Archive for 13 and Up

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Escape Pod 978: Oak Hill Lane


Oak Hill Lane

By Alasdair Stuart

The day the world ended, Scotch picked a fight. Not that there was much choice. Two fellow Canary Detailers, heads full of redtop bigotry and guts full of Tesco beer, had jumped Scotch’s work partner Billy the previous week and put him in the Infirmary. Scotch was next. It was just maths. Very stupid maths. So, behind the bike sheds at the University none of them could afford to attend but all of them were good enough to clean, Scotch forced the issue.

Honestly, Scotch had rushed the issue; they let their guard down. “The readiness is all” becoming “Oh for fuck’s sake.” It was such schoolyard bollocks too. The bike sheds! The bike sheds for fuck’s sake! Scotch was only marginally surprised no one was making out back there. God knows they had a few times. But no, no such luck. Just clumsy alcohol punches and the angry relentless wave of hormones, homophobia, and homogenous men trying to pound the world into a shape whose familiarity didn’t terrify them. This wasn’t their first time behind the bike sheds either. (Continue Reading…)

Escape Pod 972: The Bargain of Death and Saint Nicholas


The Bargain of Death and Saint Nicholas

by Craig Church

“What’s your favorite tale?” I ask, voice quivering.

My audience of thieves and killers, their gaunt, dirty faces illuminated by flickering firelight, eye me with equal parts skepticism and expectation. Their captain sits front row center, an energy rifle across his lap as a reminder of my fate should I attempt to run or, worse, fail to entertain. My stomach is eager to empty itself all over the stage of this derelict theater. Thank the spirits I didn’t eat much today.

“It’s the Eve of Giving,” says the captain. “Start with your favorite holiday story.” Nods and grunts of assent follow from the raiders surrounding him. I curl my fingers into fists to stop them from trembling, unable to steer my mind away from the fact that my life depends on choosing the right tale to bring my bloodthirsty captors into a festive mood. No pressure.

(Continue Reading…)

Escape Pod 971: In the Late December (Flashback Friday)


In the Late December

by Greg van Eekhout

They come to a cloud of silver mist, and there Santa finds a little boy made of molten silver with liquid silver eyes and sweeping silver delta wings. His wrists are ringed with missile launchers, and a rounded cone emerges from a cavity in his chest. Once there were many silver boys, fleets of them, protecting the outermost parts of inhabited space against things that came from outside inhabited space. But now, there is only the silver boy.

“You, sir,” the silver boy says, “are a tiresome consciousness cluster. Your binary value system remains as laughable as it is irrelevant. How you manage to remain cohesive is beyond me.”

“My value system is hardly binary,” Santa says. “In between naughty and nice I’ve made room for you: grumpy but fundamentally sound. Do you want a toy or not?”

Read the full story at Strange Horizons: http://strangehorizons.com/fiction/in-the-late-december/

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Escape Pod 969: Code Switching (Part 4 of 4)


Code Switching (Part 4 of 4)

By Malon Edwards

(…continued from Part 3)

  1. THIS IS THE TRUTELL

MICHAËLLE-ANNABELLE FEAT. JEAN-MICHEL

 

I strap into my rig, take a really big swig from my hydration dispenser tube I call The Ultra Black Vig, and settle back to begin this all-night white-hat gig.

At first, I decide to do this like the Stig, but instead I shake awake my lightbox, pull on my knee-high fuzzy socks, and momentarily disable my sigTell locks. This is my double-dog dare for Saffron Sutton to try and hack this whitefox. She and I have been doing this since the first day of SSI hacker sprints, which always takes place on the vernal equinox. Usually, I tell her she better kick rocks because my sigTell is damn well capable of delivering emotional shocks along her TruTell stalks all the way back to those frilly frocks she designs and thoroughly maligns (although, she would say signs) with a matte black gingham fox.

Now, watch me as I disregard all the clocks and enter the susso-sphere where the only thing I see is multicolored sigTell stalks everywhere. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 968: Code Switching (Part 3 of 4)


Code Switching (Part 3 of 4)

By Malon Edwards

(…Continued from Part 2)

 

  1. A SWEET-ASS HELICOPTER AND TEN STATER STRANGERS?

JEAN-MICHEL FEAT. THE NAUGHTY NINETY-DAY FANDANGO

 

I’m feelin’ this Bell 525 Relentless like Ellen Gilchrist playin’ bid whist wit her redheaded MILF temptress. She’s a proper drawers dropper chopper wit no love for the paupers. Her black chrome exterior makes me want to chill in her eighty-eight-square-foot cabin interior until homo erectus becomes superior.

And I’m not the only one.

Sittin’ wit me are ten Stater strangers who fear no danger because of the two exo-fighters flankin’ us as we drink an’ cuss, comforted by their protection against the Sovereign State of Chicago’s skanky trust.

Listen to me. Talkin’ like how a real Stater must.

Three of these girls might be smilin’ true, but on their faces you can see fear of Electric Resurrection, too. It’s a look all eleven of us have, but we play it cool—or at least try to appear to. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 967: Code Switching (Part 2 of 4)


Code Switching (Part 2 of 4)

By Malon Edwards

(…Continued from Part 1)

  1. ONE HUNDRED PERCENT PERFORMANCE OUTPUT

JEAN-MICHEL FEAT. KINSLEY CHASE

 

Lòske jounalis sa yo gade m—

Hold up. Let me say that again. I’ll wait. Y’all go grab y’alls paper an’ pen.

When these Stater journos look at me, they don’t juss see a Black boy. Nah, they also see a bio-electric, battery-operated toy, part of a Stanford Sutton Industries ploy to bring fat cat football alums joy.

(Wit money. Anpil, anpil lajan.)

An’ that pisses them off. So they gon’ keep rushin’ off an’ bustin’ off these queries at a machine-gun pace in my face while smirkin’ at my Haitian Creole vocabulary, pretendin’ they can only understand me, barely, ’cause my accent is too thick an’ scary.

Pakont—but on the flip side—them Chicago reporters gon’ give me the benefit of the doubt (that’s right) when they write they stories witout bias tonight. They embrace a sovereign state that thrives on a black market sparked by innovation an’ encouraged by a Haitian who planned a nation for secession from a State of Imperfection, then made Chicago the greatest an’ said to hell wit those Stater racists.

Like the ones in front of me now. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 966: Code Switching (Part 1 of 4)


Code Switching (Part 1 of 4)

By Malon Edwards

INTRO: ALL I’M EVER GON’ DO IS STAY BLACK AND DIE

JEAN-MICHEL FEAT. KINSLEY CHASE

Kinsley Chase sits on manman mwen plastic-covered couch. The InTell HumbleBrag subprogram Stanford Sutton Industries chipped me with says she’s wearing a circa 2020 Theresa Frostad Eggesbø Resurrection skinload.

I had no idea this shit actually worked. I don’t HumbleBrag. I thought it was all about narcissism and went in one direction, so I said fuck that shit.

But Kinsley Chase HumbleBraggin’ ’bout how unique (meanin’ how expensive) her skinload is makes sense. These days, pourin’ honey like that into some poor Black people’s ear can be an effective war propaganda tool. We all know both the State of Illinois and the Sovereign State of Chicago recruitin’.

Too bad I don’t like siwo. Or lagè.

‘Sides, manman mwen and I don’t need no tools. We juss need to pay our bills. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 965: T-Rex Tex Mex / Mother Death Learns a Trick


T-Rex Tex Mex

by Sarina Dorie

“Whoa! Hold on, partner!” the host of the party asked with his fake Texan accent. “What is that costume supposed to be?”

Of all the insufferable things, he was wearing a cowboy hat on his green, scaley head.

Dinosaurs did not wear hats.

Other costumed partygoers passed by the buffet table where I’d just placed my bag of candy, between a bowl of offensive kale chips and what smelled like mashed cauliflower. The humans at the Halloween barbeque apparently had no more intention of eating their offerings than I did, as they steered clear of the vegan display.

I couldn’t cook, which was why I had brought candy. Obviously.

“I’m a dinosaur,” I told my host. “Rarr.”

(Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 963: To Catch a Flieff (Part 2 of 2)


To Catch a Flieff (Part 2 of 2)

by Julia Rios

Three days later Alessia sipped tea by the circuit board, Mr Tumnus purring her lap. Things were going more smoothly than she might have feared. Too smoothly, if Alessia was being honest.

Darmanda was possibly the most considerate person she’d ever met, making sure to nap while Alessia was out and let her have the room—and bed—to herself when she came off shift. She even took care to exercise Fiona and tire her out, so she’d be quiet in her case while Alessia slept. And while Alessia was sure Arctic Flieffs must produce bodily waste, she’d never seen any evidence of that in her quarters. It was almost as convenient as living alone had been.

Alessia and Darmanda made a point of meeting up for meals at least once a day in the mess, for appearances.
They’d sit next to each other and sometimes Alessia would wrap one of Darmanda’s thick black curls around her finger. Or lay her head on Darmanda’s shoulder. Other times, Darmanda would rest a soft brown hand on Alessia’s knee. Gestures of affection they’d specifically discussed and given consent for in their initial negotiations talk, all designed to make them seem like a proper couple who were comfortable together.

It really was comfortable, and it was killing her.

(Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 962: To Catch a Flieff (Part 1 of 2)


To Catch a Flieff

by Julia Rios

Alessia frowned at the central circuit board of the Astral Dancer. Paw prints. Again.

She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Mr Tumnus, I have told you a thousand times, you can’t go into the engine. I don’t care how bright and sparkly it is, it’s not for cats!”

The cat did not reply. In fact, he was nowhere to be found, not even after she pried up the 3D printed plastic shield and wedged her upper half as far into the engine core as it could go without accessing the underside.

That was weird.

Usually if Mr Tumnus got in, he sat in a smug loaf on top of the accelerator panel, fluffy orange tail swishing as he batted at the flashing lights.

Then she heard the chittering.

Oh no. No no no.

Only one thing made this sound: Arctic Flieffs from Vorpalix. They were the most adorable puffballs, always a winner for page a day calendars and cheer up memes—and they wrought havoc on any habitat that wasn’t their own.

The chittering was a sign that this one was about to nest. In the engine core of the Astral Dancer.

(Continue Reading…)

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