Countdown to readers' favorite posts for 2019

What – 2019 is almost over? No worries – for these final days of this year, I’m rerunning the top 10 readers’ favorite posts, starting with one first published February 13: 

Outlaws & outtakes – stories on the cutting room floor 

In all previous instances when I’ve posted any of my short stories on this blog, they’ve been stories that have been published (sometimes multiple times) in other, independent venues. But about a year and a half ago, I wrote a number of short-shorts as exercises for a class that never found a paying market. The class assignment was limited to 500 words. In some cases the three t stories presented here slightly exceed that word count, but they’re still so short I’m grouping three of them into a single post – ranging from a horror Western to a Valentine-flavored spoof of classical divinities, to a historical-themed vignette.  

***

THE GOLD AND THE GIRL

Luther Delbruck kneed his horse into place at the hitching post and dropped to the ground. He couldn’t be more than a few hours behind that lying claim jumper Harkness, the one who’d shot him and grabbed his bag of gold dust. But he’d plugged Harkness too. That slinking coyote couldn’t have more than a day left to live, not with the way he’d been bleeding. First, Luther would get his gold back. Then he’d teach Harkness a lesson. Him and any other son of a bitch that thought they could make a fool out of Luther Delbruck.

image: Pixabay

Then, and only then, he’d be able to see Maudie again. Take her the gold, see her one last time, prove to her that he was the man she knew he could be. Never mind the all the rest. He was the one she would love forever. All he had to do was live one day longer than Harkness. But for that to happen, he’d need some doctoring.

Dragging his wounded leg, Luther pushed through the door of the boarding house where Doc Faraday slept, drank, and sometimes even did a little doctoring. He tumbled into a heap in front of the old doctor.

“Delbruck! What the hell happened to you?”

“Leg. Shot.” Lying on the splintered floor, Luther tried to motion to his wounded left leg, to the trouser stiffened and black with old blood. A tug on his boot forced a scream of agony from him. Damn fool doctor. Damn fool. Shouldn’t ought to have come here, shouldn’t. . .

Through the fog of pain and fever, he was dimly aware of a clatter of shoes on the wooden floor, a creak of hinges from the direction of a cabinet at the far end of the room. Then a puff of dust as something thumped onto the floor at his side. Black. Black bag. Doc Faraday’s medical bag. Luther tried to raise his head to get a look at his injury, but he could only flop back limply.

Something in the doctor’s hand flashed for an instant in the lamplight. There was a jolt, then a languor laid hold of him, the mix of drowsiness and clarity that Luther remembered from the time he was wounded in the war. Morphia.

Time lost its meaning. Dimly, he felt Faraday loosen his clothes, remove his boot. Words like when and who floated past him meaninglessly.

Until something cold touched the fever-hot flesh of his leg. He grabbed a scrap of consciousness by the tail and held on.

 “Wha’ you doin’, doc?” His mouth was so thick he could hardly form words.

“Getting ready to take your leg off, you fool.”

The words were like cold water dashed in Luther’s face. “No.” He pushed himself up.

“You’ll be dead by this time tomorrow if I don’t.”

“Gotta fin’ m’ gold. Got to get it to Maudie. Don’ have time to wait for any damn leg.”

Maudie. And the kid. God, he wished he could live long enough to see the kid.

“Just patch me up, doc. I gotta find that thievin’ claim jumper, Harkness. Got to get my gold back.”

“You leave here and you’re a dead man.”

“Says you. I got to get it to Maudie. She’s…” But he couldn’t tell Faraday what Maudie said she would do if he didn’t help her. Help her and the kid.

Only what if Harkness got to Maudie first? What if her face lit up in the way he remembered so well, not at the sight of him, but at the sight of Harkness with the gold in his hands?

With an effort that left him reeling, Luther pushed himself upright, ignoring Doc Faraday’s protests. His leg didn’t feel so bad any more. Morphia was a wonderful thing. He’d need more of it if he was to catch up with Harkness. Catch up and kill him and get the gold back. He grabbed the handle of the medicine bag.

“You let go of that, Delbruck. Let go right now or I swear I’ll set the marshal on—”

Luther pulled his revolver from his belt. The shot left a red and black hole in the middle of the doc’s face, a look of surprise on what was left of that face. Damn noisy old fool. No time for fools. He had to catch Harkness.

Because if Harkness reached Maudie first, if she looked too happy to get the gold, too happy it was Harkness bringing it to her and not him, not Luther Delbruck, he had to know. And he would. He’d be right behind Harkness. And after he killed him, well, he could manage to live long enough to steal one last kiss from Maudie’s sweet, lying mouth before he joined her in hell.

THE END

***

EROS WALKS INTO A BAR

Eros walks into a bar and flops onto a stool. It feels as if he’s been wandering for hours, ever since leaving Psyche, ever since she had betrayed his trust so utterly.

“Beer and a chaser,” he says to the bartender. “Hades, make that three chasers.”

Outlaws & outtakes – stories on the cutting room floor

In all previous instances when I’ve posted any of my short stories on this blog, they’ve been stories that have been published (sometimes multiple times) in other, independent venues. But about a year and a half ago, I wrote a number of short-shorts as exercises for a class that never found a paying market. The class assignment was limited to 500 words. In some cases the three still very short stories presented here slightly exceed that word count, but they’re still so short I’m grouping three of them into a single post – ranging from a horror Western to a Valentine-flavored spoof of classical divinities, to a historical-themed vignette. 

 ***

THE GOLD AND THE GIRL

Luther Delbruck kneed his horse into place at the hitching post and dropped to the ground. He couldn’t be more than a few hours behind that lying claim jumper Harkness, the one who’d shot him and grabbed his bag of gold dust. But he’d plugged Harkness too. That slinking coyote couldn’t have more than a day left to live, not with the way he’d been bleeding. First, Luther would get his gold back. Then he’d teach Harkness a lesson. Him and any other son of a bitch that thought they could make a fool out of Luther Delbruck.

Then, and only then, he’d be able to see Maudie again. Take her the gold, see her one last time, prove to her that he was the man she knew he could be. Never mind the all the rest. He was the one she would love forever. All he had to do was live one day longer than Harkness. But for that to happen, he’d need some doctoring.

Dragging his wounded leg, Luther pushed through the door of the boarding house where Doc Faraday slept, drank, and sometimes even did a little doctoring. He tumbled into a heap in front of the old doctor. 

“Delbruck! What the hell happened to you?”

“Leg. Shot.” Lying on the splintered floor, Luther tried to motion to his wounded left leg, to the trouser stiffened and black with old blood. A tug on his boot forced a scream of agony from him. Damn fool doctor. Damn fool. Shouldn’t ought to have come here, shouldn’t. . . 

Through the fog of pain and fever, he was dimly aware of a clatter of shoes on the wooden floor, a creak of hinges from the direction of a cabinet at the far end of the room. Then a puff of dust as something thumped onto the floor at his side. Black. Black bag. Doc Faraday’s medical bag. Luther tried to raise his head to get a look at his injury, but he could only flop back limply. 

Something in the doctor’s hand flashed for an instant in the lamplight. There was a jolt, then a languor laid hold of him, the mix of drowsiness and clarity that Luther remembered from the time he was wounded in the war. Morphia.

Time lost its meaning. Dimly, he felt Faraday loosen his clothes, remove his boot. Words like when and who floated past him meaninglessly.

image: pixabay

Until something cold touched the fever-hot flesh of his leg. He grabbed a scrap of consciousness by the tail and held on.

 “Wha’ you doin’, doc?” His mouth was so thick he could hardly form words.

“Getting ready to take your leg off, you fool.”

The words were like cold water dashed in Luther’s face. “No.” He pushed himself up.

“You’ll be dead by this time tomorrow if I don’t.”

“Gotta fin’ m’ gold. Got to get it to Maudie. Don’ have time to wait for any damn leg.”

Maudie. And the kid. God, he wished he could live long enough to see the kid. 

“Just patch me up, doc. I gotta find that thievin’ claim jumper, Harkness. Got to get my gold back.”

“You leave here and you’re a dead man.”

“Says you. I got to get it to Maudie. She’s…” But he couldn’t tell Faraday what Maudie said she would do if he didn’t help her. Her and the kid.

Only what if Harkness got to Maudie first? What if her face lit up in the way he remembered so well, not at the sight of him, but at the sight of Harkness with the gold in his hands?

With an effort that left him reeling, Luther pushed himself upright, ignoring Doc Faraday’s protests. His leg didn’t feel so bad any more. Morphia was a wonderful thing. He’d need more of it if he was to catch up with Harkness. Catch up and kill him and get the gold back. He grabbed the handle of the medicine bag.

“You let go of that, Delbruck. Let go right now or I swear I’ll set the marshal on—” 

Luther pulled his revolver from his belt. The shot left a red and black hole in the middle of the doc’s face, a look of surprise on what was left of that face. Damn noisy old fool. No time for fools. He had to catch Harkness.

Because if Harkness reached Maudie first, if she looked too happy to get the gold, too happy it was Harkness bringing it to her and not him, not Luther Delbruck, he had to know. And he would. He’d be right behind Harkness. And after he killed him, well, he could manage to live long enough to steal one last kiss from Maudie’s sweet, lying mouth before he joined her in hell.

THE END

***

EROS WALKS INTO A BAR

Eros walks into a bar and flops onto a stool. It feels as if he’s been wandering for hours, ever since leaving Psyche, ever since she had betrayed his trust so utterly. 

“Beer and a chaser,” he says to the bartender. “Hades, make that three chasers.” 

Adventure classics -- Howard rides into the sunset

“The Dead Remember”

by Robert E. Howard

#

I wanted to include a Western for this final entry in Adventure classics’ “All Robert E. Howard month,” to indicate the breadth of Howard’s interests. After all, as he wrote to his friend August W. Derleth less than a year before his death, he was “seriously contemplating devoting all (his) time and efforts to western writing, abandoning all other forms of work entirely.”

But I labored under a handicap -- I don’t personally like the typical fast-shooting, slow-talking, happy-ending Western story. And Howard, although far from the typical writer of Westerns, studied his markets well enough to know what would sell and what wouldn’t. I also flinched at his often unthinking racism -- although it was normal, even moderate for his time. “The Dead Remember,” the first of the Western stories he sold to Argosy, is a tale of witchcraft and vengeance that would have fit right on the pages of Weird Tales, except that magazine already owed Howard more than a thousand dollars, and he was eager to try other markets.

“The Dead Remember,” in which a black witch’s ghost haunts her murderer, deals frankly with the mores of the times, both of the story, set soon after the end of the Civil War, and the time of writing in the Great Depression era South.

Howard’s genius, transcending his time, lies in treating neither the victims of violence -- a pair of ex-slaves -- nor their cowboy murderer as either purely good or evil. If anything, the victims are the more courageous and sensitive of their honor -- always pluses for Howard’s characters. As former slave Old Joel says when threatened, “You can’t eat my
beef and drink my licker and then call my dice crooked. No white man can do that. I’m just as tough as you are.”

So ponder Howard’s decisions for yourself in this widely-available tale. (I found it in Rusty Burke’s anthology entitled “The End of the Trail: Western Stories,” from the University of Nebraska Press.) It obeys the dictates of Anton Chekov, that anything mentioned must be pertinent. So what exactly was the color of the witch’s dress? And why will Jim Gordon never be able to get it out of his mind, even in death?

(Next month : Adventure classics explore science fiction, beginning with Frank Herbert‘s “Dune.”)

 

The envelope, please

Readers of this blog know that I love Duotrope’s Digest (www.duotrope.com/) as a source for market research.  But there’s one thing Duotrope doesn’t do.  Because of its reasonable bias against journals that require submission fees, it doesn’t list writing contests.  Contests usually charge fees; that’s how they sweeten their pots.  You’ve got to be the judge of whether the contest is worth the price.  Because I sometimes submit stories to contests, I subscribe to other journals and sites that list them.  My (so-far) only contest win was with Moonlight Mesa’s Cowboy Up contest, found on Ginny Wiehardt’s former About.com Fiction Writing guide.  Ginny recently left About.com, but if you like horses half as much as I do, here’s a chance to include them in a story.

The third annual Moonlight Mesa Cowboy Up Short Story Contest officially opens March 1, 2011, and closes September 1, 2011.  This year all entries must be a Western suspense, mystery, thriller, or cozy, etc.  The stories must be Western in nature but can be set in the “olden-days” or in “modern” times.  Wordage has been increased to 3500.  Submission guidelines for the contest can be found at the publisher’s website: www.moonlightmesaassociates.com/  First place wins $250; second place ropes in $150, and third place earns $75.  Award certificates are sent to all finalists.

Also recently appearing in my inbox:  a “people’s choice” request from a publication in which my writing has appeared (trying to sound modest) – Short-Story.Me.

“Please submit your favorite story that we published in 2010 to the storySouth Million Writer’s Award contest.  There are cash and fame for the winning authors and publicity for Short-Story.Me!  Prize money is over $500 for the winning writers.  Readers can nominate one story by going to this url:

http://www.jasonsanford.com/jason/2011/02/reader-nominations-for-2011-million-writers-award.html/  Writers may nominate their own story as long as it was published on Short-Story.Me! in 2010 and follows contest rules.”

This contest is fee-free.  Of course I’m going to submit my Short-Story.Me publication, “Shaman.”  (Did I mention there’s a horse in it?)  And I’m asking you to submit it also.  Please hurry -- submission deadline is March 15.