Thinking About Claude

 It was on a Friday morning in March of 2017 when I went into my favorite Starbucks. Now allow me to here state that I am not endorsing this company or their products, mainly because I absolutely loathe coffee. The thing is, they have wifi and that allows me to sit somewhere other than where I do when home and work. For me, the environment change helps at times and it's nice to be able to prove that I still have the power to be completely invisible in public.

Now as to why this particular Starbucks is my favorite, well, there are two in Prescott I visit. One is near my daughter's school and my work, roughly a triangle of a half mile between the three locations. This is where I go in the mornings when I take my daughter to school. The other is in a large, outdoor mall that is mostly now empty spaces. The Starbucks is where a Wendy's used to be and it's my favorite because of the set up inside. Where the first has hard wooden chairs on tables that rock back and forth unevenly, the second is ringed inside by soft, cushy bench seats and tables that rock back and forth unevenly. It as well features these against the wall so as to thwart those who might snoop in. You know, that hint of privacy in public. Also, can't find a good local company in my travel zone that has decent seating or readily available outlets. Alas, the trials of the modern pulp writer...

Now as to why this particular morning was important, it is because I had arrived there shortly after dropping my daughter off at school and with nothing ahead of me until time to pick her up, I had dedicated this day to disappearing. I succeeded magnificently and to this day, I think some of the imagery in the opening parts of the story that emerged full and complete that day remains some of the most evocative which I have penned. Then again, when your inspiration is an Arizona sunset, it is hard to fail in this duty.

I had been thinking about Claude, someone I did not know yet beyond the name whispered in my ear during a walk in the snow shortly after writing "Where Lies Hope". The only other thing I knew about Claude at this time was his last name and the fact that the person walking snow-blind through the forest was not Claude. That's pretty much what I had when I sat down that day and even though near three years had passed since those first considerations, I had never been able to advance beyond what I had at that point. By school-day's end, when I packed up my computer satisfied and somewhat amazed at what I had done, a 2,399 word short story sprung full over a few hours, and headed off to pick up my daughter without knowing a single thing more about Claude other than he once had a padded canvas coat with a tartan pattern inside and that his brother owned the coat now because Claude was gone. Claude remained a mystery, one which would wait until January of 2018.

As for what emerged that day, it was a simple tale, one which I let flow of its own. I know that sounds silly, but some of my stories appear that way. Some I meticulously plan out and have notes galore detailing elements either to be included or that which focuses the work in the history. I have some which I have struggled on, working and re-working sections, trying for days to break past the devil in my path. I have one story which I wrote a year and a half from this which after I finished, I saved that draft separate for archival purposes and then rewrote the whole resulting in about 90% change in text while retaining the story. Then there are those which I enter into with nothing but fingers hitting the keys and allowing the spark ignited to take its course

"The Night Hans Kroeger Came Back" was just such a story.

At this point I did not know too much about the Bajazid Valley or the town of Baird's Holler. It was a wild and unkempt place in my mind with only vague knowledge of some of the important events which took place. What history that was could be found pretty much only in "I'll Always Be With You, Boys" and that was broad and sketchy. Thus I found myself wondering when and what and why with no clue as to what to do. I believe the initial prompt came with reference from a line in that story about someone shot the year before by one of the town/mine owners (Sultans), or more correctly, insists he shot through thrice and claims to have done so still to assuage his aggrieved ego. That was all where I took it and from there, all I needed was my sunset.

This story is set to appear in the WeirdBook Annual #3, due out very, very soon and as soon as I find time to learn how to use this blog thingy and add links, I'll add links to these books I mention wherein my stories appear. Please note that anything I post thus is work which I have already been compensated for so I am not making anything off any sales I might and hopefully inspire with the products these fine publishers are producing. These publications, anthologies of short stories by regular folk just wanting to tell their tales, are the lifeblood of creative speculative fiction today, serving as the pulps once did to bring the voices of the People back to the People. Please, support these publishers and adorn the libraries in your homes with works of wonder and imagination the plain, regular folk who aren't cool enough to read weird fiction will never understand. In other words, get your super-secret passkey to worlds beyond by purchasing from these publishers. Especially WeirdBook... and I mean that. READ WEIRDBOOK! The cool kids know why...

 "The Night Hans Kroeger Came Back" was not intended to be an anchor story, one from which others spawned from. It was just a brief little moment at the end of a day, one which has taken on much more meaning than it was supposed to. For one, it set an important environmental event in permanence, a blizzard which formed to answer the question of the snow-blindness that still haunted me. This blizzard will grow and it now exists as one of the primary focal points in the history, one which later research into that story I nearly completely rewrote will ultimately prove a happy accident, landing this blizzard with what I know can appear historically in Arizona, in a year perfectly favorable (and later proven so) to such weather.

Hans' tale does not take place anywhere near that blizzard, either seasonally or, well within the decade. That blizzard is for another time so ya'll should stop focusing so hard on it here. I mean, seriously, this story has nothing to do with either a blizzard or Claude. Nope!

What this story does ultimately do is open doors for ever so many to come and act as a linchpin connecting disparate Tales seemingly unconnected. For example, there is a hint in here that ties directly to a phrase casually mentioned in "My Thoughts on What Happened to Timmy Carmichael", just an aside to add depth and flavor. In September of 2017, still months away, I would discover how that story of a church group in 1992 would intertwine with the lead accountant at the mine and his fate the month following Hans' return and why my good friend, Leopold Tarkenfeld, impressed me so much.

Nothing here is given away, not of the half-sentence bread-crumb I dropped in this tale. Not one mention of any of this, the church group, the clerk, or Tarkenfeld appear in "The Night Hans Kroeger Came Back", but it is because of this story that those three extremely disparate elements will come together. This is how the Bajazid works and I've found no less than a dozen such hints left to myself in that tale. These hints might take the form of stories directly inspired or, as with the work I am currently avoiding to write this blog, featuring a face seen only in the briefest glimpse as the narrative of Hans' return plays out.

The fun part for me is, and this, I must confess, has become one of my primary goals, are these connections, these threads which weave throughout the Tales of the Bajazid. As these stories build, as they grow and piece together... as those ghosts ever haunting whisper their lamentations into my ears... I begin to catch a broader view of what is and what is possible. My hope has always been that those who pick up a story bearing the sub-title "A Tale of the Bajazid" will, after trying to pronounce that to themselves a couple of times, enjoy the story and mutter to themselves in quiet satisfaction at having done so. Then, well, being a person of character, she reads speculative fiction and finds another tale so sub-titled, that odd word inspiring the hint of memory. When that tale is set down, another is found and yet in another anthology, he finds this sub-title and recognizes something. Each time she flips the pages of her favorite literary pastime, there is this strange creek and things just are so... weird and horrifyingly wrong. At last those strands connecting through time these Tales so territoriality bound draw forth his speculations, ones to be argued with those who have also encountered these tales, but maybe not the same ones.

I have finally found my hobby. Even if not even a penny ever flows beyond, it matters not. I have found my happy place... and it has zombies.