Happy Valentine’s Day from PodCastle!

Long time listeners may remember that about a year and a half ago, PodCastle published Daniel Abraham’s “The Curandero and the Swede: A Tale from the 1001 American Nights.” Unfortunately, there were some technical difficulties, and the sound quality was extremely poor. We’d hoped to get back together with Kip Manley, who originally recorded it, but that never worked out. However, with Mr. Abraham’s blessing, we’ve re-recorded his fantastic story for all of you, and are happy to bring it to you this Valentine’s Day.

We’ve both replaced the original file, and put the new recording up in this post for your convenience. Enjoy!

ETA: Well, this is humiliating. It turns out that there were some blips – repeated lines, etc. in the narration. If you haven’t listened yet, you should probably late until the corrected version gets posted. Apologies to everyone, especially to Mr. Abraham. We’ll have it fixed as soon as possible.

ETA 2: Thanks to everyone for your patience. The audio has been corrected.

Hurt Me

by M.L.N. Hanover

“It’s a good, solid house,” he said, nodding as a trick to make her nod along with him.

“It is,” she said.  “The price seems low.”

“Motivated seller,” he said with a wink.

“By what?”  She opened and closed the kitchen cabinets.

“Excuse me?”

“Motivated by what?” she said.

“Well, you know how it is,” he said, grinning.  “Kids grow up, move on.  Families change.  A place maybe fits in one part of your life, and then you move on.”

She smiled as if he’d said something funny.

“I don’t know, actually,” she said.  “The seller moved out because she got tired of the place?”

The realtor shrugged expansively, his mental gears whirring.  The question felt like a trap.  He wondered how much the woman had heard about the house.  He couldn’t afford to get caught in an outright lie.

California King

by Michael J. Jasper and Greg van Eekhout

Our hero, a scrawny, bristle-haired man, softly sings a song he wrote when he was fifteen as he gives himself a new tattoo. He no longer remembers the verses, but the chorus goes something like: “Nyah-nyah, fuck-fuck, I’m the king, nyah-nyah, fuck-fuck.” Even after all these years, he finds the hook sort of catchy. His raspy tenor smoothes and deepens as he embeds dozens of carefully-spaced puncture wounds into his skinny right arm with his long, sharp knife, stealing the voice of the unconscious man upon whom he sits.

This will not be a big tattoo, we realize, for the real estate on our hero’s right arm has become quite crowded. Someday soon he’ll have to move on to his unmarked left. As he rubs a hanky soaked with berry dye and coal dust into the bloody dots, we watch a thin line of red trickle from the mouth of the motionless, waxy-skinned man beneath him. We see the scuffs and the ruined soles of our hero’s black boots, so recently applied against the skull of the man under him. But what we cannot see is what his tattoo will be. At least not yet.

We call this man, our hero, the California King.