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M Issue 2
M Issue 2
M Issue 2
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M Issue 2

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The new issue of M, the horror and mystery magazine from Big Pulp! Published twice annually, each issue contains a mix of horror, macabre, crime & mystery fiction and poetry.

This issue features:
"ForMication, With an M" by David Hagerty
"Dreamstones" by F.J. Bergmann
"Pyramid Scheme "by D.P. Blanchard
"The Medallion" by Terrie Leigh Relf
"Mint" by Meghan Bird
"Going Down" by John Bruni
"BigBucksBlowOut" by James D. Reed
"The Card Counter" by Brian Leopold
"The Jumping Frenchmen of Maine" by Joseph Tomaras

And poetry from Holly Day & Joanna M. Weston

LanguageEnglish
PublisherBig Pulp
Release dateJan 17, 2015
ISBN9781310561221
M Issue 2
Author

Big Pulp

Since 2008, Big Pulp has published the best in fantastic fiction from around the globe. We publish periodicals - including Big Pulp, Child of Words, M, and Thirst - and themed anthologies.

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    Book preview

    M Issue 2 - Big Pulp

    M

    Horror and Mystery

    November 2014

    Big Pulp Publications

    Bill Olver, editor and publisher

    Bill Boslego, associate editor (editorial)

    contact: m@bigpulp.com

    Cover illustration by Luke Spooner

    M Vol. 1, No. 2

    November 2014

    ISSN 2372-1049 (print)

    ISSN 2372-1065 (electronic)

    M is published twice yearly in May and November by Big Pulp Publications. All credited material is copyright by the author(s). All other material © 2014 Big Pulp Publications.

    The stories and poems in this magazine are fictitious and any resemblance between the characters in them and any persons living or dead—without satirical intent—is purely coincidental.

    Reproduction or use of any written or pictorial content without the permission of the editors or authors is strictly forbidden, with the exception of fair use for review purposes.

    Smashwords Edition, License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

    Thank you for respecting the hard work of our writers.

    TABLE OF CONTENTS

    FICTION

    ForMication, With an M by David Hagerty

    Dreamstones by F.J. Bergmann

    Pyramid Scheme by D.P. Blanchard

    The Medallion by Terrie Leigh Relf

    Mint by Meghan Bird

    Going Down by John Bruni

    BigBucksBlowOut by James D. Reed

    The Card Counter by Brian Leopold

    The Jumping Frenchmen of Maine by Joseph Tomaras

    POETRY

    Button-Bright by Holly Day

    Overnight by Holly Day

    The Man by Holly Day

    The Broken Window by Joanna M. Weston

    Whose Hands by Joanna M. Weston

    More about Big Pulp

    David Hagerty lives and writes in Sacramento, CA. He is polishing a political murder mystery. Read more of his work at www.davidhagerty.net.

    ______________

    FORMICATION, WITH AN M

    Houses rose on stilts from the Berkeley hillside where ex-hippies hid out from social justice and climbed the ladder of capitalism. Once Danny had come here too to lift himself. Every day for five years he’d biked up Tunnel Road until making the pro peloton. Racing in Europe had been his dream girl, and briefly he’d touched her. But today he was looking for other action: open windows, unlocked doors, hidden side yards.

    At a Mediterranean mansion, he stashed his bike behind a high Redwood gate. His ride didn’t look like much—a 14-speed Bianchi in flaky, puke green—but it was top grade ten years before. With it and him hidden, he climbed a trash can and pried open a bathroom window. After tying back his long, red hair with a rubber band, he plunged through like a pole vaulter. Being a puke weight helped in tight spots.

    Ten minutes later, Danny was bungeeing a VCR to his bike rack when the police rounded the bend. They flashed him with their rollers, but by then it was too late. No car could keep up with Danny on the descent. Tunnel Road followed the curving hills like a belt, with turns and switchbacks every fifty feet. Danny knew each one by feel and could rip them without braking. He also knew the hazards. After the fire hydrant lay a turn with a pothole big enough to cause an endo. Next came a cutback and a panoramic view of San Francisco and the Bay. By then the cruiser was already a hundred feet back. Over the loudspeaker the cops called Give it up, McGrady, but the sound was distant. Danny set up wide for the next curve, where gravel trickled from the hillside, and swung through it in a pendulum’s arc, using both lanes to keep his speed. A short straightaway plunged to Ashby Avenue where a traffic signal blinked Danger, Will Robinson.

    After taking the corner fast and wide, Danny exited to find a blue pickup coming at him head on. He veered left and grazed the truck’s side mirror. Off line, he braked and skidded toward a brown hatchback parked by the curb. There was just room until the driver threw open her door, forcing Danny into a panic stop, his wheels locked up, the bike sliding out from under him. His slide felt endless—long enough for him to hope not to lose too much skin—until he landed face up to the sky. Before his head stopped spinning, the ground shuddered and a red light strobed the thick air. When it passed, he sat up and saw the golden weeds that had hidden him.

    Be more careful! a woman said.

    A grey-haired skeleton pointed at him like the grim reaper.

    You could have killed me.

    Maybe next time, Danny said.

    The rollers had faded, but Danny couldn’t be sure they were gone for good. If he could make it to Telegraph Ave., a quarter mile below, he could slip between the barricades that cut off traffic from the side streets.

    A tickle on his left arm distracted him: there green flies swarmed a gash by his elbow. He slapped at them, but they bubbled up from under his skin. Scratching left trails of blood on which they feasted. If there were time he would have washed the wound clean in a fountain, but he feared the cruiser returning.

    On his bike the wheels spun, and the frame looked straight, but the VCR was chipped and scratched. Probably it still worked, at least well enough to score something from Sonny.

    ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

    What am I going do with this? Sonny said, his voice a smoker’s rasp.

    He threw the battered VCR on the workbench in his garage.

    Use it for parts, Danny said.

    Like I need parts.

    Sonny waved at shelves sagging under stacks of receivers, televisions, CD and DVD players.

    Why do you steal that crap? Nobody wants it.

    It’s worth something.

    At the flea market you’ll get five bucks.

    Sonny turned back to his motorcycle, flashing Danny the leather vest patched with God’s Outlaws on the back. Danny had never seen Sonny without it. Part of the gang’s tradition was a custom ride, and Sonny’s was a beauty, a low riding chopper with orange flames on the gas tank and burnished chrome glass pipes. Sonny wasn’t so polished with cigarette ash and grease stains on his T-shirt and jeans.

    It’s not my fault, Danny said.

    Sonny said nothing and wrenched loose the bolts of the clutch housing.

    Some granny doored me.

    I thought you were a hot-shit bike racer.

    I was. Junior national champ.

    Then how come you’ve got old broads taking you out?

    Danny decided not to mention the flies and scanned the garage for inspiration.

    What about motorcycle parts?

    How you going to carry them? On your kiddie bike? It takes a man.

    Sonny flexed his arm, which was flabby and stained by blue-black tattoos.

    Come on, Sonny, I need something.

    Do I look like a frigging charity? You want handouts, go to the free clinic.

    Danny spun and pinballed around the garage until he knocked a fender off the shelf.

    Don’t be a spaz.

    Give me a job then.

    Sonny dropped his wrench and crossed his arms, exposing his gut under the leather vest. He liked giving his crew a hard time but always took care of them so they wouldn’t stray. A waft of his cigarette smoke made Danny’s eyes water.

    All right, Sonny said, I heard about a guy who collects Nazi gear. He’s on Hearst across from the campus canteen. Bring me some of his stash and I’ll hook you up. Just look out for his alarm. You gotta go in through the subfloor.

    Danny leapt to his bike and was out the door when Sonny yelled after him.

    Don’t screw it up. You get caught, I’m not bailing you out again.

    ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

    Half way across town, the flies returned. They bubbled from the wound then crept toward Danny’s neck, choking him. He slapped them away, but they multiplied with every touch. The house would still be empty in an hour, and the free clinic was along the way.

    There, a doctor ran his fingers tenderly over Danny’s road rash.

    Formication, he said.

    Danny thought back to the hippie chick he met last month in People’s Park. You couldn’t trust any of these skanks.

    There pills for that?

    No, for-MI-cation, with an M, the doctor said.

    He leaned back against the steel cabinet that locked away the drugs and crossed his arms.

    It means you’re hallucinating.

    This doc was new, an African with shiny, dark skin and a lilting voice like reggae singers.

    There are treatments for what ails you, but not in pill form.

    Whatever it is, I’ll take it. Shot, cream, enema.

    You’ve got to give up the drugs.

    Danny looked away but found only white walls and medical posters. Usually the clinic gave hassle-free health care, but this new doc was a do-gooder.

    How long have you been using? the doc said.

    Seven years before, a masseuse at the Olympic Training Center gave Danny his first dose of bennies, told him they’d make him faster. And they had. For five years he’d ridden the surge in his veins to victory until they made it impossible to sleep or keep on weight. Within a year the team dropped him like a lay about, so he moved back to his parents’ house, but they kicked him to the curb three months later.

    Not long, Danny said.

    The doc frowned.

    I’ll prescribe an anti-biotic for your arm, he said. But if you want to get rid of those…flies, you need to get sober.

    ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

    An hour later, Danny was backstroking in the crawl space of the bungalow. Under him rose a cloud of dust, coating

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