One morning after Sunday Mass my dad carried me up to meet the priest. The sheen of his gold leaf Bible lured me in. Talking with him I got the idea that God had written it. I just about lost it. You mean the man who lives up in the sky and made everything… wrote a book?! I have to learn to read IMMEDIATELY! But my parents shrugged me off. I was only two years old at the time so unless I wanted to wait a literal lifetime and a half for school, I’d have to teach myself. Duty-bound, I grabbed my Speak & Spell and set out alone to learn to read on pilgrimage.

Today for lodestar fiction I use The Nova Trilogy. It resists being understood in the typical sense and yet still cuts straight to the quick. In intriguing, unknowable ways it raises just the questions I like. The story chronicles an ongoing struggle between the Nova Heat and the Nova Mob. The Nova Heat are a hapless group of pervert artists trying to spread the word that infinite consumption on a finite planet might not be such a bright idea. They’re up against the Nova Mob, a gang of apocalyptic forces trying to suck the world dry before they blow it up. Their main thing is snatching bodies at will; seducing everyone with all the most depraved, exciting vices. In the end the author, William S. Burroughs, doesn’t declare a winner. The struggle persists as it must.

Maybe my favorite thing about it is the way it uses the stuff of dreams: word salad, repetition, psychological refuse etc. Through these literary discards, to the patient reader The Nova Trilogy reveals itself to be a paraliterature—a literature designed to go beyond itself and take the reader along. But when it succeeds, where does art that goes “beyond” actually go? Publishers Bennett Cerf and Donald Klopfer must’ve had an idea when they snagged Ulysses, the chaotic novel that brought Random House to prominence. What did they see? Why were they right? Where does the march of the avant-garde, art’s front lines, lead?

At its best, the page can provide neutral grounds where we might encounter the sublime. Like the space that holds both the yin and yang (“the wuji”), readers can potentially meet both the terrors and miracles of life and self simultaneously. If the piece works, it does a demi-transubstantiation in its reader. It changes into something that stirs its reader’s world, even if only subtly. Hopefully, through this encounter the reader is compensated for their time with at-least slightly improved skills toward the ends of having really lived before dying. From Ulysses to The Nova Trilogy to Lincoln in the Bardo, the march of the avant-garde proves itself a heartbeat of sorts, beckoning audiences to know the world beyond the confines of themselves. In this way the avant-garde shows itself as being on its own pilgrimage, shadowing the death-defying call of life itself.

Some pains are worth ignoring, the foreboding ones especially, the ones that bit long ago and present themselves neatly and conveniently and positioned poetically. The dead pain between your legs and back and gut and groin, that only says hello to remind you of what you do, until doing is no longer fun, it says, hello, it’s time you stopped feeling. It’s worth ignoring because there is nothing that could be done, because those Sundays made you crave something that tasted pure and of nothing.

7th day mornings were always a fight. The sun comes no matter what but the wee eyed dreams of the night need fixing before it’s worth seeing, and nightmares require flirtation timed in days not hours. Church ended any possible salvation from those. St Pats had enough stone and masonry to keep my mind busy enough, though, having a small bladder and frequent water fountain trips made the dry homilies fade away into the brief moment of happiness of saying peace be with you to total strangers. Of course, there were those times when behavior demanded an exile to the hall rectory basement. It was darker down there than bad dreams and equally relegated to the mind’s little cracks that only eye sand can fill. Inevitably, anywhere I was, the masses end with the safe boredom of the brick and painted vaulted arches. The day of rest was now over.

Breakfast went around year round something like this; Fresh eggs (Theresa had to fetch them) – mostly snot sunny side up, frozen orange juice concentrate with a gag pulp of course, powdered milk out of a box, either or both of frozen bacon or Jones’s breakfast sausage pan fried in their own crude death drippings, and white bread toast made from 6 month old sometimes moldy bread that had been bought 5 for 1. Sometimes one or two would go down cruising, sometimes none. The real problem with breakfast was not the food, it was the looming doom of dad the master blaster. Yeah, he was the big cuddly bear strong guy and the short maniacal Napoleon strapped on top, all wrapped into a 140 lb 5’-2” stone of so much mean and heart that the Grinch was like, 7 sizes what? Theresa and I would try to slink away from the table while dad was talking to grandma and grandpa on the phone. Mom would say, “Your father wants you to help him after breakfast”. By help, she meant a kick blocking, hand ducking, tool dodging, crying, hiding, daydreaming, languishing, anguishing, 7yr old, forced captive labor, beating flunky of a kid. It was always learning hard and escaping for fun. There is nothing I can’t tackle today thanks to it. Someone once told me I’m a renaissance man. Yes, bought and paid for in now fiat emotions of that golden kid.

As far as work was concerned, Sundays all mixed in the same. Dad usually worked a 2nd job on Saturday so that was for our rest. Otherwise, the weekends just bled and bled. Work could be anybody’s guess, double 30 yd dump trailers of bulkhead wood to be cut, fork lifts needing repairs dropped off in our driveway, concrete pavement to be demolished by hand, rabbits and ducks to be slaughtered, .5 acre gardens to be tilled, ham radios to be built, all hand cutting for the wood burning stove (if I was a lazy summer, it was my snow job to work it out), tool runner, handy helper, but mostly there to do what I was told. I learned.

Sunday dinners and Sunday nights had good things, always. My mom was never a great cook but she sure knew how to make dinner. Oh, except for the occasional casserole or liver ideas the 70’s induced. We’d watch Quincy, Little house on the Prairie, The Waltons, the Wonderful World of Disney, PBS Telethons of the Marx Brothers and Buster Keaton. They seemed better with popcorn which is still my favorite. We had family time too. Monopoly and Life were good. Poker was fun until my dad fleeced me out of my possessions with the lesson that the house’s business was to cheat. I guess I could go on and on about the bad and the good. Looking back, I’d say good, more, a warm feeling that you feel inside. Not like that other feeling, when as a child you get up late and crave something to taste and you stand in your doorway gnawing the finish, gnawing the fire board, gnawing that white chrysotile center right to the black metallic face, gnawing it from your highest to the floor, bending the back out to gnaw some more, bending it back each night to hide the missing core, gnawing square feet worth of fibers and grit, gnawing it raw and loving every bit, gnawing out the last hours of every Sunday consuming that white asbestos, swallowing it down, letting its crystal fibers embed, embed in the lower intestine. For decades, it nested, prodding the cells until they broke free of their shells and tried to be what they are not. The doctor looks at you and says, “I’ve never seen such an MRI form in a body, it is horrifyingly amazing. It is all connected and shaped like Pterois”.

But this is not what I expected. What am I going to tell her?

“Better Tell her she will meet them all next Sunday”

“and If you are smart, hold onto that string”

Yale sat in his cubicle, hunched over the newspaper, forcing himself to read bits and pieces of articles. He didn’t really care about the news of the day, as if it really mattered. The newspaper was more than news stories and advertisements to him.

It was his shield.

His coworkers would stroll by, looking to chit chat before their lunch breaks ended, but if his nose was buried in the newspaper, they would just walk on by.

Finished with the world news section of the paper, he paused to toss the wrapper of his usual lunch, a vending machine tuna fish sandwich, into the trash can under his desk. Then he turned his attention to the metro section and was stopped cold by the first headline.

“Local Man Dies in Apartment Fire.”

He devoured the article that followed. A 34 year old man fell asleep but left a barbecue grill, rigged up to be a meat smoker, cooking on his balcony. This meat smoker ignited a fire that was fortunately contained to his apartment. Unfortunately, he died of smoke inhalation.

A guy trying to smoke a brisket or something dies of smoke inhalation. Ironic. But it was more than that. The reason he read this article was suddenly clear. This guy, 34 years old, had plans. Maybe he had to go to work in the morning. Maybe he was going to go grocery shopping after work. Maybe he was going to watch the big game this weekend. Maybe this Thanksgiving he was planning an over due visit to the mom or dad or sister he hadn’t seen in a while. Maybe he was dreaming about retiring some day.

But now that was all gone. In a moment. A house of cards burned to ashes. And then the random brutality of it hit Yale in the face. It was exactly the same for all of us. Some day, a time that only God could know, it would all end, just like that.

Really.

So that’s all there was to it? Life was just a futile struggle and the randomness of death would catch up with each and every one of us? Yale was suddenly overwhelmed, suffocating, frozen. Why should he go back to work? Why should he push forward? Why should he care about any of this?

The only thing that made sense was the routine.


“No music, no pills. Stick to the routine.” he mumbled.


No pills.


He stared blankly at his computer screen, and slowly, painfully remembered.

Harvard John Lafayette was only six, and that was his excuse. He followed Yale everywhere, peppering him with stupid questions. “How come you like peanut butter? Why are you wearing that superhero shirt again? What time is it? Can we watch my T.V. Shows?”

Stupid questions. But tonight would be different. After supper, he would close the door to his room and let mom and dad take care of little Bubba John. Then he would watch his shows on his T.V. Alone, in peace for once.

“Yale!”


He trotted into the kitchen, eager to see what she wanted. Of course she was listening to music, the headphone only covering one ear. She was swaying to the rhythm, stirring a pot of what smelled like spaghetti. She smiled as he came in and hugged him.

“I need a favor hon’.” Yale nodded and returned the smile. “Dad and I are going out tonight. We scored some tickets to a concert.”

Yale pondered scoring tickets for a second and then said “Ok.”


“So I need you to watch Bubba John while we’re gone.”


“What!”


“Sweetie,” she had stopped swaying to the music and was using her mom voice, “we need you to do this. You’re a big boy, ten years old, you can do it. Besides, you’ve done this like a million times before. Just eat supper, make sure Bubba John goes to bed at 9 and don’t forget to take your pills. You can stay up late if you want.”

“But mom, tonight is the first episode of season 3 of SuperHeroes. I can’t miss it.”

“You won’t. Bubba John can watch that stuff too.”


“He’ll ruin it! He always does. He’s such a baby!”


“Don’t yell,” her voice soft, sweet, ” you can do this and what’s more you have to. Now go get Bubba John and you guys can start eating. I need to get ready.”


He managed a defiant grunt before doing as he was told. He pried his brother from in front of the T.V. in the living room. Once he had gotten out the plates and forks, and scooped out the spaghetti, he sat at the table across from his stupid brother. Bubba John peppered him with stupid questions the whole way through dinner, but the only response he got was an angry glare.

Mom and dad came into the kitchen, she with her headphones firmly in place. Hugs and kisses were given to each boy with dad yelling from the door “See you at ten boys!”

Yale was determined not to speak to his stupid brother all night, but first he had to lay down the law.

“Ok, look stupid. I’m watching my shows down here on the big T.V. and so are you.”

“Are we gonna watch SuperHeroes?”


“What else would I watch stupid.”


“I don’t wanna.”

“Too bad!” A punch on Bubba John’s arm ended the conversation and they made their way to the living room where they sprawled in front of the T.V. Yale was proud of himself for ignoring every stupid question Bubba John threw at him during SuperHeroes. Not a single word in reply. After the show, Yale got his bottle of pills from the bathroom and brought them to the kitchen so that he could get some water.

“Why you take pills Yale?”


“Shut up!”


“It’s for your pie polar bear isn’t it?”


“Bi polar.” Yale corrected, taking a pill from the bottle and washing it down with a glass of water. He set the open bottle of pills on the counter.

“They help me think straight. And if I don’t take ’em I can’t sleep stupid.”

The rest of the night was easy. Bubba John actually went to sleep in his room without a fight. Yale curled up on the couch, determined to stay up really late, but he was fast asleep in minutes.

What seemed like a second later, he started to wake.

“Yale!” Dad was screaming and shaking Yale. “Get up!”

Yale sat straight up and instantly looked to the kitchen where mom was on the floor crying hysterically, cradling Bubba John. Yale remembered being in the kitchen, trying to talk to mom, trying to find out what was wrong. Bubba John wasn’t moving, mom wasn’t talking, and dad was on the phone holding the empty bottle of pills. An ambulance came, and took mom and Bubba John away. Yale and dad went to the hospital and waited, and waited, and waited. Finally they came and said Bubba John was gone. Gone as in never coming back.

After that, there were no more pills. Mom and dad made him “manage his stuff” by enforcing a strict routine. Wake up at the same time, eat at the same time, watch the same shows at the same time, go to bed at the same time.

And there was no more music in the house, anymore, ever.

“No music, no pills. Stick to the routine.”

TITLE OF BOOK: Three

GENRE: Fiction

AGE RANGE: adult

WORD COUNT: 16,500

AUTHOR NAME: Kevin Fitch

WHY THIS PROJECT IS A GOOD FIT: I think a lot of people can relate to this story because it follows one mans journey to overcome unimaginable tragedy. Some of us have experienced tragedy, and try to live with it every day. The rest of us know that it could strike at any time, and we do our best to ignore it and live our lives. We all wish, I think, that when tragedy reshapes our lives, we could have three wishes to help us, to make everything right again. Or not.

THE HOOK: What if you were given three wishes? It could be the chance you need to make things right in your life, to get ahead. But be careful what you wish for, wishes can come true in ways you never imagined.

SYNOPSIS: Yale Lafayette is a man who has learned to deal with his bi-polar disorder in an unusual way. The tragic death of his younger brother leads his parents to enforce a routine on him that will follow him throughout his life; “no music, no pills, stick to the routine.” He carefully crafts a life of doing things a certain way each day, that completely unravels when he is diagnosed with terminal cancer. His life is in danger of spiraling out of control until his new neighbor comes to him with an incredible, but true offer. Yale can have three wishes, anything he wants. These wishes become what he could never imagine and turn his life in unusual directions.

TARGET AUDIENCE: adults

BIO: My name is Kevin Fitch. Sometimes I write as K.R. Fitch, sometimes I write as K. Fitch, but the names don’t matter. What matters to me is that somehow, someway, I write. My bio is simply this. Policeman. Social worker. Lawyers Assistant. Teacher. Painter. Always, always a writer.

ETC.: I am 56, I live in Colorado Springs, Colorado and I have a Masters Degree in Education. I grew up in a ski resort, and rank skiing as my top hobby. I use my life experiences as a police officer, social worker, and teacher to write realistic fiction that I think tries to capture a few of the lessons and truths that life constantly flings at us. I hope my writing touches people in ways that make their worlds a little easier to be in.