Shotguns and Jinn by Akem

The multi-talented artist and author Akem created the stunning cover art for Issues 16, 18, and 23. We are delighted to share with you her first short story for Pulp Literature, an evocative exploration of subjugation and freedom.

Jump into the pages of Issue 25, Winter 2020 and join us in the Whirling Sands — a desert teeming with magic and mystery.

Shotguns and Jinn

Despite the dangers, Mankur didn’t mind being a sheriff at an outpost of the Whirling Sands. The Jinn in the desert usually kept to themselves, and it was his job to see that they weren’t disturbed by traders, tricksters, slavers, or tourists. In the stifling afternoon heat, he adjusted his cowboy hat, seating it further back on his head so that his crown didn’t feel so much like a hot towel wrapped around a headache. His skin was damp, and his wrist-length shirt clung to him like he’d just run a mile in the desert at high noon. Once he started fidgeting he couldn’t stop, and he shifted in his rocking chair and tugged his damp blue jeans away from his crotch. He wriggled his toes and thought about kicking off the too-tight leather cowboy boots crammed on his feet.

Even indoors, the shade from his battered, wooden office was no match for the afternoon sun. If he took off his cowboy hat, the heat would be just about bearable, but removing it would be like admitting that he couldn’t handle being a sheriff. Before she’d retired, two years earlier, Sheriff Til had jammed the cowboy hat on his head and clipped, “Good luck.” She turned her back and strode out into the desert, never to be seen again. 

The five-point star badge glinting on his hat symbolized the promise he’d made to Sheriff Til. And, as the sheriff at the edge of the Whirling Sands, he had to look the part, for himself and any onlookers. He’d be damned if he were to give up and remove the hat because of a little heatstroke and moisture.

With a sweat-stained, off-white handkerchief, he mopped his brow for the millionth time that day then jammed the wet cloth back into his breast pocket. He’d left the door open so he could watch the desert dust devils spin past his view like knee-high tornadoes, flinging dirt gleefully in their wake. 

He heard a slight rustle to his left. The prisoner was a strange one — innocent-looking and curled on her side with knees and elbows drawn close. Just after dawn, he’d discovered her trying to steal his horse, and she’d tried to charm him with conversation. 

He’d hit her hard with the butt of his gun, and she’d dropped without a sound. Carrying her indoors was sweaty work with the plethora of items he found within a jacket more suitable for winter. When he’d searched her on the hard jail cot, he’d found sharp ornate knives, a ticket stub, a heavy silver candlestick, a hammer, and a wallet in which the ID indicated she wasn’t the proper owner. 

He found no water bottle, but it was at least a two-day walk from town to this lonely desert outpost. She must have been on the edge of dehydration to sleep so long after a little tap on the head. 

There was something about her, though, and he unfocused his gaze, trying to feel magic within her. But the silence suggested that she was city folk trying to make her fortune in the Whirling Sands. 

After he’d searched her, he set a cup of water and some plain bread on the stool beside the bed. He gently tugged off the metal rings she wore on every finger. He put the rings and the items from her coat into a small sack and tossed it onto his desk. Later, he would decide what to do with her. It might take days or months to make a decision, but time didn’t bother him none. No, he was more concerned with getting back to his routine. By the end of each day, he would feel adrift and insubstantial. But his daily meditation practice calmed his body and focused his mind.

​Mankur removed all thought of the prisoner and sank within himself. For a moment, he imagined that there was nothing outside of the endless sand and sky … no desert edge morphing into roads, farmlands, and cities. No people scurrying about on the face of a planet that was over seventy percent water, boasting cities that sprawled across every spot of land. Only this pristine circle of whirling desert existed. He closed his eyes and submerged himself in the vision. He determinedly ignored the trails of sweat trickling over his body like slow-moving snails. Instead, he imagined himself in an oasis of swirling sand that covered the world in silence. He laced his fingers on his stomach and let the quiet move through him, spreading like a balm that soothed the itch and scratch of life that prickled over his body.

A harsh cough ripped through his lungs, breaking the spell of silence. He cleared his throat a few times, his mouth full of the ever-present grit and sand that filled his world. He cleared his throat again, working up a good amount of phlegm, then spat into the bucket beside his desk. The spit glowed for a moment then dimmed. He shook his head, wondering how much magic had strained past his teeth in the two years he’d been sheriff. 

To find out what happens next, pick up your copy of Issue 25, Winter 2020 here!

Nigerian-Canadian artist Akem paints backgrounds for the animation industry, writes short stories, and illustrates picture books and comics. Brown Sugar Babe, her first picture book, came out in January 2020, and you can see her art on the covers of Issues 16, 18, and 23 of Pulp Literature. Her portfolio is at akemiart.ca.