Waiting on that Q and Them Stuff of Dreams. by Freddy S. Zalta

 I was standing on the elevated train platform on Kings Highway and East 16th Street, waiting on the Q train to come and take me to where I needed to be. It was a late February Brooklyn morning and as I leaned over to see if anything was heading our way - I saw nothing but an empty track. The track rolls along an open path in plain sight, there are no obstacles - so if the train is 3 or 4 stops away - you will be able to see something moving in the distance and let out a breath and say, "About time."

Its not only a metaphor, by the way. The Q can mean "Queen" and the tracks can be a future that one is waiting on. In my case though - I was waiting for the train.

But there is a "Wait" that we all go through - we grow up dreaming of some sort of future and end up living a whole different life. No one is ever truly sure if the life that came through turned out better than the dream - but in each person's life there are countless dreams that constantly are born and alive. Still we continue waiting.

Some dreams can seem like a never ending nightmare where we are hoping for the alarm clock to wake us up.
Other dreams are like a perfect summer's day in June - that we spend the rest of the summer trying to duplicate only to end up falling short but having a good day none-the less.
Some dreams are like a Snow Day is to a child - no school and all play, mommy in the kitchen making some hot chocolate, TV humming in the living room as your sister or brother watch. You standing by the window watching the snowflakes congregating on the cars, trees and the streets.
Some dreams begin and end with no proof of ever taking place. I knew an older man who once told me that everything he had was taken away from him in Germany during the late 1930's and 40's. He was 12 years old, living with his parents and 6 brothers and sisters and getting ready to be Bar-Mitzva'd within a year. One night, they were taken out of their home by force - whatever possessions they had were left in their apartment. Within a month he was alone - his parents and siblings sent to different camps. He survived the war, barely, and found himself an orphan at 15 years old - with no siblings, pictures or souvenirs of a life and a future that had been stolen from him in plane sight. He moved to New York where he had an Uncle, got married and had his own children and grandchildren.

"But somewhere there are millions of souls still trying to get back what was taken from them. My soul was lost - from when I left Europe until I had my first child is all a blur to me. But when I saw my baby for the first time, snuggled in his blanket and safe from this world, I began to live again. I cried for hours, days hell even years. I began to feel and it kept me up at night - we all had dreams...but I had been given the life that so many had stolen from them."



"My eldest brother wanted to move to Jerusalem, my sisters wanted to get married and be mothers and wives - while my younger brothers wanted to just play. Just play - can you imagine something as simple as 'Just Play'? They all disappeared with no trace of ever having existed besides letters typed onto paper. Those letters cannot express the dreams, the joys, the fears they each possessed. The look my mother would give me when she was upset - it would send chills up my spine. The feel of my fathers beard against my face when he would kiss me as I lay sleeping..."

"My friends, who were all excited about getting bar-mitzvahed that year...they had dreams and aspirations back then as well. My friend Avram wanted to be a Doctor - can you imagine? A doctor? What if he would've been the Doctor who cured cancer? Instead the cures, the dreams, the aspiration lay in ashes on the ground. No proof of ever having had the parents or the day to day lives we enjoyed once upon a time. What we did have was our faith - that no one could ever take away"



I would always walk away from my old friend feeling that we have been given the opportunity so many have had taken from them. I would walk away feeling that I was a thief of time - having wasted was allotted to me. I would walk away in awe of people who were able to continue to have faith in a God who possibly fell asleep at the wheel.
This was a long time ago - maybe ten or fifteen years ago - I learned from him that we that nothing lasts forever. Not love, people, time, pain, sadness, joy, laughter - nothing is immortal - everything is transient - from one emotion to the next, from one second to the next - nothing stops moving, evolving, revolving or spinning in its place. The rivers keep flowing and the arms on the clock keep on moving - the sun rises, the sun sets, the moon rises and then goes away again. There is no certainties in this world - nothing, not even the sun. But faith - a true belief is something no one can ever take away.

So dream big, live bigger; love a lot and express it even more.

But if you take the time to soak it all in - to ingest and to invest in the stuff that is vital to existence - the stuff that "Dreams are made of."  You will find that there are things in life that not even time can take away.

Paint your masterpiece and paint it over and over again...that train will find its way towards you in time - all in its time.

Life in Pink and other Bright Colors

Life in Pink and other Bright Colors by Freddy S. Zalta

The sun had yet to rise when Hank woke up, jumped out of some bed, pulled on his pants and boots – threw his jacket over his shoulder and left. He thought to write a short letter, an apology? A thank you? He wasn’t really sure – he didn’t really remember anything about the night before – only that her name was Penny. Before he left the apartment he looked back at her and saw her blue eyes through her black hair watching him and she smiled a half smile. He smiled, looked down and then waved.

He walked down the three flights of stairs, got a knowing smile from the doorman, who must have been the doorman from last night because he looked familiar, then walked out onto 73rd St. As he walked he knew that a cup of coffee was required to even think about surviving the next mile or so that he need to walk to get to his apartment. On the corner he saw a diner and took a large cup to go – then began to walk. The street lamps were still lit, the ground was shiny from last nights rain and there was a nice cool humidity-less air. He looked at his watch - 5:31 am, June 15th Friday.

As he was walking he decided to make a detour and head on across to Central Park; he had no where to be until later on that night and did not feel like going home. As he walked he noticed that there was a crowd of people, a couple of police cars and a couple of ambulances parked outside in the middle of the block between and 2nd and 3rd avenues.

“What’s going on?” He asked a lady standing there.

“See for yourself – they are covered now” she said pointing to a mound covered with a black tarp, “but a couple of minutes ago you could have witnessed what looked like a double suicide.”

“There are two people under that?” He asked.

“Yes, an elderly couple I used to see once in a while walking together; never really spoke with them although I could tell the wife was sick.” She said it as if discussing a TV show she just watched.

“Sad…” Hank said as he realized he hadn’t looked away from the couple under cover.

“Yeah, well I need to get to work.” With that she walked away. He just stood there wondering if they had any children who would be looking for them, wondering why they didn’t answer their phone calls. He stood there thinking about the lives they must have led. ..

A Shadow of two people dancing as a crooner sings a song professing his love for his lady. They are slow dancing on a roof somewhere and the shadow is being cast by a full moon over New York City. The crooner is coming out of a small radio and the couple are each from France. They had arrived in New York ten years earlier, separately, with different spouses, to escape the Germans who were now marching through Paris but who back then were just knocking on the doors of France - all set to break them down if not opened. They were both Practicing, if not totally observant Jews. They had worked together in a university and were lovers in the shadows of the Eiffel Tower and the Seine. Their respective spouses were now back in France, unafraid since they were non-observant and did not consider themselves Jewish. Well it seemed that the Germans didn’t make the distinction between practicing Judaism and being born a Jew – they had each been sent to different camps and had not been heard of since. Fifty some years later on – four children, eighteen grandchildren and several great-grandchildren; Beatrice had been told that the cancer that had take away her hair and any strength she still had away two years earlier was back. This time the Doctors were not giving her more than six months. Victor had sat down with her and told her, “Just as in Paris we knew it was our time to leave, so here in New York City, we must accept it is our time to leave, once again.” With that he bought a bottle of wine, a tape recorder with a recording of their favorite songs. They went up to the roof and then as they had back in the forties – left their home for the promise of a better life.

Hank had heard about this from the grandson of Mr and Mrs. Addas – he had gone to make a Shiva call out of curiosity. He ended up with photo albums, stories and evidence of a life full of love.

”They loved to dance,” the grandson, David, explained, “They were in love with each other and never spent more then one or two nights apart. But not out of necessity, more because they wanted to be together - Grandpa used to say ‘apart they were like an ordinary piece of art, together they were a masterpiece.’ They were a model couple and one very difficult to even measure up to. He used to sing to her this song, “la vie en rose*” while they danced. He would say ‘put your heart against mine…’ amazing.”

That evening as he walked back to his apartment he realized that his life was an ordinary piece of art and that what was missing wasn’t another artist but a reason for the colors and the shapes to blossom. He might never paint his masterpiece – but it hit him just what it was that was missing in his life. The music played but did not touch, the colors existed but did not paint a picture and the classes attended but the lessons were never absorbed.

As the sun rose the next morning he noticed a red ray streaming across the sky and he realized he had never before seen that hue – he took that as a sign. Put on some music and decided to sit by his easel. A masterpiece in chains within his heart – time to break free.





“La Vie En Rose”

Hold me close and hold me fast
The magic spell you cast
This is la vie en rose
When you kiss me heaven sighs
And though I close my eyes
I see la vie en rose
When you press me to your heart
I’m in a world apart
A world where roses bloom
And when you speak
Angels sing from above
Everyday words seems
To turn into love song
Give your heart and soul to me
And life will always be la vie en rose
Lyrics by Edit Piaf as performed by Louis Armstrong

Coreys Coming (Songs and Stories)


When I was growing up I used to lay down on my bed and listen to music either on a record player or on the radio. When I would hear a song it would always take me on a journey to another time and place - narrated by the music and the lyrics. I always imagined what had happened to have inspired the characters in songs to be in the position they were in and also what happened once the needle moved on to the next song, leaving unfinished business behind.
I have always been Inspired by songs - poetry set to tunes have always been a impetus to my daydreaming and set a rhythm to my heartbeat and moods.Within the list of short stories I have written for this project, Harry Chapin has inspired me more than any other songwriter. It could be because of his characters always being multidimensional, downtrodden and beaten but never defeated by the world in which they lived in.