Tag: fiction

FP164 – Coffin: Siren, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-four.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Coffin: Siren, Part 1 of 1.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp Facebook page.

It’s like a basement full of friends you didn’t know you had.

To join, 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, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his thirsty companion, Bunny Davis, find themselves locked in hand-to-hand combat with a civil servant.

 

Flash Pulp 164 – Coffin: Siren, Part 1 of 1

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

 

CoffinThe two-story suburban home’s upper windows had shattered under the heat of the blaze, but those on the lower floor remained closed, except a single pane in the front living-room, which had been cracked against the vigour of the air conditioner, and now allowed an outlet for the black smoke column that blew outwards as if tainted-steam from a roiling kettle.

At the center of the throng which had assembled to spectate the combustion, a steel-haired man held a weeping woman whose eyes peered constantly over his comforting shoulder, watching a lifetime of memories and knickknacks turned to kindling.

On the crowd’s furthest edge, however, Bunny Davis was engaged in a fist fight. Her whisky habit had her at a disadvantage as far as accuracy or balance were concerned, but, liquid bravery, and a fast moving mouth, had kept her upright thus far.

She took another swing at the firefighter, but, again, her punch slid along the clear Plexiglas-visor with little effect.

“Fargh,” said Will, only four-feet away, but entirely occupied with the stinging fury brought on by the can of mace he’d intercepted with his eyes.

“You ####ing pole-sliding truck-rider, just turn a-####in’-round and head back to your Ghostbusters shack.”

The woman behind the breathing mask responded with a strong right to the nose, which put Bunny over backwards, and brought the smell of copper to her nostrils.

Her impediments disposed of, the fire-woman strode towards the burning structure, laid a boot to the front door, then entered.

The onlookers cheered.

Bunny, finding her feet, rubbed at her aching gin-blossoms as she watched a man, unseen by the majority of the gathered, move to the left-most window on the second floor.

With the flames framing his silhouette, he rubbed at his sharp-cornered chin, then stretched his muscled shoulders with a languid roll.

As his white t-shirt ignited, he began to strum his guitar.

* * *

A week earlier, Coffin and his tipsy roommate had been loitering in front of the Eats’N’Treats, busied largely with ignoring the glaring sun and the uncomfortable bench.

Bunny had located an abandoned newspaper, and was filling the time remarking on random entries as she used the broadsheet as cover to move vodka from her pocket to her mouth, and back again.

“Holy ####,” she said, sipping, “looks like they’re playin’ the original Planet of the Apes downtown, I love that movie. Charlton Heston is the loudest ####ing actor I’ve ever seen. Sum##### lands on a planet full of monkeys and what’s he do? Yells at ‘em till they give him part of the Statue of Liberty – or, whatever, I mean, it’s been a while – but what then? Yells at ‘em some more.”

“That’s not quite how the film goes,” replied Will.

“Whatever, all I’m sayin’ is the man was a god #### genius.”

Coffin’s attention, only marginally involved in the conversation, was on a white truck sitting idle between a pair of the lot’s faded yellow lines. The vehicle had parked five minutes earlier, but a passenger had yet to emerge.

“No one shouts like Heston anymore,” Bunny continued. ”I blame Clint Eastwood.”

The pickup’s door swung open, and a squat woman stepped down from the running-board. It was tough to tell her age, as she wore large black sunglasses which reminded Will of the visors occasionally worn by the blind, and the thick plastic left nothing but her furrowed cheeks as a clue. He guessed sixty.

“I’m looking for a Mr. Will Coffin,” she said.

“I’ve heard of him,” replied Bunny. “Lazy #######, that one.”

“Sorry,” said Will, “pay no mind to my, uh, assistant; too much sun, and too much cheap raspberry vodka, and she gets a little talkative. Something I can be of help with?”

“Name’s Euphemia Dumfries. I’m a fire chaser out of the station at main and baseline. A paramedic friend of mine said I should talk to you – I, uh, a month ago we were responding to a basement fire and I heard this song. Simple thing, just an acoustic guitar and a strong voice – but it came floating over the heat, like a melody made of smoke. I’m hearing this tune over the crackle and pop, and I see this guy on the second floor. I lost it a bit, and pushed further inside than I should have. I caught myself just before running into the living room, where the floor was gone entirely. Scary thing about basement fires, you get down below ground-level with no stairs and you’re basically standing in a barbecue pit. Anyhow, I was fine, but I was sure the fella was a goner – thing is, even once things were cleared, we didn’t find anyone.”

She paused in her story, and Will stood, offering her his spot on the bench.

Shaking her head, she pushed out a breath and then continued.

“I’m old for the work – if I didn’t come so cheap and have the strength of an Alabama chain gang, I’d’ve been off the truck a long time ago. I didn’t want to put in for a talk with a doc, as I figured they’d use it as the last straw. A couple weeks later though, we were dousing a garage over on Melville, and it hit a propane tank the home owner had forgotten under a pile of newspapers he’d intended on recycling. Brilliant. Blew out the drywall and his kitchen went up like a match. Now, I’m way back at the truck at this point – and I hear it again. There was the same guy, thirty-ish, and pretty like a TV doctor. He was at the second floor window again, and he was singing – he was singing to me. I don’t really know what happened. I kicked through the front door, which was relatively unscathed, and bolted upstairs. I stomped into a guest bedroom, and there he was. He smiled, then he said ‘44 Wiltshire.’ That’s on the east end of town. What I didn’t know was that things were pretty much under control on the ground floor. As soon as the danger was gone – so was he. I got my ### chewed out something fierce for acting like such an idiot with nothing to show for it.”

“Not your fault, really,” said Coffin, “I’ve heard of your troubadour. Died a decade and a half ago while writing a song for his wife in their bedroom. Story goes that the place burned down while she was off wrestling with his best friend. Now he serenades bystanders, and apparently first responders, from the interior of burning homes, hoping they’ll join him inside.”

“Why does he do it?” asked Euphemia, “and is there a way to stop it?”

“Well, spite, partially, but I figure he’s probably hoping one will go willingly. He’s claimed a few lives, but I doubt they were inclined to hang around with him in the afterlife, so his desire – for companionship – goes unsatisfied.”

“Was a good looking eternity, to me.” she replied. She adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat. “Honestly, I guess I knew the answer all along. I live to help, and, truth is, I’m getting old. If I don’t die in my boots shortly, I’ll end up accidentally doing so alone in my own bed.”

They’d argued the point for seven days.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

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.

Coffin’s theme is Quinn’s Song: A New Man, by Kevin MacLeod of incompetech.com

FP163 – Enter The Achievers, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-three.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Enter The Achievers, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp163.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This episode is brought to you by MT Starkey Short Stories.

It’s for your own good.

To find out more, 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 we introduce The Achievers.

 

Flash Pulp 163 – Enter The Achievers, Part 1 of 1

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

 

The bungalow at two-fifty-three, Oaks Boulevard, had become a quiet war-zone. The grievances leading to the conflict were long forgotten, but the date marking the commencement of open hostilities was generally agreed upon: the thirteenth of March, the year previous. On that date, Mr and Mrs. Pope’s silk wedding anniversary, every piece of ceramic dishware, functional and decorative, had been shattered. It was a four-hour blowout that alienated the neighbours on either side and which required an extensive conversation, on the rear-bench of a police cruiser, to halt.

For eight months the only shots taken were verbal, but, in November, as a film of snow clung to the skewed roof-tiles, collateral damage was beginning to show. Bertie Pope, sixteen and president of her high school’s trivia club, was in the middle of an uncharacteristic throw down – the second time in her memory that she’d raised her voice to her parents, despite the regular heartbreak of their continued arguments.

She’d encountered a dispute in progress as she’d entered, and, dropping her backpack, she’d let her bottled-frustration vent.

“Won’t you both shut it!?” she’d shouted. “Try being nice to each other for, like, ten minutes.”

For a beat, she’d received a satisfying silence, but, then, Velma Pope, her mother, had finished formulating her retort.

“You want quiet? Just wait a sec and your Dad’ll be out the door and back to work. Then it’ll be just you, me, and the quiet.”

“- don’t forget the sound of your furious wine-chugging,” replied Bill, Bertie’s father. He leaned into the teen, kissing her on the cheek. “Anyhow, sorry, baby, but I’ve got a backlog of paperwork that -”

The outside door folded itself neatly, rocketed over the filthy beige mat intended to capture the brunt of the dirt infiltrating the home, and slammed into the fake-wood pattern of the coat-closet’s sliding doors.

“We’re here,” announced the pair of suddenly revealed men standing on the stoop. They dropped their home-made battering ram.

The duo were dressed identically: cheap black suits – a size too large, black leather gloves, and rubber masks intended to portray the likeness of Lemmy, founder of the metal band, Motörhead.

For a brief second, the twins cocked their arms at their sides, achieving the classic Peter Pan pose.

“Oh ####,” said Bertie, “it’s The Achievers.”

“‘Ello, Jello,” they replied, in unison.

None of the Popes believed the intruders’ Australian accents to be genuine.

The leftmost retrieved a straight razor from his right pocket, and approached Velma.

The rightmost rushed Bill, clobbering his jaw with a sharp jab.

The pudgy office dweller lost his footing and went over backwards, even as his wife was grabbed by her assailant. The blade flashed once, then returned to its slotted handle. As her wildly-flailing, but only mildly-lacerated, palm left a panicky spray of blood across every nearby surface, the invader adjusted his grip and closed his gloved-fingers on her hair.

Demonstrating the stun gun clearly before placing it against the base of her neck, he ushered her from the house, then threw her bodily into the rear of a black van parked out front. He locked the double-doors.

With a well-measured kick to Bill’s ribs, his partner followed. Snatching up the hefty ram, he jogged towards his getaway, and, as the vehicle peeled from the curb, the passenger-side kidnapper rolled down his window and waved to slack-jawed-Bertie and her breathless father, who’d managed to stumble into the front-yard before toppling onto the uncut grass.

Then they were gone.

Before Bertie could locate the cordless extension and dial for assistance, sirens filled the air.

A patrol car stopped short in the recently evacuated street-space.

“Ma’am,” said the first officer to exit, “we got a call saying, uh, that a forty-ish balding male had been seen dragging his wife from the residence -”

The officer, whose tag indicated his name was Bolokowski, had discontinued paying any heed to his own words, as he’d continued talking solely to cover the awkwardness of spotting the suspect in question, weeping openly on the front lawn in a considerably disheveled state. With a series of sharp gestures, his partner indicated they ought to approach and detain the wailer.

Although Bill would be released after twelve hours of questioning, it was under the strongest of suggestions that he remain close at hand.

Bertie had confessed immediately. She hadn’t expected it would actually happen. The Achievers were a rumour; a myth transmitted amongst the damaged egos and hopeless lives of the underbelly of Internet geekery. No one really knew who were behind the group – in truth, only the conspiracy-prone believed they existed – but the story told was that leaving a sufficiently tear-jerking request, in a public space, and containing ample usage of The Achievers moniker, would attract their attention.

In a moment of weakness, on a particularly wretched October evening, Bertie had done just that, misusing a forum dedicated to the films of Akira Kurosawa to lay out every barb she’d been forced to bare.

The detectives had listened to the tale patiently, then dismissed the girl and her explanation. Despite their obvious suspicions, the wreckage and blood were too little evidence to stand against the bizarre story told by both father and daughter.

Months passed, and the local press, having little else to feed on, used much ink in implying Bill’s involvement in a homicide. The knowing looks of his coworkers, combined with constant anxiety that The Achievers might suddenly reappear at any moment, drove him to drain his vacation time, then apply for stress leave.

Instead, Michael, from management, provided a very reasonable severance package and an apology.

Bill’s time at home found him a changed man. Maintaining the house’s condition became a secondary focus only to spending time with Bertie, who he now feared might disappear at any moment. The pair spent most meals watching recorded episodes of Jeopardy, and most evenings exploring their shared love of excessively-complicated boardgames.

Six months later, as Bill greeted his daughter upon her return from her first school dance, the van reappeared.

“‘Ello, Jello,” said the masked man hanging from the passenger-window.

The vehicle’s rear swung open, and a blindfolded woman stumbled onto the pavement.

“Mom!” shouted Bertie.

Before she’d closed the distance, The Achievers were gone again.

As her daughter lead the still-blinking Velma into the house and onto the couch, Bill was so pleased to see her return, he offered her a drink.

“No – I – I don’t do that anymore. I mean, I can’t promise I’ll always be perfect, but the last thing I want is for – for them to -” she took a moment to collect herself. “I’ve spent the last, uh, however long, in a twenty-by-twenty room, with a toilet, an exercise bike, and a cupboard full of arts and crafts supplies. They delivered three nutritional, if not particularly well cooked, meals a day. At first I painted. Mostly reproductions of liquor bottle labels. Then I started writing you both letters – rambling apologies. After a while I realized I really enjoyed the process, so I wrote a novel.”

All three, closely huddled, were in tears.

“They didn’t let me keep any of it,” she continued, “but it was only my first try. The next one will be even better.”

Her account of the incident made for a brisk-selling book, and the accompanying tour was the first family-trip the Popes had had in years.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

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.

FP162 – The Last Pilgrimage, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-two.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Last Pilgrimage, Part 1 of 1.

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


Tonight’s episode is brought to you by Jessica May’s birthday.

Happy Birthday, Mrs. President.

 

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 bring you a fantastic tale of travels, beliefs, and works.

 

Flash Pulp 162 – The Last Pilgrimage, Part 1 of 1

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

 

On his eighteenth birthday, Muggon went on the pilgrimage. His eldest brother had long fancied the journey, but, by the time he’d reached a proper age for it, he’d already found himself wed by way of a squalling bairn.

In truth, when the boy first set from the smattering of sod huts that had made up his young life, he was little excited for the path ahead. He’d never thought it would come to his living upon the road, and he’d never dreamed higher than a plot of earth to scratch at, and a wife to help eat the returns.

Yet, there was no choice. The land had run dry, and seemed to devour the rain as it fell – it came to him to make the fool’s journey of finding a god to pray to.

Standing at the crest of Bigfall Hill, he ran his wrist across his nose, and blinked away the results of his final goodbyes. In the distance he could see his mother alongside his brother and new wife. Their arms had grown tired from waving his departure, but they once again raised their hands, knowing this was their final opportunity before the hill swallowed him from view.

He would miss them, but was glad they could not discern his tears.

They were not the only he’d spill in the next year, as each inn and camp reeked of rumour without substance. Most had some word to impart of the gods, there were even those amongst the eldest who claimed to have been in the presence of one in their youth, but all provided directions based on a tale overheard by an cousin’s acquaintance’s butcher’s nephew, each of forgotten name.

Once in the world, it was tempting to drift into a new existence, but he inevitably found there was only a cold welcome for a wandering man of few means, and his experience came hard won. Two months after the first time he’d laid with a woman, and two-months-one-day after he’d first been forced to kill in self-defense, he met a trader who’d come from the Northlands of Dund.

The man wielded a beard of immense size, and his cloak looked as if every meal he’d ever trapped and eaten had been incorporated into its makeup.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ve seen the column with my own eyes. Three seasons ago I decided to ride hard south – there’s more demand where they’ve yet to be.”

“Do you know which it is?” asked Muggon.

The trader’s fingers disappeared within his riot of facial hair.

“Aggie The Sower.” he replied.

“Did… did you see any of his works?”

“Yes – hence why I’m here. The prayers of his pilgrims often leave all in better stead, not just the few. I’ve found when crops are plentiful and pantries are well stocked people’ve less interest in bargaining against my toothless scowl.”

To commemorate the event, Muggon purchased a small rattle from the merchant, hopeful that he would soon be home to share the bauble with his nephew.

As way of thanks, he did little haggling.

He’d heard of Aggie, often about the yearly fire on Bigfall Hill, on Dying Day, when the harvest was done and the spirits were said to roam. It was whispered that The Sower was one of the greatest of the gods, that his mighty fingers had once corrected the flow of waters as a child might alter a puddle to enhance the course of a twig-raft. From the hushed tones of friends and family, he had learned that the deity could see the future; could alter his size to such a proportion as to crush flat his hamlet of origin without thought; could even summon storms to shatter the landscape and drown any who did not believe in his supremacy.

These stories filled Muggon’s mind in the ninety days he spent overtaking his goal: the column.

A thousand souls shuffled, in packs, across the snow-dusted grass. He’d chased them from a place called Sur, whose inhabitants were still celebrating the return of a pilgrim of their own. Better still, to his ears, was the news that the god’s recent passing had been accompanied by the raising of a massive barn. The main-beam had been the heart of a thousand year old tree, and whose colossal girth had been set in place by Aggie’s hands, and his alone.

His third life began then – his plea was heard on the first day, but by those who acted as intermediaries. He was warned vehemently against approaching the gleaming saviour that lead the band, as any obstruction was ill regarded: each missed step was a delay not just from the current destination, but from all those beyond.

Order came from a council of sorts, comprised of those who’d furthest traveled, and some who had given up their prayers and sought only to continue the path of hardship, punctuated by celebration, that was the god’s shadow. Each sojourner knew their position, determined by the tasks necessary to reach their own home.

When Muggon first presented his request, he was informed after only a short time that he was five-thirty-seven. Unlearned in numbers, he hadn’t understood its meaning, but several moons upon the trek, and in the company of gamblers, taught him math and its uses, including the significance of the ever decreasing number that was his place in the sequence of works.

Arithmetic was not all, however. At each stop, it seemed he learned some new skill necessary to aid the pilgrim that had beseeched The Sower for assistance, so that the journey might be expedited. He learned of tillage, and animal husbandry, and the natural medicines. The god’s commands were law, and Aggie instructed his followers to their own best advantage.

Uncounted years later, while restoring a tower of ancient provenance – a structure that would allow great vantage for the onset of fires which ravaged the area each fall – Muggon was informed of news he’d been longing to hear.

“Three,” said Gon, his oldest friend. The speaker cleared his throat before adding, “but – The Sower has requested your presence.”

The news explained why the messenger had not grinned to bare the anticipated dispatch.

Muggon ran to respond.

In recent months the god had grown quiet in its march, and this newest summons did not seem to bode well to his disciple.

As was customary for private conversation, the column had fallen back some way, allowing the pilgrim to tread alone with his lord.

As he spoke, Aggie’s voice held crisp surety – as always.

“Jesus, man, you really came from the middle of nowhere. I figure we’ll be be two month’s over the average job completion time, and that’s just to get there.”

“I apologize!” Muggon replied, his lips pale.

“Relax, relax. Listen, the old atomic ticker’s only got about that long anyhow. We’re gonna make a run for your place, but I don’t know how much use I’m going to be once we get there.”

“I don’t understand?”

“What I’m trying to tell you is that I’ve only got enough juice left for a few more jobs, then it’s off into the sunset with me. Only so much one farm-bot can do, even in days like these. Sure been a pleasure helping you folks, though. Now, your the brightest lad I’ve seen in a while, and I figure the best thing doing at this point is to talk out your problem, see where you’re at, then I might be able to teach you how to fix it yerself.”

It took Muggon a moment to dissemble his saviour’s dialect, but, realizing what was being asked, he was pleased to finally have an opportunity to speak his prayer directly.

“The land about my people’s homes is barren. Please, have mercy, bring us water.”

“Yeah, yeah, got some rivers near by? Guess a lake is too much to hope for? What’s the water table like? You know what to watch for, for that sort of thing?”

What came next was a tutorship as rarely received. In the months that followed, Muggon’s mind was filled with every category of practical learning that had been otherwise forgotten. The first matter was the written word, as without it the man knew his mind could never contain the breadth and depth of the flow that overcame him.

He wrote the history of a terrible plague, and the savage madness that arose in its wake. He devised a calender, to Aggie’s specifications, and he charted many stars and their seasonal significances.

As his skills grew, he recounted the final pair of heroic acts carried out by The Sower. The first was the purification of a well by way of removal of poisons from within the turf – a feat which had required the construction of massive earthworks, and the transference of an artifact to an enclosed crypt, now posted with a warning to never again breach the seal, under dire consequence.

The second was establishing a standing orchard of many thousand trees, all with the intention of providing fruit which might curtail a terrible illness of nutrition which had befallen the inhabitants of the surrounding countryside. The time taught Muggon much about the rudimentaries of genetics, and the splicing and tending of timber.

In the end, The Sower made it as far as Bigfall Hill. He’d been busy imparting minutia regarding algebraic geometry, and his eager student, with his eyes and quill upon homemade parchment and makeshift tablet, had not recognized the approach as any different than the thousand such he’d seen before. It was only at the peak, with the village spread before him, that he realized he’d arrived.

It was Aggie who broke the silence.

“Well, Pard, this is my stop. Like I said, you ever happen to run by a Hokkaido Electric TU-13 power cell, feel free to run it on by. It’s an easy install, goes right in my mouth. Pop it down the chute and the internals’ll take it from there. Otherwise, think I’ll just take a rest – you though, better get cracking on that irrigation system. Won’t be nothing but kids play for ya.”

They were the god’s closing words. In the years to come, children would play at Aggie’s feet, and each Dying Day the still figure would stand guard at the edge of the fire, as the tales of The Sowers’ undertakings were told.

First, though, for the pilgrims, came mourning – and then, heeding their master’s last command, the work.

Muggon was happy to finally deliver the rattle he’d bought so many years previous, even if it was to his brother’s seventh-born. He was pleased too, to see how the people had fared, even under such circumstances. When the final strut was built, and the flow of nourishment redirected to flood the farmers’ thirst, he beamed with the knowledge that they would now prosper. Even with his labour, there was time for tale telling, and to teach his brother some of what he’d learned upon the road: of numbers, and barn raising, and tonics.

Then he’d stood to leave.

He did not cry this time – he knew he must find the holiest of relics, the battery of resurrection, and that, as he moved across the land, he must spread the wisdom of Aggie and the book of The Sower.

The column followed.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

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.

FP161 – Unheard Of, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-one.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Unheard Of, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp161.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Walker Journals

Dead men tell no tales. They just moan. Constantly.

Find out how to deal with it at youtube.com/walkerzombiesurvivor

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 bring you an auditory tale of crime and injury.

Flash Pulp 161 – Unheard Of, Part 1 of 1

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

The Denny’s lunch service had been rolling along smoothly until the waitress with a name-tag declaring “Jenny” dropped her double order of Moons-Over-My-Hammy.

She couldn’t really be blamed, however, as she’d caught a premature glimpse of the stubby shotgun beneath the coat of the restaurant’s latest customer – or assumed customer, as the whisky-smelling arrival had no intention of asking about the soup of the day.

In truth, Brian Stokes wasn’t entirely sure what he’d come for – he’d told himself repeatedly it was robbery, but the liquor seemed to speak of something different.

Morgan Shaw, a slight blond sitting in a booth facing the entrance, was having an interesting day.

The previous afternoon she’d been asked to come down to the restaurant by a reporter, Terrance Herrera, who was interested in discussing her recent discharge from the military. She was pleased to discover Terrance was quite a nice fellow, and, although they’d technically completed the interview, she’d decided to stay and finish her pancakes, while conversing on Stella Ramos, the woman who’d referred him to her story, and a scientist she’d met in an acoustic research lab she’d visited upon her return from overseas.

It was the fact that she would have already gone if she’d stuck to her original plan that first came to mind when Stokes exposed his weapon. She grabbed for her cellphone.

“All eyes on me!” said the gunmen. He was quick to hone in on Morgan’s busy thumbs, but, before he could make anything of it, she dropped the device.

“We’re all going to be friends now, because you’re all going to listen to me. First off, you there -” he pointed towards gray-shirted Jenny. “- close the blinds.”

The woman moved with a speed her Sunday customers scarcely could believe she had.

The commands continued.

“Everyone away from the windows. Get over on the far side of the booths and sit on the floor. You too, back in the kitchen. Come out here or I’ll go in there.” He cleared his throat. “Then, uh, wallets out. I’ll be passing around a bag shortly.”

The majority of the patrons slid along their benches in compliance, but Morgan sat still. Terrance’s hands flitted in an urgent blur.

“Get away from the glass or I’ll throw you through it,” screamed Stokes, his firearm shaking involuntarily.

“She can’t hear you, she’s deaf,” said the reporter, keeping his tone flat.

His busy digits completed the swoops and dips of the signed message, and the woman was quick to pick up her purse. They were the last of the parade to find seating on the harsh-patterned carpet.

Seven patrol cars had been deployed on the road that day, initiating an early Spring police effort to bring down traffic speeds on the major thoroughfares. They’d spent their morning pulling over tardy church-goers, but, now, the spat of panicked text messages which emanated from the beleaguered establishment were met with an already mobile response.

The converging sirens made the situation apparent well before the would-be thief had even cleared the register.

Despite his chain of expletives, Stokes smiled.

“Well, guess that’s it.”

The full clarity of forty ounces of whisky, and a life wasted, had finally struck him.

A phone rang behind the welcome desk, and he made short work of ripping its cord from the wall.

“I ain’t leaving here. The second they open the door, I’m startin’ shooting. They’re gonna have to drag our bodies out.”

He ratcheted the gun and began to pace.

“Just gimme an excuse to use this thing. Any excuse,” he muttered with increasing agitation, as he stalked the empty aisle of seating.

Terrance silently indicated to Morgan that everything would be OK. Her only reply was a frown.

The clock counted off seconds, then minutes, as the coward worked at his courage.

While Stokes moved, he sampled cooling bacon and melting ice cream from the abandoned plates. With the sirens off, the only noises in the room were muffled weeping, and his groaning ramble.

Then the bass started. At first it seemed like nothing more than the rowdy result of exuberant youth, but it soon became apparent that it was no passing traffic. With the blinds drawn, the source remained unclear even as it seemed to scrape between the scattered vehicular barriers and cease motion in front of the handicap-only parking – closer to the building than the septuplet of cruisers.

The floor began to vibrate with a rhythm only a smattering of the hostages recognized, but the former Lieutenant was one of the few. Her rant became a furious storm, and the stir caught the reluctant suicide’s attention.

“I think she recognizes the song, she calls it, uh, stress?” shouted the newspaperman.

“I thought you said she was deaf? What in the sweet, sweet, tears of the weeping baby Jesus could she possibly know about it?”

“Uh, she’s asking if the car that just pulled up is a red 1967 Ford Fairlane?” replied Terrance.

Stokes risked pulling back a snatch of blind.

“Its red, yeah. Looks old. The hell?”

Morgan’s signals had become frantic, but repetitive.

“Dammit,” said the drunk, “what is she saying!?”

The reporter glanced at the expectant face of the teary ten year old not a foot away. “Uh, poop, poop, poop.”

As the music hit a lull, a car door slammed.

Stella Ramos’ fists were full. In her left was a hardhat with built in goggles and ear protectors. In her right was a box which the officers watching her movements immediately misidentified as a cat carrier.

When she was a girl, Stella had been known for over-reacting. She’d found little acceptance amongst the mill workers’ children of the small town of Hattiesburg, and she’d clung desperately to those few she had befriended. At twelve she’d been involved in a schoolyard fight with five kids of similar age – one, a girl named Amanda Darr, who’d she’d thought of as a compatriot, had turned on her during the chants of “Fella.” When the lone female amongst the aggressors had started punching, the rest of the mob had been quick to join in.

All involved had been suspended for a week, but it was only Stella who’d avoided the rough mercy of the school nurse’s iodine. Her fury had allowed none closer than the reach of her fist or foot.

It was this same tenacity, and need to prove herself, that had driven her to her physics PhD.

She’d been at work when she’d received the text message, a simple cry for help that said only “man with gun in restaurant.”

It had been all the summons she’d required.

Ignoring the warning shouts of the officers behind her, she put on the helmet.

The song had been a favourite of Morgan’s while on patrol – although she knew it more recently only through the resonance that shook the chassis of the car, the pair had still spent many hours sharing the reverberating memory as they’d displaced the dust of country back roads, hand in hand.

She aimed the curved dish that projected from the face of the beige box – the prototype result of an intensive ninth months funded by the American government under the name of Project Moussai – at the single eye that tracked her movement from behind the blinds.

Stokes, in response, claimed it as his moment of truth.

As the rising gun-barrel became visible between the green slats of the window shades, Stella flicked the cat-carrier’s sole switch. There was a brief sound, as if an electronic kitten had sneezed, then the obstructing pane of glass evaporated. Behind the dispatched window, the intended-killer’s eardrums followed suit, and he fell, thrust into unconsciousness by the sonic-laser’s trauma.

After two lengthy legal trials, his permanent hearing, and Stella’s employment, were the only casualties of the day.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

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.

FP160 – The Murder Plague: Barriers, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Murder Plague: Barriers, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp160.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Walker Journals

It’s vaguely like the Diary Of Anne Frank, but with zombies instead of Nazis.

Find them all at youtube.com/walkerzombiesurvivor

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, Harm Carter and his travel-mates must make a hard decision before suddenly finding themselves with few options.

Flash Pulp 160 – The Murder Plague: Barriers, Part 1 of 1

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

The Murder PlagueWe were shooting down the road like a greased eel amongst the groping hands of country-fair attendees, when we spotted a goliath by the roadside.

He had his thumb popped to the east, and a bored expression on his face, as if it weren’t likely that any passers-by would just as soon run him down as pick him up. I suppose if I had the physique of a well constructed Victorian-era strongman, I too might have had a little more confidence while loitering amongst the homicidal infected.

Another problem with a virus which turns everyone around you into a paranoid maniac is that you spend a lot of time second guessing your decisions. We spent ten minutes in silence, as we attempted to reassure ourselves of our own logic.

“We should try and talk to him,” said Minnie. I’d brought the Escalade to a halt at the crest of a hill, well away from the stationary traveler, and I was fairly confident that he hadn’t noticed us.

“Balls to that,” replied Jeremy. “Were you not paying attention back at the gas station? Why would we ever want to risk further exposure to those friggin’ nutters?”

Despite his callous tones, I was inclined to agree with him. Even if the wayfarer wasn’t sick, I was too out of patience for another seismic change in the world. A fatigue sets in after your second murder scene of the day.

“Maybe we’ll just wave,” I said. “I hate to ignore a fellow survivor, but I’m sure he’ll understand, given the circumstances.”

When he did spot our approach, he started flailing both arms, vigorously.

If he saw our return greeting, it was as a blur. I had us up to top speed by that point, as I thought he might impart a few bullet holes in our bumper as a parting gift for spurning him.

The countryside was a smear of farmhouses, fields, and fencing – the rustic beauty seemed unmarred, except as we passed a single abandoned Greyhound bus, with its tall tinted windows broken out, and its silvery husk left in a field to fend against the insistent sun.

We hadn’t slowed when we hit the ambush, almost a mile further down the road.

As we passed over the spike-strip, I veered left, sending the behemoth Escalade sliding sideways, over a ditch and into some homesteader’s forgotten harvest. As the vehicle became perpendicular, our seat-belts encouraged us to do likewise. I don’t remember much about the crash itself, but I was certainly pleasantly surprised to discover we had come to a stop in the farmer’s field with only our faithful steed as a casualty.

There we sat, waiting for the universe to settle. To my left was a patch of soybeans, pressed flat by the unexpectedly un-shattered glass. To my right was the sky. Once I was fairly convinced of both, I unbuckled, and my companions did the same.

Adrenaline – and the elation that comes when your brain realizes that it has somehow survived the latest mess you’ve put it through – made us thick and unthinking.

As we climbed onto the upturned passenger door, I caught a sudden plunk over the wibble-wobble of the still-spinning tires. I don’t know how to describe it in any better way than as a plunk.

Now, listen: this wasn’t a plonk, or a plop, or a thud; this plunk was no random result of our impact, and the plunk and I were no strangers passing each other by under odd circumstances.

Nay. I knew this plunk.

“Uh, did you hear that?” asked Minnie, testing her balance to see if she might stand for a better view.

I shoved her over backwards, sending her into the greenery and muck below, then, as Jeremy opened his mouth in question, I nudged him too.

He’d barely had time to accuse my mother of an unorthodoxed style of animal husbandry when my suspicions were confirmed. While I was in the middle of my own descent, the familiar plunk repeated itself.

“Someone is shooting at us,” I noted, brushing the muddy results of my landing from my knees.

I recognized the sound all too well, as I was on hand when similar noises had sent a favourite chess partner home from our extended overseas engagement with Uncle Sam’s traveling mud-huggers.

After a few long moments of silent continued-existence, my comrades had taken on the numb look that’s common to amateur targets – I must admit, nevertheless, that I was quite pleased with myself for having picked the right side to land on.

“Our mad-person,” I said, “has set up their kill zone quite well. We would have been ducks in a row, if we’d remained on the road. It’s quite lucky that we flipped the beast, really.”

“We’re dead,” replied Minnie.

“No, no,” I assured her, “when night falls, we’ll make for the treeline. I’m sure we’re not far from some formerly-occupied farmhouse where we might help ourselves to a pickup truck with a wide-range of amusing bumper stickers.”

“What if Assassination Jones over there has night vision?” asked Jeremy.

I must say, I hadn’t thought of that. It had been my first assumption that the perpetrator was a local deer hunter gone amok, but the setup’s precision and planning gave the new consideration a lot of weight.

There was something else as well: if it were a greenhorn murderer, I would have expected them to waste more ammunition. They were professional enough to hold off for a meatier bulls-eye.

Lacking options, we tried to find a comfortable seating arrangement. Unfortunately, soybeans offer up very little cushioning.

As the sun dipped out of sight, Minnie became assertive about her interest in departing. I don’t blame the poor girl for getting restless, as even a wall the size of an Escalade can begin to feel tiny when it’s all that stands between you and the afterlife. That said, I maintained my opinion that we’d have better odds with as much dark as possible, and she begrudgingly agreed.

Even at its blackest, though, I wasn’t willing to start running about, willy-nilly. That said, night vision isn’t perfect, and especially not the sort that you might pick up at a Wal-Mart. Taking off my jacket, I draped a few billowing-taunts beyond the engine’s border.

“Plunk,” replied our nameless assailant.

At least, on that occasion, I managed to hear the crack of the invisible stalker’s weapon, rolling towards us from somewhere to the west.

That settled, we once again took up our seating.

Not long after, Jeremy began to cry.

It was after midnight when, wiping away a thick string of snot, he spotted our salvation. The abandoned bus was headed our way. Well, moving, yes, but ever so slowly – so much so, in fact, that I thought at first the whole thing was an optical illusion.

As it neared, however, we made out why: the strongman was the only thing motivating the Greyhound along. He’d flipped open the underside baggage doors, and was using them as a handle to push against, leaving the bulk of the bus as a shield. We were fortunate to be on the far-side of the raised asphalt.

His cycle was thus: push, push, push, adjust the steering wheel, rest, repeat.

He came into conversation-range well ahead of being in safe-to-do-anything-about-it-range.

“You people are jerks,” he said. “I’ve got blisters on my hands from the first time I had to push this stupid thing across this stupid field.”

“Why didn’t you just drive it?” asked Jeremy.

“If this thing’s engine was working, do you think I’d’ve been trying to hitch over the hill from Lee Harvey Oswald?”

“Well, to be fair,” I said, maybe feeling a little defensive about my deciding vote, “thumbing a ride doesn’t really seem the most brilliant idea either.”

“This whole area is full of friggin’ nutbar recluse survivalists and farmers. Every one of these houses is a landmine on top of a bear trap that’s been rubbed down with poison. Trust me, I know – a dozen of us originally stepped off this thing. The road was the only place we WEREN’T slaughtered.”

At that point he started pushing again, and it didn’t seem polite to interrupt him with further chatter.

Once he’d finally eclipsed the shooter’s view of our little fort, we sprinted the ten yards between us. Minnie took up position at his open door, and Jeremy and I leaned into the one that was now at the rear.

Although we made much better time than he had alone, it was still dawn before we’d moved into safety, and nearly noon when we’d finished heaping high apologies – and thanks.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

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.

FP159 – Coffin: Tell Tales, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and fifty-nine.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Coffin: Tell Tales, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp159.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Walker Journals

Life ain’t easy, especially not amongst the undead.

Find them all at youtube.com/walkerzombiesurvivor

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, Will Coffin, urban shaman, spins a few barroom stories to a wobbly audience of one.

Flash Pulp 159 – Coffin: Tell Tales, Part 1 of 1

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

CoffinCoffin was sitting in Dorset’s, watching his soggy roommate, Bunny, finish off yet another foamy glass of Corona. It had been her fifth beer.

“You’re going to end up like that guy,” said Will, pointing towards a translucent man in a corner booth.

“The ####’s his deal?” she asked.

“One of the bar’s earliest customers,” he replied, “his habit was getting pretty troublesome by the time he died. He’d nearly managed to drown his liver when he was accidentally run over as he stumbled home. His spirit was too drunk to find its way, so now he comes in nightly to try and collect his thoughts in a mug. Dorset dispenses a pint for him at the stroke of midnight, or the ornery bugger starts throwing things.”

“Can’t you help him?”

“They don’t hold AA meetings for wandering spirits, which is what I’m trying to tell you. Beyond that, not every otherworldly problem has a mystical solution – or any at all. Sometimes people just need to get themselves straightened out, however dead they may be.”

Sneering, Bunny waved down the pudgy tap-tender and demanded a refill.

“You mentioned, like, legends once – what about famous ####? Ever get ####ing Dracula or Frankenstein in here? I mean, anything I might have actually heard of?”

“Yeah,” Coffin replied, “A few of the Greek gods passed through once. They were a bunch of shape-shifting perverts. Had to ask them to leave, actually.”

“You tossed Zeus on his ###?”

“No – Poseidon and Bacchus. They were a pretty rowdy pair. Wasn’t quite as easy as picking them up by the scruff of their neck and giving them the heave-ho, but, when Dorset opened his doors I agreed that I’d act as part-time bouncer.“

Bunny’s replenished glass paused, mid-ascent.

“Wait, what? You work for him?”

“It’s my fault the bloody Englishman even set up a place here. He doesn’t do it for the money, he doesn’t need it. He just – he came across some information regarding the end of the world that he wasn’t supposed to know, and he started following me around. He bought this shack when I finally settled in Capital City.”

“Why you?”

“I was the one who accidentally told him.”

“#### me – and how long do we have?”

“Dunno. That’s what he’s looking to learn as well. I promised him I’d tell him as soon as I had an exact date, but that was almost a decade ago, and he’s still waiting.”

“Jesus, in that case what’s the difference? I could be hit by a car tomorrow, doesn’t mean I’m going to move to a ####ing Toyota dealership.” Despite her bravado, Bunny took a deep sip from her glass before continuing. “I’ve never seen you give #### all for nothing, though, so why are you helping him? You don’t even drink the free beer he offers.”

“Well, I feel somewhat responsible for dropping the apocalypse on him, but I was also a huge fan of Cheers, back in the day.”

“The only time you crack a joke is when you’re avoiding the truth,” replied Bunny. She pulled in another mouthful of ale. “Are those guys your fault too?”

“The three Steves?” said Coffin, turning to the identical trio of blond men in baseball caps. “No, they’re their own problem. He was overseas doing some contract construction work when he found a relic he shouldn’t have touched. Getting his selves back here was a pain apparently, they had to risk mailing his passport twice before they were gathered again. He makes out OK now though, two of them hang out here while the other is back home, and they get a lot of one-off renovation jobs around the city, so a pair can be earning while the loafer drinks the proceeds.”

“Sounds like a sweet deal.”

“Well, there’s a hitch, of course. They all love the same woman, his – uh, their – wife, but they know damn well that if she was aware of the situation, she’d turn the lot of them onto the street. I think he kind of resents his selves for the time he spends with her.”

“That’s ####ed up.”

“Yeah, like I said, not every problem has a simple solution. The guy who sent the Steves this way – you met him once – he came to me looking for help in a professional capacity. He was high on shrooms, and messing around with some friends in a South-side rail yard, when he’d fallen through the floor of a semi-abandoned service building. It was too dark to see, and he said he wandered around for hours before he fell asleep. Woke up in his own bed, no idea how he’d gotten there.”

Coffin scooped a handful of complimentary peanuts from the small brown bowl at his elbow.

“At first he just used the drugs to explain everything away, but he started having a repeating nightmare. He’d dream that he was under his covers, and, although he couldn’t move, he had a clear view of his room’s door. For three of four months, it was the same boring scene, then, one evening, he notices the front end of a sneaker at the entrance. The next night, he had line of sight on a little Adidas runner, with a scraped knee and shin attached. Then he could make out a pair of little blue shorts and a ten-year-old’s face. He figured the boy was getting a step closer every time he slept. Tough circumstances – it was like he was awake, in broad daylight, with nothing to stare at for eight hours but the approaching child. Still, he couldn’t give a decent description to assist with identification – he said the kid’s face looked as if it’d been pulled apart by rats. He could even make out gnaw-marks on the eyelids.”

Grimacing, Bunny finished number six and ordered number seven. She nodded away her interruption, encouraging Will to carry on.

Wiping salt from his fingers, Coffin did.

“He only knew to ask me because he was my cousin by marriage. One of Sandy’s favourites, actually. Honestly, I don’t think it was coincidence. At the time, I could go years without encountering anything interesting, but, between the day he fell into the hole, and the day he came to me for help, I killed a lycanthrope, conducted a phantasmal marching band, and refused four separate offers for my eternal soul. I think he was called down there to wake something up.

“I was pretty green, but I’d read about a ritual that would be of assistance. We started it on the morning after the kid reached the foot of his bed. That was the last time he slept. His brain isn’t quite what it used to be, but he still prefers to not know what would happen if he’d waited any longer – and, given how busy my trade has been since, I’d rather not find out either.”

“Is the l’il b#####d still getting closer?”

“I can’t say. Ghosts don’t appear in dreams, and I’ve yet to find anything that would provide an explanation. I keep hoping to come across an answer that’ll fix them both, I just haven’t – yet.” He shrugged. ”Sometimes there’s no easy resolution. ”

From over the lip of her upturned glass, Bunny’s gin-blossomed nose bobbed in agreement.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

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.

FP158 – The Lilly Belle: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and fifty-eight.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Lilly Belle: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp158.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Walker Journals

One man, one axe, and a multitude of the undead.

Find them all at youtube.com/walkerzombiesurvivor

 

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, student of the occult and master frontiersman, finds himself at the site of a lonely tragedy.

 

Flash Pulp 158 – The Lilly Belle: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Blackhall stood at the edge of the Atlantic, the turbulent air snatching the hem of his greatcoat. As the sea smashed itself upon the rocks at his feet, his boots grew slick from the spray.

The clouds from the east were thick and hateful.

His arm was extended against the gale, high above his head, and, at its end, he swung a silver chain on which was affixed a hook of intricate craftsmanship. With each revolution of the fetish came a blast of wind, and, in turn, each gust drove the roiling waters to further frenzy.

The wide brimmed hat, which served Blackhall well as guard both against the sun, and the chill of early Spring, took flight from his close-cropped scalp, ensnaring itself amongst the scrub brush at his back. He did not cease his occult goading of the storm.

Beneath the gloom of the thunderheads, the hulk of The Lily Belle lay plainly visible, some two-hundred yards from the coast. It’s masts and canvas were aflame, and its angle of list spoke plainly of emergency and ruin.

Setting his stance against the increasing howl of the squall, Thomas watched as a pair of launches attempted to make for his position, heaving wildly, and seeming oddly out of sync with the crest and fall of the surf. They’d halved the distance before the disaster: nearly in unison, both were carried high in the air, then spun about sideways, disgorging their occupants into the frigid depths.

It required no imagination on Blackhall’s part to see that the stony outcroppings, laid bare by the rolling troughs, were unnavigable by even the most proficient of the struggling swimmers.

Closing his eyes, he maintained the cadence of his trinket’s rotation, coaxing ever-greater wrath from the tempest.

* * *

BlackhallA month earlier, he himself had been a passenger in The Lily Belle’s hold.

The journey was a long one, and he spent it eager to set foot on the turf of Lower Canada – to begin the search for his stolen love, Mairi. The ship, as befitted the cost of fare, was filled to capacity with the grubby faces of destitute farmers, all living in hope that they would reach a land of promise and wealth, as painted by their politicians’ promises.

Blackhall had found little conversation amongst either the pew-warmers, or the drunks, but the ship’s cook – a squinting fellow, who looked as if he’d seen the arrival and retreat of the Roman occupation – happily shared what knowledge he’d managed to gather regarding the tall pines and teeming streams of the north.

The ancient man, who spoke of his extensive experiences only in the third-person, and always ascribed himself the name Marigold, had provided much comfort when Thomas found his fortitude tried by the stink of the lower berths.

It was on such an evening of alleviation that his new friend had confided his own secret desire.

“Marigold’s been in this ghastly rocking horse for nigh five years, and a good dozen leaky sieves afore this one. He’s no interest in another scuttle over the horizon. It’s his last voyage – once load’s delivered, it’s a plain white house in St. Andrews, and all the fish he can eat till the day he’s buried.”

“Will you not miss home?” Thomas had asked.

“No – it’s not been thus since the death of Abigail,” replied the hash-master.

“Well then, will you not miss the brine?”

“It’ll be close enough, and what has it got Marigold thus far? It’s stolen his leg, and the time he might have otherwise had with his wife.”

Pulling back a ragged length of trouser, the man demonstrated his sole point of pride. Beneath the worn cloth was a handsome length of wood, bound tightly at his misshapen knee. The stout oak had been well varnished, to proof it against the constant moisture that was the nature of his occupation, but before the stain had set, a labyrinthine series of images had been etched across its surface.

“‘Tis the story of my life,” the amputee explained, after Thomas had taken up a long moment of inspection. “It begins at the base, with the twisted face of Marigold’s first skipper – a pig that man was – and here, where lumber turns to flesh, is the loss of Abigail.”

“You’ve left yourself little room for old age,” noted Blackhall, completing his scrutiny.

“Mayhaps a replacement is in order, from amongst the pine, once the new life has begun.”

When they’d finally reached a view of land, however, their intentions had gone awry. The Captain had planned to sail on to Quebec City, but the St. Lawrence, the mighty vein which carried to the heart of the virgin territory, was thick with ice, and deemed impassible for weeks to come.

They’d anchored at the mouth, hoping for a sudden thaw, but the wait was too much for Blackhall, who longed to be onto his chase. He was instead turned loose in the wildwood.

The subsequent weeks were made somewhat easier by the mystical charms he’d collected on the European continent, and about his home isle, but the majority of his survival came to the labour of his arms and the sweat of his brow. It was tough work acclimatizing himself to the fowl and fish of the foreign wilderness, but a month’s effort had given him confidence in the foraging skills instilled by the Jesuits, and hardened in his days of soldiering.

He was considering breaking from his northward direction – to move further west, and away from the ready bounty of the ocean – when he’d made his grisly discovery. As he’d settled into a bed of recently tanned hide, he was surprised to note a gleam in the distance.

Journeying into the shadows, towards the source of the illumination, he was brought up short by the broad expanse of darkened water, and, standing at the ocean’s edge, his nose caught the stench of rot.

The light was the ghostly image of a ship, every plank aglow with spectral radiance, being tossed high upon a memory of rough water. Despite the placid wake, two shuttles detached themselves, and began cresting waves invisible to Thomas’ gaze, dipping below the murky plane as oft as they appeared above. Even as the remnants of the crew and passengers took flight, the wreck’s masts groaned a final time, and disappeared beneath the waterline.

At the mid-point of the escape, the ethereal boats had toppled and gone under. As Blackhall watched, helpless to assist, a scattering of phantasms desperately made for the shore, but each was soon submerged and lost from sight.

For Thomas, a restless night followed.

As dawn broke, the source of the fetid smell became apparent. The rocky bay had collected up the remains of some three dozen men, women, and children, and the elements, as well as the carrion feeders, had worked hard at their anatomies. The sun had reached its zenith by the time Blackhall had closed his grip around a salty pant-leg, and met unexpected resistance. The bloat had made Marigold unrecognizable, but there was no match in the world for that singular prosthesis.

He could not say what had driven the Lily Belle from its original course – perhaps the intended settlers had harried the Captain from his anchor, feeling that any point of firmity was as welcoming as another. Whatever the case, they’d never made their destination.

Although his palms bled, and his fingers wept puss from their blisters, all at the effort he invested to give the release of proper burial, the scene repeated itself again the next eve.

Spray alone could not be blamed for the damp which touched Thomas’ eyes that hour.

Three long days of preparation were necessary,and so it was, on the third dusk, that he summoned the fury of the storm. In truth, the savage weather was but a byproduct of so foricbly drawing back the veil between the sturdy earth and the intangible beyond, but the nearness of the realities gave new strength to the restless dead, so that they might touch that which had called to them from such a separation of sea and sky.

His hat forgotten, and his arm aching from the expenditure necessary to keep his talisman aloft, the lone survivor of the ship’s passage marked each pilgrim’s landing.

As they set hand or foot upon the shore, they seemed to sigh, and dwindled to a mist which, heeding not the flurry, diffused unhurriedly across the stout terrain.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

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.

FP157 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and fifty-seven.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp157.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites Podcast.

Find out more at http://nimlas.org!

 

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, Harm Carter must contend with the sudden death of an acquaintance, as well as the gunman who did her in.

 

Flash Pulp 157 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 3 of 3

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

 

The Murder PlagueI’ll admit it – Johanna was the closest to a post-apocalyptic friend that I’d had up until that point. Not that we talked much, I suppose, but she’d quickly took up a hose when it looked like my house was likely to burn down, and that sort of thing tends to make me like a person.

“Whoa, hello Sheriff!” said Jeremy. The ill dressed hooligan was smiling.

We were all watching Tyrone, who was holding the handgun firmly at his side. It was a slightly more pleasant alternative to staring at the leaking carcass of our former companion.

“She was infected,” the old man replied.

“Hell yeah,” agreed the former Presidential-nominee. “I bet if we’d gone back there to look at the guy she clubbed to death, she would have used it as a chance to take out another one of us.”

Honestly, the shock of witnessing sudden death wasn’t what had me on my heels, it was the casual justification that followed. I’d forgotten that these people had been at the business of surviving the Murder Plague longer than I had. The cabin was like an ancient memory, as if it were something I’d known as a child – not just a few days earlier – and it seemed to me then that the extra week of enduring Hitchcock’s had turned my fellow humans into monsters.

Minnie stepped in then, carrying the light of hope.

“What the sweet crippity-crap are you yammering about?” she asked. “You have no proof, you just murdered her! You’re no better than they are!”

She was a brave girl to be shouting at a man with a pistol, especially one who had already proven his willingness to use it.

“Shut it,” replied Jeremy, “Let the adults talk.”

I cleared my throat, trying to get my feet.

“There aren’t any children anymore,” I said.

Tyrone pointed the death-dealer in my direction.

“She was working with Paul – imagine that, my own boy, trying to kill me. Not at home? Where else would he be? Coming to find me, of course. No other way about it. You two were in there way too long for it to be otherwise – long enough to plan. Where is he? Where’s Paul!?”

Having a gun aimed at you is an uncomfortable experience. Like a game of twister in reverse, your entire body wants to contort away from the one spot that would mark the passage of the bullet.

“Dammit,” said Jeremy, conceding his error.

The former grandfather, realizing just how close we all were, took a step back – that’s when a face appeared between the ads for scratch tickets. He was a big guy, with meaty cheeks, and his skull was clearly visible through the multitude of skin flaps on his forehead. The stranger put a bloody hand on the window, and suddenly I wasn’t the one in the line of fire anymore. While I was busy scraping my palms and knees on the pavement with a rushed dive, Minnie scooped up a jug of blue windshield washer fluid.

After several pops in quick succession, the weapon clicked on an empty chamber. The teen let fly with both arms, crushing the codger’s nose.

To Jeremy’s credit, he thought to try for a grab before Tyrone could pull any more rabbits from beneath his sweater.

Imitating the moves of a TV wrestling champ, the youth managed knock away the ordnance and entrap his elder in an awkward headlock. For a moment, the senior stopped struggling, and the situation seemed under control.

There was nothing we could do for the interloper.

I stooped to pick up the barren armament, and asked, “well, what now?”

“I vote we leave him,” replied Minnie. “Like Alyssa. Just get in the car and go.”

“He just killed someone!” shouted Jeremy.

“Two someones,” I corrected.

“So, you were wrong on Johanna,” said the girl, “- but this time you’re sure, so it’s OK to execute him?”

“Hey – I never said I was wrong about her, for all we know she infected him,” responded the captor.

“You’re on his side,” announced his captive.

Trying to hold onto someone who’s vehemently opposed to the idea is a much tougher bit of business than cop shows would have you believe. Four flailing limbs can make brutal clubs. The senior’s illness gave him the energy of a man a quarter his age, and one who’d been doped up on pharmaceuticals and thrown into a gladiatorial arena at that. Jeremy couldn’t maintain his grip.

Once free, Tyrone lunged for the door’s gray metal handle, danced over the store’s original occupant, and absconded inside.

No one was interested in giving chase, but, as we watched through the ragged holes in the safety glass, we soon realized it would have been a short pursuit anyhow.

Instead of breaking towards the washroom, as Johanna had done, he ran through a gray entrance marked “Employees Only” – towards the stock room.

I didn’t get close enough to investigate, so I don’t know how the shop’s first resident had rigged it, but, if Tyrone hadn’t sprouted an inverted axe handle from the top of his skull, it would have simply looked as if the old man had come to a sudden stop. I suppose the idea had been that any looters would make directly for the supplies, but the hoarder’s suspicions hadn’t considered that a traveller’s bladder might take precedence above their stomach. At the appearance of Johanna, he’d been forced to take matters into his own hands.

Even then, it didn’t prove he’d been sick – at best, it proved he’d been greedy.

We rummaged around and found three jerrycans, which we filled to the brim with fuel. None of us felt like snatching up any snacks – it wasn’t the corpses, it was the fact that we couldn’t be sure that the trapster hadn’t poisoned everything he didn’t want to eat.

Call us wasteful if you like, but we took another vote then, and pyre won out over burial.

We were a long ways away before the burning station’s column of smoke disappeared from my rear-view mirror.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

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.

FP156 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and fifty-six.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp156.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites Podcast.

Find out more at http://nimlas.org!

 

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, Harm Carter pulls into a roadside gas station, and must convene a jury of his peers.

 

Flash Pulp 156 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 2 of 3

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

 

The Murder PlagueOnce back on the road, we were making good time on the highway when the Escalade’s fuel light came on. I had to ask myself a pressing question: when does looting simply become salvaging? If trapped in the middle of a contagion that transforms friends and family into paranoiac homicidals, is it an ethical issue to run off with a bag of Frito’s and a tank of gas?

The reality – given my operation of a vehicle which I’d borrowed from an acquaintance whom I’d personally ended – was that I’d already made my decision.

As such – and at the vocal insistence of my companions’ bladders – I pulled over at a deserted parking lot of a Gas’N’Go.

I tugged the keys from the ignition and made my way to the glass door. Not terribly excited about the the idea of being shot for plundering, I peered between the scratch ticket advertisements, and followed it up by shouting for service.

None appeared.

My preference would have been to wait it out a moment, but, behind me, I could hear my cohorts stuck in an urgent two-step jig, so I gave the handle a tug. I was surprised when the entrance opened with a cheery bing.

Up until that point, my fellow travellers had watched my prodding with trepidation and locked knees, but, unwilling, or unable, to hold on any longer, Johanna pushed me aside to brave the interior.

As she moved past the Doritos display rack, I shrugged and returned to the pumps.

Across the pavement, I heard Tyrone let out a snort as he surveyed the scene.

Jeremy was still at the vehicle as I twisted off the gas cap. His eyes seemed to be tracking a tennis game taking place between the store’s entry and the highway.

Finally, he said “I’m going around to the rear. Listen, in case I need help.”

“Well,” I replied, “I think you’re probably a big enough boy to -”

“Haw. Haw,” he interrupted, “I mean I may start yelling if there’s some sort of psycho thinking my need to piss is somehow a plan to slowly drown them.”

He trotted around the building’s vinyl-sided corner.

“I’d kill for a cigarette,” said Tyrone. As the blocky numbers tallied the cost of fuel I had no intention of paying for, we watched Minnie, still dancing from foot-to-foot by the gas station’s door. I assumed we were both busy placing silent bets with ourselves regarding her fortitude. “I quit thirty-five years ago, but it seems like a waste of will power, considering the state of the world. Want to head in with me, once my knees are stretched out, and help an old man reach for a pack?”

He smiled at me – the only time I saw him do so.

Still squeezing the handle, I thought of Johanna, and her hidden flask.

“Suppose,” I replied, “we make it to the military blockade. Maybe it takes us weeks, months even, but somehow we all manage to cross over, and, better yet, there’s a vaccine, or even a cure, waiting. There you are, stretching out on a free army cot, a hot meal in your belly and your thinking you’ve made it. Then the news comes down that the routine physical you just took detected a big black gob of cancer in your left lung. You don’t want to be that schmuck, do you?”

There was an edge in his eyes that piqued my curiosity about his response, but I never heard it – that’s when Minnie started screaming.

Johanna had exited the store, and her floral print dress was now slick and crimson.

Stepping in her direction, I tried to suss out where or how she might have been hurt. Jo had her arms out, almost as if to say, “will you look at this mess?” Before I’d halved the distance, she turned towards the still screaming teen, and that’s when the girl finally shut up. She was too busy swinging her fist to be slowed by unnecessary noise making.

As I pulled Minnie away, Jeremy reappeared.

Never one to rush to judgement, he shouted “She’s snapped!”

“No I haven’t – there was a man back there… While I was sitting there he suddenly burst through the door. I’ve never been so afraid in my life.” I couldn’t tell if she was in shock or not, but it was certainly the longest I’d ever heard her speak in a single breath. No longer caring who saw, she retrieved her rye and emptied the container. “I don’t even know how I did it, I hit him with the toilet cover, I guess, and he went into the mirror, and his head was sprinkling everywhere. As we hit each other all the cuts sprayed like we were shaking out a wet towel full of blood.”

She needed a hug, but I’ve never been one for initiating human contact – I should have though.

“How can we know that’s true!?” shouted Jeremy. His cheeks had gone red with the excitement, and his words were accompanied by vigorous arm flailing. “The guy was probably trying to find help, and she had a spazz out. She’s infected, and we should leave her here.”

“Well, fortunately, El Presidente, it’s not your decision alone. I’ve had to do some pretty ugly things in the last few days, and I believe her story. I say she comes.”

“I won’t get in the truck if she’s coming,” said Jeremy.

“You’re a free man.” I replied. I turned to Minnie. “- and your vote?”

The girl rounded on the silently weeping drunk.

“I’m sorry I hit you. I just panicked. I believe your story, though.”

Wheeling towards Tyrone, I was hopeful about the results of the headcount.

I was very surprised to see the codger holding a pistol, but I was more so when Johanna’s face disappeared with three sharp pops.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

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.

FP155 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and fifty-five.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp155.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites Podcast.

Find out more at http://nimlas.org!

 

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, Harm Carter explores the interior of a companion’s son’s home, while considering his future in a land brimming with homicide.

 

Flash Pulp 155 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 1 of 3

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

 

The Murder PlagueThere’s not much in the way of conversation starting after you and some friends have abandoned a bound paranoiac-madwoman, even if she was sick and likely to murder the lot of you.

Still, I suspect the thoughts of the five of us remaining in the Escalade spun around the same few questions: when was she infected? How was she infected? Were we now infected too?

Well, maybe all minds except Jeremy’s. That boy rarely had anything on his mind beyond the interior of his pants and his own position in the world.

After an hour’s driving, he broke the silence.

“So, uh,” he said. As he spoke, I remember him undoing his seat-belt and lifting himself off the leather so he could tug at his over-sized t-shirt. I also remember wondering how he’d managed to wrangle the passenger-side spot. Old man Tyrone didn’t look terribly comfortable wedged in back, between the ladies, and I felt like a chauffeur to the trio – with the middle row missing, it seemed like they were sitting at the far end of a football field. I could only guess where the former owner had stashed the rogue bench, as peculiar objects often went missing during the time of Hitchcock’s. “We should nominate a leader. I think we all agree that, as the strongest dude here, I should probably be it.”

“This isn’t a game of schoolyard red rover,” I replied. “We don’t need a team captain.”

Two days prior my discharge from Uncle Sam’s marching penguins, I’d been directed to kill a sixteen-year-old looter. The sole person to issue me an order from then, till the plague, was Kate, and cancer ended that chain of command well before the young hooligan’s suggestion that he might elect himself as a tinpot President.

“My boy lives a half mile down from the next right-hand turn,” said Tyrone.

I have to give the codger credit for knowing when to change the subject. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or not – it struck me as odd that he he hadn’t mentioned anything until we’d gotten so close, but, in retrospect, I can’t blame him for avoiding answers.

I rounded the corner.

The house had a big yard, slightly overgrown, and various children’s toys seemed to float on its surface, half-submerged in the greenery. There were no lights behind the windows of either floor.

“Don’t think anyone is home,” said Johanna.

Minnie cleared her throat.

“You guys can go poking around all you like, but I’m not going in. Leave me the keys, though.”

I killed the engine, watching Tyrone’s rheumy eyes in the mirror as he sized up the shadowy front-porch.

“OK then,” I said, “This decision is simple enough – we break into two groups: everyone going in, get out.”

There was a pause, during which nobody moved, then, for some bloody reason, I opened my door.

The real surprise came next, however. It was just me and Johanna.

“It’s really appreciated,” shouted Tyrone, from behind the glass.

I damned my mother for raising her son so well.

Johanna cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing. She did crack a bit of a smile when she noticed me dropping the Escalade’s starter into my pants-pocket.

What else was there to do?

We walked down the cobble-stone path that split from the driveway and took the double tread up onto the welcome mat. Out of sight of the rest of the group, my companion snuck a flip of her flask, then offered me some of the same.

It was tempting, but I declined. As she raised another tipple, I alternated between the brass knocker and the buzzer. No one responded.

Tucking away her thirst, Johanna tried the lock and found no resistance. I followed her inside.

Across from the entry, sitting on a buffet below the flight of steps leading to the second floor, was an ancient answering machine. The only source of light in the room was the digital counter, which was blinking five. I would rather have avoided it, but, while I was still fumbling for a switch, she hit the barely visible play button.

The device gave a few metallic clicks, then started talking.

“Paul, Maggie,” said Tyrone’s voice. “It’s, uh, Tuesday, 9AM. I’m not liking the looks of the neighbourhood. Your dear old dad is coming to visit. See you soon.”

As it was a Tuesday, the communique must have been at least a week old.

There was a flat beep, then a woman’s suburbanite mutter. As she spoke, I managed to locate a row of dimmers and flooded the entrance area – which included the living room to the left and the kitchen to the right – with illumination.

There was a fat dead dog at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hi,” said the machine. It sounded as if she were calling from a moving vehicle. “Nick was telling me about the birthday invitation you guys sent last week. I’ve just got a few quick questions, if you could give me a call back.”

She left her number, but my memory isn’t as reliable as a cassette tape.

We went around the couch, ignoring the tidy stack of magazines and remotes on the coffee table at its center.

There was a large fireplace beside the flatscreen, so I picked up a poker, and Johanna followed my lead by grabbing a solid metal ash-pan. There wasn’t much else of interest, nor in the little office that adjoined the space, nor in the dining room that lead off of that.

The litany of missed calls continued.

“It’s pretty rude not to give some simple answers,” opened the third message. “Nick is, uh, really upset that he doesn’t know what’s going on. You better call me.”

Our exploration brought us to the kitchen’s other access, and our path at that point inevitably lead back to the canine cadaver. It looked in rough shape. It’s dark brown fur contained streaks of dried blood, but the thick coat also hid the exact nature of its injuries from view. Fortunately, it didn’t smell terribly rotten yet.

I spent a moment guessing if Tyrone would be offended at my idea of using one of the canvas grocery bags, which were hanging on a hook beside the pearly white microwave, to collect up some canned goods.

The box gave another beep.

“Listen to me. I’ve driven by your house twice now, and I can see you moving inside. ANSWER MY CALLS.”

I decided to skip the pillaging and move directly to the second floor. Keeping my eyes firmly on my feet, I took the steps two at a time. Johanna was right beside me, close enough that I could tell it was rye she’d been drinking, and we moved in unison.

Neither of us made it beyond the baby gate which barred the opening to the upper hallway.

There was a lot of someone, or someones, spread around the carpet.

“Beep,” announced the phone-minder.

“I’m coming over,” said the woman. Then she hung up with a clunk.

“Why did she kill the dog too?” asked Johanna, as we made our way back onto the porch.

“She didn’t,” I told her. “The mutt’s what made the mess. Poor pooch probably hid under a bed while it was happening. Then, days later, once there was nothing usable left to eat, it must have tried to jump the gate, breaking its neck in the process.”

Before climbing into the vehicle, we agreed to tell Tyrone the house was empty.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

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.