P, for Potential

“I think you show a lot of potential,” Chief Earhart said. He was struggling. Good. Let him.

“I see a lot of potential in you,” Chief continued. He flicked the mustache he’d grown for Movember. They couldn’t wear beards, so they participated by growing mustaches. Voting for the best mustache would take place on the watchfloor next week, and the winner would get 24-hours special liberty. It was strange seeing Chief Earhart in a mustache. It looked he was hiding something, like he had another mouth under all that hair, and it spoke his real thoughts.

We think you suck, Denson. You’re not one of us. We like other people better, so they get EP’s and MP’s, and you . . . you get what’s left. P.

It meant Promotable, the lowest “good” mark possible on your quarterly evaluation, but the letter P stood for so much more. While Chief kept talking, William thought of what else it meant.

Pushy? Pussy? Party? Partial? Pure?

“So keep at it, and I look for great things from you,” Chief’s visible mouth said.

“So fuck off with your P, and thank your lucky stars advancement has been 100% the past few cycles, otherwise you’d still be an Airman,” Chief’s hidden mouth said.

Pity? William thanked Chief and left the Chief’s Mess. Pity . . . that sounded better. Close, not quite, but getting there.

It showed a lot of potential too.


 

If you liked this sample from Keepers of Time, follow me on Twitter or Facebook. The samples, in order:

  1. A Step Ahead
  2. Thirty-Four with a Shrug
  3. An Encounter at the Thirsty Camel
  4. Take Pills
  5. P, for Potential

Old Fiction: from Timber (2007-2009)

I don’t update this often, but I am writing and revising every day. New books are coming.

In the meantime, here’s a little sample, the opening scene from Timber, a novel I worked on from 2007-2009. In a small Tennessee town a black Vietnam veteran suffering from PTSD deals with racism and a strained relationship with his daughter.

Two things to come mind when reading this: overwritten and trying way too hard. I had an idea back then of how writers are supposed to write.

Here is is, unedited from eight years ago:

The scent of tobacco rolled in over the plains and past the tractors and fields and trucks, past the railroad tracks sat a man on his porch. A leather jacket hung on his shoulders. A patch sewn into it, a smiling grim reaper. 1% cupped in its hand.

The fresh harvest. The onset of autumn and another cycle done. Jake sniffed it as you might the most noxious perfume, watching the countryside unfold into late afternoon. The fresh harvest at dusk. He missed the days when he smoked it and felt the warm end between his lips and the peace as the leaves burned to strong flavor and then yearning for more.

He pulled a beer from the cooler. He sipped it and the man beside him did the same.

“Why you wearin that?” he asked.

He sipped quickly. Runoff filled the crater around the top.

“Jake, why you wearin that? You ain’t one of em.”

Jake finished his beer and tossed it over the porchrail. He grabbed another and popped it. A frosty tip paused near his lips.

“It’s cold out.”

He drank.

 

 

Long after autumn passed and winter came, Jake lifted his beer from the holster and leaned back. Just twenty five bucks for this chair. A hell of a deal.

“I think it’s bout time to be callin it a night.”

“I guess you right. What’s goin on tomorrow?”

“Deidre’s in a play.”

“Really? What’s she doin?”

“She’s a…somethin or nother, I can’t remember. She does have to be at school early tomorrow mornin so she can practice and stuff.”

“What time’s this goin on?”

“Tomorrow night round six or so.”

“Man, she good at this actin stuff?”

“She is.” He smiled. “She’s a real good actress.”

“Thas what you say. How bout everyone else?”

“I don know.”

“Well shit, if I had me a girl who could act real good I’d be there all the time braggin about it to the whole damn world.” He finished his beer and chucked it at the trashcan. It bounced off the rim and dinged on the porch. “Aw fuck. Sorry bout that.”

Jake shrugged. “It ain’t nothin. Les see if I’m any better.”

He chugged the rest and his shot made it dead center.

“How about that? You ain’t changed a bit.”

“I reckon skill don’t change.”

“Oh man.” He grinned and stood. “You thinkin about goin out for varsity too?”

“From what I can tell they need all the help they can get.”

“Yeah, they sure do. Well Jake, I’ll be headin on now.”

“Okay.”

He lumbered to the door. The boards creaked and Jake watched his boots stomp. Then stop.

“One more thing for I go though. The jacket.”

Jake put his feet up on the cooler and watched the horizon. “No, we ain’t goin through this again.”

“Look, all I’m sayin is you might not wanna be wearin somethin like that. It might getcha into trouble. Thas all I’m sayin.”

“It ain’t no worry.”

“I’m jus sayin.”

“I just wear it around here’s all.” He pushed off the cooler and reached for another beer. “Ain’t no harm in whatcha do in the privacy of your own home.”

“Nope there ain’t neither.”

“When what I do on my own time on my own property becomes the world’s business then yeah, by all means I’ll take it off. But as long as I’m here in my own house on my own property then no, I ain’t takin nothin off.”

“Yeah, you got a point there Jake. I’ll prolly see ya tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Jake grabbed another beer and squeezed it. Cold water ran over his fingers. Little separate foam rivers to creeks to drybeds and off the edge, stinging and numbing his hand. He held it there until it warmed and sat watching the horizon. The familiar land and the unfamiliar one, and when you were away from the familiar one it stayed familiar in dreams but otherwise turned unfamiliar and that was all you had in this world. He had seen enough of both in his life to know what each one meant, and out of it all he preferred the familiar one. Though to be fair, none had treated him too well.

He drank half the beer and threw it away. He backed into the house, watching the porch creak under him and when he collided with the door he punched it and swung it open and slammed it shut. He went to his room, undressed and went to bed.

An Encounter at The Thirsty Camel

AG2 William Benson has a special gift: he can travel short distances into the future. With his wife out partying, he goes to a bar, where he meets a woman who can short distances into the past…


 

The cab dropped William off at a beachside bar with a statue of a camel out front.

He entered a den of cigarette smoke and conversation. He sat at the far end of the bar, alone, and ordered a Coke and Rum.

While waiting, William looked around the bar. Older crowd. They said a lot of Chiefs frequented this place. William didn’t recognize any.

The bartender brought his drink. William sipped it and out the corner of his eye he noticed someone sitting beside him. The woman raised her glass.

“Cold night.”

“And they’re only getting colder.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Did you just come in?”

“Nope. Been sitting here all day.”

She smiled. Black hair reached halfway down her back. She was thin, in a tight yellow shirt and black pants. She wasn’t dressed like she belonged in any bar, let alone The Thirsty Camel.

“I didn’t see anyone here when I came in,” William said, avoiding her eyes. She wore no makeup, and William quickly realized she didn’t need to.

“Well that makes two of us. I didn’t see anyone here when I came in.”

William nodded. Maybe he hadn’t been paying att . . . no. Something was wrong.

It was her.

“What are you drinking?” she asked.

“Coke and Rum.”

“Isn’t it Rum and Coke?”

“Sure, if you want to be wrong.”

She swished her own drink around. “I thought men were supposed to drink strong drinks.”

“It’s still early.”

“So? What do they say? Go big or go away?”

“Go big or go home.” He looked at her glass. “What is that?”

“Something too strong.” She got the bartender’s attention, and ordered a Rum and Coke. The bartender brought it and she sat stirring it with her finger.

William watched her drink. Something not right about her. She met his eyes over her glass and gave him a gentle smile.

“Where are my manners?” She raised her glass. “To strong drinks.”

Despite himself, William smiled too. How long since he’d talked with a woman? Chicks on the ship didn’t count — William would never seal the deal, no matter how comfortable the boat goggles felt. One misstep there, and you could kiss your career goodbye.

He toasted with her and drank. A big gulp splashed down his throat and before he knew it the woman was ordering two more.

“Don’t worry. I got us.”

William covered a burp. “I’ll get the next round.”

“If there is a next round,” she said. “Did you drive here?”

“Taxi.”

“Smart. I imagine your employer would frown on drinking and driving.”

“My employer would put me in jail.”

“Important job?”

“You could say that.”

“Government?”

“Close.”

“Military.

“Closer.”

“Come on. It is military.”

“Can you guess which branch?”

“Army?”

“You get two more guesses.”

“Four.”

“What?”

“Four. There are five branches.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force and Coast Guard.”

“It’s easy to forget about the bastard Navy.”

“My father was Coast Guard for thirty years.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

She pretended to smack him. “For that, you are buying the next round.”

#

The drinking continued and they moved to their own table. AC/DC was playing on the stereo. Across the bar people were shooting pool and men at the counter kept throwing glances their way.

William was telling a story.

” . . . in the left lane has his right signal on, and the jackass in the right lane has his left signal on.”

“Of course.”

“And there it is, that’s it. Norfolk drivers, in one simple scene.”

He held back a burp and drank some Rum and Coke. He didn’t know how many that made — he wasn’t keeping track, of anything. The Rums and Cokes, the time.

The strange feeling hadn’t gone away. The Rums and Cokes had buried it, but the feeling was still there, calling out to him from beneath the empty glasses.

“Who’s got next round?” she said.

“There’s not going — ” He burped.

“No problem. I didn’t want another anyway.” She picked up her glass. “Two’s enough for me.”

She finished her Rum and Coke.

“I’ve had more than two,” William said.

“You’ve had enough, and . . . ” She leaned forward. William leaned forward too, their foreheads touching. “I have you right where I want you.”

William grinned foolishly, his world swirling. “What is wrong with you?”

“I’m glad you noticed.”

“No, I mean, everything. You come in here, you sit beside me, you act friendly but not too friendly . . . ”

“I was here before you. That stool, I was sitting there before you came in.” She took his chin in her hands, neat fingernails caressing his cheek. “Do you know how many nights I have come in here, looking for the right man? Too many. I was sitting at that stool, and then I came back, and there you were. I watched you, the way you drink, the way you move, and I knew. You are the one I need. So I went back, sat beside you, and . . . ” She searched her mind for the right words, her eyes rolling up. She blinked and gave him a sharp look. “Let’s say I changed history.”

William pulled her hands off his face.

“Can you feel it?” she whispered.

He could. He’d never discussed his gift with anyone — not his so-called shipmates, not his so-called wife, no one. The words gathered on his tongue, bursting for release. He let them go.

“Time slows down close to you.”

“Time speeds up close to you.”

“Why?”

“Keep your forehead on mine, and look to your left.”

William turned his eyes to their farthest stretch. A few tables away, a middle-aged couple having a quiet chat. It wasn’t their words, inaudible beneath Lynyrd Skynyrd’s guitars, it was their movements.

They were almost frozen.

“If they came closer,” William said, “would they stop moving?”

“Yes. Where fast time meets slow time there’s no time.”

“How long have you known you could do this?”

She leaned back. “I prefer not to think in those terms.”

“Someone like you . . . fuck.”

“Did you think you were the only one?”

“No. Honestly no, I didn’t.”

“Then why are you surprised?”

“I just didn’t think I’d run into you tonight.”

“I ran into you.”

“You saw me.”

“Yes.”

“You were ahead of me.”

“Uh-huh. When I was sure you had the right stuff, I climbed down a few steps. That’s what time is to me: steps. What is it to you?”

“I don’t know. Minutes, hours, stuff like that.”

“Amateur.”

“Did you go in the bathroom?”

“Nope.”

“So you did it in front of other people? They didn’t notice?”

“People only notice what they want to notice. It’s not like there’s much pomp to it. I stand still, concentrate on a step below, and when I can hear my old thoughts, I open my eyes.”

William nodded. He heard his new thoughts, she heard her old ones. Both of them had to play catch-up. He held his glass in a soft grip and asked, “What’s the farthest you’ve ever gone back?”

“Eight steps. Someone mugged me.”

“Really? Where?”

“Downtown. They took everything in my purse. Two men. When I climbed down, I called the police. The muggers were laying in wait. It just happened to be me.”

“And you still remember what happened?”

“What didn’t happen, you mean?”

“Sure.”

“But it still happened. I just remember it as a dream, like I remember seeing you. The new past pushes the old past away like cold air pushes away warm air. In time, the old past becomes little more than some unremembered dream.”

“Can I tell you something? Sometimes warm air slides over cold air. That’s one of the ways we get fog.”

“Does it now? Are you a weatherman?”

“It’s what I do for a living.” He finished his Rum and Coke. She slid her hand across the table, and he held it. “No more.”

She put her other hand on his and looked into his eyes. She wore no make-up. Alisha smothered herself in that shit. William told her she didn’t need to wear any, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She had lines here, aging there, fat everywhere. The name of the game was Looking Nice and she needed all the help she could get.

“I need to ask you something,” he said, thinking of how Alisha spent an extra hour or so to put on make-up for a trip to the Commissary — the fucking Commissary! “Can you take someone back with you?”

#

“Your words are wrong,” she said. They were sitting on the hood of her car. Across the parking lot a gang of youths was playing loud music, lights flashing under their cars.

“Why’s that?”

“Ahead, back. There are other ways to perceive time. Why not up, why not down?”

“Different ideas, I guess.”

“I do not hop back. Why can’t I climb? I climb down into the past, you climb up into the future.” She grabbed his arm. “To be safe, you should put your arms around me.”

He did. She felt warm through a dark purple P-coat. The gang of youths was dancing. To William they looked like high school kids up to no good, exactly what high school kids got up to. William had done his share, but he’d never gotten in trouble. Others had — alternative school for nine weeks, suspension, their chances at college ruined. William was lucky. Others weren’t.

“There’s a lot I would change, if I had your gift,” William said.

“You wouldn’t want to do that. Too much time playing catch-up.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Too much. See that guy in that red sweater?”

He wrote something in the dust on the back of a Volvo. Volvo owner came around, saw it, and pretended to kick him.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

William closed his eyes. The world bent all around him. Then movement, like he was on a high speed train. Nothing like what he felt when he jumped ahead. Voices floated by

other ways to perceive time

faint, puzzled like lost travelers. Her voice rolled over them.

“Open your eyes.”

William opened his eyes. The scene looked the same. Still holding each other, they waited.

Soon, the guy in the red sweater wrote his message.

“I will only climb down here once,” she said. “Do you know why?”

“Because it will degrade. Like a fax sent repeatedly.”

“Interesting analogy. But yes, the step will crumble.”

“It’s alright. It’s not that interesting of a sight anyways.”

She let go of him. “Has the old past faded yet?”

“Almost.” William listened to the last of the old thoughts, from an ignored scene that was becoming just what she’d described: an unremembered dream.

“You are taking a taxi?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Wise choice. You don’t want to get behind the wheel. You had a whole two Coke and Rums.”

“Rum and Coke, and I had four. I’m fine to drive. I just want to be careful.”

“You can never be too careful. Here. I have something for you.”

She pulled a rip of paper out of her pocket. She handed it to him.

“You might not call me for a while, but you should. You and I have a gift that we need to use. There are few like us.”

“Just us.”

“Yes. Just us.

#

She left. William read the note. Lisa, and her phone number below her name.

William waited for the taxi by the big camel. This late Davin was asleep and Alisha was still out, maybe in the arms of some drunken chubby-chaser who’d picked The Banque to troll for pussy tonight. He didn’t think about jumping ahead or climbing up while waiting for the taxi. He just waited and when it came he looked at the number and realized that he hadn’t given her his.


 

This was a sample from Keepers of Time. Samples, in order:

  1. A Step Ahead
  2. Thirty-Four with a Shrug
  3. An Encounter at the Thirsty Camel

Thanks for reading!

 

A Step Ahead (from a WIP)

William Benson, a United States Sailor, learns he can travel short distances into the future.

“Ice Valley,” William said. “From Metroid Prime.”

He crossed his legs. He and Mario — CTT1 Mario, a newly minted Petty Officer First Class — were listening to Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos on William’s iHome speakers.

“Everyone draws inspiration from the classics,” Mario said. “There’s nothing new under the sun. All music can be sourced to like four fucking songs.”

“We don’t know about ancient music.”

“Yeah we do. Go on YouTube.”

“Those are reconstructions.” William ought to know. In grad school, his thesis advisor had produced a reworking of Babylonian music. Here’s what I think it sounds like . . . and a man with a PhD in music, one of the lucky few to have tenure, had spent five years working on it, years William could compact into minutes.

“Well obviously they can’t hop in the DeLorean and — what?”

“Your age is showing.”

“My age? How old are you again, thirty?”

“Twenty-nine.” And William had joined the Navy at twenty-seven, after dropping out of the Master’s program in Music. Years spent toiling under old men who constantly told him “it gets better” with the sincerity of a late-night pitchman. Except it never did. Those years William hadn’t been able to speed up, and even if he could have, what would he have sped them up to? This? Waiting on a floating dumpster for the poor lower ranks to finish off-loading trash while the squadron assholes just sat around?

“Rough Riders this is the CMC,” came the voice over the 1MC. “We still have a lot of trash. If you’re just sitting there in the hangar bay, waiting for liberty call, we’d appreciate it if you’d help out. No one’s getting off this ship, repeat, no one’s getting off this ship until we get all the trash off, so I need everyone’s help. CMC out.”

William got up.

“Oh? Going to help out?”

He shrugged. “You know me. Super Sailor.”

William climbed the ladderwell to the next deck. The head was separate from the berthing, beside a hatch leading to the forward mess decks, and it had a lock. The combo used to be secret. None of the deck apes the Navy had rescued from the welfare line could go in and trash their head. Then one day the CMC decided that all head combos must be 1-2-3-4 because he didn’t believe in locked heads. Since then . . .

William put in the not-so-secret combo and went inside, bracing himself for the worst. William had come in here before to find all three stalls taken. He’d come in here and smelled smells not meant for human nostrils, smells to wilt your nose hairs, all because the CMC did not believe in locked heads.

It was one of the few policies he could create himself — usually he just enforced whatever the CO and the omnipresent Big Navy said — so the CMC was sticking to his guns. William understood. He didn’t hold it against the man.

William went into the last stall. He locked it, keeping an eye on the iron angle. One morning he’d banged his head on the edge, and the pain had lasted all day. When designing this ship, human comfort had come second to how much shit they could squeeze into one space, and God help you if you were tall.

William sat on the toilet, pants on. He clasped his hands, lowered his head and closed his eyes.

What a trick to learn, what a gift to have. If he’d known this earlier, how much tedium he could have saved in boot camp. He’d discovered his gift in A-school, and when the asshole in charge of barracks room inspections failed half the students over petty bullshit, it took no time at all for William to finish his extra cleaning duties. Clean for five minutes, then go sit somewhere alone.

Concentrate.

William concentrated. He felt slightly buzzed when he did this. He didn’t open his eyes — that would ruin everything. He was moving through a tunnel, and he heard nothing. The world quietly awaited his return.

William stopped moving. He opened his eyes and checked his watch. He’d sent himself ahead two hours. Was that enough? He went down to the berthing.

Everyone was gone but Mario.

“Figured you’d be out too.”

“They called E5’s?”

“Yeah, but I got duty tomorrow, so . . . ” He raised his middle finger up and down.

William nodded. “It’s alright. My speakers can keep you company.”

Sea Age (from a work-in-progress)

On the way home, William thought about aging.

William had seen the effects of the Navy. You had a shore age and a sea age, and your age at sea could affect your shore age. For example, a former AG, Tindale, had joined the Navy at nineteen. Four years later, he left at twenty-three, only he looked closer to forty-three. Life as a ship’s company AG — duty days, maintenance, cranking in the mess decks twice — had made him skip a few grades in the primary school of life. Now he was in college, older, wiser, haggard . . . and not without a huge drinking problem, undisputed master of the beer funnel.

Your shore age is twenty-nine. Which made his sea age . . . he thought about it. One did not simply add a number to get one’s sea age.

William parked in his driveway and looked in the rearview mirror. Adding a number didn’t cut it. You had to look in the mirror too. The changes to your face helped determine the number; they didn’t lie.

“I’d say about fifty,” he said to the face in the mirror.

The lines on that face agreed.


 

Other samples from Keepers of Time:

Bloody Marys