I learned a new language today, one comprised of fragrances:

Every year, on a different mountain, climbers fall inexplicably, the karst rock crumbling under their fingertips like dirt, their ropes suddenly fraying, their belayer watching in horror as they fly downward, always into the lotus field. There is never a body when they search for it, only miles and miles of lotus leaves and stems and flowers, serenely swaying in what little breeze there is.

In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Anaea Lay presents Su-Yee Lin's "The Monkey King Sleeps."