The Twa Corbies

by Marie Brennan

In all the fairy stories, when the hero is magically gifted with an understanding of the speech of birds, it actually does him some good.  A robin brings him a message from his true love, or a bluebird tells him about buried treasure, or a starling warns him of a traitor among his companions.  It doesn’t really work that way, though — not in real life.  Birds mostly talk about seeds and worms and the breeze and nest-building and the state of their eggs.  I should know; I’ve been listening to them for seven years.

In all that time, they’ve only ever said one thing that interested me, and that one almost got me killed.

On Bookstores, Burners, and Origami

by Jason D. Wittman

Hitomi waited on the sidewalk, uncomfortably aware of the police dirigibles hovering overhead.  Their hulking mass was made even more ominous by the glare of their searchlights, fueled by kerosene, panning back and forth along the streets.  A constant hiss of steam emanated from their engines, softer now that they were idling, but all the more menacing for that.

It was a chill autumn morning, and Hitomi’s breath misted in the air, colored orange by the sun peeking over the Minneapolis cityscape to the east.  Likewise colored orange were the smoke and steam rising from the bookstore across the street — the bookstore where Hitomi worked.  The store had been broken into last night and set afire.  As far as anyone could tell, no money or merchandise had been stolen.  This was all in accordance with the modus operandi of the Burners.

Superhero Girl

by Jei D. Marcade

Ofelia was a superhero.  She told me so without reserve.  “It’s safe for me to tell you,” she said.  “I can sense you’re not a villain.  Besides, it would be unfair to keep it from you.  It won’t be easy, you know, being involved with a superhero girl.”

It did take some getting used to.  She received her mission briefings in birdsong, in radio static, encoded in every third word backwards from a breaking news bulletin on the televisions in a specific store window.  She saw battle plans drawn out for her in cloud patterns, coffee cup rings, the movement of players on a soccer field.  During these moments she would stand frozen in mid-motion, her head cocked to the side, listening intently.  Then she would drop—literally drop—whatever she was doing and dash away, calling apologies over her shoulder.

The Tinyman and Caroline

by Sarah L. Edwards

The Small Door

by Holly Phillips

Neither knew what the Weirdo did with his captives, but it was hard to think of a possibility that wasn’t horrible. Not when you saw that figure, with its thatched gray hair, lumpy shoulders and white hands as big as baseball gloves, carry some hapless creature into the house with the broken drainpipes and curtained windows. Even cooking and eating seemed too simple, too close to human.

“Sal,” Macey said, “we’ve got to find out.”

“You keep saying that.” Sal picked fuzzies off the bedspread, her mind drifting to the fair’s candy-bright commotion.

“But now I have a plan.”

By Greg Van Eekhout.

Narrated by David Michel.

So there was Orange John near the war fountain in his oversized orange suit and Bozo hair, knotting himself up a real nice stegosaurus, when up came the young balloon man. He was a skinny boy in a black T-shirt, rainbow vest, and jeans painted like all the sample chips in a paint store. His limp balloons hung from his waistband like little tongues, and he stopped a dozen or so yards away from Orange John.

“Jack Many-Colors,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat.

“Orange John,” said Orange John, with a squint and a nod.

And so it began.

Rated PG. For Carnie Language and Balloon Violence

by Tanith Lee.
Read by Rajan Khanna.

Excerpt not included this week. You’ll just have to listen!

Rated PG. for revisionist “history.”

Bonus: If you enjoyed this week’s Tanith Lee story, you might want to go check out Fantasy Magazine’s audio version of “Clockatrice” by Tanith Lee, read by perennial PodCastle favorite M. K. Hobson. Enjoy!