Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

New low $0.99, $1.99 & $2.99 prices on all e-books and audiobooks from Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

All my e-books are available on Amazon Kindle, Apple iBooks, Bookbaby.com and many other digital providers. (Links below go only to my Amazon Kindle pages.)

Audiobooks at the new low prices are only available on CDbaby at this time. (Links below go only to my CDbaby pages. Hopefully iTunes and Amazon will soon update their prices.)

 

E-Books at Amazon.com:

Flame Spirals: Journeys Through Nocturnal Photography: $0.99

Dementia Blues: $2.99

The Transpersonal Papers (1861-2010): $1.99

Pamela’s Baby Rocking Chair: The Deaths of Pamela and Mary Jenks: $2.99

Step Zero: A Sober Love Story in 2076: $1.99

Air & Gravity: Book Two In The Step Zero Series: $2.99

Balthazar & Zeeba: A Christmas Novella: $1.99

A Rolodex Of Haikus by Tunafish Smith, found by Stu Jenks: $0.99

Victor Mothershead: U.S. Secret Service: $2.99

 

Audiobooks at CDBaby.com:

 

Hoop Dancing: More Journeys Through Nocturnal Photography: $2.99

Pamela’s Baby Rocking Chair: The Deaths of Pamela and Mary Jenks: $2.99

Balthazar & Zeeba: A Christmas Novella: $2.99

 

Thanks for reading and listening to my books and buying my stuff. It puts gasoline in my tank, a roof over my head and a smile on my face.

 

   

"...a great adventure story that takes place in a very plausible future."

Below is a very kind review by David Moyer of my first novel "Step Zero." Book four of this series, "Victor Mothershead: U.S. Secret Service" will be coming out in early July of 2016. "Step Zero" is now available at a new low price of $1.99 on the Amazon Kindle and Apple iBooks. Book two, "Air & Gravity" is now $2.99. Book three, "Balthazar & Zeeba" is also $1.99.

Start at the beginning is what I say.

 

"I wasn't sure at first if a book heavily influenced by and full of references to the 12 step program would be to my liking, but to my surprise, it added to, rather than detracting from the story. Stu Jenks has written a great adventure story that takes place in a very plausible future, and he has made it very intimate by bringing you all of the characters in the first person. I felt that I knew and empathized with his characters, even those I didn't like. I highly recommend this book and look forward to reading the sequel." - David Moyer.

Step Zero by Stu Jenks (Pages 50-76)

[Pages from the uncorrected proof of Step Zero. 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. To start from the beginning, simply search this website for other installments. Thanks, y'all.]

 

 

Peter Saum, Jr.
Monday, March 9th, 2076: 10:05 p.m.
On The Sunset Limited
East of The Salton Sea, California

Found an empty seat just a few rows back from Artie, Georgia, Michael, and Mags. They don’t know I’m here. Hell, they never know I’m here. But I need to be here tonight.
I don’t know what’s going to happen but I just had this funny feeling while cruising around the Solar System today. Like that time Artie almost got killed three years ago. So I’m here. I can’t do much, except shine Light and send Love, but that ain’t no spiritual chicken feed.
Pretty girl in front of me. Hair blowing in the wind from the desert air coming in through the train car window. Window’s only down an inch or so, but it’s moving her auburn hair like a dance of red strings. Quite beautiful. Pretty night, too.
Then I see the first bullet enter the car. Comes through the girl’s window, right in front of face. Glass shards soon behind. Like in slow motion. I can see in slow motion when I want to, or when things go down. Things are going down.
Red-headed girl looks all right. Face looks OK. She’s on the floor. Got a pistol in her hand.
Then I float to over where my family is.

 

Georgia “G” Swann
Monday, March 9th, 2076: 10:07 p.m.
On The Sunset Limited
East of The Salton Sea, California

As soon as I hear glass shatter, I have my .357 out of my bag. I look over at Artie. He’s still grabbing for his gun. Mags’ already gone to at the other side of the car, yelling orders.
“Kill the lights,” she screams. Someone flicks a switch. Most but not all of the lights go out.
“Everyone without weapons, hug the floor on the right side of the train,” she yells. “Everyone with, over here on the left.”
Quick motions in the dark of the unarmed crawling right and the armed heading left. I’m behind Mags. She turns to speak to me.
“You any good with that?” asks Mags.
“Pope shit in the woods?” I say.
“Yes, he does,” say Mags with a smile.
“What do you see?” I ask.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Might have just been some assholes fucking with us. Might be robbers though. We’ll know in a few minutes.”
“We’ll know?” I ask.
“If the train comes to a halt,” Mags says. “Means they got through the locomotive door or put something on the tracks. Have to be something big to stop this train though. These new locomotives have hellish counter measures to combat robbers. Top secret stuff. You don’t want to know.”
I squat beside her in the dark and wait for the train to stop. One minute. Two minutes. Still moving. I feel Artie’s hand on my waist, just letting me know he’s there. Still nothing. Train’s still flying along. I hardly breath.
Then, silhouetted against the light desert sand, I see horses and then men on horses and then more horses and more men. Couple dozen at least.
“You see them?” says Mags.
“I do,” I say. “What do you think?”
“Nothing. I don’t think they mean to rob the train. Just trying to put the fear of God into us. Showing us who’s boss, and it’s not you, assholes,” say Mags, more to herself as anyone else.
“Glad you’re here,” I say.
She turns to me and smiles.
“I’m glad you all are safe,” she says, looking at Artie and I.
“No gun?” she yells across the isle to Michael.
Michael shakes his head in the dim light.
“Want one?” say Mags.
“Thanks. Not right now,” says Michael.
“If I need you, you in?” Mags asks Michael.
Michael nods
“He’s in,” say Artie. “Just not until it’s time. It’s not time yet.”
“Oh,” say Mags. “You’re right. It’s not time. Pray it doesn’t become time.”
“GGATI, help us,” I say.
And for the first time, in days, I think about my family in Cheyenne.

 

 

Peter Saum, Jr.
Monday, March 9th, 2076: 10:30 p.m.
On The Sunset Limited
East of The Salton Sea, California

Artie’s OK. Everybody else too, but one.
“What happened?” asks Melissa.
“You got shot,” I say. “You’re dead now.”
 “Really?” she says, brushing the white hair out of her face, or rather her white angel ghost hair. She’s new to this.
“Damn, I was going to visit my grandkids in San Bernardino,” she says.
“You still can,” I say. “They just won’t be able to see you. You can still send Love to them. The Love Of The Ancestors. Still watch over them too, or you can come back as a human right away or go to the Great Big Sea. You have lots of choices.”
“Am I an angel?” asks Melissa.
“An angel and a ghost. An angel ghost. It’s hard to explain,” I say.
“Is there a God? A Goddess?” she asks.
“Close your eyes, Melissa.”
She does. Then she glows. Literally glows with the Light. Her first angel ghost time with the Light of God Goddess All There Is.
I hold her hands and wait for her to decide.
I love this part.

 

 

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Tuesday, March 10th, 2076: 6:45 a.m.
On The Sunset Limited
Just south of San Bernardino, California

“Who was she?” I say through a yawn.
“Melissa Bartlett. 63 years old. From El Paso. On her way to visit family in San Bernerdino, judging from her papers and such,” says Mags.
“Family know she’s dead?” asks Georgia.
“Don’t know their number.” say Mags. “We checked her phone, but there are no last names with the caller IDs. My guess is someone will be at the station to pick her up, and we’ll tell them then.”
“Jesus,” says Michael.
“Yeah,” says Mags.
The train starts to slow. Dawn breaks over the mountains to the east.
“Did I sleep through Palm Springs?” I ask Georgia.
“Like a baby,” she says.
“I miss anything?”
“We stopped for fifteen minutes, picked up a half dozen passengers, and we were on our way,” say G. “The conductor whispered ‘Palm Springs” over the intercom. Sweet of him to not want to wake everyone up, even though most of us were up, due to the shooting. Except you.”
She’s not mad. Just teasing.
I give a crooked grin. I was tired, plus with Mags with us, I figured we were fine.
“I’m up now,” I say.
Georgia kisses me. Not a big kiss, but not a little one either. Damn good regular kiss.
“Check that out,” say Michael, pointing out the window.
“Wow,” I say.
For miles, all I see are concrete pads for houses. No wood, no pipes, no roofs, no homes. Just a sea of rectangular pads of concrete, with some rusted old gasoline cars mixed in. I’ve seen this before, out at Continental Ranch, a suburb of homes outside of Tucson, but not like this. I don’t get too sentimental about pre-War days. From what I can gather from old-timers, and some books and newspapers, Americans were a selfish, spoiled people, afraid of their own shadows and with little resilience to endure the ups and downs of living. But seeing all these pads, I’m reminded that families lived here, thousands of people loved and worked here, and did the best they could. Families and friends. And my family and friends are the most important thing to me, next to my sobriety. Be honest with yourself, Artie. I know if I ever lose my sobriety, I’ll lose my family and friends, or rather they’ll lose me.
“Something, eh?” Michael say.
I nod.
Mags sees what we are seeing.
“Worse as you get to closer to Los Angeles. Much worse,” she says.
“We have to change trains in San Bernardino,” says Georgia, but we all know this. “You staying on the train, Mags and heading into L.A.?” she asks the Marshal.
“Nope. Maybe on the way back I’ll come through Los Angeles, but I’m getting on the Southwest Chief for a few hours, then I’ll transfer to the San Joaquin Train in Barstow, and head straight to Oakland.”
Georgia gets up from her seat, crosses the isle and hugs Mags tight.
“Ah, I’m guessing you folks are taking that route as well,” says Mags.
G smiles and nods and hugs Mags again.

 

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Tuesday, March 10th, 2076: 8:40 a.m.
Santa Fe Depot
San Bernardino, California

“We have a two hour layover here,” Georgia says to me, looking at her schedule. “Let’s get something to eat.”
We exit the car to the platform. I’m traveling light with only my backpack, and a smaller bag that carries my ukelele and my gun. G has a small backpack and a mandolin case. Michael’s the one who decided to bring his Martin, but he’s not over-loaded. Most people carry instruments when they travel. At least everyone under the age of 50. Like the old priests who carry Bibles, we carry guitars, fiddles, mandolins, ukeleles, flutes, and skin drums. If it sings, we bring.
At the far end of the platform, I see Mags talking with a family. Mom, Dad, and a teenage girl. The father starts to cry. Mother and daughter hug the man. Ms. Bartlett must have been his mother.
This depot’s huge. Kind of Spanish Revival meets Moorish something. Beautiful. Four round tile domes top the lobby building with red roofs extending a hundred yards on either side. Wonderful to see the old architecture preserved. Amazing it escaped the scavengers. And there’s our next train on the far side of the tracks. Now that metal crosswalk that arches over the tracks isn’t Spanish Revivial. That Post-War Federalist Steel architecture. Not that pretty but it works.
There sure are a lot of people at this depot. Must be a few hundred. Families of three and four. Couples arm in arm. Dusty old men and women. Marshals and government workers. Blacks, Whites, Asians, Hispanics, Natives. And if my eyes don’t fail me, some men from El Grupo who are trying to look respectable. They aren’t wearing any colors but I know the smell.
Shit. Robbie Rod is here.
“What?” says Georgia, sensing my change of mood.
“A guy I used to run with in El Grupo is over there,” I say.
“Where?” she asks.
I point with my eyes.
“Tall drink of water. Black hair. Blue jean jacket.”
Michael walks up.
“Let’s get something to eat. I’m starved,” he says.
“In a minute,” I say.
I look over to Michael, than back at Robbie. He knows.
“Guy from back in the day?” asks Michael
“Yeah.”
“Want to say hello?” he asks
“What do you think?”
 “Fuck ‘em,” says Michael. “Let’s eat.”
We head toward the lobby, G’s hand in my arm. Michael walks behind us. He glances over his shoulder at Robbie. Glad Michael came.

“This is the best burrito I’ve ever eaten,” says Georgia with a mouth full of food.
“You always say that when you’re hungry,” I say.
“But it is,” say G. “Tortilla is fresh, salsa’s divine and the beans are amazing” she says.
“It is pretty good,” says Michael. “Have a bite of mine.”
“No, Thanks. I’m not that hungry. Cup of coffee is just fine.”
I’m looking down at my hands. I then raise my eyes and look at my two best friends. They both give me this ‘what the fuck’ look, like two pissed off cats.
“Sorry,” I say over the table. “I’m just spooked by Robbie Rod.”
“Nothing will happen here,” says Georgia. “Too many Feds, and shit, honey, that was three years ago.”
“I doubt Bunny’s forgotten,” I say.
They both nod and then go back to eating their breakfast.
“I’ll buy you a burrito for the train,” says Georgia “I know you’re not hungry now but you will be and you get even moodier when you’re hungry.”
She winks at me. I reach across the table and squeeze her hand.
“I’m going to go over to that bench and have a quick clove smoke, and pray a quick prayer. Y’all watch my gear?”
“Sure,” say Michael.
Near the end of the outside dining area grows a young tree. Don’t know what it is. Don’t know my California trees. Could be a eucalyptus. I light a clove cigarette. I close my eyes. I speak a quiet prayer, so only I can hear.
“God of the Sky, Goddess of the Earth. Hear my prayers,” I quietly speak. “I need you both to guide me through these scary lands. I need you both to help me stay sober, stay sane, stay on the right path. I need you both to help me love and protect my friends. I need you both to shine light on me and mine. I am small. You both are big. But I have some of both you God and you Goddess in me and some of All There Is. May my GGATI harmonize with you GGATI. Without you all, I am lost. With you all, I am whole.”
“Hey, Artie,” say a voice behind me. I turn.
“Hey, Robbie,” I say, “How are you?” I am scared but not that scared. The prayer has helped and I don’t sense any danger.
“I’m OK,” says Robbie. “Did I interrupt anything?”
“You kind of did,” I say. Now I sense something. OK, Robbie, please don’t fuck with me now.
“You got a minute?” he asks.
“Sure. But just a minute,” I look over toward Georgia and Michael. They both see Robbie. Michael gets up from his seat. I raise my hand to him to stay. Michael sits back down.
“I have to catch the train to Barstow,” I say.
“I’m getting on that train too. Been in Los Angeles for about a year. Staying close to my family there. Heading to Wyoming now to look for work.”
“Good luck with that,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, looking away from my eyes. “Anyway, It’s been around what? Three years since I saw you in Santa Rosa?”
“Something like that.”
“Well,” Robbie continues, “I may be an idiot and my sponsor will probably think I’ve lost my mind, but I need to make amends to you, Artie. When you got shot up in Sells, when we were transporting that Brigham to Tucson. Well, I told a lie about you to Bunny. I told him that you were working with the Feds, that you couldn’t be trusted. I was pissed off that you were sleeping with that girl. I wanted her too but she wanted you, not me, so I figured if I told Bunny you were a Fed, he’d kill you and she would be with me.”
“I didn’t know it was you,” I say, “But I figured somebody thought I was a snitch. Or maybe Bunny just needed to shoot at someone. So it was you?”
“Yeah, it was me,” says Robbie, “I was smoking more Tea than even you back then,” he laughs and then stops the laugh.
“Anyway,” Robbie says, “I’ve been going to Mormon Tea Anonymous in Los Angeles. It’s a 12-Step program for those of us trying to not use Brigham, to be and stay clean and sober. Going to A.A. too. And I wouldn’t blame you for shooting me right now, but I was the one who tried to get you killed, and I’m sorry about that, and if I could go back and change it, I would but I can’t. But I can commit to you that I’ll do my best not to lie for my own selfish gains again, and definitely not lie so someone gets shot or killed. I’m really sorry, Artie. Really, I am.”
I just stare at him for a second and don’t say anything. Is he playing me? I look hard into his eyes. I don’t think so.
“So if I get this straight, you just happened to be in San Bernardino at this train station on your way to Wyoming, and you see me, a guy you tried to get killed, and you figured that since our paths crossed, you’d come up to me and apologize?”
“Try and make amends. Make things right. Not apologize,” he says
“Right. Make amends,” I say.
He is for real.
“Well, Robbie Rod, I’ve got some news for you,” I say, trying to look mean but I can’t pull it off. A big smile breaks across my face.
“Robbie, My name is Artie and I’m an addict and an alcoholic. I’ve got two years clean and sober last month.”
Robbie’s mouth drops open.

 

 

Peter Saum, Jr.
Tuesday, March 10th, 2076: High Noon
On The Southwest Chief
North of San Bernardino, California

Back on the train. I loved trains when I was alive. Didn’t ride them much at all back then. We had planes and gasoline cars and all of that, but my studio was just a couple blocks away from a crossing and I would hear whistles blow as I recorded in my studio. Two long whistles, a short and a long. Dad taught me that. Sometimes, I’d leave the whistle in on the intro of a piece of space music. Gave it extra atmosphere. Wish I had ridden the train more. I don’t exactly ride anywhere now.
Really enjoyed that little miracle on the platform. A Ninth Step amends completely out of the blue. Seems Artie accepted it well, but I can tell my grandson doesn’t fully trust Robbie. If I overheard right, Robbie’s got six months clean and sober. A good amount of time but not really. Depends on the man or woman in recovery. Some people have a psychic change right away, others it takes years. I guess we’ll find out more as it is revealed, as they say in A.A. and in M.T.A. But Artie and Michael are smiling and Robbie looks relieved. The three of them are thick as thieves. Hmmm. Not my best analogy.
Georgia and Mags do look worried. They have good reason I guess. I’m hoping they have no reason to distrust Robbie. But I don’t know. I can’t read minds. I can read the faces of my descendants like Artie pretty well, but that’s only because he’s blood. I’m just as mystified as I ever was regarding human behavior.
One very big advantage to being on my side of things is I can travel anywhere, anytime, in an instant. And I have traveled quite a bit over the past 40 plus years and seen much.
A folksinger once sang, ‘You’ve never seen everything.’ I’ve come close to seeing everything and much of what I’ve seen is ugly. But now, I just go where my people are, and a few of their friends. I no longer need to explore horrors.
I have seen Barstow, California, our next stop on this train. Stopped there just last year on my way to the ancient Bristlecones Pines in the White Mountains.
Barstow’s not a pretty place.
I’ll stay close.

 

 

Deputy U.S. Marshal Magdalena “Mags” Gutierrez
Tuesday, March 10th, 2076: 5:05 p.m.
New West Train Station
Barstow, California

“Hijo de perra,” I say.
“What the matter, Mags?” asks Georgia.
I mouth ‘just a minute’ to Georgia.
“The Bakersfield Princess is late,” I say to my boss, Kirk Bledsoe, on my Sat-phone. “Seems there was a freight derailment near Boron.”
“What’s that, Chief?” I ask. “The Princess isn’t going to be here in Barstow until tomorrow morning at the earliest? Fuck. Sorry, Chief. Sir, have you ever been to Barstow?”
“No, I haven’t,” says Chief Bledsoe on the phone.
“Well, civilization has barely made it back here,” I say. “There are no craftspeople, if you know what I mean. I am a little worried. I need a room for the night. Can I put in on the Fed card?
“No problem, Mags,” says Kirk.
“Great. I’ll need two rooms.”
“Why?” he asks.
“I’ll tell you later. Trust me. It’s OK.”
“Just don’t break the government’s piggie bank, all right?” says Chief Bledsoe.
“I won’t,” I say, “I’ll call you when the train leaves for Bakersfield tomorrow. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Just tell me what’s going on tomorrow,“ he says.
“I will,” I say. “Hasta.”
I close my Sat-phone.
“What did he say?” ask Georgia.
“Two rooms. One for you and me, the other for the boys.”
“Great,” say Georgia, and give me a hug.
Georgia may be the huggiest person I’ve ever met. I don’t mind.
Artie, Michael and Robbie stand under an awning outside the rundown station. Georgia and I walk up.
“So?” says Artie.
“Train to Bakerfield’s not going to be here until tomorrow,” I say. “But no worries. I’ll get rooms for all of us at the Jasper Hotel. Let’s go get checked in, and then we can find something to eat.”
“Sounds like a plan,” say Michael. Robbie is quiet.
We all pile into a taxi, not a Flex-car but an old electric jalopy, and head up the hill toward Hotel Alley.
“The Jasper, please,” I say to the driver.
“You got a hundred dollars?” asks the cabbie.
“A hundred for just up the hill?” I ask.
“Mags, we can’t spend that kind of money,” says Georgia.
“It’s OK,” I say to Georgia. “I got it.”
GGATI save us.
And off we go.
Seems like washing isn’t something they do much here in Barstow. Then again, water is expensive here. Everything expensive here. And it smells, a mix of body odor, rotting plants and something else. I shouldn’t be so judgmental. It’s just a railroad switching town. What do I expect? A craft fair, with organic gardens?
After a couple minutes, we arrive at the Jasper.
“Here’s a hundred. Keep the change.”
“There is no change,” says the cabbie.
“My point exactly,” I say.
“Bitch,” says the cabbie.
“What did you call her?” says Artie to the cabbie.
“It’s OK, Artie. Let it go.”
We grab our bags and the boys get the instrument cases out of the trunk. We walk over to the lobby. Oh Goddess.
The Jasper is what’s left of an old motel lodge from fifty years ago, when people used to drive on The Interstate. Doesn’t seem like the maintenance man has been around much. All the wooden doors to the rooms are gone, replaced by chain-link grates across each doorway. No wood at all that I can see. Lots of wood got burned during the 41 nights. Some glass windows are intact but not many. Welded bars over most of the windows.
“I’ll go in and get our rooms,” I say.
They all look a little scared. I’m scared too. Artie, Michael and Georgia are tough cookies, not scared of much, but this has them on full alert.
I walk up to the hotel desk. A short bearded man with snot coming out his nose greets me.
“Evening. What can I do you, ma’am?” he says.
“I need two rooms for the night.”
“How many people?” he asks.
“Five. Three men, two women, all adults. Do you take The Federal Plastic?”
“Only plastic I take. You a railroader?”
“Marshal,” I say pulling my badge from my front pocket. I don’t wear the badge, nor any kind of uniform. Some people like to shoot cops for fun, you know.
“Well, Marshal Gutierrez, welcome to the Jasper Hotel. Staying one night?”
“Just one.”
He grabs my Fed card and punches the numbers into a Sat-phone, then takes a pic of me with his phone. This is going to cost.
“Card’s good. So are you. Can’t be too careful. You could be impersonating an officer of the law.” he says, still punching in numbers. “Total for two rooms for one night will be $1200 even.”
“Even,” I say. “That’s nice,” shaking my head.
“I’ll need your thumbprint, Marshal.”
I push my thumb on the face of his phone.
“Thank you. Need to tell you a few rules and things,” says the clerk. “First, sorry about the lack of solid doors but those grates keep out everyone from rats to drunks. I try and keep a quiet place here and most people go to bed pretty early, don’t you know. You can bring alcohol into your room but no drugs, no Brigham, but I don’t guess that’ll be a problem for you, Ma’am.”
He smiles. Two teeth is all he has for a smile. One for meat. One for soup.
“Also, there is a pretty good restaurant, just up the hill. Johnny’s Cafe,” he continues. “Not bad. Not great. And I can call a taxi for you anytime, to take you back to the train station. Oh, over on that little hill, there are a few chairs in a circle, around a small fire pit. We have wood if you want to a fire. $100 a bunch. Some travelers go over there to play music, other’s have prayer meetings, other’s just hang out. Got a nice little view of the town and it’s away from the hotel so the music doesn’t bother the other guests. So help yourself to that.”
“You expect to be full tonight?” I ask.
“I do. I suppose you were trying to get to Bakersfield too?”
I nod.
“Yeppers, it’s going to be hopping here tonight,” he says, licking his lips. He hands me two metal keys for grates to our rooms.
“And don’t forget to bring back your keys in the morning. If you forget, it’s an extra $300 on your card. And check out is at 11 sharp.”
“Thanks, and have a good night,” I say. Might as well be nice, even in this hell hole.
“You too, Marshal,” says the clerk and then he looks at my tits. Great.

The five of us go check out the rooms. Beds seems OK. Scratchy sheets but at least they’re clean. I don’t want to think about what those stains are on the floor. None of us leave anything in the room. This is just a bed.
“Y’all hungry? I’m buying.” I say.
“You don’t have to, Marshal,” says Robbie.
“I know, but I want to,” I say. “There’s a cafe just up the hill. Hope they serve strong coffee. I’m getting a caffeine headache.”

 

 

Michael Dollaride
Tuesday, March 10th, 2076: 7:30 p.m.
Jasper Hotel
Barstow, California

“That wasn’t terrible food,” I say.
“Tell that to my stomach,” says Artie.
“The coffee was OK,” says G.
“And I liked the oatmeal cookies,” says Robbie.
“The cookies were good,” says Mags.
“Yeah, the cookies were pretty tasty,” I say to Artie.
“Brother,” Artie says, shaking his head. “That was my worst meal in years. You know I’m not picky but I just hate Synth Meat.”
Changing the subject, I ask, “So you want to look for a meeting or just stay close to home tonight? I vote for staying here. I’d like to maybe just play some tunes and hit the hay.”
“The desk clerk says there is a circle of chairs on that little rise behind the hotel,” Mag says. “Says people use it for playing all the time. Fire pit too, but you have to buy the wood.”
“Cool, but I’ll pass on the wood.” I say.
“I’m just going to stay here with Mags,” say Georgia. “Why don’t you boys just go over there and play. We’ll watch our gear.”
“Great,” I say. “Well, grab your uke, Artie. Robbie, you play?”
Robbie pulls from his bag what looks like a penny whistle.
“Fantastic,” I say. “You know any Celtic jigs?”
Robbie smiles.
“My name might be Rodriguez but my grandmother was Scottish. Rest her soul.”
I put my arm around Robbie’s shoulder.
“Brother, you’ve just made my night,” I say.

 

Georgia “G” Swann
Wednesday, March 11th, 2076: 2:11 a.m..
Jasper Hotel
Barstow, California

Artie sleeps next to me. Mags is in the other bed. Michael and Robbie sleep next door.
It was quiet until just a minute ago. Now I hear crying. I rise from the bed, pull on my jeans, put on my blouse and slip on my boots. I walk to the metal grate door, unlock it and tippy toe outside. I’m curious.
It’s coming from the second floor across from what used to be the parking lot. It’s a woman’s voice, and a man’s.
“I don’t want to go to Bakersfield. I hate it there. I hate those people,” the woman’s voice says through tears.
“I know honey, but I have a job there,” says a masculine voice. “I have to go. There was nothing for us in San Bernardino.”
“My mother was there,” she says. “Momma was there.”
“Mary, your mother’s grave is there, but she’s not there anymore.”
I hear no more talking. Just crying.
I got back to my room and back to bed. I cuddle next to Artie. I pull him into my body.
“Goddess, protect us as we travel.” I whisper. “I know in my prayers and meditations to you the answer has always been ‘Go with Artie to see his grandmother.’ but I’m frightened now. We are far away from home. And I don’t expect you, GGATI, to come down and save us from all harm. I know my job is to align the Goddess in me with the Goddess you are, but I’m still scared. Please help me be in the moment so I can be of use to you and to all people. And to Artie and his friends. Goddess, I don’t spook easy, but I’m spooked now.
I kiss Artie’s shoulder. I’m so sleepy.
Then I hear three shots ring out. Bang, bang, pause, then bang again. They sound close.

 

 

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Wednesday, March 11th, 2076: 1:44 p.m..
On The Bakersfield Princess
West of Boron, California

“Damn, I wish Mags was here,” I say.
“Me too,’ Georgia says.
Michael and Robbie nod in agreement.
“So there’s no Marshal in Barstow?” asks Robbie.
“There is but he’s up here somewhere near the derailment. Mags is detaining the woman until he gets back,” I say.
“Poor bastard,” says Michael. “So you heard them talking before she killed him.”
“I did,” says Georgia. “She was crying about having to go live in Bakersfield. Guess she didn’t want to live there.”
Robbie laughs. None of the rest of us do. Robbie cuts off his chuckle. It’s really not that funny. Maybe a little.
“Would you look at that?” I say, looking out the window as we pass. “Never seen train cars on fire before.”
Most of the freight cars have burned down to the metal but these three still blaze with blue, green and orange flames. Must be some chemicals or something.
“We’ll be slowing our rate of speed for a few miles, folks,” says the conductor. “Just have to get past this derailment.”
I don’t think this was just a derailment, but what do I know.
Soon we’re past and picking up steam.

Hours later, I can see the Sierra Nevadas in the distance. Still some snow on their peaks. Starting to get a bit nippy in the car. I take my fleece jacket out of my backpack and put it on.
Georgia sleepily gazes out the train window. None of us got much sleep last night.
“Hope we see Mags soon,” says G. “But who knows,”
“She has your Sat-phone number, G,” I whisper. “I told her we’d call her once we get to the Bay Area, if not sooner.”
“Good.” she says. “I miss her.”
“Me too,” I say. “We should be in Bakersfield around sunset, Fresno by midnight.”
“I’ll get us rooms in Fresno,” says my sweetie. “I’ll pay this time.”
I squeeze her hand. Having a Richie Rich as a girlfriend does have its advantages, though I rarely take advantage of her. And we work at keeping it a secret, given the obvious consequences.
We hold hands and continue to look at the snow capped mountains in the distance.
Soon, we’re climbing toward Tehachapi. Beautiful country. Foothills of the Sierras to the north, rolling hills like out of an old movie to the south, and windmills for as far as you can see. Thousands of them, white and shiny, a hundred or more feet tall, fins turning in the breeze. Makes me happy to see.
We stop in Tehachapi to load up on some coal, or so the conductor says. Wonder if I have reception on Georgia’s Sat-phone. Two bars. Hot damn.
“Michael,” I say, nudging him awake. “We’re in Tehachapi. G and Robbie went to get some ice tea. You want anything?”
“I’m good,” he says.
“And I’m going to call Craig, Bill and Pete on G’s Sat,” I say to him. “Want to talk with Craig when I get him?”
“No,” says Michael. “Just give him my love. Plus it costs a fortune to talk on Sats.”
“I know,” I say, “but G’s OK with sharing her coin.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” he says.
“All right,” I say.
I open the Sat-phone and dial.
“Pete, it’s Artie.”
“Artie, little brother, where are you now?” asks my boss.
“Tehachapi, just a little east of Bakersfield.”
“Ah, you’re coming up on The Loop?”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The Loop. The Tehachapi Loop. Where the tracks go in a complete circle to make it up the grade,” says Pete. “or in your case down the grade.”
“I didn’t know you rode the train out here?” I ask Pete.
“Haven’t,” says Pete. “My grandmother told me about it. She says it’s quite a thing. Stay awake for it.”
“OK. Anyway, Georgia and I are fine. We picked up a couple road dogs on the way. Marshal Mags Gutierrez from Tucson was with us a while, and I meet an old friend in San Bernardino.”
“Good old friend or bad old friend?” he asks.
“Bad then, good now.” I say. “And guess who decided to come with us.”
“Michael Dollaride did,” Pete says.
“How in the hell did you know?”
“I know Michael’s boss at the pottery shop. Seems Michael burned a month of vacation to come with you all.”
“I figured that,” I said. “It’s so great to have him with us.”
“Craig came in to buy some strings, yesterday,” says Pete. “Asked if I had heard from you.”
“Would you call him for me and give him the update on us?” I ask.
“You bet,” he says.
“And I’m sorry Pete for leaving you for so long,” I say. “I know there’s a lot of repairs at the shop.”
“I don’t care about that. Well, I care a little about that,” Pete says. Long pause. “Artie. Listen to me. Going to see your grandmother before she dies is a wonderful thing.”
 “We don’t know that she’s dying,” I say.
“Artie, I love you, but you know if she’s not dying, she’s damn close.
I say nothing.
“I’ll call Craig,” he says, “Don’t worry about the shop.”
“You are a saint, Pete,” I say.
“No, I’m not,” says through a laugh. “I’m just a bad man trying to be good.”
Static.
“Phone’s breaking up. Pete, I love you.”
“I love you too, little brother. Give my love to Georgia and to M...”
The phone dies.
I close G’s Sat. I hate fucking phones.

 

 

 

Pedro “Pig” Ortiz
Wednesday, March 11th, 2076: 5:30 p.m..
At The Tehachapi Loop
California

“We could blow up the tracks,” Big Jim says, “Like they did in Boron.”
I pull out my revolver and stick it in Big Jim’s face.
“Or not,” he says.
“Now listen to me good,” I say still holding my gun in his face, “If you are thinking about thinking about anything, stop and think ‘I need to talk with Pig first’, before you do any fucking thing, like think. Got it?”
“Sure, Pig. I just thought....”
I click back the hammer of the Smith and Wesson with my thumb.
“If you blow up the tracks,” I say to him, “No other trains come through, and then a bunch of railroaders and Feds come up here to fix the tracks. Now, what might that mean, Jim?”
His face knots up in thought.
“That we have to leave?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, “And what else?”
“Then we can’t sneak on trains and do our business,” Big Jims says. “And we have to go someplace else where the train runs slow, so we can rob and steal and kill and such.”
“Yes,” I say, “And such.”
I lower my pistol and hoister it.
“Jesus, Pig, I didn’t mean anything.”
I glare at him and he stops talking.
My Sat-phone rings. I open the phone and look at the screen. My brother Bunny.
“Pig, here,” I say.
“Goddamn hope so,” says Bunny.
“What’s up, Bro?” I ask.
“I need you to kill someone for me.” says Bunny. “They’re on the Bakersfield train heading west. Should be there soon. I’m sending you a pic now.”
I see the picture on my screen.
“Fast or slow,” I say.
“I don’t give a shit,” says Bunny. “Just dead. Then send me a pic of their dead face.”
“I’m on it.” I say. “I’ll do it myself. Sounds like fun.”
“Thanks, brother,” says Bunny.
“Hasta,” I say.

 

 

Peter Saum, Jr.
Wednesday, March 11th, 2076: 5:40 p.m.
At The Tehachapi Loop
California

I didn’t see the picture on Pig’s phone. Could be someone else, other than my people. Not that it matters that much, since I can’t stop anything. But I’m going to send a shit-load of Light and Love, and hope for the best.
Sun’s just dropped below that ridge. May be dark before the train comes through. I don’t know.
Fuck.
I can’t do anything!

 

 

Georgia “G” Swann
Wednesday, March 11th, 2076: 6:15 p.m.
On The Bakersfield Princess
At The Tehachapi Loop
California

Even in the fading light, this valley is beautiful. And I love all of these rail tunnels. Then, I see the tracks in front of us curve hard to the left and go behind a hill with a Jesus Cross on top of it. The track reappears below us and then we head through another tunnel that goes under the tracks. We are hardly moving at all, the train traveling at a man’s walking pace. The wheels squeal loudly, sounding almost like birds. The train curves left and left and more left, leaning hard to one side. Wow. This must me the loop Artie told me about.
I touch Artie’s shoulder as I lean forward to get a better view out the window. He has the window seat. I smile at Michael in the row behinds us. He smiles back. First time I’ve seen him smile in days, in weeks. Robbie’s mouth hangs open in wonder as he looks over Michael’s body to see out the window. This is pretty cool.
Then I see something out of the corner of my eye. Motion. Metal. A hand. Michael sees the look in my eyes and turn toward where I’m looking. He sees the man too, the gun, the hand.
Robbie’s mouth closes. He jumps into the aisle, running toward the man with the gun. I grab for the LadySmith inside my small bag. My hand wraps around its grip. I start to pull my gun out of my bag when I hear a loud pop, then another. My ears ring from the shots. Then another bang, and then screams. Then I have this burning in my leg. I look down. I don’t see anything but, Goddess, it hurts.
I turn toward the man with the gun but I don’t see him. Don’t see Robbie either. Don’t see Michael.
Then I get tunnel vision. I look at Artie. I see his face, looking toward the back of the train. Then the circle of his face gets real small. Then smaller. Then black.

 

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.

 

"My Name is Peter Saum."

(Early uncorrected proof pages from my novel, Step Zero: The Special Illustrated Edition. You can buy the final hardbound book at the above link and it's also available as an un-illustrated e-book, wherever those are sold.(c) 2016 Stu Jenks.

Expect more excerpts of my fiction as well as my non-fiction throughout 2016. And of course, pretty pics too.

Also, the final book of the Step Zero series is completed. GGATI: God, Goddess, All There Is has been to my editorial readers and editors, changes have been made, and it'll soon be in my line editor's and proofreader's hands. Then it on to my book designer Gail and my book printer and distributor Ingram Lightning Source. (May or may not be an e-book this time. We're still talking about that.) But the good news is the long story arch is done, with some new twists and turns in this last book. GGATI will be published in late 2016.

But until then, here's a little something from Peter Saum about the state of the world in 2076.

 

 

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.

 

 

 

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

7 days left in the "Air & Gravity" campaign at pubslush.com. I truly need your help.

Only seven days left in The Air & Gravity book crowd-sourcing campaign. Just click on this link to take you there.

Please give as you can. I really need your help this time.

The book is done. I just need the money to design it, print it and distribute it.

And there are gifts and rewards with each donation that will be mailed out promptly to you.

Thanks for whatever you can contribute. I know times are tough, but I believe you will enjoy reading book two of my Step Zero series. It's better than the first book, if I do say so myself.

"It better be," says the angel ghost off to my left. "You don't write everyday to get worse at it, do you?"

No. I don't.

Love, light and luck,

Stu.

P.S. Update from 4/26/2014: I've raised over $800 as of this morning. Thanks so much. And since I've past a minimum amount, I will receive all the money given to pubslush.com. Fantastic. And the book will be published even if I have to put it on my credit card. I just don't want to do that obviously. Thanks again for giving and have a great week.

 

My phone conversation with the NRA

"Michael's Gun" (c) 2013 Stu Jenks (From the book Step Zero.)

The NRA just called to survey me on my views on the recent gun legislation.

"Are you sure you want to talk to me," I said, "for I'm a Southern Liberal Democrat who owns a pistol."

"Yes, we would," said the lobbyist.

He got an ear full.

From high capacity magazines to background checks to mental health issues to how money is power in Washington.

I think my favorite line of the conversation was "Senator Jeff Flake is a friend of Gabby's, but he voted against the bill. Makes me wonder how much money he gets from the NRA that made him vote that way."

Another fine line, if I do say so myself was, "If Jared Lochner had regular sized magazines, more that 1/2 of those people at the Safeway that day would have never been shot." 

I was firm but fair with the lobbyist, didn't say the word fuck once. And he was polite with me to his credit. But money is power in Washington, D.C., and everywhere else on the planet.

 

ArtsEye presents "Landings" with Stephen Strom and Stu Jenks

The reception is December 1st, 2012 at ArtsEye/Photographic Works, from 6 to 9 p.m. (The address is below in the digital flyer.) I'll be signing books at the reception as well. Books and prints, framed and unframed, will be for sale for the duration of the show. I'm looking forward to seeing all who can come. This is a very important show for me and for Stephen. I'm very excited, as I'm sure is Stephen. The show will be up until Valentine's Day, 2013. Love, light and luck, Stu.

Step Zero by Stu Jenks is launched...

(Author Photo by Jeff Smith at www.jeffsmithusa.com

 

Step Zero, the novel, has been launched.

So where can you buy it?

For those of you with tablets and digital devices, you can buy Step Zero as an iBook from the Apple store, for your iPad and iPhone, or you can obtain it as an ebook for your Amazon Kindle device, via this link. (The Nook version is pending.) You can also purchase the soft-cover first editions at the Barnes and Noble online store and at the Fezziwig Press online store. And locally, you can obtain the soft-cover book at Tucson Touch Therapies at Pima and Alvernon and at Betty Blue's Junk Shop on South Plumer. Lastly, on, Saturday, November 10th, 2012, from Noon to 5 p.m., I'll be at my studio at 549 N. 7th Avenue, for an imformal book signing, in conjunction with the Tucson Open Studio Tour.

And as a special free treat to those who buy Step Zero, I'll send you a pdf of The Lost Images of Step Zero, a hundred plus images that didn't make the final edit, but are a nice adjunct to the Step Zero experience, whatever that means. Just send me a Facebook message or an email at stujenks@gmail.com and I'll send the PDF right to you.

So push those buttons and buy those books, boys and girls, for baby needs a new pair of shoes.

From The Lost Images Of Steps Zero PDF:

Top to bottom, "A Rose For Chessie, California", "Matt Antone's Ginger, Arizona", "The 41 Nights, Arizona", and "Michael and Chessie's Moon, California".

 

Cover design by Gail Cross of Desert Isle Designs. Cover photograph by Stu Jenks.