PulpRev Sampler Anthology 2017

By Jesse Abraham Lucas

This is a collection of short stories and novel excerpts from writers associated with the PulpRev movement in the latter half of 2017. PulpRev is a literary movement aimed at restoring the spirit of the old pulp adventures, not just the aesthetic, and has roots in the Appendix N and OSR movements.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jesse Abraham Lucas
• Release date: Oct 26, 2017

Book preview

PulpRev Sampler

A Collection of PulpRev Short Stories

Copyright (c) 2017. All rights reserved.

No part of this ebook may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in reviews.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

All stories in this collection are a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Editor's Note

The Knights of Aos Si

by N.A. Roberts

The Ghost Fist Gambit

by Bradford Walker

Primitive Life Forms

by Julie Frost

The Plowshare’s Lament

by Jesse Abraham Lucas

Excerpt: For Steam and Country

by Jon Del Arroz

Herald of the Dead

by Todd Everhart

Silence in the Cell Block

by T.T. Arkansas

The King’s Portion

by David Skinner

Excerpt: Assassin in Everest

by John C. Wright

Into the Hands of a Living God

by Dominika Lein

Lucky Spider’s Last Stand

by JD Cowan

Avatar of Pain

by PR Marshall

Excerpt: Wings in the Night

by David J. West

The Red World Dies

by Fenton Skeegs

Longman & Cobbledick

by David Godward

Danger on the Colony Ship

by John Daker

Defiance

by Jon Mollison

About the Authors

Thank You

Editor’s Note

A long time ago an army of authors wrote a barrage of stories for the cheap magazines of the common man, on rough paper just a step above wood pulp, for no reward but a few cents and love. There's a misconception these days that what they wrote was mere schlock, shallow and lurid and bound by formula. The best way to clear that up is to read it. There's more to it than hard-bitten detectives, bug-eyed monsters, and dames with legs that go all the way down. Those grand old forgotten old writers left a legacy of stories with heart, real people facing real problems and falling in real love while having real adventures, in a burst of creativity the world hasn't seen since.

Nowadays paper is cheaper and pixels cheaper still, and through the magic of the online archive more works of these pulp masters are coming to daylight. The reader's first reaction is I want to read more. The reader's second reaction is I want to write this kind of thing. The reader's third reaction, while knee-deep in the kind of story they always dreamed of but until now never could conceive, is I've been lied to.

Because it's not just bubble-helmeted space captains and ray-gun-wielding masterminds. The spirit of the pulps isn't the aesthetic of the film reel, it's a zeitgeist as strange and wonderful as a lost and regained Fairyland.

What you will find here is a tribute not to the pulps' looks but their feel, stories by authors all trying, in their own ways, to revive that spirit, to start a revolution that brings those wonders back. You will read tales of horror and heroism, faith and failure, heart and brain and muscle all together.

It is our pleasure to present to you this sampler.

The Knights of Aos Si

by N.A. Roberts

They rode down from the mountains in early April, and the men in the villages trembled and shut their doors. Those who were caught in the fields doffed their caps and dropped upon their knees. For the memories of men are short, and they did not remember the kindnesses done eons past by the people of the mountains for the people of the valleys. Nor did they even know the purpose for which the glittering cohort rode today. They merely wondered, and feared what they wondered at.

The faerie knights rode seven abreast. At the center was Nauda the king, dressed in the colors of his house: the pale blue of the spring morn, quartered with the dark blue of the autumn eve, with boots and gloves of milk-white leather. Under a silver circlet his face was pale and delicate, finely lined about the mouth and eyes. His faded gold hair was long and loose, and his mustaches bristled arrogantly above a bloodless lip and pointed beard.

Behind him came his brothers, Neith, Dalbaed, and Crom. Beside these Lords of the Aos Si rode their sons, and the faces of every one were almost unbearable to look upon. These were faces devoid of all life and all mortal vitality, animated only by unearthly pride and eldritch valor. Only a few dared to raise their eyes in secretive glances as the train passed, and those who did felt that they looked at animated statues. Were they able to articulate their thoughts, they would have said that they saw simulacra of humanity more perfect than any carved figure, but infinitely less alive. Each was beautiful in a subtly different way, each identically inhuman.

The column left the fields and reached the open downs, and Lord Neith gave a signal. The knights broke into loose formation, and mingled as their inclinations led them, but they did not speak.

They moved at a canter over the turf until they arrived at the appointed place. Here in a shallow vale a circle of mushrooms sprouted about a lone rowan tree. No men would build within miles of this place, for they knew that such rings mark places where faerie blood has been shed.

It was two hours after noon, and the shadow of the tree was already beginning to lengthen.

Conand, the grandson of Neith, rode up from the rear.

The witch and her brood are late to the tryst, as usual, he said.

So eager for blood-letting? returned the King.

It's witch-blood to be let, and my brother Corrin to do the letting, was the reply. Indeed, I am eager to see it.

I for one am not eager, said Corrin quietly. It will be a stiff contest, and I am not yet ready to leave the world. Still, I drew the lot; thus it falls to me to uphold the pact today.

Shorten your face, brother. Not one of them is a match for you, said Conand.

Who can say? said Corrin solemnly. But come what may, so be it! At any rate, we shall soon see, for there they are, cresting the hill!

Into the dell rode four figures on gray horses. Lady Carmun led them. She was tall and haughty, ancient and beautiful, dressed in a black gown with silver gloves. Her sons followed her, pale-skinned, dark haired like their mother—Dubh, Dian, and Dother.

King Nauda inclined his head to the witch as she dismounted, but though her pale, supercilious eyes roved over him, she did not deign to respond.

I see no reason for ceremony, said she. You have already laid one of my children under earth on this ground, and it would delight you to do so again today. Let us begin at once. Whom do you send against me today?

Do not forget, my lady, that you laid a son of mine to rest in this place as well, said the King. I too dislike parley. Yes, let us begin. Sir Corrin, son of Cethlann will uphold the honor of Aos Si upon the field today. Let your champion speak!

Dubh urged his horse forward. I will face him, he said. In the name of my brother, whom his sire slew.

The Witch-Knights ranged themselves on the southern side of the tree, while the faerie troop took a stand to the north. Having each dismounted and withdrawn for a space to arm himself, Corrin and Dubh now faced each other alone upon the field.

The Aos Si Knight was in fluted armor with a blue-upon-blue tabard. The visor of his armet was raised, his ivory face impassive. The Witch's champion wore a suit of bronze, with neither surcoat, nor plume, nor any color at all on his body. The light made him a second sun, while it seemed to stain his adversary's arms with fresh blood. His face was covered.

Sir Corrin likewise lowered the bars of his visor. Both drew their iron-edged swords and arranged themselves on guard.

The trumpet blew, but neither knight moved. They stood silent, weighing each other with unseen eyes. Slowly they circled, the space of grass narrowing between them. They were fully within the shadow of the rowan tree when the first blow was struck. Dubh slipped forward and stabbed for bars of the other's visor. Corrin warded the stroke and retreated. The circling recommenced, then Dubh struck again, for the same target, and again Corrin defended and retreated. For the third time they circled and closed the distance, and this time Dubh stabbed for the body. He was blocked, and Corrin returned the stroke with a slash. Dubh leaped back and closed again with another