Author Archive

PseudoPod 167: Love Like Thunder

Show Notes

For further Coyote Tales, please check out:

Reservation Monsters
“The Dreaming Way”
and “The Shooting Way” in “The Trio Of Terror”

Love Like Thunder

by Jim Bihyeh

After he pitched his nylon tent in a nearby juniper grove at the base of the hill, he slept until moonrise. Then, under the pale light, he unfolded his steel trench-shovel and walked uphill toward the cemetery, looking for love.

Three fresh granite tombstones glinted with new sand mounded before them; the last resting place for three of the Ganado students killed that week. Dondo noted them as he searched for older love. Deeper love.

He found it at a medium-sized granite tombstone next to a clump of rabbit brush. The name read: “Elinore Tsosie,” born April 19 1933, died November 18, 2004. 71 years old. Perfect.

Dondo squatted over his haunches beside the grave, holding his hands over the sandy earth like he was warming himself beside a campfire. He pinched sand from the base of the tombstone, tasted it, then spat to the north. Here was love. He dug.

PseudoPod 166: Something There Is

Something There Is

by Joe Nazare

As if reading Montresor’s thoughts, Luchesi reached down toward his feet; his hand came back proffering a long-necked bottle. “Here,” he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, after shooting a look towards the palazzo’s attendant-less hallway. “Medoc — what I just happen to have handy with me, you understand. But it should serve as a worthy substitute.”


“In your sleep, just now: you were calling out for Amontillado.”

Vestiges of his nightmare shrouded Montresor’s thoughts. Dry-mouthed, he attempted to swallow nonetheless. “You must have misheard me, I’m sure.”

PseudoPod 165: The Copse

The Copse

by Robert Mammone

A woman carrying a tray of drinks emerged from the kitchen. She was tall and spare and the loose clothing she wore only accentuated the impression. Sarah noted with alarm the condition of her hands, all knobbed joints and cracked skin. Setting the tray down, the woman looked at each of them, her head bobbing birdlike on a thin neck.

“This is my wife, Margaret,” Standish vaguely waved a hand in her direction. Sarah thought her eyes distant. Sarah extended a hand and Margaret responded. The woman’s hand was rough, like bark. The grip was limp, and Sarah was glad to let it drop. Margaret’s lips parted in a blank smile, revealing a set of large, blunt teeth stained a remarkable shade of brown.

“Would you like a drink?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

PseudoPod 163: I Am Your Need

I Am Your Need

by Mort Castle

Read by Sarah Tolbert and Ben Phillips

Marilyn Monroe lies naked and dying.

You can see it there, at that spot on her forehead where electrolysis permanently removed her widow’s peak. Just beneath the skin’s surface, a blue black flower grows.

It is Death.

There is the promise of finality in her every tentative breath, the sporadic sighings, the intimation of ending.

Marilyn Monroe is dying.

I am her death.