Archive for Podcasts

PseudoPod 049: Big Boy


Big Boy

by Ron McGillvray

 


Peter finally came across a channel which had a video of the smoke he’d seen, rising in the air. He looked at the TV screen in wonder as flames shot out from within the smoke. Must be a doozy, he thought as he stood mesmerized in front of the TV.

A young woman appeared on the screen with the smoke as her backdrop. She held a microphone and seemed about to speak but instead looked back at the fire as if it might be sneaking up on her. Peter thought to himself what a cool job that must be. He thought that maybe it might be something he’d like to do when he got older. He looked over his shoulder to see if any of the kids had decided to follow him in but the coast was clear.

“From where I’m standing, I can easily feel the heat of the fire,” a woman’s voice said.

PseudoPod 048: The Disciple


The Disciple

by David Barr Kirtley

 


Professor Carlton Brose was evil, and I adored him as only a freshman can. I spent the first miserable semester at college watching him, studying the way he would flick away a cigarette butt, or how he would arch his eyebrow when he made a point. I mimicked these small things compulsively. I don’t know why, because it wasn’t the small things that drew me to him at all. It was the big things, the stories people told as far away as dear old Carolina.

You heard the name Brose if you ran with any cults, and I ran with a few. Society rejected us, so we rejected them. The more things you give up, the less there is to bind your will. There’s power there. We were sure of it. But that power was damned elusive.

PseudoPod 047: Akropolis


Akropolis

by Matt Wallace


Danneth is thirty-six and he still dreams of it. Five of them entered the Akropolis that night. It should’ve been hot, but the stone was cold when they touched it. They wandered the empty city for hours before finally making the trek up the long, steep steps. They made their way to the highest chamber, a fortified structure surrounded by battlements crowned with twisted, unrecognizable shapes. It was empty, too. They found a room with veined walls, lines thick and twisting like petrified kudzu. The strange runes that they would come to know as runati surrounded the throne-like chair with its stone skull cap, the dome designed to open heads and burn the runati into brains.

Somehow it spoke to Danneth’s father. What it later took the scientists months to begin to decipher, the old man knew that first night. But he let them fumble with it, allowed them to study it, to begin to expose it to the world. He let them believe he was a simple farmer just happy to have made first contact with such a discovery. And when the time came that their inept ministrations were of no more use, he, the simple farmer, ejected the government from the Akropolis.

PsuedoPod 046: The Hanging at Christmas Bridge


The Hanging at Christmas Bridge

by David E. Hilton


A mosquito bit him promptly on the neck behind his left ear and upon giving it a good smack, George Steckholm realized with utter terror that he simply was not dreaming. He was in his car, in the heart of the night, and he was idling motionless in the middle of the dew-streaked road, idling, idling, in front of Christmas Bridge.

In the cream-colored passenger seat laid an object. One that made him turn away immediately, still half hoping that he’d see Catherine, lying beside him in their bed. The confusion was the worst part, the grogginess, the spinning motion in his head and in his stomach that made him want to both pass out and be sick at the same time.

“No. No . . . I never purchased that. Never bought such a thing. Not at all. Did I?” He whispered everything to himself in a manner that suggested sharp denial. Yet the large bundle of rope remained, sitting there so innocently, but something deep inside George knew better than to believe there was anything innocent about it.