F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

Arizona

St. Vincent

by

Bless Us All. Every One. (Image by CC BY 4.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Bless Us All. Every One. (Image by CC BY 4.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0], via Wikimedia Commons)

I follow a belief system that is not traditional. I don’t say I follow “XYZ” because I don’t like attributing labels to what I believe in. But some of its concepts can be quite a reach for many: that we create and control our own lives, not a divine being (though I feel the Divine Being is the medium, love, and impetus for our very existence). That we are not at the mercy of others…but attract into our lives all that we get…that we set up our own challenges…and one statement in particular really inspired this particular story…

I think you’ll figure out which statement.

This story was originally published in Black Sheep #40, the April-May 2001 issue.

Saint Vincent

© F. P. Dorchak, 1995

 

Vince ground his booted-heel into the Arizona sand, thoroughly pulverizing the beetle beneath it.

“Must have been your time to go…just like me.”

I raise my head and look up to the scorching sun, smell the fumes of my still-burning Camaro, and feel the heat where I stand. “Why’s everyone so afraid of dying? It’s just part of living.”

I lift my dusty .44-caliber, Dan Wesson to eye level and blow off loose sand. I look it over. What was really responsible here? Me, or this miraculously crafted piece of stainless steel? This wonder of human engineering?

I chuckle.

What a work of art, indeed, from its utilitarian lines to its perfect heft and balance. I drop my hand and weapon back to my side and think about the trooper burning away within the remains of her vehicle and mine. I hadn’t meant to kill her, but she came at me and I just didn’t want to go. Yet. I probably did her a favor. She would have died some other time, under the hand of one who didn’t care nearly as much as I did.

At least I meant well.

I limp away from Route 93 towards the jagged precipice ahead. I stop and turn one last time to consider the wreckage of my ‘67 Camaro and the trooper’s brand new Camaro. Life can be so funny sometimes.

Must’ve been her time.

 

So why doesn’t anything matter?

We’re born, we die; if we’re lucky, we get laid now and then…maybe have a family or two…pay taxes from a job we more often than not can’t stand…then die. I’m not finding any answers, damn it, and I’m damn near the end of my rope—

I move off the pavement.

Vince climbed ever higher up the crags, his gun tucked into the rear of his jeans, waves of heat radiating off the rocks and sand beating into him. He sucks in thick gulps of air into aching, straining, lungs…

Where had I first heard—or read—it? The statement still plagues me like a festering wound: Fact is official fiction.

I mean, who comes up with this shit?

All my life I struggle…try to do the right thing…be the nice guy…and I’m told that everything, everything I’ve ever believed in, everything I’ve ever worked for…is false?

Fact is official fiction, all right.

If we make it all up, then what’s right (is there even a “right”)? Are we actually alive or mere characters? Me killing someone isn’t really killing since I’m not really taking anyone’s life—it’s all an illusion, fiction. There isn’t even a God because we make it all up.

Try to prove it otherwise.

Faith doesn’t work because we create that, too—sure, we create the ideas as well as the substance. It’s all part of how life works—am I the only one who sees this? But, no, it gets better, since we made up this idea of killing, now we must create the idea that if you kill someone—an untruth to begin with—you have to pay for it—another untruth.

Why? Why?

So am I really crazy…or is crazy just another made-up fallacy? And if I’m not real, then others can’t do a damned thing to me, right (and I can’t do a damned thing to them, either)?

Look at me so far: I’ve told my boss to go to hell (punched out the idiot, in fact) then robbed an all-night supermarket. So, several hundred miles, four days, and three dead bodies later, here I am, stuck out in the middle of the Arizona desert, drying up from the summer sun, and hungrier than a circling buzzard.

Yet, here I am.

Vince climbs higher, but never sees, or hears, the Arizona troopers below who block off the road. His mind swarms with tortured, philosophical arguments full of possibilities, probabilities, and inspirations. Finding a particularly good handhold, he pulls himself up and finds a ledge large enough to allow him to stretch out…but which also extends back out of the reach of the sun under an outcropping of rock.

I pull myself onto the ledge and enjoy the feel of the rock. I sense how it reaches out to me as I grab for it. I smell the dryness and timeliness of the earth. Even though my fingers, arms, and legs scream with pain, I enjoy where I’m at and how I’ve gotten here. I settle in on my ledge and stretch out. “So what have I really done?” I casually ask the rock walls. “Have I really robbed anyone…really killed anyone?” If there’s nothing to rob, then I didn’t really commit the crime, now, did I? If there’s nothing to kill, then I didn’t really commit a crime there either, did I?

Then why do I feel so damned guilty?

How can it all feel so genuine if it’s all so illusional? I feel like I’m watching myself—or someone else is—like I’m a-I’m a character in a book, or a movie. I feel like there’re these gigantic faces peering down at me from some ungodly distance….

Why can’t I figure this out?

In a sudden burst of anger, I toss my weapon away—only to realize a moment later what I’ve done—but it’s too late. I watch as my beautiful piece of utilitarian artistry flips and sails through the air…end over end, roll after roll…until (ages later) it clatters and bounces and discharges twice off the rocky escarpment below. The discharges echo wildly and I continue to watch stupidly, even after it has settled quietly somewhere in the rubble below.

“So…what did that mean?” I again ask the rocky walls.

Did that have any significance? Was that just some random act of man, God, or nature? Someone or something guiding me? Why would I do such a thing—and furthermore, would I require further use of the weapon? If no one’s ever really killed what need do I have of the thing?

If there‘s no death, then do I need to fear for my life? Do I need a killing machine to protect a life that can’t be taken away—

This is all so damned confusing.

Why is this happening to me? Am I missing something? Getting a vital part of the equation all fouled up and confused?

I fold my legs before me and clasp them with my hands. I look about. Feel the gentle breeze that softly caresses my skin—it doesn’t care what I have or haven’t done. I enjoy my solitude—that I’m alone on this ledge—just me, nothing else, and revel (did I actual use that word?) in the fact that I got myself here. I never would’ve considered doing something like this before, climbing sheer rock walls.

I try to relax, and inhale deeply; close my eyes. When I reopen them, I notice some strange little creature, like a scorpion, but without that menacing, curving, tail, curiously checking me out. It also doesn’t seem to know what I’ve done, what I’m capable of. It cautiously approaches; stops. Comes a little closer…then again stops. It’s quick. We look at each other. I know not what this thing is, and curiously enough, feel no need to kill it.

Why is that?

I reach out to it and it scurries back a step or two, then stops. I keep my hand where it is, and it reapproaches…pauses…then touches my skin.

I feel nothing.

It takes a tentative step or two with its little legs up onto my hand—then scurries the rest of the way up. I lift my hand to eye level and examine it. Whatever it is, it, too, is magnificently crafted and suited to whatever is its purpose. I smile, but suddenly feel sad, and lower my hand back to the dirt ledge. I allow the creature to hop off and continue on in its adventures.

Maybe I’ve misinterpreted everything. Maybe—

I consider suicide.

Launching myself from this ledge to soar like my gun, until I, too, strike the rubble below…but know I could never do such a thing.

Is suicide different from so-called “natural” death?

If fact is fiction, and we make up everything, then doesn’t that also apply to death, that we choose our own time of passing? If this is so, then how is suicide any different from dying from a heart attack? Either way we take our own lives. Could it be our own perceptions that make things right or wrong…our intents—

This is too weird. If I’ve figured it all out, then what am I still doing here? There has to be more…has to be something I’ve missed….

I again close my eyes and lay back against the rock.

“Oh, God—if there is a You—this feels soooo good.”

No deadlines…no hassles…no worries—current philosophical dilemmas notwithstanding. I feel like that book, Catch-22. How can I say I’m crazy, because if I say I am, am I? I wish I had that book here, now, I never did finish it.

I shuffle my hands through the dirt alongside me and touch something unexpected for my surroundings of sand and stone. I look down and find a paperback novel. I pick it up and read its title.

Catch-22.

It’s a worn copy…just like the one I last remembered reading.

“Wait a minute…this…this can’t be…unless—”

At that precise moment a rifled bullet slams through Vincent’s forehead, fired from the muzzle of an Arizona State Trooper’s rifle, and Vincent achieves sainthood. It was also then that I realized I was telling my own story…and that though I was a character in that story—as are any of us—characters need to care about themselves, just as readers need to care about them. It’s not about nothing—or even fiction—it’s about love, emotion, and experience—all that and more. It’s what each story means to each individual, each character. We all get out of our stories what we put into them. This is my story.

What’s yours?

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The Grotesquery

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The Thing, Middle of Nowhere, Arizona. March 26, 2015.
The Thing, Middle of Nowhere, Arizona. March 26, 2015.

As we started our return road trip back to Colorado (curiously enough) two events occurred that could have drastically altered what would follow (to play off “the dramatic” and my earlier dead bird post…), and are definitely “cousins” to the title of this post.

As we headed out of Green Valley, AZ, two of us wanted coffee. So, just before hitting the Interstate, we pulled into a McDonald’s drive-thru. As we’re waiting in line after ordering, a loud hissing and an emission of a “steam-like substance” erupts from our vehicle! We turn off the vehicle, turn it back on…and all is quiet. As we get our drinks, we ask about mechanics and are told one is literally behind us, on the other side of the road. A Mr. Automotive. Long story short, we find out a relay had gone bad, causing our A/C’s internals to “vent” as it did. Freon. Well, whatareyagonnado? as my paternal grandfather used to say. So, we hung out and got it fixed. But, toward the end, we’re thinking about who wants lunch (I do) and when (now), so I volunteer to walk across to the same McDonald’s and get us some grub (curiously, as we headed across the intersection, to the mechanic’s, I had a mental image of me walking across this intersection, heading back over to the shopping center…).

I leave the shop.

As I’m walking towards the intersection—which is quite busy—another clear image fills my mind…one of me being hit by a car in the middle of this intersection. Cockily, I mentally chide myself: “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen….”

The light goes green. I proceed across.

Intensely checking out all the traffic because of my “vision,” I make my way into the middle of the intersection—when this car comes screaming out of the shopping center I’m heading toward…on a direct collision course with—yeah, you guessed it—me.

I stop and turn toward the car—throwing both arms into the air in a “What the HELL?!” gesture, as I wait for the car to stop.

It does.

In the car I see a blonde woman in her fifties or so at the wheel. Eyes wide. I think she had brown eyes. Clearly, she has just awoken from her nap, or cell phone, or whatever thing she (and the rest of the world) is in such a damned hurry to get to/from without watching where she’s going…while flooring the accelerator. A common affliction I am seeing more and more of from all drivers. Her driver-side window is open.

She apologizes profusely.

I drop my arms. I smile. I continue on.

For the love of cheeseburgers.

Sooo:

1) Coffee saved our bacon from this electronic relay failure happening out in the middle of the desert (thanks, wife!), and

2) A vision I rejected from my reality kept me from remaining down in Green Valley. Or at least, parts of me….

Onward!

We leave the mechanic after about two hours (and a fun pinball machine—thanks, Mr. Automotive, for getting us in pronto and back out on the road!) and head northeast.

One of the cool things about road trips are all the neat, hidden tourist traps that exist out there. It’s kinda like that movie, Vacation (one of my favorite movies):

“Hey, hey, easy kids. Everybody in the car. Boat leaves in two minutes… or perhaps you don’t want to see the second largest ball of twine on the face of the earth, which is only four short hours away.”

Or the House of Mud.

Or Dodge City, where you can go deaf from fake shotgun blasts across fake bars?

So, how about…The Thing?

What is…”The Thing” you ask?

No it’s not some frozen extraterrestrial creature waiting to be thawed out and eat us all (or is it?).

But it is a roadside attraction 17 miles east of Benson, Arizona and 40 miles east of Tucson, Arizona. Basically, out in the middle of nowhere (noted by the “miles east of” directions…). It’s a gas station. And gift shop. Oh, and a Museum. Where The Thing resides. And a way to get out of your vehicle and stretch your legs.

So, we stopped.

The Thing.

Now, my wife and Mom-in-law had already seen this…thing…they were just bringing me in on the fun. So, we paid our dollar-per-customer fare and entered…the lair…which took you back outside to walk between a series of warehousey building by following yellow-painted “foot” steps on concrete sidewalks. We went to three metal buildings, following these footprints, which (appropriately enough) ended back in the gift shop. In these three warehousey structures were all things that were “the thing” at some point in history…as well a crapload of driftwood art. Grotesque, creepy driftwood/root system art. Surreal. The stuff of nightmares, one could say. There were also a couple of torture exhibits I just didn’t get into…not that any of it was graphic…but just the intent…the notion of it was upsetting to me, especially since we were on a “quest for fun,” or, rather, were returning from said. Torture exhibits did not fit into that weltanschauung.

Anyway, there were some interesting things to look at besides the nightmarish tree root art, like antique cars, books, and a 1654 matchlock.

But, mainly, it was about the nightmarish tree root art and this “Thing.”

Note: the “green” of some of the images (below) was from the light illuminating through green fiberglass roofing.

Afterwards, as we munched DQ cones (did I write that out loud?), I asked the only guy at the front desk in the gift shop (there had been two others but they were now gone) about “The Thing.”

“Was it real?”

I just wanted to get “the answer.” The dude said he’d heard the owners tell conflicting stories (no doubt to fuel the whole “Thing” mystique…). One version was that “it” was found in the Grand Canyon. The other version was that it was…

Made by a company in California that makes things like this for places like this.

Okay, then.

Well, whatever it is, it got us out of our vehicle and got us to stretch our legs around this strange Compound of Weirdness out in the Middle of Nowhere, Arizona….

And it was only a dollar.

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Road Trip: Scottsdale, Arizona

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Rockies and the Giants, Salt River Fields, Scottsdale, AZ, March 25, 2015
Rockies and the Giants, Salt River Fields, Scottsdale, AZ, March 25, 2015

Saturday, March 21st, myself and some family members set out on a Rockies Spring Training road trip to sunny, hot, Scottsdale, Arizona (a suburb of Phoenix). Temperatures were projected in the upper 80s and maybe 90 degrees. Those projections were met.

I love road trips.

There’s something cathartic—even metaphysical—about leaving where you live for, well, anywhere. To range out into the world. I love driving, but there’s also something to just watching the world go by as a passenger (the group of us switched off every couple of hours). Letting your mind, your thoughts, to run free. I did catch up on some reading in the vehicle, ran through a handful of magazines I hadn’t made it to at home—and no, I don’t have a smartphone, so kept my nose out of all-things electronic while on the road. I did check some social media while at our destination(s), but didn’t devote much time to that at all.

This was a vacation.

It’s always a little “weird” (my most-used word, according to my wife) when I go through Arizona. I went to Northern Arizona University (NAU),  in Flagstaff, and perhaps that has everything to do with it. NAU was my first time away from home…an 18-year old striking it out on his own for the first time, leaving family behind in upstate New York and Virginia—and I was ready for it! I still remember showing up after dark that August night, back in 1979, with a duffel bag in each hand and a pack on my back at Bury Hall…the start of the 36-year road trip that took me to where I am this very minute.

Wow.

So, yeah, maybe that does have everything to do with why it always feels a little “weird” when I return to Arizona.

Rockies and the Giants, Salt River Fields, Scottsdale, AZ, March 25, 2015
Rockies and the Giants, Salt River Fields, Scottsdale, AZ, March 25, 2015

Anyway…we drove with one set of in-laws in their own vehicle and met up with them at Holbrook to sleep (and eat…thanks, Mesa Italiana Restaurant! Excellent Italian! Admittedly, none of us expected to find Italian food here…), then, later the next day at Payson to again chow down (great food, Fargo’s Steakhouse!). After the Holbrook dinner the majority of us (someone had to drive the vehicles…) walked back to the hotel, then, the next morning took another walk over the same stretch of road before again hitting the road (one of the things I found on this walk will be the subject of another post…). Always feels so good to stretch one’s legs during road trips!

Upon leaving Holbrook and Payson we drove on to our destination of Chandler, Arizona, where we stayed through Wednesday. We had a great hotel that was about half an hour from the Salt River Fields at Talking Stick, out in Scottsdale (here’s location info, including the field’s layout). We took in a Monday and a Wednesday game against the Brewers and the Giants, respectively. Rockies won both, which was cool (“Let’s go, Rock-ies!“). This stadium was completed in 2011, which was also the first (and last) time we’d been there. I love this stadium. It’s oriented differently than most stadiums, allowing more shade for the stands than typical fields and just has a good feel to it…but don’t sit in section 104 expecting shade (seating graphic; for more shade, staying in sections 105/205 and to the west, but I don’t recall how far west [or “left”]; it could be as far as 117/217, but it’s a pretty sure bet within that range–but don’t quote me, and this is for late March!). That won’t happen until about the 8th inning [in March]. Parts of section 204 fared a little better, shade-wise. But…in section 104 (or in any of those front rows), you are only spittin’ distance from the players! So, lube up on the sunscreen, bring your hats and gloves, and enjoy the game!

Here’s a link describing the name, Salt River Fields at Talking Stick.

Top o' the Eighth, Three-Two, Rockies. Salt River Fields, March 25, 2015
Top o’ the Eighth, Three-Two, Rockies. Salt River Fields, March 25, 2015

Salt River Fields is a cool complex that houses 12 practice fields for both major and minor league baseball, as well as other events. They have a really nice Pro Shop, rest rooms (I call this out, because, well, you know, if you’ve ever been to any kind of a sporting event…and The Goldbergs recently had an episode that joked about this very topic…), and the parking isn’t really all that bad, unless you need assistance. The earlier you get there, obviously the better the parking, and if you need assistance there are golf carts running back and forth, though I noticed a significant reduction in the amount of the golf carts since our last trip in 2011. But, they are available, even if you end up parking way over at the Desert Parking Lot, like we ended up on our Wednesday game (the first game we parked in the Home Plate Parking). But, if in good health and don’t mind walking, none of the walks from any of the lots is very distant, and feels quite good after sitting in a car on the drive down from Colorado! But, overall, a beautifully landscaped and laid out baseball field!

Rockies and the Brewers, Salt River Fields, Scottsdale, AZ, March 23, 2015
Rockies and the Brewers, Salt River Fields, Scottsdale, AZ, March 23, 2015

Now, about the game…yes, just being able to kick back and not do anything other than eat brats, drink Mountain Dew (yes, PEPSI products, people!) or iced coffee (even a Dunkin Donuts!), and watch baseball…quite relaxing. Though, one does have to pay attention to the game, given fly balls and errant line drives are known to happen, just like in any game, and one is much closer to action, here, then, say, Coors Field, in Denver.

But I love it.

Weird Beer Guy, Rockies and the Brewers, Salt River Fields, Scottsdale, AZ, March 23, 2015
Weird Beer Guy, Rockies and the Brewers, Salt River Fields, Scottsdale, AZ, March 23, 2015

Sitting outside…hearing the crack of the bats…watching Cargo make his signature dives for the balls (and nailing them! It was so cool to see him do one of his “give up the body” dives in person!)…Tulo his airborne pirouetted snags and burns to First Base…the breezes, the smells, the energy…it’s what makes baseball baseball, and is so utterly distant from my normal days of always being in some kind of a hurry to get something done by yesterday. It’s not like watching it on TV, that’s for sure—it’s outside, in the sun and open air…and I love that. I’m not a gonzo fan, but I love the game (played outfielder as a kid…where I could enjoy being outside and alone with my thoughts—oh, yeah, and catch a couple balls in the process—or get nailed in the chin “in the process”…). We even met Weird Beer Guy, who was still hawking beer like he was four years ago! During the Brewers game, Weird Beer Guy was walking up the steps when he saw me on the end of the row, and gave me a High Five, because I was sitting at a seat that had empty peanut shells and spent beer tops under my seat (I don’t drink beer)…so it looked like I was having fun! I was. High Five, Weird (but funny!) Beer Guy!

We did some other stuff, like took in a small aquarium and visited a relative in the Tucson area; ate at some really good restaurants, like The Claim Jumper (good God, the plate of 12-or-14-inch ribs I saw on another table!) and the Old Town Tortilla Factory—both of which we all heartily recommend! After which, we headed home, on our return road trip…parts of which will be the subject of my next posts (a dead bird and a curious “grostequery”…)!

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Going Indie—What I’ve Learned (So Far)—Part 3

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The Indie learning curve continues!

While I don’t feel as harried as I did the past couple weeks, though there are still things to do and learn and do better next time. And I still have to promote…more. I’m looking forward to it all!

Okay, so, here’s some more learnin’:

  1. Update on the B&N account thing: check your frigging JUNK MAIL. And if you use Outlook, check the frigging JUNK MAIL in your host e-mail account funneling into Outlook.  Sheesh. Yeah, I kept checking the Outlook account, but not the host account. It sat there for almost a week. When had it been approved? The 15th. Same day I requested it. <insert “funny words” here> I went in and updated everything…and it still has to get approval, but this time it says (once book content is uploaded) it could take up to 72 hours. So, hopefully, by Friday, The Uninvited will be available through Nook for $3.99 (still free one more week at Smashwords). Man, lots of “Uninvited” books.
  2. Nook’s cover file:  they limit the image to a maximum of 2 MB. Thanks, Cover Girl, Karen, for getting me that so quickly. :-]
  3. Update on updating the KDP version of Uninvited: yes, that is how it looks when updating—it looks exactly like you’re starting over, but the already uploaded version remains available, and the changes go through smoothly and there’s no reason to have to change your shorts.
  4. Found a great post interview on Susan Brooks’ blog, with Smashwords Marketing Manager, Jim Azevedo (thanks, RMFW loop and Susan for posting this!).
  5. This was kinda cool: Amazon has author pages in other countries (duh), and asks if you’d like to input some author info there. The countries offered were France, Germany, and the UK. This is my US author page. Now, My German ist sehr rusty, et moi Français even more so, which is how international incidents start (my French is non-existent, except for words and phrases like fromage and voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir? And no, I’m not asking the latter. See, that how’s international incidents start…), so I like to use an online translator, like Babylon 10, for extended foreign text beyond memory and my French and German dictionaries. So, well, I didn’t read all the Amazon Terms of Use in French and German (though I did glance at and recognize some words, but that and a quarter’ll get me slapped), so I hope I’m not getting screwed in these countries and the Terms are the same as the US version. Man, even the UK’s version was hard to read. Anyway, I took my main author page, plugged it into Babylon 10, and voila! Insérez la traduction ici! Don’t know about all the dashes in the German one, if I get time, will look into it, but the German one looks, you know, kinda right (dashes notwithstanding). So, if anyone’s fluent in Deutsch und Französische Sprachen, I’ve presented the three versions below.

Thanks, again, for stopping by!

English:

F. P. (Frank) Dorchak grew up in New York State’s Adirondack mountains. He attended Northern Arizona University, in Flagstaff, Arizona, then entered the U.S. Air Force. He performed Combat Crew duties in missile warning and satellite operations, at Cavalier AFS, North Dakota, and was a GPS mission controller and Crew Commander, at Schriever AFB, CO, but has always had a deep interest in the paranormal. Frank writes gritty, realistic paranormal fiction that delves into the supernatural, the unexplained, and the metaphysical.

French:

F.P. (Frank) Dorchak a grandi en montagnes d’Adirondack de l’état de New-York. Il s’est occupé de l’université du nord de l’Arizona, dans la hampe de drapeaux, l’Arizona, puis a présenté l’Armée de l’Air des États-Unis. Il a rempli des fonctions d’équipage de combat dans des opérations d’avertissement et de satellite de missile, au cavalier AFS, le Dakota du Nord, et était un contrôleur de mission de GPS et le commandant d’équipage, chez Schriever AFB, Cie, mais a toujours eu un intérêt profond dans le paranormal. Frank écrit la fiction paranormale graveleuse et réaliste qui fouille dans le surnaturel, l’inexpliqué, et le métaphysique.

German:

F.P. (Frank) Dorchak wuchs in der Adirondack-Bergen des Staat New York heran. Er besuchte Nord-Arizona-Universität, im Fahnenmast, Arizona, dann meldete die US-Luftwaffe an. Er führte Kampf-Mannschaftsaufgaben in den Flugwarnungs- und -satellitenoperationen, am Kavalier AFS, North Dakota durch und war- ein GPS-Auftragkontrolleur und Mannschafts-Kommandant, bei Schriever AFB, Co, aber hat immer ein tiefes Interesse an dem paranormalen gehabt. Frank schreibt kiesige, realistische paranormale Erfindung, die in das übernatürliche forscht, das unerklärte und das metaphysische.

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