Category: Flash Pulp

Flash Pulp 091 – The Elg Herra, Part 4 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety-One.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Elg Herra: A Blackhall Tale, Part 4 of 6
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp091.mp3]

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by MT Starkey Short Stories.

Putting the “and” back into Blood and Guts.

To find them, 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, Thomas and his companion, Marco, unexpectedly reach the end of their river journey.

Flash Pulp 091 – The Elg Herra, Part 4 of 6

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

Blackhall and the voyageur, Marco, were well west of the Athabasca when they made their final camp. Both men had settled into an hour long silence, comfortable and companionable, as their eyes turned to the stars, and it was under their own considerations that they fell to slumber. The journey had been favoured with a week’s worth of Summer warmth filling the late autumn days, and the travellers had agreed to rest under the open air to take advantage of the situation while they may.

Thomas awoke only in time to see two figures looming over Marco’s sleeping form – he’d drawn breath to let out a warning, but had been cut short by his own pair of captors. The seized mens’ hands were quickly bound, and they were left on their knees by the smoldering remnants of the fire as their supplies were rummaged through.

“Be quiet,” spoke the apparent leader, in certain English.

The rest of the discussion, however, was a roll of consonants that neither captive could decipher.

The intruders seemed to show some care in their investigation, until they came across a particular bundle of Blackhall’s. The searcher held high Ida’s silver blade, shouting excitedly for another named “Kol”. The conversation became hushed and sharp.

After a moment, the examinations ended abruptly, and the prisoners were roughly lifted to their feet to and prodded into the treeline.

Neither Marco nor Blackhall stood on height with their guards; the closest was the youngest, the nearly-blond boy who stood on the Frenchman’s right, and he was still half a head taller. Their bulky frames seemed incongruous for those who inhabited the area, and neither could Thomas make connection between the locale and their style of dress, as it was unlike any he’d seen in his journeys. The men wore woven shirts, but the rest of their attire was formed of leather; long coats, plucked from the trees as the group led their prisoners away from the camp, were worn over trim breeches cut with a wide hem at the leg.

As they marched, Thomas attempted to explain his possession of the dagger. He’d managed little more than “…regret to inform you that Princess Ida is no more,” before Kol told another, Hakon, to muzzle him with a length of rawhide, and to extend the same courtesy to Marco.

Twenty minutes attention to careful footing brought them into a second encampment.

Four tents, skins of some workmanship stretched taut by line and timber, stood at the corners of the clearing, and, at its center, a fire pit. Alongside the shelters, each tethered to a tree, stood four bull moose.

The beasts were adorned with saddles of a style which seemed closer, to Blackhall, to those worn by camels than those of horses. Ornate panels of leather hung from the seats, on which had been tooled scenes of battle victory, endless horizons, or, Thomas guessed, loved ones. The bull closest, which eyed the new arrivals with an impassive shake of his head, had had a panel damaged, apparently in combat.

As they reached the familiar surroundings, the cryptic discussion amongst the captors once again boiled over, and there was little Thomas could do but watch the match. Although he could make out no more than the emotions of the argument, he was at least able to deduce the names of the Moose Lords. Kol had a man named Hakon who seemed to hew closely to his own position, while the counter-point was provided by one named Asmund – who Thomas thought to have much the same brow and jaw as Ida – and his own quiet ally, Mord, the shortest of the giants.

English phrases began to creep into their speech, and Blackhall knew his scrutinies had not gone unnoticed. Soon the conversation had moved entirely to Thomas’ own tongue.

“Maybe it was in their mind that we all carry such finery as the princess’ blade – what if they have come to rob us?” suggested Hakon.

“Fine,” replied Kol. “To ensure we have met all possibilities of justice, we shall kill them twice.”

“Yes,” croaked Hakon, from behind a smile, “Once for bringing the hag upon us, and once for being thieves.”

“I have heard it said that the child-eater haunts the Prester’s farms as much as our own longhouses,” spoke Asmund.

“Little more than rumour – nothing would dare eat their ugly children,” Hakon replied.

“Asmund,” said Kol, now squatting beside the rising flame. “We were sent to split the flesh of the Prester’s people, and what I see before me is a thieving Prester assassin, likely paid to kill your sister and return this token to them as proof.”

It had taken time, but Blackhall had spent his efforts in dampening his rawhide, so as to find enough elasticity to expel the binding from his mouth. Hearing the passing of what might be his final opportunity to win his freedom, he made his gamble.

The gathered were startled when he spoke.

“Ah, so you were then the Princess’ brother? Ida spoke of your Uncle Myter, and his death on the river. If we are to die so far from home, I ask that you leave me here against these trees facing westward, so that I might face upon my missing wife, and so that, as your Uncle Myter with his birds, I might be some nourishment to the beasts of the woods who’ve so long maintained my own flesh.”

Asmund’s eyes grew wide.

“Kol, he speaks of my Uncle Myter; what knowledge would he have of such a drunk if not for the good graces of my sister? We owe it to ourselves and to the Earl to carry this man at least as far as the long houses.”

“We were not sent out as coddlers, we are meant to be at search for at least another dozen nights – you’d have us bring short our duty so as to extend the life of these lying perversions? They likely cut the tales-they-twist from your sister’s own tongue before her death at their hands.”

The heat in Asmund and Kol’s words seemed to have drawn them closer, and, with spittle on their lips, they shifted to the rough consonants of their language. It was a sharp exchange, and only a moment later Kol drew back a fist. His action was brought short by two words from Hakon.

A smile broke upon the aggressor’s face. He nodded.

“Fine then,” Asmund replied, once again returning to English, “a duel it is.”

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 090 – The Elg Herra, Part 3 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Elg Herra: A Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 6
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp090.mp3]

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

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

Keeping one hand on the pulse of America while the other makes off with its wallet.

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.

Tonight, Blackhall finds himself surveying the scene of a death no easier to piece together than the shattered remains of the window from which it originated.

Flash Pulp 090 – The Elg Herra, Part 3 of 6

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

Blackhall was the third man in the attic – Commandant Hallson had preempted his arrival only because he’d had the advantage of it being his own home.

The upper-most room, where Ida and Aalbert Bijl had taken lodging, was steepled to follow the line of the roof, and uncomfortable to stand in at its edges. The floor was brimming with a collection of mismatched furniture that had obviously migrated from the Commandant’s private rooms as it became too worn for his own tastes, and, to Blackhall, the space felt too small to hold its appointments.

His head ached from lack of sleep and excess drink.

Somewhere at the periphery of his perception – he could not tell if it emanated from within the room, or from the ground below – came a ticking.

The window had been a single large piece of glass, abutted at its frame by a low seat, upon which Bijl was still reclined so as to look out from behind the carnage of the pane’s remnants. To Thomas’ eye, the remaining fragments about its perimeter appeared as if a collection of misshapen teeth.

“I knew something like this would happen,” Aalbert told the open air beyond, “it was her damnable sleep walking.”

“Excuse me,” said Blackhall, turning on the Commandant, “is there an especially loud clock somewhere in the home?”

“Only the grandfather standing in the front hall, I believe,” Hallson answered, his brow raised in question.

The frontiersman’s abrupt entry into the house had brought a tide of the curious behind him, and, as he focused his attentions down the stairwell, he could hear the commandant’s wife clucking and shushing those at the entrance.

Hallson, noting Thomas’ distraction, turned back to his impassive scrutiny of the widower, his considerations restrained to his own council.

“Somnambulism! Her wanderings have brought my beautiful princess to stumble into her own grave!” Aalbert lamented.

“Your tone falls flat, sir.” Blackhall replied, taking a seat in a well worn armchair and pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to dispel the throbbing pounding that clouded his mind. The image of a pinwheel he’d had as a child floated up to him from the sleep-deprived depths of his imagination, the edge catching on its base in each revolution: click-click-click.

A heavy tread came from the flight of stairs, and for a moment all three turned to watch the entrance of the voyageur Thomas had encountered at the Pastor’s table. Marco held a kerchiefed bundle in a delicate grip, and all surmised it to be the likely reason the lady of the house had allowed him entrance.

“Bonsoir,” the new entrant said to the gathered. He seemed relieved to see Blackhall on hand, although he turned to speak with the Commandant. “No doubt, sir, you have caught wind of this man’s rantings throughout the length of his stay – his complaints regarding his wife’s nocturnal habits specifically. There may be some truth to it, I can not say, but I tell you this: while below I took a moment to inspect the glass which now wreathes the departed princess, and much of it is covered in prints, as if a confectionery window after the school day’s final bell.”

Peeling back its covering, the Frenchman held out a hooked shard to Hallson, who took it with careful fingers.

A gust blew through the gaping pane, and, to Thomas, carried with it a mental image of Ida, sprawled on the ground below, the bones of her neck pressed hard against her skin, her gaze unseeing, and yet her teeth chattering against the chill of the wind and the approaching grave.

The Commandant held the glass against the light of the single lamp which lit the room, revealing the smudged palm-marks along its surface. All gathered cast their eyes onto it, as if it were a Gypsy’s crystal which might clarify the night’s mysteries.

“She must have been at the window some time, and eventually pressed herself so hard upon the panel that it shattered,” said Hallson, rolling the shard gently as he held it nearly against his nose in inspection.

“There were few obstacles she could not conquer in her unconscious state,” replied Aalbert, “I once encountered her having scaled a writing desk and pawing at the wall behind, as if she might locate a portal to travel beyond it.”

The dance of the light as it played through the remnant only served to drive the spike of pain further into Thomas’ skull, each heartbeat now bringing on a pound which felt just shy of that of a woodsman’s axe.

As it retreated, his mind seemed to throw up every source of ticking he’d encountered as a youth – the click of his father’s pocket watch; the knock of a restless shoe upon the floor of his boyhood classroom during lessons; the tap of a branch against the window of his childhood quarters.

He stood suddenly.

Noting the silver dirk that the princess, Ida, had carried during her surprise visit to his borrowed chamber, Blackhall scooped it up from the small table upon which it had been placed with obvious care.

The rapid elevation had brought further injury to his trampled senses, and yet he forced himself to stagger towards Bijl, still seated at the ragged opening.

“Stop him!” the Commandant ordered, alarmed at the dagger in the man’s hand and the increasing resolve that filled out his strides.

Marco remained stationary.

“Allow me, sir,” Blackhall spoke over his shoulder, in response to Hallson’s alarm, “to present an alternate theory.”

Ignoring the now cowering figure of Aalbert, the frontiersman set his bare, muddy foot upon the cushions of the bench-seat, raising himself to the full height of the pane. He reached behind the drape which framed the fractured aperture and pulled away what, at first glance, appeared to be an empty sewing bobbin.

Staring at the artifact, Thomas spent a moment chewing at his thumbnail, then stepped down to approach the Commandant. As he closed the distance, Hallson noted a glint hovering below the spool.

“A trick I’d long forgotten,” spoke Blackhall, “although common enough on a Yorkshire Mischief Night. Run the finest thread you might locate through a bobbin, then tie it off with a needle hanging at the end of the loop. The slightest draft will set the nearly invisible rig tapping for hours. In my school days we used just the same technique to drive our headmaster nearly mad.”

He was staring down Bijl as he spoke, the dagger in his free hand rising as the Dutchman tensed at his words. He continued.

“Ida spoke of hearing her father’s tapping in her dreams – it is my belief that this beast hoped his wife would follow the sound of his child’s game to her death, and yet, by the looks of the glass you’ve retrieved, she must have spent quite some time against the expanse before her fall. It seems likely that, in the end, it was his own hands which sent her into the night air, and that it was only the immediately pressing eyes of the foot patrol below which stopped him short of reaching up to remove the contraption.”

The widower eyed the door beyond the three men, then, briefly, the window. Finally, he began to weep.

“Yes, I see,” said the Commandant, placing the marred scrap upon the table from which Blackhall had retrieved the Princess’ blade.

“It is my intention to leave in the morning, for I will not sit well through this man’s trial, and it seems incumbent upon me, in her husband’s failure, to carry out the Princess’ final wishes.” He placed the dagger in a deep pocket of his greatcoat. “I ask that you will forgo a christian burial in this instance – my understanding of her people is that their custom might be to lay her body upon a soft bed, in a place of silence, under the blaze of the noon sun. I will not be on hand, however, as my duties compel me to depart post-haste.”

He did not reveal that he little relished the sting another observation of her body would bring him.

The voyageur, who had, until that point, held his tongue, nodded.

“Do you wish company?” he asked, “It was time I set paddle to river anyhow, and I would be more than happy to have another pair of arms to carry my canoe.”

It would be thirty-eight days before the travelers entered the presence of the Moose Lords – as their prisoner.

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 089 – The Elg Herra, Part 2 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Nine.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Elg Herra: A Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 6
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp089.mp3]

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

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

Putting the F-U back into fun.

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.

Tonight, Blackhall converses with an unexpected visitor.

Flash Pulp 089 – The Elg Herra, Part 2 of 6

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

Ida, Princess of the Moose Lords of the Northern Reaches, didn’t allow Blackhall time for an awkward assumption.

“I need to be leaving shortly, as Aalbert will realize I’ve slipped away once he’s conducted his own private business. Two months now I’ve been waylaid here, tending the needs of my addled husband as he wears thin the hospitality of our benefactors within Fort Jude.”

Blackhall eyed the woman and bit at his right thumb’s nail.

“It’s not that I’m unwilling to, but what makes you think I might be a man who can assist you? Whatever opinion I may hold of your husband, I’ve no interest in making a cuckold of him.”

The thoughts ran together as he spoke, uncomfortably greased by the Pastor’s wine, and underlined by the memory of his own Mairi’s warm flesh.

The Princess touched at the corner of her cloak, pulling it open to reveal his saber in her off hand.

“Neither do I. A blade of silver is little more use against a man than a sharpened stick – and a sword is a cumbersome thing to tote on long journeys through the wilderness.”

While he enjoyed the woman’s plain-speaking, he had little patience for the unrequested handling of his belongings.

“Aye, so I’ve a sentimental passion for a decorative piece – what of it?”

He reached out a hand to take the weapon from her. She gave it without resistance, and he could not help but relish the heat of her skin as it briefly encountered his fingers.

It was her own turn to give him a hard look.

“Decorative? That sabre is no more a piece to savour with the eye than I am. The hard use along its edge leads me to guess that it has seen the belly of more than one of the mist-folk, or I’m a child of the Prester.”

“A child of the Prester?”

“Apologies – a term of my people – an idiot.”

Passing his palm over the scruff of his chin, Blackhall attempted to wipe away the muddle brought on by his supper’s drinking.

“I might take you as many things, Princess, but an idiot is not one of them.”

“I’ll accept those words as kind, and ask you to now shut up your flapping gob and heed my own. I was sent eastward by the, uh, Earl of my people. There is a beast which comes skulking in the night to snatch up our most precious – we have long searched for a cure or constraint, but have fallen short. In our desperation, I have been set loose, in an attempt to locate a veiviser powerful enough to be of assistance. Despite being anchored here by the inaction of my husband, I believe I have found such a man, and would ask that you depart, with all haste, to the aid of my people.”

Although the woman’s face remained as impassive as if she’d been discussing the evening’s meal, Thomas noted the moisture that had gathered about her eyes.

“I shall consider your words.”

“I thank you.”

It was only then that he noticed the short dagger she’d held hard against her wrist in the hand which had moved to unfasten her cloak. He raised an eyebrow.

“It seemed to me you were a righteous man, but my father taught me well that it is a dangerous thing approach any who has dealings with mist-walkers empty handed.”

His attention caught on the silver vines entwining the short hilt, and the red gem set at the blade’s base – the dirk seemed forged of a single silver ingot by a master craftsman.

Ida tracked his gaze.

“This was fashioned long ago, before my people entered this land. It is my hope to one day return this weapon to the circle along the iron fires, so that it might be passed on to one of my own offspring.”

The dagger once again disappeared from sight, tucked amongst the soft warmth beneath her cloak.

With that she closed the distance between them, and briefly laid her hand upon his own.

She departed.

He spent several long moments at the window, watching her fox-fur trim float above the path and towards the triple-storied house that acted as the Commandant’s home, and her own lodging as she waited out her husbands hesitance to move on.

Sleep was long in finding the frontiersman.

* * *

Thomas’ body was in motion even before he’d realized what disturbance had brought him awake. As he stepped down from the porch-door, he pulled his greatcoat around his night clothes and hefted his Baker rifle.

He was not the only man to have sprung from his bed – the gravel lanes of the fort were alive with pounding feet and confused questions.

To his left, at the western end of the Commandants home, Blackhall spotted a clustered knot of lamps. He began to tread the stony pathway, barefoot.

As he approached he noted the figure of Aalbert Bijl silhouetted at the attic’s window, outlined by the shattered remnants of what little glass remained in the pane.

Thomas doubled his speed, shouldering his way through the gathered.

Lying at their feet was Ida, the Elg Herra Princess, her neck shattered, her glassy-eyes cast unblinkingly towards the night sky.

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 088 – The Elg Herra, Part 1 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Eight.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Elg Herra: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp088.mp3]

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

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

The antidote for pop culture overload.

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.

Tonight we once again return to the primeval forests with frontiersman and student of the occult, Thomas Blackhall, as he finds himself in unexpected company.

Flash Pulp 088 – The Elg Herra, Part 1 of 6

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

When he’d arrived in the trade fort, he’d had little interest in the Pastor’s invitation to sup, but Blackhall was now beginning to take some satisfaction in the polite reply he’d felt obligated to make.

There were five gathered around the table – the pastor, a voyageur who referred to himself simply as Marco, a Mr. and Mrs. Bijl, and the frontiersman himself.

Mr. Aalbert Bijl was a quiet man, with an awkward smile and a tendency towards dampness at the collar, but it was Mrs. Bijl whom Blackhall had taken an interest in.

Marco was busy completing an ill considered story as Thomas mentally attempted to formulate his questions into polite conversation and not naked interrogation.

“Tabernac, poor guy didn’t know what hit him. He somehow managed to make it home despite the whisky, but he must have fallen asleep on the floor before he got a fire going. They found him the next day, half way to the wood pile. He’d pissed himself – pardon prêtre – while curled up in a ball on the floor, and his legs had frozen to his body.” The Frenchman smiled, taking a long sip of the Pastor’s wine. “You could see the yellow ice crystals on the floor of the shack, and a trail behind him where he’d pulled himself along.”

Aalbert kept his eyes locked on his food, and the Pastor seemed to have had his gift for oration temporarily dislodged – it was Ida, Mrs. Bijl, who attempted to calm the impropriety of the situation.

“To my people, when a man or woman dies in great discomfort, we enact the funeral rites in direct opposition to their terror; this friend of yours who froze in the night would likely be sent off in a great pyre. My, uh, uncle, he took too much drink as well, and fell into a fast moving river while attempting to retrieve his dinner. We laid him upon the great racks of the smoke room and dried him as if a large piece of jerky. Then we roped him to the roof of the longhouse to feed the birds – it was a joyful outcome, as Uncle Myter often dreamed of flying.”

Blackhall found his opportunity to interject.

“I take it you were born in this land, but you do not seem to have the aspect of any of the people of the longhouse whom I’ve encountered before. Is Ida your true name, or a name taken after your marriage?”

The woman’s eyes were blue, and her hair a sandy brown that hung at equal lengths on either side of her face, cut to follow the edges of her sharp jawline. There was an elegance about her countenance that seemed echoed in her assured movements, despite the fact that she sat a head taller than her husband.

The silent Mr. Bijl finally looked up from his little-touched plate. His wife was quick to answer.

“My name has always been Ida – my people do not have the custom of a second name as my husband has introduced to me, nor am I of the people of the…”

Mr Bijl threw down his napkin and abruptly pushed back his chair.

“Are you quite all right, sir?” The Pastor asked.

“All right!? How might I ever be all right with such a woman as this telling constant tales of her barbaric peoples? I was told I was marrying a princess! Princess! Fah – she has the mouth of a war-camp slattern. Not only that, but I have not slept in days! Her nocturnal wanderings are of constant disruption. My spirit aches for an uninterrupted slumber.”

“Nocturnal wanderings?” the voyageur asked from behind his cup.

“Each night I wake to find her stumbling about the room, or worse, her viking frame hulking over my night-bed, as if approaching doom!”

“Have you tried Valerian? Hard to find here, I suppose, what of Passion Flower?” Blackhall asked the ranting man’s wife.

“I have tried many cures, but none have worked. In my dreams there is a tapping, as my father often maintained as he sat by the iron fire and cast his thoughts into the flame. I can see his shadow even now, his walking stick beating a gentle rhythm, and in my sleep, I think I am searching him out. I mean poor Aalbert no harm.”

The Dutchman stood, a hooked hand carrying his wife to her feet as well.

“We make our apologies, but must now depart,” he told the gathered. The pastor moved to retrieve their coats.

The voyageur, now quite drunk on the Pastor’s hospitality, caught Blackhall’s eye.

“I have met her people, although only once. The Moose Lords of the Northern Reaches – they live far to the west. The Dutchman must have been a trailblazer indeed to have met their likes, but such a life is not always easy on a man’s disposition.”

The trader punctuated his statement with another long draught of wine.

* * *

After the sudden departure, Thomas had allowed himself more than his usual allotment of grapes. As he moved towards the lodgings he’d taken with the old man all in the fort knew as the Widower Dunstable, he found the heat of the drink a brace against the chill of the fall air.

He briefly considered extending his stroll to enjoy the night sky, but a rattling gust of leaves that blew across the lane forced him to draw tight his coat and reconsider. Marco’s dinner tale also briefly crossed his mind.

Within moments he found himself at the rear access to the small room; in truth not much more than an extremely well built rear porch that the gray fellow now had little use for. The interior was warm, and he was quick to strip off his greatcoat and hat in the dark.

Manipulating the choke of the small lamp the house master had left him, the shadows retreated to the deepest corners of the room.

Standing at its center, in a long fur cloak, was the princess, Ida.

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 087 – Bonecruncher, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Seven.

Tonight we present Bonecruncher, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp087.mp3]

Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.

Made with 100% genuine pulp.

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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 present the short terror tale of Teddy Watkins, and his most pressing fear.

Flash Pulp 087 – Bonecruncher, Part 1 of 1

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

In 1924, at the age of eight, Teddy Watkins began to wake in the night, weeping and telling tales of a monster he referred to only as Bonecruncher.

His mother, a harried but loving woman, assumed it was a passing phase, something put into his head by one of his five older brothers, and told him so at length. Their apartment was small, and his father spent his evenings working molten metal at the Pribax foundry, so it was up to her to settle his night troubles.

Teddy shared a bed with three of his brothers, and Mrs. Watkins began to note that his terrors most often came when the young boy was forced to take up a more middling position in the bed, caught between the crushing shoulders of his larger siblings.

By the time he was eleven she’d grown short with his notions and regular cries of “Bonecruncher”, and began to enact the family punishment for misbehaviour. Teddy would often then spend hours shut up amongst the pressing and musty clothes of the front closet, tearily entreating his mother to let him out lest the monster find him in the dark and squeeze the life from his body.

At the age of thirteen he made his first escape attempt. He found the streets cold and the open sky exhilarating. He ran for two days, until he was picked up by two well-meaning police officers who suspected him of truancy.

With tears in her eyes Mrs. Watkins told the judge of her distress. She explained that she’d done what she could for the boy, but that she had a half-dozen other children to tend to, and could no longer stand the strain.

The man on the bench found it difficult to believe the stories regarding the round-faced lad, at least until the bailiff attempted to place cuffs on Teddy so that he might be moved to a nearby holding cell. The youth’s screams brought the court to a halt, and his flailing kicks left the uniformed man with a broken nose.

It was twenty long years of straitjacketed terror for Teddy then, as he was shuffled from cell to asylum, and from psychologist to psychiatrist.

His horrors finally ceased on a clouded night at the State Hospital. The night shift had only recently begun work, but they were already once again growing tired of Teddy’s shouts of “Bonecruncher! Bonecruncher!”

“He’s playing your song,” Mitch O’Donnell, the orderly in charge, told his massive friend and underling, Casper Johnson.

Teddy, now a man, had become something of a celebrity amongst the denizens of his ward – for the kindness he would show during the few occasions he was allowed to roam the grounds, and for the constant and wearing screaming he would let loose once he was returned to his bonds.

The pair of orderlies were walking the floor when they realized that the familiar backdrop of shrieking had ceased.

They ran to Watkins’ cell.

Despite his lack of freedom, Teddy’s muscles had grown taut and knotty during his constant struggles against his restraints, and his persistence had won him a temporary victory.

Throwing back the door of his room, the two men in white found the lanky man sitting on the edge of his bed, his straitjacket puddled at his feet, humming and smiling to the dark. His look of content was short lived, however. As he realized what the intrusion meant, he once again took up his wailing. He stretched to his full height, bowling over Mitch, and nearly made it to the door before being scooped up in Casper’s thick arms.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” the giant shouted at the thrashing form in his arms. Teddy only redoubled his efforts, and panic soon took hold of both the combatants.

It was only once Mitch had pulled himself from the floor and shook his friend’s shoulder that Johnson realized Teddy had ceased his screams of “Bonecruncher”, and that it was in fact O’Donnell who was now screeching the name.

They’d worked together twelve years, and Mitch had long since jokingly replaced towering Casper’s older nickname of “Troll” with the constant refrain of their persistent burden.

His face white, the large man set the now lifeless body upon the room’s cot.

Its arms sprawled wide as it reclined.

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 086 – Sgt Smith and The Dish, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Six.

Tonight we present Sgt Smith and The Dish, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp086.mp3]

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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, Sgt Smith finds himself nervously attending a social.

Flash Pulp 086 – Sgt Smith and The Dish, Part 1 of 1

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

Mulligan,

Whenever I had reason to be nervous about my day, your Mom, probably because of her Pennsylvania Dutch upbringing, always had the same solution: pie. There’d always be a slice on hand, often blueberry, my favourite, and she’d eat with me in the stillness of the morning as we sipped our tea and pretended like nothing was wrong.

I remember having to take particular care at that breakfast, as I was wearing my Sunday best. It was the only decent set of clothes I had at the time, beyond my uniform.

Then, when I was done, she straightened my attire and told me to watch my tongue.

She was a kidder, that one. I know what she meant though – your touch for subtlety didn’t come from my side of the family.

Anyhow, it was 1956 and, after our morning ritual, I had to leave for a date. It wasn’t long before the sun was burning my prematurely balding pate and I was fussing with my tie in the noonday heat. Around me, the picnic area was awash in color. Balloons had been fixed with ribbons to the edges of all the tables; green, red and yellow streamers hung from the tree branches; and the loud dresses and Hawaiian shirts were out in full Saturday-in-the-suburbs force.

I don’t think they would have set me up with the date if they thought I was actually going to meet her, but they were stretched pretty thin which is probably why they sent a mute to a social event.

Two card tables had been hauled onto the grass, and pushed together to create a buffet area. As folks came strolling in, they’d drop off a little something for the smorgasbord, then wander into the surrounding knots of familiar faces.

It was a beautiful day, but when I think of it, I can’t help thinking about the flies – I don’t know what it was with that neighbourhood, but it seemed to be swarming with those buzzing aggravations.

I was standing at the edge of the crowd, trying not to look too interested in the red-faced old guy who’d been highballing since I’d sidled in – his drinks had gotten him into berating two hand-holding teenagers – when Beatrix arrived.

She stepped from the car, her legs extending from her well-cut baby blue dress like an invitation to sin. As she collected up her goods, the mother of one of the teens stepped up to the tipsy codger in an attempt to explain that the young couple were promised to be married. All eyes were discreetly on them, and not the blond, her hair piled high, who moved confidently from her car to the food table to lay out her covered bakeware.

She was as much a stranger to the party as I was. When we were alone together later, she told me she’d driven all morning just to be there.

As the family drama played out to my left, my eyes stayed on the veiled dish – at least, until a tall woman, her hair held back by a hankie, approached me to chat. I doubt her intentions were anything more than getting a better view of the burgeoning tussle between drunken galoot and defensive housewife, as she seemed little interested in the fact that my lack of a tongue made it impossible for me to maintain my end of the gossipy conversation she eagerly began to recite, stopping only to sip at her wine glass. I don’t recall anything of what she said, I mostly just remember the rock of tension growing in my belly, and the tickle of the occasional fly trying to seek shade under my shirt collar.

Your mother would have known how to better handle the situation; she was always the social one.

I watched the blond set down her bakeware and pull back the simple dishtowel she’d been using as a cover.

I tried to move then, but I think the gossiping woman thought I was coming in close for an especially tantalizing bit of information – she grabbed my arm to steady herself.

Two kids, I swear both of them wearing full boyscout uniforms, stepped up to the table for some grub.

The baby-blue dress stood back, her eyes bright, and I tried again to make my way around the handerchiefed woman- but she was caught up in her own story, laughing by then, and I couldn’t shake her off.

I hadn’t been at the last party to observe the aftermath, but I’d seen the photos: the blood filled vomit, the trashed cutlery spread across the lawn by the fleeing crowd, the weeping children, the glassy eyed stare of Martin Nikolaus, dead but still wearing a child’s coned party hat.

I pushed her.

All eyes moved from those gathered around the teens, to me.

I jumped over the prone woman, and a fella in a tweed jacket stepped into my path.

“Hey now,” he said, grabbing, and ripping, my white Sunday-shirt.

I couldn’t take the delay, so I pushed him over too.

My objective, still holding her dishtowel, had an epiphany regarding my intentions.

She started running.

I may have been the last resort, the bottom of the barrel only out there because we had two hundred miles worth of suburban get-togethers to cover, but there had already been three unfortunates done in by Beatrix’s Drano Casserole, and I wasn’t going to be remembered as the guy who didn’t move fast enough to save the ranks of Scout Troop 97.

On my way by, I upended the table, sending Jello and deviled eggs out over the lawn.

She’d parked across the street, and I was lucky that a dinged Ford truck had pulled up too close behind her. While she was trying to reverse out, she bumped its fender, then, panicking, she miscalculated the distance to the red Buick in front of her and slammed into it with the full force of her chugging engine.

I dragged her from the car then; blood was running down her mouth from the nose she’d broken rebounding off her steering wheel.

By the looks I was getting from the crowd, you’d of thought I was the monster. I’d likely have taken a terrible beating from the tweed jacket who was briskly approaching to defend his manhood, but by then I had my badge out. I was going to sign for someone to call the police, but I could see half-a-dozen party goers already streaking home to set the phone lines ablaze.

Beatrix Johnson – Killer Bea; she never spent a day in prison.

We didn’t have lady serial killers back then, we just had “troubled women”, so she landed in a sanitarium. Still – an asylum then makes prison now look like a resort and spa.

It was probably just as much a relief for me, as it was for her, the day they found her hanging by her bed-sheet.

I still haven’t had any casserole in over half a century though – I’ll stick to pie.

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 085 – Time and Again, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Five.

Tonight we present Time and Again, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp085.mp3]

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

It’s like a one person version of Thunderdome.

To subscribe, 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 encounter an old friend while hurtling rapidly through time.

Flash Pulp 085 – Time and Again, Part 1 of 1

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

The three men, a cowhand, a palaeontologist and a geologist, had been about their expedition for only a single day, and yet each knew that he hated the others. Still, there was little entertainment to be had on the journey, so turns were taken in telling stories, to which the listening pair usually paid only the most passing of heed.

On their first evening together, the trio were camped out under the open skies of the plain.

The cowboy set the tone as he interrupted a scholarly debate to tell the first tale.

“Well, fellas, you can say what you like about your fancy degrees,” spitting into the darkness, he poked at the fire with the short length of stick he’d held back from the kindling, “but when I look out at these plains, I see miles of open sky, fresh air to breath, and the ghosts of the buffalo that used to roam here. I can feel the freedom of the range and reflect on the settlers who once rode through here on their covered wagons, using nothing but their hands and gumption to build the foundation for everything we have today. I don’t think you’ll find that in a book or cramped office.”

Neither in the audience took well to being told what was best in life, and, after a few moments of silence, each excused himself to his bedroll.

On the second evening, after another day which the cowhand extensively characterized as “spent looking at old rocks”, it was the palaeontologist who first chose to speak.

“You may speak of the ghosts of the buffalo as if they were the noblest beast to have roamed these lands, but, when I look out from under this speckled night, and over these grassy reaches, the image that comes to mind is not one of empty spaces and four-legged mammals, but of a jungle menagerie of species. The hunting packs of Chirostenotes, their plumage stark against the trees as they glide towards their prey with deadly intention; the low and long mourning call of a widowed Lambeosaurus; even the stillness of the dawn air as a Chasmosaurus munches contentedly on the stock of a plant we have yet to encounter.”

The man had been cleaning his glasses as he spoke. Returning his spectacles to the bridge of his nose, he turned to his companions to observe the impact of his tale, which he was sure would be profound.

Instead of introspection, he saw only aggravation.

“How can you not even understand that all rocks are old?” the geologist said to the cowhand.

The large-hatted man did not reply, nor did he look up from the small block of wood at which he was whittling.

On the third night, the geologist finally tried his hand.

“I heard what you two had to say, but I can’t get fired up over such piddling matters. When I look out at this plain I see burning lava and the star dust that this planet was formed from. I see the top layer of a mystery that goes hundreds of miles down, like the outside of a jigsaw-puzzle’s box giving you a snapshot of the glory contained within. Buffalo? Raptors? So what? They were nothing but fleas on a million year old dog; come and gone in the blink of its eye. There’ll be a day when this area, from horizon to horizon, is burnt clean by the heat of fusion, and this night breeze is wiped away by scorching solar forces, and yet these rocks and dirt will still be doing something fascinating; still be churning and rumbling and quaking.”

For the briefest of moments a synthesis happened, the gathered finally having come to some understanding.

It was a short lived unity.

The grassy expanse began to buck beneath their feet, and each man lost their lofty ideals and knew only terror as they gazed upon the visage of a new age, the thousand-eyed stare of Kar’Wick, The Spider-God.

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 084 – Ruby Departed: Shuffle, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Four.
Tonight, we present Ruby Departed: Shuffle, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp084.mp3]

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

Now with 20% more pulp than the next leading brand!

To subscribe, 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, Ruby departs from the home of Melody Hannikainen, although not entirely empty handed.

Flash Pulp 084 – Ruby Departed: Shuffle, Part 1 of 1

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

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

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 083 – Mulligan Smith and The Mortician, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Three.
Tonight, we present Mulligan Smith and The Mortician, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp083.mp3]

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

In no way endorsed by the Pretoria University Law Press.

To subscribe, 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, Mulligan has a brief encounter in a crematorium.

Flash Pulp 083 – Mulligan Smith and The Mortician, Part 1 of 1

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

The parlour was immaculate. The plastic flowers were pristine in arrangement and lack of dust, and the carpets still held wheel-tracks from their recent vacuuming. Each drawer of the front desk was locked, and the magazines on the hall table were arrayed in a perfect fan.

He was in search of a dead man who’d been writing cheques.

During his inspection, Mulligan had studiously ignored the sound of the poorly tuned radio emanating from behind the door labeled “Authorized Personnel Only, but, having completed his tour of the uninhabited area, he finally pushed his way inside.

The startled mortician was wearing grey jogging pants and a paint splattered sweater – Smith didn’t blame him for the informal attire, he couldn’t have been expecting many visitors given the hour.

The man had made preparations for unannounced visitors – when he caught sight of the prowling PI, a baseball bat materialized in his hands from beneath the long table on which he’d been working.

Mulligan eyed the club, keeping his hands loosely at his sides.

“Listen, I think -,”

The man rushed him.

He had the Taser in his fingers with a flick of his wrist, but Smith waited out another three of the undertaker’s long strides before firing. He considered it a courtesy to give the old guy a chance to stop, but he also knew he wouldn’t have been happy if he’d fired early and missed.

The embalmer’s hands closed hard around the bat as he fell. Mulligan let up on the trigger and provided a polite suggestion to let it go.

Once the lumber was free of the man’s fingers, Smith swallowed back a lump of tension and approached the prone figure, gently pulling the probes from his target’s neck.

He’d arrived too late in some senses – the body had already gone into the crematorium. Mulligan knew it was a waiting game at that point, so he pulled out a stool and sat.

“How long’s he been in there for?” he asked, pulling a replacement Taser cartridge from his pocket.

The silver-haired man stood, lowering himself stiffly onto a nearby bench while his eyes stayed locked on the weapon.

“He’s been baking about an hour, I guess-” The mortician’s eyes narrowed. “Be another one and a half before he’s ready to come out. Not that it’ll help, he’ll just be dust by then.”

“Maybe we should just pull him out now.”

“Have you ever seen a half-melted body? I assure you, you don’t want to mess with the process. It’s all automated anyhow, I’d have to do some fair jiggering to get it to stop, and even then (pause) he’s just going to be a roasted mess.I don’t know what you’re talking about though, there’s a body in there sure, but I’m also positive it’s not someone you’re looking for.”

“Don’t bluff me, sir.” Mulligan finished snapping the gun back into working order and tucked it away into the folds of his hoodie. “Given the impeccable tidiness of your establishment, I think you’re the kind of fellow who’d take the time to do things properly.”

The man pulled a latex glove from his hand and ran his sweaty fingers through his hair.

“Yeah,” Mulligan continued, “I’m sure there’s no room for mix-up anyhow, but a fella like you gets by on process. I’m sure you took the time to stamp him out a name tag before you cooked him.”

The man in the paint splattered sweater didn’t reply, but the PI didn’t like his flat smile.

“Still, sorry I had to shock you,” Smith added after a moment of quiet.

The room fell into silence, and the pair waited out the time by staring at the coloured lights on the panel alongside the short sliding door.

Nearly two hours later, Mulligan discovered that the tag was gibberish.

“You wrote it out in some kind of code to keep him anonymous? Well, can’t win ‘em all.” Mulligan said, still holding the metal plate.

He grabbed up the dusty skull, his palm wrapping around the jawbone so that his fingers protruded from the empty eye-sockets.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll take this down to the station and talk to a friend of mine who happens to know a thing or two about forensic dentistry. If I’m wrong, I’ll scoot this poor fella’s noggin’ back to you in a couple of hours. If I’m right though, you’ll probably want to consider sticking around, as it’ll be less risky to explain to the police how you came into possession of a missing man’s cranium than it will be to explain to heiress Petra and,” he hefted the weight in his hand, “her psychotic boyfriend, how her father’s skull went missing. I hope you cashed her cheque already – while she’s still rich.”

Once the door had clicked shut behind him, the PI stooped to expel his late dinner into one of the fake potted plants – he was careful to not get any on his deceased client.

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 082 – The Glorious: Minerva's Last Ride, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Two.
Tonight, we present The Glorious: Minerva’s Last Ride, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp082.mp3]

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

It’s the only known cure for vampirism.

To subscribe, 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 once again return to the halls of Valhalla, this time to hear the tale of a girl named Minerva Peabody.

Flash Pulp 082 – The Glorious: Minerva’s Last Ride, Part 1 of 1

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

The smoke filled halls of Valhalla were a rough location to start up a friendship, and few had it tougher than Minerva Peabody. The girl, permanently locked at the age of fourteen, was the sole warrior amongst thousands to be adorned largely in hot pink – a relic of the period in which she’d earned her place, the mid-1990s.

She’d walked the long benches many a night, finding little comfort in the rough hewn tables and legs of boar that adorned them. Few of the violent men that filled the rows had interest in a girl her age, and most who did had only the wrong intentions.

It was with great pleasure then that she dined with Leroy “Cutter” Jenkins – his own daughter had been her age when he’d died, and it felt like some small measure of home to have her sup with him. They’d met at the center of a melee in a swamp, caught between a division of Persian immortals and 300 Maori warriors. The groups had circled the tangling vines and muck drenched ground for an entire afternoon, hoping to happen upon an exposed flank, and the odd pair out, Cutter and Minerva, had used the opportunity to ignore the sniper rifles they’d been issued and instead swap stories about their respective lives.

“So -” Cutter said, one evening well after their introduction in the bog, “How’d you end up here, anyhow?”

It was usually the first question of any new encounter within the glorious halls, but somehow in the intervening weeks they’d both danced around the topic.

She took a long moment before answering. Finally, shoulders squaring slightly, she began to tell her tale.

“I was in central park with my Dad, it was fall and the air was crisp and we’d been out shopping for a few hours and were just looking for a street-meat vendor that didn’t look too sketchy so we could sit down on a bench and take a break.

“I saw the guy first, although I guess it didn’t really help any. He was tall, in his early twenties, hair cut super short and with a black trench coat on that didn’t really fit him. One minute I’m thinking “Look at that weirdo,” and then he’s suddenly got a shotgun in his hands.

“I’m pretty sure I cussed – I think it was the only time Dad ever heard me do it, he definitely looked up fast enough. He’d been talking about dinner plans and random junk; how excited Mom would be to see the stuff I’d picked out. We hadn’t been talking much lately – not on purpose or anything, he’d just been busy doing his thing and I’d been busy doing mine – anyhow, it was a pretty great day, and then this shaved DB pulls out the shotgun.

“Boom – first shot takes out the lady he’d been talking to. Boom, Boom – second and third shots take out a couple of people picnicking on the grass not far from him. Dad stands up, figuring I guess he’s going to save me somehow, and boom, the left side of his head is gone.

“I don’t really remember how I got under the bench, but I got down. This cop on a horse comes pounding up, but, boom, down he went. I’m pretty sure he was dead before he hit the ground, but his neck made an awful sound when his helmet bounced off the cement path.

“I could see the whites of his horse’s eyes as it reared up, and there was the smell – I didn’t know what it was then, but now I’m all too familiar with a good whiff of burnt gunpowder. People were running everywhere and the guy had this look on his face like he was ruler of the world.

“I couldn’t stand it – up till then I’d just been scared, but while I was staring at what was left of Dad and the cop with the funny bend in his neck, the day I’d just had flashed before my eyes – ten minutes earlier I’d been ruler of the world, and that guy, for whatever reason, had decided to take a dump on it.

“I started crying, but it didn’t stop me. I busted out from under the bench, and one handed the reins of the horse. I’d spent the previous six years worth of Tuesdays and Sundays at Appleberry Stables – I didn’t have my stupid beige breeches, or my stupid chaps, or my stupid black helmet, but I was pretty sure by then that I’d probably never need them again anyhow.

“The guy had started walking the other way, just strolling and firing at anything that moved as he passed.

“People – I mean back there, not here – they’ve kind of forgotten what horses are, why we raised and rode them. It’s easy to flip on the TV and see how brutally fast we’ve built our cars, but people have forgotten what it is to have a couple thousand pounds of horseflesh baring down on them.

“He spun and fired at the last moment – sheered my arm right off. I don’t know how I managed not to lose control of my mount, I guess the bloodlust was upon us – I’d have given him the finger if I’d still had a free hand to do so.

“The guy fired again when we were right on top of him, and the horse reared, kicking in his skull. I fell off then, and died staring at his exposed brain.”

The girl sniffled as she sipped at her inexhaustible wine.

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.