Tag: podcast

FP282 – Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 2 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 2 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp282.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Dark Wife.

 

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 conducts a hurried interrogation in the depths of a well appointed office.

 

Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 2 of 3

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

 

Mulligan SmithAs he pushed through the glass and steel store, Smith finished saying, “You want to deal with secretaries and psychopaths the same way – give them your name, try to sneak some personal details into conversation, and generally make yourself a human being in their eyes. It’s often your only chance for survival.”

The receptionist stationed at the front desk was so sharply dressed that Mulligan nearly felt a need to check his own palm for cuts after shaking the man’s hand.

From above the lenses of his ironically-rimmed glasses, the gatekeeper looked over the hoodied PI and his towering companion. His mouth tightened.

Before he could decide between sarcasm and security, however, a brunette woman in a chocolate brown skirt entered the welcome area. A wisp had escaped her bun, and now floated above the left shoulder of her Tiffany Blue blouse. She moved with ease, but her rolled up sleeves, and the fact that the suit jacket which no doubt matched the skirt was obviously long forgotten, left the detective concerned she might attempt to blow off their interview.

Instead, she said: “Down, Todd. These are friends.”

Cassie Withers did not wait for a reply, she simply returned to the short hallway from which she appeared.

Smith was quick to follow.

After a brisk walk along art-filled walls, Ms. Wither’s door clicked shut behind Winnipeg

She wasted no time.

“Cassie,” she said, extending a hand to both men. “I apologize for the setting. Meeting about this at work isn’t exactly my preference, but we’re in a bit of an accounting knife fight with our Malaysian branch at the moment. It’s especially annoying as I’m booked on a flight there in the morning.

“Anyhow, not to be rude, but, what I’m saying is, talk fast and be blunt. You’ve basically got from now till I finish drinking my coffee and eating my crackers, then I’m afraid I’ll have to start swinging spreadsheets around the place.”

Mulligan almost regretted having to step on the intricately woven rug Cassie had laid atop the room’s beige carpet, but it was the only way to the leather-covered chairs which sat across from her desk.

“Well,” said Mulligan, “Mr. Perez has asked me – er, us – to look into any connections between the deaths of Donnie Benton and Morgan Watson.”

Withers nodded and asked, “have you found any?”

“Honestly,” replied Smith, “Not as of yet. Mr. Perez wasn’t terribly forthcoming on background. I know you all used to hang out in college, and that they both lived in the city when they died. The end. If the person who stabbed Watson three years ago is the same as the one who clubbed Benton to death a week ago, they certainly didn’t leave me any notes saying so.”

Brushing aside the rogue lock of hair, Cassie sighed. “Felix didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s not something I brag about either I suppose. Still, they are fond memories.

“I suppose it started when I met Felix. We were in the same church group together, and we got close at in the closing weeks of high school, when we realized we were both going to the Capital School of Business. We met Donnie and Morgan and Matthew Donegan. Felix was the brains, Donnie was the schmoozer, Morgan was as close as C.S.B.’s ivy league reputation would allow it to come to admitting a bad boy, and Donegan was the mysterious quiet guy.

“Listen – I grew up very catholic. I mean, my parents are wonderful people, the nicest, most generous souls you’ll ever meet. Their faith gave them the strength to survive the death of my older brother, but it also meant I was raised in a straightjacket.

“They had the best of intentions, and they generally did a fantastic job of instilling me with all the greatest parts of what they believed, but – well, in some areas, the ones I’d been most restricted in, I kind of exploded.”

As the narrator paused to sip at her coffee and chew a Trisket, the PI nodded, and Winnipeg leaned forward in his chair, resting the meat of his arms on his broad legs.

Finally Withers cleared her throat, “I slept with them all freshman year.”

“Huh,” replied Mulligan, as he punched notes into his phone. “Any old jealousies from that? Who was the first, and who was last?”

Following his friends’ line of thinking, Billy steepled his fingers sagely. “Gandhi once said ‘An eye for an eye ends up making the whole world blind.’”

“No,” responded the cracker-eater, “I mean at once.

”We were all drunk at Felix’s tiny apartment. He had this huge, sexy, velvet couch that took up the entire living room. They all seemed like nice guys – they were definitely all handsome. It didn’t hurt that they were some of the first boys I’d ever left alone with. I dared them.”

An involuntary “whoa” escaped Winnipeg’s lips, but, with a defensive look, he added, “Mahatma also said, ‘For myself, I’ve found we’re all such sinners, we should leave punishment to God.’”

Smith simply puckered his lips and tapped at the blank screen of his cell.

For a long moment there was only the sound of a phone ringing from beyond the shut door and the crunching of cooked wheat.

It allowed the full weight of her words to sink in, at which point the sleuth realized he was presented with an unpleasant question.

“Did you say Matthew Donegan? THE Matthew Donegan?”

“Yeah,” came the reply, as Withers emptied her mug. “You know him, or at least of him, I guess?”

“Yeah,” said Mulligan, “we know him. In fact, the reverend was yelling at us just last night. Maybe Winnipeg here should have tried to be a little nicer.”

Despite his flip tone, Smith did not relish his the idea of calling on the flame-haired head of the Church of the Burning Christ.

He thanked the honest woman for her time, then stood.

 

(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 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.

FP281 – Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 1 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp281.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Dark Wife.

 

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

Tonight, private investigator Mulligan Smith dines at the edge of a crime scene.

 

Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 1 of 3

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

 

Mulligan SmithThe client had been vague in his instructions: “Check out the crime scene and get a feel for the area before your meeting, the following day, with Cassie Withers.”

Smith was no stranger to any of Capital City’s neighbourhoods, but he had done his best to earn his pay. The downtown alley in question was a narrow run between a college bar, whose ownership was in constant rotation, and a shuttered shop with a sun-worn sign that read “Taj Mahal Grocery.”

Mulligan continued to stare at the lane, though the afternoon had worn away to evening, and the growing shadows were unlikely to provide any new information on the death of Donnie Benton. As he eyed the gloom, the P.I. tapped a cooling mozzarella stick against his not-quite-clean plate.

His friend, Billy Winnipeg, had selected the nearest eatery to the location of the murder; a pub-style hangout with a sidewalk patio, which was otherwise devoid of patrons due to summering students. The seating area consisted of five plastic tables trapped in a box of wrought iron barricades, and the view was making it difficult for Smith to enjoy his client-billed dinner.

Billy, who was retelling a particularly embarrassingly vomit-filled incident from his mother’s time as a motel cleaning woman, was having no difficulty disposing of either of his hamburgers. Between the tale and the food, the thick-fingered Canadian had no attention left for his friend’s lack of appetite.

Mulligan’s gaze wandered down the street, to a gray-bearded man in the process of turning in his sleep. Even as his fingerless gloves worked at maintaining the newspapers that made up his bench-bed’s blanket, the slumberer’s snores continued.

The free meal bothered Smith. Why had he been hired? Two of the client’s university friends had been murdered, three years apart, but he had nothing else to add. Had the victims been into anything nefarious? He didn’t know. Were the dead pair close? He couldn’t say, they hadn’t been in touch.

Yet Mulligan’s employer was willing to pay for a professional snoop to walk in the C.C.P.D.’s footsteps.

The detective dipped his fried cheese in the complementary marinara sauce, but the red glaze failed to make it any more appealing.

Somewhere beyond the restless hobo, a chant drifted in on the still August air, and, within moments, the pavement filled with a throng of angry slogans and wildly swinging flashlights.

The Church of the Burning Christ had taken publicized stands against recent military actions overseas, going so far as to protest the funerals of local soldiers, but, to most of the city’s dwellers, they were best known for their signage and roadside homilies.

From the opposite direction came a lone woman, wearing a long leather coat and a studded choker. A pair of white earbuds – matching her facial makeup – thrust some unknown beat into her ears, splashing that which would not fit back into the boulevard.

Despite the approaching gauntlet, the girl did not swerve in her course, and Mulligan, though he did not know her, gave a respectful half-wave as she passed.

She had just enough time to give him a resigned shrug in reply, then the shouting began.

It started with the leader of the group, a red-headed man with full day’s stubble on his cheeks.

“And when Jehu was come to Jezreel, Jezebel heard of it; and she painted her face, and tired her head, and looked out at a window,” he announced to the crowd at his back.

His congregation snickered, raising higher their hand-scrawled declarations.

From his position, Mulligan could easily read two “God Hates Fags” and a “You’re Going To Hell.”

“Harlots stain their faces many colours,” continued the preacher’s impromptu sermon, “but all are equally whorish.”

There came the scrape of plastic on stone, and Winnipeg rose from the ruins of his meal.

“Hey,” he said. The word rose like thunder from the depths of his throat. “My mom spent a few years as a hard hustling whore. It ain’t easy. They don’t call them working girls for nothing.”

Smith knew it to be a lie, but the few seconds of distraction were enough to let the leathered woman slip through their net of beratement.

Over the collar of his crisp white shirt, the evangelist’s neck took on a shade not unlike that of his hair.

He turned to his followers.

“Leviticus tells a tale we must now recall: “Now an Israelite woman’s son, whose father was an Egyptian, went out among the people of Israel. And the Israelite woman’s son and a man of Israel fought in the camp, and the Israelite woman’s son blasphemed the Name, and cursed. Then they brought him to Moses. His mother’s name was Shelomith, the daughter of Dibri, of the tribe of Dan. And they put him in custody, till the will of the Lord should be clear to them. Then the Lord spoke to Moses, saying, “Bring out of the camp the one who cursed, and let all who heard him lay their hands on his head, and let all the congregation stone him.’

“Did you hear this heathen’s accent? Just as the half-breed egyptian came into the camp of the Israelites, so too has this foreigner – a Canadian, and the admitted son of a prostitute – come to speak to us of corruption.”

A cacophony of slurs rolled from the crowd, but, having accomplished his task, Billy simply sat back down.

Mulligan raised an eyebrow and asked, “you going to let them talk to you like that that?”

The weight of Winnipeg’s arms strained the workmanship of the table as his glass of beer disappeared within his fingers’ grasp. He lifted the mug as if it were the first drink after a day’s heavy labour: With a smile, and entirely oblivious to the troubles beyond its rim.

“Talking shit is all we’ve got,” he said. “Mom says its a universal right – one of the few. Talking shit and dying are really the only two things you can never stop people from doing. You can make laws about it, but then people just think they’re badasses because they’re talking shit in private.

”You gotta treat these sorts of folks like those little dogs, the yapping buggers. Kicking them just makes ‘em worse. You live with one for a while, and leave ‘em alone, it gets to a point where you don’t even notice the constant barking anymore.”

Realizing they’d get no further reaction out of the chatting pair, the crusaders marched on.

Smith grinned. “I’ve never known you to back away from the opportunity to lob a fist.”

“I’m a reformed man,” responded Billy. “No more punch ups.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“Well, as Gandhi once said, “I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent.””

As the members of the Church of the Burning Christ turned the block’s corner, Mulligan’s smile turned to a smirk. Over Winnipeg’s shoulder, however, he could see the formerly sleeping man creeping in his direction, an ear cocked to the wind, so that he might guess the distance of the warbling assembly.

It was clear he had no interest in remaining long enough for the hostile flock to return.

“Besides,” said Winnipeg, after draining his ale, “Ma says she’ll be pissed if I lay anyone else out.”

Donnie Benton’s final moments came to Mulligan then – the pain that must have blossomed from the crown of his skull as the two-by-four landed, the impact of his cheek on the cool cement, the utter indifference the world outside the alley had shown his last breath.

It didn’t seem like much of a neighbourhood for pacifism.

Lifting his hand to summon the bill, Smith nudged his abandoned dinner towards the passing homeless man, who, in turn, gratefully filled his pockets.

 

(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 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.

FPL2 – The Last Pilgrimage

Welcome to Flash Pulp Live 002.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Last Pilgrimage

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpLive002.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, we bring you a fantastic tale of travels, beliefs, and works.

 

The Last Pilgrimage

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and produced by Jessica May & Peter Church

 

Flash Pulp Live 002 - The Last Pilgrimage

 

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.

FPGE11 – Mulligan Smith in The Cinema Show, by Rich "the Time Traveller" Jefferson

Welcome to Flash Pulp Guest-isode 011.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in The Cinema Show, by Rich Jefferson

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpGuest011.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This 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 we present a tale of everyone’s favourite private investigator, as provided by our very own time traveller.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Cinema Show

Written by Rich “the Time Traveller” Jefferson
with Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio Production by Jessica May

 

Mulligan Smith

 

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.

FP280 – Ruby Departed: Circles, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eighty.

Flash PulpTonight we present Ruby Departed: Circles, Part 3 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp280.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Radio Project X.

 

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 attempts to save a life not from the shambling dead, but, instead, from post-apocalyptic justice.

 

Ruby Departed: Circles, Part 3 of 3

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

 

Ruby Departed

Story text to be posted.

(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 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.

FP279 – Ruby Departed: Circles, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and seventy-nine.

Flash PulpTonight we present Ruby Departed: Circles, Part 2 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp279.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Radio Project X.

 

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 hears more than just the moans of the voracious dead.

 

Ruby Departed: Circles, Part 2 of 3

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

 

Ruby Departed

Story text to be posted.

(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 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.

FPGE10 – Leap Year: a Blackhall Tale, by Threedayfish

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Guest-isode 10.

Flash PulpTonight we present Leap Year: a Blackhall Tale, by Threedayfish

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpGuestisode010.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The New 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.

Unfortunately, due to a major hardware failure at Skinner Co. headquarters, we will be unable to provide you with tonight’s scheduled Ruby Departed episode. Instead, with many thanks to the always listening Threedayfish, we present a tale of unnatural aging.

 

Leap Year: a Blackhall Tale, by Threedayfish

Written by Threedayfish
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

BlackhallBlackhall was sitting on a chair at an inn that had recently been partially rebuilt due to a storm a month or so ago. The renovations were obvious from the differing hues of the wood used to restore what was once lost. It was here that the master frontiersman listened to the troubles of a local farmer who went by Joeseph. The man was large and tan, and may have appeared intimidating if it weren’t for the air of gentleness about him. He had a father’s face, Blackhall thought. Outside another vicious downpour raged again, to the unease of the owner, and had left many of the patrons, Blackhall and the stranger included, unwilling occupants of the half new establishment. Over the sounds of the wind and rain, the man named Joseph relayed his woes:

“I’ve heard much about you master Blackhall. They say you deal in things unnatural. I know not your price, but I would ask your help whatever the cost. It is my daughter Sophia. She is the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen but she is cursed. She was born on a leap day, and she does not seem to age, but every four years. She’s been on this earth for six years, nearly seven years, but hardly looks older than one. She has the faculties of any her age, but not the physical stature. If it is in your power, I would have you lift this malediction on her growth. As a father, I would do anything to care for my daughter, but as a man in this wild part of the world, I cannot hope to protect her at the rate she is developing. I’m not sure I can even hope to live to see her wedded”.

Blackhall sipped at the ale which had been purchased by the farmer to make their acquaintance. “Are you a widower?” he asked

“Aye, my beloved Delilah died giving birth to my daughter. She had been growing weaker by the final stages of her pregnancy, and it was a harsh winter. It was a close thing for Sophie, when she departed her mother’s womb, it was believed she was a stillborn. She did not appear to be breathing and the midwife swore that no pulse could be found. However, I got her to cry after I pinched her, perhaps a bit too hard. I didn’t want to lose my child and my wife in the same day so that is why I caused her discomfort. I tell you, her wails were like a chorus of angels to me”

As the farmer spoke, he noted a strange stillness in the frontiersman. Finally, Blackhall spoke “Where is Sophia now?”

“She is on the farm with her brothers. My oldest is one-and-twenty and is responsible enough that I am not overly worried. I curse this tempest all the same. I had hoped to bring her back a present. Her birthday is either today or tomorrow. It’s hard to say seeing as how—” the farmer cut himself short as Blackhall suddenly stood.

“We must go, storm or no. I believe you may have more troubles on your hands than an underdeveloped daughter ” The going was not easy. While the farmer knew a cut through the woods where the foliage might protect them from the worst of the rain, the wind still made falling limbs a hazard and with only a lamp to guide them through the darkness, their footing was often treacherous. The father also took no comfort in Blackhall’s refusal to share his suspicions with him. Eventually, and with many cuts and scratches, they reached the farm. While unseasonably warm, it was winter, and so the fields were bare and the log cabin clearly visible, it’s windows shone with dim candlelight. Blackhall began to quickly make for the shelter, leaving the father to play catch up. He was the first to enter, and by the time the farmer arrived he could hear the sobs and Blackhall’s voice asking

“Where is she?”

No audible answer was given, but Joeseph heard the sound of a sword being drawn and of rapid feet on stairs. Afraid, he gave pursuit passing by his crying son who sat in a corner away from the stairs. Blackhall had already entered Sophia’s room when the man was only halfway up the steps, but before the he could beg Blackhall to spare his daughter, he saw the form of the frontiersman being flung from the room accompanied by a terrible scream.

“He’s mine!” screeched a voice that seemed more animal than human. Out from Sophia’s room stepped a girl of at least sixteen years. The farmer couldn’t believe it. The girl was the spitting image of his late wife Delilah on their wedding day. Beautiful, except she had a single freckle just behind her left eye, just like his darling Sophia.

“Sophia?”

The young woman, turned to look at him. Where there was hatred suddenly turned alarmed, even afraid.

“Father…I thought…the storm—” suddenly a bloody blade erupted from the girl’s chest where her heart was. The spray of red that hit Joseph was scalding hot and caused blisters wherever it landed. The girl shrieked and writhed, gripping at the sabre in a vain attempt at survival. The steel vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and the beauty died before she hit the ground. Staring in horror and confusion at the corpse of the young woman who appeared to have replaced his infant daughter, Joeseph looked up to see his oldest son wielding a bloody hay knife.

“I’m sorry” he said, tears in his eyes “She—she was not human father. We—I—she made me lie with her” Joseph was speechless and uncomprehending, “She came to me with the storm and asked me to follow her. I felt my will somehow desert me, for I had chores to do with the weather drawing near. John had wanted something, but she whispered in his ear and he ran away, frightened by whatever she said,” the trembling son indicated the young boy who was sobbing downstairs “Then we were in her room. I know not why I felt so compelled to—to…” the young man seemed incapable of continuing and sank to his knees. After young John was put to bed with Abraham, the eldest by his bedside at John’s insistence, Blackhall explained to Joseph what Abraham was too ashamed to by his hearth.

“From what I’ve heard and seen this night, I believe that your wife was plagued by an incubus. It may even be that her growing weakness and death was due to the demon’s nightly visits. Sophia was not your daughter, but a cambion. A half demon spawned from the union of an incubus and a human mother. It takes seven years for a cambion to mature. Her curse was not due to her untimely birth on leap day, but her parentage that caused her apparent lack of aging. Once matured, her demonic appetites and nature came to be and she enchanted your firstborn into bedding her. I am truly sorry for what you and your sons have suffered tonight.”

Blackhall waited for a response, but the man who sat before him seemed broken. Finally Joseph said “I owe Midge, our midwife, an apology. I was unkind to her on the day of Sophia’s birth, but it seems that she had the right of it. I should have buried that curse seven years ago. Go now sorcerer. This has been a black day for me and my sons, and I can’t hold back this feeling that you are to blame, unjust as that may be. Be gone so I may mourn” Blackhall saw that the gentleness in the father’s face was replaced by a sorrow that may never heal, and without a word departed, never to darken the farmer’s doorstep again.

 

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.

FP277 – Identification, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and seventy-seven.

Flash PulpTonight we present Identification, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp277.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Strangely Literal.

 

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 tell a chilling tale regarding a risky child in a neighbourhood of constant hazard.

 

Identification

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

 

ChillerNathaniel Minor had been born with a curious inability to identify danger.

On a September Monday, at the age of ten, Nathaniel had selected his blue and white striped shirt – his favourite, and thus the first be worn after a weekend’s laundry – folded it neatly on his dresser, then tested the temperature by walking out onto the back deck in nothing more than the underpants he’d slept in.

An early-autumn chill drove him back inside, and into a warm pair of jogging pants.

After devouring a bowl of lucky charms, and planting a kiss on his Mother’s distracted cheek,
he was ready to march the three blocks to school.

As he closed the door behind him, Mrs. Minor provided her usual instructions. “Head straight there, no talking to strangers, no goofing around. Be good, love you, Nate. Bye.”

His initial stop came at the midpoint of the chain-link fence that marked the border between the sidewalk and the row of townhouses that marched alongside it.

He began digging through his bright yellow knapsack, and, as he did so, a burly Labrador Retriever he called Mumphrey came bolting through the sliding patio door of the nearest rental unit. Though the animal’s speed made it tough to identify why he thought so, Nathaniel was left with the impression that his visitor was in even more ragged a condition than usual.

Minor had decided to befriend the mutt earlier that summer, when he’d watched the red-brown canine step onto the small porch that lead to the backyard. There was something to the way the dog stood testing the air that reminded Nathaniel of himself, and he’d spent fifteen minutes in idle conversation with his new chum before settling on the name.

The child had also concluded that Mumphrey’s owners must sleep late, as the Lab seemed in constant need of food when he strolled by – why else would the four-legged beast leap against the fence while barking and generally causing a ruckus?

As he’d done every morning since, the boy retrieved the single slice of bologna from his sandwich, and, careful not to dirty his hand with mayo, he tossed it over the metal links.

Mumphrey ceased his intemperate barking to gobble down the processed meat, then he immediately returned to his assault on the barrier. Nathaniel, however, had already moved on.

At the corner the youth encountered Tobias Swanson, his constant companion since an incident the summer previous, in which the slightly older boy had pulled a sputtering Nate from too-deep water at the local beach.

Their conversation began as it had ended the afternoon previous, when they’d parted on the same spot.

“Maybe you’re right about absorbing his atomic breath,” said Tobias, “but King Kong would still be defeated by Godzilla’s physical attacks. He’s got, like, blades on his back and a huge biting mouth. What can King Kong do? Throw his own poo?”

Nathaniel shrugged. He did not have his friend’s love of giant monster films, but he always did his best to carry his part of the conversation.

“Kong is a great climber. He’d get up on top of a building and start chucking people and antennas and stuff.”

“Being hit in the nose by a guy in a business suit isn’t exactly going to stop Godzilla,” replied Tobias.

The debate continued for the rest of the long block, until they encountered a schoolmate known largely as Bull.

“You ladies headed to school?” he asked.

“Aren’t you?” asked Nathaniel.

“Nuh-uh, I’m sick. Mom called and told ‘em – but you ain’t going today either.”

The day before the start of classes, while loitering at the McKinley Playground, Bull had convinced the fearless boy to climb a massive elm. Tobias had been late in returning from his piano lessons, and, by the time he’d arrived, it had been necessary to scale the tree to its midpoint just to have his shouts of “come down!” be heard.

As Nathaniel finally dropped the last few feet to the ground, he’d found his friend weeping anxious tears. It was the sight of his worry that had turned Bull into an enemy of both.

When news of the incident had reached Mrs. Minor over a soothing pair of chocolate milks, she’d been quick to inform her son he was out of the tree climbing business, as well as that of talking to Bull.

To her son her word was law – and it was only this notion that had kept him safe against his peculiar defect.

“Great,” said Nathaniel, as he attempted to edge around his antagonist, “you enjoy hanging out with your mom. We’ve gotta go.”

The problem, of course, was that the apparent act of courage had simply goaded the ruffian further.

“No, I don’t think you heard me, you’re -”

Tobias put his arm out in an attempt to motion the obstruction aside, and Bull responded with his fist.

For a moment Nathaniel stood still, not quite sure how to react – then he caught the split in his comrade’s lip.

Although the violence had baffled him, blood was something his mother had ruled on: Blood meant finding an adult, or at least a phone, as quickly as possible.

He bolted for home.

“Hell no, you ain’t tellin’,” said Bull, as he began to follow.

The accidental daredevil’s speed was also his downfall. A full tilt run had left him with a cramp, and, as he neared Mumphrey’s home, he was forced to slow.

It was the sight of the half-open door, and the memory of his friend’s red chin, that compelled Nathaniel to clamber onto the chain link.

Close up the maroon vertical blinds he’d seen so often from the road were filthy, and the smell wafting from the interior reminded the schoolboy of his mother’s cooking on liver and onion night.

“I need to use your phone, my friend is bleeding,” Nathaniel told the shadows beyond the slats.

When he received no reply, he pushed inside, unaware of Bull jumping the fence behind him.

The attempted-rescuer entered the galley kitchen as the young thug slipped into the living room. The unit’s cooking space was nothing more than an L-shaped counter and a single-seated white-topped table, but there was a second exit, at the far end, which opened onto the front hallway. Much to Nathaniel’s disappointment, there was no phone on the wall to match the one hung in his own home, so he turned a quick eye over the greasy wallpaper and heavily scratched cupboard doors, then moved on to the opposite hall.

As he stepped through, Bull’s Nikes touched down on the dirt-covered linoleum.

Oblivious to the trail of mud which stained the stairs, Nathaniel decided to expand his search to the upper floor.

“Mumphrey?” he asked, as he climbed, but still he received no response.

He found a phone, finally, in the master bedroom. It stood on a small black nightstand beside the decaying carcass of its owner.

The room had been decorated in a variety of unicorn posters, a theme broken only by the black slab of television that had been hung alongside them. What lingered of their owner – a once rotund woman of forty – lay spread across the shimmering moonlight scene of her bedspread.

In many places her remains were little more than bones, as the Labrador, having emptied his dish a month previous, could not afford to be sentimental regarding his meals.

“That’s pretty gross,” Nathaniel said aloud.

It was then that Bull rushed the doorway – but, before he might tackle his target, his feet seemed to meet a terrible resistance at what his mind was observing.

He screamed.

The noise was enough to raise Mumphrey, who’d been dreaming of light and colour and meat in the coolest corner of its den, the bath tub.

The dog awoke hungry.

It paused briefly at its feeding room, to snort Nate’s mix of running sweat and deodorant, then it moved on.

Bull was nearly to the ground floor by the time the canine had picked up his urine-tainted scent, but, nonetheless, it was a tight race to the fence.

Still inside, Nathaniel closed the bedroom door against the noise, and, with a steady hand, dialed home.

 

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.

FPSE13 – Another Rescue

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Special Episode 13.

Flash PulpTonight we present Another Rescue, Part 1 of 1

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(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Strangely Literal.

 

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 return to The Hundred Kingdoms, and the perils that lie within its fantastic borders.

 

Another Rescue

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

 

In the depths of the Ogre King’s inkiest cave, Duchess Lilian Mildred was weighing the stench that filled her nostrils against the idea of enraging her guards to the point of shortening her life – and thus her current captivity.

It was not a serious thought, but her imprisonment amongst the brute lords had been nothing if not dull, and her mind had begun to wander.

She’d stood in the cell some twenty hours, with arms pulled high by hanging chains affixed to the rock wall.

Skinner Co.Despite the ache in her limbs, she considered the accommodations melodrama implemented only to heighten the price of ransom once a remote seer was engaged to determine the veracity of her captors’ demands.

This was a frustration, as her uncle, Archduke Mildred, was something of a miser, and would no doubt hold the debt against her till she repaid it or died.

She had not intended to have her caravan hijacked – there was no other route home from the capital but the Queen’s highway, and there was no choice but to take it when the court season had ended. Her party had been no different in size or composure than the Archduke’s own daughter’s, though she’d made her way north to tour instead of heading directly to her father’s keep.

Lilian sighed at her fate, but it simply forced her to draw in another lungful of her watchers’ reek.

The tedium ceased, however, when another of the twisted-faced ruffians approached. This one was little more than a youth, and, though she could not translate his grunts, her two ripe guardians departed briskly at his words.

Within moments, the sounds of bragging and clashing steel could be heard from the corridor beyond.

A man appeared, leading a band of stout-armed warriors. The newcomer wore a patch over one eye, and his hair swept back in a tight top knot. The chain-mail across his belly had been breached, but his mouth carried a wolfish grin.

His blade dripped with the tale of his handiwork.

“Duchess?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “The Archduke sent you?”

She rattled her chains gently as she spoke, with the notion that her saviour might free her as he explained – his reply was, “not quite.”

She could see he had the key in his hand, and yet he stalled.

It’s meaning was clear to the bound woman: Whoever had financed her rescue – whoever would garner the praise for her heroic recovery – would only enter once the area was proven safe.

As she waited, she set herself to hoping that the impending Prince, or Duke, or – Gods forbid – Merchant Lord was seeking reputation and renown, and was not of an appropriate age for marriage. The Duchess had come by her title by inheritance, and, regardless of her recent waylaying, she looked forward to wearing away some of its shine before she was forced to carry its full weight behind the tall stone walls of Baldenkirk, her home.

Finally, a thin-faced boy in velvet garments entered the room. It was obvious he made some attempt to mute his trumpet’s note, but, in the tight space, its sounding still left a ringing in Lilian’s ears.

It was to this accompaniment that Prince Cornelius Galen filled her view. He now held the cuffs’ key in his palm.

“Milady,” he said, “even under the duress of this terrible calamity, you are striking.”

Cornelius was but one of the thousand younglings that stood within the shadow of the crown, and Lillian’s few interactions with his house had left her cold – and yet she knew that, even now, he likely had minstrels, out of sight, composing odes regarding the perils he’d faced to win her.

It would be her own people who would pay highest coin for the swollen tales of his gallantry, and she knew the songs would likely arrive at her borders before she did. She would have to weight the purses of many crooners if she hoped to counteract his nuptial narrative.

“It seems your uncle has claimed his coffers are bare,” continued the prince, “but, do not fear, your peasants have gathered quite a bounty in their temple bowls.

“That said, I’m not here for the silver – I hope to collect a greater reward.”

Lilian could not deny her gratitude at the rescue, and it was this, and the fact that she remained chained, that kept her tongue steady.

“Truly this is too rough a place to speak of love, milord, “ she replied.

He hadn’t spoken of any such thing, of course, but she was released from the wall nonetheless.

The Prince and Duchess’ ascent was a stroll behind a threshing screen of steel, as the hired arms made short work of any rotund brute who was sleepy-eyed enough to stumble from the burrows that branched from the shaft’s main column.

A second force of mercenaries and balladeers greeted them at the tunnel’s mouth while scanning the surrounding hills and fingering the tools of their occupation.

All were soon mounted, but the ride was a harried one.

The Ogre King had hastily mustered his troops, and their legs held fury enough to them keep apace with the fleeing stallions.

It became plain that combat was imminent by the time they made Cannibal’s Hollow, a mountainous protrusion at the bottom of a wide rimmed valley that was known largely for its desolation.

As Lilian climbed the path to the bottleneck that marked their only chance of organizing a defense, she took some solace in the knowledge that a premature death would at least save her from a premature marriage.

Dying a martyr would also make for much better songs.

The patch-wearing captain strode the line, slapping shoulders and lifting spirits, as Lilian and her unwanted Prince watched from a nook above. Their perch also gave them a clear view of the approaching horde, although she found their battle chants more than sufficient warning.

She guessed them at ten leagues – then five. Then two.

Her husband-to-be’s voice became like sugar, and the duchess soon realized he sought a kiss to lessen his sense of peril. She’d bussed worse, and yet she withheld her lips with indignation – her greatest danger in her cell had been her escort’s stench.

“I am pleased, at least, that my last sight shall be of you,” he said.

Wincing, she replied, “ease your words, it’s more likely we’ll both be soon held against ransom.”

He coughed. “Well, I might, but your uncle has already turned down the offer, as I’ve mentioned. Still, I will stand and fight for you – should it be necessary.”

“Oh, certainly not – the cost would be too high.” Lilian’s gaze held on the writhing mass of clubs and poorly concealed flesh. They were no further than a half-league.

Cornelius smiled. “Perhaps you might make some down payment then? With an embrace?”

His brazen phrases were cut short, however, by the shadows of a hundred kites breaking over the vista’s edge: They were frames of the Royal Contrivers, the Queen’s engineers.

Under their gliding shade came on a host so immense it stretched the horizon, and at its lead cantered the warhorse Gwelmere, who had once pulled straight the crooked tower of the sorcerer Al’Min.

On the beast’s back rode the woman who’d broken him: Sofia Esperon, Queen of the Hundred Kingdoms.

Though not but the fury in her eyes was visible behind her plate and mail, it was obvious she was displeased.

With a raise of her onrushing hand, the wicker and canvas structures let loose from the marching strings that made up their only earthly bonds, and, catching the wind, their creaking and pondering passage carried them into the ranks of the surging ogres.

Each impact delivered an explosive wrath.

Holding high her ebony spear, the queen summoned ten thousand arrows, then ten thousand more.

Behind her, the roar of the Royal Guard’s war-bears was enough to drown the wild drums and chorus, which had now shifted to a rhythm of retreat.

As the savage multitude moved up, and beyond, the distant crest, Sofia Esperon did not follow.

Instead, she turned her attention to the prince, and his supposed prize.

Removing her helm, the monarch strode through the untested line of hired swordsman.

For the first time that day, Lilian felt true relief.

Cornelius only smiled and waved at his regent.

Sofia Esperon’s voice easily cut the distance to their airy post, and the hired singers and sword-arms averted their smirks to avoid risking their pay.

“Oh,” said the queen, “quite pleased that you’re out of danger, are you?”

The prince ceased his greeting.

“Has he made overtures?” Sofia asked the former prisoner.

Lilian nodded.

“I did not come,” continued Esperon, “to deal with those foul-mouthed gluttons. I unfurled my banners because I knew such blue-blooded scoundrels would be skulking about, looking to capitalize on a hostage’s distress.”

“What sort of man seeks to bind the hand of a woman while her wrists are still aching from the manacles of her kidnappers?”

It was the duchess’ turn to grin – and well she might, as the queen’s poets would be profoundly inspired by her tenacity for months to come.

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

  • Car Door Slam by sdfalk

    • 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.

    FP276 – Mulligan Smith and The Jailhouse Lover, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and seventy-six.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Jailhouse Lover, Part 1 of 1

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp276.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Dead Kitchen Radio.

     

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

    Tonight, private investigator Mulligan Smith finds himself listening to a tale of prison romance.

     

    Mulligan Smith and The Jailhouse Lover

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

     

    “Power windows? Fuck power windows,” Walmart Mike was saying.

    The Mercedes-Benz alongside the Tercel pulled away from the stoplight.

    Mulligan had offered the old man a ride home after discovering him waiting out the downtown bus in a plexiglas shelter, but he hadn’t expected much in the way of a conversation.

    Mulligan SmithThe greeter asked, “you know those flicks where some a-hole with a moustache finds himself facing off against twenty guys and he just stands behind his jalopy and blasts them all? Yeah, I knew this idiot, Dustin Cameron, who actually tried it. He was on parole, but he couldn’t resist living big. Drove around in a boat of a Cadillac. First car I ever rode in with power windows.

    “Only because he bought me lunch, you understand – I was done with the life by then.”

    Mike paused, drumming his fingers on the passenger-side door’s armrest.

    “Few weeks later he rolls on a couple hard-cases who were bothering his employers. Stops his road yacht in the middle of the street, stands up from the driver seat, and levels a Colt .45 – blam, blam, blam.

    “I’m guessing that he was coked out of his mind, but they didn’t mention it in the papers.

    “Anyhow, one of the pair drops, but the other’s quick, and he gets his own peashooter in play.

    “The two of ‘em keep doing the squint and squeeze for a few more seconds, until they’re both clicking at each other, then, full of adrenaline, the idiot gets back in the caddy and starts to drive away.

    “Apparently his windshield had several holes in it, and his goddamn engine must’ve looked like a sieve. A block on he realized that his brakes were pooched, and that he couldn’t stop at the light. A FedEx truck moving through the cross traffic hit ‘im in the trunk, though. Spun the car around and made it stall – but the impact was also enough to spark a fire.

    “Some pedestrians who hadn’t seen what he’d been running from came pounding the pavement toward him, looking to pull him clear before it was too late, but he jerked out of his shock suddenly, and his first instinct was to bring his big pistol up.

    “Well, of course everyone stepped the fuck back.

    “He panicked, threw the piece in the rear seat, and started yelling for help. At that point, though, no ones really excited about giving it a second go.

    “People could see him slamming at the power windows, but they were as dead as the rest of the car. He tried kicking at the glass, but his sneakers kept bouncing. By the time he thought to look for the Colt, the Cadillac was so full of smoke he probably couldn’t see where he’d dropped it – he cooked before he found it.”

    Mulligan whistled. There was a note of emotion in his passenger’s telling that seemed heavier than the story – one more tale of violence in the hundred he’d heard previously – so, rather than trample a carefully prepared runway, the private investigator otherwise maintained his silence.

    After a moment, Mike cleared his throat.

    “It’s funny, in prison people hustle hard for just a bit of sugar,” he said. “That’s where I met Dustin. There was this guy, real prison house Cyrano, you know, used to write letters for him. Well, really, the guy did it for a lot of folks. Some illiterate liquor store holdup man would wander off to him in the yard and say “Hey, it’s me and my lady’s third anniversary, can I get a poem?” The writer’d ask a few questions – you know, get a feel for what their relationship was like – and then he’d wander off and scrawl a little something.

    “In exchange, Cyrano would score a couple of packages of Twinkies from the canteen. Kept him fat through the cold months.

    “Hell, he was no Shakespeare, but a lot of those guys barely knew how to read.

    “Dustin and him got in pretty good. Came to the point where Cameron would just bring his words from home over to Cyrano’s bunk to have ‘em read, then the ghostwriter would spit something out and collect his sweets.

    “Thing is, after a few months, the scribbler falls for the girl. Can’t blame him, really – he had no one writing him, and she was always hella enthusiastic about his messages.

    “I was always under the impression that maybe it was as close to a romance as Dustin ever gave her, even if it was a sham.

    “There’s a limit to what you can say, you know – what they’ll let pass through the mail – but things got as hot as they could under the warden’s watchful letter opener.

    “Maybe that’s why Cameron stopped wanting to write as often, and waited before swinging by Cyrano’s bunk. The correspondence, and Twinkies, slowed to a trickle.

    “Now, Dustin was to be in for twenty. Didn’t happen that way – he did just over six before he was released to go down in his blaze of glory – but, as far as we knew, he was in for a full shift.

    “Cyrano, however, was short, and he couldn’t shut the woman from his mind, even if he’d only seen her in a grainy picture taped to Dustin’s wall.

    “Two months before he’s to be pushed out the gate, Cameron started a major ruckus in the yard and got himself shoved in the hole for a little thinking time.

    “He was still there when lover-boy went through the door.

    “My understanding is that, while Cyrano wasn’t proud of it, he looked in on Mrs. Cameron not long after. Guess he’d written her address enough times to have it memorized.

    “It was a small apartment on the west side of the city – he caught her exiting her door, dolled to the hilt and glowing like a classy pinup. She was pulling a gent along behind her, and the both of them were grinning as if they were kids sneaking out from under the bleachers.

    “Dustin had a temper, so I suppose she can’t be blamed for not being in a hurry to piss him off by delivering the news that they were done. She did theoretically have a couple decades.”

    “Right, well, Cyrano just apologized and said he’d meant stop on the floor above – said he must have hit the wrong button in the elevator, can you believe that, ha, ha, ha. Then he ran like a kicked dog.

    “Haven’t seen him in quite a while, actually.”

    Years of practice had guided the pacing of Mike’s telling, and, as he finished, Mulligan was nosing his ancient Tercel into the parking lot of the ex-con’s residence.

    “What do I owe ya?” asked the elder man, still wearing his blue work-smock.

    Smith smiled. “Nothing, as always – though, honestly, I now have a terrible hankering for a Twinkie.”

    Mike scowled, but found he couldn’t hold it, and was forced to shift to a red-cheeked grin.

    “C’mon inside,” he said, “I happen to have a few in the fridge.”

     

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

    Freesound.org credits:

  • Car Door Slam by sdfalk

    • 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.