By Michael Stone.
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.