Part 1 of 1
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Tonight we encounter an old friend while hurtling rapidly through time.
The Skinner Co. Network
085 - Time And Again, Part 1 of 1
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp episode 85. Tonight, we present Time and Again, Part 1 of 1. [music] This week's episodes are brought to you by FlashPulp on iTunes. It's like a one-person version of Thunderdome. Find the link to FlashPulp's iTunes feed at skinner.fm, search for FlashPulp using the iTunes in-program search, or point your browser at httpbit.ly/9Z2EH0. [music] Sunday is gloomy, my hour is a number left. Here is the shadows I live with are number left. [music] [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 encounter an old friend while hurtling rapidly through time. Time and Again, Part 1 of 1. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. [music] The three men, a cowhand, a paleontologist, and a geologist, had been about their expedition for only a single day, and yet each knew that he hated the others. Still, there was little entertainment to be had on the journey, so turns were taken in telling stories, to which the listening pair usually paid only the most passing of heat. On their first evening together, the trio were camped out under the open skies of the plane. The cowboy set the tone as he interrupted a scholarly debate to tell the first tale. "Well, fellas, you can say what you like about your fancy degrees." Spitting into the darkness, he poked at the fire with the short length of stick he'd held back from the kindling. But when I look out at these planes, I see miles of open sky, fresh air to breathe, and the ghosts of the buffalo that used to roam here. I can feel the freedom of the range, and reflect on the settlers who once rode through here on their covered wagons, using nothing but their hands and gumption to build the foundation for everything we have today. I don't think you'll find that in a book or cramped office. Neither in the audience took well to being told what was best in life, and, after a few moments of silence, each excused himself to his bedroll. On the second evening, after another day, which the cow-hand extensively characterized as spent looking at old rocks, it was the paleontologist who first chose to speak. "You may speak of the ghosts of the buffalo as if they were the noblest beast to roam these lands, but when I look out from under this speckled night and over these grassy reaches, the image that comes to mind is not one of empty spaces and four-legged mammals, but of a jungle menagerie of species. The hunting packs of kyros to notees, their plumage stark against the trees as they glide towards their prey with deadly intention, the low and long morning call of a widowed lambyosaurus, even the stillness of the dawn air as a kasmosaurus munches contentedly on the stock of a plant we have yet to encounter." The man had been cleaning his glasses as he spoke, returning his spectacles to the bridge of his nose, he turned to his companions to observe the impact of his tail, which he was sure would be profound. "Instead of introspection," he saw only aggravation. "How can you not even understand that all rocks are old?" the geologist said to the cow-hand. The large-headed man did not reply, nor did he look up from the small block of wood at which he was whittling. On the third night, the geologist finally tried his hand. "I heard what you two had to say, but I can't get fired up over such piddling matters. When I look out at this plain, I see burning lava and the stardust that this planet was formed from. I see the top layer of a mystery that goes hundreds of miles down, like the outside of a jigsaw puzzle's box giving you a snapshot of the glory contained within. Buffalo, raptors, so what? They were nothing but fleas on a million-year-old dog, come and gone in the blink of its eye. There'll be a day when this area, from horizon to horizon, is burnt clean by the heat of fusion, and this night breeze is wiped away by scorching solar forces, and yet these rocks and dirt will still be doing something fascinating, still be churning and rumbling and quaking. For the briefest of moments, a synthesis happened. The gathered finally having come to some understanding. It was a short-lived unity. The grassy expanse began to buck beneath their feet, and each man lost their lofty ideals, and you only terror as they gazed upon the visage of a new age, the Thousand-Eyed Stair, of Karwick, the Spider-God. 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] [Music]