Know Why You Write

When my sister and I shared a bedroom as kids, I used to tell her stories before we went to sleep. I made them up. As a teen I played D&D, not as a character but the guy that invented the stories for characters to wind their way through. On submarines in the north Atlantic, I sat before the missile launcher console and told stories like all sailors do to pass the time. I was always going to tell stories.

And when I finished my naval career and worked in a hotel, I realized how long I’d gone accepting my identity as that man in uniform. I pictured my job, my career, as who I was. One look at my new surroundings and I said, “I must be more than what pays the bills. But what?”

At forty-three I realized, I don’t know who I am anymore. Throughout that night, between auditing the day’s books and fixing the complimentary breakfast for the coming morn, I struggled to connect the dots. At one point I asked myself, “How can I turn being a solitary daydreamer to a good purpose?”

“I’ll write.”

My laptop came with me to work. Rather than watch infomercials or reruns on the lobby TV, I wrote. The story I began with had been a plot for a game I’d intended to run. A recent conversation with an old friend left me with that as my first manuscript.

Granted, I hoped to earn a living as a writer, to return to the Appalachians and write near my kin. And that dream hasn’t died. One of the books I read in my quest to suck less and write more said, “It takes ten years to become an overnight success.”

I’ve been at it for five. I love writing. I love the notion that a story once stirred in my mind might tickle other brains.

So now I must ask, why will you write?

I’ve met those who never expect or even want their words published for others to read. They write as therapy or posterity. They write journals, diaries, or manifestos.

Many imagine a quick and easy path to wealth or fame. It’s possible, unlikely as hell, but possible. Sure, anyone who’s gone to school can write a sentence. It takes little more to string them together to tell a story. But is it compelling? As I write, zillions of folks are publishing their first works via the internet. A hopeful best-selling author has gone from a small fish in a big pond to plankton in the Pacific.

Everyone has the patience for something. They tend to the tedious tasks in their passion with love and focus. I liken it to carpentry. I can purchase the materials, slap them together, and voila, I’ve made a table. But will anyone purchase it? Will they display it with pride in their home?

A carpenter finds love in the measuring, cutting, sanding, staining, etc. He sees the finished product in his mind and strives to bring his vision to reality.

I know a carpet cleaner who’s passionate about his profession. His face lights up while he shares his joy: to enter a home and restore beauty hidden by filth.

I don’t get it at first. And then I turn his story in my head and it all makes perfect sense.

He’s found his passion just as I’ve found mine. Will you find yours in writing? If so, congratulations. If not, mark it off the list and continue your quest for your purpose.

Too Gay? Yup. The Story of an Author Who Tried Too Hard.

“

My husband would love reading this,” an author friend and navy-wife said. “But as soon as you got to this point, he’d throw it in the trash.”

These words weren’t spoken out of malice but concern.

Let me explain.

Life’s like a pinball machine, you never know where all the bumps take you. As a US navy submariner and a fan of Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot, I thought it’d be great to set my own vampire novel on a submarine. In order to darken the story more (and avoid concerns that I shared classified information about my naval exploits) I set the story aboard a Cold War era Soviet submarine. And then it hit me. I have always included a romantic element in my novels.

How can the hero ‘get the girl’ among an all-male crew?

Short answer: a homosexual relationship.

Once I’d answered all my questions about how to begin Red Sounding, I started writing like mad. Thankfully my writers’ workshop friends saved me from a big mistake.

The image above comes from a late night cartoon: Archer. In the episode, ‘Honeypot,’ the hero tries to go undercover to entice a gay spy to hand over valuable secrets. Naturally, stereotypes drive him to extremes and his cover is blown.

That’s where my novel was headed.

In an attempt to write a gay romance within my horror novel, I’d tried too hard. The forced scenes made little sense and came across with an uncomfortably plastic feel. And while I debated deleting everything and starting over, a better idea came to mind. I’ll treat my homosexual naval officer like any other character with a secret to hide. Rather than put a sign with blinking lights over Zhora Ivankov’s head, I’ll keep him as real as I can and focus on a character driven story.

Within the following months a theme evolved around Zhora Ivankov. We all have secrets we feel will undo our lives if revealed. Many dance on the razor’s edge between being true to ourselves and fitting in enough to be accepted. Ivankov’s outsiderness became familiar. I wrote from my own heart about that feeling.

As a geek with Asperger’s Syndrome I grew up beyond the golden dome of popular people. When I joined the navy I donned a sailor’s persona as readily as the uniform I wore. Only after the navy did I consider letting the real me out more often and more freely. I am happier for it. Now I crusade for others to likewise embrace their outsiderness. If we all felt so free, the mainstream might drop to a trickle and the outstreams might earn the world’s respect with equal zeal.

When I was a boy, my parents were embarrassed by my geekish interests and as a result I kept them secret when I went to school. Now, through social media, I realize how many friends I could’ve had in those lonely days. So many of my classmates have been fans of my favorites for decades. If I hadn’t kept a lid on my fandom we might’ve been friends all this time.

I’m fifty. And as I go to conventions I realize my concept of hidden passions may be dated. I have Doctor Who décor in my home that wasn’t available when I was twelve. At conventions I see families now who share their love of such things.

So in the end I hope readers, gay and straight alike, can see my story for what it is; a horrific tale of hate’s harvest and love’s power.

Love’s Fire: What Will Keep Your Heart Warm Throughout Life’s Cold Dark Nights?

A camp fire requires a spark, kindling, and solid blocks of wood to really last. But fire only serves a good purpose if cared for. Unattended it’ll either die or consume everything around it. Love and fire share many characteristics.

Love’s spark comes from that feeling one gets when they first meet a new friend or lover. We see them and our heart flutters. A fever washes over us. Or their laughter catches out ear and turns out head. Whatever love’s initial spark, it emboldens us to draw closer and ignite.

Kindling comes from those first encounters when we’re on our best behavior. Eager to consume more but afraid our own faults might dowse the flame, we fight to be everything our partner desires. But while kindling burns hot, it cannot sustain itself. Chilling darkness collapses in on superficial relationships when the pine straw flames out. Its heat must penetrate layers of fear, pride, and ego. Our innermost selves must welcome the heat to catch fire.

Hardships will come and disappointments arise. We’re never as well put together as we tell the world. But the value of that deeper fire keeps us alive in the freezing winter nights. The light of our love shines in the darkest night. The product of our smoldering selves is life.

A well planned campfire can still go out. Damp wood and cold gust threaten to snuff out the flame. Don’t take love’s heat for granted. Stoke the coals, add more kindling. Revisit what that first spark ignited and reflect on all you may be thankful for in the red embers of your past together.

All good fires require boundaries to keep people safe. Clear away any flammable temptations. Corral the heat with a ring of rocks or encase it within a safe fireplace. Fire will consume any fuel in reach and burn you in your sleep.

Fire brought humanity out of the dark and tamed the cold. We’ve fashioned lanterns, kilns, ovens and industry, all to harness fire for our benefit. So too, love strengthens the weak, emboldens the timid, and heals the lame. Love’s fire lights life’s hope. And life’s hope forges humanity’s faith in a brighter future.

Where Do Monsters Come From? The Love Equation

Fear is the flowerbed of imagined monsters. In our minds shadows grow and gain power. They form limbs and lumber about. But real monsters, where do they come from? My new novel uses one to expose the other in an effort to defeat them all.

As a popular song once said, “Love is the answer.” Subtract love or add hate to any child’s life and see what sprouts from within. I include hate in the love equation because I see it as the negative digits on a numeral scale. Simplistic as it sounds, I’ve seen people with a love surplus withstand greater hate.

But a tragic transformation occurs somewhere beyond the zero between love and hate. Some starving hearts, those with no hope in sight or no positive reference, feed on another source. “Hurt people hurt people,” I’ve heard. The news and history provide ample evidence. In the absence of love or having grown up unaccustomed to it, the heart devours admiration, fear, and pain. It delights in suffering and seeks vengeance for old wrongs.

Humanity’s greatest and most horrific achievements were accomplished with heartfelt passion. Our ability to love others and the effort to love strangers and even enemies will turn back the hatred tide one spot on the number line at a time. Our kind words and actions today can save tomorrow from the next atrocity visited by someone who’s lost sight of the positivity of their own heart.

Salem’s Lot Mixed with Hunt for Red October: I Couldn’t Help Myself

Mixing genres doesn’t always work, but I couldn’t help but wonder what a vampire novel might unfold aboard a Cold War submarine. November 2014, look for the novel that smashes military thriller with vampire horror.

Salem’s Lot, by Stephen King, was my first book read for enjoyment as a fifteen year old. I loved the way the vampire crept into a small town and subverted its weakest members, the way Jerusalem’s Lot rotted from the bottom up. And when the pillars of the community dropped their veil of denial it was already too late for most. The heroes were people armed with imagination enough to believe the impossible and courage to face evil with a dangerous fascination.

That’s me in the center, driving. My mentor, Moose, is standing, gripping the pipe in front of him.

I served on four submarines over my naval career of twenty-three years. A hundred and fifty men settle in between a nuclear reactor, missiles, torpedoes and drive out into the open ocean for months. Cabin fever and spiteful pranks aside, we always managed to come back to port satisfied we’d done our part to avert nuclear Armageddon.

Out at sea I often wondered how some of my favorite movies and books might play out on a submarine. Once I began my writing career it was merely a matter of time before Red Sounding became a reality. But some questions needed to be answered and some details nailed down.

The Soviet Union, America’s nemesis during the first half of my career offered an ideal setting for a crew driven to stay on task through the initial outbreak of unexplained deaths. As a fan of science fiction and history, the USSR made an obvious choice as a for-real dystopian society.

Able Archer ’83 added a much-needed piece to the puzzle. In my research I discovered a little known moment in history when the Moscow seriously considered America on the verge of launching an all-out war under the pretense of an international exercise. The USSR felt as clearly threatened as close to war as we did during the Cuban Missile Crisis.

So, war on the horizon, a vampire in the shadows, and nowhere to run-the thrill is on.

It’s Not Impossible, It Takes Work, Passion, and Dedication

     As a child, we’re encouraged to dream. We’re told we can be anything we want to be. But as we grow up, many avenues close, most our friends and family discourage wild ideas, and we settle into whatever rut we land in when the wind goes out of our sails.

      That’s what I did. But eventually, I came back to my dream, at forty-two, and got serious about it. It’s not made me rich but it’s enriched my life. It’s been said, you don’t know God is all you need until God is all you have. Likewise, when nothing seems possible, the impossible doesn’t seem so far out of reach.

 http://news.wjct.org/post/closing-loop-winfield-strock-iii

    Don’t wait until you hit bottom to reach for the sky.

 

Red Sounding: An Interview with Lieutenant Zhora Ivankov

Hello everyone. We’re in the year 1983, with Soviet naval officer, Zhora Ivankov

What’s your job on your submarine, K-389?

     -I’m the Tactical Officer. I coordinate the ship’s sensors like sonar, radar, and periscope sightings to track enemy vessels. I also oversee the torpedo systems to dispatch those vessels. With the submerged environment we cloak ourselves to hunt beneath the waves. But this cloak also blinds us. Imagine hunting an armed burglar in the dark. Whoever shoots first either wins if their aim is true or exposes their position only to be killed himself.

What’s it like being in the Soviet navy, on a submarine?

     -Imagine your whole life wrapped in a titanium capsule. We operate and fix machinery that defends our nation and keeps us alive. Fresh water, oxygen, electricity, we produce all these. Our food, cooks prepare in the galley. Our beds lie between the missile tubes. Every crewman counts and the slightest error might endanger us all. We do what we can to ease tension: music, cards, pranks, but our jobs and duty we take very seriously.

Where are you from?

     -Murmansk. My father commands the Northern Fleet out of Severomorsk. My mother, well, she does her best to be a good Communist Party wife. She entertains my father’s friends and rubs elbows with the wives of other politically minded men.

What was growing up like? Did you have any brothers and sisters?

     -I was born in a navy hospital in Severomorsk in 1959. My father spent most his time away, either at sea or remotely posted. I was an only child. After my birth, my mother couldn’t have any more children. She barely survived. My mother treated me like a delicate treasure. My father kept mistresses and discounted my mother’s value as her youth faded. I hated him for it and he me for convicting him every chance I got.

What’s one secret even your closest friends don’t know?

   -Wow, a hard one to answer. I don’t really have any friends anymore.

     -Until recently, I’d have said my biggest secret was my interests in love. There are terms and tags for people like me, but I choose to avoid them. They evoke stereotypes and judgments. I’m no stereotype and I’ve had enough judgment for one lifetime.

     -My newest, biggest secret… I’m a vampire. Beaten by my crewmates for whom I choose to love, they left me for dead. I begged to be made a vampire by the creature that found me. He meant to kill me, said the only purpose I had left to serve was to feed him. I offered him a home on my submarine in exchange for another chance to get life right.

What about your current family?

     -Funny, my ‘family’ consists of my father vampire, a daughter I created, and her first creation. Sevastyan is older than the Soviet Union itself. He considers our kind a part of nature, predators to cull the human herd.

     -Vladlena, my ‘daughter’ adored me when we were both humans. She crept around the corners of her whorehouse to admire me. When I came to her in that burning building as a vampire, she saw me as her savior. Our relationship has cooled since I shared my blood with her. She’s seen into my heart as a result. She knows the atrocities I’ve committed.

     -Vadim Adaksin I consider a ‘son-in-law’. My daughter sought him out and took him into our family without my consent or counsel. For that, tension between the three of us runs high. Vadim’s already begun to ruin my plans for K-389. I’d hoped to turn the submarine into a mobile mausoleum from which to roam the Earth and feed.

What’s your goal in life? What drives you to excel, to wake up every day and do the daily grind all over again?

    -As a living man I’d hoped to keep two happy lives from colliding. I had found love and a career I loved, but the Soviet Union and especially the Red Fleet doesn’t tolerate my desires. I love men and I love my career as a naval officer defending my country. Until my death I worked very hard to keep those two apart.

     -As a vampire I see myself as an angel of justice. Sure, I’ll kill people, some of them not truly deserving of what I reduce them to, but I focus mostly on unchecked injustice. Lately though, each mind I peer into as I drink their blood, leaves me with few humans to leave unpunished.

What scares you? What keeps your inhibitions in check?

     -I feared my father as a child. My own success as an adult dispelled the only fear I had, except for death. I’ve always been afraid of dying before I’ve made my mark in history.

     My inhibitions were kept in check by the beatings I knew would come if I weren’t discrete. Now that I’ve died and risen a new creature… I fear nothing. Death would release me from the horror I’ve become and success as an avenging angel tempers that self-destructive angst enough to keep me moving forward with my plans. I’ll either succeed through my boldness or die a quick death. Either suits me fine.

If you could be doing something else with your life, what would it be?

    -I would live on the beaches of the Black Sea with the man of my dreams. We’d be spies, a spy team, like in those American and British movies. We’d travel the world and eliminate threats to our nation while drinking martinis.

What is your favorite thing to do with your free time?

-I read. My father’s library included books forbidden in the Soviet Union. He’d always explained, you must know your enemy’s mind to out think him. I like science fiction especially. There’s always something that pushes our future toward one focus.

Do you have someone you love, someone special?

-I do, but he’ll never love me the way I love him. I wrestle with that every time I see him.

If you had to choose between immortality alone and mortality with family, would it be a difficult choice?

-I’ve already chosen. Difficult? Ask me again after I’ve conquered this crew, this submarine.

And for the future… Where do you see yourself in ten years?

  -I will burn the current civilization in a nuclear fire. Two nations in 1983 sit ready to help me. Afterward, I’ll recreate a new world in my own image.

Not Your Typical Death… A Sneak Peek into Red Sounding

Chapter Four

     Mikhail raced through the shipyard. He dodged forklifts laden with crates and ducked cranes as they swung tons of steel. Ice patches had sent him tumbling twice already and he vaulted more between him and the dry dock. Lungs on fire, fingers frozen numb, he fought not to fall down the ship’s brow as he raced across. The sentries topside saluted with raised AK-47’s. Mikhail’s stomach fluttered as he slid down the ladder into the control room.

     “Looks like you found a woman worth your time,” Gravill observed, “and your money.”

     “Yes,” he answered between gasps.

     “Be glad I’d had my fill of her nights ago, then.” The broad-shouldered squat man slapped Mikhail’s shoulder as he passed. “Otherwise she’d been in no shape for even a soft-spoken gentleman like you.”

     “Yes,” Mikhail replied. “Very kind of you.”

     Gavriil shook his head, followed behind Mikhail and entered the wardroom of K-389. Anatoli sat in his chair, his head hung just above a steaming cup of tea. The man’s pallor looked sickly, even for the pasty skinned doctor. Others gathered around the blue felt table leaned into their tea and groaned as the wardroom door closed with a slight click. The small quiet room seemed set for a funeral, with all the mourners gathered.

     Captain Borodin entered from his stateroom’s door to the officer’s wardroom. As one, the officers stood to attention and waited for their commander’s nod before they sat again.

     “What happened last night?” the captain asked, a somber expression draped over his features.

     Each officer looked to their comrades for an answer.

“What happened to Seaman Yanukovich?” With a finger leveled at Gavriil, Captain Borodin continued. “Lieutenant Pelyovin, he was in your division, was he not?”

     Gavriil stiffened. “He is, comrade captain.”

     Captain Borodin shook his head. “Was, he died last night in his bunk. His chief discovered this after he failed to muster this morning.” With a frown he added, “Have you not seen to your men yet this morning?”

     “No comrade captain, like many of us, I was a little late returning aboard last night.”

     The captain drove his fist into the table, sending all the china rattling. “We’ve been in the shipyard too long!”

He stood and looked to the plaques on the wall, commemorations to K-389’s accomplishment over its decade long life. “It’s been my philosophy that the rigors of in-port repairs make a sailor yearn for the sea. The shipyard is different. We watch as strangers work on our systems, many sit by and wait for the fire brigade to save their home.”

     He turned to examine his officers and winced at what he saw. “Doctor, I need you to examine the body. Lieutenant Koryavin, I want you to conduct an investigation. I must know why and how this happened.”

     Mikhail’s throat dried in that instant. The room rippled with heat as he felt himself flush. “I’ll do my best, though I’m hardly qualified.”

     “You are an officer of the Red Fleet,” Borodin growled. He paused, cooled, and took a deep breath. “We solve our problems or we invite another stranger to our home. The NKVD would love a witch hunt to occupy their time and possibly promote themselves closer to Moscow.”

     A hushed meeting followed, the business of the ship pushed on. Full of reports and graphs, each officer bemoaned their meager progress and the lack of resources to see the work through. Once the meeting ended and everyone filed out, Captain Borodin motioned for Mikhail to remain and shut the door.

     “Our professionalism slips, one drunken night at a time.”

     “So it seems, comrade captain.” Mikhail felt his captain’s gaze weighing heavy on him. “I must admit, I too arrived late this morning.”

     The captain’s iron stare softened. In that instant the man looked tired but also paternal, like a father who’d caught his son making the same mistakes he’d made decades ago. He wagged a gnarled finger at Mikhail.

     “That, that is why I’ve appointed you as investigating officer into this matter. You’re young enough, idealistic enough, to value honor and justice… even if it means convicting yourself.”

****

     “The cause of death seems simple enough,” Anatoli explained. “This boy was beaten to death.”

     Doctor Anatoli and Mikhail stood within Sick Bay, an elongated closet bordered by a medicine cabinet, book shelves, a typewriter, and an ‘examination table’ that normally doubled as a desk and Anatoli’s bunk. A heap of medical records sat in the corner, tossed there to make room for a haphazard autopsy. The corpse of Seaman Yanukovich lay before them on the table, sealed in a black plastic body bag.

     “But the watch found him in his bunk,” Mikhail countered. “And he didn’t look nearly as bad as what you’ve indicated.”

     “The bruising took some time to rise to the surface,” the doctor replied. “Not a single bone broken, he’d been pummeled in a way that left no outward marks.”

     At that last comment, Anatoli looked up from his work, over his spectacles. An expectant pause blossomed.

     “What is it Doctor?”

     “You do not know what that likely implies?” he asked in a whisper.

     “Something sinister based on the look you’re giving me.”

     Anatoli reached past Mikhail and shut the door to his office. “Sometimes men take matters into their own hands. A bar of soap in a pillow case has been used to punish thieves in the past. They swing the pillowcase with such speed, the pain is sharp. Such punishments take a couple of men to pin their subject down with a sheet while others hammer him repeatedly.”

     “I’ve heard of this, but never known anyone to die from a blanket party.”

     Anatoli leaned over and unzipped the body bag. Inside Seaman Yanukovich lay naked, covered in narrow bruises each from an inch to three inches in length. With a small, bright flashlight, the doctor illuminated the boy’s temple. The bruising there seemed diffused and larger than the rest.

     “Most of these ‘trials’ end with a severe beating about the torso but it appears someone got over zealous.”

     Mikhail met the doctor’s grim gaze. “Did he die in bed as it appears or did someone tuck this corpse in?”

     “He may have been alive when he entered the bed, but there’s no way he climbed into that bunk with that injury.”

****

     “I don’t know who did it, but everyone knows why.” Gavriil’s smug response trickled a chill down Mikhail’s spine.

     The two sat in the wardroom while the rest of the crew assisted the shipyard in getting K-389 back on schedule. The grating peel of metal grinders and the rat-tat-tat of the impact wrenches set Mikhail’s teeth on edge.

     “And what,” Mikhail asked slowly, “was that, Lieutenant Pelyovin?”

     “Yanukovich was,” Gavriil Pelyovin shrugged, his features soured, “you know, a pidor.”

     “Pardon me, a what?”

     Gavriil’s face whitened as he scowled. “You know, a pederast, a lover of boys and men.”

     Mikhail continued to feign ignorance. “A homosexual? Seaman Yanukovich, a sailor in the Red Fleet?”

     “It happens more than you realize,” Gavriil insisted. He grinned. “I had my doubts about you until you met Nika.”

     “I pour my heart into my work and my duty, not women.”

     “Poor substitutes. As much as I adore my Motherland,” he continued with a sardonic tone, “I’ve never had patriotism take my breath away the way a good woman or a very bad woman has.”

     “Back to the murder of our crewmate, Seaman Yanucovich.”

     “No one intended to kill him,” Gavriil said with a shrug. “But no one will mourn his passing either.”

     “How can you be so smug about it, so nonchalant?”

     Gavriil threw his hand up. “Look, I don’t even know what happened. Maybe he got in over his head in the Chernyy Prichal.”

     “And what do you know about it, the area they call Black Wharf?

     Gavrill’s gaze narrowed, his brow creased. “I only know as much they told everyone when they arrived in Komsomolsk, it’s where perversions abound… and sailors die. We’ve all been warned not to go but deviants will go where their tastes are satisfied.”

     “Yet you’ve no desire to see justice done?”

     “Fate judged him harsher than any of us dared.”

     Mikhail thought of his stepfather, of all the dark moments alone with him, of how he’d prayed for deliverance. He’d thought on murder many times, especially afterward, in those strange moments where his abuser offered condolences and kind words. Through the pain, shame, and tears, he’d prayed for an accident to claim his stepfather’s life. He’d even held the instrument in his hands. On that farm death lurked in every task, every labor. He’d lacked the courage, not to kill him, but to explain his motive and survive the life he imagined. He’d have been labeled a pidor for having allowed it for so long and a murderer for having ended it with patricide. He swallowed hard, focused on his duty, and leveled his glare at the stocky lieutenant across from him.

     “Will your crewmates feel any more comfortable knowing they might stand beside a murderer?”

     Gavriil withdrew a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag. He stared back at Mikhail and exhaled a great smoky sigh. “I don’t like what you’re implying. And I especially don’t like who you’re implying is involved.”

     Mikhail grabbed the wardroom phone to the control room, pressed the buzzer, and waited.

     “Duty officer; this is Lieutenant Koryavin. Have all missile division personnel arrested and confined to the torpedo room.”

     Gaviriil frowned. “The torpedo room; why not there quarters?”

     Mikhail unclenched his jaw. “I’ll need to examine their pillow cases and shower kits.”

Character Interview: Mikhail Koryavin, from the upcoming novel: Red Sounding

Character Interview Questions Mikhail Koryavin

Thanks for joining us! Have a seat, and tell us a little more about yourself. Have you always lived in Petropavlovsk?

                I am Mikhail Koryavin, a lieutenant in the Pacific Red Banner Fleet of the Soviet Union. For me it is the year 1983. I serve aboard the K-389, a Yankee class ballistic missile submarine. I grew up near Donetsk in a farming community. The sea beckoned in my teens, anything to get far from the farm.

What was growing up like? Did you have any brothers and sisters?

                I was born in a Ukrainian collective farm in 1960. There were several families living in a Soviet Commune alongside fields and fields of wheat. We worked together, played together. The families celebrated birthdays and May Day together.

The youngest of three boys, they were rough and tumble brothers. They taught me early on to work hard and play hard. I watched them others move away, the first in 1966 and the second in 1968. They joined the army.

I watched my father die of emphysema. My mother remarried when I was twelve, in 1972. Everything changed afterward.

Have you changed much since you were a kid? Do you still have some of the same fears?

                I used to know how to have fun. I used to play with others. All my fears grew out of my relationship with my stepfather.

What’s one quirk even your best friend or significant other doesn’t know about?

                I puke at the slightest intimacy with anyone but my mother.

What about your current family? Do you have any kids of your own?

                The navy is my family, the submarine K-389 my home.

What is the one thing about yourself you are most proud of?

                I am an officer in the Soviet navy and ready, eager even, to die serving my country.

What about the thing you are least proud of?

                My stepfather sexually abused me. What’s worse, I lacked the courage to kill him then and he haunts my every relationship now.

Your most embarrassing moment?

                My eldest brother came home once. He found me and my stepfather together. He cried out in disgust and ran away before I could explain that I was not consenting to this. I fear what he thinks of me, of what I do to my mother with this.

What is your favorite thing to do with your free time?

                I cannot survive free time. Though Lieutenant Pudovkin shared some contraband music from America. I enjoy Van Halen.

What is your favorite season?

                Fall. I love the colors and the promise of rest after the harvest.

Favorite color?

                Blue, a deep dark blue.

Do you get stage fright?

                I feared public speaking until the naval academy cured me. My roommate, Zhora Ivankov, helped me find courage.

Do you believe in love at first sight?

                I may have found it in an odd place. I’ve fallen for a whore in the town of Komsomolsk. It so happens we share a similar dark past. She’s opened the shutters and allowed the bright light of love to burn away the cobwebs in my heart.

What about ghosts?

                No. Life is life, death is nothing.

If you had to choose between immortality alone and mortality with family, would it be a difficult choice?

                Mortality with my friend Nika, that’s all I need.

And for the future… Where do you see yourself in ten years?

                Captain of my own ship. Buried in my own secrets.

If you could have one wish granted right now, what would it be?

                I would go back in time and kill that man and save the young wonderful boy I was.

Work in Progress: Red Sounding

CHAPTER THREE:

                “As your ship’s doctor, I prescribe a night of drunken debauchery,” Anatoli said with a gurgling chuckle.

Rosie highlights adorned the doctor’s sallow features. Mikhail had considered it ironic that the ship’s physician seemed in the poorest of health amongst the crew. But though he appeared only a wrinkled drape of skin on a knobby boned skeleton, the doctor’s constitution always withstood the harshest treatment, especially when drinking.

                Mikhail pulled his shipmate closer. “I know Anatoli, you’ve said this three times tonight.”

                The doctor snickered as he collapsed into his drink. “So get drunk already.”

                Mikhail surveyed the smoky bar and shook his head. Half the officers of the K-389 stood along a wall, leaning over the high tables or sitting in the stools. Their objective, a row of women dressed and painted to negotiate their evening, a sailor’s wages for a night of passion.

A bench made of thick wood ran the length of that wall. The women here guarded their purses more closely than their modesty or pride. They winked and nodded, laughed and gasped with practiced skill at all the proper cues.

Posters plastered the concrete walls, a collage of propaganda, health reminders and factory slogans. In a few small niches, minute pieces of crude art hid the blistered paint, a tug boat, the shipyard landscape, a faceless portrait.

From a bar whose lacquered surface faded away years ago, shipyard workers eyed their naval comrades, not a cheerful face amongst them. The bar tender and his staff served as ambassadors between the two crowds as much they did vodka, black bread, and goat cheese. Komsomolsk-on-Amur stood a city besieged by lonesome young sailors anxious to squeeze a lifetime of revelry into every evening ashore.

                “I think we’ve enough drunk sailors for one establishment,” Mikhail cautioned. “I only came to sickbay hoping to play another game of chess. My heart belongs to the K-389.

                Anatoli followed Mikhail’s gaze and snorted. “Not to worry, after you saved the ship with a fountain of turds and toilet paper, I gave you enough immunizations to protect you against anything these tramps carry.” He nudged Mikhail. “Go on, like the submarine, you need some upkeep if you’re to stay together in the upcoming patrol.”

                Mikhail studied each of the remaining solitary women. Uniquely unappealing to most, the dregs of Komsomolsk’s gutter, one caught his eye. Scrawny even by gulag standards, she met his gaze with cool blue eyes unwavering and unashamed. She raised her shot glass to salute him without a false smile or a forced twinkle in her eye.

                An iron hammer drove between his shoulder blades and Mikhail’s drink tumbled to the floor with a crash.

“Go on, latrine commissar,” a raspy gravel voice commanded. Mikhail winced as he looked over his shoulder.

Gavriil Pelyovin’s goading grin completed the block-headed missile officer’s taunting efforts. “She’s thin as a fishing pole, but just as flexible. If I couldn’t break her, you’re in no danger.”

Mikhail drew in a deep breath and held it while he sought a suitable retort. With an exhale through clenched teeth he forced a smile. “I’ve no intention of breaking the lady. I’d rather treat her like a gentleman and see where that leads.”

“She’s no lady,” Gavriil snickered. “And gentlemen don’t shower themselves with the crew’s filth.”

Mikhail stood, turned, and looked down at the stocky lieutenant. He mustered his sternest glare. “Better a filthy survivor than a tidy corpse. I know you don’t think much of me or the woman over there, but give us both a break.”

“You’re drunk, Lieutenant Pelyovin,” Anatoli observed. “Go on and bother someone else.”

Gavriil stepped back, frowned and examined Mikhail from beneath his broad Neanderthal brow. His fists clenched and unclenched. He shifted his footing to a boxer’s stance.

“Are you looking for a fight?” Gavriil asked with a crooked grin.

“I’m not,” Mikhail explained as he took a defensive posture, “but I’ll not back down from one, ever.”

He leaned in and slapped Mikhail’s upper arm. With a devilish grin and a sharp laugh he replied. “We’re going to have fun at sea, I can see that already.”

“Damn your foolish pride,” Anatoli cursed in a low shaky voice. “Take your frustrations out some other way, or I’ll have you both taken back to the ship in irons.”

A hand gripped Mikhail’s shoulder from behind and he whirled about, ready to fight. His jaw dropped as his fierce gaze met that of an equally fierce woman. Something seeped in from the hard edges of her eyes and showed in her faltering thin frown.

“Would you rather spend tonight in a hospital bed, or mine?” Her stern set features softened and she smirked. “I can provide the irons too, if you like.”

Gavriil chuckled and retreated to join Anatoli. With no seat to go back to, and everyone watching, Mikhail offered an arm to the slim woman.

“Lieutenant Mikhail Koryavin, of the Red Fleet, at your service.”

“Nika, simply Nika,” the woman replied. “Unless you prefer another name, I’ve had several.”

He ushered her to the bar and ordered a bottle of vodka and two glasses. He leaned against the thick wooden bar. “You’ll not find I’m not nearly as rambunctious as my shipmates, hardly any fun at all, really.”

Nika set the glasses atop the bottle and nodded toward the stairs. “As long as you’re paying, I’ll be fine. I could use a break from rowdy sailors.”

The stairs and hallway felt drafty and were littered with merriment’s debris, cigarette butts, cans and bottles. Nika looked to him while she unlocked the door. “You can pay, can’t you?”

More concrete greeted him, though devoid of posters to hide its peeled skin of paint. A bed, a hotplate on a table, a bathroom, and four factory sized windows with only whitewash to offer privacy or shield against the bitter winds rattling against the thin panes. Inside the drafty apartment, Mikhail still felt the heat of his anger, and something else, fear.

“What’s your flavor, sailor?” Nika asked as bent down, unzipped and peeled off her plastic boots. At his silence she looked back at him. “Oh, did you like the boots?”

“They’re nice,” he whispered.

“Ah, I’ll put them back on then.” She sat on the edge of her bed. Rusty bedsprings squealed at her waifish frame. “Anything else you’d like me to wear?”

“All of it,” he murmured.

Nika’s eyes widened. “What is this? Are you here to arrest me? The bar tender told me he took care of all that.”

“No,” Mikhail said.

“What’s wrong with you?” she wondered with a scowl beneath eyes alight with fear. “You were full of fire downstairs, but now…

As her voice trailed off her fear faded in favor of a snide crooked smile. “I’m not exactly your type, am I?”

“What?” Mikhail asked his shock came out, barely a whisper.

Nika sprang up from the bed, raced to him and put a finger to his lips. “Shush, there’s no cause for alarm. As long as I can get a finder’s fee, I’ll fetch you a handsome young man to keep you warm. I know a few in town.”

Mikhail grabbed her by the wrists and pushed her backwards until he threw her onto the bed. “Don’t you dare say that,” he growled. “I’m no pidor and I’m no policeman either.”

“Alright, don’t pick a fight with me,” she cried as she rubbed her reddened wrists. “I only wanted to figure you out so we can move this along. I’ve got a long night ahead of me and I’d just as soon get the pleasantries over if I’m to make any money.”

Mikhail bent down and pulled her skirt off and threw it across the room. He grasped the waistband of her leggings and started to peel them off. Nika squirmed backwards on her elbows until she lay diagonally across the bed in only a sweater and a leather jacket.

Mikhail unbuttoned his tunic and pants, letting each drop as he shed them. He crawled onto the bed over top of Nika, examining her as he inched up to meet her astonished gaze. She brought her hands up between them.

“No kissing,” she whispered with a pouting frown. She began rubbing her hands together.

“What’re you doing?” Mikhail muttered.

“Getting ready to do… this.” She grabbed him and all his muscles drew taught. From the shadowy corners of his mind, unwelcome demons leapt. Memories of his stepfather and their evenings together flooded in. The way he’d groped and grabbed, whispering kind words, loving words all the while.

“You sick bastard,” she yelled. “I don’t do that!”

Mikhail examined her, panicked by the loss of time between nightmare and chaos.

In his shock induced stupor, he’d puked, all over her. He scrambled to his feet as Nika shoved him away.

“Nika,” he began, his voice trembling still from the wake of fear and hurt a decade old. “Nika, I don’t know what happened. I’m so sorry.”

“What was that?”

“Shut up and let me think,” Mikhail spat back. “If you hadn’t been so damned pushy… I tried to tell you…

Nika stood and marched into the bathroom. The pipes groaned and thumped as she turned on the faucet, cussing under her breath all the while. Soon she emerged with a bucket, a sponge, and disinfectant.

“I’ll buy you a new mattress and new sheets,” he promised.

“Where?” She shook her head and peeled away the soaked bedding. “There’s none in Komsomolsk to buy, comrade.” Her final word stung Mikhail with its tone. “This isn’t some naval academy dorm. I had to steal these from a hospital.”

She turned from her work and glared. “The least you can do is clean up after yourself.”

As the layers of sheets came off, Mikhail heard the mattress crinkle; a layer of yellowed plastic protected the mattress. Nika shrugged as she noticed Mikhail’s surprise.

“This isn’t the first time someone’s messed up my bed.”

Once they’d finished, Mikhail stood and stumbled to a nearby chair.

“And I thought I was fucked up,” Nika observed.

Mikhail ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t even know where to begin, how to…”

Nika dropped her sponge and bucket, shuffled closer and took his hand in hers. As she did, Mikhail realized how much it trembled.

“I think I understand,” Nika whispered.

Mikhail’s lungs seized up. He looked into her eyes and felt himself growing fragile, like newspaper dissolving into embers in the fireplace.

“I was a shivering mess the first few times as a teen.” Her gaze lowered and drifted into dark memories.

“I’m no pidor,” Mikhail insisted. “I like women.”

A harsh laugh escaped Nika. She offered an apologetic glance and a wry smile. “You’ve a funny way of showing it.”

“I would love to bed you,” Mikhail continued, his voice sounding like a plea. “It’s just… hard.” He let out a nervous laugh. “I mean, difficult.”

Nika turned from him and walked to where her leggings lay. As she bent to retrieve them, Mikhail admired her long legs and firm bottom. Were she not a continent away from Moscow, she might’ve been a gymnast.

After a long silence between them, Mikhail marched to the table, poured himself a tall glass of vodka and gulped it down. As the liquor slid down his gullet and stung every inch on the way, he let out a great sigh. Eyes closed, inhaling the odors of a filthy apartment, old garbage, mildewed shower curtains, and the musky undercurrent of sex; he turned to face Nika.

“I don’t suppose you play chess?”

“You’re still paying, right?” she asked with a half-smile. It faded as she explained. “I’ve got people to pay. I don’t pay, I sleep in the street. The whore commune has some pretty harsh rules.”

Mikhail grinned and shook his head. “What else have I to spend my money on except a quiet night with someone who understands me more than anyone else?”

“Calm down, sailor, I’m nobody’s counsellor or confessor.”