Good as the magazine is, there’s nothing attractive about the title “Trollbreath.” I mean, I’ve never knowingly met a troll. But I’m imagining their breath would be challenging.
So, maybe it’s fitting that the first story of mine they’ve picked up (out now in Issue 7) is suitably nasty. It’s called “The Physics of a Gunshot.”
As editor Jennifer Reynolds puts it, the story is a dark one, which “takes us through time in the final agonizing moment of immortality.” A final moment in which the deperate main character – who has lived a long life but at a terrible cost – tries to end it before he is forced to pass on the curse to someone else.
There are a bunch of really strong stories in the magazine, and I’m pleased to be included in such good company. You can get a copy here.
To whet your appetitie, here’s a taster:
The Physics of a Gunshot
By Chris Barnham
When Anya wakes up, I’m beside the bed. Her eyes go wide when she sees the gun.
A Smith and Wesson M&P Shield: steel barrel, polymer grip, twenty ounce. Best-selling self-defense pistol on the market. That’s the US market; it’s harder to get hold of in Italy. But here it is.
In my hand.
Where I mustn’t think about it.
“What are you doing?” Anya says.
“I won’t hurt you.”
“Is that loaded?”
“Ignore it. Talk about something else.”
“Like what?”
“Anything,” I say. “Childhood pets. Your parents. How we met.”
***
I was staying in Siracusa, Sicily. I’d been restless – pacing streets once trod by Archimedes and Cicero, searching passing faces as if looking for something lost. At the Roman amphitheatre, Anya stood at a railing, consulting a guidebook, wearing a dress the colour of peach flesh. Without conscious thought, I stood three yards upwind. Hair prickled the back of my neck, saliva flooded my mouth. She dropped the book and put a hand to her forehead, eyes blinking, nostrils flared.
Emerald does this pheromone thing, and it’s like they’re drugged. In the early years I accepted it – took advantage of it – kidded myself it was my natural magnetism for women. Sometimes it was harmless. We had a fling and went our separate ways. Other times…well, I didn’t like what Emerald made me do.
When I met Anya, this hadn’t happened in a decade. It was a bad sign.
“No good?” I nodded at the guidebook.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Some gruesome stuff about the tank in the centre of the amphitheatre collecting blood from the games.”
“Things were brutal back then.”
“Are you staying in town?” Her eyes drifted, unfocused, but her hand was on my arm.
“Actually, I am.”
***
Anya’s still in bed, I’m in a chair. My face is filmed with sweat and I shake with the effort of keeping my attention on her and away from the gun in my hand.
The gun’s hollow points have a cavity in the nose, to cause expansion on impact, meaning more trauma to whatever the bullet hits. There’s a trade-off: more air resistance, a small loss of accuracy and increased susceptibility to wind drift.
This will not be a problem if it’s fired an inch from my head.
***
I pitied Anya. I knew how it felt – that overwhelming surge of interest and desire, the sucking mental vacuum as thoughts fled. It happened to me when I met Eliza Batho…..
To read more, of this and other super stories, check out Trollbreath Magazine.
