PseudoPod 011: Killing Jars


Killing Jars

by Matt Wallace


His three judges, each face lit by two candle flames, are suspicious, and in and around them It seizes on that suspicion. It craves blood the color of their priestly robes.

He lies, the divine’s voice sounds inside his own skull, though it is not him speaking. The devil that dwells within him spits upon the one true God’s deliverance. He will destroy you. They will see the Holy Church to ash.

“Heresy! Heresy!” Words of fervor and hot spittle that teem like maggots in the divine’s beard.

And this pious man feels the power of a tyrant, terrifying and intoxicating and It pushing him closer towards the moth-to-flame lure of that feeling. When they haul Reimbauer towards the vaulted ceiling, a gothic mockery of ascension, spiked collar around his neck peeling the top layer of flesh with every spasmodic jerk of his head, red veined salmon pink beneath.

PseudoPod 010: Turista


Turista

by Joel Arnold


” – 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


Counting From Ten

by Michael Montoure


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

Show Notes

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Indications

By Richard S. Crawford


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?