By F. Paul Wilson
Aftershock & Others is the 3rd selection of brief fiction by ny Times bestselling writer F. Paul Wilson, hailed via the Rocky Mountain News as “among the best storytellers of our times.”
The name novelette gained the Bram Stoker Award and its partners contact at the previous, current, and future—from the inflationary madness of Weimar Germany (“Aryans and Absinthe”) to disco club–era big apple (“When He was once Fab”), to the rationing of clinical companies in a grim close to destiny (“Offshore”). Wilson’s stylistic range and flexibility are on show in tales that pay tribute to Ray Bradbury (“The November Game”), use a sentient killer virus as a point-of-view personality (“Lysing towards Bethlehem”), and pay unabashed homage to natural pulp fiction in yellow peril tales (“Sex Slaves of the Dragon Tong” and “Part of the Game”). and at last, Wilson treats us to his renowned antihero Repairman Jack at his such a lot creative: trapped in a drugstore with 4 killers (“Interlude at Duane’s”).
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Extra resources for Aftershock & Others: 19 Oddities
Oh, Eva, Eva, Eva, I’m so sorry! I didn’t want to do it but Maria put me up to it. I didn’t want to kill my uncle but she kept pushing me. ” As I stare at him in horror, I feel the rage burst in my heart like a rocket. So! He did conspire to hang me! A crimson haze blossoms about me as I take his head between my hands. I squeeze with all the strength I possess and don’t stop until I hear a wet crunching noise, feel hot liquid running between my fingers. And then I’m sobbing, huge alien sounds rumbling from my chest as I clutch Karl’s limp form against me.
As I lower my heavy, crudely stitched pants I pray that it will be different this dream, but there it is—that long, thick, slack member hanging between my legs. It repulses me. I try to relieve myself without touching it. I am a woman. Why do these dreams place me in the body of a man? Awake again. I’ve spent the day talking, laughing, discussing the wisdom of the ages. Such a relief to be back to reality, back in my own body—young, lithe, smaller, smoother, with slim legs, dainty fingers, and firm, compact breasts.
The dream again! I’m in that horrid body, stumbling through the night. Can’t I close my eyes even for a few seconds without falling into this nightmare? I want to scream, to burst from this cocoon of dream and return to my golden fields. But the nightmare tightens its steely grip and I lurch on. I stop at a schoolhouse. I’m hungry but there’s something more important than food inside. I break down the door and enter the single classroom with its rows of tiny desks. I rip the top off one desk after the other and carry it to the shafts of moonlight pouring through the windows until I find the paper and pencil I seek.