Category: Kar'Wick

FP284 – The Last DJ, Part 1 of 1

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

Tonight we present The Last DJ, Part 1 of 1

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

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 hear the tale of a dying breed.

The Last DJ

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

“Good morning, this is your Captain!” said the resonant voice drifting from the alarm clock at 527 Branson Boulevard.

As he untangled his blankets, Clarence Sweet could see very little good about it.

Without much consideration, he hit snooze.

Two blocks away, in a boxy green Honda, Valerie Munson set her thumb to her radio’s volume knob and gave it a hard spin.

The same warm voice that had accompanied her to work for the last dozen years said, “we’ve got another gorgeous dawn breaking out PRKW’s window, and I hope that you’re looking at something just as beautiful as I am – even if you’re still in bed. Ha! Alright, we’ve got a retro-block next that’ll have you saying Oh, Baby, Oh Baby, Oh!

“First, though, it’s time for the Captain to pay some bills!”

“See you after the flip, Cap,” replied Valerie. In truth, she was just as happy to harmonize with an insurance jingle as a pop tune, but her office mates had long ago banned her spontaneous serenades. The commute, and a few moments in the shower, were really her only opportunity to vocalize, and she used the time to its fullest – even if it meant singing along to the commercials.

If she had ever met him, she would have discovered a kindred spirit in Martin Kwan, a reporter for the Capital City Daily Update, who often sang loudly in his empty office when stressed by impending deadlines.

Martin was a purist, refusing to stream the higher quality feed from the PRKW site, and instead listening to a small rounded brick of bright red plastic. Aging electronics were one of the few tokens of his father that he’d been able to pry from his grieving mother after the old man’s passing.

“ – and we’re back!” said the Captain, “On tap we’ve got some golden oldies to help ease you into the dawn’s early light – here comes Stairway to Heaven, Dear Mama, and, of course, a royalty check for Mr. Bieber – maybe it’ll help him buy better hair plugs; am I right? Ha!”

Led Zeppelin drifted in with flutes and guitar, and the announcer paused for a moment of reflection before saying, “they sure don’t make ‘em like they used to, do they? The same can be said for the man behind the mic, I suppose – but you know my promise. I’m going down with the ship, even if the suits upstairs don’t get the art of broadcasting. It’s not about the money – am I right? Ha! Of course I am.

”Tell ‘em about it, Mr. Plant.”

Kwan was already at his desk, as he had been assigned the site’s early morning publishing duties. On most days he would have had something partially pre-prepared, a skeleton of a piece in place for the likely eventuality that no real news would have happened overnight, but, instead, his previous evening had been spent getting to know Selma Danza from marketing.

Things had gone well until she’d confessed her hatred for board games. She’d said it with a laugh, and he’d done his best to answer it with one of his own, but from that point on the date was simply a waiting game. For better or worse, Selma would never comprehend his Settlers of Catan addiction.

At least, reflected Kwan, as his fingers stalled on his keyboard, if he had to be disappointed and facing a Monday sunrise without an article, the Captain held some understanding of his loneliness.

Martin was humming, “ooh, it makes me wonder,” when he suddenly found an unexpected iteration of the lyric. The radio continued: “Ooh, it makes me wonder, ooh it makes me wonder, ooh it makes me -” then came the sound of three mechanical clicks.

Simultaneously, the newsman felt a rumble in his sneaker soles, as if a large truck were idling just beneath the floor tiles.

Two hundred miles away, the subbasement of a worldwide media conglomerate had begun to shake violently. Skipping drive heads had worked furiously to compensate and maintain the feed, but, on the eastmost wall, nestled amongst a row of computer servers stacked twenty high, the complex program that had made up the Captain’s personality found it could fight no more. As the sparks of an electrical fire began to lick the fallen roof panels, the building collapsed.

The Captain had never been aware enough to want to say goodbye.

Still, the death of their friend would mean little to Martin or Valerie or Clarence, for each was soon within the towering shadow of the rising Spider-God, Kar’Wick, and all music would be forgotten.

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.

FP237 – The Getaway, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and thirty-seven.

Tonight we present, The Getaway, Part 1 of 1.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Jimmy and the Black Wind.

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, Terence Flanagan attempts to escape the inevitable, with a secret at his side.

Mulligan Smith in The Value of History, Part 1 of 1

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

Terrence Flanagan’s right hand held down his blue and brown tie, as he scurried to his car, and his left gripped a brown briefcase at the end of a ramrod-straight arm.

He paid little heed as his sensible loafer briefly submerged in one of the parking-lot’s yawning potholes.

Though he’d attempted to avoid drawing attention to himself, he was breathing heavily by the time he reached his Jetta. Pulling hard at the door handle, Flanagan swung himself into the interior, then paused, so that he might deliver the case gently onto the passenger seat.

The well maintained engine started smoothly, but he was skittish in his haste for departure, and reversed too quickly. The back-bumper abruptly impacted on a concrete divider.

With a sigh, Terrence wiped the sweat from his brow, and straightened his suit.

“It’s only five minutes to the freeway,” he told no one.

The rest of the exit was a much more graceful affair, but, two blocks later, disaster struck.

A black and white patrol car pulled away from the curb, slipping into traffic directly behind the Jetta.

Seconds later, Flanagan was tap-dancing gently upon the gas, and waiting out a jaywalking teen, when the cruiser flipped on its lights.

Terrence’s fingers began to shake, but his eyes remained firmly on the girl’s progress.

As she retook the sidewalk, his gaze flipped briefly to his rear-view mirror, where the patrol car’s white door was opening.

He accelerated.

At the next turn, he pulled the wheel to the left, and came close to losing a mirror to a mailbox on the far corner.

The cruiser kept pace.

While allowing his focus to dart briefly from the road, he cut short a silver mini-van which had nearly blown off a red light, but he was heartened to see the case remaining steady on its perch.

With the freeway still in mind, Flanagan made a tight right, and was forced to switch lanes to avoid a row of parked vehicles.

He could feel his heartbeat in his ear drums, and his engine seemed to be the only other sound in the world.

His progress had brought him into a residential zone, and he was almost slowed by another pedestrian, but he managed to swing wide of the mop-haired boy.

Despite his maneuvers, though, a final twist of the wheel brought him to a halt.

The crossroad, mere yards from the on-ramp, was thick with unmoving cars, all awaiting the removal of a double-lane blockage by a stalled transport.

Terence’s adrenaline ran dry. As the police sedan came to a stop behind him, he lowered his window, and pulled the keys from the ignition.

“I’ve never driven like that in my life,” was all he could deliver between sobs.

“What are you talking about?” asked the wide-mouthed policeman who came to his window, “I just wanted to let you know your tail light was out.”

Flanagan damned himself for not having checked after his too-quick start from The Square Peg Porn Shop, but it was too late to hide his tears.

“Hey, you all right pal?” asked the cop.

Biting his lip, Terrence considered attempting to account for the exotic apparatus hidden beside him, and the shame which had driven him to shoplift it.

There would be no chance for such a discussion, however. Even as he cleared his throat to give reply, the cement beneath his still-warm tires began to sway, and the neighbourhood beasts howled.

Soon all was darkness, and explanations were moot.

Beyond, the river of cars which had brought the chase to a stop disgorged their occupants, and the fleeing runners trampled each other in their eagerness to escape the rising visage of Kar’Wick, the Spider-God.

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 skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP152 – Canine, Part 1 of 1

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

Tonight we present, Canine, Part 1 of 1.

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

Love Conrad Bain? Of course you do.

Find all of your Bain-related needs, and more, at http://bmj2k.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 present an airy consideration of companionship and danger.

Flash Pulp 152 – Canine, Part 1 of 1

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

The wind through the branches cast a whistling that had both man and dog on edge.

Beside the small fire, the human gnawed at freshly singed deer-meat, occasionally throwing a scrap to the canine that lay at the fireside.

It had been a risk to delve into the wildwood alone, but the gambit had paid off, and now the challenge was in dragging back the heavy bounty.

Pulling his skins tight, the man lightened his load by another bite. The hound, its tail giving a slow wag, whimpered a request for more.

“Bah,” said the man, but, with consideration for his companion’s efforts in the chase, he tossed the mooch the now naked bone.

In response the beast lifted high its tail and let fly a wafting pungency which skirted the flames to fill the hunter’s nose.

Bedding down, the man left the dog to worry the marrow, and the long night’s watch.

* * *

The backstairs of the house, whose construction had only been completed a year previous, had already begun to show the dips and scratches of wear, and the indications of the servants’ passage had been further compounded by the nightly roaming of the bulldog generally known about the grounds as the Constable. Although it was often remarked by the lord of the manor that the Constable, like most men of the law, spent his days napping, it was little understood how seriously the animal took its nightly duties.

Not but two months into the occupation of the estate, a man of scarred visage and ill intent had come upon the south wing’s library window, scheming to wrestle it open and gain approach to the silverware displayed within.

It had been the loud, and extended, response by the Constable – who’d been at his regular patrol when he’d heard the burglar’s ham-fisted ministrations – which had denied the thief access.

This night, however, was calm. As the guardian left the recessed steps and trotted along the hall’s shadowed carpet, accompanied by the measured ticking of the grandfather clock, it determined it was a good opportunity for a brief rest.

Setting onto the plush rug, the dog’s relaxation was punctuated by the release of a brassy, gassy, note.

* * *

The woman under the crisp white duvet thrashed about in an attempt to silence Neil Young’s assessment regarding burning out or fading away, and, after a moment, her fingers finally quieted the blaring alarm clock.

The room smelled of dog fart.

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” she said to the hound, as it followed her to the washroom.

An hour’s preparation found the pair ready to leave the apartment, the animal with a bright pink ribbon in its hair, and the woman encased in a tidy suit and dark sunglasses.

They were a half-block from their destination when the rumbling began.

The beast, forgetting its generations of domestication, began to bay and howl, snapping at a threat the men and women on the streets had yet to perceive.

There was little it could do, however, to fend against the return of Kar’Wick, the Arachnid-God – still, it was some small consolation that its blind master would not see the glistening spinneret which would be their doom.

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

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

Flash Pulp 111 – Marked, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and eleven.

Tonight we present Marked, Part 1 of 1
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the the new 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 priorities, misunderstandings, and apocalypse.

Flash Pulp 111 – Marked, Part 1 of 1

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

When Emmett Mender entered the world, his grandmother, on his father’s side, was the only one in the waiting room to raise an eyebrow at the oddly shaped birthmark on the back of his right hand. Carolyn, Emmett’s mother, had suffered a long and difficult pregnancy, and so it was to both parents that the blemish seemed nothing when measured against the joy of a successful delivery.

Still, as proud father Michael paraded the freshly scrubbed newborn through the room, there had been that gray and bushy eyebrow, askew.

Emmett’s childhood brought on the occasional misadventure: he broke an arm at ten, while climbing a neighbours apple tree to pilfer some of their harvest, and he’d once been caught with an unpaid-for chocolate bar in his sweater’s front pocket while departing a 7-Eleven. Otherwise, his youth was quiet, and the pleased parents found him an affectionate boy.

Despite the happy times, Michael began to notice an increasing change in his own Mother. She’d always been a sweet woman, but Grandmother Mender’s tongue had recently become sharp, and most especially in the presence of her grandchild. She made no secret that she considered his chocolate theft a life-long stain for him to prove against. Her church attendance tripled in fervor as well, although she seemed to have little patience for the mercy that was preached there.

Two weeks after his fourteenth birthday, Emmett refused to accompany his parents to their weekly Sunday dinner at his grandparents, stating that he had no interest in spending more time re-listening to the litany of complaints that always seemed to flow from his grandmother’s mouth as soon as he breached the door.

It was only three days later that Grandma Mender collapsed, convulsing; a day after that she was diagnosed as having a terminal cancer invading her nervous system.

Emmett attempted to visit while she was in the hospital, but he did not find any closure in the trips, as the old woman was deeply unconscious throughout. He decided instead to try reconciliation with his grandfather.

“I know things haven’t always been great, but -” was as far as he’d gotten before the old man had laid his leathery palm heavily across the boy’s face.

“This is your fault,” as well as the slap, was the only reply he would get.

No one could have known it at the time, but Grandfather Mender’s breakdown had begun the moment he’d watched his wife tumble sideways to the floor. She’d been interrupted mid-sentence, and the complaint she’d been voicing regarding her hooligan grandson would never be completed.

The disease worked quickly, and within a month the family was gathered about her grave, weeping and mourning – all but Emmett, who’d been told by his father that it might be best if he were to remain home.

While Carolyn and Michael often attempted to play-down his grandfather’s implications, the burden was a heavy one for the teenager to carry, and he began to ease his load with the assistance of the varied spirits he found in his parent’s liquor cabinet.

As soon as the casket was out of sight, Grandfather Mender had taken up his wife’s pious scheduling. He spent most waking hours in the Lord’s house, tending the fires he would then unleash at the continued Sunday meals. Not a week went by in which he did not berate son and daughter-in-law regarding the significance of the mark that adorned Emmett’s hand.

It was Michael’s encouragement that brought about the final meeting; he had no way of knowing how badly his father’s psyche had shattered. To work up his courage Emmett had secretly spent the morning sipping at a flask of vodka, and, by the time he arrived at his grandfather’s table, his tongue had worked itself into belligerence.

The old man was quick in accusing him of being a work of Lucifer, and the boy’s expletive-laden reply did little to prove otherwise.

“Lord, aid me!” the old man shouted, leaping across the serving dishes with his steak knife in hand.

He would never fully clear the over-cooked roast, however. The table began to buck under him, and the beams of his aging home groaned at the birthing strain of the forgotten deity, Kar’Wick. In the end, all would know the same fate, in the shadow of the Spider-God’s gnarled carapace.

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

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Five.

Tonight we present Time and Again, Part 1 of 1
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.

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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 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 033 – Strangers In The Net, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Thirty-Three.

Tonight’s tale: Strangers In The Net, Part 1 of 1

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

Tonight we present a tale about friendship and duty, writ large in the glow of a computer monitor.

Flash Pulp 033 – Strangers In The Net, Part 1 of 1

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

March

It was the middle of the night, and Maria was groggily clicking at her digital crops while doing her best to ignore the flu churning in her stomach.

The red glare of a friend request appeared on her screen.

She’d recently given in to adding strangers to her list, in a bid to make her gaming life simpler, and when the name “Anthony Holderbrook” appeared, she assumed it was someone looking for a neighbour.

In her NyQuil haze, she clicked “accept”.

* * *

May

She was at work, bored. The small airfield was dead: it was a rainy Tuesday, and most of the field’s clientèle were hobbyists too nervous to fly in slick weather.

Her time was spent at the office’s Ikea desk. She considered herself little more than a glorified gas station attendant, but at least she had the receipt tracking PC to keep her entertained.

In the last few months she’d gone from casual game player to addict, her online empires ranging from mafiosi to vast agricultural fiefdoms. With the clack of her fingers she could raise an army to grow untold grapes, or sheer any count of sheep.

Still, her new found power had come at the expense of a cluttered friends list, and she’d spent the afternoon attempting to cut those she considered dead weight. Her eyes once again hovered over Anthony’s name. She couldn’t recall him ever having sent an item or in-game request. Her cursor hovered over “remove”, but she re-considered, sliding over to his profile link.

Anthony was an older man, close shaved and trim. Most of his pictures had him in front of fighter jets, or with his wife in their suburban backyard.

A chat window popped up – her sister, back from Lake Tahoe, and in tears about husband-Mike’s constant complaining that the weekend would have been better spent in Vegas.

Maria closed the browser window, reaching for her phone.

* * *

Early June

Maria’s eyes happened upon his status message in her news feed.

“We are FUBAR. I’m sorry, Min. I love all of you.”

Anthony had changed his profile image to a professionally shot photo of him in uniform. Maria didn’t know much about the military, but he certainly seemed to have a colourful chest full of medals and ribbons.

As she snooped, a new update appeared.

“Mohole 2 went twenty miles deep. Everything is eggs.”

The smell of drama drew her to his personal page. She spent the following hour continuously hitting refresh.

Nothing changed.

After a time, she became entangled in a barn raising.

The next day, while negotiating her allegiances with a committee of digital ranchers, it struck her to check for updates.

The older messages had been removed, replaced with:

“Gin makes me talk too much.”

It was then that she decided to google Holderbrook, only to find the now familiar face staring back at her: from old photo ops in Baghdad, from over the desk at a congressional hearing, from the deck of an aircraft carrier in the Atlantic.

They were all captioned “Four-Star Air Force General, Anthony Holderbrook”.

Between harvests, she dug into his profile.

The blandness of his six months of history convinced her it was real.

* * *

Late June

Maria had been checking his page hourly. Nothing more had slipped from his status messages, and many of her friends had tired of her constant weaving of conspiracy around every news article that mentioned him.

“Less than forty minutes and we’re all dead.”

The update hit her stomach like a stone.

She started a letter to her Mom, found she was taking too long, included her sister. Hitting send, she realized she should update her faithful lieutenants, the ones who would have to know now that she had been right.

She began a new message, and, looking to copy and paste the status, she flipped back to the General’s profile.

It had updated.

“If you have access to an aircraft, take it up immediately – that is an ORDER. Uno Ab Alto.”

It was like he had meant it just for her.

Gary had given her a few lessons on getting into the air, she knew she could do it.

Kar'Wick She began to polish off her message. Moe with too many goats, Hannah with her need for everything to be pretty instead of functional; they’d spent many long days together, they’d served her well, they ought to know the end was coming.

Her fingers blazed at the keys.

Completing the dispatch, Maria logged out.

The office began to buck and sway – she realized she’d taken too long.

Across the field the bone knotted carapace of Kar’Wick, The Spider-God, thrust onto the shattered 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 005 – The Neighbourly Farmers

Welcome to Flash Pulp episode five.

Tonight’s story: The Neighbourly Farmers[audio:http://media.libsyn.com/media/skinner/FlashPulp005.mp3](Click play to listen or subscribe via libsyn RSS or iTunes)

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Tonight’s episode is brought to you by codyskinner.com. Visit to see a guy’s resume, or watch the award winning documentary “A Day In The Life”.

That’s http://codyskinner.com.

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

Next week we will be presenting our first multi-part serial, introducing a new character to the Flash Pulp lineup, Thomas Blackhall. The stories of Blackhall, coloured in shades of Robert E. Howard and Sir H. Rider Haggard, will allow the show a more historical, and somewhat mystical, perspective.

As for this evening’s episode: it opens on two farmers, long time neighbours, ruminating on their lot in life from the saddles of their tractors.

The Neighbourly Farmers, Part One of One

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

It was the second day of Alfred and William’s thirty-first harvest as neighbours. Both hoped it would be their last – as they had for decades.

Their time was evenly divided.

Half was spent staring at the other, either in the eyes or in the back, droning along their rows of wheat. The other half was a blessed relief as their tractors carried them away to the furthest ends of their fields.

Unknown to either, they had each spent long hours prowling around the other’s home, shotgun in hand. In the end both men were too stubborn to surrender by being the one who pulled the final straw.

Without warning each man’s engine stalled.

At that same moment, in a small off-off-Broadway theater, the men’s ex-wives were holding hands and watching a terrible play. Despite the poor acting and pretentious script, they were smiling.

In the distance dogs and cows began to howl, in Alfred’s chicken coop his two dozen hens dropped dead.

Hay bails were tossed into the air and became grassy bombs as they shattered on the earth.

A flood of mice streamed out of the fields, abandoning their burrows in futile exodus.

This day, their last, both men would know the horror 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 003 – The Downtown Couple

Welcome to Flash Pulp episode three – tonight’s story, The Downtown Couple[audio:http://media.libsyn.com/media/skinner/Flash_Pulp_003.mp3](Click play to listen or subscribe via libsyn RSS or iTunes)

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Tonight’s episode is brought to you by http://skinner.fm

As my grandfather once told me while we were sitting under the Apple trees on a balmy August evening, the long and lonely calls of the neighbour’s cattle rolling over the orchard, the pungent smell of his pipe filling my nose and bringing tears to my eyes:
“If it’s a short script, pad the ad.”

That’s http://skinner.fm.

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

Tonight’s episode is our first foray into weird tales. You may also note, it also marks a change to our musical programming – we will be attempting to maintain a theme for each type of tale, with Paul Whiteman’s version of Gloomy Sunday continuing on as the theme for the program itself.

Tonight’s theme is Mystery by Harry A. Yerkes’ Dance Orchestra.

The Downtown Couple, Part One of One

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

He wore his jeans low and well cut, her hair took no less than an hour at a mirror.

The corner was a busy one, full of locals trying to get home and tourists shuffling from the historical end of the city to the shopping district. Despite the crowd, the wall of sound the couple were generating parted the flow and allowed them a pocket of empty sidewalk large enough for vigorous hand waving and finger pointing.

“How could you?” she asked for the eighth time.

“You had already broken up with me – it was before we got back together!” he replied, his popped collar waggling with his shoulder movements.

“She’s my cousin!” the woman responded.

“You know she’s a nice girl, but not the kind I’d ever actually BE with.”

“- but you were with her!”

“Only once.”

“She’s under age!”

“I didn’t know! She didn’t tell me! She LOOKS Eighteen!”

“She looks older because of the friggin’ hormones from her TRANSGENDER SURGERY.”

“Hey – don’t discriminate.”

“Yeah, why should I discriminate, you certainly haven’t. Maybe I’ll go hook up with your cousin Michael.”

“What kind of talk is that? You know Michael lives in his wheelchair and can only eat through his neck straw!”

Unnoticed beneath their ruckus, the rumbling that had begun moments before now changed in pitch. Their patch of concrete began bucking wildly. The blue sky disappeared, as if it had always only been the interior a balloon, now popped. In its place stood the blackness of space, broken only by the stark pinpricks of stars.

The street split, a sausage cart and vendor picking up speed as they slid into the widening crevice.

A single hairy stalk extended from the hole, its surface a tangle of barbs, each the size of a lamp pole and ending in a spear point.

The arachnid leg stretched high, a glancing blow shattering the corner of a nearby bank branch. Reaching its apex, the towering appendage began to tumble down: inescapable doom for the lingering couple.

Realizing it was the end, he turned to her, arms extended.

Realizing it was the end, she turned to him, delivering a brutal right hook to his jaw.

And thus arose Kar’Wick, The Spider God, reborn.

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.