Leisure

Updated Headshot Portfolio

July 6, 2016 by fpdorchak

This Is Me. Take It Or Leave It. (Image by Jan C J Jones, Freelancer Ink, © July 1, 2016)

Last Friday I finally got around to updating my social media photo portfolio I use for writing promotion. I’d been putting it off for a couple years…for different reasons. Chief among them was the weirdness, well, of just doing so… you know, looking into a camera lens that’s all focused on me… your truly. Sure, I studied modeling, but, geez, that was 28 years ago! Also, it was just finding the time to put out the effort to do so. We’re all busy (a term quite “used” today). Yet, as more gray hair began emerging upon the sides of my head I thought, well, I better get on it. I hate it when public figures use images of when they were twenty years old and I meet em…and they’re not. Be proud of who you are, dammit, and be honest about it…wrinkles, gray, and all!

So…I finally gave in. I want my headshots to be an honest portrayal of me and I didn’t want to be freaking lazy about that. Because writers need headshots to send to outlets that ask for them. When you guest blog, blog hosts (rightly so—I’ve asked for them of those I’ve interviewed) want headshots. Readers wanna know what we look like…I get it, it’s a natural curiosity. Turnabout is fair play.

So, I gave my friend, Jan C J Jones, a call. Hey, Jan, what can you do fer me? I just want two or three headshots….

Well, as is normal for Jan, I wasn’t just getting two or three mug shots. Nope. Jan don’t work that way. About anything. When you ask Jan for a favor…you get 1,000% of her attention and creative concentration…and there’s just no easy way of saying this: she just blows things out of the water….but for YOU. Her creative mind is always cranking and now I’d just put myself [back] on her radar.

Oy, what have I done?

Yes, I’ve been there before! Jan is an amazing person, and if you ever get the chance to work with her, drop whatever you’re doing and do it! It’s humbling and awe-inspiring! From her website:

“My strength is understanding story structure and audience psychology…knowing what the viewer “needs” to see, and when, in order to keep them engaged, entertained, and satisfied with their viewing experience.” [www.forest-rose-productions.com]

And she ain’t no slouch there. I was far from being her first rodeo on the subject. She manipulated me for my photo shoot like the consummate professional she is. It did actually bring me back to my short-lived modeling “career.” She’s done this for a living, among other things, as a film producer, screenwriter, video editor, artist, tutor, and author. You’ll note I said “among other things.” She’s won awards and co-produced a retrospective touted as the “quintessential history of Disneyland,” for Buena Vista Home Video (a Disney company). Her current project is titled, “A Journey with Strange Bedfellows,” is a classic Victorian “steampunk” Gothic horror audio drama that is also a graphic novel, music album, and educators’ guide, and it’s really cool! [www.a-strange-journey.com] See? She even goes all-out on her own work, spreading it out across multiple platforms! Jan is just plain fun to work with!

Anyway, no sooner had I opened my mouth, when she started talking costumes and props and location scouting…and I had to throttle her back right there, because I’m not into lions and tigers and bears, oh—dang it, really? Now I gotta go location scouting?—but she did get me to thinking. I did have to, you know, wear something…so whether or not you call them “costumes,” you do have to think about what you’re gonna wear. Patterns, Jan tells me, really aren’t what you wanna wear…it’s distracting…unless that’s what you want to do. So, okay, Jan, fine, you win on that account. I put out an array of clothing (aka “costumes”) and she selected the best of them for our purposes.

Props: no, Jan, I’m not into “props”…just me…you know…a couple-a-headshots…bing, bang, boom!…we’re done. Don’t wanna abuse your time and all because I do know how busy you are and you’re semi-retired, and, but on the way out of the house, I thought, huh—props? How about—

So, I grabbed our largest kitchen knife.

Crap: she got me there, too. I now had a “prop” in my possession (um, wrapped in a towel, you know, because walking around out in public with a large, shiny knife….).

Jan C J Jones, Forest Rose Productions, LLC.

During the couple of weeks leading up to all this she kept pinging me on how my location scouting was doing. Fine, I said. Kinda. Had all kinds of excuses for not doing it, cause, you know, this was just gonna be a couple-a-headshots…but I thought, okay, she has a great point here. My original intent was an hour or two shoot around the house, maybe Garden of the Gods…or, hey, how about…yes!—how about a cemetery! I mean my writing is all about peeking behind that thin caul of reality, right? Buncha short stories about graves, and death, and dying? One with a knife, even (“Clowns“). There is a cemetery I really like in the area, large deciduous trees and all…a kinda Night of the Living Dead look to part of it. As to Garden of the Gods, Jan told me that shooting in well-known locations can be problematic…possibly requiring permits, yada x 3. I really wanted to make this easy on Jan, so—<buzzer sound!>—that was out. But, the more I thought about the cemetery, the more I liked it! We also used the gardens of a mausoleum we both knew of.

But let me clarify…I didn’t want it all about cemeteries. But cemeteries and their ilk can have cool surrounds…leafy trees…beautiful landscaping…and that’s why I chose those two locations. We could shoot the creepy stuff…but also accentuate the portfolio with non-creepy stuff, and (pardon the pun) kill two birds with one [grave]stone. By the way, cemeteries sometimes have such incredible artwork…but few will see it…or only see it in times of great emotional distress…so will miss the beauty of the artwork in and itself. I do recommend you find a cemetery with such artwork, and just walk through it with a clear head…you might just be amazed at what you find!

So…<sigh>…Jan got me there, too, with location scouting. Good thing I “throttled her back” right at the onset.

So we headed out!

It was an overcast day, which turns out to be perfect for photography! The uniform lighting! There was a forecast for “a chance of rain,” but it never materialized. Maybe a sprinkle or two, but nothing thunderous and sheeting. So, it worked out beautifully. We shot at the cemetery, the mausoleum, and my home. The sun came out at the tail end of our photo shoot…too much squinting for yours truly, so we ended all that. Then we brainstormed a couple of special effects (SFX) set-ups we could do…so we took a couple of “staged” shots for those that would look odd in a portfolio if you didn’t know why they were there (like “back” or “butt” shots of me on a step stool against a white wall…backlit shots in the garage…these would be SFX’d if needed), and Jan worked her magic on some of them and they turned out totally cool! We ended up with just shy of 500 shots…but since some were taken in preparation for SFX work, and some we were simply experimenting with, not all will see the light of day…and to be honest, after a while of going through a lot of them (I still haven’t gone through all of them), I’m getting tired of my own face….

But.

Now I have up-to-date images I can send to those who request them. I’ve already begun to update my social media Gravatars and all. I even have some images we can mess around with for cool effects. Jan really went light-years out of her way in helping me get far more out of my simple request than I’d even dreamed of. And, again, that is just how she operates. She’s not half-assed about anything she does…and she will get you to think in directions you never considered thinking or going. Granted, this may be a “minor” example, but it’s salient. I’ve known and worked with Jan for years, and this is how she operates in everything she does. She’s quite simply a most wonderful woman!

So…I’m a bit apprehensive to include any photos here, because I really don’t want to appear narcissistic…as I said, I’m quite over looking at my own face…but I thought it might be appropriate because of my previous modeling post…and to show some samples of Jan’s work. So…okay, I’ve included a few of the shots we took. We had fun, experimented, and came up with some good images I can use for a good couple years…and for that, I am extremely grateful and indebted to Jan for her experience, expertise, and friendship. Thank you, Jan, for taking an entire day out of your busy schedule to help a guy out!

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Jan C J Jones, Executive Producer/Writer, Forest Rose Productions, LLC, Information

Forest Rose Productions, LLC

Forest Rose Productions, Facebook

Facebook

PO Box 1948

Monument, CO 80132

719/487-0435

E-mail: jcjjones@aol.com

Strange Bedfellows Project: www.a-strange-journey.com

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My Short-Lived Modeling Career (fpdorchak.wordpress.com)

What Dreams Are Made Of

July 1, 2016 by fpdorchak

Everyone Needs A Vacation Now And Then. (Image by By Deepshikha Sansanwal [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)

Wow, when I first reread this at the end of June, it just blew me away! I’d forgotten about this story, but once I began reading it—not unlike the character in the story—I began remembering things… creepy, unsettling things. Well, about the story. But not all of it! I was thinking about placing this in November… then, when I finished reading it, I just had to place it sooner.

I love these kinds of stories!

I think you’ll see what I mean once you get into it—and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do! There are several instances in this story that are taken from real life: the scene where the character remembers a childhood moment about getting out in the rain to use a restroom and that talk about lights on the pavement—I still remember that moment as a kid as I was the one doing it…remember the lights sparkling on the late-night/early morning pavement; the talk about Dr Pepper…yup remember that day; the time my dad and us went camping on a small island—also true. I also remember at least one—maybe two?—times we went to a KOA.

And the van. Well, that’s taken from a time when I was a kid returning from swimming at the lake across from our house and a van pulled up before me…”asking for directions.” A guy opened the rear sliding door and leaned out to me in a really creepy mode and I suddenly felt quite uncomfortable. You have to understand that where we lived we got stopped many times during the summer and were asked for directions, mainly from Canadians, but never had I ever felt uncomfortable. This time I did. And there were three guys in the van. Right about then, my dad comes purposefully striding down our crushed-stone driveway with a mattock in one hand. “Can I help you boys with something?” my dad calls out from across the road.

They suddenly forgot their question. Sped off.

Years later I asked my dad about that situation and he said he’d asked his State Trooper buddies and they told him they’d found that van down the road a way, abandoned. That it had been stolen.

This story has never been published.

What Dreams Are Made Of

Wake up, Harry, time to go!

Words that were more than a distant echo, they were pain. I tossed about, caught in blankets that refused release. It seemed an eternity before I finally broke free. It was so comfortable, the warmth of my bed. So unyielding.

Let’s go, Harry—

The words again. Do I know the speaker? I feel I should. Where am I? What time is it?

Summer. That’s right—summer. The first day of summer vacation. I’m home from my first year at Syracuse. Damn, but how those finals twisted your thinking around, getting you to believe there’s nothing outside of school. Nichts. Professors’d have you believe there’s only English Lit, Physics I (and lab), German for Beginners, and any of a number of other courses you’d rather forget. I’ve got big plans, so I bulked up this year. Twenty-one credits. It nearly killed me.

Where am I?

I open my eyes to find it dark, and feel movement. We’re in a car…but I just thought I was at home—the bed, the blankets—

It’s raining outside, a constant, soaking rain. A comforting sound if you’ve ever just listened to it.

I’m so tired!

The voice stops calling me, but reminds me of a time when I was a kid, about thirteen, I think. My dad and us would all pile into that red station wagon of ours at one in the morning. Our big vacation down into Pennsylvania. Amish country. We’d drive straight through, stopping only for potty breaks. Once we stopped at a gas station early one morning. It was also dark and raining. Dad had stopped and Mom had asked us (there were four of us) if we’d needed to use the rest rooms. My sister and I had, and we’d sprinted through the rain until we made shelter, did our business, then sprinted back. I thought how neat it had looked, lights sprinkled across the damp, rain-pockmarked pavement. The fact that it was maybe three in the morning, and the rest of the world was still snuggled away in bed. It was so peaceful, so mystical.

But now I’m traveling down an unknown road with my dad behind the wheel, and Mom, no doubt (because I haven’t actually gotten around to poking up my head yet), sitting against him, eyes closed; drinking in the steady hum and rock of the station wagon, as was I.

But I need to get my act together.

When did I get here? I remember how we’d talked about taking a trip when I got back from college, all of us, but I also remember something else, just outside the memories. I wasn’t coming straight back after school. I was going somewhere else first…a party. Yes, that’s what it was. There had been this party someone I knew was throwing, or maybe not someone I knew…but there was this party I was to go to. Only then was I going to begin my trip north…hitchhiking…to my home at Dead Bog Lake. Despite its name, a beautiful, deep lake that we lived directly across from, complete with boathouse and lakefront property. Dark waters. My dad’s a Forest Ranger. Mom works as an Administrative Assistant down at Land’s End, a rich folk’s estate. But something doesn’t feel right…isn’t complete…like I’m missing a crucial part to some puzzle.

Have I remembered something wrong?

The car’s slowing. We’re coming to a stop. Potty break. Not for me; I don’t have to go this time.

It’s still raining.

We’ve been going for several hours now, and I lift my head. Dad’s driving, his right arm around Mom, who’s fast asleep. He and Mom are all wet, as I notice, I am too. The car pleasantly smells of Borkum Riff pipe tobacco, the only brand my dad used. Smoking’s supposed to be bad for you, but I love that smell, especially that brand. Besides, he’s my dad; he’ll live forever.

“Almost there, Son,” my dad calls back. His voice brings out such deep emotional tones from me. I wonder where the rest of us are: Stephen, John—Lindsey. Is it just me on this trip? I guess they all had other commitments. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my folks—about a year. Christmas vacation I had to spend at an apprenticeship downstate. I didn’t mind—I knew I’d see everybody soon enough, and this was school—my first year, as I’ve already said. My first year as—

(how could I have forgotten?)

The car again slows. Mom’s up. She turns around to look at me, strands of hair matted against her face. She looks as if she’s been crying, but her voice betrays no such emotion. “Hello, dear,” she says, “did you have a good nap?”

“Sure did, Ma,” I say, pleasantly. Her voice also makes me feel warm. I’m happy to be home again. Feels like I haven’t been this warm in a while. After all, don’t know the next time we’ll be together. Like I’ve said before, I’ve got big plans for yours truly….

“Well,” continues Mom, turning back to the front, “we’re here.”

“That’s right,” Dad agrees.

God, I love that tobacco. Cancer or no cancer, it’s a comfortable smell. Brings back warm, cathartic memories: fireplaces, Dad-talks and walks. Fishing. Lord, how it’s so easy to get wrapped up in

(blankets)

studies. School. Fucking finals just throw your life all to hell. But that’s past. We’re on vacation now. Just the three

(where are the others?)

of us.

We unload the wagon. Still, it’s raining. Heavily clouded—like we’re going to get squashed between heaven and earth—

It’s a beautiful day.

There’s no one else around. That’s fine, we’re not here to see others. It’s funny that there was only this one old man at the KOA entrance. No one anywhere else. The man had no teeth, it looked like, but a big fat grin. Pulpy face. “Thirty bucks,” he’d grunted. Dad gave him the cash and we found a spot.

“Hey, young man,” my dad shouts out over the top of the car as I reach over to unload, “you sit your butt down. This is your vacation. Let your mother and I do the work. You’ve done quite enough already!”

For some unnerving reason, I don’t quite know how to take that, but okay, I say, and pick out a stump. I almost fall down. My feet are tangled in that damned blanket again. Christ. But the blanket reminds me of the time we went down to Gettysburg, Pee-Aee. We’d stopped along the road one sunny day at a rather large rest area. Mom had pulled out a blanket—probably this very same one—and spread it out over the grass. We sat under a large shade tree. Dad had gone to the soda machine and spent his change getting all six of us sodas.

Dr Pepper. I love Dr Pepper.

Ah, vacations. I wonder how many more I’ll get to go on before I’ve become part of The Working Class. Before—if and when—I ever have a family of my own.

Now there’s a thought.

The tent’s all set up and the rain pummels us harder. Dad started a fire that managed to keep itself going despite the downpour, and Mom was busy cooking fish we’d caught after making camp. I love the smell of roasting trout.

“You couldn’t have picked a nicer day, dear,” Mom said, beaming to Dad. Thunder rumbled its throaty growl across a fractured, purple sky.

“Yep, well, I try to get God to bend an ear every now and then.”

They laugh, and Mom curiously eyes Dad. I didn’t for some reason; something still nags at me. It had to do with that party, I think. I’m not really sure, and that bugs me. What went on there? Where was it? Did I even make it? Why is everything so damned hazy? I need to sort things out.

“Mom; Dad; I need to take a walk.”

They both look at me like I’d slashed my wrists or something.

“Honey,” Mom suggests, her voice quivering, “how about we go with you? I mean…how often do we get to see you? You know? You’re away in college; probably take another apprenticeship—who knows?”

I reconsider. She has a point. Anyway, I guess I really wouldn’t mind the company, but I shiver. “Okay.”

Mom and Dad are back to smiles.

“It’s a beautiful evening for a stroll, anyway!” my dad boasts, large drops of water still raging down from an angry sky.

We walk. Mom and Dad are in front of me some. I hold back. They’re like lovers rediscovering romance. That’s cool. I don’t have a girlfriend. A couple girls I boinked back in school, but that’s about it. Lookers, too. Well, one was more homely-looking than the others, but, boy, the largest set of knockers. She had this red hair and cute freckles. I met her while working the information booth at the student union. Her name was Anna, and she was also new, looking for some information about movies and stuff. One thing led to another, and we ended up doing the nasty. She had the largest, deepest brown eyes. So understanding and open. God, how I suddenly miss them. I couldn’t loved her. I can’t wait to get back to her. But summer came, and she went to her home in the Catskills and I headed north to the Adirondacks.

North.

To that party.

I’d hitchhiked. Didn’t tell my folks, they wouldn’t have approved. Shit, my dad’s a Forest Ranger, next best thing to a cop up there; a gun, cuffs, and everything. Ranger of the woods. They didn’t always carry ’em, the guns and handcuffs. I can remember when he told me how scary—my word, not his; I don’t remember what he used—it was to him that they were told they had to. Was a big change for The Department. That and all those Coll-edge boys. They’re taking over the place, he complained. Don’t know a damned thing about the woods, but sure are makin policy.

So I get this ride north. Actually more than one, it’s a bit of a ride by the speed limit—which is about all you can do with all those damned troopers out there. They just keep spilling out of the State Police Academy. Thicker’n gnats on a hot summer’s evening, Dad says. Uckers—

That’s when I fall. Now, I mean, following my folks. I tripped over a log I wasn’t paying attention to.

(what’s so important about the log?)

Mom and Dad hear me tumble and turn to me in wide-eyed horror. Rush to my side.

“You okay, Son?” Dad asks, hastily checking me over. Mom’s examining my face, wrists, and ankles. She used to be a nurse.

“You look okay. How do you feel?” she asks.

I start laughing. “I’m fine, Mom! I just wasn’t watching where I was going, that’s all.”

“Well you should know better than that, young man, or there won’t be a next time,” Dad spit. His face was set. Puffed and angered.

“Now, Lloyd, there’s no need to get all out of sorts. It was a simple mistake. You can’t fault him for lack of judgment. He’s young—still learning.”

“Just think what could’ve happened!” he insists.

“But nothing did…here,” Mom said. She brought a hand to his face, trying to calm him down.

“Dad—I’m all right, really. Remember that time I put my hand through that door window—the facial cuts looked worse than they w—”

“These ain’t no facial cuts, dammit.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, “I’ll be more careful next time, all right?” I pick myself up and brush off the mud. After all, it’s still raining, though more of a drizzle now. Mom pulls Dad away. I see the fire in his eyes. Why all the fuss? All I did was trip. Over a

(familiar)

log

Sheesh.

We complete our walk and return to our camp. Water has already started to build up around it. It’s late now, so we hit the sack, but I don’t sleep well. I feel this constriction around my neck, but each time I reach to loosen it, there’s nothing there. I lay on my stomach to look out our tent, into the night, and wonder what’s out there. I listen to that pleasant pitter-patter of rain and watch the drops splash in the water about the tent. Don’t touch the sides of the tent, my Dad used to say, it’ll kill the waterproof. I don’t. It’s so quiet. So peaceful. The smell of wet things and rain. I feel at home. How strange, I’ve never been here before—or have I? Doesn’t really matter does it? I mean, vacation is vacation, whether or not you’ve been there before. I like it here. We’re by ourselves.

What more could you ask for?

I must have finally dozed off last night, because I’m the last to get up. The rain has let up some, and is now only a misty drizzle, but water is everywhere…like an enormous wading pool. I pushed myself up out of it and exit the tent.

“Good morning, hon!” Mom greets. She’s already getting a start on the day, clad in a swim suit on a reclining lawn chair. She’s holding a sun reflector under her chin. I notice how the water mists on the reflector under her neck and get that eerie feeling again.

“Good morning, Son,” Dad says. He’s cooking up fish and bacon, but it smells funny. The day feels thick and I feel sluggish. Just a little weak. I look down to my feet before I walk any farther and see that damned blanket again wrapped around my ankles. I caught it this time so I don’t fall. Dad ought to like that.

“What would you like to do today, honey?” Mom asks.

“Gee, I really haven’t given it much thought, Mom.”

“Well, you better start giving it some thought, mister, or your vacation’ll be over before you know it. Do you want that?” Dad asks.

Do you really want that?

Suddenly I’m no longer hungry. All I want is a Dr Pepper.

“There’s one in the cooler, dear,” Mom says. I get it. It’s in a bottle. An old, crusty one with dirt encrusted under the cap’s lip.

“I didn’t know they made these in bottles anymore,” I say.

Mom looks up at me, kind of queerly, and says, “oh, they don’t.” She says it just like I should have known better. Sitting down on a large log by the campfire, I

(logs)

watch Dad.

“Be careful not to fall over that thing,” he says severely, looking over a shoulder and shuttling the fire.

“Oh, Lloyd, take it easy on the boy,” Mom counters, and he mumbles something under his breath. Dad’s only toying with the fish now.

“Dad, uh, are you going to eat that?” I ask.

“No, at least I hadn’t planned on it.”

“What’s that with it? Bacon?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

“It’s…it’s seaweed, okay? Kelp.”

(seaweed)

“It adds…flavor…to the fish. It’s something I learned in the Navy.”

Oh, I nod. Some things are better left unasked.

After not eating breakfast, we go off for our hike into the rain-soaked woods. Mom and Dad, instead of being close to each other, this time are very much apart. Carrying on a discussion that they tried not to let me in on, but I still catch in pieces.

“…but it’s a vacation, dear,” she whisper’s. “Who cares?” Dad says, “it’s only going to end—then we’ll all have to go back home. Go back to the way things are.” “So?” Mom says, “what’s the difference? What’s done is done. We’ll have next year.” “Sure,” Dad says, but then I lose track of what they’re saying and remember another trip we’d taken. A canoe trip. Just Dad and us kids. Fish Creek I think? We’d canoed out to a small island and set up camp. All the essentials taken care of, we set out swimming around the island. Well, more like snorkeling. Dad was right there in the water with us. It was a dark, sandy shore. Smooth, silky, water.

(feels so familiar)

It felt great. We just drifted. Became one with the water.

(why do I feel so uncomfortable?)

Later in the day we hung out in the tent, and the sky began to howl rain down upon us in sheets. We were situated under trees, but the force of the rain was incredible. It shook our tent, sent little tributaries of water inside the fabric along the seams. Water rushed down on all sides of our little shelter and we got scared. Dad asked us if we wanted to stay. We chickened out. The rain let up and we broke camp and hightailed it back to the truck across rough open water before it again opened up on us.

Rain.

(rain rain go away come again another)

Party.

Water.

I shake with a sudden, tremendous awareness.

I remember my hitchhike now.

I remember two men—and a woman. A van. A ragged, rusty-looking thing that seemed to have weeds or

(kelp)

hanging from it. Had I known it was so ragged looking I wouldn’t have stuck out my thumb, but it was getting dark that day and I was almost home. Hell, I thought, one more try. They’d stopped, and the guy in the back slid open the side door. There was a strange look to his eyes. I felt

(like I do now)

uncomfortable. But I was already there, know what I mean? No turning back. Tough guy…can handle myself. That’s when I hear this female behind him telling him to either let me in or to close the fucking door. I get in. Mistake number one. I smell incense. I’ve always hated the smell of the stuff. She’s in the back, in a dark corner, and when she sees me, comes out. She liked me. Thought I was cute. As we drive, I tell them about this party I’d gone to. They tell me about another.

Where? I ask.

Dead Bog, they tell me.

Really? You from there?

From around there, they say. Wanna come?

I-I don’t know, I stammer. I really should just get home.

You nervous? the girl asks. She’s pretty fine looking under those haggard eyes and ratty hair and clothes. I notice what looks like an old, deteriorated cameo choker of some kind around her throat. Her breasts float out from under her blouse as she leans over to me. I swallow hard. I mean hard. No, I reply.

Well, good, we wouldn’t want that, now, would we? she says.

Just then the guy in the back with us whispers into her ear. She smiles, one of her hands caressing a nipple. I look away. I definitely feel like I got myself into something I shouldn’t have. Hey, I say, you can let me off anywhere you want, you know. I wouldn’t want to be a bother. It’s not much farther, and—

The girl comes over and puts an arm around me. Her body brushes up against mine. We have something we’d really like to show you, she says. At first I swear she’s cold, a friggin damp cold, but that quickly passed as I saw more dark nipple. Her breath smelled of something I couldn’t quite put a finger on, but was, it turned out, alarmingly arousing. Her eyes were dark slits of seduction.

No bother, Harry, they say, we’re your friends. Don’t you like us?

Ah, sure, I say. Sure.

We can be pretty friendly, she says.

Sure.

I want her. There’s something incredibly erotic about the way she moves. Breathes.

Now just relax, and we’ll all have a good time at this party of ours. I’m just going to change, she says. No prob’lem, I say, but before I realize it, she’s stripping down before me, keeping her eyes on me. She lifts a finger to her lips, lips I suddenly feel very much like eating…biting right out of her mouth. I watch as her lips part and she places the finger between them, hooking her lower teeth. I become her finger and feel her lips wrap around me. Watch and feel their moisture as she sucks, closes her eyes. I want her so much it hurts, but remember the guy who’s in back with us. I think back to my family and wonder how I got into this mess. I feel hopelessly distanced from my life. My mom and dad, brothers and sister. None of this feels right. None of it. But I’m aroused, painfully aroused, and need more. She’s naked, now, openly flirting with me. I know the guy’s watching, but I can’t help myself. Her body is smooth and available and I want her in the most evil of ways and I no longer care if he’s there. I need those lips. For real. Those breasts. I want whatever it is she has, and I’ll pay whatever price she demands.

She leans back, knees teasing back and forth, breasts falling comfortably to their places. She stares at me. Begins to run her finger about her body. Inside and outside of places. Her scent is heady. I think of Mom. Would she approve of what I’m about to do? Would Dad take me outside and slap me on the back and say, “Hey, way to go, stud!“?

You sure you don’t want some? the girl teases. She doesn’t have to read my mind. I no longer mind the incense. Before I know it, she’s brushing her finger under my lips. Around them. I shut my eyes, drugged by her touch.

Fuck, I’d kill for her.

Gently she presses her finger between my lips and wedges it in…again forming that hook. I’m so drunk with her I can’t see straight. I grab hold of her and try to force myself upon her, but she holds me back. Slowly, she says, but I don’t want slowly.

I seem to have lost consciousness as my heart pounds up into my throat. I feel like I’m suffocating and suddenly find the girl atop me, her hair flying wildly about her, almost floating. She moans; gyrates. Claws at me. Then she explodes…and I explode with her….

I am jolted back to my walk. Dad and Mom are sitting on a stump holding hands and looking at me. Really looking at me. I feel guilty, like they know my thoughts. Had I really done that? Had I really—and do they know?

They get up and walk away. I feel like shit.

God, it’s all coming back to me. Those people. That van. That party; a party I should never have gone to. I stand up shakily. I don’t feel right. I raise a hand to my face and wipe away the water that runs down it. I trace my face and neck and flinch. There’s a painful, ringed area around my throat. I can’t see it, of course, but I do feel it. That girl…raped me. Those people…I was seduced. They—

Aren’t human. Something about them was…is…will always be…wrong.

I looked around for my parents, but they already head back for camp; Dad with his head down, Mom casting me a backward glance. She pulls Dad into her and cradles his head against her.

What’s wrong? I wonder. What did I do?

I sit there for some time before heading back. The rain’s stronger and colder. Like little knives raining down from the sky. The water’s up to my knees now and I schlosh through it. My sneakers are swollen and heavy. Water is everywhere, rising higher. It’s like a shallow lake with bushes and trees sticking out from it. Me. But I need to remember more. That girl…whatever she was…is…continued to attack me—

Or had I attacked her?

Oh, how I was intoxicated with her! Her scent! I could smell her passion like a beast in heat. Even now, when I remember how her body moved, I feel an instant need to have her. Seek her out and take her as no man has ever taken anyone before. I want her—and the pain.

She taunts.

Finally we had gotten to Dead Bog Lake, and their party; down through a windy, shaded road. I felt strangely nostalgic as we passed my house, lights on in the kitchen. I saw a shadow at one of the windows and felt sad, like I’d never see them again…yet I had her.

That’s all I really needed.

We drove to the outskirts of town, well, actually a township—a hamlet—until just before the outlet. There’s a strong, fishy smell to the air. We pull into a driveway and there’s all sorts of vehicles, all kinds of people. And all the vehicles look as did the one I came in. Decayed and rusted. Covered in vegetation. As we stop, the others, The Three, as I came to call them, pile out of the van, and I’m left sitting in it alone, staring out into the mass of people, bonfire, and booze. The party feels odd. Smells corrupt. I try to get a good look at some of the people, but it’s difficult. It’s dark now, and the voices seem a jumble. Where is that girl—I don’t even know her name.

How had things gotten so out of control?

I stumble out of the van and lean against it for a moment. I could just keep walking…right on up that road…to home…with the golden kitchen lights and my parents waiting up for me. They think I’m still on the road.

Again the guilt.

Home was so close, yet this woman and her seduction much closer. I hear my name and spot her. She’s waving for me. This isn’t right, isn’t right at all. Things are feeling more and more absurd, more remote as moments pass. I feel a sudden urgency to run—to just get the hell out of there and as quickly as fucking possible. I feel a dark shape stalking me from the shadows. Huge, looming, and thirsty. Burrowing into my deepest, most recessed and cobwebbed of places, and find it difficult to breathe. Thunder cracks out along the darkened sky. Deep, drawn-out rumblings that seem to go on forever.

Mistake number two, I follow after this girl.

She is just as naked as when I last saw her. She moves her hips in wicked, sinful ways further igniting my lust. A man grabs her and they disappear from view. I rage! I must have her, my body screams, and I lunge after her. I will kill that man. I will rip apart his body!

But I’d lost them. My head spins.

I need her. I MUST HAVE HER!

I stumble about. Cannot see clearly. A red haze blinds me and grips my senses. All I can picture is her body, wrapped around that man.

Hear.

Her crazed desire.

I lash out, wanting to give her nothing but pure pain.

Little deaths, I laugh, I’ll give her many.

I push through the crowd, bellowing my passion and anger. I hit shapes that were supposed to be people, but feel funny and soft. Bloated. I didn’t care. I’m insane for her. My name is sung above the rising storm, above the din and clatter of the party, and I follow it down to the lake shore. To where I spot her, indeed wrapped around that man, their bodies rocking in the sand. Her screams are the only sounds I hear. My head splits with jealous furor! I shake with anticipation of tasting blood. His blood. I will slowly rend that man’s flesh from his bones.

When a sudden thought strikes me cold: what would my parents think?

God—what do I care?

But as I continue forward, I begin to slow. My head hangs heavy for my conscience is strong.

What have I become? What in God’s name have I become?

I look up and find her alone. Gyrating like Mata Hari. Teasing. Again. I try to look away, but cannot. I try to walk back to the road, the one behind me and a million miles away. But I…can’t….

Sorry, Mom.

Dad.

I shake the memory from my mind. I’m back at camp with my mother and father, aghast of my recollections. I can barely believe them. The water is chest level, now, and Mom and Dad are sitting by the station wagon staring at me. I go to them. Maybe I don’t need to know everything. Maybe I can still enjoy what’s left of our vacation. I mean, how often do we get together? What’s done is done, right?

“Mom; Dad,” I begin, but they just stare at me. I don’t finish what’s on my mind. Something is lost between us. They look worn out and wasted. The water continues to rise; the downpour steady and forceful.

“It’s a good day, isn’t it?” Mom finally says to Dad. Her words are flat. Two-dimensional. Dad merely nods. “Remember more,” he says to me. “Go on.” Then he hands me a plate of whole, raw fish on a bed of kelp.

I scrunch my brow together. “Why?”

“Because you’re going to anyway.”

“What’s happening?”

“Everything. Let’s go inside, dear,” Dad says to Mom, and they disappear beneath the water and enter the tent. I’m left alone.

I remember it all, all right, and I’m angry. They tricked me, just like everyone else at that party. Like they tricked—

I want to go home, I tell that devil-woman back at the party.

You’re not going anywhere, she hisses back.

You can’t keep me here, I say, and begin to leave—but she grabs me. I’m spun around, and no longer is she the seductress I knew, but a bloated, distended horror. I can’t even tell if it was a male or female corpse I stared into the empty eye sockets of.

We’re not done with you yet, he/she/it seethes.

I see things crawl beneath her skin. I scream. The others are upon me. I reach up to push them off, but my hands sink into bloated and stinking flesh. I am forced to the wet, muddy ground. Hands are all over me, tearing off my clothes…she—it—straddles atop me. I want to die. Please, God, just die.

What’s the matter, she gurgles, you no longer want to kill for me?

I freeze. She brings her lips down to mine—I cannot take this! Kill me! KILL me! What are you?

They laugh. We cannot tell you, they say, laughing, but we’d really like to show you—

Out from behind my vision, a large water-soaked log is dragged. A noose is fastened around my neck and attached to the log.

We can’t wait to have you in our little family—

I no longer want to think. I sit at the camp, the water now over my head. I’m still holding the plate of fish Dad gave me. I no longer fear the water, for now I know it’s coming back to claim me. Mom and Dad are out of the tent, plowing through the water like nothing’s going on.

“Hello, dear,” Mom says. “Would you like some dessert? Fish?”

I jump to my feet and toss away the plate in anger. My mother looks to me, saddened.

“Well, I guess that’s it, then,” she says, and she sighs and goes back to my father, who seems to be crying, but I can’t tell because of all the water. We’re a part of it now.

I feel heavy.

I try to go after my parents as they return to the van, but find I can’t. There’s a log tied to my neck. It’s heavy and I have many rope burns. I try to loosen it, but it’s impossible. All I can do is watch as my parents pack up and leave.

Didn’t we arrive in a station wagon?

I sit back down, log lashed to my throat, and watch them disappear into the murky, underwater distance. Then I see others. Three others. I grow cold. Shiver. I know them. As they get closer, they beckon. They are The Three. Reclaiming me. I get up to follow them and find I am not at the campground, but Dead Bog Lake. To where I’ve always been. It was a dream. All of it. A vacation from the bottom of its dark and cursed waters. I awaken to my place among the fish and the seaweed. Where my feet are eternally tangled.

(no blanket)

Where the log keeps me.

(no more tripping and falling)

Where my old, dirt-filled Dr Pepper bottle lies directly before my own dead and glassy eyes.

(no more coolers)

And now I know things. About this lake. About my new family and my new life. The girl and the guy in the back of the van drowned in 1807. A canoeing accident. The driver of the van drowned in 1973. Drunk, he’d driven off an embankment into the lake. And the old man at the KOA? He’d killed someone back in ’51. Robbed a man for thirty bucks, only to be tracked down and killed by the kin, then thrown into the dark, slippery waters. The party was bait, as were The Three. As I will be so used. Bait for the lake to reel in more. Set its hooks. A lake with a dark, unspeakable hunger.

And once the taste of meat is acquired, it’s a hard thing to shake.

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

Bloodtales and Flies

June 24, 2016 by fpdorchak

We Got Us A Bleeder! (Image by By Crystal [Crystl] from Bloomington, USA [Flickr] CC BY 2.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons)

This hideous and disturbing little tale from the mind of a twenty-six-year-old will surely disgust.

So, why post it?

Because it definitely shows the weird lengths to which my stories ideas ran their gamut. It is a decent story, as the horror genre goes.

And it’s just plain weird—

I mean, why and how would something like this happen?

And that final scene?

A roommate named “Rino“?

There’s probably a reason why this one was never published, but I just couldn’t put it away once I read it. I had to clean it up. Work on it a little. It, too, was one of my earliest works. No “metaphysics” here—just straight “horror,” all the way!

And at the end of it is what is today termed “flash” fiction. It’s called “Flies.” It’s not much, but it was attached, so I included it. I experimented in writing as short of a story as possible before it became in vogue to do so; or at least that I was aware of. “Flies” was inspired by my dad. One summer when I was a kid, my dad, a Forest Ranger, had been putting up his “Forest Ranger” sign in front of the house. We were all in the kitchen…and in bursts my dad, rushing toward the sink. He gulped down several chugs of water. You’ll understand after you read it.

So, sit back and hold on…and have that barf bag ready….

These stories have never been published.

Bloodtales

“Fuck.” Jerry’s hand went up to his neck, a meniscus of blood forming at the wound. “Shit,” he hissed, putting the electric razor down and reaching into the cabinet for the straight-edge. “I thought electric razors weren’t supposed to draw blood.”

“That depends,” said his roommate. passing by the bathroom where Jerry was shaving.

“Depends on what?” Jerry asked, fumbling with a piece of toilet paper on the cut while trying to remove the straight-edge from with the cabinet.

“That depends on how big your zits are, whether or not you have ingrowns, and how soft your baby-skin is. In your case—”

“Don’t even say it.” Jerry used the razor blade to clean up what the electric razor didn’t get. “Fuck—” Jerry said, throwing the razor blade back into the cabinet, his blood now on both instruments.

“Oh what’s the matter, roomy? Pubie’s get caught?”

“Oh fuck you, too. Damn, I just can’t win this morning. First I cut myself shaving with an electric razor, then again with a blade!” He got out the Stypstik, cursing again when the blood mixed with its astringent.

“Will you get out of there before you kill yourself already!” Rino shouted, his face buried in a bowl of corn flakes. Jerry emerged, half a roll of toilet paper wrapped around his neck. Rino burst out laughing, sending a flurry of milk and cereal across the room, and up his nose.

“Get out! You look like ‘It came from the Mummy’s Toilet’ or something.” Rino wiped breakfast from his face with an arm and swept corn flakes off the table and onto the floor, as he looked at his ailing roommate. “God you look ridiculous.”

Jerry was ten minutes late for classes. He hated walking in late, everyone’s attention focused in on you. If you had your fly open, they’d see it. If you had some snot hanging from your nose they’d see it. If anything stood out, it automatically became glaring even if it was nothing more than a tiny zit. You were in the spot-light and that’s all that mattered.

So in Jerry walked, tail between his legs.

A Band-Aid announced its presence from the side of his neck by imaginary three-D arrows floating around, pointing to it.

Jerry sat at his seat, his face turning pretty colors.

“Pssst, Jerry, who gave you the hickey, man?” a classmate whispered. Jerry ignored him.

“C’mon Jerry, who did it?” the voice snickered to classmates.

Jerry turned around to the guy, hissing a little louder than he would have liked too.

“No one gave me a damned hickey—”

“Is there something a matter back there?” Mr. Armstead paused in his lecture and looked to Jerry’s direction. Everyone went quiet, except for some snickers and smiles.

“No, nothing a matter,” Jerry said.

“Good then I suggest we continue. And please try not to be late anymore Mr. Hollier. Oh, and Mr. Hollier?”

Jerry looked up.

“Yes?”

“Please do have that hickey looked at, will you?”

The class lost it.

After lunch in the university cafeteria, Jerry picked up his books, am made for his next class. As he walked through the entrance, a long-haired brunette wearing a tight skirt wiggled past. He followed her with his eyes…as someone entering behind her and ran into him, knocking him into the door jamb. He slammed his hand between his body and the entryway. It stung.

It bled.

“Thanks pal,” Jerry muttered, sucking at the red as he tried to again find the hot chick.

Jerry plopped down in the chair, switched the TV on. “Wonder what’s good on tonight,” he muttered to himself, going through the newspaper’s television guide. His roommate slammed the door Shakespearianly as he made his entrance.

“And have we done our homework before the telly?” Rino asked, standing before the box. He hit the power, turning the TV off.

“Get away you dork,” Jerry said, getting up. He shoved Rino away and turning the TV back on.

“Ok, but don’t blame me if your mind turns to mush and you don’t make it out of here with a solid education.” Looking to the ceiling Rino cried, “His destiny is out of my hands Lord, I tried my best. All I ask is that ye be gentle on him—”

A magazine flew through the air and hit Rino in the face. Rino caught it as it dropped into his hands.

Jerry ran through the stations, finding nothing of interest. It was about one in the morning and he felt like watching something. Grabbing the TV listing once more, he thought he might find something in there he might have skipped all the other twenty times he scanned it. Human optimism.

Yes…he found something…and it was just beginning: “The City that Dripped Blood.” He’d never heard it, but was in the mood for a grade-‘B’ flick. Stretching, his shaving wound from early in the day reminded him it was still there.

“Shit,” he said, reaching for it, “don’t tell me you haven’t healed yet!” Jerry felt around the wound, looked to his hand.

There was fresh blood on it.

“Fuck.”

He got up, headed to the bathroom, but stopped when the program started. Hans Geblutblase starred. It was definitely a foreign job. Settling down, he took another sip from his Coke.

Blood trickled down his neck.

At the gym the next day, Jerry was working triceps extensions on a pull-down machine, driving out the last few reps, when the bar slipped from his grip, smacking into his nose. Stinging, he staggered back, several people coming to his aid.

“I’m alright—I’m alright,” Jerry said, waving them off.

“You sure, man?” somebody asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine, really—it’s just a little nose-bleed.” The person on duty at the desk examined him.

“Yeah, he’s ok. How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

“Ok, we all love squeezing out those last few, just try to be a little more careful next time,” the Desk Guy said.

“Don’t worry,” Jerry said, the crowd disbursing. Jerry wiped some of the red away, looked at the bar. He felt more than a little embarrassed and slightly enraged. Deep inside he felt an ire raising. Feeling hot, blood still trickling down his face, he grabbed the swinging bar, yanked the pin out from the weight stack and rammed it down a few more extra pounds, increasing the weight. Growling, he forced out another set, pissed at the interruption of his set. The person who had just inspected him turned upon hearing the noise, and shook his head.

Jerry glanced at himself in the mirror.

He looked mean.

The past few days had taken a toll on Jerry’s body, but the odd thing about it was that he didn’t seem to care. He’d collected various and sundry cuts, scrapes, and bruises…and in some cases had not bothered to even cover up some of the bleeders. His roommate was growing somewhat suspicious of his newly aberrant proclivities.

“Um, Jer,” Rino said, approaching Jerry as he was cutting up some cheese for a sandwich.

“Yeah?” Jerry said, intent upon his undertaking with the knife.

“You feeling ok? I mean, lately you’ve been acting a little queer.”

Rino eyed how he handled the serrated blade. From a distance.

“I feel just fine, dude, why?”

“I don’t know. Just trying to keep an eye on my roomy, is all. I’m a little concerned.”

“Well, I am touched Rino—really I am. But Ize just fine!”

Jerry rammed the knife into the cutting board.

Rino jumped.

“Relax!” Jerry said.

Rino shook his head as he backed out, leaving for class.

Jerry returned to the knife and yanked it from the board. He brought it up to the light and admired the glean. Bringing it back down, he fingered the edge of the blade, taunting it’s serrations and blade tip.

The blade then (seemingly) leapt for the soft pink flesh of his hand.

Jerry separated the two in reflex, still holding onto the blade.

That hurt.

But…it also felt…good….

Surprised at how it felt, he put the blade down and took a step back.

He looked to the knife.

That was his blood on the end of that blade.

His sandwich sat nearby. Crumbs were all over the counter. The hacked block of hard cheddar lying uncovered and inculpable.

Slowly, he reapproached the blade.

As if in slow motion, he reached down…his fingers folding around the brown handle. He twisted the blade as he picked it up. His cut finger twinged, but didn’t bother him the way he thought it should. Incredulous, he brought the two together once again.

They greeted like years-apart old friends.

Gossiped a mile a minute.

‘Hey’d you hear about the new Ekco line?‘ the Blade asked.

‘No, haven’t,‘ Finger replied, ‘Is it any better?‘

‘Sure is!‘ enthusiastically replied Knife.

‘I can hardly wait!‘ panted the finger, all excited and hot, ‘I want you so bad….’

Jerry didn’t know what was becoming of him.

He’d been looking for cuts and scrapes.

Was actually enjoying them.

Like the time he sliced up his finger while making that sandwich. And he didn’t go to the clinic, but just put a Band-Aid on it…only gruffly tear it off periodically throughout the day to see that it was still bleeding. There were times it had actually stopped, and he’d take a pin to it…or scraped off the scab. It felt so good!

Like having sex.

Now there was something he hadn’t had in a while. God, when was the last time? Hmm.

He’d have some new tricks to show the next lucky lady, that’s for sure.

When Jerry went out for his run, he hoped he’d take a decent fall or something. In fact, he knew a certain hill that could really tear off some skin.

And it was hot outside.

The hotter the better—make the blood flow even better!

Damn, what was happening to him? He was actually looking for ways to draw blood.

As he ran, he mulled it over…was this what masochists feel?

Who cares! To each their own!

He was coming up to the hill in question, his heart pounding, the anticipation almost too much to bear. He took off his shirt and threw it aside. Sweat pouring off his body, he slowed a bit. He reached down to the road’s shoulder and scooped up some gravel, then rubbed it on his body. A driver passed by and gave him a curious look.

Jerry picked up his pace, a bulge forming in his shorts. He was coming upon the exact spot he’d been thinking of all day—and he saw there was a broken bottle there!

This is going to be great….

Rino walked toward the apartment building.

It had been a long day, it was late, and he was so damned apprehensive at coming home anymore. He didn’t know what the hell was the matter with Jerry, but the boy was sick, all joking around aside. He’d tried to keep things light, but things were now getting disturbing.

Really? Collecting blood drippings in a glass in the fridge?

Drinking it?

All he knew was that he used to be a great guy, and now he was turning into some sort of pervert with a blood fetish.

Shit, what was going to be the big surprise now?

Approaching the building, he noticed a light was on, though dim.

And the door was unlocked.

Rino entered cautiously…something wasn’t right…and there was an odd smell that stung his nostrils. His skin crawled with uncomfortable electricity.

He closed the door behind him.

“Jerry?”, he called out in a hushed manner, actually hoping he didn’t answer….

Only a candle was lit in Jerry’s bedroom. Rino cautiously made his way toward the room. His hairs pricked up.

He didn’t like this. Butterflies formed in the pit of his stomach.

There were dark stains on the floor between both their bedrooms.

And somebody was in Jerry’s bed.

“Jerry?” Rino called out in the same hushed voice.

Still no answer.

He went to the light switch on the wall, flipping it on—and gagged.

Repeatedly.

Laying in the bed, and totally drenched in crimson lay the body of a woman.

From the clothes lying on the floor, it didn’t look like she was a lady of distinction, but one of the streets. Those were his only clues, because the body was so mutilated he couldn’t make out anything more.

The walls.

The ceiling.

He grabbed the door frame, barely able to stay upright as he continued to gag.

“Rino? Rino, is that you?” came the voice from his bedroom.

“Oh god,” was all Rino could say.

“I’m in your room! Come on over, Rino, I’ve got something I really want to show you!”

The enthusiasm of Jerry’s voice sent further ripples of nausea through him.

“Did you do that? Did you kill that woman?”

Rino stumbled towards his bedroom.

“Yeah! Isn’t it something? I tell you Rino, when you get the scent of it in your veins, you’ll love it! Hurry up, I want to show you! Really, you’ll never get enough of it! C’mon roomy!”

Rino entered his bedroom, no lights on, but he could see his roommate’s shadow low and across the room, in a corner.

“Oh roomy, you’re going to love this!”

Rino could barely hold himself upright. The smell of blood was incredibly strong.

“Go on, Rino, turn on the light…turn it on—I dare ya’!” Jerry was laughing to himself, but there was a distantly gurgling sound to his voice, like something was filling his lungs. “C’mon! Hurry!” Impatience…more gurgling….

Steadying himself, Rino flipped on the light switch. Eyes adjusting to the light, Rino finally lost it and heaved up the tuna salad from earlier across the room.

And collapsed.

In the blood spattered corner, gurgling merrily to itself, was a puddle of flayed flesh and bone that was once human. There was little to distinguish its human form anymore. Little meat was left on the body, it covered from head to toe with dark, supernaturally flowing blood and gore that danced about his body, making little swirling movements over his once solid frame, much like the movements of the gases on the surface of the sun, what-was-left-of-Jerry had recollected from a class long ago.

Slapping it’s arms up and down like a child playing in bath water, the thing-that-was-Jerry gurgled and laughed hideously…

“You’re going to love it, you’re simply going to love it...”

Flies

“Goddamn flies!” Terry said, coughing and wiping their little black corpses from his legs and arms. He’d just finished a few circuits around the park on his bike, and there were gnats galore. They were everywhere. You were hard-pressed to even yawn without inhaling the little buggers. He knew, because he’d tried.

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

Denver Comic Con 2016

June 23, 2016 by fpdorchak

This past weekend I attended my first ever Denver Comic Con (DCC), and I did so as a panelist on two panels. I had a blast!

Parking

DCC was held in the Denver Convention Center, in downtown Denver. The parking and traffic is a little crazy, and if you want to park in the Convention Center (CC) itself, you had to get there no later than 9 a.m. (doors opened at 10). And using GPS, the CC says to use the 1104 Champa address, but my GPS took me through some weird “dogleg” through the side streets where I ended up in the adjacent Denver Performing Arts parking garage. No. Don’t do that. Sure, you can park there, it’s a short walk, but, if you’re lugging books and gear, you don’t really wanna do that—just get on Speer Blvd (it doesn’t matter which direction)–just get on Speer and stay on Speer. You’ll see all the appropriate CC signs once you get there, and look for the huge “P” for “Parking” on the CC building. There is also a sign that tells you if the parking garage is still open for parking.

Denver Comic Con

I did a book signing on Saturday, my first day at DCC. It was at 11 a.m. MT. I must have handed out 200 bookmarks. “Hey, howyadoin?” or “Too late—you made eye contact—here’s a bookmark!” and “Hey—get back here, I have something for ya!” I talked to a couple brave souls, met some people I know, didn’t know, and wondered if they were human at all….

My table was right across from an Avatar booth. A makeup woman was applying the signature blue face paint to a guy. It must have taken better than an hour for her to apply it all, but in the end, the guy’s face looked just like one of the Na’vi clan leaders from Pandora. I wasn’t able to get a picture of the end result.

After my hour—it was actually two. I was able to get in before the public was let in to set up, so was really there from 10 – noon. Talked with some fellow book signers. After my stint, I was able to wander the rest of the day on my own, exploring all that was DCC 2016, and it was simply amazing! There were three levels to the place: the topmost level where I was, was the main show room: all the goodies were there…absolutely anything you wanted to buy was on sale…the floor below that were where the sessions were held…and the level below that was where all the Evil Dead, Warrior Chicks, and Science Fiction monsters hung out. Okay, not really (I don’t really know…), but I think that was the ballroom area. I didn’t go there, but saw signs to the effect. One other thing that really stood out was that while being immersed in the sea of flesh (120,000 people were said to have been in attendance—don’t know if that included the presenters), was the sweat.

Yes, you could actually smell the sweat on people.

It was that packed, that close-quartered. That intimate. And it was also 900 degrees outside, so with a small town’s population packed inside one building, you know the HVAC system was working overtime. But, all things considered, I think it was amazing it was as “cool” as it was and the HVAC system remained up and running. Kudos the the facilities staff!

My friend, Jan C. J. Jones, was working the Con and twice she managed to just “find me”; it was like some weird Jedi “locator” power she possessed (or those damned implants….). Twice I’d gone looking for her in her assigned area, and twice I came up empty. Yet, on two consecutive days I’d just be hanging out, talking, and twice she came right up to me.

It was like she just materialized out of thin air (pardon the pun—Denver’s altitude).

DCC Panels

On Sunday, I was no two panels: at 12:15 MT I was on the Dealing With Discouragement in Writing and Publishing, and at 2:15 MT I was on Why We Write Short Stories. I love doing panels, interacting with fellow writers and artists and anyone else in the biz. Love interacting with the audience. Talking about writing! Both were pretty well attended, I thought, given the focus of the Con was not so much books…but it was cool that books were made a part of a Comic Con.

I attended a few other sessions that some of my writer friends were on, such as Monsters: Not Just For Horror Anymore, Self-Publishing: Is It For You?, Can’t We Get Along?, Cultural Exchange vs Appropriation in Writing, and Diversity in SciFi and Fantasy Literature. I tooled around some more…took in an act where a guy promoting his web comic (I believe it was) did a balancing act atop stacked chairs. That was neat and pretty funny. It’s one thing to watch it on TV…another to stand 10 feet from the person actually doing it! There really are no nets…but there was a gym-mat-like padded floor. It would have reduced bruising, but that’s about all, had he really fallen.

Kevin Ikenberry

I first met Kevin Ikenberry at a Denver MileHiCon. Kevin is retired Army (I won’t hold that against him) and has written two military SF novels and some short fiction. He’s now an “active duty author,” and boy is he creating his own “shock and awe”! The man is apparently unstoppable! As of DCC his Amazon.com numbers were staggering, and he sold out his DCC stock. That’s the way to do it, Kevin! I keep running into him at every author/literary event I go to, and we usually end up seated/standing/tripping over each other. He has an infectious smile and an outgoing manner. I bought his Sleeper Protocol and am currently reading it. Of course he jabbed the Air Force in his autographing of it…but he does have to remember that to the Air Force…all the other services are beneath it (“Aim higher,” yourself, buddy!)….

Aaron Michael Ritchey

And then there is the amazing Aaron Michael Ritchey.

AMR Money Talks. (© F. P. Dorchak, Denver Comic Con, June 19, 2016)

This photo says it all. I really have to do something with it…and I think I know exactly what. Aaron (in a word) is a trip. He gives caffeine a run for its money. Gives “personality” a whole new definition. And talk about ubiquitous. Name one place Aaron Michael Ritchey isn’t. You can’t. It’s impossible. He warps time. He’s standing behind you right now. But when you turn around—he’s gone. Off to be somewhere else—or is he (have you checked the kitchen)?

If you ever get a chance to meet either of these two guys, go do it. Buy their work.

DCC Podcasts

I really hope I didn’t embarrass myself on any of them! I did three podcasts while at DCC, but it was so loud and crazy, so many incredible COSPLAY walking the Con…so much exposed skin of both men and women…so many really neat and ingenious costumes of both men and women—well, in one of my interviews a sword-wielding barbarian chick with a nice smile stood not four feet in front of me. She was quite…fit. And I was not looking at her…but a couple times while I was not looking at her I might have uttered something like “tomato juice” when asked about my favorite books, or “yes” when asked about what got me started at writing. So, forgive anything stupid that may have come out of my mouth during these interviews. It was loud. It was crazy. It was DCC.

Finitione…

One thing really warmed my heart in particular: a COSPLAY woman had walked by up ahead of me and had dropped her iPhone (or similar). I went to go fetch it and flag her down, when another guy between me and Ms. COSPLAY also saw it. He picked it up and gave it to the girl. I was so impressed! He could have walked away with it, cause the girl had no idea she’d dropped it, and had kept walking. I didn’t think of this until Monday, but I should have gone up to the guy and applauded him for his actions! Whoever you are, way to go, dude!

Denver Comic Con was utterly incredible. Amazing. Expansive. Diverse. Freaking FUN. People were there to have fun…and it felt so good to see everyone behaving and having fun. I’d heard larger (Really? Larger?) Comic Cons weren’t so, well, “nice”…but DCC was. It really was family friendly and I saw a lot of family there. People were well-behaved. I was so honored to have been asked by Eneasz Brodski, who handles the literary portion of Comic Con. I can’t thank you enough, Eneasz—and Angie Hodapp, who introduced us! Hope to attend next year!

Related Article

MileHiCon47, a Knot, and a Head (fpdorchak.wordpress.com)
MileHiCon46…or This Blog is Really All About Aaron Michael Ritchey (fpdorchak.wordpress.com)

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Walkers

May 20, 2016 by fpdorchak

Keep Moving, People. (Image by By Jaurès_-_Histoire_socialiste,_I.djvu: Jean Jaurès, sous la direction de derivative work: YSpirine [Jaurès_-_Histoire_socialiste,_I.djvu] [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)

I remember writing this short story quite well!

What I remember (I checked my writing records) most was that it was accepted for publication in a letter to me, March 13, 1992 (Friday the 13th), by Thin Ice…but Thin Ice went under before it could be published! I was even told that it would be the lead story in that issue of the magazine…but it wouldn’t be published until Summer 1994 (two years later!). But then it was delayed yet another year. Yeah—so, I waited three years for publication, only to have the rug pulled out from under me in 1995. The editor (whose name I realized I’ve since forgotten—I’d remembered her name for years and years…) even said I could submit elsewhere if I wanted to have it published earlier….

So, now…24 years later…I am finally giving it that life!

I am and have always been fascinated by walking…that by walking you can literally get anywhere on this planet. Okay, you might have to take a plane or a ship or two, but still…it’s by walking that would get you there to take that plane or ship. Or that swim. And I love walking…the physical (and metaphysical) locomotion through time and space. Yes, you probably never gave the “time and space” part much though, did you? One is moving through both TIME and SPACE when one locomotes. And if you let your mind wander…run free…you’re also wandering the universe when you walk. So, there’s really a whole lot more going on when you take those physical steps than perhaps is initially imagined….

And what if there existed a race that that did everything while in constant motion?

That was my inspiration all those years ago, and I just love this story! It has intrigue and sex (well, okay, an “honorable mention,” since sex is mentioned…) and mystery! Horror! Metaphysics! It’s a quest—and so much more I can’t get into without giving away the twists and turns that this 6,000-word story takes! It’s one of my favorites. I wasn’t sure if I would post it here, because of its length…I think it might be the longest on this blog. I have a couple longer short stories I’ve been holding off posting because of their length…but decided to go with “Walkers.” I might include one or two of the others, as well, later….

So, yes, “Walkers” is also unpublished…returned to me by Thin Ice, on May 11, 1995 (delayed a year from its original publication), because the magazine had gone under, but it was intended for publication (as the lead story!) in that Summer 1994 (1995) issue….

Walkers

Severen’s feet mindlessly shuffled on with bland reiteration, as he opened sandied eyes. The sky was clear and there was a chill in the air, as early morning reds and oranges splashed across the horizon. The terrain was dusty and desolate.

Severen lifted his head and stretched.

He’d dreamed of being confined to something called a “chair”…with wheels on it…unable to use his legs. He remembered it’d been a good dream.

“Another day,” he said, and rubbed his eyes, cracking open his mouth into a wide, morning yawn. Severen look around and saw Techen, immediately to his left, who also began to stir.

“Mor-ning, Tech,” Severen greeted, mouth full of sand. He spit out the silicate granules.

“Yeah, right.”

Severen smiled back and shook dust from his hair, then looked around to the faces immediately behind him, several rows back. Most were still asleep. Then there were the faces behind those, and still more behind those…the unfathomable mass of Walkers that filled in all the way to the rear horizon. And all of them walked…all of them trudged aimlessly across desiccated terrain. They were a people of many ages and varieties, and the sound of their incessant plodding unmercifully assaulted Severen’s morning grogginess, bringing him back to a reality he’d much rather preferred to have escaped. It was an ancient march. A tiresome one. At its best, it was

“…time to send one of us to investigate. Agreed?” It was Strutter, an Old Walker, who had finally came out and said it. “With that having been said, we must send one of us.” His voice was weary with age, but he was the wisest of the Walkers. All of the Council nodded, including Severen.

“We’re sorry to drop this upon you, Severen, my friend, but it is the will of the Council that you should go. You are the healthiest of us to withstand the rigors of the journey.”

Severen flinched, but remained strong—Council-bound—and accepting of the challenge. Somehow, he had come to expect this, despite the fact that he knew of two others who were supposedly younger than him. Smoothing out his Council uniform, he straightened up and addressed Strutter.

“I agree and accept.”

“Good. We wish you our best.”

There was something about Strutter’s look that sent a chill through Severen.

Those not of the Council, but closest to them, turned to each other and began to spread the word, and with a bow of his head, and eyes closed, Severen immediately slowed his pace and began the rearward journey. He shifted his shoulders and twisted his body, as he allowed the peopled interior to swallow him up. It seemed

Colder back here. Emotionally colder.

He had never been back more than a half-a-generation or so before, and had labored long and hard to get to his present position on the Forward Council. People in the interior were less friendly, less open (how well he remembered that), and now he had to go back in—deeper—to investigate rumored trouble at the rear.

The Rear.

He’d heard of only one other walker who’d gone as far back as one generation, and now he was to go all the way back.

To the end.

As far as he could physically reach—and to make matters worse, he was to come all the way back.

If possible.

It was a quest that bred mixed feelings among the Council, a quest that Severen felt severely hindered by, for further progression on his part, at least for the time of the journey, anyway, but he was duty-bound and the rumors had to be laid to rest. The killings (if there truly were any killings) had to be investigated…stopped.

Feet on autopilot and still facing to the front of the March, Severen retreated deeper into the interior. Uncountable bodies, both familiar and unfamiliar, brushed and flowed past.

If there really were any killings going on, it would probably do the horde well, he thought. Everyone knew there were far too many Walkers, and that, no matter how heretical the thought, they really could stand to use a thinning.

Facts were facts.

As Severen continued backward, he noticed something no one had ever mentioned. This feeling of going backward was almost an erotic, stimulating affair…and he wondered why it was so outlawed to the common masses. He noticed that going back just two or three rows had no real effect, but once you got the momentum going and traveled through at least a quarter of a generation, the sensation suddenly overcame you. It was a heady, whole-body phenomenon that was very much like sex. Everybody, except the aging and dying, went forward, and he had not known anyone who had gone this far rearward before—except in childhood tales, of course.

(forward)

But it was a good feeling.

Severen also noticed how some began to regard him with suspicion. Or fear. Many turned to those beside them and whispered, all the while keeping a watchful eye upon him. He couldn’t hear them all, but occasionally did catch something like: It is not often one from the Council travels rearward. They must surely imagine something dire. Or: What becomes us that one of them dares invade our privacy? But, overall, Severen found the people most accommodating, actually somewhat more talkative than he’d expected. He would have quite an enlightening report to pass on—if he ever made it back—or passed it on to a Communicator.

Although he had probably been doing it for the past few rows, Severen became aware that he was slowing down. He had come across a tightly knit group at one point and found that he was growing increasingly bogged down. Twisting about, Severen glanced behind. He saw that the jam-up seemed to go on for quite some distance. He faced forward. Just enjoy the ride, Sevvy, he told himself. He looked around to the people beside him and attempted conversation, but as usual, only ended up in passing people by. Until he spotted a particularly quiet and hulking figure of curious intensity, off to his left. Temporarily delaying his rearward passage, Severen redirected himself laterally toward the man. People moved, respectfully, out of his way.

“Good day, citizen!” Severen hailed, “perhaps you can assist me? My name is Severen, of the Forward Council.”

The man wheezed once, then gave him a quick, non-interested glance. “Yeah, so?”

“I’ve been sent by the Council to investigate goings-on at the rear. There have been recent rumors surfacing—”

“Surfacing? Where’ve you been, mate? Them’s rumors been around fer generations.”

“Excuse me?”

“I means, yer frigging behind the times, mate—an why would the Council send back one-ah its own? Why not someone more expendable?”

Severen bit his tongue. He needed to regain control of this conversation.

“Okay, so we’re a bit behind the times, can you assist me or not?”

“What do you want?”

“Information.”

“What’s in it fer me?”

“A better position in the March—”

“Oh, sure, an where would that get someone like me? It’s not like we’re getting anywhere with all this drudgery.”

“I can see about making you a Communicator.”

“Oh, a Communicator, huh?”

“Yes. It’d be low level to start, but it’d be a beginning.”

“Well, I can’t tell you much, y’see, I’ze only heard the rumors, like you, but there’s somethin nasty going on back there. I only heard a one guy who made it back, and he went mad. Was sent back to the rear. You ain’t gonna like what you find—if it don’t find you first.”

“Please, elucidate.”

The man looked back disapprovingly at the Councilman’s choice of words.

“It’s dark back there, people…disappear…an…an there’s somethin else.”

“What else?”

“Don’t know. The man went n got all unscrewed before he could tell—but he was about to say somethin, I could see it in his eyes. It was like he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it.”

“That’s all you got?”

“Told you it weren’t much.”

“What was his name, this fellow?”

“Chim, or Jorg—no, Chjort, that was it. Chjort.”

“Thank you. Want the position?”

“Whatever.”

Severen allowed the crowd to advance past, as he continued rearward.

“Sev’ren!” the man yelled back.

“What?”

“Take it easy, mate. It turned Chjort nutty. Killed the others.”

Killed others?

(expendable?)

“Thank

You never really knew just how large the whole damn thing was from the front. Never really knew until you got inside it. All you saw were rows upon rows of bodies, and bodies going back as far as the eye could see. Way back. But as Severen ventured in, he got a true feeling for just how large this exodus was, more so than any of the Communicators (those who ran messages within assigned districts and kept the masses informed), the Forward Council, or any other mythical hero he’d ever heard about. Communicators came close to getting a truer feel for the size of the March, but they never ventured beyond their own boundaries. Each generation had several districts, but the number depended on how large a generation was. Lately, generations had been growing.

Council members…they really knew nothing.

Anybody could be a Council member, though there had to be a proving to see whether that person was truly worthy of the position. Everyone wanted to be up front, to make laws and institute changes, but not many were willing to work for it. To pay the price. To see something other than the backs of their contemporaries. That was what had initially driven Severen. That, and the love of a woman, or, more to the point, the scorn of one.

Severen had fallen in love with a woman named Thea. She had been strong, and the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. He’d first seen her when she was only two hops over from him, magically having appeared out of nowhere. They’d flirted, and when Severen finally made his move, he found her more than interested. They were soon marching side by side. Copulating. Inseparable. Then he began to tell her of his ambition, that he wanted to start a family of his own and become one of the Forward Council. That was where things began to deteriorate. It seemed she had no ambition to go to the front, a place where you couldn’t hide.

Hide.

She had something to hide. She didn’t like being put up for display. She liked where she was, free to drift about…to see others. And Thea had no intention of starting a family. She liked being able to see whom she wanted, and do what she willed. Severen had been nothing more than a passing encounter for her. Sure, she liked him…even the sex and good times they’d had together…but that was all. Severen had awoken one morning to find her gone. Just as he’d found her…he’d lost her.

He never did find out what it was she had to hide, but figured she was probably trafficking in the powerful sleep drug, Utopa, the most common offense in the March. The drug gave the power to dream while awake, for as long as three days, after which subjects usually became hooked and zombie-like. Some, those of stronger constitution, lasted longer and became junkies, but most withered away and died. Either way, all were eventually sent back to the rear. In the end, Severen’s break with Thea had been for the better. Associating with pushers wasn’t conducive to a Council position.

Severen found himself again eavesdropping.

“…Celila and Trax were doing pretty good until Celila’s Communicatorship,” a pair of Walkers discussed.

“Took her away, didn’t they.”

“Yep—but they’re still seeing each other, wouldn’t’cha know it. It’s been a hard road since she’s the youngest Communicator and gets all the rotten routes—she’s gone nearly all the time.”

The other gave a knowing nod and wrinkled his face disapprovingly. Severen remembered that name. Celila. She was new. Swift. She was also a good Mediator for the Council, which wasn’t good for her man, since she’d most probably get promoted and see even less of him. It wouldn’t be until her next promotion, a supervisory position, that she’d have any time for a relationship—and who’d want to wait that long?

Severen angled off into a different direction, and looked up to the sky. It had darkened noticeably since he’d last checked. He realized he was now into the very heart of the March, sand almost completely obscuring the sky. And don’t even talk about the noise. It was also decidedly colder…not just emotionally, but physically…and he didn’t like that. It should have gotten warmer, from all that body heat. But it

Wasn’t life a bitch? It seemed that all one had to look forward to was to live long enough to get to the front lines. Then what? Severen had gotten there, and where had it gotten him? He was back where he’d started—hell, he was further back than where he’d started. He’d actually regressed….

And he had just blindly accepted this task. How easy it had been to plod along aimlessly in life and be the yes-man.

(easy)

This whole thing was entirely overrated. What was he supposed to do once he found what he was looking for? The gruff-one had mentioned that others had been killed.

What others, and why; what had killed whom?

Severen had no knowledge of anyone else being sent that far back, let alone being killed off.

But what if others had been sent back?

Was there something the Forward Council wasn’t telling him? What was that look in Strutter’s face all about?

Was he even supposed to make it back?

That last thought rocked him like an earthquake.

Maybe he was an offering. An offering.

“No, no—that can’t be. The Council isn’t like that. They’re Law-givers. Elders.”

So why choose him? The only ones on the Council who had any real power were the old ones. The ones who’d been around a while. So where did that leave the younger members? If the elders didn’t die, then the younger went nowhere.

(except on journeys like this)

But he knew of no one—

Then it hit him.

There was something about a journey!

He remembered…as a child…that his parents had told him about a Council member they’d met who’d gone back on a similar trek. Severen didn’t remember the purpose of the trek, but did remember the look on his parents’ faces when they talked about it. They were scared.

Why?

Because little Sevvy had already made up his mind that he was going to join the Council when he grew up.

Millions of tiny switches clicked on and off inside his head.

Spark.

And there were always bogeyman stories from childhood about what went on back there…way back there. Stories of the dead coming to life and ripping the aged from their generations, never to be seen again. Of screams and howls in the dead of night. Maybe there were more to the legends and myths than people cared to believe.

Spark.

Or tell.

Contact.

A conspiracy within the Council!

Severen was suddenly slammed into.

It wasn’t the normal hiking-through-the-lands-trip-and-tap—no, this was a full-on grind that lifted him up off one foot and had him tottering for a moment as he skipped across the terrain, trying to regain his balance. When he did regain his footing, he whipped around hard to see the face in the crowd that must have started the upset. It was a face that sent a chill up his spine. It was an evil, twisted face that didn’t look real…but continued to hold his gaze.

Severen maneuvered out of the face’s path to see if it would follow.

It did.

No sooner had he repositioned himself, then the face again followed him…but had also gained in row. Severen looked around. Found that the generation of people around him suddenly seemed to have aged a great deal. Many were white-haired and bent over…more shuffle than walk to their strides. Many had only half-opened eyes, or failing eyesight.

This meant the dead were even closer than he’d imagined. Maybe a lot closer.

Severen maneuvered toward a stout individual and there held his position. The old man looked to him.

Why do you come to me? his gaze begged, I am old and not long for the March. Go away.

I am sorry, old man, but I have no choice, Severen’s eyes replied, I am on a mission. From the Forward Council.

So you would have me killed for the Council?

Before Severen could make his reply, the stalking face was upon the old man. Severen had been so hypnotized by the ancient one’s gaze that he’d forgotten to keep track of his pursuer. He looked on in horror as he saw its face—and what was left of its body. It was dead and stank of carrion. Powerful, clawed arms raked out from underneath powerful, shredded shoulders…arms that hopped and grappled from shoulder to shoulder and supported a smoldering torso. It tore asunder those it touched. It was a torso that supported a head and shoulders—and nothing more. There was nothing below its gaping and dangling chest cavity.

Severen watched as the old man was torn apart by the corpse; he backed away with weak, flaccid knees…and noticed that those alongside the old man had also moved away…silently and without question.

As if this was accepted routine.

“No!” Severen shouted.

But still his feet took him away.

“No!” he shouted, but still his gaze was upon the old man.

“No!” he shouted, but still the corpse crawled and rended. Rended the ancient one to pieces….

“NO!”

Severen watched as the old man’s eyes were separated from their sockets….

His words had no effect on the killing. No effect on the dismemberment that went on (as he watched). Words that could not stop the direction his feet were taking him. Away. Severen saw the old man crumple soundlessly, wordlessly, to the ground.

Accepting.

Why do you come to me, the ancient man had pleaded.

Because I am on a mission, he had replied.

A mission.

He was on a mission to find out what was going on at the rear. Well, he’d just found out—and now he was running away.

This is the real reason I was sent back. I’m no investigator—I’m a sacrifice.

Looking to a cripple beside him, Severen saw the walking stick he possessed and grabbed it without thinking. The cripple looked to him and smiled, then allowed himself to fall to the ground, quickly trodden asunder by those that flowed over from behind. Severen was shocked to discover he felt no emotion one way or the other. Turning, he looked back for the clawed corpse and hefted his newly acquired weapon. He was lucky, the wood felt solid and sturdy. It was dense and would wield well.

Severen backed up and readied the staff; glanced behind himself several times, but still could not see his attacker. It was getting darker. Colder. Out of the corner of his eyes he thought he saw something, and turned slowly, not sure there was really anything there. Yes, three positions over…a face glared back at him with a mouth full of teeth and decayed flesh.

Grinned hideously.

Severen followed that smile down to its neck, then down to its chest.

Down to its waist.

There was now more body to this corpse than when Severen had first encountered it!

Severen looked to the newly acquired legs…legs that had not originally belonged to that creature. Legs, he recognized, that had belonged to the ancient man

(why do you come to me?)

with the penetrating gaze.

The creature had stolen the ancient one’s body.

The very thought made Severen’s stomach heave, and, indeed, he nearly did. He tried not to imagine the horrors the ancient man had been put through to give up those legs.

The monster approached, and the crowd widened.

Good, Severen thought, more room to swing this thing.

“Come on!”

The corpse lunged awkwardly, but Severen managed to hold his ground as he lifted the staff in a backward arc and quickly snapped it forward. It connected, and the corpse took the full force of it in its waist, easily splitting in two. The top half flew forward and the bottom half crumpled to the dirt. Severen then watched as the creature latched onto another walker. Not allowing it time to gain another claw hold, Severen again rushed it. He rose his weapon high over his head and brought it crashing down onto the center of the corpse’s cranium, splitting it open. It emitted a rancor that made Severn gag. The thing writhed in pain, but uttered no sound, and the walker it was attached to hardly seemed cognizant of the attack. Severen finished off the creature by hammering it free with the staff, and it went tumbling bulkily to the ground—and to the rear of the March.

Great, that’s the last place I wanted this thing to go, he thought.

The March then folded back in around Severen as if nothing had happened, and as he wiped the sweat and fear from his brow, one of the walkers adjacent to him turned and smiled. Severen regarded him blankly.

Then vomited.

What was going on back here?

Severen no longer knew just how far back he was, and it didn’t really matter, he guessed, because things weren’t right. He could no longer see the sky, and it was almost always dark, now. And there were times he had actually thought he’d heard screams—and laughter, hideous, hideous, laughter—from the rear. Every time he would look back, fear would grip him and give him a good throttling. He didn’t want to go back there. It was a No Man’s Land. A festering graveyard. Nothing good was back there….

He had given up on the quest long ago—blew it all off. His sojourn had now become more of a matter of principle. Of what was right. He recalled how it had bothered him to accept the quest…at why he should have been chosen…but found he didn’t feel this way about this new revelation. Some things just felt right, even if they were wrong….

But who would know of his intent?

There were no longer any Communicators this far from the Council, so information of his whereabouts wouldn’t exactly be known, and to the masses he would just be remembered as the “one from the Front” performing his duty in the defense of his people. He would fade away into the annals of history as just another soul lost to the rear.

Or sacrificed.

His blood boiled.

He had his pride and no one was going to sacrifice him.

As unfortunate as his present situation was, he had to make the best of it. He was too far back to just turn around (so to speak) and return home. If not for the Council, then he had to do this for the others. His fellow walkers.

But, by the gods, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense! Send the young! The virile! Those who could better challenge the Old Ones. Send them to the rear to appease whatever was there—just keep it from coming forward. Keep it away from the front…from the Forward Council.

Severen looked to the staff. To those around him. If they weren’t dead, they were very near. Their shuffling was pained and slow, their bodies decayed. It wouldn’t be long now.

He was scared as hell.

Severen’s pace had slowed quite a bit, either from fear or uncertainty, but slowed down it had.

The air now had a distinctly different feel to it, and it stunk. Rotted flesh. Nervously he glanced behind himself (as he tore off a piece of fabric from his uniform and tied it around his mouth and nose), but could no longer see beyond two or three rows. It was as dark as night and there was a thick haze, one that he’d walked right into.

Like he had any choice.

Rotted, moldy flesh, he thought, so much particulates in the air.

His mind began to drift back to the conspiracy. As right as he knew he was, he tried to coax some sense out of the activities that had led him to his present situation. Of course the Elders wouldn’t have taken this journey themselves, they probably wouldn’t have survived it, and sure he wasn’t the youngest—not by far—so why was he picked above all others?

Maybe because you’d risen from within the March, Sevvy, old boy.

Of course.

He hadn’t been born into the Forward Council, like the others. Strutter had always been there, had been there even before his parents had grown, and Techen—Techen was born into it, he knew that. But what about Quix? Se-Er? Yes, they, too, all claimed birthright. In fact, Severen now saw, he couldn’t think of one of the Forward Council who wasn’t of direct bloodline (except Strutter, but he was the Elder, the Rule-Maker), so why would the two younger members be any different?

They wouldn’t be—unless another insider was being cultivated as he had been….

This wasn’t exactly the feeling he needed just now.

An unexpected rocking from the row directly behind him caught him off-guard and sent him into an adjacent walker as he tripped across a particularly deep rut. The man he hit crumpled to the dirt and had, in fact, actually disintegrated.

“Oh, no—no…I can’t be there yet!”

Another walker near to him opened a hardened, white eye and winked weakly.

“Y-yer not…there yet….” he said.

But you’ll wish ya were.

The words put Severen temporarily at ease. If one was dead, then others were sure to follow, and soon. The graveyard

(answers)

was not far away.

Destiny.

Ah, the hell with it.

Spinning around on his heels and actually facing toward the rear, Severen hefted his staff before him and marched forward.

Into the pitch blackness of the unknown.

It wasn’t long before he found that all those surrounding him were, indeed, dead.

None moved out of his path as he approached, so he came to wielding his staff and smashing them out of his way. Their bodies crumbled into dust as did the first. Or as near as he could tell, in this darkness, to which his eyes had grown exceedingly well accustomed. He also saw that the ranks had thinned out considerably, and this bothered him.

What was beyond? Was there a beyond?

Would he fall off some edge that rolled up after the March’s passage?

Old wives tales told to disobedient children.

Yet tales that still scratched at his troubled, adult psyche.

Movement. There was movement ahead.

Severen felt the fear again seize him, but fought it off and cocked his head. There was a figure that ran behind the few bodies that still shuffled past. He squinted, but the figure had darted back into the darkness. It was an upright figure, to be sure, like him—but quick. All this time, he thought he was alone. The fear returned.

There’s nothing good back here.

He tightened his grip on the staff.

What had he gotten himself into?

He continued forward and heard noise…this time behind him.

Then the noise moved somewhere to his left.

Then back again, behind him.

Spinning around, Severen brought up the staff just in time to deflect the brunt of an attack. A dark figure had bounced off him and run back into the dark, but not before leaving tears in his clothes and stinging gouges in his flesh. Severen thought of the similarities between this attack and the earlier one—but that this one had legs.

Severen spun around several more times, making sure that the thing was gone. At least temporarily. His temples throbbed with his quickened pulse, and his chest heaved with shortened breaths. Adrenaline surged throughout his body. There was more movement…more of them.

Terrific.

“Who’s there! By the power of the Forw—”

A black thing lunged, and this time Severen wasn’t as lucky, his staff slammed up hard into his forehead. Warmth spread down and over his eyes. At the same time, something ripped deeply into his right arm and there was another liberating splash of warmth upon his face. Blinding pain quickly followed…then the thing was off him.

By the time Severen managed to reopen his eyes, another was upon him.

Pain or no pain he cocked back the staff, and, twisting around with it, slammed it hard into what he surmised was the torso of the creature. It took all the spring out of the thing’s attack and Severen watched it crumple into a heap. Quickly recovering, Severen barely had time to react to another one, so he ducked…only netting a gash to his forehead…and followed the shape around. He brought his weapon down square on the thing’s back and there was a more-than-satisfying crunch. The thing didn’t get back up. Severen backed away, whirled his stick about him, and peered into the darkness for more.

But none came.

The ache of his body grew more painful as the shock wore off, and his gait turned into more of a labored shuffle. He’d managed to stem the flow of blood from his wounds, but the pain that racked his body had to be more than just from cuts and bruises.

Infection.

Infection that spread rapidly. If Severen didn’t miss his guess, he probably wouldn’t make it til sunrise, if there was a sunrise anymore….

Severen dreamed as he dozed. Dreamed of a dark and thick blackness…a blackness from which nothing returned. He saw eyes…two large…all-seeing orbs that emerged from the darkness, only to return back to it. And he saw claws…lots and lots of claws…that all tore and ripped into him. Ripped him into big, chunky pieces—

He awoke with a start. Couldn’t believe he had

(been allowed to survive)

dozed. He was alone. Except for the occasioned walking dead he passed. He no longer swung at them.

Severen had never really given much thought to what was actually at the rear, the ultimate rear. To what it might actually look like. He just wished he wasn’t there, now. On the surface, he tried to convince himself that he didn’t care to know, but deep down he did feel a sense of duty. A yearning for more.

Must know.

Must.

Bring back information…crush the conspiracy….

Back—back to whom?

The people.

The Council could no longer be trusted. They were all suspect. All in on it. Had been since the dawn of eternity. All those sent back in the legends and myths had been sent back as fodder for some evil god. Sent to keep whatever was there from coming forward and destroying the rest of the March.

Was sure of it.

Dead sure.

Never had there been any mention of the dead coming back to life from the graveyard. Never. Had always been left as a black void of nothingness. A place not spoken of during the light of day, barely even whispered of during nightfall.

It was a lair.

But a lair to what?

What evil force made its home there, and to where did its power extend?

Severen checked his arm’s dressing. It was a mass of dried blood and torn material…and there was a gangrenous pus that festered around the wound. Severen touched it with the end of his staff and it burst, splattering onto his face a smelly spore-like substance that got inside his mouth. He didn’t bother to check his other wounds. He felt the infection as it ate away at him. He didn’t need any further confirmation.

Heavily, Severen lifted his throbbing head.

“What…are you?” he coughed into the darkness.

Two blazing red eyes opened their lids from the darkness before him.

“What do you want from me. From us?”

The eyes floated. He was sure they were amused with him.

Gathering all his effort, Severen hefted his staff and swung it out before him. The eyes remained untouched…were now filled with a mass of scrolling stars.

Not much further to go. Care. No longer cared. Never make it back….

Eyes.

Disappeared.

Severen plodded forward, used his staff as a crutch. Lost all feeling in his left side. Numb on his right. Vision grew cloudy….

DO. YOU. KNOW. WHO. I. AM?

Came the voice.

DO. YOU. KNOW. WHO. I…AM?

It was a voice. Inside his head. This was it. Had finally gone delirious. Alone; seeing ghosts. Hearing voices. What difference did it make if he answered? Was dying anyway….

No, I do not know…who you are…but I’m sure this…poison…has invented something good…for me.

I AM…THE…UNNAMED.

Severen looked into the blackness and laughed.

Well, aren’t you a grand delusion!

I…AM…ALL.

Pleeeased to meet you….

Silence.

Severen felt the uneasiness that accompanied that silence. Felt, for the first time since his last attack, that maybe, maybe he wasn’t all that alone…maybe it wasn’t delirium he was talking to….

YOU HAVE COME…FOR ME…YOU ARE TO BE MY…COMMUNION.

PREPARE YOURSELF.

“Who are you?”

I AM ALL.

“…said that, but…what are you?”

No immediate response.

I AM…THAT WHICH KEEPS THE MARCH…FORWARD.

That which keeps the March forward. Severen shook his head. “Don’t…understand.”

IT IS NOT YOUR PLACE…TO UNDERSTAND.

PREPARE YOURSELF.

That which keeps the March forward. Could it be possible that the March was evoked by this thing? Controlled by it? That the March was nothing without it? But the March had been going on since time immemorial….

Forever.

I AM BEYOND THAT.

Eternal.

Severen’s head hurt. He stumbled. I’m going to die, I’m really going to die….

Severen placed the staff out before him for support, bore the majority of his weight on it…but only managed to continue forward in short…shuffling…movements. Movements that brought immense pain. Severen jerked; felt something burrow into his brain.

ENOUGH…TIME.

A gigantic claw shot out from the darkness, and with it, a deafening clap of thunder. It smashed through Severen’s stick and grasped him mid-body, lifting Severen up off the ground. Severen went limp and expelled a loud huh! as his staff clattered in pieces about him. He had a sudden flashback of helplessness as a child…the time he was caught first-time masturbating…and felt like that child again. But there was also an unexpected ease with who he was…what he had become.

He felt small and puny…yet complete. He retreated inward.

There was warmth there.

The two large, red eyes again formed in the darkness before him and Severen was pulled in. Severen looked directly into the eyes and spoke:

Go on…I’m prepared….

Severen floated. Drifted within nothingness. There he found the thing he had come for. The quest. The reason. It was fear, plain and simple. Fear from the Walkers as they had built it up over their generations; over eons.

FEAR.

From turning back. Fear…from looking behind—and forward. Fear that they were being followed…devoured from that which was behind them. Darkness. And it had caught them. Exacted its toll. Its price for existence.

PAY HOMAGE TO THAT WHICH CONTROLS THEE….

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A Conversation With Hell

May 13, 2016 by fpdorchak

Don't Answer It. (Image by Holger.Ellgaard [CC BY-SA 3.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0], via Wikimedia Commons). — Don’t Answer It. (Image by Holger.Ellgaard [CC BY-SA 3.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons).

This story appears to be the first (or among the first) story I’d written as an adult and began recording, as I got full time into writing as a business. As an ongoing intent. From my earliest records, it appears I’d written this in May or June of 1987. I was 26 years old. It is my first writing entry into my writing log, which I’ve kept ever since. On May 6, 1987, I sent a letter to the Library of Congress for copyright forms. On June 1, 1987, I’d sent this story out to Writer’s Gazette, TheMind’s Eye, 2AM Magazine, Pleiades Magazine, and SCIFANT (I don’t know if this is the “SCIFANT” from all those years ago, but there’s the link).

My very first entry into my writing log, however, is the following:

Contacted Dr. Clifford Bennett about publishing “Hope,” “Conversation,” “Love”. He died May 4, 1987 (82 years old).

You can see there were other stories I was working on.

Dr. Bennett was in the publishing/writing world, and I no longer remember how I discovered him (maybe it was a referral from some critique group I was in at the time). For some reason, I also remember Dr. Bennett performing hypnosis, and we’d worked a couple times with some hypnosis sessions. Anyway, I’d met with him a couple times, then I remember he was “hard to get hold of,” and soon afterward I’d learned that he’d died. His obituary is posted after this story. Dr. Bennett was my first contact with “the publishing industry” and the first “professional” to help me with my writing. I wish I remembered more about him.

Anyway, this story harkens back to my straight horror writing days. It’s not one of my best, but it’s short and sweet. It needed some clean-up.

Inspiration? Aside from today’s telemarketers, we’ve all gotten wrong numbers. In today’s world there’s the “butt dialing” phenomenon. But back when I wrote this, in 1987, we just had plain old wrong numbers.

This story had been published in SCIFANT #8, May 5, 1988.

A Conversation With Hell

Ring!

“Hello? Hello!”

It was the same thing. The same thing for the past month. Will Garret had made a brief jaunt back to his house to pick up some papers he had forgotten. No sooner had he stepped into the hallway, when the phone rang.

A crackling sound over the phone with no answer.

Who was it? Was there a problem with the phone?

He’d already had it checked.

A bad line?

Nope, had that checked too.

A prankster?

Definite possibility.

Whatever it was, it had gotten annoying a long time ago. These calls came at all hours of the day, none of them consistent in time. Some would come at two in the afternoon, while others would come at three in the morning.

He hung up; no use prolonging the agony.

Will stepped back from the phone and watched it. Then to his surprise (and then again, maybe not), it rang again. He let it ring a few more times, he couldn’t not answer it.

He just had to know who wa—

“Hello?”

“Hello,” came the smooth as silk reply. It was a masculine voice.

“Who is this?” Will asked, more than a little irritated.

“Uh…Fred Tarpenton…of Tarpenton Buick,” came the reply.

“Oh—I’m sorry. I’m a little on edge…I’ve been getting these crank calls, and—”

“Not to worry, apology accepted.”

A promotional call from a car dealer. Not interested, but figured he might as well listen for a while, considering the way he’d answered the phone.

After hanging up the phone, he went back to work. A corporate executive is a busy guy.

At his office, Will slaved over extensive paperwork on the merging of a new client. His huge oak desk was filled with reams of paper, a coffee cup was buried underneath the piles, somewhere. His phone rang and he absentmindedly fumbled for it.

“Yes,” he said, his reply neutral, distracted.

Over the receiver came that familiar crackling sound.

He shot up from his desk, hurtling the phone across his office. He moved behind his chair and gripped it in tightly.

It had been bad enough that he had been getting these calls for the past three and a half weeks…but they’d been confined to his home. This is the first time he had ever gotten one at work.

“Miriam!”

He was already on his way into reception, where his administrator worked. “Miriam, did you just forward me a call?”

“No, Mr. Garret, why?”

Will forced himself to calm down, no use letting his charges think he’s losing his grip on reality.

“Oh, nothing…nothing.” He turned and returned to his office. He told Miriam to hold all calls.

Back in his office he sat back down. This was getting out of hand. He looked to the mess over by the wall. Guess hadn’t really needed to have Miriam hold his calls. Have to get a new phone now.

It was nearing nine o’clock as he entered his driveway. It had been a tough but profitable day. He exited his car and entered the house. He’d just opened the front door, when the phone rang. Will slowly closed the door behind him and cautiously approached the ringing instrument.

It continued to ring as he put his briefcase down. Reached for the receiver.

“Hello?”

Crackle.

“Who is this?”

Crackle.

“What do you want from me? Money? I’ll give you anything you want, just—”

Crackle.

“Fuck.” Will slammed the receiver down and reached for the wall jack, unplugged the phone and the other two he owned. If nothing else, he was determined to get some sleep tonight.

The next day was bright and sunny and Garret awoke in an excellent mood. There had been no phone calls to wake him. He ate a well prepared breakfast, read the paper and began to leave for work.

He felt as though he could take on the world!

Standing in the doorway, he thought it better to reconnect at least one phone, and backtracked in, reconnecting the living room extension. As soon as the contacts connected, the instrument rang.

“Answer this, buddy!” he said, and flipped off the phone.

The phone continued ringing.

It was a busy day, as usual. Business calls, meetings, paperwork and more paperwork. It was 4:05 p.m. and he thought it best to leave a little early today. He began clearing off his desk—

Ring!

Ring! Ring!

“Oh come on, Miriam, where the hell are you?”

After several rings, he grabbed the phone.

“Yes?”

Crackle.

FOOOOOOOSH!

A bright yellow-orange bolt of flame shot out of the receiver, searing straight through Garret’s skull. Not stopping there the flame wrapped itself several times around his head, burning flesh dripping like wax from his charring skull.

Will did get a chance to utter a shriek, but that was about all.

He dropped the receiver as he tried to stand up, his hands going up to his incinerated head. Tiny flames sputtered around what had been his nose and left ear.

Miriam burst in just in time to see him sink back down into the plush executive’s chair. The dying flames and smoke continued to issue from the blackened remains of what had been his head. The carnage was total.

Miriam stood, frozen, at the entrance unable to move.

Garret’s body from the neck down was untouched. It twitched a few times then lay still, arms hanging to their sides, his head cocked to one side and smoldering. A few feet from Will’s body on the floor lay the still flaming receiver. Several defiant flames still licked at the handset. Had Miriam her sanity, she would have heard the faint echoes of a demonic chuckle.

Out in reception, a phone rang….

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