Joe Pulver, Sr.

About me:

Blood Will Have Its Season

By Joseph S. Pulver, Sr., author Nightmare's Disciple
Introduction by S. T. Joshi
Illustrated by Thomas S. Brown and Stanley C. Sargent
2009
ISBN 978-0-9814888-8-2
$15.00

(c) "Blood will have its Season" and all included stories: Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.
(c) Cover art: Thomas S. Brown, 2009



Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. is the acclaimed author of the Lovecraftian novel Nightmare’s Disciple and the author of many short stories that have appeared in magazines and anthologies. He has received several Honorable Mentions in Datlow’s and Windling’s The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror.

The dark, forbidding alleys of ruined cityscapes; the hopeless lives of brutalized whores, amoral hit-men, and vengeful-victims of violence—these are the landscapes and characters that fill the stories, poems, and prose-poems of Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. in his first collection. And yet, there is a strange and intoxicating beauty to Pulver’s creations, for they transport the reader out of the mundane and into the unearthly by the effortless stroke of a dazzling metaphor. Many of Pulver’s stories are innovative riffs on the enigmatic mythology of The King In Yellow, pregnant with the demonic witchery of the original. With this collection, Pulver places himself in the forefront of contemporary fantasy and horror literature. Please order your copy here :



Extract from BLOOD WILL HAVE ITS SEASON

Carl Lee & Cassilda
Scissors telling Mama the Truth . . . A white court house in a small white town; hard men in dark suits with cold ugly eyes behind unsightly horn-rimmed eyeglasses, and a host of questions . . . The bells of a church—a white church with a white cross—ringing . . . Then Inside Dr. Archer’s asylum; brutes in starched whites with cold ugly blue eyes, and bitchy, skinny-ass nurses with pills, and later, after the attack on fat, bouncy Nurse Barbara, needles. A lifetime commitment; Violent Ward, Room 1. Shut away for eleven years in Dr. Archers’ asylum . . . AND—
Fourteen days in The Room (this last time). White room, glaring light overhead; false light, blinding light. Night and day the artificial white light blazed, unless he closed his eyes. Fourteen days, lying on the white floor, back to the white door. Beyond the white door, beyond the sterile white halls and the crowded wards, and Dr. Archer’s office, and the caretaker’s bungalow, the highway, and the desert with its good-for-nothing little towns of tattered no-names. The great painted desert; hungry lizards slashing across shimmering, shamanic sands; rebel cactus under siege; roadhouses; hombres; the survival games of bugs and scorpions and birds and mice and rattlesnakes; and the line in the sand, on the other side, winter in Mexico. Fourteen days under the glare of Dr. Archers’ cold dark eyes behind unsightly horn-rimmed eyeglasses. Fourteen days in doubt’s icy shadow, pressed by endless questions about the book, its Truth, and Mama: “Where did you first—When did you—Why did you—Were you—What do you remember about——Did you—Didn’t you—Did she—Do you have—Tell me about—” Fourteen days staring at Dr. Archer’s face of steel. Beneath it, curves and layers and blood, and white glistening bone. Fourteen days. Pills, and needles and questions—Fourteen days, consciousness blurred, tired. Bound in white restraints, the straps cutting. At times afraid, fumbling with guilt, weakening. Suffocating on the doctor’s pronouncements. DYING? Wanting. Wanting scissors, or a knife. Even a fork would do. Fourteen days, face to face with exhausting judgement; just to be free from Dr. Archer’s moving teeth and tongue, rattling with their incessant inquisition . . .
He wanted night. Night with black stars shining. Endless shimmering night, standing on a balcony with Cassilda. Sweet, radiant Cassilda, smiling. Her pale yellow gown fluttering in the midnight breeze.
I’ll never give up my Dream. Never betray, Cassilda.
He looks at Dr. Archer. Sees the Truth standing behind him, takes strength from it. Hears another question coming . . .
I’ve been poisoned before. Let them come.
“Give me fourteen more days if you like. But I will never give up my Dream.”
Cassilda, I have been faithful to you . . .




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