Tag Archives: Pulp Literature Issue 14

Author News: CC Humphreys

You remember Issues 1 and 14 feature author, CC Humphreys, don’t you? Allow us to refresh your memory … he’s the swashbuckling thespian and prolific author whose historical fiction and young adult novels have topped the charts.

Sound familiar? Well, longtime fans and newcomers alike, take note! CC Humphrey’s new historical fiction novel, Chasing the Wind, is now available through Amazon or the Penguin Random House website!

Set in 1936 during Hitler’s Olympics, Chasing the Wind tells the story of Roxy Loewen, a morally ambiguous pilot following the path of a rare painting across a politically turbulent Europe and North Africa.

Smuggler. Smoker. Aviatrix. Thief. 

The dynamic Roxy Loewen is all these things and more, in this riveting and gorgeous historical fiction novel for readers of Paula McLain, Roberta Rich, Kate Morton and Jacqueline Winspear.

Those of you who are on Salt Spring Island on June 20th, or in the Vancouver area June 21st are welcome to attend the launches  as well!

 

Author News: Greg Brown

Pushcart Prize 2018 CoverAt Pulp Literature, we know our writers are talented, and we want the rest of the world to know too! That’s why every year we nominate six of the authors whose pieces have especially inspired us for the prestigious Pushcart Prize. Touted as “the best of small presses”, Pushcart awards honour those writers who excel at their craft. This year we are pleased to announce Pulp Literature author, Greg Brown, has been nominated by Pushcart judges for his short story, ‘Love’ (Issue 16).

Greg Brown is a graduate of the MFA program in Creative Writing at the University of North Carolina-Greensboro. He is a recipient of UBC’s Roy Daniels Memorial Essay Prize, and you can find his stories, criticism, and essays in Postscript, Paragon, The
RS500, Lenses: Perspectives on Literature, and Tate Street. His surreal short story ‘Bear’ appeared in Pulp Literature Issue 14.

We will find out if Greg’s story makes the final cut in May. Until then, we’ll give you a taste of the story that has Pushcart judges sitting up in their seats…

 

‘Love’
Greg Brown

We agreed as a family that the only thing to do was to bring Mom home for the next few months or weeks, whatever it would be. It’ll be hard, Dad said. But maybe it can be fine, too. Denisa was suspicious about the cost of it all — like the private nurse we’d have to pay for, where at the hospital it was free — although she didn’t put it like that, said that we’d be crazy to bring Mom into a place where there wasn’t any immediate care, because what if there was a problem like before, the thing with her stent that plugged up and caused some internal bleeding that almost wasn’t staunched in time?

She could’ve, Denisa said.

The oncologist had said October, and the late pale fog had come and now the
sky was mostly dimmed and gone by suppertime.

I said that I would only do it if we agreed that Pastor Karen would not come to
the house; I was not comfortable with Pastor Karen coming to the house. Jon and Dad looked at me a moment and said, Okay.

Denisa said, I don’t get what you don’t like about Pastor Karen.

And I explained why I didn’t like Pastor Karen.

And Denisa said, Well I don’t think it’s really fair to call her a liar.

And I explained why I thought it was fair to call Pastor Karen a liar.

And Denisa said, Well, by that standard they’re all liars. And then we’d all be
liars, too. The whole thing would be a lie. We don’t need lies right now.

I agreed with Denisa, especially about how we didn’t need lies right now.

Read the rest of ‘Love’ in Pulp Literature Issue 16. And check out Greg Brown’s ‘Bear’ in Issue 14, currently on sale!

 

 

 

Spring Fever Back Issue Sale!

Spring is here and the daffodils and cherry blossoms are busting out at last!  To celebrate we have pruned the prices on all our spring back issues in print format.  That includes Issue featuring JJ Lee, Issue 6 featuring Krista Wallace, Issue 10 featuring Carol Berg, and Issue 14 featuring CC Humphreys.  But hurry, this special ends March 31st!

Planes, trains, and automobiles transport us with tales from CC Humphreys, Colin Thornton, plus Joseph Stilwell and Hugh Henderson, as well as poetry from David Clink and Ian Haight. There are bears, boars, and kind-eyed villains from Greg Brown, William Charles Brock, JM Landels, and Susan Pieters, while the reaper himself makes a visit in Mel Anastasiou’s next Stella novella.  All that plus the winners of both the Raven and SiWC contests.  Jump on board … the journey’s just beginning!
Pulp Literature Issue 14, Spring 2017 $14.99  now $9.99

 

Issue 10 small

Magical murder mystery by Carol Berg; monster hunting with Gregg Chamberlain; sleuthing with Stella and Mel Anastasiou; comic by Kris Sayer; poetry by Matthew Walsh, Ev Bishop, and Ada Maria Soto; flash fiction by Andrea Lewis and Stephen Case; short stories by Sarina Bosco and Susan Pieters; Allaigna’s Song by JM Landels; and literary fiction from the 2015 Raven winners Emily Linstrom and PE Bolivar.
Pulp Literature Issue 10, Spring 2016 $14.99  now $9.99

 

 

Genre-defying fiction by  Krista Wallace, Bob Thurber, Laura Kostur, Theric Jepson, FJ Bergmann, Tobi Cogswell and more!
Pulp Literature Issue 6, Spring 2015 $14.99  now $9.99

 

 

 

 

Our second issue of good books for the price of a beer, featuring fiction and artwork by JJ Lee, Sarah Pinsker, Trevor Shikaze, Milo James Fowler, AY Dorsey,  and more!
Pulp Literature Issue 2, Spring 2014 $14.99  now $9.99

 

 

 

 

And if that’s not enough Spring for you, you can also pick up Pulp Literature Issue 18, Spring 2018, hot off the presses right now!

Story Spotlight: Candy Apple Baby by Colin Thornton

Here’s a little snippet from Issue 14 to get your engine running this week …

Candy-Apple Baby

by Colin Thornton

It was a candy-apple red, metal-flake, chrome-plated Harley Davidson Low Rider, chopped down, pimped out, and fully accessorized, parked under a misty cone of light from a streetlamp almost as if it was waiting for Zoober to wander by.

For months he had fantasized about owning a motorcycle: tearing down the highway, a big, nasty redhead on the seat behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist, cheek resting on his shoulder.  Money was his problem, or rather, lack of it.  His old man wouldn’t pay for it, that’s for sure.  And there was no way he was going flip burgers for minimum wage like those other peons.

“Well now, looky here.  Someone left the keys in the ignition.”

He listened to the night, scanned the houses on both sides of the street — dark and quiet.  In the silence he could hear that chrome-plated angel calling out to him, whispering in his ear, enticing him, compelling him, daring him to do what most other sixteen-year-old boys would never dream of.

Although Zoober had never been one for going to church, praying, or any of that spirit-in-the-sky crap, he looked up at the stars and with all the sincerity he could muster, said, “Thank you, Jesus.”

 

JD is standing on a hoist, half a dozen fan belts over his shoulder, up to his elbows in the engine of a 1985 Corvette.  He holds out an empty hand, says, “Seven-sixteenths.”  His assistant wraps her fingers around the socket, slowly sliding it onto the wrench with a firm click and a gentle twist.  Brown skin, brown eyes, long auburn hair, naked under her bib overalls.  “Anything else JayDee?” she coos in a soft pillow voice.  Shivers of anticipation ripple up his inseam as she passes him the ratchet.  A smear of grease on her earlobe looks like a drop of chocolate sauce.  He leans forward to taste it …  Tic Tic Tic — Huh?  Tap Tap Tap —  What’s that noise?  Knock Knock Knock …  As Jennifer Lopez fades from his dream, JD realizes that someone is banging on his bedroom window.  Bang Bang Bang —  “JD, wake the fuck up!”  He squints at his clock, rolls over, and peels back one corner of the curtain.

Zoober is standing in the garden, urgently beckoning him outside.  JD shakes his head.  “It’s still dark out.”

But Zoober insists.  “Get out here.”

A beam of light shines through his bedroom door, casting a silhouette of a figure against the wall.  “What’s going on down there?”

“Nothing, Dad.  Nothing.  Bad dream, that’s all.”

“Well, dream quieter.”

Dad mutters something under his breath, flicks off the light and goes back to bed, closing the door behind him.

After a few minutes of quiet, JD slips into his jeans and T-shirt, eases open the back door, and sneaks out to meet his nocturnal friend.

Zoober bounces from foot to foot, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, hands tucked in his armpits.  “Jesus, man, I’ve been bangin’ on your window for ten minutes.”

“It’s four thirty.  What d’you want?”

“I need to put something in your back yard.”

“You woke me up for that?”

“It’s important.”

“What is it?”

“A motorcycle.”

 

Next day, sitting in the school cafeteria after classes, Zoober brags about his previous night’s adventure; the who, what, where, and when, saving the why for last:  “The keys were in it.”

In a lifetime of dumb moves, this ranks high on Zoober’s top ten list.  “Don’t you think …” JD asks, pausing to add the emphasis his slow companion needs, “…  someone might — miss it?”  And just in case the subtle point he was making was also missed, adds, “Might want it back?”

Zoober stares blankly.  Blinks.  “But the keys were in it.”

Before JD can explain the concept of impulse control, the Pappas twins, Chris and Nick, come into the cafeteria and straight over to their table.

Nick says, “Three guys in the parking lot looking for you, Zoober.”

“Big guys,” adds Chris.

“Brick shithouse big.”

“Ugly too.”

“Real ugly.”

“Capital UG ugly.

“Little guy has a cool tat, though.”

“Totally.”

Strangers in the parking lot could be anyone, but the coincidence is too much to ignore so JD suggests they take the back door out of school and cut through the alley to get home.

Seconds after stepping outside, a white Cadillac Escalade with blacked-out windows screeches to a stop beside them.  Three people jump out:  A wisp of a guy in a leather jacket with a tattoo of a snake on his neck and two sumo-sized bodyguards wearing mirrored Ray-Bans.

Minus the scales and fangs, the runt looks a lot like his tattoo — thin and wiry, bristling with aggression and nervous energy.

Snake’s jaw muscles twitch as he steps towards Zoober and JD, sizing them up, nodding and smiling to himself at some private joke.

He locks the kids in a cold-blooded glare, his eyes all pupil, like two lumps of tar.  In a breathy hush that somehow seems to amplify his rage he says, “In the car.”

Zoober and JD are shoved into the back and sandwiched between the two Sumos.  JD watches Snake’s reflection in the rear-view mirror.  His dead fish eyes, pale, cold, and glassy, scanning his prisoners, coming to rest finally on JD.  The intensity of Snake’s gaze feels like a corkscrew boring into his skull.  After what seems like an eternity, Snake smirks and nods.  “Punks,” he says, as if he was spitting a gob of snot.  “Two frightened punks.”

For a instant, Zoober looks at the door handle.  Just a flicker of a glance, a reflex.  “Don’t.  Even.  Think about it,” Snake warns.

He backs out of the service road, drives through the parking lot and onto Main Street.

For a long while they drive in silence.  Snake wants them to sweat, wants them to know who’s in control, give them time to let fear gnaw on their imaginations.  Eventually he says, “You have something of mine.  I want it back.”

Before JD can say turn left at the next stoplight, Zoober starts blurting out directions, leading them 180 degrees away from JD’s house.  Down the avenue, past the church, the strip mall, and Johnny’s Burgers.  Zoober points down the street.  “There,” he says.  “Brick house on the left.  Green garage door.”

Snake parks.  The Sumos haul themselves out of the car to let the prisoners out.  “We’ll be right back,” Zoober says and trots up the driveway to the side door, opens it, and walks in.

“What the fuck are you doing?” JD asks.  “This is Mackie’s house.”

“They don’t know that.”

Zoober walks right through the house, JD close behind.  Past Mackie’s bedroom and up the stairs into the kitchen where Mrs MacNeil is making dinner.  As easily as flipping a switch, Zoober turns on his choirboy charm.  “Hey, Mrs  Mac.”  She’s delighted to see two of her son’s friends.  “We have to study for a math test tomorrow,” Zoober lies.  “Mackie’s on his way.  He told us to wait out back.”

It would never occur to Mrs  MacNeil that her son’s friends would get into mischief like the delinquents she sees on TV.  “Nice to see you boys taking your schoolwork seriously,” she says.  “Are you hungry?”  So nice, JD thinks, the world’s best mom.  He feels like a cad for deceiving her.

“Thanks, but we really should study,” Zoober says, never thinking that the woman he’s dismissed as an airhead might notice that they don’t have any books.

Outside, JD hisses at Zoober.  “Are you suicidal?”

Zoober is so full of hubris it’s leaking out of his sneakers and leaving a slick on the deck behind him.  “I’m not going to let a dwarf and two Neanderthals with glandular conditions run my life.  Let’s get outta here.”

JD would like to kill Zoober himself and save Snake the trouble, but he feels helpless, out of control, as if he’s fallen into a river and been carried downstream into unknown territory.

They go down the stairs, across the lawn, over the fence, through the neighbour’s backyard and down the driveway to the next street, expecting freedom and finding instead a white Escalade — parked, engine running, one Sumo beside each open door.

This time they are thrown into the back seat and squashed between the two bodyguards.  Snake turns to face them — first Zoober, then JD, slowly shaking his head from side to side.

Zoober has an excuse.  “We —”

“Shut up!” Snake shouts.  Zoober’s bluster shrivels and dies like a worm in the sun.

He pulls out a gun, sticks it in JD’s face.  So close, all he can see is the end of the barrel, a silver circle of steel like a giant zero summing up his chances at getting out of this car alive.  He watches Snake’s thumb press down on the hammer and cock the gun with a click that echoes in his ears like a cannon.

“Have I got your full attention?” he asks.  JD nods.  “You’re out of time and I’m out of patience.  You know what I want.”  JD nods again.  “Now, where to?”

Read the rest in Pulp Literature Issue 14.  On sale now!

Colin Thornton studied drawing and painting in college, played music for a few decades while he built a career in advertising.  Today, his paints dry, drums on a shelf, marimba locked in its case, and his advertising days over, he writes short stories.  ‘Candy Apple Baby’ is a chrome-plated tale about theft, fractured friendships, motorcycle envy, and Darwin’s third law.  Colin rides a recumbent bicycle, not a Harley Chopper.

If you’re in New Brunswick you can catch Colin reading at the Frye Festival in Shediac this coming Sunday April 23rd around 3pm.

Where the Angels Wait

Pulp Literature Issue 14 is with the printer and will be available in time for The Creative Ink Festival (31 Mar – 2 Apr) and our launch at Steamworks on Monday April 3rd.  We’re delighted to have another story, ‘The Ankle Bracelet’, from our very first feature author, CC (Chris) Humphreys.

Chris will be on hand at the launch to give a reading and sign books, but in the meantime, let us whet your appetite with a snippet of the poignant ‘Where the Angels Wait’ from all the way back in Pulp Literature Issue 1.

Granada, Andalusia, Spain. August 1986.

Sitting on the edge of the bed now, listening. A door opened, shut, someone has come and gone, that much is certain. They’ve hidden them, and he must find them.

Unless they didn’t leave.

“Hello?”

No reply. He has to start. The drawers? Too obvious but he tries a couple. The cushions? He pulls them off the sofa, feels down the back and side, moves carefully because if they
are there what state might they be in? He finds a crumb covered coin, nothing else. On the high shelves then, at the back of the cupboard, rolling in dust? Or in a jar in the bureau, pickled, floating like onions? With others? Alone? Alone, yes, has to be.

He starts to move quicker. Grapes on the table, that’s frightening. Eat one? Too risky. Time’s nearly up, pull back the sheets, grope under the pillows.

“Who’s there?”

He lies back down. “There’s no one there,” he says, challenging the dark.

He sits up. He knows where they are. His father is in the doorway, making it look small, and he has them exactly where they should be.

“Looking for these?” Dad says, and starts to squeeze his eyeballs from his face.


Off the bed,
groping for a light, blundering in an unfamiliar dark to a wall, a door, a switch, filling the room with yellow, running to the window, pulling back the thick curtains. He thrusts his head out into fierce sun and furnace air and the heat brings him back. He remembers where he is.

It takes him longer to remember why.

Six PM. Jet lag muzzles his head like a warm, wet towel and he can’t figure if home is ahead of Granada or behind. No, behind, it’s nine in Vancouver now. Gwen will be getting Sunday breakfast. French toast. Wearing her blue smock to protect her church clothes. If he was there they’d eat, then she’d take the smock off.

“Coming?” she’d ask.

“Nothing to confess,” he’d say.

He’ll call, catch her before she goes, but after a shower. He wants to make sense when he speaks to her. Before the shower though…

read the entire story in Pulp Literature Issue No. 1, Winter 2014.