EHP: Experimental Home Publishing
Copyright, date started this version 7-14-2019, made available 8-11-2019 All Rights Reserved.
This book is not available for sale. It is, however, available for free. Licensing for this is pending. The author agrees to share this edition for editing purposes with the understanding that if you find anything of merit in it worth sharing, you share the author’s name. Comments and corrections can be directed to the author for story refinement.
WARNING: This book is intended for a mature audience. Due to violence and sexual themes, some persons, especially those suffering from PTSD or childhood trauma, could possibly experience unpleasant feelings or flashbacks.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. (I would like to say ‘duh,’ but apparently, there were actually people who believed the Castaways of Gilligan’s Island were actually stranded! No joke. There were people writing the US Navy asking them to please stop spending money on warfare and rescue those poor people before they starved. Tim Allen’s movie ‘Galaxy Quest’ made reference to it, but
I thought it was a joke till I saw a documentary on Gilligan’s Island. Of course, it probably doesn’t help that there is a stature in Iowa place marking the birth place of Captain Kirk. Oh, how reality and fiction love to mix. (And yes, I watched Gilligan’s Island. And if you have to know: Mary Ann, hands down.)
This book is dedicated to all of those who have suffered through my grammar and teased out something more meaningful than the visible architect. May you continue to find meaning and joy in you all your multiverses. This book, as with everything, is also and always dedicated to the Goddess.
Author contact info:
Ion Light
214-907-4070 Email solarchariot@hotmail.com (In order to differentiate between junk mail, and letters, please put Star Wars in the subject line.)
Chapter 1
Jeremy Vale, sat at the island in the kitchen, looking down at another the rejection letter. It would go into a box with the other rejection letter. Marvel. DC. Funimation. It was discouraging when even the Japanese didn’t want manuscripts for his new superhero because, as captured here in a rare hand written rejection, “Way too sexy in style. Too much Sex. It’ll never get past the American censors, and they are now our primary customers. Insufficient violence. Insufficient melancholy and social angst. You have a reasonable idea and a nice artistic style. Stay away from the puns. We don’t need another Sean Connery meets Dead Pool. Also, the general rule of thumb is that publishers tend to ignore solicitations, and promote from within, or people they find. Get your stuff out there and be discovered. If there is any public resonance, you’ll get there.”
This was actually one of the most personable rejections he had ever received. The Japanese people were actually nice people, but hearing his work was ‘too sexy’ from a nation that sells used women underwear in vending machines stung like no one’s business.
A Victorian Secret model brought him a cup of coffee, leaned her butt against the island, and sipped at her own coffee. He didn’t know her name. He probably should have known her name, as often as she had ‘visited,’ but he never asked and she never gave it.
“Don’t be so down,” she said. “The world is your oyster.”
“I know,” Jeremy said. “I don’t know why this bothers me. If a person isn’t melancholy, despondent, or aggressively vengeful, you get whited out. I have everything I could ever want, except a voice.”
“Aww,” she said, hugging him. She kissed the top of his head. “I hear your voice.” “Yeah,” Jeremy said.
He took his comic book, ‘The Manfestor: Manifest Destiny,’ and placed it into a new envelope, complete with a self-addressed return envelope, his letter head and sales pitch, and prepared it for the next agency on the list.
Jeremy got up from his chair, took her coffee from her, and set it down. She smiled as he drew closer, her arms embracing him, a knee coming up as they kissed. He closed his eyes, accepting the softness of her lips, and then, she was gone. He knew it because of the subtle shift of weight and the smell of ozone. He picked up the envelope and walked away from the kitchen, which was incomplete. It was as if it were a television set in a studio. The set was bright, the ‘studio’ was dark. He took the envelope containing the manuscript out the ‘studio’ door and placed it into the mailbox. He pushed the flag up.
From outside the ‘studio,’ it became clear it was not an actual studio, but a private airplane hangar. The neighboring hanger had a small apartment and the owner was sustained through renting out his hangar space and his work as a licensed aircraft mechanic. A Cessna was coming in for a landing, slight crab, then at the last moment straightened and touched, and disappeared as the plane went down the curve of the runway, no bigger than a two lane road, and then back up. The sky was a morning dark blue, the sun still not visible from this perspective, thought likely above the horizon. This was a different blue than the window inside suggested.
He imagined the people on the Cessna were going for pancakes. The Beacon had some of the best pancakes one could ask for. People flew in from all over just for pancakes. Hicks Airfield was a tiny place, on the outskirts of Fort Worth, sitting between Alliance Airport and
Denton Municipal. If you weren’t a pilot, you probably never heard of it.
Jeremy smiled at the plane as it came off the end of the runway and started the track back. He went back inside. He went back into the breakfast set and looked out the window. There was blue sky and a yard that was not the actual view. He was no longer disturbed by this. He had ceased trying to understand this. He stretched out his hands, closed his eyes, and the set disappeared. His hanger space was empty, except for shelves. Shelves containing thousands of catalogs. There was an apartment loft, which he used to shower and change, and kept most of his
‘keeper’ stuff.
He lit a candle and proceeded to one of the shelves, set the candle down, found a car magazine, tore out a page, and studied it. The candle offered a bit of a flicker to the image. He closed his eyes. When he opened it, the car was no longer in the image. The actual car was in the middle of his hangar.
He grabbed one of a dozen backpacks. He grabbed the blue one. He went and opened the hangar door, sliding it open just enough to permit the car passage. He went to the car, tossed his backpack to the passenger side floor, got in, and powered it up. It came to life and he drove it to the hangar door, easing it out. He got out of the car, pulled the hangar door to, and got back in the car. He drove away. Morning sun was now visible above the far hanger.
No one seemed to notice him. It wasn’t that they were ignoring him. He could come up to anyone, have conversations with them, usually innocuous, unusually mundane. No one ever asked about the variety of cars he had access to. No one asked about the planes he flew. They knew him well at the Beacon, where he ate most of his meals. But people tended to avoid him.
There was a weirdness factor to him that gave him a level of anonymity. It wasn’t so good that he could walk into a bank and steal a million dollars and walk out. But it was good enough that he could walk down the street, or through a mall, and people would not see him. He had to be careful not to walk into folks because they didn’t see him until they bumped. They would look at him, confused and then realize an accidental trajectory, apologize, and slip away back into the ocean’s night of people. ‘Keep swimming, keep swimming.’
He touched the dash and song began to play. Jain – ‘Come.’ He drove to Denton, parked his car illegally near the UNT campus, grabbed his back pack and got out. After about three meters, and several blinks, the car was no longer there. He didn’t look back to confirm it had gone. All things go.
He was early for class. He was always early. This aided the anonymity factor. If he came in and sat in the back, most folks found other places to sit. The classroom held about three hundred people. There was usually half that attending. This particular professor was popular due to incorporating iconic sci-fi into his quantum physics lectures. There was more than one class with Star Trek in the course title. Jeremy had made friends with a Professor Chilton, who wrote the academic book, ‘Star Trek: Visions of Law and Justice.’ He and Chilton had set and played guitar together for a year or so, before the professor moved. All things go.
The professor was writing an equation on the board. Jeremy pulled out a notebook and turned to the next blank page. He jotted the formula down, and then began doodling. The class began. A few stragglers came in and found seats. Questions. Jokes. Some laughter. Hard math. Philosophy. And before too long, the class was over, and other than the original formula he had jotted down at the beginning, the only thing on the page was the doodle, which was nonsense, repetitive, mandala kind of gyrations.
Jeremy found his hand going up. He never raised his hand. He never asked questions. His hand went up. In doing so, the anonymity thing was broken. People who were starting to get up settled back. A silence fell. An uncomfortable one, like a crowded cafeteria going silent. The professor recognized him. He was now committed.
“Um, sorry,” Jeremy said, trying not to sustain eye contact. “But how do you get around the Mott Problem?”
The professor seemed surprised. Actually pleasantly so. He considered. “It’s not really a problem inherit in the math, but a perspective based, counter intuitive result that can be canceled out by applying the Klein constant.”
“Which, just invokes the Klein paradox,” Jeremy said. “Taking us full circle.” “It’s not a real life dilemma,” the Professor said.
“Perhaps,” Jeremy mused. “But then, why do math at all? Maybe constants aren’t constants. Why have an order of operation if we’re just going to ignore the results?”
The professor was suddenly less enthusiastic about the question. He seemed flustered.
“Your point?”
“We agree to an order of operation. Was it derived out of a fundamental mathematical nature, or was it arbitrarily chosen due to a preference in philosophy?” Jeremy asked. “If the latter, there can be no agreement on final answers, and if I show my proof it’s just as worthy as
anyone else’s answer. Do Martians have the same math as us?” “So, now you want to talk aliens?” the Professor asked.
“It’s a metaphor,” Jeremy said. “Would any hypothetical being discover the same principles of math regardless of their position in the Universe? Are constants always constants, or just regionally constant?” “What’s your name, son?”
“Jeremy,” Jeremy offered, a little sadness because he would likely not be able to attend this class again. Once anonymity was broken, it tended to stay broken. All things go. “Hypothetically, if the virtual particles could be captured and manifested into a conglomerate particle or molecule, how would one go about sustaining it indefinitely? What keeps regular matter from decaying?”
“The observer principle…”
“Sir, please. You have identified yourself in all of your published work as a being a confirmed materialist, so if you rule out consciousness has the fundamental aspect of reality, the hard problem of measurement defining reality would be a contradiction of your paradigm,” Jeremy interrupted.
“I don’t know,” the Professor said, offering a hands up gesture, palms open. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“No,” Jeremy said, saddened further. “I am not challenging you just to be a dick. I wanted an answer. Even a wrong answer. An argument that leads us to synthesis of a new paradigm. Something tangible I can work with that doesn’t lead to another damn paradox.”
“I share your lament, Jeremy,” the Professor said. “Come by my office. Let’s talk. Class dismissed.”
Being close to the door gave Jeremy a quick exit.
♫♪►
The bookstore on the Denton Square was in walking distance of UNT. It was a surprisingly nice day out for walking, the rains of the last few days having brought the temperatures down. Fall colors were starting to leak through, and there was a false spring greening that was just simple relief from the torturous summer. There were people on the square, sitting in the grass. It was not quite hippie in tone, but definitely a reflection of the university lifestyle. A kid playing his guitar. There was a coffee shop that held poetry readings on Tuesday nights. There was a British pub. There was comic book store, with comics, trading cards, card games, DnD, and figurines. It was not in competition with the book store that bought and sold and recycled everything. There were antique shops near the book store. It was possible to find just about anything here. Accept a Graflex camera flash. Ever since Star Wars, those were a commodity hard to find.
The book store was huge, hidden corners, ramps, up and down stairs. It smelled of books and dust and LPs. He selected books like a Saint holding a relic. He browsed some, spent time with others, and picked out one book that required a little more intimacy. He found a corner to sit in. “The User Illusion” Tor Nørretranders. He tried to read it without imposing his own system. Not liking it, he skimmed it for digestion later, in the event he became bored, and then put it back. He browsed magazines, kept a Bridal magazine in his arms along with an anime, and a Playboy wrapped in plastic.
“Hello.”
The voice belonged to a female, 18 or 19, Emo hair and clothes. A dark blue, plaid shirt, and black mini. Black lipstick. Black hose. Nike running shoes. She was close. He blinked. Looked to other side to see if she was speaking to someone else, found he was alone and accepted she was indeed addressing him. His eyes went down to his shoes.
“Shyness is actually an adorable quality,” she said. “It denotes intelligence, humility, and a general respect for others. I am Tory. Tory Hicks”
Tory offered her hand. Her bracelet charm suggested Wiccan. Then he had flash insight that placed her. She was from the quantum physics class. She sat with friends, three quarters of the way down. He had noticed her as he had noticed every other female in class. With the exception of the Professor, and one guy up front who asked a ton of annoying questions, all the males in his class memory were simply silhouettes. Ghost place-holders for real people he didn’t want to remember. He did not accept her hand. Other connections were highlighted. Tor, the author of the last book he skimmed. Hicks, the name of the airfield where his home was.
“This is where you take my hand and say hi, my name is Jeremy,” Tory said. “Or Jere. I like Jere. You ever go by Jere?”
“No,” Jeremy said.
“Jeremy it is,” Tory said. “I am puzzled. Before today, I have never seen you in class. In hindsight, you have never missed a quantum physics class. Kind of spooky, don’t you think?” “It doesn’t mean what you think it means,” Jeremy said, and turned and walked away.
Tory followed, not perturbed or turned off in the least. “I know. It’s probably not magic.
It’s never magic. Just like it’s never aliens. Until it is, then it’s magical aliens. You do believe in aliens, don’t you?”
“Hypothetically, or speculatively?” Jeremy asked.
“In actuality,” Tory asked.
Jeremy put his items on the counter. On doing so, the clerk suddenly noticed him, and came to do her job. “Oh, hello, Jeremy.” “So you know him by name?” Tory asked.
“Sure. He comes in all the time,” the clerk said.
“Really? Does he ever flirt with the staff?” Tory asked.
“He has never flirted with the staff,” the clerk said.
“Interesting,” Tory said. “A mystery. He’s clearly not gay.”
“You presume I am not gay,” Jeremy said, looking at his shoes.
Her shoes were in his line of sight. As was her cleavage, as she was leaning into the counter, and him. She pulled the magazines he had selected out of the pile. She looked at him as if having won a game.
“Circumstantial artifacts that could be a distraction from the truth,” Jeremy said.
“Playboy, Marilyn Monroe, December 1953 - 54,175 copies sold,” Tory said. “I am a Marilyn freak.”
“I could be gay and still like Marilyn,” Jeremy said.
“True,” Tory mused.
“Or Carrie Radison,” the clerk added.
“Who?”
“Playboy, 1957, one million copies sold,” the clerk said. “That’s who you bought last time you were here. You paid in cash, which was impressive.” “Oh? Do tell me more,” Tory said. “Farah Faucet. You bought all of those, actually. And Raquel Welch,” the clerk said.
Jeremy blushed, dropped a hundred on the counter which more than covered his selected items, and pulled them off the counter. “Keep the change.”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Tory said, following him. “Everyone likes naked women. I do.” Outside on the corner, he stopped. “Why are you following me?” “I am interested. Feels like fate,” Tory said.
“I am not interested,” Jeremy said.
“Can’t hardly blame you,” Tory said. “Gay or not, what girl could compete with the likes you’re holding. That and the airbrushed models in the Brides magazine, and streaming porn through cell phones, and hot babes in video games, a girl just doesn’t stand a chance these days. We practically have to put out on the first date just to get a meal. And, yes, I put out. Hell, we could even skip the meal. I don’t believe in teasing or prolonged foreplay. OMG, you’re blushing again. Have you ever been with a real girl? I mean, it’s not a shame if you haven’t, not trying to shame, sorry, I am a flibbertigibbet. Tell me you know that word.”
“Joe Versus the Volcano,” Jeremy said. “And, Sound of Music, ‘how do you solve a problem like Maria.’”
Tory smiled. “Nice. So, what sort of porn do you stream? Let me guess. POV, mother or step mother seduction.”
Jeremy met her eyes. “I don’t have a cell phone. I don’t have computer. I don’t have a television. I don’t have cable or internet.”
Tory sorted that. “I am super impressed,” she finally said. “So, hypothetically. If you wanted to call me, how would you do it?” “Hypothetically,” Jeremy said. “You would tell me your number. I would call you.” Tory spit out her phone number.
“I am not going to call you,” Jeremy said.
“Yeah, I think you will,” Tory said.
“I assure you, I am not going to call,” Jeremy said.
“You have a photographic memory,” Tory said. “Yeah, I stalked you since you came in the book store. I divined your nature by how you handle books. You’re smart. Much smarter than you let anyone know. And now, in addition to my number, I am placing a spell on you which will make the urge to call me increasingly more irresistible.”
Jeremy laughed and walked away.
“I’ll be waiting!” Tory said.
“Don’t hold your breath!” Jeremy yelled back.
“Okay,” Tory said. “Talk to you later.”
♫♪►
Jeremy took a train to down town Dallas. While on the train, Jeremy stowed his magazines in his backpack, except the bridal one. He flipped through it until he saw a particularly nice wedding ring, tore the page out, stowed the magazine, and sat back and studied the ring. He held out his hand, blinked, and was suddenly holding the very ring, and the box it came in, in his hand. The ring had disappeared from the magazine. No trashcan, so he stuck the advertisement in his pocket. He studied the ring further. It was perfect. Almost better than perfect the way it radiated light.
“Some girl is really lucky,” someone across the way said.
Preston became aware that the few people sharing the car with him were looking. Most found other things to do. The girl with an envy smile leaned closer. He put the ring back in the box, closed the box.
“May I ask, how much it set you back?” she asked.
“It didn’t set me back. Diamonds are as free as sunlight,” Jeremy said. “In fact, if people knew how easy they are to acquire, no one would buy them.”
“If that were true, you could give me that one,” she said, trying for humor. It could have been genuine humor. Maybe she was harmless. He reacted.
“And then you’d have to marry me, and it would be fine for a moment, till you discover diamonds don’t bring sustained happiness, and then you’d want something else, and if I failed to provide it for you, someone else would. That sort of relationship thing is called monkey branching, by the way,” Jeremy said. “That’s not a just a girl thing. Everyone is doing that these days. And, it’s quite a reasonable thing to do, until you realize, statistically speaking, everyone in the world is likely not in the most ideal relationship. We are limited by region, language, age, social position, paradigms, personal filters, physical attributes, history, sphere of influence, family, friends, and gestalt of complicated and often opposing emotional vectors. Anyone of us is on the verge of being traded up or out or just dismissed completely. The promise is better is just a swipe away! Go ahead, take out your phone and ignore the one you’re with, ignore your children because the phone is the gateway to the ideal other. The people around you, they’re not important. They’re flawed. We have a decrease in tolerance for imperfections. And it’s not just that we can do better, we beat people up for imperfections. It doesn’t even matter if person’s mistake of immaturity was twenty years ago. Blow it up. Don’t believe me? Look at the trending social justice of movement Me2, anyone with personal vendetta against someone can suddenly find themselves the most hated person in the world, whether that reasonable or not.” He held the ring up, flipping it open. “This is an illusion. It’s an ankle bracelet. It’s a collar. They moved it to the finger because people are okay biting off a finger to escape, not okay losing a neck. It marks you as property. The amount of money spent on weddings, dresses, receptions, rings, all of that would be better spent on property. At least then, if your marriage goes south, you can at least sale the property. Most marriages today go south. Everything goes. You have nothing left but home videos that make you vomit because in hindsight, even that was just a performance, and a poor one at that. You want a movie? For 20 dollars you can get a Disney DVD. Wait long enough you can get the same movie for five dollars in the Walmart trash bin. Go for the older movies. They were better written anyway. This ring, after the divorce, suddenly becomes a despised object even a Hobbit wouldn’t take. This is a fifty thousand dollar ring. I bet I only get fifty dollars for it at the pawn shop. Diamonds are as common as granite; the DeBeers and advertisements have fooled the consumer into craziness. They need the divorce industry to keep diamonds rolling. Jewelry clerks are the equivalent of drug reps; they’re snake oil car salesmen who are peddling dirt. Don’t be fooled by the smile and sway of hips. They, too, are trying to swing up, bouncing off a few heads as they go.”
By the end of the impromptu speech, the woman wanted to run away. Several guys clapped in. One quit when his wife kicked him. Jeremy got out first. He slung his backpack, found his way out of the train station a little hurried, and finally made it to his next destination. The pawn shop. His prediction hadn’t been far off.
“I’ll give you sixty dollars for it,” the shop owner said. He was impressed with the ring. It was as if he was glamored. The diamond peg in as real. It had the weight of gold. Under the glass the ring was brilliant.
“Seriously?” Jeremy asked.
“