Part 1 of 3
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself listening to a bawdy tale of questionable veracity.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP242 - That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3
[music] Welcome to Flashpaul, episode 242. This evening, we present Batwick Remains, a black all-tail, Part 1 of 3. [music] This week's episodes are brought to you by Gatecast. [music] Hi, I'm Alan. And I'm Mike. Do you like Stargate SG-1? Did you think it was all over? We didn't, and so the Gatecast was born. We are two guys with far too much time on our hands exploring the stories of Stargate Command, episode by episode. [music] With commentary about our favorite SG team's adventures. You mean the girly kick-ass team from Atlantis? No. We're talking about Jack O'Neill, Sam Carter, Daniel Jackson, and T.E.U.K. and make up SG-1, along with Dr. Frazier, Walter and General Hammond, who lead the human race towards new worlds. Where people have certainly been before and some a long, long time ago. Each week, a new episode will be discussed along with news and listener comments. So search for Gatecast on iTunes or use your chosen podcatcher. Or visit us at gatecast.facecast.com or our Facebook page. And join in the fun. We guarantee our comments will be read out. Gatecast, by fans, for fans. 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, Master Frontiersman, and his student at the Occult, finds himself listening to a body tale of questionable veracity. That which remains. A Blackhall Tale. Part One of Three. Written by J.R.D. Skinner. Art and narration by Opopidex. An audio produced by Jessica May. Thomas Blackhall had been working hard to avoid the puffy face private, dogging his steps around the icicle-laden settlement of Perth. The Frontiersman's first tactic had been to simply leave with no indication as to his destination. In two days hunting along a river sheltered by drooping pines, it provided him with a formidable store of venison. But it was not enough to put off the messenger. Upon returning to his rented room, he discovered the youth still lolly-gagging about the Buckingham-Pony's main room, obviously in anticipation of his reappearance. There had been a time, not distant, when Thomas would have gladly answered the summons. But his former comrade in arms, Captain Fitzhugh, had begged a favour too far, while offering little recompense. In truth, the slanted houses and chattering townsfolk pressed at Blackhall. He ached for the solitude of the trees, and a path to his merry. His foul mood drove him to seek strange pleasures, and for a pair of afternoons, he'd busied himself with shadowing the land assigned to locate him. Winterweather made trailing the watchman a chilly preoccupation, but Thomas was no stranger to cold, and found company, yet many odd hours, in the bent form of Wesley Shea. Shea was an ambling man, who was happy enough to tell his story, and discuss his unconcealed infirmity, as his injuries had left him with conversation as his only trade. Before his tribulations, he had managed to pay down his land, so that he owned his parcel and furnishings outright. But, some three years previous, he'd become lost, west of King's Creek, for a bitter week in January. Fresh signs of deer had enticed him into unfamiliar territory, but as darkness fell, a flurry had blown in, and he'd found himself disoriented. As he'd wandered, he'd survived on melted snow, and chewed pine needles. It was only luck that had brought him out of the forest again, but he had not made the journey unscathed. The cold had blackened his fingers, and there was no option but to remove nine of the ten. He'd retained the right thumb. When receiving a shocked eye regarding his gnarled stubs, it was his joke to suggest that, if the Gawker found the view unpleasant, they would do best not to look at his toes. He now filled his mornings with meandering about the town, and trading greetings with the washmen. By noon he would have, more often than not, located an invitation to supper, and hopefully even claimed a seat at a visiting farmer's lunch table. The variety in his dining companions made Shea a man knowledgeable in local scandal, as well as the tall tales of the moment. While breaking bread with a fellow known as "Punchy Hank", the roving man had heard the news of Ethan Wright, a mutual acquaintance who lived to the north. "Wow!" Shea was telling black all, as the pair stood beneath the slow-laden shop-onning across from the bucking pony. "Punchy implies it's about done for Ethan." Thomas was tiring of the chase, with each side of the resting kernel that the inn's swinging door provided. As he continued to listen, he stomped his feet to dislodge the clinging flakes, and silently envied his foes' position by the black-iron stove. Now I preface my account by saying that, while you've mentioned interest in any news of strange events, I cannot speak to the truth of the report I provide. It is certainly not the most outrageous story I fail to believe. "Given the length of the introduction," replied black all, "I suppose I should prepare myself for an epic tale of minutors and mewing maidens." Producing a tin from within the interior of his great coat, Thomas retrieved a fine paper from his collection of goods and placed a pinch of pungent, virginian tobacco upon its creased service. "It won't be long," said the fingerless conversationalist. "It is only the braggardly nature of the thing which gives me hesitation." As punchy tells it, Ethan took to the woods just before the snow arrived. He's never been one to hold on to coin, and his family depends heavily on the hundred acres of swamp which blanks their homestead. The land is the kings, but he is yet to find a fool to stick with the purchase, so right is left to make use of the game. It's a hard walk, even when it's frozen, and Hank says he'd set up something of a shanty amongst the trees. I imagine it was nothing fancy, but those who exist in poverty often learn many talents, and it must be sturdy enough to keep passing bears from the cache of foodstuffs he apparently kept within. You see, the eldest is nine, and he stands in a line with six others. The strain of their birth put Mrs. Wright in ill health, which leaves Ethan with little assistance, and no leeway regarding the locating of sustenance. Now, the leaves were down in crisp, forcing a patient hunt. At the end of his first day, he was without meat, so instead of making his way through the treacherous dark, he opted instead to rest within his meager hut. It was unseasonably warm, and he thought he might surprise his dinner at breakfast. After saying goodnight to a bottle of rough scotch, another supply he made sure to keep on hand at his retreat, he slept soundly till dawn when he was awoken by giggling. Ethan vows he pinned the door tightly, but there was a woman in the room with him then, leaning upon the nearby wall. She'd been watching him slumber beneath the skins he used as bedding. The punchy's description was largely gestural, my understanding is that she was rounded, and all the ways a man might ask for. It did mention, however, that the oddity that her flesh appeared to be the color of the slate. It's not for me to say what matter took place next, but you might well guess what happens between a box from Harlot and a half drunk woodsman. I cannot speak to his heroic ascertainations that the circumstances lasted at a fever pitch for a week. Despite the arguably pleasant nature of the visitation, however, a black mood glings to him, and as I mentioned, Hank seems to think it probable that one's hearty Ethan will soon come to a pitiful end. He guesses love sickness, and if the nymph doesn't come to reclaim him, the memories will likely put a treacherous blade in his fist, or a condemning load in his pistol. At the tail's summation, Blackhall disposed of the last of his smoldering vise in a nearby tuft of snow, and contemplated the recital. The street was empty and frigid. Worse, as his considerations deepened, the heat of the bucking pony and the smell of Mary seemed all the more distant. Finally, with his breath hanging and wisps about his face, he cracked the silence. "You know the way to the rights?" "As a wolf knows where the sheep gathered to drink, I," replied Cher, "we spent even in enough Dyson. It's arguable that I owe the western corner of my plot to his gambling habits." "What matters do you have, Preston?" asked Thomas. "It seems to me a slave trip to the north country might do you good. I'll secure you food and hospitality along the route, and there'll be plenty of opportunity to haggle a fair wage for the guide work." "I warn you, though. I suspect we have yet to realize the depths of this shadow." 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 skier@skinner.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. ♪ Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows I live with are numbler ♪ (upbeat music) (upbeat music)