Amboo: 30 Seconds At A Mexican Restaurant
[audio:http://audioboo.fm/boos/217198-amboo-30-seconds-at-a-mexican-restaurant.mp3]Download
Flash Pulp 093 – The Elg Herra, Part 6 of 6
Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety-Three.
Tonight we present The Elg Herra: A Blackhall Tale, Part 6 of 6
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp093.mp3]
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This week’s episodes are brought to you by MT Starkey Short Stories.
Dark tales of shadowy doings in dimly lit rooms.
To find them, click here.
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 finally reaches the home of the Moose Lords, where he must complete long standing business.
Flash Pulp 093 – The Elg Herra, Part 6 of 6
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Blackhall’s first view of the longhouses came on the morning of his fourth day riding with the Moose Lords. The evening previous, the small band of travelers had met another mounted patrol, and the Elg Herra had spent a merry night conversing in their own tongue. As dawn broke, they’d kicked the ashes of the fire under, checked the lashings that held Kol’s body in place – now wrapped in the hide of his own saddle bags to stifle his musk – and departed.
Thomas was glad they’d waited till light.
The structures trundled as if massive beetles, the painted symbols on their oblong rooves exposed to the riders, who had approached from the peak of a gentle crest. Great treads marked their passage upon the plain, and, as Blackhall took in the behemoths, he noted that the shortest of the five had no less than sixteen wheels. They moved in an arrowhead shape; the lead and largest wagon was followed by three ranging in a wide row, then close behind those came a mass of black animals. The smallest, and nearest, of the wheelhouses brought up the rear.
“An impressive sight,” he remarked to Asmund.
“A welcome one,” the man replied. “The furthest, the one in the lead, we simply call “The Earl’s House”, although he is but one of its many occupants. The one at center we have named “Night”, as it serves only to allow those who must patrol in the dark hours an opportunity to slumber. On right and left are those we call Dusk and Dawn – they are home to many more Elg Herra. Our shortest house, the one which trails behind, is Relief; it carries lumber, tools, a forge, and the various necessities of maintenance.”
As they overtook the rearmost shadow, Blackhall tightened his coat against the chill wind blown from the spruce trunks that acted as wheel-spokes. Above the grinding complaints of the axle could be heard the occasional creak of shifting wood, familiar to any who had sailed upon a tall ship. However, soon after, both sounds were drowned by the roar of the hooves which gave the conveyance motion. A sea of buffalo moved at its head, the beasts harnessed into an orderly grid and maintained by a half dozen lithe daredevils.
“We call it dancing the squares,” said Asmund. “We value the dancers as we value warriors, and the tales of their bravery are often given equal time in tales of combat. They maintain and direct the beasts, giving them food and water even as we travel, and ensuring the security of both oxen and tack.”
Thomas watched a youth leap from the back of one frothing animal, take three quick steps along a taut leather line, and complete his journey by landing with splayed legs upon the shoulders of another. The boy smiled to see them pass, his fingers still busy working at some unseen kink in the rigging.
As they drew ahead, Blackhall took in the herd. If the grunting rows which pulled Relief had been a sea, then here was an ocean. Thousands more buffalo trampled flat the grasses, their order maintained under the eyes of a wide and moving ring of cow-moose mounted wranglers. Many of the watchers, both men and women, raised a hand in greeting to Asmund and Mord.
It was another half-hour before they overtook the Earl’s house.
* * *
The plan had been straightforward enough. Fifty-seven able bodies, each one the mother or father of a missing child, were sequestered in a single longhouse, in place of the fifty-seven innocents that made up the remainder of the community’s progeny.
“It is my understanding,” Blackhall had told the Earl, “that you contend with a beast known as the Lamia. I have heard her name invoked by mothers as a boogieman, but she was once well known, long ago, as a murderous hag who consumed infants in blind vengeance for the death of her own children, who were supposedly struck down by Hera. You would know her by her face, which unhinges into a monstrous expanse wide enough to insert a child whole.”
His words had been enough to bring the elder leader’s shoulders to sag, and to convince the man of his plan’s merit. It was a necessary trust, as Thomas felt it imperative that none but those involved should know, especially as only Mord and a hand picked second would be on hand to guard the true children, now tucked away in Relief. Blackhall had been sure to implant the defenders’ weapons with what little silver – a nearly universal poison to what the Elg Herra named mist-walkers – the community could turn up, but it had left his trap poorly armed.
The most difficult aspect of the preparation had been the covert modification of the half beds, so that grown forms might appear as if children, and yet still spring readily from the depths of the bedclothes to encounter the monster.
The charade of maintaining a strict watch over infants that were not on hand was wearing, and so it was almost with relief, on the third evening of his vigil, that Thomas finally heard the mid-night click-and-thud of a window being manipulated someway down the darkened hall.
“For Ida!” he bellowed, throwing off the heavy covering he’d laid over his oil lamp. It’s meager light was enough to allow the Elg Herra to leap to their stations, bodily barring each possible exit.
The crone was quick to react, and she immediately began to spider to the nearest shutter on all four of her gout-covered limbs. With a careless toss, she removed one of the window’s guardians, then reared on the stout woman who alone secured the opening.
With a desperate grunt, Thomas threw his saber. The lamia, seeing the inbound weapon, reflexively flinched, even though the sword had been cast on a clumsy arc. The projectile rebounded heavily off of the shutter and clattered to the floor. Blackhall, however, was quick behind his missile; his freed hand had closed immediately upon Ida’s dagger, gifted to him by her brother on the first long night of his duty, and, with his full momentum behind his arm, he plunged the short blade into the crone’s neck. A spurt of clotted, fetid blood ran over the sleeve of his greatcoat, and the hag fell, dead.
Marco, having closed the distance, spotted the outcome, and slapped Thomas’ clean shoulder with a smirk.
Only later would it be noted, with grim eyes, that Hakon could not be found amongst the ranks as the news spread beyond.
* * *
The sweet wine with which they’d ended the conference finally brought a smile to the old man’s face.
Blackhall cleared his throat.
“I can not keep both your daughter’s dagger and my clear conscience. It was Ida’s wish to pass on the blade to one of your people. Perhaps it would be best if it was kept in your care until the next heir is born.”
The Earl’s grin faded as he reached a hand to the jeweled hilt. With a careful hold he set it beside the cup from which he drank. After a moment the man reached forward, once again taking up the long stick with which he’d been stirring the fire. With an eye on the flames, he set to tapping a gentle rhythm upon the iron bowl which held them.
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.
News Booze Snooze
I try to keep this kind of thing down to no more than once a week, but my cold has made me ornery, and, from the CNN front page:
This lead was either written by Tarzan, or someone with a third of a bottle left on their desk and a smile on their face.
Mr Two Tells A Short Tale
I’ve got a mean cold, which is why things are pretty random today. Still, I wanted to post this up, mostly as a test to see if someone had fixed posting audioboos via Posterous. (Nope.)
Anyhow, here’s Mr Two leveling accusations:
Download
(I wish I could trim the end off to leave it just at his response, but such is life with Audioboo.)
Questionable CNN
From the CNN front page:
Let’s ignore the fact that this sounds like a b-reel gag from a late-’70s/early-’80s car & cop movie – I’m looking at you, Cannonball Run – why is CNN presenting this as a question? The “?” actually detracts from the lurid tease.
Thud!
A mildly belated, but entirely excellent, birthday gift from my sister.
I think this is the first time I’ve ever been excited to receive socks.
Ripening
It’s 2002, and I’m up far later than my 9am class would encourage. I’m feeling a little lost and alone, suffering the dramas only a young man can conjure. My roommate, a fellow sitting about twenty feet away, behind his own closed door, sends me a link.
* * *
It’s 2008, and the conversation has found itself in an awkward pause. My wife suddenly asks the pixie on the couch a question, to which she receives a negative response.
“What,” she asks again, “you’ve never seen it?”
* * *
It’s last Tuesday, and I’m walking the autumn streets with the seven year olds. Their faces are sullen; they’ve just finished extravagantly explaining the opera that was their school day, which, unfortunately, concluded upon the rotten treachery of a classmate. It’s been a great walkabout until the tangent, and my mind moves quickly to save the moment.
“Hey, that reminds me, I wanted to show you something.”
It is Peanut Butter Jelly Time.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3ZAGBL6UBA]
Pea-Body
I noticed something odd about this box, a leftover from our move:
Frankly, using the adjectives “tender” and “young” in the title just makes me feel bad about eating them.
Flash Pulp 092 – The Elg Herra, Part 5 of 6
Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety-Two.
Tonight we present The Elg Herra: A Blackhall Tale, Part 5 of 6
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp092.mp3]
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This week’s episodes are brought to you by MT Starkey Short Stories.
One man’s vision of a post-apocalyptic yesterday.
To find them, click here.
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 witnesses a trial by combat between Moose Lords.
Flash Pulp 092 – The Elg Herra, Part 5 of 6
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Thomas was impressed with the speed at which the camp was broken down. The hide tents quickly transformed into saddle bags, filled with bulky gear the imprisoned had no opportunity to identify, and it seemed little more than ten minutes from intention to departure.
The day was spent in a forced march, with Blackhall and his voyageur companion lashed to the saddle of their youngest captor, Mord. The Moose Lords remained as silent as their long faced mounts during the trek, but twice they paused to allow their prisoners drink and a few mouthfuls of mealy bread.
The air had become crisp, and the horizon was marked by the red of a sinking sun, when the halt was called.
Mord disentangled the leashes’ end from the ring upon which they’d been tied, and motioned for the pair to sit, which they did gratefully. Dismounting, the tall man moved to their side, his eyes playing over the open plain that stretched before them.
“We’ve re-entered the domain – it is forbidden to eingvi outside of it,” the giant said, rubbing down his beast’s snout; he did not turn to his captives, but instead maintained a careful eye on Hakon as he spoke. The words seemed to hold the forced carelessness that Blackhall, as a former soldier, associated with impending combat, when fighting men’s lips often seem disconnected from the hearts resting hard in their stomachs.
The adversaries, casting off their long coats, had removed several items from within their baggage, and begun to dress. Their armour was ringmail of a type which recalled the stories of ancient knights to Thomas’ mind, although their design seemed to hew closer to the images he’d seen of the sword-warriors of the far-east.
During his slog, the frontiersman had made special note of the long wooden clubs held in place along the right hand side of each saddle. After a low exchange between Kol and Asmund, both lifted their weapons free of their bonds. The men’s armaments were of the same basic design: a bone-shaped cudgel at one extreme, the other tapered into a blade-like point, and a nub midway between. It was immediately obvious to Blackhall, even at a distance, that Asmund’s own carried considerable engraving about its surface, while Kol’s had but a few simple bands that ran its length.
As the duelists moved away from the larger group, Hakon put over a leg and dropped to the ground.
In turn, Mord let out a short breath and moved his hand away from his own bludgeon.
The moose seemed to fully understand the intentions of their masters; no longer did they move with the lumbering strides they’d employed throughout the day’s journey, but instead the beasts seemed to stalk through the tall grasses as if jungle cats. The men held tight the reins in their left hands, their clubs clutched low in their right. Man and animal moved northward at an ever tightening angle, until, with a bull grunt, the mighty racks turned inward in sudden collision.
In the opening seconds the beasts seemed evenly matched, their thick necks pressing hard upon each other. After a moment, however, it became apparent that Asmund’s mount was losing ground.
Three deciding events happened in quick succession: Asmund laid a heavy blow atop the skull of his opponents ride; simultaneously, Kol, seeing an opening in his extended form, thrust forward with his honed point; his mount, unsure of the source of the impact upon its brow, briefly disengaged its broad rack, sending Asmund’s own beast into a twisting frenzy in attempt to gain advantage. It was thus Kol who found himself over-reaching, and two tines of the bull’s thrashing rack found purchase between the rings of his armor and through the leather beneath, crushing bone and puncturing organ.
He fell from his saddle, his tumble cushioned some by the impinging tall grass, and both Hakon and Mord moved quickly to his side, their prisoners briefly forgotten.
A triple voiced song of low-toned mourning filled the plain.
* * *
By the time the trio returned their attentions to the men in their custody, Marco had cut himself free with a hidden blade, releasing also his companion. The Frenchman had, with hushed voice, argued for an attempt at further escape, but Blackhall had planted himself, and the voyageur had reluctantly stood alongside him.
Asmund only nodded as he noted their lack of bonds.
“It is just as well, but the Earl will wish your presence, will you still accompany us?”
“I shall, gladly,” said Thomas, “but I speak not for my friend.”
The pair exchanged a brief glance.
“Yeah, fine,” replied Marco.
Again, the day’s victor nodded. The Moose Lords had strapped their fallen comrade across his saddle, and now fastened his bridle to Mord’s own mount.
“Hakon,” the man was unable to suppress a light snarl at the summons, “- you shall double back and retrieve what goods you might from the supplies our travel mates left alongside the river’s edge, then make for the long houses in haste.”
Blackhall was quick to explain the need for his rucksack, sabre and Baker rifle, then the reluctant courier turned his mount once again east.
As he cantered into the distance, Asmund addressed Mord.
“I’ll sleep better knowing he’s away, but it may be trouble if he arrives first to tell his version of the tale alongside the iron fires,” he turned to the pair on foot. “It would be best if you rode with Mord and I. You may wonder why I do not offer up Kol’s bull, but it will allow none who is not Elg Herra to ride, and I would not see you injured in the attempt.”
* * *
Upon taking his position, Blackhall was immediately impressed with the difference in height between Asmund’s moose and the equines with which he was familiar. Within the hour he’d grown accustomed to the animal’s the long-limbed cadence, and had fallen into conversation with the man at the reins.
“It seems my neck is to carry the weight of Ida’s departure and death. I was not fond of the little man, but there was little I could do – my sister insisted. As is often the case, it is not the one who is missed that shoulders the blame,“ replied Asmund in response to the frontiersman’s questioning.
“I mean no offense, but – it seemed to me he was an unfit suitor, what drove her to such an unpleasant decision?”
“The hag. Two winters previous she entered the long house as the iron fires guttered and the moon rode high. As we slept, she split wide her jaw and fed Ida’s child, Hobart, into her gullet. It was only the boy’s final surprised cry which brought us awake, and, even then, only in time to watch the crone, her belly bulging, unhinge a window and plummet to the ground below. No man could make that fall and survive. Not a year later, with another three missing in the interim and guards at the ready, her second child, Asta, was also snatched up, while sleeping in her very arms.”
He paused, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck, then continued.
“The harridan moves with the hush of a hunting snake, and we did not know of the disappearance until the morn. After their death there was nothing which might console her. She spent a year weeping, then dried her eyes and did what no one else seemed willing to – went east to find someone who knows more of the mist-walkers than we.”
Thomas closed his eyes.
“I had not realized she was a mother.”
“Do you think it was a simple dispute regarding our direction which carried me into the distasteful position of fighting a man I’ve long held love for? No; we hold not the same concept of marriage, but as much as any man is bound to any woman, Kol was to my sister. He was the father of her children.”
The lament fell heavily from his lips, and they rode in silence until the night’s encampment.
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.