F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

Sleepwalkers

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.

 

 

Some Books, Cats, and a Gift

by

The Bookman Book Signing, Nov 7, 20015
The Bookman Book Signing, Nov 7, 20015

Last weekend I held my first “dedicated” book signing in several years. By that I mean it was “all about me,” not a bunch of us at once, like at MileHiCon. It was weird.

“Hi! Look at me! Buy my books!”

Yeah, a little weird. I’d forgotten about that feeling. So I try to make it about the body of work, not the guy standing around with the stupid grin hoping you’ll come trade some cash for paper….

This was also the first book signing where I’d actively promoted it. Over a month out. All my other book signings had been more off-the-cuff things, maybe one prior one I’d put up a flyer somewhere the week prior…but I’d basically never done much to promote. But as I coordinated with Steffany, The Bookman’s manager, she kept wrestling me to the floor with Facebook. Telling me that she’s had authors do signings without being on Facebook and not selling a thing.

You Drew First Blood! First Customer! The Bookman Signing, Nov 7, 2015.
You Drew First Blood! First Customer! The Bookman Signing, Nov 7, 2015.

So, I had Lon Kirschner do up some really cool posters for me, and we’d put them up all over the West Si-iiide of town. Steffany had a mention or two on local radio. She also had a dedicated clientele…posters put up at all the local library branches.

Facebook, Frank, Facebook.

Arrgh.

I caved.

I’d had an account years ago and killed it. I mean did the “kill shot” that involved them totally getting rid of everything about you like you never even existed, where you e-mailed or wrote a letter to them and they “erased” you.

Very CIA.

So…I returned. And it is kinda fun that I’d reconnected with lots of my writer and non-writer friends I haven’t seen in the few years since. I’d quit a function a couple years ago where I’d normally see all these people, so it was nice reconnecting. So, Steffany’s prodding also had positive “unintended consequences”—thanks, Steffany!

Okay, so Facebook it is. I did the “Event” thing and annoyed my friends with “Come and See Me!” notices. I put up the posters. Handed out bookmarks. Mentioned it everywhere. Know what I found out?

The Bookman Signing, Colorado Springs, Nov 7, 2015
Hi, I’m Running For Office. Do You Have A Baby I Could Hold?

The only thing that brought in people…was Facebook. The ONLY thing.

Sorry, Lon.

Not one person showed up because of any poster I put up. Or the library put up. Or the radio spots.

Facebook.

I can safely say that because of everyone that bought books, only three were people I’d not previously known before…one guy was at the store shopping before the signing officially started, had been in Vietnam, and we “talked military.” He gravitated toward Psychic, my remote viewing conspiracy theory novel. Bought it. The other two were a “friend of The Bookman’s” and her friend. Everyone else were people I knew (okay, one friend brought her sister, who I also did not knooow…but I did know of her…)! And they’d heard of it over

Facebook.

Wow.

Fascinating.

The Bookman Signing, Colorado Springs, Nov 7, 2015
Let’s See…That’s R-o-…no, R-q-…no, R-y-…Dang It, I Need Another Book….

Now, that “friend of The Bookman’s” did say that she was going to go grab one of my posters from one of the storefront windows she’d seen it in, because it was such a cool poster and she wanted one! Thanks, Vanessa (and did you end up getting it?)!

But, all that aside…I was so moved by the support of my friends…and their excitement at coming down and being a part of this! I had so many questions thrown at me! One writer friend actually said she wished I’d had a presentation so she could ask more questions! How sweet, thanks, Ataska!

Afterwards (on Facebook) another joked about how she was observing all “my girlfriends”…and I’d joked, well, aren’t you one? She replied “Why, I certainly am!” But she brought up a point I hadn’t even realized at the time, but most of my friends who showed were female! There were only two dudes at the signing, three if you count Mark, who works at The Bookman.

My Books Are Cat Friendly! The Bookman Signing, Colorado Springs, Nov 7, 2015
My Books Are Cat Friendly! The Bookman Signing, Colorado Springs, Nov 7, 2015

The Bookman has a couple of “resident cats” who roam the place like they own it. Well, they do. And I liked that. I love animals. One of them was quite curious, as you can see in this photo! S/he hung out on the table top there for a few minutes. Sniffing around, checking out “the heads.”

So, as moved as I was by the support of my friends, there was another incident that also really touched me. Apparently, one of my “Virtual Friends,” who interacts with me through blog posts and comments, hadn’t been able to make the signing…but had stopped by the previous day…and dropped off a gift for me. As far as I know we’ve never met at a conference or anything, but we have interacted off-and-on over several years through blog posts. She goes by Kattywampus Books. She’s quite witty and intelligent. I never know what she’s gonna say, or how, but it usually grabs and amuses me. Asks probing and thoughtful questions. Anyway, she had left me “a little something” that literally had me speechless. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before.

The Kattywampus Author Survival Kit™! No Author Should Be Without One!
The Kattywampus Author Survival Kit™! No Author Should Be Without One!

She left me the coolest “Author Appearance Survival Kit.”

I’m just gonna say it: holy shit.

I mean, this took some serious thinking. Took a little out-of-pocket expense…but, more so, it was the thought that went into this. The gesture.

I was really touched by her gift.

That she thought enough of me to do something like that. To go out of her way, create it, then leave it for me. Wow. It still brings a huge smile to my face every time I think about it!

When I opened the case…read the letter…I was, um, verklempt.

I mean (until I finished reading the letter I didn’t know who had left this), who do I know who would do something like this?

Mark and  Steffany must surely have been watching my expressions.

Wow. As much horror and fear that’s instilled in the media about the world…it’s nice and amazing to find that there are people out there who do things like this.

Read Kattywampus’s post…most of that stuff in her post is in my kit. And she’s right! You do need this stuff! As it was, I had brought four pens with me, and with her nifty Fisher Space Pen (and refill!), I effectively had six. She even included a mini-First Aid kit (“Papercuts happen.”)!

But, dang it, now I have to do more book signings just to show this thing off!

So, thank you so much, Kattywampus! That was extremely thoughtful of you! Perhaps one day we shall meet…or if we already know each other and you’re just playing up the whole “mysterious” aspect…well played! I like a little mystery!

Interior of The Kattywampus Author Survival Kit™
Interior of The Kattywampus Author Survival Kit™

So, there it is…my first Only Me book signing in a handful of years…and it was a success. I’d sold the most books I’d ever sold in one sitting (12). Maybe not a lot by other’s standards, but for me, it was awesome! And the important thing for me was that I’d had fun. My accountant might feel otherwise (yes there is that nice little check being deposited), but we’re all happy, even The Bookman—who is now carrying my body of work (Psychic was sold out, but I have ordered more; I’m trying to get more Sleepwalkers, but AuthorHouse is not playing nice). So do feel free to stop on by! I love their bookstore, it’s very cozy and crammed with books. And a couple of cats.

And if you’re an author, and a little lucky…maybe someone will stop by and drop off a really cool Kattywampus Author Survival Kit™ for you!

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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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Released: Psychic—The Ultimate Conspiracy Theory!

by

© Psychic (F. P. Dorchak and Duvall Design, coming mid-2014)
© Psychic (F. P. Dorchak and Duvall Design, coming mid-2014)

A hotline psychic.

Ghost children.

A lost teenager.

JFK.

A man-in-black.

Remote viewers.

A Man With No Name.

The 1990s.

After 20 years, it’s finally making it out into the world!

Psychic.

I started with the idea and began taking notes and research and all that back in 1994. I started actually writing the book in earnest, in 2000. And now—in 2014—Psychic is finally released! My longest (published) work so far, at 328 pages. It has been a long, hard road, and (I must say) I’m quite happy with the result…looking forward to how it will be received!

Psychic is now available at both the  CreateSpace eStore and Amazon.com. It will be available at the following outlets in the following timeframes:

  • Amazon.com: 3-5 Business Days (already available!)
  • Amazon Europe: 3-5 Business Days
  • Expanded Distribution channels: 6-8 Weeks

I’ve talked about this a little before (I’m sure, in some other post besides this one, but can’t seem to find it…), but Psychic was not an “easy” book. No, not at all. Nearly all of my manuscript first drafts were “easy” in that I just wrote them out—without an outline—I’d just sit down, put my fingers to the keyboard, and out came the story. I like to say I “vomit out” first drafts (ask me about my “fish” story—I love to tell it!). First drafts have taken me about a month or less, but it would be in the next several years where I’d work and rework the heck out of those manuscripts. None of them was any trouble, though…it was just the necessary mechanics of putting in the time, the research, the effort.

Psychic was different.

To be honest, it was a slog. Even as I wrote the very first words, the first draft, it was like running through water…or (more like) a swamp. I can’t explain it. It was the first manuscript that took any real effort on my part. And the antagonist, Victor NMI Black…he actually scared me. Whether or not it was the actual character or the idea of such an evil man like him possibly existing out there (physically or nonphysically…). I remember taking a walk one day, in the brilliant Colorado daylight, thinking about this guy…how nasty and “evil” he was…and actually got nervous…felt…uneasy—even while chiding myself in broad daylight that he was just a frigging character in a novel I had created, and I had control over him….

But did I…really?

The very idea of this guy scared me. He was flat-out mean. It surprised me that feeling of momentary fear I felt during that walk. To the story, well, that will remain to be seen from its readers if I did the proper job of transferring that image into the novel,  but, to me, on a nonphysical, conceptual level, this character was extremely distasteful and scary.

It was like the idea of him was far too real.

Anyway, it’s not so much that I had “problems” with the story, the work, or anything “about” it, it’s just that it had a totally different energy about it. The novel involves messing around with the nonphysical in the physical. About fucking around with our sense of what’s real and what’s not. Our ability to utilize abilities that might well be considered out of our moral range. Not to mention such considerations, like, can facts change? If I really wanted to get all weird about it—all conspiracy theory on your asses—it was almost as if there really was some weird psychic conspiracy trying to keep this novel from coming out…actively and continually interdicting and meaconing me away from my efforts….

But I don’t really believe that.

Not now.

<checking outside my office…the rest of the house…all locks are locked—it is oh-dark-thirty right now….>

Sure, such considerations and stories make for great promotional copy, but the reality of it is that each book is different. Each book has its own energy, and given the nature of the story, what I experienced was and is totally in keeping with the nature of the story’s energy. The whole absolute weirdness of it all. In fact, while working on the formatting of the manuscript for upload, my formatter, Pam Headrick (of A Thirsty Mind), sent me a strange e-mail: “Wow, Frank, what did you do?” She mentioned that there were all kinds of “odd anchors” and “strange text placement,” to which I replied I’d forgotten how I’d actually had problems with the file months ago (after a system upgrade) and had to save the file in a slightly different format to get it to work. How the system kept hanging and saves took, like, 15 minutes!

Find your happy place…find your happy place….

Psychic is “an extension” of Sleepwalkers. I could call it a series, but I don’t know that that would be quite right. Sleepwalkers is quite a different book than Psychic. Sleepwalkers is a pleasant metaphysical road trip, funny, philosophical, even a bit Richard Bach-ish, while Psychic is a nasty trip on the wild side of psychic activity. More dense. I’d use the term “complicated” but am finding that term overused and trite. And the only character common to both novels is the Man With No Name. Granted, perhaps less has been made of calling a collection of books “a series,” but I just prefer to think of them as “related.” Maybe I’m just resistant to the whole “series thing,” given how trad publishing is glutting the market with them, I don’t know (and I’m really resistant to being told what to do—real or implied). So…

I’ll bill Psychic as the ultimate conspiracy theory, and leave it as that.

It’s an alternate reality not only to Sleepwalkers (and deals with the Man With No Name’s origins) but to our “known” reality. Deals with the dark side of life we may never really know about…what goes on in the shadows of our so-called truths….

It’s about obfuscation.

The evil men can do.

Perceptions.

Probabilities.

Metaphysics.

Have you ever felt a different version of you (the “you,” here and now, not in some other reincarnational existence) did something else? Behaved differently? Maybe even died earlier than the you reading this, now?

What do we really know about our reality? Our facts? How aware are we of what we think we know? How much of what we hear and read are true—or were true at some point?

Do we notice when things…change?

Or do we dismiss the seeming inconsistencies in our lives and immediately discount them, because they don’t make sense with everything else we think we know and see in our lives? What we think is a solid “fact”? Hey, I put my ring right there—where the hell is it?

Psychic says, don’t discount this stuff. Do not ignore. Pay attention. The devil is in the details. Do you absolutely remember something that is different from what everyone around you is remembering? I’m telling you, no, you may not be crazy.

Pay attention.

One might well ask: so what? What does it all mean and why should I care? Can we actually do anything about any of this? Can we effect any real change in a world that seems to be running amok?

The easy answer to that is that I’m an eternal optimist. I’ve plugged away at this novel for 14 years of my life, 20, in one way or the other. I always believe we can effect good and positive change in the world…and I believe once you’re made aware of “things,” made aware that, yes, facts really can change—that each and every one of us can change them—it opens up a new, exciting world for all of us. And…

What do you believe?

Will Psychic change the way you believe? How you perceive the world? Your life? That’s up to each reader. Life is all about beliefs.

What we believe drives how we behave.

In the end, Psychic is “just” a novel. It’s fiction. Victor Black…fictional. Yes, there are lots of facts in there, even a few facts from my own life. Weirdness, like the ring scene (yes, that really did happen, as did another similar experience, “The Grape“). And the “rototiller” and “Woomera” scenes. Facts, as you’ll see, aren’t always what they appear to be…if they ever were.

I do have a bunch of people to thank in getting Psychic released, and they’re all on my Acknowledgement page in the book, but I have to spotlight a couple of them: lots of thanks to Karen Duvall, of Duvall Design for the cover, to Pam Headrick, of A Thirsty Mind Book Design, for formatting the files…and to Joyce Combs and Mandy Pratt for copyediting and proofreading! With all the back and forth I’ve done, initially setting the novel in milieus, like 2005, then updating it for the likes of (man…the years, they pass by oh-so-quickly…) 2007, 2010, 2012, and even 2014…I finally settled upon 1994. Adding and removing all the details  for each of those years was time consuming, to say the least, and it was here that Mandy did a great job keeping me on track and proofing my work!

I am currently only doing a trade paperback book. I find that e-books really aren’t selling all that great (for me), so am putting off creating those for later. So, don’t despair, at some point in the future, I’ll do the e-book version.

Where do I go from here?

I do still have some unreleased work in the various dark places within which I keep things like these, and will be revisiting yet another one. This one will be #7 in my list. Yeah, the “unnamed” one. We’ll see how that one goes and whether or not it will get released. After that one, I may get back to work on the one I started in 2011 (#11), but that’s so far into the future and who knows what the “facts” will be by that time…where I will be in my probable and alternate realities…but I do have a ton of work to keep me busy for a number of years, and would even love to compile a collection of my short stories….

With any of my work, feel free to pass on any of the graphics from my blog posts, tweets, Pinterest, et cetera (though I ask that you render proper attribution). If you need a book or a speaker at your local library, book club, or writer’s group, either in person or via phone/Skype, please, feel free to contact me, at fpdorchak “at” fpdorchak dot com (or leave a comment in a blog post). Post reviews at your favorite websites (if you’d like a book for a book review, please contact me at the above email). Need to fill a blog post? Interview me! Direct me to a library and I’ll send them some free copies. If you come up with any ideas, again, contact me at the above e-mail address. If you’d like a signed copy, send it to the following address: F. P. Dorchak, P. O. Box 49393, Colorado Springs, CO 80949. Take my books to work or the gym and flaunt their covers! Tweet and blog about them! Any way you can all help out to get the word out is hugely appreciated! Mention me to radio shows. Local writer conferences. Reader groups. Send my social media links.

As always, thank you for all your support! I can’t thank you all enough! Publishing is a team effort, and I always manage to find a great team—but part of that team is also the readers! I love what I’m doing and all the support I’m getting from all of you!

And again…pay attention to the details of your lives…let nothing escape your notice, however “insignificant” those details may appear.

What does it all mean?

I think that’s up to each of us to figure out.

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Psychic Cover "Flat" (© F. P. Dorchak and Duvall Design, 2014)
Psychic Cover “Flat” (© F. P. Dorchak and Duvall Design, 2014)

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Going Indie—What I’ve Learned (So Far)—Part 11

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Forge Your Own Way. (By Morrowlong [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]
Forge Your Own Way. (By Morrowlong [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]
It’s truly never-ending.

When you’re doing everything yourself—and by “yourself” I do mean having a team, but though you do have a team, you’re still in charge—you never really get a break. And that’s okay, because, in this instance, it truly is a labor of love.  But, you can only push yourself so far without adversely affecting your health, relationships, that kind of thing. It’s like I’ve said before, you can only do what you can do. Don’t fret about it…but do your best.

Indie publishing.

I’ve been working on my Psychic manuscript since before 2000. I’d originally started notes and chapter one around 1994, actually, when I’d discovered that our government claimed to have disbanded a classified remote viewing program. It gave me a story idea, so I began notes and such, but it wasn’t until 2000 that I sat down in earnest and began the task I’m still trying to complete. This month, I hope to finally complete it. And though I’ve been working on this project for a large frigging part of my life (surprisingly, this is the manuscript I’ve worked the longest, good God—20 years, if you count when I started taking notes—man that just hit me as I write this!), the difficulty has largely been the timeframe of the book. I’ve had to change the dates and ages and technology numerous times in trying to get this thing out there. And, as I’m wrapping things up, I’m still discovering little nit-noy shit (even though I have a proofreader), like the age of my antagonist at certain events, or the need to again change his weapon of choice. It’s become maddening. I am, however, finding this stuff before my proofreader will find it (she’s still reading and not yet at the end), but it’s frustrating! So, once again, I have to go back in and make corrections. But, that’s the way this works. Unless you do have another set of eyes…and even perhaps despite that, you may still find errors, because no one knows your story like you do.

Good Lord, 20 years?

Hopefully, what you find are not egregious errors…but even so, remember, even with the Big Dogs (the Big Five/Whatever) readers find errors. We’re human, and we make mistakes.

So, here is my latest round of things I’ve discovered:

  1. We’re human, we make mistakes. Accept that, but do your best. Have a thick skin, and readers…be kind. Understand this, fact, too.
  2. Blurbs? As I’d written in a previous post, I’m no longer seeking them…but to those I’ve already gathered, I’m going to use. Again, I reiterate: all those who have written me a cover blurb have actually read my work.
  3. Copyright your work! There is a really good post on this, and it got my ass in gear, now all my work is copyrighted. I always meant to do this, it got lost in the shuffle, so, thanks, Susan (Susan Spann has been most helpful to our writing community)!
  4. Don’t respond to e-mails with your favorite (or any, for that matter!) music blasting away! You could get carried away! There, I said it. You think that’s a stupid thing to say, but I love rock and roll, and, well, yes, sometimes I can get a little carried away with the energy of it. Music can and does change your state of mind, and you don’t want to get cocky. Just sayin’.
  5. Putting a price on your cover. When I first noted this item, I was of the mind to put a price on your book when printing the cover (if you can). It’s been mentioned a couple times on sites/sellers of books. I’ve asked my community about it, and I don’t remember anyone responding, so I don’t take it as being all that important. The more I thought about it, the more I came up with: why? In today’s world, that only really seems applicable to brick-and-mortar bookstores. So, I’m backing off the need for that. I don’t think you need to have that anymore. That’s old school (unless someone reading this can give me a good reason to do so). Everyone discounts books, even the brick-and-mortar stores. Indie authors cut deals left and right. Why would this be a necessity anymore?
  6. Be quick to apologize! Never be afraid to say you’re sorry for something you may have done, even if you’re not sure you’ve actually done something wrong. I am constantly amazed at how few people in the world actually apologize for anything, especially men. You got it. Men, friggin Man-the-HELL-up and take goddamn responsibility for your actions. I see it so much in my day job it pisses me off (and had another experience with exactly this just yesterday!). I forget why I’d originally included this item, but the point is salient. Get off your Ego Podiums!
  7. WP blogging: check that your saves are actually saved! Good Lord, this bites me more than I care to consider—and other WP bloggers! Yet, every time I contact WP about this, it’s like the first time they’ve ever heard about it! It’s not, WP, so please, fix the damned issue! Below the post window, on the right, there’s a “Draft saved at…” timestamp, and below that is a “Revisions” history. Checks these areas frequently!  Can’t emphasize this enough! Check them every time you save, to make sure your save—whether it’s a “Ctrl-S” or “Save Draft” selection—that they actually have taken. Especially if you’ve completed an initial post then been away from that post for a long time, like hours or days, and come back. Copy your text into Word or Notepad as you’re working. Highlight and copy into your clipboard what you’ve worked on periodically. If you happen to get a message that has the words to the effect “Do you really want to do this“…it’s too late. You’re screwed. You’ll keep what you last entered and saved, but anything after that last “official” save is forever gone.
  8. Cut your losses. If something’s not working out for you, detach yourself from it. Remove yourself from it. I recently had to do that with something with which I’d been associated for a very long time. It’s going  its way, I’m going mine. C’est la vie. Move on. Don’t keep the “bad energy” in your Weltanschauung. Don’t bad talk whatever it is…just move on.
  9. Not all advice is good. Everyone has an opinion, just like me, but not everything we give will work for you. And—I have to say this—not everyone knows what they’re talking about! Not everyone truly understands Indie publishing! And…some are actively trying to still discredit Indie publishing, because they’re in Traditional publishing, are pissed, scared, Old School, whatever, and are trying to interdict, spoof, and (argh, I’ve forgotten the term!) intentionally direct you away from your chosen path. Be aware. Consider all you hear with a block of salt. And remember this: there are always a million reasons not to do something…but, you only need to find one reason to change. Make the break and create a new path for yourself. This, however, is one guy who has his shit together: Bob Mayer. Read his stuff.
  10. Not everything you write is publishable! This should be obvious! Going Indie may give you license to publish everything you write, but everything you write is not necessarily publishable.
  11. Keep writing.

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The Monroe Institute

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We Are More Than Our Bodies. By Luigi Schiavonetti (†1810).Tvwatch at de.wikipedia [Public domain], from Wikimedia Commons.
We Are More Than Our Bodies. By Luigi Schiavonetti (†1810).Tvwatch at de.wikipedia [Public domain], from Wikimedia Commons.
I learned about The Monroe Institute (TMI) long ago, and am not sure if it was through Jane Roberts and Rob Butts’ exploration into the nature of consciousness or from Robert Monroe’s original book, Journeys Out of the Body, published in 1971. But as I read about the world of remote viewing, I discovered that it had also been part of the remote viewing world. TMI is situated near Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, and is, according to their website, “...a non-profit research and educational organization dedicated to enhancing the uses and understanding of human consciousness.” They claim no religious, philosophical, nor spiritual affiliations. Further, they state: “We ask only that you consider the possibility that you are more than your physical body.”

TMI is about exploring human consciousness. It’s about expanding what we think we know about consciousness, life, and death. Anyone who can afford the time away and fee for attendances can go and learn how to tune into the inner world, through various programs and the incorporation of cutting edge audio technical wizardry (e.g., Hemi-Sync, Spatial Angle Modulation). I’ve purchased some of the home-use material, over the years, and have loved what I’ve used. Really cool stuff. I’ve been meditating off and on since kidhood, and have read metaphysical works since same, so none of this was new to me, but I loved how Mr. Monroe, like Jane and Rob, had brought the inner world out into the mainstream. There will always be people out there to dismiss and stomp on anything, no matter the “proof” that exists, and one person’s proof is another’s myth, but I learn from experience. What I learn may not be what you learn…but there is certainly much to be learned from TMI’s (and others’) experiences.

We all have our paths to follow.

So…as my fiction writer’s mind went to work (back in the late 90’s and early 2000s) and I considered probabilities, alternate realities, JFK, psychic “mechanics,” and my next writing project, I thought, man, I’d love to write something about remote viewing and this TMI stuff. Psychic is the result of those musings. Psychic is not Sleepwalkers, but the two are related. Psychic is darker, grittier. In my novel, I created “The Center,” which is a mash-up of TMI and Fort Meade, where the government’s remote viewing projects were located. The Center is a might darker than TMI. TMI is nothing like my novel. I’ve never been to TMI. I like what it’s about, and hope for more of that kind of research to flourish and make itself known. So much good can come from that kind of exploration, spread across the globe without the guise or filters of “religious, philosophical, nor spiritual affiliations.” In my humblest of opinions, we need more non-denominational explorations into the nature of consciousness. People can and will apply that knowledge through their various personal filters, and that is as it should be, but we need to know the lowest common denominators of what it is consciousness is all about. What we make of it, how we employ that knowledge is up to us.

But, hey, let’s make the world a better place with it.

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