I’m a big fan of pulp fiction—noir, westerns, horror, sci-fi, and fantasy. You know, hardboiled stories with gritty characters. I’m working on one that blends these genres. The idea was inspired by a ’90s rock video by The Toadies and my collection of Edgar Rice Burroughs paperbacks, which I received from a thoughtful boyfriend way back when I was 19. I’d like to share the opening scene.
Let me know if it grabs you. I might just serialize the story in installments for you and subscribers of my newsletter. After all, that’s how pulp fiction is meant to be shared.
Visit this awesome Pinterest Board for more fabulous pulp magazine covers.
Meetings at the Edge
Detective Charlie Driver knelt among the charred beams on the blackened stone floor, a cigarette unlit and dangling from his lips as he examined the scene. Ash and smoke were all that remained of the old boathouse at the edge of Stem Pond, which had a dark history of burning down and then rising again from the ashes. Each time, people died in the blaze, just like now.
As with previous incidents, there was no sign that anyone besides the victim had entered or been near the abandoned building when it caught fire, nor was there any evidence of how the fire started or why it only affected the small structure before burning out, despite witnesses a mile away describing flames shooting above the trees like Roman candles. It was as if it had taken place in a vacuum.
His department and the fire investigator officially cleared the scene the day before, and the remains were with the coroner. Every piece of evidence had been collected and sent to Charlie’s understaffed but capable crime lab, and he’d returned to the scene alone.
After the yellow tape came down, there was no one around to crowd his thoughts or question his methods. He would draw a cigarette, brush it beneath his nose before setting it between his lips, and let the ritual stir the instincts he trusted more than evidence. It often helped him get a bead on the victim.
His methods weren’t working today.
While the victim’s presence felt tangible in the lingering scent of smoke and damp earth, their voice remained as silent as the surroundings.
A crow had been lurking nearby for the past hour, occasionally shifting branches as if to remind him it was there. When it finally cawed overhead, Charlie nearly bit off the tip of his cigarette. He palmed it, squinting at the bird, then let the silence settle back in. Was the nosy creature reminding him that he was the only human on this Sunday afternoon, left in this cold, neglected 20-acre park? A gust whipped up unexpectedly, finding its way down the back of his fleece-lined coat, and Charlie stood, pulling his collar tighter.
Feeling as if the pond somehow held answers, Charlie took one last look around. The water wasn’t very deep, and beneath the frost lay a thick layer of moss. Centuries-old ash, oak, and elm trees stretched upward from its shore like twisted skeletons, interspersed with ghostly stands of fir, creating a dense, somewhat gloomy woodland. Frost covered the branches and glittered on the charred ruins beneath his feet—all signs of winter in this rangeland county. Yet, one detail puzzled him: all the green stalks poking through the snow. The park was overrun with wild onions.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very strange about it, not because they grew in winter (onions can tolerate cold temperatures), but because this proliferation was unusually early. And why this place? He rolled his shoulders. Strangeness was increasingly the theme of this investigation, but what that meant for the victim…
Another blast of cold air swept over him, but this one carried something more—something inexplicable—making him want to light up his smoke and take a deep drag. The crow let out another loud caw as it took flight. Clenching his jaw, Charlie slipped the cigarette into his breast pocket and headed for his car. It was time to meet with his partner and go over the facts she’d been gathering.
Want to find out who died in the mysterious fire in a park overgrown with wild onions? Let me know in the comments.
Past drafts gone in a puff! Or, with the magic delete button. If I were an angsty writer of a past century, the pages would have been burned. I know an author who actually did burn his first draft, but that’s his story to tell, and it’s a good one.
I’ve been doing a lot of purging this month, getting ready for a big disruption in my life, so why not purge my drafts and give you my latest…
Enjoy meeting Onyx, who has the honor of opening my story… his story.
March 27, 2025
The Dragon
Onyx – Deep Inside Ben Shiel, Western Scottish Highlands, UK – Late June
In the mountain’s dim recesses, a dragon lay coiled in slumber on a granite shelf, snorting smoke rings at invisible foes. His fiery exhales turned to steam in the damp air, sending ashy tendrils writhing around his fearsome spikes before dissipating like miniature storm clouds.
His eyelids fluttered, one popping open to reveal a midnight blue iris flashing off a bank of dazzling quartz crystals before shutting again. His nostrils flared as if scenting danger.
It wasn’t just his face in motion. The dragon’s great wing jerked before his hind leg pumped the air. The vigorous movements sent scree tumbling off the edge and clattering into icy pools far below, inciting twittering protests from the deeper, more secretive inhabitants.
These disturbances did not trouble Ben Shiel. Upheavals were a constant in the mountain’s life, caused by forces more relentless than his winged friend. On the contrary, the dragon’s visits were comforting and far too rare. It was unusual for Michael Elliott, the mountain’s steward, to shift into dragon form and withdraw, allowing the beast an independent physical existence.
And so Onyx, the mighty dragon, as black as his name implied, slept in the cradle of the mountain and dreamed…
###
Michael, watch out!
“Onyx?” Michael inquired mildly through our bond as he straightened from his inspection.
My human should have been alarmed by my voice and ready when the silent missile, whizzing out of the trees, burrowed into his neck. The charge tore agonizingly through every nerve in his body. I knew this—remembered it. But I didn’t feel it. Why?
The rift. We were in Alaska during the Anurashin conflict. Another dream?
Panic gripped my heart, but the vision would not release me. I was inside Michael, watching as he went from stooping over the dead caribou he was examining to planting face-first in the bloody snow without the slightest awareness to stop his fall. Not a single muscle on the powerful shifter even had time to twitch.
The carcass must have distracted me, the blood and exposed flesh stirring my hunger—a foolish mistake when Michael’s physical body was in control.
A Great Horned Owl toppled out of a spruce tree, landing beside us—shot by another bolt before he could take flight. Michael would be frantic if he knew his friend had fallen, worrying more for Ozzy than himself.
My voice sounded feeble even to me as I called out to my human host. My frustration turned to icy horror when a barely perceptible pop signaled the worst thing imaginable, and the tether binding our souls began to unravel. This time, the pain felt real as I shattered into a thousand pieces and began swirling inside a vortex, like a barrow full of leaves picked up and carried by the wind. Once again, death by separation threatened us both.
I reassembled in a place devoid of substance. Yet, I hadn’t vanished completely, and my senses remained intact, as evidenced by the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow.
“What do we do with the owl?” said a woman, her voice tight with apprehension. “I acted on orders without thinking.”
A man replied in a tone no less grim. “We’ll claim we killed the spy. Hopefully, the owl will recover from the human dose and find his way back to the pack.”
“If Airzoih…”
“Welcome to the deadly game I’ve been playing, little sister.”
The siblings lifted my human, propping him between them as a cool misty force coalesced around us. A single step into the charged haze transported us from the Alaskan wilderness to a damp, echoing space that smelled of the sea. After stripping Michael of his clothes and securing him to a rough-hewn bench, the pair retreated into their mist. A day passed in silent darkness, Michael unconscious for most of it.
Before he came to, the brother returned, but not in human form. I recognized his scent and something more. Snorting breaths, shuffling wings, and a massive, spiny tail scraping against stone. The scent picture was complete. This was the dragon who’d been spying on us for weeks, the reason we were investigating the caribou. His shallow breathing sounded from the recesses as he settled in to wait.
Michael came awake, heart pounding, his agony raging as his body fought to heal. Without our bond, he wasn’t repairing as he should. But he was an alpha. It would take more than debilitating pain to keep him from assessing his situation. Just as he spotted the ruby-red dragon in the shadows, the beast transformed in a shower of crackling energy, the bolts illuminating the cavern in strobe-like flashes before the shadows fell back into place.
A man stepped into the thin light provided by a small crevice, struck a flint against the wall by the cell doors, and lit a torch. The shadows receded, and we got our first look at the enemy. Dark blonde hair swept back from a face like that in a Greek fresco. His lavender eyes were shadowed with weary conflict. A man forced too long to act against his nature.
Your dragon was stolen, Michael Elliott, by Prince Airzoih’s illegal magic. I can only imagine the pain you’re in. He means to kill you after toying with you. You need to convince me to stop him.”
“And who are you?” Michael rasped between parched lips.
“There’s water above you.” The man said, gesturing to a dripping straw-sized bamboo shoot jutting from a larger bamboo pipe near Michael’s head. Michael drank—and drank some more—until his stomach heaved, and he spewed half of the water back out.
“It’s mostly desalinated. You’ll be fine. To answer your question. I’m the only reasonable offspring Airzoih spawned.”
“Where are we?”
“Far from your pack, Alpha.”
“You’re the dragon spy.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to the owl?”
“I’m afraid he got zapped too. I don’t think he fared well.”
Michael swallowed down the news, tucking it away for later.
“How does the prince benefit from targeting me?”
“Airzoih wants us to eliminate dragon shifters so that his hybrid army reigns supreme,” the man replied, glibly divulging his sire’s plans. “You’re our initiation.” Derision entered his relaxed tone. “Degrading a powerful alpha will prove we’re a success—one he can glorify while he weakens the opposition.”
“How does he have children who can summon a dragon?”
“Our mother is Fiona McIver.” Michael jolted at the news.
“We lost Fiona in the Fae War,” he ground out. “I saw her go down.” He referred to a war long over but never forgotten.
“All part of my father’s plan, and one reason he aligned himself with the opposing coven. It’s the witches’ dark potion that incapacitates you and suppresses your dragon. Fiona’s, too.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I want your help to save my mother…”
A purple mist came to life in the center of the cavern, interrupting him. When it cleared, four dragons loomed large. The beasts snapped and snarled at each other for space until, one by one, they changed into three men and a woman. They bore a striking resemblance to the one who’d been bargaining with Michael, and they glared their greetings to each other with the same astonishing, lavender eyes. I recognized the woman’s scent from the forest.
When she caught sight of Michael, her expression turned feral, and she sauntered toward his crudely assembled cage. “You don’t look so legendary, Alpha of the Fire Star Pack,” she said, eyes gleaming a deeper violet. She gazed at Michael’s form like a predator, passing her tongue over her lips. Michael’s body reacted, his skin prickling with heat despite his pain receptors still firing like rockets.
“Fiona told us stories about you and Onyx when we were children,” she purred. “Do you miss him? Is it painful? Fiona still cries for Nangelica. It’s hard to imagine such a deep wound in my soul since my dragon is just a façade. Heizan says the separation is tearing our mother apart.” Her lips curled into a smirk. “Fiona can still kick my father’s ass if he fails to take the proper precautions. I wonder how strong you are without your dragon’s spirit
“That’s enough, Halil,” Heizan said under his breath. He didn’t seem interested in drawing the other siblings’ attention, leaving them to their mumbled discussion in a dark corner.
Despite the woman’s practiced posturing, I sensed a battle waging in her. It surprised her. But it was Michael who astonished me when she failed to offend him, not because he was indifferent. He saw beyond her contempt, recognized something in those amethyst windows to her soul that touched a place few had reached. It only made him look closer.
My latest YouTube video is up! Enjoy a video teaser on my new release with an audio clip from Les Romances des Trois on Google Play Audio. Enjoy! And please like and subscribe. You never know what tidbits I might come up with next.
Andras snared me with his eyes. A low rumble sounded in his chest and moved up his throat. The reactions around us shocked me. The croupier paused the betting. Some of the men moved away. A few cleared their throats, and several women let out soft moans. And all of it increased my internal temperature. Fearing I would dissolve into a puddle if I thought too much about what was happening, I kept my gaze fixed on Andras.
Selena Aires – Ursus Borealis
To celebrate all the excitement and my appreciation of all the fantastic fantasy, paranormal shifter romance, and supernatural fantasy readers out there, my books are free July 3-5! and Ursus Borealis is free all month on Smashwords. Click on image.
Here is a sneak peek at the cover for Book Three, Tigris Vetus, and a series synopsis:
When Selena Aires moves to a small town in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, what she expects falls into place; the perfect artist bungalow, fun new friends, and miles of trails right out her back door.
It’s not long after finding her niche at the old pioneer pub The Starlight that she discovers her new town and its citizens harbor mysteries below the surface. For answers, Selena must tap deeper into her abilities as an observer. What she sees not only changes the world as she knows it but requires her to face hard choices… and strange foes.
Fortunately, the petite artist attracts strong allies, including two men, shifters, and alphas of rival packs, who put aside their differences when she calls on them, though they don’t stop competing for her heart.
Others line up to support the once dedicated loner. A vampire emissary brings challenges to Selena’s personal life, though she sees his potential as an ally. She is reunited with her brother at the perfect time, but he has a secret that breaks her heart. Then there’s her magus guide Zigan, a holy man dedicated to her prophetic cause, though even he doesn’t have all the answers.
Just when Zigan and Selena think they figured out which direction she must go to fulfill her destiny, a new twist is revealed, requiring Selena to investigate yet another path.
Answering this call means facing an alien prince who made Earth his territory thousands of years ago. Aviel does not give up when he wants something, and he wants Selena. To rid the planet of this age-old menace, Selena must make the dreaded decision to leave her growing family behind and join Aviel in her biggest role yet as a maiden marked by the moon goddesses of Anurash.
Retire I said. Write full time, I said. Get up when I want. Eat when I want. Listen to books when I want. Go out with friends when I want. Eerrk! Wait, back up. Write full time? That’s work, right?
Did I really think my pod people (aka book characters seeded in my brain by aliens) would let me retire? Get up when I wanted, go out with friends when I wanted. eat when I wanted? Okay, so that stuff is actually happening, but yikes! I am really writing full time!
Like get up, stay in my jammies, bring a cup of coffee to my office, and start writing, until I want to stop kind of full time writing. Oh Yeah!
It was a great month to retire from the old day job because it’s Camp NanoWrimo! I passed my goal yesterday and I’m closing in on a finish to a story I have been dying to write since Book Two in my series, The Starlight Chronicles (slipping in an announcement here – my series relaunch is happening in May!!), because there’s a vampire, one of those secondary pod people you fall in love with from his very first introduction. And he only gets better all the way through to his cliffhanger ending (coming in Book Three!!).
So what better Camp project is there than giving Mortas his own short story. And events unfold that include another great secondary pod person, Ember, the witch. But pod people beget more pod people when writing fiction. And that’s what’s happening in this story. New compelling pod people!
I’m trying to keep it short, which means its 15,000 if I want to submit it to an Indie Press anthology. But it’s pushing the boundaries really tight. So, we’ll see.
Let me know what you think of the story description that follows my beautiful teaser. I would love any help with using it for my submission.
Mortas
Description:
No one remembers how Mortas came into existence, least of all him. Due to his vast age, he can command magic, and his vampire urges. His other inexplicable ability? He can exist in daylight. These skills mean Lord Aramis, the ruler of the North American Vampires, often assigns his favorite emissary to missions involving humans.
But Mortas has not always been at the pinnacle of vampire perfection. He’s done a lot of things in his thousands of years he would rather forget.
When he meets a witch in San Francisco in 1969, he wonders for the first time if it’s possible to live life without being plagued by dreams of regret. But Ember has another calling and leaves their bed one afternoon, never to return.
When you’re immortal, you move on.
An assignment leads Mortas to Selena Aires. He’s captivated by the beautiful, marked maiden with a prophetic destiny. Turns out she needs his help. But Mortas’s help is never free. When she pays the price without question and joins him on a dangerous mission, his fascination turns into purpose. A purpose that sends him into the worst predicament of his life.
~~~
Ember grew up in Fisherman’s Wharf, part of a coven who told fortunes for sailors as cover to more lucrative work, like picking their pockets. When two of her marks got the better of her at fourteen, she got rescued by a bear. To this day, she would do anything for that bear shifter because Andras Johns is one of the best men she knows. When he calls on her to help a vampire in trouble, she doesn’t hesitate to answer.
By D. L. Lewellyn 