Archie, No!
This archive of Spire Christian Comics is a lot of campy fun, but the tales often seem to suffer from a bit of mixed messaging.
Category: Uncategorised
Flash Pulp 021 – Character
Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Twenty-One.
Tonight’s story, Character, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://media.libsyn.com/media/skinner/FlashPulp021.mp3](Click play to listen or subscribe via libsyn RSS or iTunes)
This episode is brought to you by Maytunes.com
Every time you visit, a kitten smiles.
That’s Maytunes.com
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.
This evening we present to you a thriller on the nature of backgrounds, and the lives lived in them.
Flash Pulp 021 – Character, Part 1 of 1
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
McGillicuddy had been running The General Store since his father, Pop McGillicuddy, had fallen dead at the register.
Everyone in the area had agreed, in solemn tones, that it was how he would have wanted it. Privately, the junior McGillicuddy often wondered if the old man might have had a few more years if he hadn’t been surrounded by Hershey’s bars and beef jerky.
Still, his Mother had had him up on a stool hocking smokes before Pop’s socks were cold, and he’d remained behind the counter for the majority of the fifty-seven years since.
It was now a warm May Friday, and he was passing across a green pack of menthols while attempting to place the two couples who’d entered together.
“Out of towners? You look like one of the Merkel kids though – maybe one of Mary Merkel’s?” he asked the lamp-jawed twenty-one year old who’d stepped up to pay for his girlfriend’s habit.
“Yeah, Mom, er Mary Platt after she married Dad, but I guess Mary Merkel when you knew her, she actually died five years ago. Last week though, I get this call from the attorney who handles the estate, and he says that Granny Merkel also passed, leaving me the farm.” The boy held out a twenty. “I didn’t have much better to do this weekend, so I figured we’d drive out to see if it was worth selling.”
“Huh,” the old man said.
He’d long considered the people both the best and worst part of manning the counter in such a rural area. He often found himself gumming the day away with the same friends he’d had since grade-school, but, as the only gas for thirty miles, he just as often found himself dealing with the same handful of local miscreants week-after-week.
The Merkels were largely regarded as a bunch of ruffians, but he’d never had trouble with the old woman, who’d come in weekly to buy her lotto numbers.
“Your Gran was a good lady. Don’t remember much about your Ma, though I’m sorry to hear she’s gone.” He handed back some change.
The boy nodded, his short friend stepping up to the counter and laying down a five while shaking his bag of Ringolos.
When all debts were settled, the group cleared out, lamp-jawed Platt tossing McGillicuddy a wave.
As the bell above the door rang their exit, the old man took up his paper, returning to the tale of Nelson Miller’s prize catch.
* * *
When dusk began to settle on the horizon, McGillicuddy stepped out into the heat, broom in hand. In recent years he’d found it tougher to spot the candy wrappers and soda cans that built up along the edges of the small patch of pavement, so he’d taken to heading out a might earlier than his father had, to ensure a pristine lot.
The hum of motors in the distance brought him to a halt, his hands resting atop the worn handle.
A black SUV roared by, its horn blaring – seconds later a battered white van followed, the noise of its engine nearly blotted out by the music that flooded from its open windows.
McGillicuddy recognized the van, but couldn’t place it. Guessing the hooligans were off to Fiddler’s Tavern over in Barkley, he shook his head and reflected on a time when cars were unsafe enough that those sorts of problems resolved themselves.
He lifted the broom and began wrangling a large pile of Werther’s foils that Bill Johnson had likely turned out from his truck’s cup holder. Dumping the full dustpan into the nearby trash barrel, McGillicuddy recalled that Bill was just as careless with his childhood Hubba Bubba wrappers.
“It’s always the same miscreants,” he muttered.
* * *
He was counting the till when the lamp-jawed inheritor re-entered.
McGillicuddy was startled by the arrival; he hadn’t heard an engine pull up.
The boy had pushed the entrance open with great effort, staggering down the aisle with one hand sliding along the magazine shelf for support. His legs seemed to be causing him trouble, as if they were rapidly increasing in weight.
“Cuz-,” he said, collapsing sideways.
As he fell, his flailing arm caught a wire rack full of Doritos. A red, orange and green avalanche buried him on the floor.
McGillicuddy stood a moment.
The lump of snacks remained still.
The old man’s hand went to the phone, but a second interruption came slamming through the door.
It was the mousy girl that the Platt boy had been holding by the waist earlier in the day. She had none of her boyfriend’s lack of energy as she came running at the counter.
As she attempted to speak, her throat would allow only a series of soft clicks. Her face and shirt were soaked with tears and sweat.
She swallowed hard and once again opened her mouth to speak – a spray of vomit drenched the counter’s transparent scratch-ticket display instead.
McGillicuddy did hear an engine then, the store’s glass door gleaming with the approaching headlights.
His newest paralysis broken, the old man once again reached for the phone, but as he did so, he glanced out the window to size up his latest customer.
It was Cindy Merkel’s boy, he realized, finally placing the ratty white van. He hadn’t seen that delinquent much since Gran Merkel had passed, and Sheriff Blair had been forced to set Deputies Jelly and Cameron on putting him out of the old woman’s house.
The tall youth stepped down from the running board, and pulled a goat mask over his eyes.
It was his only attire.
Reaching behind the driver’s seat, Goat-head pulled forth a red handled wood axe.
McGillicuddy was hypnotized watching the streaker stride across the lot. A high pitched tone began to drift from the girl’s throat as a greasy hand pushed open the door. She began to scramble over her own half digested Big Mac and Coke, in an attempt to find safety.
The old man dropped the phone receiver, grabbing the girl’s arm and pulling her over the sick.
Goat-head, the Merkel kid, approached with an even stride, the axe head slick with scarlet liquid.
“Always the same miscreants,” McGillicuddy said, his father’s double-barrel clearing the counter.
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.
A Confession
There are only two movie scenes that have ever left me shivering in the night.
One of them, The Furry Scene from The Shining, is often listed as one of the creepiest moments in film history – maybe, but does it stand up to this?
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-Pdlxd_rro]
Again with the Farmville
Well, bring on the brass band and a slow golf clap.
They must have reinforced the CNN front page just to handle the counter-pressure of such a vacuous story.
Diving For 3D Dollars
I have to admit: I’m not usually terribly impressed with shipwreck-dive movies.
As a general rule I love ruins, and I’m always drawn in by the opening moments of ethereal stillness, but it doesn’t take a lot of barnacle encrusted video before I’m zoning out.
I think that’ll change when we can send down the technology to generate a detailed 3D model of a wreck interior.
Why spend long hours, and risk multiple trips into the freezing depths of the sea, when you can scan it once and explore for days from the comfort of your office chair?
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vKcpmo4pwRg]
Flash Pulp 020 – Mulligan Smith and The Long Ride
Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Twenty.
Tonight’s story, Mulligan Smith and The Long Ride, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://media.libsyn.com/media/skinner/FlashPulp020.mp3](Click play to listen or subscribe via libsyn RSS or iTunes)
This episode is brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.
If Steve Jobs didn’t think Flash Pulp was fantastic, would he allow it to be listed in iTunes?
We don’t think so.
Find Flash Pulp on iTunes via the in-program search, or try this link.
Remember: Steve Jobs may have implied it was a good idea.
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.
This evening we follow Mulligan Smith as he navigates the tangled streets of Capital City while attempting to deliver a passenger.
Flash Pulp 020 – Mulligan Smith and The Long Ride, Part 1 of 1
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
The Tercel was crowded at the best of times, a garage sale’s worth of randomness spread across the baby blue backseats. Smith and the girl had spent ten minutes in animated discussion at the brightly lit menu, but it was only once they’d reached the window itself that Mulligan realized the drink holders were already occupied by a pair of abandoned coffees.
As the highschool girl working the register watched on, passenger and driver both broke into a flurry of nervous activity – the PI craning to check the backseat’s cup holder, the woman attempting to roll down her window by hand in an effort to eject the old drinks. She was having difficulty however, and a giggle escaped her lips even as her frown deepened.
She switched hands, but she overcompensated, and another tug snapped the black and chrome crank at its base. The sound interrupted Mulligan, who’d been explaining that the window had long ceased to function properly.
His passenger started to cry then, dangling the wreckage from her calloused fingers.
Behind them the balding man in the white Buick SUV, aware only that his whopper was probably getting cold, hammered out two bleats of his horn.
The girl with the headset lifted the tray of drinks and thrust them into the car. Mulligan decided to simply leave the trash cups on the steel sill, accepted the large paper bag with rapidly blooming grease spots, and nosed the Tercel out of the drive-through lane, before halting between two yellow lines in the emptiest corner of the parking lot.
He reached out his arm, attempting to encircle the woman, but the gear shift began to dig into his hip. She didn’t seem to register his efforts anyhow, so he sank back, letting the engine idle.
The radio gurgled at a respectfully low tone.
As she regained her composure, her eyes wandered the dash. Mulligan, realizing he might finally be of some use, reached into the bag, pulling forth a sheaf of brown napkins.
The woman plucked the topmost from the pile, smearing tears and makeup into the blue and yellow logo.
As she snorted loudly, he gently pulled the crank from her hand, tossing it amongst the ruins on the rear bench. He also took a moment to rip the stapled receipt from the bag, partially tucking it under the pristine floor mat behind the passenger seat, surrounded by dozens of its cousins.
Her tears were easing, and she raised an eyebrow at him – even in her haste to enter the vehicle, she’d noticed the collection.
“For tax purposes. All my on-the-job receipts go in the pile, and once a year I clean out the car.”
She nodded, still dabbing at the corner of her eyes.
He reversed out of the lot then, drifting into the anonymity of late night traffic.
The woman spent the journey with her eyes fixed on her window, inspecting each passing car and pedestrian. The city slid by – offices, sidewalks, bus stops, apartment buildings, townhouses.
Eventually they found themselves maneuvering the twisted streets of a suburb.
The car finally came to a stop in front of a large two story house, its porch entrance set well back, a trim line of hedges providing privacy from the street. An array of stark white bulbs lit the grass like the noonday sun.
The woman stepped from the car, bending to gather her small cloth bag. She attempted to speak, but all that came out was “Thuk”.
Instead, she unthinkingly extended her right hand to Mulligan, who gently took it before she could realize and pull away.
After a long moment the heavy gray door that fronted the house swung open, a large woman with a precise haircut stepping out onto the porch and eying the pair as she lit a smoke.
Mulligan let go.
“They’re waiting for you. Beth is great,” he motioned towards the interloper. “It’ll be OK. Call me tomorrow and let me know how you’re settling in.”
His client stood, cradling her wrist. As she hobbled along the stone-paved path, the fresh cast reflected the yard’s harsh light.
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.
On BBM
From the Facebook sidebar:
Anything goes?
Why are those two adults encouraging that twelve year old boy to send explicit text messages to his bus driver?
Pavlov's Party Mix
While eating Shreddies, I sometimes begin to half-expect I’ll encounter a rogue pretzel or corn chip in my bowl.
Flash Pulp 019 – Eventide
Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Nineteen.
Tonight’s story, Eventide Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://media.libsyn.com/media/skinner/FlashPulp019.mp3](Click play to listen or subscribe via libsyn RSS or iTunes)
Download MP3
This episode is brought to you by opopanax.wordpress.com
Come for the art, but stay for the… art.
That’s opopanax.wordpress.com
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.
This evening we bring you a tale of love and horror, a story about the difference between night and day.
Flash Pulp 019 – Eventide Part 1 of 1
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
May 16th
Ellis flipped off the monitor and stood, his kneecaps popping, the office chair he’d been using wandering into a trajectory dangerous to the cat.
Mittens J. Nelson dodged the furniture, and after a reproachful glare at his inattentive master, padded from the room.
Rubbing an eye, Ellis began collecting up the detritus of his day – a stack of empty soda cans, half a plate of pasta left from supper, some McDonald’s wrappers from lunch. Tossing what he could, he slid through the apartment in the dark, bouncing off the recliner and entering the kitchen to deposit his dishes. There was a note on the counter.
“Hope your reports are finally done. (If they are, why aren’t you in bed with me already?) The coffee maker is set to go for the morning, I thought you might need it. Miss & love you, XOX, Monica.”
He smiled, flipped off the light, and again walked into the darkness, this time towards the bedroom.
As he slid between the cool sheets, Monica rustled.
“Love you,” she said.
“Love you too,” Ellis whispered, settling his limbs amongst her familiar contours.
“Love you,” she repeated, and he realized her words were likely echoing from some deep dream.
“Love you too,” he repeated, once again smiling.
“Murder you,” she said.
He told himself it was just part of the dream.
Still, he didn’t reply.
After a moment the room’s silence was broken only by the couple’s rhythmic breathing.
June 5th
To celebrate the closing of The Michigan Deal, Ellis and Monica had spent a night dancing. Ellis had resisted at first, he had a long standing anti-dance policy, but Monica insisted, and the cut of her new red dress sealed the deal.
It was late by the time they’d returned home, and slightly later by the time they’d re-mastered how to use their door key. Floating past the entry closet on a cloud of daiquiris, Monica shooed away Mittens J., who’d begun to entwine himself around her leg.
Fixing Ellis with a wicked eye, she released the bonds of her dress.
An hour later Ellis was at the fridge, looking for something to help down the advil he hoped would proof him against the pain of the coming morning. Mewling his discontent, the cat slammed its head into his ankle, extravagantly massaging his calf with its neck.
Grabbing the Meow Mix from the top of the fridge, he located the feline’s dish and filled it to the brim.
Having downed the Advil with two mouthfuls of milk straight from the container, Ellis made his way along the hall to the bedroom, gently weaving, occasionally lifting a hand to the wall to straighten his course.
Finally managing a controlled crash onto the bed, he leaned over Monica, planting an awkward kiss on her temple. Her first response was to continue her whistling snoring, but after a moment a thought seemed to swim into her mouth from the depths of her slumber.
“I’ll gut you like a rotting catfish,” she said.
There was a brief stretch of silence as her gentle wheeze continued.
He decided to sleep on the couch.
June 8th
“I’m sorry, really, I don’t know why I’d say those things, but you know I love you,” she said, taking a long sip of her iced tea.
They’d ordered twenty minutes previous, but the smiling girl in the black apron had yet to return with their plates of cheese cappelletti. Still, Ellis was glad that the patio area of Bistro-nauts had remained empty for most of their discussion.
“Listen, I know, I feel like an idiot for worrying about it, but you’d be pretty freaked out if every now and then, while coming to bed, I informed you I was going to shiv you in the dark.”
“Just wake me up next time OK? I thought you were sleeping on the couch because you were mad at me for something, you really had me worried.”
The smell of baked cheese drifted to the table, their server close behind.
June 12th
Monica had spent another breakfast apologizing, departing for work with a kiss and a naughty promise for atonement.
Ellis dragged his slippered feet to the couch, lifting his phone to call Bill at the office. It was the third day in a row he’d begged off with a feeble excuse, and Bill, with a chiding tone, suggested he use up some vacation time.
Ellis agreed.
Turning off the cell entirely, he curled up on the plush couch cushions and pulled the scratchy woolen blanket over his head, hoping to blot out the bright morning.
Fifteen minutes later he snorted awake, tossing off the blanket and coming suddenly to his feet.
In his dream Monica had been standing over him in the living room, a black handled fillet knife in hand, muttering: “gut you, cut you, gut you, cut you, gut, cut, gut, cut,” – the chant that now filled the reality of his nights.
June 15th
There was nowhere within the apartment to escape to, and nowhere he wanted to be without the shining Monica of daylight.
He held her even as she murmured.
He’d tried the couch, ear plugs, falling asleep to music – the unknown had only pushed slumber further away.
In the shadowed bedroom he could see no horizon, no time before this period of endless fatigue, and certainly no end to it.
He shook her awake.
“Er, what?” she asked, her puffy face coming off her pillow.
“You were talking again,” he replied, the relief of hearing reason from her mouth nearly bringing him to tears.
“Jesus, Ellis, it’s,” she fumbled for the clock. “4 am! I’ve actually got to work in the morning you know.”
She rolled over.
June 17th
For nearly an hour, Ellis stood at the foot of the bed, Mittens J. Nelson kneading at his socked feet.
Earlier he’d spent an eternity on the mattress, Monica’s slurred words building a ball of tension in his stomach that eventually choked his lungs and brought the taste of bile to the back of his throat.
So he’d gotten up to leave – but his now regular exodus had been halted by a snort and change in the tone of Monica’s sleep muttering.
He’d waited, inwardly pleading for quiet, and, for an instant, he’d held the salvation of silence.
He squeezed his traveling pillow as a child embraces a teddy bear.
There was a grunting snore, and the spell was broken. A croaking toad’s tone drifted from the bed:
“Gonna rip you open, Ellis. Gonna mash your insides between my fingers like ripe bananas.”
It was too much for the fear and frustration rattling around in his sleep-starved brain. Seeing no escape, he’d frozen for that long hour, joined only by the cat.
Finally, a new idea took root, fertile in the muck of his brain’s fetid exhaustion.
Kicking away Mittens J., he adjusted his grip on the pillow.
He began to shuffle towards the bed.
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.
Han Solo
One of the major issues with Jedi is that Han doesn’t get a single decent scene – he even falls for the old “step-on-a-twig-and-alert-the-guards” gag.
My guess is that Lucas felt a need to downplay his role to ensure Luke was the undisputed hero of the film, thus writing out the last likable character who could speak English.