Saturday, March 21st, 2015

Cover for Drabblecast episode 352, Primrose or Return to Il’maril, by E.C. Ibes“I will not leave this cavern,” the voice said as soon as I stepped into the cave mouth. A baritone decaying into vibrato, an old man’s voice, full of dignity and pride.

I tried to pinpoint its source, but the air was thick with fog. The haze seemed to originate from inside the chamber, where a mysterious current of cold wind blew from underground. All around me, where the vapour met the pink light, it glowed, the colour of the primrose buds in my terrarium back home. The thought of missing them in full bloom this year, pricked at me. Focus, Virginia, I told myself. Don’t be so bloody addled. There are lives on the line.

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This story first appeared in Apex Magazine, Oct. 2014.
Episode Art:  E. C. Ibes
Read by:  Gabrielle deCuir

Twabble:  “The nightclub's disco ball isn't really made of tortured souls, but I can see you in there, a thousand times, screaming. ”  by  Robert Lach

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Saturday, March 7th, 2015

Cover for Drabblecast B-Sides episode 58, Copycrime, by E.C. IbesOn a grey misty day in November 2028,the clock in Winston’s room struck fourteen. He’d hacked the clock’s mechanism to make his point. Old-fashioned clockwork was the only thing left that could still be hacked.

“Fourteen chimes,” he declaimed into his diary,”represents the fourteen years that copyright originally lasted. But today is the centenary of Disney’s _Steamboat Willie_. One hundred years after its premiere, it’s still locked up. Copyright keeps getting extended, and enforcement is ever more intrusive. Look!”

This story first appears here, on The Drabblecast.
Episode Art:  E. C. Ibes

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Monday, November 10th, 2014

Cover for Drabblecast episode 342, I'm Bill Kurtis, by E. C. IbesNate had expected the first serial killer. In fact the first thing he’d said to Kelly once their Ford rolled to a stop on the shoulder was, “This is serial killer country. We’re finished.” She made scaredy-cat eyes and drew a finger across her throat. “Finished,” he enunciated. She’d heard his bake before, something to the effect that certain places settled and then maybe recultivated to feel remote–the Wisconsin Northwoods, for example, or parts of Appalachia or, in this case, Tornado Alley–were stuffed silly with the dumped spent corpses that were the nuggets of serial killers’ labor. The type needed space to operate. So each tree in the Northwoods doubled as a headstone, each stalk of corn out here a memorial, and to hike cross-country through such territory was to traipse condemned through the densest kind of cemetery.

 

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This story first appeared in Surreal South '11. It has been reedited for the Drabblecast.
Episode Art:  E. C. Ibes

Twabble:  “Don't think of the worms crawling under your skin. No really. Don't. If you think about them, they get hungry, and breed. ”  by  Nocturnist

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