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.

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Rockandrollallnight
Posts: 2,867

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

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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. 

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.

Part One of "Creeper"

I got the idea when I couldn’t remember her name. It was one of those moments of extreme clarity when unrelated threads come together in a surprising way, revealing a suddenly obvious answer in a flash of genius. A moment of invention and inspiration, a divine gift received from an unknown hand. I wanted to stand up and shout, to completely embrace this moment of transcendence, but this would violate the laws of semi-formal dining and obviously this was the last thing I’d ever want to do.
  
I think her name was Jenny or Jenna or some variation on that theme. If she had noticed my moment of prescience there was no outward indication, as the soft droning about a human resources career continued. In a bit of serendipity it was that very choice of topic that reminded me of my own highly stimulating employment and led to The Revelation. That was the thing: it had been right in front of my face the entire time. I guess the solution, no matter how obscure, always seems simple once it is revealed.
  
“Well?” Shit, I was expected to engage in actual human interaction with this delightful collage of legs, breast, lips and so on. Just don’t panic, that was the trick. With enthusiasm from the discovery threatening to explode at any moment into socially awkward elation I needed to play this one close.
  
“Well, people are just crazy sometimes. There’s nothing to do about it.” She made a non-committal clicking noise before tucking back into pricey, nicely arranged vittles. Kick is up, kick is good.  
  
I settled my gaze on breasts that were about 80% exposed. Yeah, that’s nice. It pulled me back into the moment, at least a little bit. Get some of that blood out of the brain. My own meal, some sort of steak mix, was growing cold, largely uneaten. Let it go, let it go.
  
She talked some more about something or other. I guess the remains of the night really have blurred down to just a few impressions. I’m almost certain I still got her name wrong at the apartment door, destroying any lingering possibility of canine postures. It didn’t even matter. With the new way, the unexpected invention, the future looked bright for the first time in a long time.

*    *    *    *
   
I was supposed to be working, but you know how it is. There’s maybe an hour of actual tasks, but it’s always spread out over eight. Client wants this, client wants that, rich old boy needs help using the big boy bathroom or is afraid a dinosaur might get him. In between these crises where they’re losing a billion dollars a second and it’s all up to me to save the day there’s the big empty. Sit behind the desk, wear uncomfortable clothes and look busy. These are the main qualifications for the new world we’re entering.
  
With a few purposeful key strokes, the vision of the previous evening began to align itself with the physical reality. The spreadsheet format was going to be perfect, that was for sure. If anything this idea was too good, as I found myself getting carried away with the amount of possible data. Keep it under control for now. You can always add more, right? It’s the taking away that’s so fucking hard. I had name fields, occupation fields, maybe a few that would track the progress of the dates. Interests? Personality? I wondered if that was even needed, what with all the similarity. Put it in the “maybe” category for now.
  
Things were shaping up nicely when a silk-clad form burst through my door. Another emergency. The Patriot Manufacturing Corp.stock was crashing. Apparently their factory in China was moving to Bangladesh or Bora Bota or something and investors were in a lather over it. It wasn’t going to lose any real value, probably come out ahead. Time to call the client, give assurances, burp him and change him. The project would have to wait.

*    *    *    *

Real progress! I had three dates with three different women last week and had no problem keeping track of all those little details like names and so on. I was actually surprised at just how easy it was, as if a small corner of my mind where the inner critic dwells still doubts the miracle, even as I’m striding over the water. That little voice of doubt has fallen silent now and for good reason.
  
It’s so easy. I just review the spreadsheet for an hour or so at the office before each night out. To an untrained eye it even looks like I’m actually doing something from the job description. The way the data is organized, it doesn’t even seem like effort to process it. Then, like magic, it’s ready at critical moments later on. I remember that she loves the little brown people or isn’t religious but very spiritual or whatever the exact bullshit is. You get the idea.
  
I was tossing these thoughts playfully back and forth on the train home when I saw the meltdown. Real scary stuff, oh yes. It’s all about a girl, of course. There’s this ice bitch that always seems to be on the same car with me when I’m heading home. You know the type, real pretty, nose either in the air or buried in a book, right in that sweet spot of life we all think is going to last forever. I tried to talk to her once, months ago, ask about the book. Yeah, I know. “What are you reading? Looks interesting,” just brutal. She didn’t even answer. Kind of turned her body to face away without actually leaving the seat. I flew solo that night.
  
Anyway, this other guy decided he’d try to solve this one piece puzzle. I missed the first part, because I was deep in the self-satisfied waking slumber, but the wailing exploding out of this guy brought me back quick. He was a college-type, all scruffy face and well-worn clothes, basically a bum but with still something to hope for and maybe slightly less fucked-up. He was getting loud. “You can at least talk to me! My mom just died last week! You fucking bitch! Bitch!”
  
That little transcript probably isn’t entirely accurate, you know poetic license and fuzzy memory and all. It’s probably not too far off. He kept yelling about female dogs and dead mothers, getting louder and louder. She just sat there like the rock of Gibraltar or something, maybe trying to chameleon into the seat, who knows. Eventually he just wore out from hitting all those high notes and got off at the next stop.
  
I guess I had a fair amount of sympathy. There but for the grace of and shit like that. I mean, he was just trying to “man up” like the television is always saying. Maybe take her out for milkshakes or ice skating but none of that will happen when no one is willing to recognize your humanity or even the fact that you’re made of matter and displacing part of the atmosphere. Then you’ll graduate and go nowhere and if you thought you were unattractive to the fairer sex now just wait until you’re a balding, impotent, under-employed forty year-old that spends every morning with a gun in his mouth and every night passed out drunk on the cheap stuff.
  
Luckily for me, I’d cracked the code. Lied my way into a decent bit of employment, put this foul-smelling foam on my melon twice a day to keep the crowning glory and pop little pills with letters on them so that blood will enter the third leg. And don’t forget the spreadsheets. I even felt a rush of inspiration, right there amongst the dregs and lost, the damned and forgotten. I popped out that lap top and got down on it.       

Well-washed hands flashed over the keypad, hammering out truth to power. “Bus Girl (name unknown). Likes: Reading, Being Left Alone. Dislikes: Being Screamed At, Being Talked to in Any Way.” Not bad, not bad at all. The motherless screamer would be avenged. By hook or by crook, I’m going to fuck that bitch.
  
And many others! Maybe even find a wife before nature really finishes me off. House and kids, fence and pies, all through the miracle of the age. Satisfied, I turned off the laptop and watched the city lights for awhile. 

*    *    *    *


The second and concluding portion will be posted next week Wednesday. My First novel "The Foolchild Invention is currently available.

Excerpt From "The Foolchild Invention"

No one had contacted me yet and I was adrift, left again to my own devices and my own fairly agreeable company. They say we’re all connected, that we’re all made from the same stuff, that we’re not islands of protoplasm. I had trouble with that, as my natural state seemed to be isolation and alienation. It felt good. It was only when I tried to leave this safety that everything goes fucking crazy. As a private citizen I’m not going to hurt anyone that isn’t a video game enemy.

             

The country was going down the toilet. I’d been somewhat aware of this process, but my own rise to power had obviously taken precedence. I’ve got mine, after all. Now I finally took notice of the rot that seemed to be devouring everything. It’s funny how easy that rot is to ignore when it’s always happening to someone else. Nothing bad ever happens to me. I’ve even got an actual paying job and a steady source of in-out.

Our great nation, the only nation other than ancient Babylon ever created by the direct will of a deity, was on the ropes. The credit status had been downgraded and no one had any solutions. I’m pretty sure that guy who looks like he’s been embalmed who sells bankruptcy advice doesn’t take on jobs this big. The president gave a speech. “We’re still a great country. This downgrade doesn’t change that.” Yeah. We’ll just change the meaning of words. Plusgood.

They probably gave speeches like that in the final days of Rome. “Friends and citizens! We are still Romans and we are still a mighty empire, even if that empire can now be measured in square feet. Today we will battle a much larger army of bloodthirsty barbarians, but we’ll somehow win because heaven likes us more. Now let’s go die for our beloved child emperor.” QED.

There was only one main point to take away from all of this. Harper was right. We were on the cutting edge of the new economy. In a few years we might even diversify into brigandage and the cutting edge sacking and burning technology. An exciting time to be alive for a man willing to take the big risks to soar with the eagles.

After nearly a week, the doorbell signaled the beginning of Round Two in the big fight to become heavyweight champion of the societal collapse division. There was a fresh rush of panic and a profound difficulty in maintaining my usual noble bearing. The call of history, the pen that would write the future was calling and it was hard to maintain comforting numbness in the face of it. All the joystick and moron box and meaningless sexual intercourse in the world was powerless against the hand of fate knocking on the door, the bell tolling for thee and all that other bullshit.

            

The visitor was presumably the third man that had been delegated the less than desirable task of performing scenes from the most fucked up Babysitter’s Club book ever written. I’d offer a description worthy of such a cornerstone of the bold future but the truth was this new honored guest at Casa Del Lotus Eater wasn’t exceptional in any way and I forgot his face long before becoming accustomed to it. As best as I can recall he was your typical generic white male professional, the eternal middle manager who loves the local sports team, has a mostly adequate marriage and maybe a skeleton or two like disliking the colored people or being a serial rapist or the like. Nice to know that kidnapping rings produce the same sort of midlevel drone that you find in every other cutting edge field. Change and continuity, powerful forces at work.

The gist of the message was I’d be working an evening shift, which was unusual in and of itself because firstly I never worked an evening and secondly because I’d never worked an actual shift. There would probably have been even more oddities to his statements if they weren’t so brief and forgettable. I assured my partner in crime that it would not be a problem rescheduling the usual late night snacking and onanism to perform my contractually agreed upon tasks. With that, he was gone.

            

Then time jumped forward again. It was well after that duck-faced pervert finishes the late show, probably the small hours of the morning. I was moving through the streets of the suburban business district, weaving around buildings and through alleys behind independently owned businesses. Everything lay dormant, the only lights came from the street lamps. There was no traffic, car or otherwise. It was easy to imagine that some bird plague or neutron bomb or call home from the old man in the sky had taken all human life just recently. I was the Last Man, somehow immune to a radiation bath or the finger of Jehovah. Even the corner bars showed no activity. It had to be very late. I scaled a small fence and cut behind a locksmith. In a moment of clarity I remembered that this particular business had sponsored my little league team when I was ten. The logo was on the back of our jerseys, complete with a little five pointed star symbolizing law and order. After all, is there anything that says civilization more than a lock? The triumph of private property, the ability to protect the fruits of my labor, to own your efforts, meritocracy, everyone does what they’re best at. That’s the world I want.

            

My body seemed to know where it was going and I didn’t resist the pull of the autopilot. When I was in junior high I had a combination lock that I opened by feel. I completely forgot the numbers, my hand just knew what to do from muscle memory. That’s how that nocturnal skulking felt. The mortal prison had its own volition. My friend reason, what remained of him, was restricted to drifting into the past, thinking about little league and lock companies and “no batter, no batter” and you struck out again and his face will be like that forever and on and on. Somewhere a dog was barking. It could have been miles away, the night was that still. It did cause a momentary flash of panic. The last thing I need was a battle against the soulless canines of the dead world.

           

I turned a corner, passing under a globe that presented the continents in a manner that wasn’t strictly accurate, geographically speaking. For one thing, the real planet doesn’t have “Almost Ordinary Bar” written across parts of what might have been central Asia a hundred million years ago. Get with the times, man. Pangea is so last geologic age. Everyone is about discrete individual continents now, none of this lame single land mass jive. We be plate tectonicing.

     

Moving out of the dim light generated by the bizarre globe I picked my way through the inky blackness of the adjacent parking lot and then cut back into another alley. “Almost there.” The thought came and went in a flash, accepted as fact without any proof. The horse knows the way, just let it have its head and show a little faith. I took one final hard right and found myself facing a battery of dumpsters. This is it.

Being careful not to play on or around the impressive disposal technology I skulked into a dark corner. There it was. It was one of those brown grocery bags that looked like it had been used repeatedly, possibly in an attempt to save our world from the endless rapine of Mother Man. Paper, not plastic. Still moving on instinct, I carefully unfolded the object of my night quest. The expectations were quickly confirmed: it was filled to the brim with neatly banded Federal Reserve run-off. This was the stuff dreams are built from, right here. I tucked it under an arm like a new born inflation baby and prepared to melt back into the shadows.

            

“Who the fuck ar’ ya?” Oh no, I’ve been discovered! Possible ninja scenarios flashed through my mind as an unidentified mass of carbon-based material wrapped in filthy cloth staggered into my field of vision. Better kill him quick, before my cover is further compromised. Maybe a face full of poison powder or a throwing star to the forehead or the old staff-sword into the guts. Then I remembered that none of these options were actually available. I didn’t even have the old Saturday evening six to blast my way out of this.

            

“What you got there?” For a second I made out a fat unshaven peasant face as the figure passed through the halo of a nearby streetlight. Ok, it is a human being. We can dismiss the theory of being attacked by intelligent gas blobs from Pluto. Which wasn’t to say this individual didn’t have at least some gas blob tendencies, but his origin was far less exotic. “You hearin’ me? What you got dar?”

            

“It’s nothing. I was just leaving.” It was the type of situation where popping some Mentos would not have been inappropriate, but again I was shocking under-equipped. This is what happens when you’re not allowed to be in the Boy Scouts because your parents think they’ll have to drive your troop around and they can’t afford the gas or whatever the weak excuse was. This. Right here. If only my ten year old self could foresee this future problem and make the most convincing argument possible. “You don’t want my human meat racket to fall apart because I didn’t know the importance of proper preparation, do you?” Of course you don’t.

            

And there I was, in a fix. So close to successful and lucrative criminality, but so very far away.

   

“You got a bottle, don’t ya? Let me have a pull.” I noted the all-American beer belly stretching a stained shirt displaying the corporate logo of a professional sporting concern. There would be rich irony there, if it wasn’t such a common bit of dissonance. Even standing near the latest advances in waste management solutions I could still clearly discriminate the rich bouquet of sweat and domestic beer emanating from the threat to successful bag-manning.

   

 “Gimme the fucking bottle!” Furry arms worthy of an out-of-shape bruin extended toward my retirement found, the stained white meat of grease-coated hands seeming to glow in the poor illumination. I tried to pull a move worthy of a Nice Fucking Life running back by evading the rush with a quick spin move. It didn’t quite come off and I collided with the lover of the grain and forsaker of the soap sending both of us crashing to the filth encrusted pavement. How come all my crimes seem to end up with short trips and bad landings? My inner ears were good last time I checked. Maybe that undiagnosed Uncontrollable Falling Down Syndrome needs to finally be addressed and deadened by taking colorful pills that cause impotence and self-wetting. But hey, at least you’re not slapping skin with the ground so often. There is, after all, a strong correlation between successful extortion schemes and the ability to maintain verticality.

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The Foolchild Invention is available in e-book format at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble. The paperback edition is coming soon.