PodCastle

Escape Artists Foundation
  • 5.0 (1)
  • DRAMA
  • ZWEIWÖCHENTLICH
PodCastle

PodCastle is the world’s first audio fantasy magazine. Weekly, we broadcast the best in fantasy short stories, running the gammut from heart-pounding sword and sorcery, to strange surrealist tales, to gritty urban fantasy, to the psychological depth of magical realism. Our podcast features authors including N.K. Jemisin, Peter S. Beagle, Benjamin Rosenbaum, Jim C. Hines, and Cat Rambo, among others. Terry Pratchett once wrote, “Fantasy is an exercise bicycle for the mind. It might not take you anywhere, but it tones up the muscles that can.” Tune in to PodCastle each Tuesday for our weekly tale, and spend the length of a morning commute giving your imagination a work out.

  1. VOR 1 TAG

    PodCastle 867: The Witch of Endor

    * Author : Karim Kattan * Narrator : Amal Singh * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Eric Valdes * Artist : Iasmin Omar Ata * Discuss on Forums Previously published by The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction Rated PG-13 The Witch OF Endor by Karim Kattan   There remained, in the mountains of Endor, a scattering of the elder people. Most of the others — the handfuls left — had moved to the cities of the south decades before. These people of mountains and hills, of ice fields and pine trees, now dwelled in seashore havens and desert cities, resort towns and neon oases. The few families who had remained, huddled in the mountains surrounding Endor valley, lived in a half-dormant, savage state. He was acutely aware of their presence, hiding in the snow and behind the pine trees. Their half-closed almond eyes burned with a wildness he knew well. He was himself descended from these elder people; this mountainous terrain was his original land, this cold, this smell of pine trees. Yet the wind bit his flesh; the mountain suffocated him. He was only from here in imagination. In reality he was from an oasis of the south. His world was one of gurgling springs, swaying palm trees, and the bustling black market where anything — including eyes, diamonds, livers, rifles, children — could be sold and bought. His was the world where the hot winds wrap the body in a gentle, insistent caress. Here the wind was a slap in the face. He had been invited to the ball. It was an honor reserved for a happy few, the richest and noblest of the kingdom of Summerlands. They, obviously, never invited any of the elder people. Yet he had received the invitation — in formal gold lettering on a piece of paper that was most likely worth many stalls in the market. He had worked for this, pugnacious man that he was. He had taken advantage of the unique color of his eyes, clear like river streams; and of his skin — alabaster, they said. He had practiced day in and day out how to pronounce the vowels perfectly, where to lilt, where to pause; how to use fully his throat to produce sounds as foreign to him as the snow. He had lost, gradually, the raw and hoarse words of the elder people to adopt the light language of the Summerlands. He had moved from the deepest south to the middle ground, the capital city, and he had smiled like they smiled and bowed like they bowed and worked like they worked. And here he was. Endor. The snow was falling softly all around the castle. It snowed in the kingdom of Summerlands perhaps once every three years. “Once in an apricot’s bloom,” was the consecrated phrase. But here, in the mountaintop realm, it never stopped. The flakes, unfamiliar to the guests who hailed from the shores and the desert, swirled around them. The castle was enmeshed in darkness; only its tiny oval windows gave a little light, a little gleam reflected in the snowflakes. It trembled in this ocean of dark. Music, loud and boisterous, gilded and ornate, resonated in the castle, around it, and echoed deep in the mountains. So, this was Endor. This, the valley of sinews and anise, the silvery mother earth. And today was the night of Endor, the loveliest and most magnificent of nights. Men and women, in twos and threes, crossed the massive stone bridge that led to the castle, their hair bound with crowns of flowers and gold,

    38 Min.

  2. 19. NOV.

    PodCastle 866: Palestinian Voices – Badia’s Magic Water

    * Authors : Maya Abu-Alhayyat and Yasmine Seale * Narrator : Mahtab Chenevix-Trench * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Devin Martin * Artist : Iasmin Omar Ata * Discuss on Forums Previously published by The Book of Ramallah   Content warnings for death, cultural misogyny, stillbirth, and references to murder and infanticide. Rated PG-13 Badia’s Magic Water by Maya Abu-Alhayyat, translated by Yasmine Seale   Badia walks into Ramallah Hospital like she owns the place, unhurried, greeting everyone and taking in their greetings. Stories fly to meet her in a brew of caution, curiosity, and fear. From Samira the receptionist (recently married, keen to please) she wants to know if the tranquillisers had their effect on her husband, who makes love to her like a bull. To Said the errand boy she promises a special treatment for his spine, which keeps him up at night. Now handsome young doctor Sami, whom the nurses like to stop and ask ridiculous questions about the weather and incurable diseases, is running towards her, reverently kissing her hand in the way of old movies. “God keep you from harm,” she says with a laugh and asks about his mother, Sitt Fikriyya, who devoted her life to his becoming a doctor. On Badia walks, swinging the orange carrier bag whose contents no one dares to ask about. The soft headscarf slips from her loose red bun as she totters down to the basement, fighting back a cheeky smile at the memory of the young doctor’s kiss and repeating to herself, “Keep you from harm.” She opens the door of the autopsy room with her blue-beaded key and swaps her coat for a white gown. Her mobile rings. It’s Umm Salama, calling to say she has sent her a girl with psoriasis from Haifa. She had spotted her with her mother at the Khalaf perfume shop, told her that Badia would be able to cure her with her magic water, and directed her to where Badia worked. Badia is annoyed with Umm Salama (she tells this story to everyone) and worries that her workplace at Ramallah Hospital will turn into a shrine or, God forbid, a clinic. She was wrong to have told her about the water, and how it cleared her own hands of the eczema that had plagued her since Osama’s death. Not to mention the woman who once snuck into the autopsy room to steal some of the magic water that had spilled off a girl’s corpse, to use it for some spell or ritual, who, when Badia tried to remove her, had bent down to where the water pooled on the ground and tried to lick it up. Samah, the nurse who makes the journey from Tammun every day, takes in the day’s death schedule. The first corpse is a woman from al-Bireh, near eighty. The second is a woman in her fifties who has to be prepared for transportation to Nablus. The third is a young woman of twenty who has spent three days in the morgue. A long day awaits, but Badia does not begin work before brewing a glass of tea with her special herbs and smoking a cigarette. Badia does not like to wash younger women, the mothers least of all. She prefers the elderly, whose corpses everyone is in a hurry to get rid of and few will miss. Their daughters and the wives of their sons slip her a bit of money. It helps them shed their sense of helplessness in the face of the decline and inevitable death of an old mother,

    31 Min.

  3. 12. NOV.

    PodCastle 865: Handala. The Olive, The Storm, and the Sea

    * Author : Sonia Sulaiman * Narrator : Peter Adrian Behravesh * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Devin Martin * Artist : Iasmin Omar Ata * Discuss on Forums Previously published in the collection Muneera and the Moon: Stories Inspired by Palestinian Folklore, 2023. Rated PG Handala. The Olive, the Storm, and the Sea by Sonia Sulaiman   The little boy raised an umbrella over his head and looked out over the sea. His clothes were tattered, loose stitches of what had been a carefully sewn tunic and pants. His hair was like a bird’s nest. His feet were torn and blistered. The rain swept down in sheets that shimmered and waved across land and sea alike. The boy walked on, down a long winding road of stones and sticks. It climbed limestone bones and terraces with trees aflame and broken. He stopped to look at these, his face to the fires, his back to the sea. Water and fire warred together, and the sky was brightened by the flashes of lightning coursing through the clouds that hung low like a shroud on the land. It was half-light, either dawn or dusk. The weather was wrong and unnatural. The boy looked on with ageless eyes in a face that had the freshness of only ten years under the sun. He went where his tired feet directed him. If there were three gods following his step, that was not his concern; they could offer him no blessing he did not already possess. If they chose to throw obstacles in his path, he would climb over them step by painful step. He had faith not in gods, but in himself. These gods were not the Fates, but it wouldn’t matter if they were; he would defy them too. It wasn’t that he was proud, that he thought himself special from the rest of humanity. He defied because he had to survive. One of these gods ruled the sea, while the other claimed all under the skies, and the third was said to hold the honor of embodying the virtue of wisdom. He had been ten for a very very long time now. He was ten years old when he was born, and at the same moment, he lost everything. He fled his home — he had no choice — and became a refugee. He would remain ten years old until he returned home again. Some fine day the rain would end, and he would grow up. He grimly carried on, allowing joy to steal in despite the harrowing path of his tender feet. Now, let me tell you something, before we go any further. It’s an old story that you should keep in mind when you hear about this boy’s adventure with the gods. In the old days, a city rose to look down at a rich land and a deep and dark sea. They used to believe it was the first of all cities, but that wasn’t true; the residents only wanted to believe they were the first to solve the problems — and create more — that we call “Civilization.” And although that city was thriving and their king (a man who was also a snake) had created many firsts that were the bedrock of their way of living, they had no patron god. Don’t ask why they needed one; the story doesn’t say. It comes from a time when everyone had a patron god and so it was only natural that in the First of all Cities, they yearned for a god to complete them. It was all very neat: first city, first customs, first marriages, and first patron. Simple. Elegant. And way back when, the gods that came to that city were eager to compete with each other. Two came forward: an uncle and niece.

    42 Min.

  4. 5. NOV.

    PodCastle 864: PALESTINIAN VOICES – Al-Kahf

    * Author : Beesan Odeh * Narrator : Zeina Sleiman * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Eric Valdes * Artist : Iasmin Omar Ata * Discuss on Forums Previously published by Lightspeed Magazine Content warning for the death of a child Rated PG-13 Al-Kahf الكهف By Beesan Odeh   There once lived a man who was stolen from the sea. Rare and magnificent, he lived in his cave, rising to the surface every so often to pluck the strings of his violin for the birds before retreating into the water to play for his kin. They spent their days enthralled by the doleful songs of the man who lived in the littoral cave. But there came a day when the songs ceased and the people stopped going and the man was nowhere to be seen. His people first forgot his face. Then they forgot his voice. And then his name. Until they remembered only the sweet music he played to keep himself company in the cave day and night. Talub had experienced much in his thirty years, including heartache at the loss of others like him, rare and magnificent and stolen from the sea. Few existed, living in trenches and corals and caves, each possessing an instrument chosen in youth, forever playing a song that kept them alive — a song that was theirs to play and only theirs. Adored for their sublime skill, they were also hunted by men from the surface who sought their music’s healing properties. It was rumored that the rich notes of a horn or a few strums of an oud could cure injury and illness, but mankind could not leave rumors as rumors, nor could he forsake the opportunity to benefit. Though friendly with most, Talub had just one close companion, Boutros, who lived out in open water near the sea floor shrouded in red sponge and algae. Sometimes Talub made his way to the sponges. Sometimes Boutros wandered into Talub’s cave. They would eat and drink and tell tales until the sun set and the moon gleamed and the water turned black like the night sky — starless. They made music and sang songs, but one evening when the moon was full and Talub yearned to play, Boutros did not show. Talub went looking, thinking Boutros might have been by the monolith he liked so much, carving stories into limestone or deciphering hieroglyphics on the sunken tablets of the old pharaohs. It wasn’t until Talub found the riven reed of Boutros’s ney flute behind the aged anchors he collected that he realized what happened. Despite this, he visited every day and night for weeks after in hopes of finding Boutros lounging in the arms of a large statue or cross-legged in the algae fingering the ney he always played from the side of his mouth. But Boutros did not return. The day it happened to Talub, he threw out both arms to grab hold of the violin and bow that slipped his fingers when rough netting descended and folded around him like new skin. He held them close, and he held them tight. As he was dragged up through cold waters, splitting deep indigo with his body, he wondered what awaited him on the other side, wondered if his kindred stolen throughout the years rose to the surface as he did in that moment and if they felt the same weight in their chests. The knotted net cinched around him, drawn up, up, up, and up until he caught a glimpse of the vermillion Mediterranean sun and rolled over the side of a purse seiner boat. Talub hit the deck hard,

    30 Min.

  5. 29. OKT.

    PodCastle 863: Cast of Wonders Trick-Or-Treat Episode – The Illusionist’s Tent

    * Author : H. K. Payne * Narrator : Eric Valdes * Hosts : Matt Dovey and Katherine Inskip * Audio Producer : Eric Valdes The Illusionist’s Tent By H. K. Payne   I was told we had the night off, but I guess no one told you kids that. Tell me, whose idea was it to come trick-or-treating through our camp? I suppose it was yours, since you’re the only one here. You do realize we’re a bunch of broke circus performers, don’t you? Well, since you’re here, we might as well get this over with. Which do you want: the trick or the treat? Treat? All right, let’s see. What have I got… Here you go. A handbill folded into the shape of a bird. What do you mean, it doesn’t look like a bird? It’s a swan, obviously. You have some nerve, showing up outside a man’s tent on his night off, demanding a treat and then insulting his paper-folding abilities. Yes, I know it’s not a very good paper swan, but what do you expect? This isn’t my area of expertise. You’re the one who came to an illusionist asking for a treat. Oh, you want the trick instead now? Here. Poof. The swan vanishes. Well, of course you’ve seen that trick before. Any illusionist worth their salt can make a badly folded paper swan disappear. Did you think I was going to give you a big finale act? You’ve got to buy a ticket for that. Well, I’m feeling generous, so I’ll humor you with another trick. Check your pockets. Hey now, calm down. It’s not like you had much money in there. And here it is. Have it back. That’s another treat. What are you scowling for? If you wanted candy, you should have gone to a normal neighborhood like all the other kids. Why didn’t you go with all your friends? Oh…I guess that’s a sensitive subject for you. Kids, eh? I get it. Sorry I brought it up. Hang on, don’t go just yet. I’ve got another trick for you. Relax, I’m not going to take your money. What’s the fun in doing the same trick twice? There. Look at that. The whole night sky inside one tiny tent. A trick and a treat all in one. Yeah, you can come in if you want. Just leave that open. I get claustrophobic. It’s nice, isn’t it? The stars, not the tent. The tent is a wreck. But the stars—you could almost touch them.  Of course I can’t tell you how I did it. Because illusionists don’t spill their secrets and all that. Actually, it’s more that I wouldn’t even know how to begin to describe it. It’s just something I can do. Do you want to see another trick? I’m getting warmed up now. Here, watch my hand. Are you watching carefully? All right, there! It’s gone. Presto. No, it’s not down my sleeve. Take a look. And no, it wasn’t just a prosthetic all along. I do have two hands. See? It’s back. Oh, and now it’s gone again. I hate it when that happens. Could I make more of myself disappear? Someone else asked me that once. He asked me if I could make my whole self disappear. I didn’t want to try it, but he made me a pretty tempting offer. No, not money. A ham and cheddar sandwich. What? You try going for two days without food and then see how silly you think it is to get all excited about a sandwich. I was hungry, all right? I don’t usually do tricks for scraps like a dog, but sometimes it’s necessary. I didn’t go through with it anyway. I couldn’t bring myself to try. Turning even part of myself invisible gives me the jeebies. I don’t think I could handle disappearing all of me. Not even for a ham and cheddar sandwich.

    21 Min.

  6. 22. OKT.

    PC 862: FLASH FICTION EXTRAVAGANZA: Canine Companions

    * Authors : Sarah Pinsker, Katie McIvor and Andy Oldfield * Narrators : Eliza Chan, Devin Martin and Eleanor R. Wood * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Devin Martin * Discuss on Forums “A Strange and Terrible Wonder” Previously published by Zooscape “The Dog Who Buried the Sea” Previously published by Flash Fiction Online “What Wags the World” Previously published by Daily Science Fiction “A Strange and Terrible Wonder” Rated PG “The Dog Who Buried the Sea” Rated G “What Wags the World” Rated G A Strange and Terrible Wonder by Katie McIvor   The dog bus makes its rounds once a year through the lands of myth. Starting in the north, in the early morning — so early it’s barely yet light — the bus rolls up to a middle-of-nowhere sign by the roadside. In the misty grey dawn, in the shadow of the hill which mounts into blackness above, the Cù Sìth is waiting. Its haunches twitch on the wet grass. As the bus approaches, the Cù Sìth emits three sharp, haunting barks, which for miles around cause children to wake from their sleep and huddle in their blankets, sheltering their heads beneath the safety of pillows. The door wheezes open. Onto the first step come the Cù Sìth’s paws. The smell of stagnant water precedes it. Up close, the dog’s fur is a dark, bog-like green, the colours of the endless moor. Its eyes burn with a spectral gleam. The driver nods hello, and with a whine the Cù Sìth bumps its nose up into his hand. Its claws click on the vinyl as it makes its way down the aisle. The bus drives on. Headlights smothered by the moorland fog, it creeps south. The grey city grows around it. In the kirkyard, its tiny shape lost in the deep, gravestone gloom, a terrier wags its tail. When the doors open, it springs up into the bus and leaps into the driver’s arms, licking his face with a small, ghostlike tongue. “Away with you, Bobby,” says the driver, but his eyes are smiling. Bobby avoids the steaming, bull-sized bulk of the Cù Sìth. He sits up front, just behind the driver, his tiny paws against the window. They continue south. On a lonely road in Northumberland, a huge black creature waits with its front leg extended: the Gytrash, foe of solitary travellers. Heading westwards and then down the M6, they stop to collect the phantom Moddey Dhoo, fresh off the ferry from Douglas. The new passengers sit aloof from one another, each taking up a double seat, curled like enormous, matted cats. Bobby’s wary eyes flit between them. Wales is slate-grey with rain. Halfway down the tree-lined slope of the Nant y Garth Pass, a shuddering howl halts the bus, and the Gwyllgi, the Cŵn Annwn, dog of the Otherworld, comes aboard. The driver chucks it absentmindedly under the chin. In its wake, a small, bouncing shape appears: a corgi, with her fairy rider perched side-saddle. The fairy flies up to hand her fare to the driver, but he knows better than to accept coin from the fair folk. Back into England, and on through miles of dull motorway. They stop at a service station somewhere near Wolverhampton. At this strange, perpetual dawn hour, only red-eyed lorry drivers peer from their curtained cabs,

    37 Min.

  7. 15. OKT.

    PodCastle 861: A Most Lovely Song

    * Author : Albert Chu * Narrator : Curtis C. Chen * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Devin Martin PodCastle 861: A Most Lovely Song is a PodCastle original. Content warnings for war, parental death, assault, a racial slur, and references to torture, genocide, and terrorism. Rated PG-13 A Most Lovely Song by Albert Chu   It’s 1939, and the drone of piston engines fills the sky over Chungking. The G3M bombers are right overhead, close enough for people to see the red hinomaru emblazoned beneath their wings. They release their bombs, one by one, and the explosions rattle the earth, and they flatten the buildings, and in their wake, they leave behind the dead. Now, a boy cries, “Baba! Baba!” He’s crouched by a pile of rubble, trying in vain to pull a lifeless arm out from under it. Nobody’s around; only the shattered buildings witness his struggle. He doesn’t notice the straggling G3M until its shadow passes over him. As he looks up in alarm, he hears the whistle of the falling bomb. He’s stuck staring, frozen, at the sky. But this time, there’s no explosion. There’s a flash of light — a rush of air — and then, the opening trill of a song. The melody is like clockwork, intricately choreographed and precisely engineered. The notes fly up and down, astounding the boy. In a flash of copper plumage, a bird sweeps out of the sky. It dashes past his right ear and cries, “How sad!” It comes around in a tight circle, darts past his left ear, and cries again, “How sad, how sad!” Finally, it alights on a piece of rubble by his foot. It cocks its head, and the sun catches the white markings that ring each eye. “What’s your name?” it asks. He takes a while to answer. Finally, he says, “Teng Ch‘eng-nan.” “What are you doing here, Little Teng? It’s dangerous.” “Baba.” Ch‘eng-nan looks down. “He’s dead.” “Yes, and how sad that is! But if you stay here with your father, you will surely join him. Come, let’s go!” His eyes linger on the pile and the arm beneath it. Then, after a second, he stands and follows the bird, which is flying away. Shattered glass and splintered wood litter the street; Ch‘eng-nan is careful to pick his way over these dangers. As the bird flies above and ahead, he calls out, “What are you?” The wind carries the bird’s sing-song reply: “A friend! From high above, I saw the plight of the Chinese people, and I flew down to help, Little Teng.” “You came to help?” “Of course! I’m leading you to safety right now, aren’t I?” Ch‘eng-nan doesn’t actually know where they’re going — he can’t recognize Chungking anymore. The sky is an alien swirl of black smoke, and the rubble forms a dizzying maze. He can’t find his own way home, let alone the path to a bomb shelter. So he has to follow the bird. It’s bouncing up and down in the sky. “This war is such a shame. How destructive! Do you know why this fighting is happening?” Ch‘eng-nan doesn’t say anything. He’s only ten years old, and while he knows that China is at war, he’s never seen a Japanese soldier in his life. He’s trying to grasp a newly discovered truth — that this invading army can reach out, unseen as ghosts, and snatch his father’s life away. That even Chungking, nestled deep within China’s interior, is not safe. How can he say why this is happening? The bird twirls around and, with a flutter of its wings, lands on his shoulder. He flinches, but he doesn’t shoo it away. “How sad,” it says into his ear.

    51 Min.

  8. 8. OKT.

    PodCastle 860: TALES FROM THE VAULTS – Something Wicked This Way Plumbs

    * Author : Vylar Kaftan * Narrator : Elie Hirschman * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Eric Valdes * Discuss on Forums Previously published by Shimmer and as PodCastle 128 Rated PG Something Wicked This Way Plumbs by Vylar Kaftan Oh, the watercooler jug? Yeah, I get some questions about that. Not a lot of visitors here in my office, but most people notice it right away. It reminds me how important plumbing skills are. Never know when they’ll save Halloween. Or your life. It happened last year. I’d come into the office early, because I was on deadline—and a month behind on bills. To make things worse, my girlfriend had the flu, and I’d promised to be there by 5 to take her boys trick-or-treating. So here I was in the men’s restroom, at 7:30 on Halloween morning. I shook out a few drops, zipped my pants, and went to the sink. It’s one of those two-faucet deals with handles on each side and a wide central spigot. I turned the cold water tap. Candy streamed out of the faucet like the entrails of a slaughtered piñata. The sink filled with Skittles, candy corn, and jellybeans. They rattled against each other as they spilled over the basin’s edge. Startled, I turned the faucet off. I hoped someone was playing a Halloween prank, because the alternative was disturbing. Or maybe I wasn’t awake yet. I glanced at the mirror. In dreams you’ve always got weird things about your face, like snakes crawling from your eyeballs. But I looked normal. A bit scruffy, and my sleepy eyes were bloodshot. Neither of these were a problem for a freelance writer—in some circles, they might count as street cred. I looked at the sink. Still candy. I went to my office for a paper bag. My office is a closet in a small San Francisco office complex. I rent it as a workplace away from my noisy roommate. I share the complex with a dental office, a massage therapist named Dana, and an unnaturally large ficus tree. Dana says it’s a spirit tree and it brings harmony to her work. She re-pots it every year, which encourages its monstrous tendencies. I found a bag and emptied the recycled newspapers. I checked Dana’s door, but she wasn’t in yet. I took my bag to the restroom. As I scooped up candy, I noticed it was slimy and smelled like algae. I turned a jellybean over in my hands, looking at the green streaks. I supposed whoever set up this prank hadn’t cleaned the pipes first—how had they done this, anyway? I certainly wasn’t planning to eat any of it. Basic Halloween safety: don’t eat razorblades or unwrapped candy. Especially from a faucet. The thought reminded me: there were two handles. I turned the hot water tap. Nothing. I lugged the candy back to my office, uncertain what to do with it. Maybe I could take it to the preschool next door—but after I made my deadline. To my surprise, Dana was fiddling with her office key. She was having trouble keeping it level—the dozen-odd keychains dragged it down. “Morning, Dana,” I said. “Hey, you’ve got to come see this.” “Gary! Hiya!” she called out, finally unlocking her door and dropping her keys in the process. “You’re here awful early. Happy sowwin.” “What?” “Sowwin. Spelled Sam-hain,” she said, as if the syllables were actually the twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth letters of the alphabet. “Day of the Dead. Wiccan New Year.” “Oh! Well, happy New Year, ” I said. “I didn’t know you got here this early.”

    34 Min.
Alle anzeigen (300)

Info

PodCastle is the world’s first audio fantasy magazine. Weekly, we broadcast the best in fantasy short stories, running the gammut from heart-pounding sword and sorcery, to strange surrealist tales, to gritty urban fantasy, to the psychological depth of magical realism. Our podcast features authors including N.K. Jemisin, Peter S. Beagle, Benjamin Rosenbaum, Jim C. Hines, and Cat Rambo, among others. Terry Pratchett once wrote, “Fantasy is an exercise bicycle for the mind. It might not take you anywhere, but it tones up the muscles that can.” Tune in to PodCastle each Tuesday for our weekly tale, and spend the length of a morning commute giving your imagination a work out.

Informationen

  • Erstellt von
    Escape Artists Foundation
  • Jahre aktiv
    2008 - 2024
  • Folgen
    300
  • Bewertung
    Unbedenklich
  • Copyright
    © Copyright 2008-2024
  • Sendungswebsite
    PodCastle

Mehr von Escape Artists, Inc

Das gefällt dir vielleicht auch

Melde dich an, um anstößige Folgen anzuhören.

Bleib auf dem Laufenden mit dieser Sendung

Melde dich an oder registriere dich, um Sendungen zu folgen, Folgen zu sichern und die neusten Updates zu erhalten.
Wähle ein Land oder eine Region aus

Afrika, Naher Osten und Indien

Asien/Pazifik

Europa

Lateinamerika und Karibik

USA und Kanada