PseudoPod 029: Light Like Knives Dragged Across the Skin


Light Like Knives Dragged Across the Skin

by Paul Jessup


Saw grinned. “Well, come on chicken shits, let’s keep the game going. We can’t call it quits now, we are all defined by our cards in play. So smack that shit down and let’s get going.”

Saw got off on the whole thing, that much I could tell. He probably had a thick inch of wood under the table. He was in love with power, with making people do what he wanted. And now he wanted one of us to die. I guess that’s just how it goes.

PseudoPod 028: Lorna

Show Notes

Links mentioned in intro:


Lorna

by Alasdair Stuart


She leaned closer to him, conspiratorially. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he noticed her breath didn’t smell of alcohol. “You know how most people have a job?”

“Yeah?”

“I have a calling.”

He looked at her, his face carefully neutral. “And that is?”

“I’m what Guardian Angels dream of being. I protect one person from harm for their entire life, until their time has come.”

Psycho. Make your excuses. “I think I should be going.”

PseudoPod 027: My Caroline

Show Notes

Mur’s intro says this is episode 26, but the filename and webpage say it is episode 27. Who is to say which is correct? Time and arithmetic do not operate the same for PSEUDOPOD as they do for the normal world.


P.S…. J.C. Hutchins and another Pseudopod co-conspirator, Scott Sigler, were recently featured in an interesting NY Times article on podcasting and publishing. Check it out. (Registration may be required to see the article. Such is life.)


My Caroline

by Matt Wallace


I came home this evening to many strange little details. The darkness. Caroline’s open door. Caroline herself. The sole light in this beautifully rendered powdering room. I noticed all these things, but I really didn’t pay them any mind.

Now I see Caroline’s face floating in the sink, and there is nothing else on my mind.

PseudoPod 026: Flat Diane


Flat Diane

by Daniel Abraham


In the picture, Flat Diane has been taped around a wide pillar, her arms and legs bending back out of sight. A long black cloth wraps across where the eyes might be, had Ian drawn them in; a blindfold.

The man who Ian doesn’t know, has never met, is caressing a drawn-in breast. His tongue protrudes from his viciously grinning mouth, its tip flickering distance from the silhouette’s thigh. He looks not like Satan, but like someone who wishes that he were, someone trying very hard to be.

The writing on the back of the photograph is block letters, written in blue felt-tip.

It reads: Flat Diane has gone astray.

A new photograph comes every week. Some might be amusing to another person; most make him want to retch.

The best trick Hell has to play against its inmates is to whisper to them that this — this now — is the bottom. Nothing can be worse than this. And then to pull the floor away.