http://odeo.com/channels/2109777-PodCastle no PodCastle is the world\'s first audio fantasy magazine. Weekly, we broadcast the best in fantasy short stories, running the gammut from heart-pounding sword and sorcery, to strange surrealist tales, to gritty urban fantasy, to the psychological depth of magical realism. Our podcast features authors including Peter Beagle, Benjamin Rosenbaum, Jim C. Hines, and Cat Rambo, among others. PodCastle is the world\'s first audio fantasy magazine. Weekly, we broadcast the best in fantasy short stories, running the gammut from heart-pounding sword and sorcery, to strange surrealist tales, to gritty urban fantasy, to the psychological depth of magical realism. Our podcast features authors including Peter Beagle, Benjamin Rosenbaum, Jim C. Hines, and Cat Rambo, among others. The Fantasy Podcast Magazine en 40 Thu, 03 Dec 2009 21:32:49 -0800 Thu, 03 Dec 2009 21:32:49 -0800 ©Rachel Swirsky Fiction, audiobook, stories, storytelling, fantasy, fantasy stories, fiction, fantasy fiction Literature Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy http://odeo.com/episodes/25489240-Podcastle-Miniature-43-In-Order-to-Conserve by Cat Rambo Read by Mur Lafferty Originally Published in Eyes Like Sky and Coal and Moonlight In order to conserve color, the governments first banned newspaper inserts, the ones where dresses and dishwashers and plastic toys and figurines of gnomes with wary smiles tumbled across glossy surfaces.  Readers faced columns of type interspersed with dour black and white line drawings, no slick sheets cascading on their laps as they unfolded the newsprint to gaze at the reports of latest developments in The Color Crisis. Others turned to the Internet, monochromatic monitors scrolled by blogs denouncing the Administration, the liberals, the conservatives, the capitalists, alien spiders, and a previously obscure cult known as the Advanced Altar of the Rainbow Serpent. The change had been almost imperceptible at first.  Only artists, fashion designers and gardeners noticed the dimming of shades, the shadows of reds, blues, purples that blossomed from less verdant stems.  They brought the s... by Cat Rambo Read by Mur Lafferty Originally Published in Eyes Like Sky and Coal and Moonlight In order to conserve color, the governments first banned newspaper inserts, the ones where dresses and dishwashers and plastic toys and figurines of gnomes with wary smiles tumbled across glossy surfaces.  Readers faced columns of type interspersed with dour black and white line drawings, no slick sheets cascading on their laps as they unfolded the newsprint to gaze at the reports of latest developments in The Color Crisis. Others turned to the Internet, monochromatic monitors scrolled by blogs denouncing the Administration, the liberals, the conservatives, the capitalists, alien spiders, and a previously obscure cult known as the Advanced Altar of the Rainbow Serpent. The change had been almost imperceptible at first.  Only artists, fashion designers and gardeners noticed the dimming of shades, the shadows of reds, blues, purples that blossomed from less verdant stems.  They brought the shift to the attention of white-coated scientists, who measured the changes in angstroms, then announced that laboratory results proved it true.  Somewhere, somehow, color, once thought an inexhaustible natural resource, was running out, and doing so quickly. Rated PG: For Bleeding Colors by Cat Rambo Read by Mur Lafferty Originally Published in Eyes Like Sky and Coal and Moonlight In order to conserve color, the governments first banned newspaper inserts, the ones where dresses and dishwashers and plastic toys and figurines of gnomes with wary smiles tumbled across glossy surfaces.  Readers faced columns of type interspersed with dour black and white line drawings, no slick sheets cascading on their laps as they unfolded the newsprint to gaze at the reports of latest developments in The Color Crisis. Others turned to the Internet, monochromatic monitors scrolled by blogs denouncing the Administration, the liberals, the conservatives, the capitalists, alien spiders, and a previously obscure cult known as the Advanced Altar of the Rainbow Serpent. The change had been almost imperceptible at first.  Only artists, fashion designers and gardeners noticed the dimming of shades, the shadows of reds, blues, purples that blossomed from less verdant stems.  They brought the shift to the attention of white-coated scientists, who measured the changes in angstroms, then announced that laboratory results proved it true.  Somewhere, somehow, color, once thought an inexhaustible natural resource, was running out, and doing so quickly. Rated PG: For Bleeding Colors tag:odeo.com,2009-12-03,25489240 Thu, 03 Dec 2009 21:32:49 -0800 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25455620-Podcastle-80-Superhero-Girl by Jessica J. Lee Read by Jack Mangan Originally published in Fantasy Magazine . Ofelia was a superhero.  She told me so without reserve.  “It’s safe for me to tell you,” she said.  “I can sense you’re not a villain.  Besides, it would be unfair to keep it from you.  It won’t be easy, you know, being involved with a superhero girl.” It did take some getting used to.  She received her mission briefings in birdsong, in radio static, encoded in every third word backwards from a breaking news bulletin on the televisions in a specific store window.  She saw battle plans drawn out for her in cloud patterns, coffee cup rings, the movement of players on a soccer field.  During these moments she would stand frozen in mid-motion, her head cocked to the side, listening intently.  Then she would drop—literally drop—whatever she was doing and dash away, calling apologies over her shoulder. Rated PG: For Superheroes, Secret Identities, and Wham! Pow! BOOM! by Jessica J. Lee Read by Jack Mangan Originally published in Fantasy Magazine . Ofelia was a superhero.  She told me so without reserve.  “It’s safe for me to tell you,” she said.  “I can sense you’re not a villain.  Besides, it would be unfair to keep it from you.  It won’t be easy, you know, being involved with a superhero girl.” It did take some getting used to.  She received her mission briefings in birdsong, in radio static, encoded in every third word backwards from a breaking news bulletin on the televisions in a specific store window.  She saw battle plans drawn out for her in cloud patterns, coffee cup rings, the movement of players on a soccer field.  During these moments she would stand frozen in mid-motion, her head cocked to the side, listening intently.  Then she would drop—literally drop—whatever she was doing and dash away, calling apologies over her shoulder. Rated PG: For Superheroes, Secret Identities, and Wham! Pow! BOOM! by Jessica J. Lee Read by Jack Mangan Originally published in Fantasy Magazine . Ofelia was a superhero.  She told me so without reserve.  “It’s safe for me to tell you,” she said.  “I can sense you’re not a villain.  Besides, it would be unfair to keep it from you.  It won’t be easy, you know, being involved with a superhero girl.” It did take some getting used to.  She received her mission briefings in birdsong, in radio static, encoded in every third word backwards from a breaking news bulletin on the televisions in a specific store window.  She saw battle plans drawn out for her in cloud patterns, coffee cup rings, the movement of players on a soccer field.  During these moments she would stand frozen in mid-motion, her head cocked to the side, listening intently.  Then she would drop—literally drop—whatever she was doing and dash away, calling apologies over her shoulder. Rated PG: For Superheroes, Secret Identities, and Wham! Pow! BOOM! tag:odeo.com,2009-12-01,25455620 Tue, 01 Dec 2009 00:00:24 -0800 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25455627-Podcastle-79-Marsh-Gods by Ann Leckie Read by Phoebe Harris Originally Published by Strange Horizons . Irris was a changed man. When he went out fishing, he didn’t spend the day drunk or asleep in the boat and then come home with nothing, the way everyone expected. Instead he made a full day’s catch early, and then picked up an axe and went to cut wood. He sat down to dinner sober, played with the baby, spoke pleasantly to his wife and sister. In the evening, instead of drinking, he sat in front of the fire and knotted nets, or carved fishhooks. It’s because he almost died, the neighbors whispered. Everyone had seen the scar. Everyone wondered how long the change could last. There were other things, little strangenesses that never made their way out of the house for the villagers to be aware of them. For instance, one afternoon Ytine brought him a dish of vetch, and he said, “My dear, it amuses me to call this gravel. So the next time I ask you for a bowl of gravel, you’ll kno... by Ann Leckie Read by Phoebe Harris Originally Published by Strange Horizons . Irris was a changed man. When he went out fishing, he didn’t spend the day drunk or asleep in the boat and then come home with nothing, the way everyone expected. Instead he made a full day’s catch early, and then picked up an axe and went to cut wood. He sat down to dinner sober, played with the baby, spoke pleasantly to his wife and sister. In the evening, instead of drinking, he sat in front of the fire and knotted nets, or carved fishhooks. It’s because he almost died, the neighbors whispered. Everyone had seen the scar. Everyone wondered how long the change could last. There were other things, little strangenesses that never made their way out of the house for the villagers to be aware of them. For instance, one afternoon Ytine brought him a dish of vetch, and he said, “My dear, it amuses me to call this gravel. So the next time I ask you for a bowl of gravel, you’ll know what I want.” Water was poison, working was sleeping. The list of changed names seemed to grow every day. Voud wasn’t sure why Ytine went along with it, except that the new Irris was kind and hard-working, and doted on the baby. And maybe, thought Voud, that was reason enough. The crane had said not to waste her grief on Irris, and she hadn’t cried when she’d heard the whispery-voiced god say he was dead. But one evening Irris came home in an especially good mood. “Good fishing means good trading,” he said. He had needles, and fiber — dyed and spun — for Ytine, and a tiny, wheeled cart for the baby. “And Voud,” he said, “I hear you’re a hunter.” He handed her a bronze knife. It was small and its plain haft was dented, but it was a real metal knife and it was hers. That was when she knew for certain that her brother was dead. Irris would never have thought to buy her something she wanted so much. Not without her telling him, and likely not even then. She sat there with the knife in her hand and cried. Rated R: For Gods, Mortals, Frogs, and Other Potential Sacrifices by Ann Leckie Read by Phoebe Harris Originally Published by Strange Horizons . Irris was a changed man. When he went out fishing, he didn’t spend the day drunk or asleep in the boat and then come home with nothing, the way everyone expected. Instead he made a full day’s catch early, and then picked up an axe and went to cut wood. He sat down to dinner sober, played with the baby, spoke pleasantly to his wife and sister. In the evening, instead of drinking, he sat in front of the fire and knotted nets, or carved fishhooks. It’s because he almost died, the neighbors whispered. Everyone had seen the scar. Everyone wondered how long the change could last. There were other things, little strangenesses that never made their way out of the house for the villagers to be aware of them. For instance, one afternoon Ytine brought him a dish of vetch, and he said, “My dear, it amuses me to call this gravel. So the next time I ask you for a bowl of gravel, you’ll know what I want.” Water was poison, working was sleeping. The list of changed names seemed to grow every day. Voud wasn’t sure why Ytine went along with it, except that the new Irris was kind and hard-working, and doted on the baby. And maybe, thought Voud, that was reason enough. The crane had said not to waste her grief on Irris, and she hadn’t cried when she’d heard the whispery-voiced god say he was dead. But one evening Irris came home in an especially good mood. “Good fishing means good trading,” he said. He had needles, and fiber — dyed and spun — for Ytine, and a tiny, wheeled cart for the baby. “And Voud,” he said, “I hear you’re a hunter.” He handed her a bronze knife. It was small and its plain haft was dented, but it was a real metal knife and it was hers. That was when she knew for certain that her brother was dead. Irris would never have thought to buy her something she wanted so much. Not without her telling him, and likely not even then. She sat there with the knife in her hand and cried. Rated R: For Gods, Mortals, Frogs, and Other Potential Sacrifices tag:odeo.com,2009-11-25,25455627 Wed, 25 Nov 2009 08:04:33 -0800 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25455628-Podcastle-Miniature-42-Change by Greg van Eekhout Read by Dave Thompson Originally published in Ideomancer My ex-wife tells me on the phone that she thinks she saw a kid in her yard last night. She’s got a lot of stuff in the shed that’s worth money, like her boyfriend’s tools and some nice bikes, and she’s always going on about how her neighbors are coming over to steal stuff. “It couldn’t have been a kid,” I say. “Maybe that old guy from across the street? He’s pretty small.” I’m encouraging her, I know, but it’s possible it was that old guy. I once caught him peeping into the dining room window, and when I confronted him, he said he thought he smelled gas. That was when Steph and I were still together. “I know how an old man moves,” Steph says. “I know how a kid moves. This was a kid.”  Rated PG: For the Kids in the Yard by Greg van Eekhout Read by Dave Thompson Originally published in Ideomancer My ex-wife tells me on the phone that she thinks she saw a kid in her yard last night. She’s got a lot of stuff in the shed that’s worth money, like her boyfriend’s tools and some nice bikes, and she’s always going on about how her neighbors are coming over to steal stuff. “It couldn’t have been a kid,” I say. “Maybe that old guy from across the street? He’s pretty small.” I’m encouraging her, I know, but it’s possible it was that old guy. I once caught him peeping into the dining room window, and when I confronted him, he said he thought he smelled gas. That was when Steph and I were still together. “I know how an old man moves,” Steph says. “I know how a kid moves. This was a kid.”  Rated PG: For the Kids in the Yard by Greg van Eekhout Read by Dave Thompson Originally published in Ideomancer My ex-wife tells me on the phone that she thinks she saw a kid in her yard last night. She’s got a lot of stuff in the shed that’s worth money, like her boyfriend’s tools and some nice bikes, and she’s always going on about how her neighbors are coming over to steal stuff. “It couldn’t have been a kid,” I say. “Maybe that old guy from across the street? He’s pretty small.” I’m encouraging her, I know, but it’s possible it was that old guy. I once caught him peeping into the dining room window, and when I confronted him, he said he thought he smelled gas. That was when Steph and I were still together. “I know how an old man moves,” Steph says. “I know how a kid moves. This was a kid.”  Rated PG: For the Kids in the Yard tag:odeo.com,2009-11-20,25455628 Fri, 20 Nov 2009 01:12:28 -0800 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25455629-Podcastle-78-The-Tinyman-and-Caroline By Sarah L. Edwards Read by Bob Eccles Originally published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies CORRECTION: The original file had an error midway through, which has been corrected now. The sun had set while he’d been below—the stabbing light was the glow of a streetlamp. Pressing himself into the shadows of a carriage house, Jabey peered upstreet and down at the dark, massive forms of the istocrats’ castles. The west hill, right. He’d never been this close before. From where he stood it was castles all the way up, or so the chatter said, castles built of diamond windows and brownstone flecked with gold, and livedolls hung from the doors instead of knockers. Just one pretty was all he needed. One sparkling trinket to buy himself into the clubber chief’s service—and to buy his protection. Rated PG: For Dark Deeds done in Dark Places By Sarah L. Edwards Read by Bob Eccles Originally published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies CORRECTION: The original file had an error midway through, which has been corrected now. The sun had set while he’d been below—the stabbing light was the glow of a streetlamp. Pressing himself into the shadows of a carriage house, Jabey peered upstreet and down at the dark, massive forms of the istocrats’ castles. The west hill, right. He’d never been this close before. From where he stood it was castles all the way up, or so the chatter said, castles built of diamond windows and brownstone flecked with gold, and livedolls hung from the doors instead of knockers. Just one pretty was all he needed. One sparkling trinket to buy himself into the clubber chief’s service—and to buy his protection. Rated PG: For Dark Deeds done in Dark Places By Sarah L. Edwards Read by Bob Eccles Originally published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies CORRECTION: The original file had an error midway through, which has been corrected now. The sun had set while he’d been below—the stabbing light was the glow of a streetlamp. Pressing himself into the shadows of a carriage house, Jabey peered upstreet and down at the dark, massive forms of the istocrats’ castles. The west hill, right. He’d never been this close before. From where he stood it was castles all the way up, or so the chatter said, castles built of diamond windows and brownstone flecked with gold, and livedolls hung from the doors instead of knockers. Just one pretty was all he needed. One sparkling trinket to buy himself into the clubber chief’s service—and to buy his protection. Rated PG: For Dark Deeds done in Dark Places tag:odeo.com,2009-11-19,25455629 Thu, 19 Nov 2009 04:54:51 -0800 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25455630-Podcastle-Miniature-41-East-of-Chula-Vista By Samantha Henderson Read by Ben Phillips Originally published in Abyss & Apex . I rock in the bentwood chair on the porch and wait. I know about the bodies in the arroyo, in the mesquite ash between the charred trunks of the live oaks. The grass beneath the mesquite had grown long in winter rains and was shriveled dry by the summer heat. Fire had crisped it quickly, and the oaks were dense hard wood, old fuels, burning long and hot and all-consuming. Eventually they all come to me like homing pigeons, those unlucky ones who die in the unforgiving desert, short water or caught out at night with no fire and not enough of them to huddle together to keep warm, not thinking how cold the badlands get in the middle of the night with nothing to keep in the day’s heat. They come to me at dusk, hollow-eyed and bewildered to my front yard, all of them. They stand, wavering in the moonlight, waiting for me to let them go. Rated R: Ghosts are Unhappy for a Reason By Samantha Henderson Read by Ben Phillips Originally published in Abyss & Apex . I rock in the bentwood chair on the porch and wait. I know about the bodies in the arroyo, in the mesquite ash between the charred trunks of the live oaks. The grass beneath the mesquite had grown long in winter rains and was shriveled dry by the summer heat. Fire had crisped it quickly, and the oaks were dense hard wood, old fuels, burning long and hot and all-consuming. Eventually they all come to me like homing pigeons, those unlucky ones who die in the unforgiving desert, short water or caught out at night with no fire and not enough of them to huddle together to keep warm, not thinking how cold the badlands get in the middle of the night with nothing to keep in the day’s heat. They come to me at dusk, hollow-eyed and bewildered to my front yard, all of them. They stand, wavering in the moonlight, waiting for me to let them go. Rated R: Ghosts are Unhappy for a Reason By Samantha Henderson Read by Ben Phillips Originally published in Abyss & Apex . I rock in the bentwood chair on the porch and wait. I know about the bodies in the arroyo, in the mesquite ash between the charred trunks of the live oaks. The grass beneath the mesquite had grown long in winter rains and was shriveled dry by the summer heat. Fire had crisped it quickly, and the oaks were dense hard wood, old fuels, burning long and hot and all-consuming. Eventually they all come to me like homing pigeons, those unlucky ones who die in the unforgiving desert, short water or caught out at night with no fire and not enough of them to huddle together to keep warm, not thinking how cold the badlands get in the middle of the night with nothing to keep in the day’s heat. They come to me at dusk, hollow-eyed and bewildered to my front yard, all of them. They stand, wavering in the moonlight, waiting for me to let them go. Rated R: Ghosts are Unhappy for a Reason tag:odeo.com,2009-11-12,25455630 Thu, 12 Nov 2009 21:00:43 -0800 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25439811-PodCastle-77-Nine-Sundays-in-a-Row By Kris Dikeman. Read by Kane Lynch. If you wanta learn you somethin’, go on down to a place where two roads cross. Get there Saturday ’round midnight, and wait there ’til Sunday morning—do that for nine Sundays, all in a row. The dark man, he’ll send his dog to watch on you while you wait. And on the ninth morning, the dark man will meet you. And he will learn you—anything you wanta learn. But you remember this: that dark man, he don’t work for free. Rated R: Themes of abuse, and dark deals at the crossroads. By Kris Dikeman. Read by Kane Lynch. If you wanta learn you somethin’, go on down to a place where two roads cross. Get there Saturday ’round midnight, and wait there ’til Sunday morning—do that for nine Sundays, all in a row. The dark man, he’ll send his dog to watch on you while you wait. And on the ninth morning, the dark man will meet you. And he will learn you—anything you wanta learn. But you remember this: that dark man, he don’t work for free. Rated R: Themes of abuse, and dark deals at the crossroads. By Kris Dikeman. Read by Kane Lynch. If you wanta learn you somethin’, go on down to a place where two roads cross. Get there Saturday ’round midnight, and wait there ’til Sunday morning—do that for nine Sundays, all in a row. The dark man, he’ll send his dog to watch on you while you wait. And on the ninth morning, the dark man will meet you. And he will learn you—anything you wanta learn. But you remember this: that dark man, he don’t work for free. Rated R: Themes of abuse, and dark deals at the crossroads. tag:odeo.com,2009-11-11,25439811 Wed, 11 Nov 2009 22:30:38 -0800 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25407926-Podcastle-76-The-Small-Door By Holly Phillips Read by Tina Connolly Originally published in Fantasy Magazine . Neither knew what the Weirdo did with his captives, but it was hard to think of a possibility that wasn’t horrible. Not when you saw that figure, with its thatched gray hair, lumpy shoulders and white hands as big as baseball gloves, carry some hapless creature into the house with the broken drainpipes and curtained windows. Even cooking and eating seemed too simple, too close to human. “Sal,” Macey said, “we’ve got to find out.” “You keep saying that.” Sal picked fuzzies off the bedspread, her mind drifting to the fair’s candy-bright commotion. “But now I have a plan.” Rated PG: Contains weirdos, children (the two are not mutually exclusive), and a very small door. By Holly Phillips Read by Tina Connolly Originally published in Fantasy Magazine . Neither knew what the Weirdo did with his captives, but it was hard to think of a possibility that wasn’t horrible. Not when you saw that figure, with its thatched gray hair, lumpy shoulders and white hands as big as baseball gloves, carry some hapless creature into the house with the broken drainpipes and curtained windows. Even cooking and eating seemed too simple, too close to human. “Sal,” Macey said, “we’ve got to find out.” “You keep saying that.” Sal picked fuzzies off the bedspread, her mind drifting to the fair’s candy-bright commotion. “But now I have a plan.” Rated PG: Contains weirdos, children (the two are not mutually exclusive), and a very small door. By Holly Phillips Read by Tina Connolly Originally published in Fantasy Magazine . Neither knew what the Weirdo did with his captives, but it was hard to think of a possibility that wasn’t horrible. Not when you saw that figure, with its thatched gray hair, lumpy shoulders and white hands as big as baseball gloves, carry some hapless creature into the house with the broken drainpipes and curtained windows. Even cooking and eating seemed too simple, too close to human. “Sal,” Macey said, “we’ve got to find out.” “You keep saying that.” Sal picked fuzzies off the bedspread, her mind drifting to the fair’s candy-bright commotion. “But now I have a plan.” Rated PG: Contains weirdos, children (the two are not mutually exclusive), and a very small door. tag:odeo.com,2009-11-05,25407926 Thu, 05 Nov 2009 10:48:23 -0800 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25388943-Podcastle-Miniature-40-Incubus by Tim Pratt Read by Chris Reynaga Every forty or fifty years the incubus and the succubus got together to catch up. This time they met in a quiet little bar, and the incubus said, “Yeah, it’s been hard these past few years. I did porn for a while, but these days, with Viagra and everything, it doesn’t matter what kind of a woodsman you are, because anybody can pop a pill and perform superhuman feats of sexual prowess.” The succubus nodded in sympathy, invisible serpents twining in her hair. “I hear you. There’s easy money in internet porn, but it’s no good for me, I miss the personal connection. But you can still do the gigolo thing, right?” Rated R: It’s an incubus and a succubus. There will be S-E-X! (Or, at least, talk of sex) by Tim Pratt Read by Chris Reynaga Every forty or fifty years the incubus and the succubus got together to catch up. This time they met in a quiet little bar, and the incubus said, “Yeah, it’s been hard these past few years. I did porn for a while, but these days, with Viagra and everything, it doesn’t matter what kind of a woodsman you are, because anybody can pop a pill and perform superhuman feats of sexual prowess.” The succubus nodded in sympathy, invisible serpents twining in her hair. “I hear you. There’s easy money in internet porn, but it’s no good for me, I miss the personal connection. But you can still do the gigolo thing, right?” Rated R: It’s an incubus and a succubus. There will be S-E-X! (Or, at least, talk of sex) by Tim Pratt Read by Chris Reynaga Every forty or fifty years the incubus and the succubus got together to catch up. This time they met in a quiet little bar, and the incubus said, “Yeah, it’s been hard these past few years. I did porn for a while, but these days, with Viagra and everything, it doesn’t matter what kind of a woodsman you are, because anybody can pop a pill and perform superhuman feats of sexual prowess.” The succubus nodded in sympathy, invisible serpents twining in her hair. “I hear you. There’s easy money in internet porn, but it’s no good for me, I miss the personal connection. But you can still do the gigolo thing, right?” Rated R: It’s an incubus and a succubus. There will be S-E-X! (Or, at least, talk of sex) tag:odeo.com,2009-10-29,25388943 Thu, 29 Oct 2009 22:20:22 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25388947-PodCastle-75-The-Man-Who-Carved-Skulls By Richard Parks. Read by Wilson Fowlie. “I married your mother for her skull. It’s no secret.” Jarak put aside his rasps and gouges for the moment, resting his eyes and mind from the precise, exacting work his trade demanded. He didn’t mind his son’s persistent questions at such times. Akan was at an age when he should be curious and, if curiosity was a duty, Akan was a dedicated boy. It wasn’t as though Purlo the Baker, whose skull rested patiently on Jarak’s workbench, was in a hurry. Akan nodded. “Mother is pretty,” he said. “Often men of the village speak about what a fortunate man Jarak the Skullcarver is.” “Letis is indeed the most beautiful woman in Trepa and for seven leagues around. But that’s not the same thing. The ugliest man alive during your grandfather’s time turned out to have a skull of exquisite beauty, as your grandfather knew all along… Rated R. for morbid themes. Happy Hal... By Richard Parks. Read by Wilson Fowlie. “I married your mother for her skull. It’s no secret.” Jarak put aside his rasps and gouges for the moment, resting his eyes and mind from the precise, exacting work his trade demanded. He didn’t mind his son’s persistent questions at such times. Akan was at an age when he should be curious and, if curiosity was a duty, Akan was a dedicated boy. It wasn’t as though Purlo the Baker, whose skull rested patiently on Jarak’s workbench, was in a hurry. Akan nodded. “Mother is pretty,” he said. “Often men of the village speak about what a fortunate man Jarak the Skullcarver is.” “Letis is indeed the most beautiful woman in Trepa and for seven leagues around. But that’s not the same thing. The ugliest man alive during your grandfather’s time turned out to have a skull of exquisite beauty, as your grandfather knew all along… Rated R. for morbid themes. Happy Halloween! By Richard Parks. Read by Wilson Fowlie. “I married your mother for her skull. It’s no secret.” Jarak put aside his rasps and gouges for the moment, resting his eyes and mind from the precise, exacting work his trade demanded. He didn’t mind his son’s persistent questions at such times. Akan was at an age when he should be curious and, if curiosity was a duty, Akan was a dedicated boy. It wasn’t as though Purlo the Baker, whose skull rested patiently on Jarak’s workbench, was in a hurry. Akan nodded. “Mother is pretty,” he said. “Often men of the village speak about what a fortunate man Jarak the Skullcarver is.” “Letis is indeed the most beautiful woman in Trepa and for seven leagues around. But that’s not the same thing. The ugliest man alive during your grandfather’s time turned out to have a skull of exquisite beauty, as your grandfather knew all along… Rated R. for morbid themes. Happy Halloween! tag:odeo.com,2009-10-29,25388947 Thu, 29 Oct 2009 00:23:37 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25333020-PodCastle-Giant-The-Curandero-and-the-Swede-A-Tale-from-the-1001-American-Nights by Daniel Abraham. Read by Kip Manley. “He’d been down here about six years when I knew him. Had a girl he was seeing name of Corine. She was pretty. Had this line of dark little moles, just like pinpricks, all along her jaw. Made me think of the sort of bangles they put on women’s veils out in Baghdad. She’d come by the shop sometimes, and we’d have to make him stop working until she went away for fear he’d get distracted and lose a finger. “He’d been seeing her for maybe six months when Martin Luther King got killed. That was before you were born, so I don’t expect you’d understand it. And, honest to God, I’d never say this outside the family, but the Blacks have got a whole different contry they live in. Even someone like the Swede who worked with us and drank beer with us and all? Now I was sorry to hear about it when King died, and I’m not ashamed to say it. But it wasn’t that much to me. For the Blacks, though. ... by Daniel Abraham. Read by Kip Manley. “He’d been down here about six years when I knew him. Had a girl he was seeing name of Corine. She was pretty. Had this line of dark little moles, just like pinpricks, all along her jaw. Made me think of the sort of bangles they put on women’s veils out in Baghdad. She’d come by the shop sometimes, and we’d have to make him stop working until she went away for fear he’d get distracted and lose a finger. “He’d been seeing her for maybe six months when Martin Luther King got killed. That was before you were born, so I don’t expect you’d understand it. And, honest to God, I’d never say this outside the family, but the Blacks have got a whole different contry they live in. Even someone like the Swede who worked with us and drank beer with us and all? Now I was sorry to hear about it when King died, and I’m not ashamed to say it. But it wasn’t that much to me. For the Blacks, though. . .” Dab shook his head. “It was different for them. What with everything else that was going on back then, King’s getting shot was like Kennedy in Dallas and the planes in New York all wrapped up in one… Rated R. for language and difficult situations. by Daniel Abraham. Read by Kip Manley. “He’d been down here about six years when I knew him. Had a girl he was seeing name of Corine. She was pretty. Had this line of dark little moles, just like pinpricks, all along her jaw. Made me think of the sort of bangles they put on women’s veils out in Baghdad. She’d come by the shop sometimes, and we’d have to make him stop working until she went away for fear he’d get distracted and lose a finger. “He’d been seeing her for maybe six months when Martin Luther King got killed. That was before you were born, so I don’t expect you’d understand it. And, honest to God, I’d never say this outside the family, but the Blacks have got a whole different contry they live in. Even someone like the Swede who worked with us and drank beer with us and all? Now I was sorry to hear about it when King died, and I’m not ashamed to say it. But it wasn’t that much to me. For the Blacks, though. . .” Dab shook his head. “It was different for them. What with everything else that was going on back then, King’s getting shot was like Kennedy in Dallas and the planes in New York all wrapped up in one… Rated R. for language and difficult situations. tag:odeo.com,2009-10-21,25333020 Wed, 21 Oct 2009 17:28:33 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25293653-PC-Miniature-39-Carnival-Park By Greg Van Eekhout. Narrated by David Michel. So there was Orange John near the war fountain in his oversized orange suit and Bozo hair, knotting himself up a real nice stegosaurus, when up came the young balloon man. He was a skinny boy in a black T-shirt, rainbow vest, and jeans painted like all the sample chips in a paint store. His limp balloons hung from his waistband like little tongues, and he stopped a dozen or so yards away from Orange John. “Jack Many-Colors,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Orange John,” said Orange John, with a squint and a nod. And so it began. Rated PG. For Carnie Language and Balloon Violence By Greg Van Eekhout. Narrated by David Michel. So there was Orange John near the war fountain in his oversized orange suit and Bozo hair, knotting himself up a real nice stegosaurus, when up came the young balloon man. He was a skinny boy in a black T-shirt, rainbow vest, and jeans painted like all the sample chips in a paint store. His limp balloons hung from his waistband like little tongues, and he stopped a dozen or so yards away from Orange John. “Jack Many-Colors,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Orange John,” said Orange John, with a squint and a nod. And so it began. Rated PG. For Carnie Language and Balloon Violence By Greg Van Eekhout. Narrated by David Michel. So there was Orange John near the war fountain in his oversized orange suit and Bozo hair, knotting himself up a real nice stegosaurus, when up came the young balloon man. He was a skinny boy in a black T-shirt, rainbow vest, and jeans painted like all the sample chips in a paint store. His limp balloons hung from his waistband like little tongues, and he stopped a dozen or so yards away from Orange John. “Jack Many-Colors,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Orange John,” said Orange John, with a squint and a nod. And so it began. Rated PG. For Carnie Language and Balloon Violence tag:odeo.com,2009-10-15,25293653 Thu, 15 Oct 2009 21:32:50 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25284236-PC-074-The-Firemen%E2%80%99s-Fairy by Sandra McDonald. Read by David O. Engelstad. “I present to you the academy’s 150th class of brave, skilled, hard-working probationary firefighters!” Chief Kelly finally said. Steven barely heard the applause and cheers when his turn came to cross the stage. His hand was clammy as he shook hands with his teachers, the school administrators, and Chief Kelly. He knew he was blushing and grinning like a fool. Some days, back in the desert, he’d figured to be dead by dusk. Now he was a fireman like his dad, and both his grandfathers, and all the other Goodwin men whose pictures hung in the fire museum gallery. At the far end of the stage, the phoenix peered down at him with wide black eyes. He could see himself in those eyes, twin reflections of his black and gold uniform. She lifted her whitish-gray beak and passed a scroll off to Chief Kelly, who pressed it into Steven’s hand. “Good luck, son,” Kelly said. Steven waited until he was off the ... by Sandra McDonald. Read by David O. Engelstad. “I present to you the academy’s 150th class of brave, skilled, hard-working probationary firefighters!” Chief Kelly finally said. Steven barely heard the applause and cheers when his turn came to cross the stage. His hand was clammy as he shook hands with his teachers, the school administrators, and Chief Kelly. He knew he was blushing and grinning like a fool. Some days, back in the desert, he’d figured to be dead by dusk. Now he was a fireman like his dad, and both his grandfathers, and all the other Goodwin men whose pictures hung in the fire museum gallery. At the far end of the stage, the phoenix peered down at him with wide black eyes. He could see himself in those eyes, twin reflections of his black and gold uniform. She lifted her whitish-gray beak and passed a scroll off to Chief Kelly, who pressed it into Steven’s hand. “Good luck, son,” Kelly said. Steven waited until he was off the stage before he unrolled his assignment. Oh, shit. Rated R. for fiery language. by Sandra McDonald. Read by David O. Engelstad. “I present to you the academy’s 150th class of brave, skilled, hard-working probationary firefighters!” Chief Kelly finally said. Steven barely heard the applause and cheers when his turn came to cross the stage. His hand was clammy as he shook hands with his teachers, the school administrators, and Chief Kelly. He knew he was blushing and grinning like a fool. Some days, back in the desert, he’d figured to be dead by dusk. Now he was a fireman like his dad, and both his grandfathers, and all the other Goodwin men whose pictures hung in the fire museum gallery. At the far end of the stage, the phoenix peered down at him with wide black eyes. He could see himself in those eyes, twin reflections of his black and gold uniform. She lifted her whitish-gray beak and passed a scroll off to Chief Kelly, who pressed it into Steven’s hand. “Good luck, son,” Kelly said. Steven waited until he was off the stage before he unrolled his assignment. Oh, shit. Rated R. for fiery language. tag:odeo.com,2009-10-14,25284236 Wed, 14 Oct 2009 09:46:49 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25260215-PC-Miniature-38-Accounting-for-Dragons By Eric James Stone. Read by Steve Anderson. Most dragons rarely think about accounting. But you’ve worked hard to acquire that hoard of gold and jewels–shouldn’t you be keeping track of what happens to it? Just sitting on it isn’t good enough any more. That’s why you need accounting. Here are some tips: Rated PG. for creative book-keeping. By Eric James Stone. Read by Steve Anderson. Most dragons rarely think about accounting. But you’ve worked hard to acquire that hoard of gold and jewels–shouldn’t you be keeping track of what happens to it? Just sitting on it isn’t good enough any more. That’s why you need accounting. Here are some tips: Rated PG. for creative book-keeping. By Eric James Stone. Read by Steve Anderson. Most dragons rarely think about accounting. But you’ve worked hard to acquire that hoard of gold and jewels–shouldn’t you be keeping track of what happens to it? Just sitting on it isn’t good enough any more. That’s why you need accounting. Here are some tips: Rated PG. for creative book-keeping. tag:odeo.com,2009-10-09,25260215 Fri, 09 Oct 2009 12:17:49 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25249807-PodCastle-073-Rapunzel by Tanith Lee. Read by Rajan Khanna. Excerpt not included this week. You’ll just have to listen! Rated PG. for revisionist “history.” Bonus: If you enjoyed this week’s Tanith Lee story, you might want to go check out Fantasy Magazine’s audio version of “Clockatrice” by Tanith Lee, read by perennial PodCastle favorite M. K. Hobson. Enjoy! by Tanith Lee. Read by Rajan Khanna. Excerpt not included this week. You’ll just have to listen! Rated PG. for revisionist “history.” Bonus: If you enjoyed this week’s Tanith Lee story, you might want to go check out Fantasy Magazine’s audio version of “Clockatrice” by Tanith Lee, read by perennial PodCastle favorite M. K. Hobson. Enjoy! by Tanith Lee. Read by Rajan Khanna. Excerpt not included this week. You’ll just have to listen! Rated PG. for revisionist “history.” Bonus: If you enjoyed this week’s Tanith Lee story, you might want to go check out Fantasy Magazine’s audio version of “Clockatrice” by Tanith Lee, read by perennial PodCastle favorite M. K. Hobson. Enjoy! tag:odeo.com,2009-10-07,25249807 Wed, 07 Oct 2009 15:41:15 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25209895-PodCastle-072-The-Exit-Sign by Ursula Pflug. Read by Christiana Ellis. You and I were different. Making love on sprawling landings we learned that one way of life wasn’t better than another, and that we all shared the same ultimate misery, doomed to be born and die in this building. Who’d made this place? Had we built it ourselves generations ago when we still had legs to run from something fierce and predatory that circled our tower, waiting for travellers: the jumpers, the fliers, those with the twisted bed sheet ropes? Rated R. for sex and dismemberment in enclosed places. by Ursula Pflug. Read by Christiana Ellis. You and I were different. Making love on sprawling landings we learned that one way of life wasn’t better than another, and that we all shared the same ultimate misery, doomed to be born and die in this building. Who’d made this place? Had we built it ourselves generations ago when we still had legs to run from something fierce and predatory that circled our tower, waiting for travellers: the jumpers, the fliers, those with the twisted bed sheet ropes? Rated R. for sex and dismemberment in enclosed places. by Ursula Pflug. Read by Christiana Ellis. You and I were different. Making love on sprawling landings we learned that one way of life wasn’t better than another, and that we all shared the same ultimate misery, doomed to be born and die in this building. Who’d made this place? Had we built it ourselves generations ago when we still had legs to run from something fierce and predatory that circled our tower, waiting for travellers: the jumpers, the fliers, those with the twisted bed sheet ropes? Rated R. for sex and dismemberment in enclosed places. tag:odeo.com,2009-09-30,25209895 Wed, 30 Sep 2009 08:51:39 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25175861-PodCastle-71-I%E2%80%99ll-Give-In by Meghan McCarron. Read by Rachel Swirsky. I turned around and found myself face to face with a minotaur. He was shorter than I would have expected and a bit more — human-y? He had the head of a bull, sure, but he wore a black suit and a skinny black tie, like he had decided to live Pulp Fiction. “I’m Phil,” he said. “Phil?” I said. “It’s easier to say than my real name.” “Try me.” Phil grunted something unintelligible. I tried to grunt it back and he started laughing. “I think your dog would have done a better job,” Phil said. “And you are?” Rated X. for S-E-X. by Meghan McCarron. Read by Rachel Swirsky. I turned around and found myself face to face with a minotaur. He was shorter than I would have expected and a bit more — human-y? He had the head of a bull, sure, but he wore a black suit and a skinny black tie, like he had decided to live Pulp Fiction. “I’m Phil,” he said. “Phil?” I said. “It’s easier to say than my real name.” “Try me.” Phil grunted something unintelligible. I tried to grunt it back and he started laughing. “I think your dog would have done a better job,” Phil said. “And you are?” Rated X. for S-E-X. by Meghan McCarron. Read by Rachel Swirsky. I turned around and found myself face to face with a minotaur. He was shorter than I would have expected and a bit more — human-y? He had the head of a bull, sure, but he wore a black suit and a skinny black tie, like he had decided to live Pulp Fiction. “I’m Phil,” he said. “Phil?” I said. “It’s easier to say than my real name.” “Try me.” Phil grunted something unintelligible. I tried to grunt it back and he started laughing. “I think your dog would have done a better job,” Phil said. “And you are?” Rated X. for S-E-X. tag:odeo.com,2009-09-23,25175861 Wed, 23 Sep 2009 22:31:16 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated X Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25143420-PodCastle-070-The-Dybbuk-in-the-Bottle by Russell William Asplund. Read by Wilson Fowlie. Avram had no more talent for wonder working than for farming. No matter how hard he prayed, he could not call even a sparrow down from a tree. His Sabbaths were spent at a small synagog in the town, and the rabbi there had no idea of the way to Paradise save the path of a good life. As for Avram’s attempt to animate a golem, the less said about it the better. Still Avram did not give up. After all, without his books there was only the farm, and the more he worked the farm, the more he wanted to work wonders instead. There was very little glory in cleaning a chicken coop. And that is how Avram came upon the dybbuk in the bottle. Rated G. for child-safe dybbuk romping. by Russell William Asplund. Read by Wilson Fowlie. Avram had no more talent for wonder working than for farming. No matter how hard he prayed, he could not call even a sparrow down from a tree. His Sabbaths were spent at a small synagog in the town, and the rabbi there had no idea of the way to Paradise save the path of a good life. As for Avram’s attempt to animate a golem, the less said about it the better. Still Avram did not give up. After all, without his books there was only the farm, and the more he worked the farm, the more he wanted to work wonders instead. There was very little glory in cleaning a chicken coop. And that is how Avram came upon the dybbuk in the bottle. Rated G. for child-safe dybbuk romping. by Russell William Asplund. Read by Wilson Fowlie. Avram had no more talent for wonder working than for farming. No matter how hard he prayed, he could not call even a sparrow down from a tree. His Sabbaths were spent at a small synagog in the town, and the rabbi there had no idea of the way to Paradise save the path of a good life. As for Avram’s attempt to animate a golem, the less said about it the better. Still Avram did not give up. After all, without his books there was only the farm, and the more he worked the farm, the more he wanted to work wonders instead. There was very little glory in cleaning a chicken coop. And that is how Avram came upon the dybbuk in the bottle. Rated G. for child-safe dybbuk romping. tag:odeo.com,2009-09-17,25143420 Thu, 17 Sep 2009 23:30:46 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated G Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25097989-PodCastle-069-The-Olverung by Stephen Woodworth. Read by Paul S. Jenkins (of the Rev Up Review. The Olverung is an ugly bird.  Its bulbous head juts from the spout of a scrawny neck, and warts dot the bridge of its fat beak.  When it struts upon the ground, its pot-bellied body waddles with the ludicrous gait of a town drunkard.  Its plumage has the black iridescence of a fly’s abdomen and is too coarse even for pillow stuffing.  Yet the fowl possesses one singular attribute that princes and popes have coveted for centuries, and it was for this sole virtue that Lord Atherton entreated me to steal the creature from the King. Rated R for tugged heartstrings. Please go to our forums for the story comment thread. by Stephen Woodworth. Read by Paul S. Jenkins (of the Rev Up Review. The Olverung is an ugly bird.  Its bulbous head juts from the spout of a scrawny neck, and warts dot the bridge of its fat beak.  When it struts upon the ground, its pot-bellied body waddles with the ludicrous gait of a town drunkard.  Its plumage has the black iridescence of a fly’s abdomen and is too coarse even for pillow stuffing.  Yet the fowl possesses one singular attribute that princes and popes have coveted for centuries, and it was for this sole virtue that Lord Atherton entreated me to steal the creature from the King. Rated R for tugged heartstrings. Please go to our forums for the story comment thread. by Stephen Woodworth. Read by Paul S. Jenkins (of the Rev Up Review. The Olverung is an ugly bird.  Its bulbous head juts from the spout of a scrawny neck, and warts dot the bridge of its fat beak.  When it struts upon the ground, its pot-bellied body waddles with the ludicrous gait of a town drunkard.  Its plumage has the black iridescence of a fly’s abdomen and is too coarse even for pillow stuffing.  Yet the fowl possesses one singular attribute that princes and popes have coveted for centuries, and it was for this sole virtue that Lord Atherton entreated me to steal the creature from the King. Rated R for tugged heartstrings. Please go to our forums for the story comment thread. tag:odeo.com,2009-09-09,25097989 Wed, 09 Sep 2009 10:14:57 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25060208-PodCastle-068-A-Heretic-By-Degrees by Marie Brennan. Read by Paul Tevis. The suggestion was heretical, and treasonous to boot.  Two years before, the king had established by sacred decree that there was only one world, and that nothing lay beyond its bounds; anything seen there was a delusion, a final torment sent to test the faithful before their eventual salvation.  And for two years, his Councillors and subjects had respected his word. Now they faced a choice.  Disobey the king — or lose him.  Commit treason, or let him die, and with him, the last remnant of the sacred royal line. Rated PG. for actions taken at the end of the worlds. by Marie Brennan. Read by Paul Tevis. The suggestion was heretical, and treasonous to boot.  Two years before, the king had established by sacred decree that there was only one world, and that nothing lay beyond its bounds; anything seen there was a delusion, a final torment sent to test the faithful before their eventual salvation.  And for two years, his Councillors and subjects had respected his word. Now they faced a choice.  Disobey the king — or lose him.  Commit treason, or let him die, and with him, the last remnant of the sacred royal line. Rated PG. for actions taken at the end of the worlds. by Marie Brennan. Read by Paul Tevis. The suggestion was heretical, and treasonous to boot.  Two years before, the king had established by sacred decree that there was only one world, and that nothing lay beyond its bounds; anything seen there was a delusion, a final torment sent to test the faithful before their eventual salvation.  And for two years, his Councillors and subjects had respected his word. Now they faced a choice.  Disobey the king — or lose him.  Commit treason, or let him die, and with him, the last remnant of the sacred royal line. Rated PG. for actions taken at the end of the worlds. tag:odeo.com,2009-09-02,25060208 Wed, 02 Sep 2009 00:33:41 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25035232-PC-Miniature-37-Hall-of-Mirrors By Bruce Holland Rogers. Read by Barry Deutsch. One afternoon during his lunch hour, Emory wasn’t feeling particularly hungry. It was the monthly free-admission day at the art museum, so instead of getting a sandwich he went in to look at paintings. “This one,” he said to himself, “makes me think of flying, except that the blue is not right for the sky. It is more of a painting about sorrow, I think. Of flying through sorrow.” Emory was in the habit of mumbling his thoughts aloud, but usually he was so quiet, his words so indistinct, that no one knew what he was saying. This time, however, a woman who stood near him said, “Interesting. Then what do you make of the companion piece?” He looked at her as she stood waiting, an earnest expression on her face. He nearly apologized, nearly told her that he knew nothing about art. But then he glanced at the second painting and the words were out of his mouth, clearly and distinctly this time. &#8220... By Bruce Holland Rogers. Read by Barry Deutsch. One afternoon during his lunch hour, Emory wasn’t feeling particularly hungry. It was the monthly free-admission day at the art museum, so instead of getting a sandwich he went in to look at paintings. “This one,” he said to himself, “makes me think of flying, except that the blue is not right for the sky. It is more of a painting about sorrow, I think. Of flying through sorrow.” Emory was in the habit of mumbling his thoughts aloud, but usually he was so quiet, his words so indistinct, that no one knew what he was saying. This time, however, a woman who stood near him said, “Interesting. Then what do you make of the companion piece?” He looked at her as she stood waiting, an earnest expression on her face. He nearly apologized, nearly told her that he knew nothing about art. But then he glanced at the second painting and the words were out of his mouth, clearly and distinctly this time. “All that whiteness makes me think of hospitals. The jagged line there, the bucket that is tipped over but isn’t spilling a drop — it must be the psychiatric ward of the hospital. The yellow corners, the dead flies make sure that I know not to take comfort in the whiteness. Fear of insanity. That’s what I see.” Rated PG. for reflected nihilism. By Bruce Holland Rogers. Read by Barry Deutsch. One afternoon during his lunch hour, Emory wasn’t feeling particularly hungry. It was the monthly free-admission day at the art museum, so instead of getting a sandwich he went in to look at paintings. “This one,” he said to himself, “makes me think of flying, except that the blue is not right for the sky. It is more of a painting about sorrow, I think. Of flying through sorrow.” Emory was in the habit of mumbling his thoughts aloud, but usually he was so quiet, his words so indistinct, that no one knew what he was saying. This time, however, a woman who stood near him said, “Interesting. Then what do you make of the companion piece?” He looked at her as she stood waiting, an earnest expression on her face. He nearly apologized, nearly told her that he knew nothing about art. But then he glanced at the second painting and the words were out of his mouth, clearly and distinctly this time. “All that whiteness makes me think of hospitals. The jagged line there, the bucket that is tipped over but isn’t spilling a drop — it must be the psychiatric ward of the hospital. The yellow corners, the dead flies make sure that I know not to take comfort in the whiteness. Fear of insanity. That’s what I see.” Rated PG. for reflected nihilism. tag:odeo.com,2009-08-28,25035232 Fri, 28 Aug 2009 01:47:56 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25028703-PC067-Kissing-Frogs by http://wordswoman.livejournal.com/ Jaye Lawrence. Read by Phoebe Harris. We met near a pond, of course. “I loved your ad,” I said after we’d finished our introductions. Sharon, meet Jerry. Frog, meet human. ”But I have to admit I wasn’t expecting an actual amphibian. Rated PG. for narratives that play with the Grimm. by http://wordswoman.livejournal.com/ Jaye Lawrence. Read by Phoebe Harris. We met near a pond, of course. “I loved your ad,” I said after we’d finished our introductions. Sharon, meet Jerry. Frog, meet human. ”But I have to admit I wasn’t expecting an actual amphibian. Rated PG. for narratives that play with the Grimm. by http://wordswoman.livejournal.com/ Jaye Lawrence. Read by Phoebe Harris. We met near a pond, of course. “I loved your ad,” I said after we’d finished our introductions. Sharon, meet Jerry. Frog, meet human. ”But I have to admit I wasn’t expecting an actual amphibian. Rated PG. for narratives that play with the Grimm. tag:odeo.com,2009-08-27,25028703 Thu, 27 Aug 2009 02:28:25 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25005754-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,2009-08-22,25005754 Sat, 22 Aug 2009 16:37:05 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Metacasts Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24991649-PC066-One-Paper-Airplane-Graffito-Love-Note By Will McIntosh. Read by Christopher Reynaga. A paper airplane drifted high in the sky above the field. I nearly crashed my bicycle, straining to follow its path as it circled above the treetops at the far edge. It held the wind beautifully. Pausing, it hovered over the field just as a sea bird holds its position above crashing waves. I slowed to a stop, feeling for the ground with one foot, afraid to take my eye off the craft lest I lose it in the clouds. Neck craned, eyes to the sky, I let the bicycle drop. I tracked the paper’s elegant flight, running this way and that like a boy as it slowly, slowly lost altitude. As it made its final pass, it gained speed, careening across the field. I loped after it as it tumbled end-over-end and lay still. I plucked it from the grass. It was folded in a distinct design–squat and wide, with a hinged belly. It was covered in writing. Rated PG. for surrealism appearing through several fractured narratives. By Will McIntosh. Read by Christopher Reynaga. A paper airplane drifted high in the sky above the field. I nearly crashed my bicycle, straining to follow its path as it circled above the treetops at the far edge. It held the wind beautifully. Pausing, it hovered over the field just as a sea bird holds its position above crashing waves. I slowed to a stop, feeling for the ground with one foot, afraid to take my eye off the craft lest I lose it in the clouds. Neck craned, eyes to the sky, I let the bicycle drop. I tracked the paper’s elegant flight, running this way and that like a boy as it slowly, slowly lost altitude. As it made its final pass, it gained speed, careening across the field. I loped after it as it tumbled end-over-end and lay still. I plucked it from the grass. It was folded in a distinct design–squat and wide, with a hinged belly. It was covered in writing. Rated PG. for surrealism appearing through several fractured narratives. By Will McIntosh. Read by Christopher Reynaga. A paper airplane drifted high in the sky above the field. I nearly crashed my bicycle, straining to follow its path as it circled above the treetops at the far edge. It held the wind beautifully. Pausing, it hovered over the field just as a sea bird holds its position above crashing waves. I slowed to a stop, feeling for the ground with one foot, afraid to take my eye off the craft lest I lose it in the clouds. Neck craned, eyes to the sky, I let the bicycle drop. I tracked the paper’s elegant flight, running this way and that like a boy as it slowly, slowly lost altitude. As it made its final pass, it gained speed, careening across the field. I loped after it as it tumbled end-over-end and lay still. I plucked it from the grass. It was folded in a distinct design–squat and wide, with a hinged belly. It was covered in writing. Rated PG. for surrealism appearing through several fractured narratives. tag:odeo.com,2009-08-20,24991649 Thu, 20 Aug 2009 00:34:45 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24964524-PodCastle-Bonus-Material-Fantasy-Magazine-Micro-Fiction-Winners By Kelly Stiles, Caren Gussoff, and Lane Bowen. Read by Marguerite Croft. Presented in partnership with Fantasy Magazine. PodCastle is proud to present these three excellent micro-fiction stories in conjunction with Fantasy Magazine. These stories won their recent contest for ten sentence fiction. You can read text versions of them, along with the other seven finalists, at Fantasy Magazine. We hope PodCastle listeners will enjoy these stories and consider heading over to Fantasy Magazine for more excellent fiction! By Kelly Stiles, Caren Gussoff, and Lane Bowen. Read by Marguerite Croft. Presented in partnership with Fantasy Magazine. PodCastle is proud to present these three excellent micro-fiction stories in conjunction with Fantasy Magazine. These stories won their recent contest for ten sentence fiction. You can read text versions of them, along with the other seven finalists, at Fantasy Magazine. We hope PodCastle listeners will enjoy these stories and consider heading over to Fantasy Magazine for more excellent fiction! By Kelly Stiles, Caren Gussoff, and Lane Bowen. Read by Marguerite Croft. Presented in partnership with Fantasy Magazine. PodCastle is proud to present these three excellent micro-fiction stories in conjunction with Fantasy Magazine. These stories won their recent contest for ten sentence fiction. You can read text versions of them, along with the other seven finalists, at Fantasy Magazine. We hope PodCastle listeners will enjoy these stories and consider heading over to Fantasy Magazine for more excellent fiction! tag:odeo.com,2009-08-14,24964524 Fri, 14 Aug 2009 18:15:45 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24946979-PC065-Foam-on-the-Water By Cat Rambo. Read by C. G. Furst. “What’s that?” Ivory said. We stared down through the darkness. There was no one else around; it was off-season and our waiter had deserted us before the sun had set. Trevor stood, glancing at me. “I’m going to check it out.” “Could be a crocodile. You never know what you’ll find in Thailand.” Ivory didn’t move but her voice was unalarmed. “Feel free, boys. I’ll be right here.” “Where’s your sense of adventure?” He grinned at her, flashing perfect white teeth. “Left behind in an LA hotel room,” she said. So Trevor and I went together with cautious steps. There was a steep grade to the side of the river, and thorny vines tore at us as we half-fell down it before encountering the sticky grasp of red clay mud threatening to pull our Tevas off. She lay naked on the riverbank like a fallen swan. Her bare flesh white as snow, her hair midnight blac... By Cat Rambo. Read by C. G. Furst. “What’s that?” Ivory said. We stared down through the darkness. There was no one else around; it was off-season and our waiter had deserted us before the sun had set. Trevor stood, glancing at me. “I’m going to check it out.” “Could be a crocodile. You never know what you’ll find in Thailand.” Ivory didn’t move but her voice was unalarmed. “Feel free, boys. I’ll be right here.” “Where’s your sense of adventure?” He grinned at her, flashing perfect white teeth. “Left behind in an LA hotel room,” she said. So Trevor and I went together with cautious steps. There was a steep grade to the side of the river, and thorny vines tore at us as we half-fell down it before encountering the sticky grasp of red clay mud threatening to pull our Tevas off. She lay naked on the riverbank like a fallen swan. Her bare flesh white as snow, her hair midnight black. Her feet were thin and fragile as newly pedicured mourning doves, not a smudge or callus except for the mud that covered her. Rated R. Contains non-vanilla adult sex. By Cat Rambo. Read by C. G. Furst. “What’s that?” Ivory said. We stared down through the darkness. There was no one else around; it was off-season and our waiter had deserted us before the sun had set. Trevor stood, glancing at me. “I’m going to check it out.” “Could be a crocodile. You never know what you’ll find in Thailand.” Ivory didn’t move but her voice was unalarmed. “Feel free, boys. I’ll be right here.” “Where’s your sense of adventure?” He grinned at her, flashing perfect white teeth. “Left behind in an LA hotel room,” she said. So Trevor and I went together with cautious steps. There was a steep grade to the side of the river, and thorny vines tore at us as we half-fell down it before encountering the sticky grasp of red clay mud threatening to pull our Tevas off. She lay naked on the riverbank like a fallen swan. Her bare flesh white as snow, her hair midnight black. Her feet were thin and fragile as newly pedicured mourning doves, not a smudge or callus except for the mud that covered her. Rated R. Contains non-vanilla adult sex. tag:odeo.com,2009-08-11,24946979 Tue, 11 Aug 2009 23:53:32 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24910041-PC064-Castor-On-Troubled-Waters By Rhys Hughes. Read by Alasdair Stuart (of Pseudopod). “You won’t believe what has just happened to me!” “Tell us,” they replied. “Very well,” he said slowly, “but I need a drink to settle my nerves first. You don’t mind if I take a sip of your beer? That’s better. And yours as well? Sure, a massive gulp isn’t the same as a sip, but listen carefully: I was kidnapped! I know it sounds ridiculous but it’s true nonetheless. Shortly after I left you, while walking along the esplanade, I noticed a strange vessel anchored offshore, an old fashioned galleon. Then a boat was lowered from it and began rowing closer and I soon realised there was something unusual about it.” “How unusual?” asked Paddy. Castor lowered his voice to a whisper. “It was crewed by men dressed like pirates…” Rated PG. Contains blasted lies, and more blasted pirates. By Rhys Hughes. Read by Alasdair Stuart (of Pseudopod). “You won’t believe what has just happened to me!” “Tell us,” they replied. “Very well,” he said slowly, “but I need a drink to settle my nerves first. You don’t mind if I take a sip of your beer? That’s better. And yours as well? Sure, a massive gulp isn’t the same as a sip, but listen carefully: I was kidnapped! I know it sounds ridiculous but it’s true nonetheless. Shortly after I left you, while walking along the esplanade, I noticed a strange vessel anchored offshore, an old fashioned galleon. Then a boat was lowered from it and began rowing closer and I soon realised there was something unusual about it.” “How unusual?” asked Paddy. Castor lowered his voice to a whisper. “It was crewed by men dressed like pirates…” Rated PG. Contains blasted lies, and more blasted pirates. By Rhys Hughes. Read by Alasdair Stuart (of Pseudopod). “You won’t believe what has just happened to me!” “Tell us,” they replied. “Very well,” he said slowly, “but I need a drink to settle my nerves first. You don’t mind if I take a sip of your beer? That’s better. And yours as well? Sure, a massive gulp isn’t the same as a sip, but listen carefully: I was kidnapped! I know it sounds ridiculous but it’s true nonetheless. Shortly after I left you, while walking along the esplanade, I noticed a strange vessel anchored offshore, an old fashioned galleon. Then a boat was lowered from it and began rowing closer and I soon realised there was something unusual about it.” “How unusual?” asked Paddy. Castor lowered his voice to a whisper. “It was crewed by men dressed like pirates…” Rated PG. Contains blasted lies, and more blasted pirates. tag:odeo.com,2009-08-04,24910041 Tue, 04 Aug 2009 13:26:58 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24879363-PodCastle-63-Daughter-of-Botu By Eugie Foster. Read by Diane Severson. When we reached the south entrance, Nai-nai stopped. “An-ying, there is great passion in you,” she said. “A blessing and a curse, I have always maintained, that you were born in both the year and the hour of the rabbit but also beneath the auspice of fire. Fire rabbits are impetuous and brash.” “But I–” She bumped me with her shoulder. “Outspoken and discourteous, too.” “I’m sorry, Nai-nai.” I lowered my head and flattened my ears in a conciliatory manner. She nibbled my fur. “I’m not angry, granddaughter, but you should know we feared for you, your mother and I. Even your coat is marked by fire, and it is well known that fire rabbits die young.” Rated R. for frank descriptions of adult events. By Eugie Foster. Read by Diane Severson. When we reached the south entrance, Nai-nai stopped. “An-ying, there is great passion in you,” she said. “A blessing and a curse, I have always maintained, that you were born in both the year and the hour of the rabbit but also beneath the auspice of fire. Fire rabbits are impetuous and brash.” “But I–” She bumped me with her shoulder. “Outspoken and discourteous, too.” “I’m sorry, Nai-nai.” I lowered my head and flattened my ears in a conciliatory manner. She nibbled my fur. “I’m not angry, granddaughter, but you should know we feared for you, your mother and I. Even your coat is marked by fire, and it is well known that fire rabbits die young.” Rated R. for frank descriptions of adult events. By Eugie Foster. Read by Diane Severson. When we reached the south entrance, Nai-nai stopped. “An-ying, there is great passion in you,” she said. “A blessing and a curse, I have always maintained, that you were born in both the year and the hour of the rabbit but also beneath the auspice of fire. Fire rabbits are impetuous and brash.” “But I–” She bumped me with her shoulder. “Outspoken and discourteous, too.” “I’m sorry, Nai-nai.” I lowered my head and flattened my ears in a conciliatory manner. She nibbled my fur. “I’m not angry, granddaughter, but you should know we feared for you, your mother and I. Even your coat is marked by fire, and it is well known that fire rabbits die young.” Rated R. for frank descriptions of adult events. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-29,24879363 Wed, 29 Jul 2009 02:36:10 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24859732-PC-Miniature-36-To-Do-List by Nick Mamatas. Read by Jake Squid. 1. Go to your local public library. Find a copy of _The Undiscovered Self_ by Carl Jung. Take a $50 bill from your pocket, fold it half, and insert it between pages 122 and 123. You will not return to that library until you have completed the rest of the tasks on this list. Rated R. for language. by Nick Mamatas. Read by Jake Squid. 1. Go to your local public library. Find a copy of _The Undiscovered Self_ by Carl Jung. Take a $50 bill from your pocket, fold it half, and insert it between pages 122 and 123. You will not return to that library until you have completed the rest of the tasks on this list. Rated R. for language. by Nick Mamatas. Read by Jake Squid. 1. Go to your local public library. Find a copy of _The Undiscovered Self_ by Carl Jung. Take a $50 bill from your pocket, fold it half, and insert it between pages 122 and 123. You will not return to that library until you have completed the rest of the tasks on this list. Rated R. for language. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-24,24859732 Fri, 24 Jul 2009 15:28:42 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24839077-PodCastle-62-The-Fiddler-of-Bayou-Teche by Delia Sherman. Read by Elizabeth Green Musselman. One night, paddling far from home, I see lights that are not the pale feu follets that dance in the swamp at night. They are yellow lights, lantern lights, and they tell me I have come to a farm. I am a little afraid, for Tante Eulalie used to warn me about letting people see me. “You know how ducks carry on when a strange bird land in their water?” she says. “The good people of Pierreville, they see that white hair and those pink eyes, and they peck at you till there’s nothing left but two-three white feathers.” I do not want to be pecked, me, so I start to paddle away. And then I hear the music. I turn back with a sweep of my paddle and drift clear. I see a wharf and a cabin and an outhouse and a hog pen, and a big barn built on high ground away from the water. The barn doors are open, and they spill yellow light out over a pack of buggies and horses and even cars–only cars I’ve seen outside the magazines Ulyss... by Delia Sherman. Read by Elizabeth Green Musselman. One night, paddling far from home, I see lights that are not the pale feu follets that dance in the swamp at night. They are yellow lights, lantern lights, and they tell me I have come to a farm. I am a little afraid, for Tante Eulalie used to warn me about letting people see me. “You know how ducks carry on when a strange bird land in their water?” she says. “The good people of Pierreville, they see that white hair and those pink eyes, and they peck at you till there’s nothing left but two-three white feathers.” I do not want to be pecked, me, so I start to paddle away. And then I hear the music. I turn back with a sweep of my paddle and drift clear. I see a wharf and a cabin and an outhouse and a hog pen, and a big barn built on high ground away from the water. The barn doors are open, and they spill yellow light out over a pack of buggies and horses and even cars–only cars I’ve seen outside the magazines Ulysse sometimes brings. I don’t care about the cars, though, for I am caught by the fiddle music that spills out brighter than the lantern light, brighter than anything in the world since Tante Eulalie left it. Rated PG. for tricksters and fiddle music. by Delia Sherman. Read by Elizabeth Green Musselman. One night, paddling far from home, I see lights that are not the pale feu follets that dance in the swamp at night. They are yellow lights, lantern lights, and they tell me I have come to a farm. I am a little afraid, for Tante Eulalie used to warn me about letting people see me. “You know how ducks carry on when a strange bird land in their water?” she says. “The good people of Pierreville, they see that white hair and those pink eyes, and they peck at you till there’s nothing left but two-three white feathers.” I do not want to be pecked, me, so I start to paddle away. And then I hear the music. I turn back with a sweep of my paddle and drift clear. I see a wharf and a cabin and an outhouse and a hog pen, and a big barn built on high ground away from the water. The barn doors are open, and they spill yellow light out over a pack of buggies and horses and even cars–only cars I’ve seen outside the magazines Ulysse sometimes brings. I don’t care about the cars, though, for I am caught by the fiddle music that spills out brighter than the lantern light, brighter than anything in the world since Tante Eulalie left it. Rated PG. for tricksters and fiddle music. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-21,24839077 Tue, 21 Jul 2009 03:32:48 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24811622-PodCastle-Giant-4-Captain-Fantasy-and-the-Secret-Masters by Tim Pratt. Read by Matthew Wayne Selznick. The door slid open, revealing another corridor. Floor, walls, and ceiling were all the color of used motor oil, and cameras bristled every couple of feet. “Welcome to the Black Wing, Li.” I didn’t step inside. “I heard you’ve got Bludgeon Man locked up in here. And Junior Atwater’s brain, in a jar.” “Yeah, I’ve heard those, too,” Brady said. “People believe any damn thing, don’t they? Now come on. If this door stays open too long, alarms go crazy, and we’ll be neck-deep in very tense guards.” I stepped over the threshold. The black wing was like the inside of a tumor. No wonder mental institutions favor soothing colors to pacify the patients. These walls had the opposite effect; they could drive a sane person mad. The Black Wing surely held a few mental patients, the ones with extraordinary powers. The ones who could enforce their delusions on the world, ... by Tim Pratt. Read by Matthew Wayne Selznick. The door slid open, revealing another corridor. Floor, walls, and ceiling were all the color of used motor oil, and cameras bristled every couple of feet. “Welcome to the Black Wing, Li.” I didn’t step inside. “I heard you’ve got Bludgeon Man locked up in here. And Junior Atwater’s brain, in a jar.” “Yeah, I’ve heard those, too,” Brady said. “People believe any damn thing, don’t they? Now come on. If this door stays open too long, alarms go crazy, and we’ll be neck-deep in very tense guards.” I stepped over the threshold. The black wing was like the inside of a tumor. No wonder mental institutions favor soothing colors to pacify the patients. These walls had the opposite effect; they could drive a sane person mad. The Black Wing surely held a few mental patients, the ones with extraordinary powers. The ones who could enforce their delusions on the world, if they got free. Rated R. contains violence committed in spandex. by Tim Pratt. Read by Matthew Wayne Selznick. The door slid open, revealing another corridor. Floor, walls, and ceiling were all the color of used motor oil, and cameras bristled every couple of feet. “Welcome to the Black Wing, Li.” I didn’t step inside. “I heard you’ve got Bludgeon Man locked up in here. And Junior Atwater’s brain, in a jar.” “Yeah, I’ve heard those, too,” Brady said. “People believe any damn thing, don’t they? Now come on. If this door stays open too long, alarms go crazy, and we’ll be neck-deep in very tense guards.” I stepped over the threshold. The black wing was like the inside of a tumor. No wonder mental institutions favor soothing colors to pacify the patients. These walls had the opposite effect; they could drive a sane person mad. The Black Wing surely held a few mental patients, the ones with extraordinary powers. The ones who could enforce their delusions on the world, if they got free. Rated R. contains violence committed in spandex. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-15,24811622 Wed, 15 Jul 2009 15:02:10 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24777934-PodCastle-Miniature-35-Loose-Drawers by Charlie Allery. Read by Amanda Fitzwater. It’s not that I’m easy, y’know? I mean, I got my standards, same as everyone, and it takes more than some dime-store wrench with a cheap chrome job to loosen my drawers. But I’m a toolbox - what am I supposed to do? These guys, they’re not NASCAR engineers with a million dollars in their pocket. They’re just regular guys, trying to earn a half-decent wage, fixing the heaps of junk that other regular guys need to get to their crummy jobs, that … well, y’know how it goes. Rated PG. for innuendo. by Charlie Allery. Read by Amanda Fitzwater. It’s not that I’m easy, y’know? I mean, I got my standards, same as everyone, and it takes more than some dime-store wrench with a cheap chrome job to loosen my drawers. But I’m a toolbox - what am I supposed to do? These guys, they’re not NASCAR engineers with a million dollars in their pocket. They’re just regular guys, trying to earn a half-decent wage, fixing the heaps of junk that other regular guys need to get to their crummy jobs, that … well, y’know how it goes. Rated PG. for innuendo. by Charlie Allery. Read by Amanda Fitzwater. It’s not that I’m easy, y’know? I mean, I got my standards, same as everyone, and it takes more than some dime-store wrench with a cheap chrome job to loosen my drawers. But I’m a toolbox - what am I supposed to do? These guys, they’re not NASCAR engineers with a million dollars in their pocket. They’re just regular guys, trying to earn a half-decent wage, fixing the heaps of junk that other regular guys need to get to their crummy jobs, that … well, y’know how it goes. Rated PG. for innuendo. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-10,24777934 Fri, 10 Jul 2009 03:51:49 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24773213-PC060-The-evolution-of-trickster-stories-among-the-dogs-of-North-Park-after-the-Change by Kij Johnson. Read by Heather Lindsley. (It’s a universal fantasy, isn’t it?—that the animals learn to speak, and at last we learn what they’re thinking, our cats and dogs and horses: a new era in cross-species understanding. But nothing ever works out quite as we imagine. When the Change happened, it affected all the mammals we have shaped to meet our own needs. They all could talk a little, and they all could frame their thoughts well enough to talk. Cattle, horses, goats, llamas; rats, too. Pigs. Minks. And dogs and cats. And we found that, really, we prefer our slaves mute. (The cats mostly leave, even ones who love their owners. Their pragmatic sociopathy makes us uncomfortable, and we bore them; and they leave. They slip out between our legs and lope into summer dusks. We hear them at night, fighting as they sort out ranges, mates, boundaries. The savage sounds frighten us, a fear that does not ease when our cat Klio returns home for a single night, asking ... by Kij Johnson. Read by Heather Lindsley. (It’s a universal fantasy, isn’t it?—that the animals learn to speak, and at last we learn what they’re thinking, our cats and dogs and horses: a new era in cross-species understanding. But nothing ever works out quite as we imagine. When the Change happened, it affected all the mammals we have shaped to meet our own needs. They all could talk a little, and they all could frame their thoughts well enough to talk. Cattle, horses, goats, llamas; rats, too. Pigs. Minks. And dogs and cats. And we found that, really, we prefer our slaves mute. (The cats mostly leave, even ones who love their owners. Their pragmatic sociopathy makes us uncomfortable, and we bore them; and they leave. They slip out between our legs and lope into summer dusks. We hear them at night, fighting as they sort out ranges, mates, boundaries. The savage sounds frighten us, a fear that does not ease when our cat Klio returns home for a single night, asking to be fed and to sleep on the bed. A lot of cats die in fights or under car wheels, but they seem to prefer that to living under our roofs; and as I said, we fear them. (Some dogs run away. Others are thrown out by the owners who loved them. Some were always free.) Rated PG. for emotionally provocative (mis)treatment of animals. by Kij Johnson. Read by Heather Lindsley. (It’s a universal fantasy, isn’t it?—that the animals learn to speak, and at last we learn what they’re thinking, our cats and dogs and horses: a new era in cross-species understanding. But nothing ever works out quite as we imagine. When the Change happened, it affected all the mammals we have shaped to meet our own needs. They all could talk a little, and they all could frame their thoughts well enough to talk. Cattle, horses, goats, llamas; rats, too. Pigs. Minks. And dogs and cats. And we found that, really, we prefer our slaves mute. (The cats mostly leave, even ones who love their owners. Their pragmatic sociopathy makes us uncomfortable, and we bore them; and they leave. They slip out between our legs and lope into summer dusks. We hear them at night, fighting as they sort out ranges, mates, boundaries. The savage sounds frighten us, a fear that does not ease when our cat Klio returns home for a single night, asking to be fed and to sleep on the bed. A lot of cats die in fights or under car wheels, but they seem to prefer that to living under our roofs; and as I said, we fear them. (Some dogs run away. Others are thrown out by the owners who loved them. Some were always free.) Rated PG. for emotionally provocative (mis)treatment of animals. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-09,24773213 Thu, 09 Jul 2009 06:07:02 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24748730-PodCastle-Miniature-34-The-Orange by Benjamin Rosenbaum. Read by Paul S. Jenkins (of the Rev Up Review). It was an unexpected thing, the temporary abdication of Heavenly Providence, entrusting the whole matter to a simple orange. Rated G. with playful, fruity flavors. by Benjamin Rosenbaum. Read by Paul S. Jenkins (of the Rev Up Review). It was an unexpected thing, the temporary abdication of Heavenly Providence, entrusting the whole matter to a simple orange. Rated G. with playful, fruity flavors. by Benjamin Rosenbaum. Read by Paul S. Jenkins (of the Rev Up Review). It was an unexpected thing, the temporary abdication of Heavenly Providence, entrusting the whole matter to a simple orange. Rated G. with playful, fruity flavors. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-02,24748730 Thu, 02 Jul 2009 22:51:17 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated G, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24735611-PC059-On-the-Banks-of-the-River-of-Heaven by Richard Parks. Read by Barry Deutsch. On the seventh day of the seventh month as it had for the previous two years, it rained.  And it rained.  The cranes still came at Kaiboshi’s bidding to stand by the shore and form the base of the bridge.  Next came the geese and the ducks and other waterfowl, who fared well enough creating the platform and first few degrees of arc for the bridge.  After that, however, came the hawks and crows and sparrows and smaller birds, and the rain beat down on them incessantly, and their wings became sodden and would no longer support them and a bridge, too.  The cranes held on gamely as the river swelled into flood, but their skinny legs began to tremble.  Kaiboshi reluctantly concluded that the enterprise was doomed, and he dismissed the birds with thanks rather than risk seeing them fall in the river after the inevitable collapse. Three years now the rains had come on the appointed day.  For three years the Bridge of Birds that was his only wa... by Richard Parks. Read by Barry Deutsch. On the seventh day of the seventh month as it had for the previous two years, it rained.  And it rained.  The cranes still came at Kaiboshi’s bidding to stand by the shore and form the base of the bridge.  Next came the geese and the ducks and other waterfowl, who fared well enough creating the platform and first few degrees of arc for the bridge.  After that, however, came the hawks and crows and sparrows and smaller birds, and the rain beat down on them incessantly, and their wings became sodden and would no longer support them and a bridge, too.  The cranes held on gamely as the river swelled into flood, but their skinny legs began to tremble.  Kaiboshi reluctantly concluded that the enterprise was doomed, and he dismissed the birds with thanks rather than risk seeing them fall in the river after the inevitable collapse. Three years now the rains had come on the appointed day.  For three years the Bridge of Birds that was his only way to cross the Celestial River had been unable to form.  Kaiboshi began to wonder if he was cursed, but more he wondered if Asago-hime had started to forget him.  He sat down on the banks of the river and let the rising waters chill his feet as he indulged in a bout of melancholy, since he knew of nothing else he could do. “Three years is a long time to be apart from the one you love,” he said aloud.  “Even for an immortal.” Rated PG. Contains anthropomorphization, fish, and stars. by Richard Parks. Read by Barry Deutsch. On the seventh day of the seventh month as it had for the previous two years, it rained.  And it rained.  The cranes still came at Kaiboshi’s bidding to stand by the shore and form the base of the bridge.  Next came the geese and the ducks and other waterfowl, who fared well enough creating the platform and first few degrees of arc for the bridge.  After that, however, came the hawks and crows and sparrows and smaller birds, and the rain beat down on them incessantly, and their wings became sodden and would no longer support them and a bridge, too.  The cranes held on gamely as the river swelled into flood, but their skinny legs began to tremble.  Kaiboshi reluctantly concluded that the enterprise was doomed, and he dismissed the birds with thanks rather than risk seeing them fall in the river after the inevitable collapse. Three years now the rains had come on the appointed day.  For three years the Bridge of Birds that was his only way to cross the Celestial River had been unable to form.  Kaiboshi began to wonder if he was cursed, but more he wondered if Asago-hime had started to forget him.  He sat down on the banks of the river and let the rising waters chill his feet as he indulged in a bout of melancholy, since he knew of nothing else he could do. “Three years is a long time to be apart from the one you love,” he said aloud.  “Even for an immortal.” Rated PG. Contains anthropomorphization, fish, and stars. tag:odeo.com,2009-06-30,24735611 Tue, 30 Jun 2009 19:36:58 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24735615-PodCastle-58-Nine-Fingered-Maria by Hilary Moon Murphy. Read by Christopher Reynaga. …this girl appeared from behind a door and caught my ball.  She was probably my age: several inches taller than I am, with long straight black hair pulled back in a ponytail, plain white t-shirt, denim jacket and jeans with a hole worn in the knee.  She stared at me with intense dark eyes and said, “What are you doing here?” “I was just getting my ball,” I said, stepping out of the way of two movers carrying a large red bureau with multi-colored wax stains all over it. “No, you weren’t.”  She cocked her head to the side, and raised her eyebrow.  ”You were spying.” “I wasn’t!” “That’s okay, I like spies.”  She gave me back my ball and showed me her hands.  ”I have nine fingers.  I’m a witch.” Rated PG. Contains boyhood, and witchcraft, and jars full of preserved things. by Hilary Moon Murphy. Read by Christopher Reynaga. …this girl appeared from behind a door and caught my ball.  She was probably my age: several inches taller than I am, with long straight black hair pulled back in a ponytail, plain white t-shirt, denim jacket and jeans with a hole worn in the knee.  She stared at me with intense dark eyes and said, “What are you doing here?” “I was just getting my ball,” I said, stepping out of the way of two movers carrying a large red bureau with multi-colored wax stains all over it. “No, you weren’t.”  She cocked her head to the side, and raised her eyebrow.  ”You were spying.” “I wasn’t!” “That’s okay, I like spies.”  She gave me back my ball and showed me her hands.  ”I have nine fingers.  I’m a witch.” Rated PG. Contains boyhood, and witchcraft, and jars full of preserved things. by Hilary Moon Murphy. Read by Christopher Reynaga. …this girl appeared from behind a door and caught my ball.  She was probably my age: several inches taller than I am, with long straight black hair pulled back in a ponytail, plain white t-shirt, denim jacket and jeans with a hole worn in the knee.  She stared at me with intense dark eyes and said, “What are you doing here?” “I was just getting my ball,” I said, stepping out of the way of two movers carrying a large red bureau with multi-colored wax stains all over it. “No, you weren’t.”  She cocked her head to the side, and raised her eyebrow.  ”You were spying.” “I wasn’t!” “That’s okay, I like spies.”  She gave me back my ball and showed me her hands.  ”I have nine fingers.  I’m a witch.” Rated PG. Contains boyhood, and witchcraft, and jars full of preserved things. tag:odeo.com,2009-06-24,24735615 Wed, 24 Jun 2009 20:54:12 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24708870-PodCastle-57-In-Ashes by Helen Keeble. Read by Marie Brennan. From the time my twin brother and I were four, our mother only gave us raw food. Before then I can remember sometimes eating cold, cooked things—porridge congealed onto the bottom of my bowl, soups with a white floating scum of fats—but that stopped after our fourth birthday, when my brother laughed and said “Hot!” as he tasted the cake that my mother had spent an hour baking and three days cooling. She whipped him for that, while I howled and hung onto her arm, and sent us both to our beds in the cowshed. Later she came out with two handfuls of dried apricots and hugged us in the dark, her great rough hands pressing our faces against her chest—but the next day there was only raw food for dinner, withered apples and sliced turnip, and the day after that, and the day after that. The next time our birthday came round, I whined for a cake, but she said we could only have one if my brother would blow out a candle. For me, he tried, dra... by Helen Keeble. Read by Marie Brennan. From the time my twin brother and I were four, our mother only gave us raw food. Before then I can remember sometimes eating cold, cooked things—porridge congealed onto the bottom of my bowl, soups with a white floating scum of fats—but that stopped after our fourth birthday, when my brother laughed and said “Hot!” as he tasted the cake that my mother had spent an hour baking and three days cooling. She whipped him for that, while I howled and hung onto her arm, and sent us both to our beds in the cowshed. Later she came out with two handfuls of dried apricots and hugged us in the dark, her great rough hands pressing our faces against her chest—but the next day there was only raw food for dinner, withered apples and sliced turnip, and the day after that, and the day after that. The next time our birthday came round, I whined for a cake, but she said we could only have one if my brother would blow out a candle. For me, he tried, drawing in huge breath after huge breath while I gripped his crippled hand under the table, squeezing encouragement; but each lungful of air trickled out unused as he stared rapt at the flickering light. My mother sat opposite us, expressionless and still, the flame reflected in her eyes. The candle burned down to a melted pool of wax and went out. My mother never made another cake. I never saw her cook anything ever again. Rated R. Contains potentially disturbing imagery and unkindness toward children. by Helen Keeble. Read by Marie Brennan. From the time my twin brother and I were four, our mother only gave us raw food. Before then I can remember sometimes eating cold, cooked things—porridge congealed onto the bottom of my bowl, soups with a white floating scum of fats—but that stopped after our fourth birthday, when my brother laughed and said “Hot!” as he tasted the cake that my mother had spent an hour baking and three days cooling. She whipped him for that, while I howled and hung onto her arm, and sent us both to our beds in the cowshed. Later she came out with two handfuls of dried apricots and hugged us in the dark, her great rough hands pressing our faces against her chest—but the next day there was only raw food for dinner, withered apples and sliced turnip, and the day after that, and the day after that. The next time our birthday came round, I whined for a cake, but she said we could only have one if my brother would blow out a candle. For me, he tried, drawing in huge breath after huge breath while I gripped his crippled hand under the table, squeezing encouragement; but each lungful of air trickled out unused as he stared rapt at the flickering light. My mother sat opposite us, expressionless and still, the flame reflected in her eyes. The candle burned down to a melted pool of wax and went out. My mother never made another cake. I never saw her cook anything ever again. Rated R. Contains potentially disturbing imagery and unkindness toward children. tag:odeo.com,2009-06-15,24708870 Mon, 15 Jun 2009 13:12:08 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24693776-PodCastle-Miniature-33-The-Sad-tale-of-the-Tearless-Onion by Ann Leckie. read by C. G. Furst. Matthias Fenstermacher loved onions, but hated slicing them, and so he labored to produce a tearless variety. His first attempt was indeed tearless–instead of weeping, the slicer was overcome by fits of uncontrollable giggles. The potential hazard was obvious. Rated G. — but don’t listen while chopping onions. This story was one of the honorable mentions named and purchased by Stephen Eley after the Escape Pod Flash Fiction contest for short fiction under 300 words. by Ann Leckie. read by C. G. Furst. Matthias Fenstermacher loved onions, but hated slicing them, and so he labored to produce a tearless variety. His first attempt was indeed tearless–instead of weeping, the slicer was overcome by fits of uncontrollable giggles. The potential hazard was obvious. Rated G. — but don’t listen while chopping onions. This story was one of the honorable mentions named and purchased by Stephen Eley after the Escape Pod Flash Fiction contest for short fiction under 300 words. by Ann Leckie. read by C. G. Furst. Matthias Fenstermacher loved onions, but hated slicing them, and so he labored to produce a tearless variety. His first attempt was indeed tearless–instead of weeping, the slicer was overcome by fits of uncontrollable giggles. The potential hazard was obvious. Rated G. — but don’t listen while chopping onions. This story was one of the honorable mentions named and purchased by Stephen Eley after the Escape Pod Flash Fiction contest for short fiction under 300 words. tag:odeo.com,2009-06-12,24693776 Fri, 12 Jun 2009 00:48:02 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated G, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24688603-PodCastle-56-Shard-of-Glass by Alaya Dawn Johnson. Read by N. K. Jemisin. “Get in the car, Leah,” my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she’d been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here? “Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad’s new camera. Can’t I go home on the bus?” My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray—already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. “Get in the car, Leah.” My mom’s voice was even huskier as she lit another cigarette and tossed the match out of the window. I sat down and shut the door. We rode in silence for a while. Despite her shaking hands and the rapidly dwindling box of cigarettes, she drove meticulously, even coming to a full stop at the stop signs. She never stopped at stop signs. “Ma . . . is something wrong?” I asked hesitantly. Her fingers tightened on the wheel until her kn... by Alaya Dawn Johnson. Read by N. K. Jemisin. “Get in the car, Leah,” my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she’d been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here? “Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad’s new camera. Can’t I go home on the bus?” My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray—already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. “Get in the car, Leah.” My mom’s voice was even huskier as she lit another cigarette and tossed the match out of the window. I sat down and shut the door. We rode in silence for a while. Despite her shaking hands and the rapidly dwindling box of cigarettes, she drove meticulously, even coming to a full stop at the stop signs. She never stopped at stop signs. “Ma . . . is something wrong?” I asked hesitantly. Her fingers tightened on the wheel until her knuckles looked even paler than my skin. “We’re going on a trip, Leah,” she said finally, jamming on the brakes at a stop sign. Rated R. for violent and possibly disturbing images. by Alaya Dawn Johnson. Read by N. K. Jemisin. “Get in the car, Leah,” my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she’d been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here? “Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad’s new camera. Can’t I go home on the bus?” My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray—already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. “Get in the car, Leah.” My mom’s voice was even huskier as she lit another cigarette and tossed the match out of the window. I sat down and shut the door. We rode in silence for a while. Despite her shaking hands and the rapidly dwindling box of cigarettes, she drove meticulously, even coming to a full stop at the stop signs. She never stopped at stop signs. “Ma . . . is something wrong?” I asked hesitantly. Her fingers tightened on the wheel until her knuckles looked even paler than my skin. “We’re going on a trip, Leah,” she said finally, jamming on the brakes at a stop sign. Rated R. for violent and possibly disturbing images. tag:odeo.com,2009-06-10,24688603 Wed, 10 Jun 2009 23:41:36 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24647741-PodCastle-55-Bottom-Feeding By Tim Pratt Read by Kip Manley (of the serialized fantasy novel City of Roses) The salmon of knowledge lived a long time ago, in the Well of Segais, where the waters ran deep and clear as rippling air. He swam there, thinking his deep thoughts, coming to the surface occasionally to eat the magical hazel-nuts that fell into the water from the trees on the bank. Every nut contained revelations, but the salmon was not a mere living compendium of knowledge — he was a wise fish, too, and so chose to live quietly, waiting for the inevitable day when he would be caught and devoured. The salmon dimly remembered past (and perhaps future) lives, experiences inside and outside of time, from the whole history of the land: being blinded by a hawk on a cold winter night, hiding in a cave after a flood, running from a woman who might have been a goddess, or who might have been a witch. The salmon did not look forward to being caught, and cooked, and eaten, but knowing what the consequences ... By Tim Pratt Read by Kip Manley (of the serialized fantasy novel City of Roses) The salmon of knowledge lived a long time ago, in the Well of Segais, where the waters ran deep and clear as rippling air. He swam there, thinking his deep thoughts, coming to the surface occasionally to eat the magical hazel-nuts that fell into the water from the trees on the bank. Every nut contained revelations, but the salmon was not a mere living compendium of knowledge — he was a wise fish, too, and so chose to live quietly, waiting for the inevitable day when he would be caught and devoured. The salmon dimly remembered past (and perhaps future) lives, experiences inside and outside of time, from the whole history of the land: being blinded by a hawk on a cold winter night, hiding in a cave after a flood, running from a woman who might have been a goddess, or who might have been a witch. The salmon did not look forward to being caught, and cooked, and eaten, but knowing what the consequences would be for the one who caught him, he had to laugh, insofar as fish (even very wise ones) are able to laugh. Rated R. for fish-related hijinks. By Tim Pratt Read by Kip Manley (of the serialized fantasy novel City of Roses) The salmon of knowledge lived a long time ago, in the Well of Segais, where the waters ran deep and clear as rippling air. He swam there, thinking his deep thoughts, coming to the surface occasionally to eat the magical hazel-nuts that fell into the water from the trees on the bank. Every nut contained revelations, but the salmon was not a mere living compendium of knowledge — he was a wise fish, too, and so chose to live quietly, waiting for the inevitable day when he would be caught and devoured. The salmon dimly remembered past (and perhaps future) lives, experiences inside and outside of time, from the whole history of the land: being blinded by a hawk on a cold winter night, hiding in a cave after a flood, running from a woman who might have been a goddess, or who might have been a witch. The salmon did not look forward to being caught, and cooked, and eaten, but knowing what the consequences would be for the one who caught him, he had to laugh, insofar as fish (even very wise ones) are able to laugh. Rated R. for fish-related hijinks. tag:odeo.com,2009-06-03,24647741 Wed, 03 Jun 2009 15:52:34 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24621078-PodCastle-Miniature-32-Chu-bu-and-Sheemish By Lord Dunsany. Read by Steve Anderson. And all the people rejoiced and cried out, “There is none but Chu-bu.” And honey was offered to Chu-bu, and maize and fat. Thus was he magnified. Chu-bu was an idol of some antiquity, as may be seen from the colour of the wood. He had been carved out of mahogany, and after he was carved he had been polished. Then they had set him up on the diorite pedestal with the brazier in front of it for burning spices and the flat gold plates for fat. Thus they worshipped Chu-bu. He must have been there for over a hundred years when one day the priests came in with another idol into the temple of Chu-bu and set it up on a pedestal near Chu-bu’s and sang, “There is also Sheemish.” Rated PG. Contains religious iconography, as described by the 18th Lord of Dunsany. By Lord Dunsany. Read by Steve Anderson. And all the people rejoiced and cried out, “There is none but Chu-bu.” And honey was offered to Chu-bu, and maize and fat. Thus was he magnified. Chu-bu was an idol of some antiquity, as may be seen from the colour of the wood. He had been carved out of mahogany, and after he was carved he had been polished. Then they had set him up on the diorite pedestal with the brazier in front of it for burning spices and the flat gold plates for fat. Thus they worshipped Chu-bu. He must have been there for over a hundred years when one day the priests came in with another idol into the temple of Chu-bu and set it up on a pedestal near Chu-bu’s and sang, “There is also Sheemish.” Rated PG. Contains religious iconography, as described by the 18th Lord of Dunsany. By Lord Dunsany. Read by Steve Anderson. And all the people rejoiced and cried out, “There is none but Chu-bu.” And honey was offered to Chu-bu, and maize and fat. Thus was he magnified. Chu-bu was an idol of some antiquity, as may be seen from the colour of the wood. He had been carved out of mahogany, and after he was carved he had been polished. Then they had set him up on the diorite pedestal with the brazier in front of it for burning spices and the flat gold plates for fat. Thus they worshipped Chu-bu. He must have been there for over a hundred years when one day the priests came in with another idol into the temple of Chu-bu and set it up on a pedestal near Chu-bu’s and sang, “There is also Sheemish.” Rated PG. Contains religious iconography, as described by the 18th Lord of Dunsany. tag:odeo.com,2009-05-28,24621078 Thu, 28 May 2009 15:31:46 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24610885-PodCastle-Episode-54-The-Dreaming-Wind by Jeffrey Ford. Read by Rajan Khanna and Paul Tevis (of Have Games, Will Travel). Its name, The Dreaming Wind, was more indicative than you might at first believe. What is a dream, but a state founded enough upon the every day to be believable to the sleeping mind and yet also a place wherein anything at all might and often does happen. Tomes of wonders, testaments of melancholic horrors, wrought by the gale had been recorded, but I’ll merely recount some of the things I, myself, had been privy to in the years I’d witnessed the phenomenon. The human body seemed its favorite play thing, and in reaction to its weird catalyst I’d seen flesh turn every color in the rainbow, melt and reform into different shapes so that a head swelled to the size of a pumpkin or legs stretched to lift their owner above the house tops. Tongues split or turned to knives and eyes shot flame, swirled like pin wheels, popped, or became mirrors to reflect the thing that I’d become – once a salamander man with... by Jeffrey Ford. Read by Rajan Khanna and Paul Tevis (of Have Games, Will Travel). Its name, The Dreaming Wind, was more indicative than you might at first believe. What is a dream, but a state founded enough upon the every day to be believable to the sleeping mind and yet also a place wherein anything at all might and often does happen. Tomes of wonders, testaments of melancholic horrors, wrought by the gale had been recorded, but I’ll merely recount some of the things I, myself, had been privy to in the years I’d witnessed the phenomenon. The human body seemed its favorite play thing, and in reaction to its weird catalyst I’d seen flesh turn every color in the rainbow, melt and reform into different shapes so that a head swelled to the size of a pumpkin or legs stretched to lift their owner above the house tops. Tongues split or turned to knives and eyes shot flame, swirled like pin wheels, popped, or became mirrors to reflect the thing that I’d become – once a salamander man with Ibis head, once a bronze statue of the moon . In my wedding year, my wife Lyda’s long hair took on a mind and life of its own, tresses grabbing cups from a cupboard and smashing them upon the floor. Mayor Meersch ran down Gossin Street the year I was ten with his rear end upon his shoulders and muffled shouts issuing from the back of his trousers. Rated R. Contains some imagery that might disturb the unprepared. Also, some readers may wish to protect their children from prevailing surrealism. Due to a mix-up at PodCastle, two narrations were acquired from this story from two of our favorite narrators — Paul Tevis and Rajan Khanna. Readers are invited to listen to either, or to listen to both and compare. Enjoy! by Jeffrey Ford. Read by Rajan Khanna and Paul Tevis (of Have Games, Will Travel). Its name, The Dreaming Wind, was more indicative than you might at first believe. What is a dream, but a state founded enough upon the every day to be believable to the sleeping mind and yet also a place wherein anything at all might and often does happen. Tomes of wonders, testaments of melancholic horrors, wrought by the gale had been recorded, but I’ll merely recount some of the things I, myself, had been privy to in the years I’d witnessed the phenomenon. The human body seemed its favorite play thing, and in reaction to its weird catalyst I’d seen flesh turn every color in the rainbow, melt and reform into different shapes so that a head swelled to the size of a pumpkin or legs stretched to lift their owner above the house tops. Tongues split or turned to knives and eyes shot flame, swirled like pin wheels, popped, or became mirrors to reflect the thing that I’d become – once a salamander man with Ibis head, once a bronze statue of the moon . In my wedding year, my wife Lyda’s long hair took on a mind and life of its own, tresses grabbing cups from a cupboard and smashing them upon the floor. Mayor Meersch ran down Gossin Street the year I was ten with his rear end upon his shoulders and muffled shouts issuing from the back of his trousers. Rated R. Contains some imagery that might disturb the unprepared. Also, some readers may wish to protect their children from prevailing surrealism. Due to a mix-up at PodCastle, two narrations were acquired from this story from two of our favorite narrators — Paul Tevis and Rajan Khanna. Readers are invited to listen to either, or to listen to both and compare. Enjoy! tag:odeo.com,2009-05-26,24610885 Tue, 26 May 2009 16:34:53 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24572166-PodCastle-053-Change-of-Life by K. Tempest Bradford. Read by MA in PA. It all started because I wanted a pet. All of us younger kids did. But Mom always said that there wasn’t room for any pets cuz there were so many kids. She had a point, I guess. There were nine of us. But then David, my oldest brother, left home when he was only seventeen and a half to join the Peace Corps. Mom cried for three days straight. Dad said it was only because she was going through the Change of Life. The day after she stopped crying there was a bunny in the living room. No cage, just a bunny. I guess Dad bought him hoping it would cheer Mom up–and it did. She sat on the couch holding the bunny for hours and told us all that we had a new family member: David the bunny. Katherine, my oldest sister, said that Mom named it David out of a sense of displacement or some other big word she liked to use just because she wanted to be a psychologist or a psychiatrist or some kind of person who messes with your head. I wasn’... by K. Tempest Bradford. Read by MA in PA. It all started because I wanted a pet. All of us younger kids did. But Mom always said that there wasn’t room for any pets cuz there were so many kids. She had a point, I guess. There were nine of us. But then David, my oldest brother, left home when he was only seventeen and a half to join the Peace Corps. Mom cried for three days straight. Dad said it was only because she was going through the Change of Life. The day after she stopped crying there was a bunny in the living room. No cage, just a bunny. I guess Dad bought him hoping it would cheer Mom up–and it did. She sat on the couch holding the bunny for hours and told us all that we had a new family member: David the bunny. Katherine, my oldest sister, said that Mom named it David out of a sense of displacement or some other big word she liked to use just because she wanted to be a psychologist or a psychiatrist or some kind of person who messes with your head. I wasn’t impressed. I wanted a dog. Rated G. Contains a menagerie. Posted a day early in honor of Fen of Color United. by K. Tempest Bradford. Read by MA in PA. It all started because I wanted a pet. All of us younger kids did. But Mom always said that there wasn’t room for any pets cuz there were so many kids. She had a point, I guess. There were nine of us. But then David, my oldest brother, left home when he was only seventeen and a half to join the Peace Corps. Mom cried for three days straight. Dad said it was only because she was going through the Change of Life. The day after she stopped crying there was a bunny in the living room. No cage, just a bunny. I guess Dad bought him hoping it would cheer Mom up–and it did. She sat on the couch holding the bunny for hours and told us all that we had a new family member: David the bunny. Katherine, my oldest sister, said that Mom named it David out of a sense of displacement or some other big word she liked to use just because she wanted to be a psychologist or a psychiatrist or some kind of person who messes with your head. I wasn’t impressed. I wanted a dog. Rated G. Contains a menagerie. Posted a day early in honor of Fen of Color United. tag:odeo.com,2009-05-17,24572166 Sun, 17 May 2009 02:34:43 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated G Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24546855-PodCastle-052-The-Nalendar by Ann Leckie. Read by M. K. Hobson. “Down here!” the voice said, and she looked down at her feet, and then crouched, her dull green dress puddling behind and beside her on the gray stone. On the top of her foot was a tiny, black lizard, hardly as big as her thumb, and that only including its long, bright blue tail. “Excuse me,” she said. “I didn’t see you at first. I’m sorry, but I’m not looking for protection, or a guide.” “You are from the Silver Isles, I can tell by your accent.” “I am. And I need to be on my way, good day to you.” She gently lifted the lizard onto her finger, and moved her hand aside to let it step into the road. It stood firm. “Why are you going upstream? Your home is in the south.” Umri searched her memory for advice on being rid of a persistent god. She found none. “I like to travel.” “I suppose otherwise you’d never have come so far from home,&#... by Ann Leckie. Read by M. K. Hobson. “Down here!” the voice said, and she looked down at her feet, and then crouched, her dull green dress puddling behind and beside her on the gray stone. On the top of her foot was a tiny, black lizard, hardly as big as her thumb, and that only including its long, bright blue tail. “Excuse me,” she said. “I didn’t see you at first. I’m sorry, but I’m not looking for protection, or a guide.” “You are from the Silver Isles, I can tell by your accent.” “I am. And I need to be on my way, good day to you.” She gently lifted the lizard onto her finger, and moved her hand aside to let it step into the road. It stood firm. “Why are you going upstream? Your home is in the south.” Umri searched her memory for advice on being rid of a persistent god. She found none. “I like to travel.” “I suppose otherwise you’d never have come so far from home,” piped the tiny lizard. “Take me with you! The captain won’t charge for me.” “I’m sorry, god whose name I don’t know, but I don’t make long-term deals.” Rated PG. Contains a journey down a river (note: is not Huck Finn). by Ann Leckie. Read by M. K. Hobson. “Down here!” the voice said, and she looked down at her feet, and then crouched, her dull green dress puddling behind and beside her on the gray stone. On the top of her foot was a tiny, black lizard, hardly as big as her thumb, and that only including its long, bright blue tail. “Excuse me,” she said. “I didn’t see you at first. I’m sorry, but I’m not looking for protection, or a guide.” “You are from the Silver Isles, I can tell by your accent.” “I am. And I need to be on my way, good day to you.” She gently lifted the lizard onto her finger, and moved her hand aside to let it step into the road. It stood firm. “Why are you going upstream? Your home is in the south.” Umri searched her memory for advice on being rid of a persistent god. She found none. “I like to travel.” “I suppose otherwise you’d never have come so far from home,” piped the tiny lizard. “Take me with you! The captain won’t charge for me.” “I’m sorry, god whose name I don’t know, but I don’t make long-term deals.” Rated PG. Contains a journey down a river (note: is not Huck Finn). tag:odeo.com,2009-05-14,24546855 Thu, 14 May 2009 00:51:49 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24546857-PodCastle-Miniature-31-Down-in-the-Flood by Nisi Shawl. Read by Elizabeth Green Musselman. The gods were at it again: giggling, babbling and running back and forth through the Abode of Heaven. Echoes rattled my drums and flutes against the walls where they were hung. A cymbal crashed to the floor. “Quiet, kids!” I shouted out. “Settle down, or you’ll have to go play in the Void!” Rated PG. Contains children with the powers of gods, or Gods with the temperaments of children. Please note that The Missing Link podcast (formerly produced by Elizabeth Green Musselman) is, unfortunately, no longer running. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause. by Nisi Shawl. Read by Elizabeth Green Musselman. The gods were at it again: giggling, babbling and running back and forth through the Abode of Heaven. Echoes rattled my drums and flutes against the walls where they were hung. A cymbal crashed to the floor. “Quiet, kids!” I shouted out. “Settle down, or you’ll have to go play in the Void!” Rated PG. Contains children with the powers of gods, or Gods with the temperaments of children. Please note that The Missing Link podcast (formerly produced by Elizabeth Green Musselman) is, unfortunately, no longer running. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause. by Nisi Shawl. Read by Elizabeth Green Musselman. The gods were at it again: giggling, babbling and running back and forth through the Abode of Heaven. Echoes rattled my drums and flutes against the walls where they were hung. A cymbal crashed to the floor. “Quiet, kids!” I shouted out. “Settle down, or you’ll have to go play in the Void!” Rated PG. Contains children with the powers of gods, or Gods with the temperaments of children. Please note that The Missing Link podcast (formerly produced by Elizabeth Green Musselman) is, unfortunately, no longer running. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause. tag:odeo.com,2009-05-07,24546857 Thu, 07 May 2009 18:53:51 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24544558-PC051-The-Cambist-and-Lord-Iron by Daniel Abraham. Read by Wilson Fowlie. Born Edmund Scarasso, Lord Iron had taken his father’s title and lands and ridden them first to war, then to power, and finally to a notorious fame. His family estate outside the city was reputed to rival the king’s, but Lord Iron spent little time there. He had a house in the city with two hundred rooms arranged around a central courtyard garden in which trees bore fruits unfamiliar to the city and flowers bloomed with exotic and troubling scents. His servants were numberless as ants; his personal fortune greater than some smaller nations. And never, it was said, had such wealth, power, and influence been squandered on such a debased soul. No night passed without some new tale of Lord Iron. Ten thousand larks had been killed, their tongues harvested, and their bodies thrown aside in order that Lord Iron might have a novel hors d’oeuvre. Lord Biethan had been forced to repay his family’s debt by sending his three daug... by Daniel Abraham. Read by Wilson Fowlie. Born Edmund Scarasso, Lord Iron had taken his father’s title and lands and ridden them first to war, then to power, and finally to a notorious fame. His family estate outside the city was reputed to rival the king’s, but Lord Iron spent little time there. He had a house in the city with two hundred rooms arranged around a central courtyard garden in which trees bore fruits unfamiliar to the city and flowers bloomed with exotic and troubling scents. His servants were numberless as ants; his personal fortune greater than some smaller nations. And never, it was said, had such wealth, power, and influence been squandered on such a debased soul. No night passed without some new tale of Lord Iron. Ten thousand larks had been killed, their tongues harvested, and their bodies thrown aside in order that Lord Iron might have a novel hors d’oeuvre. Lord Biethan had been forced to repay his family’s debt by sending his three daughters to perform as Lord Iron’s creatures for a week; they had returned to their father with disturbing, languorous smiles and a rosewood cask filled with silver as “recompense for his Lordship’s overuse.” A fruit seller had the bad fortune not to recognize Lord Iron one dim, fog-bound morning, and a flippant comment earned him a whipping that left him near dead. There was no way for anyone besides Lord Iron himself to know which of the thousand stories and accusations that accreted around him were true. There was no doubt that Lord Iron was never seen wearing anything but the richest of velvets and silk. He was habitually in the company of beautiful women of negotiable virtue. He smoked the finest tobacco and other, more exotic weeds. Violence and sensuality and excess were the tissue of which his life was made. If his wealth and web of blackmail and extortion had not protected him, he would no doubt have been invited to the gallows dance years before. If he had been a hero in the war, so much the worse. And so it was, perhaps, no surprise that when his lackey and drinking companion, Lord Caton, mentioned in passing an inconvenient curiosity of the code of exchange, Lord Iron’s mind seized upon it. Among his many vices was a fondness for cruel pranks. And so it came to pass that Lord Iron and the handful of gaudy revelers who followed in his wake descended late one Tuesday morning upon the Magdalen Gate postal authority. Rated PG. Contains economic trickery that is fantastic, if not fantastical. by Daniel Abraham. Read by Wilson Fowlie. Born Edmund Scarasso, Lord Iron had taken his father’s title and lands and ridden them first to war, then to power, and finally to a notorious fame. His family estate outside the city was reputed to rival the king’s, but Lord Iron spent little time there. He had a house in the city with two hundred rooms arranged around a central courtyard garden in which trees bore fruits unfamiliar to the city and flowers bloomed with exotic and troubling scents. His servants were numberless as ants; his personal fortune greater than some smaller nations. And never, it was said, had such wealth, power, and influence been squandered on such a debased soul. No night passed without some new tale of Lord Iron. Ten thousand larks had been killed, their tongues harvested, and their bodies thrown aside in order that Lord Iron might have a novel hors d’oeuvre. Lord Biethan had been forced to repay his family’s debt by sending his three daughters to perform as Lord Iron’s creatures for a week; they had returned to their father with disturbing, languorous smiles and a rosewood cask filled with silver as “recompense for his Lordship’s overuse.” A fruit seller had the bad fortune not to recognize Lord Iron one dim, fog-bound morning, and a flippant comment earned him a whipping that left him near dead. There was no way for anyone besides Lord Iron himself to know which of the thousand stories and accusations that accreted around him were true. There was no doubt that Lord Iron was never seen wearing anything but the richest of velvets and silk. He was habitually in the company of beautiful women of negotiable virtue. He smoked the finest tobacco and other, more exotic weeds. Violence and sensuality and excess were the tissue of which his life was made. If his wealth and web of blackmail and extortion had not protected him, he would no doubt have been invited to the gallows dance years before. If he had been a hero in the war, so much the worse. And so it was, perhaps, no surprise that when his lackey and drinking companion, Lord Caton, mentioned in passing an inconvenient curiosity of the code of exchange, Lord Iron’s mind seized upon it. Among his many vices was a fondness for cruel pranks. And so it came to pass that Lord Iron and the handful of gaudy revelers who followed in his wake descended late one Tuesday morning upon the Magdalen Gate postal authority. Rated PG. Contains economic trickery that is fantastic, if not fantastical. tag:odeo.com,2009-05-06,24544558 Wed, 06 May 2009 03:47:45 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24517090-PC050-Komodo by Tim Pratt. Read by Cat Rambo. I hadn’t cultivated a new lover in many months — the last one had fulfilled all my wishes and, as he’d requested, was now living happily at the bottom of a local river, slowly decaying into the bottom-mud and learning the languages of fish and pollution. In another hundred years or so, if the river didn’t dry up entirely, he might become a minor river god. Kasan had appeared just in time. I had certain things to accomplish over the course of the next month, and the energy that came with a new lover could serve well to fuel those endeavors. “Want to come upstairs for a while, Kasan?” I asked. I’m beautiful. I’m desirable. I know how to sense when a potential partner is interested. I can say these things with no particular pride, because such powers require relatively small magics to achieve. People seldom say no to me. I never compel anyone to make love to me — such mental domination is possible, b... by Tim Pratt. Read by Cat Rambo. I hadn’t cultivated a new lover in many months — the last one had fulfilled all my wishes and, as he’d requested, was now living happily at the bottom of a local river, slowly decaying into the bottom-mud and learning the languages of fish and pollution. In another hundred years or so, if the river didn’t dry up entirely, he might become a minor river god. Kasan had appeared just in time. I had certain things to accomplish over the course of the next month, and the energy that came with a new lover could serve well to fuel those endeavors. “Want to come upstairs for a while, Kasan?” I asked. I’m beautiful. I’m desirable. I know how to sense when a potential partner is interested. I can say these things with no particular pride, because such powers require relatively small magics to achieve. People seldom say no to me. I never compel anyone to make love to me — such mental domination is possible, but it’s also essentially rape, and cannot be condoned. I entice my lovers with beauty, and bring them back again and again by giving them the best sex they’ve ever had. There’s no magic to that, just years of experience and sensitivity to the needs of my lovers. I am good at what I do. Sex is my vocation and my devotion. Rated R. Contains sexy sorceresses (explicit). by Tim Pratt. Read by Cat Rambo. I hadn’t cultivated a new lover in many months — the last one had fulfilled all my wishes and, as he’d requested, was now living happily at the bottom of a local river, slowly decaying into the bottom-mud and learning the languages of fish and pollution. In another hundred years or so, if the river didn’t dry up entirely, he might become a minor river god. Kasan had appeared just in time. I had certain things to accomplish over the course of the next month, and the energy that came with a new lover could serve well to fuel those endeavors. “Want to come upstairs for a while, Kasan?” I asked. I’m beautiful. I’m desirable. I know how to sense when a potential partner is interested. I can say these things with no particular pride, because such powers require relatively small magics to achieve. People seldom say no to me. I never compel anyone to make love to me — such mental domination is possible, but it’s also essentially rape, and cannot be condoned. I entice my lovers with beauty, and bring them back again and again by giving them the best sex they’ve ever had. There’s no magic to that, just years of experience and sensitivity to the needs of my lovers. I am good at what I do. Sex is my vocation and my devotion. Rated R. Contains sexy sorceresses (explicit). tag:odeo.com,2009-04-28,24517090 Tue, 28 Apr 2009 13:46:10 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated R Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25333075-PC049-Return-of-the-Warrior By Laird Long. Read by Alasdair Stuart (of Pseudopod). In the Province of Sull, in the Kingdom of Ronn, all seemed right with the world - the potters potted, the sculptors sculpted, the painters painted, and the scriveners did whatever their name implies. For Sull was home to the kingdom’s artisans, a colorful colony of creative cranks who used well their artistic endowments, for satisfaction of the soul, and sale. And they toiled truly and profitably. But beneath the placid, pleasant exterior of the province and the people, lay a seething resentment bubbled to near-surface boil by the erratic, practicality-impaired nature of the creative personality, and the indolence of a King who listened not to ill-formed complaints some two hundred leagues removed. A prickly current of unrest sparked and shocked the citizenry, for many held the opinion that the provincial governor, the Wizard Kadil, was in no uncertain terms fudging the books, collecting taxes beyond what the law allowed.... By Laird Long. Read by Alasdair Stuart (of Pseudopod). In the Province of Sull, in the Kingdom of Ronn, all seemed right with the world - the potters potted, the sculptors sculpted, the painters painted, and the scriveners did whatever their name implies. For Sull was home to the kingdom’s artisans, a colorful colony of creative cranks who used well their artistic endowments, for satisfaction of the soul, and sale. And they toiled truly and profitably. But beneath the placid, pleasant exterior of the province and the people, lay a seething resentment bubbled to near-surface boil by the erratic, practicality-impaired nature of the creative personality, and the indolence of a King who listened not to ill-formed complaints some two hundred leagues removed. A prickly current of unrest sparked and shocked the citizenry, for many held the opinion that the provincial governor, the Wizard Kadil, was in no uncertain terms fudging the books, collecting taxes beyond what the law allowed. And though the people of Sull claimed to be moved primarily by muse, so, too, were they moved by a love of the good, old, gold stuff. Rated PG. Contains the inevitability that all we Americans had to deal with scant days ago. By Laird Long. Read by Alasdair Stuart (of Pseudopod). In the Province of Sull, in the Kingdom of Ronn, all seemed right with the world - the potters potted, the sculptors sculpted, the painters painted, and the scriveners did whatever their name implies. For Sull was home to the kingdom’s artisans, a colorful colony of creative cranks who used well their artistic endowments, for satisfaction of the soul, and sale. And they toiled truly and profitably. But beneath the placid, pleasant exterior of the province and the people, lay a seething resentment bubbled to near-surface boil by the erratic, practicality-impaired nature of the creative personality, and the indolence of a King who listened not to ill-formed complaints some two hundred leagues removed. A prickly current of unrest sparked and shocked the citizenry, for many held the opinion that the provincial governor, the Wizard Kadil, was in no uncertain terms fudging the books, collecting taxes beyond what the law allowed. And though the people of Sull claimed to be moved primarily by muse, so, too, were they moved by a love of the good, old, gold stuff. Rated PG. Contains the inevitability that all we Americans had to deal with scant days ago. tag:odeo.com,2009-04-21,25333075 Tue, 21 Apr 2009 02:47:35 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/24478182-PC049-Return-of-the-Warrior By Laird Long. Read by Alasdair Stuart (of Pseudopod). In the Province of Sull, in the Kingdom of Ronn, all seemed right with the world - the potters potted, the sculptors sculpted, the painters painted, and the scriveners did whatever their name implies. For Sull was home to the kingdom’s artisans, a colorful colony of creative cranks who used well their artistic endowments, for satisfaction of the soul, and sale. And they toiled truly and profitably. But beneath the placid, pleasant exterior of the province and the people, lay a seething resentment bubbled to near-surface boil by the erratic, practicality-impaired nature of the creative personality, and the indolence of a King who listened not to ill-formed complaints some two hundred leagues removed. A prickly current of unrest sparked and shocked the citizenry, for many held the opinion that the provincial governor, the Wizard Kadil, was in no uncertain terms fudging the books, collecting taxes beyond what the law allowed.... By Laird Long. Read by Alasdair Stuart (of Pseudopod). In the Province of Sull, in the Kingdom of Ronn, all seemed right with the world - the potters potted, the sculptors sculpted, the painters painted, and the scriveners did whatever their name implies. For Sull was home to the kingdom’s artisans, a colorful colony of creative cranks who used well their artistic endowments, for satisfaction of the soul, and sale. And they toiled truly and profitably. But beneath the placid, pleasant exterior of the province and the people, lay a seething resentment bubbled to near-surface boil by the erratic, practicality-impaired nature of the creative personality, and the indolence of a King who listened not to ill-formed complaints some two hundred leagues removed. A prickly current of unrest sparked and shocked the citizenry, for many held the opinion that the provincial governor, the Wizard Kadil, was in no uncertain terms fudging the books, collecting taxes beyond what the law allowed. And though the people of Sull claimed to be moved primarily by muse, so, too, were they moved by a love of the good, old, gold stuff. Rated PG. Contains the inevitability that all we Americans had to deal with scant days ago. By Laird Long. Read by Alasdair Stuart (of Pseudopod). In the Province of Sull, in the Kingdom of Ronn, all seemed right with the world - the potters potted, the sculptors sculpted, the painters painted, and the scriveners did whatever their name implies. For Sull was home to the kingdom’s artisans, a colorful colony of creative cranks who used well their artistic endowments, for satisfaction of the soul, and sale. And they toiled truly and profitably. But beneath the placid, pleasant exterior of the province and the people, lay a seething resentment bubbled to near-surface boil by the erratic, practicality-impaired nature of the creative personality, and the indolence of a King who listened not to ill-formed complaints some two hundred leagues removed. A prickly current of unrest sparked and shocked the citizenry, for many held the opinion that the provincial governor, the Wizard Kadil, was in no uncertain terms fudging the books, collecting taxes beyond what the law allowed. And though the people of Sull claimed to be moved primarily by muse, so, too, were they moved by a love of the good, old, gold stuff. Rated PG. Contains the inevitability that all we Americans had to deal with scant days ago. tag:odeo.com,2009-04-21,24478182 Tue, 21 Apr 2009 01:47:35 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction http://odeo.com/episodes/25333076-PodCastle-Miniature-30-Rotations-and-Consequences by Katherine Sparrow. Read by Rachel Swirsky. Dear people of the world, Here is something that happened that you should really know about. That you need to know about. I know because I saw it. There was a woman who walked into her backyard. The grass beneath her bare feet was wet and cold, but she knelt and lay down upon it with her palms pressed into the ground and her legs spread wide. She touched as much of it as her finite body was able to. In her fenced- in yard, in the subdivision of her suburb, underneath the faint stars, she closed her eyes. I saw her. Rated PG. Contains flight. by Katherine Sparrow. Read by Rachel Swirsky. Dear people of the world, Here is something that happened that you should really know about. That you need to know about. I know because I saw it. There was a woman who walked into her backyard. The grass beneath her bare feet was wet and cold, but she knelt and lay down upon it with her palms pressed into the ground and her legs spread wide. She touched as much of it as her finite body was able to. In her fenced- in yard, in the subdivision of her suburb, underneath the faint stars, she closed her eyes. I saw her. Rated PG. Contains flight. by Katherine Sparrow. Read by Rachel Swirsky. Dear people of the world, Here is something that happened that you should really know about. That you need to know about. I know because I saw it. There was a woman who walked into her backyard. The grass beneath her bare feet was wet and cold, but she knelt and lay down upon it with her palms pressed into the ground and her legs spread wide. She touched as much of it as her finite body was able to. In her fenced- in yard, in the subdivision of her suburb, underneath the faint stars, she closed her eyes. I saw her. Rated PG. Contains flight. tag:odeo.com,2009-04-16,25333076 Thu, 16 Apr 2009 15:45:32 -0700 no PodCastle podcasts, Rated PG, Miniatures Fiction audiobook stories storytelling fantasy fantasy stories fiction fantasy fiction