- Poor Me, and Ted first appeared in Attic Toys, an anthology published by Evil Jester Press and edited by Jeremy C. Shipp. “Every day we go about our lives navigating through crowds on busy city streets, riding buses or trains filled with strangers. Most of the time, individuals barely register in the sea of humanity. We don’t know, or perhaps even care, what lurks in the mind of nondescript passers-by. We should care.”
- The Beachcomber was originally published in May 2013 by Dark Fuse at Horror D’oeuvres. “It is one of those rare stories that came to me more or less fully formed after spotting a strange, slightly disturbing figure ambling across a rain-soaked beach in Wales. There was no way I wanted to talk to this odd man, but, from a safe distance, I wanted to know what clacked and rattled inside his bag. He’s still out there somewhere, I’m sure. So, like all Pseudopod stories, this one is most definitely true.”
- Sanctuary makes its first appearance on Pseudopod. “‘Sanctuary’ began as a story about fear, and how it can sometimes feed on itself and grow stronger. Later I realized it was also a story about prisons and how—sometimes—the worst prisons are the ones we build in our minds.”
Interstitial music is “Fearless Bleeder” by Chimpy, available from Music Alley.
“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” – C.S. Lewis
“Poor Me and Ted”
by Kate Jonez
Glory, Glory, Glory. That’s about the stupidest name you can give a person like me. But my mom had high hopes like lots of hard-working folks do. They use fancy names like they’re magic spells. As if naming a kid could somehow make it better than it really is. I don’t go in for that kind of crap. I named my kid John. Simple. John.
‘I know that mess is up here somewhere, Ted. I know it is.’
“The Beachcomber ”
by L.R. Bonehill
All that came back from the cold sea was Little Rosie-Cheeks. Washed ashore one late afternoon as rain whipped down from a slate-grey sky and a rough wind snapped across the beach. Face down in a rock pool, stranded in shallow water and silt. Red cheeks washed pale, white dress smeared with grime the colour of tobacco. A deep gouge cut across her forehead, the seams flecked with grit.
David held the doll now as he walked along the quiet beach. Held it by the hand as if it were a child at his side. It bumped and knocked against his leg as a litter of shells crunched underfoot. Water leaked through a split in the bottom of one shoe. He could taste salt in the breeze, the tang of brine on his tongue.
by Steve Calvert
Raoul had been sleeping. He did not know what had awakened him. Perhaps his body had grown tired of sleep. Raoul slept a lot–too much–
but his hiding place was small and dark, so there was nothing else for him to do.