Tag: pulp

Flash Pulp 130 – Coffin: Bunny Davis, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and thirty.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present Coffin: Bunny Davis, Part 2 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp130.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the collected jabberings of Captain Ignatius Pigheart – frothy tales of mermaids and seamen, as recounted by the Captain himself.

Buy the stories, full of humour and high adventure, at CD Baby

 

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 must ask a difficult question.

 

Flash Pulp 130 – Coffin: Bunny Davis, Part 2 of 3

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

 

Stepping from the elevator, Will adjusted his hold on the television he’d recently received as payment from Bunny Davis, and moved towards the small office that adjoined the lobby. Between the slats of the aqua-marine blinds, which the building’s superintendent had hung to provide some privacy within the glass walls, Coffin could see the short Lebanese man behind a stack of paperwork.

As the manager noticed his approach, a hand went to the rosary Will knew he kept tucked in the A-shirt he wore beneath his polyester armour.

“Can I ask a favour, Fadi?” Will said through the open doorway, while balancing the TV against the jamb.

“Of course, my friend.” Fadi tried to smile.

“Rewind the tape twenty-minutes.” As he spoke, Coffin’s eyes tracked to the monitor displaying footage from the only working security camera in the entranceway.

The smile finally took, and the little man rose from his cluttered desk, making his way to the ancient VCR.

“Things are well?” he asked, his fingers stabbing at the device’s faded buttons.

“As well as ever,” Will responded. “You may want to call Kim and her friends to come by tomorrow morning though, you’ll have cruisers parked out front pretty soon.”

There was a moment filled with only the hum of the tape machine taking back time. The office dweller sucked in his lower lip and released it from between his teeth with small pop.

“That should be enough.” With a metallic clunk, the recording process began anew.

“Thanks,” said Coffin.

“No problem, my friend.” the manager replied. His grin had faded.

Will gave a quick good bye, then departed. As he did so, he saw the suit move to grab the phone – likely to make an appointment with Kimberly Berg, a mutual acquaintance who ran a crime-scene cleaning crew.

It was a short walk to his own apartment, and, after storing the twenty-one inch set in a bedroom closet stacked full with screens of all sizes, he threw his coat across the red wing-back chair which made up the only furniture in his living room.

He spent a few seconds staring at the sliding glass which lead to the balcony, then turned to face the kitchen. Stepping onto the cold tiles, Will flicked on the lone still-functioning fluorescent bulb, and considered his options. As he completed gnawing down his thumbnail, he strolled back to his bed and reached for the cheap portable phone he kept on an adjacent nightstand.

He called his sister-in-law.

The conversation took about forty-minutes, and he spent the majority of it listening, or saying “sure”.

Once he’d hung up, he stood, and his knees popped in complaint. He always felt older than his years following a talk with Peggy. Shuffling back into the hall, he spared another glance for the patio door, then re-entered the kitchen and prepared some frosted flakes with milk.

He was half way through the cereal when he dropped his bowl in annoyance.

Unable to bring himself to hold off any longer, he strode across the living room’s rough carpet and moved the locking mechanism downward.

Will didn’t bother retrieving his jacket – he didn’t need the silver chain to speak with Sandra.

Sandra was always there.

He dropped a socked-foot onto the cement outside.

Grasping the warm steel of the railing with both hands, he coughed to clear his throat, then spoke.

“Hello.”

Eighteen floors below, Sandy commenced untangling herself.

She lifted her upper body in a crisp push up, and, despite the fact that she whispered into the parking-lot pavement, her voice carried to his ear as if she had snuck up behind him while he was chasing a mystery through one of the thick tomes that lined his bedroom shelves.

“Hello, Will,” she replied, beginning to crawl towards the wall that ran the height of the building. “How are things? How’s your Mom?”

“Yeah, funny – listen, I need a favour.” His eyes never left her form as she once again forced her fingers bloodily between the cracks in the brickwork.

“Hon, if you want to come down here and have a chat, I’d love to provide you any favour you’d please. You know I’ve been missing you.” She had almost cleared the height of the first balcony, and her useless legs beat a sloppy rhythm against the mortar-work as she climbed.

“Tim Davis, from the south tower, had an accident this morning.”

“Yeah, Will, I’ve already heard about Tim. Didn’t seem like much of an accident, the way I was told it. Speaking of bladed objects to the face, do you remember the time that manifestation of Santa Claus came at you with those promotional steak-knives? Back at the Wallmalton Plaza? Long time ago I guess. Do you still hate Christmas because it? Watching you chucking presents to fend him off must have been one of the funniest things I ever saw. You’re lucky for that jacket, or it would have been you, and not that poor fleet of plastic reindeer, who ended up perforated.”

Her stalling chatter had brought her a third of the way to him, and he could see the trail of her progress staining the route. He knew that the bonds of her prison pulled tighter as she rose; that once she surrendered her will to the inexorable gravity that pulled her back to her twisted fetal position, all of the nail and flesh she’d grated away would also find its way home; but he still couldn’t help but feel a little heart sick for the fingers that had once probed his defenses for ticklish spots.

Will Coffin“There was a smell of sulphur before I went in. Other than the obvious, I can’t think of anything that would leave that sort of stench lying around. Also, after chatting with the former Mrs. Davis, I don’t think she’s capable of killing anything under her own power – even with the provocation she had. I feel like there’s something more at work.”

He took in a deep breath.

She had made it past the three-quarter mark, and he was sure she was getting faster with every attempted ascent. It was time to make his closing pitch.

“Oh, I forgot to mention, I talked to Peggy tonight. You wouldn’t believe what happened to Vilmer Jr. last week at school.”

Although their network of conversation carried much information, the dead rarely had news on the living. On those nights when Will came to talk of her sister’s family, the phantasm would often stop before even reaching the mid-point, not wanting to risk shortening the chat.

“If you have anything interesting to tell me by tomorrow morning, I’ll gladly spend some time recounting the details of Vil’s shop-class saga.”

Sandra paused, and he knew he had her – she might have been homicidal, but she wasn’t unreasonable.

“Will, you really are a dick sometimes. Fine, but you better be here early. Hey, in the meanwhile, how about telling me what else you got up to today?” She had resumed climbing, although at a slower pace.

“Sorry,” he replied.

He turned and pushed back the flimsy curtain, quickly stepping over the threshold and pulling the seal tight behind him. As he reset the small lock, Sandra’s muffled scream emanated through the heavy barrier. He felt a flush of respect for the strength with which she resisted the unseen hands that tugged her back to the center of her universe, the small patch of ground she’d inhabited for the last ten years.

Unfortunately, respect was no help when she finally flopped over the edge of the balcony, and began rubbing the juicy nubs of her fingers against the glass. He dumped the remainder of his cereal down the sink, and marooned the dirty dishes on the kitchen table.

“Sometimes you aren’t a very good wife,” he shouted.

The phone began to ring, and he was pleased at the unexpected distraction. As he retreated into the depths of his apartment to answer, however, he was chased by the squeaking sound of a wet squeegee on a filthy windshield.

 

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.

Will Coffin’s theme is Quinn’s Song – A New Man, by Kevin Macleod of incompetech.com

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

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp 129 – Coffin: Bunny Davis, Part 1 of 3

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present Coffin: Bunny Davis, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp129.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the collected jabberings of Captain Ignatius Pigheart – tales that’ll warm the cockles of any musky urchin.

Buy the stories, full of humour and high adventure, at CD Baby

 

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

Tonight, we introduce Will Coffin, a man of unusual knowledge and charms.

 

Flash Pulp 129 – Coffin: Bunny Davis, Part 1 of 3

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

 

Will Coffin ran his eyes over the shimmering expanse of parking lot, idly wondering what made the power lines hum on a hot day, and dipped his hand into the small bag of sunflower seeds that sat beside him on the bench. He hated his new spot outside of the Eats & Treats, it got too much sun during the day, and there were never any pigeons around to feed, but his old haunt had burned to the ground, and he didn’t feel comfortable loitering in a vacant lot.

Still, people knew where to find him.

He was spitting out the last of the seed husks when he noted Bunny Davis, from the north tower, crossing the street. She was wearing a long, white-fuzzed bathrobe.

Will tossed the plastic sack in the garbage, and laid mental odds regarding her destination: the interior of the chain-store, or his own curb-side office. He stood at a fifty-fifty split until she was close enough that he could better make out her face, and then the odds began to slide. When her housecoat slipped open to reveal her puffy body covered in blood, Coffin moved to stand.

“Will, I need help.”

Rather than interrupt, he simply waited out the obvious part of the discussion.

“I’ve killed Tim!”

It was the last coherent statement she would make for a while, as Bunny seemed to begin an attempt to curl her extremities into herself. Her arms became locked against her rough face, covering the spider-lines left on her cheeks and nose by drink, and she sank to the ground.

“Come on now,” Will said, placing a hand on her shoulder- the knotted knuckles of his long fingers looked out of place on the white fuzz. “You’ll hurt your knees that way.”

He lifted her to his.

Embarrassed on her behalf, regarding her robe, he attempted to draw it closed without bringing her attention to the fact that it had been open. In the end he had to take off his own beaten leather jacket, and place it over her knees. She’d been relatively oblivious during the process, resorting instead to expressing herself through an unwavering, extended-squeal.

Coffin suspected it might have been a scream too large for her throat.

Mr. Nickels, from the east tower, came into the view, hustling his wheelchair across the street while raising a hand to Will. As he neared, he took in the weeping white fluff, and his course altered slightly – instead of intersecting the bench, he sailed towards the store’s automatic doors and disappeared inside.

Unmindful, Bunny continued her kettle-screech.

After a while, Nickels exited the shop. In his lap was the victory prize of a pack of smokes, having been won after ten rounds of jawing with Lornie, the shop’s owner. As he passed, he gave Will a quick nod, then turned, setting his jaw as he made to cross during a blinking yellow light.

Will eyed the sky.

The time was coming when people would be arriving home from work, and he wanted to be clear of the street by then. Between five and midnight, they too shared the neighbourhood.

He stood, pacing a little, which seemed to be enough for Bunny to finally get a grip on the emotional valve that had given way. Her squeal contracted to a halt, and she looked up at Will. She attempted to speak, but at first she could only manage a cough.

After a moment, she did a poor job of spitting a combination of blood and mucus onto the pavement, then she tried again.

“We were just sitting around talking. That song, “Heart of Glass” came on? I love that song.” She made a sound that could have been either a throat clear, or a laugh, and spat again. “Tim says ‘Shut that —-ing thing off,’ but I’ve got half a bottle of backbone in me, and I figure, —- that, we know they ain’t home in the place above or below, so why not have some fun? I turn it up a little and that’s when he —-ing kicks me on the leg, just below my ass. I don’t know if he was aiming for my cheek, or what, but he probably would have broken my tailbone with those —-ing work boots of his.

“I go over, and suddenly I’m staring at the bottom of the table and realizing how much gum we’ve actually shoved under there. He reaches across and turns down the radio, then sits down to butter his toast like nothing ever happened – like he can just ignore that —-. I sat up, got the rest of the bottle down, and went into the kitchen to get the cleaver with the wood handle that my Mom left me when she passed. I’m standing there, and I’m yelling at him, and he just looks so mad that I’m pretty sure if I put the cleaver down, he’s going to pick it back up again, and that’ll be the end of me – but then he starts laughing, and I KNOW if I put it down, it’ll be the end of me.”

Her telling was interrupted as she began to shiver, and Will, glancing at his watch, decided it might be best if they got traveling. He stood, offering her a hand.

As they waited out the cross traffic at the light, Bunny continued.

“Well, after a while he sort of realized we were at a standoff. He decides he’s going to go into the kitchen, and he grabs a fish fillet-er out of the block. I’d followed him into the room, screaming not to —-ing move, when I really should have been running out the —-ing door. Anyhow, he gets the knife and he starts threatening again, and every now and then he takes a swing at me. At first he’s just trying to scare me, but then he cut me, “ she raised a hand to her stomach, but never broke stride on the cracked asphalt of the crosswalk. “I was sure he was going to really mean the next one, so I brought the knife down on his forehead like I was chopping wood. Damned if Tim didn’t fall straight over on his spine – toes of his boots up in the air and that handle pushin’ down his nose – just like Daffy Duck catching a frying pan with his face.”

Her story carried them through the front door of her building, past the red brick work, the Sears artwork, and the fake potted palms flanking the elevators. A Vietnamese woman, holding a brown paper bag of take out, stood waiting. The up button was already illuminated. Bunny distractedly attempted to knot the front of her robe, failed on the first attempt, and had to loosen it once she had succeeded. After a ten minute wait, the panels slid open, and the three rode upward while trying to ignore the unsettling grinding noises of the ancient hoist.

Bunny led the way as they exited, directing him to a long a barren hall, adorned only with a harshly-patterned carpet that reminded Will of his few experiences with Las Vegas casinos.

The smell of the hall filled his nostrils as he passed through it. His stomach growled at the smell of a simmering curry, but was quickly quelled by the stink of a chain smoker. Beneath it all, there was something more: a vague hint of sulphur.

Will followed Bunny’s lead in keeping the door as closed as possible as they went through, but the entryway contained nothing but a filthy rug and a pair of worn sneakers.

“Huh.” Will said, passing through the small dining room, towards the kitchen. He was familiar with all of the interior layouts of the towering apartment blocks that populated his neighborhood.

Upon viewing the sprawled body of the former Mr. Davis, his initial thought was that the knife – a thick bladed affair, its long wooden handle smoothed by years of honest use – had pushed Tim’s nose so far down that it might have been almost funny, if it didn’t look so uncomfortable. He considered pulling the handle up a bit to give the dead man some breathing room, but decided it wasn’t worth leaving the weepy killer to explain why it had been wiped down.

“I want to tell him I’m sorry,” said Bunny.

“Huh.” Will said again.

The cooking area was long and narrow, with a small, floral-topped table on one side. Over the knife-scoured counter a pass-through revealed the living room’s lop-sided couch, from which peeked yellow stuffing from numerous cigarette burns.

“Do you know the price?” Coffin asked.

“Yep,” she replied.

“Go into the bedroom and wait.”

He watched until the white robe had disappeared through the doorway, then bent low over the corpse.

Unzipping the right hand pocket of his beaten jacket, he pulled forth a silver charm on a length of slender chain. The talisman had something of the appearance of a hook, but it’s sharpened point bent into a swirl of intricate lacing, so that threading anything onto it required some maneuvering. At the base of the hook, stuck firmly through the middle, was a drying hunk of meat, which Will made every effort to think of as nothing more than beef jerky.

He dipped the links onto the body’s left cheek, and let the cold metal drag along its temple.

Then he tugged.

Will CoffinThe un-affixed hook had suddenly taken on weight, but Coffin put his arm to it, and out popped the ghost of Tim Davis, as if pulled by an ethereal magnet.

“That —-,” said the phantom.

Will shrugged. “I don’t think the police are going to think so – that’s a mean slash across her belly, and you have a look about you which suggests you may be the the kind of fellow around which a lady might require a little self-defence.”

The apparition narrowed its gauzy eyes.

“You looking to move in on my woman?”

“No. Bunny wants me to tell you she’s sorry.”

“Sorry? Oh, I’ll make her —-ing sorry.” Tim took a step towards the doorway, but was stymied at the end of his tether. Without turning, he demanded to be let go.

“Fine,” Coffin replied. Dropping his grip, the chain went suddenly limp, passing through the spectre and landing in a heap on the battered linoleum.

Davis attempted to bring another leg forward, but found himself pulling against a terrific force.

“What?” was all he managed before he dropped to one knee. His efforts were useless, however; he tumbled into his own remains, once again assuming their exact position.

Will rubbed a tired eye, then picked up his artifact and re-pocketed it.

As he pushed his way into the bedroom, Bunny jumped to her feet.

“Is it over?”

“I told him.”

“Did he say anything?”

The leather jacket raised in another shrug.

Realizing any further answer he gave would be just as unlikely to satisfy her, she moved on.

“About what I owe you – there’s a flat screen in the living room…”

“No, you may need to pawn it for bail.” The woman’s eyes misted as Coffin spoke. “I’ll just take this twenty-one inch, it’s a better fit to the price of the job. I’m going to go, but you need to call the police as soon as I’m out. Show them what he did, and tell them what you told me. Just be patient, and you’ll make out all right – but, by the crushing damnation of Kar’Wick’s-brood, don’t mention I was here.”

Will believed firmly that people better followed his instructions if he spiced them up with some of his professional jargon.

He scooped up the small TV, then waited for some response from his patron.

Bunny nodded.

He exited the apartment, pausing at the door only long enough to hear the three flat beeps that began a 911 call.

 

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.

Will Coffin’s theme is Quinn’s Song – A New Man, by Kevin Macleod of incompetech.com

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

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp 128 – The Absent Idol: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and twenty-eight.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present The Absent Idol: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp128.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp Facebook page.

Join now, and get half off the cost of your next free Flash Pulp episode.

To join us, click here.

 

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

Tonight, the Collective Detective finds itself investigating the loss of an Internet icon.

 

Flash Pulp 128 – The Absent Idol: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1

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

 

The 2nd of January

Welcomebot: Welcome To #CD-Chat, Harrisment!

FrameScalpel: I’m not saying most of her fans were following her for the right reason, but, honestly, her ability to cut clips in a way that fit her music was fantastic. She was like a combination of Thelonious Monk’s sense of timing, and Banksy’s sense of humorous visuals with a message.

MitchSlap: – and there was also her overdeveloped rack.

Harrisment: Stick it, Welcomebot.

Frame Scalpel: Hey Harris. Just explaining to MitchSlap why IdolChan was so great.

Harrisment: I was kind of under the impression it was the amount of cleavage she showed in her video blogging.

FrameScalpel: Screw you guys.

Harrisment: Ha, kidding, kidding. Lady like that wouldn’t continue to have the following she does if she hadn’t had some talent.

MitchSlap: I’m sticking with my theory that she’s actually a fake personality Spike Jonze used, but, seriously, at this point don’t you think the only reason anyone remembers her is because of the mystique of her disappearance?

FrameScalpel: No.

Harrisment: I do think that’s part of it, but Scalps has a point. She’s still the person I start throwing out links to when I find someone who’s under the impression that the vidder-community is all crappy dance music layered over badly edited anime-clips.

FrameScalpel: WTF

Harrisment: Hah – I don’t mean YOUR badly edited anime-clips.

FrameScalpel: …

Harrisment: Joking. You know I’m a fan of your work.

MitchSlap: Whatever – how far into your search have you gotten?

FrameScalpel: Well, I’ve been through all of her email addresses, her twitter account, and her Facebook communications. She had thousands of followers, and chatted with nearly anyone who’d send her something, but everything was routed through an encrypted anonymizer service, which I have yet to break, and I can’t find a single message that I can trace back to a meat-space friend. I still have no leads as to who she really was.

Harrisment: Well, don’t take it too hard, if you did know who she was, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’m between tasks at the moment, I can lend you a hand, if you’d like?

FrameScalpel: Sure, I’d appreciate it.

MitchSlap: Well, if you ladies are going to spin your wheels on this, I may as well crack the case for you. Send me what you’ve got.

* * *

The 5th of January

To: framescalpel@thecollectivedetective.com
From: harrisment@thecollectivedetective.com
Subject: IdolChan Clue

Hey,

I think I may have found something. I was watching video #23 – the one in the park? – and I finally caught a break: there’s a moment where she’s busy talking about how little respect she gets from idiots on youtube, and a guy with a dog jogs by. She mentions how cute the mutt is at 2:36, then she swings her phone around to record its passing.

If you look closely, you can catch a glimpse of the city skyline over top of the trees. I know you were thinking she was from New York, because of her accent, but that’s totally the Transamerica Pyramid – she’s got to be from San Francisco!

You weren’t around in the channel, so I passed the info onto Mitch. He seemed to think he could make some use of it, although, of course, he wants to play king and keep his hunches to himself. Still, who knows, that tool might come up with the next piece. I’m going to see if I can figure out which park she was recording in – the timestamp says it was around lunch on a Tuesday, maybe it’s somewhere near where she was attending school?

I feel like we’re getting close.

Harris

* * *

The 8th of January

To: harrisment@thecollectivedetective.com; mitchslap@thecollectivedetective.com
From: framescalpel@thecollectivedetective.com
Subject: Just Got Back

Hi, sorry about taking so long to reply.

First the greyhound was late getting into San Fran, then I had to figure out the stupid local transit. Five hours on a bus had me cranky, and maybe a bit confused, and I accidentally got on the wrong trolley.

After I finally got everything figured out, I had to walk another half-hour to her house. It looks a lot like the street view, but it seemed bigger, and a little more run down, in real life.

I’d imagined a lot of possibilities before I knocked on the door – I mean, it’s been years since IdolChan’s last video, so she’d be in her late twenties now – but the old woman who answered wasn’t what I’d expected.

I knew the address was right, I’d been staring at it long enough to have it permanently burnt into my brain, but all I could come up with when the lady answered the door was “Hi, is Lara here?” and she says “Speaking.”

I nearly fell over – but the woman had IdolChan’s eyes, and it was then that I realized that she must have been named after her mom.

We talked, and I explained about the search, and how Mitch had plowed through reams of yearbooks to find her. That’s when I started cluing in to how little Mrs. Dunning knew about the level of fame her daughter had, and has, online.

Even after my story, I’m not sure that she really got it.

Actually, at first she seemed pretty weirded out by my even being there, but, once she realized I wasn’t some crazy from the Internet, she wanted to talk about things. Eventually she showed me around the house.

The last room she brought me to was Lara’s.

It’s a time capsule, really – it’s got all these stuffed kittens on the bed. I admit, we both ended up crying.

The theories are wrong. She wasn’t Spike Jonze in disguise, she wasn’t killed in a car accident, she wasn’t kidnapped, and she wasn’t hired away by MTV to do video production.

Mrs. Dunning explained to me that she’d been sad for a long time after the move from Brooklyn, that she’d never really made any friends once they’d re-located – that she was lonely.

On her 18th birthday, with her ‘net down, and leaving only a short, soggy, note for her mom, she grabbed a bus and jumped from the Golden Gate.

After a while, we both dried up, and I just kind of drifted out the door. As she said good bye, Mrs. Dunning seemed to take a little comfort in the fact that, online, IdolChan’s legend lives on.

I’m going home now, but, if it’s all the same to you guys, I’d like to leave this case open indefinitely.

FS

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

Flash Pulp 127 – Mulligan Smith and The Bystander, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and twenty-seven.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Bystander, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp127.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp Facebook page.

As the movie Freaks once said: Gooble Gobble, Gooble Gobble, One of us, One of us!

To join us, click here.

 

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

Tonight, Mulligan Smith, PI, finds himself out in the cold.

 

Flash Pulp 127 – Mulligan Smith and The Bystander, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Regardless of the dusting of snow, a small crowd had come to gather outside 240 Maple, most of them having been drawn in by the blinking red bubble-lights of the four police cruisers parked along the road.

Mulligan, his hoodie zipped tight against the chill, watched as the KOCC reporter wrapped her story. Once the cameraman had barked out a quick confirmation that the transmission had completed, and even as the onlookers’ retinas were still aglow with the directional light’s after image, the one man crew, and the correspondent, hopped into the bright-blue news van and gunned the still idling engine.

The PI had used his rubber-necking of the brief broadcast as an opportunity to eavesdrop on the whispered conversations that shot amongst the bystanders, but his time had been largely spent listening to the spouting of an old man whose hat would’ve better served a Cossack. The pseudo-Russian had gone on at length, in a stage whisper obviously intended for more than just his wife, that if there were this many police on hand, they certainly must have the flasher in custody.

Despite the bumper-to-bumper parking, Smith had his doubts.

With his excuse for silence gone, he struck up a conversation with a wispy haired fifty-something, whose face was lost deep in her massive parka.

“Funny what some people will do,” he said.

“Yeah, guess so,” she replied in a thick Wisconsin accent. “Must be a real perverted-type.”

Mulligan Smith“Usually I’d agree, but I’m not so sure this time.” Mulligan took a step closer as he spoke. “Generally a pervert can make do just jumping out of the bushes at a park, or trawling bus-stops – by the time they get around to breaking and entering, it’s not just to share a brief view of their pride.”

“Oh?” replied the parka. “Then what happened here?”

“My guess is that the culprit is seeking attention. They probably don’t get much of it in their regular existence.”

“That’s not what the news-lady said, and everything I’ve read in the paper has made the flasher out to be a goddess in a gas-mask – a little beauty with some sort of weird fetish.”

“Yeah, well, these stories have a way of taking on a life of their own, and legends spring up. Have you ever heard of the Mad Gasser of Mattoon?”

“Uh?”

“The Mad Gasser might have been a person running around Virginia and Illinois in the ‘30s and ‘40s. See, supposedly there was this fellow with a spray gun – the old type that looks like a bicycle pump with a can stuck to one side and a nozzle at the far end – and he’d creep about in peoples bushes until they were sitting around at home watching TV, or whatever – then he’d user the sprayer to try and gas them through cracked windows, or even nail holes.”

“Gas? Did anyone die?”

“Nope, a few folks got sick though.”

“Are you saying you think she used something on her victims and that’s why she wears the mask?” the woman seemed pleased with the idea.

“No, the mask is just so she doesn’t get caught. What I’m saying is that the police chief in Mattoon actually ended up declaring the whole thing a hoax – likely just the product of hysteria, and maybe some chemical releases from a nearby factory.” Smith shrugged. “I don’t know what the reality was, but, as I mentioned, these things tend to collect their own mythology. Maybe claiming you were awoken in the middle of the night by a supple, nude, twenty-year-old makes for an easier confession than the reality of having the bejesus scared out of you by a, uh, stout mother of four, whose children are all college-aged.”

The woman’s eyes grew large, but Mulligan went on.

“Truth be told, I’m actually working for the first victim. Seems he feels his original description of the assailant may not be the most helpful thing in the world, but he’s got too much pride to go back to the police for a second round of red-faced recounting.”

“Why does he still care?” the ex-Wisconsinite asked, her voice now a squeak. “It’s never happened to the same person twice, has it?”

“Well – never mind that if this were a crime committed by a man, the outcry would be triple what it is – the basics are that my client, despite the fact that the increasing media coverage is handling this almost like a case of prankster-ism, spends most nights waking up in a sweat, and now has to get out of bed to check his door locks a dozen times an evening. I do understand a bit of where you’re coming from, though – a guy with that much money rarely has a kind word for the help, and if he’d been more honest in the first place, his pride wouldn’t be in such a bind.”

“How did you know?”

“Well, first off, I actually bothered to look into who’d temped in the house when, and if, each victim’s main cleaning lady was unavailable.” He wanted to be stern with her – he knew he should be. He damned himself for smirking. “You were the only coincidence. If your employers had paid you more heed while you were busy dusting their shelves, they could have recognized you themselves – but then, my suspicion is that if those men had been less inattentive while you were tidying, you wouldn’t have felt the need to make your nocturnal visits.”

He’d thought the woman would break down crying at the news, but she seemed increasingly happy just to be noticed.

He decided he’d actually allow the interview when the KOCC lady called later – it was the least he could do after getting the aging mother fired, and he suspected she’d enjoy the spin he’d give her saga.

He let out a short laugh before continuing.

“Anyhow, it didn’t help that you were pretty easy to spot in the background of the last incident’s news footage. Those boots are pretty tall, and your coat is pretty long, but, if people were paying a little more attention, it’s definitely noticeable that you’re not wearing any pants.”

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

Flash Pulp 126 – Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and twenty-six.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 3 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp126.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

Ever been to a funeral where you’re greeted at the door by the guest of honour’s slobbering mouth?

Find all the tips you’ll need to survive the zombie apocalypse at http://youtube.com/user/WalkerZombieSurvivor

 

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 wrestles with her conscience – and the undead.

 

Flash Pulp 126 – Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 3 of 3

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

 

[Text to be posted]

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

Flash Pulp 125 – Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and twenty-five.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 2 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp125.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

Undead Boy Scouts may attempt to consume your brain-matter. You’ll need more than a pocket knife and a knots badge to be prepared.

Find all the tips you’ll need to survive the zombie apocalypse at http://youtube.com/user/WalkerZombieSurvivor

 

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 Departed stops for a beverage and a conversation, as the zombie apocalypse continues on about her.

 

Flash Pulp 125 – Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 2 of 3

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

 

[Text to be posted]

 

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.

Many thanks to Wood, of Highland & Wood, for the intro bumper. You can find their podcast at bothersomethings.com

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

Flash Pulp 124 – Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and twenty-four.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp124.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

Cut back on the Beyoncé videos a little, and enjoy one man’s tales of zombie survival, as told to youtube.

Find it at http://youtube.com/user/WalkerZombieSurvivor

 

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 Departed walks a hard road as she comes to grips with the realities of the zombie apocalypse.

 

Flash Pulp 124 – Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 1 of 3

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

 

[Text still to be posted.]

 

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.

Many thanks to Wood, of Highland & Wood, for the intro bumper. You can find their podcast at bothersomethings.com

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

Flash Pulp 123 – Moving Parts: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and twenty-three.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Moving Parts: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp123.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the free audio-novella, Boiling Point.

Find out more at http://neilcolquhoun.com

 

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

Tonight, the Collective Detective attempts to pick a murderer from amongst a mob.

 

Flash Pulp 123 – Moving Parts: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1

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

 

“The six month period before the last date tracked in the trio of archives that acts as the backbone of the Collective Detective is basically considered the edge of the world by most contributors.”

Mitch straightened his tie.

“A lot of members of the collective hate working edge-cases, which is probably why I love them. The way some of those guys act, you’d think the ‘net ceased to exist once the NSA stopped tapping everything in 2008, but really its just that they’d rather not do the kind of legwork necessary to track something that went over the line – you know, joining forums, following blogs, trawling news sites.

“It really means that there’s plenty of leads in that period that are actually pretty easy pickings; things that go un-looked into just because of their vintage.”

The lawyer nodded, coaxing him to continue.

“That’s how I came to open the file on Jesse Barber.

“I was looking over the stubs – the list of cold cases that could do with some poking at – and noticed something about a furry who’d been stabbed to death in a parking lot. Now, I’m no naughty mascot myself, but I’ve always had quite a bit of sympathy for those folks. I truly believe that someday we’ll do away with racism and bigotry, but I’m also fairly sure we’ll never get to a point where we’ll tolerate a man in a raccoon costume dining in a high-end restaurant.

“Anyhow, he’d been at a meet-up with other suiters, outside a comic convention, when it happened. I know they have a bit of a bad reputation, but everything we dug up said it was nothing seedy, just a networking thing for other local people with a similar interest, and an opportunity to freak out a bunch of Burger King employees when they finally got hungry.

“My first step was to open a thread regarding all of the Facebookers who’d RSVP’d, and the contributors started nibbling at the list to see if there was any previous connection between the attendees and the deceased.

“Next, I tapped Cameron Wallace and Rory Cummings – uh, BallsToTheWallace, and Kid Icarus, to give me a hand with Jesse’s personal emails. Every editor has a style of working, I prefer to keep the juicer stuff close to home, even if it means a lot of tedious shuffling and sorting. I work with Balls pretty regularly; our timezones are just off enough that he can pick things up when I pass out. I’d never interacted with Icarus before, though, I’d just seen his editorial status set to inquisitive, which means he was interested in being assigned some work. His ratings were high, and I thought the fact that he lived in Seattle, like the victim, would be handy.

“The police had already been over the posting on Craigslist announcing the anti-furry NERF-bat flash mob, and we discovered that at the time it went live, it started quite a bit of debate on a bunch of blogs. Most of the furries on site knew there might be a problem, which meant cellphone cameras were out in force. My first job for Icarus was to get a posse together to locate any clips he could find, and to start a catalogue of the faces in the crowd.

“Then I got Balls on looking for secondaries – basically other accounts a user might have been logging on with. People can connect from anywhere; home, libraries, coffee shops, work; and you’ve got to try and back track it all to get the full picture. Sometimes a guy has a wife he doesn’t want accidentally stumbling onto the Hotmail inbox he’s using for the Tranny-Love mailing list, so he only checks it on his laptop, or sometimes its simply that a person only converses with a friend while at work – which is exactly what happened in this case.

“In the mean time, I was attempting to run down those who’d replied to the original listing on Craigslist, hoping to spot somebody with enough hate to want to kill a stranger. The police investigation had decided that it was probably someone in the mob – someone not content to stop at beating the pseudo-animals with fuzzy bats, and that seemed like a pretty logical line of thinking to me.

“I got nowhere fast though – I realized pretty quickly that way more people had shown up at the event than had responded, and I couldn’t find anyone bragging about anything unusual. Icarus was having just as little luck – cell-video still sucked pretty hard in 2004. The only one making progress was Balls, who’d discovered that Mr Barber was very careful about keeping his identity as Kip Hamsterton separate from his life as Jesse the tech guy. Hamsterton had his own set of email addresses, and a pretty large establishment in a virtual world called Second Life, and Barber had a one bedroom apartment and an overprotective mom.”

Mitch licked his lips and rubbed his scruffy goatee.

“We all switched over to letter sorting, and that’s when we found it: Jesse had had a fling at work, with an accountant whose laptop he’d repaired. It had ended abruptly, but even after he’d blocked Margie Feldstead’s address and stopped replying, she’d been sending him vicious emails calling him a perverted monstrosity. It was obvious what had happened – their first emails were full of puppy love, but sometime on or around the 12th, three months into the relationship and a week before his murder, everything had changed. He’d fallen deeply for her, despite her crazy notions about the government, and he’d probably thought that, if he could accept her nuttiness, she could surely accept his.

“We opened the thread regarding Jesse’s correspondence to contributor assistance, and the three of us started plowing into everything Margie-related that we could locate.

“I can sympathize with a guy like Jesse, but Margie was nothing but a closet crazy. She spent a lot of time in the dark corners of the Internet, where anything bad that happens is somehow the result of a Jewish world order conspiracy or an act of Satan. Within twenty-four hours of finding out about Kip, she’d ordered a ballistic knife from a place in Florida. They were supposed to be against the law, but I guess it was sort of semi-legal to sell the hilt and blade as a package, and the spring that did the shooting as a separate item. For the next few days her Google searches from home were entirely obsessed with the Seattle furry community, and when she found out about the flash mob posting, she had her excuse.

“When we came across the confirmation email with the receipt for the knife, I figured that was it. Still, you get into weird legal grounds any time you pull a case out of the archives, so I did what we’re supposed to do when we think we’ve got one in the can: I tagged it for review by the council; the suits over top of the editors who run all the corporate and legal stuff. It can take hours, or even days, to get a response, and, then, it’s usually just to confirm that they’ve called the police, and to thank you for a job well done.

“I don’t know why Cummings – Icarus – didn’t wait to hear the outcome. We don’t often get to see the perp though, except in the occasional news clip, and he must have been riding the adrenaline rush of having cracked the truth. Whatever the case, it’s obvious the intervening years haven’t been too kind to Margie’s stability. Lord knows how a woman in that state manages to get a hold of a handgun.”

From the behind the defense table, the accused, hardened by the time since the death of Jesse Cummings, attempted to lay Mitch low with her glare.

“That will be all,” said the lawyer.

The judge thanked him for his testimony, and the editor vacated the stand.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

Flash Pulp 122 – Mulligan Smith and The Custodian, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Custodian, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp122.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the free audio-novella, Boiling Point.

Find out more at http://neilcolquhoun.com

 

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

Tonight, Mulligan Smith, PI, finds himself in a principal’s office for the first time since his youth.

 

Flash Pulp 122 – Mulligan Smith and The Custodian, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan hadn’t been inside a principal’s office since the age of fourteen, when he’d been on the receiving end of Christopher Nelson’s fist. This particular office wasn’t that different than the one he’d last been in, it seemed to contain the same bookshelf, the same wilted houseplant, and the same battered carpet. Even the whitewashed cement block walls felt all too familiar.

“You understand that this isn’t something I usually do,” Principal Philips was saying. Her suit was prim, if a little old, and there was a red button with yellow text exclaiming “Read, Dang It!”, pinned to her lapel.

Smith nodded, and she continued.

“I mean, we do a police check when they sign on, to be sure they aren’t a sex offender, and Jackson’s record is spotless. Normally I’d never consider bringing in a private investigator – honestly, you’re the first one I’ve ever met.”

“Not that I’m ungrateful for the money,” Mulligan replied, “but, if Mr Evans is only part time, why not just fire him?”

“Well – it’s simply that he’s so good at it. He manages to accomplish about the same, in a few hours on the weekend, as what old Kevin gets done in three days of trundling around behind his cart,” as she paused, she tapped her nose with her index finger, “- and, besides, he works for almost nothing. Frankly, it’s the budget money he’s saved that’s allowing me to hire you. Really, it’s not even like he’s done anything wrong, he’s just – he’s odd.”

* * *

The situation became increasingly complicated as Mulligan began poking around.

It required almost no effort to determine that Evans had a day job as a cosmetic surgeon, and an expensive one. His clients left enthusiastic comments on his website, and his work had been featured repeatedly in the local paper – usually relating to pro bono work he’d carried out on an underprivileged burn victim.

Smith also hit upon an article naming Jackson Evans, MD, in a “win a date with a local eligible bachelor” charity auction. The PI had wondered aloud what such an apparently driven, and well off, fellow was doing single at the age of forty-eight.

Mulligan’s attempt at calling the organization for a new client in-take exam was politely refused with an offer to add his contact info to the extensive waiting list. If there was a line up for the operating room, it seemed unlikely that the doctor was carrying on his weekend work for the extra pay, and, if money was out, the motivations shrank to sex, drugs, power, or revenge.

He preferred when it was money.

* * *

After two wasted weekends of passive observation, Smith decided it was time for a conversation. He tracked Evans down in a third grade classroom, where the man was sitting in silence, with glassy eyes, on a chair intended for an eight-year-old.

“Reminiscing about the old days?” asked Mulligan.

As he waited for a reply, he kept a lock on the man’s pupils, and wondered if the blank look might be an indication of an unsavory addiction.

Clearing his throat, the doctor stood and tucked the yellow plastic chair under the desk at which he’d been resting.

“I was just taking a moment – I’m about done my shift.” The janitor collected himself. “Are you one of the parents? I haven’t seen you around the school before. Do you have permission to be here? I’m sorry, but only authorized personnel are allowed on the premises during weekends.”

“Mrs. Philips is aware of my presence.” Internally, Mulligan chided himself for allowing the janitor to pull rank, then made a move to retake the conversational high-ground. “I’m actually here to ask you a few questions. Consider it an employee satisfaction survey, Jackson.”

“Fine,” replied Evans.

Every response was dispensed in the same flat tone, and Smith began to understand what the Principal had meant by odd – it wasn’t that he was eccentric, it was simply that the man was utterly humourless.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you working here?”

“Why does anyone work anywhere?”

“Well, Dr. Evans, mostly they do it for the money.”

The interviewee raised an eyebrow at the mention of his alternate occupation.

“Is there something wrong with the fact that I have another job?”

“No, but it does bring me back to what I was inquiring: why are you wiling away your Saturdays trawling the primary yard for rotting apple cores, and changing out fluorescent bulbs, instead of cutting open middle-aged housewives with poor self esteem?”

“For love.”

“Love?” Smith asked, mentally weighing the need to file a police report. “Love of the job?”

“No, the love of the boy who sits at this desk.”

Mulligan sighed.

“Uh, care to explain?”

“I’ve worked long hours my entire life. I thought I was doing what was best, really, but when Kayli asked for a divorce, I knew exactly what she’d say: that I was always busy, always preoccupied. I apologized, but she didn’t care by then, she wanted cash – and Jayce. The lawyer she hired was good enough to get her both.”

The PI interrupted the account with an exclamation which immediately felt inappropriate, given his surroundings.

“Sorry, continue,” he said.

“Custody’s pretty stringent. I get to see Jayce once a month, and alternating birthdays. Instead, I come here, and work myself raw so that I can have a few moments to stare at his blotchy paintings,” Evans motioned towards a wall of airplane pictures carried out in bright primary colours. “- or to linger at his desk and wonder if he ever sits there thinking about me.”

As Evans turned to hide the tears draining down his cheeks, Mulligan retreated from the room. His final report, combined with Principal Philips’ budgetary concerns, would ensure the custodian his position for as long as he wanted it.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

Flash Pulp 121 – Spook: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and twenty-one.

Flash Pulp

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

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp121.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the free audio-novella, Boiling Point.

Find out more at http://neilcolquhoun.com

 

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

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall tells of a haunting from his youth, as he experienced it.

 

Flash Pulp 121 – Spook: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Thomas Blackhall collapsed against an aspen at the edge of an open meadow, fatigue drawing him under, even as the noon-day sun blazed overhead. When he awoke, he found himself in the center of a half-circle comprised of a dozen children, all staring at him intently, by the light of the sagging moon.

They demanded to be entertained.

“A spook story!” the shortest shouted.

“No. Not a made up bit about ghosts,” broke in their leader, who’d obviously been nominated by his height, “a living one; a true one.”

With a shrug, Thomas rubbed at his eyes and straightened his posture.

“Listen, and I shall tell you a tale of both the living, and the dead.

“At the age of ten, my father began taking me to see his family in London, once yearly, for my birthday. Until then I’d never experienced the flurry of city streets and markets, and my eye was constantly wandering over those I thought of as greatly privileged to live amongst such wondrous sights. During my first journey, as we dismounted our carriage and walked the length of houses to my Aunt’s, we passed a pregnant beggar woman, her hands extended and her face pious. Without thought, my father produced an assortment of coins and placed them in her upturned palms. She appeared very pleased at his generosity.

“The strangeness began upon the next anniversary of my birthday, when, while retracing our route, the same beggar-ess stood at the corner. On this occasion as well, her womb bulged. Father repeated his act of kindness, seemingly oblivious to the duplication of the previous trip, but, as we moved out of the woman’s hearing, I joggled his elbow.

““She’s still pregnant, a year later!” I said, with all the naivete of a boy of eleven.

“My father, red creeping into his face at the prospect of explaining birthing intervals, changed the subject.”

For a moment, Thomas’ stomach interrupted his telling, responding loudly to its empty state. The children seemed to ripple and waiver before his eyes, and he ran his coat over his brow, wiping sweat from his fevered skin.

With an embarrassed grin, he continued.

“On the third year, Mother was too ill to have us depart, but, on the next, we once again made the expedition. As Pa conducted necessary business, my aunt turned me loose upon the market that held court at the northern edge of her block. With enough jingle in my pocket to keep me in jellied eels for the afternoon, I was left to roam with only the restriction that I should stay within a rigorous set of boundaries, the names of which flew from my mind as quickly as Aunt Charity could recite them.

“As I walked the streets of my approximated travel allowance, I came across a boy of my own age, his father churning away at a portable organ as the lad coaxed a small mutt through a repertoire of antics and athletics. I stood watching as long as my eel-coin held out, but, as the grinder began the third repetition of his barrel, his look was becoming one of expectancy, and my bankroll was exhausted. In truth I’d fallen in love with the white and black entertainer, and, as a boy of fourteen will, I was internally attempting to devise a method by which I might make the dog mine.

“Casting about for an excuse to linger, my mind came upon the oddity of the pregnant beggar, whom I proceeded to ask about.

““Well – there’s no shortage ‘round here of those who can’t keep their knees together, if that’s what you mean to imply, young master – but if its Pregnant Polly you’re looking for, she spends most of her time these days in The Miller’s tap room, just a ways down the lane.” He pointed in its direction.

“I hadn’t expected such a definitive response, and so, with a last longing look at the dancing canine, I felt compelled to follow the provided instructions.

“It was a short walk, and easy to spot Polly through the foggy glass – as there were no other pregnant women in the establishment with tankards of ale held in both hands.

“Funnily enough, it was the dog that held my thoughts in the days after. I didn’t think on the woman again until one night while casting lies into the fire with a gathering of my fellow countrymen. I was homesick, and they were weaving tales of the streets of their youths, stories I took in in a sentimental fashion, at least until the name of Pregnant Polly revived my long dormant memory.

“I can not remember the teller’s name, but I do recall the twisted smirk upon his face as he recounted the woman’s life.

“”She was with bairn at sixteen,” he said, “but it would never arrive, though she looked forever in her final month. At the age of eighteen, still unmarried, and perennially bulging, she was little wanted in her parent’s household, and she was set upon the streets. Unable to make a living, even as a bang-tail , she quickly turned to fleecing tourists in London markets. In truth, who would not find some coin for a beggared mother-to-be? Anyhow, her fame grew such that, when she finally drank herself into an early grave, they cut her open, and inside was a babe: one made of stone. The doctor said it had somehow mummified within her, a situation that was rare, but not unheard of, amongst the pages of his medical texts.”

“So it was that Pregnant Polly was forced to wander the streets, the living ghost of a mother that never was, with the corpse of her child haunting her every step.”

Blackhall fell silent then, awaiting a response from his audience. Without a word, each turned on their own time, and began to wander into the deep brush from whence he’d come. As the last reached the clearing’s edge, he seemed to fade into dissipating moonlight, even as dawn touched the horizon.

It was another hour before Thomas rose, and another day’s travel before he encountered civilization, where he collapsed into a month’s sick bed at his prolonged starvation. He would never be sure if the encounter had been in any way real, or nothing but the byproduct of his hasty consumption of tainted mushrooms during his desperate search for food.

 

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.