Podcasts about Fantasy Magazine

This week, LP, Sameem and Wil talk to Shingai and Arley Sorg about bringing Fantasy Magazine back, building community, and more! Links mentioned during the show: Fantasy Magazine Arley Sorg Sameem Siddiqui –Twitter –Website Shingai Njeri Kagunda –Twitter –Instagram –Voodoonauts Support the Show: Patreon Kofi Indie Bound Contact us! JustKeepWriting.org Discord Facebook Instagram YouTube Marshall: Website: www.marshallcarr.com Email: marshall@marshallcarr.com  Twitter: @darthpops  Nick:  Website: www.brightinks.org Email: nicholasbright@brightinks.org  Twitter: @BrightInks Wil:  Email: wil@justkeepwriting.org  Instagram: @wilsartrules Brent:  Twitter: @BrentCLambert www.brentclambert.com  LP:  Email: lpkindred@wandering.shop Twitter: @LPKindred Linktr.ee/lpkindred  Now, just keep writing!

In the hills of Sparta, Tennessee, during the early nineties, Helen decides to break free from the life that stifles her: marriage, motherhood, the monotonous duties of a Southern housewife. But leaving isn't the same thing as staying gone... Rooted in a lush natural landscape, this stunning poetry collection explores Helen's isolation and rebellion as her expansive personality clashes with the social rigidity of her small town. In richly layered poems with settings that range from football games to Chuck E. Cheese to the bathroom of a Motel 6, Helen enters adulthood as a disaffected homemaker grasping for agency. She marries the wrong man, gives birth to a child she is not ready to parent, and embarks on an affair that throws her life into chaos. But she never surrenders ownership of her story or her choices, insisting to the reader: "if you never owned a bone-sharp biography... / i don't want to hear it. i want you silent. / i want you listening to me." Blurring the line between mythology and modernity, Helen of Troy, 1993 is an unforgettable collection that shows the Homeric Helen like she's never been seen before. Maria Zoccola is a queer Southern writer and educator from Memphis, Tennessee. Maria has worked and written for nonprofits both big and small, and from 2017-2021 managed Deep Center's Young Author Project in Savannah, Georgia, a program embedding creative writing workshops within the Savannah–Chatham County Public School System and serving 400 young people annually. Maria's fiction and poetry can be found in such venues as Ploughshares, Fantasy Magazine, the Kenyon Review, ZYZZYVA, Electric Literature's The Commuter, and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated Best Small Fictions and Best New Poets, has been a finalist for Best of the Net, and has received a special mention for the Pushcart Prize. Recommended Books: Alice Oswald, Memorial Rita Dove, Motherlove Ellen Bryant Voigt, Kyrie  Chris Holmes is Chair of Literatures in English and Associate Professor at Ithaca College. He writes criticism on contemporary global literatures. His book, Kazuo Ishiguro Against World Literature, is published with Bloomsbury Publishing. He is the co-director of The New Voices Festival, a celebration of work in poetry, prose, and playwriting by up-and-coming young writers. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

In the hills of Sparta, Tennessee, during the early nineties, Helen decides to break free from the life that stifles her: marriage, motherhood, the monotonous duties of a Southern housewife. But leaving isn't the same thing as staying gone... Rooted in a lush natural landscape, this stunning poetry collection explores Helen's isolation and rebellion as her expansive personality clashes with the social rigidity of her small town. In richly layered poems with settings that range from football games to Chuck E. Cheese to the bathroom of a Motel 6, Helen enters adulthood as a disaffected homemaker grasping for agency. She marries the wrong man, gives birth to a child she is not ready to parent, and embarks on an affair that throws her life into chaos. But she never surrenders ownership of her story or her choices, insisting to the reader: "if you never owned a bone-sharp biography... / i don't want to hear it. i want you silent. / i want you listening to me." Blurring the line between mythology and modernity, Helen of Troy, 1993 is an unforgettable collection that shows the Homeric Helen like she's never been seen before. Maria Zoccola is a queer Southern writer and educator from Memphis, Tennessee. Maria has worked and written for nonprofits both big and small, and from 2017-2021 managed Deep Center's Young Author Project in Savannah, Georgia, a program embedding creative writing workshops within the Savannah–Chatham County Public School System and serving 400 young people annually. Maria's fiction and poetry can be found in such venues as Ploughshares, Fantasy Magazine, the Kenyon Review, ZYZZYVA, Electric Literature's The Commuter, and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated Best Small Fictions and Best New Poets, has been a finalist for Best of the Net, and has received a special mention for the Pushcart Prize. Recommended Books: Alice Oswald, Memorial Rita Dove, Motherlove Ellen Bryant Voigt, Kyrie  Chris Holmes is Chair of Literatures in English and Associate Professor at Ithaca College. He writes criticism on contemporary global literatures. His book, Kazuo Ishiguro Against World Literature, is published with Bloomsbury Publishing. He is the co-director of The New Voices Festival, a celebration of work in poetry, prose, and playwriting by up-and-coming young writers. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/new-books-network

In the hills of Sparta, Tennessee, during the early nineties, Helen decides to break free from the life that stifles her: marriage, motherhood, the monotonous duties of a Southern housewife. But leaving isn't the same thing as staying gone... Rooted in a lush natural landscape, this stunning poetry collection explores Helen's isolation and rebellion as her expansive personality clashes with the social rigidity of her small town. In richly layered poems with settings that range from football games to Chuck E. Cheese to the bathroom of a Motel 6, Helen enters adulthood as a disaffected homemaker grasping for agency. She marries the wrong man, gives birth to a child she is not ready to parent, and embarks on an affair that throws her life into chaos. But she never surrenders ownership of her story or her choices, insisting to the reader: "if you never owned a bone-sharp biography... / i don't want to hear it. i want you silent. / i want you listening to me." Blurring the line between mythology and modernity, Helen of Troy, 1993 is an unforgettable collection that shows the Homeric Helen like she's never been seen before. Maria Zoccola is a queer Southern writer and educator from Memphis, Tennessee. Maria has worked and written for nonprofits both big and small, and from 2017-2021 managed Deep Center's Young Author Project in Savannah, Georgia, a program embedding creative writing workshops within the Savannah–Chatham County Public School System and serving 400 young people annually. Maria's fiction and poetry can be found in such venues as Ploughshares, Fantasy Magazine, the Kenyon Review, ZYZZYVA, Electric Literature's The Commuter, and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated Best Small Fictions and Best New Poets, has been a finalist for Best of the Net, and has received a special mention for the Pushcart Prize. Recommended Books: Alice Oswald, Memorial Rita Dove, Motherlove Ellen Bryant Voigt, Kyrie  Chris Holmes is Chair of Literatures in English and Associate Professor at Ithaca College. He writes criticism on contemporary global literatures. His book, Kazuo Ishiguro Against World Literature, is published with Bloomsbury Publishing. He is the co-director of The New Voices Festival, a celebration of work in poetry, prose, and playwriting by up-and-coming young writers. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/literature

In the hills of Sparta, Tennessee, during the early nineties, Helen decides to break free from the life that stifles her: marriage, motherhood, the monotonous duties of a Southern housewife. But leaving isn't the same thing as staying gone... Rooted in a lush natural landscape, this stunning poetry collection explores Helen's isolation and rebellion as her expansive personality clashes with the social rigidity of her small town. In richly layered poems with settings that range from football games to Chuck E. Cheese to the bathroom of a Motel 6, Helen enters adulthood as a disaffected homemaker grasping for agency. She marries the wrong man, gives birth to a child she is not ready to parent, and embarks on an affair that throws her life into chaos. But she never surrenders ownership of her story or her choices, insisting to the reader: "if you never owned a bone-sharp biography... / i don't want to hear it. i want you silent. / i want you listening to me." Blurring the line between mythology and modernity, Helen of Troy, 1993 is an unforgettable collection that shows the Homeric Helen like she's never been seen before. Maria Zoccola is a queer Southern writer and educator from Memphis, Tennessee. Maria has worked and written for nonprofits both big and small, and from 2017-2021 managed Deep Center's Young Author Project in Savannah, Georgia, a program embedding creative writing workshops within the Savannah–Chatham County Public School System and serving 400 young people annually. Maria's fiction and poetry can be found in such venues as Ploughshares, Fantasy Magazine, the Kenyon Review, ZYZZYVA, Electric Literature's The Commuter, and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated Best Small Fictions and Best New Poets, has been a finalist for Best of the Net, and has received a special mention for the Pushcart Prize. Recommended Books: Alice Oswald, Memorial Rita Dove, Motherlove Ellen Bryant Voigt, Kyrie  Chris Holmes is Chair of Literatures in English and Associate Professor at Ithaca College. He writes criticism on contemporary global literatures. His book, Kazuo Ishiguro Against World Literature, is published with Bloomsbury Publishing. He is the co-director of The New Voices Festival, a celebration of work in poetry, prose, and playwriting by up-and-coming young writers. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/poetry

Since coming through Clarion West in 2005, Cat Rambo's 300+ fiction publications have included stories in Asimov's, Clarkesworld Magazine, and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and frequently appear in year's best of collections. They work across genre, writing literary, thriller, science fiction, slipstream, fantasy, magic realism, historical, and humor with fluid ease, making them one of the leaders in American story writing. In 2013, Rambo's short story, “Five Ways to Fall in Love on Planet Porcelain” was a Nebula nominee and 2020 Rambo won the Nebula Award for their fantasy novelette Carpe Glitter, published by Meerkat Press. They have edited several anthologies as well as Fantasy Magazine, and received a World Fantasy Award nomination for their work with the latter. They have also written the writing book Moving from Idea to Finished Draft and co-edited Ad Astra: The SFWA 50th Anniversary Cookbook.A frequent reader for podcasts, Rambo is part of the team behind the If This Goes On (Don't Panic) podcast, and has worked with it since its beginning in 2020. They are a former two-term President of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA) and continue to work with the organization as a mentor. Their most recent work is space opera Rumor Has It (Tor Macmillan, 2024); upcoming in 2025 is Wings of Tabat (Wordfire).For more about Cat, as well as links to fiction and popular online school, The Rambo Academy for Wayward Writers, see their website at catrambo.com 

Cat Rambo lives, writes, and edits in the American Midwest. Their work has appeared in such places as Asimov's, Weird Tales, and Strange Horizons. They were the fiction editor of award-winning Fantasy Magazine (http://www.fantasy-magazine.com) and appeared on the World Fantasy Award ballot in 2012 for that work. Their story "Five Ways to Fall in Love on Planet Porcelain" was a 2012 Nebula Award finalist. John Barth described Cat Rambo's writings as "works of urban mythopoeia" -- their stories take place in a universe where chickens aid the lovelorn, Death is just another face on the train, and Bigfoot gives interviews to the media on a daily basis. They has worked as a programmer-writer for Microsoft and a Tarot card reader, professions which, they claim, both involve a certain combination of technical knowledge and willingness to go with the flow. In 2005 she attended the Clarion West Writers' Workshop.

Thank you for listening to Write On! Audio, the podcast for writers everywhere brought to you by Pen to Print  Our August writing tips are from writers nominated for the Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize and are introduced by the Prize manager at the Wilbur and Niso Smith Foundation, Charlotte Maddox  The Wilbur & Niso Smith Foundation is a charitable organisation established in 2015 by the late bestselling author Wilbur Smith and his wife, Niso. The Foundation empowers writers, promotes literacy and advances adventure writing as a genre, working to uplift, inspire and educate writers and readers of all ages across the world. The Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize is their flagship programme, and is a global prize that supports and celebrates the best adventure writing today.  You can find out more about the Prize here: https://www.wilbur-niso-smithfoundation.org/awards/intro and can follow them on Instagram here: https://www.instagram.com/adventurewritingprize/   C.E. McGill was born in Scotland and raised in North Carolina. Their fiction has appeared in Fantasy Magazine and Strange Constellations, and they are a two-time finalist for the Dell Magazines Award for Undergraduate Excellence in Science Fiction and Fantasy Writing. Visit Charlie's website here: https://cemcgill.com/  Leo Vardiashvili came to London with his family as a refugee from Georgia when he was twelve years old. He studied English Literature at Queen Mary, University of London. Hard By A Great Forest is his first novel. Follow Leo https://twitter.com/L_Vardiashvili  Francesca de Tores is a novelist, poet and academic. She grew up in Lutruwita/Tasmania and, after fifteen years in England, now lives in Naarm/Melbourne. Francesca is the author of four previous novels and a collection of poems. Saltblood is her first historical novel. Visit Francesca's website here: https://francescahaig.com/    We're always delighted to read your contributions so if you'd like to see your words in Write on! or hear them on this podcast please get in touch. Please submit to: https://pentoprint.org/get-involved/submit-to-write-on/  Thank you for listening to Write On! Audio. This edition has been presented by Tiffany Clare and produced by Chris Gregory.  Write On! Audio is an Alternative Stories production for Pen to Print.  This podcast is produced using public funding from Arts Council England

“Dreams in Her Hair” by Addison Smith Manawaker’s Patreon: https://patreon.com/manawaker/ Manawaker books: https://payhip.com/Manawaker More info / Contact CB Droege: https://cbdroege.taplink.ws Author Bio: Addison Smith (he/him) has blood made of cold brew and flesh made of chocolate. His fiction has appeared in Fantasy Magazine, Fireside Magazine, and Daily Science Fiction, among others. Addison is a member of the Codex Writers Group and you can find him on Bluesky @addisoncs.bsky.social

Eliza Chan is a Scottish-born speculative fiction author. Her short fiction has been published in The Dark, Podcastle, Fantasy Magazine and The Best of British Fantasy. Her debut novel FATHOMFOLK — inspired by mythology, ESEAN cities and diaspora feels — was published by Orbit in Feb 2024 and hit number 1 on the Sunday Times bestseller list.We had a great chat with Eliza, talking about the differences in writing short- and long-form fiction, as well as the growing acceptance of wider representation in publishing. Plus, we talk about why Twitter isn't all bad (!) and hear about hopping vampires...Links:Buy Fathomfolk nowFollow Eliza on Twitter/XVisit Eliza's websiteThe Submission GrinderPage One - The Writer's Podcast is brought to you by Write Gear, creators of Page One - the Writer's Notebook. Learn more and order yours now: https://www.writegear.co.uk/page-oneFollow us on Twitter/XFollow us on FacebookFollow us on InstagramFollow us on BlueskyFollow us on Threads Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Episode 21: Stephen King This episode was recorded on February 8, 2024 and posted on March 9, 2024. Content Warning: Light vulgarity.  Introduction Welcome to No Bodies Episode 21 Introductions to your Ghosts Hosts with the Most - Lonely of Lonely Horror Club and Projectile Varmint aka Suzie Introductions to our guests Tom from Reviews by Tom Today's Topic: Stephen King Discussion on Stephen King's Impact Defining King's impact horror literature, cinema, and community  This Week's Coroner's Report What was your first experience with Stephen King's work? Do you have a favorite King adaptation?  Film Discussion The Stephen King Metaverse + the “shine” The Shining (1980) The Green Mile (1999) Doctor Sleep (2019) King's Controversy - Depictions of Women in Works by King Carrie (1976) Misery (1990) Dolores Claiborne (1995) Gerald's Game (2017) Childhood & Fear - Use of Children as Protagonists & Antagonists  It (1990) + It (2017) Worst & Best Representations of Stephen King Adaptations Spoilers ahead! Worst Riding the Bullet (2004) - Tom & Suzie Firestarter (1984) & 1922 (2017) - Lonely Best Cujo (1983) - Tom Pet Sematary (1989) & Salem's Lot (1979) - Lonely 1408 (2007) - Suzie Suzie's Deep Cuts Includes films with under 5k ratings on IMDB.  Lisey's Story (2021) Closing Thoughts What piece of the Stephen King resume would you want to see made or remade in the coming years? Thank you to our guest! Follow Tom on Instagram at @reviews_by_tom!  Keep Up with Your Hosts Check out our instagram antics and drop a follow @nobodieshorrorpodcast.  Take part in our new audience engagement challenge - The Coroner's Report! Comment, share, or interact with any Coroner's Report post on our socials to be featured in an upcoming episode.  Projectile Varmint - keep up with Suzie's film musings on Instagram @projectile__varmint Lonely - read more from Lonely and keep up with her filmstagram chaos @lonelyhorrorclub on Instagram and www.lonelyhorrorclub.com. Original No Bodies Theme music by Jacob Pini. Need music? Find Jacob on Instagram at @jacob.pini for rates and tell him No Bodies sent you!  Leave us a message at (617) 431-4322‬ and we just might answer you on the show! Sources Ahlin, C. (2017, October 24). Stephen King's books are all connected to each other, and it's honestly terrifying. Bustle. https://www.bustle.com/p/stephen-kings-books-are-all-connected-to-each-other-its-honestly-terrifying-2947873 Breznican, A. (2017, September 12). How Stephen King scared a generation of storytellers into existence. EW.com. https://ew.com/movies/2017/09/12/stephen-king-influence-filmmakers-horror-genre/ Deininger, K. (2020, July 3). Stephen King Theory: Every character that has the shine.  ScreenRant. https://screenrant.com/stephen-king-universe-every-character-shine-powers/ Hoppe, C. (2019, December 22). Why Stephen King loves writing child characters. ScreenRant. https://screenrant.com/stephen-king-books-child-characters-reason/#:~:text=King%20loves%20to%20write%20about,his%20creation%20of%20predatory%20antagonists. Lombardi, E., Lombardi, E., & Lombardi, E. (2023, May 28). The influence of Stephen King on modern horror literature. A Book Geek. https://www.abookgeek.com/influence-stephen-king/#:~:text=Stephen%20King's%20writing%20style%20has,to%20follow%20in%20his%20footsteps. Romano, A. (2018, October 10). Stephen King: A guide to his horror, his history, and his legacy. Vox.https://www.vox.com/culture/2017/8/4/16066180/stephen-king-themes-cultural-influence-explained Stephen King Multiverse. (n.d.). Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Multiverse_(Stephen_King) The 15 best Stephen King movie adaptations. (2023, February 6). Empire. https://www.empireonline.com/movies/features/best-stephen-king-movies/ Walsh, A. (2019, August 8). The Women of Stephen King: the Good, the Bad, and the Best. Medium. https://medium.com/legendary-women/the-women-of-stephen-king-the-good-the-bad-and-the-best-9feab00c6604 Wikipedia contributors. (2024a, March 2). List of highest-grossing horror films. Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_highest-grossing_horror_films Wikipedia contributors. (2024b, March 2). Stephen King. Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_King Yant, C. (2021, November 19). All the King's Women: the Fats - Fantasy Magazine. Fantasy Magazine. https://www.fantasy-magazine.com/fm/non-fiction/all-the-kings-women-the-fats/  

Join authors Michael R. Miller, Ryan Cahill, Philip C. Quaintrell, J.A. Andrews and M. H. Ayinde for the final FanFiAddict author roundtable of 2023! During the discussion, these five talented authors share their takes on WHY CLASSIC FANTASY STILL RESONATES, delving into how classic fantasy can be defined, why both writers and readers connect so strongly with the genre, secondary worlds, story stakes and more. This is the tenth edition of our monthly AUTHOR ROUNDTABLE series, where we bring a handful of authors together to discuss a topic related to SF/F/H, writing craft, publishing and more. SUPPORT THE SHOW: - ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Patreon⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (for exclusive bonus episodes, author readings, book giveaways and more) - ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Merch shop⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (for a selection of tees, tote bags, mugs, notebooks and more) - Subscribe to the ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠FanFiAddict YouTube channel⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠, where this and every other episode of the show is available in full video - Rate and review SFF Addicts on your platform of choice, and share us with your friends EMAIL US WITH YOUR QUESTIONS & COMMENTS: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠sffaddictspod@gmail.com⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ABOUT THE PANELISTS: Michael R. Miller is the author of the Songs of Chaos series, The Dragon's Blade Trilogy and more. Find Michael on ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Twitter⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠, ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Amazon⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ and ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠his personal website⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Ryan Cahill is the author of the epic fantasy series The Bound and the Broken series, including Of Blood and Fire, Of Darkness and Light, Of War and Ruin, The Fall and The Exile. Find Ryan on ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Twitter⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠, ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Amazon⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ and ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠his personal website⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Philip C. Quaintrell is the author of The Echoes Saga epic fantasy series, as well as the Terran Cycle sci-fi series. Find Philip on ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Twitter⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠, ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Amazon⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ and ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠his personal website⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ J.A. Andrews is the author of The Keeper Chronicles series, The Keeper Origins series and more. Find J.A. on ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Twitter⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠, ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Amazon⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ and ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠her personal website⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ M. H. Ayinde is the author of A Song of Legends Lost, her debut novel and the first in an epic fantasy trilogy (releasing Spring 2025). Her short fiction has appeared in FIYAH Literary Magazine, F&SF, Fantasy Magazine, and elsewhere. Find M. H. on ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Twitter⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ and ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠her personal website⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ FOLLOW SFF ADDICTS: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠FanFiAddict Book Blog⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Twitter⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ MUSIC: Intro: "⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Into The Grid⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠" by MellauSFX Outro: “⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Galactic Synthwave⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠” by Divion --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/sff-addicts/message

Something was tapping on the window. Blowing up against the pane, again and again. Carried by the wind. Tapping faintly, insistently. Lori, sitting on the couch, pretended not to hear. She gripped her book tightly and turned a page. The tapping came again, louder, and more imperative. It could not be ignored. Of Withered Apples by Philip K. Dick, that's next on The Lost Sci-Fi Podcast, with at least one lost vintage sci-fi short story in every episode. I received an email recently asking why I read reviews on the podcast. The answer is simple, it's my way of publicly saying thank you for taking the time and effort to write a review for us. It means a lot to me when I read your review. And if I knew the names of all 57 of you, so far, who have rated us on Spotify I'd read those too. By the way our rating on Spotify is 4.9, probably 4.98 if they added a decimal point, and on Apple podcasts it's 4.99! Thank you!! Our most recent review on Apple Podcasts comes to us from RLVader who says, “The Best Sci-fi podcast to date! I have listened to every sci-fi podcast I can find. This is by far the best and most consistent one I have come across. Great selection of stories and superb narration.” Wow! Thanks RLVader. We've showcased Philip K. Dick more than any other author on the podcast. Why? Because you keep asking for more PKD and the episodes with a Philip K. Dick story are among the most listened to episodes we have.“Of Withered Apples” appeared in Cosmos Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine. If that publication doesn't ring a bell, well, it's because there were only four issues. From the July 1954 issue let's turn to page 21 for “Of Withered Apples” by Philip K. Dick… Next week on The Lost Sci-Fi Podcast, the follow-up to “The Stainless Steel Rat”, It might seem a little careless to lose track of something as big as a battleship... but interstellar space is on a different scale of magnitude. But a misplaced battleship—in the wrong hands!—can be most dangerous. The Misplaced Battleship by Harry Harrison. That's next week on The Lost Sci-Fi Podcast, with at least one lost vintage sci-fi short story in every episode.Support the show

"The Chuckler" is a short story by Donald Wandrei. The tale, inspired by Lovecraft's "The Statement of Randolph Carter", first appeared in Fantasy Magazine in its September 1934 edition.

"Thirteen Phantasms" is a short story by Clark Ashton Smith. The work, which first appeared in the March 1936 edition of The Fantasy Magazine, tells of a series of strange visions that torment a sick man.

Authors : C.L. Moore and Forrest J Ackerman Narrator : Rish Outfield Host : Wilson Fowlie Audio Producer : Chelsea Davis Discuss on Forums “Nymph of Darkness” was originally published in Fantasy Magazine, April 1935 Afflicted Season Two Fundraiser Nymph Of Darkness By C.L. Moore & Forrest J. Ackerman The thick Venusian dark of the […]

Hard Memory ep.625 Someone is hacking neural implants and the only clue is their last memory.   Addison Smith (he/him) is an author and laborer living in Upstate New York, where he spends most of his time at libraries. He is a member of the Codex Writers Group, and his fiction has appeared in Fantasy Magazine, Fireside Magazine, and other publications. You can find him on Twitter @AddisonCSmith.    ---- Listen Elsewhere ---- YouTube:  https://www.youtube.com/c/TallTaleTV Website: http://www.TallTaleTV.com   ---- Story Submission ---- Got a short story you'd like to submit? Submission guidelines can be found at http://www.TallTaleTV.com   ---- About Tall Tale TV ---- Hi there! My name is Chris Herron and I'm an audiobook narrator. In 2015, I suffered from poor Type 1 diabetes control which lead me to become legally blind for almost a year. The doctors didn't give me much hope, predicting an 80% chance that I would never see again. But I refused to give up and changed my lifestyle drastically. Through sheer willpower (and an amazing eye surgeon) I beat the odds and regained my vision. During that difficult time, I couldn't read or write, which was devastating as they had always been a source of comfort for me since childhood. However, my wife took me to the local library where she read out the titles of audiobooks to me. I selected some of my favorite books, such as the Disc World series, Name of the Wind, Harry Potter, and more, and the audiobooks brought these stories to life in a way I had never experienced before. They helped me through the darkest period of my life and I fell in love with audiobooks. Once I regained my vision, I decided to pursue a career as an audiobook narrator instead of a writer. That's why I created Tall Tale TV, to support aspiring authors in the writing communities that I had grown to love before my ordeal. My goal was to help them promote their work by providing a promotional audio short story that showcases their writing skills to readers. They say the strongest form of advertising is word of mouth, so I offer a platform for readers to share these videos and help spread the word about these talented writers. Please consider sharing these stories with your friends and family to support these amazing authors. Thank you!   ---- legal ---- All stories on Tall Tale TV have been submitted in accordance with the terms of service provided on http://www.talltaletv.com or obtained with permission by the author. All images used on Tall Tale TV are either original or Royalty and Attribution free. Most stock images used are provided by http://www.pixabay.com , https://www.canstockphoto.com/ or created using AI. Image attribution will be declared only when required by the copyright owner. Common Affiliates are: Amazon, Smashwords

Alex Jennings is a writer/editor/teacher/poet living in New Orleans. He was born in Wiesbaden (Germany) and raised in Gaborone (Botswana), Tunis (Tunisia), Paramaribo (Surinam) and the United States. He constantly devours pop culture and writes mostly jokes on Twitter (@magicknegro). He loves music, film, comix, and even some TV. He is the Program Director of DreamFoundry's Con or Bust and pens a regular speculative poetry review column in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction called “Chapter and Verse.” In 2022, he was the inaugural recipient of the Imagination Unbound Fellowship at Under the Volcano, a guided writing retreat held annually in Tepoztlan, Mexico.His writing has appeared in Fantastic Stories of the Imagination, Electric Velocipede, Uncanny Magazine, Fantasy Magazine, New Suns, and Current Affairs, among other venues. His debut novel, The Ballad of Perilous Graves is available wherever books are sold. You can find him goofing around on Instagram: (@magicknegro) He is also an instructor of fiction and popular fiction at The University of Southern Maine's Stonecoast MFA program .Creators & Guests Rob Lee - Host ALEX JENNINGS - Guest Rob Lee & The Truth in This Art present "Black Cinema Series"April 26 at 5:30pm for more information and to secure ticketsMay 25 at 5:30pmfor more information and to secure ticketsJune 22 at 5:30pmfor more information and to secure tickets To support the The Truth In This Art: Buy Me Ko-fiUse the hashtag #thetruthinthisartFollow The Truth in This Art on InstagramLeave a review on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts. ★ Support this podcast ★

El presente relato corto ganó el premio Nébula del año 2014 . En realidad, no estamos ante un cuento estrictamente de ciencia ficción, ni siquiera es fantástico… o tal vez sí, pero al margen de su adscripción genérica se trata de una bellísima historia de amor ❤️ —casi un poema— que merecía ser publicada en español y narrada por una servidora. Apareció en marzo de 2013 en la cada vez más interesante revista Apex y suscitó decenas de elogios aunque también fue una de las historias que centraron los ataques del ala más reaccionaria de la ciencia ficción norteamericana, aquella liderada por los denominados Sad Puppies y Rabid Puppies, cuyas campañas han llegado incluso a amenazar el prestigio de los premios Hugo. Por cierto, el marido de Rachel es un gran aficionado a los dinosaurios. 🦖🦖 RACHEL SWIRSKY (California, 1982) es una escritora de fantasía y ficción especulativa, aunque también es poeta, ensayista, editora e, incluso, fue vicepresidenta de la Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. Ha sido nominada a los premios Hugo, Sturgeon y Locus, y en 2010 obtuvo el Nébula de mejor novela corta con «The Lady Who Plucked Red Flowers Beneath the Queen’s Window» . Sus historias han aparecido en numerosas publicaciones: Tor.com, Subterranean Magazine, Clarkesworld, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Fantasy Magazine, Interzone, Realms of Fantasy, Weird Tales, y en recopilaciones tan prestigiosas como The Year’s Best Science Fiction de Gardner Dozois, The Year’s Best Science Fiction & Fantasy de Rich Horton, Year’s Best Science Fiction y Fantasy of the Year de Jonathan Strahan, o Best American Fantasy de Jeff y Ann VanderMeer. 📌 ¡¡Síguenos en Telegram: https://t.me/historiasparaserleidas (estamos preparando un sorteo)🎁 🛑BIO Olga Paraíso: https://instabio.cc/Hleidas 📌Súbete a nuestra nave y disfruta de contenido exclusivo solo para ti, pulsa el botón azul APOYAR y serás un tabernero galáctico desde 1,49€ al mes. Gracias por tu apoyo. ¡¡Hasta el próximo audio!! 🚀 (｡◕‿◕｡) Escucha el episodio completo en la app de iVoox, o descubre todo el catálogo de iVoox Originals

Losers' Club co-host Randall Colburn speaks to writer Meg Elison about her Fantasy Magazine article, All the King's Women: The Fats. It's a breezy and lighthearted chat that should prove enlightening to Constant Readers everywhere. It should be noted that this was originally recorded in January 2022 and is being unlocked from The Barrens. For more exclusive interviews like this that we haven't unlocked -- not to mention, over hundreds of hours of content --please join us at www.patreon.com/thebarrens. Otherwise, enjoy this conversation. Follow us on Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Patreon | Store Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Erin Brown is a black, neurodivergent poet and author of horror, fabulist, and fantasy short fiction. She has been published in FIYAH Magazine, Murder Park After Dark Volume 1, Midnight and Indigo, the Los Suelos CA Interactive Anthology, and 3Elements Literary Revue, the anthology It Was All a Dream: An Anthology of Bad Horror Tropes Done Right, and Fantasy Magazine. Erin is also the recipient of the Truman Capote Literary Trust Scholarship in Creative Writing for Spring 2022. She can often be found gazing out over the waters of the Salton Sea in the California Badlands, eating date shakes, and listening to lo-fi. Erin is currently working on a few longer projects and building up her worldbuilder website House Witchwalker. Plus, new music from Big Quick, Ladder Lees and Still Will of Lost Society. The new track “Kylie Irving will be dropped tonight!! Philly's own definitely making a presence! #podcasters #blerdseyeview #blerdseyeviewpodcast #blerdandpowerful #blerdandboujee #blerds #blerdgirl #blerdlife #blackgirlmagic #fortheculture #entertainment #music #philadelphia #hiphop #speculativefiction #horrorstories #scifi #fantasybooks #author #fyp

Erin Brown is a black, neurodivergent poet and author of horror, fabulist, and fantasy short fiction. She has been published in FIYAH Magazine, Murder Park After Dark Volume 1, Midnight and Indigo, the Los Suelos CA Interactive Anthology, and 3Elements Literary Revue, the anthology It Was All a Dream: An Anthology of Bad Horror Tropes Done Right, and Fantasy Magazine. Erin is also the recipient of the Truman Capote Literary Trust Scholarship in Creative Writing for Spring 2022. She can often be found gazing out over the waters of the Salton Sea in the California Badlands, eating date shakes, and listening to lo-fi. Erin is currently working on a few longer projects and building up her worldbuilder website House Witchwalker. Plus, new music from Big Quick, Ladder Lees and Still Will of Lost Society. The new track “Kylie Irving will be dropped tonight!! Philly's own definitely making a presence! #podcasters #blerdseyeview #blerdseyeviewpodcast #blerdandpowerful #blerdandboujee #blerds #blerdgirl #blerdlife #blackgirlmagic #fortheculture #entertainment #music #philadelphia #hiphop #speculativefiction #horrorstories #scifi #fantasybooks #author #fyp

In this live episode, Alan interviews the award winning editor and interviewer Arley Sorg. They discuss the future of Fantasy Magazine, the magazine's mission, and interviewing science fiction and fantasy authors. If you'd like to support us you can give us a one time donation at Kofi or you can subscribe to our Patreon.

Nat20 talks about starting Wyngraf and how cozy fantasy has grown over the pandemic.

WHY DOES MCKINLEY VALENTINE WRITE? Twitter: @mckinleaf Newsletter: The Whippet Web: mckinleyvalentine.com Publications: List of articles & fiction publications Noè Welcome to Why Write, a super short podcast that asks writers just that, why they write. Hi, I'm Noè Harsel, a writer and Chair of Writers Victoria, and I'm excited to chat to a diverse group of writers and simply ask, why write? I'm glad you're here with me.  Today we have McKinley Valentine. McKinley Valentine is a neurodivergent writer who reads more Wikipedia articles than can possibly be healthy. She makes The Whippet, a cult hit newsletter of esoterica, unsolicited advice and zero contemporary politics. She is a writer researcher for the ABC's Hard Quiz and her short fiction has been published in Fantasy Magazine, Seizure, and Andromeda's Spaceways' Inflight Magazine. Why Write is a Writers Victoria podcast. All programs and information about becoming a member with us at writers Victoria is available at writersvictoria.org.au We hope you enjoyed Why Write and if you did, please tell your friends and don't forget to subscribe and leave a review on Apple iTunes, Spotify, Google Podcasts or wherever you get your podcasts. Why Write was recorded at Brand Music and engineered by Michael Burrows. Original Music by Brand Music.

The Monster Manual describes Vampires as creatures “awakened to an endless night, vampires hunger for the life they have lost and sate that hunger by drinking the blood of the living. Vampires abhor sunlight, for its touch burns them. They never cast shadows or reflections, and any vampire wishing to move unnoticed among the living keeps to the darkness and far from reflective surfaces.”We are joined by Sharang Biswas.  Sharang is a writer, artist, and game designer. He has won IndieCade and IGDN awards for his games and has showcased interactive works at numerous art institutions including the Institute of Contemporary Art in Philadelphia and the Museum of the Moving Image in New York. He has contributed essays to Dicebreaker, Eurogamer, and Unwinnable, and fiction to Fantasy Magazine, Lightspeed Magazine, and Neon Hemlock Press among others. He is the co-editor of Honey & Hot Wax: An Anthology of Erotic Art Games (Pelgrane Press, 2020) and Strange Lusts / Strange Loves: An Anthology of Erotic Interactive Fiction (Strange Horizons, 2021). Find him on Twitter @SharangBiswas and some of his games at astrolingus.itch.ioMUSIC"Darkness" by Three Chain Links"Concerto Grosso G Minor 1" by the Advent Chamber Orchestra"Duduk Drone" by Patrick Sainton"Discovery" by Scott Holmes"Cylinder Two" by Chris Zabriskie"Epic Cinematic" by Scott HolmesKill Every Monster is a 5th Edition Dungeons and Dragons podcast. In each episode, we are joined by a guest to discuss the lore, mechanics, and story potential of classic D&D creatures. We debate tactics for maximizing these creatures in your game, and we ask the ever-important question: are they really a monster?Send us your questions for our Season 1 Mailbag episode!COMMUNITYDiscordTwitterRedditInstagramFacebook

The Monster Manual describes Vampires as creatures “awakened to an endless night, vampires hunger for the life they have lost and sate that hunger by drinking the blood of the living. Vampires abhor sunlight, for its touch burns them. They never cast shadows or reflections, and any vampire wishing to move unnoticed among the living keeps to the darkness and far from reflective surfaces.”We are joined by Sharang Biswas. Sharang is a writer, artist, and game designer. He has won IndieCade and IGDN awards for his games and has showcased interactive works at numerous art institutions including the Institute of Contemporary Art in Philadelphia and the Museum of the Moving Image in New York. He has contributed essays to Dicebreaker, Eurogamer, and Unwinnable, and fiction to Fantasy Magazine, Lightspeed Magazine, and Neon Hemlock Press among others. He is the co-editor of Honey & Hot Wax: An Anthology of Erotic Art Games (Pelgrane Press, 2020) and Strange Lusts / Strange Loves: An Anthology of Erotic Interactive Fiction (Strange Horizons, 2021). Find him on Twitter @SharangBiswas and some of his games at astrolingus.itch.ioCheck Out Our Sponsors!Start Playing: find a gaming table today at StartPlaying.GamesWarrstories:Smoke, Steel and Sharpened Fangs campaign https://startplaying.games/adventure/62decda76e943140b20d64adGet a $10 Credit on StartPlaying.Games! https://startplaying.games/referral/ckaipkuw001akbopk4jimaqd2MUSIC"Darkness" by Three Chain Links"Concerto Grosso G Minor 1" by the Advent Chamber Orchestra"Duduk Drone" by Patrick Sainton"Discovery" by Scott Holmes"Cylinder Two" by Chris Zabriskie"Epic Cinematic" by Scott HolmesKill Every Monster is a 5th Edition Dungeons and Dragons podcast. In each episode, we are joined by a guest to discuss the lore, mechanics, and story potential of classic D&D creatures. We debate tactics for maximizing these creatures in your game, and we ask the ever-important question: are they really a monster?Send us your questions for our Season 1 Mailbag episode!COMMUNITYDiscordTwitterRedditInstagramFacebookSupport this podcast at — https://redcircle.com/kill-every-monster/exclusive-content

ASMR reading of The Challenge from Beyond by HP Lovecraft, Frank Belknap Long, Robert E. Howard, C. L. Moore, and Abraham Merritt. This story features a five-way author told story and was published in Fantasy Magazine in 1935 as part of the Cthulhu Mythos. A rolling thunderstorm has been added as background ambiance to help you sleep or find comfort from stress, insomnia, ptsd, and chronic pain. Listen with headphones for the best experience. Support this channel: Donate: https://paypal.me/TomeByTome https://www.podpage.com/tome-by-tome-asmr/ #chronicpainrelief #insomniarelief #ptsdrelief --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/lovecraft-asmr/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/lovecraft-asmr/support

We open up things by briefly discussing how our writing and reading goals are starting this new year. After that, oh, we get into it! We have a long conversation on an article written about Stephen King recently. In the article, Stephen King has been exposed as being fatphobic and possibly having negative views of women.  Also, make sure to stick around after the outro for a brief bit of absolute idiocy created by yours truly.  You can check out the article we discuss at Fantasy Magazine. You can check out our work at www.drunkenpenwriting.com Follow us on Twitter @drunkpenwriting On Instagram @drunkenpenwriting And like us on Facebook @drunkenpenwriting

https://www.monicabyrne.org/ I grew up in Annville, Pennsylvania, as the youngest of five. Our parents were both Catholic theologians, and our family emphasized mysticism, social justice, and the centrality of art to religious experience. Despite growing up on art, I set my heart on becoming an astronaut----so went to Wellesley College and MIT for degrees in biochemistry, worked at NASA during the summers, and got my pilot's license. But while at MIT, I realized that I liked making things up much more than finding things out. I finished a Master's and moved to Durham, North Carolina, and have been writing ever since. I graduated from the Clarion Workshop in 2008, where I studied with Neil Gaiman, Nalo Hopkinson, and Kelly Link. My debut novel, The Girl in the Road, was published in 2014. It won the Tiptree Award and was listed for the Kitschie, Locus, and DSC Prize for South Asian Literature. My second novel, The Actual Star, was published by Harper Voyager on September 14, 2021. I've performed original monologues twice at TED, hosted a technology series for ViceUK, and spoken across the country on futurism and science fiction. My short stories and essays have been published in The Baffler, The Atlantic, The Washington Post, Religion Dispatches, Wired, Tor.com, Electric Velocipede, Fantasy Magazine, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Electric Literature, and Glimmer Train. I've written five plays produced in Durham, one of which, What Every Girl Should Know, has been performed from Berkeley to Dublin. VOX VOMITUS: Sometimes, it's not what goes right in the writing process, it's what goes horribly wrong. Host/Literary horror novelist Jennifer Anne Gordon with help from her co-host/author Allison Martine, chat with some of the best authors of the day. www.jenniferannegordon.com www.afictionalhubbard.com @copyrighted by the Authors on the Air Global Radio Network.

www.monicabyrne.org/ I grew up in Annville, Pennsylvania, as the youngest of five. Our parents were both Catholic theologians, and our family emphasized mysticism, social justice, and the centrality of art to religious experience. Despite growing up on art, I set my heart on becoming an astronaut----so went to Wellesley College and MIT for degrees in biochemistry, worked at NASA during the summers, and got my pilot's license. But while at MIT, I realized that I liked making things up much more than finding things out. I finished a Master's and moved to Durham, North Carolina, and have been writing ever since. I graduated from the Clarion Workshop in 2008, where I studied with Neil Gaiman, Nalo Hopkinson, and Kelly Link. My debut novel, The Girl in the Road, was published in 2014. It won the Tiptree Award and was listed for the Kitschie, Locus, and DSC Prize for South Asian Literature. My second novel, The Actual Star, was published by Harper Voyager on September 14, 2021. I've performed original monologues twice at TED, hosted a technology series for ViceUK, and spoken across the country on futurism and science fiction. My short stories and essays have been published in The Baffler, The Atlantic, The Washington Post, Religion Dispatches, Wired, Tor.com, Electric Velocipede, Fantasy Magazine, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Electric Literature, and Glimmer Train. I've written five plays produced in Durham, one of which, What Every Girl Should Know, has been performed from Berkeley to Dublin. VOX VOMITUS: Sometimes, it's not what goes right in the writing process, it's what goes horribly wrong. Host/Literary horror novelist Jennifer Anne Gordon with help from her co-host/author Allison Martine, chat with some of the best authors of the day. www.jenniferannegordon.com www.afictionalhubbard.com @copyrighted by the Authors on the Air Global Radio Network.

https://www.monicabyrne.org/ I grew up in Annville, Pennsylvania, as the youngest of five. Our parents were both Catholic theologians, and our family emphasized mysticism, social justice, and the centrality of art to religious experience. Despite growing up on art, I set my heart on becoming an astronaut----so went to Wellesley College and MIT for degrees in biochemistry, worked at NASA during the summers, and got my pilot's license. But while at MIT, I realized that I liked making things up much more than finding things out. I finished a Master's and moved to Durham, North Carolina, and have been writing ever since. I graduated from the Clarion Workshop in 2008, where I studied with Neil Gaiman, Nalo Hopkinson, and Kelly Link. My debut novel, The Girl in the Road, was published in 2014. It won the Tiptree Award and was listed for the Kitschie, Locus, and DSC Prize for South Asian Literature. My second novel, The Actual Star, was published by Harper Voyager on September 14, 2021. I've performed original monologues twice at TED, hosted a technology series for ViceUK, and spoken across the country on futurism and science fiction. My short stories and essays have been published in The Baffler, The Atlantic, The Washington Post, Religion Dispatches, Wired, Tor.com, Electric Velocipede, Fantasy Magazine, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Electric Literature, and Glimmer Train. I've written five plays produced in Durham, one of which, What Every Girl Should Know, has been performed from Berkeley to Dublin. VOX VOMITUS: Sometimes, it's not what goes right in the writing process, it's what goes horribly wrong. Host/Literary horror novelist Jennifer Anne Gordon with help from her co-host/author Allison Martine, chat with some of the best authors of the day. www.jenniferannegordon.com www.afictionalhubbard.com @copyrighted by the Authors on the Air Global Radio Network.

"Security Breach at Sugar Pine Suites" — published in Apex Magazine, Indigenous Futurists special issue, October 2021. Read it here: https://apex-magazine.com/security-breach-at-sugar-pine-suites Pamela Rentz is a citizen of the Karuk Tribe and works as a paralegal specializing in tribal affairs. She is a graduate of the Clarion West Writers Workshop and has been published in Asimov's, Apex, and has a story forthcoming in Fantasy Magazine. Her personal website is www.pamrentz.com. This story was narrated by Marguerite Croft.  Reared in Idaho's Magic Valley, Marguerite Croft (Ojibwe) is a writer, mom, graduate of Clarion West, and part of the team behind the Point Mystic audio drama. She's narrated stories for PodCastle, Escape Pod, and Pseudopod, and recently voiced the character of Octavie Thomas for Kalila Stormfire's Economical Magick Services. She currently lives just south of San Francisco with her family. This Apex Magazine podcast was produced by KT Bryski. Theme music by Alex White. Other music in this podcast includes "Over Under" and "Numinous Shine," both by Kevin MacLeod and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution license. Some sounds in this podcast are provided by the Free Sound Project. Find out more at www.freesound.org. Apex Magazine podcast, copyright Apex Publications. Apex Magazine is a bimonthly short fiction zine focused on dark science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Find us at http://www.apex-magazine.com.

Chaz has new books out and coming soon, and we are all terribly excited about it! Chaz talks about his new collection the "Best of", along with a new story on Tor.Com. And then there's the Boarding School books and Outremer and a cookbook for next Christmas. And Karen got in print, too! There's tons to celebrate at the Brenchley house, and you're invited to share it. … Continue...Episode 118 – Beans with Chaz

Check out 'The King Must Fall' (a fantasy anthology by Grimdark Magazine) on Kickstarter: bit.ly/kingmustfall (Ends Thursday, July 15th). Today, we're joined by Adrian Collins, the founder of Grimdark Magazine, to discuss their latest kickstarter. (Which features a story by our very own Michael R. Fletcher!). We also chat about running a publishing house, kickstarter mistakes to avoid, and much more. Enjoy! Support Wizards, Warriors, & Words on Patreon for bonus content: https://www.patreon.com/wizardswarriorswords Email us your questions: wizardswarriorswords@gmail.com For more about our hosts and our books: Dyrk Ashton: paternusbooks.com Michael R. Fletcher: michaelrfletcher.com Rob J. Hayes: robjhayes.co.uk Jed Herne: jedherne.com --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/wizardswarriorswords/support

On this exciting episode of StarPodTrek, we and our guests discuss the content of Starlog magazine issues 9 & 10 from 1977, including discussions about William Shatner, NASA, STARFLEET International, and more!Follow along with us by pulling out your copy of Starlog, or read it free online at: https://archive.org/details/starlog_magazine-009/page/n11/mode/2up ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Our Upcoming Cons!-------------------------------------------------------------------------------We will be presenting two panels at the Huntsville Comic and Pop Culture Expo in Alabama: Star Trek 101 and Starlog- The World's Greatest Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine.https://www.hsvexpo.com/-------------------------------------------------------------------------------Join us at the Imperial Commissary Collectors Convention in Nashville, Tennessee!https://iccollectorsconvention.com/-------------------------------------------------------------------------------We will be presenting the panel Star Trek on Paramount+ at Metrotham Con in Chattanooga, Tennesseehttps://metrothamcon.com/home-------------------------------------------------------------------------------STARFLEET International-------------------------------------------------------------------------------NASA Contractor & STARFLEET International Region 2 Fleet Captain Lauren White covers the legacy of Doctor Wernher von Braun. SFI members Admiral Richard Trulson and Commander Laura Peterson on being part of chapter named after von Braun.https://sfi.org/-------------------------------------------------------------------------------We consider the contents of Starlog magazine issues 9 and 10 including:-------------------------------------------------------------------------------Chris Kroznuski is the Visual Effects Artist, Music Composer, and Associate Producer for Potemkin Pictures. He compares the methods for visual effects in 1977 to what is being used today in Fan Films.http://www.potemkinpictures.com/-------------------------------------------------------------------------------Galtrol is a lifelong Science Fiction and Astrophysics fan. He considers Isaac Asimov's faster than light principals. Can they truly work in Star Trek? Do these principals stand up to how we understand them today?-------------------------------------------------------------------------------What was William Shatner up to after he recorded his college tour album in 1977? We discuss his life after Trek and rumors surrounding original cast getting together for the Star Trek TV movie.Check out his record album here:https://youtu.be/Tz542sWJKtc ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Topics: Star Trek, Starlog Magazine, NASA, William Shatner, Isaac Asimov, STARFLEET International, fan films, sci-fi conventions------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Music used with permission Five Year Mission------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Publication date-Stardate 2021.04.04------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Join our YouTube Channelhttps://www.youtube.com/channel/UCgE_kNBWqnvTPAQODKZA1Ug------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Find us on FaceBookat https://www.facebook.com/groups/starpodlog/ and https://www.facebook.com/nayr.kavura.3------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Find us on Twitter and InstaGram@StarPodLog------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Find us on Reddit atu/StarPodTrek------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Listen to us on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts!------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------If you cannot see the audio controls, listen/download the audio file hereDownload (right click, save as)

Fantasy Magazine Issue 63 Fantasy Magazine ran regularly from 2005 to 2011, and sporadically from 2011 to 2020. Now Fantasy Magazine has returned as of November 2020 under the editors of Arley Sorg and Christie Yant. Fantasy Magazine is a monthly publication featuring short fiction, flash fiction, poetry, and non fiction interviews and essays. In … Continue reading Ep061 Fantasy Magazine Issue 63 →

On the show today I had the pleasure of talking to Cat Rambo. She is a very authentic author who loves to help others in the biz. Check out the Rambo Academy for Wayward Writers Critclub. http://www.kittywumpus.net/blog/join-the-chez-rambo-community-for-fsf-writers-critclub/ Also, she has the Tabat series which the 3rd book is coming out in 2021, Website http://www.kittywumpus.net/ Amazon https://www.amazon.com/Cat-Rambo/e/B002LFMXGG Social Media https://www.facebook.com/catrambo https://twitter.com/catrambo Youtube https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCv9iUujAbeQ4G6QN1OSqgkg Cat Rambo lives, writes, and edits in the Pacific Northwest. Her work has appeared in such places as Asimov's, Weird Tales, and Strange Horizons. She was the fiction editor of award-winning Fantasy Magazine (http://www.fantasy-magazine.com) and appeared on the World Fantasy Award ballot in 2012 for that work. Her story "Five Ways to Fall in Love on Planet Porcelain" was a 2012 Nebula Award finalist. John Barth described Cat Rambo's writings as "works of urban mythopoeia" -- her stories take place in a universe where chickens aid the lovelorn, Death is just another face on the train, and Bigfoot gives interviews to the media on a daily basis. She has worked as a programmer-writer for Microsoft and a Tarot card reader, professions which, she claims, both involve a certain combination of technical knowledge and willingness to go with the flow. In 2005 she attended the Clarion West Writers' Workshop. In 2007, her collaboration with Jeff VanderMeer, The Surgeon's Tale and Other Stories, appeared, while her first solo collection, Eyes Like Sky and Coal and Moonlight, was published in August of 2009 and was an Endeavour Award finalist. In 2012, her collection Near + Far appeared from Hydra House as well as a novella, A Seed Upon the Wind, as part of the Fathomless Abyss collaborative project. Her first novel, Beasts of Tabat, appeared in early 2015 from Wordfire Press, and the sequel, Hearts of Tabat, as well as story collection Neither Here Nor There, will appear later this year. A frequent volunteer with the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, she is currently its president. Her most recent nonfiction work is Ad Astra: The SFWA 50th Anniversary Cookbook, co-edited with Fran Wilde.

Cat Rambo:Cat Rambo is a prolific science fiction and fantasy writer of short stories. Her two hundred plus stories have appeared in many anthologies and magazines including Asimov's, Clarkesworld, and Tor.com.She is a Nebula Award winner and has been nominated for the World Fantasy Award, and been a finalist for the Million Writers and the Compton Crook Awards, as well as been on the Locus Recommended Reading List.Cat was the co-editor of Fantasy Magazine from 2007 to 2011 and is a pastPresident (two terms) of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America(SFWA). She lives and teaches in the Pacific Northwest.http://www.kittywumpus.net/blog/The Douglas Coleman Show offers audio and video promotional packages for music artists as well as video promotional packages for authors. Please see our website for complete details. http://douglascolemanshow.com

Cat Rambo:Cat Rambo is a prolific science fiction and fantasy writer of short stories. Her two hundred plus stories have appeared in many anthologies and magazines including Asimov's, Clarkesworld, and Tor.com.She is a Nebula Award winner and has been nominated for the World Fantasy Award, and been a finalist for the Million Writers and the Compton Crook Awards, as well as been on the Locus Recommended Reading List.Cat was the co-editor of Fantasy Magazine from 2007 to 2011 and is a pastPresident (two terms) of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America(SFWA). She lives and teaches in the Pacific Northwest.http://www.kittywumpus.net/blog/The Douglas Coleman Show offers audio and video promotional packages for music artists as well as video promotional packages for authors. Please see our website for complete details. http://douglascolemanshow.com

In this episode, Alan and Diane interview editor, writer, and interviewer Arley Sorg, and writer and editor Christie Yant. They discuss the revived Fantasy Magazine, dungeons and dragons, and how they resist the norm using narrative. Find Fantasy Magazine here: Fantasy Magazine We also review: Nevermoreearth by Air & Nothingness Press Triangulation: Dark Skies by Parsec Ink  

Seamus is out this week so Morgana, Darfox, and dakazu submit their top science fiction manga picks they’d like to license for another edition of Fantasy Magazine! We also discuss Monster #8, Chainsaw Man, I Had That Same Dream Again: The Complete Manga Collection, Lv1 Maou to One Room Yuusha, Mieruko-chan, and more!!! Remember to send us emails! mangamachinations@gmail.com Follow us on Twitter! @mangamacpodcast Check out our website! https://mangamachinations.com Check out our tumblr! http://mangamachinations.tumblr.com Join our Discord! https://discord.me/mangamac Timestamps: 00:00:00 - Intro Song: “Massara” by KANA-BOON from Sarazanmai, Opening, Introductions 00:00:56 - Whatchu Been Reading: Transition Song: Dragon Ball Z OST “Prologue”, Monster #8 is a typical but solid shonen action series with yet another hero who uses evil powers for good 00:06:38 - Darfox is going through his backlog starting with No Guns Life 00:12:15 - Morgana revisits Chainsaw Man for the upcoming physical release of volume one 00:16:06 - Morgana enjoyed the emotional but happy I Had That Same Dream Again: The Complete Manga Collection 00:18:45 - dakazu knows Morgana will love the subtly kind delinquent in Bimyou ni Yasashii Ijimekko   00:21:36 - dakazu found that Lv1 Maou to One Room Yuusha has an engaging story if you can look past the fan service 00:26:06 - Mieruko-chan is a great horror manga about a girl who must ignore the horrific ghosts she can see 00:27:55 - A married couple end up swapping bodies and learn to understand each other better in Tsuma ga Otto de Otto ga Tsuma de 00:32:01 - News: Online manga subscription service Manga Planet’s new licenses include Salary Man Kintaro, Charge!! Men’s School, Peacock King, Silver Fang - The Shooting Star Gin, and Magical Taruruto 00:35:38 - Hello Kitty has been appointed copyright ambassador by the Education and Culture Ministry 00:39:23 - Square Enix Manga & Books licenses The Otherside Picnicand I Think Our Son Is Gay 00:45:20 - Next Episode Preview and Rundown: Retrospective on Kasane, A complete review of Daruma Matsuura’s drama about an ugly girl who uses a magical lipstick to pursue a career in acting(covers volumes 7-9) 00:46:37 - Main Segment Fantasy Magazine - Science Fiction, Transition Song: “Fiction” by sumiko from Wotakoi: Love is Hard for Otaku, We pick unlicensed and defunct manga to create our ideal science fiction manga magazine 00:49:35 - Himitsu by Reiko Shimizu 00:52:24 - Mugi no Wakusei by Shino Torino 00:54:59 - Angel Oil by Tatsuyuki Tanaka 00:56:25 - Senrei by Kazuo Umezu 00:58:30 - Yasha by Akimi Yoshida 00:59:27 - U wa Uchuusen no U by Ray Douglas Bradbury & Moto Hagio 01:01:05 - New Mobile Report Gundam Wing: Frozen Teardrop by Katsuyuki Sumisawa 01:03:52 - Ginga no Shinanai Kodomotachi e by Yuki Shikawa 01:06:38 - WOMBS by Yumiko Shirai 01:18:14 - Homunculus by Hideo Yamamoto 01:22:52 - Juuza no Ulna by Toru Izu 01:26:19 - Phoenix by Osamu Tezuka 01:28:57 - Imuri by Ranjou Miyake 01:32:35 - Moonlight Mile by Yasuo Ohtagaki 01:37:00 - Bokyotaro by Yoshihiro Yamada 01:41:21 - Midori no Hoshi by Keigo Shinzo 01:43:43 - Lady & Oldman by Natsume Ono 01:48:04 - Juuman by Jun Hanyunyu 01:52:31 - We wrap up and discuss our favorite picks 01:54:33 - We discuss if manga magazine brand loyalty exists 02:00:18 - Next Week’s Topic: Kasane, Social Media Rundown, Sign Off Song: “wish men” by sunbrain from Beet the Vandel Buster

Author : Charlotte Perkins Gilman Narrator : Anaea Lay Host : Kitty Sarkozy Audio Producer : Peter Behravesh Discuss on Forums Originally published in Gilman’s collection When I Was a Witch and reprinted in Fantasy Magazine. This story is in the public domain. Rated PG. When I Was a Witch By Charlotte Perkins Gilman If […] The post PodCastle 634: When I Was a Witch appeared first on PodCastle.

This week we launch our new format called Fantasy Magazine! Morgana, Darfox8, and dakazu have all drafted non-licensed or out-of-print series to create their ultimate horror-themed manga magazine! Listen in as we present our picks of Petshop of Horrors, Dai Dark, and Jisatsutou and then debate whether or not they fall under the category of horror!!! Remember to send us emails! mangamachinations@gmail.com Follow us on Twitter! @mangamacpodcast Check out our website! https://mangamachinations.com Check out our tumblr! http://mangamachinations.tumblr.com Join our Discord server and come talk to us! http://discord.me/mangamac Timestamps: 00:00:00 - Intro Song: “Akuma-kun” by Koorogi ‘73 & WILD CATS from Akuma-kun, Opening, Introductions, Social Media, Working retail on Black Fridays 00:02:13 - Reminder to listen to us guest on the BEASTARS episode of Manga Mavericks 00:02:45 - Whatchu Been Reading: Transition Song: Dragon Ball Z OST “Prologue”, dakazu talks about the end of Silver Spoon along with Hiromu Arakawa’s family medical issues 00:05:24 - The true story of 8-nengoshi no Hanayome: Kiseki no Jitsuwa made dakazu cry 00:09:10 - dakazu was surprised Jiro Taniguchi made a sci-fi manga called Chikyu Hyokai Jiki 00:10:59 - The normalization of aggressive romantic pursuits in Ase to Sekken bothered dakazu 00:17:46 - dakazu was really impressed with how Stars Align approached it’s narrative for an x-gender character and trans man character 00:21:10 - dakazu questions some of the drug abuse scenarios raised in Matorism  00:32:01 - News: Japanese Agency for Cultural Affairs clarifies what constitutes illegal downloads of manga 00:35:46 - Takehiko Inoue’s PLUS/SLAM DUNK ILLUSTRATIONS 2 will not include any new story for SLAM DUNK 00:41:07 - Next Episode Preview and Rundown: Darfox Dabbles, Darfox will revisit Shueisha’s Manga Plus app to checkout their newer titles 00:42:19 - Main Segment Fantasy Magazine - Horror, Transition Song: “Jikuu Ryokou” by LEGOLGEL from Petshop of Horrors, We will pick unlicensed and defunct manga to create our ideal horror manga magazine 00:44:59 - Darfox starts off with the psychological drama Homunculous by Hideo Yamamoto 00:45:34 - Darfox picks the campy B-movie gorefest Chimamire Sukeban Chainsaw by Rei Mikamoto 00:47:35 - Darfox picks the giant creepy monster filled Hakaijuu by Shingo Honda 00:50:13 - Darfox picks God’s Left Hand, Devil’s Right Hand by Kazuo Umezu based on a single panel he saw 00:53:32 - Pale faces in the shadows scare Darfox so he picks Fuan no Tane by Masaaki Nakayama 00:55:39 - Darfox and dakazu get into a debate whether Jisatsutou by Kouji Mori can be considered a horror manga 01:02:11 - Darfox picks the surreal society with revenge enforcers title Freesia by Jiro Matsumoto 01:05:17 - We discuss our own various experiences with horror and what aspects of horror effect us 01:15:56 - dakazu is surprised Darfox didn’t pick Misu Misou by Rensuke Oshikiri 01:16:41 - Morgana starts with one of her favorite series Petshop of Horrors by Matsuri Akino 01:19:45 - Morgana is all about a demonic baby seeking revenge in Hell Baby by Hideshi Hino 01:21:48 - Morgana is curious about various circus freaks in Circus Kitan by Hideshi Hino 01:25:22 - Morgana’s pick Cat Eyed Boy by Kazuo Umezu is disqualified because it’s licensed by VIZ 01:26:45 - Morgana wants to bring over the light novel based Psychic Detective Yakumo by Manabu Kaminaga & Ritsu Miyako & Suzuka Oda 01:29:46 - Morgana picks another bug eyed child series called Presents by Kanako Inuki 01:32:13 - Morgana goes with the cute and creepy black cat manga Kuro by somato 01:35:13 - dakazu 100% agrees with Morgana’s final pick Ushio to Tora by Kazuhiro Fujita 01:38:34 - dakazu picks Q Hayashia’s new sci-fi horror series Dai Dark 01:42:35 - dakazu picks the trashy but creepy vampire monster series Higanjima by Kouji Matsumoto 01:47:37 - dakazu picks the endless horror of survivors hunted by monkey men in Monkey Peak by Kouji Shinasaki & Akihiro Kumeta 01:49:47 - Underwater depths lead to cosmic horror and insanity in dakazu’s pick 6000 by Nokuto Koike  01:51:07 - dakazu picks the beautifully drawn body horror of battling vampire familiars in Shigahime by Hirohisa Satou 01:52:11 - dakazu plans to cash in with Parasyte Reversi by Moare Ohta 01:53:24 - dakazu rounds out his picks with the comedic horror Derodero by Rensuke Oshikiri 01:56:37 - dakazu runs through some backup picks he had like Shigurui by Takayuki Yamaguchi, 14-sai by Kazuo Umezu, Akuma-kun by Shigeru Mizuki, and Terror Night by Takashi Tsukimi 01:59:42 - We discuss taking all our picks to make a super sized horror magazine 02:03:16 - Next Week’s Topic: Darfox Dabbles, Social Media Rundown, Sign Off Song: “wish men” by sunbrain from Beet the Vandel Buster

After Zoe's dad dies and she and her mom move to New Orleans, all Zoe has to cling to are her dad's Gudi bone flute and the voices in her head.  Where will they lead her?To download, right-click here and then click SaveJoin the Journey Into Patreon to get extra episodes and personal addresses, plus other extras and rewards.Relevant Links:Journey #27 - The King of Rabbits and Moon Lake by Eugie FosterEscape Pod #17 - The Life and Times of Penguin by Eugie FosterEscape Pod #214 - Sinner, Baker, Fabulist, Priest; Red Mask, Black Mask, Gentleman, Beast by Eugie FosterPodCastle #28 - The Tanuki-Kettle by Eugie FosterPseudoPod #91 - Caesar’s Ghost by Eugie FosterPseudoPod #428 - When It Ends, He Catches Her by Eugie FosterDrabblecast #214 – The Wish of the Demon Achtromagk by Eugie FosterEugie Foster is a very talented and versitle writer of science fiction, fantasy, horror, and children's lit. Eugie received the 2009 Nebula Award for Best Novelette and was named the 2009 Author of the Year by Bards and Sages. Her short story collection, RETURNING MY SISTER'S FACE AND OTHER FAR EASTERN TALES OF WHIMSY AND MALICE, was published by Norilana Books and can be found on her website at eugiefoster.com.  Her works have appeared in Realms of Fantasy, Interzone, Fantasy Magazine, Apex Magazine, Cricket, and Orson Scott Card's InterGalactic Medicine Show just to name a few.Eugie died on September 27th, 2014 of respiratory failure related to Lymphoma at Emory University in Atlanta. Her story, ”When It Ends, He Catches Her,” published the day before her death, was nominated for the 2015 Nebula Award.Laurice White is a recent theater graduate and long time theater student, and has read stories for Podcastle, Pseudopod, Journey Into..., and for John Joseph Adams and Hugh Howey on The End is Nigh and The End is Now, the first two volumes of The Apocalypse Triptych.Theme music: Liberator by Man In SpaceTo comment on this or any episode:Journey on over to the ForumsSend comments and/or recordings to journeyintopodcat@gmail.comTweet us us TwitterPost a comment on Facebook hereComment directly to this post down below

StarShipSofa No 601 James BeamonOriginally published in Penumbra James Beamon served in the US Air Force, was deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan and has over twenty years worth of hilarious marriage stories but assumed no one would know unless he could get his bio in print. So he worked with cheetah speed and weasel scruples to get stories published in places such as F&SF, Lightspeed and Apex Magazine so the audience could finally find his bio. Determined that even more people would find his bio, he wrote a debut novel called Pendulum Heroes and included an About the Author section. And he's going to keep writing, mostly because bios don't come with like buttons and view counts and he can't determine how many people have really seen it. He encourages you to check out what he's up to at fictigristle.wordpress.com or on twitter @WriterBeamon. Narrated by: Eliza ChanEliza Chan is a Scottish-Chinese writer published in Fantasy Magazine, Fox Spirit’s Asian Monsters,Persistent Visions and Mithila Review. She writes about East Asian mythology, British folklore and madwomen in the attic, but preferably all three at once.Fact: Science News by J J Campanella See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Machine For a pair of socks, a guide takes our narrator on a tour of The Machine (representing our world), as well as all the various groups that try to effect or control it. The Author: Phenderson Djéli Clark is an occasional speculative fiction writer. His short SFF stories have appeared in online venues such as Daily Science Fiction, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Fantasy-Magazine, Fireside Fiction, Tor.com and several print anthologies including Griots and Hidden Youth. His debut novella The Black God's Drums will be published by Tor in August 2018. You can read his ramblings on SFF, diversity and more at his blog The Disgruntled Haradrim (www.pdjeliclark.com). He also tweets stuff: @pdjeliclark. The Actor: Michael Taylor is undeniably the greatest man in the world. He enjoys games, puzzles, and experiencing interactive theatre to improve upon the subtle, intricate, yet uniquely brilliant greatness of Michael Taylor's mind. ​​ ---------------------------------------- The Water Walls of Enceladus Lily has contracted an extremely rare alien virus after contact with the Wergen, a species that worships and alores human beings. Lily's disfiguring condition makes her hideous to other humans, so she agrees to spend 5 years among the Wergen on Enceladus, but their cloying attention is driving her crazy, so she plots to escape. The Author: Mercurio D. Rivera’s short fiction has been nominated for the World Fantasy Award and has appeared in numerous venues such as Analog Science Fiction and Fact (forthcoming), Asimov's Science Fiction, Lightspeed, Interzone, i09, Nature, Black Static, Abyss & Apex, Space and Time, and elsewhere. His work has been anthologized in Year’s Best SF 34, ed. Gardner Dozois Other Worlds Than These, ed. John Joseph Adams, Year's Best SF 17, ed. Hartwell & Cramer, Unplugged: The Web's Best Sci-Fi and Fantasy, ed. Rich Horton, Paradox: Stories Inspired by the Fermi Paradox, and Solaris Rising 2, ed. Ian Whates. His stories have been podcast at Escape Pod, StarshipSofa, and Beam Me Up and translated and republished in China, the Czech Republic, Poland and Spain. Tor.com called his short story collection Across the Event Horizon (NewCon Press), “weird and wonderful,” with “dizzying switchbacks.” Find him online at mercuriorivera.com. The Actor: Tatiana Grey is a critically acclaimed actress of stage, screen, and the audio booth. She has been nominated for dozens of fancy awards but hasn’t won a single damned thing. She does, however have a feature film hitting the festival circuit called Serious Laundry. She lives in Brooklyn, New York. See more about Tatiana at www.tatianagrey.com tatianagomberg@gmail.com

Please think about supporting us on PatreonMain Fiction: "On the Ship" by Leah CypessOriginally published in Asimov's.Leah Cypess wrote her first short story – in which the narrator was an ice cream cone – at the age of six, and sold her first piece of fiction while in high school. She has degrees in biology, journalism, and law, and has traveled to Iceland, Israel, Jordan, and Costa Rica, among other places. She now lives with her family in Silver Spring, Maryland. She is the author of four fantasy novels published by HarperCollins: Mistwood, Nightspell, Death Sworn, and Death Marked.Leah has also published short stories in Fantasy & Science Fiction Magazine, Asimov’s Science Fiction, and Sword & Sorceress, among other places. Her story Nanny’s Day was nominated for the Nebula in 2012.Narrated by: Eliza ChanEliza Chan is a Scottish-Chinese writer published in Fantasy Magazine, Fox Spirit’s Asian Monsters,Persistent Visions and Mithila Review. She writes about East Asian mythology, British folklore and madwomen in the attic, but preferably all three at once.Interview: Spencer Ellsworth, author of the Starfire Trilogy from Tor.com, with Jeremy Szal See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Lessons From A Clockwork Queen by Megan Arkenberg I. It was Bethany's job to wind the queen. Every morning she woke in the blue-pink dawn before the birds sang, slipped out from under her quilt and took down the great silver winding key that hung over her bed. Then she wrapped herself in her dressing gown and padded up the long, cold tower stair to the room where the queen was kept. She pulled back the sheets and found the little hole in the queen's throat where the winding key fit like a kiss, and she turned and turned the key until her shoulders ached and she couldn’t turn it anymore. Then the queen sat up in bed and asked for a pot of tea. The queen (whose name happened to be Violet) was very well cared for. She had girls to polish her brass skin until it shone, and girls to oil the delicate labyrinth of her gears until she could move as silently as a moth, and girls to curl her shining wire hair tightly around tubes of glass. She had a lady to sew her dresses and a lady to shine her shoes and a whole department of ladies to design her hats and make sure she never wore the same one twice. But Violet only had one girl whose job it was to wind her every morning, and only Bethany had the winding key. [Full transcript after the cut] ----more---- Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 38. This is your host, Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing this story with you. This week, we have a reprint by Megan Arkenberg, "Lessons From a Clockwork Queen" with guest reader Sunny Moraine. Megan Arkenberg's work has appeared in over fifty magazines and anthologies, including Lightspeed, Asimov's, Shimmer, and Ellen Datlow's Best Horror of the Year. She has edited the fantasy e-zine Mirror Dance since 2008 and was recently the nonfiction editor for Queers Destroy Horror!, a special issue of Nightmare Magazine. She currently lives in Northern California, where she is pursuing a Ph.D. in English literature. Visit her online at http://www.meganarkenberg.com. Sunny Moraine’s short fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Nightmare, Lightspeed, and multiple Year’s Best anthologies, among other places. Their debut short fiction collection Singing With All My Skin and Bone is available from Undertow Publications. They unfortunately live just outside Washington, DC, in a creepy house with two cats and a very long-suffering husband. Lessons From A Clockwork Queen by Megan Arkenberg   I. It was Bethany's job to wind the queen. Every morning she woke in the blue-pink dawn before the birds sang, slipped out from under her quilt and took down the great silver winding key that hung over her bed. Then she wrapped herself in her dressing gown and padded up the long, cold tower stair to the room where the queen was kept. She pulled back the sheets and found the little hole in the queen's throat where the winding key fit like a kiss, and she turned and turned the key until her shoulders ached and she couldn’t turn it anymore. Then the queen sat up in bed and asked for a pot of tea. The queen (whose name happened to be Violet) was very well cared for. She had girls to polish her brass skin until it shone, and girls to oil the delicate labyrinth of her gears until she could move as silently as a moth, and girls to curl her shining wire hair tightly around tubes of glass. She had a lady to sew her dresses and a lady to shine her shoes and a whole department of ladies to design her hats and make sure she never wore the same one twice. But Violet only had one girl whose job it was to wind her every morning, and only Bethany had the winding key. Having a clockwork queen was very convenient for Her Majesty's councilors. Once a month, they would meet over tea and shortbread cookies and decide what needed to be done; and then they sent for a clockmaker to arrange Violet's brass-and-ivory gears. If she needed to sign a treaty or a death warrant or a new law regulating the fines for overdue library books, the clockmaker would tighten the gears in her fingers so that she could hold a pen. If her councilors thought it was time to host a ball, the clockwork queen had a special set of gears for dancing. The king of a neighboring kingdom, who was not clockwork and understood very little of the theory involved, decided one day that he should like very much to marry the clockwork queen. Violet's councilors thought this was a thoroughly awful idea and rejected his advances in no uncertain terms. The politics of courtship being what they are, the king took the rejection very much—perhaps too much, if we may say that a king does anything too much—to heart, and he hired an assassin to murder the queen. The assassin (whose name happened to be Brutus) tried everything. He poisoned Violet's tea, but she—being clockwork and lacking a digestive tract—didn't notice at all. He released a noxious vapor into her chambers while she was bathing in a vat of oil, but she—being clockwork and lacking a respiratory system—didn't care in the slightest. He slipped a poisonous spider into her bed, but she—being made of brass and lacking the sagacity of an arachnophobe—made a nest for it in one of her old hats, and named it Mephistopheles. Being a clever sort, and no longer quite ignorant of the properties of clockworks, Brutus lay in wait one night on the cold tower stair, and he thrust a knife into Bethany's heart when she came to wind the queen. He took the great silver key and flung in into a very, very deep well. And that is why a wise clockwork queen owns more than one winding key. II. When Bethany died, and the winding key disappeared, and poor Violet ground to a halt like a dead man's watch, her councilors declared a frantic meeting, without even the officious comfort of tea and shortbread cookies. "We must build a new winding key!" declared the eldest councilor, who liked things just so and was not afraid to leave Opportunity out in the cold. "We must declare ourselves regents in the queen's absence and wield the full power of the monarchy!" declared the richest councilor, who had never understood the point of a clockwork queen in the first place. "We must abolish the monarchy and declare a government of liberty, equality and brotherhood!" shouted the youngest councilor, but at just that moment a servant arrived with a tray of cookies, and he was ignored. "We must," said the quietest councilor when everyone had settled down again, "declare a contest among all the clockmakers in the land to see who is worthy to build our new queen." And since no one had any better ideas, that is what they did. Over the next months, thousands of designs appeared in crisp white envelopes on the castle's doorstep. Some of the proposed queens had no eyes; the eldest councilor preferred these, so that he could pinch coins from the palace treasury unobserved. Some queens had no tongue; the richest councilor preferred these, so that he could ignore the queen's commands. And one queen had no hands, which all the councilors agreed was quite disturbing and could not, absolutely could not be permitted. On the last day of the contest, only one envelope appeared at the castle door. It was small and shriveled and yellow, with brown stains at the corners that could have been coffee or blood, and it smelled like bruised violets. When it was opened in the council chamber, everyone fell silent in amazement, and one councilor even dropped his tea. They agreed that this was the queen that must be built, for it was made of iron, and had no heart. And that is why you should put off making difficult decisions for as long as possible. III. When the strange clockmaker, whose name was Isaac, had completed the heartless iron queen—whom, as they did not wish to go against established precedent, the councilors named Iris—the citizens were overjoyed. Not that they cared much for queens, clockwork or otherwise, but they were an optimistic, philosophical people, and Iris was very beautiful. The city became a riot of banners and colorful ribbons and candy vendors on every street, and the stationer's guild declared a holiday, and children bought pastel paper to fold into boats, which they launched on the river. But as for the clockwork queen herself, she was very beautiful, and there is only one thing to be done with a beautiful queen; she must be married off. Once again, the councilors gathered over tea and shortbread and, because it was a holiday, a slice or two of rum-cake. There are several proven, efficient ways to marry off a queen, but experts agree that the best way is for her councilors to throw open the palace for a ball and invite every eligible young man in the kingdom to attend. The council spent days drawing up a guest list, excluding only those who were known to be ugly or vulgar or habitually dressed in a particular shade of orange, and when at last everyone was satisfied, they sent out the invitations on scraps of pink lace. It snowed the night of the ball, great white drifts like cream poured over coffee, with gusts of wind that shook the tower where old Violet had been packed for safekeeping. Very few of the eligible young men were able to make an appearance, and of those, only one in three had a mother who was not completely objectionable and thus unsuitable to be the royal mother-in-law. One of the young men, a very handsome one who smelled faintly of ash and glassblowing, would have been perfect if not for his obnoxious stepmother, but, as it happened, he had never really been interested in queens, clockwork or otherwise, and he settled down quite happily with the head of stationer's guild. There was one boy who, though his mother was dead and thus not at all objectionable, had nevertheless managed to trouble Iris's councilors. Perhaps it was his hair, in desperate need of cutting, or his threadbare velvet coat, dangerously approaching a certain shade of orange. Perhaps it was the fact that he had come in from the snow and, instead of clustering devotedly around Iris with all the other young men, had sat down by the fire in the great hearth and rubbed color back into his fingertips. Whatever it was, the councilors were quite keen that he should not be permitted, not even be considered, to marry their clockwork queen. No sooner had they agreed this than Iris began elbowing her iron way through the crowd, pursuing the threadbare coat like a cat bounding after a mouse. The boy poured himself wine at the table in the western alcove, and the queen hurtled after him, upsetting the drinks of those too slow to move out of her path. He stood for a moment on the balcony overlooking the snow-mounded garden, and Iris glided after him into the cold. As he turned to go back into the flame-brightened ballroom, he found his way blocked by the iron queen. Since, unlike the eldest councilor, he was a wonderfully opportunistic man, he dropped to his knees right there in the snow and asked her to marry him. Iris clicked her iron eyelids at him and assented, and that is how Henry Milton, a bookbinder's son, became a king. And that is why, if you are ever invited to a ball for a heartless iron queen, you should always carry a lodestone in your pocket. IV. Henry Milton learned very quickly that it is hard to love a heartless clockwork queen, no matter how beautiful she is. She creaks and whirls in odd ways when you are trying to sleep; she has very few topics of conversation; she knows exactly how long it takes you to do everything. She only follows you when you draw her with a lodestone, and lodestones can feel very heavy after a while, not to mention how they wreak havoc with the lines of a coat. However, clockwork queens are very good at learning from one another's mistakes, and Iris—instead of having only one winding key and one girl to wind her—had three keys and a set of triplets. Sadly, even clockwork queens are not immune from the woeful ignorance that assumes that siblings who share birthdates must also share skill sets. Abigail, the youngest triplet, was very good at winding the queen; her hands were soft and gentle, and she wasn't afraid to give the key and extra turn now and then. Monica, the middle triplet, was very bad at winding the queen; she was slow and clumsy and much preferred dictating monographs on economic history and philosophy of education. Elsa, the eldest triplet, was an excellent winder when she remembered—which at first was not often, and became less and less frequent as she fell in love with the king. All three girls were in love with the king, of course. He was a bookbinder's son with long hair and a lodestone in his pocket and a heartless clockwork wife, and he occasionally wrote poetry, and he harbored a secret and terrible passion for postage stamps—what girl could resist? But Elsa, tall and dark and fluent in three languages, with a good head for maps and a gift for calculus, was the one Henry Milton loved back. Unless you are afflicted with the woeful ignorance that assumes that sisters who share birthdates must also be immune to romantic jealousy, you can see where this is going. It was Abigail's idea to put the poison in the queen's oil. Iris would, of course, be immune; only her husband, who kissed her dutifully every morning, and the girl who turned her winding key would feel the poison burning on their skin. And die, of course, but it was not Elsa's death that Abigail and Monica wanted; it was the burning. Siblings, even those who share birthdates, can be very cruel to each other. But the morning Elsa was to wind the queen, she slept past the cock-crow, and she slept past the dove-song, and she slept past the soft rays of sunlight creeping across her pillow. Henry awoke, saw that his wife had not been wound, and raced down to the sister's rooms. Monica was only half-awake, and if a handsome man with a terrible passion for postage stamps asks you to do something when you are only half-awake, you will probably say yes. Monica stumbled up the stairs and wound the clockwork queen, and by the time she felt the burning in her fingers, it was too late. She died before nightfall. Henry, as it happened, was saved by his intimate and longstanding friendship with old Mephistopheles, who still lived in Violet's hat, and happened to secrete antidotes to most animal poisons. He and Elsa ran away together and opened a little bookbinding shop in a city no one had ever heard of, though it soon became famous for the quality of its books. Abigail, consumed with guilt, locked herself away in the bowels of the castle, where she grew old and eccentric and developed a keen interest in arachnids. Mephistopheles visited her sometimes, and she is rumored to have stood godmother for all his twelve thousand children. And that is why you ought to befriend spiders, and anyone else who lives in old hats. V. Clearly, if the girls responsible for winding the clockwork queen were so keen on being assassinated or running off to become bookbinders, a more reliable method would have to be devised. The youngest councilor, no longer naive enough to propose abolition of the monarchy before his fellow councilors finished their tea, struck upon the elegant notion of building clockwork girls to wind the clockwork queen. The same clockmaker who had done such excellent work on Violet's treaty-hands and parade-smiles could set the winding girls to perform their function automatically, not a moment too soon or a moment too late. Clockworks cannot be murdered, cannot fall in love, cannot feel jealousy, cannot captivate kings with a talent for tongues and maps and calculus. "But who," said the eldest councilor, "will wind the clockwork winding girls?" "Why, more clockworks," said the youngest councilor—who, though no longer naive, was not a superb critical thinker. "And who will wind those?" "Still more clockworks." "And how will those be wound?" "By still more clockworks." "All right, you've had your fun," grumbled a councilor who never spoke much, except to complain. "Clockworks wind clockworks who wind clockworks, and so on for as many iterations as you care. But who winds the first clockworks? Answer me that," he said, and sat back in his chair. "Why, that's simple," said the youngest councilor. "They don't all wind each other at the same time. We stagger them, like so"—he made a hand gesture that demonstrated his woeful ignorance of the accepted methods of staggered scheduling—"and the last shall wind the first. It can be managed, I'm sure." He looked so earnest, his eyes wide and blue behind his thick glasses, that all the councilors agreed to give his proposal a trial run. Despite his ignorance of staggered scheduling, he managed to form a functioning timetable, and the winding of the winders went off as smoothly as buttermilk. And that is how the clockwork queen came to rule a clockwork court, and why clockmakers became the richest men in the kingdom. VI. You, being a very rational and astute kind of reader, might be forgiven for thinking that Iris could tolerate her clockwork court, perhaps even love it. However, she could do neither. Clockworks queens are no more liberal over strange whirlings and creakings than their bookbinder husbands are, and they are no more pleased with limited conversation, and they no more wish to be told how long precisely it takes them to do anything. Though they will never admit it, every once in a while, a clockwork queen likes to be late for her appointments. So one day, Iris opened the great wardrobe in Violet's old rooms and pulled out a beautiful robe of ruby silk and sable, and a pair of sleek leather boots, and a three-cornered hat with a net veil and a spring of dried amaranth blossoms hanging from the front. She powdered her shining skin until it was pale and dull and oiled her gears until they were silent as a mouse's whispers. So disguised, she went out into the city in search of someone to love. There were many people she did not like. There were merchants who tried to sell her strong-smelling spices, and artists who offered to paint her portrait in completely inappropriate colors, and poets who rhymed "love" and "dove" with no apparent shame. There were carriage drivers who cursed too much, and primly-aproned shopgirls who didn't curse enough. And as always, there were overly friendly people who insisted on wearing a certain shade of orange. By noon the streets were hot and dusty and crowded, and the amaranth blossoms on Iris's hat were scratching her high forehead, and she was no closer to loving anyone than she had been that morning. With a sigh like the groan of a ship being put out to sea, she sat on a cool marble bench in the center of a park, where the rose petals drooped and the fountain had been dry for decades. While she sat there, lamenting the short-sightedness of her council and the inadequacy of humanity, she smelled a bit of cinnamon on the breeze and saw a girl race past, red and small and sweet. If Iris had possessed a heart, we would say she lost it in that instant. Since she lacked that imperative piece of anatomy, whose loss would have been cliché and technically inaccurate in any case, we will say instead that a gear she had never known was loose slipped suddenly into joint as she watched Cassia, the perfumer's daughter, race through the park with a delivery for her mother's richest client. Iris followed Cassia as steadily as if the girl were carrying a lodestone—which, we hasten to assure you, was not the case. On the doorstep of the client's house, after setting the precious package in the mailbox screwed into the bricks, Cassia finally turned and met the gaze of the clockwork queen, who was, in case you have forgotten, most phenomenally beautiful. Please, said Iris, come to my palace, and I will give you my silver winding key. And that is why you should never hesitate to run your mother's errands. VII. Cassia was a very curious girl. Of course, anyone who accepts the winding key of a complete stranger in a public market is bound to have some small streak of curiosity, but Cassia's curiosity was broad as a boulevard, shaded with flowering trees. She was always very faithful about winding Iris, but when she was done she would sneak off into the cellars and the attics and the secret places in the castle. She found albums of postage stamps Henry Milton had long ago hidden away, and some old diagrams for building a queen with no eyes, and a box of twelve thousand baptismal certificates written in the smallest script imaginable. One day, she found a cold stone staircase winding up into the towers, and in the room at the top of the stairs, she found Violet. Of course the council hadn't just disposed of her when she ceased to run. Do you throw out your mother when she stops reading bedtime stories to you? Do you throw out your lover when he stops bringing you cherries dipped in chocolate? We should hope not; at the very least, you keep them for parts. And so Violet remained in her tower room standing precisely as she had been the moment her spring wound down. Violet was not as beautiful as Iris. But she had sharp cheekbones and a strong nose and a rather intelligent expression, considering that she had no control over how she looked when she finally stopped short. In some angles of light, she appeared positively charming. Of course, this was all irrelevant, because her winding key was still at the bottom of a very deep well, and she could not move or speak or love anyone until she was wound again. Every day for a year, Cassia climbed the long cold stairs to Violet's room and stared at the lifeless queen. She memorized the way the sunlight looked at noon, kissing the bronze forehead and the wire-fine eyelashes. She came to love the smell of dust and cold metal, the creak of the wooden floors beneath her feet. Finally, after a year of staring and wondering and hoping, quietly and desperately, Cassia raised herself on tiptoe and kissed Violet's clockwork lips. She felt the bronze mouth warming strangely beneath her own. She heard the ringing click of wire eyelashes against sharp metal cheekbones, and the click of gears in clockwork fingers as a gentle pair of hands folded around her waist. And Violet took a deep, shuddering breath. "You," she said, "are far too good to belong to a heartless queen." "You," Cassia said, "are far too charming to gather dust at the top of a tower." That night, they slipped from the castle while all the clockwork court was sleeping. Poor Iris, having dismissed her clockwork winding girls, was left alone and untended in her rooms. The court continued to wind each other on an ingenious schedule, never noting their queen's absence, and so the aristocracy slid ever closer to the precipice of decadence and anarchy, all because of one girl's curiosity. And that is why it is important to clean out your attic once or twice in a century. VIII. But even to love that begins in an attic, surrounded by sun-gilded dust motes and the creak of wooden floors, world enough and time are not promised. Cassia and Violet had barely crossed the kingdom's forest-shrouded eastern border when they came upon a stone bridge, and beneath it a rushing white-crested river, and beneath that—a troll. Trolls were not very common in the kingdom ruled by clockwork queens; as a rule, they dislike metal and shiny things and anything that requires winding keys, their fingers being terribly thick and clumsy. This left Cassia and Violet somewhat ignorant of the customs of trolls. In this particular case, the custom was a full bushel of apples and a yard of purple silk, and a brick or two for the house that the troll was resolutely building somewhere in the forest. Appleless, silkless, brickless, Cassia and Violet began to pick their way across the slippery bridge when there was a crash like the felling of a hundred trees, and a great cold wave swallowed the bridge before them. When the water receded, there was the troll, bumpy and green and heavy-handed, and standing right in their path. "Where is my toll?" she grumbled, her voice like wet gravel. Violet and Cassia, woefully ignorant of trolls and their curious pronunciation of voiceless alveolar plosives, stared in amazement. "My toll," the troll repeated. Confronted by the same blank stares, she tried the same phrase in the languages of the kingdom to the south, and the kingdom to the north, and the kingdoms of dragonflies and leopard-princes and Archaea. (She was an exceptionally well-educated troll.) It was not until she attempted the language of timepieces, all clicks and whirls and enjoinders to hasten, that Violet understood. "Your toll?" she repeated. "But we haven't got anything of the kind!" "Then you'll have to swim," the troll said, and seeing that there was no chance of enriching her stores of apples or silk or bricks, she plopped herself down in the middle of the bridge and would say nothing further. Violet and Cassia climbed down from the bridge and stood on the shingle of smooth and shining stones at the river's edge. Cassia shivered, and even Violet felt the water's chill in the spaces between her gears. But there was no crossing the bridge, not with the troll crouching on it like a tree growing out of a path, and there was certainly no returning to the kingdom and the court of the heartless queen. Cassia rolled the cuffs of her trousers to her knees and stepped into the frigid flow. The current tugged fiercely at her ankles, icy and quick. She felt the river's pebbly floor shifting beneath her bootheels and lost her balance with a tiny shriek. Violet splashed after her, brass arms spread for balance, and that was the last Cassia saw of her beloved before the river swallowed the clockwork queen. And that is why you should always, always pay the troll's custom, no matter how many apples she demands. IX. With Violet gone, there was nothing for Cassia to do but continue her journey east. The days were brief and quiet and the nights were cold and hollow, and the road dwindled until it was nothing but a few grains of gravel amid the twisted roots. As is the way of things in geography and enchanted forests, Cassia had soon walked so far east that she was going westward. And at the westernmost edge of the world, she found herself in the garden of a low-roofed cottage that smelled of coffee and bruised violets. Despite her terrible grief, Cassia could not help but be delighted by the tiny garden. There were daisies made of little ivory gears, and bluebells of jingling copper, and chrysanthemums so intricate that the flapping of a butterfly's wings could disrupt their mechanism and require them to be reset. There were roses that hummed like hives of bees, and lilies that wept tears of pale golden oil. And above all there were violets, branches and branches of violets, whose pounded petals could be added to any food, and convey upon it healing properties. "I am glad to see that my garden makes you smile," the clockmaker said from his window. It was Isaac, of course, that same clockmaker who had built heartless Iris—even within so strange a profession, there are few people whose houses smell of coffee and bruised violets. Cassia jumped at the sound of his voice and turned to him, the color high in her brown cheeks. The clockmaker, poor man, who had lived so lonely at the western edge of the world and had never seen a human being blush, fell instantly in love. Most people react very irrationally to their first taste of love. They form silly ideas about keeping the object of their affection near to them forever, and think of names for their children, and even dream of the days when they are both ancient and sitting on wicker chairs overlooking the sea. Or they chafe at the thought of being under their beloved's spell, and immediately think of a thousand ways to be rid of them—by accident, by cruelty, by hiding from them for years, all of which can become terribly impractical. Still others try to pretend that it never happened, and behave indifferently to the object of their affections, but of course something always gives them away—an accidental touch that becomes a caress, a too-gentle look, an extra teaspoon of sugar in the beloved's cup of tea. But clockmakers are by nature quite rational, and this particular clockmaker was even more rational than most. Isaac weighed the dangers of each possible response and in the same instant plucked three clockwork flowers from his garden: a rose, a lily, and a sprig of violets. Cassia gnawed her lip in curiosity as he held the flowers out to her, his hands shaking minutely like a wire too tightly wound, and bid her choose one. She took a long time to choose. The flowers were all so beautiful, and each one seemed to sing to her of the weight of her choice. But of course she could not know—the flowers could not know—only Isaac himself knew the true price of each stem. If Cassia had chosen the rose, singing and sweet-scented, Isaac would have knelt and asked her to marry him. If she had chosen the lily, weeping and pale, he would have strangled her with a purple silk scarf and buried her beneath the amaranth bush at his bedroom window. But since she choose the violets, quiet and dark, he swallowed his passion and his fear, and served her a cup of salty chicken soup, and sent her on her way. And that is why you must always remember the names of lost lovers. X. So Cassia found herself again on the borders of Iris's kingdom. This land was ruled, not by a clockwork queen, but by a mortal man, and everything was cold and covered in gray ash. The land lay under a curse, an apple-peddler warned Cassia when they sheltered for the night beneath the same lightning-wracked tree. The king was dying of consumption, and his daughter, who happened to be a very powerful witch, plunged the kingdom into drought and ice until someone came forth to cure her father. It was, the peddler said, a beautiful show of filial devotion, if ultimately quite useless. Cassia listened to the story and said nothing, chewing it over like a dusty bite of apple, and fingering the spring of violets in the pocket of her coat. Another day of walking brought her within the shadow of the dying king's castle. Cassia shuddered to see the coat of arms blazoned on the door, for this king was the same one who, many years before, had sent Brutus to assassinate Violet. Again, Cassia fingered the clockwork petals in her pocket. Then she went to the door and knocked. A tall woman answered, her face pale as a disk of bone. "What do you want?" she snarled. "I am here to cure the king," said Cassia. "But first, you must promise to give me whatever I ask for when he is returned to health." "If you can cure my father," said the princess, "I will give you this kingdom and everything in it." And she led Cassia through the winding hallways to the king's deathbed in the palace's heart. Cassia rolled up her sleeves and stoked the fire in the room's great hearth until it blazed like sunlight on apple skins. She sent the servants for a black iron kettle and a wooden spoon, and some chicken bones and a gallon of clean water. When she had boiled the bones to a clear golden broth, she added salt and carrots and soft white potatoes, and slivers of celery and sweet-smelling thyme. She used a silver ladle to dish the soup into a peasant's wooden bowl, which held in its splintered bottom one single petal from a clockwork violet. When the king had eaten the soup, color returned to his bone-pale cheeks and his lungs became clean and whole again. He leapt up from his bed and embraced his daughter, whose black eyes sparkled in the firelight. "The king is saved," the princess said. "What is it you wish from me?" "Bring me Brutus," said Cassia. The assassin was found and brought before her. He knelt at her feet and trembled, certain she had come to kill him for the loss of Violet's winding key—he was not ignorant, after all, of the properties of clockworks, though he knew precious little of lovers' first kisses. And so he was astounded to learn that Violet was no longer gathering dust in Iris's attic, but trapped beneath a river's icy foam. "I want you to bring me my clockwork queen," said Cassia, "and I want her alive." "You will have her," swore Brutus, who had never failed on a mission. And that is why you should learn the reason behind every pestilence, and never be afraid to call in favors. XI. Brutus, as you will surely recall, was both very clever and rather well-informed about the subtle machinations of clockwork. He also had an abnormally high tolerance for frigid water and the alveolar plosives of trolls. And so he fished poor Violet from the river with no more trouble than a child pulling sweet-fleshed shellfish from a tide pool. But water, particularly cold and muddy river-water, is vicious to clockwork, and no matter how he shook her or called to her or kissed her metal lips, Brutus could not bring Violet back to life. But he had never failed on a mission, and he was not about to begin failing when his mission was the reunion of true lovers. He wrapped Violet in his own cloak and sat her on the back of his own horse, and for nearly a year he wandered the land, looking for the woman or man or beast who could fix the clockwork queen. And, as is the way of things in geography and hopeless quests, Brutus soon found himself in a clockwork garden that smelled of coffee and bruised violets. Isaac was there—where would he have gone?—sitting now on his front porch, composing sonnets to Cassia's brown skin and sweet voice. He caught sight of sunlight glinting off of Violet's bronze forehead long before he could make out the shape of Brutus stumbling along beside her. He folded his legs up beneath him and leaned against the brick wall of his garden, sucking the ink-bitter tip of his pen, until his visitors were close enough to call to. "I suppose you want me to fix her," Isaac said. "Oh, not to worry, it can be done. In fact, there are three ways to wake a dead clockwork." And he plucked three clockwork flowers from the sweet-smelling soil and held them out to Brutus—a rose, a lily, and a sprig of violets. Brutus was desperately tired, and in no mood for making such a choice. Assassins, unlike perfumer's daughters, are well-versed in the more obscure avenues of flower symbolism, and he knew that a rose meant a trap, a lily meant strangling, and violets were a wildcard—they meant whatever the gardener wished them to mean. He did not know the three ways to wake a dead clockwork—in fact, no one but Isaac knew those, so you can hardly expect us to tell them to you—but his instinct told him quite accurately that all three required blood and sacrifice of some kind. In short, he knew he faced a very dire decision, and had no good way to make the choice. Then, quite suddenly, he remembered the sprig of violets he had seen peeking out of Cassia's coat pocket. Sighing in relief, he took the violets from Isaac's hand. The clockmaker smiled in the enigmatic way of men who were expecting as much, and set about repairing the queen with oil and wrenches and a fine steel screwdriver. And that is why you should always begin by trying what has worked before, especially with clockmakers, who as a rule are so terribly conventional. XII. The reunion between Cassia and Violet was perhaps too happy to be described here, for the only way to even approximate it is through an unlikely and wholly disagreeable string of paradoxes. Let it suffice to say that they were happy as few people have ever been, with or without the benefits of exotic wine or beautiful lovers or victory in impossible battles, or cold-skinned apples or soup recipes or an encyclopedic knowledge of flower symbolism. Isaac wrought a new winding key for Violet, and Violet gave it into Cassia's keeping, and Cassia lovingly wound her lover every morning until the day, many years later, she died in her clockwork arms. Very slowly—but not with too unseemly a sadness—Violet dug a grave in a forest beneath the dappled shadows of oak leaves. She lay Cassia on a bed of flower petals and cinnamon and climbed in beside her, and she pulled the earth down over both of them. Since there was no one left to wind her, Violet soon ran down in the cinnamon-scented darkness, and she and Cassia sleep peacefully in the same deep grave, as lovers always wish to. And that is why a wise clockwork queen has only one winding key. XIII. Of course, with or without a winding key, no clockwork is immortal. Iris and her court eventually ran down, and Isaac's garden withered, and the price of clockwork plummeted, ruining the kingdom's economy. And that is why you should invest in dependable things, like lodestones and assassins and bridges guarded by trolls, and steel screwdrivers and enchanted violets, and when you learn a good recipe for chicken soup you should write it down in detail, in case some day you fall in love.   END "Lessons From a Clockwork Queen" was originally published in Fantasy Magazine and is copyright Megan Arkenberg, 2011. This recording is a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license which means you can share it with anyone you’d like, but please don’t change or sell it. Our theme is “Aurora Borealis” by Bird Creek, available through the Google Audio Library. You can support GlitterShip by checking out our Patreon at patreon.com/keffy, subscribing to our feed, or by leaving reviews on iTunes. Thanks for listening, and I’ll be back soon with a poem by Joyce Chng, and an original story by Susan Jane Bigelow.

Appeared in Fantasy Magazine Issue #4 (Prime Books) Ben Peek is the author of Twenty-Six Lies/One Truth and Black Sheep. His short fiction has been reprinted in numerous Year’s Best volumes, and have appeared in Overland, Polyphony, Leviathan, Fantasy Magazine, Aurealis,…

Appeared in Interfictions II (Interstitial Arts Foundation/ Small Beer Press) Peter M Ball is a Brisbane-based writer whose short fiction has appeared in Fantasy Magazine, Strange Horizons, Apex Magazine and the Interfictions II anthology. He attended Clarion South in 2007 and…

Main Fiction: "Cosmobotica" by Tony Pi and Costi Gurgu Originally published in The Mammoth Book of Dieselpunk Tony Pi is a Chinese-Canadian writer in Toronto with a Ph.D. in Linguistics. He is the winner of the 2015 Aurora Award for Best English Poem/Song, a multiple past finalist in the category of Best English Short Fiction, and the 2009 John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. His work appears in many anthologies and magazines, including Clarkesworld Magazine, Fantasy Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and The Time Traveller's Almanac. Costi Gurgu was born in Constanta, the 2600-year-old Greek city on the Black Sea shore, and lives in Toronto with his wife, on the Ontario Lake shore. Large bodies of water help Costi glimpse into other realms. That and some Dacian magic. His fiction has appeared in Canada, the United States, England, Denmark, Hungary and Romania. He has sold three books and over fifty stories for which he has won twenty-four awards. His latest sales include the anthologies “Ages of... See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Cat Rambo lives, writes, and edits in the Pacific Northwest. Her work has appeared in such places as Asimov's, Weird Tales, and Strange Horizons. She was the fiction editor of award-winning Fantasy Magazine and appeared on the World Fantasy Award ballot in 2012 for that work. Her story "Five Ways to Fall in Love on Planet Porcelain" was a 2012 Nebula Award finalist. She has worked as a programmer-writer for Microsoft and a Tarot card reader, professions which, she claims, both involve a certain combination of technical knowledge and willingness to go with the flow. A graduate of the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars and Clarion West, she also works with Armageddon MUD, and writes gaming articles. A frequent volunteer with the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, she is currently its president. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Paul Tremblay is the author of six novels, including Disappearance at Devil's Rock and A Head Full of Ghosts. His fiction and essays have appeared in The Los Angeles Times, Supernatural Noir, and numerous Year’s Best anthologies. He served as fiction editor of CHIZINE and as co-editor of Fantasy Magazine, and was also the co-editor the Creatures anthology (with John Langan). Paul is also on the board of directors for the Shirley Jackson Awards. Alex Dolan, the host of Thrill Seekers, is a writer and musician based in California. His first book, The Euthanist, is published through Diversion Books and represented by the Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency. His second novel, with a working title of The Empress of Tempera, is scheduled for publication in September 2016. His is an executive committee member of the San Francisco Bay Area’s Litquake and a member of International Thriller Writers and Sisters in Crime.  This is a trademarked copyrighted podcast solely owned by the Authors on the Air Global Radio Network LLC.

And the Blood of Dead Gods Will Mark the ScoreBy Gary KlosterI had a frat-boy stretched out on the table, a pink slab of drunken meat just itching for ink, when Huck blew back into my life and brought the blood trade with him."Dead gods, Woody, this is the shit-hole you crawled into?"  The shop was damn small, Huck was damn big, and the perfectly tailored black ass of his suit pants leaned against my desk before I'd even raised the humming needle from frat-boy's hide."I'm busy, Huck.  Back off."Full transcript appears after the cut.----more----Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 19 for January 5, 2016. This is your host, Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing this story with you.It's been a while since I ran a story for you, so I hope you've been well in the past few months. Before we get started today, I have some bad news and some good news. The bad news is that I've decided to shift GlitterShip back to two episodes a month instead of four. This is mostly because with moving, and grad school, and trying to do everything else I need to do, I was having trouble sustaining a 4 episodes per month. The good news is that this means that GlitterShip's funds will last until April 2017 at the very least, and that I will be able to showcase more guest readers.I also have some original fiction lined up to start in April 2016, at which point GlitterShip will finally shift from all reprints. Instead, each month I'll bring you one original and one reprint story.If you're a writer or reader and are interested in getting involved, check out the submissions guidelines at glittership.com/submission-guidelines.Our story today is "And the Blood of Dead Gods Will Mark the Score" by Gary Kloster.Gary Kloster is a writer, librarian, martial artist, and stay at home father. Sometimes all in the same day, but seldom all at the same time. His first book, Firesoul, is out now.And the Blood of Dead Gods Will Mark the ScoreBy Gary KlosterI had a frat-boy stretched out on the table, a pink slab of drunken meat just itching for ink, when Huck blew back into my life and brought the blood trade with him."Dead gods, Woody, this is the shit-hole you crawled into?"  The shop was damn small, Huck was damn big, and the perfectly tailored black ass of his suit pants leaned against my desk before I'd even raised the humming needle from frat-boy's hide."I'm busy, Huck.  Back off.""Busy?"  Huck pursed his lips, made a show of studying the stencil I'd taped across the customer's shoulder blades.  "Gettin you some ink, boy?  A tribal?  Something all spiky and black and awesome to show off to the bitches back home?"Huck's deep voice slowly penetrated my customer's drunken meditations, and his blood shot eyes rolled to blink back my ex-partner's regard.  "Who the hell…"  The young man's voice trailed off, the twitchy edge of drunken belligerence fading as he caught sight of Huck's face.Huck smiled, and his smile stretched the pink rift of scar tissue that ran up from the corner of his jaw, across the twisted pit of his ruined right eye and onto his broad forehead.  Before Nikolai's betrayal, Huck's face had been sternly handsome and the blood tatted into his dark skin had shone like lightning.  That tat's magic had made him beautiful and terrifying, like a storm rolling, and with a look he could make all the world his bitch.  Now, left with just the scar and the spark of rage that still burned in the depths of his remaining eye, he had to be content with just scaring people shitless."Tribals are crap, redneck poser ink.  Do yourself a favor and piss off."Two minutes after Huck banged in and my only customer that whole damn day was sulking out, a black dot of ink no bigger than a pimple hidden beneath his shirt.  "Follow him out, Huck," I said as the door rattled shut and I trashed the ink that I'd laid out for the job.  "We're done, remember?""Woody."  He picked up my sample book, stared at my name splashed across its front in bright red graffiti style.  "Dumb ass name.  Nikolai helped you pick that, didn't he?  Did that cocksucker give you a wooden pecker to go with it?"My teeth clenched, locked back the curse I wanted to hurl at him.  It'd always been so easy for him to control me, to drop a few words and make me flare up in rage.  Or desire.  But those days were gone.  We were different people now.  "Just go.  Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it.""You don't want to hear it?  Don't even want to hear it?"  Huck's big hands flipped restlessly through the pages of my sample book, but his eye was roaming the cheap sample-art posters tacked to the lumpy plaster of the walls.  "You rent yourself some space in a crappy little parlor on Hollywood so you could draw ugly tats with plain ink onto tourists, and so you don't need to hear me out?  You sure you can afford to say that?"Threat growled like distant thunder through his smooth voice, but I wasn't going to let him shake me that way either.  "I can afford to stay out of jail.""Jail."  The scar shifted around his smile.  "What was that to you?  Four years learning to ink and picking out girlfriends.  Jail must have been nothing for you.  Tough guy."Four years being the freak in a cage.  That wasn't nothing, no, not at all.  I rubbed a hand over the rough bristles on my chin, shook my head, so sick of Huck and all those memories that rode his wake.  "They weren't my type."Huck's hands snapped my book shut, dropped it to my desk where it teetered and fell to the floor in a glossy heap.  He pushed himself up straight to tower over me, the bright spot of spite in his eye burning down at me.  "Yeah, and you ain't my type anymore either, are you?"  In his face, I could read the disgust, the anger he still had at me for what I'd done, for the truth I'd carved into my flesh.  Flesh he once thought he had claim to.  "So stop trying to play the big boy.  There's new blood in town, big god's blood, and I mean to have it.  So that means I need me a bloodhound.  I need you.""I ain't your dog, Huck."His hands were on me, yanking me into him, and suddenly all I could see was his bright, furious eye and its ruined twin.  "You are my dog, Woody.  You're my bitch.  Always."  He shoved me away and I hit the table behind me, stumbled and landed on my ass.From the floor I stared up at him, body shaking, anger and fear rattling through me.  We'd been lovers for years before it all burned down, before Nikolai destroyed us.  Years good, bad and chaotic, especially at the end when I had told him what I really was, told him that his pretty girl never believed she was a girl at all.  And that I wanted to change.  Through all of that, in all the twisted grotesquerie of what we had called our love, he had never touched me in anger, never dared name and claim me like that.  "Get out.""No."  He stared down at me, hands twitching, his ill-leashed fury hungry for release, but as I pushed my back slowly to the wall he reined it.  "No.  This isn't just some score.  It's the score, the one that wraps this business up for all of us, you, me and Nikolai.  This pays it all."Nikolai.  I close my eyes and let my head rock back to thump my crew-cut into the wall.  Of course it was Nikolai. Of course he'd come back to LA, blood in his hands and a smile on his lips.  "Oh gods, Huck, just give it up.  He hurt me too, hurt me bad.  Four years of my life are gone because of him.  But I can't steal those years back, and you can't hurt him enough to bring back your tat. Cut your damn losses and move on.  Going after Nikolai, getting back in the trade, it's just a slow bullet through your brain.""You think I can let this go?"  His finger traced over the ruin of his face.  "He burned me.  He set me up and burned me, burned the blood of Zeus right out of my face.  I'm never going to let that go.  My balls won't let me.  How about yours?"A cheap shot and I gathered up my book and stood while I let the pain of its bite fade.  "No Huck.  No.  I don't want your revenge, and I don't want your money.  Find yourself some other dog.  I'm done with the blood trade.""I wasn't offering money."The softness of his voice made me look at him, but he was staring away from me now, through the neon and out at the tourists passing in the garish unnight.  "What?""He has Ungud.""Fuck!"  The book hit the wall, pages flying, the bright wings of butterflies torn away by a storm.  The trap had shut, and I never even saw it coming.  "Fuck me," I whispered, and damn he was smiling at me, sympathy and satisfaction."Not anymore, baby-girl.  Not anymore."I watched them kill a god, once.  My mother took me.She made me wear a dress, and I hated that.  I hated the crowd, the heat and perfume stink of the people around me as everyone pressed close to glass so thickly etched with wards that the altar below seemed to float in a fog of incantation.  I hated it all, but she made me watch.  Mom thought they were saving the world, culling the idols of the infidels.  Even then, I wondered if they were just making a profit.The god looked like a dirty old woman, senile and sick.  It felt obscene, watching the priests stagger to the altar under the weight of their icons of protection, dragging her with them.  While they made their prayers, she drooled and muttered.  I watched, and couldn't believe it would happen.  Couldn't believe that anything so sad, so contemptible, could be a god.  Couldn't believe they were going to kill that wasted old crone.  Then they bent back her head and cut her throat.One quick flash of a knife, and the blood came.  The black blood boiled out of her, writhed and splashed like a thousand snakes and the priests caught as much as they could.  Caught it to seal up in sacred vessels and sell for the glory of their particular truth.  That black essence of belief, sold by the ounce.Truth wins, chaos dies.  My mother pointed to the sacred circle carved into the altar, stained black.  The old beliefs were all going away, and the world would be pure.  I listened, silent and horrified at the thought.  A world where everything fit, just so.  Where no one could be out of place.  She pulled me away, content in her sanctimony, but I looked back and watched the priests trying to gather every last dark drop.  And I saw them fail.It escaped them, slipped past them, ran away.  Some portion of that tainted tincture of everything that the dead god's worshippers had once invested in her ran back into the world.  Escaped, to pool in graveyard shadows and on the wings of crows, in bottles of dark beer and in the eyes of sick children.  No one could contain the blood.  That was a truth I could believe in.So the blood of the dead gods gathered in the dark spaces, the secret places, and of course there were those stupid enough, crazy enough, to seek it out.  We found the dreams of a million souls gathered in the curdled essence of a deity and packaged it into little glass spheres, convenient for sale.  Of course the dealers were all fucked up.  And I had fallen in love with two of them, and my hands had been soaked in the blood of the divine.  It didn't matter that I was a blood hound, one of those dubiously gifted few who could sniff out the blood where it hid, who could resist somewhat the madness it cast in its raw form.  It still tainted my life.  Trying to turn my back on it had been a stupid dream.Stretched out in my narrow bed, I stared at the peeling walls of my tiny apartment, tacked over with diagrams, photos, maps of the hills above LA.  Five years of impotent rage hadn't done much for Huck's temper, but it had honed his cunning, and now my room was a shrine to his dream of revenge.  For the past two weeks he had been force-feeding me every detail of Nikolai's return.  Dead gods knew where he'd gotten it all, or how he'd paid for it.  But now it was my job to know it.  Just like the old days.The good, crazy days.  When Huck planned the scores and I pulled them off, riding his smarts through the job until I hit the point where the information broke down and I would just have to gut it through.  Then Nikolai would line up the buyers and bring in the cash.  That was when we were one tight little family, completely screwed up and seething but together, functioning somehow.  Until it had all blown apart.I had tried to pretend I could turn my back on Huck and Nikolai and everything we had done to each other. Tried to pretend that we were over and done.  A stupid mistake.  We would never be over as long as all three of us still breathed.  Huck was too furious, Nikolai too careful, and me… They both knew me too well to let me go.  They knew exactly how to pull me back in.  Ungud.  The aboriginal god of snakes and rainbows and desire, a god who could be male or female, depending on its want.  Who was what it was, what it wanted to be.  A god whose blood could make me exactly what I was.Three days, and maybe this would really would be over, like Huck said, solved under a sky painted red and black by his rage.  Three days, and maybe I or Nikolai or Huck might finally get what we wanted.  Or maybe again all our dreams would just spill out and be lost to violence, like the blood of that dead god.A helicopter thundered overhead, hauling water east to the fire lines and that finally shut Huck up."I know," I said, before he could start up again when the noise faded.  "I know, and if I don't know it's too damn late to worry about it.  You've done your job, now let me do mine."  I watched his hands tighten on the steering wheel of his Tahoe, remembered how mad this made him.  A control freak, placing his carefully crafted creation into the hands of an improviser.  Five years of obsession hadn't changed that."The fire is rolling in faster than I wanted it too.  They might be thinking of moving.""Yeah, maybe.  So what?  I'll deal with it."  My hands were slapping a quick beat over my body, checking pockets to make sure every piece of equipment was where I wanted it.  "You wanted me, you got me, now let me go.  I've got work to do.""A real tough guy now, ain't you?""Always was."His eye looked me over, and I could imagine him trying to picture me the way I was when we met, to see again the person I'd been when he'd wanted me.  It made me itch, uncomfortable.  "Were you really?""Yeah.  Why do you think you loved me, instead of all the other women you'd screwed?"  And then I was out of the car, slamming shut the door and leaving him with that.  As good a last line as I was going to get, if this all went to hell and I never saw him again.  I started down the street, heading for the bike paths that would take me to the house hidden high in these dry hills where Nikolai and the blood were waiting.  As I walked, I wrapped a black bandana across my face to block out the smell of burning.  And wondered if things had already gone to hell a long time ago.The wards were easy, always were.  My nature makes me slippery, hard to fix with magic.  And I had them marked on a map.  The alarms were harder, but Huck knew my weaknesses and had drilled me on how to handle the ones that were still operating, the ones that hadn't fallen when the fire took out the power and the data lines.  The fire or some hired hand of Huck's, using the fire for cover.  Even the cell nets were almost useless, jammed with the panicked calls of property owners.I pulled myself up onto the bumpy tile roof of the house, giving thanks as I did to the testosterone injections that built the muscle that made it easy.  It was a big place, some old money mansion built out in the wilderness before Santa Clarita had blown up in the valley below.  It must have cost Nikolai a bundle to rent, and I was betting he wasn't going to be getting his deposit back.  If he really had the blood of ten dead gods down there, it didn't matter how hard they warded the spheres that encased it.  Power would bleed out, and the shadows of this house would crawl with nightmares for years.That, though, was the least of my ex-partner's problems.  I found the skylight I wanted and peered down into a room, empty and lit only with the ruddy glow of the approaching fire.  An empty room, except for the brass bound box that gleamed below me.  I frowned down at it.  Clear the ward on this skylight, slip down and gather up the loot, then away.  Just like Huck had planned.My fingers danced around the skylight's edge, pasting in place the twists of iron and hair, spit and paper.  Charms to break the ward without letting it know it's been broken.  Then I worked loose the alarm wire, slipped open the lock and tied off my rope.  All in the plan.  I swung myself in, quiet as a cat, and slid down.  Adrenalin danced in my veins, waiting for the moment the plan went to hell.I could smell the blood, even before I cracked the case.  I'd never been very gifted at sniffing the stuff out, had never been a good tracker.  My bloodhound abilities lay more in my gift at resisting its gnawing effect on my sanity.  But the scent was so strong here I could taste it, and I knew that there must be more blood in the case than I had ever seen before.  With care, I lifted away the soft packing meant to prevent the psychic hell storm that would burst forth if one or more of the globes inside broke.  And that was when the plan burned.Eleven spheres nestled carefully in velvet.  Big crystal globes, and in the heart of each black liquid rolled and stirred, moving in tides that were steered more by my heartbeat than the moon.  Eleven.  Huck had said ten.  Behind me, the door swung open and my job really began."Woody.""Nikolai."  Five years had barely changed him, but he was vain.  Exercise to keep the belly away, dyes to tint the grey that was creeping in, injections and charms to smooth the nascent wrinkles.  Still, he looked good.  He stepped into the room alone, shut the door behind him.  Didn't matter.  The guards would be on the periphery, waiting."I like what you've done with yourself."  His grey eyes roamed me, flicked across my short hair and goatee, the muscles I'd added, lingered on the bulge in the black fatigues I wore.  "You're packing now.""In more ways than one," I said.  But I kept my hands still, didn't try to pull on him.  Nikolai wanted to talk, and I was fine with that."You like the merchandise?""It's interesting.""It's expensive."  Nikolai walked a little closer, stopped.  With the box open, I knew he had to be feeling it, the buzzing edge of distortion that gave normal people the fits and left bloodhounds like me mostly alone.  An advantage, since it kept him back from me.  A little one."South American, mostly.  Huitzilopochtli.  Weet-seal-oh-POACHED-lee  They mix a tiny drop of that with meth and slam it.  Guys do that and they can dodge bullets.  For a little while.  Tezcatlipoca. Tez catly pouka Put a trace of it in the ink of a jaguar tattoo, and no one will ever lie to you again.  And nine more.  The trade's been good to me, lately.""I see."  Good.  Eleven full globes, each the size of a damn softball, each one a pure god, each of them worth a fortune.  We'd risked our lives for a globe of mixed blood a tenth the size of these in the old days.  That case cradled more money and power than I'd ever seen in the trade.  Power enough that I could feel it gnawing at my inborn protections."I'm glad Huck persuaded you to come.  I've been wanting to see you.  I owe you an apology.""You don't owe me anything."  Friends, lovers, family, they hurt each other and had to apologize.  Nikolai had been all of those to me, once, but he wasn't anymore.  Burning out Huck's tat had been a too clever attempt at assassination, and if I hadn't gotten spooked and ditched the blood I was carrying down a storm sewer, I wouldn't have been doing four years for breaking and entering.  Transporting even that little bit of unsanctioned blood would have kept me in a cage for life.  Nikolai had tried to take both our lives when he decided to stop freelancing and left us to join the east coast family that was muscling in on the LA blood trade. When he betrayed us, he stopped being anything but an enemy.  And enemies, they never need to apologize.Nikolai read the thread of my thought in my body's tension.  He nodded, and I knew he never expected any other answer.  "I always thought I was the clever one.  But you both were smarter than I thought.  But this isn't really smart at all."  He waved a hand at the spheres.  "Who do you think fed Huck all the info that led you here?  Who do you think his informants were really working for?  And why do you think I made sure that he knew that I had Ungud?  I wanted you to come, Woody.  So I brought you a gift."The spheres gleamed, shining soft in the red fire light.  I reached down, slow, and plucked up the odd one out.  In its depths, the black blood moved and flashed, brightened.  There were colors there, every color, vibrant as a rainbow, and they twisted together into the form of a serpent, into a woman, into a man.  Ungud.  "A gift.  Or a payment?""What is he to you, Woody?  What did he do when you told him what you really were?  When you told him that his girlfriend wasn't really a girl at all?  He would have driven you out, thrown you away.  I was the one who understood, who let you be what you are.  Who loved you as you really are.  Who let you stay.  That was me."  He looked at me, blue eyes so sincere, and my hand gripped the sphere so tightly I wondered if it might crack.  "Take my gift.  Then lead me to him.""So you can finally finish with him?"  And here it was again, the real sick heart of our little family.  It had always been about the struggle between these two, to find out who was really in charge, who was really the alpha dog.  And I had always been a marker, part of the score.  That's why he hadn't just let me take the stuff and followed me back to his ex-partner.  He had to know that I was betraying Huck.  That he had won, finally.  "Fuck you.""What other choice do you think you have?" Nikolai always sounded so sad when he had you right where he wanted you.  When he thought you were his bitch."What choice?  Did I ever have a real choice, pinned between you two?"  I looked out the broad windows at the distant hills, at the bright flames that stretched up into the darkness.  Ungud's sphere was tight in my hand.  "Here's my choice.  Everything breaks, and everybody dies."Nikolai was smart, but slow, too damn slow.  He didn't even have time to wipe that sad, smug look from his face before my hand was wrapping around the velvet, yanking it free from the box.  In the air the dead god's blood shone in their clear cages, beautiful.  Then they slammed into the floor and shattered.  I only heard the start of Nikolai's screaming as the air broke around us, filled with ten thousand dreams of gods, dead and howling.  In my head, I denied them, walled them out and fumbled through their passions for the rope that hung beside me.  It was in my hand, the black nylon harsh against my skin, when they broke through and the whole world began to burn.Around me, the ash fell like snow.  Smoke rose, black columns that made the sun a sick pale circle rising slowly in the east.  Closing my eyes blotted out that grey light, but the visions that had been burned into the darkness behind my eyelids gave me no comfort.  I opened them again and watched the fires crawl across the distant hills until Huck came for me."Woody."  He swung himself out of his truck, hand hidden beneath his suit jacket, waiting for an ambush.  "What happened?""What do you think?"  I wiped my bandana across my face, tried to blink away the smoke and visions.  In the ruins of his face, colors ran and danced like a broken rainbow, making my eyes burn.  "It was a setup.  It all went to hell.""You didn't get the blood?"I opened my hand, let the wan sun shine on the glass orb it still held.  "Ungud.  Only Ungud.  I dumped the rest."He grunted.  "You dumped them?""I broke them all.  Broke them and crawled out through the chaos.  It was the only way to get past the guards.  And Nikolai."  I watched him twitch when I spoke the name.  "I smashed them at his feet."Huck stared at me, his one eye red and burning.  "Then you did good."I'd spilt out hell in that house and run away, and the screams of Nikolai and his men had echoed behind me until the fire finally swept over them.  I'd bought a new life and Huck's vengeance with the blood of dead gods and the screams of damned men.  My dreams were going to be tainted with both, forever."Good.  Yeah."  In the globe, the blood trembled, stirred by the tremor in my hand.  "I always do my best when your plans fail, and when chaos rules."    Holding the glass sphere tight, I made myself go on.  "Huck, I need something.""I thought we were done.  I thought that was what you wanted.  You did your job, and your payment's in your hand.""Huck, I don't want your money.  I want your help.  We used to do that, sometimes, remember?  Just help each other?  When you still loved me?"He looked away, stared out at smoke and ruins, a big man with a rumpled suit and a scar.  "What?""I need a tat.  With this blood.""So you can finally become a real boy?"I ignored the stupid, useless bitterness in his voice.  He could never believe that this had nothing to do with him. "So I can be what I am.""A man," he said.  "That much blood, you could be more than that."I turned the sphere and watched the colors shine in the dark blood.  So much power, so much potential.  "Yes.  I can be every man.  Young and old, big and small.  All different, and all the same.""A shapeshifter.  A changeling."The idea pleased me, so much possibility after a lifetime of being trapped.  "I like change."Huck's eye came back to me, and the corner of his mouth moved, almost made a smile.  "No lie there, baby-girl."  The words made me twitch, his name for me when we had been lovers, what he called me when we were tangled together.  "You could even be a woman.  Again."I looked up and met his eye, and for first time ever he looked away.  "It's not for you, Huck.  I'm not going to be your girl again.  Ever.""No.  I guess not."  He pushed himself up straight, walked around the truck and stopped by the door.  "This smoke is killing my eye.  Let's get out of here."I stood, but didn't step forward.  "The blood?"Huck frowned at me, his scar darkening.  Then he shrugged.  "I know a guy.  But he'll want to get paid."My turn to shrug, and I did it while walking toward the car.  "Shouldn't be a problem, for us."  His eye narrowed, and I smiled.  "We just agreed not to screw each other anymore.  Best basis for a partnership we ever had.""Shit."  He shook his head, but then slid into the truck, popping the door for me.  "Spilling that blood's made you crazy.""No.  It made me sane."  In my hand, I clutched the blood tight, and in my head I held just as tight to the image of a serpent spiraling across my skin in every color of the rainbow.  A serpent that could weave my flesh into a thousand shapes that made a greater truth.  I would bear the blood of a dead god, and become what I'd always wanted to be.  Myself.END"And the Blood of Dead Gods Will Mark the Score” was originally published in Fantasy Magazine in August 2010 and reprinted in Podcastle later that year.This recording is a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license which means you can share it with anyone you’d like, but please don’t change or sell it. Our theme is “Aurora Borealis” by Bird Creek, available through the Google Audio Library.Thanks for listening, and I'll be back on January 19 with "Skeletons" by Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam.

Sugarby Cat RamboThey line up before Laurana, forty baked-clay heads atop forty bodies built of metal cylinders.  Every year she casts and fires new heads to replace those lost to weather, the wild, or simple erosion.  She rarely replaces the metal bodies.  They are scuffed and battered, over a century old.Every morning, the island sun beating down on her pale scalp, she stands on the maison's porch with the golems before her.  Motionless.  Expressionless.She chants.  The music and the words fly into the clay heads and keep them thinking.  The golems are faster just after they have been charged.  They move more lightly, with more precision.  With more joy.  Without the daily chant they could go perhaps three days at most, depending on the heaviness of their labors.Full transcript appears under the cut.----more----[Intro music plays]Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 13 for September 1st, 2015. This is your host Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing this story with you.We're back from our unfortunate hiatus, which was caused because it turns out that moving more than 3,000 miles away across the entire continent is a bit of an upheaval. But, I'm settling in over here in New York, now, and I'm a little more than a week into the first year of my five-in-theory-year program.Our story today is "Sugar" by Cat Rambo. Cat Rambo lives, writes, and teaches by the shores of an eagle-haunted lake in the Pacific Northwest. A prolific storywriter and Nebula and World Fantasy Award nominee, her publications include stories in Asimov's, Clarkesworld Magazine, and Tor.com. Her most recent book is Beasts of Tabat, Book 1 of the Tabat Quartet. She is the current President of SFWA (the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America). For more about her, as well as links to her fiction, see http://www.kittywumpus.netSugarby Cat RamboThey line up before Laurana, forty baked-clay heads atop forty bodies built of metal cylinders.  Every year she casts and fires new heads to replace those lost to weather, the wild, or simple erosion.  She rarely replaces the metal bodies.  They are scuffed and battered, over a century old.Every morning, the island sun beating down on her pale scalp, she stands on the maison's porch with the golems before her.  Motionless.  Expressionless.She chants.  The music and the words fly into the clay heads and keep them thinking.  The golems are faster just after they have been charged.  They move more lightly, with more precision.  With more joy.  Without the daily chant they could go perhaps three days at most, depending on the heaviness of their labors.This month is cane-planting season.  She delegates the squads of laborers and sets some to carrying buckets from the spring to water the new cane shoots while others dig furrows.  The roof needs reshingling, but it can wait until planting season is past.  As the golems shuffle off, she pauses to water the flowering bushes along the front of the house.  Placing her fingertips together, she conjures a tiny rain cloud, wringing moisture from the air.  Warm drops collect on the leaves, rolling down to darken pink and gray bark to red and black.Inside the house is quiet.  The three servants are in the kitchen, cooking breakfast and gossiping.  She comes up to the doorway like a ghost, half fearing what she will hear.  Nothing but small, inconsequential things.  Jeanette says when she takes her freedom payment, she will ask for a barrel of rum, and go sell it in the street, three silver pieces a cup, over at Sant Tigres, the pirate city.  She has a year to go in the sorceress' service. Daniel has been here a year and has four more to go.  He is still getting used to the golems, still eyes them warily when he thinks no one can see him.  He is thin and wiry, and his face is pockmarked and scarred by the Flame Plague.  He was lucky to escape the Old Continent with his life.  Lucky to live here now, and he knows it.Tante Isabelle has been with her since the woman was thirteen.  Now she's eighty-five, frail as one of the butterflies that move through the bougainvillea.  A black beak's snap, and the butterfly will be gone.  She sits peeling cubes of ginger, which she will boil with sugar and lime juice to make sweet syrup that can flavor tea or conjured ice."If you sell rum, everyone will think you are selling what lies between your thighs as well!" she says, eying Jeanette.Jeanette shrugs and tosses her head. "Maybe I'd make even more that way!" she says, ignoring Daniel's blush.Tante Isabelle looks up to see Laurana standing there.  The old woman's smile is sweet as sunshine, sweet as sugar.  The sorceress stands in the doorway, and the three servants smile at her, as they always do, at their beautiful mistress.  No thought ever crosses their minds of betraying or displeasing her.  It never occurs to them to wonder why.Christina is a pirate.  She wears bright calicos stolen from Indian traders and works on a ship that travels in lazy shark-like loops around the Lesser and Greater Southern Isles, looking for strays from the treasure fleet and Duchy merchants.  The merchants, based in the southernmost New Continent port of Tabat, prey on the more impoverished colonies, taking their entire crops in return for food and tools.  The treasure fleet is part of a vast corrupt network, fed by springs of gold.  This is what Christina tells Laurana, how she justifies her profession of blood and watery death.When Christina comes to Sant Tigres, she goes to the inn and sends one of the pigeons the innkeeper keeps on the roof.  It flies to Laurana's window.  She leaves her maison and sails to the port in a small skiff, standing all the way from one island to the other, sea winds whipping around her.  She focuses her will and asks the air sylphs, who she normally does not converse with, to bear her to her lover's scarlet and orange clad arms.Tiny golden hoops, each set with a charm created by Laurana, are set in Christina's right ear.  One is a tiny glass fish, protection against drowning, and the other is a silver lightning bolt to ward off storms. Christina likes to order large meals when she comes ashore.  Her crew hunts the unsettled islands and catches the wild cattle and hogs so abundant there to eke out their income.  They sell the excess fat and hides to the smugglers that fill these islands.  So she is not meat-starved now, but wants sugary treats, confections of butter and sweet, washed down with raw swallows of rum, here in harbor, where she can be safely drunk."Pretty farmer," she says now.  She touches the sorceress's hair, which was black as Christina's once, but which has gone silver with age, despite her unlined skin and her clear, brilliant blue eyes."Pretty pirate," Laurana replies.  She spends the evening buying drinks for Christina and her crew.  The pirates count on her deep pockets, rich with gold from selling sugar.  Sometimes they try to sell her things plundered on their travels, ritual components, scrolls or trinkets laden with spells.  The only present Christina ever brought her was a waxed and knotted cord strung with knobby, pearly shells.  It hangs on her bedchamber wall where the full moon's light can polish it each month.Laurana brings Christina presents: fresh strawberries and fuzzy nectarines from her greenhouse.  In Sant Tigres, she trades sugar for bushels of chocolate beans and packets of spices.  Someday, when circumstances have changed, she would like Christina to spend a day or two at the plantation.  Jeannette would outdo herself with the meals, flakey pastries and flowers of spun sugar. It is time to send for a new cook, she thinks.  It will take a few months to post the message and then for the new arrival to appear, and even more time for Jeannette to train her in the ways of the kitchen and how to tell the golems to fetch and carry.Someone leans forward to ask her a question.  It is a new member of Christina's crew, curious about the rumors of her plantation."Human slaves are doomed to failure," she says. "Look what happened on Banbur – discontented servants burned the fields and overtook the town there, turning their masters and mistresses out into the underbrush or setting them to labor."And," she added. "Whites do badly in this climate.  I can take care of myself and my household, but it is easier to not worry about my automatons growing ill or dying."Although they did die, after a fashion.  They wore away, their features blurred with erosion.  They cracked and crumbled – first the noses, then the lips and brows, their eyes becoming pitted shadows, their molded hair a mottling of cracks.Time to redecorate soon, she thought.  She did it every few decades.  She would send a letter and eventually a company representative would show up, consult with her, and then vanish back to Tabat, soon replaced by rolls of new wallpaper and carpets, crates of china and porcelain wash basins.  She looks at Christina and pictures her against blue silk sheets, olive skin gleaming in candle glow.Later they fall into bed together and she stays there for two hours before she rises, despite her lover's muffled, sleepy protests, and takes her skiff back to her own island.  Overhead the sky is a black bowl set with glittering layers of stars, grainy as sandstone and striated with light.  Moonlight dapples the waves, so dark and impenetrable that they look like polished jet.At home, she goes upstairs.  A passage cuts across the house, running north to south to take advantage of the trade wind, and open squares at the top of each room partition let the wind through.  Britomart's is the northernmost room.The air smells of dawn and sugar.   Sugar, sweet and translucent as Britomart's skin, the color of snow drifts, laid on cool white linen.  The other woman's ivory hair, which matches Laurana's, is spread out across the pillow.Tonight her face is unmasked.  Laurana does not flinch away from the pitted eyes, the face more eroded than any golem's.  Outside in the courtyard, the black and white deathbirds hop up and down in the branches, making the crimson flowers shake in the early morning light."Pleasant trip?" Britomart says.Laurana's answer is noncommittal.  Sometimes her old lover is kind, but she is prone to lashing out in sudden anger.  Laurana does not blame her for that.  Her death is proving neither painless nor particularly short, but it is coming, nonetheless.  A month?  A year?  Longer?  Laurana isn't sure.  How long have they been locked in this conversation?  It has been less than six months so far, she knows, but it seems like forever.She goes to her room.  The bed is turned down and a hot brick has been slipped between the sheets to warm them.  A bouquet of ginger sits on the table near the lamp, sending out its bold perfume.She lies in bed and fails to sleep.  Britomart's face floats before her in the darkness.  She is unsure if she is dreaming or really seeing it.  She wonders if she remembers it as worse than it really is.  But she doesn't.Two weeks later, the pigeon at her window.Christina has a bandage around her upper arm, nothing much, she says, carelessness in a battle.  She pushes Laurana away, though apologetically.  Rather than sleep together, they stay awake and talk.  It is their first conversation of any length.  Two hours after their first meeting, in the Sant Tigres market, they had fallen into bed together, four months ago."So she's sick, your friend?" Christina says."You were raised here in the islands," Laurana answers.  "You don't know what it was like in the Old Country.  In the space of three years, sorcerers destroyed two continents.  Everyone decided to make their power play at once.  They called dragons up out of the earth and set them killing.  The Flame Plague moved from town to town.  Entire villages went up like candles.  Millions died, and the earth itself was charred and burned, magic stripped from it.  Some fought with elementals, and others with summoned winds and fogs, but others with poisoned magic."She pours herself more wine.  Christina's skin is paler than usual, but the lantern light in the room gleams on it as though it were flower petals."And you were here…" Christina prompts."I was here in the islands, preparing to go.  I heard that Britomart had blundered into someone else's trap and was dying of it.  I brought her down.  The magic is clean here, and there are serendipities and artifacts.  I hoped to heal her.""But that hasn't happened."The wine is mulled with cinnamon and clove and sugar that has not completely dissolved, a gritty sweet residue at the cup's bottom."No," she says. "That hasn't happened."Christina smuggles Laurana onto her ship while it's at harbor.  She and three other sailors are supposed to be watching it.  Laurana sits with them drinking shots of rum until the yellow moon swings itself up over the prow, its face broad and grinning as a baby's.  It reminds her of Britomart and her tears well up.  She savors the moment, for magic removes almost all capacity to weep.She nudges Christina and points to the distant reef.  Out on the rocks, mermaids cluster, fishy eyes shining in the moonlight, fleshy gills pulsing like tidepool creatures shuttered close by the light.  She kisses Christina as they watch.Eventually, the two climb into Christina's bunk for frantic, slippery, drunken lovemaking, careful of the still healing arm.She leaves in the small hours, past the stares of the mermaids.  It is still planting season and the golems work and night.When she first came to the island she tried yellow-flowered sea-island cotton.  Then indigo and ginger.  With the arrival from the Wizard's College of Tabat of schematics for three-roller mills and copper furnace pots, sugar cane has become the crop of choice.  Her workers perform the labor that must be undertaken day and night when the cane is ready to harvested and transmuted into sugar and molasses.  She makes rum too, and ships barrels of it along with the molasses casks and thick cones of molded muscovado sugar to Sant Tigres, which consumes or trades all she can supply.Most sorcerers are not strong enough to animate so many golems.  She has the largest plantation in this area.  Others, though, have followed her lead, although on a smaller scale.  It took decades for them to realize how steadily she was making money, despite the depredations of the Dutch merchants or the pirates they paid to disrupt the Aztec shipping trade.She had been to the Old Continent before all the trouble, two years learning science at a school, where she had met Britomart, who was an actual princess as well as a sorceress.  She had been centuries old when she met Britomart but she had dared to hope that here was her soul mate, the person who would stay by her side over all the centuries to come. But in the end, she wanted to return to her island, full of new techniques and machineries that she thought would improve the yield.  Rotating fields and planting those lying fallow with clover, to be plowed into the soil to enrich it for planting.  Plans for a windmill to be built to the southeast, facing into the wind channeled through the mountains, with sails made of wooden frames tied with canvas.  Lenses placed together that allowed one to observe the phases of heaven and the moons that surrounded other planets, and the accompanying elegant Copernican theories to explain their movements. She swore to Britomart that she would return by the next rainy season and she kept her promise.But by then, the trap had been sprung and Britomart had begun to rot away, victim of a magic left by a man who had died two weeks previously."You're ready to be rid of me," Britomart says."Of course not.""It's true, you are!"She goes about the room, conjuring breezes and positioning them to blow across the bed's expanse."You are," Britomart whispers. "I would be."Two breezes collide at the center of the bed.  Britomart wants it cold, ever colder.  It slows the decay, perhaps.  Laurana isn't sure of that either.Outside she sees that the golems are nearly done with the south-east field.  One more to go after that.  She glances over the building, tallying up the things to be done.  Roof.  Trimming back the bushes.  Exercising the horse she had thought Britomart would ride.Half a mile away is the beach shore.  Her skiff is pulled up there, tied to a rock.  Standing beside it, she can see the smudge of Sant Tigres on the horizon.She is so tired that she aches to her bones.  Somewhere deep inside her, she is aware, there is an endless well of sorrow, but she is simply too weary to pay it any mind.  It is one of the peculiarities of mages that they can compartmentalize themselves, and put away emotions to never be touched again.She does this now, rousing herself, and prepares to go on.  She has a pact with the universe, which told her long ago when she became a sorceress: nothing will be asked that cannot be endured.  So she soldiers on like her workers, marching through the days.She is still tired a week later."Go to her," Britomart says.  "I don't care.  You don't have much time with her.""I have even less with you," Laurana says, but Britomart still turns away.It is harvesting season’s end.  Outside in the evening, some of the golems are in the boiling house, where three boilers sit over the furnace, cooking the sugar cane sap.  The syrup passes from boiler to boiler until in the last it begins to crystallize into muscovado.  Two golems pack it into clay sugar molds and set the molds in the distillery so the molasses will drain away.In the distillery, more golems walk across the mortar and cobble floor in which copper cauldrons are set for molasses collection, undulating channels feeding them the liquid. They mix cane juice into the brew before casking it.  In a few months, it will be distilled into fiery, raw rum and sold to the taverns in the pirate city.She goes and fetches her notebook and sits in the room with Britomart, her pen scratching away to record the day's labors, the number of rows harvested, and making out a list of necessities for her next trip to Sant Tigres.  She estimates two thousand pounds of sugar this year, three hundred casks of molasses, and another two hundred of rum.  Recently she received word that the sorcerer Carnuba, whose plantation is three days south, renovated his sugar mill to process lime juice.  Lime juice is an excellent scurvy preventative, and much in demand – she wonders how long it would take a newly planted grove to fruit.  Her pen dances across the page, calculating raw material costs and the best forms of transportation."Is she pretty?" Britomart asks.  Her face is still turned away.Laurana considers. "Yes," she says."As pretty as I was?" The anguish in the whisper forces Laurana put down her pen.  She takes Britomart's hands in hers.  They are untouched by the disease, the nails sleek and shiny and well-groomed.  Hands like the necks of swans, or white doves arcing over the gleam of water."Never that pretty," she says.The next morning Laurana goes through the room, touching each charm to stillness until the lace curtains no longer flutter.  Until there is no sound in the room except her own breathing and the warbling calls of the deathbirds clustering among the blossoms of the bougainvillea tree outside.She hears a fluttering from her room, a pigeon that has joined the dozen others on the windowsill, but she ignores it, as she ignored the earlier arrivals.  She sits beside the bed, listening, listening.  But the figure on the bed does not take another breath, no matter how long she listens.All through that day, the golems labor boiling sugar.  Jeanette brings her lemonade and the new girl, Madeleine, has made biscuits.  She drinks the sweet liquid and looks at the dusty wallpaper.  The thought of changing it stuns her with the energy it would require.  She will sit here, she thinks, until she dies, and dust will collect on her and the wallpaper alike.Still, when dinner-time comes she goes downstairs and under Tante Isabelle's watchful eye, she pushes some food around on her plate.Daniel cannot help but be a little thankful that Britomart is dead, she thinks.  He was the one who emptied her chamber pot and endured her abuse when she set him to fetching and carrying.  The thought makes her speak sharply to him as he serves the chowder the new girl has made.  He looks bewildered by her tone and slinks away.  She regrets the moment as soon as it is passed but has no reason for calling him back.Upstairs the ranks of the pigeons have swollen by two or three more.  She lies on her bed, fully clothed, and stares at the ceiling.The next morning she takes two golems from their labors to carry Britomart's body for her.  They dig the grave on a high slope of the mountain, overlooking the bay.  It is a fine view, she thinks.  One Britomart would have liked. When they have finished, she stands with her palms turned upwards to the sky, calling clouds to come seething on the wind.  They collect, darkening like burning sugar.  When they are at the perfect, furious boil, she brings lightning down from them to smash the stone that stands over the grave.  She does it over and over again, carving Britomart's name in deep and angry, blackened letters.At home she goes to lie in bed again.One by one, the golems grind to a stop at their labors, and the sap boils over in thick black smoke.  They stand wherever their energy gave out, but all manage in their last moments to bring their limbs in towards their torsos, standing like stalks of stillness.It may be the smoke that draws Christina.  She arrives, knocks on the door, and comes inside, brushing past the servants.  Without knowing the house, she manages to come upstairs and to Laurana's bedroom.Laurana does not move, does not look over at the door.Christina comes to the bed and lies down beside the sorceress.  She looks around at the bedroom, at the string of shells hanging on the wall, but says nothing.  She strokes Laurana's ivory hair with a soft hand until the tears begin.Outside the golems grind to life again as the rain starts.  They collect the burned vats and trundle them away.  They cask the most recent rum and set the casks on wooden racks to ferment.  They put the plantation into order, and finish the last of their labors.  Then as the light of day fades, muffled by the steady rain, they arrange themselves again, closing themselves away, readying for tomorrow.END"Sugar" was originally published in Fantasy Magazine in 2007.This recording is a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license which means you can share it with anyone you’d like, but please don’t change or sell it. Our theme is “Aurora Borealis” by Bird Creek, available through the Google Audio Library.Thanks for listening, and I'll have another story for you on September 8th.[Music plays out]

Flash Fiction: “Dream Logic” by Barbara A. Barnett Keith touches a hand to his nose, and I’m not sure what surprises him more: the blood my left hook drew, or the fact that his boxing gloves have suddenly disappeared. “How did you–“ I slug Keith again. Keith doesn’t get dream logic, which is why he shouldn’t be narco-boxing. But it’s the latest fad so he just has to get on board with it, a badge of cool to add to his generically perfect looks and the girlfriend he cheats on and that big fat promotion because he’s got leadership potential, while I’m just bossy and shrill. Barbara A. Barnett is a writer, musician, librarian, Odyssey Writing Workshop alum, coffee addict, wine lover, bad movie mocker, and all-around geek. Her short fiction has appeared in publications such as Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Intergalactic Medicine Show, Shimmer, Daily Science Fiction, Flash Fiction Online, Fantasy Magazine... See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Coming up… Show Sponsor: Octagon Technology Fact: Ray Harryhausen by Marc Zicree Mr SciFi. Main Fiction: “Bots d’Armor” by Cat Rambo Cat Rambo lives, writes, and teaches by the shores of an eagle-haunted lake in the Pacific Northwest. Her 150+ fiction publications include stories in Asimov’s, Clarkesworld Magazine, and Tor.com. Her short story, “Five Ways to Fall in Love on Planet Porcelain,” from her story collection Near + Far (Hydra House Books), was a 2012 Nebula nominee. Her editorship of Fantasy Magazine earned her a World Fantasy Award nomination in 2012. She is the current vicepresident of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers or America. For more about her, as well as links to her fiction, see... See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

"Jupiter and Gentian" by Erik Amundsen -- published in Apex Magazine issue 63, August 2014 Erik Amundsen has been removed from display for being zoologically improbable and/or terrifying to small children. He has been sighted in Weird Tales, Fantasy Magazine, Not One of Us and Jabberwocky but his natural habitat is central Connecticut. This Apex Magazine Podcast was performed by Chikodili Emelumadu and produced by Erika Ensign. Music used with kind permission of Oh, Alchemy! Apex Magazine Podcast, Copyright Apex Publications.

Hello everyone, and welcome to the second episode of Kung Fu Action Tales! I’m your host, Rob Paterson, and tonight we’re bringing you not one, but two tales of adventure from Old China. The first is a short story called The Man Who Was Never Afraid, and the second is a sample from a recently  published new Young Adult WuXia novel called Shrouded Path. A few notes: 1.       First, I’d like to thank the people who have been submitting stories to KFATales, it’s great to see that people out there are interested in exploring the wonders of old Asia. That said, we’re always looking for new stories, so please, if you have a tale of Asian adventure you’d like us to help share with the world- send it in! And we’re not just stories set in China or Japan, either! If you want to show us the adventure possibilities in old Indonesia, or the Philippines or Mongolia, then take this as your chance to show it to the English speaking world. I know that most Asian cultures had rich martial traditions, I’d love to hear some of their tales, and I know many of your fellow listeners would too! So get to work people! Time’s a wasting! 2.       Speaking of listeners, I’d love to have some feedback from you lads and ladies about the stories we present here on KFATales, and I’m sure the other writers would too. So please feel free to drop by the website and post your comments on our shows, or send us an audio message at kfactiontheatre@yahoo.ca and I’ll even play it on air during the next episode and do my best to answer any questions. 3.       And third, as always, KFATales is brought to you by KFAT’s own line of e-books which can be found on the Kindle or other major e-book retailers. Alright- on with the show! Opening Music- Mystic Asia by Dj Svenzo Our first story is called The Man Who Was Never Afraid The author, Brian Dolton, describes himself as an Englishman, now living in New Mexico, and writing stories which are mostly about an imaginary China.   This makes perfect sense to him.  He’s had work published in the Intergalactic Medicine Show, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Fantasy Magazine and many more – but says for those who find Yi Qin an interesting character the best place will be upcoming issues of Black Gate magazine.   Issue 15 is due out early this year and will contain one story, and others are already slated for issues 16 and 17. As for this story itself, it was published at Abyss and Apex, issue 20, October 2006. The first reader, Fiona Thraille is a talented actor and writer who hails from the United Kingdom and has been heard in our audio dramas as Sister Cat in the Little Gou adventures and Lady Whitcombe in the Twin Stars series. Outside of KFAT, she’s had numerous roles with Pendant Productions, and written and produced her own mystery audio drama series entitled Red Sands.   Our other author of the evening is Aron White, who will be reading an excerpt from his new novel Shrouded Path. According to his blog at aron-white.blogspot.com, Aron lives in Seattle and assumes his secret storyteller identity whenever possible. Originally from the Motor City, he’s always had a soft spot for Chevys, enjoys collecting vintage movie posters and is a member of Knights of Columbus. Some day when his regime comes to power he plans to require society to read more books and watch less television. His first novel, Shrouded Path, is a young adult adventure set in 16th century China, and tonight we’ll be hearing the prologue and the first chapter. Enjoy!     Alright then. I do believe that brings this month’s exploration into the worlds of Asian Adventure to a satisfying close. As always, thanks for listening, and tune in next month to hear Winnie Khaw’s entrancing story of the fall of a dynasty in The Paper Dragon Breathes Fire.

Stephen Euin Cobb (your host) is today's featured guest. Topics: The debut of the first ever Robot Girlfriend. (In this case a sex doll that is only slightly robotic.) Why sex robots (as they become more numerous and more human-like over the next few years) will produce an emotional firestorm of outrage from both the far left and far right which will fill every corner of the media. Also: news that the ebook market is about to turn into a fight between three giants: Amazon, Apple and beginning this summer Google; the closing, after four years, of Jim Baen's Universe Magazine; and the huge increase in online SF&F magazines which pay their writers professional rates as defined by SF&FA (the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America). Note: Here are a some submission pages of online fiction magazines which pay for stories. Many of these pay SFWA professional rates (five cents per word or better): Clarksworld, Abys & Apex, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Brain Harvest, Futurismic, Heliotrope, Strange Horizons, Lightspeed, Fantasy Magazine, and ThePedestalMagazine.) (Heliotrope pays 10 cents per word.)  Hosted by Stephen Euin Cobb, this is the May 5, 2010 episode of The Future And You. [Running time: 21 minutes] Stephen Euin Cobb is (to quote Wikipedia) a U.S. author, magazine writer, interviewer and host of the award-winning podcast The Future and You. He's also a columnist and contributing editor for Jim Baen's Universe Magazine; a contributing editor for Robot Magazine; and has written for Space and Time Magazine, H+ Magazine, and Grim Couture Magazine. He is also a game designer, artist, essayist, futurist, transhumanist, and is on the Advisory Board of The Lifeboat Foundation.

Welcome to the maiden voyage of the Obsidian Spear Podcast. Check out our website and E-Zine @ www.obsidianspear.com In this episode we cover an introduction to the mag, an excerpt from the featured story and a few notes from the editor. Thanks for downloading and see you next month

Shaun Farrell (writer, actor, and award-winning podcaster) is today's featured guest. Topics: online publishing verses paper publishing; the rise in small presses; the number of new readers is increasing; fiction sales are increasing; trends in podcasting and narrow-casting; the economy and personal debt; Connor his new baby; and the closing of Realms of Fantasy Magazine. BTW: A few days after this interview was recorded, the situation at Realms of Fantasy Magazine turned around. Hearing the magazine was going to close, Tir Na Nog Press made an offer to buy it. The offer was accepted, so the magazine will be reopened this summer. Hosted by Stephen Euin Cobb, this is the April 1, 2009 episode of The Future And You. [Running time: 42 minutes] Shaun Farrell has has interviewed more than 100 speculative fiction authors and actors; most of these interviews can be heard on his podcast: Adventures in Scifi Publishing, which (like this show) has won a Parsec Award. Based in Southern California, Shaun owns Singularity Audio, which provides podcast consultation, creates book promos, edits audio and develops new podcasts. He is also a contributing writer for Gateworld podcast; producer and content manager for The New England Fights! podcast; and an actor in the feature film Death Dress, where he plays a serial killer. Magazines he has written for include Strange Horizons, Clarkesworld and Raygun Revival.

Listen to the interview here!Tell me a little about yourself and your writing.I teach at a state liberal arts college (I'm a biologist by trade), and I write lots of fantasy and SF – both short stories and books. My third novel is coming out this June, and my fourth one – early in 2009, both from Prime books. [Editor's note: Her novel A Secret History of Moscow was published in 2007. Ekaterina’s short stories have appeared in Baen’s Universe and Fantasy Magazine, and she is the editor of Paper Cities: The Anthology of Urban Fantasy.]Tell me about the story that you've created a soundtrack/playlist for.It's for THE ALCHEMY OF STONE, the novel comes out this month. It's really a love story with anarchy, automatons and gargoyles, and alchemy. I guess it could be classified as steampunk or clockpunk, and I think it is a good book.What is your playlist? Why did you choose these songs?Since it's a novel, I should probably list entire albums.1. Vivaldi - Four Seasons2. Tom Waits- Raindogs3. Elvis Costello and The Brodsky Quartet - The Juliet Letters4. Tom Waits - The Black Rider5. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Murder Ballads6. JS Bach - Well-Tempered Clavier (all of it)7. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - The Boatman's Call8. The Clash - London Calling9. Henry Purcell - Te Deum and JubilateI chose these because I like them, and they all create a dense melancholy atmosphere. Plus, many of them are either about horrible love or decay, both of which feature prominently in the book.What does music mean to you? To your writing?I like it. I never became a connoisseur, but I do enjoy quite a bit of it. I worked in a record store at some point in my youth, and basically ended up grabbing whatever played in the store and sounded good to me. I prefer to write to instrumental music or no music at all, but occasionally I play other things, especially when I'm trying to get myself into a certain frame of mind.What kind of music do you like to write to?Instrumental and baroque – pleasant and not intrusive. Or, you know, really heavy industrial music. Depends on the moods and/or project.If this story was made into a movie, who would you want to do the soundtrack?Michael Nyman, of course, although I do object to the notion that books should be made into movies. To learn more about Ekaterina, visit her website.Next week, I interview author Mark Teppo.