Recitation
March Edition
Thanks for being a subscriber to the Worlds newsletter! Cody and I appreciate all your feedback and interest in our stories. Writing and sending out new stories every month this past year or so has been truly amazing.
Going forward, in an effort to make our newsletter more sustainable, our Free tier (this one!), will refocus to provide more writing updates; book, movie, and show recommendations; and tidbits from our world. And, once a quarter or so, we'll send out a story.
If that sounds good to you, no need to do anything! But if you'd like to keep getting a new story every month, please click the button below to upgrade to at least the Reader tier. Thanks!
Speaking of tidbits from our worlds, Andrew has been preparing for Norwescon and also working on a black belt Japanese Calligraphy test this past month, so less writing than usual has trickled from his fingers. And worse, Cody had a nasty bout with COVID (but making a full recovery!) So, between hither and yon, we've not recorded any new podcasts this month. However....all the previous ones are there and are still as fresh as ever!
Podcast
Even though we won't be sending out a new story for the Free tier next month, we're still interested in what you would like as a story. As usual, we're offering three selections of prompts and three possible genres. We'll use the winning prompt and genre for a story custom-written for all the Reader tier folks out there, so if you'd like to help decide what we'll write, go ahead and fill out this reader prompt survey.
And now for the March story! Cody delivers quiet horror from the back of the Impala. The night is silent, except for the ceaseless whisper behind you. The desert air not as cold as your bones. Enjoy some horror in the desert, option 3 from last month's survey!
Recitation
Cody T Luff
The hood of the Impala was warm and ticking beneath Mel. Her shoulders leaned against the windshield, one knee bent and pointing at the sky, a clove cigarette forgotten between her dangling fingers. The engine was dead, the Impala gave its soul to get her this far and now it was a cooling steel corpse on the side of a two-lane nowhere. Mel shivered once, her jean jacket did nothing to keep out the chill of an early October Mojave.
“He didn’t love you,” the dead man in the backseat said. His voice was papery, a dry hush that bordered on a sigh.
“Shut up.” Mel took a drag from her cigarette. “You need to remember you’re dead.”
“None of them loved you.” The dead man rustled, his shoulders thumping the backseat window.
Mel flicked her cigarette and closed her eyes. She’d tied the deadman with Sandy’s climbing rope. Sheathed him in knots and covered the lot with duct tape. He couldn’t free himself but he struggled now and again. They all did. It was in their nature.
Mel thought of the party again. She’d been thinking about it for the last 120 miles. Everyone stuffed into dresses and blazers, an expensive list of finger foods and catered cocktails, conversations dripping with ego and need. She told Sandy she didn’t want to go. She wasn’t going to wear a dress and pretend she cared. But she did care. And Sandy knew it.
“He didn’t love you,” the dead man said.