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PodCastle 879: The Tawlish Island Songbook of the Dead

Show Notes

Rated PG-13


The Tawlish Island Songbook of the Dead

E.M. Linden

 

The living have been leaving Tawlish for centuries; this evacuation is only the latest and last. There are good reasons for it: the freshwater spring gone brackish; the water, always encroaching; the colicky, relentless wind. No schools for the children. No doctor. We should have seen it coming, but sometimes we forget what the living need.

We cannot cross salt, so we watch from shore. Our loved ones and descendants wade into the sea. The men strain to hold the boats steady against the waves. Everyone’s weighed down by possessions, a village crammed into sacks and lifeboats. Spoons, spindles, fish-hooks, balls of yarn. A clothes-peg doll in a twist of old apron. Seabirds’ eggs wrapped in blankets: habits ingrained by generations of scarcity. They’ve even dug up their potatoes.

Katie Zell’s mother is already on the boat. The songbook is tucked inside her jacket. (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 878: The Carving of War

Show Notes

Rated R


The Carving Of War

By Somto Ihezue

 

Odili was a child when Nkeala, her grandmother, died. All she remembered of her were her braids, a tangle of clouds that reached for the floor. She remembered her eyes, how they swallowed her face. To look into them was to be lost in a vastness. It was to find eyes — owl eyes, bold eyes, brown eyes — staring back at you. Most of all, she remembered her kindness, an unending sea.

Nkeala had been dìbìā — keeper, to Idemili; the roaring python, they who drowned oceans, mother of mothers. At the birth of time, Idemili, like beads dancing on a fragile waist, had wound herself around the clans of Obosi. Out of her mouth, the Eke River poured, its brooks and streamlets giving sustenance to the corn in the farmlands, the antelopes of the wild and the Irokos that split the sky. Odili’s family was bound in perpetuity to Idemili. With her grandmother’s passing, the fanged staff fell to her mother, Adaugo. In the past, a few keepers had met their fate with defiance. Odili’s great-great grandfather, Agbadike, had refused the staff when it passed to him. Setting the shrine of Idemili ablaze, he invoked the ritual of blood in a bid to sever the bond that tethered his life to the deity. Three days after, a breadfruit fell from a tree and split his skull in half. (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 877: The Hand That Feeds

Show Notes

Rated PG-13


The Hand That Feeds

by Louis Inglis Hall

 

Last Christmas a mermaid died in the school swimming pool. It was only a small pool, built up at the sides with wooden panels, more like a tank for training children in. That meant it froze over very easily, but a mermaid couldn’t know that. It stood in a courtyard in the shadow of the school, and the sun reached it only at rare intervals.

Behind it lurked a stone and sulking outhouse, pebbledash walls lashed together with a corrugated plastic roof. In its damp darkness the children undressed, and tripped, and snapped tight, powdered rubber caps over their skulls. Under its benches something black grew wetly out towards them. It was the hut that Freya hated most of all. (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 876: TALES FROM THE VAULTS: Nine-Fingered Maria

Show Notes

Rated PG


Nine-Fingered Maria

by Hilary Moon Murphy

…this girl appeared from behind a door and caught my ball.  She was probably my age: several inches taller than I am, with long straight black hair pulled back in a ponytail, plain white t-shirt, denim jacket and jeans with a hole worn in the knee.  She stared at me with intense dark eyes and said, “What are you doing here?”

“I was just getting my ball,” I said, stepping out of the way of two movers carrying a large red bureau with multi-colored wax stains all over it.

“No, you weren’t.”  She cocked her head to the side, and raised her eyebrow.  “You were spying.”

“I wasn’t!”

“That’s okay, I like spies.”  She gave me back my ball and showed me her hands.  “I have nine fingers.  I’m a witch.”

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PodCastle 875: Last Ritual of the Smoke Eaters

Show Notes

Rated PG-13


Last Ritual of the Smoke Eaters

By Osahon Ize-Iyamu

 

I didn’t want to eat Joshua, but he turned into dust, and the way things go in Carucchi village is that if someone turns into ashes you inhale them till there’s nothing but smoke in your lungs and redness in your eyes. Sometimes we have to eat people to make us less lonely. I didn’t want to do it, but Joshua named me as his eater, so my entire village forced me down on the floor and told me it was necessary. Great-aunty Chinny held my hands and made me inhale his smoke till his entire presence was roiling through my body like the last movements of a dragon.

When Joshua had finally settled in my body, he felt like a weight in my throat. (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 874: The Husband

Show Notes

Rated R


The Husband

By P.C. Verrone

 

He has never taken a man for a wife before. This becomes clear as he introduces me to his other wives. The youngest wife bristles and the wife with the long, dark hair avoids meeting my eye. The tallest wife just looks from him to me and nods. Her face betrays no hint of hospitality. They are aware that he and I have exchanged vows, exchanged fluids. However they may feel, nothing can be done about it now. He has chosen me.

He wants a feast to celebrate. We order delivery. When the driver arrives, the youngest wife invites him into the house. She is beautiful and coy, and the driver is stupid. As soon as he steps inside, our husband sinks his teeth into the man’s neck.

At the sight of blood, my eyes fill with red. I leap at the body in our husband’s arms, but a sharp jab in my rib sends me tumbling to the floor. The youngest wife tucks her elbow back against her side as she devours our victim’s clavicle. I reach for a wrist, a thigh, but the wife with long, dark hair kicks me away. The tallest wife glowers at me, lapping at the driver’s neck, inches from our husband’s lips. I can only suck the capillaries from the man’s toes. If our husband notices, he does nothing. (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 873: The Third Time I Saw a Fox

Show Notes

Rated PG


The Third Time I Saw a Fox

by Cécile Cristofari

 

“You know what I think, the world is going bonkers,”’ the circus man says.

I nod, draw a gulp of burning coffee from my thermos flask. A decent night watch needs to start with a little bitterness on the tongue, the first drink just a little too hot before the next cups fade to lukewarm. It’s the only excitement I’m afforded, after all. No one ever breaks into natural history museums.

“Who needs the world when we have this?” I say, encompassing the anatomy exhibits with a wave of the hand. “And the two of us, of course.”

The circus man nods, sagely. Even though I’m not looking at him, I can hear it from the creaking of his vertebrae, grinding against the copper wire that holds them together. (Continue Reading…)

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Special Call: Disability Pride & Magic


PodCastle is delighted to announce a special call for stories for our upcoming event for Disability Pride Month, Disability Pride & Magic, guest edited by long-time Castle denizen and current Audio Producer, Devin Martin.

We want to celebrate disabled authors, characters, and themes for this event. We’re using a broad definition of disability here, including physical disabilities, neurodivergence, mental illness, sensory disabilities, chronic illness, and invisible and undiagnosed disabilities. While some people in some of these groups may not identify as disabled, society tends to marginalise us all in similar ways, and the choice to identify as disabled or not is complex, deeply personal, and not for us to gatekeep.

In fiction, disabled people — where we appear at all — tend to be left on the sidelines or treated as passive sources of inspiration (or worse: ridicule or disgust). In fantasy, we get our difficulties erased with superpowers or magical cures. We’re looking for stories that defy these trends. We want to see stories that show the dynamic nature of disability, that grapple with ableism (internal and external), and that, ultimately, see us as fully human — a depressingly low bar that is still failed all too often.

This call is open to everyone. While we believe disabled stories are best told by disabled voices, no one should have to disclose their status if they aren’t comfortable doing so. That said, this is an event centred around pride, visibility, and acceptance, on dismantling ableist notions of shame that silence and alienate disabled people. In that spirit, we strongly encourage authors to speak up about their disabilities, especially if their lived experience informs their story.

We’re a fantasy publication, so all stories must have a fantasy element that’s crucial to the tale, though it can be subtle. We are unable to consider science fiction or straight-up horror, though dark fantasy is more than welcome. We will consider both originals and reprints for this call, paying our standard rate of 8 cents per word for originals and $100 for reprints. We’re looking for stories between 2,000-6,000 words, though we will consider up to 7,000 words for reprints. These upper limits are strict: unfortunately we cannot consider reprints above 7,000 words or originals above 6,000 for this submissions call.

We’ll be open to Disability Pride & Magic submissions for an extended period, from 7th January to 31st of March 2025. Please submit through our Moksha portal. Our standard guidelines apply to anything we haven’t specified here.

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PodCastle 872: TALES FROM THE VAULTS – The Ghost of Christmas Possible

Show Notes

Rated PG


The Ghost of Christmas Possible

by Tim Pratt and Heather Shaw

I was asleep: to begin with.

The hour was just before midnight on Christmas Eve when a ferocious knocking woke me from my slumber. My first muddled thought, or rather hope, was that some specter or spirit stirred beneath the cramped rafters of my newly rented accommodations. Such a prospect aroused in me no little excitement — for though I am well versed with the actions and habits of apparitions, ghosts, and hauntings of all sorts, I have always had to seek out such extraordinary creatures in situ, as it were, and their attentions had never been initially directed toward me. I thought immediately of the incident of the Knocking Well, when I helped lay to rest the unquiet spirit of a lost child in Somerset, and so I leapt to my feet and pulled on my dressing gown to begin my investigation. I followed the sound of knocking, now ever more ferocious, through the corridor and down the narrow stairs. (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 871: Homes for the Holidays

Show Notes

Rated PG-13

This episode is dedicated in loving memory of Orion Adey (October 4, 1989 — September 28, 2023)


Homes for the Holidays

by Heather Shaw & Tim Pratt

 

I stood on the slumlord’s doorstep and took a deep breath — one of the last I would take in this body, which had served me well despite being treated badly. It’s not the body I was born with — I don’t think I started with a body at all. I don’t know what I am, or where I come from, just that I need a human body to host my own consciousness.

My current body wasn’t totally worn out yet, but sometimes I switched for strategic reasons, like now. Even if I want to settle in, I’m forced to take a new host every twenty years or so. Maybe that sounds like a lot compared to a human lifespan, but since I’m immortal (so far), twenty years is a fraction of a fraction, and it feels like I’ve barely settled into a new skin before I have to go looking for a new one. Even when I pick a young, healthy body, something about hosting me puts unusual strain on the brain, and they usually pop an aneurysm, even if I take good care of them.

I hadn’t taken such good care of this latest body. But I was trying to do better. (Continue Reading…)