by Robert Davies
click the link to check out his blog.
Read by Elizabeth Green Musselman
Sometimes there would be something of the mother in the child, and sometimes something of the father; there was always something of the town. Leathery wings sprouted oftentimes, as common as fingers. Fur of every hue. Horns and scales were plentiful, too. Lots of feathers and thorns and glass and steel. Beneath the apple trees and the pine, anatomy was negotiable. Anything was probable. Every now and then, though, the tired wet nurses, long inured to the strange fecundity of flesh, would whistle in awe as they lifted a newborn from the amniotic slime.
Something truly special would be seen.
by Neil John Buchanan
click the link under his name to enter his dark, dark head.
Read by Alasdair Stewart, the toast of the ethernet set….
“Mayor shuffles in circles; his reins hang from his butchered mouth. His clothes have disintegrated, and his swollen legs have been reduced to black stumps. Doc sways in his saddle, gives a gentle sigh, and slips from his mount.
Doc is already half-turned. We can’t have him go wild. Captain orders Mayor for dispatch, and Sarge steps up for the job.
Mayor looks to the middle distance with cataract eyes, oblivious to his impending ‘second’ death. Sarge unclips Mayor’s head and without preamble removes his brain. Mayor looks confused as if he’s just been told a joke he half-understands and pitches forward to lie dead in the dirt. Captain sets about the body with his ‘taming’ knife, stripping free skin with a practiced hand. When finished, he and Sarge roll Doc in fat so only his face can be seen. He looks like a giant maggot. The wild won’t smell him that way.”
There will be a slight delay in the arrival of this week’s Pseudopod – no more than a couple of days. While waiting, in preparation, cogitate on this thought:
““Death is a scandal. The machine is functioning, we are all hostages”
by Alan Baxter
The text of this story is now available online here.
Read by Graeme Dunlop, our own Kibitzer
‘Yes, Mrs Baker. Your father’s will identifies each one and dictates that they have all been left to you, along with the family home.’
Claire sat stunned for several seconds, staring across the solicitor’s desk. ‘Seven garages?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The solicitor was smiling. ‘Mostly on industrial estates, commercial lock-up garages, in suburbs around northern and western Sydney, though there is one on a farm property just outside Burrawang on the Southern Highlands and one in North Bondi.’
Claire looked at Ben. Her husband shrugged. ‘You don’t think this is weird?’ Claire asked him.
‘Sure, it’s weird. But not really any weirder than anything else your old man ever did.’”