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PC Miniature 39: Carnival Park


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

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PC 074: The Firemen’s Fairy


by Sandra McDonald.
Read by David O. Engelstad.

“I present to you the academy’s 150th class of brave, skilled, hard-working probationary firefighters!” Chief Kelly finally said.

Steven barely heard the applause and cheers when his turn came to cross the stage. His hand was clammy as he shook hands with his teachers, the school administrators, and Chief Kelly. He knew he was blushing and grinning like a fool. Some days, back in the desert, he’d figured to be dead by dusk. Now he was a fireman like his dad, and both his grandfathers, and all the other Goodwin men whose pictures hung in the fire museum gallery.

At the far end of the stage, the phoenix peered down at him with wide black eyes. He could see himself in those eyes, twin reflections of his black and gold uniform. She lifted her whitish-gray beak and passed a scroll off to Chief Kelly, who pressed it into Steven’s hand.

“Good luck, son,” Kelly said.

Steven waited until he was off the stage before he unrolled his assignment.

Oh, shit.

Rated R. for fiery language.

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PC Miniature 38: Accounting for Dragons


By Eric James Stone.
Read by Steve Anderson.

Most dragons rarely think about accounting. But you’ve worked hard to acquire that hoard of gold and jewels–shouldn’t you be keeping track of what happens to it? Just sitting on it isn’t good enough any more. That’s why you need accounting. Here are some tips:

Rated PG. for creative book-keeping.

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PodCastle 073: Rapunzel


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!

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PodCastle 072: The Exit Sign


by Ursula Pflug.
Read by Christiana Ellis.

You and I were different. Making love on sprawling landings we learned that one way of life wasn’t better than another, and that we all shared the same ultimate misery, doomed to be born and die in this building. Who’d made this place? Had we built it ourselves generations ago when we still had legs to run from something fierce and predatory that circled our tower, waiting for travellers: the jumpers, the fliers, those with the twisted bed sheet ropes?

Rated R. for sex and dismemberment in enclosed places.

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PodCastle 71: I’ll Give In


by Meghan McCarron.
Read by Rachel Swirsky.

I turned around and found myself face to face with a minotaur.

He was shorter than I would have expected and a bit more — human-y? He had the head of a bull, sure, but he wore a black suit and a skinny black tie, like he had decided to live Pulp Fiction.

“I’m Phil,” he said.

“Phil?” I said.

“It’s easier to say than my real name.”

“Try me.”

Phil grunted something unintelligible. I tried to grunt it back and he started laughing.

“I think your dog would have done a better job,” Phil said. “And you are?”

Rated X. for S-E-X.

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PodCastle 070: The Dybbuk in the Bottle


by Russell William Asplund.
Read by Wilson Fowlie.

Avram had no more talent for wonder working than for farming. No matter how hard he prayed, he could not call even a sparrow down from a tree. His Sabbaths were spent at a small synagog in the town, and the rabbi there had no idea of the way to Paradise save the path of a good life. As for Avram’s attempt to animate a golem, the less said about it the better.

Still Avram did not give up. After all, without his books there was only the farm, and the more he worked the farm, the more he wanted to work wonders instead. There was very little glory in cleaning a chicken coop.

And that is how Avram came upon the dybbuk in the bottle.

Rated G. for child-safe dybbuk romping.

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PodCastle 069: The Olverung


by Stephen Woodworth.
Read by Paul S. Jenkins (of the Rev Up Review.

The Olverung is an ugly bird.  Its bulbous head juts from the spout of a scrawny neck, and warts dot the bridge of its fat beak.  When it struts upon the ground, its pot-bellied body waddles with the ludicrous gait of a town drunkard.  Its plumage has the black iridescence of a fly’s abdomen and is too coarse even for pillow stuffing.  Yet the fowl possesses one singular attribute that princes and popes have coveted for centuries, and it was for this sole virtue that Lord Atherton entreated me to steal the creature from the King.

Rated R for tugged heartstrings.

Please go to our forums for the story comment thread.

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PodCastle 068: A Heretic By Degrees


by Marie Brennan.
Read by Paul Tevis.

The suggestion was heretical, and treasonous to boot.  Two years before, the king had established by sacred decree that there was only one world, and that nothing lay beyond its bounds; anything seen there was a delusion, a final torment sent to test the faithful before their eventual salvation.  And for two years, his Councillors and subjects had respected his word.

Now they faced a choice.  Disobey the king — or lose him.  Commit treason, or let him die, and with him, the last remnant of the sacred royal line.

Rated PG. for actions taken at the end of the worlds.

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PC Miniature 37: Hall of Mirrors

Show Notes

Rated PG. for reflected nihilism.


Hall of Mirrors

By Bruce Holland Rogers

One afternoon during his lunch hour, Emory wasn’t feeling particularly hungry. It was the monthly free-admission day at the art museum, so instead of getting a sandwich he went in to look at paintings. “This one,” he said to himself, “makes me think of flying, except that the blue is not right for the sky. It is more of a painting about sorrow, I think. Of flying through sorrow.”

Emory was in the habit of mumbling his thoughts aloud, but usually he was so quiet, his words so indistinct, that no one knew what he was saying. This time, however, a woman who stood near him said, “Interesting. Then what do you make of the companion piece?”

He looked at her as she stood waiting, an earnest expression on her face. He nearly apologized, nearly told her that he knew nothing about art. But then he glanced at the second painting and the words were out of his mouth, clearly and distinctly this time. “All that whiteness makes me think of hospitals. The jagged line there, the bucket that is tipped over but isn’t spilling a drop — it must be the psychiatric ward of the hospital. The yellow corners, the dead flies make sure that I know not to take comfort in the whiteness. Fear of insanity. That’s what I see.”