Posts Tagged ‘pulp’

“My Ship Comes In” is the fourth story, a novella, in T.K. O’Neill’s Northwoods Pulp Reloaded release of three short crime stories and this longer story.



 

Chapter 3

“Make sure you’ve got the lanterns lit before the sun goes down,” Dan Bagley had told me, condescension dripping like sour syrup from his puffy lips. “You can’t just dawdle down there when you feel like it; they have to be shining before dark. If we can’t see the lights we could run aground. You’d better stay straight while you’re there, we can’t afford to have this messed up.”

     Yeah right—like I’d be waiting for a boatload of contraband and taking it lightly. Like

self-preservation wasn’t enough motivation to do things right for Christ sake.

     The boys are way late, at least eight hours behind schedule. After all the shit I’ve been through, they should at least be on time. Where the hell are they?  

     Out there somewhere on the green-green ocean.

     Actually, it’s black at the moment and changing to gray at the horizon, as the sun begins to rise behind me. You really become aware of horizons by the seaside, especially if you’ve been up all night waiting for a boat that’s hauling your future inside its fuel tank.

     It’s clearly an either-or situation for me: Either I get caught and go to jail for a good piece of time or I get away with it and buy myself some freedom for more than likely a lesser period of time. But what the hell, there aren’t any better offers in the wind and at least I’m not slaving in the hot sun for peanuts like so many others around here. 

     They call Florida a “right to work” state. I believe that means the owners are always right and somebody else does the work for them. I studied labor laws in college; I know these things.

     The higher the sun rises the more I worry. Without some sort of visible marker, it might be difficult to find this relatively small spot on a long hunk of featureless beach, even in bright daylight. Sand goes on in either direction for miles and miles. I clearly need to rig something up for the daylight hours. I try to think but the hot sun is scrambling my brain.

     How much warning, will the boys need to keep the keel out of the sand? Should I rig up a gaudy signal flag? What if the wrong people see it? Will everyone involved in this deal go to burning hell?

     I wonder if the cops know about the van. Maybe they’ve already gotten to Carole and there’s an APB out for a white VW bus with Colorado license plates and black eyelashes painted above the headlights. Maybe the highway patrol is going through it now as I sit here helplessly waiting, only a mile down the beach.

     But waiting is all I can do.

(To be continued)

ebook only $1.99 – through March 15!

Amazon/Kindle: https://amzn.to/3AzETuy

Barnes and Noble Nook:  https://bit.ly/3u24Y2O

Apple: https://apple.co/3D4kb6T

Kobo: https://bit.ly/3isQyUP

Scribd: https://bit.ly/3oskPXN

Indigo: https://bit.ly/2Yo4PeC

Read Full Post »

“My Ship Comes In” is the fourth story, a novella, in T.K. O’Neill’s Northwoods Pulp Reloaded release of three short crime stories and this longer story.



 

Chapter 3

“Make sure you’ve got the lanterns lit before the sun goes down,” Dan Bagley had told me, condescension dripping like sour syrup from his puffy lips. “You can’t just dawdle down there when you feel like it; they have to be shining before dark. If we can’t see the lights we could run aground. You’d better stay straight while you’re there, we can’t afford to have this messed up.”

     Yeah right—like I’d be waiting for a boatload of contraband and taking it lightly. Like

self-preservation wasn’t enough motivation to do things right for Christ sake.

     The boys are way late, at least eight hours behind schedule. After all the shit I’ve been through, they should at least be on time. Where the hell are they?  

     Out there somewhere on the green-green ocean.

     Actually, it’s black at the moment and changing to gray at the horizon, as the sun begins to rise behind me. You really become aware of horizons by the seaside, especially if you’ve been up all night waiting for a boat that’s hauling your future inside its fuel tank.

     It’s clearly an either-or situation for me: Either I get caught and go to jail for a good piece of time or I get away with it and buy myself some freedom for more than likely a lesser period of time. But what the hell, there aren’t any better offers in the wind and at least I’m not slaving in the hot sun for peanuts like so many others around here. 

     They call Florida a “right to work” state. I believe that means the owners are always right and somebody else does the work for them. I studied labor laws in college; I know these things.

     The higher the sun rises the more I worry. Without some sort of visible marker, it might be difficult to find this relatively small spot on a long hunk of featureless beach, even in bright daylight. Sand goes on in either direction for miles and miles. I clearly need to rig something up for the daylight hours. I try to think but the hot sun is scrambling my brain.

     How much warning, will the boys need to keep the keel out of the sand? Should I rig up a gaudy signal flag? What if the wrong people see it? Will everyone involved in this deal go to burning hell?

     I wonder if the cops know about the van. Maybe they’ve already gotten to Carole and there’s an APB out for a white VW bus with Colorado license plates and black eyelashes painted above the headlights. Maybe the highway patrol is going through it now as I sit here helplessly waiting, only a mile down the beach.

     But waiting is all I can do.

(To be continued)

ebook only $1.99 – through March 15!

Amazon/Kindle: https://amzn.to/3AzETuy

Barnes and Noble Nook:  https://bit.ly/3u24Y2O

Apple: https://apple.co/3D4kb6T

Kobo: https://bit.ly/3isQyUP

Scribd: https://bit.ly/3oskPXN

Indigo: https://bit.ly/2Yo4PeC

Read Full Post »

“My Ship Comes In” is the fourth story, a novella, in T.K. O’Neill’s Northwoods Pulp Reloaded release of three short crime stories and this longer story.

     Carole got a job as a copywriter at a Clearwater talk-radio station and our lives began to change once again. But the more things change the more they stay the same, they say, and I got back on the drugs and alcohol spiral. Only now I had a willing an enthusiastic partner.

     We were like two moths attracted to the same flame.

     But drugs and alcohol, plus squabbling, lead to infidelity and risky behavior. Soon I was strung out and desperate for something to call my own.

     And then one night, Barry Simpson, my old college pal, called from Orlando. “An old friend of yours is in town, Keith,” he said to me.

“Someone I know is in Orlando—right now?”

“Yep, from back in Zenith City.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“Dan Bagley.”

“You’re shitting me….”

     “Nope, it’s true.  He called me the other day from Daytona Beach, said he was going to be in town in a few days. He’s got some other dude with him.”

Regret fills me as I recall my trip to Orlando. If I had stayed at home with my family instead of taking the drive, there might be someone else on this beach instead of me. And I might still have a chance at a normal life.

     Bagley and Schmidt seemed so confident and free; I was taken in. I let Bagley lead me down wrong the path, much like the first time we met. That was back when we were kids and he talked me into sneaking out of Sunday school to smoke Lucky Strikes in the alley behind the church.   

     Sometimes you’re a little slow to learn, I guess.

It’s approaching nightfall now, and still no sign of the boat. Worry has turned to abject fear, overcome only by the need to ease the boredom. I turn the portable radio on as the grapefruit sun gets sliced up by the edge of the world. 

     Hendrix is playing “Manic Depression.” and things are indeed, a frustrating mess. 

     And to think that beaches were one of the reasons why I came to Florida…. 

(To be continued)

ebook only $1.99 – through March 15!

Amazon/Kindle: https://amzn.to/3AzETuy

Barnes and Noble Nook:  https://bit.ly/3u24Y2O

Apple: https://apple.co/3D4kb6T

Kobo: https://bit.ly/3isQyUP

Scribd: https://bit.ly/3oskPXN

Indigo: https://bit.ly/2Yo4PeC

Read Full Post »

“My Ship Comes In” is the fourth story, a novella, in T.K. O’Neill’s Northwoods Pulp Reloaded release of three short crime stories and this longer story.

     Carole got a job as a copywriter at a Clearwater talk-radio station and our lives began to change once again. But the more things change the more they stay the same, they say, and I got back on the drugs and alcohol spiral. Only now I had a willing an enthusiastic partner.

     We were like two moths attracted to the same flame.

     But drugs and alcohol, plus squabbling, lead to infidelity and risky behavior. Soon I was strung out and desperate for something to call my own.

     And then one night, Barry Simpson, my old college pal, called from Orlando. “An old friend of yours is in town, Keith,” he said to me.

“Someone I know is in Orlando—right now?”

“Yep, from back in Zenith City.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“Dan Bagley.”

“You’re shitting me….”

     “Nope, it’s true.  He called me the other day from Daytona Beach, said he was going to be in town in a few days. He’s got some other dude with him.”

Regret fills me as I recall my trip to Orlando. If I had stayed at home with my family instead of taking the drive, there might be someone else on this beach instead of me. And I might still have a chance at a normal life.

     Bagley and Schmidt seemed so confident and free; I was taken in. I let Bagley lead me down wrong the path, much like the first time we met. That was back when we were kids and he talked me into sneaking out of Sunday school to smoke Lucky Strikes in the alley behind the church.   

     Sometimes you’re a little slow to learn, I guess.

It’s approaching nightfall now, and still no sign of the boat. Worry has turned to abject fear, overcome only by the need to ease the boredom. I turn the portable radio on as the grapefruit sun gets sliced up by the edge of the world. 

     Hendrix is playing “Manic Depression.” and things are indeed, a frustrating mess. 

     And to think that beaches were one of the reasons why I came to Florida…. 

(To be continued)

ebook only $1.99 – through March 15!

Amazon/Kindle: https://amzn.to/3AzETuy

Barnes and Noble Nook:  https://bit.ly/3u24Y2O

Apple: https://apple.co/3D4kb6T

Kobo: https://bit.ly/3isQyUP

Scribd: https://bit.ly/3oskPXN

Indigo: https://bit.ly/2Yo4PeC

Read Full Post »

“My Ship Comes In” is the fourth story, a novella, in T.K. O’Neill’s Northwoods Pulp Reloaded release of three short crime stories and this longer story.

     Carole Loraine Stivers Waverly, to be exact, my little flower child, in all her swirling confusion and beauty.

     I was happy to see her and ecstatic to reunite with Mike.

     Carole and I had been quite the couple. I don’t think we spent one night apart for the first three years of our marriage. We fancied ourselves like John Lennon and Yoko Ono, even had their album cover on our bedroom wall. Two Virgins—that was us.

     But when the marriage fell apart, it was gone in a hurry: seemingly happy at Christmas—separated by the Fourth of July. Went from lovers to haters in one hell of a hurry. I guess it was my fault but sometimes I’m not so sure.

     It’s clear to me now that I was trying to bring back the past. If only I’d been smarter or tougher or richer, maybe I never would’ve brought them to Florida. Could’ve kept them out of this mess, if only I’d been strong enough to make it alone…

Chapter 2

Out here on the sand, the waiting is tearing me up. The more I worry about the boat, the more I start to think about Carole and Mike: how much I miss them. The thought makes me hurt, a sad, sick sort of pain.

     My only escape from this lonely prison is to go back in my mind and try and see where it all went wrong. Drift back to the edge of disaster and see where I slipped off.I can see now where our life began to change, how I let certain things push me in the wrong direction.

     We were doing okay there in the beginning. Had a decent apartment and a semi-normal life and Florida seemed okay. I was staying clean and had a job as a tennis instructor at a resort and spa in Clearwater that was paying the bills. The three of us seemed reasonably happy.  

     Then I had one bad break. A real bad break… 

     Slipped on a leaf playing in a money doubles match, broke my leg and couldn’t work anymore. Had no health insurance or financial safety net. But there were plenty of pain pills around.

(To be continued)

Read Full Post »

“My Ship Comes In” is the fourth story, a novella, in T.K. O’Neill’s Northwoods Pulp Reloaded release of three short crime stories and this longer story.

     Carole Loraine Stivers Waverly, to be exact, my little flower child, in all her swirling confusion and beauty.

     I was happy to see her and ecstatic to reunite with Mike.

     Carole and I had been quite the couple. I don’t think we spent one night apart for the first three years of our marriage. We fancied ourselves like John Lennon and Yoko Ono, even had their album cover on our bedroom wall. Two Virgins—that was us.

     But when the marriage fell apart, it was gone in a hurry: seemingly happy at Christmas—separated by the Fourth of July. Went from lovers to haters in one hell of a hurry. I guess it was my fault but sometimes I’m not so sure.

     It’s clear to me now that I was trying to bring back the past. If only I’d been smarter or tougher or richer, maybe I never would’ve brought them to Florida. Could’ve kept them out of this mess, if only I’d been strong enough to make it alone…

Chapter 2

Out here on the sand, the waiting is tearing me up. The more I worry about the boat, the more I start to think about Carole and Mike: how much I miss them. The thought makes me hurt, a sad, sick sort of pain.

     My only escape from this lonely prison is to go back in my mind and try and see where it all went wrong. Drift back to the edge of disaster and see where I slipped off.I can see now where our life began to change, how I let certain things push me in the wrong direction.

     We were doing okay there in the beginning. Had a decent apartment and a semi-normal life and Florida seemed okay. I was staying clean and had a job as a tennis instructor at a resort and spa in Clearwater that was paying the bills. The three of us seemed reasonably happy.  

     Then I had one bad break. A real bad break… 

     Slipped on a leaf playing in a money doubles match, broke my leg and couldn’t work anymore. Had no health insurance or financial safety net. But there were plenty of pain pills around.

(To be continued)

Read Full Post »

“My Ship Comes In” is the fourth story, a novella, in T.K. O’Neill’s Northwoods Pulp Reloaded release of three short crime stories and this longer story.

     Time weighs heavy and I find myself looking back over my recent past, obsessively trying to discover how I ended up here on this beach on a fool’s mission.

     And that’s a question that takes one hell of an answer. 

     First thing, I guess you have to go back to my arrival in the Sunshine State, about eighteen long months ago. 

     There I was; rolling by the orange juice stands and peanut brittle shops inside a Greyhound bus, gazing out through tinted glass at the verdant finery and thinking that I’d finally made it to the Promised Land. The violence, death, and rotten weather in my recent past were fading away like a series of bad dreams. As I stared out at the palm trees and the swamps, I felt a smile coming on for the first time in a long, long while.

     Greetings from sunny Florida!

     For years I’d wanted to send that message back home to Minnesota, back up to the frozen tundra.  Get one of those postcards with water-skiing chicks on the front. You know, two nice-looking girls in bikinis gliding along the water while a third sits on their shoulders waving out at you. A banner flaps behind them proclaiming a welcome from the Sunshine State. The ladies wear big, broad smiles on Miss America faces. 

     Yep, I always wanted to mail that one up there to someone who hates winter. You know, rub it in a little. The catch always was that I never went anywhere to send it from. Set off for Florida, once, spring break of 1967, but never made it, because John Flint’s ‘63 Chevy blew a rod just south of Madison and we were forced to spend three days in Wisconsin drinking cheap liquor, eating cheese and chasing corpulent bar flies. By the time the repairs were finally completed, we didn’t have enough money left for Florida, so we stayed two more days in Wisconsin.

     Eleven years later, I had made it all the way. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t send the card back home. Couldn’t risk it, in case the Zenith City cops were interested in my whereabouts. Although I was confident that Peter McKay’s death had been written off as an accident—which I really believed it had been—I couldn’t be totally sure of the district attorney’s desires. And if they found Johnny Wells in the trunk of his car at the bottom of the Nemadji River, well… 

     Second reason I couldn’t send that postcard: When I arrived in Florida, it was nearly May and the intended sting of the message would be weakened by the promise of spring in the North—however hollow that promise might ring in the land of ten thousand frozen lakes. 

     That’s the kind of shit you think about on a long bus ride. Shit can get going in your head and drive you nuts.

     So I had to keep telling myself to stop thinking about the past. Put it behind me like a bad smell. Like the guy sitting in front of me on the Greyhound who’d stunk up the bus all the way from Atlanta with a foul odor like he’d slept in horse manure. I couldn’t smell the hillbilly couple in the back who were drinking cheap wine and rolling the empty bottles beneath the seats since boarding at a Stuckey’s just inside the Florida line, but I’m guessing they were also an olfactory nightmare.

     Despite the irritants, about a half an hour outside of Tampa, I started to get excited. Soon I’d be off the rotten bus and into the Florida sunshine and all my suffering would be over. There were clearly enough pieces of the pie for everyone to get a bite: fancy cars, condos, and high-class women zipping around in convertibles or sunning in scanty bikinis on the beach. 

     Why couldn’t I have some?

     I couldn’t see any reason why-not. But something just didn’t seem right. Not with me, not with Florida and not with anything. The land seemed desolate and lonely, in spite of all the vehicles and activity.

     But this was Florida for chrissakes—home of cheap dope and plenty of it. Or so I had heard. And read about in High Times magazine. Even Jimmy Buffet was singing about the dope. I never thought for a minute that it would be hard to find drugs in Florida. 

     And it wasn’t.

     Although I was trying hard to change my ways after the excesses and tragedies of the past, those noxious substances seemed to come to me unsolicited.

     So, alone and a fugitive, I overindulged and got myself into an agitated mental state. Excessive booze plus excessive coke equals paranoia and erratic thinking. After one such binge, I found myself with a deep-seated craving for some sort of an emotional anchor, which, somewhere in my twisted mind, my former wife Carole represented. 

     So I wired some money back home and soon Carole and our son Mike, were on a plane and headed south. I was in need of an emotional anchor but what I got was something else again. 

(To be continued)

Read Full Post »

Tom photo recropped

All T.K. O’Neill Books available here:  https://www.amazon.com/T.K.-ONeill/e/B09HPBWMJF

In the spirit of true pulp… an utter joy… downright good reading.”

“… immensely entertaining…”

“… great hard-boiled writing…”

“Ray Bradbury said zest and gusto are among the most important elements to a writer’s makeup. (O’Neill)… may never have read this advice, but he writes like he has. His work sparkles with gusto…”

“(O’Neill) writes his tales from the dark side well.  His dialogue, in particular, sparks with life, and… the clever by-play between characters drives the plot and develops the characters expertly.”

“Another of (O’Neill’s) strengths is his action scenes—and there are a lot of them, as you’d expect with violent and unpredictable characters. His pacing is immaculate, and he handily transitions between introspection, slow scenes and pulse-pounding action.”

“(O’Neill) followed his loves and his hates into a book that holds your attention and enters your psyche.  It presents a coherent, if nasty, picture of the human condition and the world we live in.”

“Frankly, a lot of writers don’t get as far as (O’Neill) did… having something to say and saying it with a little zest and gusto.”

“This collection of short stories is like a peepshow curtain pulled back. You don’t want to look, but you can’t help it. And, when you do, your disgust is tempered by an amazement that makes you want to look – just a little bit more. There are few heroes— at least not the kind who get the girl, the house or win the lottery.”

…. a lean style that he uses well to establish the outlines of his characters early in the stories. Over the course of a few pages he artfully fills in those sketches, refusing to “stay inside the lines.” His laconic descriptions of failed schemes and skewered lives result in wonderfully entertaining tales about the perils and pratfalls of a menagerie of people that can’t help but make you feel better about yourself.”

“These tales are full of people who live their lives to the fullest, in a bizarre way – and examining where, exactly, they end up can be disturbing. Their dreams, often, are the things that make up nightmares for “normal” people. But his characters are the real McCoy…”

From SHOTS Magazine, UK, reviewed by author Russell James:   “Four tales of the coldest North American states… crammed with hard men, hard language, snow and speed.  The backgrounds are good – low bars, cheap diners, empty motels, lonesome shacks – and the characters are tough and quick with their firearms…  These are punch and shoot ’em stories, make it up as you go along; tough and for all we know, authentic … (O’Neill) can write…”

From judge’s comments at Minnesota Book Awards: “…vulgar, violent, venomous.”

From Canadian Chapters.Indigo review: “A beautiful scene in the wilderness—hiding some grisly secrets… mystery writer (T.K. O’Neill) combines the traditional hard-boiled style of James Cain to create a harrowing story of devil worship, death, lawlessness and crime…”

From SHOTS Magazine, Great Britain, reviewed by Mike Stotter, Editor:   “….His writing is dark and twisted, like his characters.

From Reader Weekly:   “…a part of O’Neill’s talent… a character that no one likes but everyone wishes well.”

“You won’t come away with a warm feeling for the Sunshine State… if anything, you’ll realize how the suffocating heat of the humid Southland seems to encourage slithering snakes and festering parasites.”

“(T.K. O’Neill) throws worlds of hurt at his ne’er-do-well characters… in the spirit of Raymond Chandler… his writing process builds on trouble… the underside of the American Dream… a perfect example of noir…”

From The Corresponder (Minnesota State University):  “(O’Neill) is a writer who isn’t afraid to take chances with his story. There are no good guys or bad guys here. (O’Neill) lets his characters run wild and take the reader on a fast paced ride. Feels like classic crime noir with the insanity of a mental ward tossed in for good measure.”

“…his prose soars fast and high and reflects a keen eye for character, plot and setting, and follows the most convoluted stream of events with ease.”

“(O’Neill’s) talented writing is not for the fainthearted of rough talk and experience.  He gives keen insight to the exterior and interior world of a lost man.”

“While the language and environment are in rough-hewn speak, (O’Neill’s) writing has an underlying elegance and his characterization a developed depth.  There is some playful surface dry humor weaving in and out of a tough world context.  Expressed through the series and in this book is a substantially perceptive sense of humanity and lost humanity.”

“While on a wholly different track, and in a style all his own, there are darkened shades reminiscent of David Lindsey, James Lee Burke and John D. McDonald….”

From SPR (Self Publishing Review):  “Capturing the raw energy, resilience, and murky lawlessness of a bitter wilderness, Northwoods Pulp Reloaded by T.K. O’Neill is a stirring and wild collection.

Three intensely told stories capped off with a visceral crime novella, this is a seemingly easy escape read, but the writing is smart and deeper than expected, from high-stakes morality parables to and illicit adventures that quickly get out of hand. O’Neill focuses a bit more on fast-talking dialogue and action sequences than he does on character development, but the world-building is immersive, with colloquial bits of nuance and detail that make the rugged scenes come alive.

The narration and internal monologuing of characters is strong and bold, particularly in the novella, but the dialogue does come off hackneyed at times. However, these stories are ripped from the gritty edge of experience, and even the rougher edges of writing reflect that source material. Told with a reverence for the culture, traditions, and demands of a part of the country that most will never experience, this homage to cold-weather rebels makes for a thrilling read overall.

For any reader who has ever pointed their fortunes north and let their moral compass waver, or loves reading about well-crafted antiheroes, O’Neill’s collection is an intense but entertaining dive into another world.” 

 

Read Full Post »

Tom photo recropped

https://www.amazon.com/T.K.-ONeill/e/B09HPBWMJF

https://bluestonesblog.com/reviews/

In the spirit of true pulp… an utter joy… downright good reading.”

“… immensely entertaining…”

“… great hard-boiled writing…”

“Ray Bradbury said zest and gusto are among the most important elements to a writer’s makeup. (O’Neill)… may never have read this advice, but he writes like he has. His work sparkles with gusto…”

“(O’Neill) writes his tales from the dark side well.  His dialogue, in particular, sparks with life, and… the clever by-play between characters drives the plot and develops the characters expertly.”

“Another of (O’Neill’s) strengths is his action scenes—and there are a lot of them, as you’d expect with violent and unpredictable characters. His pacing is immaculate, and he handily transitions between introspection, slow scenes and pulse-pounding action.”

“(O’Neill) followed his loves and his hates into a book that holds your attention and enters your psyche.  It presents a coherent, if nasty, picture of the human condition and the world we live in.”

“Frankly, a lot of writers don’t get as far as (O’Neill) did… having something to say and saying it with a little zest and gusto.”

“This collection of short stories is like a peepshow curtain pulled back. You don’t want to look, but you can’t help it. And, when you do, your disgust is tempered by an amazement that makes you want to look – just a little bit more. There are few heroes— at least not the kind who get the girl, the house or win the lottery.”

…. a lean style that he uses well to establish the outlines of his characters early in the stories. Over the course of a few pages he artfully fills in those sketches, refusing to “stay inside the lines.” His laconic descriptions of failed schemes and skewered lives result in wonderfully entertaining tales about the perils and pratfalls of a menagerie of people that can’t help but make you feel better about yourself.”

“These tales are full of people who live their lives to the fullest, in a bizarre way – and examining where, exactly, they end up can be disturbing. Their dreams, often, are the things that make up nightmares for “normal” people. But his characters are the real McCoy…”

From SHOTS Magazine, UK, reviewed by author Russell James:   “Four tales of the coldest North American states… crammed with hard men, hard language, snow and speed.  The backgrounds are good – low bars, cheap diners, empty motels, lonesome shacks – and the characters are tough and quick with their firearms…  These are punch and shoot ’em stories, make it up as you go along; tough and for all we know, authentic … (O’Neill) can write…”

From judge’s comments at Minnesota Book Awards: “…vulgar, violent, venomous.”

From Canadian Chapters.Indigo review: “A beautiful scene in the wilderness—hiding some grisly secrets… mystery writer (T.K. O’Neill) combines the traditional hard-boiled style of James Cain to create a harrowing story of devil worship, death, lawlessness and crime…”

From SHOTS Magazine, Great Britain, reviewed by Mike Stotter, Editor:   “….His writing is dark and twisted, like his characters.

From Reader Weekly:   “…a part of O’Neill’s talent… a character that no one likes but everyone wishes well.”

“You won’t come away with a warm feeling for the Sunshine State… if anything, you’ll realize how the suffocating heat of the humid Southland seems to encourage slithering snakes and festering parasites.”

“(T.K. O’Neill) throws worlds of hurt at his ne’er-do-well characters… in the spirit of Raymond Chandler… his writing process builds on trouble… the underside of the American Dream… a perfect example of noir…”

From The Corresponder (Minnesota State University):  “(O’Neill) is a writer who isn’t afraid to take chances with his story. There are no good guys or bad guys here. (O’Neill) lets his characters run wild and take the reader on a fast paced ride. Feels like classic crime noir with the insanity of a mental ward tossed in for good measure.”

“…his prose soars fast and high and reflects a keen eye for character, plot and setting, and follows the most convoluted stream of events with ease.”

“(O’Neill’s) talented writing is not for the fainthearted of rough talk and experience.  He gives keen insight to the exterior and interior world of a lost man.”

“While the language and environment are in rough-hewn speak, (O’Neill’s) writing has an underlying elegance and his characterization a developed depth.  There is some playful surface dry humor weaving in and out of a tough world context.  Expressed through the series and in this book is a substantially perceptive sense of humanity and lost humanity.”

“While on a wholly different track, and in a style all his own, there are darkened shades reminiscent of David Lindsey, James Lee Burke and John D. McDonald….”

From SPR (Self Publishing Review):  “Capturing the raw energy, resilience, and murky lawlessness of a bitter wilderness, Northwoods Pulp Reloaded by T.K. O’Neill is a stirring and wild collection.

Three intensely told stories capped off with a visceral crime novella, this is a seemingly easy escape read, but the writing is smart and deeper than expected, from high-stakes morality parables to and illicit adventures that quickly get out of hand. O’Neill focuses a bit more on fast-talking dialogue and action sequences than he does on character development, but the world-building is immersive, with colloquial bits of nuance and detail that make the rugged scenes come alive.

The narration and internal monologuing of characters is strong and bold, particularly in the novella, but the dialogue does come off hackneyed at times. However, these stories are ripped from the gritty edge of experience, and even the rougher edges of writing reflect that source material. Told with a reverence for the culture, traditions, and demands of a part of the country that most will never experience, this homage to cold-weather rebels makes for a thrilling read overall.

For any reader who has ever pointed their fortunes north and let their moral compass waver, or loves reading about well-crafted antiheroes, O’Neill’s collection is an intense but entertaining dive into another world.” 

 

Read Full Post »

stormy lake superior 2

ebook only $1.99 – through February 28!

“(Northwoods Pulp Reloaded) Three intensely told stories capped off with a visceral crime novella, this is a seemingly easy escape read, but the writing is smart and deeper than expected, from high-stakes morality parables to and illicit adventures that quickly get out of hand. For any reader who has ever pointed their fortunes north and let their moral compass waver, or loves reading about well-crafted antiheroes, O’Neill’s collection is an intense but entertaining dive into another world.” – SPR review

“Hole in the World” 

I pick up a rock from the little decorator’s row beneath the front windows and peg it at the crow. Not even close. I walk over and he flies off towards the lake. Looking down the stone stairway I see a dock with a big boat covered by a blue tarp. Looks like a Boston Whaler with a high windshield and a small flying bridge, two big black and shiny Mercs on the stern. She’s lifted out of the water but I think she’ll probably go. Even got some downriggers if I feel like trolling. I go down the steps to the dock.

     Someone’s been using it this year already; everything is clean. I know boats. Worked on a fishing boat once, just outside of New Orleans. I was nineteen. Water splashes on my feet as I check her out. Feels warmer than my flesh. The prop looks okay. She’s got a nice electric winch set-up keeping her out of the water. I push the green button on the control box on the cedar post and Lucky Lady settles down nicely, just like a kiddy ride at the fair. I have to admire this guy’s set-up: protected little cove, nice little cliff-side abode and truly first class permanent dockage.

     Once she’s in the water and rocking I unzip the blue canvas cover and jump inside to the controls. Sure enough, the key is there.  I give it a turn. 

     Nothing. 

     Again. 

     Nothing.

     I rip off the boat cover and fling it aside then dash to the stern in a frantic search for the battery. I find it in a covered storage area but the positive cable is unhooked. I put the clamp on the post but it’s loose as a whore’s pussy. 

     My fingers don’t work any more; they are hunks of dead wood.

     There’s got to be a wrench or pliers somewhere. Just calm down and think. 

     Look. 

     Slow down.

     Goddamsonofabitch.

     In a corner of the storage area I spot a little gray plastic box with CRAFTSMEN stamped on top.

     Somehow I manage to tighten down that clamp. Somehow the engine fires up. Oh what a beautiful sound, exhaust spitting against the water. Somehow I unhook the moorings.

     Motoring slowly now I can feel the power of the lake building in my chest. Up ahead of me is some angry water. God how I don’t want to leave the safe harbor. God…. 

     There is no God. 

     Eight-foot waves crash against the jagged rocks, roaring like the angry ghosts of a thousand drowned souls. 

     Fear Daddy, fear. 

     God help me.

     There is no God. 

     I push the throttle down and tug at the dark green rain suit I found under the seat. If only there were some dry clothes or maybe a blanket. I keep it a little below half throttle and aim at the center of the breakers. Straight on into the wind. First big one we hit, there’s a heavy crunch and we rock. I’m thinking we’re in trouble, but we hang tight. I just aim it like a torpedo and hold on tight and up the throttle just a bit. Words cannot describe the bouncing, pounding, gut wrenching, bile raising kick of Gitchi Gummi. What does the name mean, Roy? Bad Fucking Lake? Lake that never gives up its dead?

 

I’m going to beat this lake, this fucking Gitchi Gummi. Been at it about an eternity already. The water seems calmer now. Maybe I’m in heaven. But no, it is calmer. I’m coming to something. The water is brown and muddy and the waves are only rollers now. I can throttle up a little more.

     When I first spot land, I feel like Christopher Columbus—or one of those guys. So what if it’s an ugly red clay shoreline with a raging snowstorm going on and everything is frozen but my gut—which burns like hell. It’s land, beautiful, marvelous land. I love land, don’t you?

     Two hundred yards from the shore the engines gasp and spit, then kick back in for another fifty yards before quitting for good.  The boat coasts forward for a moment then slowly turns about and starts drifting back from where it came.

     Drifting ever faster now. Inexorably returning to the middle of the raging, rocking death ride. Back to that lonely, indifferent place.

     I look over the side and see huge black serpents coiling and rolling in the dark water. I crank and crank on the starter but she won’t go. Gas gauge is stuck on the big E. As the shoreline slowly fades from view, there’s a rock in my gut. For an instant I’m ready to jump. Grab a life jacket and jump. But I never could swim much. And the water looks so cold. I’m sick of cold. What is it anyway? This cold? This wet? This lake? 

     Somewhere the sun is shining. But mighty Casey has struck out. 

     And now it’s too late. 

     I just need some sleep. All those drugs… Ginny… goddamn Stu…

     Roy. 

     It’s starting to get going again out here. The black snakes are licking the sides of the boat now. Best thing to do is curl up under the dash and get some heavy rest. Just lie down and dream a little. Maybe, come first light, my daddy will be there waiting….

(End of Hole in the World. Buy ebook and read all four stories!)

ebook only $1.99 – through February 28!

Amazon/Kindle: https://amzn.to/3AzETuy

Barnes and Noble Nook:  https://bit.ly/3u24Y2O

Apple: https://apple.co/3D4kb6T

Kobo: https://bit.ly/3isQyUP

Scribd: https://bit.ly/3oskPXN

Indigo: https://bit.ly/2Yo4PeC

 

 

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »