Category: Thomas Blackhall

Flash Pulp 047 – Sap: A Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Forty-Seven.

Flash PulpTonight: Sap: A Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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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.

In this, the middle chapter of our current serial, a rash of violence breaks out between a man in love and the woman he once charmed.

Flash Pulp 047 – Sap: A Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

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

There was a moment in which the only movement on the small porch came from the dancing flame of the dimmed oil lamp that Annie Eleutherios, once Annie Henley, had carried into the sharp breeze.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, I know you’ve a lot on your mind just at the moment, but I think we would all be best served if you’d allow me to take the light from your hands,” Blackhall said, reaching out to the woman’s white knuckles.

“I appear to owe you many favours, sir, but it will take more than the removal of this torch to spare Wilfred my anger.” She spat out each phrase like cannon shot. Her brow was furrowed over the dark blue of her eyes, and a vein upon her forehead began to visibly twitch.

“While I agree that your husband’s fate is a matter of discussion, it’s your digestion for which my concern currently extends.”

She released the lamp into his grasp.

“My fate?” Wilfred’s eyes moved from his wife to the man he had thought, until recently, would assist him in retaining his marital status.

Annie began to retch noisily. With a look of surprise, she stumbled to the railing and emptied her stomach.

“I apologize. A man of greater knowledge might have made the transition easier for you, but I’ve only the crafts I know.” Blackhall turned to Wilfred, whose face was still puffy from his evening’s ale. “Get her some water.”

Eleutherios moved sluggishly inside.

As he waited, Thomas removed his coat, placing it about the woman’s shoulders, even as she continued to expel her supper into the darkness beyond.

The illness had passed by the time of Wilfred’s return, and Annie was wiping at the last of the spittle on her chin as he once again stepped onto the porch.

Her movements were of such a speed that he had barely time enough to stumble back – as she pounced, her hands locked into raven’s claws. It was only Thomas’ swift left arm snatching her bodily from the air that kept Wilfred’s eyes in place.

“Be calm.” He told her, and yet her limbs flailed wildly, as if she were a cat caught about the belly.

“Do you not recognize me, Annie? Do you not know your love?” Wilfred asked, his back hard against the door.

The woman discontinued her thrashing.

“Know you? KNOW you? Am I not the woman who’s scrubbed your well-marked drawers for these last nine years? Am I not the woman you drunkenly shake to consciousness when the fancy takes you? Have I not made your meals, cut your hair, raised your child – what of little Michael?” The point of her finger was the only source of her attack now, and she used it vigorously.

Setting the woman gently down, Thomas saved the cup, still in Wilfred’s hand, from an untimely end.

“What of Michael? Is he not the light of both our eyes, the fruit of both our seeds?” Even as he spoke, Annie seemed to strain her finger in preparation to plunge it into his chest.

“No – you’ve no idea of what the role of a father is. You’ve spent these years gallivanting. If it were not for my father’s money-sense we’d long have been driven into despair. You spend no time with him, you make no effort to raise him up – the sadness in his eyes is instilled there by the lack of your attentions.”

“Whenever I speak with the boy, his tone is always one of adulation. He was under the power of no elixir, and yet I hear no such brutality.”

“How could you, as I’ve done nothing but fill the boy’s ear with fool’s tales while you’ve been napping off your drunk and living on the dowry you stole. You’ve stolen my family’s land! My innocence! You’ve stolen nine years from my life! You’ve made me a mother while I was forced to drift through your sick dream!”

“I loved you! I love you! I’d do anything!”

In taking off his coat, Blackhall had laid his rifle against the porch’s white-stained rail. Before either man could move to stop her, Annie had lifted it to her shoulder, aimed at Wilfred’s chest.

She set the lock.

Wilfred threw up his arms.

“Annie!”

She pulled hard at the trigger.

Blackhall allowed no pause after the woman’s discovery that the weapon was unloaded – a motion which saved Wilfred some injury, as she immediately set about turning the firearm into a club.

Using his forearm as a shield against the blows, Thomas stepped between the two, wrestling the rifle from the maltreated wife. Disarmed, Annie backed to the far side of the porch – breathing heavily – and Wilfred sat down directly where he’d stood, fear still creasing his brow.

Thomas offered him the cup he’d previously rescued.

Huffing from his panic, the assaulted man drank greedily.

“Further violence will not be necessary,” Blackhall said, turning to Annie, “I have already taken care of the matter.”

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 046 – Sap: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Forty-Six.

Flash PulpTonight: Sap: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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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 we begin a three part serial featuring master frontiersman, and student of the occult, Thomas Blackhall. In this opening chapter, we find our hero already in the process of being accosted with troubles not of his making.

Flash Pulp 046 – Sap: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

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

“Nine-years past, I fell in love with a girl named Annie Henley. I was little more than one-and-twenty, and, frankly, I’d barely been off my Da’s parcel. She was like a wisp of silk when she moved, all limbs and grace.” As the speaker paused to re-light his pipe, Thomas Blackhall shifted in his chair, taking the measure of his patience against the volume of ale remaining in his glass.

“I -” Blackhall began, but the man’s victory-cough cut him short.

“As I was saying: in those days, I spent many of my hours in reflection on her composure and complexion. There was little chance for us to interact however, as the only times at which we might congegrate were at Sunday services. I did make many an attempt to woo her in that stifling environment, but her father had little love for me, and he soon hardened her against my approaches.”

The man, who’d briskly introduced himself as Wilfred Eleutherios before landing heavily upon the chair opposite Blackhall, paused to trade positions between pipe and drink.

“One mid-summer night, I had taken as much as my fevered-imagination could bare. Slipping into the still hours, I made my way from the porch, across the field, and into the darkness. As I walked the ditches and cart paths, I gathered wild flowers by moonlight – when I reached her home, my hands were bursting with the evidence of my love.

“After much creeping and peeking, I came upon the window I believed to be her own, and gave a gentle rap. My care in selection proved through, it was indeed her chamber, and after a moment her face swam into view behind the darkened glass. Her beauty was untempered by the shadows. I extended my offering, whispering her name, but I must have startled her, as she immediately took to shrieking.

“With no small amount of panic in my veins, I turned back towards the fields – and just in time, as I heard the stuffing of her Father’s muzzle-loader at my heels. My bouquet left scattered across the lawn, I reached the wheat just as Old Man Sutherland let forth with his musket. I was unscathed, bodily, but my britches did not weather the encounter well.”

Blackhall, who’d nearly found himself at slumber’s door, now gave a thin lipped smirk at the idea of the intruder being threatened with gunfire.

“With my heart broken and my trousers moist, I took the slow route home. Breaking from the road to stumble down to the bank of Granary Creek, I rinsed my laundry in the clear waters. Selecting a wide rock upon which to enumerate my laments, I set about waiting for my pants to dry in the night breeze.”

Wilfred attempted a straighter attitude against his chair.

“I have told few of what followed, it’s my understanding that you’ve some experience with the weird. The barkeep, Sam, is one of the few who’s heard my tale in full, and he’s also the one who suggested I might talk to you – and well he should, considering how much of my drinking coin has built this place.”

He emptied his mug.

“I was not long in my wailing when the old woman and her strange parade happened upon me. They walked in single file, some three or four dozen, but it’s my memory that she was the only one to speak, and as she went, they went behind her: a perfect shadow of her movement through the brush and timber.

“I had not heard her approach, my awareness was lost in tears. I must have appeared quite a portrait, with only the long hems of my shirt to hide my shame and my nose thick with snot.

“She said to me: “What then of you?” and her accent was at first so thick that I could hardly understand the words. Something in the silence that followed drove me to tell my tale, and, as I finished, I once again found myself weeping.”

Blackhall’s heavy eyelids grew taut, his hands pressed flat upon the rough wood of the tavern’s table. His change in attitude went unnoticed by the inebriated storyteller.

“Did you happen to notice a woman of thirty, brown haired, with a scar across her right eye that prevents her eyebrow from fully regrowing?” asked Thomas.

“I must admit, it was dark, and long ago. I have little recollection of any face but the old hag’s, which shall not escape my memory,” the drunk replied. “I waited many evenings by the creek, but I have never again looked upon her.”

With a nod, Blackhall bid the man continue his story.

“As I completed my tale of woe, the woman turned, and without word, a man stepped forward, offering up the bundle he’d been carrying upon his back. From deep within a packing of sawdust that must have made up half the fellow’s burden, she pulled forth a slim vial of red liquid.

“”An elixir of love that will ensure your woman’s affections for ten years – three-thousand, six hundred and fifty-two days of joy,” she said, a dry giggle slipping into her voice. With that, she moved on, her throng trailing behind in their strange mirror-pantomime. It was an encounter of such singular peculiarity that there was no doubt in my mind that the concoction would work in my favour, and I had little time to worry on it, as it was not but three days till the arrival of one of the Church’s summer picnics.

“I was concerned that my presence would bring remembrances of our nocturnal confrontation, but there was no recognition in the eyes of any of the Sutherlands. It was a simple enough matter to happen by her briefly unattended glass at the height of the festivities. Concerned about the rules governing the elixir’s use, I was sure to be the first she spotted upon taking a drink – as they say is a necessary step in the bite of Cupid’s arrow, you understand – whatever the case, after she finished that cider, her heart was mine.”

Wilfred grinned, his eyes clouding with memory.

“Her father was not pleased, but there was little he could do given the strength of her convictions. By harvest we were married, and as a gift, he allowed us a plot at the corner of his land. Her Mother had passed many years previous, and when the old codger finally joined her, we moved into the main house. It’s there that we’ve spent these last seven years in bliss.

“It is nearly a decade now though, and I fear for the life I have built with her.”

Silence settled upon the table, as both men were momentarily distracted by thoughts of loss.

Wilfred gave his throat a long clearing, spitting upon the pinewood floor.

“I ask you now, will you help?”

Blackhall stood, and with a motion to Eleutherios to remain seated, he disappeared up the stairs at the rear of the great room. After a moment he returned, now wearing his heavy coat and carrying his Baker rifle over his shoulder. His attentions seemed to be focused on the leather satchel that hung low under his arm.

“Will that be necessary?” Wilfred asked, eying the weapon.

“Likely no more than this,” he replied, pulling back his coat to reveal his worn cavalry sabre. “I have little in life to call my own however, and what I do have is worth the effort of keeping close at hand.”

Thomas hoped the man might have a cart to carry them to his home, but was happy enough to let his feet lead him along in silence. The lack of conversation was a necessity, as his companion required the full strength of his perception to maintain his balance under the unsure weight of his drink. As their tread shook the morning dew from the grass, Blackhall rummaged about in his satchel, combining powders and slick waxes.

As they entered the Eleutherios’ dooryard, Wilfred finally broke the silence.

“There’s not much there-in that might harm her?” he asked, considering the flecked amber lump that had been formed of pinches from the frontiersman’s unlabeled envelopes.

“The strongest item used is a shaving of mermaid scale, but in truth, the majority of the construct is pine gum.”

The drunkard’s eyes went briefly agog, but Thomas refused to allow himself a smile.

Before they’d topped the porch’s steps, the door swung wide, a dimmed oil lamp revealing the form of the former Miss Henley.

“I was worried,” she said, stepping into the crisp night air, and Wilfred’s arms.

Before proper introductions might be made, Blackhall moved directly into business.

“I have something for you,” he said, extending the wad of sap and exotic reagents.

The woman turned her face from the offering to her husband.

“Make her eat it,” Thomas told the man.

“Chew it up,” the drunk eagerly insisted.

She did.

“Have you restored her condition? Do I have yet another decade of beatitude?”

“Nay,” responded Blackhall, his focus stuck upon the woman. “I’ve shortened her sentence by a year.”

The restive quality that had long dominated Annie’s eyes now evaporated, replaced with something sharper.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 036 – The Last Ghost Story: A Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Thirty-Six.

Flash PulpTonight: The Last Ghost Story: A Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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This evening’s episode is brought to you in part by Mr Blog’s Tepid Ride – One man’s rants on television, society, and the ridiculously gaping plot holes in reality – all peppered with a peculiarly in-depth knowledge of the history of Superman.

Find it at: bmj2k.wordpress.com

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we hear the conclusion of our current serial, as told by Thomas Blackhall himself.

Flash Pulp 036 – The Last Ghost Story: A Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

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

“He must have twisted away in the final moment, for the blow that struck Porter down had landed at the rear of his skull, and there was still hope for an open casket.”

Thomas Blackhall paused a moment in his story, sipping from his ale.

“Knowing it would be a few hours until anyone might make it out to the house, I dragged him inside. I had no interest in returning only to find his nose or cheek had gone missing down some fox’s gullet.

“I was doing my best to keep things orderly, but it was an awkward position – should I drag him by the arms and risk getting some of him on me, or by the heels and risk leaving some behind? In the end I removed his coat and wrapped it about his head and neck. It was just as well, it was becoming increasingly difficult to meet his steady gaze. I’ve as strong a stomach as anyone who kills and cooks his own meals, but it was quite a wound, and it was still the face of a man staring back at me.

“Anyhow – no matter where I placed my hands, his sag was awkward. By the time I’d reached the mid-point of the stairs, my breathing was laboured, and his limp form made it impossible to find a single posture in which I might remain steady.

From across the table, O’Connor, the half-pay Sergeant, interrupted.

“Up the staircase?”

“There was a hole in the kitchen’s wall, and at the smell of blood a fox or coyote would just as gladly go round than knock,” Blackhall replied.

“But what of Milly?” Bigs Calhoun asked.

“I was half way up when the woman made her presence once again known – there was a slam and rattle as she moved vigorously about the upper floor.

“I will not repeat my language here, but in defense of my conduct, I would argue it is difficult for any gentleman to maintain his composure while carrying the dead body of an acquaintance up a staircase.

“My outburst seemed to bring her up short, and I laid Porter down in the former nursery, unmolested.

“I was quick to retreat, I admit. Closing the door, I made a plea to the air to leave the man be as a guest until I’d returned to take him away. Then I departed.

“Outside, I’d not passed the sitting room window to move down the lane, when I heard a thrashing and thumping. Returning to the door, I pushed my way inside, and there, in no little disarray, lay Porter.”

“Harlot! She’d already killed him once!” said O’Connor.

“Frankly, I had little patience for her behaviour, but I no more blame her for the death of the man than I do you – or, I should say, I blame you just as much.”

“What? He may have been set upon his course by our chatter, but we can hardly be blamed for the outcome!” Bigs’ mug tottered dangerously as he spoke.

“Milly held no weapon upon our encounter either,” said Blackhall.

“If she’d never sent the man into a panic, he’d certainly be alive today.” O’Connor replied.

“- and if you’d held your tongue?”

Neither man had a reply to that, but Thomas was not happy to let the point lie.

“I was here much of the evening before our introduction, and any in the barroom with ears had little choice but to hear the prattle of your mouths. It seems likely to me that there was a time when a check upon your wagging tongues might have gone far towards keeping the whisper of cuckold from Nelson Tyler.”

Thomas took a long pull of his drink, his eyes drifting from one table-mate to the other.

“Now you have remorse, and surely in the morning to follow – but in a month? In a year? I tell you this story not so that you might forget the parts that shame you during the thousand re-tellings you will no doubt undertake, no, I tell you this story so that you might recall to sometimes shut your bloody mouths.”

The room, even though packed, had long fallen silent at Thomas’ telling, and his words carried to every wandering ear.

“Upon once again entering the house, I retook the stairs, and made a second attempt at palaver with Milly.

“She did not appear.

“I moved to the top of the flight, hoping to secure some bargain of safe-keeping, but she provided no notice that she heard or cared. I began to descend the steps and there was an impact between my shoulders – I twisted to save my balance, but it was for naught: it was my turn to roughly ride the staircase to its terminus.

“I landed heavily on the much maligned corpse.

“That’s when I heard him yelling. As I righted myself, he stood above me in the entrance, your man Porter: just as in life, but half as opaque and twice as angry.

““That will be quite enough!” he shouted, passing through me and fading from my eye as he took the steps two at a time. In short order there was a woman’s scream, then the bedroom door slammed shut, flew open, slammed again.

“Then all was silence.

“I asked the air several questions, but to no reply. After another struggle with the body, the remains of Porter were once again deposited in the nursery, this time without problem. As I passed down the stairs, I believe I heard voices from the closed door beyond the hall, I wonder if Milly might now regret her lack of hospitality – who knows how long Porter’s spirit may linger.

“It’s my hope that a proper burial will allow him rest.

“It was a long walk back, but as dawn crept upon the land, I was lucky to meet a boy on the road. For the promise of a second breakfast, he was happy enough to let his donkey pull us both into town. From there, there is little you do not know: Constable Bunting brought the body to Father Mitchell, and both men can see the work of accident plain enough.”

“What of Milly?” O’Connor asked, unable to meet Blackhall’s eyes.

“Upon my exit I took a moment to observe the linen closet in which we’d first discovered the woman. There was naught left behind but a babe’s blanket, slightly moth eaten. I assume her pregnancy was little obvious when the rumours of her infidelity flew, but by the nature of her fixation upon that closet, and the adjoining nursery, I suspect if you lay the cloth down in her grave, she too shall rest. I do not say ‘you’ lightly. I shall be again passing through in a year, and would not enjoy being forced to speak of my suspicions as to the source of the gossip that lead Milly to her woe. The blackened cottage reeks of fire and death now, and I would hate to have to spend so long making a speech within – should I find the cloth still mouldering.”

Thomas emptied his mug and stood.

“Now pay bar-master Stern your outstanding debt, and run along home to hope that burial is enough, and that Porter does not catch you out some evening, telling tales.”

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 035 – The Last Ghost Story: A Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Thirty-Five.

Flash PulpTonight: The Last Ghost Story: A Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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This evening’s episode is brought to you by MayTunes.com

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Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we present the second entry in our current Blackhall serial. We re-join our hero as he  prepares to enter a house of haunted repute.

Flash Pulp 035 – The Last Ghost Story: A Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

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

Thomas Blackhall, and Porter the skeptic, rode along the dead-straight roadways of Perth, leaving behind the store fronts and wooden walkways to find a chill in the night breeze that ran amongst the long stretches of wheat.

“Your saddle seems a little loose to be conducting such an adventure,” Blackhall said.

“Oh, I’ve ridden after stronger spirits than those, no worries,” Porter replied, adjusting his grip on the reins.

“It may be my own liqoured tongue that has me pressing the point – but I must say that while we’re not likely to spy one this eve, I have encountered phantoms in the past.”

“Oh, I can count you amongst the believers, Master Blackhall? Then why would you propose to come along?”

“In part, it is because I have been told these lands are the last bulwarks for the preternatural, and I have interest to see if that includes the spirits of the dead,” Blackhall took a bite of jerky he’d fished from within his greatcoat, “but also, because ghosts are terrifying, and you’ll likely hurt yourself.”

“What?”

“Oh, quite scary. Just remember that they’re literally ethereal. They may be able to get up a bit of a rattle, or some screaming – if you’re lucky, they may even toss about some tableware or a book, but they can’t easily injure you.”

“Huh,” replied Porter, taking the measure of his companion through squinted-eyes.

The conversation slid into silence.

* * *

Once they’d reached the entrance to the farmstead, they turned their horses onto the rutted path that lead to the Tyler’s dooryard.

The house was set well back on its generous plot, and it seemed to Blackhall that the ride along this shadowed lane took twice the time of their approach from town.

“How is it that Milly Tyler came to her end?” he asked.

“Her husband, Nelson, thought she’d made a cuckold of him – a tale likely whispered by his whiskey. Their land bore little, and Nelson had turned to drink while waiting for his crops to wither. One day he made the accusation, and laid her low with a shovel. He carried her into the house and dropped her in the kitchen.” Porter slapped at a persistent mosquito that hovered about his stubble-laden face. “After getting hold of some kerosene, he set the place ablaze, hoping to blame an accidental fire for consuming his wife. It was his bad luck that a wagon load of St James the Apostle’s Anglicans were on their way back from services. They spotted the smoke early on, and while Nelson wept and watched, they formed a bucket-line from the pond, singing their hymns. They managed to save most of the structure – I’ve heard the ground floor is black with soot, but that the upper has been mostly left as it stood when the constable came about to collect Nelson.”

The house was near now, a looming black casket against the moon.

Blackhall shook himself from his dread.

“Whatever we may find inside, remember to remain calm, and that Milly is no more able to harm you now than she would have been on her meanest day of life.”

The two men dismounted, hitching their rides to a gutted window pane.

Pushing open the smoke-blackened slab of the pine front door, the pair peered at the interior.

To the left, a hole in the wall, eaten there by the fire, allowed moonlight to flood the kitchen. It seemed little darker within than without. To the right lay a dim space that must have once been a sitting room. It now sat empty.

They shuffled inside.

Fingering a bit of curling wallpaper sagging from its place on the kitchen wall, Thomas spoke.

“The Anglicans must have worked quickly.”

He sought to keep his voice jovial, to prevent Porter from imbuing the place with fear.

“Let us check the upper story, and if no more fitting prize can be found, we’ll take a scrap of this paper to mark our passage,” Porter replied.

From overhead came a slam, as if a door had caught the wind.

Neither man spoke.

Porter took breath, turning to place his foot on the lowest step.

Allowing the wallpaper to return to its wilt, Blackhall followed.

Two rooms, and the narrow entrance to a linen closet, stood at the top of the stairs. One of the dust-filled chambers had obviously once been decorated in the bright colours of a nursery, and the other, the men assumed to be the shared bedroom of the former occupants.

Against the darkening of the soot on the ground floor, the spaces seemed to hold little menace.

As they reconvened at the head of the steps, Porter reached for the closet door, still in search of superior evidence.

Standing within, trisected by shelving, was the scarred and ruptured form of Milly Tyler.

She raised a single accusing finger at Porter.

The man bolted, taking the stairs three at a time. At the mid-point of the staircase, he tripped, tumbling the rest of the length.

“Wait!” Blackhall called, the form having disappeared.

Porter would have none of it, having sighted the writhing glow of Milly, now upon the spot she must have smouldered.

She began to scream.

He broke from the front door, rushing towards his mare.

The beast had heard the ruckus within, and reared in panic at the speeding figure.

With shrieking whinnies, both horses snapped their leads, bolting from the yard.

A moment later, Thomas stepped into the bite of the night air, reassuring words still on his lips. The banter died away as he came upon Porter’s body, the skeptic’s skull having been crushed at his mare’s startled kick.

A gust of wind slammed shut the marred pine door.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 034 – The Last Ghost Story: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Thirty-Four.

Flash PulpTonight: The Last Ghost Story: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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This evening’s episode is brought to you by Opopanax Feathers:

A rainbow nightmare filtered through the storming rage of a feral teddy bear.

Find it at OpopanaxFeathers.wordpress.com

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we present the first entry in a new tale of Thomas Blackhall, frontiersman and occasional student of the occult. Our story begins after the witching hour, in a small town in the Dalhousie district.

Flash Pulp 034 – The Last Ghost Story: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

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

William Stern’s Tavern was nearly empty. Conversation had guttered until only a small knot of regulars, and a sprinkling of loners napping in their cups, remained.

The recent Evans murder had dominated the bar room early in the evening, but as the night had worn on, and the barley had grown heavier, the talk had turned to the occult.

“There are no ghosts,” said Porter, the raised eyebrow of the group.

“I swear to you, when I was not eight years old, I watched my Granny’s phantom walking the hall,” replied O’Connor, a half-pay sergeant.

“Tell me not of childhood dreams as if they were truths. How many dead have there been in history? If there truly were spirits, they’d have to start charging rent at the Tower of London.”

“What of Milly Tyler’s old place?” Bigs Calhoun had been silent a long while, and, until his interjection, the debaters had assumed he’d nodded off.

“The only curse on Milly Tyler’s farmhouse is that the land she settled could barely grow grass, much less wheat,” Porter replied.

“My oldest lad once told me that he and the Casey boy went up that way one evening. Apparently neither of ’em could step in and count to ten once the door was shut. Felt fingers up his spine, he said.” Bigs took a long inhale from his mug.

Porter snorted.

“Next you’ll be telling me they brought a third boy with them,” he dropped to a dramatic hush, ” – but he never returned.”

“Isn’t it usually the smart-mouthed know-it-all who gets it at the end of those stories?” asked O’Connor, smiling across the table at his skeptical companion.

“Yes, but if you held so truly to every tale you heard at your Father’s knee, you’d be out wandering the roads looking to trade your prize cow for magic beans.”

“A wager then?” Calhoun asked.

Porter realized the smell of approaching gambling must have been what had roused Bigs from his stupor.

“At what rules? Shall I implant a dagger at the site and catch my coat, only to mistake it for the grabbing hand of poor Milly Tyler? Shall I enter and repeat Milly’s name three times, hoping she materializes? Shall I spend the night and see if my hair has turned snowy by morn?”

“Your jests reek of excuse.” O’Connor said, his smile fixed.

“I’ll happily follow whatever course you suggest, but I see a flaw in your plan: one of ye believers would have to follow along to attest to the truth of my testimony.”

“I believe you’re an idiot, not a liar,” the sergeant replied. “We shall reconvene here at lunch, on the morrow, and you can report what terrors befell you then. What of the wager?”

“I might suggest the night’s tab,” said Stern, the barkeep, from behind his well polished mahogany slab. “I’ll hold it till lunch – although I’m not terribly optimistic for the condition of your stomachs.”

“Whatever the condition of my gullet, if you’ll extend us the courtesy, I’ll be sure to order up the Sunday patrons a mess of eggs – at Porter’s expense,” O’Connor replied.

“Fine then, and I’ll beg you to be off to your haunted house, or otherwise rent a room and clear the tables, as Mrs. Stern has trouble managing the gluttony of the Sunday faithful when left to herself.”

Those still waking, stood.

They were at the door when a shadow broke away from a darkened table, approaching.

Holding up a hand in greeting, Thomas Blackhall stepped into the glow of the kerosene lamps.

“I’d like to come along,” he said.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 026 – Known Unknowns: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Twenty-Six.

Tonight’s story: Known Unknowns: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

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Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

This evening we open upon one of the many passing incidents in the history of Thomas Blackhall’s westward journey across the wild lands of North America.

Flash Pulp 026 – Known Unknowns: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

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

The trio faced each other, the creek puddling at their knees.

The eldest, Michael Vos, stood near the west most bank, a hatchet in his fist. The youngest, Renee Girard, stood ahead of the grassy overhang of the east bank, his right hand white-knuckled around a hunting knife.

Further up the flow stood Thomas Blackhall, his Baker rifle maintaining the space between the two.

“Renee, I cannot believe you’d cheat me – four months, with our backs aching while we built the dam and chute, it was always fifty-fifty. Our first strike and you’re holding out on me – I was to introduce you to my sister!”

“You’re a fine one to talk, you spent more than half that time sleeping off your drunk while I was moving rocks and sawing timbers.” Renee, red faced, kept his knife low, as if preparing for his partner to leap the distance between them.

“How is it you already know the value of your gold?” Thomas asked Michael. “I rode hard from town when I saw Renee at the saloon, and you were still napping off your celebratory spirits when I arrived. I’ve met the little assayer, with his neat collars and sharp cuffs, and he doesn’t strike me as the kind of fellow to maintain a brace of pigeons to exchange notes with whiskey-eyed prospectors. Unless you conferred with Beebe Plain’s silver and gold man in a dream, you should not yet know the value of the nugget I saw Renee flashing about.”

“Master Blackhall, why exactly are you here? I believe you startled us both when you suddenly appeared upstream.” The iron head of Michael’s hatchet dipped as he talked.

“I’m here for the same reason I’ve been here twice before, that monstrous junk pile you call a dam. Now, answer the question.”

The older man’s eyes swiveled between his red faced partner and the lowered Baker rifle.

His hatchet fell fully to his side.

“I planted the nugget.”

He shrugged.

Renee took a step back, his face filling with confusion.

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“All those nights you told me about that rich old gal you’ve got eating out of your hand back home…”

“I also told you that my cousin was bitten by the loup-garou , a, uh, werewolf, and that my Mother is regularly visited by the spirit of St. George – yet, I do not see you riding into town on Sundays, nor loading silver shot. Idiote, I could not have bought the mine out from you if you’d lent me the money. What you do not know is, if I ever show my face back in Gros Apanee, they’ll cut me up and sell the meat to the farmers on Jean Baptiste Day, just to get some of their coin back.”

“Fine, well, now you have the truth of the matter, so give me back my money.”

“Give you back your money? You just tried to fool me into buying this barren trickle!” Renee sucked in his lower lip, letting it go with a pop.

“Well, what you don’t know is, I don’t have a sister,” Vos muttered.

Renee exhaled and continued.

“Besides, I already gave you your share.”

Blackhall once again interjected, this time speaking quickly:

“As I’ve said, I met Beebe Plain’s assayer in passing while I was in the mayor’s office, he struck me as a knowledgeable man of his field, with a fair hand.” His eyes were still leveled at Michael, an eyebrow raised.

“It wasn’t cheap to buy a nugget that size. I, uh, told Jans the German that I’d pay him the second half when I got my share back.” Michael tapped his hatchet against his leg as he explained his predicament.

Renee groaned.

“I know what you think, Michael, but, I – I gave you all that was left. Jans took the rest over cards at Melbeau’s tavern.”

Both men were now eying the waters of the creek, rather than face each other.

Thomas did not let the pause last more than a few seconds.

“There’s nothing left here for either of you, and what neither of you know is, I’m on my way back from having lit a ten minute fuse at your dam. As I have told you both repeatedly, the inhabitants of Beebe Plain on la Petite Riviere are not particularly pleased with finding themselves suddenly at Beebe Plain on la Petite Crique. Now the Mayor has insisted. My suggestion is that you both stand aside, or prepare to swim.”

With that Blackhall strode from the stream, disappearing into the trees.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 024 – The Charivari: A Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Twenty-Four.

Tonight’s story, The Charivari: A Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

This evening we bring you the finale of our current Thomas Blackhall serial. In this chapter, we open with gun fire.

Flash Pulp 024 – The Charivari: A Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

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

The snap and flare of the Brown Bess brought Thomas to one knee, his ams preparing his Baker rifle with mechanical reflex.

His finger lay on the trigger, his heart sure he would once again have to end a man. It would be the first time since the sun drenched porticoes of Ciudad Rodrigo, and the war against the little dictator.

As the musket’s echo rolled from the clearing, a momentary stillness settled.

Mitchum Melbain broke the silence.

The naked youth had moved from the trees, his skinny legs fish-belly white in the moon’s glow, sobbing as he ran.

At this series of shocks, some amongst the hooded mob stepped back, seeking the safety of the forest’s shadow.

As the boy approached, the man who’d spent the evening berating the house began to issue commands. Another white satchel appeared in the musketeer’s grasp.

Thomas’ grip steadied.

The entrance to the cabin swung open.

The door had been built wide and tall, and yet the widow Bigelow was forced to stoop as she stepped from her home.

Squinting, she spoke:

“Is that you under there, Sam Allen – with your missing pinky, and one leg to too long – firing upon my cottage? It has been many a year since I’ve taken you over my knee, but by the grace of the Lord and the thousand chariots of his hoary host, I’ll send you to Nancy in such a condition she’ll be spoon-feeding you the baby’s millet for the next month.”

All force seemed to have left the gunman’s hands, weapon and satchel hung uselessly at his sides.

“You’ve shot and shattered the china platter given to me by Arthur’s Mother, on the morning of our marriage: Is your anxiety over my reputation lessened by the destruction of my service dish?”

The woman moved forward, her riot of gray hair a trailing cloud.

“If not, I believe I still have a half-dozen plates in good enough condition to meet your tastes.”

She stopped, placing her hands upon her hips, squaring her stance no more than an arms length from the mob’s leader. Her cotton gown rustled with the breeze. The man had flipped the bottle of gin he carried, and was now twisting at the neck of his makeshift club.

“It’s terrible enough,” she continued, “that you’ve come skulking onto my homestead after the witching hour, but must you all play at ghosts as well? In my day it was the reproached who felt a need to cover their shame during a charivari, not the gathered.”

Mitchum, muddied from his stumbling approach, finally reached the woman, falling to his knees and clinging at the hem of her nightclothes.

She extended a hand to stroke his head, lifting his face to look upon her own.

“It will be all right, my love. A quick spanking and these naughty boys will be soon off to their beds.”

“How dare you, harlot! How dare you corrupt one so young, how dare you speak to us as you would errant children!” The ragmen’s voice had once again found his throat.

“Ha! Without my walls to muffle your rantings, it all comes clear!” In her tone, Blackhall could hear the satisfaction of a puzzle solved. She began to point at the gathered masks. “Edward Smith? Willy Templer? Is that Sanderson the younger or elder under there? Arthur would not be pleased to see you behaving so.”

Their leader stepped forward, attempting to regain lost ground. His new position forced him to crane back his neck to meet the widow’s eyes.

“How dare the name of an honourable man such as Arthur Bigelow touch upon the lips of such a strumpet as would set up in his very house, unmarried, with a boy some four decades her junior!”

Despite his bluster, when the leader of the ragmen turned for affirmation, he found his small army huddled amongst the shadows of the treeline.

“Mitchum is a full two years older than you were when you married Chelsea Thompson and threw away your dowry on that fool’s errand you call an Inn. Yet lie not to me, Morton Van Rijn, this has little do with with whom I bed – it is my still you’ve come to smash, and like as not, you’ve carried that gin bottle as false evidence to place this ruckus at the feet of Constable Melbain’s ruffians.”

Thomas watched the remains of the mob disperse as if smoke on the wind, leaving only the rooted gunman and the visibly sharking Van Rijn to stand against the woman and her weeping beau.

“I! You! Arthur!” With his free hand, Van Rijn ripped at the confines of his mask, his breath coming in ragged gasps once his red face was exposed to the night’s air.

“Bring not my departed husband into this conversation again. I care not if you’ve sainted the wagon rut he attempted to run from the river to this field, ardent spirits would not be my business if your society had not taken it upon itself to whisper so about my time with Mitchum. Despite my service, no longer will the town entrust me with the suckling bottles for their babes – fine, then I shall supply the suckling bottles for their public houses. It is not easy to live as a marked woman of age, but I will not stand to be accosted by busy-bodies.”

The inn-owner howled, raising his glass club in a vicious arc.

For the first time that evening, Blackhall saw a look of fear cross the widow’s face.

The crack of shot once again filled the hollow amongst the trees.

A damp stain began to spread along the trouser-legs of the nearly forgotten musketeer. Dropping his weapon, he ran from the clearing.

With care, Van Rijn lowered the remains of his club, the shattered neck having opened a gash upon his palm.

A hundred yards away, Blackhall’s arms had once again found their training, and were busy slamming home a fresh load. Even as he worked the Baker rifle, his eyes remained fixed upon the moonlit trio.

The widow, her composure regained, leveled a finger of exile at the nearest pines, her gaze locked upon Van Rijn.

Slowly the man turned, the ruined pillowcase dropping from his grasp and onto the field below.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 023 – The Charivari: A Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Twenty-Three.

Tonight’s story, The Charivari: A Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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This episode is brought to you by OpopanaxFeathers.wordpress.com

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Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

In the second chapter of our current tale of Thomas Blackhall, we open upon our hero, unsure of his course, as he hunts hooded bandits through the timberlands of Lower Canada.

Flash Pulp 023 – The Charivari: A Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

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

The moon’s efforts made little difference amongst the brush at the base of the tall pines, and Blackhall’s greatcoat felt the pluck of many hidden briars as he pushed west.

He knew the men he followed were somewhere ahead, but dense forest and the desire for stealth had left him lagging. Still he crept on, experience having taught him patience.

As he moved he listened for a snatch of conversation on the wind and watched for the dancing shadows of a fire.

What little breeze stirred the stillness between the trees, ceased. Through the darkness came a noise – the rattle and clash of metal upon metal.

Blackhall, dropping all pretense of concealment, began to make his way north as rapidly as the entangling wilderness would allow.

His plunge was brought up short at a clearing, the moonlight finally reaching him unchecked. To the east was a house, small but well kept, and, at Blackhall’s estimate, some forty acres of plowed field beyond.

He had come upon the circular expanse at the southern most tip, but from his vantage point he could easily make out the white hoods of those he’d been hounding. Although he’d only noted two from his window, a dozen had gathered amongst the trees nearest the house. Most held pots and pans, and busied themselves rattling them together. At their center, their boldest member stepped forward, waving his gin bottle and shouting at the shuttered windows. The distance and ruckus prevented Blackhall from making out his words, but his agitation seemed genuine enough. What concerned him most, however, was the linen faced member who moved naught, but kept his musket close across his chest.

Frowning, Blackhall began to tread along the clearing’s edge, taking care not to reveal himself.

Two hundred yards from the gathering, he paused.

From amongst the clamor came something new – buried beneath the crickets and the mob, the sound of crying reached his ears. Pushing back his broad brimmed hat, he cocked his head, breathing in the humid air.

After a moment he crept forward in a duck walk, releasing his sabre from its scabbard.

With a slow hand he slid the point between the gnarled branches of a dense thicket, halting his advance as his hilt offered resistance.

He spoke:

“I apologize for interrupting in your time of distress, but I suspect you may be able to clarify a few things. If you’ll please join me amongst these shadows, I would have words with you.”

To Blackhall it seemed as if the bush were birthing, a boy crawling from its shadowed womb, the work of the scratching hands of the forest visible along his back, arms and legs. As the youth looked up, Thomas recognized the sandy hair, wide brow and small nose. He removed his coat, draping it about his companion’s bare shoulders. At closer range he could tell the boy was older than he’d first thought, yet still no more than one-and-twenty, with a child’s face and gawky limbs.

“Ah, you must be Constable Melbain’s errant brother?”

“Yes.”

“Your name then?”

“Mitchum.”

“Mitchum – we’ll briefly gloss the matter of your nude disposition, as expediency is likely best. Do you know why those men accost yonder house?”

“You are not with them then? It is a Charivari, sir. A warning to Mrs. Bigelow.”

In the distance the pot banging had moved from random chaos to a marching beat. The entire party was easily visible, now standing plainly away from the trees after finding courage in coordination.

Their center-man still led the slow advance, his rant unabated. Even at his distance, Thomas could see the damp circle of froth and spittle that had begun to form upon his linen guise.

“Your situation begins to explain itself. I have seen a few such rituals before, mostly amongst the French vineyards – I do not recall weapons or masks however. In fact, what I do recall is a lot of bawdy, out of tune singing, and copious local wine, all at the base of some red-faced couple’s window. It was often because an unpopular widow or widower had re-married before the end of mourning – has Arthur Bigelow been dead so short a time?”

“Arthur’s been in his grave nearly a decade. Patricia has been on this land for nigh fourty years, she practically raised this town, what right do they have to come slithering from the night to terrorize her?”

Thomas cleared his throat.

“Mitchum, I might guess by the daring of your attire, especially amongst so high a tide of mosquitoes, that they may have some dispute with your, uh, relationship with the widow Bigelow.”

The boy’s eyes hardened.

“Our business is ours, not my brother’s, nor the town’s.” He exhaled. “I must add, there is more than one motivation that might send an armed mob up from the village after Patty. Still, I am surprised that anyone would dare.”

“If you are here at the wildwood’s edge, where is Mrs. Bigelow precisely?”

“Well, we were taking a dip in the pond round back of the house when we heard the approach – she told me to git, and so I did. There’s a voice she has which’ll send you running to the trees without your clothes, and I was about where you found me when I could finally hear my brain over my pounding heart. My first thought was to run on for town and find Gareth, but it was my second that it was just as likely my brother was one of the intruders.”

As the boy talked, Blackhall’s eyes stayed upon the gathered throng.

The voice of the Ragmen ceased his raving, turning to the musket-bearer.

He pointed.

The man with the Brown Bess brought forth a white roll the size of a thumb, ripping at the end with his teeth.

Thomas stood, setting his sabre back at his belt and making a quick check of his Baker rifle’s breach.

“Come. Now.”

Making best efforts to stoop amongst the cover of the brush, he once again began to run.

He’d yet to cover half the distance before the gunman had primed and readied his weapon.

The thug lifted the long barrel, sighting the house through his hood’s ragged slits.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 022 – The Charivari: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Twenty-Two.

Tonight’s story, The Charivari: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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This episode is brought to you by the Flash Pulp fan page on Facebook.

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Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

This evening we bring you the first chapter in a new serial featuring Thomas Blackhall. In this episode, he encounters the town of Bigelow, a small settlement at the edge of civilization.

Flash Pulp 022 – The Charivari: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

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

At the point where the Kakibonga dripped into the Winipekw, Thomas Blackhall stumbled across the town of Bigelow.

The hamlet was little more than a line of houses scratched into the riverbank, its center point marked by a single spoke thrust into the woods.

After weeks of scrambling through dense brush, eating only deer jerky and hand-caught fish, Thomas was startled to find himself at the end of that spoke, the mouth of an immaculate roadway open before him.

He ran his fingers along the weeks of growth at his chin, eying the scene.

The road itself rolled gently away towards the shore. Along the water’s edge ran another road, and at this corner stood a house that had grown beyond its seams, boxy additions thrusting out in every direction, some of the extensions connecting onto extensions of their own. The walls of the rambling structure were a solid white, but the doors and window frames had been marked in the brightest of the rainbow’s palette.

From a green door in the rear, a mustached man exited, an axe cocked over his shoulder.

He began to walk towards Blackhall, humming.

“Come to raise a glass?” shouted the man, when he finally spotted Thomas. There was scorn in his voice.

“In truth, I didn’t know there was a glass nearby to be held, but if yonder sprawling castle is an Inn, I could certainly find my thirst.”

Blackhall had moved to close the distance, and now offered a more formal greeting.

“Thomas Blackhall,” he said.

“Morton Van Rijn,” the man replied, taking the offered hand. “Welcome to Bigelow. I apologize, I mistook you for Lefevre, one of the local farmers. He often aims to walk the road before drinking himself into blindness, he claims it keeps him from getting lost on his way home. His beard is nearly as wild as your own, I dare say. Anyhow, whatever the foul excuse, the more whom use the road, the happier I am.”

Blackhall noted the man’s discreet attempt at wiping his hand clean as he talked.

“Well, if I might find a basin and a scrap of mirror, I’d be happy to do away with the confusion,” he replied, tugging at his whiskers. “I’ve come from the Western District, and it’s been some time since I’ve had to worry on polite company.”

Van Rijn’s face brightened.

“You’re more than welcome to board at The Loyalist. If you’ll honour me with news from the South over dinner, I’ll be happy to give you a room free for the night. Your thirst is your own affair however – while I run the finest Inn in two hundred miles, I do not sell ardent spirits. My wife and I are the founders of the Bigelow Temperance Society, whose ranks include the majority of the members of Bigelow worth acquainting. The town itself houses three hundred, with the same number again of farmers who’ve settled the clearings in the surrounding area – of those some twenty-five are members of the Temperance Society, no small feat for a place largely made up of woodsmen and mosquito-bitten field tenders.”

Thomas nodded.

“Whiskey must be no small problem if it was deemed necessary to organize against it.”

“Yes, well, what I meant was, outside the ranks of The Society, in Bigelow polite company is as scarce a commodity as sobriety. Despite the population there are no less than three public houses – well, two proper public houses and Ginny Melbain’s parlour. There is no proper law however, as Constable Melbain has little interest in enforcing against his sister’s enterprise, and the drunks would not stand to have the law applied inequitably.”

“What of this road then? This doesn’t seem like the work of lackadaisical liqour hounds,” Blackhall asked, glancing in the direction of his promised bed and basin.

Van Rijn’s hands swung wide, the axe still firmly in his grip, his broad face breaking into a grin.

“This road was founded by Arthur Bigelow, who also gave his name to the town, as its first inhabitant. I have taken up his worthy task, knowing full well that the legislature will not step in to regulate the principality without ease of access, access I intend to provide with this highway. Each summer I have pushed the forest back further than Bigelow’s original cut, and each spring I salt the ground to prevent the brush from retaking my progress. I regret that my duties at The Loyalist have prevented me from making it my full time occupation, but it is my hope to one day bring the full might of The Society to bear on the problem.”

In Thomas’ minds-eye, a vision of twenty-five of Bigelow’s most upstanding citizens zoomed out to encompass the distance required to interlink with the nearest settlement of size. His legs ached. He eyed Van Rijn’s single axe.

“A worthy task, and if you’ll pardon my currently grizzled appearance, I’ll gladly take you up on that offer of dinner. Who might I speak to at the Inn about a room?”

* * *

The accommodations were cramped but comfortable. After bathing and scraping clean his face, Blackhall found himself suddenly coming awake to a sharp rapping at his door, scarcely aware that he’d set his head upon his pillow.

“Yes, coming,” he muttered, running his fingers through his mussed hair.

To Thomas, supper seemed a long time in arriving, although the gathered members of The Bigelow Temperance Society filled the period with much talk. In the end, every aspect of the meal was too dry for his liking, but he found himself pleasantly surprised at how quickly the plates were cleared and the gathering dispersed.

As he stepped onto the veranda that faced out upon the river, Blackhall began his ritual of pinching Virginian tobacco into one of the fine Spanish papers he carried. As he completed his task, a passerby who’d been strolling the water’s edge set a booted foot upon the entryway’s lowest step.

“Well, this is certainly the first gentleman I’ve ever come to encounter as a stranger on this porch, might I ask your name?”

“Thomas Blackhall.”

“Ah, then the name’s not been twisted amongst the gossip. I am Constable Gareth Melbain. Do you have business in town?” The lawman called up a wad of phlegm and deposited it on the wood planks at his feet.

“I thought I might wet my throat, little more,” replied Thomas.

“I wasn’t sure of your character, given your meal company. Still, it seems to me you’ve come a long way to nowhere for a drink. Mayhaps it is because you’ve heard of Ginny’s parlour, found in the blue-washed house at the end of this same street. She’ll likely give you a sample if you mention my referral.”

With that, the constable moved off the stairs.

“One last thing: do not take Van Rijn’s word on Bigelow as gospel. I knew Arthur, and he was a good man, whatever his wife may have become.” The man walked a step, and turned back to face the still silent Blackhall. “- and yes, I fully admit my younger brother ought know better.”

He strolled on.

By the time Blackhall had burned his fingers upon the smoldering stub of his cigarette, the weight of the food and the song of the river had lulled him to a rest. Deciding to forgo town politics, he instead retreated to the interior of the inn, and took to chasing after his interrupted slumber.

* * *

He was brought awake hours later by the sound of two mares whinnying outside his window.

Cracking the thin white curtains, he took in the scene.

Some twenty drunks had gathered at the edges of the town’s sole crossroads – some along his window, some across the way, along the graying timbers that he’d been told were the outer wall of Pullman’s General Store. Many of the bystanders held lanterns high as five men stumbled about in the center of the gathering.

Two of the men were busy harnessing blinders upon the spooked horses, while another pair fended off the increasingly animated protests of the muddy shirted fifth.

Through the pane of glass, Thomas’ ears could make out the back and forth of betting amongst those arrayed along his vantage point.

Satisfied with their results, the two men who’d been working the lashings stepped back, one of them giving the guardsmen instructions to clear the way – as the man shouted Blackhall recognized the face as that of Constable Melbain.

With no little force the brutes emptied the road of the pleading man, and without delay Melbain began a countdown from three, which ended with both animals receiving a sharp whip blow. The sudden pain sent the beasts hurtling up the salted path and into the darkness between the pines.

Laughing, the crowd began to stream along behind, leaving the corner once again silent.

His sleep disturbed, Thomas dressed and shuffled into the common room.

Pulling a book from the shelf adjacent the fireplace, he settled into a nearby rocking chair.

* * *

As the embers sank into ash, a chapter’s worth of the history of Canterbury had been enough to once again put him on a path to sleep.

He slipped into his room, taking a moment to peek between the lace to ensure a lack of further disruption.

Motion amongst the shadows of the store caught his eye.

Creeping from the darkness came the shape of a man, the moon illuminating the white pillowcase that was taut about his face. The mask was held fast with a thin rope at the neck, and to allow vision, two ragged black holes had been cut from the linen.

The man moved away down the forest road, but before Thomas might stray from the window, the meager light gave away a second ragman, the gin bottle in his hand catching the night sky’s reflection.

His stupor forgotten, Blackhall strode quickly about the room, collecting together his satchel. Pulling his greatcoat over the sabre he’d strapped to his hip, he snatched up his Baker rifle and shouldered the pack that once again contained the entirety of his possessions.

With a last look into the lane way – now empty – he exited his room and stepped from the green door at the rear of the building, the night insects roaring their greeting.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 012 – Red Mouth’s Legacy, A Blackhall Tale – Part 6 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Twelve.

Tonight’s story: Red Mouth’s Legacy, A Blackhall Tale – Part 6

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

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This evening’s episode is brought to you by Old Time Radio Extra, available at oldtimeradioextra.weebly.com

Looking for old time radio, kid? Sure ya are!

OTR Extra has all the sources of jim jams and flim flams indexed, so you don’t need to go crawling up and down google like some kinda mook.

That’s Old Time Radio Extra, available at oldtimeradioextra.weebly.com

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

Tonight we present the finale to our first Blackhall tale, as Thomas makes his final stand against his ursine captor.

Next week we return with a trinity of solo pieces, including another entry in the case files of Mulligan Smith.

Red Mouth’s Legacy, A Blackhall Tale – Part Five of Six

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

A new type of waiting had begun, as man and beast watched the flames move voraciously amongst the brittle wood.

“What treachery is this? You would roast us both!” the bear roared.

“I will give you some advice – and what I give you will be free, not a spite heavy trade.” Thomas smiled, his smokey vice bobbing between his cracked lips. “If you head down to the river we have twice now conversed upon, your strength will surely knock back the great elms which hang over that water. If you were to then rut the dirt clean, you could create a break and stop this contagion – at least so long as the wind stays easterly. T’will not be easy, nor quick, but it’ll keep this blasted hillock from balding entirely, and from letting the blaze spread to the lands beyond.”

“Pray do not think to inform me of how to fight such an enemy.” The bear snarled, stepping forward. The rending hooks of its front paws caught the light of the flames.

It reared and bellowed then, its rage flooding the hilltop and valley below.

Thomas raised the tip of his sword.

“Until now I’ve not thought it likely that I might see my Mairi again, but if pressed I will gladly remove your head to save the time. I’m sick of your god awful shouting and groaning – if you wish to taste the poison of my silver, then come, and quickly, as I have a date to keep.”

He had taken his full height as he talked, and despite the mighty bulk of the beast below, upon his perch his frame now towered over even that of the lord of this primordial forest.

Without response the bear sank upon its haunches, once again resting in the position it had so long held.

Lowering his weapon, Thomas once again spoke:

“Do not rest long, it will be a short time before even yonder valley begins to crackle.”

The albino moaned then, the forlorn cry of a being who has lost a child and must make do with what remains. Rolling forward it took to its legs and began to push its way along the corridor of flames, picking up speed as it moved down the hill and out of sight.

Blackhall stood against the roasting heat as long as he dare, then slipped down the rocky scape and into the trees to the north, limping towards the smell of ocean salt.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.