Rural Fiction Magazine would like to publish more writers from around the world, regardless of your country of origin.
RFM wants to develop talent, measuring it in a fair and equitable way to find hidden and disadvantaged talent in a world where not everybody has an equal chance to exhibit their abilities. RFM does not discriminate against anyone. The only personal criterium for publication is talent in use of English and in developing outstanding stories. Because RFM embraces the global community, RFM embraces differences, whether those are race, age, ethnicity, religion, gender, sexual orientation, or physical ability. RFM wants to see diversity in writing from around the world, from all time zones. RFM respects everyone’s voice and strives to create a culture in which people from all cultures, races, and backgrounds feel encouraged to express their ideas and perspectives. You can help our contributors gain exposure by sharing their works widely and also by back linking to them and to RFM’s homepage.
RFM is seeking short stories, poems, reviews and press releases, on rural fiction books that reflect the beauty, tranquility, joys, anguish, sorrows, humor, tragedy, comedy, and drama of rural life. RFM believes that all stories are about people and that genre is secondary. Therefore, RFM is open to almost all genres such as mainstream, literary, romance, horror, western, mystery, thriller, historical, realist, coming of age (Bildungsroman for those who speak German), science fiction, magical realism, dystopian, etc, so long as they are connected to rural life and culture anywhere in the world.
Your work must be in English. It can a translation from your native language, but it must be in English, which is spoken around the globe and gives the work and author substantial worldwide exposure.
For more information on what RFM is accepting and on the submissions guidelines, please go to our submissions page.
Please note that there is no pay for this other than a publication credit and exposure to the American and English markets. However, all rights remain with the author.
Currently, RFM is publishing material within a few weeks of acceptance, though this may vary depending on the number of submissions.
Please share this announcement to give it maximum exposure.
Every family has a history filled with stories, recollections, and memories. Over time, these reminisces take on a life of their own, but a note of caution: they will only remain alive as long as someone in the family remembers and shares. Over the course of decades, leaves begin to fall from every family tree, and eventually, only bare branches remain. My parents passed away over 25 years ago, and in the intervening years, three of my sisters departed Dodge too soon and are with them. As the writer and historian in the family, I am putting the proverbial pen to paper to bring back to life one of the central stories my siblings and I were raised with. In fact, it is the genesis of our familial history, when two saplings met and created a new family tree.
Our parents were indeed an attractive couple. As a young man, Dad was one handsome dude, and Mom was beautiful, with high cheekbones. My sisters, brother, and I learned from our parents that Dad had a motorcycle as a young man and that our mother had met him in Vineland, in the Niagara area, when she worked there as a young Farmerette. This was after WWII when there was a need for produce, but in a world where many young men, formerly farmers, had given up their lives. Thus, the Farmerettes came into being, and many young women from the countryside joined to do their part at the Vineland Farmerette Camp and other places in the province. Mom was only 16 that summer, and it was her first time away from home for such a long duration. Dad was six years older than our mother and undoubtedly cut a dashing figure on his Harley-Davidson motorcycle that summer day. As children, we knew the bare bones of this seminal family history, but I now wish we had fleshed out more details and asked more questions.
When did Dad buy his motorcycle? When did he get rid of it, and why? Did Mom want to work as a Farmerette, or had her parents convinced her to go? Was it love at first sight when Dad and Mom met in Vineland? Did they date for the next four years until they married, or did it take time for our parents to fall in love? Were our maternal grandparents concerned that their daughter was interested in a man six years older than her? Why did our father ask our mother to
go on the motorcycle that fateful day in Vineland?; why not one of the other girls? Was it just for a spin around Vineland or a ride of a longer duration? How did The Clanging Pistons originate?
Yes, that was the name of the group of young men and their motorcycles: The Clanging Pistons. Dad would smile when telling us about the group’s name and fondly recall memories of how he and his friends would drive around the countryside on their motorcycles. Of course, the culminating story would be about the group travelling to Vineland to see some local girls from the Clinton area who were working at the Vineland Farmerette Camp. A few of the girls were either sisters or sweethearts of these dashing young, motorcycle-riding men.
Even as a child, when I heard about The Clanging Pistons and the Vineland Farmerette Camp, it seemed to me to belong to a gentler, kinder, and more romantic time. That story, the genesis of our family, took on a rather fabled and folkloric aspect over the years, particularly when, over time, it was apparent that our parents did not have a fairy-tale marriage. It was a
typical marriage of the era: hardworking parents, a large family, and children who grew up during radical societal change. Our parents loved each other but did not have much in common and were sometimes at odds. However, they stayed together for their children; that is the greatest gift they could give us. As our parents aged, they became closer, and due to my mother’s ill health, Dad became her caregiver.
For a long time, I had not thought about Dad being part of The Clanging Pistons and that Mom had been a Farmerette after the war. Then my sister sent an email to me with a link to an article in the local news about the Farmerettes and their central role during and post-WWII in tending and harvesting vegetables and fruit in the Niagara region. A new Canada Post stamp would be issued to recognize their services. The article highlighted the contributions of local girls who became Farmerettes from the early ‘40s to the early ‘50s, mostly in Ontario’s Niagara and Windsor regions. A few months earlier, the Blyth Festival had also staged a play about the Farmerettes. They were getting their long-deserved recognition.
Some of the women who were formerly Farmerettes are still alive, in their 90s, and have been interviewed. When my mother passed away in 1996, I was asked to give her eulogy. In one part of the eulogy, I referred to how our parents had met on a fateful, fairy-tale day in Vineland in the late ‘40s. I mentioned that our father had taken my mother on a motorcycle ride that lasted for almost 50 years. I said that I could imagine the two of them on our father’s motorcycle that day in Vineland: Dad, cutting a handsome and dashing figure on his beloved Harley-Davidson, and our youthful, beautiful mother sitting behind him, hanging on for dear life. I described how I pictured them that day: Mom’s glossy hair blowing back in the breeze, and I quipped that Dad’s hair was probably blowing in the wind, too, because he still had a good head of hair back then.
Due to the renewed interest in the Farmerettes recently, my brother sent a photo to my sisters and me that had been posted on Facebook years before. It is one that I remember from our youth; it had probably been in our mother’s photo album for years. It was in the local paper in 1948 and depicted five young men who had gone to the Vineland Farmerette Camp to visit local girls working there. The Clanging Pistons is not mentioned, but Dad and his four motorcycle buddies are in the photo, proudly sitting astride their Harley-Davidsons and presenting a dashing group. This may have been after their triumphant return to Clinton from Vineland; these vibrant young men had their whole lives ahead of them, and there was the promise of other anticipated adventures along the way.
John RC Potter is an international educator from Canada who lives in Istanbul. The author’s poems, stories, essays, articles, and reviews have been published in various magazines and journals. His story, ‘Ruth’s World’ was a Pushcart Prize nominee, and his poem, ‘Tomato Heart’ was nominated for the Best of the Net Award. The author’s gay-themed children’s picture book, The First Adventures of Walli and Magoo, is scheduled for publication.
Please share this story to give it maximum distribution. Exposure is our authors’ only pay. You can also help our contributors gain exposure by back linking to them and to RFM’s homepage.
Henry looked at the dead puma. Jesus H. Christ…Never seen anything like this shit. He nudged the corpse with his boot. Two-year-old male. He bent down, pulled his Buck knife from its worn leather sheath, and used the fixed blade tip to raise the dead lion’s outer lip to examine its teeth and gums. Full set of healthy teeth, including razor sharp fangs. Henry scraped a little bit of blood and flesh from the teeth. The puma had a tuft of bristly boar hair stuck in its lower lip. He bit that hell hog at least once.
Henry checked the claws next; they were also healthy. From the front left paw, he pulled another tuft of the boar’s coarse hair from between the toes. He pushed the pad just under one of the retractable claws, forcing it out. The claw also had dried blood on it. Raked him, too.
He rolled the corpse on its back. Damn, that hell hog splayed him open, mid-stomach to ball sack. Henry ran his hand over the rib cage; he felt at least three broken ribs. That bastard steamrolled him, just like the two cur dogs and pitbull he killed a couple weeks back. This bastard is big.
Henry dragged the cat off the single track by the tail, then used his knife to skillfully cut its head and paws off. He carried them over to his side-by-side and wrapped them in his camo jacket. As a professional hunter, Henry knew this was illegal as shit in California. Hell, I only seen one mountain lion in my life. I ain’t gonna get this chance again. I’ll make me a claw necklace and euro mount the head. He unsnapped the tie downs holding his shovel, then headed back to bury the remains.
#
From the top of the ridge at the edge of his ranch, Randall Miller waved for Henry to come up. Henry nodded and waved his cowboy hat, then jockeyed the ATV up the twisty dirt road. He stopped at the cattle gate leading into Randall’s ranch.
Randall greeted him, his old .44-70 with iron sites resting on his shoulder and his .44 magnum revolver strapped to his hip. Jesus, the old boy looks like he can barely carry his own weight let alone that old lever action and the hand cannon.
“Howdy, Randall. I found that dead lion you told me about down in the wash below west ridge.”
Randall blew snot cowboy-style from his nostril, then spat Redman juice into the dust. He looked at Henry with his good eye, his blind milk-white eye locked vacantly to the right.
“Ain’t never seen a damn thing like it,” Randall said.
“Amen to that. This is the nastiest boar I’ve ever heard of.”
“You gonna find and kill that sombitch before it kills another dog of mine?” Randall asked.
Henry smiled. Worry about yourself old man…that boar’ll kill you if he gets a chance.
“Yep. Randall, I’ll kill that boar for you. For now, you just keep your dogs in their pen for a few days. Tomorrow, I’ll bring out my ankle biters and scent hound and catch his ass.”
Randall spat chew juice again.
“You kill ‘em and bring me the skull and cape and I’ll pay you double. I want to mount that sombitch and hang him on the damn wall.”
Henry nodded, turned, gave a wave without looking back and headed to his side-by-side.
#
In the shade of the canyon, Henry drove down the dirt track just faster than he could walk, his body leaning out, his eyes scanning the dirt hoping to cut a fresh track. His scent hound, Clovis, sat next to him on the passenger side, his nose lifted into the breeze trying to catch the first pungent whiff of boar. Behind them, their leashes clipped to a D-ring bolted to the bed, his rat terrier, Mabel, and his jack russell, Gertie, laid on each other napping. Henry loved watching the little dogs fearlessly latching on to the ankles or ball sacks of pissed-off boars.
Henry spent the entire morning zig-zagging the network of ranch roads and trails that wound through the canyon. He knew the pigs would push up into the foothills soon; the days were getting hotter, and the creek was a trickle now. The mud would dry soon. I need to kill this bastard before he kills another dog or moves up into the hills for summer.
Around noon, Henry stopped atop a knob to glass. He hadn’t cut any fresh sign. He let the dogs loose. Mabel and Gertie stretched, sniffed, pissed, then began chasing each other in a big zig-zag.
“That’s it girls, get some exercise. We ain’t finding this bastard today.”
Clovis ambled a few yards out on the point and made a few circles with his nose held high. Smelling nothing, he laid in the dirt and promptly fell asleep. Henry pulled out his cooler and grabbed a cold Diet Coke and some jerky. He had two cold beers ready for after he killed the pig. Where the fuck did you go, you nasty fucker? Hell, I don’t even know what you look like…
#
Sometime around 1:00 a.m., Randall’s hounds began howling and yapping in their pen. Sombitches best not be yapping at a goddamn skunk again. The cacophony grew in volume, becoming frenzied after a minute or two.
Clad in long johns, Randall grabbed his .44 magnum, wrestled himself into his cowboy boots, and donned his cowboy hat. He’d almost tottered to the dog pen when he caught the rancid stench of wild boar. Goddamn he’s close.
Randall opened the pen and his four remaining cur hounds raced toward the small avocado orchard behind the ranch house. Randall gave chase in a slow, unsteady jog. He could hear the dog’s barks becoming more urgent. They’re on his ass now.
Randall became winded. I ain’t gonna catch ‘em on foot. He decided to get his ATV. I’m gonna kill that bastard myself!
He was halfway across his yard to his garage when the big boar charged. Half-deaf from age and gunshots, he heard a grunt right before impact.
As he laid in the dirt, blood trickling from his mouth and ears, and a warm torrent of blood running down his thigh, he realized the dog’s barks were moving further away. Then Randell realized the boar had returned. He reached for his pistol.
#
Just after sunup, Clovis picked up the scent. Henry clicked on the dog’s collar, made sure it was registering on the iPad display, then cut Clovis loose. As a scent dog, Henry had trained him to track and point when he was within a hundred yards.
“Once old Clovis finds that bastard, you girls are going to catch him and fuck his nuts up,” Henry said to his little terriers. Gertie pawed at the air, ready to work. Mabel yawned.
Henry watched the iPad icon of his hound move on the GPS grid. Clovis worked in a slow arc, first moving away from Henry, then looping back. That boar is moving slow.
Around 9:30 a.m., Clovis stopped moving. Henry checked the display. Shit, he’s only 200 yards north of me. Looking at the GPS topo map, Henry could see the boar had likely bedded increek bed below. He pushed back his cowboy hat and massaged his temples. He hit the recall button for Clovis.
“I ain’t losing old Clovis or you girls,” he said aloud.
#
Henry loaded his Remington .300 magnum with 180-grain solid bullets. He worked the bolt, put one in the pipe. He turned his scope down to its lowest power. He strapped his Ruger.44 loaded with bear rounds to his right hip, grabbed his shooting sticks and left the dogs leashed to the side-by-side.
He walked up a steep fifty-yard rise in the road to the top of the ridgeline. On top, he angled toward the canyon edge running above the creek. Henry figured the boar was bedded in a small wallow he’d found a few days earlier. The morning was already pushing 70 degrees Fahrenheit. That old boy will be laid up in the shade near the mud and water.
Henry moved slowly watching the ground for loose scree and rattlers. Crouching, he made his way to a small series of boulders. Keeping low, he peeked around the boulder. It took a minute to see the boar with his naked eye. A seventy-yard chip-shot.
Partially obscured by brush, the boar laid in the shade of a young oak tree. Henry spied the hind quarters through the scope. He can’t see or smell me. No hurry. He set his rifle down, took off his flannel overshirt and laid it atop the flattest boulder he could find. He got set and began to examine the scrub brush obscuring the boar’s front half. Through the scope, Henry could just make out a section of the boar’s light-skinned belly and its front leg. There it is… Lung shot…
He mentally rehearsed his plan. Aim. Half-breath, squeeze on the exhale. Reload, anchor back hips with follow-up. He practiced moving the scope from his first planned shot to the hindquarters.
He steadied himself, breathed, and took his shot. He heard the tell-tale “thwack” of the heavy solid bullet hitting the boar. He was surprised the boar’s hindquarters were not flopping as he lined up and took the second shot. The second thwack echoed.
Henry chambered another round, but the big body laid motionless. Stoned his ass on the first shot. Goddamn.
Henry made his way down to the dead boar. I’ll cape him and pack the head out now…leave the meat for other pigs or coyotes.
When he approached the dead boar, the smell struck him like a fist. It was ranker than the typical boar musk. Henry could smell the putrid stench of festering wounds. Must be those puma bites turned green.
“Holy Christ,” he said aloud when he finally saw the full size of the boar.
He must go 475 lbs…those cutters are at least six inches showing. Fucker looks like a cross between a Russian boar and a warthog.
He wanted a couple kill photos and skin out the cape for a shoulder mount, and pushed the boar onto its belly, bent its hind legs, and pushed them under the boar to stabilize it. When he repeated the process up front. Henry stopped and shook his head. Son-of-a-bitch was probably already dead when I shot him. He crouched and pulled the boar’s tattered right ear back and examined the entrance wound. Then he ran his hand back to the exit wound. A chunk of skull was missing a couple inches behind where the bullet entered. Randall must have got him…then he slowly died down from a brain bleed here.
He took his photos and went to work.
#
In the early dusk, Henry sat on Randall’s front stoop bathed in red and blue flashing lights. He ran his hands through his graying hair, while giving the head game warden his statement. The deputy warden walked over to join them.
“Looks like the old guy got a round off and nicked the boar’s brain before it killed him,” the second warden reported.
“Did Randall die right away?” Henry asked.
The wardens exchanged looks.
“It took a while. That boar slashed him good in a few places…then still fed on him for a while before leaving.”
Henry almost vomited, composed himself, and asked, “what about Randall’s dogs?”
“They’re fine. We locked them back in their pen. We think they got on a smaller boar and chased it when the big boar ambushed the poor old guy.”
“Jesus,” Henry said.
“The dogs were laying next to the old guy’s body when the ranch hands found him this morning.”
Henry shook his head and sighed.
“Never seen anything like it,” the head warden said.
The deputy warden patted him on his shoulder and started to walk off. “Can I take his dogs? He’s got nobody,” Henry asked.
“I don’t see why not. They’d be going to the shelter anyway. They look like good hog dogs,” the deputy warden said.
“Those dogs…my dogs…we’re all retired,” Henry said as he got up and headed for the pen.
JD Clapp is a writer based in SoCal. His creative work has appeared in over 50 different literary journals and magazines including Cowboy Jamboree, The Dead Mule, trampset, and Revolution John. He is a two- time Pushcart Prize nominee (non-fiction) and a three-time Best of the Net nominee (fiction and poetry). He has two forthcoming story collections (2024/2025): Poachers and Pills (Cowboy Jamboree Press) and A Good Man Goes South (Anxiety Press). He can be reached at www.jdclappwrites.com X @jdclappwrites; Bluesky@jdclappwrites.bsky.social; IG @jdclapp
Rural Fiction Magazine is on a mission to showcase the rich tapestry of rural experiences from around the globe. Whether you’re penning heartwarming tales, poignant poems, or insightful reviews on rural fiction books, we want your voice! Our open-minded approach means we welcome all genres—be it romance, horror, or magical realism—as long as it connects to rural life. Your story matters!
A Worldwide Platform for Diverse Voices
With contributors from 46 countries and counting, RFM celebrates the universal human experience. By submitting your work, you join a vibrant community that transcends borders. Share your unique perspective and connect with readers who appreciate the beauty and complexity of rural narratives.
Fast Publication for Your Creative Work
No waiting indefinitely to see your words in print! At RFM, we pride ourselves on our efficiency—most submissions are published within weeks of acceptance. Get ready to inspire others and gain well-deserved exposure in English-speaking markets including the USA, UK, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Ireland.
Your Voice Matters – Take Action Today!
Ready to share your story? Visit our submissions page for detailed guidelines and join us in celebrating rural fiction’s diverse tapestry. Remember: while there’s no monetary compensation beyond publication credit and exposure, your writing will resonate with an audience eager for authentic voices like yours.
Spread the Word!
Please share this announcement far and wide to help us discover exceptional talent from every corner of the world!
Rural Fiction Magazine is on a mission to showcase the rich tapestry of rural experiences from around the globe. Whether you’re penning heartwarming tales, poignant poems, or insightful reviews on rural fiction books, we want your voice! Our open-minded approach means we welcome all genres—be it romance, horror, or magical realism—as long as it connects to rural life. Your story matters!
A Worldwide Platform for Diverse Voices
With contributors from 46 countries and counting, RFM celebrates the universal human experience. By submitting your work, you join a vibrant community that transcends borders. Share your unique perspective and connect with readers who appreciate the beauty and complexity of rural narratives.
Fast Publication for Your Creative Work
No waiting indefinitely to see your words in print! At RFM, we pride ourselves on our efficiency—most submissions are published within weeks of acceptance. Get ready to inspire others and gain well-deserved exposure in English-speaking markets including the USA, UK, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Ireland.
Your Voice Matters – Take Action Today!
Ready to share your story? Visit our submissions page for detailed guidelines and join us in celebrating rural fiction’s diverse tapestry. Remember: while there’s no monetary compensation beyond publication credit and exposure, your writing will resonate with an audience eager for authentic voices like yours.
Spread the Word!
Please share this announcement far and wide to help us discover exceptional talent from every corner of the world!
