PseudoPod 067: Memories of the Knacker’s Yard


Memories of the Knacker’s Yard

by Ian Creasey


“How long have we had this one?” I asked, shivering in the morgue’s chill.

“Two days,” the white-coat guy said. I didn’t know his name. I try to remember the lab people and support staff, but turnover’s too high. This line of work burns people out faster than a crematorium on overtime.

“What did you leave it that long for?” I said, annoyed. “Waiting for the killer to turn himself in?”

“We were waiting for the ghost to show up,” he said.

I shook my head in disgust. “Look, when someone’s been murdered, they want us on the case. If their ghost doesn’t turn up in twenty-four hours, that’s because it can’t.”

That was the problem. If a ghost complains that it’s just been murdered, it can help us by describing the killer, or at least telling us about its enemies. Investigating a murder without a ghost is much harder. The slashing was the third this month, all without ghosts, and the eighth this year. Or was it the ninth?

Hell, when you lose count of the corpses, you know you’re losing.

PseudoPod 066: Finding Allison

Show Notes

Links mentioned: The Fix


Finding Allison

by Glen Krisch


Disarming and cruel. Two words could sum up Allison’s smile, and that’s all he had left of her. Her smile hid right behind his eyes, pushing at his brain like a tumor — that angled, curt, and thick-lipped smile. Even the day before she left, they seemed collectively twined together, a seamless mass of flesh, two shadows of one body. Now he was alone with a gun in his lap.

PseudoPod 065: Doghead


Doghead

by Craig A. Strickland


She felt polarized with excitement and fatigue, and her hot eyes suddenly brimmed with tears as they scanned the room, at the dusty wine bottles in the rack in the corner. At the tiny T.V. on the nightstand, at the refrigerator magnets; little cartoon pigs holding scraps of coupons and phone numbers. Finally, at the window, half-closed blinds revealing only the Toyota’s front wheels resting on the parking lot, five feet higher and right outside.

Something dripped under the car. Steadily. Almost – a trickle. If that was oil she had a hell of a problem.

Flash: Why I Hate Cake


Why I Hate Cake

by Paul Mannering


We ate things on dares too. A particular favorite was the larvae of a winged beetle called the Huhu Bug. These grubs grow to about the size of your thumb and they eat dead wood so they taste almost exactly like peanut butter doesn’t.

I always liked to fry mine first, having seen a friend run around screaming with one of these blind maggots attached to his lip with its wood munching mandibles when he tried to eat one raw.