Excerpt: A Bottle of Jyn by Peter A. Balaskas

  In September, we will be releasing Peter A. Balaskas' novella, The Grandmaster.  But to give you a sneak peek inside the Wagner Instititute, we just released a short e-book version of Balaskas' short story entitled A Bottle of Jyn. 

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"The spinning’s the worst part. Too much Bliss does that to you."

Vincent Poe knows all about Bliss. As a supervisor at the Wagner Institute, Poe uses his special abilities to track murderers and help study the psychic potential of the human mind. But mixing alcohol with Bliss travel can only lead to trouble, particularly when a mysterious woman named Jyn gets involved.

The following excerpt is the first five pages of the story, reprinted here with the author's permission.  To get the full story for only .79 cents, visit Drivethrurpg.com, RPGNOW.com or our Publisher Storefront.  Please feel free to leave reviews and comments.

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The spinning's the worst part.  Too much Bliss does that to you.

I'm an expert when it comes to the different stages of ‘Bliss,' as I usually call it.  The first time I labeled this form of perceptual reality was around 1966 at that wonderfully hedonistic age of eighteen. But I actually started entering it when I was fourteen. Mom was in her own Bliss State when she rammed her car into a telephone pole. Puberty was also kicking in, which introduced me to the first of my ‘talents' as I saw the spirit of my mother approach me that night, screaming, "I'm free" before fading away.  As if I could handle visions like that sober. 

There you have it. My travels into Bliss had officially begun.  And it has many facets to its remarkable personality: tranquility, numbness, lack of coordination, fearlessness, sometimes anger, definitely despair. No stranger to that one.  The fascinating thing about entering this type of reality is there are many keys to opening the doorway.  During the early years, my favorite key was wine.  But I grew up and said "bye bye" to the grape and "hello" to the grain: whiskey, vodka, tequila... 

Oh, let's not forget gin.  Definitely not gin.

{"No, not gin," she said.  "Mine is spelled with a J and a Y."}

Usually an experienced Bliss Traveler needs only one key to get through the door.  Of course, a twenty-five-year vet like me doesn't care what key he has, only how frequently it happens. This particular traveler has paranormal powers that need to be anesthetized once in a while.  Visions of the dead visiting me when I don't want them to.  Residual emotions of the criminals that I hunt still sticking inside my head like flypaper, their insane voices drowning out my thoughts.  But after spending who knows how many days here (weeks, months, years, centuries?), I realize that being inside Bliss doesn't control my powers, or talents, or whatever the hell they are.  Quite the contrary. It enhances and over-sensitizes them, giving the power an almost ‘hair-trigger' effect.  The only things that are softened are my normal senses; and when I do leave Bliss and my awareness comes back? Oh, man. It only takes a split second to discover that I've screwed up.  I've done this many times; but it was the last two mistakes that truly solidified my destiny as a dedicated Bliss Traveler. 

The first mistake occurred on January 4, 1988, in Pasadena, California, home of the Wagner Institute for Mental Treatment and Investigations. I served as supervisor in the Psychic Division. Dr. Johann Wagner created the place, with the primary goal to "utilize the paranormal talents of its employees in treating special cases of the mentally ill, investigate psychic phenomena, solving the unsolvable crimes," and on and on. Everyone has a variety of powers; mine included telepathy, clairvoyance, astral projection, and psychic linking. During my last assignment, I psychically linked into a patient's mind while still in Bliss.  Of course, the $64,000 question would be, "If I was in Bliss while I was working, why didn't my colleagues stop me?"  Shit, with a lot of practice, it is so easy to conceal the evidence: Visine for the eyes, toothpaste and mouthwash for the breath, coffee to maintain some sense of equilibrium.  Ah, that miraculous invention, caffeine. Yeah, many of us Bliss Travelers can blend in among you without giving away our identities.

My last patient was a survivor of the mass murder of her family. She was in shock, so I dove in to find out who did it, why, how, and so forth. The good news?  She stopped convulsing after fifteen minutes and remained more or less intact.  The bad news?  Immediate, indefinite suspension until I clean up by way of AA.  If not, instant admission into a padded room at the Institute for a hard core lesson in Tough Love, Detox Style. I do remember being castrated twice after that verdict came down: once by the Vice President of the Institute and once by the Good Doctor himself.

It was well known by everyone there that I was a Bliss Traveler, but they kept mum about it.  I never abused my travels, it never affected my work, and I never behaved inappropriately toward my co-workers.  Unfortunately, my travels became more frequent and evident. I tried to go cold turkey on my own. No success.              Ultimately, my wife of ten years left me and my last mistake led to an ass chewing by Nathan Reynolds.

I do admire and respect the man.  Although his powers are mostly limited to telepathy, astral projection and psychic linking, it was Nathan's business talents that have helped bring in the money for psychic research.  But at times I found him to be a self-righteous son of a bitch. Verbal emasculation was his style: 

"Your addiction fucking up your life is one thing. I tried to be patient and sympathetic about your problem. And it is a problem, Vince! Don't even begin to deny it! But jeopardizing a patient by linking while on the sauce is something else entirely.  Your carelessness almost brought down the Institute. Where the hell is your head?  Up your ass?" 

He went on and on, and I eventually tuned out what he said altogether; I just focused on that asshole mouth opening and closing, opening and closing. When I started to snicker at that verbal orifice of his, he realized what condition I was in and it pissed him off even more.  I guess me being in Bliss at three in the afternoon and in his office had something to do with it.

Nate finally gave up and he ordered me to see Dr. Wagner. I walked through the main office level of the building without a care in the world.  Didn't notice anything or anyone and it felt so good-the world didn't spin, just swayed. I drifted through the clouds as I took the elevator to Dr. Wagner's suite, and when I walked through that door and saw the Doctor...God!  I instantly rocketed back to my shame.  I felt like the prodigal son who disappointed his father.  Of course, I never had that feeling with my own Dad.  He was a fellow Traveler, too; and the only time he felt disappointment was when I moved to UCLA, leaving him all alone.  With Mom being dead for four years, he no longer had any drinking buddies. He went from disappointment to severe depression, to him blowing his brains all over the walls in our Tampa Trailer. To quote Mom on her day of deliverance, "I was free."

When he first met me, Doctor Wagner said I had potential. Shit, first sign of support I had from anybody. He really did his best, not only to guide me toward "my destiny in helping people with my talents," as he put it, but also to help myself. Still, I went too far that day and we both knew it.  Unlike Nate, Wagner didn't say a word.  He motioned to one of his leather chairs, and just looked at me with those sad, blue eyes of his.  I sunk into that thick, leather chair to disappear from his penetrating stare.  He closed his eyes and I felt psychic energies around him, around me, and throughout the entire room, energies I'd never felt before.  Reality started to bend into a convex shape. This was different than Bliss; I felt as if my soul was being contorted in some unnatural way. Then, I blacked out. 

Moments later, I opened my eyes and I felt so empty and cold, as though all of my organs were ripped out and in their place was a huge block of ice.  The worse kind of withdrawal I have ever experienced.  He placed a psychic energy ‘muzzle' on me. No one knows if it's hypnotic or if it's a type of energy damper.  Regardless, I felt I had no powers at all: no telepathy, no clairvoyance, no astral-projection, nothing. I've been told how a person feels when their talents are muted like this, but I never had any idea how bad it was going to be until that day.  I knew it was temporary and that it could be reversed by the Doctor, but that didn't make me feel any better. As far as I was concerned, he grabbed a part of my essence and stored it away to parts unknown, leaving me with this gaping hole inside my body.

I stood up and nearly toppled over. I had to close my eyes and take measured breaths in order to maintain my balance. The Doctor gave me a piece of paper that contained a phone number to A.A. and dismissed me like an elementary school student.  Each step echoed like I was in a cave and as soon as I got off that elevator to the main floor to pick up some things at my office, I felt every eye on me with looks of pity, disgust, avoidance, sadness. The glory of Bliss had officially ceased.  At least two of my favorite co-workers treated me with a little sympathy.  I'd trained both of them and they weren't as judgmental as the others.  Lana Harris gave me a silent hug.  And John Grimaldi, a loner with his own sense of style, just gave me a small smile and a nod:

Hang in there. You're not alone.

I immediately went back to my apartment and poured my usual painkiller of Jack on the rocks. I finally broke down, the tears dropping into my glass, diluting my liquid topaz key that opened my doorway into Bliss. I craved that golden nectar, waiting for the burning, bitter taste to seep into my veins. After the first sip, I chuckled. The tears actually made the drink taste better.

I tired to look at the logic of the situation. Since I temporarily lost my powers, there was no reason to take the booze.  With the help of AA and this suspension, I would've been back on track.  But I knew then-and to a certain extent now-that it was impossible. My Dad was right when he said, "the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree." He said this to me when his spirit left his decaying body and he broke into that maniacal laughter of his before he faded away into his own personal hell. Also, there was that damned, empty, ice cold feeling inside me, courtesy of what the Good Doctor did to me.  I entered Bliss with every bitter gulp from my ‘liquid key' and even as I passed out that afternoon, I still couldn't escape it.

I woke up with my brains coming out of my ears.  I popped a couple of Tylenol, glanced at the clock: 9 pm.  Had to get some air and some food.  I walked out of my apartment and my loneliness increased as I saw everyone around me enjoying their lives, feeling so...complete. Standing there, I was suddenly faced with a decision: go to AA and swallow my pride, or handle this like I usually handled any bad day.

Then came the second mistake I was talking about.

I strolled to my favorite drinking hole in L.A.: The Formosa Café on the quaint, yet hardly scenic corner of Santa Monica and Formosa.  I loved its character, and especially its longevity.  It's been around since the 30's, but somehow its nostalgic spirit kept it alive and well maintained over the years. I always liked how it was shaped like old-fashioned train cars, with the bar and lounge in the front section and the main restaurant in the back.  I shuffled to the bar where I saw pictures of all the famous movie stars that haunted the place; especially those who were fellow Travelers: Lee Marvin, William Holden, Robert Mitchum and many other famous brothers of Bliss.  Then, I looked beneath these pictures to another one that looked familiar: lean face, narrow, sunken eyes, unshaven, short brown hair and a look about him that indicated that he had hit rock bottom.  It took me a few seconds to realize I was looking at my reflection in the bar mirror.

Time to open the doorway with another key: a double gin and tonic. I shot through like a comet. The world wavered and drifted around me like dead fish in a polluted lake. All lights glowed with a soft intensity of distant stars.  I continued to maintain this blissful level without losing control of my stomach.  A true Traveler knows his limitations when it comes to that.  One could be so far into Bliss that he could forget how to use the English language, but he should never reject what this state has to offer.  No sir. I wandered past this brunette sitting a few feet away from my stool as I approached the jukebox.  I skimmed through the list until I found one title that caught my attention: Yes, It Is by The Beatles. I made my selection, sat right back down again, ordered another G and T and I closed my eyes.

I can still hear it.  It's amazing how a song can be so powerful that it can stir the soul.  It could be the words, the melody, the time that it came out, whatever. For me, the power of Yes, It Is lies in memory.  It was playing the night when Lisa and I met, when we first made love, and when we danced for the first time as a married couple on our wedding day. It was our song.  The words and the meaning didn't matter. Only how it connected to my memory of her. But I do love the melody: a slow dirge of brass horns, with Lennon's voice floating and, at times, soaring to beautiful levels, especially at the end when he sings, "I could be happy, with you by my side/ If I could forget her/ But it's my pride/ Yes it is/ Yes it is/ Oh, yes it is/ Yeah!"

Then she left, and I played it afterwards while traveling to Bliss.  It's been my traveling song, not a song for making love with my beloved wife who couldn't take my inner demons anymore.  A song that reminds me of when Lisa...

{"...just like your father"}

"This is my favorite song of theirs."

I opened my eyes. It was the brunette that I passed on my way to the jukebox. She looked at me with the bluest eyes I have ever seen.  Although I was in Bliss and my talents were muted, my natural powers of observation were working just fine. Late twenties, maybe early thirties, and her face was angular and hardened.  Something in her eyes made me think of an energetic sparrow that's been wounded one too many times.  She'd seen a lot in her life and I didn't need to be telepathic to notice that. She was tall, maybe 6'0 like me.  She wore a conservative, black business outfit, and her skirt was just the right length to show off those dancer-like legs of hers.  Focusing on those intense sky blue eyes, I noticed an extremely familiar watery glaze: a fellow Traveler.

And that's how I met my lovely Jyn.

Hell, that's how it usually starts in a place like that.  Trite talk leads to lighting each other's cigarettes to buying each other's drinks to discussions of philosophy which usually leads to a night of incredible fucking. I can't remember what we talked about that entire night at the bar-with three exceptions, beginning with our names.

"My name is Jynette Douglas.  But I like to be called Jyn."

I smiled as I pointed at my drink. "As in...?"

Her laughter had a hint of deep huskiness to it. I became instantly hard. She said, "No, not gin.  Mine is spelled with a J and a Y." She paused as she drank her wine.  "What's yours?

"Vincent Poe."

She smiled.  "I like that name, especially Poe.  When I was in high school, he was my favorite author.  Any relation?"

I took another drag from my cigarette.  "Actually, yes."

"You got to be kidding?"

"My direct ancestor was his brother. An affair that was kept under wraps," I said as I ordered another drink, trying to numb the pain.  It was Dr. Wagner who revealed my family line to me.  At first, I laughed my ass off because I found it hard to believe that my trailer trash family was related to one of America's literary geniuses.  But Wagner indicated that Poe had more insight into the spiritual world than people realized; it was his inner demons and his use of opium that killed his talents, and eventually him.

"I think that's great to have those kinds of roots.  Are you a writer, too?"  When I heard this, I laughed as I took a gulp from my drink.  Jyn looked at me in a curious way. "What's so funny?" 

I just shook my head and raised my drink.  "Nope.  I didn't inherit his creativity, just his addiction."

She nodded and gave me this sad, sympathetic smile: a smile from one lonely Traveler to another. She took a drag from her cigarette, held it, then slowly released the thick smoke which concealed her face like a fog. Only her blue eyes pierced through the fine layer of mist.  "Mine too, for three generations."

The conversation lead to our professions. I told her I was a consultant for a medical research facility-which was partly true-and she said she was a lawyer.  Then, the subject switched to our voices. She told me that she really liked my voice, which always had a raspy, gravelly edge to it.

She said, "It's as though your voice was covered with cigarette smoke and brandy.  I like how you sound."

"I like your voice too.  Reminds me a lot of Kathleen Turner."

"One of my favorite movies is Body Heat.  Tell me, would you ever throw a chair through a window to get what you desired?"

Her eyes clouded even more.  We were in Bliss together and it was time for us to travel to another place that would be equally as pleasurable, if not slightly self-destructive.

I finished my drink.  "Not at all.  I would simply just walk through the front door.  Very slowly."

She smiled. "And if it was locked?"

"It never is."

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