Category: Uncategorised

Country Living (In The Grass)

Can you identify what this is?

(Quick hint: it wasn’t that flat until it had suffered through some farmer’s traffic.)
Flat Snake Cage?

Here’s the lid, if that helps:

Snake Cage Lid?

I could be wrong, but I believe it’s an abandoned snake enclosure. It isn’t the first I’ve come across while on a country stroll*.

My best guess – based on the fact that it appears the former owners simply cracked the lid and ran – is that the size of the thing had gotten to a point where it worried them, so they released it into the “wilds” of a corn field.

I’m glad that whatever it was (baby Burmese Python?) is now slithering about somewhere on my block.

The truth is, these people may as well have taken a rock and cracked the poor bugger’s skull open. This is no easy area for an exotic pet to be wandering.

*At least this one was relatively small.

Flash Pulp 052 – Larger Problems: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Fifty-Two.

Tonight, we present Larger Problems: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

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

Tonight we present another tale of Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman, and student of the occult. We open upon our hero, resting once again at the border of wilderness and civilization, moments before his evening suffers a series of complications.

Flash Pulp 052 – Larger Problems: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

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

The moon was cresting, and Thomas Blackhall had already begun to mutter against its slow progression. It was the third night of his vigil, and his attempts at daytime slumber had been often punctured by the nightmare of his Mairi crawling through a primeval woodland, a forest not at all different than that which currently cast a shadow over his stooped spine.

Pulling tight the blanket that provided both heat and camouflage, he attempted to regain a comfortable position.

His makeshift shelter sat on the western edge of a wide and empty clearing, opposite the fast moving creek that ran along its eastern side. It was against the effect of this bottleneck which he had laid his trap.

To his left came a rustling. The frontiersman had seen several whitetails approach the creek’s edge during his time of waiting, and one regally crowned buck had even tempted him to lift his Baker rifle from his lap. The crack of shot would only serve to ruin his surprise however, and he’d been left with no option but to simply observe the beast’s passing.

His first assumption was that the noise was likely just another fawn, come to quench a nocturnal thirst.

It was with some surprise then, that he spotted the naked dwarf break from the trees.

The man was moving at a good speed for a person of any size, and he’d nearly achieved a quarter of the clearing’s distance when a second figure pulled away from the spruce that lay at the meadow’s northern edge. This new entrant was a woman, her pepper hair streaming in her wake, her dignity maintained only by a light cotton nightgown. Her path followed that of the short man’s exactly, and, as she moved, her arms were extended, as if in effort to embrace the lead runner. Even at his distance, Blackhall could see that her mouth was turned out in a gap-toothed grin.

Thomas considered averting his eyes in respect for the apparent lovers, but the thought was quickly set aside as a third competitor entered the race.

A balding man, wearing only trousers and boots, had burst from the foliage. Despite his trailing position, Blackhall realized the musket the man carried across his chest might go a long way towards evening the odds.

In a single motion, Thomas cast off the blanket and stood. He leveled the Baker rifle at the rear man – a jealous husband perhaps – and called out to the trio.

“Hallo!”

The woman turned only briefly to acknowledge his entrance into the drama, and it seemed to Blackhall that the dwarf was too occupied to have noticed. The man in the rear, however, did take note, and immediately came to a stop. It was only then that Thomas could make out the man’s disposition: the weapon barely held in sagging hands; the round eyes of concern.

The nude leader had made it more than half the meadow’s width, but his shortened gait left him at a disadvantage to the woman, who was quickly gaining. As she closed the distance, her arms remained outstretched, her hands grasping convulsively against the wind of her speed.

“Don’t hurt my wife!” The musketeer shouted at Thomas.

Despite nearly having gained the far trees, the short man, finally having realized Blackhall’s presence, came to a halt.

The woman did not.

As he swung his rifle into a new position, Thomas could make out her taut visage – what he had taken for a smile of joy was obvious now as a grimace of anger, and what he’d taken to be eager arms were, in truth, limbs prepared to strike.

“My Jolene! My baby Jolene! You monster!” The woman began to beat the nude man with the flats of her hands.

His trap spoiled, Blackhall fired.

The French dead of Ciudad Rodrigo could attest to his weaponcraft, if their tongues had not long disappeared down the gullets of carrion feeders, or rotted in their graves. His rifle was prepared for a second volley before the woman had fully turned to face him.

He was glad to see his warning shot well heeded.

As he approached the pair, the husband also moved to join them, his musket dragging at his arms.

“What is this?” Blackhall asked, when all were within a conversational distance.

“Uh, my daughter and –,” the man began, only to be cut off by his wife.

“I caught this beast with my daughter! In the loft! Rutting!” The woman once again raised a hand in threat.

“I love Jolene!” the naked man offered, using one arm for defense, while the other attempted to save some of his pride. “She’s with my child!”

A noise like a kettle set to boil rose from the woman’s throat, and it was only a quick intercession on her husband’s part that saved the father-to-be from further injury.

Having dropped his weapon, the man took his shaking wife into his arms.

“We’ll need a marriage now, and it’ll be easier with a live groom,” he said.

The woman broke into a fresh round of sobs.

Drawn to the sounds of suffering, Blackhall’s quarry charged from the tree-line with vicious intent. The intruding trio were aware only of a snort of fury at the creek’s edge, then Thomas let fly with his second shot.

The rifleman was relieved to see the beast’s headlong rush brought up short by his silver round, and for a moment the thing’s hooves lost their alignment. It fell forward, catching itself up on arms as broad as stove-piping.

It gave its bull’s head a shake, and its foaming mouth sprayed a thick scum over the crumpled grasses.

The beast spotted the hunter, and it raised a thick finger at Blackhall.

Thomas completed the ramming home of a fresh load.

With a pained grunt, the thing retook its hooves and bolted into the wildwood.

“A bull, nothing more,” Thomas told the trio.

Throwing his rifle over his shoulder, he broke into a run.

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.

Meanwhile, Back At Old Joe's Barroom

So, I was bopping along with my headphones on, and I got a concept stuck in my craw:

When I die, want you to dress me in straight laced shoes
A box back coat and a Stetson hat;
Put a twenty-dollar gold piece on my watch chain
So the boys know I died standin’ pat.

– Louis Armstrong’s version of St. James Infirmary

Which struck me, as I’d just finished listening to:

“Stagger Lee,” said Billy,
“I can’t let you go with that.
“You have won all my money,
“And my brand-new Stetson hat.”

– Lloyd Prices’ Stagger Lee

While I’ve a long familiarity with Stetsons, I hadn’t realized they were once considered a status symbol.

Stetson produced a very expensive hat. The Cowboy riding the range wearing that “Boss of the Plains” hat showed the world that he was doing well. “Within a decade the name John B. Stetson became synonymous with the word “hat,” in every corner and culture of the West.” – wikipedia

An easy enough concept, even for a city dweller. In my youth it was high-end sneakers, and, in my adulthood, I know plenty of folks who drive cars as a mark of status, and not as a device that transports them from location to location.

The thing is, Stetsons were obviously originally marketed to cowboys – who exactly were they attempting to impress, out on the range?

An interesting side-note:

According to Win Blevins’ Dictionary of the American West (p388), the term “ten-gallon” has nothing to do with the hat’s liquid capacity, but derives from the Spanish word galón (braid), ten indicating the number of braids used as a hat band. – wikipedia

Flash Pulp 051 – The Boot Brigand, A Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Fifty-One.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Boot Brigand, A Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp051.mp3]

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(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s stories are brought to you by OpopanaxFeathers.wordpress.com

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then every post is worth at least 6 or 7 tweets at OpopanaxFeathers.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 open on the small community of Hearse, home of Mother Gran, already in the midst of a puzzling crime wave.

Flash Pulp 051 – The Boot Brigand, A Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 1

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

The rural town of Hearse, lying within the boundaries of Bigelow County, on the banks of Lake Winipekw, was well populated, but poorly planned. Each spring its streets worked their way into a gooey muck under horse hoof, cartwheel and human heel.

This gave Lawrence Tupper a special role in the community, as he was the only cordwainer, cobbler and shoe-importer in the area. His shop’s stock was largely of his own creation, but he was happy to maintain a corner at the rear of the store for those who felt the need to emulate the fashions of the south and east.

It was well understood, although largely by Buppy Tupper, Lawrence’s wife, and her cadre of chatterers, that those who did chase such fashions either did little walking in Hearse, or had foolish notions regarding the condition of the local roadways.

So it was that the first incident of theft largely gained notoriety in its discussion on the Loyalist’s Veranda, as the gathered turned to Mrs. Tupper, and her expertise in footwear, to shed some light on such an odd occasion.

She was happy to share her views.

“Mr Bellham is one of Tupper polish’s earliest devotees!”

Mrs. Pilfer, Buppy’s perennial rival, took a hard sip of her pekoe.

“Are not Mr. Bellham’s boots imported from the eastern districts?” she asked.

“Why, you know, the polish is derived from a formula of my husband’s own creation,” Buppy said, “His genius is so great he could make even those shoddily made Eastern fashions look as if they were worth risking a stay under Constable Wills’ hospitality.”

The gathered women nodded.

* * *

On the occasion of the seventh reported theft, Mrs. Tupper was less inclined to discuss her husband’s relation to the crimes.

“I maintain that it is only an indicator of the quality of my husband’s work,” she said, in response to a pointed question from Mrs. Pilfer. “I also find it likely to be the work of a monomaniac. It is an utter disgrace that the Constable has conducted so little action on the matter.”

Mrs. Madison, who was always willing to raise a hand against Mrs. Pilfer, and who also sat as Buppy’s current favoured euchre partner, spoke over her cup.

“Mayhaps it’s crazy old Mother Gran who has been wandering again in the night.”

Gran was one of Mrs. Tupper’s choice topics, and her eyes lit up at the opportunity to entwine the subjects.

“I’d say it’s likely – very likely, in fact. Mayhaps the old woman is making a stew of them, or sewing them together to form a dress.”

The gathered ladies tittered.

“Heh, yes, or possibly it is Mr Tupper himself, in an attempt to stir up a demand for business,” said Mrs. Pilfer.

The ladies quieted, suddenly intent on their tea.

* * *

Ella entered the front room, taking a seat alongside the silent form watching the window. The old woman’s eyes were cast towards the setting sun, gathering in the dusk, and through the silence, Mother Gran stretched out a hand, which the girl met with her own. As the expanse of red drained into black, Gran turned to face her daughter’s daughter.

“Wilemina Pilfer told me today that Mrs. Pilfer heard Mrs. Tupper accuse you in connection with the recent outbreak of stolen footwear,” said Ella.

“Indeed?”

Gran smiled.

“Yes.” Ella’s face was overrun with the concern a girl of sixteen maintains over social matters.

The elder woman turned once again to the window, squinting against the growing shadows.

After a moment she smacked her toothless gums together, her attention returning to her granddaughter.

“If you should encounter Wilemina Pifler upon the morrow, it might be worth a moment to give the girl the idea of tying bells about many of the boots rubbed down in Tupper’s new blackened sugar coating.”

“Won’t the thief simply remove the bells before absconding with the shoes?”

Gran smiled again, and the girl knew to question the wisdom of her elder no further.

“Can I help you with the drying this evening?” Ella asked instead.

The old woman rose from her chair.

* * *

It was a day before Ella might transmit the suggestion, and another before it had found its way to Mrs. Pifler’s ear, to be presented to her compatriots as if it had been a plan of her own conception. The women were split upon the wisdom of the ploy, but after discovering the following morning that the few boots that had been belled had gone untouched, while Mrs. Madison’s own husband’s had gone missing, the chimes gained a reputation for being a ward against theft.

It was shortly after midnight on that third day that the truth began to come clear. Horace Madison, with a hunger to match the thirst he’d demonstrated at Sarah Melbain’s Inn, was selecting a plate from amongst the evening’s dinner scraps. His hands refused to hold steady after his night’s activities however, and it was with some effort that he finally managed to lay down a thick layer of butter over his raggedly sliced bread.

There came a tinkling from his porch.

Two weeks previous, he’d flagged down the train and taken a journey south, returning with a fine pair of thick-soled black leather boots. Intent on displaying his purchase, he’d had his second youngest daughter, Jessica, shine them to a bright sheen before that evening’s expedition to the ale house. Upon his return home, however, he’d found the soles to be muck covered, and rather than risk his own balance in an effort to clean them, he’d set them upon his secluded veranda to dry.

Still, he was mindful of his sister-in-law’s words regarding the loss of his brother’s boots, and was sure to affix a bell about the laces.

After a brief entanglement with the furniture, he exited the house.

From his steps he could see nothing, but his prized footwear had disappeared, and the sound of bells drifted to him from amongst the trees to the south.

“It’s a ghost!” he shouted.

The thudding involved in his hastened departure had roused Horace’s eldest, Michael, who stepped down from the entrance.

His father turned to him.

“My boots! It’s a ghost! Go get Wills!”

With that, the man went stumbling into the tall grass, and the boy ran for his pony.

* * *

Despite his lead, it was easy enough for the Constable to follow the trail left by the inebriated elder Madison. As he pushed through the wilderness, Wills was not alone; he had allowed Michael to follow along, but only once he’d dissuaded the boy from retrieving his father’s shotgun by pointing out that it would be of little use against a spirit.

The route often pushed through heavy brush, and the pair found themselves occasionally forced to break a new trail reasonable enough for sober men. It was an hour’s prickly work before they finally came within range of Horace’s profanity-laden shouting.

Following the noise, they stepped into a clearing dominated by a thick dead oak, standing eighty feet high. At its base raged Michael’s father, his arms outstretched to the sky, his cussing unbroken by his realization of the arrival of his offspring.

As he approached, Wills made out the source of the man’s agitation: although any leaves had long abandoned the oak, its foliage had been replaced with a dozen pairs of soles, each set on a jagged branch-end. High above his head, clinging close to the trunk, two fat raccoons chittered at the intruders.

“They almost ate my face!” Horace said when Wills drew close. The elder Madison pointed at a broken tree-limb stretched upon the ground, and the constable inferred that the beasts must have turned hostile upon the man’s initial attempt to climb the oak to retrieve his shoes.

Noting the downed branch was not entirely barren, Wills plucked the boot from its end. Holding it against the moonlight for inspection, he could see that its surface had been licked clean to the leather.

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.