Part 1 of 1
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight we present some sleight of hand meant as nothing more than a light piece of entertainment - a release after a long winter, and a long week.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP323 - Misdirection
Some days glue 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 brack culture's all I'm taking you. Angels have no fire, ever returning you. Or they'll be angry if I so don't join in you. Ooh, Sunday. Welcome to Flashpulp, episode 323. This evening we present, misdirection, part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by The Way of the Buffalo. Hi, this is Hugh, the host and editor of The Way of the Buffalo podcast. Twice a month we present the best short fiction of all genres, thought-provoking interviews, and other diverse entertainments. You can find us online at wayofthebuffalopodcast.blogspot.com, or search for us on iTunes. Some people say that short fiction is going the way of the buffalo. Come join us, won't you? [Music] 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 we present some sleight of hand meant as nothing more than a light piece of entertainment, a release after a long winter, in a long week. Misdirection Written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Epoponax, an audio-produced by Jessica May. Derek, 11, heard the always startling bleed of the store's door buzzer, but as he crouched behind the Pringles display at the end of the chip aisle, and tried to disappear within his bulky winter jacket, he wished the thing had been used properly over the last ten minutes. His mother was the problem, of course. She'd been busy with her routine of making eyes at the clerk who operated the remote locking system, and the double-chinned man had been too absorbed in her giggling and the flirty fingers running through her bleached hair to give the would-be customer a pounding the button from outside, much of a looking over. Worse, the counter-jockey had shown some doubt as to the intruder having a gun when he'd first been threatened, so as proof the thief had pulled out a compact black pistol and pointed it at Derek's mom. "Now do you want to get to business, or should I?" asked the white t-shirt and red-ball cap wearing gunman. His brim was drawn low over his brow, but instead of hiding his face, it simply forced him to tip back his head to see where he was aiming his weapon. The boy did his best to remember details, but the panic brought on by the thought of losing the last of his family, his father and sister had perished in a car accident some three years earlier, fogged both his brain and vision. Then row over, hunkered beside a selection of band-aids, cleaning supplies and stationary, a thin-faced man in a black sweater whispered, "Want to see a magic trick?" "Shut up, or the peanut gallery will become the shooting gallery," said the bandit. Despite the threat, and the follow-up tears from the smock-wearing employee, the minor interruption was enough to draw the weapon's muzzle towards the floor. The fearful son's attention, however, was still on the apparent magician who was now holding up eight fingers, three on one hand and five on the other. At the front of the store, the cashier's blurred vision was causing issues in moving five-dollar bills from the register to the plastic bag he'd been informed to put it in, and the ground had caught as much as the sack-cat. This was not an acceptable loss to the goon, and he demonstrated as such by slamming the pistol, through the row of chop-keys and lighters that adorned the counter. "Get it all, and hurry the fuck up!" Derek's mother, noting the distraction, took a step back, hoping to put some distance, and possibly the island containing stir-sticks and lids for the store's watery self-serve coffee between herself and the danger. Instead, it attracted trouble. "Where do you think you're going?" asked the hood from behind the depths of his redirected gun barrel. She stumbled, then stopped, as the stale cheetah and scratch-card air caught in her tightening throat. "Mom!" shouted Derek. The death-dealer swung to the child, then returned to the still-not-breathing woman. "Sit the fuck down!" the man replied. "Christ, does this look like a public school to you?" "What kind of mother takes her kid to the 7-11 after midnight anyhow?" "You, Minnesota Fats, what the hell is taking you so long to fill that bag?" As a parent encouragement, the would-be shooter stepped closer to the bottle blonde, his free hand reaching for purchase on her t-shirt. Unsure of what to do, Derek turned the nearby stranger for help, but the man only hoisted a single hand with five fingers. Then four. The unbuzzed door let out a single-denying clunk. What the child didn't know was that the man in the hoodie wasn't any sort of illusionist. He was simply very good at visualization. He could see the distance to his blue-ter cell parked outside. He could picture the thick wallet sitting in the sticky bottom passenger-side cup holder, and he could count the strides it would take to reach the car. Then for a big man. At three fingers, the boy no longer knew where to look. At two, the tough had begun to spin on his heels. At one, the entryway exploded inward, only to be replaced with the shadow of a crashing bus in the shape of a man. Bailey went a peg, nearly seven feet tall, and well over two hundred pounds, with his forgotten wallet still in hand, was remembering the day he had leapt through the plate glass of a Manitoba laundromat after mistakenly thinking a patron was yelling at Mother Winnipeg. Once he had explained, adrenaline had caused all three to laugh and laugh at the mistake, even as his face had bled onto the aluminum floor. Billy was not laughing now. However, it was twenty feet from the door to the gunman, and the Canadian, for all his crazed bravery, was a dead man. The robber tacked his weapon away from the terrified mother, leveled it at the approaching blur and steeled himself to pull the trigger. That's when he felt the double bee staying at the base of his neck. The supposed illusionist had managed some sleight of hand after all. During the distraction, he'd moved ten feet closer to the counter, and he now held a taser in his grasp. There was a soft crackle from the pair of wires hovering over the Doritos, and a single bullet misfired into yellowing ceiling panels. Then Billy closed the distance. As the brutality distracted the rest, Derek emptied his oversized pockets of the cold medicine and household cleaners he'd been told to take. His mother would be mad, he knew, but the uniforms and sirens would soon be at the scene. And besides, as he caught glimpses of the now moaning gunman, the boy could easily say that it wasn't worth it. Flashpulp is presented by Flashpulp.com and is released under the Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 3.0 unported license. Text and 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 FreeSound 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. (upbeat music) [MUSIC PLAYING]