The Sultan of Meat

by James B. Pepe

I shrugged my shoulders and leveled the .44 cap-and-ball at its plaintive face. The squirrel thanked me, got up on its hind paws, put the metal in its mouth, and suckled on the long barrel like a caged guinea pig taking water from a bottle.

I cocked the hammer. The annihilating thunderclap, the blue smoke, the oddly gentle kick, the spray of blood, bone, and fur on my boots — all one blur, one true moment, a thing of terrible clarity. Deafened, ears ringing, I tucked my head into the crook of my arm, dropped to my knees, and wept. The buzzing in my head, the buzzing in the forest, dopplering off the sugar maples, oaks, and corpses of long-dead Dutch Rotted elms. The buzzing was everywhere. Beneath my palms, the dead leaves on the forest floor vibrated in time to that all-pervasive power station hum. The buzzing was everywhere, and I wept.

We are meat, mad meat. Nothing more.

The Disconnected

by David Steffen

“I’m glad you volunteered tonight. I’m not sure I’m ready to go solo again quite yet.” Tim pointed at a nasty welt on his own neck before he popped the neck brace in place. “This gear saved my life, but it still hurts to swallow.”

He pushed the inner door open with a click. They stood at one end of a long hallway, lined with glass rooms, most occupied by leashed Disconnected. Before they started Tim’s rounds, they did a quick walk through of the facility, which was just more hallways of glass rooms, all on one level. Some of the Disconnected looked out at them. Others were sleeping, or eating.

“All Disconnected present and accounted for,” Tim said.

“See, Harken?” the chief said. “There’s no way it could have been a Disconnected.”

“You’re probably right, Chief.”

They walked back to the staging room to grab Tim’s cleaning cart.

“Why are all the Disconnected naked?” Harken asked.

“You want to put clothes on them? They’d never stay clean, then. I’d have to sedate them to dress and undress them, and what would be the point?”

“I suppose you’re right…” It just seemed so disrespectful. Each of them had been a person once, with a family.

Check out this author’s list of favorite Pseudopod episodes, replete with links to each one in our archives.

El Dentisto que Corta

by M.C. Norris

In lieu of an excerpt, we shall regale you with some correspondence between the author and Pseudopod’s chief editor.

From Mike Norris’s cover letter: I learned of an extraordinary occupation, wherein an ordinary Joe, toting only a bible and a pistol, could legally cross the southern border under the licenses of the U.S. physicians that accompanied him to perform free roadside surgical procedures right in the back of his van. I managed to track down one of these medical coyotes, and I wrangled an interview out of him, explaining that I was a writer interested in publishing a story about his fascinating mission. That much was true … If I’m to be damned for a story I’ve written, “El Dentisto que Corta” will be my one-way ticket to Hell.

Ben’s response: Dear Mike, Thank you for sending us “El Dentisto que Corta”. Yes, I’m pretty sure you are going to hell for writing it, and we’re probably going to join you because we’re going to produce it. …

Happy Friday the 13th, everyone.

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.

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.

Linda’s Appointment

by M.C. Norris

Passing the hall, he heard a sigh emanate through their locked bedroom door. That was a good sign. It was an indication Linda was still breathing, at least, and probably still able to speak. The morning after an appointment, she was always so sore, so exhausted. Often, she’d sleep well into the afternoon. Sighs, coughs, little Linda-noises, they were the beacons that guided Lewis through a haze of uncertainty that filled those hours before she’d allow him to view the balance of her attributes.

Linda’s appointments were just part of the deal. She’d made that clear before they ever tied the knot. “They’ll come for me,” she’d told him, “from time to time.”

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.