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PodCastle 311: La Madre Del Oro

Show Notes

Rated R: Contains six-shooters, monsters, and lots of blood.


La Madre Del Oro

by Jeffrey Ford

“I been instructed by the honorable Sheriff Fountain to deputize you gentlemen for a government posse with the mission of apprehending George Slatten, a.k.a. Bastard George, in connection with the commission of murder in the first degree and the heinous act of cannibalism. You will be given four dollars a day, to be paid in full upon the capture of the guilty party. If we return without him, you will be paid two dollars a day. Anyone who shoots him dead will receive a bonus from me personally of an extra dollar. Gentlemen, I’ll make it clear now, I aim to kill the Bastard. We’re gonna gun this dog down and get back here as soon as possible with the body. You with me?”

We nodded.

“Good, then meet me at the stable at dusk and we’ll saddle up and head out. Be prepared to be gone for about four days, I figure. Any supplies you might need, ammunition, a blanket, whatever, head on over to Malprop’s store across the street. The governor of the Territory, Mr. David Meriwether, personally wants this dog done away with, and he’s willing to pay the bill. He’s got some relation to Miss Gates, I believe I’ve heard. So stock up, within reason. We’ll travel tonight into the Jornada. I hope you like the heat.”

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PodCastle 310: When the Lady Speaks

Show Notes

Rated PG


When the Lady Speaks

by Damien Angelica Walters

Marina locks the door, twists the blinds shut, and heads back through the beaded curtain, parting it with both hands so the strands don’t get tangled in her wig. Leaving the lights dimmed, she sinks down into her chair, as if her entire body holds the weight of what is yet unknown and unspoken.

The walls of what she calls the parlor are a dusky red, cluttered with
mirrors and tiny shelves with dragons and gargoyles and crystals. The table is a simple thing, but covered with several heavy tablecloths, all with tassels hanging from the corners. She found the chairs at a thrift store—the dark wood and velvet cushions from another time. A Turkish rug, another thrift store find, covers the floor completely. Every bit of fabric holds a trace of the incense she burns every morning before her clients arrive, a potent blend of frankincense and musk. But not too much; she isn’t a church and absolution doesn’t come in a deck of cards or a mouthful of evocative words.

She peels the fingerless gloves from her hands. Drops them on the
table with a weary sigh. In the center of her left palm, the tip of a
red thread pokes from the skin like a tiny drop of dried blood. When
she touches the thread, she smells the tang of oranges, tastes honey
on her tongue; both small gifts from the magic. She takes a quick
breath before she pulls the thread free. There’s a sharp bite of pain,
like the last little sting of a scab tugged from a wound. Not a gift, but a price to be paid.

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PodCastle 309: Underbridge

Show Notes

Rated R. Contains Trolls, and Adult Themes


Underbridge

by Peter S. Beagle

The legendary rain of the Pacific Northwest was not an issue; if anything, he discovered that he enjoyed it. Having studied the data on Seattle climate carefully, once he knew he was going there, he understood that many areas of both coasts get notably more rain, in terms of inches, and endure distinctly colder winters. And the year-round greenness and lack of air pollution more than made up for the mildew, as far as Richardson was concerned. Damp or not, it beat Joplin. Or Hobbs, New Mexico. Or Enterprise, Alabama.

What the greenness did not make up for was the near-perpetual overcast. Seattle’s sky was dazzlingly, exaltingly, shockingly blue when it chose to be so; but there was a reason that the city consumed more than its share of vitamin D, and was the first marketplace for various full-spectrum lightbulbs. Seattle introduced Richardson to an entirely new understanding of the word overcast, sometimes going two months and more without seeing either clear skies or an honest raindrop. He had not been prepared for this.

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PodCastle 308: Gazing into the Carnauba Wax Eyes of the Future

Show Notes

Rated R. Contains F-bombs, Eating Disorders, and Peeps.


Gazing into the Carnauba Wax Eyes of the Future

by Keffy R.M. Kehrli

My legs are tired from crouching, so I slide the empty backpack under my knees. Boxes and cellophane crinkle. Even though I’ve touched the wall, I try to shove my finger down my throat, but that just gives me a gag reflex with no payoff.

“Come on,” I mutter into the toilet bowl. The “clean” water ripples from my breath. “All I need are six numbers.”

The peeps finally come back up of their own accord, a flood of sweet foam that forms swirling pastel pink-yellow-blue mounds, floating islands of partially digested sugar studded over with flecks of pep eyeballs.

And then I’m standing at a track, with a wad of worthless receipts in my hand. The races are long over. There’s some guy sweeping under the seats, not looking me in the face.

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PodCastle 307: Out of the Deep Have I Howled Unto Thee


Out of the Deep Have I Howled Unto Thee

by Scott M. Roberts

The wolf growled in his lungs, and Clark felt a bit of its frustration pass over his lips.  Fifteen minutes to dawn.  His fingers trembled as he worked the transmission into place.

And then, he was done.

Too soon!  He realized it, and so the wolf realized it too, and he could feel it stretching within him, its claws scraping the skin beneath his fingernails.  Clark hunted for something to tighten, something to adjust, some bit of grease to wipe away.  His fingers tumbled along the skin of the motorcycle while his eyes hunted the corners of the garage.  Something to catch his mind, something to distract him…  There were the shadows scattered throughout the garage, the gleam of his tools in the overhead brights.  And the red of his toolbox, red as blood, as red as a predator’s tongue…

The wolf scrambled in his throat; his prayer came out guttural.  De profundis, Clark thought.  Out of the deep have I howled unto thee, O Lord.

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PodCastle 306: Flash Fiction Special – Tales of Strange Inspiration

Show Notes

Rated R. It May be Beautiful, but it ain’t Always Pretty.


Flash Fiction Special – Tales of Strange Inspiration

“Beauty and Disappearance, by Kat Howard, read by Ann Leckie.

Originally published in Weird Tales, 2010.

The statues were disappearing from the museums.

Not as a result of theft, petty or otherwise, nor from careless misplacement. This was quite clear, as soon as the disappearances began, because the statues were not disappearing in their entirely. Rather, only certain pieces were lost.

The open hand of an elegant marble woman, outstretched as if in welcome, gone. The laurel wreath and lyre of an ancient poet, vanished.

Art experts and detectives were called in, inquiries made, vandalism quickly ruled out. The statues were otherwise undamaged. There were simply pieces, small fragments of beauty, missing.

“A Duet in Reyes,” by Caleb Wilson, read by John Michnya.

Originally published in A Journal of Sein and Werden.

One Saturday evening around the turn of the century the composer Arnauld Reyes was walking home along Vi Tuba when a tentacle of wind licked his hat straight off his head and over the rail into the Magoro River. He watched the hat sink as the current whisked it south, and then decided that since his route home was through the market square he would purchase a new hat on the way. At the market, he browsed several hatter’s kiosks until he found a hat which was identical to the lost one, but for a dark red velvet band–which, he hoped, would set him apart from the crowd. He bought it, placed it directly on his head, and continued home. He did not notice that, as he walked, several dozen powdery pink moths emerged from beneath the band and crawled into his ears.

While Reyes slept that night, the moths chewed his brain, severing certain synaptic connections. When he awoke, his brain had been split into two separate minds. At first the composers noticed nothing amiss. They breakfasted–during which their housekeeper was either very attentive or strangely shy–and walked to Zarbigny Park, where they intended to work on a suite of rustic dances.

“Ten Cigars,” by C.S.E. Cooney, read by Anna Schwind, Graeme Dunlop, Amal El-Mohtar, Norm Sherman, Tina Connolly, Ann Leckie, M.K. Hobson, Dave Thompson, Wilson Fowlie, and Peter Wood.

Originally published in Strange Horizons, 2013. Read it here!

“Not much is known of Danaus Incendiarius, family Nymphaidae, order Lepidoptera,” writes popular entomologist Aurora Bismarck. “Mentions crop up through history, usually signifying the birth of a great statesman or the ratification of a peace treaty. They are dark gray, with a wingspan of six to eight inches, and black markings that look like roses in bloom. Once, on vacation in Edinburgh, I was privileged to see a swarm. Director Amy Riedel had just won Audience Choice Award at the film festival. Her friends were laughing, passing around champagne and cigars. Suddenly the room was full of rare Incendiarius butterflies . . . .

 

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PodCastle 305: Heartless


Heartless

by Peadar Ó Guilín

“No one asks for death.” This was the proud boast of the city of Kalegwyn. “No one ever asks for it.” Until Malern did. A bad move for her, as it turned out. She awoke on Castellan Garvinger’s operating table with his favourite surgeon elbow-deep in her chest.

“This is going to hurt,” said Garvinger from somewhere in the background. “Scream all you want.”

And she did. She couldn’t help herself, although she knew her cries were being conveyed magically to the people in the plaza beyond.

She screamed until something seemed to snap in her throat, and after that the best she could manage was a wheezing, bubbling sound that carried no hint of her former insolence.

The surgeon kept working, ripping and tearing. He made sure she could see everything. They had pointed a mirror at her chest and had pinned her eyes open.

Swinging from the roof hung a cage with Garvinger’s window witch inside. The creature babbled spells to keep Malern alive and conscious throughout the whole operation. Malern could not see its mad, warty little face, but now and again, cool drops of its sweat fell onto her fevered skin.

“Remember,” Garvinger told her, “you don’t have to die. You can be a witch instead.”

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PodCastle 304: Titanic!

Show Notes

Rated R. Contains violence.


Titanic!

by Lavie Tidhar

10 April 1912

When I come on board the ship I pay little heed to her splendour; nor to the gaily–strewn lines of coloured electric lights, nor to the polished brass of the crew’s jacket uniforms, nor to the crowds at the dock in Southampton, waving handkerchiefs and pushing and shoving for a better look; nor to my fellow passengers. I keep my eyes open only for signs of pursuit; specifically, for signs of the Law.

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PodCastle 303: The Wrong Foot

Show Notes

Rated PG


The Wrong Foot

by Stephanie Burgis

“You must know,” I began, “I’m not the girl you’re looking for.”
“Mm-hmm,” the prince murmured absently. “Very honored, yes, I understand, they all are. You needn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t,” I muttered.
The other man bit back a grin.
“Shhh!” Mama hissed. “Your Highness, may I offer you and your friend any–oh! Oh!” she squealed, raising both hands to her mouth. Her eyes misted over with tears of delight. “Oh, Sophia, it fits! It really fits!”
I stared. I blinked and stared again. But she was right. The glass molded to my foot as neatly–and as chillingly, for glass is a cold material–as if it had been made for me.
I regarded it as I would a poisonous plant that had thrown its tendrils through my bedroom window. The prince looked equally shocked, but more surprised than horrified. He stared at my foot. He wiggled the shoe. Nothing he did made any difference. The fit was absolutely perfect.
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PodCastle 302: Feed Me the Bones of Our Saints

Show Notes

Rated R. Contains foxes and violence. Revolutions are rarely bloodless.


Feed Me the Bones of Our Saints

by Alex Dally MacFarlane

Jump up! Take arms! Bare teeth!

We fight for these sands.

Sink iron knives and white teeth into their scented flesh, their soft city flesh, those stealers of our homes. This is our city now, this desert with its winds that scour our cheeks, its dunes that join us in song, its rare springs that we lap at so gently. We once gulped rivers of rubies and pearls; now they do and we will never be able to claim them back. We will not let them take this final city of air and graveyards from us! Jump up!

We fight for these sands with everything we have and sometimes we forget the feel of a sister’s shoulder beneath our heads, we’ve been so long without sleep–but today will be remembered for more than this.

Today we retrieve the bodies of our Saints.