StoryHack

The Monster Maker

2024-09-16T10:35:04-06:00

**by Ray Bradbury** > "Get Gunther," the official orders read. It was to laugh! For Click and Irish were marooned on the pirate’s asteroid—their only weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera. Originally published in Planet Stories, Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. [The Monster Maker - epub](/files/theMonsterMaker.epub) An audiobook version of this story appeared on the [StoryHack Podcast - Episode 59](https://podcast.storyhack.com/episodes/episode59.html)

Lords of the Stratosphere

2024-08-30T07:32:09-06:00

**High into Air Are the Great New York Buildings Lifted by a Ray Whose Source No Telescope Can Find.** By Arthur J. Burks. > Originally published in March 1933 issue of Astounding. Extensive research discovered no copyright renewal for this novelette. Cover by me. [epub download](/files/lords_of_the_stratosphere.epub) This novella appeared as an episode of the podcast [Lords of the Stratosphere](https://podcast.storyhack.com/episodes/episode58.html)

Be sure to check out one of our short story anthologies! They are full of exciting fiction from modern authors. [Anthologies](/pages/other-publications.html)

Onslaught of the Druid Girls

2024-08-23T14:38:18-06:00

New to the free bookshelf, here is "Onslaught of the Druid Girls" by Ray Cummings. Lee Blaine went to find Earth's second moon, and found also a lovely girl in dire need. When Lee Blaine reached Earth's second moon, he found a tangle of mystery. Who were the Nonites? What danger menaced Aurita and her Druid girls? > Originally published in June 1941 issue of Fantastic Adventures. Extensive research discovered no indication of copyright renewal. [epub download](/files/ootdg.epub)

If you enjoy these free ebooks, you can support StoryHack by telling a friend, or by purchasing an issue of the magazine. [StoryHack Magazine](/)

Smoke by Ward Hawkins

2024-08-16T11:15:27-06:00

**Steve Burch, Forest Ranger, Fights Fire with Fire in a Grim Struggle Against a Trio of Killers!** by Ward Hawkins. > This story was originally published in Thrilling Adventures, August 1939. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Cover by me. [epub](/files/smoke.epub) This story appeared as [episode 56 of the StoryHack Podcast](https://podcast.storyhack.com/episodes/episode56.html)

Like great short stories? Check out some of our [anthologies!](/pages/other-publications.html)

Site Updates

2024-08-07T15:49:27-06:00

* I reformatted the [Free Bookshelf](/pages/free-bookshelf.html) page to include covers. * I added a new cover for [The Slayer of Souls](/posts/the-slayer-of-souls---free-ebook.html) I figured the book is basically a magical girl (female psychic assassin) anime anyway, why not lean in to that aesthetic a little bit. * I added an ebook for [The Prince of Mars Returns](/pages/the-prince-of-mars-returns.html). This book appeared as a series of episodes recently on the [StoryHack podcast](https://podcast.storyhack.com). As always, I have a million projects going, and more will be announced when they're ready.

Sidearm & Sorcery Volume Three now available!

2024-07-01T13:55:18-06:00

Evil hides is the shadows of modern life. Mythic monsters lurk among the refuse of city streets. Wizards that peep and mutter seek unholy power in the present-day. Unfortunately, there aren't enough kindly sorcerers, children of prophecy, or battlesuit-powered billionaires to go around. So when average people are swallowed up in supernatural trouble, sometimes they have to stand against the darkness by themselves. These are their stories. Included in this volume are twelve new stories of regular people facing the worst the paranormal world as to offer. These heroes may not have powers, but they refuse to be powerless. This is Sidearm & Sorcery Volume Three. Buy Now Here is what you'll find inside: **What's It Like in There?** by JD Cowan A boy wakes up and wonders where the last decade has gone. He's in an unfamiliar apartment and the world outside has apparently embraced insanity. He is rescued only to find that there soon won't be anywhere safe to hide--the world is ending. All that remains is madness, magic, and bullets. **Hell is in These Hills** by Jason McCuiston Hired to investigate a human-trafficking ring, Connor Mackay follows the trail to an ancient and powerful evil hidden deep in the hills of East Tennessee. **Mixed Mystic Arts** by Niko Haapala In the brutal world of MMA, some fighter will do anything to gain an upper hand. What can a young contender do when his opponent summons an ancient and malevolent power to the ring? **Vagrant Vigilante** by Josh VanZile Homeless by choice, Rory has all the time in the world for his favorite hobby, hunting monsters in the depths of the city. A chance encounter gives Rory the opportunity at his second favorite thing, a rare bottle of whiskey. He just has to do some rescuing before he can get it. **Acts of Contrition** by Daniel Minucci Sometimes it takes a killer to confront monsters. Giorgio Leone is an ex-gangster with a lot of blood on his hands. But these days, that blood isn't exactly human. **Shrinkage** by Misha Burnett A young man is called to service a security system at a big box store in the middle of the night. What can he do when he learns the problem is not technical, but an invasion of wild fae? **Abandonment and Possession** by Dale W. Glaser Kellan Oakes has faced many challenges as a private investigator, but never before a direct threat from a rival P.I. When the rival proves to be something other than human, Kellan must uncover its true nature before the competition puts Kellan out of business permanently. **The Devouring Mother of Appalachia** by Carl Brown A brief stroll on the Appalachian Trail leaves Ram Schaeffer tangled up with a lamia! Are his wits, grit, and flashlight enough to save him from... The Devouring Mother of Appalachia? **Red Wine, Books, and Ammunition** by Julie Frost Kurt, a retired Army Ranger and current antique book dealer, is sick to death of paying protection money to the local werewolf pack. When they give the lady who owns the diner next door a black eye, his gloves come all the way off. **Supernatural Survival Merit Badge** by Jason Akinaka A ragtag Boy Scout troop is left without supervision at a remote campsite to complete their Wilderness Survival Merit Badge. When they encounter a sinister character on the beach, their survival simulation turns into chilling reality. **Yahoo Cafe** by Jay Barnson The two yokels wanted to scare off the city boys, and maybe take their cash, too. But, once in the woods, the faked call was too real, and now a local legendary beast is hunting them all down. **Werewolf of the Redmoss Apartments** by Bryce Beattie The unsummonist is asked to help a lonely teenage girl who is being stalked by an young occult practitioner. Things go from bad to worse when the fledgling sorcerer sacrifices his way into obtaining shape-shifting demonic power. Buy Now

Sidearm & Sorcery Volume Three coming soon

2024-06-11T10:07:01-06:00

Sidearm and Sorcery Volume Three is almost here. Get excited for: **What's It Like in There?** by JD Cowan A boy wakes up and wonders where the last decade has gone. He's in an unfamiliar apartment and the world outside has apparently embraced insanity. He is rescued only to find that there soon won't be anywhere safe to hide--the world is ending. All that remains is madness, magic, and bullets. **Hell is in These Hills** by Jason McCuiston Hired to investigate a human-trafficking ring, Connor Mackay follows the trail to an ancient and powerful evil hidden deep in the hills of East Tennessee. **Mixed Mystic Arts** by Niko Haapala In the brutal world of MMA, some fighter will do anything to gain an upper hand. What can a young contender do when his opponent summons an ancient and malevolent power to the ring? **Vagrant Vigilante** by Josh VanZile Homeless by choice, Rory has all the time in the world for his favorite hobby, hunting monsters in the depths of the city. A chance encounter gives Rory the opportunity at his second favorite thing, a rare bottle of whiskey. He just has to do some rescuing before he can get it. **Acts of Contrition** by Daniel Minucci Sometimes it takes a killer to confront monsters. Giorgio Leone is an ex-gangster with a lot of blood on his hands. But these days, that blood isn't exactly human. **Shrinkage** by Misha Burnett A young man is called to service a security system at a big box store in the middle of the night. What can he do when he learns the problem is not technical, but an invasion of wild fae? **Abandonment and Possession** by Dale W. Glaser Kellan Oakes has faced many challenges as a private investigator, but never before a direct threat from a rival P.I. When the rival proves to be something other than human, Kellan must uncover its true nature before the competition puts Kellan out of business permanently. **The Devouring Mother of Appalachia** by Carl Brown A brief stroll on the Appalachian Trail leaves Ram Schaeffer tangled up with a lamia! Are his wits, grit, and flashlight enough to save him from... The Devouring Mother of Appalachia? **Red Wine, Books, and Ammunition** by Julie Frost Kurt, a retired Army Ranger and current antique book dealer, is sick to death of paying protection money to the local werewolf pack. When they give the lady who owns the diner next door a black eye, his gloves come all the way off. **Supernatural Survival Merit Badge** by Jason Akinaka A ragtag Boy Scout troop is left without supervision at a remote campsite to complete their Wilderness Survival Merit Badge. When they encounter a sinister character on the beach, their survival simulation turns into chilling reality. **Yahoo Cafe** by Jay Barnson The two yokels wanted to scare off the city boys, and maybe take their cash, too. But, once in the woods, the faked call was too real, and now a local legendary beast is hunting them all down. **Werewolf of the Redmoss Apartments** by Bryce Beattie The unsummonist is asked to help a lonely teenage girl who is being stalked by an young occult practitioner. Things go from bad to worse when the fledgling sorcerer sacrifices his way into obtaining shape-shifting demonic power.

Sidearm & Sorcery Volume 3 submissions extended.

2023-12-14T10:37:03-07:00

I've had several queries as to exactly when submissions close for volume 3. I've decided to include the weekend, so subs will be open until I wake up and check my email on the morning of December 18. More about this anthology

Submissions Open for Sidearm & Sorcery Volume 3

2023-11-30T19:54:26-07:00

Submissions are open as of 12:01 AM December 1st, 2023. They'll be open for 2 weeks. Make sure you put your contact info in the header of your submission. I'm not super picky about formatting there, but don't stray too far from one of the standard manuscript formats. For example, I don't need the word count to be right justified while the rest of the header is left justified. Use a common file format. odt, doc, rtf are all acceptable. Attach your submission to an email, put a one sentence author bio and a 1-3 sentence teaser for your story in the body of your email, give your email the subject of "Sidearm & Sorcery Submission" and send it to submissions "at" this website. If you need more info about what the anthology is all about, see the previous post.

Announcing Sidearm & Sorcery, Vol 3

2023-10-27T13:05:58-06:00

As I mentioned on the various social media sites where I hang out, I will be publishing a third volume of Sidearm & Sorcery. For those of you who already know what this is all about: Submissions will open on December 1, 2023, for two weeks. For those who don't know, here are some more details. ## What is this anthology? This anthology series is fantasy set in modern times (modern is more or less 1940 AD+) where the protagonists _do not_ have magical or other special powers. I have already published two volumes in this series, which you can check out on most major retailers. [Sidearm & Sorcery Volume One](https://books2read.com/sidearm), [Sidearm & Sorcery Volume Two](https://books2read.com/sidearm2) ## So what does "Sidearm & Sorcery" even mean? It is a play on the genre label "Sword & Sorcery". So that type of story, only in modern times. As Sword & Sorcery is to High Fantasy, this is to Urban Fantasy. Heroes of these stories are in direct contrast to the super-powered-vampire-wizard-werewolf-chosen-ones that are so common in fantasy with modern settings. In these stories, magic is mysterious and dangerous and powerful. Its not a recipe book where every magical element is quantified and easily understood. Antagonist sorcerers and supernatural monsters abound. Think Conan, but he’s born in Detroit instead of Cimmeria. Think Dresden files, but instead of being a powerful wizard-for-hire, Harry is just a accountant with a Beretta, desperate to save his daughter from a demon. Think baseball bats instead of halberds. ## Story length? This will be an anthology of short stories, preferably under 10,000 words. I'm not going to be a stickler about this, though. And I probably won't include anything under 5k, even though that is a totally legitimate short story length. ## How will it work? This will be published via Draft2Digital (D2D). Draft2digital distributes to all major ebook platforms, and has its own paperback POD distribution as well. To be specific, D2D currently distributes to Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Kobo (including Kobo Plus), Tolino, OverDrive, Bibliotheca, Scribd, Baker & Taylor, Hoopla, & Vivlio. Authors will contribute one story. For my part, I will have a story, assemble/layout the stories into one volume, and pay for cover art. I will also handle editing duties. I’d like to keep each volume to a max of 15 stories, so that contributors have a chance to actually make a buck. ## Pay? After D2D and the retailers take their share, everyone involved will split the rest. Every author will get one share. I will get 4 shares for my work and financial investment. Percentage of royalty split will be determined by total number of shares. I'll also send a physical copy to each author. Paperback copies will be made available to authors at cost. D2D will only allow the “publisher” (me) to order paperback copies direct, but I will happily order them and have them shipped to you for whatever D2D charges me. D2D actually handles all the accounting. You don't have to worry about me spacing out and forgetting to pay you six months after publishing. This is not intended to be a limited time deal, this anthology is intended to be available for sale forever. ## How to Submit a story Wait until submissions actually open, and then follow the directions. December 1st.

Magazine Update

2023-09-06T15:40:23-06:00

Hi, I'm Bryce, editor and publisher of StoryHack Action and Adventure. As you may have noticed, we (and by "we" I mean "I") have not published a new issue in a long time. A status report on the magazine is long overdue. As you may have noticed, we (and by "we" I mean "I") have not published a new issue in a long time. More likely, even if you are a fan, you haven't actually noticed anything and StoryHack the magazine has just quietly begun to slip from your memory. What has happened? Well, I'll tell you. First off, hopefully you did notice the couple of anthologies I published, Volumes 1 & 2 of Sidearm & Sorcery. So why can I do that, but not the magazine? Cost. It doesn't cost as much to publish an anthology the way I did it. The first Volume was an experiment for me, testing out Draft2Digital's revenue-splitting feature. My financial outlay was for Cover art, and then the physical author copies I sent out. I almost doubled the amount of copies sent out for the second volume (More stories=more authors), but it's still much cheaper than an issue of the magazine. For the magazine, I don't pay much ($0.01 / word), but it's something, and then I pay for art. Usually all of that is in the neighborhood of $1,200 - $1,400. Plus cover, and I've paid between $100 to $400 or so for each of those. Plus author copies. 8 total issues so far. And anthology or issue, there is a big time cost, too. I'm a one man operation that handles the deluge of submissions, followed by a couple of rounds of editing, then layout (much, much easier/quicker for the anthologies) by myself. And then I make some efforts for promotion. To hep get the word out, I usually write several long threads/articles that would be of interest to readers. And some paid advertising. And the occasional ad swap. And of course I try to find a minute to write & publish most of my own long fiction. 3 novels and a novelette. And for all of that work, the biggest success so far is... none of the fiction. Overwhelmingly the most popular thing I've published is "Pulp Era Writing Tips" which is a collection of writing articles written a long time ago. I get to put #1 Amazon Bestseller on my resume for that one. So of course the KDP crew stood firmly in my way to stop me publishing the ebook of the sequel to that. Back to the matter at hand. Fiction sales haven't been super strong. And I don't really expect them to be until I have an even bigger backlist. That's the reality of publishing these days. The best way to make money is to create high quality publications, and then create a ton of them. And then get out and promote like crazy. I'm busy working and raising four kids and getting distracted by shiny new technologies, so I don't get online to say "buy my book" nearly enough. Still, costs and all, I love short fiction, so I want to keep at it. Back to where I started, the costs of publishing. When covid hit, it drastically affected my day job, as the biggest portion of that business is in a normally high demand vacation area (near Yellowstone National Park), and that pretty much died for a little while. This affected my expendable cash. Then we had a pretty good year followed by another crappy one. Flooding in the north end of the park caused folks to change plans and we were still down 40% from the non-covid average. This year has finally been decent, but we had a pretty big hole to dig ourselves out of. And family expenses, don't get me started. I had 3 car engines die in as many years. For all of this, I have a lot to be thankful for. I still have a job, have always had food on the table, but not extra to spend on a magazine that will hopefully someday in the future turn a profit. This is not actually a complaint. Nor is this a beg for a pity purchase or anything like that. I just want to be upfront about what's gone on and why I haven't been able to fund more issues. Throughout this whole venture, I have learned a lot about publishing as a business, and about the mechanics of writing fiction. Met some fine folks. I'm not ready to throw the towel in yet. So where does StoryHack go from here? I'm not sure exactly, but I've been doing a lot of thinking, asking myself some questions. Do I focus on the podcast, maybe start publishing new fiction there? Maybe do some pulp reprints, just to stay in editing/design shape and raise some cash? Do I ease art costs by using algorithmic art generation? Do I try to rustle up some "unpaid intern" types to do editing? What would you like to see? One thing is for certain. I will be publishing a third Sidearm & Sorcery volume. So if you are a writer with an interest, start working on that. No hard dates yet, but I like to drop those open submission periods as a surprise.

The Slayer of Souls - Free eBook

2023-07-17T11:06:47-06:00

Here is another free ebook. *The Slayer of Souls* by Robert W. Chambers. Link below.

A girl is raised to adulthood somewhere in hidden Mongolia to be a psychic assassin. She escapes to America, where she is sure to be hunted by evil forces bent on spreading the horrors of communism. She meets a handsome government agent. He wants to protect her with his mad manly skills. But, when it come to fending off psychic ninjas, she's the one equipped for battle. I can see why modern reviews say nasty things about it-it features too many references to strong moral values. Just for fun, I whipped up a cover and fed it through my formatting process. The Slayer of Souls - epub --- If you enjoy the things you find on this website, consider buying a copy of an issue or two of the magazine.

My Man Jeeves

2023-04-25T12:24:53-06:00

The works of P.G. Wodehouse made it into recent news. Apparently some publisher is going back and editing some "offensive" stuff to make it "appropriate for modern audiences." I've been working on a little tool to help me quickly format releases in a way that don't force me to rely on any online publishing tool. So as a test I thought it would be fun to release a free un-edited version of *My Man Jeeves*, the first in the Jeeves and Wooster series by P.G. Wodehouse. It should be better formatted than the one on Gutenberg. I often make new epubs for myself of public domain works from there, because I hate their automatic formatting and long legalese that they stick in every book. I hadn't read any of these, and was barely aware of the Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry BBC version until the censorship story hit social media. I just started reading it, and it's pretty funny. Ok, no more blather, here's the epub: [My Man Jeeves (epub)](/files/My_Man_Jeeves.epub) Here's the cover I whipped up:

--- Be sure to check out [Misha Burnett's *Dark Fantasies*](https://books2read.com/darkfantasies), it's really good.

The Responsibility of Fiction

2023-04-21T16:02:22-06:00

I've been thinking about a passage from Fundamentals of Fiction Writing by Arthur Sullivant Hoffman. He was the editor of Adventure, back when Adventure was awesome. It isn't revolutionary, but it has helped me coalesce some thoughts on my responsibility as an author & editor. Not that I have much reach, but I want what I do publish to be of value. > Fiction is more than a reflection of the times; it is a builder of its contemporaneous thought and morality. If I were asked to name the five greatest influences upon the character of a people I should most emphatically include fiction and it would be nearer first than last among the five. Watch its effect upon your child. If you are of analytical turn, seek far back in memory for the origin of your own ethical standards and ideals, or for the influences that strengthened or weakened them. Watch the mass of people respond to the standards held up by fiction—and by the drama, motion-pictures and other forms of art. Do not swallow the excuse that they “only give what the people demand”; those of you on the “inside” will know better. > I know the defenses offered for the picaresque story. I am familiar with the plea of “art for art’s sake.” It seems to me mere idle talk. Art is for life, not life for art, and if art, however justified by its own laws, pollutes the soul of a people, then the cause of that pollution should be wiped out. > Realism and the spread of knowledge can justify a picture of life as it is, though too often the author’s real interest is not in the reality of what he presents but in its ugliness. An author is justified in using fiction as an instrument against what he sincerely believes mistaken morality, though his own morality is impeached if he ventures his dissent without most anxious consideration of the seriousness of what he is doing. But there is no excuse whatever for presenting ugliness as beauty, crime dressed in honor, vice as admirable, crookedness as amusing, rottenness as normal, evil as good. He who makes a criminal a hero is playing with hell-fire, if I may use so old-fashioned a metaphor. He who writes a story of crime triumphant is a debaucher of public morals. He who presents, however bedecked and disguised, a parasite, a fop, a hypocrite, a brute, a crook, as admirable as a dry-rot in the heart of the people. He who fills his stories with sex, not for the purposes of honest realism but for the sake of sex-exciting more nickels from human beings, is far lower and less courageous than the pimp. > I can not ask you to accept my point of view in these matters, yet, because of the broadcast, invidious evil involved and because the morality of fiction seems a thing seldom touched upon by text-books, I do ask that you weigh your responsibilities. I hope that I have largely been successful in promoting good morals in my publications.

The Ghost by Max Brand

2023-04-20T16:56:22-06:00

> Note: Along with the [eulogy I posted yesterday about Max Brand](https://storyhack.com/posts/a-farewell-to-max-brand.html), I wanted to do something with one of his public domain stories. I didn't read this story before clipping it from the scan, and had assumed it was a ghost story. If it had been, I would have recorded it for the podcast. It is not. It is a romantic drama. By the time I figured that out while reading and correcting the OCRed text, I figured I'd go ahead and finish. It was originally published in the July 24th, 1920 issue of _The Argosy._ Thus, it is now in the public domain. [Download as an epub](/files/The_Ghost-Max-Brand.epub) ## The Ghost **by Max Brand** Her name was Valerie Eloise St. Vincent and she married John Smith. The names tell the story, but it may be expanded. Valerie St. Vincent was a masterpiece; like a Greek tragedy or a Chopin prelude she gave that classic feeling of completeness—which means that every detail of her was finished. Every one has seen beautiful French women with large ankles, and beautiful English women who become flabby at thirty, and beautiful American women with bony hands, but Valerie St. Vincent was perfect. Her manicurist, for instance, said that her finger-nails had a natural lustre; and when she wore evening dress there was that curve which in our dreams we see running from finger-tips to shoulders and throat and chin; and there were her arms, impossible of description, for they were that peculiar rounded sort which are lithe without being sharp at the elbows. You felt the curves of her body through her clothes. Her hair was that accurate blue-black which has lustre without metallic gloss, and there were masses and masses of it, incredibly silky and fine. Her eyebrows were the rare, slim, unfaltering lines which could truly be called penciled; and the eyes beneath them were a deep blue continually varying as the sky varies between evening and night. Such was Valerie St. Vincent. When she came out of course Mrs. Gregory Sloan looked her over, carefully, for the whole evening. Mrs. Gregory Sloan never made mistakes, and therefore Valerie’s mother was on pins and needles until she heard the judgment "My dear," said Mrs. Gregory Sloan, “Valerie will be a tremendous success. She belongs to the first class.” "And that?" asked Valerie’s mother. "Of course you know there are three classes," smiled Mrs. Gregory Sloan. "There are women who are woed, women who have been woed, and women who might have been woed. Valerie is like you, my dear!" At which Mrs. St. Vincent flushed in her own delightful way and disappeared into a crowd—of men. The rush to get Valerie, which began that night, lasted three seasons and was of historic density throughout. The first season she threw away a title; the second season she laughed at a hundred millions; the third season— Well, in the third season two men stood out above the crowd, and they were Lloyd Gandil Maury and George Swain Van Siebert 2nd. They both had enough money, family, and all that sort of thing, though there had been others far better equipped in all respects than these two; but by this time it was apparent that Valerie was out for a man, not for the trimmings which may surround a man. As the vulgar phrased it, Valerie was not hunting for a letterhead. So in the third season these two splendid fellows were running neck and neck, and even Valerie could not help but show her partiality toward them. Toward the spring she went up into the mountains, and every one said: "When she comes down she’ll have made up her mind." They were perfectly right. When she came down from the mountains she had made up her mind; she was married; and she was married to John Smith. People naturally gasped at first, but society is much more tolerant than we are told in the Sunday papers, and now society said nothing, but sat down to await developments. By a little rummaging about in the past it learned that John Smith was worth a few millions in Western copper stocks and it also learned that he had been a football player in college. That was promising. Here was the young Lochinvar come out of the West with big hands and a square jaw and eyes of fire—a self-made millionaire, a hero of many a battle on the gridiron, a man who did things and who would sweep Valerie along to Rockfellerian heights. So society stepped out and met John Smith half-way. It smiled upon him cordially, it took him by the arm, it drew him aside, it opened the fifty-year-old Burgundy and drank to his eyes and waited for him to speak. But John Smith did not speak. He smiled in a rather vague way. Some men are "strongly silent"; but John Smith was merely "expectantly hushed." Society shook its head, but still it refused to be disillusionized. Was it not looking upon the man who had married Valerie Eloise St. Vincent? It examined John Smith more in detail. His hands, to be sure, were large, and so were his shoulders, but several layers of fat had gathered over his muscles since his college days, and while his chin was square enough it showed terrible tendencies toward doubling itself. Neither were his jests stale, when he told them, nor was his voice overwhelming; nor was he painfully self-conscious; nor did he wreck his dancing-partners; nor did he light cigars with bills of large denominations; in a word, he did none of the crude things which shock society into delighted attention. And the world gradually realized the depressing truth that John Smith was exactly like his name. He was just a good-natured, kind-hearted, rather stupid, commonplace. His football days had been spent in a little Middle Western college; and, worst of all, his money had been inherited. Mrs. Sloan, of course, gave judgment at last. She said: "He is never in the way, and on account of Valerie he will never be out of the way." Society swallowed hard and agreed with Mrs. Sloan, as usual. But it was impossible to bury Valerie Eloise St. Vincent in the chasm of “Mrs. Smith." Nature rebelled at the boundary. She had not wrought this perfect flower in order to waste it on the desert air of social oblivion. Flowers do not bloom unseen in the twentieth century. Not while roses are nine dollars a dozen. In truth, marriage did not change her in the least. She was just as accessible as ever; she was just as uncompromised by attentions; she was just as far from being monopolized; neither did she wilt. Valerie Eloise—Smith—wilt? By no means! She blossomed still more delicately. What a complexion was hers! It was not like the lily. No, but have you ever looked inside the lily at noon of a bright day and seen how the deep-yellow of the stamen is reflected and gives the rarest glow of gold to the inside of the cup? Ah, that was the complexion of Valerie which defied time! So George Swain Van Siebert told her this day at Wandermere—that was John Smith’s place up the river. They were alone on the little porch off the breakfast room, and they were about to follow the beagles over the hills. The costume hit off Valerie in rare style—the rough colorful Tweed of the short skirt, the loose blouse with the tie making a splash of color, and the tam-o’-shanter making more color above. "You’re like the soul of the morning, Valerie,” he concluded, "absolutely—like —the freshness—of the morning.” It wasn’t hunting for words that made him stumble in this manner; it was the struggle to keep himself from saying too much, and the effort made his lips tremble and his eyes bright. And she watched him with concern, her fingers fumbling in the pockets of her dress as though she were about to draw something out. "There—the beagles are out,” she said. “We mustn’t keep them waiting." He stopped her with a gesture. "I’ve got to see you and have a chance to talk," he said earnestly. She said rapidly in alarm: "Pull yourself together, George; you’re letting yourself go." "Valerie, you cool-headed, enticing, delightful—" "If you are heard—" she suggested. "Then promise me a chance to talk soon." "I’ll manage it while we’re following the beagles." He drew a long breath and then followed her out to the front of the house. There were the beagles, little, active dogs with sad eyes and sweeping ears. John Smith, his cheeks flushed by the crisp morning, held half a dozen of them in leash, and they strained futilely against his big, fleshy hands and raised the chiming chorus of the hunt. There were a dozen other guests come out for the week-end to follow the beagles and see Valerie. They stood about yawning—for the hour was early—until Valerie appeared, and then they started into life, with a smile here, a jest there, then laughter, and there was never a merrier hunt than that which scurried across the hills at Wandermere. George Swain Van Siebert watched Valerie with a careful eye, but she showed no intention of lagging behind. In fact, she was up there at the very heels of the hounds, with the crowd clustering closely around her. So, she was putting him off again. He waited until the hunt entered a wood and there he sat down on a stump under pretence of tying a loose shoe-lace. Almost instantly the crowd was out of sight among the trees, but when he started up to go back to the house he found himself standing face to face with Valerie. Van Siebert blinked, as if the eye of an electric flashlight had suddenly glared at him. “You’re awfully impatient and just a little sullen, aren’t you?” said Valerie. He took off his cap and stood twisting it between his hands; so that the slant morning sun set fire to his hair, for it was a sort of bronze-red and curled thick and short and close to his head. Usually when Van Siebert tried to be grave he was only boyishly wistful, but now he was different— Valerie recognized the change at once. Yet he began, lightly enough: "How in the world did you manage to get from that crowd and come back here—all in a moment?" "I saw you were angry—and I just managed it Sit down again and I’ll take this hump of turf." "I’d rather stand for what I have to say." It was characteristic of Valerie that she made no attempt to evade the issue. She merely nodded, as much as to say: "I know!" "But, after all," said Van Siebert, "there’s no use in a lot of words. Only, I have to know what the end is going to be—and I have to know it now!” She had picked up a little switch during the hunt and now she held it between her extended hands and turning it slowly. "I’d tell you this minute, if I could." "Is it fair to dodge?" "You know that I never dodge. I’m merely trying to make up my mind." "Valerie, it’s desperately hard to be about you like this, month after month. I’ve held myself in check till my muscles ache and my head swims, and it makes me sick at heart to think of all the times I’ve talked to you with one eye watching for an intruder and one ear cocked to hear an approaching step. It can’t go on!" "It can’t go on," she agreed. "You’re growing worse every day—your eyes follow me about in such a way. Only yesterday Mrs. Redding said: ‘I don’t know which is the more patient, George or your husband.’ Yes, if we don’t come to a decision we’ll come to a scandal. Every one is beginning to watch; they’re hungry to make misconstructions. John is the only one who sees nothing. Can’t you give me a little more time?” "Time?" cried Van Siebert. "My God, Valerie! Can’t you say yes or no? Take me or send me away!" "I don’t want to send you away, but the other thing—give me a little more time. I’ve never been the sort to jump to conclusions. You know that." "But this will run on forever, and every day is a distinct and separate hell for me. I can’t stand it!" "It’s as hard for me as it is for you. Whenever you’re near me I’m in a panic and it seems to me that some one is bound to see. When you shake hands it’s ages before you let my fingers go, and even then your eyes follow me and take hold of me and possess me. George, you throw your attentions around me." He stepped closer to her and looked down into her face, for he was a big fellow of the build which has weight without heavy-footedness, and now he stood poised and eager as a young crusader ready for battle. "I don’t know what keeps me from it, Valerie," he said in a low voice. "Your fine gentleness," she answered. "Do you think it’s that? Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and sat before the window. The sky was very dark, but after a time I could make out the dark, pointed tops of the trees wavering against it and I could hear the wind going through the branches like a far-off sea. That sounds—mushy—like poetry, eh? But I didn’t feel that way. I wanted to have you somewhere out in that forest where I could break the damned chain of convention that keeps you here at Wandermere, unhappy.” "But I’m not unhappy. I suppose I should be, but somehow it’s impossible for me to be unhappy long. Just when I’m about to become properly blue and think about life and death and such things, I’m sure to hear some one laugh, or see how yellow the sunshine is-and then away I go and forget everything." "Valerie—oh, confound it!" "Me, you mean." But her smile seemed to spur him. He gave a little sharp cry and caught her close to him. He pressed her head against his shoulder and kissed her. "Valerie, dear, my dearest, do you care? Are you afraid?" "No." "Because you love me!" "No, because I don’t!" He freed her with a groan and struck the back of his hand across his eyes, as if he tried to clear his vision. "Do you want me to lie to you, George?" "No—yes—I don’t care whether it’s true or not. I only want you to say you care for me." "You know that I like you tremendously. I’d rather be with you than with any one." "Damn the liking! It isn’t that I want. Valerie, you stone-hearted, beautiful image of a woman, haven’t you ever been touched by that feeling of emptiness that grows stronger when you’re with the person you love; and a pain that grows in you till your eyes are misty?" "It’s somewhere between homesickness and seasickness, isn’t it?" He stiffened a little. "Don’t you see?" she said quickly. "It’s because I do know what it is that I tell you I won’t go with you." "Who was the man? John Smith?" "Don’t be ironical. He was the man. You see, if this love that you talk about so much is to live, it has to be an exchange. It can’t come entirely from one side. I know. Just before we were married and just after, it was the real thing. I loved him; he loved me; and that changed the world. To see him was happiness—that sharp kind with the hurt in it. I was so happy that the tears used to come into my eyes." She paused, and then glanced slowly toward Van Siebert with a rather twisted smile. "It didn’t last long. It went out in me, suddenly, one day, as a wind will snuff a candle; and ever since I’ve been like some one in the dark. But John still cares for me; he lives with the great illusion. No, I don’t pretend with him, any more, but he takes me for granted and he’s happy as I used to be. Do you think I could rob him of that? I’d rather commit murder! When the thing dies in him—then I’ll go and we'll try the big adventure together. It won’t be the old star-storming joy, but at least I could never be weary of life with you.” Van Siebert was afire. "You’re waiting for it to die in him? Good heavens, Valerie, don’t you know that it’s- been dead in him these many long months?" "That isn’t the white sort of fib, George." “Come, come, Valerie, you know I wouldn’t misrepresent. I’ll tell you exactly what I know. Gad! to think that you’ve been blind to it! Well it was a good month ago that I walked in on John in the library. I had on a pair of English walking-shoes— the rubber-soled kind, you know—and I suppose I didn’t make much sound. He was half turned away from me, with his head resting on one hand and the fingers digging into his hair, and I heard him sigh. When I stepped closer I saw that he held a picture on his knee, and it was a girl’s face—" There was a joyous cry from Valerie. "It’s true! It’s true! It’s true!" she said. "Those absent-minded moods of his lately! Wasn’t I blind not to guess! Dear old John, I know he’ll be happy with her. Still—it may not have meant anything." "But it did, most certainly," urged Van Siebert. "When he saw me he caught up the picture and slipped it back into his breast pocket. And then I saw the picture was in that old pigskin case which he carries about with him always—you know the one?” "Yes, yes! He’s never without it!" "Also he tried to cover his embarrassment by making conversation; and you know that’s rare in John." "Think of it! Here I’ve been torturing myself to keep from hurting John; and John has been in misery to keep from hurting me, and all the time—" She broke off into a merry laughter. "Then you’ll go?" cried Van Siebert, though his voice lowered to a stealthy murmur. "Go? Yes, now, this moment! Go? Will a prisoner go from a prison? Go? I’ve only to slip the leash, George, and I could love you with all my heart. I’ve known it, but I’ve fought to keep away from it I’ve only to take a single step— see!—and you can be all the world to me!" She was in his arms again as she spoke, dinging, and a tremor underlay her voice like the quiver of the harp-string long after it has been plucked—an undercurrent of music. Van Sibert shook like a leaf. "Valerie, oh, my dear," he murmured to her, "you’ve been like a lovely flower—a cut flower without life—but now there’s the blossom and the perfume together, and the fragrance runs through me. Tell me— again—you love me!" "With all my heart." "This moment is worth all the waiting. Shall we go? Now?" She had slipped away from him again. And her voice and her flush and her eyes— she was like a crystal-clear river that runs bright with the reflection of a gay sunset. "Not now. It must be perfect from the start. To-night, at twelve, if you have your car waiting—” It’s a rare child that will give up even a broken toy to another without a struggle, and that evening, to the astonishment of Van Siebert, Valerie had not a glance or a word for him. She concentrated entirely on her husband. He watched the results rather anxiously, but John Smith could not have answered better if he had been coached to the purpose. He was as conversationally impregnable as a walrus on a cake of ice. The climax came when Valerie, in the drawing-room, threw open the French windows and stood in the night wind. She called over her shoulder to her husband: "It’s a ripping night, John—perfectly dear and a big yellow moon coming up through the woods. Sha’n’t we jump into our togs and take a canter?" John Smith stirred the logs in the fireplace and cast a hesitant glance toward Valerie. "It’s a little chilly out, isn’t it?" he asked. "And rather snug right here by the fire, eh?" "I suppose you’d be happier here," she said, and closed the window again. "You don’t mind?" queried John Smith guiltily. "Not the least bit It was just a fancy." "Glad of that," sighed John Smith, and, sliding somewhat lower in his chair, he stretched his legs to the blaze. But Valerie turned for the first time that evening to Van Siebert and sent him such a bright and steadfast look that it brought his heart to his throat and he glanced about him afterward, to see if any one had noted it. But no one dared attach significance to Valerie’s glances and smiles; it might be a man’s necktie which pleased her-or the cut of his hair. One retired early at Wandermere, for the host set the pace, and by eleven the house was dark and noiseless. It was then that Valerie slipped out of the bed into which her maid had seen her retire and dressed hastily, humming while she worked. She turned on only the light at her derssing-table, for a greater illumination might attract attention. In that glass she studied herself with satisfaction; she had never looked so well, she thought There was that color in her cheek and that touch of a smile at the comers of her mouth which only one thing could put there. Finally she put on a snug tailored hat and an overcoat with a great collar of red fox. Van Siebert had admired that coat, on a day. She was smiling at the memory while she glanced about the room for a mute farewell. All was as it lay printed indelibly in her mind; nothing ever changed at Wandermere—nothing except Valerie. She switched out the light, and so doing her eyes traveled through the window and far out across the moonlit forest. Freedom! She began at once shudderingly eager to leave the place and hurried into the hall. There she heard—or rather felt—a faint vibration with something familiar in it. Then she remembered and chuckled softly. For John Smith was a famous sleeper and his snoring was proverbial. There was that story of Mrs. Philip Askworth and the earthquake at her country house—Valerie followed a sudden impulse, opened the door, and was in her husband’s room. She was not sorry to look her last upon him while he slept. The slant moonlight cut across the room and struck full upon his face, round, rosy from the chill air, with the mouth stupidly open. And his snoring filled the room. Valerie made a little moue at the sleeper— surely without malice in it—and laid her hand upon the door to retreat. It was then that she remembered the picture, and Valerie, being a woman, decided to see it for herself. It was not hard to do. The closet door opened without squeak or groan and she found the clothes he had worn that day. John Smith would never let his man take anything from the pockets of his clothes; neither would he change his suit more than twice a week, for such attention he called "society nonsense." So Valerie found the pigskin case in his breast pocket and carried it over to the window. When she opened it, she was looking at herself. It was a miniature Sarrony painted shortly after Valerie came out. In fact, a published copy of that picture had brought John Smith east to their meeting. Unquestionably it was a masterpiece, and even by that dim light Valerie caught the color and the flowerlike charm that was hers and the peculiar golden tint of her skin. And this was the woman John Smith loved in secret. "It’s Pandora’s Box with reverse English," whispered Valerie to herself. "First out fly a crowd of hopes and happiness and then a sting at the end." If she were to wake the sleeper now and ask him what it meant, he would not be able to tell her, but he would stammer and grow confused. Yet she knew. She put the pigskin case back in its place, listened for another moment to the snoring of the sleeper, and then went thoughtfully back to her own room. This time she lighted both the globes beside her dressing-table and she sat down to stare. Not at herself. But she was trying to find in herself and Behind her own face, the face of the girl who was still loved by John Smith. At first she could make no distinction, but by degrees that other, younger face grew out like a ghost, the face which Sarrony had painted with those long, dexterous fingers and those questing eyes which had eaten into her soul. What he saw he painted, and he had seen everything. It is possible for us to separate ourselves into a mind which sees and a mind which feels and Valerie became the mind which sees everything, as Sarrony had seen it She had to shut out the vision with a cold hand. But when she did this she began to see those mountains where John Smith had first met her, and the light which had come in his eyes when he looked at her. It had been only a reflection of herself that made that light. Now the light was no longer in the eyes of John Smith because fire had burned out in her. He was a lumpish figure in clay. But what was she? She went down to the side entrance of the house and there, as she opened the door, Van Siebert stepped out from behind a pillar and the moonlight was brilliant around his curly head. "Valerie!" he called softly. "Hush!" whispered Valerie. "Put your car back. I can’t go." “You don’t mean you’re going to stay in this dungeon?" "You’ve found you can’t care for me?" "Oh, my dear," she said, "I love you truly for the first time." "Are you mad? Will you stay here with—" "With a ghost," said Valerie. --- See the latest StoryHack publication, [Sidearm & Sorcery Volume Two](https://storyhack.com/posts/sidearm-sorcery-volume-two-now-available.html).

A Farewell to Max Brand

2023-04-19T11:14:44-06:00

**By Steve Fisher** **Bryce's note: A eulogy for one of the pulp era's most prolific authors, written by a long time coworker. Originally published in the August 1944 Issue of _Writer's Digest_.** > "... when the doughboys (on the Italian Front) plunged into the thick of battle, Faust went right along. He was killed ... either by German artillery or mortar fire. He was the fifth man to jump off in the attack and died in the forefront of the battle within 30 minutes after the offensive opened." > —Los Angeles Times. His real name was Frederick Faust. He wrote stories under it, too, some of his best stories, and his best were very great. In all he wrote over 200 books, and I don’t think anyone has ever counted all of the short stories and novelettes. It is estimated that in his lifetime he wrote 27 million words, as much, and more perhaps, than any man who has ever lived. In addition to his numerous shorter pieces in the magazines, he averaged one complete novel every three weeks. He created _"Dr. Kildare,"_ of magazine and movie fame; he wrote _"Destry Rides Again,"_ and his last screenplay for the studio where I work is the current Errol Flynn film _"Uncertain Glory."_ He lived in Italy for 12 years, and loved Italy; he traveled the world, and in his obituary the papers said, “He was one of the last true soldiers-of-fortune — a globe-trotting writer with worlds of information at his fingertips;” they said, too, that he was “a man of mystery,” and reflecting back, I guess he was. Millions of readers loved him, and he was one of the annointed—a “writer’s writer” as well. But only a rare few knew him intimately, and you never heard anything about what he was like in person, or how he lived—except for an anecdote once in awhile from Jack Byrne at the time when he was editing _Argosy._ Byrne would refer to him by his nickname “Heinie,” but his voice was one of admiration, and I think awe. Yet the actual, living Max Brand you never really saw. He was legend. I remember that now, very well: those years in New York, when I idolized his work. One of his Saturday Evening Post stories, “Johnny-Come-Lately,” I read so many times I almost knew it by heart. No one knew anything about the author. So I consider it a privilege that I learned to know him so well out here. He was a very dear friend—an immense man, with an immense capacity for work, and an immense heart and soul, and the most extravagantly generous person I have ever known. Yes, I knew him. It was in my office at Warner Brothers that his mission to Italy started. I was working on an army picture, and a Colonel Nee, from Washington (Nee is now overseas) was a sort of technical advisor to me for a few days. Heinie met him in my office. Then one afternoon— > "Remember, old boy, remember Heinie? —how you sat there, your long legs crossed, leaning back on the red divan, one eye squinted, looking thoughtfully at Colonel Nee, and then saying, finally: ‘You know what I'd like to do, Colonel? I’d like to go to the Front. I’d like to travel with a company of doughboys—not as an officer, you can’t get close enough to the men that way, but as a civilian. I’d like to eat with them, sleep with them, sit down nights and talk to them; I’d like to fight with them, go with them into action—and then write a book which would be the story of that one company.’ > "That was your idea, Heinie, your mood of the moment, as you sat there, your hair tousled, your suit looking like you’d slept in it. You had, I think; you’d just taken a nap. You were almost 52, and it was a reckless thought, more of a dream than an idea, really. But you lived on dreams and by them. You walked on the stars as no other man I have ever known. Warner was paying you $3,000 a week to put some of those dreams down on paper. You wanted to give up $3,000 a week to go to the Front? I'm afraid I smiled to myself. I never thought you’d actually do it, you fabulous so-and-so! God, but the magic you had, though! You even talked like a poem. You were a good man. A decent man. None of your characters were ever any different either! They were all as fabulous and as magic and as eloquent as you. Adventure and heart and music. That’s the way your prose read. It is difficult to imagine anyone in actual life who is like that. But you were.” On the day Heinie said this about wanting to go overseas, Frank Gruber was there, too. I’ve just talked to Frank on the phone. We agreed that there is so much to write and say about Max Brand it seems almost as though, incapable of doing the subject justice, one should write nothing at all. But I am compelled to. Heinie told us a great deal about himself. But only when we asked. First let me stop for this—the picture of him doing it is so clear; he used to write at the studio sitting in his shirt sleeves, his immense legs straddling a small coffee table, pounding on a portable typewriter. His office was a mess —there’d be paper all over everywhere. But no matter how absorbed he was in what he was writing, when you opened the door to peak in, he’d immediately stop, push back the coffee table, look up smiling and say: “How’s it go, Steve? Here, boy, sit down and tell me about it;” and if you tried to back out, saying you’d catch him when he wasn’t busy, he’d refuse to hear of it. He’d insist that you’d stay and discuss with him whatever it was you wanted to discuss—and it was always something you wanted, help you wanted, your problem— nothing that could benefit him in the least. He is the only writer I have ever known who would drop everything—deliberately and unselfishly interrupt his own train of thought for a friend. I am sure that if it were not for him I’d never have written my last novel. I was doing the story as a picture and had only “talked” of developing it as a book, too, the way writers talk sometimes, needling themselves. But Heinie pounced upon the idea. He saw in it powerful things that had never even remotely occurred to me. He said it was an opportunity to write with my guts, the way I should. He hounded and tormented me to start the book, then came in every day to see how many pages I’d done. It was published, and I sold it in addition as a serial, but I don’t think Heinie liked it. I could never have come up to the expectations he had for me. He did almost the same thing for Frank Gruber. Frank has a detective character named “Johnny Fletcher,” and one Sunday afternoon Heinie plotted an entire Johnny Fletcher novel for him—and Gruber wrote it. It was always you Heinie talked about. It was always you who was being helped. There was no exchange. It was one-sided, lopsided, whole-hearted generosity. He would accept no help on his own work. The most he ever said about his stories was once, about one thing: “Junk. Sheer junk. Gibberish.” Yet when he talked stories (and when he wrote them, too, never fear) he was a wild man, tender and passionate and fierce, and his ideas soared! He told us once that he wrote 14 pages every day of his life. Sometimes he wrote much more (one day at the studio he wrote 50 pages before lunch), but never less than 14 pages. His prose was poetry, but he wrote actual verse too, and it was published in magazines like _Harper’s, Vogue,_ and _Story._ One day at lunch he scribbled off a little scrap of a sonnet, which he had composed just that minute. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever read. I carried it for months in my wallet—the corner off the back of a menu—and I would like to include it here. But now, now that he is dead, I can’t find it. Heinie was a highly literate man. In a class with Aldous Huxley. He could talk intelligently on any subject—history, religion, war, life, death and love. I don’t think he knew what hatred was. I am not saying this to eulogize. I swear that it’s true. He loved, did Heinie. He had a peculiar habit, though. I’ve heard that professors sometimes do it. His power of concentration was intense—especially when he was walking. Often, his mind miles away, he would walk past you on the sidewalk looking stonily ahead, so absorbed that if you said hello he didn’t hear you. You’d have to call his name. But one writer, upon bidding Heinie “Good morning” and getting no response felt it was a personal slight. He was an extremely sensitive guy, and began to form a hatred for him. He told people he was a “snob.” Heinie heard about it and one day walked into the writer’s office. The writer was bent over his desk working, and when he didn’t look up that was the well-known signal we have that means “Lay-off, I’m hot on something... don’t want to lose the thought. Come back later,” the whole thing unspoken. Heinie never practiced it himself, though he knew very well what it meant. But now he paid no attention. He leaned over the desk, affectionately put his two big hands on either side of the writer’s face and lifted up his head. He said: “Listen, you son-of-a-bitch, I hear you hate me.” Under the writer’s protestations he hauled him out of there, off the lot, and across the street to a bar where he stood him two quick drinks. I saw them when they returned. They were arm in arm—pals. That’s Heinie. It’s him a thousand times. In earlier days he wrote for the pulps at four and five cents a word. (The rest of us were averaging a cent and a half a word top rates.) He was king of the pulps, the biggest and best and most famous writer of all. Most of his stories and serials appeared in _Argosy—_ where he often had four serials running at once under Max Brand, Evan Evans, George Owen Baxter, and George Challis. In all, he told me, he had used at one time or another 17 different nom-de-plumes. He never talked of any of his work and didn’t even vaguely remember _"Johnny Come Lately"_ the story I’d thought was so wonderful. Once, he entered my office as I was telling a group about one of his _Colliers’_ serials, _"Six Golden Angels,"_ and when he heard what the conversation was he turned and walked out, and refused to come back. He was inordinately shy. It was in the 1930s, under the supervision of his agent and close personal friend, Carl Brandt, that he landed in the slicks. One month I counted his name on the covers of seven different slick magazines. Two of the stories were book-length. It was in 1938 he came to Hollywood. Of this town he is said to have told Carl Brandt, “I like it because I can get all my work done in the morning and have the entire afternoon to write poetry.” If Heinie were here right now, he’d be making wry faces at me for trying to write this. “You’ve got a nerve,” he’d say affectionately. “What the hell do you know about me?” And it’s true. I don’t really know anything about him. He was the man of mystery. Moral, idealistic, a poet and a dreamer. Of tremendous energy, and tremendous emotion. When he spoke of his love for Dorothy, his wife, and this was frequently, he’d make tears come to your eyes. “I’m the meanest guy in the world— and she’s put up with me all these years.” I doubt, though, that he was mean. His love for his children was great, too—Judy Faust who is in boarding school, a big girl, like her father, and very pretty. I saw her once or twice when she picked him up after work. His son, John—who is in the army; and a married daughter who lives in Santa Barbara. I have used the word affectionate twice, and this makes the third time. Heinie was affectionate. He had a great love and a great spirit and a great, beautiful talent. It is trite to say but true, that he made millions of people laugh and millions cry, and all of them loved him. He was truly a great man. The literary critics may never know how great—that novel of Italy, and the front lines. He had in him power and depth and beauty he’d never even tapped. And now he’s been killed in action. Frederick Faust and Max Brand are dead. Heinie gave you his heart, and it was a very good and gay and bold and generous heart. No man, I am sure, has ever given more. —Steve Fisher.

Sidearm & Sorcery Volume Two, now available!

2023-03-22T16:02:57-06:00

[Purchase Links](https://books2read.com/sidearm2) Supernatural evils lay hidden, deep in the shadows of society. Be these dangers man or beast, they will strike at unsuspecting, everyday people. What if there are no selfless wizards around when a demon steps from the alley? What if there are no supers to be found when the ancient demigod awakens? What if there is no prophesy and no chosen one to stand in the way of the dark forces? In these cases, regular people must must find the courage to face the foe. The protagonists in these stories have no magic powers, but they refuse to be powerless. This collection of 17 short stories brings you new adventures and new dangers, all in modern settings. Here's what you'll find inside: ### Flaxen Wires by Bryce Beattie A runaway girl is magically coerced into commiting a heinous crime. Can a friend of the family track down and stop the cruel magus who's pulling her strings? ### First Kiss, First Kill by Beth Buck Stephen can't understand why his mom hates his new girlfriend so much. In the midst of this familial spat, Stephen discovers that there is more in heaven and earth than is dreamed of in his philosophy, and learns that his dad's frequent business trips might be more than they seem. ### They Delved Too Deep by Misha Burnett A construction crew accidentally opens a cavern that should not exist, and wastes no time getting lost in its dangerous depths. But does this impossible dungeon have a dragon? ### City Eater by JD Cowan An incomprehensible evil force is tearing the city apart. What can one man do to save his family? ### Swamp Serpents by Nathan Dabney People are disappearing from a small Louisiana town. A rogue branch of the Confederate government catches wind of the trouble and sends agents to investigate. But will they be enough to stop a backwoods cult of snake-women and their zombie army? ### In the Hall of the Crocodile King by Michael DeCarolis When the princess of an enchanted realm goes missing, a Bangkok detective finds herself in the middle of a human trafficking operation run by a creature out of legend. But how can she save the princess when she gets captured, too? ### Personal Mythologies by Dale Glaser A private investigator is hired track down a seductive con artist. What will he do when he learns the culprit is the literal succubus that he used to date? ### Scent of the Sand Wurm in the Evening by James Krake A down on his luck exterminator is convinced by a sultry temptress to try his hand at taking down a colossal pest. ### A Moonblessed Hunt by John Longtain When people go missing in a park, modern paladin Urs is sure a varvampire is behind the disappearances, and gets ready for another hunt. But will he succeed when he finds himself dealing with a priestess of the moon that can’t provide him with the necessary magic to take down the monster? ### Den of the Necrolord by TJ Marquis The new guy seemed awfully eager to haul this load through a supernaturally dangerous stretch of highway. The money is good, but not good enough to be excited about risking one's life. What other motivation could he possibly have to visit the lair of the man known as the Necrolord? ### Ain't No Grave by Jason McCuiston When the grave of a notorious occultist is robbed, Connor Mackay is asked to look into it. Working with a beautiful police detective, he must navigate a shadowy conspiracy in order to prevent a foul act of necromancy. ### The Red Horse of War by Z. M. Renick Zach Allen is a small-town cop doing his best to hold his jurisdiction together after it's been devastated by disasters both natural and unnatural. But the borders of reality are collapsing, and the local biker gang has formed an alliance with a creature from another world. Zach must make a desperate gamble in hopes of saving his hometown. ### Souldrinker by Frank Sawielijew In rural Bavaria, a curio shop owner comes into possession of a shimmering orb of mysterious power. She, along with everyone who stares into its depths, is compelled to visit an old baroque manor in a nearby town. She soon discovers this is all a sorcerous trap set by a cult leader masquerading as a mental health guru. Will she be able to stop his dark ritual, or is it already too late? ### A Shilling for Your Troubles by Mark J. Schultis An impoverished divorcé thinks he has finally found the answer to his plight only to discover that he's done business with an ageless evil who thirsts on terror. ### The Baron of Nevada & His Branded Broads by David Skinner Loot is loot, occult or not, and he needs the money. But stealing from the Baron means dealing with his Broads! ### Infestation by H.A. Titus The family business includes removal of obstinate supernatural entities. What's a country exorcist to do when his usual tricks don't work? ### The Galveston Incident by Luke West When an ancient cult resurfaces in the most unlikely place- a mall food court- can a pair of gym bros stop the slaughter? Or will a forgotten goddess’s hipster minions plunge the world into a thousand years of night, right in front of the sunglasses hut? [Available now!](https://books2read.com/sidearm2)

It's All Science Fiction to Me

2023-03-16T10:42:13-06:00

A duet, written by me, and set to the tune of "Still Rock and Roll to Me" by Billy Joel. Written a while ago, recently found in a notebook. ## It's All Science Fiction to Me A: What's the matter with the scifi I'm reading? B: Can't you tell the genre tag is too wide? A: Maybe I should call it scientifiction? B: Sure if you want to start a backwards slide. A: Weren't the pulps the birthplace of the story? B: You can't like a thing if it made a lot of money A: The blogs are fighting 'bout the best fic Funny, but it's all science fiction to me A: What's the matter with laser sword fighting? B: Can't you tell that it's a fantasy prop? A: Giant spaceships duel inside a vortex? B: Yeah, but when's the science element drop? A: Time travel to put the whales back in the oceans, Or maybe teach a robot to have some real emotions. Shifting phase, planet raids, maybe even death rays It's all science fiction to me. B: Oh, scifi matters only when it rips tradition Just throw away the things you like. It must tax the brain and hist'ry it must blame No futuristic sweet red bikes Fun can just go take a hike. A. How about a bunch of lab-built dinos Or doze earth for a new off-ramp? B: Well, if you don't focus only on post-modern issues You'll never be a scifi champ. Most important is to point out scifi is classist Or win a big award then call a dead guy fascist A: Martian shots, worker bots, fusion drives cold or hot, It's all science fiction to me. Pew pew! A: Ooh, what's the matter with space opera I'm seeing? B: It's not scifi, it's puerile fluff. A. But what if I love rocket ships and ray guns? B: If you do then you don't think enough. A. What if a story asks if what we see is really real? B: Only thing that matters is how much smarter that we feel. A: Skin suits, rocket boots, monkeys talking, earth core chutes It's all science fiction to me Maybe going insane 'cause I just want to entertain It's all science fiction to me

Digital Shop now available

2022-12-22T10:52:50-07:00

For those who want to support StoryHack and the many related projects a little more directly, I've set up a digital shop using Dropbox's shop tools. Some of the ebooks we publish will not be available there, purely for ease of accounting purposes, as proceeds are split with several authors. But, for the magazine itself, the writing instruction reprints, my fiction, and reprinted classic works (coming soon), it'll be the place to go. [StoryHack Digital Shop](https://www.dropbox.com/shop/s/storyhack)

Re: "The Cold Equations" by Tom Godwin

2022-10-20T17:01:34-06:00

re: "The Cold Equations" by Tom Godwin and the discussion following on the SFFAudio podcast. [Episode #704 : The Cold Equations](https://www.sffaudio.com/the-sffaudio-podcast-704-audiobook-readalong-the-cold-equations-by-tom-godwin/) I disagree that this is an important story. Is it effective? Sure. It kept me entertained, wondering what would happen. It guides the reader to a strong emotional place. It's not a place that's particularly fun to be, but if you have a heart at all, you feel sorry for the girl. For a story to be important, it needs to do something more than illicit an emotion. Inspire the reader to change. Teach a valuable lesson. Ask a question that leads to a greater understanding of life or of human nature. And this just didn't do any of that for me. Youths make stupid choices, sometimes ones that end in their own death. From overdosing to driving when they are way too tired to showing off on a tall structure. Everyone already understands that it's sad when a naive kid does something and then suffers a horrible consequence that they didn't understand beforehand. And that's all this story does. It puts someone you naturally want to survive in a situation where she has to die. All the physics/engineering in the story might be right, and they might be wrong. It doesn't matter. They are not the point. The point of all those technological explanations is to provide constraints so you can ask: Is it right to follow the natural solution to the cold equations and execute this young woman, or should she and 8 other people die as a result of not executing her? A natural powerful question that could come out of this setup is one of sacrifice. Is it right for one without blame to take the place of another who, even acting unknowingly, has done wrong? This story doesn't ask it. It is never considered nor mentioned by the pilot that maybe he should hit the airlock in her place. That response story "The Cold Calculations" at least makes an effort (which it then weasels out of) to ask that question. That's my take. Well written? Yes. Enjoyable? Up until the end. Would I read again? No. Important? No.

Sidearm & Sorcery, Volume 2 Submissions now closed

2022-10-03T12:32:21-06:00

Submissions are now closed for Sidearm & Sorcery, Volume Two. Now I just have to dive into that submission pile.

Call for Submissions: Sidearm & Sorcery, Volume 2

2022-10-03T12:30:09-06:00

I have told many of you that this is coming, and I figured its time for me to get things rolling again. So, it is with great pleasure I announce that submissions for *Sidearm & Sorcery Volume Two* are now open. (As of 9/2/2022) ## What is this anthology? This anthology series is fantasy set in modern times (modern = 1900 AD+) where the protagonists *do not* have magical or other special powers. I have already published the first volume, which you can check out on most major retailers. [Sidearm & Sorcery Volume One](https://books2read.com/sidearm) As Sword & Sorcery is to High Fantasy, this is to Urban Fantasy. I want the heroes of these stories to be in direct contrast to the super-powered-vampire-wizard-werewolf-chosen-ones that are so common in fantasy with modern settings. I want magic to seem mysterious and dangerous and powerful. I don’t want the magic to feel like a recipe book where every element is quantified and easily understood. Antagonist sorcerers and monsters can abound. Think Conan, but he’s born in Detroit instead of Cimmeria. Think Dresden files, but instead of being a powerful wizard-for-hire, Harry is just a dude with a Beretta. Think baseball bats instead of halberds. This is an anthology of short stories, preferably under 10,000 words. ## How will it work? This will be published via Draft2Digital (D2D). Draft2digital distributes to all major ebook platforms, and has its own paperback POD distribution as well. To be specific, D2D currently distributes to Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Kobo (including Kobo Plus), Tolino, OverDrive, Bibliotheca, Scribd, Baker & Taylor, Hoopla, & Vivlio. Authors will contribute one story. For my part, I will have a story, assemble/layout the stories into one volume, and pay for cover art. I will also handle editing duties. I’d like to keep each volume to a max of 15 stories, so that contributors have a chance to actually make a buck. ## Pay? After D2D takes it’s share, everyone involved will split the rest. Every author will get one share. I will get 4 shares for my work and financial investment. Percentage of royalty split will be determined by total number of shares. Paperback copies will be made available to authors at cost. D2D will only allow the “publisher” (me) to order paperback copies direct, but I will happily order them and have them shipped to you for whatever D2D charges me. This is not intended to be a limited time deal, this anthology is intended to be available for sale forever. ## How to Submit a story My submission manager is not back to being operational yet, so I'll handle submissions via email. **Email your submission to "submissions" at this site, with the subject "Sidearm & Sorcery Submission".** Once I get your submission email, I will immediately send you an "I've got it" response. Then it will go on the pile to be read. I'll send you an acceptance/rejection sometime after that. ## Submission Window **Submissions are now closed. Thanks to everyone who submitted!** Submissions will be open until **9/30/2022.** If I change this, I'll tweet about it, change this post, and make a new post about the change. So, [follow the magazine Twitter](https://twitter.com/StoryHackMag) or use one of the myriad tools out there to subscribe to the [site feed](https://storyhack.com/atom.xml), ## Any questions? DM me on twitter [Twitter](https://twitter.com/StoryHackMag), or send an email to bryce at this very site.

Return of the Podcast!

2022-08-22T10:48:14-06:00

After a long hiatus and then a super frustrating website hack, it's time to relaunch the podcast. There is new episode and everything. It is now on its own subdomain of this site, and has a new rss feed, so if you used to be subscribed via itunes or whatever, you'll need to change that. I will get to changing the feed at all the big podcast listing sites ass soon as I can. [https://podcast.storyhack.com](https://podcast.storyhack.com)

Ready to Launch

2022-04-28T10:16:23-06:00

I'm not done adding everything that I want to add to the new, new site, but I think I've done enough to launch. There will still be changes, but this will be better than the holding site I had set up.

Thanks to those who helped launch StoryHack

2022-04-27T10:52:25-06:00

As I was going over a bunch of old files, I found a list that used to be up on the old website. It is a list of all those who backed StoryHack Issue One way back when I was crowdfunding it. Anyway, these kind individuals still deserve my thanks, as I have very much enjoyed publishing StoryHack. - [Steve DuBois](http://storyhack.local/thanks-to-those-who-helped-launch-storyhack/www.stevedubois.net) - James McKelvey - Gabe Zuehlsdorf - [Terran Empire Publishing](https://www.facebook.com/terranempirepublishing/) - Kese Chartier - [Karl Gallagher](https://kelthavenpress.com/) - Matthew Ilseman - [Travis Siegel](http://www.softcon.com/) - [Cynthia Ward](http://www.cynthiaward.com/) - jowell hearn - Anders M. Ytterdahl - [MOHD ELFIE NIESHAEM JUFERI](https://menj.org/) - Damian - Tomas Diaz - Tim DAllaird - Jomelson Co - [Jason M Waltz](http://roguebladesentertain.wixsite.com/roguebladespresents) - Chris Nelson - [Richard Moss](http://www.xthlegion.co.uk/) - [S. L. Edwards](http://sledwardswrite.blogspot.com/) - [Jasyn Jones](http://jasynjones.com/) - Bryan Green - Paul Sudlow - Larry Pryor - [T. Everett](https://wordsofwonderment.blogspot.com/) - [Mat Nastos](http://www.matnastos.net/) - Bud Wright - Christian Wood - Ross Hathaway - Petr Vilimek - [David J. West](http://www.kingdavidjwest.com/) - David Perlmutter - Stephanie Souders - Christopher DiNote - Jesse Chounard - Eric McDaniel - Michael Hargrove - Don Shirts - [Julie Frost](https://www.amazon.com/Julie-Frost/e/B00WAK2UQU/) - Ben Cakir - [Keith West](http://www.adventuresfantastic.com/) - [Jay Barnson](http://rampantgames.com/) - Brian Renninger - David Williams - James Barron - [Cirsova Publishing](http://cirsova.wordpress.com/) - [Paul McNamee](http://paulmcnamee.blogspot.com/) - [Spencer E Hart](http://spencerhartwriting.wordpress.com/) - [James Schmidt](https://mightythorjrs.wordpress.com/) - [Jon Mollison](http://jonmollison.com/) - Madeleine Gawron - [Alexandru Agiu](http://barbarianbookclub.com/) - [Nathan Housley](http://thepulparchvist.blogspot.com/) - Darrell Grizzle - [Mike Adamson](http://mike-adamson-writes.blogspot.com.au/) - Claire Finlay - Barry Swodeck - Mary Jones - Frank Coffman - Wiley Woodrow Walters - Dominika Lein - [Benton Wilson](http://gad.tfsnewworld.com/forum) - [Joseph Moore](https://yardsaleofthemind.wordpress.com/) - Eric Priehs - Greg Anderson - Fen Eatough - Richard Ohnemus - [Paul Duffau](http://www.paulduffau.com/) - [Gene Moyers](http://www.genemoyers.com/)

New New Site

2022-04-28T10:13:50-06:00

A few months after I launched the new StoryHack site redesign, I had three of my websites get hacked. The main StoryHack site, the podcast, and the VintageWritingInstruction.com podcast. All three were running Wordpress as the back end. Anyway, it has been a mess getting all data back and such. I seriously almost gave up on the magazine altogether. After the shock and anger subsided, I decided to build my own website-making software that would help me solve whatever security flaw had been used. That has taken some time. And I still have lots of work to do.