Podcasts about storybundle

Mark interviews Matty Dalrymple and Michael La Ronn about their new co-authored book From Page to Platform: How to Succeed as an Author Speaker. Prior to the interview Mark shares comments from recent episodes, a personal update, and a word about this episode's sponsor This episode is sponsored by the Fall 2024 Novel Writing Storybundle. In their conversation, Matty, Michael, and Mark talk about: A bit of a refresher/background for both Matty and Michael Dale L. Roberts being the person who connected the two of them together How they got the idea for the book when both at a Writer's Digest conference together The process of going about writing the book together The flight instructor term of the "awkward exchange of control" Why a writer might be interested in getting into speaking A look at the importance of fleshing out your goals from speaking How speaking can open up new opportunities for a writer Some of the key strengths that can be brought to a speaking engagement, such as storytelling or making a talk feel more like a conversation The "dress for the job that you want" aspect for speakers Ideas for how to get started particularly if you're nervous about speaking to a large group of people Some of the do's and don'ts for doing panels, author readings, keynotes, etc Advise for authors who are on a panel The concept of stepping up if necessary if the moderator isn't performing the job as well as they should Matty's concept of the two different bios - the "speaker application bio" and the "brief speaker introduction" bio Tips for professional behavior and things author speakers should consider doing And more . . . After the interview Mark reflects on a couple of things from the interview and also shares a special offer for Patrons related to the aforementioned Storybundle.   Links of Interest: Matty Dalrymple's Author Site Michael's Author Level Up Site The Indy Author EP 379 - Simplify Your Life and Your Work With Dre Baldwin Mark's Stark Reflections on Writing & Publishing Newsletter (Signup) Buy Mark a Coffee Patreon for Stark Reflections How to Access Patreon RSS Feeds An Author's Guide to Working With Bookstores and Libraries The Relaxed Author Buy eBook Direct Buy Audiobook Direct Publishing Pitfalls for Authors An Author's Guide to Working with Libraries & Bookstores Wide for the Win Mark's Canadian Werewolf Books This Time Around (Short Story) A Canadian Werewolf in New York Stowe Away (Novella) Fear and Longing in Los Angeles Fright Nights, Big City Lover's Moon Hex and the City Only Monsters in the Building The Canadian Mounted: A Trivia Guide to Planes, Trains and Automobiles Yippee Ki-Yay Motherf*cker: A Trivia Guide to Die Hard   Matty Dalrymple is the author of the Lizzy Ballard Thrillers and the Ann Kinnear Suspense Novels and Suspense Shorts. She also podcasts, writes, speaks, and consults on the writing craft and the publishing voyage as The Indy Author. Her articles have appeared in Writer's Digest magazine, and she serves as the Campaigns Manager for the Alliance of Independent Authors. Michael La Ronn is the author of over 100 science fiction & fantasy books and self-help books for writers. He writes from the great plains of Iowa and has managed to write while raising a family, working a full-time job, and attending law school. Michael runs the award-winning YouTube channel “Author Level Up,” and Michael serves as the Outreach Manager for ALLi.   The introductory, end, and bumper music for this podcast (“Laser Groove”) was composed and produced by Kevin MacLeod of www.incompetech.com and is Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

After a long break, the Introverted Exhibitionist is back with a brand-new podcast while racing among the changing leaves on the first day of fall! This time, he'll clue you in to the Space Opera Sisterhood StoryBundle and the LEGENDS OF INDIE COMICS: WORDS ONLY Kickstarter campaign! Find out how to score your own copy of the StoryBundle of great space opera ebooks...and get the lowdown on the LEGENDS project, a book of prose fiction tales of classic indie characters from the 80s (and beyond) as written by their creators. Don't miss this edition of USA Today-bestselling author Robert Jeschonek's I.E. 'Cast, which is more full of fun and surprises than ever! And remember to follow the LEGENDS campaign right here: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/planetbob/legends-of-indie-comics-words-only The Space Opera Sisterhood bundle is on sale right here: https://storybundle.com/space --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/introverted-exhibitionist/support

There are many options for book marketing, so how do you choose the right ones for you? I give my thoughts on the different polarities on the marketing scale to help you figure out what might work for your book, your stage on the author journey, and your lifestyle. In the intro, Storybundle for writers; […] The post Different Ways To Market Your Book With Joanna Penn first appeared on The Creative Penn.

How can Bookfunnel help authors reach more readers, sell more books, and sell direct? Damon Courtney outlines features of Bookfunnel that you might not know about. In the intro, Hello Books and Written Word Media have joined forces for promo stacking; Call to Action (CTA) tips [ALLi]; my free Author Blueprint; Bundle for writers [Storybundle]. […] The post How Authors Can Use Bookfunnel To Read Readers And Sell Direct With Damon Courtney first appeared on The Creative Penn.

Mark has a chat with several authors from the ASK THE AUTHORS 2022 book edited by Kaye Booth. Prior to the main segment, Mark shares a word about this episode's sponsor. You can learn more about how you can get your audiobooks distributed to retailers and library systems around the world at starkreflections.ca/Findaway. Links of Interest: The Writers Career Toolkit StoryBundle Writer Beware Findaway Voices Buy Mark a Coffee Patreon for Stark Reflections Best Book Ever Podcast Lovers Moon Podcast The Relaxed Author Buy eBook Direct Buy Audiobook Direct Publishing Pitfalls for Authors An Author's Guide to Working with Libraries & Bookstores Wide for the Win Mark's Canadian Werewolf Books This Time Around (Short Story) A Canadian Werewolf in New York Stowe Away (Novella) Fear and Longing in Los Angeles Fright Nights, Big City Lover's Moon Hex and the City The Canadian Mounted: A Trivia Guide to Planes, Trains and Automobiles     The introductory, end, and bumper music for this podcast (“Laser Groove”) was composed and produced by Kevin MacLeod of www.incompetech.com and is Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 

894. Whether you're getting ready for National Novel Writing Month or just want to watch movies or read novels with more insight, this interview with fiction editor Joshua Essoe will help you about mood and atmosphere in ways you probably haven't considered before.| Transcript: https://grammar-girl.simplecast.com/episodes/mood-atmosphere-in-fiction-an-interview-with-joshua-essoe| Joshua Essoe's website.| Storybundle book bundles.| Subscribe to the newsletter for regular updates.| Watch my LinkedIn Learning writing courses.| Peeve Wars card game. | Grammar Girl books. | HOST: Mignon Fogarty| VOICEMAIL: 833-214-GIRL (833-214-4475) or https://sayhi.chat/grammargirl| Grammar Girl is part of the Quick and Dirty Tips podcast network.Audio engineer: Nathan SemesEditor: Adam CecilAdvertising Operations Specialist: Morgan ChristiansonMarketing and Publicity Assistant: Davina TomlinDigital Operations Specialist: Holly HutchingsIntern: Kamryn Lacy| Theme music by Catherine Rannus.| Grammar Girl Social Media Links: YouTube. TikTok. Twitter. Facebook. Instagram. LinkedIn.

Mark shares four of the many pitfalls of publishing that can befall authors. Prior to the main content, Mark shares a personal update  and a word from this episode's sponsor. This episode is sponsored by The 2022 Write Stuff StoryBundle. For StoryBundle, you decide what price you want to pay. For $5 (or more, if you're feeling generous), you'll get the basic bundle of four books in any ebook format—WORLDWIDE. Domesticate Your Badgers by Michael W Lucas Publishing Pitfalls for Authors by Mark Leslie Lefebvre Writing Craft by DeAnna Knippling A Freelancer's Survival Guide to Starting Your Own Business by Kristine Kathryn Rusch If you pay at least the bonus price of just $20, you get all four of the regular books, plus five more books and an online lecture, for a total of 10 books/lectures. That includes two StoryBundle exclusives! A Writer Prepares by Lawrence Block Free Your Inner Nonfiction Writer by Johanna Rothman (StoryBundle Exclusive) Artificial Intelligence, Blockchain and Virtual Worlds by Joanna Penn Create a Character Clinic by Holly Lisle Do...Quit Your Day Job by Christina F. York (StoryBundle Exclusive) The Pop-Up Series - Clean First Draft Writing by Dean Wesley Smith   During the main content of this episode, Mark shares four of the P's of publishing pitfalls: PACING PACK PACKAGING PARALYSIS   Links of Interest: The 2022 Write Stuff Storybundle Episode 202 - Predators and Publishers “7 Tools For Pacing A Novel & Keeping Your Story Moving At The Right Pace,” Courtney Carpenter, April 24, 2012 “Pacing in Writing: 10 Powerful Ways to Keep Readers Hooked,” Reedsy Blog, October 13, 2018 Save the Cat! Writes a Novel: The Last Book on Novel Writing You'll Ever Need, Jessica Brody, Ten Speed Press, October 2018. Plot & Structure: Techniques and Exercises for Crafting a Plot That Grips Readers from Start to Finish, James Scott Bell. Writers Digest Books, October 2004. How to Write Best Selling Fiction, Dean R. Koontz, Writers Digest Books, September 1981. (Out of Print asof the release of this book in August 2021) Buy Mark a Coffee Patreon for Stark Reflections Accounting for Authors The Relaxed Author Buy eBook Direct Buy Audiobook Direct Publishing Pitfalls for Authors An Author's Guide to Working with Libraries & Bookstores Wide for the Win Mark's Canadian Werewolf Books This Time Around (Short Story) A Canadian Werewolf in New York Stowe Away (Novella) Fear and Longing in Los Angeles Fright Nights, Big City Lover's Moon   The introductory, end, and bumper music for this podcast (“Laser Groove”) was composed and produced by Kevin MacLeod of www.incompetech.com and is Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 

Welcome back! Here are some updates--including the scoop on Inside Video Game Creation in the latest deal at StoryBundle--a word on the state of the podcast, and an exclusive interview with Philip Molodkovets, Wargaming's executive producer on World of Warships. Show links Inside Video Game Creation and many more great books at StoryBundle World of Warships by Wargaming --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/gamedevbreakdown/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/gamedevbreakdown/support

Todd's book hits StoryBundle, we talk State of the Pod, and Philip Molodkovets of Wargaming joins to discuss the unique challenges of the executive producer's role on World of Warships.

The Exhibitionist has a secret! When his nighttime bedside notes take a twisted turn, can this writer of fiction make sense of it? Hear all about the madness in the latest episode of the podcast about the world and writing of USA Today bestselling author Robert Jeschonek. In this episode, Robert talks about the Many Worlds of Weird Fiction  StoryBundle featuring books by Ramsey Campbell, Joe R. Lansdale, and more...plus an upcoming box set and big news about barbarians in space! You'll also hear Robert's thoughts on holiday hangups for writers and be invited to join Robert's Readers, the Facebook group where Robert provides free ebooks for your reading pleasure. Don't miss this edition of the I.E. Cast, which is more full of fun and surprises than ever!Support the show (https://www.patreon.com/RobertJeschonek)

The Exhibitionist is back! How can a writer take flight when distractions keep knocking him to the ground? Hear all about it in the latest episode of the podcast about the world and writing of USA Today bestselling author Robert Jeschonek. In this episode, Robert talks about the Many Worlds of Weird Fiction  StoryBundle featuring books by Ramsey Campbell, Joe R. Lansdale, Samuel R. Delany, Elizabeth Hand, and more...plus a brand new classic department store holiday tale that makes a perfect stocking stuffer! You'll also hear Robert's thoughts on November resolutions for writers and be invited to Robert's Readers, the Facebook group where Robert provides free ebooks for your reading pleasure. Don't miss this edition of the I.E. Cast, which is more full of fun and surprises than ever!Support the show (https://www.patreon.com/RobertJeschonek)

I speak to games historian and graphic designer Kate Willaert about her research and current projects, as well as her efforts to turn this work into a job. We also voice our complaints about Google's Usenet archives, discuss the horrible world of YouTube publishing, the struggles of getting your work seen/read/heard as a content creator today, the value of a good hook for getting people interested in history, how to structure a historical narrative, our font choices for writing draft scripts, and much, much more. Interview conducted 1 May 2021 Links: Kate has talked lots about her Carmen Sandiego research, both on Twitter and her blog. https://www.acriticalhit.com/infographic-evolution-carmen-sandiego-crest-logo/ (Here's one example). https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27414415-tetris (Tetris: The Games People Play), a graphic novel about the history of Tetris https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRyAjI1mXVY&pp=sAQA (The intro) to Kate's (eventually) 50-part video series on playable female protagonists https://www.mobygames.com/game-group/protagonist-female (MobyGames tag for female protagonists) (excludes games with multiple playable characters) http://www.hardcoregaming101.net/inventories/80sheroines.htm (Hardcore Gaming 101 feature) on 1980s video game heroines The rules governing her 50-part playable female protagonists series are laid out in the intro video and https://www.acriticalhit.com/video-dames-the-history-of-playable-female-protagonists/ (this article) http://www.ataricompendium.com/archives/magazines/magazines.html (Atari Compendium's collection of scanned magazines) The Internet Archive's https://archive.org/details/magazine_rack (Magazine Rack) The Usenet archives https://groups.google.com/search?q= (on Google Groups) are now mixed in with the other groups and not easily browsable, but search still works https://archive.org/details/utzoo-wiseman-usenet-archive (The UTZOO-Wiseman archives) on archive.org are a great resource for Usenet posts https://worldradiohistory.com/index.htm (American Radio History) https://newspapers.com/ (newspapers.com) https://newspaperarchive.com/ (newspaperarchive.com) https://www.acriticalhit.com/moonlander-one-giant-leap-for-game-design/ (Kate's Moonlander article) https://www.youtube.com/c/ACriticalHit/ (Kate's YouTube channel) I didn't go into specifics on the many significant games made in 1973, so here are several off the top of my head: Maze, arguably https://www.polygon.com/features/2015/5/21/8627231/the-first-first-person-shooter (the first first-person shooter) Spasim, one of the earliest 3D games Airfight/Airace, the first computer flight combat sim (http://lifeandtimes.games/episodes/files/2.html (covered on this show in ep2)) Moonlander Empire (the PLATO one) David Ahl's 101 BASIC Computer Games collection/book Lemonade Stand Kate's https://www.acriticalhit.com/origin-of-gamer/ (article/video) on the origin of the term "gamer" Kate's Moonlander article has good info and sources for the electro-mechanical Lunar Lander game, but those of you looking for more detail may appreciate https://allincolorforaquarter.blogspot.com/2016/06/the-ultimate-so-far-history-of-nutting.html (this article) that contextualises its place in early coin-op game history (the article is about Nutting Associates, but Lunar Lander is mentioned at the end) Kate's best social media posts are highlighted in https://criticalkate.substack.com/ (her newsletter). Two specific ones we mentioned: The https://twitter.com/katewillaert/status/1308881238145617920 ("City Boy Mario" Twitter thread) The https://twitter.com/katewillaert/status/1193611691633852417 (Comic Sans Twitter thread) As of August 9th, 2021, the best of these threads are available in an ebook that's part of a video game StoryBundle along with a bunch of other cool games books. https://storybundle.com/games (Check it out.)...

Special Space Barbarians Episode! Yes, the Starbarians are coming, and they mean business! It's all part of a big new Kickstarter for a series of science fiction novels by the Exhibitionist. Hear how your support can help make these books a reality, unleashing savage star warriors on a desperate galaxy that hates and fears them...yet needs them to survive! The link to the campaign is right here: http://kck.st/36Ledtu Tune in to this latest episode of the podcast about the world and writing of USA Today bestselling author Robert Jeschonek. In this 21st episode of the Introverted Exhibitionist series, Robert talks about the Starbarian Saga Kickstarter campaign, the Space Opera 2021 ebook StoryBundle, the big new Steve Ditko book, and lots more! You'll also get some tips on how to rejuvenate your writing and be invited to Robert's Readers, the Facebook group where Robert provides free ebooks for your reading pleasure. Don't miss this edition of the I.E. Cast, which is more full of fun and surprises than ever!Support the show (https://www.patreon.com/RobertJeschonek)

The Blasters & Blades Podcast Just a couple of nerdy Army veterans geeking out on things that go "abracadabra," "pew," "zoom," "boop-beep" and rhyme with Science Fiction & Fantasy. Co-Hosts: Doc Cisca (Uber Book Fan) (Army Medic) JR Handley (Author) (Grunt) Nick Garber (Comic Book Artist) (Super Grunt) We work for free, so if you wanna throw a few pennies our way there is a linked Buy Me A Coffee site where you can do so. Just mention the podcast in the comments when you donate, and I'll keep the sacred bean water boiling! Support the Show: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/AuthorJRHandley Our Website: https://anchor.fm/blasters-and-blades Our Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/blastersandbladespodcast Our Twitter: https://twitter.com/SF_Fantasy_Show Storybundle Link: https://storybundle.com/scifi Follow Kevin Ikenberry's Social Media Links Kevin's Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-dbs/entity/author/B00ASFBXT4 Kevin's Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/authorkevinikenberry/ Kevin's Website: http://www.kevinikenberry.com/ Kevin's Twitter: https://twitter.com/thewriterike Four Horseman Wiki: http://mercenaryguild.org/wiki/tiki-index.php?page=HomePage Four Horseman Merc Guild: www.mercenaryguild.org Four Horsemen Facebook Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/536506813392912/ Four Horsemen Publisher: https://chriskennedypublishing.com/ Four Horsemen Universe, TV Tropes: https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Literature/TheFourHorsemenUniverse Four Horsemen Universe Website: http://www.worldmaker.us/about-the-books/the-four-horsemen-series/ Four Horsemen Universe Publishing Order: https://chriskennedypublishing.com/the-four-horsemen-books/ #bbp #blastersandblades #blastersandbladespodcast #podcast #scifipodcast #fantasypodcast #scifi #fantasy #books #rpg #comics #fandom #literature #comedy #veteran #army #armyranger #ranger #storybundle #milsf #militarysf #milscifi #militaryscifi #challengerlearningcenter #challengermission #nasa #spacecraft #space #alien #ckp #chriskennedypublish --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/blasters-and-blades/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/blasters-and-blades/support

The Blasters & Blades Podcast Just a couple of nerdy Army veterans geeking out on things that go "abracadabra," "pew," "zoom," "boop-beep" and rhyme with Science Fiction & Fantasy. Co-Hosts: Doc Cisca (Uber Book Fan) (Army Medic) JR Handley (Author) (Grunt) Nick Garber (Comic Book Artist) (Super Grunt) We work for free, so if you wanna throw a few pennies our way there is a linked Buy Me A Coffee site where you can do so. Just mention the podcast in the comments when you donate, and I'll keep the sacred bean water boiling! Support the Show: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/AuthorJRHandley Our Website: https://anchor.fm/blasters-and-blades Our Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/blastersandbladespodcast Our Twitter: https://twitter.com/SF_Fantasy_Show Storybundle Link: https://storybundle.com/scifi Follow Ben Steven's Social Media Links Ben's Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Ben-Stevens/e/B08LZX9HKK/ Ben's Author Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/B.MichaelStevensAuthor/ Aethon Books Website: https://www.aethonbooks.com/ #bbp #blastersandblades #blastersandbladespodcast #podcast #scifipodcast #fantasypodcast #scifi #fantasy #books #rpg #comics #fandom #literature #comedy #veteran #army #armyranger #ranger #storybundle #milscifi #militaryscifi #milsf #militarysf #family #foundfamily #challengerlearningcenter #challengermission #nasa #spacecraft #space #alien --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/blasters-and-blades/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/blasters-and-blades/support

The Blasters & Blades Podcast Just a couple of nerdy Army veterans geeking out on things that go "abracadabra," "pew," "zoom," "boop-beep" and rhyme with Science Fiction & Fantasy. Co-Hosts: Doc Cisca (Uber Book Fan) (Army Medic) JR Handley (Author) (Grunt) Nick Garber (Comic Book Artist) (Super Grunt) We work for free, so if you wanna throw a few pennies our way there is a linked Buy Me A Coffee site where you can do so. Just mention the podcast in the comments when you donate, and I'll keep the sacred bean water boiling! Support the Show: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/AuthorJRHandley Our Website: https://anchor.fm/blasters-and-blades Our Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/blastersandbladespodcast Our Twitter: https://twitter.com/SF_Fantasy_Show Storybundle Link: https://storybundle.com/scifi Follow Daniel Schwabauer's Social Media Links Daniel's Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Daniel-Schwabauer/e/B001JS421U/ Daniel's Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/schwabauer Daniel's Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/daniel.schwabauer/ Daniel's Website: https://www.danschwabauer.com/ #bbp #blastersandblades #blastersandbladespodcast #podcast #scifipodcast #fantasypodcast #scifi #fantasy #books #rpg #comics #fandom #literature #comedy #veteran #army #armyranger #ranger #storybundle #milscifi #militaryscifi #milsf #militarysf #grendal --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/blasters-and-blades/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/blasters-and-blades/support

In this episode Mark interviews James Fell, Sweary Historian, about his latest book On This Day in History, Sh!t Went Down. Warning to listeners: In this episode, adult language goes down. A lot. If you are offended by swearing and adult language, please do NOT listen to this episode. Prior to the interview, Mark shares comments, from recent episodes, a personal update, and a word from this episode's sponsor. You can learn more about how you can get your work distributed to retailers and library systems around the world at starkreflections.ca/Findaway. During their conversation, Mark and James discuss: His experience writing as a freelance investigative journalist within the diet and fitness industry for the LA Times and Chicago Tribune How James' literary agent compared his previous book The Holy Shit Moment as a combination of Malcolm Gladwell's Blink with Jen Sincero's You Are a Badass The way that The Holy Shit Moment was a book with a bit of a scientific analysis on "how shit works" and learning that you can't make those "holy shit" moments happen, but you can set up the groundwork for making it more likely to occur The way that the book The Holy Shit Moment flopped and what that meant for James' career despite all the media attention and support Being in a tough and tight headspace where he wasn't sure what was going to happen with his career, with a book flop, Trump looking like he was going to be re-elected, a Covid-19 pandemic lockdown The way that exercise can be an important part of paving the way for an epiphany moment The long bike-ride James was on that led to the idea for this new book and shift to his writing focus over to history The idea of the "this day in history" posts to share to Facebook How the 2nd post about May West "blew up" on social media (5 million views within a month) and prompted people to suggest he should convert these types of posts into a book The way James would decide on what to write for any specific day The more than 1000 variations of the word "Fuck" that appears in the On This Day in History Shit Went Down A future book that James has been working on called Greedy Sexist Religious Bigots Who Hate Science The move James made to Patreon with his daily history post content and his weariness about whether or not it would work. But how, within a few hours, he was already well into a few thousand dollars How, within 3 months, James was in the top 30 of all writers on Patreon Moving over to Substack and how they encourage people to provide content for free to create an audience, while also having some content behind a paywall The deep and meaningful connection that people can feel towards writers they respect and admire The generosity shown to sci-fi author John Varley via a health crisis and GoFundMe campaign How, even though people can read the entire content of the book for free, sales of On This Day In History Shit Went Down are exploding The print book significantly outpacing the eBook sales on this title despite doing no advertising or marketing outside of sharing free content from the book on social media The importance of a blatant and direct CALL TO ACTION to "get the book And more... After the interview Mark reflects on the change in writing focus James took as well as his fully embracing both traditional publishing and indie publishing options to fully leverage his IP to his greatest benefit, as well as his combination of nimble indie author marketing tactics combined with a progressive business-oriented approach. Mark then thanks Patrons of the podcast offering them one of two opportunities to win one of two free download codes for an awesome new writing bundle from Storybundle called "The Right Stuff Storybundle" (which is only available until May 25, 2021.   Links of Interest: James Fell's Website Body for Wife / Books On This Day in History Shit Went Down James Fell Facebook Page James Fell on Substack Episode 60 - The Holy Shit Moment and Other Sudden Insights with James Fell Episode 2 - Living the Healthy Writer Life with Joanna Penn Episode 138 - Cash Flow for Creators with Michael W Lucas Episode 148 - A Voice Double Conversation with Joanna Penn The Write Stuff Storybundle (Until May 25, 2021) Kevin Closs Music Patreon for Stark Reflections Wide for the Win Mark's Canadian Werewolf Books This Time Around (Short Story) A Canadian Werewolf in New York Stowe Away (Novella) Fear and Longing in Los Angeles Fright Nights, Big City   About James Fell My name is James and I say "fuck" a lot. It is possible for me to not swear. I was a columnist for the Los Angeles Times and the Chicago Tribune for many years. I think the LA Times let me get away with “hell” twice. I've also been a columnist for Chatelaine and AskMen, and written for TIME Magazine, the Guardian, NPR, Women's Health, Men's Health, and many others. You can see a sample of my published articles here. Additionally, I've had countless radio and TV appearances and never uttered a profane word a single time. Go me. I began as a health and fitness writer and have published two books. The first is Lose it Right: A Brutally Honest 3-Stage Program to Help You Get Fit and Lose Weight Without Losing Your Mind published by Random House Canada in 2014. The second is about the science of the life-changing epiphany titled The Holy Sh!t Moment: How Lasting Change Can Happen in an Instant published by St. Martin's Press in 2019. Yes, I wrote a book with a swearword in the title. Both are heavy on the science, containing no bullshit. I also have a popular blog that has millions of readers where I have written on a wide variety of subjects that include fitness, diet, and motivation, but certainly isn't limited to that. The blog is very sweary. Here is my recipe for “motherfucking lasagna.” Covid-19 changed my career arc.   The introductory, end, and bumper music for this podcast (“Laser Groove”) was composed and produced by Kevin MacLeod of www.incompetech.com and is Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

Melisa asks: On Storybundle, how do I get asked to curate one? Join us at the Every Day Novelist Forums Storybundle.com bundlerabbit.com  draft2digital.com The post Questions Ep 864: Curating a Storybundle appeared first on The Every Day Novelist.

Microsoft’s ugly sweaters, AI innovations for video conferences, playing a flight simulator while flying, LEGO for learning braille & a massive StoryBundle. Continue reading → The post Episode 299 — Ugly Sweaters first appeared on Games At Work dot Biz.

Mark interviews Ashley Joanisse, a Canadian Country Singer-Songwriter who writes songs about politics, love, and life. Prior to the interview, Mark shares comments from recent episodes, welcomes new patron Krista D. Ball, thanks patrons, and reads a word from this episode's sponsor, Findaway Voices. You can learn more about how you can get your work distributed to retailers and library systems around the world at starkreflections.ca/Findaway. In his personal update, Mark shares a new StoryBundle that he is a part of, which launched on June 18, 2020, as well as a pair of videos he recently released focusing on how to pronounce his last name. In their conversation, Ashley and Mark talk about: Where Ashley's love of music first started The fact that Ashley always payed close attention to the lyrics of the songs she listened to The strong desire to write her own music rather than cover someone else's songs The little journey that Ashley kept since she was about thirteen years old, constantly jotting down poems, notes, song lyrics, and other things that inspired her Writing a chorus that might stay in the journal for several years before the lyrics for the rest of the song came to her Ashley's introduction to music in the 8th grade, and first learning how to play chords on the guitar Playing by ear - she has not yet learned how to read music The first guitar class Ashley was in where the instructor laid out a rule that nobody was allowed to play "Smoke on the Water" The very first song that Ashley nailed, which was "Outsider" by Taylor Swift How Mark learned about Ashley when she was putting out a collaborative call for people to submit video clips for a forthcoming video release Ashley's first single, "Hey Bartender!" How the song reminds Mark of a classic tune like "Piano Man" from Billy Joel The way that the music video was partially inspired by the clips Ashley received from friends and strangers How "Hey Bartender" was written and recorded two years ago and was produced about one year previously and the depression and circumstances that delayed the release The way that the onset of the Coronavirus pandemic inspired her out of the funk she had been stuck within The logistics of how Ashley created the video for "Hey Bartender" completely on her own How Ashley pulled off a video where she played two different characters (bartender and patron) in the same shot (and the way she learned how to do it) The difficulty for an artist when you put something out and you get virtually no response to the effort (something that is common for writers, musicians and other artists) (A little mix up where Mark's Google device starts playing a song) Ashley's latest song, titled "American Dream" which is a song inspired by tweets from the 45h president of the United States How this song allows her to express something she feels so intensely and how listening to the song can perhaps help others who feel the same way The way that "American Dream" is like the Arkells song "People's Champ" in that it's a powerful and catchy song, but there's an underlying meaning that some listeners might not actually pick up on How Ashley felt so strongly about releasing this song that she went out and bought professional equipment to produce it The mechanics of how Ashley recorded the song and produced the video for "American Dream" Why it's important to actually sing instead of lip syncing when you're trying to lip sync to an audio track for a music video Mark's impression of how bad the lip syncing on Grease 2 was The way that feedback from her two recent releases has further inspired her to want to continue to write and record more songs The irony of two negative things (a global pandemic and a narcissistic president who feeds on ignorance, fear, and lies) that inspired art, and got Ashley out of the depression she had been in Why Taylor Swift is a major influence on Ashley The advice that Ashley would give to her younger self And more . . . After the interview, Mark reflects on two of the things Ashley spoke about. The idea that if you stop, you'll never ever write that song that might move people, and how writing and music is a way to allow people to have a voice, to say things they are thinking and feeling about, which can empower writers/musicians and readers/listeners. Links of Interest: Ashley Joanisse Facebook Page Twitter Instagram YouTube Hey Bartender Music Video American Dream Music Video Episode 138 - Cash Flow for Creators with Michael W. Lucas Mark's Recent Videos How to Pronounce Lefebvre You Call Me Fever Music Video (Parody of Fever) Up, Up, And Away Superhero Storybundle Patreon for Stark Reflections   Ashley Joanisse is a Canadian Country Singer-Songwriter who writes songs about politics, love, and life. She is an activist for human rights, and feels that we need to take a stand against hate and injustice anytime we can! Ashley has always had an interest in music since she was a little girl and her passions remain music and writing. Ashley grew up in Mattawa, Ontario a very small that helped her to become who she is today; just a small town girl living in a lonely world.   The introductory, end, and bumper music for this podcast (“Laser Groove”) was composed and produced by Kevin MacLeod of www.incompetech.com and is Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

Tim asks: How useful are book bundling websites? What are the best bundling sites? Resources Mentioned: HumbleBundle.com StoryBundle.com BundleRabbit.com The post Questions 789: Book Bundling Websites–What Are They Good For? appeared first on The Every Day Novelist.

Bonus episode! J R Murdock returns to talk about the Steampunk Storybundle organized by Kevin J Anderson. Tim and Murdock are both in this one too, folks! Check it out here, before it goes away in about a week. Thanks for listening!

This week, Alasdair Stuart joins the podcast to talk writing and running podcasts and just generally catch up and have fun. Don't miss his RPG, After the War if you're into tabletop games! Tim is in Kevin J Andersen's latest Storybundle! Get Clockwork Angels, Tenlyres, and a ton of other steampunk books and pay what you want for the next thirty days or so by clicking here. Or just go to storybundle.com/steampunk. Thanks for listening!

Moving on with my reading of The Pericles Conspiracy, Chapters 36 & 37. As a reminder, this book and 9 others are available for a very low, reasonable price as part of the Visions Of The Future storybundle. The bundle ends on 27 Feb 2020, so get it while you can. https://storybundle.com/scifi If you like my podcast and stories, sign up here to become a member/patron on my site: https://www.michaelkingswood.com/membership/supporting-patronage/ Visit My Website - http://michaelkingswood.com Sign up for my newsletter - http://www.michaelkingswood.com/newsletter-signup/ Visit me on Steemit - https://steemit.com/@michaelkingswood I'm on Facebook - https://facebook.com/michael.kingswood And on Twitter @michaelkingswd You can leave me a tip at https://paypal.me/SSNStorytelling Or send some crypto: BTC: 3QQ7EhBDMwdG8YypHJjErwpW6hbP4mC14W LTC: LNG2qRCJHJSybidtNw3os1tayfXjLU8b4g ETH: 0x5842c89FD421c4B92bf826bf7bA5214841B0f660

In the previous episode, I alluded to the Storybundle I'm participating in: Visions of the Future. Here I explain in more detail what a Storybundle is, why your should love them, and how they work. Then I give a reading from the beginning of The Pericles Conspiracy, which appears in this bundle. Seriously, though. You really ought to show this bundle, and all Storybundles, some love. Pick it up here: https://storybundle.com/scifi/ Enjoy! If you like my podcast and stories, sign up here to become a member/patron on my site: https://www.michaelkingswood.com/membership/supporting-patronage/ Visit My Website - http://michaelkingswood.com Sign up for my newsletter - http://www.michaelkingswood.com/newsletter-signup/ Visit me on Steemit - https://steemit.com/@michaelkingswood I'm on Facebook - https://facebook.com/michael.kingswood And on Twitter @michaelkingswd

In this solo episode Mark talks about how authors can get their books into libraries in print, eBook and audiobook format. He covers the topic by discussing the triple A's of: AVAILABILITY, AWARENESS, and ACQUISITION. Prior to the main topic of this episode, Mark shares a word about the episode's sponsor Findaway Voices, which is suitably, all about how they can help authors get their audiobooks into libraries. You can learn more about how you can get your work distributed to retailers and library systems around the world at starkreflections.ca/Findaway.   Mark then shares a few comments from recent episodes as well as a personal update that includes two of his non-fiction books about writing and publishing being included in a new NaNoWriMo themed Storybundle. In his discussion of libraries, Mark talks about the following: Ways that authors can get their books in to libraries in print, audio and eBook format Questions that traditionally published authors should ask their publisher in relation to distribution to libraries The difference within POD and returns as it pertains to the library buyers (as opposed to bookstore buyers) Why he calls Amazon's KDP Print's "extended distribution" option "pretended distribution" OverDrive and how they sell to library systems - including a talk about how authors can use OverDrive.com to find their books and libraries Online resources to help writers easily find library websites The differences between the licensing model for selling digital assets (like eBooks and audiobooks) to libraries:  OCOU (One Copy, One User) and CPC (Cost Per Checkout) Three important people to contact at the library when reaching out to them The value of getting to know the local public library and being familiar with it Why authors should consider the value that they are able to offer and bring to a particular library The value of the Public Lending Right program in Canada and 29 other countries around the world to help authors with additional revenue opportunities And more...   Links of Interest: Episode 97 - Ten Tips for Marketing and Making Money off Your Short Fiction Episode  87 - You, Your Book, and Bookstores Mark's thriller Evasion on Wattpad Universal Book Link for Evasion Lib Web (Over 8000 pages from libraries in 146 countries) OverDrive.com Search "Mark Leslie" on OverDrive Mark Leslie "landing page" on OverDrive Example of an eBook Link (Active Reader) Example of an audiobook link (Active Reader) Example of a book that has availability in libraries OverDrive - Find a Library Findaway Voices Patreon for Stark Reflections   The music for this podcast (“Laser Groove”) was composed and produced by Kevin MacLeod of www.incompetech.com and is Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

Of Clockwork Hearts and Metal Iguanodons By Jennifer Lee Rossman   They weren't real, but they still took my breath away. The model dinosaurs and other prehistoric beasties lived on and swam in the waters around three islands in Hyde Park. Enormous things, so big that I'd heard their designer had hosted a dinner party inside one, and so lifelike! If I stared long enough, I was sure I'd see one blink. I turned to Samira and found her twirling her parasol, an act purposely designed to bely the rage burning in her eyes. She would never let it show, her pleasant smile practically painted on, but I'd spent enough time with her to recognize that fury boiling just beneath the surface. Befuddled, I looked back at the dinosaurs, this time flipping down my telescopic goggles. The craftsmanship was immaculate, the color consistent all along the plesiosaur's corkscrew neck, and the pudgy, horned iguanodons looked structurally sound, what with their bellies dragging on the ground. Dinosaurs were Samira's everything; how could seeing them practically coming to life not give her joy?   [Full story after the cut.]   Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 76 for June 24, 2019. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. Today we have a GlitterShip original, which is available in the Autumn 2018 issue that you can pick up at GlitterShip.com/buy, on Gumroad at gum.co/gship08, or on Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and other ebook retailers. If you’ve been waiting to pick up your copy of the Tiptree Award Honor Listed book, GlitterShip Year Two, there’s a great deal going on for Pride over at StoryBundle. GlitterShip Year Two is part of a Pride month LGBTQ fantasy fiction bundle. StoryBundle is a pay-what-you-want bundle site. For $5 or more, you can get four great books, and for $15 or more, you’ll get an additional five books, including GlitterShip Year Two, and a story game. That comes to as little as $1.50 per book or game. The StoryBundle also offers an option to give 10% of your purchase amount to charity. The charity for this bundle is Rainbow Railroad, a charity that helps queer folks get to a safe place if their country is no longer safe for them. This is a great deal, so if you want to take advantage of it, go to Storybundle.com/pride soon! The deal only runs through June 27th, depending on your time zone.     Today’s story is “Of Clockwork Hearts and Metal Iguanodons” by Jennfer Lee Rossman, but first our poem, “Shortcake” by Jade Homa.   Jade Homa is an intersectional feminist, sapphic poet, lgbtq sensitivity reader, member of The Rainbow Alliance, and editor-in-chief of Blue Literary Magazine. Her poetry has been published in over 7 literary magazines, including BlazeVOX, A Tired Heroine, The Ocotillo Review, and Sinister Wisdom (in print). Jade’s work will be featured in an exhibit via Pen and Brush, a New York City based non profit that showcases emerging female artists, later this year, along with being featured in a special edition of Rattle which highlights dynamic Instagram poets. In her free time, Jade loves petting dogs, eating pasta, and daydreaming about girls.     Shortcake by Jade Homa you called me your strawberry girl / and I wondered if it was / the wolf inside my jaw / or the red stained across my cheeks / or the way I said fuck / or thattime I yanked your / hair / or every moment / you swallowed me whole     And now “Of Clockwork Hearts and Metal Iguanodons” by Jennifer Lee Rossman, read by April Grant.   Jennifer Lee Rossman is that autistic nerd who complains about inaccurate depictions of dinosaurs. Along with Jaylee James, she is the co-editor of Love & Bubbles, a queer anthology of underwater romance. Her debut novel, Jack Jetstark's Intergalactic Freakshow, was published by World Weaver Press in 2018. She tweets about dinosaurs @JenLRossman April Grant lives in the greater Boston area. Her backstory includes time as a sidewalk musician, real estate agent, public historian, dishwasher, and librarian. Among her hobbies are biking and singing.     Of Clockwork Hearts and Metal Iguanodons By Jennifer Lee Rossman   They weren't real, but they still took my breath away. The model dinosaurs and other prehistoric beasties lived on and swam in the waters around three islands in Hyde Park. Enormous things, so big that I'd heard their designer had hosted a dinner party inside one, and so lifelike! If I stared long enough, I was sure I'd see one blink. I turned to Samira and found her twirling her parasol, an act purposely designed to bely the rage burning in her eyes. She would never let it show, her pleasant smile practically painted on, but I'd spent enough time with her to recognize that fury boiling just beneath the surface. Befuddled, I looked back at the dinosaurs, this time flipping down my telescopic goggles. The craftsmanship was immaculate, the color consistent all along the plesiosaur's corkscrew neck, and the pudgy, horned iguanodons looked structurally sound, what with their bellies dragging on the ground. Dinosaurs were Samira's everything; how could seeing them practically coming to life not give her joy? "What's wrong?" I asked quietly, so as not to disturb the crowds around us. Well, any more than our mere presence disturbed them by default. (It wasn't every day they saw a girl in a mechanical chair and her butch Indian crush who wore trousers with her best jewelry, and they did not particularly care for us. We didn't particularly care what they thought, which really didn't engender ourselves to them, but luckily polite society frowned on yelling at people for being gay, disabled, and/or nonwhite, so hooray for us.) "It's wrong." "What is?" She gestured emphatically at the islands, growing visibly distressed. "It! Them! Everything! Everything is wrong!" If Samira's frustration had a pressure valve, the needle would have been edging toward the red. She needed to get out of the situation before she burst a pipe. I knew better than to take her hand, as she didn't always appreciate physical touch the way I did, so I gently tugged at the corner of her vest as I engaged my chair. The miniature steam engine behind me activated the pistons that turned my chrome wheels, and Samira held onto my velvet-padded armrest as we left the main viewing area and took refuge by one of the fountains in the Crystal Palace. She sat on the marble edge, letting a hand trail in the shimmery water until she felt calm enough to speak. "They did it all wrong, Tilly. They didn't take any of my advice." She rummaged through her many pockets, finally producing a scrap of paper with a dinosaur sketched on it. "This is what iguanodon looked like." Her drawing showed an entirely different creature than the park's statue. While theirs looked sluggish and fat, kind of like a doofy dragon, Samira's interpretation was nimble and intelligent, standing on four legs with a solid but agile tail held horizontally behind it. And its nose horn was completely absent, though it did have a large thumb spike, giving it the impression of perpetually congratulating someone on a job well done. It certainly looked like a more realistic representation of a living creature, but these things lived, what, millions of years ago? Even someone as brilliant as Samira couldn't possibly have known what they were really like. But I couldn't tell her that. Girlfriends are supposed to be supportive, and I needed to do everything I could to gain prospective girlfriend points before I asked her out. "What evidence did you give them for your hypothesis?" I asked instead. "All we really have are fossils, right?" Her face lit up at the invitation to delve into her favorite subject. "Right, and we don't even have full skeletons yet of most of them. But we have limbs. Joints. And if we compare them to skeletons of things that exist now, they don't resemble big, fat lizards that could hardly move around. That makes no biological sense, because predators could just waltz up and eat them. They had to be faster, more agile. They wouldn't have survived otherwise." "So why wouldn't they have listened to you?" I asked, perplexed. "Because they don't understand evolution," she said, though she didn't sound convinced. "Or they don't want to be shown up by a girl. A lesbian girl with nonconforming hair and wardrobe who dares to be from a country they pretend to own." She crossed her arms and stared at her boots. "Or both. But there's no excuse for the plesiosaurs. No creature's neck can bend like that." I wasn't sure exactly how I was supposed to respond to that. Samira never complained about something just to commiserate; she expected answers, a solution. But I couldn't very well make them redesign the statues, no matter how happy that would have made her. So we just sat together quietly by the fountain, fuming at the ignorant men in charge of the park, and I schemed for a way to fix things for the girl that made my eyes light up the way dinosaurs lit hers.   Every problem had a solution, if you tinkered hard enough. After my accident, I took a steam engine and wheels from a horseless wagon and stuck them on a chair. My mum hadn't been amused to lose part of her dinette set, but it got me around town until I could build a proper wheelchair. (Around the flat parts of town, anyway. My latest blueprints involved extending legs that could climb stairs.) And when Londoners complained about the airship mooring towers were ruining the skyline, who figured out a way to make them retractable? That would be me. The airship commissioner hadn't responded to my proposal yet, but it totally worked in small scale on my dollhouse. It was just a matter of finding the solution to Samira's dinosaur problem. I spent all night in my workshop, referring to her sketches and comparing them to promotional drawings of the park's beasts. I'd be lying if I said I didn't consider breaking in and altering the statues somehow, but the sheer amount that they had gotten wrong precluded that as a possibility. This wasn't a mere paintjob or moving an iguanodon horn; they needed a complete overhaul. I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration. The day they announced that they were building realistic, life sized dinosaurs in Crystal Park was the day I fell for Samira. I'd always thought she was pretty—tall, brilliant smile, didn't conform to society's expectations for women—but the pure joy radiating from her... It was like she'd turned on a giant electromagnet inside her, and the clockwork the doctors had installed to keep my heart beating was powerless against her magnetic field. So I listened to her gush about the park, about how the statues would make everyone else see the amazing lost world she saw when she looked at a fossil. I didn't understand a lot of it, but I understood her passion. The grand opening was supposed to be the day I finally asked her out, but now it would have to be when I presented her with my grand gesture of grandness... Whatever it was.   I woke abruptly to the chimes of my upcycled church organ doorbell and found a sprocket embedded in my face. Groaning, I pushed myself off my worktable and into a sitting position. "Did you let me sleep out here all night?" I said into the mouthpiece of the two-way vibration communicator prototype that fed through the wall and into the kitchen. A moment later, my mum picked up her end. "'Mum,'" she said, imitating my voice, "'I'm a professional tinkerer and nearly an adult. I can't be having a bedtime!'" "Point taken. Have I missed breakfast?" The door in the wall opened to reveal a plate of pancakes. "Thanks!" I tore a bite out of one as I wheeled over to the door. My crooked spine ached from sitting up all night. Activating the pneumatic door opener, I found George about to ring the bell again. George, my former boyfriend and current best friend. Chubby, handsome, super gay. We'd tried the whole hetero thing for two whole days before we realized it wasn't for us, then pretended for another six months to keep his father from trying to matchmake him with one of the Clearwater sisters. I wouldn't have minded being with a man, necessarily, but ladies really sent my heart a-ticking, so it was no great loss when George told me he was a horticultural lad. (You know, a pansy. A daisy. A... erm. Bougainvillea? I must confess, flowers didn't excite me unless they were made of scrap metal.) George raised an eyebrow. "I take it the declaration of love went well, then?" When I only frowned in confusion, he pointed to my face. "The sprocket-shaped dent in your cheek would suggest you spent the night with a woman." "Samira isn't an automaton, George." "No, but she's got the..." He mimed having a large chest. "And the, um... Scaffolding." "Do you think women's undergarments are made of clockwork?" I asked, amused. I mean, mine were, but that was just so I could tighten the laces behind my back without assistance when I wore a corset. Which wasn't often. My favorite dresses were the color of grease stains and had a lot of pockets, so it should come as no surprise that I didn't go anywhere fancy on a regular basis. George blushed. "So... it did not go well, then?" He came in and tinkered with me over pancakes while I told him about my predicament, making sympathetic noises at the appropriate times. When I was done with my story, he sat quietly for a moment, thinking while he adjusted the spring mechanism in an old cuckoo clock. "And you can't just go over with flowers and say, 'Hey, gorgeous, wanna gay together?' because...?" "Have you met me? I don't do romance. I make things for romantic people." I gestured to the wind-up music boxes, mechanical roses that opened to reveal a love note, and clockwork pendants scattered about my workshop. All commissions from people who were better at love than I was. "Then pretend you're a clueless client like Reverend Paul. Remember what you did for him?" The reverend had come in wanting to woo Widow Trefauny but didn't know a thing about her except that she liked dogs and made his heart smile. I thought my solution was ingenious. "I built a steam-powered puppy." George held his hands out, prompting. "So..." Suddenly, it all clicked into place, like the last cog in a clock mechanism that makes everything tick. "I need to build a steam-powered dinosaur for Samira."   Dinosaurs, as it turned out, were huge. I mean, they looked big on the islands, sure, but that was so far away that I only truly got a sense of scale when I started measuring in my workshop. Samira's notes put iguanodon, my dino of choice, at around ten meters in length. Since a measuring tape required more free hands than I had, I tied a string around one of the spokes of my chair's wheels, which had a one-point-eight meter circumference, and measured five and a half revolutions... Which took me out of my cramped shop and into the street, forcing horses and their mechanical counterparts to divert around me. "Don't suppose it would do to detour traffic for a couple weeks, eh?" I asked a tophatted hansom cabbie, who had stopped his horseless machine to watch me in amusement. "Reckon not, Miss Tilly," he said with a laugh, stepping down from his perch at the front of the carriage. He pulled a lever, and the cab door opened with a hiss to reveal a pile of gleaming metal parts. "Ooh!" I clapped my hands. "Are those for me?" He nodded and began unloading them. My iguanodon was going to be much taller than me, and even though George had promised his assistance, I needed to make extendy arms to hold the heavy parts. "Is there somewhere else you could build him?" I supposed this wouldn't exactly be stealthy. I could stop Samira from going in my shop, but it would have been substantially more difficult to stop her from going down an entire street. But where?   I got my answer a few days later, when the twice weekly zeppelin to Devon lifted off without Samira on board. She was usually the first in line, going not for the luxury holiday destinations that drew in an upper-class clientele, but for the fossils. The coast of Devon was absolutely lousy with fossils. The concept of extinction had been proven there, Mary Anning herself found her first ichthyosaur there, and all the best scientists fought for the right to have their automata scan the coast with ground-penetrating radar. Samira's life revolved around trips to Devon and the buckets of new specimens she brought home every week. "Why aren't you on that zeppelin?" I asked as we sat in her room, sorting her fossilized ammonites. She'd originally had the little spiral-shelled mollusks organized by size, but now thought it more logical to sort by age. Me, I thought size was a fine method, but I didn't know a thing about fossils and was happy to do it however she wanted. She didn't answer me, just kind of shrugged and ran her thumb over the spiral impression in the rock. "Is it because you're upset that they didn't take your advice on the dinosaurs?" I knew it was, but I had to hear her say it. "I don't see the point of it if no one will care about what I find." She sounded so utterly despondent. Joyless. The one thing that gave her life purpose had been taken away by careless men. They probably only cared about whether the park was profitable, not if it was accurate. I couldn't make them change their statues, and I couldn't make the public care that they were wrong. But I had to fix it for my best girl, because there was nothing sadder than seeing her like that. "Can I hold your hand for a second?" I asked quietly. She gave the slightest of nods and I took her hand gently in mine, my clockwork heart ticking at double speed. "You've got a gift, Samira. Scientists have to study these bones for months just to make bad guesses about the animals they came from, but you can look at an ankle joint and figure that it was a quadruped or a biped, if it ate meat or plants, and what color its skin was." She gave me a look. "Okay, I'm exaggerating, but only a little. I don't agree with the way they're portrayed, but this world is going to love dinosaurs because of the ones at Crystal Palace. People are going to dig for fossils even more, and they're going to need someone amazing like you to teach them about the new things they unearth." I tried to refrain from intertwining our fingers; just touching was a big enough step. "I need you to promise me something." Samira pulled away, and I had to remind myself that this didn't necessarily mean anything more than her just being done holding hands. "What is it?" "A week from today, be on the zeppelin to the coast." The coast, with its ample space and no chance of Samira discovering my project before it was ready. She made a face. "I don't know." "Please?" I begged. "For me?" After a long moment's consideration, she nodded. "For you."   George and I caught the midweek zeppelin. Lucky for us, most tourists went down for the weekend, so all of our metal parts didn't weigh us down too much. We did share the cabin with a few fancy ladies, who stared in wordless shock at Iggy's scrapmetal skull sitting on the chair beside us. I'd named him Iggy. His head was almost a meter long. Mostly bronze and copper, but I'd done a few tin accents around the eyes to really make 'em pop. When we arrived at the shore, we had to fight a couple paleontologists for space on the rocky coastline. Not physically fight, fun as that might have been. Once they realized we weren't trying to steal their dig sites, they happily moved their little chugging machines to give us a flat stretch of beach. Which just left us with three days to assemble Iggy, whose hundreds of parts I had not thought to label beforehand. Another thing I neglected to do: inform George of the scope of this project. "Matilda, I adore you and will always help you with anything you need," he said, dragging a tail segment across the rocks with a horrific scraping. "But for future reference, the next time you invite me to Devon to build a life-sized steam-powered iguanodon? You might mention how abysmally enormous iguanodon were." "That sounds like a you problem," I teased, my voice echoing metallically as I welded the neck together from the inside. I'd actually gotten out of my chair and lay down in the metal shell, figuring it would be easier to attach all the pneumatics and hydraulics that way. I should have brought a pillow. At night, because we were too poor to afford one of the fancy hotels in town, we slept on the beach beneath a blanket of stars, Iggy's half-finished shape silhouetted against the sky. "Samira's a fancy lady," I said to George as we lay in the sand. "She doesn't wear them, but she has expensive dresses. All lacy and no stains. Her family has a lot of money. Could she ever really want to be with someone like me?" He rolled over to face me. "What do you mean, someone like you?" "Poor mechanic who can't go up stairs, whose heart is being kept alive with the insides of a pocket watch that could stop at any time." I didn't try to think about it a lot, but the fact was that the doctors had never done an operation like mine before. It ticked all right for now, but no one knew if my body would keep it wound or if I would just... stop one day. The fear tried to stop me from doing things, tried to take away what little life I might have had left, but I couldn't let it. I had to grab on as hard as I could and never let go. In an ideal world, Samira would be part of that. But the world wasn't ideal. Far from it. Was I too much to put up with? Would she rather date someone who didn't have to take the long way around because the back door didn't have steps? Someone who could give her jewels and... fine cheeses and pet monkeys and whatever else rich people gave their girlfriends? Someone she knew would be around to grow old with her? Maybe that's why I'd put off asking her to be my gal, because even though we got along better than the Queen's guards and ridiculous hats, even though we both fancied ladies and wanted to marry one someday, I couldn't stand to know she didn't see me that way. I cherished her as a friend and didn't see romance as being somehow more than friendship, but she smelled like cookies and I just really wanted to be in love with her. "Hey," George said softly, pulling me closer to him. "She loves you. You realize that, don't you?" "I guess," I said into his shoulder. He smelled like grease. A nice, comforting smell, but too much like my own. At the end of the day, I wanted to curl up with someone like Samira. "You guess. You've held her hand, Tilly. She's made eye contact with you. That's big for her. You don't need a big gesture like this, but I know she's going to love it because she loves you." I hoped he was right.   I saw the weekend zeppelin from London come in, lowering over the city where it was scheduled to moor. Samira would be here soon. And Iggy wasn't finished. He towered over the beach, his metal skin gleaming in the sun, but something was wrong on the inside. The steam engine in his belly, which was supposed to puff steam out of his nose and make him turn his head, wouldn't start up. George saw me check my pocket watch for the umpteenth time and removed the wrench from my hand. "I'll look into it. Go." I didn't need to be told twice. My wheels skidded on the sand and rocks, but I reached the mooring station just as the passengers were disembarking. The sight of Samira standing there in her trademark trousers and parasol combo made my clockwork heart tick audibly. She came. I didn't really doubt that she would, but still. She flashed me a quick smile. "I don't want to fossil hunt," she said in lieu of a greeting. "That's not why we're here," I promised. "But I do want to show you something on the beach, if that's okay." She slipped a hand around my armrest and walked with me. When Iggy's head poked up over the rocks, she broke into a run, forcing me to go full speed to keep up. Laughing, she went right up to Iggy and ran her hands over his massive legs. "He's so biologically accurate!" But did he work? I looked to George, who gave his head a quick shake. Blast. Samira didn't seem to mind, though, marveling at every detail of the dinosaur's posture and shape. "And the thumb spikes that aren't horns!" she exclaimed, her hands flapping in excitement. And she wasn't the only one who appreciated our work. A small group of pith-helmeted paleontologists had abandoned their digging and scanning in order to come and admire Iggy. "It really is magnificent," one scientist said. "The anatomy is nothing like what we've been assuming they looked like, and yet..." "It's so logical," his colleague agreed. "Why should they be fat and slow? Look at elephants—heavy, but sturdy and not so sluggish as their size would suggest. There's no reason these terrible lizards couldn't have been similar." A third paleontologist turned to George. "My good man, might we pick your brain on the neck of the plesiosaur?" George held up his hands. "I just did some riveting—the real geniuses are Matilda and her girlfriend Samira." "Mostly Samira," I added, glancing at her. "And I'm not sure if she's my girlfriend or not, but I'd like her to be." She beamed at me. "I would also like that." To the men, she said, "I have a lot of thoughts on plesiosaur neck anatomy. I can show you my sketches, and I saw a layer of strata that could bear fossils over here..." She led them away, chattering about prehistoric life with that pure joy that made her so amazing. That girl took my breath away.   END   “Of Clockwork Hearts and Metal Iguanodons" is copyright Jennifer Lee Rossman 2019. "Shortcake" is copyright Jade Homa 2019. 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, leaving reviews on iTunes, or buying your own copy of the Autumn 2018 issue at www.glittership.com/buy. You can also support us by picking up a free audiobook at  www.audibletrial.com/glittership. Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a reprint of “The Quiet Realm of the Dark Queen” by Jenny Blackford.

The Chamber of Souls by Zora Mai Quỳnh     Today it is announced that our quarantine is over and our refugee camp sufficiently detoxified to enter the Waterlands of Lạc, the home of our rescuers. Cheers and song rise in the air as the airship descends from the sky. A magnificently carved rồng on the bow of the vessel glistens of lacquered red, orange and gold scales, as its body, decorated by gems, wraps under  the hull to reappear in a long curved tail on the other side of the vessel. Thirty days ago, our sinking fishing boat cramped with a hundred refugees fleeing Việt Nam emerged from a hidden corridor of the South China Sea. We were rescued by the Guardians who descended from a similar vessel that barely skimmed the surface of the water and we, arms waving and voices strained in desperation, failed to observe what should have been obvious — that our rescuers bore an element of foreignness that we were wholly unprepared for.   [Full story under the cut.] Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip Episode 75 for June 20, 2019. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. Our story for today is The Chamber of Souls by Zora Mai Quynh, read by Zora and Rivia. Before we get to it, if you’ve been waiting to pick up your copy of the Tiptree Award Honor Listed book, GlitterShip Year Two, there’s a great deal going on for Pride over at StoryBundle. GlitterShip Year Two is part of a Pride month LGBTQ fantasy fiction bundle. StoryBundle is a pay-what-you-want bundle site. For $5 or more, you can get four great books, and for $15 or more, you’ll get an additional five books, including GlitterShip Year Two, and a story game. That comes to as little as $1.50 per book or game. The StoryBundle also offers an option to give 10% of your purchase amount to charity. The charity for this bundle is Rainbow Railroad, a charity that helps queer folks get to a safe place if their country is no longer safe for them. Zora Mai Quỳnh is a genderqueer Vietnamese writer whose short stories, poems, and essays can be found in The SEA Is Ours, Genius Loci: The Spirit of Place, POC Destroy Science Fiction, Luminescent Threads: Connections to Octavia Butler, Strange Horizons, and Terraform. Visit her: zmquynh.com. Rivia is a Black and Vietnamese Pansexual Teen who has a passion for reading, video games and music. She says “I’m gender questioning but also questioning whether or not I’m questioning…Isn’t gender just a concept?” You can hear her vocals on Strange Horizon’s podcast for “When she sings…”       The Chamber of Souls by Zora Mai Quỳnh     Today it is announced that our quarantine is over and our refugee camp sufficiently detoxified to enter the Waterlands of Lạc, the home of our rescuers. Cheers and song rise in the air as the airship descends from the sky. A magnificently carved rồng on the bow of the vessel glistens of lacquered red, orange and gold scales, as its body, decorated by gems, wraps under  the hull to reappear in a long curved tail on the other side of the vessel. Thirty days ago, our sinking fishing boat cramped with a hundred refugees fleeing Việt Nam emerged from a hidden corridor of the South China Sea. We were rescued by the Guardians who descended from a similar vessel that barely skimmed the surface of the water and we, arms waving and voices strained in desperation, failed to observe what should have been obvious — that our rescuers bore an element of foreignness that we were wholly unprepared for. “Where do you hail from? Are you in need of assistance?” a Guardian called down to us. The language spoken was Vietnamese, but it sounded as if the tongue of the speaker had been wrapped around a poem and restrung in curves back to us. A slight echo of melody lingered after each word. Silence spread among us at the strangeness of the dialect and though we could make out  the gist of what was spoken, it was interwoven with words and tones we did not recognize. Whispers of warning spread that our rescuers may be agents of the very government we fled. Tentatively, my mother stepped forward to speak what many had waited ten years to voice, “Yạ, greetings, we are refugees, fleeing our homeland of Việt Nam because of the cruelties we experienced there. We respectfully request asylum.” At that, three Guardians leapt onto our boat. Their long black hair, arranged in motley styles that interlaced colorful braided metallic strands with feathers, flapped in the wind as they examined us in our squalor and malnutrition. Their speech clearly carried Vietnamese tones, but their eyes and skin, the features of their faces, their height—they were as tall as the tallest American soldiers, if not taller, and their strange dark tunics, decorated with metallic accouterment, that sheathed one arm and left the other arm bare spoke of a culture completely unfamiliar to us. “Yạ, greetings, grandmother,” a Guardian with jet-black hair spiced with metallic blue said, bowing deeply. “The sea has brought you to us and you are now under the protection of the Waterlands of Lạc, we grant you all sanctuary. I am called ‘Jzan Nguyệt’ after the moon that once carried the tides of our Waterlands. And it is in my hands that you will rest the security of your people, for I am jzan who is the protectorate of these Waterlands.” We were delivered into quarantine soon after our rescue. It was Jzan Nguyệt who brought the news to us: “You will be taken to an atoll island where we will prepare you for entry into our Waterlands.” Mother’s forehead furrowed instantly with concern. I knew what she was thinking; I saw it in her eyes -- the fear of incarceration. So many stories carried their way back to us from people who made it to refugee camps in Malaysia and Thailand, -- stories of starvation, sickness, and festering away like prisoners while waiting for dreams that never materialized. “Are we prisoners?” Mother’s voice quivered. “No.” “Then why...?” “Because in our country, your senses are severely impaired. You must acclimate. Because you carry toxins and you must detoxify lest you bring death and illness to our people.” In that moment, in Nguyệt’s voice, I did not hear the graceful generosity we were accustomed to, but a fierceness that seemed immovable. Despite our fears, though, our “quarantine” was more like a paradise vacation. Instead of barbed wire fences, rationed food, and poorly ventilated stalls, we were surrounded by miles of green coral reef, a never-ending buffet of rice, nut dishes, fresh fruits, vegetables, and cool bamboo mats to sleep under the rounded canopy of the sky. Quarantine reflected the imagined freedom that many among us dreamed of. The freedom that I envision is different though. I want inclusion, to belong somewhere — to be valued – to be more than the label Việt Nam gave to me—the untrustworthy child of a political dissident. How that freedom will look in the rescuers’ land, I do not know. Would we be equal members of their society, or a relief effort from some war-torn country?   As we board their airship, I notice that our steps, frenzied and awkward when we entered quarantine, are replaced by lightness as children skip, lovers hold hands, and elders stroll side-by-side. My own mother is all smiles, her arm crooked unevenly through the arm of my aunt as they board together. Despite all of this, I can’t help but feel an odd mixture of excitement, anxiety, and remorse about journeying to a land that will become our new home -- to replace the one we lost. The airship picks up speed, rising into the sky and the Guardians pull on ropes and equipment, preparing for flight. I hear sobs break out as we watch them. It is not what they are doing that is disturbing; it is how fast they are moving. Our eyes can only catch their faces and limbs momentarily before they are in different locations on the airship. In quarantine, they had moved with languor and ease. The thrill of our trip is foreshortened as it becomes apparent that wherever we are going, we will not be among peers. “What is happening?” someone wails, “how is it that they can move so fast?” I reflexively dig my fists into my eyes to block out the movements of the Guardians. The sound of balloons filling with hot air and the smell of thick plumes of steam dominate my senses and I breath in the warm humid air wishing I were back home. When I finally lift my fists from my eyes, the vessel is surrounded by a blue film behind which the clouds move by at such a tremendous speed that they are just a blur. I not only see the movement but I also feel it in the gut of my stomach. It begins as a slow nauseous churning that becomes pain seizing my entire body. I fall over, buckling on the deck, collapsing alongside my countrymen whose kicking legs and flailing arms bruise my sides. In the din, I hear the gruff shouts of Guardians in their twisted tongue as the vessel decreases markedly in speed. “Your people cannot travel at our speeds—it appears to result in severe internal degeneration,” a Guardian says to me and immediately my spirit sinks. What was it? What was it that makes us so different from them when they look just like us? When they speak our words? When they bear our faces? “We must leave you behind. At this decreased acceleration, we will be open to attack. We are charged to take Nan Ngọc swiftly back to the Guardian compound. We will leave behind sufficient Guardians to protect you.” “Protect us from what?” But the Guardian has already moved on. That sinking feeling lodges deeper inside me and I find myself wishing I were back on my dilapidated fishing boat where I felt, at the very least, human among human beings. I rise in search of Ngọc. Of all our rescuers, it is Ngọc that I feel the most connected to. Ironic since it was Ngọc that all of us feared the most at first. We all met Ngọc shortly after our rescue as they distributed tea and rice into our wearied hands. I was dumbstruck by their beauty. Underneath their skin, which wavered between translucency and unblemished coppery bronze, were several layers of rotating gears that intertwined with leafy vines and moss that made up the substance of their body. Their eyes, twin orbs of jade, were fanned by small turquoise and deep blue feathers that added softness to their human-like face. From the top of their head trailed braided branches and vines from which mahogany green leaves, mushrooms, and dark flowers emerged. “Yạ greetings, Nan Ngọc,” I said as they handed a warm gourd of rice to me, “that is also our family name.” The automaton made no acknowledgement of my attempt at familiarity. “Yạ, Nan Ngọc,” I began again, “please tell me again what it is that you do so that we may know what to call on you for?” “Yạ, I am here to provide you with food, water, and all that you require while you detoxify. And to collect your souls should you perish.” Their words silenced me and I was afraid to speak to them further. Many of us avoided Ngọc for fear that their intention was to take our souls like a demon. But Ngọc was boring for the most part, and I saw in their actions nothing mystical or magical. During our quarantine, they spent most of the time cycling through the preparation of nut dishes. Within their limbs were various sharp instruments that revealed themselves once their appendages were removed. With these, Ngọc chopped, diced, crushed and blended nuts with noisy vigor. When nightfall fell in the quarantine camp, Ngọc didn’t slept. Instead, they sat in the middle of camp, surrounded by four Guardians, as if in a meditative state. I laid silently on my bamboo mat studying with relish their every detail, the way the firelight bounced off their gears and the braid of vines down their back graced with small black flowers. “Is it a custom of your people to gaze at others for long periods of time?” they finally asked one evening. Startled, I blushed, feeling the heat of embarrassment from being caught. “Yạ, apologies, it’s just that -- we have nothing like you in our country.” “I am the only one of my kind.” “What are you?” I asked, slowly inching my way closer to them. “I am an automaton created to hold souls.” My face wrinkled in confusion. “Hold souls?” “Yes. In the catastrophes of this world, souls have been lost to the dark void that surrounds our world never to return from the void from which you emerged.” “You mean the South China Sea?” “If that was what it was for you. Our alchemists believe that the void is a transitory medium between universes.” “Universes?” I remember straining to understand Ngọc, feeling slightly abashed to have no knowledge of the world beyond my own country where I spent most of my youth serving in the Women’s Army. All that I knew was of war and fighting -- not of other worlds and universes. “In this void, we have lost valuable lineages, many of our people becoming ancestorless. I was created to preserve souls within the Waterlands until a new life is conceived.” “How can that be possible?” “Within the core of my body is a chamber made of the searing of air, fire, molten metal and the tears of the kin of those that have departed. When someone passes, if a new vessel is not available, those that guard over death ensure the soul’s safe passage into the chamber where it awaits rebirth.” Their words were a mystery to me and I stared uncomprehending at their chest, searching for the chamber that they spoke of. “It is protected, you will not be able to see it, try as you might.” “So if one of us dies…” but I left my question hanging, afraid to complete it and Ngọc offered no answer.   As usual, I find Ngọc surrounded by four Guardians. “Perhaps this will calm the nerves of your people,” Ngọc says, deftly pouring tea into small gourds. I have always thought it a bit funny that the Guardians would be entrusted to guard someone whose main function is to brew tea and prepare snacks. “Can I help?” I offer, finding immediate comfort in being near Ngọc. A tray of gourds filled with hot tea is pushed my way. Lifting the tray, I follow closely behind Ngọc to the chaos of the upper deck. My people are huddled sobbing and shaking, some still writhing in pain. Without warning, their screams of pain are replaced by terror as a loud explosion tears through the air. Beside our vessel where once there is empty sky, a large ebony creature appears roaring like madness, encircling our vessel, its long body oscillating in waves of shimmering green. I am so filled with astonishment that I forget to be afraid, marveling at the sheer beauty of it. Its large red eyes glow as it circles the boat with a large ocular device on its left eye. From its serpentine back, several people flip and rotate onto the deck, transforming into flashes of light that flit about in all directions. Immediately I find myself thrust against Ngọc as Guardians press their backs to us. My tray tips over spilling hot tea onto my chest and I howl at the scalding water, falling to my knees at Ngọc’s feet. The Guardians spring into motion, forming layers of protection around Ngọc. Their movements are so fast that dizziness besets me. Above me Ngọc’s arms cross into a protective stance. The air moves around me and I feel something graze my side. The Guardians dance in rapid spins, jabs and thrusts, slashing at a force I cannot make out. The shine of blades I have never seen them carry send sparks into the air. In the distance, I hear my mother scream and I attempt to dart out from under Ngọc  towards the sound of her voice only to find myself slam against an invisible barrier. For long moments I claw and pound at the blue aura that surrounds Ngọc. Only when I feel Ngọc’s body fall hard against me, am I finally able to move. Then it is the circle of Guardians that serves as my obstacle. Around me, Guardians continue to clash their swords with an enemy whose face and body I can only glimpse, metallic gears in segments on their limbs and their naked torsos. I cradle Ngọc in my arms, quivering in fear at the bloodshed all around us. Then a Guardian howls, landing on the deck in front of me, leaving me face to face with a person whose chest and torso is torn, frozen gears underneath flesh instead of muscle, tissue, and blood. The person lunges at Ngọc, moving faster than I have ever seen anyone being move. I crouch, bracing myself for impact. Light surrounds me and I feel the brace of a death grip on my arms. I cling tighter to Ngọc, feeling their softness give way to a cold hard outer shell incapable of responding to my embrace. Pain rips through me as if I’m being torn molecule by molecule and darkness engulfs me.   When I awake, I am laying in a corner of an unfamiliar dark room. Voices swirl around me, echoing indistinctly. I attempt to rise but vertigo grips me as a sharp pain throbs in my head. My stomach begins to rumble dangerously and bile rises in my throat making me keel over,  vomiting to my side. I hear scuffing near me. Above me are stalactites, their drippings falling to a small puddle beside me, and I realize that I am inside a cave. I feel the splash of cold water on my face, startling me. Beside me kneels a woman, gears and pulleys curl within her right eye, sliding down her neck and shoulders to her torso, the blue and red of veins snaking around the gears. I reel at the sight of her, hitting my back hard on the rock wall behind me. Sounds of a blade slicing into metal come from behind the woman where, on a table lit  only by a few torches, lies Ngọc, still as death, a man hovering above them with a round swiveling blade in his hand. I call out to Ngọc, but my own voice comes out hoarse, barely audible. The man at the table turns towards me, diving down towards me faster than I can catch my breath. He pulls my head back and stares at me, his eyes boring through me. On the left side of his bare torso are gears that run the length of his chest and down his left arm. He shakes me violently and I attempt to push back at him only to find my wrists and ankles bound. “Who are you?” he asks me, “why can’t we map you?” “What?” I respond confused. Then the sharp sound of blades begin again and I can see that the woman has resumed their attempt to cut into Ngọc’s chest. “What are you doing to them?” I demand. The man shoves me against the wall. “Why can’t we map you?” he yells. “Map me? I don’t know what you are talking about.” He strikes me hard, flat across my face. I spit at him in frustration, unsure of whether I understand his odd accent correctly. I draw back and flail my body attempting to strike at him, but I only manage to tumble over, sliding down the slippery rock floor causing my rubbery bindings to tighten. Waving an impatient arm my way, the woman calls out, drawing the man back to the table where together they pry open Ngọc’s chest. Sobs I cannot control pour from me as Ngọc’s beautiful braided vines and gears are torn from their innards leaving their hull barren, protruding with jagged edges of cut metal. Over the next few days, frustration and anxiety begins to build between my captors as they dig with more and more ferocity into Ngọc’s chest. Watching their dissection piece-by-piece kills a part of me. Their chest is now completely bared, their side panels torn aside to reveal a thick inner metallic cylindrical core. “It’s too thick, it’s impossible to cut through,” I hear one of them say. “Maybe there is a way to bring jzan soul to prominence,” the other replies. Their arguments are punctuated by moments when I am dragged to the table and thrown over Ngọc. Their movements are as swift as the Guardians, and every time I am moved, I feel as if I am being torn from the inside out, my vomit becoming filtered with my own blood. “Open the chamber!” they demand, pointing to Ngọc’s chest. “I can’t!” I say over and over but their eyes show only disbelief before flinging me against the wall.   Days I cannot track pass. Perpetual darkness shrouds the cave. Dehydration causes my lips to crack while hunger continuously tears at me and I have soiled on myself more times than I can remember. My stench must have become ripe because one day I awake to being dragged across the cave floor and thrown into water. I startle awake to find myself drenched and sitting in a pond of water in the shadows of the cave. In its depths I see what looks like an opening into an underwater tunnel. Underground caves! Near our fishing village was an entire vast network of them. From time to time I swam through them. I had never swam more than a mile—but if that was the only route of escape I had… A thought comes to me. I cannot move as fast as they can, I can never outrun them, but I can swim. I can swim as far as my strength can take me. And I can disappear into the water, into mud, into dust. I have done it time and again in the war—and when I fled my country. I begin watching Ngọc with more vigilance. The woman often takes to napping, laying her head on the table, as the man continues to tinker with Ngọc. From time to time he too would doze, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. Then they’d wake and circle around Ngọc, fervid expressions on their faces. On the fourth observation of this cycle, I decide to act. I wait until the woman lays her head down in exasperation. The man always follows soon after her. When he lifts his legs to the table and his chin comes to rest on his chest, my heart begins to beat wildly in anticipation. When I hear his light snoring begin, I roll quickly to the table and reach up to slip my bound arms around Ngọc’s neck. Pulling Ngọc towards me, I brace for their weight, but they are not as heavy as I predicted; they had been severely hollowed out. With them resting on me, I scuttle to the edge of the pond and slip silently into the water. Through the opening of the tunnel, I swim like a dolphin, my arms and legs still bound, holding Ngọc at my side in a chokehold. Where the tunnel will lead me, I do not know. How much I will have to swim before I find air, I do not know. At this point, I no longer care. I swim as far as I can, allowing the opening to pull me. Darkness surrounds me and my lungs begin to burn but still I swim. My instinct is to go upwards so I pump until my head hits the top of a rock ceiling. I search for air pockets and find several small ones where I swallow mouthfuls of air. Time begins to fail me and after a while I begin to feel as if an eternity has passed as I meander through the water endlessly and desperately searching for air pockets. I do not know how long I have been swimming, whether it has been hours or days—I only know that my ability to swim longer distances is becoming shorter and that the slow creep of panic is beginning to overtake me. A few more circles through the tunnels and I begin to get dizzy, feeling as if I have been turned around, afraid that I would swim back into the cave that I escaped from. Time and again I find myself slamming my fists at finding the same pocket of air—feeling the crude markings I had scratched with my own nails on the rock ceiling. Then the moment came, as I knew it surely would—when my bound ankles cannot pump any longer, when my arms begin to resist pushing through the water, when I am too weary to hold my head high enough to breathe. I feel myself sinking, Ngọc still locked in my arms. Weariness from somewhere deep in my bones overcomes me. Stranded in a large air pocket that I seem to keep coming back to, I begin to sob. My bound fingers feel all over Ngọc’s shorn jagged parts. There is no button that I can push, nothing to flip, nothing to switch on or off. Frustrated, I throw myself against them, banging their head against the top of the air pocket. “Wake up damn it!” I sputter, water beginning to seep into my lungs. Then I laugh. I laugh at the absurdity of my journey. At the flight in the dead of night from our fishing village, at the days lost, dying of starvation in the South China Sea, to being rescued and stationed in an island paradise by the oddest people I’d ever met, to being taken by an air serpent and machine people and bound wallowing in my own filth in a dark cave with an automaton made of pieces of a clock and leaves. I laughed at how ludicrous it all was. “I am unsure whether you expressing happiness or grief.” Ngọc’s voice startles me and I turn them over. Their eyes light up and for the first time in what feels like days, light painfully dilates my eyes. The gears along the side of their head, which was sliced open, rotate a few clicks. “Ngọc!” I say, excitement and adrenaline rushing me. But then their jade eyes fade and I am left in darkness once again. My fingers fumble along their head, searching for the gears I just saw. Once I feel them, I manually rotate them. “It appears that we are situated in a very precarious position.” The air pocket illuminates with the green glow of Ngọc’s eyes. “We’re in an underground cave system. We need to find a way out.” I watch as the gears on Ngoc’s head rotate. “I can map us, but it will make our position known.” Their last words wind down slowly and I immediately rotate their gears. “Map us? What does that mean? They kept asking me why I could not be mapped.” “In our world, all living creatures exist in a vast Fabric.” I reach out to wind their gears before they slow down. “I am equipped to connect to a wavelength that is receivable upon the Fabric. It is not a direct link because only those who follow the jzan path can open a direct channel. I will use the organisms in this pond to relate us.” “Jzan Nguyệt will be able to receive it and locate us?” “Yes. You cannot be mapped because you are not from our world.” “Not from your world?” That same sinking feeling came back to me. Am I a ghost?  “I can instruct you on how to enable it but once it is on, I will be open to both the Guardians and the Machinists.” “Machinists?” “Those that brought us here.” “What choice do we have? We will die down here.” “You will die.” I sigh. “But what I hold is of great importance. I cannot remain here lost in this cave.” “How do I turn it on? But first, tell me how I can get one of your blades.”   After I enable the mechanism, Ngọc directs our course through the tunnel until we reach a river. Relief fills me as I roll onto my back and swim with Ngọc strapped onto my belly. Inhaling deeply, I can taste the difference in the air. “Who are they? The Machinists—they had machines in their bodies.” “They are not made of machines. What you saw were brandings that were inscribed on their bodies.” “Drawn on them?” “Yes, for their beliefs, in opposition to the Guardians’ markings.” I hear a hint of resentment in Ngoc’s words and I wonder if that is even possible for an automaton. “What are their beliefs?” The river narrows into an enclosed tunnel. “This is a question better suited for another time. This will be your last swim before we reach the opening of this cave. Beyond it is a waterfall.” “How long will I swim?” “Approximately two minutes.” “Two minutes Ngọc? I can’t hold my breath for two minutes!” “Midway through, the current will strengthen, increasing your speed.” Ngoc’s words are not reassuring. “I don’t have two minutes,” I say sadly. “If you activate my chamber, I will be ready to collect your soul.” I turn toward them, horrified. It registers my horror without response. Closing my eyes, I prepare myself. I can swim, I tell myself. If nothing else, I can swim. Then I grab Ngọc and propel myself off the top wall of the cave. Making broad strokes, I scale the length of the tunnel as fast as I can. My unbound hands and legs move water past us with all the velocity I can manage. I cannot move as fast as them, I cannot see, hear, nor speak like they do, but I can swim. The current does begin to pull us forcefully, but not soon enough as the burning in my lungs begins to give way to darkness. Consciousness begins to leave me and my arms and legs slow down, unable to respond any longer. Just as water begins to fill my lungs, blinding light stings my eyes and air rushes at me, clear beautiful fresh air. Wrapping myself around Ngọc, I brace myself as we plummet down a waterfall. A load blast ruptures the air followed by a flash of light that whizzes past us. Jzan Nguyệt’s airship appears and beside it, the Machinists’ enormous raven beast carrying several Machinist’s on its haunches. Both trail beside us as we plummet. Tumbling through the air, Nguyệt leaps from the ship to seize us, side-sweeping the blows of three Machinists who also plunge towards us. Guardians fling themselves from the airship after the Machinists who twirl in the air as they are falling. In flashes and streaks their blades meet as I am catapulted back onto to airship in Nguyệt’s grip, landing in a painful thud on the floor of the deck, my limbs still wrapped around Ngọc. Immediately I feel my insides resist the speed of the movement and I dry heave onto the deck attempting to grasp onto a reality that refuses to remain still. Pain cleaves through my mind, searing my body as the ship maneuvers towards the waterfall below the tumbling Guardians. Deflecting the Machinists, the Guardians tumble onto the airship and, before I can even register their appearance, the ship spins wildly and leans sharply to the left. A hand grabs me as I rocket down the deck and Nguyệt’s palm comes to rest flat against my forehead, flooding me with calmness, taking my pain—and my consciousness.   When I awake, Ngọc is beside me, their face and chest barren. Jagged cuts jut from all angles of them where the Machinists’ blade has sawed through them. “We have arrived,” Nguyệt approaches me, bowing, “You have our deepest gratitude for returning Ngọc to us.” Around the ship is the sea and in the distance along a foggy horizon is the outline of a mountain with the vague rings of a city encircling it. Near it are a dozen or more narrow mountains that jut above the fog, some connected by a thin bridge. “Yạ, please accept our apologies for your troubles,” Nguyệt says, “It was our intent to acclimate your people slowly to our world, to find ways to address the limitations of your senses. I regret the difficult introduction you have all had.” “They are safe?” I ask, ignoring jzan inferences about my abilities, feeling a twinge of humiliation. “Yạ, yes, and awaiting your arrival.” “The Machinists—they were tearing Ngọc apart—why?” Nguyệt turns to look at me, jzan eyes thoughtful with concerns that stretched far outside the scope of the question. I can feel the ship rise gradually and I cannot help but wonder if we are traveling slowly for my benefit. Chagrin fills me. “The Machinist have attempted many times to take Nan Ngọc. It is the chamber within nan body that they seek. Ngọc carries the soul of one of their deceased, a truly gifted alchemist and warrior. We believe they are attempting to secure certain reincarnation of that soul.” “That,” I hesitate, “Can be done?” “It cannot be done, but there are those that believe it possible. The Machinist believe many things that are not possible.” The clouds part and we pass a mountain of elegant green rice terraces. I feel as if I am returning home, nostalgia thick in my throat. Turning from the majestic countryside towards the mountains looming in the distance, I expect to see meandering rivers, urban roads and the signs of a civilization. But instead what I see is each mountain island, unconnected to each other, standing solitary, floating by itself surrounded by nothing but the air. “Where...” I turn to Nguyệt, “Where is the rest of the ocean?”   No matter how sharp my combat maneuvers are or how well synchronized my movements through the Bronze Drum choreography is, it is evident that I lack the basic abilities for candidacy as a Guardian. The taste of my own blood from hitting the ground after missing the inaudible cue of the young Guardian leading the entrance trials still lingers in my mouth. I was disqualified immediately, as were about a hundred and fifty other natives. I walk slowly back to the home we had been granted by the Guardians, ignoring as much as I can of the world around me that I fail to fully experience. Jzan Nguyệt’s words come back to haunt me, “in our country, your senses are severely impaired.” I am only beginning to brush the surface of the meaning of these words. “How were the candidacy trials?” mother asks me when I return home. “The trials were difficult. What it is that they see, I do not know and I can’t figure out fast enough to respond. I cannot hear what they are saying half the time and they have to make special hand signals just to make sure I can detect the nuances of their speech. Only those that move like lightning have a chance and even they have a second trial to undergo.” I cannot finish, feeling frustration welling inside of me. I rise instead, and retreat to my bamboo mat, feeling the weight of my mother’s sympathy behind me like an unwanted embrace. I lay my head down only to hear moments later a familiar voice at our rooftop entrance. I rise instantly, walking quickly to the courtyard where I am met by Ngọc, fully restored and followed by four Guardians who graciously entertain mother’s discussion of our region’s dishes. Upon seeing me, Ngọc excuses themself to greet me, leaving the Guardians behind to sample mother’s experimental recipes. “I have come with condolences for today’s trials.” I feel embarrassed at their words. “You did not need to do that.” “It is only reasonable that someone capable of escaping the Machinist, even given your limitations, would aspire to be a Guardian.” I don’t know whether to take their words warmly or to be offended. “I have something to show you. Somewhere private?” I am confused. I have not known Ngọc to ever require discretion; nevertheless, I direct them to my bamboo mat. “What you have, no other Guardian candidate can match.” “What’s that?” I asked, unconvinced. “Your knowledge, your memories.” At these words, Ngọc taps their chest and a small panel slides out. “What do you remember of this?” they asks as I stare at the handcrafted instrument in the middle of the panel. It is made of the finest bamboo embellished with an intricate metallic circular design; its handle displays ornate carvings and its series of bronze gears are polished to a shine. An intricate eyepiece is mounted on top of it to increase its accuracy. Though its machinery is different, the addition of gears and gadgets here and there adding some element of functionality I do not understand, it is, in essence, not unlike any other pistol I have ever seen or fired, though the barrel could probably stand to be improved to increase bullet speed. I do know about this. I knew about when it had been pointed at me and when I had held it in my own hands in the war. I turn to Ngọc. “Is this something the Guardians want? Or Jzan Nguyệt? These can bring death and violence. I thought they were all about nonviolence and peace.” “It is for neither.” “Then who—?” I stopped mid-sentence and drew back from Ngọc, wondering for the first time whom I had really rescued. “It is time for a new era, a new focus, one that will bring us back where we belong. Your memory and your contribution will be priceless, and your place among us cemented.” “Us?” I ask. Ngọc makes no reply. I reach for the pistol then, feeling its weight in my hand, stroking its intricate gears, and its handcrafted eye scope. With the exception of Ngọc, it is the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on.   END   “The Chamber of Souls” was originally published in The Sea Is Ours and is copyright Zora Mai Quynh 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. You can support GlitterShip by checking out our Patreon at patreon.com/keffy, subscribing to our feed, leaving reviews on iTunes, or buying your own copy of the Autumn 2018 issue at www.glittership.com/buy. You can also support us by picking up a free audiobook at  www.audibletrial.com/glittership. Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a GlitterShip original, “Of Clockwork Hearts and Metal Iguanodons” by Jennifer Lee Rossman.

Best for Baby by Rivqa Rafael When I jack in, I shove the plug into its socket harder than I should. The disconnect–reconnect tone combination sounds; the terminal is as grumpy as I am. Who wouldn’t be? I’ve been kept back late in the lab to finish a job. Which was stolen from me. By the person who asked me to do this, as a “favor.” Who also happens to be my supervisor, so I can’t say no. I load up the interface, drilling straight down to the zygote’s chromosomal level. Hayden’s been a bit careless, like he always is on the rare occasions he actually gets in the wet lab. I get to work, fixing his mistakes. Back in my body, I’m grinding my teeth and hunching my shoulders. Before I sink deeper into the VR, I take some deep breaths and roll my shoulders the way Lena showed me. Her yoga obsession has fringe benefits for me—my body needs to be relaxed if I’m going to do my job properly. Just for a moment, I’m back in our living room with Lena coaxing Kris and me to stretch with her. It’s enough to refocus me. For all that it’s a science, there’s an art to working in the interface. The prion scalpel is tiny—obviously—and delicate; it needs to be handled with care, the type of care that only comes from being completely in tune with your neural implant and the system it’s connected to. It’s something Hayden seems to lack. Keeping my movements graceful (thank you, Lena), I begin to repair the damage. In here, I’m both the pipette and the hand depressing the button; I’m the prion scalpel; I’m the machine. The translation overlay is just a guide; I’ve been able to recognize bases by shape for a long time now. When I started, I thought I’d never remember the sequences, but I know our most common mods by heart now. [Full story after the cut.]     Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 74 for June 17, 2019. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. Today we have a GlitterShip original, which is available in the Autumn 2018 issue that you can pick up at GlitterShip.com/buy, on Gumroad at gum.co/gship08, or on Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and other ebook retailers. If you’ve been waiting to pick up your copy of the Tiptree Award Honor Listed book, GlitterShip Year Two, there’s a great deal going on for Pride over at StoryBundle. GlitterShip Year Two is part of a Pride month LGBTQ fantasy fiction bundle. StoryBundle is a pay-what-you-want bundle site. For $5 or more, you can get four great books, and for $15 or more, you’ll get an additional five books, including GlitterShip Year Two, and a story game. That comes to as little as $1.50 per book or game. The StoryBundle also offers an option to give 10% of your purchase amount to charity. The charity for this bundle is Rainbow Railroad, a charity that helps queer folks get to a safe place if their country is no longer safe for them. http://www.storybundle.com/pride Our story today is “Best for Baby” by Rivqa Rafael, but first, our poem, which is “Aubade: King Under the Mountain” by Tristan Beiter.     Tristan Beiter is a poet and speculative fiction nerd originally from Central Pennsylvania. His poems have previously appeared in GlitterShip, Eternal Haunted Summer, Bird’s Thumb, and Laurel Moon. When not writing or reading he can usually be found crafting absurdities with his boyfriend or shouting about literary theory. Find him on Twitter @TristanBeiter.   Aubade: King Under the Mountain by Tristan Beiter   I wake to the crackle of the thousand-year hearthin the center of the room, to the bells tolling.Never church bells, but the deer harness hanging on the wall. I stretch towards his space, removing my earplugs—whichI have taken to wearing since even the tomtes snore something terrible.Luxuriate in the furs: big piles of wolf pelts and bear skins that make up our bed under the intertwinedroots of these seven great pine trees which are our roof, warm,with the wind through them and older than even Klampe-Lampe, who has risen already and left. But he’ll be back soon.I can see the pile of battered, burnished gold and silver, stillwaiting to bedizen him, bracers and torcs and earrings and necklace upon necklace—careless ugly richesthat have lasted generations of trolls living hundredsof years, all mounded up and displayed on knobbled bodies and in untamed hair. I pluck my earring, bracer, heavy silverbeads from the ground and put them on. When he returns, he’llcarry me in his left hand to the throne room under the mountain.     And now for “Best for Baby” by Rivqa Rafael, read by A.J. Fitzwater. Rivqa Rafael is a lapsed microbiologist who lives in Sydney, Australia, where she writes speculative fiction about queer women, Jewish women, cyborg futures, and hope in dystopias. Her short stories have been published in Defying Doomsday, Crossed Genres’ Resist Fascism, and elsewhere. She is co-editor of feminist robot anthology Mother of Invention. AJ Fitzwater is a dragon of repute living between the cracks of Christchurch, New Zealand. Their fiction appears in such venues as Clarkesworld, Lackingtons, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and Glittership. A collection of their Cinrak the Lesbian Capybara Pirate stories will be out in May 2020 from Queen of Swords Press. Their stranger than fiction can be found on Twitter @AJFitzwater     Best for Baby by Rivqa Rafael When I jack in, I shove the plug into its socket harder than I should. The disconnect–reconnect tone combination sounds; the terminal is as grumpy as I am. Who wouldn’t be? I’ve been kept back late in the lab to finish a job. Which was stolen from me. By the person who asked me to do this, as a “favor.” Who also happens to be my supervisor, so I can’t say no. I load up the interface, drilling straight down to the zygote’s chromosomal level. Hayden’s been a bit careless, like he always is on the rare occasions he actually gets in the wet lab. I get to work, fixing his mistakes. Back in my body, I’m grinding my teeth and hunching my shoulders. Before I sink deeper into the VR, I take some deep breaths and roll my shoulders the way Lena showed me. Her yoga obsession has fringe benefits for me—my body needs to be relaxed if I’m going to do my job properly. Just for a moment, I’m back in our living room with Lena coaxing Kris and me to stretch with her. It’s enough to refocus me. For all that it’s a science, there’s an art to working in the interface. The prion scalpel is tiny—obviously—and delicate; it needs to be handled with care, the type of care that only comes from being completely in tune with your neural implant and the system it’s connected to. It’s something Hayden seems to lack. Keeping my movements graceful (thank you, Lena), I begin to repair the damage. In here, I’m both the pipette and the hand depressing the button; I’m the prion scalpel; I’m the machine. The translation overlay is just a guide; I’ve been able to recognize bases by shape for a long time now. When I started, I thought I’d never remember the sequences, but I know our most common mods by heart now. Finding my rhythm, I begin to work a little faster; I’ve almost forgotten about Hayden and his insistence on getting his grubby hands all over this project. I don’t have forever in here—the zygote needs to go back on ice—but I’m in the zone now and there’s still plenty of time. I’ve got this. Sure, I’m not going to get any credit for it, but Hayden’s going to owe me. I’m logging everything, so he can’t conveniently “forget.” If I play my cards right, this might be the last step to me finally getting a promotion. Goodness knows I deserve one. Maybe Hayden would even back me up. I zoom out to look back at my work so far, and gasp. Something’s wrong. I should be about halfway done, but it’s like I was never here. No, worse. There are deadly cancer mutations here, lots of them, right where I was working. All types that wouldn’t show up until later in life, too. None of it was here before, and time is short.   You had to know Hayden pretty well to pick up his aura of desperation as he talked up the state-of-the-art equipment. PCR machines and centrifuges just look like boxes with touchscreens if you don’t understand what they do, after all. The couple lacked the air of anguish that infertile couples usually have when they walk through. Or the wonder often displayed by more-than-twos and gonadically incompatible—my heart panged as I thought of what it would take for us, how we’d—stop, it was pointless even to think about it, I told myself for the millionth time. I just worked here; I’d never be a client. Kris had already banned me from talking too much about work. Like me, she was implanted. You grow up knowing your place, not rocking the boat, aiming for what’s feasible. Lena was more willing to indulge me the fantasy; would we split everything evenly, or would one of us provide the mitochondria and the other two a set of chromosomes each? Both could work. I snapped myself out of it. Kris was right about this one; I just wished I could convince myself to believe it as thoroughly as she did. These two eyed the machinery with indifference. Probably here for mods, and mods only. If they weren’t using a surrogate, I’d drink my Taq polymerase. “Impressive. How do you guarantee your results, though?” Mom-to-be glittered with diamonds—genuine, I could only assume. Closest I’d ever got to any, anyway. “As I already explained...” Hayden caught my eye before I could look away. “Perhaps you’d like to meet one of our geneticists? Merav can answer your questions in far more detail.” Dad-to-be’s suit was so well-cut and so fine, it might even be real wool. His hair was immaculate and he smelled of expensive cologne. His HUD glasses were shiny, a model too new for me to recognize. “That would be excellent.” Setting my face into a neutral expression, I swiveled on my stool to face them properly while Hayden introduced them as Mr Blake and Dr Ashdowne. The names rang a vague bell and they were obviously capital-I Important, but I didn’t work it out until later. Hayden scolded me later for not standing up, but it just didn’t occur to me. As it was, I was going to have to start mixing my reagents again by the time this interruption was over. “I’d be happy to.” I did my best to distill and explain the years of research into genetic variables, what we could reliably reproduce and what we couldn’t, how we managed successive generations of mods, and how we tested each zygote’s chromosomes before allowing it to progress to blastomere—all non-invasive. They nodded along as I spoke; I couldn’t tell if they really understood, but Hayden smiled at me, which was a rare occurrence, so I was lulled into feeling grateful. At some point, they started talking to each other, right over the top of me. They dithered about hair color, wondering whether the stereotypes about blonde hair still held. Did they notice the irritation in my voice as I tried to explain how many other variables might be at play in their child’s success? “We just want the best for our baby,” Ashdowne said, almost pleading, but there was an edge to her voice that made me think that “best” meant something different to her than it did to me. “Of course. But this is just the beginning. We can’t control much of growth and development when upbringing plays such a large part. And epigenetics have an effect as well.” Keeping my voice even and patient was hard; there were only so many ways I could say the same thing. “Think of it as... venture capitalism. You’re making the best possible investment with every tool at your disposal, but that doesn’t guarantee that things will work out exactly how you planned.” Ashdowne nodded, but Blake’s eyes were flinty. “You’re saying our child might crash, and it won’t be your responsibility?” “I’m saying your kid might dye their hair one day, and that’s not something we can control for. We’re very clear about what we promise and what we don’t. It’s in the contract; I assume you’ve read it. It’s up to you.” Maybe it wasn’t the right PR line, but I wasn’t PR. They signed the contract.   I put the zygote back on ice and try to log into another. This couple only wants one child; that’s part of why they want it perfect. Still, each client typically has more than will be used; we need that margin for error as much as the IVF specialists do. There are four more zygotes. This should be salvageable. But each one gives me an “unavailable” notification. What is going on? Returning to the first zygote, I allow myself a tiny sigh of relief when I can still get back in. It’s a mess, but I can fix it in time. I think. I set up an extra firewall, the best I can code on the fly. We’re down to the wire here. Last chance to get it right, assuming the other zygotes are gone for good. If this one doesn’t work, doesn’t stick, we’re going to have to fess up and get more samples—if they don’t cancel the contract, which wouldn’t surprise me. I’d heard that Ashdowne had found the induction and retrieval unusually difficult, and it wasn’t fun at the best of times. So much for the Important clients. Fucking Hayden, honestly. Working in the same order I always do, I begin cleaning up the chromosomes. Again. It’s almost easier this time. The errors are so obvious, it would be comical if it weren’t so dire. As though someone used a pickaxe instead of a prion scalpel. I’m wincing, I realize, just looking at these errors. I’ve never seen so many cancer mutations in one place. Forcing my body to relax, I get back into my rhythm. This is definitely within my capabilities to fix, and with the logs I have running, maybe I’ll get some recognition for it. Maybe even that bonus Hayden had hinted at, even though it’s seeming less and less likely that it’ll be him authorizing it. My firewall pings; someone’s trying to log in. Hayden. “That firewall is going to look very suspicious to the auditors,” he says, using a private channel on the company comms. “Standard protocol when there’s a security breach, which there certainly seems to have been. I hope you’re looking into it, Hayden?” I’m pretty sure he isn’t, but I choose my words carefully, aware that my logs will pick this up along with everything else.   Hayden added me to the team officially, and I had to sit in on endless meetings when I should have been doing real work. He assured me that it would be worth it; that there were bonuses for jobs like this. That is, jobs for billionaire corporate royalty like Oliver Blake and Penelope Ashdowne. So I did my best, and that seemed to be good enough. From what I could tell, they liked having an “expert” on board, even if they didn’t actually listen to me very often. But then one day, Hayden was in the meeting before I arrived, chatting to “Oliver” about the stock market and complimenting “Penelope” on her outfit. After all these weeks, I was still calling them by titles; Hayden had said it was important I was respectful. That didn’t seem to apply to him, though. He ran a hand over his sleek hair, as though checking it still hid his neural implant. “Oh, Merav, didn’t you get my memo? I really need you on that rush job. I’ll take this from here.” “But—” I bit my tongue quickly. Hayden was my supervisor and he was within his rights to do this. Outside the room, I checked my work datapad. I hadn’t missed any messages.   “Oh, this doesn’t look like a security breach to me. Seems like an internal error.” Staying quiet, I carefully roll chromosome 19 back up while I think through my options. There’s no way an audit would incriminate me; my logs are streaming as they should. What is Hayden playing at? “Have you checked on the zygotes in meatspace?” I ask finally. “Some kind of lab mishap. Terrible, isn’t it?” So that was why the other zygotes were “unavailable,” with this one only missed because I’d been working on it. My heart thunders in my chest. “That’s going to suck for whoever made that mistake. What’s worse, do you think, the docked pay or having to apologize in person to the parents?” “Tough one. Sure is a shame for that person.” “Still, one zygote is better than none.” “Fuck me, you’re actually trying to fix it,” he says. It takes me a second to notice he’s swapped to socmed comms, the one that’s supposed to be the most secure on the market. No logging options at all. “No, I am fixing it. It’s my job.” Frantically, I switch to loudspeaker mode, and my datapad to record ambient sound. It’ll catch all the lab noises as well, but it’s the best I can do. The red light blinks at me; I allow myself to exhale and return to the chromosome I was working on. Instead of replying, Hayden changes tack. “You have a long-term girlfriend, don’t you?” “Two, actually.” In ordinary circumstances, I’d enjoy flustering Hayden with that. It’s not a secret and we encounter plenty of polyamorous folk in our line of work, but I’m completely unsurprised that he hasn’t paid attention. But I’m too stressed and wary to enjoy the moment. “I, ah, huh.” He falters for a second; I hear skepticism that I, of all people, could possibly have not just one but two lovers. But he’s clearly a man on a mission and plunges on. “Ever wanted a baby of your own? The… three of you?” I finish up the short arm of chromosome 2; no colon cancer on my watch. “We might adopt one day, if we can afford it.” “What if you could, though? Have a biological child, I mean. You’d want to?” “I don’t want things I can’t have. Waste of time.” I borrow Kris’s words for this lie, but it’s hard to imagine a person I’m less interested in having this discussion with than Hayden. He does this fake laugh, short and barking. “Lots of other things to spend that money on anyway, right?” “Sure, if you had it.” Just a couple more silent mutations and I can move on to cleaning up the epigenetic layer. Time to work out the end game. “What’s this about, Hayden?” “What if I told you there was better money in just… stopping now, if you know what I’m saying?” I recalibrate the scalpel and begin clearing the methylation around the DNA; there’s way too much, because of course—Hayden fouled up everything he could. “No, I don’t know what you’re saying.” “Jesus, are you stupid, or are you being deliberately obtuse?” I take my time replying. I’m working, after all, and this part is fiddly. “You’re going to have to explain yourself either way.” He only hesitates for a moment. “I know some powerful people. People who have an interest in seeing Blake and Ashdowne suffer.” “They’re last names now? You were such pals.” Methylation is at regulation levels now. Next, I sculpt the histones to the shape that centuries of research has determined to be ideal. Working quickly, I correct the errors to the surrounding proteins. A perfect zygote. “You know what your problem is, Merav? You have no idea how to play the game. You think hard work is rewarded. It isn’t. You have to be daring. Take a risk. Not as though the modded are ever going to give us a hand up, right?”   That first meeting. “You’ve got one of those implants, I see,” Ashdowne said, eyeing the side of my head, where my undercut showed off the neural implant. Like my early adopter parents, I was proud of my body hacks and what they could do. No gen mods in the world can tune you into tech like an implant can. Wearables? VR headsets? Ha. Blake dragged me back to reality. “They’re illegal if you’ve been modded, aren’t they?” “Yes. Unfair advantage to have both, right?” I struggled to keep the sarcasm from my voice. A thousand years on my salary, and, by inference, my parents’, wouldn’t be enough to pay for mods. I might like my implant, but I didn’t like being treated like dirt for having it. Hayden was all polite formality. “Merav’s implant allows her to interface directly with our machinery. We couldn’t do what we do without our ‘planted staff.” Hayden was quite willing to keep his implant covered to keep the clients happy, and he was pretty enough to get away with it. “Ah.” His expression didn’t change, but the sneer was evident anyway. “We just bought that little company that makes this brand, remember, dear?” Ashdowne raised an eyebrow at her husband. “Whatever it takes to get the best.” “That’s right!” Hayden said. “You get what you pay for in this industry. It’s a cliché, but it’s true. If you’ll come this way? You haven’t seen the clinic yet.” And then they were gone, leaving only the scent of cologne and perfume.   They’d deserve it. They would. They care as little for me as a person. For a terrible, shameful second, I’m tempted. I imagine it; going off the grid, doing illegal mods for the rest of my life. Holding a baby, my baby, our baby, in my arms. I zoom out and look at the zygote in its entirety. Regardless of how horrid this baby’s parents are and my dead-end job that undervalues me and underpays me, after I’m done, doctors and nurses will make every attempt to give this tiny clump of cells the chance to become a person. And these days, they tend to get it right, especially with a proven surrogate. The mutations that are left won’t kill this child, only make their later life a misery of radiotherapy and chemo. Teach the parents empathy? I don’t think so. In an instant, it’s clear what I need to do. “You’re right, they want us right where we are.” He chuckles with relief. “I knew you’d come around.” “But I’m pretty sure assaulting their offspring isn’t going to change that.” I terminate the call with Hayden and send everything to head office; the logs of my work on the zygote, all of today’s communication between the two of us. Everything. Highest level alert, coded “suspected bioterrorism”; that should take care of it. They’ll deal with him better than I can. “Time check,” I command the interface. “Five minutes, twelve point four seconds.” It’s enough time. Carefully, making sure not to introduce any last-minute errors, I unwind one 3p25 and fly up to OXTR. Just a couple of small changes are enough; a haplotype here, a couple of extra copies of an allele there, and I’m done and zipping the chromosome back up. It’s a tiny change; there’s so much beyond one gene at play here. Goodness only knows what kind of methylation, and socialization for that matter, lies ahead for this kid. But the way I see it, a little extra empathy never hurt anybody.   END     “Best for Baby” is copyright Rivqa Rafael 2019. “Aubade: King Under the Mountain” is copyright Tristan Beiter 2019. 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, leaving reviews on iTunes, or buying your own copy of the Autumn 2018 issue at www.glittership.com/buy. You can also support us by picking up a free audiobook at  www.audibletrial.com/glittership. Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a reprint of “The Chamber of Souls" by Zora Mai Quýnh.

Désiréby Megan Arkenberg   From Albert Magazine's interview with Egon Rowley: April 2943             Egon Rowley: It was the War that changed him. I remember the day we knew it. [A pause.] We all knew it, that morning. He came to our table in the coffee shop with a copy of Raum – do you remember that newspaper? The reviewers were deaf as blue-eyed cats, the only people in Südlichesburg who preferred Anton Fulke's operas to Désiré's – but Désiré, he had a copy of it. This was two days after Ulmerfeld, you understand. None of us had any idea how bad it was. But Raum had gotten its hands on a letter from a soldier, and Désiré read it to us, out loud, right there over coffee and pastries. [Full story after the cut.] Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip Episode 73 for June 13, 2019. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. Our story for today is Desire by Megan Arkenberg, read by Dani Daly. Before we get to it, if you’ve been waiting to pick up your copy of the Tiptree Award Honor Listed book, GlitterShip Year Two, there’s a great deal going on for Pride over at StoryBundle. GlitterShip Year Two is part of a Pride month LGBTQ fantasy fiction bundle. StoryBundle is a pay-what-you-want bundle site. For $5 or more, you can get four great books, and for $15 or more, you’ll get an additional five books, including GlitterShip Year Two, and a story game. That comes to as little as $1.50 per book or game. The StoryBundle also offers an option to give 10% of your purchase amount to charity. The charity for this bundle is Rainbow Railroad, a charity that helps queer folks get to a safe place if their country is no longer safe for them. http://www.storybundle.com/pride And now for “Desire” by Megan Arkenberg, read by Dani Daly. Megan Arkenberg’s work has appeared in over fifty magazines and anthologies, including Lightspeed, Asimov’s, Shimmer, and Ellen Datlow’s Best Horror of the Year. She has edited the fantasy e-zine Mirror Dance since 2008 and was recently the nonfiction editor for Queers Destroy Horror!, a special issue of Nightmare Magazine. She currently lives in Northern California, where she is pursuing a Ph.D. in English literature. Visit her online at http://www.meganarkenberg.com. Dani loves to keep busy and narrating stories is just one of the things she loves to do. She’s a former assistant editor of Cast of Wonders, a retired roller derby player and current soap maker and small business owner. She rants on twitter as @danooli_dani, if that’s your thing. Or you can visit the EA forums, where she moderates the Cast of Wonders boards. You can find stories narrated by Dani on all four of the Escape Artists podcasts, at Star Ship Sofa, and on Audible.com (as Danielle Daly).   Désiréby Megan Arkenberg   From Albert Magazine's interview with Egon Rowley: April 2943             Egon Rowley: It was the War that changed him. I remember the day we knew it. [A pause.] We all knew it, that morning. He came to our table in the coffee shop with a copy of Raum – do you remember that newspaper? The reviewers were deaf as blue-eyed cats, the only people in Südlichesburg who preferred Anton Fulke's operas to Désiré's – but Désiré, he had a copy of it. This was two days after Ulmerfeld, you understand. None of us had any idea how bad it was. But Raum had gotten its hands on a letter from a soldier, and Désiré read it to us, out loud, right there over coffee and pastries.             Albert Magazine: And what did the letter say?             Rowley: The usual things. Blood and, and heads blown clean off, things like that. Horrible things. I remember…[Laughs awkwardly.] I remember Baptist Vogel covered his ears. We all felt it quite badly.             AM: I imagine. Why was this letter so important to Désiré?             Rowley: Who can say why anything mattered to him? Guilt, most likely.             AM: Guilt?             Rowley: Yes. He hadn't volunteered for the army, and that was something of an anomaly in those days. Everyone was so patriotic, so nationalist, I suppose you'd say. But he had his reasons. I mean, I don't suppose Désiré could have passed the examinations for enlistment – the psychological examinations.             AM: But it bothered him, that he hadn't volunteered?             Rowley: Yes. Very much. [A pause.] When he read that soldier's letter…it was the oddest thing. Like he was reading a love letter, you understand. But, like I said, there was nothing romantic in it, nothing at all. It was…horrible.             AM: What did Désiré say about it?             Rowley: About the letter? Nothing. He just read it and…and went back to his rooms, I suppose. That was the last we saw of him.             AM: The last you saw of him?             Rowley: Yes. [A pause.] Before Alexander.   A letter from Margaret von Banks to Beatrix Altberg: August 2892 Dearest Bea,             The scene: Leonore's drawing room, around nine o'clock last night. The moment I stepped through the door, Désiré came running up to me like a child looking for candy. "Thank goodness you're here," he said. I should add that it was supposed to be a masquerade, but of course I knew him by his long hair and those dark red lips, and I suppose I'm the only woman in Südlichesburg to wear four rings in each ear. He certainly knew me immediately. "I have a bet running with Isidor," he continued, "and Anton and I need you for the violin."             He explained, as he half-led, half-dragged me to the music room, that Anton had said something disparaging – typically – about Isidor's skills as a conductor of Désiré's music. Isidor swore to prove him wrong if Désiré would write them a new piece that very moment. Désiré did – a trio for violin, cello and pianoforte – and having passed the cello to Anton and claimed the piano for himself, he needed me to play violin in the impromptu concert.             "You're mad," I said on seeing the sheet music.             "Of course I am," he said, patting me on the shoulder. Isidor thundered into the room – they make such a delightful contrast, big blond Isidor and dark Désiré. Rumor is Désiré has native blood from the Lysterrestre colonies, which makes me wonder quite shallowly if they're all so handsome over there. Yes, Bea, I imagine you rolling your eyes, but the fact remains that Désiré is ridiculously beautiful. Even Richard admits it.             Well, Isidor assembled the audience, and my hands were so sweaty that I had to borrow a pair of gloves from Leonore later in the evening. Désiré was smooth and calm as can be. He kissed me on the forehead – and Anton on the cheek, to everyone's amusement but Anton's – and then Isidor was rapping the music stand for our attention, and Désiré played the opening notes, and we were off, hurtling like a sled down a hill. I wish I had the slightest clue what we were playing, Bea, but I haven't. The audience loved it, at any rate.             That's Désiré for you – mad as springtime, smooth as ice and clumsy as walking on it. We tease him, saying he's lucky he doesn't wear a dress, he trips over the ladies' skirts so often. But then he apologizes so wonderfully, I've half a mind to trip him on purpose. That clumsiness vanishes when he's playing, though; his fingers on a violin are quick and precise. Either that, or he fits his mistakes into the music so naturally that we don't notice them.             You really ought to meet him, Bea. He has exactly your sense of humor. A few weeks ago, Richard and I were at the Symphony, and Désiré joined us in our box, quite unexpectedly. Richard, who was blushing and awkward as it was, tried to talk music with Désiré. "This seems to tell a story, doesn't it?" he said.             "It most certainly does," Désiré said. "Like Margaret's uncle Kunibert. It starts with something fascinating, then derails itself talking about buttons and waistcoats. If we're lucky, it might work its way back to its original point. Most likely it will put us to sleep until someone rudely disturbs us by applauding."             All this said with the most perfectly straight face, and a bit of an eyebrow raise at me, inviting me to disagree with him. I never do, but it's that invitation that disarms me, and keeps the teasing from becoming cruel. Désiré always waits to be proven wrong, though he never is.             I should warn you not to fall in love with him, though. I'm sure you laugh, but half of Südlichesburg is ready to serve him its hearts on a platter, and I know he'd just smile and never take a taste. He's a man for whom Leonore's masquerades mean nothing; he's so wonderfully full of himself, he has no room to pretend to be anyone else.             That's not to say he's cruel: merely heartless. He's like a ruby, clear and dark and beautiful to look at, but hard to the core. How such a man can write such music, I'll never know.             Yours always,             Maggie   III. From a review of Désiré's Echidna in Der Sentinel: July 2894             For the life of me, I cannot say what this opera is about. Love, and courage. A tempestuous battle. I have the libretto somewhere, in a drawer with my gloves and opera glasses, but I will not spoil Désiré's score by putting a story to it. Echidna is music, pure music, so pure it breaks the heart.             First come the strings, quietly humming. Andrea Profeta enters the stage. The drums begin, loud, savage. Then the melody, swelling until you feel yourself lifted from your chair, from your body, and you are only a web of sensations; your heart straining against the music, your blood singing in your fingertips. Just remembering it, I feel my fingers go weak. How the orchestra can bear to play it, I can't imagine.             It is not Echidna but the music that is the hero. We desire, like the heroine, to be worthy of it. We desire to live in such a way that our world may deserve to hold something so pure, so strong, so achingly beautiful within it.   From the Introduction of Désiré: an Ideal by Richard Stele: 2934             Societies are defined by the men they hate. It is the revenge of an exile that he carries his country to all the world, and to the world his countrymen are merely a reflection of him. An age is defined not by the men who lived in it, but by the ones who lived ahead of it.             Hate smolders. Nightmares stay with us. But love fades, love is fickle. Désiré's tragedy is that he was loved.   From Albert Magazine's interview with Egon Rowley             AM: And what about his vices?             Rowley: Désiré's vices? He didn't have any. [Laughs.] He certainly wasn't vicious.             AM: Vicious?             Rowley: That's what the papers called it. He liked to play games, play his friends and admirers against each other.             AM: Like the ladies.             Rowley: Yes. That was all a game to him. He'd wear…favors, I suppose you'd call them, like a knight at a joust. He admired Margaret von Bank's earrings at the opening of Echidna, and she gave him one to wear through the performance. After that the ladies were always fighting to give him earrings.             AM: To your knowledge, was Désiré ever in love?             Rowley: Never. [A pause.] I remember one day – summer of 2896, it must have been – a group of us went walking in Brecht's park. Désiré, Anton Fulke, the newspaperman Richard Stele, the orchestra conductor Isidor Ursler, and myself. It was Sonntag afternoon, and all the aristocrats were riding by in their fine clothes and carriages. A sort of weekly parade, for us simple peasants. You don't see sights like that anymore.             [A long pause.] Anyway, Désiré was being himself, joking with us and flirting with the aristocrats. Or the other way around, it was never easy to tell. Isolde von Bisswurm, who was married to a Grand Duke at the time, slowed her carriage as she passed us and called… something unrepeatable down to Désiré.             AM: Unrepeatable?             Rowley: Oh, I'm sure it's no more than half the respectable women in Südlichesburg were thinking. Désiré just laughed and leapt up into her carriage. She whispered something in his ear. And then he kissed her, right there in front of everyone – her, a married woman and a Grand Duchess.             AM: [With humor.] Scandalous.             Rowley: It was, in those days. We were all – Fulke and Ursler and Stele and I – we were all horrified. But the thing I'm thinking of, when you ask me if he was ever in love with anyone, that happened afterward. When he jumped down from Isolde's carriage, he was smiling like a boy with a lax governess, and he looked so… I suppose you might say beautiful. But in a moment the look was gone. He caught sight of the man in the next carriage: von Arden, von Allen, something like that. Tall man, very dark, not entirely unlike Désiré, though it was very clear which of the two was better favored.             AM: Not von Arden.             Rowley: [Laughs.] Oh, no. Maggie von Banks used to call Désiré her angel, and he could have passed for one, but von what's-his-face was very much a man. Désiré didn't seem to notice. He stood there on the path in Brecht's park, staring like… well, like one of those girls who flocked to his operas.             AM: Staring at this man?             Rowley: Yes. And after kissing Isolde von Bisswurm, who let me tell you was quite the lovely lady in those days. [Laughs softly.] Whoever would have suspected Désiré of bad taste? But that was his way, I suppose.             AM: What was his way? [Prompting:] Did you ever suspect Désiré of unnatural desires?             Rowley: No, never. No desire in him could be unnatural.     From the pages of Der Sentinel: May 15, 2897             At dawn on May 14, the composer Désiré was joined by Royal Opera conductor Isidor Ursler and over fifty representatives of the Südlichesburg music 'scene' to break ground in Umerfeld, two miles south of the city, for Désiré's ambitious new opera house.             The plans for Galatea – which Désiré cheerfully warns the public are liable to change – show a stage the size of a race track, half a mile of lighting catwalks, and no less than four labyrinthine sub-basements for prop and scenery storage. For a first foray into architecture, Désiré's design shows several highly ambitious features, including three-storey lobby and central rotunda. The rehearsal rooms will face onto a garden, Désiré says, featuring a miniature forest and a wading pool teeming with fish. When asked why this is necessary, he replied with characteristic 'charm': "It isn't. Art isn't about what is necessary. Art decides what is necessary."   VII. From a review of Désiré's Brunhilde in Der Sentinel: February 2899             For once, the most talked-about thing at the opera was not Désiré's choice of jewel but his choice of setting. Südlichesburg's public has loved Galatea from the moment we saw her emerging from the green marble in Ulmerfeld, and, at last, she has come alive and repaid our devotion with an embrace. At last, said more than one operagoer at last night's premier of Brunhilde, Désiré's music has a setting worthy of it.             Of course Galatea is not Désiré's gift to Südlichesburg, but a gift to himself. The plush-and-velvet comfort of the auditorium is designed first and foremost to echo the swells of his music, and the marble statues in the lobby are not pandering to their aristocratic models but suggestions to the audience of what it is about to witness; beauty, dignity, power. However we grovel at the feet of Désiré the composer, we must also bow to Désiré the consummate showman.             As to the jewel in this magnificent setting, let us not pretend that anyone will be content with the word of Richard Stele, operagoer. Everyone in Südlichesburg will see Brunhilde, and all will love it. The only question is if they will love it as much as Désiré clearly loves his Galatea.             Finally, as a courtesy to the ladies and interested gentlemen, Désiré's choice of jewel for last night's performance came from the lovely Beatrix Altberg. He wore her pearl-and-garnet string around his left wrist, and it could be seen sparkling in the houselights as he stood at the end of each act and applauded wildly.   VIII. From Albert Magazine's interview with Egon Rowley             AM: They say that Désiré's real decline began with Galatea.             Rowley: Whoever "they" are. [Haltingly:] 2899, it was finished. I remember because that was the year Vande Frust opened her office in Südlichesburg. She was an odd one, Dr. Frust – but brilliant, I'll give her that.             AM: Désiré made an appointment with Dr. Frust that June.             Rowley: Yes. I don't know what they talked about, though. Désiré never said.             AM: But you can guess, yes?             Rowley: Knowing Dr. Frust, I can guess.             AM: [A long pause.] As a courtesy to our readers who haven't read Vande Frust's work, could you please explain?             Rowley: She was fascinated by origins. Of course she didn't mean that the same way everyone else does – didn't give half a pence for your parents, did Vande Frust. She had a bit of… a bit of a fixation with how you were educated. How you formed your Ideals – your passions, your values. What books you read, whose music you played, that sort of thing.             AM: And how do you suppose Désiré formed his Ideals?             Rowley: I don't know. As I said, whatever Désiré discussed with Dr. Frust, he never told me. And he never went back to her.   From Chapter Eight of Désiré: an Ideal by Richard Stele             Whether or not Désiré suffered a psychological breakdown during the building of Galatea is largely a matter of conjecture. He failed to produce any significant piece of music in 2897 or the year after. Brunhilde, which premiered at the grand opening of Galatea in 2899, is generally acknowledged to be one of his weakest works.             But any concrete evidence of psychological disturbance is nearly impossible to find. We know he met with famed Dr. Vende Frust in June 2899, but we have no records of what he said there. The details of an encounter with the law in February 2900 are equally sketchy.             Elise Koch, Dr. Frust's maid in 2899, offers an odd story about the aftermath of Désiré's appointment. She claims to have found a strange garment in Dr. Frust's office, a small and shapeless black dress of the sort women prisoners wear in Lysterre and its colonies. Unfortunately for the curious, Dr. Frust demanded that the thing be burned in her fireplace, and its significance to Désiré is still not understood.   From the report of Hans Frei, prostitute: February 12, 2900             Mr. Frei, nineteen years old, claims a man matching the description of the composer Désiré approached him near Rosen Platz late at night last Donnerstag. The man asked the price, which Mr. Frei gave him, and then offered twice that amount if Mr. Frei would accompany him to rooms "somewhere in the south" of Südlichesburg. Once in the rooms, Mr. Frei says the man sat beside him by the window and proceeded to cry into his shoulder. "He didn't hurt me none," Mr. Frei says. "Didn't touch me, as a matter of fact. I felt sorry for him, he seemed like such a mess."             No charges are being considered, as the man cannot properly be said to have contracted a prostitute for immoral purposes. The composer Désiré's housekeeper and staff could not be found to comment on the incident. One neighbor, a Miss Benjamin, whose nerves make her particularly susceptible to any irregularity, claims that on the night of last Donnerstag, her sleep was disturbed by a lamp kept burning in her neighbor’s foyer. Such a lamp, she states, is usually maintained by Désiré’s staff until the small hours, and extinguished upon his homecoming. She assumes that the persistence of this light on Donnerstag indicates that Désiré did not return home on the night in question.   From a review of Désiré's Hieronymus in Der Sentinel: December 2902             Any man who claims to have sat through Désiré's Hieronymus with a dry eye and handkerchief is either deaf or a damned liar. Personally, I hope he is the damned liar, as it would be infinitely more tragic if he missed Désiré's deep and tangled melodies. Be warned: Hieronymus bleeds, and the blood will be very hard to wash out of our consciousness.   XII. A letter from Margaret von Banks Stele to Beatrix Altberg: March 2903 Dearest Bea,             Richard says war is inevitable. His job with the newspapers lets him know these things, I suppose: he says Kaspar in the foreign relations room is trying to map Lysterrestre alliances with string and cards on the walls, and now he's run completely out of walls. That doesn't begin to include the colonies.             The way Richard talks about it, it sounds like a ball game. Bea, he jokes about placing bets on who will invade whom – as if it doesn't matter any more than a day at the races! I know he doesn't need to worry, that at worst the papers will send him out with a notepad and a pencil and set him scribbling. The Stele name still has some pull, after all – if he wants to make use of it.             I don't, Beatrix. If war breaks out with Lysterre, I want you to know that I am going to enlist.             Yours,            Margaret Stele   XIII. From Chapter Eleven of Désiré: an Ideal by Richard Stele             It was inevitable that the War should to some extent be Désiré's. It was the natural result of men like him, in a world he had helped create. Dr. Vande Frust would say it was the result of our Ideals, and that Désiré had wrought those Ideals for us. I think Désiré would agree.             We – all of us, the artists and the critics with the aristocrats and cavalrymen – might meet in a coffee shop for breakfast one morning and lay some plans for dinner. The cavalrymen would ride off, perhaps as little as ten miles from Südlichesburg, where the Lysterrestre troops were gathered. There would be a skirmish, and more often than not an empty place at the supper table. Désiré took to marking these places with a spring of courtesan's lace: that, too, was a part of his Ideal.             In this war, in our war, there was a strange sense of decorum. This was more than a battle of armies for us, the artists. Hadn't Lysterrestre audiences applauded and wept at our music as much as our own countrymen? The woman whose earring Désiré had worn one night at the opera might be the same one who set fire to his beloved Galatea. The man who wrung Anton Fulke's hand so piteously at the Lysterrestre opening of Viridian might be the same man who severed that hand with a claw of shrapnel. How could we fight these men and women, whose adulating letters we kept pressed in our desk drawers? How could we kill them, who died singing our songs?   XIV. From Albert Magazine's interview with Egon Rowley             AM: Do you think Alexander was written as a response to the War?             Rowley: I know it was. [A pause.] Well, not to the War alone. A fair number of things emerged because of that – Fulke's last symphony, which he wrote one-handed, and Richard Stele's beautiful book of poems. Who knew the man had poetry in him, that old newspaper cynic?             AM: His wife died in the War, didn't she?             Rowley: Yes, poor Maggie. It seems strange to pity her – she wouldn't have wanted my pity – but, well, I'm an old man now. It's my prerogative to pity the young and dead.             AM: But to return to Désiré –             Rowley: Yes, to Désiré and Alexander. You must have seen it. All the world saw it when it premiered in 2908, even babes in arms…How old are you?             AM: [The interviewer gives her age.]             Rowley: Well, then, you must have seen it. It was brilliant, wasn't it? Terrible and brilliant. [A pause.] Terrible, terrible and brilliant.   A letter from Infantryman Leo Kirsch, printed in Raum: September 2907 Gentlemen,             I cannot make you understand what is happening here, less than a day's ride from your parks and offices and coffee houses. I can list, as others have, the small and innumerable tragedies: a headless soldier we had to walk on to cross through the trenches, a dead nurse frozen with her arms around a dead soldier, sheltering him from bullets. I can list these things, but I cannot make you understand them.             If it were tears I wanted from you, gentlemen of Südlichesburg, I could get them easily enough. You artists, you would cry to see the flowers trampled on our marches, the butterflies withering from poisonous air. You would cry to watch your opera houses burn like scraps of kindling. Me, I was happy to see Galatea burn. Happy to know it would hurt you, if only for a day.             But I don't want your weeping. If I want anything from you, it is for you to come down here to the battlefields, to see what your pride, your stupidity, your brainless worship of brainless courage has created. It is your poetry that told that nurse to shelter her soldier with her body, knowing it was useless, knowing she would die. Your music told her courage would make it beautiful. I want you to look down at the headless soldiers in the trenches and see how beautiful dumb courage really is.             The Lysterrestre have brought native soldiers from their colonies, dark men and women with large eyes and deep, harrowing voices. They wear Lysterrestre uniforms and speak the language, but they have no love for that country, no joy in dying for it. Yesterday I saw a woman walking through the battlefield, holding the hands of soldiers – her people, our people, and Lysterrestre alike – and singing to them as they died. That courage, the courage of the living in the face of death, could never come from your art. For us, and for Lysterre, courage of that kind is lost.             I tried to join her today. But I did not know what to sing, when all our music is lies.   XVI. From a review of Désiré's Alexander in Der Sentinel: August 2908             Richard Stele has refused the task of reviewing Alexander for Der Sentinel, and it is easy to see why. Stele is a friend of Désiré, and it takes a great deal of courage – courage which Désiré brutally mocks and slanders – to take a stand against one's friends. But sometimes it must be done. In this instance, standing with Désiré is not only cowardly; it is a betrayal of what all thinking, feeling men in this country hold dear.             Nine years ago, after the premier of Brunhilde, Stele famously refused to summarize its plot, saying we would all see it and love it regardless of what he said. Well, you will all see Alexander regardless of what I say. And you, my friends, will be horrified by the change in your idol.   XVII. From Chapter Twelve of Désiré: an Ideal by Richard Stele             The War changed Désiré. Alexander changed us all.             It seems to be a piece of anti-Lysterre propaganda, at first. Alexander, a Lysterrestre commander, prepares for war against the native people of the Lysterrestre colonies. Shikoba, a native woman, rallies her people against him. The armies meet; but instead of the swelling music, the dignity and heroism Désiré's audience have come to expect, there is slaughter. The Lysterrestre fling themselves at the enemy and fall in hideous, cacophonous multitudes. At the end of the opera, Alexander is the last Lysterrestre standing. He goes to kill Shikoba; she stabs him brutally in the chest and he collapses, gasping. Shikoba kneels beside him and sings a quiet, subdued finale as he dies.             This is an opera about courage, about heroism. Its heroes turn to all the other operas that have ever been written and call them lies. When audiences leave the opera house, they do so in silence. I have heard of few people seeing it twice.             At some point during the writing of Alexander – in October 2907, I believe – Désiré announced at a dinner of some sort that he had native blood, and had been born in the Lysterrestre colonies. This did not matter much to the gathered assembly, and besides, it was something of an open secret. We took it, at the time, to be a sort of explanation, an excuse for the powerful hatred that boiled in him each time we mentioned the War. Not that we needed any explanations; my wife, Margaret von Banks Stele, had died at Elmerburg about a month before.             Now, of course, I wonder. Why did it matter to Désiré that the world he shaped so heavily was not his by blood? What exactly had the War made him realize – about himself, and about the rest of us?             It is significant, I think, that in Galatea's burning all the Lysterrestre army costumes were lost. "Fine," Désiré said. "Borrow the uniforms of our countrymen. They all look the same from where we'll be standing."   XVIII. From Albert Magazine's interview with Egon Rowley             AM: The War marked the end of an era.             Rowley: The death of an era, yes. Of Désiré's era. I suppose you could say Désiré killed it.   XIX. From the obituaries page of Raum: June 2911             The editors of Raum are saddened to report the death of the composer, architect, and respected gentleman Désiré. We realize his popularity has waned in recent years, following a number of small scandals and a disappointing opera. Nevertheless, we must acknowledge our debts to the earlier work of this great and fascinating man, whose music taught our age so much about pride, patriotism and courage.             Something of an enigma in life, Désiré seems determined to remain so hereafter. He directed his close friend Egon Rowley and famed doctor Vande Frust to burn all his papers and personal effects. He also expressed a desire to be cremated and to have his ashes spread over Umerfeld, site of both his destroyed Galatea and one of the bloodiest battles in the recent War.             No family is known, nor are Mr. Rowley and Dr. Frust releasing the cause of death. Désiré is leaving Südlichesburg, it seems, as mysteriously as he came to it.   From a report on Native Boarding Schools in the Lysterrestre Colonies: May 2937             Following almost twenty years of intense scrutiny and criticism from the outside world, Native Boarding Schools throughout the territories of the one-time Lysterrestre Empire are being terminated and their records released to the public.             Opened in the late 2870s, Native Boarding Schools professed to provide native-born children with the skills and understandings necessary to function in the colonial society. In the early years, the children learned the Lysterrestre language and farming techniques; over time, some of the schools added courses in machine operation. Criticism centers on both the wholesale repression of the students' culture and the absence of lessons in science or the fine arts.             "We went around in shapeless black dresses, like criminals in a prison," Zéphyrine Adam, born Calfunaya, says of her time in the Bonner Institute. "They say they taught us to speak their language, but they really taught us to be silent. They had rooms full of books, music sheets and phonographs, but we weren't allowed to use them. Not unless we were too clumsy to be trusted by the factory machines. They understood, as we do, that stories and music give us power. They were afraid of what we would do to them if they let us into their world."             In the face of such accusations, the majority of Native Boarding School instructors seem reluctant to speak, though some still defend the schools and their intentions.             "The goal was to construct a Lysterrestre Ideal for them, but not to hide their natural-born talents," says Madame Achille, from the Coralie Institute in what is now northern Arcadie. "We simply made sure they expressed them in the appropriate ways. I remember one girl, one of the first we processed back in 2879. An unhappy little thing most of the time, but a budding musician; she would run through the halls chanting and playing a wooden drum. Well, we set her down one day at the pianoforte, and she took to it like a fish to water. The things she played, so loud, so dignified! She had such talent, though I don't suppose anything ever came of it.             "A lot of them had such talent," she adds. "I wonder whatever became of them?" END   "Désiré” was originally published in Crossed Genres and is copyright Megan Arkenberg, 2013. 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, leaving reviews on iTunes, or buying your own copy of the Autumn 2018 issue at www.glittership.com/buy. You can also support us by picking up a free audiobook at  www.audibletrial.com/glittership. Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a GlitterShip original.

Raders by Nelson Stanley   They called themselves the Raders, and if you didn’t know, you’d swear that they were waiting for something: a bunch of boyed-up cookers, second-string hot hatches and shopping trollies adorned with bazzing body-kits parked down at the overcliff again, throttles blipping in time to the breakbeats. Throaty roar from aftermarket back-boxes you could shove your fist up, throb of the bass counter-pointed by an occasional crack as a cheap six-by-nine gave up the ghost. Occasionally a sub overheated, leaving nothing but ear-splitting midrange and treble howling into the gale blowing rain off the sea. Mya had pushed half a pill into Maggie’s hand when the red XR2 picked her up outside the all-night Turkish takeaway, and Maggie regretted dropping it already, though at first she’d thought the high percentage of whizz in it might lend her enough chemical bravery to finally say what she wanted. Now her eyes rolled in her head and the rush made it difficult to speak. Sparks came off the edges of the headlights splitting the mizzle outside. Her nervous system uncoiled and re-knitted itself, reducing her to a warm soup through which the uppers fizzed and popped.     [Full story after the cut.] Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 72 for June 10, 2019. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. Today we have a GlitterShip original, which starts off a new issue that you can pick up at GlitterShip.com/buy, on Gumroad at gum.co/gship08, or on Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and other ebook retailers. If you’ve been waiting to pick up your copy of the Tiptree Award Honor Listed book, GlitterShip Year Two, there’s a great deal going on for Pride over at StoryBundle. GlitterShip Year Two is part of a Pride month LGBTQ fantasy fiction bundle. StoryBundle is a pay-what-you-want bundle site. For $5 or more, you can get four great books, and for $15 or more, you’ll get an additional five books, including GlitterShip Year Two, and a story game. That comes to as little as $1.50 per book or game. The StoryBundle also offers an option to give 10% of your purchase amount to charity. The charity for this bundle is Rainbow Railroad, a charity that helps queer folks get to a safe place if their country is no longer safe for them. http://www.storybundle.com/pride Our story today is “Raders” by Nelson Stanley. Before we get to that, though, here is our poem, “Vampiric Tendencies in the Year 4500” by Renee Christopher. Renee Christopher is an SFF writer and poet currently making it through her last Iowa winter. Noble / Gas has nominated her poetry for a Pushcart, and her first short story can be found in Fireside Fiction. Follow her on Twitter @reneesunok or on Mastodon @sunok@wandering.shop   Vampiric Tendencies in the Year 4500 By Renee Christopher   Moon-sewn mothgirls clot          near light, their search for glow similar to mine. The door left          ajar          allowed us both alternate methods for creation creatures merged          with cosmic teeth. Stars managed to adapt          find those who, thick as molasses, gleamed upon the trellis          of a new future. But what I look for flutters past a stand of deer          —bright and wingless, with champagne fingers and summer tongues. At least, the searing          reminds me of a time when the sun burned hot and fast.          Now the blood  I need drips neon from above, filters through          decadent soil in a system unknown. In this quest for light          source, I am not alone.   Nelson Stanley works in an academic library in the UK. His stories have been published recently in places like The Dark Magazine, the Lethe Press anthology THCock, Black Dandy, The Gallery of Curiosities, The Sockdolager, and Tough Crime. One of his stories was included in the British Fantasy Award-winning anthology Extended Play.   Raders by Nelson Stanley   They called themselves the Raders, and if you didn’t know, you’d swear that they were waiting for something: a bunch of boyed-up cookers, second-string hot hatches and shopping trollies adorned with bazzing body-kits parked down at the overcliff again, throttles blipping in time to the breakbeats. Throaty roar from aftermarket back-boxes you could shove your fist up, throb of the bass counter-pointed by an occasional crack as a cheap six-by-nine gave up the ghost. Occasionally a sub overheated, leaving nothing but ear-splitting midrange and treble howling into the gale blowing rain off the sea. Mya had pushed half a pill into Maggie’s hand when the red XR2 picked her up outside the all-night Turkish takeaway, and Maggie regretted dropping it already, though at first she’d thought the high percentage of whizz in it might lend her enough chemical bravery to finally say what she wanted. Now her eyes rolled in her head and the rush made it difficult to speak. Sparks came off the edges of the headlights splitting the mizzle outside. Her nervous system uncoiled and re-knitted itself, reducing her to a warm soup through which the uppers fizzed and popped. Waves thrashed at the rocks below the edge of the cliff. An occasional dark shape—a seagull, perhaps, blown off-course and away from the bins—fluttered into the edges of the headlights’ glare and then reeled away into the greater darkness. Hydro and tobacco exhaust vented through half-opened drivers’ windows and flavored the edges of the sooty exhaust smoke from a dozen engines running too rich. One or other spun dustbin-lid size alloys on the wet, loose tarmac with an angry howl, holding it on the handbrake, then—just when you might think that a clutch was about to melt—drop it hard so that fat low-profiles tramped up into the suspension turrets as the tires found purchase, slewing away to nail it down the narrow cliff road, returning from its circuit a few minutes later to rejoin the loose congregation in the car park. “See. What I mean is, we could be like... See? We don’t have to like... What I mean...” Maggie trailed off, frustrated not so much, perhaps, by her inability to articulate her emotions than by the inefficiency of talking as a medium for expression itself. Why couldn’t she just touch Mya, and have her know exactly what she meant? How she felt? She chewed savagely upon the inside of her bottom lip and fervently wished she’d brought some chewing gum, breath fast through her nose. She started to roll a ciggie, but her hands were shaking and tobacco and papers seemed alive in her hands. In the driver’s seat, Mya was doing her lippy in the rear-view, an action made more difficult by the way she was surfing the breakbeats pulsing from the stereo, pausing occasionally to puff on the spliff hanging out of the other side of her mouth. With a sigh that seemed practiced she twisted her lippy shut and dropped it amongst the scree of empty Embassy No.1 packets, roached Rizla cartons, baggies and half-crushed tins of cheap cider littering the dashboard. “Look,” she said, placing both hands on the steering wheel, as if what she had to say required anchoring herself more firmly to the car, “With you now it’s all ‘What I want’ and ‘What I think is’ and it just... I knew it’d get like this. Knew it. What you don’ get is, I don’t care. It’s over, girl. Let go.” Chemicals rushed into Maggie’s head like someone filling up a bath. She was frantically rubbing a rolling paper flat between her thumbs, gaze pinned to the wrinkled rectangle as if somewhere upon it was written a way out of this, a way to get Mya back. “I suppose I do need you,” Mya went on, leaning back in the Recaro and idly picking at a blim-hole in the upholstery while puffing luxuriantly on her smoke. “But not the way you need me. I can’t be the thing you want, y’know? It was fun, while it lasted, but is what it is, girl.” She glanced over at Maggie. “But you can still help, if you like.” Maggie—lorn and reeling from the chemicals thudding through her central cortex—tried to answer, but all that came out was a small hiccuping yelp. She nodded frantically. “Jesus fuck,” Mya said, and shoved the j toward her passenger. “D’you wan’ some of that?” she said, and it seemed to Maggie that there was love in the gesture, in Mya’s voice, real love, an outpouring of care and concern, and even if it wasn’t what Maggie wanted—that surging roil in her groin, the brimming of her heart that accompanied her memories of the two of them twined together in Mya’s bed, under the Congo Natty poster, the way Mya held her hand in public once or twice, walking back through the rain and the ghost-haunted dawn, hoodies pulled up against the wind—then, still, it unlocked such a river of sweet-flowing sadness inside Maggie that she thought she might melt, right there in the XR2, melt outward in a great silent wave of warmth that blossomed from some secret core inside her body and pulsed through her, turning her flesh to something at once liquid and as evanescent as smoke. “Jesus fuck,” Mya said again, peering into Maggie’s face. “If you vom all on my Recaros I swear down I will kick you out right here, get me?”, but Maggie knew she wouldn’t, knew she wouldn’t do that, and she was right.   Outside, other cars were gathering, as if drawn by the bass or the lights, as if boyed-up hatches were sad deep-sea creatures, huddling together for mutual warmth around some abyssal vent. Inside, in the thick dusty warmth blowing out of the demister, Maggie shucked off her hoodie and T-shirt, down to her bra, worming her shoulder blades into the fabric of the passenger seat. Though she rolled her eyes at this, Mya was at least calmer now that Maggie had smoked herself into a place of happy burbling. She cranked down the window as a battered G1 CRX pulled up, fishtank lights glowing underneath the sills and an acre of filler across its back three-quarter panel as if it suffered the ravages of some terrible disease. The relentless, tinny grinding of mid-period Sick of it All pounding from the CRX met the XR2’s sweetly dubbing Jungle, twisted in the rain into a horrifying new hybrid. The boy in the CRX, baseball cap pulled down low, leaned out the window and put his hand out for a fistbump, got left hanging, pulled it in reluctantly and settled further down into his Parka. “It’s nearly time,” Mya said to him. He sniffed. “Aye.” “You gonna lead?” He shrugged, somewhat restrained by his seatbelt. “Thought you were gonna. As it’s, like, your party n’that.” All around the car-park hatches were circling now, splashing through the puddles: a well-loved 205 GTI with engine mounts so shot that it kangaroo-ed on the clutch, pitching the front-end like an obsequious underling kowtowing to its superior so that the add-on plastic chin spoiler spat a spray of gravel in front of it. A cooking Sierra twin-cam done out to look like a Cossie decided to show the front-drive pretenders what they were missing out on, and started power-oversteering around the edge of the circling hatches, back end slewing dangerously close before a hefty stomp on the throttle and an armful opposite-lock sent it whirling away. Maggie, eyes rolling saucer in her head, could only see trails of light, fireworks steaming in the dark, light spidering out of itself to scrawl the night, after-images licking at the edges of the rain. “Where we going?” she said, struggling upright in the seat, pulse thrumming up through her, a solid lump in her throat. “We’re gonna take a trip to Faerieland,” Mya said as she took the XR2 out of the carpark, the Raders peeling off after her, each trailing a respectable distance behind the other, jostling for position down the narrow slip road. “The land of the dead, the shining place on the hill where the Good Stuff comes from, where they take you when it’s all over.” Maggie watched the empty wet streets go past, everything wet and filthy, the streetlamps chrysanthemum bursts of light. The Raders peeled off and followed one-by-one in a continuous rising and falling of fat aftermarket tailpipes and tinny drum’n’bass, punctuated occasionally by the telltale clunk-woosh of a dump valve some joker had bolted on to a naturally-aspirated Golf. They snaked down the road leading from the overcliff, overly-fat radials whispering across the wet tarmac then ka-thumping awkwardly as they bottomed out on the potholes because they’d lowered their suspension by cutting their coil springs with an angle grinder. “Think on,” said Mya, checking her reflection in the rear-view, “Think, Maggie. A place—well, not quite a place—somewhere they talk in the high-pitched whistle of bats, words you hear not with your ears but something lodged in the back of your brain. They got stuff there, one tiny hit’ll burn through your soul, let you touch the face of God and strip away your skin, make you forget all the shit life drops in your lap.” Beyond the glass, the neon frontage on dingy shops and cheap bars spread and blurred in firework streaks. Maggie convulsed in her seatbelt, clawing at the tensioner as it ratcheted too-tightly around her stomach. The XR2 lurched over a speed-bump outside Syndicate—the townie girls lined up on the wet pavement clutching their purses, tugging ineffectually at two inches’ of skirt as the rain blew in sideways from the seafront, the young boys with too much hair product reeking of cheap body-spray and grabbing their crotches as they shotgunned cans of lager—and for a second Maggie thought she might actually be sick, but luckily it passed. “A place where you never have to think,” said Mya, idly flicking ash off the end of her j as she took to the wrong side of the road to pass a dawdling hatchback—big swoosh of locked brakes against wet tarmac, cacophony of horns blaring into the night—“Where you never get hungry, or sad, or old.” Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but Mya chose that moment to take the inside, getting both nearside wheels up on the curb as she passed a recovery lorry turning on to the main road, orange spinning light sending weird tiger stripes strobing across the interior of the XR2. As Mya straightened up, fighting the bit of aquaplane as she brought it level, she continued: “There was this girl, see. She was just like any other. Stupid but not free. She met another girl, and fell in love. The sex was fucking epic—” and at this Maggie gave a low moan—“for starters, but wasn’t just meat-meet, wasn’t just something in the cunt or the brain or the blood. This other girl showed the first one things she’d never seen. A new way of looking at the world—” Traffic lights bloomed like fireworks through the rain-swept windscreen as Mya, faced with the inconvenience of a stop signal, took a shortcut through the carpark of a pub, narrowly missing someone’s Transit pulling out of a space then nipping back into the snarl of traffic, agonised howls of horns behind them like the baying of something monstrous. “A new pair of eyes.” Maggie nodded, chewing on her bottom lip. “The world seemed changed,” Mya went on. “Everything was magic.” The speed of their passage smeared the neon of a kebab shop across the night, and Maggie, her hand up to wave away a stray strand of hair that she swore was scuttling across her face like a spider, was left staring, open-mouthed, soul tightening in her throat as it sought to escape the skin, astonished at the colored lights crawling and twisting across her skin. “She showed her things she never dreamed existed, never dreamed could exist. Then, her lover told this girl that she couldn’t have her, that it wasn’t to be. Where her lover came from, she said, that place was different to ours, and she had to go back there. She came from far away, from a place out beyond the days of working shit jobs for the man and burning up your nights in Rizlas and watching them drift,” Mya said, exhaling a long cloud of dope smoke. As it hit the windscreen and flattened out Maggie watched the coils interpolate and shiver in a slow-motion swirl, and the spirals twisted and convulsed and in the whirl there were bodies churning, moving against each other in a liquid tumble, figures clotted together and sliding through each other and as she watched featureless heads opened empty mouths in silent screams of ecstasy and lust— Taking another big roundabout, Mya let the XR2 go sideways for shits and giggles, whoosh of tires on wet asphalt, and the stately procession of the Raders followed, each making the same playful half-wobble in the Ford’s wake, then out on the ring-road past industrial estates lit up garishly by high-powered halogens. Maggie dry-swallowed the lump in her throat, convulsed slightly, gasped out: “I think I’m gonna need another pill, if we’re going to a rave.” Mya ignored her. “This other lover, she told the girl she was in deep, that where she came from they never died, but every so often one of them had to pay a price, tithe to the Man Who Waits, the Man Who Must Be Paid, and that it was her turn to pay.” On the edge of a judder of chemicals as they sped down the pulsing freeways of her blood, Maggie found her voice: “I’d’ve loved to have gone to a rave with you. We never did, did we? There was that big one, down by the river, in the old tire factory? We never made it,” and she trailed off, the memory of that night coming back to hit her: going round someone’s house to score, the crunch of the purple-y crystals in the baggie with the smiley on it. Too greedy to wait, they’d each cut a line that glistened like finely-ground glass on the back of a CD case, huffed it back, shrieking and clapping and giggling at the burn as it dissolved their mucus membranes. They’d staggered out of the dealer’s house arm-in-arm, already giggling, bathed in the streetlamp’s orange glow, hands slipping between hoodies and jeans against the cold. Before they knew it they were fucking each other raw in an alley behind the closed-down Tesco Express, panting against the bins, colors streaming from the edges of their vision as fingers worked in the cold.   Mya’s hand dropped swiftly off the gearstick, squeezed Maggie’s knee. “Nearly there,” she whispered. Maggie was halfway to replying “No, no you fucking weren’t, with the Mollie you took ages to come, I had to go down on you, knees in a puddle, my Diesels got fucking wet through,” when she looked up, and saw. The lights of a deserted superstore glowing through the murk like the warning lights of a ship out at sea. To either side light industrial units glowered through the rain. Something that might’ve been a dog scurried through the puddles collecting on the uneven tarmac, shook itself, then squeezed through the gap in a fence and was gone. The road descended as it cut across a valley. At the top of the valley sides, brooding behind razor wire, huge dark shapes reared against the night sky. The XR2 turned up a driveway you could get an articulated lorry through, between steep banks choked with wet gorse. She pulled up in a huge open space across which the low-profiles bucked and jinked, big wheels nervous over the ruts. Ahead of them, a locked gate, skin of plate iron welded onto a framework of quarter-inch box-section, topped with barbed wire like icing on a birthday cake, stained with something that shone dark in the backwash off the streetlights, something that might’ve been oil. “Mya, babe,” said Maggie, “where the fuck are we?” The rest of the Raders, fallen behind in traffic or cut off from the XR2 by stop lights, began to wheel out of the night on to the forecourt, pulling up in a rough circle. One by one, the engines died, leaving just the reflections of their under-sill lights on the wet tarmac and their headlights cutting through the rain, deepening the shadows on the huge organic-seeming shapes sprawled up the side of the valley. From behind the ringing in her ears, Maggie thought she heard a sound far-off like bells, irregular, plangent, as if they’d taken a wrong turn and were down by the sea and could hear the ships still rolling at anchor in the wind, or when you’d gone to a free party and got mashed and passed out next to a sixteen foot high speaker and woke up with your head ringing and chiming, every sound distant and jangling for the next few days. Mya smiled, leaned back in the driver’s seat, pulled another joint from a crevice on the dash, held it by the twist-shut and shook it to level it out. “This is Faerieland, babe.” Mya, an easy smile playing about her lips, sparked up the j. Maggie, spiking on another wave off her pill, nodded, started frantically chewing out her lip. “Is this like when we—” Mya pressed a finger to her lips and the dry knuckle against Maggie’s mouth smelled of hash and tobacco and the pleasantly artificial tang of raspberry lipstick. “This is like nothing you’ve ever seen,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Now. Why don’t you unclasp your seatbelt?” Maggie fancied she could hear a sort of whistling twitter, a high-pitched oscillation at the edge of hearing, like weaponized tinnitus. The noise got under her skin, wormed its way inside her nerves, crawled along her limbs and set itself just behind her eyes, where it fluttered and beat against the inside of her head like a moth caught in a lampshade. The noise—and whatever she’d taken—made it difficult for her to think straight. She rubbed frantically at her eyes, which seemed to have dried out, and a starshell burst across her vision. “It’s nearly time,” Mya said, taking a deep hit off her j. “They’re here.” When Maggie looked again, things were moving in the darkness at the edge of the headlights, detaching themselves with a slinking motion from the huge shapes up on top of the hill, flowing through the night, drawing near to the edge of the pale circles cast by the Raders. Then—just when she thought she might be able to see what they were—edging back, staying tantalizingly out of reach. They moved on all fours. There was the suggestion of an angular, branched shape, like a four-branch exhaust manifold. A headlight found the edge of one of them for a second, but they were gone so quickly it was impossible to make anything else out other than the suggestion of wet fur, oil-slick pelt, stealthy stalking in the ebon night. “What the fuck we doing, Mya?” Mya shook her off. She held her right hand out of the car, in the rain, as if leaning to get the ticket from a tollbooth, then let it drop. The headlights of the Raders went off in a volley, and the night bloomed with afterimages that writhed violet and ultramarine and a pure, actinic cobalt that burned into Maggie’s retinas as if she’d been staring intently at the base of a MIG welder. Through or under these distortions moved other, darker shapes, suggested by the gaps between the swirling colors on the edges of the twisting light. The chittering increased, like the noise a tweeter made if you wired it in when spliffed up so that it was grounding to earth via the RCA connector. “The only way this girl’s lover could be free, was if someone could take her place.” Mya smiled at Maggie, and there was sadness in it, a sadness that wrenched Maggie so that she jerked and flopped, a spasming convulsion that took all of her strength from her and left her hanging from the seatbelt, spent and useless as a discarded condom hanging from a fence. She tried to raise her head and it sagged useless and boneless on her neck. The darkness rippled and shifted. Something was pulling itself in to existence, shapes coalescing from darkness, shapes Maggie half-recognized, tantalized as they formed then—just on the cusp of understanding—flowed into something else. Waves of prickling heat chased themselves across her, as if she was coming up again, but she was cold, bone cold, breath shallow like one nearing death, alone and lost in some icy hell. Mya slipped her own seatbelt off and stepped outside, into the hush. She opened Maggie’s door and unclipped the belt, and Maggie fell forward, body gone liquid and useless, all her bones melted into a delicious slow ooze. The kiddie from the CRX with the baseball cap appeared at her side, and together he and Mya hauled Maggie out of the seat, trainers skidding on uneven greasy concrete, half-carried and half-dragged her limp scarecrow body between them, laid her gently on the wet rough cement. A shipwreck puddled on the ground, Maggie’s eyes rolled up to the looming outlines against the clouds, and suddenly—with a burst of icy clarity like a siren cutting through your high, telling you it was time to fuck off out of the rave and head for home—she knew where she was. This, this was the place where the dead go. She could smell it, corruption, the sickly smell of ancient automotive glass gone sugary and fragile, of prehistoric hydraulic grease thickening like wax as it seeped back to the tar whence it came, fishy castor-oil tang of gone-off brake fluid and the tired dead-dinosaur ghost-smell of very old petrol, an undercurrent of spoiling, long-banned industrial pollutants, the waxy whiff of chrome-effect plastic as it expired in the wind. Immense effort, all she had, everything given to a squirm of her neck, cheek scraped by wet concrete, and she could see—how could she see? Vision finally adjusted to darkness or some passing benediction of whatever it was Mya had given her?—a makeshift board up on the slope, where someone had painted the word “FAERIELAND” in thick daubs of blue paint. Behind and above it, the huge misshapen outlines against the sky resolved themselves, trompe l’oeil turning the vast near-organic mass to cars piled atop each other in collapsing columns, sprawling aggregation of vehicular death, charnel-house of discarded bangers, piles of engines rearing against the sky like hearts piled up after some battlefield atrocity, ragged rusting wings hanging off like torn pinions of dying angels, Mcpherson strut-assemblies unbolted but left attached so that they dangled from brake lines like new appendages extruded by some automotive nightmare creature testing which shape would be best to crawl out of its pit and stalk across the land, delivering vengeance to those who’d left it here after years of faithful service, those who deserted it to rot in the polluted air and sink slowly into the mire of mud and the butchered remnants of its comrades. The place where the dead go. Faerieland. The land of the dead. And, out from that huge pile of automotive corpses, out from under the shattered sills and pent-in roofs, flowing out like poison from trailing umbilical fuel lines and ventricles of disassembled engines, from the aortas of shattered fuel injection systems, from underneath chassis twisted like paper and from cracked-open gearboxes, out from the jeweled synchromesh and delicately-splined shafts of sundered transaxles and torn-open wiring harnesses spewing copper filaments like multicolored nerves, they came. The real Raders, the OG crew. They poured into the space before the cars like oil hitting water, as their forms adjusted to the limits of their new environment. They made the stuff of the night sing across human neurons and their wake through what we call the real produced a noise like far-off carillons of many bells and a chittering like angry bats. As they came down the hill the air hummed with their presence, spat and crackled and buzzed like high-voltage lines in wet weather, like a pylon singing to itself in the rain. The scrapyard smell receded and the night filled with the evanescent, sickly-sweet smell of violets—flickering across the nose then gone!—then an overpowering burst of eglantine and woodbine, stopping up the throat like death. The steeds they rose had lashed themselves together out of the rotting pile of scrap: corrugated flanks flaking away in oxide scabs, stamping hooves fashioned from brake discs, hydraulic piping and flex from cable looms bulging like sinews at their shoulders, mismatched headlamps for the eyes, exhaust-smoke breath billowing out in clouds from fanged maws made from the teeth of gearwheels and the lobes of camshafts. Their hounds were vast and black and bayed silently at their sides, the thick ruff of their pelt giving way at the shoulder to gleaming metal that heaved and rippled like flesh along the necks that held their great steel-antlered heads aloft. Impossible, implacable, reveling in their alien exhilaration, driven by compulsions innominate and terrible, they poured out into the night, churning up the bank as they came for Maggie. She sat blinking—unbelieving—as her doom streamed down the hill toward her, heart thudding slow in her chest. The Raders watched, for a time. Then, one by one, they fired up their engines and followed Mya’s XR2, as it swept back out onto the rainy streets. END   "Raders" is copyright Nelson Stanley 2019. "Vampiric Tendencies in the Year 4500" is copyright Renee Christopher, 2019. 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, leaving reviews on iTunes, or buying your own copy of the Summer 2018 issue at www.glittership.com/buy. You can also support us by picking up a free audiobook at  www.audibletrial.com/glittership. Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a reprint of "Désiré" by Megan Arkenberg.

In this episode Mark interviews USA Today bestselling author Patricia McLinn about her three decades of experience in writing and publishing. Prior to the interview, Mark shares a word from the episode's sponsor, Findaway Voices . . .You can learn more about how you can get your work distributed to retailers and library systems around the world at starkreflections.ca/Findaway. In the personal update section Mark shares the following: A reminder about the Public Lending Right for Canadian authors (and authors from UK, AU, NZ) An article he recently wrote for Hamilton Magazine (including a bit about the TV show The Hilarious House of Frightenstein An interview he did with the guys from the Paranormal Faction Podcast in Harriston, Ontario in a haunted theatre His forthcoming visit to Book Expo America in New York An update on the prize offered for commenters on Episode 70 The deadline to comment has been extended to the end of April A new StoryBundle called the Write Stuff 2019 Spring Bundle that is available until early May. A steal for $5 for 4 books or 15 for all 12 books plus a $50 online lecture. Listeners will have a chance to win this bundle In their chat, Mark and Patricia talk about: The original publishers Patricia worked with when she had a few different series traditionally published How hearing a talk at NINC given by Chris Anderson (who coined the concept of "The Long Tail") inspired Patricia to take a fresh look at the publishing industry and to consider indie publishing opportunities The "Writer's Work" website Patricia created in 2009 as "insurance" in case the publishing industry went a little bonkers Getting the rights back for all of her previously released works (except for one German edition of a title) CONTROL being one of the main differences between traditional publishing and indie or self-publishing The difference in timeframes and how publishers will sometimes sit on a manuscript for a year The reality of the "16 days" you had on the bookstore shelves with titles published in the Harlequin Silhouette imprint What clauses and types of contracts would have to have for Patricia to consider signing one again Of course, mid-way through the interview, Patricia turns the table and starts asking Mark questions. After a brief section of talking about things publishers do well, and things they don't do so well, Mark realizes what Patricia has done (she is a great podcast host and asks great questions), and turns the tables back on her. They then talk about: What dried wallpaper paste has to do with helping Patricia make the move towards writing and publishing The one letter Patricia got back from an editor earlier in her career that said: "It's clear that you know nothing about the publishing industry" The various elements of romance and mystery that Patricia likes to include in her writing How Patricia feels that writing 3 to 5 books a year still isn't enough to keep up with the characters and ideas floating through her mind The reasons why Patricia started the Authors Love Readers Podcast and how she wanted to model over a simple conversation with a writer where readers could eavestrough Patricia's recent non-fiction book for writers called Survival Kit for Writers Who Don't Write Right How authors have approached Patricia with tears in their eyes after she delivered a presentation on this same topic because they thought they were the only ones who wrote in a more "pantsing" type of style The reason why Patricia has the book for sale for 99 cents on her own website Patricia's number one piece of advice for writers - that writing advice is a buffet. You can try a bit of this, a bit of that, go back for seconds of something else. YOU control the buffet   After the interview Mark reflects on the concept of writing advice being a buffet that authors can selectively pick and choose from. Links of Interest Patricia McLinn's Website Patricia on Twitter Patricia's Author Facebook Page Patricia's Pinterest Patricia on Instagram Patricia's Podcast: Authors Love Readers Findaway Voices Public Lending Right (PLR) Program Canada Australia New Zealand United Kingdom StoryBundle "The Write Stuff" Bundle (limited time offer) Patreon for Stark Reflections Stark Reflections Survey   USA Today bestselling author Patricia McLinn spent more than 20 years as an editor at the Washington Post after newspaper stints in Rockford, Ill., and Charlotte, N.C. She received BA and MSJ degrees from Northwestern University. McLinn is the author of more than 47 published novels, which are cited by readers and reviewers for wit and vivid characterization. Her books include mysteries, romantic suspense, contemporary romance, historical romance and women's fiction. They have topped bestseller lists and won numerous awards. Now living in Northern Kentucky, McLinn loves to hear from readers through her website, Facebook and Twitter.   The music for this podcast (“Laser Groove”) was composed and produced by Kevin MacLeod of www.incompetech.com and is Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

How I handled a slow writing day and picked between three options to move forward. And also a bit on Valentine's Day, what it does and doesn't mean, and my plans for the evening. (Spoiler: none.)Support the show (http://paypal.me/jeffekennedy)

Busy day yesterday with cover reveals for two different Sorcerous Moons books - a new release and a French translation - the SFWA Fantasy Storybundle, chats and giveaways for WARRIOR OF THE WORLD. It never rains, but it pours, yes?You can find the Storybundle here. Support the show (http://paypal.me/jeffekennedy)

Exciting news about the cover reveal and release date for ORIA'S ENCHANTMENT, book #5 in the Sorcerous Moons series. (At last!) Also ruminations on dedications and my grandfather. I can't find the poem I mention and now it's bugging me. I thought it was James Wright, but I don't see it in my collection of his poetry (though I thought for sure it was in there). Does anyone know what I'm thinking of?If you need my newsletter sign up link, here it is. Support the show (http://paypal.me/jeffekennedy)

In this solo episode, Mark takes a look at his 2018 writing and publishing goals and shares the hits, the misses and the alterations that took place in the past twelve months. He feels it is important to remind writers that if they are already beating themselves up for not completing all the previous year's goals, that he didn't hit all his goals; that he failed at most of them; that he screwed up along the way; that he made mistakes. But also that he adapted several of the goals he'd set as I went along. And he inserted new goals mid-year. That can happen. It will happen. It's how you deal with those changes that can make the difference between seeing it as a complete failure, or seeing it as an ongoing work in progress. Mark then says a word about this episode's sponsor, Findaway Voices . . . Mark first talks about the goals he had set at the beginning of 2018 and how he did with them: 1) Write a non-fiction book called INDIE PUBLISHING INSIDER SECRETS 2) Finish the sequel to A CANADIAN WEREWOLF IN NEW YORK 3) Finish the sequel to EVASION 4) Pitch and write a traditionally published book SPIRITS UNTAPPED - to Dundurn 5) Compile a new full book short story collection 6) Stay retired   He then shares a number of goals for 2019: 1) Publish Audiobook for 7 P's of Publishing Success 2) Publish Audiobook for Killing It on Kobo 3) Finish writing and Publish eBook/Print and audio for Indie Publishing Insider Secrets 4) Publish Audiobook for ACWWINY 5) Publish Audiobook for I, DEATH 6) Publish Audiobook for ONE HAND SCREAMING (story collection) 7) Write and release SCREAMING SKULLS: And Other Haunted Objects in eBook/print and audio 8) Finish the first draft of FEAR AND LONGING IN LOS ANGELES 9) Book new speaking gigs - Ideally, another keynote either in the last half of 2019 or the first half of 2020   Mark also shares his 2018 eBook sales percentages: Kindle - 45.97% Kobo - 20.68% StoryBundle - 20.27% BundleRabbit - 6.80% Apple - 3.25% Nook - 2.30% Direct Sales - 0.30% Google - 0.21% Scribd - 0.12% Tolino - 0.06% Smashwords - 0.04%   Mark talks about what he achieved and what he didn't achieve in 2018. He talks about what he did well and what he didn't do well. He reminds writers of the importance of focusing on the forward momentum made, even where a goal wasn't completed, if there was forward momentum that is a step in the right direction.   The music for this podcast (“Laser Groove”) was composed and produced by Kevin MacLeod of www.incompetech.com and is Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

Featuring an interview with Chuck Heintzelman of BundleRabbit.com. Chuck lives in Spokane, WA with his beautiful wife and three children. Each day he juggles his passion for writing with his family, a full-time job as a computer programmer, and the inevitable curve ball life seems to throw. In the introduction to the show, Mark talks about being on the Oregon Coast at the Fiction River writer workshops which leads into this week's post-interview "reflection" about rejection for writers. He also talks a little about the success he has had with Findaway Voices (the episode's sponsor) for short audio books and how he measures success. In their conversation, Mark and Chuck talk about:   The origin and inspiration for Bundlerabbit, a service inspired by Storybundle and Humble Bundle, that allow authors to combine their ebooks into bundles Chuck's “What if?” related to that which began with: “Wouldn't it be great if there was a more DIY option for authors and publishers?” The basic concept which is a single website you can go to where you can upload content, curate bundles and communicate about bundle collaborations with other authors How Bundlerabbit solves two major issues: The ability for readers to get the bundled material from a retailer they already buy from (rather than having to side-load the content to their Kindle, Kobo, etc) Revenue splitting and other accounting issues that authors might run into when trying to manage a multi-author collaboration How Joanna Penn and her desire to see a “collaboration engine” helped inspire Chuck to add a feature called “collaborative publishing” which includes: The ability for a curator/editor/publishing project manager to set unique author split percentages for a project and use this tool to publish on behalf of the publisher and take care of the monthly revenue split Using this tool for management of co-authoring a single title (rather than bundling multiple works together) The percentage that Bundlerabbit keeps (ie, the business model and how Bundlerabbit can afford to operate) Some of the forthcoming features that Bundlerabbit will be releasing that are related to the ability for authors and publishers to better communicate with one another and share information, marketing assets, etc. The potential for using Bundlerabbit for author/translator collaborations (and how that might compare to an existing platform like Babelcube) The original OOPS name for Bundlerabbit: Bundles Express Dot Com and the amusing “Bundle Sex Press” term that Chuck didn't originally see.   After the interview, Mark talks about the FICTION RIVER anthology workshops and how it works. He takes an in depth look at rejection, and the importance of a writer to understand what rejection most likely means and how that lies directly to an ideal reader or ideal editor   Links of Interest Bundlerabbit for authors Chuck's Website - http://chuckheintzelman.com/ Story Chuck dot com Story Tools Kydala Publishing (Chuck's Publishing Imprint) Chuck's Author Page on Amazon WMG Publishing Workshops Fiction River Editors Choice Feel the Fear   --------- This episode has been sponsored by Findaway Voices. Findaway Voices provides all the tools that an independent author or small publisher needs in order to get into the digital audiobook market. Check them out at www.starkreflections.ca/findaway. ---------  

We're working from a crippled system during this week's episode (our second recorded in under 72 hours), and we rant (and express profuse gratitude) about the state of FOSS assistance for Linux Mint 18.1 issues via IRC. Eventually, though, we cover the truly historic return of a now legendary (and all-but forgotten) game universe by welcoming the glorious victoly of "West of Loathing," a single player old school RPG with all the whit, charm, and visually arresting hi-def graphics sensibilities that once inspired bajillions of fans to high adventure, hilarity and hijinx in the "KINGDOM OF LOATHING." Finally, we cover the latest videogame-themed selection of delectable and superlative excellence offered in this month's Storybundle.com "Summer Smash Games Bundle," 7 titles, DRM free, pay what you like, curated by one of the best minds in the business, Simon Carless. Tech problems be damned, phone calls from creditors, made fugitive from the bowels of IRC tech support channels, and without even the benefit of the internet itself, BLGP spits its own blood and teeth and microchips out, wipes the sputum and grease from its beard using its shirt cuff, and stares into the depths of episode 146 and says, "Do your worst, mofos: cause an adventurer is me!" And you can too! Get the Storybundle Summer Smash: https://storybundle.com/games BLG Column: Again on hiatus till next week as we battle our Cinnamon tech problems www.bestlinuxgames.com

It's Slobberin' Time as this week we talk about Norse Mythology and Tom Hiddleston's Thighs, Horizon: Zero Dawn, Hap & Leonard, Storybundle.com, Trek Rank, Tongo, Just Cause Momoa's In It, Young Sheldon, Fake Games in Real Movies, Amazing Stories, Godzilla Animated, Bloodshot, Some Xbox Stuff, Drew Goddard joins Deadpool 2, MST3K: The Comic Book, History Buffs, Whoopie Boys, Remo Williams, Things we love that the world hates, and we finish with a spoilery discussion of Logan (with warnings). So try not to imagine Tom Hiddleston, it's time for a Geek Shock!

In this episode, the final episode of Retro August, Nate and Jay fix nostalgia! Jay remembers an old flavor, and Nate explains what he discovered in his parents' basement. Contribute to our Extra Life team Arc*Aid!  James’ book West of Pale is now available in StoryBundle! Check it out at https://storybundle.com/weird. Also, take a look at his Sci-Fi first draft Birthing Pangs on his website www.jpatrickallen.com. Our logo was designed by our very own Jay. Please take a look at his portfolio athttp://oddiovisuals.wix.com/portfolio for additional examples of his work. Check out our YouTube channel! https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCeJ2pr4MBpMe-a2yyi6FuJg The Giant Robot of Rocket Punch Radio can only be fueled by the ratings and subscriptions of faithful listeners like yourself. Hit us up on iTunes and Tunein and keep the fight going! Join in on the conversation on the official Rocket Punch community on Facebook, Grown-Ass Geeks. Download in iTunes     Stream from Tunein Download in Stitcher The pilots of Rocket Punch Radio (@RocketpunchRDO) are:           James: @JpatrickAuthor             Samantha: @thekebabylon             Nate: @BladeofCreation         Jay: http://oddiovisuals.wix.com/portfolio If you want to ask us a question in private you can email us at rocketpunchradio@gmail.com Rocket Punch Radio is produced by Samantha Huskey.

In this episode, James, Nate, Jay and Samantha spoil the heck out of the internet's new favorite thing ever, Stranger Things! Samantha wishes she had a friend as true as Barb, James takes a break, and Nate is really really sure of an incorrect thing. Contribute to our Extra Life team Arc*Aid!  James’ book West of Pale is now available in StoryBundle! Check it out at https://storybundle.com/weird. Also, take a look at his Sci-Fi first draft on his website www.jpatrickallen.com. Our logo was designed by our very own Jay. Please take a look at his portfolio athttp://oddiovisuals.wix.com/portfolio for additional examples of his work. Check out our YouTube channel! https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCeJ2pr4MBpMe-a2yyi6FuJg The Giant Robot of Rocket Punch Radio can only be fueled by the ratings and subscriptions of faithful listeners like yourself. Hit us up on iTunes and Tunein and keep the fight going! Join in on the conversation on the official Rocket Punch community on Facebook, Grown-Ass Geeks. Download in iTunes     Stream from Tunein Download in Stitcher The pilots of Rocket Punch Radio (@RocketpunchRDO) are:           James: @JpatrickAuthor             Samantha: @thekebabylon             Nate: @BladeofCreation         Jay: http://oddiovisuals.wix.com/portfolio If you want to ask us a question in private you can email us at rocketpunchradio@gmail.com Rocket Punch Radio is produced by Samantha Huskey.

In this episode I give you the Weekly Writer's Report and share exciting news about the new StoryBundle that J. Daniel Sawyer is part of this month. The Story: “To Walk in Shadow,” Part 1 The sun hid itself on the day the devil came to the city. Thick, forbidding clouds crept in from theContinue reading →

In this episode I give you the Weekly Writer’s Report and share exciting news about the new StoryBundle that J. Daniel Sawyer is part of this month. The Story: “To Walk in Shadow,” Part 1 The sun hid itself on the day the devil came to the city. Thick, forbidding clouds crept in from the … Continue reading "The Raven & the Writing Desk, Episode 02: Metamor City – To Walk in Shadow, Part 1"

Tonight we’re changing things up! We’ve got three guests, a Boston Comic Con Update, and no waiting! At the top of the show we have two authors whose work appears in The Cosmic Sci Fi Bundle over at StoryBundle.com. First up, the lovely Jody Lynn Nye joins us from the road to tell us about Crisis on […]

Alexander Skarsgard is Tarzan Thor 3 and Captain America 3? Evidently yes. Black Widow Solo Film Lego Movie Blooper Reel Superman 2: Return of the Bad Casting AHS going to the Circus next season? Why Dragonlance should be the next fantasy film franchise Help fund Geeky Sprinkles! Poll: Who do you want as your Valentine […]

A Trove of Great Science Fiction and Fantasy – Free for a Limited Time Supernatural Spin-Off? Sure! Sounds stupendous! Indiegogo Private Mission to Mars Ice-T records D&D audiobook: “This s%!t is impossible to read.” Poll: Best Sci Fi Martial Artist   Tonight we have four of the lovely authors who are participating in the SFSN-curated […]

RIP Dr. Jesse Marcel Jr. Application deadline for Mars One colony nears Justin Timberlake as the Riddler? Star Drunk, a seriously funny film. Beginning of the End of Locke and Key Tonight’s guest is Jason Chen of Storybundle.com, who has this to say about himself: StoryBundle was created to give a platform for independent authors […]