Author Archive

For Your Consideration 2020: Original PseudoPod Fiction in 2019


For your consideration we present the Escape Artists stories that ran in 2019 which are eligible in the upcoming award nomination season.

Below are links to some aggregation projects, where fans are building lists of those eligible in the various categories. They’re great tools, and we’d like to thank all the contributors for their  efforts.

The list of individual stories for PseudoPod follows in order of publication:

2019 first publications:

Reprints of stories originally published in 2019:

  • 663: Birds of Passage by Gordon B. White, originally published in TWICE-TOLD: A COLLECTION OF DOUBLES, edited by CM Muller, Chthonic Matter Press in February 2019
  • 673: Venio by Gemma Files, (novelette) originally published in Vastarien Spring 2019
  • 679: The Woman Out of the Attic by Gwendolyn Kiste, originally published in Flame Tree’s Haunted House anthology in January 2019
  • 682: Pomegranate Pomegranate by Jack Westlake, originally published in Black Static #69 in May 2019. It was reprinted in the August 2019 issue of The Dark.

Want to share your opinions about our 2019 roster? Vote for your favorite stories here: https://forms.gle/BAMPFphJJnQYXfyL8 (Continue Reading…)

PseudoPod 678: The Boy Who Killed His Mother


The Boy Who Killed His Mother

by Rosemary Hayes


Nobody wanted to play with the boy who killed his mother. Nick Metcalf understood why in the same way he understood why the sun rose and set. Comprehension was simple for six year olds; things just were. So even though he accepted the other kids in his class avoided walking too close to him (in case they caught whatever made him a “bad” boy), or whispered when he walked past, (that’s him, he killed his own mother) that didn’t mean he liked it. He didn’t. Not one little bit.

One time Nick arrived at school to find “killer” written on a sheet of paper and left on his desk, as if whoever left it thought he needed reminding of the day his world collapsed around him. Maybe he did. If by some miracle he forgot his crime he might start to think he was just like everyone else. For endless seconds he stared at that word scrawled with red crayon, knowing (the way the sun rose and set) this was his label for the rest of his life. If he was meant to have a different label before he killed his mother (doctor, lawyer, president) it shattered the way his mother’s skull shattered when the bullet entered her forehead at close range. (Continue Reading…)

PseudoPod 675: The New Mother

Show Notes

Audio used in this episode:

Spoiler Inside SelectShow

The New Mother

by Lucy Clifford


1

The children were always called Blue-Eyes and the Turkey. The elder one was like her dear father who was far away at sea; for the father had the bluest of blue eyes, and so gradually his little girl came to be called after them. The younger one had once, while she was still almost a baby, cried bitterly because a turkey that lived near the cottage suddenly vanished in the middle of the winter; and to console her she had been called by its name.

Now the mother and Blue-Eyes and the Turkey and the baby all lived in a lonely cottage on the edge of the forest. It was a long way to the village, nearly a mile and a half, and the mother had to work hard and had not time to go often herself to see if there was a letter at the post-office from the dear father, and so very often in the afternoon she used to send the two children. They were very proud of being able to go alone. When they came back tired with the long walk, there would be the mother waiting and watching for them, and the tea would be ready, and the baby crowing with delight; and if by any chance there was a letter from the sea, then they were happy indeed. The cottage room was so cosy: the walls were as white as snow inside as well as out. The baby’s high chair stood in one corner, and in another there was a cupboard, in which the mother kept all manner of surprises. (Continue Reading…)

PseudoPod 674: Dust


Dust

by Rebecca Lloyd


Much has developed since the day in April I stumbled out of the Quiet Garden with blood running freely down my cheek. The intensity that has arisen over the months cannot be quelled, and I find myself engaged now in a monstrous negotiation, the nature of which I scarcely comprehend, and one that shifts ground continually. As much as I would keep Beth naïve, I sense in her silences that she is on the edge of recognition. I am touched as much by her innocence as I am by her fierce protectiveness of me—but I would keep her in ignorance for I have yet to comprehend the matter myself. I know only that I am involved in urgent entreaty on her behalf, yet I feel my resourcefulness weakening daily. (Continue Reading…)