Letters from the Lost Man, Part 3

"Go on, friend. Why don't you go on and git on outta here," the guy says to me as he wipes a grimy mug with an even grimier rag.

Hmm...this is looking like a rough scene. I'd better not argue. Just nodding, I step slowly toward the door. The second I step outside I hear the saloon piano start up and the sounds of the usual festivities happening inside. I hoist up my pants, which seem a little low on my hips. Glancing down I realize how disheveled I really look.

"Howdy there, partner."

Well hellooo. Just who is this fine lady? "Howdy, ma'am," is all I can manage. What's up with my accent? This is not how the voice in my head sounds.

"Man like you shouldn't walk around town without some respect," she says to me, smiling sweetly.

I'm merely confused. "Respect?" I drawl intelligently.

"Why, sure. I know just where you can get some too..."

I look her up and down again, raising an eyebrow. I wonder what she's talking about. Honestly, she looks like she could be a working girl. Whatever she means by "respect" can't be all bad.

"Well, I'd be mighty obliged, ma'am. I'm new around here, and a little...uh...respect might be just what I need. The thing is, well..."

With a flutter of her eyelashes she asks, "Well, what is it?"

"Well, see, I'm a bit short on cash. Ain't had time to find me some work yet."

"A man with respect doesn't need to find work," she tells me.

I'm not only intrigued, but a little perplexed. "Well, again, I'd be mighty obliged, ma'am. Say...just where am I?" I feel dumb for not having asked earlier.

She giggles. "Why, you’re in Wisconsin, cowboy."

"Wisconsin..." I repeat in disbelief. It's about 90 degrees out, dusty, bright, and dry. If this is Wisconsin, I'm Santa Claus.

"That's right," she confirms, "now, follow me."

As I trail behind this lady, I can't help but think this is nothing more than a dream. Not that I'm complaining. Whatever it is, it's a whole lot better than where I was just a few moments ago...in nothingness.
So, if this is a dream, and I'm aware of it, I should be able to do whatever I want, right? I always loved flying dreams. Maybe I should try that.

"Why, sugar, what are you doin'?" the pretty woman asks as she helps me up off the ground.

"Sorry. I'm not really sure what happened myself. Must'a tripped."

Well, that was embarrassing. I probably won't try that again. I haven't necessarily ruled out the dream possibility, though. This is just too strange to be reality. Well...what have we here? This is a cathouse if I ever saw one.

"Step inside cowboy," she says, opening the door with a grin.

"Thank you, ma'am."

Oh yeah...this has got to be a dream. All these fine ladies sitting here smiling and waving at me. And I get the feeling that whatever I get here, I'm not going to have to pay for it. Score...

"Right this way, cowboy," she directs.

I follow her up the stairs and down the hall into a rather nondescript bedroom. So far this is going just the way I had hoped. I watch her step over to the armoire and pull something out of it. She turns toward me, hiding whatever it is behind her back. She steps over to me and gets close...very close.

"You want some respect?" she asks softly.

All I can do is nod. With a sly half-smile, she produces the hidden item. Ok, this is just...odd.

"A gun..."

She nods. "Well, of course it's a gun. What did you think it would be?"

I shrug, lost for words. I take it from her with uncertainty. It's in a nice leather holster with a bullet-lined belt. At least my pants will stop creeping down on my hips. I put it on and draw the weapon. It's a Smith & Wesson SW40 Sigma series semi automatic. Not only is it horrendously out of place in this setting, but it seems totally strange to me that I recognize it.

"Feels good in your hand, doesn't it?" she asks, excitement in her voice.

I look up with a start, but then sort of smile. "Yeah, she's a beaut. Say, what's your name anyway?"

She leans in closer and puts her hand on my chest with that sexy little half grin. What a magnificent time for all hell to break loose...

The door busts in with a bang and the massive guy standing on the other side answers my question with, "Loretta!"

He pounds over to her and pushes her out of the way. Baring his teeth at me, he grabs me by my shirt and lifts me straight into the air. His breath smells like he uses manure for toothpaste and whiskey for mouthwash.

"What're you doin' with my girl, boy?" he asks, each word punctuated by a blast of fetid odor.

Despite the obvious seriousness of the situation, my first instinct is to be a comedian. "Well, nothin' yet, Tex...you interrupted me before I got the chance."

As expected, this is the wrong response. He heaves me backward and ho's me through the window. The world is a spinning blur as I hurtle away surrounded by exploded glass. More seconds than I will prefer to recall later, I hit the ground hard. Some of the glass is driven into my skin. At this moment, this is about the most painful dream I've ever experienced. I roll around for a few minutes then stumble to my feet. Yeah, I hurt, but I don't think anything's broken...yet. That'll probably change soon. Loretta's boyfriend is blundering out the cathouse door headed my way. This can only get worse. I draw out my gun.

"Now...now..." I manage to sputter out. "Now, you hold it right there, Tex."

"If you wanna live, boy, you'll quit callin' me Tex," he replies, eyeing my gun with interest.

Pulling back the slide on the weapon, I grin through the pain. "I think I'm in a position to call you whatever I like."

Tex throws his head back and laughs...man, is he a big guy. His neck looks like a tree trunk when he does that. I'm not really sure how much better I feel with the gun in my hand. It does fire a .40 caliber round, but I honestly think this guy might be able to take a couple if my aim isn't just right. He might live just long enough to get to me and break me in half.

"You wanna settle this like a man, boy?" he asks me.

I shrug.

He whistles back to one of his cronies who tosses him a revolver. "Twenty paces!" he yells out to the whole town, which by now is intent on the exchange.

So, we make our way to the center of Main Street and stand back to back. As I step forward, counting out my twenty paces, it occurs to me that this might be a bit dangerous. I have no idea what's really going on. After that fall out the window, I can't really be all that sure I'm not awake. While everything seems to be completely weird, I don't really remember everything to begin with, so I can't know if it really is weird or if its my amnesia. One thing's for sure. I had better be quick on the draw, and my aim better be true. I don't want to find out what happens if Tex wins this duel.

"Nineteen...Twenty!"

Oh, crap! I just realized I have no idea what I'm doing. Do I turn and fire, or do we turn and stare each other down while our fingers twitch? Only one thing to do...
Silence follows the boom of my pistol and the supersonic crack of my bullet as it tears down Main Street and embeds itself into Tex's face. He drops his half-drawn weapon and topples backward. Good thing for me.

Or maybe not...did somebody just shoot me in the side? Warm wetness spreads over my ribs and the pain really starts to register. Now who would do a thing like that?
I fall over onto my back and look up. Over on the roof on the building to my left is the silhouette of a hooded figure holding a rifle. It rises from the roof and hangs in midair for a moment before drifting down slowly to the ground to stand over me.

"Who are you?" I manage to moan at the figure. It says nothing to me. It just stands there in its black robe, its hood pulled too low for me to make out a face. Blackness is creeping into the edges of my vision. No, please, no more blackness. I don't want to die now...

Light... Light streams in from everywhere. I feel like I'm waking up. It takes several minutes for my eyes to adjust.

"Are you ok?" the girl in white asks tenderly.

"Loretta?"

She blinks back at me in surprise. "How do you know my name?"

I look around. Everything's white and sterile. I try to sit up, but a tearing pain in my side forces me back down.

"Please, Mr., uh...sir. Lay back. You need to take it easy," she urges.

"What happened?" I ask. "Was I in an accident?"

Loretta, who is obviously a nurse, bites her lip. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Well..." I begin, rubbing my head. "I think I was shot in the side, but that might have been a dream."

She nods. "The images can be very real. You have to be careful. You could very well die from injuries you sustain while you're under."

"What? Under where? What the hell's going on here?"

"Please, Mr...um...please be calm," she pleads, looking over her shoulder. "If the doctors hear you, they'll come in and put you back under before I can help you. Then they'll erase your memory and start all over again. Please trust me.

All I can do is stare at her. What would you say? I must still be dreaming. I still feel a bit weird, and who knows if I'm really in pain. My memory of pain might only be a fabrication of the dream. Oh, just wake up already...please wake up.

"Now, tell me, how did you know my name?" Loretta asks.

I blink at her. "Oh, no...First of all, I think you owe me some answers long before I give any to you. Second of all, you can't-"

"Sshhh!" she interrupts. "Please. Okay, I'll tell you what I can, but please listen closely because I'll have to put you back under before the doctors get here. Trust me, if you don't argue with me, we can get through this much faster and you can leave this place."

I stare at her with uncertainty for a little while. Well, what choice do I have? "Ok...I'm listening."

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 2

The dark accentuates loneliness. It accentuates fear and refines sadness. The encompassing, oppressive dark, perfect only in its emptiness. It's enough to drive a man insane.
Time has passed. Hours, days, weeks...who knows? I sure don't. I haven't seen any light or heard any voices. In fact, now I'm not even convinced I heard them in the first place. So, now I'm just sitting here, holding my arms.
But, y'know...I'm not really sure I'm holding my arms. I think I'm holding the memory of my arms. It seems strange to me how the memory of something seems so solid here in the nothingness. I think the dark is so complete that even the concept of something feels corporeal.
No, that isn't it at all. I know exactly what it is. I'm not really in the dark. I'm not really standing in the middle of a huge nothingness. What's really happening is that I'm trapped in my own mind. It's the only thing that makes sense. I was in some horrible accident, and this is what it's like to be in a coma.
But why is it so empty in here? Where are my memories? Where are my dreams? If I'm aware of myself, shouldn't I be aware of these things? Unless I received some kind of massive head trauma...then maybe I have amnesia. Or maybe worse. Maybe I'm a vegetable...trapped in my empty mind...my brain wiped clean by a huge jolt. Great. I'm a human Etch-a-Sketch.
It still doesn't make sense, though. How can I be a vegetable while being stuck in my head rationalizing about being a vegetable? I just wish I could peek outside and get a little glimpse of what's going on.
Better yet, I wish I could be like all those people who almost die then go on to write a book and go on talk shows. "Then I saw this light. It was swirling and flashing and was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. It felt like home." A trigger release of brain chemicals from a body in extreme duress causes hallucinations that make people think they're going to heaven. People using illusions to support their delusions...how fitting. Notice how many people write books about the other place...the bad place...or how many of them write about experiences like this. I think this is worse. At least in hell I would know if I was dead.

"Are you gonna order somethin'? 'Cause if you ain't, you better move along."

"What the..?"

Whoa! Did I just say that? Who the hell is this guy? He looks like something out of a bad western. How did I get in this bar? Where did these clothes come from? Why is everyone eyeing me like I'm about to be shot? What the hell is going on!

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 1

It's dark...like my eyes are just floating in nothingness. The kind of black that makes you start to wonder where the rest of your body is. If it weren't for your sense of touch, you might think you had died. That's scary: to die and find that not only is there nothing, but also that you are completely aware of it. Maybe that's why the dark is so unnerving. No, I don't think that's it. I think we're just afraid of the unknown. That's kind of dumb, though, isn't it? I mean, if some huge, many-fanged beast from hell were standing over me ready to devour, I think it would be more scary to see it. But it's dark, and here I am...scared.
I feel around for some reminder of my surroundings. Where was I last? What do I remember before lamely opening my eyes to see the same thing I saw when they were closed? Nothing. I remember nothing. I call out, but I hear no sound. Even my own voice is rendered useless in this dead place. There I go, thinking about death again. Where the hell is everybody? Who the hell is everybody?
My fingers brush nothing. I take a few unsteady steps, but they don't really seem to take me anywhere because none of my senses are telling me anything different than they were just a second ago. What the hell is going on here? Where the hell is here anyways?
Did I get really drunk somewhere last night? I would assume if I did I would have a hangover, but I don't. Actually, aside from the disorienting sensation that I am nowhere right now, I feel great. So, what is this? What's going on?
Ok, start from square one. First of all, do I know who I am? Of course I do, that's a dumb question. I'm...uh. Well, I'm... Hmm, that's funny...of all the things to forget. If I did any sort of mind-altering drug last night, it was sure as hell a lot more potent than alcohol. How do you forget your own name?
Ok, don't panic. I'm sure I knew my name just a second ago. It feels like it's about to drop from my lips, but I just can't seem to give it that last shove. I'm not sure what good it would do. Even if I said it, I wouldn't hear myself. Man, I am really starting to feel uncomfortable about this. I walk forward a bit with my arms stretched out before me. When I run into nothing, I walk a little faster. Ok, so how do I know I'm not dead right now?

"Pulse, 82 bea-..."

What the hell was that? Out of nowhere there's a flash of light. If it weren't for the fact that I'm not all that sure I can see in the first place, I would think the light blinded me. But what was that voice? It said something about a pulse. Maybe she was talking about my pulse. Could I be in the hospital? Maybe I'm in the emergency room. I might have been in some terrible accident, and they're working feverishly to save my life.
But then, her voice sounded pretty calm. There were no other sounds. Maybe the hint of a beep from, say, a heart monitor. That must be it. I'm in the hospital. But why? What happened? My name is-... Damn, why can't I remember? Anyways, ok, so I'm in the hospital. I don't know why, but I don't think I'm in any immediate danger of dying...not that that's overly comforting right now.

"...you sure he isn't aware of anything, docto-"

There it is again! That voice. Yes! Yes, I am aware! Help me! I don't know where I am or what's going on!

...

Hello!

...

Damn... I'm not sure why I thought that would work. Ok, then. I'll just wait. Let me just try to relax. I must be wavering in and out of consciousness. I'm waking up; I'm sure of it. In a few minutes I'll find out what's going on. Just wait. Relax...and wait...

To be continued...

Lending Credence to Disbelief

Here's a recommendation for those philosophical free thinkers out there who aren't afraid to challenge their own beliefs. If you regularly read the comments on my posts you might have noticed that my buddy Megan posted a link to my new favorite website: whywontgodhealamputees.com.

Now, you know how I hate to stir the pot, so I'm warning those who are religious and rigid in the literal interpretation of their specific brand of faith. The website is written from an atheist's point of view. If you're not willing to seriously look at the questions the author poses and examine the way they fit into the dynamic of your belief system, don't bother visiting. Hey, I'm just trying to save you some time.

If, however, you're an atheist who doesn't know how to argue his own point, or you're a follower of an "alternate" faith who wants a really good way to diffuse a zealous conversion attempt by a fanatical Christian, Muslim, or for some strange reason, Jew (I don't know too many Jews that try to convert people), this is the website for you.

I feel it's only fair to say, though, that I don't agree completely with all of the author's conclusions. I agree with most of them and with the most important ones. I just feel he's to quick to assume that everyone's on board with his view of what his questions mean. And his disgust for believers comes through a little too much later in the text, but I did find his questions fascinating and poignant. I will undoubtedly use the material I gleaned from this website in the future, but I will cast it in my own, less disdainful light.

One Down...

A few thousand more to go...

Well, I got my response back from the publisher. It basically said that due to difficult economic times they decided it might be unwise to invest in an unknown author, especially when they didn't think my book would be a "commercial success". The wording of the letter sounds a lot like the one they sent to my friend Elgon, who also sent his book to them. I don't feel too terrible about it because they didn't take the time to specifically craft a letter telling me not to quit my day job. Really, if I were going to craft a generic letter to politely let down an aspiring author seeking my resources in the incredibly competitive world of publishing, it would sound a lot like DAW's.

Anyhow, the thing that kind of stresses me out about this is that not too many recognized names in publishing make open submission as easy as DAW. I knew that when I set out, so I was really hoping they would pick it up. The battle only goes uphill from here. I think my next course of action will be to query Tor. Their process is a little more complicated, but they still take open submissions.

While the first three chapters of my manuscript swims through the treacherous slush pile at Tor, I think I'll be actively searching for an agent. After Tor, I'm not really sure who else in the fantasy genre I would trust to send my book to as an open submission. It would be really great if someone like Del Rey would pick me up, but I won't hold my breath. I know you take what you can get in this business, so we'll just have to see what turns up.

I'm not discouraged, though. Admittedly, I was a little sad to see the box containing my manuscript returned to me so quickly, but after that moment of sore disappointment, my resolve was strengthened even further. I'm going to get this thing published, damn it. Come hell or high water, by hook or by crook, someday you're going to walk into a bookstore and pick up the latest J.A. Goguen, with those letters in big, embossed script.