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Summary: Raised in a motorcycle gang, John Arrowsmith has a bad case of wanderlust. He's not sure what drives him, but he knows he has to go, and he has the perfect machine to ride on; the big custom bike he calls Harley. When he and Harley get run off the road and wake up someplace completely unfamiliar, Arrowsmith knows something has gone pretty darned wrong.
With a cast of characters that include thieves, Moonhounds, and ogres, John has to find his way through this new world, trying to understand why he's been transported there, and why he's falling for a guy named Infamous. What Arrowsmith finds out surprises him, and might just kill him. Can he survive to find his way home? |
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Excerpt:
Harley didn't say much. John Arrowsmith could tell what the massive, custom-built red and gold motorcycle would say about almost anything without the bother of asking him. However, as Arrowsmith and his motorcycle soared easily down the road, winding their way through the Fraser Canyon, he wondered what the machine was thinking.
To his right, sheer grey cliffs rose high above his head, a slightly darker shade of grey than the dimming November sky that threatened to drop rain on him. The walls were jagged, as though chiseled by some disinterested god, counting on rain and wind to smooth his work. To Arrowsmith's left, the Fraser River crashed and writhed within its deep canyon like a muddy brown dragon, reminding him that this was a road to be careful on.
A sudden, ice-cold splash of water on his neck told him this was not the time of year to be out on a motorcycle. Another drop hit his fringed black glove, sliding quickly down the glossy leather, and he sighed heavily. He was cold, he was tired, and now it was raining. With his luck, the rain would wash boulders down on top of his head and send him into the river.
"What are we doing out here, Harley?" Arrowsmith frequently talked to his bike. He had yet to get an answer.
The bike passed through one of the many short, dark tunnels that lined the way to the area of the river known as Hell's Gate. As it left the shelter of the passage, another drop of rain struck Arrowsmith, this time in the eye. He wondered if there was a place ahead to pull off of the road for a while. He'd never been on this road before, and for the life of him he didn't know why he was there now.
The rain began in earnest, slashing down like the scratches on a foreign film. Overhead, the sky had further darkened as night approached. Then he noticed a widening of the road, a small gravel parking lot where tourists could stop to take photos of the area. He was shocked to see a huge brown motorhome in the lot as he pulled in. He would have thought it late in the year for tourists. The front of the vehicle showed British Columbia plates. Arrowsmith decided it was probably a family heading to Mexico for the winter. He pulled up next to it, using it as a shield against the rain.
He reached down one gloved hand to idly stroke the glossy, rain-soaked gas tank of his bike. Harley wasn't a Harley; at least, he wasn't a purebred. Arrowsmith had built Harley out of a jumble of bike parts, some of which he had designed and put together himself. He was "the biggest fucker you ever saw," as Arrowsmith's adopted father put it. The bike suited Arrowsmith perfectly, a huge, mellow beast that looked like it could climb up the ass of an eighteen-wheeler and chew his way through to the radiator. Big cars that normally ignored bikes respected him. Little cars thought it prudent to stay behind him. Harley could travel down roads motorcycles had no business being on. Brian used to say that Japanese bikes committed hara-kiri in shame at the sight of him.
The enormous bike seemed to have his own personality. "Friendly bastard, ain't it?" Smash used to say, when the skinny biker came around to see what his 'nephew' was doing. Harley did seem to be friendly. Worse, he was almost alive, especially with his horse skull mounted over the headlight and wolf skin decorations draped across his back. It wasn't unusual for people to greet the bike as well as the rider. For a few brief years, Arrowsmith and Harley were part of the local color in the town of Courtenay, and they had their photograph taken by more than a few tourists. Arrowsmith would have been shocked to find out most people just wanted a shot of the bike's strikingly beautiful owner.
The people Arrowsmith had grown up with were bikers. They had raised him after his mother, a member of their club, had abandoned him at three months of age. They were good folks. But as Arrowsmith thought about them while he sat in the rain, he knew that, right now, they were sitting with the other bikers and wondering what the fuck their weirdo son was up to this time.
Arrowsmith thought it was a good question, one he wished he could answer. But he had no explanation. He had built Harley for this nameless trip, though he hadn't known that when he first began work on the bike. He found out last night, when a sudden, overwhelming impulse told him it was time to go. He had packed his belongings into Harley's bags, and this morning he had set out. Now he was wet and cold, and had no idea where he was going. He wished at least Brian and Silver were there. That would have been cool.
He thought about the previous evening as he lit a cigarette. "Any asshole can smoke when it's sunny," Smash always said, "but it takes a real hero to smoke in the rain." Arrowsmith agreed with that thought, if ‘hero’ translated into 'idiot.' He kept trying to get his cigarette going. He had packed his bags before going to bed, Brian and Silver helping, or at least pretending to. They were not glad to be seeing their friend of ten years head out.
"When will you be back?" Silver asked in his quiet, ghostly voice, his silver-white mane of hair falling down into his face. Silver's other nicknames were 'Casper' and 'Edgar Winter.' His real name was Ralph. Silver didn't look like a 'Ralph.' Arrowsmith always secretly thought he looked more like an 'Odin' or 'Thor.’ The bikers had dubbed him Silver, and frankly, when one ran with bikers, one could end up with worse names. Like his uncle Cockrot.
"Not really sure," said Arrowsmith. "I'll be back someday." |
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Author biography: ::Taps microphone.:: Is this thing on? Ah, okay. Hello everyone, I’m The Magic Rat, known also to some as Alyx J Shaw. I have worked in radio and written for a couple small newspapers, and I’ve had the privilege of working as an extra for ‘X-Files’ and ‘The Sentinel.’ Primarily however I am a writer. Currently I write for ‘25%’, doing articles and reviews. I also do an original series there called ‘Even Fall.’ Original WIP called ‘A Strange Place in Time fantasy series.’ I have one dog, a very noisy cat, a pet duck, and three tarantulas. One of them is a Brachypelma Vagans named Haldir, whose hobbies include falling off of things, stuffing her feet into her mouth, and slipping head first into her water bowl.
When I’m not busy wondering if my arachnid needs a shrink, I write, paint, make mead, drink mead, smoke cigars, play video games and go to science fiction conventions.
Oh, and I used to work as a security guard. Don’t you feel safer now? |
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