Part 1 of 1
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Tonight we tell a chiller tale, regarding Clifton Wade - a man who finds himself in a tenuous situation.
The Skinner Co. Network
135 - Influence, Part 1 of 1
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp episode 135. Tonight, we present Influence, Part 1 of 1. This week's episodes are brought to you by Frank. [music] [music] [music] Frank is a bounty hunter, who's probably bitten off a lot more than he can tune his latest assignment. He's up against a pair of hitmen. One is alive but dead and the other is dead, but it should be alive. Throw in an escort girl and the big man, the devil, and you've got an interesting story. [music] Frank, I'm calling for you. [music] Boiling point, Volume 1 in the Tales of Frank is a free, serialized podcast novella, available at Milkohoon.com. [music] [music] [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 tell a chiller tale regarding Clifton Wade, a man who finds himself in a tenuous situation. Influence, Part 1 of 1. Written by JRD Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. [music] Clifton Wade leaned against the exit, his eyes locked on the ground, and the sliver of light that was the only illumination in the tiny room. His breathing seemed to bounce from the ceramic tiles and close walls, in perfect time with the metronome tapping of the dripping sink. He whimpered in the darkness of the bathroom, his left hand solidly locked on the brass knob, and his right on the white plastic light switch. Flooding the room with fluorescence was tempting, so much so that his fingers were sweating. He knew, however, that he couldn't. If he flicked on the glowing tubes, he would be unable to tell if a shadow passed over the far side of his meager barricade. Fearful tears stung his eyes. There was little he agreed with his mother-in-law on, but now, as he wished himself invisible, her words rose to taunt him. Clifters, you should have that doody mouth washed out with soap. In the apartment beyond, a latch rasped, and the sharp click of a suddenly released handle brought his lungs to a halt. He brushed aside the pink bathrobe, hanging down the back of the door from a white hook, and pressed his cheek to the cheap plywood. At first there was nothing, but after a moment, a dragging tread began to shuffle across the carpet, approaching his hidden position. The glimmering thread at his feet dimmed, grunting, snuffling, filled its place, and he clenched against the urges of his bladder. Long seconds were measured by the ever-leaking faucet. With a final snort, the sounds moved further along the hall, and the faint sheen returned to the tiles. He knew it was only a brief respite. It had started an hour earlier, while he'd been sharing a breakfast of brand flakes with his wife of twenty years, Vanessa. Maybe we could consider looking into a nice place for your mom to go to. I don't mean like a home with many nurses and rude neighbors. I could get a second job and swing one of those fancy gold-villes in Florida, like that pamphlet we got in the mail. He said, "Oh, dear sweetie, how in the heck can you even start talking like that? Mama doesn't know any place by ours." Honey bunches, when you first asked if she could move in, you said it was just going to be for a bit. Darn it, the keys to patience are acceptance and faith. Accept things as they are and look realistically at the world around you. Have faith in yourself and in the direction you have chosen. Mama sent me that quote. I don't remember who it was by, but it's on Facebook, and she's absolutely gosh darn rad. I have shown patience, but she always tells us what to do. I don't like spending my evenings watching the bold and the beautiful. I don't want to learn to knit. I don't like that she picks out what we wear. I don't think it's appropriate that she makes me a pack lunch every day for work and that it always includes stuff I repeatedly ask not to have. I don't like bananas, however much potassium she may think I'm deficient of. She's just trying to do what's good for you. Honestly honey, I love you, but she kind of scares me. Cheepers. You're impossible when you're like this. Let's wait till mama's here. She always knows what's best. She can talk some sense into you. "Oh fuck off!" he replied. It had just slipped. Vanessa wasn't a child. She didn't say "I'm telling," but he knew she'd thought it. He could read it on her cockamamie face. There was a knock. Mama's got a number two. Please don't be in there much longer, Cliffers. Poopy or get off the pod as they say. Clifton decided he had no choice but to face his fear. Picking the knife up from the bathroom's counter, he blew a kiss towards his wife's punctured corpse. Her body was smeared in a mixture of Mr. Bubble and blood, and lay awkwardly on top of the rubber ducky patterned bath curtain, which she'd ripped down as he chased her into the tub, but he could see none of it in the dark. He turned to the door handle. Flashpulp is presented by http colon slash slash Skinner dot FM. The audio and text formats of Flashpulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. [Music]