Rated PG. May provoke disturbing thoughts.
He is the reason clowns so often seem
sinister, the reason mannequins and dolls
can be so unsettling, the reason a child’s
tricycle
sitting unattended in a front yard can be an image
suffused with dread. If he goes on
this way, who knows what other objects
will attain an aura of menace?
Rated PG. Contains graphic scenes of class conflict and superhuman self-doubt.
Referenced sites:
HorrorView
Beyond the Storm: Shadows of the Big Easy
SFFAudio
“You super folks must think we’re pretty damn foolish, especially us in the law enforcement community.”
Look at him leaning back with his feet up on the desk. Did he just walk out of Cool Hand Luke? Sheesh, you’d think a sheriff would want to be more dignified. “No sir. You and your brethren are integral to the fabric of society. We of The Union are grateful for your hard work and courage.” I can rattle that sort of crap off all day long.
Interviewed by Scott Janssens.
Greg van Eekhout, one of Escape Pod’s most frequent authors, speaks to us about the virtues of very short fiction, babies in blenders, and an explosive new term for flash fiction.
Greg’s site:
writingandsnacks.blogspot.com
Rated PG. Contains some profanity. Paradigms may shift without warning.
“Go to hell, idiot,” I said, using an astringent tongue he’d understand. “I am but a monumental slab of granite, and you, mortality, are like one of the droppings of a fairly large corpulent deity–an ephemeral honor I would rather pass me by.”
“And yet, you speak to me, mountain,” said the mote of humanity. “Why is that?”
I considered that for a moment. The creature had a point.
“I don’t know,” I replied honestly.
Rated PG. Contains dark imagery and terrifying fruit.
Referenced sites:
Eyes of Ligeia
Amphigory
K9Cast
Music by Toby Chappell.
As you are no doubt aware, I am the issue of solid Dutch stock‚ Äîthe prosperous Van Pelt family of St. Paul. Mine was a comfortable and happy childhood, and I spent much of it in the devoted service of the Great Old Pumpkin. For him, I cultivated an annual pumpkin patch. I also evangelized him in the community, relating the tale of how, every year on Hallowmas Eve, the day when the spiritual most strongly encroaches on the substantial, this mightiest of gourds would rise to revel across the world with the most sincere of his adorers. My neighbors were understandably skeptical; after all, not once had this superbeing ever chosen to grace my pumpkin patch or any other place in our town. I vowed that I would coax him into my backyard, and I set out in the manner of a learned man to discover how I might do this.
Rated PG. Contains childhood trauma and mild gratuitous villainy.
Referenced sites:
Dead White Guys
The Sci Phi Show
“Well, you know, Doc, safe is a relative thing in my profession, but I have you on the headset, and I’m picking the lock on these handcuffs as we’re talking. I think I’ll be fine, the piranhas are still 5 or 6 feet below me.”
“All right, but isn’t our conversation going to distract you?” I asked. “I know you’re upset, but wouldn’t you rather call back at another time?”
“I’d really like to talk about it, Doc. I always find talking to you clears my mind and makes me more effective. I may need to go if the henchmen come back, though.”
Rated PG. Contains death rituals with possible disturbing imagery, and numerous pot references. (No, not that kind.)
Referenced sites:
Short-Short Stories
Podiobooks
On that last morning, anyone who came to visit me could see that I was dying. I knew it myself. As if I had cotton in my ears, I heard the voice of don Leandro saying to my wife, “Dona Susana, I think it is time to fetch the priest,” and I thought, yes, it’s time.
We don’t have our own priest, or even our own church, so someone has to drive in a pickup truck to get the priest from El Puentecito. But don’t be fooled by what you may hear in Malpasa or in Palpan de Baranda. Here we remain Catholic. Yes, we make pots in the old way. That’s why tourists come here. And it’s true, as is sometimes whispered, that we have restored certain other practices from the past. But not as they were done back then. Those were bloody and terrible times, the times of the Mejica. They say that the sacrificial blood covered the sun pyramids from top to bottom. Thank the Virgin, we don’t do anything like that.
The campaign had begun well. The Alarians swept south into goblin territory, and Alarian rifles quickly overmatched goblin bows and crossbows.
In just a few weeks of fighting, the goblin population was halved. The goblin chieftains realized that they were doomed without help and did the only thing they could.
They asked their god, Twenty Claw, for help.
Rated PG. Contains explicit cattiness and violent self-reflection.
“Too bad it’s raining. Hey, Lauren, make the rain stop, okay?” He reaches across the table and tousles my hair affectionately.
I bare my teeth in the semblance of a grin. “Ha ha. Sorry, I can’t.”
“I know.” He shakes his head, laughs ruefully. “It’s just . . . Maya could.”
Rated PG. Contains explicit existentialism and violence of the soul. (The intro contains minor profanity and frank discussions of current events, and is likely to be more offensive than the story.)
Penguin listened raptly to the new voice. He knew this was his guardian angel, she who would guard and protect him forever. Sure enough, the Creator set him gently into his angel’s hand. Her hands, much smaller than the Creator’s–which was fitting since who among the angels had such power as the Creator?–were a bit sticky. He squealed as she held him aloft to
receive the glorious light.
“Look, Daddy! It’s a peng’n!”
“Yes it is, Angie. It’s a very nice penguin. Did you thank the nice man for the balloon?”