Podcasts about rhysling

“The Flowers I Grew for Her” by Avra Margariti Manawaker Patreon: https://patreon.com/manawaker/ Manawaker store: https://payhip.com/Manawaker Manawaker Discord: https://discord.gg/zjzA2pY9f9 More info / Contact CB Droege: https://cbdroege.taplink.ws The Flash Fiction Podcast Theme Song is by Kevin McCleod The Producer, Editor, and Narrator of the podcast is CB Droege Bio for this weeks author: Avra Margariti is a queer author, Greek sea monster, and Rhysling-nominated poet with a fondness for the dark and the darling. Avra's work haunts publications such as Strange Horizons, The Deadlands, F&SF, Podcastle, Asimov’s, Vastarien, and Reckoning. You can find Avra on twitter @avramargariti.

Send us a textSangha member Shin-E Kieran Rhysling gives the fourth talk in a series based on the book, "Deep Hope" by Diane Eshin Rizzetto. This talk covers the fourth paramita, Engaging Effort.

Send us a textSangha member Shin-E Kieran Rhysling gives the third talk in a series based on the book, "Deep Hope" by Diane Eshin Rizzetto. This talk covers the third paramita, Practicing Patience.

“Wives at the End of the World” by Avra Margariti Manawaker Patreon: https://patreon.com/manawaker/ Manawaker store: https://payhip.com/Manawaker Manawaker Discord: https://discord.gg/zjzA2pY9f9 More info / Contact CB Droege: https://cbdroege.taplink.ws The Flash Fiction Podcast Theme Song is by Kevin McCleod The Producer, Editor, and Narrator of the podcast is CB Droege Bio for this weeks author: Avra Margariti is a queer author, Greek sea monster, and Rhysling-nominated poet with a fondness for the dark and the darling. Avra's work haunts publications such as Strange Horizons, The Deadlands, F&SF, Podcastle, Asimov’s, Vastarien, and Reckoning. You can find Avra on twitter @avramargariti.

Sangha member Shin-E Kieran Rhysling gives a talk based on Diane Eshin Rizetto's book, Deep Hope.

This week on the Drabblecast- a melancholy story about loss, abandonment, and the perils of old magic. Avra Margariti is a queer author, Greek sea monster, and Rhysling-nominated poet with a fondness for the dark and the darling. Avra's work haunts publications such as Strange Horizons, The Deadlands, F&SF, Podcastle, Asimov's, Vastarien, and Reckoning. You […]

Sangha member Shin-E Kieran Rhysling discusses the teaching of the Three Doors of Liberation.

Avra Margariti is a queer author, Greek sea monster and Rhysling-nominated poet with the fondness for the dark and the darling. Avra's work haunts publications such as Strange Horizons, The Deadlands, F &SF, Podcastle, Asimov's, Vastarien and Reckoning. You can find Avra on Twitter @AvraMargariti. Together we discussed Avra's early publishing experience and the inspiration she found in Greek authors writing in English. Avra also expressed her concern about the retelling of Greek mythology in Anglo -Saxon literature and the commodification of Greek myths for branding purposes. Finally, Avra highlighted the importance of preserving the Greek vibe and folklore in writing, and she offered advice for writers starting to write in a second language.

Main fiction: "Side Effects May Vary" by Avra MargaritiAvra Margariti is a queer author, Greek sea monster, and Rhysling-nominated poet with a fondness for the dark and the darling. Avra's work haunts publications such as Vastarien, Asimov's, Strange Horizons, and F&SF. You can find Avra on twitter (@avramargariti).This story originally appeared in Fusion Fragment #8, 2021.Narrated by: Jen AlbertJen Albert is an editor, writer, narrator, and former entomologist. She is an acquiring editor at ECW Press in Toronto, where she specializes in science fiction, fantasy, horror, and speculative fiction. Jen was co-editor of PodCastle, a fantasy-fiction podcast and magazine, for five years and has been nominated for the Hugo Award, the Ignyte Award, the Aurora Award, the World Fantasy Award, and has won the British Fantasy Award for her editorial work.Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/starshipsofa. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Sangha member Shin-e Kieran Rhysling gives a talk entitled, "Questions That Matter".

This week, we're reposting two awesome interviews with authors who were just nominated for the Hugo Award. Our guest today was nominated 3 times for best short story, best novelette, and best novella. Today's guest is fantasy and science fiction author Catherynne Valente. Catherynne Valente is the writer of The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making (and the four books that followed it), Palimpsest, the Orphan's Tales series and so many books you've probably read or heard about. She's a New York Times bestselling author, winner of the Andre Norton, Tiptree, Sturgeon, Eugie Foster Memorial, Mythopoeic, Rhysling, Lambda, Locus, Hugo awards, and more. Usually, in Geekdom Empowers we follow the paths of the geeks around the world who are not highlighted. And yet, Cat's path is exactly the path we talk about. She talks about how, with the power of social media, before it was called social media, she got from knowing no one to what she is today. Social media helped her every stage of the way, including today where her Patreon gives her financial independence from the publishers. It is the story of a rise to success of an author who came from nothing, knowing no one. It is the story of an author who made her own niche, who kept her style and authenticity, and who has withstood, as we'll see, quite a bit of terrible pushback from science fiction and fantasy fans. I think you'll enjoy this interview. It's fascinating. You can find Catherynne Valente here: Website: catherynnemvalente.com/ Twitter: twitter.com/catvalente Instagram: www.instagram.com/catvalente Geekdom Empowers comes out Tuesdays and Thursdays. You can find us here: Website: www.geekdomeempowers.com Instagram: www.instagram.com/geekdomempowers/ Twitter: twitter.com/GeekdomEmpowers Facebook: www.facebook.com/geekdomempowers TikTok: www.tiktok.com/@geekdomempowers

Join Chris and Courtney in a sit down with Kristin Garth, the Editor in Cheif of Pink Plastic House, for a conversation about passions, process, pitfalls, and poetry! Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated sonnet stalker. She is a 2020 Best of the Net Finalist. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of two micro chapbooks of poetry The Legend of the Were Mer (Thirty West) and Glitter & Guillotines (Hedgehog Poetry Press). In addition, she has authored numerous chapbooks of poetry including Shut Your Eyes, Succubi, Pink Plastic House, Atheist Barbie (Maverick Duck Press), Golden Ticket (Roaring Junior Press), Shakespeare for Sociopaths, Dewy Decimals (The Hedgehog Poetry Press), The Death of Alice in Wonderland (Alien Buddha Dress), Girlarium (Fahmidan Press), and Sock Slut (Slang Media Lab). In addition, she has authored two full-length poetry collections Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (Hedgehog Poetry Press) and The Stakes (Really Serious Literature). Garth is also the author of three experimental novels — Flutter Southern Gothic Fever Dream, Crow Carriage and The Avalon Hayes Mysteries. With collaborators, she has co-authored three books of poetry, A Victorian Dollhousing Ceremony, Good Girls Games and Pensacola Girls. She is also the dollhouse architect/editor in chief of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal. When she's not writing sonnets, she's photographing her socks for Instagram and her Barbies for the poets of the Pink Plastic House. You can see her sonnets, socks and Barbie photography on Twitter, @lolaandjolie and @pphatinyjournal; Instagram, @kristiningridgarth and @pinkplastichouse. You can also read her editorial poetry column for Pink Plastic House, The Dollhouse Architect's Digest. --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app

This week Jason chats with Catherynne M. Valente.She is the New York Times bestselling author of over two dozen works of fiction and poetry, including Palimpsest, the Orphan's Tales series, Deathless, Radiance, and the crowdfunded phenomenon The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making (and the four books that followed it). She is the winner of the Andre Norton, Tiptree, Sturgeon, Eugie Foster Memorial, Mythopoeic, Rhysling, Lambda, Locus, and Hugo awards, as well as the Prix Imaginales. Valente has also been a finalist for the Nebula and World Fantasy Awards. She lives on an island off the coast of Maine with a small but growing menagerie of beasts, some of which are human.Her most recent book The Past is Red came out in July and is an Amazon Editor's Pick as Best Science Fiction and Fantasy, and coming in just a few weeks, early November still very much the spooky season, is COMFORT ME WITH APPLES, a terrifying fantasy/horror story.Comfort Me With Apples is a terrifying new thriller from bestseller Catherynne M. Valente, for fans of Gone Girl and Spinning SilverSophia was made for him. Her perfect husband. She can feel it in her bones. He is perfect. Their home together in Arcadia Gardens is perfect. Everything is perfect.It's just that he's away so much. So often. He works so hard. She misses him. And he misses her. He says he does, so it must be true. He is the perfect husband and everything is perfect.But sometimes Sophia wonders about things. Strange things. Dark things. The look on her husband's face when he comes back from a long business trip. The questions he will not answer. The locked basement she is never allowed to enter. And whenever she asks the neighbors, they can't quite meet her gaze....But everything is perfect. Isn't it?

Today's guest is fantasy and science fiction author Catherynne Valente. Catherynne Valente is the writer of The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making (and the four books that followed it), Palimpsest, the Orphan's Tales series and so many books you've probably read or heard about. She's a New York Times bestselling author, winner of the Andre Norton, Tiptree, Sturgeon, Eugie Foster Memorial, Mythopoeic, Rhysling, Lambda, Locus, Hugo awards, and more. Usually, in Geekdom Empowers we follow the paths of the geeks around the world who are not highlighted. And yet, Cat's path is exactly the path we talk about. She talks about how, with the power of social media, before it was called social media, she got from knowing no one to what she is today. Social media helped her every stage of the way, including today where her Patreon gives her financial independence from the publishers. It is the story of a rise to success of an author who came from nothing, knowing no one. It is the story of an author who made her own niche, who kept her style and authenticity, and who has withstood, as we'll see, quite a bit of terrible pushback from science fiction and fantasy fans. I think you'll enjoy this interview. It's fascinating. You can find Catherynne Valente here: Website: http://catherynnemvalente.com/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/catvalente Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/catvalente Geekdom Empowers comes out every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. You can find us here: Website: www.geekdomeempowers.com Instagram: www.instagram.com/geekdomempowers/ Twitter: twitter.com/GeekdomEmpowers Facebook: www.facebook.com/geekdomempowers TikTok: www.tiktok.com/@geekdomempowers

This week a reading of the short story JANINE, a haunting tale of youth gone awry thanks to devils in the Maine woods.Story by Emma J Gibbon - Emma J. Gibbon is originally from Yorkshire in the U.K. and now lives in Midcoast Maine. She is a Rhysling-nominated speculative poet, horror writer and librarian. Her debut fiction collection, Dark Blood Comes from the Feet, is out now from Trepidatio Publishing and was one of NPR's best books of 2020. Her stories have appeared in the Toasted Cake podcast, The Muse & The Flame and the New England Horror Writers anthologies, Wicked Haunted and Wicked Weird. Her poetry has been published in Strange Horizons, Liminality, Pedestal Magazine, Kaleidotrope and Eye to the Telescope. Emma lives with her husband, Steve, and three exceptional animals: Odin, Mothra, and M. Bison (also known as Grim) in a spooky little house in the woods. She is a member of the Horror Writers Association, the New England Horror Writers, the Science Fiction & Fantasy Poetry Association and the Tuesday Mayhem Society.Read by Lisa Stathoplos - Lisa Stathoplos is an actor, voice artist and special education teacher/behavior specialist. She's been acting on stage, film and video for forty years; teaching for twenty. Moving north from her beloved theatrical home, Portland, Maine, Lisa lives in Searsport with Michael and a motley collection of adopted furry creatures.Sound design and music editing by Carter Wogahn. Thanks to the Fable and Folly network for ad support and Brooklinen for underwriting this episode. Enjoy $20 off your $100 order by going to Brooklinen.com and using Promo Code TOME.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

The Infernal Itch by Bruce Boston. Narrated by Joel Simler. Hosted by Erik Grove. #fantasy #writing #hell   I turned up the hot water and let it flow across my body. I took the shampoo that Dr. Pederson had given me, poured a dose between my palms, and rubbed it into my scalp. As the medication penetrated the itching lessened and disappeared. I'd been through this routine before and knew relief would be temporary. Within hours it would again feel as if my scalp were infested by a colony of angry mites. My life had seemed perfect until a couple days ago. That was when limousine pulled up across the street, the dreams began, and the itching started.   Bruce Boston is the author of more than fifty books, including the novels The Guardener's Tale and Stained Glass Rain. His  poems have appeared in Asimov's SF, Analog, Weird Tales, Amazing Stories, Daily Science Fiction, NewMyths, Pedestal, Strange Horizons, Nebula Awards Showcase and Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. His poetry has received the Bram Stoker Award, the Asimov's Readers Award, and the Rhysling and Grand Master Awards of the SFPA. His fiction has received a Pushcart Prize and twice been a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award (novel, short story). Find him at http://bruceboston.com/   Joel Simler is an audiobook narrator born and raised in the Pacific Northwest - which is truly the best place to be a narrator as he can happily hunker down in his padded closet… err...uhh, his recording booth for those excessively rainy days. His love of reading can be traced back to his grandpa, who first introduced him to his first fantasy series. He also blames his grandpa for his getting in trouble in grade school during class for reading, instead of listening to the teacher. Find him on social media @SimlerSound and at www.simlersound.com.   Please help support The Overcast. Become a Patron Today! Subscribe on iTunes, Stitcher, or Spotify so you never miss an episode. While you're there, don't forget to leave a review!  

Joining me for this episode's online chat is one of my favourite authors of weird and wonderful fiction, Catherynne M Valente. Catherynne is the New York Times bestselling author of forty works of speculative fiction and poetry, including Space Opera, The Refrigerator Monologues, Palimpsest, the Orphan's Tales series, Deathless, Radiance, and the crowdfunded phenomenon The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Own Making (and the four books that followed it). She is the winner of the Andre Norton, Tiptree, Sturgeon, Prix Imaginales, Eugie Foster Memorial, Mythopoeic, Rhysling, Lambda, Locus, Romantic Times' Critics Choice and Hugo awards. She has been a finalist for the Nebula and World Fantasy Awards. She lives on an island off the coast of Maine with a small but growing menagerie of beasts, some of which are human. We talk about her many fabulous books, how she came to write and then crowdfund the first book in The Fairyland series which went on to win the Nebula Award, planting Easter eggs in Space Opera, writing complicated books, the weather and her latest short story which just so happens to be a Star Wars story The pairings: Little, Big by John Crowley The epic story of Smoky Barnable, an anonymous young man who travels by foot from the City to a place called Edgewood—not found on any map—to marry Daily Alice Drinkwater, as was prophesied. It is the story of four generations of a singular family, living in a house that is many houses on the magical border of an otherworld. It is a story of fantastic love and heartrending loss; of impossible things and unshakable destinies; and of the great Tale that envelops us all. It is a wonder. Catherynne chose a classic cocktail from 1688 - Milk Punch - to pair with this eerie and complex story. Possession by A.S. Byatt An exhilarating novel of wit and romance, at once an intellectual mystery and triumphant love story. It is the tale of a pair of young scholars researching the lives of two Victorian poets. As they uncover their letters, journals, and poems, and track their movements from London to Yorkshire—from spiritualist séances to the fairy-haunted far west of Brittany—what emerges is an extraordinary counterpoint of passions and ideas. Man Booker Prize Winner (1990) Catherynne suggested a 1920s cocktail called The Last Word to pair perfectly with this passionate literary thriller! Smart Ovens For Lonely People by Elizabeth Tan A collection of offbeat, mind-bending short stories that are a joy to dip in and out of. A cat-shaped oven tells a depressed woman she doesn't have to be sorry anymore. A Yourtopia Bespoke Terraria employee becomes paranoid about the mounting coincidences in her life. Four girls gather to celebrate their underwear in ‘Happy Smiling Underwear Girls Party' and so many more. These are funny, sharp, witty and surreal stories that are somewhat disturbing at heart as they give us a glimpse of a potential future world and what might be… I was thinking that i'd love something fresh and sharp to drink whilst reading these stories and the wine that comes to mind is an Argentinian wine called Torrontes - it's nickname is The Liar as it smells sweet but is actually very dry and has an almost salty and lean taste and texture in your mouth. I think it would pair perfectly with this book of inventive and biting stories!

Papyrates by Deborah L. Davitt. Narrated by J.S. Arquin. Featuring an afterword recorded by Deborah L. Davitt. #fantasy #fiction #pirates #paper #podcast   She stood on the jetty, watching the ship unfurl itself with geometric precision, unfolding from its flattened state into sweeping white arcs of bow and stern. Her crew carried the long white rolls of the masts aboard and then lifted them into place with a call and response that drifted on the wind like a chanson. As Papyra strode aboard, she called, “Ready the sails!” and her crew unfolded the last sheaves, tying them in place to catch the first breaths of wind. It was time to hunt.   Deborah L. Davitt was raised in Nevada, but currently lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. She's worked as a technical writer on contracts involving nuclear submarines, NASA, and computer manufacturing. Her poetry has received Rhysling, Dwarf Star, and Pushcart nominations and has appeared in over fifty venues; her short fiction has appeared in Galaxy's Edge, Compelling Science Fiction, and Flame Tree anthologies. For more about her work, including her Edda-Earth novels and her poetry collection, The Gates of Never, please see www.edda-earth.com.  You can also find her on Twitter @DavittDL and on facebook https://www.facebook.com/deborah.davitt.3   Please help support The Overcast. Become a Patron Today! Subscribe on iTunes or Stitcher so you never miss an episode. While you're there, don't forget to leave a review! J.S. Arquin's Crimson Dust Cycle has launched! Go to www.arquinworlds.com to download your free prequel story. Are you an author who loves J.S. Arquin's narrations? Ask him to narrate your audiobook at www.arquinaudiobooks.com 

Main Fiction: "Glass Eyes, Steel Hands, Metal Mind"This story is original to StarShipSofa.Deborah L. Davitt was raised in Nevada, but currently lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. Her poetry has received Rhysling, Dwarf Star, and Pushcart nominations; her short fiction has appeared in InterGalactic Medicine Show, Compelling Science Fiction, and Pseudopod. For more about her work, including her Edda-Earth novels and her forthcoming poetry collection, The Gates of Never, please see edda-earth.com.Narrated by David D. LevineDavid D. Levine is the author of Andre Norton Award-winning novel Arabella of Mars (Tor 2016), sequels Arabella and the Battle of Venus (Tor 2017) and Arabella the Traitor of Mars (Tor 2018), and more than fifty SF and fantasy stories. His story “Tk’Tk’Tk” won the Hugo, and he has been shortlisted for awards including the Hugo, Nebula, Campbell, and Sturgeon. His stories have appeared in Asimov’s, Analog, F&SF, Tor.com, numerous Year’s Best anthologies, and his award-winning collection Space Magic.Fact: Science News by J J Campanella See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Drawing on the author’s deep knowledge of classical literature, Deborah L. Davitt’s book of poetry The Gates of Never (Finishing Line Press, 2018) explores the intersections of myth, science, and humanity through her beautifully accessible poems, reflecting a variety of forms and linguistic styles. These poems morph between being moving, irreverent, unsettling, and erotic — offering up a richly textured collection of work. “He writes me upside down and backwards, so that I hardly know myself yet, but my hundred newly-open mouths whisper secret meanings, and offer atramentum kisses; he soothes my wounds with copper vitriol, making the words holy and incorruptible, incapable of fading into sepia; yet as he kisses me, our tongues meeting, the words spark white-fire under my skin, the runes writhing into new configurations” – from “Testament” Deborah L. Davitt was raised in Nevada, but currently lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. She has worked as a technical writer on contracts involving nuclear submarines, NASA, and computer manufacturing. Her poetry has received nominations for the Rhysling, Dwarf Star, and Pushcart awards; and her short fiction has appeared in InterGalactic Medicine Show, Compelling Science Fiction, and Pseudopod. For more about her work, including her Edda-Earth novels and her poetry collection, The Gates of Never, please see www.edda-earth.com. You can find New Books in Poetry on Shuffle here. Andrea Blythe bides her time waiting for the apocalypse by writing speculative poetry and fiction. She is the author of Your Molten Heart / A Seed to Hatch (2018) a collection of erasure poems created from the pages of Trader Joe’s Fearless Flyers, and coauthor of Every Girl Becomes the Wolf (Finishing Line Press, 2018), a collaborative chapbook written with Laura Madeline Wiseman. She is a cohost of the New Books in Poetry podcast and is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association and the Horror Writers Association. Learn more at: www.andreablythe.com Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Drawing on the author’s deep knowledge of classical literature, Deborah L. Davitt’s book of poetry The Gates of Never (Finishing Line Press, 2018) explores the intersections of myth, science, and humanity through her beautifully accessible poems, reflecting a variety of forms and linguistic styles. These poems morph between being moving, irreverent, unsettling, and erotic — offering up a richly textured collection of work. “He writes me upside down and backwards, so that I hardly know myself yet, but my hundred newly-open mouths whisper secret meanings, and offer atramentum kisses; he soothes my wounds with copper vitriol, making the words holy and incorruptible, incapable of fading into sepia; yet as he kisses me, our tongues meeting, the words spark white-fire under my skin, the runes writhing into new configurations” – from “Testament” Deborah L. Davitt was raised in Nevada, but currently lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. She has worked as a technical writer on contracts involving nuclear submarines, NASA, and computer manufacturing. Her poetry has received nominations for the Rhysling, Dwarf Star, and Pushcart awards; and her short fiction has appeared in InterGalactic Medicine Show, Compelling Science Fiction, and Pseudopod. For more about her work, including her Edda-Earth novels and her poetry collection, The Gates of Never, please see www.edda-earth.com. You can find New Books in Poetry on Shuffle here. Andrea Blythe bides her time waiting for the apocalypse by writing speculative poetry and fiction. She is the author of Your Molten Heart / A Seed to Hatch (2018) a collection of erasure poems created from the pages of Trader Joe’s Fearless Flyers, and coauthor of Every Girl Becomes the Wolf (Finishing Line Press, 2018), a collaborative chapbook written with Laura Madeline Wiseman. She is a cohost of the New Books in Poetry podcast and is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association and the Horror Writers Association. Learn more at: www.andreablythe.com Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Drawing on the author’s deep knowledge of classical literature, Deborah L. Davitt’s book of poetry The Gates of Never (Finishing Line Press, 2018) explores the intersections of myth, science, and humanity through her beautifully accessible poems, reflecting a variety of forms and linguistic styles. These poems morph between being moving, irreverent, unsettling, and erotic — offering up a richly textured collection of work. “He writes me upside down and backwards, so that I hardly know myself yet, but my hundred newly-open mouths whisper secret meanings, and offer atramentum kisses; he soothes my wounds with copper vitriol, making the words holy and incorruptible, incapable of fading into sepia; yet as he kisses me, our tongues meeting, the words spark white-fire under my skin, the runes writhing into new configurations” – from “Testament” Deborah L. Davitt was raised in Nevada, but currently lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. She has worked as a technical writer on contracts involving nuclear submarines, NASA, and computer manufacturing. Her poetry has received nominations for the Rhysling, Dwarf Star, and Pushcart awards; and her short fiction has appeared in InterGalactic Medicine Show, Compelling Science Fiction, and Pseudopod. For more about her work, including her Edda-Earth novels and her poetry collection, The Gates of Never, please see www.edda-earth.com. You can find New Books in Poetry on Shuffle here. Andrea Blythe bides her time waiting for the apocalypse by writing speculative poetry and fiction. She is the author of Your Molten Heart / A Seed to Hatch (2018) a collection of erasure poems created from the pages of Trader Joe’s Fearless Flyers, and coauthor of Every Girl Becomes the Wolf (Finishing Line Press, 2018), a collaborative chapbook written with Laura Madeline Wiseman. She is a cohost of the New Books in Poetry podcast and is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association and the Horror Writers Association. Learn more at: www.andreablythe.com Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Cryptonaturalist is lost and then found in the usual place, a twisted scientist’s volcano lair.Hidden lore poetry by Leslie J. Anderson. Leslie’s writing has appeared in Asimov’s, Uncanny Magazine, Strange Horizons, Daily Science Fiction, and Apex, to name a few. Her collection of poetry, An Inheritance of Stone, was released from Alliteration Ink and was nominated for an Elgin award. Poems from it have won 2nd place in the Asimov’s Reader’s Awards, and were nominated for Pushcart and Rhysling award. Find Leslie at www.lesliejanderson.com or @inkhat on twitter.

A Thousand Echoes in One Voice by Deborah L. Davitt.  Narrated by J.S. Arquin.  Featuring an afterword recorded by Deborah L. Davitt.  #Scifi #timetravel #fiction #podcast   "You've snuck through doors that should have been locked to get here.  Here, the subway station is silent, the kind of silence that comes deep underground, isolated from the hum of the human hive overhead.  No electric lights.  No neon.  No vibrations.  No voices.  Not even a breath of moving air."   Deborah L. Davitt was raised in Nevada, but currently lives in Houston, Texas, with her husband and son.  She's worked as a technical writer on contracts involving nuclear submarines, NASA, and computer manufacturing.   Her poetry has received Rhysling and Pushcart nominations and has appeared in over twenty journals.  Her short fiction has earned a finalist showing for the Jim Baen Adventure Fantasy Award (2018) and has appeared in Intergalactic Medicine Show, Compelling Science Fiction, and Galaxy's Edge.  For more about her work, including her Edda-Earth novels, please see www.edda-earth.com .   Please help support the Overcast.  Become a Patron Today! Subscribe on iTunes or Stitcher so you never miss an episode.  While you're there, don't forget to leave a review!

Never Alone, Never Unarmed by Bobby Sun   The fighting spider sat heavily in Kian Boon’s left palm, where he’d knocked it from its leafy abode. It was maybe a centimeter and a half from the tip of its pedipalps to the silky spinnerets of its abdomen, black and silver like one of the sleek Chinese centipedals that increasingly frequented the roads below his building. He could feel the weight of the thing as he cupped his hand around it and it jumped, smacking against the roof of his fingers.     Oh hi, Rey. Hi. What are you doing? Oh, are you coming over here to smell. I know, Rey. I know. You're a good dog. But, I gotta do this recording. Yeah. [Intro music plays] Hello, welcome to GlitterShip Episode 59 for August 27th, 2018. This is your host, Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing this story with you. Today, we have a GlitterShip original, "Never Alone, Never Unarmed" by Bobby Sun, and a poem, "Feminine Endlings" by Alison Rumfitt. Before we get started, I want to let you know that GlitterShip is part of of the Audible Trial Program. This means that just by listening to GlitterShip, you are eligible for a free 30 day membership on Audible, and a free audiobook to keep. One book that I listened to recently is They Both Die at the End by Adam Silvera. I will warn you, this young adult book is full of feelings. That said, I thought it was a great example of queer tragedy rather than tragic queers. In a near future world, everyone gets a phone call between midnight and 3am of the day that they're going to die. They Both Die at the End follows two teen boys who got that call on the same day. I loved how tender the book was, but here's your warning: have tissues on hand. To download a free audiobook today, go to www.audibletrial.com/glittership and choose an excellent book to listen to. Whether that's They Both Die at the End or maybe even something that's a little less emotionally strenuous.     Alison Rumfitt is a transgender writer who studies in Brighton, UK. She loves, amongst other things: forest, folklore, gothic romance, and wild theories about her favorite authors being trans. Her poetry has previously been published in Liminality, Strange Horizons, and Eternal Haunted Summer. Two of her poems were nominated for the Rhysling award in 2018. You can find her on Twitter @gothicgarfield.     Feminine Endlings by Alison Rumfitt   I’m the last one with a mouth I think the last onewho still has a tongue that can dance the lastto dance or move the last to use her lungs likelungs were used like they used to be likea soft ball of feathers being blown by a galeI am the full stop I think the forest is different for menow, I can’t see the others, and I cannot think of them,all the trees have changed shapethey now carry new sub-meaningsdeep in their bark new grubs are bornscreaming from podsto chew at my placethis citywhich I knew so wellwhich I knew automatically could navigate as an automatonturning left and right the moment I sensed itit’s gone, somewhere, when I had my back turneddrinking away in a clearingnow the people have different colored eyesit’s far less bursting and different than my old days tell methe sun left along withall of the people I was in love with the city the forestthe cave-system the desert the habitat adapts to thethings that dwell in it the things inside itevolve to be more like their future selvesand I hate the way it makes me feelbecause I like knowing where I am— the last Tasmanian Tiger died in a zoo from neglectas a storm ripped at her cage she lay in the cornerhead tucked under her arm the lastStephens Island wren was clawed to deathby the first cat she fell to the grass feeling theteeth around her shallow headthe last Passenger Pigeon was stuffedshe sits in a glass boxtelling everyone who visits that everything will changeand you will die eventuallyand nothing really matters if you don’t want it toand there’s so many of uswho died somewhere alone the last of a kindwithout a name or a grave-marker or ashesto be put upon a fireplace or manteland I hate that I could end up the sameforgotten under piles of new babies with new waysof thinking new streets built over my houseas a lightning strike burns down the tree I hid inthe end of a line marks the place where you know what the lineis the end of a species or a group or a life marks thedefinition of said species or group or lifeso the end of me matters and the end of mewill live on past the rest of me so if I endthe same way all the others do I becomethe same as all the others I am notme I am them but I am me if I end neveror if I end when it becomes thematicallymeaningful which is why nothing matters nowbut then it will it will really matter everything will matterthe last trans woman on earthstanding on a pile of trans womenthe only thing that tells you she is ‘she’ isshe rhymes unstressed which is arbitrarymaybe we won then if the last woman is herif the last trans woman in a new worldwhere everyone is nothingshe is this wonderfulthing happy in a house builton the dead made of the dead maybe eating the deadon her own making her own fun readingcoding tattooing herself with notes and appendixesif it's her then perhaps the perfect final note of Us is— This, old Death slowly walking opening the door to meet herand he nods and she nods and the world becomes a little darker.     Bobby Sun is a Chinese-Malaysian author and spoken-word poet who grew up in Singapore and is studying in London. His work has previously been published on Tor.com as well as in the inaugural Singapore Poetry Writing Month ("SingPoWriMo") anthology (as Robert Bivouac), and in Rosarium Publishing's anthology of Southeast Asian steampunk, The SEA is Ours: Tales from Steampunk Southeast Asia as Robert Liow.     Never Alone, Never Unarmed by Bobby Sun   The fighting spider sat heavily in Kian Boon’s left palm, where he’d knocked it from its leafy abode. It was maybe a centimeter and a half from the tip of its pedipalps to the silky spinnerets of its abdomen, black and silver like one of the sleek Chinese centipedals that increasingly frequented the roads below his building. He could feel the weight of the thing as he cupped his hand around it and it jumped, smacking against the roof of his fingers. He kept his left hand closed and extracted a jar from a raggedy, home-made satchel. The jar was double-layered; between the inner and outer layers of chitinous plastic shrilk was water, kept reasonably below the ambient temperature with a simple synthorg heat sink he’d Shaped himself. The spring-sealed jar flicked open as Kian Boon visualized and nudged a couple of its Shape-threads. He dropped the spider in, snapped the jar shut and let the cooling take effect. This little thing, all of approximately two grams, was worth about a dollar; iced Coklat for two at the kopitiam near his school. The jar, of course, wasn’t part of the deal. His buyers would need a container of their own. Kian Boon swatted at a mosquito, then pushed his way deeper into the vegetation. He winced as a twig scratched his cheek. There were still four jars left to fill, though, and it was only nine on a Saturday morning. The air was thick with mist, and the leaves still hung with dew. White-headed birds hopped through the trees, leaping from branch to branch and snatching red berries off their stems. Somewhere above him a male koel sounded off. The sun filtered through the canopy, dappling the ground in pixel-patterns; Kian Boon made a game of dancing through them. This area was new to him. He’d heard of it only because Aidil, a rival spider-hunter from the neighbouring class, had let it slip to his sister. She’d told her best friend, and it had eventually ended up with Ravi Pillai (who’d, naturally, told Kian Boon). Ravi was the bright-eyed Indian boy in his class he’d noticed during orientation, on their first day of Form One. He’d been assigned to Kian Boon’s group, and was the very first to get picked for “Whacko”. Kian Boon hadn’t recalled his classmates’ names in time, so Ravi had hit him hard enough with the rolled-up newspaper that he’d sustained a paper cut on his forehead. The horrified facilitator had excluded Ravi from the rest of that game, though Kian Boon hadn’t really minded. The only name Ravi really remembered at the end of that day was his. It was, well, best friends at first sight. They hung out at recess almost every day, sometimes joined in a game of soccer and occasionally went to the kopitiam or spider-fighting rings after school with their friends. Not alone, though, he thought. Not yet. He’d get there later. There was a plan, and he needed the spiders for it. Kian Boon exhaled. He picked through the thickest bush he could find, searching for the tell-tale bivouac of a fighting spider. They preferred the densest vegetation, making their home in glued-together leaves. Finding a nest, he gently unzipped it, dissolving the silk into its constituent proteins. The spider hung onto the upper leaf, but with a quick motion of the wrist it was resting in his cupped left palm. He felt its silken trail as it darted about, and he closed his hands to gauge its weight. A good spider, if a little sluggish. It was well-fed. He peeked through a gap in his fingers. Its silver-banded abdomen iridesced a bottle-green; a rare and valuable variety. Kian Boon slipped it into another jar, watching as the critter paced, then slowed, then eventually fell asleep. There was a swift rustling. Kian Boon turned around and there, maybe ten meters away from him, was a tiger about three meters in length. Perhaps he could make it turn away? He pulled its Shape-threads up, but they were greyed-out; it was too strong for him to Shape. Kian Boon hissed in frustration. He backed further into the vegetation, praying he hadn’t been spotted. He hadn’t expected a tiger. Singaporean tigers were rare. The British had set bounties on each head for the century they’d colonized the island, and their subjects had been happy to deliver. The Great War, just under a decade ago, had taken its toll on them too; fierce fighting between the British Malayan Army and the Nanyang Republic’s coalition had driven them across the Straits, setting large tracts of its old growth ablaze. This place, though, had been almost completely untouched. Some of the trees were massive, and looked decades, if not centuries, old. Of course there’d be tigers here. What had his mother told him about tigers? They were fast, strong and intelligent. They could climb trees, and there was no point playing dead. Think, Kian Boon thought to himself. You are never alone, and never unarmed. He’d heard the Combat Shaper Corps’ motto on the thinscreen dozens of times in recruitment advertisements, and his parents had served with them in the war. Anything alive, or once alive, could be useful. Think. Dead leaves on the ground. Live leaves everywhere else. Wood, if he could tear it away. Several blade-like mushrooms sprouting from a lightning-blackened stump. Bugs of all kinds; swarming midges in the air, nests of kerengga ants streaming down the taller trees, large crickets, caterpillars and butterflies. Think. The tiger snuffled. It knew Kian Boon was there, but didn’t want to advance just yet. It would wait for the boy to let his guard down and then strike. Kian Boon could see it pacing, its stripes slipping through gaps in the vegetation. He kept it in front of him. His gaze leapt from tree to tree as he wracked his brain for solutions; his guard was up, and multi-coloured Shape-threads popped in and out of his vision. He blinked sweat out of his eyes, though it was a relatively cool morning, and then he attacked. Kian Boon realigned the threads near the bottom of two of the nearest trees with a slash of his fingers, loosening their cells, and thrust his hand forward, dislodging them. The trees splintered at the breaks, but didn’t fall; he only wanted to scare the tiger, not hurt it. The tiger leapt back, wary, then stepped around the obstruction. Kian Boon locked eyes with it, just a leap away from him. The sun turned it a dappled gold, its stripes shifting as it padded towards him. It licked its muzzle. Trembling, Kian Boon reached into his satchel for his pocketknife, but instead felt one of his empty spider jars. He pulled back, then looked again. The synthorg heat sink was a simple construct. Kian Boon could put one together in an hour from kitchen scraps. Powered by a small reservoir of ethanol, it dispersed heat from the water insulating the jar into the external environment, keeping the inside cool. Kian Boon snapped the empty jar open, snatched up a handful of dead leaves and stuffed them in. He Shaped them into a slurry, then sealed the jar. He tore at its Shape-threads roughly, until the outer layer cracked and the water drained out. The heat sink began to glow, and Kian Boon hurled the jar as hard as he could at the tiger’s face. It smashed, the slurry spilled out, and the red-hot heat sink set it ablaze. It was merely a fistful of fire, but the tiger roared and swiped at its face, singed by the improvised weapon. Kian Boon made a run for it. He sprinted past the temporarily blinded creature, no longer caring to dance through the sunlight. He burst through shrubs, trod on ant trails, snapped every twig in his path as he rushed to the safety of the small capillary road he’d entered by. The spiders he’d caught slept on.   The Transit Authority centibus stop was deserted. The factory beside it had closed for the weekend, and only three buses served this stop. Kian Boon flipped through his bus guide and figured out a route. It would cost him a flat ten cents, out of his weekly state school allowance of seven dollars and fifty cents. He sat on one of the fan-shaped seats, which had been painted a bright shade of orange, and kicked the gravelled ground absent-mindedly. It finally hit him. That was the first tiger he’d seen in the flesh. The captive ones in the Zoo, behind panes of mesh and hardened shrilk, didn’t count. He recalled its eyes, staring into his as he’d reached in panic for his pocket knife, for all the good that would’ve done. The smell of the tiger’s burning fur, acrid like the time he’d accidentally let his hair catch on his elder cousin’s sparkler two New Years ago. He’d panicked and run headlong into her, putting out the fire but also burning a hole in her pretty red qipao. She’d been able to fix the damage, but the fabric had been stretched thin and eventually fell apart in the wash. He looked into his satchel again. Four remaining jars, half of them empty. He slapped the seat in frustration. The trees could have been knocked down, instead of snapped. He’d been too soft to risk hurting a fucking tiger that was about to eat him alive. He could’ve used the insects to his advantage, sending ants and flies to blind the predator while he fled. He could’ve crumbled the humus beneath his enemy’s feet, trapping it in place, but no. He’d overloaded the fuel cell on the heat sink, instead, because he’d had it in his hand and stopped thinking. He sighed. Getting the materials for another jar hadn’t been in the plan, and it would set him back a couple of weeks in savings. The state school allowance was alright, but it was hard to save much of it when the Ministry-mandated lunch service deducted a dollar each weekday. That left him with two-fifty a week, of which one dollar went to transport to and from school. Most kids ran errands for extra money or joined a semi-legal enterprise, like the spider-fighting rings. Some, like the ahbengs and ahlians at school, joined up with the secret societies that the Nanyang administration hadn’t managed to stamp out. He mostly stayed away from those, though he did sell spiders and tech to the few he trusted. Ravi didn’t like them at all, but it was business. Perhaps he’d scavenge something, repair some junk, and maybe that’d pay for a few more dates at the kopitiam. The plan would go on; he only had enough for a first date, now, but Ravi would probably forgive iced Coklat. Kian Boon leaned back, staring at the ceiling of the bus stop. A nest of communal spiders had made their webs between two of the scaffolds. The dense, grey mesh surrounded the lone tube light, a fatal attraction for moths; he presumed this stop was so out of the way that the Transit Authority’s street cleaners didn’t come here. He focused on their Shape-threads and sliced a bit of the web off with a pinch of his fingers. Several spiders emerged, startled. He let go, and they drifted lazily until a gust of wind sent them, and the chunk of web they clung to, into the distance. He knew this species; that bit he’d just cut off would eventually establish its own colony somewhere else, if it found a safe home. The rest of the web would adjust, rebuilding what he’d torn off. He wondered if it would be the same for him, if he pinched a little bit off himself and someone else let it go. Would it grow back? His centibus arrived. The thumping undulations of its rubberised legs slowed as it pulled up to the stop. Kian Boon shrugged his satchel on, hoisted himself off the orange seat and climbed aboard.   Kian Boon reached home at eleven, just as his Ma began preparing lunch. She was washing rice while little Siew Gim, all of sixteen months old, played with their Ba in the living room. Ma scowled at him through the kitchen doorway; he shouted, “sorry, Ma,” and hurried to his room. He looked at himself, covered in scratches and forest grime, and sighed. If Ma had started to cook, she’d have washed up beforehand. The water would be cold for a while before the solar heater managed to warm it up. He exhaled and slumped to the cold, green-grey floor, letting the heat drain out of him. Rolling onto his stomach, he crawled over to his satchel and removed the spiders he’d caught. They slumbered peacefully in their jars, legs tucked beneath their bellies. He looked into their tiny black eyes, open but unaware, and the streaks upon their shiny bodies. He picked himself up and set them down on his homework-cluttered desk. His cheek stung; the cut he’d sustained had reopened, slightly, and blood began to well in the laceration. Kian Boon sighed, brushed his hair back and opened the door. Siew Gim was waiting for him, babbling “Gor-gor” excitedly in Ba’s arms. She’d been born with nubby stumps instead of legs. Ba’s transport had been hit by a fungal mine the Brits had left behind during their final retreat. He’d been evacuated back to Pontianak and put out of action for the rest of the war. Kian Boon recalled sitting by Ba’s bed in the base hospital while the doctors purged the disease from his father’s body. They hadn’t discovered the mutations until they’d had Siew Gim. Kian Boon reached for his little sister, but Ba pulled her back at the last moment, laughing. Siew Gim squealed and shook her head to get her fringe out of her face. She pouted at Ba, and he rubbed her nose with his finger. He gently chided Kian Boon in Hokkien. “Boon, go shower, then can play with Gim. Water warm already.” Kian Boon nodded and headed for the master bedroom, where their shared bathroom was. He stripped his dirt-covered clothes off and shook them to make sure nothing had come back home with him. He spotted and ripped the legs off a biting bug that had attached itself to his collar; his spiders would need the food, but he couldn’t afford to have the thing loose in the house. Thankfully, nothing else had hitched a ride out of the forest. He stepped into the bathroom and hit the showers, relaxing as the sun-warmed water rolled over his body.   The smell of fried fish filled the house as Kian Boon sat on the living room floor. Siew Gim bounced on his lap, giggling as she tried to headbutt him on the chin. He threw her favourite toy, a synthorg turtle plushie named “Turtle”, across the room, where it landed on its back and started to scrabble in the air. Siew Gim took off after it, crawling on her rubberized elbow and wrist pads. Kian Boon watched her; she wiggled her butt and stumps in sync with the movements of her arms. It looked as if she was swimming on the ground, almost effortlessly; they’d put her in a pool once, and she’d taken off like a fish. He wondered, not for the first time, what he’d looked like at that age. Ma and Ba hadn’t seen Kian Boon often. Ma had fallen pregnant just before the war, given birth and been called back to duty once he’d turned three months old, leaving him in a military childcare facility on the outskirts of Pontianak. Ma was a combat-Shaping instructor, and Ba was a maintenance specialist with a mechanized infantry company; they’d been assigned to separate units as a result. Kian Boon had one official picture of himself for each of the four years he’d been a ward of the state. Still, he knew he’d had it good. At least they were alive, and they treated him well. Ba sat at the workbench in the living room, tinkering with one of his latest creations. Ba had service injury compensation in addition to the social dividend which the Nanyang government had implemented several years ago. It was more than enough to live on, but he insisted on working full-time with the Reconstruction Trust. He maintained residential buildings with his team, and built things in his spare time. Ba was currently working on a lifelike in the shape of a pigeon. There were scraps of gore wedged under his fingernails as he carved up a pig brain with a scalpel and threaded the grey matter into the pigeonlike’s soft, shrilk body, weaving neural circuits that would link his creation’s brain to the rest of its body and allow it to move and respond to stimuli once he’d given it a circulatory system, sensory organs and muscles. A pile of animal hair and feathers, bought from the local butcher, remained by the side of the table as raw material for its feathers and beak. Kian Boon picked Siew Gim up and walked over. She loved to see her father working on things, even though she was years away from getting her Shaping, and often crudely mimicked his hand movements as he flicked at threads, waving her hands as if to help him in his work. Upon seeing the greyish pig brain she squealed with delight, babbling “hooi, foo!” when she recognized  the colour. Ba smiled at her, then motioned to Kian Boon. “Boon, put Gim down. Come sit here.” Kian Boon lowered Siew Gim to the floor. She scooted off to the middle of the living room to play with Turtle. He sat down next to Ba, as Ba resumed weaving the pigeonlike’s neural circuits. The fingers of Ba’s right hand traced the grooves he’d etched into its body, pulling the grey matter along with it. Kian Boon watched as he guided them along their paths. He studied the threads, observing how Ba shifted the different, intersecting colours as he bound the circuits to their shrilk housing. Ba hummed a tune while he worked. It was an old marching song based on the Chinese classic, “Man Jiang Hong”. He’d taught Kian Boon that song on one of their weekend outings earlier that year, while they searched the hills of Bukit Timah for rare wildlife. Kian Boon had thought the guy who’d played the Chinese hero Yue Fei on thinscreen a couple of years back had looked good, and Ba had teased him about his “heroic boyfriend” all the way home. Ma had laughed when Kian Boon complained, and told him not to let other boys distract him from his schoolwork. Ba tapped Kian Boon on the hand with a gory finger. “Boon, can see the threads on the grey matter?” “Can see, Ba, can see.” “Good. You try to move them a bit. Fill in the gap.” Ba passed the grey matter to Kian Boon. Kian Boon summoned and seized hold of just one strand, manipulating it with his index finger. He could see the etching, and he let the material stretch and fill it up. Where it branched, he picked a path and continued on it, only returning to the original when it ended. He traced the circuits of the pigeonlike precisely, looking back to Ba every now and then for approval. Ba simply nodded and smiled at his son. Kian Boon, for his part, was happy to be working on one of Ba’s projects. “Ba, this one use for what?” “This one for singing. See the circuits at the neck, there? For vocal chords.” “Go market show?” “Yeah. Let neighbour they all see.” This was to be a showbird, the kind old folks hung up in cages and let sing to each other in the mornings. On the days the family went out for breakfast, Kian Boon would often sit in the market’s sheltered concourse with Siew Gim, listening to their melodious tweeting. Each showbird was controlled by a single brain, Shaped into accepting musical instructions; the quality of the song then depended on how the Shaper constructed its inner workings. He wondered if Ravi would like the showbirds. There were orioles living in their school. Their feathers were a brilliant yellow, and their eyes and wings were ringed in black. He’d pointed one out to Ravi, who’d immediately picked a brilliant feather off to use as a bookmark. Ravi loved their calls, which reminded him of mornings, waking up and walking to school in the cool half-light. The sweet, clear chirps even evoked the smell, he’d said, of damp leaves and dewy air. Kian Boon had asked him then, “I smell like what?” Ravi had thought for a bit before shrugging. “School, I guess. Just like school.” Ba gently tapped Kian Boon’s hand. Kian Boon’s finger had gone off course. Grey matter had now forced itself into a crevice it had no right to be in, awkwardly bulging the shrilk surface of a wing. Kian Boon grimaced. It was a minor accident, but if not corrected, it would affect the pigeonlike’s function. Ba was still smiling, though. “Can fix one, Boon. Don’t worry. Just think.” Kian Boon focused. He pulled the grey matter back, slowly; it grudgingly slid back out of the crevice, leaving a crack behind. He summoned the Shape-threads around the crack and the bulge on the pigeonlike’s wing and obligingly, they rose. A firm prodding applied directly to the bulge shifted the material inwards, and a pinch closed the crack entirely. He gave the thing a once-over. It looked fine now, like it had before, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Ba patted him on the shoulder and took the unfinished pigeonlike from him. The sound of plates caused them to turn their heads. Ma was setting the table for lunch, with fried fish, a pot of rice and some bok choy. Ba and Kian Boon got up, then headed to the toilet to wash their hands.   It was four in the afternoon, and Kian Boon lay on his bed. A completed sheaf of Math worksheets lay on his desk. Kian Boon was more interested in science and Shaping than totting up numbers and letters, and often found himself asking Ravi for help with the tougher questions. The other boy had a knack for logic and rhetoric and dreamt of being an architect. His mother had been one before the war, he’d told Kian Boon, and now worked in the Reconstruction Trust as a restoration engineer, supervising the restoration of historic buildings. Kian Boon had asked Ba if he knew her, but Ba didn’t know much about her except that she had her own team and a reputation for efficiency. As he turned the cordless phone over in his hands, Kian Boon wondered what meeting Ms Pillai would be like. It would have to happen someday, he reasoned. She sometimes picked up when he called Ravi over the weekend, and her voice had a sunny warmth that Ravi had inherited. He turned the dial three times, and then stopped. This was part of the plan, he reminded himself. He’d prepared something for this, folded it up in an old exercise book and kept it away just for this moment. It was a love letter, at first, until he realized he couldn’t do it in person; it then became a script, memorized over the past week so he wouldn’t sound like he was reading off it. He’d thoroughly grilled Ravi on his plans for the weekend. Ravi had said he’d be back from soccer practice and lunch at three, and Kian Boon had done his homework in double-time so he’d be free to call at four. This was all part of the plan. He redialled the eight digits of Ravi’s phone number, forcing himself to drag his finger clockwise. He could already feel the resistance building up. His heart rate rose each time he released the dial, and the muscles in his neck and jaw tensed up. He exhaled slowly as the dial returned to its original position for the eighth time, and somewhere in Singapore, a phone began to ring.   On the fourth ring, Ravi picked up. Kian Boon’s mouth went dry at the lilt of his voice. Everything seemed to snap into focus, and Shape-threads began to encroach on his vision. He forced them away, breathing deeply. He struggled to get the words out. “Hi, Ravi, Kian Boon here. You free?” “Yeah, what’s up?” “Uh, I actually been thinking. You know we been friends for a while now, right? We, uh, got to know each other quite well over the past few months. We become kind of close.” “Yeah, got that. What’s this about?” Think. “Um, actually, I want ask you something. You’re, uh, not like other guys. Like, more mature, more smart, more handsome. Uh. Um. Uh. You want to go out? With me. Like. Date.” Ravi was quiet for a while. Kian Boon could hear him breathing through clenched teeth, the slightly wet sound of air coming up against wet enamel, before he finally said something. “Boon, you’re a good friend, but that’s it. I’m really flattered, but I don’t think I like you like that.” Kian Boon felt his stomach giving way and a pressure in his nose. He lowered the phone, so if he began to cry Ravi wouldn’t hear it. The Shape-threads returned, and this time he couldn’t force them down. He wanted to scream at Ravi, hang up on the insensitive, undeserving boy, but he stopped himself. Think. There were other people out there. Plus, Ravi hadn’t sounded weird, or creeped out. It wasn’t like this was the end. Can fix one. Don’t worry, Boon. Just think. Kian Boon exhaled through his nose and brought the phone back up. “Hey Ravi, you there or not?” “Uh, yeah.” “It’s alright. I, uh, don’t mind. Heh. You still want hang out, though? Like, not in that way. Friend friend only. I got two good spiders today, we can get iced Coklat after school tomorrow.” Ravi laughed and said, “Yeah, sure.” The pressure dissipated. Kian Boon sighed, smiled, and responded. “Alright, set.” He chuckled. “Eh, Ravi, by the way. You seen a tiger before?” END     “Feminine Endlings” is copyright Alison Rumfitt 2018. “Never Alone, Never Unarmed” is copyright Bobby Sun 2018. 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 another GlitterShip original.  

"“Princess Lily's Wedding” by Robert J. Santa (Originally published in Blood, Blade & Thruster.) "I love him, Daddy!" King Frederick breathed deeply. It had been a very long conversation with his youngest child, punctuated by much pouting and exasperated sighing and stomping of pretty feet. Frederick stood over her while she held her face in her hands and cried. He wanted to do nothing more than pout and sigh and stomp his feet. Of course, he couldn't, even in his daughter's bedroom with no one else to see. Kings had to uphold higher standards, especially with sixteen year-old daughters. Robert J. Santa has been writing speculative fiction for more than thirty years. His works have appeared in numerous online and print markets. Robert lives in Rhode Island, USA, with his beautiful wife and two, equally beautiful daughters, one of whom is named Lily. And while she is nothing like the Lily of this tale, she could be without stretching the imagination too much. “Shoe Man” by Tonya Liburd (Originally published in Expanded Horizons, July 2016.) Somewhere in downtown Toronto, a homeless black man had shoes whose soles were flapping. He refused to give them up, no matter what people said, no matter what people offered. They were the first things he ever bought in Canada, the shoes he wore to his wedding, so long ago. The wedding that was supposed to mark the beginning of a new life, a good life in Canada. A good life… they were pretty young, he had a wife, he had a daughter, he had a job… then the illness reared its head and took over. And everything spiraled out of control. No medications would make his mind whole again; the fear and confusion from his wife, the fights. The guilt over his daughter witnessing it all. When his wife died instantly from the car accident while he got barely a scratch – fortunately their daughter wasn’t with them – it was the last thing he could take, and he remembered just everything conspiring to force him out the door and leave everything behind. Well, almost. He still had his shoes. That was years ago. Tonya Liburd shares a birthday with Simeon Daniel and Ray Bradbury, which may tell you a little something about her; and while she has an enviable collection of vintage dust bunnies to her credit, her passions are music (someday!) and of course, words. Her poetry has been nominated for the Rhysling award, and her fiction has been long-listed in the 2015 Carter V. Cooper (Vanderbilt)/Exile Short Fiction Competition. Her story “The Ace of Knives” is in the anthology Postscripts to Darkness 6, and is used in Nisi Shawl’s workshops as an example of "code switching". She is the associate editor of Abyss & Apex magazine. You can find her blogging at spiderlilly.com or on Twitter as @somesillywowzer, and support her over at Patreon.com/TonyaLiburd. About the Narrators: Matt Dovey is very tall and very English and most likely drinking a cup of tea right now. He has a scar on his arm that he can't remember getting, but a terrible darkness floods his mind when he considers it. He now lives in a quiet market town in rural England with his wife and three children, and despite being a writer, he still hasn't found the right words to properly express the delight and joy he finds in this wonderful arrangement. His surname rhymes with "Dopey", but any other similarities to the dwarf are purely coincidental. He is the Golden Pen winner for Writers of the Future Volume 32 (2016), was shortlisted for the James White Award in 2016, and has fiction out and forthcoming all over the place; you can keep up with it at mattdovey.com, or follow along on Facebook and Twitter. Cris Maycock is a Bajan Yankee who has lived in Brooklyn most of her life, a beach lover, a food lover, and a sci-fi fan who likes to think that she is both scientific and creative. Cris loves storytelling and the performance medium of audio books." See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

In this week's podcast, host Annalee Newitz talks with Locus and Rhysling award-winning writer and critic Amal El-Mohtar about episode 3 of American Gods. They also discuss the portrayal of middle-eastern characters in fiction/tv, and the integration of fantasy elements in narrative storytelling. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

In this week's podcast, host Annalee Newitz talks with Locus and Rhysling award-winning writer and critic Amal El-Mohtar about episode 3 of American Gods. They also discuss the portrayal of middle-eastern characters in fiction/tv, and the integration of fantasy elements in narrative storytelling.

Coming Up… Main Fiction: “The Memory-Setter’s Apprentice” by Alvaro Zinos-Amaro Originally published at: Fantasy Scroll Mag Those who survive combat with the Sarakul return home with holes in their memories. As memory-setters, it’s our job to delve inside their skulls and repair the damage. Alvaro Zinos-Amaro is co-author, with Robert Silverberg, of When the Blue Shift Comes. Alvaro’s short fiction and Rhysling-nominated poetry have appeared in Analog, Nature, Galaxy’s Edge, Apex, Buzzy Mag, The Journal of Unlikely Entomology, and other venues. Alvaro has also published reviews, essays and interviews in The Los Angeles Review of Books, Clarkesworld, Strange Horizons and elsewhere, and currently edits the blog for Locus magazine.   Narrated by: Ibba Armancas Ibba Armancas is a nomadic screenwriter/director based in Los Angeles and Seattle. Her first feature film is due for release in 2015, and she... See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Coming up… SofaCON 2   Fact: Looking Back At Genre History by Amy H. Sturgis Main fiction: “A Long ‘Til Spring” by Dennis M. Lane (Narrated by the author) It had been a long day of walking through the auburn jungle for Billy Bob and the other young ‘uns.   Dennis M. Lane is a South Africa based writer who has seen his work gaining more of an audience over 2013. His 2012 collection of stories and poems garnered two Rhysling nominations and a Dwarf Stars nomination. He had a short story published in Dark Beauty Magazine’s Annual Steampunk issue and had a flash fiction podcast on Tales To Terrify. His first novel, Talatu, reached the dizzying heights of number 4 in the Teen Science Fiction listings on... See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Green Hills of Earth, is a story about Rhysling—the blind singer of the space-ways. Written by Robert A. Heinlein, it originally appeared in The Saturday Evening Post [February 8, 1947]. — ed. N.E. Lilly