Early Reviews

“F. P. Dorchak writes like a hot-rodder heading toward a brick wall. Edge of your seat entertainment! I pondered over each of these stories long after I’d finished reading them. That’s what great writing is all about!” - Dean Wyant, Co-Founder, Hex Publishers

“A collection that folds upon itself like a Möbius strip. A twisted landscape of the humane, the weird, and the fantastic.” - Mario Acevedo, Author, University of Doom

“Stylistically edgy and willing to muck around in the darker corners of life, the stories in Do The Dead Dream? are both bold and gritty. Readers looking to be soothed and reassured about the human condition, seek elsewhere.” - Mark Stevens, The Allison Coil Mystery Series

“F. P. Dorchak’s anthology—a collection of forty-five short stories—spans decades and showcases the author’s wide-ranging talent. With tales that are at turns engaging, suspenseful, twisty and often slyly humorous, Dorchak focuses his penetrating gaze on those things we too often take for granted—and makes us laugh or shiver in the doing. Reading Do the Dead Dream? takes you across a threshold into a Kafkaesque world where anything can happen; if Rod Serling were still on Planet Earth, he would be the first to offer his voice for the audio version.” - Barbara Nickless, The Sydney Parnell Mystery Series

“So reminiscent of the Twilight Zone! Imagine a story between light and shadow, between science fiction and superstition, between what you know about horror, and what horrors one can only imagine. Gritty and beautifully crafted, Do the Dead Dream? is the sort of collection readers will enjoy story after story.” - J.A. Kazimer, Author of CURSES!

“From the surreal to the all too real, F. P. Dorchak’s stories delve into the realms of the mind, otherworldly beings, loves lost, and the fickle nature of death. With a little bit of everything, this collection of stories will haunt readers long after they’ve closed the book.” - Shannon Lawrence, Short Story Author, Blogger, The Warrior Muse

“Do The Dead Dream? is a masterpiece. F. P. Dorchak effortlessly weaves the real and surreal into twisting, epically personal stories. “Etched In Stone” and “Tail Gunner” challenge what we know as real and yet are completely human tales of love, loss, and camaraderie with incredible resonance. This is a collection of the highest order from a supremely talented author.” - Kevin Ikenberry, The Protocol War Series

“F. P. Dorchak’s short stories take a look at the world in an inside-out, rarely visited way. These are neither happily-ever-after tales nor ghost stories solely meant to creep you out. They are worlds that can be deliciously understated like dreams of dreams, as enigmatic as time warps, and as unexpected as falling in all directions at once. We meet werewolves and undead and people whose past lives bleed through. These tales are nostalgia-meets-a-future with nighttime borders that hint something is not quite right, each one putting the reader in a graying state between sleep and wakefulness.” - Karen Albright Lin, WritersLaunchPad

“F. P. Dorchak blurs the lines between reality and the paranormal with his vast collection of unnerving tales that are sure to keep you up past midnight.” - Joshua Viola, Denver Post bestselling author

“From a dangerously precocious little girl who befriends gargoyles to a conventional guy who discovers (first hand) an invasion of mind-blowing creatures, F. P. Dorchak offers up a collection of horrifying short stories in Do The Dead Dream?, which he delivers with an inimitable, unique voice. The reader accompanies Dorchak’s characters’ bizarre experiences that manifest as rapid-fire flashes of thought-pandemonium . . . as would naturally occur under such unnatural circumstances. Just when you think the path is headed in an obvious direction, Dorchak jerks the road out from under your beliefs to find yourself suddenly drawn along a most unexpected thoroughfare.” - Jan C. J. Jones, Executive Producer/Writer, FOREST ROSE PRODUCTIONS, LLC, A Journey with Strange Bedfellows

“You may think you’ve read it all, but F. P Dorchak’s “Do the Dead Dream?” will test the limits of your imagination. Picture Stephen King as a mad scientist, mixing bits of Night Gallery with a generous helping of Black Mirror, a dash of Altered States, a pinch of metaphysics, and a healthy dose of surrealism. Dorchak takes you forward and backward in time, puts you in the cockpit of a plane, plunges you into the ocean, and ushers you into other realms you never expected. Buckle up for a unique and unforgettable ride.” - Paul Gallagher, Writer/Editor, Blogger, Shadow & Substance

Excerpt

Homecoming

2000

There comes a time in everyone’s life when you must face the music.

To think back to your childhood . . . when you were basically not held accountable for much. Those were the fun times, happy times! Happy and carefree. Life was your amusement park!

You had no real responsibilities, aside from school and a few chores. If you had a bike, you were mobile and that meant freedom! The world was literally at your feet! And the challenges! Nothing went unchallenged! Everything was suspect, from your home to your school. You’d try to get away with as much as possible, testing the system. You’d steal that candy bar just to see if you could get away with it . . . stay out later and later on dates.

It was all part of being a kid.

The excitement of being a kid!

But then things begin to change about mid-way through high school.

Slowly but surely more responsibility was layered into your life. No longer did things remain just mere “unaccountable challenges” . . . and if you later became one of the few to go to war, you witnessed the atrocities of mankind. Things that seared your soul with an intense anger and hatred.

Sadness.

It was an anger at the cruelties and callousness of conflict. At how the Human Condition could inflict torture—mental or physical—upon another. You wondered how could such things be? How could—can—people be driven to perform such atrocities—horrible, unspeakable acts upon each other.

How God could allow such things.

But it was and is real . . . and won’t ever go away.

The worst part is that it isn’t just confined to wars: it breeds . . . finding other ways to manifest . . . unleash itself. War (you find) just becomes a convenient excuse.

And while you’re in the middle of it all, you may find yourself thinking back to a particular girl you knew . . . before you left and everything went crazy. You think back to when you and her were an item.

Inseparable.

In love.

You think back with a sadness that bites deep. You think back to when you told her not to worry . . . you’d be back.

She says, well what about all the others who’ve said the same? You look her in the eyes and tell her—with all seriousness—that you’re different.

Yes, you think back to that time . . . and how you began to doubt your own words. She was the one you really cared about.

You remember that when that night was over so was your relationship. No one said anything, but you both felt it. And it wasn’t that you would necessarily never come back . . . no that wasn’t it. It was the waiting . . . and what you might become . . . .

She never wrote you and you never wrote her—well, maybe once. You did write her that one time just to let her know you were okay. But that was it. When there was no response, you knew why.

There was no animosity. It was just something that had to be.

But you did come back . . . all limbs and mentality intact. At least you think so. Maybe you are a little rougher around the edges—there was no part of your being that was not bruised from your “experiences,” “they” call them—but you were still you.

That boy who’d gone off to war.

So you found your way to her place, that lone porchlight still on the way you remember it. You knock at the door . . . her father opens it. Looks outside. He looks right through you as you stand before him . . . then he solemnly turns around without saying a word and reenters the house, head slumped miserably forward.

You, however, straighten yours up more.

You’re prepared.

Couldn’t be more prepared.

You turn back to the street . . . your thousand-yard stare catches you off-guard . . . recall the fire fights . . . the carnage . . . the smell of death and destruction . . . but also the life you had before the war . . . before . . . before you’d changed . . . .

It seems you stand there for an eternity.

Then a hand reaches out for you.

You turn.

She stands before the door, face to face with you.

You’re knees buckle.

Something inside you unhinges.

Tears . . . pain . . . in both sets of eyes.

You weren’t the only one who’d changed.

You thought you’d forever lost her . . . and she you. Sure, she had her “experiences” (“they” call them) while you were gone . . . but she’d always held you closest . . . never really wanted to let you go. You see it in her eyes. Feel it in the electricity between the both of you.

You were back . . . and so was she.

Back for you.

Gently you take her hand. Together you both turn . . . and hand-in-hand step off the porch . . . and vaporize as your feet hit the path leading away from one life . . .

Into another.

Book Blitz - January 8th

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