“Where Strange Drinks and Even Stranger Clients Meet.”
Which might somewhat describe the newsletter, except for the drinks part. You’re on your own there.
Crossed fingers and held breath, I think I have everything together. If not, I’ll be the second to know. Regardless, the image to the left is the cover for the prize I’ve arranged for those signing up for my newsletter, Tales From the Black Dog.
What is The Black Dog, you might ask? I’ll summarize it thusly:
“The Black Dog is an odd little pub, with strange drinks and an even stranger clientele. Sometimes it’s there. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes you’ll find it, and sometimes you won’t. Just don’t hit on the bartender or the bouncer, whatever you do. She’s a Banshee and he’s a Redcap. It won’t end well for you.”
The book itself is a collection of eleven flash pieces I wrote mostly for fun about the pub and the mix of humans and non-humans who inhabit the place. Those who have read Little Fire and Fog may recognize some of them. Those who have read much of mine may notice some of my themes and interests come up. Those who haven’t, I think it’s a fair if brief introduction to what I’m about. It also includes the only real Tuckerization I have ever done, though who? Ain’t telling. They know what they did. The individual pieces have appeared only in a very small (maybe 20 people) private FB group. This collection appears nowhere, period (except on your computer if you so choose), and won’t for the foreseeable future. It is my gift to you, and I hope you like it.
There will be a link on the main page, but I put one here also where you can sign up for the Newsletter.
The list asks for your email address (duh), name, and country you’re in. The name is just how you like to be addressed (Grand Moff of the Galaxy? You do you), and the country in case I need to do anything special to comply with EU rules. After that you’ll be given a link to the download page where you can choose the ebook format you prefer and have at it. Couldn’t be simpler. Well, it could, but it’s still pretty simple.
For those who do sign up, let me know how it went. I’m new at this.
Love the collection. Thanks! Looking forward to the newsletter.
Simple and excited for the newsletter AND the ebook!
Okay, I signed up, and that was a nice little collection, too. Though it and everything it in was too SHORT for my taste. Which just means I’m greedy, I guess. The piece on the leprechaun struck a chord in me, As I wrote a sketch like that myself a year back. Here it is; don’t worry, it’s too short to bore anyone.
by Brian Kunde
Old Turlough stood out in our fraternity as a tale teller in that his stories were never of himself but of his country and its native spooks. Turlough’s yarns were often short, but always pithy. He must have had a hundred, as I never heard him tell the same one twice, but there’s one in particular that sticks in my mind, his tale of the wee folk and their crock. I’ll do my best to repeat it here, in his own words as best I can recollect them.
“The secret they don’t tell you is, leprechauns are no richer than anyone else. The crock of gold at the end of the rainbow? It’s there, all right. Trouble is, the wee folk can no more get to it than you can. The father of all leprechauns banked his earnings there, sure, and he also laid an enchantment on his craft that sent every gold piece gained by it right to that same horde, with another magic on the rainbow itself, such that it is never truly where it appears to be. So it is that any marking the place it touches the earth will find, on getting there, the bow as far off as ever.
“That’s not to say the father himself couldn’t get to it. Oh, he knew how all right, but he kept the knowledge close, so close, in fact that he never let it out. The first seeker of his treasure tortured him to say where the gold lay hid, and that learned right enough, and seeing no more use for the old fairy shoe mender ended his misery with a blade of cold iron through the vitals. Too late the villain found the rainbow’s end ever flees.
“And so the father’s true heirs yet hold that horde in common, and every piece of gold earned from their craft still goes there. But not one of ’em can touch it, as they’ve not their progenitor’s key. One who catches a leprechaun thinks him tricky-cunning in withholding his ransom, but in truth there’s no fetching it, through die he would sooner than be confessing it.
“And that’s why, if you’ve ever the honor of having a boot repaired by one of the wee folk, you’ll be advised to render payment by preference in silver. But should you find the work short of the finest—pay in gold! You can’t cheat a leprechaun of his due, but you can ensure he sees naught of it. His wealth you cannot but add to, but the benefit of it—well, that’s quite another thing!”
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There’s always a trick to it.