I was eighteen the day I met Jefferson Stone, and even considering my state at the time, I still remember almost every detail.

I sat at a table next to a window in the coffee shop watching big snowflakes drift softly to the pavement. They said it never snowed in Austin, but here it was, filling the air, a billion cotton fibers floating softly to the ground. They melted as they hit, and the scene filled me with delicate sadness. My eyes blurred a little as my mind drifted through memories. I felt the familiar tightening in my stomach, and then reflexively allowed reality back in, seeking comfortable distraction in the room around me. And with its kitschy decor and eclectic patrons, Cardinal Yorkshire’s—or the Cardinal as it was commonly called—had plenty of distraction to offer.

I had spread my chessboard in front of me hoping to find a game, but the Cardinal was uncharacteristically empty, so I read from a tattered paperback until my mind began to drift. I turned back to the snowfall and took a sip from my fourth pint of beer. I leaned back, pulled the glass close to my chest, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply through my nose, holding the air in my lungs for a moment.

Behind me, a scream cracked the silence. Beer splashed onto my shirt as I craned my head around. The outburst had come from Barney, one of the Cardinal’s resident homeless. “Sorry. I’m s-sorry, so sorry. Scared me,” he said. Like many of Austin’s homeless, Barney had a mental disorder, which manifested most prominently through outbursts like this one.

I smiled through my irritation. “It’s okay, Barney.” I rose from my chair and started toward the counter.

“He’s coming,” Barney said. “He sees us.” He pointed a filthy finger at me. “He sees you. But I won’t help him.” He shook his head rapidly, speaking quickly, like a little boy recounting a nightmare.

“Yeah . . . Try not to worry about it too much, man.”

“I try.” He coughed, his head twitching as he squeezed his eyes shut.

What happened to you? I thought as I walked past him.

The bartender, Saul, smiled and shook his head. “You can’t keep your back to Barney.” He handed me a towel from behind the bar.

I returned the smile, patting the front of my shirt with the towel. “I’ll try to remember that. Can I have the bathroom key?”

He reached for it and held it out to me. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, Saul.” I returned his towel and headed to the bathroom. As I emptied my bladder, I decided it was time to go home. I had been at the Cardinal for hours, and I was probably getting too drunk to play chess. When I returned the key to the bar, I lifted my eyes and stopped short.

At my table, at the other end of the coffee shop, I could make out the silhouette of a man against the bright falling snow outside. Something about his form seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him, and I suddenly began to feel a little anxious.

As I crossed the shop, the details became clearer to me. The man was perhaps in his mid-sixties, wearing pressed wool pants and a white button-down shirt, with sleeves neatly rolled up, revealing lean forearms. He had one leg tossed casually over his knee, a clean leather shoe dangling off the floor. One elbow was propped over the back of a chair, and in his other hand he held my paperback, gazing at the pages through small, round, wire-rimmed spectacles.

He was bald to the back of his head, and the little bit of gray hair that remained on the sides was cut short. A scar trenched its way from the top of his forehead to the middle of his exposed scalp like the mark of Ahab. The man looked up from the book, and our eyes met. I tried to pull my gaze away, but something held me there. “Is this your table?” he asked.

I nodded.

He gestured at the chessboard in front of him. “How about a game?” He ran his fingers gently over the scar on his head.

“Actually, I was about to leave.”

“I hope you don’t mind that I was looking at your book. I marked your place.”

I looked at him almost suspiciously. “That’s okay.”

“Well?” he said. “One game?” He looked briefly at the coffee counter, and I turned to follow his gaze. Saul was back now, wiping down the bar.

I looked back at the man in front of me. “Sure.”

He extended his hand. “Jefferson Stone.”

“Douglas Cole,” I slurred, gripping his palm. “I’m just going to get a beer before we start.”

“Go ahead.”

I walked to the counter to order another pint, and when I returned Jefferson was still watching me strangely—almost as if he were looking for something. The familiarity struck me again, but I still couldn’t pinpoint it. “Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so,” Jefferson said, straightening in his chair.

“I thought maybe we had played a game together?”

He shook his head. “No, I think I’d remember.”

“I guess so,” I said, shrugging. I grabbed two pawns from the board—one white and one black—and mixed them up. I hid one in each fist and extended my arms for Jefferson to choose. He pointed to my left hand, and I opened it to reveal the white pawn, which he returned to its place on the board. He opened with his king’s pawn.

Considering the number of beers I had had, I thought it might be wise to move slowly, so I mulled over my positions carefully. Jefferson, however, paid almost no attention to the game, making his moves quickly, then shifting his attention to our surroundings, examining the Cardinal’s decor with an almost childlike fascination. After several moves he said, “So Douglas, are you a student?”

“No, I trade futures.” The words spilled out with effortless haughtiness. “They’re kind of like stocks.”

“What contracts do you trade?”

I looked up, surprised that he knew enough about futures to ask the question. “The financials mostly.”

He nodded casually, and I looked back at the board for a little while longer before moving my king’s knight out. “How do you know about futures?” I asked.

“Oh, I guess I’ve picked up a little here and there. I’m impressed someone your age can handle that kind of risk.” He looked at the board for a moment, then at me again. His brow suddenly creased. “Douglas?” He pointed at the middle of my face.

“What?” I looked down as the word left my mouth, and a crimson droplet hit my shirt. Blood began to pour from my nose. “Shit !” I stood up abruptly, knocking over my chair, and grabbed a napkin from the table to catch the stream. I was about to turn and head for the bathroom when I glanced at Jefferson, our eyes locking again. He almost seemed disappointed, and the thought tugged at me.

I tore my eyes away, looking instead at Barney, who shrank into his seat as I hurried past him to the counter. Saul looked worried. “Here,” he said, offering me a handful of paper napkins, along with the key to the bathroom.

“Thanks,” I pushed the stack against my nose. I rushed to the bathroom, where I threw the blood-soaked napkins onto the floor, grabbed a few paper towels from a stack next to the sink, and reapplied the pressure to my nose. I leaned my head back, holding the position for a few minutes until the bleeding stopped.

I left the bathroom carrying some fresh paper towels, in case the bleeding started again. “Are you okay?” Jefferson asked when I got back to the table, his eyes fixed on the blood staining my shirt.

I grabbed the sweater on top of my bag and slipped it over the mess. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Jefferson had righted my chair, and I sat in it. “Whose move is it?” I asked, trying to redirect the conversation.

“It’s yours. I moved my bishop here.” He pointed to the board, then looked up at me, still concerned. “You should see a doctor about that.”

“I’m fine, really. It’s just a bloody nose.” I hastily moved a rook, and he seemed content not to push the issue, so we played in silence.

The game didn’t last long. “Checkmate,” he said.

I searched briefly for options, but there were none. “Looks like it.” I drained the last of my beer and said, “You’re really good. Are you sure I’ve never seen you in here before?”

“No, I’ve never been here.” He looked uncertain for a moment and then added, “How about you? Do you come here much?”

I laughed. “I live here, man! I’m here just about every day.”

Jefferson rose from his chair, picked up his bag, and put on his coat. “Okay, well, thanks for the game.” He extended his hand again.

“You should come back,” I said. “You can usually find a lot better competition than me in this place.”

“Well, then, maybe I’ll see you.” He smiled and turned to leave. I followed him with my eyes as he left the Cardinal.

Outside, snowflakes drifted over Jefferson, and he tightened his coat around himself, walking slowly away, disappearing into the snow.

As I watched him slip into the white afternoon, something stirred in me—an uneasy feeling that even the alcohol in my bloodstream couldn’t suffocate. It was the first grain of a question forming in the recesses of my mind, but I dismissed it easily, because there was no way I could have known how significant it was.

It would be an incalculable misstatement to say that Jefferson merely influenced my life. He did begin as my friend and teacher, and I will cherish those aspects of our relationship for as long as I live, but they seem irrelevant in light of his real purpose that day. It still takes my breath away to consider everything he knew as he shook my hand and looked into my eyes for the first time.

On the surface, hell might seem like a strange place to plant the seeds of transcendence, but for those who can endure its wrath, its soil is fertile and deep. Jefferson knew all of this, and so much more. He knew that he would rigidly define my future, but he also knew that in order to do it, he would have to save my soul.

A soul, however, is a delicate and complex thing, and the path to redemption is far from straight. When I look back now, I am most intrigued by the fact that on the day of our introduction, Jefferson knew that before I could be saved, I would have to step to the edge of my own annihilation.

And perhaps the most unnerving part of it all, was that he would—with complete discipline and self-restraint—do nothing to stop me.

3-discipline-paco-ahlgren-audio-jefferson

Click here to listen to previous chapters…

—-

Click here for subscription options…

—-

www.DisciplineBook.com

www.PacoAhlgren.com

Paco Ahlgren’s publishers have allotted a substantial number of free SIGNED promotional copies of Discipline for book clubs. Click here for more details…

—-

Click here for subscription options…

—-

www.DisciplineBook.com

www.PacoAhlgren.com

Chapter 2 – Indication -discipline – Paco Ahlgren.mp3

Click here to listen to previous chapters…

—-

Click here for subscription options…

—-

www.DisciplineBook.com

www.PacoAhlgren.com

If you caught a glimpse of your own death, would the knowledge change the way you live the rest of your life? You might think the answer is obvious, and in my youth I might have agreed. But that was before I learned how elegant—and misunderstood—the universe really is.

My perspective has changed. We fatuously measure our tenure in this place, individually and collectively, using the concept of time. But it is a profound mistake—the first of many we have made as a species so embryonic and unprepared, yet so self-satisfied with our level of achievement that we are oblivious to the magnitude of our ignorance.

With the concept of time, we have manufactured a monster. It is the bane of our existence, measuring the span of our days as they drain away, drawing its strength from our bodies, leaving only withered, rotting shells to bury. We despise time for what it steals from us, and yet we covet it, trying to preserve every ounce of its substance—as though it has substance. And so, despite our best efforts, we have resigned ourselves to the futility of time’s preservation. But this resignation is perhaps the biggest mistake of all.

It seems so simple as to be a cruel joke, for it is the effort itself that makes understanding time so elusive. But time does not exist; it is no more than a myth created to comfort us as we come to terms with looming mortality—or, more succinctly, imminent death. And yet we continue to impose this linear temporal construct on a universe that has no such boundaries. The foundations of immortality, however, lie not in preservation, but rather with the understanding of how absurd the concept of time is to begin with.

The years have caught up to me now, and I am tired. There is so little left that shocks or inspires me. After all that I have seen, I am reluctant to pour out these experiences to an audience that will largely reject the content as science fiction or fantasy. And yet something new compels me—something I don’t quite understand. It isn’t an urge; it’s something bigger, deeper, and I know with every grain of purpose in my soul that I am supposed to give this away. It is my debt to the past, and to the future, so I will pay it here.

What follows is not difficult to understand; the concepts are basic—utterly effortless in their application. But the human spirit thrives on creating complexity where simplicity would do as well, and I have accepted that most people will close themselves to what I will say.

Still, a few will understand. It is to them I most owe this story.

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN…

www.DisciplineBook.com

Ellison took deep breaths, sobbing, sending clouds of vapor into the freezing air, his body trembling—as much from terror as from the cold. He hung over the tub in the dark bathroom, semicircles of fatigue under his eyes. A droplet plummeted from the faucet and exploded into the half-full tub.

I watched him reach into the water with his left hand and splash his face. He babbled quietly to himself, his eyes twitching. A pistol rested in the palm of his right hand, which lay limply on the floor. His index finger stroked the trigger slowly, rhythmically. “I can’t do this,” he mumbled. “I can’t.”

His fingernails were clean and well manicured, but that was all that remained of his usual neat appearance. He wore an expensive suit—appropriate for an accountant in his mid-twenties—well-pressed not long ago, but now rumpled and stale. His hair was a tangled mess. For days, he had endured a fever so intolerable that he had shut off the apartment’s heat, hoping to find some respite, but even the icy air in the bathroom failed to stop the perspiration that ran down his forehead. Trails of sweat, tears, and mucus ran through his developing beard, soaking the sleeve of his shirt.

He was going insane, and there was nothing I could do to help him.

A few days ago, I had watched him slipping. I was aware of almost the exact moment the voice had begun talking to him—the rumbling distortion in his mind I had known only too well so many years ago. Ellison started muttering to himself, and soon after had tried to drown the voice with booze and muscle relaxants, but it was clear that neither chemical had diminished its persistence, nor allowed him even a minute of sleep in the last seventy-two hours. As it grew worse, he had reacted by locking the front door, ripping out the phone cords, and barricading himself in his bathroom.

He had no way of knowing I had been here through it all—was here now, watching him, fighting every impulse to appear to him, to help him endure. His desperation tore at me, and at times, I wondered why I remained—why I didn’t just leave him to face the inevitable alone. But I couldn’t abandon him; I was as responsible for this as anyone, and I would stay with him, suffer with him, even if he didn’t know.

Now panic was setting in, and I watched as Ellison started openly negotiating with his own mind, trying to convince himself that it was all just a temporary glitch in his software. “If I can . . . just last a . . . little longer . . .”

So Ellison sat in his bathroom, accepting what seemed to be imminent insanity. But at the very moment it looked like he would cave to the onset of his own madness, he sat bolt upright, and I knew that the whispering must have stopped. He lifted his head and scanned the floor in front of him, and the relief seemed to wrap around him like his mother’s arms. He drew in a long breath and held it, unable to understand what was happening. I wondered how it could possibly get any worse. And yet I knew without a doubt that it would.

The old man simply appeared in the corner of the bathroom, a specter forming out of brumal emptiness. I had wondered for so long what he would look like in this moment, but even after all the wicked things I had watched him do over the years, I wasn’t prepared for the hideous thing before me, and I felt an icy shiver trickle down my spine.

I had expected him to make a dramatic appearance, but he arrived silently, unceremoniously, a shadow shifting with the moonlight, moving across the bathroom walls. He climbed up onto the counter, his stringy gray-black hair hanging in front of his face as he stared vacantly at a blade in his right hand. He twisted the knife back and forth, as though puzzling over some complex issue, and were it not for the slight movement, he might have passed for a vulgar statue.

Light glinted off the blade and danced on the bathroom wall in front of Ellison like rippling water, breaking the blackness with restless brilliance. Ellison twisted his head in a panicked reflex, and when his eyes reached the old man perched on the edge of the counter, he shrieked and scrambled into the far corner of the bathroom. He lifted his arm and pointed the pistol at the man.“Whoever you are, get out of my house or I swear to God I’ll blow your fucking brains out!”

The old man stopped twisting the knife and lifted his head. His face was a mask of hatred. Ellison recoiled at the sight but continued to point the pistol unsteadily at the bent figure, who squinted and smiled a mouth full of sharp rotting teeth. The old man sucked air into his throat and let out a wheeze, which transformed into rattling laughter. He pointed the blade at Ellison. “You are a craven piece of human filth, and you’re not going to shoot anybody.”

“Get the fuck out of here!”

The old man’s smile hung for a moment and then abruptly disappeared. He leapt from the counter and landed hard on the floor, arms spread wide. “Do it, motherfucker!”

Ellison squinted and fired twice. Tile shattered on the wall and the old man staggered backward, staring at his chest as the echoes of the gunshots faded. He lifted his head, his eyes wide with surprise. Then his face slipped back into a malicious grin. “You missed.”

Ellison fired two more rounds, but the man just waved his hand dismissively, vanishing into nothingness, and while he was nowhere to be seen, his voice echoed in the bathroom. “I know you’re here,” he said, and I knew he was talking to me. “Why don’t you come out and show yourself to the boy.” The voice exploded in another fit of harsh laughter. I remained still, watching the scene with increasing dread.

Ellison trembled as his eyes darted about the bathroom searching for the grisly creature at whom he had just fired four shots, almost point-blank. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” he said, his voice quavering. “What’s happening to me?”

He slid his back up the wall and crab-stepped to the doorway, holding the shaking pistol in front of him. The faucet released another droplet, which cracked like thunder when it hit the water. Ellison’s head turned left and right, his wide eyes sweeping every inch.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” The old man appeared for an instant to the left of Ellison, and then vanished again.

Ellison wheeled and stumbled backward, falling hard on the floor, pointing the pistol at the doorway. No one was there.

He started weeping again, taking a large handful of his hair and pulling it hard. “What the fuck is happening to me?” He pushed his back against the tub, his body succumbing to exhaustion and fear. And I knew, with every second of this madness, that he came ever closer to the only way out.

“It doesn’t have to be this way.” The old man was back, sitting in the darkest corner of the bathroom, gently running the edge of the blade over his pants. He stared at it impassively. “This can all end,” his head remained bowed but his black eyes drifted up to Ellison, “if you want it to.”

Ellison shrank against the tub and pointed the pistol at the old man again. Although he knew it would have no effect, he fired one more shot, shattering the mirror on the wall behind the scraggy body.

“Jesus,” the old man said. “Will you please stop doing that? Somebody’s going to call the police.” He broke into another fit of gravelly laughter, and I winced, knowing the police would be here soon enough.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Ellison moaned.

“Don’t be so maudlin,” the old man said. “You don’t mean anything to me, you piece of shit. You’re a pawn. I just need you to do one little thing and then I’ll leave you alone.” He paused. “I need you to help me find him.”

“Who?” Ellison said.

The old man scanned the room, looking for me. He chuckled and a drop of saliva seeped from the corner of his mouth, stretching toward his shirt. He sucked hard, pulling it back in, and his neck began to pulsate, making a gurgling sound in his throat. He opened his mouth, the lips curling back in a snarl, dilating, spreading ever wider, struggling to give birth. A geyser of black liquid exploded from the hole in the old man’s face and landed on the floor with a sickly splash.

He crouched down, hunching over the mess to examine it. He put his finger in the puddle, stirring it, and after a few seconds the pool of black vomit began to roil and bubble. Tiny white worms squirmed in the substance, then separated into thousands of smaller puddles, turning into an army of insects, scrambling in every direction. They scratched at the floor with their spindly legs, looking for any crevice.

Ellison writhed, frantically trying to avoid the bugs speeding toward him. The old man put his hands behind his back and began pacing slowly, crushing hundreds of the insects with each step. “The thing is, I’m not from around here, and I really need your help.”

He paused midstride and turned his head, squinting menacingly. Then, with a low snarl, he launched himself, driving the younger man further into the corner. But just before he reached Ellison, he froze, hovering, slowly bringing the blade toward Ellison’s face, stopping less than an inch from the younger man’s eye.

I tensed, fighting the urge to do something—anything. But I knew exposing myself to this monster would be an incalculable mistake. Everything would be lost.

“This is how it’s going to work,” the old man said, slowly twisting the blade in front of Ellison’s eye. “If you do what I ask, I’ll go away.” His mouth stretched into a broad smile, the wrinkles on his face pinching into the appearance of scales.  “And if you don’t help me, I’ll cut your fucking head off.” His grin broadened. “Here’s what I want you to do . . .”

After days of relentless agony, Ellison had no choice but to listen, clearly hoping it would bring some end to the lunacy. But soon he began to shake his head, becoming nearly hysterical. “No, no! Leave me alone! No!”

“That’s not a very promising attitude.”

Ellison stopped crying, the last vestiges of sanity pushing him into defiance. “You’re not even real.”

The old man chuckled and shrugged, holding the knife up to his own face, examining it. “This is real . . . at least it was when I fucked your sister and ripped her guts out.”

Ellison began to tremble again, emitting a piercing scream, “Get out!”

The old man yelled, “Shut the fuck up!” He sprang from the counter and jumped up and down on the floor in front of Ellison. “Shut the fuck up!”

Ellison covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. “Get out!”

Then they both suddenly stopped screaming and became still, panting and staring at each other. The old man began chortling again quietly.

“What did you do to her?” Ellison said.

The old man put his hand on his hip, rolling his eyes in mock frustration. “How many times do I have to tell you? I fucked her . . . and ripped her guts out. Then I put her uterus in a box and mailed it to you.”

“This isn’t real.”

“And what if it isn’t?” the old man asked, and leaned over Ellison. “I can stay as long as it takes. I’m part of you now.”

Ellison’s eyelids fell, his lower lip wet with saliva. “I can’t . . .”

I stood behind the old man. Ellison looked up slowly, and I allowed myself to appear for an instant. His eyes widened when he saw me, my face twisted with sorrow, trying to tell him with my eyes to cling to hope. But there was no hope to be found, and I knew it.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

The old man whirled around but I faded too quickly for him to catch a glimpse of my face. “Get the fuck out of this!” He screamed in my direction, his expression furious. He turned back to Ellison and said, “You do what I tell you to, you little shit!”

Ellison stared at the old man for a moment, and then his eyes filled with resignation. He raised the pistol. “I can’t.”

“Don’t do that,” the old man said.

But Ellison put the barrel of the pistol under his chin, closed his eyes tightly, and pulled the trigger.

The old man didn’t even blink at the explosion. He merely tilted his head and gazed at the body—the eyes fixed open, red lumps of tissue and brain sliding down the wall. He crouched and brought his face close to Ellison’s. “I needed you, you little fucking worm. What a goddamn waste.” He sniffed twice, stood erect, and grunted. Then he turned around and scanned the room, still looking for me, his eyes black with rage. “I’m going to find someone, you cunt, and when I do, I’m going to delight in watching you die.”

A drop of water fell from the faucet to the tub, pealing for a million years. Then the old man was gone—a thread of smoke dismissed by the wind.

I stared at Ellison’s body, a part of me dying with him in that moment. A tear rolled down my face, tickling my skin. The first in decades, I thought, almost puzzled by its appearance. I touched it, and then looked at the moist tip of my finger. Will I ever be ready? Then reality descended on me with the full magnitude of its crushing weight. As though I have a choice . . .

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, breathing deeply as I fell into the void.

Permut, Jones set ‘Discipline’ – Duo to bring sci-fi novel to the bigscreen – By DAVE MCNARY

David Permut and Steve Lee Jones will achieve a measure of “Discipline,” producing a feature version of Paco Ahlgren’s sci-fi adventure novel. Story, published last year as Ahlgren’s first novel, centers on a man’s psychological battle with an enemy he cannot see. The outcome determines the past, present and future of human existence.

Permut Presentations will produce with Jones’ Bee Holder Prods. Permut Presentations VP Steve Longi will co-produce.

It’s the second teaming for Permut and Jones, who are also working on a feature about the life of the late automaker John DeLorean.

Permut’s in post-production on “Youth in Revolt,” starring Michael Cera, Justin Long, Zach Galifianakis, Ray Liotta and Steve Buscemi for Dimension and is developing “Naked” at Gold Circle and “Brother Sam” at HBO. He produced Lifetime’s “Prayers for Bobby,” which received an Emmy nom in the made-for-TV-movie category last week.

Jones is in post-production with Foundation Films on the documentary “Kevorkian,” about Dr. Jack Kevorkian’s bid for a congressional seat. He’s also developing HBO’s feature “You Don’t Know Jack,” centering on Kevorkian’s quest to legalize euthanasia, with Al Pacino starring and Barry Levinson directing.

Read the full article at:

http://www.variety.com/article/VR1118006172.html

© 2009 Reed Business Information

Use of this Website is subject to Terms of Use. Privacy Policy

Author Paco Ahlgren entered into an agreement to publish his book DISCIPLINE in the Polish language. The book will be widely distributed through several outlets in Poland and surrounding regions.

—

www.DisciplineBook.com

www.PacoAhlgren.com

“If anyone asks me what I have accomplished, I will say all I have accomplished is that I have written a few good sentences.”

– Eric Hoffer

On April 22, 2008, Paco Ahlgren’s first novel, Discipline, was awarded the Eric Hoffer Prize for Best Commercial Fiction.

www.hofferaward.com

“The Eric Hoffer Award (formerly the Writers’ Notes Award) for short prose and books was established at the start of the 21st century as a means of opening a door to writing of significant merit. It honors the memory of the great American philosopher Eric Hoffer by highlighting salient writing. The winning stories and essays are awarded prizes and published annually in the anthology, Best New Writing, along with the results of the book awards.”