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Pseudopod 261: Widdershins


Widdershins

by Robert Mammone


His dreams were disturbed. He saw the moon emerge from behind a bank of racing clouds, the surface yellowed and cracked like old bone. He stood in a clearing, surrounded by outcroppings of rock and trees whose branches were lashed by the breeze. He thought he heard indistinct muttering which, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make out. Gradually, though, the muttering grew clearer, until, with a jolt, he understood.

‘*Widdershins start my hair, widdershins start my hair.*’

There was a sudden blurring and the clearing vanished replaced for a brief moment with an image of Hendricks, face rigid with intent, looming over him, a wad of stinking cotton clutched in one hand. Powerless, he felt the material pressed over his mouth and nose, the fumes filling his nostrils and then he was falling…

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Pseudopod 260: Saint Nicholas’ Helper


Saint Nicholas’ Helper

by D.K. Thompson


Saint Nicholas looked just like he did in the picture stories: tall and thin, with a grand white beard that flowed to his waist. He wore a red-fur trimmed coat, a tall bishop’s hat, and clutched a gold staff. He smiled and said something, but Greta wasn’t listening. She hid behind her elder sister Heike and stared at the saint’s demonic assistant, Krampus.

A wooden mask covered the demon’s face, a wicked smile carved into it that did not shift. Krampus tilted his horned head, his black pupils focused on Greta through the eye slits. His dark coat of damp furs smelled of decay, and he was wrapped in chains that he shook at the children.

They’d come every year to her house, the saint and his assistant, but back then Greta’s father had been there to protect her.

Krampus brandished a long, thin switch and hissed.

Heike put a hand on Greta’s shoulder and whispered, “Don’t be scared. You’ve been good, right?”

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Metacast – TRIO OF TERROR! promo


Now available to all subscribers – check your email boxes for an early Christmas gift from Pseudopod – links to three new stories in our ongoing series. It’s the TRIO OF TERROR and it is yours if you’re a subscriber to any Escape Artists podcast OR have made a one-time donation of $50 dollars or more since January 1, 2011 (or if you choose to do so in the immediate future – hint, hint….)

Offer WILL expire at a future date, just like all of us… or some of us…

What are you getting for your hard-earned dollars, you ask? I’m glad you did! How about…

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“The Yellow Curse” by Grady Hendrix, in which our (self) esteemed and elitist occult investigating Gentleman’s club, The White Street Society (only pedigrees need apply) delve into the heathen underbelly of Chinatown and uproot madness. Horrific comedy satire with a serrated edge! Click his name to visit his website and check out Amazon and other digital book spots for his ebook SATAN LOVES YOU.

“”Chinatown suffers,’ he declared. ‘Rumors of war. A mysterious artifact. Something stolen in the night. Adventure calls. And I answer with a merry cry on my lips and my cane in my hand. Come, William! Prepare yourself for sights beyond the ken of mortal man! For we go now to solve…. THE YELLOW CURSE!‘”

Read by our own Alasdair Stuart

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“The Shooting Way” by Jim Bihyeh, featuring a further exploration into the horrors of Native American mythology and the schemes of the legendary trickster god, Coyote. His memoir, NAVAJOS WEAR NIKES, about life on the Navajo Reservation, was released in spring 2011 and was praised for its “wit and keen observation” by the Arizona Daily Sun and for its “consummate storytelling” by New Mexico Magazine. It was recently released in paperback and is a New Mexico Book Award finalist this year. Look for it at Amazon.com, Alibris.com and check out the Facebook page for the book and the NAVAJOS WEAR NIKES group .

“The green eyes had belonged to an owl. Skinwalkers – yee naaldloshíí – were shape-shifters, and traveled as night animals to keep their business secret. And it had been bad business for auntie Bonita since August. Four cows had died in the last two weeks, bucking and groaning while they foamed at the mouth, as though they’d eaten the purple-flowering locoweed that grew in the flat stretches of desert. But Bonita swore they’d never grazed over it. Something must have fed it to them.”

Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy!

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“Nourished By Chaff, We Believe The Glamor” by Tim W. Burke, wherein an associate of the eternally ambitious Guru Keresh must deal with an old plaything and an even older playmate! Click his name to check out Tim’s blog. His novel THE MAD EARL’S HOMECOMING is available on Amazon, as is my short story collection PENSIVE CREATURES.

“Then I remembered something I had told the ladies: good spirits want to nurture love for all; selfish ones want to divide us all.

Show-Show’s eyes had a dark gleam I hadn’t remembered before.

Grasping at Alecsandri’s questions, I asked, ‘Those boys…in Mobile…at the warehouse. What did you do with them?’

‘They didn’t want to go away to the military academy. They wanted to be pirates. So I took them to their pirate ship.’

‘Show-Show, what have you become?'”

Read by Veronica Giguere

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If you’re new to Pseudopod, or have missed any of the previous stories in these series, rest assured each of these tales is free-standing… and if they pique your interest, please check out these download links to the previous installments!

THE COYOTE TALES by Jim Bihyeh

THE WHITE STREET SOCIETY by Grady Hendrix

THE SAGA OF GURU KERESH by Tim W. Burke

Merry Christmas from Pseudopod… we’ll keep the lights off for ya!

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Pseudopod 259: To My Wondering Eyes Did Appear


To My Wondering Eyes Did Appear

by Larry C. Kay


A figure obscured the flames of the fireplace: a man. Bettia sat up quickly, blinking away sleep, thinking it was her father. But this man was shorter, rounder, and part of her groggy mind considered Santa Claus, and that she must have slept for days.

Her eyes adjusted and she could see that the man indeed wore a red shirt. Not like a dumb mall Santa, but a working man’s shirt: rough and stained darker red on top of the red. And not any fire engine red, but crimson; just like his Converse All-Stars. His jeans were black or maybe just covered in soot. His face was dirty like a coal miner’s, but Bettia thought he was a white man.

He carried a black bag slung over one shoulder, an empty bag, but Bettia knew this man was no burglar. This shaggy buffalo of a man smiled when he noticed Bettia, and showed his sharp fighting-dog teeth. Bettia heard a whimper, and shame crinkled her face as she realized it was she that sounded like a whipped mutt.”

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Pseudopod 258: The Stink of Animosity


The Stink of Animosity

by Rob E. Boley


“So, what did she do?”

These are the first words the stranger says to you as he takes the bar stool on your right. The hotel lounge has at least two-dozen seats scattered between the bar and four tables, and only half of those seats are filled. Yet he sits next to you. His voice is almost a growl – all gravel and broken glass – too ragged for someone his age.

Judging from his unblemished skin, you guess the stranger is no more than nineteen or twenty. You search your memories, wondering if he’s one of your students at the college. But no, you would remember him. He’s got an unkempt, patchy beard and dirty, long hair. Everything about him says wannabe hippie or beatnik: his worn boots, his thrift store brown leather jacket, and his dirty grey t-shirt. His eyes are wild, like he’s been chewing on a handful of random pills.

“Who? What are you talking about?” you ask, trying to sound abrupt but not aggressive. You’re not looking for a fight. At least, not with him.

“You got the stink of animosity on you, is all. I can smell it; it’s so strong. It’s not hard to see that you’re pissed at someone.”

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Pseudopod 257: In “The Poor Girl Taken By Surprise”


In “The Poor Girl Taken By Surprise”

by Gemma Files


‘Yet here we sit snug and warm and dry nonetheless, traders and settlers and immigrants bound for even more distant places alike, before this open, welcoming fire; here we may eat and drink our fill and go ‘round the circle in turn, each of we travellers swapping a story for our place beneath this roof ‘till morning. And I will be more than glad to add my own contribution to that roster, if only it should please you to bend your ear and listen.

 

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Pseudopod 256: Repler


Repler

by Jonathan Lowe


Then, as he was about to ascend, he noticed the closed pantry door. Not wanting to, but feeling compelled, he paused to twist the knob and nudge the door open with his foot.

The shelves inside were lined with skulls. Canine and feline. Beneath a row of glasses were several stacks of torn magazines. Glossy photos of nude women. He kneeled almost involuntarily, reaching for a small skull among others. Practically indistinguishable, except by shape.

The skull of a baby.

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Pseudopod 255: Flash on The Borderlands IX – It’s War!

Show Notes

Three original VETERAN’S DAY flash fictions about war – ancient, recent and omnipresent


KING

By C. Deskin Rink


The first time I beheld my King was amidst the arcades and columns of Babylon beneath an aching, cerulean firmament. From the uppermost heights of the hanging gardens he descended, taking each megalithic tier in a single stride until his final step cracked wide the world itself. His bloodshot eyes stared out at me from beneath his golden crown: wide and perfectly round – bereft of lids, lashes or flesh. “Hail!” I cried out, “Hail! Our King is descended from on high to rule the Earth!” (Continue Reading…)