Pseudopod 010: Turista


By Joel Arnold

Read by Jason Adams

” – 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 –

Pseudopod 009: Counting From Ten


By Michael Montoure

Read by JC Hutchins

Jack shoved his chair back, stood, backed away, turned at the last minute and carefully did not run down the hallway to the bathroom. He walked, and raided his medicine cabinet for gauze, alcohol, tape, anything that looked useful.

He came back, led Tommy over to the kitchen sink, and carefully pulled the bandages off.

Tommy’s right hand had only the ring finger and thumb left.

Pseudopod 008: Indications


By Richard S. Crawford.

Read by Paul Fischer (of the Balticon and ADD Casts).

Most days he could forget the symptoms when he got involved in his work; but the blemish on his neck preyed on his mind all morning, through the telephone calls, reports, and staff — staph? — meetings. At one point he thought about e-mailing his mother at the nursing school where she taught to describe the blemish to her. But then he thought better of the idea; even though she was used to it, he didn’t want to seem foolish if it was nothing but a pimple, after all.

Still, though. It preyed. Each time he thought about the spot, a cold stone would settle in his belly and tug at his heart, and he’d reach up, unthinking, to touch it. Was it warmer than the surrounding skin? Or was that just his imagination?

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Pseudopod 007: Drawing the Moon


By Janni Lee Simner.

Read by Jonathan Chaffin.

Once the light got in, it snaked up the walls, hundreds of little silver strands of it, and the strands wove themselves into pictures.

The pictures were of his parents. They showed Andrew the night Mom and Dad had disappeared, over and over, until the hurt in his chest got so bad he thought he would explode. He tried closing his eyes, but even through closed eyelids he could see the scenes the moon painted — all in silver, with none of Elizabeth’s colors, but sharp and real just the same. He saw Mom and Dad walking down the city street, holding hands, Elizabeth and Andrew just behind them. He saw the mugger jump out of the shadows. He saw Mom being hit and falling to the ground, where her head smashed against the pavement. He saw the knife go through Dad’s chest.

But in the pictures, Mom died of the falling, and Dad died of the stabbing. That wasn’t right at all.

The moon had stolen Andrew’s parents. So why would it draw him pictures in which that hadn’t happened, in which other things had happened instead? Andrew wondered about that for many nights before he came up with an answer.

The moon didn’t want him to know what it had done. Or now that he knew, it wanted him to forget.

Happy Friday the 13th!

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