F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

Spooky

Dark Was The Hour

by

Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks - 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons).
Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks – 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons).
In 2004 The Gazette newspaper had put out a call to write stories for their Christmas short story contest. They required certain themes in the stories, like trains and Colorado and snow. This was the first and only time I remember “writing to spec”; it’s not something I like doing. But I did. I submitted. It didn’t place.

But where did the story idea itself come from? There was definitely the train imagery from the Twilight Zone’s “A Stop at Willoughby“…but there had also been some media coverage about Fallujah at the time that also had something to do with it. In any event, I love these kinds of stories, whether it’s Willoughby, “The 7th is Made up of Phantoms,” or my own: “Tail Gunner” and “Etched in Stone” (which will post Feb 26, 2016). They reach into me and just grab me. Make me, well, tear up….

When I wrote “Dark Was The Hour,” I’d contacted a nearby Marine Corps recruiting station and talked to a handful of marines…even got a couple of them to read it. I wanted to use the right terminology, the right descriptions, get the right “feel” to the story. Those marines were: Sergeant Sharp, Corporal Hughes, Private First Class Fox. That’s all the information I have left on them. Again that was in 2004. I often wonder about them…how they’re doing. I remember one of them was actually chomping at the bit to get “over there”; I think it was PFC Fox. I hope they’re all still alive and well.

This story was published in the December 2007 issue of Apollo’s Lyre.

 

Dark Was The Hour

© F. P. Dorchak, 2004

 

A slight chill radiated inward from the window as Frank Bishop stared out through his accusatory reflection into the snowy night. He rocked back and forth as the train gently cradled him through the high Colorado mountain passages with its comforting ratcheting sounds and motion. He inhaled the scent of leather and polished wood—nostalgia.

Fallujah sucked was the nicest way he could put it and the fact that he’d left parts of himself back there didn’t help matters.

“Ticket, please?” the Conductor asked.

Frank jumped, shooting a hand to his side.

Of course he no longer carried his Beretta nine mil and of course this man wasn’t a threat.

He gave the conductor his ticket.

“Thank you, sir,” the Conductor said. “Next stop, Idaho Springs!” The Conductor smiled an odd little smile Frank found unnerving and left. Frank closed his eyes, allowing the lulling metallic Ta-tun–Ta-tun, Ta-tun–Ta-tun of the train to

Fallujah.

A name he hoped he’d never—ever—have to speak or hear again.

But he still heard the

 

Explosions. All around him. His ears rung, his eyes swam, and his head pounded from the slight concussion. Lieutenant Bishop popped his head back up over the battered cinder block wall. Small-arms fire came quick and well-directed. He ducked back down.

“Sir! We really need to—”

“I know!” Bishop shouted back to the platoon sergeant. He wiped sweat from his eyes with bruised and battered hands caked in dried blood and powder burns. The cacophony and smell of rocket-propelled grenades, spent mortar rounds, and death filled the air. The Fog of War.

“I’ll head off to the left—there,” the lieutenant said, pointing, “and you guys nail ‘em with everything we—”

“Sir, you know you’re—”

“What do you want me to do? Leave him there? You can see him as well as I can! I’m not leaving him behind.”

The Marine sergeant passed on the word to the rest of the platoon.

Bishop took a deep breath, looked to his men, then

 

ran his hands through his hair. It’d been a while since he’d been on this train. The last time had been when he’d been nine—was that right? His folks had taken them all on a Christmas ride between home—Idaho Springs—and Denver. Just before the car crash that had claimed them.

Had he made that up—or was that the concussion talking? His head still felt fuzzy. All that shelling…all that….

God, it felt so good to do nothing. To just sit back and relax. Look out at the dark snow-covered landscape like some Hitchcockian movie. His dad had really loved Hitch.

A reflection in the window passed quickly behind him, and

 

Bishop spun around, his still smoking and spent M-16A4 useless at his feet. Nine mil already in hand, he pulled his KA-BAR combat knife up before him and in one swiftly efficient movement took out the hostile who’d lunged for him. Another was close behind, but Bishop dispatched him just as efficiently. Breathing heavily, he quickly secured the room, sheathed the knife, and grabbed the dying marine’s wrist. He looked to the wrist.

Something was wrong.

No time to think about it, he turned to leave when there was a tremendous flash of heat and noise and something ungodly kicked him in the very seat of his soul and launched him bodily into a wall. The next thing Bishop knew, he was

 

crying. Something wasn’t right. Why was he crying? He was going home, home for good. He was no use to the Corps any more. Had served his country. Had his decorations, which he couldn’t look at without considering the lives lost—and saved. He was going home to his parents and girl. Their black lab, Boomer. Going to make a new life, if that was at all possible these days.

But what about those left behind?

Who was gonna keep an eye on them? Keep them safe? His buddies. Hector—how was Hector? Had he made it? Hector Gonzalez

 

laid down a searing blast of cover fire around the lieutenant’s position. The lieutenant was still in there. Gonzalez had no choice. He couldn’t leave him. Additional hostiles were quickly overrunning their position.

Gonzalez hand-signaled the platoon to cover him.

Gear rattling, Gonzalez tucked in around the wall then made his way through the rubble. Once he got to the open twenty yards through which he had to sprint, he glanced back to his platoon. They kept up his cover fire. Gonzalez sprinted across the space and slammed his body against a wall. Just up ahead was Bishop. He wasn’t leaving him, not after all he’d done at his own expense. No way. He’d stayed behind to allow the rest of them exit…when the blast had come. Gonzalez cursed himself for allowing the lieutenant to order them off like that. All he could think of was

 

“I’m not supposed to be here, am I?” Bishop asked the Conductor.

“Of course you are, Son,” the Conductor reassured. “You’re going home. For Christmas. The best one ever.”

“But…”

The Conductor smiled.

 

Gonzalez had made it to the lieutenant. He was a mess. All he could tell for certain was that he was missing…parts. It’d hadn’t yet registered just what, in all the still-settling smoke and rubble, but he wasn’t…whole….

“Christmas…,” the lieutenant whispered, “Jea-nna….” His face was thrashed and bloodied.

“Lieutenant?” Gonzalez asked, but there was no more.

Gonzalez grabbed the lieutenant’s wrist and quickly pulled him from the rubble as more fire opened up on their position. He turned to leave, but lost his hold. He tried to regrip the lieutenant’s wrist, but only grabbed

Air.

Gone.

The lieutenant was

Gone.

Gonzalez spun around.

No body, no lieutenant. Only acrid ordnance stink and rubble.

“But he was—he was just—where’d”

 

he stood in the well of the exit stoop as the train came to its screeching halt.

“Have a great Christmas, Lieutenant!” the Conductor encouraged, smiling. He saluted Bishop.

Bishop turned and looked up to the conductor. Bishop was bloodied and covered in soot and grime and war in his desert cammies and gear. He still held his nine mil in one hand, KA-BAR in the other. He looked to the nine mil. Outside.

It snowed heavily.

He cast a momentary, dour smile back up to the Conductor, then carefully placed his weapons up at the Conductor’s feet. He stared at the instruments of personal destruction one last time…rubbed a wrist and worked his jaw…when a larger smile crossed his face. He uttered a single chuckle.

He looked back out into the dark, snowy Colorado winter before him.

It was always darkest before the light.

Bishop inhaled deeply of the cold, sweet, aromatic pine of the evergreen forest mixed in with train exhaust. Saw Christmas lights through the heavy snowfall he swore he could now actually hear—heard Christmas music?—when a hand reached in to him from outside the train.

“Welcome home, Son,” his father greeted.

Bishop again inhaled deeply, smiled…and stepped off the train.

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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.

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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.

 

 

MileHiCon47, a Knot, and a Head

by

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!

**************

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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MileHiCon46…or This Blog is Really All About Aaron Michael Ritchey (fpdorchak.wordpress.com)

Voice–An Erotic Tale of Nonphysical Love

by

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

I must admit, this cover near brought tears to my eyes!

Here—at last!—is the title and cover for my sexy new paranormal/ psychological mainstream (erotica?) novel, due late July/early August! Yes, the genre is mixed, but it will make for quite the steamy summer read!

Voice.

The cover is yet another awesome, amazing, incredible, extraordinary effort by Lon Kirschner, of Kirschner Caroff Design Inc., out of East Chatham, NY! Lon did my ERO cover, and he continues to deliver extraordinary results! I first met Lon through author/teacher/musician all-around-Renaissance Man Marc Schuster, and Marc’s book, The Grievers.

I love everything about this cover!

I love the artwork. The spacing. The blackness. I love the blue of the lady and my name…what Lon did with the title—look closely at it and you’ll see the Adirondack Mountains…see and hear loons on the lake…smell the must of the woods—and the mysterious woman against the black background simply gives me chills.

This cover is absolutely stunning!

It packs a powerful, emotional punch to me on levels I simply can’t explain. Don’t want to. I want it to rip my innards, my soul apart…I want to feel the impending torment, tribulation, and mystery this artwork foreshadows….

I just can’t stop looking at it.

I love all my covers, but I have to say…this…may well be my favorite.

Check out this post on Lon’s work.

Not only am I psyched by revealing the cover artwork, but also finally being able to voice the title of this novel out into the world! It has been a real effort keeping it under wraps! It feels so goood!

Despite the paranormal/supernatural elements, this is the most mainstream effort I’ve ever produced. As I’ve mentioned before, it also features some quite explicit sex scenes and is not for the easily offended. Voice is a density of story…a love story…one of families…and a search for meaning in one’s life. Pain. Redemption. It has supernatural/paranormal elements, but not in a “monstery” way. In a deeply psychological, maybe even uncomfortable way. It may actually make you squirm a little as you sit and read it. It is a story I could not put down…could not put away. Sixteen years in the making, it kept whispering to me…calling out to me. It is my most daring effort. It will be sad to let it go…to stop working on it…stop thinking about it….

It touches me deeply…largely, perhaps, because of the setting…the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York, where I grew up and continue to visit once a year. I so love that region, with its ancient mountains and dark, mysterious waters (another novel is forthcoming about this region and the dark, foreboding waters…). But I also love the characters…so flawed…so well-meaning…so enigmatic. It’s about what seemingly normal people who are conflicted…in love…do. How they wrestle with their demons. What they might do in the dark corners of their lives away from prying eyes….

What do you do in the wee hours of the night…and is it something you’re proud of?

It is fair to say I’m in love with this story.

Sigh.

The current status of Voice is that I am inputting copyediting redlines from my final reader. I then have to have the manuscript formatted for both e-book and trade softcopy (yes, I am doing both, the e-book first; I also hope to create an advance order selection on Amazon). The formatting could take as little as a week or as much as 2-3. So, this puts it at a late July or early August release. Stay tuned!

And in the next week or so look for a “faux interview” with me by one of the characters of Voice!

As always, feel free to use and e-mail and plaster the cover graphic around the globe—but, please, give proper copyright attribution to Lon and myself. If you’d like the actual files, request a review copy, e-mail me at fpdorchak at fpdorchak dot com, and as soon as they’re available, I’ll send them out!

And, write up a review once you’ve read it! Send me the link!

Thank you all for your support!

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The Man With No Name

by

Well-Heeled Magic. (By Julien Bertrand (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
Well-Heeled Magic. (By Julien Bertrand (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
The Man With No Name.

Magic Man.

He who sports work boots and flannel.

Mows his lawn at night.

This is a character I’ve written about in two of my novels, Sleepwalkers and Psychic, and a short story, “Tail Gunner.” The Man With No Name (aka “MWNN”) is a character I had the idea for way back. He makes himself known through…well, interesting means, which I don’t exactly want to give away. I have at least one more novel planned for his appearance. It would be in line with the previous two mentioned books. And even then he won’t be finished with by any stretch. My intent was to have him pop up in various pieces of fiction—short stories and novels. A crossover character. I like that idea and it’s quite in keeping with what he does. When I wrote “Tail Gunner” it was cool how he seamlessly incorporated himself into the story (he was the carnival’s Ticket Taker). He got his second name, “Magic Man” when I’d been driving to work one morning and passed by this van with “Magic Man” on its side. It just fit.

Talking about “Tail Gunner”…it still affects me on a creepy level.

Shiver.

Chicken skin.

Every time I go to the gym and walk by that now-hurtful-decible-levels-screaming-music-for-Zumba/whatever room where I first met my tail gunner, I look to that overhead fan. Yesterday (as I originally wrote this post, May 14th) that fan was spinning in an empty room (it isn’t usually spinning in an empty room). My tail gunner must’ve known I was gonna write about this.

Anyway, back to the MWNN. He is perhaps the coolest character I’ve ever written. He gets around…knows stuff…is kinda Forrest Gumpish in a certain way (think “JFK”). And he hearkens back to some of my earliest writing (my fifth manuscript of the 12 in whole or in part in my novel-length repertoire; only five are/will-be published, counting my current WIP). Back to when I was hot and heavy into the dream of getting published. The “halcyon days,” if the term be used. I was literally in the middle of creating all these new manuscripts, one right after the other. I’d finish one…then uninterruptedly start the next one. It was a wildly creative part of my life and I loved it! Now, I’m going over previously created material and publishing the better of them. There is at least one other trunk-manuscript I’d love to rework and publish, my second manuscript, Village Idiot. We’ll see….

But, I digress.

As the MWNN is sometimes wont to do!

So, who is this man with no name?

Though his origins are detailed in Psychic, he’s very much a part of me…or I’m a part of him? He embodies a lot of how I like to think of my perfect self: wears flannel, jeans, and boots. Does what he wants, when he wants…by slightly funky means. Helps others out. Filters out the bullshit. Did I mention he wears flannel? Sometimes a trickster. Always has a sense of humor.

He explores places most people aren’t interested in going…or are afraid to.

He’s bad-ass enough without resorting to weaponry, martial arts, or whammy shots.

And I love that he mows his lawn and weeds his garden at night.

Drinks iced tea. Loves his iced tea.

He is…the best part of me.

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