Archive for January, 2007
Pseudopod 022: Them Eyes

By Nicholas Ozment

Read by Stephen Eley

She’s standing in the kitchen. She’s on the phone. She’s got it to her right ear, ‘cuz pulpy head-juice is runnin’ down her left ear. She’s talking into the phone.

“Guess what your son-in-law did this time? He killed me.”

I grab the phone out of her gore-soaked hand, slam it down all sticky onto the receiver. I yell at her.

“You know what you just did?! You just signed your mother’s death warrant.”


Pseudopod 021: Fetal Position

By Joel Arnold

Read by Jason Adams

And now Rudy opened the box?s lid, his fingers responding to the familiarity of his name carved carefully into the top. He lifted the dried cord from it and placed it carefully in the water. It reacted to its new environment, expanding and uncoiling in the water?s warm comfort. He took a small penknife from his pant?s pocket and jabbed his middle finger. Small droplets of blood welled from the wound and he let them fall into the warm tap water. A few drops were all it needed.

The thing in the sink squirmed and writhed. He took off his shirt. Took a deep breath. Looked at himself in the mirror. Funny, the little surprises life tosses you, he thought.

Pseudopod 020: What You Wish For

By Stephen Dedman

Read by Leann Mabry

Mara looked at the pictures, and smiled as she transformed into a clone-copy of the woman. “Nice,” she said, “very nice,” then turned around and looked up at Roy from between her legs. “Is this what you had in mind?” she asked, her hands on her lovely rump, opening herself to his view. “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.” She giggled. “It’s even legal, and if it weren’t, I wouldn’t tell anybody. I won’t even scream, unless you want me to. Or do you want to spank me first?” He said nothing. “You teachers don’t get to do that any more, do you?”

“Why the Hell are you here?”

She looked innocent. “Don’t you know the saying? Never look a gift whore in the mouth.”


Pseudopod 019: Through the Many Corridors

By Douglas F. Warrick

Read by Ben Phillips

It was weird, wasn’t it? Weird how little it impressed him. It was an alien world, after all, a whole new planet, a landscape that held only a vague familiarity with the world he’d been born in, the atmosphere he’d inhaled for twenty-nine years. Maybe that’s it. It was just congruent enough to orient yourself, to fool yourself into thinking you were okay here. Up was up, down was down, you could breathe the air. But you weren’t okay here. You were drawn into this landscape by a different artist using a different pallet and a different technique and you just weren’t okay here.

Art took the cigarette out of his mouth and pointed up ahead. “Chalkie.”

It was at the very edge of the road with its long doughy fingers wrapped over the top of the metal barrier. Its skin was dry, dusty, cracked and curling like old paint, and dull white like chalk. Its tiny black eyes were set deep into its face, which was long and snoutish and bald. Even when nothing on this planet seemed to reflect the glow of that big red moon, the bleeding moon, those eyes picked it up like deep black wells.