Archive for June, 2011

Pseudopod 235: Flash On The Borderlands VIII – Warped Love

Show Notes

Three flash fictions about the strange shapes love can bend us into

“In Memoriam” first appeared online in Shadowed Realms #8, November-December 2005.

“Pieces” and “Home Is Where the Heart Is” are both PseudoPod originals.


By Matthew Chrulew

She approaches the spot and pulls into the gravelly emergency lane. It is still there, like always, in the traditional place to the side of the road – her husband’s memorial cross, attesting his memory in some little way to the passing drivers. Still bearing the wreath of carnations she left last week.

She visits at that interval. She remembers his life, his weekend surprises, and his stupid jokes.

And she remembers his death, as it must have happened – that shrieking scratch of metal, that infinite slide, that smash into the tree.


By M.C. Funk

I knew your demon would be hungry the moment I found it. How it crouched toad-like behind the cleaning products under our sink. From its eight-ball eyes to the mouth that spread atop its stomach, your demon’s shape was fat with appetite.

I came to you terrified and smelling of bleach. “Oh yeah.” You had sad-dog eyes. “I was meaning to tell you about that.”


By Bint Arab

‘”I made you young, Mother, so you won’t have to worry about your heart problems any more.” He swiped some of the dirt off her face and wrapped her in the towel so he wouldn’t have to touch her as he guided her to the house.

Pseudopod 234: I.C.U.


by Tim Burke

Sometimes Keith would wander into the visitors’ waiting room, just so he could see time passing. The window faced south and the room was filled with autumn dusk the color of dried egg yolk.

The monitors beeped and the machine fixed to his father’s throat rasped. The one tube that ran to a plastic jug of amber urine, its tube disappearing under the sheets. Keith imagined the tube sliding up his penis, the pain of the urethra being forced open.

His father did not want to end up an old man tied down in a bed. When he threw a bowling ball down a lane and had to spend five minutes catching his breath, he glared if you even looked at him struggling.

Pseudopod 233: Association


by Eddie Borey

Below the makeshift tourniquet, his arm was purple and rotten, especially around the bite. He untied the belt—-no point anymore in pretending that it could help him. He could see his purple forearm throb at the new rush of blood. The liquid pressure flowing into his arm was enough to break the scabs on the bitemark. Through the ruptured scab-dam, three colors of filth (black, red, egg custard) dripped a Jackson Pollock on the white tile floor. When he felt neither relief nor pain at this, he knew that he was dying.

As if the maggot hadn’t been clue enough.

Pseudopod 232: The Song Of Prague

The Song Of Prague

by Shane Jiraiya Cummings

It was the most beautiful song he had ever heard. Haunting, melancholy, but with a magical quality — a soul — infused into each note. The song drew Len to the park, from the very moment he stepped from Vltavska station.