Every Wednesday I'll be posting links to stories that I enjoy and have been made available, for free for ye, on the Wired.


And so, behold! Here for your reading and/or listening pleasure (oh yes, there will be blood podcasts) are some of my favorite stories written by humanoids I have hugged, punched, gnawed on, and/or drunk with:

"Smokestacks like the Arms of Gods" by Ben Burgis (audio version available here)

First things first. My name is Richard Talbert, and I am Employee #1871-R of the Consolidated Imperial Iron Mining and Manufacturing Corporation, Western Division. Says so right on my birth certificate, above the names of the doctor who pulled me out of my mother’s snatch and the priest who dunked my screaming infant ass in frigid water, chanting prayers to pledge me to serve the Gods, walk in the path of righteousness and resist the wickedness of the Green Devil.

The Earth is one big electromagnet. A giant blue ball of energy spinning in the dark. This is how Henry flew. Charge yourself up with enough energy and you can ride the invisible currents turning the earth the same way a hawk rides the wind, which if you think about it, is also invisible. Most of the important stuff is.

He was born to the old world. He stood in the desert when the Los Alamos siren screamed, far too far for him to hear. He heard the falling whistles, though, and felt the whole Earth shudder, and when he fell to the ground and cowered with his head caught up in arms like a cage he still saw the blasts—six or seven far-off bangs, snare staccato, flashed like fireworks and were over. Birds flapped up from places he didn’t know birds stayed and careened south. Some fell to the ground like hail.

One palm pressed against the other, the lotus of her hands bidding him good journey and peace, she bowed. Smiling, the ancient monk returned the ancient gesture, and then returned his gaze to the viewport for a moment longer, to the way station looming above them in Martian orbit, and the stars glittering beyond it.

Lily has always wanted to see a man. She lives next door to an old man she isn’t sure exists. His newspaper disappears inside every morning; his lawn gets cut every Monday afternoon; his Oldsmobile goes for long drives on weekends, but Lily has never seen anyone go in or out of his front gate. She spends hours brooding, wondering if she’d be able to see men if she were doing something differently.

She’d stared at Rose while she slept, ate, and cried, striving to memorize her nascent, changing face. Sometime between then and now, Rose had become this round-cheeked creature who took rules very seriously and often tried to conceal her emotions beneath a calm exterior, as if being raised by a robot had replaced her blood with circuits.

This be a placeholder entry.