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Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, is confronted by a one-handed man with a tale of loss.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP318 - Pinch: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 1 of 1
Some days grew me, my hours are slumberless. Dear is the shadows I live with by nonetheless. Little white flowers will never awaken you. Not where the bright culture's sorrow has taken you. Angels have no fire ever tuning you. Or they'll be angry if I so don't join you. Welcome to Flashpulp, episode 318. This evening we present Pinch, the Black-Haul Chronicle, part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by Shadow Publications.com. Before the written word is children preyed upon ancient man. It's Nephilim and worshippers have affected Sumer, the Indus Valley, the founding of Judaism, and even the ancient Egyptian monarchy. The legend of its children, its existence, and the warriors who fight its presence have been passed down from generation to generation. Garagas children, ancients, the first six stories of Paul Eilard Cooley's Persec Award-nominated series. On April 1st, 2013, own a piece of history by ordering your own signed, numbered limited edition hardcover, featuring bonus materials never before released. Please visit Shadow Publications.com for more information. We don't believe in happy endings. 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, is confronted by a one-handed man with a tale of loss. Pinch, a Blackhall Chronicle, part one of one. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration by Bobanax, an audio produced by Jessica May. Thomas had risen before dawn, eager to see an old friend and return to his hunt, to discover that a visitor awaited him in the great room of the inn at which he'd taken up temporary lodging. As a stranger flagged Blackhall over, the woman who ran the establishment, a mother of four who'd been left too soon by a soldiering husband, stood sleepy-eyed at the fireplace, trying to will the embers into a greater flame. Thomas briefly considered ignoring the newcomer summons, and to instead wander hastily out of the sleepy scene, but the handless stump with which the man signalled was difficult to overlook. Working off the straps he'd just finish arranging, and then setting down his baggage and rifle, Blackhall sat. Sensing the frontiersman aggravation of the delay, the round face collar raised his early cup of hops and said, "Oh, I assure you, this digression is worthy of your time, Mr. Blackhall." Names marry Weather Tristram, my cousin in Perth wrote to tell me of you once he'd caught wind of my situation. You see, on Sunday I'd arisen to breakfast only to realize my meager cupboard was empty. Worse still I'd spent the last of my coin on quenching Friday night's thirst, and though I labored greatly at the mill in New Branson, there was no hope of fresh pay to the Wednesday following. Anyhow, hunger and a long sleep drove me from bed that mourned, but I still had plenty of shot for my musket. It was my search for venison, north of the cluster of shanties that make up the so-called town, that led me to a stretch of spruce that I did not recognize from previous expeditions. I could hear a stream on the far side of the stand, and I was considering spending a period amongst the foliage to see what passed. When I noticed a set of white stones arranged in a strange pattern upon the ground nearby, a closer examination, of course, presented the fact that they were not rocks at all, but the skeletal remains of a foot. There was no sign of the rest of the body, but I did spot a trinket resting in close proximity to the detached ankle. I assumed it to be silver, though I now highly doubt it. It surfaces engraved with curious care, an arrangement of loops and strokes that seems to deepen as you look them over. And it's sizing. You shall see. Now let me make it plain. Other than the scroll work, the dimensions were not outside of the ordinary for a thick ring. That is why I kept it, for my distant girl. Well, I mean, I may have attempted to sell it first, but even then the proceeds were to be obtained with my intended in mind. A few I inquired with, however, had little interest, and I knew that there were others nearby who would be quick to call for the bobble against debt-sewed. Unfortunate pinches about the dice-table have left me with more creditors than friends, as such I dispatched it to my wife. Or, truly, my would-be wife. Even previous to our patrol I worked the camps in hopes of collecting adequate funds to purchase a plot large enough for a cow and a field of porn. And so my intentions continued, though my empty-pocketed status kept his part. Hey, how I parceled up and sent it, by trusted courier, homeward. Thomas cleared his throat while Maryweather took a moment to wet his own. "For what period have you been in search of your fortune?" asked Blackhall. "Well, at this, and at that, for the last dozen months?" "And how much have you garnered for your farm?" "Oh, you must understand. I've yet to find the gambit that will truly make my name. Currently, sir, my possessions extend only to the small traveling case of clothes that resides in my room, and willingness to put my back into future labours." Seems a shame to expend such effort without a result to show for it. Perhaps the dice are not your friend. "Oh, I've had some bad luck. It's true. No, it hardly matters now. She called the wedding off." A month after my missive, I received a note, with my love token returned. I thought at first that the issue was impatience, or another fellow. For the attached explanation made little sense to me at the time. It spoke of a curse, both on the ring and on our love. Half was true, at least. My sole consolation was that the news came on a Friday. As it happened, I'd changed occupation from Miller to Lumberman, and as my new position came with a week ending payday, I was flush enough to hold the head of my sorrows below a steady flow of air. It was a night of singing and weeping. It was a sort of occasion on which friendships are made and broken. Sweeping oaths are professed, then forgotten, and many monks are broken by accident or design. The ring remained in my pocket throughout those hours of lament, but on my stumbling root back to my bunk, my fingers came upon the accursed thing. My memory has pieced me at best, but I recall noting with some amusement that the metal seemed to stretch about my stocky fingers. It was with some amazement, then, that I found myself able to expand it so wide that it might act as a bangle around my wrist. But my experiments were cut short by the attentions necessary to capture a few hours' sleep in a company bed after having ditched a scheduled day's labor. Despite my circumstances, the formin had no pity for me. Admittedly, it may not have been my first such sabbatical, although it was certainly my most justified. Whatever the case, my cold arise was an unpleasant one. It did not help, I suppose, that I appeared more attentive to the stinging in my arm than the bull-melt man's words. Still, there was no time to investigate the source of my affliction before I was tossed upon a wagon bound for town. I am not unfamiliar slumbering through an unexplained ache, and the rocking of the wheels quickly pulled me back under. Besides, although persistent, it has not yet grown so painful as to be all encompassing. Not that is, until I awoke in a heap on the ground, with cart trailing away in the distance. Stevenson, the driver, had gathered a dislike for me after a misunderstanding on an earlier occasion, regarding the number of aces and a certain deck of cards we'd been there. Inspecting. You were howling in your sleep, it was scare in the horses, he shouted back, but he was gone before I could collect myself enough to make a reply. At least he had the decency to drop me at a signpost that indicated my position in relation to town. I wasn't within sight of the local pub, but I was in the proper county. Realizing my recent gin-soaking would hardly win me friends amongst the decent folk with functioning noses. Beelings if perhaps I had injured my arm in my tumble, I crept into a nearby barn with the intention of continuing to nap away the last of my wobbling remorse. Now, understand, come into town looking rough and smelling a cow down. They'll assume you've been hard at work, but come in looking rough and the smelling of the lower shelves. They'll assume you're aroused about who's never held a shovel in his life. Hey, how, I could not rest. In attempting to reach the upper loft, I came to realize that my right hand was not just numb from the fall of the spirits as I had assumed. I had no control of my fingers and no sense that there was anything attached to be on my elbow. Working back my jacket and shirt sleeve, I found the ring just as thick, but now approximately the size of a malnourished crab apple. I noted this because, as you can see, I carry the weight of my drinking habits with me. And my arm is considerably meatier than an apple's with. You see, the damn thing had contracted while I was sleeping. It's ever-tightening circumference that cinched my flesh like a corset. Then worse, I'd accidentally and need the size myself against the procedure. There was no blood, but the agony increased with my sobriety. In short order, I was weeping in the corner of a swept big pen, with only the sound of snapping bone and grinding metal to keep me company. I parted the other tightening band, but I could not even rise to take up the wood parlax at the edge of my vision. And a good thing, too, as in my state, I would have just as likely displaced the entirety of my arm. I was come upon the following day by a maid come to milk their best, and become senseless in my uncomfortable position, and the family's sheepdog had taken to gnawing on my now-detached extremity. The fact that was discovered as the gal's father carried me house with. It was the same fellow who located the blasted ring, again the size at which I had originally discovered it, and slipped it in my pocket for safekeeping. Since then I've dared to touch it, only to bind it more securely. Having concluded his tale, Tristram's remaining fingers went to his jacket front to retrieve a smile bundle wrapped in a well-used handkerchief. Blackhall raised a brow at the parcel, but said nothing. Tristram did not let the silence hang long. "I was hoping," he said, "that you could perhaps return my hand. For surely, if there's magic enough in this world to remove it, is also ample to form another." Thomas exhaled, considering his words. Finally he replied, "Many things are possible, but what you ask is not one of them." Without pause, as if he had already guessed at the answer, Maryweather pressed on. "And mayhaps it be with some coin to you." Pulling apart the hasty knot, Blackhall exposed the charm and questioned this still morning air. "I recognize this piece," he said. It was constructed for, uh, softer meats, not to pass through bone. At some point in the distant past, it no doubt amassed a hefty purse for a medicine man, wondering about sod-hot farms. "But though it costs you much to carry, I'm afraid it will earn you little. I, for one, will give you nothing worth more than a freshly filled stein, and the safety of not having to deal with it further." Tristram found, saying, "I do not understand." In the days before this enlightened age. Well, let us simply say that not all bulls are meant to breed. There was a silence between the men, then a nod from the one-handed visitor. At the silent Thomas collected the ring, laid pavement across the bar, and made note to the proprietors that there is enough extra to make it worth tapping a keg for his peer. Even as black all moved towards the exit, the next of the day's patrons stumbled across the threshold. "To my future fortune, then," smiled Maryweather, as he waved down the newcomer, and reached for an empty cup in which to set his dice. 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. [Music]