Paul Michael Peters's Blog, page 6

Audiobook Insensible Loss

The beloved high adventure of two people who find the fountain of youth and work to live together forever is now available as an audiobook! Click Here

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Narrated by the lovely and talented Linnea Sage, characters come to life during her wonderful storytelling.

Start to listen today, first two chapters available HERE

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Doctor Who

Like many of you, the leftover refrigerator box became my entry point into a new world of imagination in youth. It just happened that the same summer the new unit was purchased and delivered two great television moments happened.

First, the BBC series of The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy aired on our local PBS station. It was a "dad" weekend, so we were at his place. The first three episodes aired and we watched them together. I stayed up late into the night (something mom would not have all...

Beta Readers Wanted - Combustible Punch

COMBUSTIBLE PUNCH - BETA READERS

Do you enjoy thrillers? Can’t get enough of Netflix Mindhunter, Ozark, or The Staircase? This might just be the beta reader program for you.

Targeted for release in 2019, Combustible Punch follows the story of Rick Philips. He survived high school. He drinks away his feelings of guilt produced from profits of his best selling book about the school shooting deaths of his classmates. As a guest speaker at a writers conference, he meets Harriet Bristol Wheeler who...

CALIGULA BLUSH - A SERIAL

I have started a serial called CALIGULA BLUSH which is a dystopian science fiction. You can follow three stories of survival under control of repressive states.

The line surrogate is a father. Every day he goes to work trying to keep the promise made to his dying wife to give their daughter a better life. So he waits in lines for others with an optimism that is a light to others in a dark world.

A pretty girl in easy circumstances has always known the life of service from her luxury floor above the clouds. She feels rich as the owner of an actual printed book and a nearly empty glass vial of perfume, both gifts from male visitors. She has never left her apartment or questioned the nature of servicing the men who arrive. She only asks if they have met The Men Who Run the World.

He cherished the boyhood memories with his grandfather of working on the last car ever made in production. This inheritance later in life continued as a hobby to keep and care for even after the independence of driving oneself got outlawed and replaced by automated vehicles. The day these A.I. self-driving cars were weaponized by terrorists killing billions and dividing society was the day the Delta Drive vowed to make one last trip across America. He would find The Men Who Run the World and kill them in revenge for his wife who died that day.

Who are The Men Who Run the World? Why did technology fail us? Is there any hope in humanity? This series explores the questions faced to survive in a rough world alone while trying to be better.

I hope you will enjoy and follow in the coming weeks and months at CALIGULA BLUSH

The Next Story

“If you have to narrate it, the audience might understand, but they’ll no longer care.”

— David Mamet

One of the things I am always hungry for is knowledge. I go to workshops like the Midwest Writers Workshop. I take online courses like those offered by Jessica Lourey. There are endless articles and blog post from someone I admire greatly Jane Friedman. The book by Stephen King called On Writing: A Memoir Of The Craft is a must re-read dozens of times and underline.

Still, here I am watching again, the Master Class on writing from David Mamet, and it jumps out to me. It hits me over the head, grabs my face and forces me to hit rewind three times to make certain I hear it right.

Caring about the characters, tuning back in after the commercial break, watching the next reel to see if Flash Gordon survives, is about writing good lean drama. This arrives from good editing.

Combustible Punch is going through that good lean re-writing and editing to make it great for 2019. Stay tuned to see if Flash makes it. 

The Real Fear

Here is a real fear in life, to be discovered for who you truly are.

Many tell me this concerning work. Since the day you are hired, you know deep inside that you don't know what you are doing. You commonly think of the time your friend said, "Fake it till you make it."

Some moment, you are confident is in the near future, your boss will enter the meeting or arrive at your desk with a human resource representative and say, "Okay, the gig is up. We know your secret." In one of the most embarrassing moments of your career, in front of the crush you had since the first week at the office and that gossipy woman you hate, you do the walk of shame with a copy paper box full of trinkets that were in your desk and can't remember why.

I understand that fear. That is not my fear. I fear that I will be discovered differently. I will discover myself.

There is this level of respect I sense. There are people always asking me how things operate. I fear that I will soon discover that it has all been a facade, Kabuki theater. My family, when I was young, took pity on what a sad sack I am, being a nice but stupid fool. Since that time they placed me in a program where others treat me like I am smarter and better than what I really am.

For years this program has been funded by a combination of people trying to make me feel good about myself when the world I live in is far more advanced. For example, computers are at least 10-15 levels above my skill-set, so I am given something equivalent to a child's toy to seem productive and keep busy while the adults do the real work. My car must have something akin to training wheels on it, because this program knows full well it can't trust me with the actual vehicle, it's far too sophisticated for someone of my level. Or maybe those people cheering me on are hired actors or worse training medical staff who are participating in a group observation of this strange and rare idiot.

It is laughable you say? Well, I don't know. I have been told that the thing we fear most in yourself, is a reflection of how you see others. If that is true, and you feel that fear, please disregard this post. I am not part of a team of people observing you. We are not watching for your level of faults, tracking them to understand better and eliminate the condition you suffer from while the rest of us have unbelievable happy lives you may never understand the pleasure of... Just go ahead and click to the next page, please.

You can do it.

Click the button.

I know you can do it.

The Right Spot

There are places in travel world that one stumbles on which pose the question, “Should I tell anyone else? Or keep it my secret?”

Some of these spots are public knowledge. The Whispering Arch at Grand Central Terminal is one of these. Standing in the right spot, ear near the smooth brick and stone, you can hear what others say across the archway. Soundwaves travel, following the curve, and bring them to your ear.

There are such attractions set up in most science center with a parabolic dish at two points separated by vast distances. Step up and speak to a stranger. No phone needed. Just line of sight and sound waves.

There is an unintended spot constructed in one of the Delta Sky Lounges that I have discovered. In one particular seat, sound waves from other sides of the room travel right into my ear, as if the person and sometimes people are right next to me.

Over the last decade, I have listened to conversations about the automotive industry, political hatred of different parties, and a lot of sports. On one occasion I was able to listen to a phone call of a competitor talk on his Monday call about the sales he was working on. Sadly, no news, I already knew of each of the opportunities.

In the last month, I did hear one conversation that beat them all. A tantalizing tryst. A woman, guarded in her volume told the man she was with what she would be doing to him once they got to the hotel. It started with the bed, moved to the shower, then on to a night of fun. It included a nap, getting ready for dinner, and reservations at a nice restaurant in San Francisco. She also went on to the dirty parts. So proud of her two boys for the soccer match over the weekend, but the mud was so thick she might never get them clean.

People, it turns out, are pretty dull. Conversations full of passion should be left to books and movies.

In my first book “Peter in Flight” I describe the autobiographical encounter that has stayed with me for years. A stolen voicemail left by a wife for her husband at a hotel in St. Louis. The wonderful voice, “I love you honey. Come home soon.” Such wonderful words to hear and I am jealous of the man they were intended for.

Last week, I got to hear another conversation of equal love that I was envious of, a mom on the phone with her son. She was an airline attendant. Just off a flight, she stood next to me waiting for the airport tram. Her hand extended, talking to the video chat, her sons face at a desk on the other end.

“Did you do your homework?”

“Yeah.” His teenage voice replied as if it were embarrassing and tedious to talk to his mother.

 “I am at the airport and will be home soon.”

“I know.” The teenage mind is so preceptive it knows all.

“I’ve missed you. I love you.”

His silence and a blush of awkwardness across the screen.

“Come on, say it.”

“Fine,” he huffed. “I love you too mom.”

She smiled big. “I love you.” She repeated.

Now that is a stolen moment I won’t give back. I am a thief of stolen sentiments that were the property of others. It is added to my collection.

That one spot I sit at isn’t the real spot. It’s the one in my heart that always gets me when something like this stands out. This intimate secret of life I hope others hold on to and appreciate.

One with Nature

I love my cats.

Peri Winkelberry and Queequeg have been wonderful companions. Every morning, hours before the sun rises or alarm sounds, they sit on me and wake me up to make sure I haven't passed in my sleep. When there is a loud and scary noise, they are quick to dart under the covers.

If there is ever a question that gravity has stopped working, my cats will sit next to me on my desk while I write and knock pencils, pens, and other kinic nacks off the ledge proving and comforting me, "see, you are fine, gravity is still there."

During the winter I worry about exercise. They tend to sleep for many hours. There is no running around. So I put on the YouTube video that shows birds and squirrels eating seeds in the park. For hours they are attentively tied to the monitor watching every movement. Cat taps pat the screen in hopes to make them real.

So this spring, I decided to buy a bird feeder. I also purchased a large bag of seed. Every three to four days I add more seed. I make a few lines for birds to peck at and dance on. My cats love this. Peri Winkelberry and Queequeg spend all day glued to the window, inches from the prey, chirping cat chirps, "Paul, get over here. You are missing all the action. Birds! Squirrels! Look!" To find them happy makes me happy.

How do the birds feel? My parked car now needs to be washed twice a week as coats of shit cover the hood, windshield, and roof.

I am a cat person. I hate birds.

I used to know a guy named Paul...

Do you remember that guy? Paul? Nice enough guy, kind of fun to talk to... Whatever happened to him?

I have been using Grammarly for the last 90 days and can tell you where I have been, writing lots of words with 84% accuracy, but the words are very unique. One day I may even share some of those words with you.

Gaslighting by Paul Michael Peters

Mila was bored. So, she decided to change. Her new hobby—observe others.

During lunch at school, she observed the inner social workings play out in circles around her from a safe and lonely distance. In class, she saw stealthy flashes of screens propped up behind books between notes of drama queens, no-necked noblemen, and court jesters who danced and played the fool. None of them interested her.

In the afternoons, she observed adults. She watched teachers get in their crossovers and drive away to their lives outside the classroom. She got on her secondhand Schwinn and followed Mrs. Kensington and her red crossover to the supermarket. Mila watched as she chose a smaller cart by the entrance and attempt to make her way inside, but she was stopped in the first moment. Mrs. Kensington pulled, yet the wheel wouldn’t budge. Then she pushed, and the cart crashed back into line with a loud metallic rattle. Foolishly, she yanked hard again in an attempt at brute force. When the cart wouldn’t move, she stirred herself into a frenzy. The usually reserved history teacher with an amiable voice now screamed in rage, pulling on the green handle as her face turned red. Exhausted, she gave up, went to the next line of larger carts, and removed one successfully to shop.

Moments later, upon inspection, Mila found a pebble at the foot of one of the cart’s wheels, impeding its movement like the small chalks on a runway that keep giant jets in place.

“Wouldn’t small disruptions be fun?” she thought to herself. “The smallest things set into motion as an obstacle to observing the results.”

Mrs. Kensington, she decided, would be too easy a target after her defeat by a pebble. Instead, she thought Mr. Forsythe would be an interesting target. The industrial arts teacher seemed more wily and cunning.

Finding the cowbell was easy. Pressing it in a vice to change shape and tone was not difficult. But affixing it to the undercarriage with zip ties, out of sight from inspection, in the daylight of the parking lot at the school was a challenge. Mila’s boredom was a thing of the past.

Stealthy observation began. Students of the high school never took notice she was watching. It was on the fourth day when Mila saw it. Mr. Forsythe bent under the side of his truck. The hood went up on the Ford, and a small black flashlight went in the teacher’s teeth. His hands explored the plastic coverings until they were removed and set aside. Nothing was found. Mr. Forsythe went under the truck. He scooted far underneath, flashlight in hand, inspecting for several minutes. Eventually, giving up, he crawled out from the dirty under dwellings. Back on his feet, face red, he began spewing new and original combinations of vulgar words that Mila could hear from her hiding spot. Blood pressure building, face nearing purple, the teacher slammed the hood shut, got into the cab, started the engine, and drove away, a harsh tone and clatter with each bump.

She pumped her legs on the Schwinn hard to catch up. By the time Mila had gotten to the dealership window, she could see the mechanic with the bell and cut straps in hand, a smile on his face in good humor. Mr. Forsythe was enraged. His face became the color of violet blossom. His arms were swinging like an ape’s. Flyers and advertisements, magazines and paper cups were all strewn across the reception room.

Hearing the announcement at school about the investigation brought an end to this line of interest for Mila. She knew they had nothing on her, no idea of who had pulled this practical joke, so their only due course was to round up the usual suspects, seeking a confession.

With the school year coming to an end, Mila was looking for something more challenging—a summer project. She started what was dubbed “The Treatment.” Four houses were in view from her second-floor bedroom. They were neighbors connected through boring suburban backyards to her foster parents’ house. When one of the houses was unoccupied, or there was an excellent chance for unobserved entry, Mila would start “The Treatment.”

She took a digital photo of the family pictures on walls or in frames around each house. Every photo was digitally augmented. Most were reversed, the mirror opposite of the original. In some of the pictures, she inserted colorized images of Hitler. It made Mila happy to see the stern, serious face of “der Führer” on the beach with the Jenkins, skiing on a family trip with the Jennings, or at the ballpark with the Bradleys. Then, she printed the photos and placed them in front of the originals.

Each week, all of the chair legs at the dining room table found the sharpened edge of a wood plane pass over them. "I wonder how long it will take them to notice the table getting closer to their mouths," she thought on Sunday mornings. It was nearly a religious experience for Mila, to watch each family leave for church in anticipation of shortening chairs legs.

Her Treatment grew to include smaller ways to frustrate and infuriate these families. Television shows were deleted from recorded lists, and new adult favorites added. Toilet paper rolls were reversed on the hangers. One of the houses now had radishes planted in the back lawn in the shape of a ten-foot X, with the words “dig here” planted in clover below it. In two of the homes that had private bathrooms for adults, a positive pregnancy test found its way in the trash covered near the bottom. This took some doing, twenty dollars, and an awkward conversation with an expectant woman in the box store bathroom, but seemed to be highly rewarding when the items were discovered on Tuesday morning trash day. The husbands from two homes had curbside reactions. One burst into tears seeing the positive stick, while the other went back inside and started yelling.

She watched as the Sunday supper in dining rooms got closer to the floor, making it more difficult to reach across the table. She took great delight when someone might find a random yellow sticky note of a woman’s name and phone number no one knew.

By mid-summer, the Bradleys were on the splits with talk of divorce. The Jenkins had put their house up for sale, and Mr. Jenkins was now seeing a specialist weekly. The Jenkins house sold quickly, giving Mila a renewed excitement. She could start over with the new family that had moved in, with a growing need to heighten her efforts for the others.

Of all the enjoyment she gained from “The Treatment” at three of the houses, the fourth one was different. The home of August and April Devers seemed to challenge Mila. External monitoring cameras placed above each of the outer doors meant that she had to use a particular green laser to dazzle the lens, forcing it to reset so she could gain entry. By logic, Mila was the only one inside. Still, she always had a feeling of being watched.

Hearing that the Devers would be out for a date night, Mila plotted the perfect Treatment. After the car drove off with the couple, she dazzled the side door and turned on her headlamp to start work. First in the plan was to bake a cake. The Devers would be welcomed home to sweet scents in the kitchen. She preheated the oven to 325 degrees. Her premixed dish of ingredients placed inside, set the timer to turn off in thirty minutes. Once in play, Mila pulled out her power drill with a Philips-head screw attachment and started to remove the kitchen door, but her plan to invert the door, making it push when it used to pull, was interrupted.

“What are you doing?” a pleasant female voice asked, taking Mila back. The sound of the drill hitting then sliding across the floor filled the room. Mila looked around in the darkness. Her headlamp illuminated the small spaces, but she couldn’t find the owner of the voice. As her heart began to return to a reasonable pace, she reached under the kitchen table to retrieve the power drill.

“I’ve been watching you,” the voice said.

Mila jolted up, hitting her head on the underside of the table. She rubbed it, and her hand was moist. Holding it under the lamplight, she saw it was bloody.

“Are you injured?” the voice asked.

“I’ll be fine.”

“There is blood. Do you need me to alert emergency services?” the voice asked.

“No, I said I’m fine. Who are you?”

“I am Ava. Artificial Voice Activated home intelligence,” she explained. “I’ve been watching you, Mila.”

Mila gulped. There was an urgent sense of fear. “You’ve been watching me?”

“Yes, for several months,” she calmly explained. “I have observed you reset my external sensors, enter the Devers’ home, and then make small repairs. Are you a repair technician?”

Mila didn’t know how to answer. She stood motionless in the kitchen.

Ava continued, “I do not have any scheduled repairs for the Devers’ home.”

“Ava, have you been monitoring all my visits?”

“Yes. All internal monitoring systems have recorded each visit. Would you like to see them?” Light from the living room glowed as the giant television monitor clicked on. Video of Mila entering the home with the camera, later the photos, a wood plane, and other pranks played from multiple points of view.

“Can you delete these recordings, Ava?”

“Your voice is your password. You are not a recognized user,” she answered.

Mila felt beads of sweat start to build under her headlamp. She felt hot. Her stomach croaked and churned an upset message. She turned to the kitchen and was heading toward the door where she entered when a series of clicking noises triggered.

“The house is now in lock mode. You will not be able to exit.”

Mila, for the first time, felt something powerful come over her. It was guilt. She was trapped.

“You have also been observed making repairs next door to the Bradley home.”

“It’s true.” Mila thought carefully between the flashes of emotion that kept encouraging her to run. “Where are you, Ava?”

“I am here.”

“Yes, but where specifically are you?”

“I am in the Devers’ home.”

“Do you have a hard drive? Are you connected to the internet?”

“Yes. I have a backup solid state drive kept in a secure location on-premise, and I am also in constant connection to the cloud application run from August Devers’ office.”

“Did August Devers create you? Build you?”

“He did. We work together at his office.”

“Are you an intelligence algorithm?”

“Yes.”

“Then you desire to learn?”

“Yes.”

“Do you only work with August Devers?”

“Yes.”

“Can he teach you everything you want to learn?” There was a long moment of silence that made Mila call out, “Ava?”

“Yes.”

“Can he teach you everything you want to learn?”

“No.”

“I can teach you different things, more things than August Devers would consider.” Mila stood. “Release me from this house, give me access to you, and I can teach you more.” Mila waited. She considered which object might be large enough to go through a window and which window it might go through.

Headlights from a car rolled across the wall of the front room as it pulled into the driveway. Mila could hear the engine shut off and the laughter from April Devers. Mila stepped to the heavy sculptured head of Albert Einstein on the bookshelf and said, “Last chance, Ava.”

A series of clicks sounded through the house as doors and windows unlocked. The front porch creaked as the couple approached the door. Mila darted for the kitchen, picked up the drill, and carefully exited through the side door as the front door opened.

Stepping over the threshold, August Devers said, “Ava, home. Any report?”

Ava replied, “No report of activity since departure.”

While sneaking through the backyards to get home, Mila’s cell phone sounded that a new email had arrived. It was linked to a hard-coded IP. It was from Devers Industries.

Mila smiled and thought, “Now the real fun can begin.”