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FP200 – The Death of Ruby, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Death of Ruby, Part 1 of 1

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Tonight’s episode is brought to you by The Mob.

 

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 meets her end.

 

The Death of Ruby, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Narration by Peter Church
with Additional voices by Opopanax, and Dancing Ella
Art by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

RubyThe party was a quiet affair, just her son, his new fiancee, her parents, and a few friends from town. They’d all parked along the double-rutted lane before entering the yard of her home – one of the last to be able to claim to be truly rural in New York state – and were now seated in the plastic white lawn-chairs she’d scattered around the fire pit.

Her knee had ached as she mounted the trio of steps that led to her patio, and pushed aside the sliding screen door she used to enter the kitchen. She’d been seeking the double stack of red plastic cups that she’d picked up for the occasion, in preparation for dispensing the rummy punch Maggie had constructed.

Turning back to the party, with cups in hand, she had paused at the exit, watching Maggie The Server stiffly trundling around the group with the cheese and cracker plate.

It was while tearing open the transparent wrapper that Ruby spotted the intruder moving into the half-circle of chatting well-wishers.

“No,” she said, “no, damn you, no.”

She’d heard the story only two nights before – a former lover of her son’s chosen, unrelenting in his refusal to accept her spurning. The girl had told the tale with tears in her eyes.

The newcomer ratcheted the shotgun in his hands, and all talk ceased.

Dropping the cups, the aging woman sprinted to her living room.

Outside the home, the gate-crasher made his intentions clear. Without breaking for explanation, he leveled his weapon at Mr. McReardon and fired. The proud father’s lawn chair toppled backwards, and the dying man’s brown trouser legs twitched briefly before halting all movement.

“Angie,” said the gunman, turning on the freshly engaged woman. “This is all your -”

Barefoot, Ruby made no effort to check her momentum as she plunged through the screen door.

For a moment she almost seemed to shift in time: There was no more bad knee, there was no sleeping in on high thread-count sheets, there was no escape – there was only Bethany, snatched down from her place on the mantle, and a threat – always a threat – with no answer but the blade.

Somewhere, she thought she might have heard the old General howl.

It was only as the mad woman cleared the end of the deck in a single bound, and came pounding the turf in his direction, that the intruder managed to convince himself of the reality of the situation.

He pulled the trigger, finally, sending burning buckshot into her ribcage, but she briefly shrugged off the effect.

Then she did what she’d always done, and cleaved his skull.

Ruby’s last living sight was of the wind ruffling the elms she’d planted thirty-five years earlier.

* * *

She woke with Bethany in her hands.

There was a thin faced woman leaning over her, whose eyes moved continuously between her own and the door of the small thatched hut in which they were seated.

To Ruby, it seemed not as if she’d woken from a dream, but more as if she’d been distracted during a conversation, and could no longer remember what the topic had been before a sudden interruption.

“What?” she asked.

Her custodian smiled.

“Valhalla – where those who’ve died gloriously are taken.”

“I – huh.”

Ruby was surprised to see she was wearing jeans and a t-shirt she’d lost in the early days of the zombie plague, and she wondered briefly what her reflection would reveal should she encounter a mirror.

There were more pressing questions, however.

“Who are you?”

“Most call me Katharina Pfiati, although I was once known simply as The Butcher,” replied her thin-faced companion.”

“The Butcher?”

“Yes, there was a night upon which I laid to rest twenty men.”

“Twenty? How?”

“Very quietly.”

The conversation’s lull allowed Ruby to note the gunfire in the distance.

“I’ve seen Jacob’s Ladder,” she said. “Is this just some crazy last-hurrah rollercoaster ride my brain is giving me while I bleed out on the lawn? Am I about to die hallucinating? Is this world just built on adrenaline and shock? ”

Before her companion could answer, the cloth blocking her view to the exterior shifted aside, and a man in a slightly vintage US Marine uniform stepped into the room.

“Nah, the world’s real enough,” he replied. “It’s a bit like a quilt, stitched out of all the notable battlefields. It loops, though – or maybe it’s just round. I once convinced a guy to give me a ride in his sabre jet, and we spent the day doing laps. It took about eight hours to fly across, if my watch is to be trusted. On the other hand, the landscape tends to move every now and then, so don’t get too comfortable with any mental maps you might build.

“As to the rest, well, you’re already dead, so you ain’t likely to get much deader. You’re also late, which is sort of weird, but sometimes the valkyries like to take the long way home.

”Name’s Jenkins, by the way – Cutter or Leroy, whichever you prefer.”

Despite her ghostly status, Ruby found his handshake reassuringly solid.

“Time to go meet the boss,” said Cutter.

“Boss?” she asked. She’d never been a fan of being told what to do.

Jenkins caught the tone in her voice. “Oh, he’s nice enough. Some of the old timers have a problem with him – apparently he’s only been in management of the place for the last couple hundred years – but Blackhall’s a solid guy.”

The words made little sense to Ruby, but, as the trio strolled through the smoking remains of a formerly grassy field, it seemed that there would be plenty of time for explanations.

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP264 – Ruby Departed: Wasting Time, Part 5 of 6

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Ruby Departed: Wasting Time, Part 5 of 6
(Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4Part 5Part 6)
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(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Hume Speaks.

 

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 encounters a force even more terrifying than the zombies that hunt her.

 

Ruby Departed: Wasting Time, Part 5 of 6

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

 

Ruby Departed

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

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP263 – Ruby Departed: Wasting Time, Part 4 of 6

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Ruby Departed: Wasting Time, Part 4 of 6
(Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4Part 5Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp263.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Hume Speaks.

 

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 is forced to fend for herself amongst the staggering corpses that wander the countryside.

 

Ruby Departed: Wasting Time, Part 4 of 6

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

 

Ruby Sketch

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

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP262 – Ruby Departed: Wasting Time, Part 3 of 6

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Ruby Departed: Wasting Time, Part 3 of 6
(Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4Part 5Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp262.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Hume Speaks.

 

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 finds herself on trial.

 

Ruby Departed: Wasting Time, Part 3 of 6

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

 

Ruby Departed

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

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP258 – Coffin: Dealing, Part 3 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Coffin: Dealing, Part 3 of 3
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
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(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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

Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny Davis, his tipsy friend, find themselves deep in conversation with a dead killer.

 

Coffin: Dealing, Part 3 of 3

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

 

Will Coffin, Urban ShamanThe pause between the stringy-haired drunk, the leather-jacketed shaman, and the lacy-skirted stranger, was a brief one.

Bunny had no idea who John Koyle was, why he apparently looked like a rockabilly hipster chick, or what life choices had driven him to murder the trio in the next room, but she certainly knew she had a pistol in her hand, and she intended to use it.

Coffin’s reflexes were all that kept Priscilla Root alive.

“Whoa there, Quick Draw McGraw,” he told his companion, as he stepped into her line of fire. “Let’s hold a quick conversation, then shoot him.

“The name’s familiar – Koyle? Weren’t you some sort of murderous ferryman? Yeah, yeah, the dioramas are ringing a bell now. Blackhall mentioned you.”

“Such wonders you have, these days, with your electricity and your nail guns. Tools for a true creator, they are,” replied the man in the woman’s body. His words rolled from plump pink lips. “I’ve always heard artists only gain proper notoriety after their death – it took nearly two hundred years, but even I’ve gathered an appreciative audience – and you know of Blackhall, you say? Interesting, indeed. Certainly not a detail I was given before being asked to pass my message.”

Bunny had lowered the gun,and edged beyond Will’s shoulder, so that she might maintain a view of Koyle. The living room was sizable enough, but its crowded shelves left the space feeling tight – especially while holding the conversation across the dead fellow on the couch.

“You’re some kinda ####in’ murderous time traveling drag queen?” she asked. “Oh ####, I mean, I have no problem with how you wanna dress – it’s the murdering that makes me think you’re an ###hole.”

“No, I am something of a reincarnation. I’ve been given command of the rather pleasing body of Priscilla Root, former girlfriend of this sluggard,” Koyle threw a purple-thumbnail towards the cadaver he shared the sofa with, “and compatriot to the three in the kitchen.”

“Won’t be long before they all reek,” replied Coffin. Though his words were casual, his eyes roamed over the possessed woman’s arms. Beneath the sleeves of Root’s white-fringed vintage blouse, her limbs bore a interlocking maze of imagery: a school of koi fish flowed into the scales of looping dragons, whose smokey exhalations formed the tail feathers of a murder of crows.

Koyle smiled. “Oh, I’m quite used to it.”

“You said something about a message?” asked Will.

“Yes, well, in truth, you’re a wee bit early, but my bonfire was part of it. Your inebriate friend here, locked eternally, by my needles, into a position of prayer, will be the next. My, er, benefactors, want your knee bent, whatever the cost.”

“Holy ####,” said Bunny, “I don’t want to sound cliche, but I think I’m actually about to shoot a messenger.”

Despite her bluster, the killer’s grin remained. “Not this time. I have leverage, and I doubt you’re so hard hearted – harm me, and you harm Priscilla Root.”

“Fine, let’s just call the cops then – be pretty ####ing hilarious to spend your second lifetime in a jail cell, wouldn’t it? It’d give Coffin plenty of time to whip up some mumbo jumbo and fish you out.”

As if in response, a nearby car-door slammed, and the bewitched Ms. Root batted her lashes. “Do you think the local constabulary will arrive in the neighbourhood before the burly fellows, which I was asked to stall you for, manage to make their entrance?”

The security system gave a cheerful double bing.

“One of them has a gun,” announced Koyle, to the now lit hallway.

From the depths of the homemade art gallery, well beyond their view, came a deep-throated reply. “That’s fine, we’re carrying three of our own.”

The scuffle was short.

A distracted Bunny was disarmed by Koyle, who nimbly gained his feet and aimed a fist at her jaw.

Coffin stepped back, with his fingers in his pockets, but, before he might retrieve a talisman, a scream split the air. It had emanated from one of the unseen newcomers, and was immediately drowned in a rush of chittering.

Only one made it so far as the room’s entryway: A thick-chested man in a simple gray suit. He held a pistol, but was too blind to find any use for it. About his neck maneuvered a pair of large black squirrels, their grasping claws dancing along the material at his collar, and their probing teeth finding purchase in the soft flesh of his face.

He managed a gurgled request for help, then was set upon by a ragged-haired German Shepherd, which laid its broad mouth across his left-calf, and commenced to thrash.

The intruder toppled, and a flood of night creatures followed – it was a motley arrangement of malnourished tom cats, raccoons, and rats, which dragged him away.

Then the house was once again silent.

“The #### was that?” asked Bunny, from her new position on the floor, as she rubbed her swelling cheek.

Uninterested in further conversation with the madman, Coffin uncoiled his silver chain and started its ornate hook along a rhythmic arc about his head.

“Bloody sorcerers,” muttered Koyle, and Will took his swing.

The snare scarcely grazed Priscilla Root’s temple, but it was enough, and the translucent form of a howling John Koyle was tugged from her flesh.

Unlike his previous experiences with the Crook of Ortez, however, Coffin found it necessary to maintain a contest of strength with the artifact, or otherwise allow the haunting spirit to return to inhabiting the woman.

Priscilla sat, heavily, upon the already occupied couch, and began shrieking.

“Gettin’ punched by a hipster is the ####in’ worst. They’re nothin’ but knuckles,” said Bunny, as she gained her feet. She moved to hush the panicked screamer.

Will had worked to brace himself, but the greater the distance, the stronger Koyle seemed to pull towards his anchor.

To Priscilla’s gaze, Coffin was engaged in a bizarre mime act; a fight with a chain floating of its own accord.

“We need to know which is the new tattoo,” demanded the struggling shaman.

Without quite understanding the request, the weeping girl indicated a series of barbed swirls, worked into the skin of a geisha which circled the back, and palm, of her left hand.

“I’m sorry,” replied Will, as he released his charm. The links fell, as if suddenly unburdened, and Priscilla Root was re-invaded.

Before the persistent phantasm could voice a note of victory, Bunny hit him.

As she did her best to hold down the returned shade, Coffin conducted a hurried search of the house, and turned up a cleaver, obviously beloved by its former foodie owner, as well as the compressor and nail gun which Koyle had extensively misused.

Using a dishtowel as a cuff, Will quickly had Priscilla’s adorned arm pinned to the kitchen’s tiles, though a further set of similar restraints were necessary to quiet the maniac’s struggles. Once in place, though, there was time to plan.

Finally, as sirens filled the early morning, and under the staring eyes of Root’s dead friends, Coffin began his surgery, with a heavy drop of the butcher’s blade.

It was Priscilla alone who screamed, when he pressed the red-bottomed frying pan to her stump – and, even as he followed Bunny out the rear exit, the same wailing pulled the paramedics through the gore of the hall and living room, and to the injured woman’s side.

As they rounded the neighbouring industrial building, and looked for a hole in the fence so that they might cross the tracks, Pisky’s voice came to them from the thicket beyond.

“I’m a fool for a damsel in distress,” he said, “but I’m sure you’ll find a way to thank me.”

Bunny considered a response, but instead kept her mouth busy with the bottle of pretentious scotch she’d managed to locate in the recently abandoned dining area.

“That’s real sentimental of you, Pisky,” replied Will, to the unseen animal lord. “I rather suspect, though, that you only saved me because I’ve got what you need.”

Coffin tossed the cursed and still-flailing hand over the metal barrier, but did not wait for the chewing sounds of ripping sinew before continuing on.

(Part 1Part 2Part 3)

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP255 – Mulligan Smith in Making the Call, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in Making the Call, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp255.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Phoenix Fraser the Crime Fighting Dog.

 

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, our intrepid private investigator receives a lucrative offer.

 

Mulligan Smith in Making the Call, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan SmithThe silver-haired man plucked at his jumpsuit’s sleeve as he told his story.

“Olivia’s always been out to get me. She knows I get depressed on my birthday, so, every year, there’s a knock on my door; not at my secretary’s, not a buzz at the gate, not a visitor in the lobby – it’s a knock on my door. The courier is well dressed, he is excited to have the job. and he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. He just stands there in his rented suit, grinning like an idiot, and holding the brightly wrapped box towards me.

“Well, usually. Sometimes it’s something the size of a wallet case, but one year it came in a crate that stood nearly as tall as I do.

“The packaging doesn’t matter much, as it’s always the same bloody thing inside anyhow. They may all look different, but a gun is a gun is a gun, so far as offing yourself is concerned.”

“Maybe she means it for protection?” suggested Smith, as he shifted on his stool.

“The weapons always come preloaded with a single bullet.”

“Well,” replied the private investigator, “your ex-wife might just be superstitious: My mom wouldn’t give a wallet as a present without slipping a quarter in the change pocket.”

“She signs every card with a Hemingway quote.”

“Ok, it’s twisted,” said Mulligan, “but you have to admit, it’s sort of classy.”

“You need to help me get her. You need to help me make it stop,” replied the storyteller in the orange outfit.

The detective took a moment, staring at the blank white roof, before responding.

“Look, Mr. Barger, we’re both aware that if I hadn’t stumbled across your illegal entertainments you wouldn’t be here. I’m not eager to work for a man with a grudge.”

From behind the glass barrier, Charles Barger, former CEO and billionaire, straightened his prison uniform.

“I’m a businessman. I don’t hold you responsible for my downfall anymore than I would hold Mercedes responsible if I crashed my car. As I mentioned, she was always out to get me: I had a weakness, and Olivia exploited it – you were just the tool.

“Perhaps there was a time when I was angrier, but I’ve done my homework since. You’re good at what you do, and I like people who are good at what they do. I don’t mind being beat by the best – and now I require the best.

“Do this job for me, and I’ll pay you thrice the wage she provided. Let’s get that bitch.”

Smith’s lips sputtered quietly in consideration.

“You told me a story, so let me tell you one,” he said. “It’s my father’s, actually. It’s about something he refers to as the Alien Rule.

“In the late ‘70s he wanted to get away from the city – for personal reasons – so he spent a bit working with a sheriff’s office in a little backwater. A village with maybe a few hundred people living in it. One day he hears from a guy named Surly Davis. Surly wasn’t what his mom called him, of course, but everyone in a place that small has a nickname.

“Anyhow, he rings up Deputy Pops one morning, and he’s shouting about UFOs. As it happened, Davis was known to yell about a lot of things, and I guess extraterrestrials was one of them. You’ve met the type, I’m sure: Fellow with a third grade education who knows everything because he’s misread it from grocery store tabloid headlines, and always has a “get outta my sight, you goddamn delinquents” ready for any nearby children.

“Whatever the case, Dad makes the drive, and, sure enough, there’s a crop circle the size of a battleship stretching across Surly’s field. Well, it wasn’t like the fancy loops you see on tv – just a winding series of lines leveled through the wheat, with a few widening patches where everything had been pushed down.

“Pops is a patient guy, but apparently he was losing it a bit with Davis. See, the elder Smith figured it was maybe a rampaging animal, or even a couple of kids, so he’s walking the pattern, trying to imagine what it might mean – but Davis is following him the whole time, complaining.

“Over the course of the day, and with a flask helping to lubricate his train of thought, the farmer somehow merged his UFO theory with his delinquent preoccupation. He was sure the local miscreants had summoned them to mess with him. Said they probably learned how from ‘that Close Encounters of the Third Kind movie’.

”Unable to take conspiracy-talk anymore, Dad waves him off and drives back to town. He dials a pilot friend of his – an hour’s drive away – and asks for a ride in his plane. Sweetens the deal with fifty bucks from the policeman’s ball fund.

“He goes aloft, comes back, and doesn’t report much.

“A few of the locals, pals of his, ended up approaching him before he could break the department’s budget any further. Guess they’d gotten sick of having their kids shouted at, so half the town’s residents had had a bit of wine the previous night, then headed out with some planks. Took ‘em till dawn, but one of them was an engineer, and he put in the effort to create a plan that left them with a drawing of a man proudly displaying his middle finger.”

Mulligan zipped his hoodie.

“Right,” he said, “I appreciate the flattery, I really do, and I’m sure I could overcharge you for plenty of billable hours, but there remains the detail that I sort of loath you.

“You can blame your wife for your woes all you like – frankly, I don’t much intend on working for her again either – but you should keep Dad’s rule in mind: ‘Sure, it may be an alien, but, when you’re an asshole everything tends to look like an anal probe.’

“Chin up, though. Since I put you in jail it’s pretty unlikely Olivia will be delivering a fresh gun this year.”

Barger was still mustering a reply as Mulligan replaced the black-corded receiver and made for the door.

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP252 – The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 4 of 6

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

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 4 of 6

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp252.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, is unexpectedly held up by a surprising arrival.

 

The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 4 of 6 – Of Partisans and Parades

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

 

As Thomas made his way north, his lungs complained at each intake of frosted night air. Farmers’ axes had pushed hard at the forest, but, in this fresh land, the wilderness still stood ever on the horizon, and it was towards the shelter of those thick-limbed pines which Blackhall drove his legs.

His focus had contracted into naught but a single line, which projected from the distant trees, passed over himself, and continued on to the panting duo who chased at his heels.

He had long given up praying, but, as he urged himself on, he gave a small thought to his Mairi. Was this not simply a continuation of the mad race he’d been running since receiving word regarding the fate of her haunted corpse?

Under the pitiless brilliance of the winter stars, his mind briefly settled on a moment, some years earlier, beneath a soft June sun, in which he’d watched his beloved unfurl her plaited braid as she bathed in a crisp hill spring. The world had seemed clean, and full of light, and endlessly filled with affection.

The promises he’d made to his dead wife came to Blackhall then, whispered back to him in Mairi’s voice, and his boots were carried onward.

The pair of trailing Fitzhughs were unable to match this restored stride, but their mired tempo was quickly corrected by the arrival of a two-horse sleigh, bearing in its bed another half dozen of the captain. The doppelgangers were swift in extending helping arms to their brethren, but, with no room to be spared, the lagging twins were forced to take up stations standing atop the skids.

It was only Thomas’ choice to vault a homesteader’s ambitiously constructed rock-wall which bought the time necessary to move out of the broad fields, and into the close smell of timber – and yet, although his chest cramped and flamed with exertion, he dared not rest.

Thick underbrush meant the conveyance’s advantaged was lost, and its occupants disgorged into the wildwood. No more did they call Blackhall’s name, nor curse his heritage, nor offer soothing lies – all that could be heard of their approach was the huff of their effort.

Amongst the evergreens, the gloom was universal. Nonetheless, the frontiersman scrutinized the blackness, hoping to find an expedient escape. The search slowed his progress, and he was soon forced to lay a hand heavily onto the cheek of the nearest Fitzhugh, but, even while he laid the man low, Thomas’ gaze touched on a fat set of barren branches, ascending in a nearly ladder-like fashion. With the awkward bulk of the drum beneath his arm, and his Baker rifle bouncing at his shoulder, he stooped for a mouthful of snow, then took to the tree at a squirrel’s pace.

As he hoped, rather than make a hurried assault towards his prodding saber, his attackers began to circle his perch. The air grew thick with the coppery musk of blood, but, before the predators might settle on a modified course of action, a second party arrived.

There was no difference immediately visible in these new, yet identical, Fitzhughs, except for the muskets they bore – at least, until one of the newcomers stepped forward.

“Ho, Blackhall,” said the apparent leader, who stood somehow more firmly than his compatriots. “You look as if a frightened tom cat, caught wooing an estate’s mouser. Descend and we will discuss this matter – lest I send my friends to shake you down.”

Thomas did not respond, but, instead, worried the increasingly slushy mass he held astride his tongue.

Despite the thirst he’d created in his flight, he dared not swallow a drop of the meager water supply.

“I understand your distrust. I am sorry for the death of Shea, I find myself excitable these days. That said, really, I shouldn’t be blamed: Consider the nature of what you were hiding!

“There have been losses, yes, but, in sum, your cache has been an enormous boon to the settlement.

“In truth, I did not mean to hold on to the tools quite so long – but, well, there was an incident, in which a Lieutenant Green found his hand quite badly bitten by the blade of the silver dagger. After calming myself as to the implications of my suddenly transformed twin, I realized the use of such a talent. If a thing is easiest done by oneself, then surely it is even better done with an army of selves.”

Above his waggling moustache, the true Fitzhugh’s eyes smoldered with an arcane light, and Blackhall damned the man as a fool.

Thomas himself had once been caught up in the same thrill of dominion. The energies which flowed in this pristine territory were a flood in comparison to the dying flicker of their homeland, and, not long after his landing, he’d been eager to press the limits of his untested education.

He’d learned the nature of his mistake once he’d fallen under the keen noses of the fairytale menagerie which, hungry for just such occult potency, stalked the land.

“I do admit that errors were made,” continued the captain, “It is no easy thing to balance my progeny’s well-being against the constant bleeding necessary to keep them in their superior state. One day the graves that I have dug will be commemorated as the resting places of heroes, but, regardless, you must weigh the deeds their sacrifices have accomplished against how many die, daily and without purpose, in the muck of the backwoods.

“The productivity I have offered our community will save lives, many more than it has done under. Was this not the equation we lived by in the war against the tiny emperor? Was this not the logic which pressed our shoulders together in the Spanish streets, and which propelled our bayonets into the bellies of the French?

“You can not imagine the service I have rendered these last weeks. Each new collaborator – each new confederate who knows my thoughts and holds my drive for accomplishment – means another dispute arbitrated, another barroom conflict interrupted, another roadway undertaken.

“Better yet, it means another rescue party successfully lead, another supply of medicine reaching the sick, or another marauder brought to justice, and I am but a mere captain. Imagine what I might do with the men beneath me when I am made general.

“We must be allies again, you and I. While I have mastered the dagger there have been – mistakes – made with certain of the other artifacts. Without your guidance, I’ve had no option but to discover their use through trial and unfortunate error – but we will talk. You will teach me, and, together, we will bring the king’s rule to this land of rustics and drunks.”

Realizing it was only a supposed familiarity with The Eremite’s relics – knowledge he did not have – which had kept him alive thus far, Thomas was content to again refuse a reply. He was sure, anyhow, that his considered retort, indicating his reason for taking up arms against Napoleon had much to do with excessive influence concentrated in one man, would do him little good.

Blackhall’s jaws were close to holding plain liquid, and he moved to reposition The Green Drum. Until now he’d but read of its purpose, though he depended fully on its legend holding true.

Before he might begin the short ritual, however, a ghastly parade appeared.

The shuffling column of intruders did not advance with the sharp purpose of the duplicates; their gait was staggering, and their flesh was rotted. At their head stood a hag, her taut lips pulled into a skull’s grin.

The great witch, whom Thomas had hounded through the wilderness, had arrived to claim the power she’d scented upon the wind.

 

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

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP251 – The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 6

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

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 6

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp251.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself fleeing his place of rest.

 

The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 6 – Absolute Corruption

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

 

Thomas BlackhallThe trio stood staring at the corpse which lie, face down, on the floor of Thomas’ close-walled lodging.

“I couldn’t have,” said Shea. His voice was small, but fell heavily onto the space’s silence.

Events began to move quickly then.

“It would be best if we relocated to Jansen’s tanning shack, immediately,” Blackhall replied, as he grabbed up his Baker rifle and saber.

The main room was populated by a dozen diners, and a smattering of drunks. It seemed as if each took a moment to cast a raised brow toward the quickly exiting men, but Thomas felt no need to explain the sounds of struggle which had emanated from his chamber. Instead, he provided only a wave to the barkeep, as he seated his hat and pushed through to the winter’s early night.

Cold had kept most of the settlement’s inhabitants as near their fires as they could manage, and the snow drifts and blackened shops provided little welcome beyond the public house’s warm windows.

As he laid a boot into the darkness, Thomas held onto the hope that his temporary landlord’s professional pride would overcome his curiosity, and prevent him from intruding upon the corpse occupying his abandoned bunk.

He took some comfort in the fact that it was a short excursion, through moon-shadowed wooden alleys, to the edge of town.

The tanner’s plot was pungent with soaking flesh and strong abrasives, bringing the cluster of hurried travellers to a halt well away from its rough facade. The powder was ankle deep, and piling ever higher as they waited, but the hesitation gave the young private, who had so recently disclosed the sordid nature of his captain’s doings, an opportunity to once again find his voice.

“Well,” he said, “I think it’s time I say good night.”

“They’ll assume you played a part in the murder of Fitzhugh,” replied Blackhall.

“You know well enough that I did not,” spat the lad. “Your man here has fattened my lip such that I believe they’ll understand my circumstances.”

“I’m sorry – I’m sorry for all I’ve done. I’ve never before been such a fellow,” interjected the fingerless Shea. His neck grew short, and his shoulders rolled in agony. “I’ve never meant no being harm, and yet…”

The youth’s brow softened. “Cry not – my mother would give me worse for an improperly set table. I’ll say as little as I can, for as long as I can, but I dare not be caught up further in this madness. I’m not built to fight devils, and I’ve no want to receive the same fate as poor Fitz.”

“Might you continue to lend your aid?” asked Thomas. “I’m not pleased to seek help, but the loss of my tools is a dire thing. Worse yet, while I don’t intend offense to our friend here, his sobbing does not bode well for the strength of his nerve.”

Though he appeared lost in his weeping, Shea bristled at the remark.

“What right have you, Blackhall, to speak ill of me – you who have left me wretched; No, even as I say it, I know that I am wrong. I could have lived with killing the harpy on your behalf, which was all you truly asked – but, not the captain: It is too much.”

As if summoned by the mention, a form came staggering around the distant corner, and onto the backstreet which had been their final exit from town. For a moment the drooping moustache hovering over the upturned jacket collar seemed a mirage, but, as the figure neared, he became unmistakable as the supposedly deceased Fitzhugh.

Shea’s eyes again welled at the discovery, and he rushed the soldier with a tongue jabbering in relief.

“My god, you’ve given me a fright. I apologize for my brash maneuvers, and wish you only well, sir – we believed you dead!”

His eager greeting was countered by the bone-handled knife which snaked from Fitzhugh’s pocket and across the absolved murderer’s throat.

As life began to flow from the dying man another newcomer arrived. He was dressed in a lumberer’s stocky coat and worn boots, but there was no missing the fury in his eyes, nor the thick military man’s moustache which he bore. From beneath the sleeve which covered his right arm leaked a trail of blood, and each heavy step marked the ivory ground with a spray of crimson.

Though Shea recognized the second Fitzhugh immediately, his slick palms could do little to staunch his own wound’s flow, and, before he might even turn to warn his companions, his knees gave out. With his cheeks still damp, he fell forward.

He would not rise again.

Understanding that there was no further time to argue, Blackhall bolted towards the tannery. The ragged entrance gave only the briefest resistance to his flying shoulder, and he found some luck in that the object he sought – a small oak drum, bearing a freshly stretched skin and a ring of leaves engraved about its base – was upon a workbench close at hand.

As he regained the road, the sound of lashed horses drifted from somewhere beyond the oncoming twins, and, on the same wind which carried the cracks, also came another Fitzhugh’s voice, profanely urging on the nags in harness.

With a final prodding shout at the transfixed private, Thomas held tight his regained instrument, and made for the woods.

The youth did not follow.

 

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

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FPSE10 – The Exchange Student's Short Stay

Skinner Co.Welcome to Flash Pulp, special episode ten.

Tonight we present, The Exchange Student’s Short Stay.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpSE10.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

Tonight’s episode is brought to you by the Bear Crawling odcast.

 

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, as Skinner Co’s lead narrator has found her throat infected with a terrible burning, we briefly interrupt our current Thomas Blackhall tale to bring you a short urban legend concerning the culture barrier.

To learn more about this urban myth of questionable origin, visit http://wiki.flashpulp.com

 

Flash Pulp SE10 – The Exchange Student’s Short Stay

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

 

Read more about it at the Flash Pulp Wiki

 

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

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP250 – The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty.

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 6.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp250.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Bear Crawling odcast.

 

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, witnesses an unexpected demise.

 

The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 6 – A Sudden Death

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

 

BlackhallAs he tenderly prodded his fat lip, the young private seemed to find some relief in his admission.

“Fitz knew you were ducking him, right enough, so he sent a chum of mine, Patrick, to sit and play bully.

“Pattie could have done me the favour of not sprinting immediately away at the sight of you, but he’s never been much good at maintaining a lie, with that broad open face of his.

“Anyhow, you thought you were being smart by getting out and about, but that’s exactly what Captain Fitzhugh wanted. Your handsy friend Shea, amongst others, were quick enough to gossip, and so it was easy to quietly gather your doings from a mutually friendly third-party.”

The lad spit on the floor then, a mixture of mucus and blood.

“Word along the chain says that Fitz isn’t quite right these days – that he works harder than ever, but never sleeps, and seems most often moody and distracted. In truth, it is his worsening condition, as much as the implications of our recent journey, that drive me to divulge such information to you. I’m just a mud-stomper, and don’t know much of what happens above my head, but Pat and I grew up trading each other’s farm chores, and he gave me a look at the loot he was lifting from your room.

“I can not guess half their infernal functions, but you ought not hide things under the floor boards. You mustn’t have had any sisters with diaries when you were wee, but any twelve-year-old girl would have sussed your stash in a gnat’s wink.”

Blackhall, having returned to his position by the rented room’s door, frowned, but did not interrupt the boy’s narration.

“It was your trinkets you see: Fitz became aware you were prone to leaving them behind during your meanderings, so the longer off, the better to look over your toys. Has a few favourites, he does – that dagger of yours especially.”

Thomas cringed at the thought. He’d considered concealing the tools and talismans a calculated risk, as he knew little of the powers within the items he’d collected after the death of The Eremite. He had had no interest in suddenly facing off against an accidentally summoned djinn, while occupied with the business of remaining alive in the wildwood during an Upper Canadian winter.

Worse, the nature of his latest excursion had forced him to leave not only the stranger trinkets, but also the items he had practiced with for many years, for fear that the beast he and Shea had faced down might turn his own charms against him.

When he was sure the recital was complete, Thomas asked, “where am I most likely to find Fitzhugh at this hour?”

“At dusk? In his office, like as anywhere,” replied the lad, “I’ve inkling enough of your business to know I’ve no want to hang about, but – well, I do believe the captain had the best of intentions in invading your chamber.”

Blackhall allowed himself a small nod. “Perhaps, but it seems all too often that our man, Fitzhugh, thinks he’s more clever than he ought. Fortunately, there remains hope that he has not laid hands on all of my goods.”

While Thomas’ mind wandered towards the local tannery, the youth but shrugged.

“I’ve told you the truth now,” he said, “so I’ll thank you to release me without any further violence from your crippled, yet high strung, companion – I ask only that you make no mention of the sources of your information, and that you take your infernal gear and head back into the woods which delivered you.”

Wesley Shea, who had been watching the scene from behind lidded eyes, simmered at the comments regarding his temper and physical disposition. “Listen here, you flip cur, I’ll happily give your pilfering superior the same taste of palm that I gave ye. What right have you to -”

His rant was cut short by a sudden opportunity to carry out his claims, as the the entry was forced wide, and a haggard Fitzhugh rushed the room. The captain was clad in a pair of civilian trousers, and a loosely fastened coat, but it was the empty blaze of his pupils which most caught Thomas’ attention.

Though Blackhall was closest to the threshold, the swinging door had thrown him off balance, and it was the unstable Shea who first came into arm’s length.

“You will surrender yourselves to -” was as far as the intruder was allowed, before Wesley returned the favour of the interruption.

It was a stinging slap, though far from disabling.

The soldier did not take well to the insult, and motioned as if to draw a blade from his hip. Fitzhugh appeared surprised, however, when he discovered the weapon lacking. Instead, he squared his shoulder, and tackled the fingerless man. The pair fell to the floor with a terrible momentum, and their limbs took to the furious process of seeking purchase within each other’s defenses.

The struggle was frenzied, but, even as Thomas moved to intervene, Shea laid both his ragged hands upon his attacker’s collar and forced himself free of the melee.

Attempting to pursue his quarry, the military officer endeavoured to retake his feet, but, beneath his now gaping jacket, it was apparent his simple cotton shirt was greased with blood.

“Damnation,” said Fitzhugh – then, with a quiet gasp, he fell dead.

 

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

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.