PRO SE MAKES MAJOR LICENSING ACQUISITION!

NOTED PULP AUTHOR BRINGS BEST KNOWN CHARACTER TO NEW HOME!

Pro Se Productions, LLC. announces today that noted award winning Pulp author Barry Reese has entered into a contract licensing his character, THE ROOK, and all related concepts to Pro Se Productions for a period of two years!

THE ROOK, Reese's excellent take on the classic pulp hero and one of the penultimate characters leading the current Pulp Renaissance, has built up an extensive following and fan base, thanks to Reese and WILD CAT BOOKS and publisher Ron Hanna.  The agreement is that the fine work that has been done on the first five volumes will remain with WILD CAT and this arrangement is for new print material as well as development of other product featuring THE ROOK.

Reese provided the following statement-

"I'm really excited about the new relationship with Pro Se. It's a tremendous opportunity that will hopefully introduce The Rook to new audiences and new media. In a relatively short period of time, Pro Se has established itself as one of the leaders in the pulp field and I consider it an honor to bring The Rook to their publishing platform. I still consider all the folks at Wild Cat Books to be great friends and will continue to work with them on future projects."

STAY TUNED TO THE PULP MACHINE FOR A FULL LENGTH INTERVIEW WITH REESE AS WELL AS STATEMENTS AND ANNOUNCEMENTS FROM PRO SE PRODUCTIONS CONCERNING PLANS FOR BARRY REESE'S THE ROOK!

The American - Number 29

In the split second before the battle sure to come, Paul Sr. scanned the surroundings of the restaurant for casualties, obstacles, and potential weapons.

Twenty to thirty feet stood between the enemy and his cold hard fists.

Three Aspersers – Maybe more in the kitchen or in a trap door somewhere.  Paul would have to keep his eyes open just in case. Most likely he just had to prevent them from pushing a button and calling for reinforcements.  In the old days, he would have held back for a minute or two and let the reinforcements come to their brothers' aid. This always added to the excitement of the battle, but with the kids here, it was probably best to stop this thing before it gets started.  And once it was over they could grab a couple of tacos, Paul Jr. and the kids could get their cheesy-things, and then they could get the hell out of Santa Fe before they arrived.   

Asian Couple, weak - Paul Sr. knew all of the patrons but two—an Asian couple. They were in their upper forties, short, in flowered shirts. But they didn’t have the usual stereotypical cameras. He wondered if they would be an asset, liability, or if they were possibly a plant put there by the Indian to attack anyone foolish enough to invade his house.  If that were the case, then they would probably sneak up from behind when he least expected it.  That would mean during the battle at a moment when he was the most exposed, they would attack.  Or maybe they would just start shooting guns at him and his family if he got out of line. 
 Unless, they were the whistle. 
Damn it, they were probably the whistle, which meant that their job was to simply lift a cup or eat a chip, and that would be the message to someone somewhere who would come and firebomb the whole building. Or let the poison gas out of the cylinders. Or blow the floor out and the place would drop into a vat of freeze foam. Hell, It could be anything.

"Of Kin and Clan" by: Nancy A. Hansen

"Of Kin and Clan"

by: Nancy A. Hansen

as published in

PRO SE PRESENTS 

Fantasy & Fear #3 
BUY YOURS TODAY AT ttp://stores.lulu.com/proseproductions

Excerpt: 

“See anything you like?” Rhandor asked, as they threaded their way through the crowded marketplace. The short man with the long sword and the natural born warrior’s stride walked slowly alongside the equally short woman in the light leather ranger’s outfit, his eyes constantly darting around watching for potential problems.

Roshanna was still far from popular in the capital city of Calimsharv, even after getting an official pardon from the Duchess. Rhandor felt it was his duty to protect her when she was in the city, though he knew Roshanna was perfectly capable of watching out for herself.

“They don’t seem to have much to offer,” Roshanna said with a little frown that narrowed her green eyes and wrinkled her snub nose. “It’s all the same stuff, and most of it is far too big for me too! I don’t want plate; it’s too hot and heavy. Ring mail is lighter and you can move better in it, but crossbow quarrels go right through it, so what’s the point? I already have all the leather I need. I think we’re wasting our time,” she protested.

“Don’t give up that easily,” the shorter of her two male companions said with a grin. “The best equipment isn’t usually out for the public to see. You have to ask for it. They put out the common stuff that they figure mercenaries and day soldiers can afford and save the better things for the good paying customers. They want to unload this garbage as fast as they can,” he said, sweeping an arm to indicate the hodgepodge assortment of rusty plate mail and battered shields in the stall they stood before. “The good stuff is usually behind the counter somewhere.” As a an experienced soldier, Rhandor knew his way around an armor dealer’s stall, and so he was more than happy to escort the fabled Huntress of Greenwood on a shopping excursion.

There was a throat clearing noise on Roshanna’s other side that said Leonhar was about to weigh in on the matter. The journeyman wizard had accompanied them on this trip into the city simply because he invited himself along. Tall and lean, always with a serious expression on his face and long black hair tied back in a mare’s tail, he was quite the traveler, and so very knowledgeable on many topics. Unfortunately he was always too eager to prove it too, and could be quite the bore at times.

“Remember, we haven’t been to the Dwarven section yet,” Leonhar added in his usual know-it-all fashion. “There you will see uncommon workmanship even amongst the most mundane of items.”

“Yeah, and an uncommon price to match it!” added Rhandor with a sarcastic chuckle. He purposely cut Leonhar off before the taller man could expound upon his vast knowledge of Dwarven artisans and techniques. “Show them a purse and the cost of the item goes up before they even find out what’s actually inside.”

The Book of Green - Number 7

The beast burned through the apartment after its prey the moment Cole touched down from his mighty leap. Blood and slobber flung from its jowls as it screamed into Cole’s fleeing body. The weight of the beast was more than the engineers had ever planned when drawing up the building, and each of its powerful steps dug into the floorboards, splitting them, and separating them from their joists. Even though Cole ran with every fiber of his body, he was no match for the speed and size of the beast, which quickly moved in for a backbreaking blow. It knew that once Cole’s spine was shattered, or if it swung too high and removed Cole’s head, it would be able to feast on both his sole and flesh at a leisurely pace before it had to transform and return to the snow.

Pulling back his mighty limb, the beast knocked over most of the living area it had recently transversed. The senses honed in on the future placement of its prey and then it began to swing in the general area needed to end Cole’s feeble attempt to stave death. The strike flew in the direction of Cole’s ribs, and the mighty devil smiled its nasty devil smile. Shadowy tracers followed the blood drenched limb as it lashed closer to its target.

"The Sign of the Fourth" A Sherringford Bell Story by: Ken Janssens

"The Sign of the Fourth"

A Sherringford Bell Story

by: Ken Janssens

as published in PRO SE PRESENTS Fantasy & Fear #3 
BUY YOURS TODAY AT

http://stores.lulu.com/proseproductions

Excerpt:

          There were two things that I was very passionate about. The first was the Washington Nationals. There’s nothing like smelling the cherry blossoms planted at Nationals Park as you take in a night of America’s only real gentleman’s sport. It didn’t matter how inept they were season after season; I still loved my adopted baseball team. The second thing I was passionate about was my work. What we did, Sherringford and I, there might not be anything more important in this world. We tracked down the demonically possessed, and usually we sent the monsters back to the hell they came from. But, for today, that would have to wait.

          “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” screamed the pool boy as droplets of water splashed against his bare chest. To the casual observer that just walked into the situation, they would have thought that the tightened ropes that bound the Native American teen to the top of a dining room table would be what caused him pain. They would be incorrect.

          “This will only hurt worse and worse until you decide to talk,” I warned him. The warnings rarely work. Looking around the room, it was obvious that my surroundings were not meant for such things. Though I didn’t know what kind of price tag some of these pieces of furniture and immaculately decorated dishware came with, I was sure that I couldn’t afford a single one of them on my priest’s salary. Not that I cared about such things. It was just that, even though I had eaten in the Hopes’ dining room several times before, this was the first time I thought about the value of its inanimate objects.

          “You’re torturing the wrong man,” yelled the pool boy, spit flying out of his mouth. “This is what he wants. Not me.” It was difficult to look into his red eyes while he screeched and thrashed about.

           

"Desire of the Apprentice" by: C. William Russette

 

"Desire of the Apprentice"

by: C. William Russette

as published in

PRO SE PRESENTS 

Fantasy & Fear #3 

BUY YOURS TODAY AT

http://stores.lulu.com/proseproductions

Excerpt:

     A country of mages and sorceresses do not thrive in their craft by practicing on sticks and stones or even rats and lizards. To understand change one must understand that which you wish to change. The mortal form is a complex thing, the same as fixing ones sight on the future. Often one doesn’t get the result sought on the first try and then its just back to the dungeon in hopes of a more successful second try.

     Those blessed with the sight and the natural dexterity of mind to learn the craft won’t even think on Blakkrfell and head straight to the Vanir or Aesir schools to learn their craft. To plant their lips upon Odin’s backside! Those with brass and an eye for challenge come to Rikr Keep. My students may be fewer in number but I’ll put any three of Odin’s whelps against one my witches, Kjalvör thought, laying languidly amidst her vast bed’s many pillows.

     The emissary from Skogrheim lay next to her, naked and exposed. Completely vulnerable and drained almost unto death from his exertions. He did finally please the queen but only just. The seduction was tedious and without challenge.

     Still, there is something to be said for youthful enthusiasm, she mused. Should I finished him off or allow him to live to return to Skogrheim with my reply to King Faddi‘s ludicrous demands? As if I would have anything to do with the training of one of his daughters in the craft. I already have a student. She is more than a handful as it is. It has been five years since Freia arrived begging on my front step with but a few simple illusions and tinctures to her name. No, let King Faddi’s daughter attend the academy with all the other tiresome applicants that will only take what Blakkrfell has taught them and become a royal vizier or the town seer making love potions for the ugly and gold the slow of wit. I believe, as I did when I first saw her, that Freia will be something special. She has that mercurial glow to her. It’s maddeningly indecipherable.

The American - Number 28

“One.Two..Three…”
Carolyn lifted her father with all of her might. She strained as he feebly attempted to help her. Looking at the frustration in his eyes and trying to talk her way through the pain, she coached, “Just a few yards, Dad.  Just a few yards. Here we are…let me open the door.” 

The door opened to the inside of a less than well cared for fast food joint, which featured a form of taco only known by white Americans as a taco. Paul Jr. sat inside stuffing his face. The children watched in awe as their uncle inhaled sour cream wraps and cheese hunks hidden in meat.  Carolyn knew from the look of excitement in Marcus’s eyes that if he had been in college, he probably would have been chanting ‘Go!’  

Confused and trying to catch his breath,  Paul Mcconnell chided, “Carolyn, we don’t have time for this.”   

The caregiver anger swept over Carolyn.  “Dad, we’ll just be inside for a minute or two until we can figure out our next move.”

“We don’t have time to sit down….and…Dear God!  There he is!”

"Citadel of the New Moon" by: Kevin Rodgers

"Citadel of the New Moon"

by: Kevin Rodgers

as published in

PRO SE PRESENTS 

Fantasy & Fear #3 

BUY YOURS TODAY AT

http://stores.lulu.com/proseproductions

Excerpt:

The boy floated on his back in the swimming pool and stared up at the night sky. When he was younger, his parents revealed that back in ‘The Old Times’, there was only one moon. His feet splashed and his arms whirled, propelling him backward toward the deep end of the pool. As he stared at the twin moons and twinkling stars, he wondered how The New Moon entered the Earth’s orbit at the end of The Old Times. He knew he’d reached the deep end of the pool when he floated by the words six feet, which were spray painted on red tiles slightly above the water line.

Six feet under, he thought to himself. He stopped swimming and looked down into the dark water. Although he couldn’t see the grate at the bottom of the pool, he knew it was there. During the day, he swam to the bottom of the pool with his best friend, Jason. They challenged each other to see who could hold their breath the longest. Jason was older and stronger, so usually won.

The boy knew his parents would be worried about him if he stayed outside much longer. He should have been under cover thirty minutes ago. He knew his dinner would be cold when he decided to get out of the pool, dry off with a towel, and go inside the house. And he knew he’d receive a spanking from Daddy when his parents realized he’d stayed outside after the curfew. If a roving police officer found him in the pool after dusk, his parents would be forced to pay a hefty fine. For each person who remained beyond cover after sunset, a citation of one-hundred dollars was issued. The town’s Curfew Advisory Board used the fees to help fund overtime for extra police officers, who were needed to deal with the infestations of gargoyles at night.

PULP ARK 2011 AWARDS WINNERS ANNOUNCED!

          Tommy Hancock, Editor in Chief of Pro Se Productions and Pulp Ark Coordinator, announces that voting has closed for the 2011 Pulp Ark Awards, the first awards given in association with this inaugural Pulp creators' conference/convention.

The Winners of the 2011 Pulp Ark Awards are-

BEST BOOK

Tales of the Red Panda: The Android Assassins by Gregg Taylor (Autogyro Press)

BEST SHORT STORY

The Mountain Goats of Madness by Phil Bledsoe (Phil Bledsoe)

BEST COVER ART

Tales of the Red Panda: The Android Assassins by Thomas Perkins (Autogyro Press)

BEST INTERIOR ART

The Rook Volume 5-Anthony Castrillo, (Wild Cat Books)

BEST PULP RELATED COMIC

Boston Bombers (Red Bud Studios)

BEST PULP MAGAZINE

Masked Gun Mystery  (Pro Se Productions)

BEST PULP REVIVAL

Green Lama -Green Lama Unbound by Adam L. Garcia (Airship 27/Cornerstone)

BEST AUTHOR

Barry Reese

BEST NEW WRITER

Tommy Hancock

LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT AWARD

Tom and Ginger Johnson

The awards, 8X10 engraved wooden plaques, will be awarded in the middle of Pulp Ark, the evening of Saturday, May 14, 2011.  Hancock stated that all winners as well as nominees are encouraged to attend, but any winners who could not would receive their awards by mail.  Pulp Ark thanks all who nominated, all who voted, and congratulations to all the nominees and especially to the winners of the first ever Pulp Ark Awards!

The Book of Green - Number 6

   

Running with a screaming naked woman on your shoulder and trying to get to the door of her apartment before a creature from a horror comic rips you apart is not the easiest thing in the world.  Cole learned this usually useless fact the hard way.  Red was screaming and kicking with all of her might, but he knew if he put her down, if he lost just one step, they would never make it out of her apartment alive.

An unearthly noise, horribly between a scream and a roar, erupted from the bedroom.  Cole stepped even faster.  His leg buckled after Red made contact with his left temple.  He hammered her behind with the clenched fist that wasn't keeping her on his shoulder. This only enraged her Irish blood, and she began swinging harder and cursing him with names that not even a seasoned dick knew.

“Shut up! I’m trying to save you!” he shouted.

“I don’t want to be saved, you mother fu…”

Her voice froze in mid slur and Cole’s spine could feel a warning from behind. The beast was coming.