Archive for Podcasts

PseudoPod 558: Toward the Banner of the King


by T.R. North

“Toward the Banner of the King” is a Pseudopod original.

T.R. NORTH was born and raised in Florida and has never been featured in a “News of the Weird” column run in another state. Other works of short fiction can be found in the Sediments Literary-Arts Journal, Metaphorosis, and Phantaxis. Follow on twitter @northonthegulf or their blog northonthegulf.wordpress.com for updates.

This week’s reader – Justine Eyre is a classically trained actress who has narrated over three hundred audiobooks. With a prestigious Audie Award and four AudioFile Earphones Awards under her belt, Justine is multilingual and is known for her great facility with accents. She has appeared on stage in leading roles in King Lear and The Crucible, and has starring roles in four films on the indie circuit. Her recent television credits include Two and a Half Men and Mad Men.


Thanks to our sponsor, ARCHIVOS – a Story Mapping and Development Tool for writers, gamers, and storytellers of all kinds!


Info on Anders Manga’s album (they do our theme music!) can be found here.


In times past I often dreamt I was driving a carriage through the deserted streets of an alien city. In spite of the strangeness of the city, it seemed utterly familiar to me; in spite of the utter waste it presented, whenever I paused, passengers would appear and alight.

They were all masked, as was I. Communication between us was unnecessary, as there was only one fit destination in the whole of the city. They were dressed in fine clothing, but it had the air of costume, and I could find nothing of their true condition in it.

No matter how many passengers I took on, the carriage never filled.

No matter how long I drove, we never drew so close as to see the crest on the yellow banners adorning the distant towers.

PseudoPod 557: ‘Till the Road Runs Out


by Luciano Marano

 

Luciano Marano

“‘Till the Road Runs Out” is a Pseudopod original.

LUCIANO MARANO is a newspaper reporter, photographer and author. His award-winning reporting, both written and photographic, has appeared in numerous regional and national publications, and he made his debut as a fiction author in the recent extreme horror anthology “DOA III” (Blood Bound Books, May 2017), appearing alongside such genre icons as Jack Ketchum, Bentley Little and Edward Lee, among others. He lives near Seattle, Washington.
Learn more about him and his work at www.luciano-marano.com. He also blogs, sporadically, at citmyway101.wordpress.com.

Dave Robison

This week’s reader – Dave Robison is an avid Literary and Sonic Alchemist who pursues a wide range of creative explorations. A Brainstormer, Keeper of the Buttery Man-Voice (patent pending), Pattern Seeker, Dream Weaver, and Eternal Optimist, Dave’s efforts to boost the awesomeness of the world can be found at The Roundtable Podcast, the Vex Mosaic e-zine, and through his creative studio, Wonderthing Studios. Recently serving as vice-president for The Ed Greenwood Group (TEGG), he is currently Executive Producer at Onder Media Group, a speculative media enterprise launching in January 2017.


Thanks to our sponsor, ARCHIVOS – a Story Mapping and Development Tool for writers, gamers, and storytellers of all kinds!


Info on Anders Manga’s album (they do our theme music!) can be found here.


A solitary figure was stumbling down the dirt road, and Hicks could smell his happy ending begin to rot.

There shouldn’t be anybody out here, he thought. That’s the point of the spot. The Duke didn’t hold court in Nowhere, Alabama for the scenery. It was a lonely place a million miles from anywhere a sane person would want to be. He flicked on the high beams, recognized the wounded man and realized that as bad as he thought it might be, it was actually much worse. He threw the car into park.

“Stay here,” Hicks said to Dakota as he grabbed the pistol and got out. Before him the man fell to his knees into a widening pool of blood, squinting dazedly into the car’s lights.

PseudoPod 556: Evitative


by B.C. Edwards

 

B.C. Edwards

“Evitative” is the titular and ultimate story of The Aversive Clause, the collection of stories that also included, ‘Sweetness,’ which ran as Pseudopod episode 445.

B.C. EDWARDS is the author of two books,The Aversive Clause and From The Standard Cyclopedia of Recipes. He has written for Mathematics Magazine, Hobart, The New York Times, and others. His debut story collection, which this is the titular story of, was awarded the Hudson Prize for fiction and received a poetry fellowship from the New York Foundation of the Arts. He attended the graduate writing program at The New School in New York and lives in Brooklyn with his husband.

His website bce.nyc totally exists, but that’s really all that should be said about it. It’s in desperate need of a redo.

Says Edwards: “I’ve been listening to audial fiction for longer than I’ve been listening to
music. I ‘read’ Moby Dick, Huckleberry Finn, Treasure Island, the works of Issac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Stephen King, and countless others in this form starting around four and continuing onto today. My work is always written with the intention of being read aloud. So it’s really something to have a pair of stories in your archive. Thanks for keeping both horror and the spoken word going strong at the same time.”

This week’s reader – Dani Daly – is one of the assistant editors of Cast of Wonders, and narrating is just one of the things she loves to do. She’s a retired roller derby player and current hobbyist soap maker, for instance. She rants on twitter as @danooli_dani, if that’s your thing. Or you can visit the EA forums. She loves it there.


Shawn Garrett composed the soundbed for this episode, which he dedicates to master avant-garde musicians/field recorders Annea Lockwood & Chris Watson. A list of links to sounds used from Freesound.org appears at the bottom of this post.


Thanks to our sponsor, ARCHIVOS – a Story Mapping and Development Tool for writers, gamers, and storytellers of all kinds!


Info on Anders Manga’s album (they do our theme music!) can be found here.


Once the oceans came up and covered the streets over it was like they weren’t ever there. No streets or dead Camaros or boys that abandon you when things get flooded and break down. There were just the tall trees with the high branches and water everywhere and the smudge of mountains I can see off on the horizon if I climb all the way to the top of the tree we use for looking at things. The water filled in all the gaps and erased our telemarketing jobs and our high-heels and the clubs we wore them to. But we’re safe up here, on the little platform Jo-Jo built in the trees. He found me wandering in the muck, cold and alone and his was the first face that I’d seen in forever that didn’t look scared or desperate or tired. The first one since the water and the bombs and all who didn’t try to take one more thing from me, didn’t try to steal me away or trick me into anything. Jo-Jo just smiled and his eyes smiled too and even though he’d lost his words already I knew he meant well. And he showed me how to climb the trees and get up to his platform where there’s nothing to do but climb around, eat the berries and the appleish things that dangle off the branches like Christmas ornaments and screw all afternoon long and laze about watching the world disappear. Jo-Jo catches the birds that build their nests and try to eat our fruit, and then we eat the birds too. That’s about all we do.

That’s about all the kid in my belly will do, too. But the kid won’t know any different. It won’t think there was ever something other than the trees and the muck and the water and the men who come by every now and again in their canoes and their ugly paddles and their terrible broken whispers.

You can’t go down there; those men will eat you.


SOUNDBED SOURCES
48558__crk365__birds-23dec07-spesh
278213__fundamental-harmonics__ban-doi-insects-night-time-02
320173__arnaud-coutancier__night-insects
65288__acclivity__cicadasplus

PseudoPod 555: Four Hours of a Revolution


by Premee Mohamed

 

Premee Mohamed
“Four Hours of a Revolution” is a Pseudopod Original.

PREMEE MOHAMED is an Indo-Caribbean scientist and spec fic writer based in Canada. Her work has been published by Nightmare Magazine, Martian Migraine Press, Third Flatiron Press, and others.

She tries to post thoughts and discussions on her website, www.premeemohamed.com , so she will be writing a bit about this story as well as upcoming stories and any novel news there. And she would like to assure you that she survived the encounter with the creature in the grey shirt in the author photo.

Says Premee: “I’ll probably talk about this a bit on my website, but the entire story was inspired by the poster in the room where Death first begins his vigil of Whittaker, the teenage rebel. The poster was in turn inspired by a Tumblr thread I once saw about sleepy punks. I kept thinking about a city abandoned and overrun, and the only people left are, basically, punks too: exhausted but still fighting, people who trust each other and whose trust forms the basis of this story.”

This week’s reader – Ian Stuart – is a writer/performer living in York. He has done work for the BBC and Manx Radio, as well as audiobooks, historical guides and promotional videos. He is also a storyteller/guide for The Ghost Trail of York, taking tourists round the city and telling them some of its darker secrets. You can read more about his poetry and his dog, Digby, on his blog, The Top Banana. If you wish to contact Ian about v/o work of any kind , you can get in touch with him on Twitter at @yorkwriter99. His greatest boast is that he is the father of a famous son.


Info on Anders Manga’s album (they do our theme music!) can be found here.


Rebels, like vampires, prowl by night, sleep by day; they are short on everything in the besieged city – bullets, socks, soap, bread – but mainly they are short of sleep, for they fight under starlight, hide under sun in secret places. And yet their enemies are most vulnerable at night when, like all good civil servants, they retire to their houses and lock their doors. Until they swap schedules neither side will eliminate the other.

So the revolution is easy enough to find as I whisper up the wall of the apartment complex, slide under the half-inch of space left by the open window. They will not open it further, even though the little boarded-up living room is intolerably hot. As it is, they sweat profusely in their sleep, even the lucky few shaded by the walls.

One has, deliberately I assume, curled up in an armchair under a poster reading ‘PUNK ISN’T DEAD BUT IT WOZ UP AWFUL LATE LAST NITE.’ On the poster, two men sleep in a train seat, cartoonishly rendered in hot primaries on a black ground. The rebel in the armchair echoes their pose, but instead of a tired friend she cradles a stolen police rifle, its distinctive silver finish oversprayed with matte black paint, the camera blocked with a glued-in coin. The police carry them proudly, counting on the reflected glare to carry their message far ahead of them; the rebels carry them only at night, counting on stealth.

It is this girl, Whittaker, in the armchair, in this war, that I am here to claim. In due time, as is her right and my duty. For I am Death.