Fiction Fargment: Final Idea

There was a flash of light and the soothing blue was suddenly there, banishing the darkness. “Look at that! I told you it would work. You mad, bro?” The victory cry was full of youthful energy that was still in the early beginnings of being ground down by the steady attrition of Father Time and Mother Bad Decisions.

“Right. Congratulations. Maybe some museum will want that thing, because it sure as Hell ain’t worth shit to us.” Here was the final destination to the erosion of enthusiasm, the voice of wisdom and experience that says “no” to just about everything and ends up being right far too fucking often.

“Yeah, you mad.” A broad smile spread across chiseled features that fell short of renaissance humanism’s perfection of man but were still worthy of admiration, a credible effort sculpted by a talented amateur. His pale blue eyes gazed into the screen of much deeper blue with a sudden and surprising intensity, impaling the ancient television, searing through it. “I’ll find a use for it, just you watch. You’re just jealous of my mad ‘rounging skills, that’s all.”
   
“There’s a real future in picking through garbage. That’s for sure.” The older man rose from the badly battered couch with some difficulty, pressing withered hands into the walls for stability, joints worn to the nub by empty pursuits loudly protesting this new verticality. Pain competed with annoyance beneath a camouflage of gray stubble and deep wrinkles. The Herculean struggle completed he let his arms fall to his sides where they dangled uselessly, like dead animals hanging in the window of a butcher’s shop. “I already sent the petition to the National Television Insurance while you were out. We’ll get a replacement in a few days and there won’t be room for that damn artifact.” Glassy gray eyes scanned from one side the apartment to the other. It was little more than a glorified corridor and even he could walk from one end to the other in a few heartbeats.  
   
“You’re a damn artifact Ellerby, but I still haven’t tossed your goofy old ass.” The younger man muttered the reply without breaking the willful gaze into the electronic equivalent of existential oblivion. “Not that they’d let me.”
   
The two men had been assigned to a term of five years together in their last “Fair and Dignified Housing” lottery. As members of Unprotected Class A they had done about as well in the blind draw as could be reasonably hoped for, although neither man would ever admit that.  
   
“You keep playing with that thing. See what it gets you. Foolishness.”

Fiction Fragment: Spy Cam

Twenty minutes and no reply. The Over Man scowled at the screen, trying to cause someone to participate in what he thought was a very well thought out thesis by exerting the power of the will. A tap of the refresh button only confirmed the failure of his mind to influence others, even if it had evolved past good and evil and slave morality. The direct mind control of White Racial Comrades over long distances was probably still a month or two away. Face-to-face it might be a different story.
   
“I’m out of here.” With that statement made to the walls, the one man einsatzgruppen switched off the computer for the first time in nearly a year. Normally when the needs of The Struggle called him away from his propaganda ministry he just set the device to sleep, but not this time. It was completely off, lights out. The weight of recent events combined with the slow traffic at New Wehrmacht Reporting had led to this unthinkable moment. He actually felt pulled toward the door, which was highly unusual to say the least. Outside lurked Israeli trained killers, ZOGbots and maybe even someone of non-European hertitage. It was a bad place, in other words. Still, he had to go. If it meant becoming the modern world’s Horst Wessel, shot down by Reaction or something, that was the price he was prepared to pay.
   
New Bremen was still in the middle of summer, specifically that part of the season where there’s no more doubt. June has its cold days and a Wisconsin September isn’t exactly clement most of the time, but here in the exact chronological center you can’t possibly come to any conclusion other than “yeah, it’s fucking hot.”
   
“It’s fucking hot.” Walter cursed to himself as a combination of back spasms and the merciless assault of solar radiation sent beads of sweat racing down a face that might be mid-thirties or mid-twenties, depending on the day and the angle and how good the light is. Right now, it might have passed for forty. It was like whatever youth remained was melting off.
   
The first stop was the post office box. Even in this day and age of miracles of wireless transmission and the full dreams of Tesla made flesh the post is still the primary source of supply and intelligence for the aspiring Savior of the West. Sure enough, the metal cubby hole was practically bursting with letters of every size, shape and condition. With practiced movements Walter easily separated the wheat from the chaff, forming a “keep” and “discard” pile on a nearby table. It was easy, mindless work which also carried the additional bonus of air conditioning and being separated by two sets of doors from the poisoned environment where the government make-workers slaved. His mood improved rapidly, as if each letter assigned to a pile also represented an infusion of energy.
   
A request from the Imperial Knights of the White Fight to come to a rally somewhere in the south: discard. A letter from a NWR supporter with a badly wrinkled ten dollar bill enclosed: keep. An offer to sign up for a credit card that gave bonus points for purchasing gasoline and airline tickers: discard. A catalogue for an adult novelty company that offered erotic films, lotions and potions, and artificial vaginas: keep.
   
By the time the process was over the White Warrior was up nearly fifty bucks and had some nice late night reading material. Not too bad. Happily whistling the Westerwald Lied he made his exit. The next stop was the local burger joint. Even the Man of Destiny is not entirely immune from ordinary appetites, after all.
   
The meal of an Emperor Burger, large fries (those fucking health cranks had finally caved in and allowed it back on the menu, no more ordering three medium servings instead) and high fructose corn syrup ambrosia was simply delicious, perhaps even more so when it’s purchased with profits made from The Struggle. It would be hard to imagine most religious conceptions of heaven offering anything better than the pure bliss delivered by these All-American staples. Rivers of wine? Virgins? Keep that, brother. Give me greasy joy on a bun with some fresh cancer-causers as a side.
   
Perhaps somehow sensing his joy The Enemy made their move. It was at this point of greatest temporal pleasure that he encountered the spies of the NWO. It all started when two men entered, at first glance too ordinary looking suits taking a power lunch or whatever those corporate fucks call it these days. Anyone else might have ignored their presence as nothing outside ordinary experience, but the trained eyes of the Wehrmacht Reporter were not so easily fooled, quickly noting features that suggested a Jewish background or possibly even some negroid admixture.

Then there was the bag, which to someone unskilled in urban recon might have been dismissed as the ordinary paper sort used to transport take-out orders. Our hero wasn’t fooled. It first drew his attention when one of the men seemed to be very carefully placing it on the table, as if making sure it was pointed in the proper direction. A receit was stapled to the bag, which to the best of his knowledge was not a standard practice of Emperor Burger. Typical government work, half-assed and with glaring errors. The final damning evidence was what appeared to be a small slit. The spy camera must be deployed behind it. This was not a kosher burger order, no sir. These men were Mossad, CIA, FBI or maybe some combination of all three.

“Stay calm, stay calm.” The Storm Soldier whispered the words like a mantra. The sweat returned in full force, even in the cool interior of the temple of poor dietary decisions. Greasy ersatz potatoes fell from trembling fingers as he realized this might be his moment of martyrdom. Would the deadly poison darts even hurt? It was impossible not to wonder.

The two tools of the oppression were talking to each other and sipping milk shakes, apparently oblivious to the deadly game they had initiated. These guys were good, that was for sure. Most of their victims probably entered the next world with no idea how they even got there. Not this time, not this time. Erik’s hand closed around his phone.

It was time for a last stand. A final swallow of ammonia treated semi-angus beef for courage, a last bit of carbonated water for essential sugars to fuel the coming fight or flight and the White man who can see the truth was up and approaching the modern day Oprichniks, his camera phone held at arms length in front of him like a cross presented against a vampire.
   
“You want to take pictures?” The plan was for the statement to be delivered like an action hero, full of righteous and manly indignation, but sad reality reduced to a barely comprehensible croaking. The two men turned and for a moment there was eye contact. “I can do it to!” The second line was closer to the platonic ideal of tough guy recitation as the first outburst had cleared most of the soda’s sticky syrup off the vocal cords.
   
With the steely resolve of a machine gunner desperately firing his last ammunition at the advancing horde he repeatedly snapped off pictures with the phone. Like undead horrors fleeing the cleansing sunlight both of The Enemy brought up there hands, making an effort to cover their faces, as if deflecting invisible blows. Seeing his opportunity, Erik pocketed the camera and dashed for the door, fully prepared to take a silenced burst from an Israeli Uzi right between the shoulder blades. Instead, nothing. Moments later he was in his well-used car, hauling ass.

Aaron Zehner is the author of "The Foolchild Invention" available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.    

Short Fiction: Gift

It was Christmas morning, back in an era where calling it as such was simply frowned upon instead of bordering on a hate crime. Erik Kramer had been waiting for this day for weeks but still managed to sleep until noon when it finally arrived. Feeding a lazy and unhealthy lifestyle always has to take precedence, even when matched against the great passions. Passions like the love of personal computing. Yeah, it’s right up there with the need for social recognition, meaningful employment and the in-out.

“Well, look who’s finally up.” His father was at the kitchen table casually reading an engineering journal as if it was one of those “guess who showed her crotch getting into a car” celebrity rags. His kind eyes glistened behind glasses that were something of an engineering feat in their own right, held together by faith and more than a little tape. It was cheaper than buying a new pair and Mr. Kramer was never one to put the needs of Big Lens ahead of his own interests. “Thought you’d want to get that computer going right away. Even I wanted to open it, but you know, proper decorum.” He emitted a burst of high-pitched laugher, but quickly regained a serious demeanor. This was an issue of importance and that was not to be forgotten.

             

“Sorry Dad, I was just real tired.” The younger Kramer began filling a bowl with a cereal that had more in common with the items found in the candy isle than the bread one. Coated on sugar glistened in the noon sunlight, reflected off the drifting snow outside the house.

            

“Well, a growing boy needs a lot of sleep. That’s what they say.” The bespectacled gaze remained fixed on a peer-reviewed article about new advances in engine tolerance. Silence, broken only by the steady crunching of a not-quite-complete breakfast now prevailed. It wasn’t long before an empty bowl clattered its way into the sink.

            

“Ok Dad, let’s pop this sucker out.” The excitement that had been barely bottled up over the past month, since the gift’s selection became official, now came in one nearly overwhelming rush. He felt light-headed, despite the ample amount of simple sugars now powering the organic machine. This was, after all, his first time. Using the school computer lab didn’t count. This time the sweet fruit of centuries of applied mathematical and electrical research was all his, to have and to hold.

            

Erik had recently turned seventeen and was working on his Junior year. It had been a year spent buried in studies, frequent visits to said computer room and more and more isolation from an increasingly irrelevant peer group. For the most part it wasn’t missed and he could easily convince himself that nothing of value was being missed by forging friendships primarily with inanimate devices, but sometimes the loneliness would creep in and start to gnaw. The solution was to retreat further. He’d started taking his lunch in the chemistry room and sometimes passed entire days without saying more than a few words to someone his age.

            

No loss, though. They were just fucking wasters and jocks and rich phonies anyways. Last year, for example, they made a hero out of a Freshman who knocked some other knuckle dragger out. Yeah, what a hero. Fuck ‘em.

Discarded plastic bags, packing peanuts and the like soon blanketed the floor of the living room like a highly unusual indoor snowfall. From these various baby-chokers emerged the various components that would provide the necessary vehicle for the journey down the amazing highway of information that was slowly emerging as something Big Business regarded as a fad with limited mainstream appeal and many from the older generation regarded as the new C.B. Radio.

             

Not his father, though. This was one of the nice things about having a tech-geek in the role of Baby Daddy. If anything he was the one struggling to keep up while Dad rattled off technical specifications as if they were statistics from a hero athlete or something. Erik was just glad to upgrade from a word processor that was little more than a glorified typewriter to a true cutting edge machine that would probably stave off obsolescence for at least six months, maybe even a year.

            

“She’s a beauty all right. You be sure to treat her like the lady she is.” The computer now occupied the place of honor formerly reserved for the King Typewriter, Mark III. With that special combination of grinding, flashing and fanning that signals the beginning of any true romance the device came to life. The day was finally here. From now on every event would be designated by whether it occurred before or after the beginning of the personal internet age.

            

It didn’t take long to get online and begin the journey down the amazing hole of technology. At some point his father left the room, but the departure went completely unnoticed. It was almost a form of the astral separation, leaving the mortal shell to become part of pure technology, no more distinction between man and machine. Dinner was replaced with a bag of chips and a bottle of carbonated sugar and even that seemed like a considerable imposition considering the importance of the techno-merger that was being consummated. By the time Erik came up for air it was eight the next morning. He noted the time, shrugged, and went back into the online life substitute.

            

A full week passed and it was time to go back to school. While other human units had stories of vacations and family and all that other flesh-n-blood In Real Life nonsense, there was only one issue of concern for the newest citizen of the online world.

            

When can I get back on the computer? Everything else dissolved into trivial unreality, if it had ever had any substance to begin with.

Aaron Zehner is the author of "The Foolchild Invention" available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.    

Short Fiction: Normalcy of Evil

A person doesn’t just stumble into becoming a serial murderer and mad bomber. On the other hand that’s almost exactly how it happens. These sort of paradoxes are both good and necessary when the issue of complete system failure within civilized human resources is addressed. In some senses there is a dramatic event horizon a person crosses, a moment where the darkness fully embraces the soul and all goodness perishes. On the other hand it’s all so fucking banal. It even starts to become very understandable and its at that point that we have to retreat back to ideas about moral Rubicons and psychotic breaks and all the rest. The banality of evil is hard enough, but the normalcy of evil? It can never be admitted if this thing we call civilization is going to have any chance of getting a second wind.

             

Nature and nurture, all the forces of the invisible but undeniable structure that supports every silly little thing that seem very important before one looks death square in the face and lets the illusion of sanity drain away. The illusions, the mythologies, they still have power even after this encounter. They creep back in and the false comforts are difficult to resist, especially in light of the alternative. The upshot of all this bullshit is that there is no single moment that defines any given human soul, just slow slides toward a direction that is probably almost completely predetermined, broken up by occasional retreats or halting inertia provided by moments of genuine happiness and connection to the world. They’re fleeting and then the steady drift toward destiny resumes.

           

He was at a bar, trying his best to both fit in and stand out all at the same time. Not easy. Conflicting bits of advice from websites that taught “game” and polite society that teaches everything but that swirled behind glazed eyes, the eyes of a toad. The half empty scotch-n-soda was held at chest level, almost like a holy cross to ward off the freaks that came out with the night, even in an idealistic suburban bubble. It took tremendous force of will to force the prop back down to waist level, where it would communicate the confidence of the pack leader, according to some half-remembered website. A warm drop of sweat slid down the side of his face. It was late summer, deep in the dog days. The press of warm bodies and the stress of having to “assume the sale” within this meat market was not helping.

             

Yeah, genetics and conditioning. Add in existing societal structures and expectations and you’ve got your holy trinity. The drink was back up in front of a quivering, moist sternum. Thirty Five years old. Happy fucking birthday. Thinning list of women who even acknowledge your existence, thinning patience, thinning hair, widening midsection, all that shit. It was time to change it. Three second approach, don’t want to be a coward or worse a beta. No turning back now, target acquired. The glass flew back to the beltline with a spastic jerk, spilling water and booze on his cool new shoes. A man sliding toward a happier future might make some crack about the alligators being hungry and giving them a drink, but he was nearly paralyzed by a combination of fear and narrowed purpose.

           

 “You ready to get out of here?” It came out as a an awkward squawk. The female target turned slightly toward the source of the unpleasant outburst, orange skin crunching itself into exaggerated disapproval. That or a catcher’s mitt with light blue eyes.

            

 “What did you say?” Just a small hint of carefree mirth peeked through the heavy weight of social rejection and it was enough to encourage that this doomed mission to pound crotch would continue to its inevitable crash and burn.

            

 “I was thinking we should get out of here.” He felt faint, light and dark and wacky signs and beer ads and bottles of all shapes and colors swirled into a hedonistic blur. Then everything focused in on that unnaturally tinted face, the face of a tanning bed angel.  

             

She laughed, but the mirth was gone now, replaced by dismissive malice. “Get lost.” A staggered retreat, more unpleasantly joyful braying as the only companion for the promised activity of getting out of there.

             

You can’t blame it on that one moment, or really any other. The first murder didn’t happen for several days and was a random victim instead of the obvious choice. It was the end of a long and lonesome road, not a sudden deviation caused by failure in love. That’s not to say that the undrained testes don’t play a major role in these sort of crimes, because they certainly do, but let’s not lose all the other complexities to simple myopia. If you want to keep it simple just blame crap nu-metal and the video game boogey man. It’s easy and no one with any real power would ever call you out for it.

             

Days passed after that failure to fire the love rocket and then there was that encounter with the human road kill, another precious soul in GOD’s image whose own pathetic path toward ruin was cut short by a merger with a tough as all Hell truck. It probably had at least some impact on the decision to start human-hunting, but it’s hard to say. Tuck that shit into a file, stamp “not otherwise specified” on it and forget it, we don’t have much more time to spend on this.

             

Then the kill. Just a blur, spraying blood, knife reflecting the moonlight, muscles aching from the effort. It might have been a minute, but it passed by in a few seconds. Back to the hole in the wall, over the toilet, the yellow yawn. Insides feeling like they’re being shredded, body shaking, consciousness lost into a vanishing point. The “I’ll never do this again, ever” of a regretful drunk, knowing full well that he inevitably would, that free will was nothing but a cruel joke at this point, that something was broken in the mind. Not even something large, not a universal joint or the like. Just one tiny part. But it was enough to compromise the entire system.

            

 Then another and another. Bomb making materials. Auto-pilot. Hurt by so few, but everyone has to pay. Humanity lost. Another interesting story for the back page of the paper. We can all shake our heads and cluck and “there but by the grace of god” and all that shit. Yeah, that’s you. 

Aaron Zehner is the author of "The Foolchild Invention" available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.  

Underground and Beneath

I’m sick as all fuck. Liver blown to hell from inhaling stuff that looks like water but isn’t, knees all busted from being on them so damn much, back wrecked from the weight of the world, all that and more. I’m old. I’m not even sure of the exact age, but it’s been several decades since the flood, the tribulation, the day, the time when everything changed forever and it’s a really big deal and we’re all the witnesses to it. Truth is, nothing really changed that day, but that’s the voice of experience and ruined internal organs speaking. Back then, I thought it was important, too.

The death of civilization, that is.

I went for a lot of walks after everything went into the cocked hat of destiny or whatever they’ll call it. Earth abides, green everywhere, really kind of nice. Shame that time in The Garden couldn’t last forever. When the skeletal-muscular system says enough, you have to listen. Force of will might make history, but it never won a long campaign with bad joints. When you’re fucked, you’re fucked.

I’ll be taking another walk soon, but it will probably be the last one. For awhile, I mean. Didn’t mean to get all dramatic and maudlin there. I’ve got many more years of chronic pain and memories of dead friends to look forward too, probably. Yeah, I guess my memories and everything else that makes up the big “I am” could go into the dark nothing that we all flee in vain from before I even make that last walk for awhile. I doubt it, though. The universe has a sense of humor, I think, even if it runs pretty dark. It wouldn’t let me cheat it out of one last punch line.

Some would call it karma. Fuck ‘em.

I’m taking another drink. Real bitter stuff, right from a still. Lucky to see straight after years of one hundred proof window cleaner and endless solitary vice. But, again, it wouldn’t be funny if I couldn’t see what’s to come and nature observes the laws of humor as certainly as gravity and the strong force and Noah’s flood making Grand Canyon in about twenty minutes.

The flood. I called that earlier, didn’t I? The end of the age of miracles, the age of glowing screens in every palm, high definition pictures of food and dear diary verbiage splattered all over invisible wires. I was as much a part of it as anyone, maybe more so. On top of that I received the special dispensation of living through the fall from grace and deep into this new era, this age of dirt and fucking and big nothing and life goes on, bro. Setting up that punch line, the perfect delivery and build-up. Called and chosen.

Tomorrow I walk. Maybe make a cane out of a tree branch, or a full walker out of a stump or the like. It’s too important, everything has been building up to this moment. Non-participation in destiny is not possible.
They think it’s still there, underground, just sleeping. We’re going to try to wake it up. I have to be there, I’m the old guard, the wisdom of the ages, the one who has done everything except make a black baby. I’ll know what to do when we find it. I’m like the shaman, the worker of wonders, the man who is so old and so completely wrecked behind the eyes that ordinary physical and mental entropy is mistaken for mystical truth by the young and dumb. If they only knew, but they will, in time.

Wake it up, bring back the old world. There’s no way, no chance, but I still have my part to play for the old cosmic laugh track. Think of it as a penance and maybe it won’t be so bad. I deserve bad, there’s no doubt about that. Who fucking doesn’t? Worst prayer in the world: give me what I deserve.

Old world coming back, that’s the hope of youth. It still lives in parts of my mind, parts that just refuse to die despite my best efforts. Maybe take one more anti-freeze cocktail. No, I still recall it well. Right before the end, feeding into the fortune of information we were blessed with. We were like Gods back then, speaking wonders into existence. Yeah, it was glorious. I could tell you.

Fuck, this drink is harsh.


Aaron Zehner is the author of "The Foolchild Invention" available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.

Iron

High School fucking sucked. September of the Fish year wasn’t even over and Joe Smith had already had more than enough of it to write a steady load of god-awful rejection misery poetry for the next century. This was not what the television and the Cinema Industrial Complex had promised in the lush fantasies they painted.
   
It couldn’t be chalked up to simple life loser-ism, either. Eighth grade had been awesome, good friends, easy classes, girls developing and discovering that loose behavior is often rewarded in western society. The next four years looked to be overflowing with more of all that good, plus getting high on all sorts of drugs and pounding crotch. Instead of LSD-drenched stickers and girls gone wild he had entered a world of freshman kill days, hours of dreary homework each night and a total and complete failure to deploy the pocket rocket. Somehow all those dear old friends were always in different classes on the other side of the impossibly sprawling campus. In their place was an endless sea of faces riddled with skin problems and naked hostility toward grade nines. 
   
There he was, on all fours picking up scattered government texts after having them unceremoniously “dumped” by an upperclassman. He was getting used to this routine, it had already happened at least a dozen times. Granted this was still better than another fresh fish who had lost three teeth to a toilet seat during a swirlie-gone-wrong, but that thought provided small comfort at best. Who knows what the next kill-day would bring, after all. He might end up left for dead in a locker or broom closet. 
   
“Pick that shit up, boy. What the hell are you doing?” It was the grizzled voice of a man from the Greatest Generation, or at least the Less Great But Still Not Bad one that had fought communism and the fear of nuclear incineration with the awesome weapons of toughness, conformity and duck-and-cover. An Old Lion, in other words. The voice, coarsened from decades of smoking ultra-high tar selections, demanded respect. “Come on, get up! Show some spine!”
   
The owner of the voice was one of the school’s instructors in the physical culture, or at least that was the official cover story. It was just as possible, maybe even probable, that this member of the Old Guard was actually a deranged but basically good-hearted drifter who had infiltrated the school for inscrutable reasons. The incredible power of confidently acting like you belong somewhere is not to be underestimated. Just strut around like you own the place and very few people will call you out on it. This is especially true when the individual in question is all stoic ruggedness and decades old barely legible Marine corps tattoos
   
“Get up! Shit!” A wrinkled, spotted claw enveloped Smith’s soft upper arm and brought him back to full verticality with a single exertion of ancient sinews. “You gonna take that shit the rest of your life?” Sometimes silence is the only answer a person can manage. “Well? Cat got you?”
   
“Nah…no, sir.” Fluid filled gray eyes seemed to look into his soul. Even the relaxed grip of that claw easily restrained the tremendous natural impulse to turn and run. The bell rang. He was late. At this particular moment that could not have been more meaningless. The tomes of political correct thought were still littering the ground, completely forgotten. There was only this moment, this life-changing confrontation with something that was more an elemental than a fellow human being.
   
“Don’t lie to me you little fuck!” Despite being the only two still in the halls of learning it seemed impossible that no one heard this outburst from the old man of dubious actual authority. Maybe it was heard and simply ignored through fear. Smith was shaking as if in the clutches of an epileptic aura. It was a small blessing that his underwear remained unsoiled. “Yeah, you’re the type that never fights back.” The words came as a Camel cigarette flavored hiss. “That’s your generation, no fucking balls.”
   
“Please don’t kill me!” At the time the plea seemed perfectly sensible. This was going to make one wonderful funeral for his family: dead at fifteen, biggest accomplishment was figuring out how to masturbate, killed by a crazed veteran of foreign wars in a high school hallway. Freshman kill day wasn’t supposed to be literal, for fuck’s sake.

“If I was gonna kill you, you’d be dead already, just like all those yellow heathens I bagged for Uncle Sam.” The gravely whisper was now barely audible. “No, I’m going to change your life. Meet me in the school gym at 3:30.” For a moment the grip loosened and even the beginnings of a smile were evident on the age-devastated face of the veteran. “You can’t even imagine what I’m going to do for you.”
   
Just as quickly, the smile vanished and the grasp became tighter than ever. “If you aren’t there, I’ll hunt you down like one of those damn reds.” Determined madness blazed under the watery surface of his eyes. A few moments later he was gone, leaving the First Year dazed and disoriented.
   
Suffice it to say very little actual learning took place in that afternoon’s Pre-Algebra class. Somehow “zero the hero” seemed less important in the face of an imminent encounter with mortality at the hands of a real life Iron Man. One scenario after another flashed through a mind that was not yet fully formed. He imagined push-ups ‘til puke, followed by having an unloaded pistol pressed to his head and repeatedly fired without result until he’d been completely reduced to quivering jelly. Then the real pain would start. Maybe it would have been best if the old soldier had just dropped him in the hall. Quick and merciful, as opposed to the Geneva Conference outlawed prisoner of the high school war torture that was awaited.
   
Yeah, this was a long way from taking “roof hits” in between getting sucked off by sexually precocious and totally legal jailbait.
   
“Smith! What is the answer?” The mortality fantasies melted away. On the board was the number “7” with brackets around it. What kind of witchcraft was this?
   
“I don’t understand.” If his first month needed a motto, this one would have sufficed.
   
“Just provide the answer.” Oh, well. That’s what you wanted. Fuck.
   
“Twenty Nine?” The entire class was silent for two heartbeats and then erupted into studio-audience at a buddy sitcom style uproar. He barely even felt the sting. What was looking like a fool compared to actual, imminent, physical dissolution? It doesn’t even rate.
   
The final bell rang and he performed the dead man’s walk down to the school’s weight room. He’d only been there once before, during an orientation. That brief visit was enough to dissuade any return. Everything in there seemed to be rusted or falling apart from neglect. This was the lair of monsters, not any normal, right thinking Fish Year. But there he was. The man from the old guard was waiting. It was time to die.
   
Twenty minutes later he was squatting for the first time in his life. It hurt, it felt ridiculous and the fear of being murdered hadn’t entirely dissipated. In spite of these things he felt drawn into this new world. Muscles were filling with blood, violence chemicals were being released into the gray mush and a connection was forming to a forgotten past, a past when man was nothing but another animal. No, more than that and not even a little bit less. The smartest, toughest, baddest animal on the planet. The vilest beast with the mind of genius. On to the dead lifts. The weights hit the cracked, wet concrete floor with a satisfying crash. He let loose a primal howl. The rugged golden ager gave his silent approval, arms folded over his chest, an unlit cigar hanging from cracked lips.
   
There was no turning back after that initial rush. For months he met with his new mentor after school. The lifts steadily increased as fall turned to winter. He was slowly transforming, deep within a cocoon of iron and brick. The slow process of evolution, ape-creature to master man, happened in secret over that long cold winter. The mystery of nature, the change that is unseen but completely undeniable. When he emerged from the crucible in the spring he had become a man. There was a freshman kill-day that corresponded with April fools. An upper classman tried to dump his books and earned a fist to the face that knocked him out cold. As he was being taken away to begin his suspension he saw the wrinkled face for what would prove to be the final time. It was glowing with pride.
   
He might have died, he might have simply left content in the knowledge that his job was done. Smith never did find out, but so much of what the remnant of a past age taught was now internalized, from diet and exercise tips to how to be a man. The actual physical presence of this strange benefactor had begun redundant. The young man continued to train and soon found himself becoming the king of the school. The respect was earned, and with it the hot, hot birth canals that are inevitably offered up to the alpha male. He wished it would never end, that he could stay in this world forever.
   
Then it did and he was forced out into the adult world. This time, however, there was no one to guide him.


Aaron Zehner is the author of "The Foolchild Invention" available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.

Why a “Kick Ass Idea” is Over-rated

I try my best to avoid them, but I still manage to run across those “Five ways to be a better writer and here’s a picture of an unrelated female torso” articles a lot more often than I’d like and sometimes even accidentally read a small amount by accident while desperately clicking the “back” button. The end result of this steady accumulation is acquiring at least a foggy awareness of what people whose only published fiction is the claim they’re an author think is important. I’m definitely worse off for it.
   
One suggestion that I came across that stuck with me was the importance of high concept and being way-too-clever, or as the colorful graphic put it, having a “kick ass idea.” I’m a metalhead. I watch and participate in death sports. I pick heavy objects up and put them down. I’m all for kicking ass. I don’t want you walking away from this thinking I’m against putting the shoe into it. By all means, kick ass. Just be aware that the place to put the foot into the metaphorical posterior is in the actual writing, rather than hoping some “great idea” that’s almost certainly derivative is going to carry you through even a dozen pages, let alone a few hundred.
   
Think about it. The “kick ass idea” in War and Peace is that there’s a war and, well, peace. Not exactly mind-blowing innovation, but in the right hands it’s unbelievably memorable. Contrast that to any randomly chosen lower tier sci-fi novel. You might find amazing originality and moments that almost approach “I seriously pondered a deep concept and I liked it,” but it all drowns under the tide of uninspired choice of language, flat imagery, forgettable characters, awful pacing and all those other little things that look so easy when someone else is doing them.

 Yup, it rocks.

  
Ideas have value, they are important, but in the grand scheme I think they get too much attention. “Where do you get your ideas?” people ask, when they should be asking “Where did you learn to use language like that?” or “What sort of drugs did you do before writing those descriptions?” Those are the good questions, but because the actual craft of writing is not something most readers notice when it’s actually done well, you get a fixation on one small part of the process.
   
Don’t let your originality end with the Big Idea. Let it start there and then grow like some sort of wonderful metastasis of the imagination. Yes, that means hard work. Yes, that means actually developing technical ability. Yes, that means failure, re-starts, crushing writer’s block, frustration, severe under-appreciation and possibly even learning a little about who you really are. It’s going to hurt, but it’s a good kind of pain. Like the exhaustion of a workout or being hooked up to a battery in a bedroom setting. That kind.
   
A wise man, or maybe a video game character I forget which, once said “Too clever is stupid.” That’s not a motto for us all. Don’t overreach. Start simple. Who knows where it might go, but don’t try to get there in one giant step.

Aaron Zehner is the author of "The Foolchild Invention" available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.

Author Interview at BTS

Do you recall how your interest in writing originated?

When I found out that radiation will actually kill you instead of giving you super powers, most lawyers are significantly less awesome than Perry Mason or even Matlock and your typical professional baseball player didn’t go 0 for 30 in Little League competition. I was twelve.

I write to clean out my mind. It’s cluttered with story ideas and if I’m going to get any conventional thinking done I’ve got to evict them. Once it’s been written, I can stop obsessing over it.

What was the hardest part of writing your book?

Trying to come up with new and exciting ways to describe cups of coffee and their contents. Battling the auto-format when “Word” decides there’s not going to be a space there, my own opinion notwithstanding. Fixing the endless “their/there” mistakes.

To be a little more sincere, I think the most difficult part is consistency, especially on days when I’ve decided to write but the blood-soaked gray just isn’t offering up anything good. Some days are a lot better than others.

The occasional “drink break” doesn’t hurt, either.


Read the full interview here.

Excerpt from "Posts from the Underground"

Gonna Set New Personal Records Today

Broseph Smith
Posts: 6,486

I no most of you homos dont even lift so u cant rlate to this or nothin but im all fired up to hit the fukkin gym. theres been so much fuarking shizit lately im gonna go fukin crazy in there prolly and beat all my prs. yeah, its fukkin on now.

***

Rockandrollallnight
Posts: 2,867

I liked the part where any of this actually happened and/or was documented.

***

Bow to the Masters
Posts: 12,024

In before phaggots who don’t even lift make idiotic comments and show off their ignorance.

Edit: Too late.

***

LastTractionHero
Posts: 4,115

Please keep us all motivated with lots of progress pics and videos. I want to see what you got, man. Annihilate those fukking weights, bro! Bring down the pain, we’re all ready for it. This is SPARTA!!!!!!

***

 “You’re not going to throw up, are you?” The fair young maiden avoided eye contact while abandoning her hair twirling routine to fully express the annoyance and repulsion at said possibility.

“Just give me the key, all right?” They say that a good reputation takes a lifetime to earn while a bad reputation can be obtained in a matter of seconds. The exchange, in addition to being of the highest possible literary quality, was an object lesson in that particular old saw. A few drunken misadventures several months earlier had effectively erased years of disciplined form, weight re-racking and wiping down sweaty surfaces. Indeed, it completely overshadowed all of that good and had become the sum total of his earthly value as far as the employees at Twenty Four Shred were concerned. There was probably some sort of lesson buried in all this, but honestly who fucking knows.

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.” Mumbling incoherent oaths the Man who Actually Lifts negotiated serpentine hallways, found lockers, discarded the garb of an ordinary citizen for the uniform of the Iron Soldier and prepared to set new standards in the realm of moving heavy objects without any particular end objective.

It was coming up on midnight. Some reporter who looked drunk and/or stoned was soundlessly passing on the news, his weary features identical on ten different monitors. A few other lost souls were milling about, apparently done with their workouts but choosing not to leave for whatever reason. He had the weights all to himself, more or less. It was a special providence, a preview of what heaven would be like for the muscleman, assuming he somehow made it because of a clerical error or the like.

Forty Five pound plates slid on to the bar, finding their place with a satisfying metallic clang. Four bells, ready to lift. It wasn’t long before the minimalist preparation for the “dead” was completed and it was time to go testicles to the drywall and shatter preconceptions about what is and is not possible in the arena of raising something to waist level. Every last ounce of strength was deployed as our hero lifted the bar, struggled for one terrifying second and then snapping the bar up to belt level while simultaneously straightening his body to a posture worthy of a finishing school. In his mind the three white lights for “good lift” came on and he let everything crash to the floor, the hellacious collision caused by gravitational forces nearly drowned out by screams of victory. The concrete wall was punched repeatedly and even given a headbutt before an explosion of red pin pricks in front of blurred vision discouraged further self-abuse. The record had been set and it how belonged to the ages.

Adrenaline continued to flow freely, to the point where the pain generated by the injurious behavior that had been part of the celebration quickly faded and than was replaced entirely by a flood of mind narcotics of the “good job” variety. One thing was certain, he wasn’t going to stop there. In this elevated state anything was possible, not just major dead lifts. It was time to squat. Calloused hands balled into fists in anticipation of another tough battle. It happened, but not in the way that was expected. The rack was occupied. It was one of the lost souls, an unbelievably ordinary looking middle age slice of American mediocrity. He was doing curls. In the squat rack. Curls. This could not stand.

Even under the best of circumstances Joe was hardly what you would call even-tempered and right now chemicals generated by triumph and bodily damage removed any free agency that might otherwise have been present. In essence, what was about to unfold had very little to do with free will, if anything.

Before we get to the highly satisfying violent mayhem it should be pointed out that the weight room, like any other social construct, has a complex system of symbols, taboos, mores, stigmas and other two dollar concepts that are dispensed in low level sociology classes at your friendly local diploma mill. To an outsider this complex societal contract can seem nearly impenetrable, but the proscriptions can be distilled down to don’t bother others and don’t use the various stations incorrectly. Our half-way to the grave slice of average was in violation of both and grievously so by performing a wimpy “impress the holes” routine in an area specifically reserved for going all out with the balls out. This is the sort of thing that would make Ghandi beat your ass, let alone a jacked out, stressed out, balls out serious lifter whose pursuit of pee aars is being thwarted by your crapulence.

“Hey bro, I got to squat here. Move.” Across the room ten monitors were simultaneously displaying an image of a hot piece of ass being zipped into a body bag. Outside there was only darkness and a few lights from the parking lot hovering in the air like a will ‘o wisp. Heavy silence descended inside the Temple of Belief. The one other silver ager in the giant well-lit room rushed for the door like someone fleeing a wild west shootout. The silence now hung heavy as the offender of etiquette continued to transfer dumb bells from the belt to the shoulder and back, without a care in the world, as if nothing had been said and a hulking mass of well-defined muscle wasn’t well within punching range.

“Yo, chief, I’m talking to you. You hearing me pal?” Smith was now right on top of Mr. Ordinary. After a few moments of tense uncertainty his presence was finally acknowledged as the lukewarm sample of humanity ceased his exertions and turned partway, facing his inquisitor at a ninety degree angle.

“I just got three more sets. You can wait.” The voice was barely a whisper but it was clear and easy to understand. The actual content was far more difficult to get a handle upon. Three more sets? Of curls? In an otherwise empty gym? With me waiting? This was madness.

Perhaps confused by the way events were now unfolding the Forklift Engineer and Big Truck Pilot actually took a few steps away, even giving his back in what is generally a sign of submission among great apes.

The screens were showing the damage the second bomb had caused at the university. A different reporter, a little older and hopefully a little more sober, was walking through the rubble while making expansive gestures. He was talking, but with no sound it was impossible to imagine what insights were being offered. Probably “look at this fucking mess” or the like.

Mr. Smith spun back toward the violator of unspoken norms as if he was dodging one of those open field tackles in pig bladder ball. Two quick strides and he was on his victim like a tiger taking down a gazelle. The embarrassingly light free weights crashed to the ground, soon to be joined by the two men locked in mortal combat.

“Die, die, die!” Red haze fully descended as Joe flailed wildly at his prey. The young lady from the front desk, perhaps summoned by the man who had made a discrete escape before it all “went down,” took one look at the human insect fight and ran back to her station to make a telephone call that for once was not about ohmaigawd and allied concepts.

***

"Posts from the Underground is now available paperback and e-book.

"The Foolchild Invention" is also available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here. 

"Posts from the Underground" Now Available

My second novel "Posts from the Underground" in now out in both Kindle and Paperback format right here. You can read a free excerpt below. "Posts from the Underground" is a wild ride into an invisible world, finally providing an unlooked for and amazing answer to the age-old question of "who are these people?"

A fascist on disability. A cold steel and sex appeal musclehead. A college senior who believes trolling should really mean something. They’re making Posts From the Underground.

The trolling had been successfully accomplished and yet the pleasure obtained fell short of even the imitation Twinkie that Erik Kramer had just consumed with a single ravenous snapping of jaws and clapping of chins. Granted, there was pleasure, but with everything that had happened recently a large part of his being was now numb to it. The latest New Bremen murder was all over the news and there was talk beginning that a serial killer or something wicked sexy like that might be operating in the otherwise practically comatose pocket paradise.

The police had been back at his door. The dead man, a hard-drinking, wife-hitting, factory-working, shit-kicking, conspiracy-loving overall fuck-up had expired from multiple stab wounds less than a block from where the hit-and-run voyeur had entered into eternity and the department was now operating under the assumption that this was not simple coincidence but indicative of some sort of larger pattern. In a city where there hadn’t been a murder in three decades suddenly having two red pins in the precinct map, practically right on top of each other, was luridly suggestive and small minds were running in overdrive. Facing a situation reminiscent of something the moron box might vomit out on a Thursday night even the wisest of us can fall into folly, let alone someone who needed three tries to pass a police examination.

The questions had been flying and it was clear right from Jump Street that the computer poseur was no longer considered some sort of heroic body-finder but rather was now perhaps the only suspect in a crime wave that was threatening to drown everything good and decent in a sea of spilled blood. Somehow it made it a lot less fun and even the fact that he would make a very unattractive and inadequate prison bride was cold comfort.

They kept asking the same thing over and over, questions about where he was on the night of interest. “In a fucking basement pretending to believe views that I actually don’t in order to provoke a response from various online communities including virulent racists” was not the answer they wanted, apparently. They just kept hammering away, every word dipped in rich creamy disdain, the same sort Kramer had feasted on in happier times. Yeah, it was quite a statistical anomaly that the lair of his extended adolescence had suddenly become Grand Central Station for violent passages into the afterlife. Yeah, sometimes being exposed to an amateur human dissection experiment conducted with an automobile was indeed capable of damaging a person’s psychological health. Yeah, he was a weird fuck. It was all shaping up into a nice little package. When your best alibi is a time stamp on a post calling for Aryans to exterminate all Canadians and annex their lands on a site called New Wehrmacht Reporting it’s understandable that you might end up as a person of at least medium interest.

Still, when all was said and done and all the good/bad officer psychodramas concluded there was no actual evidence to link him to either crime. Simply not owning an automobile made his actual participation in the auto-erotic fender massage unlikely and the other crime involved the difficult anaerobic routine of several repetitions worth of knife in-out, an activity that would be difficult for someone with his considerable carriage and poor cardiovascular conditioning.

Then they left. All the usual bits about not leaving town and keep it in your pants and so forth were offered during the retreat back to donut land or whatever. It wasn’t like there was anywhere to go. Unless he had another very understanding close relative somewhere else, but this was not the case to the best of his knowledge.

Back to the internet. The latest thread was already on the third page, quite an achievement for a forum that probably had less than twenty active posters. Erik sighed and tried to force his fingers to type something that would create more outrage, but writer’s block descended heavily.

In a few weeks he’d be back in school. Senior year of college, last call for irresponsible naval gazing and lotus lunch and then what? Some fucking cubicle somewhere? Loading toner into a printer, but failing over and over until it becomes a struggle worthy of Greek mythology? Kissing some old reptile’s ass to get ahead? All of the above, probably, and it was all uncertain and alien. Nothing he’d done or was doing was providing anything even resembling actual preparation for any of that. Instead he was regressing, descending back to the sand box, to dirt eating, to pointing a finger and laughing. Just be sure to point that finger right away, before you get singled out yourself.

The phone was ringing again. Ah, to be wanted. The adoring public wanted to hear about his latest misadventures. Who am I to deny it?

Leaving a half-finished post accusing other faceless net abusers of being insufficiently dedicated to worldwide revolution he went to grab the call. He’d soon wish he hadn’t, but that’s doing things in the real world for you.

***

Aaron Zehner is the author of "Posts from the Underground," now available in paperback and e-book.

His first novel The Foolchild Invention is also available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here. 

Foolchild Invention Now Available in Paperback

Today Paperback Hero finally almost lives up to its name with the release of my first novel in paperback. You can get yours right here. Below is an excerpt from the novel, you can read another one here. The Foolchild Invention paperback makes a great gift, can be used to correct that uneven couch leg, is perfectly safe to handle if you are pregnant or may become pregnant, performs admirably as a flyswatter and can be burned or flushed without offending anyone.

The new growth industry: kidnapping. The shovel ready job: murder. The secret history of the modern world: The Foolchild Invention.

It's an invention for fools and children. It's called the future.

I found the correct number. I took one last deep breath. The journey begins, again. A blast of white light greeted me as I opened the portal of potential. Come to the light of low pay and long hours, my son! I found myself blinking back tears as my peepers struggled to adjust to the artificial sunburst. First the cruel voyage across the sun’s anvil, now this fresh agony. It’s not easy being a vampire, let me tell you. It’s not even that sexy, contrary to what you might have repeatedly heard.

“Hi! Are you here to apply?” An edge of discontent and grinding boredom competed with the forced cheerfulness in the voice of the receptionist. She was several years my junior, but already showed the weight gain and world weariness that are an occupational hazard in the intense world of asking people why they are here and what they want. The stress from such demands could wear away the Rock of Gibraltar, so imagine what it does to a very average young girl who dared to fly where eagles only dare.

I was still recovering from having the delicate inner structures of my eyes taxed to the limit by my encounter with the searing light of truth, so my answer was slow in coming. I finally managed to get enough control to communicate my purpose. I was rewarded for this effort by a smile that while more pitying than warm at least seemed to be entirely genuine. “You’ll need to fill out these forms.” Papers seemed to materialize from nowhere as my vision still struggled to interpret my new surroundings. “Take a seat over there.”

Resting my fundament on one of those, “three for the price of four,” pieces of furniture was quite welcome. I was starting to feel a little faint and I think it was only the massive amounts of refined caffeine plant I’d ingested earlier that kept me from landing in a drooling heap on the floor of the overly bright office.

I went to work on the forms. Even in this futuristic computerized wonder-world we now live in I was still forced to scratch on a stack of dead tree remnants. Honestly, where is the progress? One would think that by this deep into the 21st century we’d have some sort of virtual reality process or something. And where the fuck is my hover car, for that matter? In any case I kept writing name and number on the appropriate lines, over and over. Yes, I am unemployed. No, I do not suffer from miner’s black lung disease. Yes, I graduated high school. No, the dog next door is not speaking to me through the wall, telling me to kill. Yeah, this was going to take a while. This is the long lonesome paper road to economic recovery and ex nihilo job creation.

As my eyes slowly recovered from the shock of the bright light fright I began to notice a few details of the cramped waiting room. A maze of cubicles worthy of a Dilbert strip sprawled out behind the front desk and every so often a pudgy woman or scrawny guy could be seen picking their way through the well-padded maze like one of those targets in Hogan’s Alley. ”You were right to fire, but that target clearly is protected by layers of flab built up through years hunched over a desk. Next time aim for the head.” Or, “You shouldn’t have fired. That target has three to five years of payroll experience and as such has tremendous human value, far more than you do.”

Again, I noticed how the business drones made it a point to hide from my gaze. I don’t even think it was because I was having homicidal violence fantasies about them. It was more embarrassment, as if there was a certain shame in everything they did and that shame was especially amplified by the presence of an outsider who had yet to be fully corrupted. Then again, I just might have a really crazy looking appearance or something. It couldn’t be ruled out.

I wasn’t alone in the waiting room. I was joined by a few lost souls that made me feel downright optimistic about my own miserable circumstances. First there was this old boy, looking every day of seventy, but obviously not ready for blissful retirement and gold watches and strutting around with his withered genitals exposed at my gym and all that other good stuff. Instead he was a few chairs down, cutting a deep frown into his wrinkled face and fretting over the same forms I had, spotted hands shaking away. He was probably not very happy about having to check the “yes” box for “have you gone over a decade without any type of joy whatsoever in your life.” I mean, even I could still honestly say “no” to that one, although who knows what the future holds.

We were joined by two other individuals facing a bank of computerized wonder on the far wall, like something out of the most depressing Star Trek episode ever. First there was your classic working class scum-bag, dressed in his finest denim and plaids for this important employment summit. You could tell it was high stakes as he left the beer-stained Harley Davidson shirt and the you-don’t-even-want-to-know stained trousers back at the Baby Momma’s house. Despite the heightened levels of self-awareness on the “looking like shit” front he still seemed to be struggling mightily with this so-called “com-pu-ter” if the seeming random pawing at the keyboard was any indication. No, my good man, you’re not going to need to hit the “PrtSc/SysRq” key too many times when you fill out a basic on-line application form.

Completing this triumvirate of unique and valuable special snowflakes caught up in the gears of progress was a dumpy looking woman of perhaps forty. She was operating the technology of the bold new world with the exhausted ease of someone who was very familiar with clacking keys and glowing letters. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of payroll background lurked behind her watery eyes. If it was substantial and she was applying for the same position, I was pretty much cooked. Yup, this bitter and world-weary sack would probably be viewed as the best possible choice. I guess it wasn’t the constant losing that bothered me as much as who I kept losing to. I could see falling short against other young hot-shots in a brutal shark tank type fight for highly desirable promotions or something. But here I was, getting bent over by the world’s least interesting woman in a battle for a job that’s the tie and suit equivalent of working in a salt mine.

No, no time for that sort of pessimism. I’m still likable, I still have a decent background full of books and taking tests, I deserve this. Chin up, fill the form.

After writing my name for probably the tenth time I finally reached the bottom of the stack and the dreaded I.Q. test that lurked there like a movie monster at the bottom of verbiage swamp. Too bad I hadn’t gone to law school like I used to dream about when I was a little snot-rag filler watching Perry Mason: I could probably sue this place into the Stone Age. Everyone knows that BS like “intelligence” or “a personality that doesn’t immediately grate” are the persona non grata of today’s stimulated economy. Can you clack the fucking keys? Can you use a highly specialized computer program used by us and one other office in Calcutta? These are the important issues. Smart people sometimes win arguments and likable people sometimes get the spotlight, and we certainly don’t want that when we can have cubicle rats who scurry around, avoiding the light and the gaze of others and occasionally emitting a squeak or two.

Ok, back to the examination. Serious, this time. “You have $500 dollars.” Well, hot dog. This was more than a simple racist and culturally biased exploration of mental prowess, it was honest-to-goodness economy porn. Somewhere John Maynard Keynes is leaning back in a comfy chair and softly moaning. “Required widgets cost $1.75.” Oh God, widgets. I’m going to lose it. “How many can you purchase?”

My mind was racing and my hands were struggling to catch up. The combination of a massive, imaginary windfall and the extreme challenge of fifth grade long division certainly form a heady cocktail. As I regained my center a bold stratagem began to form in the frontal lobes. Maybe I should just throw the test and do as poorly as possible. They’ll think I’ve got some secret, incredibly complicated plan going and hire me out of fear for what I might spring on them. Yeah, pull some wild end around and hit them where they least expect it. “You’ve got a Master’s Degree in some esoteric nonsense but you can’t do basic math? What is the story, man?”

It’s pretty telling that I was reduced to even considering this sort of Byzantine maneuvering, but a steady diet of failure will do that. The good news was I decided against taking the dive after a brief internal debate. I still had my arrogance as an academic and Big Brain to consider, after all. Pride will screw you over every time. I did the basic math to the best of my abilities and having put paid to the insensitive and divisive evaluation I returned the entire stack to the desk. Approval shown out from the receptionist’s round face for just a moment. It was almost like we were having a moment of genuine connection, recognizing our common humanity and decency, in spite of everything. Then she handed me a plastic cup.

*               *             *            *           *

The Foolchild Invention is also available in e-book format at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble. This version will not be as useful for killing pests or fixing your leaning furniture, but can be acquired instantly via the miracle of technology. 

The Red Sleep

This is an excerpt from a novel I wrote years ago that has been stuck in rewrite hell ever since. Right now it's near the bottom of the list of projects I'm working on, but I think it's worth a look as it is.

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One

You don’t want to get caught up in the Red Sleep, the violence that spreads like a virus. When it happens, human assets are lost, valuable property gets damaged, vital resources for the endless war effort are wasted and feelings get hurt.  It’s the worst in the summer, when the thermal inversions come and the heat seems to drive people into it. But here it was in the early days of winter, a chill in the air competing with the comforting warmth of the air pollution, and I was walking right into it. All because of my busy fucking mind. Too much time, ticking away.

The thing is, you can usually avoid the Red Sleep, unless people fall under the spell right next you, in which case you’re basically in for it. The only hope then is to either fight your way out, meaning you become a part of the Red Sleep yourself for all practical purposes, or to try to find some safety in the eye of the storm, so to speak, as the punching, beating, killing and possibly even foul language spreads out in a radius in all directions.

If you’re not caught in the initial flare-up, you should be fine, since random mob brawls are still enough of a novelty even in this day and age to be easily noted from a distance. This is why the typical Sleep only lasts a few minutes. Everyone involved is either on the fucking cement bleeding out like a pig or simply has no one to attack. Then the safe, highly profitable and fulfilling life we lead in the D-Zone can resume. Industry for victory, friends. We are winning!

No problem at all. I can solve the world’s problems without even trying.

Expect I’d crawled up into my head and all awareness was gone. It was worse because it was morning, well early afternoon really, but I just woke up and perception is reality. I still had bleary eyes and the dream trance that follows you out of bed until you eat and get some of the old Vitamin C, that is caffeine. I could barely feel the concrete beneath the old burglar boots I was wearing. People passed like ghosts, faces a blur. My eyes lingered in the strangest of places. Trash blowing in the wind, a jet whistling by overhead, an ancient peeling poster blasted yellow by the endless assault of the elements. It could still be read, barely:

“You can smack a Jap with scrap!”

Or get fucking smacked in the Red Sleep.

Within that numbing haze was the old inner voice, babbling away nonstop about things that seemed so important before I found myself fighting to survive. Beauty, truth, meaning, the fucking face of God, all that shit. It was like letting a room behind my eyes to some stuffed-suit professor. Take good notes, you will be tested.

Even worse the beautiful music that is the soundtrack of my life was droning away on top of it. The songs that always seem to be playing in Ronny joints and from fucking stairwell speakers had burrowed their way into the well-folded gray soil and started spreading out roots, throbbing away deep below the surface. This time it was “Too Much Time on My Hands,” which was actually rather apropos. “I got nothing to do and all day to do it.” Tell me about it. No kidding.

In between the very cool and highly insightful popular music, my internal dialogue kept droning on. Thoughts about going no where, what the future would hold and what I needed to do to make it. Just worthless shit. It took a fist bouncing off my god damn skull to act as an alarm clock, if you can handle that. Back to a state of nature, back to the only real truth. An explosion of color was followed by a wave of pain washing everything away.

Everything was a blur as I acted on animal instinct, reduced from any high-minded introspection back to the part of the mind we share with reptiles and all of that.  With my vision blurring from the five to the face I managed to make a cowardly retreat from the field of diseased honor. Showing the mighty power of self-preservation that carried the human animal through ice ages and so on I ducked behind a very convenient door. I held it shut with my shoulder and arm, pressing against the cold metal and looking through the small heavily stained glass window to the outside. I felt a sliver of rust scrape off against my arm as I applied supreme effort for the cause of preserving the self. My heart hammered in my ears and my wind returned in painful gasps.

I didn’t ask for this shit.

The good news was none of the Sleepers even bothered to try the door. In that state anything except swinging, biting and ripping is pretty much out of the question. As I watched, rubbing the growing bruise on the side of my filled-to-the-brim head, it was already winding up. Three bodies lay in growing pools of blood, two on the sidewalk and the third near the center of the narrow street. A handful of walking wounded hobbled away. The bright red on the ground was so striking in contrast to the dull colors that otherwise dominated, as if it was a touch of an artist.

In the D-Zone you notice colors, or at least the lack thereof. Do you have any idea how many different shades of gray and brown there are? If you live in the D-Zone you do, because those are for the most part the only colors you see. I’ve been told the Eskimos had nine different words for snow in their language. We need some more words for brown and gray. Even the air here is a mix of those colors. The blood on the street is almost a refreshing break from it all.

You can call me Sid. My full name is actually Sidney, but I never use it. It’s too soft, don’t you agree? Here in the D-Zone you can’t afford to show weakness, any more than you can afford to walk down the street lost in your thoughts with eyes full of morning dew. Sooner or later, this place will kill you.

I want it to be later. That’s why I was dealing in Thremeron. That’s why I had soldiers fighting for me in this fucking sewer. Most importantly, that’s why I needed to shut up the voice in my head.

It just wouldn’t go away. Even after coming close to painting the street with my ruined body the internal voice was back at it. I almost wished I’d be attacked again, to silence it, to return to the level of a beast. Give me a sensation, any sensation. I want to feel something again besides the endless numbness and apathy that wraps around me like  a cloak, chilling instead of warming.

Is it any wonder I’m not a criminal? Is it any wonder…

I was still looking at the blood on the ground.

“If you ain’t buying, get the fuck out!”

Slowly normalcy returned as the pulse in my ears hammering out a message of panic to the rest of my body in Morse code slowed and the flash of heat that danger brings faded. I turned to face the interior of the building. As luck would have it, I was just where I needed to be, more or less. A brute of a man, all fur, leather and muscles, glowered at me. Beefy hands wrapped in yellowed tape and worn bandages told the tale of many non-verbal interactions with potential patrons.

“Yeah, I’m buying.”

One last glance at the used up shells of mortality. They were still there and probably would be for awhile. Crisis over, back to normal. What could be better than the sweet embrace of the routine?

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Aaron Zehner's first novel The Foolchild Invention is available in e-book format at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.

Short Story Fragment

Just a little something for the middle of the week. More gamebooks coming on Sunday.

*     *    *    *

It was early evening, twilight, dusk, whatever you want to call that strange period that prevails for a short time between the light and dark. Mid-july, maybe the longest day of the year. I’m in the city. I’m trying to get home. It seems that particular issue comes up far too often.

You can lose track of time. The bookstore is closing at the end of the month and it was probably my last chance. A lot of it was already packed up, cardboard boxes on the floor full of yellowed pages, neat stacks of recorded thought ready to go to the dust bin, unsorted piles with colorful covers suggesting all manner of adventure on the dank insides. I got caught up sorting through it all, seeing if there might be a hidden treasure worthy on my hard-earned fed play money. I was deep in it and the time slipped by from late afternoon to the current temporal no man’s land.

I bought a few things. One was one of those social problems books, printed in an era where success still seemed like a possibly, albeit one that would require hard work and sacrifice. No one thinks like that any more, not even the true believers. We’re fucked.

Another was some sort of science fiction. I got it just for the cover, mostly. Planets and aliens and computers filling in for THE LORD, that sort of shit. I couldn’t even remember the others. It would be a big surprise, fucking holiday morning when I get home, open that mountain-climber “because it’s fucking there” backpack and find out what they are. Small pleasures, they’ll do until something better comes along.

You have to keep your eyes open. The pack attacks, the killings are nearly commonplace these days and I’m not interested in being one of the faceless victims that are quickly ushered down the memory hole with some token cluckings of disapproval. Here and there are likely suspects, peering out from between hundred-year-old buildings, thin monsters full of menace, occupying a world built by the dead and forgotten.

It’s only a few more blocks. All around cements and brick and even the occasional wood or steel. There are sirens, but I think they’re at least a mile off. You get an ear for it, like soldiers who learn to tell if that artillery shell is going to miss or if it’s time to move, to dive for that bomb proof bunker and hope for the best. That’s pretty much what I was doing too, get out of this area of danger, back to the safe haven, the enclave where nothing bad can possibly go wrong.

Coming up on a main intersection. I can see the train from here, but it’s still a fair way off. The eyes can play tricks at this time of day, like that distance distortion in the desert and that sort of shit. Don’t walk. Do anything else, but not that one particular answer. Who am I to disobey an edict delivered in unnatural glowing orange like an urban will-o-wisp? It’s a bad break, though. It means no more forward motion toward the goal and having to stand and wait, stand and be counted, noticed. Yeah, it’s already happening.

*      *     *     *

Aaron Zehner's first novel The Foolchild Invention is available now.

Thoughts on "Creeper"

If you haven't read it yet, now is the time. Part One and Part Two.

The idea for this short story was one of those lame "ripped from the headlines" deals about some guy who had made spreadsheets about his online dating and somehow got caught. That, in and of itself, wasn't especially interesting, but the amount of venom that was generated from the usual tolerant suspects intrigued me and I started wondering what the real story was. We'll probably never know, so I made one up.

The danger with this sort of "real life incident" writing is that it almost always sucks the vein rocket. The writer assumes, wrongly, that the unusual nature of the core conceit is enough to carry the story and the end result is a shaggy dog tale with no substance or heart. This is why I generally don't like drawing on "real life," as some people call it, for ideas. Ultimately, it can't do all the work for you, or even some of the work.

A good example of doing it right is "The Possessed" by Dostoevsky. Among other things it deals with a revolutionary being killed by his own group in hopes of bringing about a People Rise Up scenario. That's an interesting real life story, but it's the treatment it gets from the Russian that makes it memorable. In lesser hands that would not have been the case. It's the same way an interesting setting or a clever high concept or you liked it when it was this so you'll like my copy of it can't save poor writing. Character, humor, description...I don't always succeed, but it's always the goal.

The upshot of all this is that the narrator in "Creeper" is given a chance to be a fully realized character instead of a one-line joke that gets stretched for several pages. He's no saint, for sure, but I tried to make his motives understandable and perhaps even sympathetic. I'm trying to go deeper, look at motivations and shared humanity. Does it work? Eh, it's a free short story, who gives a fuck?

But I still think, yes, it does.

My favorite joke to write was Patriot Manufacturing moving from China to Bora Bora and causing investor panic that must be assuaged ("burp and change them" as the narrator puts it). It's absurd, ridiculous, a little insulting to our intelligence and let's be honest, completely believable. That edge where a farce has some real truth to it, that's where a lot of the best humor lies. Maybe that's the one benefit of living in a country that gets more insane by the day: the jokes get a lot easier to write.

What happens to our narrator after the story ends? It's something I've wondered about, I've even considered maybe taking concepts from this and using them in a future novel. I guess the answer is "back to comfortable anonymity after the outrage fades." Indeed, the man in the real life story has been forgotten as newer, more interesting crimes and follies have cropped up. In today's world infamy has become as difficult to obtain and just as fleeting as fame. I don't know what that says about us, but probably nothing good.

DotTeeVee will be back on Sunday, see you all then.

Aaron Zehner's first novel is The Foolchild Invention.

Part Two of "Creeper"

This is the conclusion of an original short story. If you haven't read part one, be sure to do that before reading the conclusion. I'll be posting thoughts about writing this short story next Wednesday.

*          *          *          *

I walk around like the boss. It’s been three months. The system keeps expanding, but never faster than my ability to keep it organized in that other gray computer. I’ve got it all color-coded now, which helps a lot. I’ve always considered myself to be one of those logical data-crunchers, but I think I’m discovering an artistic side. Maybe I’ll quit this paper-chase to sink crosses in piss and shit or something, haha.

            

The night before I’d obtained biblical knowledge of the fourth girl in as many weeks. I still have that fear of failure in the back of my mind, but these days all it does is make the success even more exciting than it would be otherwise. The System is just that good. I haven’t missed a name and I was only wrong about a girl being in a “save the dogs” charity one time and I just played it off like it was a joke. Yeah, this works well. I almost wonder if the time has come to share it with the world. For a fee, of course. Maybe not. Cash isn’t exactly in short supply and I like to think that there’s a certain dignity to this exercise. It’s not one of those as seen on TeeVee gimmicks.

            

I actually went to one of those “how to get girls” seminars at a fancy hotel a few years ago. Yeah. I was the youngest sucker in the room, lots of balding old bastards sweating grease and wearing gold chains over hairy chests and fat guts. All you need, Mr. Scumbag, is a few magic phrases and you’ll be getting 18-year-old pussy. That’s how it was. The pick-up expert was, of course, young and good looking. All nail polish and funny hats, which was probably just for appearances.

            

He had a lot of energy, I’ll give him that. Bouncing from one side of the room to the other like a well-manicured tennis ball, constantly firing off ideas that would help transform the human slugs packed into the room into lady killers. We were supposed to insult them. We were supposed to be arrogant and unconventional. Hold that drink by your belt, not up near your mouth! Something about clawing onto dance floors. That was the exact word, clawing. There was a ten minute intermission halfway through. I used that opportunity to leave.

            

Maybe some of that stuff had value, but it didn’t fit my own very unique and special circumstances. There’s nothing that screams “special and different” more than being one of several interchangeable suits in a randomly selected office building nearly identical to a hundred others. That’s all changed now. I’m now the dissenting voice in the wilderness, the modern rebel.

             

And I’m getting laid. A lot.

           

*          *          *          *

The only fear now, apart from the usual shit about the west collapsing when the browns rise up or some jihadan blowing up my building, is that I’m getting complacent and not pushing for even more. It’s been nearly a year since that moment of direct communication with a force that some, in their ignorance, call “God.” The spreadsheet now stretches for several full screens in both directions. From modest beginnings it now represents a Wonder of the Modern World. Logic and reason have conquered the land of emotion and frivolity and now rule over it with absolute authority. I have cut the Gordian knot, crossed the Rubicon and slayed countless boom-boom kitties.

            

I’m now some sort of Vice President. I do even less for even more. The change in my demeanor didn’t go unnoticed by the invisible wire-pullers, I guess. Better move this guy up. I’ve got a huge corner office now and I come and go as I please. The day’s work usually takes ten minutes, if that. The rest of the time is spent devising ways to take this game to the next level. The Ottoman harem has been realized. The final level, if I dare, is full-blown Ghengis Khan game. I think it’s time.

            

Maybe a year or two after that pick-up workshop I was deep in the computer dating. I was still in school, now a graduate student, and it seemed like a convenient way to meet virtuous young ladies to discuss the good and beautiful with. Maybe in theory. I wrote lots of cutesy little e-mails, shit like made-up screenplays and semi-clever poems and sent them out to likely candidates. The response was deafening silence, until finally a hot little number liked a Casablanca homage I sent her. We arranged to meet for some of that hot brown liquid. Rock and roll.

            

Long story shorter, she didn’t show. Instead the coffee house was jammed full of other men, all of whom seemed to be looking around for a special someone. Fuck, we’d been set up! Get out, abort, abort! Or just turn and leave in dejection, whatever. On the way out the door some kid of perhaps eighteen snapped a picture of me with his phone, yelled “White Knight,” and ran off through an ally.

It seems like a completely different life.

            

I was back on the train after another day of vice presidenting for those big bucks. The Ice Bitch was there. I don’t think she remembered me. I walked over and did an “opening.” It’s all a scientific process now, so totally predictable. Ask a few unexpected and unusual questions. “I’m looking for a book recommendation, what do you think would be most appropriate for me?” and “Do you ever get a little sick from the train’s movement?” All too easy. A few of those put-downs I paid $80 to learn about years ago, some light touching, follow the flow-chart, one step at a time.

            

Later I inserted my penis into her vagina.

*          *          *          *

           

Disaster! I’ve been exposed! Ok, I’ll slow down and tell it right. Like every great tragedy the mighty man was brought low by hubris. I got way too sloppy. I left everything in a vulnerable position and got found out. She must have been rooting through my things, the way women do, while I was enjoying some post-coitus oblivion. Stupid, stupid! The lap top was right there on the table, turned on even. I think the file might have even been open. It all comes crashing down.

             

Then the internet celebrity, like that fat kid pretending to be yoda and all that. Two days later and it had circled the globe, the creepy fuck with the spreadsheets full of women. The language generated wasn’t exactly of the tolerant and non-judgmental sort that is supposed to be used. E-mail box just exploded, full of angry harpies and laughing male losers who probably wish they had thought of it first, but can now bite deep into the sour grapes and savor the misery. Even the phone was going off before I shut it off. Lots of screaming, you better believe it.

            

The security guards arrived at the office today, to show me out and make sure I don’t go all American Psycho up in this bitch or something. That’s wonderful, being treated like a criminal. Clean out the drawers. They marched me out of the building. Probably would have taken even more liberties if there weren’t witnesses everywhere. On the midday train I don’t recognize anyone. They probably sense I’m an outsider. Everywhere I’m hiding from looks full of accusation and contempt.

             

The sun just went down. I’m deep into the whiskey, probably gonna really accelerate the pace now, ha, ha. I checked the e-mail one last time, just morbid curiosity, thousands of messages. One push of that delete key, see ya. Just a setback, just a setback. This too shall pass, right? The booze barely burns at all now, just slides down nice and easy.

            

My turn to use the phone, call that bitch from the train. Again, just one push of a button to do it, age of miracles. It just rings. It’s dark now. Pour another glass. Getting sent to voice mail. Got to play this one just right. Concede, but don’t actually apologize, that’s the way. My speech is slurring just a little. I tell her to get over here and bring back the disc she took. It is, after all, my property. After that we can start again, sadder and wiser.

             

The call is over. Through the window I see the city lights, dancing through the Tennessee Lenses like distant stars or that Van Gogh painting. Something like that, I’m not an artist. Tomorrow I can hide. Everything seems peaceful for the moment.

            

One final gulp.

            

I’ll find something better.

*          *          *          *

Aaron Zehner is the author of The Foolchild Invention, available now.