Part One Of Three
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This evening we introduce a new recurring character, Mother Gran, who, in this opening chapter, we find mid-stride.
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028 - Missing, A Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 3
[Music] Welcome to FlashPulp episode 28. Tonight's Tale, Missing, a mother-grand story. Part 1 of 3. [Music] This episode is brought to you by Opoponaxfeathers.wordpress.com. Privately owned and operated, Opoponaxfeathers uses only the finest pixels, guaranteed. [Music] That's Opoponaxfeathers.wordpress.com. [Music] Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled. Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled. [Music] I used to be around in town. I used to be around there. I lived around in town. I courted very poorly, and if you'd have never been found. FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. This evening, we introduce a new recurring character, Mother Gran, who, in this opening chapter, we find Midstride. Missing, a mother-grand story. Part 1 of 3. Written by J.R.D. Skinner. Art and narration by Opoponax. An audio produced by Jessica Mank. [Music] Puddle Lane was more than a wagon path, but less than a road. At its southern end, it came to a loose three-way corner. Puddle Lane, Soggy Bend, and Gallagher. At its northern tip, the lane merged into Strawberry Road, a moniker Mother Gran had always appreciated for the attempt to maintain some of its neighbors' whimsy. Old man Gallagher never did have much of a sense of humor, she thought, her knobby knees pumping. She took the corner at full speed, tilting from puddle onto Soggy. She'd had a good head start, but the bundle in her arms was getting heavy, and she could hear the gallop of Turner's wolf hands as they closed the distance. It was another half-mile to the blossoming white flowers of the crab apple tree, but, even in her dusk, her legs were well-muscled from a lifetime of papous toting and field-work. Still, she knew it would be a race. The slapping paws of the dogs rounded the corner. She could hear the dampness in their hot breath. A quarter-mile, and she could feel the tightness in her lungs. She began to sing. "Oh, where are you goin', says the false night upon the road?" A laugh caught in her throat, adding the song short. She hadn't run this hard in many a year. She adjusted her grip on the gray rag. "Oh, where are you goin', says the false night upon the road?" "I'm gone to school," says the wee boy, and still he stood, reaching the tree she broke from the roadway, grinning. The deer-path was narrow and grass-covered, but she'd known the route since childhood, and her feet were sure. "What sought the sheep on yonder hill?" says the false night upon the road. She could see the man now. Its northern face piled high with John McMillan's transplanted fieldstones. "They are my pups and mine," says the wee boy, and still he stood. Her heart's pounding, and the approach of the dogs merged into thunder in her ears. How many of them's mind says the false night upon the road? Finally, she could hear expectant chittering, and the familiar sound gave her legs new wind. All them that has blue tales says the wee boy, and still he stood. It had been the same song since Winter's first thaw, although she usually came with bucket in hand, not such a frail load. The entire brood had gathered to meet her approach, and at their sight she knew she would make it. "I wish you were in yonder wells," says the false night upon the road. The leadhound recognized its error in the final moment, but its companion wasn't prepared for the sudden loss of speed. The old woman had breezed past the mellow dearest family without slowing. Her passage, however, had set the matriarch skunk, plumped from Grant's table scraps, on edge. The collision was cause enough to outrage the nervous mother, and you were down in hell, says the wee boy, and still he stood. The dog's reversed course, beginning the long run home to carry the stink to their master. Grant slowed to a stop, resting against the white trunk of a downed spruce. As she adjusted her skirt, her palm came away sticky with froth from the hound's jaws. She wiped her hand clean, and with spider fingers plucked the wrappings away, revealing the contents of her parcel. She smiled to see the toothless grin of the babe within. The lyrical portions of tonight's story were derived from Child Ballad #3, as collected by Francis James Child. 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 lessons. [Music]