Ghosts of Pulpline Past

While it has been some time since the last posting, Pulpline is not dead. Like a phoenix it is merely buried under its own ashes waiting to rise again.


We are thinking about how to better run the site, since it had some small problems, but we will be back in the new year in new form. So keep an eye here.


Born on the Fourth

As this week is a holiday week(end…more like a week but who knows really. Things are weird when you have a thursday off), things for the American contributors are a bit on the wonky side, so this is a skip week.

(In fact, things were so wonky for me I didn’t get a chance to properly get this down until now! I apologize).

We’ll be back next week with our global love of writing and anyone who reads it.


Prologue: A Midnight Stroll

Lazarus Banner

Dim gas-light cast an un-natural glow upon the dark, cobbled streets, diffused by the thin fog that had settled down for the evening; a veil that refused to be parted. With a dedicated pace Godfrey Wolesley made his way down the street, his coat pulled close around him. Normally, nights like this were perfect for conducting business, but tonight he preferred a practice of a different kind. The clic-clak-clic-clak of his heels echoing on the cobbles carried into the air. To someone else, he must seem a specter, a distant presence ever moving but always there, just around the corner. The mere thought brought a thin, cruel smile to his lips.

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Win Some, Lose Some

The last couple of weeks have been a bit rough on everyone, and while we started to really get into the rhythm of our site, the Editorial staff has made an executive decision.

To help get things back on track, Pulpline will be on a two week hiatus, after which we will return without missed posts and full power. We also will have new stories for you to follow, so this is for the best. We apologize to our regular readers, but we will be back at full power soon.

Thanks for sticking around. We’ll catch you on the flipside.

Three Days In Paradise: Day Two


The squat ginger man stands before me. I have studied him from afar for a long time but, up until now, have not had the opportunity to inspect the smaller intricacies of his demeanour. He possesses an unflinching stare. I return the gaze and note the algae colour of his eyes. They maintain a crystal quality but are muddied by darker patches of green like the murky waters of an untreated swimming pool. He is more intimidating than his photo suggests but at the same time, more vulnerable. That bone-white skin seems frailer. Through a lens it almost appeared shiny, in front of me, it seems brittle. The furrowed brow seems to be a permanent feature – something I noticed yesterday. He is a man who wears his problems like a heavy cape and it is no surprise to see his shoulders in perpetual motion for something must be done to fight their natural slump. Despite the frenetic actions, his speech is stunted, punctuated only by the odd grunt. I listen, intrigued by his growling spurts.

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