Archive for September, 2009

Pseudopod 160: Got Milk?

By John Alfred Taylor

Read by Alasdair Stuart

“Now paint in little white eye sockets.” Colin told Briony. “And teeth at the bottom.” He’d already had her draw India-ink crossbones under the big black mole.

“You’re sure this won’t piss-off your dermatologist?” Briony asked, squinting in concentration as she bent to her task at his left side.

“Not Doc Schulmann. He likes his laughs. Should have heard him joking when he snipped off the tags in my armpit.”

(Colin hoped he and the Doctor would still be laughing two hours from now, but wasn’t going to bother Briony with gloomy possibilities. At least his mole had smooth edges and was still all one color.)

Pseudopod 159: Reservation Monsters

By Jim Bihyeh

Read by Ben Phillips

“When I was your age, I ran away from school all the time. The tribal police would gather all us kids up from the hogans and the cabins, haul us to the boarding schools, cut our hair, tell us not to talk Navajo, feed us flour with bugs in it. All that crap you hear about now in documentaries. I ran away to my auntie’s house near Canyon de Chelly. She was a seer and a hand trembler. The Navajos around there, if they couldn’t sleep or they were sick, they sent a runner to my auntie and she came with her rock crystal and her corn pollen and went over their home until her hand trembled like she was holding on to an electric fence. And she saw things. Visions no one else could see. The sort of visions you’re seeing now. The things that cause sickness. Death. Things that have to be dealt with. Things that have to be sung and prayed over, so the person can be healthy again.”
For further Coyote Tales, please check out:

“Love Like Thunder”

“The Dreaming Way”

and “The Shooting Way” in “The Trio Of Terror”

Pseudopod 158: Regulars

By Frank Oreto

Read by David Moore

It was nine p.m. when Jesus Christ tried to get into Drake’s Bar and Grill with no ID. Jimmy stood up from wrestling a new keg of Yuengling into position. He spotted Jesus and had to smile. In his 30 years of owning Drake’s, Jimmy had seen the local frat kids do a lot of laughable things, but they weren’t usually intentional, and more rarely still – were they clever. This, he had to admit, was both.

Christ’s apostles, all of whom seemed to be members of Phi Delta Theta, were arguing with Big Pete at the door. Pete, towering a good six inches over the largest Phi Delt , was calmly shaking his head.

Jimmy came from behind the bar and worked his way through the Saturday night Carson Street crowd until he was within talking distance of Pete, and Christ’s entourage.