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PodCastle 958: Of Black Town’s Monster by Chaitanya Murali – PART TWO of Two

Previously published by Kaleidotrope, 2024

Contents Notes for colonisation, enslavement, torture, racism, and references to sexual assault

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Show Notes

Rated R

Of Black Town’s Monster

Part Two of Two

Chaitanya Murali

 

February 16th, 1695

I hurry home, leaving Devyani with the promise of a meeting soon, my heart thumping, my breath heavy from fear. My eyes flit at every small movement in the dark, seeing the wolf’s grin in every shadow. I reach my house and I open the thatch door, but there is no one inside. The house is dark, though not absent of the mild scent of fish that lingers for hours after dinner.

She’s gone looking for me. Again.

I run to the docks, relying on muscle memory to keep me from falling into the surf. The oil lamps have been doused for the night, so the only light here comes from the moon and stars, and the tiny swaying pinpricks of revelry onboard the ships moored in the bay. At least one of those, I know, carries people like me in its belly. And if I’m not careful, something else will be carrying me in its belly tonight.

I find Amma huddled behind a stack of crates, her head peering over top to stare at something in the distance. I kneel next to her, falling back on my haunches when she swings at me in surprise. (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 957: Of Black Town’s Monster by Chaitanya Murali – PART ONE of Two

Previously published by Kaleidotrope, 2024

Contents Notes for colonisation, enslavement, torture, racism, and references to sexual assault

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 37:15 — 51.6MB)

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Show Notes

Rated R

Of Black Town’s Monster

Part One of Two

Chaitanya Murali

 

February 21st, 1695

We break at dawn. The trance broken, our deed done; we split as dandelions in a stiff breeze, disappearing, melting back into our lives, carrying little but an afterglow so suppressed it appears only as sweat upon our brows.

Tonight, we tell ourselves.

Tonight, we set our trap.

Fort St. George. A town built by the Company, with the promise that it would bring us prosperity. Land surrendered to them on the basis of a lie. White walls built around it to the exclusion of our people.

Only Whites may walk freely within White Town, after all.

I only walk there in the heat of their scorn.

My every move suspect.

My every breath sacrilege.

My every step dirty. (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 956: Revolutions, as Told by a Humble Rice Farmer

PodCastle 956: Revolutions, as Told by a Humble Rice Farmer is a PodCastle original.

Content notes for famine and sibling death

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 44:38 — 61.8MB)

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Show Notes

Rated PG

Revolutions, as Told by a Humble Rice Farmer

by Lia Lao

 

When the Azure Dragon Emperor, conqueror of the nine lands, abhorred tyrant and most exalted strategist in the history of Jiuzhou, dies, Li Shen is farming rice.

On the other side of the country, there is great upheaval. The Dragon Empress sobs so ardently her tears turn to pearls, and she throws herself into the ocean. The White Tiger Emperor — newly anointed and soaked in silver blood — lets out a cry that will reverberate through history. His men hoist him above their shoulders, stamping on the Great Dragon’s corpse, crushing cyan scales underfoot.

And all around Jiuzhou, scholars write furiously, their brushstrokes turning, twisting, contorting. Trying to capture the tale unfolding as they breathe.

None of which means anything to Li Shen. (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 955: TALES FROM THE VAULTS: The Lamentation of Their Women

Previously ran as episode 534 and first published by Tor.com

Content note for sex, drug use, graphic depictions of violence with blood and gore and all its wet and slippery trappings, and general horror.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 1:13:32 — 101.0MB)

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Show Notes

Rated X

The Lamentation of Their Women

by Kai Ashante Wilson

pre.

“Hello,” answered some whiteman. “Good morning! Could I speak with—?” He mispronounced her last name and didn’t abbreviate her first, as nobody who knew her would do.

“Who dis?” she repeated. “And what you calling about?”

“Young lady,” he said. “Can you please tell me whether Miss Jean-Louis is there or not. Will you just do that for me?” His tone all floured with whitepeople siddity, pan-fried in condescension.

But she could sit here and act dumb too. “Mmm . . . it’s hard to say. She be in and out, you know? Tell me who calling and what for and I’ll go check.”

Apparently, the man was Mr Blah D. Blah from the city agency that cleaned out Section 8 apartments when the leaseholder dropped dead. Guess whose evil Aunt Esther had died of a heart attack last Thursday on the B15 bus? And guess who was the last living Jean-Louis anywhere? (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 954: The Grief Eaters

PodCastle 954: The Grief Eaters is a PodCastle original.

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Show Notes

Rated PG

The Grief Eaters

By Erin Keating

 

There was a time when grave dirt could summon grief eaters from the Isle of the Dead. As the midnight bells tolled across the lagoon, they’d fly on ravens’ wings to mourners’ windows. With hands of bone, they’d clear minds of sorrow, feasting on memories until there was no remembrance left to mourn. But not all who called them to their side left with the dulled edges of forgetfulness. Grief eaters were hungry. Call them on a night when they were famished, and they’d leave you without so much your name.

Nunzia knew this. Still, she stuffed her pockets full of grave dirt before the priest had finished reciting the “Ave Maria.” Heads bowed beneath fluttering black veils, as though death were a kind of wedding: a marriage of body and earth. As they lowered her grandmother into the soggy ground, the priest spoke of ashes, and dust, and of rest so peaceful, Nunzia was half-tempted to follow after her.

After the funeral, the procession rowed from the Isle of the Dead back to the village. Cries of grief echoed through the settling fog. Voice called to voice, letting them know they were still there. Nunzia’s stomach roiled with the bobbing boat. Beside her, her mother, a pillar of black lace asked, “Are you well, Nunzia?”

Nunzia, never skilled at lying, managed, “Yes, Mamma.” (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 953: The Will of the God of Music

Previously published in Fantasy Magazine, March 2023

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 41:23 — 56.8MB)

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Show Notes

Rated PG-13

The Will of the God of Music

by P. H. Low

 

You hear the door open as if in dreaming.

Back when you were a conservatory student, you chewed a third of a melatonin tablet every night — to keep yourself from snapping awake before sunup, chest tight, your head still achy with exhaustion. Now, mornings are difficult: your eyelids weighted, sliding; thick grey wool between your temples. Your body drifting in a warm, slow sea.

Evan’s voice. “Rach?”

A groan, from deep inside you. You do not want wakefulness — do not want the heat pulsing from your knuckles, a beacon, a warning; do not want your boyfriend watching, wary, as you massage the meat of your thumb. Too late — slow electric fear coils in your stomach. Your breath draws short as you open your eyes.

“What is it?” Your performer’s voice — clipped, a little haughty, though it still creaks from sleep. (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 952: Putti Call

PodCastle 952: Putti Call is a PodCastle original.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 22:59 — 32.0MB)

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Show Notes

Rated R

Putti Call

By Emily Munro

 

Hopefully you’ve never tried to stuff a struggling toddler into a dog crate, but let me tell you, it’s even worse when they have wings.

Three cherubic faces peered out over the stone tracery that framed the partial rose window. Fat baby fingers gripping the stone, their movement sent a snowfall of dust motes through the multicolored shafts of afternoon sunlight.

“You’ve got putti alright,” I said, looking up at the grimy, soot-streaked bodies and mangy oil-sheen wings of the creatures as they hissed and spat at us from the heights.

“Not Cherubs?” the building superintendent asked.

“Same difference. Cherub is religious. Putti is the historical term, so we use that. I think they’re attracted to the architecture.” (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 951: TALES FROM THE VAULTS: ‘Til Death

PodCastle 951: TALES FROM THE VAULTS: ‘Til Death is a PodCastle original.

Content note for grief

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 39:31 — 54.3MB)

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Show Notes

Rated PG-13

‘Til Death

by C. J. Lavigne

 

My dear Clarinda,

They tell me that when you heard of my wedding, you shattered a goblet, fell to the floor in a swooning fit, and did not arise for three days. I hear that the entirety of the manor was wreathed in black. Really, darling, it seems a bit much. I’m fine.

I know it’s not the choice you would have made. If it’s any consolation . . . in the moment when I found myself there, caught between the noble prince and the eternal night, I did think of you. It was all very dramatic, Jordan standing there in a shaft of brilliant light, his hand outstretched, begging me to leave Gareth’s side. I was glad he’d thought to break the window boards, or that whole scene would have been significantly bloodier; I could feel Gareth, pressed against my back, and his fingers were gentle on my shoulder but his teeth were bared.

Your voice was there, I promise. I heard you say think of the sunlight and death is what gives life meaning and he has loved you since childhood and, yes, all of it was true. So please don’t feel guilty; don’t think “if I’d only been there” or “she was confused” or “I could have changed her mind.” I wasn’t confused. You didn’t change my mind. But I know you, and I knew you would have tried.

We are very different people, you and I.

I hope, though, that we can still be friends. I assure you, I retain all of our life’s affections, and I wish you only the best. I won’t visit; Gareth tells me it will take time before the bloodlust abates, and I do not wish to frighten or harm you. But write back! Just give the parchment to a spider, or a bat — leave it on the windowsill, if you like. They will know it’s for me.

 

All my heart,

D.

(Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 950: FLASH FICTION EXTRAVAGANZA: Reapings

PodCastle 950: FLASH FICTION EXTRAVAGANZA: Reapings is a PodCastle original.

“The Deading Veil” content note for suicide

“Taking Root” content note for the death of a child

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 40:20 — 55.9MB)

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Show Notes

“An Acre a Year” Rated PG, previously published by Flash Fiction Online

“The Deading Veil” Rated PG-13, is a #PodCastleOriginal!

“Taking Root” Rated PG, previously published in On Spec Magazine issue #130

An Acre a Year

By Gregory Marlow

 

An acre a year was all they asked. I agreed. Fifty acres was too much for William to work anyway, even with my help.

The first year, William didn’t notice. I stood on the hill behind the house and surveyed the fields below. Cows, hay, alfalfa, corn, sweet potatoes. It looked the same as the day I married William. Maybe a few corners rounded off in the distance. Or was that my imagination?

What was not my imagination was how the little men delivered on their promises. Travelers willing to work for a meal and a bed for the night. Cows delivering calves effortlessly. Neighbors offering to trade a tractor for a fraction of its worth. Fields of corn yielding twice the expected amount, allowing William to sell the excess and use the money to hire help.

And William, in my bed at night again. The man I married, not the exhausted shell dragging himself in after dark with barely enough energy to eat supper, much less tend to a lonely wife. The fields had been his mistress of necessity. She provided, but not nearly as much as she took. If I had not agreed to the trade, she would have taken him forever. (Continue Reading…)

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PodCastle 949: The Troll Road

PodCastle 949: The Troll Road is a PodCastle original.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 50:05 — 68.8MB)

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Show Notes

Rated PG-13

The Troll Road

by Tony Dunnell

 

Sir Lederick dismounted in the Humble Woods on the southern flank of the Hopewine Valley. Here, on the boundary between the king’s realm and the Trollands, the Troll Road began. The ancient road had long offered the only viable route east, and the footfalls of man and horse once thundered along its path. Now, silence. An uneasy silence, if belligerent councillors were to be believed. They used the threat of a troll invasion to stoke fear and distrust among the populace, their whispers never far from the young king’s ear. As for the trolls, they were content with the treaty. The Long War was over, half a century had passed, and, being isolationists by nature, the trolls had embraced a policy of exclusion toward their cantankerous neighbours to the west. Two realms divided, but now the king of men, keen of mind and wise beyond his years, sought a conversation.

“Wait here, Tammy,” said Sir Lederick, stroking the muzzle of his chestnut steed.

The horse snorted and pawed at the ground. Not even a mount as gallant as Tamaleen enjoyed the smell of a troll. And it was a sleeping troll, a fully-grown male, that now blocked access to the road east. He lay snoring, stretched out, his massive head resting on the upper bank, his body obstructing the road. He was naked save for a simple sackcloth around his waist. His skin was a muddy, blotchy brown. (Continue Reading…)