You are listening to a Clarks World Magazine podcast with your host and narrator Kate Baker.

Greetings Clarks with citizens. I hope this podcast finds you very well.

This is the third podcast for the month of February.

There's not much news to report so I'm just going to jump right into the story. The piece is titled and Wash Out by Tides of War, by An Owo Moiella.

An is a new choice author with a background in web development.

Linguistics and weaving chain mail out of stainless steel fencing wire,

whose fiction has appeared in a number of venues, including Clark's World,

Asimov's Light Speed and a handful of years bests.

Aun's interests range from pulsars to gender studies and non-standard pronouns with a plethora of

stops in between. She can be found online at a n dot o w o m o y e l a n dot n

net and if you like what you hear, I'd also suggest looking up June 2012, her piece

titled If the Mountain Comes and July 2011, 2011, frozen voice.

So sit back, relax, and let me tell you a story.

I am sitting at the top of the spire of the observance of the war, one of the

three memorials equidistant from the colony center. The souls of my runner's grips are pressed against the spires

composite, their traction engineered at a microscopic level. But I'm not going to

push off. I'm 180 meters up and while I could drop and catch the festoons. My gloves get as much

traction as my grips. That's not what I want. I want to free fall all 180 meters and catch myself and launch into a run.

That's crazy thinking. I'm good, but no humans that good. I'm a free runner, not a hellish.

I shift my center of gravity. The wind is still temper it up here, fluttering cool under my collar. It outlines the spot of heat

where my pendant rests against my skin. The pendant is the size of my thumbnail

and always warmer than it should be. This has something to do with it reflecting the

...