PseudoPod 113: Furnace Room Lullaby

Show Notes

Sound design and score by Lee M. Bartow (featuring music by love is nothing. and Navicon Torture Technologies). Recorded and constructed at Leechnest Breeding Facilities Summer-Autumn 2008.


Furnace Room Lullaby

by Leah Bobet


The house off Weathervane Street came old, but not haunted.

It came with bright red brick walls on the outside, cherry-paneled floors on the inside, plaster that weeps moisture in the summer that plinks into a hundred dented pots. It came with cats that drink the water, wander in and out of the house, vanish into the weedy yard at dusk. It came old and weeping, rafters twisted, foundation long settled and scented with earth.

Isabelle made it haunted, and so she still lives in the house.

PseudoPod 112: Periods


Periods

By Florence Ann Marlowe

Read by Damaris Mannering


“It’s going on three weeks, now.”

“Mmm-hmmm. And there’s no chance of you being pregnant?”

“Oh, no!” Nancy shook her head. “I haven’t even been with a guy in a long time.”

“Good.” Doctor Mason stood up, his eyes still glued to Nancy’s chart. He flashed her a quick smile. “One less thing to worry about.”

Nancy nodded. “So what could it be?”

The doctor seemed lost in thought. He pressed the butt end of his pen to his teeth. He then quickly shifted his seat, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs. Nancy suppressed an impatient sigh.

“I know exactly what it is,” he said finally.

Nancy was surprised. “Oh.”

PseudoPod 111: Radiodemonology


Radiodemonology

by John Medaille


Okay.

I first discovered the existence of the human soul while examining the x-ray of a broken clavicle of an ugly boy named Peter Demetrios. Peter, who was the kind of kid I think of as a fly-torturing, spaghettio-bellied, dirty-fingernailed, nose-picking little crap of a little boy, had landed on a trampoline wrong and sustained a multiply displaced comminuted fracture of the collar bone.

PseudoPod 110: Spurling’s Virus


Spurling’s Virus

by Michael Savastano


A tiny slit in the yellow protective suit killed her.

Ridley Means slammed down the quarantine lever, locking the room that would soon become Joella Henney’s tomb. Pale blue warning lights flashed. Joella swerved toward the window and peered with panicked eyes. Her head darted to each side, inspecting her body, arms outstretched.

She won’t see it. You never see the one that gets you.

She charged toward Ridley. The coiled air hose straightened behind her. Her gloved hands laid flat against the glass. She mouthed something. It looked like, “Please.”