Archive for August, 2009

Pseudopod 157: Wave Goodbye

By Felicity Bloomfield

Read by Donna Lynch

Before she finished her cutting I stood behind her, and circled her arms with my arms. As she sliced a carrot, I shoved at her hand. The knife slid into her wrist, and she swore. Blood dripped onto the neat pile of chopped beans.

She bound her own wrist, and threw the carrots and beans away. I peered around her as she looked at the chicken. It was pale and bloated, floating on the surface of the freezing water. Oil slimed the white skin.

Nunury tugged on my arm. “Mummy, why did you do that?”

I slapped her hand away. “Why did you lie floating for days after you drowned? Why didn’t she come sooner?”

Nunury’s eyes widened, ready to cry. I’d never yelled at her when we were alive. “I’m sorry,” I said, gathering her in my arms. “You know I’d never hurt you.”

Pseudopod 156: The Leviathan

By Blake Vaughn

Read by Ben Phillips

The following has been transcribed from a journal, the owner of which has since passed away. In accordance with his last wishes, it has not been altered from its original manuscript, save where deemed necessary for page formatting.

October 3, 1903

There are memories I bear which erupt from the formless black of dreams. I still awaken at night crying out for safety and, finding myself alone, I hide in sheets, attempting to assuage a cold shivering that refuses to leave my bones. I have given my account to countless others in desperation, but still I know not restful sleep. I pray that in this inked telling I may concretely free myself from this memory, though I admit any faith I once had has long since left me, abandoned me in that lake those eleven years ago, never to return. Korta Ves.

Pseudopod 155: The Worm that Gnaws

The Worm that Gnaws

By Orrin Grey

I’ve ‘ad loadsa bad jobs in my day, but this ‘un’s the worst by a mile. Trompin’ aroun’ in the boneyards at midnight, diggin’ up dead folks wi’ a wooden spade, breakin’ open the caskets wi’ a mattock, an’ haulin’ ‘em up an’ out by the heads. Christ.

The mist creeps up ‘til it’s so thick ya can’t hardly see the groun’ for it, makes the tombstones look like ships at sea where they thrust up out a it. Cold as a witch’s tit, an’ only one bottle between us, Wolfe an’ I.

‘Course it’s illegal. I ain’t had but a job or two that weren’t, in one way or t’other. But the fines ain’t steep, an’ the constables tend ta look t’other way. Sides, the pay’s worth the risks. Good pay, for a fella like me, or a fella like Wolfe.

‘E’s the boss, is Wolfe. Been at the game a long time, compared ta me, an’ ‘e ain’t like ta let me forget it. Big fella, shaped like a barrel, face all red an’ puffy from too much drink. “Ya’d drink too, ya’d seen what I seen,” ‘e always tells me, as if I don’t drink.