Podcasts about lightspeed magazine

Real Life: This week's episode kicks off with Devon missing in action, attending a wedding and recovering from, well… life. Also, he's apparently deep into building off-brand LEGO, which raises some very important questions: How many pieces? How many regrets? Meanwhile, Ben survived a 5.2 earthquake and checks in to let us know that everyone's safe. He also shares a couple links to Desert Child, an indie hover-bike racer/RPG that mixes hip-hop, ramen, and pixel art vibes—and may or may not be rolling onto Xbox soon thanks to some juicy UI integration rumors. https://store.steampowered.com/app/844050/Desert_Child/ https://isthereanydeal.com/game/desert-child/info/ https://www.theverge.com/news/633478/microsoft-xbox-steam-games-support-ui   Steven's life update is more... fluffy. Literally. He's in line to pick up baby chicks for the backyard flock (Black Sexlinked and Smokey Pearl, if you're curious), and discovers that mailing baby birds is a surprisingly common thing. Also, he's deploying next-level parenting tricks by disguising fun surprises as errands. The dad game is strong.  Also: The Last of Us S2 premiere dropped and Steven gives it a glowing 10/10. We talk a bit about how the show mirrors the game—and why it's working so well. Ben also brings us something very important: The Naboo Movie. It's real. It's glorious. It's here: watch it now. Future or Now: Ben drops some cosmic perspective with a planetary fact that blew our minds: All the planets in our solar system could line up between the Earth and the Moon. That includes Pluto, for those of you still rooting for the little guy. Steven introduces us to Mad Mouse—no, not a Disney spinoff. This is about AI mapping mouse brains. A new model simulates how the mouse visual cortex responds to images. Basically, it's science fiction getting closer to just… science. Read the study here. Book Club: This week, we took a listen to the first episode of It's Storytime with Wil Wheaton, featuring “Rock, Paper, Scissors, Love, Death” by Caroline M. Yoachim. It's a short, beautiful, gut-punch of a story about love across time and space—a real Gordian knot of feels. Check it out on Lightspeed Magazine. Next week we'll be diving into “Fragments of a Hologram Rose” by William Gibson, part of his Burning Chrome collection. It's a short one—just 15 minutes—and dripping in cyberpunk atmosphere. And if you're wondering about the Star Trek side of our brains: yes, we saw the new Strange New Worlds trailer. Yes, it looks wild. Yes, we're watching. Peep it here.  

Main fiction: "Spintered/Splintering" by Rhiannon RasmussenRhiannon Rasmussen is an author and illustrator of dark speculative works, not all of which involve exoskeletons. Rhiannon's fiction has appeared in venues including Lightspeed Magazine, Diabolical Plots, and as Magic: the Gathering official web shorts. Visit rhiannonrs.com or @charibdys on Bluesky.This story first appeared, in a slightly different form, as a download via Gumroad and itch.io, 2022.Narrated by: Diane SeversonDiane Severson is a lyric soprano specializing in Early Music, specifically Baroque and medieval music and loves her work teaching people to sing. She has narrated for Escape Pod, PodCastle, Cast of Wonders, Pseudopod, and Tales to Terrify. Diane has been involved in the Speculative Poetry Scene since 2010, she is membership chair of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association and is a passionate promoter of genre poetry. The best place to find her is on the web because she tends to pick up and move to another country at the drop of a hat. She and her family currently reside in Buckinghamshire, England.Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/starshipsofa. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Welcome to our 6th iteration of the ⁠Black Girl's Guide to Surviving Menopause⁠ podcast: the Season of Orisii. Building on our international diasporic tour from last year, this season's theme is Orisii, or 'pairs' in the Afric language of Yoruba. We've invited different types of pairs to explore the through-line between menarche and menopause. You will hear parent/child, partner/lovers and siblings to offer their reflections and observations about this journey as individual and as Orisii. We, as people capable of menstruation, understand that each experience is unique and impacts both ourselves and the connections we have with our loved ones. For this third episode of our Season of Orisii, we have sisters adrienne maree brown and Autumn Brown. Opening portals, multiverse traveling companions, and life beyond the end of the world: How can we stay grounded in the present moment, in this reality of constant change, decay, death, and rebirth, without feeling completely overwhelmed? And then what? Surviving the various challenges within ourselves and in the world while navigating the transition between our changing identities of past, present, and future selves, all while supporting each other and remembering our individual needs. What if we redefined "self-centered" to mean the preservation of all aspects of ourselves, young, older, fragile, strong for iterative healing? These are some of the themes and questions we explored with the Sisters Brown, adrienne, and Autumn on this episode and we can't think of a better way to kick off Black August during our Season of Orisii. Black August is a time of year to honor our Black freedom fighters, political prisoners, and resistance against oppression via study, fasting, training and fighting. It is the antithesis of “celebration” and empty “homage.” Black August commemoration and practice place our collective struggle and sacrifice on center stage. More on the why of Black August here, detailed by the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement.  Meet adrienne and Autumn: adrienne maree brown grows healing ideas in public through her multi-genre writing, her collaborations and her podcasts. Informed by 25 years of movement facilitation, somatics, Octavia E. Butler scholarship and her work as a doula, adrienne has nurtured Emergent Strategy, Pleasure Activism, Radical Imagination and Transformative Justice as ideas and practices for transformation. She is the author/editor of several published texts, co-generator of a tarot deck and a developing musical ritual. adrienne's forthcoming book ⁠Loving Corrections⁠ will be released on August 20 from AK Press. Autumn Brown is a musician, facilitator, and author of speculative fiction and creative non-fiction. As the front woman of the eponymous band, AUTUMN, she has created two EPs, ⁠The Animal in You and The Way Your Blood Beats⁠. Her writing has been featured in Revolutionary Mothering, Parenting 4 Social Justice, Octavia's Brood, and Lightspeed Magazine. She co-hosts the podcast How to Survive the End of the World, and facilitates political education and movement strategy through the Anti-Oppression Resource and Training Alliance. To learn more about the Sisters Brown, check out the following links: ⁠adrienne maree brown⁠ ⁠Autumn Brown⁠ ⁠How to Survive the End of the World⁠ There she is—- neither Super hero nor villain Something in between Inside the between A life lived so many times Familiar echoes Between truth and dare Lies all of the answers still… YOU are your best thing Black August Haiku, Omisade Burney-Scott Show Notes: Produced by Mariah M., Creative Director at BGG2SM Hosted by Omisade Burney-Scott, Founder & Chief Curatorial Officer at BGG2SM Edited by Kim Blocker of ⁠TDS Radio⁠ Theme music by Taj Scott Season 6 Artwork by Assata Goff, artist & in-house Iconographer of BGG2SM Season 6 of is sponsored by ⁠The Honey Pot Company⁠ Learn more about Black Girl's Guide to Surviving Menopause at www.blackgirlsguidetosurvivingmenopause.com

“No Words to Describe the Sky” by Elad Haber Manawaker’s Patreon: https://patreon.com/manawaker/ Manawaker books: https://payhip.com/Manawaker More info / Contact CB Droege: https://cbdroege.taplink.ws Author Bio: Elad Haber is a husband, father to an adorable little girl, and IT guy by day, fiction writer by night. He has recent publications from Lightspeed Magazine, Underland Arcana and the Simultaneous Times Podcast. His debut short story collection, “The World Outside” will be published by Underland Press in late 2024. Visit eladhaber.com for links and news.

Hurinfan and Starkast talk everything about Short Stories. From where you can find them to what some of their favorite short stories are, this episode is there to help your descend into the short story madness. short fiction websites: Uncanny Magazine - https://www.uncannymagazine.com/ Reactor - https://reactormag.com/fictions/original-fiction/ Lightspeed - https://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/ Clarkesworld - https://clarkesworldmagazine.com/category/text/ Beneath Ceaseless Skies - https://www.beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/ Short Story Podcasts: Podcastle - https://podcastle.org/category/podcasts/ Escape Pod - https://escapepod.org/category/podcasts/ Uncanny Magazine - https://www.uncannymagazine.com/type/podcasts/ Beneath Ceaseless Skies - https://www.beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/audio/2024/ Lightspeed Magazine - https://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/podcasting/ you can find all of them also on Spotify or other Podcastproviders. Hurinfan recs: the colour out of space - h.p. lovecraft the death of dr. island - gene wolfe harrison bergeron - kurt vonnegut the ones who walk away from omelas - Ursula K. Le Guin The Hunger Arist - kafka leaf by niggle - tolkien the paper menagerie - ken liu A Rose for Ecclesiastes - zelazny ado - connie willis speech sounds - octaiva butler Thus We Frustrate Charlemagne - R.A. Lafferty Starkast recs: The Six Deaths of the Saint - Alix E. Harrow - Kindle Unlimited/ Best American SFF 2023 Skinder´s Veil - Kelly Link - White Cat, Black Dog Witches Fire - E. Lily Yu - The Book of Witches John Hollowback and the Witch - Amal El-Mothar - The Book of Witches The Passing of the Dragon - Ken Liu - Reactor Angel, Monster, Man - Sam J. Miller - Boys, Beasts & Men As Good As New - Charlie Jane Anders - Even Greater Mistakes The Teeth Come Out At Night - Sami Ellis - All These Sunken Souls Colors of the Immortal Palette - Caroline M. Yoachim - Best American SFF 2022/ Uncanny Magazine The Captain and The Quartermaster - C.L.Clark - Beneath Ceaseless Skies/ Best American SFF 2022 Music: Galactic Damages by Jingle Punks Considering supporting The Legendarium on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/legendarium Reddit: https://www.reddit.com/r/thelegendarium/ Discord: https://discord.gg/FNcpuuA Twitter: @GreenteamPod

Hi there, Today I am so excited to be arts calling Suzan Palumbo! (suzanpalumbo.wordpress.com) About our Guest: Suzan Palumbo is a Nebula finalist, active member of the HWA, Co Administrator of the Ignyte Awards and a member of the Hugo nominated FIYAHCON team. She is also a former Associate Editor of “Shimmer” magazine. Her debut dark fantasy/horror short story collection “Skin Thief: Stories” will be published by Neon Hemlock in Fall 2023. Her novella “Countess” will be published by ECW Press in spring 2024. Her writing has been published or is forth coming in Lightspeed Magazine, Fantasy, The Deadlands, The Dark Magazine, PseudoPod, Fireside Fiction Quarterly, PodCastle, Anathema: Spec Fic from the Margins and other venues. She is officially represented by Michael Curry of the Donald Maass Literary Agency and tweets at @sillysyntax. When she isn't writing, she can be found sketching, listening to new wave or wandering her local misty forests. Skin Thief, Suzan's collection: now available for PRE-ORDER from Neon Hemlock! https://www.neonhemlock.com/books/skin-thief-suzan-palumbo Suzan on Twitter: @sillysyntax Special thanks to Dave at Neon Hemlock for making this conversation possible! Thanks for this wonderful conversation Suzan! All the best! “Write what you love, and don't be afraid to transform.” Arts Calling is produced by Jaime Alejandro (cruzfolio.com). If you like the show: leave a review, or share it with someone who's starting their creative journey! Your support truly makes a difference! Go make a dent: much love, j https://artscalling.com/welcome/

Author : Charlie Jane Anders Narrator : Serah Eley Host : Katherine Inskip Audio Producer : Jeremy Carter originally published in Lightspeed Magazine in December 2017 swearing (including the f-word), and references to drug use Because Change Was the Ocean and We Lived By Her Mercy by Charlie Jane Anders 1. This was sacred, this […] Source

Kevin Jared Hosein discusses with Ivan six things which should be better known. Kevin Jared Hosein is a Caribbean novelist. He has also worked as a secondary school Biology teacher for over a decade. He was named overall winner of the Commonwealth Short Story Prize in 2018, and was the Caribbean regional winner in 2015. He has published two books: The Repenters and The Beast of Kukuyo. The latter received a CODE Burt Award for Caribbean Young Adult Literature, and both had been longlisted for the International Dublin Literary Award. His writings, poetry, fiction and non-fiction, have been published in numerous anthologies and outlets including Granta.com, Lightspeed Magazine, Moko, Wasafiri and adda. He lives in Trinidad and Tobago. His new novel is Hungry Ghosts, which is available at https://uk.bookshop.org/p/books/hungry-ghosts-kevin-jared-hosein/7073687?ean=9781526644480. The origin story of the inflatable tube man http://www.slate.com/blogs/the_eye/2014/12/03/roman_mars_99_invisible_the_origin_story_of_the_inflatable_man.html The man who built a temple in the sea https://www.guardian.co.tt/article/sewdass-sadhu-the-man-who-built-the-temple-in-the-sea-6.2.1129526.60ba2c4ac5 Alternate reality games (ARGs) and transmedia storytelling https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alternate_reality_game The Scenic Simpsons Instagram gallery https://metro.co.uk/2017/01/25/any-self-respecting-simpsons-fan-needs-to-follow-this-beautiful-instagram-feed-scenic-simpsons-6405954/ 13 Sentinels: Aegis Rim, and videogames as a storytelling medium https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b35MVzhr7K8 Doubles https://www.bbc.com/travel/article/20210526-doubles-trinidads-favourite-street-food This podcast is powered by ZenCast.fm

We discuss The Venus Effect by Violet Allen, where the Black protagonist's adventures get cut short due to "an officer-involved shooting" Read it at Lightspeed Magazine: http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-venus-effect/

Main Fiction: "An Elegy for the Bucephalus" by Rhiannon RasmussenThis story originally appeared in Unlikely Wonders (Robot Dinosaur Press, 2022).Illustrator and writer Rhiannon Rasmussen creates dark fantasy, horror, and science-fiction that juxtaposes humanity and queerness with elements of monstrosity, phantasm, and the weird. Rhiannon's work has appeared in galleries & magazines including Lightspeed Magazine, HEARTWOOD, and Magic: the Gathering. Find more work on http://www.rhiannonrs.com/ and @charibdys on Twitter.Narrated by: Alethea KontisAlethea Kontis is a princess, storm chaser, and bestselling author of over twenty books and fifty short stories. Alethea has received the Jane Yolen Mid-List Author Grant, the Scribe Award, and is a two-time winner of the Gelett Burgess Children's Book Award. She was nominated twice for both the Dragon Award and the Andre Norton Nebula. In her spare time, Alethea narrates stories for a myriad of award-winning online magazines. Born in Vermont, currently resides on the Space Coast of Florida with her teddy bear, Charlie.Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/starshipsofa. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Arcx is all about literary inspiration. In this six episode mini-series, we talk to six South Asian sci-fi, fantasy and speculative fiction writers, tracing their ideas from conception to execution. Content Warning: This episode contains discussions of assault and the depiction of traumatic events. Listener discretion is advised. In this episode we are in conversation with Indra Das, author, critic and editor. Indra's work crosses genres and creates intricate worlds. His writing is exploratory, fresh and fantastical. The Devourers, his debut novel, was published in 2015 to critical acclaim. The same year, he was shortlisted for the Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize. In 2016 he was shortlisted for the Crawford Prize. And in 2017, he won the Lambda Literary Award for Best LGBTQ Science Fiction, Fiction and Horror. Indra's short fiction has been featured in publications like Strange Horizons, Clarkesworld Magazine, Lightspeed Magazine, Tor.com, and Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine to name a few. We discuss Stephen King, the power of sensory writing, Gods and immortality. Arcx is a series of the Subverse, the podcast of Dark ‘n' Light, a digital space that chronicles the times we live in and reimagining futures with a focus on science, nature, social justice and culture. Follow us on social media @darknlightzine, or at darknlight.com for episode details and show notes.

Author : C.C. Finlay Narrator : Heather Thomas Host : Mur Lafferty Audio Producer : Summer Brooks “Time Bomb Time” originally appeared in the May 2015 issue of Lightspeed Magazine. It was reprinted in Rich Horton's The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy 2016 and translated into Chinese by Geng Hui (耿辉) for ZUI Found […] Source

Author : Andrea Kriz Narrator : Valerie Valdes Host : Tina Connolly Audio Producer : Summer Brooks “There Are No Hot Topics on Whukai” originally appeared in Lightspeed Magazine in May 2021. There Are No Hot Topics on Whukai by Andrea Kriz The day the dMods shut down Skeleton Caves, Esko put on her VR […] Source

Main Fiction: "Voice of the Martyrs" by Maurice BroaddusA community organizer, teacher, and Afrofuturist, Maurice Broaddus's short stories have appeared in such places as like Lightspeed Magazine, Black Panther: Tales from Wakanda, Weird Tales, Magazine of F&SF, and Uncanny Magazine. His novels include Sweep of Stars, Unfadeable, Pimp My Airship, & The Usual Suspects.Narrated by: Anthony BabbingtonAnthony Babington is a voice actor who looks just slightly off from how he sounds. From his secret volcano lair in Minnesota he narrates podcasts, and leases his soul to corporate America. He can also be heard on the Tales to Terrify podcast, and has recorded for both the Far Fetched Fables and The Cursed Inn podcasts.Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/starshipsofa. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Very excited to welcome fellow Hoosier Maurice Broaddus. He is the author of one of my favorite reads of the year - the first of a Afrofuturist space opera trilogy the Sweep of Stars. Maurice Broaddus is a community organizer and teacher, his work has appeared in magazines like Lightspeed Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Asimov's, Magazine of F&SF, and Uncanny Magazine, with some of his stories having been collected in The Voices of Martyrs. His books include the urban fantasy trilogy, The Knights of Breton Court, the steampunk works, Buffalo Soldier and Pimp My Airship, and the middle-grade, detective novels, The Usual Suspects and Unfadeable. His project, Sorcerers, is being adapted as a television show for AMC. As an editor, he's worked on Dark Faith, Fireside Magazine, and Apex Magazine. In this episode we talk about how Maurice got into writing, his early career and how this project came to be. It is mostly spoiler free. Although at some point I do suggest you pause if you have not read the book •You can find my books here: Amazon-https://www.amazon.com/David-Agranoff/e/B004FGT4ZW •And me here: Goodreads-http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2988332.David_Agranoff Twitter-https://twitter.com/DAgranoffAuthor Blog-http://davidagranoff.blogspot.com/

Author Maurice Broaddus is based in Indianapolis, but over the past two decades, his prolific work (in genres including science fiction and horror) has built an international audience. Maurice wears many hats: he is resident Afrofuturist at the Khewprw Institute, editor at Apex Magazine, his work has appeared in Lightspeed Magazine, and many others. His books include Unfadeable, Pimp My Airship, Buffalo Soldier, and The Usual Suspects. (MauriceBroaddus.com.) His most recent novel, Sweep of Stars, is book one of an epic science-fiction trilogy, Astra Black.He is a teacher (at the Oaks Academy Middle School), a librarian (the School Library Manager which part of the IndyPL Shared System), and a purposeful community organizer As an editor, he's worked on Dark Faith, Fireside Magazine, and Apex Magazine. His gaming work includes writing for the Marvel Super-Heroes, Leverage, and Firefly role-playing games as well as working as a consultant on Watch Dogs 2. This conversation is one of my favorite interviews ever, as Maurice discusses his life, his creative process, and how he integrates his many roles (writer, community organizer, teacher) into his creative life. Please go read Sweep of Stars(!) and learn more about Maurice at mauricebroaddus.com.

Fanfiction-året fortsätter! Månadens bok är Frogman 128s "Conan the Barbarian: The Jewel of Ages", en reimagining av ljudsagan från 70-talet med samma namn. Annat som nämns Sebastian Mattsson ”Kungen av content” + ”Balladen om Kalle Klick”, Babblarna, Jack Werner ”Ormen Friske”, T. Kingfisher ”Nettle & Bone”, Anna Bark Persson ”Annorstädes”, Henrik Möller ”Bödeln i Malmö”, John Darnielle ”Devil house” + ”Wolf in a white van”, Power Records, John Buscema, Conan dagsseriestrip, R.E. Howard ”Red Nails”, tor.com, Lightspeed Magazine, Jason Momoa. Nästa LÄS HÅRT Nu tar vi sommarlov. Ses i slutet av augusti!

Join Town Hall Seattle Writer-in-Residence Sarah Salcedo, author John Wiswell, and author Ross Showalter for a virtual-only event as they share their short fiction and discuss the power of stories, creative processes, and the beauty and difficulties inherent in bringing their disabilities into their own work. Sarah Salcedo is an award-winning filmmaker, illustrator, and author. Her writing has been published in Luna Station Quarterly, Hobart After Dark, Not Deer Magazine, Pacifica Literary Review, The Future Fire, Hypertext Magazine, Words & Sports Quarterly, and elsewhere. Her poetry has been featured at The Daily Drunk and their Marvelous Verses anthology. She is the Spring 2022 Writer-in-Residence for Town Hall Seattle and attended the 2022 Tin House Winter Workshop. John (@Wiswell) is a disabled writer who lives where New York keeps all its trees. He is a winner of the Nebula Award for Best Short Story for “Open House on Haunted Hill,” as well as a finalist for the Hugo, Locus, World Fantasy, and British Fantasy Awards. His work has appeared at Uncanny Magazine, the LeVar Burton Reads Podcast, Tor.com, Lightspeed Magazine, and The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, among other fine venues. Ross Showalter is a Deaf queer writer based in the Pacific Northwest. His short stories, personal essays, and critical pieces have been published in The New York Times, Electric Literature, Strange Horizons, Catapult, Black Warrior Review, and elsewhere. His work has been a finalist for the Best of the Net anthology, included on Entropy Magazine's Best of the Year lists, and supported by the Anderson Center and Deaf Spotlight. He earned his BFA in creative writing from Portland State University and he currently teaches creative writing courses in UCLA Extension Writers' Program. Presented by Town Hall Seattle. To become a member or make a donation click here. 

I det här avsnittet pratar Johan och Magnus om MsKingBean89s "All the Young Dudes". 500 000 ord Harry Potter-fanfiction som handlar om Remus Lupins, James Potters, Sirius Blacks och Peter Pettigrews äventyr som studenter på 70-talets Hogwarts. OBS: Gå med i LÄS HÅRTs nya coola chatt på Signal och berätta vad du tycker om Harry Potter. Annat som nämns Jonas Larsson Olander ”Tre saker familjer fruktar”, Peter Danielsson ”The year under the machine”, Shiv Ramdas ”Batha, P.I.”, Lightspeed Magazine, Naomi Novik ”Black powder war” + ”His majesty's dragon” + ”Throne of Jade”, Ezekiel Boone ”Skitter”, Marvel, Harold Schechter & Eric Powell ”Did You Hear What Eddie Gein Done?”, Mats Jonsson, Liv Strömquist, Brian Keene, Jim Ross, ”Harry Potter”, JK Rowling, Taylor Swift, Star Wars, ”V”, Sherlock Holmes, Cthulhu, Jon Bon Jovi, Richie Sambora, X-Men, Wolverine, nyhetsbrevet Garbage Day, Doctor Who, James Bond, Gundam. I nästa LÄS HÅRT... ... läser vi om när James Bond mötte Doctor Who! Gazing Abyss "The Doctor and the Saboteur" beskrivs med orden My own take on how the "James Bond is a Timelord" theory could work.

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

This is a conversation with speculative fiction writer and sustainability researcher Andrew Dana Hudson. His stories have appeared in Slate Future Tense, Lightspeed Magazine, Vice Terraform, MIT Technology Review, Grist, Little Blue Marble, The New Accelerator, StarShipSofa and more, as well as various books and anthologies. His fiction has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and longlisted for the BSFA. In 2016 his story “Sunshine State” won the first Everything Change Climate Fiction Contest, and in 2017 he was runner up in the Kaleidoscope Writing The Future Contest. His 2015 essay “On the Political Dimensions of Solarpunk” has helped define and grow the “solarpunk” subgenre. He is a member of the cursed 2020 class of the Clarion Workshop. Support: Patreon.com/firethesetimes Website: TheFireThisTi.Me Twitter + Instagram @ firethesetimes Topics Discussed: What is Solarpunk? Introduction to his essay “On the Political Dimensions of Solarpunk“ The urgency of Solarpunk and the response to Cyberpunk Post-normal fiction Solarpunk and global network society: why did it start in the 2010s? The importance of care work Solarpunk and the future of cities Solarpunk and utopias Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction The climate activism momentum How has Solarpunk changed over the years? Also: discussion of COP26 and Green New Deal Books mentioned + Recommended: Multispecies Cities: Solarpunk Urban Futures edited by Priya Sarukkai Chabria and Taiyo Fujii and Shweta Taneja (which includes a story by Andrew) Our Shared Storm: A Novel of Five Climate Futures by Andrew (Pre-order now) Lo stato solare by Andrew Infomocracy by Malka Ann Older Gnomon by Nick Harkaway Infinite Detail by Tim Maughan A Psalm for the Wild-Built by Becky Chambers The Ministry for the Future by Kim Stanley Robinson Walkaway by Cory Doctorow The art is by artist and illustrator CosmosKitty (I added the text). Check out their work here: cosmoskitty.com

Get Unity here in Kindle and paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Unity-Elly-Bangs/dp/1616963425/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1IKEZCEJFZS8Y&keywords=unity+book+elly+bangs&qid=1640743411&sprefix=unity+book+elly+bangs%2Caps%2C92&sr=8-1 Elly Bangs website: http://www.elbangs.com Elly's new short story that was purchased by LIGHTSPEED Magazine: https://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/space-pirate-queen-of-the-ten-billion-utopias/ The following sounds were contributed by the following FreeSound.org users: babywhine1.mp3 by jamesmbockBosnian radio announcer female.wav by miradeshazerboiling mud.wav by tim.kahn

In this episode of UIndy's Potluck Podcast, where UIndy hosts conversations about the arts, English majors Savannah Harris and Dakota Kennebrew interview fiction writer Maurice Broaddus, a guest of the Kellogg Writers Series, which is a series that brings writers of distinction to the University of Indianapolis campus for classroom discussions and free public readings. Special thanks to English major Hope Coleman for voicing our podcast's Intro and Outro, and Music Technology major Oliver Valle for editing this episode's audio. Maurice Broaddus' work has appeared in Lightspeed Magazine, Cemetery Dance, Uncanny Magazine, and Beneath Ceaseless Skies, with some of his stories having been collected in The Voices of Martyrs. His books include Buffalo Soldier, Pimp My Airship, and The Usual Suspects. Learn more at MauriceBroaddus.com. We thank you for listening to UIndy's Potluck Podcast, which is hosted by students and faculty of the University of Indianapolis. We would like to thank our guests and the Shaheen College of Arts and Sciences. To learn more about UIndy's Potluck Podcast and hear other episodes, please visit etchings.uindy.edu/the-potluck-podcast. Thank you for your support.

We get to talk to Nebula-award-nominated author of fantasy and science fiction Jose Pablo Iriarte about his writing process, flash fiction and more. Let's learn more about him.José Pablo Iriarte is a Cuban-American writer and teacher who lives in Central Florida. José’s fiction can be found in magazines such as Lightspeed, Strange Horizons, Fireside Fiction, and others, and has been featured in best-of lists compiled by Tangent Online, Featured Futures, iO9, and Quick Sip Reviews, and on the SFWA Nebula Award Recommended Reading List. Jose’s novelette, “The Substance of My Lives, the Accidents of Our Births,” was a Nebula Award Finalist and was long-listed for the James Tiptree, Jr. Literary Award. Learn more at www.labyrinthrat.com, or follow José on Twitter @labyrinthrat. stories have been published in Lightspeed Magazine, Strange Horizons, Fireside Fiction, and many other venues. His novel-length fiction is represented by Cameron McClure of the Donald Maass Literary Agency.You can find, follow  and contact him on:joe@labyrinthrat.comFB: facebook.com/labyrinthratTwitter: @labyrinthratInstagram: @josepabloiriarteInterested in Podcasting?Follow the link https://www.buzzsprout.com/?referrer_id=815467  it let's Buzzsprout know we sent you, gets you a $20 Amazon gift card if you sign up for a paid plan, and helps support our show.Buzzsprout gets your show listed in every major podcast platform.You’ll get a great looking podcast website, audio players that you can drop into other websites, detailed analytics to see how people are listening, tools to promote your episodes, and more.Join over a hundred thousand podcasters already using Buzzsprout to get their message out to the world.Support the show (https://www.patreon.com/LegionofWritersPod )

Beth and V talk to Molly Tanzer, certified cool person and author of the short story "The Real You(TM)" from Lightspeed Magazine. The conversation covers the writing process in general, well-being during the pandemic, as well as the specific story (which V is totally obsessed with). --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/literary-lunch-podcast/support

Join us for a fascinating hour with Hugo Award-winning artist Galen Dara, recorded for Multiverse Convention. We chat about artistic inspiration & stylistic choices, consistency & practice as a creator, and how to stay productive during quarantine. Also about apricots. Ripe ones. Very ripe ones.Galen Dara, Multiverse's 2020 Artist Guest of Honor, is an award-winning artist working primarily in the styles of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. She has won the Hugo Award, the World Fantasy Award, and been nominated for the Locus and Chesley Awards, among others. Her clients include Escape Artists Inc., Skyscape Publishing, Fantasy Flight Games, Uncanny Magazine, 47North Publishing, Fireside Magazine, Lightspeed Magazine, and Tyche Books. When she's not making art, you can find her on the edge of the Sonoran Desert climbing mountains and hanging out with a friendly conglomerate of humans and animals. You can follow her on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter @GalenDara and find her online at galendara.com.Follow Glitchy Pancakes on Twitter @GlitchyPancakes & subscribe to this podcast on your favorite podcast app, and please leave us a review if you like what we do. Email questions/comments to CakesPod@gmail. Thanks for listening!

Author : E. Catherine Tobler Narrator : Tina Connolly Host : S.B. Divya Audio Producer : Adam Pracht Discuss on Forums A Box, a Pocket, a Spaceman originally appeared in Lightspeed Magazine, August 2014. A Box, a Pocket, a Spaceman by E. Catherine Tobler The spaceman shows up on a hot summer afternoon, not in the […] Source

An ordinary couple experiences an extraordinary event during a walk in the park. "Jump" was first published in LIGHTSPEED MAGAZINE. Cadwell Turnbull's debut novel is THE LESSON.

Author : Timothy Mudie Narrators : S.B. Divya and Roderick Aust Host : Tina Connolly Audio Producer : Adam Pracht Discuss on Forums An Ever-Expanding Flash of Light was originally published in Lightspeed Magazine, September 2017. An Ever-Expanding Flash of Light By Timothy Mudie “Ladies and gentlemen, everyone you know—the entire world you know—is now […] Source

Tyler is back for the show notes and if you play your cards right I might also give you a free knee cap piercing.     What we are watching/reading   Tyler:  Alien 40th Anniversary Edition.  Check out ten reasons to buy it.  He is also really excited about John Langan's new collection Sefira and Other Betrayals. Mike is reading Nicole Cushing's Mirrors.  You can check out one of her fabulous weird stories, The Orchard of Hanging Trees on Pseudopod Episode 277.  He also is reading Whiskey Tales by Jean Rey.  Both of us flicked our beans about how great it is to have a favorite author.  Check out Wakefield Press a small press that specializes in translations.  Worde Horde publishes Langan and Cushing.  They are the best.   Dark Corners of the Web Darkest Night, its Bianural.  Hit us up on the FB group if you have any idea how to actually pronounce that word.  Tyler specifically mentioned the episode Happy Hollow Farms.  Essential Question:  Is American Mary making any specific claims about American views of self-expression? 1.  The Movie The Bad review comes from The Guardian.  Listen as we pretend to be stuffy British dudes from Manchester.  The Good review comes from IGN.  Its what you would expect from folks that like a movie about electively removing one's nipples. Also, both of us liked the movie a lot. 2.  The Theory Anya Stanley has a kick-ass article in Vague Visages that picks apart what the movie says about feminism, the female body, and self-expression.  Its pretty rad.   IndieWire has what is essentially a negative review of the movie but offers some interesting analysis with what the film attempts to do. LightSpeed Magazine has a pretty comprehensive if basic explanation of the different forms of body modification.  The boys talk about folks they knew that branded themselves.   3.  The Application. We ran out of time to really further expand on the application but there is an interesting article in BRNO Studies in English about the Canadian and American dichotomy in terms of American Psycho and American Mary. Sight and Sound has a pretty good bio piece about the Soska Sisters who wrote and directed the movie. Finally, Mike unpacks what a Mary Sue is and refuses to explain what flicking ones bean means.  Although he has agreed to get a tattoo of a hotdog on his neck.     Next Week Old Testament Horror and The Dibbuk Box.

 Avete visto i 18 episodi della serie Love, Death & Robots e vorreste leggere i racconti da cui sono tratti?   Il vantaggio di Sonnie di Peter F. Hamilton;   Zima Blue e altre storie di Alastair Reynolds;   Beyond the Aquila Rift di Alastair Reynolds;   Quando lo yogurt ha preso il sopravvento di  John Scalzi;    Missives From Possible Futures di  John Scalzi;   Miniatures di  John Scalzi;   La notte dei pesci di  Joe Landsale  su The Horror Zine;   Buona caccia di Ken Liu in  The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories;   Dolci 13 anni di  Marko Kloos;   Mutaforma di Marko Kloos, con il titolo On The Use Of Shape-Shifters In Warfare;   Dare una mano di Claudine Griggs su Lightspeed Magazine;   “The Secret War” (La guerra segreta), di Davide Amendola + “Suits” (Tute meccanizzate) di Steven Lewis + “Sucker of Souls” (Il succhia anime), di Kirsten Cross,  si possono trovare nelle antologie dello SNAFU edite da Cohesion Press;   Ice Age (L’era glaciale), disponibile nella sua raccolta Tales of Old Earth. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/unpuntofermo/message

Patreon support now standing at 433 – last week 434 Help us get to 500 Patreon Supporters.Main Fiction: "Join" by Liz ColemanThis story originally appeared at Lightspeed.Liz Coleman has been published in Lightspeed Magazine and Beneath Ceaseless Skies and is a graduate of Viable Paradise. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and too many philosophy books.Narrated by: Jason Satterlund Jason Satterlund has been writing and working on films for over 25 years. He has extensive experience in all areas of production, including directing, writing, cinematography, and editing. He is the only person ever to conduct a night shoot in the ancient city of Petra, and the first person in America to use film lenses on an HD camera. He wrote and directed the award-winning feature film The Record Keeper, which premiered at the Raindance Film Festival in London and is currently on the world wide festival circuit. He is also the director of the Star Wars fan film The Force and the Fury. When he isn’t busy directing his own projects, he enjoys teaching film making workshops, shaping the film makers of the future.Fact: Science News by J J Campanella See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

It’s pretty amazing to consider that once upon a time, someone looked at a wolf or a wild feline and said, “You know, I think I’ll take that home with me.” Plus: making decisions intuitively and our awkward engagement stories. Also, the story Kodiak sold to Lightspeed Magazine is now available! Read or listen to the podcast here http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/our-side-of-the-door/. Get in touch: www.spiritoftheendeavor.net and spiritoftheendeavor@gmail.com!

This week: why haircuts are The Best, new ways to become inspired by an aspirational self, watercolor drawing and art commissions, and the divine feminine. Also, the story Kodiak sold to Lightspeed Magazine is now available! Read or listen to the podcast here http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/our-side-of-the-door/. Get in touch: www.spiritoftheendeavor.net and spiritoftheendeavor@gmail.com!

This week, we explore summer wish lists, cataloging the game cabinet, and why keeping a field notebook can be part of a spiritual practice. Also, the story Kodiak sold to Lightspeed Magazine is now available! Read or listen to the podcast here http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/our-side-of-the-door/. Get in touch: www.spiritoftheendeavor.net and spiritoftheendeavor@gmail.com!

Patreon support now standing at 416 – last week 411 Help us get to 500 Patreon Supporters. Main Fiction: "The Valkyrie" by Maurice BroaddusOriginally published in War StoriesA community organizer and teacher, his work has appeared in Lightspeed Magazine, Weird Tales, Apex Magazine, Asimov’s, Cemetery Dance, Black Static, and many more. Some of his stories have been collected in The Voices of Martyrs. He wrote the urban fantasy trilogy, The Knights of Breton Court. He co-authored the play Finding Home: Indiana at 200. His novellas include Buffalo Soldier, I Can Transform You, Orgy of Souls, Bleed with Me, and Devil’s Marionette. He is the co-editor of Dark Faith, Dark Faith: Invocations, Streets of Shadows, and People of Colo(u)r Destroy Horror.Narrated by: Stephanie MorrisStephanie Morris is a professional fangirl by day and the lone library assistant staffing a college circulation desk at night. She has narrated short stories for all four Escape Artists podcasts as well as StarShipSofa, has guest-blogs on subjects ranging from book recommendations to zombie turkeys, and performed Shakespeare in a handful of weird churches.Fact: Looking Back at Genre History with Amy H SturgisWelcome to Your Authentic Indian Experience™ See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Stina Leicht is the author of four novels: Blackthorne, Cold Iron, Of Blood and Honey and And Blue Skies From Pain. Her Feminist essays were featured in the Hugo Award winning Women Destroy Science Fiction! Issue of Lightspeed Magazine. She is currently working on the novel, Persephone Station, a Feminist SF Space Opera to be published by Saga Press in 2018. We speak with Stina about all things fantasy, and she tells us about how she worked through the pressure she felt while writing Of Blood and Honey.  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

In this episode we discuss "Love Engine Optimization by Matthew Kressel with our guest Brad Warner. We also discuss privacy trends, Buddhist thought on desire, and how to pronounce Dogen. You can find this episode's story at Lightspeed Magazine: http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/love-engine-optimization/ You can find Brad's website here: http://hardcorezen.info/ You can find Brad's books here: http://hardcorezen.info/store You can find  more about Matthew Kressel here: http://www.matthewkressel.net/  

Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 43 for August 20, 2017. This is your host, Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing this story with you. It's a little bit late (oops!) but we finally have the Summer 2017 issue of GlitterShip available for you to read and enjoy! As before, all of the stories will be podcast and posted on the website over the next couple of months. However, if you'd like to get a head start reading the stories and support GlitterShip, you can purchase copies of the Summer 2017 issue on Amazon, Nook, or right here at GlitterShip.com. Looking forward, the GlitterShip Year One anthology is now available via Amazon, and Barnes & Noble in both print and electronic editions, as well as for direct purchase CreateSpace(print) and GlitterShip.com/buy (electronic)—which also means that copies will FINALLY go out to the people who so generously supported the GlitterShip Kickstarter way back in 2015. Today, we have a GlitterShip original short story by Matthew Bright, as well as a poem by Charles Payseur. Content warning for "In Search of Stars" - some sex and mild domestic violence.   Charles Payseur is an avid reader, writer, and reviewer of all things speculative. His fiction and poetry have appeared at Strange Horizons, Lightspeed Magazine, The Book Smugglers, and many more. He runs Quick Sip Reviews, contributes as short fiction specialist at Nerds of a Feather, Flock Together and can be found drunkenly reviewing Goosebumps on his Patreon. You can find him gushing about short fiction (and occasionally his cats) on Twitter as @ClowderofTwo.     becoming, c.a. 2000 by Charles Payseur   he gives himself to the internet a piece at a time, in chatrooms and message boards and fandom pages, like burning prayers for the next life. he finds himself there as cronus must have found his children, a terrifying future fully formed and armored that he is desperate to consume.   every day he leans into his screen, close enough to brush his lips against the humming glass, feels the snap of static on skin, and pulls away diminished, the sum of his parts no longer quite equaling the whole. he asks friends what they think but all of them are online now, scattered like ghosts, a great ocean of scared boys in nice houses and with each question, each reassurance, each word of a language they build to map their desires, they all find themselves that much more gone.   he is barely a whisper when he puts the last piece of himself into a comment on a garak/bashir slashfic                                 more plz     Matthew Bright is a writer, editor and designer who constantly debates which order those should come. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Tor.com, Nightmare Magazine, Harlot, Steampunk Universe amongst others, and he is the editor of anthologies including Clockwork Cairo: Steampunk Tales of Egypt, Myriad Carnival: Queer and Weird Tales from Under the Big Top and the upcoming A Scandal in Gomorrah: Queering Sherlock Holmes. He pays the bills as a book cover designer in Manchester, England, and you can find him on twitter @mbrightwriter or online at matthew-bright.com.       In Search of Stars by Matthew Bright     It starts with a secret place, as many stories do. On the outside, it is a laundrette. The printed letters on the plate glass are peeling, but still legible: Whites. Below it, a list of numbers is scraped away, leaving the cost of a wash a mystery. Occasionally, I pass it in daylight. During the day, the door is propped open by a rickety stool, and I peer inside. It is filled by graying women with rumpled, dishcloth skin who talk quietly amongst themselves about their children and their husbands. Once, I dare to take my clothes there to wash. An innocent errand, I reason; no shadow of suspicion could fall on a man simply doing his laundry. This does not prevent the women from eyeing me as if the mere presence of a man amongst them is suspect. To compound this, I am unprepared, and am forced to swap a nickel for a palmful of powder, a foolish error met with sad tuts. As I empty the powder into the drum, I study the door in the corner. It takes me several weeks to get the courage to return at night. The front door is no longer propped open advertising itself, but it hangs ajar, distinctly not closed. Inside it is dark, and quiet—none of the machines are awake. But men pass in and out of the doorway with regularity, briefly spilling light from the door in the back across the machines; they are not carrying clothes. I do not know whatever password it is that would grant me access, and neither do I have the will to ask. Perhaps were I to be bold—simply walk up to the door in the back of the laundrette and go in—I might be able to talk my way upstairs. But when my foot breaks the curb to cross the street, my stomach churns, noxious with fear, and I step back. Tonight, it is cold, and so I cross the alley to the diner. The waitress there—a pretty girl, like the small-town ones from back home—knows me by name now. “Usual, Albert?” she says, and I enjoy being someone who has a “usual.” I imagine that perhaps she does too—this is not the sort of diner with regulars. I sit in a booth by the window and drink coffee, covertly watch the laundrette, and the men that come and go. I don’t know what I imagine is on the other side of the door, but I know I want to find out. Perhaps the waitress knows—it seems unlikely that she works here night after night and doesn’t have some idea what is going on opposite. The thought makes me uncomfortable, but I remind myself there is nothing wrong with a man drinking coffee—or a man washing his clothes. There is someone waiting outside the laundrette. He leans against the window-frame, making insolent eye-contact with any man who enters. His boldness—starkly opposite to my own reticence—tugs at me; I dowse the feeling with coffee and look at the chipped table-top. The jukebox is playing music—rock and roll, tinny and weak. It clanks and whirs when the records are changed. After a while, I can feel—in that skin-pricking way that comes from a sense other than sight or hearing—that the man is looking at me. I chance a look, and meet his eyes. The waitress is serving an old man in the corner, her back turned. I gather my coat, and step out into the cold. At the end of the road the city exhales a blare of cars, distant music, police whistles, but its cacophony falters at the corner. Our street is still like midwinter, and the man waits for me in the middle. We exchange words. It doesn’t matter what they are. Suffice it to say, I have spoken similar words before; I am a man who knows their real meanings, just as he. The walk is a few wet streets away. He talks, and I interject enough answers into the conversation to keep it from stagnating. I keep a proprietary distance from him, glance nervously at the darkened windows around us, any one of which might contain a watcher who knows my face—I saw that scientist from round the corner, they might say, and you’ll never guess what? He tells me he is a musician—saxophone, because all the other boys in this city are playing guitar, he says. I picture the pads of his fingers stroking the keys, and the cold reed leeching the moisture from his bottom lip. I ask him if he’s ever played inside, meaning the secret place above the laundrette, hoping he’ll say yes so he can describe it to me. He shakes his head. “I’ve never been in,” he says. We are at the foot of my building, and I fumble in my pocket for keys. He leans in close to me. “Have you?” “I don’t know the password.” A second, then he laughs. “Password? You don’t need a password.” He looks me up and down. He is mentally reconfiguring me from a man of experience to a naïf who imagines cloak-and-dagger, film-noir secrecy. He hesitates. “Come in,” I say. I let him climb the stairs first. With the door closed, my stomach spins in anticipation, as if permission is granted by the cloak of privacy—nobody to see us now, not even if I were to pull his clothes off right here on the stairs. But I don’t—I jam my hands in my pockets and follow his shadow upwards. At the top, he looks around the detritus of my apartment, and asks me what I do. “I’m an artist,” I say, which is not exactly a lie. He looks for a light-switch, but I point him through the door to the bedroom. I pull dustclothes over my work, then follow him. He is already naked on the bed, his clothes a gray pool by the nightstand. He tastes of something I can’t describe. Afterwards he rolls to the cold side of the bed, pulling the damp sheets with him. He looks appraisingly at me, and he is re-evaluating me all over again—perhaps tallying up the number of men that added up to the expertise I had displayed. He looks at me for some time.  An endless parade, he must conclude—all those other men. My chest congeals into a thick, black, furtive shame, soul-deep. I offer him a cigarette, but he refuses, rolls onto his back and closes his eyes. At first the lids are tense, like a child pretending to be asleep after curfew, and then they relax. He breathes slowly. I place the cigarette between my lips, but leave it unlit. Tentative dawn is creeping over the horizon, silvering the rooftops. I left the curtains undrawn when I left earlier, the window fully open—not a conscious choice, but it's fortuitous: the window grates on opening, loud enough to wake someone sleeping. I arise quietly, pad into the other room, and pull aside the dustclothes. The paint is where I left it, viscous and silver in its vat. Its clean, sterile smell stings my eyes. I open a drawer, select the right brush—hog bristle, which is soft and delicate, and will not wake him. On the bed, I kneel, apply the paint gently. I cover him in reverse order of the skin touched by my tongue and fingers, turning it warm pink to cold blue. By the time I have covered his chest and thighs, he is lighter, rising up from the bed. When I cover his arms, they rise above him, as if he is reaching for an embrace. I run the brush to his feet. When I am finished, he floats a foot above the bed, rising. When I lay my hand on his belly, he is light as a feather, and my touch guides him across the room as if he were a leaf on a still pond. He passes below the lintel soundlessly, not waking even when his steady ascendance nudges his shoulder against the frame. My hands on his cheeks anchor him, like a child clutching a balloon that tugs against its string. His feet lift, inverting him. His eyes open when I kiss him gently on the lips. He smiles, and I release him. He turns as he floats up, alternating blue then pink in the watery dawn, and then is higher than I can see any longer, beyond my sight with all the others. I lie down on the bed, pull the still-warm bedsheets around me, and light my cigarette. The smoke rises in clouds, and vanishes as if it was never there.     The story continues with the morning after, as many stories do. Firm block capitals in my diary prevent from lying abed long into the afternoon: I have an appointment to make. I meet Eugene in the foyer of the Mayfair. I wonder exactly how much Eugene has been told about my present circumstances, and whether his choice of venue is a deliberate statement of his success. It would be just like Eugene, though it would be intended without malice. He presses whiskey into my hand, and greets me as if we have never been apart. “Such a surprise when old Selwyn told me you were in LA!” he says. He ushers me to an armchair, and gestures for the discretely hovering waiter to refill our glasses. Eugene has aged well—with a thin, fashionable moustache that I am pained to admit suits him well. I briefly wonder if our mutual acquaintance—Selwyn Cavor, the starchily British professor who pushed us through five years of boarding school—is pushing for something other than the reunion of old school friends; it is he, after all, who told me about the laundrette. But then Eugene tells me about his wife—an ice-queen blonde, so he says, by the name of Marilyn, though aren’t all the blondes called Marilyn these days? Perhaps Selwyn is not as calculated as I imagine. “So, how are you ticking, Mister C?” he asks—habitually, for this was how Eugene had opened nearly every conversation between us since we were both eleven and meeting for the first time in a draughty dormitory. “Finally cracked and come out chasing stars in the city of angels, have we?” I try to smile warmly, and shake my head. “Not exactly,” I say, and try to explain something about my work. I tell him about the two publications that took my reports. I fail to mention that my laboratory consists of a worktop hauled from a garbage tip, and basins purloined from the ruins of a barbers that had burnt down. Those particular details do not jibe well with the foyer of the Mayfair, or the two-hundred-dollar whiskey. “And what is it you’re trying to build?” he asks, though his attention is on the whiskey bottle as he tops it up. “Space travel,” I say, though this hardly covers it. “Smart boy!” Eugene says. “Space—they’re all at it. Give it ten years, and we’ll get there ourselves. But I tell you what though—Hollywood is damn well going to get there first.” I think of my saxophonist, turning lazily on the edge of the atmosphere. Out loud, I point out that Hollywood has been going to space for some time. I remind him of the Saturday afternoons we would sneak from school to the nearest town, and the showing in particular of Woman in the Moon, sucking down ice cream floats and salted caramels. He waves it away. “Oh, Hollywood has moved on since then. Special effects!” He is practically shouting, and heads are turning. I shrink in my seat. “That’s what the studios are excited about. And they want everything to be two hundred per cent accurate at all times. Suspension of disbelief, and all that. That’s why they hired me—an ‘expert consultant,’ that’s me.” He leans forward. I realize he is already a little drunk. “Do you know what one of the directors asked me—he asks, ‘What does space smell like?’” “Goodness,” I say. “Why would they need to know that? It’s only film.” “Some new technology they’re working on—a full experience, you know? Squirt the audience with water, shake the seats, all that lot. And they want to use scent. It’s what we’ve all been waiting for—not only can you watch cinema, you’ll be able to smell it.” He looks pleased with himself. The ice clinks in his glass as he waves it. “What does space smell like?” I ask. He considers. “Gunpowder,” he says. “By all accounts.”     Later, I go to the laundrette. The gray women look at me once when I enter, then disregard me. I am an insignificant little man encroaching on their world, and not worth the energy of observation when there are hampers of clothes to be washed. I run a finger along the grimy edge of a washer, and my fingertip comes away blackened. It satisfies me; in a perverse way, the laundrette, with its washed-out women and secret doorways, makes me feel scrubbed clean of all the gilt decadence Eugene has subjected me to that day. I do not look at the door in the back, although I itch to go through it. This visit is an inoculation: a brief sojourn in the laundrette during the day and then I will not be tempted to return after dark. I will remain in my apartment for the night hours; a small amount of exposure that defends against a greater illness. I empty the bag of clothing into the drum. At the bottom are the saxophonist’s discarded clothes. Turning away so as to go unobserved by the women, I press his undergarments to my face and inhale. I half expect the smell of gunpowder but of course that is absurd—his clothes remained with me. I smell only cotton, soap, and the faint linger of sweat. I drop them in the drum, and pay my cents. The machine starts up, spiralling our clothes together in a wet rush. In the Lucky Seven diner, I order coffee. By the time it has arrived, I know the inoculation is not enough; I will be returning tonight. The waitress squeezes into the booth opposite me. “I have a half-hour break,” she says. “Right,” I say, not quite sure why she’s telling me this. She bites her lip; I recognize this from movies, the coquettish seduction. Only hers is awkward, as if she isn’t used to being this forward. Perhaps she isn’t: she works amongst bottom-squeezes and drawled darlin’s all day; I doubt she ever has to ask. “I have half an hour,” she says. “I was thinking you could take me home and fuck me.” I notice a grease-spot on her lapel, just a few inches above her bare breast. It is just to the left of the name-tag: ‘Marilyn’ in uncertain capitals. It makes me think of Eugene’s ice-blonde wife, and his big job up amongst the stars. Eugene would say yes without hesitation. I could just say no, I tell myself, and then, inoculation. Afterwards, she looks around the detritus of my room and asks what I do. “I’m an engineer,” I tell her, which is not exactly a lie, and go to wash myself in the dirty sink. She remains on the bed, smoking the cigarette I offer her. Naked, I had been able to feel a week of diner grease on her skin. She tasted of the bitter coffee at the bottom of a pot, and my usual expertise had deserted me. I wonder if she washes her clothes at the laundrette. I feel the usual nausea arising, though it is a different kind; this is a physical nausea in the pit of my stomach, as if I have swallowed something rotten. “Good old American filth,” Eugene said to me earlier, as we were leaving the Mayfair, him paused on the curb to hail a cab, me turning my coat collar up for the long walk home. “I’m tired of all the glamour. You know—mansions, cars and movie stars. The whole city’s coming down with a case of shallow—even my Marilyn’s picking it up; won’t fuck without doing her makeup first.” He wanted me to take him out in my parts of the city, with all the implications of what my part of the city entailed. “Well—you’re here amongst it all, aren’t you? Think it’s about time you and I went out on the town. I want some squalor, you know what I’m saying?” I imagine he’d be pleased with me right now. I walk her back to the laundrette with five minutes of her break to spare. On the way, she tells me that she picked me because I didn’t ask. All day long, men suggest things, demand things of her. But I never did, and she liked that. I ignore the bitter irony. We part in the middle of the street, her kissing me quickly on the cheek. In the washing machine drum, I find my white clothes stained blue. I hold up a once-pale vest and wring pastel water from it. One of the gray women looks at me and shakes her head. I bundle my clothing back into my knapsack, and leave the saxophone player’s articles—dark blue shirt, pants, underwear—in a sopping pool at the bottom of the lost and found basket.     Two weeks until the itch to visit the laundrette again outweighs awkwardly encountering Marilyn in the Lucky Seven.. Sitting at my work-bench, listlessly tracing paint along a series of pencils so that they float and turn in the air, I reason with myself. If I am to risk facing the woman with whom I have had less than satisfactory relations with—and not seen since—then it must be for a greater gain than watching from afar. The queasy light of the diner is an oasis that beckons—but tonight I ignore it, although I look long enough to realize that Marilyn is not to be seen. It does nothing to calm me; my hair, still damp from the cold shower I took before leaving, hangs in clammy lumps against my forehead. I feel unwashed—wrapped up tight against the night, I am immediately overheated, sweat springing up in the folds of my body. I cannot imagine anyone wanting to touch me. “There is no password,” the saxophonist told me. No secret or phrase: just the confidence to walk through the door. I end up in the diner, breathing heavily to calm my pulse. There is a stinging pain in the palms of my hands that spreads up my arms and worms its way into my ribcage. The laundrette stares balefully at me across the street. An older waitress materializes beside me. She is dumpy and string-haired. Her name-tag says Marilyn. Eugene was right—every woman in Los Angeles… She fills my cup and putters on to the next booth to serve a hulk of a man who I think I faintly recognize. He is looking down at a newspaper spread on the table, his face lost in a tangle of beard, but when Marilyn the Second departs, he looks up at me. He is round faced, and despite the beard, oddly boyish. “Not brave enough, huh?” he says to me. “Excuse me?” He nods over at Whites. “You go in, you come out,” he says. “Been there, done that.” The itch in my palm redoubles. “Have you?”     He is more discreet than the saxophonist; he maintains a respectful distance from me as we pass through the streets, hangs back as I open the door, and remains three steps behind me as I climb the stairs. As soon as we cross the threshold, the gentleman vanishes—his hands are on me, yanking away my coat and scrabbling at the clothes beneath. With my shirt tangled over my head he is already moving to touch my body before I am free; his fingertips are rough on my skin, and as his mouth skates down my body, his beard scratches like the wire wool I use to scrub away paint. His teeth nip at my belly. I back away, lead him to the bedroom. He disrobes as he follows, revealing a heavy-set body swathed in hair, and a stubby penis peeking from the shadow cast by his bulk. The pale light from the window sweeps around the heavy sphere of his stomach, and I am struck by an absurd image of a fast-motion film of light’s passage around the moon that I dimly remembered from a visit to the planetarium with Selwyn. He pushes me onto the bed and straddles me. He is commanding, guiding my hands where he wants them, tangling my fingers in the hair on his chest and thighs, and then as he pins my shoulders with his knees, thrusts my hand behind him where my fingers slide, sweat-slicked, into him. I open my mouth to receive him and for a second I picture myself outside my own body looking down on us—the same position as the watchers I imagine at my windows. The image is clear: this beast of a man, crouched ursine on his haunches over me, my head and shoulders lost in the dark shadow between his legs. Afterwards, he kisses me.     He does not go as easily as the saxophonist. Firstly, he awakens. None of the others have ever done this. His legs are already several inches off the bed, the room suffused with the anodyne hospital smell of the paint. My mistake is in selecting my brush; still sore and tender, I find poetic justice in selecting the largest, roughest of them. Secondly, he struggles. I doubt he comprehends what I am doing to him, but he has awoken in a panic to sensations he doesn’t understand, and so he lashes out like the animal I pictured. He strikes a blow across my face, and I fall to the floor, tasting blood in my mouth. The time for gentle artistry is past: I upend the tub. It coats his chest, tiny bubbles bursting amongst the strands of my hirsute canvas. There is blind panic in his eyes as he rises, spittle at the corner of his mouth turning blue where it mixes with the paint. He flails, claws at my sheets, but they can’t prevent his ascent and simply rise with him, a useless tether. I jostle him out of the window, which stands open as always. He clings to my bed-sheet and we reach an impasse—him upside down, fist wrapped tight around the cotton and me at the other end, pulling back with all my strength. For a minute, we remain connected. Then his fingers open, and he soars up, up to where the air smells of gunpowder.     “Pineapple!” says Eugene. “Goddamn pineapple. Can you believe it?” Six weeks pass—six weeks in which my frantic scuffle squashes the itch to visit the laundrette, though the image of a door opening to a crowd of men waiting for me slowly recurs nightly in my dreams. Six weeks in which I bury myself in work, in which I dodge the landlord knocking for rent, and in which I write three-quarters of a paper on the gravity-negating properties of an as-yet-unnamed viscous solution of my own devising. Six weeks, and then Eugene. “Gunpowder is too hard to synthesize, apparently, and anyway—it’s not like anyone’s going to know. So according to the head honchos of Paramount Pictures, space will smell of pineapple.” Eugene is on his third Singapore Sling, and already blurring into intoxication. He speaks at great length about his Hollywood consultation business. He tells me I should come advise on engineering, build robots for the flicks. He doesn’t understand why I’m mouldering away in a poxy flat in the cheap end of town. I try to explain what I’m working on—tell him about my three-quarters-written paper—but he doesn’t listen. He starts talking about space flight again. In each bar we go to a pattern repeats: the girls flock at first to his expensive suit, gold watch and big tips, and then, when his generosity has dried up and he has done little beyond leerily grope a behind or two, they ghost away to search for more forthcoming targets. And at each bar, he complains that the place is ‘too swanky’ or ‘too bogus’ and demands I take him somewhere real. Deep in a whiskey glass in a honky-tonk bar that still carried more than a whiff of speakeasy about it, I watch Eugene flirt with a sour-faced woman leaning against the bar. She is lit by neon, and has a look similar to his: rich, but slumming it for the night. He won’t pick her, I know, but flirtation is a habit of his. Even in a single-sex boarding school, he had never had much trouble finding women where he needed them—a couple of the maids, girls from the town. Sneaking back into the dormitory at night, he would describe his latest sexual exploit to me in a low whisper, and I would stiffen under the covers. One night he claimed to have conquered one of the schoolmistresses—new to the school, and on temporary assignment. One of those long evenings in his study I relayed Eugene’s story to Selwyn who laughed quietly, and said, “I don’t doubt. Frightful, really—students and teachers.” We laughed together, conspiratorial. Not for the first time, I wonder why Selwyn has thrust Eugene and I back into each other’s lives. If I focus, I begin to wonder if Eugene’s heart is really in it tonight. He’s effusive with everyone we meet, expounding upon his personal theories of life, love and pleasure, and the opportunity to sneak off and spend himself in a furtive tumble has presented itself on multiple occasions. And yet he seems to be dodging every offer, returning to me with freshly charged glasses. As we descend into that strata of intoxication in which profundity insists itself in half-complete sentences, I wonder if perhaps Eugene fears the same as I: that in the post-orgasmic chill the squalor of a back-alley screw loses its grimy glamour and becomes something furtive and shameful instead. And so he postpones it as long as possible—perhaps indefinitely. Eventually, there are no more bars to go to—or none that will allow two such stumbling fools entry. Early dawn is pricking the horizon, and, like a magnet, I draw us to the Lucky Seven. My waitress is there—Marilyn the First—glimpsed through the kitchen hatch but I am too drunk to care. Besides—it has been two months. We collapse into a booth. Eugene rests his head on the table. I lean against the glass; it is cool and soothing. Across the road, I cannot tell if the laundrette is open or closed—I am too unfocused to make out if the door stands open or not. I suppose even such a place as Whites closes. “Usual?” I squint up at her. She doesn’t sound upset. This is good. Eugene, hearing a female voice, rears up. He strikes what I imagine he believes is a charming smile. “Darla!” he says. “How pleas—pleas—pleasant to meet you.” I blink. “Darla?” She taps her name-badge. “I thought your name was Marilyn?” She leans in close, ruffles my hair, matronly. “No, darling. I forgot my badge, had to borrow one. But at least you remembered my name—I’m flattered.” Darla. Somehow the name changes her. Marilyn is a girl daintily upset when a man does not call her the morning after. Darla takes a man home to screw because she wants to. She leaves to serve the only other customer in the diner, down the opposite end of the window. I lean into Eugene, and tell him—in a whisper that is almost certainly not really a whisper at all—about what Darla and I did in my bed. I don’t know why I did it: I have never been one to brag, but recasting our limp splutter of an encounter as erotic exploit gives me a fraternal thrill I have rarely felt. Eugene grips my wrists and shakes them victoriously. “Albert, my man,” he says. “I knew you had it in you.” For a second I see me as he does now: earthy man of the people, slipping it to waitresses on a nightly basis. And then the image bursts like over-inflated bubble-gum as I look past Darla. She is bending over, pouring coffee, and behind her is a noticeboard. Protest march, singing lessons, artist seeking model, poetry reading and MISSING. Below it a photo of a hulking man, round-faced and boyish despite the beard. Darla sways past us again. “You boys had a good night, then?” Eugene reaches out a hand to her, pulls her back to sit on his knee. His fingers snag on her sash. “Darlin’, not nearly good enough. Not yet…” For the poster to be here in the Lucky Seven, he must be a regular. We’ve all been there, he said, as if he too had sat for long hours in this diner, getting up the nerve to cross the road. And then there is Marilyn and Darla, who see every man and every face. Darla looks at me. It isn’t a look asking for help, to rescue her from my lairy friend, just a calmly assessing look. Eugene’s fingers make it clear what he wants. I do not ask. I know what she likes. “I get off in half an hour,” she says.     The story ends with a decision, as many do. Darla leaves, and I return to the bed as if she is still there, a cold ghost between Eugene and I. Her female presence granted permission: for our naked bodies to share the same space, for my fingers to touch him, provided mine were not the only ones. I wonder if this is where he wanted the night to go: his life, so drearily decadent, that the only thing to jolt him out of his drudgery is the taboo touch of a man. Perhaps he had marked me out as an easy target—the sexless boy from school, the one who spent a bit too much time with Professor Cavor. I realize the room is silent. His snoring has stopped. When I look at him, his eyes are open. Afterwards, I anchor us both to the bed with the sheets, wrapped around our wrists and fixed loosely to the bedpost. I paint him first, until he has risen, tipped on his side, free of gravity but strung by one rebellious limb to the ground. The alcohol in his veins that deadens him to the feeling of my awkward brush-strokes. He hovers above me, eyes closed, like a statue. Then, disjointed with my off-hand, I coat myself. I float to meet him, the front of our bodies pressed together, lips close enough to kiss. I wrestle the knot loose, and we are released. I wrap my arms around him, and press my face into his chest. It is difficult to guide him across the room to the window—I have to kick off against the walls and the ceiling, as one does in deep water. My feet alight on the windowsill. I push away. Light breaks across the city. If my phantom watchers in the windows opposite are looking, they will see us as we rise into the sky, one man clinging tight to another as they ascend like balloons that have slipped from your grasp, until the atmosphere becomes rarefied and thin, and breath freezes before our faces. I catch a glimpse of the sun rising over the edge of the world before I close my eyes and rise up, to where the air smells of gunpowder, and men are waiting for me.   END “becoming, c.a. 2000” is copyright Charles Payseur 2017. “In Search of Stars” is copyright Matthew Bright 2017. 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 we’ll be back soon with a reprint of “The Need for Overwhelming Sensation” by Bogi Takács.

Viruses are way worse with virtual reality hardware. In this episode, AE, Mona, as well as newcomer Robert Valenzuela, read the topical story "Pay Phobetor" by Shale Nelson (shalenelson.com). Originally published in the December 2014 issue of Lightspeed Magazine, this story is about a ransomware virus infecting someone's brain implant.  You can read along here: http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/pay-phobetor/ After reading the story, Mona and AE also weigh in some of the issues brought up in the story, particularly the threat of too much dependence on technology.  Now, get ready for what is probably the best episode yet. In the words of the story, "Find a safe place to sit, away from moving objects and other hazards. Remember, think-apping while walking or driving is dangerous and unlawful." Show Notes:  Some of the music comes from Purple Planet (http://www.purple-planet.com), so mad props to them for providing that license-free. Follow the show on Facebook (@SkiffilyPodcast) and Twitter (@SkiffilyPodcast). If you have Instagram, feel free to follow Mona (@sewagainsthegrain) and myself (@SkiffilyPodcast).  Robert has a photography portfolio that you can check out at robertvalenzuela15.wixsite.com/valenzuelaphoto  "Pay Phobetor" Copyright © 2014 Shale Nelson, reproduced with permission from the author.

• Narrated by Fonda Lee • Audio production by Jeremy Carter • Originally published in Lightspeed Magazine, Issue 73 (June 2016) • Read along with the text of the story. • Discuss this story on our forum • For a list of all our stories, authors and narrators, visit our Wikia page • Come visit […] The post Episode 248: Binaries by S. B. Divya appeared first on Cast of Wonders.

Jason Gurley is the author of Greatfall, The Man Who Ended the World, and other novels and stories. His bestselling self-published novel Eleanor was acquired by Crown Publishing and reissued in 2016. His work has appeared in Lightspeed Magazine and numerous anthologies. He lives and writes in Oregon. How Do You Write Podcast: Explore the processes of working writers with bestselling author Rachael Herron. Want tips on how to write the book you long to finish? Here you'll gain insight from other writers on how to get in the chair, tricks to stay in it, and inspiration to get your own words flowing. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

How can one keep a tight budget (or waistline) when even the local food truck has innovative culinary delights? From the August 2016 issue of Lightspeed Magazine, Nico (the narrator) is trying to save up to become a freelance accountant, but must battle with his love of food trucks. He discovers that Alberto, an acquaintance from a cooking class he took as a child, is a vendor of a popular food truck near his work. Alberto has invited Nico to the exclusive food truck circus. Read along here: http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/taste-singularity-food-truck-circus/ Follow this science fiction podcast on Facebook (@SkiffilyPodcast) and Twitter (@SkiffilyPodcast). If you have Instagram, feel free to follow me (@SkiffilyPodcast).  "Taste the Singularity at the Food Truck Circus" Copyright © 2016, Jeremiah Tolbert, reproduced with permission from the author

Main Fiction: "Rocket Surgery" by Effie Sieberg Originally appeared in Analog Effie Seiberg is a fantasy and science fiction writer. Her stories can be found in the "Women Destroy Science Fiction!" special edition of Lightspeed Magazine, Galaxy's Edge, Analog, and PodCastle, amongst others. She is a graduate of Taos Toolbox 2013, a member of Codex, and a reader at Tor.com. Effie lives in San Francisco, recently and upcoming (but not presently) near a giant sculpture of a pink bunny head with a skull in its mouth. She likes to make sculpted cakes and bad puns. Find her online at effieseiberg.com and on Twitter @effies. Narrated by: Stephanie Morris Stephanie is a professional fangirl by day and your friendly, neighborhood, not-quite-a-librarian staffing the circulation desk by night. She has narrated short stories for PseudoPod, PodCastle, EscapePod, and Cast of Wonders, guest-blogged on subjects ranging from new books to zombie turkeys, and performed Shakespeare in a handful of weird churches. Until... See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

After an issue with a broken laptop, I'm finally back with a new episode! Charles Yu's short story Standard Loneliness Package was originally published by Lightspeed Magazine in 2010. It is a story about a person whose job it is to experience emotions on behalf of others. You can follow me on Twitter @jlcronshaw and visit my website www.joncronshaw.com where I post my own fiction and share these podcasts. If you haven't done so already, please help spread the word about this show by leaving a review on the podcast platform of your choice. #scifi #SFF #podcast

Week 1 of Translations Special Month! This story was originally written in Chinese and has been translated into English. Main Fiction: "The Smog Society" by Chen Qiufan, translated by Ken Liu and Carmen Yiling Yan. Originally published in Lightspeed Magazine, Issue #63, reprinted in Loosed Upon The World, edited by John Joseph Adams. Audio produced by Sky Boat Media Chen Qiufan (A.K.A. Stanley Chan) was born in Shantou, Guangdong province. Chan is a science fiction writer, columnist, script writer and a Technology start-up CMO. Since 2004, he has published over thirty stories in Science Fiction World, Esquire, Chutzpah!, many of which are collected in Thin Code. His debut novel, The Waste Tide, was published in January 2013 and was praised by Liu Cixin as “the pinnacle of near-future SF writing”. Chan is the most widely translated young writer of science fiction in China, with his short works translated into English, Italian, Japanese, Swedish, Polish and published in Clarkesworld, Interzone, and... See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Anne McCaffrey's short story was first published in Worlds of If in 1973. I read it on the Lightspeed Magazine website, reprinted in 2011. Velvet Fields tells the story of human colonists moving onto an alien world and the unintended consquences of this colonisation. Have you read this story? Get in touch on Twitter @jlcronshaw or @shortsfreview. My website is www.joncronshaw.com - you can read my own short fiction, as well as the archive to this podcast there. If you enjoy the show, please feel free to get in touch. You can friend me on Facebook or Goodreads. Just look for Jon Cronshaw. #scifi #SFF #colonisation

Sarah’s Child Susan Jane Bigelow Once, I dreamed that I had a son named Sheldon, and my grief tore a hole in the fabric of the world. In my dream I walked through the halls of an elementary school, and I went into the office. Everything was gray and blocky, but somehow not oppressive. I was certain, then, that it was the elementary school in my old hometown, and that I was both myself and also not myself. Full transcript after the cut ----more---- Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 28 for May 24, 2016. This is your host, Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing this story with you. Our story this week is "Sarah's Child" by Susan Jane Bigelow, read by Amanda Ching. Susan Jane Bigelow is a fiction writer, political columnist, and librarian. She mainly writes science fiction and fantasy novels, most notably the Extrahuman Union series from Book Smugglers Publishing. Her short fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Apex Magazine, Lightspeed Magazine’s “Queers Destroy Science Fiction” issue, and the Lamba Award-winning “The Collection: Short Fiction from the Transgender Vanguard,” among others. She lives with her wife in northern Connecticut, and can be found at the bottom of a pile of cats. Amanda Ching is a freelance editor and writer. Her work has appeared in Storm Moon Press, Candlemark & Gleam's Alice: (re)Visions, and every bathroom stall on I-80 from Pittsburgh to Indianapolis. She tweets @cerebralcutlass and blogs at http://amandaching.wordpress.com. Sarah’s Child Susan Jane Bigelow Once, I dreamed that I had a son named Sheldon, and my grief tore a hole in the fabric of the world. In my dream I walked through the halls of an elementary school, and I went into the office. Everything was gray and blocky, but somehow not oppressive. I was certain, then, that it was the elementary school in my old hometown, and that I was both myself and also not myself. I asked for Sheldon. “Ms. Harp is here,” someone said, and then there he was. He was blond, maybe five or six, with a round face like my sister’s. He smiled toothily up at me. I took his hand. “Come on, honey,” I said. “Let’s go.” And then I woke up. Janet snored softly next to me. I touched the space on my body where my womb would have been, if I’d been born with one, and ached. It was a mistake to tell Janet. “So you had a dream,” she said, crunching her toast. She ate it plain, no butter. “So what?” She was wearing that muscle shirt that made me melt, and her short hair was a mess from sleep. Janet was athletic, butch and pint-sized, and she wore her queerness like a pair of brass knuckles. I was lucky to have her. “I don’t know,” I said. “It just seemed so real.” “I dreamed I was a hockey player,” Janet said, popping the last piece of toast into her mouth. “But I ain’t one.” “I know.” I stabbed at my breakfast, not feeling all that hungry. “Never mind.” She came over and kissed the top of my head. “Sorry, babe. I know it bugs you sometimes.” She put her dishes in the sink. “You aren’t gonna start asking about sperm donors or anything, right? Did you freeze yours?” “No,” I said. “And no. I didn’t.” There’d really been no point. When I had my surgery I’d been in the middle of the divorce with Liz. Kids were out of the question. “Cool. You gonna be okay?” I nodded. “All right. I gotta hit the shower. See you at the game tonight!” She headed off to the shower, humming happily to herself. She usually took half an hour in there, so I’d be long gone by the time she came out. I poked at my scrambled eggs again, then tossed them out. I couldn’t shake the dream, though, so I went through my day in a fog. People at work asked me if I was all right, and I just shook my head mutely. Sure. Fine, just a little haunted. I didn’t go directly home that night. Instead, I drove the half hour north to Elm Hill, and parked outside the elementary school. School was long over, though a few kids played on the ball fields and ran around the swings. I shut the car off and got out. There was a hint of fall in the air, though the leaves hadn’t turned yet. I walked through the playground, passing by my own ghosts on the steps, by the wall, on the baseball field, and up to the fence. There was a little rock there, smaller than I remembered. I sat on it, and thought about Sheldon. This was silly. It was just a dream. I’d had dreams about motherhood before. Pregnancy, babies, those dreams came with the hormones. Everybody had them, or said they did. So why wouldn’t this one let me go? I sighed. Somewhere across the playground, a father with two daughters was watching me. I waved at him, and he turned quickly around again. Dads don’t like me. Impulsively, I rummaged in my purse and found the little reporter’s notebook I kept handy. I’m not a reporter, I work in layout and design for the magazine, but somewhere along the line I’d picked up a few of their habits. I pulled a pen out of my purse and started to write.   Hi Sheldon My hand shook. What was I doing? This was stupid. There was no Sheldon. But my traitor hand kept writing.   I hope you’re doing okay. I hope you had a nice day. I used to play on this rock when I was little, like you. I hope you have a lot of friends, and that you’re happy.   Your friend, Sarah I couldn’t bring myself to sign it ‘Mom.’ My phone chimed, and I pulled it out. There were two texts there. One was from Janet, wondering where I was. Guilty—I’d forgotten her game—I texted her back that I’d be there in about half an hour. The other was from a number I’d never seen before. It was a weird combination of letters and numbers, and there was no name. From: AC67843V-D Hey I can take Sheldon Friday txt me back –D Angry, I texted back—   Not funny, Janet —and put the phone away. I folded the paper up and thought about chucking it away. Then I folded it again and stuck it in a little crack in the rock. Maybe somehow it would find its way to him, wherever he was, and he’d leave me alone. Janet was a little peeved that I’d missed the start of the game. She took softball seriously, and the fall league was special in some way that I’d tried my best not to understand. But I got there in time for the fourth inning, which meant I got to see her steal third base, so it wasn’t a total loss. “Where were you?” she asked as we were downing beer and pizza with the team after. “Just got held up,” I said. “At work. You know how it is.” “They exploit you,” she said, pointing at me with the business end of a slice of pizza. “You shouldn’t let them do that. It’s cause you’re trans—” I winced. Tell the whole pizza joint, why don’t you? “—that they think they can take advantage, cause you’re desperate for work. You shouldn’t take it.” “No,” I said. “It’s fine.” “Damn it, Sarah,” said Janet. “You gotta stick up for yourself! You never do. You just let Liz roll away with your house and car and money, and you let your boss get all kinds of unpaid labor out of you. You need to grow a spine.” And I let you boss me around, too, I thought, eating a slice of pizza. So what? “You didn’t have to send me that text,” I said. “What, I just wanted to know where you were!” she said. “No, the other one. The Sheldon one? That was mean.” She blinked. “I never sent you anything about Sheldon. Who’s Sheldon?” That night I dreamed about driving around the streets of my hometown. The town was different in that way familiar things change in dreams, but I still knew it was Elm Hill. I took a turn and pulled into the parking lot of a condo complex. “Home, home,” sang a little voice in the seat next to me. I looked over and there was Sheldon, smiling up at me. I got out of the car and walked around to his side, my heels clicking on the pavement. I opened the door and helped him out. I glanced in the window, and saw reflected back a face that was and wasn’t mine. I woke up, the feel of Sheldon’s cold little hand in mine burned into my memory. My mother was no help at all. “Your sister’s pregnant,” she announced when I called her over lunch. “Again?” I asked. Patty seemed to get pregnant with alarming regularity. This would be her fourth. “So she says. I hope it’s a summer baby. They could name her June. Such a pretty name. I wanted to name you June, if you’d been a girl.” I’m a girl now, I thought, but didn’t say. “The baby would be born earlier than that, right? It’s only September.” “Well, you never know. And think what an interesting story that would be! ‘This is my daughter June, she was born in May!’ Wouldn’t that be an interesting story?” “Sure. How’s Dad?” I asked, quickly changing the subject. “Same as ever,” she grumped, launching into a long story about how he was out with his golf buddies all the time and never home. Not that she wanted him home, of course. I almost told her about Sheldon. He was still haunting me. But what would I have said? Instead, I listened as she told me about Dad, passed judgment on the sorry state of my career, and questioned whether Janet was right for me. I made the appropriate noises at the appropriate times, and excused myself to go back to work when the time came. That evening I found myself pulled back to the parking lot of the elementary school in Elm Hill, looking out over the playground and thinking wistfully of what might have been. Maybe I should find a therapist, I thought. Maybe I should get help. I got out of the car and strolled across the field, trying not to look guilty. I didn’t see the dad from yesterday. I sat myself back down on the rock, and sighed. The piece of paper was still wedged into that crack. This is ridiculous, I thought. Why was I even here? I was lucky. I knew I was. I had a home, a cute girlfriend, and a job. I didn’t get abuse on the streets. I wasn’t young anymore and I was never pretty, but so what? So what. Why did I want what I could never, ever have so badly? Suddenly furious, I ripped the paper out of the wedge in the rock. I was about to tear it to shreds when I noticed that the paper was a soft blue color. My notebook only had white lined. Curious, I opened it up. There, in a child’s blocky script, was written: HELLO I like beinG on the Rock. I make Believe its a SPACE SHIP. My mommy is nice and a DIKe and is coming to pick me up soon. Do you like Dinosars?   SHELDON My hands began to shake. This had to be some trick. I turned the paper over, looking for signs, but there was only the name of the paper company on the back. “Bloomfield Paper - Made in the R.N.E.” was stamped next to a little pine tree flag. There was no other mark, nothing to indicate where this had come from. I got out my pen and paper again, and wrote another note.   Hi Sheldon   I like space ships, and I like dinosaurs. I’m very glad your mommy is nice. I hope you had a nice day today, too.   Sarah I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Before I lost my nerve I wedged the note back into the rock, and left quickly. I went back to the rock the next day, and sure enough, there was another blue paper stuck in the crack. This time it was a crude picture of a dinosaur, signed by Sheldon. For Sara, it read, spelling my name wrong. I smiled, touched, and tried not to think about what a creep I was being to somebody’s poor kid. I tucked the drawing into my purse. Just then my phone rang, and I almost jumped out of my skin. I checked my phone; it was that same combination of letters and numbers as the text from yesterday had been. AC67843V-D. Hesitantly, I answered it. “H...hello?” “Hey, June,” a man’s bored-sounding voice said. “I can’t take Sheldon on Friday after all. Sorry.” Sheldon. “I’m sorry,” I said, trying and failing to keep the quavering out of my voice. “I’m not June.” “What?” The voice on the other end sounded very confused. “Oh. Huh. Wrong number, I guess. You sure you’re… you sound just like her. Weird.” “I’m Sarah,” I said. “And you’re on your own phone?” “Yes.” “Huh. Well, if you see June tell her David can’t pick up Sheldon Friday.” The line went dead, leaving me shivering in the bright sunny afternoon. That night I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to Janet snore, turning it all over in my mind. At last I got up and paced, restless and weary at the same time. I fixed myself a cup of tea and sat in the living room, surrounded by books, stacks of DVDs, my old board games and framed prints of the brassy 40s pin-up girls Janet was obsessed with. The place felt like us, and calmed me down a little. I took the picture and the note Sheldon had sent me out of my purse, unfolded them, and smoothed them out on the coffee table in front of me. “Hey,” Janet said. I jumped, knocking my tea onto the floor. “I’m sorry!” I said, leaping up. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said, smiling sleepily. “I’ll get some paper towels.” I sat back down, trembling. Janet returned and mopped up the tea on the floor. “I’m sorry,” was all I could think of to say. “Eh, that floor’s tough. I’ve spilled way worse on it.” Janet sat next to me and noticed the drawing and the note. She picked them up and looked them over. “What’re these?” “Nothing,” I said too quickly. “Just some old things I found.” Janet looked like she wanted to say something, but swallowed it. “Come back to bed,” she said eventually, and padded off back toward the bedroom. I put the picture and the note away, and followed. I finally fell asleep about 3 AM. This time I dreamed I was at a café, talking with my mother. Except she wasn’t exactly my mother: she had longer, grayer hair, and was thinner and better dressed than my mother usually was. “And I found it in his backpack,” I was saying, in a voice that wasn’t quite mine. “I thought he had a girlfriend or something. But doesn’t this look like an adult’s writing?” She pushed a piece of paper across the table at my mother. I was somehow not surprised to see the note I’d written to Sheldon sitting there. My mother picked it up and frowned that distinctive thoughtfully disapproving frown. “There’s no teacher there named Sarah?” “None,” I confirmed. “He says he just finds it in the rock.” “You should ask the principal to look into it,” my mother said. “Or tell your deadbeat ex. Wasn’t he supposed to take Sheldon today?” “He was,” I sighed. “Then he backed out without telling me. He swears now that he did tell me, but I don’t know.” “Does this have to do with that Janet woman?” Janet? “Ma, I told you, I don’t know any Janets.” “She seemed awfully friendly. Little Xs and Os in her text.” My mother narrowed her eyes in that way she had when she knew something was up. “June, you’re hiding something. Is it true, what David said? That you’re a… you know?” My mommy is nice and a DIKe, Sheldon had written. What had this David person been telling him? I drummed my fingers on the counter, stalling, but just then Sheldon came back from wherever he’d been, and we talked about nothing else besides him until I woke up. “Didn’t sleep at all?” said Janet, taking in my bleary expression that morning.   “Some,” I said, cradling my cup of coffee with my trembling hands. Thank goodness it was Saturday. “I had more dreams.” Janet sat, not looking at me. “Sarah? If you were in some kind of trouble, or if something was really wrong, you’d tell me, right?” “I’m not in trouble,” I said quickly. “At least, I don’t think so.” “But you can’t sleep,” she pressed, still not looking at me. “You’ve been home late. You had those notes from a kid last night. And… you look like you got hit by a truck this morning.” She visibly braced herself, then gave me one of her very serious looks. “What’s going on?” I thought about coming up with some half-assed excuse. I thought about saying “nothing” again and pretending it was all fine. I thought about being reassuring and hiding my pain like I always did. But I was so tired and heartsick that I told her everything. When I was done, Janet just sat there for a few minutes. “Wow,” she said at last. “I know.” “What do you think this all means?” she asked. “I don’t know,” I said, feeling utterly helpless. “I’d say it’s just bad dreams, but, what? You think the drawing and the note mean it’s real somehow? Sarah…” “I know, I know,” I said, miserable. I felt more exposed sitting there at the table than I ever did when I took off my clothes. “I’m sure there’s explanations. But the phone calls, the way June had my letters to Sheldon in my dream…” “June?” Suddenly Janet was alert. “Who’s June?” “Sheldon’s mother.” I shook my head, reaching for an explanation that made sense. “I… I think she’s me, or who I could have been. June is what my mother would have named me, if I’d been born a girl.” Janet pulled out her phone and paged through it, brow creased. “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to hold back the tears. “I know this is weird! I just want to have a quiet morning. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She handed me the phone. “I sent you a text the other day,” she said. “I got this back.” From: AC88534J-J I’m not Sarah, who is this? My name is June. I just stared at it for a moment, shocked. Then I pulled out my own phone and showed her the text from “D,” who I now suspected was David. “I’ve never seen phone numbers like that,” said Janet. “But they’re similar to one another.” I started piecing it together in my mind. “Where were you when you got that text, Janet?” “A contract up in Elm Hill,” said Janet slowly. “Why?” “That’s where I was when I got the text, and the call,” I said excitedly. “That’s where the school is!” “But look, it gets even better,” said Janet, taking back the phone and poking the screen. “I got another one a few minutes later.” From: AC88534J-J Please don’t tell, but I think I’m gay. I have to tell someone. “Oh my God,” I said. “I thought it was someone pranking me at that point,” said Janet as I digested the text, agog. “Like Lisa. She does shit like this, and she knows how to do stuff with phones.” She tapped the phone thoughtfully. “But now… Jesus. Sarah, is this real?” “It is,” I said firmly. “It has to be.” “What’s going on?” Janet asked. “Why do you have such a connection with this Sheldon? I mean, he’s not your kid, right?” “No, not exactly. But June… She’s got my mother, the name I would have had.” “She’s you,” said Janet. “Or who you would have been, if…” “Yeah. If.” I said, and an entire world was contained in that world. “So what do we do about it?” Janet asked. It was a good question. Our parallel lives were crashing together, I was driving myself nuts from lack of sleep, and all I wanted was everything she had. This couldn’t go on. “I want to try to talk to them,” I said. I spent the whole weekend a wreck, trying not to think about the plan . I had more disjointed dreams about Sheldon and June, enough to know that June was talking with a therapist but couldn’t bring herself to say what she needed to say, and Sheldon was going through a serious dinosaur phase. I stayed far away from Elm Hill until Monday, though, when I drove up in the early morning to deliver a final note. I got the answer Monday afternoon. They’d be there. That night I dreamed about June, who was sitting up alone, looking at the notes I’d sent Sheldon, drinking. Tuesday afternoon came at last. Janet drove us up to Elm Hill; we didn’t say anything the whole way. When we got to the school, I had to sit for long moment, just staring out at the playground. A light rain had begun to fall, and there were no other children that day. Probably for the best. At last I steeled myself and got out of the car. “You’re sure they’ll show?” Janet asked dubiously. I nodded, clutching Sheldon’s note in my pocket. He’d said they would come. I believed him. “This is a bad idea,” said Janet, staring dubiously out at the damp playground. “You want to go home? We should go home. I can make dinner. You like my dinners.” “No,” I said firmly. “I’m going. You can stay here if you want.” Janet was speechless for a moment. I never stood up to her. But then she got out of the car. “Right behind you,” she said, giving me a little smile. Together, we marched across the damp grass to the rock. “So what happens now?” Janet said, crossing her arms and shifting from side to side. I was about to answer that I didn’t know when sunlight streamed in from somewhere just to my left. I jumped back, and shielded my eyes. The first form I saw was Sheldon’s. He stood there, holding his grandmother’s hand. She looked shocked as she saw us. She was so like my mother that the lack of recognition in her eyes was awful. And there… holding Sheldon’s other hand. She was shorter than me by a good six inches, and she had the narrow shoulders and face of my sisters. But she looked a little like me, too. We had the same eyes, the same mouth, the same hair. “June,” I whispered. “Are you Sarah?” June said. I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak. “Sarah!” said Sheldon. He waved. “Hi Sheldon,” I said, voice catching. June hesitantly reached out a hand toward me, then drew it away again. “Are you… me?” I nodded again. “How? I don’t understand. You don’t look like me.” “No. I was born a boy.” “Oh?” Her eyes widened. “Oh!” Her eyes fell on Janet. “And you…?” “Janet,” my girlfriend said. “Hey.” “And you’re with… her?” Janet took my hand. I squeezed it, grateful “Awful,” said June’s mother. “Hush,” said June shakily. “Now what?” Janet asked softly. “Now we resolve things,” I said firmly. I understood it now, the way that June looked at Janet. The text she’d sent: I have to tell someone. We both had something the other one wanted. June had Sheldon, and everything he represented. And I… I had Janet. I looked, really looked, at Sheldon, and I felt an ache so bad that I began to cry. Janet put an arm around me, and pulled me close. I straightened. “June?” June looked at me, fear plain on her face. “She’ll be okay,” I said, nodding at her glowering mother. “You can tell her. I told her about me, a few years ago, and she wasn’t thrilled. But… we dealt with it and moved on. You have to, to be happy.” June shook her head furiously. “You don’t understand.” “I do,” I insisted, amazed at how calm I suddenly felt. “Better than anyone. You and me… everybody pushes us around. But we’re made of iron underneath. There’s a part of us that won’t bend.” June looked at me and I saw how helpless she must have felt. I remembered feeling like that… just before I changed my life forever. “I did it,” I said. Behind June and Sheldon was blue sky and bright sun. “You can, too.” June turned to her mother. “I’m gay, Mom,” she said softly. “I am. I am.” June’s mother huffed miserably. “I figured that out, genius. So what? See if I care. You’re still my daughter.” Chills ran down my spine. So what? my mother had said, all those years ago. See if I care. You’re still my child. June gave her mother a long, hard hug, then turned to me. She seemed to be standing straighter. “Iron,” I said. “Nice job,” said Janet, trying to be charitable. June laughed. She had this perfect voice; she was so beautiful in all the ways I wasn’t. And she had Sheldon. My heart cracked a little more. “I don’t suppose there’s one of you in my world?” she said to Janet. “Can’t hurt to check around,” said Janet. She pulled me close, possessive. “But I’m taken.” The sunlight began to dim, and June, Sheldon and June’s mother started fading. “Sarah,” said June. She looked more ghostly now. “If you want a baby… have one.” “I can’t,” I said. “I don’t even know if that’s what I want.” “It is,” said June, her voice the whisper of wind through the trees. “If you’re anything like me.” And then they vanished completely, leaving us alone in the rain. Janet rubbed my back as we drove home. “You okay?” she asked. I nodded. “I think so.” “Is it over?” “Yes,” I said, and I was certain. “She got what she wanted.” “You didn’t, though,” said Janet nervously. “I… think I did, though,” I said. “Somewhere in there I stopped wanting to be her. She has Sheldon, she’s short and pretty, but she doesn’t have you. And I like having you.” We drove on as the rain started coming down harder. I turned the wipers up to maximum. “We can talk it over, if you want?” Janet said hesitantly. “The, uh, baby thing.” I couldn’t say anything for a moment. “Really?” “Really,” said Janet. “I mean, I don’t hate the idea. I just hated the idea of having to, you know? And being pregnant…” She made a face. “I guess I can do it.” “You don’t have to,” I said quickly. “Yeah, but we can’t exactly adopt,” she said. “We’re a weird couple on a number of fronts.” “I know. But I’d rather have you than a baby.” Janet laughed, eyes bright. “That kind of talk makes me wish you had banked sperm. I’d bear your children right now.” “Maybe I can scrape out an old gym sock,” I said. She laughed again. I loved that sound. I loved how easy we were with one another. Janet snuggled against my arm. I was shocked; she almost never did that, even when I wasn’t driving through a rainstorm. “I’m glad you’re you, too, you know,” said Janet. “I didn’t like June. Too many lingering straight girl hang-ups, you know?” “Thanks, I think,” I said. “What I’m saying is… let’s just take it a little at a time. We’ve got time, right? We can have time.” She groaned in frustration. “I’m saying that wrong.” I slipped an arm around her. “I know what you mean,” I said as we drove south through the rain and back to our lives. “I know just what you mean.” One time I dreamed I had a son named Sheldon. I could never any sons of my own, or daughters. But I did have Janet, and better, I had myself. I wasn’t like June. I was like me. It was enough, and then some. END "Sarah's Child" was originally published in Strange Horizons in May 2014 and was reprinted in Heiresses of Russ 2015. 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 June 7th with a GlitterShip original. You can support GlitterShip by checking out our Patreon at patreon.com/keffy,  making a donation at paypal.me/keffy, subscribing to our feed, or by leaving reviews on iTunes. [Music Plays Out] Support GlitterShip!

Hugh Howey's short story Deep Blood Kettle was published by Lightspeed Magazine in April 2013 and reprinted in the anthology Wastelands 2, edited by John Joseph Adams. Deep Blood Kettle is a first contact story where the aliens give Earth an ultimatum. Have you read this story? What did you think? Tell me about your favourite short science fiction stories on Twitter @ShortSFReview. If you enjoy the podcast, please take a moment to leave a review on iTunes and please feel free to share links to your favourite episodes. #scifi #aliens #firstcontact #apocalypse

Minghun: Unlikely Patron Saints, No. 5byAmy SissonA whisper of excitement echoes through the cave, or what I think of as a cave. She is coming, the minghun broker is coming, I hear or perhaps feel, like soft butterfly wings brushing my face. I strain to catch a glimpse of one of the others I know to be around me, but it is difficult to see faces. A flash of sleeve, whether plain or fancy, or a pale hand laid briefly on my arm is more likely.When she arrives, the minghun broker is far more tangible than the companions I sense around me, and her face seems familiar. She has been coming as long as I've been here, which may be months or years. It is whispered that she comes to us in her dreams, that she belongs to the world before. The others are always happy to see her because she offers something they cannot find for themselves.Full transcript appears under the cut.----more----[Intro music plays]Hello!Welcome to GlitterShip episode 17 for October 7, 2015. This is your host, Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing this story with you.Before we get to the story, I wanted to mention that the 2015 edition of the Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy is now out, and among other awesome stories, it includes short stories by two authors who have previously appeared in GlitterShip! Cat Rambo's "Tortoiseshell Cats Are Not Refundable" was picked up, as well as A. Merc Rustad's "How to Become a Robot in 12 Easy Steps," which you may remember from the first episode of GlitterShip.A quick glance through the table of contents also showed that while some of the stories came from fancy magazines like Tor.com, Asimov's, and Lightspeed Magazine, a few of the smaller magazines like Shimmer Magazine and Scigentasy had some awesome stuff come out last year. I hope that this encourages people to check out the rest of what Shimmer and Scigentasy publish!In terms of GlitterShip news, I'm still swamped-busy with a variety of things. You know, the move, grad school, scientific research, reading for the Tiptree this year, etc. This unfortunately means that a lot of GlitterShip related things have been dropped by the wayside. My top priority has been getting episodes out, since that's what you're all here for, but in the rest of October, I plan on:A) getting through the desperately outdated submissions that I still have because I'm a slow, slow, slow one person operation.B) adding, if nothing else, the patrons/supporters page to the website, finallyC) getting back on the KS rewards wagon.That said, if you're a newer listener to GlitterShip and enjoy what we do here, I've put up a Patreon account at www.patreon.com/keffy. The milestone goals right now are the maximum amounts needed to keep going after the Kickstarter funds run out next May. As I find other sources of funding, the milestones themselves may become easier to reach. We are still fully funded through May 2016 (episode 48) but I thought that it would be a good idea to start looking forward to the future.Anyway, if you enjoy GlitterShip and have a few bucks to spare per month, your patronage is much appreciated. However, the number one thing that we love is just more listeners, so please recommend us to your friends if we put out stories that you enjoy.Okay, on to the story:Our story today is "Minghun" by Amy Sisson, read by S.Qiouyi Lu.Amy Sisson is a writer, reviewer, and former librarian. Her short stories have appeared in Strange Horizons, Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, and Sybil's Garage No. 7. She currently lives in Houston, Texas, with her NASA spouse and a large collection of ex-stray cats.We also have our awesome guest reader from episode 15 back to read to us again!Our reader this week is S. Qiouyi Lu. You can visit their site at http://s.qiouyi.lu/ and follow them on Twitter at @sqiouyilu.Minghun: Unlikely Patron Saints, No. 5byAmy SissonA whisper of excitement echoes through the cave, or what I think of as a cave. She is coming, the minghun broker is coming, I hear or perhaps feel, like soft butterfly wings brushing my face. I strain to catch a glimpse of one of the others I know to be around me, but it is difficult to see faces. A flash of sleeve, whether plain or fancy, or a pale hand laid briefly on my arm is more likely.When she arrives, the minghun broker is far more tangible than the companions I sense around me, and her face seems familiar. She has been coming as long as I've been here, which may be months or years. It is whispered that she comes to us in her dreams, that she belongs to the world before. The others are always happy to see her because she offers something they cannot find for themselves.So far the minghun has not sought me, and I am both sad and relieved. This time again, she glances at me with sympathy in her eyes, eyes that I know can actually see me, even when I cannot always see my own hand held up in front of my face. Then she moves on, calling softly until she finds the one she seeks.It is Chen Yinlan this time, and the others sigh with envy. The minghun stands before Yinlan and speaks, the waves of her voice spreading like ripples in a pond."I bring tidings from your parents, who wish me to say: 'Beloved daughter, you died very young and did not experience the unity of marriage. You are alone in the dark and we weep to think of you longing for companionship. We have come to know that Yang Xingwu and his wife have recently lost a son as they might lose a strong young leaf to the blowing wind. They have asked for betrothal so your souls might meet; we have consented, and have chosen this auspicious day for the marriage rites and feast. Please come share this celebration with us so that we might rest, knowing your soul to be united in harmony with that of your husband.'"The minghun pauses, and by this I am puzzled. In life such decisions do not belong to the bride, so why does the minghun ask the bride's blessing here? But ask she does, and the answer is always yes.I do not hear Yinlan's answer, but I know she has assented because I see her spirit flare briefly into something more vital before disappearing altogether. I feel Yinlan's absence for a time, before the press of spirits closes the gap.      The minghun too goes away, fading back to her world, and the cave seems more restless for a time before it settles down as much as it ever does. Always the spirits move among each other, searching and waiting and searching some more.Some of the spirits whisper that the minghun comes less frequently now, although how they can tell I do not know. In the old days, they say, parents understood the need for minghun, but modern views discourage the practice. Only in the rural provinces do grieving parents still act on behalf of their lost children, even if they must do so surreptitiously. I do not quite know where or when I am from, a city or a village, back then or just now; all possibilities seem equally improbable, as if this place is all I have ever known.The minghun has not yet come again since taking . . . Yinlan? -- I can't quite remember her name -- from us. And because there has been no sign yet of the minghun's return, I am startled to hear a voice, clear and strong, behind me. I turn to find eyes shining from the pale outline of a face. "Who are you?" the face asks."I am ... I am Liu," I say. "More than that I do not know.""It will come back to you," she says. "When you've been here a while it will start to come back.""What is a while?" I ask. "Who are you?" But she is already gone. I think of looking for her, but instead settle down to ponder her words. I try hard to remember something of the world before, and it is tiring, but finally I am rewarded with the memory of a baby gripping my finger with surprising strength. My nephew, I realize, my brother's son, an infant already so full of life that I know he will not depart too quickly as I did. I feel the squeeze of his tiny fingers again, and I rejoice still further when I am able to envision the weave of his blanket and hear my mother's kind laughter at the rapt adoration on my face."Someday you--" she begins, but I am wrenched back here and I do not hear what she says. I am consumed with sorrow over the things I have lost, and even more for the things I never had and never will. I think of Ping, my friend in the village, whose beauty was incomparable. She had looked at me in a special way, I thought, or perhaps I imagined it because I wanted it to be so.This time I feel the stranger's spirit before she speaks, and I turn to her."You begin to remember," she says. "I am Yan Lianghui.""I am Qin Liu," I answer. "I am from the village Qinjalao in the Shanxi Province. I am . . . I was only fifteen when I died, of illness because there was no money for a doctor. But my family loved me and I loved them and I am not ready to be dead." Suddenly words are spilling from me as fast as my lips can form them. Lianghui listens patiently, occasionally prompting me with a question or commenting with a smile that becomes more substantial as our conversation goes on.Time passes as Lianghui and I get to know one another, although I still do not know whether it is hours or weeks or months that unfold. She tells me delightful stories yet holds something back, something I sense she wishes to say. I am fascinated by her, and in spite of my shyness I find myself telling her of my sorrow that I will not see my nephew grow up."There are babies here, Liu, did you not know?" she asks gently, and suddenly I do know, and wonder how I could have been unaware. They do not cry as babies do, but I can feel them around me, waiting, puzzled, longing to be claimed by a family without knowing what a family is. I want to cry their sorrow for them, because females so young will not have parents arranging minghun for them. Indeed, some of the baby girls were almost certainly discarded by their parents.When the minghun comes again, I am surprised, for I have been distracted by Lianghui and the thoughts she has inspired. For the first time I realize that this is a different broker, that they have not always been the same person. Like the other ones who have come, this minghun moves among us, seeking the young woman whose parents have sent her, then reciting the greetings and invitation she has been asked to convey.The lucky young woman, Aimei, is about to consent."Wait, please," I say, to Aimei or the minghun or both. The minghun is surprised, and makes a sign as though to protect herself. She is accustomed to approaching spirits, not to being approached by them."I respectfully address you," I say, bowing my head. "Aimei has been fortunate that her parents have found a husband for her. But there are babies here, little girls whose parents cannot or will not make such arrangements. Can not Aimei take a baby with her to be part of her family?"Lianghui speaks softly from beside me. "And perhaps a boy child as well?"I am ashamed, for until now I have not thought of the little lost boys, who do not seem to reside with us here.The minghun stares at us in astonishment, her lined face unbelieving. "The parents have charged me with uniting Aimei and her betrothed, who will be buried together so that they may share the afterlife. How am I to locate the remains of the little ones if their parents do not come to me?""Please," I say. "Is there something you can do?""Yes," Aimei whispers. "I should like a child to care for."The minghun vanishes and Aimei cries out. I feel wretched, thinking that I may be responsible for preventing Aimei from finding her peace."Courage, Aimei," says Lianghui. "The minghun is wise and she will--"The minghun reappears, looking more translucent than usual, perhaps from exhaustion. "I have done as you asked," she says to Aimei. "I have found a family who mourn a baby girl and approached them with this most unusual request. Your parents were frightened but your mother pleaded with your father for his consent. I must find the child." She moves off and I see small vague lights in her path. Minutes or hours later she returns to us, holding a small bundle that begins to take shape. She offers it to Aimei, who cradles it in her arms. I tentatively reach forward and place my finger in the baby's hand, and feel a ghost-tear run down my face as the baby squeezes my finger and vanishes with Aimei. My hand is surrounded by emptiness, until Lianghui squeezes it in understanding.From that time on, Lianghui and I are seldom apart.The next time the minghun comes, she pauses before me. I am about to ask about the children, but she bows her head and speaks my name, which I had not told her upon our last encounter."Qin Liu," she says. "I bring tidings from your parents, who wish me to say--""My parents," I whisper in wonder. "My parents ... How long have I been here?""Two days, Qin Liu. You have been here two days and your parents are anxious to lay you to rest next to your betrothed, a young man also from the Shanxi Province who was snatched from his family only two weeks ago. They wish to bury you beside him so that you may have companionship in your afterlife--""No," I answer softly. "I have found my companionship in the afterlife." Lianghui catches her breath beside me but does not speak, and I go on. "I have found Lianghui, honored minghun, and I wish to stay here with her. We will help the girls and the women, and the babies who need a family. And if ever a time comes when no more need our help, perhaps you can lay my bones to rest with those of Lianghui.""I will do my best," she says, and bows her head once again."Please," I say. "Please tell my family that I love them. Tell them--" I cannot go on, but I do not have to, for the minghun smiles at me and I know she will find the words that escape me.Later -- hours, days, months -- I ask Lianghui how it can be that only two days had passed before the minghun came for me."It is only time, Liu, in a place that does not trouble itself with such things. It is only we who concern ourselves so." She is silent for a moment, and then she says softly, "I have waited for you for almost three hundred years.""Did no one else come?" I ask."Once before, I thought one had come. But though she loved me, she left when the minghun came for her, and I cannot blame her for that." Lianghui looks at me in wonder. "But you stayed," she says."I stayed," I answer. I take her hand, and I feel it become more solid every moment.END“Minghun: Unlikely Patron Saints, No. 5” was originally published in Strange Horizons in September 2007 and is also available to read at QuarterReads.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 October 13th.[Music plays out]

For thousands of years, humans have experienced cycles of empire building and retreat, from the neolithic settlers of Levant and the Indus Valley to the ancient Cahokia and Maya civilizations. What can new discoveries teach us about how to plan our next thousand years as a global civilization? Authors Charles C. Mann and Annalee Newitz talk about how ancient civilizations shed light on current problems with urbanization, food security, and environmental change. Charles C. Mann is the author, most recently, of 1493, a New York Times best-seller, and 1491, winner of the National Academies of Science’s Keck award for best book of the year. His next project, The Wizard and the Prophet, is a book about the future that makes no predictions. An early version of the introductory chapter was a finalist for a National Magazine Award. Annalee Newitz writes science nonfiction and science fiction. She’s editor-in-chief of Gizmodo.com and founding editor of io9.com. She’s the author of Scatter, Adapt, and Remember: How Humans Will Survive a Mass Extinction, which was a finalist for a Los Angeles Times Book Award. Her work has appeared in publications from The New Yorker and Technology Review to 2600 and Lightspeed Magazine. Her next book is a novel about robots, pirates, and the future of property laws.

This weekend on Content Obscura, we interview Randy Gallegos! Randy is a professional working fine artist, illiustrator and painter, working in oils and digital media. He has produced a gorgeous and prolific body of work across fantasy, sci fi, and a variety of other genres for: Random House, Wizards of the Coast, Hasbro, Blizzard Entertainment, Topps, the Upper Deck Company, Asimov's Science Fiction, Lightspeed Magazine, Chartwell Books, Fantasy Flight Games, The Science Fiction Bookclub, and much more. He has also been featured in Game Informer, Kotaku, and elsewhere. Many will be familiar with his work for Wizards of the Coast, particularly as an illustrator of Magic the Gathering cards. Randy’s upcoming exhibition “Level Up” will be on display from Sept. 12 - Oct. 3 at Krab Jab Studio here in Seattle. Level Up is an exhibition of fine art renderings of classic console hardware. The exhibition will run from September 12th - October 3rd, but the opening reception is this Saturday, September 12th, 6 - 9 pm Artist Talk at 7:30 PM! Randy Gallegos will be in attendance! Come check it out!  

Sooner Than GoldBy Cory SkerryI tug on clean underwear in case I get arrested, paint my makeup perfectly because there's nothing sadder than a grown man in badly applied eyeliner, and climb out my apartment window, onto the fire escape.I can't be late to this assignment, and if I go through the lobby, there's a strong chance the night doorman will have a thing or two to say about the video footage of our card game last night. I forgot there was a camera pointed at the lobby desk.The asphalt below reeks of garbage and piss; about half of the latter is probably mine. Don't judge. If I'm drunk enough, there's not even any point in aiming for the toilet.My boots land softly as I hit the ground, but the ladder clangs as my weight slides off. I look back up at the enchantment, where it strings out from my leg to the trunk in my apartment.----more----[Music plays]Hello, Welcome to GlitterShip episode nine for June 4... ish... 2015. I'm your host, Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing this story with you.I don't know what the weather is like where you are, but in Seattle it's gone from kinda-warm-May to high summer death heat— which probably doesn't really count as that hot for pretty much anyone else but ugh. I mean, we're talking like 85 degress Fahrenheit. So I know that yes, that does mean I'm a wimp, but that's really hot for me. And I'm probably doomed as I move over to New York at the end of August. So hopefully I don't just end up melting into a horrible puddle.Anyway. Since our last episode a couple things have happened, at the beginning of the month, the Queers Destroy Science Fiction! special issue of Lightspeed Magazine is out. You can read the first two stories for free now, or buy the issue to read the whole thing right away. I think some of the content is going to remain ebook only but more of the stories will be made available for free as the month goes on.The 27th annual Lambda Literary Awards have also been announced. The winner for LGBT science fiction / fantasy / horror is Chaz Brenchley for his short fiction collection Bitter Waters. The other nominees included Daryl Gregory for Afterparty, Lee Thomas for Butcher's Road, A. M. Dellamonica for Child of a Hidden Sea, Max Gladstone for Full Fathom Five, Lea Daley for FutureDyke and Craig Laurance Gidney for Skin Deep Magic. Congrats to everyone for making it to the shortlist, or winning if you're Chaz. The full list of winners and nominees is available on lambdaliterary.org, and I'll include a link in the transcript so you can check out the other categories.Our story for this week is "Sooner than Gold" by Cory Skerry.Cory Skerry lives in a converted garage that belongs to a pair of valkyries. If he's not peddling (or meddling with) art supplies, he's writing, reading submissions, or off exploring with his sweet, goofy pit bulls. When his current meatshell begins to fall apart, he'd like science to put his brain into a giant killer octopus body, with which he'll be very responsible and not even slightly shipwrecky. He promises. For more stories, visit coryskerry.netSooner Than GoldBy Cory SkerryI tug on clean underwear in case I get arrested, paint my makeup perfectly because there's nothing sadder than a grown man in badly applied eyeliner, and climb out my apartment window, onto the fire escape.I can't be late to this assignment, and if I go through the lobby, there's a strong chance the night doorman will have a thing or two to say about the video footage of our card game last night. I forgot there was a camera pointed at the lobby desk.The asphalt below reeks of garbage and piss; about half of the latter is probably mine. Don't judge. If I'm drunk enough, there's not even any point in aiming for the toilet.My boots land softly as I hit the ground, but the ladder clangs as my weight slides off. I look back up at the enchantment, where it strings out from my leg to the trunk in my apartment.It's a violet chain so thin it looks like I could break it with my fingers, glossy and iridescent like niobium. It burns where it enters my skin, a pain so bright and cruel it took me a week to learn to sleep again.Sometimes I think about finding some woo-woo psychic to tell me what it is or try to remove it, but I'm afraid the person at the other end of the chain will find out.Desert heat radiates from the ground, warming the soles of my boots, and I worry about pit-stains and failing hair gel. I shouldn't have worn my jacket, but I cut a better figure with something to embellish my shoulders. And I need to look sharp. I can't use my charm at a drag queen convention if I look like a microwaved cat turd.I give in and hail a cab, where I endure five minutes of crackly radio commercials and a Celine Dion song. My reward is AC while I sip from my flask and neurotically check the book for new directives.The book is old, like grandpa-times-three old. The worn leather cover is flexible and shiny from years of use, but the gilt edges of the pages haven't rubbed away. Sometimes I flip through all the paragraphs of nonsense, written in languages I don't recognize, but I usually just open to the page with the ribbon bookmark, the one page that's in English.The book says the same thing it said when I woke up this afternoon:GlitzCon Ball. Saturday night, 8:00 p.m. Pluck the thorns of the black lily. Do not touch her with your bare flesh.This cryptic bullshit is sometimes worse, sometimes better, but it nearly always works out in the end. I tuck the book back in my pocket as the cab rolls up to the convention. The side mirror shows me still-flawless makeup before the cab pulls away.Inside the hotel, I follow signs to the ballroom entrance, where the bass from the party is rattling the doors. An employee holds up a warning hand. She has enough cakey makeup and sparkly rings to be a GlitzCon attendee, and she's old enough to be my mother.This isn't the only entrance for me, but I want to see if I look as good as I think I do, so I'll try it."Where's your con badge?" the Sparkly Cougar asks."I don't have one," I say."Then—"I step back, cock a hip, and hold out my hands in the universal gesture for "I'm unarmed." It works even when you're not talking to cops. "But that room is full of horny, middle-aged queens, and you know what they like even more than bitching about how painful their shoes are?"I use both thumbs to peel back the fitted black cloth of my coat, exposing my all-black rockstar outfit: lace shirt, pierced nipples, edges of a mystery tattoo creeping up above the low-slung waistline of my skinny jeans. I'm going for "slutty Japanese pop star" tonight."This."Sparkly Cougar reluctantly chuckles.I grin. "I know, right? Come on, honey, you know no one is going to complain."She rolls her eyes, but she laughs and opens the door for the best thief she'll ever meet.I stroll into pandemonium. The stench of perfume, sweat, fuzzy teeth, and wine is almost too heavy to breathe;  the requisite flock of disco balls spin stars across the crowd; and the electronic music booms and whirs beside the cacophony of hundreds of gaudy floral costumes. One queen is wearing a ball gown that looks like a giant upside-down rose; another has a bouffant wig with real miniature pansies planted in it. Daffodils, lupines, orchids... None of the elaborate, garish costumes is a black lily.I don't see any black anything—I stand out like a goth skidmark.I had this coat tailored just for me, a slim-waisted frock style with buttons made of real antique coins: pieces-of-eight from a treasure chest I never should have stolen and definitely never should have opened. Still, without the chest I wouldn't have had the cash to pay the seamstress, and now I have over thirty hidden pockets to stuff with jewelry. Even though I'm here for the thorns of the black lily, nothing says I can't nab some extra rock candy to pay bills like rent and booze.I wend my way through the garden of glitter, searching for others in male clothing. Dudes or not, their jewelry is more likely to be real.I pretend that I've tripped on a drag queen's train,  stumble into a fat fellow whose tie tack looks like it might be real diamonds, and walk off wishing I dared snatch the matching cuff links. But even though I did put on clean underwear, I don't want to risk getting caught.The author of the book is not pleased when I'm delayed by jail.I try not to think about that, instead searching for a black flower costume. There must be a thousand attendees in this cavernous geode of a ballroom, plus at least fifteen hotel staff, ten live parrots hanging in gilded cages by the garden-themed photo set in the back, and two service dogs for one old lady. After forty-five minutes of charming my way through the crowd, winking when someone slaps my ass and leaning over to kiss fingers while I tease off rings—that shit works, I'm telling you—I'm still the single smudge of goth couture in this florist shop LARP.It's been almost two years since I failed to steal what the book directed.I am not going to fail again.Even the AC can't stop me from sweating now, and I pat at my hairline with my handkerchief. My mascara is waterproof, but that only goes so far.The fucking book can't be specific, can it? No, it just gives me riddles. Maybe I'm looking for a small enamel lily pin on someone's lapel. Maybe the book means black as in African-American, wearing a lily costume of any possible goddamned color.Around the room again, and again. Checking lapels, checking skin colors against costumes, panicking every time I see people trickle out the doors. I head for the nearest door—it's actually the one I came in—and place my hand on the knob. Options blur through my mind: the elevator, the emergency stairs, a utility closet. I choose the last, and when I open the door, that's where it leads.I shut the door quickly behind me, because I don't want anyone following. Now if they try to open the same door, it will lead into the hall, where it actually goes. Relieved, I take a deep breath of the closet's comparatively fresh air. Just a faint odor of pine, bleach, and the musty suggestion of a mop put away while wet.Two doors' distance is all I get. Don't ask me how it works, or why I can do it, but if I lay my hand on a knob or a handle, I can choose if the door opens into the following room, or any of the rooms that annex that same room. Sometimes it's a dead end, like this closet, because there's no other door to open. I've chosen the wrong door and gotten arrested before—it's a bit like trying to solve a maze with a pen instead of a pencil. You just screw up sometimes.Like sometime, you might go into a room no other human could have found. Maybe you take a chest that wasn't meant for a human to have. You smugly carry it back to your apartment, but the moment you open the lid, a chain snakes into your leg. The pain is phenomenal. You dig through the chest, looking for something to cut yourself free, but there's nothing but gold coins and one crappy old book in a language you can't read.The intangible chain stretches all the way to the hardware store, where they think you're a psycho case when you start hacking at the linoleum floor by your feet with garden shears, and then an axe, and then a sledgehammer. The cops mace your crazy ass, but you barely even feel it because your leg is getting worse. You say you were angry and drunk, and you agree to pay the damages, and you go home in defeat.You can't even tell the truth to friends or your now-ex-boyfriend, because they can't see the enchantment.There is no sleep. Not for days. You consider amputation, start looking up methods on the Internet. Turns out there are fetishists for everything, and their utter batshitness might be your gain. But before you pack your leg in ice to induce a frostbite so severe the doctors will be forced to surgically remove your curse, you wonder about the book.You open it again, hoping there's something in there, something to explain, even if it's just a picture. It's gibberish until one page, the page that says:Nautical exhibit at museum at midnight. Brass spyglass from a 1728 wreck. Place it in chest.You know which museum has the nautical exhibit. What do you have to lose? It doesn't hurt any more to walk than it does to stay in place. And you miss stealing, since you've been hiding in your apartment biting a pillow and swallowing a plethora of Vicodin tablets that do absolutely nothing.The moment you place the spyglass in the chest, it slides through the wooden bottom, like it's sinking through water.The pain in your leg becomes bearable. It doesn't disappear—it never fucking disappears, never—but you can pass out now. You sleep, and you don't wake up from a dream about being savaged by a shark or stepping in a bear trap or being allergic to only one of your socks.So you steal what the book tells you, and you put it in the chest. Gold coins ooze up from the other side, breaching like whales, until there's a stack to replace your offering.The burning subsides for a time, but the book always makes more demands.Now that I have the privacy of the closet, I pull the book out and look again. It says what it said before, plus one more word.NOW.I jam it back into my pocket, take a deep breath, and step back into the bouquet of B.O. and carcinogenic perfumes. I arrange a smile on my face with all the care that a florist takes with a wreath for a state funeral.Maybe I'm not looking for a person. Maybe the "her" was a statue, or a painting. I close my eyes almost all the way, so I just see a blur of light and color through my lashes, and scan the room. When a dark patch appears, it's just one of the service dogs I spotted earlier, a saggy-bellied lab standing guard by her owner's feet. Before I can dismiss her entirely, however, I spot a glint of silver on her service coat.Hundred bucks says I know that dog's name.They're leaving right now. The door shuts behind them.I duck around huge hats and ponyfalls, poofy skirts and trailing scarves. When I exit the ballroom, they're nearly to the elevator.No, no, no. I break my practiced saunter and jog down the hall toward the woman and her dogs. I hate drawing attention, but I don't have a choice.I slow as I approach, creeping up behind Lily's wagging tail. The pin comes off of her embroidered "Service Animal" coat easily, though the sharp edges puncture the pads of my fingers.Lily's tail brushes across my cheek as I get to my feet.She spins and snarls. Her elderly owner hauls at the leash, her face calm as her four-legged companion tries to get close enough to chew my nuts. I don't have to pretend to be terrified.I clench the pin in my hand, trying to pretend it's not cold as a polar bear's butthole. It's not the first object I've been told to steal that has strange properties, but it's the first that numbs my fingers until I can't even tell if they're still gripping it."Holy shit, your dog is psycho!" I yell, backing away."You probably deserve it," the woman snaps. Her other dog growls low in its throat, but it doesn't struggle to reach me the way Lily does.I flee, my heart beating faster than the electronic music in the next room.Good. Now I'll go home and throw this pin in the chest and waste Glenlivet by drinking it fast until I pass out. I open the book—still the same message—and tuck the bloody pin under the cover. When I get frisked, they never seem to be able to find the book, so it'll be safest there.I no sooner finish tucking it into my breast pocket than someone with a beautiful Spanish accent says, "You're not supposed to pet service dogs."I glance over my shoulder, just to be sure it isn't security.It's a queen, maybe. I can't tell; she's lanky, with a Roman nose and overpainted lips. She could be female with strong features, or male with delicate ones. She has blood-red extensions, high-quality toyokalon bound into a messy ponytail to show off her impossibly thin hoop earrings and her black leather choker.She's the only other person wearing black, a simple velvet dress powdered with glitter. I didn't see her in the ball room, when I was looking for black costumes. I realize I'm staring, and shrug. "Service dogs don't bite. Pretty sure that lady bought the coat on E-bay so she could smuggle her fleabag into tea parties," I say. "It's like a fad with old bitches. Give it a few centuries; we'll be doing it, too."She narrows her eyes but doesn't speak, as if she can't decide if she's offended or not."Nice being lectured by you," I say, and head for the stairwell.I hate elevators, because I can't open the doors with my hands, so if I'm trapped in an elevator, there's nothing I can do. Luckily, I'm my own elevator. I haul back the stairwell's heavy fire door and it opens straight to the parking garage.My footsteps echo alone for long seconds before I hear the elevator door open behind me. Heels click on the pavement, and I glance back to find the goody-two-shoes with red plastic hair. "You're leaving already? Not enjoying the convention, then?" she asks. She trots closer, inviting herself to walk along with me."Drag isn't my scene. I'm way too pretty to pretend to be a woman," I reply. The chain is hurting more. I'm taking too long, and the book's author is angry. I look for doors to get outside faster, but most of them are on cars, which won't do the trick.For a moment, I imagine going back into the convention with her and having a drink. She has style, and it's been a long time since I hung out with anyone I wasn't stealing from. But the book doesn't leave room for socializing in the schedule."What's your name?" she asks, toying with the silver disk hanging from her choker."Could you piss off? I'm not interested in anything with tits, even if they're fake.""My name's Lily," she says.I'm too slow. I turn to look at her, my mouth opening to ask a stupid question, when she reaches down on the ground and grabs the violet chain.She pulls, hard, and I thump onto my back.Even though I think I'm still awake, everything is black and sparkly. It's like her dress, like the sky, and then I keep blinking until my vision focuses again on the ceiling, with its emergency sprinkler system nozzles and sleeping moths. My head hurts and my leg hurts and I think I forgot how to breathe.I don't understand how she can touch the chain when I can't, but I also don't understand how she was a dog. The collar is the same, though. I remember now.The pavement scrapes by beneath me as she hauls me by the chain, toward the elevator. Some people getting into their cars glance over, then studiously pretend not to notice so they don't have to get involved. To people who can't see the chain, this looks like a psychotic tantrum, like I'm scooting myself toward Lily."Stop," I plead. It's barely audible, just a croak."I'll stop when you give me back my pin, you insufferable bag of dicks. If you were scared of me biting you, just wait until you see what I can do with this tether.""I can't—" I start, but I lose my breath again when she whips the chain around a few times, like a jump rope. I curl forward, retching. She lets go, and I lie gasping like a landed fish as her fingers poke through my pockets. She flings jewelry on the ground as she finds it, and finally, gives up."What did you do with it?" she asks."I gave it to someone," I say. The pin is cold against my heart, reaching through the book and the coat.I know my mascara is smeared now, waterproof or not. I have to remind myself that as bad as this is, it will be worse if I don't put the desired item in the chest. I just need to get to a door."I need the silver thorns to do my job. That 'old bitch' is down one body guard until I can change back into a dog. I've killed for her before, and I'll do it again.""Please, it's too late.""You're a wretched liar." She swings the chain around, lifting me off the ground, and slams me into the back of a lime green Escalade. The crunch is either a rear window or all of my bones.This time the flashing lights are colors. Blue, red. There's glass in my hair and everything tastes like blood.There are cameras, I remember, in the parking garage.I force my eyes open, past the prodding cops, and see them escorting Lily away. She glares over her shoulder, yells about theft.I'm not sure if I'm coughing or laughing. They frisk me, looking for her pin, but it's in the book where they can't find it. They do find the other jewelry I stole—well, what Lily didn't already throw on the ground—and they handcuff me.Fine. If I have to pick from: getting murdered, not putting the pin in the chest, or getting arrested, this is my best option.They don't care enough about me to call an ambulance, and after a few minutes, I have to admit I probably don't need one. The injuries they can measure are just a mild concussion, a split lip, and some bruising.The book is still in my jacket, and they make me wear ghastly jail jammies, so I spend all night wondering what the page says now.The first time I failed the author, the book gave me a countdown for fixing my mistake, and when I gave up, because I didn't understand how bad it would get, the book told me to go into my kitchen, pull out everything with a skull-and-crossbones sticker on it, and pour myself a cocktail.I had no intentions of doing it, but that's when I found out the chain reached deeper inside than just my leg, than even my flesh and bone.My hands mixed every cleaning product I had into the glass I usually use for scotch. My mouth opened, and I poured it down my own throat. The slop burned as it passed through me, for days, from my lips to my asshole. It crept through my veins and flavored my breath, blurred and stung my vision.When I couldn't take any more and tried to slit my wrists, I did bleed, but it smelled like Pine Sol and trickled out like rust-colored syrup. It didn't change my condition. When I tried to leave my apartment, or use the phone, my hands refused.I was so alone that Death refused to visit, and even my own body was on someone else's side.I keep my lawyer's business card laminated in my wallet, and I call him with my usual lies. He gets me out late on Monday morning, and I'm in too much of a hurry to sit through his warnings and advice. In the cab on the way home, I open the book.Place thorns in chest. Fifty-four minutes until punishment.I pull out the pen I stole from the front desk at the police station. I don't know if this will work, but I'm desperate. Bracing the book against my knee, I write:black lily touched my skin, tried to kill me for the thorns. got away but can't steal for you if dead. what now?My words disappear, but I don't know if that means they've been read. I stare at the page until the cab pulls up outside my apartment building. I am too sore to go up the fire escape.The doorman I cheated holds up a hand, like I'm traffic he's directing, and says, "Hey, you owe me forty bucks, or—""I'll get it for you tonight, when your mom pays me," I say, eyes still on the blank page. I open the stairwell door and step straight into the fifth floor hallway, where he can't follow fast enough to kick my ass.As I walk toward my apartment, text appears on the page, showing up in strokes as someone writes each letter.Place thorns in chest. Thirty-three minutes until punishment. Stab her with iron knife.I stole an iron knife with a silk-wrapped handle months ago and put it in the chest. My teeth creak against each other. I don't know where to get another. Who would even want a knife that rusts?I shut the book and fumble with my keys. I don't know if I could even use the knife—I can't imagine stabbing Lily, stabbing anyone. I'm a thief, not a murderer.I can't wait to put the pin in the chest so I don't have to worry about it anymore. My leg feels like one solid cramp. I'm so distracted that I don't smell the perfume until I close the door behind me.I look up in time to see Lily grab the violet chain and flip me onto my back again. At least it's carpet, I think."You left your filthy face grease on my tail, so I had your scent," she says. She's dressed much as she was Saturday night, in a short black dress and pumps.I'm not playing this game again. "I'll give it to you," I say. I thrust out my palms, my favorite no-weapons signal.She crosses her arms."Let me get it." My sore muscles tear like wet paper as I struggle to my feet."You sure made a shitty deal," she sneers.I pause on my way to the chest. It looks like a normal steamer trunk, against the wall under an expensive-ass painting that I also stole, next to an even expensiver-ass plasma screen, which I actually bought because for once it was easier than stealing."Deal?""This isn't a deal?" she asks, quirking an eyebrow. She dangles the chain meaningfully."No. I just... I stole that chest," I say, pointing. I explain about the chain and the book.I open the chest, because I want to show her the gold—prove I'm not lying—and see the same iron knife I stole months ago, with the chartreuse silk tied around the handle. The author must be loaning it to me.Lily flops down on my couch, setting her shoes up on my glass coffee table."You foolish mortal. Do you know what you could have gotten, if you'd asked instead of stolen?""What?""A contract with a clause stipulating when your service ends. We make fair deals, you know. We always have.""What are you?" I whisper. I've watched TV; I've seen movies; sometimes if no one is looking I even read comics. I don't want to say any of the silly words out loud, like demon or faery.She snorts and shakes her head."Me? I'm someone who can actually kill you. I'll just wait for you to start chugging Drano-on-the-rocks again, and then offer a quick death in exchange for my pin...unless you want to take me back to the hotel and show me where you hid it. I smelled you in that utility closet—is that it?"Lily pours herself a couple fingers of scotch and sips it, watching me. I reach into the chest and slide the knife into my sleeve. It's cold under my fingers; I imagine sinking it into the soft hollow at the base of her long throat.I'm suddenly so nauseated I almost fill the chest with half-digested jail food."How do I get this chain off?" I whisper. "That's all I want.""Good luck, bitch. Pretty sure you have to kill the bastard writing in the book."I pull out the book, flip it open again, stare at the words.Four minutes until punishment. Place thorns in chest. Stab her with an iron knife.My only idea is desperate, and stupid, but what do I have to lose?I hold the book over the trunk and shake it. The pin falls out. The bottom of the trunk swallows every silver thorn before Lily has even gotten to her feet.Her face crumples with rage, and even if she can't turn into a dog now, her bared teeth could have fooled me."Help me kill him and I'll get your pin back," I say quickly, half of a second before she yanks the chain toward her. If I can't make my plan clear she might kill me, so I force myself to explain even though every word is a scream."I can... control doors," I gasp. "I can get there."She scowls. "That could take forever.""It won't."I'm more scared of this plan than I am of Lily. The last place I want to go is the place where the pain comes from.After an interminable moment, Lily drops the chain.I'm too shaky to stand again. I kneel at the coffee table and reach for my only glass, which has her lipstick prints on the rim and a finger of scotch left in the bottom.She slides it out of reach. "Start talking.""Okay." I gather my thoughts, trying to ignore the glass. "I can get there and steal the pin back. I just need you to protect me the way you protect the old lady."She shakes her head. "The book's author has a dog, I'm sure, and she'll still have her pin, because some slutty mortal crybaby didn't snatch it.""I am not slutty!""Could've fooled me, Captain Nippleparty," Lily says, pointing at my torn shirt. She stretches, rolls her head to pop her neck, and gets to her feet. "Okay. If you can get the pin back fast enough for me to use it, I'll keep the dog from eating your face. But you're on your own with the book's author."She grabs my hand, and I feel a thrill at the touch of her strong fingers, until she casually kicks the violet chain on her way toward the front door.I pull her back.With my other hand, I close the chest's lid and grip the cold brass handle. I feel through the possibilities: the tiny wooden room it usually opens to, or the bigger room beyond."Maybe you're not as stupid as you smell," she says.I open the lid/door, step in, and we both fall through, linked by our hands.We land on a desk carved of glittering white stone.I don't have time to look around: in a chair in front of the desk, so close I can smell his graveyard breath, there's an old man with butter-yellow eyes and Count Dracula hair. His waxy, colorless skin reminds me of a maggot.For just a moment, he looks like he got fisted with an ice cube—and then his eyes drop to see the violet chain coiled on the desk's smooth surface. He smiles and lays one palm over it.Pain. I'm on my belly instantly, swimming across the desk. My hands claw at the stone, at Lily, at the still-wet pages of the book he'd been writing in, as if somewhere I might find the switch to turn it off. My boots encounter momentary resistance, followed by the music of hundreds of coins clinking, rolling, and spinning on a marble floor.I crane my neck at Lily, just in time to see him strike her face with the side of his fist. The quill with which he'd been writing stabs into her cheek, dribbling black ink down her jaw.In one smooth motion, she slides off the desk and lands in a defensive crouch.As she backs away, the clicking of her heels multiplies. It's a dog trotting up behind her. Woolly and beige, like an old couch, it seems harmless until it bares its teeth. The rumble in its throat sounds like a power tool.This was stupid, so stupid. I should go back through the chest. My left elbow bumps against it, so I know it's still here on the desktop. Just shut the lid, then open it once, tumble through into my apartment. No doubt I'd be punished, but at least I'd be far away, where I belonged.The plume hanging out of Lily's cheek quivers as she stands between the book's author and his canine mercenary. Then the dog jumps on her, its paws on her chest, tearing into her arm when she swings at its face.It's hard to focus, but I force my right arm flat on the desk so I can reach into my sleeve.The book's author watches Lily go down to her knees, his face expressionless. I draw the iron knife, and before I can change my mind, before I can get sick again, I slam the blade into the side of his neck.The blood that dribbles out is iridescent like a parking lot puddle. He paws at the knife with both hands, but a moment later he goes limp and molds to the contours of his chair like wet laundry.The pain fades, but it doesn't go away. I don't have time to worry about that, or the fact that I just went from thief to murderer.It's my fault Lily's here.I dig through everything I knocked off of the desk, coins and the inkwell and a bunch of jewelry, but I don't see Lily's pin. I have to get it to her—a dog against a dog is a better chance than she has now.I can't find it. The dog snarls louder behind me and Lily curses. I glance back to see her holding it at arm's length by its collar, its teeth gnashing the flesh of her arm as if it means to chew it off.No time to keep digging. I scan the room. It seems carved from a single block of opalescent white stone, even the desk. Sourceless frost-tinted light shows me shelves and shelves of familiar items. I spot a broken pocketwatch that worked back when I stole it, a hat pin I remember sneaking off of a mannequin in a porn store window, and finally, the brass spyglass I stole from the nautical exhibit.That's the one I grab.Lily's blood is slick under my shoes as I dash over. I swing the spyglass at the dog. I don't want to hit it, but its mouth is foaming with Lily's blood, blood she never should have had to spill. When the brass strikes the top of the dog's skull, it yelps, falls to the side, and is too dizzy to get up. I know how it feels. If I tried to pull the knife out of a dead man I would have passed right the eff out—I'm barely hanging on as it is. I swallow the gush of about-to-puke saliva and breathe through my nose.Lily stands, her lacerated arm dripping more blood. "Where is my pin?" she asks."I don't know. Why am I still chained?""I don't know."We stare at each other, she without her pin, me still attached to the chest by the violet chain."Let's load the chest with all the coins and jewelry," I say. "When we get back, we'll sort through it all."I take off my coat and rip out the lining to bandage Lily's  arm. When it's wrapped tight, she helps me pile handfuls of treasure onto my coat, all of it stained with ink and blood. We lift it together and dump the contents into the chest, over and over until there's not a coin left. "I can take you back through," I say, "so you can go to a hospital.""You'd trust me in your apartment with all that cash?" she asks. She starts to grin, winces, and yanks the quill from her cheek. "How come you're not going back that way?""I have to own both chests until I get the chain off," I say. "I can't bring it through itself—I don't know what'll happen—so I have to go back the long way."Maybe I don't hide my dread well enough. Her eyes are sharp and dark as she looks at the chest, already empty, and then back at me."No, thanks," she says. "I think I want to see what's through door number two." I fight the urge to hug her—I'm covered in enough blood as it is.I grab one end of the chest, and she grabs the other, and we walk toward the door. I caress the cool handle, considering the possibilities. None of them will take us home, but you don't get through a maze without hitting a few dead-ends.I choose a hallway, and then another door, and another.END"Sooner than Gold" was originally published in Glitter and Mayhem, edited by John Klima, Lynne M. Thomas and Michael Damian Thomas, published by Apex Publications.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 June 11th.[Music plays out]This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

THE TRUE ALCHEMISTby Sonya Taaffefor Mat JoinerWhatever they left in the garden, Seth, I don’t think it wants to stay there.The man and the woman who came about the gas meter yesterday, or maybe it was the water bill? I had a deadline, I barely noticed them except for the noises they made, the crunch of shoes on stiff grass, scrapes and clangs as if they were wrestling the dustbins back against the garage door, a sudden snap of bracken that startled me until I remembered the rose-canes you’d pulled down in great, dry-cracking armfuls, their petals the soft and blotted brown of foxed paper, dead as the end of Sleeping Beauty——I forgot to call the city to take them away, brambling like baling wire beside the shed...A full transcript appears under the cut:----more----[Music plays]Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode two for April 9th, 2015. I’m your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing these stories with you.My intro is going to be much shorter than it ought to be this week. Um, it turns out I was sick all of last week and that it was pneumonia. Of all things. I know. Seriously, what are the chances.Although, speaking of chances, I want to thank everyone who took the chance and pledged money toward the GlitterShip Kickstarter campaign. We successfully funded on April 8th and our final tally was $5,015!This means that not only is GlitterShip funded through the first year, but I’ll also be able to bring on other readers for many of the stories going forward, and there will be four episodes a month instead of two, and one story a month will never have been published anywhere ever before!I’m still working on the logistics regarding the submissions period for original fiction, but as soon as I know, I will make an announcement and update the submissions guidelines.This week, I have three very short stories for you by three awesome authors.I’m starting with “The True Alchemist” by Sonya Taaffe.Sonya Taaffe's short fiction and poetry can be found in the collections Ghost Signs (Aqueduct Press), A Mayse-Bikhl (Papaveria Press), Postcards from the Province of Hyphens (Prime Books), and Singing Innocence and Experience (Prime Books), and in anthologies including Aliens: Recent Encounters, Beyond Binary: Genderqueer and Sexually Fluid Speculative Fiction, The Moment of Change: An Anthology of Feminist Speculative Poetry, People of the Book: A Decade of Jewish Science Fiction & Fantasy, The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, The Alchemy of Stars: Rhysling Award Winners Showcase, and The Best of Not One of Us. She is currently senior poetry editor at Strange Horizons; she holds master’s degrees in Classics from Brandeis and Yale and once named a Kuiper belt object. She lives in Somerville with her husband and two cats. She maintains a livejournal at Myth Happens.THE TRUE ALCHEMISTby Sonya Taaffefor Mat JoinerWhatever they left in the garden, Seth, I don’t think it wants to stay there.The man and the woman who came about the gas meter yesterday, or maybe it was the water bill? I had a deadline, I barely noticed them except for the noises they made, the crunch of shoes on stiff grass, scrapes and clangs as if they were wrestling the dustbins back against the garage door, a sudden snap of bracken that startled me until I remembered the rose-canes you’d pulled down in great, dry-cracking armfuls, their petals the soft and blotted brown of foxed paper, dead as the end of Sleeping Beauty—I forgot to call the city to take them away, brambling like baling wire beside the shed. Two of the city’s representatives banging around in our back garden and I didn't think to ask them, crouched over my computer with a legion of tea mugs cluttering up among the books and less than sixteen hours before Nora was going to run out of excuses to make to the publisher on my sorry, late-arsed behalf, I didn't even mark the color of their eyes or the length of their hair. They were white as winter sunshine, dressed in coveralls as if for dirtier work than reading a meter. You won’t have any more trouble, sir, the woman said on her way out, or maybe it was the man; I was nearly throwing them out at that point, giving that rattled manic grin that is supposed to pass for comradely homeownership, presumably to soften the slam of door in face—I knew I should have pretended to be sick, or in the shower, or just not at home. I’m a bad liar when I don’t have time to think. I’m too good at it when I do. Seth, the garden’s fucked. Call me tonight or come home. Or both.Seth, I know the conference isn't over till Sunday, but could you just tell them it’s an emergency—the cat’s on fire, the kitchen blew up, your husband is having a baby? I got the article sent off on time and I haven’t slept since. Or I can’t tell if I’m sleeping, rolling over and over through dreams of the same cold, entangling sheets, vacant and huge around one person in this bed that’s a jigsaw puzzle for two, the same little sounds rustling up the back stairs, fanning underneath the windowframe with the icy slip of the air. It sounds like footsteps moving unhurriedly on frost-brittle grass, the squeal and judder of metal dragged over asphalt chips; it sounds like a trampling of dead branches, each as sharp and sick as a bone-break, the knuckle-pop crackling of twigs wrung like a neck. So fast. I think murder instead of horticulture, intruders instead of rats or the cats that hunt them. The swimming cathedral light before dawn looks like the underside of water to a long-drowned man. I made a point of shaving, combing my hair, putting on a different sweater. I haven’t been out all day. I've taken all my pills, including the ones I try to ration; Nora knows I'm feeling skittish—it’s not like she can pretend not to when I turn in a page and a half of self-recrimination with the other twenty-five about Philoktetes and the poisons and cures of language. I'll call Dr. Linsey if it gets much weirder. I won’t call anyone. I’m crap at self-care. I’ll just sit here drinking our ever-diminishing hoard of tea and typing run-on sentences, knowing it’s not like New York is three days away by transatlantic steamer anymore and it doesn't matter. Our neighbors are right there on the other side of the kitchen window—washing dishes, in fact, side by side with soapy plates and dishrag in some urban equivalent of a tranquil, pastoral scene—and it doesn't matter. I might as well be on the far side of the moon. If the moon were haunted by the smell of oil and leaf-mold, slick as a slug’s track or petrol-spill. Seth, this is bad. I hate that fucking mobile, I wouldn't check my e-mail on it to win a bet, but I've started carrying it like a locket, as if it really contained something of you. I’d check the gas meter if I could go outside. Or the water. I went outside. I want to stress that very carefully. I unlocked the back door and I went down and I stood in the garden, freezing, hugging myself over the sweater I hadn't thought to supplement with a jacket or even a scarf, breathing out sharp quick clouds that hurt as much to draw breath for as it did to stand there with the no-colored sun in my eyes, the sky pressing down on my hair and my shoulders and the backs of my hands, seeing me. The neighbors with their curtainless windows, locked in newlywed oblivion: two mirrors gazing into each other endlessly. Passing cars, passers-by, graffiti hanging over the wall. The air.Our garden, Seth. It doesn't move after all. It might be a machine, if machines were pinned and carved from rose-thorns and rain-torn petals and withered cuttings, blown dandelions and willowherb wreathed in seed-silk like a questioning cigarette; it might have grown there, if rails of brick-spiked iron and clagged tin could throw out runners, coil delicately to follow the sun. There was a ragged round of copper crept in green from the edges, turning like a suncatcher as the verdigris crawled. There was a spiderweb beaded from one prong of fused glass to a tarnished silver spike of lamb’s ear, glittering cleanly in the morning chill. It saw me. That was when I went upstairs, and I left a message at your hotel, and I did not take any more of my pills than I was supposed to, and I went to bed. It was cold and bright and the sounds came up through the walls, from nothing moving around where the neighbors, or me, or anything at all could see. After a while it started to sound familiar. After that I really couldn't sleep. I dreamed anyway. There was a door. How is this supposed to end, Seth? You’d drop everything if I checked myself in, but I don’t want to be that hungry ghost when I don’t need to, Eurydike-reeling myself in and out of the dark to see if you’ll brave it one more time for me; I don’t want you to find me with an empty bottle or emptier wrists, curled in the rime-blackened ruins of our garden like a child on a cold hill’s side. You've got epidemics to talk about and I've got my contagion here at home, allowed passage like every good haunting—any more trouble, but then maybe I don’t. It smells very strongly like burning now, acrid as antifreeze, sweet as spiced woods, and I think of an engine turning over, cogs and pistons and sap and steam. I think of pavement cracking like a caddis-husk, ice-starred earth rumbling like a drum. If it doesn't want to stay here, Seth, I won’t stop it: I’ll hold the gate for it just as I let it in, or I’ll sit here and drink the last of the black ginger tea, typing sentences that don’t stop as usual; we’ll get more when you’re home. The cat’s not on fire. The garden’s fucked, but aren't we all? Maybe it will tell me when it goes, knowing we feel the same way about an audience. I’m truthful when I need to be, too.ENDOur next story is “Ulder” by Vajra Chandrasekera.Vajra lives in Colombo, Sri Lanka. His stories have appeared in Clarkesworld, Black Static, and Shimmer, among others. You can find more work by him at vajra.me.ULDERby Vajra Chandrasekera“Ulder,” said the man in the hat, leaning in, lips barely moving. His eyes darted, as if anyone else on the train would hear him through their prophylactic earplugs. We were the only two with ears open."What?" I said, too loud. The man in the hat leaned away, mouth tight, beard bristling. He didn't look at me again.At the station, guardsmen took the man in the hat away. I watched them go out of the corner of my eye; they'd knocked his hat off when they took him down, and his hair was tousled from the scuffle. I couldn't see the hat anywhere, but there were so many people on the platform. I imagined it, briefly, crushed and stepped on somewhere in the press.I mentioned the word to Kirill in bed that night, and he stiffened, asked me where I'd heard it."He didn't tell you what it meant?" Kirill asked when I'd told him the story."What does it mean? Do you know?"Kirill hesitated so long that I prodded him to see if he'd fallen asleep. "You know I hate it when you keep secrets," I said."Don't be melodramatic," Kirill said.And then he told me what the word meant.It was several days before I thought to ask him how he had known the word. I spent those days in a haze, raw and newborn. The wind seemed colder. I started letting my beard grow. The long bones in my shins felt weak, as if from fever. And the word, it reverberated in me, growing echoes like fungi in the dark.Ulder, I said to myself at my desk, working and writing. But only inside, so that the other people in my office wouldn't hear me. I needn't have worried; they all wore prophylactics anyway.Ulder, I said to myself when I saw uniforms on the street, guardsmen arresting someone.("Disappearing," Kirill had once said, early in our acquaintance. "Not arresting, disappearing them." And I only thought, this man is free and beautiful. But if I had known the word then I would not have thought ulder, because Kirill was never that.)Ulder, I whispered when they broadcast the prayer-anthems, tinny from loudspeakers, in the evening as I walked to the railway station. I used to mumble along to the prayers out of habit, never seeing what was in front of me.Ulder, ulder, ulder.I said it out loud the next time Kirill and I slept together. It had been almost a week, because we couldn't afford to be seen together too often. Kirill flinched as soon as I said it. He rolled out of bed, lighting one of his contraband cigarettes."Now who's being melodramatic?" I said.The cigarettes were very Kirill. That was both the extent and the nature of his rebellion; slick, sly, sweet-smelling, carcinogenic."I was afraid you'd react to it this way," Kirill said. "Some are immune to memetically transmitted disease. But you--""MTDs don't exist," I said. "I've told you, it's just state propaganda against disapproved ideologies. Ulder--""Don't say it to me," Kirill said, laughing his bitter tar laugh and coughing. "What do you know about it? I was the one who told--"I don't want to talk about the fight. That's not the way I want to remember him. But we shouted a lot, and I think someone must have heard.A few more days went by, and I wanted to make it up to him. So I went to see him at the teahouse where we usually met after work. But even as I got there, I knew from the commotion that something was wrong. I didn't recognize Kirill's walk at first, pressed between the guardsmen as they marched him out of the building and into the waiting van. I only realized it was him when he laughed, bitter like tar.Not knowing what else to do, I took the train home. It was crowded, as always, and I hung from the strap like a drowning man. And when the young woman, the only other person in the carriage without earplugs in, caught my eye, I didn't have a choice.I knew what would happen, that it wouldn't go unremarked, that you'd be waiting for me on the platform with your batons.But in her eyes I saw a moment of openness, that fragile and fractured thing I had always seen in the mirror and never recognized until I heard the word, and though I knew she wouldn't understand and I couldn't explain, I leaned in and said “Ulder”, the word naked and bright like fever in my mouth.ENDOur next story is "The Sewell Home for the Temporally Displaced" by Sarah Pinsker.Sarah Pinsker is the author of the novelette, "In Joy, Knowing the Abyss Behind," Sturgeon Award winner 2014 and Nebula finalist 2013. Her fiction has been published in magazines including Asimov's, Strange Horizons, Fantasy & Science Fiction, Lightspeed, Daily Science Fiction, The Journal of Unlikely Cartography, Fireside, Stupefying Stories, and PULP Literature, and in anthologies including Long Hidden, Fierce Family, and The Future Embodied.She is also a singer/songwriter with three albums on various independent labels (the third with her rock band, the Stalking Horses) and a fourth forthcoming. She lives in Baltimore, Maryland and can be found online at sarahpinsker.com and twitter.com/sarahpinsker.THE SEWELL HOME FOR THE TEMPORALLY DISPLACEDby Sarah PinskerJudy says, "It's snowing."I look out the window. The sky is the same dirty grey as the snow left from last week's storm. I stand up to look closer, to find a backdrop against which I might see what she sees. The radiator is warm against my knees."You don't mean now." It's not really a question, but she shakes her head. She looks through me, through another window, at other weather. She smiles. Whenever she is, it must be beautiful."Describe it for me," I say."Big, fluffy snow. The kind that doesn't melt when it lands on your gloves. Big enough to see the shapes of individual flakes.""Do you know when you are?"She strains to catch a different view. "1890s, maybe? The building across the street hasn't been built yet. I wish I could see down to the street, Marguerite."Judy isn't supposed to leave her bed, but I help her into her yellow slippers, help her to her feet. I try to make myself strong enough for her to lean on. We shuffle to the window. She looks down."There's a Brougham* waiting at the front door. The horse is black, and he must have been driven hard, because the snow that's collecting elsewhere is just melting when it hits him. There's steam coming off him."I don't say anything. I can't see it, but I can picture it."Somebody came out of the building. He's helping a woman out of the carriage," she says. "Her clothes don't match the era or the season. She's wearing jeans and a T-shirt.""A Distillers T-shirt," I say."Yes! Can you see her too?""No," I say. "That was me, the first time I came here. I didn't stay long, that first time."I hear the creak of the door. It's Zia, my least favorite of the nurses. She treats us like children. "Judy, what are we doing up? We could get hurt if we have an episode."She turns to me. "And you, Marguerite. We should know better to encourage her.""Your pronouns are very confusing," I tell her.She ignores me. "Well, let's get down to lunch, since we're both up and about."Zia puts Judy in a wheelchair. I follow them down to the dining room, slow and steady. She pushes Judy up to the first available space, at a table with only one vacancy. I'm forced to sit across the room. I don't like being so far away from her. I would make a fuss, but I try to tell myself we can stand to be apart for one meal. I keep an eye on her anyway.Judy isn't fully back yet. She doesn't touch her food. Mr. Kahn and Michael Lim and Grace de Villiers are all talking across her. Mr. Kahn is floating his spoon, demonstrating the finer points of the physics of his first time machine, as he always does."Meatloaf again," mutters Emily Arnold, to my left. "I can't wait until vat protein is invented.""It tastes good enough, Emily. The food here is really pretty decent for an industrial kitchen in this time period." We've all had worse.We eat our meatloaf. Somebody at the far end of the room has a major episode and we're all asked to leave before we get our jello. I can't quite see who it is, but she's brandishing her butter knife like a cutlass, her legs braced against a pitching deck. The best kind of episode, where you're fully then again. We all look forward to those. It's funny that the staff act like it might be contagious. I wait in Judy's room for her to return. Zia wheels her in and lifts her into the bed. She's light as a bird, my Judy. Zia frowns when she sees me. I think she'd shoo me out more often if either of us had family that could lodge a complaint. Michael and Grace are allowed to eat together but not to visit each other's rooms. Grace's children think she shouldn't have a relationship now that she lives in so many times at once. Too confusing, they say, though Grace doesn't know whether they mean for them or for her."How was your dinner?" I ask Judy."I can't remember," she says. "But I saw you come in for the first time. You said 'How is this place real?' and young Mr. Kahn said 'Because someday all of us will build it.'""And then I asked 'When can I get started?' and he said 'You already did.'"I can see it now. The dining room was formal, then. Everyone stared when I came in, but most of the smiles were knowing ones. They understood the hazards of timesling. They had been there, or they were there, or they were going to be.Judy takes my hand. I lean over to kiss her."It's snowing," I say. "I can't wait to meet you."END*Brougham was changed to "carriage" for the audio version.“The True Alchemist” was first published in Not One of Us #51 in April 2014. “Ulder” was first published in Daily Science Fiction in July 2014. “The Sewell Home for the Temporally Displaced” was first published in the Women Destroy Science Fiction edition of Lightspeed Magazine in June 2014. 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 talk to you again on April 9th with a selection of three flash fiction stories.[Music plays out]This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

HOW TO BECOME A ROBOT IN 12 EASY STEPSby A. Merc RustadHow to tell your boyfriend you are in love with a robot:Tell him, “I may possibly be in love with a robot,” because absolutes are difficult for biological brains to process. He won’t be jealous.Ask him what he thinks of a hypothetical situation in which you found someone who might not be human, but is still valuable and right for you. (Your so-called romantic relationship is as fake as you are.)Don’t tell him anything. It’s not that he’ll tell you you’re wrong; he’s not like his parents, or yours. But there’s still a statistical possibility he might not be okay with you being in love with a robot.A full transcript appears under the cut:----more----[Intro music]Intro:Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode one for April 2nd, 2015. I'm your host, Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing this story with you!Before we start, I'd like to thank everyone who has supported GlitterShip so far. Our Kickstarter campaign will be finishing up on April 8th, so if you're just hearing about GlitterShip for the first time, you can still check it out. If you're listening to this episode after the 8th, well, hello future person! I hope we have space travel whenever you're listening to this.Very briefly, here's some publishing news. Our talented cover artist has a queer poem that's going to be coming out in Uncanny Magazine on the 7th of April. That will be called "The Eaters" by M. Sereno.I'd also like to draw your attention to two other Kickstarter campaigns. There's the Beyond Anthology, which is a queer science fiction and fantasy comics anthology, and there's also Vitality Magazine, which is a queer science fiction and fantasy literary magazine that is seeking to fund its second issue.This has really been a huge couple of months for queer science fiction and fantasy. The special Lightspeed Magazine issue "Queers Destroy Science Fiction" has recently announced its table of contents, so that'll be out later this year. And if you're a writer, the submissions are currently open for "Queers Destroy Horror."All of these links are going to be in the transcript on our website at glittership.com. You can check us out there and we also have a Twitter feed @GlitterShipSF.If you have news or publication notices that may be of interest to the GlitterShip listeners, get in touch with me at publine at GlitterShip dot com.Our story today is "How to Become a Robot in 12 Easy Steps" by A. Merc Rustad.Merc is a queer non-binary writer and filmmaker who lives in the Midwest United States. Favorite things include: robots, dinosaurs, monsters, and tea. When not buried in the homework mines or dayjobbery, Merc likes to play video games, read comics, and wear awesome hats.Merc has several other things published recently: a science fiction short with gay protagonists at Escape Pod, which is available both as text and audio; a longer fantasy story about monsters and dancing and fairy tale tropes that features lesbian protagonists (cis and trans) with a happy ending at Inscription Magazine; and a quieter fantasy short about undersea adventures and multiple trans protagonists forthcoming in Scigentasy in May.You can find Merc on Twitter @Merc_Rustad or visit their website for a complete bibliography (and links to short films) at http://amercrustad.com.Alright. I hope you enjoy the story.    HOW TO BECOME A ROBOT IN 12 EASY STEPSby A. Merc RustadRead by Keffy R. M. KehrliHow to tell your boyfriend you are in love with a robot:Tell him, “I may possibly be in love with a robot,” because absolutes are difficult for biological brains to process. He won’t be jealous.Ask him what he thinks of a hypothetical situation in which you found someone who might not be human, but is still valuable and right for you. (Your so-called romantic relationship is as fake as you are.)Don’t tell him anything. It’s not that he’ll tell you you’re wrong; he’s not like his parents, or yours. But there’s still a statistical possibility he might not be okay with you being in love with a robot. On my to-do list today: Ask the robot out on a date. Pick up salad ingredients for dinner. Buy Melinda and Kimberly a wedding gift.The robot is a J-90 SRM, considered “blocky” and “old-school,” probably refurbished from a scrapper, painted bright purple with the coffee shop logo on the chassis.  The robot’s square head has an LED screen that greets customers with unfailing politeness and reflects their orders back to them. The bright blue smiley face never changes in the top corner of the screen.Everyone knows the J-90 SRMs aren’t upgradable AI. They have basic customer service programming and equipment maintenance protocols.Everyone knows robots in the service industry are there as cheap labor investments and to improve customer satisfaction scores, which they never do, because customers are never happy.Everyone knows you can’t be in love with a robot.I drop my plate into the automatic disposal, which thanks me for recycling. No one else waits to deposit trash, so I focus on it as I brace myself to walk back to the counter. The J-90 SRM smiles blankly at the empty front counter, waiting for the next customer.The lunch rush is over. The air reeks of espresso and burned milk. I don’t come here because the food is good or the coffee any better. The neon violet décor is best ignored.I practiced this in front of a wall a sixteen times over the last week. I have my script. It’s simple. “Hello, I’m Tesla. What may I call you?”And the robot will reply:I will say, “It’s nice to meet you.”And the robot will reply:I will say, “I would like to know if you’d like to go out with me when you’re off-duty, at a time of both our convenience. I’d like to get to know you better, if that’s acceptable to you.”And the robot will reply:“Hey, Tesla.”The imagined conversation shuts down. I blink at the trash receptacle and look up.My boyfriend smiles hello, his hands shoved in his jeans pockets, his shoulders hunched to make himself look smaller. At six foot five and three hundred pounds, it never helps. He’s as cuddly and mellow as a black bear in hibernation. Today he’s wearing a gray turtleneck and loafers, his windbreaker unzipped.“Hi, Jonathan.”I can’t ask the robot out now.The empty feeling reappears in my chest, where it always sits when I can’t see or hear the robot.“You still coming to Esteban’s party tonight?” Jonathan asks.“Yeah.”Jonathan smiles again. “I’ll pick you up after work, then.”“Sounds good,” I say. “We’d better go, or I’ll be late.”He works as an accountant. He wanted to study robotic engineering but his parents would only pay for college if he got a practical degree (his grandfather disapproves of robots). Computers crunched the numbers and he handled the people.He always staggers his lunch break so he can walk back with me. It’s nice. Jonathan can act as an impenetrable weather shield if it rains and I forget my umbrella.But Jonathan isn’t the robot.He offers me his arm, like the gentleman he always is, and we leave the coffee shop. The door wishes us a good day.I don’t look back at the robot. A beginner’s guide on how to fake your way through biological social constructs:Pretend you are not a robot. This is hard, and you have been working at it for twenty-three years. You are like Data, except in reverse.(There are missing protocols in your head. You don’t know why you were born biologically or why there are pieces missing and you do not really understand how human interaction functions. Sometimes you can fake it. Sometimes people even believe you when you do. You never believe yourself.)Memorize enough data about social cues and run facial muscle pattern recognition so you know what to say and when to say it.This is not always successful.Example: a woman approximately your biological age approaches you and proceeds to explain in detail how mad she is at her boyfriend. Example boyfriend is guilty of using her toiletries like toothbrush and comb when he comes over, and leaving towels on the bathroom floor. “Such a slob,” she says, gripping her beer like a club. “How do you manage men?” You ask if she has told him to bring his own toothbrush and comb and to hang up the towels. It seems the first logical step: factual communication. “He should figure it out!” she says. You are confused. You say that maybe he is unaware of the protocols she has in place. She gives you a strange look, huffs her breath out, and walks off.Now the woman’s friends ignore you and you notice their stares and awkward pauses when you are within their proximity. You have no escape because you didn’t drive separately.Ask your boyfriend not to take you to any more parties. Jonathan and I lounge on the plush leather couch in his apartment. He takes up most of it, and I curl against his side. We have a bowl of popcorn and we’re watching reruns of Star Trek: The Next Generation.“I have something to tell you,” he says. His shoulders tense.I keep watching the TV.  He knows I pay attention when he tells me things, even if I don’t look at him. “Okay.”“I’m...” He hesitates. The Borg fire on the Enterprise again. “I’m seeing someone else.”“Another guy?” I ask, hopeful.“Yeah. I met him at the gym. His name’s Bernardo.”I sigh in relief. Secrets are heavy and hurt when you have to carry them around all your life. (I have to make lists to keep track of mine.) “I’m glad. Are you going to tell anyone?”He relaxes and squeezes my hand. “Just you right now. But from what he’s told me, his family’s pretty accepting.”“Lucky,” I say.We scrape extra butter off the bowl with the last kernels of popcorn.We’ve been pretend-dating for two years now. We’ve never slept together. That’s okay. I like cuddling with him and he likes telling me about crazy customers at his firm, and everyone thinks we’re a perfectly adorable straight couple on the outside.The empty spot in my chest grows bigger as I watch Data on screen. Data has the entire crew of the Enterprise. Jonathan has Bernardo now. I don’t know if the robot will be interested in me in return. (What if the robot isn’t?)The room shrinks in on me, the umber-painted walls and football memorabilia suffocating. I jerk to my feet.Jonathan mutes the TV. “Something wrong?”“I have to go.”“Want me to drive you home?”“It’s four blocks away.” But I appreciate his offer, so I add, “But thanks.”I find my coat piled by the door while he takes the popcorn bowl into the kitchen.Jonathan leans against the wall as I carefully lace each boot to the proper tightness. “If you want to talk, Tesla, I’ll listen.”I know that. He came out to me before we started dating. I told him I wasn’t interested in socially acceptable relationships, either, and he laughed and looked so relieved he almost cried. We made an elaborate plan, a public persona our families wouldn’t hate.I’m not ready to trust him as much as he trusts me.“Night, Jonathan.”“Goodnight, Tesla.” How to tell your fake boyfriend you would like to become a robot:Tell him, “I would like to be a robot.” You can also say, “I am really a robot, not a female-bodied biological machine,” because that is closer to the truth.Do not tell him anything. If you do, you will also have to admit that you think about ways to hurt yourself so you have an excuse to replace body parts with machine parts.Besides, insurance is unlikely to cover your transition into a robot. I have this nightmare more and more often.I’m surrounded by robots. Some of them look like the J-90 SRM, some are the newer androids, some are computer cores floating in the air. I’m the only human.I try to speak, but I have no voice. I try to touch them, but I can’t lift my hands. I try to follow them as they walk over a hill and through two huge doors, like glowing LED screens, but I can’t move.Soon, all the robots are gone and I’m all alone in the empty landscape. 11 Reasons you want to become a robot:Robots are logical and know their purpose.Robots have programming they understand.Robots are not held to unattainable standards and then criticized when they fail.Robots are not crippled by emotions they don’t know how to process.Robots are not judged based on what sex organs they were born with.Robots have mechanical bodies that are strong and durable. They are not required to have sex.Robots do not feel guilt (about existing, about failing, about being something other than expected).Robots can multitask.Robots do not feel unsafe all the time.Robots are perfect machines that are capable and functional and can be fixed if something breaks.Robots are happy. It’s Saturday, so I head to the Purple Bean early.The robot isn’t there.I stare at the polished chrome and plastic K-100, which has a molded face that smiles with humanistic features.“Welcome to the Purple Bean,” the new robot says in a chirpy voice that has inflection and none of the mechanical monotone I like about the old robot. “I’m Janey. How can I serve you today?”“Where’s the J-90 SRM?”Robbie, the barista who works weekends, leans around the espresso machine and sighs. She must have gotten this question a lot. The panic in my chest is winching so tight it might crack my ribs into little pieces. Why did they retire the robot?“Manager finally got the company to upgrade,” Robbie says. “Like it?”“Where’s the J-90 SRM?”“Eh, recycled, I guess.” Robbie shrugs. “You want the usual?”I can’t look at the new K-100. It isn’t right. It doesn’t belong in the robot’s place, and neither do I. “I have to go.”“Have a wonderful day,” the door says. How to rescue a robot from being scrapped: [skill level: intermediate]Call your boyfriend, who owns an SUV, and ask him to drive you to the Gates-MacDowell recycle plant.Argue with the technician, who refuses to sell you the decommissioned robot. It’s company protocol, he says, and service industry robots are required to have processors and cores wiped before being recycled.Lie and say you only want to purchase the J-90 SRM because you’re starting a collection. Under the law, historical preservation collections are exempt from standardized recycling procedures.Do not commit physical violence on the tech when he hesitates. It’s rude, and he’s only doing his job.Do not admit you asked your boyfriend along because his size is intimidating, and he knows how to look grouchy at eight a.m.The technician will finally agree and give you a claim ticket.Drive around and find the robot in the docking yard.Do not break down when you see how badly the robot has been damaged: the robot’s LED screen cracked, the robot’s chassis has been crunched inwards, the robot’s missing arm.Try not to believe it is your fault. (That is illogical, even if you still have biological processing units.) Two techs wheel the robot out and load it into Jonathan’s car. The gut-punched feeling doesn’t go away. The robot looks so helpless, shut down and blank in the back seat. I flip open the robot’s chassis, but the power core is gone, along with the programming module.The robot is just a shell of what the robot once was.I feel like crying. I don’t want to. It’s uncomfortable and doesn’t solve problems.“What’s wrong, Tesla?” Jonathan asks.I shut the chassis. My hands tremble. “They broke the robot.”“It’ll be okay,” Jonathan says. As if anything can be okay right now. As if there is nothing wrong with me. “You can fix it.”I squirm back into the passenger seat and grip the dash. He’s right. We were friends because we both liked robots and I spent my social studies classes in school researching robotics and programming.“I’ve never done anything this complex,” I say. I’ve only dismantled, reverse-engineered, and rebuilt the small household appliances and computers. No one has ever let me build a robot.“You’ll do fine,” he says. “And if you need help, I know just the guy to ask.”“Who?”“Want to meet my boyfriend?” Necessary questions to ask your boyfriend’s new boyfriend (a former Army engineer of robotics):You’ve been following the development of cyborg bodies, so you ask him if he agrees with the estimates that replacement of all organic tissue sans brain and spinal cord with inorganic machinery is still ten years out, at best. Some scientists predict longer. Some predict never, but you don’t believe them. (He’ll answer that the best the field can offer right now are limbs and some artificial organs.)Ask him how to upload human consciousness into a robot body. (He’ll tell you there is no feasible way to do this yet, and the technology is still twenty years out.)Do not tell him you cannot wait that long. (You cannot last forever.)Instead, ask him if he can get you parts you need to fix the robot. Bernardo—six inches shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than Jonathan, tattooed neck to ankles, always smelling of cigarettes—is part robot. He lost his right arm at the shoulder socket in an accident, and now wears the cybernetic prosthetic. It has limited sensory perception, but he says it’s not as good as his old hand.I like him. I tell Jonathan this, and my boyfriend beams.“They really gut these things,” Bernardo says when he drops off the power cell.(I want to ask him how much I owe him. But when he says nothing about repayment, I stay quiet. I can’t afford it. Maybe he knows that.)We put the robot in the spare bedroom in my apartment, which Jonathan wanted to turn into an office, but never organized himself enough to do so. I liked the empty room, but now it’s the robot’s home. I hid the late payment notices and overdue bills in a drawer before Jonathan saw them.“Getting a new arm might be tricky, but I have a buddy who works a scrap yard out in Maine,” Bernardo says. “Bet she could dig up the right model parts.”“Thank you.”I’m going to reconstruct the old personality and programming pathways. There are subsystems, “nerve clusters,” that serve as redundant processing. Personality modules get routed through functionality programs, and vestiges of the robot’s personality build up in subsystems. Newer models are completely wiped, but they usually don’t bother with old ones.Bernardo rubs his shaved head. “You realize this won’t be a quick and easy fix, right? Might take weeks. Hell, it might not even work.”I trace a finger through the air in front of the robot’s dark LED screen. I have not been able to ask the robot if I have permission to touch the robot. It bothers me that I have to handle parts and repairs without the robot’s consent. Does that make it wrong? To fix the robot without knowing if the robot wishes to be fixed?Will the robot hate me if I succeed?“I know,” I whisper. “But I need to save the robot.” How to tell your pretend-boyfriend and his real boyfriend that your internal processors are failing:The biological term is “depression” but you don’t have an official diagnostic (diagnosis) and it’s a hard word to say. It feels heavy and stings your mouth. Like when you tried to eat a battery when you were small and your parents got upset.Instead, you try to hide the feeling. But the dark stain has already spilled across your hardwiring and clogged your processor. You don’t have access to any working help files to fix this. Tech support is unavailable for your model. (No extended warranty exists.)Pretend the reason you have no energy is because you’re sick with a generic bug.You have time to sleep. Your job is canceling out many of your functions; robots can perform cleaning and maintenance in hotels for much better wage investment, and since you are not (yet) a robot, you know you will be replaced soon.The literal translation of the word “depression”: you are broken and devalued and have no further use.No one refurbishes broken robots.Please self-terminate. I work on the robot during my spare time. I have lots of it now. Working on the robot is the only reason I have to wake up.I need to repair the robot’s destroyed servos and piece together the robot’s memory and function programming from what the computer recovered.There are subroutine lists in my head that are getting bigger and bigger: You will not be able to fix the robot. You do not have enough money to fix the robot. You do not have the skill to fix the robot. The robot will hate you. You are not a robot.Bernardo and Jonathan are in the kitchen. They laugh and joke while making stir fry. I’m not hungry.I haven’t been hungry for a few days now.“You should just buy a new core, Tesla,” Bernardo says. “Would save you a lot of headaches.”I don’t need a blank, programmable core. What I want is the robot who worked in the Purple Bean. The robot who asked for my order, like the robot did every customer. But the moment I knew I could love this robot was when the robot asked what I would like to be called. “Tesla,” I said, and the blue LED smiley face in the upper corner of the robot’s screen flickered in a shy smile.Everyone knows robots are not people.There’s silence in the kitchen. Then Jonathan says, quietly, “Tesla, what’s this?”I assume he’s found the eviction notice. Reasons why you want to self-terminate (a partial list):Your weekly visit to your parents’ house in the suburbs brings the inevitable question about when you will marry your boyfriend, settle down (so you can pop out babies), and raise a family.You don’t tell them you just lost your job.You make the mistake of mentioning that you’re going to your best friend Melinda’s wedding next weekend. You’re happy for her: she’s finally marrying her longtime girlfriend, Kimberly.That sets your dad off on another rant about the evils of gay people and how they all deserve to die.(You’ve heard this all your life. You thought you escaped it when you were eighteen and moved out. But you never do escape, do you? There is no escape.)You make a second mistake and talk back. You’ve never done that; it’s safer to say nothing. But you’re too stressed to play safe, so you tell him he’s wrong and that it’s hurting you when he says that.That makes him paranoid and he demands that you tell him you aren’t one of those fags too.You don’t tell your parents you’re probably asexual and you really want to be a robot, because robots are never condemned because of who they love.You stop listening as he gets louder and louder, angrier and angrier, until you’re afraid he will reach for the rifle in the gun cabinet.You run from the house and are almost hit by a truck. Horns blare and slushy snow sprays your face as you reach the safety of the opposite sidewalk.You wish you were three seconds slower so the bumper wouldn’t have missed you. It was a big truck.You start making another list. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Jonathan asks, more concerned than angry. “I would’ve helped out.”I shrug.The subroutine list boots up: You are not an adult if you cannot exist independently at all times. Therefore, logically, you are a non-operational drone. You will be a burden on everyone. You already are. Self-terminate.“I thought I could manage,” I say. The robot’s LED screen is still cracked and dark. I wonder what the robot dreams about.Bernardo is quiet in the kitchen, giving us privacy.Jonathan rubs his eyes. “Okay. Look. You’re always welcome to stay with me and Bern. We’ll figure it out, Tesla. Don’t we always?”I know how small his apartment is. Bernardo has just moved in with him; there’s no space left.“What about the robot?” I ask. How to self-destruct: a robot’s guide.Water damage. Large bodies of water will short-circuit internal machinery. In biological entities, this is referred to as “drowning.” There are several bridges nearby, and the rivers are deep.Overload. Tapping into a power source far beyond what your circuits can handle, such as an industrial grade electric fence. There is one at the Gates-MacDowell recycle plant.Complete power drain. Biologically this is known as blood-loss. There are plenty of shaving razors in the bathroom.Substantial physical damage. Explosives or crushing via industrial recycling machines will be sufficient. Option: stand in front of a train.Impact from substantial height; a fall. You live in a very high apartment complex.Corrupt your internal systems by ingesting industrial grade chemicals. Acid is known to damage organic and inorganic tissue alike.Fill in the blank. (Tip: use the internet.) Bernardo’s family owns a rental garage, and he uses one of the units for rebuilding his custom motorcycle. He says I can store the robot there, until another unit opens up.Jonathan has moved his Budweiser memorabilia collection into storage so the small room he kept it in is now an unofficial bedroom. He shows it to me and says I can move in anytime I want. He and Bernardo are sharing his bedroom.I don’t know what to do.I have no operating procedures for accepting help.I should self-destruct and spare them all. That would be easier, wouldn’t it? Better for them?But the robot isn’t finished.I don’t know what to do. How to have awkward conversations about your relationship with your boyfriend and your boyfriend’s boyfriend:Agree to move in with them. Temporarily. (You feel like you are intruding. Try not to notice that they both are genuinely happy to have you live with them.)Order pizza and watch the Futurama marathon on TV.Your boyfriend says, “I’m going to come out to my family. I’ve written a FB update and I just have to hit send.”Your boyfriend’s boyfriend kisses him and you fistbump them both in celebration.You tell him you’re proud of him. You will be the first to like his status.He posts the message to his wall. You immediately like the update.(You don’t know what this means for your façade of boyfriend/girlfriend.)Your boyfriend says, “Tesla, we need to talk. About us. About all three of us.” You know what he means. Where do you fit in now?You say, “Okay.”“I’m entirely cool with you being part of this relationship, Tesla,” your boyfriend’s boyfriend says. “Who gives a fuck what other people think? But it’s up to you, totally.”“What he said,” your boyfriend says. “Hell, you can bring the robot in too. It’s not like any of us object to robots as part of the family.” He pats his boyfriend’s cybernetic arm. “We’ll make it work.”You don’t say, “I can be a robot and that’s okay?” Instead, you tell them you’ll think about it. I write another list.I write down all the lists.  In order. In detail.Then I print them out and give them to Jonathan and Bernardo.The cover page has four letters on it: H-E-L-P. Reasons why you should avoid self-termination (right now):Jonathan says, “If you ever need to talk, I’ll listen.”Bernardo says, “It’ll get better. I promise it does. I’ve been there, where you’re at, thinking there’s nothing more than the world fucking with you. I was in hell my whole childhood and through high school.” He’ll show you the scars on his wrists and throat, his tattoos never covering them up. “I know it fucking hurts. But there’s people who love you and we’re willing to help you survive. You’re strong enough to make it.”Your best friend Melinda says, “Who else is going to write me snarky texts while I’m at work or go to horror movies with me (you know my wife hates them) or come camping with us every summer like we’ve done since we were ten?” And she’ll hold her hands out and say, “You deserve to be happy. Please don’t leave.”You will get another job.You will function again, if you give yourself time and let your friends help. And they will. They already do.The robot needs you.Because if you self-terminate, you won’t have a chance to become a robot in the future. “Hey, Tesla,” Jonathan says, poking his head around the garage-workshop door. “Bern and I are going over to his parents for dinner. Want to come?”“Hey, I’ll come for you anytime,” Bernardo calls from the parking lot.Jonathan rolls his eyes, his goofy smile wider than ever.I shake my head. The robot is almost finished. “You guys have fun. Say hi for me.”“You bet.”The garage is silent. Ready.I sit by the power grid. I’ve unplugged all the other devices, powered down the phone and the data hub. I carefully hid Bernardo’s bike behind a plastic privacy wall he used to divide the garage so we each have a workspace.We’re alone, the robot and I.I rig up a secondary external power core and keep the dedicated computer running the diagnostic.The robot stands motionless, the LED screen blank. It’s still cracked, but it will function.“Can you hear me?” I ask. “Are you there?”The robot:I power up the robot and key the download sequence, re-installing the rescued memory core.The robot’s screen flickers. The blue smiley face appears in the center, split with spiderweb cracks.“Hello,” I say.“Hello, Tesla,” the robot says.“How do you feel?”“I am well,” the robot says. “I believe you saved my life.”The hole closes in my chest, just a little.The robot’s clean, symmetrical lines and tarnished purple surface glow. The robot is perfect. I stand up.“How may I thank you for your help, Tesla?”“Is there a way I can become a robot too?”The robot’s pixelated face shifts; now the robot’s expression frowns. “I do not know, Tesla. I am not programmed with such knowledge. I am sorry.”I think about the speculative technical papers I read, articles Bernardo forwarded to me.“I have a hypothesis,” I tell the robot. “If I could power myself with enough electricity, my electromagnetic thought patterns might be able to travel into a mechanical apparatus such as the computer hub.”(Consciousness uploads aren’t feasible yet.)“I believe such a procedure would be damaging to your current organic shell,” the robot says.Yes, I understand electrocution’s effects on biological tissue. I have thought about it before. (Many times. All the time.)The robot says, “May I suggest that you consider the matter before doing anything regrettable, Tesla?”And I reply:The robot says: “I should not like to see you deprogrammed and consigned to the scrapping plant for organic tissue.”And I reply:The robot says: “I will be sad if you die.”I look up at the frowning blue pixel face. And I think of Jonathan and Bernardo returning and finding my body stiff and blackened, my fingers plugged into the power grid.The robot extends one blocky hand. “Perhaps I would be allowed to devise a more reliable solution? I would like to understand you better, if that is acceptable.” The blue lines curve up into a hopeful smile.The robot is still here. Jonathan and Bernardo are here. Melinda and Kimberly are here. I’m not a robot (yet), but I’m not alone.“Is this an acceptable solution, Tesla?” the robot asks.I take the robot’s hand, and the robot’s blocky fingers slowly curl around mine. “Yes. I would like that very much.” Then I ask the robot, “What would you like me to call you?” How to become a robot:You don’t.Not yet.But you will.END Outro:"How to Become A Robot in 12 Easy Steps" was first published in Scigentasy in March 2014. 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 talk to you again on April 9th with a selection of three flash fiction stories.[Music plays out]This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Jake Kerr is a most skilled and accomplished wordsmith. His whole life has focused on weaving words into tapestries of delight, first for the music industry and now (thankfully) in the realms of Speculative Fiction. His works have been featured on Lightspeed Magazine and in numerous anthologies, including the acclaimed "Apocalypse Triptych" and his YA Urban Fantasy "Tommy Black and the Staff of Light" continues to delight audiences of all ages. // Amazon.com Widgets With Terry Mixon - author of “Empire of Bones” and “Veil of Shadows” and co-host on the mighty Dead Robots’ Society podcast - as my co-host, we welcome Jake to the Big Chair at the Roundtable and have a truly inspiring 20(ish) minutes of writerly discourse, talking about using all the tools in the tool box, the collaborative nature of critique groups, and more. Writerly goodness is but a mouse-click away, friends! (and I know you'll be keen for some brainstorming after THIS discussion, so check out Jake's Workshop Episode airing March 17!). PROMO:  "The Sting of the Dark Tower" an audio drama by Peter Gruenbaum Showcase Episode: 20 Minutes with Jake Kerr [caution: mature language - listener discretion is advised] We have a NEW FORUM! Share your comments to this (or any) episode over at the RTP Forum! Check out this and all our episodes on iTunes and on Stitcher Radio! Tracking down Jake on the internet... Jake's website is superb, a great place to not only catch up on his works, but also enjoy his insights on the craft and the industry. His wide range of work is featured on his Amazon Page Follow him on Twitter and on Facebook! Check out Terry Mixon's ever-growing empire... Terry Mixon Take a tour of Terry's website Check out epic space operas, "Empire of Bones" and "Veil of Shadows" Tune in to the The Dead Robots' Society podcast where Terry talks writing with co-hosts Justin Macumber, Paul Elard Cooley, and Scott Roche (all RTP veterans) Catch his infrequent Tweets through Twitter, and definitely stalk him on Facebook // //

The Queers Destroy Science Fiction edition of Lightspeed Magazine is currently open on Kickstarter for financial contributions. Contributions’ terms and conditions are also listed on the kickstarter ... The post “Queers Destroy Science Fiction” with Seanan McGuire and Mark Oshiro appeared first on Dark Matter Zine.

RoboNinja. A name for garbled tongues and garbled times. Interstate mudlarks peer at him from beneath grotty brows as he passes, eyes the size of headlamps reflecting the gelid glow of his visor. He once tried obscuring the light with handfuls of ash, smeared across LEDs and his shining silver carapace like the penitential marks of a sect long forgotten. It had worked for a time, until the monsoon came mocking once more. Copyright 2014 by Lightspeed Magazine. Narrated by Lex Wilson.

Coming up… Fact: Science News by Jim Campanella 01:57 Sofanauts has Landed! 30:00 “Flash Bang Remember” by Caroline M. Yoachim & Tina Connolly 39:00 Caroline is a photographer and writer currently living in Seattle, Washington. She has published about two dozen fantasy and science fiction short stories, in markets that include Asimov’s,Lightspeed Magazine, Interzone, and Daily Science Fiction. In 2011 she was nominated for a Nebula Award for the novelette “Stone Wall Truth.” Tina is a writer in Portland, Oregon, which is a splendidly green and drizzly city. She was born in St Louis and has lived in Northern California, but mostly where she grew up is the lovely college town of Lawrence, Kansas. She has a husband, 

"This is a Ghost Story" by Keffy R. M. Kehrli -- published in Apex Magazine issue 54 November, 2013 Keffy R. M. Kehrli is a science fiction and fantasy writer currently living in Seattle. Although his degrees are in physics and linguistics, he spends most of his time in a basement performing molecular biology experiments for fun and profit. In 2008, he attended Clarion UCSD where he learned that, unfortunately, rattlesnakes don’t always rattle. His short fiction has appeared in publications such as Apex Magazine, Lightspeed Magazine, and Escape Pod, among others. He is also an editor and slush reader for Shimmer magazine. This Apex Magazine Podcast was performed by Editor-in-Chief Lynne M. Thomas and produced by Erika Ensign. Music used with kind permission of Oh, Alchemy! Apex Magazine Podcast, copyright Apex Publications

Shut Up I'm Talking - Episode 2 - 2013-07-21(Visit suitalkingblog.blogspot.com for links)(The following links are to things we talked about in the podcast)A CBSNews article on the Zimmerman verdictA USAToday article on Detroit's bankruptcy woesThe HBO Vice article mentioned during the discussion of China's economic bubbleA CBS video on China's housing bubbleA HuffPo article on the costumes at SDCCHomepages for Vidcon, SOE Live, Dragon*Con, and BlizzConAn article critical of the publication industry, relating to Rowling's pseudonymA gnocchi recipe (may not be the one Ann uses)A Guardian article on the beginnings of heavy metalDownload EverQuest or Download Diablo 3Lightspeed Magazine, Apex Magazine, Clarkesworld Magazine, and Daily Science FictionYouTube Recommendations: DailyGrace; My Drunk Kitchen; You Deserve a Drink; The FineBros; Hey Ash, Whatcha Playin'?; ComedivaBuy Borderlands 2 on SteamBuy Life After Life from Barnes and NobleFollow us on Twitter: Shut Up I'm Talking (@SUITshow); Matthew (@matthewbann); Neil (@neilrenken); Ann (@aretzken)Like us on Facebook!Subscribe to our YouTube channel!

Coming Up This week is the start of a two week special dedicated to Bram Stoker Awards™. We are over the next two weeks going to play all six of the short stories nominated in the SUPERIOR ACHIEVEMENT IN SHORT FICTION category. This week sees us play the following… Fiction: Graffiti Sonata by Gene O’Neill 05:25 (Dark Discoveries #18) Fiction: Her Husbands Hands by Adam Troy Castro 26:40 (Lightspeed Magazine, October... See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

This week’s guest is undoubtedly one of the top narrators working today, Stefan Rudnicki. He has worked on such narrations as Orson Scott Card’s Enders Game and now has teamed up with the quite brilliant Lightspeed Magazine.