New Horrorworld Interview from Afghanistan

Horrorworld has interviewed me while I'm in Afghanistan. They want to know what's going on with me. If you want to read what they asked and what I said, you can do it here free of charge.

If you don't know about Horrorworld, you should. It's been around as long as I've been writing and is a clearinghouse for all things horror, to include ways to get in contact with all of your favorite authors.

http://www.horrorworld.org/interviews.htm

Courtesy of Col Brian Wilson

 

FATHER'S DAY IN AFGHANISTAN

Father’s Day has always been a man’s day to me. 

Growing up, I saw my father and my grandfather as larger than life characters. Not only did they tower over my little tow-headed self in size, but their accomplishments and community stature loomed large. I was intimidated by them as a child. Their shadows were long and no matter where I went, I never seemed to escape them. 

But then came Father’s Day. It was a day of détente, where no matter how bad I was I couldn’t get in trouble, and no matter how good I was, I’d never be noticed. For perhaps the first time, I realized that there was a day dedicated to someone other than myself. I remember making gifts out of wood, glue and moss. I also remember going to the local drug store and, forcing myself not to buy comic books—which was a tremendously difficult thing, especially with Turok's run in the early 1970s—I’d buy a gift I thought was a grown up gift to buy. I think once I even bought my father a bottle of Hai Karate cologne. It was the commercial of the man, side-kicking the bikini-clad girls on the beach that made me do it.

Darn girls. What do they know?

Then, eventually, as time progressed, my shadow grew to almost equal proportions and I became a father too. I’ve been given my share of homemade gifts, store-bought gifts, and cards for when my kids just didn’t have the cash. Each of these gifts, no matter how small or how large, was lovely, an offering of love and childhood fealty. I still have many of them. Some are on dressers or desks or shelves, still others are in drawers, me unable to get rid of them, each gift an inextricable piece of my children.

And now here I am at 47 years old, a father of two, a son of a father and mother, and a husband to a wife. It’s Father’s Day in Afghanistan and I’ve been encased in melancholy all day. Part of it was because of the Bram Stoker Awards Weekend I missed in New Orleans. I face-timed my wife several times and got to see a lot of people I think of as close friends. Although I might see them once a year, I’m the sort of guy who would run across a busy highway to save them if I saw them in trouble. I think when I saw Mikey Huyck, it kind of choked me up. See, Mikey and I go way back to the days I first started writing.  Although years might go by without us speaking to each other, we hold a special friendship which no one can really duplicate. Seeing him, I realized just how badly I’ve been missing him. And then there was seeing Rocky. I’ve loved that big lug Australian man since I first met him years ago. I’ve always been there for him and he’s always been there for me and I’m afraid that I might have missed my last chance to see him before… well, some things you just shouldn’t say. 

And I’m in Afghanistan.

I called my father yesterday. His shadow is as large as ever. He’s a great man. He’s earned great respect and we give it to him along with great love. My kids emailed me, showing their love.  My wife wished me Happy Father’s Day too, for the millionth time wishing aloud that she’d rather I be home than here. Normally, I tell her about duty and sacrifice and all those crazy ideas I learned from John Wayne movies and presidential holiday speeches. But not today. Today, for the first time, I really wanted to be home; or if not home, with my wife and Mikey and Rocky.

But I’m in Afghanistan. Sunday is just another day here. Father’s Day is an American holiday and on this NATO base it’s largely ignored. Still, several of my coworkers took time to wish me Happy Father's Day. Each time I smiled, but each time it was a dagger hurled through my heart, reminding me where I wasn’t, what I wasn’t doing, and who I wasn’t doing those things with.

I took an hour for myself midday. I went on top of the US NSE—basically a third floor covered patio that overlooks the camp and outside the walls. There’s always a breeze. I found a chair, tuned up some old Robert Flack in the headphones, and read some from my copy of Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain. I’m still early in the book and the lead protagonist Hans, a whining German hypochondriac, has still not realized that the world doesn’t revolve around him and that other people, especially their families, are an intrinsic ingredient to the overall health of the collective. I read for a bit. I listened for a bit. And I dozed. You know that sort of nap where you know you’re indulging but you don’t care because it feels so good—it was that kind of nap.

When I awoke I was still in Afghanistan. I sat up. I watched the people for a time. Soldiers, sailors, airmen, marines, civilians and contractors. Men and women, young and old, American and ally. Unlike Hans, I thought outside of myself. Each and every one of them has someone or something to miss. What makes me special? Who the hell am I to indulge in a little self-pitying melancholy? I reminded myself that although I’m in a warzone, I’m at the Headquarters for all of Afghanistan with all the niceties therein. What about those fathers and sons out on forward operating bases? Somewhere in Nangarhar Province is a father at an observation post manning a gun position and the last thing on his mind is that it’s Father’s Day. There’s a father driving an up-armored vehicle down a dirt track in Paktika Province, ass clenched because he’s not certain the road is actually clear and that there’s a better than average possibility that he might hit a roadside bomb. And there’s probably a Special Forces A Team operating near Khost, within sight of a Taliban safe haven, preparing to take action on them before they can take action on us. I doubt they’re weepy-eyed over the idea that they’re missing Father’s Day.

I started this by saying that Father’s Day is a man’s day. In my taxonomy of understanding, a man isn’t merely the sum of his XY chromosomes. A man has always been someone who will do the hard thing for the right reason to contribute to the greater good without intentional personal benefit. My grandfather was a man. My father is a man. These warriors I witness every day are men. The men away from my base are men. And I’m pleased to say that I am a man. I might get a little emotional every now and then, but those episodes are just pit stops along my long journey through manhood.

I chose to come here. I could have stayed home. I had plenty of opportunities. But I wanted to serve my country. I wanted to be that man my father and grandfather showed me how to be. I miss my friends. I miss my family. I miss my wife, even though we talk every day. But I’m here for a season of duty. I’m here to serve. I’m here to build my shadow.

It’s Father’s Day. I just got an email from my dad thanking me for the inscribed beer glasses I gave him. He said they’re going to get heavy use. You go dad. You deserve it. And when I get back, we’ll drink some together. 

Cheers, Dad.

Weston Ochse

Currently in
Afghanistan

 

GRUNT LIFE Update #1 - Free Excerpt

So Solaris Books has contracted me to write a military science fiction novel. I can't tell you how excited I am to write this. I've been trying to work with Solaris for years. They are top notch in the Science Fiction community and have published some of my favorite books and authors. To be a part
of their catalogue is humbling and thrilling. To make it even more fun, I get to write this while I'm in Afghanistan. Makes you wonder if my being here effects the content of the story. You be the judge.

PLOT: A private company grabs several thousand PTSD sufferers right at the point where they're about to commit suicide and makes them an offer they can't refuse. If you want to kill yourself, fine, but why not make it mean something by doing it in the protection of your own species. Thus was formed TF OMBRA, who is mankind's singular hope for the savior of planet Earth.

Here's an (unedited) excerpt from Chapter 1:

-GRUNT LIFE EXCERPT-

By Weston Ochse © 2013

-1-

//--END EXCERPT--//

It was my love of movies that made me choose the Vincent Thomas Bridge to kill myself. Although it was relatively convenient, joining Long Beach to my home of San Pedro, California, it had also gained a certain notoriety over the years. That it had been a shooting location for the films Gone in Sixty Seconds, Lethal Weapon 2, To Live and Die in LA, Heat and The Island was a bonus. The real reason I’d chosen to jump from it was because of my love of film director Tony Scott and the fact that he’d jumped from the same bridge back in 2012. The director of Top Gun, The Last Boy Scout, True Romance and the incomparable Man on Fire had one day parked his car on the bridge, climbed over the rail, and leaped to a better life. Some people said that Tony hadn’t meant to kill himself that it was the result of a bad combination of drugs that had given him suicidal thoughts, but I knew better. The truth was that sometimes life was just shit and there was nothing to be done about it.

     I stared out across the lights of the harbor. A cruise ship was pulling in. Beyond this the giant cranes used to load and offload containers of consumer goods glowed with warning lights. The San Pedro hill to my right was dotted with a thousand lights, each one housing someone in a home, watching television, eating dinner, fucking, or simply staring off into space. To my left was the great plain of Long Beach where another million souls did the same, unaware that a man who’d been awarded two silver stars and three bronze stars was about to swan dive just so he could see if there was something else on the other side of oblivion.

     I’d come prepared. I wore black fatigues, boots and gloves. A black skull cap covered my head and I’d painted my face with black camouflage. I wasn’t there to draw attention. I wasn’t there to make a statement. I was there for one final selfish moment, to do something for myself. I’d stepped over the rail and had backed into the shadow of a beam ten minutes ago. Cars sped past behind me, many of them with their windows open to catch the sea air, leaving me with a random montage of music by which to die.

     Grasping the beam behind me, I leaned forward and stared down at the stygian black water. I let my mind wander back to Iraq, then to Afghanistan, then to Mali, then to Kosovo. Like a badly edited film it flipped back and forth with no context other than death. The death of children lying like discarded dolls in the middle of an Iraqi street, at the bottom of a Serbian burial pit, or atop a mountain near Tora Bora. The death of women, raped and left bent over, a position so much like prayer, but never so fierce. The death of men, body parts raining like confetti at an end of the world party where those with the better ammunition and weapons were bound to attend if only they could survive the deaths of so many of their own. Death. Death. Fucking more death.

     Somewhere along the lines I’d ceased to be a hero and had become a death merchant. The very term hero had become a laughable idea. “Who do you think you are, a hero?” my platoon sergeant had once asked. I’d wanted to respond that I did, that I was, but I knew that the platoon sergeant had already turned that corner. It was then that I’d realized that there would come a time when I’d be just like him. If I'd ever get to the point where I didn’t know the difference between a hero or a zero and lose my grasp on what’s right and wrong, I promised myself that I'd end it.

     So there I was.

     On the Vincent Thomas Bridge.

 

 

More Updates will be coming soon.

Leave comments.

Now back to work.

Weston Ochse
Currently in
Afghanistan

Recent Military eBooks Finds and My Old Favorites

This is Free

After 27 years in the military (and still counting), it's no wonder why I like military books. I remember as a kid, the first military stories I remember were written by Rudyard Kipling. Remember KIM, from The Works of Rudyard Kipling One Volume Edition. It was the story of the orphaned son of an Irish soldier, who not only is saved, but is introduced to the world of military intelligence. Or A Man Who Would Be King, the tale of two ne'er-do-wella who adventure and make their way to becoming, not only kings, but gods. Or the poem Gunga Din? I was raised on these and remember them with fondness. Any wonder why I joined the military? I wanted to be like them all. I wanted to be like Kim.

Of course these were old tales. What about new tales? I'm a fan of science fiction, fantasy, thrillers, horror, and pretty much everything that has a military bent. I thought I'd share some of my recent finds, along with some of my own work, explaining what I was trying to do when I wrote them.

One recent find was the science fiction ebook, Poor Man's Fight. Written by Elliott Kay, it's premise follows the idea that education isn't free and federal service is required in order to pay it off. For some it's more than others. Kay does a terrific job bringing us into his universe, and the sort of boot camp I'm glad I was never a part of.

(CLICK ON BOOKS AND LINKS TO LOOK AT THEM)

Of course, anything by Joe Haldeman is amazing, especially The Forever War , which I recently downloaded again because I wanted to read it for the fifth or sixth time, experiencing once again the service of the men who fight for a world they will never ever see again, thanks to the unforgiving time dilation of the universe.

Marko Kloos deals with overcrowding and the lack of food shortages in Terms of Enlistment. I really liked the way he protrayed the different services and found his combat extremely believable.

John Scalzi's Old Man's War pays homage to Old Man's War and opens its own new volumes into the idea that a person can serve their country after they turn 70, uploading their consciousness into a more powerful version of the best they ever were. I love me some Scalzi!

Robert Beuttner's Orphanange provides the idea that when Earth is attacked, we can only retaliate with Vietnam War-era weapons and our orphans, in the hopes that these scraps and rejects can save us all. You just hope it's enough, right?

In my own Babylon Smiles, I tried to paint a picture of what life was like in 2003 Iraq, before the insurgents and road side bombs. I had help from a lot of veterans and haver been told that I got it right.

(CLICK ON BOOKS AND LINKS TO LOOK AT THEM)

SEAL Team 666 and SEAL Team 666: Age of Blood, both published by Thomas Dunne Books, are both of my forays into supernatural special operations. I tried to make the reality of the SEAL Team as close as possible, while thrusting them into situations where superior firepower might not even matter. Ghosts, demons, humunculi, chupacabra, and all sorts of various creatures are fair game in these books. Age of Blood was just turned in and will be available in November.

Border Dogs is a novella prequel to SEAL Team 666 and brings the team up against narco-trafficers and patriots. I wanted to highlight some of the border issues with this one, while providing some, what I think, is interesting backstory.



And Butterfly Winter. I wanted write a story about what would happen to bombers on a plane that refused to drop its atomic bombs at the end of the world. It's a story that has made grown men cry. The problem lies in the title. Frankly, it just sucks for a military book. I'm going to change this soon. No one wants to by a military title with the word Butterfly in the title. What was I thinking? ::face plam::


I've also written a lot of popular short stories, such as the Bram Stoker finalist Righteous, which you can listen to free here, or Hiroshima Falling. I've been asked if I can collect them into one place and will probably turn them into an eBook for all of my military fans.

(CLICK ON BOOKS AND LINKS TO LOOK AT THEM)


And lastly, I'm working on a military science novel for Solaris Books. Titled GRUNT LIFE, it's about a private company that contracts several thousand men and women right at the momen they're about to commit suicide in order to turn them into the only fighting force that might be able to save the planet from the coming invasion. It's coming along great. Written in first person, I'm really feeling the story. Of course, I'm writing it from Afghanistan, so that in and of itself is interesting.

 

HP Has a Solution to my Computer Problem in Afghanistan--NOT!!!

So I pulled out my broken computer this morning and let it do it's Kabuki Dance of Death one more time because I decided I need to start the day with a laugh. It gives an error code when it's trying to boot up, so I typed that code into trusty old Google. Looks like it might just be a Windows 8 issue--- as in it crashed.

Oh!

Hunky fucking Dory!

That's easy to fix then.

So I googled the code.

This is what I got from the makers of my computer. Here is their helpful information posted at the HP Official site.

You might have to Click on this to make it larger, sorry.

What you'll note is that all of the commands rely on Windows actually loading. Well, if Windows has crashed, then how can it load? And no, the F-Keys aren't functioning.

Note also that this was posted by an 'HP Expert.'

And finally, note that HP encourages you to click on the 'KUDOS' button at the bottom to 'Accept as Solution.'

Then note that as of the creation of this post, 1,788 persons have viewed this 'HP Solution' and not a single one has accepted this as a solution.

Seriously, HP?  Did you pay this person? Is there any oversight? Is it a guy in his underwear playing WOW in his basement or is it an actual living breathing HP-certified helper? Do you know this has been on your site for two years?

Question: If windows has crashed, how do you expect us to follow directions that rely on windows to be open?

Sigh.

I used to be so happy with my HP and the laptop.

I used to think it was the Schnizzle!

Note to HP. You can have the shiniest and bestest looking computer in the universe, but if your computer crashes and stops working and if your 'Help Desk' people are complete morons, then that is the last impression you are leaving on a customer, and anyone that customer decides to speak with into eternity.

Also, a special message to the CEO of HP.  My mother has written you an email. She's already had one reply 'escalating the issue.' You have no idea. You better duck. You better hide. Because she's not going to let off. Trust me when I say that the only way you can piss off a mother more, is if you fuck with their kid when he's deployed fighting a war. And get this, she just retired. So she has all.... the time... in the world... to make sure that you and all of her friends understand the issue at hand.

...and the drama continues.

Weston Ochse
Currently in
Afghanistan

SPLAT! My Laptop Commits Suicide in Afghanistan!

So there I was, early morning, ready to put some serious words down on the page and I noticed that my screen was frozen.

Frozen? I have a top of the line HP Envy. How the hell can it be frozen? It cost more than my all-in-one HP desktop. It cost as much as a used car. In fact, with what it cost, I could feed an Afghan family of six or a year. But I needed it. Or at least I thought I did. After all, I was going to be doing all of this stuff in Afghanistan with it. Skyping, watching movies, listening to music, writing, etc. As it turned out, my wife and I use Facetime in my iPhone and we never even used Skype. So I use my expensive laptop for the other things.

Still, I thought it would be faster. After all, I suped it up. Here's what I had (yes, notice the past tense):

*dv6t Quad*
o Windows 8 64
o System Recovery DVD with Windows 8 64
o 3rd generation Intel Core i7-3630QM Processor (2.4GHz, 6MB L3 Cache)
o NVIDIA(R) GeForce(R) GT 630M Graphics with 2GB of dedicated video
memory
o 12GB DDR3 System Memory (2 Dimm)
o 750GB 5400 rpm Hard Drive with HP ProtectSmart Hard Drive Protection
o NO mSSD Hard Drive Acceleration Cache
o 6 Cell Lithium Ion Battery
o 15.6-inch diagonal Full HD Anti-glare LED-backlit Display (1920 x 1080)
o Blu-ray player & SuperMulti DVD burner
o HP TrueVision HD Webcam with integrated dual array digital microphone
o Intel 802.11b/g/n WLAN and Bluetooth(R)
o Backlit Keyboard

I mean, hell! This was the HP Snizzle Version. Yes, you did see that it said 3rd generation Intel Core i7-3630QM Processor. It's essentially the Lamborgini of processors. If last year's computer was a javelin, this is a fucking bottle rocket with a warp drive second stage system, but for the life of me, I couldn't tell the difference. It still had the classic PC lag.

AND with all the bells and whistles it had WINDOWS 8?  Seriously? I paid $4.99 to get rid of Windows 8 just so I could go back to the classic look. Windows 8 Blows!

Sigh.

This is not really my computer,
but it might as well be

But it doesn't matter now.

After my computer froze, I turned it off, and it's never come back on again. It recognizes that it has a problem. It gives me a frowny face like it's being operated by a 12 year old girl and tells me it's going to analyze and correct the disk, but then it hangs fooooooorrrrrrrrreeeeeeevvvvvvveeeeeeerrrrrr, or at least six hours before I tried to restart the process again.

I even tried the boot disks, but the computer won't recognize the CD drive. So what are the boot disks good for then, other than to throw out the window next time a sketchy man on a scooter gets too close to our uparmored SUV?

News at Eleven: Soldier Decapitates Taliban Bomber with HP Boot Disk.

As unlikely as it sounds, it could happen. I mean, if this product of the Tennessee education system can publish more than a dozen novels, then seriously! ANYTHING. CAN. HAPPEN.

So what am I to do. I have a novel deadline with Solaris Books that I will not miss. Thankfully, I was using Drop Box, so my work in progress has been saved and is complete. I lost several other stories and articles I'd started and left under documents, but I can live with that. Ha. Listen to me. I can live with that, he says. I have to live with it because I was the douche canoe who didn't save them in Drop Box.

So now here I am in Afghanistan, without a computer, with only a Kindle Fire and an iPhone and all this writing to do. I can't tell you the last time I was anywhere where I didn't have a keyboard and the ability to type something.

Two things are certain:

• I'm going to have a fight on my hands with HP.
• I'm going to need a replacement system sooner than later.

Stay tuned, I suppose, so we can see how I make it out of this mess.

If nothing else, come back for the drama.

Cheers.

Weston Ochse
Currently in
Afghanistan

Free Audio Story - Bram Stoker Award Finalist - RIGHTEOUS

Hi folks.

Remember the story I received hatemail for a few months ago?  It was a semifinalist for the BRAM STOKER AWARD FOR SUPERIOR ACHIEVEMENT IN SHORT FICTION. Well, now it's a finalist. The voting is over. Weekend after this  is the Bram Stoker Awards ceremony in New Orleans.

Courtesy of Tales to Terrify, they have provided the story here free of charge for your listening pleasure.

To remember a little about 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. 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 which might get you into the mood to listen to this-

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. Thanks to Larry Santoro from Tales to Terrify for making it available to you all for FREE.

Weston On A Stick - Walking Dead Style

It all started at Phoenix Comiccon three years ago.

My wife Yvonne with the First WOAS

I was supposed to be there. In fact, I'd been asked to judge the Zombie Beauty pageant with none other than Elvira. I was so looking forward to the event. I was going to be awesome. Me and Elvira were going to hit it off and laugh at the zombies dressed up in pretty clothes, us sitting like silly kids in a church pew.

Ahhh, those should have been the days.

Except the military jumped in and said they needed me in Romania.

The President his own bad self called me up and said, "Wes, we need you."

"But sir. Elvira and I am supposed to hang out together."

A Zombie Taking a Bite out of WOAS

"Son," he began with a sufficient amount of gravitas in his voice for me to understand the global inplications, "Your country needs you. Not Elvira."

So I packed off and went to Romania.

And as I was in Romania, my wife was at Comiccon. She made sure I was there too, because she invented Weston on a Stick!

But I also made sure I had Elvira with me. I took her to Romania -- on a stick!

Wil Wheaton with YOAS and WOAS

Last year I made Phoeinx Comiccon and had a terrific time. Just one of the best times I've had in years. So I was a little upset this year when the President once again called me and said, "Wes, your country needs you to be in Afganistan."

Sigh.

Another year without being at Phoenix Comiccon, without spending time with my peeps, without hanging out with the uber-cool Wil Wheaton, and without seeing all the cool costumes.

Merle Giving You the Double Salute while he protects us.

And then I awoke this Memorial Day morning to find that uber-fan and friend Wendy Trakes arranged for Weston and Yvonne on a Stick at this years Pheonix Comiccon.

Bunches of my friends had their picture taken with me, which was just too awesome.

Then I saw the one with Wil Wheaton. I'm a huge W2 Fan! I like the guy. He's terrific.

And then I saw the one with Merle from The Walking Dead  -- AKA Michael Rooker -- AKA Henry the Serial Killer.

WOW!

And a double finger salute too!

Elvira in Romania -- On a Stick

It's nice to know that when my country calls me, my stunt self is on a stick and gets to spend quality time with quality people.

Now that's cool.

And for those of you missing us like good friends Eunice and Greg Magill, we're going to begin marketing Weston and Yvonne on a Stick so that you too can have us in your house, or on vacation with you, or at your child's graduation.

Think of it!

All it takes $19.95 and you too can get a picture, a piece of cardboard and a paint stirrer so that you can experience the wonders of having not really famous people on a stick!

*     *     *

Also, make sure you show the love and get my latest original novel, Babylon Smiles. It's like the movies Three Kings meets Kelly's Heroes. It's a straight military fiction novel -- an Iraqi War heist novel. 

It's free for Amazon Prime Members and would make a great Father's Day Present.

Todays Attack Brought to You By The Taliban

The idea of the Taliban didn't seem so bad when I was sitting on couch watching television, my beverage of choice in my left hand, the remote in my right hand, me deftly flipping between the news and a cooking program with that guy with the cool car and the spiky hair.

"The Taliban hates America. News at eleven."

"The Taliban condemns the U.S. Army."

The Taliban outlaws everything."

The Taliban demands all Afghanistan return to its thirteenth century values."

The headlines are ludicrous. Ten thousand miles removed, it's hard to believe. But it's true.

There are a group of men who hate me and my entire family because we exist. It was an esoteric idea that I never really understood-- that I couldn't understand-- until I was here.

Another idea which I thought I understood was the concept of' 'the fighting season.' I think I thought of it like a 'football season' or a 'planting season' or a 'rainy season.' I treated it like it was a holistic period of time, rather than something begins with a Taliban commander shouting, "ready, set, go kill them all!"

So I've been in Afghanistan a month now. There's fighting all over the place, especially in the south. There are provinces where the people are fleeing. There are places where the Afghan military are holding their own. And there are a slew of attacks on innocent civilians. I'm sort of removed from it where I am. I read about these events, I hear about them, they are the topic of conversation, but like you sitting at home, unless the badness comes knocking at your front door, it seems like someone else's problem.

Then came the VBIED attack last week which claimed the life of Americans. The attack was only a few kilometers from me. I didn't hear it, but only because I was still asleep.

Then there was the attack yesterday at a UN compound near (but not in) the Green Zone. I heard the suicide bomber explode himself. I heard the gunshots. I heard the grenades. I was in a bazaar buying a pair of lapis lazuli bowls for my wife and I. I hurriedly packed up my stuff, and headed back. Soon, we were on lockdown. I'm sure the entrances to the compound bristled with weapons, prepared for any sort of attack. All the while, we heard the sounds of battle.

Child Running From Yesterdays Attack - NY TIMES

The NY Times has a great summation of the attack, which you can read here. For me, it was inconvenient  For people like this family and the kids in the picture above, it was a traumatic event that they will never forget. They probably lost loved ones. When I see this kid, I see my own son, and it makes me mad.

Where are the days when we could square off across a battlefield, slap our shields, then run at each other?

I thought of posting some funny, anti-Taliban demotivational posters here because it's so easy to laugh at the Taliban. I even thought of ending the essay with a picture of the most awesome Christopher Walken demanding more cowbell. But as I began to write this, I started to become angry at the Taliban and the other organizations of their ilk Do you want to see what outrage is? Look at this Pulitzer Prize winning photo of a girl standing amidst the dead after an attack (Warning -- GRAPHIC).

THIS SHIT MAKES ME MAD!

So here I am.

I'm not on my couch any longer.

No more beverages of preference and no more remote controls for my TV.

I'm going to do something about the Taliban. I'm going to make their lives miserable. I am good at my job... no, I am great at my job. America has always been called a sleeping lion and these asshats have woken me up.

I have five months left and I'm going work as hard as I can to bring as many of these cowardly fighters down. I thought about this as I sat listening to the sound of gunfire and grenades last night. I woke up thinking about it this morning.

My country sent me to do a job.

And I'm going to do it.

*     *     *

So I went to lunch and came back. It's raining outside now, a veritable downpour. I had time to rethink my stance on making fun of the Taliban and their ilk.

I think they're fair game.

So I will make fun of them. I know. I know. It's too easy. There's so much I can say or do. But I'll limit my jocular attitude to one picture.

Today's You're Stupid if you join the Taliban picture brought to you by Weston Ochse.

If offended, please call your local ISAF security force who will come to your home to hear your complaint.

Thank you.

Twilight of the Green Zone - An Afghanistan Story

The Green Zone is not at all what I expect. To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I expect, but what I see isn’t it whatever it is. It’s not that I expect green streets and green buildings and green people. That's silly. I just expect something... different. Perhaps after six months I’ll be able to express this inexpressible difference, or it might mean I’ll have to travel to another war and visit another Green Zone to compare, but I know this isn’t what I thought it was going to be.

As we enter the Green Zone, the first thing I notice is the concrete. There’s more concrete in the walls and barricades of the Kabul Green Zone than the interstate stretch from Los Angeles to Barstow. Some indiscernible dust-covered trees line the streets. From the back seat of our armored up SUV, I notice an immediate change to street traffic. Gone are the throngs of folks going about their business. There are still a few street peddlers and beggars, but the number has been reduced ten-fold.  After the cacophony and furious energy of the drive from the airport, the Green Zone feels like a dusty street in an Old West town, the only thing missing, a pair of gunslingers, facing off, and someone whistling the theme song to a Clint Eastwood western.

Three soldiers hurry down the street, harried by children as if they are birds trying to get at some hidden food. Although the soldiers are in full body armor and carrying multiple weapons, their attitude towards the children is universal. They try politely to push them away, but the children will not be deterred. I know the problem right away. I’ve been to enough countries to know that even eye contact can gain their unwanted and furious attention. Let me emphasize, human compassion isn’t a mistake, but at certain times we can become victimized by it. Like these children, who have more professional sales acumen than a dozen Amway salesman, and more diligence than a friendly Fuller Brush man.

And like those old documentaries of wildebeests being chased by great cats on the Serengeti Plane, one soldier falls behind the other. I want to roll down the window and shout for him to watch out, but the windows are locked. So I’m forced to watch as two children on his right tug eagerly on his jacket as a third child, a beyond-cute young girl shoves her arm elbow deep into his other pocket, liberating whatever he has in there. She nods, and the children run off, laughing, just like any other children in the world, just like they hadn’t successfully robbed a fully armed soldier.

We drive on, now moving slightly faster than walking speed. The only other cars around are other up-armored SUVs, one or two local cars, and nothing else.  

Then I see the man with no legs. As I try and think up words to describe him I come up with fervent and angry, but then I think angry is an unfair term. Maybe then fervent and insistent. Yeah, that’s it. I’ve mistaken insistent for anger before, like when my drill sergeant was insistent that I do something, then he was angry about it. Yeah.  Insistent. But he seems angry too. I can’t get past that. But let me back up and describe what I see.

Our SUV is stopped in line waiting to pass through one of the many ‘gates,’ each one making an individual safer than the previous ‘gate.’ Outside my window is a man, scurrying about like a spider on a skateboard. His limbs are moving so fast, it’s not until he slows down that I notice he only has two limbs. It takes a few more seconds to figure out if they are arms, legs, or a combination of the two. When he finally halts his motion at the back bumper of the uparmored SUV in front of us, I see why I am so confused about his limbs. He wears canvas shoes on his hands, which he uses to both propel himself back and forth, and to slap the sides of the SUVs. His trunk rests on a flat wooden cart beneath a shawl of a blanket, where he somehow keeps his balance.

But this man is not handicapped. He might not have legs, but he has eyes and the power in those eyes is enough to close the gap between him and those unlucky enough to meet his gaze. I somehow know this right away. I try not to look directly at him, but every time my traitorous eyes look into his, he surges towards me with windmilling arms and his insistent-angry eyes. It’s as if he’s challenging the entire universe, but only you have the ability to speak on its behalf. His gaze makes you feel insignificant. After all, how can you speak for the universe?

He bangs his canvas shoe on the side of the SUV and it makes me jump. Scott and Crazy Eyes laugh at me as I meet the no-legged man’s gaze. It’s fueled with an inviolate authority, an incomprehensible demand for something I cannot give. Even if I gave him everything I have, I know it will not be enough for the moment. He is Afghanistan and I can’t help him.

Then as the SUV moves on, I feel grateful, and a little guilty.

It really is too much.

We creep forward and make a few turns. Several women have blankets laid out with charms and sundries. Now this I recognize. Outside every military compound since before Hannibal crossed the Alps sit women selling their wares—small trinkets of the conquered to be sent home as trophies. Ever as inconsequential and insubstantial as the piece may be, the prize of the item grows as the narrative increases.

One stands out. I only see her for a moment, hunched over her blanket, carefully arranging the pieces as if it were a game of capitalistic chess. Then she looks up. We see each other. She flashes a peace sigh and our gazes meet. Amidst her wrinkled dark skin and even darker hair, glowing from within the shadow of her scarf are bright blue eyes. It stops me for a moment and the world goes into slomo. I suddenly knew her. She is a child of the soviets. I think of our own American Asian kids spread across Vietnam, Korea, Okinawa, Thailand and the Philippines. I think about how they are treated-- outcasts with blue eyes, reminding everyone who sees them about a war just as soon forgotten. Beauty condemned. Much as my own blue eyes, myself a child of war a millennia removed, now accepted. Would it take them as long? Would it take her as long? Where does beauty start and the guilt of survival end?

Then we pass and time resumes to normal. A phantom image of her peace sign says with me.

Crazy-eyes catches my gaze in the mirror. “Not what you expected, is it?”

“I don’t know what I expected,” I say, not being entirely honest.

“Whatever it was,” he says, with the wisdom of Solomon, “It wasn’t this. That’s for damn sure.”

Soon we’re pulling through a last gate and I see military men and women from more than a dozen countries. Scott jumps out and ground guides us so we don’t run over anyone. I watch the people as they pass. The memory of the race from the airport, the children, the man with no legs, and the women with blue eyes fade as I begin to take in the details of my new home.

We pull to a stop. Scott opens my door.

“Get your shit together. I need to go find you a room.”

As I step outside and plant my feet on frienly ground, looking at my razor-wire twisted horizon, I take a deep breath.

Six months.

I have six months of this.

“You okay?” Scott asks.

I shake it off. “Yeah. Sure. Just taking it all in.”

“Don’t do it now or else you’ll have nothing to do for the next six months.”

In the back of my mind, Rod Serling and Bart Simpson compete for a comeback. But instead of saying anything, I grab my stuff and follow them, towards my new home.

(To keep up with all of my previous Afghanistan Stories, click on the following link - AFGHANISTAN)

*  *  *

Check out my work online, or purchase them at your favorite bookstore.

Babylon Smiles is a brand new release-- an Iraqi War Heist Novel in the spirit of Three Kings and Kelly's Heroes. If you like SEAL Team 666 or any of my other work, you'll love this.

War Desk - Afghanistan

I've shared pictures of my office at home. Lots of space. Desk covered with comic book covers. Arizona sunlight streaming in. dogs basking in the rays. Books galore. Pictures of friends and past literary conquests.

Afghanistan has none of that. I live in a fifteen by fifteen square foot space, with a wall locker, a bed, and a desk setup-- and I feel lucky to have it. Some folks are stacked three and four to a room like mine. Housing is in a shortage, so to have enough space to call my own is a luxury.

So here's my creative space, or my war desk, if you will.

What's there? Let's see if I can give you a tour. Gunbelt. Hat. Head lamp. Some books. Lots of water. a book of postcard pics from the National Gallery of Art -- Hudson river School -- to remind me how beautiful America is. French soap. A compass from my wive. Food. My computer.  Random pills. Kindle. Ear buds. Pocket knife. Ray Bans.

Here's Hemingway in Africa, 1954.

I daresay his is a little more rustic.

I've already edited SEAL Team 666: Age of Blood here, worked on a short story, and a comic book with William F. Nolan. It's a good space. I have tunes to listen to, and if the sounds of helicopters and vehicles get too loud, there are always headphones.

I look forward to doing more work here.

And when I'm done, I'm coming home.

The Vicissitudes of Being Edited - Toward vs Towards

Here I am, once again, going through edits on this, my eleventh novel. It's an interesting process. I'm pretty open to most edits, after all, I am a product of the Tennessee education system of the late 1970s and early 1980s, which received the least amount of money per child than any other state at the time. Therefore, I understand my own faults. I'm also a product of pop culture, so I tend to spell things in the popular manner, instead of the appropriate manner, sometimes.

Frankly, I'm just happy to be edited by real competent people. Thank you St. Martin's Press and Thomas Dunne Books for assigning a platoon of Ivy League graduates to assault edit SEAL Team 666: Age of Blood. I can always use a good edit. Hell, as is the case, I can always use five good edits. Bring them on.

One of the funny things, though, is I can always tell when someone is trained in British grammar or U.S. grammar. Or more specifically, I can always tell whether The Element of Style by Strunk and White or The Chicago Manual of Style is their grammar reference.

Geoffrey K. Pullum in a NY Times article says, 'The anodyne style advice that Strunk and White offers is harmless enough,' but their 'simplistic don’t-do-this, don’t-write-that instructions offered in the book would not guarantee good writing if they were obeyed.' The article continues to quote others about the book's shortfalls, but the one thing about The Elements of Style is that it is pleasantly short and to the point. Truly, The Elements of Style is a thin book, if whose pages were torn and rolled, could be smoked in a matter of days, if not hours.

Wherein The Chicago Manual of Style is a prodigous tome which could be used as a lethal weapon.

But does size matter?

There are many who would say it always matters. On that subject, I'll defer, but as far as grammar, because I'm from the U.S. and writing primarily for a U.S. market, I refer to the Chicago Manual of Style.

What's the difference, you ask? Here's an example with whether to use that or which. Also, here Absolute Write people pine about the books in kind of a funny way.

There's also the serial comma. Dear lord, arguments about this havecaused wars.

PRO SERIAL COMMA: "By train, plane and sedan chair, Peter Ustinov retraces a journey made by Mark Twain a century ago. The highlights of his global tour include encounters with Nelson Mandela, an 800-year-old demigod and a dildo collector." Languagehat dug this gem out of a comment thread on the serial comma. It's from a TV listing in The Times. It supports the use of the Oxford comma, but only because it keeps Mandela from being a dildo collector. However, even the Oxford comma can't keep him from being an 800-year-old demigod. There's only so much a comma can do.
 

I've been converted to the serial comma because my NY Editors like it and because of my appreciation for Nelson Mandela.

But now I'm facing a different dilemma.  The use of the word toward or towards, as in showing direction to an object or a place.

Which one is correct?

I'm afraid that both of them are. Yep. You have it right. The British way is towards and the U.S. way is toward. In some space-time-continuem insanity, it seems that I've been using the British way and assing the s every time. In What Tim Lebbon-running, Sarah Pinborough-Chardonnay Drinking, Neil Gaiman-singing British universe have I found myself in? I didn't even know I was there.

So what do my Ivy League-trained, serial-comma-loving-NY-publishers want? The American way. Check out Mirriam Webster for the reasoning.

I feel bad for the line editor. He corrected my towards to toward 185 times in this manuscript. I hope he was paid well for each one. In fact, if he was paid for each one, I might be his favorite client.

So onward and upward, towards toward success I go. Soon, I shall learn the lessons, which that that which I should learn to be the author of which editors dream. HAHA

Seriously. And here I sit in Afghanistan, editing, contemplating editing, and editing.

Sigh.

As my wife says, this is what makes me a professional.

Cheers

Weston Ochse
Kabul, Afghanistan

Things to Come from Weston- 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 (Editing)

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

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).

Unamed short story in an unnamed steampunk weird western anthology (working).

Unnamed short story in an unnamed military fantasy anthology (working).



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.


Works on the Backburner

Ranger Candy- novel about revenge

Third Book in Aegis Trilogy

American Golem - novella

Comic Book with William F. Nolan

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.