PseudoPod 557: ‘Till the Road Runs Out

by Luciano Marano

 

Luciano Marano

“‘Till the Road Runs Out” is a Pseudopod original.

LUCIANO MARANO is a newspaper reporter, photographer and author. His award-winning reporting, both written and photographic, has appeared in numerous regional and national publications, and he made his debut as a fiction author in the recent extreme horror anthology “DOA III” (Blood Bound Books, May 2017), appearing alongside such genre icons as Jack Ketchum, Bentley Little and Edward Lee, among others. He lives near Seattle, Washington.
Learn more about him and his work at www.luciano-marano.com. He also blogs, sporadically, at citmyway101.wordpress.com.

Dave Robison

This week’s reader – Dave Robison is an avid Literary and Sonic Alchemist who pursues a wide range of creative explorations. A Brainstormer, Keeper of the Buttery Man-Voice (patent pending), Pattern Seeker, Dream Weaver, and Eternal Optimist, Dave’s efforts to boost the awesomeness of the world can be found at The Roundtable Podcast, the Vex Mosaic e-zine, and through his creative studio, Wonderthing Studios. Recently serving as vice-president for The Ed Greenwood Group (TEGG), he is currently Executive Producer at Onder Media Group, a speculative media enterprise launching in January 2017.


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Info on Anders Manga’s album (they do our theme music!) can be found here.


A solitary figure was stumbling down the dirt road, and Hicks could smell his happy ending begin to rot.

There shouldn’t be anybody out here, he thought. That’s the point of the spot. The Duke didn’t hold court in Nowhere, Alabama for the scenery. It was a lonely place a million miles from anywhere a sane person would want to be. He flicked on the high beams, recognized the wounded man and realized that as bad as he thought it might be, it was actually much worse. He threw the car into park.

“Stay here,” Hicks said to Dakota as he grabbed the pistol and got out. Before him the man fell to his knees into a widening pool of blood, squinting dazedly into the car’s lights.

Pseudopod 320: The Man With The Broken Soul

by Matt Wall



“The Man With the Broken Soul” has not been published elsewhere.



MATT WALL lives in the southeastern united states, likes dogs and dislikes being surprised from behind. He is known to frequent the forgotten corners of used book stores and coffee shops. You may see him in the corner, clutching an obscure tome in one hand and black coffee in the other. He is a solitary creature, prone to flight, but if you smile at him, he will smile back and mean it. If you look away, and look back again and he is not there, do not take offense. You see, the dread elder things that live in the depths of his imagination look so much like people that he is never sure which is which. He is currently transcribing and editing an epistolary journal from a Dark Lord of the Sith to his young apprentice that he found on his recent vacation to Tatooine. The Republic will probably want to suppress this information, but the truth will win out!.



Elie Hirschman – is your reader this week. Elie is a self-described “former aspiring voice actor” who has worked.with Darker Projects and Dream Realm Productions and is also involved in Cool Fool Productions, turning bad audio scripts into intentionally bad comedy gold. Look them up on Facebook. He doodles constantly but doesn’t draw enough and lives in the Eastern Hemisphere against his will and better judgment.



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“There was one Professor George Manson, a teacher of anthropology, whose company my mother would least have advised. He was an espoused atheist, well-known for his existentialist and humanist rhetoric. My mother, a devout Catholic, would have called him the devil himself, but she would have been wrong. I have met the devil, and George was at best a close cousin.

It was George who unwittingly opened the dark door into the unknown which I naïvely tromped through. He did so in a sense of irony, but for all his cleverness, he could not close it.

We would talk long into the night over games of chess and cups of coffee. Our discussions meandered through talk of ancient races, forgotten kingdoms, and dead languages. No topic was left untouched by our ramblings, save those too mundane for our eccentric sensibilities.

‘You remember me telling you about that turn of the century doomsday cult?’ he said.

‘The Order of Ancient Mysteries, was it? They worshipped some Sumerian demon-god. What was his name again? Etikku… Udummu…’

‘Idimmu,’ he said. ‘The word does not, of itself, indicate any specific demon. It is a generic term for a certain classification of evil spirit, but I doubt the good ‘Doctor’ Evangeline knew that, nor did any of his followers. The cult was quite popular among the university crowd.’

‘Didn’t they commit human sacrifice, have blood orgies and all that?’

‘That is the usual accusation for such occult orders,’ he said, ‘But I doubt their activities included anything more subversive than smoking opium and practicing group sex. Anyway, it so happens that I have come upon something of theirs that may be of interest to you. I know you go in for this sort of thing.’

‘Am I really that tawdry?’

He smiled, stood and retrieved a book from his shelf. ‘Have a look at this,’ he said as he sat down.”