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This is Sudapod, the weekly horror podcast

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which like all unkillable acid for blooded

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lifeforms evolves. So the following

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episode may include stuff that disturbs you, and

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not in the good, fun way. With

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that in mind, and with you forewarned,

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on we go. Sudapod

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Episode 923, June 7th, 2024. This week's story, Too Little, Too

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Little, Too Much, by

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John Wiswell, narrated by Paul

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Cram. Modio production by Chelsea Davis,

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hosted by Alistair Stewart. Welcome

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to Sudapod, the weekly horror podcast. I'm

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Alistair, your host, and this week's story

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comes to us from the magnificent John

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Wiswell. Too Little, Too Little,

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Too Much deals with some heavy themes, so go

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careful if you need to. It

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first appeared in Cosmos Infinities in

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March of 2022. John

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Wiswell is a Nebula-winning and Locust-winning author who lives

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in the middle of the woods. John's

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debut novel, Someone You Can Build a

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Nest In, was released from DAW Books

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in the US and Arcadia in the

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UK in April of 2024. John's

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work has appeared in Uncanny Magazine,

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tor.com, LaVar Burton Reads, Nature Magazine,

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the magazine of fantasy and science

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fiction, Weird Tales, The No Sleep

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Podcast, Nightmare Magazine, Cast of Wonders,

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Podcastel, Escape Pod, Sudapod, and other

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fine venues. He has been

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a finalist for the Hugo, World Fantasy, and

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British Fantasy Awards. His fiction

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has been translated into 10 languages. He

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graduated Bennington College in 2005 and

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attended the Viable Paradise 17 workshop

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in 2013. He has multiple

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disabilities, including a neuromuscular syndrome, and

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thinks healthy people's capacity to complain

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is very funny. He finds

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a lot of things very funny, and he would very much

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like to keep it that way. The

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narrator this week is Paul Cram, and

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urban legend fans should seek out the

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Soviet Sleep Experiment, a horror movie based

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on the urban legend of the Russian

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Sleep Experiment, featuring Paul as subject six.

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have beds in here, it's gonna be like camping.

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Lark and Brantley share a room that is too

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large with too little in it. The

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carpet is softer than pillows. They

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lie in sleeping bags that their uncle says they

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used when they camped when they were smaller. Neither

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of the twins remember that. Uncle

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Lee hugs them one more time and says, if

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you need anything come knock for me. I'll

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leave the hall light on. You guys

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are totally safe here. Your dad will be here

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before you wake up. The

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door is open too much, letting

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too much light in for Lark to sleep. His

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sleeping bag warms up until he feels

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like a microwaving hot dog. The

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carpet softness invades through the sleeping

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bag. Lark

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pinches the carpet and

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it feels fine, like

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the lint they clean out of the dryer. That

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lint always burns fast. Before

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he can stop himself, he

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worries. Where

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he pinched the carpet, the

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fabric sparks with an orange flame. It

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looks for a second like someone hit a cigarette

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lighter under the floor. Lark's

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whole body seizes up and he bags the flame

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to go away. It

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grows taller instead, turning

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soft fabric into fire. A

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liquid hiss cuts through the night and

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the flame is doused in chalky foam.

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Brantley lies on his side in his sleeping bag,

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hugging a fire extinguisher like a teddy

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bear. He keeps

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the nozzle aimed where the flame had

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sprouted and his eyes aim dead on

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Lark. It's

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the same look Brantley had earlier tonight. The

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same look from right before he made Lark do what he

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did. When

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Uncle Lee isn't looking, the

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twins steal as many bags of his colorful cereals

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as they can. Lark

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knows they'll need it when father forgets. shrill

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and brief and he falls to the

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floor. It's more shock than

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harm. Brantley says,

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Don't be a baby. Look at it.

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Look. He holds

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the thumbtack close to Lark's face. There's

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no blood on it. See this?

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See how small it is? It doesn't

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hurt. It does hurt. Don't

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lie. I do what I do and

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it makes you do what you do. Lark's

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head is full of hornets. They

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buzz around and make him unable to hear his

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feelings. His

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imagination is full of melting crayons

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and the smell of lint turning to fire and

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a longing for coconut shampoo. Will

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the fire extinguisher stop it if he does his

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thing too much? Lark

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asks, Does this have

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to be what you do? Brantley

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pokes him two more times. The

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first of the two times, Lark has to

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wait so long for it. Brantley

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holds the point of the thumbtack inside Lark's

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belly button so that it tickles. It's

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the tickle before the pain and

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as small as the point. Lark

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can already feel it inside his body, stabbing

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him all the way to his spine. The

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wait for this tack fills him with more

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feeling than the tack itself ever could. The

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stink of smoke assails them. They

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will definitely have to wash their hair to get the

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smell out before father returns. Brantley

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opens the windows so the smoke

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detector won't go off. Lark

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shoves the smoldering trash under a mattress

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to kill it. Lark

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says, That was really close. We

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have to be careful. That's

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when Brantley pokes him the second time. It's

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a relief. cover

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her entire body. Ever

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since he did his thing to his brother, ever

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since they held each other in the shower, he's

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wanted to spend more time in the tub. It's

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cold porcelain that resists

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his warmth. Sometimes

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he climbs in still wearing his clothes and

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lets the water rise up until it's over

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his head. If

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he's surrounded by water, maybe

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he won't burn anything no matter how worried

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he is. He

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worries most of the nights when father returns. Brantley

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does not come with him. At

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the thought that father will ask him to spend the

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night in his room in Brantley's place, Lark

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feels fires sprouting and dying in

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the bathwater around him. Whenever

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it sounds like father is coming near the door

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between their rooms, Lark submerges

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in the bath. He

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holds his breath and tries to hold his thoughts. If

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he can hold them both, maybe

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nobody will do what they

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do. One

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time, Lark emerges from

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the water and father is

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standing in the bathroom door. Gray

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eyes watch Lark. His

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satin tie undone and hanging around

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his shaved throat. Lark

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freezes in the water. He

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doesn't know what to think. The

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fire alarm goes off. Thank

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God they have to leave and father can't ask him to

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have a word in private. Brantley

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comes home. Home

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to the hotel anyway. He

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has fancy, violet and indigo kerchiefs

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that he wears over his scalp.

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He has several pills he's supposed to take with his

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food. He has

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an ointment that Lark must apply

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twice per day because father

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is busy and can't be expected to die. Which

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is a relief compared to all

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the anticipated awfulness before. He

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inhales deeply, unable

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to smell father. The

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smell of father ceasing to be

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is too small to overpower melting

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plastic. Lark won't

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have to bother to wash it off. Alarms

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ring and somebody outside is shouting. Some

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of the noises are like mountain lions when they're

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not being cute. Brantley

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climbs onto the ottoman, taking

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less than half of it. His

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gray eyes look bluer, closer to

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the window and the light of the outdoors.

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He holds the thumbtack, which is the

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deep gray of parking lot pavement. Lark

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says, give me that. Why?

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Because this isn't what you do. Why?

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What he does doesn't happen anymore.

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So what you do doesn't happen either.

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Why? Because I did

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what I do. I did it

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for you. He

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did? For

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the first time, Lark approaches

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his brother when a thumbtack is out. He

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pries it from his fingers. He

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holds it by the metal tip, pinching

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it so it doesn't poke anything. The

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metallic gray nub juts out. Brantley

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asks the nub, what

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do I do without it? Lark

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takes his brother's thumbtack, the

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plastic nub still warm with his brother's hands.

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He pulls the curtain from the wall and sticks

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the tack there where nobody will see it. Then

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he drops the curtain over it. It's

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gone. There's

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a fever in Brantley's voice, like

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he'll cry without an answer. What

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do I do now? We

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need to call Uncle Lee. No,

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Brantley squirms, nearly falling off the autumn.