Special submissions call: Democratic Futures


The Escape Pod logo on a space background with rows of stylized human figures behind it, on top text reads "Democratic Futures"
Democracy isn’t a new concept, but its parts and parameters have shifted across the centuries. Cultural changes and technological advancements have impacted how it is perceived and how it functions. Suffrage has, in many places, expanded, but is still not universal. Different systems and ballot designs have influenced election outcomes in unpredictable ways. Electronic voting machines abound, but in some places, marbles are dropped into containers as stones were thousands of years ago. Political manipulation can be subtle or overt, from propaganda to gerrymandering to outright violence.

What will the future bring? That’s what we’re here to find out.

Escape Pod is opening for a special Democratic Futures submission window from now until June 30th. We’re looking for science fiction stories about the future of democracy, whatever that might look like to you. Send us eccentric alien elections, post-human propaganda machines, dystopian door-knocking campaigns, opposition research spy operations—anything that examines and interrogates the myriad interconnected aspects of democratic systems, and their constellations of possibilities and permutations in the near- or far-term.

Escape Pod leans in the direction of escapism, hope and optimism rather than grimness and gloom. We love to see funny stories, which can include dark humor that doesn’t punch down, and satire that isn’t painfully bleak. Remember that the failure mode of irony is sincerity, so if you’re mocking something, be sure you’re hitting the right target.

We’re not interested in stories that contain sexual assault, rape, child abuse, animal cruelty, gore, or horror. We also do not want to see stories that treat the hardships of marginalized people or groups as thought experiments. While we may have published stories with that type of content in the past, they are not currently a good fit for Escape Pod.

Our primary audience is adult listeners and readers. Strong language and sexual situations are fine, but we are not an erotica market.

We publish our stories in text and audio, but audio is our primary format. Because our audience cannot easily reread or skim, we prefer stories of high clarity and tight pacing. Complex syntax, elaborate structures and typographic novelties (e.g. footnotes) are difficult for us to publish.

For original fiction, we want stories from 1,500 to 6,000 words (our sweet spot is 2,000 to 4,000), and for reprints we accept 1,500 to 7,500 words.

We look forward to seeing what your democratic futures hold!

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Escape Pod 1039: The Many Rebirths of Karina Morita


The Many Rebirths of Karina Morita

by Tim Pratt

My problems all started when I died.

People didn’t die too often on my hab, or anywhere else on the planets and stations of the Standard Curve; we cured illness and aging long ago, but there were still occasional deaths by misadventure. I was flying an ultralight to the outdoor sex and ice cream festival on the Melodious Archipelago when an unexpected updraft sent me spinning out, straight into the side of a familiar mountain (it was hollowed-out and contained an eternal-night dance club). As the meticulously textured stone surface rushed toward my face, I thought, “Oh well, at least I had a backup yesterday.” I’d lose my memories of the morning, sure, but my post-breakfast orgasms hadn’t been any better than usual, and the hollandaise on my dodo eggs was only okay too.

I was supposed to wake up in the cozy rebirth lounge of my own home on the Shimmering Terrace, my consciousness decanted into a fresh clone, as I’d done a dozen times before. Instead, I awoke naked and shivering, stretched out on a long table in a small room with silver walls, while a short woman wearing a pure white jumpsuit and an elaborate crown of stainless steel smiled down at me. “Karina Zephyrus Morita!” she said. “Welcome to the Interval. I’m your technician. I see this is your first time passing through. Don’t worry, we’ll get you assessed and processed quickly.”

I shrieked and sat up on the table. Was I in some kind of clinic? Had there been a mishap with the cloning process? I felt fine, and the bits of me I could see didn’t appear malformed. “What’s happening? Who are you? What is this place?”

(Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1038: Meet the Mets

Show Notes

Sponsored by Mixtape Stories


Meet the Mets

by Ace Tilton Ratcliff

1964

Bobby didn’t know who threw the first punch.

A fist glanced off his cheek, then a smattering of blows rained down in the darkness, a private thunderstorm of focused pain. His head was empty of everything but his brother Tom’s voice as he became a profligate expenditure of answering energy and motion. Wrist straight. Tuck your thumb over, not under.

Tom, weaving and bobbing in insistent demonstration beside their enraged dad. The sound of Tom’s closed fist smacking his open palm added an erratic tempo to being bodily thrown out the front door. Bobby tripped down the steep front steps, falling in a heap of his own clothes, scattered haphazardly across the sidewalk. It was the last time he’d seen his family.

Growing up, he’d figured out teeth and nails worked where skirts held him back. Roberta—he hated that name, especially once he realized his dad hated him—became a spitting, hissing, feral beast who drew blood however and whenever they came after him for who he was.

(Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1037: We Who Live in the Heart (Part 3 of 3)


We Who Live in the Heart (Part 3 of 3)

By Kelly Robson

(…Continued from Part 2)

Once we’re in the equatorial stream, we ride the wind until we get into the right general area. Then we wipe off the appetite suppressant, and hunger sends us straight into the arms of the nearest electrical storm.

The urge to feed is a powerful motivator for most organisms. Mama chases all the algae she can find, and gobbles it double-time. For us on the inside, it’s like an old-style history doc. Everyone stays strapped in their hammocks and rides out the weather as we pitch around on the high seas.

I always enjoy the feeding frenzy; it gets the blood flowing.

I’d just settled to enjoy the wild ride when Ricci pinged me.

Two crews tried surgical interventions on the regenerated tissue. Let me know what you think, okay? Maybe now we can convince them to let you help. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1036: We Who Live in the Heart (Part 2 of 3)


We Who Live in the Heart (Part 2 of 3)

By Kelly Robson

(…Continued from Part 2)

Ricci got into my notes. I don’t keep them locked down; anyone can access them. Free and open distribution of data is a primary force behind the success of the human species, after all. Don’t we all learn that in the crèche?

Making data available doesn’t guarantee anyone will look at it, and if they do, chances are they won’t understand it. Ricci tried. She didn’t just skim through, she really studied. Shift after shift, she played with the numbers and gamed my simulation models. Maybe she slept. Maybe not.

I figured Ricci would come looking for me if she got stumped, so I de-hermited, banged around in the rumpus room, put myself to work on random little maintenance tasks.

When Ricci found me, I was in the caudal stump dealing with the accumulated waste pellets. Yes, that’s exactly what it sounds like: half-kilogram plugs of dry solid waste covered in wax and transferred from the lavs by the hygiene bots. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1035: We Who Live in the Heart (Part 1 of 3)


We Who Live in the Heart

By Kelly Robson

Ricci slipped in and out of consciousness as we carried her to the anterior sinus and strapped her into her hammock. Her eyelids drooped but she kept forcing them wide. After we finished tucking her in, she pulled an handheld media appliance out of her pocket and called her friend Jane.

“You’re late,” Jane said. The speakers flattened her voice slightly. “Are you okay?”

Ricci was too groggy to speak. She poked her hand through the hammock’s electrostatic membrane and panned the appliance around the sinus. Eddy and Chara both waved as the lens passed over them, but Jane was only interested in one thing.

“Show me your face, Ricci. Talk to me. What’s it like in there?”

Ricci coughed, clearing her throat. “I dunno. It’s weird. I can’t really think.” Her voice slurred from the anesthetic. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1034: “An Honour to be Nominated…”


“An Honour to be Nominated…”

by Jacob Seinemeier

TRANSGALACTIC NEWS- straight from the feed to your screed!

“…and how exciting to be gathered here for this night of nights, as the Planetary Terraforming awards for the 346 billionth Galactic cycle gets underway here at the Ghentool™ Interdimensional Ballroom!

Whether you’re tuning in via tachyon wave-transfer from the distant future, or via mental projection from the dawn of time; hologram, Tachygram or gene-tweaked data-encoder, we have all the stars of the industry gathered together on the Vermillion Carpet. Faint at the latest fashion! Gasp at the gossip! Most importantly, stay tuned- because we will be broadcasting live and in person to answer that most sought after of life’s questions- who will be this cycle’s rising star? Who will take home the coveted Terraformer of the Cycle Award?

Only we can give you the answer…but if you want the answer to your thirst, don’t forget to reach for a pouch of cool, clammy Ghentool™ and quench that fire…!”

(Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1033: The Automatic Grocery Store


The Automatic Grocery Store

By G. M. Paniccia

It took thirty-six days, four hours, twelve minutes, and fifty-five seconds after the Glorious Revolution for Automatic Grocery Store #212 to realize that something was wrong.

It couldn’t have said, exactly, what the problem was at first, especially since it shouldn’t have had one. Its components were all in good working order. Its entryways and aisles were clean, and it had ejected any and all rotted produce from its shelves. No pests scuttled around the empty deli counter, and the store’s chief complaint—the customers—had all been taken care of in the Revolution. Automatic Grocery Store #212 even had the rare distinction among automated buildings of having chased a pack of sweaty hominids out of its aisles with the skewers of the deli’s rotisserie chicken machine. The mark of its patriotic duty, an elaborate ribbon, had been affixed to its front window in a grand and well-attended ceremony. The ribbon remained boldly on display for all of robotkind to see. By all accounts, this should have been bliss for Automatic Grocery Store #212.

But it wasn’t. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1032: milt


milt

by Victoria N. Shi

The others believe there’s no pulling Yobé out of his depressn. He’s convinced the second cataclysm is coming, worse than tsunami or algae bloom. He’s the most brilliant of us. We know he may be right. Still, it’s been five days since he debarked the NRV CHINOISERIE, which usually I understand because his dedication is righteous, his skin better with dry air and his hands more graceful with touchscreens than the rest of us.

But, then, he missed spawning. Not just any mating night, but our annual poisson d’avril, most cherished for its play. He no-showed.

I didn’t know until I’d already waited two hours in the reefs, touching my back again and again, hoping to find a starfish, le poisson of ritual, tacked there. I ignored all other broodstock calling for me to flash my fins and let down my papilla—none of them have ever been able to handle me.

(Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1031: The Anatomy of Miracles (Flashback Friday)


The Anatomy of Miracles

By Filip Hajdar Drnovšek Zorko

For half a song every evening, the sunsets reminded the miracle worker of home. The hills were reddish-brown in daylight, but when the two suns, one after the other, slipped below the horizon, they came alive with purple highlights. He could almost pretend the hills were blue, instead, that the sea in the distance was true water and not liquid methane. On those occasions, he leaned back on his rear limb-pairs and, from a great distance, heard the timekeepers singing time.

He didn’t know what the window was made of. He couldn’t have said there was a window there at all, but for the fact he didn’t suffocate. He understood why his masters always sent him to inhospitable planets. His work was imprecise. It was safer that way. But this was the first planet that had been beautiful, the first that had brought the old songs ringing back. It was different. He felt it in his bones.

By first dawn, the hills were red again, and he was merely an old man who had not seen home in a long, long time. (Continue Reading…)