Tag: podcast

FP234 – The Murder Plague: Run Around, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Murder Plague: Run Around, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp234.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Geek Radio Daily.

 

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 enjoys a brief respite from being hounded by the diseased and paranoid, before again being presented with unwanted decisions.

 

The Murder Plague: Run Around, Part 1 of 1

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

 

The Murder PlagueWell before dusk, and on a stretch of highway sided by nothing more aggressive than withered soy plants, I brought the truck to a halt. After Linwood’s ranting demise, it was tough not to feel as if an infected paranoid might leap up from the muck, and, convinced we were at hand to steal his coveted dirt, come charging on with an assault rifle, or a sword, or even an ill-intentioned dull razor.

I needed the break badly, though – a break, and a bit of distance from Mr. Baldy’s increasingly repugnant mouth-breathing.

At that point, we’d discussed our recently discovered antitoxin into a dead-end. Was it a cure, or an unsprung trap left behind by a feverish maniac? If we chose the path of hope, when was it best used as a vaccine or an antidote? Which of us was most deserving of the remedy?

My memory of Doc Henley’s gurgling death did little to bolster my confidence in the hand-labeled vial.

So we stood in silence, and picked at our cans of chunky beef stew with our fingers. Despite being chilly, the fact that we were still alive made the meal quite delicious.

It was a disappointment when we were interrupted.

Our ears had been tweaked to any engine noises that might be approaching, or even to footsteps, but the kid’s walk was only a rustle in the wind.

She came over the side of the ditch with her teeth bared and her arms out, like a zombie in a homemade horror movie, but she hadn’t planned it terribly well, and we froze a moment, watching her stubby legs pumping.

I could have ended it immediately, but even under those hard circumstances, I couldn’t kick a four-year-old.

The worst of it was her outfit. She was overdressed for the weather. Her red parka hood was zipped tight about her face, so that only her gnashing buck teeth were visible, and she had to cock her head slightly to be able see what was directly in front of her. Her snow pants were a matching shade, and it was really her pink boots which gave away her gender.

I was back in the cab first, and I spent a good ten seconds shouting at my weasel-faced companion before he decided to join me. It was too late, though. As Baldy regained his seat, the girl climbed onto the side-board.

Knowing she had too much torso to slam a door on, I stepped out of my own, and we began a Benny Hill chase scene. I hit the pavement, followed close behind by my scrambling associate, and then our toddling assailant.

Her determination was greater than her coordination, and I suspect her well-padded coat saved her a few broken bones during her tumble from the tall vehicle.

I couldn’t help but smile to see her pop up with unabated vim – but then, I’d also gained some distance by that point.

There’s a certain childish joy in escaping a threat you know is a minimal hazard. We sprinted as if children bolting from the yard of an old man whose window we’d just smashed with a baseball.

We shouldn’t have laughed, I suppose, given her very serious homicidal intent, but it was too much, too soon, and the swish-swish-swish of her baggy leggings put me in mind of grade school mischief.

It was when we realized that she wasn’t going to tire that I stopped chuckling.

I’d lead the chase in a circle, with the intention of returning to the safety of the truck, but, with a quarter of the distance left, my bare-pated acquaintance was huffing raggedly, and complaining about a cramp.

The tiny predator pulled back her hood, revealing clumps of unwashed straw-blond hair, and a pair of freckled cheeks. Her jaw clenched rhythmically with every step, and my fatherly instincts briefly had me concerned she’d bite off her own tongue in her frenzy.

With Baldy losing ground rapidly, I took stock of the situation. The only item at hand was my half-full tin of stew, but it was hefty enough.

My throw put a red line across the girl’s forehead.

The last of the fun was gone from it – once safe inside our rolling shelter, the risk was no longer immediate, and we were again forced into having to make decisions.

“The antitoxin?” I asked. I was talking to myself, but, between his exhalations, I received an unwanted response from my fellow escapee.

“Are you willing to gamble on killing that baby? What happens if we get Hitchcock’s in the process? We’d be out of drugs, and out of luck. The GPS says we’re a day’s ride from the blockade. We’ll power on down the road, and send the military to help.”

My uncertainty must have shown in my face, because he added, “If they can’t do it, we’ll get a hold of some medical supplies, and come back ourselves – if there even is such a thing as a cure.”

I listened to the feral thudding at the passenger-side door, and considered how I might feel about pinning a homicidally fearful toddler while attempting to inject it with something that might bring death.

There were no certainties in those times, only probabilities.

She was too busy making a racket to notice my approach, and the needle was in her before she realized.

Ten minutes later, as I was wrapping her in blankets, my patient was weeping, but docile. I exited a final time, to retrieve the forgotten remainder of my dinner, and offered it over. She held it close, though she refused to eat.

As we pulled away, I decided against ruining my triumph by mentioning that I’d been bit.

 

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.

FP233 – Coffin: Hidden, Part 3 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Coffin: Hidden, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp233.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Radio’s Revenge 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, Coffin and Bunny complete the breaking of a once happy home, as they attempt to save the life of an infant.

 

Coffin: Hidden, Part 3 of 3

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

 

CoffinVictoria had been awoken by the conversation in her sleeping chamber, and was now on her tip toes at the edge of the portable crib. Her stubby-fingered fist gripped the bars tightly as she watched Coffin finish his discussion with the dead man.

Will looked from the apparition to the collie which sat patiently by the closed door, then released his occult chain.

“Go get Mother Landreau,” Coffin told his companion. “Don’t let the tail-wagger out as you go.”

With an unsteady lurch, and a flailing leg intended to keep the canine at bay, Bunny squeezed herself through the exit and made for her destination.

Her weaving trip to the kitchen was twice as long as necessary, but, on the return, she utilized Judy as a pace vehicle, and managed a relatively steady course.

Her focus on travel, however, meant that Sweetie’s apparent need for captivity had slipped her mind.

As Judy turned the handle and pushed at the entrance, a stream of crimson emanated from the mouth of the wide-eyed babe, and impacted on Will’s leather-jacket. Coffin’s back had been to the child, as he’d turned to provide a second warning regarding the dog, who, spying an escape route, and upset by the stream of blood, bolted through the women’s legs.

As the flow ceased, Victoria began to weep.

“Step inside,” said the moist shaman.

Judy frowned, and moved to her infant’s bedside.

When the latch had clicked shut behind Bunny, Will began his questioning.

“How long have you been having the affair?” he asked.

Mrs. Landreau’s brow furrowed as she reached into the playpen.

“This isn’t the time for secrets,” Will added, as he shook his still dripping sleeve.

“On and off for a year,” she said, staring at the wet carpet.

“What’s his name?”

“Donald. Don.” As she spoke, Judy wiggled Victoria in an effort to bring her to silence.

“You’re gonna ####in’ shake that thing to death,” said Bunny. “Give’er here.”

With a shrug, the mother handed across the screeching bundle.

“Just one more -” the drunk sang, “No, wait – Gimme a shot – no hold on.”

Despite her broken lyrics, the lush’s consternation seemed enough to sooth the child.

As the pair wandered, Coffin moved closer to the subject of his interrogation.

“Has Don given you any gifts recently?” he asked.

The errant wife nodded. “A few weeks ago, as a Christmas present, he gave me Sweetie. He said I could give it to the family as a present, and they’d never know better.

“Sweetie is what he calls me. He liked that I’d always be thinking of him, even when we were apart.”

Her voice remained steady, but she moved the palm of her left hand to her eye and wiped away a tear.

“Well, ####,” whistled Bunny, “I guess the guy with the axe-wound in his chest isn’t the most ####ed up person in this room.”

After giving Judy a lopsided squint, she went back to humming.

“I’m pretty sure Don planned to empty your schedule,” said Coffin, “though usually these things move along quite a bit quicker. Wait in the kitchen and send your victi- sorry, your husband – back in.”

Bunny was no closer to completing her song as Gene entered, but Victoria had taken to cooing encouragingly at her attempts.

“OK, Pa,” said Will, “Time to trade dance partners. You hold the kid while my friend here goes to find the mutt.”

It took some convincing to drag Sweetie towards the damp flooring, but, once she’d been forced across the threshold, she was quick to nestle on the guest-bed’s barren mattress.

The daughter watched her father as her father watched his pet, and a silence descended.

Coffin pinched the bridge of his nose, and rubbed at his eyes.

“Great,” he said, “Now all Landreaus get out, because we need to conduct some light surgery on the family dog. Do you have some scissors on hand?”

Though Sweetie was young, her fur had thickened to fight the cold of winter. Still, the kitchen shears made quick work of the longer hairs, and a package of disposable razors, scavenged from the bathroom, did the rest.

Within an hour, the collie was nearly nude, but for a network of spiraling red emblems tattooed onto her flesh.

As Coffin washed away the last of the fluff with water he’d collected in a large basin, Bunny broke off from the absentminded singing she’d been using to calm the beast.

“Holy ####,” she said, “this pooch oughta get a ####ing Harley and a biker name. Killer Kibble, or something. Lassie Lowrider.

“You know, that actually reminds me, I used to know a stripper named Purina…”

Will didn’t have the patience to mention that, though she hadn’t noticed it, she’d somehow perfectly regurgitated the words to I’ll See You In The Morning.

Instead, he said, “quiet, I need to read.”

As his fingers flattened and stretched the shivering skin, his trained eyes began to understand the patterns.

“I thought so,” he said. “It’s a curse. Usually these things work very quickly, but this one’s a bit off the mark.

“Get a blanket and wrap the bowwow, so that the Landreaus don’t spot what we’ve found, then take her out of here, and wait for me on the stoop.”

With that, he made for the kitchen.

Gene was leaning against the stove and rocking Victoria, while Judy sat at the table and blew at her steaming teacup.

“Not an easy situation to resolve,” he said. “First, I should say that I need to kill your dog, and conduct the ritual of the thousand cleansings upon her carcass.

“Ma’am, you need to make your husband aware of who you’ve been sleeping with, for how long, and why your new boyfriend was trying to dispatch your baby. Sir, it’s worth mentioning, though, that she didn’t know about the hocus pocus anymore than you did. You need to get a divorce.

“Finally, to, uh, keep the sorcery at bay, you need to setup a television in that room which plays constantly. The volume needs to be loud enough that you can hear it, but not unreasonably so. Keep the programming interesting, at least until legal proceedings force you to sell the house. You can move the little one back to her own bed though.

“By the looks of things, Judy, you may not want to fight too hard for custody, but that’s above even my paygrade.

”Speaking of which, cut me a cheque for my fee so I can get out of here, and you can both start with the accusatory arguing you shouldn’t have had to go through a near-death experience to arrive at.”

* * *

While they made their way to the cross-street, and the nearest bus stop, Coffin provided Bunny with a summation of his final conversation with their clients.

“At least we got paid decently, before the lawyers absorb all of their cash,” he concluded.

“So we’re gonna murder their puppy?” she asked, after a moment’s consideration.

“No, of course not,” replied Will, “but people take you more seriously when they think something has to die. A young purebred like this rarely has trouble being adopted. Once she’s got her coat back, I’ll drop her off with some hippies I know who run a shelter.

“The hex is so specific that it’s not a danger to anyone else. It’s usually used as a marriage-ender. I mean, who could stay together after witnessing that? That’s the whole idea though: To turn on the hose she had to be in the same room with the baby and one of her biological parents – that is to say, Lassie here, Victoria, and Judy or her new boyfriend.

”Don’t think Don knew he was trying to kill his own kid though.”

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 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.

FP232 – Coffin: Hidden, Part 2 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Coffin: Hidden, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp232.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Radio’s Revenge 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, his tipsy companion, find themselves taking complaints from a dead man.

 

Coffin: Hidden, Part 2 of 3

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

 

CoffinIt was an unpleasant experience, but the Landreaus had been convinced that simply waiting was the best option for cleaning up the arcane shower of blood that had coated every surface of their dishevelled guest room, and Will had to agree.

Gene had spent the time cooing through young Victoria’s keening, in an attempt to bring her some calm, while his wife, Judy, had paced the carpet, alternately staring down her strange visitors and her ailing infant. After a quarter hour, the pools which had gathered amongst the crumpled towels, and in the anxious parents’ discarded coffee mugs, began to drain. Soon the air became thick, as if with dust, and the smell of moist copper was replaced with the stink of burning meat – then that too was gone, and the chamber had apparently returned to its mundane state.

“It’s almost tempting to consider the whole thing an illusion,” said Will, to himself.

“Yeah, but look at that poor ####ing baby,” replied Bunny. The scene had done nothing to stop her thirst, and she was having difficulty remaining entirely upright as she spoke. “She loses anymore weight, and she’ll qualify as the world’s youngest supermodel.”

“I said almost.”

Victoria had ceased her wail, and, as her forehead slackened, her swollen lids fought to remain open. Before long, and despite the child’s efforts to engage in a second round of complaints, Gene’s steady bobbing and hushing was too much to fight. She weezed gently as her head dipped onto her father’s shoulder, and her balled fists relaxed into sleep.

Coffin gently cleared his throat.

“You two should wait in the kitchen,” he told the Landreaus. Gene’s gaze held only concern as he departed, but Will thought he caught a hint of suspicion in Judy’s own.

As he closed the door behind them, the family’s collie puppy, Sweetie, returned from the hallway closet in which she’d sheltered when the disturbance had first begun, and scratched at the barrier.

Once he’d allowed her entrance(I thought the dog was already in the room?), Will turned the flimsy lock and began chewing at his thumbnail.

“It’s a hex of some sort,” he said, “It’s not a simple curse; it’s obviously just as much about the visual impact as about the health effects.”

Bunny nodded. “I ain’t seen that kind of showmanship since the last time I sat through a ‘70s-era Italian slasher-flick. A hella gory one, where a dude gets stabbed in the eye with another dude’s eye. I love that ####.”

She sniffed, then added, “this, though, I’m not such a fan of.”

“Yeah, well, speaking of crazed men with axes,” replied Coffin, “I suppose we should chat with the old man in the corner.”

As his fingers returned to his pocket, and touched the ornate silver charm it contained, the apparition reappeared.

“You sir, are mistaken,” said the translucent phantom. “I am no sort of lunatic, I simply carry the instrument of my demise, and it is more comfortable without than within. That said, however, decades ago, I became especially enthralled with a nearby maiden, and managed to roam quite some distance from my place of resting before my willpower could take no more. I’d left my villainous hatchet some distance behind, and its impact upon returning to my chest was unpleasant in a way that I am unable to fully explain to a living body.”

Coffin lowered his head in apology. “Fair enough, I should know better than to make assumptions. I’m Will, and this is my, uh, friend, Bunny.”

His roommate threw up a hand at the mention of her name, and the shaman finally noticed that she’d taken to rifling the dresser’s drawers.

“I’m lookin’ for clues and ####,” she said, as a reply to his raised brow.

“By the looks of your now empty pocket, I’d guess it’s whiskey you seek, but you’ll find only swaddling cloths,” interjected the ghost. “As the years go on, it’s all too often the same few scenes. At a time, this was all trees. I was happier when it was quiet – I was not forced to watch others’ dramas play out.

“My voicelessness leaves me the worst sort of peanut gallery.”

“By that thinking, what kind of show are the Landreaus, a tragedy or a comedy?” asked Coffin.

“It’s a poor analogy,” answered the shade. “as without beginnings and ends you can’t know how to judge the pageant, but, to my mind, it’s likely that the current troup were approaching their curtain call, even before this monstrosity beset them.

”I know your line of business, William. What was once a large swamp has become a small city. It’s the people that make it so close. It’s such that, these days, a dead-gentleman can’t whisper in the dark without receiving a reply croaked out by some freshly overdosed housewife or rifle-swallowing husband. It is they who have told me of your occupation.”

With a strained step, the spectre moved towards the dozing tot.

“I can not speak to the occult aspect of your dilemma,” he continued, “but I am no stranger to jealousy. I was attacked by Jacob Hertzinger for the love of my wife, and it’s the image of his hatchet which I’m tasked to carry.”

“Christ, your wife buggered off with the guy who hacked you up?” asked Bunny. Her sleuthing had left her empty-handed.

“No, Edna did not fancy his aggressive approaches. His ghost still weeps about the rebuttal, and his cracked skull, where my dooryard formerly stood, some two miles yonder. All in all, I am of the mind that open communication is always best. Tears are painful, but not so much as a life-ending chest wound left to fester at the edge of a shady stand of spruce.

“As I have since learned, if Jacob had spoken of his yearning, despite his shame at the sinful urge, to even a close friend, perhaps his secret desire might not have burned so feverishly, nor ended us both.

“All of the betrayals seem so mundane now; so similar. I sometimes confuse this newest father with the man who lodged here when coal was still heaped over my resting place. He was the transgressor then, but the reasons appeared the same. I find myself having forever repeating conversations with the deaf, explaining what small detail of their partner’s sadness has exacerbated their situation to such breaking.

“I do not confuse Judy, however. Not since witnessing her roughhousing with a stranger upon the dining room table, one sunlit afternoon. I should say, strange to myself – she was obviously well acquainted with the fellow, as she expounded his name at length, and in a variety of exalting tones.”

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 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.

FP231 – Coffin: Hidden, Part 1 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Coffin: Hidden, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp231.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Radio’s Revenge 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, finds himself amidst a blood-stained family drama.

 

Coffin: Hidden, Part 1 of 3

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

 

Coffin: HiddenDespite the snow that fell silently around them, Will Coffin, and his roommate, sat idly on the gray bench that fronted the Eats’N’Treats.

“Gimme just one more – no, that’s not it,” said Bunny.

“Nope,” replied Coffin.

January was often a soggy month for Capital City, as attested to by the public bus that passed in a spray of chilled slush.

“If I had another shot -,” she guessed.

“Nope.”

“####,” she replied, easing her pain with a sip of her whiskeyed coffee. The brew had gone cold long ago, but she’d be damned if she’d waste the Wild Turkey.

“Look,” said Coffin, “I’ll See You in the Morning was specifically written as an incantation of short term addiction and misrecollection. It’s a one-hit-wonder that roams the radio markets like a virus – even if it’s been mystically wiped from the collective memories of everyone in North America, some Thai station is pumping it into the jungle, and eventually a touring trust fund baby will pick it up and put it on his podcast, or whatever, and the cycle of popularity begins anew. That’s exactly why it re-charts every few years without anyone noticing, and exactly why the smartasses I wrote it for own a castle in the German countryside.

“Frankly, I’m surprised you can even remember the title.”

The pair watched as a white Cadillac pulled onto the lot, with its mudflaps coated in wet, brown, snow.

Humming, Bunny asked “baby, just one more chance?” in a muttered singsong as the sedan came to a stop at their feet.

The man who hustled from the vehicle carried a patch of regurgitated baby formula upon his gray sweat-shirt’s shoulder. The ooze appeared to have dried without his ever being aware of its existence.

“Coffin?” asked the spew-wearer.

“Sure,” replied Will, from within the depths of his leather jacket.

“My name’s Gene Landreau. I – we – need your help.”

The conversation was a short one. The man had a single child at home, a toddler, who’d taken on an unpleasant tendency to vomit jets of blood.

“Man, you don’t need a crazy ####ing street wizard,” said Bunny, “you need a doctor.”.

“That’s just it,” replied the father, “Victoria doesn’t do it while we’re at the doctor’s office, and the sheer volume is literally unbelievable. Worse, it all just evaporates after. Well, not right after. It lingers, and so does the coppery smell.

“Every time we try to explain it to someone we figure should know what to do, we’re looked at like we’re idiots.

“She’s so thin and frail now, but, when she was held overnight for observation, nothing happened. Our family doc, Khalid, thinks we’re a couple of exaggerating hypochondriacs. I’m sure we’ll be called negligent meth addicts, and treated to a visit by child services, if we push any harder.

“We’ve tried recording it, but the cameras always die – low battery, knocked over by the dog, no space to record – just before it happens. I’ve lost two cellphones trying to film it, and they both quit when they were drenched in, you know, the blood. If it wasn’t that, though, it would have been lightning, or spontaneous combustion.“

Landreau sniffled before adding, “or anything.”

Will rubbed at the corners of his mouth with thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t advertise, so how did you know to look for me?” he asked.

“A woman named Suzie, from our daycare place. I was telling my story to a friend there, and she must have overheard, because she came up to me in the parking lot afterwards.”

He recalled Suzanne. Her family had suffered through a minor haunting by a confused man who’d once starved to death within a particularly robust armoire they’d purchased.

Coffin hadn’t expected a referral, as Mr. Suzanne had been quite displeased at his suggestion of scrapping the expensive antique. Perhaps, reflected Will, some time away from the unearthly gibbering for food had eased tensions.

He nodded, and the trio moved towards the ivory car.

* * *

It was a long ride out of the skewed siding and dirty windows of Coffin’s neighbourhood, and into the carefully arranged residences of the west-side. The shaman spent the interval silently enumerating the occult possibilities, while Bunny suckled at plastic bottles projecting from her coat’s breast pocket and hummed.

Gene Landreau only frowned at the pair, and said nothing.

The family’s house was composed of gray-brick and oak, and had obviously been heavily augmented since its construction in the era of the founding of the city. Two bicycles waited on the porch: One, a man’s, was affixed to a small trailer, obviously intended to carry an infant, the other, a woman’s, seemed as if freshly from the store.

Will could spot no mud on its peddles.

“I’m back,” Gene told the depths of the home as they entered.

Although he’d raised his voice so that his message might carry across the abandoned Christmas tree in the living room, down the hall, and past the kitchen, he drew no response.

Taking in a deep breath, the parent straightened his frame and noticed, for the first time, the puke on his sweater. With a shrug, he lead Coffin and his wobbling companion to a guest room which had been hastily thrown over to child tending.

After a quick hug, the Landreau’s held a whispered conference, leaving their company to take in the sick-chamber. A brass-framed bed had been pushed against the wall, with its sheets and pillows stripped, and a portable crib, now occupied, had been erected at the center of the available space. In the far corner, a plush red chair held a heap of crumpled, but otherwise clean, towels, and, just inside the entrance, a dresser-top was awash in diapers, creams, toys, and children’s books.

As Will reached for his coat pocket, Bunny took his elbow.

“There’s your goddamn problem,” she said, whistling. “Do you see the mad ####ing chopper over there?”

Coffin’s fingers touched the cold silver chain which rested within his jacket, and, to the left of the mess of linen, an old man came into view. His shoulders were broad but collapsed, and his face hung with a hard expression over the gnarled wood axe he held across his chest. His translucent knuckles flexed upon the rough handle.

Before Will could draw any further conclusions, however, the cloth sides of the playpen began to shake, and the child within began to weep. The family collie, which had trailed Bunny through the door, bayed a low howl.

Then the room was damp with crimson.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 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.

FPGE4 – Coffin: Walker

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Guest-isode 004.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Coffin: Walker.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpGuest004.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Threedayfish on Facebook.

 

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 encounter a holiday scene of friendship and ancient considerations.

 

Coffin: Walker

Written and Narrated by Threedayfish
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Coffin

Many thanks to Fish!

 

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.

FPGE3 – Same Time Next Year: a Sour Thistle Tale

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Guest-isode 003.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Same Time Next Year: a Sour Thistle Tale.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Worldbuilder.

 

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 encounter a holiday scene of friendship and ancient considerations.

 

Same Time Next Year: a Sour Thistle Tale

Written and Narrated by David “Doc Blue” Wendt
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Same Time Next Year: a Sour Thistle Tale

Many thanks to Dave “Doc Blue” Wendt!

 

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.

FPGE2 – Pigheart's Accursed Christmas

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Guest-isode 002.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Pigheart’s Accursed Christmas.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Captain Pigheart.

 

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 welcome Captain Pigheart into the Flash Pulp universe, so that he might tell us a salty tale of holiday doings.

 

Pigheart’s Accursed Christmas

Written and Narrated by Nick Tyler
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Christmas Captain Pigheart

Find out more at CaptainPigheart.com

 

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.

FP230 – Mulligan Smith in Checking It Twice, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and thirty.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in Checking It Twice, Part 1 of 1.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Flash 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, Mulligan Smith meets friends, both old and new, while seeking reasons for good cheer at a mall.

 

Mulligan Smith in Checking It Twice, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan SmithThe five-year-old only had one thing on his mind.

“Mom,” he said, “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom.”

His mother, a red-eyed woman of thirty, was deep into a search of the diaper bag she’d latched to the side of her shopping cart. Within the steel buggy, her other offspring, a baby girl, was crying.

“Mom!” repeated the boy.

“Tyson, if you can’t be quiet for ten minutes while Mommy gets Anna sorted, we’ll skip McDonald’s and head straight home.”

Frowning, the boy drifted to the railing which overlooked the mall’s main set of escalators and gazed angrily at the Christmas throne below. The seat, nestled amongst a cluster of over-sized tree ornaments, remained empty, and the sign which read “back in an hour” was still in place.

“Jerk,” said the child.

In his focused state, he failed to register the two older men also at the rail.

“Yeah, no kidding,” replied Mulligan Smith. The PI was sipping at a slurpee and eying the same holiday arrangement.

Not long previous, the youth had been at the head of a line waiting for photos with the chair’s occupant, but the red-suited man had departed suddenly. His gruff exit had left behind several disappointed children, Tyson amongst them.

Walmart Mike, having run into Smith while off duty and shopping, cleared his throat.

“I was a Santa once. I was doin’ it for a bunch of the guys who hung around the West Side Social Club. I didn’t have kids, so I was the one nominated to wear the suit. I didn’t mind all the ho ho ho shit, really, but afterwards Eddie Coonan asks me if I mind walking Mickey Commiskey’s brat home.

“Does it right in front of the little guy, too. Boy thought I was old man Claus, so what could I do, deny him a chance to have Papa Noel escort him home?

“Full of egg-nog as I was, I said yes. Problem is, about halfway there, the damnedest thing happens: Another Kringle rushes me and grabs my obligation.

“I go sprinting down the alley after him, but I only get maybe ten feet when all of a sudden Jimmy Needles is in front of me. He liked to tell people he was known as Needles for the switchblade he carried, but it was really ‘cause he’d do anything for a plunger’s worth of horse.

“Anyhow, he’s got his sticker, and I can smell his breath – a mix of his rotting innards and the chicken balls he must have had for lunch – then he’s on me me like a sewing machine: jab, jab, jab, jab, jab.”

“I can feel myself full of holes, and I figure I’m a goner. Over Jimmy’s shoulder I can see the impostor hauling off Commiskey’s urchin, and I know that, even if the doctors stitch me up, Mickey’ll just unzip me again.

“Then, all in a rush, I finally managed to pull my .38 from under the huge black belt I was wearing.

“I pop one in the junky’s belly, and the other Claus, who’s just about on the far street, turns to see whats happened.

“I’m thinking I’ve only got seconds till I bleed out, so I go for it – you know, for the kid’s sake.

“I summon all the pissed off I got left, and I cover the distance like an angry Father who’s caught his daughter’s prom date pants-less.

“”You will let that little fucker go or I will climb down your chimney as you sleep, and smother every member of your family.” I say. “I will peel them apart and fry them to a crisp, on your own stove, before serving them to you for breakfast.”

“He must have thought I was serious, or that I was a good shot, cause he let the l’il bastard go and ran.

“It helped that Jimmy was lying on the pavement behind me, screaming, I guess.”

A short-skirted elf in green was returning to the display below, chased by a fat man in red. The pair were giggling.

Mike smirked, then continued.

”Frankly, it’s surprisingly tough to tell how dead you really are. The suit’s stuffing is what saved me. Had some serious soreness after, sure, but I received worse on dates I’d still call a success.

“It was Coonan of course – I’d never had a problem with him, but he must have figured he could get my and Commiskey’s crews into a dog fight, leaving his to scavenge the pieces.

“Needles made it to a hospital, Eddie blew town, and I was fine. Seemed like a Christmas fucking miracle. Years later, though, I learned the kid thought I was the real Santa the whole time.

“Messed him up a bit, but he turned out to be a nice guy.”

The trio stood silent a while, each alone with his own thoughts.

Tyson’s eyes widened.

“Wait – is that man not really Santa either?” he asked.

Smith was discreetly aiming a camera as he replied. “Nah, kid, that’s just a normal idiot who’s about to be served with divorce papers.”

The boy beamed.

 

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.

FPSE9 – The Last Night Legend

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

Tonight we present, The Last Night Legend.

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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 we bring you a short urban legend concerning young love and the intimacy of technology. To learn more about this urban myth of questionable origin, visit http://wiki.flashpulp.com

 

Flash Pulp SE9 – The Last Night Legend

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.

FP229 – The Draw: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty nine.

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Draw: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
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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, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, puts an end to a long run of odd circumstances.

 

The Draw: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 2

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

 

Thomas Blackhall“I need to freshen my cup,” said Thomas Blackhall, “and a stretch of my legs might change my fortune.”

“Don’t dally, replied Anders Flaks, “I’ll have left by morning, and you’ll lose your chance to squander your earnings.”

It wasn’t a large barroom, but the frontiersman made the most of his journey. First he moved to the stonework mantle, and stole warmth from the fire, then he sat for a time with the increasingly inebriated gathering of Anders’ former challengers. After letting the eldest, a man named King, complete a fishing tale regarding a bass that had apparently pulled him along an endless river for several days before allowing itself to be caught and eaten, Thomas exchanged words with William, the barkeep.

Finally, he returned to his opponent, passing across a fresh ale to match his own.

“Perhaps a little drink will dull your skills,” Blackhall said.

He wore a tight smile.

“I’ve been victorious from behind mountains of gin bottles, but I appreciate the gesture,” replied Flaks.

Thomas nodded and raised his beverage to his lips, then took up the cards as Anders pulled heavy from his hops.

As he dealt, Blackhall discussed constraint. “I might suggest moderation, sir, as spirits are often the road to ruin. In fact, my very journey to this place was set off by a priest of the name Collins. Well, I suppose it goes further back then that: The hamlet of Montcliff, had taken a collection, largely encouraged by the Father, to build a vessel to ply the great lake.”

As Thomas spoke, Flaks raised his brow, but kept his peace.

“The moneyed gentleman who’d settled the area, and was landlord to most of its inhabitants, had found the work beyond him. He’d absconded, and the district was left to sour under mismanagement from afar. The people of the small community held several meetings, and the decision was made that what little they could pool would be invested in a ferry, with the proceeds reaped by all. So long as the influx of trade from the south continues, such a venture can pay well in short order. Collins had only the best interest of his parishioners at heart when he championed the cause.”

Anders held high a pair of fingers in a bid to exchange his cards, but, with a quick examination of his hand, Blackhall shook it off.

Before continuing his story, Thomas had taken three of the five tricks.

“The fund was to be transported to the shipwright by the father himself. Collins had argued hard against carrying such an earthly load, for his flock knew nothing of his nature – knew nothing of the lust for dicing which had been the impetus for his entry into the priesthood.”

Flaks’ set down the shuffled deck, and retrieved his stein.

“I thought you said it was drink that lead to self-destruction,” he said.

“All axles need grease,” Thomas replied. ”Father Collins imparted the tale to me through his sobs, several pints after he’d lost his trust. The clergyman had done well upon the road, but temptation is a sleight thing when journeying amongst the pines, and quite another in town. Worse, he’d taken to easing his anxiety with wine, and by the time he’d reached society, he’d convinced himself that it would be best – a boon even – if he were to turn his penchant for risk to obtain a quick profit for his beleaguered assembly.

“It was a lucky scoundrel who met such a proposition lurching into the Bucking Pony.

“The game drew quite a few eyes, and when one rascal took an impossible series of throws and won the full pot out from beneath the crowd, tensions flared.”

“Who could have anticipated the arrival of Doc Schofield, the temperance man, and a cluster of matrons, intent on singing away their sins? In shame, Father Collins was the first to bolt, and he was soon followed by the rest. The miscreant simply slipped away in the chaos.

“Do you mean to take the sum back by force then?” asked Flaks. His left hand moved to his money-pouch, while his right hand dipped beneath the table-top.

Thomas raised high his brow. “I make no claims as to its justice, but I’ll not murder you for the funds, no – nor the deaths of the Fultons, nor the dozens of broken and betrayed behind you.”

“Then quit your babble, and present your points.”

Blackhall paused to consider his cards, then began the process of their play.

When all had been counted, Anders found himself defeated a second time.

“Let us double the odds,” he said, “I always win it back in the end anyhow.”

Thomas nodded his assent.

“Most take your talk of being the seventh son of a seventh son as gambler’s patter,” he said, as he laid out his bet, “but I know better. Despite your inescapable good fortune, however, you only seek to misuse your endowment. Your luck has always come at a price – at the expense of those around you.”

“There are plenty of harlots, both here and at home, who squeal odes to my luck,” replied Flaks.

The man spoke through a stiff jaw, and Blackhall judged it a fair moment to hold his own tongue. Instead they both settled into silence, and moved cards and money about the table for some time.

As Anders’ purse shriveled, so did his mood.

“Blast you and your bloody tricks,” he muttered, “- but I always win it back. Just a moment while I see if these fellows can spare some coin. Just one – two – more hands.”

He rose to approach the pair who’d yet to succumb to the lullaby of drink, but Thomas stopped him short.

“Waste no effort,” he said. “I’m a man who can only afford to make his own fortune. I knew how to void your charms. Your taste for spirits hid the concoction which I’d fostered upon the road. To most it would be a curse, as if the universe had deigned to foil the victim at every turn, but, to one with fortune to spare, such as yourself, it will only act to level your advantage.

“I suspect you’ll find the world cruel in the same manner that a beast raised in captivity finds it difficult to navigate the wild once released from the pampering hands of its human benefactors, just know, as you lay in the gutter cursing me, that I had no interest in killing a man in cold blood.”

With that, Thomas collected his hat, and the shipwright’s fee, and stood. He moved to the sleepy-eyed proprietor and invested a small portion of the funds against the debts owed by the defeated inebriates, then departed.

As he stepped from the establishment’s veranda, an odd howling chased Blackhall through the door – it was a staggering, high-pitched squeal: For the first time in his life, Anders Flaks was crying.

 

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.