Throwing in the towel...

     It’s been little more than a week and a half since I no longer had the title of “My Hitchhiker’s Year”; which is, to say, for those who still haven’t read the book – let alone the series – I am not forty two, anymore.

     Like many things I’ve done in the past year, I guess I kind of threw a lot of effort and faith… funny, I guess I do still exercise some faith from time to time… into hoping that, I suppose magically, all my work to turn life around post heart failure would culminate into something awesome.

     However, if you’ve read the whole of The Hitchhiker’s Guideto the Galaxy series you know that, in the end, and despite some profound literary narratives, things don’t go swimmingly for our ragged band. (And, personally, I think this shows that the stories were forced into an ending. No disrespect for the late Douglas Adams, of course; these things do happen.)

     When my forty second year began, I was gifted my own towel; complete with appropriate embroidered steam locomotive. And I have carried that towel everywhere this past year; to and from a job, and eventually through three states and several cities. It sort of served as a visual reminder… no, more like a touchstone (A “touch towel”?) to all the great things I wanted to get started in the following three hundred and sixty five days.

     That didn’t turn out. Not even close, really. In fact, my life has gotten a touch dodgier in the past year than better, I have to admit. Between the loss of friends and social life, as well as the gutting of my finances trying to stay afloat in a new town, I have found myself in a fairly dark shadowed valley, indeed.

     Oh, let’s be clear on this point, though; I had the most amazing adventure. I saw places, ate food, drank drinks, and met some very cool folks. I started getting into a healthier state of being, and literally found everything I was looking for in the Pacific Northwest. No, I didn’t learn to fly, lunch at the end of time, find the girl who didn’t touch the ground, or use my sandwich making skills to set me up for life, but it was a nice place I would have loved to call home. If it weren’t for the fact that my Californian resume made it impossible to find steady work I would have happily stayed.

     The challenges facing me, now, having to return back to Silicon Valley, are impressive. I refuse to believe they’re insurmountable, though; despite the edge they push me to, daily. But the old axiom – “That which does not kill you only makes you stronger” – is something I have experienced personally in my own life. So, assuming I can survive this, I muse over what kind of bad ass I may become out of this unusually bad spot I’ve found myself in. And just maybe I can find something worth being a part of; something worth believing in.

     I suppose that throwing all in on a stupid ideal, like associating a literary gag with an age and a potential, might be one of my final short comings I may never get over. (But at 5’5” tall isn’t something I’m likely to have associated with me, huh?) And, to speak a truthsome of it, I don’t think these silly things are something I’ll ever choose to let go of; little life themes are more than innocent fun, they can be character builders… not that I may need more character, depending on who you ask.

     But there is a romantic lure to the notion of casting out to the world armed with little more than a shoulder bag and a towel. (Wits, too, I suppose. Or wits be damned; meandering the Universe isn’t what one would call “smart” as much to staying put in a safe-ish place.) And I can’t help, for the life of me, notice that though I’m forty three, and arguably more lost than I was a year ago, I can’t seem to quite throw in the towel, yet.

So… here’s me; my thumb still out. And I know where my towel is.

Final Thoughts from the Pacific Northwest, looking south to the road home...

The best laid plans…

     At the end of July, 2016, I packed up all my things, said goodbye to the town I was born in, the cities and state I grew up in, and headed north to seek what I thought would be a much better life. Some place where you didn’t need to earn $100,000 to afford a three hundred square foot apartment in a ghetto, or have to commute two hundred miles a day through first rate awful traffic. I wanted to live some place that a guy like me could find some pride in; where his work was valued as useful and important, not as a second-class worker to a desk jockey who bangs away on a keyboard (on the days he decides to actually show up to the office) and then catches a shuttle to his $850,000 condo for craft beer and gluten free Prosciutto nibblers.

     But most importantly I wanted to live in a place where culture still existed. Some place where creativity still ran, communities still came together, and where art and life blended together in such a way that not only could you not see the end of one for the beginning of another, but you were hard pressed to even want to try. I was looking for a somewhere that was built off my past, but still moving forward to a potentially bright future.

    So I pointed the car north, drove nine hundred miles, and fourteen hours later I arrived in Seattle, Washington to find that; yes, there was just a place like I had always dreamed of! There were traditional looking homes and neighborhoods, with busy streets full of shops spanning what I could only describe as a bumpy Los Angeles squished into a mountain forest.

    The air was clean, the sky was (mostly, when it wasn’t raining,) blue, and each district of this huge city was bustling with art, community, and culture that, though very different from area to area, still united itself in a common identity. Having been over a lot of this country I had found a place quite unique to itself that had everything that the second tech boom had pushed out of my native San Francisco Bay Area. I was in love.

    Too bad that Seattle didn’t love me back.

    That’s not to say that I didn’t receive a warm welcome from the folks I met, conversed with, and mealed together. I did. In fact, it was funny to find that almost half the folks I had run into were, themselves, from some other place. (Ironic that as we all run to escape gentrification hell and the ruin it’s bringing to our homes, natives of King County are fleeing their homes because of us.)

    No, the people and places up here are wonderful, inviting, and full of hospitality. However, not so much the same for its job market.

    I have a very typical Silicon Valley resume. That is, to say, that it’s full of a lot of lay-offs and contract gigs that have come and went. (Also some resignations, though I have never been fired, or put into a position where it was quit or be fired.) As a Facilities Manager for Silicon Valley corporations my career path is not, in any reasonable way, upwardly mobile. And, like others in corporate fields that relate to tech, jobs usually are for two to five years and then you’re on to the next one. (I once was hired to a company that was bought by a larger company the week I came onboard, and was laid off only a few months later.)

    My resume does show expanding skill sets and responsibilities with each new position, but like most it’s full of a few years here, a few years there. In contrast, I’m learning first hand that this is very unique to Silicon Valley. Here, for example, it’s common for someone to start as an employee in the mailroom and one day, fifteen years later, find themselves managing a division; often in another part of the company from where they started. Back home the only two kinds of employees who have been with a company fifteen years are either they guy in the mailroom – who’s been there the whole time because he’s never felt compelled to challenge himself, or was an original founder of the company and just hasn’t sold their shares yet. (There are notable exceptions, of course; but in Silicon Valley people who stay at a company that long really are very notable exceptions.)

    Worse; you just can’t explain Silicon Valley business to someone who isn’t, for lack of a better term, “Silicon Valley”. It’s not for malice, much, as just the simple fact that it’s so foreign… so alien… that they just can’t wrap their minds around it. So, what looks like a busy and productive contractor to someone who might hire me back home appears to be a job-hopping vagabond to anyone else.

    And then, of course, there’s the typical stereotyping of a Silicon Valley worker. On more than one occasion I’ve had interviews go south when they figured on my being some kind of IT guru; which I am not. (I do know maybe enough to be a little useful in assisting said IT guru, but punching in a network is not the same as administrating it.)

    When I moved up to Seattle I had a solid plan, three months of full resources, a place to lay at

night, and a (dead and broken) heart full of passion to make myself a resident of Washington and the Pacific Northwest for however long my precarious life had left. Five months later I am broke, massively in debt, and heading back home to face not only the personal shame of failure (Yes, I know; many things are learned in failure, so it’s not wholly a negative experience.), but a region that has become so toxically unlivable for the average worker that even $100,000 a year tech workers now pile four or five deep into homes, or commute hundred miles a day to their jobs because only about five percent of the employed work force can afford to live and work in the same town.

  To its credit, Seattle, and the surrounding counties, are beautiful; filled with nature, a cleaner environment, culture, history, and its own sense of identity that isn’t just charming, but down right seductive to anyone who, though liking some of what modern living offers, really would like to reconnect to the promises of the future we had in, say, the 1980’s. (I know, I know; but go with it, will you? It’s about the only way I can think on to explain how it feels… to me, at least.)

    And I’m really glad I got to see it and experience it; it only has, maybe, another six years left. As of today, the same roots are growing deep into Seattle and the surrounding area that eventually brought about the end of the San Francisco and Silicon Valley mystique. They’re growing, and fast (Second fastest in 2015, if I remember correctly.) with new companies and new jobs and opportunities. And that’d be great, but coming along with that is quickly rising housing costs as new developments are rising up everywhere; stark, sleek, and impersonal constructs that scar the quaint settings of old American neighborhoods.

    This is a place where a $65,000 annual salary would have you in a home and comfortably on your way to a fun and family filled retirement. (Most folks don’t actually make anywhere near that, and as of a couple years ago, didn’t even need to because the cost of living was in balance with income up here… mostly.) Now many I’ve come to know and talk with at length are seeing, very rapidly, their checks not going as far as they used to. Slowly, frighteningly, Seattle is becoming the new Silicon Valley.

    I hope that Seattle, King County, and even the Washington state, will find a way to push back against the tech cancer. (Note: tech isn’t inherently evil. Nor are some of its workers. But runaway growth is still a cancer.) I hope they’ll find a way to create and foster a balance between what the markets can buy and pay for, and the happiness, health, and prosperity of its people. I’d hate to lose this place a second time when I return to, at least, visit.

    As for myself? Well, I’m heading home; beaten and broken. I have a lot of rebuilding to do. All my resources are gone. My health is a touch dodgy. And, with other events of the past three hundred and sixty five days added to the mess, my personal outlook on life has become rather dark. (Bleak is another good word that you could use there, too.)

    But I am taking home five incredible months of adventure, food and drink, wonderful people I

have met, and amazing places I have seen and been to. I don’t know what my future will hold past today, but I want it to, once again, include King County, and its cities and towns like Seattle, Everett, Bremerton, Park Orchard, and – of course – Pike Place Market. I left California after forty two years and thought of it as a found memory. I will look back at five months in King County and be really homesick.

   One day I’ll be back. One day… 

Conductor Chuck presents The Runner: a first look at NTA's first novel

It's an odd set of circumstances that gave birth to - what I hope is - my first full fledged, honest-to-goodness, legitimate Science Fiction novel. While I can't really go into those details, for fear of unraveling one of the hooks of the whole book, I can say it was the random spelunking of Youtube and Reddit that led to this rough little sketch illustration. It would roll around in the back of my mind for a few weeks until, eventually, it would form itself a plot, and some characters. But there it would sit, in a proto-developed state, while I worked hard on building, writing, and illustrating Galactic Gun over at Neverland Tranist Authority.

Last year I dusted off the outline for this story, which had begun to nag at me again, in considering what I was going to attempt for NaNoWriMo, the National November Novel Writing challenge that tries to get participants to pen an entire novel in the month of November. But I put it aside to write a Sci Fi horror piece that would tie into the world of Galactic Gun. Little realizing that there actually was a way to creep myself out so bad I had to put The Marigold away until I could get my head better around it... without horrifying myself over what was coming out of my own imagination. 

 Let's just say I have a lot of respect for authors like Stephen King who write that crazy shit, but don't actually go out and do it.

Meanwhile, a couple years back, I had used my little Sci Fi romp to create a quick sketch for an assignment in a Graphic Design class. And now sitting up here in a new city, in another state, with no social life and a huge urge to create - which, no doubt, is my subconscious' attempt to keep me from losing it - I've started working up that novel legitimately, in hopes to see it published; by an established publisher or Kickstarter I don't care at this point. (Though, Del Rey, you've been my favorite publisher, so...)  

 Those of you that read Galactic Gun, and hopefully the little backup stories under each page that help to flesh out the universe of that comic, know that my "voice" is usually friendly and familiar; which, I hope, makes my stories easy to get into and inviting to read. I'm hoping I've captured it with this book, and yet still able to create a vivid word of tomorrow with a story that's both riveting and thought provoking; as all Sci Fi hopes to do.

I admit I'm undecided if I'm going to try and power this out in November, or try and take a little more time with it. I'd really like this to be good, as it's my first outing into real Science Fiction. But it's starting to pour out of my head really well, so who knows.

 And now, as a tease, but also looking from some feedback, I present to you the first chapter of The Runner; an independent Science Fiction adventure from the creator of Galactic Gun: The Adventures of Justin Bailey. And, Del Rey, if you're reading, I'm unsigned. Just saying.

 ***

     The city hung out against the emptiness of forever like a lit jewel in so much crushed black velvet. Looking out the window, as he brought his seat back to its upright position, Toru saw the streaks of night life whiz through the streets that twisted like a maze around the tall, colorfully lit towers perched on the edge of the coastline, tall and straight, against the inky night and its ocean reflection. He adjusted his tie and smoothed his blazer.

     “Konbanwa, watashitachi to hikō shite itadaki arigatōgozaimasu”, the intercom interrupted, in very awkward Japanese. “We will be landing shortly. Local time is 10:15pm. The weather is warm at 87 degrees and seventy percent humidity. This is the final destination of flight 2552. On behalf of the flight crew we’d like to welcome you to the Pan-Pacific Coast.” 

     Toru’s neighbor, a much older business gentleman, leaned over, seeing over the top of his glasses how transfixed Toru was with the sight of the city against the inky night. “Your, uh, first time here,” he asked in a rusty voice. 

     “Yes, it is,” he answered with an awkward smile. “It is…” he searched for the right word, “very beautiful.” 

     “Well, yeah; everybody looks good with the lights off.” He could see that Toru hadn’t understood his joke. “Seriously, it’s not bad. Now when I was younger – maybe a little bit younger than you – it was better. Of course, to hear my granddad talk about it, it was the last bastion of the great civil age.” 

     Toru didn’t understand his neighbor, but smiled politely. As the rumble of landing, and the subsequent taxi to the gate brought the jet to a stop he, like the rest of the cabin, stood, stretched, and started grappling for his items. As he reached for his bag from the overhead compartment his elderly neighbor turned to him again. “So, what brings you to the city; pleasure… or business?” 

     “Business. It is a short trip to make a delivery. But I am hoping to see the sights.” Toru gave his neighbor with a slightly apprehensive look. “I would also very much like to have real American pizza,” he quickly added. 

     “There’s a ‘Little Italy’ just east of the wharf. Put your nose to the air and follow the smell of garlic, you can’t miss it.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card and a pen. Scrawling a name on it, he handed it to Toru. “Here, find this place. They have some of the best. Tell them Billy Mitchell sent you.” 

     Toru looked at the card and then back at his neighbor with a smile. “Ah,” he said with both surprise and relief. His neighbor tapped the side of his nose with a smile and, having no luggage, moved to the front of the jet and disembarked. Toru grabbed his bag and pushed his way through the other passengers but by the time he got to the top of the gate ramp, and into the terminal, there was no sign of his neighbor in the busy airport. He tapped the front of his blazer and felt, with relief, the small box in his inside pocket. Giving the card a full once over, he dropped it into the pocket alongside the box and, slinging his bag over his shoulder, straightened his tie and began to make his way through the crowd of hustling travelers. From another pocket he felt the vibration of his phone ringing. 

     “Kon'nichiwa, koreha teddesu. Ikaga nasaimashita ka?” He was answered by a strong, confident voice. 

     “Good evening, Toru; I trust you’ve landed safely and are in the city?” 

     “Hai, Mister…” his voice trailed off in hesitation. “I have, thank you. And I have met our friend. He was most helpful.” 

     “Good to hear. Now I don’t want to keep you, so you better get heading out of the airport and on your way. And step carefully Toru, it’s a beautiful city, but it can be dangerous. I can’t always keep an eye on you.” And with that the caller hung up. 

     Toru looked up from his phone and into the crowd. He wasn’t sure if he had understood that last line properly, but suddenly felt as if he was being watched. A little unsure, he dropped the phone back into its pocket, and gripping firm his bag he strode out of the airport and into the warm moist air of night in a foreign city. 

     From a bank of pay phones across the terminal Toru’s neighbor watched him leave. Smiling, he rubbed his neck just behind his ear and let out a little sigh of discomfort. It was then he noted the figure skulking behind some large potted plants in a light blue wind breaker, appearing to be reading a newspaper. He gave him a smirk and then joined a small rush of travelers making for the men’s room. The man behind the paper watched over the next few minutes as other men came and went, but not the old man who had been on the phone, the man he was there to intercept. 

     As the lull between arrivals settled in the terminal, the man behind the paper became nervous and agitated; his quarry had still not come out. Folding and tucking his paper under his arm, he crossed the hall and entered the men’s room, drawing a small pistol from under his winder breaker; a suppressor fixed to its barrel. 

     The men’s room appeared empty and quiet; save the unique smell that only an airport restroom could know, and the quiet hum of fluorescent light fixtures. With his gun aimed, he tested each stall door to find them also empty. Getting angry, he checked his memory over the past few minutes, trying to think if he could have missed something. It was then that he saw the cuff of the coat sleeve just visible under the paper towels in the wall mounted waste basket. 

     Dropping his pistol back into its pocket he pulled the coat out of the trash, sending crumpled paper towels everywhere. Searching, he found the coat pockets were empty except for a lump of something rubbery. He pulled it out and unfolded it to find it was a face mask and a pair of costume glasses. 

     “…the fuck,” he uttered in frustration. 

     “’The fuck’, indeed”, came the voice from behind him. He tried to go for his gun, but before he could draw it fully out his assailant was all over him. The first strike landed with incredible pain into his left clavicle. Then it felt like a shoe heel had his wrist pinned to the wall, the pain of it digging in caused him to drop his pistol. Then it was a barrage of fist strikes until he could no longer hold himself and began to tumble. That’s when the arms closed in around his throat from behind, choking him just enough to make it the only thing he could focus on. 

     “What’s the deal, Jimmy; getting paid to creep on old men too much for you to handle?” 

     Jimmy gasped desperately. All he could see was the blue and white tiled wall of the men’s room. He tugged at the arms, but they had a gorilla grip. His vision was dimming around the edges. 

     “I thought a hit man like you was so much better than this, Jimmy. I hope someone isn’t paying you for this kind of piss poor service. Are they?” 

     “Screw… you…,” Jimmy managed between gasps. 

     The arms relented a little. “Oh, you’re right, Jimmy boy; this isn’t quite fair, is it?” And with that the unseen assailant shoved him face first into the wall. Jimmy collided with it and tumbled to the ground, choking and grabbing at his throat. Wildly groping, he patted the floor for his gun, but it wasn’t there. He looked up to the shadowed form of his attacker, backlit from the mirror lights. His eyes still blurry from the assault, Jimmy blinked rapidly to try and see the shadow better. His attacker wore dark glasses and a red mock turtleneck under a black leather jacket. His hair was dark and slicked back. 

     He now had Jimmy’s gun, and was aiming it at him. “Holy shit,” Jimmy said through coughs, “what the fuck, man?! You’re not supposed to be here.” He pointed to the disguise where it had fallen to the floor. “Look, man, he gave me the slip. He wasn’t who you said he was.” 

     “You ever been on safari, Jimmy? I mean really hunting; in the wild, among the brush, against a foe who could quite literally rip you to shreds with razor claws?” 

     “Wh…what?” 

     “I thought not. You see, Jimmy boy, who he was wasn’t important. It literally didn’t matter. If you were a good hunter you would have seen your opportune moment and seized on it; earned the money I had paid you. But you failed miserably to see that opportunity, no matter how many I gave you.” 

     Jimmy’s eyes went wild with a realization. He threw up his hands to plead as his assailant drew the pistol on him, but he never got the time to utter a single word as the pistol flashed and made a small pop that echoed in the men’s room. Jimmy went limp. 

***

     Night in the city differed very little from day; maybe just a little darker with the limits of the LED street lights blasting brilliant white light into focused spotlights every few feet down the crowded sidewalks. Otherwise, business carried on nearly twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Well, for the working class, anyway. Not that Manny minded, too much. At least, not now. He had a job that kept him on his toes, kept him paid, and helped keep his mother and his little brother and sister fed and the lights on in their small apartment. 

     People pushed past as he locked his bicycle to the rack and adjusted his black canvas messenger bag tight to his back. Approaching the lobby doors to the large glass encased office building he paused to check his reflection in the large lobby window; making sure he didn’t look disheveled: keeping the company image that Personal Allied Couriers insisted on. The one his station boss regularly yelled at him, and all the other runners about; image, image, image – that was the key to impress the clientele. 

     He smoothed out his yellow leather company jacket with its black striping down the sleeves and gave it a once over where his name was embroidered onto it under the company logo; Manuel Costilla. Against the all black dress code of Pacific Allied Couriers the jacket practically glowed. It was probably the single nicest thing he had ever owned, and he took care of it as such. Smoothing back his hair he entered the building and made his way to the security reception desk. 

     “Good evening, ma’am,” he said to the uniformed attendant behind the counter. She looked up from her desk with a glassy eyed stare. “I’m from Pacific Allied Couriers. I have a package for Mr. Bruner of Texacorp in suite twenty-six.” 

     The attendant blinked a number of times as Manny’s words registered and a very artificial smile parted her lips. As she shifted the slight whisper of pistons could just barely be heard from under her. She bobbed in very broken movements as she addressed him. “Hello. ‘Pacific Allied Couriers’. You are here to see. Package. In suite. ‘Texacorp’. Is that correct?” 

     “Oh, usted tiene que me bromeando,” he said, rolling his eyes in frustration. “No, my name is Manuel Costilla. I am from Pacific Allied Couriers. I am here to deliver a package to Mr. Bruner. Mr. Bruner Works for Texacorp. Texacorp is on the twenty-sixth floor.” 

     There was a small pause as the attendant sat motionless, except for her even spaced blinking. “My apologies. ‘Manuel Costilla’. I will let. ‘Mr. Bruner’. Of. ‘Texacorp’. Know that you are here to see him. Once he has confirmed your appointment I will send for an elevator to take you to the. Twenty-sixth floor.” Her head dipped and turned in a very mechanical motion as if she were responding to someone that wasn’t there. After a moment she turned back to Manny with her vacant stare and artificial smile. “Please proceed to elevator. Three. ‘Mr. Bruner’. Is expecting you. Thank you for your business at Jegug Tower. And have a nice evening” 

     Manny walked past the front desk toward the hall of lobby elevators where the chime of the arriving car sounded out. Looking past his shoulder he could see where the attendant ended – at would have been her waist, and where the pistons, supports, and cables ran up from the floor and under her uniform jacket. She returned to a resting position that simulated her reading some imaginary book, log, or display. 

     Manny didn’t know what Texacorp did, but even for the smallness of the offices it had they were well decorated, for sure. The carpet was bright and clean; complementary earth toned colors with an interlocking geometric pattern in red running down the middle, the darker borders hugging the walls. The front desk was either made of real wood, or a laminate so good you needed to be an expert to really tell. The sitting chairs were plush and very inviting. 

     Long, the front desk sat facing out against the wall that separated the lobby from the rest of the office. It sat off centered some, with a heavy wooden door that led to the rest of the office. The rippling of the small glass window inlaid in the door caught the shadowed movement of people on the other side, without revealing anything more than the office was busy. The receptionist – a real receptionist – sat behind the desk, partially hidden, doing paper work and occasionally checking her computer monitor. 

     “Ole, Manny,” she said in a flat, awkward Spanish, looking at him over her glasses, “coma estas?” 

     “I’m good, Genie, thanks. How are you?” 

     “Me, too,” she answered with a smile, partly relieved she wouldn’t have to put any more of her spotty street Spanish to the test. “Mr. Bruner’s documents?” 

     “Yes, ma’am.” He pulled his bag around and fished out a clipboard like box with a small screen and a couple lights on the front of it. “They’re secure with confirmation receipt, so I need Mr. Bruner.” 

     “Not a problem; let me ring him.” After a quick exchange she set the phone receiver back on its cradle. “He’ll be out in just a minute.” 

     Manny nodded and scanned the lobby. He’d been here a few times, but he always enjoyed the look and feel of the place. And, inevitably, he’d be drawn to the view from the huge window that made up one wall of the lobby. Stepping closer he peered out into the night from the twenty-sixth floor out into the city. The buildings were bathed in wet, watery hues of blue and violet. Down below the black streets twisted around them like a maze of yellow dotted paths that shuffled all manner of cars, trucks, and other service vehicles about as people darted to and froe. 

     “It’s like a big living watercolor painting, you know,” he said. 

     Genie stopped her work and looked out the window across the night sky. “Huh, I’ve never heard it described like that, before. But, yeah, you’re right; it does look a lot like a big watercolor.” 

     “I wonder what it must have looked like back when it was bigger; had more buildings. You know,” he said looking back at her, “when it was still a country.” 

Genie continued to work. “I don’t know. I immigrated here from the Midwest territories a few years back.” She looked up at him. “I just wasn’t meant to work a state farm, know what I mean?” 

    Mr. Bruner came through the office door into the lobby like a man who was relieved after hearing good news. “Manny the man,” he exclaimed jubilantly. His tie was lose and a bit crooked, and his sleeves rolled a little off his wrists. He wasn’t all the old, but seemed to be, just the same. Manny often wondered if it was the price of success. 

     “Hey, Mr. Bruner. Your documents cleared and I got them here as fast as I could.” Manny held up the sealed clipboard like box in front of Mr. Bruner. His smile got even bigger as he pressed his thumb against the little screen. After a moment a small green light lit and the box unlocked. Bruner opened it eagerly and clutched the manila envelope inside. 

     “You are a life saver, Manny,” he said, patting him vigorously on the shoulder. “You know that, right; a real life safer. Genie,” he said, turning to the desk, “call Bob and tell him to get the team together. And get on the horn to that place downtown that makes those awesome salads, would you? Find out what they serve for breakfast and how fast they can get it here.” 

     “For how many,” Genie asked, as she lifted the receiver. 

     “Ask Bob what the final head count will be.” He turned back to Manny. “Dude, you have no idea how much you’ve saved my ass today. You want to stick around and grab a bite?” 

     “No thanks, Mr. Bruner. It’s late, and this was my last delivery,” he said, turning to go. “Besides, my brother and sister will be getting off to school and I need to help my mom before she’s off to her shift. But thanks for the offer.” 

     “Ever the busy, responsible guy, huh?” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small wade of bills. Manny tried to hide the shock of that much money in someone’s pocket. These weren’t small notes; blue bills, orange, and yellow meant some serious cash. He tugged a couple out and stuck them into Manny’s hand. “Here, get yourself a real breakfast, mister working man. You’ve sure earned it.” 

     Bruner turned on his heels and quickly went back through the office door, digging eagerly into the envelope Manny had just delivered. Manny stood there with the crumpled bills in his hand, a little unsure of what had just happened. Genie gave him a congratulatory smile and went back to her work. Outside in the elevator lobby, as he waited for a car down, he smoothed the bills out as crisp as he could and, taking his wallet from his inside jacket pocket, placed them alongside his small green backs; all faced and turned the same direction. 

     At the bike rack Manny pulled his mobile from its belt holster and unlocked the screen. Tapping a few times, he opened the Pacific Allied Couriers time card screen and punched put; his shift finally over. He closed the application and tapped his contact list. After a scroll, he found the number he was looking for and brought the phone up to his ear. 

     “Hello? Yes, I’d like to order a large pizza for pick up, please.”

All Hallow's Rock: A Little tale of Death (A Halloween Love Story)

The town was nestled near dark woods that bordered it behind the town church and cemetery, like so many older towns of the south. A young lady of voodoo upbringing had fallen in love with the younger son of a blue collar worker new to the area. His older brother, newly ordained, tricks her into meeting who she thinks is her lover in the woods with promises of elopement. But in the dark of the night he strikes her down to save his little brother’s soul and buries her there, under the twist old tree at the edge of the clearing. Distraught, her aging mother spits a curse on the town; knowing her child is dead. Soon she passes, and so, too, does the legend of the voodoo witch queen of the woods.

Years pass.

John was the local high school hero; varsity, with his foot in the door at the university on a sports scholarship. His dad, the town sheriff, and his uncle, the church reverend, were known by everyone as loved public figures. He had the heart of the high school cheer leading captain, Tiffany, and the loyalty of all the team.

It was a still Autumn night when the team gathered to welcome the newest team member, a sophomore, with a little honest scare – all in the name of innocent fun – at the town cemetery. New to the town, he didn’t know the legend of the voodoo witch queen who was reported, according to legend, to haunt the woods just beyond the graveyard, a tourist curiosity the local kids outgrew with age.

His girlfriend in ghostly dress, and his friends in place with tools for the prank, they lay in wait to spring their frightful fun on the unsuspecting mark. Instead, the unthinkable had happened. As the mists fell over the graveyard a bent and grotesque figure lurched from the tree line and attacked the kids, descending on them with inhuman speed and a shriek that would scare the very dead under their feet. Its attack swift, its only victim John.

Badly bleeding, his friends try desperately to aid him. But, before his girlfriend could fetch help down the road, the moon peeked over the tree line onto John, and to the horror of his friends, he transformed into a werewolf. When Tiffany finally brought help, one boy was dead and two others clung to life. John was nowhere to be found. That night the town would see a rush of violent, deadly attacks.

Stumbling in a blind, painful rage, John struggled to extinguish the fire in his mind that torched every

fiber of his soul and body. Coming to a small clearing in the woods, he finds a young ghostly lady resting wistfully at the foot of a twisted and gnarled tree. She calls to him and soothes him. And as he reverts to his mortal form she lovingly guides him back to the edge of the woods. There she sends him back to his home. But as he looks back she is gone.

That week John is distracted and despondent. He attends his friend’s funeral, suspecting he probably had a hand in it. He can’t concentrate at school, uninterested in sports, and distant from his friends and Tiffany. He feels a nearly irresistible urge to return to the woods, and us haunted by thoughts of the young woman he met there.

No longer able to resist, and convinced answers lie beyond the tree line, John returns to the woods where he is greeted by a man with a slight English accent. He tells John the darker stories of the town, and about the curse placed on it, and all who live there, by a voodoo priestess who lived in the town many, many years ago.  He takes her to meet the spirit in the woods, and the two begin to form strong bonds of affection.

Meanwhile, Tiffany feels John slipping from her, his friends, and his life. She dreams of his love, and the future she still wants with him. Alone, she cries, suspecting he may be involved with the deadly attacks in town since that night in the graveyard.

 

The spirit lady takes John to the small village of outcast and misfits created by the town. Those driven out, assaulted, and even injured by the jealous and judgmental of the town elite, twisted and made monstrous by the curse. While there he learns the curse can be lifted by an unholy wedding performed on holy ground, to culminate in an ultimate sacrifice.

John returns to the town to be viciously interrogated by his uncle in front of his father. He is told to never go to the woods again. This inspires John to go to the hall of records in the town courthouse where he learns of all the dark secrets of the town; political shifts that have ruined and bankrupted families and driven them out for the sake of the elite few. Worse, his own father is implicated in the disappearance of a young woman whom he had been known to be romantically connected to when he was John’s age.

Bent by rage and seeking resolution for his own guilt, John releases himself

to the beast within and attacks those that he believes have caused not only the hurt and woe of the village in the woods, but also are responsible for his plight. He goes on a terrible spree but is challenged and driven back by his father, who doesn’t recognize him.

Injured, but satisfied he’s done good by the town and for his own forgiveness John breaks into Tiffany’s family home and takes her, her parents powerless to stop him. John takes her to the woods where he reveals himself to Tiffany. Calling the village together, he sets to plan the unholy wedding ceremony where he’ll marry Tiffany and take her, as he reasons the loss of their virginity is the “ultimate sacrifice”. As the village clears out and heads to the church to break the curse, the spirit of the voodoo girl watches on, forlorn that she has been rejected yet again, and left for dead.

As the ceremony begins the townsfolk attack the church, led by John’s father, the sheriff, and his uncle the reverend. A mighty battle breaks out around the ceremony. John confronts his father and reveals himself; accusing his father of murder. John’s father argues that he never knew what happened to his high school sweetheart, the voodoo girl; that she had simply disappeared for all he knew. Desperate that his guilt might be revealed, John’s uncle rushes the pulpit, drawing a pistol at John. The sheriff tries to stop his brother from shooting his son, but John’s uncle shoves him and he falls, landing on a decorative piece of fencing, broken during the fight. It impales him just above his stomach.

The reverend whips his pistol around and fires blindly at John, but his shot is wild and instead strikes Tiffany, who falls dead. Enraged John lunges at his uncle and as he reaches out and snaps his neck, the sheriff shoots him in a vain attempt to save his brother. In this act the spell is broken and the now mortal John falls dead by his father who lays slowly succumbing to his wound.

The sheriff looks up to see his long lost love, now mortal, walking into the church in an impromptu wedding dress; as young and beautiful as he last time he had ever seen her. She kneels between her would be lover and her lost lover. The sheriff smiles and takes her hand as he dies. And as the spirits of the fallen rise from their former selves and leave the church, to disappear into the night – the final victims of the curse, she cries quietly, alone.

Here the tale of Bride of All Hallow's Rock over at Station House Radio.