Part Five Of Six
See the text at http://skinner.fm.
Tonight we present the penultimate episode in our current serial, in which Thomas Blackhall, tired, injured and having gone for days without sleep, begins to see an end to his labours.
The Skinner Co. Network
011 - Red Mouth's Legacy, A Blackhall Tale - Part 5 of 6
[ Music ] >> Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 11. Tonight's story, "Redmouth's Legacy," a black haul tale, part five of six. This evening's episode is brought to you by TomMarrot.com, because we love him. We love you, Tom. That's TomMarrot.com. [ Music ] FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. 400 to 600 words brought to you Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Tonight, we present the penultimate episode in our current cereal, in which Thomas Blackhall, tired, injured, and having gone for days without sleep, begins to see an end to his labors. [ Music ] Redmouth's Legacy, a black haul tale, part five of six. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. Thomas once again fell silent. Moments passed, then the great albino emptied his lungs, once again beginning his mumbling chant. A raven flew down from an unseen perch, landing at the feet of its lord. The bear's instructions took longer this time, but as his words trailed off amongst the growing course of crickets, the black bird croaked and rose into the air, its definition lost against the darkening woods. Thomas attempted a small meal of his remaining jerky, but his stomach had soured, and he found it difficult to keep even his meager portion down. He used the remaining time until the birds returned to gamble with his life. Until then, he dared not move from the head of the slope that kept the fury of his jailer in balance with his blade, but now he limped to the single white pine that overhung his meager prison, with one eye still on the beast who sat waiting at the bottom of his roost, reached deeply into the center mass of the standing giant and cut loose a single broad branch. As he retreated to his precipice, he stooped regularly, enjoying the stretch and tug of the motion upon his limbs, and pulled forth some of the dry bunches of scrub that had had the misfortune to root upon the desolate plateau. Sitting once again upon the flat rock he'd come to use as a stool, he'd freed his knife from his belt and began to trim the offshoots from the trunk of his branch. From above came the flutter of wings, and then, to his left, the shattering crack of stone on stone. "You claimed you only required the smallest of portions," came the throaty voice from below, its breath pregnant with a snicker. After a time, he finished worrying the branch with his knife, and then slid on hands and knees to where the crash had emanated. A long search turned up three larger portions and a dozen smaller shards, and from this selection, Thomas kept the largest, a piece not quite the length and width of his thumb. Returning to his post, he set down the fragment and took up the reed braid and barren branch. He began to talk as he worked. Old King James may have said it was, "A custom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose, harmful to the brain, dangerous to the lungs, and then the black stinking fume thereof, nearest resembling the horrible stidgion smoke of the pit that is bottomless. But if I'm to draw my final breaths on this empty rock, I'd rather some of them be filled with Virginian tobacco." With that he set down his design, and rummaging within the interior of his great coat, retrieved a small water-tight flask. He opened it to reveal a pouch with a small quantity of shredded brown leaves, from which he took a hearty pinch, as well as a carefully folded packet of thin Spanish papers. The remaining volume of the container was largely taken up by the yellowing slip that was Mary's final letter. "Oh, Bessie Bell and Mary Grey, they were Tuobani lasses," Thomas began to sing under his breath. He licked shut his work and tucked it between his lips. Blackhall moved quickly then, his sabre close at hand. He made a bushel of the driest of the scrub he'd gathered, and silently wished that the excess pine needles had been crisp enough to add as well. Once again, his fingers closed about his knife, and with a sharp series of glancing blows to the Flintstone, sparks and then flame leapt amongst the ragged twigs. With his right foot he tipped the cattails, stripped of their reeds to become simple shafts, Captain Brown Fuzz, into the flame. With his left hand he lit his cigarette. "It has grown dark, Master Bear, but my work is done," Thomas said, lifting two of the bull rushes to his crude archer's bow. "What's this now?" the clouded tone told Blackhall the beast had likely drowsed at its shadowed station. The question hung in the air as twin arcs cast forth from the flat above, licking flame tumbling through tangles of branches before sprawling on the dry forest floor to the east. "My work is complete. See now the child's toy that shall mark my passage upon this hill." His cigarette dangling such that the stubble that had grown upon his face was at no small risk, he continued to speak as he let fly. "A child's toy indeed, and the child who taught me to build it would laugh to see my own shoddy work, but it is enough to allow me to reach yonder trees." He'd spent his ammunition before his jailer could fully rise from stupor. The seeds of the cattails took air as they burned, drifting downhill upon the breeze. Wherever they set down, the dry brush drank greedily of the flame. Thomas stood upon the edge of the stone flat then, bow cast aside and saber occupying his right hand, letting his work truly settle in, as his lungs filled with his addiction. 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.