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Onetinleg MP3 Downloads - Podcast Stream

Description: Audio versions of the tales from Onetinleg.com

Onetinleg MP3 Downloads - streams of individual podcasts

The Death of James A. Garfield Calumet City, Illinois is the fallen sister of Hammond, Indiana. That the Calumet River had once caught fire was legend among the guys at the Antlers bar. The two towns straddled the state line. Calumet City was blue neon beer joints with electric country bands; all the bars had strippers. This particular bar was called the Calypso. The same woman as last time twitched above the bar, partaking of a private epiphany two feet from the end of her nose.

The Prophet Harry Appearances count for a lot in rural Maine; every soul is a member of some church, high, low, Pentecostal or other. Check one please. It was not thought overly strange when Harry Profitt Pease took to wearing an aluminum foil hat to confuse space aliens, nor when he was observed in conversation with the black and white spotted pig that followed him around. He had been, after all, the star center on that state championship team.

The Missingest Man in America 'I am Joseph Force Crater; I am a judge of the New York State Supreme Court. I am not the Adversary. Your chastity is safe with me; I am a Democrat.'

The Beewolf Part 1 A tall insect with feathery antennae and a nervous tic paused before the mirror of a machine plastered with multicolored blurbs announcing it as a dispenser of a popular brand of chewing gum. The walking nightmare spoke to his human companion. 'Harry, you wait with the bags, there's a good fellow.' Evenly modulated tones carried the force of a command.

The Beewolf Part 2 There was a thump, more felt than heard. The sunflowers bobbed on their stalks and kilometers distant concentric rings of geothermal steam billowed as a cargo hoist sprang from its catapult and flew glittering toward the horizon. Heads turned to the spacedrome. This was the daily big event on Chalifoux. As the winged container skimmed a ridge of hills its motors cut in. Spiraling magentas and greens surrounded it with a scrambling palette.

The Beewolf Part 3 'Ahh...' From the bottom of the bag Titania came up with a very old-fashioned and lethal-looking large-caliber pistol. 'Hit the floor, I'm going to make some noise.' She thumbed the hammer back and closed her eyes. 'This is only slick if it works, otherwise it's monumentally stupid.' The commission cop let fly a thundering volley from her huge, and by now unauthorized, gun.

The Diplodocus Effect Teaberry Balcom held the marble between a thumb and forefinger. He squeezed and the marble dripped like an overripe grape. There was a roll of distant thunder and an aurora borealis blazed in the cloudless midday sky. 'Oops, too tight,' he said.

The Tirewoman Gabriel Twice a year and regular as clockwork, when Barbara's School of the Dance trots in the latest corps of majorettes and ballerinas, the classic backdrop ―Mediterranean hillsides with Raphaelite shepherds and shepherdesses discreetly about their distant businesses―was always requested. In addition to shepherdesses on their backs in the grass under fluffy clouds, there is a backdrop of a convent garden at dusk. Giant bumblebees prowl thick wisteri a, vines knot to frame a lovers' bower. Before the foreground, hogging the floor, lies a toppled faun, his lips curled in a sneer of passion. I cou...

Cherokee Purple Part 1 Thelma Wagstaff blew herself away as she sat on her high red upholstered stool supervising the cash box at the White Street Billiards and Snooker. Thelma hit the floor like she had fallen out of an airplane, no parachute, and her pistol went bouncing toward Ed Seitz and me. Ed and I were absorbed in the cushion shot he was negotiating. We did not look up; there was a fiver riding on Ed's shot.

Cherokee Purple Part 2 If you read pulp fiction from the wire racks at the bus depot as avidly as I do —full color covers, tumbled towers, heroes like Doc Smith and Conan the Barbarian—you would realize clairvoyance, if not the bona fide article as defined by Modern Science, had better be taken into consideration. As things will do in a dream, a shovel appeared in my hand. I started digging a fox

The Moose in the Noosphere The man, an Algonquian, met the moose head on on a springy forest trail. The moose had come that day to drop his antlers and wanted to be alone. It had been an open winter, roots and lichens dying off for lack of snow cover. With bad foraging the moose was tired and irritable. The moose had dropped antlers before and anticipated the loss with regret. His antlers amplified the fall of snow, the separation of a dry leaf from its stem, the impact of a pine needle on the padded forest floor. To go antlerless was to imitate the solitude of starvation and withdraw into himself as into a heavy, wind...

The Last Teddy Bear "Where is the bear when the bear is not where the bear should be?" asked Frankie Jelinek's husband with sweet reasonableness. "Ever think about that?" "No," said Frankie, "I don't. Wherever teddy bears go. Maybe a picnic." Steve gave his wife a sleepy kiss and rolled over. Supernatural phenomena were not in the baby care books. Yet...

Magnetic Betty Magnetic Betty explained the problem. "And so you see, things fly through the air and stick to me when I walk by. None of my friends' mothers will let them play with me." "A tricky business," replied Dolby Jenks, World's Champion Detective. "Not my field, I'm afraid, Betty. I would suggest that you find different friends with different mothers."

The Francher Part 1 An odor of mint attracted the francher to an unpromising patch of brown scrub. It spread its fetlocks, a legacy of embedded Przewalski horse genes, and arched its neck down to feed. It munched contentedly for some minutes then collapsed. The francher's nostrils flared as it gulped at the thin unsatisfying air. Wide speckled eyes bulged; oval pupils stared. Under the brilliant glare of the high, dry sun its knee joints cracked, emitting soft popping sounds. An Andean vulture circled closer.

The Francher Part 2 In fairness to the former owner of Claude's prize scalp, a wayward Detroiter lost in the woods, he had never heard of Claude Ellis; he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and had been dead anyway, along with a whole lot of others. The Over-Homers most likely caught them sniffing around and shot first. The Canadians were OK, not like the government men: rendezvous, free food, free whores and no trouble.

Chimaera Constant "Sweet Jesus!" Elizabeth Profitt Pease has —for just a moment, a split second—the queer idea that there is an eyeball in her teacup. "Uh... hello, eye." The eye does not speak. She takes a swallow of Dr. Pomeroy's straight from the bottle and shakes her head to clear it. She squints; the eye in her teacup squints back—the eye is hazel and clear. It is her mother's eye.

Song of the Rice Barge Coolie Part 1 "My sister, is she dead? Go and give her a poke, would you?" The great white presence that was the Lady Mother of the Long Walkers indicated the row of captive queens on their dais beneath her, deferentially lower.

Song of the Rice Barge Coolie Part 2 On the countertop the lone ant groomed its antennae. "You are going to kill your husband. He is wearing out, then?" The ant was dusted white from its struggle through the arsenic buffet Ginny had just laid out.

Daphne Longhandle's Last Flight "See that, Franklin?" said Eleanor Roosevelt. "That's O'Brien." Franklin observed a line of stars on the eastern horizon. There were four. "Oops, sorry." Eleanor nodded at her new constellation, O'Brien, and the fourth star blinked out.

The Year They Invented Frozen Lemonade Part 1 "I am midtown. Manhattan?" Linda Winkelman speaks her question out loud in the middle of the rush hour push; no one notices. She can not recall who she is or why she is here. "I remember lemonade," says Linda. Buildings disappeared, people disappeared. Now it is her turn. Linda Winkelman was born the year they invented frozen lemonade.

The Year They Invented Frozen Lemonade Part 2 Linda's mother is secretly tickled at the patronymic of Linda's intended. "Winkelman? His name is Winkelman? That's the same name as ours. It sounds like incest. The neighbors will think your father was screwing some babe in Yonkers."

Scope Virgin The woman at the far end of the kaleidoscope had not been there last week, of this Simon was sure. She was naked or near enough, thinly dressed in a diaphanous veil. "Holy shit!" Simon Alexander breathed on the lens and gave it a wipe with his sleeve. "I see that I have your attention..." said the woman, "...finally."

McMuckle Makes a Minyan The ineffable, unnamable God of Hosts stood with a burly, bearded personage who held a bar towel draped over one arm, a symbol of his trade. The golem toyed nervously with an ear. "My people should quake at My unutterable Name, not fall on their tukhes," God sighed. The ear came off. "Bim... this is not about you. Try to stay on topic."

The Runaway Bungalow Part 1 The penis with the butterfly tattoo arrived in the mail that afternoon. A plain cardboard box, book rate. Inside a bubble-wrap cocoon was the plastic bottle, Sue Bee Honey. The norteamericano supermarkets displayed these in tidy rows near the peanut butter. The butterfly's wings hung limp in a golden haze of honey as though it had only just left its chrysalis and paused in the sun to dry.

The Runaway Bungalow Part 2 San Expedito was fussing with his military kilt. "This better not be birdlime, Barney. Or so help me..." Oswaldo pretended to read, pointedly ignoring his patron saint.

The Runaway Bungalow Part 3 "This is plastique," Patricio explained, as though lecturing a museum tour. "In it is a radio detonator controlled by my associate in our airplane. If your associates inside..." he tapped the Mercedes, "...have any transmitting equipment with them, I should caution them against using it. This is a finicky device."

The Runaway Bungalow Part 4 Oswaldo O'Rourke y Nu ñez prowled the night by the light of a moon three quarters full. He dressed in black. Many wore black—priests, hippies, country and western singers, but the blackening of the face was surely a mark of perpetration. Ozzie crouched to pray behind the big green dumpster in back of the Pick 'N' Pay— a futile prayer to a bogus saint, San Expedito.

Platterland It was a real nice laying-out, tasteful. Well, maybe not so much tasteful particularly, but neat. They'd got Ed's left arm attached to his head and not his shoulder. And they had the remaining right arm attached on the left side. To look like them, I supposed.

E Pluribus Human "YO, BABE!" a man's voice blared at Grenadine McKenzie, "SURPRISE, YOU'RE PREGNANT." The face digitized, fell apart, then reassembled itself. A line of empty pixels ran across a tanned chin. One eye twitched. "Gotta go. Kissy-kissy."

Dead Man in the Yard There was a dead man in the yard this morning. I checked in my wallet for my latest picture of the front yard. I have a collection of yard pictures that goes back for years but I usually carry only one photo at a time. No, he was a new arrival. I called Sheila. Sheila is my ex-wife.

Facelift Lord Zorgon of Alymeade sighed, a great exhalation redolent of smoldering carpets. "Where was I? Facelifts, yes. Women, whatever their ages, never wish for sensible things like orthotics or a tonsillectomy."

A Special Providence "I thought there was a special providence that looked out after these things," said Gerry. A ten-dollar jackpot dropped into the takeout drawer. "There is," said a voice. "And don't whack the machine, the lottery corporation doesn't favor muscleheads abusing church property."

The Ninepatch Variation Libby Pease remembers her girlhood as a litany of lost callers. Now a visitor: William Powell has misplaced Myrna Loy.

The Red Sneaker Zones Libby Pease accepts having her own personal shaman as an article of faith, which faith she could not tell. The dead Indian smells rank, but not unpleasantly so: fresh earth clinging to over-wintering vegetables, plug-cut tobacco and molasses. He wears a loincloth and is well muscled, albeit stringy.

I Want to Share Your Wheat Prosper Epilegomenes is a mouse demon in service to Sminthian Apollo. He blows up a car dealership and kills a troublesome neighbor.

The Perfect Homburg Duckpin bowling in Taunton, Massachusetts. A duel over a magic hat sacred to Artemis, sister of Apollo.

An Unwarmed Fish It was always Thursday in the Ferguson and McLaughlin Family Bar, Tables for Ladies, all Thursday, all the time. But this Thursday a different barmaid. "Hi, I'm Bambi. The Divine Artemis couldn't make it. The demiurges are chucking quoits today."

A Pass on the Tabouli Errol Flynn, aged 120, has been kept alive with hormones and organ transplants until 2025 for the last, final, remake of Kipling's Kim. It will be a musical.

Klein, the Clone Twins play which kid's got the papers. Originally published as The Flags of All Nations Hors D'eouvre Toothpick Caper.

Tomcat His great green eyes invited her to share a secret knowledge, intimating she was trusted, but not yet ready for a full revelation. Her species would have to mature.

Boys Night Out Jim bit the dog's ear off. He spat. Dog blood was different, somehow forbidden.