A Rain of Frogs ~ Platterland the book
by Rob Hunter

Click here to buy from Amazon.com, here to buy from the author.

The second compilation of tales is here: Platterland, nine stories and a novella. The current world-wide financial embarrassment has thinned the ranks of publishers—in the case of speculative fiction, never overcrowded. So I’m giving it away. The e-book, that is. At 348 pages in the print version, Platterland sells for $22.50 US or thereabouts. Platterland the trade paperback is available online, check at the usual suspects. Meanwhile, here’s a free download: the whole 348 pages, wrapped up in a Kindle-friendly package. Plays on MobiPocket, too. Wow.

Two of Swords

Capt. Futvoye Halfnight, F.R.S, popped his dropped eye into its socket. “Ahh.” What he saw ahead was not reassuring. “Ohh...” A great gnarly man was leaning against a tree and staring at him. He was naked but for the skin of a tiger which he wore nonchalantly over one shoulder. “You pilgrims should carry rearview mirrors. You leave an inventory of lost lesions and dropped appendages all over the landscape,” said the man.

Mark Twain in Milan

A woman popped out of thin air beside me. She was swinging a serious looking cavalry saber; She gave me the once-over and attacked. I ducked. Her pale gray eyes grew huge. “Oh, terribly sorry, old chap. I thought you were someone else,” she said. “Are you still alive?" I said yes. “I say, good fun, what?” she remarked. A bullet zinged past and we dived under the desk.

The Return of the Orange Virgin

Lechery, debauchery, total annihilation―the usual stuff as two prime movers contend for power. Not power to do anything in particular―threaten, coerce, destroy: illuminate a city, tighten the skeins of a siege engine, or wind up the bowels of a child’s clockwork toy―just power to have around. Just in case. Just the familiar, reassuring bulge of potential, there to quiet unease was not much to ask. But who to ask? Blood and mud. Spring killing. This was the reverse order of things.

The Francher

An odor of mint attracted the francher to an unpromising patch of brown scrub. It munched contentedly for some minutes then collapsed. Wide speckled eyes bulged; oval pupils stared. A pounding bright blue sky watched, thin and close, as the francher’s body stiffened. Under the brilliant glare of the high, dry sun its knee joints cracked, emitting soft popping sounds. An Andean vulture circled closer.

The Tirewoman Gabriel

Giant bumblebees prowl thick wisteria; vines knot to frame a lovers’ bower. Before the foreground, hogging the floor, lies a toppled faun, his lips curled in a sneer of passion. At his side is a sawed-off fluted plaster column with a shattered capital nearby suggesting old ruins. I could not bear to throw the stuff out. Some day someone would want to be photographed with a leering, panting satyr.

McMuckle Makes a Minyan

The ineffable, unnamable God of Hosts stood with a burly, bearded personage who held a bar towel draped over one arm, a symbol of his trade. The golem toyed nervously with an ear. “My people should quake at My unutterable Name, not fall on their tukhes,” God sighed. The ear came off. “Bim... this is not about you. Try to stay on topic.”

The Death of James A. Garfield

Short and overalled, a small figure stepped out of the roadside scrub and declaimed. “You are Lost. Lost Forever. I am Delilah,” she said. “James A. Garfield has guided your feet. It’s a sure thing. President Garfield never misses. After the tomatoes, of course,” she said with wide-eyed innocence. This is a kid trick: getting inside your head so you trust them.

Plus three more tales:

Chimaera Constant, the third chapter of the Libby the Quilter triptych, Platterland, wherein a rugged Mainer rents out space aliens to perform household chores, and Daphne Longhandle's Last Flight, a tale of a dragon, macaroni and cheese and Eleanor Roosevelt.