Archive for Podcasts

Flash: From Famine to Feast

Show Notes

Happy Thanksgiving, and bon appetit!


From Famine to Feast

by Stephanie Campisi


The boy’s face was a thick, fluid rendering of blowflies. They crusted his eyes like false lashes, and crawled around his chapped, broken lips, their shimmering wings vibrating against their fat black bodies. The boy’s stomach was distended; he looked like a spoon, with the bulging, swooping curve of his gut leading into his rail-thin upper body. His ribs protruded; it were as though he had swallowed a birdcage that was pushing out from within.

PseudoPod 012: Skinwalker: Deception


Skinwalker: Deception

by M.B. Nelson


Delores took a long swallow of tea. It scalded her throat, but she didn’t care. Pain was her friend now, and physical pain at least gave her the feeling she was alive, that she still continued. The cicadas hummed, the sheep bleated to be out of their pens, the dogs barked, the world went on whirling, and Monty was dead. It didn’t seem possible that this day would arrive, and now that it had she felt — what?

PseudoPod 011: Killing Jars


Killing Jars

by Matt Wallace


His three judges, each face lit by two candle flames, are suspicious, and in and around them It seizes on that suspicion. It craves blood the color of their priestly robes.

He lies, the divine’s voice sounds inside his own skull, though it is not him speaking. The devil that dwells within him spits upon the one true God’s deliverance. He will destroy you. They will see the Holy Church to ash.

“Heresy! Heresy!” Words of fervor and hot spittle that teem like maggots in the divine’s beard.

And this pious man feels the power of a tyrant, terrifying and intoxicating and It pushing him closer towards the moth-to-flame lure of that feeling. When they haul Reimbauer towards the vaulted ceiling, a gothic mockery of ascension, spiked collar around his neck peeling the top layer of flesh with every spasmodic jerk of his head, red veined salmon pink beneath.

PseudoPod 010: Turista


Turista

by Joel Arnold


” – the chicken or maybe the chocolate. Could’ve been the chocolate. Wasn’t wrapped. That’s not a good sign. That’s never a good sign.”

Portman wondered how long she had been talking. He had given up responding to her conversations earlier in the evening, shortly before the sun had finished stretching long shadows across the highway like dirty taffy. It took too much effort to talk. Too much energy to respond. He sensed that China knew this, and felt maybe she was talking to him to keep herself awake. Sometimes he was thankful for her voice, and other times it was unbearable.

He took another weak sip of water. It felt like a dull knife jabbing him in the guts. But he was dehydrated. He needed more. He took a deep breath, raised the jug to his lips and poured it down his throat. When the water hit his stomach, it was like an explosion of glass. He fell to his side gasping for air, wheezing, trying to hold the water down. The thing in his stomach –