ATTENTION! GUEST ANNOUNCEMENT INCOMING! We are happy to welcome Ernest Russell as an Author Guest for CoastCon 42
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
A PAST FULL OF PULP ADVENTURES! HIGH ADVENTURE HISTORY: HISTORY’S HEROES DEBUTS!
History is full of Heroes…and Heroes make history! Pro Se Productions announces the release of HIGH ADVENTURE HISTORY: HISTORY’S HEROES, available in print and digital formats.
The highly anticipated follow up to Pro Se Productions’ HIGH ADVENTURE HISTORY focuses on the over the top pulpy adventures of characters chosen or even forced to take up the fight for right throughout time. Regardless of the era, heroes are always needed and Teel James Glenn, Matthew McRae Martin, Dale W. Glaser, and D. Alan Lewis deliver tales of derring do and danger in HIGH ADVENTURE HISTORY TWO: HISTORY’S HEROES. From Pro Se Productions.
Featuring an atmospheric cover, logo design and print formatting by Antonino Lo Iacono and Marzia Marina, HIGH ADVENTURE HISTORY: HISTORY’S HEROES is available for 99 cents at Amazon.
The second volume in the historical pulp anthology series is also available for the Kindle for $2.99. HISTORY’S HEROES is also available to Kindle Unlimited members for free.
For more information on this title, interviews with the author, or digital copies for review, email email@example.com.
CyPhaCon Returns to the Lake Charles Civic Center April 12-14, 2019!
This blackest dawn,
This brightest night.
Creep toward shadows
Shadows are tranquil.
Grey skies shield the light
A soothing emptiness.
Filled with whispers and lures
The voices are loud.
Hands over my ears,
My eyes closed tightly.
Blindly stumble onward
To avoid drowning in mire.
Treading in place
Trying to hold
Onto the abyss.
By thin ice.
If I fall,
It could crack,
I could freeze.
To the pain.
If only someone else understood.
Thank you for reading,
(image from pixabay)
Took a break from book review which I am writing for a new magazine and came across an article in the New York Times, Every Building on Every Block: A Time Capsule of 1930’s New York.
It has some great street scenes from the 1930’s, since an upcoming digest novel coming out later this year and I have two works in progress, its sequel and another new novel, always enjoy looking at the old photos.
One in particular caught my eye and is going to find its way into a work in progress, Tales from The Sleeping Hare, is the Gnome Bakery. It should fit quite nicely into the Pulp Noir Fantasy world.
A quote from the Times article.
“In 1930, a small building on East 59th Street by the Queensboro Bridge was remodeled for the Gnome Bakery. By the time the tax photograph was taken, a retail bake shop in front had been turned into a loading dock for Gnome’s trucks.
Today, Gnome is gone, and the building is dwarfed by postwar apartment houses. Gnome was swallowed up by a larger baking company. After housing a picture-frame maker, an exterminator and a kitchen-supply store, the building became a chiropractor’s office with a rental apartment upstairs that was listed for $14,000 a month in 2015.”
Thanks for reading and sharing a momentary excitement about my writing.
(image from Pixabay)
Our lives are glass
Painted in the blood
Of our brothers and sisters.
Shattering of hearts unheard,
As the stones
Of our difference
Mementos’ gathered in haste
Memories of what was,
What could have been.
Lost in the darkness,
The true price of war.
Hell is what this sour land will be
As Death walks among us.
Stirring this crucible of religion
In madness and blasphemy.
In a hurricane of hate
A million shouted destinies destroyed.
A ghost smile clenched in her teeth,
The babe seeks comfort still
From the teat of mothers rotting corpse.
Truth comes only
From mute words of the innocent,
As they wash upon the shore.
May they forgive us,
As they sleep in deadly peace.
Tired, cold, I am descending
Into the silence of emptiness
I close my eyes.
What will you see
when I close my eyes forever?
For as the Angel of Death
Walks among you
Know his true name-
Thank you for reading,
(image from pixabay)
To glide above mountains
Sharing lonely midnight,
As the moon moans softly,
Through churning clouds of ash and soot.
Boldly through the light
– another city, far, far away.
A chance to find my dreams,
Live in worlds of my design.
Dreams- yes, need to find my dreams.
Brush away cobwebs of faded memories
-seeking jewels among nuggets of cynicism –
If I need it.
All my energy for now
To pour myself into Moving.
Moving day –
Sword of Damocles creeping up on me.
A future is narrow, wide and deep.
Crossing into it with fear and excitement and –
All the feels I tell you.
All of them.
It is a step in the right direction,
Over the cliff of time.
Into the future we go,
A chance to live-
Live happily ever after as I’m falling.
Thank you for reading,
(image from pixabay)
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
PSYCHEDELIC PULP RETURNS IN THE FABULOUS WORLD OF ZENITH-THE RED DAGGER STRIKES II for 99 CENTS!
Chuck Miller, the creator of The Black Centipede and perhaps the father of Psychedelic Pulp, returns readers to The Fabulous World of Zenith, an original Pro Se Single Shot Signature Series that will examine the world of the Black Centipede, Vionna Valis, Mary Kelly and Doctor Unknown Junior from a variety of strange and oblique angles.
The mystery continues in THE RED DAGGER STRIKES: BOOK TWO. Is the Red Dagger a masked demon filling citizens’ hearts with fear? Or a horrific disease spreading through the world like wildfire? Perhaps a brave hero forced to hide her identity due to some secret? Or a top secret government operation intent on dominating humanity? Only Chuck Miller knows, but every reader will learn the truth if the Fabulous World of Zenith when THE RED DAGGER STRIKES! BOOK TWO. Now Available from Pro Se Productions!
Featuring an atmospheric cover and logo design by Jeffrey Hayes and digital formatting by Antonino Lo Iacono and Marzia Marina, THE FABULOUS WORLD OF ZENITH: THE RED DAGGER STRIKES BOOK TWO is available for 99 cents on Amazon. The second chapter in Miller’s tale is also available to Kindle Unlimited members for free.
The first book of THE RED DAGGER STRIKES is also available on Amazon in digital format.
For more information on this title, interviews with the author, or digital copies for review, contact Kristi Morgan, Pro Se’s Director of Corporate Operations, at firstname.lastname@example.org.
The skiplane landed first needing the room on the snow while the helicopter floated to the surface with a gentle thump. The slow rotation of the Sikorsky’s main rotor the only sound which could be heard either close at hand or in the far off distance. Even my own breath seemed to die as soon as it left my mouth. It was an eerie sort of tranquility. I felt like prey even though no predator could be detected.
Where was the crew? The first noticeable thing was the utter lack of motion from the stricken plane. There was absolute stillness about the scene. The air is so brittle it could snap from our hails as we approached. The radio silence was eerie enough, this lack of human response caused a dread to creep down my spine, as spider carefully leaving a trail of silk.
When we pulled the hatch none of us were prepared for what greeted us. In the dim wintry light of the interior, the crew was utterly still and more than slightly frozen. They could only have been dead for hours. At first glance, the cause isn’t apparent but the chances of them all dying being natural, even in this harsh and unforgiving environment, are remote.
The navigator and radio operator were at their stations. The rest spread along the floor of the cabin, as if in repose. Their still forms perfect in every way.
The mechanics began their inspection of the aircraft, quickly locating the broken line. A repair of this nature under ideal hangar conditions would take three to four hours. This was less than ideal. If the weather held, the crew chief estimated this could easily be a 12-hour job.
We set up under the tent pulled from the stranded crafts emergency stores and unloaded the tools and parts needed for repair. The skiplane is capable of carrying ten passengers. It had carried six, four mechanics and two medics plus tools and supplies to the location of the ill-fated flight. The Norseman would ferry six of the ill-fated crew on its return to Little America. The S-52 would carry the other four. A new crew would return on the Norseman to pilot the aircraft once it was repaired.
The medics performed a cursory exam of the crew as the bodies were evacuated to the skiplane. While evacuating Reeves body, his nickname had been Curly because of his premature bald spot, a small hole was found in the crown of his head. Upon noticing this abnormality, the crew was reexamined. A hole, about the size of a number two pencil, was found in the same spot on each of the men. None of us, could even begin to guess what could have caused this wound, much less, how did they all receive the same wound with no signs of a struggle?
Six of us watch the two aircraft take off, heading back to Little America. The three mechanics and the crew chief, one of the medics and myself temporarily stranded in this barren wasteland of white. So far, at Little America, we have been fortunate to encounter temperatures varying no more than between zero and 20° or 25° above, no more rigorous than a New England winter really. Here deeper into the continent the temperature on this open plain has already fallen to minus 5°. The rampaging wind from the nearby plateau whips the snow into the air, which even with goggles on is blinding and stings any skin it can reach.
As designated sleep time approached, we realize there is no room in the tent for all six of us with the supplies. The crew had accomplished a great deal in disassembly, they were not quite to the point of removing the faulty fuel pressure line. Preparation to install the new line would still be at least half a day’s work. The replacement, which had to be flexible for installation, could not be allowed to freeze before completing repairs. While none would admit it, none of us truly wanted to spend the night in the R4D. We decided to draw straws for three us in the plane and three for the tent.
This Dystopic day
Spent questioning our society.
Refusing to be lulled into complacency
Confront both past and present.
Protest fundamentalist laws affecting women’s bodies.
At stake, ourselves, survival, and resistance you
Construct acts of peaceful resistance
Not being entertained,
The small minded angered
By the color of your skin.
Somebody burning baubles in rage.
They were not entertained
While the men, women, children dying –
Killed daring to breathe the air.
Patient and aware,
No pat answers or even a satisfying conclusion,
To console the afflicted.
Futures are yet to be written
IF we can maintain our own autonomy.