By Tina Starr
Read by Donna Lynch of Ego Likeness
“Breedless” out on Metropolis Records Apr 13, 2010 — order one now
The voice jarred her again.
“Meluna. Your scars are not unattractive. Your missing ears are no detraction from your beauty. Your sunken left cheekbone allows an aesthetic break from symmetry as does your partially amputated nose. Your lips have been sewn into small grooves and peaks that provide sensual variety in color and texture. Your body…”
“Shut up!” She shouted the words, putting her hands over the holes where her ears had been. The movement made her tilt, off balance. She collapsed with a moan. The voice coming from everywhere like a god’s voice, saying such things to her. Obscene.
If there was a god, he’d abandoned her months ago.
By C. Deskin Rink
This story now appears in the collection TORN REALITIES, available from Amazon.com.
Read by Ben Phillips
But less than a year later, when Lord Galen returned home from a hunting trip, he discovered four of his guards torn limb-from-limb, his bedroom window broken in from the outside, monstrous claw marks on the second floor balcony and, of his beloved, no trace. Most disturbing of all was what he beheld graven into the wall above her bed: a monstrous blue sigil in the form of a six-lobed eye. No earthly implement could have rendered the perfectly aligned delineations of that unmentionable shape; nor could any earthly ink have provided its hateful color which glimmered balefully even in total darkness.
Terrible was Lord Galen’s grief, but even more terrible was the thing which grew by degrees within him: his wrath.
By Brendan Detzner
Read by Eric Luke
The boss is coming. She graciously gives me time to collect myself. We’re in some kind of a lounge; everything is upholstered with vertical stripes and there are flaming torches on the walls. The boss is not big on context, sometimes. I don’t hold it against her, she’s a busy lady.
It’s really warm in here.
The smell of sulfur fills the air and vanishes, and she’s sitting in front of me. She’s wearing a red dress. She has long, sumptuous brown hair; you want to go swimming in it, you imagine it cool against your skin like water.
“You’re staring, Charlie,” she says.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help myself. I didn’t think I’d have the chance to see you again.”
I had a regular job not too long ago but I did something I shouldn’t have and lost it. She fired me, but never got upset. She’s never all that surprised when people do things they shouldn’t.
By Mark Patrick Morehead
Read by Ben Phillips
I clear a space toward the back of my sorting table, by the auto parts bin. It’s as far back as I can reach and enough other crap is piled there that the bottle will probably go unnoticed.
My hands start sweating and claustrophobia about overwhelms me when I pick up the bottle again–it’s like my wheelchair is a big mousetrap and I’m pinned by the refrigerator with the lights on and the man of the house stomping toward me with stick.
Smoothly, and I hope nonchalantly, I move the bottle to the table and push some old rags against it. Still no one looking. Leaning back, I relax a little even though this was the easy part.
“This is the day,” I tell myself. “After all this time, this is my day.”
Two years. That’s how long I’ve been here. They caught me a couple weeks after the war started. Damn it happened fast. They just appeared, everywhere, all across the world. One day the price of oil and some brush war were the big news; the next day, the world broke and they invaded what was left. Maorg, Hoods and a half-dozen other kinds appeared out of nowhere, hitting every continent at once.