Archive for Miniatures

PodCastle Miniature 76: Quiet Death Machines


Quiet Death Machines

by Gillian Daniels

The evil boy genius lives in a lighthouse with his handsome older brothers. They are loud and aggressively kind. He is neither. Instead, the evil boy genius wants to very softly destroy the world with quiet death machines. He edges knives in cork and skewers stuffed bears on meat hooks.

PodCastle Miniature 75: Doctor Diablo Goes Through The Motions

Show Notes

Rated R for language and hostility


Doctor Diablo Goes Through The Motions

by Saladin Ahmed

So here I am again, sitting at a twelve-person steel table, going through the motions. The Society of Supercriminals’ new headquarters is impressive but not comfortable. You’d think that Overlord, with his ill-gotten dictator-industrialist billions, could afford some padding for these damn chairs. But as my Tío Cesar would say, assholes never shit flowers.

 

PodCastle Miniature 71: We Clever Jacks

Show Notes

Rated PG: Contains Pumpkins

Read by Marshal Latham, of the Journey Into…Podcast! (Check out the rules for the Edgar Allan Poe Writing Contest)


We Clever Jacks

By Greg van Eekhout

We all started introducing ourselves.

Laughing Jack.

Shrieking Jack.

Happy Jack.

Wailing Jack.

Screaming Munsch Jack.

All the neighborhood Jacks. We are such good Jacks, we Jacks.

“This year we’re not putting up with any of that stuff our patch fathers have always put up with,” says Grimacing Jack. “No smashing in the gutter, no tossing in the street. No blowing up with firecrackers. No being ignored into November, sagging and settling and getting mottled black and furry. No way, my Jacks. This year we’re gonna make it the Year of the Jacks.”

We love our Grimacing Jack.

PodCastle Miniature 69: Wolves

Show Notes

Translated by Bernardo Fernandez.

Rated R: Contains some Violence and Adult Themes


Wolves

by José Luis Zárate

The wolves came at twilight, melted into the shadows. At first we thought they were mist coming down from the mountains—it was impossible to think that there were millions of white bodies, thousands of creatures sliding down the snow. Their voices convinced us it was them, their long, sad howls, the occasional growling and fights among them. We’ve never seen such a herd. It’s impossible to gather one on these lands. The wolves we know around here are solitary ferocious animals, always stealthy. We’ve never seen them trot into a village. They don’t run away from men out of fear, their temperament demands that they always hide—all carnivores are furtive. Once in a while they steal a sheep, a deer, some child left in the woods that surrounds us.