Guestisode 8 - Loss
Tonight, we bring you a guest-isode by Mobster, and man of valour, John Donahue. Thank you, sir.
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FPGE8 - Loss, by John Donahue
(upbeat music) - Welcome to Flashpulp, guest episode eight. This evening we present "Lost" by John Donahue. This episode is brought to you by the mom. Time travelers, lifesavers, poets and comedians. We salute you all. Find them at O-N dot F-B dot me slash flash mobsters. Flashpulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. Three to 10 minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings. Tonight, we bring you a guest episode by mobster and man of valor, John Donahue. Thank you, sir. "Lost", a tale of hunger and duty, written by John Donahue. Art and narration by a Poponax. The audio produced by Jessica May. ♪ Live a wild, flowers will never awaken you ♪ ♪ Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you ♪ ♪ Live a wild, Merry Christmas ♪ It was getting late, but that did nothing to quell the heat of the day. He moved through the forest with a practice ease for he had walked this path many times. He had a few hours before the sun was down all the way. He stopped and wiped his brow with the half cape that hung off his left shoulder. It was a deep blue color, or had been. It had faded to a grayish color. He wore a breastplate that was once fine and filigreeed, but now looked like it had been repaired many times. On his hands, heavy leather gloves, and on his forearms, revamp races that ended in points past his elbows. Heavy dark pants and sturdy steel-toed boots finished out his outfit. He recalled how the teller had given him an overly long once-over as he paid for the gas for his truck. "Hey, the run fair is in for another two months, buddy." The kid, all of 17 with gaged ears, said as he handed him back his change. "Hey, how do you keep an idiot in suspense?" He said as he pocketed the money and walked out of the station, not looking back to see if the teenager got the insult. He checked the fit of his armor and made sure his sword was loose in its sheath. It was a saber, or, as his grandfather would call it, a zabla. Forged in the 15th century by a master Smith, the gentle curve of the blade to the hilt and pommel seemed almost organic as if it had been made for him alone and not handed down through over 20 generations of his family. There was power in his sword, he knew. He moved on a few more meters to her clearing. A shade gave way to sunlight, the breeze seemed to pick up and he heard her music. There in the center of the circle of trees, she sat calmly plucking the strings of her chamison. A lovely tune filled the air. Her long black hair cascaded down past her shoulders. If she had stood, he knew it would trail past her waist. Her face, a mask of calm concentration as she played. Her dress, he knew, was made of a fine silk and some fashion designer to kill for. He stood for a moment, transfixed, gazing at this beautiful scene, not wanting to disturb it. He should leave, a part of his mind screamed at him. Just turn around and then you won't have to, you have to do your duty, the rational side of his mind said, or she'll do it again. The music stopped. "My Lazarus," she said calmly, a smile lighting up her beautiful face. "I am glad to see you." He stepped into the light and moved towards her. You're wearing blue now, Agne. He stopped a few feet from her. It is your favorite color, I thought you would like it. Her eyes drifted across his chest and down to the sword at his waist. With a calm resignation, she said, "You are wearing your armor." She plucked at the strings with the bod she in her left hand as she tuned the instrument. He looked away from her. The police found the bodies of those two hikers. I was asked to hold back the night. She interrupted, then with a sigh, started playing a low tune. I can't fight my nature, Lazarus. I can't swear off my duty, he said, looking at the ground. The ties that bind then. I don't want, no, the threads are woven. It is too late for the strands to rebel now. She looked down as she played. I don't serve him. I know that. She continued to play as they fell silent. The moment stretched out as her music, low and sad, filled the air. As she reached the crescendo of her song, she suddenly threw her bocce at him. He knocked it away with his left arm as splinters of the ivory tool cut into his face. She flung herself at him. Arms raised, screaming as her fangs grew long and black talons broke from her fingers. He stepped in and punched her full force in the face, knocking her onto the ground. He drew his sword in one smooth practice motion. He quickly levied a salute, as he said. Gloria had ace her. He made to strike at her then, but her hair came to life. Shooting upward, it wrapped itself around his forearms and neck. He pulled against her, but was stuck fast as she forced his arms apart. She looked up as she calmly wiped the blue blood from her mouth and smiled. She stood and moved closer as the threads of her hair began to cut into his neck. You know, when we first met, the only thought on my mind was how you would taste defender. You're forgetting something, he said, half choking from the pressure. She moved into the circle of his arms and ran her claws along the line of his jaw. She was close enough that he could see the venom dripping from her fangs. What is that? She purred with a cold seduction in her voice. My sword is curved, and with that, he plunged the tip of his blade into her side. She screamed, her hair releasing. Feeling her hold on him loosened, he reversed his grip and drove the blade further into her. She fell back as he let go of his weapon. Catching her, he laid her down as the beautiful monster in his arms gassed for breath. You have an enchanted sword. Akane, I, she reached up and placed her fingers to his lips, silencing him. Her hand moved to his throat, and she then brought the blood to her mouth. You taste so good, she gasped. Please, my Lazarus, there is one like you in the north. I don't care about the inheritor of black hole right now. He said as tears came to his eyes. He rambles in his deeps. Her eyes darted around, looking at everything and nothing. It's gotten so cold, just hold me for a while. I'm here. (speaking in foreign language) He watched as the light drained from her eyes. I love you, too. He held her close as the fire his sword placed in her belly, burned her flesh away. Leaving him alone in the glade of fading dusk, with only the corpse of a spider, no bigger than the palm of his hand. (upbeat music) Flashpulp is presented by flashpulp.com, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skitter@skitter.fm, or the voicemail line at 206-338-2792. 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, please check this episode's notes at flashpulp.com. And thanks to you for listening. If you enjoyed the show, please tell your friends. (tense music) ♪ Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled ♪ [MUSIC PLAYING]