Driving to the Green Zone - An Afghanistan Story

“Put your gear on. We’re heading out,” Scott says. He wears fatigues with body armor and a P229 pistol on his hip, looking 100% badass in his six foot two inch U.S. Army Command Sergeant Major body.

My driver is a U.S. Air Force Tech Sergeant who wears crazy eyes above a winning boy-next-door sort of smile. As I struggle into my body armor, trying to figure out what the hell to do with all the Velcro and buckles, they shut the substantial back door of the up-armored SUV. I finally climbed in and began fighting

with the seat belt.

“Don’t worry about that. It’ll just get caught up on something if we get in the shit,” says Crazy Eyes.

I muse about telling them about the training I’d just gone through. I think maybe I might be able to get out if we were in the shit, as he said, but that one second of self-doubt makes me listen to him. After all, he’s the professional. I’m just along for the ride. I’m the package that Scott has promised the U.S. government and my wife that he’ll deliver safely.

They move their weapon status from amber to green, and we begin moving away from the airport around a dozen hair pin turns bound by concrete barriers to keep the great unwashed and explodable masses away. Just last year an SUV similar to the one I was in was almost destroyed when a truck pulled up behind it and detonated as they waited to enter through security. The nature of the entrance changed since then, as has surveillance on the lone road leading to the airport.

Coming in the airport was supposed to be safe.

And it probably was.

But we were going out.

I’d been both dreading and looking forward to this moment for two years, ever since I was told I was going to Afghanistan, if not a lifetime. I hate rollercoasters. I hate fast rides. I hate twists and turns. I hate it when someone else drives. With all of them it’s a lack of control. I understand the psychology of it.

But please explain this psychology -- I was about to be driven from point A to point B along a route with known terrorists who have proven they can blow vehicles up with improvised explosive devices, vehicle borne improvised explosive devices, and suicide bombers and I wasn’t scared. I was freaking excited and a small part of me in the back of my mind told me that I really should be a little more worried. But I wasn’t. My crazy Tech Sergeant knew how to drive and my Sergeant Major knew how to guide.

So let me set the scene.

You exit the airport sitting in the backseat of an up-armored SUV.

Four lane streets containing cars parked on either side in places pothole in front of you, sometimes separated by a thin median, but not always. One story buildings and hovels line the sidewalks, teeming with people shopping, talking, going about their everyday business. Like the signs to the businesses themselves, they are multi-colored, sometimes garish and confetti eye candy to the watchful eye. Some of them sit. Some of them stand. Others break into a run. Most don’t even notice you, but you can’t help but stand out. You’re in an up-armored white SUV with tinted windows and antennas jutting like an Armageddon porcupine among a country full of Datsons, Nissans, Toyotas and the like. So they stare. Are they curious? Do they wonder who you are? Do they realize you’re the great evil American, here to eat their children and make the populace the next MTV generation? Are they about to report you to someone down the road for your red, white and blue soul? Look, one has a phone. Are they calling ahead, activating an IED, or checking if the wife wants milk and eggs?

Crazy-eyed driver keys up playlist on the radio.

Heavy metal thrums inside the vehicle drowning out every other sound. Every one that is except—

“Drive,” commands Sergeant Major.

We accelerate to fifty and begin to weave through slower traffic down the Great Massoud Road.

Left side, car pulls in front, we swerve and don’t stop.

“Car. Right side. Parked.”

“Got it,” says Crazy Eyes.

We zoom past.

No boom.

Good thing.

Two cars come in from the right at high speed. Looks like they might be trying to block us or just maybe trying to hurry across.

Doesn’t matter.

“Juke right.”

You hold on as the SUV’s tires bite into the Soviet-era concrete on the road, we swerve right, then left, then straight. Whatever the cars are doing, they’re now in our dust.

You notice you’ve been holding your breath.

You breathe.

Mussah.

Serenity Now.

You can’t help but smile.

The brakes lock for a moment and we all jerk forward as a child crosses in front. We’re stopped. Sitting ducks. On the left squats an Afghani man, wearing black. His body is turned away from us, but his eyes are watching us as he talks into a phone. Damned phones. What’s he saying? Got Milk? Got Eggs? Got Boom?

You jerk back as we accelerate again. You feel like the ass-end of a bullet in CERN’s Large Hadron Collidor. We jerk left. We jerk right. Accelerate. Slow. Accelerate again. You’re on the Afghan Fun Ride.

By now you’re giggling nervously.

“Car right.”

“Group of men on left.”

“Trash pile on left.”

“Motorcycle. See it?”

“Got it.”

You remember the movie Twister and their exclamation of cow as it flies by in the grasp of a tornado. You half expect for them to say that next.

Then we hit the traffic circle. Dear Great God of Roundabouts, what have you done?

It’s a traffic circle in geometry only. Cars and trucks and bikes and horses pulling carts go around it in both directions. They don’t yield. They don’t slow. It’s chaos and we’re going to die.

Only we don’t.

Tech Sergeant Crazy Eyes shoots through three scant openings, slips past a donkey cart, and next thing you know we’re roaring down another street, barely avoiding being T-boned by a bus. Like the Incredible Hulk through the eye of a needle, we somehow make it through.

“Car. Right.”

“Truck. Left.”

Accelerate to seventy miles per hour.

And finally, “cow!”

The SUV bites hard with the breaking in an effort to keep the haggard beast off our hood. We slide by, clipping its tail which snaps nattily back to remove a fly from a lazy eyelid.

Then the school children.

We stop.

Like emperor penguins they waddle across the road in their white and black school uniforms. What can we do? We can’t ram them. We can’t go around.

Suddenly you’re hyper aware of everything around you. You can feel the ticking of the engine like knocks on your heart.

A child laughs.

Another screams.

The sounds of their childhood are like heat rounds shooting towards you.

A car honks behind you.

“I don’t like this,” says Crazy Eyes.

You think to yourself, Fuck, if he’s worried then you should be too.

But the sergeant major calms you. “Easy now.”

Nickelback - Animals

Powered by mp3skull.com

As the music changes to Nickleback’s Animals, and you get to the line where the devil needs a ride, you see the children are gone, and you’re accelerating and the song might be about anything at all, even sex inside a car, but you don’t care because the beat matches the speed you’re going and the way the people and trees whip past the SUV makes you feel like you’re moving even faster. While your right hand is on the oh shit handle, your left is tapping to the beat on your left leg. You’re two parts of the same being. The right part of you is scared while the left isn’t.

You notice the increased presence of police in gray uniforms carrying AKs. You feel safe.

“See those guys with the AKs?” the Sergeant Major asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“They don’t like us. Watch out for them,” he says.

Watch out for them? Like now? Serously? Those police right there with the AKs?

Then we pass a building under construction. It’s going to be big whatever it is.

“They’re building a Hilton there,” the Sergeant Major says, playing tour guide.

“Shit’s going to get blowed the fuck up,” Crazy Eyes says channeling Nostradamus and Bobcat Gothwait.

You can’t help but laugh. Not at the idea of a hotel getting blown up. Never that. Instead, you’re laughing at the casualness such a thing can be called. Like when someone sees a professed redneck pouring moonshine onto a lit BBQ grill and saying, watch this. Doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out what’s going to happen. Or like when a hotel chain builds a hotel near the site of where the last one was destroyed and within 13 months of America pulling out of Afghanistan.

Shit’s going to get blowed the fuck up.

Fucking priceless.

“We’re here,” says Crazy Eyes.

Sergeant Major leans across the seat and turns to you. “Welcome to the Green Zone.”

You feel giddy. You feel sad. The ride is over. Part of you is happy and part of you wants to do it again. And part of you wants to fling open the car door and throw yourself to the ground thanking the Great God of Cannonball Runs that you’re shit didn’t get blowed up.

But then all those parts become one and you realize you’ve done something no one back home can every appreciate. No essay or book or story or late night yarn will ever be able to convey the sheer joy and fear you felt simultaneously. It’s something where you just have to be there to know. It’s something that you survive, and in the surviving, you become a part of the club that understands such things.

*   *   *

For more of my Afghanistan stories, click here for a list.

Also be sure to check out Gravitas, which is a free short story and audio story at NightMare Magazine for a limited time.

You're Being Deployed - The Journey Begins

As I sit here in a hotel waiting to take a jet plane to Afghanistan in eleven days, I can't help but think about those things that brought me here. The events that occurred to make this a reality. Thinking about it takes me back to the day I was voluntold. For the record: volunteeer + told = voluntold.

*   *   *

“You’re being deployed,” my boss said. Although he grinned, his eyes watched me closely. This was part of the game. How would someone react when they were told they were going off to war? How would I react.

“Sure I am.” I laughed and waited for a reciprocating laugh from my boss, or the deputy, but neither gave in. “Oh, you’re serious.” I looked from one man to the other and felt it for real. Fight or flight. My heart fluttered. My face might have even paled. A tsunami of concern broke in my stomach. This was

Eleven Years Ago in a
Land Far Far Away

it. This was that moment. How would I react? How was I reacting? Whatever was happening to my body, my mind was flash-banging through a thousand images of war and fighting, both Hollywood and real. The dead stared back at me with as fierce a stare as those levied by John Wayne and my grandfather, waiting for my answer. It seemed as if minutes had passed since I’d realized I was actually being deployed. In this all volunteer military I was being voluntold to go to war. I could get out of it. I could make up some excuse. Hell, I could tell the truth. The Veteran’s Administration had already established that I was enough a disabled veteran that I was deserving money—as sort of monetary apology for fucking up my body. My mouth moved and the words came out, “Where are you sending me.”

               
“Afghanistan,” my boss said.

               
I realized only a moment had passed. If my face had revealed any of my internal ruminations, I couldn’t tell by looking at him.

               
“Do you know where in Afghanistan?” I asked.

               
“Don’t know.” He snatched a yellow sticky from his desk. “Call this number and they’ll fill you in.”

              
As I took the paper, the phone rang. He answered it and I stood there awkwardly for a moment. I didn’t know if I was supposed to say something or not. Finally, tired of staring at the back of his head, I turned and left the office. I had a phone call to make. Check that. I had two phone calls to make. I had to call deployments branch and I also had to call my wife. After a moments consideration, I took the coward's way out and called deployments branch.

*   *   *

It's funny. As I look back on that moment, I wasn't scared. This was something I'd been wanting to do for so long. Twice before I was set to go and it was scuttled. I was beginning to feel like it was never meant to be. Then came the notification. Was I scared? Not the way you think. I wasn't scared for my life. I was scared for all the things I was going to miss. I was scared that something might happen in the life I'd constructed and I wouldn't be there to see it, to fix it, to be a part of it. This is the hardest thing to get over. It's a hard lesson to learn that life goes on without you. Once you get it, then everything falls into place.

I'm ready to go.

Let's get this party started.

A quick point and click list of my eBooks for all you eBook-o-philiacs! 
You have all of these, right?

SEAL Team 666 SMACKS into UK like a Rogue Planet

SEAL Team 666 was released in a new trade paperback-sized volume with a brand new cover in the UK. The first 48 hours found 10 media outlets interviewing me and reviewing the book. I've had books that didn't get that many reviews in 48 weeks. For sure, the book has hit the UK like a rogue planet. I can only hope there are enough people left alive to enjoy it.

Here's the rundown:


SF Signal Interview: We talk SEAL Team 666 and my favorite military novel of all time, Joe R. Haldeman's Forever War.

Curiosity of a Social Misfit Review: Says I raise the quality level in characterization.

Nerd Like You Interview: The nerds fawn over Blood Ocean and I talk about why I chose Humonculi as one of my opening monsters.

Nerd Like You Review: The nerds talk about my 'cinematic action sequences.'

Following the Nerd Review: These nerds call my monster mythology 'brilliant.'

The Examiner Review: Reporter Josef Hernandez hopes this will propel me into the mainstream and also begs Hollywood to come-a-knocking.

Alasdair Stuart's Blog: Critical Review and Analysis: Mr. Stuart provided in-depth literary analysis and calls SEAL Team 666 nuanced, smart and surprising.

Financial Times of London Review: James Lovegrove, acting as reporter instead of crack author, cheers the 'military-grade' ass whooping the monsters get in the book.

Geek Native: The geeks talk me into discussing magic on facebook, Godzilla, and a Vorpal Rifle of wounding. 

Now run out and get you a copy at your favorite UK or US bookstore. Or go to your favorite online bookseller. Come one. Keep me in rice and spam.

Joe Lansdale is my Hero and He Can Write Too

Joe R. Lansdale is my hero and that boy can write too. Some authors can just make words sing. Steinbeck can do it. Bradbury can do it. Haldeman can do it. And proclaimed Mojo Storyteller Lansdale can do it. Damn. Reading his words is like drinking an ice cold beer on a hot summer day after a couple hours of sex with your woman. You sitting on the porch, wind just tickling the hairs on your head enough to remind you that somewhere there's an ocean and your stuck the fuck here, but at least you got the beer and the day to keep your time, as long as some one worse off than you don't come and shove a pistol under your chin and blow you all to hell.

Just read Bullets and Fire, a short story written by Mojo Lansdale hisself.

Here's a quote from it made me laugh and smile and I read it four times.

The ones coming had weapons, all hand guns, and when they opened up the world went crazy and my ears went deaf and began to ring. And I don’t remember it all, but the bullets cut all around me and one went through my left arm and it hurt like hell, and the next thing I know it’s hanging at my side, and I got the Ak-47 lifted, pushed up against my hip, and I’m rockin’ and rollin’ and bodies are jumping. I’m having a better day than they are. Probably because they couldn't hit an elephant in the ass at ten paces with a tossed bar stool, even spraying. I’m like the luckiest motherfucker that ever squatted to shit over a pair of shoes, cause except for that one hit, I’m doing good. It’s like I was fucking charmed. 

Just keep the words coming, Mojo Joe!

This shit makes me want to write!

SEAL Team 666 Haiku

El Jeffe of Outrageistan dot com tweeted a Haiku review of SEAL Team 666.

SEALS fight the undead

Stephen Hunter meets Buffy

and dog eats demons

A Haiku is a very short form of Japanese poetry characterized by a 5-7-5 syllable structure.

Here was my reply to the review:

Nice SEAL Haiku

It pleased me to no end

their little dog too

For the record, this is the first SEAL Team 666 Haiku.  

Thanks El Jeffe.

Now for the rest of you blokes. Do you have a Haiku in you?

Have Haiku in you?

Send SEAL Team 666 verse

to me for award

I haven't figured out what the award will be, but I'll think of something. Post them in the comments section of this posting along with whatever attribution you want. I'll keep this alive for about a week, then make a decision.

Now, get to it. 

Hate Mail for my Stoker Finalist Story

I never used to get hate mail. One of my stories has changed that. It's called RIGHTEOUS, appeared in the Black Dog and Leventhal anthology PSYCHOS, and is a final ballot nomination for the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in Short Fiction.

For those who haven't read the story, RIGHTEOUS is a story about PTSD. It's a story about a thing called Secondary PTSD. It's also a story about guilt, both shared and individual, both human and that of our nation. It's a story about America's love of war. It's also the idea that patriotism might be like alcoholism and too much of it might just be bad.

Here's a sampling of some of the emails I received, with my replies:

"You don't know what the f&ck your (sic) talking about. There's no excuse for your character's behaviour (sic). He's a f&tard!"

My reply: Well, actually, I do know what I'm talking about. I'm a retired army soldier with twenty years of service and am currently civil service employee working for the department of defense. I'm also deploying to Afghanistan next month. I get patriotism better than most. It's why I wrote the story.

"It saddens me that you've decided to join the lefties."

My reply: If by lefties, you mean those who see both sides of things, who take the time to think through things, and who are concerned with everyone's rights, then yes.

"How dare you trample the red, white and blue! You claim to be a soldier, but you couldn't have been. I was a soldier and am proud to show my flag and I'll kick anyone's ass who wants to try and stop me."

My reply: I never said anything about flying the flag. Thanks for your service.

"F&ck you F&ck you F&ck you F&ck you F&ck you! My brother died in Iraq."

My reply: Sorry for your loss.

"Your idea that a recruiter might be an accomplice to a soldier's ultimate sacrifice is distasteful. Everyone has a choice, whether to serve or not to serve. There isn't a draft, but rather a choice to join and become something you might not be able to become otherwise. Recruiters work long hours and should not be the target of anyone's anger."

My reply: The idea that there is a choice is a little sophistry. Many under-privileged and inner-city young men and women don't really have a choice but to join the service if they have any chance of pulling themselves out of poverty. I agree that recruiters work long hours  I have several friends, whom I respect tremendously, who are recruiters. But recruiters, like society, are (perhaps unwitting) accomplices to the deaths of America's children. As long as we promote the idea of patriotism at all costs, then this is what we grow.

The story was one I questioned writing. I stand by the story. I stand by what it says. I even stand by Mutt, the talking dog. I especially stand by the grieving father. God bless him.

Thanks to John Skipp for editing the Psychos anthology and for letting me be a part of it.

Tattoo Stories - Cowboy of Ra - Vampire Outlaw

I constantly get asked about my tattoos, especially the words inside of each forearm. People want to know what they mean, but the meaning goes deeper than the mere words. See, when my mom went to college in Sioux Falls, S.D. back in 1971-72, she came home and read to me the works she had to memorize. There was a particular poem that had a certain beat that I loved and begged her to read over and over.

Fast forward to 1998. I go to college and take a lit course and find this poem in my Norton anthology. I read it and immediately feel that I've found a familiar friend. I call up my mom and we talk and she tells me the above. I had totally forgotten.

What's interesting, is that this is an identity poem. It's about who you are and who you want to be. Reading the words, I realize I've become many of these. Through some form of osmosis, the words of the poem meant something to me. They actually made me. They formed who I am today

So enough of me. Let me present the poem in it's unaltered state.

One more thing. Ishmael Reed is from my hometown of Chattanooga, Tennessee, and currently resides and a professor at Berkley.

I Am a Cowboy in the Boat of Ra

by Ishmael Reed

'The devil must be forced to reveal any such physical evil
(potions, charms, fetishes, etc.) still outside the body
and these must be burned.' (Rituale Romanum, published
1947, endorsed by the coat-of-arms and introductory

letter from Francis cardinal Spellman)


I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra,
sidewinders in the saloons of fools
bit my forehead   like   O
the untrustworthiness of Egyptologists
who do not know their trips. Who was that
dog-faced man? they asked, the day I rode
from town.

School marms with halitosis cannot see
the Nefertiti fake chipped on the run by slick
germans, the hawk behind Sonny Rollins' head or
the ritual beard of his axe; a longhorn winding
its bells thru the Field of Reeds.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. I bedded
down with Isis, Lady of the Boogaloo, dove
deep down in her horny, stuck up her Wells-Far-ago
in daring midday getaway. 'Start grabbing the
blue,' I said from top of my double crown.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Ezzard Charles
of the Chisholm Trail. Took up the bass but they
blew off my thumb. Alchemist in ringmanship but a
sucker for the right cross.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Vamoosed from
the temple i bide my time. The price on the wanted
poster was a-going down, outlaw alias copped my stance
and moody greenhorns were making me dance;
   while my mouth's
shooting iron got its chambers jammed.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Boning-up in
the ol' West i bide my time. You should see
me pick off these tin cans whippersnappers. I
write the motown long plays for the comeback of
Osiris. Make them up when stars stare at sleeping
steer out here near the campfire. Women arrive
on the backs of goats and throw themselves on
my Bowie.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Lord of the lash,
the Loup Garou Kid. Half breed son of Pisces and
Aquarius. I hold the souls of men in my pot. I do
the dirty boogie with scorpions. I make the bulls
keep still and was the first swinger to grape the taste.

I am a cowboy in his boat. Pope Joan of the
Ptah Ra. C/mere a minute willya doll?
Be a good girl and
bring me my Buffalo horn of black powder
bring me my headdress of black feathers
bring me my bones of Ju-Ju snake
go get my eyelids of red paint.
Hand me my shadow

I'm going into town after Set

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra

look out Set   here i come Set
to get Set     to sunset Set
to unseat Set  to Set down Set

               usurper of the Royal couch
               imposter RAdio of Moses' bush
               party pooper O hater of dance
               vampire outlaw of the milky way

Coming in the Next 365

Here's what's coming in the next 365 days from me in one manner or another. I hope I didn't leave anything out, but I have a nagging feeling I did -

Short Fiction

Behind Enemy Lines - A collection of four supernatural military thriller novellas from Weston Ochse, Michael McBride, Gord Rollo and Gene O'Neil. My novella is titled Tranquility Tides. To be published by Dark Regions Press (Complete)

Death Race 2000 - A woven collection of four novellas, to be published by Roy James Daley, Books of the Dead Press (Working)

When I Knew Baseball - Short story appearing in World War II Cthulhu ebook anthology published by Cubicle 7 (Complete).

Note this is a Mock Cover

The Weight of a Dead Man - a short story co-written with Yvonne Navarro and edited by Paul Kane and Charles Prepolec and published by Titan Books, appearing in Beyond the Rue Morgue (complete).

Lovers Leap of Faith - short story appearing in Inhuman Magazine (complete).

Gravitas - Short story appearing in Nightmare Magazine, edited by John Joseph Adams (Complete).

The Fine Art of Courage - dark fantasy Hemingway story appearing in Cycatrix Press anthology.

Beneath the Scorpion Tree, reprinted in the Haunted Mansion Volume II (Complete).



Novels

Halfway House, Novel, published by  Journalstone Books. Haunted house novel set in Los Angeles (Complete).

Grunt Life, Novel, published by Solaris Books. Military science fiction novel set in the near future (Working).

SEAL Team 666: Age of Blood, published by Thomas Dunne Books. Sequel to SEAL Team 666 (Complete).

SEAL Team 666, U.K. Edition, published by Titan Books.

And don't forget my books in print, like SEAL Team 666, Blood Ocean, Multiplex Fandango and the rest. Just click on the thumbnails on the right (if they're not there, you can always just google too)

What happens during the weekend...

Spent a guy's weekend with Brian Keene, Drew Williams, and M Stephen Lukac (with guest appearances ffrom Bob Ford and Robert Swartwood) at Casa de Keene. Brian showed us terrific hospitality. Highlights include waking up groggy both Sat and Sunday mornings to surreal discussions about New Criticism vs Reader Response Theories, which was bizarre considering how steeped in the silly we got long into the night. Talked about comics, writing, publishers, movies, and other important world-changing topics. Determined the hierarchy of the new government we'll form after the Apocalypse (Brian HMFIC, me Sec of War and Cooking, Drew Sec of Education and Entertainment and Steve Sec of Finance and Recycling). Cooked some kickass salmon, drank nasty boxed wine, Dos XX and Knob Creek.

We also watched HELL GOES TO FROGTOWN and MST3000ed DEAD ALIVE.

I even managed to write several thousand words in the final scenes of SEAL Team 666 AGE OF BLOOD.

A much needed hiatus from real life, especially since I'll be knee deep in the shit soon. Thanks Brian and the guys for putting up with this old boy. It was a terrific time. I already miss it.

But time waits for no man. Got to get back to work. With any luck, I can type THE END on the first draft of AGE OF BLOOD this weekend.

Here are some photos:

When I Was A Little Terrorist

So this is a true story.

I'd forgotten about it almost entirely.

My mother is probably going to read this. She never knew it happened either, but the statute of parental limitations expired many years ago. You see, I had to be ten or eleven when I was a little terrorist. That I got away with it is the story.

I was writing a section of SEAL Team 666:Age of Blood today and looking up the nomenclature for a smoke grenade when I remembered using one when I was a kid. Not the AN/M-18 Colored Smoke Grenades used by our armed forces, but the little gray, round balls with a wick that you'd light and it would pump out smoke.

I was living in Signal Mountain, Tennessee at the time. We're talking 1976 or 1977. I was a latchkey kid and spent all my time playing war in the woods, riding my bike, and trying not to get into too much trouble. But on this day I did the first two very well, and the last one not so well.

You see, I had this little smoke bomb. It was the last one and I had to put it to good use. Then it hit me. I'll smoke bomb the bank. (WTF? What kind of kid thinks that?)

I took a circuitous route through the woods so no one could follow me. I hid in a treeline and waited until someone drove up and the teller opened the metal drawer. Then in a daring act of treasonous glee, I lit the bomb, pedaled to the window, dropped it in the drawer,and pedaled away. In my mirror-- yes I had a mirror, and a six foot orange plastic whip on the back of my bike that served no other purpose than to look cool and ultimately to later giveaway my position-- I watched the teller pull the drawer inside, I heard her scream, then she shoved it back outside and the smoke billowed. The woman in the car pulled away like she'd just learned of a ten for one sale at Penny's. I pulled to a stop in the weeds. Hid my bike behind a tree and got down to watch what I'd done.

As expected, the cops came screaming into the parking lot. There was quite a ruckus  Nothing like this had ever happened on sleepy Signal Mountain. The most that ever happened was you'd hear a huge explosion some nights and you just knew someone's still blew up somewhere in the woods.

Eventually a cop spied the orange whip on the back of my bike. As he got nearer, he got more suspicious. I scootched further into the brush.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

At this point I realized the importance of an alibi. I didn't have one. So I said the most intelligent thing I could think of. "I'm looking for my comic books."

I was treated with silence. Either he was drawing down on me or he was wondering why I was reading coming books in a thicket. I didn't know because my little terrorist eyes were closed.

"Come out of there." Thankfully he left off, with your hands up.

"No," I said.

"Come out of there," he repeated.

"No," I said firmly.

It was a standoff.

Have you read SEAL Team 666?

I'm not sure what happened at that moment. I don't know whether he was called by a fellow officer, he decided to leave my poor little terroristically terrified body alone, or that he remembered that he'd left the oven on, but he left. It wasn't long before the police called an all clear and everything went back to normal.

I made my way back home and promptly forgot about this for the next 36 years.

And then came today.

What I note on the picture above is that very little has changed. The strip mall on the north side of the highway beside the entrance to Cauthen Way wasn't there when I was a kid. The bank was the first building on that side.

Thankfully I'm no longer a terrorist. I just write about them now.

Weston Ochse
Sonoran Desert

Equations of Life Gave Me Siezures...

in a good way.

EQUATIONS OF LIFE by Simon Morden
Winner of the 2012 P.K. Dick Award

From my Goodreads Review: Okay. I gotta say, the cover hooked me. I mean, come on. If it doesn't hypnotize you, then it'll leave you quivering on the ground in a seizure. I found myself traveling without a book to read. I can't take two steps without a book on call, so I popped into a local Barnes and Nobles, scoured the shelves and BANG!

Then I opened it. I'm not sure what to call it. Post-apocalyptic cyberpunk? Apocalyptic Punk? Whatever you call it, Equations of Life is a terrific entry book into the world of Simon Morden. Reading the acknowledgements and the interview afterwards, I see our mutual friend Brian Hopkins (BaH) had something to do with Simon's success in his early days. That Simon has written so extensively in this universe rings clear and presents an authentic, texturally rich and wholly believable landscape.

I thoroughly enjoyed the book and finished it within 24 hours. I'm signing books at another Barnes and Nobles today (For SEAL Team 666) and plan on getting the next two books of the trilogy, which I believe have equally seizure-enticing covers.

Terrific Job, Mr. Morden.

Keep them coming.

For more info on Equations of Life click here. 

RIGHTEOUS, Story about PTSD, Makes Preliminary Bram Stoker Award Ballot

My short story RIGHTEOUS made the nomination list for the Bram Stoker Award for Short Fiction. Even though I've been through the process six times before, it's always kind of interesting that people care enough about my writing to read it and vote on it. Especially this story, which is one that was a catharsis for me as I wrote it. I can remember penning the final few pages in Sandy, Utah, in a hotel room. With all my time in the military it was difficult for me to write a story about a father who is stalking the man who recruited his son, the same son who never made it back from Iraq. RIGHTEOUS is a story about PTSD. It's a story about a thing called Secondary PTSD. It's also a story about guilt, both shared and individual, both human and that of our nation. It's a story about America's love of war. And of course it's a story about an insane father who talks to his dog. And of course, because it's a story written by me, the dog talks back.

Here's a very small sampling--

Five sentences changed my life forever.

Yes, I’ll marry you, is how Susan changed my life.

It’s a boy, is how a wide-hipped, chippy-eyed nurse changed my life.

Metastasized means that your wife’s breast cancer has spread to her lymph nodes is how the medical community gave up trying to save Susan and changed my life.

On behalf of a grateful nation, I present this flag as a token of our appreciation for the faithful and selfless service of your loved one for this country, is how a straight-faced Uncle Sam socked me in the heart.

Then one night I was three sheets to the wind with a bottle of Cutty Sark and Pulp Fiction blasting on television. When Samuel L. Jackson screamed the words from Ezekial 25:17, I sat up and was beset by a moment of clarity as he talked about the path of a righteous man. Then he said the words that started me on this path of the righteous man.

“Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.”

And always, as Mutt is eager to point out my errors. Those are seven sentences, Dude.

“But they are seven good sentences,” I offer.

Mutt thinks for a moment, then nods. They are. Especially for an asshat.

Thanks to John Skipp for editing the Psychos anthology and for letting me be a part of it.

The Fourth Third of Novel Writing

I'm writing my tenth novel. With the exception of the first novel, which took more than two years to complete, my writing, as it applies to novels, follows an established pattern. This pattern has remained unbroken since 2002, and will probably remain unbroken until I finally succumb to my arch-nemesis. I thought it would change, hell, I hoped it would change, but it looks like this is my particular style. So, I now present to you my four thirds of novel writing.

The First Third. The characters are fresh in my head. I don't really know them, but I'm eager to do so. I mean, come on, they are so damned interesting. The plot is still the best plot anyone has ever conceived. My working title is brilliant. The writing is crisp and awesome and absolutely bound to be the winner of at the very least a National Book Award. My god, I am so good and this is so much fun, how come I'm not writing two books right now instead of one. Wait? Is that Stephen King calling for advice? I'll put him on hold. I don't have the time. I'm too busy being perfect.

The Second Third. My characters are stupid and they suck. I can't even remember who they are. They all merge into silly pretenders who shouldn't even be characters on a daytime soap opera. And who's the asshat who came up with this plot? Seriously? Does Marvel comics know you've stolen their formula for Overused Plot #14? And dude, what the fuck is up with all of the gerunds you keep slapping in sentences. Don't you know it's illegal in seventeen states? And another thing. Split Infinitives is not a Marvel superhero alternate world character arc! It's a crime!

The Third Third. I calm down. I go back, I massage the text and realize it's not even half as bad as I thought. In fact, had I not listened to my inner Satan, I'd be finished by now. Self Doubt is a cowardly arch viillian and my long time arch-nemesis and it can strike down even the best of us, without warning and without mercy. I don't actually get a lot of writing done during this period, but by the time I'm finished with the Third Third, I'm on the downward slope of the novel, into act three, and sliding head first towards the final climactic set pieces. Everything is going to be just fine. I might not be awesome, but I'm pretty damn good. I find my pride beginning to return.

The Fourth Third. Wait, who are the characters? What are they doing? Do you mean you're getting paid actual money to write this dribble? What? You mean you've already been paid? Don't you think you should give the money back. Fuck you. No. Fuck you. Leave me alone and go bother Brian Keene. Fuck you, he's too strong for us. Then go bother John Skipp. He's a lot of fun. He knows porn stars. No triple fuck you. Skipp has the  +5 Cloak of Self Doubt Protection. I can't get past it. (-- an internal battle ensues too graphic for this page, involving Facebook, Twitter, Googling old college roommates, browsing vintage clothes on Ebay, rearranging my library chronologically according to author's birth dates  genre, and publisher, rebuilding my website, drinking great gobs of wine, writing articles about writing, and singing along to old Brittany Spears videos) Then, in a passion-filled two weeks, I finish the first draft of the novel, keeping one step ahead of my arch-nemesis. By the time I type THE END, I'm restless to be done with this book and move on to something else, to go somewhere my arch-nemesis doesn't frequent.

But that's not it.

You thought it was over, didn't you.

The Fifth Third. Eventually you'll have to return to your novel, unless you're a LuLu author or have your girlfriend/mother/sister/brother/aunt edit it for you followed by you self-publishing it and spending the next four years sitting behind card tables at craft fairs and conventions calling yourself an author. In this fifth third, you're impassioned  You've already fought so many battles, you're a tired warrior. You find yourself hacking and slashing the first brilliant third of you novel like sleep-sundered Conan after he wakes up in the Land of the Lotus-eaters. By the time you've finished your edit, the novel is more lean and filled with less brilliance. It is now a work you can turn loose upon a legion of real editors. If you're lucky enough to work for a major publishing house, you'll have half a dozen editors, many fresh out of an Ivy League college stuck being an editor until they can write their own great American novel. These editors know more about grammar and sentence structure than you'll ever know. If you're not so lucky, your cousin Gregg and his fiance will edit it with post-it notes, followed by a group of beta readers whose knowledge of the English language was learned through comic books and role-playing games, and an endless string of Tolkien pretenders (like your own). However it's done, the novel needs edited many times. It's gone from brilliant to craptacular back to moderately good. Will it ever be brilliant again? That's not for you to decide. That's for the Readerverse. In fact, you don't care. By now you're working on your next novel, and let me tell you, it is fucking brilliant.

My Coming Year - Afghanistan and New Book Contract

With my West Coast book signing trip behind me and the advent of the new year, I can relax and kick back and count my laurels. Right?

I wish.

I wish I had the time.

Especially, since I'm hard up against a very specific deadline.  On April 22nd I'm supposed to have my feet firmly planted on Afghani soil.

In the meantime, I have to finish SEAL Team 666: AGE OF BLOOD, a zombie novella and a new Military Sci Fi book I'm signing a contract for next week. From whom you ask? All I can say is it's a mass market paperback.

Not to mention, all the edits St. Martins is going to deluge me with over AGE OF BLOOD.

That's what we call in the trades  a shitload of writing. I might not be able to do it by the time I'm supposed to be in Afghanistan. So St. Martins might experience having to send edits to a war zone. Wonder how many times they've done that before? I also might have to work on the Military Sci Fi novel there too... in my spare time.  Like I'll have any.  Riiiight.

The good thing is that if I leave on time, I'll be back around Thanksgiving. I can spend the holidays with my wife and family. And come January, I'll have four books out:

• SEAL Team 666 in mmp
• SEAL Team 666:AGE OF BLOOD in hardback
• Halfway House in limited edition hardcover and paperback
• Military Sci Fi novel in mmp

That'll be fun.

Here's  a link you'll find interesting. It's a video of my interview at the Poisoned Pen.



Oh yeah. And don't forget to pick up a copy of SEAL Team 666 or any of my other books, especially the novella Butterfly Winter which isn't getting the love it deserves. I also have copies of Empire of Salt for sale. This book is sold out in America, so I'm the only one who seems to have any copies. For information about these books click here.