Archive for December, 2010
Pseudopod 219: The Moon and the Mesa

By Daniel Braum

Read by Ben Phillips

We push our way through the hot maze of cologned bodies and emerge into the relative quiet of the street. She fishes in her purse but instead of taking out a pack of cigarettes she pulls out the little black gun. She holds it up admiring it in the streetlight.

“Didn’t you want to take them home. Didn’t you want to-”

“Aw fuck. What the hell are you doing with that? Don’t take it out here!”

I snatch the gun and stuff it back into her purse.

“Hey. Easy there,” she says. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re not going to. You said.”

She’s much too calm. It’s that calmness that scares me.

Pseudopod 218: Flash on the Borderlands V

On the third day of Christmas, the Devil brought to me…

‘M’ Is for Manhattan

By A. Nathaniel Jones
Narrated by Ben Phillips

As I walk home, I hear crackling bones under my feet. I smile thinking of everyone who died so that I may have something to walk on. Every dead body built this city with whatever small pieces of themselves they left behind.

The Snow-White Heart

By Marie Brennan
Narrated by Ben Phillips

“Cut out her heart and bring it to me,” the queen said, and so the huntsman did. He brought no deer’s heart in its place, for the huntsman was loyal to his queen. He brought her the heart, and she ate of it, and the blood stained her lips like dye. Her wrinkled skin grew pale and smooth, her greying hair blackened, and she laughed as she finished the last bite.

Hoofprints in the Snow

By Nathaniel Tapley, writer-director of the free monthly podcast In the Gloaming
Narrated by Alasdair Stuart

Christmas used to be a day of church, nuts, tangerines and charades. Now it’s defrosted pre-stuffed boneless turkey joints, DVD box sets, and crippling debt. I had to take a stand.

Pseudopod 217: Sweet Little Memory

By Antony Mann

Read by Ben Phillips

Left, a carpeted staircase climbed up, and I saw from the ragged pink teddy bear on the bottom step that the entity had begun to colonise downstairs. Which meant that the upper floor was already under its control. I scanned the living room, but there was nothing else of it to see: just a few framed landscapes which gave art a bad name, bits and bobs on the mantle, a television and shelves of videos in the corner.

There were no photos.

Pseudopod 216: Oral Tradition

By Angel Leigh McCoy

Read by Ben Phillips

Heavy footsteps crossed the verandah and approached the front door. Momentarily, a tall, thick-muscled black man entered the room. He wore the attire of a blacksmith from the 19th century, including the heavy leather apron. His image shifted in the breeze, like laundry hung out to dry, but upside-down, with inverted gravity, anchored by his feet to the floor. Around his neck, he had the unmistakable mark of a rope burn.

I stumbled back, back into an end-table. Clumsy, I placed it between me and my visitors.