PseudoPod 117: Deep Red


Deep Red

by Floris M. Kleijne


Blood matting her blonde hair, blood on her face, blood covering so much of her it takes a moment to see she is naked. The dream gives me an eternity to see her. Eyes wide open and shining, shining. And she grins. That grin has never stopped haunting me. In the dream, I know what she’s done in the bedroom. And I’ve never seen her happier, more exulted.

Deep Red envelopes her, emanates from her every visible pore. It’s like she has taken a bath in perfume. The scent engulfs me, blurs my mind, until I smell only that and see only her grin. Her lips part, and in the dream, she speaks two words.

“Hey, baby…” she says, and in the calm and affectionate tone of her words, the horror of the dream reaches an unbearable level.

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PseudoPod 116: Sick Day


Sick Day

by Michael Chant


As she leaves for work, my wife kisses me goodbye. It is love in the machine, passion stripped away on the assembly-line known as the workweek. Her car pulls out of the driveway, leaving me with more than an hour to kill before I have to go to work.

I empty a little plastic bag of capsules and gelcaps into my palm. These are all the vitamins a man my age should be taking. I wash them down with a glass of calcium-enriched orange juice, and then it’s time to shower. While lathering up, masturbation gets considered and rejected, the pleasure I would receive is found to be too fleeting to affect my mood. After rinsing and drying off, I pause to look at my face in the bathroom mirror. Seeing is believing — I look older than I am.

PseudoPod 115: Clockwork


Clockwork

by Trent Jamieson


Some places you visit in dreams again and again. Some places visit you. Fourteen and it found me.

I stood knee deep in grass, brittle, yellowing, summer grass. The citadel rose above me, its clockwork beat roaring in my head; gears and wheels rumbling, ticking, tocking, groaning under the weight of all that time.

On the furthest buttress from me, though I dared not look, I knew he would be there, a single figure hanging, broken-necked, spinning in short circles, dancing on the dry hot wind.

And because I was doomed, because the dream was a tide and inevitability, I walked towards the citadel.

When I was near, so close that I could almost touch it, the ground shook and the brass doors at the tower’s base flung open like the wings of an iron dragon and I stared into the guts of the machine.

PseudoPod 114: The Cellar


The Cellar

by Stephen Owen


“I’m Mr. Sinclair.” The smiling old man introduced himself. “Not too early, am I?”

“Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t interested,” said the man, ignoring Sinclair’s offer of a handshake. He was taller than Sinclair by a couple of inches, probably in his mid-forties, with cropped blond-grey hair and a permanent frown etched between tired-looking eyes.

“Didn’t they tell you?” said Sinclair, studying a piece of paper in his hand, then checking the brass door number. “I’ve come to look round your house.”

“No-one said nothing.”

“It is still for sale, isn’t it?”

“Oh sure, just wasn’t expecting…”

“Of course, I can always come back another time,” said the old man. He frowned and scratched his chin. “That would be rather inconvenient, though. I’ve come all the way from Oxford. Traffic was an absolute nightmare.”