Part 1 of 1
Read the full text, and show-notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his roommate, Bunny, receive an unexpected letter regarding an avid reader.
The Skinner Co. Network
182 - Coffin: The Book Worm, Part 1 of 1
[music] Welcome to Flashpul, Episode 182. Tonight, we present "Coffin", the Bookworm, Part 1 of 1. [music] This week's episodes are brought to you by Garaga's Children. [music] From prehistoric time to the present, one bloodline has endured. Garaga's children range from the Indus Valley to Mesopotamia to Jerusalem and beyond, influencing ancient civilizations, mighty crusades, and everyday lives. The stories of the god Garaga is half-human progeny, and their supplicants have been passed down through the generations. Leaving a frightful, lustful, body-strewn trail through the ages, Garaga's children and worshipers have survived to spread their religion around the world. These are their histories. [music] Now available from shadowpublications.com and iTunes. [music] We don't believe in happy endings. [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 Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his roommate, Bunny, receive an unexpected letter regarding an avid reader. Coffin, the Bookworm, Part 1 of 1, written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, and audio produced by Jessica May. [music] Coffin was staring out onto the apartment's balcony from behind the sliding door's glass. In the kitchen, Bunny was operating a blender and shouting explanations between bouts of ice-breaking. Yeah, I know they're kind of lady-like, but sometimes I get feeling a little festive. Besides, how else am I going to get my vitamin C? It had been her idea to stay in for the evening. Flintstones' vitamins, he responded, only to have his words blotted out by renewed thrashing. As the racket paused, he'd uncovered Bunny's voice mid-tune. And yet, caught in the rain. Then there was a knock at the door. Will was mildly surprised to discover the mute standing in his hall. With an extended arm, he offered entrance to the newcomer. But the man shook his head in a friendly refusal, and instead removed an envelope from his pocket and set it in Coffin's palm. Noting, the messenger then departed. As the codger had lost his tongue early in life, the shaman was used to this being the extent of their conversation. But he couldn't help but feel that the old bull had seemed shaken. There were two slips of paper within the delivery. A single handwritten page had a photocopy of scraps torn from the margins of what appeared to be fantasy novels. Beside a paragraph regarding the claiming of something called "The Sword of Donswood" was a woman's name, Shirley Hartley, and a string of numbers. Along a bit of text describing an elven forest was another pairing, Cynthia Mayfield, and a different set of digits, but also an apology. It read simply, "I'm so sorry." Scanning the accompanying notes, Coffin entered the kitchen. "Forget the cocktails. We're going out," he said, but Bunny was already packing down and brimming thermos. As they awaited their bus, Will muttered the letter into his roommate's ear. It read, "William, I have a matter which I believe requires your attention. The kid I once knew was raiding his locally used bookstore for fiction, and came across the scroll beside the bit about the sword. He's a bit of a morbid little bugger, and he recognized the name from the news. He spent an afternoon tossing the shop, and he came up with the other. I have no idea if there are more. It may have been bought or missed." Rather than find himself involved, he turned his discoveries over to me. Those second-hand places have no real transaction records, but I got lucky. In the top right corner of the first page of both novels, the scribbler in question had signed his name, Neil Murray. The missing both disappeared downtown, and, as you probably suspect, the numbers are GPS coordinates. As I write this, there are already uniformed men with tents and tiny brushes setting up in the woods at the edge of town. I did some poking around just after I called in the blues. Neil is the security guard, and very fastigious. I talk to his boss briefly, and the harshest language he's ever heard from his employee is the occasional "gosh." All he does is sit around a waste treatment plant, watching cameras, and periodically walking the fence. He reads constantly, "I've been inside his place, and there are books stacked up on every available surface." None of them had any further scrolls, though. I even got my hands on a little of the patrol footage from the plant, just so I'd know Murray to see him. I had to go back and ask for some older stuff to be sure, but you can definitely make it out on the tape. He was changing, becoming sort of bulbous. His skin was stretching and rounding. By his laugh-shift, he was like a walking sausage with arms, right down to the translucent skin. What I'm banking on them not finding till tomorrow is his parents' house. When Mr. and Mrs. Murray died in a car accident, he closed it up as a sort of shrine. I only know about it because of my direct investigation methodology, and hopefully it'll take a bit for the boys to properly make their way through the paperwork. I realize it's a long run down the bus line, but you need to look into 279 views garage. Smith. It was deeper than Will was used to seeing the former lawman incriminate himself on paper, unless he was at hand to see the sheep burned. And by the time they were done reviewing the dispatch, Coughlin was cursing every impeding stop before his own. After an hour of swaying with regular halts, and nearing the end of the public transport's route, the pair found themselves deposited in a sparsely lit but well-tried neighborhood. It was a ten-minute walk to the driveway they sought. The pavement was cracked, but the yard was trimmed, and the light blue house looked as if it might still have been lived in. There was an external side door to the garage, and Will was pleased to find it unlocked. A moment's careful fumbling brought his fingers against a plastic face plate, and he flipped on the overhead fluorescent lights. Bunny was close behind as he stepped into the open space. In the corner furthest from the entrance, above the wooden rafters, was a massive white cocoon. Although many tendrils detached from the main body to keep the thing in place amongst the roof's beams, the bulk of the nylon-looking weave was in a ten-foot cylinder, pressed across the plywood walls of the web's center. "Holy sh*t, it's Mothra!" said Bunny. " Sort of," replied Coughlin. He's undergoing a metamorphosis. He is becoming a mothman. Like, with Richard Gere? No. They both took a tentative step towards the silken structure, and Will found himself surveying the collected yard tools that line the nearest wall. He cleared his throat. It takes a long time for this sort of thing to happen. Months of collecting the proper nutrients, mostly pilfered from cracked brain cases. I've known some imps who specialize in this sort of bargain, offering to turn them into a unique butterfly, and all that. He needs to slip off the map of reality pretty far to start seeing those hooligans, though. I'm surprised he wasn't caught talking to himself. "If anyone had given a sh*t, they'd have noticed this f*cker turned into a goddamn manor pillar," replied Bunny. I've seen these guys lurking in the corners of laundry mats and cheap coffee shops. Poor bats are usually too awkward to even hold their end of the conversation. If you do them in the favor of making small talk. I was figured it was probably their upbringing. Not a bad guess. Might also explain why he only caved after his mom paw died. At least they raised him well enough that he had some guilt about what he was doing. He's got another week in that thing, but he likely thought his confessions would go unnoticed until well after he was beating his wing against the night sky. "So," said Bunny, after a long sip from the lip of her silver canister. "What do we do?" "Call in a hundred foot tall bat?" "Nah," said Coffin, digging out a jerry can. "Give him what most moths are looking for." I saw a gas station back on the main drag. Let's hustle before Smith's friends arrive. ♪♪ 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@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 number left ♪ ♪ Give it the shadows I live with our number left ♪ ♪♪