The authors of The Nettle Tree had a challenging assignment indeed, to breathe new and strange life into a genre that all but the enthusiast may consider a bit overrated, trivialized or overdone, and they did so brilliantly. While my taste in Western fiction runs more in the lines of prospectors trudging through deserts looking for mythical gold caches and scouts surveying new lands, I found a number of stories in this collection that had me re-evaluating the Western and its possibilities. Phil Richardson's The Sheriff of Hog Waller is clever and convincing as outlaws, the townspeople, and the law conspire to make a killing off the bounty system. Christopher Wolf's zombie story, Tears on the Prairie, is poignant and intense. But I would have to say the title story, The Nettle Tree, with its transporting energy fields, captured my imagination and kept it close at hand throughout the story, and Leigh M. Lane's trickster in Valley of the Shadow deftly ramped up the suspense and atmosphere. There's bound to be something for just about any reader in this collection of original short stories. The Nettle Tree is most highly recommended. (5 stars)

Hunched in his brown tweed suit, the one he had purchased to let the world know he was a true Bohemian, Quince Humphrey tried not to think about his queasiness. Never before had he understood what it meant to feel green. He tried to reassure himself that the lurching and swaying of the small ferry would someday provide him an idea for a story. That was his strength as a writer – turning misery into plot. It just hadn’t been his plan to be miserable this particular Thursday evening. 

Isn’t this just the place you’d like to join us? If you would, Mr. Dove will be waiting: 

The old man stared at Quince, and the younger man stared back. Never before had Quince seen such a pitted face – grooved and furrowed by time and no doubt the unpleasant island weather as well. Quince took in the paleness of the innkeeper’s complexion, the stringy white hair that hung beneath the ridiculous cap, the thinness of his wrists and angles as they emerged from his nightshirt, the boniness of his hands and bare feet.

“May I come in?” Quince asked reaching to pick up his suitcase. He was struck by the weariness in his own voice. “I could use a drink. Do hope you have a gin and tonic?” He tried to make the request sound light and friendly. 

“Mugget sent you, did he?” The old man swayed but did not move from the doorway. The lantern, which he was carrying, swayed with him casting dancing shadows on the nearby walls. 

There was another pause as the man seemed to study Quince’s words. Finally he said, “Didn’t expect you till morning. Not a night fit for ferrying.”  

Be ready for a charming encounter, but watch out for the beautiful daughter.