Part 1 of 3
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Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself on the wrong end of a chase.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP332 - Moderation, Part 1 - Temper: a Blackhall Tale
Some days grew me, my hours are slumberless Dear is the shadows I live with I'm underless Little wife flowers will never awaken you Not where the brach ultra-saul is taking you Angels have no fire of ever turning you Or they may angry a fire so they'll join you Ooooh, Sunday Welcome to Flashpulp, episode 332 This evening we present moderation, Part 1 Tempere, a black call tale This week's episodes are brought to you by Black Flag TV We love midnight movies, don't you? But can you handle midnight movies 24 hours a day? Your death will be indescribable Find out on Black Flag TV The first viral television on the way Black Flag TV is entirely dedicated to haunting horror, silence between the end and cold movements Broadcasting live, 24 hours a day, obscure independent movies and classic horror Make Black Flag TV your sanctuary for the horror genre They're coming to get you, Barbara Visit us now, blackflag.tv Flashpulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age Three to ten minutes of fiction, brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, Master Frontiersman and student of the occult Finds himself on the wrong end of a chase Moderation, Part 1, Tempere, a black call tale Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May Blackhall's mind scraped along a Spanish road Though the exhaustion it remembered in his legs was all too real How long had it been since he'd fought in the King's service? How long had he vowed to kill any farmer's son Or an inheritanceless third child that Napoleon might throw against him? Why did it matter? To his mind, the Spanish road was as endless as the sunset with which his memory had lit it He trudged on, for he knew one boot chasing the other with the only escape he had Yet he could not outpace his considerations Where had he been when his merry needed him? Had he been at her side, or distracted with other men's wars? What had he been chasing? The sun pushed roughly at the edges of his hat-brim, working hard to claw at the grit of his exhausted eyes Had he had so wide brim in Spain? Certainly not. It was admit this thought that his hand slipping on the prodding splinters of a fallen spruce brought him back to reality The damnable ivory squirrel was still there, pacing his slow ascent of the rocky Canadian hillside So too did the dogs remain below, baying as their noses gave up his every move Whatever lead he had made by oppressing on through the night had been defeated by the hounds keen and eager instincts The trouble had begun on the morning previous. Thomas had returned, exhausted, to the cache that contained the majority of his worldly goods Deep in the wilderness, he had originally chosen the location as a prime place to clean the game he had sought, and, to allow for freer hunting, he had strung his burden high in a maple It was only the drum, which he'd hung separately, due to its awkward size, that the intruders had managed to release before his arrival. With a muffled grunt of frustration, he'd dropped the unskinned buck that had been intended to serve as a gift of venison during his approaching appointment, then surveyed the situation. Beneath the unlucky teen who'd been selected to scale the height lingered a single man, though the call and cackle of at least five more filtered through the brush. Blackhall guessed they were in the process of attempting to locate he himself, for the slave dealer who stood below the perched link went, was all too familiar. The frontiersman had tattooed him with the skin of another, some months earlier. Convinced this was no coincidental encounter in the Wildwoods, Blackhall had released his saber, and crept as near as he dared, for his rifle's powder bag had run empty, and his resupply was hanging overhead. Fortunately, the pair's preoccupation with his belongings was ample distraction to allow a close approach. Both sets of eyes were locked on the working of his pocket-knife as the boy leaned over the pilford instrument to saw the rope that held the heavy pack. It would have been a simple matter for Thomas to wade out the drop, then run the catcher through, but thoughts of Spain, and his dead wife, had begun to haunt him of late. Instead, he'd watched the descent, then laid the man low with a blow from his sword's hilt. At the sight of the sudden assault, and the collapse of his unconscious companion, the climber had nearly lost his roost. At his young age, Blackhall was dismayed to see the youth tenacity in staying aloft while also retaining the drum. He winced as well, at the loss of the few feet of rope that had been all his already too heavy pack had allowed him. But there was no time to further lament his missing tools, mundane or mystical, as the cacophony of the blood-hounds was already approaching. Within the hour, the flapping jowled beasts had pushed him to the banks of a lean nameless river, and for the thousandth iteration he'd cursed his pursuer's theft. The artifact's arcane ship could have carried him to safety, but in moments. And yet the power inherent in their stolen good had not been enough to placate the thieves. Still, he was not without recourse, and he'd set the stone he wore as a pendant on a length of rawhide, a pongence tongue. The talisman had allowed him passage beneath the river's surface, giving him space, but a toothy stretch of rapids had forced him from his haven, and his pursuers had only to walk the flow's edge to sniff out the grassy bank he'd pulled himself onto. Furthermore, his moisture-heavy clothes had not assisted his subsequent pace, and even the mystic artifacts he carried had not been spared the damp. He made little distance before the first approach of the snowy-hued squirrel, that he'd repute its mined offer. The trinkets and tokens now dry weighed upon him as he pressed against the downward pull of the hill-slope, yet he knew none at hand would provide him immediate escape. He could give them the drum. It would be a loss, but it was not the key to the return of his wife. That lay, he felt, amongst the relics of undeciphered power. Their purpose escaped him, but these he would not relinquish. The dogs broke through a line of foliage below, and a shout of recognition went out from the hunting-party. Blackhall could run no further. Again the silver squirrel circled, its chittering and limb-leaping now frantic. There was no denying death of victory, not in this prime-evil setting, and not in his fatigued state. And had he not done as much as any man might to save the stalker's lives? It would be but one more question for his catalogue. Thomas nodded, finally, and the rodent gave a satisfied hiss before disappearing into the boughs of the nearest spruce. Flashpulp is presented by Flashpulp.com and is released under the Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 3.0 unported license. Interest in audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com, but be aware that they may appear in a future flashcast. We'd also like to thank the Free Sound Project, found at freesound.org. For a full listing of effects used during the show, as well as credits for the users who provided them, check this episode's notes at flashpulp.com. And thanks to you for listening. If you enjoyed the show, please tell your friends. [Music] [MUSIC PLAYING] (upbeat music)