Warrior Soul & Other Stories

By J. Manfred Weichsel

J. Manfred Weichsel's versatility, unique style, and refusal to be bound by genre conventions have made him a force to be reckoned with in the world of speculative fiction. Now, Weichsel invites you to strip down and expose yourself to his raw and unfiltered imagination with Warrior Soul & Other Stories. 

Weichsel's stories peel away the veneer of societal norms and delve deep into the human psyche, exposing the rawest and most vulnerable parts of our existence. Through his boundary-shattering tales of science fiction, adventure, horror, and humor, Weichsel fearlessly explores the fringes of what is possible in fiction, revealing the naked truth of our humanity.

From the mind-bending science fiction of "Warrior Soul", to the fantastical realm of "The Rainbow-Colored Rock Hopper", from the light comedy of "Queen of the House", to the darkest depths of horror of "Complicit in Their Bondage", these twelve tales will leave you feeling exposed and vulnerable in the best possible way.

The bold and daring themes that run throughout Weichsel's work strip away all pretense and artifice to reveal the unvarnished truth of the human experience. So if you're ready to shed your inhibitions and explore the depths of what's possible in fiction, then get your copy of Warrior Soul & Other Stories now. It's time to embrace your innermost desires and take the plunge into the raw, unbridled world of J. Manfred Weichsel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Manfred Weichsel
• Release date: Mar 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215872925

J. Manfred Weichsel

J. Manfred Weichsel writes extravaganzas that fuse adventure, horror, science fiction, and fantasy into some of the most original subversive literature being published today.  Weichsel’s shorter works appear regularly in Cirsova Magazine and anthologies from Cirsova Publishing.  His longer self-published works have gained him a broad and dedicated base of rabid fans comprising folks from every segment of society – readers of all stripes who share a dark sense of humor and a desire to see modern culture burlesqued, and age-old human stupidity mocked.  A fiercely independent author, J. Manfred Weichsel aims to give birth to the classics of the future by writing works ungoverned by the constraints of traditional publishing houses and the inhibitions of contemporary society.   Loved by some and hated by others, Weichsel’s funny, unconventional, often grotesque books inhabit a unique space in American literature and will be read, talked about, and debated for generations to come. 

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 J. Manfred Weichsel

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Cover art and design by Scott P. Doc Vaughn

Cover design by Drew Stepek

Edited by Mark Thompson

First edition, March 2023 

All rights reserved.

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First publications:

September 2022: Tripping to Aldous, Cirsova Magazine Vol 2,Issue #12

December 2021: Queen of the House, Cirsova Magazine Vol 2,Issue #9

August 2021: Money Honey, Self-Published

Never 2021: The Black Jewel, previously unpublished

May 2020: Scent of the Yaka Aka Yo, Cirsova Magazine Summer Special #2

February 2020: Aid and Comfort, EconoClash Review #5: Quality Cheap Thrills, Down & Out Books

December 2019: The Rainbow-Colored Rock Hopper, Planetary: Pluto, Tuscany Bay Press

February 2019: Warrior Soul,Cirsova Magazine Vol. 2, Issue 1, Cirsova Press

September 2018: The Garden of Prince Shi-Wiwi, Weird Mask Zine Issue 4

June 2018: Complicit in Their Bondage, Planetary: Earth, Superversive Press

May 2018: Going Native, Cirsova Vol. 1, issue 8, Cirsova Press

April 2018: The Funniest Story Ever Told, Millhaven’s Tales Vol. 1 Issue 1, Millhaven Press

Introduction

By Mark Thompson

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... He placed a curse on me, whereby I am unable to possess money.

Unable to possess money? What do you mean?

... He dropped the nickel into my hand, and I noted the poorly concealed surprise on his face when it vanished into thin air. He looked up, laughed nervously, and said, Oh, come on. You must have played a sleight of hand trick. You are hiding the nickel somewhere. Show me.

No, I am not. I do not know where the money goes, but the moment I possess it, it disappears...

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I’ve been editing J. Manfred Weichsel’s books for several years, as well as his stories as copyeditor at Cirsova Magazine, and I always find wild and fantastic ideas in every one of them. The snippet above (from Money Honey, included in this collection) is a typically evocative example: what an appropriate curse for someone who really believes property is theft, to be literally unable to own money! But how would it work with a bank account, or digital currency? The Romans used salt for currency—could you desalinate sea water by giving it to this guy? Weichsel works out the nature of the curse so consistently in the story that these are serious questions, to ask yourself afterward. But what makes Weichsel’s stories so engaging is that he takes a fancy notion like this, one that sparks a multitude of bizarre ideas in your head, and proceeds to tell a story that goes off instead in yet another direction that you’d never have thought of.

You can look forward in this collection to a round dozen of Weichsel’s flights of fantasy, and to wonders that will make you periodically look up from the page and just stare at the wall for a few minutes, lost in thought.

What if our own solar system contains a band of breathable atmosphere around the orbit of Pluto, like the Smoke Ring in Larry Niven’s The Integral Trees? Weichsel makes this the setting for the heartwarming, almost Seussian tale of The Rainbow-Colored Rock Hopper. Or what if there were a planet whose very atmosphere was hallucinogenic to humans? Or what if an avant-garde photographer somehow acquired a camera with occult powers...

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What are they? Peace asked breathlessly.

They are photographs of models’ souls.

Photographs of models’ souls, Mil repeated in a daze. She had been as affected by the pictures as Peace.

Yes. I photograph the flesh, but the true art is in the soul. So, what will it be? Would you like me to photograph your flesh, or your souls?

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What should the girls in Warrior Soul do with such a weird, and potentially creepy, proposal? Is this the truest art, or the most degrading pornography... or both?

As you can tell even from these samples, this collection is a real Gumpian box of chocolates as far as its variety in themes and tones: funny, scary, surprising, delightful. Many are titillating: there’s a lot of nudity in Weichsel. Several are creepy: but the horror tales included here aren’t particularly gory at all (as some of Weichsel’s longer works are), but achieve their frissons of terror by the implications of the situation, like The Garden of Prince Shi-Wiwi—a story in the Clark Ashton Smith vein. You also have Queen of the House, the most purely humorous yarn in the bunch—though many of them can provoke a chuckle, sometimes after you finish the story and think about the implications for a few minutes. At the other end of the spectrum you have Complicit in Their Bondage; a horror story whose satirical overtones are so chillingly mordant I guarantee you’ll squirm as you read it.

Weichsel doesn’t write what I’d call message fiction, a hopelessly fuzzy category, although a reader looking for social commentary can often find it when reflecting on a story of his. But he doesn’t only aim zingers at the Left or the Right (he calls himself a radical centrist), probably because his focus is on what makes whatever story he’s writing work out the best.

If you’re looking for stories from an author who wrote with the purpose of changing your mind, of raising your consciousness or improving you according to his own standards... these aren’t the stories you’re looking for. These stories are for fun (does anyone remember fun?). Certainly, there are good people and bad people in these tales, and the good are rewarded and the evil punished—well, sometimes, but not always: and as in life itself, sometimes the reverse happens. Weichsel’s stories don’t so much drag you down or lift you up, as twist you around in place and make you look at things from a different angle.

There’s a possible key to Weichsel’s approach to fiction in a response he gave on Twitter, when he considered a good question posed by Alexandru Constantin: Are great novels written in good times or bad, degenerate ones? Weichsel wrote:

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Good times: There is a lot of popular upper-class fiction that is considered classic, and that promotes the values of the society in which it is written, but a few authors can see that things aren’t as good as they seem, and that society is headed in the wrong direction. Their books express a kind of uneasiness with the current status quo and are often described as subversive while in reality the writer is pointing out things that are actually wrong with society, that most don’t want to acknowledge.

Bad times: Writers become more experimental and deconstructive as they mock the fluffy classics that came before and take cues from the subversive novelists of past generations. Novels have more urgency and energy to them. As society further disintegrates and becomes atomized, authors start to write books so far inside their own heads that they are incomprehensible to most people but are exhilarating to the few readers who ‘get’ them. Alienation and estrangement become major themes.

I’d say probably for me at least, bad times win.

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I suppose these must be bad times, then, since we have here a good crop of what I hope will one day be called Weichsel’s writings from his early years.

So prepare yourself to travel in these pages to the far reaches of the galaxy and the nearer environs of our own solar system, through space and time, technology and magic, and be ready to experience the weirdest adventures of all when you’re right back here on Earth.

You’re in for a wild ride.

Tripping to Aldous

Dressed in a blue airtight uniform and standard-issue fishbowl helmet, I exited my interstellar police vehicle (IPV) and looked at the poor kids in the field below, wasting their brilliant young minds.

I was on Aldous to ask around about the murderer Richard Morales, who had been sighted here earlier in the summer. Personally, I wouldn’t put much stake in anything anybody said they saw on Aldous, but the department has to follow up every lead.

Aldous is the most dangerous planet in the galaxy. Its atmosphere contains slightly more oxygen than Earth, but it is a certain other chemical in the air that attracts the crowds; one with psychedelic properties.

Travel to Aldous is strictly forbidden by the government of Earth, as well as the governments of most planets in the Federation. And yet every summer vacation, thousands of teenagers and young adults book illegal vessels to the forbidden planet. Participants call this annual ritual tripping to Aldous.

I looked at the crowd with pity. They were so young and had beautiful futures ahead of them, but here they were throwing it all away for nothing. None wore a helmet, gas mask, or breathing apparatus of any kind. And the worst part was they looked like they were having the time of their lives as they danced to the electronic music that blared from the speakers. It was so sad.

I figured this was as good a place as any to start my investigation, so I made my way down the hill, thinking I would ask some questions. But the moment the kids saw me, the music stopped and everybody ran from the field in a blind panic.

I was thinking my job would be easier if I could wear plainclothes, when I felt something hit my fishbowl. And then, again. I looked about and saw three blond teenage boys with serious looks on their faces. They could have been star athletes, but instead of throwing pitches, here they were, high out of their minds, throwing rocks at an officer of the law.

I reached for my stun gun, but another rock hit my helmet, and I heard a hiss. Maybe if the people of Earth didn’t hate paying taxes so much, the force could issue better equipment.

I experienced the preliminary effects of the atmosphere immediately. As the boys ran off, they left motion trails in their wakes. I turned to return to the safety of my IPV, but with the simple motion of my head, the entire field became blurry with trails. I turned around and around looking for my vehicle but had lost my sense of direction. Thinking it was obstructing my view, I removed my helmet, but more atmosphere hit me, and I became unable to make out any object at all because of the trails in front of me. I stuck my hands out and walked in a direction I thought would take me to my IPV. But I must have gone the wrong way because I didn’t find it, and continued like this for some time, forgetting what I was looking for.

Suddenly, I wondered where I was. I had been walking mindlessly, unable to see a thing. What if I was near a cliff? My heart pounded in my chest with the thought that a single step could plunge me to my death. In a panic, I stuck my arms out trying to find something, anything, to hold onto. I blindly groped air until my hands rested on something soft and fleshy that I realized was a woman.

A male voice said, Let’s get out of here. He’s a cop.

The female voice said, He’s tripping to Aldous just like us. I think it’s groovy.

The male voice said, We should leave him alone.

I squinted and made out the outline of a face in front of me. It was probably the face of a typical high school student, but it seemed to pulsate because of the atmosphere, and her lips kept turning into bulbous frog lips and then back into human lips.

I said, It is true; I am a cop. My name is Peter Donovan. Then, I paused. Was my name Peter Donovan? The name suddenly sounded foreign, as if it were the name of somebody else. Afraid I would forget my name, I repeated, for my own benefit, My name is Peter Donovan. My name is Peter Donovan. Then I said to the girl, But I am not here to arrest teenagers. I am looking for a murderer who may be hiding out on this planet. His name is Richard Morales.

The woman gasped. A murderer! How dreadful.

I continued, But the problem is, I can’t see a thing.

Hasn’t your mind adjusted yet? asked the male voice.

No. Is it supposed to?

If you want to see, you have to look. Look around you.

I strained my eyes, but still all I could make out was a blur of motion trails. Frustration caused my chest to tighten.

No. Not like that. You’ve got to relax. Relax, and just look. Don’t try too hard. Just breathe.

After a few moments of deep breathing, the motion trails dissipated as the outlines of things became sharp and clear. My head was tilted downwards, facing the grass and flowers at my feet. The colors were flat. There was only one shade of red, one of orange, one of yellow, one of green, and one of blue.

Fascinated, I picked up a red flower and examined it. It was a solid shade of red, and because of the uniformity of color, the flower appeared flat, as if it lacked depth. As I stared, the red separated into a rainbow in front of my eyes. But it was a rainbow of red. Each stripe of the rainbow was a different shade of red, but each shade of red was also its own distinct, unique color. There was a painful harmony to the colors as the stripes of the red rainbow swirled around each other and the spectrum of red colors dispersed chaotically across the petals. A tear came to my eye. I said, It’s so beautiful.

Yes! Yes! That’s it. You’re seeing.

I felt a strange kind of loving warmth towards my two companions. I don’t know why I hugged them. I was suddenly so full of emotion, and hugging potential witnesses seemed like the most natural thing in the world. But... how? I asked.

Color is in your mind. Your eyes see, and your brain interprets. The air of Aldous is loosening your mind, making your brain more flexible. More elastic. As you continue to look, the colors will become more vivid to you, and more distinct from each other, as they form into a new color scheme. The man paused, looked up at the sky, and added, more to himself than to me, What if the universe is a giant machine?

I remembered why I was on Aldous. I had an obligation I needed to fulfill. I had to arrest Richard Morales. I took a picture out of my pocket, showed it to my companions, and asked if they recognized the man. They said they had seen him.

More tears came to my eyes, and I said, Thank you.

For reasons I don’t understand, instead of following up with more questions, I turned and walked away, and jubilant but mysterious sounds I hadn’t noticed before faded into the distance.