Tag: fiction

Flash Pulp 094 – Aspect, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety-Four.

Tonight we present Aspect, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp094.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Ella’s Words.

Usually these ads are funny.

Find the poetess’ work 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 present a suburban haunted house tale, in the classic style.

Flash Pulp 094 – Aspect, Part 1 of 1

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

Mike watched as a lone blackbird wheeled below the clouds, riding winds too high to cool the boys roasting in the hot and sticky sun.

For the moment the other two eldest were focused on the youngest, which was a rarity.

“Miller was whispering it to a couple of people, and I heard it while I was on the swings,” said Joe-boy, Mike’s little brother. “The house between Anne Eaton’s and the place with the camping trailer in the driveway is haunted.”

“Ain’t no such friggin’ thing,” said Tucker, Mike’s best friend.

“Hey – I was in a haunted house once, things were flying at my head, my mom got like totally lifted off the ground and stuff, it was crazy!” replied Puggs. Mike could have done without the lanky fourth-grader hanging around, but whenever he opened the door to the outside world there he seemed to be, waiting on the sidewalk.

“Yeah, right. When was that, before or after you and your uncle supposedly caught a UFO on tape?” Tucker had considerably less patience for the braggart.

“Hey, you know I’d love to show you the tape, but my stupid sister recorded over it with a bunch of iCarly episodes.”

“Whatever.”

Mike ceased listlessly spinning his bike pedal backwards.

“Have you got a better suggestion?”

Tucker shrugged. It was at least another hour before lunch.

* * *

The place on the left had opted for paving stones in the driveway and the place on the right had decided the windows overlooking the garage from the second floor would be round instead of square – otherwise, the trio of houses, as could be said about every home in the Whispering Pines suburb, were identical.

Still, the pulled curtains and dying potted flowers that fronted the reputedly haunted residence were enough to stifle Tucker’s skepticism.

“My Dad says he hasn’t seen the guy who owns the place since he moved in,” said Puggs.

“Your Dad says he killed nearly two-hundred people in the Persian Gulf,” replied Tucker.

“He’s gonna show me his ear-necklace when I’m old enough.”

Mike ducked his head back and forth to check the road for elders, then dropped his bike onto the lawn and approached the shining expanse of glass surrounding the front door. The others followed.

Except for a single chair, slightly askew, the entry hall was empty. None of the boys could identify anything further in the dimly-lit space beyond.

“Maybe the guy moved in, then got so depressed about living here that he hung himself,” offered Puggs.

“There’s no one in there. He’s probably at work,” replied Tucker. Despite his bravado, the boy was no longer peering into the darkness.

“Yeah? If you’re so sure, why don’t you go in and check?”

To the surprise of all, Mike tried the handle.

It was locked.

“Miller said he was walking by at night and saw red-glowing eyes upstairs, but when a car drove by, they disappeared.” Joe-boy retreated to the entrance’s step as he spoke.

Mike took another long moment to stare into into the shadows that crowded the lone chair.

“What if we try the magic window?”

The magic window was the name the boys had given a basement frame that had been consistently mis-installed throughout the neighbourhood; the locking mechanism rarely seated properly, and they occasionally used the defect to their advantage when they’d forgotten their home-keys.

The group rounded the side of the house.

“If I start running, its not a ghost, its ‘cause I heard an alarm beep. You run too.” The lead boy bit his lip, considering, then added: “Joe-boy, get on your bike.”

His brother required no convincing.

Standing at the edge of the small pit that was the window well, Mike had a notion, as he often did when he awoke in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, that if he let his legs descend, his ankles would be grasped by some long-nailed horror.

“Uh, I’m going to pull it open from up here, in case someone inside yells.”

Setting himself on his knees, he reached below. Using the friction of his greasy palm against the pane’s cool surface, he moved it first up, then over.

The pinky on his left hand, the hand he’d had pressed firmly against the window, disappeared in a roar surrounded by a halo of shattered glass.

Puggs wet himself.

Tucker stood in a stupor, his eyes wide, his arm extended towards the injury, uselessly.

Spotting the red running down Mike’s wrist, Joe-boy began to cry.

Bike forgotten, the injured youth began to run home, blood and tears leaving a trail behind him on the sidewalk. The others followed like a flock of starlings alighting from a tenuous perch.

* * *

Despite spending the majority of the remainder of the summer grounded and healing from his gunshot wound, Mike was greeted in the fall as a schoolyard hero: the boy who’d discovered the booby traps of the haunted grow-op.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 093 – The Elg Herra, Part 6 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety-Three.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Elg Herra: A Blackhall Tale, Part 6 of 6
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp093.mp3]

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by MT Starkey Short Stories.

Dark tales of shadowy doings in dimly lit rooms.

To find them, click here.

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

Tonight, Blackhall finally reaches the home of the Moose Lords, where he must complete long standing business.

Flash Pulp 093 – The Elg Herra, Part 6 of 6

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

Blackhall’s first view of the longhouses came on the morning of his fourth day riding with the Moose Lords. The evening previous, the small band of travelers had met another mounted patrol, and the Elg Herra had spent a merry night conversing in their own tongue. As dawn broke, they’d kicked the ashes of the fire under, checked the lashings that held Kol’s body in place – now wrapped in the hide of his own saddle bags to stifle his musk – and departed.

Thomas was glad they’d waited till light.

The structures trundled as if massive beetles, the painted symbols on their oblong rooves exposed to the riders, who had approached from the peak of a gentle crest. Great treads marked their passage upon the plain, and, as Blackhall took in the behemoths, he noted that the shortest of the five had no less than sixteen wheels. They moved in an arrowhead shape; the lead and largest wagon was followed by three ranging in a wide row, then close behind those came a mass of black animals. The smallest, and nearest, of the wheelhouses brought up the rear.

“An impressive sight,” he remarked to Asmund.

“A welcome one,” the man replied. “The furthest, the one in the lead, we simply call “The Earl’s House”, although he is but one of its many occupants. The one at center we have named “Night”, as it serves only to allow those who must patrol in the dark hours an opportunity to slumber. On right and left are those we call Dusk and Dawn – they are home to many more Elg Herra. Our shortest house, the one which trails behind, is Relief; it carries lumber, tools, a forge, and the various necessities of maintenance.”

As they overtook the rearmost shadow, Blackhall tightened his coat against the chill wind blown from the spruce trunks that acted as wheel-spokes. Above the grinding complaints of the axle could be heard the occasional creak of shifting wood, familiar to any who had sailed upon a tall ship. However, soon after, both sounds were drowned by the roar of the hooves which gave the conveyance motion. A sea of buffalo moved at its head, the beasts harnessed into an orderly grid and maintained by a half dozen lithe daredevils.

“We call it dancing the squares,” said Asmund. “We value the dancers as we value warriors, and the tales of their bravery are often given equal time in tales of combat. They maintain and direct the beasts, giving them food and water even as we travel, and ensuring the security of both oxen and tack.”

Thomas watched a youth leap from the back of one frothing animal, take three quick steps along a taut leather line, and complete his journey by landing with splayed legs upon the shoulders of another. The boy smiled to see them pass, his fingers still busy working at some unseen kink in the rigging.

As they drew ahead, Blackhall took in the herd. If the grunting rows which pulled Relief had been a sea, then here was an ocean. Thousands more buffalo trampled flat the grasses, their order maintained under the eyes of a wide and moving ring of cow-moose mounted wranglers. Many of the watchers, both men and women, raised a hand in greeting to Asmund and Mord.

It was another half-hour before they overtook the Earl’s house.

* * *

The plan had been straightforward enough. Fifty-seven able bodies, each one the mother or father of a missing child, were sequestered in a single longhouse, in place of the fifty-seven innocents that made up the remainder of the community’s progeny.

“It is my understanding,” Blackhall had told the Earl, “that you contend with a beast known as the Lamia. I have heard her name invoked by mothers as a boogieman, but she was once well known, long ago, as a murderous hag who consumed infants in blind vengeance for the death of her own children, who were supposedly struck down by Hera. You would know her by her face, which unhinges into a monstrous expanse wide enough to insert a child whole.”

His words had been enough to bring the elder leader’s shoulders to sag, and to convince the man of his plan’s merit. It was a necessary trust, as Thomas felt it imperative that none but those involved should know, especially as only Mord and a hand picked second would be on hand to guard the true children, now tucked away in Relief. Blackhall had been sure to implant the defenders’ weapons with what little silver – a nearly universal poison to what the Elg Herra named mist-walkers – the community could turn up, but it had left his trap poorly armed.

The most difficult aspect of the preparation had been the covert modification of the half beds, so that grown forms might appear as if children, and yet still spring readily from the depths of the bedclothes to encounter the monster.

The charade of maintaining a strict watch over infants that were not on hand was wearing, and so it was almost with relief, on the third evening of his vigil, that Thomas finally heard the mid-night click-and-thud of a window being manipulated someway down the darkened hall.

“For Ida!” he bellowed, throwing off the heavy covering he’d laid over his oil lamp. It’s meager light was enough to allow the Elg Herra to leap to their stations, bodily barring each possible exit.

The crone was quick to react, and she immediately began to spider to the nearest shutter on all four of her gout-covered limbs. With a careless toss, she removed one of the window’s guardians, then reared on the stout woman who alone secured the opening.

With a desperate grunt, Thomas threw his saber. The lamia, seeing the inbound weapon, reflexively flinched, even though the sword had been cast on a clumsy arc. The projectile rebounded heavily off of the shutter and clattered to the floor. Blackhall, however, was quick behind his missile; his freed hand had closed immediately upon Ida’s dagger, gifted to him by her brother on the first long night of his duty, and, with his full momentum behind his arm, he plunged the short blade into the crone’s neck. A spurt of clotted, fetid blood ran over the sleeve of his greatcoat, and the hag fell, dead.

Marco, having closed the distance, spotted the outcome, and slapped Thomas’ clean shoulder with a smirk.

Only later would it be noted, with grim eyes, that Hakon could not be found amongst the ranks as the news spread beyond.

* * *

The sweet wine with which they’d ended the conference finally brought a smile to the old man’s face.

Blackhall cleared his throat.

“I can not keep both your daughter’s dagger and my clear conscience. It was Ida’s wish to pass on the blade to one of your people. Perhaps it would be best if it was kept in your care until the next heir is born.”

The Earl’s grin faded as he reached a hand to the jeweled hilt. With a careful hold he set it beside the cup from which he drank. After a moment the man reached forward, once again taking up the long stick with which he’d been stirring the fire. With an eye on the flames, he set to tapping a gentle rhythm upon the iron bowl which held them.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 092 – The Elg Herra, Part 5 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety-Two.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Elg Herra: A Blackhall Tale, Part 5 of 6
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp092.mp3]

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by MT Starkey Short Stories.

One man’s vision of a post-apocalyptic yesterday.

To find them, click here.

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

Tonight, Blackhall witnesses a trial by combat between Moose Lords.

Flash Pulp 092 – The Elg Herra, Part 5 of 6

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

Thomas was impressed with the speed at which the camp was broken down. The hide tents quickly transformed into saddle bags, filled with bulky gear the imprisoned had no opportunity to identify, and it seemed little more than ten minutes from intention to departure.

The day was spent in a forced march, with Blackhall and his voyageur companion lashed to the saddle of their youngest captor, Mord. The Moose Lords remained as silent as their long faced mounts during the trek, but twice they paused to allow their prisoners drink and a few mouthfuls of mealy bread.

The air had become crisp, and the horizon was marked by the red of a sinking sun, when the halt was called.

Mord disentangled the leashes’ end from the ring upon which they’d been tied, and motioned for the pair to sit, which they did gratefully. Dismounting, the tall man moved to their side, his eyes playing over the open plain that stretched before them.

“We’ve re-entered the domain – it is forbidden to eingvi outside of it,” the giant said, rubbing down his beast’s snout; he did not turn to his captives, but instead maintained a careful eye on Hakon as he spoke. The words seemed to hold the forced carelessness that Blackhall, as a former soldier, associated with impending combat, when fighting men’s lips often seem disconnected from the hearts resting hard in their stomachs.

The adversaries, casting off their long coats, had removed several items from within their baggage, and begun to dress. Their armour was ringmail of a type which recalled the stories of ancient knights to Thomas’ mind, although their design seemed to hew closer to the images he’d seen of the sword-warriors of the far-east.

During his slog, the frontiersman had made special note of the long wooden clubs held in place along the right hand side of each saddle. After a low exchange between Kol and Asmund, both lifted their weapons free of their bonds. The men’s armaments were of the same basic design: a bone-shaped cudgel at one extreme, the other tapered into a blade-like point, and a nub midway between. It was immediately obvious to Blackhall, even at a distance, that Asmund’s own carried considerable engraving about its surface, while Kol’s had but a few simple bands that ran its length.

As the duelists moved away from the larger group, Hakon put over a leg and dropped to the ground.

In turn, Mord let out a short breath and moved his hand away from his own bludgeon.

The moose seemed to fully understand the intentions of their masters; no longer did they move with the lumbering strides they’d employed throughout the day’s journey, but instead the beasts seemed to stalk through the tall grasses as if jungle cats. The men held tight the reins in their left hands, their clubs clutched low in their right. Man and animal moved northward at an ever tightening angle, until, with a bull grunt, the mighty racks turned inward in sudden collision.

In the opening seconds the beasts seemed evenly matched, their thick necks pressing hard upon each other. After a moment, however, it became apparent that Asmund’s mount was losing ground.

Three deciding events happened in quick succession: Asmund laid a heavy blow atop the skull of his opponents ride; simultaneously, Kol, seeing an opening in his extended form, thrust forward with his honed point; his mount, unsure of the source of the impact upon its brow, briefly disengaged its broad rack, sending Asmund’s own beast into a twisting frenzy in attempt to gain advantage. It was thus Kol who found himself over-reaching, and two tines of the bull’s thrashing rack found purchase between the rings of his armor and through the leather beneath, crushing bone and puncturing organ.

He fell from his saddle, his tumble cushioned some by the impinging tall grass, and both Hakon and Mord moved quickly to his side, their prisoners briefly forgotten.

A triple voiced song of low-toned mourning filled the plain.

* * *

By the time the trio returned their attentions to the men in their custody, Marco had cut himself free with a hidden blade, releasing also his companion. The Frenchman had, with hushed voice, argued for an attempt at further escape, but Blackhall had planted himself, and the voyageur had reluctantly stood alongside him.

Asmund only nodded as he noted their lack of bonds.

“It is just as well, but the Earl will wish your presence, will you still accompany us?”

“I shall, gladly,” said Thomas, “but I speak not for my friend.”

The pair exchanged a brief glance.

“Yeah, fine,” replied Marco.

Again, the day’s victor nodded. The Moose Lords had strapped their fallen comrade across his saddle, and now fastened his bridle to Mord’s own mount.

“Hakon,” the man was unable to suppress a light snarl at the summons, “- you shall double back and retrieve what goods you might from the supplies our travel mates left alongside the river’s edge, then make for the long houses in haste.”

Blackhall was quick to explain the need for his rucksack, sabre and Baker rifle, then the reluctant courier turned his mount once again east.

As he cantered into the distance, Asmund addressed Mord.

“I’ll sleep better knowing he’s away, but it may be trouble if he arrives first to tell his version of the tale alongside the iron fires,” he turned to the pair on foot. “It would be best if you rode with Mord and I. You may wonder why I do not offer up Kol’s bull, but it will allow none who is not Elg Herra to ride, and I would not see you injured in the attempt.”

* * *

Upon taking his position, Blackhall was immediately impressed with the difference in height between Asmund’s moose and the equines with which he was familiar. Within the hour he’d grown accustomed to the animal’s the long-limbed cadence, and had fallen into conversation with the man at the reins.

“It seems my neck is to carry the weight of Ida’s departure and death. I was not fond of the little man, but there was little I could do – my sister insisted. As is often the case, it is not the one who is missed that shoulders the blame,“ replied Asmund in response to the frontiersman’s questioning.

“I mean no offense, but – it seemed to me he was an unfit suitor, what drove her to such an unpleasant decision?”

“The hag. Two winters previous she entered the long house as the iron fires guttered and the moon rode high. As we slept, she split wide her jaw and fed Ida’s child, Hobart, into her gullet. It was only the boy’s final surprised cry which brought us awake, and, even then, only in time to watch the crone, her belly bulging, unhinge a window and plummet to the ground below. No man could make that fall and survive. Not a year later, with another three missing in the interim and guards at the ready, her second child, Asta, was also snatched up, while sleeping in her very arms.”

He paused, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck, then continued.

“The harridan moves with the hush of a hunting snake, and we did not know of the disappearance until the morn. After their death there was nothing which might console her. She spent a year weeping, then dried her eyes and did what no one else seemed willing to – went east to find someone who knows more of the mist-walkers than we.”

Thomas closed his eyes.

“I had not realized she was a mother.”

“Do you think it was a simple dispute regarding our direction which carried me into the distasteful position of fighting a man I’ve long held love for? No; we hold not the same concept of marriage, but as much as any man is bound to any woman, Kol was to my sister. He was the father of her children.”

The lament fell heavily from his lips, and they rode in silence until the night’s encampment.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 091 – The Elg Herra, Part 4 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety-One.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Elg Herra: A Blackhall Tale, Part 4 of 6
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp091.mp3]

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by MT Starkey Short Stories.

Putting the “and” back into Blood and Guts.

To find them, click here.

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

Tonight, Thomas and his companion, Marco, unexpectedly reach the end of their river journey.

Flash Pulp 091 – The Elg Herra, Part 4 of 6

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

Blackhall and the voyageur, Marco, were well west of the Athabasca when they made their final camp. Both men had settled into an hour long silence, comfortable and companionable, as their eyes turned to the stars, and it was under their own considerations that they fell to slumber. The journey had been favoured with a week’s worth of Summer warmth filling the late autumn days, and the travellers had agreed to rest under the open air to take advantage of the situation while they may.

Thomas awoke only in time to see two figures looming over Marco’s sleeping form – he’d drawn breath to let out a warning, but had been cut short by his own pair of captors. The seized mens’ hands were quickly bound, and they were left on their knees by the smoldering remnants of the fire as their supplies were rummaged through.

“Be quiet,” spoke the apparent leader, in certain English.

The rest of the discussion, however, was a roll of consonants that neither captive could decipher.

The intruders seemed to show some care in their investigation, until they came across a particular bundle of Blackhall’s. The searcher held high Ida’s silver blade, shouting excitedly for another named “Kol”. The conversation became hushed and sharp.

After a moment, the examinations ended abruptly, and the prisoners were roughly lifted to their feet to and prodded into the treeline.

Neither Marco nor Blackhall stood on height with their guards; the closest was the youngest, the nearly-blond boy who stood on the Frenchman’s right, and he was still half a head taller. Their bulky frames seemed incongruous for those who inhabited the area, and neither could Thomas make connection between the locale and their style of dress, as it was unlike any he’d seen in his journeys. The men wore woven shirts, but the rest of their attire was formed of leather; long coats, plucked from the trees as the group led their prisoners away from the camp, were worn over trim breeches cut with a wide hem at the leg.

As they marched, Thomas attempted to explain his possession of the dagger. He’d managed little more than “…regret to inform you that Princess Ida is no more,” before Kol told another, Hakon, to muzzle him with a length of rawhide, and to extend the same courtesy to Marco.

Twenty minutes attention to careful footing brought them into a second encampment.

Four tents, skins of some workmanship stretched taut by line and timber, stood at the corners of the clearing, and, at its center, a fire pit. Alongside the shelters, each tethered to a tree, stood four bull moose.

The beasts were adorned with saddles of a style which seemed closer, to Blackhall, to those worn by camels than those of horses. Ornate panels of leather hung from the seats, on which had been tooled scenes of battle victory, endless horizons, or, Thomas guessed, loved ones. The bull closest, which eyed the new arrivals with an impassive shake of his head, had had a panel damaged, apparently in combat.

As they reached the familiar surroundings, the cryptic discussion amongst the captors once again boiled over, and there was little Thomas could do but watch the match. Although he could make out no more than the emotions of the argument, he was at least able to deduce the names of the Moose Lords. Kol had a man named Hakon who seemed to hew closely to his own position, while the counter-point was provided by one named Asmund – who Thomas thought to have much the same brow and jaw as Ida – and his own quiet ally, Mord, the shortest of the giants.

English phrases began to creep into their speech, and Blackhall knew his scrutinies had not gone unnoticed. Soon the conversation had moved entirely to Thomas’ own tongue.

“Maybe it was in their mind that we all carry such finery as the princess’ blade – what if they have come to rob us?” suggested Hakon.

“Fine,” replied Kol. “To ensure we have met all possibilities of justice, we shall kill them twice.”

“Yes,” croaked Hakon, from behind a smile, “Once for bringing the hag upon us, and once for being thieves.”

“I have heard it said that the child-eater haunts the Prester’s farms as much as our own longhouses,” spoke Asmund.

“Little more than rumour – nothing would dare eat their ugly children,” Hakon replied.

“Asmund,” said Kol, now squatting beside the rising flame. “We were sent to split the flesh of the Prester’s people, and what I see before me is a thieving Prester assassin, likely paid to kill your sister and return this token to them as proof.”

It had taken time, but Blackhall had spent his efforts in dampening his rawhide, so as to find enough elasticity to expel the binding from his mouth. Hearing the passing of what might be his final opportunity to win his freedom, he made his gamble.

The gathered were startled when he spoke.

“Ah, so you were then the Princess’ brother? Ida spoke of your Uncle Myter, and his death on the river. If we are to die so far from home, I ask that you leave me here against these trees facing westward, so that I might face upon my missing wife, and so that, as your Uncle Myter with his birds, I might be some nourishment to the beasts of the woods who’ve so long maintained my own flesh.”

Asmund’s eyes grew wide.

“Kol, he speaks of my Uncle Myter; what knowledge would he have of such a drunk if not for the good graces of my sister? We owe it to ourselves and to the Earl to carry this man at least as far as the long houses.”

“We were not sent out as coddlers, we are meant to be at search for at least another dozen nights – you’d have us bring short our duty so as to extend the life of these lying perversions? They likely cut the tales-they-twist from your sister’s own tongue before her death at their hands.”

The heat in Asmund and Kol’s words seemed to have drawn them closer, and, with spittle on their lips, they shifted to the rough consonants of their language. It was a sharp exchange, and only a moment later Kol drew back a fist. His action was brought short by two words from Hakon.

A smile broke upon the aggressor’s face. He nodded.

“Fine then,” Asmund replied, once again returning to English, “a duel it is.”

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 090 – The Elg Herra, Part 3 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Elg Herra: A Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 6
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp090.mp3]

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Mr Blog’s Tepid Ride

Keeping one hand on the pulse of America while the other makes off with its wallet.

Find it at http://bmj2k.wordpress.com

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

Tonight, Blackhall finds himself surveying the scene of a death no easier to piece together than the shattered remains of the window from which it originated.

Flash Pulp 090 – The Elg Herra, Part 3 of 6

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

Blackhall was the third man in the attic – Commandant Hallson had preempted his arrival only because he’d had the advantage of it being his own home.

The upper-most room, where Ida and Aalbert Bijl had taken lodging, was steepled to follow the line of the roof, and uncomfortable to stand in at its edges. The floor was brimming with a collection of mismatched furniture that had obviously migrated from the Commandant’s private rooms as it became too worn for his own tastes, and, to Blackhall, the space felt too small to hold its appointments.

His head ached from lack of sleep and excess drink.

Somewhere at the periphery of his perception – he could not tell if it emanated from within the room, or from the ground below – came a ticking.

The window had been a single large piece of glass, abutted at its frame by a low seat, upon which Bijl was still reclined so as to look out from behind the carnage of the pane’s remnants. To Thomas’ eye, the remaining fragments about its perimeter appeared as if a collection of misshapen teeth.

“I knew something like this would happen,” Aalbert told the open air beyond, “it was her damnable sleep walking.”

“Excuse me,” said Blackhall, turning on the Commandant, “is there an especially loud clock somewhere in the home?”

“Only the grandfather standing in the front hall, I believe,” Hallson answered, his brow raised in question.

The frontiersman’s abrupt entry into the house had brought a tide of the curious behind him, and, as he focused his attentions down the stairwell, he could hear the commandant’s wife clucking and shushing those at the entrance.

Hallson, noting Thomas’ distraction, turned back to his impassive scrutiny of the widower, his considerations restrained to his own council.

“Somnambulism! Her wanderings have brought my beautiful princess to stumble into her own grave!” Aalbert lamented.

“Your tone falls flat, sir.” Blackhall replied, taking a seat in a well worn armchair and pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to dispel the throbbing pounding that clouded his mind. The image of a pinwheel he’d had as a child floated up to him from the sleep-deprived depths of his imagination, the edge catching on its base in each revolution: click-click-click.

A heavy tread came from the flight of stairs, and for a moment all three turned to watch the entrance of the voyageur Thomas had encountered at the Pastor’s table. Marco held a kerchiefed bundle in a delicate grip, and all surmised it to be the likely reason the lady of the house had allowed him entrance.

“Bonsoir,” the new entrant said to the gathered. He seemed relieved to see Blackhall on hand, although he turned to speak with the Commandant. “No doubt, sir, you have caught wind of this man’s rantings throughout the length of his stay – his complaints regarding his wife’s nocturnal habits specifically. There may be some truth to it, I can not say, but I tell you this: while below I took a moment to inspect the glass which now wreathes the departed princess, and much of it is covered in prints, as if a confectionery window after the school day’s final bell.”

Peeling back its covering, the Frenchman held out a hooked shard to Hallson, who took it with careful fingers.

A gust blew through the gaping pane, and, to Thomas, carried with it a mental image of Ida, sprawled on the ground below, the bones of her neck pressed hard against her skin, her gaze unseeing, and yet her teeth chattering against the chill of the wind and the approaching grave.

The Commandant held the glass against the light of the single lamp which lit the room, revealing the smudged palm-marks along its surface. All gathered cast their eyes onto it, as if it were a Gypsy’s crystal which might clarify the night’s mysteries.

“She must have been at the window some time, and eventually pressed herself so hard upon the panel that it shattered,” said Hallson, rolling the shard gently as he held it nearly against his nose in inspection.

“There were few obstacles she could not conquer in her unconscious state,” replied Aalbert, “I once encountered her having scaled a writing desk and pawing at the wall behind, as if she might locate a portal to travel beyond it.”

The dance of the light as it played through the remnant only served to drive the spike of pain further into Thomas’ skull, each heartbeat now bringing on a pound which felt just shy of that of a woodsman’s axe.

As it retreated, his mind seemed to throw up every source of ticking he’d encountered as a youth – the click of his father’s pocket watch; the knock of a restless shoe upon the floor of his boyhood classroom during lessons; the tap of a branch against the window of his childhood quarters.

He stood suddenly.

Noting the silver dirk that the princess, Ida, had carried during her surprise visit to his borrowed chamber, Blackhall scooped it up from the small table upon which it had been placed with obvious care.

The rapid elevation had brought further injury to his trampled senses, and yet he forced himself to stagger towards Bijl, still seated at the ragged opening.

“Stop him!” the Commandant ordered, alarmed at the dagger in the man’s hand and the increasing resolve that filled out his strides.

Marco remained stationary.

“Allow me, sir,” Blackhall spoke over his shoulder, in response to Hallson’s alarm, “to present an alternate theory.”

Ignoring the now cowering figure of Aalbert, the frontiersman set his bare, muddy foot upon the cushions of the bench-seat, raising himself to the full height of the pane. He reached behind the drape which framed the fractured aperture and pulled away what, at first glance, appeared to be an empty sewing bobbin.

Staring at the artifact, Thomas spent a moment chewing at his thumbnail, then stepped down to approach the Commandant. As he closed the distance, Hallson noted a glint hovering below the spool.

“A trick I’d long forgotten,” spoke Blackhall, “although common enough on a Yorkshire Mischief Night. Run the finest thread you might locate through a bobbin, then tie it off with a needle hanging at the end of the loop. The slightest draft will set the nearly invisible rig tapping for hours. In my school days we used just the same technique to drive our headmaster nearly mad.”

He was staring down Bijl as he spoke, the dagger in his free hand rising as the Dutchman tensed at his words. He continued.

“Ida spoke of hearing her father’s tapping in her dreams – it is my belief that this beast hoped his wife would follow the sound of his child’s game to her death, and yet, by the looks of the glass you’ve retrieved, she must have spent quite some time against the expanse before her fall. It seems likely that, in the end, it was his own hands which sent her into the night air, and that it was only the immediately pressing eyes of the foot patrol below which stopped him short of reaching up to remove the contraption.”

The widower eyed the door beyond the three men, then, briefly, the window. Finally, he began to weep.

“Yes, I see,” said the Commandant, placing the marred scrap upon the table from which Blackhall had retrieved the Princess’ blade.

“It is my intention to leave in the morning, for I will not sit well through this man’s trial, and it seems incumbent upon me, in her husband’s failure, to carry out the Princess’ final wishes.” He placed the dagger in a deep pocket of his greatcoat. “I ask that you will forgo a christian burial in this instance – my understanding of her people is that their custom might be to lay her body upon a soft bed, in a place of silence, under the blaze of the noon sun. I will not be on hand, however, as my duties compel me to depart post-haste.”

He did not reveal that he little relished the sting another observation of her body would bring him.

The voyageur, who had, until that point, held his tongue, nodded.

“Do you wish company?” he asked, “It was time I set paddle to river anyhow, and I would be more than happy to have another pair of arms to carry my canoe.”

It would be thirty-eight days before the travelers entered the presence of the Moose Lords – as their prisoner.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 089 – The Elg Herra, Part 2 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Nine.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Elg Herra: A Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 6
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp089.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Mr Blog’s Tepid Ride

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

Tonight, Blackhall converses with an unexpected visitor.

Flash Pulp 089 – The Elg Herra, Part 2 of 6

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

Ida, Princess of the Moose Lords of the Northern Reaches, didn’t allow Blackhall time for an awkward assumption.

“I need to be leaving shortly, as Aalbert will realize I’ve slipped away once he’s conducted his own private business. Two months now I’ve been waylaid here, tending the needs of my addled husband as he wears thin the hospitality of our benefactors within Fort Jude.”

Blackhall eyed the woman and bit at his right thumb’s nail.

“It’s not that I’m unwilling to, but what makes you think I might be a man who can assist you? Whatever opinion I may hold of your husband, I’ve no interest in making a cuckold of him.”

The thoughts ran together as he spoke, uncomfortably greased by the Pastor’s wine, and underlined by the memory of his own Mairi’s warm flesh.

The Princess touched at the corner of her cloak, pulling it open to reveal his saber in her off hand.

“Neither do I. A blade of silver is little more use against a man than a sharpened stick – and a sword is a cumbersome thing to tote on long journeys through the wilderness.”

While he enjoyed the woman’s plain-speaking, he had little patience for the unrequested handling of his belongings.

“Aye, so I’ve a sentimental passion for a decorative piece – what of it?”

He reached out a hand to take the weapon from her. She gave it without resistance, and he could not help but relish the heat of her skin as it briefly encountered his fingers.

It was her own turn to give him a hard look.

“Decorative? That sabre is no more a piece to savour with the eye than I am. The hard use along its edge leads me to guess that it has seen the belly of more than one of the mist-folk, or I’m a child of the Prester.”

“A child of the Prester?”

“Apologies – a term of my people – an idiot.”

Passing his palm over the scruff of his chin, Blackhall attempted to wipe away the muddle brought on by his supper’s drinking.

“I might take you as many things, Princess, but an idiot is not one of them.”

“I’ll accept those words as kind, and ask you to now shut up your flapping gob and heed my own. I was sent eastward by the, uh, Earl of my people. There is a beast which comes skulking in the night to snatch up our most precious – we have long searched for a cure or constraint, but have fallen short. In our desperation, I have been set loose, in an attempt to locate a veiviser powerful enough to be of assistance. Despite being anchored here by the inaction of my husband, I believe I have found such a man, and would ask that you depart, with all haste, to the aid of my people.”

Although the woman’s face remained as impassive as if she’d been discussing the evening’s meal, Thomas noted the moisture that had gathered about her eyes.

“I shall consider your words.”

“I thank you.”

It was only then that he noticed the short dagger she’d held hard against her wrist in the hand which had moved to unfasten her cloak. He raised an eyebrow.

“It seemed to me you were a righteous man, but my father taught me well that it is a dangerous thing approach any who has dealings with mist-walkers empty handed.”

His attention caught on the silver vines entwining the short hilt, and the red gem set at the blade’s base – the dirk seemed forged of a single silver ingot by a master craftsman.

Ida tracked his gaze.

“This was fashioned long ago, before my people entered this land. It is my hope to one day return this weapon to the circle along the iron fires, so that it might be passed on to one of my own offspring.”

The dagger once again disappeared from sight, tucked amongst the soft warmth beneath her cloak.

With that she closed the distance between them, and briefly laid her hand upon his own.

She departed.

He spent several long moments at the window, watching her fox-fur trim float above the path and towards the triple-storied house that acted as the Commandant’s home, and her own lodging as she waited out her husbands hesitance to move on.

Sleep was long in finding the frontiersman.

* * *

Thomas’ body was in motion even before he’d realized what disturbance had brought him awake. As he stepped down from the porch-door, he pulled his greatcoat around his night clothes and hefted his Baker rifle.

He was not the only man to have sprung from his bed – the gravel lanes of the fort were alive with pounding feet and confused questions.

To his left, at the western end of the Commandants home, Blackhall spotted a clustered knot of lamps. He began to tread the stony pathway, barefoot.

As he approached he noted the figure of Aalbert Bijl silhouetted at the attic’s window, outlined by the shattered remnants of what little glass remained in the pane.

Thomas doubled his speed, shouldering his way through the gathered.

Lying at their feet was Ida, the Elg Herra Princess, her neck shattered, her glassy-eyes cast unblinkingly towards the night sky.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 088 – The Elg Herra, Part 1 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Eight.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Elg Herra: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp088.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Mr Blog’s Tepid Ride

The antidote for pop culture overload.

Find it at http://bmj2k.wordpress.com

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

Tonight we once again return to the primeval forests with frontiersman and student of the occult, Thomas Blackhall, as he finds himself in unexpected company.

Flash Pulp 088 – The Elg Herra, Part 1 of 6

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

When he’d arrived in the trade fort, he’d had little interest in the Pastor’s invitation to sup, but Blackhall was now beginning to take some satisfaction in the polite reply he’d felt obligated to make.

There were five gathered around the table – the pastor, a voyageur who referred to himself simply as Marco, a Mr. and Mrs. Bijl, and the frontiersman himself.

Mr. Aalbert Bijl was a quiet man, with an awkward smile and a tendency towards dampness at the collar, but it was Mrs. Bijl whom Blackhall had taken an interest in.

Marco was busy completing an ill considered story as Thomas mentally attempted to formulate his questions into polite conversation and not naked interrogation.

“Tabernac, poor guy didn’t know what hit him. He somehow managed to make it home despite the whisky, but he must have fallen asleep on the floor before he got a fire going. They found him the next day, half way to the wood pile. He’d pissed himself – pardon prêtre – while curled up in a ball on the floor, and his legs had frozen to his body.” The Frenchman smiled, taking a long sip of the Pastor’s wine. “You could see the yellow ice crystals on the floor of the shack, and a trail behind him where he’d pulled himself along.”

Aalbert kept his eyes locked on his food, and the Pastor seemed to have had his gift for oration temporarily dislodged – it was Ida, Mrs. Bijl, who attempted to calm the impropriety of the situation.

“To my people, when a man or woman dies in great discomfort, we enact the funeral rites in direct opposition to their terror; this friend of yours who froze in the night would likely be sent off in a great pyre. My, uh, uncle, he took too much drink as well, and fell into a fast moving river while attempting to retrieve his dinner. We laid him upon the great racks of the smoke room and dried him as if a large piece of jerky. Then we roped him to the roof of the longhouse to feed the birds – it was a joyful outcome, as Uncle Myter often dreamed of flying.”

Blackhall found his opportunity to interject.

“I take it you were born in this land, but you do not seem to have the aspect of any of the people of the longhouse whom I’ve encountered before. Is Ida your true name, or a name taken after your marriage?”

The woman’s eyes were blue, and her hair a sandy brown that hung at equal lengths on either side of her face, cut to follow the edges of her sharp jawline. There was an elegance about her countenance that seemed echoed in her assured movements, despite the fact that she sat a head taller than her husband.

The silent Mr. Bijl finally looked up from his little-touched plate. His wife was quick to answer.

“My name has always been Ida – my people do not have the custom of a second name as my husband has introduced to me, nor am I of the people of the…”

Mr Bijl threw down his napkin and abruptly pushed back his chair.

“Are you quite all right, sir?” The Pastor asked.

“All right!? How might I ever be all right with such a woman as this telling constant tales of her barbaric peoples? I was told I was marrying a princess! Princess! Fah – she has the mouth of a war-camp slattern. Not only that, but I have not slept in days! Her nocturnal wanderings are of constant disruption. My spirit aches for an uninterrupted slumber.”

“Nocturnal wanderings?” the voyageur asked from behind his cup.

“Each night I wake to find her stumbling about the room, or worse, her viking frame hulking over my night-bed, as if approaching doom!”

“Have you tried Valerian? Hard to find here, I suppose, what of Passion Flower?” Blackhall asked the ranting man’s wife.

“I have tried many cures, but none have worked. In my dreams there is a tapping, as my father often maintained as he sat by the iron fire and cast his thoughts into the flame. I can see his shadow even now, his walking stick beating a gentle rhythm, and in my sleep, I think I am searching him out. I mean poor Aalbert no harm.”

The Dutchman stood, a hooked hand carrying his wife to her feet as well.

“We make our apologies, but must now depart,” he told the gathered. The pastor moved to retrieve their coats.

The voyageur, now quite drunk on the Pastor’s hospitality, caught Blackhall’s eye.

“I have met her people, although only once. The Moose Lords of the Northern Reaches – they live far to the west. The Dutchman must have been a trailblazer indeed to have met their likes, but such a life is not always easy on a man’s disposition.”

The trader punctuated his statement with another long draught of wine.

* * *

After the sudden departure, Thomas had allowed himself more than his usual allotment of grapes. As he moved towards the lodgings he’d taken with the old man all in the fort knew as the Widower Dunstable, he found the heat of the drink a brace against the chill of the fall air.

He briefly considered extending his stroll to enjoy the night sky, but a rattling gust of leaves that blew across the lane forced him to draw tight his coat and reconsider. Marco’s dinner tale also briefly crossed his mind.

Within moments he found himself at the rear access to the small room; in truth not much more than an extremely well built rear porch that the gray fellow now had little use for. The interior was warm, and he was quick to strip off his greatcoat and hat in the dark.

Manipulating the choke of the small lamp the house master had left him, the shadows retreated to the deepest corners of the room.

Standing at its center, in a long fur cloak, was the princess, Ida.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 087 – Bonecruncher, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Seven.

Tonight we present Bonecruncher, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp087.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.

Made with 100% genuine pulp.

To subscribe, 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 present the short terror tale of Teddy Watkins, and his most pressing fear.

Flash Pulp 087 – Bonecruncher, Part 1 of 1

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

In 1924, at the age of eight, Teddy Watkins began to wake in the night, weeping and telling tales of a monster he referred to only as Bonecruncher.

His mother, a harried but loving woman, assumed it was a passing phase, something put into his head by one of his five older brothers, and told him so at length. Their apartment was small, and his father spent his evenings working molten metal at the Pribax foundry, so it was up to her to settle his night troubles.

Teddy shared a bed with three of his brothers, and Mrs. Watkins began to note that his terrors most often came when the young boy was forced to take up a more middling position in the bed, caught between the crushing shoulders of his larger siblings.

By the time he was eleven she’d grown short with his notions and regular cries of “Bonecruncher”, and began to enact the family punishment for misbehaviour. Teddy would often then spend hours shut up amongst the pressing and musty clothes of the front closet, tearily entreating his mother to let him out lest the monster find him in the dark and squeeze the life from his body.

At the age of thirteen he made his first escape attempt. He found the streets cold and the open sky exhilarating. He ran for two days, until he was picked up by two well-meaning police officers who suspected him of truancy.

With tears in her eyes Mrs. Watkins told the judge of her distress. She explained that she’d done what she could for the boy, but that she had a half-dozen other children to tend to, and could no longer stand the strain.

The man on the bench found it difficult to believe the stories regarding the round-faced lad, at least until the bailiff attempted to place cuffs on Teddy so that he might be moved to a nearby holding cell. The youth’s screams brought the court to a halt, and his flailing kicks left the uniformed man with a broken nose.

It was twenty long years of straitjacketed terror for Teddy then, as he was shuffled from cell to asylum, and from psychologist to psychiatrist.

His horrors finally ceased on a clouded night at the State Hospital. The night shift had only recently begun work, but they were already once again growing tired of Teddy’s shouts of “Bonecruncher! Bonecruncher!”

“He’s playing your song,” Mitch O’Donnell, the orderly in charge, told his massive friend and underling, Casper Johnson.

Teddy, now a man, had become something of a celebrity amongst the denizens of his ward – for the kindness he would show during the few occasions he was allowed to roam the grounds, and for the constant and wearing screaming he would let loose once he was returned to his bonds.

The pair of orderlies were walking the floor when they realized that the familiar backdrop of shrieking had ceased.

They ran to Watkins’ cell.

Despite his lack of freedom, Teddy’s muscles had grown taut and knotty during his constant struggles against his restraints, and his persistence had won him a temporary victory.

Throwing back the door of his room, the two men in white found the lanky man sitting on the edge of his bed, his straitjacket puddled at his feet, humming and smiling to the dark. His look of content was short lived, however. As he realized what the intrusion meant, he once again took up his wailing. He stretched to his full height, bowling over Mitch, and nearly made it to the door before being scooped up in Casper’s thick arms.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” the giant shouted at the thrashing form in his arms. Teddy only redoubled his efforts, and panic soon took hold of both the combatants.

It was only once Mitch had pulled himself from the floor and shook his friend’s shoulder that Johnson realized Teddy had ceased his screams of “Bonecruncher”, and that it was in fact O’Donnell who was now screeching the name.

They’d worked together twelve years, and Mitch had long since jokingly replaced towering Casper’s older nickname of “Troll” with the constant refrain of their persistent burden.

His face white, the large man set the now lifeless body upon the room’s cot.

Its arms sprawled wide as it reclined.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 086 – Sgt Smith and The Dish, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Six.

Tonight we present Sgt Smith and The Dish, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp086.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.

Play them all backwards and discover the truth behind the death of Paul McCartney!

To subscribe, 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, Sgt Smith finds himself nervously attending a social.

Flash Pulp 086 – Sgt Smith and The Dish, Part 1 of 1

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

Mulligan,

Whenever I had reason to be nervous about my day, your Mom, probably because of her Pennsylvania Dutch upbringing, always had the same solution: pie. There’d always be a slice on hand, often blueberry, my favourite, and she’d eat with me in the stillness of the morning as we sipped our tea and pretended like nothing was wrong.

I remember having to take particular care at that breakfast, as I was wearing my Sunday best. It was the only decent set of clothes I had at the time, beyond my uniform.

Then, when I was done, she straightened my attire and told me to watch my tongue.

She was a kidder, that one. I know what she meant though – your touch for subtlety didn’t come from my side of the family.

Anyhow, it was 1956 and, after our morning ritual, I had to leave for a date. It wasn’t long before the sun was burning my prematurely balding pate and I was fussing with my tie in the noonday heat. Around me, the picnic area was awash in color. Balloons had been fixed with ribbons to the edges of all the tables; green, red and yellow streamers hung from the tree branches; and the loud dresses and Hawaiian shirts were out in full Saturday-in-the-suburbs force.

I don’t think they would have set me up with the date if they thought I was actually going to meet her, but they were stretched pretty thin which is probably why they sent a mute to a social event.

Two card tables had been hauled onto the grass, and pushed together to create a buffet area. As folks came strolling in, they’d drop off a little something for the smorgasbord, then wander into the surrounding knots of familiar faces.

It was a beautiful day, but when I think of it, I can’t help thinking about the flies – I don’t know what it was with that neighbourhood, but it seemed to be swarming with those buzzing aggravations.

I was standing at the edge of the crowd, trying not to look too interested in the red-faced old guy who’d been highballing since I’d sidled in – his drinks had gotten him into berating two hand-holding teenagers – when Beatrix arrived.

She stepped from the car, her legs extending from her well-cut baby blue dress like an invitation to sin. As she collected up her goods, the mother of one of the teens stepped up to the tipsy codger in an attempt to explain that the young couple were promised to be married. All eyes were discreetly on them, and not the blond, her hair piled high, who moved confidently from her car to the food table to lay out her covered bakeware.

She was as much a stranger to the party as I was. When we were alone together later, she told me she’d driven all morning just to be there.

As the family drama played out to my left, my eyes stayed on the veiled dish – at least, until a tall woman, her hair held back by a hankie, approached me to chat. I doubt her intentions were anything more than getting a better view of the burgeoning tussle between drunken galoot and defensive housewife, as she seemed little interested in the fact that my lack of a tongue made it impossible for me to maintain my end of the gossipy conversation she eagerly began to recite, stopping only to sip at her wine glass. I don’t recall anything of what she said, I mostly just remember the rock of tension growing in my belly, and the tickle of the occasional fly trying to seek shade under my shirt collar.

Your mother would have known how to better handle the situation; she was always the social one.

I watched the blond set down her bakeware and pull back the simple dishtowel she’d been using as a cover.

I tried to move then, but I think the gossiping woman thought I was coming in close for an especially tantalizing bit of information – she grabbed my arm to steady herself.

Two kids, I swear both of them wearing full boyscout uniforms, stepped up to the table for some grub.

The baby-blue dress stood back, her eyes bright, and I tried again to make my way around the handerchiefed woman- but she was caught up in her own story, laughing by then, and I couldn’t shake her off.

I hadn’t been at the last party to observe the aftermath, but I’d seen the photos: the blood filled vomit, the trashed cutlery spread across the lawn by the fleeing crowd, the weeping children, the glassy eyed stare of Martin Nikolaus, dead but still wearing a child’s coned party hat.

I pushed her.

All eyes moved from those gathered around the teens, to me.

I jumped over the prone woman, and a fella in a tweed jacket stepped into my path.

“Hey now,” he said, grabbing, and ripping, my white Sunday-shirt.

I couldn’t take the delay, so I pushed him over too.

My objective, still holding her dishtowel, had an epiphany regarding my intentions.

She started running.

I may have been the last resort, the bottom of the barrel only out there because we had two hundred miles worth of suburban get-togethers to cover, but there had already been three unfortunates done in by Beatrix’s Drano Casserole, and I wasn’t going to be remembered as the guy who didn’t move fast enough to save the ranks of Scout Troop 97.

On my way by, I upended the table, sending Jello and deviled eggs out over the lawn.

She’d parked across the street, and I was lucky that a dinged Ford truck had pulled up too close behind her. While she was trying to reverse out, she bumped its fender, then, panicking, she miscalculated the distance to the red Buick in front of her and slammed into it with the full force of her chugging engine.

I dragged her from the car then; blood was running down her mouth from the nose she’d broken rebounding off her steering wheel.

By the looks I was getting from the crowd, you’d of thought I was the monster. I’d likely have taken a terrible beating from the tweed jacket who was briskly approaching to defend his manhood, but by then I had my badge out. I was going to sign for someone to call the police, but I could see half-a-dozen party goers already streaking home to set the phone lines ablaze.

Beatrix Johnson – Killer Bea; she never spent a day in prison.

We didn’t have lady serial killers back then, we just had “troubled women”, so she landed in a sanitarium. Still – an asylum then makes prison now look like a resort and spa.

It was probably just as much a relief for me, as it was for her, the day they found her hanging by her bed-sheet.

I still haven’t had any casserole in over half a century though – I’ll stick to pie.

Dad

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.