My Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences short story, “Night’s Plutonian Shore”, is now available as an ebook download from Amazon. No goggles required.

I’m proud to announce that Tee Morris and Pip Ballantine have released part 1 of my two-part story, “Night’s Plutonian Shore” for their “Tales from the Archives” podcast fiction anthology, set in the Victorian Steampunk world of their Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences novel(s). As described by Tee and Pip:
This epic tale opens in 1849 when a poet is murdered in the streets of Baltimore. The man behind the seemingly random murder manages to elude the law until — in 1889 — Agents Bruce Campbell and Brandon Hill track him down. The assassin, Mikael Scharnusser, gives the slip to the agents on revealing his “talent” and the madman’s intentions to bring down the House of Usher.

The early reception has been wonderful. You can hear the story here: http://www.ministryofpeculiaroccurrences.com/2011/06/22/tales-from-the-archives-eight-part-one/

It was an honor to be invited.

Contained in this post is the entire text of my short story, “Memories of an Undead Sun”, Copyright 2011 by Jack Mangan. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to events or persons, living, dead, or undead, is purely coincidental.

It’s about family. . . and evil undead samurai aliens. Just don’t call them Martians.

My humble thanks to New York Times Bestseller Michael A. Stackpole for inviting me to play participate in the Chain Story Project. He’s assembled a multitude of talented writers (plus me) to contribute short fiction, with each of the tales delivered by raconteurs at a Wanderers’ Club gathering. All of the stories are available for free online at the authors’ websites, with links to and from from the central Chain Story hub at http://chainstory.stormwolf.com/. I highly encourage you to visit the site and browse through the wonderful assortment of speculative fiction, horror, and high adventure.

–
Jack
2011

Download the PDF version here.

      “Thank you, Master Juneberry, for sharing your story and your wig powder with us, here in the mid-20th century. I hope you’ll regale us again soon with further macabre accounts of your native era.” Stewart Bailey sat nearby on the buttoned Chesterfield couch, peering from beneath the rim of his derby hat. The cigarillo between his fingers was mostly ash, its thin tapestry of smoke drifting in the parlour air. Just shy of his mid-20s, Stewart wore a young man’s beard with a young man’s arrogance, his tan collared shirt parted just enough to hint at the muscle beneath. He sat up and found an ashtray for his cigarette, allowing the room’s attention to shift in his direction.
      “I find the drab girl from Jedediah’s story to be quite brave, in her own way. This has been a common theme this evening, and is most certainly characteristic to all gentlemen and dames present; although I assume that even in this esteemed company, few are as courageous as I. . .” Bailey drained the caramel-colored drink from his glass, then paused to bare his teeth, as if biting the liquor back. “. . . Like to think I am. For – – begging the pardon of Ms. Patel and our other lady Wanderers – – what is a man if he is not brave?” The ice rattled in his empty glass as he shook it at the nearest attendant. “And the greatest measure of valor for each of us lies in the mirrors of our pasts. What is a man, after all, but a shattered reflection of his Father’s best and worst? And what are brothers and sons but splintered shards from that same glass?”

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