In Jamaica in the late '60s, Dwight was working as a draftsman at architectural firms and Marjorie as a clerk typist for courts and legal offices at the same time I was being a cop in New Orleans. In 1968, when my own sister was having her first child, Marjorie was having Toni, their first daughter and families and foto albums started growing. I followed the progression of events in her life, the immigration difficulties, the birth of her second daughter, Charm in 1972; the move to New York in the mid '70s where Adassa Y. her mother had been living and working as a baby nurse. Even tho we had never met, I had the history of their lives up to 1979, the last date on anything in the drums. There was a natal chart - Sun in Cancer, Aquarius ascendant, Gemini moon. Was she into astrology or just following a vogue? A note on a scrap of paper - "rose hip syrup" - did she use herbal remedies? There was even her social security card 000-46-0000. What does the middle number 46 represent? It is the same number on my card too. My thots wandered to the complexity of Karma and how people's lives touch, tho they come from such diverse origins. How intricate the timing to put a certain person in position to meet another. This attempt to locate the family in those fotos was a project of my own curiosity and had I not been there to undertake it everything would most likely have been discarded and lost forever. The mysterious workings of fate had saved these few personal items from being spread to the winds as the rest of the contents of those drums had been. So, what had happened to separate these people from such valuable personal items as this portrayal of family history? Had they all gone together on some ill-fated flight? 22 June 1983 The Search Beginning with the most obvious leads, I sent letters of inquiry to the addresses on the drums and the most prominent New York address. Anticipating no response, I was preparing to write to addresses in Jamaica when I received a fone call on Friday June 24 from Marjorie W. One of my letters had reached a relative who had called her. Alive and well in Hollywood Florida, she had lost her belongings when the company storing them went out of business a year ago. I told her that unfortunately, everything except the fotos and papers were put in the thrift shop or sent to Salvation Army. We arranged for her to come by my house on Saturday for the fotos. 25 June 1983 The Meeting With her came Adassa, Toni and Charm. Like the children in my own album, they had changed unrecognizably in four years and I confused Charm for Toni as she now looks like Toni did in 1976. Toni, now 15 is quite a bit larger and embarrassed by her baby picture in the nude. We all sat as if having a reunion, going thru the family fotos both hers and mine and talked of the lost belongings and what efforts might retrieve some of them. Then, in the midst of delighting over mementos that were saved, we realized that tomorrow is Marjorie's birthday and this moment a very timely gift. Note: This essay or journal entry was the first writing I had done since high school two decades past. It would be the beginning of a renewed interest in writing with many of my articles being published in newspapers and magazines over the next two decades. This was typed on a manual typewriter, which I would use until getting my first computer in 1995 and was written with "kumplete fonetik speling," which I was using at the time. (Now I only use a few fonetically spelled words, "foto" being one of them).
