Tag: Flash

Flash Pulp 102 – The Murder Plague: Harm's Return, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and two.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present The Murder Plague: Harm’s Return Part 3 of 3
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp102.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Tom Vowler’s new collection “The Method and Other Stories”.

Sure, sacrificing one of your kidneys to keep a loved one alive would be a touching Christmas gift, but wouldn’t this award-winning selection of short tales just be easier?

Find it on Amazon, or find links to special editions and more at http://oldenoughnovel.blogspot.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, Harm has a discussion regarding the madness that seems to have descended upon his hometown of Mass Acres; a discussion which leads to further unpleasant realizations.

 

Flash Pulp 102 – The Murder Plague: Harm’s Return Part 3 of 3

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

 

It’s a rough go to take in the death of three people you knew, much less in the space of fifteen minutes. The sight of a familiar face, especially one that could still intake breath and feasibly even provide some explanation as to what had brought on such murderous intention in Catarina and the Hernandez family, left me considerably more eager for the company of the ivory-haired Doctor Henley than I’d ever been previously.

I did my best to pull myself together, then trotted across the road to his doorstep.

He let me in, then promptly returned to his viewing post.

The doctor’s house was orderly, his white faux-leather couch, and matching living room, spotless. Across the glass top of the coffee table lay a spread of outdated National Geographic magazines, and his beige walls were decorated with carefully generic landscape paintings.

It is hard to describe the feeling of suddenly finding myself in that apparently unchanged center of calm. It was something like stumbling from a war zone into a Zen Buddhist’s garden.

As I’ve mentioned, I knew few of my neighbours, but, in truth, Henley was likely the person in town I’d known the longest, as he was my own physician. Still, despite his intimacy with my intimates – or, likely, due to – I’d rarely spoken to him outside of the context of his office, which was also garnished with white faux-leather.

He began to fix me a drink as I entered, which I was too polite to refuse, having never told him about my need to refrain, and I shuffled aside a full-cover spread of the pyramids to make room to set it down.

It seemed little use dancing around the subject, so I began with the news I thought he’d find easiest to take.

“The Hernandezes are dead.”

He nodded, raising his own glass as if to salute them. After a moment he cocked an eyebrow at my abstention, then drank deeply. Finally, he spoke.

“It doesn’t surprise me much. I noticed your car’s been gone these last few days – you’ve been away?”

“Yes, I’ve been camping at the cabin.”

Since I’d been forced to depart my home, my mind had been grinding over the reason behind Catarina’s sudden betrayal. Part of my subconscious had become convinced that nuclear annihilation was imminent, and that she’d simply been conducting the ultimate work-related revenge fantasy. Certainly, if she had some concern about her pay, I’d have preferred she issue a complaint than attempt to lodge a chef’s knife in my ribcage. After finding the Hernandezes in their decomposing state, however, I was beginning to understand that some larger tragedy was in motion.

The doctor confirmed my fears.

“They named it Hitchcock’s disease,” said Henley, “although it’s really a virus. It lays dormant for a few weeks after infection, then begins to work at the survival instincts of the brain. The infected suffers paranoid delusions, and soon after believes the people around them are plotting their demise. They become convinced that the only way to prevent their own death is to murder the other fellow first.”

The doctor finished his glass, and, I must admit, I was mightily tempted to take up my own. He seemed to be watching me closely – I couldn’t blame him, considering.

“Is there no cure? No way to stop it?”

“Oh, yes,” he continued to speak as he left the room. “There is a vaccine. It’s a slow thing, and so civilized in a way. Usually the survivor tries to conceal their crime – the police of course being just another party attempting to do them in.”

He returned, setting a briefcase down on the the gathered faces of a group of aboriginals.

“It takes contact though – contact and opportunity. You can likely still safely order a pizza, if you don’t stop to chat with the delivery guy long enough to give him ideas. Even then, so long as you don’t provide him an opening, and don’t order from that location again, you can probably say your goodbyes and not be concerned.”

As he continued his narration, he pulled back his sleeves and extracted a pair of latex gloves from the interior of his case.

“Yet, if you’re brave enough to leave your window ajar in the evenings, you will hear the sound of shovel-work emanating from many darkened backyards.”

I asked him about the police.

“Well, there’s no television or Internet to deliver the news, but you don’t hear sirens too often either, so I suspect they’re all too busy murdering their families to deal with the public,” was his reply.

He held up a syringe and vial, then jabbed one into the other. Pulling out the painful end, he motioned for me to roll up my sleeve.

I did so.

He leaned over his working area, a thumb pressing at my forearm in search of a vein. He held the needle aloft.

I do not remember fully forming my reasoning, but my hand moved faster than my brain; I plucked the instrument from his fingers with the speed of a child snatching back its favourite toy from a sibling.

In a single motion, I righted the device and thrust it into his leg, fully depressing the plunger.

“I apologize,” I said immediately. “Consider it a game of trust, as I’ve never heard of a vaccine upon which you can overdose.”

He may have attempted to stand and reply, or he may have been attempting to retrieve some tool with which to beat me, whatever the case, he never made it upright. Instead he toppled sideways onto the milky expanse, and, after a moment, a line of bloody drool began to trickle from his gaping mouth.

I had learned the prime lesson of the murder plague: think, at all times, like a person who wishes to murder you.

 

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.

FlashCast Announcement

Flash PulpThe long promised Flash Pulp companion podcast, FlashCast, will be recording its first episode tonight.

To quote from Jessica May’s announcement to the Flash Pulp facebook page:

We’ve even received our first voicemail message – to an inbox yet to be revealed to our audience. Though the recording wasn’t actually intended for us, it’s epically perfect as our first inquiry[…]!

Watch this space!

Flash Pulp 101 – The Murder Plague: Harm's Return, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and one.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present The Murder Plague: Harm’s Return Part 2 of 3
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp101.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Tom Vowler’s new collection “The Method and Other Stories”.

An award-winning book of short tales that will make you cry with its tender moments – and by repeatedly punching you in the belly.

Find it on Amazon, or find links to special editions and more at http://oldenoughnovel.blogspot.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, Harm Carter attempts to locate a telephone with which to report a death by wine magnum.

 

Flash Pulp 101 – The Murder Plague: Harm’s Return Part 2 of 3

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

 

I’ve never been much for fraternizing with the neighbours, but after spending over a decade in one location you can’t help but meet on occasion.

In truth, I rather liked the Hernandezes.

On a particularly chill night, two years previous to the evening of my return from the cabin, Mr Hernandez – George – had spotted my shivering form awaiting a locksmith to remedy the puzzle I’d presented myself by accidentally bolting my keys on the far side of the front door. He’d kindly invited me inside his own home, and, as he prepared a pot of coffee to resuscitate my partially frozen internals, I’d had a rather pleasant discussion with his wife, his daughter, and himself, regarding the vagaries of fly fishing. The trio were obsessive anglers, and even Velma, fifteen – who I, at first, thought might be simply providing a submissive echo of her parent’s enthusiasm – seemed to show a genuine interest in netting maximum fish flesh. I’ve long enjoyed the pleasures of others, and the more intense their mania, the more I take from it. Anyone with a ferocious regard for what occupies their free time is usually willing to provide a cheap education on the topic, and an understanding of all things is what I have a ferocious regard for.

By the time of the smith’s summons I felt as if I’d waded through the streams of Montana, and the Dakotas, myself.

The Murder PlagueI was not surprised, therefore, when, on my final visit, I found their door ajar and a bountiful supply of gear apparently on its way to, or from, some distant lake or river. I normally might have considered the disarray of the luggage and rods as unkempt, but my mind was largely occupied with the ugly fact that I’d recently laid Catarina, my now former chef, in her death bed by means of blunt trauma. As I clumped up the cobblestone walk in my hiking boots, I formulated how I would frame the discussion required to use their phone. In retrospect, I’m sure they would have let me use it readily, but in dire situations I find it helpful to let my mind grind over fine details, instead of circling the unalterable.

Having encountered no one to deliver my prepared speech to though, I found myself somewhat flustered as to how to proceed.

However, the predicament seemed dramatic enough to warrant my pushing onwards, although I announced my self-welcome liberally.

I attempted to strike a balance in my tone between friendly and I’ve-just-had-to-kill-someone.

“Hallo, Hernandezes!”

Night had again fallen, and the only lighting in the interior came spilling up from the half-spiral staircase which led from the basement, illuminating a long tract of pictures depicting smiling fish-slayers and their captured prey. Atop the photos, curving with the adjoining wall, ran a series of especially prized, but now retired, rods.

I’ve never been squeamish about the individual death of a bass, and my reaction was likely tempered by recent events, but I found it difficult to stare down so many suffocating fillets at once. Casting my eyes up the second half of the spiral, I came across what I, at first, thought was an optical illusion.

There appeared to be a man standing directly above me, but his shoes were slightly askew, as if he were on tip-toe.

“George?” I asked the hovering fellow.

I began striding up the steps.

It was obvious well before I reached landing that he was in no condition to talk; his face was black and bloated. It was also at that time that I realized the Hernandezes did not have a carpet running along the stairs, but that I was in fact tromping through a thick path of what I rather suspected was dried blood.

My legs found it quicker to finish the journey than to reverse, so I suddenly found myself on the second floor. Forcing my eyes into a closer inspection of George, I noted that he’d had several loops of high-test fishing line wrapped about his neck before apparently being pushed over the edge of the railing which overlooked the entryway below. The loose end was tied about a lighting sconce, which had pulled away from its upper-moorings under the weight.

I could not help but feel better illumination was necessary when dealing with the likelihood of an executioner lurking about, so I was forced to flip the sole switch that I could locate, the one which engaged the awry fixture.

Laying not five feet further down the short hallway was the body of Velma, a cracked oaken plaque with a sizable Marlin mounted across its front masking her face and the point of trauma which had disgorged so much of her cranial matter across the closest wall.

As I began to retrace my path, my eyes ran over the boning knife still held solidly in the girl’s right hand. My inspection had turned up no evidence of such a wound on the first body along my approach, and a hypothesis quickly began to form.

Given the scale of the operation, and the size of George, I could only guess that a third party was involved in the lynching, and that the unseen conspirator – the one who’d left their vitals pouring down the staircase – had, for whatever reason, soon after received the long end of Velma’s blade. The injured had likely then retaliated at the betrayal by clubbing the girl with the nearest heavy object, the wall ornament.

I suspected that the absent party was Mrs. Hernandez, and, further, as I could clearly see from over the edge of the hanged man’s perch that the descending trail lead deeper into the house and not towards the exit, I believed that she was likely still somewhere amongst the dark spaces of the first floor.

I had no interest in discovering if the wound had been fatal.

Watching not to slip on the flaking blanket of brown, as my feet plummeted down the stairs, I deserted the crime scene.

It was only after the door was firmly shut behind me, and the remnants of my breakfast disposed of in a professionally groomed array of rose bushes, that I noticed Doctor Henley, across the street, as he observed from the safety of his living room’s bay window.

He waved to me.

 

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 100 – The Murder Plague: Harm's Return, Part 1 of 3

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode One Hundred.

Tonight we present The Murder Plague: Harm’s Return Part 1 of 3
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp100.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Tom Vowler’s new collection “The Method, and Other Stories”.

Think you might know what a deformed brother and sister are concocting a half-mile underground?

We assure you, you do not.

Find it on Amazon, or find links to special editions and more at http://oldenoughnovel.blogspot.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 introduce a new character, Harm Carter, as he finds himself in an awkward position after having laid his hired help low with a blunt object.

 

Flash Pulp 100 – The Murder Plague: Harm’s Return Part 1 of 3

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

 

Preface

I write this recounting based on my own journals, and my memories of the times. I can not be sure that each quotation of dialogue is accurate, but I can at least promise that it is my intention to relate the truth to the best of my abilities.

If there are moments that seem shocking and unbelievable, I apologize, for they seemed just as shocking and unbelievable to myself as they happened.

HLC

The moment that I understood that I’d found myself in a desperate situation came as I dropped the wine bottle to the kitchen’s floor tiles, and it landed with a blunt thud instead of a sharp crack. The muted response was largely due to the volume of blood draining from Catarina.

I plucked the phone from its charging station and tried for a dial tone, but came up empty eared.

As I was fussing with the number pad, the blood pool was growing. Realizing my foot was suddenly warm and moist, I looked down to see my left sock wicking up the encroaching puddle. Seeing my handiwork, anxiety filled my legs and I fled the house, leaving the red trail of a single stained foot along the white hall carpet.

Without thinking, I re-entered my Ford Explorer, whose engine was still ticking away the heat of my recent journey. I sat in the driver seat, my hands at ten and two, but I did not reach for the keys. Instead I took a deep breath, and considered, for a brief moment, what had happened.

I’d awoken that morning in my mountain cabin six hours to the north. It was looking to be one of the last pleasant stretches of the season, and I’d had little time to visit since giving it the traditional spring rub down, so the Monday previous I’d shuttered my office for a week and left the world to fend for itself.

What a mistake.

The vacation had been pleasant enough, mostly in that it had allowed me to indulge my prime hobby, photography. I’d taken reams of film while walking the woods, but I’d always maintained a policy of otherwise utilizing no technology more advanced than a cast iron stove while on retreat.

The lack of email or ringing cellphone had struck me as quite freeing, and I’d traveled home feeling a smug Luddism that prevented me from wanting to ruin the moment by engaging the radio.

I was surprised to see Catarina’s car in my driveway as I pulled in, but it wasn’t uncommon for her to arrive a day early. Years previous, while my wife, Kate, lay on her deathbed, she had told me: “Get a cook – when you remarry, I’d rather you do it on a full stomach.” Catarina had been the result of that command.

Although I’m man enough to be able to keep clean my own slovenly trail, I’ve never been able to manage even finger painting in the culinary arts, and Kate knew all too well my weakness for buttery victuals. Still, if I wasn’t entirely sure about dinner, I often preferred to give my dedicated chef those evenings off – it was an easy excuse to engage in a little drive-thru-consumption misbehaviour.

To make matters worse, once I’d welcomed myself into my own home, I discovered that the meal she’d obviously been working hours to make was not something I was likely to enjoy: pan roasted chicken breasts stuffed with smashed almonds, mascarpone and lemon, with a side of roasted sweet garlic and almond soup.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” she replied, her eyes on me as her hand maintained a steady stirring of the soup.

“I appreciate you coming in today,” I began. I hate to disappoint anyone, but I’d had a long drive, and I’d really become enthused by the idea of a quarter pound of greasy beef for dinner. Honestly, I was also mildly annoyed that the woman had once again forgotten that I have a long standing position that nuts are simply an alternative form of wood, suitable only for covering in chocolate or feeding to squirrels. “I’m really not feeling well after my trip – must have eaten a bad bit of trail mix, you understand. I’m sure I’ll be tip-top by the morn, so if you wouldn’t mind packaging all of this up, I’ll be happy to eat it as tomorrow’s lunch.”

It was my actual intention to simply throw it all out once she was gone, as I had done a half-dozen times previous when her meals came up short or involved some flavour she refused to remember my distaste for, but there was no reason to hurt her feelings over the matter.

To help ease the blow, I plucked a bottle of Pegasus Bay pinot noir from the rack and moved to retrieve two glasses.

I think she sensed the lie; to be fair, at the time I didn’t realize how much investment I should put into convincing her of the falsehood.

As I set the stems upon the counter, she turned in a blur, raising high the chef’s knife she’d used to slice the chicken.

The overhead grip was an amateur mistake: it gave me just enough time to panic and side-arm the bottle into her temple.

After a moment of coaxing her to rise, I understood there was no hope of her returning to the land of the living. That’s when I dropped the wine, tried the phone, then made my exit.

Out in the Explorer, I spent a long moment trying to understand what had just transpired. Realizing my cellphone was still inside the abattoir my home had become, I decided I ought to see if the Hernandez’s, my next door neighbours, would let me make a call.

First though, I must admit, I peeled off my dirty socks, rolled them into a red and white yin yang, and pulled on my hiking boots.

There is a feeling of embarrassment in expecting to have to report a death while barefoot.

 

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 099 – Mulligan Smith and The Temple Of Ortru, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety-Nine.

Tonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Temple Of Ortru, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp099.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

Have you ever wanted to stare longingly across the table at a beautiful re-creation of yourself?

The art of Mike Mongello can do that for you. Find out how at http://www.supermonge.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, Private Investigator Mulligan Smith must plumb the depths of the The Temple Of Ortru, in search of truth for a desperate client.

 

Flash Pulp 099 – Mulligan Smith and The Temple Of Ortru, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan entered the room just in time to watch the huddled men moan over their companion’s death.

Three weeks earlier he’d met with the victim’s wife over a cup of mid-afternoon coffee. She’d worn a simple blue dress, with quite a bit of gold tucked about her neck, and she’d obviously taken care in arranging her graying hair into a simple, but prim, bun.

“I don’t want to bring it up to him, just… just in case.”

“I think it’s a pretty extreme thing to imply your husband is in a cult, if you don’t mind me saying so.” Mulligan had taken a long sip from his cup after his response, paying as much attention to her body language as he’d paid to her story. Once, a few years earlier, he’d spent six days chasing ghosts for a man who’d claimed he was being threatened. It had taken his third visit to the client to realize the problem: that the only thing harassing him was a head full of bad wiring.

He’d only charged the man half his usual fees.

Still, the housewife didn’t seem crazy, just a little neurotic.

“I’ve heard him talking on his phone about.. things,” Mrs. Tuttle had replied.

“What kinds of things?” He’d taken up his phone, his thumb prepared to enter notes on anything that might be of use.

“Something about demon lords? Something about the Temple Of Ortru?” Her hand had shook as she’d picked up her mug. “He laughed a lot, and it sounded so vicious, so unlike him.”

“Has he been away from the home more often recently?”

“Well – he’s always spent Thursday night at O’Neil’s, downtown, but a few months ago things changed. He never told me he altered his plans or anything, and sometimes he’d still mention a story he’d heard from his drinking buddies, but his breath didn’t smell as beery as usual, and if I asked anything more about what happened, he’d just sort of change the subject. Now he just never mentions it at all.”

Mulligan had accepted the case, but he’d assumed that the truth of the matter was much more likely to involve the husband having an affair, while his wife utilized her overactive imagination to maintain her denial.

With that idea in mind, it was with some surprise that he’d noted Tuttle’s behaviour as the man was leaving his home on the following Thursday.

As the wayfaring husband, still wearing the suit he’d returned from work in, said his goodbyes, and exited the front door, he’d taken a moment to ensure his wife hadn’t decided to approach a window to see him off, then ducked into the house’s garage.

A moment later, he’d exited with a knapsack appearing thoroughly out of place strapped across his jacketed shoulders, and gotten into his cream coloured Cadillac.

Mulligan’s first attempt at tailing Tuttle had been a bust; he’d gotten hung up at a red light and was forced to watch his quarry turn a corner in the distance and disappear.

The second week had been much more successful, however, and the PI had happily jotted down the banquet of information represented by the license plates gathered in the driveway of the bungalow at which the chase had ended. What is kept private in the real world is often embraced online, and, via some favours and Google, Smith was quickly able to come to solid conclusions regarding his client’s husband’s evasiveness.

On the third week, after the caddy was safely empty an hour, and the entire cast of Mulligan’s previous visit had long entered the house, the detective had scooped his blue slurpee from the Tercel’s driver-side cup-holder and approached the door.

After a brief explanation, the squat, black-haired woman who’d answered his knock had shown him down a short hall at the rear of the house.

They’d found the men gathered there, their eyes afire with intensity and sweat on their brow.

“I was murdered! Bloody warlock.” said Tuttle, muttering from the far corner.

Mulligan noisily sucked at the remnants of his cup’s offerings, drawing the attention of the crowd.

He tipped his straw towards his prey.

“I’m not the kind of fellow to judge a grown man for playing Dungeons and Dragons, but, I think your wife has a right to know.”

 

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 098 – Up From The Depths: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety-Eight.

Tonight we present Up From The Depths: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp098.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the art of Michael Mongello

Have you always wanted a scantily clad Star Wars character hanging around your office?

Now you can have multiple!

Find those, as well as many other prints to purchase, at http://www.supermonge.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, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult arts, encounters a town of shambling monstrosities.

Flash Pulp 098 – Up From The Depths: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

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

 

The summer previous to his final migration westward, Thomas received word that his assistance was required at a mining operation in the sparsely populated northern stretch of Lower Canada.

The man who sought him out had heard of his reputation as it slipped from ale-heavy mouth to whiskey-sodden ear, and his distrust of the nature of Blackhall’s business was obvious as he made his request.

“You’ve dealt with the other-worldly before?” was the man’s abrupt opening.

It wasn’t his habit to answer the question openly, but the sling which held the interrogator’s right arm had piqued Thomas’ interest.

“On occasion.”

“I’ve been to the church, and they have no interest in what I have to say.” As the man spoke, his animated gestures sent gushes of barley brew to the inn’s floor. “It’s hell they opened in that mine to the north, and I expect someone better close it before it tears the world asunder.”

“It’s my understanding that it takes something more than a shovel to reach the devil’s playground,” replied Thomas, “but, first, might I inquire as to your name?”

“I apologize. My name is Teasdale, but the Englishman is what they called me these last ten months. Not so much based on my port of departure, but because I was the only anglo on a site full of francos.”

“What leads you to believe a group of earth diggers has opened the maw of the nether realm?”

“Until recently I was camp cook at a small iron operation to the north. Two dozen men and a whip cracker of a foreman. We were working a fresh shaft when I was sent southwards to gather the groceries, but upon my return I found the site in chaos. The tents and shanties had been knocked about as if hit by a storm, and the boys -” the grip which held his mug of lager began to tremble. “The fellas were on hand, but they were not the men I knew when I left.”

“What difference did you notice?” asked Blackhall.

“When I first arrived I saw a few of them wandering about, almost as if in a trance. It was only once I’d gotten closer that I noticed their stuttering walks and contorted faces. They – their limbs were muck covered, and as they approached a groaning gibberish emanated from their mouths.”

Teasdale smacked his dry mouth, then quickly wet it from his cup.

He continued.

“I’d no sooner stepped into his sight than I was rushed by Old Tim Steiner, a man I’ve passed many hours with over cards. It was he who chased me from the parcel, and it was during that flight in which I stumbled. A bad break, and still I made the travel in record time, even though I only thought to lighten my load of the provisions upon the second day.”

His damaged arm seemed to have little slowed his off-hand’s drinking.

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“You doubt me, sir?” the former kitchen-master asked. “I do not make my assumptions in haste. There was no recognition in the eyes of Steiner – nor in any of the others which I noted as they gathered at Old Tim’s gibberish calls. If you’d but seen his ragged march or distorted countenance, you’d have no room for skepticism.” He spit on the floor. “Demon possessed, the bloody lot of them.”

* * *

So it was, after eight day’s rugged journey, that Blackhall found himself set high in a birch, observing the a cluster of men as they rummaged about the remnants of the camp’s structures. As he watched, a filth-encrusted man, of some girth, tottered towards the shattered lumber of a former shed, shoving aside the smaller man who’d long been hunkered there listlessly stirring the rubble.

Across a branch adjoining his perch, Thomas had carefully laid out the tools necessary to sustain fire if his Baker rifle became the only option. He had yet to cock his weapon.

At the crossing of dirt paths that would have constituted the site’s major intersection, a pair of legs lay unmoving, partially obscured behind a cold pile of cinders.

As he shifted his weight for a better vantage point, the tree limb beneath his left boot groaned and gave way. Although quick footwork saved him from any peril, the snapping did not go unheeded by the shambling men below.

The nearest, possibly Old Tim himself, speared Blackhall with a finger, then began to stagger in his direction.

His enthusiastic tones roused all surrounding, and shortly Thomas’ roost was encircled by a cluster of men – some with still bloody wounds, but all ensconced in grime – and yet the frontiersman did not put his rifle to bare upon them, nor unsheathe the silver-bladed sabre which was his usual retort to circumstances of the supernatural.

He understood now why Teasdale had felt such fear at their nearing; their manner seemed not like that of sane men, instead it was as if their higher faculties had suffered grievously.

It was then that he realized many in the group were, in low and mangled french, requesting assistance.

Slinging his rifle, Blackhall descended. Within moments he was distributing what rations remained in his pack.

* * *

By late afternoon,Thomas had begun to form a plan to rescue those of the men that he might. He could little guess what had happened in Teasdale’s absence, but he felt certain it was unlikely to be related to the preternatural.

In his review of the ruins, he found the still smoldering fire whose plume had helped him locate his destination, and yet now he was uncertain as to which, if any, of the mine’s survivors might have had the wits to light such a thing. They seemed docile enough once fed, but their speech was limited to even simpler phrases than Blackhall’s french would allow, and they held no answers as to what had transpired. What he had also found was a lack of food – what little might have been left after Teasdale’s departure was long consumed.

Although the bones of wild game scattered about did leave him to wonder.

* * *

Well before he was forced to implement his desperate plan, answers arrived at the freshly stoked fireside, in the form of a limping Francophone by the name of Joseph. He’d approached with a double handful of partridge, and as the entirety of the camp had gathered in a circle about the fire, he quickly cleaned and set the fowl to spit.

Later, as they all licked the bird fat from their fingers, the newcomer finally ceased the delighted prattle he’d maintained as he worked, and delved into a deeper explanation.

“I was Teasdale’s assistant, and out getting berries up the hill when it happened – trying to stretch supplies, you understand. There was a sound from the throat of the shaft, like a belch, and a smell as if a musty hell, and then I collapsed. I do not know how much time might have passed while I slept, but it was dark when I rose. Everyone else had been closer than I, and most of them were still scattered about the ground. When my head was clear enough, I went down to find whoever I could.”

The storyteller paused in his tale, the idiot faces of his compatriots eager for him to continue the story they could little understand.

“After they all woke up, I realized how they were. Who knows how long they were breathing the released vapour – it crippled their minds. I knew it was up to me to get them south, so I went hunting, to find enough meat to carry us. Although the first day I came back I managed to keep them together, on the second one of them went searching in the buildings, with a flaming branch to act as a torch. He burnt down part of the bunks, and when I saw how black the smoke was, I came. I managed to get most of them, all except Pascal, away from the dynamite hut before it was too late.”

Thomas passed across his canteen, freshly filled at the nearby river, and Joseph drank heartily before continuing.

“I was trying to reach him when it exploded. That’s how my leg was crippled, a condition which has made it impossible for us to make our escape. At least the blast put out the flames.”

The conversation waned for a time before Blackhall ended the hush.

“Tomorrow I will do the hunting – after I have a looked over your trauma.”

Within the fire, a knot popped, throwing sparks against 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 097 – Ruby Departed: Crash, Part 1 of 1

Flash Pulp
Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety-Seven.

Tonight we present Ruby Departed: Crash, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp097.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the art of www.SuperMonge.com

Have you ever seen jungle vixens fighting the evils of the lord of the undead, Dracula?

Well, now you can.

Find Monge’s work, as well as prints to purchase, at http://www.supermonge.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, Ruby relates a short tale of love and loss.

Flash Pulp 097 – Ruby Departed: Crash, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Ruby Departed: Crash

Ruby Departed: Crash

Ruby Departed: Crash

 

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 096 – The Ad Blitz, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety-Six.

Tonight we present The Ad Blitz, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp096.mp3]

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

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

These are not some of them:

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
I went home.

(With apologies to Robert Frost.)

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 tale of slightly silly visitation and confrontation.

Flash Pulp 096 – The Ad Blitz, Part 1 of 1

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

The city of Cleveland disappeared beneath a thick gray cloud the week before Christmas.

Cars, dogs, tanks – anything that entered the fog, disappeared.

Neither could radio, television, or cell signals escape the blanket. An unnerving number of military and scientific personnel were sent into the haze, only to lose contact. On the third day, the general order was given to simply wait.

After thirteen sunrises filled with silence, a trickle of pedestrians began to stumble out of the gloom, their only memory of the time being that they seemed to have watched quite a lot of television. Relieved at the apparent lack of harm, late night television hosts began to joke about the recent improvements to the Cleveland skyline.

Seventy-two hours later, the cloud was gone, and the aliens had made themselves known.

They said they meant no harm, that they’d come to trade with our genetically rich planet, but that their true forms would likely terrify our primitive minds, so they’d taken on the guises of our most beloved cultural icons.

This news was largely disseminated by having a brightly-afroed clown from Beta Pegasi on The Today Show. Along with massive ratings for the network, stocks in the McDonald’s corporation took an immediate rise.

Only the lawyers seemed off-put by the sudden animation of so many beloved corporate mascots.

In the following months it became commonplace to see the Pegasans in every major city, making no effort to hide as they walked the streets as talking bears, or giant two-legged jugs full of sloshing red drink, or geckos with British accents.

A brief, but intense, period of cultural exchange began. The world’s militaries took on a gleam-in-their-eye when presented with energy weapons to revolutionize killing each other, scientists marvelled at the genetic materials and high-end molecules they were presented, the criminal element was soon frozen in carbonite, the new generation of children’s toys became an enticement to all ages, and law students began to pore over complex systems of intergalactic judicial consideration.

No transaction went unrecorded in contract form, in triplicate, and no new novelty was presented without some price. Within a year all that might be bartered for had been given to the aliens, and, worse still, humanity began to suspect that the invaders were laughing at them behind their backs.

Earth’s lack of coordination had lead to disaster. Each government had secretly promised swaths of land and communal protections to the Pesagans, only to discover that their rivals had made the same bargains, and that the Pegasans now owned a larger percentage of the globe than did the humans themselves.

The planet’s militiaries reacted first. To their surprise, their new weaponry was a match for those maintained by the invaders, and their tenacity brought several early successes. Despite the victorious aggression, hostilities were quickly brought to a halt when a massive starship appeared in the pacific skies. From deep within came a message from the Stellar Trade Commission: cut it out, or face embargo. Unwilling to risk the competition within their own race receiving an advantage, the world’s forces called a halt to their march.

Even as mankind was being forcibly migrated from lands their ancestors had known for thousands of years, a cabal of scientists attempted to put forward a report proving that long term co-habitation would eventually lead to mutual ruin. The Pegasans were quick to respond with their own study determining that another century of observation was necessary to prove the theory. They did, however, offer to submit the paperwork for the Stellar Trade Commission research grant that would be required.

The criminals were too well contained to even attempt to pop the Michelin Man. The children simply shrugged their shoulders and returned to their holo-gaming.

Milo P. Schwardenbach, however, was not amused.

Milo was but one of the lawyers which Nintendo Of America retained on staff, but he was the only one that had buried the sharpened end of a pencil into his ham and pickle sandwich the first time he’d seen a life-sized Italian plumber walk past his working-lunch. So he’d spent six months learning the galactic common speech, then began reading.

Where diplomacy crept with tender feet, copyright law moved with steel-toed boots.

After Schwardenbach was victorious in STC court, and Nintendo was awarded most of the British Isles, a flood of cases eventually retook the entirety of what had once been mankind’s.

There was another round of human-complaints, but, in the end, it was generally felt that at least it was their United States of Budweiser.

 

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 095 – Muck: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety-Five.

Tonight we present Muck: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp095.mp3]

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

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

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 brief interlude in Thomas Blackhall’s river travels.

Flash Pulp 095 – Muck: 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 and his companion, Marco the voyageur, had been paddling and portaging for fifteen days, and, while Thomas had enjoyed much of the Frenchman’s conversation, his patience for the corn whiskey jug that seemed perpetually on hand was growing thin.

The two had pulled the fat-bottomed canoe onto another in the series of muddy banks that demarcated their progress, and, at the emergence of his perennial annoyance, the frontiersman had offered to walk the brush that surrounded the little camp in search of meat that might be roasted.

He’d let himself range far while enjoying the familiar rustling of the wind through untouched forest, and he’d found a security in his surroundings that he’d missed afloat and fighting the fast moving river. Game was sparse, but he’d encountered a mass of huckleberries that had him regretting his lack of a larger container than his palms in which to transport them. It was as he was lost in this consideration, and as his hands pulled berries from shrub to mouth, that he noted a thick line of destruction running through the brush at the patch’s furthest end.

His first thought was that some great bear had trampled through in preparation for its hibernation, but a further consideration of the path left him with an uneasy feeling. It appeared as if some man or animal had moved through the area with little regard for what lay ahead of it: a pine which lay in its course had had its ankle-thick branches snapped at the base, and a great rut of dirt had been agitated in its wake.

Blackhall was swift in putting his Baker rifle into his grip, but it was his sabre, which he’d left at the fire’s edge, that he longed for. He made good time through the darkening woods, despite the fallen autumn leaves protesting loudly at each footfall.

Marco watched Thomas’ entrance into the camp with heavy eyelids, and welcomed the returned with a lift of his whiskey.

“I’ve some work ahead, and it might be dangerous,” said Blackhall, as he hefted his sword. “I’d like your help, but it seems you’ve done yourself under.”

The voyageur cursed the frontiersman, the bottle, the river, the campfire, and his bladder.

“I was drunker than this the night I rode a nag full tilt down the nine mile road, blindfolded.”

He staggered to his feet, his hand going to the buck knife he carried at his belt.

“Où?”

* * *

“It seems ridiculous, but it’s the golem of Prague. It was formed of clay and animated to defend its people from the cruelties of their time – or at least, that’s my best guess, from my readings.” Blackhall now regretted having roused his companion, but there was little he could do. He continued his explanation. “They say it eventually became too aggressive, and was locked in the attic of a synagogue.”

The trail had been simple enough to follow, as the towering form made no effort to alter its course for the sake of ease.

“It just sat there quietly?”

“It is a difficult thing to always hold a loaded pistol in your hand, day in and day out, and not find some need to fire it,” Blackhall replied. “Mayhaps it originally found its way here on some errand, or, feeling the pull that brings all of the world’s phantasms to this final emptiness in their end days, it somehow stowed away. It is impossible to tell. Neither can we say how long it has wandered these rugged lands with little purpose. I would guess that it has been quite some time.”

The thing watched them as they talked, standing as near the river’s edge as it might without risking its never-fired feet. While seeming nearly impervious, it had not moved through the land unscathed, and gouts of its arms and legs had been ripped away by its ill considered path.

“I think the monster wishes to bring an end to itself,” said the voyageur, puffing zealously on one of Thomas’ hand-rolled cigarettes.

Again, Blackhall wished he’d left the man alone with his drink.

“It understands it to be a sin to suicide,” he replied.

Never pausing for thought, the Frenchman moved to the figure and pressed his hands hard upon its shoulders, sending it tumbling backwards into the water.

He’d stumbled back to his jug well before Blackhall had finished watching the remains break up and wash down stream.

 

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.