My third snippet for Science Fiction Fantasy Saturday is taken from my Appalachian dark fantasy novel, HELLBENDER (Raw Dog Screaming Press).
Description: Alex must've been desperate if she came to me for help.
protect her from bullets and knives and the wild mountains themselves,
but not the dark Appalachian magic I barely believed in.
only way to save the woman I loved was to head home and end the
hundred-year blood feud between her family and mine. I'd kill every last
Lewis and bury every last witch in the coal-dusted soil of West
Virginia, even if that meant facing them all again in hell.
This is a tale of star-crossed lovers and civil revenge by uncivil hands, written in blood that is barely thicker than water.
Let Raw Dog
Screaming Press author Jason Jack Miller take you to a place where love
is forever even when death isn't, where magic doesn't have to be seen to
be believed, where a song might be the only thing that saves your soul.
MURDER BALLADS AND WHISKEY is a unique blend of dark fiction,
urban fantasy and horror. It's Appalachian Gothic, Alt.Magical.Realism,
Hillbilly Horror. It's AMERICAN GODS meets JUSTIFIED. TRUE BLOOD with
witches. It's Johnny Cash with a fistful of copperheads singing the
devil right back to hell.
Ben laid on the gas, pushing the truck until it began to rattle. The windshield, the doors, they all shook with the ferocity of a steam train. This path, not built for trucks, shook the rubber off the tires and the paint off the body. Now grinning, Ben turned his hat, a crazy engineer bound for the siding with fire in his belly and steam in his head. He laughed at cautions and kicked the brake pedal clean off.
This train was rolling; momentum and a cargo of rage barreled along behind us. Ben kept his hand off the brake and I just kept shoveling coal in. Thunder shouted our arrival through the canyon, lightning guided us through crossings. The torrent of rain hit the hood, now radiating with the heat of a thousand horses. The dime-sized drops turned into a trail of steam that followed us down the track like a specter of all those who’d plied this canyon before us.
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