Pulphouse Fiction Magazine: Issue #4: Pulphouse, #4

By Annie Reed, Chuck Heintzelman, David Stier and 14 more

The Cutting Edge of Modern Short Fiction

A three-time Hugo Award nominated magazine, this issue of Pulphouse Fiction Magazine offers up eighteen fantastic stories by some of the best writers working in modern short fiction. No genre limitations, no topic limitations, just great stories. Attitude, feel, and high quality fiction equals Pulphouse.

 "This is definitely a strong start. All the stories have a lot of life to them, and are worthwhile reading."
—Tangent Online on Pulphouse Fiction Magazine, Issue #1

Including:

"Bigger Than the Monkey" by Robert Jeschonek

"The Coyote Equation" by J. Steven York

"The Wereyam" by Kent Patterson

"The Apple Tart of Eden" by M. L. Buchman

"The Dead on Somerset Hill" by Chuck Heintzelman

"Home" by Michael Kowal

"Peace and Quiet" by Jerry Oltion

"Word From on High: A Lucifer Jones Story" by Mike Resnick

"For the Love of Killer" by Mary Jo Rabe

"Earth Day" by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

"Why" by O'Neil De Noux

"Ornamental Animals" by Ray Vukcevich

"Crossing Over the River" by Sabrina Chase

"Graymatters" by David Stier

"The Chicken Time Machine" by Valerie Brook

"People Person" by Stephanie Writt

"The Old Guy" by Annie Reed

"Wishful Thinking: A Dan Shamble, Zombie P.I. Adventure" by Kevin J. Anderson

"Minions at Work 2.0: Invasive Species" by J. Steven York

• Language: English
• Publisher: WMG Publishing
• Release date: Dec 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386268833

Annie Reed

Award-winning author and editor Kristine Kathryn Rusch calls Annie Reed “one of the best writers I’ve come across in years.”Annie’s won recognition for her stellar writing across multiple genres. Her story “The Color of Guilt” originally published in Fiction River: Hidden in Crime, was selected as one of The Best Crime and Mystery Stories 2016. Her story “One Sun, No Waiting” was one of the first science fiction stories honored with a literary fellowship award by the Nevada Arts Foundation, and her novel PRETTY LITTLE HORSES was among the finalists in the Best First Private Eye Novel sponsored by St. Martin’s Press and the Private Eye Writers of America.A frequent contributor to the Fiction River anthologies and Pulphouse Fiction Magazine, Annie’s recent work includes the superhero origin novel FASTER, the near-future science fiction short novel IN DREAMS, and UNBROKEN FAMILIAR, a gritty urban fantasy mystery short novel. Annie’s also one of the founding members of the innovative Uncollected Anthology, a quarterly series of themed urban fantasy stories written by some of the best writers working today.Annie’s mystery novels include the Abby Maxon private investigator novels PRETTY LITTLE HORSES and PAPER BULLETS, the Jill Jordan mystery A DEATH IN CUMBERLAND, and the suspense novel SHADOW LIFE, written under the name Kris Sparks, as well as numerous other projects she can’t wait to get to. For more information about Annie, including news about upcoming bundles and publications, go to www.annie-reed.com.

Book preview

Pulphouse Fiction Magazine

Pulphouse Fiction Magazine

Issue Four, Fall 2018

Edited by

Dean Wesley Smith

WMG Publishing Inc.

Contents

From the Editor’s Desk: A Full Year

Robert Jeschonek

Bigger Than the Monkey

J. Steven York

The Coyote Equation

Kent Patterson

The Wereyam

M. L. Buchman

The Apple Tart of Eden

Chuck Heintzelman

The Dead on Somerset Hill

Michael Kowal

Home

Jerry Oltion

Peace and Quiet

Mike Resnick

Word from on High: A Lucifer Jones Story

Mary Jo Rabe

For the Love of Killer

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Earth Day

O’Neil De Noux

Why

Ray Vukcevich

Ornamental Animals

Sabrina Chase

Crossing Over the River

David Stier

Graymatters

Valerie Brook

The Chicken Time Machine

Stephanie Writt

People Person

Annie Reed

The Old Guy

Kevin Anderson

Wishful Thinking: A Dan Shamble, Zombie P.I. Adventure

J. Steven York

Minions at Work: Invasive Species

Subscriptions

Acknowledgments

From the Editor’s Desk: A Full Year

Dean Wesley Smith

With this fourth issue we mark the end of the first full year of the rebirth of Pulphouse: Fiction Magazine. Amazing and great fun and without even a moment’s hesitation, I want to thank all of you readers and subscribers for your support. Not a chance we could have done this without you.

And I really hope you will renew your subscription for another year for even more great fiction.

This all started with a Kickstarter (one year ago as I write this) that showed us the support for the return of this magazine was really there. And along the way the authors in these pages have really supported the magazine as well. Thanks to all the authors. You folks are just amazing.

One detail about the first year, you might have noticed that a number of authors have made it into every issue. And I want to continue that going forward.

So after one year, we have shaken some of the start-up issues out with a few more small issues to go.

And I now have, as well, settled on my vision for this new incarnation of this magazine. (That’s what editors do. We have visions. Sometimes they even wake us up at night.)

What do I mean by that vision thing? Well, the original version of this magazine was a child of its time in the early 1990s. The vision then was to find the stories that were great, high-quality fiction that didn’t fit in any of the other major sources of fiction.

But now we live in the internet age, the indie publishing age, where any story anyone writes can find readers if the author knows how to get the story into the indie publishing world. That defining line of the 1990s (that was at times freeing and restricting) no longer applies.

So when we started this magazine a year ago now, my driving goal (vision) was to get high-quality fiction across all genres in the same magazine.

I feel really proud I have done that. You might not like all the stories, but they will all be of high quality.

And I wanted to break down the really, really stupid thinking in publishing that only brand-new stories were worth publishing. Every magazine has that kind of silliness guiding them.

So Pulphouse: Fiction Magazine went another direction. I want stories that will be new to the readers.

So I put original stories next to reprints. Often the stories are from twenty or more years ago. Others are from small publications that had little exposure. All those stories will be new to the readers of these pages and I make no designation or make a big deal about what story came from where. Or when.

Did I say the stories must be high quality fiction? I did? Oh, good, because they are.

And many of the stories I want to be slightly strange, slightly twisted, or sometimes just plain weird. And I want those stories to be side by side with stories that fit solidly in a genre and would appear in any top magazine.

And I like to have most commercial genres represented in each issue.

In other words, the moment you expect something from Pulphouse: Fiction Magazine, you are going to get something different and new.

And high quality.

So thank you all (readers and writers) for your support of our first year of this old/new experiment in publishing. We are going solidly into the second year.

Stick with us. It’s going to be fun.

And full of great stories.

Bigger Than the Monkey

Robert Jeschonek

Bigger Than the Monkey

Robert Jeschonek

For the entire first year of this new incarnation of Pulphouse Fiction Magazine, I started off with a Robert Jeschonek story. That’s right, every one. Because Robert’s stories just shout Pulphouse in so many ways.

In this original story, Robert takes a man’s idea, his dream, and shows how such a thing can make a person crazy when taken. You would not think a trademark story could be so really twisted. And it wouldn’t be in any other writer’s hands.

Robert’s wonderful stories have appeared in numerous magazines and he has published many novels as well as worked for DC Comics.

I would highly suggest you find some of his work if you like any of his stories here. As I have said a number of times, he is an original voice in fiction.

Now:

Old Bill Marshall starts to shake when the black-and-white fur-covered figure charges out through the silver curtains and onto the stage at Haremz strip club.

Here he is, guys! shouts the deep-voiced female announcer over the PA system. "Back home in Garvey, Pennsylvania, by popular demand for the first time in decades! Tonight’s very special master of ceremonies, Goodie the Gleem!"

The place is packed, and the crowd goes wild. Spotlights flash and hip-hop music blasts, as whoever is in that shaggy costume stomps, shimmies, and waves.

And old Bill, who’s seated in a booth along the wall, shakes like a feather in the hand of a Parkinson’s patient. His mouth quivers, too, and his droopy green eyes well with tears. As a roomful of men whoop and whistle around him, the withered, white-haired man looks like he’s about to completely fall apart.

"You all remember Goodie from when you were kids, right? says the woman over the PA He was the star of the late, great amusement park, Wilde World USA! The park may have closed ten years ago, but now that you’re all grown-ups, Goodie’s got a new friend for you to meet! Hold on tight, ’cause here comes the one and only Mary Jane Maybe!"

The music changes, giving way to more thunderous beats. Goodie pulls the silver curtains apart, and a young woman in red pigtails and a schoolgirl outfit, mostly unbuttoned, explodes on the stage. She proceeds to gyrate around Goodie, who alternately presses his furry mitts against his mouth and pumps them in the air with delight.

No! Bill is half-crying when he blurts it out. No, Goodie! No!

Goodie turns his big head in Bill’s direction. His shape and mottled markings make him look like a giant panda, but his ears and whiskers are like those of a fox. He wears a single article of clothing, a bright red bandana around his neck, covered in white stars.

As he looks at Bill, his right eye winks. Normally, Bill loves that expression—he invented it—but this time, it makes his hackles rise and his blood turn cold.

Then, Goodie’s attention returns to the dancer, who by then is topless and bent over, twerking the Gleem with abandon.

Bill can’t take it anymore. He nearly overturns the table in his blind rush to stumble out of there before he sees one more thing that could scar him for life.

Meanwhile, up on stage, Goodie waves as Mary Jane peels the bandana from around his neck and slips it between her legs.

When Bill gets outside to the parking lot, he trips and falls face-forward. Then, he just lies there, sobbing in the gravel, broken and defeated beyond belief.

Need a hand, sir? A young man stops and bends down beside him.

Sacrilege! blurts Bill. "It’s sacrilege!"

Here, I’ll help you up. The young man reaches for Bill’s hand.

Consumed by sorrow and rage, Bill swats him away. "They ruined him! Poisoned him!"

Who’s that, sir?

Goodie the Gleem! snaps Bill. "I created him to promote Wilde World USA!"

The young man nods. I remember Wilde World. My mom took me there all the time when I was a kid. But I don’t remember this Goodie the Geek or whatever.

"The Gleem, says Bill. And I took him out of Wilde World long before you came along."

Why? asks the young man. What happened to him?

"He was going to be the next Mikey Monkey. He was going to change the world."

The young man hesitates. I guess it didn’t work out, huh?

Not yet, but Goodie will never give up. Bill looks over his shoulder at the garish, flashing lights of the strip club. And neither will I.

Then:

The California sun washed over everything, setting off a billion glittering jewels in the breakers off Santa Monica. Young Bill Marshall was on a high in every possible way, coming off a meeting with Johnny Carson himself. His heart tripped just thinking about it, and it wasn’t the cocaine talking.

Now, he walked barefoot in the sand with the hottest young comedian on TV, a guy who wore colorful suspenders and was also high as a kite. Was that why he talked at a high rate of speed, riffing right and left about every random flight of fancy that popped into his head? Was that why he was so in love with Goodie the Gleem? Was that why he was so excited about the screenplay Bill had written?

Bill knew better. His belief in the power of Goodie was beautiful in its unwaveringness.

You’re telling me Carson’s signed to produce? He’s getting into kiddie cinema? The comedian couldn’t stop pawing at his wavy brown hair, as if it were infested with lice.

He’s very interested, but the deal’s not done yet, said Bill. I still have a meeting with a fellow named Spielberg tomorrow.

Holy fuck! The comedian spun in a circle, kicking sand all over the place. "Whatever shit you’re snorting, you’ve gotta blow some my way!"

So what do you say? Will you attach yourself to this script? Bill held up the sheaf of pages, which fluttered in the afternoon breeze off the ocean.

"Does a duck shit in the woods? Did Richard Nixon drop acid? Was Three Dog Night originally nine dogs until they played that Korean steakhouse?"

Bill beamed behind his sunglasses. Let’s go sign the papers. He felt like there was nothing he couldn’t do, no way he could ever lose.

Not if he bet on Goodie.

And this movie of yours, this Woody the Twink?

Bill laughed. Goodie the Gleem.

Guaranteed hit, right?

They tell me Goodie’s going to be bigger than Mikey Monkey, said Bill.

Well, hot damn! The comedian threw his arm around Bill’s shoulder. Let’s scrape that ape! Can I get an amen?

Amen! Bill had never felt better in his life. Everything he’d given up was worth it, and then some. He would give up all the rest if that was what it took to make his dream come true in full.

He would give up everything, again and again, because he wanted it so bad. He would even give up the breath in his body and the beating of his heart.

Now:

Bill? The pounding on the door and muffled shouting continue, long past the point when they should have stopped. Open up! I know you’re in there!

Bill sits naked on the edge of his bed, staring across the cluttered room at the foot-tall Goodie doll perched on the dresser. The fur is ratty and thin after forty years, the red bandana is faded to pink, and an eye is missing…but it’s still Goodie, captured at the height of his career. It’s Goodie from a more innocent time, back when no one would have thought to use him as a sideshow at a strip club.

And with that eye missing, he has an accusatory look, as if he blames Bill for the bad turn his life has recently taken.

Bill! Again with the pounding. Open this damn door, or I’m calling nine-one-one!

Bill sighs heavily and drags his scrawny form off the bed. He pulls on the nearest clothes he can find—a pair of baggy red long johns and a tattered red-and-black plaid flannel shirt—and shuffles downstairs to the ground floor of his dilapidated A-frame in the woods in no particular hurry.

Bill! The yelling and pounding hit a crescendo as he reaches for the deadbolt. That’s it! I’m making the call!

No sooner has she said it than Bill turns the bolt and pulls open the door. Whatta you want, Darlene? He stands in the doorway and doesn’t invite her in.

Darlene Barber, a slender woman in her sixties with shoulder-length silver-gray hair and bangs that fall into her eyebrows, looks horrified. Have you been drinking?

Bill waves off the question with utter contempt. Not a chance. I’m too angry.

Angry about what? Darlene narrows her eyes and cocks her head to one side.

"That strip joint. I went and saw for myself what they’re doing to Goodie."

Darlene, who’s at least a decade younger than Bill, winces. In the old days, when they worked together, she thought of him as a father figure, and they’re still friends; she looks in on him now and then since his kids and ex-wife live far away and want nothing to do with him. Getting him riled up is something she tries to avoid. I knew I shouldn’t’ve told you about that.

"It was sickening. Goodie stands for kindness and virtue…not that."

I’m so sorry, Bill. It was in the paper and on TV. I didn’t want it to take you by surprise.

"Do you know what else makes me sick, Darlene? They’re infringing on my trademark for the character of Goodie! He bellows the last word, venting the rage that’s seething inside him. I won’t let them get away with it!"

Bill, you’ve been through this already with your attorney, says Darlene. Jack said you don’t actually own the trademark for Goodie, remember?

"Like hell I don’t! snaps Bill. The Wilde World partners signed it over to me when I left the company!"

"But the partners didn’t register the trademark in the first place."

"That’s bullshit!"

Oh, Bill. How many times has she had this same conversation with him? Is it dementia talking, or just crazy stubbornness? Maybe you need to talk to Jack about this again.

"I just fired him! He doesn’t know what he’s talking about!"

You know that’s not true, Bill. He’s a very good lawyer.

Fuck him! Fuck Jack Kunkel! shouts Bill, overtaken by senseless, unreasoning fury.

Darlene hates seeing him like this. The two of them go way back, to the early days of Wilde World USA, the amusement park he helped develop based on the Wilde Candy Company in the 1970s. A graphic artist, she actually did some of the first drawings of Goodie, helped design the costume, and was one of the first to wear it; all that is enough to make her part of Bill’s circle of trust for life.

Not that that circle is always an easy place to be. She was right to ask about the drinking…though at least the drugs no longer seem to be a concern. Bill just doesn’t have the cash anymore to fall back on his cokehead ways of the 70s, 80s, and early 90s.

So, Bill. Darlene shrugs. I thought maybe you’d like to get some lunch.

Can’t make it. I have a meeting. Bill straightens. He suddenly seems calmer, as if the worst of the fury has drained out of him.

With who? Netflix? He’s been talking about Netflix a lot lately, and how he’s pitching a Goodie the Gleem show to them. But Bill talks about a lot of things these days, and they aren’t always real, or she only gets part of the story.

"My meeting is with the owner of the strip joint. Maybe, if we sit down and discuss it like two civilized business people, she’ll be reasonable."

Darlene likes the change in tone, though she worries about his plan. Would you like me to come along? Maybe two of us will be more convincing.

Bill gives her a reassuring smile that makes him look younger somehow. Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I’ll let you know how it works out.

With that, he eases the door toward the jamb, shutting her out though he knows she only wants to help.

Then:

Goodie will show us the way-ay-ay! sang the vocalist in the recording studio. We’ll bring our love to the world every day-ay-ay!

Bill swayed blissfully in the control room on the other side of the big glass window, listening to a five-piece band cut the theme song he’d written for Goodie the Gleem. It was the next step in his master plan, which would culminate in a trip to Los Angeles the following month to meet with Johnny Carson.

Today’s recording session was taking place in a studio in Detroit, Michigan, at none other than Motown Records. Some of the label’s top artists stopped in the control booth to check out the fun; one, who had a top ten hit in the Billboard Hot 100, even joined in on the keyboard with the band.

To Bill, it was just another example of how magical Goodie was; it seemed like everyone who met him wanted to get in on the act.

Except Bill’s soon-to-be-ex-wife, who didn’t get it at all. How many times could she tell him he was wrong for putting all his time and money behind Goodie? That he was a terrible father to their three kids, so terrible she’d sued for and won full custody? What the hell did she know about creative genius and gut instinct and going for broke?

Let’s just say there was a good reason he was using her as the inspiration for the villain in the Goodie screenplay he’d recently started writing.

And that’s why they call me Goodie! The lead vocalist of the session band—which had played on countless hit records and even had a hit of its own under the name High ’n’ Mighty—finished the latest take with an extra flourish. Yeah! Now that one’s a keeper!

Famous people were applauding in the booth. The bearded, coked-up white guy in the red silk shirt at the mixing board flew out of his chair and danced with joy. The blind black superstar in the gold and crimson dashiki gave Bill a big hug.

When folks hear this, they’re gonna say, ‘Mikey Monkey who?’ said the blind superstar.

Hallelujah! Bill gave the superstar a high five, wishing his kids could have been there to hear what the star had said.

It was enough to make a man full to overflowing with pure joy. It was enough to convince him he'd been right from the start, and everything was worth it. It was enough to make him willing to do whatever it took to chase that feeling again.

He would never forget that feeling or the sight of Goodie (with the bass player’s teenage daughter wearing the costume) frolicking in the studio with the band. He would weep just thinking about how wonderful it had been, and what an impact it had on bringing his vision to the world. He would know it was worth every penny of the small fortune it was taking to rent the studio and equipment, pay the band and producer, press and ship the records, etc.

Decades from then, he imagined, when Goodie was known the world over and people poured into Goodie theme parks and packed theaters to watch Goodie movies, he would look back at that day and say it was when it had all caught fire for real.

Now:

Bill watches the point of flame from the Zippo lighter as Norma Ross, the big woman sitting across the table from him, lights a fresh cigarette. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and Haremz is empty except for some employees in the back, so it’s just the two of them alone in the big main room—Goodie’s creator and the strip club owner who’s exploiting him.

After lighting the cigarette, Norma blows a cloud of smoke in Bill’s direction. "You’re telling me you think you own that furball?" Norma’s way of laughing is mostly in the back of her throat, as if she might choke up a loogie at any moment.

The trademark is mine, yes. Bill waves the smoke away, determined to stay calm no matter what. And, you know, he’s not really a strip joint kind of character.

He seems to be fitting right in, Bill. Norma pats her short brown hair. My customers are really getting a laugh out of him.

"The thing is, Goodie’s more of a kids’ character, says Bill. Kids look up to him. What message does it send if he’s dancing at a strip joint?"

What kids, Bill?

Kids. Just…kids.

"Bill, the kids today don’t know who Goodie is. He was at Wilde World in the seventies, right?"

Well, sure, but…

Norma puts out the cigarette in a tin ashtray on the table. "The only ones who remember him are the adults who went to Wilde World, Bill. Like my son, Jay,