QSFer Eric Alan Westfall has a new MM gay fantasy book out: The Thousand-and-One Rides of the Devil’s Horse.
Diablo. Big as one o’ them beer-pullin’ horses, quarter horse sleek, blacker’n the blackest black ya kin see inside yer head er elsewheres. They said as how he was the best saddle bronc ever, ‘n’ weren’t nobody gonna stay on him.
Ha! He was the Devil hisself made horse.
How else ya gonna explain as how the bosses was right? Nobody stayed the eight seconds when the Devil’s horse were buckin’. Weren’t no big deal, him tossin’ riders them first ten, twenny times, with the prize the bosses offered goin’ up a grand each time. But then he bucked off forty, ‘n fifty, ‘n the guy who tried fer the hunnerd grand fer the 100th ride weren’t on longer’n four-five seconds.
He weren’t no normal horse, ‘n I bin knowin’ ‘bout horses fer longer’n most folks bin around. I tried. I told ‘em ‘n’ told ‘em but weren’t nobody’d listen.
So’s I shut up, did my job, kept outa the way of the Devil’s horse, ‘n watched alla them rides. ‘n a bit beyond.
This here’s the story ‘bout how the Devil’s horse got rid a thousand ‘n’ one times.
‘n’ cuz I’m nice, ‘n’ this here Eric Alan Westfall guy is pretty good, I’m givin’ ya some samples—covers ‘n’ blurbs ‘n’ chapters—of some of the books what he’s writ:
- The Cooking Mage & The Parchment Prankster Part One
- The Rake, The Rogue, and The Roué
- 3 Boars & A Wolf Walk Into A Bar…
- Mr. Felcher’s Grand Emporium, or, The Adventures of a Pair of Spares in the Fine Art of
- Gentlemanly Portraiture
- Tattooed Wolf, Painted Dragon
- Prince Ivan, A. Wolfe & A Firebird
- no way out
- Of Princes False and True
- The Warlord and the Bard
- The Raven Prince
Oh, yeah. The story ‘bout the Devil’s horse is 8032 words.
Get It At Amazon | Smashwords | Universal Buy Link
Excerpt
Diablo, somebody named him, ‘fore he arrived at our stables.
Well, not ‘our’ like I had anythin’ t’do with ownin’ ‘em or runnin’ the comp’ny that supplied rodeos all over the country with some o’ th’best buckin’ broncs as ever was. I jes’ worked there. Watched what was goin’ on, too, the whole time th’rides went on. Truth be told, I watched a bit beyond that.
That bronc coulda been called Satan or Beelzebub jes’ as easy, jes’ as true. Cuz he was like the Devil hisself, made horse.
Tall as one o’ them beer horses, prob’ly taller, since he was coupla fingers more’n nineteen hands. Sleek like quarter horse, though. O’ course, even with him bein’ s’big, weren’t nobody stupid enough ta try t’get him t’pull a wagon, whether beer-horse big, or little red kid-wagon small. We was all smart enough t’know what’d happen if we did.
When he stood quiet, he was all smooth muscles, but ya could see all this held-back power. Power, like, well, if he weren’t no bronc, or even if he was, he could shuttle back ‘n’ forth across the Atlantic between April ‘n’ September, startin’ with the 2000 Guinea Stakes in England, back here fer the Kentucky Derby ‘n’ the Preakness, over there for the Epsom Derby, back fer the Belmont, ‘n’ finish with the St Leger Stakes. Power ta spare fer winnin’ both Triple Crowns.
Power, like if he jes’ let it all loose, in ever’ race he’d be round the track ‘n’ inta the winner’s circle ‘fore the rest was two-three-four strides outa the startin’ gate.
Black he was. Pick the blackest black ya can think of. Hold it tight inside your head. See it clear. He was two-three-four times blacker’n that. Only white on him was the whites o’ his eyes, ‘n’ you barely saw any o’ that when he was starin’ ya down. Makin’ sure y’unnerstood, real clear-like, who ruled, ‘n’ who not t’fuck with.
Wicked beast. Evil under the sun like the title o’ that murder book, but like Will said, the Devil has th’power t’assume a pleasant shape.
So did the Devil’s horse.
Made hisself look pleasant, with a horse-smile sayin’, “Who me? I’m so nice, wouldn’t even swish my tail t’swat away a fly.”
O’ course pleasant times was when you was doin’ somethin’ for him. Like groomin’, washin’ him down, brushin’ him t’make his hide shine as much as that kinda black could. Makin’ sure his hooves ‘n’ shoes was in good shape. Gettin’ burrs ‘n’ mats outa his mane ‘n’ tail.
Trouble was, y’had ta learn quick “pleasant” was only long as y’talked ta him, told him what a great horse he was, ‘n’ let him know what ya was about t’do, ever’ step o’ the way. Apologizin’ in advance, too, fer whatever, seein’ as how there weren’t no forgiveness after, if there weren’t no permission, or warnin’ first.
Not a good idea t’sprise him, say, by usin’ a comb ‘n’ yankin’ hard on a stubborn mat in his tail. Ain’t nobody got killed or broke bones from not followin’ the no-surprise rule, but ya still got hurt. Diablo’d use a head-butt, or all-o’-him sidestep, or a hip swing, ‘n’ there ya was, flung inta the stall side, or slammed down on the floor, leavin’ ya with bruises from crown t’crotch, ‘n’ mebbe down t’toes, too.
Then he’d stare at ya, sayin’ clear as clear could ever be, “Y’ain’t gonna do that shit again, are ya.” With no question mark at the end.
Sure, he was calm as calm, when ya made sure his water ‘n’ feed was fresh. Or when ya mucked out his stall, puttin’ fresh straw down t’make his home nice ‘n’ clean. He’d made it real clear he dint like shavin’s or sawdust under his hooves, jes’ straw.
Yeah, when ya was doin’ any o’ that, when’ ya wasn’t makin’ no stupid mistakes, he was like the Prince o’ Heaven come down t’earth t’rule with sweetness ‘n’ light.
But oh, he was sneaky like Satan, subtle like unto the serpent, standin’ all still ‘n’ statue-like when ya was puttin’ on the bronc saddle. Or as the sayin’ goes, shockin’ the shit outa ever’body what didn’t work fer L&G, when he jes’ followed th’groom holdin’ his reins, calm as all get-out, right from his stall ‘n’ into the chute. Didn’t even so much as twitch when a rider got on his back.
When it come ta bein’ rid in the ring, though, he was Lucifer hisself, th’devil’s son come up from Hell.
Still, fer all his King o’ Hell ways, what with him bein’ the Devil’s own horse, there weren’t never a lack o’ riders tryin’ for the prize, cuz o’ the way it went up ever’ time he dumped a rider off.
Author Bio
Eric is an American Midwesterner, and as Lady Glenhaven might say, “He’s old enough to have sailed with Noah.” In the real world he writes for a living, with those who would claim what he writes is fiction. His partner of thirty years—who died unexpectedly in 1995—enthusiastically encouraged him to try to get his writing published (mostly poetry back then, plus some short stories), but he didn’t have the guts to do so until 2013. At this point he’s not sure which was officially first, The Song, or Like a Mountain, Waiting.
17 novels and novellas later, plus a bunch of stories and poems, he’s hoping 2023 will finally bring the publication of the MM retelling of The Tinderbox. But since real life is, as we all know, a pain in the (anatomical site of your choice)…no guarantees.