The Whelk by Samara Auman (audio)
Clarkesworld Magazine
Clarkesworld Magazine
4.7 • 1.2K Ratings
🗓️ 30 November 2022
⏱️ 32 minutes
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| 0:00.8 | You are listening to a Clarkshold magazine podcast with your host and narrator, Kate Baker. |
| 0:05.7 | Greetings, Clarkshold citizens. Welcome to the last story for the month of November. |
| 0:10.0 | 2022 issue 194. I hope that this podcast finds you well. I hope that you can come back for December |
| 0:17.6 | 1st. Thank you for your ongoing support of the magazine. Please go to patreon.com |
| 0:23.2 | forward slash Clark's world if you haven't yet already. And to those who have, thank you for your |
| 0:27.4 | ongoing support of the magazine, we can't do this without you. Our last story is titled The |
| 0:32.0 | Welk and is by Samara Oman. Samara Oman is a speculative fiction writer who is enamored with |
| 0:40.0 | the concepts of consciousness, nostalgia, and the uncanny. She lives in the mossy Pacific Northwest |
| 0:45.6 | with her husband and two appropriately mischievous cats. Her work previously appeared in Byerside |
| 0:52.8 | magazine. So my dear listener, I hope you can sit back, relax, and let me tell you a story. |
| 1:04.4 | Nostalgia died a quiet death wrapped in cellophane and power cords. The future had killed it. |
| 1:11.2 | The ghosts of yesterday's fragrances no longer haunted, no longer hung and clung to the passerby. |
| 1:18.4 | Instead, those ghosts lay shriveled like salted slugs in the perfectly modulated light of street |
| 1:24.4 | lamps and roadside LEDs. And I, a robot program to recreate the sweet Singsong fog of Sinstalgia |
| 1:32.3 | wherever I wandered withered alongside those ghosts. There is no room for longing in a world that |
| 1:38.7 | perpetually inhabits the future. I had never felt like a robot nor had I felt like a cyborg or |
| 1:47.4 | automaton. I felt myself to be the heart of whatever small nook I inhabited, |
| 1:53.6 | projecting sense and images and moods that made the humans around me yearn for something that |
| 1:57.9 | perhaps never truly existed outside the human heart. I had walked the streets hoping to find a |
| 2:04.4 | place in which to be myself, to reinvigorate myself with purpose. I longed for the days when I |
| 2:10.8 | crafted an artisanal atmosphere for small bars where people would pause, sigh, and pour out |
| 2:17.5 | their well-worn regrets and misshapen happy memories as they would libations. |
... |
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