Listen to our audio presentation of “Not My Circus, Not My Monkeys: The Elephant’s Tale” by Damien Angelica Walters. Narrated by Lisa Shininger.
Damien Angelica Walters
Damien Angelica Walters is the author of Cry Your Way Home, Paper Tigers, and Sing Me Your Scars. Her short fiction has been nominated twice for a Bram Stoker Award and published in various anthologies and magazines, including the Shirley Jackson Award Finalists Autumn Cthulhu and The Madness of Dr. Caligari, World Fantasy Award Finalist Cassilda’s Song, Nightmare Magazine, and Black Static. She lives in Maryland with her husband and two rescued pit bulls. Find her on Twitter @DamienAWalters or on the web at damienangelicawalters.com.
PODCAST EP. 20: Requiem, for Solo Cello
Listen to our audio presentation of “Requiem, for Solo Cello” by Damien Angelica Walters. Narrated by Lisa Shininger.
The Whipping Girls
Erika’s fingers tense on the steering wheel as she approaches the Kansas-Colorado state line. Endless fields of wheat, waiting to be harvested, sit on both sides of the interstate, the stalks rustling whisper-soft.
Fear of Failure 2.0
I’ve been here before, sitting in front of an Excel spreadsheet filled with story titles and word counts, trying to decide what to include in a collection.
Paskutinis Iliuzija (The Last Illusion)
Andrius Kavalauskas, the last magician of Lithuania, closed the door and rested his head against the wood as the nurse’s footsteps faded away. He smelled cabbage and pork cooking from the apartment across the hallway and knew that in a few hours he would find a plate of food sitting by his door. Daina was a good neighbor, a good friend.
Paper Tigers (Excerpt)
The soles of Alison’s shoes marked each limping step away from her front door. She tugged the scarf on her head, pulling the fabric down to cover most of her forehead, and shoved her gloved hands deep in the pockets of her jacket. A woman’s voice, high-pitched and nasal, broke the 3 a.m. stillness.
Not My Circus, Not My Monkeys: The Elephant’s Tale
Every circus has a story, and every story has its secrets.
Those of us taxed with bearing the burden of such things do so with no sense of pleasure, only duty. We remember so that others, in time, may forget.
Sing Me Your Scars
This is not my body.
Yes, there are the expected parts—arms, legs, hips, breasts—each in its proper place and of the proper shape.
Is he a monster, a madman, a misguided fool? I don’t know. I don’t want to know. But this is not my body.
Requiem, for Solo Cello
The first time I saw you play:
Bach’s Six Suites for Unaccompanied Cello; your chin tucked down; your eyes soft but intense; the fingertips of your left hand deftly pressing into the fingerboard; the bow in your right moving across the strings like a lover’s sensate promise.
Grey in the Gauge of His Storm
Every lining has a cloud, be it a worn spot, a mended seam, or an unraveled thread. They are neither perfect nor impenetrable, no matter how much we wish it so. People will tell you that damage makes the fabric stronger.