Tag: short fiction

Flash Pulp 073 – Ruby Departed: Neighbours, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Seventy-Three.

Flash Pulp

Tonight, we present Ruby Departed: Neighbours, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp073.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.

Subscribe today, or Steve Jobs may hurl a ninja star at you.

Find it here.

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 present the first entry in another arc straight from the pages of Ruby’s travel log. In this chapter, our heroine attempts to track down the source of the mysterious smoke she has repeatedly witnessed during her post-apocalyptic journey.

Flash Pulp 073 – Ruby Departed: Neighbours, Part 1 of 3

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

Ruby Departed: Neighbours 1-1
Ruby Departed: Neighbours 1-2Ruby Departed: Neighbours 1-3Ruby Departed: Neighbours 1-4Ruby Departed: Neighbours 1-5Ruby Departed: Neighbours 1-6Ruby Departed: Neighbours 1-7Ruby Departed: Neighbours 1-8

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 072 – The Affair Of Honour: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Seventy-Two.

Tonight, we present The Affair Of Honour: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp072.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the ranting of Captain Pigheart.

Rather than listen to our pale imitation, why not try a free sampling of the Captain’s work for yourself?

Buy the tales, as told by the Captain himself at CD Baby.

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 present a story of honour, risk, and single combat.

Flash Pulp 072 – The Affair Of Honour: A Blackhall Tale

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

At the age of ten, Thomas Blackhall was witness to his first duel. His understanding of the matter was minimal, but Theodore Ashton, a long time friend of his father’s, had asked the senior Blackhall to act as his second, and so it was that Thomas happened to overhear of the farmer’s field, not far from his own home, that was to be the site of resolution.

Creeping through the tall summer grasses, he came to the edge of a clearing in which stood four men. His father and Theodore Ashton were immediately recognizable, but he had no knowledge of their opposition. The man who would be fired against was young and lean, and stood a good six inches taller than Ashton. It seemed to Thomas’ youthful eye that this would give his father’s friend an advantage in aim.

The stranger’s second was a rotund gaffer, the face of which had grown red with anxiety and sun, who fussed ceaselessly until told to stop by the man demanding satisfaction.

The wind was at the boy’s back, and he could not hear the words exchanged between the gathered – the marking of distance, and preparation of pistols, however, was clear enough.

There was a moment when all was hushed, then came the shooting – a crack and flare from Ashton’s weapon, and, on its heels, the echo of the challenger’s.

For a moment the youth thought the encounter at an end. He was sure Ashton’s ball had flown true, and that the stranger was done in, but after a moment the tall man smiled and insisted on sending forward his second to converse with Thomas’ father.

The large man was animated in his commentary, and the elder Blackhall seemed displeased as he returned to speak with his friend.

The pistols were once again loaded.

The second volley seemed to come with less anticipation. The order of fire was again repeated, although the challenger seemed to pause this time, taking closer aim before discharging.

Seeing Ashton tumble sideways to the ground, and the still standing form of the tall man, young Blackhall moved from his hiding spot, his legs pounding homeward.

Once he’d wiped clean his tears and ventured to the supper table, he learned that his father’s companion had not perished, but instead was simply wounded. It would be a long year before the duelist might regain the use of his arm, but Thomas was happy to know the man had not been slain.

* * *

The second duel to which Thomas was privy took place many years later, as he ventured through the western districts of Upper Canada.

At this event, he was far from the sole spectator. The demand had been well heeded by all who’d been astride the General Brock’s hard wooden stools, and no few of the grogs-men had turned out to see Paul Melnor, a half-pay officer with a well known reputation for his embittered temper, challenged by a vagabond, who the locals referred to only as Ludwig.

Blackhall had not been on hand for the issuance, but, having awoken early to the Brock’s morning gossip, he’d found himself making his way, on empty belly, to the designated field.

The air was chill, and the morning dew soaked the feet of all who’d assembled.

Thomas knew none of the expectant faces personally, although he had some passing acquaintance with the half-pay officer from his short time at the Brock, but it was none of the residents who caught his eye. Melnor’s challenger was a lean man, of some half-remembered familiarity, and the frontiersman set himself to taking a closer look.

He’d grizzled since Blackhall had first seen him, but his inspection left little doubt that it was the same duelist who’d done injury to his father’s friend many years previous.

Despite his increased age, Ludwig seemed limber and full of vigour. Upon the hour of their engagement, his face broke into a smile.

Thomas BlackhallThe first shot was Melnor’s, and well placed. Blackhall clearly saw the spreading crimson upon the tall man’s chest, and Thomas was sure it was the aging stranger’s turn to topple. After a moment, however, Ludwig seemed to collect himself, despite the neat hole in his waistcoat.

Raising his pistol, the challenger took careful aim.

The next day the local newsman would not report it as the result of a duel, but as that of an execution; there was little else to call Ludwig’s deliberation in the murder of his foe. The crowd did little but watch as he soon after sauntered to the edge of the throng, accepted a billfold which represented the winnings of the contested card game, and disappeared into the tree line.

Despite their conjecture that the man would soon be seen at the home of the local physician, the people of the town would not look upon Ludwig’s face again.

* * *

Blackhall had prepared himself for his final encounter with the lean man.

He’d long since moved further westward, well passed the settled reaches of the King’s land, into the primeval forest dotted only by the occasional farmstead or palisade of the People of the Longhouse.

It was a year since he’d observed the duel between Melnor and Ludwig, and much had happened in the interim – Thomas had come into the area following a trail of butchery, both of the aboriginals and the European farmers and trappers who’d braved the frontier. The murders had been cruel, and the sites of their perpetration were soaked with scarlet.

He came upon the third set of duelists under the clean sun of midday, in a small meadow. Ludwig had appeared without mount, but his opponent had tied off a well-packed mule along the edge of the clearing. This newest foe seemed to have little stomach for the challenge; Thomas could see the tremors in his hand even at his distance, and the man’s face seemed a mix of sorrow and concern.

Blackhall knew the supposed act of honour to be little more than robbery.

Both men had counted their distance and readied their weapons; shot would soon fill the air.

Thomas intercepted the process with a bellow.

Thinking his opposition to have fired early, the shaken man fainted, his weapon falling, unfired, from his grasp.

Ludwig turned to meet the interloper.

“I’ve been following you for some time now,” Blackhall stated flatly.

“Have you?” Ludwig responded, his face twisting into the same smile he’d worn on the day of Paul Melnor’s murder.

“I’ve come to stand as this man’s second.” Thomas said, carefully pulling the man’s limp body to a position of rest under the shade of a maple tree.

“Will you utilize his pistol?” Ludwig questioned.

“I’d rather my rifle, despite the disadvantages in speed that it presents,” Blackhall responded.

“I leave the choice to you.”

The two men faced each other then, and, as a single raven broke from the trees to take flight, both raised their weapons as if to fire. Ludwig’s arm far out-sped Thomas’, but it was Blackhall who fired first.

He’d been sure that the tall stranger would await the opportunity of a careful response; his greatest fear had been that the silver ball he’d cast would shatter under the force of firing, but, as Ludwig’s body fell to the earth, it twisted briefly into a form that was both man and wolf, proving his concerns unfounded.

It was tiring work, but Blackhall had all but finished digging the lycanthrope’s grave even before the lean corpse’s penultimate challenger had fully awoken from his swoon.

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 071 – Sgt. Smith and The Last Stop, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Seventy-One.

Tonight, we present Sgt. Smith and The Last Stop, Part 1 of 1

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the ranting of Captain Pigheart.

Thrill to the dangerous incompetence of his crew; swoon at his romance with anything that will have him; cackle gleefully at the results of both.

Buy the tales, as told by the Captain himself at CD Baby.

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 present a letter, as written by the hand of Sgt. Smith, telling of one strange evening, and a stranger encounter.

Flash Pulp 071 – Sgt. Smith and The Last Stop, Part 1 of 1

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

          Mulligan,

It was 1944, and there was a war on, but, as you know, I was forced to abstain from the service of my country, as I was short my tongue. Still, there are things a man can do to help his nation, and I was willing to do them. I probably wouldn’t have been so eager if I’d known your Ma at the time, but in those days the life of a mute wasn’t always the easiest, and, being 16, I was slightly stupid with my need to make a place in the world.

That’s how I found myself riding the rails. The age of the hobo was coming to an end, some would say it already had, I guess, but you could still find old timers hopping trains and coasting from sea to sea, if you looked hard enough at the shadows.

I was supposed to be watching the cargo cars for Japanese saboteurs, of which there never were any as far as I can tell, but every now and again I’d stumble across some gray whiskered fellow in patchwork pants, usually with a bottle under his arm.

The night I met Yancy and Poke was a cold one – I’d spent some of it chatting away in the caboose, keeping close to the heater, but I was young and hardy, and my duties weighed heavy even if I’d done the rounds a hundred times previous without turning up so much as a kimono or plate of sushi.

Yancy and Poke weren’t Nipponese, obviously, I doubt they’d ever had a home address beyond America-in-general.

They’d crammed themselves between a double stack of crates, and when I first came across them, I thought they were doing something mighty inappropriate.

“Hey – what’a’you doin’ in there?” I thought, pinning them with the flashlight the railroad had handed me. It was years later that I realized just how lucky I was that no one pitched me from the train during those dark hours.

Poke was lying across Yancy’s lap, and, over the rattle of the tracks, I could hear one of them crying and one of them dying in slow rasps.

Yancy probably couldn’t make out my face over the glare of the light; with the look on his own, I figure he must have thought he’d been caught up by a hardliner railroad dick.

“Mister, mister, please, my friend, he ain’t gonna make it much longer, just let us ride.”

Well; I had a whistle, and I had my flashlight, but those were about the only options the company had given me. I couldn’t speak to tell him I’d give him a pass, and blowing the whistle would have brought Old Mike up from the caboose with his clobbering stick at the ready.

I pulled out my notepad and scratched a quick message, but Yancy only looked at the paper in despair – you don’t find yourself having to hop freight because of a great education.

I didn’t have much else to offer them, but I felt bad – Poke was obviously in rough shape, his face was a mess of bruise and hard life, and I didn’t want to just flip off the light and leave them to the dark.

I dug out the last thing I had in my pockets: a Kit Kat chocolate bar I’d been saving as supper. I snapped off two of the ridges and handed them to Yancy.

The next few hours were a life’s worth of learning. I mimed my silent disposition to Yancy, who introduced himself and his companion, and he had no problem accepting it. To fill the time, he started talking, and I’d long finished my half of the meager meal before I realized the hour.

He told me of his travels with Poke; about the cities they’d seen built and fall apart, the moonshine they’d drunk together, even about the small town cop who’d beaten Poke to an inch of his life, ending their journeys.

Maybe it was the kindness I’d shown him that made him tell me, maybe it was the fact that he himself was not long behind Poke for the Lord’s judgement – either way, he let slip where they were headed, and that he needed to watch out for the great gnarled Douglas-fir with only the eastern portion of its limbs that would soon be after the down-slope of McClucthie’s hill.

It’s hard to say how, but before I knew it, the three of us were at the open door, and, as the engine began to grind around the sloping grade that marked the bottom of the incline; as we spotted that huge and awful tree; the three of us jumped.

I don’t know how Yancy had planned on carrying Poke along the path through the underbrush, if it hadn’t been for my flashlight and youthful exuberance I’m not sure either of us could have managed it. As it was, after an hour of pushing aside the thick green, we came across a hillock in a clearing, on top of which sat a low fire with a lone man huddled close.

I hadn’t fully believed what the hobo had been telling me back in the rail-car, but seeing that beacon set my body trembling. The patchwork man tending the flame didn’t bother to look up as we passed, and Yancy wasn’t willing to stop after getting so close.

There wasn’t a free place to rest my light that didn’t touch on bleached white bones or rotting flesh. I hadn’t smelled anything on the approach; Yancy had told me the wind always blows westward over what he called the hobo graveyard.

Some of the dead had signs on their chest; names or dates or scratched final messages; some had died sitting; some had taken the time to lay themselves down with arms crossed.

After a while of strolling through that open air sepulcher, I flipped off my light.

Some things are best left little seen.

I didn’t know where we were going, but Yancy led on. After a time he sat himself down, then motioned for me to rest Poke – who’d been limping along on my shoulder, muttering deliriously about his mother – beside him.

Yancy shook my hand, and I turned to leave them to it, trying hard to focus on the firelight as I picked my way back. I grabbed a ladder onto the next train to slow for the grade, and, once I got to the yard, I spun a tale to Old Mike that I’d fallen overboard after a lurch.

I’ve never seen a newspaper report mentioning the hoard of bones and bodies, and I’ve often wondered whatever happened to that self-made cemetery. Did the last man pick up a shovel and lay them all under?

At Eighty-Two I’m unlikely to sneak onto an iron horse to find out, and I’ve a terrible feeling I’d just find a subdivision with no history anyhow. Still, sometimes, when the wind blows to the west, I find myself wondering, and my legs longing to ramble.

Dad                                          

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 070 – Mulligan Smith and The Homecoming, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Seventy.

Tonight, we present Mulligan Smith and The Homecoming, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp070.mp3]

Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the piratical talk of Captain Pigheart.

As the Captain himself once said: “Within ye may discover the valiant nature of meself (and a select number of me crew) as we face the vilest foes upon the open waves. I brings ye tales o’ battle with giant terrapins, a colossal crab, the tender love of a mermaid, terror from the skies, fear from below, the dangers o’ poppy, the joys o’ rum and much much more…”


Find it all, and more, at CaptainPigheart.com

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 once again present a tale of Mulligan Smith, as the PI gives a friend a lift home.

Flash Pulp 070 – Mulligan Smith and The Homecoming, Part 1 of 1

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

Billy Winnipeg stood, his back to the white curtained wall. His nose was leaking blood, and he could feel swelling beginning in his sprained left ankle.

Popping his knuckles, he eyed the two approaching men. He knew he was lucky that the pair hadn’t jumped him already; they would have been quicker about it if it wasn’t for the wreckage strewn around the room, and the groans of the incapacitated on the floor.

Running his forearm across his face, Billy was grateful that the place had at least emptied out quite a bit once he’d made his bellowing declaration of aggression.

He hated pummeling family.

* * *

Billy and Mulligan had driven the 500 miles of road from Montreal to Winnipeg’s home in record time. At first the big man had asked to make every possible stop: road side eateries, bathroom breaks, coffee, scenic look outs; anything with a sign. As they’d grown closer to their destination, however, the mountainous Canadian had insisted on speed.

Smith’s patience with the rambling hurricane had been growing short, but he’d had no interest in pushing the Tercel to the limit only to have some podunk Canuck officer pull him over and discover a wanted man in his car.

“Look,” the PI had opened, “I’m going to give you a lift home, and I’m probably going to end up having to waive all my fees as your Mom hasn’t called me in days, but I’m about done breaking laws on your behalf.”

“I’ve never broken a law that didn’t deserve to be,” Winnipeg had replied.

“What about clobbering your Mom’s boyfriend?”

“All right, I did that, but he deserved it.”

“- and the car he says you stole?”

“I don’t know nothing ‘bout that. I wouldn’t want that friggin’ clunker anyhow. That’s why he deserved it.”

“What about that cop bar you leveled back in Capital City?”

“Abortion is a woman’s right to choose. Fellas, (especially officers of the law), oughtta have a little more respect in the way they carry on in a public place.”

Mulligan had let the speedometer do the talking from there on.

* * *

Winnipeg knew it wasn’t going to end well as far as he was concerned. He’d already had it out once with his Mother’s beau, Tony Bathis – who he refused to call anything but Mr Bathis – and two years previous he’d seen Uncle Mitch lift a full grown cow from the ditch, where it’d broken its leg, using nothing but his massive arms and gumption.

Billy eyed his Mom, in her white dress, and felt a moment of regret.

Seeing his son-in-law’s distraction, the groom rushed him.

Mulligan SmithMulligan stepped into the reception hall, a slurpee in his hand.

“You’ve ruined the most important day in your Ma’s life!” Uncle Mitch said, approaching with arms extended to get a hold on his rogue nephew.

“You said that last time she got married.” Winnpeg replied, busy in an awkward grapple with her new husband.

“You can’t go round stealing cars and beating folks up, Billy.”

“Hey,” Mulligan said. There was a brief pause to the combat, and Uncle Mitch stopped short of his objective. “I just got off the phone with the police, we got the whole car thing cleared up.”

The Winnipeg family were brought to a halt, although Bathis continued to struggle in Billy’s grip.

“Cleared up?” Mitch asked.

“Yeah, well, I guess that makes it sound a little easier than it was – see, after dropping off Billy here at the wedding, I headed over to the future residence of Mr. and Mrs. Bathis. You Canadians sure are trusting folks, the door was unlocked and everything. I thought I’d just poke on in and see if I couldn’t, you know, spread some flower petals around, or whatever, as a welcome back for the honeymooners. Funny thing about your wedding day, its the one time even an addict will leave their cellphone at home. I happened to see it out on the bedroom dresser, so I figured I’d give it a look-through.”

Bathis stopped struggling.

“Oh, I know it’s not any of my business, I hope you polite Canadian folk will forgive an American showing up and barging around like he owns the place, but I noticed a specifc set of digits that Tony here had dialed fairly regularly. I decided to see who was so interesting, and it happened to be a sweet voiced lady on the other end.”

Ma Winnipeg, her makeup having been mostly washed away by tears, stopped crying. All eyes were on Mulligan.

“Mosied on over after a reverse look-up, and, whammo, parked on the dead grass in the backyard was a 2003 Sunfire GT with the plates off.” Mulligan took a long draw at his coloured straw. “Your girlfriend seemed pretty mad that she wasn’t invited to the wedding, but the local police were happy to have a grand theft auto, or whatever you folks up north call it, off the books.”

There was a low growl from the head table, and the air was suddenly full of flower arrangements and half empty wine glasses.

Mother Winnipeg had brought herself to her full height, and Mulligan realized where his traveling companion had gotten his genes.

As Ma rolled up the sleeves of her wedding gown, Billy dropped his arms to his side.

He knew when to mind his own business.

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 067 – Koyle's Ferry: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Sixty-Seven.

Flash PulpTonight, we present Koyle’s Ferry: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

(Part 1Part 2Part 3)

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp067.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Relic Radio family of podcasts.

Did you know that genius auteur, and occasional loud mouth, Orson Welles, was responsible for hundreds of hours of audio content that pretentious hipsters never cite as an influence in their own media creation? The man was huge in radio before he was huge in general, and every week Relic Radio brings you a sample of his acting, producing, or opinions, via Orson Welles: On The Air.

Find it at RelicRadio.com, or search for it via iTunes.

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 present the first in a three part serialization following student of the occult, and master frontiersman, Thomas Blackhall. In this opening chapter we find Thomas once again moving rapidly downstream, in search of his Mairi.

Flash Pulp 067 – Koyle’s Ferry: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

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

The road west was not an easy one, craven man and beast roamed freely where the trees were at their deepest, and many souls were lost amongst the shadows before the soil was finally settled.

Thomas Blackhall had had little to do with the roadway until he came up against the Rideau, a thick band of rapid water cutting the land north to south. He’d spent a day locating a suitable crossing, and dusk was falling as he came upon the stone lodging of John Koyle.

Despite the late hour, and the dense mosquitoes, Thomas found the man seated at the corner of his porch, idly gazing down the path that lead from the east and broke suddenly at the river’s edge. When Koyle finally caught sight of the great-coated man, marching from the southern trees, he started.

“Hallo there, friend,” the ferry-master said, rising from his chair.

“- and a good evening to you, sir,” Blackhall replied. His satchel and rifle lay heavy at his shoulder, and his sabre had taken on the weight of a rock club not long after noon. Still, Thomas eyed the dipping sun and rising moon, judging the distance across the river against the size of the boat house that abutted the shore.

“Seems a might late for a crossing this eve,” Koyle noted with a conversational air.

“Would I be correct in guessing that you offer up a spare bed or three in yonder handsome residence, should it be the case that travelers arrive, but are not yet ready to endeavour onwards towards the next leg of the King’s cart path?” The homestead was well tended despite its distance from civilization, and Thomas made out a plaintiff mooing from one of the two barns which lay beyond.

“Indeed you would be, sir, at only a half dollar an evening,” replied Koyle, smiling.

Again Thomas turned to face the last of the daylight.

The weight of his baggage was heavy, but it was the small water tight container in his breast pocket that carried heaviest in his considerations.

“I have enough bacon inside to do five men under, and eggs from the morning, laid by my own hens round back,” Koyle said, “and only a pittance more to your bill.”

The final slip of sun drained away as he spoke, and the combined effect brought Thomas to a decision. He let one of his satchel’s straps loll from his shoulder.

“Come then, I’ll gladly pay you for bed and feast, but I’d rather be away as early tomorrow as is possible, so spare not the bacon this evening.”

“That’s how I always figure it, sir,” Koyle replied, holding the door wide to allow his guest entry.

* * *

Although he had seen no other boarder, nor noted wife, mistress or child about the house, nocturnal whispers tickled at Blackhall’s sleep throughout the dark hours. Even in his best efforts, with ear to wall and all otherwise silent, he was unable to make out more than a murmur, nor gather the context of the words, and the lack of understanding left him sleepless despite his fatigue and the well stuffed bed.

He met the dawn gruffly, and was eager to be away from any house that knew so little silence.

As he stepped from his room, he was greeted by Koyle, already seated at the thick ash table upon which they’d supped.

Blackhall had not heard the man rise.

“G’mornin’ to ye,’ the man offered, his chipper tone a minor offense to Thomas’ half-slumbering ear.

Rather than begin to list his reasons for believing otherwise, Blackhall lifted his satchel to his shoulder and nodded towards the door.

Mist still swirled above the dew, and as the two made their way to the river’s edge, a musk caught in the wind, leaving Thomas glad he had yet to fill his belly.

“If you’ll have a seat sir, I’ll have you right across,” said Koyle, taking up the line that left the small boat affixed.

It was a long row, over fast water, but as they moved to the center of the river the breaking sun cast light upon a pristine panorama.

“You’ll note the stone outcrop up yonder,” the ferry-man offered to the silence, his tone and words those of a practiced man making a well repeated trip. “The natives refer to it as the Devil’s nose, likely for its sharp condition.”

Some of Blackhall’s misgivings had fallen away with the shore, and he’d taken a pinch of Virginian tobacco into one of the fine Spanish papers he carried always. Closing away his supplies, he found a match amongst his satchel, which he had set, with his sabre, at his feet.

“- and there,” the man with the oar continued, “you’ll note Ophelia’s rapids, named I suppose for the madness required for a death-seeker to risk their turbulence. At sitting level there is an illusion that the rapids run flat, but if you were to stand, you’d note that there is in fact a ten foot fall upon the farthest side.”

Thomas stood, to humour the man, and Koyle joined him, despite his familiarity with the crossing.

Blackhall leaned forward.

“I see no drop.” The frontiersman said.

Once again the ferry-man had moved without noise.

As the oar struck Thomas’ skull, there was a flash of brilliance behind his eyes – then all was wet and darkness.

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 066 – Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space: Surfing, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Sixty-Six.

Tonight, we present Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space: Surfing, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp066.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp page on Facebook.

It’s like a wild west show crashed into a Comic-Con.

To join, click here.

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 present a tale from the education of Joe Monk, well before he became The Emporer Of Space.

Flash Pulp 066 – Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space: Surfing, Part 1 of 1

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

Joe Monk had been traveling with his new friend, the short and hard-shelled alien who called himself Macbeth, for three weeks. He’d learned a lot in that time, all at the alien’s insistence.

They had just completed another short history lesson.

“Ugh, listen, I appreciate your help, but I don’t really – I mean, that noise, that ghastly whine, I’d just rather not,” said Joe.

“These are the customs of your people!” Macbeth replied, his pincers working the ship’s controls. The giant egg’s engines began to throb as the Sagan drive prepared for more heavy lifting. “When you left Earth, space onboard was very limited – what you had in this crates’ libraries is nothing more than a thumbnail of what your civilization got up to before it was wiped out.”

Joe didn’t look convinced.

“Look,” Macbeth continued, “history is defined by the relics left by the civilization that created them. You need to understand what your people were doing – it takes a while, sure, but that’s sort of the nature of history.”

Macbeth hummed to himself over his own joke, a habit that bothered Joe, as he rarely understood what the gag was about.

“Fine,” Monk replied. Changing the subject was a trick recent to his repertoire, a trick he decided to employ. “What are you doing now?”

“Surfing,” replied Macbeth. “All of these things are moving in waves, and to catch what we need, we need to ride those waves. We speed the ship up – in this case we have to travel, uh, call it left, for seven light days – to get ahead of the waves moving through the ether, then we slow down a bit and let everything wash right over us. Well, it’s not quite that simple, really. The modifications I made to this heap are doing most of the work, but those are the basics.”

Joe lay down on his couch, preparing for the acceleration.

Not for the first time, he wished that the ship had picked a lush garden planet full of Betty Grable look-alikes to make its first landing on, instead of the toad-filled dust ball on which he’d found his companion-turned-tutor.

“Have you heard the story about the girl who eats the bad apple and meets seven short guys?” Macbeth asked, as he hobbled about – his stouter constitution allowed him free movement, even under the increased wear and tear of extreme g-forces.

Joe pretended to be asleep, indicating such with a comically-loud fake snore.

It was another something new he’d recently learned.

* * *

Hours later, they slowed, deploying software and sensor suites to suck up, filter, and reconstruct the useful bits of local radiation.

Macbeth shook Joe out of an actual nap.

“Time for another history lesson, kid.”

Monk stood, rubbing his eyes with his palms.

He could smell food in the air – Macbeth often enjoyed a snack during lesson time.

The pair took up their usual stations, and the viewing screen before them displayed the content the ship had siphoned from the deep black.

The familiar face of the screeching woman took up the entire monitor.

“Oh,” Macbeth hummed delightedly, “I’ve seen this one! Lucy goes to work at a factory, and…”

With a nod, Joe deployed another recently acquired skill: pretending to listen.

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 065 – The Weebinax: A Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Sixty-Five.

Tonight, we present The Weebinax: A Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp065.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp page on Facebook.

It’s sort of like Eat Pray Love, but with more Flash Pulp news, and less Eating or Praying.

To join, click here.

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 pre-empt our scheduled Thomas Blackhall story to instead present a short fairy tale, as told by Mother Gran.

This Friday’s episode brings us the return of Joe Monk, and Blackhall will appear next week in a three-part serial entitled “Koyle’s Ferry”.

Flash Pulp 065 – The Weebinax: A Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 1

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

One crisp evening, as the fallen leaves smothered the last of the summer grasses, Mother Gran gathered her children’s children, and her children’s children’s children, about the warmth of the cast iron stove.

As the eldest of the spectators shushed the youngest, Gran, with a sly smile, stated the yarn to be truth.

Her quiet words brought silence, and she began her fairytale.

This is the story she told.

* * *

At the edge of The Great Forest lived a farmer, his wife, and their child, a boy of five.

They lived a happy life together: each morning the lad would tell an imagined tale of a far off land, to bring a smile to his parents’ faces; each afternoon his mother would teach the mountainous farm hound a new trick to delight her family; and each evening the tired farmer would whistle a tune as he created a feast from the yield of his labours.

One autumn day, as the farmer prodded his bull on through the field, there came a figure from the tall oaks of the wildwood.

The farmer had a moment of concern, as many unpleasant things were known to live amongst the branches of The Great Forest, but as the shape moved from the shadows of the trees, he saw it to be the form of a running woman, a child in her arms.

At the sight of her anxious brow, he quickly invited the tired mother to his table, and returned his bull to its pen.

As the farmer whistled his tune and set about creating a feast, this time for two more, his wife talked at length with the visitor, and her daughter, a girl of five.

The guest spoke of a beast in the woods, the Weebinax, who had approached her many years previous, as she worked the fields of her parents’ farm. The creature had appeared in the guise of a man, whispering promises of a happy life amongst the oaks. She’d known little of the dangers beyond her parents’ land, and she soon found herself seduced by the sugared words of the Weebinax.

It was not long after she’d run away to the forest that she bore the beast, whom she still believed a man, a child.

Soon after, the thing no longer made effort to maintain its disguise: its barbed claws split its sheath of skin, its gnarled legs burst from fleshy foot. In a few short days it had cast off its covering entirely, leaving but an empty husk of skin amongst the fallen leaves.

Still, the woman, bound by a sense of duty impressed upon her by her parents, attempted to make do. She spent her days foraging for nourishing acorns, and thick mosses to set in her babe’s rough cradle – but often her labours were met by the clutching hand of the Weebinax, which was happier to fill its own belly while resting on its lush mat of green.

In the second year of her child’s life, with winter nigh and the results of whatever efforts she might make under the wrathful eye of the Weebinax self-evident, she announced her intention to depart.

Popping an acorn into its mouth, the beast waved away her statements and nestled deeper amongst its bedding.

Taking up her daughter, she left and, for three years, wandered the forest. It was not an easy life for mother, nor child, but what nourishment she might collect was her own, and the little girl at her side soon grew bright and strong.

She was a normal child in all aspects but one. What little blood of the Weebinax flowed through her, allowed the beast to locate the child no matter what the distance, as if she were a beacon upon the horizon.

For the most part, it had little interest in the woman and her daughter, but, twice or thrice a year, he would appear before them, making no effort in disguise, and demand that the woman return to his side, to which she always refused.

It was a recent such appearance that had set her running from the forest, and onto the homestead of the farmer and his wife.

At the woman’s recounting, the farmer’s wife quickly offered up a bed and a place by the fire. It was little time before all became as if one family.

Upon the mornings, as the boy-child finished his imagined tales of far-off lands, the girl-child would take up her hems and dance a step of her own devising, based upon the nature of the fabulous characters.

At noon, as the farmer’s wife set about teaching the hound new skills, the woman of the forest would sit at the fire and stitch, so that soon the family was well appointed with garments of her hand.

In the evenings, the farmer still whistled his tune, happy to hear the babble of a full house as he prepared his feast, now almost twice the size.

It was during one such evening meal that the combined family first heard the long scratches of the Weebinax upon their door.

The woman of the forest was first to answer, and the beast made his demands.

Returning to the table, her face was downcast.

“Realizing I will no longer travel with him, he wishes for his daughter to join him amongst the oaks,” she said.

Unwilling to part with the girl, whom she now also considered her own daughter, the farmer’s wife asked if it might accept the meal that was laid before them in her stead.

After a moment of discussion, the beast strode into the house, snatched up the chicken leg that was held, mid-bite, at the boy’s mouth, and collected together the hot food, using the table cloth as a sack.

The family slept on their hunger, content that the Weebinax had been satisfied.

It was with no little concern then that, no more than a season later, the sound of scratching upon the door once again reached their ears as they supped.

This time, it was the farmer who answered. The Weebinax repeated the demand of his daughter, although he could no longer recall her name, and on this occasion he refused the offering of their meal.

With fear for his family wracking his heart, the farmer told his wife, and the woman, of the situation.

“Offer him up our wardrobe,” his wife suggested.

Returning to the door, the farmer did.

Again the Weebinax accepted the offering in stead, striding into the house to empty every trunk and dresser, including those of the children. What it could not make use of, it ran its claws through.

After it had departed, the family warmed themselves with the rags that remained, content that they had once again satisfied the beast and retained the girl.

Life turned another season: the farmer brought home fresh food of the earth; the woman of the forest stitched new clothing; the children devised greater entertainments; and the farmer’s wife taught the lumbering farm dog new skills.

It was spring when the now familiar scratching began again upon the door.

This time it was the farmer’s wife who stood to answer the summons, the eyes of her family heavy at her back.

With a rotting scowl, the Weebinax once again demanded the girl, all the while peeking about the edges of the doorway, in hopes of catching sight of some item he would be pleased to take in exchange.

The wife answered not, but instead whistled low and long.

The hound had been well taught at her hand: the Weebinax’s yowling, as the canine set about chasing him again into the forest, was the last they would hear of the monster of the woods.

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 064 – Mulligan Smith and The Organized Call, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Sixty-Four.

Tonight, we present Mulligan Smith and The Organized Call, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp064.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp page on Facebook.

Not at all based on the novel “Push” by Sapphire

To join, click here.

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 find PI Mulligan Smith attempting to connect a difficult phone call.

Flash Pulp 064 – Mulligan Smith and The Organized Call, Part 1 of 1

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

The two men sat opposite each other in the little aluminum boat, the waves lending a gentle bob to the tips of their fishing rods.

“Elmore had been the perfect client – he’d paid before I needed to ask him twice, and he always answered his phone when I called. At our first meeting he handed me several pages of typed notes, and a cheque that was a healthy down payment on my expenses. I actually met him in an office, which is a rare treat. He had great taste in furniture.”

The old man nodded as Mulligan paused to pop the last bite of BLT into his mouth.

“I finally found the woman in a suburban neighbourhood on the west-end of the city. I’d followed a trail of well-mannered friends of friends, and by the time I’d gotten an address, it was obvious she hadn’t meant to disappear so thoroughly. Sometimes people just get married.”

“The house was empty as I approached. I knew it was, because I’d just seen her kids pile onto a big yellow bus, and, twenty minutes before that, her husband had kissed her goodbye at the door and revved his white Audi out of the driveway. I’d spent two days watching, just to make sure there weren’t going to be any surprises, but she was always out of the house by 9:00am. That gave me about fifteen minutes, but I’d been told completion would take less than five.”

The PI picked up his rod, gave the reel a gentle turn, accomplishing nothing, and set it down again.

“Really, the catch was the nature of the task. I had a phone number, and I’d been instructed to wait out the length of the call, then depart. I’d been sticky on the point in our contract – more than once I’ve found so-and-so and told them such-and-such, only to find out that the client expects more once so-and-so points out that they can shove their such-and-such.

“It wasn’t a problem with Elmore though. He had brought a black notebook with him, and, as we talked, he both referred to it for notes, and jotted down anything I might say that was worth retaining. Everything was broken down into sharp little lists. As he worked his way through his questions for me, he would set a crisp check-mark beside the item.

“It took me longer to explain who I was than it did to make the actual call. I don’t blame her for being wary about letting people into her house though. In the end, at my suggestion, we made the call outside. We sat side-by-side on the stained wood of her tiny front porch, and she hit send on my cellphone.

“As it rang, I could hear the tinkling of an ice cream man in the distance. I felt bad for the guy – nobody wants to be the ice cream man once school is back in session.”

“He was prompt to answer, as always, and the conversation was short. I could only make out one side of it

“She started with a “”Hi? Elmo?”” She listened for a bit, then interjected something like “”Well, you didn’t seem like…”. By then her forehead was getting tight. After a few seconds though, the tension in her face melted into a smile.

“There was another long listen, then she said something like “”Wow, you know – I’ve thought about you a lot too over these last years, and I appreciate you saying that. I always regretted how things ended.””

“Her smile cracked a minute later, and a tear ran through what little make up she wore. The ice cream man finally rolled by, lonely, and she made an effort to avoid looking at either of us.

““What?” was all she could say.

“There was a last long pause, then she hung up.

“She sobbed for a minute, holding my phone in a way that had me concerned I might need to expense a new one.

“Once she was a bit more in control, she turned to me.

““How much did you know?” she said.”

Mulligan took a sip from his sun-warmed can of coke.

““Uh,” I said back. It was a pretty general question.

“”About the cancer?”

“”Nope.”

“She wasn’t looking at me as we talked, she was focused on the elm tree rooted by the sidewalk.

“”I could practically hear him checking off the last item on one of his damnable lists,” she said, taking a deep breath in an effort to avoid further tears. ”He said your fees have been covered in his will. He also said he left you the wing-back chair you were admiring in his office.”

“I tried calling the number back, but it just rang.”

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 063 – Ruby Departed: Utopia, Part 6 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Sixty-Three.

Flash PulpTonight, we present Ruby Departed: Utopia, Part 6 of 6

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

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp063.mp3]

Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Mr. Blog’s Tepid Ride.

What do you get the man who has everything?

http://bmj2k.wordpress.com

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, Ruby completes the tale of her final escape from the leather-clad people-eater.

Flash Pulp 063 – Ruby Departed: Utopia, Part 6 of 6

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

Ruby Departed: Utopia 6-1Ruby Departed: Utopia 6-2Ruby Departed: Utopia 6-3Ruby Departed: Utopia 6-4Ruby Departed: Utopia 6-5Ruby Departed: Utopia 6-6Ruby Departed: Utopia 6-7

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 062 – Ruby Departed: Utopia, Part 5 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Sixty-Two.

Flash PulpTonight, we present Ruby Departed: Utopia, Part 5 of 6

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

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp062.mp3]

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Mr. Blog’s Tepid Ride.

These aren’t your Grandpa’s TV shows – well, not most of them.

Find it at http://bmj2k.wordpress.com

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 the penultimate chapter of our current serialization, Ruby attempts to make a hasty escape.

Flash Pulp 062 – Ruby Departed: Utopia, Part 5 of 6

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

Ruby Departed: Utopia 5-1Ruby Departed: Utopia 5-2Ruby Departed: Utopia 5-3Ruby Departed: Utopia 5-4Ruby Departed: Utopia 5-5

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.