Part Three Of Three
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This evening we bring you the finale of our current Thomas Blackhall serial. In this chapter, we open with gun fire.
The Skinner Co. Network
024 - The Charivari: A Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3
[Music] Welcome to FlashPulp episode 24. Tonight's story, The Sharavari, a black haultail, Part 3 of 3. This episode is brought to you by Little Wing Children's Things. His baby's poop... a lot. For product and ordering information, search for Little Wing Children's Things on Facebook, email littlewingchildrensthingsalloneword@yahoo.ca, or locate the show notes at skinner.fm for the link. [Music] 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 bring you the finale of our current Thomas Blackhall serial. In this chapter, we open with gunfire. The Sharavari, a black haultail, Part 3 of 3. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. The snap and flare of the brown bass brought Thomas to one knee, his arms preparing his Baker rifle with mechanical reflex. His finger lay on the trigger, his heart sure he would once again have to end a man. It would be the first time since the sun-drenched porticoes of Qui Dad Rodrigo and the war against the little dictator. As the muskets echo rolled from the clearing, a momentary stillness settled. Mitchum Melbane broke the silence. The naked youth had moved from the trees, his skinny legs fish belly white in the moon's glow, sobbing as he ran. At this series of shocks, some amongst the hooded mobs stepped back, seeking the safety of the forest's shadow. As the boy approached, the man who spent the evening berating the house began to issue commands. Another white satchel appeared in the musketeer's grasp. Thomas's grip steadied. The entrance to the cabin swung open. The door had been built wide and tall, and yet the widow Bigelow was forced to stoop as she stepped from her home, squinting she spoke. "Is that you under there, Sam Allen? With your missing pinky and one leg too long, firing upon my cottage? It has been many a year since I've taken you over my knee, but by the grace of the Lord and the thousand chariots of his hoary host, I'll send you to Nancy in such a condition she'll be spoon-feeding you the baby's millet for the next month." All four seemed to have left the gunman's hands. Weapon and satchel hung uselessly at his sides. "You've shot and shattered the china platter given to me by Arthur's mother on the morning of our marriage. Is your anxiety over my reputation lessened by the destruction of my service dish?" The woman moved forward, her riot of gray hair a trailing cloud. "If not, I believe I still have a half-dozen plates in good enough condition to meet your tastes?" she stopped, placing her hands upon her hips, squaring her stance no more than an arm's length from the mob's leader. Her cotton gown rustled with the breeze. The man had flipped the bottle of gin he carried and was now twisting at the neck of his makeshift club. "It's terrible enough," she continued, "that you've come skulking onto my homestead after the witching hour. But must you all play at ghosts as well? In my day it was a reproach who felt a need to cover their shame during a Shahravari, not the gathered!" Mitchum, now muddied from his stumbling approach, finally reached the woman, falling to his knees and clinging at the hem of her night-clothes. She extended a hand, stroked his head, lifting his face to look upon her own. "It will be all right, my love. A quick spanking in these naughty boys will soon be off to their beds." "How dare you, harlot? How dare you corrupt one so young? How dare you speak to us as you would, errant children?" the ragman's voice had once again found his throat. "Ha! Without my walls to muffle your rantings, it all comes clear. In her tone, Blackhall could hear the satisfaction of a puzzle solved. She began to point at the gathered masks. Edward Smith? Will he Templar? Is that Sanderson the Younger or the Elder under there? Arthur would not be pleased to see you behaving so." Their leader stepped forward, attempting to regain lost ground. His new position forced him to crane back his neck to meet the widow's eyes. "How dare the name of an honorable man such as Arthur Bigelow touch upon the lips of such a strompit, as would set up in his very house, unmarried, with a boy some four decades her junior." Despite his bluster, when the leader of the ragman turned for affirmation, he found his small army huddled amongst the shadows of the tree-line. "Mitcham is a fool two years older than you were when you married Chelsea Thompson, and threw away your dowry on that fool's errand you callin' in. But lie not to me, more than than Rhine. This has little to do with whom I bed. It is my still you've come to smash, and like is not you've carried that gin bottle as false evidence to place this ruckus at the feet of constable male Baines ruffians." Thomas watched the remains of the mob disperse as if smoke on the wind, leaving only the rooted gunman and the visibly shaking Van Rhine to stand against the woman and her weeping bow. "My you, Arthur," with his free hand Van Rhine ripped at the confines of his mask, his breath coming in ragged gasps, once his red face was exposed to the night's air. "Bring not my departed husband into this conversation again. I care not if you've sainted the wagon-rut he attempted to run from the river to this field. Arden's spirits would not be my business if your society had not taken upon itself to whisper so about my time with Mitcham. Despite my service, no longer will the town entrust me with the suckling bottles for their babes. Fine, then I shall supply the suckling bottles for their public houses. It is not easy to live as a marked woman of age, but I will not stand by to be accosted by busy-bodies." The in-owner howled, raising his glass-club in a vicious arc. For the first time that evening, black hall saw a look of fear across the widow's face. The crack of shot once again filled the hollow amongst the trees. A damp stain began to spread along the trouser legs of the nearly forgotten musketeer. Dropping his weapon, he ran from the clearing. With caravan Ryan lowered the remains of his club, the shattered neck having opened a gash upon his palm. A hundred yards away, black hall's arms had once again found their training, and were busy slamming home a fresh load. Even as he worked the baker rifle, his eyes remained fixed upon the moonlit trio. The widow, her composure regained, leveled a finger of exile at the nearest pines, her gaze locked upon Van Rhein. Slowly the man turned, the ruined pillowcase dropping from his grasp, and onto the field below. 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. . [BLANK_AUDIO]