Untold Podcast

Human traffickers face an unexpected intervention.

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"Customer arriving!" announced the robot.

The shopkeeper looked up eagerly.

The door creaked open with a whistle.  Rain blew inside as a small man fought with the door handle.  "You have my merchandise?" he rasped.

The shopkeeper snorted.  He's a day early.  "Yeah, but it's not ready yet."

Otherworldly gadgets and gizmos in clear displays filled most of the room.  A small lamp dimly illuminated a checkout counter, while brighter lights hummed illuminating the displays.  The visitor gestured to the tall shiny cylinder that had announced his arrival.

Copilot Tersav Aut searches for a sector of space to peaceably settle.

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Auto-Log of Copilot Tersav Aut, Karnik Exploratory Age, Voyage Number 77:
 
Yet again, we struggle to repair our ship after engaging in a battle we did not ask for. In such situations, there's no win. Death abounds on each side.
 
Why can't our people find another sector of the cosmos to settle? Every cycle, we pray to live in peace so we might unravel the Mysteries of the Maker. When will we finally be able to follow our purpose? After over a thousand cycles, some are giving up.

As he searches for his mother, a young boy encounters one of the living islands.

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The ground shook with the voice of the Living Island. Tam stood riveted into place, his world narrowed into one terrifying vision.

"I am sorry, that was too loud, I will whisper," the Living Island breathed, its version of a whisper like a gale in an autumn forest. "I said: you lost your balloon."

Tam reached to his trike's handlebar, then stopped, as slow as the Island appeared to be, he could never outrun it. Tears ran down his face, "I didn't lose it, I let it go."

"You did?" The Island was close now, so immensely close.

"My mum...," Tam stammered, "My mum is lost. I came to find her, and I sent up the balloon. I thought she might see it."

As the world descends into unknown horrors, a doctor finds himself battling the patients he is trying to save.

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Fear is beautiful, because it drives me into Your arms.

There's a lot to fear in a world of poisoned flesh, where time and space suddenly mean nothing. It was weeks ago, or seconds ago, that I sat, bored out of my mind in 7 AM morning rounds, giving and taking patient reports in the old Episcopal Hospital, praying to You half in jest just to make the attending's lecture end.

Oh, it ended, alright.

Now I stand in a narrow 17th century German alleyway under a blood moon. There is no 7 AM, and no end, or beginning. There is a man with wolf heads instead of hands and feet. They turn on him, eating him alive.

His screams are drowned out by the screeching naked woman to my left. She's at once translucent, and then solid, sometimes in a Civil War Bonnet and sometimes in a 1920s bob, but always screeching and reaching, like a Japanese “Hungry Ghost.”

Then there's the baby behind me, melting and oozing across the cobblestone towards my ankles.

In a strange but familiar world, Jeshua Sheepskin travels the fields and desolate places as all the animals await the great shepherd.

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In the beginning, The Great Dove came and I followed it to a beach named Solace which was beside Crest Lake, not far from the twin valleys of Quagmire and Residence. When I came here, the words to the ancient song of Esaias came true. Long ago, he sang...

"VALLEY OF QUAGMIRE! VALLEY OF RESIDENCE!
IN THE WOLF LANDS ALONG CREST LAKE.
THE SHEEP AND THE OTHERS WHO GRAZE THERE IN SILENCE,
WILL SOON HEAR A SONG OH SO GREAT!"

And so, from the day I arrived in Solace, I began to sing...

The Warrior had one simple mission: Slaughter every enemy that still breathed.

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The warrior twirled his blade, drilling a narrow cone into the loose dirt. He clenched his jaw
every few seconds, watching the razor-sharp steel reflect the dim sunlight filtering through the
trees that towered above the camp. The scent of smoke and roasting game drifted east, following
the gentle breeze that provided little relief from the stifling humidity smothering the forest.
A fly circled around the warrior’s head, and he swung at it with a snarl. The fly buzzed away
just out of reach, then continued swooping in lazy arcs. The warrior lowered his eyes again,
hypnotized by the spinning blade. Clumps of stringy, sweat-soaked hair hung down in front of
his face.

This was by far the most exhausting campaign he and his brethren had ever been on. As the
sunlight flashed across his face, his thoughts drifted to the brothers he had lost in this war. It
seemed that more of them had fallen than remained alive. The battles were becoming longer, the
enemy more vicious.

Was this war even winnable? He felt guilty for even thinking it, but he knew it was on the
minds of the others as well. And he also knew it wasn’t his place to question. He was a warrior,
and he had one simple mission.

Slaughter every enemy that still breathed.

Every evening a man wakes up on the forest floor choking to death over a tie someone wrapped around his neck. His only chance to learn what is happening lies with the mysterious woman, Fadra.

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What awakened me was the same thing that always ended sleep: the intense, real sensation that I was choking to death. Gasping, I plunged forward from where I lay, stuck two thumbs underneath the thing strangling me and ripped it from my throat.

For several moments I sat chest heaving air back into my lungs. In a few minutes, I lifted the object which almost killed me... again. It was a tie. The sort of thing any guy might wear. But, I gazed around; the other accouterments were there... again. A pair of leather shoes, a briefcase and a suit bag with a note attached. That was different. I reached over, grabbed the bag, dragging it to me. Already the shock was setting in and even though I had moonlight enough to read by, my mind could barely read the words. After several tries, the message made sense: ‘Pick up dry-cleaning.’

A pack of werewolves plot to take down Santa in Kingsley, Michigan.

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Kingsley, Michigan 2015
          
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” The elf screamed.

He tried to kick, but his feet were tied to an old wood table. He tried to punch, but his arms were restrained by a man.
No, not a man, a half man, half wolf with deep gray fur. A creature with only a hint of humanity illuminated by dim candlelight.

“It is December 23rd.” A second, red-furred creature growled. “You are his scout!”
          
“Just to assess the threat of your kind in the region. I don’t know his schedule. I’m not even supposed to check in until after Christmas!” The elf tried to hold back a whimper.

As an advanced scout for the timeless saint, he had received interrogation training. But the stakes in training only involved a letter grade.