Rewinding the ’90s: Take Me Down To the Paradise City

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Paradise City, the Radio, and a Moment of Time Travel

So my car has not been doing well the last two or three weeks. She’s been in the shop twice for very expensive repairs. I’m driving a 2004, and it’s not a Honda, and it’s not a Toyota. So this car has lived well beyond the predicted lifespan.

Recently, we were sort of stranded, and I had to have the car towed. I was pretty much on the precipice of just scrapping it. Like, you know what? Give me the 200 bucks, take the car. I’m done. I don’t want to do this anymore.

And so, as a result, we had cleaned out the entire car. So it’s just stripped on the inside. There is nothing in there anymore, including, of course, my CDs. Because, you know, Gen X—I have CDs. And I have a CD player in my car. But all the CDs are gone.

Well, we end up getting the car fixed. Now I’m back on the road, taking the kids to camp and all that kind of stuff. I drop off my teenager, and it’s just me in the car now. And I realize: oh, all my CDs are gone. What am I going to do?

Oh, you know what? I’m gonna listen to the radio.

I haven’t listened to the radio in however long, and I’m just curious what the local radio is up to. So I turn it on—and the very first thing that happens? “Paradise City.” Guns N’ Roses. Like, yes. Okay. This is cool.

It was within the first ten seconds of the song, so I got to listen to the whole thing, and it was so cool. I haven’t listened to Guns N’ Roses in years. It’s not on a regular rotation with me. But hearing “Paradise City” took me back to June 30th, 1989, when we sort of codified a group of friends. And that song was attached to that moment in time. It just felt really good.

After “Paradise City,” there was some local sports news. Like, I don’t give a shit about sports. Whatever. But okay, I’m listening to the news, and then I wonder what the next song’s going to be.

Do you remember that anticipation?

The next song is the Chili Peppers.

Oh, okay, cool. I didn’t even know what song it was—I’m also not a huge Chili Peppers fan—but the sound, the rhythm, the voice… I was like, this is the Chili Peppers. There’s no question. And it turns out it was. I didn’t recognize the song, but it was good. So cool.

Now, hold that thought:

My friend Matt and I—we’ve known each other since 1987, so we go back a ways. And he is as terminally nostalgic as I am. When we get on FaceTime and hang out, we talk about current events, what’s going on with our families (we both have kids), and all that kind of stuff.

Then, inevitably, we talk about the past. Because we love doing that. And it’s very nostalgic. Sometimes it even verges on sentimental.

Now, my understanding of the term “sentimental” is that it can be construed as a bad thing. If you encounter books or movies that are deemed to be sentimental—or God forbid, “overly sentimental”—that’s generally looked down on. But we definitely cross into that territory. And it’s fun. We both enjoy it. Otherwise, we’d stop doing it. It’s a good time.

But nostalgia and sentimentality and reminiscing—which is what Matt and I do—those aren’t the same thing. They’re very different words for very different things.

Back in the car today, listening to the Chili Peppers, listening to Guns N’ Roses, even listening to the sports news… Driving by myself with the window down, the weather nice, just sort of cruising, hitting all the green lights…

There was this brief window where I wasn’t nostalgic and I wasn’t sentimental.

I was there.

I was 18 and had just started college, right out of high school in the summer, so I could take math. Just listening to the radio. And there was this moment—it lasted a minute, two minutes, maybe three—of actually inhabiting that space. It was like time travel.

And I’m just in the car, cruising. Thinking about girls. Thinking about what’s next. Thinking about math, thinking about parents, thinking about moving out, thinking about… all this stuff. And being forced to wait.

I can’t just turn on my phone. I can’t scroll through Spotify. I can’t even put in a mix CD at this point. I just have to wait and be patient.

And that’s how we grew up.

We were the last generation, really, I think, to have to wait for our entertainment. Commercial breaks. Radio. Television. All of it.

Yeah. It was just kind of a… a cool thing. And that’s the kind of moment I strive to capture in my writing.

I just got my newest YA novel DUET back from my editor, and we had a great hour-long conversation yesterday. We talked about how that’s one of the things I was able to do in this book—and in my previous book in the series, STARS OF THE SHOW—capturing and reliving all the feelings, the sensations, the moments of that age and that era.

While also making a point to drag some of it into the modern day—which is a topic for another time.

But it just felt really cool.

So my challenge for you today—in addition to visiting my Kickstarter for DUET, because we only have a few days left on the campaign—is this:

Next time you’re driving, if you can listen to the radio, do it.

If that’s not something you normally do, just find a station—maybe even at random—and just listen to it. Force yourself to sit through the commercials. Wait. Feel that.

See if it triggers anything for you—any kind of nostalgia. I’d be curious to hear your experience with it, because it was really cool. It just felt really good.

Now I’m home, and we have to call the government today to sort some stuff out with them. That’s going to be frustrating. And then, who’s picking up which kid and taking them where? Real life intrudes, very quickly.

But for a minute, I was there.

And everything was okay.

And it was great.

So give that a try. I hope you’re doing well. And I hope you’ll check out DUET, which is part of The Drama Department series. It’s all about being young, being in high school, and being in the ’90s again for a little while. You can find it here:

PXL.TO/duet

Which, hey—if I can offer you a quick little time travel jaunt back to that era, I’m more than happy to do it.

That’s all I’ve got.

Take care.

Rewinding the ’90s: Why My VHS Memories Won’t Stay Buried

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“Check, check… are we rolling?”

Every time I hit record on yet another grainy transfer of our 1991 shenanigans, my chest tightens.

Not from how much hair we’ve lost or the existential horror of mullets (both valid fears), but from the creeping knowledge that most of us vanish two generations after the funeral buffet. I know my kids will remember me; their kids might get a foggy “Grandpa wrote some books” footnote.

After that? Poof. Same fate as the hundred VHS tapes I dumped in an Arizona landfill because the moving truck was already full of life‑or‑death items like winter coats and Lego sets.

So why keep torturing myself with these videos? Because those badly lit videos are the prequel to every good thing in my life: my 19‑year (and counting) marriage, two awesome kids, and a writing career that somehow survived puberty, Unskinny Bop, and the Great Acne Offensive of ’89.

 

Camelback High: The Unofficial Set of Everything

If you’ve cracked *Stars of the Show* or backed *Duet* on Kickstarter (thanks, by the way), you’ve already visited my fictional Camelback High. Real camelback was rougher—chain‑link fences, random brawls, and the occasional drive‑by insult from a sun‑bleached Pontiac Fiero.

But for story purposes I sand down the razor wire. Fiction has to serve the narrative; reality seldom cooperates.

Still, the bones remain: theatre geeks smoking Marlboros, speech‑team kids quoting Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, and the holy trinity of after‑school refuges—Matt’s house, Mike’s roof, and Papago Park under the moonlight.

Those tapes prove it happened. More important, they prove we happened.

 

Friendship: The Garage‑Band That Went Platinum in My Head

Watch any clip and you’ll spot our greatest hits:

Flashlight Wars at Papago – Full‑contact hide‑and‑seek that ended with war stories and gas‑station Gatorade.

Matt’s Couch Philosophy – Cigarettes, Darkwing Duck, and the realization that a parent who lets you smoke inside is basically Yoda.

Highlander II Midnight Showings – We entered chanting “There can be only one!” and exited chanting “There *should* have been only one.”

We fought, we sulked, we reconciled in three days because somebody said, “Champions this weekend?” and that was that.

Those messy, unconditional bonds are the secret sauce in every Drama Department romance. Cassie & Jesse? Straight lift from “best friends to mortal enemies to maybe‑something‑more” drama that played out in Masque & Gavel.

 

The Memoir That Won’t Sit Still

The Black Dot Society—part memoir, part documentary, part whatever‑the‑hell it morphs into—is my attempt to bottle that lightning before memory corrosion sets in. Problem is, every editing session triggers a full‑body nostalgia migraine: joy, regret, and an audible ticking clock reminding me I’ll be mulch someday. Fun times!

But I can’t not do it.

Because every VHS hiss is a breadcrumb leading back to the moment I figured out who I wanted to be. If one reader (or viewer, or listener—format TBD) feels less alone in their own origin story, the existential heartburn is worth it.

 

Why Sweet YA Romance? Because Melodrama Was Our National Sport

Yes, I built a career writing edgy, sometimes brutal YA. But the Drama Department books are (syrup‑free) sweet because that’s another truth of my teens: in between the trauma and testosterone, we were hopeless romantics. We wanted mixtape anthems, drama‑room spotlight kisses, and happily‑for‑now endings. Frankly, after two decades of global dumpster fires, I think we’ve earned a little nostalgia comfort food.

 

Parents, Good and Otherwise

Real life handed us the full spectrum: from Matt’s mom—who declared her living room a Switzerland for lost boys—to absentee dads and parents who never learned their kid’s best friend’s name.

Both versions show up in my fiction, because both shaped us. One reminded me what safety felt like; the other taught me what happens when safety’s off the menu.

 

Legacy, or “Why Bother?”

Will this blog post, my books, or those digitized tapes matter in 2135?

Probably not. But they matter now. They matter to my kids when they wonder who Dad was before Spotify algorithms took over his playlists. They matter to the Gen‑X reader who thinks they’re the only one who remembers a time when you could disappear for six hours because every phone had a cord and zero area code.

And maybe they’ll matter to you—whether you’re clinging to your own VHS past or just curious how a bunch of Arizona theatre nerds accidentally launched a middle‑aged author’s second act.

Hit me up in the comments—or better yet, dust off your own teenage war stories and share them. Because if we don’t keep telling them, they fade faster than a sun‑warped VHS label. And some of those stories, ridiculous as they are, might just be the origin spark someone else needs.

Stay weird,
Tom

P.S.

Don’t forget to become a backer of DUET, exclusively live on Kickstarter right now. Visit:

PXL.to/duet

Joy, Mixtapes, and the “B-Side Girlies.”

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Today is about joy.

It’s about memories. About nostalgia. And yes, it’s about mixtapes.

 

Why Mixtapes Still Matter

I’ve got a stack here of old-school mixtape inserts, ones I made myself back in the early ’90s. These are not just playlists. These are relics of emotion and craftsmanship. A mixtape wasn’t just a collection of songs—it was a message. A confession. A time capsule. A sucker punch.

There’s a whole monologue in John Cusak’s High Fidelity about how to structure a mixtape—you don’t start too intense, you bring it down, you build it back up. Whether it was something to cruise around town with, give to someone special, or cry over with clove cigarettes and Disintegration on repeat, every tape had its reason for being.

You know what’s missing in the digital age? That effort. That thoughtfulness. Sure, we make Spotify playlists now, and that’s cool—but drawing the insert by hand? Spending an hour queuing up tracks on a dual cassette deck? That mattered.

Why I’m Writing YA Romance

This all ties into why I’m writing sweet YA romance novels.

(Wait what? I know. Stick with me.)

You might’ve come to my work through my contemporary YA fiction—Party, Zero, manicpixiedreamgirl. And while I’ve always written horror (my roots, really), I’ve started leaning into romance for one very good reason:

Hope and promise.

The technical definition of a romance novel is one that ends in “happily ever after” or “happily for now.” And when I was going through some stuff—personally, emotionally, existentially—I realized I needed to write something joyful. Something that guaranteed a hopeful ending. Not because life always works out that way, but because we need stories where it does.

I discovered I didn’t need to write billionaire-shifter-historical-small-town-Christian-cowboy-whatever romances. I could write my stories—Tom Leveen stories—with a romance arc.

And the Drama Department series was born.

First came Stars of the Show. Then Duet, now live on Kickstarter. They’re nostalgic, they’re full of high school drama, and they’re emotionally honest. They start in the dark and end in the light. And most importantly, they’re about hope. Which is something I’ve believed in since I first heard Laurie Halse Anderson say: It is immoral to not include hope in books for young people.

I believe that with my whole heart.

The B-Side Girlies

You know what else this is about?

It’s about the “B-side girlies,” a phrase a fan of mine brought up on a recent livestream.

Those lesser-known songs on the second half of the album—the ones that never hit the radio, but hit you. Deep. And the people who respond to them.

That’s who I write for. That’s who I write about.

Zero was one of them. Still is. That book and those characters are in my bones. And the new Drama Department books are set at the same school Zero and Jenn attended. Who knows—maybe they’ll show up again.

On Nostalgia, Music, and Phoenix in the ’90s

My livestreams have become a way for me to reconnect—with you, with the 1990s, with the person I was and the people I knew back then. Last night we talked about REM, the Gin Blossoms, Nirvana, Faith No More, Mazzy Star, Queen, Metallica, Slayer, and more.

But it’s not just about the bands—it’s about what those songs meant. About remembering who we were, who we thought we’d be, and who we became.

It’s about dreaming of making out in the desert after it rains while Patience by Guns N’ Roses plays on the tape deck in your first car.

It’s about being the guy with the guitar in his dorm room and in a band, because you didn’t want to be the guy who didn’t follow through. (Robin from Gin Blossoms talks about this in an interview.)

It’s about the one mixtape you made for the girl who never listened. Or maybe she did…?

A Final Thought

We all need a little joy right now. For me, that means coming back to these stories, these memories, this music—and sharing it with you. That’s why I’m writing Duet. That’s why I’m doing this Kickstarter. That’s why I’m showing up here, talking about clove cigarettes and Peter Gabriel and So Tonight That I Might See like they still matter.

Because they do.

So if you haven’t already, check out the Kickstarter. Read the books. Share the stories. And maybe dust off your old mixtapes—or make a new one.

Let’s bring a little joy back into the world.

Thanks for being here.

~Tom

Stephen King’s Danse Macabre: A Deep Dive into Horror Literature – Retro Reads, episode 1

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You can watch or listen to this episode on YouTube or Spotify.

Danse Macabre is Stephen King’s deep dive into horror, almost a history of the genre, and his personal take on the genre as a whole.

As we go from literally page one through each section, I’ll comment on:

~ the writing process, the monsters, the horror, the other topics King brings up;

~ how those topics have impacted my career;

~ how they might impact your writing career;

~ or how they might impact you as a viewer or reader of this particular genre we all know and love so much.

We’re going to see where it goes because it’s fun.

Epigraph

Stephen King’s Danse Macabre, copyright 1981. On the first page, the very literal first page, no page numbers or anything, is just a couple of paragraphs pulled from the book, also called an epigraph.

King opens with…

Actually, let’s clarify that right now, because it’s something apprentice authors and most readers may not realize about the publishing industry:

This is not King opening the book. It is King’s publisher opening the book.

This is a decision the design team made for the book. These are choices the editor and/or design team will make. It is unlikely that King decided, “Oh, hey, use these quotes from the book for the very first page.”

Never forget that publishers are in business, and they make design choices for specific business reasons — usually whether you like them or not.

Here’s the epigraph: “I recognize terror as the finest emotion. And so I will try to terrorize the reader. But if I find that I cannot terrify, I will try to horrify. And if I find that I cannot horrify, I’ll go for the gross-out. I’m not proud. Here’s the final truth of horror movies: They do not love death, as some have suggested. They love life. They do not celebrate deformity, but by dwelling on deformity, they sing of health and energy. They are the barbers, leeches of the psyche, drawing not bad blood, but anxiety.”

Does this set the stage for you? Is this a “successful” epigraph?

I have been toying with adding epigraphs or prefaces in my novels moving forward for the sole purpose of priming my reader, getting them in the mood for what’s to come, because I write across so many different genres.

What do you think? Good idea or bad idea?

Reviews, and Where To Start

Next come two pages full of reviews from various publications:

“Danse Macabre succeeds on any number of levels — as pure horror memorabilia for longtime ghouly groupies, as a bibliography for younger addicts weaned on King and as an insightful noncredit course for would-be writers of the genre.” That’s from the Baltimore Sun.

As a horror author, especially as an older horror author, it’s hard to keep up with so much content, particularly with so many independent creators. Never mind just trying to keep up with what comes out of the major Hollywood studios, which is not that much. But now you throw something like Tubi.TV in there, and you are deluged with horror options. Never mind Kindle, never mind your local bookstore, never mind any number of different fan fiction sites or independent publishing sites like Wattpad.

The options for the horror fan, for any fan of any genre, are endless. As endless as King’s white space in the Jaunt. Longer than you think, Dad…!

So where do apprentice writers or readers start?

Go back to the beginning. Read the old classics. Watch the old classics. Understand where you come from.

“An insightful noncredit course for would-be writers.” Yeah, if you’re going to write horror, you need to know the stuff King is talking about in this book, which is why I have chosen to share it, because I’m confident that the material in this book, plus my more recent insights into traditional publishing, independent publishing, and the horror genre as a whole will be beneficial.

Here’s another: “A search for the place where we live at our most primitive level.” The Chelsea, Michigan Standard.

A search for the place where we live at our most primitive level? Yeah, I’ll buy that.

This is something a lot of people may not know about King: he started off as an educator. He was an English teacher for a couple of years. He also was a scholar. He went to college and got his bachelor’s degree in English. Carrie was his first novel, published in 1974. That means he’s going to school in the late sixties, early seventies, right? And he was reading what we would consider classic literature. As I’ve watched him speak at events online and write books like Danse Macabre and On Writing, I’ve started to appreciate how deep his bench of knowledge of words and literature as a whole really goes.

In On Writing he’s referencing stuff I’ve either never heard of or certainly never read, and I’m like, “But you’re Stephen King, you’re not supposed to read this classic stuff. You write horror stuff. It’s scary, bloody pulp fiction!”

And maybe it is, or at least some of it, but he’s calling upon resources that go way back. I think that’s another important aspect for writers to be aware of, is to go back to those things and be educated in the literature.

Be Frictionless

“Danse Macabre is a conversation with Stephen King. It’s comfortable and easygoing. At the same time, it’s perceptive and knowledgeable, a visit with a craftsman who has honed his skills to an edge that cuts clean and sparkles with brilliance.” That’s the Milwaukee Journal.

It is a conversational book. It’s easy to read. It’s frictionless, one of my favorite words. This is a term all writers should embrace, whether they are writing hardcore literary fiction all the way down to your bottom-of-the-barrel “I crapped this out in a week and put it on Kindle” type of thing.

Regardless of the genre, regardless of your style, your writing should be frictionless for the reader, at least within the context of the genre. There is such a thing as a “elevated horror.” And there’s such a thing as “elevated literature.” I’ve read some, I’ve liked some — not all of it. Same is true of horror. As the creator, you shouldn’t have any speed bumps for your reader or for the viewer. So “frictionless” is the take-home word of the day. And I think that’s kind of what the Milwaukee Journal is saying here, as “a conversation with Stephen King.”

Conclusion

We haven’t even gotten to the book yet! Be sure to follow along for each week’s new insight.

RESOURCES
These are affiliate links. I only recommend and endorse material I have personally read or viewed.

DANSE MACABRE
Danse Macabre on Amazon

101 BOOKS TO READ BEFORE YOU’RE MURDERED
101 Books to Read Before You’re Murdered on Amazon

Also, follow Mother Horror on Instagram:
Mother Horror on Instagram

SKELETON CREW
Skeleton Crew on Amazon

NIGHT SHIFT
Night Shift on Amazon

MONSTERS IN AMERICA
Monsters in America on Amazon

THE MONSTER SHOW
The Monster Show on Amazon

GRIMM’S GRIMMEST
Grimm’s Grimmest on Amazon

And here is one of my own horror novels, a Bram Stoker Award Finalist: HELLWORLD
Hellworld on Amazon

June 30, 1989

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35 years ago today, I was 15 and trying to make a movie.

I did that a lot between 13 and 15. And, as would become typical later in life, it was a reboot of something I’d already done. There was room for improvement!

I had three guys helping me. Two I’d known less than a year, the other only a few months if that. I honestly don’t remember when he and I first crossed paths, but I really think it was that summer.

Most importantly, he had a VHS video camera, and agreed to come help make this film.

And I was pissed.

We were making good progress at first. We even went by everyone’s house to pick up “special effects,” which included a green floodlight, a red flood light, and two different strobe lights.

As I was directing, trying to get effects set up and tested, someone started playing Guns N’ Roses. Paradise City. And then they fucked around, all three of them. Swinging the floods around, lip-synching into a flashlight, spinning the camera.

I have this on tape. You can see and hear how irritated I am. We are Making A Film, goddammit!

I wasn’t gonna win, though. So instead of throwing a fit, which was typical in those days, I gave up and joined in, thinking that maybe if I did that, they’d get their zoomies out and we could get back to work.

We never did get back to work. Instead we spend the next several hours making “videos,” meaning, lip-synching to songs and recording it all on the VHS. I did “Comfortably Numb.”

And then we made plans to do it again.

Other people heard about it and wanted to join in. This kicked off roughly a decade in total of this odd past-time, known as “Videos.” To an outsider, most of it is probably really weird or stupid. I won’t argue that.

But that outsider wasn’t there, being a rock star for a few minutes a couple times a year, expressing all the joy and rage and angst our sixteen to twenty-one year old selves could muster from bands like Metallica, REM, Genesis, Social Distortion, Pink Floyd, and dozens more. One of my best was “Hey You” from The Wall. I fucking rocked that video.

Jesus, it was so much fun. As we got older and got jobs, we started spending real money on this hobby. Which I guess is normal for any hobby.

Most importantly, 35 years ago today, while I may not have known it at the time, something got kicked off that would last all these years later.

Not unilaterally. Not evenly. (Both to my everlasting regret.) But still here.

Elements and ephemera from that day suffuse my writing to this day. In MERCY RULE, I even wrote an entire scene in which some kids are making Videos, and it’s secretly one of my all-time favorite beats in any of my novels.

The passion, the heightened emotion, the drama and angst…the loyalty…

I write young adult, I write horror, I write urban fantasy, sometimes I even write high fantasy or dabble in some genre. In all of it, those guys are there. That love is there. That hope is there.

That hope that those who read my work feel seen and heard, the way I felt seen and heard giving my best David Gilmour impression with a wooden guitar in hand and fake microphone taped to a PCV pipe “mic stand” performing for an audience of thousands in my living room.

35 years ago today, something special began. I know that not everyone had or has what I did and do. Whether or not you were given that gift, I hope my writing and the community around it can extend it now.

Everyone deserves and needs a June 30, 1989.

Epic Fail! The worst thing any of us can do to ourselves.

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FAIL!

Back in 2001, my theatre company was offered a lot of money to produce a certain, specific show for a certain, specific producer. And my gut said, “No. Don’t do it, the money would be great, but this is a bad idea.” I moved ahead anyway and did the deal, and when the producer started talking about moving the location for the venue, I knew we were sunk. I may not ever have been the best artistic director in town, but I knew a bad idea when I saw it, and this was a bad, bad, bad idea.

I let myself get bullied into something I did not believe in.

For money.

You know what happened, right? Absolute catastrophe. Now in fairness, the actors and crew did a great job despite our circumstances, which included a run that was something absurd, like Sunday afternoon to Wednesday night. (No theatre would ever, ever, ever would do that, certainly not at our level. Friday and Saturday nights were our bread and butter.) We performed twenty-plus miles away from our home base. All together, we sold maybe 50 tickets, if that.

It was a failure. Not because of the money – the company didn’t personally lose any cash in the deal – but because I didn’t trust myself and say what needed to be said. Scary old guys came around, talking fame and fortune, and I ignored my instincts and went ahead with it. In 22 years of theatre, it stands as my biggest (personal) artistic failure.

That includes blowing more than $20,000 in less than three years on my second theatre company. Never gonna see that money again! Never did get any of the Super Cool Awards that our town hands out.

But I don’t regret not winning those awards, and I don’t regret spending that money.

I very much regret saying yes to something I didn’t believe in.

That’s a failure.

I don’t know where my writing career is headed. Okay. I’ll control what I can. But whatever ends up happening, I sure as hell won’t let someone else dictate terms to me again like I’ve done before. Because even if that one bad show had been a wild success, it wouldn’t have been fun. Privately, it would have felt like, Man, I don’t know how we dodged that bullet. That’s not the sign of a success, that’s a sign of relief.

Beckett’s Last Mixtape – Chapter Five

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ANTHO

 

Judge Roberts looks like my father. This is not a good thing.

Courtrooms are not what they look like on TV, or at least this one isn’t. It’s mostly off-white, with dark paneling at the judge’s bench and witness stand, and the Seal of the State of Arizona hanging behind him. Despite the fact that the ceiling isn’t two stories tall or that the floor is dark, polished wood does not make the space any less intimidating. My heart squeezes behind my ribs like a hand around a tennis ball.

Judge Roberts has asked me a question and is now waiting for me. So is everyone else.

I better make this good. This ain’t—

This isn’t a speech tournament. Lose there, and you don’t get a plaque. Lose here, and I’ll spend freshman year in the Maricopa County jail.

I clear my throat, wipe my hands on the thighs of my best navy blue dress pants, and stand.

“Yes I do, Your Honor.”

With that, I stride to the podium on my side of the room. I can see my lawyer, Mr. Goldsen, is both nervous and confident. He’s honestly not a lot older than me, by the look of him. My parents have known his parents for a long time. They play golf and tennis together at the club.

Judge Roberts sits back in his chair and appears to rock back and forth, holding a pen between his index fingers. He’s just asked if I have anything to say for myself, as Mr. Goldsen had said he probably would.

I have no note cards, nothing written down. This is extemporaneous speaking at it’s . . . what? Best? Finest? Most important?

Here we go:

“First of all, thank you for the opportunity to speak, Your Honor. I appreciate the consideration being shown me.”

He arches an eyebrow.

“Secondly . . . to be clear, I do accept responsibility for what I’ve done. It was a bad choice, and I do want to extend my apologies to Joe—uh, Mr. Bishop—for the harm I caused. I also want to apologize to my family and friends for putting them through this ordeal.”

The judge either nods, or rocks in his chair.

“I won’t try to excuse what I did, Your Honor, but I do wish to say that when it comes to my family and my friends, I am very protective. I’ve known Ashley Dixon most of my life. She’s like a sister to me. So when it was clear that someone had—by the definition of the law, Your Honor—had sexually assaulted her, I lost my cool and I reacted inappropriately. And while I certainly won’t let that happen again, I need to tell Ashley’s parents right here and now that I will always be there for her, and I will always do my best to protect her. If that protection has consequences, then I accept them.

“But again, Your Honor, if I ever face another situation like this, and I sincerely hope that I will not, then I will behave in a manner commensurate with the situation.”

Judge Roberts drops his pen on the desk and yanks his eyeglasses off. “Did you just say ‘commensurate’?”

“Um . . . yes, Your Honor.”

“And you’re how old again?”

“Almost fifteen, sir.”

He snaps his glasses back into place. “Go on.”

“That’s all I have, sir. Thank you.”

“I have to say, Mr. Lincoln, you are without a doubt the most eloquent and well-spoken fourteen-year-old I’ve ever met in this courthouse. In fact you may be the most eloquent and well-spoken person I’ve ever met in this courthouse.”

There’s a mild chuckle behind me from all the people here. They shut up when the judge shoots them a look.

“I don’t suppose you plan on becoming a lawyer.”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do, Your Honor.”

He picks up some papers and snaps them with his hand to get them to stand straight on their own. “Straight As in junior high. You just started high school at . . . Camelback?”

“In August, yes sir.”

“Mmm-hmm. What are you taking?”

I struggle to remember my schedule. “Um . . . integrated math, honors English, speech one, business keyboarding, French, and earth science.”

“Speech? Are you competing? National Forensics?”

“Yes, sir, two weeks ago there was an AIA practice tournament.”

“How did you do, Mr. Lincoln?”

It is very hard not to smile. “First place in extemp debate, sir.”

“Well done, Mr. Lincoln.”

I force myself to be cool, and nod my thanks. I’ll start bragging if I open my mouth, and that feels like a poor idea right now.

“What about your extra-curriculars?” he asks.

“Speech and drama club, Your Honor. Masque & Gavel.”

“No athletics?”

“No, sir.”

The judge stares at the papers for a long moment before setting them down and pulling his glasses off again. “Mr. Lincoln, for the record, I want you to acknowledge that I have every right to sentence you to a jail term. Do you understand?”

My heart skips. “Yes, sir.”

“I also intend to make sure a young man of your caliber doesn’t step foot in this building again until you’re trying your first case.”

My heart resumes. Maybe—maybe—I pulled this off.

“I understand, Your Honor.”

“It is the order of this court,” he says, “that you serve one hundred hours of community service and attend not less than twenty hours of anger management classes and counselling. I’m also recommending without enforcement that you find a good sport or two to work out whatever aggression you’ve got to work out. Is that understood?”

Someone behind me lets out a breath like they’ve been holding it. I think it’s Mom. Or Dad. Or maybe Mr. Goldsen.

“Yes, Your Honor!”

“And finally, Mr. Lincoln, make no mistake. If you ever appear before me again for a charge of this nature, I will make it my business to ensure you won’t hurt anyone else for a very long time. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Very well. I’ll see you in about ten years, defending or prosecuting your first case. Court adjourned.”

He banges his gavel, and that’s that.

I’m not going to jail.

This time.

Beckett’s Last Mixtape – Chapter Four

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ASHLEY

 

I’m so scared I want to cry.

Or at least sniffle a bit.

Coach Bradley walks back and forth in front of all of us like he should be chewing a cigar and wearing one of those drill sergeant hats like in Full Metal Jacket, which is my dad’s favorite rental for some reason. There’s twenty-two of us “trying out” for cross country. I counted. We’re all sitting on the browning grass beside the school race track, facing the sun and squinting in unison. I promise I put on deodorant this morning before school, but you’d never know it to smell me. Ugh. We haven’t even started running yet, and already the elastic waistband of my horrible blue gym shorts we are forced to wear is damp. Gross.

“We have three rules on this team,” the coach says, taking these slow steps back and forth “Everyone runs. No one quits.”

He pauses.

And smiles.

“No Skittles for breakfast.”

Some of us, me included, laugh a little, and the tension breaks.

Coach slaps his belly, which looks as solid and smooth as our antique oak dining room table under his white Camelback High School T-shirt. “You’ll be putting in thirty to fifty miles a week. When you’re running fifty miles a week, you can eat pretty much whatever you want. Just eat a lot of it. You’ll need it.”

He blows his whistle—chweet!—and shouts, “Feet!”

We all get up. Someone groans.

“Four laps. Take your time. Just warm up. It’s really dang hot out here, so stay hydrated.”

Chweet!

“Go!”

We all take off for the track around the field.

“Did he say fifty miles a week?” I ask this tall boy beside me.

He only grins and shoots off down the lane. Must be Varsity.

Dad insisted I take a sport, he didn’t care what it was. I think secretly he was hoping for tennis, since he and Mom play almost every weekend during the season. But the tennis season in Phoenix is winter. Outdoor tennis is not a great idea in July.

I put Dad off for almost a month, but he finally wore me down. When I heard that it’s basically impossible to get cut from cross country, and that some people on JV even walk during the races, at least a little bit, I thought, “That’s the sport for me!” and signed right up.

So far, the rumors have been true. Coach B is a nice guy, and doesn’t seem to put a lot of pressure on the JV team unless you clearly want to make Varsity. Then he digs in and coaches. I don’t need to be on the receiving end of that, thanks.

But I do run. I take it slow, since that’s what Coach B said: to take our time. After the first lap, a couple people are walking, which puts me in the middle of the group. I guess it’s a decent jog, because I catch up to another boy who is almost wheezing. Sweat runs from his short brown hair and stains his white T-shirt.

“You okay?” I ask, which is all I can manage.

He nods and stumbles into a walk. “Didn’t. Train. Summer.”

His cheeks are splotchy. He puts his hands on his hips, huffing and puffing.

I hear the dreaded whistle followed by Coach B’s voice. “Anderson! Okay to walk, no hands on your hips!”

Followed by another chweet!

The boy beside me drops his hands to let them dangle and keeps walking.

I figure helping him is a good excuse to slow down, so I downshift to a walk, too. “Sure you can breathe?”

He nods but doesn’t answer. He brings his hands to his hips again as if on instinct, then quickly drops them, shooting a look coach’s direction.

We walk side by side for about hundred yards or so before he has his breath back enough to speak. “Should have run over the summer. That was dumb. Just played video games.”

“Yeah, not a big workout playing Super Mario.”

“It is if you’re doing it right.” He glances at me with a little half-grin. “I’m Tommy.”

“Ashley. Nice to meet you. Freshman?”

“Afraid so. You?”

“Yeppers.”

“Sucks, huh.”

I shrug. “The first week was bad. But I had friends from junior high, you know? Where’d you come from? You didn’t go to Mohave.”

“No. Private school. I’m one of those kids.”

“Ooo. Fancy.”

“Not that fancy, trust me.”

“Anybody come with you? Here, I mean?”

“Nope. All my friends are up north at a private high school.”

“Well, if you need someplace to hang out at lunch Monday, we’ll be in the cafeteria.” Might as well ask. Right now it’s just me and Beckett, most of the time, if she doesn’t walk home. Antho’s almost always in the speech and drama department these days.

Tommy looks—well, not surprised, but kind of confused maybe. But then he says, “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“I mean, you don’t have to. I’m just saying.”

“No, no, it’s cool. Thanks.”

We keep walking for about another minute before I say, “Okay, I gotta run. Hey, haha! Get it? Gotta run? Anyway. Want to get into Varsity someday, right?”

Not at all true, but I don’t want to make it sound like I’m a slacker.

“Cool,” Tommy says. “Good luck. I’m going out for Varsity Walking Squad, so.”

That makes me laugh, and I pick up my pace.

Something about Tommy sticks with me, though, as my feet slap the track. It takes a couple minutes to hone in on what it was.

Most guys scan my body. A lot of them stare at my chest. Which is gross.

Not Tommy. He looked in my eyes.

The Only New Year’s Resolution You’ll Ever Need: 2024 and Beyond

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THE ONLY NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION YOU’LL EVER NEED

 

 

Do one pushup, with a straight back, chest to ground, perfect form.

 

Can’t do that? Do one pushup from your knees.

 

Can’t do that? Do one push-off from the wall.

 

(Can’t do that? Call your doctor and make an appointment now, you are in a bad, bad way.)

 

Then tomorrow, do it again. Do it every day until you get comfortable. Then do two. When two becomes comfortable, do three.

 

Can you already bust out 50 pushups? Cool. Bust out 51.

 

Can you walk comfortably 10 minutes? Walk 11.

 

Can you jog for 60 minutes straight? Jog 61.

 

Do you need to reduce your added sugar intake? (Spoiler alert: Yes.) Total up all your added grams of sugar on January 1, and on January 2, eat 1 gram less. When that’s comfortable, eat 2 grams less.

 

You do not need to join a gym. Save your money. You do not need expensive running shoes. Save your money. All you really need is your body, and a clear space on the floor about the size of a prison cell.

 

The only resolution you ever need to make is to get 1% better every day. For the rest of your life.

 

Do that, and I swear to you you’ll be stunned at how many goals you’ve crushed this time next year. Physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, financial, creative. Whatever.

 

That is how I went from weighing 120 pounds and in the worst depression of my life to weighing more than 150 pounds (lean muscle!) and completing 13.5 hours of a physical crucible coached by retired Navy SEALs.

 

When a 60+ year-old retired combat veteran Master Chief who just an hour previous was screaming in your ear to GET OFF YOUR KNEES, LEVEN! shakes your hand, looks you in the eye, and says, “You did it! I’m proud of you!” you feel that shit in your soul, and it lasts forever.

 

The first time you bust out a Murph (1 mile run, 100 pull ups, 200 pushups, 300 squats, and another 1 mile run) in 75 minutes, you realize your old way of thinking about limitations is over.

 

The first time you bang out 50 pushups in 2 minutes, you start to re-evaluate your creative, artistic, and business goals.

 

The first time you knock out 5,000 words of a novel in one day, you realize the old paradigms don’t apply anymore.

 

Do not compare yourself to anyone else. You are only competing against your own baseline to get 1% better today than yesterday at your goal.

 

That’s it. You got this. 1% better than yesterday.

 

Happy New Year 2024!

 

 

Beckett’s Last Mixtape – Chapter Three

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I lose track of what Mr. Morrison is teaching because of the girl I share a table with.

English Literature is an elective, but taking it now means I don’t have to take the second semester of English senior year. I’ll be ready to get out of high school by then, I’m sure.  I can feel it. High school pretty much bites, and it’s only September.

We share small tables in Lit instead of individual desks. Mr. Morrison’s classroom is the best-smelling of any I’ve been in, and there’s a rumor he lights specialty fragrance candles when no one’s here even though there is no way open flame is allowed. Today it smells like pine.

His classroom is wallpapered with musical theatre posters like Les Misérables and Phantom of the Opera, and every Spring he takes groups of kids to London. I really don’t care about musicals, but I like Mr. Morrison and it would be cool to go to London to see all the castles. I don’t think my parents can afford to send me, but I plan on asking anyway just in case.

But this girl . . .

She and I say Hi to each other in the morning when we get here, and usually See ya! when class is over. Sometimes one of us will ask the other to borrow a pencil or sheet of paper. But that’s it.

I can tell she’s pretty; meaning, I recognize she is attractive. I can discern—by any conventional standard—most people would agree her body is structured in such a way as to elicit arousal, envy, or some mixture of the two; and that her facial features, her hair, and all her “vital stats” fall within the parameters of modern American beauty.

I’m talking here about a girl who, if she closed her text book, turned to me and said, “Listen, if you’re not busy at lunch, I would totally have sex with you in the library study room,” I would most likely reply, “Well, I mean, sure, okay.”

That is what I am supposed to say in such an unlikely event. And, who knows, maybe she’s got a winning personality, or works in a soup kitchen, or is secretly solving the cure for cancer. I’m not trying to objectify her. I don’t think. Am I? I probably am.

Which is another thing I’m supposed to do if you look at the magazines and Playboy channel when it pops on for second between changing channels.

I should be attracted to her.

I’m not.

Goddammit, I’m just not, and I don’t think I ever will be, and someone’s going to figure it out sooner or later.

Maybe if I put some effort into it? She has long curly hair that’s practically the color of a new penny. I think she’s older than me, too, like maybe a junior or even a senior. Also he’s very . . . developed.

There’s just nothing outstanding about her to me. She’s a paper doll, just one more in a long line of attractive lookalikes I’ve seen at this school.

But . . .

I don’t think that’s why I don’t like her the way I’m supposed to.

So every day, I keep her in the corner of my eye while Mr. Morrison goes on these rambling diatribes about Elizabeth Bennet and Helmholtz Watson and Daisy Buchanan.

I pretend to glance out the window when I’m really looking at her chest. But I do it really quick, so she doesn’t notice. I don’t want to be rude or crude. Sometimes she sits cross-legged on her orange molded plastic chair, and her legs, which always seem very tan, sneak into the folded edges of her Guess jean shorts. So I clandestinely look at her skin there and if she’s really not paying attention, I follow the line of her thigh into the denim and stare—for only a second or two—at the middle spot where the four seams of her shorts join.

And I think: C’mon, come on, man . . .

Nothing happens. No jolt of excitement, no . . . you know. Turn on.

Nothing until today, when she turns to me so quickly that I get startled and almost fall backward out of my chair.

“What?” she whispers as Mr. Morrison sallies forth, as he likes to say, about some Shakespearean character named Antonio.

“What?” I whisper back, while very, very quickly lifting my eyes to hers.

I can smell cinnamon on her breath as she whispers. “What did you say?”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Just now?”

“Yes.”

“I have no idea.”

She frowns. “It sounded like you said ‘come on.’”

I make myself frown right back, like she’s crazy. “Uh, no! No. Why would I say that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to go out?”

“Mr. Anderson and Ms. Haight!” Mr. Morrison calls. “Perhaps you would like to enlighten us on the subject of metatheatre in Shakespeare’s immortal comedy, Twelfth Night?”

“No thanks,” I say.

“Nah, I’m good,” she says.

“Then zip it,” Mr. Morrison says, with a smile, because he is a pretty nice guy. “Now! Let us sally forth . . .”

We both nod. Mr. Morrison goes back to his lecture.

I write on the corner of one sheet in my notebook: Your name is Hate?

Smirking, she spells beneath my writing in block letters: Haight.

I give her a nod and thumbs up when Mr. Morrison’s back is to us.

She writes: Did you ask me out?

Crap. I did say that, I heard myself say it, I just don’t know why I said it. And she totally heard it.

Now I have to answer.

But she keeps writing before I can: Are you a freshman?

Yes, I write. You?

She writes two letters: J R

Then that’s it, she doesn’t write anything else. I have no idea what to say, but I am pretty sure she didn’t just suddenly forget that I blurted out asking her on a date.

Which . . . why did I even do that? Maybe as a distraction? She did catch me totally checking her out, even though that’s not technically what I was doing, not in any traditional way.

She taps the end of her eraser on the table while Mr. Morrison acts out a scene from Twelfth Night, complete with different voices and postures for each character. He’s terrible, and he knows it, so it’s actually kind of fun. Everybody laughs.

There are four minutes left of class when she suddenly scribbles on the paper. Just two more letters.

O K.

I’m honestly not sure what that means, so I spend the last four minutes squinting at the letters, then at her. This appears to amuse her.

The bell chimes, and everyone jumps up except us.

“Okay, what?” I say over the sound of thirty people slamming notebooks closed, zipping backpacks shut, and shuffling toward the door.

Smirking again, she says, “Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up. Where do you live?”

It feels like my head slowly twists around like the little girl in The Exorcist.

“. . . What?”

Laughing, she—I am not making this up—pinches my cheek, like a grandma.

“You’re so cute! That’s why I’m doing it. Here. Write down your fucking address, freshman.”

Hands numb, I somehow manage to scrawl it out. She tears the paper from my notebook.

“Seven o’clock tomorrow. Dress nice. See ya!”

“Wait!” I call out as the classroom empties and she’s dashing toward the door. “Um . . .  what’s your name?”

“Jenn! Bye, Tommy!”

Then she’s gone, her laughter trailing behind her, and the next bunch of students wanders inside while I’m still standing here like an idiot at our table.

She knew my name? But I didn’t know hers?

Well, regardless. I guess I’ve got a date.

With a very attractive junior girl, no less.

Who apparently drives. So that’s cool.

. . . I just don’t care.

Is that a problem? Because it feels like a problem.

Hello, my friend! I hope you’re enjoying the story. Take a look at other stories and more at my linktree here:

linktr.ee/tomleveen

See you soon!
~ Tom