By J. R. Blackwell.
Read by Rachel Swirsky (of PodCastle).
He smelled like new cars and cologne, he moved with a measured rhythm. His mouth tasted like mint toothpaste. She looked over his shoulder through the white light of the window. She was sweating into her sheets, her breath silent, and her lips thin and tight.
Rated R. Contains sex and melancholia.
By Gideon Fostick.
Read by Dave Leckie.
Bill had no heart for this Karakuri, left behind in the empty house when his love had gone. Small and exquisite, propped at an angle on the tatami floor mat, it was the toughest puzzle he’d known.
Rated PG. Contains puzzles.
by Rachel Swirsky
read by Ann Leckie
Summers, I sleep on rooftops. Under smokestacks, beside stairs, in the sudden green of precarious gardens.
Rated PG. Contains mythical figures.
by Gideon Fostick.
Read by Lyle Merithew.
Escape Pod sends its congratulations to Gideon Fostick for winning first place in the Escape Pod flash fiction contest for stories under 300 words.
Professor Seiferd materialized in full command of his faculties. He oriented immediately on the white cliffs of Dover, towering over the English Channel. He felt the weight of his mission: he must answer the question that was vital to the Fatherland.
Rated G. Contains Nazis.
Folks:
Summary first. Escape Pod is going to miss its weekly releases for the remainder of November. We will resume in December, probably the first week.
Now the explanation.
(Continue Reading…)
Rated R
When Flight Control assigned us utility privileges, I don’t think they expected me to brew espresso in the centrifugal head. But the weight of the espresso machine was well within the parameters they’d set, as was my use of a couple of ounces of fresh water and a fraction of the ship’s power supply each day, so there was nothing, really, they could say or do about it.
Privileges are privileges, and if the purpose was to give both of us something to keep us happy, it worked for me. My morning espresso ritual kept me sane. I looked forward to it every day.
Richard, however, wasn’t quite as tolerant as Flight Control.
Rated PG. Kids, don’t do drugs. Also, some profanity in the outro.
“I must tell you, then, that I am an old man, a very old man.” He paused momentarily. “And it happens that I have money that I must presently be leaving, and never a child have I to leave it to.” I thought of the confidence trick, and resolved I would be on the alert for the vestiges of my five hundred pounds. He proceeded to enlarge on his loneliness, and the trouble he had to find a proper disposition of his money. “I have weighed this plan and that plan, charities, institutions, and scholarships, and libraries, and I have come to this conclusion at last,”–he fixed his eyes on my face,–“that I will find some young fellow, ambitious, pure-minded, and poor, healthy in body and healthy in mind, and, in short, make him my heir, give him all that I have.” He repeated, “Give him all that I have. So that he will suddenly be lifted out of all the trouble and struggle in which his sympathies have been educated, to freedom and influence.”
I tried to seem disinterested. With a transparent hypocrisy I said, “And you want my help, my professional services maybe, to find that person.”
He smiled, and looked at me over his cigarette, and I laughed at his quiet exposure of my modest pretence.
Rated PG.
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The man opened the pack all the way to reveal a small arsenal of guns, grenades, explosives, and — oddly — knives. Very large knives. He looked up at Stanuel. “I am the attack. I’ve been asked to shut Pan down.”
“But you’re not a programmer…”
“I can do all things through explosives, who destroy for me.” The man began moving the contents of the pack inside the pockets and straps of the trenchcoat, clipped more to his belt and thigh, as well as to holsters under each arm, and then added pieces to his ankles.
He was now a walking arsenal.
But only half the pack had been emptied. The mysterious mercenary tossed it at Stanuel. “Besides, you’re going to help.”
Rated PG. It’s YA military SF.
She pushed off when her turn came, floating into the huge hold where she had to keep her line from tangling with other lines and stay alert for the seniors whose job it was to kill you—with their dye guns. In the Well, as throughout the ship, patches of enlivened hulls showed the view of near space through remote sensing. Here in the Well it was disorienting. Marie went into a tumble, then controlled it with a spray from her back pack. Through her enhanced visor, she could see her own team, spread out, their suits clear to her, but not to the seniors. A few of her team wore blue arm bands, not regulation, but overlooked more and more these days. Blue for the Admiral, blue for veneration—blue for sucking up to the brass.