Category: Uncategorised

You Are What You Eat

Natural Flavor & ColorI realize this is just one of those things I’m supposed to have gotten used to in our modern age, but I still find the idea of something being labeled “Natural Flavour” off-putting.

This is actually the remnant of a bottle of ginger ale, why couldn’t they have just written ginger? Is it really natural, or is “Natural Flavor” just the pseudonym they gave to some complex compound they cooked up in the lab?

Technically, everything has a flavour, so, for all I know, my soda was made tasty with baby squeezin’s. (I assume they were squeezed by hand, to maintain the naturalness.)

Also, what is colour made of?

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

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Nine.

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

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

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

Putting the F-U back into fun.

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

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

Tonight, Blackhall converses with an unexpected visitor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A child of the Prester?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I shall consider your words.”

“I thank you.”

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

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

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

Ida tracked his gaze.

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

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

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

She departed.

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

Sleep was long in finding the frontiersman.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Hearts & Minds

While doing some research for Flash Pulp’s current Blackhall tale, I came across some interesting, if disturbing, history that I wanted to pass on.

Some quick background beforehand, however: Fort Henry, a military fort in Kingston, Ontario, was actually constructed in 1832, right around the time of our story, in an effort to protect the waterway supply route in case of American invasion. (It would also go on to be used as an internment camp for political prisoners during World War I.)

That said, I encountered some sinister information on Fort Henry’s School Room page (emphasis mine).

In 1867, the British Army provided free education for the children of soldiers and for those soldiers wishing an education. It was not until 1870 that a public school system was offered outside of the army.

[…]

At the age of 14, the children had the choice of remaining with the army, or looking for work in town. Many chose the army, because if they stayed in town, they would be left behind when the regiment moved on. Boys could join the army as soldiers; girls, at the age of 14, had two years in which to find a husband before they were forced to leave the fort. Soldiers were not permitted to marry before they had achieved 14 years of good service in the Army, thus girls usually married men more than twice their age.

Yikes – although I do find it interesting that, like many social institutions, public schooling began as a for-government-employees-only initiative that later expanded to include the full public. (I’m looking at you, American healthcare.)

Still, nowadays a fourteen-year-old girl marrying a thirty-something would likely lead to an arrest, back then it was simply military protocol.

I’m again reminded of a Monty Python quote from The Meaning Of Life:

Here is better than home, eh, sir? I mean, at home if you kill someone they arrest you, here they’ll give you a gun and show you what to do, sir. I mean, I killed fifteen of those buggers. Now, at home they’d hang me, here they’ll give me a $%#@ing medal, sir.”

Nancy Hart holds British troops at gun point during The American Revolutionary War

Ye Note

The use of the term “Ye” to represent an Early Modern English form of the word “the” (traditionally pronounced /ðiː/), such as in “Ye Olde Shoppe”, is technically incorrect. This mistaken attribution is due to the medieval usage of the letter thorn (þ) the predecessor to the modern digraph “th”. The word “The” was thus written Þe. Medieval printing presses did not contain the letter “thorn”, so the y was substituted owing to its similarity with some medieval scripts, especially later ones. – wikipedia

It’s not Ye as in yes, it’s actually The, even though all those old time-y signs are also incorrectly printed, as they’re missing the thorn character.

None of which helps this The Olde Courist Crappe sign (found here), however.
The Old Tourist Trap

Undead To Me

From the original Night Of The Living DeadI ran across this fascinating article on Haitian zombies the other day:

About a month after I arrived in Jérémie, a rumor swept through town that a deadly zombie was on the loose. This zombie, it was said, could kill by touch alone. The story had enough authority that schools closed. The head of the local secret society responsible for the management of the zombie population was asked to investigate. Later that week, Monsieur Roswald Val, having conducted a presumably thorough inquiry, made an announcement on Radio Lambi: There was nothing to fear; all his zombies were accounted for.

Interestingly, this relates back to the Koro discussion from yesterday, in that zombification is largely a cultural phenomenon facilitated by a natural one – in the case of Koro it’s a mental issue causing anxiety about the size and use of your body parts, in zombification it’s a bit of fish toxin leaving you paralyzed but cognizant.

But TTX alone does not make a zombie. TTX is the same poison found in the deadly Japanese fugu fish, whose sushi is a great delicacy. Every year, several gourmand fools, having eaten improperly prepared sushi, fall victim to TTX poisoning, and upon their resuscitation, if they survive, are normal.

Not so the Haitian zombie.

The Haitian zombie, Davis argues, is the product of a series of terrifying experiences, all specific to the cultural context of rural Haiti. First comes the overwhelming trauma of having been buried alive. Clairvius Narcisse reported total lucidity through the entire ordeal. Upon removal from the coffin, the would-be zombie is fed a hallucinogenic drug from the plant Datura stramonium, locally known by the suggestive name concombre zombi. At the same time, the victim is given a ferocious beating by his captors. The final touch is the total rejection of the zombie by his own community. The cumulative effect is the destruction of the zombie’s will — what the Haitians call the “ti bon ange,” or the good little angel, the unseen thing that gives personality and resolve to each individual soul. The victim is now a zombie, and he knows he is now a zombie: He has fallen into a well-known trap from which no man or woman escapes.

Clairvius Narcisse, the most famous of zombiesThe whole article is fantastic – I’ve barely scratched the surface with my quotes here, and I highly recommend it.

It does leave me wondering, however, about the types of nonsensical behaviours we engage in due entirely to societal standards and pressure.

From Malta Today:

“Thirteen people were in an apartment on the second floor when, at around 3am, one of the occupants heard his child crying,” said Odile Faivre, the deputy prosecutor in Versailles.

“The man in question, of African origin, who was completely naked, got up to feed his child, at which point the other occupants took him for the devil.

“He was seriously wounded in the hand after being stabbed with a knife before he was thrown out of the apartment, via the door.”

The 30-year-old man then tried to force his way back into the room.

“That’s when the other occupants tried to escape by jumping out of the window, panicked by a fear of the devil,” said Ms Faivre.

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

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Eight.

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

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

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

The antidote for pop culture overload.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blackhall found his opportunity to interject.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Batty

Spectacled Flying Fox(image from MagneticTimes.com.au)

The Spectacled Flying Fox is probably the cutest species of bat that man has encountered.

From the wikipedia article (emphasis mine):

Characteristically, all species of flying foxes only feed on nectar, blossom, pollen, and fruit, which explains their limited tropical distribution. They do not possess echolocation, a feature which helps the other sub-order of bats, the Microbats, locate and catch prey such as insects in mid-air. Instead, smell and eyesight are very well-developed in flying foxes.

[…]

Local farmers may also attack the bats because they feed in their plantations, and in some cultures it is believed their meat can cure asthma.

Mind you, I understand this is sort of like identifying the cuddliest shark.
Flying Fox

Shrinkage

Drink Me
Have you ever heard of the syndrome known as Koro? I hadn’t until just recently:

The word is also used in Makassarese language, meaning “to shrink”; the full dialect for it is garring koro. In Malay, keruk is the probable linguistic link of koro which means “to shrink”. The term shuk yang, adapted from Chinese, means “the shrinkage of penis” – wikipedia

Apparently there’s a pretty common bit of human wiring that leaves us concerned that our assets are disappearing – this can lead to some pretty unpleasant self-conducted “medical treatment”.

Extremely anxious sufferers and their family members may resort to physical methods to prevent the believed retraction of the penis. A man may perform manual or mechanical penile traction, or “anchoring” by a loop of string or some clamping device. Similarly, a woman may be seen grabbing her own breast, pulling her nipple, or even having iron pins inserted into the nipple. Physical injury is inevitable, which can be considered as a complication of the syndrome. – wikipedia

Apparently its a very culturally bound problem – like spotting UFOs or attending Nickelback concerts – but, fortunately, proper treatment is pretty rational:

In historical culture-bound cases, reassurance and talks on sexual anatomy are given. Patients are treated with psychotherapy distributed according to symptoms and to etiologically significant points in the past. Prognosis appears to be better in cases with a previously functional personality, a short history and low frequency of attacks, and a relatively uncomplicated sexual life.

So, if anything, this seems like a great argument for health classes in public schools.