Posts Tagged ‘Thanksgiving’

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PseudoPod 951: Last Supper

PseudoPod 951: Last Supper is a PseudoPod original.

CW: Thanksgiving dinner drama

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 40:39 — 37.7MB)

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Show Notes

“Last Supper” is a follow-up to “Licking Roadkill”, which previously appeared at PseudoPod (ep 786, Nov 2021) and in the collection A Meeting In the Devil’s House.

From the author: “It’s [Last Supper] a standalone story, but if you tackle “Licking Roadkill” first, certain aspects will become clearer. The story is about the terrible things we ask of the ones we love, and what those things cost. And of course, it gets extra tricky if everyone involved is a werewolf….”

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Trendane Sparks

Chelsea Davis

Alasdair Stuart

PseudoPod 786

Fast Five

“Last Supper”

by Richard Dansky

The night I put down her brother, Cecily didn’t want to make love. I reached for her in the bed we shared in the massive farmhouse she’d inherited when she became leader of the pack, but she pulled away.

“Not tonight,” she said. “I don’t want those hands to touch me.”

“Is this because of your brother?” I asked.

She rolled over and stared at me, blonde hair flopping over one eye. “Of course it’s about Cole,” she said. “You killed him today.”

Carefully, I drew my hand back. “You know why I did it,” I said. Not accusing, just a statement of fact.

She let out an explosion of breath. “I know. I told you to do it. And someone had to. But I don’t want the hands that pulled the trigger on my brother touching me tonight. I need some time to mourn, and I can’t do that by sleeping with his killer.” (Continue Reading…)

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PseudoPod 623: Greener Pastures

“Greener Pastures” was originally published in Aghast #1 in 2015. It was reprinted in 2016 as the title story of Michael’s debut short fiction collection Greener Pastures (Shock Totem Publications/Apex Publications), which was a Shirley Jackson Award Finalist and was shortlisted for the IAFA’s Crawford Award.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 25:07 — 21.1MB)

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Show Notes

“There’s still a sort of sad Western romance about American truckers, from the language of the CB radio to the drone of all those wheels on the highways. Endless sodium lamps. Although the trucking industry is still very much alive, it often feels like truckers are a relic of the past, and the blank spaces on the maps have less traffic in them. The rest stops and all-night diners tucked into these spaces feel more lonesome. I wanted to write about them in an ode to The Twilight Zone, as a sort of anti-ghost story. We are all haunted by our dead—it is a motif that has been and always will be a resonant voice. But what if the voice is that of the living? Truckers leave behind their loved ones for long stretches at a time, and there is a lot of empty road out there before the dawn.”

http://www.nightvalepresents.com/aliceisntdead/
http://www.nightvalepresents.com/aliceisntdead/#novel

Greener Pastures

by Michael Wehunt

“You ever can’t sleep?” the trucker said.

Forsyth glanced up out of his thoughts. The man standing at his table was big and worn out, his eyes raw and heavy even in the shadow of his cap’s bill. He had a young face with an old beard matted on the left side, as though he’d been trying to nap against the window of his cab.

The trucker slid into the booth but Forsyth didn’t answer his question at first. He felt the contradiction of road life, that of the lonesome loner. It could be nice to have company when he stopped off someplace, but he’d never been much for talk. He glanced around the diner. A couple more long-haulers sat on high stools at the counter, knives and forks chattering against their plates. The waitress was somewhere back in the kitchen. Even for a graveyard shift the place had a tired air. (Continue Reading…)

PseudoPod 570: The Jamcoi

The Jamcoi was first published in Disintegration Visions in 2012 and was reprinted by Apex on their website on November 26, 2014.

Content warnings:

Spoiler

Cruelty to animals

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Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 51:15 — 46.9MB)

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Mayflower in Plymouth Harbor by William Halsall

PseudoPod 466: Bad Newes from New England

PseudoPod 466: Bad Newes from New England is a PseudoPod original.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 52:31 — 36.2MB)

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Show Notes

the story payment will be donated to RUNNING STRONG, a Native American charity.

Bad Newes from New England

by Moaner T. Lawrence

This act of goodwill stirred great cheer in the people of New Plimouth and, with freshly raised spirits, they bade the Wampanoag enter; opened home and hearth in the spirit of God, and offered to share their modest bounty; whereupon the Wampanoag made entrance, each savage family pairing off with one of our own. I, Chief Massasoit, the chief’s bodyguards, Hobomok, Captain Standish, and Pastor Brewster removed to Mr. Allteron’s house in front of the corn fields. Two of the chief’s children also joined us: His eldest son Wamsutta, a man of twenty years who was often short of patience, and suspicious of all Europeans, and his gentle daughter Amie, a girl of sixteen years who was ever amicable toward everyone. (Continue Reading…)

Vintage Thanksgiving Postcard 2

PseudoPod 362: Go, Go, Go, Said the Bird

Copyright (c) 1967, 1995 by the Literary Estate of Sonya Dorman; first appeared in DANGEROUS VISIONS edited by Harlan Ellison; used by permission of the Estate and the Virginia Kidd Agency, Inc.

She said of this story “Perhaps I wrote (it) because sometimes that’s the way the world seems, or perhaps I hope that when my daughter’s generation grows up it won’t need or want to run for its life, or perhaps because, in the seventeenth century, Jeremy Taylor wrote: ‘…when it is enquired whether such a person be a good man or no, the meaning is not what does he believe, or what does he hope, but what he loves.’ Amen..”

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 18:23 — 12.7MB)

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Go, Go, Go, Said the Bird

by Sonya Dorman

Think of it, she conversed in great gasps with herself, leaping over a crevasse where a southbound lane had split off from the main runway. Think of it, she insisted, scarcely having breath left but unable to control her mind, which was galloping faster than her weary legs.

I’m only thirty, I’m unique, there’s no one in this world, this universe, who is me, with my memories: