Archive for September, 2011

Pseudopod 249: Kavar The Rat

Kavar The Rat

by Thomas Owen

Translated by Edward Gauvin

But he’d been a skillful artisan, and remained so. At the beginning of his career, his real specialty had been locksmithing. Ah! Nothing to do with today’s dumb little locks, all identical, with grooved keys and four screws to be slapped up any old where, which came apart with a blow of your fist. No. Real locks, ingenious, intelligent, personal, custom-made. He’d built all kinds! Secrets, thief-proof, devilishly clever. But also screaming padlocks that wouldn’t let themselves be violated, latches that struck back, a stack of sneaky, perplexing little mechanisms to turn the most sensible engineer pale.

Pseudopod 248: Killing Merwin Remis

Killing Merwin Remis

by Jason Helmandollar

How long?

I’ve already answered the question a dozen times. How many times must I explain? Once more, it seems, although I assure you my story will not change. The facts are the facts. The truth is the truth.

Four months.

It was nearly four months after Merwin Remis moved into the apartment upstairs when I decided to kill him. It was a rational decision – one that came about only after much careful consideration. In the end, I had no other choice. The man was driving me insane.

Pseudopod 247: Looker

by David Nickle

David has been on Pseudopod previously with “The Sloan Men” and “The Inevitability of Earth”. Click the link under his name to check out his Chizine Publications.

Read by Steve Cropper.
Check out his podcast “Reputation Online” at the link.

‘Get in,’ she said, ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

It didn’t occur to me that this might be a trick until I was well out at sea. Wouldn’t it be the simplest thing, I thought, as I dove under a breaking wave, to wait until I was out far enough, gather my trousers, find the wallet and the mobile phone, toss the clothes into the surf and run to a waiting car? I’m developing my suspicious mind, really, my dearest — but it still has a time delay on it, even after everything…

I came up, broke my stroke, and turned to look back at the beach.

She waved at me. I was pleased — and relieved — to see that she was naked too. My valuables were safe as they could be. And Lucy had quite a nice figure, as it turned out: fine full breasts — wide, muscular hips — a small bulge at the tummy, true… but taken with the whole, far from offensive.

I waved back, took a deep breath and dove again, this time deep enough to touch bottom. My fingers brushed sea-rounded rock and stirred up sand, and I turned and kicked and broke out to the moonless night, and only then it occurred to me — how clearly I’d seen her on the beach, two dozen yards off, maybe further.

There lay the problem. There wasn’t enough light. I shouldn’t have seen anything.

Pseduopod 246: The Eater

The Eater

by Michael J. DeLuca

I’ve seen the Eater crawling back to his hut from the darkness, contorting and shuddering. We owe him for that. I’ve heard the madness that boils on the Eater’s tongue when he drinks of the froth from the bone-rattle tree. He is the only one who dares to taste it. I’ve seen him walk across the village as though he’s forgotten in which direction lies the earth and which the sky. He goes into the woods alone. After a time, his body has always returned. But he–the Eater I know or think I know, the laughing Eater with his clever tricks and dances–he stays away for even longer, unable to speak or unwilling, somewhere we can never go or see.

Never, that is, unless one of us follows him.