PodCastle
By Anna Schwind and Dave Thompson
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Podcast Description
PodCastle is the worldrsquo;s first audio fantasy magazine. Weekly, we broadcast the best in fantasy short stories, running the gammut from heart-pounding sword and sorcery, to strange surrealist tales, to gritty urban fantasy, to the psychological depth of magical realism. Our podcast features authors including Peter Beagle, Benjamin Rosenbaum, Jim C. Hines, and Cat Rambo, among others. Terry Pratchett once wrote, ldquo;Fantasy is an exercise bicycle for the mind. It might not take you anywhere, but it tones up the muscles that can.rdquo; Tune in to PodCastle each Tuesday for our weekly tale, and spend the length of a morning commute giving your imagination a work out.
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|---|---|---|---|---|---|
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1 |
PodCastle 209: Lila the Werewolf | by Peter S. Beagle Read by Steve Anderson Originally published as a stand alone chapbook. Farrell went to a movie with a friend, and to the West End afterward for beer. Then he walked home alone under the full moon, which was red and yellow. He reheated the morning coffee, played a record, read through a week-old ldquo;News of the Week in Reviewrdquo; section of the Sunday Times, and finally took Grunewald up to the roof for the night, as he always did. The dog had been accustomed to sleep in the same bed with his mistress, and the point was not negotiable. Grunewald mooed and scrabbled and butted all the way, but Farrell pushed him out among the looming chimneys and ventilators and slammed the door. Then he came back downstairs and went to bed. He slept very badly. Grunewaldrsquo;s baying woke him twice; and there was something else that brought him half out of bed, thirsty and lonely, with his sinuses full and the night swaying like a curtain as the figures of his dream scurried offstage. Grunewald seemed to have gone off the air mdash; perhaps it was the silence that had awakened him. Whatever the reason, he never really got back to sleep. He was lying on his back, watching a chair with his clothes on it becoming a chair again, when the wolf came in through the open window. It landed lightly in the middle of the room and stood there for a moment, breathing quickly, with its ears back. There was blood on the wolfrsquo;s teeth and tongue, and blood on its chest. Farrell, whose true gift was for acceptance, especially in the morning, accepted the idea that there was a wolf in his bedroom and lay quite still, closing his eyes as the grim, black-lipped head swung towards him. Having once worked at a zoo, he was able to recognize the beast as a Central European subspecies: smaller and lighter-boned than the northern timber wolf variety, lacking the thick, ruffy mane at the shoulders and having a more pointed nose and ears. His own pedantry always delighted him, even at the worst moments. Rated R: Contains some violence, some sex, and some adult language. Basically, everything synonymous with werewolves. | 5/21/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle Miniature 69: Wolves | By Joseacute; Luis Zaacute;rate Translated by Bernardo Fernandez Read by Roberto Suarez (of Trailerclash) Originally published (in English) in Three Messages and a Warning, edited by Eduardo Jimenez Mayo and Chris N. Brown The wolves came at twilight, melted into the shadows. At first we thought they were mist coming down from the mountainsmdash;it was impossible to think that there were millions of white bodies, thousands of creatures sliding down the snow. Their voices convinced us it was them, their long, sad howls, the occasional growling and fights among them. Wersquo;ve never seen such a herd. Itrsquo;s impossible to gather one on these lands. The wolves we know around here are solitary ferocious animals, always stealthy. Wersquo;ve never seen them trot into a village. They donrsquo;t run away from men out of fear, their temperament demands that they always hidemdash;all carnivores are furtive. Once in a while they steal a sheep, a deer, some child left in the woods that surrounds us. Rated R: Contains some Violence and Adult Themes | 5/19/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 208, Fable From a Cage | by Tim Pratt Read by Dave Thompson Originally published in Realms of Fantasy Let me tell you a little fable, a story I crafted while sitting inside this dangling cage, where the rooks s**t on me and steal my bread all day, and the smoke from your town fires stings my eyes all night. Did you know the owls feed me? They bring me rats, mice, squirrels, and I eat them. That's why I haven't died yet. I'll never die, not here, wait all you like. My fable? Yes. Oh, yes. It will, most assuredly, have a moral. Hunker down and listen for it, boys. Rated R: Contains Violence, some of it gristly. | 5/15/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 207, Giant Episode: Hope Chest | by Garth Nix Read by Mur Lafferty (the Mighty, Mighty) Originally Published in Firebirds, edited by Sharyn November. One dusty, slow morning in the summer of 1922, a passenger was left crying on the platform when the milk train pulled out of Denilburg after its five minute stop. No one noticed at first, what with the whistle from the train and the billowing steam and smoke and the labouring of the steel wheels upon the rails. The milk carter was busy with the cans, the station master with the mail. No one else was about, not when the full dawn was still half a cup of coffee away. When the train had rounded the corner, taking its noise with it, the crying could be clearly heard. Milk carter and station master both looked up from their work and saw the source of the noise. A baby, tightly swaddled in a pink blanket, was precariously balanced on a large steamer trunk on the very edge of the platform. With every cry and wriggle, the baby was moving closer to the side of the trunk. If she fell, shersquo;d fall not only from the trunk, but from the platform, down to the rails four feet below. Rated R: Contains violence. | 5/8/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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5 |
PodCastle 206: Another Word for Map is Faith | by Christopher Rowe. Read by Ann Leckie, editor of GigaNotoSaurus. Originally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy Science Fiction. On the other side of the valley, across the creek, the real ridge linemdash;the geology, her father would have said disdainfullymdash;stabbed upstream. By her rough estimation it had rolled perhaps two degrees off the angle of its writ mapping. Lucas would determine the exact discrepancy later, when he extracted his instruments from their feather and wax paper wrappings. ldquo;Third world b******t,rdquo; Lucas said, walking up to her. ldquo;The transit services people from the university paid these little schemers before we ever climbed onto that deathtrap, and now theyrsquo;re asking for the fare.rdquo; Lucas had been raised near the border, right outside the last town the bus had stopped at, in fact, though hersquo;d dismissed the notion of visiting any family. His patience with the locals ran inverse to his familiarity with them. ldquo;Does this count as the third world?rdquo; she asked him. ldquo;Doesnrsquo;t there have to be a general for that? Rain forests and steel ruins?rdquo; Lucas gave his half-grinmdash;not quite a smirkmdash;acknowledging her reduction. Cartographers were famous for their willful ignorance of social expressions like politics and history. Rated PG. | 5/1/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 205: Outlander | by Samantha Henderson Read by the intrepid Graeme Dunlop. Originally appeared in the anthology The Feathered Edge, edited by Deborah J. Ross. I well know the whole disgraceful affair was my fault. I was the one that befriended that great beast of an Outlander, spawn of his border-clan House, and led him with such fatal consequences to my family's heart. But Lukah Brehill seemed such harmless oaf, charming in a way rare among my fellows, and I thought it was a kindness to introduce him to proper society. He'd been sent by his House to pay his respects to Sireni and its Duke, and was housed among the rest of the young bucks of the Houses too far and unfortunate to live in the heart of the city spectacular. Rated PG. | 4/24/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle Miniature 68: Machine Washable | by Keffy R.M. Kehrli Read by Marguerite Kenner Originally published in Sybil's Garage Dear Mom, Instead of washing a load of clothes, I keep going to the store and buying more underwear. I know you donrsquo;t even believe in weird things like monsters or ghosts, and neither do I, but-ndash; No, scratch that. _I don't even know where to start!_ Rated PG. Contains Some Dirty Laundry. | 4/22/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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No PodCastle episode this week | We regret that there will be no PodCastle episode this week. Stay tuned for next week's episode. | 4/18/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 204: The Rowan Gentleman | by Holly Black and Cassandra Clare. Read by Kara Grace. Originally appeared in Welcome to Bordertown edited by Holly Black and Ellen Kushner. You can find out more about Bordertown here. Ashley watches Renata take a last deep drag and then stub out her comfrey cigarette on her dressing table. Itrsquo;s already covered in spilled glitter, matches, paint, and the burned craters from other cigarettes. Ashley can hardly remember the fine wooden vanity Renata found on the street and dragged back to the Magic Lantern. Itrsquo;s suffered a lot since then. ldquo;Open the box already,rdquo; Renata says, pulling a lip liner from one of the drawers. On the wall, a cracked mosaic of mirror fragments reveals Ashleyrsquo;s face, filled with trepidation. The Magic Lantern was one of the first places Ashley came to when she arrived in Bordertown. Shersquo;d sit in the back and watch whatever was playing or doze because she was sure shersquo;d be safe. Once Alain Bach Glaimhin took over from Orsquo;Malley and started casting for simultaneous live shows, Ashley knew that she wanted to be on that stage more than any- thing. Ashley loves working at the Magic Lantern. Her hands hesitate over the ribbon on the large package, the one woven with sprigs of rosemary and ragwort. She knows the more gifts Alain gives her, the closer she is to being asked to leave. Rated R for violence. | 4/11/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 203: Buried Eyes | by Lavie Tidhar. Read by Graeme Dunlop. Forthcoming in Postscripts. The half-dressed girls passed silently between the lying figures, their bare feet making no sound as they stepped on the sand. Low-lying metal braziers cast a shifting glow and made the girlsrsquo; shadows move as of their own accord. Gorel of Goliris lay on his back on the thick rich carpet under the stars and what he saw no one could tell. One of the girls stopped and knelt beside him. lsquo;Are you comfortable?rsquo; she asked. She took his hand and put two long, graceful fingers against his wrist. lsquo;It is time for another one?rsquo; She waited; presently, Gorel closed and opened his eyes. The girl, used to such minute communication, took it for assent. The long thin needle was almost translucent but the nature of the material passing through it had stained it in fantastical whorls of yellows and reds . It was the quill of a small desert dweller; Gorel had captured and eaten several of its kind. The girl held his arm and her practiced fingers searched his naked flesh. Gorelrsquo;s lips moved, though little sound escaped. The girl stroked his hair. lsquo;Soon now,rsquo; she murmured. lsquo;Soon. Hush now.rsquo; Finding a suitable place, she pressed the needle into his arm with one practiced motion. The needle was attached by a long thin tube to a contraption of metal and glass standing upright beside Gorel and the girl. The bottom component was a glass jar filled with water. A pipe ran up and into a metal bowl. The girl moved her hand over the bowl and murmured words, too quiet to be heard. The bowl began to smoke. The smoke had a sweet, pungent smell. Everyone at the place knew it intimately. The water in the jar began to bubble. The girl took hold of a bulb attached to the side of the device and began to pump it. The water bubbled harder, and the smoke grew more intense. A sluggish substance began to drizzle down the long tube and into the needle. Gorel sighed, a weak exhalation of air, and closed his eyes. The girl continued to pump, and with her other hand stroked Gorelrsquo;s hair. lsquo;Better now,rsquo; she said. lsquo;Everything is fine now.rsquo; Rated R for violence, drug use. | 4/3/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 202: The Rugged Track | by Liz Argall. Read by Tina Connolly. Originally appeared in Strange Horizons. Read the text beginning here. Once upon a time there was a plucky young woman called Princess Bite. She loved to roller-skate, and Roller Derby was her community. Her mother, Lady Push Comes to Shove, had felt her daughter jamming from inside the womb. "I had to keep the sounds of whistles away from you," Lady Shove would say as she helped Princess Bite into her aqua and purple quads. "The slightest peep and you were off, bouncing around my insides like the joyous devil you are. The only way I could get you to be quiet was to zoom around the track." Princess Bite learned to skate as she learned how to walk. Lady Push Comes to Shove and Princess Bite would hurtle around the track so fast it felt like flying. Princess Bite and Lady Shove skated together every day until Lady Shove's illness made it too difficult and painful. Princess Bite loved everything about Roller Derby. She even loved cleaning up after a game, sweeping the floor with a broom twice her size, coiling cables and emptying endless garbage cans. Princess Bite loved the spectacle, the makeup, the glitter and ferocity. She loved crashing into people and trying to keep her feet when they crashed into her. She loved watching the teams train and playing with the other kids of roller mums. Rated R for language. | 3/27/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 201, Giant Episode: Golden City Far | by Gene Wolfe. Read by Kane Lynch. Originally appeared in Flights: Extreme Visions of Fantasy, edited by Al Sarrrantonio. This is what William Wachter wrote in his spiral notebook during study hall, the first day. Funny dream last night. I was standing on a beach. I looked out, shading my eyes, and I could not see a thing. It was like a big fog bank was over the ocean way far away so that everything sort of faded white. A gull flew over me and screeched, and I thought, Well, not that way. So I turned north, and there was a long level stretch and big mountains. I should not have been able to see past them, but I could. It was not like the mountains could be looked through. It was like the thing I was seeing on the other side was higher than they were so that I saw it over the tops. It was really far away and looked small, but it was just beautiful, gold towers, all sizes and shapes with flags on them. Yelllow flags, purple, blue, green and white ones. I thought, Well, there it is. Rated PG. | 3/20/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 200: In The Stacks | by Scott Lynch Read by...well, A LOT of cool people! How about a full cast list? Norm Sherman as the Narrator Peter Wood as Lazlo Dave Thompson as Casimir Wilson Fowlie as Master Molnar M.K. Hobson as Astriza Graeme Dunlop as Lev Bronzeclaw Anna Schwind as Yvette Ann Leckie, Alasdair Stuart, Talia, Occicat, and Marshal Latham as the Librarians, Indexers, and Vocubavores and Rachel Swirsky as the Head Vocabuvore Originally Published in Swords and Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery, On the clock outside the gate to the Manticore Wing of the library, the little blue flame was just floating past the symbol for high noon when Laszlo and Casimir skidded to a halt before a single tall figure. ldquo;I see you two aspirants have chosen to favor us with a dramatic last-minute arrival,rdquo; said the man. ldquo;I was not aware this was to be a drama exam.rdquo; ldquo;Yes, Master Molnar. Apologies, Master Molnar,rdquo; said Laszlo and Casimir in unison. Hargus Molnar, Master Librarian, had a face that would have been at home in a gallery of military statues, among dead conquerors casting their permanent scowls down across the centuries. Lean and sinewy, with close-cropped gray hair and a dozen visible scars, he wore a use-seasoned suit of black leather and silvery mail. Etched on his cuirass was a stylized scroll, symbol of the Living Library, surmounted by the phrase Auvidestes, Gerani, Molokare. The words were Alaurin, the formal language of scholars, and they formed the motto of the Librarians: RETRIEVE. RETURN. SURVIVE. Rated R: Contains violence, some language, and the coolest, most dangerous library ever! Thank you, listeners, for an amazing two hundred episodes! | 3/12/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 199: A Suitable Present for a Sorcerous Puppet | by Garth Nix Read by Paul Tevis Originally published in Swords and Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery Sir Hereward sighed as he turned another page. His enthusiasm for reading had diminished in the turning of several hundred pages, with its concomitant several hundred finger lickings, for he had found only two entries worth reading: one on how to cheat at a board game that had changed its name but was still widely played in the known world; and another on the multiplicity of uses of the root spice cabizend, some surprising number of which fell into Herewardrsquo;s professional area of expertise as an artillerist and maker of incendiaries. In fact, Hereward was about to give up and bellow to the housekeeper who kept the tower to bring him some ale, when the title of the next commonplace caught his eye. It was called ldquo;On the Propitiation of Sorcerous Puppets.rdquo; As Sir Herewardrsquo;s constant companion, comrade-in-arms, and one-time nanny was a sorcerous puppet known as Mister Fitz, this was very much of interest to the injured knight. He eagerly read on, and though the piece was short and referred solely to the more usual kind of sorcerous puppetmdash;one made to sing, dance, and entertainmdash;he did learn something new. Rated PG: Contains some violence. | 3/6/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 198: Urchins, While Swimming | by Catherynne M. Valente Read by Diane Severseon (of StarShipSofa) Originally published in Clarkesworld Magazine. Read the story here. In the morning, she called me always by my name, Kseniya, and her eyes would be worry-wrinkledmdash;and her hair would be wet, too. While she scraped a pale, translucent sliver of precious butter over rough, hard-crusted bread, I would draw a bath, filling the high-sided tub to its bright brim. We ate our breakfast slick-haired in the nearly warm water, curled into each other's bodies, snail into shell, while the bath sloshed over onto the kitchen floor, which was also the living room floor and the bathroom floor and my mother's bedroom floormdash;she gave me the little closet which served as a second room. In the evening, if we had meat, she would fry it slowly and we would savor the smell together, to make the meal last. If we did not, she would tell me a story about a princess who had a bowl which was never empty of sweet, roasted chickens while I slurped a thin soup of cabbage and pulpy pumpkin and saved bathwater. Sometimes, when my mother spoke low and gentle over the green soup, it tasted like birds with browned, sizzling skin. All day, she sponged my head, the trickle ticklish as sweat. The back of my dress clung slimy to my skin. Before bed, she would pass my head under the faucet, the cold water splashing on my scalp like a slap. And then the waking, always the waking, and hour or two past midnight. Rated R: Contains some disturbing imagery. | 2/28/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 197: Destiny, With a Blackberry Sauce | by David J. Schwartz Read by Daniel Foley Originally published in Strange Horizons. Read the story here. During my brother Mel's final test to become a guard, he performed a flourish with his halberd and cut off his left foot. You wouldn't think it was possible to slice your own foot clean off while you're standing on it, but he managed. He says that he didn't really feel any pain at first, but he did feel the tendon in his leg rolling up like a window shade. My parents were mortified. My dad just set his jaw like he does when he can't yell at us right exactly then, and my mom covered her eyes. Me, I watched the whole thing. There was a lot of blood, and of course Mel was screamingmdash;they say you're not supposed to, that it makes a bad impression on the test officers, but I'm pretty sure I would have, too. Then the healer came over and made an incision in the back of my brother's leg. He reached in and found the tendon where it had gone into hiding and pulled it down to where it belonged, chanting the entire time. Mel was screaming a lot louder by then. Five minutes later the foot was reattached. It's pretty much as good as it ever was, but Mel still has nightmares about the pain. Not that I'm the least bit sympathetic. If you ask me, he did it on purpose. Rated R: Contains violence and prophecies | 2/20/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 196: The Second Voyage of Sindbad the Seaman | Originally appeared in The Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Read the text in various places, such as here and here. Translated by Sir Richard Burton. Read by Wilson Fowlie (of The Maple Leaf Singers). At last Destiny brought us to an island, fair and verdant, in trees abundant, with yellow-ripe fruits luxuriant, and flowers fragrant and birds warbling soft descant, and streams crystalline and radiant. But no sign of man showed to the descrier- no, not a blower of the fire. The captain made fast with us to this island, and the merchants and sailors landed and walked about, enjoying the shade of the trees and the song of the birds, that chanted the praises of the One, the Victorious, and marveling at the works of the Omnipotent King. Rated PG. | 2/14/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 195: Lavanya and Deepika | by Shveta Thakrar. Read by TCA Lakshmi Narasimhan. Originally appeared in Demeter's Spicebox. Read the text there. Once upon a time, in a land radiant with stars and redolent of sandalwood, where peacocks breakfasted on dreams salty with the residue of slumber, a rani mourned. On the surface, the rani had everything: a kingdom to care for, fine jewels to wear in her long black hair, silken saris threaded through with silver and gold, and a garden of roses and jasmine to rival that of Lord Indra in his celestial realm. When she rode atop her warrior elephant, her subjects bowed before her in awe and love. But one thing remained out of reach--an heir. She longed for a small, smiling face to call her own. Gulabi Rani consulted midwives, healers schooled in the art of Ayurveda, and magicians. Knowing better than to refuse a monarch, they plied her with charms and salves, medications and horoscopes. She ate the roots and leaves of the shatavari plant as they recommended, and drank creamy buttermilk while fastidiously avoiding the color black. Yet her belly stayed flat. At last the healers admitted that, without a husband, there was no hope. But the rani did not want a husband. Nor did she suffer from a lack of hope. After dismissing the healers and her servants both, she readied a place in the garden. If no one else could help her, she would find the answer herself. Surrounded by her beloved roses, garnet and pink and ivory, Gulabi meditated for weeks on end. Rated PG. | 2/7/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 194: Their Changing Bodies | by Alaya Dawn Johnson. Read by Tina Connolly. Originally published in Subterranean Online. Read the text there. Judy had been painfully aware of him since her arrival two weeks ago, when she had seen him across the mess hall. They talked a little, but Judy hadnrsquo;t been prepared for his appearance or his popularity. She hadnrsquo;t expected him to change quite so much. Judy had first met Brandon last summer in the woods of rural Michigan, at an institution the promotional brochures called Better Image! for Teens. The kids sentenced to this energetically punctuated camp had referred to it as the Penitentiary, but Judyrsquo;s sister Alice had more accurately called it Fat Camp. Judy came home thirty pounds thinner and possessed of a first kiss that had admittedly also encompassed some of her cheek. Still, at sixteen she had finally accomplished several of her goals in life: a) meet a boy, b) talk to the boy, c) impress him with her knowledge of esoteric subjects like grafting apple trees, and, finally, d) mack on him like crazy. If pressed, Judy admitted that perhaps she still had a slight distance to travel until she fully accomplished d). Even though Brandon had attempted to insert his tongue in her mouth, the reality of it wagging wetly in the air had so disconcerted Judy that she turned at the exact wrong moment, thereupon forcing Brandonrsquo;s tongue to slither over her cheek until he realized what had happened and put it back in his mouth. How, she asked Alice, does anyone make out with so much spit? Alice just shrugged and said you got used to it. Judy hoped she would get used to it. Rated R for profanity, young adult themes. | 1/31/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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For Your Consideration: Award Eligible Stories Featured at PodCastle | Hey everyone! People have been asking us if any of the stories we ran over the last year-ish are are eligible for awards. And in fact, several of them are! Thanks for listening, and happy voting! Short Story: To Follow the Waves, by Amal El-Mohtar, read by Marguerite Croft, originally published in Steam-Powered: Lesbian Steampunk Stories The Bear in the Cable-Knit Sweater, by Robert T. Jeschonek, read by Cheyenne Wright, A PodCastle Original After October, by Ben Burgis, read by Eric Luke, originally published in Giganotosaurus The Landholders No Longer Carry Swords, by Patricia Russo, read by Ann Leckie, originally published in Giganotosaurus The Paper Menagerie, by Ken Liu, read by Rajan Khanna, originally published in the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction We Were Wonder Scouts, by Will Ludwigsen, read by Chris Reynaga, originally published in Asimovrsquo;s. Still Small Voice, by Ben Burgis, read by David Rees-Thomas, A PodCastle Original 起狮，行礼 (Rising Lionmdash;The Lion Bows), by Zen Cho, read by Tracey Yuen. Originally published in Strange Horizons. Black Swan, White Swan, by Eugie Foster, read by Abra Staffin-Wiebe, originally published in End of an Aeon anthology. This Strange Way of Dying,nbsp;nbsp;by Silvia Moreno Garcia, read by Marguerite Croft. Originally published in Giganotosaurus Ties of Silver, by James L. Sutter, read by V.O. Bloodfrost, originally published in the Beast Within 2: Predators and Prey anthology. The Ghost of Christmas Possible, by Tim Pratt #38; Heather Shaw, read by Ian Stuart. A PodCastle Original! A Window, Clear as a Mirror, by Ferrett Steinmetz, read by Rish Outfield. Originally published in Shimmer Fruit Jar Drinkin', Cheatin' Heart Blues, by Patty Templeton, originally published in Steam Powered II Their Changing Bodies, by Alaya Dawn Johnson, originally published in Subterranean Online (Next week's episode!) As a Novellete: Balfour and Meriwether in The Vampire of Kabul, by Daniel Abraham, read by Paul S. Jenkins. Originally published in Subterranean Online | 1/25/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 193: Fruit Jar Drinkin’, Cheatin’ Heart Blues | by Patty Templeton. Read by M.K. Hobson. Originally appeared in SteamPowered II: More Lesbian Steampunk Stories Cazy Tipple and Balma Walker were the two finest bootleggers for a god-step or more. The only two that lived in the Rotgut, instead of on its edge. Balma hadnrsquo;t always hated the sour, sorrowing guts out of Cazy, but times changed with the rain. Ten years and a piece with the same two hearts in a three room cabin and therersquo;s bound to be here-and-there altercations. Balmarsquo;d call Cazy a no-good-jar-tipper, and Cazyrsquo;d have a sip and a swallow and name Balma a brain-big-hollerinrsquo;-bitch. Balmarsquo;d throw the grits and biscuits at Cazy and the frying pan after. Cazyrsquo;d bite a brushed-off biscuit and tell Balma how fine it was. Fairly soon, the two were hot eyes over hot coffee and the stills would have to wait until the sheets had another ruffle and wet. But this time, Cazyrsquo;d done enough wrong for Balma to prop the grudge on a pulpit and preach. Rated R for profanity, violence. | 1/23/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle Miniature 67: The Madness of Andelsprutz | by Lord Dunsany Read by Steve Anderson I had said: "I will see Andelsprutz arrogant with her beauty," and I had said: "I will see her weeping over her conquest." I had said: "She will sing songs to me," and "she will be reticent," "she will be all robed," and "she will be bare but splendid." But the windows of Andelsprutz in her houses looked vacantly over the plains like the eyes of a dead madman. At the hour her chimes sounded unlovely and discordant, some of them were out of tune, and the bells of some were cracked, her roofs were bald and without moss. At evening no pleasant rumour arose in her streets. When the lamps were lit in the houses no mystical flood of light stole out into the dusk, you merely saw that there were lighted lamps; Andelsprutz had no way with her and no air about her. When the night fell and the blinds were all drawn down, then I perceived what I had not thought in the daylight. I knew then that Andelsprutz was dead. Rated PG. | 1/22/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 192: The Interior of Mr. Bumblethorn’s Coat | by Willow Fagan. Read by MarBelle of the Director's Notes blog, audio and video podcast. Originally appeared in Fantasy Magazine. Read the text there. Mister Bumblethorn slept through the morning, as he usually did, rising from his dry-as-dust bathtub just after noon. He stood in the weak light of the shaded window, his massive blue coat rumpled but still imposing. He did not even remember getting into the bathtub the night before, much less falling asleep in it. He yawned and shook out his arms. An antelope or a gazelle, tiny as a beetle, tumbled out of his coat sleeve and splatted on the floor below. Mister Bumblethorn studiously ignored this. Bleary-eyed, he walked across his tiny apartment to rummage through the cupboards, finding no food except some stale crackers. Worse, his water flask was empty as a thimble; he held the thing upside down for a full minute and not a drop appeared, not a whiff of moisture. Mister Bumblethorn sighed heavily. Into the blank space of his empty stomach, memories began to flow like saliva. Once, adoring folk had thrust gifts of cheese and honeycakes at him wherever he walked: through the streets of grand Abadore, through the humble thoroughfares of nameless hamlets. Fingers shaking, Mister Bumblethorn rolled himself a fat spliff of redleaf. No matter how little the peasants had, they shared their suppers with him and refused any offer of payment. Damn it, light already. After all, he wasndash;Ah, there it was, that sweet smoke filling his mouth, translating the stream of memories into a language as meaningless to him as the clicking prayers of the insectile priests in their hive temple on Wingcleft Avenue, his old life grown as insubstantial as their flowery incense, drifting away in the wind. Rated R for graphic violence, drug use. | 1/17/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 191: Balfour and Meriwether in The Vampire of Kabul | by Daniel Abraham. Read by Paul S. Jenkins of the Skepticule podcast. Originally appeared in Subterranean Online. Read the text there. It was the third of December in 188-, and snow swirled down grey and damp upon the cobblestones of London. Meriwether paced before the wide window of the King Street flat impatiently. Balfour sat before the roaring fire, correcting a draft monograph he had written on the subject of Asiatic hand combat as adapted to the English frame. ldquo;I cannot understand how you can be so devilishly placid,rdquo; Meriwether said at last. ldquo;Practice,rdquo; Balfour grunted. ldquo;Every winter itrsquo;s the same,rdquo; Meriwether said, gesturing at the falling snow. ldquo;The darkness comes earlier, the cold drives men from the roads, and I have thishellip;stirring. This unutterable restlessness. The winter traps me, my friend. It holds me captive.rdquo; Rated R for violence. | 1/9/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 190: A Window, Clear as a Mirror | by Ferret Steinmetz. Read by Rish Outfield, of the Dunesteef Audio Fiction Magazine. Originally appeared in Shimmer. Malcolm Gebrowski returned from his job at the stamp factory to discover his wife had left him for a magic portal. He stared numbly at the linoleum floor of his apartmentrsquo;s walk-in kitchen, all scuffed up with hoofprints, the smell of lilacs gradually being overpowered by the mildewy stink of the paper plant next door. All that was left of eight years of marriage was a scribbled note on the back of the telephone bill. Hersquo;d crumpled the note in his fist without thinking. He smoothed it out against the refrigerator to read Juliannersquo;s last words again: Malcolm, Remember when I said you could sleep with Dakota Jewel if she ever dropped by? I sure hope so. lsquo;Cause if you had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to sleep with the most beautiful movie star in the world, Irsquo;d want you to take it. And remember when you said that if I ever found a magic portal, I could go? Guess what? A magic portal opened. Rated R for profanity, sex. | 1/2/12 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 189: Limits | by Donna Glee Williams. Read by Tisch Parmelee (of the Watch your Language Podcast). Originally appeared in Strange Horizons. Read the text here. When did Len first see how far the path would take her son? No Far Walker had been born in Home Village for many years. But everyone knew Shreve Far Walker, from Third Village Down, who often passed through as she carried loads between High and Low. When nightfall caught her near Home Village, she would stay over, taking dinner and giving back news. She wasnrsquo;t by nature a talkative person, but she understood the duties of a guest. Len would crowd with the others to hear Shreversquo;s account of the Far Villages. So Len had some notion of the life of a Far Walker, though her own range was a modest seven villages. When Cam began to show unusual aptitude for climbing high and descending very low, she wondered. Like all parents, Len had observed Cam closely from his earliest tottering steps as he followed her to First Village Up. She had shared discreet smiles with the other parents as their young ones tried on the new costume of adulthood to see how it would fit them, daring each other to range ever farther from Home Village on spurious errands There would be a jaunt proposed, a clamor of assent, and a rush like a group of startled goats when Cam and his friends hurried off. No packing or planning was needed as they carried no real loads and it was understood that they would stay in whatever village they were closest to when night fell. Families who housed a youth from another village tonight knew that their own children would find food and a pallet where they needed it tomorrow, and the balance would be kept. Rated PG. | 12/27/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 188: The Ghost of Christmas Possible | by Tim Pratt and Heather Shaw. Read by Ian Stuart. A PodCastle Original! 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. Alas, it soon became clear the knocking was of an entirely ordinary sort, attributable to some visitor pounding upon my front door -- though the lateness of the hour did suggest some manner of emergency or alarm. When I opened the door, a wild-eyed creature, with a ghostly white aura about his head and loose robes that flapped wildly in the wintry winds, forced his way inside, and I reconsidered my assumption that he was a mortal man. I had certainly never encountered an apparition polite enough to knock -- however vigorously -- before entering, and when he spoke, I was crushed by the mundane quality of his voice, which possessed none of the eerie harmonics I associated with those few spectral beings who deigned to speak. ldquo;Mr. Hodgson, I presume? I have immediate need of your services, man!rdquo; He was a frightened old man, and I was acquainted with such; I had met the terrified, the dread-filled, and the desperate over and over during my researches into the occult. Rated PG. | 12/19/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle Spotlight: Briarpatch | Dave and Anna (um, Anna? ANNA?!?! Where'd you go?) talk about Tim Pratt's new book Briarpatch! If you're looking to get that special someone (or yourself) something for the holidays, look no further! | 12/17/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 187: Ties of Silver | by James L. Sutter. Read by V.O.nbsp; Bloodfrost (Follow him on Twitter: @Vbloodfrost). Originally appeared in Beast Within 2: Predator #38; Prey Harris always found me when I was at my worst. Not that it was particularly difficult -- the way I figured it, I'd been at my worst for going on three years, and if there was reason to expect a change, nobody had clued me in. In this case, I was sleeping off an evening of hard drinking and harder words, the latter contributing to the egg-sized knot on the back of my head. Turned out folks in the skin bars didn't take kindly to a fur running his mouth, blueskin or otherwise. There was no way to tell how much of my headache had come from the bruise, and how much had been the brew. Still, I was at my desk when Harris arrived. I may have been half-drunk, worked over, and counting each heartbeat as it lanced through the back of my skull, but I was no deadbeat. ldquo;Jesus, Terry,rdquo; he said. ldquo;You look like hell.rdquo; ldquo;At least I have an excuse,rdquo; I replied. ldquo;What's yours? And don't call me that.rdquo; Harris sighed and seated himself in the only other chair. He was middle-aged and balding, with the soft cheeks of a man who'd never lost his baby fat, just converted it. His uniform was drab brown save for the full moon insignia on the shoulder, and his gut hung over his gun belt as if trying to hide it. ldquo;Jackson, then,rdquo; he said. ldquo;But the observation stands. I heard you got thrown out of O'Meara's last night.rdquo; ldquo;It's still a free city. I can get thrown out of any bar I want.rdquo; И не забудьте: горнолыжные туры Rated R for some strong language and violence. | 12/12/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 186, Giant Episode: Beyond the Sea Gate of the Scholar Pirates of Sarskoe | by Garth Nix. Read by Paul Tevis. Originally appeared in Fast Ships, Black Sails. ldquo;Remind me why the pirates wonrsquo;t sink us with cannon fire at long range,rdquo; said Sir Hereward as he lazed back against the bow of the skiff, his scarlet-sleeved arms trailing far enough over the side to get his twice folded-back cuffs and hands completely drenched, with occasional splashes going down his neck and back as well. He enjoyed the sensation, for the water in these eastern seas was warm, the swell gentle, and the boat was making a good four or five knots, reaching on a twelve knot breeze. ldquo;For the first part, this skiff formerly belonged to Annim Tel, the piratersquo;s agent in Kerebad,rdquo; said Mister Fitz. Despite being only three feet six and a half inches tall and currently lacking even the extra height afforded by his favourite hat, the puppet was easily handling both tiller and main sheet of their small craft. ldquo;For the second part, we are both clad in red, the colour favoured by the pirates of this archipelagic trail, so they will account us as brethren until proven otherwise. For the third part, any decent perspective glass will bring close to their view the chest that lies lashed on the thwart there, and they will want to examine it, rather than blow it to smithereens.rdquo; ldquo;Unless theyrsquo;re drunk, which is highly probable,rdquo; said Hereward cheerfully. Find more about online jewelry store. Rated R for violence, sex. | 12/5/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 185: This Strange Way of Dying | by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. read by Marguerite Croft. Originally appeared in GigaNotoSaurus. Read it here! Georgina met Death when she was ten. The first time she saw him she was reading by her grandmotherrsquo;s bedside. As Georgina tried to pronounce a difficult word, she heard her grandmother groan and looked up. There was a bearded man in a top hat standing by the bed. He wore an orange flower in his buttonhole, the kind Georgina put on the altars on the Day of the Dead. The man smiled at Georgina with eyes made of coal. Her grandmother had warned Georgina about Death and asked her to stand guard and chase it away with a pair of scissors. But Georgina had lost the scissors the day before when she made paper animals with her brother Nuncio. ldquo;Please, please donrsquo;t take my grandmother,rdquo; she said. ldquo;Shersquo;ll be so angry at me if I let her die.rdquo; ldquo;We all die,rdquo; Death said and smiled. ldquo;Do not be sad.rdquo; He leaned down, his long fingers close to grandmotherrsquo;s face. ldquo;Wait! What can I do? What should I do?rdquo; ldquo;Therersquo;s not much you can do.rdquo; ldquo;But I donrsquo;t want grandmother do die yet.rdquo; ldquo;Mmmm,rdquo; said Death tapping his foot and taking out a tiny black notebook. ldquo;Very well. Irsquo;ll spare your grandmother. Seven years in exchange of a promise.rdquo; ldquo;What kind of promise?rdquo; ldquo;Any promise. Promises are like cats. A cat may have stripes, or it may be white and have blue eyes and then it is a deaf cat, or it could be a Siamese cat, but itrsquo;ll always be a cat.rdquo; Georgina looked at Death and Death looked back at her, unblinking. Rated PG. | 11/28/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 184: Black Swan, White Swan | by Eugie Foster Read by Abra Staffin-Wiebe. Originally Appeared in End of an Aeon. Concentric circles lap beneath the dock's wooden planks. A swan floats out, its shining plumage driving the water's void back. "There's a man across the way." The swan fixes Delia with polished onyx eyes. "Sometimes he's a lighthouse and sometimes he's a train, but silence doesn't scare him." Delia stares at the luminous bird. "I don't want a lighthouse or a train," she says. "Sometimes he's a shelter in the rain." Delia studies the ripples that pass through the water's surface in the swan's wake. "Don't shut the door, it puts walls around you." The swan dips its beak. "Call me the ocean, and I'll change with the moon. You look right through me, but I can see the end of the storm." "Stop it." "Across the way there's a man who holds questions without asking. A little peace of heart to guard with a stone wall," the swan says. "Or a piece of heart guarded by stone walls. Let me in, and we can sing for nights." "Go away." The swan warbles, a musical wow-wo-ou. The wild cry startles Delia, and she takes a step back. Her foot catches on a knot jutting from the weathered planks; she unbalances, arms pinwheeling. As she tips into the icy lake, the swan takes wing, arrowing into the sky with a sweep of white feathers. Black arms fold her to a black breast; the cold locks her lungs shut as water weights her limbs. Delia fights the embrace, even as she acknowledges her relief. Rated R for language, sex. | 11/22/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 183: The God-Death of Halla | by Tina Connolly Read by Jen Rhodes (of the Anomaly Podcast)* Originally Published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies. Read it here! Halla got halfway out the window, stolen brooch in hand, and then the dizzies hit. She swore as the world rocked around her. She kicked off the sandstone wall by instinct and thumped to the ground. The gold plate stuffed down her shift knocked her ribs and all her breath whooshed out. She gasped like a fish in the humid air. Voices. Halla stumbled over the cut stone and clover of the landownerrsquo;s garden. Her breath rushed back with loud wheezes and she flung herself into the ubiquitous bamboo groves dividing one house from the next. A bamboo leaf sucked into her mouth and she spat. Once her family had been guests at this very house. Her father, one of the elite liaisons between the landowners and the holy, had been deeply honored...and feared. Halla had sat on that very bit of stone in a starched white shift, praying that she wouldnrsquo;t disgrace herself. But that was ten years ago and several classes above. That memory wouldnrsquo;t save her fingers if she were caught this morning. The landowner was a heavy woman, whose flesh swung through the gaps in her chiton as she thudded around the side of the house. Two maids trailed her. ldquo;I heard someone!rdquo; she panted. ldquo;Search the house!rdquo; Rated PG. Contains violence and God-Deaths. *Jen Rhodes is one of the hosts of Anomaly, an award winning sci-fi and fantasy podcast. Jen and her co-host Angela, have two goals for every episode they produce; to have fun and to offer a feminine perspective on all things geek. Recently, Anomaly has evolved into a community comprising two shows (Anomaly and Anomaly Supplemental), a successful blog, and a growing forum. You can find them online at anomalypodcast.com. | 11/14/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 182: 起狮，行礼 (Rising Lion — The Lion Bows) | by Zen Cho. Read by Tracey Yuen. Originally appeared in Strange Horizons. Coco had been with the troupe for six years. She had never been their official president because she preferred not to deal with technicalities; it gave her more time to actually lead the troupe. "Are Mr. and Mrs. Yu around?" she said. It was Mr. Yu who had emailed them to ask if they would perform at a Christmas party that was being held at his hotel. It was a new hotel and this was the first big event they were hosting, so he was willing to pay them a generous fee. They had agreed that the troupe would perform before and after dinner. There were also going to be fireworks, and a disco. Sensibly, Mr. Yu and Mrs. Yu had stayed indoors, but they were very hospitable when the cold dishevelled troupe poured into the lobby. "We've got Chinese food, Chinese decorations, lanterns, fireworks," said Nick. "It's all been done up to theme. The company does a lot of business out in China, so they were very keen when we suggested a China night. When we heard about you we thought, well, that's ideal! We're so pleased you could make it all the way out here." "Very pleased," said Mr. Yu in English. In Cantonese, he said: "_The ghost is in the upstairs cupboard._" "Thank you, we're looking forward to it," said Coco to Nick. To Mr. Yu: "_What kind of ghost is it?_" Mr. Yu hesitated. Rated PG. | 11/8/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 181: Still Small Voice | by Ben Burgis. Read by David Rees-Thomas. A PodCastle Original! Jack slipped on his invisibility shawl as he entered the cafeacute;. Henry sat at a table by himself, reading a handsomely leather-bound book. A few patrons looked up at the sound of the door opening and closing, then turned back to their business when they saw no one there. Under his cloak, Jack luxuriated in the artificial cool of the cafeacute;. Outside, it was a sweltering summer day, the kind of day that felt like all five of the Gods had lit five flames behind the clouds and the heat from those flames drowned out even the heat of the suns. It was the kind of day when even the wild dragons stayed out of the sky. Inside, it felt cool as autumn. The heating and cooling control of the Islandrsquo;s cafes and taverns, half-magic and half-mechanical, were one of the things Jack had almost forgotten to miss in his years in the West. Henry turned the pages of his book, running his finger over the lines in a picture of intent fascination. Jack sat down across from him. Henry looked up, then shook his head and went back to the book. Jack giggled. Henry looked up again. He closed his book, placed it ever so gently on the table and stood up. Jack forced himself to be quiet. Henry glanced to the left and then to the right, his lips set in a frown of deep suspicion. Then, at last, Jack took pity on the man and pulled off his shawl. Henry staggered back. His chair clattered to the floor. Patrons at other tables turned to stare. Jack doubled over with laughter. ldquo;So.rdquo; Henry picked up the chair and, with a show of dignity, sat back down. ldquo;I take it this is one of the Western marvels you wrote me about?rdquo; ldquo;It is.rdquo; Jack folded the shawl as he spoke. Henry stared at him. ldquo;How are you doing that? Can you see it?rdquo; ldquo;Not a bit. I can feel it. If you stare at the damn thing for long enough, you can make out a sort of outline, but I find itrsquo;s best to remember where you left it.rdquo; Rated R for profanity, sex. | 11/1/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 180: We Were Wonder Scouts | by Will Ludwigsen. Read by Christopher Reynaga. Originally appeared in Asimov's Science Fiction. My parents, Father especially, had little interest in the imagination. ldquo;Why would you read things that someone else made up?rdquo; he always wanted to know. We had no books of fiction in the house or a radio, and I didnrsquo;t have many toys. What I had was Thuria, and it was better. In the shadowy crawlspace beneath my house where only I could fit, I built a kingdom out of discarded sardine tins, thread spools, and cereal boxes. A wide boulevard wound between four hills to a colander capitol dome. There, King Wemnon and his twenty wise councilors benevolently discussed and executed their national affairs. Sometimes they called the men to arms to repel giant invading animals, usually the neighborrsquo;s cats. Often, they built elaborate fortifications along the frontier to defend against the evil Count Pappen and his massing armies. At least once, they sent lone heroes across the dusty wasteland to rescue poor Princess Annabella from the Tower of Eternal Woe. A strange sensation of stretched time would overtake me when I visited Thuria, started by a sort of whispering trance, and I could perform whole epochs of its development in just a few stolen moments before dinner. Have you ever felt that way? Itrsquo;s a feeling of total absorption, the kind that seems to hum and fizz against the edges of your brain. Rated PG. | 10/24/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle Miniature 66: The Witch’s Second Daughter | by Marissa K. Lingen Read by Jen Rhodes (ofnbsp; the Anomaly Podcast) Originally published in Andromeda Spaceways #49. The flowers of the forest outside the witch's cottage bloomed black, with little shiny purple leaves. nbsp;The villagers tried to say the blossoms themselves were deep purple, not a true black, but Garren was the second daughter of a witch, schooled from birth that she must never, never call things what she knew they were not. Telven, Garren's older sister, had the other half of the witch's training, and that was to always, always call things what she knew they were not. nbsp;Telven called an carven oak a man and made of him a husband, who was solid and dependable though not, perhaps, as swift as some. nbsp;She called a cave a home, and made it cozy and neat, though she could not keep cheese in it more than two days for the mold. nbsp;She called their mother wise and listened to her council. The way of the second daughter was harder. Rated PG. | 10/23/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 179: The Gateway of the Monster (Featuring Carnacki) | by William Hope Hodgson. Read by Paul S. Jenkins. Originally published in The Idler, January 1910. "Two days later, I drove to the house, late in the afternoon. I found it a very old place, standing quite alone in its own grounds. Anderson had left a letter with the butler, I found, pleading excuses for his absence, and leaving the whole house at my disposal for my investigations. The butler evidently knew the object of my visit, and I questioned him pretty thoroughly during dinner, which I had in rather lonely state. He is an old and privileged servant, and had the history of the Grey Room exact in detail. From him I learned more particulars regarding two things that Anderson had mentioned in but a casual manner. The first was that the door of the Grey Room would be heard in the dead of night to open, and slam heavily, and this even though the butler knew it was locked, and the key on the bunch in his pantry. The second was that the bedclothes would always be found torn off the bed, and hurled in a heap into a corner. "But it was the door slamming that chiefly bothered the old butler. Many and many a time, he told me, had he lain awake and just got shivering with fright, listening; for sometimes the door would be slammed time after time - thud! thud! thud! - so that sleep was impossible. "From Anderson, I knew already that the room had a history extending back over a hundred and fifty years. Three people had been strangled in it - an ancestor of his and his wife and child. This is authentic, as I had taken very great pains to discover, so that you can imagine it was with a feeling that I had a striking case to investigate, that I went upstairs after dinner to have a look at the Grey Room. "Peter, the old butler, was in rather a state about my going, and assured me with much solemnity that in all the twenty years of his service, no one had ever entered that room after nightfall. He begged me, in quite a fatherly way, to wait till the morning, when there would be no danger, and then he could accompany me himself. "Of course, I smiled a little at him, and told him not to bother. I explained that I should do no more than look around a bit, and perhaps affix a few seals. He need not fear; I was used to that sort of thing. But he shook his head, when I said that. "'There isn't many ghosts like ours, sir,' he assured me, with mournful pride. And, by Jove! he was right, as you will see. " Rated R. | 10/17/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 178, Giant Episode: Braiding the Ghosts | By C.S.E. Cooney Read by Kara Grace Originally published in Clockwork Phoenix 3. That first year, when Nin was eight, she wanted her mother so desperately. But Noir was dead, she was dead, and would always be dead, thanks to Reshka. Reshka liked to say, ldquo;Irsquo;m not above keeping ghosts in the house for handmaids and men-of-all-work. There must be ghosts for sweeping, for scrubbing, ghosts for plunging the toilets or repairing the roof, ghosts to fix the swamp cooler and to wash and dry the dishes. But,rdquo; said Reshka, ldquo;but I will be damnedmdash;I will be damned and in hell and dancing for the Devilmdash;before I summon any daughter of mine from the grave.rdquo; So Reshka had Noir cremated three days after her death. Afterward, she prepared the funeral feast in Noir and Ninrsquo;s small apartment kitchen. Rated R: Contains Some Disturbing Imagery and Sex. | 10/10/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
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PodCastle 177: The Fall of the House of Usher | by Edgar Allan Poe Read by Eric Luke (of the Extruding America podcast) DURING the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country ; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was - but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable ; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me - upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain - upon the bleak walls - upon the vacant eye-like windows - upon a few rank sedges - and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees - with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium - the bitter lapse into everyday life - the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart - an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it - I paused to think - what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher ? It was a mystery all insoluble ; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression ; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down - but with a shudder even more thrilling than before - upon the remodelled and inverted images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows. Rated PG. | 10/4/11 | Free | View In iTunes |
| Total: 40 Episodes |
Customer Reviews
PodCastle Defied Expectations
When I first heard that Escape Artists were going to launch PodCastle I was dubious. I'm more of a scifi guy and fantasy just isn't my bag. Plus, some of the fantasy stories that made it on to Escape Pod turned me off. I just wasn't all that excited about PodCastle. Until I heard the first story, that is. Lady Death had me riveted in it's elegance and suspense. If PodCastle can keep putting out yarns of that caliber then I'm in for the long haul!
honestly not impressed
I am an avid fan of escape pod and pseudo pod and when i knew that this was supposed to come out i was excited. But 10 episodes in i must say that i don't like this. out of the 10 main stories so far there has been at least 3 which i didn't bother to finish and didn't care. the sound quality is awful, there is something wrong with it, it sounds brassy and hollow. also the babble before each podcast seems too self important and rambling...i was hoping it gets better but honestly i am losing that hope
Great Job! I Really Enjoy
I love fantasy of all kinds, and can honestly say that I have yet to find a story here I have not liked at least a little, and have found several I loved well enough to burn audio CDs for the car (those being #1, Come Lady Death, #11, Fourteen Experiments in Postal Delivery, and #14, The Grand Cheat, just so far). I also love Escape Pod, but some of their stories are a bit... dark... for my "happily ever after" soul. Still, though, keep up the great work!
