by Kelly Link.
“Carnation, Lily, Rose” first appeared in 4 Stories in 2000.
KELLY LINK is the author of the collections Get in Trouble, Stranger Things Happen, Magic for Beginners, and Pretty Monsters. She and Gavin J. Grant have co-edited a number of anthologies, including Monstrous Affections and Steampunk!. Her short stories have been published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Tin House, A Public Space, McSweeney’s, One Story, The Best American Short Stories, and Prize Stories: The O. Henry Awards. Link was born in Miami, Florida. She currently lives with her husband and daughter in Northampton, Massachusetts.
Your reader – Anson Mount – plays Cullen Bohannon in the hit AMC series HELL ON WHEELS (he’s heading back into filming the 5th and 6th season very soon, shooting starts April for 14 more eps that will be divided between 2015 and 2016). Anson lives in New York city and he teaches in the MFA Acting program at Columbia University. He is also working on finishing his book THE STRAIGHT DOPE: A PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHY FOR THE PROFESSIONAL ACTOR. We also give special thanks to his audio producer Branan Edgens, who worked very hard on this episode!.
Your Guest Host this week is Kitty NicIaian, one of the new editors of Podcastle!
To find out more about Women In Horror month, please visit WomenInHorrorMonth.com.
Also check out Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror at Indiegogo.
“We were going to name the baby Beatrice. I just remembered that. We were going to name her after your aunt, the one that doesn’t like me. Didn’t like me. Did she come to the funeral?
I’ve been here for three days, and I’m trying to pretend that it’s just a vacation, like when we went to that island in that country. Santorini? Great Britain? The one with all the cliffs. The one with the hotel with the bunkbeds, and little squares of pink toilet paper, like handkerchiefs. It had seashells in the window too, didn’t it, that were transparent like bottle glass? They smelled like bleach? It was a very nice island. No trees. You said that when you died, you hoped heaven would be an island like that. And now I’m dead, and here I am.
This is an island too, I think. There is a beach, and down on the beach is a mailbox where I am going to post this letter. Other than the beach, the mailbox, there is the building in which I sit and write this letter. It seems to be a perfectly pleasant resort hotel with no other guests, no receptionist, no host, no events coordinator, no bellboy. Just me. There is a television set, very old-fashioned, in the hotel lobby. I fiddled the antenna for a long time, but never got a picture. Just static. I tried to make images, people out of the static. It looked like they were waving at me.”