Tag: fiction

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

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Tonight we present, The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 6 of 6

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp254.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Groggy Frog Thai Massage.

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, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, suffers a sudden reunion.

The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 6 of 6 – The Beginning

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

Before he could bring his occult ship fully under control, Thomas had moved well beyond the knot of Fitzhughs, and the crone, and his beloved Mairi.

Beneath his northward-bound hull, the trees rolled ever onward, allowing ample latitude with which to practice the control of his strange tool. The forest, he found, rose and fell like any sea, though the crests were determined by the vagaries of sunlight and soil, rather than wind and gravity.

For some time there were but the sounds of creaking timber, and his steady pounding.

Eventually, Blackhall rode over an ocean of pines, which seemed, in the moonlight, to stretch outside his reckoning. He understood by then that his speed was determined by the meter of his drumming, and that his direction was readily alterable by aiming his impacts towards the edge of the instrument’s head, and so, thus confident in his course, Thomas allowed himself a moment of consideration, as the wildwood bent to meet his bow.

It had been his intention, until that point, simply to escape. Once free of pursuers, he’d reasoned, he could devise a method of extracting his stolen gear, for, without his equipment, he had no doubt as to the outcome of a confrontation with the witch – just as he had no doubt as to the inevitable result of the current contest.

He did not look forward to someday overtaking the dead column, and encountering the gaunt face of his former comrade. Would Fitzhugh’s likness be duplicated a dozen times along the parade of cadavers?

There was also the matter of the dagger. Misuse of the arcane blade had obviously drawn the crone, and it was a surety that its ownership would pass into her hands. Despite the carnage it had caused, though, Thomas knew it would be far from her most powerful talisman.

He took some small comfort in the fact that Fitzhugh had discovered the proper use of only one of the charms, and, yet, he worried that even the captain’s unsuccessful experimentations would be enough to bring the hag to Perth.

It was this thought, and the realization that he faced a shrinking opportunity to regain his relics, which shook Blackhall from his revere. His hands had become numb from cold and use, and his coat had taken on a layer of snowy frost, but he now set about redoubling his tempo.

The witch would not dare approach the settlement, Thomas knew, if he were once again in possession of his tools – and so it was a race.

There were few landmarks, at his great height, to reckon how close he returned to the battle site, but his staccato carried him wide of the mark. It was only as the trees thinned, at the cusp of civilization’s assertion, that he realized he was under-trained in the mooring of his ship.

His rhythm slowed, and so, too, did the vessel. Judging his rapidly diminishing momentum, he aimed for a final colossal maple, which marked the boundary of a farmer’s field. With measured arms, he let his craft brush the bulky limbs, then ceased his tattoo. As if a Sunday cruise encountering a friendly jetty, his sprouted-boat came to a bobbing stop.

There was little time to enjoy the victory, as the bench which had held him immediately commenced to crumble. It required quick action, and steady feet, to exit with the drum before The Green Ship’s leafy planks became fully unglued, and fell away to the ivory turf below.

Once firmly on the ground, however, there remained some distance to walk until Blackhall would encounter the lopsided shanties that marked Perth’s furthest outreaches, and, as he progressed over the drift-covered croplands, the enormity of the task ahead began to weigh at his mind. It was not a mystic problem, but one of mundane logistics.

There would likely be at least a pair of burly sentries – innocents – at the captain’s quarters, and who was even to say that Fitzhugh would be fool enough to store the artifacts where they might so easily be reclaimed?

Possibly even more pressing, Thomas was unsure of his status in relation to the bloodied corpse he’d left on the floor of his rented room.

Was he a wanted man?

The question guided his course upon re-entering the town’s limits, and his initial destination was a lingering stroll past the darkened windows of his former place of lodging, The Bucking Pony.

It was there that he received his last surprise of the evening.

Leaning against the public house’s rough planks, with a satchel at his feet, was a figure whose upturned collar, and low knit cap, prevented immediate identification.

When the form detached himself from the structure and approached, Blackhall allowed his right hand to drift to his sabre’s chilled hilt. As the distance closed, however,Thomas recognized the stranger as the quiet lad who’d driven the sleigh for himself, and Wesley Shea, but a few hours earlier.

“Come, come,” said the youth, and so the frontiersman did. As they stalked the empty boardwalk that lined the street’s shops, the boy’s feet and tongue moved with anxious energy. “I waited too long to follow, and I must apologize. I did run, but, by then, you were well gone. From a distance, I watched a band of Fitzhughs flow from between buildings, and gather in a sleigh brought round by yet another. If they noted my presence, they paid me no heed.

“After they were gone, all was silence. It was as if I were forgotten.”

Despite the pace, Blackhall seized the excuse to retrieve, from the depths of his coat, his Virginian tobacco and fine Spanish papers.

“I am certain,” he replied, “that your captain would have had a well-sharpened word with you when he returned, if it were not for the delays he encountered.”

With white-filled eyes, the private nodded. “My duty in acting as spy has been marked, officially, as leave, so, when I reappeared, I wasn’t much noticed. I ventured to my bunk, to try and sleep, but I was left feeling as if matters were unconcluded, and rest was elusive.

“It was while lying there, with my nerves being worn away by the lack of resolution, that your damnable tale came to me. For whatever purpose, you’ve revealed to me a world I couldn’t have known existed – a world beyond this colony, beyond home, beyond the entirety of the blessed empire. The power you have shown me is too much to rest in the hands of those with so narrow a goal as world domination, and, as such -” The speaker halted at the entrance to the town’s meager post office, and turned a squint on Blackhall. “No, first, tell me: What designs have you with the tools you have carried here?”

Thomas, who had completed the construction of his vice, raised a brow at the question, but answered honestly. “I wish only to retrieve the roaming corpse of my wife, so that I might lay her body to rest, and her spirit as well.”

The response brought a smile to his companion’s lips. “A romantic, eh? I wouldn’t have guessed it. I’ve long held that anyone desiring a position is likely not the best candidate for it. Here, then, are your goods.

“I played my last card with my chum, telling him that Fitz himself had asked for the retrieval. The blokes watching the door knew his face, and didn’t think hard on the move, as he’d been doing it for weeks during your comings and goings.

“They’ll be plenty displeased to find the lie of the thing, though, so it’s probably best they are not allowed an opportunity to inform us of such.”

Blackhall had thought the boy was bound to suggest a partnership; that the satchel had held supplies necessary for their imminent departure. He hadn’t expected this turn of events, and, as he accepted the extended gift, he found it necessary to clear his throat before he could provide his reply.

“Considering the efforts you have undertaken on my behalf, I feel quite beggarly in admitting I do not recall your name. Shea made it known to me, when we hired you on, but it has been lost in the chaos.

“Furthermore, if I am truthful, you may be my only living, human, friend in this bedeviled land.

“Worse, I have favours I must ask, favours which will draw you nearer to the types of uncanny danger that have thus far hounded our association.”

Little did Blackhall realize the import of his words, nor the nature of the remarkable partnership he had just proposed.

“The Queen likely won’t have me back, so I can’t see that I’ve anything better to occupy myself with,” replied the youth, as he buried his hands in his jacket pockets. “I feel bound to help, and will do so happily if it might sate the curiosity my mother long warned would be the death of me.

“Oh, and the name she gave me was Montgomery – Montgomery Smith.”

They spoke on in the hush, forging plans, then, at dawn, they began their journey north.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

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.

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

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Tonight we present, The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 5 of 6

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp253.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Groggy Frog Thai Massage.

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, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, suffers a sudden reunion.

The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 5 of 6 – Come Hell

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

From his forgotten post in the barren oak, Thomas Blackhall watched the unnatural melee unfold.

Below, the Fitzhugh doppelgangers had fallen onto their training and assembled into a tight firing line, as if facing a continental army. Their squared shoulders knocked snow from the surrounding brush, and their boots were steadfastly planted, but the dozen men seemed to constitute a meager formation to oppose the uncounted stumbling dead that flowed from the depths of the wildwood.

Still, their muskets cracked, and reloaded, at a tenacious speed.

For her part, Thomas could see that the crone, who stood well behind her mystically resurrected wall of writhing flesh, did naught but grin at the soldiers’ efforts.

The approaching cadavers were a motley lot: Some were clad in funerary finery, and some had had their clothing so badly beaten by the exposure of their endless trek that they were now unrecognizable as anything but rags – yet others wore only their own molding skin.

Blackhall, whose mouth remained brimming with the water he’d gained through patient persistence, lay a hand on The Green Drum, and leaned further from his roost. His focus had caught upon a familiar form drifting through the dim, amid a small cluster of flanking corpses.

Mairi’s gaze was unseeing, and the cream gown he’d buried her in – the same she’d worn on the day of their joining – was tattered, but he could not resist the opportunity to be near to her.

Catching his occult instrument securely in his Baker rifle’s strap, Blackhall hung both across a stout limb, and began his descent.

It required great attention to not unwittingly sip at his jaws’ payload, but, once on the ground, Thomas moved as if in a dream.

The stiff carcasses made no effort to step high, over the white drifts, but, instead, left their feet to drag through the resisting powder, slowing their progress. Overtaking the group was a simple enough process, but, as Blackhall reached the ambush party, he was unsure what greeting he might expect.

With a kick which sent an unwanted trickle of liquid down his throat, Thomas toppled the nearest shambler, a curly-haired man, in a mud-stained set of suit trousers, whose scalp had been increasingly torn-wide by unyielding branches. Never pausing, the empty-faced straggler paid no attention to the affront, but only worked to regain his footing, so that he might continue his ponderous assault.

Releasing his saber, Blackhall gave in to the temptation of scrambling to his Mairi’s side.

Beyond his prize, the Fitzhughs had drawn into a close circle, and were holding what ground they could with muskets turned to clubs, or naked blades. The weapons appeared of scant use in turning back the press of animated bodies, although many fleshy scraps of the deceased lay separated from their owners, and motionless on the frost about the defenders’ feet.

Thomas reflected, briefly, that the authentic Fitzhugh – standing at the midpoint of the ring, and anxiously waving the bone-handled, silver-bladed, dagger – would be without trouble in
maintaining the flow of blood necessary to keep his force under their current enchantment of transformation, but, after a last closing step, Blackhall’s considerations were carried off by the chill blow of the winter wind, as it pulled at his wife’s knotted hair.

Her rites had been said below a weeping sky, both an ocean, and a lifetime, away.

The vigil and liturgy had taken place on his father’s estate, where the family preserved a long history of consigning their cherished dead. Too clearly he remembered the cavernous room that had held her exhausted form, reposed in preparation for internment. The painted clutter of some forgotten ancestor climbed the green and gold loops of the wallpaper, in a pale imitation of floral gaiety, and the ornate box at the room’s center, in which his beloved had been laid, seemed over-large for her tiny frame.

Under his scrutiny, the soft lines of her wedding dress stood stark against the red velvet of the coffin.

Not far down the hall, his daughter had mewled, occasionally, from within her swaddling, but, beside those infrequent complaints, the newborn had slept rather than face the day.

It was Thomas’ decision to negate the pomp and circumstance so often given death, and he had received no few ill-intended stares, from the damp eyes of his theatrically-minded cousins, at his demand that the room be cleared.

As the infuriatingly constant grandfather clock marked the short hours before her burial, he spoke to Mairi of the existence they had promised each other, and of the grand life he intended to make for their Elizabeth. He wept, and laughed, and screamed.

Spent, he eventually made his best effort, with unpracticed hands, to plait her hair, as was her preference. It was a rough result, as her lolling neck gave no help, but his vision was greatly clouded by the project’s completion, and he knew there was little more he could do.

Despite the outrageous abuses her remains had suffered in the interim, Thomas’ approach now made clear that the braid had held.

He offered no attempt to speak to his wife as he swept aside a pine branch to allow for a better view of her ashen grimace. Her lips had withered, revealing gaps between her once pristine teeth, and her left ear had been lost to some unknown trauma.

Time and distance had hardened the frontiersman, and yet the sight was enough to drive his heart to agony.

Unable to release his tongue, he silently cursed the hag, and Fitzhugh, who had robbed him of the equipment necessary to destroy the old woman, then, with an unexpectedly steady grasp, he held Mairi’s trailing mane, and raised his sword.

His arm’s motion was firm, but true, and, once separated from her tress, his wife continued on, unheeding, towards her grisly objective.

Thomas did not linger, as he sheathed his weapon and stuffed the captured hair into a deep pocket of his greatcoat.

It was as he was mid-ascent, and almost returned to his materials, that the crone noted his presence.

Fresh instructions rolled from her hollow scowl, weighed by the snarl of command, and the rotting procession wheeled, focusing instead on Blackhall’s nest.

He no longer cared.

Frustration, as Thomas had not felt since first taking in the news of his beloved’s defilement, and further stoked by his restricted ability to let fly his voice, blazed in his chest as he retook his lofty station.

The memory of his graceless fingers, on the day of Mairi’s requiem, came to him then, and drove his conduct before reason could halt the useless action: For, there were other skills his appendages had since learned as instinct, and a rare marksmanship was amongst them.

Nonetheless, while his shot landed as intended, passing through the harridan’s right lung and theoretical heart, she only laughed at the insult.

Unhesitating, Blackhall slung his empty rifle, and let a portion of his precariously transported liquid dribble atop the freshly stretched skin of The Green Drum. His opening strike upon the surface of the viking relic cut short the witch’s merriment.

Too late did she realize that the bare oak he’d scaled was not a last resort, but an escape.

Each booming impact let fly a spray of water, and, as the droplets settled over the chilled bark of his temporary sanctuary, the timber commenced to sway with a terrible rhythm. There came bursting, from every point of moisture, a new sprout, and from every new sprout, a bough. The growth, however, did not advance without purpose. As if guided by a master shipwright, the leafy spurs surged and became struts, then broadened and intertwined, weaving a flat-bellied dragonboat about Thomas’ cadence.

Though his supply of liquid had long run out, as Blackhall maintained a galley’s beat, his rough seat fattened to a level bench, and the tool of his enchantment became solidly affixed to the floor which had formed beneath him.

Below, the clumsy ghouls had gained some purchase in their climb, but they had not yet achieved half their goal when the structure had completed knitting itself into a whole.

No longer was it Blackhall’s tree alone which roiled at the sound of the drum, for the forest now seemed to rise at its tips, and bend in an otherwise unfelt gale. As pine and cedar bowed with equal fervor, there came to Thomas’ ear a sound like scraped shoals. With a series of creaking snaps, the vessel was separated at the dozen points which held it to the tree of its origin, and the craft lurched forward.

Finally, held aloft by the grasping woodland which had been roused to convey it, The Green Ship sailed.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

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.