Pseudopod 296: The Squat


The Squat

by Sean Logan


The floor underneath him was sticky, as if it was covered in warm honey, and it made the skin on his hands and the side of face sting slightly where he’d touched it. All around him he heard the wet sounds of sliding, a thousand separate sounds, a thousand entities sliding toward him in the darkness. And all of these sounds seemed to echo down through a vast space, along with a deep, distant rumbling.

The sliding noises were closer now, and there was a wet, fleshy slapping against his feet, and creeping up his legs, under the pantlegs, thick coiling muscles, like long slugs or smooth tentacles, up and around his torso and arms, his neck and covering his face.

The old man felt himself being stretched and pulled and smothered, but the panic that had been rising in his mind was melting away. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten himself here, but for the first time in a long, long while he knew exactly where he was going. And he found comfort in that as his body and its extremities were pulled asunder.

About the Author

Sean Logan

Sean Logan lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his lovely wife and a skinny dog that is part piranha. At night he writes unpleasant stories, and in his marketing day job he also writes about scary subjects—like banking software. His stories have appeared in about two dozen publications, including ONE BUCK HORROR, the anthologies VILE THINGS and SICK THINGS, and multiple visits to Pseudopod.

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About the Narrator

James Trimarco

You might never realize, if you were not trying to record the audio to a story of about eleven thousand words that takes about an hour and fifteen minutes to read even without mistakes (and oh boy are there plenty!) how constantly dogs are barking in a place like, say, St. Petersburg, Florida. If you want an idea, well, check out next week’s story on podcastle. Or, I’m not sure if it’s going up next week. But if you listen carefully to the one I recorded, you occasionally hear dogs barking.

That reminds me of this story about a guy named Carl Weismann who was out recording bird songs for Danish State Radio. On every tape, he found himself chopping out the barking dogs. (Hmm, is that because stupid dogs are always barking, Carl?). Anyway, at the end he had this bowl of tape fragments big enough to be make-believe chips at a big party. So he started checking the pitch of each bark. Soon he found that he could arrange the individual barks to form a song. And thus, the immortal barking dogs “Pop Goes the Weasel” was born. Click here to hear them sing what appears to be “Reading and Writing and ‘Rythmatic.”

I would do that. But I’d have the dogs sing “Tainted Love” and the St. Pete dogs don’t really sing on key.

[source]

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