Flash Pulp

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty-four.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Tonight we present, The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 6 of 6

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Groggy Frog Thai Massage.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, suffers a sudden reunion.

The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 6 of 6 – The Beginning

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Before he could bring his occult ship fully under control, Thomas had moved well beyond the knot of Fitzhughs, and the crone, and his beloved Mairi.

Beneath his northward-bound hull, the trees rolled ever onward, allowing ample latitude with which to practice the control of his strange tool. The forest, he found, rose and fell like any sea, though the crests were determined by the vagaries of sunlight and soil, rather than wind and gravity.

For some time there were but the sounds of creaking timber, and his steady pounding.

Eventually, Blackhall rode over an ocean of pines, which seemed, in the moonlight, to stretch outside his reckoning. He understood by then that his speed was determined by the meter of his drumming, and that his direction was readily alterable by aiming his impacts towards the edge of the instrument’s head, and so, thus confident in his course, Thomas allowed himself a moment of consideration, as the wildwood bent to meet his bow.

It had been his intention, until that point, simply to escape. Once free of pursuers, he’d reasoned, he could devise a method of extracting his stolen gear, for, without his equipment, he had no doubt as to the outcome of a confrontation with the witch – just as he had no doubt as to the inevitable result of the current contest.

He did not look forward to someday overtaking the dead column, and encountering the gaunt face of his former comrade. Would Fitzhugh’s likness be duplicated a dozen times along the parade of cadavers?

There was also the matter of the dagger. Misuse of the arcane blade had obviously drawn the crone, and it was a surety that its ownership would pass into her hands. Despite the carnage it had caused, though, Thomas knew it would be far from her most powerful talisman.

He took some small comfort in the fact that Fitzhugh had discovered the proper use of only one of the charms, and, yet, he worried that even the captain’s unsuccessful experimentations would be enough to bring the hag to Perth.

It was this thought, and the realization that he faced a shrinking opportunity to regain his relics, which shook Blackhall from his revere. His hands had become numb from cold and use, and his coat had taken on a layer of snowy frost, but he now set about redoubling his tempo.

The witch would not dare approach the settlement, Thomas knew, if he were once again in possession of his tools – and so it was a race.

There were few landmarks, at his great height, to reckon how close he returned to the battle site, but his staccato carried him wide of the mark. It was only as the trees thinned, at the cusp of civilization’s assertion, that he realized he was under-trained in the mooring of his ship.

His rhythm slowed, and so, too, did the vessel. Judging his rapidly diminishing momentum, he aimed for a final colossal maple, which marked the boundary of a farmer’s field. With measured arms, he let his craft brush the bulky limbs, then ceased his tattoo. As if a Sunday cruise encountering a friendly jetty, his sprouted-boat came to a bobbing stop.

There was little time to enjoy the victory, as the bench which had held him immediately commenced to crumble. It required quick action, and steady feet, to exit with the drum before The Green Ship’s leafy planks became fully unglued, and fell away to the ivory turf below.

Once firmly on the ground, however, there remained some distance to walk until Blackhall would encounter the lopsided shanties that marked Perth’s furthest outreaches, and, as he progressed over the drift-covered croplands, the enormity of the task ahead began to weigh at his mind. It was not a mystic problem, but one of mundane logistics.

There would likely be at least a pair of burly sentries – innocents – at the captain’s quarters, and who was even to say that Fitzhugh would be fool enough to store the artifacts where they might so easily be reclaimed?

Possibly even more pressing, Thomas was unsure of his status in relation to the bloodied corpse he’d left on the floor of his rented room.

Was he a wanted man?

The question guided his course upon re-entering the town’s limits, and his initial destination was a lingering stroll past the darkened windows of his former place of lodging, The Bucking Pony.

It was there that he received his last surprise of the evening.

Leaning against the public house’s rough planks, with a satchel at his feet, was a figure whose upturned collar, and low knit cap, prevented immediate identification.

When the form detached himself from the structure and approached, Blackhall allowed his right hand to drift to his sabre’s chilled hilt. As the distance closed, however,Thomas recognized the stranger as the quiet lad who’d driven the sleigh for himself, and Wesley Shea, but a few hours earlier.

“Come, come,” said the youth, and so the frontiersman did. As they stalked the empty boardwalk that lined the street’s shops, the boy’s feet and tongue moved with anxious energy. “I waited too long to follow, and I must apologize. I did run, but, by then, you were well gone. From a distance, I watched a band of Fitzhughs flow from between buildings, and gather in a sleigh brought round by yet another. If they noted my presence, they paid me no heed.

“After they were gone, all was silence. It was as if I were forgotten.”

Despite the pace, Blackhall seized the excuse to retrieve, from the depths of his coat, his Virginian tobacco and fine Spanish papers.

“I am certain,” he replied, “that your captain would have had a well-sharpened word with you when he returned, if it were not for the delays he encountered.”

With white-filled eyes, the private nodded. “My duty in acting as spy has been marked, officially, as leave, so, when I reappeared, I wasn’t much noticed. I ventured to my bunk, to try and sleep, but I was left feeling as if matters were unconcluded, and rest was elusive.

“It was while lying there, with my nerves being worn away by the lack of resolution, that your damnable tale came to me. For whatever purpose, you’ve revealed to me a world I couldn’t have known existed – a world beyond this colony, beyond home, beyond the entirety of the blessed empire. The power you have shown me is too much to rest in the hands of those with so narrow a goal as world domination, and, as such -” The speaker halted at the entrance to the town’s meager post office, and turned a squint on Blackhall. “No, first, tell me: What designs have you with the tools you have carried here?”

Thomas, who had completed the construction of his vice, raised a brow at the question, but answered honestly. “I wish only to retrieve the roaming corpse of my wife, so that I might lay her body to rest, and her spirit as well.”

The response brought a smile to his companion’s lips. “A romantic, eh? I wouldn’t have guessed it. I’ve long held that anyone desiring a position is likely not the best candidate for it. Here, then, are your goods.

“I played my last card with my chum, telling him that Fitz himself had asked for the retrieval. The blokes watching the door knew his face, and didn’t think hard on the move, as he’d been doing it for weeks during your comings and goings.

“They’ll be plenty displeased to find the lie of the thing, though, so it’s probably best they are not allowed an opportunity to inform us of such.”

Blackhall had thought the boy was bound to suggest a partnership; that the satchel had held supplies necessary for their imminent departure. He hadn’t expected this turn of events, and, as he accepted the extended gift, he found it necessary to clear his throat before he could provide his reply.

“Considering the efforts you have undertaken on my behalf, I feel quite beggarly in admitting I do not recall your name. Shea made it known to me, when we hired you on, but it has been lost in the chaos.

“Furthermore, if I am truthful, you may be my only living, human, friend in this bedeviled land.

“Worse, I have favours I must ask, favours which will draw you nearer to the types of uncanny danger that have thus far hounded our association.”

Little did Blackhall realize the import of his words, nor the nature of the remarkable partnership he had just proposed.

“The Queen likely won’t have me back, so I can’t see that I’ve anything better to occupy myself with,” replied the youth, as he buried his hands in his jacket pockets. “I feel bound to help, and will do so happily if it might sate the curiosity my mother long warned would be the death of me.

“Oh, and the name she gave me was Montgomery – Montgomery Smith.”

They spoke on in the hush, forging plans, then, at dawn, they began their journey north.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

- and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty-three.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Tonight we present, The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 5 of 6

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Groggy Frog Thai Massage.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, suffers a sudden reunion.

The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 5 of 6 – Come Hell

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

From his forgotten post in the barren oak, Thomas Blackhall watched the unnatural melee unfold.

Below, the Fitzhugh doppelgangers had fallen onto their training and assembled into a tight firing line, as if facing a continental army. Their squared shoulders knocked snow from the surrounding brush, and their boots were steadfastly planted, but the dozen men seemed to constitute a meager formation to oppose the uncounted stumbling dead that flowed from the depths of the wildwood.

Still, their muskets cracked, and reloaded, at a tenacious speed.

For her part, Thomas could see that the crone, who stood well behind her mystically resurrected wall of writhing flesh, did naught but grin at the soldiers’ efforts.

The approaching cadavers were a motley lot: Some were clad in funerary finery, and some had had their clothing so badly beaten by the exposure of their endless trek that they were now unrecognizable as anything but rags – yet others wore only their own molding skin.

Blackhall, whose mouth remained brimming with the water he’d gained through patient persistence, lay a hand on The Green Drum, and leaned further from his roost. His focus had caught upon a familiar form drifting through the dim, amid a small cluster of flanking corpses.

Mairi’s gaze was unseeing, and the cream gown he’d buried her in – the same she’d worn on the day of their joining – was tattered, but he could not resist the opportunity to be near to her.

Catching his occult instrument securely in his Baker rifle’s strap, Blackhall hung both across a stout limb, and began his descent.

It required great attention to not unwittingly sip at his jaws’ payload, but, once on the ground, Thomas moved as if in a dream.

The stiff carcasses made no effort to step high, over the white drifts, but, instead, left their feet to drag through the resisting powder, slowing their progress. Overtaking the group was a simple enough process, but, as Blackhall reached the ambush party, he was unsure what greeting he might expect.

With a kick which sent an unwanted trickle of liquid down his throat, Thomas toppled the nearest shambler, a curly-haired man, in a mud-stained set of suit trousers, whose scalp had been increasingly torn-wide by unyielding branches. Never pausing, the empty-faced straggler paid no attention to the affront, but only worked to regain his footing, so that he might continue his ponderous assault.

Releasing his saber, Blackhall gave in to the temptation of scrambling to his Mairi’s side.

Beyond his prize, the Fitzhughs had drawn into a close circle, and were holding what ground they could with muskets turned to clubs, or naked blades. The weapons appeared of scant use in turning back the press of animated bodies, although many fleshy scraps of the deceased lay separated from their owners, and motionless on the frost about the defenders’ feet.

Thomas reflected, briefly, that the authentic Fitzhugh – standing at the midpoint of the ring, and anxiously waving the bone-handled, silver-bladed, dagger – would be without trouble in
maintaining the flow of blood necessary to keep his force under their current enchantment of transformation, but, after a last closing step, Blackhall’s considerations were carried off by the chill blow of the winter wind, as it pulled at his wife’s knotted hair.

Her rites had been said below a weeping sky, both an ocean, and a lifetime, away.

The vigil and liturgy had taken place on his father’s estate, where the family preserved a long history of consigning their cherished dead. Too clearly he remembered the cavernous room that had held her exhausted form, reposed in preparation for internment. The painted clutter of some forgotten ancestor climbed the green and gold loops of the wallpaper, in a pale imitation of floral gaiety, and the ornate box at the room’s center, in which his beloved had been laid, seemed over-large for her tiny frame.

Under his scrutiny, the soft lines of her wedding dress stood stark against the red velvet of the coffin.

Not far down the hall, his daughter had mewled, occasionally, from within her swaddling, but, beside those infrequent complaints, the newborn had slept rather than face the day.

It was Thomas’ decision to negate the pomp and circumstance so often given death, and he had received no few ill-intended stares, from the damp eyes of his theatrically-minded cousins, at his demand that the room be cleared.

As the infuriatingly constant grandfather clock marked the short hours before her burial, he spoke to Mairi of the existence they had promised each other, and of the grand life he intended to make for their Elizabeth. He wept, and laughed, and screamed.

Spent, he eventually made his best effort, with unpracticed hands, to plait her hair, as was her preference. It was a rough result, as her lolling neck gave no help, but his vision was greatly clouded by the project’s completion, and he knew there was little more he could do.

Despite the outrageous abuses her remains had suffered in the interim, Thomas’ approach now made clear that the braid had held.

He offered no attempt to speak to his wife as he swept aside a pine branch to allow for a better view of her ashen grimace. Her lips had withered, revealing gaps between her once pristine teeth, and her left ear had been lost to some unknown trauma.

Time and distance had hardened the frontiersman, and yet the sight was enough to drive his heart to agony.

Unable to release his tongue, he silently cursed the hag, and Fitzhugh, who had robbed him of the equipment necessary to destroy the old woman, then, with an unexpectedly steady grasp, he held Mairi’s trailing mane, and raised his sword.

His arm’s motion was firm, but true, and, once separated from her tress, his wife continued on, unheeding, towards her grisly objective.

Thomas did not linger, as he sheathed his weapon and stuffed the captured hair into a deep pocket of his greatcoat.

It was as he was mid-ascent, and almost returned to his materials, that the crone noted his presence.

Fresh instructions rolled from her hollow scowl, weighed by the snarl of command, and the rotting procession wheeled, focusing instead on Blackhall’s nest.

He no longer cared.

Frustration, as Thomas had not felt since first taking in the news of his beloved’s defilement, and further stoked by his restricted ability to let fly his voice, blazed in his chest as he retook his lofty station.

The memory of his graceless fingers, on the day of Mairi’s requiem, came to him then, and drove his conduct before reason could halt the useless action: For, there were other skills his appendages had since learned as instinct, and a rare marksmanship was amongst them.

Nonetheless, while his shot landed as intended, passing through the harridan’s right lung and theoretical heart, she only laughed at the insult.

Unhesitating, Blackhall slung his empty rifle, and let a portion of his precariously transported liquid dribble atop the freshly stretched skin of The Green Drum. His opening strike upon the surface of the viking relic cut short the witch’s merriment.

Too late did she realize that the bare oak he’d scaled was not a last resort, but an escape.

Each booming impact let fly a spray of water, and, as the droplets settled over the chilled bark of his temporary sanctuary, the timber commenced to sway with a terrible rhythm. There came bursting, from every point of moisture, a new sprout, and from every new sprout, a bough. The growth, however, did not advance without purpose. As if guided by a master shipwright, the leafy spurs surged and became struts, then broadened and intertwined, weaving a flat-bellied dragonboat about Thomas’ cadence.

Though his supply of liquid had long run out, as Blackhall maintained a galley’s beat, his rough seat fattened to a level bench, and the tool of his enchantment became solidly affixed to the floor which had formed beneath him.

Below, the clumsy ghouls had gained some purchase in their climb, but they had not yet achieved half their goal when the structure had completed knitting itself into a whole.

No longer was it Blackhall’s tree alone which roiled at the sound of the drum, for the forest now seemed to rise at its tips, and bend in an otherwise unfelt gale. As pine and cedar bowed with equal fervor, there came to Thomas’ ear a sound like scraped shoals. With a series of creaking snaps, the vessel was separated at the dozen points which held it to the tree of its origin, and the craft lurched forward.

Finally, held aloft by the grasping woodland which had been roused to convey it, The Green Ship sailed.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

- and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty-two.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Tonight we present, The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 4 of 6

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Groggy Frog Thai Massage.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, is unexpectedly held up by a surprising arrival.

The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 4 of 6 – Of Partisans and Parades

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

As Thomas made his way north, his lungs complained at each intake of frosted night air. Farmers’ axes had pushed hard at the forest, but, in this fresh land, the wilderness still stood ever on the horizon, and it was towards the shelter of those thick-limbed pines which Blackhall drove his legs.

His focus had contracted into naught but a single line, which projected from the distant trees, passed over himself, and continued on to the panting duo who chased at his heels.

He had long given up praying, but, as he urged himself on, he gave a small thought to his Mairi. Was this not simply a continuation of the mad race he’d been running since receiving word regarding the fate of her haunted corpse?

Under the pitiless brilliance of the winter stars, his mind briefly settled on a moment, some years earlier, beneath a soft June sun, in which he’d watched his beloved unfurl her plaited braid as she bathed in a crisp hill spring. The world had seemed clean, and full of light, and endlessly filled with affection.

The promises he’d made to his dead wife came to Blackhall then, whispered back to him in Mairi’s voice, and his boots were carried onward.

The pair of trailing Fitzhughs were unable to match this restored stride, but their mired tempo was quickly corrected by the arrival of a two-horse sleigh, bearing in its bed another half dozen of the captain. The doppelgangers were swift in extending helping arms to their brethren, but, with no room to be spared, the lagging twins were forced to take up stations standing atop the skids.

It was only Thomas’ choice to vault a homesteader’s ambitiously constructed rock-wall which bought the time necessary to move out of the broad fields, and into the close smell of timber – and yet, although his chest cramped and flamed with exertion, he dared not rest.

Thick underbrush meant the conveyance’s advantaged was lost, and its occupants disgorged into the wildwood. No more did they call Blackhall’s name, nor curse his heritage, nor offer soothing lies – all that could be heard of their approach was the huff of their effort.

Amongst the evergreens, the gloom was universal. Nonetheless, the frontiersman scrutinized the blackness, hoping to find an expedient escape. The search slowed his progress, and he was soon forced to lay a hand heavily onto the cheek of the nearest Fitzhugh, but, even while he laid the man low, Thomas’ gaze touched on a fat set of barren branches, ascending in a nearly ladder-like fashion. With the awkward bulk of the drum beneath his arm, and his Baker rifle bouncing at his shoulder, he stooped for a mouthful of snow, then took to the tree at a squirrel’s pace.

As he hoped, rather than make a hurried assault towards his prodding saber, his attackers began to circle his perch. The air grew thick with the coppery musk of blood, but, before the predators might settle on a modified course of action, a second party arrived.

There was no difference immediately visible in these new, yet identical, Fitzhughs, except for the muskets they bore – at least, until one of the newcomers stepped forward.

“Ho, Blackhall,” said the apparent leader, who stood somehow more firmly than his compatriots. “You look as if a frightened tom cat, caught wooing an estate’s mouser. Descend and we will discuss this matter – lest I send my friends to shake you down.”

Thomas did not respond, but, instead, worried the increasingly slushy mass he held astride his tongue.

Despite the thirst he’d created in his flight, he dared not swallow a drop of the meager water supply.

“I understand your distrust. I am sorry for the death of Shea, I find myself excitable these days. That said, really, I shouldn’t be blamed: Consider the nature of what you were hiding!

“There have been losses, yes, but, in sum, your cache has been an enormous boon to the settlement.

“In truth, I did not mean to hold on to the tools quite so long – but, well, there was an incident, in which a Lieutenant Green found his hand quite badly bitten by the blade of the silver dagger. After calming myself as to the implications of my suddenly transformed twin, I realized the use of such a talent. If a thing is easiest done by oneself, then surely it is even better done with an army of selves.”

Above his waggling moustache, the true Fitzhugh’s eyes smoldered with an arcane light, and Blackhall damned the man as a fool.

Thomas himself had once been caught up in the same thrill of dominion. The energies which flowed in this pristine territory were a flood in comparison to the dying flicker of their homeland, and, not long after his landing, he’d been eager to press the limits of his untested education.

He’d learned the nature of his mistake once he’d fallen under the keen noses of the fairytale menagerie which, hungry for just such occult potency, stalked the land.

“I do admit that errors were made,” continued the captain, “It is no easy thing to balance my progeny’s well-being against the constant bleeding necessary to keep them in their superior state. One day the graves that I have dug will be commemorated as the resting places of heroes, but, regardless, you must weigh the deeds their sacrifices have accomplished against how many die, daily and without purpose, in the muck of the backwoods.

“The productivity I have offered our community will save lives, many more than it has done under. Was this not the equation we lived by in the war against the tiny emperor? Was this not the logic which pressed our shoulders together in the Spanish streets, and which propelled our bayonets into the bellies of the French?

“You can not imagine the service I have rendered these last weeks. Each new collaborator – each new confederate who knows my thoughts and holds my drive for accomplishment – means another dispute arbitrated, another barroom conflict interrupted, another roadway undertaken.

“Better yet, it means another rescue party successfully lead, another supply of medicine reaching the sick, or another marauder brought to justice, and I am but a mere captain. Imagine what I might do with the men beneath me when I am made general.

“We must be allies again, you and I. While I have mastered the dagger there have been – mistakes – made with certain of the other artifacts. Without your guidance, I’ve had no option but to discover their use through trial and unfortunate error – but we will talk. You will teach me, and, together, we will bring the king’s rule to this land of rustics and drunks.”

Realizing it was only a supposed familiarity with The Eremite’s relics – knowledge he did not have – which had kept him alive thus far, Thomas was content to again refuse a reply. He was sure, anyhow, that his considered retort, indicating his reason for taking up arms against Napoleon had much to do with excessive influence concentrated in one man, would do him little good.

Blackhall’s jaws were close to holding plain liquid, and he moved to reposition The Green Drum. Until now he’d but read of its purpose, though he depended fully on its legend holding true.

Before he might begin the short ritual, however, a ghastly parade appeared.

The shuffling column of intruders did not advance with the sharp purpose of the duplicates; their gait was staggering, and their flesh was rotted. At their head stood a hag, her taut lips pulled into a skull’s grin.

The great witch, whom Thomas had hounded through the wilderness, had arrived to claim the power she’d scented upon the wind.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

- and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty-one.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Tonight we present, The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 6

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Groggy Frog Thai Massage.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself fleeing his place of rest.

The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 6 – Absolute Corruption

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

The trio stood staring at the corpse which lie, face down, on the floor of Thomas’ close-walled lodging.

“I couldn’t have,” said Shea. His voice was small, but fell heavily onto the space’s silence.

Events began to move quickly then.

“It would be best if we relocated to Jansen’s tanning shack, immediately,” Blackhall replied, as he grabbed up his Baker rifle and saber.

The main room was populated by a dozen diners, and a smattering of drunks. It seemed as if each took a moment to cast a raised brow toward the quickly exiting men, but Thomas felt no need to explain the sounds of struggle which had emanated from his chamber. Instead, he provided only a wave to the barkeep, as he seated his hat and pushed through to the winter’s early night.

Cold had kept most of the settlement’s inhabitants as near their fires as they could manage, and the snow drifts and blackened shops provided little welcome beyond the public house’s warm windows.

As he laid a boot into the darkness, Thomas held onto the hope that his temporary landlord’s professional pride would overcome his curiosity, and prevent him from intruding upon the corpse occupying his abandoned bunk.

He took some comfort in the fact that it was a short excursion, through moon-shadowed wooden alleys, to the edge of town.

The tanner’s plot was pungent with soaking flesh and strong abrasives, bringing the cluster of hurried travellers to a halt well away from its rough facade. The powder was ankle deep, and piling ever higher as they waited, but the hesitation gave the young private, who had so recently disclosed the sordid nature of his captain’s doings, an opportunity to once again find his voice.

“Well,” he said, “I think it’s time I say good night.”

“They’ll assume you played a part in the murder of Fitzhugh,” replied Blackhall.

“You know well enough that I did not,” spat the lad. “Your man here has fattened my lip such that I believe they’ll understand my circumstances.”

“I’m sorry – I’m sorry for all I’ve done. I’ve never before been such a fellow,” interjected the fingerless Shea. His neck grew short, and his shoulders rolled in agony. “I’ve never meant no being harm, and yet…”

The youth’s brow softened. “Cry not – my mother would give me worse for an improperly set table. I’ll say as little as I can, for as long as I can, but I dare not be caught up further in this madness. I’m not built to fight devils, and I’ve no want to receive the same fate as poor Fitz.”

“Might you continue to lend your aid?” asked Thomas. “I’m not pleased to seek help, but the loss of my tools is a dire thing. Worse yet, while I don’t intend offense to our friend here, his sobbing does not bode well for the strength of his nerve.”

Though he appeared lost in his weeping, Shea bristled at the remark.

“What right have you, Blackhall, to speak ill of me – you who have left me wretched; No, even as I say it, I know that I am wrong. I could have lived with killing the harpy on your behalf, which was all you truly asked – but, not the captain: It is too much.”

As if summoned by the mention, a form came staggering around the distant corner, and onto the backstreet which had been their final exit from town. For a moment the drooping moustache hovering over the upturned jacket collar seemed a mirage, but, as the figure neared, he became unmistakable as the supposedly deceased Fitzhugh.

Shea’s eyes again welled at the discovery, and he rushed the soldier with a tongue jabbering in relief.

“My god, you’ve given me a fright. I apologize for my brash maneuvers, and wish you only well, sir – we believed you dead!”

His eager greeting was countered by the bone-handled knife which snaked from Fitzhugh’s pocket and across the absolved murderer’s throat.

As life began to flow from the dying man another newcomer arrived. He was dressed in a lumberer’s stocky coat and worn boots, but there was no missing the fury in his eyes, nor the thick military man’s moustache which he bore. From beneath the sleeve which covered his right arm leaked a trail of blood, and each heavy step marked the ivory ground with a spray of crimson.

Though Shea recognized the second Fitzhugh immediately, his slick palms could do little to staunch his own wound’s flow, and, before he might even turn to warn his companions, his knees gave out. With his cheeks still damp, he fell forward.

He would not rise again.

Understanding that there was no further time to argue, Blackhall bolted towards the tannery. The ragged entrance gave only the briefest resistance to his flying shoulder, and he found some luck in that the object he sought – a small oak drum, bearing a freshly stretched skin and a ring of leaves engraved about its base – was upon a workbench close at hand.

As he regained the road, the sound of lashed horses drifted from somewhere beyond the oncoming twins, and, on the same wind which carried the cracks, also came another Fitzhugh’s voice, profanely urging on the nags in harness.

With a final prodding shout at the transfixed private, Thomas held tight his regained instrument, and made for the woods.

The youth did not follow.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

- and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Tonight we present, The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 6.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Bear Crawling odcast.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, witnesses an unexpected demise.

The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 6 – A Sudden Death

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

As he tenderly prodded his fat lip, the young private seemed to find some relief in his admission.

“Fitz knew you were ducking him, right enough, so he sent a chum of mine, Patrick, to sit and play bully.

“Pattie could have done me the favour of not sprinting immediately away at the sight of you, but he’s never been much good at maintaining a lie, with that broad open face of his.

“Anyhow, you thought you were being smart by getting out and about, but that’s exactly what Captain Fitzhugh wanted. Your handsy friend Shea, amongst others, were quick enough to gossip, and so it was easy to quietly gather your doings from a mutually friendly third-party.”

The lad spit on the floor then, a mixture of mucus and blood.

“Word along the chain says that Fitz isn’t quite right these days – that he works harder than ever, but never sleeps, and seems most often moody and distracted. In truth, it is his worsening condition, as much as the implications of our recent journey, that drive me to divulge such information to you. I’m just a mud-stomper, and don’t know much of what happens above my head, but Pat and I grew up trading each other’s farm chores, and he gave me a look at the loot he was lifting from your room.

“I can not guess half their infernal functions, but you ought not hide things under the floor boards. You mustn’t have had any sisters with diaries when you were wee, but any twelve-year-old girl would have sussed your stash in a gnat’s wink.”

Blackhall, having returned to his position by the rented room’s door, frowned, but did not interrupt the boy’s narration.

“It was your trinkets you see: Fitz became aware you were prone to leaving them behind during your meanderings, so the longer off, the better to look over your toys. Has a few favourites, he does – that dagger of yours especially.”

Thomas cringed at the thought. He’d considered concealing the tools and talismans a calculated risk, as he knew little of the powers within the items he’d collected after the death of The Eremite. He had had no interest in suddenly facing off against an accidentally summoned djinn, while occupied with the business of remaining alive in the wildwood during an Upper Canadian winter.

Worse, the nature of his latest excursion had forced him to leave not only the stranger trinkets, but also the items he had practiced with for many years, for fear that the beast he and Shea had faced down might turn his own charms against him.

When he was sure the recital was complete, Thomas asked, “where am I most likely to find Fitzhugh at this hour?”

“At dusk? In his office, like as anywhere,” replied the lad, “I’ve inkling enough of your business to know I’ve no want to hang about, but – well, I do believe the captain had the best of intentions in invading your chamber.”

Blackhall allowed himself a small nod. “Perhaps, but it seems all too often that our man, Fitzhugh, thinks he’s more clever than he ought. Fortunately, there remains hope that he has not laid hands on all of my goods.”

While Thomas’ mind wandered towards the local tannery, the youth but shrugged.

“I’ve told you the truth now,” he said, “so I’ll thank you to release me without any further violence from your crippled, yet high strung, companion – I ask only that you make no mention of the sources of your information, and that you take your infernal gear and head back into the woods which delivered you.”

Wesley Shea, who had been watching the scene from behind lidded eyes, simmered at the comments regarding his temper and physical disposition. “Listen here, you flip cur, I’ll happily give your pilfering superior the same taste of palm that I gave ye. What right have you to -”

His rant was cut short by a sudden opportunity to carry out his claims, as the the entry was forced wide, and a haggard Fitzhugh rushed the room. The captain was clad in a pair of civilian trousers, and a loosely fastened coat, but it was the empty blaze of his pupils which most caught Thomas’ attention.

Though Blackhall was closest to the threshold, the swinging door had thrown him off balance, and it was the unstable Shea who first came into arm’s length.

“You will surrender yourselves to -” was as far as the intruder was allowed, before Wesley returned the favour of the interruption.

It was a stinging slap, though far from disabling.

The soldier did not take well to the insult, and motioned as if to draw a blade from his hip. Fitzhugh appeared surprised, however, when he discovered the weapon lacking. Instead, he squared his shoulder, and tackled the fingerless man. The pair fell to the floor with a terrible momentum, and their limbs took to the furious process of seeking purchase within each other’s defenses.

The struggle was frenzied, but, even as Thomas moved to intervene, Shea laid both his ragged hands upon his attacker’s collar and forced himself free of the melee.

Attempting to pursue his quarry, the military officer endeavoured to retake his feet, but, beneath his now gaping jacket, it was apparent his simple cotton shirt was greased with blood.

“Damnation,” said Fitzhugh – then, with a quiet gasp, he fell dead.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

- and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-nine.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Tonight we present, The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Bear Crawling odcast.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds his recent return an unwelcome one.

The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6 – The Mute and the Mask

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Thomas Blackhall, with his pants still muddied from travel, was leaning against the splinter-bristled door that acted as barrier between his rented room and the remainder of the Bucking Pony.

He was frowning.

Every item of worth which Thomas owned, but was not carrying, had been stolen, and the inconsequentials had been tossed about like decorative streamers.

Sitting upon the edge of the chamber’s disheveled bed was Wesley Shea, a fingerless man who had, some years earlier, suffered greatly under the cold’s abuse. More recently, he’d accompanied Thomas on a less-than-social visit through the tall pines.

He did not smile so often as he had at the expedition’s outset, but he had earned Blackhall’s trust in the undertaking.

The pair were eying a third: The silent lad who had, for the length of their excursion, driven the sleigh.

The youth was now resting on a meager stool, and wiping at his bloodied lip.

“Let me tell you a story,” said Thomas, “that I learned on my father’s knee, though it was old when he was on his Pa’s own.”

As he spoke, Blackhall moved steadily through the motions which would result in the production of a hand-rolled cigarette, stuffed with fine Virginia tobacco.

“There was a time, in the ancient lands, when a queen by the name of Shaina came to rule in place of her man, who had taken to the sea in an effort to drive back their enemies. Even as the winds carried the king away from her, however, a plot was born, by a betrayal-minded cabal of her own people, to slay the lady and have her throne usurped before the navy might return.

“Months later, despite a lack of official proclamation, rumours crept about dining tables and evening fires that Shaina had disappeared. As usual, no comment came from the court, but a journey to the country, to restore her health, was often offered as excuse for the lack of royal tidings.

“It was under these odd circumstances that a lone female rider arrived at the hamlet of Woodend, as the cocks still crowed. Her cloak was finely woven, although those of the village had little experience with which to judge any garments produced within a city’s limits, and, as her pony pranced along the muck lane that made up the town’s central road, the blacksmith – always amongst the first to awaken – moved quickly to stoke his fires and draw attention to his industry. The clang of his anvil, woke the seamstress, who, gazing down from the apartment above her shop, was quick to hobble downstairs to shuffle greater fineries onto display. The commotion was enough to rattle the proprietor of the public house, who, impressed by the early excitement, prodded her prize crooner from his beery doze to sing in the dawn.

“It wasn’t the breed of the stranger’s mount, nor her noble bearing, which had caught their attention – it was the silver mask which concealed her face.

“Soon Woodend was awash in the whispered news.

“The lone source of disinterest lay in the mute who’d come to live a simple life on the local church’s charity. Pleased to see the troubadour awake so unusually early, she was content to sit in the publican’s great room and listen to the full-throated melody.

“The keeper was happy to have the seat filled, as its occupant was known to offer assistance, unasked, throughout the village, and had come to be depended upon for quick support.

“As the day wore on, however, the soundless observer found the ebb and flow of patrons gave her a great vantage point in surveying the passage of the newcomer.

“By lunch there was talk of the trade at the blacksmith’s: That the outsider had avoided all questions as to her origin, and instead wished only to speak of business, in the most hushed of tones. Vague inquiries were made regarding large orders, even if no specifics were given. It became the consensus, amongst those gathered, that the stranger was of noble birth, and wearing the mask to maintain the secrecy of her identity. The blacksmith was all too happy to shoe the pony at no cost, in the hopes of future congress.

“By supper there was chatter from the seamstress’: That the visitor had asked after the outfitter’s stock of material, and how many sewing hands she might have at her disposal. Somehow the creation of a banner was raised, though the interloper was quick to move beyond the topic. Between sips of ale, a suspicion was born that perhaps the queen herself had come to roost in Woodend – and what better place to hide from the political machinations of the court?

“Finally, as night fell, the woman arrived at the inn’s entrance: She no longer travelled alone, but, instead, was surrounded by a retinue made up of the sort prone to throwing in with causes, or to starting violence. Ale flowed, and the company swelled. By midnight no mention of payment had come from either side, but the publican was happy enough to make room for the revellers, so that they might find beds instead of ruining furniture with the weight of their newly kindled patriotic fervor.

“The masked guest said little in the hubbub, but seemed pleased to preside over the scene with minimal intrusion.

“On the following morning, as the mute rose from her pallet in the small chapel, she cast her gaze over a greater count of weapons than Woodend had ever previously held. Word had spread, and the town was awash in men eager to retake the throne for a woman they’d never glimpsed.

“Wandering into the public house, she encountered a hushed reverence.

“The silver-face was speaking to a hedge knight, who had taken to his knee before her.

“”Can your arm be depended upon?” she asked.

“”Yes!” came response.”

“Men and women wept in the corners of the room, moved at the display, and the whispers were no longer avoidable.

““You have guessed well. It is I, your queen,” the disguised woman finally announced, as she pushed back her cloak hood, and pulled off her mask.

“Her locks were tightly curled, and her face carefully made. No person could have hoped for greater regality in their liege.

“The crowd cheered, but the roar was cut short by the approach of the speechless figure.

“Since her arrival, some months earlier, all had cultivated soft feelings towards the mute and her meanderings, but it seemed an odd moment to stand forward; Odder still were the results which poured from her open mouth.

“She said, “I must forgive you for not distinguishing the face of your queen – truly, it is a failing I have depended upon most heavily in recent times – but you must forgive me my deception, for even the farmers of Woodend have heard the rumours of shadowed hands holding poisoned daggers.”

“”I can speak now, as I too have had a strange visit in the night; a pigeon with news. My guard captain rides a day behind, and this impostor – my cousin – comes to stir an army to save her from the gallows, after being routed as the conspiracy’s head.”

“”Do not stand with this false ruler. You have known me, and if my silence was necessary to maintain my secret, you still have surely learned my nature,” she finished.

“The woman’s tongue held many truths. While a monarch’s portrait rarely moves, trade must flow. Neither countenance was recognizable, but her accent was unmistakable, to the merchants of the road, as highborn, and, by contrast, her cousin’s now seemed apparent as hailing from the outer provinces. Better yet, they’d come to discern her benevolence, and the eagerness which she’d displayed in assisting all without asking recompense – and so the story goes that, though she’d been nothing but a case for charity until that morning, when her guard arrived, they met a docile captive, and a town in full celebration.”

Blackhall, having finished his tale, jabbed the last of his burning vice into a small bowl brimming with similarly abandoned remains.

In taking another survey of his chamber, Thomas sighed.

“Fitzhugh was quite clever in leading us to believe we’d picked a random lad of local vintage to act as guide,” he said, “but we were not but halfway through our journey when your habits unmasked you. A soldier, even one so young as yourself, finds it hard to shake the habits of the profession: the grooming, the gait, the footwear.”

“Instead of shirking your company, however, I chose to perhaps make you my ally, by allowing you to hear the realities behind the rumours you’ve no doubt absorbed regarding my occult pursuits. In a sense, I hope that by demonstrating my unvarnished voice, I have shown that there are allegiances greater than even those owed to Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.

“I apologize for Shea’s agitation, he should not have struck you – but, now that you have steadied yourself, you must choose: Will you aid me, or will you side with Fitzhugh, a man agreeable to burgling the rooms of a supposed friend so that he might obtain artifacts he knows could initiate catastrophe?” Blackhall kicked aside a heap of ransacked laundry as he edged toward the target of his interrogation. “Your Captain may have a command of men, but what good shall it be if he mistakenly opens a portal onto a plane of fleshless horrors?“

The quiet boy’s eyes flickered with memory, and, after a moment, his confession came in a flood.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

- and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-four.

Tonight we present, That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Gatecast.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself ensnared.

That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

At the edge of a copse of spruce, Thomas Blackhall and Wesley Shea were hunkered beneath the weight of a shared bearskin. The watch had left the brown fur covered in a thick layer of snow, so that they seemed little more than a bump in the terrain, but Thomas knew too well that their scent alone was enough for the huntress.

Across the barren sweep of frozen river upon which they faced, a woman stepped from the treeline.

She slid from the branches, unmindful of their pull on her naked flesh, and began to close the distance on exposed feet. It struck Thomas that her body could be that of any hardworking mother in her thirties – neither beautiful, nor unsightly. If it were not for her empty face, and leaden skin, he might be coaxed to come to her aid with a proffered coat.

As it was, he raised his Baker rifle, making the necessary motions in slow turns, in the hope that he might avoid unsettling his frosty blanket.

The far embankment dropped sharply before touching the water, and her calves threw up glittering clouds as she mechanically descended the slope, and stepped onto the ice.

Blackhall could clearly see the madness smoldering behind her eyes then, though it did not seem to touch the rest of her form. His hesitation dissipated even as he shook off his mitt and set his finger against the biting metal of the rifle’s trigger.

As instinct settled his sights, his mind blanked, and his breathing slowed.

Despite his request, however, his hands refused to fire.

* * *

Three nights previous, after their conference with the ailing Ethan Wright, Blackhall and his lone-thumbed acquaintance had held an urgent discussion beneath the stars. They paid little heed to the silent boy who tended their rented sleigh as they probed the questions their recent visit had raised.

“It’s a abhorrent thing,” said Shea, as his palms moved to wick away the tears which appeared on his cheeks.

Thomas had not expected the man’s depth of reaction, but he did not press regarding the change.

Instead, he said, “you heard tales in your youth, no doubt, of the succubus who comes by night to excite and entice. Undeterred by their plundering nature, the tellings are often sensual, and I’ve no doubt that many boys of a certain age secretly hope to summon such a visitation – I know, for one, that I foolishly did.

“The reality of a thing is often much different than the daydream. Worse, I suspect a madness has descended upon that which we might but faintly call “her.” It is a plague of fury endemic to the occult kind in these closing days of mysticism.”

“I can not pretend to understand half of what you say,” replied the gently weeping Shea. “Is there further risk to Ethan? Is there some solution to his sickness?”

Before answering, Blackhall breathed foggily into his collar, and considered his words. “Your friends’ physical escape was luck, and I can not be sure that any action on our part will be of aid to his collapsing mentality, but, yes, there is work we must carry out.”

“We?” asked his companion, his voice hardening, “It is not I who rides with rifle or saber. It is not I who has experience with the hidden world. What use will I be? Shall I wiggle my stumps to distract the fiend? Shall I dance a jig on my toe-less hooves?”

“I apologize if I have been evasive on the subject, thus far,” said Thomas. “It was in an attempt to avoid embarrassment. I have heard rumours, amongst the shop patrons and brew-slingers of Perth, that perhaps your poor penmanship was not the sole result of your extended wander through the cold.”

Shea could only nod.

* * *

Days of hunting, such as the injured man had not undertaken in years, had then begun. Beyond the shack which had been Wright’s base camp, Thomas’ practiced gaze quickly caught the undisguised trail of broken pine-limbs, and disturbed snow, which the succubus had left in her wake.

The real issue was in estimating her course – no easy task when dealing with a madwoman – and finding a proper location at which to head her off.

They’d chosen their site carefully, and laid their plans well.

It was a hard thing for Shea to remember, though, as the uncovered woman made her way through the white gusts and drifting banks. She seemed so disconnected from her surroundings, that, fleetingly, she appeared to him almost as if a ghost, passing over the landscape, but never of it.

The illusion was shattered as she plunged through the treacherous surface of the river.

Despite Blackhall’s reassurances, Shea had been sure the gap they’d worked from the ice would freeze well before the woman appeared – or that, worse, that she would somehow circumnavigate their planning and appear behind them. Thomas would only say that the weight of their prey was not fully demonstrated by her frame, and that he had utmost confidence in the cloth tarp they’d stretched onto a wooden frame, and laid across the open water.

“The madness will blind her,” was the last he’d spoke of it, and he’d been right.

Leaping from his position beneath the bearskin, Shea made a quick approach towards the flailing defiler. As the imp attempted to pull herself clear of the frigid stream, he stepped as near as he might dare, and set a boot upon her fingers.

Hers were the thrashings of a rabid animal, without logic, and yet it was a difficult task, for a man of such gentle nature, to carry out. In those seconds of incertitude, Thomas’ words came to him: That escape would surely mean a suffocating death at her grasping fingers. By focusing on the dragging indentations her nails were marking up on the ice, Shea found the lesson easier to recall.

It helped, as well, to turn in his hammering jig and see his traveling companion staring blankly at the altercation.

“Oh, it’s a nasty bit of business all right,” the dancing man said, only to himself, “but I do know the bitterness of having the briefest event weigh on every moment of the future – of having something stolen from you which you can not recover. Ethan may not feel the rest of a full night for many a year, and, perhaps in stomping you under, I’ll be robbing myself of a few winks, but I suspect, eventually, we’ll both slumber better for it.

“Rest now in the chill and I will make the end quick.”

It was an earnest promise, but the struggle continued for hours, nonetheless.

Without the assistance of the sun, the raper’s increasingly fatigued writhing was not enough to stem the re-encroaching ice from enclosing about her stony belly, so that the fingerless man, with fumbling palms and exhausted posture, was able to work the silver saber through her flesh, and free the shallow-breathing Blackhall.

Days later, the pair rode together, with their silent driver, back into Perth. Even as the team of horses came to a halt upon the slushie street, Thomas spied the loitering private who awaited his return. The lookout had lapsed at his post, and was currently distracted with a young nursemaid, but the frontiersman no longer felt the need to avoid whatever summons the lad might bring.

He was ready to move on.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

- and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-three.

Tonight we present, That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Gatecast.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself at the bedside of an ailing man with a vulgar tale to tell.

That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

They’d hired a quiet driver from the edge of town, and the lad’s thick-furred mutt paced the sleigh as the trio slid beyond the settlements. As the sun crept through the sky, the trees grew close to the path, so that their their heavy branches sometimes left a snowy residue on the blanket which Wesley Shea was using as a refuge from the cold.

The fingerless man was quick to accept the generous figure Blackhall had suggested as payment for the service of his company, and guidance in locating Ethan Wright, but Shea knew well enough that he would have taken on the work simply for the opportunity to once again travel beyond the town limits.

Since the exchange, Thomas had sat largely mute, unable to break the pathfinder’s habit of contemplating the terrain against the chance of a future navigation.

At noon, however, Blackhall produced a small pot pie from his sack, and, upon determining that the boy with the reigns was uninterested in a share, split it in two. Acting carefully, so as not to lose any of the spiced beef within, he handed a chilled half across Shea, who pinched it in his palms.

“I collected this at dawn, as the baker pulled its steaming form from the Bucking Pony’s oven,” said Thomas, “I suspect we were well away before Fitzhugh’s hound had even risen from his bunk.”

Shea nodded as he chewed, then swallowed, so that he might reply.

“Are we on a lark then, as an excuse to avoid the Captain’s summons?” he asked. “It appears, to me, to be a costly method of shirking labour, but I once knew a fellow who sold his prolific orchard to escape the work of picking it.”

“No, as I have said, it’s a serious enough matter,” said Blackhall, ”you implied yourself that your friend was ailing.”

“Then, I must ask, to what end am I truly here?

“I am no physician, and my directions will be no different than those I presented at our departure. If Ethan should not be at hand at our arrival, I’ve certainly no sway with Mrs. Wright to lend you credence. In truth, my crass humoured company will keep the woman at a respectable orbit, as she has conclusively stated in the past. Finally, I have heard tell of your reputation, and I certainly do not have the fortitude to fend off the spirits of the deceased, nor men who stalk the moonlight as wolves.”

“You are here for protection,” replied Thomas.

Shea’s brow grew tight. “Given the saber at your side, and the Baker rifle amongst your luggage, I can only assume you meant your comment as a jape at myself. Do you mean my own protection? What might befall me back in town? It is my perception, sir, that I am more at risk in this moving crib, or in reach of Mother Wright’s rolling pin, than I was while toasting in the lodgings of my friends and family.”

Blackhall retrieved a small flask from his gear, and, after a quick nip, passed it across.

His companion’s disposition improved dramatically at the smell of whiskey.

For a moment, the sounds of the world were reduced to the snorting of the mares, and the scrape of the sleigh’s runners over the snow, then Thomas made his response.

“Perhaps – but, as an aside, what is your issue with the woman of the house? I understand the loneliness of separation, be it due to illness or geography, but I find it hard to condone the tale, as you told it, of her husband’s tryst among the pines. He may have had many mouths to feed, but it was she who was tending them while he supposedly took his pleasure.”

“It’s not for a gentleman to speak of cleanly buried history,” said Shea, “but mayhaps there was a time, well before the loss of my fingers, when two gents of a certain look could cut quite a swath across this ample frontier of farmers’ lamb-eyed daughters.”

With their appetites for both discussion and lunch sated, they fell into a silence which remained until they halted at the shoulder-wide lane that marked their destination.

Their welcome was a cold one, as had been expected, and Mrs. Wright offered no pleasantries as she led the pair beyond the sheeting which she’d erected to screen her husband’s degrading condition. Blackhall reckoned it a flimsy defense against the gaggle of children who otherwise filled out the cabin with flailing limbs and shouted demands, but it was obvious she was making the best of limited resources.

“You look like you fell from a horse’s ass,” Shea told his friend, once introductions were conveyed, and they’d been left in relative privacy.

Ethan Wright’s pale face was the only flesh visible above the envelope of knitted wool in which he rested. His hair hung in greasy black strings about his face, and it seemed as if he had made little effort to shave since his encounter in the swamp.

“She let you in as a punishment, you know,” he replied, “I was adamant that no visitors be admitted, however much coin they might owe me.”

Shea smiled at the retort, but Blackhall thought he heard a spine of annoyance in the comment. The ill man’s delivery was too hushed to be sure of either interpretation.

Ducking close to the invalid’s ear, Thomas began a whispered conversation.

“Your wife likely thinks you’ve finally dipped your wick in a poisoned pot, but I suspect it’s actually your mind that has taken on a rotting illness. Is it not so?”

From so near a vantage point, the stains of un-dried tears were plainly visible on the unkempt pillow.

Wright nodded.

“I’ve heard a version of the tale,” Blackhall continued, “but I do not put much faith in the chatter of your comrades. If I am to help, I must hear the truth of the thing, but I am sure that neither your friends’ jovial position, nor your wife’s accusatory stance, are the reality of the situation. I have read of cases similar to yours – and of the trauma associated with such a visitation. Though I am but a stranger, I ask that you accept mine as a sympathetic ear, and that you provide me with the genuine details, so that I might assist you in finding some respite.”

Ethan wept as he spoke, but, though he maintained a concerned expression, Shea made no effort to better hear the muffled explanation.

“I’ve a small cabin in the swamp, at which I maintain some stores to ease my toil on the hunt. I’d intended on a short excursion, but the game were in a skittish mood, and I’d managed no result at the close of the first day. It’s a quiet place – I’d never encountered another person amongst the weeping willows and cattails. It’s usually only brother bear whose company I must keep watch for.

“Under such lonely circumstances I can hardly be blamed for supping on a bit of scotch.

“There was a woman in the room when I awoke, and I was still beneath my bed of tanned furs as she approached. It was apparent, from her lack of clothing, that the entirety of her body was gray as stone, but she otherwise held the appearance of humanity.

“There was a time, as you may have heard, when I behaved as a scoundrel. I’ll gladly swear on anything you’d like to stack beneath my hand, however, that there was naught in my mind, at that immodest discovery, but my own beloved wife and the scamps we’ve raised together.

“Despite my considerations, I could feel a great helplessness within myself. While my thoughts increasingly screamed, my jaw remained stiff. While my chest increasingly ached with repulsion, there was nothing I could do but spectate her approach. It was as if I were a mewing babe, pinned in place by a smothering pillow.

“She purred to herself as she pulled away my coverings, and sighed happily when she – once she was done removing my shroud.

“There was no lust in my heart – there was no desire in my body – and yet I could not prevent the reaction I presented.

“Her weight, and warmth, was on me then. Though I struggled with every muscle, I could summon no resistance but whimpering. As I sobbed endlessly, she only giggled; giggled and surged.

“So began my week of hell.”

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

- and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-two.

Tonight we present, That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Gatecast.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself listening to a bawdy tale of questionable veracity.

That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Thomas Blackhall had been working hard to avoid the puffy-faced private dogging his steps around the icicle-laden settlement of Perth. The frontiersman’s first tactic had been to simply leave with no indication as to his destination, and two-days hunting along a river sheltered by drooping pines had provided him with a formidable store of venison, but it was not enough to put off the messenger.

Upon returning to his rented room, he’d discovered the youth still lollygagging about the Bucking Pony’s main room, obviously in anticipation of his reappearance.

There had been a time, not distant, when Thomas would’ve gladly answer the summons, but his former comrade-in-arms, Captain Fitzhugh, had begged a favour too far, while offering little recompense.

In truth, the slanted houses and chattering townsfolk pressed at Blackhall. He ached for the solitude of the trees, and a path to his Mairi.

His foul mood drove him to seek strange pleasures, and, for a pair of afternoons, he’d busied himself with shadowing the lad assigned to locate him.

Winter weather made trailing the watchman a chilly preoccupation, but Thomas was no stranger to cold, and found company, at many odd hours, in the bent form of Wesley Shea.

Shea was an ambling man, who was happy enough to tell his story, and discuss his unconcealed infirmity, as his injuries had left him with conversation as his only trade.

Before his tribulations, he had managed to pay down his land, so that he owned his parcel and furnishings outright, but, some three years previous, he’d become lost, west of Kings Creek, for a bitter week in January. Fresh signs of deer had enticed him into unfamiliar territory, but, as darkness fell, a flurry had blown in, and he’d found himself disoriented. As he’d wandered, he’d survived on melted snow and chewed pine needles.

It was only luck that brought him out of the forest again, but he had not made the journey unscathed. The cold had blackened his fingers, and there was no option but to remove nine of the ten. He’d retained the right thumb.

When receiving a shocked eye regarding his gnarled stubs, it was his joke to suggest that, if the gawker found the view unpleasant, they would do best not to look at his toes.

He now filled his mornings with meandering about the town, and trading greetings with the wash-women. By noon he would have, more often than not, located an invitation to supper, and hopefully even claimed a seat at a visiting farmer’s lunch table.

The variety in his dining companions made Shea a man knowledgeable in local scandal, as well as the tall tales of the moment.

While breaking bread with a fellow known as Punchy Hank, the roving man had heard the news of Ethan Wright, a mutual acquaintance who lived to the north.

“Well,” Shea was telling Blackhall, as the pair stood beneath the snow-laden shop awning across from the Bucking Pony. “Punchy implies it’s about done for Ethan.”

Thomas was tiring of the chase with each sight of the resting private that the inn’s swinging door provided. As he continued to listen, he stomped his feet to dislodge the clinging flakes, and silently envied his foe’s position by the black iron stove.

“Now, I preface my account by saying that, while you’ve mentioned interest in any news of strange events, I can not speak to the truth of the report I provide. It is certainly not the most outrageous story I’ve failed to believe.”

“Given the length of the introduction,” replied Blackhall, “I suppose I should prepare myself for an epic tale of minotaurs and mewing maidens.”

Producing a tin from within the interior of his greatcoat, Thomas retrieved a fine paper from his collection of goods, and placed a pinch of pungent Virginian tobacco upon its creased surface.

“It won’t be so long,” said the fingerless conversationalist, “it is only the braggartly nature of the thing which gives me hesitation. As Punchy tells it, Ethan took to the woods just before the snow arrived. He’s never been one to hold onto coin, and his family depends heavily on the hundred acres of swamp which flanks their homestead. The land is the King’s, but he has yet to find a fool to stick with the purchase, so Wright is left to make use of the game. It’s a hard walk, even when it’s frozen, and Hank says he’d set up something of a shanty amongst the trees. I imagine it was nothing fancy, but those who exist in poverty often learn many talents, and it must be sturdy enough to keep passing bears from the cache of foodstuffs he apparently kept within.

“You see, the eldest is nine, and he stands in a line with six others. The strain of their birth put Mrs. Wright in ill health – which leaves Ethan little assistance, and no leeway regarding the locating of sustenance.

“Now, the leaves were down and crisp, forcing a patient hunt. At the end of his first day he was without meat, so, instead of making his way through the treacherous dark, he opted instead to rest within his meager hut.

“It was unseasonably warm, and he thought he might surprise his dinner at breakfast.

“After saying good night to a bottle of rough scotch – another supply he made sure to keep on hand at his retreat – he slept soundly till dawn when he was awoken by giggling.

“Ethan vows that he pinned the door tightly, but there was a woman in the room with him then, leaning upon the nearby wall. She’d been watching him slumber beneath the skins he used as bedding.

“Though Punchy’s description was largely gestural, my understanding is that she was rounded in all ways a man might ask for. He did mention, however, the oddity that her flesh appeared the colour of shale.

“It’s not for me to say what matter took place next, but you might well guess what happens between a buxom harlot and a half-drunk woodsman. I cannot speak to his heroic assertions that the circumstances lasted, at a fever pitch, for a week.

“Despite the arguably pleasant nature of the visitation, however, a black mood clings to him, and, as I mentioned, Hank seems to think it probable that the once hardy Ethan will soon come to a pitiful end. He guesses love sickness, and if the nymph doesn’t come to reclaim him, the memories will likely put a treacherous blade in his fist, or a condemning load in his pistol.”

At the tale’s summation, Blackhall disposed of the last of his smoldering vice in a nearby tuft of snow, and contemplated the recital.

The street was empty, and frigid – worse, as his considerations deepened, the heat of the Bucking Pony, and the smell of Mairi, seemed all the more distant.

Finally, with his breath hanging in wisps about his face, he cracked the silence.

“You know the way to the Wright’s?”

“As a wolf knows where the sheep gather to drink, aye,” replied Shea, “we spent evening enough dicing. It’s arguable that I owe the western corner of my plot to his gambling habits.”

“What matters do you have pressing?” asked Thomas. “It seems to me a sleigh trip to the north country might do you good. I’ll secure your food and hospitality along the route, and there will be plenty of opportunity to haggle a fair wage for the guide work.

”I warn you, though: I suspect we have yet to realize the depths of this shadow.”

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

- and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty nine.

Tonight we present, The Draw: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites Podcast.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, puts an end to a long run of odd circumstances.

The Draw: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 2

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

“I need to freshen my cup,” said Thomas Blackhall, “and a stretch of my legs might change my fortune.”

“Don’t dally, replied Anders Flaks, “I’ll have left by morning, and you’ll lose your chance to squander your earnings.”

It wasn’t a large barroom, but the frontiersman made the most of his journey. First he moved to the stonework mantle, and stole warmth from the fire, then he sat for a time with the increasingly inebriated gathering of Anders’ former challengers. After letting the eldest, a man named King, complete a fishing tale regarding a bass that had apparently pulled him along an endless river for several days before allowing itself to be caught and eaten, Thomas exchanged words with William, the barkeep.

Finally, he returned to his opponent, passing across a fresh ale to match his own.

“Perhaps a little drink will dull your skills,” Blackhall said.

He wore a tight smile.

“I’ve been victorious from behind mountains of gin bottles, but I appreciate the gesture,” replied Flaks.

Thomas nodded and raised his beverage to his lips, then took up the cards as Anders pulled heavy from his hops.

As he dealt, Blackhall discussed constraint. “I might suggest moderation, sir, as spirits are often the road to ruin. In fact, my very journey to this place was set off by a priest of the name Collins. Well, I suppose it goes further back then that: The hamlet of Montcliff, had taken a collection, largely encouraged by the Father, to build a vessel to ply the great lake.”

As Thomas spoke, Flaks raised his brow, but kept his peace.

“The moneyed gentleman who’d settled the area, and was landlord to most of its inhabitants, had found the work beyond him. He’d absconded, and the district was left to sour under mismanagement from afar. The people of the small community held several meetings, and the decision was made that what little they could pool would be invested in a ferry, with the proceeds reaped by all. So long as the influx of trade from the south continues, such a venture can pay well in short order. Collins had only the best interest of his parishioners at heart when he championed the cause.”

Anders held high a pair of fingers in a bid to exchange his cards, but, with a quick examination of his hand, Blackhall shook it off.

Before continuing his story, Thomas had taken three of the five tricks.

“The fund was to be transported to the shipwright by the father himself. Collins had argued hard against carrying such an earthly load, for his flock knew nothing of his nature – knew nothing of the lust for dicing which had been the impetus for his entry into the priesthood.”

Flaks’ set down the shuffled deck, and retrieved his stein.

“I thought you said it was drink that lead to self-destruction,” he said.

“All axles need grease,” Thomas replied. ”Father Collins imparted the tale to me through his sobs, several pints after he’d lost his trust. The clergyman had done well upon the road, but temptation is a sleight thing when journeying amongst the pines, and quite another in town. Worse, he’d taken to easing his anxiety with wine, and by the time he’d reached society, he’d convinced himself that it would be best – a boon even – if he were to turn his penchant for risk to obtain a quick profit for his beleaguered assembly.

“It was a lucky scoundrel who met such a proposition lurching into the Bucking Pony.

“The game drew quite a few eyes, and when one rascal took an impossible series of throws and won the full pot out from beneath the crowd, tensions flared.”

“Who could have anticipated the arrival of Doc Schofield, the temperance man, and a cluster of matrons, intent on singing away their sins? In shame, Father Collins was the first to bolt, and he was soon followed by the rest. The miscreant simply slipped away in the chaos.

“Do you mean to take the sum back by force then?” asked Flaks. His left hand moved to his money-pouch, while his right hand dipped beneath the table-top.

Thomas raised high his brow. “I make no claims as to its justice, but I’ll not murder you for the funds, no – nor the deaths of the Fultons, nor the dozens of broken and betrayed behind you.”

“Then quit your babble, and present your points.”

Blackhall paused to consider his cards, then began the process of their play.

When all had been counted, Anders found himself defeated a second time.

“Let us double the odds,” he said, “I always win it back in the end anyhow.”

Thomas nodded his assent.

“Most take your talk of being the seventh son of a seventh son as gambler’s patter,” he said, as he laid out his bet, “but I know better. Despite your inescapable good fortune, however, you only seek to misuse your endowment. Your luck has always come at a price – at the expense of those around you.”

“There are plenty of harlots, both here and at home, who squeal odes to my luck,” replied Flaks.

The man spoke through a stiff jaw, and Blackhall judged it a fair moment to hold his own tongue. Instead they both settled into silence, and moved cards and money about the table for some time.

As Anders’ purse shriveled, so did his mood.

“Blast you and your bloody tricks,” he muttered, “- but I always win it back. Just a moment while I see if these fellows can spare some coin. Just one – two – more hands.”

He rose to approach the pair who’d yet to succumb to the lullaby of drink, but Thomas stopped him short.

“Waste no effort,” he said. “I’m a man who can only afford to make his own fortune. I knew how to void your charms. Your taste for spirits hid the concoction which I’d fostered upon the road. To most it would be a curse, as if the universe had deigned to foil the victim at every turn, but, to one with fortune to spare, such as yourself, it will only act to level your advantage.

“I suspect you’ll find the world cruel in the same manner that a beast raised in captivity finds it difficult to navigate the wild once released from the pampering hands of its human benefactors, just know, as you lay in the gutter cursing me, that I had no interest in killing a man in cold blood.”

With that, Thomas collected his hat, and the shipwright’s fee, and stood. He moved to the sleepy-eyed proprietor and invested a small portion of the funds against the debts owed by the defeated inebriates, then departed.

As he stepped from the establishment’s veranda, an odd howling chased Blackhall through the door – it was a staggering, high-pitched squeal: For the first time in his life, Anders Flaks was crying.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

- and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.