Archive for Flash

Flash: Stepfathers


by Grady Hendrix

Read by Nerraux

He’d spent his free period reading up on the Lurker at the Threshold, the All-in-One and the One-in-All, the Opener of the Way, and now he tried to detect the signs of Its presence. But nothing smelt like the stench of the grave. No hideous ichor was seeping out from underneath his bedroom door. The upstairs hall was painted the same robin’s egg blue that it’d always been and it was not suffocating beneath an encrustation of poisonous mold that glowed a deathly, bioluminescent green. He took a deep breath and opened the door to his bedroom. Yog-Sothoth sat at the end of his bed, absorbed in Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater 4.

“Hey,” Billy said, dropping his book bag.

“Hold on,” Yog-Sothoth said without looking up. “I have almost… accomplished my… Pro Challenge.”

Happy Father’s Day!

PseudoPod 141: Flash on the Borderlands I

Show Notes

Theme music as usual: “Bloodletting on the Kiss” by Anders Manga
Additional music in this episode: rare rendition of “LabRatB” by Harmaline

“Jordan, When Are You Going to Settle Down, Get Married and Have Us Some Children?” first appeared online in The Harrow Vol. 11 No. 6, 2008.

“Thinking About Polar Bears” is a PseudoPod original.

“Exit Exam, Section III: Survival Skills, Question #7” first appeared online at Pindeldyboz, September 25, 2005.

Three flash fiction stories in one gut churning episode.

“Jordan, when are you going to settle down, get married and have us some children?”

By J.R. Hamantaschen

Beth, my most recent girlfriend, said I look like a hanged man when I walk because I always stare down at my feet.

Thinking About Polar Bears

By Mike Battista

I wake up exhausted. I hadn’t slept well. My heart still beats quickly; the aftermath of vaguely remembered dreams.

Exit Exam, Section III: Survival Skills, Question #7

by David Erik Nelson

7a) You are a werewolf. You kill and eat people. You are a vicious animal.

Flash: Rosemary Lane

By Kate Kelly

Read by Alasdair Stuart

I could see the fear in her eyes, and I drew back into the thickets of thorns and nettles, watching her. She was the first person I had seen in the lane for many years, one of the village children, one of the innocents. I did not wish to frighten her, and I felt my loneliness rush in on me like a tide. But she fled, a scrabble of scuffed shoes on the loose stones and she was gone, running through the meadow grass and buttercups, scattering the sheep in her haste. I drifted back into the shadows and wallowed in remorse.

The girl must have told them about me, for the children came back, the boys leading the way, goading, teasing, daring each other to be brave, the girls hanging back in the long grass. They came up to the bank, laughing, throwing stones into the shadows; but stones can’t hurt me, not any more.

Flash: Scarecrow

Show Notes

Music by Harmaline


by Michele Lee

Home? it asks, clothed in black feathers and flesh. A winged messenger come to carry me home.

Yes! I cry silently. I turn towards it, trying to pull my arms from the wooden posts that bind them. The voice caws out in fear, then vanishes in a black blur into the sun.

Another one gone. I’ve lost count, and the math doesn’t matter any more.

They killed me I suppose. That pair of walking pools of hate. What else could have happened? I suppose I’d cry, if I could. If my tear ducts weren’t ash mixed with the glue remains of my eyes.

Flash: Daily Double

Show Notes

Happy Father’s Day!

Daily Double

by Kevin Carey

“Promise me,” she says.

“I promise.”

“I mean it, Eddie. Blow this and it’s over.”

“Come here,” I say and put my arm around her. “It’s all going to be cool. Trust me.” I slide a finger over the two small welts on her neck. “Still hurt?”


“See, I told you, a couple of days.”

For a moment her face softness, then she snaps, “Eleven o’clock. He’s coming right from the airport.”

“Eleven sharp,” I say with a salute. Then I kiss her. A long, lip-locked, eyes closed, reassuring, don’t-sweat-it-kid-kiss. I feel the tiny tips of her teeth against my lips.

She flashes a quick smile. “Where are you going?”

“I may go down for the double, stay a few races.”

“The dogs, Eddie?”

“Just to kill some time, before I have to deal with the Gestapo.”

“He’s not that bad. He just thinks he is.”

I kiss her on the cheek and head for the door.

“Please don’t screw this up Eddie.”

“You have my word,” I say.

Flash Fiction: The Little Match Girl

The Little Match Girl

by Angela Slatter

The walls are a hard patchwork of rough stones. In some places, there’s the dark green of moss, birthed by moisture and the breath of fear. In others there’s nothing but black. Soot from torches has gathered so thickly that I could scratch my name into it, if I knew how to write. The floor wears scattered straw for a coat, stinking and old. No natural light comes into this place, there’s not even a window, the aperture bricked up long ago so no one could flee. And it stinks; the waste bucket sits festering in the corner.

I haven’t seen a mirror in weeks, so I conjure my face in my mind: pale skin, green eyes, black hair. Almost against my will, I superimpose the marks of my stay: dirty smudges on the skin, the eyes red-rimmed, the hair a storm cloud of filth. I try to smooth the ghostly suffering away, try to see my eighteen year old face as it was, but it’s no use. I’m forever marked. I close my eyes, tightly.
In my hand, a weight. A matchbox, silver and hard. Inside are four matches with the power to show me the moments when my life turned, when doors opened and closed, and my path changed forever. I open the matchbox and strike the first match.

Flash Fiction: The Closet

The Closet

by Barton Paul Levenson

London, 1847. A tall, thin young man came into a shop and nervously removed his top hat. Snow fell silently in the streets as the sun went down. The cobbled street held no carriages or other pedestrians.

The proprietor stood behind the counter. He was taller and fatter than the young man. He had jowls, and hair that was black on top and white in the sideburns. “And what may I do for you today, sir?”

The young man gulped and fidgeted with his hat for a moment. Then he seemed to grow calm. “I am here to see about a closet,” he said firmly.

Flash Fiction: Secret Boxes

Show Notes

Music by love is nothing. (featuring Bill Abdale and Lee Bartow)

Secret Boxes

by Jerome Dent

Samuel found the secret of the death of the universe in a box. The box was small and plain, with a corked opening, like a jack in the box without a handle. Samuel forgot how he’d gotten the box before he even got home, the facts smothered and dismantled in a haze. All he thinks he knows is that there was a tree involved, sun-bleached to a moth-white with gnarled branches, fruit with eggshell skin that burst and bled crimson at the touch, a man who had misplaced his heart, and something very painfully white or made of light. But he could have picked it up at Jericho’s. Much more likely, some knickknack impulse buy that’ll prompt his roommate to ask for Samuel’s half of the rent, again.