Open Anthology call for EDGAR ALLEN POE-TIME TRAVELER!


As part of its week of calls to fill open anthologies, Pro Se Productions announces that a minimum of one story is needed for a collection focusing on a wild alternative take on of the world’s best known and mysterious authors-EDGAR ALLEN POE-TIME TRAVELER!

 A concept that takes Poe to a whole new level comes from the creative brain of author and anthology editor Ernest Russell. The concept for this anthology comes from an old theory that makes a note of rather curious and seemingly prophetic events in Poe’s writings.

 Stories in the anthology should work from the premise Poe was a frequent time traveler. While examples represent only a few adventures/information he incorporated into his stories, this anthology shall feature the stories of his experiences that he did not report.

 • Stories can only travel to Poe’s future. No grandfather paradox.

 o Travel to a period can involve a historical event or occurrence but is not necessary.

 o These adventures do not have to relate to Poe’s published work.

 o Allies/Companions in the story will be considered. Still, many have been done using H.G. Wells and Nikola Tesla stories; using them will not be allowed.

 • Stories are not to be set within Poe’s lifetime.

 o One exception – because of the mysterious circumstance surrounding his death- stories involving the week before his death will be allowed, though limited in number.

 • Any method of time travel is available – Portal, Mental/astral projection, Magic, a mechanical device, etc.

 • Stories can be in any genre. Poe had an influence upon-Detective, Horror, and Science Fiction.

 All interested authors should request the anthology bible and submit proposals for a single 7-8,000 word story to The story will be due within 60 days of acceptance if the proposal is accepted. Once the story is completed, the entire anthology will move into the publication queue. Payment will be royalty based.

 If you have any questions, email Follow Pro Se Productions on Facebook for all of the latest new and releases.

Thank you for reading



Zombie Island


Everyone’s dying to get to the islands…and even coming back from the dead…in author Wayne Carey’s ZOMBIE ISLAND, now available in print and digital formats from Pro Se Productions.

San Bernardo is a tropical paradise nestled in the blue waters of the Caribbean. Except that Sean, Bear, and Kira Hillstrand are vacationing on the island involuntarily. When young Carla Mendoza is attacked by a creature that looks like it just crawled out of a grave, the three Hillstrands jump at the chance to investigate.

While exploring the jungle, they stumble upon a body and witness a disfigured person captured by military personnel. The island’s world-famous Spinosa Clinic is the center of activity, with the visit of a South American general and military crawling all over the exclusive grounds. Experiments are going on, a strange virus is being developed with disastrous results, but the Hillstrands discover something more terrifying, more dangerous than an island overrun with zombies, with Sean, Bear, and Kira the only ones who can stop it.

ZOMBIE ISLAND by Wayne Carey. From Pro Se Productions.

Featuring a spooky cover by Larry Nadolsky and logo design and print formatting by Antonino lo Iaocono, ZOMBIE ISLAND is available for 11.99 on Amazon.

Carey’s horror adventure novel is also available on Kindle formatted by Antonino lo Iacono and Marzia Marina for $0.99 for a limited time Kindle Unlimited Members can read this thrilling adventure for free!

PUBLISHER’S NOTE-As of 2/20/22, two reviews are attached to this book, dating from 2015. These are not reviews of this novel and have been reported to Amazon.

For more information on this title, interviews with the author, or digital copies for review, email

Visit our website to learn more about Pro Se Productions.  Like Pro Se on Facebook to keep up with all the latest news and releases.

Nightmare Asylum and other Deadly Delights – A Book Review

Nightmare Asylum and other Deadly Delights – Author Sonia Kilvington

Review by Ernest Russell

Nightmare Asylum and Other Deadly Delights by Sonia Kilvington starts at the cover. Your eye is drawn ever deeper upon viewing the cover art by Craig Douglas. This book, like the fabled abyss, will stare back at you as Sonia Kilvington plumbs the essential nature of human relationships. For these stories are not uplifting, Chicken Soup for the Soul, no, these stories are much more Charles Addams style. You see, each of these stories strips away normal. To quote Charles Addams –“Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.”

These are short stories at their finest, which are a different skill set than a novel. Novels have time to explore the full three-act structure.  In a short story, you often only have space to write a segment of the three-act structure, usually a portion leading to a significant, transformative event for the main character.

Good short stories will have an impact. They strike you and stick with you. Weird tales and horror stories can kick your adrenaline and hours, maybe days later, they still rattle around inside your head. In this style, Sonia Kilvington is a master.

From the title story Nightmare Asylum to the final story Winter Baby, this book will enthrall you. They are fast reads. We need to remember horror does not lurk solely in darkness, seclusion, and gore. Innocence, passion, greed, and yes, even beauty, can bring their horror. Only the lucky ones get out of this through death. For the unlucky, shredding sanity as madness takes its toll.

If you ever watched Scooby-Doo, you should know this lesson. The real monsters are people. Stroll through the pages of Nightmare Asylum and Other Deadly Delights by Sonia Kilvington and meet the monsters. I wager you might even recognize a few.  

You can find Nightmare Asylum and Other Deadly Delights by Sonia Kilvingston on Amazon. It is available in print and on Kindle.

Thank you for reading,


CoastCon 42 Panel Schedule

First off, I just want to say I am SUPER stoked that I am going to on a panel with two gentlemen, both of whom I admire greatly. A Lovecraft panel with Alexander S. Brown and Sandy Petersen. When I read that I let out a squee that made my partner jump.

For those in the area or attending the convention it would be fantastic to see you. Come by after the panels or visit my table and introduce yourselves.

Friday 8PM Panel Room 3
Lovecraft: His influence in today’s world Ernest Russell, Alexander S. Brown, and Sandy Petersen

11:00 AM Panel Room 4
Using Social Media Platforms to promote as an author Ernest Russell

2:00PM Panel Room 1
Writers’ Panel Steven Brust, Julie Wetzel, Alexander S. Brown, Derek Dykes, Ernest Russell, KD Wood, Jen Mulvihill, J.B.

12pm Panel Room 4
Science Fiction Themes: What has changed? Ernest Russell

3pm Panel Room 3
So you want to write? Ernest Russell

Thank you for reading,

Ernest Russell

Highjump (excerpt from a work in progress)



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.

Black Dog

The Black Dog is stalking me, it has been sniffing after me for days. This Black Dog is substantial; standing on all fours, its shoulder comes to my chest. Right now, it is broad of back, paws the size of dinner plates, thick black fur – black as pitch – covers it, but that is right now.

Of all its forms – large/small, menacing/cute – two things remain consistent. The color of its fur is always the darkest, deepest black. The other is its eyes. No, they are not the clichéd glowing red eyes. That’d be far too easy. Red eyes could symbolize many things – passion, fury, evil even – all of which symbolize some sort of life. Where there is life, there is hope. Black Dog brings no hope.

A soul, no matter how twisted, can be seen.

Those eyes haunt me; waking or dreaming, they are terrifying. Sunken pits, surrounded by cracked, grey skin, they do not absorb or reflect light as an eye would, rather they are dead lights – devouring all life and light up which they fall.

Once I tried to embrace the Black Dog, to overcome my fear of him and accept it.

The experiment failed. With Black Dog at my side or occasionally leading, the paths we walked grew darker. Swiftly my sense of direction was overwhelmed. Black Dog began to blur indistinctly into the gloom.

Panic welled up when I thought we became separated. I listened intently but could hear nothing. So profound was the silence, my heart had no beat. Between the silence and the absence of light – the grave would have seemed raucous.

Lost – in the deepening wood – each step sinking into a rising tide of madness and despair. In this pre-dawn blackout, devoid of birdsong, it was then Black Dog came to me.

Silently, Black Dog padded to my side. I saw it only because the eyes; their somber obsidian pitch caused the surrounding pool of gloom to seem bright in contrast. Black Dog’s considerable tongue slipped from its jowls to lap at my arm.

The tenticular appendage caressed my arm, as a lover in the afterglow.

Each quiet stroke brushing my skin left me – thinner.

I was unable to tell if Black Dog was showing affection – or feeding.

As the moist muscle slid along my flesh the essence of my being became gaunt and longing, a pang of hunger even began to drive me.

Desperate in the fear of my ephemeral essence dissolving under this tongue onslaught, I lashed out.

Believing it had a docile meal under its sway, Black Dog was knocked back, stunned.

I shambled through the woods unseeing, uncaring. I can sense Black Dog stalking me, waiting for a chance to pounce; I cannot let it happen. If I succumb to Black Dog, I do not believe I could survive its affection. Yet, the promise of oblivion has an allure all its own.

When I contemplate surrendering to Black Dog and its promise to give me the sweet enticement of oblivion, the craving brings forth the anguish of longing, and I stumble onward.

I live, for now, in perpetual twilight.

In the distance there are lights. Snatches of revelry and merriment occasionally drift to me.

When they do, the hunger and desire intensify. If I strive to join the revelry, I am unable. I am outside looking in. I see the gaiety and mirth through windows, but they are barred, and I find no portal.

Black Dog will appear, tongue lolling to one side, the musky scent of tinctured rancid breath emanates from its maw. I cannot – I must not – succumb to it. For down, that path lies madness and its consort – oblivion.

My life has become a constant flight from Black Dog’s darkness and toward the lights beyond the woods.

Some nights I dream. A simple doorway allows me to enter a grand ballroom. People smiling, laughing, welcome me as a long-lost friend. Always, it feels awkward. There is a haze between us – we are focused differently. As Phineus, whose sustenance is so near yet is stolen or despoiled by the harpies as he approaches, so too does my connection to their reality.

In the distance, a baying. Everyone turns; I feel my façade melt away.

Horrified, the once merry band flees, their faces melting as truths are revealed – and I become the reviled.

A howl now. The source of the baying comes closer. It awakens me from my stupor. Doggedly, I get up and push onward to continue my (dream?) struggle, to walk the world between madness and death.

Flash Friday- A tear is shed

It is a dark and stormy day, noon indistinguishable from midnight. I stand here, high on this isolated crag watching the eternal struggle between the turbulent, windswept waves and the rocks at the base of the cliff.

In the distance, a form arises from the sea toward the sky, the waves find a new challenger in their battle for supremacy of elements. To my eye the figure is only discernible because it is darker than the surrounding storm.

I am drawn to the small strip of beach at the base of this cliff. The path is narrow as it winds along the cliff face. The winds icy fingers pry against my back, threatening to pull me from the safety of the cliff wall. Pellets of rain strike my face with the sting of nettles forcing me to find my way by feel. My thoughts look back to the safety of top as the path narrows, but I am compelled to continue. The edges of the rock shelf crumble under my feet.

Finally I arrive at the beach below the cliff. Here, I find scant shelter from the raging storm. Scan the horizon to find the dark mass as the water, its strength sapped in futile battle with the rocks, laps hungrily at my ankles. A sense of destiny overcomes me as the water forms a conduit between us.

I walk along the beach, seeking a more favorable view, and a single ray of moonlight slices through the heavens. The beam draws a line from the darkness to the beach. Automatically I walk toward it. The light touches the beach above the tide mark. It runs straight to the mass I know now as an island. The feeling of destiny stirs my feet to motion. As my feet rest on top of the light they begin to move of their own volition. I follow as the beam of light becomes my solid path through the waves. The storms churn all around, wave’s tower and begin to crash, but the path is peaceful.

My stride is confident as I boldly walk across the water. A glance over my shoulder and I see the path behind me disappear, reclaimed by the storm. There is no turning back. Calm descends upon me for this is how it should be.

The wet sand crunches under my foot as I step from the bridge. This island has a marvelous vista. This was home to a thriving civilization once, even in ruins its magnificence is overwhelming. A sadness and nostalgia for home moves me as I realize I am home.

With the knowledge this was once home I proceed unerringly to the great door. Down, down the cathedral corridors to the crypt.

Here, in this place he lies sleeping. A quote, from a language long forgotten, springs to my mind unbidden, the source unknown.

“That which sleeps may eternal lie and with strange aeons, even death may die.”

The slow rise and fall of his titanic chest gives witness to his life and hope. The joy of it is almost uncontainable.

The sight of this majestic being lying imprisoned before me instead of free in the heavens where he belongs causes my eyes to swell with tears. A tear rolls slowly down my cheek.


Gently, a tentacle reaches from the shadows brushing it away.

 Thank you for reading,



Opus Marduk – Pt 3

The Adversary Knight had barely brought JonDuc time to reach the lower levels of the temple. Evidence of the monstrous battle taking place above and the abuses caused by the land raider were all around in the visibly crumbling walls and ceilings. Each step was treacherous as the building shifted in its death throes. Rounding the corner JonDuc entered a cathedral size chamber.

There in the center of the abomination called an altar by the darkest powers, stood an odd cube. The gray, silver metal pulsed in a sickening imitation of life, the case of the Pandorica Libre. With intent to take it back to vaults of Titan, further probing the secrets of chaos, JonDuc reached for it. With simultaneity of chaos, Marduk entered the chamber.

JonDuc grabbed the cube, forcing its cool sliminess into the pouch he carried. At this violation of Chaos, by this follower of the Corpse Emperor, the full wrath of the Chaos hosts screamed forth.

Already on his way to Daemonhood, Marduk burst from his armor, shredding millennia old ceramite plates as paper. Touched by Ghurzil and filled with a rage so intense the very air burst into flame, he charged.

The temple almost did not withstand the first blows of the two as they struggled. JonDuc could not endure, the blows came to fast, too powerful and Marduk fought as Ghurzil incarnate. In the end, the final blow came not from Ghurzil’s demonic weapon, but from the beast itself as Marduk ripped the throat from the once Grand Master placing his torn head on the altar in obsecration to the Dark Powers.

Taking the Pandorica Libre in one claw, Marduk ascended to the top of the Temple carrying Jonducs’ still twitching form in the other. Looking across the plaza he saw the other Berzerkers activating the pylon gate. Dipping one blood stained finger into the cavity Jonducs’ neck once capped, Marduk fed the sigils in the pylon next to him. As he did, they began to glow. Brighter and brighter, pulsing in time with the Pandoricas’ case, the enemies of chaos were consumed in the warp flame as the Chaos burst into the material plane.

Feeling a stirring in his hand, Marduk watched as the Pandorica opened. Bathed in its eerie phosphorescence, he knew how to make these changes permanent. Leaping from the temple; spreading his wings he flew toward his cheering men. As they gathered, he began the slaughter. None could withstand him. As he swung, effortlessly cleaving their bodies and rendered them headless. Gathering the bloody skulls of his followers, he took them back to the altar.

For here, among the skulls of foe and battle brothers, calling out from the Pandorica in the language of Chaos, he absorbed their psyches. Burning and offering each to Ghurzil as the blood flowed. ….

For my actions Ghurzil himself granted the Ka’daath system in the Astronomicon Sector as my own principality. There have been many battles worthy of saga and I have ruled for many cycles of the galaxy.

Until the day Martus’ summons arrived.

Thanks for reading,