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PseudoPod 333: Gig Marks

“Gig Marks” was first published in LUCHA GORE: SCARES FROM THE SQUARED CIRCLE (Cruentus Libri Press – Kevin G. Bufton, ed.). Links to order the anthology can be found here. “I wrote it specifically for submission to that anthology, and it has not been reprinted since its original publication. If, when you think of professional wrestling, it brings to mind imagery of the WWE playing to packed arenas on television, replete with all the glitz and showmanship of a rock concert, set those thoughts aside. Wrestling’s independent scene is a different animal entirely, taking place in school gyms, armories, and VFW halls, These are the proving grounds for those who break their bodies and spill their sweat and blood for a shot at their dreams and little else. All too often, that opportunity never arrives, but that doesn’t stop the desperate belief that one day it might…”

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 40:48 — 28.1MB)

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Gig Marks

by Ed Ferrara

The second I hear the sick pop of Carlos’ skull hitting the wooden gymnasium floor, I know the Kid is somewhere in the stands.

I scramble off the apron to check on Carlos. He isn’t moving. I didn’t see it happen, although the panicked look on Jesse’s face tells me everything I need to know. The jacked-up idiot wasn’t in his spot to catch the plancha, and Carlos went straight down on his melon. That’s why I leave flip-flop-flyin’ to these younger guys. Hard enough getting my big ass over my head—which I can do if the payday is worth it—but I’m gonna make damn sure I’ve got the right guy to take it and protect me. And not for a fifty-dollar spot show, either. And this is exactly why.

“Where the fuck were you?” I ask Jesse. He is supposed to be my partner tonight. At this point I’m hot and don’t give a shit about kayfabe. The show is pretty much over now anyway. The EMTs are already at ringside, checking on Carlos, and the match can’t continue until they are done. It’s a good thing most buildings require medics to be present, because you know goddamn well the promoters wouldn’t shell out for them if they didn’t have to.

Jesse looks at me, his eyes as wide as his gaping mouth. He knows he was wrong, that it’s his fault. He hasn’t moved, standing a full three feet away from the crumpled body. He was that same three feet away when Carlos sailed over the top rope. If Jesse had only closed that gap, this match would still be going on. The greenhorn didn’t even think to rush forward right after the botch, making it look like maybe Carlos undershot his leap. Nope—he’s frozen in place, a guilty statue, the short distance between him and the broken figure on the floor as damning as any smoking gun. No doubt about it—this one’s on Jesse.

As the EMTs strap Carlos into a neckbrace, onto a backboard, I can’t help stealing a quick glimpse at the bleachers. I scan around for the Kid, just to satisfy my morbid curiosity. I don’t see him. Doesn’t matter, though—I can feel him. Somewhere close.

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PseudoPod 332: Willow Tests Well

“Willow Tests Well” was first published in the anthology PSYCHOS: SERIAL KILLERS, DEPRAVED MADMEN, AND THE CRIMINALLY INSANE, edited by John Skipp, which was published in September 2012.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 29:29 — 20.3MB)

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Willow Tests Well

by Nick Mamatas

Tenth birthday: greeting cards from the CIA and NSA. Willow had scored ridiculously well on the Race to the Top tests, and even discovered the instructions for and answered the questions in the secret test integrated into the exam. Questions like

What does the old saying “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush” mean?”

a. birds are unpleasant because they need to be cared for

b. it’s better to own something than risk what you have for a potential reward

c. if you have a bird in your hand, you can squeeze it, you can kill it…

d. possession is nine-tenths of the law

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PseudoPod 331: The Ninth Skeleton

“The Ninth Skeleton” was first published in a 1928 issue of the Weird Tales. Most recently, the story was republished in THE END OF THE STORY: VOLUME ONE OF THE COLLECTED FANTASIES OF CLARK ASHTON SMITH – the first of six definitive volumes of Smith’s collected work published by Night Shade Books of San Francisco, from which this episode’s approved text was taken (and thanks to both Night Shade and the Smith Estate). To purchase this or other volumes of Smith, please visit them at the link: Night Shade Books – and tell them Pseudopod sent ya!

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 18:28 — 12.8MB)

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Show Notes

Clark Ashton-Smith’s work is comprehensively discussed on the informative podcast The Double Shadows and the lovingly detailed website The Eldritch Dark. Please check them both out – you wont regret it.

The Ninth Skeleton

by Clark Ashton Smith

It was beneath the immaculate blue of a morning in April that I set out to keep my appointment with Guenevere. We had agreed to meet on Boulder Ridge, at a spot well known to both of us, a small and circular field surrounded with pines and full of large stones, midway between her parents’ home at Newcastle and my cabin on the north-eastern extremity of the Ridge, near Auburn.

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PseudoPod 330: Flash On The Borderlands XV: At Your Service!

PseudoPod 330: Flash On The Borderlands XV: At Your Service! is a PseudoPod original.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 29:43 — 20.5MB)

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Show Notes

Do you feel an implicit threat in the query “How May I Help You?”

“Last Waltz in Texas” originally appeared in Necrotic Tissue #10 and was reprinted in THE BEST OF NECROTIC TISSUE.

“Sterile” and “Meat” are PseudoPod originals.

“Last Waltz in Texas”

by Bryce Albertson

“Hey there, cowboy. Have a seat.” (Continue Reading…)

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PseudoPod 329: Red Rubber Gloves

“Red Rubber Gloves” is presented here through the kind courtesy of her literary executor, Jean-Michel Rabaté, who has allowed us to produce this story.

“Red Rubber Gloves” was originally read by your editor in the late 1970s (when he was a small lad) in a collection called TALES OF UNEASE edited by John Burke and published in 1966. The book was a tie in to a soon-forgotten, and now seemingly lost, regional television anthology horror show of the same name that ran on London Weekend Television.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 40:02 — 27.6MB)

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Red Rubber Gloves

by Christine Brooke-Rose

In the kitchen window of the right-hand house the panel of two squares over two over two over two is open to reveal a· black rectangle and the beginning of the gleaming sink. Inside the sink is a red plastic bowl and on the window-sill are the red rubber gloves, now at rest.

In the morning the sunlight slants on all the windows, reflecting gold in some of the black squares but not in others, making each rectangular window, with its eight squares across and four squares down, look like half a chessboard gone berserk in order to confuse the queen and both her knights.

In the black rectangle of the open kitchen window the sunlight gleams on the stainless steel double sink unit, just beyond the cream-painted frame. Above the gleaming sink the red rubber gloves move swiftly, rise from the silver greyness lifting a yellow mass, plunging it into greyness, lifting it again, twisting its tail, shifting it to the right-hand. sink, moving back left, vanishing into greyness, rising and moving swiftly, in and out, together and apart.

On closer scrutiny I can see that in the left-hand house the wooden frames of the thirty-two black squares, eight by four in each of the rectangular windows, are painted white. It is only the right-hand house which has cream-painted windows. They all looked the same behind the trees against the strong September sun that faces me on my high balcony. The left-hand house seems quite devoid of life. Possibly the two rectangular windows, one above the other in the square end of the inverted U, are not the windows of the bathroom and kitchen at all in the left-hand house. It is difficult to see them through the apple-tree, and of course through the goldening elm in the garden at the back of my block. In the right-hand house, however, the lower room is definitely the kitchen, in the black rectangle of which the red rubber gloves move swiftly apart, shake hands, vanish into greyness, lift up a foam-white mass, vanish and reappear, move to the right, move back, lunge into greyness, rise and move swiftly right. Beyond the red rubber gloves is a pale grey shape, then blackness.

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PseudoPod 328: The Suicide Witch

“The Suicide Witch” originally appeared in Daily Science Fiction, July 2012 and can be read here. She says “I wrote this story for the Codex Halloween contest. Codex is an online group of professional writers, and every year we trade “seeds” to spark new stories. My seed for this story was to write about a mortician who glues hair for special events. Clearly I have some funny ideas about how morticians live.”

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 31:51 — 22.0MB)

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Show Notes

AS PER AL’S OUTRO NOTES – COME EXPERIENCE THE ZOMBLOGALYPSE!

ZOMBLOGALYPSE

ZOMBLOGALYPSE: THE MOVIE!

The Suicide Witch

by Vylar Kaftan

The suicide witch crushes glass in her leather gloves. Shards crumble like crackers over soup, filling her metal bucket. The witch’s fingers squeak together in the damp cellar air. Glitter escapes over the worktable’s edge, like white stars vanishing in the low torchlight. A peasant girl lies dead on a funeral board, her dress nailed to the wood in thirteen places.

The witch’s name is Yim, but none call her that. She lives under the noble house of Jiang in the province of Kung-lao, in a cellar with puddles like rice paddies. In the summer, fat flies buzz around her face until she swats them down. In the winter, her knees ache, and she coughs in the dampness as if she were an old hag. But Yim’s ragged hair is black without silver, and her face shows no lines. She can still see in the dark.

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PseudoPod 327: What It’s Come To

PseudoPod 327: What It’s Come To is a PseudoPod original.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 34:59 — 24.1MB)

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What It’s Come To

by Wolf Hartman

The gas station climbs out of the dark.

Every step rattles my broken bones. A rib and my nose for sure. The ankle could just be a sprain but that doesn’t stop the mean throb from busting my stride. I limp, throwing myself forward then dragging the rest up behind. The tarmac shreds my bare feet. The night’s cold sits like new skin, thin and wet, on my naked arms and neck. The rest of me is hot with blood. Soaking my clothes. Drenching my jeans, my hair. Drying my tongue and cracking when I blink pink sweat out of my eyes.

Trees stipple the highway shoulder. Like fingers closing into a fist around me. The air is pregnant with the musk of firs, melding with the far off smell of fire and ashes. The sky is red-orange. The color of bad blood. The fires will burn the whole city. There’s no one left to put them out.

A tangle of highway behind. A ringing in my ears. But I’m here. I’m alone in the dark. On this road. In these woods. But I’m still here and the gas station fights the dark with all its lights still on. Come in. Say hello. Take a load off.

The hard pain grinds in my side and I stumble forward.

The gas station is pitted against the forest. Its pumps sit like tombstones covered in a mold of cigarette and Coke ads. Buy 2 get 1 free. The surgeon general warns. Cars sit beside them. Quiet like mourners. The gas station’s convenience store glows and hums.

I shuffle into the forecourt. The fluorescents cut sharp and my vision tilts. I squint to save myself. Hands on my knees and sick breathing until it passes.

A man hovers by one of the pumps. Dressed in a navy blue jumpsuit stained with oil at the chest and knees. He’s young. Clean-shaven with skin colored like spoiled milk. He holds a squeegee in one hand and a bucket of soap water in the other. He stares at me dumb.

‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Hey. Excuse me.’

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PseudoPod 326: Bunraku

“Bunraku” was originally published in BETE NOIRE MAGAZINE #8

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 30:50 — 21.3MB)

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Bunraku

by David X. Wiggin

‘They make her look like just another beautiful young woman,’ the old man said, ‘but really she’s more beautiful than any woman could be. I suppose it wouldn’t be fair to expect a drawing to capture what even photograph couldn’t. She’s at her most beautiful when she’s moving. When she’s still, it’s like admiring an unbent bow or an unsheathed sword.’

Now Shizuo recognized the old man as Kinoko’s puppeteer. The thought of this shriveled crab with his claw in her back, pulling strings and turning knobs, filled him with loathing. He wanted any reminder of that ugly truth out of his sight. He kept his eyes on the poster. The old man went on.

‘I noticed you in the crowd. You caught my attention immediately- your eyes did. I saw real love in them for Kinoko. I’ve always said that the truest proof of her perfection would be if someone fell in love with her. I’ve seen all sorts of eyes in the audience. Lustful, admiring, jealous, curious… but your eyes were the first I ever saw with love.

‘Would you like to meet her?’

Shizuo still could not bring himself to look at the puppeteer but he nodded.