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Potato Man

In The Town Where All Things Are Possible: Part 19

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In the Town Where All Things Are Possible, the whispers began with a young woman in a waitress’s black slacks and apron, her back turned to the commuters, a cell phone pressed to her ear and urgency rising in her hushed voice. The Man and Alexandria joined the rest of  the group in trying not to look at the shaken waitress. She ended the call, shoved the phone in her pocket, and stared at the approaching bus. She made a decision, walked back to the group to a young man in the same black waiter clothes, muttered something in his ear. The two glanced briefly at Alexandria. He nodded his head, and they both walked away.

The bus’s brakes whined as it inched to a stop. The door did not open, though. Instead, the beast idled and the commuters waited.

A distant voice emerged over the rumbling engine. The heads within the group all looked up to the open, second-story window of a nearby house. A woman was waving and calling. A businessman in a cheap three-piece suit and a secondhand briefcase stepped from the crowd.

“What, ma?” he called.

The woman waved him away from the bus stop. He looked back to the bus, for a moment unsure what to do. He then turned and walked back to the safety of his mother’s home. Seven people remained in the group. Alexandria could feel their anxiety in the way they shuffled, the flick of their eyes away from hers when she glanced at them. She pushed through the crowd to the still-shut bus door. A middle aged, plump bus driver was curled over a speaker to the bus’s two-way radio. Alexandria knocked on the glass door. The driver hesitated, then pulled the handle that opened the door with a hiss.

“I need to store my bags,” Alexandria said.

The driver replaced the speaker on its hook and straightened, taking a moment for himself before standing and climbing down out of the bus. He passed through the crowd to the bus storage compartments, unlocked one and lifted the door up. The Man walked over with Alexandria’s bags and placed them inside.

“That it?” the driver asked, but didn’t wait for an answer before closing the compartment. He returned to his driver’s seat as the crowd waited for his word. Alexandria watched the driver measuring himself in the side mirror. His eyes flicked from his reflection down to the group as he made his decision.

“Come on,” he announced, waving the group onto the bus. The line filed in, but the driver held up his hand when the Man climbed the stairs.

“Can’t do it, boss,” the driver grumbled.

“Only to the edge of town,” the Man said.

The driver considered, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel.

“Only to the edge, no further,” the driver said.

“Understood.”

The driver picked up the speaker, untangled the coiled chord, and whispered into the receiver. A static voice warbled out and the driver quickly turned down the volume so only he could hear. He replied low, venturing a glance back at the Man. After a few exchanges, the driver sighed, replaced the speaker on its hook and closed the door. Muttering voices grew through the bus, some talking into phones, some talking to one another. All the voices were too low for Alexandria to decipher, but she knew what they were talking about.

“I guess the word’s out,” Alexandria said to The Man. “I’m a marked woman.”

“It will be fine.”

The bus door whined closed and the bus lurched forward. A woman cried softly near the back of the bus. Another low voice attempted to comfort her. Alexandria couldn’t bear to look back at them. The Man’s palm was sweating as his fingers tightened around hers. He watched the Town pass by the bus’s gaping, wide-eyed windows, mystified and uncertain. Alexandria fished her phone out of her purse, checked the time.

9:15 a.m.

So much time left. She tried not to think of the many ways the trip could go wrong. She tried not to think about how everyone on the bus could die because of her.

Her hand slid the phone back into her purse, then dug deeper to find the kitchen knife, still wrapped inside the towel. She pressed her fingers against the handle, gripped it for comfort.

9:15 a.m.

Enough time to abandon the bus and walk out of the Town. It was better to ride, Alexandria decided.  In thirty minutes, the bus would be pulling into another downtown in another community where more buses could send Alexandria to the outer edges of North America. Within two days, she could be in Los Angeles or New York or Canada.

Alexandria glimpsed the marquee of The Wider World as the bus passed, then the skating rink, then a brief view of the office off in the distance, overlooking downtown from its perch on the hill.

Then the Town was behind them. Only a few modest neighborhoods stood between Alexandria and the town’s borders.

Movement drew Alexandria’s eyes to the window. A pack of feral dogs raced alongside the bus, mouths gaping wide, pink tongues flung out to the side in silly joy. Alexandria smiled, feeling hope, feeling a bit of her youth returning.

The bus was outpacing all the dogs but an angular greyhound that reached full sprint. It looked up at Alexandria for a moment, its legs churning. Then it lowered its eyes, focused on speed. It pulled forward, slightly ahead of the bus. The dog cut over quickly into the bus’s path. The driver jerked the wheel and stomped on the brakes. Blood sprayed up on the windshield. There came a faint thump as the body twisted underneath the bus.

Wheels screeched, screams erupted. The bus swerved to the left, straddling both lines of the highway, and settled to a stop. Alexandria scanned the bus. Women were crying, hiding their faces. Men were standing out of their seats, looking back toward the mangled body smeared across the asphalt.

The driver picked up the speaker. He held it to his mouth, glancing up into his rearview mirror. Alexandria met his glare as he spoke. He waited, still watching her. A response crackled out of the radio. The driver opened the front door and stepped down out of the bus. He opened the compartment, dug out Alexandria’s luggage and threw them to the shoulder of the highway. He closed the compartment and waited.

The Man stood up with Alexandria. The pair walked, silently, out of the bus. The driver rushed past them, climbed into the bus, closed the door, and the beast lumbered forward.

“How far do we have?” Alexandria asked.

“Three miles, maybe,” the Man answered. “That is the edge of the Town. Another twenty miles to the next town.”

“Okay,” Alexandria said, walking to her luggage. The Man followed and reached for a bag.

“No,” Alexandria snapped. “Go home. I’ve got it from here.”

The Man paused, then grabbed the bag. He faced her and waited.

“Go home,” Alexandria repeated.

The Man said nothing. Alexandria took her other bag and began walking off toward the fading silver reflection of the sun striking the fleeing passenger bus.

On both sides of the highway, the ground began to awaken.

CONTINUED…

Open Submission To State Arts Organizations: Tactical, Non-Lethal Art Missile

Dear Sir or Madam,

My name is Charles Martin and I would like to do my part to save the arts in Oklahoma. It appears that the state legislature has been overtaken by high school bullies from a 1985 John Hughes movie. These bullies hope to achieve heightened social status by beating down the science nerds and artsy weirdos in their respective communities. Though within the Hughes universe things generally worked out in the favor of social outsiders, I do not believe that the science and arts communities within Oklahoma will be quite so fortunate without some aggressive intervention.

I sympathize with your plight and respect your tireless efforts to keep arts programs running throughout the state. You are, no doubt, looking to all options to disseminate educational programs in urban and rural areas. Boy, do I have the solution for you!

The Literati Tactical, Non-Lethal Art Missile!  Or LTNAM (“Lit-Nahm”) for short.

LTNAM is a two-stage, laser-guided missile capable of carrying a three-ton payload and striking targets from 2,000 miles away with the simple push of a button. THE SIMPLE PUSH OF A BUTTON!

The payload can be customized for any need, but I would not advise LTNAM for human travel. My suggested payload would be:

20% glitter

20% acrylic paint

20% phat rhymes

20% sculpting clay

20% duct tape.

LTNAM will be fueled through a patent-pending formula composed of three parts Social Angst, two parts Good Intentions, and one part Hidden Liberal Agenda (wink, wink). The housing for the missile will comprise re-purposed cardboard, which makes the missile invisible to most radar-tracking devices.  To dress it up, I would also suggest utilizing Papier Mâché and creatively affixed painter’s tape.

Why should we go with Literati Press Weapons and Ammunitions when there are so many other options available within the military-industrial complex?

Because we can also serve as an important intermediary connecting artistic ideals with the brute force of 21st century warfare.

Why, when arts agencies are strapped for money, should we invest millions in LTNAM?

You shouldn’t be investing millions, you should be investing billions! Think about how this will look to hawkish conservative types. They already love explosions, and LTNAM is Explosions + Glitter + Acrylic Paint! It will be epic, and I never use the word “epic” to describe anything! Only this one epic thing! LTNAM!

Now that you are as excited about this project as I am, you need to know that I require a minimum purchase order of 1,000 Literati Tactical Non-Lethal Art Missiles to confirm a development deal with my partner in an unspecified foreign country (wink, wink). I know 1,000 LTNAMs is a lot to commit to, but, since I am a friend of the arts, I’ll cut you a heck of a deal. How does $10 million per missile sound?

I know, I know, but don’t worry about me. I’m willing to take that financial hit because, as you surely have gathered, I love the arts.

So, interested? Yes? Great! Hold for a moment and I will put you on with my secretary to confirm the order. Thank you for your time and thank you for shopping Literati Press Weapons and Ammunitions!

Charles Martin

Creative Director

Literati Press

In The Town Where All Things Are Possible: Part 18

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In The Town Where All Things Are Possible, Alexandria slammed the front door of The Wider World Books and Novelties while the Man watched from outside. He lingered as Alexandria wound through the store, ascended the stairs, and prepared for bed. Alexandria was relieved to look back to the window to see the Man Who Held The Town Together was finally gone. Her disgust with the Man and his town were overwhelming. When she wept, in the dark, hidden beneath her sheets, the tears were angry and crippling. Once she was exhausted, Alexandria forced herself into a frightful and restless sleep.

And when morning came, the killer stood outside the front window.

Alexandria noticed him as she rose from bed to retrieve her pink silk robe. Though the killer was almost featureless as the sunlight poured around him into the shop, she knew the tall, wide silhouette as well as she would know her own reflection. She hesitated to move. She thought of his promise. One day. She had one day. She decided to be bold. She tied the belt of her robe, crossed in front of her bed to snatch the kitchen knife from a side table where it had been resting on a well-worn copy of Jane Austen’s Emma.

She descended the stairs quickly, striding through the bookstore toward the killer. He didn’t move from his spot. As she neared, his face came into full view. Handsome on one side, but mangled from a deep, red scar on the other. He’d kept that side of his face hidden from her while she was captive underground.

“Hope” the scar read in the clumsy, looping letters of an iron brand. It stretched from his jawline to just beneath his eye, which was a light, milky blue as opposed to its bluish-green brother.

Alexandria held the knife tight, but she kept it at her side as she stepped to the window, looking up at the tall killer.

“My day is not over yet,” Alexandria called through the glass.

The killer smiled, then pressed two fingers from his right hand to the window. He ran them across the glass, leaving a trail of black sludge. His fingers turned, moved down the glass, then finished the loop of a large “5″.

“I have until 5 pm?” Alexandria asked.

No response as the killer’s predatory smile held. His hand jerked up and slapped against the window, pressing a card onto the glass. The lettering faced Alexandria and she read:

Don’t Let Alexandria Leave,

Jeffrey Brown

She knew the card existed. The Man admitted writing it, but seeing it in the killer’s hand burned of betrayal. Her left hand twitched as Alexandria considered unlocking the front door. The knife felt stable and ready in her right hand. The man was tall and strong, but not invincible. No man was invincible.

“Move away from there!” a voice called, accompanied by the “click, click, click” of Mrs. Gratherson’s approaching walker.

Mrs. Gratherson hurried across the street toward the store, her stern eyes barreling in at the killer’s back.

“Leave that poor girl alone!” Mrs. Gratherson shouted.

The killer’s eyes still rested on Alexandria, only breaking away as he turned from the old woman, stuffed the card into his pocket, and strode toward downtown. Toward God’s Blowhole.

Mrs. Gratherson continued to the store, gingerly scaling the curb and clicking her walker toward the front door. Alexandria unlocked the door and stepped past the old woman to watch the killer walking away. She considered pursuing, but allowed the old woman to coax her back inside. Alexandria locked the door behind them. Mrs. Gratherson gave Alexandria a somber smile, then turned her eyes to the store.

“I haven’t been in here in ages,” Mrs. Gratherson said as she uncoiled a knitted scarf from her neck. “It has always been such a cute shop. We desperately need something like this in the Town, but we can never find an owner that will stick it out.”

“Books are a dangerous business,” Alexandria said.

Mrs. Gratherson turned to Alexandria, frowning at the comment, then exhaled a long, weary sigh.

“We had such high hopes for you, my dear,” Mrs. Gratherson said. “The way he looked at you, it was love. Just like the last one. We hoped you could make him happy, keep him stable. We just can’t lose another Man. But you were just like his poor wife. Too many questions.”

Alexandria’s hand was trembling. She sat the knife on the counter beside the cash register. She realized that she was sweating and suddenly felt very hot. The adrenaline, she decided. She slid behind the counter and turned on a small fan resting on a stack of books.

“I don’t deserve this,” Alexandria said as she looked down into the fan as it groaned awake.

“No, you don’t, and we are all very sorry. Leave. Forget about the Town.”

“So you can make room for another girl for Jeffrey?” Alexandria asked, the fan blowing into her face.

Alexandria glanced back at Mrs. Gratherson, who wore a grave frown.

“You have fight, my dear,” the old woman said. “It would be charming if you weren’t such a fool. Leave, while you still can.”

Alexandria laughed to herself. She sat on a stool and retrieved the knife. She placed the point on the counter and casually spun the knife, steadying it from the heel with the tip of her forefinger.

“It may not be that simple, ma’am,” Alexandria managed as she watched the blade spin. “But I will try. Today. I might even take Jeffrey with me.”

Alexandria met Mrs. Gratherson’s eyes, studied them.

“I am not sure what you know and do not know about this Town,” Mrs. Gratherson began. “But the Man cannot be easily replaced. It is a very difficult job and most people will never understand it, but I do. I remember darker times when weaker Men were not quite so discerning with their work. It was chaos.”

Mrs. Gratherson took in a breath and approached the counter.

“You cannot take Jeffrery. The Town will not allow it, nor will we. I truly am sorry that we brought you into this, but you seemed right for him.”

Alexandria wanted to say something bitter and hateful, but she knew it wouldn’t help her case. Instead, she stopped spinning the knife and sat it on the counter. She searched for the correct words as the whir of the fan filled the silence.

“I accept your apology,” Alexandria replied. It was a difficult thing to say and the moment felt as false to Alexandria as she imagined it felt for Mrs. Grathersson.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Gratherson said, awkwardly.

Alexandria circled around the counter and past Mrs. Gratherson. Alexandria unlocked the door, then held it open as Mrs. Gratherson moved through. Before closing the door, Alexandria paused.

“Who else is on the council?” Alexandria asked.

Mrs. Gratherson didn’t turn and waited a few beats too long before answering.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, my dear.”

Alexandria smirked. “What will you do if I decide to kill that bastard?”

Mrs. Gratherson didn’t reply. Instead, she clicked her walker away, following the sidewalk toward downtown. Alexandria watched the woman and considered pursuing the matter, but decided that her time would be better spent packing.

When the Man arrived, an hour later, Alexandria allowed him inside. They didn’t talk as Alexandria finished folding her clothes. She allowed him to take one of her bags and open the door for her. As they walked toward the edges of downtown, she allowed him to take her hand. The thing that burned in her heart no longer felt like love, but his hand wrapped around hers was still comforting, in a small way.

“Are we going to walk out to our bus stop?” Alexandria asked, thinking of the aged bus stop that sheltered the pair when the rains came.

“Not today,” the Man answered, leading her to the bus stop where Alexandria originally arrived to the Town.

“A shame,” Alexandria said, but not meaning it. She was in no mood for romantic gestures.

A handful of morning commuters loitered around the empty bus stop bench. They watched Alexandria and the Man approaching. A few nodded casual “hello”s.

“This won’t work, will it?” Alexandria asked. “The bus will break down or the driver will have a heart attack. That’s how this works, right?”

“Yes,” the Man answered. “The Town is clever and has many tools to get its way.”

Alexandria could tell the commuters were eavesdropping. She wondered how much they knew.

The Man turned to Alexandria and smiled.

“I have never tried to smuggle someone out of the Town,” the Man whispered. “To be honest, I have no idea what is going to happen.”

“Kind of exciting, isn’t it?” Alexandria asked.

“I suppose it is,” the Man managed.

Alexandria squeezed his hand, then looked to the approaching bus. They stood and the Man took her luggage into his arms. She studied him for a few moments, then pressed a soft kiss against his lips.

“You are a really terrible boyfriend,” Alexandria said, her face lingering next to his.

“I know.”

“Then be better,” she urged him.

The Man held her hopeful gaze.

“I will try.”

My Phat Status – Hang In There Kitty

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Target Practice

 

A little father/daughter time being spent… as well as a few rounds!

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All fathers wish they could give their kids the world, but in the case of Doctor Crimson, he actually can! Doc Crimson is a new web series that centers around a single father who is doing the best he can to help raise his daughter the right way. While most dads do this while trying to juggle a 9-5 dead-end job, Crimson just happens to be the successful leader of an evil superpower.

Check back regularly for the continuing tales of the Crimson family!

Dude

In The Town Where All Things Are Possible: Part 17

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In The Town Where All Things Are Possible, Alexandria hid just out of the haze of the streetlight as she watched the Man Who Held The Town Together emerge from his office. He strode with purpose, descending the hill with neither an air of anxiousness or fear. Only resolve. He wore a somber black suit, well fitted to his long, lean frame. He was dressed simply aside from a black necktie bearing a hand-painted white icon, something like a sunburst with rays stretching out from the center of the tie to its edges. It seemed unnatural on the Man, tacked on, worn out of obligation and ceremony rather than choice.

He did not appear to see Alexandria crouched in the shadows, the kitchen knife still clutched in her fingers and vengeance on her mind.

Alexandria considered her options: confront the Man now or wait, watch, and learn. She glanced back to Tessa and Gerald, watching from the window of Tessa’s small house. Gerald asked Tessa a question. Tessa shook her head “no” and pulled Gerald from the window.

Alexandria settled herself and watched the Man pass. She felt the familiar warmth drawing her to the Man. Through the fear, through the rage, the cinders of love still glowed. She wanted to call to the Man, to run into his arms, but she held her tongue and slipped from shadow to shadow as she trailed him through the sleeping town.

Within the downtown district, not a single light burned. Even the pub had shut down for the night. The Man followed the gradual slope of the streets, like the marbles racing through the town on her first day, rolling, rolling, rolling toward the inevitable, toward where all things begin and end:

God’s Blowhole.

Where the killer would be waiting, watching, biding his time until either Alexandria fled or he claimed another victim in his twisted mission to preserve his utopia.

Either way, the Man’s heart would be broken again.

Alexandria kept her distance, fearing her shoes tapping against the cobblestone walkway would alert the Man to her presence.

She crossed a lawn overlooking God’s Blowhole, downtown stretching out behind her. A naked flagpole sprouted up from the middle of a small park with the pole’s pulley rope softly pinging with the breeze. She peered over bushes, looking down on the Man as he stood before the sewage grate covering God’s Blowhole. He pulled a card from his breast pocket, pressed it between his hands, palm-to-palm as if he were praying. He began murmuring, too low for Alexandria to understand.

The Man knelt down and slid the card through a long, thin gap in the sewage grate. He stood and turned to the moon, a serene smile spreading across his face. But a voice turned both their eyes back to God’s Blowhole. It started low, then grew. A laugh. A hungry, crazed laugh echoed up from the tunnel, building until it boomed out into the night. The Man turned, confused. Alexandria stood, her knife brandished at her side, ready.

It was the killer, underneath the Town. She knew the voice, but could not tell if the Man recognized it. He walked to the grate and looked down into the deep hole.

The laughter silenced abruptly. The flagpole continued to ping, unaware.

“What was on the card?” Alexandria called.

The Man spun, startled, gazing up at Alexandria. He saw the knife, he looked back to her face.

“What was on the card, Jeffrey?” Alexandria insisted. “Was it about me?”

“I can’t tell you,” the Man replied. “I can’t tell anyone.”

Alexandria strode across the lawn to the walkway, curving down to meet the Man.

“Do you know who that was?” she asked. “That laughter?”

The Man turned to the sewage grate. He studied it, then looked back to Alexandria. He didn’t have an answer. She could tell he wasn’t accustomed to surprises. The fear shone through.

“That was the man who killed your wife,” Alexandria answered.

The Man remained silent and clearly unsure.

“And he had me down there,” Alexandria continued. “Today, while everyone else was going about their lives and you were working away, I was trapped down there, waiting to die.”

The Man absorbed the words but didn’t respond, as if waiting for the punchline of a very dark and unpleasant joke.

“I saw you drop one of those cards,” Alexandria continued. “Watched it fall down that hole, watched that man pluck it out of the air and read it. That card saved me. He granted me one day to get out of this town. What was written on that card?”

The Man opened his lips to answer, but nothing emerged. His reserve was breaking, revealing his sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” he managed.

“What was on the card?” Alexandria growled.

“He’s dead,” the Man stammered. “They told me he was dead.”

“They lied! What was on that card?”

“I wanted to see you tonight,” the Man confessed, his eyes dropping away. “I wanted to see you. I – asked to see you.”

Alexandria’s breath stammered. She was not surprised by the answer, but she was surprised by how hearing it from his lips twisted her heart. She stepped away, needing space from the Man.

“And what was on the card that you just dropped in?” Alexandria asked, the agony seeping through, eroding the strength in her voice.

The Man hesitated.

“Tell me.”

“That you never leave the Town,” the Man admitted, unable to look her in the eyes. “That you never leave me.”

Alexandria closed her eyes, backed against the railing of the walkway.

“You’ve killed me,” Alexandria whispered. “If your magic cards are real, then you’ve killed me.”

“No.”

The Man finally looked back into Alexandria’s face. Her eyes opened, found his, and she leaned off the railing.

“No,” the Man repeated, his voice finding strength.

“So, how are you going to keep me alive?” Alexandria asked. “Another card? Are we just going to keep feeding that hole wishes until the end of time?”

She could see the Man wanted to reply, but she saw through him, saw he had no plan, only denial.

“Tell the hole to keep me alive!” Alexandria said.

“It doesn’t work like that,” the Man responded, helpless. “There are rules.”

“Try!”

The Man dipped his head away.

“Okay, fine. We could go after him. We could gather everyone in town. We get weapons, we search the tunnels, and ferret the bastard out.”

“No, the people can’t hunt The Man Who Holds The Town Together,” the Man said. “Even if he’s no longer doing the job, it’s still forbidden. Only the council can punish the Man. That’s how it has always been.”

“Of course,” Alexandria sighed. “And where is the council?”

“Gone,” the Man replied. “They are – hidden from everyone, even me. They’re here, but they’re not here. It’s hard to explain, but it’s just not an option. We don’t have the time.”

Alexandria stepped past the Man and walked to the grate. She peered down, wondering if the killer was looking back up at her. She let go of a very long and heavy sigh. With it went a portion of the rage that she knew was leading her nowhere.

“Was he always like this?” Alexandria asked, changing tacks. “Is that why you replaced him?”

“No,” the Man answered softly, stepping close to her. “When he mentored me, when he taught me the job, he was very kind. But he was tired. Tired and lonely.”

“What happened to him?” Alexandria asked.

“He disappeared one day. He left no word. We assumed he left the Town. I never thought I would hear from him again.”

“Then he killed your wife?”

“Yes,” the Man managed.

The pair studied the grate, the darkness beyond.

“Come with me,” Alexandria suggested. “We can leave together. Tonight.”

“The Town won’t let you leave,” the Man replied, his voice grim and resigned.

“How can it stop me?” Alexandria asked, turning to the Man, grip tightening on the knife. “Are the mountains going to come alive? Shut down the roads, block off the coastline?”

The Man didn’t answer, but he met her eyes. An unspoken apology passed between them. His sorrow infuriated her.

“There is always a way!” She jabbed her finger into his chest. “I am getting out of this place and you are coming with me.”

“No.”

“Why?” Alexandria shot back. “Because the Town won’t let you leave either? Was your name on a card too?”

“I can never leave,” the Man answered, his eyes steady on hers. “You haven’t been here long enough to understand, but what we have is too important. I must stay. My role is bigger than me. This isn’t about wishes or skating rinks or having a happy life. There is more to this Town and, if I leave, horror will follow me wherever I go. It will follow us.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t need to,” the Man said. “I know it’s the truth and I know I cannot leave. But perhaps you are right, perhaps the Town will allow you to escape. I will do everything I can to help you. I will get you far from the town’s borders where he can never find you, but that is all I can do.”

Alexandria felt the tears coming and resented them, resented her life, resented the way her heart suffocated from the thought of losing the Man.

“So, you want me to leave?” she asked, carving out as much vulnerability from her voice as she could manage.

“No,” the Man answered. “But I want you to live.”

Alexandria backed away, turned to climb the walkway. She paused.

“Can you undo that wish?”

“No,” the man responded.

“Okay, if I can’t escape this town,” Alexandria began, her back to the Man. “If I am trapped and he comes for me, will I be facing him alone?”

“No,” the Man said, approaching her. “I will stand with you and, if there is no other way, I will die with you.”

“You can die, but you can’t leave?” Alexandria asked, looking back at the Man.

“It’s the way of the Town,” the Man answered.

“I don’t want you to die, Jeffery,” Alexandria said. “I want you to fight. Will you fight with me?”

Dorshak on NPR

Check out Dorshak Bloch’s wonderful interview on KOSU with Nikole Robinson Carroll where he talks about his debut graphic novella, The Story of Ivan A. Alexander and his other upcoming projects!

Copies of Ivan can be purchased through our Storenvy account HERE or at these store locations!

 

On Conspiracies and Hating Women

Let’s start with the requisite asterisk: 1. Not all conspiracy theories are false. 2. Faith is, fundamentally, a powerful thing capable of so much beauty that does not source from ignorance and fear. 3. The following thoughts are about mindsets, not absolutes, so they should not be read as indictments on activists, the church, or men/women struggling with heartache. Instead, this post is about those who embrace cynicism so deeply that they have become naive.

Simple answers are wonderful things. As a writer, I cling to simplicity in my plots. Nice, clean, easy to absorb, easy to control. Simplicity is a mark of a good story. The characters can be rich and complicated, the narrative can weave lush and magnificent storylines, but underlying it all is a simple idea that the reader can soak their hearts into. Once the book closes for the last time, it is this simple idea that pulls away with the reader, haunting them for days, months, and years to come like the snippet of a melody that, once it reemerges in their mind, can usher in a full symphonic masterpiece.

But real life is not simple. Not like humans want it to be. We strive for big answers to big problems. It gives us hope for quick, sweeping, and epic change, making all our problems more manageable. We want to expose secret societies, we want to topple devious governments, we want to appease capricious gods. Most of all, we want something or someone to blame for our unhappiness. Whether it’s God, the Democrats, the Republicans, the church, the government, the schools, the science, the gays, the blacks, the whites, or the women, we yearn for a target to single out to explain why our lives can be so brutal and unfulfilling.

But life simply is. Whether just or unjust, happy or sad, life is. There are those that will harm us while others will help us, but no one person or thing is to blame for the entirety of our suffering or our joy. It is the flow of life. It sweeps in, then it washes away.

Our society might be secularizing, but humans have not lost the need to believe. It is among our most powerful attributes. It is a muscle that must be utilized, for it is a crucial coping mechanism and a significant means by which we form community. Belief can build hospitals and international aid organizations. We find this faith in the divine, in art, in education, in sports, in romance, in hard work, or in the almighty dollar. We all have totems and icons; when we allow them to, these can grant us strength.

But belief can turn dark, as it did for a lonely, bitter man who found a community of other lonely, bitter men that chose hate over hope. Hate led to delusion, delusion led to violence which claimed six innocent lives on a beautiful spring day in Santa Barbara, California.

And it all stemmed from this lonely man’s weakness.

Hope is a difficult emotion. Hope must be built and maintained, whereas hate only requires time and secrecy to fester. Hope is what this man needed. Hope and strength are what we all seek in our mates. Hope for a better future and the strength to follow through. If he had embraced optimism, he would have greatly increased his odds of finding someone, of beating the loneliness. But he was a weak man who believed he was owed by life. Life does not owe us anything, nor do women owe us their time and affection. We must earn it by becoming better men. All things require sacrifice, especially love.

If you have the fortitude, there is an amazing piece about the online forum this man frequented before he went on a rampage. They call themselves the “involuntary celibate” or “incel” for short. It is among the worst of what the internet has to offer, a haven of desolation and anger. An ugly pit of vipers heralding the victory of their now famous brother.

I will not grant the killer the privilege of being named on this post. He is just another twisted mind that brought pain into this world, no different than countless others that have come before and will follow after. But I do believe that it is important for us to examine what did the twisting so we can understand how to prevent these events in the future. It is suffering, it is always suffering, and his particular strand was fed by isolation.

I understand loneliness. I understand the way it hollows us out. I understand the anger that feeds on itself when rejections mount.

1. This one divorced me.

2. This one left me.

3. This one won’t forgive me.

4. This one won’t accept me no matter what I do.

Love is an agony that is sometimes sweet and sometimes foul. It is impossible to avoid because love is what we were designed to do. I carry weight in my heart from every unrequited and exhausted affection, like all of us do, and it is difficult to remember that there is no sense nor justice to love.

Love simply is.

The “incel” men that raged on about this unjust world and encourage further violence suffer from a condition that, I suspect, all of us can relate to. Not the hate, but the hurt. And this is not just about lonely men. Every one of us can get sucked down into the internet’s darkest corners, if we allow it.

Perhaps there is no saving the most far-gone among the incels. They are truly lost to their loneliness. Like religious zealots, they resent this world for not behaving how they feel it should and have singled out the great enemy because they need a focus for their hate. They are consumed by bitterness, by the illusion that they truly understand something that the rest of us are just to blind to see. Whether it is violent misogyny, a grand, unifying conspiracy, distrust of religion, government, or any other authority figure, the lost souls would rather kill, or die, than have their illusion toppled.

Their empty lives have swallowed them whole. There will come times that the most desperate among them will act out in terrible ways. It will hurt us. It will frighten us. And it will infuriate us.

Then the hurt will pass and we will endure, enlightened and resilient. We will become stronger, more unified and empathetic, if we allow it.

Though we may not be able to save or stop all of these killers, we can turn to our children. We can brace them for the coming storms. We should neither feed them fantasies nor frighten them. Life is not simple enough for such propaganda. Life is simply long, and it winds; sometimes it makes sense and sometimes it does not. The only certainty is that life will often hurt. That is what we must teach our sons and daughters, that night falls for us all, but that the dark times are always followed by daybreaks. We will hurt. We will hate. We will get over it.

All pain ends and something new is always waiting to replace it. Always. So we must tell our children to prepare for pain, but to also prepare for hope. Without one, we cannot grow; without the other, we cannot survive.