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    Butterfly Potion
    Butterfly Potion
    Butterfly Potion
    Ebook85 pages1 hour

    Butterfly Potion

    By Trent Zelazny

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Perry wakes up in an arroyo, hungover and unsure how he got there. His wallet and cell phone missing, he walks back to the last place he remembers being before he blacked out—the bar. Fueled by alcohol and a touch of companionship, Perry is determined to find out who rolled him, but standing in his way is an accident that happened six months earlier and the struggle his life has become since. In his search for the material things taken from him, he risks walking right past something far more precious: A new beginning. This new novella by Zelazny is dark, gripping, emotional noir at its best! 

    "A powerful and good writer... someone who's been through hell and come out, I hope, the other side."—Neil Gaiman 

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherNightscape Press
    Release dateJun 30, 2012
    ISBN9781386561422
    Butterfly Potion
    Author

    Trent Zelazny

    Trent Zelazny is the author of Destination Unknown, To Sleep Gently, Fractal Despondency, Shadowboxer, The Day the Leash Gave Way and Other Stories, and A Crack in Melancholy Time. He was born in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He has lived in California, Oregon, Arizona, and Florida. He currently roams throughout the country aimlessly. He also loves basketball. You can visit Trent on Facebook, Twitter, and on his website.

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      Book preview

      Butterfly Potion - Trent Zelazny

      Butterfly Potion

      Copyright © 2012 by Trent Zelazny

      This edition of Butterfly Potion

      Copyright © 2012 by Nightscape Press, LLP

      Cover illustration and design by Gary McCluskey

      Cover lettering by Trent Zelazny and Robert S. Wilson

      Interior layout and design by Jennifer Wilson and Robert S. Wilson

      Interior illustration by Gary McCluskey

      Interior cover page illustration by John Olsen

      Edited by Jennifer Wilson and Robert S. Wilson

      All rights reserved.

      First Electronic Edition

      Nightscape Press, LLP

      http://www.nightscapepress.pub

      For Pat Rothfuss and Amanda Morrison.

      You don’t know each other,

      but I am eternally grateful to both of you.

      1

      The days just do what they do. There’s no getting around it. The days don’t care what you try to make of them. This particular day was sunny but there was an awful chill, and not a damn thing Perry could do about it.

      He turned his jacket collar up and huddled into himself. The breeze was light but glacial. The sunbeams and the shadows made illusioned pockmarks on the sidewalk and street. The cottonwood trees were all but dead. He wished he had a heavier jacket. He wished he had a lot of things, but at the moment he walked. He was heading into town. He had forty-five cents in his pocket, which was enough to buy him nothing, and that was just fine. What he wanted was nothing.

      The light and shadows stretched as the sun eased back behind the western horizon. Perry thrust his hands into his pockets, ran his tongue over his teeth and quickened his pace. There was no rush to be anywhere. He sped up to keep warm. He sped up to give himself something to do.

      Just up a short distance was the first lighted intersection. He’d been walking for nearly half an hour. Few cars had passed him on Palace Avenue, but they went by in droves on the cross street ahead. It must have been around five o’clock.

      He waited patiently at the light until the lucent stick figure replaced the red hand; then he continued down Palace another few blocks. The breeze let up but the mercury was dropping along with the sun.

      He didn’t look his best. He was certain of that. He didn’t care how he appeared, not just now. Pretense had its place, but that place was not with him, and certainly not at this moment. Far as he could tell, he’d spent last night in an arroyo, just underneath a bridge. He’d been at a bar on Water Street, like every weekend and many nights in between. It was common for him to drink too much, and last night he’d done just that. He remembered drinking, and the bar room spinning. Then there was a blank spot, followed by a vague and muddled sentience, bleary awareness of being sprawled on his back, of hands patting him down and going through his pockets. Another blank spot followed. Then the pounding headache and the laying in dirt and the day had gone by and it was late afternoon. His wallet was gone. His cell phone was gone. Everything was gone but the forty-five cents.

      He went diagonal across the Plaza. People sat on benches. A lot of people window-shopped, wandered all around. He crossed Lincoln Avenue, turned left down Don Gaspar. The sidewalk was narrow, almost nonexistent, but a block later was Water Street and things opened up.

      He stopped and drew a breath that put ice in his lungs. Then he went across the street and entered the Picador.

      There was swing music playing. They constantly played swing or hardcore punk. The place, like always, was dark and gloomy. A wall TV showed a basketball game, and a half a dozen people sat at the bar. A few watched the game while a few watched their drinks.

      The guy behind the counter was a man named Roy. He owned the Picador and was here last night. He was here most nights, usually alone. He looked at Perry, curled his lips inward. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them and crossed them again, then shook his head with an air of pity.

      Perry glanced at the game, crossed the floor, and took a seat at the counter. The counter was old wood but had a high polish from the rubbing of countless elbows. He laced his fingers and stared at Roy, who was staring at him.

      Who’s playing? Perry asked.

      The music or the game?

      The music.

      Count Basie.

      I like it.

      And it’s the Mavericks and the Bulls, Roy told him, in case you plan on asking about that next.

      Perry shook his head and looked at his hands. Roy was upset. That was clear enough. Roy was often upset but this was channeled dismay. The routes of annoyance were being diverged. The networks were all locked in a beeline straight for Perry, who looked at his hands but could

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