Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

Step Zero by Stu Jenks (Pages 22-30)

 

[Pages from the uncorrected proof. To purchase the limited illustrated hardbound edition of this novel go to The Stu Store at Squareup.com. To purchase the non-illustrated ebook, go to those places where ebooks are sold.]

 

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Monday, February 17th, 2076: 2:05 p.m.
Giffords Adult Care Center
Tucson, Arizona

“Hi, Martha,” I say. I like calling Mom by her first name. Don’t know why. Just do.
“Arthur,” she says, looking up from her comfy old chair. The Flex-TV is on but the sound’s turned down. Looks like an old movie. Braveheart, I think. I hate Flex-TV.
“Where have you been?” Mom demands.
“I was here a couple days ago. I visit you twice a week or thereabouts.”
“I haven’t seen you in forever,” she says, almost yelling now.
I place my hand on her arm. My touch seems to calm her.
“Why am I here?” she asks, like a scared little girl.
“Well, Mom. You have this brain thing.” I tend to tell her the whole story about twice a month. The hard facts don’t seem to bother her. They seem to relax her.
“You’ve been at Giffords Adult Care Center for about five years now,” I say.
“Really?” Mom says.
“Yep. Five years plus. You got sick when I was 16. You’re 50 now. Dad’s been dead almost 20 years. Died in Saudi. Nannie died during the 41 Nights. So did Poppa Ball. Or at least we think they did. Char is still alive in San Francisco. She loves you very much.”
I talked with Char just a couple weeks ago on G’s Sat-phone. She sent her love to my mom.
“Georgia loves you, too. She’ll come and visit you in a couple of days. And Mom, I love you.”
Mom’s quiet, not in a good way. Her face has a passive affect like a barely awake infant. I really wish Mom and I could have a regular conversation, but we can’t. Mom’s been through enough. I’m glad she can’t remember and I’m glad the Feds provide good homes for people like her. More than glad. Profoundly grateful.
“Mom, there’s something else I have to tell you.”
“Yes?”
“Georgia and I are going to go visit Char on the train,” I say. “We’re going to see her, and bring back Granddad’s harmonium. We’ll be away for a while. Probably a month. Maybe less. I won’t be here to visit twice a week for a while.”
Martha is trying to puzzle what I’ve said. I can see the gears working. I’ve given her too much to think about. Let me try a different approach.
“Mom, I’m going to San Francisco to visit Char. Char is sick. I’ve never met her in person, you know. I need to see her. And I need to pick up something of Granddad’s”
“You’ve never met Chartreuse?”
“Nope.”
“And she has something of Peter’s?”
“Yes, she does.”
“Well, you need to go!”
“I do.”
“Are you taking anyone with you? I can go with you, you know.”
“No, Mom. You’re too sick with the brain thing. Georgia is coming with me.”
Martha smiles.
“Oh good. I love Georgia.”
“I know, and she loves you too.”
Mom looks at the Flex-TV again. Looks like Mel Gibson has a sword in his hand and blue paint on his face. Weird. Mom looks back at me, as if she’s seeing me for the first time today.
“Arthur! Where have you been?”

 

Georgia “G” Swann
Tuesday, February 18th, 2076: 1:05 a.m.
New Chicks Coffee Shop
Downtown Tucson, Arizona


“Chessie, I’ve closed out the register and put the cash in the bank bag. You want me to drop if off on my way home?” I ask.
“No, I’ll do it. Busy night.” Chessie says.
“Yes, it was,” I say, doing the last couple things before I leave for the night.
Chessie Dupree’s so pretty with that long black hair and hourglass figure. Wish she could find a good man. Not that she can’t take care of herself without one. She can. I just know she could use some loving, some good hard loving with a tender kiss at the end. Sigh. How did I get so lucky to find Artie? Oh, that’s right. He was that cute jerk I met a few years ago who broke my heart and now he’s not such an asshole anymore. Thank God for Craig and Bill, and their help in Artie’s transformation. Maybe a guy from A.A. and M.T.A. would like Chessie. Nah. That’s not what it’s about, and if sparks do happen between members, we just need to let it be, not push it. They are there to get sober, not get a date.
I just love Chessie so much. She gave me a job and she cares for me like a sister, not a boss. Oh yeah. I’ve got to remind her about Artie’s and my trip. I told her last week, but I don’t know if she really heard me. Or if she just didn’t want to.
“Hey,” I say to her, “I need to talk with you after we close. It won’t take a second.”
“We are closed,” she says.
“Hey, Sammy,” Chessie yells over to a big guy with brown hair and a beard. “Time to hit the streets. I need to sleep,” she says firmly, but with a smile.
“OK, OK, Chessie. Hold your horses,” says Sammy, standing up and putting on his jean jacket. “I’m going.”
“See you tomorrow,” says Chessie.
“You bet. After the meeting,” says Sammy. He’s smiling now. I think he has a crush on the boss. Not her type. She goes for the skinny, tough type. What do I know?
“Take care, Sammy,” she says.
Sammy waves a hand and steps out the front door of the coffee shop.
“OK. Just us,” she says.
“I just wanted to remind you to not put me on the schedule for the month of March. Remember, Artie and I are going to visit his grandmother in San Francisco. I told you last week, I think.”
Chessie looks down. Her long black hair falls in her face.
“Yeah, I remember,” she says.
She looks up and brushes her hair out of her face.
“I’m just nervous for you,” she says. “You know the stories about the bodies in the desert, and you know Phoenix, or rather the hell that was Phoenix....”
She stops talking for a minute.
“Georgia,” she says, “it’s a long way to go just to have some alone time with your boyfriend.”
I chuckle. It’s not that funny, but she’s trying.
“He’s more than just my boyfriend,” I say.
“Yeah, I know,” she says.
“Well,” she says with a wry grin, “you’re going to take your pistol, right?”
“You’re goddamned right I am,” I say.
Now we laugh.
“Need a box of ammo for the trip?” Chessie asks.
I give her a hug.
“Oh, Chessie. That’s so sweet. Yes, we don’t have much ammo.”
Then I start to cry.
“Oh Goddess,” I say through tears.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Chessie says. “I got tons. I like .357s better than .38s anyway. I know you love the .38s for your LadySmith.”
We hug. And both of us cry.

 

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Friday, February 21th, 2076, 8:15 a.m.
Bill Monroe’s House
Tucson, Arizona

I pull out my phone, open it, and check the time. Twenty minutes before I have to be at The Instrument Shop for work. Not soon enough.
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” says Bill, my A.A. sponsor.
He’s not a bad guy. Just wound a little tight. OK, really tight. Well, he was a Master Sergeant in the Marines from ’54 to ’60, and he saw a lot of shit in Saudi, I’m sure. He’s only told me a little. You can always tell those guys who saw major action during the Oil Wars. They hardly talk about it at all, even A.A. guys.
Anyway, Bill’s a good guy. Been sober a long time, over 12 years. He’s just a little short on communication skills is all.
“Why am I asking if you’ve lost your mind?” yells Bill. “Because I know it for a fact! You’re getting on the train to travel to San Francisco to visit your grandmother so you can pick up your grandfather’s synthesizer?”
“Harmonium, not a synthesizer. A portable hand-pumped organ that needs no electricity. Bill, I have to go to work.” I say.
“Harmonium!” repeats Bill.
He places his face in his hands and shakes his head.
“Harmonium,” he says, or I think he says that. Hard to hear what he said as he’s now speaking into the palms of his hands. Sounds like ‘lost his mind’ but I can’t be sure.

 

 

Deputy U.S. Marshal Magdalena “Mags” Gutierrez
Wednesday, February 26th, 2076: 8:14 a.m.
Gate’s Pass, west of Tucson

A bite in the air. I breathe it in. Probably around 40°F . I love winter in the desert. And no one’s here. I like to be in the desert alone. Or with Stephanie.
I don’t need to be here. Just want to be here. Nice way to start my shift.
I open the door of my Flex-truck, get behind the wheel, and start it up. I check the batteries. Got a 90% charge. Cool.
Well, time to serve and protect. God Goddess All There Is, be with me today.

 

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Monday, March 2nd, 2076: 5:12 p.m.
The Instrument Shop
Tucson, Arizona.

“Tomorrow is my last day before I catch the train, you know,” I say.
“Yeah, I know,” says Pete Rainer, owner of The Instrument Shop. A big man with a white beard. Around 50. Hell of a flat picker.
‘“Paul will do fine fixing guitars and such while I’m gone,” I say.
“Yeah, but he’s not as good as you,” Pete says with a smile.
“You know I think it’s great, Arthur,” continues Pete, “that you’re going to get your granddad’s harmonium. I understand your reasoning about not having it shipped, and that you want to meet your grandmother for the first time, but…”
Pete looks at me with those loving, blue eyes.
“...but I’m just worried for you. We’ve all heard the tales about things in the Mojave.”
“Most of that stuff is just made up by Fox News, to wind people up.” I say. “The BBC says most tracks west of here are clear and safe most of the time.”
“And the truth lies somewhere between Fox and the BBC,” says Pete. “You know that.”
 Yes I do. The BBC tends to not want to tell too much bad news and Fox News only broadcasts the bad and the ugly.
“I know, just try not to worry,” I say. “Georgia and I are armed and her boss gave us a new box of .38 ammo.”
“Artie, everyone is armed,” Pete says.
I shuffle my feet.
“Georgia is an even better shot than me,” I say.
Pete doesn’t feel like laughing.
“Arthur, you’re a shitty shot,” he says. “Do me a favor. Call the shop from time to time on Georgia’s Sat-phone and let me know how you guys are.”
“I will,” I say. “And you know you are one of the few who knows Georgia has a Sat-phone, right?”
Pete looks around the empty shop.
“No one’s here, Artie,” he says. “No one’s heard.”
“I’m just saying,” I say.
He smiles.
“I’ll be careful with that information,” say Pete. “And for Goddess’s sake, you be careful on your trip and get back here as soon as you can.”
“Promise.”
“Paul doesn’t have your confidence,” says Pete. “It takes him forever to service a Martin.”
And with that, Pete walks from behind the counter and gives me a bear hug. I can hardly breathe.
“Pete, I need to breathe,” I say.
He doesn’t let me go..
“You know I love you like a little brother,” he says.
“I know,” I say in a weak voice.
I really do need to breathe.

 

 

Peter Saum, Jr.
Tuesday, March 3rd, 2076: 5:17 p.m.
The Upper Atmosphere of the Planet Jupiter
The Other Solar System

Whew. Killer left break around The Great Red Spot today. And Earl thinks he’s so cute when he cuts me off. Steal my wave again, buckaroo, and you’ll feel the rage of The South.
“How’s your grandson?” Earls asks, after we back away from the surf.
“Good. He and his girlfriend are taking the train to San Francisco to see his grandmother.”
“Isn’t that still dangerous?” he asks.
“It’s better, but not great,” I say. “I plan on staying close.”
“Do,” says Earl. “Last September, my granddaughter almost shot a man for stealing a bottle of milk. I sent a big dose of the Love of the Ancestors and she decided not to kill him. Just shot him in the arm and he ran away. Lolly isn’t a killer and killing someone would fuck her up. I think your boy Artie is that sensitive too, right?”
“He is. He’s never killed anymore and he’s a terrible shot,” I say. “Luckily his girlfriend’s pretty tough. She’s a great girl, Georgia, and made of steel. From Wyoming. She killed someone a few years ago. A Mormon Tea manufacturer who was raping a friend of hers. She didn’t think twice about popping a cap in the rapist’s head.”
“Good,” says Earl. “Well, still stay close, Peter. She may be tough but she needs the Light of GGATI like everyone else.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I say.
“We do more than we think,” Earl says.
“Hey, another set’s coming in,” he continues. “I promise not to cut you off.”
“You’d better not,” I say, and off we fly toward The Great Red Spot.

 

Step Zero by Stu Jenks (Pages 10-21)

Step Zero by Stu Jenks (Pages 10-21)

[Pages from the uncorrected proof. To purchase the limited illustrated hardbound edition of this novel go to The Stu Store at Squareup.com. To purchase the non-illustrated ebook, go to those places where ebooks are sold. Thanks, guys.]

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Saturday, February 15th, 2076: 8:07 p.m.
Downtown Alano Club Annex
Tucson, Arizona

“My name is Artie, and I’m an addict and an alcoholic,” I say.
“Hi, Artie,” say all the addicts in unison.
“I had two years yesterday.”
Lots of whooping and applauding. I rise from my chair and walk across the room to Michael, who is handing out the chips tonight. Michael hands me my two-year medallion. We hug.
“Love you, brother,” whispers Michael into my ear.
“Me too,” I say.
“Anybody else celebrating multiple years of sobriety tonight?” asks Michael.
He gave out two one-month chips tonight, a six-month and a few newcomer chips. I am the only birthday.
“Well, give yourself a hand for staying clean and sober today.”
The room of twenty plus addicts clap.
Michael puts the chip box down on the front table and walks back to his seat.
“Welcome to the Sunset meeting of Mormon Tea Anonymous,” says Roy, who is leading the meeting tonight. ”We are glad that you are all here.”
He reads from the preamble of Mormon Tea Anonymous. Roy is a short, stocky man in his 30’s. A man you’d like to have beside you in a fight, that’s for sure, yet he has a broad smile and a spiritual glow about him. I was introduced to him at my first M.T.A. meeting. He gave me hope then and still does now. I know his story. It ain’t pretty, but he’s a different man from the one he describes when he shares about his life before he got sober.
“Mormon Tea Anonymous is a fellowship of men, women and children who share their experience, strength and hope with each other that they may solve their common problem and become free of Mormon Tea addiction,” reads Roy. “The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop using Mormon Tea and all other mind-altering substances including alcohol, and marijuana.”
I look around the room. I see people I’ve known for two years. New faces, too. Some I like. Some I can barely stand, but all I love. Even that guy over there who I’ve never seen before. I love him, too.
“M.T.A. is not allied with any sect, denomination, politic group, religion, faction, gang or government,” Roy says. “We are self-supporting by our own contributions. Our primary purpose is to stay free of Mormon Tea and all other mind-altering substances and to help others to achieve the same freedom.”
Roy reads the Twelve Steps and some other stuff but I barely hear him. I’m lost in my thoughts, thinking about Michael, Craig, and Georgia and of just how grateful I am right now. I don’t often feel happy with my lot in life, but I do tonight.
“Fifteen minutes before the end of the meeting, we’ll pass the basket,” says Roy. “Does anybody have a topic or a question regarding the program of recovery?”
A moment of silence follows.
“My name is Bob, and I’m an addict.”
“Hey, Bob,” says everyone.
“This is only my third meeting. I haven’t used Tea now for nine days.”
A smattering of applause. “Right on,” someone says.
“I really don’t know what’s wrong with me,” says Bob. “I was happier when I was using Brigham. Okay, maybe not. Fuck.” He pauses. He seems a little lost. That’s OK.
“One moment I’m happy,” he says, “the next I want to take the head off the guy next to me.” He shakes his head. “No offense,” he adds, turning to the man seated next to him.
The man smiles and shrugs, with a look of “I don’t care.”
“I’m all over the fucking place,” continues Bob. “I feel crazier now than when I was smoking Tea every day, all day. Fuck. Anyway, I don’t know if there’s a topic in that, but I just feel nuts. I don’t want to use again,” he pauses. “But I’m afraid I will. I’m really afraid I’ll smoke Brigham again. I stopped nine days ago because I hit my little boy, and I’ve never hit my son before. Never. Fuck me.”
Bob puts his head in his hands. He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. None of us do. When you’re sharing, no one interrupts you. We give our full attention. We listen. What a gift we give to each other. You are heard and no one stops you from talking. Unless you go on for too long, but we members of Tucson M.T.A. will let you go on for at least five minutes or more before we kindly ask you to wrap it up. Bob lifts his head. His eyes are misty.
“I don’t know. I’ve got a sponsor,” he says. “Craig over there. We’re working the Second Step. I just wonder if I’m going crazy or something. Am I doing something wrong? Christ. Thanks for listening. That’s all I got.”
“Thanks, Bob,” say a few people.
“My name is Craig and I’m an addict.”
“Hi, Craig.”
Craig is my sponsor, too. What a great guy.
 “I felt the same way when I quit Brigham five years ago. Tea kicked my ass,” says Craig. “At first when I smoked Brigham, everything was great. I didn’t dream about skulls in the desert anymore. I didn’t feel scared. I didn’t feel anything. It was great. Then, it turned on me. I went from feeling ten-foot-tall and bulletproof, to being paranoid that my girlfriend Peggy was plotting to turn me in to the Feds. And I wasn’t even doing anything that illegal.”
Laughter.
“Ok, Mormon Tea is illegal but I wasn’t making it. I wasn’t killing or robbing the rich people. I was just a Tea head. But I started to hear voices that weren’t there, and anyway, you know the drill. Stealing from my friends, not wanting to work, just staying home with my little Flex-TV. Then Peggy threatened to leave me if I didn’t get a job and stop smoking Brigham. So, I left her before she could leave me.”
More laughter.
“Then I did get a job, running with those boys in Santa Rosa. Things got really bad, fast.”
He doesn’t have to name the boys in Santa Rosa. We all know.
“A year later I quit. On day two I went looking for Peggy but she was gone. Took the train east. And it was great, being clean, for about three days.”
Chuckles.
“I felt like I was crazier than bat shit for about a month,” says Craig. “Then it got better. I got a sponsor and began to work the Steps with him. And I got lots of Flex-phone numbers of guys in the Program. It slowly got better. I slowly got better, with the help of God Goddess All There Is and from you guys.”
“Now I know this is technically cross-talk,” continues Craig, turning in his chair to look at Bob, “but I think it’s great that you’re here and you’re working the Second Step. You really want this. I can tell. That’s great, man.”
Craig turns and looks at me.
“And congratulations, Artie. Fan-fucking-tastic. Two years. I’m so happy for you.”
I smile and nod toward him.
“Anyway, if you are new, keep coming back. We are all here to help. Thanks for letting me share.”
“Thanks, Craig,” says the group.

An hour later, Craig, Michael and I are heading for New Chicks, the coffee shop where Georgia works. Georgia’s pulling espresso tonight. I wave to her as we walk in. She blows me a kiss.
“What do you want? I’m buying,” says Craig.
“Just a big ass coffee with cream,” I say.
“Michael, you want anything?” asks Craig.
“I’m good,” says Michael. “Thanks, though.”
Craig walks to the counter to order, leaving Michael and me alone at a small table.
“Have you told him about your trip to San Francisco?” asks Michael.
“Not yet.”
“Going to have to tell him sometime. Or not.” He laughs.
“I’ll tell him in a couple days,” I say. “We aren’t catching the train for another two weeks.”
“Well, he is one of your sponsors,” says Michael. “Then again, sponsors are the last to know anything.”
We both laugh.
“How’s it going with that newcomer who asked you to sponsor him last week?” Michael asks.
“Haven’t heard from him since he took my Flex-phone number.”
“Yeah,” says Michael. “Big gap between the sponsees I have on the books and the ones who actually call. Just the way it is.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. Neither of us laugh at this hard truth.
Craig returns with my coffee with cream. He bought himself what looks like a Big Legged Chick, espresso with synth mocha. Bet he got an extra shot, too. Craig does like his caffeine.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” says Craig.
“So what Step are you on, Artie?” asks Craig.
We laugh. He knows damn well what I’ve done in my recovery. I worked Steps One through Eight in my first two months clean. Been doing Ten, Eleven and Twelve every day since, and working Step Nine as best I can, making right the wrongs I’ve done, and I’m doing a lot of living amends for the good number of people I have no idea how to find. Craig’s mostly busting my chops and perhaps making a little fun of Bill, my A.A. sponsor who seems to always ask that question.
“I’m working Step Fuck You,” I say to Craig.
Craig laughs so hard I think I see mocha coming out his nose. He wipes his face with a brown paper napkin he gets from the dispenser on the table.
“Artie, seriously,” he says, “I’m really happy for you. You’ve been clean two years. You and Georgia seem to be going great, unless you aren’t telling me something.”
“We’re thick as thieves,” I say. “And I’m always not telling you something.”
“I know,” laughs Craig. “Just pulling your chain. But you are living a great life now, Artie. You have a good job at The Instrument Shop. You’re playing real good. You’re writing some nice songs too, man. You aren’t the same person I met two years ago.”
 “Thanks, bro,” I say.
“But...,” Craig trails off.
“What?” I say.
“Mind if I ask you a personal question with Michael here?” he asks.
“No. Shoot,” I say. I love Craig. He has such good boundaries about this sponsor thing. Bill, my A.A. sponsor? Not so much.
“Well, I just have a feeling you really aren’t telling me something. Something kind of important.”
This time Michael laughs.
“Fuck,” I say under my breath, looking down.
“I’m not trying to put you on the spot...,” says Craig.
“He was going to tell you in a couple of days,” says Michael.
“Tell me what?” asks Craig.
“Georgia and I are taking the train to San Francisco in a couple weeks to visit my grandmother,” I say.
Craig looks down at the table. Thoughtful, not mad, that I kept this from him. He takes a long sip off his Big Legged Chick.
“Have you told your mother yet?” asks Craig.
“Tomorrow,” I say.
“Good,” says Craig.

 

Peter Saum, Jr.
Monday, February 17th, 2076: 3:11 a.m.
Across from New Chicks Coffee Shop
Downtown Tucson, Arizona

I love Tucson at this time of night. Always have.
It’s great to see how the world has come back since the hell of the 2060s. Tucson is the same, but different. Sure, the old Unisource office building sits vacant and dark but Tucson City Hall, the two Pima County government buildings and the new Kino Federal Building glow bright with lights in their windows even at this early hour. The government is busy all the time.
New Chicks is closed, but it’ll be open again in a few hours. I sit on the curb (or what we angel ghosts call sitting) and gaze toward the Kino Federal Building. My family and a lot of others would have been dead long before now if it wasn’t for the U.S. government. Thank you, Sasha.

President Sasha Obama Fulbright, the 54th President of the United States and the daughter of the 44th, inspires Americans even more than her father Barack. Sasha is one of the great problem solvers of her time. In those first weeks after the bombings, rather than continue the initial attempt at martial law, she asked gun owners to contact local law enforcements and see how they could help. The Feds hired many of them to be Deputy U.S. Marshals. She engaged people to work together. And she has stayed involved. Sasha chats to America every week on the Flex-TV.
“America will never be what it was before the Seven Sisters. We all know that,” she said in one address, years ago. “We who have survived are struck with profound grief from the deaths of our families and friends, and we are fueled with rage to avenge their murders and senseless deaths. You have my permission to seek revenge, but it won’t make you feel any better. What will heal you, what will heal us, is to help one another, not kill each other. We need to build a new nation. Smaller, poorer, yes, but perhaps happier and closer to God Goddess All There Is. And closer to each other.”
Sasha helped a lot. We’re lucky to have her.
So in the late 2060s, America went to work. With caution, yes, but with a great deal of faith and hope as well.
Food, water, power and some degree of public safety were the first priorities of the Fulbright Administration. President Fulbright asked for things and she got them. The Congress was one of liberal Democrats and moderate Republicans, so they passed all the laws Sasha asked for.
Trains brought emergency food to those who survived. The interstate system of roads was destroyed during the horrors of the 41 Nights, but we still had the trains. All public works, water and sewer were nationalized. Money and time was spent to get the water flowing in the cities and towns and to help rural communities drill wells. Septic tanks came back and sewers were renovated. We didn’t have much oil but we had coal, wood, cement, and Flex technology. You can do a lot with just wood, coal, Flex tech, cement and trains to carry them. And America did.
Ownerships of the large deposits of coal in the West and in Appalachia were kept privately owned, as were most large corporations. Sasha made a deal with them.
“You can keep your companies, dig your coal, make your computers and cars,” President Fulbright told a meeting with the captains of industry in July of 2063. “Provide phone service, make electricity, produce food, and you all can make a good deal of money. You will be regulated but not strictly.”
The captains smiled at that.
I was there. Hundreds of angel ghosts hovered above Camp David that summer. 
 “Here’s the deal,” the President continued. “We are going to tax the living shit out of you. That’s just the way it’s going to be. The rich and powerful will pay their fair share again. Frankly, you will pay more than your fair share. Most Americans have nothing but their faith, their courage and their friends and families. They have no money, nor will they have any real wealth for a very long time. But you do. You own the factories, the natural resources, the farms. So, you may ask, what do you get in return? Well, you get your freedom and you get your stuff. You can build your houses high in the hills and have your own militia to guard you. The U.S. Government isn’t going to protect your crap.”
“My U.S. Marshals will be protecting the poor and middle class people of America. You, my rich friends, are on your own,” she said. “I won’t meddle in your personal affairs, however cruel, depraved, and kinky they are. I need your goods, your food, your coal, and your phones, and I need your wealth to pay for it. And here’s the kicker.”
Sasha smiled. I remember that smile, that day, like it was yesterday.
”You either agree to this right now,” she said, “or I nationalize your phone factories, your coal fields, your power companies, your food processing centers, your factory farms, your salvage yards and I then make you lie down with the common folk. I’m not asking you, sirs and ma’ams. I’m telling you. Congress will introduce a new tax bill next week. I’ll sign it the week after. Prepare to open your wallets, ladies and gentlemen. Open them wide.”
“Oh, Bob?” Sasha said, looking over at Bob Walker, the president of Blue Cross & Blue Shield. “You’re done. All healthcare will be national healthcare in a couple of months. We are bringing back Medicare. Sorry, Bob.”
Bob shook his head in disgust. He began to speak but the President cut him off with a hand. Sasha didn’t suffer fools well. She still doesn’t.
“Mr. Walker, I don’t need any shit from you today,” she said. “I could ask the Bank of England to freeze your personal fucking assets right now, so don’t you shake your head at me! The King of England and I are friends, don’t you know.”
Walker looked down and didn’t say another word. He knew he was rich and could fly himself and his family anywhere he wanted, and that’s just what Bob Walker did a month later.
What a great summer of ’63 it was. I fell in love with Sasha Fulbright that year. And she says the word ‘fuck’ better than me.
A new amendment was made to the U.S. Constitution to repeal the 22nd Amendment so Sasha could run for a third term in 2064. She ran a fourth in 2068, then a fifth in 2072. President Sasha Obama Fulbright is 75 years old now. She has hinted she won’t run for a sixth term. Vice President Florence Biden has made sounds she may run. We don’t know yet.
President Fulbright has no children. No husband. He died. I suppose Americans have been her children, and her lover too. No, that’s not entirely true. I forgot about Bill Wilson.
In her twenty years as President, the United States has gone from a country of starving, hopeless, and sick people, to a nation of survivors, with humble hopes for their children, food on their tables, and with good work to do. Americans are healing from their mental and physical wounds with a renewed spirituality and a greater resilience.
On the small fenders of bicycles and scooters to the backs of big coal trains, bumper stickers read Sasha’s favorite two words:
Be Nice.
I look down Stone Avenue. A horse-drawn wagon and a Flex-truck or two bring produce in from Benson and Vail, and milk and cheese in from Camp Lowell. Dawn is just a few hours away. I see the lights on at Mo’s Bakery just down Pennington Street.
I smile.
Life is good. I feel pretty OK in my own skin tonight. I chuckle. Skin. I wish I had skin.
There are only a few cars on the streets of Tucson. The streets themselves are a patchwork of old asphalt and new concrete. A bumpy ride for an old 20th century automobile, but not for the new Flex-cars and -scooters with their big tires and tiny bodies. Bicycles are the most popular form of transportation in Tucson, and the horse and wagon has made a comeback, what with all the horse country surrounding downtown now.
Downtown is the core of my city, with Miracle Mile to the north, Ajo Road to the south, Barrio Anita to the west and the Sam Hughes neighborhood to the east. The University of Arizona is mostly vacant. A small college of agriculture and another college of arts, crafts and music have reopened at the U of A in the past couple years. Towns and cities all over America have shrunk, with the new centers of town being the railroad stations. Everything revolves around the trains. Tucson is no different. The old warehouses that used to rent to me and other artists 50 years ago are true warehouses again, housing food, supplies, coal, goods, clothing, and everything you might want to buy from California, Texas, Wyoming, Louisiana, and Florida. Most of the high rises are vacant, but any building within a mile of downtown that is one story tall and has windows that can open is good property.
Home ownership and renting are cheap. Everything else is pretty expensive. Electricity, Flex stuff. Some goods and services are subsidized by the Federal Government, but real estate is ridiculously inexpensive. It’s supply and demand. There are thousands of homes throughout the Tucson valley that are empty, many used now as scavengers’ treasure troves. If you need a few studs to repair your house in Armory Park, just take your Flex-truck up the road to the suburbs up north. Pick up an old toilet if you need one too, while you’re there. You can buy a house downtown for a year’s wages and homes in the suburbs are free to squatters, though few live out there. Working water lines don’t go out that far. And it’s still a little scary after dark outside of downtown.
It’s safe downtown because most of the populace are now armed with handguns and the U.S. Marshals are loved and respected due to their heroism and fairness in the last few years. Yes, there are still bad people, really bad people, both in and out of town, but most have moved out to the desert, living in houses with solar panels and rain tanks or huge mansions with deep wells bought with drug money.
There are hardly any dogs anymore, most eaten during or after the 41 Nights, but cats are still around.
Damn cats. Can’t live with them. Can’t live without them.
And the U.S. Marshals? Goddess, I love them. All Tucsonans do, man, woman, child, and angel ghost.
 Why, I do believe that’s Marshal Magdalena Gutierrez walking toward Mo’s Bakery right now. I bet she’s getting some scones before her shift.
God, I wish I could smell. I used to love the smell of fresh baked goods. And I haven’t smelled the coal exhaust of a train since I worked at Tweetsie Railroad in North Carolina in the 1980s. Wish I could smell these new coal-fueled trains. Price I pay for being an angel ghost. No big deal. We’re allowed so much from God Goddess All There Is. It’s a wonderful thing.
I think of Trey. I feel sad but not like the other night. Maybe someone’s shining some Light on me this morning.
Mags walks into the bakery. Mo’s wife, Josephine, is at the counter. The two women hug. God bless you, Marshal, Mo, and Josephine. May GGATI’s Light shine on you today, as you protect and feed Tucson. And may Light resonate in your hearts, healing you and your’n, letting you forever know you are never alone.
Never.
I raise my eyes to the night sky and gaze upon a sea of stars. I see no moon but I can sure see the Milky Way. I drop my head and look around. Here and there, I see the movements of a few angel ghosts floating near the Kino Federal Building and drifting above this corner of Pennington and Stone. Three angel ghost friends sit on the curb in front of New Chicks.
I’m not alone.
None of us are.

 

 

Step Zero by Stu Jenks (Pages 1-9)

Step Zero by Stu Jenks (Pages 1-9)

[Pages from the uncorrected proof. To purchase the limited edition hardbound edition of this novel go to The Stu Store at Squareup.com. To purchase the ebook, go to those places where ebooks are sold.]

 

 

Captain Peter Carlyle “Trey” Saum III
Tuesday, January 6th, 2060: 6:14 p.m.
Second Marine Division, US Expeditionary Forces
Ghawar Oil Fields, Saudi Arabia

 

“Hey, Trey, you coming to the poker game?”
“No,” I say. “I’m going to stay here and catch up on my mail.”
“Suit yourself,” says Captain Singletary. Singletary walks out of my tent. Good man, Single.
I look down at a photograph of Martha, Arthur and me. Nice black and white one. I prefer black and white pictures. Don’t care for the 3-Ds most of my troops carry around. Probably has something to do with my damned dad. He liked black and whites too.
Martha’s so beautiful, and look at Arthur. Look at that smile, tooth missing in the front. I smile. I’m so ready to rotate out of this fucking sand box, but I don’t know. I hear they are thinking of extending the Second Division’s tour another six months. Assholes.
I see a flash of light on the back wall of the tent. What the hell is that? I turn to look out and I’m blinded. I feel hot. I look back to the photo in my hands, but I can’t see it. It feels like the picture’s burning. I don’t understand.
Then I do.
Shit.
I’ve been afraid of this.
I love you Arthur.
I love you Martha.
I love y’all.

 

Peter Saum, Jr.
Friday, Valentine’s Day, 2076: 11:11 p.m.
Near Artie and Georgia’s House
Armory Park Neighborhood
Tucson, Arizona

My name is Peter Saum. I’m an angel. Or a ghost. An angel ghost. It’s hard to explain.
Anyway, I’m dead. Died on the day after Christmas, 2030. I was 76.
Now being an angel ghost has its limitations. I can’t really do anything more than observe and send some of the Love of the Ancestors to my descendants. And of course, I can always shine the Light of God Goddess All There Is on anyone I please. We angel ghosts are kind of like magnifying glasses when it comes to the Light of GGATI. But mostly we just watch and send love to people.
We don’t have to stay angels. We can, at any time, be born again as humans. We choose to be angels and we choose to be humans. We mostly stay angels to help out our family and friends. They taught us in Angel School that the Love and Light we shine on people has a very powerful effect, though it’s hard for us to see at times.
There are two other choices as well. We can travel the universes and visit other peoples or we can simply go to The Great Big Sea. I’ve done my share of traveling but I’ve rarely considered The GBS, even though billions have gone there before me.
I’ve stayed an angel ghost for these 45 years because I was a shitty dad to my son, Trey, and I think if I’m good to my grandson Artie I’ll eventually find forgiveness for what I did and didn’t do with Trey.
I look over at Artie and his girlfriend Georgia’s house. All the lights are out. A lone calico cat with a crooked tail stares at me from the porch of the house.
I just checked on Artie and Georgia a few minutes ago. They were asleep, feet entwined, bodies spooning. Artie on the outside, Georgia on the inside of the spoon. My guess is they had sex before I arrived. I don’t watch that, of course, but I know that they have wonderful, powerful sex from what they tell their friends. A lot of people have great sex now. One of the good changes in the world in 2076.
I didn’t stay long tonight. Just a brief look. They were so damned cute.
Artie’s thinking about something. Something big. I don’t know exactly what, but I have this feeling that something’s going to happen. I’m going to spend a little more time with my grandson in the coming days and weeks. He might need an extra bit of Love and Light.
I can’t read thoughts. No angel ghost can. God Goddess All There Is can. Listening is what He She It does. Does a good job of it, too. I can’t predict the future or travel to the past, but I can be anywhere I want in the present.
The calico jumps off Artie’s front porch and runs up to me.
“Meeeoow!” she yells.
“Hey, Cat,” I say.
I’m invisible to everyone except cats. Cats love and hate us angel ghosts. They’re cats. I forget what Georgia’s cat’s name is. I just call her ‘Cat.’ She always gives me that Robert Di Niro, Taxi Driver, “You talkin’ to me?” look.
“What?” I say to Cat.
“Meow,” she says.
“Yeah, Meow,” I say.

I miss my Trey tonight.

Everything changed on January 6th, 2060, Epiphany in the Christian calendar.
The United States and the European Union had been occupying most of the Middle East since 2054. They called it “The Oil Wars” but very little fighting had occurred in five years. Sure, the Saudi Royal Family’s mass assassinations started the whole thing, but after that it was just a couple hundred thousand troops from the West, stationed around oil reserves, insuring the continued flow of crude to Europe and to the U.S.A.
On January 6th at 6:16 p.m. Riyadh time, 10:16 a.m, Tucson time, a nuclear device was detonated in the Ghawar oil fields on the Arabian Peninsula. Two minutes later another bomb ignited in the Ahwaz fields in Iran. Five minutes after that, a bomb in Kirkuk, Iraq. Then bomb four in Zakum, United Arab Emirates, bomb five in Fahud, Omar, bomb six in Dukhan, Qatar. And the last bomb, bomb number seven, in Burgan oil complex in Kuwait.
All seven bombs detonated within a period of fifteen minutes.
In those few minutes most of the world’s oil reserves were irradiated, and much of the Arab world became a plane of glass.
The seven bombs—called the Seven Sisters by the European Muslim extremists who took credit for the bombings—were not large nuclear devices. They were old Soviet Union bombs that had been found a few years before in an underground bunker in Uzbekistan. All seven were the size of foot lockers.
The blast radii of the bombs were relatively small. It was the radiation that killed the oil. And the people.
An estimated 50,000 people died the first day. Millions in the coming weeks. Billions after that.
All of America and much of the world stayed close to their TVs for days after the Epiphany Bombings, hungry for news of just how bad it was. Most Americans didn’t go to work for a week.
The price of crude oil jumped from USD $200 per barrel to USD $500 a barrel in a day and never looked back. Price at the pump went from $12.00 a gallon on January 5th, 2060, the day before the Epiphany Bombings, to over $5,000 for a gallon of gasoline in the summer of 2060.
The New York Stock Exchange and the NASDAQ closed for three days, reopened, and lost 50% of their value in the next five days. They never recovered.
The price of food skyrocketed. Most food in America was produced with the help of tractors and other machinery and shipped by trucks. By the time the U.S. Congress voted in price controls it was already too late.
By Christmas of 2060 the world economy had been completely leveled.
The television news kept us in touch with the world outside Tucson. After the first six months many people just stopped watching TV altogether, while others never left the house, perpetually glued to the tube.
Attendance at churches grew. Drinking and drug use increased. Robberies and thefts escalated. Many died from malnutrition, both in the U.S. and worldwide. More died of suicide, murder, and drug and alcohol overdoses.
By the summer of 2061 everyone was hungry. An estimated three billion people had died worldwide. Many didn’t think it could get worse.
Then it did.
On the night of August 15th, 2061, the U.S. power grid failed.
All analog electric clocks in America read 8:20 for the next forty-one days and nights. Digital clocks went blank, along with everything else.
The lights came back on in Tucson at 11:17 a.m., September 26th, 2061.
Many didn’t even notice the power was back on.
Most of the country died in those forty-one days and nights. Americans didn’t do well without lights, TV or power.
The population of the United States went from 440 million at the start of 2060 to under 55 million by the end of 2061, roughly the same as it was in 1880. World population dropped to under a billion.
We angel ghosts saw it all, everything that happened during the 41 Nights. We don’t like to talk about it. No one does, human or angel ghost.
I’m just grateful that Artie, Georgia, Martha, and Char survived.
Trey didn’t. Trey died on the first day.
Artie was seven years old when his daddy died. He was living with his mother Martha here in Tucson when the world changed.
I haven’t seen Trey over here on my side of things at all. Maybe he went right back to being a human after he died, or maybe he’s a drop in The Great Big Sea. I don’t know. I would love to talk with him or see who he is today. I would love to feel some forgiveness. I know it’s supposed to come from within and all that, and I know God Goddess All There Is loves me no matter what, but I still feel so much shame and guilt.
Though I’m an angel ghost, it doesn’t mean I don’t feel shitty from time to time. A lot of the time.
I feel pretty crappy right now.
I know my son’s dying wasn’t my fault, but what I did or didn’t do before his death and before mine is my responsibility. It is my fault.
I wish I could tell him how sorry I am. I wish I could make it right between us, but I can’t. He’s dead. Traveling or reborn or swimming. Maybe I can partially make it right by being here for my grandson, Artie, and for his family, for his loved ones, for his friends. It’s all I can think to do.
I could really use a good cry. I cried easily while I lived. Not now. Angel ghosts can’t cry. Not much anyway. When we cry it’s always a surprise.
Guess I’ll have to go back to being human in order to get the gift of tears on a regular basis.
I look down at my feet and Cat’s still there, rubbing up against my ghost leg.
“Hey, Cat,” I say.
“Meow,” she says.
I hear the front door of Artie’s house creak open. Out walks my grandson, ukelele in hand. He has a hard time sleeping. He sits on the three steps that lead to the front sidewalk. He tunes his uke and begins to sing. I know this song. A song of war from when I was alive.
“Well I recall his parting words,” he sings softly. “Must I accept his fate or take myself far from this place? I thought I heard a black bell toll. A little bird did sing. Man has no choice when he wants everything.”
“We'll rise above the scarlet tide,” he sings, “that trickles down through the mountain, and separates the widow from the bride.”
A glow begins where my heart used to beat. Where God Goddess All There Is comes through me. I don’t need to send Love and Light. It just happens.
“Man goes beyond his own decision,” Artie sings. “Gets caught up in the mechanism of swindlers who act like kings, and brokers who break everything. The dark of night was swiftly fading, close to the dawn of day. Why would I want him just to lose him again?”
I sing the chorus with Artie this time, harmonizing with his lovely voice. He doesn’t hear me but I hear him.
“We'll rise above the scarlet tide,” we both sing, “that trickles down through the mountain, and separates the widow from the bride. We’ll rise above the scarlet tide, that trickles down through the mountain, and separates the widow from the bride.”
Cat rubs my leg again.
“Meow,” I say to her.
She doesn’t meow. Just rubs my leg again.

"Day 28 of The 41 Nights"

(The first pages of my novel, Air & Gravity. Also available as an e-book. Text and images (c) 2016 Stu Jenks.

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Sunday, September 11th, 2061, 11:07 a.m.
Day 28 of The 41 Nights
St. Thomas Episcopal Church
Downtown Tucson, Arizona

“All creatures of our God and King,” sings the congregation. No organist. She’s gone. No choir up behind the altar. They are down among us now. Father Steve’s singing in front of the altar. At least he hasn’t run away.

“Lift up your voice and with us sing, Alleluia, alleluia. Thou rising moon in praise rejoice. Ye lights of evening find a voice. Alleluia. Alleluia.”

The power went out three weeks ago, and now Mom doesn’t speak. At all. I wish Dad were here but he died last year at the start of all this crap. I’m thirsty, hungry and scared. Good news is I haven’t been to school in a while. I hate Mr. Kelly, my sixth-grade teacher. What a jerk.

Nice line in that hymn about evening lights finding voice. Too bad it’s not true anymore. There are no lights in the evening, save for the bonfires and the burning buildings. And most of the voices I hear now are screams. Horrible screams.

We stayed in our house the first few days after the electricity died, but left two days ago because we ran out of food, drank up all the water in the tub, and the gunfire just never stopped. Never stopped. Just got worse. And more bodies on the sidewalk and in the street in front of our house and more screaming. I wish I were a better shot, but I’m not. I have to protect Mom somehow. Nobody else will do it. I feel for my dad’s .45 revolver in my belt. I look over at my mother sitting next to me in the pew. Her lips are moving but no sounds come out. Mouthing the words. Mouthing something. Thank God, we’re at St. Thomas’ now and with Father Steve and the congregation of what? 20, 25 people? Just old men and women, a few gay guys and three families like Mom and I.

I don’t think we’ll starve but we may die. No. We will die and soon.

But I’m not going to let anyone hurt my Mom. I simply wish she’d start talking again. I used to hate her voice. Now I need her voice.

“Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!” we sing. “Alleluia, alleluia. Thou rushing wind that art so strong. Ye clouds that sail in Heaven along. Alleluia, alleluia.”

I hold my mother’s hand. I squeeze it. I get nothing back. She doesn’t look at me, but I still hold her hand.

Will the rushing wind takes us up to Heaven, Mom? Eventually but not quite yet. I’m not going down without a fight.

"Un Dios Feliz"

“Un Dios Feliz”
Tombstone, Arizona
Fall, 1889, Summer, 2007 & Winter, 2016 (c) Stu Jenks.

(From my e-book, The Transpersonal Papers)

Stony walked out of the whorehouse dissatisfied. He figured that might happen, but he went anyway. It’s just a little before midnight, and tomorrow is his 26th birthday. It’s been a good week at his claim. Good six months, actually. Anyway, he felt like giving himself a present and that present was Crystal. But while he was thrusting into her from behind, watching her breasts sway, he had a passing thought of Henrietta back home. He came quickly, gave Crystal a kiss on the cheek and paid her double her usual rate. Seemed rude that he had thought of Henrietta when he was inside of her. Crystal smiled and kissed him on the neck and told him to come back any time. She pinched him on the ass as he walked out the door.

He’d left Henrietta a year ago in the Valley of Virginia. She still lives with her widowed mother on those fifty-two acres they pretend is a farm. Singing in the church choir every Sunday, so said her letters. Wishing he would call for her, to board that train to Tucson, she written twice already. It just wasn’t time yet, he wrote back.

Henri turned every man’s head on the Saumsville Road when she took the wagon to town. The prettiest girl in the county. Top three at least. Bright smile and full lips, long blond hair the color of straw, cheeks like red apples, a body thin yet strong like a fence rail. The night before he left for Arizona he promised her that if he struck it rich, he’d send for her. They kissed each other long and hard on her front porch, their hands all over each other’s bodies, as if by touching everything, they would forget nothing. He’s made some good money now, but he hasn’t built a house yet. He needs to have that house built before he calls for her.

The muddy street’s filled with cowboys and miners, going from hotel to saloon, spending their week’s earnings on whores, poker and whiskey. The Full Moon’s almost directly overheard. He stops in the street and gazes up at the Moon, thinking about Henri and thinking all he really wants in the world, right now, was a hot bath. He turns and as he’s walking across the street toward the Chinese bathhouse, he hears his name called.

“Stony! Hey, Stony!”

He turns. It’s Merle Johnson. The luckiest, stupidest man in town. He’s also his best friend.

“Hey, Merle. How are you doing this evening?”

“Mighty fine. Hey, are you going to the The Grand tonight, to play cards?” Merle seems a bit agitated.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” says Stony.

Merle looks a little disappointed, then bites his lower lip. He does that when he’s thinking hard. What’s the big deal? He usually only goes to The Grand a couple times a week at most, not every night.

“Can I find someway to persuade you to come play poker with me tonight?” Merle asks.

“Merle, what going on?”

“Hell, Stony. Just come over to fucking Grand tonight, OK?”

“Just tell me what the fuck is going on. I need to get a bath and then I was thinking of turning in. Unless you got something special planned, I think I’ll pass.”

Merle bit his lower lip again, then smiled to himself and shook his head.

“Just like you, Stony, to spoil the fucking surprise. A bunch of us are waiting for you over there. Tomorrow is your fucking birthday, as if you didn’t know, and we thought we’d throw you a little surprise party. Both Bobbys are there, young Bobby Christiansen and old Bobby Lopez! Mexican Bobby came all the way from Fronteras, Stony, to celebrate your goddamn birthday.”

“Bobby Lopez is here in Tombstone?”

“Do I fucking lisp? Yes, Bobby Lopez is here. And Charlie McLean left his claim in Charleston for the night, to raise a drink to you, too.”

Stony’s mouth dropped open.

“Charlie came to town?” Charlie only came to town when he is down to his last pound of flour and his last jug of shine.
“Yes, yes, yes, you dumb cocksucker. Charlie’s here and Harry Wood has even closed up shop at the newspaper to see your birthday come in, and he’s brought Millie Benjamin with him too. And Karl Eisenfelder and his wife are there as well. God damn it, Stony! We’ve been waiting a fucking hour for you to come out of Madame Clarice’s.”

Merle bites his lip again.

“I suppose we could invite Crystal, couldn’t we? She is a whore but I don’t that hold against her, and I know you like her a lot,” says Merle.

Stony stood dead still in the middle of the thoroughfare. He looked at the bathhouse. He looked at the whorehouse. He looks down the street toward The Grand Hotel. Bobby Lopez stood on the front stoop of the hotel, his arms crossed, his sombrero silhouetted against the golden light coming from the hotel bar. Stony felt his eyes mist up. He smiled. I’ll be God damned. Bobby’s here.
He started walking toward the hotel when he heard a clap of thunder. Little late in the year for a monsoon. Then he stopped walking. He felt short of breath, and oddly warm and wet. He grabbed Merle’s shoulder to steady himself. He then looked down and saw the large red hole that was his stomach. He collapsed in the mud.

Next to the last thing he saw were the tears in Merle and Bobby’s eyes, as they looked down at him in the muddy thoroughfare. The Full Moon shone above their heads.

Then he saw a beautiful ball of purple light being born out of the Moon. The purple ball seemed to come down Fremont Street and surround him, engulf him in its light. He no longer saw Merle or Bobby’s faces. He no longer saw anything or anyone. He felt just fine. Fine for the first time in a long time. Then, suddenly, he was above Tombstone, flying in the night sky, heading fast and true, due east, toward the Valley of Virginia.

 

"Right Mitten In Snow Fog"

"Right Mitten In Snow Fog, Monument Valley, Arizona/Utah Border" (c) 2016 Stu Jenks.

Fezziwig Press News: The first draft of the final book of the Step Zero series, God Goddess All There Is, was completed last night. Editing, proofing, production to come. We are pushing for a July 2016 release date.

I have some ideas for a new music album. Nothing recorded yet. Just playing and thinking. Mostly playing.

And a piece of mine has been selected in next month's Tohono Chul In Full Bloom show and I'm greatly honored to have been invited to be part of the Tucson Museum of Art's Into The Night show. In Full Bloom opens on February 19th, Into The Night opens on February 26th.

The image above was taken on a rare dawn when the basin of Monument Valley was completed shrouded in fog. Rare for me at least. Probably not rare to the Navajos who live there. And it was that purple that morning.

And as always, all images on this blog are for sale, either as fine art prints or as files for image rights. Just contact me at [email protected] for prices.

That's all for now. Thanks everyone for your continuing support.

Stay warm and give love. Stu.

 

Balthazar And Zeeba is for sale now. A great read for the holidays.

Balthazar and Zeeba: A Christmas Novella is now for sale in all three formats; hardbound book, e-book and audiobook. It's an all-ages book. No sex or profanity. Most kids and parents will be fine with it. It's a Christmas book, don't you know. The story is set in the Step Zero world, but it is a stand-alone book, namely you need not have read any of the other Step Zero books to enjoy this one. A book you can enjoy year round as well as during Yuletide.

If you want to order the book-book, you can go to the Fezziwig Press store and order it that way, If you are in the Tucson area, you can always come by my studio and buy the book directly from me there. And copies are available for sale at Tucson Touch Therapies at Pima and Country Club.

Balthazar and Zeeba is available as an ebook, and as a three-hour audiobook too. The e-book is available at the Apple iBooks store, at the Barnes and Noble Nook store, and at the Amazon Kindle store. The audiobook is available at Amazon, on iTunes, and at CDBaby.You can listen to samples of the audiobooks on these sites before you buy. (Prices vary. CDBaby is the cheapest, Amazon and Apple the most expensive.) I had a blast recording the audiobook. It's not often I get to mimic an Eastern North Carolina accent.

So push those buttons, type those words and we'll get Balthazar and Zeeba: A Christmas Novella the hardbound book to you in a couple of days. And you can buy the e-book and the audiobook immediately online where ever those products are sold. And thanks again for supporting Fezziwig Press.

Love, light, and luck,

Stu.

P.S. Special hidden offer at the bottom of the post for 2015: Contact Fezziwig Press directly at [email protected] and we will send you a free epub and pdf of Baltazar and Zeeba via email. And thanks for reading y'all.

To buy "Balthazar & Zeeba", "A Rolodex of Haikus" and other books directly from me, click on the big blue button below.

Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

"...as they pass over to our side of things."

Image: "Dos Cabezas Thistle, Arizona" (c) 2014 Stu Jenks.

 

The first draft of the Step Zero Christmas book went to three readers. One liked it, except for the overly-long ending, but the two other readers said the exact same thing.

"It's OK," they said, with slight disappointment in their voices.

"Ah, shit," I said and chuckled.

I've now risen to a level of mediocrity.

So I felt sorry for myself for three days and then began a complete restructure and rewrite of the Step Zero Christmas book. A dramatic shift in focus, characters and plot. That's all I'll say. Don't want to spoil anything.

But I can't help but laugh.

Fifteen years ago, I would have argued my case when I hear, "It's OK," badgering my two readers with reasons that the novel was so much more then just OK. But I'm a bit humbly of an artist these days. I'm not particularly talented, don't you know, but I try to make up for that with hard work and an active imagination. I'm not God's gift to anything, but I do have a couple of skills, and I strive to make the best of what I have.

And I can do better than "It's OK."

Wish me luck in the rewrite. I don't know if I'll get this book out to you all by Christmas but I'll do my level best. It's all any of us can do, when you get right down to it, to do our level best.

P.S. The first sentence in the new second chapter is this:

"I’ve only been an angel ghost for 10 years, but it still makes me uneasy when a family member dies and we are all over here, waiting to catch them, as they pass over to our side of things."

Addemdum from May 23rd: Some confusion from my blog readers. I'm talking about the Step-Zero-Christmas-Book-In-Which-I'm-Saying-The-Title-Since-The-Title-Gives-Something-Away. I'm not speaking about Air & Gravity book. That's on track for its July 7th release.

...how the sausage is made...

The "Air & Gravity" cover with crops, bleeds, fold areas, etc. Thought you might enjoy seeing how the sausage is made. And the first edition will be a case laminate matte finished hardcover book, priced at $21.95.