Hey everyone! People have been asking us if any of the stories we ran over the last year-ish are are eligible for awards. And in fact, several of them are! Thanks for listening, and happy voting!

Short Story:

To Follow the Waves, by Amal El-Mohtar, read by Marguerite Croft, originally published in Steam-Powered: Lesbian Steampunk Stories

The Bear in the Cable-Knit Sweater, by Robert T. Jeschonek, read by Cheyenne Wright, A PodCastle Original

After October, by Ben Burgis, read by Eric Luke, originally published in Giganotosaurus

The Landholders No Longer Carry Swords, by Patricia Russo, read by Ann Leckie, originally published in Giganotosaurus

The Paper Menagerie, by Ken Liu, read by Rajan Khanna, originally published in the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction

We Were Wonder Scouts, by Will Ludwigsen, read by Chris Reynaga, originally published in Asimov’s.

Still Small Voice, by Ben Burgis, read by David Rees-Thomas, A PodCastle Original

起狮，行礼 (Rising Lion—The Lion Bows), by Zen Cho, read by Tracey Yuen. Originally published in Strange Horizons.

Black Swan, White Swan, by Eugie Foster, read by Abra Staffin-Wiebe, originally published in End of an Aeon anthology.

This Strange Way of Dying,  by Silvia Moreno Garcia, read by Marguerite Croft. Originally published in Giganotosaurus

Ties of Silver, by James L. Sutter, read by V.O. Bloodfrost, originally published in the Beast Within 2: Predators and Prey anthology.

The Ghost of Christmas Possible, by Tim Pratt & Heather Shaw, read by Ian Stuart. A PodCastle Original!

A Window, Clear as a Mirror, by Ferrett Steinmetz, read by Rish Outfield. Originally published in Shimmer

Fruit Jar Drinkin’, Cheatin’ Heart Blues, by Patty Templeton, originally published in Steam Powered II

Their Changing Bodies, by Alaya Dawn Johnson, originally published in Subterranean Online (Next week’s episode!)

As a Novellete:

Balfour and Meriwether in The Vampire of Kabul, by Daniel Abraham, read by Paul S. Jenkins. Originally published in Subterranean Online

by Patty Templeton.
Read by M.K. Hobson.
Originally appeared in SteamPowered II: More Lesbian Steampunk Stories

Cazy Tipple and Balma Walker were the two finest bootleggers for a god-step or more. The only two that lived in the Rotgut, instead of on its edge.

But this time, Cazy’d done enough wrong for Balma to prop the grudge on a pulpit and preach.

Rated R for profanity, violence.

by Lord Dunsany

Read by Steve Anderson

I had said: “I will see Andelsprutz arrogant with her beauty,” and I had said: “I will see her weeping over her conquest.”

I had said: “She will sing songs to me,” and “she will be reticent,” “she will be all robed,” and “she will be bare but splendid.”

But the windows of Andelsprutz in her houses looked vacantly over the plains like the eyes of a dead madman. At the hour her chimes sounded unlovely and discordant, some of them were out of tune, and the bells of some were cracked, her roofs were bald and without moss. At evening no pleasant rumour arose in her streets. When the lamps were lit in the houses no mystical flood of light stole out into the dusk, you merely saw that there were lighted lamps; Andelsprutz had no way with her and no air about her. When the night fell and the blinds were all drawn down, then I perceived what I had not thought in the daylight. I knew then that Andelsprutz was dead.

Rated PG.

by Willow Fagan.
Read by MarBelle of the Director’s Notes blog, audio and video podcast.
Originally appeared in Fantasy Magazine. Read the text there.

Mister Bumblethorn slept through the morning, as he usually did,
rising from his dry-as-dust bathtub just after noon. He stood in the
weak light of the shaded window, his massive blue coat rumpled but
still imposing. He did not even remember getting into the bathtub the
night before, much less falling asleep in it. He yawned and shook out
his arms. An antelope or a gazelle, tiny as a beetle, tumbled out of
his coat sleeve and splatted on the floor below. Mister Bumblethorn
studiously ignored this.

Mister Bumblethorn sighed heavily. Into the blank space of his empty
stomach, memories began to flow like saliva. Once, adoring folk had
thrust gifts of cheese and honeycakes at him wherever he walked:
through the streets of grand Abadore, through the humble thoroughfares
of nameless hamlets. Fingers shaking, Mister Bumblethorn rolled
himself a fat spliff of redleaf. No matter how little the peasants
had, they shared their suppers with him and refused any offer of
payment. Damn it, light already. After all, he was–Ah, there it
was, that sweet smoke filling his mouth, translating the stream of
memories into a language as meaningless to him as the clicking prayers
of the insectile priests in their hive temple on Wingcleft Avenue, his
old life grown as insubstantial as their flowery incense, drifting
away in the wind.

Rated R for graphic violence, drug use.

by Daniel Abraham.
Read by Paul S. Jenkins of the Skepticule podcast.
Originally appeared in Subterranean Online. Read the text there.

It was the third of December in 188-, and snow swirled down grey and damp upon the cobblestones of London. Meriwether paced before the wide window of the King Street flat impatiently. Balfour sat before the roaring fire, correcting a draft monograph he had written on the subject of Asiatic hand combat as adapted to the English frame.

“I cannot understand how you can be so devilishly placid,” Meriwether said at last.

“Every winter it’s the same,” Meriwether said, gesturing at the falling snow. “The darkness comes earlier, the cold drives men from the roads, and I have this…stirring. This unutterable restlessness. The winter traps me, my friend. It holds me captive.”

Rated R for violence.

by Ferret Steinmetz.
Read by Rish Outfield, of the Dunesteef Audio Fiction Magazine.
Originally appeared in Shimmer.

Malcolm Gebrowski returned from his job at the stamp factory to discover his
wife had left him for a magic portal. He stared numbly at the linoleum
floor of his apartment’s walk-in kitchen, all scuffed up with hoofprints,
the smell of lilacs gradually being overpowered by the mildewy stink of the
paper plant next door. All that was left of eight years of marriage was a
scribbled note on the back of the telephone bill.

Guess what? A magic portal opened.

Rated R for profanity, sex.

by Donna Glee Williams.
Read by Tisch Parmelee (of the Watch your Language Podcast).
Originally appeared in Strange Horizons. Read the text here.

When did Len first see how far the path would take her son? No Far Walker had been born in Home Village for many years. But everyone knew Shreve Far Walker, from Third Village Down, who often passed through as she carried loads between High and Low. When nightfall caught her near Home Village, she would stay over, taking dinner and giving back news. She wasn’t by nature a talkative person, but she understood the duties of a guest. Len would crowd with the others to hear Shreve’s account of the Far Villages.

There would be a jaunt proposed, a clamor of assent, and a rush like a group of startled goats when Cam and his friends hurried off. No packing or planning was needed as they carried no real loads and it was understood that they would stay in whatever village they were closest to when night fell. Families who housed a youth from another village tonight knew that their own children would find food and a pallet where they needed it tomorrow, and the balance would be kept.

Rated PG.

by Tim Pratt and Heather Shaw.
Read by Ian Stuart.
A PodCastle Original!

I was asleep: to begin with.

He was a frightened old man, and I was acquainted with such; I had met the terrified, the dread-filled, and the desperate over and over during my researches into the occult.

Rated PG.

Dave and Anna (um, Anna? ANNA?!?! Where’d you go?) talk about Tim Pratt’s new book Briarpatch! If you’re looking to get that special someone (or yourself) something for the holidays, look no further!

by James L. Sutter.
Read by V.O.  Bloodfrost (Follow him on Twitter: @Vbloodfrost).
Originally appeared in Beast Within 2: Predator & Prey

Harris always found me when I was at my worst. Not that it was particularly difficult — the way I figured it, I’d been at my worst for going on three years, and if there was reason to expect a change, nobody had clued me in.

In this case, I was sleeping off an evening of hard drinking and harder words, the latter contributing to the egg-sized knot on the back of my head. Turned out folks in the skin bars didn’t take kindly to a fur running his mouth, blueskin or otherwise. There was no way to tell how much of my headache had come from the bruise, and how much had been the brew.

Still, I was at my desk when Harris arrived. I may have been half-drunk, worked over, and counting each heartbeat as it lanced through the back of my skull, but I was no deadbeat.

“Jesus, Terry,” he said. “You look like hell.”

“At least I have an excuse,” I replied. “What’s yours? And don’t call me that.”

“It’s still a free city. I can get thrown out of any bar I want.”

Rated R for some strong language and violence.