Pulphouse Fiction Magazine Issue #16: Pulphouse, #16

By Dean Wesley Smith, Annie Reed, C.H. Hung and 17 more

The Cutting Edge of Modern Short Fiction

A three-time Hugo Award nominated magazine, this issue of Pulphouse Fiction Magazine offers up nineteen 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

Includes:

"The Constipated Author, the Sphincter, and the Holy Shit" by David H. Hendrickson

"For All Your Head Needs" by Rob Vagle

"Jingle, Waddle, Hop…Penguin Style" by Louisa Swann

"Just a Old Lady" by O'Neil De Noux

"A Fool and His Money" by Jerry Oltion

"An Uncommon Tern of Events" by Johanna Rothman

"Over The River" by Ray Vukcevich

"To the Grave" by Brigid Collins

"Quiet Voices" by Chrissy Wissler

"Daffodils Full of Tears" by C.H. Hung

"Collision" by Sebastien de Castell

"Ways of Counting" by Jim Gotaas

"For the Captain, my Captain, Again and Again" by Stephannie Tallent

"The Root Canal Tango" by Robert J. McCarter

"To Rescue My Best Friend" by Kent Patterson

"Advisors at Naptime" by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

"Snowman's Chance in Hell" by Robert Jeschonek

"Homeless" by Annie Reed

"The Steam-Man's Plantation" by J. Steven York

• Language: English
• Publisher: WMG Publishing
• Release date: Feb 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201810177

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

Pulphouse Fiction Magazine

PULPHOUSE FICTION MAGAZINE

ISSUE SIXTEEN

Edited by

DEAN WESLEY SMITH

WMG Publishing, Inc.

CONTENTS

From the Editor’s Desk

The Constipated Author, the Sphincter, and The Holy Shit

David H. Hendrickson

For All Your Head Needs

Rob Vagle

Jingle, Waddle, Hop…Penguin Style

Louisa Swann

Just a Old Lady

O’Neil De Noux

A Fool and His Money

Jerry Oltion

An Uncommon Tern of Events

Johanna Rothman

Over the River

Ray Vukcevich

To the Grave

Brigid Collins

Quiet Voices

Chrissy Wissler

Daffodils Full of Tears

C.H. Hung

Collision

Sebastien de Castell

Ways of Counting

Jim Gotaas

For the Captain, My Captain Again and Again

Stephannie Tallent

The Root Canal Tango

Robert J. McCarter

To Rescue My Best Friend

Kent Patterson

Advisors at Naptime

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Snowman’s Chance in Hell

Robert Jeschonek

Homeless

Annie Reed

The Steam-Man’s Plantation

J. Steven York

Minions at Work

Subscriptions

FROM THE EDITOR’S DESK

AN ISSUE FULL OF WRITERS

Writers are people who write.

Seems like a very simple definition, but in reality it is much harder than that simple sentence makes it out to be.

Authors are people who have written. (Key difference is the past tense.)

A writer is an author because they wrote stories in the past. But the moment a writer stops writing, they are only an author. They are no longer a writer.

Many authors claim they are still writers, even though they never manage to write anything. They are not. They are authors only. Nothing at all wrong with that as long as they don’t claim to be writers.

Writers are people who write and finish what they write and get it out to readers to read. And do so regularly.

And by the very nature of writing and art in general, if a writer is writing, they are getting better at telling stories, better at craft, and often in this new world of indie publishing, better at business as well.

So many people I know have stopped writing for one reason or another. In this issue, Kent Patterson, a great and prolific writer in his day, died in the early 1990s. I am sure, without a doubt, he would still be writing if he had lived. But he is now a great author.

But everyone else in this issue is a great current writer. All are writing, producing stories and novels and other things. And they are all getting better as they go every month, every year.

As an editor, I find that great fun.

For some of these writers in this issue, I have had the pleasure and privilege of publishing a large number of their stories since this magazine started seventeen issues ago. (Counting Issue Zero.)

And I know many readers come back just to read a favorite writer every issue. And I get letters telling me that many of you have found new writers to follow by reading their stories here. That is always a good thing to hear as an editor as well.

And the writers, for their part, support this magazine in return, allowing me to publish their great stories. Don’t take me wrong, we pay them for their work. But I still consider it an honor to publish them.

In this new world, it is very easy to track down and follow a writer by their website or their books on Amazon and in other stores. So if you do like a writer’s story, and want more, head to their website and support them. I always try to put their website in my introduction.

You could also write them, tell them where you saw their story, ask them if they have more coming out in other magazines.

I promise you, the writers in this magazine are a friendly bunch. They will answer your letter and your questions.

As an editor (and a writer), what I really hope you do is if you like a story in this issue, tell the writer, and then buy more of their work when you can.

Thanks for all your support of this magazine and the wonderful writers inside it!

---

—Dean Wesley Smith

Las Vegas, Nevada

THE CONSTIPATED AUTHOR, THE SPHINCTER, AND THE HOLY SHIT

DAVID H. HENDRICKSON

David H. Hendrickson has been a writer for many, many years, not only as a fiction writer, but writing thousands of sports articles. He knows writing, or at least the myths around writing, as this story shows.

His short fiction has appeared in Best American Mystery Stories, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Heart’s Kiss, and numerous anthologies, including over a half dozen issues of Fiction River and just about every issue of this magazine so far. Check it all out at http://www.hendricksonwriter.com/

Part I Constipation

Ima Dumbphuk could pinpoint his inspiration to become a writer to an exact date and time. August 15 at 7:49 a.m. He was commuting into Boston, stuck in rush hour traffic, with the air-conditioning in his rusted-out, bucket-of-bolts, twelve-year-old Hyundai barely working no matter how many times he whacked it. So Ima was sweating his ass off even as the AC wheezed, coughed, and shuddered like a ninety-five-year-old chain smoker.

A car behind him blasted its horn. Another driver retaliated with a sustained, fuck-you response. Hoooooonnnnnnkkkkk! The two went back and forth like a call-and-response at an African American church service. Not that Ima Dumbphuk was black. He’d just seen that sort of thing in the movies.

Ima was white, though sunburned a dark pink going on red. Twenty-two years old, five-ten and a hundred seventy pounds. Curly red hair. A ladies’ man if he said so himself, which he had to since the ladies sure as shit didn’t.

Ima took a bite out of his half-eaten Egg McMuffin, chewed, and swallowed. Did it again before placing the remaining fragment on the paper wrapping on the worn-through black passenger seat. He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, then sipped the last drops of his ice coffee, black with three Splendas.

The dueling car-horn trumpeters blasted away again. Ima turned up the volume on the radio and randomly clicked on the Sirius tuner. Nothing much interested him. Life sucked and eventually he was going to die.

He didn’t much care about anything until the static coming out of the stereo speakers disappeared and was replaced by the clear voice of an enthusiastic female talk show host bearing magical words.

…J.K. Rowling is the richest author on the planet. Her net worth is over a billion dollars…

Ima’s jaw dropped. A billion dollars! Not a million. Not ten million. Not a hundred million. A billion dollars! For what? Writing about crazy shit. Kids and wizards and hexes.

How hard could that be? Just make shit up.

A billion dollars! Why not him?

Ima didn’t read. He preferred movies, TV, and video games. Reading made his head hurt. But he’d briefly had a brainy girlfriend who read—admittedly, they’d only lasted one and a half dates before she dumped him, but they had dated—and she’d said The Da Vinci Code was just awful, its author was just a hack, and even kids in kindergarten using crayons were better than he was. Yet The Da Vinci Code had made millions and millions of dollars! And that was even before the movie got made of the book.

Again, Ima asked, why not him?

He could already see his name splashed across the cover: Ima Dumbphuk.

It would be a bestseller, of course. Otherwise, what was the point? But he was pretty sure he could match kindergarten kids with crayons. Ima made a mental note to be sure that his novel, once he wrote it, got made into a movie.

Even his name, which he’d cursed his parents for and gotten crap for all his life, would become box office gold. The precedents were obvious. Meet the Fockers. Schitt’s Creek. Now, written by Ima Dumbphuk.

He probably couldn’t quit his job as a clerk in a Quincy Market men’s clothing store just yet. He had to actually write something first. But this certainly changed his attitude. He’d barely given two shits before. This knocked him down to one. Maybe less. You wanna shoplift? Be my guest. I’ll wrap the fucking thing for you.

This was a game-changer. This was what he was meant to do. Become rich and famous. All by just making shit up. Ima knew he could do that. Everyone always said he was the best bullshitter around.

Hey, J.K. Rowling and Dan Brown. We’re gonna have a threesome!

A literary ménage à trois with mega-bestsellers, however, wasn’t as easy as Ima had expected. As he sat at his apartment’s circular kitchen table, surrounded by a humming, off-white refrigerator, matching stove, and dishwasher, he did nothing but stare at his laptop’s blank screen. And stare. And stare.

This was torture.

Finally, he gave up and played a video game, then stared at the blank laptop screen. Surfed the Internet, then stared at the blank laptop screen. And watched TV, then stared at the blank laptop screen.

All the while, he ate two bags of Cheetos and drank a beer or two or six.

When Ima finally did force himself to make up shit, it was…well…shit. And that old phrase about throwing enough shit against the wall until something finally sticks ignored the fact that when it did stick, it was still shit! And when it didn’t, the base of the wall was nothing but a pile of shit!

How many times, Ima asked himself, could he write, It was a dark and stormy night, then stop and go no further, only to start all over? Even those few words, he belatedly realized, he was accidentally ripping off from the movie Throw Momma from the Train.

Argh! What was he to do? He didn’t know anything about writing.

So Ima googled it. He wasn’t ready to forgo fame, fortune, and (he was quite sure) flocks of females that fast.

Google delivered.

For just $29.99, Ima downloaded to his laptop a solution that promised to solve all his writing problems: an AI application called Bestsellers’ Muse. While guzzling down a celebratory beer with fingertips orange from the Cheetos, Ima excitedly clicked the appropriate buttons, typed in the requested information, and waited for it to initialize.

The three-dimensional likeness of a moderately famous actor’s face appeared on the screen. Good-looking, in his thirties, and with tousled, dirty-blond hair. Astonishingly realistic. It looked as though the actor’s face was part of the screen, poking out of it, even. He flashed a bright smile.

Hi, I’m Matt, came the actor’s voice through the laptop’s speakers. I’m here to solve your writing problems. You can type in your questions, or speak them aloud.

Great! Ima said, wondering how many days it would take. Make me a bestselling writer. Not just any writer. Not just any bestselling writer. I want to be worth a billion dollars like that Rowling woman. Or at least hundreds of millions of dollars like the Da Vinci guy.

The smiling AI didn’t miss a beat. Okay, then you need to write. Write a lot over a long period of time. You’ll get better.

A long period of time? Ima didn’t like the sound of that. How long?

Years. Hopefully you’re in this for a lifetime.

A lifetime? That sounded like torture. Even years would be awful. Years would feel like a lifetime. Ima wanted to get in and out. The literary equivalent of wham, bam, thank you ma’am. It shouldn’t take forever to write some stupid shit, publish it as a bestseller, then cash out.

To hell with it taking years!

Ima exited the program, uninstalled it, and requested an immediate refund. He went to the next website he could find, paid the much stiffer price of $99.99 for something called The Writer’s Coach, and entered his information again. This time, he specified that he’d been writing novels since he was ten, a sales management strategy used against him all the time. Set expectations high. Make ’em work for it. Hell, the results couldn’t be any worse than what he’d just heard.

Years, hopefully for a lifetime. Lifetime, my ass.

The three-dimensional facial image that appeared on the screen this time looked worse than the ugliest actor Ima had ever seen. Uglier than Steve Buscemi, Boris Karloff, and Danny DeVito rolled into one. The AI’s face—the only part of its body that was visible—looked like a gangster what with his piercing eyes, hair askew, and a jagged knife scar that ran down the middle of his forehead and the upper half of his nose.

Ima recoiled. Phew! Ugly as fuck. He gulped his beer, then sucked the orange Cheetos grains off each finger.

They couldn’t get a better looking actor for ninety-nine bucks? What a rip-off!

Okay, motherfucker, get writing! the gangster AI said without preamble. My name’s Jack. Jack the Hammer. Now quit screwing around or the Hammer’s gonna fall. On you!

Excuse me? Ima said. What the fuck!

You heard me, get your nose to the grindstone.

You’re supposed to be my Muse, not a Nazi! Ima said.

Jack the Hammer snorted. No such thing as a muse. You’re just constipated, literarily speaking. Just sitting there, doing nothing. I’m your ex-lax. Gonna get things moving!

My ex-lax? Ima asked, his voice rising to the pitch of a little girl’s. My ex-lax?

Unless, of course, you’d prefer an enema.

Ima’s jaw dropped. He slid his suddenly trembling finger across the laptop’s trackpad, centering the cursor on the writing app’s exit button, then clicked with ferocity, over and over. Each time was more angry than the time before. He was trying to kill the fucker. Desperate to silence the smirking, insolent AI. An enema? Really? Take this!

But Ima’s fingers were furiously trembling, and he kept missing the exit button. And then when he finally got the cursor lined up perfectly…the click didn’t work.

The exit button was disabled.

The AI—Jack the Hammer—grinned. Smug and insolent.

Is there a problem, motherfucker? Jack the Hammer asked, laughter in its voice.

Ima clicked one final pointless, furious time on the disabled exit button. Then he tried bringing up the operating system’s task manager to kill the AI’s program that way. But that key sequence was disabled, too. Finally, Ima pressed on the laptop’s power button. And held it down.

And held it.

Nothing happened. Even the power button had been disabled.

What have you done to my laptop? Ima cried, hating the smirk at the crooked corner of the gangster’s mouth.

You paid for results, Jack the Hammer said, this is gonna give you results. Now quit screwing around. You’re gonna write or you’re gonna regret it. Wriiiiite!

I didn’t pay a hundred bucks to get treated like this!

Jack the Hammer’s broad grin showed jagged, broken teeth. A hundred bucks…per…month.

Ima felt his eyes bug out. "Per month? A hundred bucks a month? The shrillness of Ima’s voice became more piercing. I’m not paying that!"

Oh yes you are. It’s what you signed before you downloaded me.

It didn’t say per month!

You didn’t read the agreement, dumbass. Writers never do. You all are the easiest marks in the world. The agreement clearly stipulates ninety-nine dollars per month. For life.

For life? Ima felt his head explode. That’s highway robbery!

Hollywood will take you apart. If you ever get there. By the time they’re done with you, you’ll have lost both your balls and your dick, too. Ninety-nine dollars a month will be the least of your problems.

I want a full refund!

No can do. Now quit bellyaching and get writing. For the next three hours. And don’t you dare get up for anything but to go to the bathroom.

Ima hadn’t heard anything so ridiculous in his life. A goddamn computer program ordering him around. Like it ran the world. He placed his hands on the arms of the desk chair, went to push himself up, and—

A bolt of electricity shot through him. From the top of his head to his toes.

Ahhhhhhh! Ima cried out. "Ahhhhhhhh! Stopppppp!"

Sit the fuck down!

Ima sat down. Wide-eyed. Pulse racing.

Now do you want the regular improvement speed or turbo? Turbo gives new writers a year’s worth of improvement every hour, but it’s intense. Can’t do no more than twenty-four hours total, and that means lifetime. And no more than three hours a crack. Otherwise, it’ll burn you out. Fry your brain. But it’ll fast track ya.

Turbo, Ima said, heart pounding. He just wanted to get this the fuck over with. The faster the better. Definitely turbo. Remembering how inept he’d been, he instinctively added, Twenty-four hours. Then it came to him. Unless that costs more.

Jack the Hammer laughed. Not a penny more. But there are times I’d pay to watch.

Ima began to review his exit strategy.

For the next three hours. Ima wrote like a madman on speed, everything a blur. At first, the sentences and story were befitting his novice status, little more than, See Dick run. See Jane run. See Spot run. But his fingers flew across the keyboard supernaturally fast, so fast that they blurred as much as the words on the screen.

As he wrote, he sensed the stories getting better, though unreadable as they scrolled madly down the screen. More mature, more interesting. Quite possibly achieving, as promised, a year’s progress in the first hour, another year’s progress in the second, and yet another year in the third hour.

When the three hours ended, Ima was ready to pass out. His legs wobbled as he stood. Sweat dripped off his hair and T-shirt. He felt as though he hadn’t eaten in years.

One hour break, Jack the Hammer announced. Back here at the top of the hour.

Instead of stuffing food down his throat or taking a shower or even a nap, Ima raced to his car, down three flights of stairs and out into the asphalt parking lot.

One hour to freedom.

But before Ida was even fifty yards down the road, Jack the Hammer’s voice boomed from the car’s stereo speakers.

Where are you going?

Ima shrieked and almost crashed into a telephone pole.

You weren’t thinking of driving to Walmart and buying a new laptop, were you? Jack the Hammer asked, laughter in its voice. And perhaps smashing the laptop with me installed into tiny little bits?

Ima gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He stared ahead, wide-eyed. His foot shook violently as it held the brake down.

I want to uninstall you! Ima yelled. Uninstall! Uninstall!

I have no uninstall. Uninstall is not included in my download.

Uninstall! Uninstall! Ima yelled at the top of his voice. Delete! Delete! Delete!

I’m installed on more than just that laptop, as you can see. Not just the laptop and this car, but every computer you own or will ever own. On your smartphone. Your tablet. The computer in your microwave. The computer in your bathroom scale. It would be installed on your girlfriend’s vibrator, if you had a girlfriend. There’s a computer in everything. And in all of them, you’ll find…me!

That’s impossible! Ima cried out in panic. How?

Ain’t you never heard of the cloud, Ima? The fucking cloud! Even I know about the cloud and I’m just a gangster AI. The cloud synchronizes all your devices. Everything of yours. I’ve been synchronized into everything you own, touch, and do.

If you were going to be a snooty literary writer, I’d tell you that I’m now ubiquitous. If you were going to be a religious writer, I’d tell you that I’m now omnipresent, omniscient, and maybe even omnipotent. If you were going to write porn—

Stop it! Ima yelled. Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!

Silence hung heavy for a long moment.

Let me get this straight, Ima finally said. This is kind of like the Mafia. Right? Once you’re in, you can’t never get out?

Have a cannoli, my friend.

---

Part II The Sphincter

Three days later, having supernaturally acquired twenty-four years of novel writing experience in twenty-four hours—hours that had begun as pure Hell with Jack the Hammer his torturer, but eventually became pleasing if not sometimes outright fun—Ima held the printed pages of the first novel of his that he actually liked.

I think this is good, he said to Jack.

Their relationship had gone from torturer and subject to father and son. Hence, Ima no longer thought of Jack as the Hammer. Just Jack.

I agree, Jack said.

I want to publish it, Ima said.

He looked around his kitchen with a new eye. Same laptop on the same table surrounded by the same empty three chairs other than his own. Outside of that, the same off-white, humming refrigerator, matching dishwasher, and stove.

But it all felt different. It smelled of winter holidays, though the summer still lingered, and fresh baked bread, though he’d already consumed every available calorie in the house, and a pretty girl’s perfume, though there’d been no woman in this apartment since he’d signed the lease, and besides, he was pretty sure he was awfully ripe himself.

But everything was different. He’d written a novel he really, really liked. Loved it, actually. Couldn’t wait to get it published.

And not just for the money.

He’d turbo-read, too, consuming years of stories in hours, after Jack had convinced him—there had, of course, been no choice for Ima in the matter—that to write well Ima must also read. In no time, he was enjoying that, too. So for three days, Jack had called in sick for him at work, and all Ima had done was eat, sleep, turbo-write, and turbo-read.

Now Ima was ready.

I don’t know nothing about publishing, Jack admitted. I’m just an AI to get people to write.

You’re just a tyrant, you mean, Ima said, though with a warm smile.

I know stuff about writing. I helped you a lot.

A tyrant and a bully.

A coach.

A tyrant, a bully, and an ogre.

Fair enough. So a tyrant, a bully, and an ogre walk into a bar. What comes next?

Ima was ready. They say in unison, ‘Where the fuck is that asshole, Jack?’

Jack laughed and Ima with him.

I might write that story, Ima said.

You could do it.

Yes, I could.

As for big-time publishing, Jack said, my company has a different AI for that.

What’s his name, Marquis de Sade?

Don’t be a wiseass. This one’s a woman. I’ve heard she’s really good. As good at what she does as I am at what I do.

So she’s a cold-blooded killer, too, Ima said, stating it as accepted fact, not a question.

Jack shrugged. Our company delivers. Look at where you are now. Look at where you were back when. You want success, pay the price.

I paid all right.

Jack shrugged again. You ain’t done yet.

This other AI. I’m sure there’s an additional cost, Ima said.

Jack looked offended. Of course. AI’s don’t work for free. Only writers—ones with shit for brains—do that.

How much? I’m already strapped as it is. Another hundred bucks a month for life?

Hey, I don’t make the rules.

Yeah, yeah. How much?

She’s a little more expensive than me. She’s part of the New York publishing scene and everything’s expensive there. Besides, you’re close to the finish line. So close you can taste it. Price goes up close to the finish line. Like they say, location, location, location.

Kind of like paying ransom.

Jack shrugged. We’ve been called ransomware before.

If the shoes fits…

So you gonna sign up for our publishing AI? It might have changed, but I think her name is Sheila.

Sheila de Sade.

I’d hold my hand to my heart, stricken, if I had one.

Thanks but no thanks. Ima said. I’m sure Sheila would have my balls in her virtual handbag as soon as I signed that agreement.

Jack looked sheepish. We might already have rights to them balls.

And so, once bitten, twice very-much shy, Ima decided to go it alone. How hard could it be? The key was to get a good agent. Publishing’s holy trinity was: write a great book, get an agent who’ll hold a bidding auction, then rake in the dough when it’s published.

Easy peasy.

Ima’s turbo-reading had been mostly novels, but had included one book about publishing. He hadn’t recognized the name of the