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PseudoPod 360: Anasazi Skin


Anasazi Skin

by Matt Wallace


The first chemical rains fell in carpet-thick sheets a million different colors.

They fell over the Equator, over the Tropic of Cancer, moving and swelling and moving and swelling as they contracted farther north. Across the Western Hemisphere sacks of sludge dropped like bombs, potent enough in their acidity to dissolve the top floors of brick buildings. In Brazil a little boy felt his mother’s flesh run over him like sour molasses as the woman curled herself around her son, pressing the boy protectively against the womb that could no longer keep him safe. At a cliff’s edge on an island south of Tierra del Fuego, two lovers clutched each other as their flesh dissolved around their embrace.

In dozens of countries the young and the old died. The rest who were caught out in the rain watched their skin bubble and then shed itself in foaming, necrotic strips. They transformed into raw, red creatures with bared teeth.

Soon they were stacking oxygen tanks high and tight and renting them at monthly rates. Soon there were warehouse farms seeded with row upon row of plastic bubble tents. Soon the sidewalks and parks were filled with mummies wrapped in manuka-honeyed anti-burn bandages. Soon the chemically flayed outnumbered the smooth and unspoiled two-to-one.

It was an accident. Just an accident, the spokesman for Nevaeh-Vas Eco Technologies claimed at the first of many press conferences. Nevaeh-Vas, the corporation contracted to repair Earth’s depleted ozone layer. Nevaeh-Vas, who stabbed the heavens with God’s own syringe and injected a chemical curse that rotted the clouds.

Nevaeh-Vas, who murdered an industry and ecology with one mortal stroke and gave rise to what would replace both.

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PseudoPod 359: Face Change

Show Notes

“The main adage of therapy is that the patient must want to change, but we all know change isn’t easy. How far would you go to make the change that you want?”


Face Change

by Jeff Hewitt


‘I’m going. Thank you for trying as hard as you could, all the same.’ Dr. Adler looked at John’s hand, and something flashed in his eyes.

‘Just a minute! Just a moment! Let me get something for you.’ John watched the doctor stand up and run to his office closet. After digging for a moment, he came back with a DVD in a cardboard sleeve and a slick, black case.

‘These go together. I’ve heard good things, and when I got one in the mail as a sample I knew I had to save it for someone special. I think you’re that person, John.’ Dr. Adler handed John the items. The solid-looking case weighed very little, surprising John.

‘”The Face-Changing System for Success in Life and Business,”‘ read John aloud. He cocked an eyebrow at Adler.

‘I know how it sounds. Most of these systems are a bunch of malarkey, but I really have heard good things from colleagues. It’s not for everyone, but I think you’re just the man for it.’ John tried to hand it back, but Adler refused.

‘Try it out. If you don’t like it, bring it back to me, or give it to a friend. Good luck, John.’

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PseudoPod 358: Apathetic Flesh


Apathetic Flesh

by Darren O. Godfrey


If you were to stop and think about it, you wouldn’t really be able to say why it is you watch these films; though, as a child, you enjoyed being frightened, and some of the movies did that; and as a teenager you enjoyed being shocked (and perhaps a little revolted) and the “splatter” films fit that bill nicely. But now, at an ancient and creaking twenty-seven years of age, the movies – horror, splatter, or otherwise – no longer seem to have any effect on you. Nil.

But still you watch them.

And think about it is something you never do anyway, so, tonight, you merely chew stale popcorn and gawk at the silver screen where the lead zombie (nicknamed Harley) effortlessly tears a young woman’s head from her quivering white shoulders, delicately tongues one of her eyeballs, sucks it from its socket. Harley chews it, apparently savoring the taste, and the only discomfort you feel is the rock-hard lump against the small of your back, a special feature of all the seats in the Chief Theater. No point in moving. So you don’t.

Until it’s over (completely over; every last credit read and recorded in your junkshop mind), at which time you stand and brush salt and popcorn bits from your jeans.

‘Well, that was fun,’ you say to no one as you step into the aisle and make for the glowing green EXIT.

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EA Metacast – October, 2013 – THE SHORT VERSION


Thank you so much for the initial response to the problems at Escape Artists. As per several requests, this is the TL:DR version of the situation. For those wanting full details, a free piece of flash fiction, and the opportunity to hear celebrity shout outs and all your editorial staff assembled in one, please listen to the Metacast (see below)


1. Escape Artists has a major cash problem. This has been caused by a massive increase in the amount of listeners which has not been accompanied by an increase in donations. In fact those have started to decrease. This situation is unsustainable and we will close at the end of 2013 without a major increase in subscriptions.


2. Click anywhere on this line for the 44 minute meta-cast from all three shows explaining this.


3. We need money. There are two ways to do this either by donating or subscribing. One off donations are lovely and we’re incredibly grateful. Subscriptions cost you much less and raise our base level of funds on a monthly basis. Those are going to help much more in the mid term.


4. This is Escape Pod’s Homepage. Click on the DONATE or SUBSCRIBE buttons on the right hand side.


5. This is Pseudopod’s Homepage. Click on the DONATE or SUBSCRIBE buttons on the right hand side.


6. This is the Podcastle Homepage. Click on the DONATE or SUBSCRIBE buttons on the right hand side.


7. Click here to donate via Dwolla. Our ID is 812-527-2340. This is an ID number, not a phone number.


I know this is inconvenient and I’m sorry. Any other link will time out to a PayPal login.


That’s it. Thanks for the help.

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PseudoPod 357: Growth Spurt


Growth Spurt

by Paul Lorello


Day 1 – UPS delivered them today in an envelope and inside that was a pouch like Pop Rocks. I closed the blinds and the curtains and it was real dark and I couldn’t hardly read the instructions. I tore open the pouch and poured this stuff like sand into the tank. I’d made a cool cover for it taking the box it came in and cutting off the top and painting inside it like black. It’s cool. They said to just put them in the dark but if you have a cover that’s better. I fed them with one of the freeze dried blood caps that was included but I think I added too much water. I hate it that I screwed stuff up right at the beginning. I’ll know by tomorrow night I guess.

Mom and Dad are yelling at each other. They think I can’t hear them.


Day 2 – I guess I didn’t add too much water after all. There are only seven caps included in the kit. After a week I start them on real food. Grace’s hamster is preggers. Good snacks for my guys coming soon.

I got made fun of for writing everything down. Grace and Mom ganged up on me. And they laughed when I told them every scientist writes stuff down. Then Grace said I wasn’t a scientist. Then Dad came home and everyone stopped laughing.

I want my guys to grow already. Under “Gestation Period” it says you should see results in about two weeks. Two weeks is waaayyyyyy too long!

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EA Fundraiser – Montreal


HELLO ALL!

Craig Mackie is holding a fund-raiser for ESCAPE ARTISTS in Montreal this Friday, October 25, 2013.

There will be live readings of weird fiction by Eric Lis, Marta Barnes, Gregg Chamberlin, Dean Garlick and Rob Kimsey. By Donation. A fund-raiser for three fantastic sister podcasts: Pseudopod, Podcastle and Escape Pod.

https://www.facebook.com/events/255534427929123/?ref_dashboard_filter=calendar

Please check it out if you can!

Shawn Garrett
Editor, Pseudopod

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PseudoPod 356: The Night Wire


The Night Wire

by H.F. Arnold


There is something ungodly about these night wire jobs. You sit up here on the top floor of a skyscraper and listen in to the whispers of a civilization. New York, London, Calcutta, Bombay, Singapore — they’re your next-door neighbors after the streetlights go dim and the world has gone to sleep.

Alone in the quiet hours between two and four, the receiving operators doze over their sounders and the news comes in. Fires and disasters and suicides. Murders, crowds, catastrophes. Sometimes an earthquake with a casualty list as long as your arm. The night wire man takes it down almost in his sleep, picking it off on his typewriter with one finger.

Once in a long time you prick up your ears and listen. You’ve heard of some one you knew in Singapore, Halifax or Paris, long ago. Maybe they’ve been promoted, but more probably they’ve been murdered or drowned. Perhaps they just decided to quit and took some bizarre way out. Made it interesting enough to get in the news.

But that doesn’t happen often. Most of the time you sit and doze and tap, tap on your typewriter and wish you were home in bed.

Sometimes, though, queer things happen. One did the other night, and I haven’t got over it yet. I wish I could. (Continue Reading…)