Being on the road for all but a couple days over the past couple weeks, I’m woefully behind in BIG ANNOUNCEMENTS. But I’m fixin’ to rectify that now by announcing: The new issue of Pulp Modern is out, and once again I have a story included! Dig:
Issue two of the critically acclaimed pulp fiction journal. This issue includes stories by PATTI ABBOTT, STEVEN AXELROD, STEPHEN G. EOANNAU, MATTHEW C. FUNK, JC HEMPHILL, JEROME K. JEROME, DAVID JAMES KEATON, JOHN KENYON, CHRIS LA TRAY, MICHAEL MORECI, LELAND NEVILLE, WILLIAM DYLAN POWELL, JEREMY SHANE, and JACK WEBSTER. Once again, the journal is edited by ALEC CIZAK and features stunning cover art by JEREMY SELZER.
You can get it from CreateSpace or Amazon, whichever you prefer. It’s a little leaner and meaner this time around, and a couple bucks cheaper as well. Remember, you can still get the first issue, which includes my story “Romo Samson and the Grandmother Spider.” I know it’s a little late, but New Years is a great opportunity for gift giving as well, after all.
My story this time around is a Western. A Western without six guns, horses, cowboys, or gunfights. It’s called “A Blunderbuss for a Broken Heart.” Here’s an excerpt:
Seamus O’Malley, or Mr. Seamus, as he was commonly called, was sitting on a stool at the bar in a private chamber just off the main parlor. Heavy drapes adorned the walls, and two overstuffed chairs faced a couch. He was alone, but if any of his regular visitors arrived who required a bit more discretion in the sampling of his services, this comfortable lounge would keep them from prying eyes.
Seamus scowled as the hostess stepped hesitantly into the room. Ava swept in behind her.
“Mr. Seamus,” Ava said. “It is high time we met.”
Seamus set his whiskey tumbler aside and smiled, but did not stand. His gaze traveled the length of her body and back again. “Ah, Mrs. Judge Foster, I presume? I’ve heard stories of your beauty; they don’t do you justice.” His voice was a rich baritone, his eyes glittering in the light of several lamps glowing along the walls.
“You know damn well who I am,” Ava said. “You have something that belongs to me, and I aim to claim it.”
Seamus nodded to the hostess, who spun on a heel and hurried from the room. He picked up his glass and eyed Ava over the edge as he took a sip. Setting it down, he retrieved a bottle from where it stood on the bar’s surface and topped off the glass.
“Can I offer you a drink?” he said.
“Mr. Seamus,” Ava said.
“I know sharing alcohol in a place such as this may be considered beneath the station of an upstanding woman of your means, but it is still my duty to be polite and offer. After all,” he said, taking another sip. “I don’t intend to stop drinking myself.”
Ava was not deaf to the sarcasm in Seamus’s tone, despite his thick accent. “I’m not here for pleasantries. You know what I’ve come for,” she said.
“Your husband? He’s rather . . . self-indulgent. Takes many risks.” Seamus took a longer gulp of whiskey. “Can’t decide if he’s the bravest man I’ve known, or the most foolish.”
“I want my gun, Mr. Seamus.”