The Pirate gives you sci-fi with a sense of fun. Much more optimistic than the horror shorts you may have heard from me recently.

The Blurb: What do you do when you are born in a paradise, that has never heard of the profession you born into?  You go with it, you play it to the hilt and you live you life by no ones rules but your own.

Want to know more about Flagship? Here’s how the editor, Zach Ricks, explain what they’re looking to put together:

With our first magazine, FlagShip, I wanted to hearken back to what some have called the Golden Age of Science Fiction. The people we regard as the grand masters of genre fiction, or a lot of them anyway, got their start writing in the “pulps”. There was a sense of optimism and hope in those old stories that I miss in more recent science fiction. Fantasy has been largely immune from this trend, so far as I know, but I worry about the negativity, the cynicism, and the pseudo-sophistication of the culture. In response to that, I have some specific things I want to accomplish.

He goes on to list 3 goals.

I love the optimism and the pulpy goodness of past masters and knew I had the perfect story. I’m glad that Flagship Magazine agreed.

The magazine is $1.99 for audio or etext versions, and $2.99 for both.

P.G. Holyfield will also be creating a clean, edited audio version of the story in the next month or so. I’ll see if I can add that to my feed as well.

Thank you to anyone who attended the reading.

The story is set in the world of Murder at Avedon Hill (available in print in 2010). The Tales of the Children anthology provides looks at the Children of Az. These gods are born into the world as men, unaware of their own origins and with their powers dormant until someone or something awakens them.

Here’s a quick look at the opening to Feverfew:

Feverfew Flowers

In a land of magic where gods are born to men the concerns of both must mingle.

The five curved peaks of Darsun’s Claws, beyond the mountains of Anarin, marked the boundary of man’s reach. Though an adventurous few sometimes risked the steaming vents and climbed among the rainbow hued pools to trade across the mountains, no one called it home. When the winter storms blew from Drakesmont, the tallest of all the Claws, strange-smelling mists hid beasts that stalked man’s tenuous claims.

The fury of one such blizzard echoed the storm that raged in Rondac Whitestaff’s heart. He leaned into the whipping winds. His feet crunched through layers of blowing snow. His breath puffed out in icy crystals that the wind greedily snatched away. On his back lay his son Alastair. The boy’s whining and crying had stopped and he had become so quiet that not even shivers disturbed him any longer. Rondac, the mighty warrior, was afraid to look back.

He rubbed a shoulder against his fleece collar to scrape away the ice that sagged over his brow. The frown of concentration remained as he studied the crystals of snow that blasted the land into uniform whiteness. “I’m losing them,” he whispered, and the wind raised a gleeful howl. He took a shuddering breath and collapsed onto his knees. His gaze hunted like a trapped thing, pacing between the white walls of the gorge and back as he tried to find a clue that would guide him. He had never failed. This was his place, where no one else belonged but he somehow thrived. He had brought his family to show them the mysteries; Alyssa had begged to see the colored smokes and bubbling hot springs.

He laughed harshly, thinking of his beautiful wife. The storm had caught him, that was the mistake that started it all, and they had been searching for shelter when the beast stole her away. He was Rondac, the man whose will carved a trading trail through these mountains. He led strangers safely through the mysteries of Darsun’s Claw. How can I fail my own wife?

. . .

Join P.G. Holyfield for the rest of the Tale. Wed, Dec 30th at 6:30pm Pacific at http://www.stickam.com/pgholyfield

Listen to my story Graveyard Shift (and Re-shift) as well as the three other stories contributed by Rhonda Carpenter, Arlene Radasky, and Michele Roger. All the stories are at HorrorAddicts.net

Vote for the story or stories that you liked best by emailing the host, Emerian Rich at emzbox@sbcglobal.net.  Write ‘WWW’ in the subject line. Include 1) The name, number, or author of the story you want to vote for 2) Your name or handle 3) Your mailing address (Only used if you should win).

This will be a tight race. Your vote is very important, and one lucky voter will win the prize box. It contains autographed books, audio cds, t-shirts, key chains, and other book-themed paraphernalia.

Undergrowth cover by K. Siegenthaler

Guilt and Pruners Don’t Mix:

Torsten is a xenobotanist whose specialization in dangerous plants has already meant hideous death for someone he loved.

The Lumentera is a beautiful specimen whose hallucinogenic and luminescent qualities make it an invaluable commodity. But when the Lumentera blooms, the bait is set in a mind game whose outcome is as uncertain as Torsten’s sanity.

In the planet of Scillia’s uncultivated forests, amputation, lost love, and unrequited desire play out. But is Torsten strong enough to grab hold of the new happiness offered to him? Or will guilt own him forever?

Where to Get It:

My newest short story, the horror sci-fi piece entitled Undergrowth, airs on Emerian Rich’s Horror Addicts podcast. I think the audio adds to the story, so definitely consider listening to the half-hour podcast story within her podcast. Be warned, some of the news stories prior to my interview are pretty gruesome.  If you love horror, listen to the whole ep. My brief interview starts 42 minutes in and the story is the last half-hour of the podcast.

You will love it!

I think that the audio is the finest I’ve done, I even took the time to add sound effects in the podcast, but I am also offering a .pdf of the text of Undergrowth for you to read. Check it out and let me know what you think! If you try both, I’d love to hear which you prefer.

This story is unlike most of my work because it isn’t science-fiction. Let me know if you enjoy it. It’s short enough I’ll simply add it to the blog.

Hunting the Brutal Truth

“I hate it out here.” Ronnie flopped onto a fallen log panting slightly and settling heavy hips as if she were a new fungal growth rooting into the dead timber, “If we ever find our way back to a path and civilization I’m going to KILL those guys.”

Veronica nibbled on her lip and moved her rifle to the side furthest from Ronnie. Ronnie raked crunchy leaf bits from frizzled coils of unwashed hair. She continued in the same tone, “Well we could die out here, all shriveled up from thirst and frozen in the night. Searchers would find us in fetal position under dead leaves we’d piled over us to stay warm, corpses roiling with beetles, and all because our husbands thought it would be funny to take us hunting.”

Veronica studied Ronnie’s petulant movements and cleared her throat. Instead of her usual soft voice she adopted a storyteller voice that caught Ronnie’s attention, “A man calls 911. ‘I think my friend is dead! We were hunting, he tripped and the gun went off.’ And the operator says, ‘Stay calm sir. I can help. First, let’s make sure he’s dead.’ There’s silence and then a gunshot. The man gets back on the phone and says, ‘Okay, now what?’”

Ronnie laughed. She held her sides and rolled on the log, her hysteria giving strength to her mirth.

Tiny lines of satisfaction crinkled the corners of Veronica’s mouth.

Ronnie stopped laughing and wiped tears from her eyes, “I’ve been camping with you all weekend and I had no clue you were funny.”

Veronica shrugged and dropped her eyes once more.

Ronnie scooted over on the log, “Carl doesn’t like for you to talk much, huh?” she patted the rippled bark invitingly.

Veronica moved from foot to foot, but didn’t sit with the older woman. “He’s just stressed about work. Being here with his boss . . . ,” she lifted her arm and her weak voice trailed away. Ronnie’s eyes moved to the sleeve that lifted with Veronica’s gesture. Purple and green bruises limned the narrow curve of Veronica’s wrists.

“He seems like he gets stressed a lot.” Ronnie sat forward, “We don’t know each other well, and Derek is Carl’s boss but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Maybe you could use a friend?”
Birds tweeted and things croaked. Something bigger rustled in the distance.

“Do you see them?” Ronnie asked, wondering whether Veronica glanced around because she was wishing the men would appear or fearful that they would.

“No,” Veronica tried to smile, “But Carl brings me out all the time. I can find us a way back, and I’m as good a shot as he is.” She patted the rifle.

“You LIKE camping?”

“Not really,” Veronica admitted, “But Carl likes it.”

“Bully for Carl.” Ronnie muttered.

Veronica picked at a pimple on her cheek and flicked thick foundation from under her nail. Two days without a shower yet she’s wearing full-on makeup. Ronnie inspected what else the makeup might conceal.

Ronnie said, “Actually, I’ve been hoping we’d find some time together. Derek tells me everything, Veronica.” She put on her serious expression, enjoying herself and forgetting they were lost as she circled the topic on her mind.

Veronica frowned slightly, her subdued manner showing its first crack. She slung the rifle over her back and began walking. “What does he tell you?”

Ronnie hurried to follow, “I know you have accidents. I’m his wife, he calls me to tell me when he has a longer work day because you’ve slipped in the shower or tripped on the stairs. Carl’s missed a lot of work recently.”

“Carl and I are going through a rough patch.” Veronica snapped. She turned and stared at Ronnie with wide eyes. “Does Derek really say that?”

“There they are!” Ronnie pointed down the ridge, “Isn’t that them behind that boulder?”
“I don’t see them, but they’re watching that buck, see there?” Veronica hunkered down and Ronnie followed her example. Veronica unslung her weapon

Ronnie put her hand on Veronica’s back, “Look through the sight, can you see them now? “
The tip of the gun moved smoothly as Veronica scanned the brush. Ronnie continued to talk behind her ear, “They want us to rely on them, but you put yourself in their power and they use it to hold you, to control you. They make promises, but the pain is just waiting. I had a selfish ex-husband before Derek so I can understand; how it feels to trust, to wrap your life around someone else.”

Ronnie put her hand on Veronica’s shoulder. The gun had stopped and held in place with firm accuracy.

“Do people know you’re a good shot? It would be so easy to slip up, wouldn’t it? You can hardly see them. No one would be surprised if we got confused, we were lost, and an accident happened.”

Veronica’s eye remained glued to the sight, “You think that? Really?”

“I have two kids. Just think what it would be like if you had kids! Better it end here and now. Did he make you promises? It won’t really be different. I was you, and I would never go back. I lost all faith in men until I met Derek. They think they can inflict whatever they want but you have power too.”

“Oh, God,” Veronica said, “It hurts so much.”

“Accidents happen.” Ronnie held her breath.

Veronica moved her finger from the trigger guard to the trigger. She could feel Ronnie at her shoulder.

Crack!

Echoes of the shot sang back to them as one of the men below slumped over and crimson trickled from his forehead’s receding hairline.

Ronnie gasped and rose to her feet, “You shot the wrong one!” She snatched the long rifle from Veronica as if she might make the same mistake again.

Veronica peered through the greenery at the body. She swallowed and guilty green eyes lifted, “No baby, I didn’t. I’m a good shot.”

“But you shot MY husband.”

“Double-dealing two timer, that’s who I shot. It’s bad enough we were cheating on Carl. But Derek called him a wife beater?” she spat on the ground. “It’s been so awkward, I thought you knew. But you just wanted to help me.”

Ronnie gaped uncomprehendingly.

Veronica yanked her sleeves back and showed the purple of her wrists, “Your husband’s into bondage.”

Ronnie whipped the gun up, “What?!”

Crack!