http://www.odeo.com/channels/117789-Pseudopod yes The Sound of Horror. Pseudopod is the world\'s first audio horror magazine. We deliver bone-chilling stories from today\'s most talented authors straight to your computer or MP3 player. The Sound of Horror. Pseudopod is the world\'s first audio horror magazine. We deliver bone-chilling stories from today\'s most talented authors straight to your computer or MP3 player. The Sound of Horror en 40 Thu, 10 Dec 2009 20:01:09 -0800 Thu, 10 Dec 2009 20:01:09 -0800 Literature http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25520611-Pseudopod-172-The-Dude-Who-Collected-Lovecraft By Nick Mamatas and Tim Pratt Read by Jaron Cohen I thought about the brittle old letters in my briefcase, which included (among genial advice on writing and cranky complaints about publishers) a few passages of deep loathing about “the niggers and immigrants who fester and shamble in the slums of our fallen cities.” Ah, Lovecraft. I always wondered how my great-grandfather’s letters back to him might have read. I doubted if old Cavanaugh Payne ever told his idol that he was a “miscegenator” himself. Three generations later, I was fresh out of white skin privilege myself, but I had enough of Cavanaugh’s legacy to clear all my debts, assuming I could ever find the isolated country house where this collector lived. The hand-drawn map Fremgen had mailed me was crude, and obviously not to scale, so it was a little like following a treasure map made by a pirate with a spatial perception disorder. By Nick Mamatas and Tim Pratt Read by Jaron Cohen I thought about the brittle old letters in my briefcase, which included (among genial advice on writing and cranky complaints about publishers) a few passages of deep loathing about “the niggers and immigrants who fester and shamble in the slums of our fallen cities.” Ah, Lovecraft. I always wondered how my great-grandfather’s letters back to him might have read. I doubted if old Cavanaugh Payne ever told his idol that he was a “miscegenator” himself. Three generations later, I was fresh out of white skin privilege myself, but I had enough of Cavanaugh’s legacy to clear all my debts, assuming I could ever find the isolated country house where this collector lived. The hand-drawn map Fremgen had mailed me was crude, and obviously not to scale, so it was a little like following a treasure map made by a pirate with a spatial perception disorder. By Nick Mamatas and Tim Pratt Read by Jaron Cohen I thought about the brittle old letters in my briefcase, which included (among genial advice on writing and cranky complaints about publishers) a few passages of deep loathing about “the niggers and immigrants who fester and shamble in the slums of our fallen cities.” Ah, Lovecraft. I always wondered how my great-grandfather’s letters back to him might have read. I doubted if old Cavanaugh Payne ever told his idol that he was a “miscegenator” himself. Three generations later, I was fresh out of white skin privilege myself, but I had enough of Cavanaugh’s legacy to clear all my debts, assuming I could ever find the isolated country house where this collector lived. The hand-drawn map Fremgen had mailed me was crude, and obviously not to scale, so it was a little like following a treasure map made by a pirate with a spatial perception disorder. tag:odeo.com,2009-12-10,25520611 Thu, 10 Dec 2009 20:01:09 -0800 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25521386-Pseudopod-172-The-Dude-Who-Collected-Lovecraft By Nick Mamatas and Tim Pratt Read by Jaron Cohen I thought about the brittle old letters in my briefcase, which included (among genial advice on writing and cranky complaints about publishers) a few passages of deep loathing about “the niggers and immigrants who fester and shamble in the slums of our fallen cities.” Ah, Lovecraft. I always wondered how my great-grandfather’s letters back to him might have read. I doubted if old Cavanaugh Payne ever told his idol that he was a “miscegenator” himself. Three generations later, I was fresh out of white skin privilege myself, but I had enough of Cavanaugh’s legacy to clear all my debts, assuming I could ever find the isolated country house where this collector lived. The hand-drawn map Fremgen had mailed me was crude, and obviously not to scale, so it was a little like following a treasure map made by a pirate with a spatial perception disorder. By Nick Mamatas and Tim Pratt Read by Jaron Cohen I thought about the brittle old letters in my briefcase, which included (among genial advice on writing and cranky complaints about publishers) a few passages of deep loathing about “the niggers and immigrants who fester and shamble in the slums of our fallen cities.” Ah, Lovecraft. I always wondered how my great-grandfather’s letters back to him might have read. I doubted if old Cavanaugh Payne ever told his idol that he was a “miscegenator” himself. Three generations later, I was fresh out of white skin privilege myself, but I had enough of Cavanaugh’s legacy to clear all my debts, assuming I could ever find the isolated country house where this collector lived. The hand-drawn map Fremgen had mailed me was crude, and obviously not to scale, so it was a little like following a treasure map made by a pirate with a spatial perception disorder. By Nick Mamatas and Tim Pratt Read by Jaron Cohen I thought about the brittle old letters in my briefcase, which included (among genial advice on writing and cranky complaints about publishers) a few passages of deep loathing about “the niggers and immigrants who fester and shamble in the slums of our fallen cities.” Ah, Lovecraft. I always wondered how my great-grandfather’s letters back to him might have read. I doubted if old Cavanaugh Payne ever told his idol that he was a “miscegenator” himself. Three generations later, I was fresh out of white skin privilege myself, but I had enough of Cavanaugh’s legacy to clear all my debts, assuming I could ever find the isolated country house where this collector lived. The hand-drawn map Fremgen had mailed me was crude, and obviously not to scale, so it was a little like following a treasure map made by a pirate with a spatial perception disorder. tag:odeo.com,2009-12-10,25521386 Thu, 10 Dec 2009 20:01:09 -0800 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25489011-Pseudopod-171-Napier%E2%80%99s-Bones By Stephen Gaskell Read by Ian Stuart, voice actor for hire through voices.com A DESCRIPTION OF THE ADMIRABLE TABLE OF LOGA- RITHMES: WITH A DECLARATION OF The Most Plentifvl, Easy, And Speedy Vse thereof in both kindes of Trigonometrie, as also in all Mathematicall calculations. Tom flicked through the book. Obtuse definitions and diagrams like fishbones filled the pages. A — seventeenth century? — textbook on logarithms? How the hell had Great Uncle Alvin ended up with this? Tom peered into the box. Another chapbook titled “Rabdologia”, by the same author, John Napier. He shuffled through the other papers in the box. All writings by or about the man: extravagantly illustrated occult texts; religious revelations; serious biographies. At the bottom, wedged beneath a thick medical textbook with an MRI scan of the brain on the cover, Tom caught sight of several off-white stones. Their smooth, heart-shaped surfaces gleamed in the torchlight. By Stephen Gaskell Read by Ian Stuart, voice actor for hire through voices.com A DESCRIPTION OF THE ADMIRABLE TABLE OF LOGA- RITHMES: WITH A DECLARATION OF The Most Plentifvl, Easy, And Speedy Vse thereof in both kindes of Trigonometrie, as also in all Mathematicall calculations. Tom flicked through the book. Obtuse definitions and diagrams like fishbones filled the pages. A — seventeenth century? — textbook on logarithms? How the hell had Great Uncle Alvin ended up with this? Tom peered into the box. Another chapbook titled “Rabdologia”, by the same author, John Napier. He shuffled through the other papers in the box. All writings by or about the man: extravagantly illustrated occult texts; religious revelations; serious biographies. At the bottom, wedged beneath a thick medical textbook with an MRI scan of the brain on the cover, Tom caught sight of several off-white stones. Their smooth, heart-shaped surfaces gleamed in the torchlight. By Stephen Gaskell Read by Ian Stuart, voice actor for hire through voices.com A DESCRIPTION OF THE ADMIRABLE TABLE OF LOGA- RITHMES: WITH A DECLARATION OF The Most Plentifvl, Easy, And Speedy Vse thereof in both kindes of Trigonometrie, as also in all Mathematicall calculations. Tom flicked through the book. Obtuse definitions and diagrams like fishbones filled the pages. A — seventeenth century? — textbook on logarithms? How the hell had Great Uncle Alvin ended up with this? Tom peered into the box. Another chapbook titled “Rabdologia”, by the same author, John Napier. He shuffled through the other papers in the box. All writings by or about the man: extravagantly illustrated occult texts; religious revelations; serious biographies. At the bottom, wedged beneath a thick medical textbook with an MRI scan of the brain on the cover, Tom caught sight of several off-white stones. Their smooth, heart-shaped surfaces gleamed in the torchlight. tag:odeo.com,2009-12-03,25489011 Thu, 03 Dec 2009 20:01:14 -0800 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25488306-Pseudopod-171-Napier%E2%80%99s-Bones By Stephen Gaskell Read by Ian Stuart, voice actor for hire through voices.com A DESCRIPTION OF THE ADMIRABLE TABLE OF LOGA- RITHMES: WITH A DECLARATION OF The Most Plentifvl, Easy, And Speedy Vse thereof in both kindes of Trigonometrie, as also in all Mathematicall calculations. Tom flicked through the book. Obtuse definitions and diagrams like fishbones filled the pages. A — seventeenth century? — textbook on logarithms? How the hell had Great Uncle Alvin ended up with this? Tom peered into the box. Another chapbook titled “Rabdologia”, by the same author, John Napier. He shuffled through the other papers in the box. All writings by or about the man: extravagantly illustrated occult texts; religious revelations; serious biographies. At the bottom, wedged beneath a thick medical textbook with an MRI scan of the brain on the cover, Tom caught sight of several off-white stones. Their smooth, heart-shaped surfaces gleamed in the torchlight. By Stephen Gaskell Read by Ian Stuart, voice actor for hire through voices.com A DESCRIPTION OF THE ADMIRABLE TABLE OF LOGA- RITHMES: WITH A DECLARATION OF The Most Plentifvl, Easy, And Speedy Vse thereof in both kindes of Trigonometrie, as also in all Mathematicall calculations. Tom flicked through the book. Obtuse definitions and diagrams like fishbones filled the pages. A — seventeenth century? — textbook on logarithms? How the hell had Great Uncle Alvin ended up with this? Tom peered into the box. Another chapbook titled “Rabdologia”, by the same author, John Napier. He shuffled through the other papers in the box. All writings by or about the man: extravagantly illustrated occult texts; religious revelations; serious biographies. At the bottom, wedged beneath a thick medical textbook with an MRI scan of the brain on the cover, Tom caught sight of several off-white stones. Their smooth, heart-shaped surfaces gleamed in the torchlight. By Stephen Gaskell Read by Ian Stuart, voice actor for hire through voices.com A DESCRIPTION OF THE ADMIRABLE TABLE OF LOGA- RITHMES: WITH A DECLARATION OF The Most Plentifvl, Easy, And Speedy Vse thereof in both kindes of Trigonometrie, as also in all Mathematicall calculations. Tom flicked through the book. Obtuse definitions and diagrams like fishbones filled the pages. A — seventeenth century? — textbook on logarithms? How the hell had Great Uncle Alvin ended up with this? Tom peered into the box. Another chapbook titled “Rabdologia”, by the same author, John Napier. He shuffled through the other papers in the box. All writings by or about the man: extravagantly illustrated occult texts; religious revelations; serious biographies. At the bottom, wedged beneath a thick medical textbook with an MRI scan of the brain on the cover, Tom caught sight of several off-white stones. Their smooth, heart-shaped surfaces gleamed in the torchlight. tag:odeo.com,2009-12-03,25488306 Thu, 03 Dec 2009 20:01:14 -0800 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25465483-Pseudopod-170-The-Sultan-of-Meat By James B. Pepe Read by Kris Johnson 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. By James B. Pepe Read by Kris Johnson 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. By James B. Pepe Read by Kris Johnson 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. tag:odeo.com,2009-11-26,25465483 Thu, 26 Nov 2009 20:01:11 -0800 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25451468-Pseudopod-170-The-Sultan-of-Meat By James B. Pepe Read by Kris Johnson 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. By James B. Pepe Read by Kris Johnson 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. By James B. Pepe Read by Kris Johnson 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. tag:odeo.com,2009-11-26,25451468 Thu, 26 Nov 2009 20:01:11 -0800 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25465484-Pseudopod-169-The-Disconnected By David Steffen Read by Rich Sigfrit “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. “... By David Steffen Read by Rich Sigfrit “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. By David Steffen Read by Rich Sigfrit “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. tag:odeo.com,2009-11-19,25465484 Thu, 19 Nov 2009 20:01:59 -0800 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25451469-Pseudopod-169-The-Disconnected By David Steffen Read by Rich Sigfrit “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. “... By David Steffen Read by Rich Sigfrit “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. By David Steffen Read by Rich Sigfrit “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. tag:odeo.com,2009-11-19,25451469 Thu, 19 Nov 2009 20:01:59 -0800 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25443955-Pseudopod-168-El-Dentisto-que-Corta By Mike Norris Read by Ben Phillips 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 be... By Mike Norris Read by Ben Phillips 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. By Mike Norris Read by Ben Phillips 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. tag:odeo.com,2009-11-12,25443955 Thu, 12 Nov 2009 20:01:33 -0800 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25444232-Pseudopod-168-El-Dentisto-que-Corta By Mike Norris Read by Ben Phillips 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 be... By Mike Norris Read by Ben Phillips 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. By Mike Norris Read by Ben Phillips 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. tag:odeo.com,2009-11-12,25444232 Thu, 12 Nov 2009 20:01:33 -0800 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25409353-Pseudopod-167-Love-Like-Thunder By Jim Bihyeh Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy of Teknikal Diffikulties 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. By Jim Bihyeh Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy of Teknikal Diffikulties 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. By Jim Bihyeh Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy of Teknikal Diffikulties 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. tag:odeo.com,2009-11-05,25409353 Thu, 05 Nov 2009 20:01:06 -0800 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25409617-Pseudopod-167-Love-Like-Thunder By Jim Bihyeh Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy of Teknikal Diffikulties 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. By Jim Bihyeh Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy of Teknikal Diffikulties 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. By Jim Bihyeh Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy of Teknikal Diffikulties 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. tag:odeo.com,2009-11-05,25409617 Thu, 05 Nov 2009 20:01:06 -0800 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25386629-Pseudopod-166-Something-There-Is By Joe Nazare Read by BJ Harrison of The Classic Tales As if reading Montresor’s thoughts, Luchesi reached down toward his feet; his hand came back proffering a long-necked bottle. “Here,” he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, after shooting a look towards the palazzo’s attendant-less hallway. “Medoc — what I just happen to have handy with me, you understand. But it should serve as a worthy substitute.” “Substitute?” “In your sleep, just now: you were calling out for Amontillado.” Vestiges of his nightmare shrouded Montresor’s thoughts. Dry-mouthed, he attempted to swallow nonetheless. “You must have misheard me, I’m sure.” By Joe Nazare Read by BJ Harrison of The Classic Tales As if reading Montresor’s thoughts, Luchesi reached down toward his feet; his hand came back proffering a long-necked bottle. “Here,” he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, after shooting a look towards the palazzo’s attendant-less hallway. “Medoc — what I just happen to have handy with me, you understand. But it should serve as a worthy substitute.” “Substitute?” “In your sleep, just now: you were calling out for Amontillado.” Vestiges of his nightmare shrouded Montresor’s thoughts. Dry-mouthed, he attempted to swallow nonetheless. “You must have misheard me, I’m sure.” By Joe Nazare Read by BJ Harrison of The Classic Tales As if reading Montresor’s thoughts, Luchesi reached down toward his feet; his hand came back proffering a long-necked bottle. “Here,” he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, after shooting a look towards the palazzo’s attendant-less hallway. “Medoc — what I just happen to have handy with me, you understand. But it should serve as a worthy substitute.” “Substitute?” “In your sleep, just now: you were calling out for Amontillado.” Vestiges of his nightmare shrouded Montresor’s thoughts. Dry-mouthed, he attempted to swallow nonetheless. “You must have misheard me, I’m sure.” tag:odeo.com,2009-10-29,25386629 Thu, 29 Oct 2009 21:01:48 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25393407-Pseudopod-166-Something-There-Is By Joe Nazare Read by BJ Harrison of The Classic Tales As if reading Montresor’s thoughts, Luchesi reached down toward his feet; his hand came back proffering a long-necked bottle. “Here,” he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, after shooting a look towards the palazzo’s attendant-less hallway. “Medoc — what I just happen to have handy with me, you understand. But it should serve as a worthy substitute.” “Substitute?” “In your sleep, just now: you were calling out for Amontillado.” Vestiges of his nightmare shrouded Montresor’s thoughts. Dry-mouthed, he attempted to swallow nonetheless. “You must have misheard me, I’m sure.” By Joe Nazare Read by BJ Harrison of The Classic Tales As if reading Montresor’s thoughts, Luchesi reached down toward his feet; his hand came back proffering a long-necked bottle. “Here,” he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, after shooting a look towards the palazzo’s attendant-less hallway. “Medoc — what I just happen to have handy with me, you understand. But it should serve as a worthy substitute.” “Substitute?” “In your sleep, just now: you were calling out for Amontillado.” Vestiges of his nightmare shrouded Montresor’s thoughts. Dry-mouthed, he attempted to swallow nonetheless. “You must have misheard me, I’m sure.” By Joe Nazare Read by BJ Harrison of The Classic Tales As if reading Montresor’s thoughts, Luchesi reached down toward his feet; his hand came back proffering a long-necked bottle. “Here,” he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, after shooting a look towards the palazzo’s attendant-less hallway. “Medoc — what I just happen to have handy with me, you understand. But it should serve as a worthy substitute.” “Substitute?” “In your sleep, just now: you were calling out for Amontillado.” Vestiges of his nightmare shrouded Montresor’s thoughts. Dry-mouthed, he attempted to swallow nonetheless. “You must have misheard me, I’m sure.” tag:odeo.com,2009-10-29,25393407 Thu, 29 Oct 2009 21:01:48 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25353236-Pseudopod-165-The-Copse By Robert Mammone Read by Ian Stuart 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. By Robert Mammone Read by Ian Stuart 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. By Robert Mammone Read by Ian Stuart 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. tag:odeo.com,2009-10-22,25353236 Thu, 22 Oct 2009 21:01:39 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25352425-Pseudopod-165-The-Copse By Robert Mammone Read by Ian Stuart 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. By Robert Mammone Read by Ian Stuart 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. By Robert Mammone Read by Ian Stuart 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. tag:odeo.com,2009-10-22,25352425 Thu, 22 Oct 2009 21:01:39 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25293600-Pseudopod-164-Linda%E2%80%99s-Appointment By Mike Norris Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy of Teknikal Diffikulties 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.” By Mike Norris Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy of Teknikal Diffikulties 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.” By Mike Norris Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy of Teknikal Diffikulties 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.” tag:odeo.com,2009-10-15,25293600 Thu, 15 Oct 2009 21:01:53 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25293882-Pseudopod-164-Linda%E2%80%99s-Appointment By Mike Norris Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy of Teknikal Diffikulties 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.” By Mike Norris Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy of Teknikal Diffikulties 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.” By Mike Norris Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy of Teknikal Diffikulties 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.” tag:odeo.com,2009-10-15,25293882 Thu, 15 Oct 2009 21:01:53 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25257017-Pseudopod-163-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. 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. 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. tag:odeo.com,2009-10-08,25257017 Thu, 08 Oct 2009 21:01:01 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25257386-Pseudopod-163-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. 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. 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. tag:odeo.com,2009-10-08,25257386 Thu, 08 Oct 2009 21:01:01 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25219606-Pseudopod-162-Suicide-Notes-Written-by-an-Alien-Mind By Ferrett Steinmetz Read by Phil Rossi He had been trained, as all of us had, to assemble his rifle by touch - but to our dismay, we discovered that Private Sperling could do it in near-silence. He pushed the parts together with delicate care underneath the stiff, thin sheets of his bunk bed, the click of pins and bolts so muffled that none of us heard a thing in the cramped confines of our modular shelter. In our defense, we were doped up on Lithium. But even if we hadn’t caught the faint scratching of the cleaning brush, plunging in and out of the bore like an obscene masturbation, we should have heard him crying. Afterward, Sperling’s bed was a smear of stains - grease on the sheets, tears on his pillows, blood on just about everything else. We didn’t know the Decharai had made contact with him. By Ferrett Steinmetz Read by Phil Rossi He had been trained, as all of us had, to assemble his rifle by touch - but to our dismay, we discovered that Private Sperling could do it in near-silence. He pushed the parts together with delicate care underneath the stiff, thin sheets of his bunk bed, the click of pins and bolts so muffled that none of us heard a thing in the cramped confines of our modular shelter. In our defense, we were doped up on Lithium. But even if we hadn’t caught the faint scratching of the cleaning brush, plunging in and out of the bore like an obscene masturbation, we should have heard him crying. Afterward, Sperling’s bed was a smear of stains - grease on the sheets, tears on his pillows, blood on just about everything else. We didn’t know the Decharai had made contact with him. By Ferrett Steinmetz Read by Phil Rossi He had been trained, as all of us had, to assemble his rifle by touch - but to our dismay, we discovered that Private Sperling could do it in near-silence. He pushed the parts together with delicate care underneath the stiff, thin sheets of his bunk bed, the click of pins and bolts so muffled that none of us heard a thing in the cramped confines of our modular shelter. In our defense, we were doped up on Lithium. But even if we hadn’t caught the faint scratching of the cleaning brush, plunging in and out of the bore like an obscene masturbation, we should have heard him crying. Afterward, Sperling’s bed was a smear of stains - grease on the sheets, tears on his pillows, blood on just about everything else. We didn’t know the Decharai had made contact with him. tag:odeo.com,2009-10-01,25219606 Thu, 01 Oct 2009 21:01:12 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25219287-Pseudopod-162-Suicide-Notes-Written-by-an-Alien-Mind By Ferrett Steinmetz Read by Phil Rossi He had been trained, as all of us had, to assemble his rifle by touch - but to our dismay, we discovered that Private Sperling could do it in near-silence. He pushed the parts together with delicate care underneath the stiff, thin sheets of his bunk bed, the click of pins and bolts so muffled that none of us heard a thing in the cramped confines of our modular shelter. In our defense, we were doped up on Lithium. But even if we hadn’t caught the faint scratching of the cleaning brush, plunging in and out of the bore like an obscene masturbation, we should have heard him crying. Afterward, Sperling’s bed was a smear of stains - grease on the sheets, tears on his pillows, blood on just about everything else. We didn’t know the Decharai had made contact with him. By Ferrett Steinmetz Read by Phil Rossi He had been trained, as all of us had, to assemble his rifle by touch - but to our dismay, we discovered that Private Sperling could do it in near-silence. He pushed the parts together with delicate care underneath the stiff, thin sheets of his bunk bed, the click of pins and bolts so muffled that none of us heard a thing in the cramped confines of our modular shelter. In our defense, we were doped up on Lithium. But even if we hadn’t caught the faint scratching of the cleaning brush, plunging in and out of the bore like an obscene masturbation, we should have heard him crying. Afterward, Sperling’s bed was a smear of stains - grease on the sheets, tears on his pillows, blood on just about everything else. We didn’t know the Decharai had made contact with him. By Ferrett Steinmetz Read by Phil Rossi He had been trained, as all of us had, to assemble his rifle by touch - but to our dismay, we discovered that Private Sperling could do it in near-silence. He pushed the parts together with delicate care underneath the stiff, thin sheets of his bunk bed, the click of pins and bolts so muffled that none of us heard a thing in the cramped confines of our modular shelter. In our defense, we were doped up on Lithium. But even if we hadn’t caught the faint scratching of the cleaning brush, plunging in and out of the bore like an obscene masturbation, we should have heard him crying. Afterward, Sperling’s bed was a smear of stains - grease on the sheets, tears on his pillows, blood on just about everything else. We didn’t know the Decharai had made contact with him. tag:odeo.com,2009-10-01,25219287 Thu, 01 Oct 2009 21:01:12 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25181004-Pseudopod-161-Fourth-Person-Singular By Dale L. Sproule Read by Jaron Cohen Every night since I was seven years old he’s swooped down at me out of the darkness of sleep: a pale, skeletal boy with thin arms thrust out like wings, eyes like white domes in black craters, mouth open as he screams acceleration. His name is Wren. By Dale L. Sproule Read by Jaron Cohen Every night since I was seven years old he’s swooped down at me out of the darkness of sleep: a pale, skeletal boy with thin arms thrust out like wings, eyes like white domes in black craters, mouth open as he screams acceleration. His name is Wren. By Dale L. Sproule Read by Jaron Cohen Every night since I was seven years old he’s swooped down at me out of the darkness of sleep: a pale, skeletal boy with thin arms thrust out like wings, eyes like white domes in black craters, mouth open as he screams acceleration. His name is Wren. tag:odeo.com,2009-09-24,25181004 Thu, 24 Sep 2009 21:01:02 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25180658-Pseudopod-161-Fourth-Person-Singular By Dale L. Sproule Read by Jaron Cohen Every night since I was seven years old he’s swooped down at me out of the darkness of sleep: a pale, skeletal boy with thin arms thrust out like wings, eyes like white domes in black craters, mouth open as he screams acceleration. His name is Wren. By Dale L. Sproule Read by Jaron Cohen Every night since I was seven years old he’s swooped down at me out of the darkness of sleep: a pale, skeletal boy with thin arms thrust out like wings, eyes like white domes in black craters, mouth open as he screams acceleration. His name is Wren. By Dale L. Sproule Read by Jaron Cohen Every night since I was seven years old he’s swooped down at me out of the darkness of sleep: a pale, skeletal boy with thin arms thrust out like wings, eyes like white domes in black craters, mouth open as he screams acceleration. His name is Wren. tag:odeo.com,2009-09-24,25180658 Thu, 24 Sep 2009 21:01:02 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25142574-Pseudopod-160-Got-Milk By John Alfred Taylor Read by Alasdair Stuart “Now paint in little white eye sockets.” Colin told Briony. “And teeth at the bottom.” He’d already had her draw India-ink crossbones under the big black mole. “You’re sure this won’t piss-off your dermatologist?” Briony asked, squinting in concentration as she bent to her task at his left [...] By John Alfred Taylor Read by Alasdair Stuart “Now paint in little white eye sockets.” Colin told Briony. “And teeth at the bottom.” He’d already had her draw India-ink crossbones under the big black mole. “You’re sure this won’t piss-off your dermatologist?” Briony asked, squinting in concentration as she bent to her task at his left [...] By John Alfred Taylor Read by Alasdair Stuart “Now paint in little white eye sockets.” Colin told Briony. “And teeth at the bottom.” He’d already had her draw India-ink crossbones under the big black mole. “You’re sure this won’t piss-off your dermatologist?” Briony asked, squinting in concentration as she bent to her task at his left [...] tag:odeo.com,2009-09-16,25142574 Wed, 16 Sep 2009 21:01:26 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25142941-Pseudopod-160-Got-Milk By John Alfred Taylor Read by Alasdair Stuart “Now paint in little white eye sockets.” Colin told Briony. “And teeth at the bottom.” He’d already had her draw India-ink crossbones under the big black mole. “You’re sure this won’t piss-off your dermatologist?” Briony asked, squinting in concentration as she bent to her task at his left side. “Not Doc Schulmann. He likes his laughs. Should have heard him joking when he snipped off the tags in my armpit.” (Colin hoped he and the Doctor would still be laughing two hours from now, but wasn’t going to bother Briony with gloomy possibilities. At least his mole had smooth edges and was still all one color.) By John Alfred Taylor Read by Alasdair Stuart “Now paint in little white eye sockets.” Colin told Briony. “And teeth at the bottom.” He’d already had her draw India-ink crossbones under the big black mole. “You’re sure this won’t piss-off your dermatologist?” Briony asked, squinting in concentration as she bent to her task at his left side. “Not Doc Schulmann. He likes his laughs. Should have heard him joking when he snipped off the tags in my armpit.” (Colin hoped he and the Doctor would still be laughing two hours from now, but wasn’t going to bother Briony with gloomy possibilities. At least his mole had smooth edges and was still all one color.) By John Alfred Taylor Read by Alasdair Stuart “Now paint in little white eye sockets.” Colin told Briony. “And teeth at the bottom.” He’d already had her draw India-ink crossbones under the big black mole. “You’re sure this won’t piss-off your dermatologist?” Briony asked, squinting in concentration as she bent to her task at his left side. “Not Doc Schulmann. He likes his laughs. Should have heard him joking when he snipped off the tags in my armpit.” (Colin hoped he and the Doctor would still be laughing two hours from now, but wasn’t going to bother Briony with gloomy possibilities. At least his mole had smooth edges and was still all one color.) tag:odeo.com,2009-09-16,25142941 Wed, 16 Sep 2009 21:01:26 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25105191-Pseudopod-159-Reservation-Monsters By Jim Bihyeh Read by Ben Phillips “When I was your age, I ran away from school all the time. The tribal police would gather all us kids up from the hogans and the cabins, haul us to the boarding schools, cut our hair, tell us not to talk Navajo, feed us flour with bugs in it. All that crap you hear about now in documentaries. I ran away to my auntie’s house near Canyon de Chelly. She was a seer and a hand trembler. The Navajos around there, if they couldn’t sleep or they were sick, they sent a runner to my auntie and she came with her rock crystal and her corn pollen and went over their home until her hand trembled like she was holding on to an electric fence. And she saw things. Visions no one else could see. The sort of visions you’re seeing now. The things that cause sickness. Death. Things that have to be dealt with. Things that have to be sung and prayed over, so the person can be healthy again.” By Jim Bihyeh Read by Ben Phillips “When I was your age, I ran away from school all the time. The tribal police would gather all us kids up from the hogans and the cabins, haul us to the boarding schools, cut our hair, tell us not to talk Navajo, feed us flour with bugs in it. All that crap you hear about now in documentaries. I ran away to my auntie’s house near Canyon de Chelly. She was a seer and a hand trembler. The Navajos around there, if they couldn’t sleep or they were sick, they sent a runner to my auntie and she came with her rock crystal and her corn pollen and went over their home until her hand trembled like she was holding on to an electric fence. And she saw things. Visions no one else could see. The sort of visions you’re seeing now. The things that cause sickness. Death. Things that have to be dealt with. Things that have to be sung and prayed over, so the person can be healthy again.” By Jim Bihyeh Read by Ben Phillips “When I was your age, I ran away from school all the time. The tribal police would gather all us kids up from the hogans and the cabins, haul us to the boarding schools, cut our hair, tell us not to talk Navajo, feed us flour with bugs in it. All that crap you hear about now in documentaries. I ran away to my auntie’s house near Canyon de Chelly. She was a seer and a hand trembler. The Navajos around there, if they couldn’t sleep or they were sick, they sent a runner to my auntie and she came with her rock crystal and her corn pollen and went over their home until her hand trembled like she was holding on to an electric fence. And she saw things. Visions no one else could see. The sort of visions you’re seeing now. The things that cause sickness. Death. Things that have to be dealt with. Things that have to be sung and prayed over, so the person can be healthy again.” tag:odeo.com,2009-09-10,25105191 Thu, 10 Sep 2009 21:01:21 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25105535-Pseudopod-159-Reservation-Monsters By Jim Bihyeh Read by Ben Phillips “When I was your age, I ran away from school all the time. The tribal police would gather all us kids up from the hogans and the cabins, haul us to the boarding schools, cut our hair, tell us not to talk Navajo, feed us flour with bugs in it. All that crap you hear about now in documentaries. I ran away to my auntie’s house near Canyon de Chelly. She was a seer and a hand trembler. The Navajos around there, if they couldn’t sleep or they were sick, they sent a runner to my auntie and she came with her rock crystal and her corn pollen and went over their home until her hand trembled like she was holding on to an electric fence. And she saw things. Visions no one else could see. The sort of visions you’re seeing now. The things that cause sickness. Death. Things that have to be dealt with. Things that have to be sung and prayed over, so the person can be healthy again.” By Jim Bihyeh Read by Ben Phillips “When I was your age, I ran away from school all the time. The tribal police would gather all us kids up from the hogans and the cabins, haul us to the boarding schools, cut our hair, tell us not to talk Navajo, feed us flour with bugs in it. All that crap you hear about now in documentaries. I ran away to my auntie’s house near Canyon de Chelly. She was a seer and a hand trembler. The Navajos around there, if they couldn’t sleep or they were sick, they sent a runner to my auntie and she came with her rock crystal and her corn pollen and went over their home until her hand trembled like she was holding on to an electric fence. And she saw things. Visions no one else could see. The sort of visions you’re seeing now. The things that cause sickness. Death. Things that have to be dealt with. Things that have to be sung and prayed over, so the person can be healthy again.” By Jim Bihyeh Read by Ben Phillips “When I was your age, I ran away from school all the time. The tribal police would gather all us kids up from the hogans and the cabins, haul us to the boarding schools, cut our hair, tell us not to talk Navajo, feed us flour with bugs in it. All that crap you hear about now in documentaries. I ran away to my auntie’s house near Canyon de Chelly. She was a seer and a hand trembler. The Navajos around there, if they couldn’t sleep or they were sick, they sent a runner to my auntie and she came with her rock crystal and her corn pollen and went over their home until her hand trembled like she was holding on to an electric fence. And she saw things. Visions no one else could see. The sort of visions you’re seeing now. The things that cause sickness. Death. Things that have to be dealt with. Things that have to be sung and prayed over, so the person can be healthy again.” tag:odeo.com,2009-09-10,25105535 Thu, 10 Sep 2009 21:01:21 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25072223-Pseudopod-158-Regulars By Frank Oreto Read by David Moore It was nine p.m. when Jesus Christ tried to get into Drake’s Bar and Grill with no ID. Jimmy stood up from wrestling a new keg of Yuengling into position. He spotted Jesus and had to smile. In his 30 years of owning Drake’s, Jimmy had seen the local frat kids do a lot of laughable things, but they weren’t usually intentional, and more rarely still – were they clever. This, he had to admit, was both. Christ’s apostles, all of whom seemed to be members of Phi Delta Theta, were arguing with Big Pete at the door. Pete, towering a good six inches over the largest Phi Delt , was calmly shaking his head. Jimmy came from behind the bar and worked his way through the Saturday night Carson Street crowd until he was within talking distance of Pete, and Christ’s entourage. By Frank Oreto Read by David Moore It was nine p.m. when Jesus Christ tried to get into Drake’s Bar and Grill with no ID. Jimmy stood up from wrestling a new keg of Yuengling into position. He spotted Jesus and had to smile. In his 30 years of owning Drake’s, Jimmy had seen the local frat kids do a lot of laughable things, but they weren’t usually intentional, and more rarely still – were they clever. This, he had to admit, was both. Christ’s apostles, all of whom seemed to be members of Phi Delta Theta, were arguing with Big Pete at the door. Pete, towering a good six inches over the largest Phi Delt , was calmly shaking his head. Jimmy came from behind the bar and worked his way through the Saturday night Carson Street crowd until he was within talking distance of Pete, and Christ’s entourage. By Frank Oreto Read by David Moore It was nine p.m. when Jesus Christ tried to get into Drake’s Bar and Grill with no ID. Jimmy stood up from wrestling a new keg of Yuengling into position. He spotted Jesus and had to smile. In his 30 years of owning Drake’s, Jimmy had seen the local frat kids do a lot of laughable things, but they weren’t usually intentional, and more rarely still – were they clever. This, he had to admit, was both. Christ’s apostles, all of whom seemed to be members of Phi Delta Theta, were arguing with Big Pete at the door. Pete, towering a good six inches over the largest Phi Delt , was calmly shaking his head. Jimmy came from behind the bar and worked his way through the Saturday night Carson Street crowd until he was within talking distance of Pete, and Christ’s entourage. tag:odeo.com,2009-09-03,25072223 Thu, 03 Sep 2009 21:01:14 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25071796-Pseudopod-158-Regulars By Frank Oreto Read by David Moore It was nine p.m. when Jesus Christ tried to get into Drake’s Bar and Grill with no ID. Jimmy stood up from wrestling a new keg of Yuengling into position. He spotted Jesus and had to smile. In his 30 years of owning Drake’s, Jimmy had seen the local frat kids do a lot of laughable things, but they weren’t usually intentional, and more rarely still – were they clever. This, he had to admit, was both. Christ’s apostles, all of whom seemed to be members of Phi Delta Theta, were arguing with Big Pete at the door. Pete, towering a good six inches over the largest Phi Delt , was calmly shaking his head. Jimmy came from behind the bar and worked his way through the Saturday night Carson Street crowd until he was within talking distance of Pete, and Christ’s entourage. By Frank Oreto Read by David Moore It was nine p.m. when Jesus Christ tried to get into Drake’s Bar and Grill with no ID. Jimmy stood up from wrestling a new keg of Yuengling into position. He spotted Jesus and had to smile. In his 30 years of owning Drake’s, Jimmy had seen the local frat kids do a lot of laughable things, but they weren’t usually intentional, and more rarely still – were they clever. This, he had to admit, was both. Christ’s apostles, all of whom seemed to be members of Phi Delta Theta, were arguing with Big Pete at the door. Pete, towering a good six inches over the largest Phi Delt , was calmly shaking his head. Jimmy came from behind the bar and worked his way through the Saturday night Carson Street crowd until he was within talking distance of Pete, and Christ’s entourage. By Frank Oreto Read by David Moore It was nine p.m. when Jesus Christ tried to get into Drake’s Bar and Grill with no ID. Jimmy stood up from wrestling a new keg of Yuengling into position. He spotted Jesus and had to smile. In his 30 years of owning Drake’s, Jimmy had seen the local frat kids do a lot of laughable things, but they weren’t usually intentional, and more rarely still – were they clever. This, he had to admit, was both. Christ’s apostles, all of whom seemed to be members of Phi Delta Theta, were arguing with Big Pete at the door. Pete, towering a good six inches over the largest Phi Delt , was calmly shaking his head. Jimmy came from behind the bar and worked his way through the Saturday night Carson Street crowd until he was within talking distance of Pete, and Christ’s entourage. tag:odeo.com,2009-09-03,25071796 Thu, 03 Sep 2009 21:01:14 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25036370-Pseudopod-157-Wave-Goodbye By Felicity Bloomfield Read by Donna Lynch Before she finished her cutting I stood behind her, and circled her arms with my arms. As she sliced a carrot, I shoved at her hand. The knife slid into her wrist, and she swore. Blood dripped onto the neat pile of chopped beans. She bound her own wrist, and threw the carrots and beans away. I peered around her as she looked at the chicken. It was pale and bloated, floating on the surface of the freezing water. Oil slimed the white skin. Nunury tugged on my arm. “Mummy, why did you do that?” I slapped her hand away. “Why did you lie floating for days after you drowned? Why didn’t she come sooner?” Nunury’s eyes widened, ready to cry. I’d never yelled at her when we were alive. “I’m sorry,” I said, gathering her in my arms. “You know I’d never hurt you.” By Felicity Bloomfield Read by Donna Lynch Before she finished her cutting I stood behind her, and circled her arms with my arms. As she sliced a carrot, I shoved at her hand. The knife slid into her wrist, and she swore. Blood dripped onto the neat pile of chopped beans. She bound her own wrist, and threw the carrots and beans away. I peered around her as she looked at the chicken. It was pale and bloated, floating on the surface of the freezing water. Oil slimed the white skin. Nunury tugged on my arm. “Mummy, why did you do that?” I slapped her hand away. “Why did you lie floating for days after you drowned? Why didn’t she come sooner?” Nunury’s eyes widened, ready to cry. I’d never yelled at her when we were alive. “I’m sorry,” I said, gathering her in my arms. “You know I’d never hurt you.” By Felicity Bloomfield Read by Donna Lynch Before she finished her cutting I stood behind her, and circled her arms with my arms. As she sliced a carrot, I shoved at her hand. The knife slid into her wrist, and she swore. Blood dripped onto the neat pile of chopped beans. She bound her own wrist, and threw the carrots and beans away. I peered around her as she looked at the chicken. It was pale and bloated, floating on the surface of the freezing water. Oil slimed the white skin. Nunury tugged on my arm. “Mummy, why did you do that?” I slapped her hand away. “Why did you lie floating for days after you drowned? Why didn’t she come sooner?” Nunury’s eyes widened, ready to cry. I’d never yelled at her when we were alive. “I’m sorry,” I said, gathering her in my arms. “You know I’d never hurt you.” tag:odeo.com,2009-08-27,25036370 Thu, 27 Aug 2009 21:01:58 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25036724-Pseudopod-157-Wave-Goodbye By Felicity Bloomfield Read by Donna Lynch Before she finished her cutting I stood behind her, and circled her arms with my arms. As she sliced a carrot, I shoved at her hand. The knife slid into her wrist, and she swore. Blood dripped onto the neat pile of chopped beans. She bound her own wrist, and threw the carrots and beans away. I peered around her as she looked at the chicken. It was pale and bloated, floating on the surface of the freezing water. Oil slimed the white skin. Nunury tugged on my arm. “Mummy, why did you do that?” I slapped her hand away. “Why did you lie floating for days after you drowned? Why didn’t she come sooner?” Nunury’s eyes widened, ready to cry. I’d never yelled at her when we were alive. “I’m sorry,” I said, gathering her in my arms. “You know I’d never hurt you.” By Felicity Bloomfield Read by Donna Lynch Before she finished her cutting I stood behind her, and circled her arms with my arms. As she sliced a carrot, I shoved at her hand. The knife slid into her wrist, and she swore. Blood dripped onto the neat pile of chopped beans. She bound her own wrist, and threw the carrots and beans away. I peered around her as she looked at the chicken. It was pale and bloated, floating on the surface of the freezing water. Oil slimed the white skin. Nunury tugged on my arm. “Mummy, why did you do that?” I slapped her hand away. “Why did you lie floating for days after you drowned? Why didn’t she come sooner?” Nunury’s eyes widened, ready to cry. I’d never yelled at her when we were alive. “I’m sorry,” I said, gathering her in my arms. “You know I’d never hurt you.” By Felicity Bloomfield Read by Donna Lynch Before she finished her cutting I stood behind her, and circled her arms with my arms. As she sliced a carrot, I shoved at her hand. The knife slid into her wrist, and she swore. Blood dripped onto the neat pile of chopped beans. She bound her own wrist, and threw the carrots and beans away. I peered around her as she looked at the chicken. It was pale and bloated, floating on the surface of the freezing water. Oil slimed the white skin. Nunury tugged on my arm. “Mummy, why did you do that?” I slapped her hand away. “Why did you lie floating for days after you drowned? Why didn’t she come sooner?” Nunury’s eyes widened, ready to cry. I’d never yelled at her when we were alive. “I’m sorry,” I said, gathering her in my arms. “You know I’d never hurt you.” tag:odeo.com,2009-08-27,25036724 Thu, 27 Aug 2009 21:01:58 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25004598-EA-Metacast-Aug-2009 A few announcements. The full text is on the forum. Please visit that link to comment, as well. Thanks! A few announcements. The full text is on the forum. Please visit that link to comment, as well. Thanks! A few announcements. The full text is on the forum. Please visit that link to comment, as well. Thanks! tag:odeo.com,2009-08-22,25004598 Sat, 22 Aug 2009 08:16:10 -0700 yes Pseudopod Meta http://www.odeo.com/episodes/25004391-EA-Metacast-Aug-2009 A few announcements. The full text is on the forum. Please visit that link to comment, as well. Thanks! A few announcements. The full text is on the forum. Please visit that link to comment, as well. Thanks! A few announcements. The full text is on the forum. Please visit that link to comment, as well. Thanks! tag:odeo.com,2009-08-22,25004391 Sat, 22 Aug 2009 08:16:10 -0700 yes Pseudopod Meta http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24996994-Pseudopod-156-The-Leviathan By Blake Vaughn Read by Ben Phillips The following has been transcribed from a journal, the owner of which has since passed away. In accordance with his last wishes, it has not been altered from its original manuscript, save where deemed necessary for page formatting. October 3, 1903 There are memories I bear which erupt from the formless black of dreams. I still awaken at night crying out for safety and, finding myself alone, I hide in sheets, attempting to assuage a cold shivering that refuses to leave my bones. I have given my account to countless others in desperation, but still I know not restful sleep. I pray that in this inked telling I may concretely free myself from this memory, though I admit any faith I once had has long since left me, abandoned me in that lake those eleven years ago, never to return. Korta Ves. By Blake Vaughn Read by Ben Phillips The following has been transcribed from a journal, the owner of which has since passed away. In accordance with his last wishes, it has not been altered from its original manuscript, save where deemed necessary for page formatting. October 3, 1903 There are memories I bear which erupt from the formless black of dreams. I still awaken at night crying out for safety and, finding myself alone, I hide in sheets, attempting to assuage a cold shivering that refuses to leave my bones. I have given my account to countless others in desperation, but still I know not restful sleep. I pray that in this inked telling I may concretely free myself from this memory, though I admit any faith I once had has long since left me, abandoned me in that lake those eleven years ago, never to return. Korta Ves. By Blake Vaughn Read by Ben Phillips The following has been transcribed from a journal, the owner of which has since passed away. In accordance with his last wishes, it has not been altered from its original manuscript, save where deemed necessary for page formatting. October 3, 1903 There are memories I bear which erupt from the formless black of dreams. I still awaken at night crying out for safety and, finding myself alone, I hide in sheets, attempting to assuage a cold shivering that refuses to leave my bones. I have given my account to countless others in desperation, but still I know not restful sleep. I pray that in this inked telling I may concretely free myself from this memory, though I admit any faith I once had has long since left me, abandoned me in that lake those eleven years ago, never to return. Korta Ves. tag:odeo.com,2009-08-20,24996994 Thu, 20 Aug 2009 21:01:59 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24996564-Pseudopod-156-The-Leviathan By Blake Vaughn Read by Ben Phillips The following has been transcribed from a journal, the owner of which has since passed away. In accordance with his last wishes, it has not been altered from its original manuscript, save where deemed necessary for page formatting. October 3, 1903 There are memories I bear which erupt from the formless black of dreams. I still awaken at night crying out for safety and, finding myself alone, I hide in sheets, attempting to assuage a cold shivering that refuses to leave my bones. I have given my account to countless others in desperation, but still I know not restful sleep. I pray that in this inked telling I may concretely free myself from this memory, though I admit any faith I once had has long since left me, abandoned me in that lake those eleven years ago, never to return. Korta Ves. By Blake Vaughn Read by Ben Phillips The following has been transcribed from a journal, the owner of which has since passed away. In accordance with his last wishes, it has not been altered from its original manuscript, save where deemed necessary for page formatting. October 3, 1903 There are memories I bear which erupt from the formless black of dreams. I still awaken at night crying out for safety and, finding myself alone, I hide in sheets, attempting to assuage a cold shivering that refuses to leave my bones. I have given my account to countless others in desperation, but still I know not restful sleep. I pray that in this inked telling I may concretely free myself from this memory, though I admit any faith I once had has long since left me, abandoned me in that lake those eleven years ago, never to return. Korta Ves. By Blake Vaughn Read by Ben Phillips The following has been transcribed from a journal, the owner of which has since passed away. In accordance with his last wishes, it has not been altered from its original manuscript, save where deemed necessary for page formatting. October 3, 1903 There are memories I bear which erupt from the formless black of dreams. I still awaken at night crying out for safety and, finding myself alone, I hide in sheets, attempting to assuage a cold shivering that refuses to leave my bones. I have given my account to countless others in desperation, but still I know not restful sleep. I pray that in this inked telling I may concretely free myself from this memory, though I admit any faith I once had has long since left me, abandoned me in that lake those eleven years ago, never to return. Korta Ves. tag:odeo.com,2009-08-20,24996564 Thu, 20 Aug 2009 21:01:59 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24958905-Pseudopod-155-The-Worm-that-Gnaws By Orrin Grey Read by Ian Stuart I’ve ‘ad loadsa bad jobs in my day, but this ‘un’s the worst by a mile. Trompin’ aroun’ in the boneyards at midnight, diggin’ up dead folks wi’ a wooden spade, breakin’ open the caskets wi’ a mattock, an’ haulin’ ‘em up an’ out by the heads. Christ. The mist creeps up ‘til it’s so thick ya can’t hardly see the groun’ for it, makes the tombstones look like ships at sea where they thrust up out a it. Cold as a witch’s tit, an’ only one bottle between us, Wolfe an’ I. ‘Course it’s illegal. I ain’t had but a job or two that weren’t, in one way or t’other. But the fines ain’t steep, an’ the constables tend ta look t’other way. Sides, the pay’s worth the risks. Good pay, for a fella like me, or a fella like Wolfe. ‘E’s the boss, is Wolfe. Been at the game a long time, compared ta me, an’ ‘e ain’t like ta let me forget it. Big fella, shaped like a barrel, face all red an’ puffy from too much drink. “Ya’d drink too, ya’d seen what I seen,” ‘e always tells me... By Orrin Grey Read by Ian Stuart I’ve ‘ad loadsa bad jobs in my day, but this ‘un’s the worst by a mile. Trompin’ aroun’ in the boneyards at midnight, diggin’ up dead folks wi’ a wooden spade, breakin’ open the caskets wi’ a mattock, an’ haulin’ ‘em up an’ out by the heads. Christ. The mist creeps up ‘til it’s so thick ya can’t hardly see the groun’ for it, makes the tombstones look like ships at sea where they thrust up out a it. Cold as a witch’s tit, an’ only one bottle between us, Wolfe an’ I. ‘Course it’s illegal. I ain’t had but a job or two that weren’t, in one way or t’other. But the fines ain’t steep, an’ the constables tend ta look t’other way. Sides, the pay’s worth the risks. Good pay, for a fella like me, or a fella like Wolfe. ‘E’s the boss, is Wolfe. Been at the game a long time, compared ta me, an’ ‘e ain’t like ta let me forget it. Big fella, shaped like a barrel, face all red an’ puffy from too much drink. “Ya’d drink too, ya’d seen what I seen,” ‘e always tells me, as if I don’t drink. By Orrin Grey Read by Ian Stuart I’ve ‘ad loadsa bad jobs in my day, but this ‘un’s the worst by a mile. Trompin’ aroun’ in the boneyards at midnight, diggin’ up dead folks wi’ a wooden spade, breakin’ open the caskets wi’ a mattock, an’ haulin’ ‘em up an’ out by the heads. Christ. The mist creeps up ‘til it’s so thick ya can’t hardly see the groun’ for it, makes the tombstones look like ships at sea where they thrust up out a it. Cold as a witch’s tit, an’ only one bottle between us, Wolfe an’ I. ‘Course it’s illegal. I ain’t had but a job or two that weren’t, in one way or t’other. But the fines ain’t steep, an’ the constables tend ta look t’other way. Sides, the pay’s worth the risks. Good pay, for a fella like me, or a fella like Wolfe. ‘E’s the boss, is Wolfe. Been at the game a long time, compared ta me, an’ ‘e ain’t like ta let me forget it. Big fella, shaped like a barrel, face all red an’ puffy from too much drink. “Ya’d drink too, ya’d seen what I seen,” ‘e always tells me, as if I don’t drink. tag:odeo.com,2009-08-13,24958905 Thu, 13 Aug 2009 21:01:18 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24958150-Pseudopod-155-The-Worm-that-Gnaws By Orrin Grey Read by Ian Stuart I’ve ‘ad loadsa bad jobs in my day, but this ‘un’s the worst by a mile. Trompin’ aroun’ in the boneyards at midnight, diggin’ up dead folks wi’ a wooden spade, breakin’ open the caskets wi’ a mattock, an’ haulin’ ‘em up an’ out by the heads. Christ. The mist creeps up ‘til it’s so thick ya can’t hardly see the groun’ for it, makes the tombstones look like ships at sea where they thrust up out a it. Cold as a witch’s tit, an’ only one bottle between us, Wolfe an’ I. ‘Course it’s illegal. I ain’t had but a job or two that weren’t, in one way or t’other. But the fines ain’t steep, an’ the constables tend ta look t’other way. Sides, the pay’s worth the risks. Good pay, for a fella like me, or a fella like Wolfe. ‘E’s the boss, is Wolfe. Been at the game a long time, compared ta me, an’ ‘e ain’t like ta let me forget it. Big fella, shaped like a barrel, face all red an’ puffy from too much drink. “Ya’d drink too, ya’d seen what I seen,” ‘e always tells me... By Orrin Grey Read by Ian Stuart I’ve ‘ad loadsa bad jobs in my day, but this ‘un’s the worst by a mile. Trompin’ aroun’ in the boneyards at midnight, diggin’ up dead folks wi’ a wooden spade, breakin’ open the caskets wi’ a mattock, an’ haulin’ ‘em up an’ out by the heads. Christ. The mist creeps up ‘til it’s so thick ya can’t hardly see the groun’ for it, makes the tombstones look like ships at sea where they thrust up out a it. Cold as a witch’s tit, an’ only one bottle between us, Wolfe an’ I. ‘Course it’s illegal. I ain’t had but a job or two that weren’t, in one way or t’other. But the fines ain’t steep, an’ the constables tend ta look t’other way. Sides, the pay’s worth the risks. Good pay, for a fella like me, or a fella like Wolfe. ‘E’s the boss, is Wolfe. Been at the game a long time, compared ta me, an’ ‘e ain’t like ta let me forget it. Big fella, shaped like a barrel, face all red an’ puffy from too much drink. “Ya’d drink too, ya’d seen what I seen,” ‘e always tells me, as if I don’t drink. By Orrin Grey Read by Ian Stuart I’ve ‘ad loadsa bad jobs in my day, but this ‘un’s the worst by a mile. Trompin’ aroun’ in the boneyards at midnight, diggin’ up dead folks wi’ a wooden spade, breakin’ open the caskets wi’ a mattock, an’ haulin’ ‘em up an’ out by the heads. Christ. The mist creeps up ‘til it’s so thick ya can’t hardly see the groun’ for it, makes the tombstones look like ships at sea where they thrust up out a it. Cold as a witch’s tit, an’ only one bottle between us, Wolfe an’ I. ‘Course it’s illegal. I ain’t had but a job or two that weren’t, in one way or t’other. But the fines ain’t steep, an’ the constables tend ta look t’other way. Sides, the pay’s worth the risks. Good pay, for a fella like me, or a fella like Wolfe. ‘E’s the boss, is Wolfe. Been at the game a long time, compared ta me, an’ ‘e ain’t like ta let me forget it. Big fella, shaped like a barrel, face all red an’ puffy from too much drink. “Ya’d drink too, ya’d seen what I seen,” ‘e always tells me, as if I don’t drink. tag:odeo.com,2009-08-13,24958150 Thu, 13 Aug 2009 21:01:18 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24923007-Pseudopod-154-Raising-Eddie By Mark Felps Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy Eddie had the little .22 semi-automatic that we used for shooting rabbit and squirrel, and I had Daddy’s .30-06. It was his favorite deer gun, and he would have tanned my hide if he knew I had it. That day wasn’t the first time we’d come down to the creek to shoot. We didn’t do it all the time, because sometimes the guns cracked so loud that our neighbor across the creek, Mr. Davenport, would hear and call up Momma. Most times, we shot on the bank of the creek, setting up dirty beer bottles – leftovers from teenage parties. It was our land, and we kept it fenced, but a fence never did mean much to a kid of any age. When we got to the ghost house, Eddie didn’t want to go any further. He didn’t start fussing, but he started dragging his feet, covering his Keds with dust. I wasn’t in the mood to fight with him, so I just kept walking. Faced with being alone in the woods, or with his big brother at the ghost house, Eddie came on along. I wonder... By Mark Felps Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy Eddie had the little .22 semi-automatic that we used for shooting rabbit and squirrel, and I had Daddy’s .30-06. It was his favorite deer gun, and he would have tanned my hide if he knew I had it. That day wasn’t the first time we’d come down to the creek to shoot. We didn’t do it all the time, because sometimes the guns cracked so loud that our neighbor across the creek, Mr. Davenport, would hear and call up Momma. Most times, we shot on the bank of the creek, setting up dirty beer bottles – leftovers from teenage parties. It was our land, and we kept it fenced, but a fence never did mean much to a kid of any age. When we got to the ghost house, Eddie didn’t want to go any further. He didn’t start fussing, but he started dragging his feet, covering his Keds with dust. I wasn’t in the mood to fight with him, so I just kept walking. Faced with being alone in the woods, or with his big brother at the ghost house, Eddie came on along. I wonder, sometimes, if he knew something. If he had some sort of feeling about what was going to happen. It’s the kind of thing that can drive you crazy. If you let it. By Mark Felps Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy Eddie had the little .22 semi-automatic that we used for shooting rabbit and squirrel, and I had Daddy’s .30-06. It was his favorite deer gun, and he would have tanned my hide if he knew I had it. That day wasn’t the first time we’d come down to the creek to shoot. We didn’t do it all the time, because sometimes the guns cracked so loud that our neighbor across the creek, Mr. Davenport, would hear and call up Momma. Most times, we shot on the bank of the creek, setting up dirty beer bottles – leftovers from teenage parties. It was our land, and we kept it fenced, but a fence never did mean much to a kid of any age. When we got to the ghost house, Eddie didn’t want to go any further. He didn’t start fussing, but he started dragging his feet, covering his Keds with dust. I wasn’t in the mood to fight with him, so I just kept walking. Faced with being alone in the woods, or with his big brother at the ghost house, Eddie came on along. I wonder, sometimes, if he knew something. If he had some sort of feeling about what was going to happen. It’s the kind of thing that can drive you crazy. If you let it. tag:odeo.com,2009-08-06,24923007 Thu, 06 Aug 2009 21:01:43 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24924336-Pseudopod-154-Raising-Eddie By Mark Felps Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy Eddie had the little .22 semi-automatic that we used for shooting rabbit and squirrel, and I had Daddy’s .30-06. It was his favorite deer gun, and he would have tanned my hide if he knew I had it. That day wasn’t the first time we’d come down to the creek to shoot. We didn’t do it all the time, because sometimes the guns cracked so loud that our neighbor across the creek, Mr. Davenport, would hear and call up Momma. Most times, we shot on the bank of the creek, setting up dirty beer bottles – leftovers from teenage parties. It was our land, and we kept it fenced, but a fence never did mean much to a kid of any age. When we got to the ghost house, Eddie didn’t want to go any further. He didn’t start fussing, but he started dragging his feet, covering his Keds with dust. I wasn’t in the mood to fight with him, so I just kept walking. Faced with being alone in the woods, or with his big brother at the ghost house, Eddie came on along. I wonder... By Mark Felps Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy Eddie had the little .22 semi-automatic that we used for shooting rabbit and squirrel, and I had Daddy’s .30-06. It was his favorite deer gun, and he would have tanned my hide if he knew I had it. That day wasn’t the first time we’d come down to the creek to shoot. We didn’t do it all the time, because sometimes the guns cracked so loud that our neighbor across the creek, Mr. Davenport, would hear and call up Momma. Most times, we shot on the bank of the creek, setting up dirty beer bottles – leftovers from teenage parties. It was our land, and we kept it fenced, but a fence never did mean much to a kid of any age. When we got to the ghost house, Eddie didn’t want to go any further. He didn’t start fussing, but he started dragging his feet, covering his Keds with dust. I wasn’t in the mood to fight with him, so I just kept walking. Faced with being alone in the woods, or with his big brother at the ghost house, Eddie came on along. I wonder, sometimes, if he knew something. If he had some sort of feeling about what was going to happen. It’s the kind of thing that can drive you crazy. If you let it. By Mark Felps Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy Eddie had the little .22 semi-automatic that we used for shooting rabbit and squirrel, and I had Daddy’s .30-06. It was his favorite deer gun, and he would have tanned my hide if he knew I had it. That day wasn’t the first time we’d come down to the creek to shoot. We didn’t do it all the time, because sometimes the guns cracked so loud that our neighbor across the creek, Mr. Davenport, would hear and call up Momma. Most times, we shot on the bank of the creek, setting up dirty beer bottles – leftovers from teenage parties. It was our land, and we kept it fenced, but a fence never did mean much to a kid of any age. When we got to the ghost house, Eddie didn’t want to go any further. He didn’t start fussing, but he started dragging his feet, covering his Keds with dust. I wasn’t in the mood to fight with him, so I just kept walking. Faced with being alone in the woods, or with his big brother at the ghost house, Eddie came on along. I wonder, sometimes, if he knew something. If he had some sort of feeling about what was going to happen. It’s the kind of thing that can drive you crazy. If you let it. tag:odeo.com,2009-08-06,24924336 Thu, 06 Aug 2009 21:01:43 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24889172-Pseudopod-153-The-Hay-Devils By Colin P. Davies Read by Jaron Cohen Every July Dad would put me on the Greyhound, wave a hearty goodbye, and shout, “House’ll be hollow without you!” Then I’d clamber up on the seat to hoist my bag onto the rack and listen as he pounded the horn in his rusty old pick-up. This year that parting call sounded more forlorn than ever. To my early-adolescent mind, Dad was becoming increasingly odd and worryingly isolated. Lately, I’d woken at night to hear him talking to Mom. The next day he would confess to me how much he still missed her. But, for the next month, I could put all that behind me. I was off, a hundred miles to the west, to Granddad’s farm; an Illinois retreat for me and my cousins Ray, Suzie and little Sam. It would be a time of picnics and perfect sunshine, of bicycles in the dust and splashing in the cool river. As the bus moved out of the city, exchanging the squalor of the slums for the lawns and colonnades of the suburban estates, my thoughts were already racing ah... By Colin P. Davies Read by Jaron Cohen Every July Dad would put me on the Greyhound, wave a hearty goodbye, and shout, “House’ll be hollow without you!” Then I’d clamber up on the seat to hoist my bag onto the rack and listen as he pounded the horn in his rusty old pick-up. This year that parting call sounded more forlorn than ever. To my early-adolescent mind, Dad was becoming increasingly odd and worryingly isolated. Lately, I’d woken at night to hear him talking to Mom. The next day he would confess to me how much he still missed her. But, for the next month, I could put all that behind me. I was off, a hundred miles to the west, to Granddad’s farm; an Illinois retreat for me and my cousins Ray, Suzie and little Sam. It would be a time of picnics and perfect sunshine, of bicycles in the dust and splashing in the cool river. As the bus moved out of the city, exchanging the squalor of the slums for the lawns and colonnades of the suburban estates, my thoughts were already racing ahead along the road. This holiday would be so much more memorable. “This year…” I told myself. “This year I aim to catch me a Hay Devil.” By Colin P. Davies Read by Jaron Cohen Every July Dad would put me on the Greyhound, wave a hearty goodbye, and shout, “House’ll be hollow without you!” Then I’d clamber up on the seat to hoist my bag onto the rack and listen as he pounded the horn in his rusty old pick-up. This year that parting call sounded more forlorn than ever. To my early-adolescent mind, Dad was becoming increasingly odd and worryingly isolated. Lately, I’d woken at night to hear him talking to Mom. The next day he would confess to me how much he still missed her. But, for the next month, I could put all that behind me. I was off, a hundred miles to the west, to Granddad’s farm; an Illinois retreat for me and my cousins Ray, Suzie and little Sam. It would be a time of picnics and perfect sunshine, of bicycles in the dust and splashing in the cool river. As the bus moved out of the city, exchanging the squalor of the slums for the lawns and colonnades of the suburban estates, my thoughts were already racing ahead along the road. This holiday would be so much more memorable. “This year…” I told myself. “This year I aim to catch me a Hay Devil.” tag:odeo.com,2009-07-30,24889172 Thu, 30 Jul 2009 21:01:46 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24889300-Pseudopod-153-The-Hay-Devils By Colin P. Davies Read by Jaron Cohen Every July Dad would put me on the Greyhound, wave a hearty goodbye, and shout, “House’ll be hollow without you!” Then I’d clamber up on the seat to hoist my bag onto the rack and listen as he pounded the horn in his rusty old pick-up. This year that parting call sounded more forlorn than ever. To my early-adolescent mind, Dad was becoming increasingly odd and worryingly isolated. Lately, I’d woken at night to hear him talking to Mom. The next day he would confess to me how much he still missed her. But, for the next month, I could put all that behind me. I was off, a hundred miles to the west, to Granddad’s farm; an Illinois retreat for me and my cousins Ray, Suzie and little Sam. It would be a time of picnics and perfect sunshine, of bicycles in the dust and splashing in the cool river. As the bus moved out of the city, exchanging the squalor of the slums for the lawns and colonnades of the suburban estates, my thoughts were already racing ah... By Colin P. Davies Read by Jaron Cohen Every July Dad would put me on the Greyhound, wave a hearty goodbye, and shout, “House’ll be hollow without you!” Then I’d clamber up on the seat to hoist my bag onto the rack and listen as he pounded the horn in his rusty old pick-up. This year that parting call sounded more forlorn than ever. To my early-adolescent mind, Dad was becoming increasingly odd and worryingly isolated. Lately, I’d woken at night to hear him talking to Mom. The next day he would confess to me how much he still missed her. But, for the next month, I could put all that behind me. I was off, a hundred miles to the west, to Granddad’s farm; an Illinois retreat for me and my cousins Ray, Suzie and little Sam. It would be a time of picnics and perfect sunshine, of bicycles in the dust and splashing in the cool river. As the bus moved out of the city, exchanging the squalor of the slums for the lawns and colonnades of the suburban estates, my thoughts were already racing ahead along the road. This holiday would be so much more memorable. “This year…” I told myself. “This year I aim to catch me a Hay Devil.” By Colin P. Davies Read by Jaron Cohen Every July Dad would put me on the Greyhound, wave a hearty goodbye, and shout, “House’ll be hollow without you!” Then I’d clamber up on the seat to hoist my bag onto the rack and listen as he pounded the horn in his rusty old pick-up. This year that parting call sounded more forlorn than ever. To my early-adolescent mind, Dad was becoming increasingly odd and worryingly isolated. Lately, I’d woken at night to hear him talking to Mom. The next day he would confess to me how much he still missed her. But, for the next month, I could put all that behind me. I was off, a hundred miles to the west, to Granddad’s farm; an Illinois retreat for me and my cousins Ray, Suzie and little Sam. It would be a time of picnics and perfect sunshine, of bicycles in the dust and splashing in the cool river. As the bus moved out of the city, exchanging the squalor of the slums for the lawns and colonnades of the suburban estates, my thoughts were already racing ahead along the road. This holiday would be so much more memorable. “This year…” I told myself. “This year I aim to catch me a Hay Devil.” tag:odeo.com,2009-07-30,24889300 Thu, 30 Jul 2009 21:01:46 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24855417-Pseudopod-152-Hometown-Horrible By Matthew Bey Read by Elie Hirschman “So much stays behind when a man dies,” Bestlonic says. “You could rebuild Finch from what we have left of him.” Together we walk the three blocks to downtown Chippewa Falls, and he tells me why Finch is the greatest writer who ever lived. We talk mainly about the “Biter” series. It doesn’t take much to get Bestlonic raving about these stories. The most cited story in the series, the eponymous “Biter,” tells the tale of a man who finds a note in his jacket pocket that prompts him to eat his own extremities, methodically avoiding blood loss and undue trauma in the process. The story is nearly 30,000 words long, surprisingly little of which is gruesome depictions of auto-cannibalism. The bulk of the text concentrates on the “unthinkable horror” written on that slip of paper. Finch never states outright what that might be, presumably because it would cause the readership to imitate t... By Matthew Bey Read by Elie Hirschman “So much stays behind when a man dies,” Bestlonic says. “You could rebuild Finch from what we have left of him.” Together we walk the three blocks to downtown Chippewa Falls, and he tells me why Finch is the greatest writer who ever lived. We talk mainly about the “Biter” series. It doesn’t take much to get Bestlonic raving about these stories. The most cited story in the series, the eponymous “Biter,” tells the tale of a man who finds a note in his jacket pocket that prompts him to eat his own extremities, methodically avoiding blood loss and undue trauma in the process. The story is nearly 30,000 words long, surprisingly little of which is gruesome depictions of auto-cannibalism. The bulk of the text concentrates on the “unthinkable horror” written on that slip of paper. Finch never states outright what that might be, presumably because it would cause the readership to imitate the hero’s compulsive mutilation. He merely reveals that the phrase is twelve words long, and we should be very careful what we read. By Matthew Bey Read by Elie Hirschman “So much stays behind when a man dies,” Bestlonic says. “You could rebuild Finch from what we have left of him.” Together we walk the three blocks to downtown Chippewa Falls, and he tells me why Finch is the greatest writer who ever lived. We talk mainly about the “Biter” series. It doesn’t take much to get Bestlonic raving about these stories. The most cited story in the series, the eponymous “Biter,” tells the tale of a man who finds a note in his jacket pocket that prompts him to eat his own extremities, methodically avoiding blood loss and undue trauma in the process. The story is nearly 30,000 words long, surprisingly little of which is gruesome depictions of auto-cannibalism. The bulk of the text concentrates on the “unthinkable horror” written on that slip of paper. Finch never states outright what that might be, presumably because it would cause the readership to imitate the hero’s compulsive mutilation. He merely reveals that the phrase is twelve words long, and we should be very careful what we read. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-23,24855417 Thu, 23 Jul 2009 21:01:23 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24855527-Pseudopod-152-Hometown-Horrible By Matthew Bey Read by Elie Hirschman “So much stays behind when a man dies,” Bestlonic says. “You could rebuild Finch from what we have left of him.” Together we walk the three blocks to downtown Chippewa Falls, and he tells me why Finch is the greatest writer who ever lived. We talk mainly about the “Biter” series. It doesn’t take much to get Bestlonic raving about these stories. The most cited story in the series, the eponymous “Biter,” tells the tale of a man who finds a note in his jacket pocket that prompts him to eat his own extremities, methodically avoiding blood loss and undue trauma in the process. The story is nearly 30,000 words long, surprisingly little of which is gruesome depictions of auto-cannibalism. The bulk of the text concentrates on the “unthinkable horror” written on that slip of paper. Finch never states outright what that might be, presumably because it would cause the readership to imitate t... By Matthew Bey Read by Elie Hirschman “So much stays behind when a man dies,” Bestlonic says. “You could rebuild Finch from what we have left of him.” Together we walk the three blocks to downtown Chippewa Falls, and he tells me why Finch is the greatest writer who ever lived. We talk mainly about the “Biter” series. It doesn’t take much to get Bestlonic raving about these stories. The most cited story in the series, the eponymous “Biter,” tells the tale of a man who finds a note in his jacket pocket that prompts him to eat his own extremities, methodically avoiding blood loss and undue trauma in the process. The story is nearly 30,000 words long, surprisingly little of which is gruesome depictions of auto-cannibalism. The bulk of the text concentrates on the “unthinkable horror” written on that slip of paper. Finch never states outright what that might be, presumably because it would cause the readership to imitate the hero’s compulsive mutilation. He merely reveals that the phrase is twelve words long, and we should be very careful what we read. By Matthew Bey Read by Elie Hirschman “So much stays behind when a man dies,” Bestlonic says. “You could rebuild Finch from what we have left of him.” Together we walk the three blocks to downtown Chippewa Falls, and he tells me why Finch is the greatest writer who ever lived. We talk mainly about the “Biter” series. It doesn’t take much to get Bestlonic raving about these stories. The most cited story in the series, the eponymous “Biter,” tells the tale of a man who finds a note in his jacket pocket that prompts him to eat his own extremities, methodically avoiding blood loss and undue trauma in the process. The story is nearly 30,000 words long, surprisingly little of which is gruesome depictions of auto-cannibalism. The bulk of the text concentrates on the “unthinkable horror” written on that slip of paper. Finch never states outright what that might be, presumably because it would cause the readership to imitate the hero’s compulsive mutilation. He merely reveals that the phrase is twelve words long, and we should be very careful what we read. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-23,24855527 Thu, 23 Jul 2009 21:01:23 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24818789-Pseudopod-151-The-Undoing By Sarah Totton Read by Christiana Ellis There are two accepted procedures for performing ocular excision. One involves suturing the eyelids shut prior to dissection and removal of the skin and soft tissues around and within the orbit. In the second method the eyelids are sutured open before the eye is dissected out. Given my patient’s particular circumstances, I was instructed to use the first method. This method has an added appeal for me; although the second method is less bloody, it involves performing the operation with the eye open — and I dislike being watched while I work. By Sarah Totton Read by Christiana Ellis There are two accepted procedures for performing ocular excision. One involves suturing the eyelids shut prior to dissection and removal of the skin and soft tissues around and within the orbit. In the second method the eyelids are sutured open before the eye is dissected out. Given my patient’s particular circumstances, I was instructed to use the first method. This method has an added appeal for me; although the second method is less bloody, it involves performing the operation with the eye open — and I dislike being watched while I work. By Sarah Totton Read by Christiana Ellis There are two accepted procedures for performing ocular excision. One involves suturing the eyelids shut prior to dissection and removal of the skin and soft tissues around and within the orbit. In the second method the eyelids are sutured open before the eye is dissected out. Given my patient’s particular circumstances, I was instructed to use the first method. This method has an added appeal for me; although the second method is less bloody, it involves performing the operation with the eye open — and I dislike being watched while I work. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-16,24818789 Thu, 16 Jul 2009 21:01:59 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24818640-Pseudopod-151-The-Undoing By Sarah Totton Read by Christiana Ellis There are two accepted procedures for performing ocular excision. One involves suturing the eyelids shut prior to dissection and removal of the skin and soft tissues around and within the orbit. In the second method the eyelids are sutured open before the eye is dissected out. Given my patient’s particular circumstances, I was instructed to use the first method. This method has an added appeal for me; although the second method is less bloody, it involves performing the operation with the eye open — and I dislike being watched while I work. By Sarah Totton Read by Christiana Ellis There are two accepted procedures for performing ocular excision. One involves suturing the eyelids shut prior to dissection and removal of the skin and soft tissues around and within the orbit. In the second method the eyelids are sutured open before the eye is dissected out. Given my patient’s particular circumstances, I was instructed to use the first method. This method has an added appeal for me; although the second method is less bloody, it involves performing the operation with the eye open — and I dislike being watched while I work. By Sarah Totton Read by Christiana Ellis There are two accepted procedures for performing ocular excision. One involves suturing the eyelids shut prior to dissection and removal of the skin and soft tissues around and within the orbit. In the second method the eyelids are sutured open before the eye is dissected out. Given my patient’s particular circumstances, I was instructed to use the first method. This method has an added appeal for me; although the second method is less bloody, it involves performing the operation with the eye open — and I dislike being watched while I work. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-16,24818640 Thu, 16 Jul 2009 21:01:59 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24776774-Pseudopod-150-Break-the-Vessel By Vylar Kaftan Read by Ben Phillips Even a god has human needs, if he resides in a living body. He must breathe the purest air possible. He must consume fresh food, and sleep on good bedding. And he must excrete. Some priests say that this is not truly the god’s need, since it results from the mortal body he occupies. I say this need is as important to a god as any man, because even gods create things they wish to be rid of. In this incarnation, Aki prefers a mid-morning session. We meet in our chamber–a narrow aisle, with gold-leaf handholds on each side. I attend him with my box of soft cloths, jintilla oil, and incense. He dismisses his other attendants with a wave. They drift behind tall stone pillars fifty paces away, giving him privacy. Full text available online at Transcriptase …along with many other fine stories. By Vylar Kaftan Read by Ben Phillips Even a god has human needs, if he resides in a living body. He must breathe the purest air possible. He must consume fresh food, and sleep on good bedding. And he must excrete. Some priests say that this is not truly the god’s need, since it results from the mortal body he occupies. I say this need is as important to a god as any man, because even gods create things they wish to be rid of. In this incarnation, Aki prefers a mid-morning session. We meet in our chamber–a narrow aisle, with gold-leaf handholds on each side. I attend him with my box of soft cloths, jintilla oil, and incense. He dismisses his other attendants with a wave. They drift behind tall stone pillars fifty paces away, giving him privacy. Full text available online at Transcriptase …along with many other fine stories. By Vylar Kaftan Read by Ben Phillips Even a god has human needs, if he resides in a living body. He must breathe the purest air possible. He must consume fresh food, and sleep on good bedding. And he must excrete. Some priests say that this is not truly the god’s need, since it results from the mortal body he occupies. I say this need is as important to a god as any man, because even gods create things they wish to be rid of. In this incarnation, Aki prefers a mid-morning session. We meet in our chamber–a narrow aisle, with gold-leaf handholds on each side. I attend him with my box of soft cloths, jintilla oil, and incense. He dismisses his other attendants with a wave. They drift behind tall stone pillars fifty paces away, giving him privacy. Full text available online at Transcriptase …along with many other fine stories. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-09,24776774 Thu, 09 Jul 2009 21:01:48 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24777134-Pseudopod-150-Break-the-Vessel By Vylar Kaftan Read by Ben Phillips Even a god has human needs, if he resides in a living body. He must breathe the purest air possible. He must consume fresh food, and sleep on good bedding. And he must excrete. Some priests say that this is not truly the god’s need, since it results from the mortal body he occupies. I say this need is as important to a god as any man, because even gods create things they wish to be rid of. In this incarnation, Aki prefers a mid-morning session. We meet in our chamber–a narrow aisle, with gold-leaf handholds on each side. I attend him with my box of soft cloths, jintilla oil, and incense. He dismisses his other attendants with a wave. They drift behind tall stone pillars fifty paces away, giving him privacy. Full text available online at Transcriptase …along with many other fine stories. By Vylar Kaftan Read by Ben Phillips Even a god has human needs, if he resides in a living body. He must breathe the purest air possible. He must consume fresh food, and sleep on good bedding. And he must excrete. Some priests say that this is not truly the god’s need, since it results from the mortal body he occupies. I say this need is as important to a god as any man, because even gods create things they wish to be rid of. In this incarnation, Aki prefers a mid-morning session. We meet in our chamber–a narrow aisle, with gold-leaf handholds on each side. I attend him with my box of soft cloths, jintilla oil, and incense. He dismisses his other attendants with a wave. They drift behind tall stone pillars fifty paces away, giving him privacy. Full text available online at Transcriptase …along with many other fine stories. By Vylar Kaftan Read by Ben Phillips Even a god has human needs, if he resides in a living body. He must breathe the purest air possible. He must consume fresh food, and sleep on good bedding. And he must excrete. Some priests say that this is not truly the god’s need, since it results from the mortal body he occupies. I say this need is as important to a god as any man, because even gods create things they wish to be rid of. In this incarnation, Aki prefers a mid-morning session. We meet in our chamber–a narrow aisle, with gold-leaf handholds on each side. I attend him with my box of soft cloths, jintilla oil, and incense. He dismisses his other attendants with a wave. They drift behind tall stone pillars fifty paces away, giving him privacy. Full text available online at Transcriptase …along with many other fine stories. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-09,24777134 Thu, 09 Jul 2009 21:01:48 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24748649-Pseudopod-149-Mira By Michael James McFarland Read by David Moore I won’t go into the details surrounding my dismissal from a well-known East Coast brokerage firm. other than to say I inadvertently let slip some information of a rather sensitive nature and, when it came down to drawing the line, the firm was more interested in maintaining their reputation than my livelihood. Of course they were. But I didn’t exactly walk away empty-handed. They were all very civilized. There were no black marks on my resume; hell, they even found me another job. At a much smaller firm in Seattle. And that’s where I met Mira, who this tale is really about. Links mentioned: Closing music by Hopeful Machines, a side project of Ego Likeness Promo for Crescent, by Phil Rossi, rushing Amazon charts on July 9, 2009 By Michael James McFarland Read by David Moore I won’t go into the details surrounding my dismissal from a well-known East Coast brokerage firm. other than to say I inadvertently let slip some information of a rather sensitive nature and, when it came down to drawing the line, the firm was more interested in maintaining their reputation than my livelihood. Of course they were. But I didn’t exactly walk away empty-handed. They were all very civilized. There were no black marks on my resume; hell, they even found me another job. At a much smaller firm in Seattle. And that’s where I met Mira, who this tale is really about. Links mentioned: Closing music by Hopeful Machines, a side project of Ego Likeness Promo for Crescent, by Phil Rossi, rushing Amazon charts on July 9, 2009 By Michael James McFarland Read by David Moore I won’t go into the details surrounding my dismissal from a well-known East Coast brokerage firm. other than to say I inadvertently let slip some information of a rather sensitive nature and, when it came down to drawing the line, the firm was more interested in maintaining their reputation than my livelihood. Of course they were. But I didn’t exactly walk away empty-handed. They were all very civilized. There were no black marks on my resume; hell, they even found me another job. At a much smaller firm in Seattle. And that’s where I met Mira, who this tale is really about. Links mentioned: Closing music by Hopeful Machines, a side project of Ego Likeness Promo for Crescent, by Phil Rossi, rushing Amazon charts on July 9, 2009 tag:odeo.com,2009-07-03,24748649 Fri, 03 Jul 2009 02:01:23 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories http://www.odeo.com/episodes/24746734-Pseudopod-149-Mira By Michael James McFarland Read by David Moore I won’t go into the details surrounding my dismissal from a well-known East Coast brokerage firm. other than to say I inadvertently let slip some information of a rather sensitive nature and, when it came down to drawing the line, the firm was more interested in maintaining their reputation than my livelihood. Of course they were. But I didn’t exactly walk away empty-handed. They were all very civilized. There were no black marks on my resume; hell, they even found me another job. At a much smaller firm in Seattle. And that’s where I met Mira, who this tale is really about. Links mentioned: Closing music by Hopeful Machines, a side project of Ego Likeness Promo for Crescent, by Phil Rossi, rushing Amazon charts on July 9, 2009 By Michael James McFarland Read by David Moore I won’t go into the details surrounding my dismissal from a well-known East Coast brokerage firm. other than to say I inadvertently let slip some information of a rather sensitive nature and, when it came down to drawing the line, the firm was more interested in maintaining their reputation than my livelihood. Of course they were. But I didn’t exactly walk away empty-handed. They were all very civilized. There were no black marks on my resume; hell, they even found me another job. At a much smaller firm in Seattle. And that’s where I met Mira, who this tale is really about. Links mentioned: Closing music by Hopeful Machines, a side project of Ego Likeness Promo for Crescent, by Phil Rossi, rushing Amazon charts on July 9, 2009 By Michael James McFarland Read by David Moore I won’t go into the details surrounding my dismissal from a well-known East Coast brokerage firm. other than to say I inadvertently let slip some information of a rather sensitive nature and, when it came down to drawing the line, the firm was more interested in maintaining their reputation than my livelihood. Of course they were. But I didn’t exactly walk away empty-handed. They were all very civilized. There were no black marks on my resume; hell, they even found me another job. At a much smaller firm in Seattle. And that’s where I met Mira, who this tale is really about. Links mentioned: Closing music by Hopeful Machines, a side project of Ego Likeness Promo for Crescent, by Phil Rossi, rushing Amazon charts on July 9, 2009 tag:odeo.com,2009-07-03,24746734 Fri, 03 Jul 2009 02:01:23 -0700 yes Pseudopod podcasts, stories