Archive for November, 2007
Pseudopod 066: Finding Allison

By Glen Krisch

Read by Alasdair Stuart

Disarming and cruel. Two words could sum up Allison’s smile, and that’s all he had left of her. Her smile hid right behind his eyes, pushing at his brain like a tumor — that angled, curt, and thick-lipped smile. Even the day before she left, they seemed collectively twined together, a seamless mass of flesh, two shadows of one body. Now he was alone with a gun in his lap.

Links mentioned: The Fix

Pseudopod 065: Doghead

By Craig A. Strickland

Read by Steve Anderson

She felt polarized with excitement and fatigue, and her hot eyes suddenly brimmed with tears as they scanned the room, at the dusty wine bottles in the rack in the corner. At the tiny T.V. on the nightstand, at the refrigerator magnets; little cartoon pigs holding scraps of coupons and phone numbers. Finally, at the window, half-closed blinds revealing only the Toyota’s front wheels resting on the parking lot, five feet higher and right outside.

Something dripped under the car. Steadily. Almost – a trickle. If that was oil she had a hell of a problem.

Flash: Why I Hate Cake

By Paul Mannering

Read by Alasdair Stuart

We ate things on dares too. A particular favorite was the larvae of a winged beetle called the Huhu Bug. These grubs grow to about the size of your thumb and they eat dead wood so they taste almost exactly like peanut butter doesn’t.

I always liked to fry mine first, having seen a friend run around screaming with one of these blind maggots attached to his lip with its wood munching mandibles when he tried to eat one raw.

Pseudopod 064: Connecting Door

By Richard E. Dansky

Read by George Hrab

They weren’t even trying to be quiet now. The idea of keeping it down had become a joke, a sort of high-decibel sotto voce. Ian felt red rage bubbling up within him, and hammered on the door with the flat of his hand. “Come on, you assholes, cut it out! I need to get some sleep here.” More pounding, hard enough to hurt now. “Would you please just keep it down, or so help me God, I’m coming in there and I’m going to kick your asses!”

There was no laughter now. No noise. No profanity. Just silence. Ian hit the door once more, mainly out of momentum. His hand made a weak, wet noise, a soft slapping sound. He drew it back, suddenly unsure of what to do next. Keep pounding? Go back to bed? Wait?

A sound came from the other side of the door then, a quiet, rasping noise accompanied by whispers and titters. It took Ian a moment to realize that it was the sound of the chain being pulled off the door on the other side of the wall. The noise from the street seemed to vanish. The door in front of him loomed larger, brighter, and more threatening. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of the weakness of his situation, of why a middle-aged man in his underwear should not threaten multiple obnoxious drunks in the middle of the night.


Check back on Thanksgiving for a tasty treat.


Pseudopod 063: The Western Front

By Patrick Samphire

Read by Paul Jenkins

We crawled forward. My hand pressed on a face jutting from the mud. I turned away and forced myself not to vomit.

A shell ruptured the earth nearby. Mud hammered over me. I bit my tongue to stop myself screaming. I rubbed the mud from my face.

When I could see again, I realised my men were no longer in sight. Panic took me. “Wait,” I whispered. “Wait.”

No one answered.


Remember Veteran’s Day, Nov 11.


Pseudopod 62: Faith in Sips and Bites

By Michael Chant

Read by Ben Phillips

If you are reading this, we must’ve done it. I’m going to tell as much as I can. You newspaper people will have to clean up the spelling. Going to have your work cut out for you. Make it pretty for the front page. Crazy thinking something I write is going to be on the front page. That’s the Lord working in His mysterious ways again. Got to type it out. When I write it out longhand it looks like Chinese. Just have to hunt and peck as best I can. Can’t write no more. Hands shake too much. Nerve damage. All of us got it now.

Flash: Rite of Atonement

By Melinda Selmys

Reading and music by W. Ralph Walters

She would not be able to fly, of course, but he had run the simulations carefully, had seized his achievement in the animated projections of the contact-lens computer screen that nestled against his natural eye. She would be chased to the cliff’s edge just like all the others, but when she arrived she would not tumble graceless to the stones. She would spread wide those gossamer-green constructs of his genius and for a few precious moments that wind would fill them and she would glide until the weight of her body broke the fragile bones of the living apparatus that held her aloft. Then she would fall like a wounded bird, like Icarus as he plunged, spinning, downwards from the sun. In a tangle of broken wings, she would carry all of the terrors and tortures that he had perpetrated against her down to be drowned in the depths of the sea.