Category: Flash Pulp

FC73 – Killer Kinks

FC73 - Killer Kinks
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Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 73.

Prepare yourself for: Murder by sex, curiosity killed the kids, DOOM, an occult ritual, and Ruby.

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Huge thanks to:

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FP294 – Coffin: Change, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Coffin: Change

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

 

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, Coffin and Bunny face a powerful arcane force, and find themselves in a changing climate.

 

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

 

The winding road home had lead Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny, his tipsy companion, to a Motel 6 a mere five hours from Capital City. Hurricane rains and fearsome wind had made continuing on an unpleasant prospect, and Coffin had nosed the rented Nissan into the lot only half certain that the neon smudge beyond the river on his windshield actually indicated lodging.

He was happy enough to cut the engine and not have to fight the storm for his life any longer – the confirmation of a vacancy sign was nearly just frosting on his fully-stopped cake.

“What a ####in’ dump,” said Bunny. “Still, I’d rather not drown in a parking lot. Let’s get inside.”

After a quick exchange at the faux-wood front desk, and a coin toss for who would bunk on the folding cot, the pair settled for the night. Coffin had spent the trip sleeping in a variety of ragged jeans and t-shirts, and tonight was no different. His lack of wardrobe changes meant that, while Bunny ducked into the bathroom to change, he was first grab the remote.

He’d found The Weather Channel by the time she exited in her oversized pin-striped pajamas.

“The Weather Channel?” she asked, “Better yet, The Weather Channel on mute? Christ, here comes the party – should I call for some champagne from the con-see-urge?”

“The what?” he replied.

“The Con-see-arg? The conc – whatever: The ####ing bottle boy, not that this place has anything more than a counter jockey with an already opened fifth of watered-down vodka under the counter. Way to ruin a solid goddamn joke.”

CoffinWithout breaking away from the swirl of gray and red, Coffin said, “yeah, The Weather Channel.”

“It’s raining outside – you know how I know? Because it’s been raining for the last five ####ing hours. How about you give me the remote and you can, you know, look out a ####ing window. That way we’ll both be happy.”

Will finally shifted to eye his companion. Something about the woman had changed since they’d turned eastward, but he’d been too preoccupied to put his finger on it. She was peevish, but it was not her usual hangover fury.

“I stopped taking suggestions from women dressed like you when I was ten and told my senile grandmother I wasn’t going to eat any more of her still-frozen peas,” he replied. “Why did you buy that senior home suit, anyhow? Usually you just pass out in – wait, are you sober?”

Bunny’s cheeks grew red, and she suddenly became extremely interested in the close-cropped green carpet.

“I’m not ####ing quitting or anything,” she said. “I’ve never been in need of any ###damn church basements – I’m only, uh, taking it easy for a bit.”

Bunny’s gaze came up as she finished, so that she could clearly see his reaction. Her fists clenched in preparation for a smirk.

Instead, Coffin nodded, letting the moment sink to silence.

When she began to fuss with the folded blankets on her cot, he changed the topic to the weather.

“See this tracking map? Anything seem weird about the storm’s path?”

“Looks like any two-year-old’s scribbling. It’s a mess of loops with a randomly straight line.”

“Exactly. The scrawl is saying the forecasters are blaming sudden wind changes, but the guy they keep cutting to at the desk looks like he thinks a pack of teenage hooligans are feeding him bad meteorological data.”

“So?”

“So I think our night’s not done. There’s too much property damage and too many lost lives.”

“You’re going to go help people bail out their cellars and maybe save some kittens in trees while you’re at it?”

He stood from the bed. “I’m going to deal with the problem directly.”

“You plan on punching a ####ing hurricane?”

“No, I plan on reasoning with it.” He stooped to lace his boots, then added “ – hopefully.”

* * *

Despite the heart of the storm lying further north, each step was a fight for footing as the duo crossed the small beach’s parking lot.

Will was saying, “What is it? Well, squalls are a symptom common to a number of beasties, but most of them I’ve only ever read about – it could be the Tempestwalker, but I’ve never met it, I only know about it from Blackhall’s book and the occasional rumour. It could be even be one of the old thunder chuckers – Thor, Perun, or Set – though my understanding is that they’re all dead.”

“My mom always used to say storms were God bowling,” Bunny shouted into the rain. “The thunder was supposed to be the big guy getting strikes.”

She regretted the comment, as even the brief statement had covered her tongue with blown sand and seawater.

From behind the damp white motel towel that Coffin had absconded with, he said, “I’d say this is probably one of the elementals – specifically water, or Merc, as he was introduced to me. Mostly because I know for sure he exists.”

“He?”

“Sorry, just a leftover from the Victorian-era literature. It. Although, personality-wise – well, it’s an approximation.

“The problem is that Merc really shouldn’t be able to do this. It hasn’t had this kind of power since before -” a gust of wind carrying the sound of shattering glass somewhere in the dark over his left shoulder gave Will a moment to reconsider his words. “Actually, the problem with Merc is that he’s incredibly old school.”

”It,” said Bunny. “It’s incredibly old school. If it’s, uh, even it.”

Will raised a brow at his unusually sober companion. “Yeah. Exactly. Speaking of, time to cast a line and see what we catch.”

The silver links of the chain affixed to the Crook of Ortez dripped from Will’s jacket pocket as he plucked the talisman from its place of safekeeping. With a stiff arm, Coffin began to swing the ornate hook high over his head. Though the gale only grew, he kept the rhythm of his orbit for three long minutes before Merc appeared.

Bunny’s first thought was that a tornado funnel was setting down – she’d seen many of the coiling fingers in grainy footage from Discovery Channel storm chaser specials – but even as the rain abated in a narrow cone around their position on the shore, the billowing throng halted its descent.

Its details were half cloud, half shadow, but, a face, of inhuman proportions, formed a hundred feet above them.

Coffin ceased his rotations.

“If I saw this #### on the Internet,” said Bunny, “I’d think it was the work of some CGI-hoaxing keyboard molester.”

“Quiet now,” said Will, “things are about to get stupid enough as it is.”

The sound of Merc’s words arrived as if carried on a combination of crashing waves and surging wind,

“You’ve a new wench then? I suppose you had to get rid of the last one, considering how lippy she was.”

As he spoke, Bunny noted that the thunderheads which formed his mouth did not move. Instead, the darkness at their edges seemed to ripple with his speech, providing a semblance of motion.”

“Oh,” answered Coffin, “she’s around.”

“Not a great move on the part of you penis-wagglers to start letting them talk in public,” continued the elemental. Despite the dramatic method of its delivery, Bunny thought the entity sounded much like an opinionated uncle with no verbal filter.

Will cleared his throat. “If I’d known you were going to show up I wouldn’t have spent the last while driving across the country to check my thermometer.”

“The ogre still lives? May miracles never cease – and by miracles, I really mean me.”

“Yeah, it’s worryingly awake – and now I find you here, practically on my back stoop. At least the beast of the mountain is a mindless creature. You should know better than to show off like this. The more you carry on, the closer the Spider-God gets.”

“Sheriff, Sheriff, the idea that magic brings Kar’Wick closer to our world is a myth. A boogey cooked up by your funny-hatted predecessor.”

Coffin squinted at the massive visage before asking, “Blackhall wore a hat?”

“It was the same one every time I saw him. Actually, the same tattered coat as well.”

“Huh. Anyhow, back to my point: The last time I saw you, you couldn’t so much as cause a drizzle outside of your Bermudan home. Unless I’m mistaken, and I doubt I am, you haven’t been this far north in nearly two-hundred years.

“You can doubt old man Thomas if you like, but open your misty eyes: You can’t deny that there’s something odd going on. I’ve seen the results. Hell, I’m seeing you right now.”

“Arcane power is cyclical, that’s all,” replied Merc. “Any threat of nearing disaster is a false conspiracy cooked up by Blackhall, who simply wanted to wipe the occult from the world. You, the Coffin, should know that better than any else.”

Bunny shrugged within her damp jacket.

“You know,” she said, “I thought it was pretty nifty meeting the weather and ####, but you’re as thick headed as my ex-husband. Which is to say, he was pretty ####ing sure nothing could hurt him until a cleaver landed in his skull.

“Sounds like you weren’t much of a fan of this dead guy, Drywall or whatever, but do you have any reason to not believe him other than the fact that you don’t like him?”

Merc frowned.

“Your bitch is yapping,” it said, “where’s its leash?”

Coffin’s jaw was locked tight as he responded. “Listen, you can spout conspiracy nonsense if you like – hell, you can claim to have assassinated JFK for all I care – but this antiquated garbage you’re speaking isn’t winning you any friends.

“Go home, and quietly, or you’ll wish you’d had the chance to spend the next two hundred years tickling kites and dispersing flatulence.

“You may mock me, my title, or my mentor, but you WILL respect my neophyte.”

Thunder rolled, the rain returned, and Merc’s features loomed close.

Will’s fingers once again entangled in the silver chain.

“Come then,” he replied, “and learn the hard way.”

At the sight of the charm, the elemental’s fury-lit eyes seemed to reconsider. As if no more threat than a draft of pipe smoke, its own wind dispersed its form over the white-capped water.

After a moment of staring down the calming ocean, Will started back to their room with heavy boots and stooped shoulders. Three steps into his exit, however, he turned to his companion.

A hint of a smirk touched his lips as he said, “good job.”

By the time the pair found their numbered door, even the drizzle had ceased.

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

  • rbh thunder_03.wav by RHumphries
  • rbh thunder storm.wav by RHumphries
  • oceanwavescrushing.wav by Luftrum
  • 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.

    FCM002 – Poop Storm

    FCM002 - Poop Storm
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    Hello, and welcome to FlashCast Mini-sode 002.

    * * *

  • Scientists arrested for manslaughter over deadly quake
  • Cannibal Cop
  • The Turnaround
  • * * *

    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 Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

    FP293 – The Turnaround

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

    Flash PulpTonight we present The Turnaround

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

     

    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, for the second of this year’s Halloween tales, we look towards the abandoned town of Geeston, and the man with the unending smile who haunts its wreckage.

     

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

     

    ChillerAs the ivory white Ford Focus left the highway and edged onto the disintegrating pavement of Red Squirrel Road, a misshapen figure broke from the encroaching pines, pushed through the ditch’s overgrown brush, and screamed “he’ll kill you!”

    Inside the car, nineteen-year-old Jared Clarke asked, “holy shit, did you see that hobo bushman yelling and waving at us?”

    “Looked like he was part forest,” replied Lance Newell, the same age as Clarke and the boy’s most consistent partner in misadventure.

    Amber Curtis, a year younger than her male companions and Newell’s sometimes girlfriend, turned in the passenger seat. “He just looked dirty to me. Did I seriously see a cloud of flies around him?”

    “Probably some hunter who pulled over to water the trees,” replied Tamara Benson, the seventeen-year-old behind the wheel. The vehicle was her parents, and she was determined to prove that she could make the road trip to the abandoned town without becoming pregnant, or, almost worse, damaging their newly-purchased Ford.

    “What about the ghosts of Geeston!?” her mother had asked when the girl had requested the keys.

    “I’ll call Bill Murray if I see any,” she’d replied.

    A half-decade earlier, a family, the Palmers, had disappeared at the site, and since that time every missing runaway in the area had been blamed on the urban legends that surrounded the derelict town. It was the lack of guff or second-guessing, on her Mom’s part, that made Tamara especially determined to return home incident-free.

    “Maybe we’ll see the Smirking Man,” she suggested. “Don’t those slasher-types always have some sort of harbinger?”

    Uninterested in her friends choice of topics, and with the opening notes of the Beastie Boys’ Sabotage pushing at the speakers, Amber’s fingers crept towards the volume knob, only to be slapped away.

    The Smirking Man was said to be the somehow resurrected form of Odell Barrow, the Chembax worker who, local mythologies stated, had set the chemical plant ablaze after discovering his wife in a tryst with one of the company’s managers.

    It was Barrow’s efforts with a rifle, from atop Chembax’s largest storage tank, that had kept emergency personnel from containing the toxic inferno which had resulted in many deaths, and necessitated the evacuation of the town’s survivors – but it was the man’s work with his straight razor that had earned him the nickname of The Smirking Man.

    Supposedly, as he sat upon his smoking tower and shaved away his lips, he claimed each strip of flesh was a kiss returned to his former beloved, but his craftsmanship had been lopsided, leaving his exposed teeth in a permanently curled grin.

    Finally, as the song ended, the teens found themselves brought to a halt by a cement barricade originally erected when the hamlet was quarantined.

    “Ha, there’s a no U-turn sign. Guess we’re stuck here,” said Lance.

    Amber raised an encouraging eyebrow at him, and set a thumbnail to her cherry-glossed smile.

    It began to rain.

    “Maybe we should head back,” said Tamara.

    Jared unbuckled. “Afraid of finding the Palmers?”

    Despite his fixed expression of merriment, Odell Barrow was running out of patience. Calm had never been his strong suit, even in life, and death had done nothing to clarify his reason. He’d heard the car’s approach soon after its turn onto the winding road that lead to town, and he’d set his mind to the deaths of all inside, but, now, hunched behind the low cracked barrier that marked Geeston’s edge, his eagerness for fresh blood edged into annoyance, then anger.

    He knew he should draw it out, as he had with the campers who’d visited so long ago, and yet he stood.

    Though it had been decades since the fire, his bare, but decaying, arms still smoked from the heat, and perpetual ash drifted to the ground as he moved.

    He raised his straight razor across his “1974 Chembax Family Picnic” t-shirt, and dragged its still-sharp blade across his blackened gums. To Odell, the extra pain was worth their fear.

    Then, with three broad strides, he approached the idling Focus.

    What happened next was not an accident. There was no moment of fearful reflex overriding conscious decision.

    Instead Tamara simply said, “Nope,” then, flipping on her signal, she rolled the car back twenty feet.

    She was making the turn, signage and rotten-faced serial killers be damned.

    As he watched the red taillights drift up and around the nearest hill, however, the Smirking Man did not despair. These were his woods – all the land around Geeston was his, by his estimation – and he knew that a short stroll would bring him to a point further along the road much quicker than the Ford might travel.

    It was while he stood astride the pavement, with the Focus’ lights just beginning to touch on the timber that lined the bend, that Odell realized things were awry. His first indication came when a swinging pine trunk impacted on his spine, and the second arrived when, after stumbling briefly through the scrub in a daze, a nimbly handled nailgun left him pinned to a thick oak.

    Without noticing the men in the undergrowth, the teens drove past. Tamara’s parents, despite an inspection with careful eyes, would find no damage to their vehicle.

    The harbinger wiped at the muck that covered his face as he inspected his work, and where he found the iron’s hold on the Smirking Man to be lacking he liberally applied further pins.

    “I’ve been waiting,” he said. “Spent months lying out there in the woods, buried in stink so that you wouldn’t be able to smell me from your own decomposition. Everyone says the legends are bunk, but I knew. I’ve watched you stalk the wilds at night, roaming around like a lost child searching for his toy.

    “It must be tough when the only company you have is the ghosts, and they all blame you for their deaths.”

    Barrow attempted to spit through gritted teeth, but managed nothing more than a wisp of smoke. “Look at me, moron! You can’t kill me! My punishment is eternal!”

    “Good,” replied the old man, “as I’m hoping to spend a while with you.”

    Reaching through a fern’s fanning leaves, he retrieved a gray wool blanket and unwrapped it. Within lay a pair of long-handled steel yard clippers and a sharpening stone.

    “Oh,” he added, “you can just call me Grampy Palmer.”

     

    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.

    FP292 – The HeavenMakers

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

    Flash PulpTonight we present The HeavenMakers

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    (RSS / iTunes)

     

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

     

    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 spotty electricity and general hubbub that was a byproduct of the recent superstorm, we preempt our scheduled FlashCast to instead present an unfortunate tale of familial unity.

     

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

     

    The Crawford family were eating Corn Pops, as was the norm for 7:20 AM in their ranch-style suburban home. Lee Crawford, nine, had a pair of large fuzzy headphones on, and was bobbing along to a theme song that went unheard by his parents.

    Despite the wailing rock guitar that introduced some of its segments, Lee found The HeavenMakers always soothed him.

    Outside his bubble, his father, already wearing his tie, was saying, “don’t you find it weird that they haven’t released any details about the triple murd- about the Banderjees?”

    The fact that the gory scene had included the death of a ten year old had meant that even The Captain, the radio host who welcomed Arthur Crawford to every work day, had made mention of the tragedy.

    From behind the shelter of a paperback whose cover was filled with a sword wielding Scotsman of unlikely proportions, Gina Crawford eyed her husband.

    “Save it for after breakfast,” she replied.

    “He’s listening to his show anyway.”

    “He was close enough to little Agontuk to make it not worth discussing in front of him.”

    Halloween Horror StoryAgontuk, who the boy had met at a shared after-school babysitter, had been the one to introduce Lee to his favourite podcast – though his friend always referred to it only as HM, as in, “hey man, did you hear the latest Angel Battle story in HM? Holy shazmarazz.”

    In truth, the music and followup copyright information, had ended just as the topic was mentioned, but Lee didn’t mind. Though he missed trading cards and arguing about who would win different Angel Battle showdowns, he knew he’d see Agontuk again – that’s what HeavenMakers was all about, really.

    “Dad,” he said, “I have to tell you something.”

    “Yeah?” replied Arthur, as his gaze guiltily panned over a tablet full of news.

    “You know how, a week ago, you were looking for your wallet?”

    “Yeah?”

    “I was the one who took it.”

    “What? Why?”

    “It’s how you get a HeavenMaker kit. I found the instructions and the address in the comments on a YouTube video.”

    “I told you letting him on YouTube was a bad idea,” said Gina.

    “You mailed my wallet to the address you found in a YouTube comment!?” asked Arthur.

    “Yep,” replied Lee, “It’s a good thing I wrote it down too, everything was gone the next day.”

    Gina stood, her face pale.

    “It’ll be okay Mom,” the child told his mother. “The HeavenMakers said it would be alright.”

    The woman fell to the ground, and began thrashing on the carpet, her arms impacting on the table leg. Her eyes bulged, and a blood streaked trail of foaming mucus formed on her lips.

    “Alright!?” asked Arthur. His hands that worked at his tie felt gummy, and his jaw felt weak. Jagged glass seemed to blossom in his stomach and the room seemed to be running short of light and air.

    “Yeah! The package finally came!” said Lee, with a smile. He sniffled for a moment, and, without thought, wiped his nose on his pajama sleeve. As he pulled it away, he left a line of crimson across a grinning herd of dinosaurs. “We’re all going to heaven!”

     

    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.

    FP291 – Ruby Departed: Contact, Part 3 of 3

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

    Flash PulpTonight we present Ruby Departed: Contact, Part 3 of 3
    (Part 1Part 2Part 3)
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp291.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Ice and Fire Convention.

     

    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 and her companions face off against a hunger greater even than that possessed by the ravenous dead.

     

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

     

    Ruby Departed

    (Part 1Part 2Part 3)

     

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

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to 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.

    FP290 – Ruby Departed: Contact, Part 2 of 3

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and ninety.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Ruby Departed: Contact, Part 2 of 3
    (Part 1Part 2Part 3)
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp290.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Ice and Fire Convention.

     

    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 finds herself caught between mysterious horsemen and the ravenous mouths of the rotting undead.

     

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

     

    Ruby Departed

    (Part 1Part 2Part 3)

     

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

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to 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.

    FC72 – FUNeral

    FlashCast 72 - FUNeral
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    Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 72.

    Prepare yourself for: Poltergeists, horrible sounds, public shame, poison-resistant rats, winged monkeys, and Blackhall.

    * * *

    Huge thanks to:

    * * *

    FP289 – Ruby Departed: Contact, Part 1 of 3

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

    Flash PulpTonight we present Ruby Departed: Contact, Part 1 of 3
    (Part 1Part 2Part 3)
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp289.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Ice and Fire Convention.

     

    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 spear-wielding heroine, Ruby, finds herself bicycling through the undead-infested countryside.

     

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

     

    Ruby Departed

    (Part 1Part 2Part 3)

     

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

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to 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.

    FP288 – Mulligan Smith in Legacy, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eighty-eight.

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

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    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Ice and Fire Convention.

     

    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, private investigator Mulligan Smith finds himself asking hard questions in a dingy roadside store.

     

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

     

    Mulligan Smith stood before a shelf of Pringles cans. Though his eyes were directed towards the parade of gassing trucks beyond the store’s broad window, his ear was cocked to the shop-keeper’s current discussion.

    As he talked with his back turned, Andy Marland pushed at the nub of a tall commercial coffee dispenser and filled a cardboard cup with the Top Stop logo printed on it.

    “- yeah, he built it fifty years ago, and I’ve worked here the better part of the time. The first twenty years I was just a change jiggler, but once Pops finally left his post I started having to pump the gas as well – hah, joking of course, we haven’t been full service for over a decade.”

    Smith had heard the same gag told through three times in as many days, and he felt repetition had done little for its comedic merit.

    The customer at the receiving end of the conversation accepted his steaming caffeine and gave the old man behind the counter a nod, then shrugged his battered denim jacket against the chill and pushed open the glass door.

    Though the fuel flowed constantly outside, most payments were handled at the pump, allowing Mulligan a moment alone with the pot-bellied proprietor.

    The private investigator watched himself slide from fish-eyed mirror to fish-eyed mirror as he approached the front of the store. No angle was left uncovered, but dotted between the round reflectors were the endlessly winking red lights of security cameras.

    Mulligan SmithMulligan happened to be familiar with the models – hi definition units wirelessly connecting back to a central recorder. It appeared the station’s owner had sprung for a package generally reserved for warehouses and large offices; there was nowhere to sneeze in the building without being watched by at least four lenses.

    Before the counterman could begin his spiel, Smith stepped in with his own.

    “You keep the place alone? It must suck always being chained to the spot.”

    Marland raised a brow. “This is my legacy. My father picked this place like a prospector pans for gold. He drove up and down three states to find this spot, and I’ve been working this counter for the thirty years since he died. Those doors have been open every day but one – the day of Joanie’s funeral – and that’s the only time I’ve ever wanted off.”

    Smith shrugged. “I hear what you’re saying, but I see you saying it from behind a thirty-year-old counter – a counter that mainly sees the sale of cigarettes and energy drinks to long haul truckers. I mean, wasn’t a trailer involved in your wife’s death? A cowboy making a lane change without looking?”

    “It was late. She was minding the till while I had some supper. Who are you to be asking?”

    “I’m the snoop Misha Taylor hired.”

    A smile came to Marland’s face fully formed, an alarm response as automatic as the thick recessed security shutters slamming down. He said, “who?”

    “The wife of a guy who drifted into oncoming traffic, and a single mom with her three kids in the back seat. It was a couple weeks ago, you might have seen it in the newspapers you never manage to sell?”

    “What does any of that have to do with me?”

    “That’s what I’m asking. Maybe you had a grudge against the big rig guys, but I think it was more than that. I think you were angry about watching so many people a day hop on that highway and slip away. All you see is taillights, you never see the journey. I don’t think the resentment is over your wife alone, I think it was because you were anchored here.

    A twitch formed at the edge of Andy’s grin. “Did you stop here to do meth in the bathroom? I’ve had to run your kind out before.”

    “You should have just sold the damn place. You could have been telling stories about how your father’s legacy was an ocean-side condo down in Florida, but, speaking of high powered chemicals, you have a tough time sleeping, Andy? Those pills only come by prescription.”

    Marland’s hands seemed to grow flatter with each statement, and Smith worried they would soon break through the transparent plastic that housed the scratch tickets beneath.

    “Things change,” said Smith,” and not always for the better. You either flow with that change, or you risk losing yourself to it. Look at those mirrors, the shutters, the cameras. Look where the money’s going – not in presentation, not in building on what your father handed you – it’s all invested in distrust.

    “My theory is that you hate this place, and the people who visit it, but it’s all you have because you’re too afraid to change anything. You bury it deep, but it’s there.

    “Problem is, change, well, you need to roll with change, or change’ll trample you. These cameras, for instance – your system works fine, but you’ve still got the default password on everything. I’ve spent the last three days sitting in your parking lot with a laptop.

    “I figure maybe you didn’t mean to hurt anyone when you started dropping those Ativans in with their joe. When you began, maybe you figured you’d teach those rig wranglers a lesson by forcing them off the road for a nap – but I did the math. Pretty simple, really. Those boys move quick, which saved you for a while – they’d be a state or two away before they finally passed out and coasted into a ditch. Oh, I’m sure plenty of them bunked down first, but I pulled together a bunch of news reports on an online map. It basically gave me a big circle, and from there it was just a matter of making it smaller and smaller.

    “It took a while, but you’d be amazed how much a trucker makes in a year, and Misha loved her husband dearly. Time was all it took to make the circle as tight as these walls.”

     

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