0:05

Podcastel, Episode 844 for

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Tuesday 18th June

0:12

2024 on Snowflake Veined Wings by Chip Houser, read

0:21

by Lee Wallace and produced by Eric Valdez.

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Rated R with a content note

0:26

for bodily fluids. Good

0:40

morning, good day, good afternoon and good evening

0:43

and welcome to Podcastel, The Flying Castle of

0:45

Fancy Fiction. I'm your

0:47

host Matt D'Ovi and it is my

0:49

privilege to present for your enjoyment on

0:51

Snowflake Veined Wings by Chip Houser, narrated

0:53

by Lee Wallace. This

0:55

story was first published in Bourbon Pen October

0:57

2022. Worldcon

1:02

2024 is coming up fast in only a

1:04

couple of months, I'll be there. So

1:06

have you considered the incredible alluring power

1:08

of... Merch? Declare

1:11

your incredible good taste and ensure you're not

1:13

eaten by passing dragons with your very own

1:15

podcastel t-shirt, or different podcastel

1:18

t-shirt, or maybe something from

1:20

tentacles or lasers, or curtains or kins if

1:22

you also listen to our sister shows. Jordan,

1:25

avoid merch, of oh so many internet famous

1:27

designs, what you've seen on Critical Role and

1:29

Twitter and all sorts, has a whole EA

1:31

collection up that you can order now just

1:34

in time to wear proudly in Glasgow and

1:36

listen to everyone around you just how awesome

1:38

you are. Pop on over

1:40

to the mothership at escapehuses.net and

1:42

find the merch link under supporters so you can

1:44

be not only stylish, but also less naked than

1:46

you otherwise might be. Chip

1:51

Houser's fiction has appeared in many venues

1:53

including Bourbon Pen, the Drama Cast and

1:55

Podcastel, Smilers episode 719. Last

1:58

year, Redbird Chatbooks published Mark Morsels, a

2:00

collection of his micro and flash fiction. He

2:03

attended the Odyssey Writing Workshop as an

2:05

MFA from UMSL and has overheard his

2:07

share of unpleasant lunchroom conversations in his

2:10

years working in corporate offices. Partly

2:12

in response to this, he now works

2:15

remotely from Northern Colorado. Find

2:17

him there or at chiphauser.com at

2:19

Chazzlepants on X or Facebook as

2:22

Chazzlepants. Lee

2:25

Wallace is an Ottawa writer, artist and narrator

2:27

who works for the Canadian federal government. Her

2:30

fiction is available in Tesseract 19,

2:32

Podcastel and Urban Fantasist. Her

2:34

art can be found at T Princess Chronicles

2:36

and in the Sunvolt Anthology and she's

2:38

narrated previously for glittership. She

2:41

is a graduate of the 2013 Viable

2:43

Paradise Workshop. And

2:45

now pay attention, for her tale is about to

2:47

begin and it'll be viral by the morning. On

2:55

Snowflake Veined Wings by

2:57

Chip Hauser, narrated by

2:59

Lee Wallace. Amalia

3:03

runs her finger around the inside of

3:05

her topperware, wiping up the last of

3:07

her leftover poutine. Her fall

3:09

allergies kicked in a few days ago

3:11

so she doesn't really taste the gravy.

3:13

But she'd rather finger clean her topperware

3:15

at her table than go wash it

3:18

because Jerry and three of his sales

3:20

team flunkies are clustered by the sink,

3:22

watching a video on his gigantic phone.

3:25

From their crude commentary and the

3:27

video's crashing waves, then the gagging,

3:30

she can guess what they're watching. Why

3:32

they're silent for once too. It's

3:35

a clip of a woman in the Côte

3:38

d'Azur, slim and tan in her pink

3:40

mayo, running in slow motion into the waves.

3:43

The man who's filming keeps calling

3:45

out, Cyrène! Amalia

3:47

watched the video earlier that morning. It

3:50

was all over her feeds. The

3:53

video is like a Viagra commercial. Until

3:56

the woman vomits an impossibly long

3:58

stream of bright greatly colored fish

4:00

into the surf. When

4:04

the woman throws up, Jerry's flunkies

4:06

unleash a range of expletives. They're

4:08

all staring at Jerry, who looks quite

4:10

pleased with himself. Amalia

4:13

laughs, but they don't notice. No

4:15

surprise, they've never noticed her. Dude,

4:19

you knew, one of the flunkies

4:21

says, why would you do that

4:23

to us? Jerry

4:25

chuckles and restarts the video from the beginning.

4:28

She's not interested in the 90 seconds that

4:30

follow the woman's vomiting, the miracle

4:33

of the fish churning through the

4:35

crests, leaping in rainbow arcs, or

4:37

the woman following them out into the surf.

4:41

The video ends with the man filming, calling

4:43

out to the woman long after she's disappeared.

4:46

Amalia watched that part a dozen

4:49

times. Boys,

4:51

that right there is perfection,

4:54

Jerry says. I'd

4:56

fly to France for you, Sarane. His

4:59

flunkies giggle like horned up adolescents.

5:03

He's calling her a mermaid, you

5:05

asshole, Amalia thinks. She's

5:07

confused, alone, in pain, and all you can

5:09

think about is fucking her. The

5:13

break room is quiet. Jerry

5:15

and his team are looking at her,

5:17

mouths open. Did

5:20

I say that out loud, she

5:22

says, and then she sneezes

5:24

unexpectedly. It's a big one,

5:26

and she doesn't have time to cover her mouth or

5:29

turn away. A surprising

5:31

amount of mucus dislodges, spraying out

5:33

across the table. Her

5:36

head immediately feels clear, which she

5:38

hardly notices, because her

5:40

snot is chunky and full

5:42

of maggots. Tiny,

5:45

squirming maggots, no bigger than

5:47

grains of rice. The

5:50

sales team recoils as one,

5:52

dumbstruck and horrified, except

5:54

for Jerry, who steps towards her,

5:57

phone raised, bending.

6:00

Close, Amalia sees they're

6:02

not maggots. They're… fairies?

6:06

Little jelly-bean-colored people with

6:08

wings wrapped around their

6:10

tiny bodies. Beautiful,

6:13

delicate things struggling in

6:15

the slush-like snot. She's

6:19

got some kind of enhanced

6:21

allergies, Jiri says. He's taking

6:23

a video, moving closer. Get

6:26

away, Amalia yells, shielding

6:28

the fairies with her arm as best she can.

6:31

She hooks her topperware under the edge of

6:33

the table and sweeps them in, leaving glistening

6:35

arcs across the tabletop. The fairies

6:38

smell faintly of mint. Jiri

6:41

is almost on top of her. Would

6:43

you look at that, like

6:45

tiny tinkerbells? Amalia

6:48

pushes his phone away. Fuck

6:50

off, Jiri! And flees

6:52

the break room. The last

6:54

thing she hears is Jiri saying, we're

6:57

going viral, boys! Amalia

7:01

sits in her Prius, staring at

7:03

her fairies. No one

7:05

followed her to her car, so she feels safe

7:07

for the moment. There are

7:09

fifteen of them, each small and

7:12

perfect and unique. One

7:14

with soft lavender skin is curled next

7:16

to a coral-colored one. A

7:19

silver-hued one hugs an indigo one, and

7:21

so on. They

7:23

all have white hair and

7:26

translucent, white-veined wings. They're

7:29

stunning to look at, but

7:31

Amalia is devastated, because

7:34

by the time she reached her car, every

7:36

last one was dead. She's

7:39

not sure how long she's been crying, a

7:41

few minutes, but she's

7:43

already congested again. Her forehead

7:46

and cheeks radiate cold. She's

7:49

afraid to blow her nose. Terrified,

7:51

she'll sneeze again. Why

7:54

did they die? She asks herself over

7:56

and over. What did

7:58

I do wrong? From

8:01

all the other stories, she knows her

8:03

fairies aren't a one-time thing. They'll

8:06

keep coming. She also

8:08

knows it's only a matter of time until

8:10

public health, or more likely the media, comes

8:12

after her and she'll be harassed just like

8:14

that woman in the pink suit. No

8:17

wonder she walked into the ocean. That

8:20

woman is lucky. She could swim

8:22

after her fish. Amalia couldn't

8:25

fly away with her fairies, even if

8:27

they were alive. She's

8:30

touching the tiny, cold bodies, wondering

8:33

what she should do when a

8:35

news van pulls up to the building. Jerry

8:38

holds the front door open and waves them

8:40

inside. That didn't take long. Amalia

8:44

starts her car and drives slowly out of

8:46

the office park. Her apartment

8:48

is 10 kilometers south of the office. They'll

8:51

look there first. She

8:54

heads north on Highway 2 instead, keeping an

8:56

eye on her rearview mirror until she's sure

8:58

she's not being followed. While

9:01

she drives, she works on her plan. She

9:04

thinks briefly about calling Mindy or

9:06

Joycelyn, the two friends who helped her

9:09

through her divorce a few years ago. But

9:11

it seems unfair to drag them in. She

9:14

feels like she still owes them from that

9:16

fiasco, never mind what this could become. The

9:19

media circus will find them sooner or later, and

9:22

it's better they not know. Her

9:25

sinuses feel like they're packed with slush again.

9:28

She has a constant ice cream headache. She

9:31

pulls over, feeling another sneeze coming on.

9:34

Afterward, she watches the fairies struggle,

9:36

their little arms reaching for each

9:38

other, their mucus-coated wings

9:41

sliding loose. They're

9:43

making small sounds, so she brings them

9:46

close to her ear. They're

9:49

singing. It's a

9:51

sad, soft little melody that only

9:53

lasts a few seconds. She

9:56

looks at them closely and realizes they've stopped

9:59

singing because of the they're dead. They

10:01

lived 15, maybe 20

10:03

seconds. Amalia

10:06

carefully slides little creatures from her

10:08

hands into the Tupperware. Why

10:11

are they dying? She's

10:15

crying, sad of course, but

10:17

also frustrated. Why?

10:21

Back on the road she has an

10:23

idea, a destination. Summers

10:25

during high school, her family spent a

10:27

few weeks every summer in the woods

10:29

near Yellowknife up in the Northwest Territories.

10:32

Her parents were teachers and couldn't afford

10:35

big vacations, but someone they knew

10:37

had a cabin there. It was

10:39

a nice place, though there wasn't much to

10:42

do and not many people about. She

10:45

took a lot of walks in the surrounding forests.

10:48

She remembered finding all the winter gear in

10:50

a separate little hut-like building, a snowmobile,

10:53

chains and skis and poles,

10:55

containers of petrol. She

10:58

always thought the winters must be more fun,

11:00

but she hasn't been back since. Her

11:03

parents divorced, soured the idea, and her

11:06

ex always preferred the Caribbean. She's

11:09

never headed back north for the winter, and now

11:11

that she is, she wonders why she hasn't thought

11:14

to before. The

11:16

cold sand's nice, and the quiet.

11:19

Funny how the quiet, which was so boring

11:21

as a teenager, appeals to her now. A

11:24

sort of sanctuary. She

11:27

looks forward to walking alone on the

11:29

soft pine floor of the boreal forest

11:31

and figuring out what to do before

11:33

whoever comes looking can find her. Every

11:36

time she needs to sneeze, Amalia pulls

11:39

over. She tries everything

11:41

she can think of to help the fairies

11:43

live. Blowing her nose

11:45

gently rather than sneezing, turning

11:47

the vents on them, holding them in

11:50

the air so flying might be easier,

11:52

singing with them. But

11:54

no matter what she does, they always die after

11:56

15 or 20 seconds. She

12:00

knows they're gone when their faint melodic

12:02

trilling stops, when their

12:04

wings and limbs go slack, and

12:06

their tiny hands curl to rest.

12:09

Heartbroken, she adds each group of fairies

12:11

to the Tupperware, which she's cradled

12:14

in an old towel on the passenger seat.

12:17

After she sneezes out the latest group

12:19

and lays them to rest, she notices

12:21

the fairies smell like brine. It's

12:24

so morbid, like a miniature mass

12:26

grave, but it's better

12:28

than dumping them in the trash can or

12:31

leaving them wadded up in tissue. She

12:34

turns on CBC to pass the time. They're

12:37

playing an interview with a Texan who's

12:39

had enhanced allergies for several months. He

12:42

calls himself the Mantle. At

12:45

first, I just tried to keep the ants off

12:47

me, you know, the man is saying. But

12:50

I got pretty sick from the powders and

12:52

sprays and whatnot. For a

12:54

while, I slept in a tent behind my house

12:56

and had a consideration for the wife. She's

12:59

kind of used to it now. I'm

13:02

sure I'd never get used to that, the

13:04

reporter said. Now you

13:06

spend your days down at the Alamo, is that right?

13:10

I do. Can't really be on

13:12

the job. I'm a mechanical contractor,

13:14

ductwork mostly, with these little

13:16

guys hanging around, some kind of

13:18

OSHA thing. I'm lucky

13:20

because Duluth Trading made a special ad campaign

13:23

for their buck naked underwear. The

13:25

ants in the pants, they're calling it. God

13:28

bless America, Amalia says.

13:31

Always so literal. The

13:33

reporter asks the man about the ants. We

13:37

got a good symbiosis going now. That's

13:39

what the entomologist fellow calls it. All

13:42

they want is a patch of dirt to build their

13:44

little mounds. Mostly I hang around,

13:46

talk to the tourists, hand out underwear

13:48

samples and such. Lots

13:50

of pics with folks, too. Sounds

13:53

like you should charge admission. Thought

13:56

about that, but where would I put the money? I

13:58

don't want anything else in my underwear. if you know what I

14:00

mean. Feeling

14:03

a sneeze coming on, Amalia pulls

14:05

over. This batch survives for 30

14:07

seconds. When they're gone,

14:09

she's left with nothing but the mantills,

14:12

hearty laughter. She snaps

14:14

the radio off and puts her head in her hands.

14:17

Her fingertips feel warm against her forehead,

14:19

her skin now frosted with rhyme.

14:23

When she pulls back onto the highway, she leaves

14:25

the windows It's getting

14:28

colder, somewhere around freezing, and

14:30

it feels good. Amalia

14:33

stops on the far side of Edmonton for

14:35

gas and a restroom break. At

14:37

the next pump, a bearded guy in flannel is

14:39

filling up his idol in Grand Am. As

14:42

she puts the nozzle back in the cradle,

14:44

the gas smell triggers an unexpected sneeze. Gesundheit,

14:47

the Grand Am guy says. Sorry,

14:51

that was gross. She caught most

14:53

of the fairies in her cupped hand. Getting

14:56

colder, innit? Yeah,

14:58

it is. She

15:00

gets back in her car, the dying fairies cradled

15:03

in her hand. The fairies live

15:05

over a minute this time. The

15:07

precious sorrow of their tiny bodies

15:10

moving against her skin is heartbreaking.

15:13

She tries not to look at the accumulating

15:15

bodies as she places these carefully in the

15:17

topperware. Inside the

15:20

station, Jerry's video is on the flat

15:22

screen by the soda fountain. She

15:24

slows to watch, horrified at how

15:26

blue her face is. Why

15:29

didn't anyone say anything at the office? She

15:32

knows why, because they don't really see

15:34

her, even though she interacts regularly with

15:37

all the departments, collaborating with them on

15:39

new campaigns. As

15:41

she runs from the break

15:44

room, one of Jerry's flunkies

15:46

yells, is that Amalia from

15:48

marketing? Another screams, snow fairies!

15:51

The woman behind the counter laughs. Amalia

15:54

doesn't remember hearing them at the time and

15:56

suspects they added those clips. A

16:00

vision of sincerity, the newscaster appeals

16:02

to the viewers asking for their

16:04

help locating Amalia. If

16:07

you see the fairy queen, please contact

16:09

the authorities. We all just

16:11

want to help her keep the little angels

16:13

alive. The photo is

16:15

from last year's holiday party, which is good.

16:18

Her hair was green then. She's gone over

16:20

Jean's since. Amalia

16:22

uses the restroom quickly, picks up a

16:24

pop and leaves. It's

16:26

getting cold or fast now that it's dark. She

16:29

can see her breath. She's almost

16:31

to her car when she sneezes again. This

16:35

time she catches them in the crook of her arm. It's

16:38

the cold, she realizes as she wrestles

16:40

the car door open. They

16:43

need the cold. Then

16:46

the grandam guy is there tapping on her

16:48

window, taking video with his phone. His

16:51

voice is muffled, but he's excited,

16:53

talking loudly. Damn, it

16:55

is! You're the fairy queen!

16:58

She turns away. She watches

17:00

the frost white veins in the

17:02

fairy's wings, delicate patterns like snowflakes

17:05

as they thaw into translucence. Live,

17:08

she says. Please

17:10

live. They do. For

17:14

a full two minutes. Grandam

17:17

is still filming as she drives off. She

17:19

lowers all the windows and heads north, deeper

17:22

into the cold. Then

17:24

midnight Joycelyn calls. A

17:26

few minutes later, it's Mindy. Amalia

17:29

sends them both to voicemail. Their

17:32

messages sound a little confused, a little

17:34

hurt, and a little forced. They

17:38

mean well, but Amalia's glad she didn't call them.

17:41

In her message, Joycelyn refers to the

17:43

fairies as little angels. She

17:46

learned a lot from both Mindy and

17:48

Joycelyn about independence after her divorce from

17:50

Clint, about when she could rely

17:52

on them and when she needed to deal with something

17:54

on her own. She'll

17:57

be the good friend now and not get them

17:59

involved. And if she's

18:01

being honest with herself, it

18:03

didn't help that they both referred to the fairy

18:05

queen thing. Why does

18:07

everyone with enhanced allergies have a stupid

18:10

nickname? Sirene Mantle,

18:12

fairy queen. Does everything have

18:15

to be reduced to a fucking soundbite? At

18:18

4 the next morning, Amalia pulls into

18:20

a run-down roadside motel in Providence. She

18:23

needs to sleep, if only for a few

18:25

hours. The gravel parking area

18:28

is empty, but a curl of smoke

18:30

rises from the rental office's chimney. Inside,

18:34

a woman with white braids resting on her

18:36

quilted vest sits by the fireplace. She

18:38

looks up from a worn paper back. What

18:41

can I do you for? Can

18:43

I get a room? The woman

18:45

looks at the clock. We do

18:47

by the day or the hour. I'll

18:50

probably only sleep a few hours, Amalia

18:53

says. We'll settle up

18:55

when you check out then. The

18:57

woman slides a big wooden six across the

18:59

counter, a small brass key hooked to it.

19:02

The room's cold now, but it heats up good. Turn

19:05

the dial on the baseboard all the way to the right. Amalia

19:09

takes the key. The woman's

19:11

glance lingers on her hand, which is

19:13

distinctly blue. Amalia shuts

19:15

her hand and the key into her pocket.

19:18

Thank you. Her

19:20

room is across the parking lot. She barely

19:22

gets inside before she collapses on the bed,

19:24

not bothering to turn on the heat or

19:26

take her coat off. She's

19:29

exhausted. Her sinuses are

19:31

packed full. Her head is throbbing,

19:33

but she's asleep immediately. The

19:35

pillow wonderfully called against her cheek.

19:40

Amalia wakes to banging at her door. She's

19:43

so congested it feels like whoever's there

19:45

is punching her sinuses. She

19:48

pulls back the edge of the curtain.

19:50

It's bright outside. It must be around

19:52

noon. A white van with

19:54

a big dish on top is parked in front of the

19:56

office. A gloved hand wraps

19:58

on the window, and she flinches

20:00

back. A man steps

20:03

into view, his camera shutter fluttering. She

20:06

whips the curtain shut. She runs to the

20:08

kitchenette and unlocks the small window above the

20:10

sink, but it's stuck. The

20:12

man is pounding on the door again, saying

20:14

they just want to talk. Amalia

20:17

climbs onto the counter and tries to pull

20:19

the window open. It doesn't budge. She

20:23

stands up back against the window and tries

20:25

to keep time with the man's pounding when

20:27

she drives her heel into the frame. It's

20:31

a cheap window, three kicks, and the

20:33

window pops out onto the soft snow

20:35

outside. The glass isn't even

20:37

broken. The air

20:39

is gasp cold, dry and crisp.

20:42

She imagines the smell of pine must be

20:44

delicious. She wiggles through the

20:46

opening, grabs the tupperware off

20:48

the counter and flees into the quiet

20:50

forest. Amalia

20:52

runs until she can't anymore. She

20:55

listens, bent over, the only sound

20:58

her ragged breath. Pushing

21:00

aside bows, she crawls under the canopy of

21:02

a blue spruce and sits on the soft

21:05

blanket of needles, her back

21:07

against the craggy trunk. Her

21:09

fingers sting from the cold as she scoops

21:12

a shallow hole and nestles the tupperware in

21:14

the needles. She

21:16

removes the lid, hoping the cold might

21:19

somehow revive them. Anything's

21:21

possible. She's sneezing fairies,

21:23

for God's sake. Maybe it's

21:25

cold enough here and the next fairies will

21:27

live. Her

21:30

face and hands are stiff with cold, her

21:32

head so congested it hurts to move her

21:34

eyes. She peels off her

21:36

coat and huddles against the trunk, breathing

21:38

in the bitterly cold air. It's

21:41

well below zero now. She won't last

21:43

an hour like this, and yet she's

21:46

excited. It feels right to

21:48

be here in the forest, alone

21:50

in this dry, safe, cold

21:52

place. Her headaches,

21:55

and she feels the painful expansion of

21:57

ice inside her sinuses. With

22:00

the first sneeze she ejects a pea-sized

22:02

ice plug from each nostril. The

22:05

second sneeze rockets streams of bluish

22:07

slush onto the needles, as

22:09

do the third and fourth. When

22:12

she's done sneezing her headache is gone

22:14

and the needles teem with movement. Amalia

22:18

wipes her nose carefully in case of

22:21

lingering fairies. They are

22:23

such tiny, delicate things. And

22:26

they're alive! She

22:28

watches in wonder as they unfold their wings,

22:32

stretch them out. Hummingbird

22:34

fast they shed their icy glaze

22:36

in scintillating clouds. They

22:39

rise by the dozens on snowflake-veined

22:41

wings. The

22:43

fairies don't fly away though. They

22:46

flit over to the Tuberware. She

22:48

leans close, tears freezing and growing

22:50

rivulets on her cheeks. Each

22:53

fairy sings its small song, hovering

22:56

above one of the dead fairies. They

22:59

then dip quickly and touch the frozen

23:01

fairy. Amalia thinks it

23:03

looks like a kiss and

23:05

fly off. Soon

23:08

the Tuberware is teeming with fairies, shaking

23:10

their wings out and taking to the

23:12

air after their kin. Through

23:15

her tears they look like

23:17

tiny stars glimmering upward. Please,

23:21

she says, reaching out with stiff blue

23:24

hands. Please, she

23:26

says as their wings shiver and they lift into

23:28

the air. Take

23:31

me with you. None

23:33

of them listen. They don't even

23:35

seem to notice her. And

23:38

then they're gone. And

24:00

welcome back.

24:11

That was On Snowflake Veined Wings by

24:13

Chip Houser and if you enjoyed that

24:15

then definitely check out episode 719 Smilers,

24:18

which holds a special place in my heart as one

24:20

of the few stories to present autism so honestly. There's

24:23

more stories on Chip's website too

24:25

at chiphouser.com Chip

24:29

had this to say about On Snowflake Veined

24:31

Wings. A year

24:33

into Covid I was working at a small architectural firm

24:35

and we were all meeting in person for the first

24:38

time in a long time. Masks,

24:40

socially distanced, wipes and gels and sprays and

24:42

all that. One of

24:44

our co-workers arrived late for the meeting and

24:46

sneezed loudly and wetly as he

24:48

approached the conference room. I

24:50

imagined imitating some kind of living Covid snop or

24:52

month that was going to suck our faces like

24:54

an alien so I hopped up, closed the glass

24:56

conference room door and told him to go home.

25:00

He was horrified and clearly offended. Apparently

25:02

I may have shrieked and he

25:04

skulked away. When it turned

25:06

out to be allergies, not Covid, my overreaction

25:08

became a running joke around the office. That

25:12

experience got me thinking about the fundamental strangeness

25:14

of office dynamics where trying to do the

25:16

right thing can get weirdly distorted. But

25:19

what if it had been Covid? Or

25:21

a drippy alien? My co-workers

25:23

had caught it on video, amplified it

25:25

on the socials. Pretty horrifying

25:28

I thought, especially if your snop was something

25:30

you wanted to protect. This

25:32

idea that our inner aliens are beautiful, precious,

25:34

vulnerable things gave the story its direction and

25:37

it was a dark little treat to follow

25:39

Malia as she struggled to escape the corporate

25:41

world and the public eye. Thank

25:51

you, Chip, for the story and the thoughts.

25:54

Our inner aliens are beautiful, precious, vulnerable things

25:56

and corporate life is an awful place to

25:58

let them out. I'm

26:00

actually pretty lucky that my current company is surprisingly

26:02

decent at accepting of neurodivergence, and I can be

26:05

openly out about my autism and ADHD. To

26:09

an extent. The nature

26:11

of my role means I'm constantly working

26:13

with different project teams, and it just

26:15

gets exhausting explaining it over and over

26:17

again. Oversharing is

26:19

a long-standing problem of mine. You've

26:22

probably noticed in all these outros. And

26:24

I am trying to break the habit, which is

26:26

fundamentally grounded in a desperate need for people to

26:28

like me as a social survivor technique in a

26:30

world I've never instinctively understood, and

26:32

instead accept that people

26:35

just don't need to know. They don't

26:37

really care, and that's okay.

26:40

We're all there to just do what we gotta

26:42

do as quickly and painlessly as possible before we

26:44

clock out and do better things that don't require

26:46

bribery. Sorry, I mean salary.

26:50

The point is, showing that in aliens

26:52

with people are at best passing professional

26:54

acquaintances is probably not as fun as

26:56

soldering off to the mountains with them where we could all

26:58

live world and free, is it? That

27:13

was our show for this week. On

27:15

behalf of everyone at PodCastle, your

27:17

co-editors Shingai N. Jouragagunda and Eleanor

27:19

R. Wood, Assistant Editor

27:21

Caitlin Tevanovich, audio engineers Devin Martin

27:24

and Eric Valdez, and our many

27:26

wonderful first readers, Andrew

27:28

Kehoe, Craig Jackson, Amalia

27:31

Harrington, Julia Pat, Kieran

27:33

Korsaini, Ryan Cole, Sarah

27:36

S. Messenger, Shrekripa Krishna

27:38

Prasad, Tarvanova, Tierney

27:41

Bailey, Zeeve Whitties, and

27:43

myself, Matt Dovin. Thank

27:45

you for letting us share another story with you.

27:49

The legal bit. PodCastle

27:51

is part of the Escape

27:54

Artist Foundation, a 501c3 nonprofit,

27:56

and this episode is distributed

27:59

under the Creative Commons at

28:01

attribution, non-commercial, no derivatives, 4.0

28:03

international licence. That

28:06

means you can share it, and please do, but

28:08

you cannot sell it, and you cannot change it.

28:11

If you want specifics, check creativecommons.org.

28:15

Our music is by Shiva in Exile.

28:18

Everything we do on Podcastle is 100% donor

28:21

funded, and if you'd like to support

28:23

what we and the rest of EA do, please

28:26

join us on our Patreon

28:28

at patreon.com.eapodcast. Prefer

28:31

another method? There's details

28:33

for supporting us via Twitch, Amazon

28:35

Prime, Ko-Fi and PayPal on escapeartist.net.

28:40

We'll be back next Tuesday with another

28:42

fantastic tale. In the meantime,

28:44

you might care to check out our sister podcasts, Escape

28:47

Pod for Science Fiction, Pseudopod for Horror,

28:50

Cast of Wonders for YA Speculative Fiction,

28:53

and Catscast for Speculative Cat Stories.

28:57

If your heart belongs to us, we'll see you

28:59

next week. Be safe and

29:01

be kind.