Category: Flash Pulp

FP313 – The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and thirteen.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 2 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp313.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Glow-in-the-Dark Radio

 

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

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself at the edge of exhaustion while attempting to navigate his companions through the frosty wilderness.

 

The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 2 of 3

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

 

The distraction of Blackhall’s words did not last long against the increasingly insistent wind.

Despite the Bells’ best efforts, the gusting air seemed to find every shirt seam and push aside every mislaid blanket corner. Worse yet, the greater the speed at which Thomas attempted to carry them to safety, the greater the rolling of The Green Ship, and the more it was necessary to expose tender fingers and bluing hands to steady themselves.

Blackhall’s scrutiny swept the horizon with the persistence of a lighthouse beacon, but there remained no sign of a smokey column nor a civilized break in the brackish sea of timber upon which they rode.

BlackhallAfter some four hours of unfaltering drumming, Thomas’ arms cramped at the continued exertion. If it were not for the simple fact that any change-up would likely send them tumbling through the bristling limbs and to the unwelcoming earth below, he would have gladly shared the labour – even with the malnourished and gaunt-eyed Bells.

Supposing they did survive such a fall with minimal wounds, however, Blackhall doubted his belligerent shoulders and aching forearms would stand the climb to begin the journey anew.

There was nothing for it but to continue, and to hope.

Clara’s concerns were largely for James, and James’ largely for Clara. Given the arcane resources he’d demonstrated in their rescue, Thomas had begun to suspect that the couple thought him somehow indeFATigable, and, in truth, the frontiersman wished he had one more trick to pull from his collection that might assist them.

It only made his cadence heavier to know he did not.

As they sailed over a rising cluster of spruce, James spoke of the plans they would enact at their return to populated turf, but a particularly abrupt roll of the bow left him with a smile of reminiscence on his lips.

“I do believe this is as harrowing a ride as the one we enjoyed on our wedding eve,” he told his bride.

Clara blushed briefly before her memory summoned the incident in question.

“Ah, yes,” she said, turning to Thomas as if an explanation was suddenly necessary. “We’d been lent the doctor’s nimble buggy for the occasion of our ride from chapel to threshold, and Father insisted we be lead by Praetorian, a stallion of his land that was little use for work but paid its way in Saturday night betting at the local public house.

“We were not half-way home when the brute caught sight of a lynx on the trail – then there was naught for it but to hold each other tightly and hope that our first evening of matrimony would not be our last.”

More interested in somehow loosening the knot in his shoulder than the conversation, Thomas absentmindedly replied, “a harrowing enough day at the best of times, as I recall.”

“Ah,” said Clara, “so you ARE married then?”

Shaken from his painful preoccupation, Blackhall again allowed his pace to slow. The slackened meter did nothing to ease his aches, yet he cleared his throat and said, “I knew a man who was asked the same question once.

“I heard the tale when consulted as to if I could help his wife.

“Did your grandmother ever whisper against a scoundrel with the notion that he had hold of some dead man’s coins? “

The Bell’s shook their heads as they blew meager warmth into their cupped hands.

Thomas continued.

“This fellow, Bartholomew, stood over six feet and had the sort of smile that made you feel his friend however long you’d known him. He’d married young after a passionate romance, but his handsome features lead him oft into temptation. There was not a lonely maid or unhappy housewife in the county who did not look him over fondly, and he did bask in their attentions.

“His work as a carpenter regularly called him far from home to lay crossbeams or repair rooves, and it was in these times that his will was at its weakest, for the maidens of the surrounding climes saw only the thickness of his arms and none of the invisible bindings of his union.

“It was during one such job, some repair work on a listing barn, that he finally surrendered himself. His paranoia, however, was immediate, for it soon came out that his flame had a sister in his hometown, and, unaware that he had other obligations, his soft-limbed lover was eager to join him there to continue their all-too-hasty courtship.

“While explaining his troubles, that evening, to the mate who usually acted as his aid, and who knew more of his situation than any other, the suggestion arose that he might try a pair of deadman’s coins – that is, the coins laid across the eyes of the deceased to supposedly pay for his journey across the Styx.

“The help-mate’s grandmother – and my own – had often levelled the accusation that such tender was capable of blinding a spouse to infidelity if placed in their drink, and, it so happened that, in the very house they were staying, an uncle was on display to collect condolences before his internment – in fact, it was the very damage to the cattle shed on which they worked that had set the man low.

“At their departure, Bartholomew brought away more than just his agreed-upon payment.

“Of course, as was their tradition on every previous occasion, his wife had kept anxious watch for his return, and ran into the field to greet him.

“Two months later, with his mistress safely installed in her sister’s home, he was finally discovered. While collecting wild strawberries to jar, a quiet footed widow had stumbled across a tryst amongst the tall grass.

“Bartholomew rose in a panic. Though a weak man, he never intended direct harm to his wife. He did love her, in his way, but his reason was captive to his instincts.

“With barely a word to his still-naked paramour, he rushed home.

“Placing the stolen tokens in his wronged wife’s dandelion wine, later that afternoon, was all that saved him. At the same moment she took her first sip, some ten miles off the berry-hauling grandmother was nearly trampled by a team of horses. She survived with only a weekend’s recovery – a fortunate thing, considering her age – but all memory of her expedition was wiped from mind, and she carried an aversion to jams for the rest of her days.

“Bartholomew nearly threw over his affair then, but the lusty promises made in secret missives from his spurned concubine were too much, and, instead, he derived a plan to sooth his loins while maintaining his household.

“Telling her they were meant to bring luck, he affixed the charms to the base of her favoured tin cup. As she sipped from it each morning, it would renew her artificial myopia – and, perversely, each time she finished her draught and spotted the devices, she would be reminded of him.

“That is, until the following year. In the interceding time Bartholomew had grown brazen, going so far as to carry on even in the out structure that acted as his shop. He did not know that, in a rare turn, his wife had decided to bring him his noontime meal.

“I suppose the fates, or whatever mystic body governed the magic, could find no other escape for the philanderer. The moment she pushed wide the door the poor woman was immediately and without cause struck truly, and permanently, blind.

“Unheard by the screaming, panic stricken, wife, his lover retreated for the final time, uttering the same words you had – though with greater disbelief.

“‘So you ARE married then?’

“I suspect that it was the same working that kept his wife unaware that prevented any in the area from breaking the girl’s heart with the truth of the matter.”

Though their lips trembled only from the cold, the disdain and disappointment was obvious in the Bells’ eyes.

Unexpectedly, Thomas moved to defend him. They did not notice his weakening tone.

“He was a rogue it’s true, but when I passed through, a year later, they were still happily married. He had abandoned his old ways – because of guilt, yes, but also due to the simple fact that his wife’s state was, at least in the beginning, largely one of hopelessness. Her care meant that he could no longer roam and build, and he was forced to turn his hand to the land. An untrained body does not know how to make its way through this world without its primary sense. Every chair, step, hot stove, and forgotten broom was now a threat.

“There was something more though. I believe the enormity of his transgression passed into his mind in that moment, causing a transformation that no lesser shock could have managed.

“A new tradition formed. With careful hands she fashioned simple sandwiches at the warmth of their kitchen window, then she would proceed with tender strides towards the entrance of their home. From her perch she would sing a tune of her youth, a warbling song of spring and foolish love, and he would come in from the fields, grateful for the meal.

“I should add, as well, that I was told the story from her own lips. He could not forgive himself without confession, though it says much of her fortitude and grace that she found it in her to grant him pardon.”

Despite Blackhall’s quiet intonation, James smirked at this conclusion, pulling his wife tight to him. Clara’s gaze, though, remained firmly on the straining face of the ship’s captain.

“There is something in the curl of your lip that tells me there is more to the tale,” she said.

Thomas made his best effort to shrug.

His mind was too soaked with fatigue to make any more happy reply than, “I know his conversion was an honest one as he was truly broken when she tumbled into the well some six months after my visit. The news that he’d laid a pistol to his temple at her burial came as an honest shock.”

There passed two hundred yards of silence, then another cramp set in. The depth of this new pain was too much for Blackhall to bare and reflex drew his arms sharply to his body. The Green Ship halted it’s progress as it unfurled, but its startled passengers were less lucky.

It was not a pleasant descent.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

  • NATIVE DRUM LOOP B 16BARS 100BPM.wav by sandyrb
  • Leaves.wav by bsumusictech
  • cutting_tree.wav by fkurz

    • Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

    FP312 – The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 1 of 3

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and twelve.

    Flash PulpTonight we present The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 1 of 3
    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp312.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Glow-in-the-Dark Radio

     

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

    Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself transporting a pair bound for a new life – if they can stay warm long enough to see it.

     

    The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 1 of 3

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

     

    Leaving behind many troubles, Thomas had been forced into a long journey with two companions who were unprepared for the wintery undertaking. The warm air brought in by a passing blizzard had abandoned them, and the temperature had begun a treacherous descent. To pause even briefly under the snow-heavy pines would likely mean their end, but Blackhall was a man of no ordinary means. With some effort of coordination he’d been able to seat his charges within the confines of the Green Ship, an arcane relic whose driving engine was a drum empowered to form the barren branches above into a rolling sea of greenery, and a vessel to carry them.

    Thomas Blackhall, Master Frontiersman and Student of the OccultThe longship’s soaring transit offered little shelter from the wind and drifting precipitation, however, and the Bells had just each other and a set of blankets to fight the encroaching chill.

    Thomas knew that if the couple were to avoid the loss of fingers, toes, or worse, it would be by spotting a smokey column on the horizon.

    Conversation was their last ward against shivering, but thanks and amazement only carried the Bell’s discussion so far. Soon, despite the fantastic events they had left behind, talk sank to the mundane. Still, James and Clara, their tongues greased from their narrow escape, seemed to chatter endlessly as Blackhall worried himself with the rhythm.

    He’d been fatigued well before their sudden departure, and his shoulders still ached with his inbound voyage, but the frontiersman, understanding all too well the perils of such an underprepared excursion, considered that the alternative was likely silent fear, and, as such, did his best to encourage the waste of energy while providing as scant input as possible of his own.

    After ranging over likely sources of assistance once civilization was re-achieved, the conference lapsed into a broader debate regarding the status, both marital and financial, of various friends and cousins. The topic of relations was much on Clara’s tongue, and it was with that hook which she attempted to more-fully draw out Thomas.

    “- and what of you, sir? Have you a wife awaiting your return?”

    Blackhall’s mind drifted to his capering Mairi and her own trek. He was forced to remind himself that even this damnably slow passage was yet another aspect of his chase, then he banished the image of his dead wife from his thoughts.

    His drumming slowed, and the swell and sway of the limbs that carried the ship grew calm.

    At a speed better suited to a summer afternoon’s fishing expedition, he said, “my arms tire, but disembarking is a trick I’d rather only attempt once. Let me tell you a tale of marriage and fidelity, while I briefly savor a slackened pace.

    “Not but two years ago, in the fall, I met an old man named Erikson, a scrawny necked plow-wrangler living at the edge of a place barely known as Clifford, some miles east. The community consisted of perhaps four dozen souls, at maximum, and the timing of my appearance found them all in great sadness over the death of Mrs. Erikson.

    “There was not a fireside in the place that was not made dimmer by her passing, and, though most were quick enough to ladle me a spoon of broth or share an end of bread, there was no joy to be had in the lake-hugging village.

    “It wasn’t an easy thing to behold, those leaning huts and moping children, and nature itself, in its autumnal glory, seemed to feel the same: The leaves fell from the maples as if fiery tears.

    “Now, I’d come not for its hospitality, mind you. I’d set out on word that a pair of huntsmen, fellows by the unlikely names of Hargo and Muse, had intention to ply their trade in the area.

    “You see, I’d just arrived from the nearest town of Mikleson, which too had had a recent death. There they’d seen to the final rest of a boy of eighteen, and, once paid, they’d quickly struck out for fresh soil to churn. So survive vampire hunters and their ilk – even in these enlightened days.

    “Clifford’s plans to improve their meager cemetery were often on the lips of the locals, but death is an inconsistent, and unfortunate, reminder, and I suspect they wanted as little to do with the patch as necessary when they might forget its presence.

    “There were no more than twenty plots laid out in that strange garden, but all without stone markings, so that the engraved wood that had been used gave better indication of the age of the burial, by its rotting nature, than the hardly legible carvings indicating names and dates.

    “With the populace in mourning black, their heads covered and their faces long, I’ve no doubt that Hargo and Muse thought their luck bright. Their profession is not one conducted any longer in open air, but instead relegated to secret dealings with grieving family or concerned community members.

    “It was not long before rumour of midnight returns and mysterious illnesses had shot through every keyhole and passed over every supping table.

    “Hargo and Muse required three days of haggling to convince Erikson to pay over their fee, and at no small tithe to his whiskey.

    “The first time I’d met with the old man his eyes had been dewey and his fingers prone to trembling at the mention of his wife’s name.

    “By the time negotiations were complete his gaze was clear and his hands steady.”

    Thomas’ own fingers had grown numb from the unceasing blast from the north, but the lessened pace, and remembered anger, had eased the knots that had gathered about his neck and spine.

    His palms fell with renewed purpose as he continued.

    “It’s an easy enough trade, if you’ve the stomach to lie to the recently bereaved and mutilate the dead – beyond that it requires little more skill than ditch digging.

    “I can but imagine that Mrs. Erikson – the only surviving image of which portrayed a woman of sharp nose and boney countenance – provided something of the perfect archetype of their profession.

    “On the final night of the business, when every home’s lamps had been extinguished and the bairns lay deep in their dreams, the entrepreneurs lifted high the shaved spruce that acted as gate arm to the small cemetery and carried in their tools.

    “The moon, unwilling to pay witness to the sight, had pulled a swath of cloud across its gaze, and the meager lantern’s work was made all the more difficult in their liquored grasp. How many sanctuaries had they crept into under such pretence? I can not say, but certainly enough that the thought of cutting out the heart of a grandmother did not cap their levity.

    “Hargo was a blond man of medium stature. I believe he intended his suede coat to provide something of the air of a gentleman, but its poor patchwork and mismatched thread colourings did nothing to sell the notion. Muse stood taller by a head, a thin-faced man whose lips were far too close to the termination of his chin. It was he who spoke loudly of a fair-limbed daughter of the village, a girl who would one day certainly be beautiful, but who was, in truth, too young to be mentioned in such a tawdry dialogue.

    “Still, they quieted when it came to squinting at the poorly-chiseled placards, and, by the time Hargo was preparing to raise high his shovel and begin the process of disturbing the bed of decaying foliage that lay across Mrs. Erikson’s slumbers, dread had clearly descended.

    “The spade’s plunge was halted by the whispers and moans.

    “Again, I can not say how often the pair had carried out their commissions, but I can assure you it was the first occasion in which the leaves upon each mound began to writhe and leap.

    “Then there was no reason for the men to dig, for it seemed that the dead had saved them the effort by rising from their graves to meet them.

    “I doubt either will ever return to their craft, but I had little chance to quiz them on the topic as that was the last I, or any of the people of Clifford – most of whom were by then wiping the mud from their pants and the mirth-filled tears from their eyes – saw of the scoundrels.

    “It was the widower himself laughing loudest.

    “They had underestimated Mrs. Erikson’s playful nature, but I had sat and listened to the tales. When her love of mischief was plainly clear I drew up the plan and proposed it to her husband, who thought it would be exactly the sort of tomfoolery that would have left his beloved cackling – and exactly the sort of tomfoolery that had drawn the woman so close to the hearts of the townspeople.

    “Though the pair of charlatans had failed to settle any lingering dead, or even collect their supposed reward, it was their efforts that inadvertently slew the keening air that had lain so heavily over the hamlet.”

    The reminiscence had left Blackhall craving the taste of tobacco and Spanish paper, but he knew he’d rested too long in the telling. The grins upon his passenger’s lips carried him some warmth, but it was the frosty prodding at the collar of his great coat, and the unnatural whitening about the edges of his passenger’s ears, that brought up his cadence.

    The craft began to rock and buck under the renewed beat, leaping ever towards the crisp, empty, horizon.

    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    Freesound.org credits:

  • NATIVE DRUM LOOP B 16BARS 100BPM.wav by sandyrb

    • Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

    FC81 – Alan Thicke in Stasis

    FC81 - Alan Thicke in Stasis
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast081.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)

    Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 81.

    Prepare yourself for: The Facts of Life, airship pilots, cussing supercomputers, butterscotch pudding, random breakfasts, and Ruby.

    * * *

    Huge thanks to:

    * * *

    * * *

    Backroom Plots:

  • FP311 – Ruby Departed: Pecking Order

    • * * *

    Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!

    * * *

    If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.

    FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    FP311 – Ruby Departed: Pecking Order, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and eleven.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Ruby Departed: Pecking Order, Part 1 of 1

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp311.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Two Chairs No Waiting An Andy Griffith Show Podcast

     

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

    Tonight our zombie slaying heroine finds herself taking advice from a mad woman while avoiding the hungry mouths of the roaming corpses that threaten them both.

     

    Ruby Departed: Pecking Order

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

     

    Ruby Departed

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

    FC80 – Canadian Hobo Pennies

    FC80 - Canadian Hobo Pennies
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast080.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)

    Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 80.

    Prepare yourself for: Sexy Anne of Green Gables, space marines, suspecting Agatha Christie, a real life superhero gunfight, and Mulligan.

    * * *

    Huge thanks to:

    * * *

    * * *

    * * *

    Backroom Plots:

  • FP310 – Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage

    • * * *

    Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!

    * * *

    If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.

    FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    FP310 – Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and ten.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage, Part 1 of 1

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp310.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Mob – join us on Ning and Facebook!

     

    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, due to the pressing business of a Skinner Co. Saturday Night Board Meeting, we are preempting our expected Ruby tale to present this scene of anger and advice starring everyone’s favourite private investigator, Mulligan Smith.

     

    Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage

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

     

    “Listen,” said Mulligan, “anger is an important natural response. I know there’s a lot of talk about how it’s a negative emotion – that it leads to the dark side of the force and all that – but sometimes white hot fury is all you have.

    “You, out of anyone, should know that.”

    Beneath a stuffed and mounted Northern Pike, Billy Winnipeg’s cliff-like shoulders heaved in indifference.

    “It’s like my hoodie,” continued the detective, “it represents a direct line back to the kid-sized sweater Mom gave me when I was twelve. You can’t just let someone steal that kind of heritage from you!”

    MulliganWinnipeg looked away from the dimming embers in the cast iron stove. At the best of moments the shack would have still been too small for the mammoth man’s comfort – but, now, as the last of their heat drained away, it only seemed to shrink.

    “I was with you when you bought that thing,” he said. “You got it like, two years ago.”

    “Yeah, but I was wearing the hoodie from a generation back at the time – and I was wearing it’s granddad the time previous.”

    “Huh.”

    The pair fell into silence as the private investigator gathered his thoughts.

    “The fire’s out,” he finally said, “If you don’t get angry, you’re going to get dead. Understand?”

    Billy squinted, as if he were attempting to, but he still had to reply with a “no.”

    “What I’m saying is, your Mom’s lasagna tastes like a cat vomited into its litter box and she smothered the whole thing in cheese before popping it in the oven.”

    Winnipeg’s brow creased, but he persisted in refusing to look at his animated friend. “C’mon, isn’t this bad enough?”

    As he spoke, his hand remained firmly on the copy of Rod and Reel Monthly that acted as his lone protection against the rapidly cooling air.

    Mulligan replied, “bad enough? You know what, I’m willing to bet that Collins didn’t just steal our clothes at gunpoint. This is a story he’ll want to tell, but it’s not worth bragging about yet.

    “Yeah – I bet he’s turned back to your place.

    “It’s only a few hours: Hell, another fifteen or twenty minutes and he’ll be sweet talking your mom. Won’t be midnight before he has her tied to the bed posts and moaning his name. By tomorrow she’ll be so shattered by your death he’ll likely end up your posthumous father-in-law.

    “Oh, and, meathead, posthumous means after you’re dead.”

    The giant bellowed at this verbal slap, his modesty and melancholy forgotten, and Smith barely made it to the fishing hut’s splintered door before the mountain rose and gave chase.

    The lakeshore was a mile off, but they covered the distance in eight minutes.

    It was witnessed by just one man, Gregory Thompson, and he would speak of the pair of screaming naked men on every rare occasion that he drank till the day he died.

    Three hours later, Mulligan pulled on his black sweater. Zipping its familiar lines felt as if he were stepping into a warm home.

    Then it was Collins’ turn to run.

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

    FP309 – Mulligan Smith in Blood, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and nine.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Blood, Part 1 of 1

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp309.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Mob – join us on Ning and Facebook!

     

    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 open on a family in turmoil, the Dukes. What has driven the son, Tory, to sickness and silence? What has driven the father, Rufus, to near madness? Only one private investigator, Mulligan Smith, truly knows.

     

    Mulligan Smith in Blood

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

     

    With his Uncle Greg leaning against the doorframe that lead to the kitchen, his mother pacing in and out of the front hall, and his father positioned directly in front of him on the living room’s mahogany and glass coffee table, Tory Dukes knew he had nowhere to run.

    Mulligan Smith“Say something dammit,” Rufus repeated for the third time. It was rare for his dad to be sitting so close, and the sixteen-year-old could easily smell the coffee he’d had for breakfast.

    “Where is he?” asked Samantha, her eyes looping constantly from the hall to her son’s silent face.

    Tory could offer only shrugs.

    “I’m not sure needling him is going to help,” offered Greg. As he spoke, he shifted from a cross-armed pose to stand with one thumb in his jeans’ pocket.

    Rufus’ lips curled. “Of course you would say that.”

    It was an unexpected statement to no one but Greg, who replied, “whoa, what?”

    “Boys – boys like him just don’t get AIDS,” suggested Samantha. Her gaze was locked on the thick beige carpet at her feet.

    Greg’s hand dropped away from the denim. “You – it sucks that you’d even think that.”

    Not bothering to turn towards his in-law, Rufus cleared his throat. “Look at the situation! Here’s this lonely teen with barely a friend in the world, and in sweeps gay Uncle Greg after years of being nowhere in his sister’s life. You want to have Sunday dinner here; get to know us; take Tory, and his nerdy pal Guthrie, out to the city; give us advice on how to dress, eat, and raise our kid.

    “Yeah, It’s all seeming pretty clear now.”

    “I just wanted to be a brother and uncle,” replied the accused.

    The boy’s face raised briefly, casting a nod and a tear at Greg. Rufus caught the look and his grip on the mahogany grew tighter.

    He said, “except suddenly Tory has AIDS – just like you.”

    “Yeah, and where the fuck have you been? He’s got a disease I’ve been dealing with for years, on my own, without you – my only family in the world – caring enough to visit. I’m here with hot soup if you so much as complain of a sniffle, but I spent three weeks in the hospital last year with the flu and the best you could do was a card with flowers. You have no idea how I hated that damn plastic plant. It was a fake flower representing the fake relationship I had with Sam.”

    “So this is your sick idea of revenge?”

    “I understand that you’re upset over Tory, and I can only imagine what it’s like to be such a dick that my own son won’t talk to me about where he got a life threatening disease, but you need to relax until your hired snoop shows up. I mean, Jesus, you don’t even know the difference between HIV and AIDS.”

    Rufus’ forearms, still locked on the table’s surface, began to tremble.

    He returned to the interrogation of his son.

    “Did he give you drugs?”

    Tory shook his head.

    “Did he force you to do something you didn’t want to?”

    Tory responded with another negative.

    “Are you – are you gay?”

    Tory rolled his eyes, but finally spoke. “I’m dead anyway, why should I tell you anything?”

    “Whoa, whoa, there,” said Greg, “that’s exactly why I came: I’ve been fighting the same thing for a long while, and I don’t plan on dying of it any time soon. I’m not saying it’s always going to be a dance party, but you’ll probably outlive us all.”

    There was a knock at the door. Samantha was quick to answer.

    Beyond the peep hole stood a man in a black hoodie, his mussed hair wet from the rain and a lanky boy standing beside him. The woman recognized the lad as Guthrie, Tory’s constant companion throughout tenth grade, and still likely his best friend despite having moved from the state at the summer’s end.

    Behind the drizzle-blurred windows of the Tercel parked at the curb, Samantha could make out the outline of a woman. Her mind raced at the unexpected tableau, and her assumptions became nothing more than fertilizer for new questions.

    When the private investigator raised his fist to knock a second time, she flipped the deadbolt.

    The pair’s arrival in the living room immediately set off a cannonade from Rufus’ mouth.

    “Guthrie? What’s wrong with you? You look like bloody vampire,” then, with only the briefest of pause, he wheeled on his son, “you are gay!”

    For his part, Tory, ignoring the stream of questions and commentary, simply raised an unenthusiastic hand to greet his friend.

    Smith took in the sullen teen and his narrow-faced father, then raised a brow at Samantha. Finally, he focused on Greg.

    “Your tip was exactly what I needed,” he said.

    “I knew it,” sighed Rufus.

    “What, that your semi-estranged relative understands your kid better than you do? Congratulations,” answered Mulligan, as he tugged at his sweater’s zipper. The room reeked of sweat and shouting, and the PI wasn’t much of a fan of either. He turned to Samantha. “He gave me the info necessary to get ahold of Tory’s bestie. Honestly, from there it was just a matter of looking into the Guthrie’s eyes and asking some gentle questions.

    “Hell, as soon as I came anywhere near a guess at what was going on he broke down in tears. His family doesn’t realize how sick he is – they’re the type that doesn’t ask much as long as he makes it to church on Sundays.

    “Your son isn’t gay, but Guthrie is. The boys are just unluckily timed blood brothers, and Tory is the kind of stand up guy who wouldn’t out his friend before he’d managed to raise the courage to tell his family.”

    The quieter of the newcomers nodded in agreement.

    “Now, I hate to cut this short,” continued Smith, “but Guthrie’s Ma is waiting in the car because Pa couldn’t pull himself together after hearing the recent news. That said, it’s worth mentioning that, while both of these urchins have a rough go ahead, at least one of them has someone solid they can depend on.

    “You folks, and Tory especially, are lucky to have knowledgeable Uncle Greg around to support him – you know, like an actual loving family member.”

    With his assignment complete, Mulligan re-zipped his hoodie and turned to leave.

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

    FC79 – Waste Core

    FC79 - Waste Core
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast079.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)

    Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 79.

    Prepare yourself for: Racist Germans, roaming literary gangs, Tolkien’s tower, Rambo, black market laundry detergent, and Bandette.

    * * *

    Huge thanks to:

    * * *

    FPSE15 – The Legend of the Wolfe Family’s Vacation, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp Special Episode 15.

    Flash PulpTonight we present The Legend of the Wolfe Family’s Vacation, part 1 of 1

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpSE015.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

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

     

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

    Tonight, we present a tale of snowy terror and survival, as told from Capital City to the slopes of Aspen.

     

    The Legend of the Wolfe Family’s Vacation

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

     

    Urban Legend
    For more information on this questionable legend visit the wiki.

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    Freesound.org credits:

  • Little fire by Glaneur de sons

    • Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

    FP308 – The Big Bad Wolf, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and eight.

    Flash PulpTonight we present The Big Bad Wolf, Part 1 of 1

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp308.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

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

     

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

    Tonight, we present a tale of suburban anxiety dressed in sheep’s clothing. Consider it a lesson in presumption, revenge, and carnage.

     

    The Big Bad Wolf

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

     

    Horace Hastings watched the trio of twelve-year-olds march along the sidewalk below the window of his second-floor bedroom.

    He thought of his often trampled lawn, of the constant fence-jumping to retrieve rogue balls, of his strong suspicion that they’d once emptied his unlocked BMW of change.

    He frowned.

    “Three little pigs,” he said, “each slightly larger than the other.”

    No reaction came from his wife, Agatha – he’d forgotten she’d already left for work.

    Horace’s gaze tracked the baseball bats in the children’s hands, and his grimace deepened.

    He was late for a meeting, however, and finishing his tie’s half-Windsor knot soon required his full attention.

    * * *

    On Friday afternoon, two days later, Hastings was staring at the expanse of ravine that made up his backyard’s rear boundary. Generally it was too overgrown to tramp through, and was thus left for the likes of the trio of swine, but, today, he’d pulled on an old pair of rarely-worn jeans in preparation for an expedition into the brush.

    Miss Marple was missing and he’d be damned if he’d sit through an evening of listening to Agatha complain about the disappearance of her beloved cat.

    The tabby was largely an indoor animal, but she occasionally liked to range the yard for birds and sunshine. Though Horace often ignored his wife’s advice of keeping a close eye as the creature prowled, this was the first time she’d disappeared from the fenced space. There was just one direction she was likely to have went.

    He fell twice in his descent, but, once at the bottom of the broad gulch, he realized a faint path wound between the scrub and cedars. Wiping dirt and dead leaves from his knees, the suburbanite hunter began to follow the trail of broken grass while shouting after his feline. He suspected it was a fruitless undertaking, as the beast had never come in his decade of attempts to summon her, but he hoped she might at least raise a frightened mewl at the familiar sound of his irritated voice.

    What he found instead was a fort of questionable construction.

    A motley collection of lumber and corrugated metal had been assembled into a crude shelter. Its interior had been decorated with well-handled pictures of nude women, clearly ripped from the pages of low-grade porn mags, and the planks that formed the structure’s squat roof bristled with reasons to require a tetanus shot.

    Mildly surprised that their sow-ish mothers had allowed them to range so far, Horace thought, “look at the shabby house those pigs have built.”

    Sitting atop the nail-filled platform was Miss Marple. She was licking at a long-empty tin of salmon and purring contentedly.

    “It’s time to go,” announced her supposed savior.

    The cat couldn’t be bothered to spare him a glance.

    “Ingrate,” said her owner. “I hope you cut your tongue open.”

    The empty can only grew emptier.

    Annoyed at the slight, the obviousness of the boys’ plot to lure away his cat, his dirty jeans, and the wasted half-hour, the reluctant rescuer kicked apart the nearest poorly constructed wall, sending a bevy of topless beauties into the mud. The violence was enough to turn Miss Marple into a gray streak heading for the safety of home.

    Grunting in satisfaction at the results of his demolition, Horace followed.

    * * *

    The Hastings spent their Saturday morning at a flea market, but after being sure they’d thoroughly locked in their four-legged ward.

    It was unexpected, then, when they returned to discover a route of escape had been forcefully created, even though Miss Marple had been too content in her position on the couch to use it.

    As Agatha moved to collect a dustpan, Horace stood and cursed at the window as if his angry words might somehow reverse the flight of the rock that had shattered it.

    By the end of his tirade, he knew who to blame – and how to exact his revenge.

    The second trip into the gully was greased by his rage, and within moments he’d laid eyes on the freshly mended shanty.

    He was huffing and puffing by the time he’d torn the shack down. No busty lady remained whole, no board held tight to another, and even the patches of metal sheeting had been bent beyond repair by a thick length of angrily-swung tree branch.

    Returning home, Hastings discovered his wife had already made the necessary calls to replace the damaged pane, leaving him free to eagerly watch for the boar-ish triplets descent and subsequent discovery of their destroyed camp. They did not pass, however, and eventually thoughts of lurking behind a curtain with the portable phone in his hand, ready to call law enforcement as he caught the miscreants in another act of hooliganism, lulled the fatigued Horace into sleep.

    He was awoken by Miss Marple, scratching at his face in panic.

    Despite the pain, it was not his bleeding nose that he first took notice of – it was the smell of smoke.

    The warning provided a narrow escape from the blaze that the Hastings’ house had become.

    As the homeless couple, and their cat, stood shivering on the pavement awaiting rescue, a gaunt faced man appeared. His hair was wild and long, matching his unkempt beard. He began to bay and cackle at their dismay.

    “Be it ever so humble,” he crooned, before letting out another howl.

    None of Horace’s ensuing language was strong enough to drive him away. It was only once the sound of approaching sirens overcame the snap and sizzle of timber that the rousted vagrant, having completed his act of retribution for the loss of his haven, disappeared into the shadows that danced beyond the quivering flame.

     

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

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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