Tag: free

204 – Ruby Departed: Snowball, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and four.

Ruby DepartedTonight we present, Ruby Departed: Snowball, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp204.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the After Movie Diner Podcast & Blog.

 

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’s upturned standoff, with the reanimated corpses of the once living, comes to a savage end.

 

Flash Pulp 204 – Ruby Departed: Snowball, Part 3 of 3

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

 

* * *

 

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.

203 – Ruby Departed: Snowball, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and three.

Ruby DepartedTonight we present, Ruby Departed: Snowball, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp203.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Scott Roche.

 

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 upturned, and surrounded by the shuffling legs of the undead.

 

Flash Pulp 203 – Ruby Departed: Snowball, Part 2 of 3

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

 

* * *

 

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.

202 – Ruby Departed: Snowball, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and two.

Ruby DepartedTonight we present, Ruby Departed: Snowball, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp202.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Scott Roche.

 

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, with the Parkers in tow, Ruby finds herself on an unexpected new leg of her journey through the moaning undead.

 

Flash Pulp 202 – Ruby Departed: Snowball, Part 1 of 3

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

 

* * *

 

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.

201 – Mulligan Smith and The Golfer, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and one.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Golfer, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp201.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Scott Roche.

 

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, Mulligan Smith encounters a caddy-less man with a grievance.

 

Flash Pulp 201 – Mulligan Smith and The Golfer, Part 1 of 1

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

 

“Don’t,” said Mulligan.

The golfer, a man of fifty, lowered his club. Running a gloved hand along his black-dyed comb-over, he considered the lanky intruder in the zipped hoodie.

“Why?” he asked.

The ball-flogger was wiggling his driver subtly, and Smith wondered if he was guessing at what the thick ebony head might do to a skull. Rather than become part of an impromptu experiment, the private investigator opted to speak quickly.

“I understand how you feel,” he said. “Folks I work for often have a tough time dealing with the emotional loss of a loved one.”

“‘Loss of a loved one’? She’s not dead, she’s ####ing the UPS guy.”

“True,” replied Mulligan.

“I know it’s ####ing true, I paid you a quarter of a year’s wages to find it out.”

Smith noted that, beneath his green polo’s collar, his ex-client’s neck had turned an alarming shade of red.

“OK, fine, but do you still love her?” asked Mulligan. He pulled deeply from his slurpee as he awaited the answer, his free hand idling in his sweater’s right pocket.

“Yes. No. I want to, but I can’t.”

The highly engineered graphite club shook under the cuckold’s mid-shaft grasp, and the detective turned slightly to give the sportsman an awkward sort of privacy.

“So leave her, and move on,” said Smith, “I’m not saying it’s any fun, but I’ve had plenty of customers do it before.”

“Give her half of the business? Sell the house we spent a decade designing and building? What kind of crap does she tell the kids? Would I ever even see them again?” The man wiped away the line of spittle which had drifted from his lip to his chin, and rolled his shoulders. He returned his grip to the handle, and took on a stance any professional would be proud of.

“My life is over,” he said, taking a few gentle practice swings.

As he formulated his response, Mulligan’s gaze wandered across the theoretical field of play. The overpass provided a clear view to the distant horizon, and he could only guess at the number of grid-locked civilians trapped in their gas guzzling four-wheeled capsules. The rush hour traffic was awash with the afternoon sun, and matters had been made more agonizing by the stalled hatchback the PI had seen to be blocking the left-most lane, five-miles further along the highway’s concrete ribbon.

For a moment, Smith considered the results of one of the dimpled balls taking flight. In his imagination it cruised, like a kamikaze pigeon, over the glassy sea of windshields, to finally explode into some unexpecting middle-manager’s cellphone conversation with his grocery list dispensing wife. Would the round missile still be moving quickly enough to kill the fellow on impact, or would it come to an oozy halt in an eye socket?

His fingers tightened around his hidden Tazer.

“Listen, I know a homeless paraplegic drunk who lives on rotting pizza scraps dumped from a Chuck E. Cheese. He’s a crack addict who spends the majority of his waking periods inspecting his useless legs for maggots, both real and imagined, but he’s also the most upbeat guy I’ve met. Why don’t we take a stroll and find him? Give you some perspective, and a chance to clear your brain a bit. This too shall pass, and all that.”

Smith’s former employer ignored the invitation.

“Thought about this for a while – always figured it would be almost like skee ball,” he said instead. “Me and Sharon used to head this way to escape the city. She’d pick me up after my shift at the Gas’N’Go, and we’d sneak down the back roads to this hillbilly driving field she’d found. There was never anyone else around, so we’d meander over in her mom’s chugging jalopy, smoking joints the whole way, then spend the night hitting balls. A quarter and this clanging beast of a machine would spit you out a bucket’s worth. It’s a bit of a ride, and it’d just as often be dusk by the time we got there. Didn’t matter that we couldn’t see where the hits were landing, we were just happy to share a bottle of wild turkey and each other’s company.”

Smith nodded, but, before he could answer, the wronged husband continued.

“It’s been years since we were on the green together. Now everything dribbling from her mouth seems so moronic. I don’t know why it hurts so much if I can’t stand her anymore.”

The married man considered the line of six spheres he’d set at the curb’s edge, and cocked his ear to better hear the drone of the cars below.

He raised the club to his shoulder.

Tazer drawn, Mulligan made a last attempt to reach the mourner.

“Fine, then consider this: If I don’t fire a few thousands volts into you, and you do kill someone, it’ll be prison. You aren’t going to manage cop-assisted suicide wielding only a rich-man’s toothpick.”

“I’m not afraid of jail.”

“You were so concerned that Sharon would get half of everything, how are you going to feel when she has it all? You won’t have to worry about dividing up your dream home, the whole thing will be hers. I wonder if the UPS guy likes leather couches and chrome kitchen fixtures?”

There was a roar of rage, then the golfer kicked his column of plastic eggs into the gutter and shattered the driver over his knee. With a gurgle, and upraised arms, he fell to the pavement, weeping.

Realizing that the danger had passed, Smith decided it would be prudent to wait another day before delivering the reminder regarding his outstanding bill.

 

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.

Flash Pulp Guestisode 001 – Norman, by Scott Roche, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp Guestisode One.

Flash PulpTonight we present Norman, by Scott Roche, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpGuest001.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This episode is brought to you by Scott Roche.

 

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 cat and mouse game, already mid-chase.

 

Flash Pulp Guestisode 001 – Norman, Part 1 of 1

Written by Scott Roche
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

* * *

 

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.

SE8 – Heckuva Job, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, special episode eight.

Flash PulpTonight we present, SE8 – Heckuva Job, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpSE8.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by treed!.

 

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 Heckuva Job, a tale of generational conflict which does not quite fit the Flash Pulp universe.

 

Flash Pulp SE8 – Heckuva Job, Part 1 of 1

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

 

The majority of the ten foot by ten foot room was taken up by a round table, which was surfaced in a light brown faux-wood veneer. Randall tugged at his tie, pulled the collar of his shirt away from his sweat-slicked skin, and wished that Warren would deign to loosen his own knot, so that the younger man might be excused such a level of informality as to actually take the bloody thing off.

Randall was not a fan of ties in general.

The crisp necked Warren was standing before the wide whiteboard that occupied the wall opposite the door, a dry-erase marker in his hand.

“We need to be inclusive if we want to get this package passed,” he said.

Randall was also not a fan of the condescension his senior allowed into his voice while discussing their work – the younger man had little respect for authority gained through simply aging.

Warren continued. “You’ve let yourself get too single minded, and now there’s nothing to be done at all about the dog murdering.”

“I don’t believe it counts as homicide if its in the name of population control,” replied Randall. “I think it’s considered balanced against the miserable lives they’d lead as street mutts and whatnot.”

It seemed that Warren paid no heed to his response. Tutting, the codger tapped the capped end of the blue dry-erase against his chin, and stared down the diagram he’d sketched.

“What if we add some rabid beasts at the top of the hill?” he asked.

Being ignored infuriated Randall.

“Why don’t we add a laser, and a bunch of leeches, and a weeping corpse? I’ll tell you why, because none of those things are necessary. Look at this crap – a rock? A hill? What year is this? I say we requisition a bus, a bunch of rope, and a squad of flaming eyed demon children with tinkling laughter, and let’s get this project greenlit.”

Now Warren’s face had also taken on a red tint; his greatest point of annoyance was impudence, of which his junior partner never appeared in short supply.

“You think you can come in here and simply ram this process through with your ridiculous ideals of streamlining? There is a craft – a technique – which one so fresh as yourself ought to consider before providing such cheeky commentary.”

Warren did ease his tie then, but Randall had forgotten the heat, and instead let loose his tongue.

“Fine, but there are also RULES to be considered – perhaps, given your advanced age, your shriveling frontal cortex has misplaced them.” He fought to deliver the line coolly, but his raggedly chewed fingernails left a constellation of bloody crescents across the meaty flesh of his palms.

“In my time here, I have forgotten more about the art than you’ll ever manage to cram into that underdeveloped cranium.”

“Pompous gasbag!”

“Menial jackass!”

Neither side willing to continue the conversation, both shifted their position and located items of interest to stare through; Warren at the whiteboard, Randall at the pockmarked plateau of the table.

The junior of the pair found some satisfaction in spitefully removing his neck-ware. Eventually, however, he could no longer stand the silence.

“Do you ever – have you ever considered that someone may have designed this room as well?” he asked.

“Oh, I can assure you,” Warren replied, “this is certainly my Hell – brainstormed, no doubt, in whatever tiny office-cell they’ve stuffed Hitler himself into.”

Randall’s shoulders slumped.

“Fine,” he said, once again reaching for the black length of silk he’d set down. “So he pushes the rock up the hill and it rolls back down every time. I’ll get the manuals and see if euthanizing dogs for the SPCA tallies as a sin.”

 

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.

FlashCast 35 – Giant

FC35 - Giant[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast035.mp3](Download/iTunes)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast episode thirty-five – prepare yourself for decapitation, King Kong, a giant tale, and The Phantom Suburb.

Pulp-ular Press

* * *

Fresh Fish, with Threedayfish

Contact Fish at his Facebook Page or on Twitter.

This week’s review – Apollo 18:

[youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CpVnot2u5B8]

* * *

A Spot of Bother:

Find Jeff at @PleaseLynchMe or at the Spot of Bother Blog
Some surprising facts regarding Guillotines, and decapitation

* * *

New York Minute:

Find Barry at http://bmj2k.com or on twitter
[youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ge3Kc3uOo8Y]

* * *

An original Curious Tale of Vienna, from Ingrid! Find more of her work at http://vienneselegends.blogspot.com/ and Dancing Ella’s Words

* * *

Mailbag:

* * *

Backroom Plots:

* * *

Art of Narration

* * *

Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!

* * *

Freesound.org credits:

* * *

If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, call our voicemail line at (206) 338-2792, or email us text or mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.

FlashCast is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

199 – Sgt Smith and The Ham, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Sgt Smith and The Ham, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp199.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Pendragon Variety.

 

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

Tonight, Sgt Smith recounts a criminal tale of sight seeing, entertainment, and consumerism, from the mid-century streets of Capital City.

 

Flash Pulp 199 – Sgt Smith and The Ham, Part 1 of 1

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

 

My Dearest Mulligan,

It was 1957, and I was working downtown, back when I got a lot of raised eyebrows at having earned a uniform amongst Capital City’s bluest. Since the guys were less than enthusiastic in welcoming a no-tongued new chump, I had been relegated to prodding tourists.

Now, my fifteen minutes of fame had come a few years earlier, but accidentally busting a serial killer had earned me little more than a stretch of concrete to wear down. I spent a lot of hours strolling between the junk shops and the museums, and directing folks who’d strayed from the sightseeing circuit.

There were three factions that I was quite familiar with though; the homeless, who hated the shopkeeps who tried to roust them, and loved the buskers who entertained them; the store owners, who loved the buskers that drew crowds, but hated the homeless who they saw as scarecrows for the out-of-town rubes; and, finally, the buskers, who were generally too stoned to bother with either, and mostly wasted their non-entertaining time waging passive aggressive mime-versus-poetry-beatnik wars for the best corner turf.

I became friends with some, and didn’t much care for others. There was a strongman, Jacky Patterson, who, it seemed to me, hauled his weights out in his old jalopy, then blew the day exercising in a ridiculous black spandex outfit. He was actually pretty successful, though, and loud enough that everyone knew him.

He’d tell stories while lifting children over his head, and folks would often get so wrapped up in the telling that his arms would be trembling before they’d remember to snap the photo they’d asked for.

All the brats wanted to ask him about, though, were his fights. They couldn’t figure a guy that strong who wasn’t constantly punching people, so he spun tales for them.

“You spot the moon last night? That big black spot it had?” He’d ask, striking a pose.

“Yeah,” the kids reply.

“Man in the Moon was getting too close to my girl, so I socked him one,” then he’d flex, and, for a second, they’d believe him. That’s the thing, It wasn’t just the charm – he had great patter, sure, but he was there most days, rain or shine, and it showed.

You didn’t see fellas that big back then.

Despite the closed-collar nature of those years, I recall him mentioning that the women in sensible hats were often his largest donors.

Another notable was Eugene Wagner, who would sit inside his sausage stand and mutter endlessly over the perceived insults cast upon him by anyone between the age of eight and eighteen who happened to pass by. His place always seemed on the verge of falling over. Although he made good money in the summer, he lived on it for the winter, and he was constantly broke. He complained eternally that hooligans were stealing various condiments, but I never saw anyone making a break for it with fists full of onions.

I tried his wares a few times, but I was better fed in the College pubs, which liked having me swing by to discourage the rowdies.

Anyhow, it’s around noon, late in the season, and you can feel the locals getting ready to fold up for the winter, or at least move their operations to warmer climes.

I’d wasted my morning keeping an eye out for a hooch-sponge who’d missed the shelter’s breakfast call. He was apparently a regular, and expected, so I’d peeked into alleys and prodded the locals.

Approaching Eugene, I handed him the rumpled note I’d been passing to everyone else.

His grill was smoking, and I’d had to push my way through a crowd of salivating lunch patrons.

“Someone missing?” he asked, raising a greasy eyebrow. He took the sheet with the details and looked it over as I nodded.

“Oh, I know this guy,” he said, “with the beard and the ridiculous red hat. Bought a sausage a couple weeks ago and used all my mustard. I swear he spoons the dill right into his mouth when I’m not looking. Ain’t seen him today though.”

He wasn’t interested in pressing charges on the pickle snatching, so I moved on.

None of the guitarists or poets had noted anything, and, unsurprisingly, the mimes were unwilling to discuss the matter.

As it happened, he was found on top of a shoe store. Whiskey-wings had given him the courage to climb, but they’d abandoned him before he’d managed to descend. Instead, he’d opted to sack out for the night. A better fate than he could have hoped for, considering, but it did bring me to notice that I hadn’t come across the well built Patterson, which was unusual.

The next day was the start of the last big weekend, and the Friday streets were packed. First, I had a poet snatch a country-crooner’s six-string, and chase around a particularly harsh critic.

“Beat me all you want,” shouted the guy in the tweed suit, “but it won’t change how your poor word choices create an unpleasant rhythm throughout the piece!”

Everyone then had sat through too many Bob Hope flicks, and they all thought they were smart arses.

After that, I squandered my hours directing the flow of people along the pavement. I remember not envying the street sweeps, given the clumps of Wagner’s red wax-paper wrappers wadding at the curbs.

Later that same day, a prim auntie slapped a mime. She said he was making lewd approaches, but he indicated she simply wasn’t a fan of the old rope gag. Did she want to have him arrested? No, but she insisted he drop the French act till she was out of sight. Given that I had her white handed, I asked if he wanted to press charges, but he shook his head no.

When I finally punched out, I did so thoroughly. I can’t say for sure what we got up to, Saturday and Sunday, but, given the date, it’s likely your Ma and I loaded the buggy to head to your Gramps’ cottage, so we could help get it buttoned for winter.

Monday was a different world. Instead of dominating the streets, the tourists looked like harried clusters of pigeons poking sidewalk scraps. The bars held only the regulars on their well-claimed bar-stools, the out-of-towners having drained away like the tide retreating from the pillars of a pier. I’d have business with a lot of them when the snow came, but, at that point, they were still friendly and willing to guffaw with Johnny Lawman over the mooks who’d finally migrated.

Now, while I was gone, we’d gotten word from Beefcake Patterson’s girlfriend, who reported him unaccounted for.

Thing is, I wasn’t able to shake Wagner’s question.

“Someone missing?”

He’d asked it before I’d handed him my sheet, and the assumption bothered me.

It was one of those moments: There was no one around when I approached the smell of the cooking meat, and I opened my notepad, wrote a single line, then set it on the counter and tapped it twice.

“Our strongman is missing.”

For a second time, he anticipated my thinking. He was out the little screen-door on the side of the booth before I could make it around the corner, but he’d been pretty generous in sampling his own product, and I had Wagner huffing and in cuffs by the end of the block.

I wasn’t there for it, but, back at his place, they found a monster meat grinder, and on a workbench in the basement, Patterson’s hand.

That’s it.

Oddly, the meat in the grinder was never tested, and the whole place was bagged, filed, and forgotten about. They hit Wagner with a murder charge, and he pulled a bum straw on his court appointed lawyer. Three years later he was found dead in a prison shower.

If you meet the right grade-schooler, you’ll find the story continues to float around as an urban legend, but the newspapers never got a whiff of it.

I know they did it to keep from appearing on a very special 60 Minutes, but it’s hard to know how many people moved through the district that summer, or how many disappeared into Wagner’s kitchen before we caught on. Maybe it’s best that all those tourists remained unaware of the local delicacy they were consuming.

Now I need to take a walk. Stop eating so much fast food crap.

Love,
Dad

 

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.

SE7 – The Phantom Suburb, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, special episode seven.

Skinner Co.Tonight we present, SE7 – The Phantom Suburb, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpSE7.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Geek Out with Mainframe.

 

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, in our final urban legend of the summer, we present The Phantom Surburb, a strange tale of misadventure. To learn more about this questionable myth, visit http://wiki.flashpulp.com

 

Flash Pulp SE7 – The Phantom Suburb, Part 1 of 1

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.

FlashCast 34 – Cookin' with Typhoid Mary

FC34 - Cookin' with Typhoid Mary[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast034.mp3](Download/iTunes)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast episode thirty-four – prepare yourself for Batman, rotting flesh, Irene, bridges, Nickelodeon, and Thomas Blackhall.

Pulp-ular Press

  • Peter, from Radio’s Revenge shared multiple fantastic items:
  • A zombie video with a Ruby tribute:

    [youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQBtEtHv76c]

    A zombie video without a Ruby tribute (Walking Dead season 2 trailer):

    [youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1OZ0mu8Ey6A]

  • David Foster is attempting to pitch a new Star Trek TV series
  • Nutty and David (our CPO) spent some time in The Mob discussing Conan’s public domain status
  • Harry Potter IS The Woman in Black (Wait, no, that’s not…)
  • [youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4D-87X3vVc]

* * *

Fresh Fish, with Threedayfish

Contact Fish at his Facebook Page or on Twitter.

This week’s review – Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark:

[youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mFE4lGvRt8E]

Not to be confused with Are You Afraid of the Dark

[youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jitg-3xbmKU]

* * *

A Spot of Bother:

Find Jeff at @PleaseLynchMe or at the Spot of Bother Blog
Coke Ear - Don't Do Drugs, Kids
[Background music for today’s Spot of Bother by Alexandre Navarro]

* * *

New York Minute:

Find Barry at http://bmj2k.com or on twitter

As well as his usual New York Minute, Barry provided fantastic Irene coverage.

Some images from before the storm:

No Sun
Power
Flag

He also captured some video:

[youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9cMm2iY2lH0]

* * *

Mailbag:

* * *

Backroom Plots:

* * *

Art of Narration

* * *

Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!

* * *

Freesound.org credits:

* * *

If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, call our voicemail line at (206) 338-2792, or email us text or mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.

FlashCast is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.