Archive for Rated PG

PC 470: The Thirty-Seven Faces of Tokh-Bathon

Show Notes

Rated PG.


The Thirty-Seven Faces of Tokh-Bathon

by Effie Seiberg

I’ve counted eleven thousand, six hundred and fifty-two tiny soldiers carved in marble relief on the outer walls that ring the temple, though I’ve only named seventeen of them. Each one has a pointed headpiece, a carved cloth sampot, and at least one weapon. In preparation for the Reason Ritual I must polish them all, Baaun Oupom had said, and I cannot afford to anger him again.

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PodCastle 461, ARTEMIS RISING: Fated Ink


Fated Ink

by Siobhan Gallegher

The front door goes ding-a-ling and in walks a young woman, with bouncing blonde curls, bright blue eyes, blemish-free skin. The picture of perfection, some would say.

But I know better. I’ve seen girls like her, and I’ll see a million more, all optimistic hope-filled bags of flesh. Then they come to me and that changes everything.

The young woman points to the sign in the window, says something about wanting a tattoo above the crack of her little ass. Charming.

PodCastle 459, ARTEMIS RISING: Ice Bar


Ice Bar

by Petra Kuppers

She emerged into the bright sunshine, some daynight after. She looked up to the sky, some daynight after. The sun looked different, somehow, not doubled, exactly, but there was a too-muchness in the air. And a new color to the shadows on the ground. The shadows were smaller, unfamiliar.

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PodCastle 458, ARTEMIS RISING: Home is a House That Loves You

Show Notes

Welcome back to Artemis Rising 3!


Home is a House That Loves You

by Rachael K. Jones

Before the war with Apsides, I wanted to be like my Aunt Martha, who at the age of forty five stepped into an abandoned lot near Aurora’s city center, buried her toes in dirt, stretched up her arms, and became a skyscraper. Her legs were steel girders, earthquake-strong, her fingers long iron spires that caught pigeons and kites. Aunt Martha, 101 floors tall, sides aglitter with splendid floor-to-ceiling windows, family’s pride, city’s pride. When I was sixteen, I’d race up her stairwells whenever we visited, trailing fingers along her textured oak banisters up through offices and ballrooms and apartments of Martha’s design that hummed like beehives and smelled of Sumatran coffee. Martha would creak and shift and whisper back, and I knew she remembered me.

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