There'll Be Blue Popcorn Without You: Pulphouse Books

By Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Jerry Oltion and 9 more

Blue Popcorn means sadness and loss and love. In the pages of Pulphouse Fiction Magazine, it also means very weird and entertaining sadness and loss and love.

The ten stories in this volume range from a dweeby guy trying to win the affection of a beautiful woman, to a tale of a solo man in a future world looking for companionship, to a story about art and the crime it reveals.

Running the gamut from science fiction to fantasy to psychological drama, these tales evoke strong emotion.

Includes:

"A Better Man Than You" by Jerry Oltion and Kent Patterson

"Rose in Dreamland" by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

"Under the Blood-Red Maple" by Joslyn Chase

"A Cherub by Any Other Name" by Annie Reed

"Small Discrete Intervals from a Sample Size of One" by J. Steven York

"A Night Under the Stars" by Lisa Silverthorne

"Bravo and Jazz" by Ron Collins

"The Man Who Married His Wife's Thigh" by Bonnie Elizabeth

"Virtual Oracle" by Leigh Saunders

"The Pearce Shootout" by Robert J. McCarter

• Language: English
• Publisher: WMG Publishing
• Release date: Oct 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201627126

Dean Wesley Smith

Considered one of the most prolific writers working in modern fiction, USA Today bestselling writer Dean Wesley Smith published far more than a hundred novels in forty years, and hundreds of short stories across many genres. At the moment he produces novels in several major series, including the time travel Thunder Mountain novels set in the Old West, the galaxy-spanning Seeders Universe series, the urban fantasy Ghost of a Chance series, a superhero series starring Poker Boy, and a mystery series featuring the retired detectives of the Cold Poker Gang. His monthly magazine, Smith’s Monthly, which consists of only his own fiction, premiered in October 2013 and offers readers more than 70,000 words per issue, including a new and original novel every month. During his career, Dean also wrote a couple dozen Star Trek novels, the only two original Men in Black novels, Spider-Man and X-Men novels, plus novels set in gaming and television worlds. Writing with his wife Kristine Kathryn Rusch under the name Kathryn Wesley, he wrote the novel for the NBC miniseries The Tenth Kingdom and other books for Hallmark Hall of Fame movies. He wrote novels under dozens of pen names in the worlds of comic books and movies, including novelizations of almost a dozen films, from The Final Fantasy to Steel to Rundown. Dean also worked as a fiction editor off and on, starting at Pulphouse Publishing, then at VB Tech Journal, then Pocket Books, and now at WMG Publishing, where he and Kristine Kathryn Rusch serve as series editors for the acclaimed Fiction River anthology series. For more information about Dean’s books and ongoing projects, please visit his website at www.deanwesleysmith.com and sign up for his newsletter.

Book preview

A Better Man Than You

Jerry Oltion and Kent Patterson

Jerry Oltion is the most prolific author in the history of Analog Magazine with all his wonderful short stories. Kent Patterson was a close friend of Jerry’s and had one of the strangest ways of thinking about story to come along.

So it made sense that two good friends would write a story together. And luckily they got around to it before Kent tragically passed away from complications of polio.

This story, even though written in the early 1990s, holds up just fine. It wasn’t politcally correct then, it sure isn’t now. But the message and the heart is there from the two great writers working as one.

In 500 words or less, state your goals and/or purpose in applying for this date." Bob Brown stared at the blinking cursor on the computer screen, then at the ceiling, which had all sorts of fascinating cracks and spidery whirls in the grey-green paint, but which didn’t help. The rest of the room was no better. Hardly the sort of place that would really impress the sophisticated Hilda Mendelsson, or differentiate Bob from the 20 other guys on campus panting after her pants. More, really, since there were almost 20 men to every woman on campus and it was a safe bet Hilda got more than her share.

Only 19, his age, but she was already a sophomore, honors student, and judo champ. He’d barely squeaked through his first semester. She lived in a high-security luxury dorm. He lived in a dump that smelled of ancient laundry. His desk stayed in perpetual avalanche mode, piled high with books and papers, two-liter plastic Coke bottles poking out like fir trees in the Alpine snow meadows.

What could he say? In requesting the honor of the company of Ms. Hilda Mendelsson on or about March 12, 2034, I, Robert Lumly Brown, desire to achieve… Oh, gag. Sounded like a subpoena. Needed something romantic. Struck from afar by your supernal beauty, I, Robert Lumly Brown… Double gag. Hi, Hilda. Saw you when you gave your dynamite report on the role of Feminism in the Post-Women’s Plague Era. I thought we might get to know each other better, so… No. That sounded like one of those silly old movies where there was a girl for every boy and men talked to women just as if there were one in every home.

Of course he knew what his dating goals and objectives really were. He hit the computer keys, brought up the picture from the Daily University Eye. Sophomore Wins Northwest Women’s Judo Championship, Accepts Award for Northern Pacific University. She was so strong, so cool. A Greek goddess. No, something Norse, a Valkyrie. Hair so blonde it glittered. Broad, strong hips. And her breasts, swelling up like, like, ah, plump little mountains. He placed the cursor on the V of her neckline and zoomed in until the screen filled with cleavage. Oh, Bobby, Bobby, Baby, take me, I’m yours, forever and ever, she whispered throatily in his imagination. Kiss my smoking hot body. He leaned forward, those lovely curves filling his vision…

Well, you certainly are the dedicated student.

Hurriedly, Bob cleared the screen and turned to face Caryl, his roommate. He liked Caryl, but nothing makes a dweeb feel dweebier than being with a guy with movie star looks, an athlete’s body, and sophistication no dweeb could ever manage to fake. Even in cheap slacks and his A Hard Man is Good to Find T-shirt, Caryl drew every feminine eye.

Studying math, Bob? Looks like, ah, binary systems?

You sneaked up on me!

Sneaked? With your concentration, I could have come in playing ‘Roll out the Barrel’ on a tuba and you’d never have noticed. Ah. Your face. Such a lovely crimson. Your color becomes you, dear.

Bob felt himself blushing even harder. Stop it. Everyone’ll think I’m as gay as you are.

Ha. Being gay might solve your problem. Caryl waved at the screen. Especially if you’re coming on to the Ice Goddess.

You know her?

Danced with her at the Octoberfest. Very good dancer. BBOM, though.

BBOM?

A Bit Beyond Ordinary Mortals.

Stop teasing. What’s she really like? So she was a great dancer. Bob had taken a dancing lesson. Once. The teacher said he looked like a drunken kangaroo impersonating a jack hammer.

Seriously, Bob. I’d really consider applying for a date with a girl you know.

I don’t know any girls. There’s exactly eight in all my classes. I hardly ever see any girls.

Bob had been only four when the great plague had struck the world’s women. God’s Sword of Vengeance for the Unborn, a fanatic anti-abortion group, had claimed responsibility for the gene-tailored virus, which had been intended to punish women who’d had abortions, but which had soon mutated into a form deadly to all women. The disease had raged out of control for nearly ten years before a cure had been found, and most of a generation of the world’s women had died.

Bob remembered the fear as ambulances took sick little girls from school and the hurry of being rushed from day care to his mother’s bedside just in time to watch her die. After that, Daddy just sort of got tired and drifted off. Bob’s trust fund sent money every month, but it was hardly compensation for the loss of his family.

Earth calling Bobby Brown, come in Bobby. Bob looked up at Caryl, who was calmly examining the dating application. Boy, I don’t know where you go when you space out like that.

Just make yourself free with my personal affairs, Bob said sarcastically.

Affairs aren’t what you’ve got, Caryl replied. Hummmn. Says here you’re 6 foot 3, 190 pounds. Isn’t that a tad tall?

Only five inches. The weight’s right. At least it had been two years ago.

Well, the photo shows you’ve mastered computer enhanced imaging. Very handsome. She’ll never recognize you.

Bob jumped up and started pacing back and forth rapidly. All I need is you making fun of me.

Oh, I’m sorry. Here. Tell you what I’ll do. Not only I’ll be nice, I’ll even help you write up your goals statement. Caryl sat down in Bob’s chair.

Sullenly, Bob watched as Caryl’s fingers flew over the keyboard. Bad enough to have a gay guy write up your dating application. What was worse, Caryl was doing it about a million times better than Bob could have himself.

Bob figured the earliest he could expect an answer would be maybe in a couple of days. So he was startled when the computer announced he had a reply just four hours later. Please, God, let it be yes. It took three full minutes of deep breathing to calm himself enough to push R for Read.

STATUS OF APPLICATION: REJECTED

REASON GIVEN: NONE

IS APPLICANT ENCOURAGED TO REAPPLY: NO

Blindly, he deleted the answer. Didn’t want Caryl to see it. Grabbing his coat, he charged out of the dorm and into the cool evening mist.

Lake Chehallis, nothing but an overgrown pond, really, lay right on campus. A paved walkway meandered around to a small copse of alders on the far side of the lake. Bob went there now, running hard, hoping he wouldn’t see anyone he knew. He slipped behind a clump of blackberry bushes to a moss-covered log that, some centuries ago, had fallen into the lake. His favorite spot, hidden from the path.

The lake was calm in the failing light, its surface sprinkled by the misty rain. The mist smelled of alder sap. Sometimes the setting sun would find a hole in the cloud cover, and for a few minutes drops of water caught in the moss glittered like diamonds on green velvet.

Gradually Bob’s calm returned, but calmness didn’t remove the feeling of defeat. Even with all his carefully constructed lies, and with Caryl’s help, he’d been shot down on sight. Not even on sight. Before sight. If even the fake he-man Bob Brown bombed, the real dweeb was doomed to eternal celibacy.

But then, maybe he deserved rejection. After all, he was sailing under false colors. Caryl was right. He should try to date someone he knew. So how was he going to get to know Hilda Mendelsson?

As the day gradually became night and his collar became water logged, Bob thought long and hard.

The gym echoed with the shouts of students warming up before the match. Bob felt a hollow gnawing in his stomach as he watched them practice their throws and falls, a gnawing distinctly opposite the sensation of calm centeredness he was supposed to be feeling. Today was the first elimination round, the mock battle in which the class size would be trimmed from fifty students to twenty-five, and he had to be among the winning half.

He tried the deep-breathing exercises and the stretches he’d learned in the last few weeks, projecting his consciousness down into the hidden reservoirs of strength the instructor had said existed at the core of everyone’s being, but the only thing he found at the center of his being was chaos.

Why was he doing this? he asked himself, but the answer was the same as always. Hilda. Gorgeous Hilda, sexy Hilda, hard-to-impress Hilda. If he won the personal combat championship in six months, surely she would notice him then. He probably wouldn’t even have to re-apply for a date; she would almost certainly ask him for one right after the awards ceremony. They’d go out for dinner, maybe a play, then go back to his room and they’d compare their techniques on the mat. Yes, that’s the way it would be, and that’s why—

Brown! Bob Brown. The instructor’s voice punctured his fantasy like a pin pops a balloon. You’re up against Dorfmiller. Mat two. Move it!

Dorfmiller. Bob felt his tension release like a spring unwinding. He had at least ten pounds on the guy. Feeling confident, Bob stepped up next to him, bowed the proper bow for one’s opponent in battle, then took his stance.

If only Hilda could see him now. He could imagine her watching, anxious yet proud, as he faced his first opponent like a knight of old entering battle to win the hand of his fair maiden…

Begin!

WHAM!

He could feel the grain in the wood beneath the mat with his spine. He opened his eyes to see two Dorfmillers standing over him, both wearing a triumphant grin, both extending hands to help him back up. Slowly they coalesced into one.

Good fall, Brown, the instructor shouted, but you’re supposed to fight back. Next!

He took the long way home, around the lake. As always, the sight of moonlight on the water calmed him, but when he got back to the dorm he saw an excited crowd around the television in the lobby. Over the babble of voices he heard the announcer saying, "And that’s it for this week’s Pacific Northwest University’s Lady’s Choice. Tune in again next week for another exciting show featuring Michelle Lavigne, a freshman from Ontario, Canada. Whistles from the crowd as Michelle, short-haired and dressed in a powder blue business suit, appeared for a tantalizing few seconds. Guys, get your names in now for next week’s show. Any PNU man can apply." A mosaic of a dozen or more women’s faces flashed across the screen: future guests.

Mindless crap, Bob muttered, elbowing his way through the crowd, but he stopped cold when he recognized one of the faces on the screen. It was Hilda.

Really, you’re taking all this way too seriously, Caryl said. She’s just a girl, after all."

That’s easy for you to say. Bob didn’t even look up from The Complete Ladies’ Choice Study Guide. You’re not wired the same way I am.

Good thing, too. First the big judo champ, now the superbrain. You really think winning some stupid TV game show is going to get you Hilda?

That’s right. She’s got to pick one of the contestants. If I win, why not me?

You think she’s just out there panting for the big winner stud? Man, you take your idea of women from the men’s magazines.

I’m not that stupid. But maybe he was. After all, with his experience, where else could he learn about women?

Will you help me do it? Bob tossed the study guide across the room to land with a slap on Caryl’s bed. Ask me anything you want to out of there.

Caryl sat up slowly, picked up the book, and thumbed through it. It was a fat book.

You’re nuts.

No, just desperate.

Caryl sighed. I hate encouraging the mentally unbalanced, but maybe you’ll actually learn something this way. Okay, then, what are the principal imports and exports of Guatemala?

When the last buzzer sounded, Bob’s score stood at 44,950. The nearest competition was 36,500, and only two others were even in the 20,000’s. Caryl, as planned, had weakened the competition still further with a score of 575.

Bob concentrated on keeping his cool. He’d done it! He’d dazzled everyone there. The audience had been going wild, calling for tougher and tougher questions, cheering as he got them right time after time. There was no way Hilda could resist choosing him now.

Bob held his smile while she made her last sweep of the contestants. She looked so calm, so cool, so…businesslike about it all. God, women. Always in control. This had to be the biggest moment in Bob’s life, and Hilda acted as if she were buying a new pair of shoes.

She paused a moment in front of him. Her eyes were green. Her lips raised in just a hint of a smile before she moved on.

She’s just playing the game, Bob thought. She’s got to look like she’s making a tough decision so the audience will feel like they’re getting their money’s worth.

Hilda came to a stop in front of Caryl. The audience laughed good-naturedly as she asked him, What happened? but they hissed and booed when he said, I guess my mind just wasn’t on it.

Hilda could have taken offense at the implied insult, but instead she just laughed and asked, What were you thinking about?

Double dip raspberry ice cream cones?

More hisses and boos, with an occasional whistle as the more lascivious in the audience found a double meaning in his answer.

It’s a date.

What! Bob shouted, just as the emcee said, But Hilda, you can’t pick him. He came in dead last.

Hilda turned on him with a sweet smile that could have frozen hydrogen. I can pick whoever I want to, sweetie. And don’t you ever forget it. She extended a hand toward Caryl and said, Sometimes you just have to go with your feelings.

The sound of Caryl’s keycard slipping through the lock seemed to explode in Bob’s head. 3:37! How could it be 3:37 in the morning? Caryl came in, closed the door, and with the silent efficiency that marked everything he did, undressed in the dark.

So how was it? Bob said, in his most bored I-couldn’t-care-less voice.

Oh. Thought you were asleep. How was what? The guy was a sadistic Nazi.

Your date with Hilda.

Oh, beat going to the dentist.

Nazi sadist pig hun. So what did you do?

Went dancing at the Bottom Pocket till one, then I took her back to Fort Frilly over there— he waved vaguely in the direction of the women’s dorms, —then I went out with some friends. Stop suffering. She’s showered and gone to bed hours ago.

Showered and gone to bed. Unbidden the image came rushing into his mind. Underpants—the lacy black bikini kind—slipping down those magnificent thighs. Stepping into the shower, the water splashing down her face, down through the division of her breasts and down…

Much more of this and he’d be a basket case. He looked over at Caryl. Sleeping like a babe the second his head hit the pillow. Lots of friends, lots of lovers, not a worry in the world, and successful in everything from back-lot basketball to calculus. An easy man to hate. Yet who else had been so kind to him, so patient, so accepting of his eternal dweebness?

Lying in the dark, trying not to think of those black, filmy underpants slipping down a tanned feminine thigh, Bob made a new resolution. If you can’t fight, switch. Next quarter he was taking Introduction to Successful Homosexuality.

Homosexuality, once considered a sin, then a disease, and controversial until the conquest of AIDS at the beginning of this century, has now become a socially desirable alternative life style. Professor Hunley was short, heavyset, and wore a fashionable black swept-shoulder suit. On his lapel he wore a pin with the tiny figures LXIX in gold. Bob sneaked a glance at his fellow classmates. Dweebs to a man. Inwardly, he sneered at his own hypocrisy. Even dweebs hated dweebs. Caryl wouldn’t have been caught dead in here. The guy next to him absent-mindedly picked his nose, and reeked of Nuit de amore" cologne. Bob tried to