F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

Metaphysical

Do The Dead Dream?

by

Come. Dream With Me. Adam Cuerden [Public domain or Attribution], via Wikimedia Commons
Come. Dream With Me. Adam Cuerden [Public domain or Attribution], via Wikimedia Commons
I’ve been working on posting as many of my short stories as possible the past couple of weeks, and it’s been quite enlightening on several levels! But on one particular level (so far) it was surprising how many times I visit the dream world. I mean, yeah, I knew I did that (obviously…I did write the danged things), but I apparently did this quite frequently! And not only that, but I also tended to use a particular phrasing a buncha times in different stories…so I changed them.

As I post these things, I’ve tried not to do much editing. No, they’re not all great, or even good, and some will be and are downright bad…but I want to put them out there. For the stories. Where I “was” when I wrote them. I’ve toyed a couple times with updating them to present times—and I may have taken such liberties once or twice—but on the whole I’ve decided to leave them as-is, albeit to lessen my sometimes heinous overuse of commas.

My God, the humanity!

I really must revisit my grammar guides.

As much as I love the work I’ve done, love these stories, I wouldn’t claim them masterpieces or anything, but they bring me back to those “halcyon days” (if I might use the term) of my earlier writing. I’ve had great bursts of creativity and productability! They’re ideas and concepts that were near and dear enough to me that I had to write them. And it’s fun to see how my writing has improved…the directions it’s taken…where it’s gone. I’m amazed where my mind went in bringing these stories to light! In surprisingly many instances I don’t even remember the exact endings anymore—and in all cases they pleasantly surprised me!

Wow, I came up with the twist?!

That was actually me who wrote that?

Another curious area I’m reconnecting with is the warping of time.

When I was thick into all the passion of my writing, I literally used to feel time warp around me. There were many times when I truly felt I’d written more than was physically possible within the physical time I spent writing said material. And since going back to these stories, I have begun to feel that warping of time once again—I’ve so missed it, and I love feeling it again!

It’s also been fun bringing to light some insights into the stories themselves. What inspired me, where something was originally published. In one story, “Red Hands,” that I’ve readied for posting for March 4 of 2016, I wrote it after I learned about a real (and understandably terrifying—perhaps “horrifying” would be the better adjective in this case) incident in another’s life. It’s also the first story where I used the real names of all involved, including myself (that was weird writing about myself), because all were (still are?) public figures…but I did ask all involved and they said I could do so. We’ll see if the story ends up that way.

But revisiting all these stories has me revisiting my roots. My interests. This Other Me who still resides in all these stories. This Other Me who still lives “back then” in the worlds and dreams where these stories are strongest…and they are strongest at the “point of power” of their creation. And since I’m “one of those nut jobs” who believes there really is No Time…just our corporeal perception of “It”…that All Time is Now…I really love getting back in touch with that Other Me…still out there…still feverishly creating these stories I’m revisiting and reliving….

This Other Me is still hot with the fire of writing and hot with the hope of getting published by the Big Houses. Hot with the fire of burning the world with my imaginative genius…not to the ground—just pleasantly singed.

The Other Me.

Still alive out there in “the past”…still writing like one possessed little bastard….

This Current Me…don’t get me wrong…he loves where he is, he really does…loves his life and what he’s made of it…he has no regrets whatsoever…but like when anyone has had a great vacation…a great life…and they fondly look back on it…they smile. Their heart feels good. Their soul. It’s not so much about wanting to go back and live in the past…it’s just about looking back and feeling good about where you’ve been.

You just feel damned good about your life. What you’ve accomplished. Who you’ve become.

My life feels like a life properly tempered by the flames of my passions…my desires. My efforts.

I’d like to say that it’s where you’ve been that makes you who you are…but since I don’t believe in Chronological Time that doesn’t quite work, does it?

I believe where you’ve been continually helps create who you are, because I firmly believe that who you are is where you are in the moment. That “point of power” I mentioned earlier.

I am firmly in my present by visiting this Other Me in other regions of my life, is perhaps a best way of putting it.

I am reinforcing who I am by visiting who I was, in your terms.

So, as I revisit my previous work…and who I am in those Past Pages…I am reconnecting with my passion…my dreams…my writing roots. There really is no Time…no Past, no Future—only the Eternally Present Now. So, if you are able to revisit Another You in another focus, you can tap into that person. That passion. You can help bolster the both of you. Change the Past…make it better. You can help Other You by reinforcing his or her energy, which, in turn reinforces Current You.

When I started revisiting all my stories I had none of this intent. I merely wanted to revisit my older work. Wanted to do something with them. After all, they weren’t doing anyone any good where they were: hidden. “Forgotten.”

Well, in truth, I’d never forgotten them. They are my children…

And you never forget your children.

So all of this Deep Thought stuff kinda hit me (and is still hitting me—I still have many more stories to post!) as I reread and reworked these things. Warped Time.

If you follow my reasoning about the illusion of Time, then you can see that there really is no death…only a change in focus…not unlike what I’m describing here. The dead are still alive and vital…we just have to find them—and some of us would rather not do that. Even some of the dead feel that way.

But the dead’s existence does not depend upon our views of them—or does it?

Of course, you have to buy into my reasoning to see any of this…but that’s what a much of my work is about: getting you to buy into my reasoning.

As I said elsewhere, my goal is to get all of you to walk away from my fiction thinking: “Yeah, this could happen!”

So I go where some of you would prefer I not tread. I visit with the dead.

Do the dead dream?

This I can unequivocally tell you:

They do.

Related Posts

The Death of Me

by

I Can DO This. By Autopilot (Own work; [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html], via Wikimedia Commons)
I Can DO This. By Autopilot (Own work; [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)
This story is about scuba diving…or is it?

I have several scuba certifications and had made the trip down to Santa Rosa, New Mexico several times for these certifications, where the “Blue Hole” resides. I believe I was inspired with this story when my wife and I did our “Advanced” cert.

This story originally appeared in The Black Sheep, issue #48, in 2002.

The Death of Me

© F. P. Dorchak, 2002

 

What the hell was I doing?

How did I find myself on a scuba certification trip to some hole-in-the-ground spot in the middle of New Mexico, called the “Blue Hole,” in a tiny town off the long-defunct Route 66, called Santa Rosa? A natural spring, this Blue Hole is supposed to be sixty feet across and eighty feet deep (depending on sediment deposition, I’m told). I’m doing this in January. In the winter.

I’m purposely throwing myself into deep water.

Maybe this doesn’t mean much to you, but to me, it means everything. I mean, I’m a person who still has issues with horrible past-life drowning deaths, you know? Sure, I may be a good looking twenty-eight-year-old woman (yeah, it’s hard to admit, but I humbly feel I am—and guys really love my long hair) and single, but in my Titanic life I’m a poor working-class husband stuck below decks behind one of those inhuman and degrading locked barriers that kept the riff-raff away from the ship’s effete. Helluvan era if you ask me, one I’m glad went down with that ship. Anyway, the Titanic strikes its berg, begins foundering, and down we all go. I still have nightmares about my unshaven face hysterically gasping for air as I force it up against the underside of the deck above me (or the deck shoved itself down upon me—it all depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?). Warm urine fills my immersed pants. People, terrified and screaming, are grasping and clawing all around me. As the water level rises I see pillows, clothes, newspapers, and other loose debris “rise” with the water level—even see the terrified eyes of my wife as she reaches out to me…screaming and pleading, screaming and pleading…my own lips and teeth scraping the underside of that deck for any last gulps of air. I pull my wife into me and we give each other our last hugs, unable to control our panicked breathing and gagging coughing. Tears mix with salt water.

Then icy death strikes…is sucked into our lungs and stings our souls.

I’m sure we died from the shock, the unrelenting horror of the situation. Water filling our lungs was a mere formality. Huge pockets of air escaping from deeper shipboard compartments explode up all around us, and gargantuan groans from straining and twisting metal and wood mercilessly assault our ears as the water envelopes our bodies in its frigid death hug. Those were our last experiences as our lives-then departed and our final breaths bubbled up and out from our own “personal compartments”….

And that’s just one of my lives with which I have…issues.

There’s also the slave-trading life where I again drowned…but that’s for another time. I’ve also been burned at the stake, shot full of holes, and tortured in a slow, lingering death during the Inquisition, but it’s the drowning that really gets to me. Who knows why, it just does.

But, in this life, this moment, I sit crammed inside an SUV among a handful of others also heading down to the Blue Hole. I take refuge in listening to the soothing hum of our tires upon dry, solid, asphalt.

Dry. Solid.

The miles disappear beneath those spinning Goodyears….

 

Yes, I seem to be the only one steeped within such needless apprehension. The others, they’re laughing and joking, not bothered in the least—even back during our classroom sessions people weren’t worried one bit about any part of our certification. Just me. It’s always one, I guess I’m “it.” I mean, I really love the water—I do—but I also have this “healthy fear” of it, as ridiculous as it may seem, even with me aware of the whys and all. Why aren’t others bothered? Who knows. Every diver I’ve ever talked with is so psyched that they’re divers. That there’s no other physical experience like flying—not even skydiving (how hard is it to just fall, they ask?). That there’s a whole nother world down there. No one ever mentions being afraid of even the remotest possibility of drowning. Of getting caught underwater with your air running out. Of a ship forcing you under water. Or a slave master shackling you to a chain then tossing you overboard like so much trash because you got sick from his disease-ridden hold.

No, they all joke that you gotta die of somethin sometime, so why not do it doing something you love.

So, yes, it’s only me living those possibilities over and over in my head. Just me and my issues. I am trying to deal with them, though, in my own way. It may not be the best way, or your way, but it’s mine…and that’s all that matters, right?

During our classroom instruction, I noticed how all the instructors kept a close eye on me (and no, it wasn’t because I’m “hot”). They know, they do—I guess I’d mentioned it to them, stupid me—but I ended up feeling just a teensy bit self-conscious, you know? Who wouldn’t in my position? It’s hard to do something when you know you’re being watched, especially when it’s, well, so damned obvious. I know they mean well, but it’s unnerving. Anyway, they try to reassure me that everything’ll be all right, that there’s nothing to worry about—they’ll teach me everything I need to know. Then they clap me on the back, and walk away, leaving me to stare at all the masks, snorkels, and BCDs lining the walls…smell the chlorine from a gurgling pool and wonder if what they’d just fed me is chum, or the real thing.

If there’s nothing to worry about why am I so goddamned worried?

 

I know this guy who once told me that he nearly drowned. As a kid. He said it really wasn’t all that big a deal. Said he remembered how calm everything was…and how his body just seemed to shut off, you know, light by light, he put it. No big deal.

Calm?

How could anyone remain calm after inhaling two lungfuls of water?

Is it just me?

Welcome to my hell.

Most people worry about landing a great job, having enough money, find the “right” person in their lives…I worry about past lives and drowning.

So, for five-and-a-half hours all this…stuff…swirled through my head as the others laughed and joked (like the crewman on that faraway deck), jostling me around inside this SUV. Needless to say, I wasn’t much fun. We were almost there, to this Blue Hole. We turned off New Mexico Highway 84 for I-40. Seventeen miles to go. To the water—and to make matters worse? As soon as we’re checked in, we’re to immediately show up and begin dive number one. These idiots can’t get into the water fasted enough.

I can still feel that young woman’s nails biting into the meat of my palm as the Titanic went down….

No turning back, now. Time to face the fears.

 

Well, quelle surprise! We all made it through three of our four certification dives! It wasn’t as hard as I thought it’d be! Maybe it is all in my head! Had some trouble equalizing my ears on the way down, but once at depth I did fine!

How neat to [finally?] breathe under water!

We did all kinds of drills: removing, replacing, and clearing flooded masks, buddy breathing (which our instructors tell us is going by the wayside for some reason, but he still teaches it), removing and replacing our buoyancy control vests, and a practice controlled emergency ascent. I thought I’d have some trouble with that one, but ended up doing just fine. We took our one breath, then, regulator still in our mouths, exhale gently but continuously…ascending directly to the surface from about twenty-five feet of depth of water. Instructor by our side. It was all (I had to admit) quite fun!

But now I stand suited-up and on the cement steps that lead down into the Blue Hole.

Our instructor, Rick (yeah, he’s a hot guy himself), told us this was our final dive (I really didn’t like the sound that…)…that there were no more drills to perform.

This was just a fun dive.

We all thought this was how we were going to get our open-water certification patches—under water. Rick asked for us to meet him down at the PVC-pipe-framed underwater “platform,” which was plastic tubing attached at right angles to form an open square you can swim through. That there was just one more “tiny little formality” that needed to be completed, Rick said.

Right.

Okay, I can do this, I told myself, there’s no big deal to it…just go down one more time, blah-blah-blah, get the patch—and it’s over. All of it. Would never even have to dive again.

I could do this. It’s no Big Deal.

After all, if every certified diver has gone through what we’re going through and they all love it…how bad could it be?

Geesh, chill out, girlfriend.

I stick my regulator back into my mouth, breathe out…in…look to my buddy…and out we swim to the buoys, which are attached at the surface to the platform’s descent lines below…

 

We’re here!

Okay, for all my anxiety and ear-equalizing difficulties, I love being under water!

I never thought I’d ever say that, but I did take all this on to try to address my fears. There may not be much to look at, here (it’s kind of murky from all the diving), but I’m breathing under water! Every time I come down here I’m amazed at this little fact—I don’t know if I can adequately convey how weird it is to me. I mean, here’s this human being—me—under water—inside a totally different, basically solid, medium…and I’m breathing. It’s like sticking a miniature scuba self in a glass of water. All around me is fluid… something we wash ourselves in, drink, and die if we don’t get enough—or too much. It’s like this multifunctional medium! It could be cement for all practical purposes, or dirt (I have images of snorkeling through a neighbor’s front lawn)—it just fascinates me.

We’re all floating at platform level, adjusting our buoyancy, and awaiting our instructor’s presence. Here he comes, descending down into the center of the open platform like Superman, or something. He makes clearing your ears look so easy.

He gives each of us the “OK” signal, which we return, but he pauses at me…or maybe it just seems so? But, when he’s done “OKing” all of us, instead of handing out the patches…his gaze returns to me, and he motions for me to meet him in the center of the platform.

What-the-hell-why-me-what-are-you-doing?

Unsure and suddenly nervous, but doing as requested, I push myself up and over the plastic pipe and fin my way into the center, adjusting my buoyancy and monitoring my depth.

That’s when I see him go for his slate. We’re not done yet—there is more.

Rick displays the slate, first to me, then the rest of the group. On it it says: One more thing!

I see him smiling at me behind his regulator, as he shows me the other side. The words are simple, the act is, too, but suddenly I’m not sure I can do it. I’ve been trying to mentally prepare myself for this the entire trip, but no longer can do so.

The hour is at hand.

One more act to do before I—we—can all be certified. I’m terrified. I read the slate, again, trying to extend this moment out indefinitely. To my ultimate horror, it still says:

Remove your regulator and inhale!

After the last word is a smiley face.

A goddamned smile face!

Oh, my God—it’s time…I see the others raising their fists into the (air?) water, and hear them whooping it up (grunting) for me. I’ve been trying to tell myself the entire trip that I know I can do it (face my fears!), but suddenly feel all my resolve spill out like warm urine into a frigid North Atlantic….

I’m to drown myself!

I don’t know if I can do this—I mean, I want to, I really really want to…but now, here, at the moment of truth…the facing of all my fears—I don’t know that I can.

My breathing races, despite my mental commands to do otherwise, and I look to my console, more as a measure of procrastination than anything else. 2700 pounds of air are now compressed inside my Aluminum-80 tank…more than enough for a twenty-minute dive…but I’m now being asked to drown myself—my singular worse fear. I turn to the rest of my classmates and they’re all cheering me on—giving me the “OK” and rapping their scuba knives against the PVC pipe. Some still are grunting through their regs. I look back to Rick, and see him scribbling another note on the other side of his slate. He writes: It’s okay, you can do it!

The others continue to cheer me on.

But I can’t. I thought I could…buuut…I can’t.

I shake my head, “No,” eyes wide with terror.

Rick comes up to me…puts a hand to my shoulder, and smiles gently.

His touch is surprisingly calming, not like the one on that slave ship, and he fins over to another student, one who enthusiastically receives him, and again shows the other side of the slate, where the words Remove your regulator and inhale! still reside. The other student looks to the slate, then to me, gives me the “OK” signal and smiles.

I feel a chill in my bones. He’s actually gonna do it—how come he and the others can do it, but I can’t?

Damn it, I just don’t understand—I should be able to do this, for crying out loud—I want to do it—but-but the Titanic, the slave ship… sinking, sinking, ever sinking…into cold, inky, darkness….

I look to Daniel (the student’s name is), the one who will pave the way for my supposed turn. He looks back to me, still smiling. I can hardly believe his guts as he enthusiastically yanks his regulator from his mouth, and I see him exhale every last breath of air from his lungs with (what I’ve come to know of him is) his typical, mild, bravado. He pauses—winks at me—then inhales with such force I swear I feel the water filling his lungs…rushing through his sinuses, down his throat, and into awaiting alveoli.

I watch him as his eyes slowly transition from alive and aware…to dead and blank…

His body goes limp and his head slumps forward…

But Rick is there and grabs him.

Daniel stops finning and adjusting his buoyancy, and just…floats…like a dead fish…well, actually begins to sink a little; you know, the extra weight of the inhaled water. I see several straggling bubbles escape his mouth like an afterthought—and then that’s it—he’s gone.

D-r-o-w-n-’d.

Everyone whoops it up, banging for their chance to go next—but I don’t let them.

Where I was supposed to have gone first—an honor—another has taken my place.

I have been embarrassed to face my fear and need to suck it up. I need to do this more than any of these others—they aren’t afraid, I am. I’m the one with the issues.

I come up to Rick and bravely give him my “OK.” He pauses…smiles back…and pats me on the shoulder, still supporting Daniel. He returns my “OK,” but this time it’s more in the form of a question, as in “Am I sure?” I respond back in the affirmative. Strong. Decisive. I then look up, seeing all the other instructors and dive masters hovering about like angels (let’s go, Miss Wings!).

They’re there to support all our drowned bodies.

I give them a firm “OK” as well, and it’s returned by all, some also giving me a thumbs-up. They’re rooting for me and I suddenly swell with emotion. Rick hands off Daniel to one of the hovering angels.

Steeling my resolve before I lose it, I reach for my regulator and take a few quick, final breaths. With less hesitation then I imagined, I remove the reg from my mouth to let it float freely beside me. I eye it as I forcibly exhale as Daniel had done. Pausing, I look to Rick, who’s watching me closely. Suddenly I do—to me—a brazen act. Something I can’t believe I did.

Smiling—no, more smirking—I return the “OK”…and wink.

I then inhale with such force I swear I drink in half the Blue Hole—

And drown.

 

The soothing hum of our tires upon the dry, solid asphalt resonates indescribable warmth and comfort into each and every one of my cells like never before. I’m smiling warmly to myself while again seated in that SUV on our return trip north. All my classmates are again laughing and yucking it up, some still trying to clear their ears of residual water, but I continue to keep to myself and my thoughts.

And, yes, clogged ears.

I have to admit I’m pretty proud of myself.

I look out the window, watching extraordinary scenery pass by. My mind snorkels the sand and dirt and darts in and around Socorro cacti and scrub oak. Everything is so much more vibrant and alive!

How come I never noticed this before?

Silly me.

I smirk into my reflection in the window, fingertips gently tracing it. It is a deep, all pervading sense of well-being I now enjoy.

I’ve faced my fear.

Owned it.

I’ve finally done it, and what I’ve experienced no longer frightens.

Sometimes we forget the little things…the scent of life…the warmth of sunshine against our faces…the laughter of others…

The song of soul.

We need to die every once in a while, everyone does. It’s no big deal. I’m learning. What’s next pour moi?

I smile.

Maybe I’ll take up skydiving.

Related Posts

Tail Gunner

by

Tail Gunner, B-17G, Liberty Belle
Tail Gunner, B-17G, Liberty Belle

My first installment of short stories has a lot of history behind it, if you’ll pardon the pun. This story’s journey started way back in late 2009. It’s a metaphysical one, for sure. It was a story I just couldn’t shake. It eventually found itself published twice, once in the Oct 2011 issue #103 of The Black Sheep, and more recently in the 2012 Longmont, Colorado Public Library anthology, “The You Belong Collection: Writings and Illustrations from Longmont Area Residents.” This WWII story is near and dear to my heart and features a character, The Man With No Name, who is in two of my novels, Sleepwalkers  (you can get it cheaper here) and Psychic.

Tail Gunner

© F. P. Dorchak, 2010/12

1

All chatter was ripped from his ears.

The airman’s body slammed forward into the B-17’s twisting and turning airframe.

An explosion.

Ungodly ripping sound.

Had grabbed for something—but it’d been knocked from his hands.

Wind howled and screamed. Stability and straight-and-level had given way to

Falling.

Ground-sky.

Ground-sky….

Crazy spinning.

With some effort—his head feeling as if it had just gained a thousand pounds—the airman twisted it and watched as spent .50-cal machine-gun rounds, paper, and loose equipment were sucked out the gaping hole behind him.

He turned his head back around and found himself looking

Down.

His stomach lurched and the feeling reminded him of Coney Island roller coasters—or the Wonder Wheel—just as you rounded the top and were on the way

Down.

Ground-sky!

His body thrown forward, the airman shot his hands out to the frame of the

(roller coaster)

aft window before him.

Down…

Ground-sky!

Ground-sky!

Still going down….

Opened his mouth to scream—but, all expression had been brutally pulped out of him. Was buffeted by flak, exploding flak everywhere. All of his twenty-two years of life clenched up into his throat in one great, choking, knot.

Body pressed into the Browning machine guns and tail window, he looked into flak-filled airspace as he plummeted past the rest of the formation for German soil. He couldn’t breathe, only managing shallow, short, rapid gasps.

His eyes locked with the horrified eyes of the bombardier in the nose of another B-17 he just barely missed as he plunged past. Eyes he’d recognized. Eyes that’d shared cigarettes and stories and pictures of their girls the night before with a dozen or more other pairs of eyes at a dimly lit bar counter.

His vision swam. Blurred. Vertigo scrambled his senses.

Falling.

Couldn’t breathe!

Dropping out of the sky!

Plummeting!

Sunlight.

Sunlight traced a path where it shouldn’t have been able to trace a path. Ran across the now-exposed deck that now ran between him and 30,000 feet of oblivion.

His body shuddered and convulsed against buffeting the separated empennage took on its heretical plunge earthward. A sound escaped him that didn’t sound like anything he’d ever uttered during his entire short lifespan. Still couldn’t see straight. Stared down the short metal tunnel where there should be—by all rights—the body of a B-17 and nine other guys. Pilots, bombardier, waist gunners—

Nothing.

Gone! All of it!

If he could just jump…free himself from the anchor that was dragging him down. Parachute into—

No parachute!

Along with all the paper, shells, and loose equipment, he’d watched with soul-sickening horror as his parachute had also flown out that gaping hole. It had been knocked from his fumbling grasp after he’d been banged up against the bulkhead when the tail had separated from the fuselage.

A great weight pressed into him.

Unable to move.

Pinned!

This wasn’t supposed to happen! Was only supposed to happen to other crews—Germans, not his crew—not him.

It was over. All over!

Screamed down, ever down, out of the bruised and battle-damaged sky.

Down…

Ground-sky…

Down!

Again slammed against the bulkhead. The .50 cals.

Only seconds ago he’d been operating dual M2 Browning machine guns. Yeah, it had all been a game. Target practice, they’d called it. Get them before they got you. But they hadn’t been clay pigeons, had they? Towed targets? No, they’d been flesh and blood humans just like him. Also trying to get him before he got them.

Now he knew.

Knew what they knew.

What it felt like to be hit.

What it felt like to go down.

Ground-sky.

Ground-sky…

Wild, wicked, absolutely unhindered tumbling. Spinning and gyrating. End over end. No control.

Unable to breathe.

Unable to see straight. Focus.

Light.

A bright light.

Sunlight?

His folks…his girl…his sister.

He stared into the light.

What would it feel like to slam into scorched earth? Bombed-out buildings? Would he know it? The moment of impact? Would he feel the hurt?

What would it feel like to just blink out of existence? To one moment be alive and thinking and conscious and scared, and the next—

The light.

A hand emerged.

He grabbed it.

2

Noise…lots of screaming and yelling and howling and

Music?

“Ticket, please,” the middle-aged gentleman in flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots greeted, hand outstretched.

The airman looked down to his own hand. In its white-knuckled death-grip it held a ticket stub. His entire arm and hand—his body—were tensed and hurting and trembling. He wasn’t breathing, his body as if in the constricting grip of a giant, angry malevolence trying to squeeze the life out of him.

“Ticket, please,” the gentleman again asked, still reaching out.

The airmen handed it over. As soon as he relinquished the ticket, he inhaled long and deep. Collapsed toward the dirt and dust—when the ticket taker caught him.

“Welcome to Coney Island!”

The airman looked up incredulously and out of breath. It hurt to breathe. “Where am I?”

“Coney Island.”

“Where?” he again asked, swallowing hard and with great difficulty. His body hung limply in the ticket taker’s hold. He slowly got back on his feet.

“Why, you’re at Coney Island, young sir! The greatest amusement park on Earth!”

“I…I don’t feel right—”

The airman shook his head, then steadied himself; looked to his attire. It wasn’t much different than the ticket taker’s.

“Where’s…where’s my jacket, my—”

He brought a hand to his head. No leather shearling cap. “I feel like I fell…or am still—”

“Oh, you’re quite all right, sir. Just come on in,” the ticket taker said. “Everything’s A-OK!” He winked.

The airman looked beyond the smiling gentleman.

“Wow…haven’t been here since—”

“Forty-one. Nineteen-forty-one.”

“Yeah…nineteen-forty-one,” he echoed, still having difficulty swallowing and trying to catch his breath.

“We got all the rides! The Cyclone, Shooting-the-Chutes, Flip Flop, Wonder Wheel, the Human Pool Table! Come on in! Enjoy!” the greeter said. With a flourish of hands, he sidestepped to allow the airman entry.

“Place looks empty,” the airman said.

“Private party.”

The airman turned to the ticket taker. Just looked at him. His oddly smiling—calming—face.

“You might find some people you know,” the ticket taker enunciated deliberately, motioning him in farther.

Calliope music, flashing lights. The smell of hotdogs, popcorn, and cotton candy filled the air—

Boom!

The airman spun around.

Boom! Boom!

Detonations exploded all around him.

Concussions.

Unnerving. Distant. Behind everything….

The airman turned back around and

 

remembered sitting at a bar one day, talking to two kids, really, that’s all they were. Kids in uniform. Nineteen-year olds. Fires all hot and burning in their fervent, youthful eyes. Displayed not an ounce of fear. “C’mon,” they’d goaded, all full of righteous hubris, “it’s fun!” They’d been gunners, one a tail the other a waist gunner.

“Fun.” That’s what they’d said…the word they’d used.

Fun.

“Like shootin skeet, only it’s Germans!” they’d proclaimed. “Godless, evil, Krauts. Goddamned Jerries.”

They’d needed bodies, they’d told him, anyone willing to fly. Bombers.

He knew why, he wasn’t stupid. They were getting blown out of the sky.

That’s why.

Yet he’d volunteered. Long wondered about those two.

Flexible Gunnery School. That had been his next stop, since he’d already been in the Army Air Corps.

Aim well. Shoot straight.

That had been their motto. Las Vegas in the summer. Six weeks. They had to be good or they’d be dead. It was that simple. They’d started with BB guns. With shotguns, worked their way up through stationary and mobile skeet shooting. Went from blasting away off the backs of moving flatbeds to towed targets from behind AT-6 aircraft, at Indian Springs. Turret training.

Stripping a .50 cal blindfolded.

Aircrew training.

Deployment.

Berlin. Kiel. Kassel.

Hanover. Eberhausen.

Regensburg….

 

“Where am I, really” the airman asked?

He sat atop the Ferris Wonder Wheel, just before the zenith of its travel. The ticket taker sat opposite him. Intently eyeballed him.

“I can’t really be here. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Oh, you’re here, all right,” the ticket taker said, in a voice far more subdued—concerned—than upon their first meeting. “This is real, I assure you a that, son.”

The Ferris wheel moved up an increment…stopped.

“Last time I was here, I was with my family. Where are they?”

“Oh, they’re still where they’re at.”

“Why aren’t they here? Where’s my—”

“You’re girl? They’re all still where they are. They haven’t arrived. Yet.”

“But they will?”

The ticket taker nodded, keeping his eyes intently focused on him. “In time.”

“I used to love the view from up here.”

“What’s wrong with it, now?”

“It just doesn’t feel right.”

The wheel moved up another increment. They were now on top, wind caressing his face and whispering in his ears.

“It used to be fun,” the airman said, growing antsy.

The ticket taker continued studying him.

“Where are those two guys? You know?” the airman asked, leaning a little over the side as he looked behind and

Down.

He quickly sat back in his seat.

“Oh, they’re around. Someplace.”

The airmen nodded pensively. Couldn’t sit still. Chatter…there was chatter in his head…

“Three of ’em, one o’clock high—”

“Four planes nine o’clock—”

“They’re comin’ around—”

“Got my sights on him—”

“I’m on him…come on, you sonofa—”

Engine drone.

Buffeting.

The car began its descent, when the airman fumbled madly for something that wasn’t there and grabbed the side of the car.

Hyperventilated.

Instantly coated in sweat.

“Fighters at eleven o’clock, comin’ around!”

“I got ’em! I got ’em!”

“Two Fighters—six o’clock up! Comin’ in, divin’ at ya!”

Boom!

There was a sudden lurch and a much pronounced bump—and the wheel stopped in a harsh downward jerk, sending the car wildly oscillating back and forth—

Boom!

The airman stopped breathing and white-knuckled the swinging car. He looked to the ticket taker in wide-eyed terror.

Boom! Boom!

The ticket taker gave him a soft, sympathetic look, then looked off into the distance.

Falling.

Down.

Ground-sky!

Always down!

The airman closed his eyes.

Continued hyperventilating.

Wind.

This is it!

Tumbling.

It!

.50 cal pressed into his back…

Boom! Boom!

No chute!

Gaping hole into a damaged sky still full of released bombs and bombers and flak and falling airmen….

He opened reddened and tear-stained eyes and looked to the ticket taker.

“It’s over, isn’t it? For me! This is it! This is it!”

Continued hyperventilating.

The wheel advanced another position.

The ticket taker looked to him and smiled. Leaned forward and gently took a hand into his. Held it for a long moment.

“But you’re here. Look at me. Here.”

The airman’s breathing slowed, but not completely.

Distant concussions…explosions…ground-sky….

“But I’m also there, too, aren’t I? Still falling—o-or dead! I don’t understand all this—don’t know how—but it’s true, isn’t it? True.”

The ticket taker nodded.

“Why all of it? Why the need for any of it?”

The ticket taker said nothing.

The airman again swallowed. Wiped away tears with the backs of shaking wrists. Inhaled deeply.

They descended another position.

“It’s so sad, you know,” he said, finally slowing his breathing and clearing his throat.

“I know.”

“That we do…all that. The loss. The…the—”

“Pain.”

The airman looked out into the dark distance in silence. Tears streamed down his face. He did not wipe them.

“It wasn’t fun, you know. Not any of it. Not at all. Not for me.”

“I know.”

The car advanced several more positions and came to a stop at ground level. After a moment, the ticket taker smiled and stepped out of the car.

The airman looked to the feet of the ticket taker. Listened and watched intently as his heels impacted the earth and ground and pressed into dirt.

“It’s time, my friend,” the ticket taker said.

The airman blinked. Nodded. “Yeah. Suppose it is.”

“Nothing stays the same, son.”

The airman stepped out of the car. The instant he touched soil there was a loud concussion and his knees gave out. The ticket taker again came to his aid, but the airman waved him off. Straightened up.

“I’m fine—thank you.”

Fought back tears.

The airman ran his hands through his short, dark hair; composed himself. Looked around. There were lots of lights, music, running rides…the smell of grilled food.

“They’re around, here—somewhere? Those two?”

“Yup,” the ticket taker said. “They all are.”

“All of them? Even—”

“Everyone’s here, my friend. Both sides.”

The airman again stared off into the distance. Exhaled long and hard.

“So…what now? What’s beyond there?” he asked, still looking off into the night.

The ticket taker chuckled softly. “There’s no hurry. Walk around…take in the place. Enjoy a ride or two. Cotton candy. Meet up with some of your buddies…and others,” the ticket taker said. “There’s absolutely no hurry.”

“And after that?”

“After that…we can talk. Some more. We have all the time in world. All we have, here, is time.”

“Time.”

The airman reached out and the ticket taker took his hand. They shook in a firm, heartfelt shake that didn’t let go.

“Thank you,” the airman said, and

3

the tail section of the shattered B-17 oscillated and gyrated and spun end over end all the way down through 30,000 feet…until it landed in the bombed-out ruins of what used to be a German apartment building. The parachute-less tail gunner who’d been pinned inside had been far from alone as he and the empennage impacted.

 

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

 

 

Short Stories

by

Do The Dead Dream? Dead Monarch Butterfly Oct 11, 2015
Do The Dead Dream? Dead Monarch Butterfly Oct 11, 2015

I started writing short stories (and some poems) at a single-digit age and have continued to write them throughout my adult life. Since I’ve taken to the long form (novels) short stories have taken a back seat (I’ve really missed writing them!)…but I’ve always wanted to post some of them, since becoming a blogger.

So, I will begin periodically posting some of my better work, here. Eventually, I do plan on compiling them all into a short story collection…but for now…

My first short story will be “Tail Gunner,” which had been published in the 2012 Longmont, Colorado Public Library’s anthology, “The You Belong Collection: Writings and Illustrations from Longmont Area Residents.”

Feel free to send the stories out into the world, just please attribute them to me with the copyright dates.

I hope you, too, enjoy some of the weirdness I’ve envisioned!

Related Posts

Incredible Voice Review!

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Voice. (© 2015, F. P. Dorchak and Lon Kirschner)
Voice. (© 2015, F. P. Dorchak and Lon Kirschner)

Writer friend Karen Albright Lin, who is a freelance editor, public speaker, screenwriter, and writing instructor—and is very “hard to please”—wrote up the following kick-ass review of Voice.

It floored me.
Thank you, Karen!
5.0 out of 5 stars Tangy and Sweaty
By Amazon Customeron November 13, 2015
Format: Paperback

Voice was a hard to define book. Amazon asked me to describe the mood and I was hard-pressed to figure out whether I’d categorize it best as suspenseful or dark or thoughtful….Sometimes it was even light-hearted. And sexy isn’t on the list, otherwise I might have checked that box. Mr. Dorchak has gone out on a limb with a quirky, sometimes irritating main character, seemingly cheating on all the beautiful women who come into his life – including the Voice in his head and his own (eh hmmmm) hand.

Voice is heavy on philosophy, challenging the reader to think outside of the worldly box. Like one of his previous books, The Uninvited, Voice explores the paranormal in a fresh way.

The writing voice in this aptly named book had so many shining turns of phrase that I bookmarked many of them to study them and figure out why they worked so well. Among other things, I admired his surprising way of depicting setting in which Ben experiences “the slumber-inducing roar and crash of frothy breakers” and ”the cushioned springiness of the forest floor.”

The women who haunt him are Bo Derek sexy, Winona Rider dangerous, and Kirsten Dunst enigmatic. They “crawl around inside him…” And there isn’t a part of him that they aren’t a part of. In fact there was a powerlessness in Ben when it came to his love objects. Their gazes stripped “away all that he was. Stripped away all the games, pretension. Stripped away all that society considered moral and immoral. Destroyed any sense of decency, valor, or guilt. Sense of right or wrong. Tore away everything down to one thing and one thing only. Desire.” This paragraph tells you much of what you need to know before buying this book.

Protagonist Ben notices in his lusty counterparts things most people wouldn’t. “The pores of her back—the emotion of her back…” one’s stare at the “hairs on one of Ben’s forearms.” Even the “bottleness” of Chardonnay pressed too tightly to his side as one of the temptresses lures him. At the heart of the book is the “Karma-sutric” nature of his desires.

And believe me, there are some crazy lusty scenes that I can’t describe here without censorship. Suffice it to say that the senses are fully engaged, “tangy and sweaty” smells lingering on fingertips after wild sex. R to X rated for sure.

Dip in, if you dare, and look forward to the surprising climax (pun intended). What happens in the end between Ben and the “erogenous tentacles” he’s obsessed over came as a surprise for me. Though looking back, it made perfect sense. I won’t spoil it for you. But if you like visceral sex and confused protagonists, this one is worth buying. For this I give Voice a 5-star rating.

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MileHiCon47, a Knot, and a Head

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MileHiCon47, Hyatt Regency Hotel, Denver, CO, October 23-25, 2015
MileHiCon47, Hyatt Regency Hotel, Denver, CO, October 23-25, 2015

Well, this past weekend was a blur!

I attended the 47th MileHiCon, in Denver, invited back for a second year—and hope I get the lifetime subscription! This is an absolutely incredible—flat-out fun—event that anyone with a halfway interest in fantasy, science fiction, and the bizarre should attend at least once!

My first time last year I was on a couple of panels, but this year not only was I on panels, but I also moderated:

  • Moderated Exploding Myths of the New World of Publishing
  • Panelist on Military SF Discussion and Readings
  • One of many at Autograph Alley
  • Movie discussion moderator for the 1973 movie, Soylent Green
  • One of several writers on The Reading Game (this was a blast!)
  • Panelist on Closer & Further Than You Think

Exploding Myths of the New World of Publishing

This was an informative panel to have been a part of! We had great discussions about the state of publishing and how it has so changed with the continued flourishing (yes, “flourishing“…) of Independent (Indie) Publishing. Also once known as the highly stigmatic “self publishing.” I Indie published my first novel, Sleepwalkers, in 2001. I caught a lot of grief about that from many writers and agents and editors in the traditional publishing world, if not in word in attitude. So much so that in one panel I had been part of at another conference I’d doubted that I’d ever self publish again.

But today?

Wow, it’s the thing.

People are making a living out of it like never before and no longer is it looked down upon by the masses. I just released my fifth novel, Voice this year.

On this panel were Kristi Helvig, Angie Hodapp, Gary Jonas, and the ubiquitous Kristine Kathryn Rusch.

Military SF Discussion and Readings

I’ve only written one military SF novel, and it’s my UFO conspiracy theory book, ERO (though Psychic could be considered a cousin to military SF, since it is also a part of that government conspiracy theory worldview, though no “uniformed services” are involved, like in ERO). Here, I was a panelist (not a moderator) and we discussed what we thought “made” military fiction military fiction, as well as various aspects of military fiction. We read from our works.

On this panel were Kevin Ikenberry (moderator) and Robert Williscroft—two gentlemen I kept running into over the course of the weekend—Sourdough Jackson, and Kal Spriggs. Kevin and I were later on the Closer & Further Than You Think panel. Kevin and Kal are Army and Bob’s Navy. I was Air Force. Sourdough was never military, though is an ardent student of the military, having studied naval history for some 50 years.

Autograph Alley

This is an en masse book signing for authors. As I discussed with my table mate, Angela Roquet, it is interesting to see who gets all the attention at this thing…and how it changes from year to year. This was only my second, so my observations were obviously limited. I didn’t sell any books (sold two later in the weekend as I meandered about the con) but had some fun conversation…especially about my mannequin head—which I’d carried with me all day Friday and Saturday…but more on that in a minute….

Interesting to note that my MileHiCon46 crush AaronMichaelRitchey (his name is to be uttered with great reverence and in one breath, one word…) was still (true to form) talking it up and drawing the crowds. I tried to emulate him this year with chocolate—but no one was having it. Everyone seemed to be on diets. How does AaronMichaelRitchey do it? The man is just magic. And tall. I swear he gained two inches since last year.

Damn, AaronMichaelRitchey.

Soylent Green Movie and Discussion

One of the fun things “they” (being “them”) do at MileHiCon is screen films, and I volunteered to moderate the Soylent Green movie discussion. So from 1 – 2:30 we watched the movie, then from 2:30 (or so) we discussed the film for about an hour. One really cool thing that came out of the discussion was that one lady had told us she had seen the original screening back in 1973 and ever since had wanted to be part of an actual discussion about that movie, because it so moved/scared her when she’d first seen it. So I’d felt quite honored that we had been part of her “bucket list,” so to speak, and had been able to fulfill her wish!

You just never know what you’re going to be a part of when you do things like this.

Point of order, however, but as I searched the Internet for “Soylent Green” for this post I found…it’s real!

Yes—Soylent Green is….

The Reading Game

This was such a cool idea! The premise of The Reading Game is like The Dating Game, but only with books.

It’s to help connect readers and writers! A reader sat on one side of a screen, while three writers sat on the other side. The reader then asked questions of the writers, and based on their answers the reader selected a writer they thought they might like to read. That author would give a book of theirs to the reader—and of course autograph it. I was one of the writers, and I was selected by a reader (most or all of the authors were selected by readers). My reader selected The Uninvited, my supernatural murder mystery and a “whydunnit” (versus a “whodunnit”). We all had a blast, on both sides of the screen. It didn’t have a huge audience, I think, because it was its first time offered and not well understood, so we hope next year it fills the room with roaring attendance! I feel this has huge entertainment potential on many levels! Afterward all readers were asked if they would post reviews of the books they read…and help publicize The Reading Game.

Closer & Further Than You Think

This was a discussion about what hard SF possibilities are actually right around the corner, despite being depicted as far out, and vice versa. Now, admittedly, I felt just a leettle out of my league, here, sitting on panel that sported Big Brain scientist types whose hands are still “in the pie,” as it were, so I went all conspiracy theory (I had to!)—and found a fellow conspiracy theorist in Dr. Tim Slater (knuckle bump!), of the University of Wyoming.

You see, whenever I talk about this kind of stuff it’s hard for me to not go all conspiracy theory! I don’t follow technology all that much anymore, but when I wrote ERO I had done a lot of conspiracy theory research and did try to keep somewhat up on technology…and what a lot of that “keyed” into me was that what we see and what might actually exist are three different things. And one of the books I’d read, whose author and exact title I couldn’t recall during the panel, but which I now present here for the Big Brains to pick apart, discussed about already existing hyperdimensional, anti-gravity (electrogravitics), faster-than-light travel. That book is Secrets of Antigravity Propulsion, by Paul A LaViolette, Ph.D. So, there you go, Kevin, Doug, Tim, and J. L., have at it! Love to hear you thoughts on the [anti]matter, if you’ll pardon the pun….

So, really, who can you trust when you talk about this stuff?

No one. Trust No One.

Other Sessions

I attended other sessions on which I was not a panelist:

Copyright for Authors and Artists

Trends in Publishing

Remember That Thing Called Privacy

The Year in Science (the tail end)

There is so much to say about these and the other panels, but this post is already long enough. All the sessions were quite informative. Except for MileHiCon, I’ve been out of the writer conference circuit for about two years, and I realized that I’ve missed it. There’s only so much an individual can do, and when you throw in trying to get your own writing done that really limits how “up” on things you can be. And of all the above sessions I attended, the Privacy session was perhaps the most unsettling…but I’d expected that…the so-called “eroding” of our personal privacies. There’s the “legal” definitions (a lawyer was on the panel, one who’d “argued” before the Supreme Court on just such issues) and what we think we understand to be our own human privacy rights. It’s a little unsettling. But the more we give away or “don’t care about,” the less we’ll have and the quicker it will all erode away. As long as there’s one guy or gal out there willing to create these kinds of technologies and actually use them…and gee, factor in the science and science fiction of technology, and well…

We’re all screwed.

Some arguments might well be made that it’s all only a matter of returning to where we all started…tribes and clans of everyone knew everyone’s business and there were no secrets so we’re really just coming full circle…but I could also use the argument that why don’t we just return to living in abject poverty and disease-ridden streets? Just “returning to a previous state” doesn’t make it “right.” No, I’m not of the mindset of “it’s just a return how it used to be.” Why are people so uncaring of all this? I enjoy my privacy. I know others who feel the same way. Call us Neo Luddites, we don’t care. I like having a little mystery about a person. I don’t want to know nor care to see how one wipes their ass or masturbates or picks their noses on a YouTube video, and, quite frankly, it disturbs me that others would want to know this about other people. Because—keep this in mind—what you’re seeing about other people…other people will also see about you.

When you continually enable Big Companies and the government by using things like Google (which I avoid—I’m told DuckDuckGo is as good at Google without the tracking) or smartphones without thinking about just what it is you’re doing…that bothers me. We all need our personal space. I don’t need to know your most-intimate of details. Yet we find all people continually posting all manner of minutiae on all manner of social media. I’ve talked to a few of those of other generations, and it is disturbing the “I don’t care” I get from some…”I don’t care if they track me going to the store.” Or “I don’t care if they track what I buy.”

Can’t you look beyond your desire for the latest smartphone to what you’re enabling? Can’t you look past your privacy nonchalance to the far larger picture? Are you really so self-involved you can’t see past your freaking iPhone?!

All kinds of arguments can be made for companies and governments having always been doing this, etc.—but does that make it right?

Think about your actions…their logical conclusions. Think.

Yet…I can also make the case that on a metaphysical level (yes, here I go…) such developments are also the physical manifestation of a kind of metaphysical and spiritual “singularity.” In this case, we are all approaching an “event” where we realize just how intricately connected we really are and how nothing is really hidden from another on an incorporeal level. So, our corporeal existence is more and more mirroring our incorporeal existence.

Transitions can really be a bitch.

Another conversation of note involved a panel I was on about the advancements in technology. In that discussion we touched upon the soul, the spiritual, and I was amused that science (well, one of our panelists) quickly went hands-off, and even went so far as to say that he wouldn’t touch that with a 10-foot pole (or words the effect)…yet “discussions” of physics and technology with an audience member who took issue with some of our panelists assertions were directly and most ardently faced head on.

I get it.

Certain things are more easily and apparently “proven” so “discussions” are considered useful.

But here’s the thing. And I said it in my own closing remarks on this particular panel: I worry about the advancements in technology without the corresponding advancements in ethics. Just because we can do something does not mean we should.

What is happening to our collective moral compass?

We do need to have more spiritual and metaphysical discussions bookending our advancing technologies…we should not shy away from them, ignore them, be unwilling to “touch them with a 10-foot pole”…yet continue to create more and more invasive and frightening advancements in technology that seem to stretch the limits of—hell, ignore—moral and ethical considerations.

MileHiCon48: panel for next year: the ethics of advancing technology.

We need to be more mindful of just what it is we’re allowing into our lives. Yes, the Government and Big Business is going to do what they do behind our backs, but let’s not make it any easier on them. A more aware public, or better informed and “ethically aware” (choose your term) public, is a stronger public that can actually push back on the nano-intrusions into our lives. At least make informed decisions. The unbridled advancements of “bombs and bullets and lasers” and all that involves. We create our reality…technology does not. I’m all for Human advancements…but to create advancing technology just because we can “finally get the numbers right” is not the answer. Is not a right. Let’s get the ethics right, too.

Let’s not destroy ourselves with our own hubris.

A Knot and a Head

Okay, to end on a lighter note!

Table For Two? Hyatt Regency Hotel Restaurant, MileHiCon47
Table For Two? Hyatt Regency Hotel Restaurant, MileHiCon47

Friday and Saturday, much like the Twin Peaks “Log Lady,” I wandered about MileHiCon47 with a mannequin head.

Oh, and this insane, Eldredge Knot.

I found it most curious that very few actually asked me about “my friend” (“the head” has a name, you know, had you asked: “Becka”). I’d even brought her into the hotel’s “Root 25 Taphouse and Kitchen” restaurant with me, and none of the server staff said a peep about her. And of all the panels I was on, I surely thought someone in the room—or at the very least on a particular panel itself–that of the Military SF Discussion and Readings—would have asked “Hey, dude—what the hell?”

But, nooo!

Becka In The Morning. MileHiCon47
Becka In The Morning. MileHiCon47

A few brave souls did inquire, however, one notable individual was author C. R. Asay. Christauna, which is her given name, came up to me as I hung out by a table in the hallway between Thunderpass and Bristlecone conference rooms, and asked straight out about what was the deal with the head? As we talked, she chuckled and told me she wasn’t sure what kind of response she was going to get from a guy carrying around a mannequin head! But she thought there must have been “something there” [mentally, we’re talking…] since I was dressed up kinda nice (bright, royal blue Kenneth Cole shirt and gold Jacob Alexander tie) and had this rather intricate tie knot (yea, verily, the mythical Eldredge Knot), and I wasn’t smelly, nor looking at all scraggy or disheveled!

This goes down as the coolest introduction EVER.

Sorry, AaronMichaelRitchey.

Well, here’s the deal: a character in my novel, Voice, sports a gold tie in an

A Girl And Her Coffee. MileHiCon47
A Girl And Her Coffee. MileHiCon47

Eldredge Knot, and another character in Voice  (let’s just say) “deals with” a mannequin head. That’s all I’m saying on the latter.

But, by the same token, it was so cool that I didn’t “freak out” anyone at MileHiCon (though a Facebook friend or two felt a little nervous about my sanity/apparent predilections…). Mainly because I wasn‘t the craziest looking thing out there that weekend!

And that was most amusing!

I mean, had I seen someone like me, I would have gone up and asked out of total curiosity! To me, that “presentation” would be a weird “look.” One not in line with a fantasy and science fiction convention (though I’d spotted a cross-dresser or two, here and there, not that there’s anything wrong with that). I’d be compelled to ask. So not being asked was both a pleasure and a curiosity, if you get my reasoning.

A Moment Of Reflection Before All The Crazy. MileHiCon47
A Moment Of Reflection Before All The Crazy. MileHiCon47

I’d actually fit in into the whole Weltanschauung that is MileHiCon!

And though I did get looks—just like every other costumed attendee—no one steered clear of me. And I did get quit a few smiles!

Originally I’d just intended to use the mannequin as a prop at Autograph Alley (not that that made any difference…), but when I thought about it, I thought, this be the perfect opportunity to well…play. And I so rarely do that. “Cut loose,” and do something weird like this—or even dress up on Hallowe’en anymore (I did it once at work in my entire adult life). I just don’t do that kinda thing. Yeah, go ahead, analyze. So, this was the most perfect place and time to do such a thing, and I decided to “let it all hang out”… and just “own it.” My story, that is. It was all for promotion of Voice, my newest release. I’m pretty sure someone will remember “that guy with the head” and Google/DuckDuckGo me to see what’s up w’dat.

So that, readers, was my Evil Plan. There you go, Robin and Kathleen.

I had a blast meeting up with my writer friends…making new ones. I had a great

Alas, Poor Becka.... MileHiCon47
Alas, Poor Becka…. MileHiCon47

conversation with Laura Deal and Leonore and David Dvorkin (and thanks, again, Leonore, for all of your support! You are so kind and gracious!). Her and David are also doing some book publishing efforts, and one of them sounds quite interesting is Red Eyes. I liked the look and feel of that book (she had a copy with her). A creepy feeling murder mystery. At this Con I met their son, Daniel, who’s been coming to this Con since he was a wee lad, but he’s “wee” no longer and now sat on some of his own panels. It was cool to meet them all.

How nice and sweet and kind were many I met and talked with! I know I’ve said it a lot already, but it really was pure fun!

There are so many to mention, so forgive me if I don’t specifically call you all out, but know I do value our conversations and friendships.

Angie Hodapp–you are so kind and gracious! Thank you for our conversation and for that “introduction” (be nice if it really pans out)! That was “funny” and well-timed, given our conversation only seconds prior!

C. R. Asay—again, I have to mention, yours was simply the coolest introduction EVER–“I wasn’t sure what kind of response I was going to get from a guy walking around carrying a mannequin head, but…!”

Ed Bryant and John Stith—so good to see and catch up with the both of you!

The Eldredge Knot et Moi. MileHiCon47, October 23-25, 2015
The Eldredge Knot et Moi. MileHiCon47, October 23-25, 2015

Bob Williscroft…wow, a fascinating life you’ve lived! Was a pleasure making your acquaintance, sitting on panels with you, and running into you multiple times this weekend!

Kevin Ikenberry—wish you well on your upcoming retirement! Also was a pleasure making your acquaintance, sitting on panels with you, and running into you multiple times this weekend! Wish you all the best on your  novel, next year!

Kristi Helvig—I’m sure we’ve met before at another writers conference—you are so familiar (could be a past-life thing…)—but in any case, it was fun talking with you (again)!

And to everyone else I haven’t specifically mentioned (Shannon, the other Aaron, J.T., Mario, Carol, Alicia, Matt, OMG, OMG, vapor lock! Vapor Lock!) thank you for taking time out of your weekend to chat and interact! I wish you all well with all of your efforts!

Thanks to Rose Beetem and ALL the volunteers! Awesome effort!

Man, I’m looking forward to MileHiCon48!

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Do try to make my first dedicated book signing for Voice, November 7, from 1 – 3 p.m., at The Bookman, on 3163 W. Colorado Avenue, Colorado Springs, CO 80904.

Voice is a sexy, emotional thriller about a guy who falls in love with a voice in his head (and there are mannequins…)…but is so much more. It’s about what defines “love”? What defines a “relationship”? How are we all connected? Yeah, I do get metaphysical on your asses, but I also get sexy, uncomfortable, and gritty. Come on, stop by…I can pretty much guarantee you haven’t read anything like this. But it’s not for the easily offended. Just sayin’.

“Keep up the great work. Your writing is unlike anything else I’ve read, and I mean that in a good way.” Joseph Reininger, former Book Seller.

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