Archive for Podcasts

PseudoPod 056: Crab Apple


Crab Apple

by Patrick Samphire


“Josh.” His voice was hoarse, like he’d been shouting.

“How are you doing, Dad?” I tried to stop my voice shaking. I didn’t want to seem like a kid.

“Been better, been worse.” He worked his lips, as though his mouth was dry. “See, the old devil’s put his hand into my chest, lad. Left a bit of a gift for me.”

He coughed. His thin chest shuddered. He turned and spat into a metal bowl by his bed. The spit was thick and threaded with blood. He gave me a painful grin.

PseudoPod 055: Dead Dog


Dead Dog

by Nicholas Ozment


Joel Coker was doing 72 in a 55, his mind re-playing the shouting match he’d had with his mistress earlier that evening, when the dog ran out in front of his car.

“God Christ Almighty!” His knuckles turned white squeezing the steering wheel; his foot pumped the brake. He’d conditioned himself not to swerve for animals in the road — he knew better than to risk crashing into a ditch to save a raccoon or somebody’s cat.

He was still going 40 when the jarring thump came. The dog stood as tall as they come, and the low front-end of the Civic caught it in the upward arc of its loping run, flipping it up onto the hood. The dog’s body came rolling at him, slamming into the windshield directly in front of his face.

PseudoPod 054: Toothache


Toothache

by James Maddox


He tongued the tooth and felt the slick little slivers that protruded from the cavities in his molar. He’d done this to himself, letting it get as bad as it was, he knew that, and he was about to end it himself as well; no Dr. Lynch needed. Clamp, pull, and no more troubles.

As soon as the metal touched his teeth he had to pause.

Pain filled the empty hole his doubt had created. John held a breath and tightened again on the tooth. He started pulling, slowly at first, to see what he was up against, but decided that the forceful approach was the best.

PseudoPod 053: The Apple Tree Man


The Apple Tree Man

by Joel Arnold


I hope my son doesn’t notice how fidgety I’ve become. I want him to live a normal life. I want him to grow up healthy. Isn’t that the hope of every father?

He takes a bite and I hear the squish of his teeth in the apple’s pulp. As the nausea builds in me, the world swivels on one big spindle, and I can’t help but turn to look.

His face is covered with blood.

He takes another bite and I feel the world falling out from under me.

More blood spurts from the apple, splattering his chin, his neck, drenching his yellow tee-shirt with it.

He looks up at me. Smiling. Chewing.