Archive for Stories

Pseudopod 004: Returning My Sister’s Face


By Eugie Foster.

Read by Stephen Eley.

Mother sat bolt upright and stared at Oiwa. “Where is your face?” she cried.

Oiwa reached a hand to her cheek. “I-It is at the front of my head, where it always is.”

“No, only half of it,” Mother replied. She glared at me. “I pledge you to return the other half of your sister’s face. Swear it, Yasuo!”

Pseudopod 003: Little Boy Leg Bone


By Richard Warren.

Read by JC Hutchins.

And Myrriden watched, perched on the dresser. Jack saw him through the corner of his eye. A tall man, tall like Daddy, but his legs and arms weren’t right–long and thin, they reminded Jack of spiders.

Myrriden held a flute to his lips. White, bone white. A leg bone, Jack knew that. Little Boy Leg Bone. The soft music sounded like wind through dry leaves and the distant cry of dogs. It made Jack’s shins ache.

Pseudopod 002: Good Advice


By Richard E. Dansky.

Read by Matthew Wayne Selznick.

“You got beaten up a lot as a kid, didn’t you?”

That’s what Jerry Brower asked me, and the entire Central Carolina Writers’ Workshop burst into nervous laughter.

I looked up from the short sketch I’d been reading from and turned to face my questioner. Jerry Brower sat at the end of the table, down past a gauntlet of laughing faces. He, at least, wasn’t laughing, and for that I was silently, desperately grateful. I nodded to him, slowly.

He nodded back. The laughter stopped.

Pseudopod 001: Bag Man


 

Bag Man

by Scott Sigler


I swallowed. I didn’t want this to happen. I knew the game. Bag Man always called the cops and gave them a code. He gave that same code to the victim. Even after two years of killings, the fucking cranks were still calling 9-1-1, claiming the Bag Man had called them and that they needed protection. His codes solved that problem. He was a damn courteous kid.

Thing was, the codes became more of a warning to the cops than a way to separate out the sick, attention-starved loonies. The cops wanted to confirm Bag Man’s targets — not so they could stop him, but so they could stay the hell out of his way.