The Strange Recital is an audio anthology of short fiction. It is not genre-specific and delights in perceptions of reality that warp and fold in unexpected ways. The literary works we showcase might be odd, humorous, or surreal.... They might remind you of Borges, Nabokov, Kafka, Pynchon. Or none of the above.
Each podcast episode features one writer and runs about 25 minutes. It includes a story reading – the Recital – a brief musical interlude, and an author interview with a twist – the Post Recital. Subscribe to get a new episode twice a month. It's free.
"For three years, we knew Dad had a lump in his throat. He had
trouble swallowing, and several times a day, he would be possessed
by a mad coughing fit that would leave him clutching the furniture
for support."
In this opening from a highly-praised novel, an adult daughter
begins to face her father's chronic pain, his...
"The scent of cardamom wafted from Father. Mother wore a
liripipe of azure silk that drew out her narrow chin, hazel eyes,
and the grey streaks in her hair. I watched Father’s gaze dart
among the hills. Columns of smoke crept through a windless
sky."
In this novel excerpt, a young man feigns madness, trades
vision...
"'Listen to this,' he said. What sounded like a
wind chime filled the room, a wind chime on a farmhouse porch,
restless in a shifting tempest. I could feel a change in barometric
pressure and a subtle increase in humidity as the sound floated on
the breeze. The feeling was vast and lonely as though isolated on
an...
"The crowd that had gathered on the quay to watch the
departure of Shadow Rose held no collective opinion as to whether
she would return. Now that the chronology of those events has
become so jumbled, it might be said that she never left."
A sailing ship, a sunlit city, a young man's search. This
reading, excerpted...
"In a world of comfort and infinite abundance, Valentina
Briggs was sitting quietly, doing nothing, trying to detach...
kneeling on the floor, her buttocks resting on her upturned feet,
hands forming an oval in her lap, thumbs ever so lightly touching,
trying her best to think of not thinking. Thoughts were...