By Michael Stone.
Read by Paul S. Jenkins (of the Rev Up Review and The Plitone Revisionist).
Hodges threaded the other foot into the skin and eased it up over Heatherstone’s shins. It was a tight fit. Hodges was surprised at his master’s tolerance. He bore the scratches from the rough seams, bones and shells without complaint. This man threw a tantrum if his bath water was one degree above his preferred temperature, or the butler arrived a minute late with his pudding. No one had ever accused Lord Heatherstone of bearing discomfort stoically. When the skin reached halfway up his thighs, Heatherstone stood and tugged it over his privates. He sat down again gingerly to allow Hodges to thread his arms through and fasten the skin at the back with laces of black sinew. Hodges began to tighten the straps at the ankles, working quickly in the dim light. Lord Heatherstone plucked indelicately at the crotch. “Is my lord all right?” asked Rider.
“Not really. Why should I be defending myself against something that could be repelled by the, er . . .”
“The Ayat al-Kursi? The Phylacteries?”
A bit of news: Pseudopod has officially gone weekly, so no more waiting two weeks for full-length stories! We’ll still throw in flash now and then but on Fridays you can count on a story from us.
By Eugie Foster.
Read by Stephen Eley.
Mother sat bolt upright and stared at Oiwa. “Where is your face?” she cried.
Oiwa reached a hand to her cheek. “I-It is at the front of my head, where it always is.”
“No, only half of it,” Mother replied. She glared at me. “I pledge you to return the other half of your sister’s face. Swear it, Yasuo!”
By Loreen Heneghan.
Read by Mur Lafferty.
We are not a cult. Don’t allow any outsider to confuse you. We are a holy order. You’ll never be asked to give up your family or friends; not for our benefit. We only want you to stay pure. If they try to draw you into some distorted place, don’t listen. Your world is a thing of beauty.
Truth is not beauty. Only Beauty is real. How could it be otherwise?
By Richard Warren.
Read by JC Hutchins.
And Myrriden watched, perched on the dresser. Jack saw him through the corner of his eye. A tall man, tall like Daddy, but his legs and arms weren’t right–long and thin, they reminded Jack of spiders.
Myrriden held a flute to his lips. White, bone white. A leg bone, Jack knew that. Little Boy Leg Bone. The soft music sounded like wind through dry leaves and the distant cry of dogs. It made Jack’s shins ache.